#human and capable of kindness and love in even the most grotesque of situations. and in that she found a unique voice that sees her work

[lovecomesin]

To Me, From Me With Love Part 2

I was aware that I wasn’t happy but I wasn’t aware just how contempt I the entire situation was. When I care for people I naturally go hard for them and everything they stand for. It is past my time to finally be able to receive the same. I want better lovers, better friends and better relationships. And I shall have it. I trust that the Lord God will continue to supply all my needs and desires just as he has always done. I am grateful for my journey and I type this message with pride, happiness and love in my heart. No love lost, no hate, just indifference. I wish nothing but the best to any and all persons who ever hurt me, disrespected me, as an old friend, was an old lover etc. I forgive it all. I especially forgive myself for even allowing such things to persist as long as I did. I’ll admit, trauma, no matter how big or small has a way to warp your brain into believing all sorts of situations to be true, well and good. I’ve learned to continue to trust in my God and myself. I know for a fact that I am capable to making amazing decisions in tough situations as well as any situations. I cannot let any human, no matter how deeply I care for them to ever come in between the relationship I have with myself. Without self- love I am worthless. Without self- love I can and most likely will allow the most grotesque behaviors around me. Growing up I could see and feel the trauma of my family. So much hurt that never healed and so much pain you could feel and see their misery. I never want a life like that for myself. I do not wish to live a life that resembles my old life. It wasn’t that I was unhappy or miserable in my old life because that is also not true. I was happy, I had lots of moments of enjoyment. That life just no longer serves me and that is okay. Growth is a beautiful thing and this journey is specific to me. I am excited for what’s to come. New love, more relationships, traveling ,happiness and a closer relationship with myself and God. This is my life. My beautiful and unique story. I believe God allowed all this to happen because he wanted to me to come back to him and myself. I didn’t let myself realize how far I had gotten and continued on a familiar path. The better journey is right where I am now. It may be uncertain, and filled with many possibilities but that’s also what makes it beautiful. The beautiful unknown is a blank canvas for me to create whatever life I desire with God as my forefront. Ebony when you finally decide to come back and read this I want you to know that I love you and will always be proud and happy for you. You have such a kind heart and is filled with so much passion it could fill up many cups. Remember, always fill your cup first. It is not selfish to choose yourself. To live you must chose yourself. Congratulations for not allowing this world or the people of this world to change who I am at the core. Congratulations for healing and being able to say you made it out of the storm. Congratulations for learning who you are now. Congratulations for learning to truly love myself. Congratulations for learning to set boundaries and be resilient enough to not accept anything less regardless of the situation. It is a honor to be you and it a pleasure to be writing with you now. I pray that you continue to live a life that you can be proud, happy, in love and at peace with. I pray that all your dreams become reality. I pray for your health, I pray for your family and I pray for you Ebony. I want to make it my business to continue to write in life whether it’s good, bad or ugly because in one way or another it’s all my life. Until next time, laters baby.

[cosmicjoke]

Ah, chapters 113 & 114 of AoT, and I’ve only got one thing to say.

Zeke, am I supposed to be feel sorry for the bitch?  Well I DON’T.

No, seriously, fuck this guuuuuuuuy, I know I keep saying it again and again, but God damn, if these two chapters didn’t just solidify my hatred for the bastard.

First of all, he is just... the most whiny, delusional, self-pitying pathetic loser, just... he really is.  I feel like a character in a Peanuts comic strip every time he opens his mouth.  All I hear is “whaa, whaa, whaa”.  And his delusions of grandeur would almost be funny if they weren’t so pathetic.  

Here’s the thing, alright, and I’m sorry if I’m going to offend any Zeke fans with what I’m about to say, but too bad, I guess.  

Everything out of this shitheads mouth is a lie.  And just because he’s convinced himself of his own bullshit doesn’t make the lies coming out of his mouth any more true.

He turns Levi’s fellow soldiers into Titans.  He does this without remorse.  Don’t try to tell me Zeke felt bad about it.  He didn’t.  You know how I know he didn’t?  Because in his private moments in the immediate aftermath, he mocks Levi over having done it, gloating about his supposed master plan of using Levi’s compassion against him and utilizing it to ensure Levi’s own demise.  Zeke’s entire attitude here is sickeningly unbothered, unburdened, uncaring, and smug in the EXTREME.  He mocks Levi’s compassion, literally makes fun of it and lambasts it as a pathetic sign of weakness when he says “I know you’re a caring leader.  Your soldiers haven’t done anything wrong.  They’ve just grown a little bigger.  You wouldn’t, say, slice them to pieces over that, would you?”.  This is Zeke making fun of the fact, finding AMUSEMENT in the fact that he’s just murdered 30 people who have never done a single thing to him, and reveling in what he thinks is a victory that will lead to Levi’s own death, reveling in having taken advantage of and weaponizing a better man’s kindness and compassion.  Zeke is ENJOYING this moment.  Just like he enjoyed killing all those soldiers in Shinganshina.  And then, the kicker, and this is a particular point about Zeke that just makes me absolutely sick, he pretends to himself as if he didn’t want to do it.  He PLAYS at his own regret, saying, “I didn’t want do this either,” and yet in the very next breath, continues to treat what he’s done with grotesque flippancy, saying “Still, how sad... There wasn’t even a battle or skirmish.”  Gloating over how easily he’s bested Levi and his men, before going on to sink further into his insane delusions of grandeur, blaming their inability to trust one another on Levi’s inability to “understand”.  I’m sorry, Zeke, but no.  You didn’t even TRY to help Levi understand, too wrapped up in your own egotistical god-complex to consider it a possibility.  ‘Oh, only I could possibly understand, along with Eren, the great task we two special beings have been burdened with.  He makes assumptions about Levi’s life, about the kinds of things he’s seen and experienced, and convinces himself that they couldn’t be anything like what Zeke has (which, hilariously, is all wrong, since out of everyone, Levi knows better than anyone else in the SC what it’s like to be treated as a second class citizen).  Zeke just assumes Levi couldn’t possibly ever grasp the complexities of the outside world, and so that’s why Zeke didn’t even bother trying to talk to him.  Blah, blah, blah.  No, Zeke, you didn’t share your stupid ass plan because you wanted to continue to feel special, like you’re the chosen one who gets to decide the fate of an entire race of people.  The most hilarious part of this entire sequence is when Zeke is thinking Levi couldn’t ever understand the concept of all the world’s militaries bearing down on Paradis at once, and what that means, couldn’t grasp the urgency of the situation, as if ZEKE HIMSELF isn’t completely fucking responsible for that situation in the first place.  Zeke literally engineered it.  He created the problem, and now wants to position himself as the savior.  He’s just such a loser man.  The God damned definition.  

And as if all of that wasn’t bad enough, when it turns out Zeke’s plan to take Levi out failed miserably, and Levi comes after his sorry ass like a bat out of hell, Zeke continues to mock Levi, to laugh at what Levi’s just had to do in order to survive and pursue Zeke.  He says “Where’d your adorable little men go!?  Don’t tell me you killed them all!  The poor things!”.  Are you fucking serious?  Zeke’s behavior here is one of the most sickening things in the entire story, bar none.  The way he laughs at Levi here for having to cut down 30 of his friends and comrades, the absolute display of sociopathic glee and disregard for the severe, horrific trauma he’s just caused this man, is honestly shocking.  Man, I’m sorry, but anyone who sympathizes with Zeke over Levi after this display maybe needs to reevaluate their moral compass, because it’s damned broken.  And just as an aside, Zeke’s cowardly fear of Levi is also pretty damned funny.  He’s just such a bitch./

We go from this perverse display of psychopathic megalomania into Zeke’s backstory, and again, I’m sorry if I’m gonna offend any Zeke fans here, but to all of that, I ask, so effing what?  Oh, boohoo, Zeke’s mommy and daddy didn’t shower him with praise or spend any time playing catch with him, and somehow, I guess, this is meant to excuse his attempts later in life to commit mass genocide.  Poor, poor Zeke.  Yes, his childhood was sad, he experienced neglect from his parents for two whole years, was used by them as a pawn for their idiotic plans, and ended up disappointing his father when it turned out he had no real talent.  And again I ask, so what?  This sort of experience isn’t exactly what one would call unique, or even extreme.  There are countless children in the world who go through the exact same thing in various forms.  Parents who put too much pressure on their kids to succeed, parents who try living vicariously through their children, parents who make their disappointment known and even punish their children for failing to live up to their expectations (something Zeke’s parents never did, by the way).  The point is, this isn’t even what one would classify as extreme hardship.  It’s a sad story of a child being neglected and not receiving enough love from his parents.  This isn’t to undermine the very real pain one experiences from those things.  Not at all.  That pain is real and legitimate.  But it’s also fairly common and pedestrian, as far as childhood trauma is concerned, and it doesn’t even remotely begin to justify the extreme lengths of megalomaniacal, sociopathic, genocidal tendencies he later displays.  Also, Zeke also had his grandparents, who did love him and spent lots of time with him.  He had Mr. Ksaver, who played with him and acted as a mentor to him.  It wasn’t like Zeke had no one and grew up with zero connections.  That’s BS.  

Levi calls this bitch on his shit later in chapter 114, as Zeke’s muttering away in his delusions about how he’s “saving everyone”.  He asks Zeke “That was your plan?  Mercy killings?”.  Levi’s asking Zeke here who the hell gave him the right to decide who lives and who dies?  Who gave him the right to decide who’s life is WORTH living?  When Levi says him getting to die by being eaten by a Titan is pretty merciful, considering he stole the lives of so many of his comrades, Zeke’s reply speaks volumes about just how warped and demented his thinking is, when he says “I stole nothing.  I... saved them.  Them and the children they would have... I saved them all... from this cruel world.”.  He’s literally justifying murdering countless people by trying to redefine that murder as “saving” them.  It’s not murder because it saved them from ever having to suffer again!  He’s absolving himself here of his sins by casting his actions in not just a favorable light, but trying to sell them as heroic and admirable.  He takes no, actual responsibility for what he’s done.  He removes himself from that responsibility by pretending he was doing a good thing, an honorable, noble thing, by murdering a whole bunch of people who’d never done jack shit to him.  Yippee for Zeke, I guess.  He’s the very definition of an ego-maniac, of someone suffering from a messiah complex.  He’s insane, and morally depraved.  The very fact that he’s the one who comes up with the idea of eradicating the Eldian race by rendering them infertile is only further proof of this.  What teenager comes up with a plan to exterminate an entire race of people and thinks it’s a good idea?

Right before he blows himself and Levi up, he screams “I’m hope you’re watching, Mr. Ksaver!”.  He’s indulging in his own, fanciful notions of himself as the “chosen one”, as a unique person who alone is capable of delivering humanity to salvation.  He’s showing off, asking Mr. Ksaver to watch him as he “saves the world”, because all he cares about, really, is making himself feel special, of fulfilling what he’s deluded himself into believing is his destiny, his right to decide the fate of the world. 

And then he almost kills Levi in the process.

I swear, I wish Levi had just chopped his shitty head off right then and there.  No one can blame Levi for chopping the bastards legs up like he did, for being so angry.  It wasn’t just that Zeke had killed so many of his fellow soldiers by turning them into Titans, or tried to kill Levi by turning them into Titans, it’s also how Zeke laughed about it, and laughed at the pain he’d caused Levi, treating all of it as if it was worth nothing, and then having the unmitigated gall to cast himself as the hero bestowing his benevolent mercy on all.  Give me a fucking break.

Fuck you Zeke.  I hope you rot in hell, you dumb shit.  

Also, fuck you to Floch too.  I hate that bastard almost as much.

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #Levi Ackerman #zeke yeager #snk 113 #snk 114 #meta #thoughts

[wallwriterstuff]

The Big Bad Wolf ||Demetri Volturi x Female Reader||

Warnings: A bit angsty at first, but otherwise it’s very fluffy 

Words: 5092 

Taglist: @thelastemzy​ @kpopgirlbtssvt @a-avaunce @college-is-coming​ @alecvolturiswifeforever​ @broskibowser​ @volturidoll13​ @raindancer2004​

Summary: 

Part 1: Little Red Riding Hood   Part 3: What Soft Lips You Have  Part 4: And They Have Lived Happily Ever After 

Demetri ponders why his mate doesn’t seem to feel what he feels, tries to plan ahead, and makes an important promise to the one person he can no longer be without. 

What did she dream of?

When her face scrunched like that. When her body twisted like it was trying to escape or flee or maybe curl closer? When her lips moved but no discernible noise escaped them. When she sighed contentedly.

What did she dream of?

When her fingers clenched into thick wool. When her cheek rubbed the same fabric. When vibrant eyes fluttered behind closed lids.

What did she dream of?

He still had no answer despite years of watching her – at least that was how it felt. He could vividly recreate her face in his mind, from the soft curve of her jaw that gave her face that classic oval shape the Swan Sister’s shared to the iridescence of those big Y/E/C eyes. In reality, he simple hadn’t stopped staring since she sort of collapsed into him, her exhausted body no longer capable of keeping her upright once he used the advantages fate had bestowed upon him to try and calm her from her obviously terrified state. Demetri couldn’t honestly say he blamed her, being afraid of her current situation. The moment she had stepped on the plane his mate had been subject to stares, the probing and malicious kind of looks that only those who thought they were above you could really give. Those looks gave way to open shock and clear, intense dislike when Demetri ushered her into the small booth of the Private Jet, the one reserved for the Higher Guard only.

To add to her worry, Aro had drifted over before long to discuss her change, Caius’s open dislike for her enough to make it clear only Demetri seemed to be overly bothered about whether or not she could endure the transformation. He was determined to make it so, bargaining for at least a night of sleep since the poor thing looked so drained. Her sister was pale it was true but there was something about the bags under her eyes that didn’t sit well with him. Alone, afraid, his mate looked nothing like the strong woman who had spoken out against the injustice her family were facing, and he would have devoted every last inch of himself to seeing her smile if only the timing was right. But he had scared her to, hadn’t he? His reaction to what was obviously a very upsetting scar of all things…

It was the principle of the thing! To think someone else’s venom had entered her bloodstream, that someone else had tasted the alluring wine lingering in her veins! The thought had driven him to near madness as most other things about her had that day. It had started off quite gently, as the mate pull should be he supposed. Her scent had made him pause, watching from a distance as she spied on them with no real idea of the consequences it held for either of them, breathing her in one deep inhale at a time as he tried to figure out why the scent was so alluring – then recoiling in surprise when he realised it was because it was all his favourite scents rolled into something unique and tantalising on the tongue. Curiosity had been the first major emotion, itching at his brain, and when Aro’s impatience had forced him to reveal himself to her, it had been quiet, reverent awe that came next.

Awe that he could have the privilege to gaze upon a creature so lovely, from the red tinge to her cold skin to the soft waves of hair that almost begged him to run his fingers through it. The moment he had dared meet her gaze the world calmed, like a storm had brewed and raged within him without him ever noticing until that moment. There was nothing and no one, not a sound or a directive that could have moved him for the seconds it took the mate pull to thrum in the back of his mind, slowly beginning the momentous task of realigning every instinct and every fibre of his being to her, making her the focal point of his existence. This experience was supposed to be sweet and slow, yet watching her wilt under Aro’s stare, knowing the danger she was in, had only sped it up, fate intervening to ensure he protected what was his so he didn’t lose it too soon. The moment his Master leaned forward he knew well his intentions, and Demetri couldn’t honestly recall what happened next since his body had took the lead and given his mind a backstage pass to watch the show from afar.

“You’ve been out of sorts since you met her. Is the pull that strong or is there something more at play here?” Felix asked, a low murmur that only their little booth would hear. Though they made no effort to be friendly his friends had, at the very least, kept their conversations at a more human volume so she would not be left out. Even if she did not take part in their discussions she was not excluded from them. Demetri reflexively tightened his grip, still unable to move his eyes from her for even a moment. He still felt like he was on high alert, like he was waiting for the enemy to come crashing in at any moment and take her from his grasp.

“Yes Demetri do tell, you’ve fawned over her like one might an infant.” Jane looked thoroughly amused at his discomfort and he made a mental note to pay her back for it later…when he could think straight. Every now and then, she would inhale deeply, curling tighter into the cloak he had wrapped around her before she had practically fallen into his lap, pressing tighter to his body as he held her close. He couldn’t understand it himself. Instinctually she knew, her body just…knew, surely? His scent, his presence, it had calmed her as it should. If her body knew to react to this bond, then why couldn’t her mind process it? Did she actually feel anything? Did she not have any of the confusing, intense emotion that he felt?

No…no it had to be the bite. That stupid, stupid bite. He couldn’t stop seeing it in his mind’s eye. She didn’t feel like his, that was the problem. He held her in his arms and she had come with him willingly but she wasn’t his, not till he erased that venom and replaced it with his own.

“Alec…I have a rather large favour to ask you.” He said finally, looking up at him. The boy tilted his head, silently studying the tracker before he nodded once.

“Then ask.” He invited. Even now he had to fight to keep his gaze on Alec, his eyes already itching to look back down and watch her expressions shift as she dreamed. It would be the last dream she ever had. He hoped it was a pleasant one.

“I need someone with me Alec, I cannot turn her alone…I suspect they know that, that that is my punishment for my disobedience on the battlefield earlier. I would have no one else do it anyway but…Alec if I cannot stop myself, please, I beg you stop me.” Demetri implored quietly. Alec seemed surprised at the intensity of the agony that was conveyed in his eyes. Demetri couldn’t really have explained it either, but every thread of his existence was tied so inextricably to her’s in the space of a few short hours that all he knew was that to lose her would be to lose himself. It had all happened so fast it was dizzying, but slowly the fog was clearing and his way out of this mess was clear. Turn his mate, ensure her safety throughout her newborn year, then they were both home free having proven their loyalty to one another and their coven – whether Y/N was there by a deal or by choice.

“Wouldn’t my gift be more effective at dissuading you?” Jane wondered.

“It would also be a wonderful way of ensuring I bite down and pull her throat out with my teeth.” Demetri pointed out, flinching slightly at the grotesque mental image.

“I can strip your taste. You would not want to keep feeding as it would feel pointless then.” Alec said finally. It was as close to an agreement as Demetri knew he would get and he nodded his gratitude as the jet began to descend. She stirred multiple times, his little human struggling to return to slumber each time she awoke as they moved between the landing strip and the Castle, something not even the warm embrace of his cloak could cure. She was blazing like a fire in his arms but seemed content with the temperature, dozing on his shoulder and then his bed after he left her cocooned there. Since she liked the warm, he made sure to stoke the fire before showering. He stayed under the warm water a long time, mind swirling with a number of burgeoning thoughts he couldn’t seem to shift.

His mate was right in the other room and yet she felt so far away from him. His whole life had changed drastically in the blink of an eye, and the price he was paying felt far too high. Her life was quite literally at stake, hanging in the balance where the only thing stopping the momentum from tipping too far to the wrong side was his self-control. Demetri had only ever bitten with the intent to feed, never feeling compelled to create company given he had never been a nomad and alone. Did he even have the self-control for this? The thought plagued him because that was his punishment, and he knew he had to endure for the sake of Y/N and himself. To lose her would be to condemn himself, yet with Chelsea on their side he was sure if Aro still felt he was of use he would never escape that particular torment.

By the time he had stepped out, dried and changed into something comfier than his official battle uniform, Y/N had slipped out of his cloak to curl up in front of the fire instead. With a pillow trapped between her chest and her knees, she hugged them close and stared into the flames, face half-covered by fabric and eyes red rimmed. It wasn’t difficult to smell the salt lingering on the damp fabric and understand what had happened in his absence. Oh, how his heart broke…

“I thought you were sleeping.” He said. She jumped, furiously wiping at her eyes before she somewhat relaxed again into her original position. She had tied her hair back now, long Y/H/C waves messily scraped into a bun that hadn’t managed to capture every strand. He felt another painful pinch in his chest when she refused to look at him.

“I don’t really sleep.” She mumbled. Demetri frowned slightly, inching closer to test her boundaries. She didn’t say anything, merely let him slip ever so slowly until he was sitting beside her, his knees drawn up so he could rest his forearms on them – and keep his feet away from the fire. They sat in silence for a long while, Demetri counting every painful minute in his head as they ticked by, moments with his mate draining away like sand in an hourglass he could never get back. Why was it so hard to talk to her? Every time he opened his mouth he closed it again almost immediately, not knowing if something he said might set her off or upset her more. What did she speak about to others’? So much to learn and so little time till she was lost to the thirst for a while…

“Forgive me, for the way I acted when we returned to your home. It was…selfish.” He settled on that, a safe enough topic he supposed given it was the only real experience they had shared together.

“Yeah, it was.” she couldn’t seem to bring herself to speak any louder than a mumble. Demetri grimaced a little bit, staring into the fire dejectedly.

“I spoke without thinking, reacted without really thinking either, about the pain that wound must have caused you.” He continued.

“I’ve felt worse pain.” She frowned deeply and Demetri couldn’t help but flinch.

“Such as?” he asked, though the sense of foreboding growing in his gut told him he already knew the answer, deep down. Y/N looked furious with him then, her big eyes turning on him with so much hostility he could have sworn she might have actually won if she lunged to fight him in that moment. The anger and upset that radiated from her bled into him, seeping through the cracks in his calm façade and piercing his unbeating heart. He would have given anything to remove that look from her face, that pain in her chest.

“Such as? Such as! Are you aware that you’ve just taken me away from my family, the people I love, without even letting me say goodbye? Do you even comprehend how much I don’t want to be here? That the only reason I am is because you and me are supposed to be this miraculous soulmate story incarnate when the reality is the only thing you feel for me is utter disgust?” she snapped. Demetri wasn’t certain she knew for a fact she was crying, or how much her words wounded him, but he couldn’t keep the offense off of his face. It was a mortal blow to his ego and his pride, his character as a man, yet as furious as he wanted to be with her he still couldn’t bring himself to be. She was young and hurting, deeply wounded and trying to create a chasm between them where fate wouldn’t allow it to exist in an effort to deal with that hurt.

“I do not feel disgust for you nor was it my choice to bring you here! You made a deal with Aro knowing full well the terms which you were agreeing to. You are the reason you are here Y/N, and so long as you choose to stay with me my every effort will be expended into protecting you from yourself. Foolish girl, can you not see he has us both trapped? That we are both being punished here? My own disobedience may have sped up the arrival of your fate but it is one you readily signed yourself over to.” he hissed.

He hated it. The revulsion boiled and writhed in his gut as he ground his teeth together, his mind buzzing with a thousand other angry words he forced back down his throat lest he make things worse. None of this was right. He shouldn’t be arguing with her like this. They should be happy, shouldn’t they? Happy as everyone else who was lucky enough to find their mate…shouldn’t they?

“I don’t have a choice, and neither did you,” She reminded him, “or clearly you would have chosen less damaged goods.” The air between them was polluted with their anger, their grief, and yet…her voice wavered. The sentence itself was so wrong but the tone of her voice, the way her hand moved to her throat, that pinched expression that suggested she was tortured by her own insecurities, was really what gave it away. How could he be angry at her now? With a drawn out sigh, Demetri scooted slightly closer and turned himself toward her, scrutinising her side profile.

Y/N closed her eyes, no doubt sensing his gaze and wishing it would leave her skin. He reminded himself she was fragile, that his little human would shatter easily under too forceful a touch, and drew his finger beneath her eye with such care it barely touched her skin and did little to remove the tears he wished he could wipe away. They had started all wrong, but it didn’t mean they had to continue the same way. Maybe it was inappropriate, maybe it was the wrong time, but he needed her to know it was something he could move past. He needed her to know that she wasn’t damaged goods, that she wasn’t something he regretted or felt the need to change – at least not in that way.

His fingers clasped around her wrist, afraid to grip too hard but ever so careful in the way he pulled her palm from her throat. Demetri closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to her temple as she froze up beneath him, feeling the icy tips of his fingers brush her delicate throat. Her pulse hammered beneath the pads of his fingers, blood rushing beneath her paper-thin flesh…

“Relax, trust me.” He whispered, tracing the indents of teeth in hardened flesh. He didn’t feel quite so angry about it this time, though he couldn’t say he was thrilled by it either. Demetri exhaled slowly, held his breath, and dipped his head a little lower.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, jerking her head backward. She didn’t move out of his grip though and there was the slightest hint of fear on her face. Demetri shook his head.

“I will not harm you,” he vowed, moving slowly so as to give her time to move away again, “You are not broken goods Y/N, and the way I see it I _did _choose you, though not consciously perhaps not consciously. Your very soul reached out to mine and I accepted what I knew would be best for me. You were never a choice, you were a necessity.” His bold words had left her utterly stunned and she didn’t fight him at all as he placed his lips over the marred flesh of her throat. He placed two kisses against that scar that brought them so much pain, just two, but it was enough to set them on the right path this time. Demetri pulled his head back, watching her carefully as she stared at him in utter astonishment. His head had cleared, his mind set right; he had never been as certain about anything in his life as he was about Y/N, whether the rest of the world was against them or not.

“But you said…you said your only hope was to…” she looked so confused in that moment it almost made him swoon. How adorable she was when her nose scrunched like that! He could watch the expression all day, but she needed an answer.

“What I said remains true, I have every plan to change you in the same way in the hopes I might not have to remind myself another ever dared lay a hand on you, but there will be contingencies to ensure I do not fail and you are safe. All that matters to me now is that I succeed in this endeavour.” He confessed, settling back against the sofa’s edge once more with a quiet sigh. The silence that followed was far more comfortable than the first one, something more companiable in the air between them. He was pleased she scooted a little closer to him so they could watch the flames together, their crackling no longer drowned out by the exchange of angry words. He wanted to ask her a thousand more questions, get to know her, but there would be time enough for that later on. For now he wished only to bask in this silent moment where things felt more right between them than they had since they met.

“They’re hoping you’ll kill me, aren’t they?” her quiet voice broke that silence a few hours later, as the sun was starting to set in the sky and night fell over Volterra. She was running out of time and Demetri wasn’t sure when that had begun to bother him to this extent, but the room was going to feel so empty without her heartbeat to fill the quiet.

“Yes. I believe that that is my punishment to endure for my disobedience.” He agreed, voice equally as quiet as he turned to look at her. He couldn’t remember when she had placed her head against his shoulder, but she lifted it now to meet his eyes.

“You didn’t do anything wrong though, I did, my mouth got us both in trouble.” She frowned. Demetri chuckled ruefully.

“Your mouth will get you into trouble for a while yet I believe, but my own impudence in placing myself between you and Master Aro was equally as displeasing to them. I wilfully subordinated your sentencing in front of many witnesses outside of our coven, after all.” He grimaced. He would change nothing about that moment, he had decided, not when it brought him so tangibly close to forever with his mate. It was right within his grasp now, an eternity of being fulfilled, happy, of having a purpose beyond the walls he once held so dear – he had something new to protect.

“So…they want to punish us both then…and being an out of control newborn is only going to make it worse for both of us.” She mused, though she didn’t seem in the least bit concerned. In fact, if Demetri had to guess, she was rather looking forward to the chance to raise a little hell within their walls. He was as worried and exasperated by the idea as he was amused by it.

“Indeed it just might, though I promise not to let you get too out of hand.” He nudged her lightly with his arm and she giggled, the sound absolutely melodious to his ears. He almost begged her to do it again purely so he had a better chance to commit it to memory, something to keep him company while she endured the change and reminded him of the better times to come. Finally, it felt like he had done something right…now he just had to keep that sweet smile in place.

“You promise huh? Way I see it, its a bit us vs them right now isn’t it? If they can be so unfair to you of all people…” she trailed off. Demetri felt his own smile fall slightly, his expression somewhat vacant as he pondered the accusation. In truth he did feel somewhat betrayed. Chelsea had actually threatened the Masters’ when she first brought home Afton and they wanted him killed, yet she received no punishment, so why had he? He was protecting what was rightfully his after all, someone he could never be truly happy without again. What was so wrong about it?

“Us and them…”he echoed, the thought both perturbing and…thrilling. She hummed, suddenly pushing up onto her knees beside him, eyes alight with fierce determination.

“You’re making a lot of promises but there’s nothing to say you’ll keep them so…lets make a real promise, right now.” She instructed. His eyebrows rose slightly.

“In my day and age when a man gives his word it is an ironclad contract little one, the breaking of which eroded his position in society and status as a man.” He replied slightly insulted. Her head tilted.

“Well we’re not in the Bible era anymore so…” she shot him a devilish grin as he snorted and feigned an offended expression, “It’s a real simple promise. Since we’re supposed to be the next Gomez and Morticia, and we’re clearly the only ones willing to see if that can work out, then I say we promise right now it’ll always be us against them. Hell, it’ll be us against the world if we need it to be. Whatever we do…we back each other up.” She proposed, offering her hand to him. Y/N extended her pinky but left her other fingers curled in, and Demetri wasn’t too sure what exactly was expected of him as he mulled over her words.

They felt right. Wasn’t this what the mate bond was supposed to be? Someone to always support you? Protect you? Someone to always have your back? If not his mate then who? Maybe the Masters’ who would so readily forsake his happiness weren’t the best choice of allies…

“Though I do not know what half of your speech actually meant, I can promise you this. Whatever we do, we back each other up.” He agreed, offering her his hand in the hopes she’d guide him through this next part. Demetri couldn’t honestly say he had any clue what was so different about this handshake and how it was any more significant than any other, but as she looped her pinky through his and shook his hand he couldn’t help but smile. With a firm nod and a sharp exhale, she suddenly reached down and pulled her jumper off with a flourish, revealing an expanse of pale skin and a wonderfully bright blue lace bra Demetri struggled to look away from as he choked on the air he was breathing.

“Okay so first step, you turn me.” She seemed completely unbothered by her partial nakedness, even when he struggled to stop the venom pooling in his mouth and his fingers from reaching out to drag her closer. She looked entirely confident in him and though he wanted to be flattered Demetri had his mind on very different matters in that moment.

“I – you –  Alec is going to- to help.” He choked out, eyes wide and completely fixed to her chest. She visibly lost some confidence then, a beautiful, vibrant shade of red painting her cheeks as her arms came up to cross her chest with a squeak.

“O-oh. I…I th-think I need a shirt then?” she sounded almost as strained as he felt and with a quick nod he dashed to his closet to find her something appropriate. He dutifully kept his head turned away while she buttoned up one of his shirts. When she cleared her throat to let him know he could look again she was still blushing brightly, and Demetri managed a slightly strained smile.

“So er…Alec’s room is just down the hall, er…shall we?” he asked, offering her his hand.

“No need, I heard my name and decided to drop in.” Alec’s voice was smooth as ever but there was an underlying hint of mischief there that made Demetri tense, and it wasn’t until after the deed was done that he dared speak his mind.

“How much did you see, Alec?” he didn’t risk looking at him, not wanting to see the shit-eating smirk he was sure was going to be on Alec’s face. He focused instead on cleaning the blood from her skin and ensuring she was comfortably resting upon his sheets. She started to twitch a bit, a pained grunt escaping here and there as Alec’s mist retreated from them.

“What I did or didn’t see is of no consequence…though I think you’re in for an interesting life if she’s as willing to undress herself for you after the change as she was before it.” His cackling could be heard down the hall as he fled from the room before Demetri could hit him, the tracker closing his eyes and counting to ten before deciding he could let it go for now. He had much bigger things to attend to after all. He had never been one to fuss too much over little things, but suddenly the sheets on the bed were not tucked in enough, the curtains letting in too little or too much light, the air in the room too stale and then too full of scents when he opened the window. There was no such thing as perfection and yet, as she burned, Demetri strived for it.

It felt worth it though, when she finally opened her eyes. It was rather amusing to him to watch her take it all in, the thousands of different smells and the way they tasted in the air, the shimmer of her skin, the speed with which she had sat up and moved. Demetri almost envied her when she finally locked eyes with him, the minute way the vivid red irises widened and the soft gasp that escaped through parted lips telling him she too had felt that momentous pull realigning her entire being with his own – he wished he could experience it again. She approached him with such caution it was almost comical, and Demetri was the one to reach for her first. She jumped at his touch but quickly relaxed into it, letting him hold her hand and squeeze lightly.

“This feeling…”she whispered, her own voice startling her with the musical notes it now contained. Her fingertips traced soothing patterns against his palm and Demetri held back a contented sigh, too enamoured with watching her explore the new feelings and beginning to understand his position in all of this.

“Intense?” he guessed, lifting his free hand to push back some of her hair. The slightest of scars remained where he hadn’t quite managed to cover Riley’s teeth marks with his own, but the majority of it was gone, sealed over with the same venom that had stopped her heart and ensured she would hand the organ and all it contained to him. She nodded distractedly, following his hand with her head until he caved and cupped her cheek tenderly with a low chuckle. His thumb stroked her cheek lovingly, his heart bursting in his chest. She had done it, his mate had defied them all with a little help and now…now there was nothing more for them to do than enjoy eternity.

“Is it forever?” she asked innocently, looking up at him through her lashes. Demetri pulled up the hand that was holding hers, lacing his fingers through her own and leaning down to press his forehead to hers.

“Always and forever little one, it’s us against the world.” He promised. Their noses brushed as her head tilted, pushing forward and pulling back as if trying to decide if she should or not. Demetri decided for her, meeting her halfway and letting their lips meet in the first of many sweet kisses to come. He had never tasted her blood thanks to Alec, but he was sure now that if the boy had failed at his task he certainly would not have been able to stop and his mate would not have been standing before him, sweet and alive and willingly walking into his embrace. The taste of her was sublime, addictive even, and he knew he’d never tire of kissing her. Though she’d need to learn to be a little more careful with him first.

A/N: Usually I wouldn’t do this but I tried a few new things here today I’d like some feedback on please! How do you like the taglist? Should I keep it? Add anyone to it? Take anyone off it? And how do you like the idea of a gif or a picture (when I can find them) to brighten up the post a bit? All that’s left to do now is rejig my Masterlist a bit...Thanks for reading folks. 

#twilight #twilight fanfiction #demetri volturi #swan sister reader #demetri volturi x female reader #volturi #felix volturi #alec volturi #part 2 #request #honestly this ending just spilled out of me #so fluffy

[agent-cupcake]

fluff is good, it’s even fun sometimes. but, you know, i think i’ll always enjoy dark content the most. like, no matter how much i insist i have moved past it, my entire career began because i learned the term yandere and realized i’d found my place in the online sphere. but, really, lust and fear have a complimentary relationship. the emotions and sensations they invoke, both physically and mentally, are equally potent and stem from the same place for me. the fluttery sensation in my stomach dances indiscriminately to the tune of disquiet and arousal, excitement stirs itself up within my chest at the mention of being wanted, uncaring if the intent is sadistic or lustful. its a shared theatrical fantasy of fear, catching thrills from simulated danger as we imagine what it is to be in a situation so dire, so intense and frightening, that we cannot help but to hyperfocus on our discomfort. we practice these emotions and engage in these disastrously unhealthy relationships through emulation and the sanitized vessel of the written word, but without any of the emotional price that would be asked of us if it were real.

it’s not real. 

there is nobody lurking behind your window in the gaps between the streetlamps, even if you were to turn off the lights in an attempt to get a better view, but maybe you shouldn’t anyway. there is no face to breathe fog and leave smudged fingerprints on the glass pane while they peer into the internal life you hold sacred, but you should probably keep your blinds shut. there is nobody hiding behind your shower curtain as you stumble half-blind and asleep into the bathroom at two in the morning, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. if you hear a sound, surely you cannot logically attribute it to a malevolent person moving unseen through the secure sanctuary of your home when they assumed you would be in bed, but you should probably take a look at your locks. if you notice that your things are not where you left them, it’s silly to assume that someone has been into your room, rifling through your things and leaving them almost as you left them. to believe that somebody genuinely and truly meant you harm in such a personal way would be to risk the foundational safety that you rely on to live with any measure of peace. and besides, memories are fallible. our senses are imperfect. our overexcited and imaginative minds can betray us. you can be infected by a nightmare you can’t quite remember, only that you woke up shaky and gasping and frightened, squinting in the darkness to make out the figure standing at the foot of your bed that you could have sworn was just there only to be reassured that it was just a bad dream. you can hurry home because you felt certain you were being watched only for the sensation to be ultimately attributed to your own paranoia. yes, the world is dangerous. but maybe not your world. these things, these dramatic scenes cut straight from an episode of the hundreds of crime dramas, don’t happen to people like you.

but 

we fantasize about yanderes and dark personalities and the brutal psychological and bodily torture any character of our choice could subject us to, we imagine the most grim of situations in a light that appeals to our own desires, twisting horror to suit us in a controlled manner. 

still, it is frightening, isn’t it?

it’s past midnight, maybe one or two in the morning, and you’re sitting within the four walls of your room that you no longer believe to be protection enough from the stalker that has been creeping closer and closer. you’re staring at the familiar surroundings that suddenly feel very alien and contend with the bone crushing frenzy of utter stillness in the face of animal panic, the intense crackling and wavering that you can almost see hovering above your skin and holding up little strands of hair as chills crawl in bug-like hoards across the feverish flush of your flesh. all at once you are overwhelmed and helpless against him as he invades, defiles, and dismantles each aspect of your life. there is nothing you can do, no protection from this stylized predator who who has been perfected by fantasy made real so that he no longer resembles any common stalker. in the dark, you are vulnerable. in this situation, you are isolated. shame fills your chest, sloshing around to the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat, embarrassment at the ridiculousness of your reaction. really, what are a few messages? maybe you’re misinterpreting the signs, there’s not enough evidence to prove anything. you have to use the bathroom, yet you don’t feel safe to enter the dark hallway because there might be a figure standing at the other end, and what would you do then? you want to contact somebody for comfort, but everyone you know is asleep and you don’t want to disturb them over something so trivial. you want to move and run and scream and deal with the problem, but you can’t do anything. just sit. just watch. just wait. minutes tick by, somehow. and somehow, dawn breaks over the horizon. you didn’t sleep, but maybe the sun will provide safety. maybe.

maybe not. there’s a unique kind of horror in the mundane. you don’t think about the sounds of the world around you until you begin to feel uneasy in the sunny open air, until the paranoia kicks in and suddenly it’s all you can hear because you’re hyper-focusing on trying to identify why you no longer feel safe. birds warble and call to one another. the leaves relentlessly rustle as the playful breeze shakes them about. from far away, a dog is barking. the big kind, the one that goes “boof boof,” you’ve just gotten out of your car after being out all day and you’re standing uncertainly in your driveway, looking around to try and pinpoint why you’re so anxious. you realize, with a zipping sort of shock down your spine, that there’s nobody else around. not even any evidence that they existed in the first place and it’s so stupid but you begin to think that maybe you’re the only person who has ever existed because the world around you feels so empty and barren. energy tingles in the air, but it is hollow. a void of something you can’t quite perceive. the dog stops barking. the wind dies down. do you dare go inside? your home, the place that should be your refuge, is not safe. you go inside and look at a kitchen you scarcely recognize as your own, at a bed that might as well belong to somebody else, at decor you once were so proud to put up that now seems arranged by a strangers hand. the one who is preying on you is probably human, but the threat feels supernatural in effect. omnipresent. we fear that which we don’t understand, and how can you possibly understand the motive of someone who has focused on you? dread sinks down deep as you shift from foot to foot and second guess every move you make. it smells like sun-warmed concrete and the wind-blown scent of spring greenery. just like your home itself, the smell is familiar as it is foreign. eventually, you go inside.

it’s so obscene, the way that sweat pools between your shoulder blades and slicks your skin, making you shiver with a distinctly antithetical chill to your blazing temperature. sweat is gross and uncomfortable, it makes your clothes cling to your skin and hair mat to your forehead. it’s so crude, this gouging, pinching discomfort like you need to pee making your thighs tremble as they clench together. your entire body is wound up tight as you crouch in the dark, barely allowing yourself to breathe for fear of being discovered while he looks for you. maybe he takes his time just to mess with you, maybe he doesn’t. maybe he tauntingly calls out to you in a feigned attempt to draw you out of hiding. maybe he means it when he tells you that he loves you. no matter what, there’s no escape, not anymore. it’s a foregone conclusion that you will be found. but you can’t move. fight or flight is out the window, you are frozen. you know the eventuality, yet you cling to hope out of the sheer, stubborn, and half-mad belief that this cannot possibly be real.

its so repulsive, this sickness that gathers in your gut, that invites the swollen weight of nausea to press down heavy and inescapable in your throat, that sits on your paper dry tongue. it tastes like old, rusted metal, the scent that clung to your blistered hands when you were young and tried your luck on the ancient playground monkey bars. the bloody flavor that choked you when you lost the last of your baby teeth, leaving your childhood behind and exchanging imaginary monsters for the real ones. just when the anticipation is on the precipice of killing you, you’re found. you expected it, yet you still scream. it still hurts, it’s still terrifying, you’re still clouded by the vague fog of disbelief that this could be real. you keep thinking that. it can’t be real, this can’t be real. things like this don’t happen to you. 

but it is. you can’t stop it. you have no control over your life in that moment and thereafter. 

and you think about everything you’ve ever read online about torture. human beings are so capable of hurting each other, it’s a dedicated art form. and you know about stalkers, the real kind, not the fun fictional yandere kind. you know the torture that human bodies are capable of withstanding before dying, the grotesque limits they can endure. limbs removed or hobbled. fingers peeled of nail and skin. teeth pulled, tongue cut out, eyes gouged, skin lashed to tatters, feet spun around so the skin stretched like rubber. not to mention sexual torture. when a human being is granted absolute dominion over another, even the best of them go rotten. do you ever think about that? in these situations, the fear of pain would get to me above all else, i think. 

if you don’t immediately disassociate from the fiction, if you force yourself into the scenario as its presented with a degree of reality, the horror is really limitless. and, you may ask, why was this important? because it is six am and i cannot sleep and i’ve had this entire conceptual outline of good horror yandere fiction sitting in my docs for ages that i’ll never actually use to write character x reader so i am giving it to you raw and uncut.   

#personal #yandere #uh tw for being a pretentious and sleepy idiot cooming over ye ole classic yandere tropes #sometimes i like to imagine this stuff in clear enough detail that it actually makes me uncomfortable enough to turn on the light #and rethink my life choices #because this aint it #but at the same time #at this point its sunk cost fallacy i've spent too long typing this out to discard it #sorry dear followers #stalking tw

[elisaenglish]

If the Doors of Perception Were Cleansed

Knowledge is acquired when we succeed in fitting a new experience into the system of concepts based upon our old experiences. Understanding comes when we liberate ourselves from the old and so make possible a direct, unmediated contact with the new, the mystery, moment by moment, of our existence.

The new is given on every level of experience—given perceptions, given emotions and thoughts, given states of unobstructed awareness, given relationships with things and persons. The old is our homemade system of ideas and word patterns. It is the stock of finished articles fabricated out of the given mystery by memory and analytical reasoning, by habit and the automatic associations of accepted notions. Knowledge is primarily a knowledge of these finished articles. Understanding is primarily direct awareness of the raw material.

Knowledge is always in terms of concepts and can be passed on by means of words or other symbols. Understanding is not conceptual, and therefore cannot be passed on. It is an immediate experience, and immediate experience can only be talked about (very inadequately), never shared.

Nobody can actually feel another’s pain or grief, another’s love or joy or hunger. And similarly nobody can experience another’s understanding of a given event or situation. There can, of course, be knowledge of such an understanding and this knowledge may be passed on in speech or writing, or by means of other symbols. Such communicable knowledge is useful as a reminder that there have been specific understandings in the past, and that understanding is at all times possible. But we must always remember that knowledge of understanding is not the same thing as the understanding, which is the raw material of that knowledge. It is as different from understanding as the doctor’s prescription for penicillin is different from penicillin.

Understanding is not inherited, nor can it be laboriously acquired. It is something which when circumstances are favourable, comes to us, so to say, of its own accord. All of us are knowers, all the time; it is only occasionally and in spite of ourselves that we understand the mystery of given reality. Consequently we are very seldom tempted to equate understanding with knowledge. Of the exceptional men and women, who have understanding in every situation, most are intelligent enough to see that understanding is different from knowledge and that conceptual systems based upon past experience are as necessary to the conduct of life as are spontaneous insights into new experiences. For these reasons the mistake of identifying understanding with knowledge is rarely perpetuated and therefore poses no serious problem.

How different is the case with the opposite mistake, the mistake of supposing that knowledge is the same as understanding and interchangeable with it! All adults possess vast stocks of knowledge. Some of it is correct knowledge, some of it is incorrect knowledge, and some of it only looks like knowledge and is neither correct nor incorrect; it is merely meaningless.

That which gives meaning to a proposition is not (to use the words of an eminent contemporary philosopher, Rudolf Carnap) “the attendant images or thoughts, but the possibility of deducing from it perceptive propositions, in other words, the possibility of verification. To give sense to a proposition, the presence of images is not sufficient, it is not even necessary. We have no image of the electromagnetic field, nor even, I should say, of the gravitational field; nevertheless the propositions which physicists assert about these fields have a perfect sense because perceptive propositions are deducible from them.”

Metaphysical doctrines are propositions which cannot be operationally verified, at least on the level of ordinary experience. They may be expressive of a state of mind, in the way that lyrical poetry is expressive; but they have no assignable meaning. The information they convey is only pseudo-knowledge. But the formulators of metaphysical doctrines and the believers in such doctrines have always mistaken this pseudo-knowledge for knowledge and have proceeded to modify their behaviour accordingly.

Meaningless pseudo-knowledge has at all times been one of the principal motivators of individual and collective action. And that is one of the reasons why the course of human history has been so tragic and at the same time so strangely grotesque. Action based upon meaningless pseudo-knowledge is always inappropriate, always beside the point, and consequently always results in the kind of mess mankind has always lived in—the kind of mess that makes the angels weep and the satirists laugh aloud.

Correct or incorrect, relevant or meaningless, knowledge and pseudo-knowledge are as common as dirt and are therefore taken for granted. Understanding, on the contrary, is as rare, very nearly, as emeralds, and so is highly prized. The knowers would dearly love to be understanders; but either their stock of knowledge does not include the knowledge of what to do in order to be understanders; or else they know theoretically what they ought to do, but go on doing the opposite all the same. In either case they cherish the comforting delusion that knowledge and, above all, pseudo-knowledge are understanding. Along with the closely related errors of over-abstraction, over-generalisation, and over-simplification, this is the commonest of all intellectual sins and the most dangerous.

Of the vast sum of human misery about one third, I would guess, is unavoidable misery. This is the price we must pay for being embodied, and for inheriting genes which are subject to deleterious mutations. This is the rent extorted by nature for the privilege of living on the surface of a planet, whose soil is mostly poor, whose climates are capricious and inclement, and whose inhabitants include a countless number of microorganisms capable of causing in human beings themselves, in their domestic animals and cultivated plants, an immense variety of deadly or debilitating diseases.

To these miseries of cosmic origin must be added the much larger group of those avoidable disasters we bring upon ourselves. For at least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice, and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism, and proselytising zeal on behalf of religious or political idols. But zeal, dogmatism, and idealism exist only because we are forever committing intellectual sins. We sin by attributing concrete significance to meaningless pseudo-knowledge; we sin in being too lazy to think in terms of multiple causation and indulging instead in over-simplification, over-generalisation, and over-abstraction; and we sin by cherishing the false but agreeable notion that conceptual knowledge and, above all, conceptual pseudo-knowledge are the same as understanding.

Consider a few obvious examples. The atrocities of organised religion (and organised religion, let us never forget, has done about as much harm as it has done good) are all due, in the last analysis, to “mistaking the pointing finger for the moon”—in other words to mistaking the verbalised notion for the given mystery to which it refers or, more often, only seems to refer. This, as I have said, is one of the original sins of the intellect, and it is a sin in which, with a rationalistic bumptiousness as grotesque as it is distasteful, theologians have systematically wallowed.

From indulgence in this kind of delinquency there has arisen, in most of the great religious traditions of the world, a fantastic over-valuation of words. Over-valuation of words leads all too frequently to the fabrication and idolatrous worship of dogmas, to the insistence on uniformity of belief, the demand for assent by all and sundry to a set of propositions which, though meaningless, are to be regarded as sacred. Those who do not consent to this idolatrous worship of words are to be “converted” and, if that should prove impossible, either persecuted or, if the dogmatisers lack political power, ostracised and denounced.

Immediate experience of reality unites humanity. Conceptualised beliefs, including even the belief in a God of love and righteousness, divides them and, as the dismal record of religious history bears witness, sets them for centuries on end at each other’s throats.

Over-simplification, over-generalisation, and over-abstraction are three other sins closely related to the sin of imagining that knowledge and pseudo-knowledge are the same as understanding. The over-generalising over-simplifier is the person who asserts, without producing evidence, that “All X’s are Y,” or, “All A’s have a single cause, which is B.” The over-abstracter is the one who cannot be bothered to deal with Jones and Smith, with Jane and Mary, as individuals, but enjoys being eloquent on the subject of Humanity, of Progress, of God and History and the Future. This brand of intellectual delinquency is indulged in by every demagogue, every crusader.

In the Middle Ages the favourite over-generalisation was “All infidels are damned.” (For the Muslims, “all infidels” meant “all Christians;” for the Christians, “all Muslims.”) Almost as popular was the nonsensical proposition. “All heretics are inspired by the devil” and “All eccentric old women are witches.” In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the wars and persecutions were justified by the luminously clear and simple belief that “All Roman Catholics (or if you happened to be on the Pope’s side, all Lutherans, Calvinists, and Anglicans) are God’s enemies.”

In our own day Hitler proclaimed that all the ills of the world had one cause, namely Jews, and that all Jews were subhuman enemies of humanity. For the Communists, all the ills of the world have one cause, namely capitalists, and all capitalists and their middle-class supporters are subhuman enemies of humanity. It is perfectly obvious, on the face of it, that none of these over-generalised statements can possibly be true. But the urge to intellectual sin is fearfully strong. All are subject to temptation and few are able to resist.

There are in the lives of human beings very many situations in which only knowledge, conceptualised, accumulated, and passed on by means of words, is of any practical use. For example, if I want to manufacture sulfuric acid or to keep accounts for a banker, I do not start at the beginnings of chemistry or economics; I start at what is now the end of these sciences. In other words, I go to a school where the relevant knowledge is taught, I read books in which the accumulation of past experience in these particular fields are set forth. I can learn the functions of an accountant or a chemical engineer on the basis of knowledge alone.

For this particular purpose it is not necessary for me to have much understanding of concrete situations as they arise, moment by moment from the depths of the given mystery of our existence. What is important for me as a professional person is that I should be familiar with all the conceptual knowledge in my field. Ours is an industrial civilisation, in which no society can prosper unless it possesses an elite of highly trained scientists and a considerable army of engineers and technicians. The possession and wide dissemination of a great deal of correct, specialised knowledge has become a prime condition of national survival.

There is no substitute for correct knowledge and in the process of acquiring correct knowledge there is no substitute for concentration and prolonged practice. Except for the unusually gifted, learning, by whatever method, must always be hard work. Unfortunately there are many professional educationists who seem to think that children should never be required to work hard. Wherever educational methods are based on this assumption, children will not in fact acquire much knowledge; and if the methods are followed for a generation or two, the society which tolerates them will find itself in full decline.

In theory, deficiencies in knowledge can be made good simply by changing the curriculum. In practice a change in the curriculum will do little good, unless there is a corresponding change in the point of view of professional educationists. For the trouble with American educationists, writes a distinguished member of their profession, Dr. H. L. Dodge, is that they “regard any subject from personal grooming to philosophy as equally important or interchangeable in furthering the process of self-realisation. This anarchy of values has led to the displacement of the established disciplines of science and the humanities by these new subjects.”

Whether professional educationists can be induced to change their current attitudes is uncertain. Should it prove impossible, we must fall back on the comforting thought that time never stands still and that nobody is immortal. What persuasion and the threat of national decline fail to accomplish, retirement, high blood pressure, and death will bring to pass, more slowly, it is true, but much more surely.

The dissemination of correct knowledge is one of the essential functions of education, and we neglect it at our peril. But, obviously, education should be more than a device for passing on correct knowledge. It should also teach what Dewey called life adjustment and self-realisation. But precisely how should self-realisation and life adjustment be promoted? To this question modern educators have given many answers. Most of these answers belong to one or other of two main educational families, the Progressive and the Classical. Answers of the Progressive type find expression in the provision of courses in such subjects as “family living, consumer economics, job information, physical and mental health, training for world citizenship and statesmanship, and last, and we are afraid least” (I quote again the words of Dr. Dodge) “training in fundamentals.”

Where answers of the classical type are preferred, educators provide courses in Latin, Greek, modern European literature, in world history and in philosophy—exclusively, for some odd reason, of the Western brand. Shakespeare and Chaucer, Virgil and Homer—how far away they seem, how irrevocably dead! Why, then, should we bother to teach the classics? The reasons have been stated a thousand times, but seldom with more force and lucidity than by Albert Jay Nock in his Memoirs of a Superfluous Man:

“The literatures of Greece and Rome provide the longest, the most complete and most nearly continuous record we have of what the strange creature homo sapiens has been busy about in virtually every department of spiritual, intellectual and social activity. Hence the mind that has canvassed this record is much more than a disciplined mind; it is an experienced mind. It has come, as Emerson says, into a feeling of immense longevity, and it instinctively views contemporary man and his doings in the perspective set by this profound and weighty experience.

Our studies were properly called formative, because, beyond all others, their effect was powerfully maturing. Cicero told the unvarnished truth in saying that those who have no knowledge of what has gone before them must for ever remain children. And if one wished to characterise the collective mind of this period, or indeed of any period, the use it makes of its powers of observation, reflection, logical inference, one would best do it by the word ‘immaturity’.”

The Progressive and the Classical approaches to education are not incompatible. It is perfectly possible to combine a schooling in the local cultural tradition with a training, half-vocational, half-psychological, in adaptation to the current conventions of social life, and then to combine this combination with training in the sciences. In other words with the inculcation of correct knowledge. But is this enough? Can such an education result in the self-realisation which is its aim? The question deserves our closest scrutiny.

Nobody, of course, can doubt the importance of accumulated experience as a guide for individual and social conduct. We are human because, at a very early stage in the history of the species, our ancestors discovered a way of preserving and disseminating the results of experience. They learned to speak and were thus enabled to translate what they had perceived, what they had inferred from given fact and home-grown fantasy, into a set of concepts, which could be added to by each generation and bequeathed, a treasure of mingled sense and nonsense, to posterity. In Mr. Nock’s words “the mind that has canvassed this record is an experienced mind.”

The only trouble, so far as we are concerned, is that the vicarious experience derived from a study of the classics is, in certain respects, completely irrelevant to twentieth-century facts. In many ways, of course, the modern world resembles the world inhabited by the people of antiquity. In many other ways, however, it is radically different.

For example, in their world the rate of change was exceedingly slow; in ours advancing technology produces a state of chronic revolution. They took infanticide for granted (Thebes was the only Greek city which forbade the exposure of babies) and regarded slavery as not only necessary to the Greek way of life, but as intrinsically natural and right; we are the heirs of eighteenth-and-nineteenth-century humanitarianism and must solve our economic and demographic problems by methods less dreadfully reminiscent of recent totalitarian practice.

Because all the dirty work was done by slaves, they regarded every form of manual activity as essentially unworthy of a gentleman and in consequence never subjected their over-abstract, over-rational theories to the test of experiment; we have learned, or at least are learning, to think operationally. They despised “barbarians,” never bothered to learn a foreign language, and could therefore naively regard the rules of Greek grammar and syntax as the Laws of Thought; we have begun to understand the nature of language, the danger of taking words too seriously, the ever present need for linguistic analysis. They knew nothing about the past and therefore, in Cicero’s words, were like children. (Thucydides, the greatest historian of antiquity, prefaces his account of the Peloponnesian War by airily asserting that nothing of great importance had happened before his own time.)

We, in the course of the last five generations, have acquired a knowledge of humanity’s past extending back to more than half a million years and covering the activities of tribes and nations in every continent. They developed political institutions which, in the case of Greece, were hopelessly unstable and, in the case of Rome, were only too firmly fixed in a pattern of aggressiveness and brutality; but what we need is a few hints on the art of creating an entirely new kind of society, durable but adventurous, strong but humane, highly organised but liberty-loving, elastic, and adaptable. In this matter Greece and Rome can teach us only negatively—by demonstrating, in their divergent ways, what not to do.

From all this it is clear that a classical education in the humanities of two thousand years ago requires to be supplemented by some kind of training in the humanities of today and tomorrow. The Progressives profess to give such a training; but surely we need something a little more informative, a little more useful in the vertiginously changing world of ours, than courses in present-day consumer economics and current job information.

But even if a completely adequate schooling in the humanities of the past, the present, and the foreseeable future could be devised and made available to all, would the aims of education, as distinct from factual and theoretical instruction, be thereby achieved? Would the recipients of such an education be any nearer to the goal of self-realisation?

The answer, I am afraid, is, No. For at this point we find ourselves confronted by one of those paradoxes, which are of the very essence of our strange existence as amphibians inhabiting, without being completely at home in, half a dozen almost incommensurable worlds—the world of concepts and the world of data, the objective world and the subjective, the world of personal consciousness and the world of the unconscious.

Where education is concerned, the paradox may be expressed in the statement that the medium of education, which is language, is absolutely necessary, but also fatal; the subject matter of education, which is conceptualised accumulation of past experience, is indispensable, but also an obstacle to be circumvented. “Existence is prior to essence.” Unlike most metaphysical propositions, this slogan of the existentialists can actually be verified.

“Wolf children,” adopted by animal mothers and brought up in animal surroundings, have the form of human beings, but are not human. The essence of humanity, it is evident, is not something we are born with; it is something we make or grow into. We learn to speak, we accumulate conceptualised knowledge and pseudo-knowledge, we imitate our elders, we build up fixed patterns of thought and feeling and behaviour, and in the process we become human, we turn into persons.

But the things which make us human are precisely the things which interfere with self-realisation and prevent understanding. We are humanised by imitating others, by learning their speech, and by acquiring the accumulated knowledge which language makes available. But we understand only when, by liberating ourselves from the tyranny of words, conditioned reflexes, and social conventions, we establish direct, unmediated contact with experience.

The greatest paradox of our existence consists in this: that in order to understand, we must first encumber ourselves with all the intellectual and emotional baggage, which is an impediment to understanding. Except in a dim, preconscious way, animals do not understand a situation, even though, by inherited instinct or by an ad hoc act of intelligence, they may be reacting to it with complete appropriateness, as though they understood it.

Conscious understanding is the privilege of men and women, and it is a privilege which they have earned, strangely enough, by acquiring the useful or delinquent habits, the stereotypes of perception, thought, and feeling, the rituals of behaviour, the stock of second-hand knowledge and pseudo-knowledge, whose possession is the greatest obstacle to understanding. “Learning,” says Lao-Tzu, “consists in adding to one’s stock day by day. The practice of the Tao consists in subtracting.”

This does not mean, of course, that we can live by subtraction alone. Learning is as necessary as unlearning. Wherever technical proficiency is needed, learning is indispensable. From youth to old age, from generation to generation, we must go on adding to our stock of useful and relevant knowledge. Only in this way can we hope to deal effectively with the physical environment and with the abstract ideas which make it possible for people to find their way through the complexities of civilisation and technology.

But this is not the right way to deal with our personal reactions to ourselves or to other human beings. In such situations there must be an unlearning of accumulated concepts; we must respond to each new challenge not with our old conditioning, not in the light of conceptual knowledge based on the memory of past and different events, not by consulting the law of averages, but with a consciousness stripped naked and as though new born.

Once more we are confronted by the great paradox of human life. It is our conditioning which develops our consciousness; but in order to make full use of this developed consciousness, we must start by getting rid of the conditioning which developed it. By adding conceptual knowledge to conceptual knowledge, we make conscious understanding possible; but this potential understanding can be actualised only when we have subtracted all that we have added.

It is because we have memories that we are convinced of our self-identity as persons and as members of a given society.

“The child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.”

What Wordsworth called “natural piety” a teacher of understanding would describe as indulgence in emotionally charged memories, associated with childhood and youth. Factual memory—the memory, for example, of the best way of making sulphuric acid or of casting up accounts—is an unmixed blessing. The psychological memory (to use Krishnamurti’s term), memory carrying an emotional charge, whether positive or negative, is a source at the worst of neurosis and insanity (psychiatry is largely the art of ridding patients of the incubus of their negatively charged memories), at the best of distractions from the task of understanding—distractions which, though socially useful, are none the less obstacles to be climbed over or avoided.

Emotionally charged memories cement the ties of family life (or sometimes make family life impossible!) and serve, when conceptualised and taught as a cultural tradition, to hold communities together. On the level of understanding, on the level of charity, and on the level, to some extent, of artistic expression, individuals have it within their power to transcend their social tradition, to overstep the bounds of the culture in which they have been brought up. On the level of knowledge, manners, and custom, they can never get very far away from the persona created for them by their family and society.

The culture within which they live is a prison—but a prison which makes it possible for any prisoner who so desires to achieve freedom, a prison to which, for this and a host of other reasons, its inmates owe an enormous debt of gratitude and loyalty. But though it is our duty to “honour our father and our mother,” it is also our duty “to hate our father and mother, our brethren and our sisters, yes and our own life”—that socially conditioned life we take for granted. Though it is necessary for us to add to our cultural stock day by day, it is also necessary to subtract and subtract. There is, to quote the title of Simone Weil’s posthumous essay, a great “Need for Roots”; but there is an equally urgent need, on occasion, for total rootlessness.

In our present context this book by Simone Weil and the preface which Mr. T.S. Eliot contributes to the English edition are particularly instructive. Simone Weil was a woman of great ability, heroic virtue, and boundless spiritual aspiration. But unfortunately for herself, as well as for her readers, she was weighed down by a burden of knowledge and pseudo-knowledge, which her own almost maniacal over-valuation of words and notions rendered intolerably heavy.

A clerical friend reports of her that he did not “ever remember Simone Weil, in spite of her virtuous desire for objectivity, give way in the course of a discussion.” She was so deeply rooted in her culture that she came to believe that words were supremely important. Hence her love of argument and the obstinacy with which she clung to her opinions. Hence too her strange inability, on so many occasions, to distinguish the pointing finger from the indicated moon. “But why do you prate of God?” Meister Eckhart asked; and out of the depth of his understanding of given reality, he added, “Whatever you say of Him is untrue.” Necessarily so; for “the saving truth was never preached by the Buddha,” or by anyone else.

Truth can be defined in many ways. But if you define it as understanding (and this is how all the masters of the spiritual life have defined it), then it is clear that “Truth must be lived and there is nothing to argue about in this teaching; any arguing is sure to go against the intent of it.” This was something which Emerson knew and consistently acted upon. To the almost frenzied exasperation of that pugnacious manipulator of religious notions, the elder Henry James, he refused to argue about anything.

And the same was true of William Law. “Away, then, with the fictions and workings of discursive reason, either for or against Christianity! They are only the wanton spirit of the mind, whilst ignorant of God and insensible of its own nature and condition... For neither God, nor heaven, nor hell, nor the devil, nor the flesh, can be any other way knowable in you or by you, but by their own existence and manifestation in you. And any pretended knowledge of any of those things, beyond and without this self-evident sensibility of their birth within you, is only such knowledge of them as the blind man hath of the light that has never entered into him.”

This does not mean, of course, that discursive reason and argument are without value. Where knowledge is concerned, they are not only valuable; they are indispensable. But knowledge is not the same thing as understanding. If we want to understand, we must uproot ourselves from our culture, bypass language, get rid of emotionally charged memories, hate our fathers and mothers, subtract and subtract from our stock of notions. “Needs must it be a virgin,” writes Meister Eckhart, “by whom Jesus is received. Virgin, in other words, is a person, void of alien images, free as he was when he existed not.”

Simone Weil must have known, theoretically, about this need for cultural virginity, of total rootlessness. But, alas, she was too deeply embedded in her own and other people’s ideas, too superstitious a believer in the magic of the words she handled with so much skill, to be able to act upon this knowledge. “The food,” she wrote, “that a collectivity supplies to those who form part of it has no equivalent in the universe” (Thank God! we may add, after sniffing the spiritual nourishment provided by many of the vanished collectivities of the past.) Furthermore, the food provided by a collectivity is food “not only for the souls of the living, but also for souls yet unborn.”

Finally, “the collectivity constitutes the sole agency for preserving the spiritual treasures accumulated by the dead, the sole transmitting agency by means of which the dead can speak to the living. And the sole earthly reality which is connected with the eternal destiny of man is the irradiating light of those who have managed to become fully conscious of this destiny, transmitted from generation to generation.”

This last sentence could only have been penned by one who systematically mistook knowledge for understanding, home-made concepts for given reality. It is, of course, desirable that there should be knowledge of what people now dead have said about their understanding of reality. But to maintain that a knowledge of other people’s understanding is the same, for us, as understanding, or can even directly lead us to understanding, is a mistake against which all the masters of the spiritual life have always warned us. The letter in St. Paul’s phrase, is full of “oldness.” It has therefore no relevance to the ever novel reality, which can be understood only in the “newness of the spirit.” As for the dead, let them bury their dead. For even the most exalted past seers and avatars “never taught the saving truth.”

We should not, it goes without saying, neglect the records of dead people’s understandings. On the contrary, we ought to know all about them. But we must know all about them without taking them too seriously. We must know all about them, while remaining acutely aware that such knowledge is not the same as understanding and that understanding will come to us only when we have subtracted what we know and made ourselves void and virgin, free as we were when we were not.

Turning from the body of the book to the preface, we find an even more striking example of that literally preposterous over-valuation of words and notions, to which the cultured and the learned are so fatally prone. “I do not know,” Mr. Eliot writes, “whether she [Simone Weil] could read the Upanishads in Sanskrit—or, if so, how great was her mastery of what is not only a highly developed language, but a way of thought, the difficulties of which become more formidable to a European student the more diligently he applies himself to it.”

But like all the other great works of oriental philosophy, the Upanishads are not systems of pure speculation, in which the niceties of language are all important. They were written by Transcendental Pragmatists, as we may call them, whose concern was to teach a doctrine which could be made to “work,” a metaphysical theory which could be operationally tested, not through perception only, but by a direct experience of the whole person on the every level of being.

To understand the meaning of tat tvam asi, “thou art That,” it is not necessary to be a profound Sanskrit scholar. (Similarly, it is not necessary to be a proud Hebrew scholar in order to understand the meaning of “Thou shalt not kill.”) Understanding of the doctrine (as opposed to conceptualised knowledge about the doctrine) will come only to those who choose to perform the operations that permit tat tvam asi to become a given fact of direct, unmediated experience, or in Law’s words, “A self-evident sensibility of its birth within them.”

Did Simone Weil know Sanskrit or didn’t she? The question is entirely beside the piont—is just a particularly smelly cultural red herring dragged across the trail that leads from selfhood to more-than-selfhood, from notionally conditioned ego or unconditioned spirit. In relation to the Upanishads or any other work of Hindu or Buddhist philosophy, only one question deserves to be taken with complete seriousness. It is this. How can a form of words, Tat tvam asi, a metaphysical proposition such as Nirvana and samsara are one, be converted into the direct, unmediated experience of a given fact? How can language and the learned foolery of scholars (for, in the vital context, that is all it is) be circumvented, so that the individual soul may finally understand the That which, in spite of all its efforts to deny the primordial fact, is identical with the thou?

Specifically, should we follow the methods inculcated by Patanjali, or those of the Hinayana monks, those of the Tantrics of northern India and Tibet, those of the Far Eastern Taoists or the followers of Zen, those described by St. John of the Cross and the author of The Cloud of Unknowing? If the European Student wishes to remain shut up in the prison of his or her private cravings and the thought patterns inherited from their predecessors, then by all means let them plunge through Sanskit, or Pali, or Chinese, or Tibetan, into the verbal study of “a way of thought, the difficulties of which become more formidable the more diligently they apply themselves to it.”

If, on the other hand, they wish to transcend themselves by actually understanding the primordial fact described or hinted at in the Upanishads and the other scriptures of what, for lack of a better phrase, we will call “spiritual religion,” then they must ignore the problems of language and speculative philosophy, or at least relegate them to a secondary position, and concentrate their attention on the practical means whereby the advance from knowledge to understanding may best be made.

From the positively charged collective memories, which are organised into a cultural or religious tradition, let us now return to the positively charged private memories, which individuals organise into a system of “natural piety.” We have no more right to wallow in natural piety—that is to say, in emotionally charged memories of past happiness and vanished loves—than to bemoan earlier miseries and torment ourselves with remorse for old offences.

And we have no more right to waste the present instant in relishing future and entirely hypothetical pleasures than to waste it in the apprehension of possible disasters to come. “There is no greater pain,” says Dante, “than, in misery, to remember happy times.” “Then stop remembering happy times and accept the fact of your present misery,” would be the seemingly unsympathetic answer of all those who have had understanding. The emptying of memory is classed by St. John of the Cross as a good second only to the state of union with God, and an indispensable condition of such union.

The word Buddha may be translated as “awakened.” Those who merely know about things, or only think they know, live in a state of self-conditioned and culturally conditional somnambulism. Those who understand given reality as it presents itself, moment by moment, are wide awake. Memory charged with pleasant emotions is a soporific or, more accurately, an inducer of trance.

This was discovered empirically by an American hypnotist, Dr. W.B. Fahnestock, whose book Statuvolism, or Artificial Somnambulism, was published in 1871. “When persons are desirous of entering into this state [of artificial somnambulism], I place them in a chair, where they may be at perfect ease. They are next instructed to throw their minds to some familiar place—it matters not where, so that they have been there before and seem desirous of going there again, even in thought. When they have thrown the mind to the place, or upon the desired object, I endeavour by speaking to them frequently to keep their mind upon it... This must be persisted in for some time.” In the end, “clairvoyancy will be induced.”

Anyone who has experimented with hypnosis, or who has watched an experienced operator inducing trance in a difficult subject, knows how effective Fahnestock’s method can be. Incidentally, the relaxing power of positively charged memory was rediscovered, in another medical context, by an oculist, Dr. W. H. Bates, who used to make his patients cover their eyes and revisit in memory the scenes of their happiest experiences. By this means muscular and mental tensions were reduced and it became possible for the patients to use their eyes and minds in a relaxed and therefore efficient way.

From all this it is clear that, while positively charged memories can and should be used for specific therapeutic purposes, there must be no indiscriminate indulgence in “natural piety”; for such indulgence may result in a condition akin to trance—a condition at the opposite pole from the wakefulness that is understanding. Those who live with unpleasant memories become neurotic and those who live with pleasant ones become somnambulistic. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof—and the good thereof.

The Muses, in Greek mythology, were the daughters of Memory, and every writer is embarked, like Marcel Proust, on a hopeless search for time lost. But a good writer is one who knows how to “donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu.” [To give a purer sense to words of tribulation.] Thanks to this purer sense, his readers will react to his words with a degree of understanding much greater than they would have had, if they had reacted, in their ordinary self-conditioned or culture-conditioned way, to the event to which the words refer.

Great poets must do too much remembering to be more than a sporadic understander; but they know how to express themselves in words which cause other people to understand. Time lost can never be regained; but in their search for it, they may reveal to their readers glimpses of timeless reality.

Unlike the poet, the mystic is “a son of time present.” “Past and present veil God from our sight,” says Jalal-uddin Rumi, who was a Sufi first and only secondarily a great poet. “Burn up both of them with fire. How long will you let yourself be partitioned by these segments like a reed? So long as it remains partitioned, a reed is not privy to secrets, neither is it vocal in response to lips or breathing.” Along with its mirror image in anticipation, emotionally charged memory is a barrier that shuts us out from understanding.

Natural piety can very easily be transformed into artificial piety; for some emotionally charged memories are common to all the members of a given society and lend themselves to being organised into religious, political, or cultural traditions. These traditions are systematically drummed into the young of each successive generation and play an important part in the long drama of their conditioning for citizenship.

Since the memories common to one group are different from the memories shared by other groups, the social solidarity created by tradition is always partial and exclusive. There is natural and artificial piety in relation to everything belonging to us, coupled with suspicion, dislike, and contempt in relation to everything belonging to them.

Artificial piety may be fabricated, organised, and fostered in two ways—by the repetition of verbal formulas of belief and worship, and by the performance of symbolic acts and rituals. As might be expected, the second is the more effective method.

What is the easiest way for a sceptic to achieve faith? The question was answered three hundred years ago by Pascal. The unbeliever must act “as though he believed, take holy water, have masses said, etc. This will naturally cause you to believe and will besot you.” (Cela vous abetira—literally, will make you stupid.) We have to be made stupid, insists Professor Jacques Chevalier, defending his hero against the critics who have been shocked by Pascal’s blunt language; we have to stultify our intelligence, because “intellectual pride deprives us of God and debases us to the level of animals.” Which is, of course, perfectly true. But it does not follow from this truth that we ought to besot ourselves in the manner prescribed by Pascal and all the propagandists of all the religions.

Intellectual pride can be cured only by devaluating pretentious words, only by getting rid of conceptualised pseudo-knowledge and opening ourselves to reality. Artificial piety based on conditioned reflexes merely transfers intellectual pride from the bumptious individual to his even more bumptious church. At one remove, the pride remains intact. For the convinced believer, understanding or direct contact with reality is exceedingly difficult. Moreover the mere fact of having a strong reverential feeling about some hallowed thing, person, or proposition is no guarantee of the existence of the thing, the infallibility of the person, or the truth of the proposition.

In this context, how instructive is the account of an experiment undertaken by that most imaginative and versatile of the eminent Victorians, Sir Francis Galton! The aim of the experiment, he writes in his autobiography, was to “gain an insight into the abject feelings of barbarians and others concerning the power of images which they know to be of human handiwork. I wanted if possible to enter into these feelings...

“It was difficult to find a suitable object for trial, because it ought to be in itself quite unfitted to arouse devout feelings. I fixed on a comic picture, it was that of Punch, and made believe in its possession of divine attributes. I addressed it with much quasi-reverence as possessing a mighty power to reward or punish the behaviour of men towards it, and found little difficulty in ignoring the impossibilities of what I professed. The experiment succeeded. I began to feel and long retained for the picture a large share of the feelings that a barbarian entertains towards his idols, and learned to appreciate the enormous potency they might have over him.”

The nature of a conditioned reflex is such that, when the bell rings, the dog salivates, when the much worshipped image is seen, or the much repeated credo, litany, or mantram is pronounced, the heart of the believer is filled with reverence and his mind with faith. And this happens, regardless of the content of the phrase repeated, the nature of the image to which obeisance has been made. The person is not responding spontaneously to given reality; he or she is responding to some thing, or word, or gesture, which automatically brings into play a previously installed post-hypnotic suggestion.

Meister Eckhart, that acutest of religious psychologists, clearly recognised this fact. “He who fondly imagines to get more of God in thoughts, prayers, pious offices and so forth than by the fireside or in the stall, in sooth he does but take God, as it were, and swaddle His head in a cloak and hide Him under the table. For he who seeks God in settled forms lays hold of the form, while missing the God concealed in it. But he who seeks God in no special guise lays hold of Him as He is in Himself, and such an one lives with the Son and is the life itself.”

“If you look for the Buddha, you will not see the Buddha.” “If you deliberately try to become a Buddha, your Buddha is samsara.” “If a person seeks the Tao, that person loses the Tao.” “By intending to bring yourself into accord with Suchness, you instantly deviate.” “Whosoever will save his life shall lose it.”

There is a Law of Reversed Effort. The harder we try with the conscious will to do something, the less we shall succeed. Proficiency and the results of proficiency come only to those who have learned the paradoxical art of simultaneously doing and not doing, of combining relaxation with activity, of letting go as a person in order that the immanent and transcendent Unknown Quantity may take hold.

We cannot make ourselves understand; the most we can do is to foster a state of mind in which understanding may come to us. What is this state? Clearly it is not any state of limited consciousness. Reality as it is given moment by moment cannot be understood by a mind acting in obedience to post-hypnotic suggestion, or so deconditioned by its emotionally charged memories that it responds to the living now as though it were the dead then. Nor is the mind that has been trained in concentration any better equipped to understand reality. For concentration is merely systematic exclusion, the shutting away from consciousness of all but one thought, one ideal, one image, or one negation of all thoughts, ideals, and images.

But however true, however lofty, however holy, no thought or ideal or image can contain reality or lead to the understanding of reality. Nor can the negation of awareness result in that completer awareness necessary to understanding. At the best these things can lead only to a state of ecstatic dissociation in which one particular aspect of reality, the so-called “spiritual” aspect, may be apprehended. If reality is to be understood in its fullness, as it is given moment by moment, there must be an awareness which is not limited, either deliberately by piety or concentration, or involuntarily by mere thoughtlessness and the force of habit.

Understanding comes when we are totally aware—aware to the limits of our mental and physical potentialities. This, of course, is a very ancient doctrine. “Know thyself” is a piece of advice which is as old as civilisation, and probably a great deal older. To follow that advice a person must do more than indulge in introspection.

If I would know myself, I must know my environment; for as a body, I am part of the environment, a natural object among other natural objects; and, as a mind, I consist to a great extent of my immediate reactions to the environment and of my secondary reactions to those primary reactions. In practice “know thyself” is a call to total awareness. To those who practice it, what does total awareness reveal? It reveals, first of all, the limitations of the thing which each of us calls “I,” and the enormity, the utter absurdity of its pretensions.

“I am the master of my fate,” poor Henley wrote at the end of a celebrated morsel of rhetoric, “I am the captain of my soul.” Nothing could be further from the truth. My fate cannot be mastered; it can only be collaborated with and thereby, to some extent, direct. Nor am I the captain of my soul; I am only its noisiest passenger—a passenger who is not sufficiently important to sit at the captain’s table and does not know, even by report, what the soul-ship looks like, how it works, or where it is going.

Total awareness starts, in a word, with the realisation of my ignorance and my impotence. How do electrochemical events in my brain turn into the perception of a quartet by Haydn or a thought, let us say, of Joan of Arc? I haven’t the faintest idea—nor has anyone else. Or consider a seemingly much simpler problem. Can I lift my right hand? The answer is, No, I can’t. I can only give the order; the actual lifting is done by somebody else. Who? I don’t know. Why? I don’t know. And when I have eaten, who digests the bread and cheese? When I have cut myself, who heals the wound? While I am sleeping, who restores the tired body to strength, the neurotic mind to sanity?

All I can say is that “I” cannot do any of these things. The catalogue of what I do not know and am incapable of achieving could be lengthened almost indefinitely. Even my claim to think is only partially justified by the observable facts. Descartes’ primal certainty, “I think, therefore I am,” turns out, on closer examination, to be most dubious proposition. In actual fact, is it I who does the thinking? Would it not be truer to say, “Thoughts come into existence, and sometimes I am aware of them”? Language, that treasure house of fossil observations and latent philosophy, suggests that this is in fact what happens.

Whenever I find myself thinking more than ordinarily well, I am apt to say, “An idea has occurred to me,” or “It came into my head,” or, “I see it clearly.” In each case the phrase implies that thoughts have their origin “out there,” in something analogous, on the mental level, to the external world. Total awareness confirms the hints of idiomatic speech. In relation to the subjective “I,” most of the mind is out there. My thoughts are a set of mental, but still external facts. I do not invent my best thoughts; I find them.

Total awareness, then, reveals the following facts; that I am profoundly ignorant, that I am impotent to the point of helplessness, and that the most valuable elements in my personality are unknown quantities existing “out there,” as mental objects more or less completely independent of my control. This discovery may seem at first rather humiliating and even depressing. But if I whole-heartedly accept them, the facts become a source of peace, a reason for serenity and cheerfulness.

I am ignorant and impotent and yet, somehow or other, here I am unhappy, no doubt, profoundly dissatisfied, but alive and kicking. In spite of everything, I survive, I get by, sometime I even get on. From these two sets of facts—my survival on the one hand and my ignorance and impotence on the other—I can only infer that the not-I, which looks after my body and gives me my best ideas, must be amazingly intelligent, knowledgeable, and strong.

As a self-centered ego, I do my best to interfere with the beneficent workings of this not-I. But in spite of my likes and dislikes, in spite of my malice, my infatuations, my gnawing anxieties, in spite of all my over-valuation of words, in spite of my self-stultifying insistence on living, not in present reality, but in memory and anticipation, this not-I, with whom I am associated, sustains me, preserves me, gives me a long succession of second chances.

We know very little and can achieve very little; but we are at liberty, if we so choose, to co-operate with a greater power and a completer knowledge, an unknown quantity at once immanent and transcendent, at once physical and mental, at once subjective and objective. If we co-operate, we shall be all right, even if the worst should happen. If we refuse to co-operate, we shall be all wrong, even in the most propitious of circumstances.

These conclusions are only the first fruits of total awareness. Yet richer harvests are to follow. In my ignorance I am sure that I am eternally I. This conviction is rooted in emotionally charged memory. Only when, in the words of St. John of the Cross, the memory has been emptied, can I escape from the sense of my watertight separateness and so prepare myself for the understanding, moment by moment, of reality on all its levels. But the memory cannot be emptied by an act of will, or by systematic discipline or by concentration—even by concentration on the idea of emptiness. It can be emptied only total awareness.

Thus, if I am aware of my distractions—which are mostly emotionally charged memories or fantasies based upon such memories—the mental whirligig will automatically come to a stop and the memory will be emptied, at least for a moment or two. Again, if I become totally aware of my envy, my resentment, my uncharitableness, these feelings will be replaced, during the time of my awareness, by a more realistic reaction to the events taking place around me. My awareness, of course, must be uncontaminated by approval or condemnation.

Value judgments are conditioned, verbalised reactions to primary reactions. Total awareness is a primary, choiceless, impartial response to the present situation as a whole. There are in it no limiting conditioned reactions to the primary reaction, to the pure cognitive apprehension of the situation. If memories of verbal formulas of praise or blame should make their appearance in consciousness, they are to be examined impartially as any other datum is examined.

Professional moralists have confidence in the surface will, believe in punishments and rewards, and are adrenaline addicts who like nothing better than a good orgy of righteous indignation. The masters of the spiritual life have little faith in the surface will or the utility, for their particular purposes, of rewards or punishments, and do not indulge in righteous indignation. Experience has taught them that the highest good can never, in the very nature of things, be achieved by moralising. “Judge not that ye be not judged” is their watchword and total awareness is their method.

Two or three thousand years behind the times, a few psychiatrists have now discovered this method. “Socrates,” writes Professor Carl Rogers, “developed novel ideas, which have proven to be socially constructive.”

Why? Because he was “notably non-defensive and open to experience. The reasoning behind this is based primarily upon the discovery in psychotherapy that if we can add to the sensory and visceral experiencing, characteristic of the whole animal kingdom, the gist of a free undistorted awareness, of which only the human animal seems fully capable, we have an organism which is as aware of the demands of the culture as it is of its own physiological demands for food and sex, which is just as aware of its desire for friendly relationships as it is aware of its desire to aggrandise itself; which is just as aware of its delicate and sensitive tenderness toward others as it is of its hostilities toward others. When man is less than fully man, when he denies to awareness various aspects of his experience, then indeed we have all too often reason to fear him and his behaviour, as the present world situation testifies. But when he is most fully man, when he is his complete organism, when awareness of experience, that peculiarly human attribute, is fully operating, then his behavior is to be trusted.”

Better late than never! It is comforting to find the immemorial commonplaces of mystical wisdom turning up as a brand new discovery in psychotherapy. Gnosce teipsum—know yourself. Know yourself in relation to your overt intentions and your hidden motives, in relation to your thinking, your physical functioning, and to those greater notselves, who see to it that, despite all the ego’s attempts at sabotage, the thinking shall be tolerably relevant and the functioning not too abnormal.

Be totally aware of what you do and think and of person, which whom you are in relationship, the events which prompt you at every moment of your existence. Be aware impartially, realistically, without judging, without reacting in terms of remembered words to your present cognitive reactions.

If you do this, the memory will be emptied, knowledge and pseudo-knowledge will be relegated to their proper place, and you will have understanding—in other words, you will be in direct contact with reality at every instance. Better still, you will discover what Carl Rogers calls your “delicate and sensitive tenderness towards others.” And not only your tenderness, the cosmic tenderness, the fundamental all-rightness of the universe—in spite of death, in spite of suffering.

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” [Job13.15] This is the utterance of someone who is totally aware. And another such utterance is “God of love.” From the standpoint of common sense, the first is the raving of a lunatic, the second flies in the face of all experience and is obviously untrue. But common sense is not based on total awareness; it is a product of convention, or organised memories of other people’s words, of personal experiences limited by passion and value judgments, of hallowed notions and naked self-interest.

Total awareness opens the way to understanding, and when any given situation is understood, the nature of all reality is made manifest and the nonsensical utterances of the mystics are seen to be true, or at least as nearly true as it is possible for a verbal expression of the ineffable to be. One in all and all in One; samsara and nirvana are the same; multiplicity is unity, and unity is not so much one as not-two; all things are void, and yet all things are the Dharma-Body of the Buddha—and so on. So far as conceptual knowledge is concerned, such phrases are completely meaningless. It is only when there is understanding that they make sense.

For when there is understanding, there is an experienced fusion of the End with the Means, of the Wisdom, which is the timeless realisation of suchness, with the Compassion which is Wisdom in action. Of all the worn, smudged, dog-eared words in our vocabulary, “love” is surely the grubbiest, smelliest, slimiest. Bawled from a million pulpits, lasciviously crooned through hundreds of millions of loudspeakers, it has become an outrage to good taste and decent feeling, an obscenity which one hesitates to pronounce. And yet it has to be pronounced; for, after all Love is the last word.

-Aldous Huxley, The Divine Within: Selected Writings and Enlightenment-

#quote #love #life #meaning #existential musings #all eternal things #love in a time of... #intelligence quotients #depth perception #understanding beyond thought #essential thinking #underneath it all #more than words #eyes wide open #this is who we are #stands on its own #elisa english #elisaenglish

[f-agee]

I'm not really good at prompts but here goes nothing.

Claudette is beside herself when she finds out she's pregnant. For most people, this would be fantastic news. Hell, it would have been great news for her if there weren't a few significant issues. The first being that's she's stuck in an almost constant state of peril—second being that she has to find away to keep now not only herself safe but also her unborn child. The last issue but definitely not least is that the father of her child isn't exactly the friendliest or even friendly to begin with.

Claudette/ Frank or (whoever you pick I can't pick between Michael ,Evan ,Frank ,Kazan ,or Pyramid head)

It’s on ao3 if you wanna read it there too. I decided to do Pyramid head cause I like him and it was more interesting compared to some other killers for me

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24712846

For the first time after being trapped into the Entity, Claudette cried. She honestly thought all her tears have dried out by now. Every trial being an all too familiar torture she couldn’t even produce tears for anymore, but leave it to the Entity to find a new way to torture its inhabitants. In the end she can’t even blame the Entity for her mistake, it was even kind enough to grant her odd and unusual wish for a pregnancy test after she started getting sick. The dreaded object sat tossed aside carelessly near the log that she sat at, hidden away in the deepest part of an unexplored wood in order for her to feel comfortable enough to take it. It was her fault for not being careful, her fault for not thinking you could even get pregnant here, and her fault for even sleeping with the man in general. Despite everyone else she could try to blame, her newfound torturer was herself.

She tried to reason with herself a little, every act of negligence on her part did have a very valid reason to it. She never had her period since coming here, she’s had unprotected sex multiple times since being here, and if she was gonna be honest, she wouldn’t have even guessed that Pyramid Head was fertile. He seemed more like an entity himself rather than a regular human being. She would’ve been more concerned if she had slept with that Legion boy instead of him, but in the end she’d slept with him and was now facing the consequences of their actions.

There was nothing particularly bad about the man, except for the fact that he was a monster, and that was something that pained her more than usual. It was a somewhat ignorant thought that she would have never had otherwise, but in her grief, logic and empathy was starting to evade her. Claudette knew he was an intelligent beast. He responded to natural human conversation and was definitely capable of deeper thought despite his inability to speak them. They’ve had quite a few deep conversations before they started sleeping together, but for some reason Claudette felt a little disgusted with herself. Almost like she had slept with an animal and somehow found herself pregnant. The thought felt grotesque in her brain, and when she was more like herself, she felt that she should apologize to the man for even having such a thought cross her mind.

She hiccuped and cried harder into her hands. In a deeper part of her mind, she just knew her harsh and untrue thoughts were because of what he was to her. He was indeed monstrous to her both in stature and in nature. A born killer who preys upon the undeserving with no conviction would never make for a good father. She wished Jake had gotten her pregnant instead. They’ve had a few hook ups here and there towards the beginning of being trapped into the Entity.

Claudette couldn’t call it romantic, it was two people who were desperate for contact who wanted to feel a connection with someone they trusted. Their relationship remained platonic despite what they’d have done, and they were both fine with that. Claudette would’ve felt bad if she had thrusted a child onto him for something so inconsequential to both of them, but at least it would’ve been easy. It would’ve been a whole hell of a lot less complicated if it weren’t for the fact that the real father was a non verbal killer. It would’ve been one less situation to torture herself with.

She knew the father wasn’t Jake. They haven’t slept together in what seemed like years, and Claudette hasn’t had sex with any one else recently except for Pyramid Head. Oh God, to think that her baby daddy doesn't even have a name, just a title to call himself, made Claudette feel sick again. Once again, she shouldn’t be attacking him for things that he neither is, nor can he control, and she would definitely apologize to him later, but her child’s growth and future would absolutely be affected negatively by their bloody heritage. It’s already horrible enough to grow up in a place like this, but to have a visible murderer and torturer as your father doesn’t help.

She wonders if the baby would even make it. She’s so lucky she hasn’t died recently, but luck in this place dies just as quickly as the inhabitants it affects. Who knows what’ll happen to the baby if she dies, especially if her killer damages her stomach in the process? She knows that she’ll come back ok, but what about her unborn child? If her baby dies from her inability to protect it, the grief it will cause her would kill her again. She wouldn’t even know when she would have lost it. Prenatal care is almost impossible in this place, even more so with the fact that the only hospital in this realm has an ultra sadistic tormentor guarding it. She would have to wait to either miscarry in or out of a trial, or wait and see if her symptoms go away and she never grows bigger. She’ll sit and wonder if the Entity never put her baby back together like it did her after she died, just to start grieving for something that was dead months ago.

Even if her baby did survive, would they be healthy? Claudette could only imagine what it would be like to have continuous trauma to her womb during pregnancy. It’s not that she would love her child any less, quite the contrary actually, but she would always feel that it was her fault that her child wasn’t born as healthy as it could be. She also hoped that her child wouldn’t be afflicted with the same… condition as its father. She took the time to pause in her tears to laugh dryly. She could only imagine the torture of both carrying and birthing a child with a pyramid head. All of the cute little milestones of the baby moving around in her womb would slice her stomach open, or at least cause extensive, possibly irreversible damage to her. If it got bad enough it would probably be for the best to get an abortion, but God did she want this child. Despite every bad hand that's been dealt to her, she still loved this baby. She still wanted to make it work. She still wanted to see if she and Pyramid Head could be a family.

A family. That’s truly what she wanted at the end of the day. She definitely thought of the other survivors as her makeshift family, but this was different. To love someone dearly and have them love you back in such a way that only parents and their children could share. That’s what she wanted for herself. She wished she could’ve planned everything out better. If she was still going to have a child with Pyramid Head, she wanted them to be in love with each other. To at least have a romantic relationship before being saddled with a child. She wanted to have him love her, if not for her, then for the child. She’s seen what parents who hate each other’s guts do to children born between them, and she didn’t want another thing to add onto the child’s list of hardships. It’s not that she couldn’t have a loving relationship now, they’ve talked a lot and enjoyed each other's company many times before, but the chance that he wouldn’t love her in that way or would want anything to do with the child was far too high.

She’ll find out soon enough. It was for the best if she told him now before things got too deep. Her tears started to subside and before she knew it, she was already getting up to try and find a path that leads to Silent Hill. She only vaguely remembered the way to the confined hellscape, the killer being too new for habitual familiarity, and she hoped she didn’t stumble into any other killers territory. Afraid of what they could do to her if she walked into a particularly hostile domain, she started to feel herself tremble from more than just the tears.

She hadn’t even thought about it, but all of the extra stress that gets put on her could cause her to miscarry. Who cares if you escape a mad man’s clutches, when that same mad man scares you so past your wits that your own body kills the life inside it. Not to mention even if she survives the miscarry danger zone of the first few months, the further along she gets, the harder it is for her to run, hide, or help her friends. Try as her friends might they couldn’t do much for her if she couldn’t do it herself. None of them could face a killer toe to toe, and even as a group they can only save and protect the people who could help themselves out of a chase. If a killer truly wanted to kill a specific survivor, they will, and everyone who tries to stop them will only get hurt in the process. She can beg for mercy from the more kind and moralistic killers. Wraith, Legion, Huntress, hell maybe even the Oni may be more willing to turn a blind eye to her would be rounded form, but she knows for a fact that killers like Clown, Micheal and the Doctor would relish in the new ways they can torture her and would specifically seek her out in trials.

Her breathing got rapid and irregular. She was at the beginning of a panic attack and she knew it. This was all becoming too much for her. All this heartache, for a child that she wanted to keep. She needed to calm herself, knowing that it would do more harm than good if she let herself spiral, but her grief weakened mind couldn’t handle the onslaught of emotions. She paused in her steps, before falling to her knees. She didn’t even notice the startings of the familiar blood stained concrete, or the large figure walking towards her from a distance.

The ground shook slightly with the weight of Pyramid Head’s steps, small tremors getting stronger the closer he walked towards her. The even shaking gave her something to synchronize her breaths to, making her calm enough to at least be aware of her surroundings. Something must have gotten her there quicker or maybe she was just walking faster than she thought, either way she’s glad she made it here and not panicking alone in the forest. The sight of Pyramid Head clambering towards her would’ve scared her a month ago, but they’ve met up with each other like this a lot since then. It especially loses its impact after you’ve slept with a guy. Plus she had bigger fears on her mind than a man who seemed more concerned rather than bloodthirsty.

Claudette didn’t look up to him as he came to a stop directly in front of her. Her breathing had calmed down some, but she could still feel herself shaking violently. Only when the man kneeled down and put his hand on her shoulder, did she look up to him. She wondered how he could see with that thing on. If it were some sort of helmet, he would definitely only be able to give her a sideways glance, as he had to turn his head in order to not hit her with the metal contraption. He tilted his head even more to the side in concern, obviously asking a silent ‘What's wrong?’ To her. She knows she must look a mess to him, tear stained face and hyperventilating while sitting on the ground.

Her attack had mostly passed, but it’s disappearance did nothing to quell her shaking. She was definitely going to start crying again, and she didn’t even tell him what happened yet. The silence was starting to kill her. She wished either of them could speak to break the spell. She wished that she was strong enough to just let it all out. She wished that even when she did tell him that she was pregnant with his child, he could respond back and tell her exactly how he felt about the whole thing. She wished that she could’ve gotten pregnant under normal circumstances. Tears started to flow down her cheeks again as she whimpered softly.

Pyramid Head let out a startled low whine as he quickly shifted from letting go of her, to frantically waving his arms in front of her, then finally settling his large hands on her cheeks to both wipe her tears and let him have a clearer view of her face. He was definitely not used to comforting people, Claudette now knew that for a fact, but his genuine concern and eccentric way of doing it made Claudette feel a little better. She managed to let out a short teary laugh and put her hand up to hold his arm.

“Thank you,” She leaned into his touch and sighed. “I'm sorry... For the things I thought and said that you didn’t deserve. I’m sorry that I forced you into this position. I’m so sorry for everything.”

Now he looked even more confused than before. He paused in his ministrations and only seemed to stare at her. She knows he’s probably tired of her beating around the bush. She hasn’t said anything or done anything of substance since seeing him, only bawling her eyes out and panicking. She might as well get it out already, especially since, as a new killer, he gets called out often and could leave at any moment. She looked down, took a shaky inhale of breath, and licked her lips. Well… here goes nothing.

“Pyramid Head, I don’t know how it happened, but…” A pause.

“I-,” She looked back up at him. “I’m pregnant.”

She could feel him go stiff and even tighten his grip on her cheeks. As he made no further movements, Claudette felt the need to go on. To explain herself, to hear anything but the silence and the lack of clear emotion from the man.

“I asked the Entity to give me a pregnancy test, and it was positive… I want to keep it, if you don’t mind, but I don't know what to do. How we could survive, if we could survive. How I could raise them in a place like this,” Her eyes darted to and fro wildly, her hands following. She couldn’t help but to ramble. She needed someone there to listen, and here was just the man who needed to hear it. “God do I want this kid! I really do, but this is going to be so hard. And I don’t know if I’ll be raising the child alone or-”

Pyramid Head quickly grabbed her shoulders and shook them with a strong grunt. She finally looked up at him to see his large helm quickly swaying back and forth. This was somewhat unexpected to her, considering his lack of a positive reaction initially. Does he want to help raise the child? If so could her little fantasy of a happy family be closer to a reality? The thoughts ran laps around her mind. She felt her hopes starting to bubble up inside her. She wanted to see just how far she can press her luck.

“So… would you be willing to raise it with me?” A nod as his hand went down to softly palm her belly. She was starting to feel a smile coming on. “Well I don’t want to ruin what we have going on right now, but I was wondering if you wanted to.. I don’t know. Maybe start dating?”

There was a short pause that made Claudette’s heart drop a bit. She was going to backtrack on her words, but a confused grunt stopped her. She looked at him curiously as he pointed between them, made a lewd gesture with his hands, then formed a heart after he was finished. Claudette could feel her cheeks heat up at his display before questioning its meaning.

“Where we already dating when we had sex?” A curt nod was her only answer. She blinked stupidly for a second, then laughed at her ignorance. She was apparently worried about their relationship over nothing. She’s at least glad that she had one thing going positively for her.

“Sorry I didn’t realize. Most of the times I’ve had sex was mostly just flings, and to be honest it wasn’t a lot…” He put a hand on her shoulder and rubbed it, trying to comfort her.

“Well that’s at least two of my worries gone, but what about the more pressing issues. I don’t know if the baby could survive an attack or me dying. I know you wouldn’t hurt me, but what about the other killers? You can’t always be there to protect me,” They both looked down darkly at the grim situation. “I mean I could ask some killers not to target me. I know at least a few who wouldn’t hurt me-”

Pyramid Head gave a low growl at that. So that was a hard no, but they didn’t have a whole lot of options here, and Claudette knew that neither of them wanted to test the Entity’s rules on pregnancy death. Suddenly Pyramid Head made another noise as he then gestured to himself, then towards the sky. She took a moment to think about what he was trying to say.

“Are you gonna ask the Entity yourself?” Another nod. A killer asking the Entity for a favor worked out a lot better than a survivor asking for one, but Pyramid Head was new. Who knows if the Entity will trust him to keep promises or not, although he does have a good track record for kills so far. Claudette made a face. She didn’t like to take her chances with the Entity, but this was the only shot they got.

“Well… it’s worth a shot. I sure hope this works out.” She gave a reassuring smile as he rubbed her shoulder again. Eventually he pulled his hand off her shoulder, and opened up his arms to her for a hug. Claudette wasted no time taking him up on the offer, and quickly threw herself into the well needed hug. His hold was strong yet mindful of her small form. Strong bloodied hands lifted her carefully as he stood with her still in his arms. He walked them towards the main building, most likely on his way to the library, as was their usual hangout spot. The familiar scenery of the book filled room made Claudette feel the same sense of euphoria as when she’s in a garden. They definitely have a lot more to talk about, as difficult as some of the conversations may be they must be had. At least they had 9 months to think about the details.

#claudette morel #pyramid head #dbd prompts #dbd #submission

[lilmajorshawty]

PLUTO THE UNKIND(Pluto through the houses)🦂🌑

First housers:

First house Pluto natives, are a presence to behold both in their expression and their dominating personalities to match. Since we are in the house of the “self” and Pluto is the planet of “death and rebirth” there is a continuous emphasis for make overs and transformations in the lives of these people. Often times they have alpha personalities without trying and tend to put a crowd in silence when they enter a room. They are strong in will and have a very blunt and straightforward means of expressing themselves. They can have sharp and eagle like features(this can be doubled depending on how strong Pluto’s influence is) and they can have structured and noticeable jaws! The eyes can be dark in color and very intimidating. The hair is thick and for some it’s curly in nature. The skin can also be oily and acne can be a thing in the early years-and these people have beautiful skin! Olive and or Carmel in complexion in some cases. They tend to walk like serpents and can have a defensive way of moving that creates space from their surrounding environment. They’re very intense and have a naturally magnetic Aura about them.

Sex: in your face, powerthemes-who’s in control you or I? Feel my body-let’s fight for he pleasure. (Aggressive and raw sex:sex that has an explosive and animalistic edge) hair pulling.(Can have very bare sexual organs! Kind of look like they should just be naked all together)

-Leonardo DiCaprio, Beyoncé knowles, Britney Spears, Keanu Reeves, Justin Bieber.

🥀Beyoncé ghost/haunted.

2nd housers:

Second house Pluto natives are paradoxical in nature, they can be very secretive when it comes to their items and possessions, be it lovers/close family/their own resources like clothes or money or even themselves as a whole. They always maintain some amount of emotional and sentimental distance from outsiders and can have clannish tendencies towards those they don’t know well as opposed to those whom they’ve been close to for years. They have a intensified sensuality about them and can prioritize the more physical and earthy aspects of relating to others and tend to judge and observe how others react to situations and life situations on a “close up” level. They have an intense relationship with money and may have struggled with it being taken from them or being scarce during the early years which causes them to hold it near and dear to them as they age. These natives love very hard and can be paradoxical in the sense that they’re either slow moving and passive in romance or they’re intense and overwhelming.

Sex: sensual and an exploration of the body, how do you ignite my senses? How do I become your aphrodisiac. Teasing and prolonged touch. Oral sex and neck stimulation. (Can have heavy set/really thickesh looking sexual organs that are very beautiful to look at)

-Johnny Depp, Uma Thurman,Bill gates, Harry styles, Emma Watson,Mark zuckerberg, Arnold Schwarzenegger

🥀bonobo x Andreya Tirana eyesdown.

3rd housers:

Third house Pluto natives are what I like to call “heavy talkers” they talk and think with a deep and cutting intensity that is both noticeable in the words they speak and the ideals they cling too. They tend to be fixed in their own beliefs and not in a close minded way or a my way or the high way mentality either-it’s in a more moralistic standard type of way. They don’t like foul treatment and have a notable disgust towards those who over extended their power for bad reasons. They have a natural power and authority to their words and have a 1 on 1 way of speaking even if it’s a crowd that happens to be their audience. They hold people to no expectation and view everyone as there bare and raw selves but that being said that makes them in a way hard to reach on an intimate level due to their aversion to the more superficial aspects of life. They can be immensely intellectual and practically genius when it comes to human nature-they just know how to work a person in their favor. The why and how of things runs through their mind often and they can be quite sexually minded but have an easy time of presenting a stone face even when thinking the most grotesque of scenes.

Sex:stimulate me, the subversive lingo and enticing wordplay. Talk to me dirty-sexting and telephone sex. Nudes and provocative webcaming. Hand jobs and fingering come to mind here. Anything involving time and hands-think quickies. (Can have thin/skinny sexual organs)

-Angelina Jolie, Martin Luther king, Julia Roberts, Justin Timberlake, Napoleon |

🥀 Kendrick Lamar ADHD

4th housers:

Pluto in the fourth house natives are as one would say emotionally transformative. Unlike Lilith in the 4th that can come across as emotionally detached and in a sense aloof-those with Pluto in the 4th can seem almost too emotionally present and can have a way of surrounding a room in their aura of depth no matter their environment. There is a tendency for them to be straight faced in the face of others yet those who cry in the silence of their own comfort. They are extremely resilient and even more privy to the manipulative and exploitative nature of man and because of this they’re not only protective of themselves but those whom they hold dear. They can have very complex emotions no matter their moon sign and can have a very scorpionic themed childhood full of secrecy,loyalty,deception, early sexual influences and strong female guidance and seeing women as a powerful and sole providing source. Mother may have been obsessive and maybe overly intrusive but was intensely loving in her own way and held the child close even at times if it were too close.

Sex: very emotional in nature-very dependent on the mood and often times can shed tears depending on how intense the connection. May fall in love or grow attached after sex and will have a hard time letting go of the person. Likes positions that require intimacy and face to face. Breast and for men also the breast and the face. (Soft and thick sexual organs.)

-Selena Gomez, Kanye West, Ben Affleck, Tyra Banks, Charles Manson.

🥀 lil Silva ft sampha salient Sarah

5th housers:

Pluto in the fifth housers are extremely self aware, in fact one of their most standout qualities is their atmospheric energy-they naturally encompass intensity and have a residual darkness about them. Most cases they have a strong relationship with their sexuality and at times naturally express this via body movement and the way they go about doing things. They’re no stranger to obsession and even less a stranger to thrill. They live their lives in a daring fashion and have a willful personality that can undermine even the highest person in power-they don’t stand down and hate being ordered about no matter who you are. Both men and women here have a thing for earned dominance and prefer to be in the presence of people whom are authentic and aware-they don’t do well with people who “act” or “wear mask” and have a tendency to ice these people out. They have a naturally overwhelming energy and for some it can be intimidating and nerve racking being in their presence early on due to how “them” they are. Relationships are often HEATED. And often times they attract people and lovers from a last life. A lot of their “flings” get serious and end up becoming really passionate love affairs that also tend to burn out after the karma is dealt with. People crave their energy and often times they attract a lot of strong Saturn and Pluto energy. They can obsessed over their creative endeavors and can also be moody in how or when they feel like being “creative” they are some of the most amazing artist and performers!! But once again they’re moody and it really depends on when they feel like expressing their artistic side. Relationships take a tol on them and when they fail it can serve as a medium for transformation for these individuals!

Sex: passion,Passion, PASSION. An insatiable and primal encounter-sex to the point of exhaustion and intoxication. This is a deep penetration placement and these natives tend to crave deep intimacy in sexual endeavors. Back and spine. (Can have natural looking and a bit on the more wild side looking sexual organs)

-John Lennon, Lady Gaga, Mariah Carey, Robert Patterson, Adele, Coco Chanel

🥀Rihanna question existing

6th housers:

For natives with Pluto in the 6th house there is a strong projection of the will in the workplace. Honestly the work place can be shady and downright agitating for these natives. Your workers can and tend to be of a more private and serious nature and at times can either demand to much of you or do much behind and out of your line of sight. Caution is advised here with being to trusting of your co workers because let’s just say-some of them are out to get on top. Work is also the source of greatest spiritual growth and transformation and often times you learn and get a lot of life lessons from work for better or worse. Their might often be some more intimate and sexual themes that play out at work such as workers using sex as a bargaining chip to get a position, such as office sex and or sexual manipulation such as pimps and prostitution(this is not set in stone or guaranteed by the way-it’s just one of the ways this aspect may manifest) people view many of these natives as indefinite and immensely capable-you’re a juggernaut when it comes to getting your job done and these natives have a noticeable coldness to the way they express themselves rooted in excellence and superiority. Might be the types to love aggressive and or scary animals as pets-and animals many be intense towards these individuals and vice versa!

Sex: this can point to a need for sex in the day to day or some sort of physical release for health reasons and just to overall feel good! Sex to please and sex with unequal themes invited such as worship or satisfaction of the partner. Anal sex is sometimes a commonality here. The lower and upper stomache area.(can be petite in appearances and look very neat sexual organs wise)

-Michael Jackson, George Clooney, Shakira, Miley Cyrus, Lana del Rey, Amy winehouse, Kristen Stewart, Demi Moore.

🥀donny Hathaway someday we’ll all be free.

7th housers:

These natives are VERY VERY PASSIONATE. Since the 7th house not only rules the house of marriage and partnership on a 1-1 setting romantic and otherwise, these natives approach these themes in a very Plutonian fashion. They crave deep intimacy and usually unconsciously attract and seek out this intensity-but be it that this is the house of reflections and shadows these natives often are frightened of what comes there way and the depth and passion they’ve invited to their doorstep. For better or worse they want a soul reaching love and one that allows them to let their walls down and merge on the deepest of levels with their s/o but it takes many years upon years to open up to this concept on a realistic level. This is mainly because love scares them and truly leaves them at their most vulnerable as often the house Pluto is in even more than the moon shows where your soul is at its most weak. They want and crave solace and often times are scared of it simultaneously. Being with these natives is going to be a trial but one worth your wild if you’re willing to put up with their behavior that is purely done out of fear. They’d do anything for those they love and place a high value on love even though it depletes them and leaves them drained. They can be harsh to those whom them really love and can be very difficult when they love you-but they’re love although complex is SOO deep and SOO sincere. “They don’t really think they’re that intense-it’s everyone else that’s taking things to seriously”

Sex: very mutual based-I want to please you, I want to love you-when you’re happy so am I-you climax-I climax. Sex is both passionate and emotional-take on the feelings of the partner. Positions that allow mutual intimacy and eye to eye. The buttocks.(very pretty looking sexual organs-can be petite or thick depending)

-Barack Obama, Rihanna, Mahatma Ghandi, Ryan Gosling, David Bowie, kourtney Kardashian, Naomi Campbell, anti-Christ(supposedly)

🥀yaeji passionfruit (this is so good)

8th housers:

These natives are the equivalent of there ever was one of hell. They’re the embodiment of tribulation and rebirth and can be some of the most powerful and intense souls you’ll meet. Despite contrary belief since Pluto is at home these natives tend to have a very free and almost whimsical attitude about themselves-they’re confident and self assured and carry themselves strong. They don’t allow they’re emotions to freely devour them nor do they wear it on their face. They usually have an intimate relationship with their own personal feelings and prefer to handle their more darker tendencies alone. They have a non trusting personality and are the hardest people to get to know out of all the Pluto in the housers. They can have a very loner attitude and dislike anyone for any reason feelings as though they’re relying on them. They’re both self sufficient and driven and have a very GUARDED presence. Despite their carefree side they’re very intimidating and have very black or white views on how they interact with others. Intimacy is seen by them as something that demands maturity and restraint and they have an immense amount of sexual control. Sex runs rampant in their minds in some cases-or not at all there is no inbetween. And sex here takes on a life force and these natives at times use sex as a weapon and can be very easily manipulative and perceptive beyond anything you’d be able to see coming. They embody Pluto yet the scary thing is that you’d never know.

Sex: intense and emotionally incredible. Serpent movements and speed. Sensuality and losing control. There can be a death like feeling during sex once climax is reached and albeit sex is powerful with these natives it’s draining on their bodies so all though it may not happen often it’s an intense scene to behold. Lumbar region and upper thighs. Oral and cullingas. Also another deep penetration placement. (Sharp looking sexual organs and may be veiny if male)

-Jesus Christ(wow yas figures!), Adolf hitler, Christiana Aguilera, Elvis Presley,Marlon Brando, Oprah Winfrey, Bruce lee.

🥀snoh aalegra worse

9th housers:

Okay, these natives have a strong moral constitution-and what’s even more so many of them are immensely mature beyond their time. They approach life with a grounded and serious demeanor and aren’t the types to joke or play with the idea of morality or the concepts of others or themselves. They are usually private about religion and often have complex and even dubious relationships with it. It’s not something as simple as bending a knee nor is it’s something as simple as a holy building to them it’s something much more and something in which many spend much time trying to understand. Much like Pluto in the first these natives undergo many changes of the ego and can seem like A different person at many points in there life. A noticeable theme here is comfortability. Many natives with this placements have a deep understanding of themselves-even on a sexual level. Many aren’t threatened by the “if” factor and most don’t feel threatened by others beliefs of feelings of them. They know who they are and no one living or dead will change that.

Sex: bountiful and vast. Tend to have a hug appetite for sex but see sex as something fun and playful rather than an obsession or need. Thighs and oil/lubricant items. (Says some may have bigger sexual organs than usual)

-Nicki Minaj, Hilary Clinton, Brad Pitt, Ellen Degeneres, Winona Ryder, Demi lavoto.

🥀sza drew Barrymore

10th housers:

The ELITE and the SUPERIOR is how I’d describe those with this placement. There’s a very powerful and commanding nature about these individuals. They come across as very earthy and connected to their environment and bodies and have a pretty acute awareness of their crowd and those around them. They feel the changes and the shifts in the actions and natures of those around them. They take life itself seriously not just the world of the public and I’ve noticed many of them to have good relations with their family yet completely disconnected in the sense that their family seems to not really know who they are deep down. They can have a more explicit and intense internet persona and public look. They can have naturally earthy beauty to them be it makes or female and have a very naturally sensual look to them! They’re hard to read and don’t easily involve their emotions in anything they do-so it can be hard to gauge their level of emotional investment in anything they’re doing. They do not fuck around(excuse my language) when it comes their public image or jobs and hate being the topic of discussion.

Sex: the theme of control runs strong here. There’s a tendency to challenge their lovers and those they get sexually involved with-the idea of being unable to hold up their persona-the idea of submission in the face of domination. Bdsm. (The knees and the middle to lower thigh. )(can have an earthy and polite look to the sexual organs! They can be soft much like the 4th house)

-Tom Cruise, Taylor Swift, Kim Kardashian, Eminem, Prince, Ariana grande, Paris Hilton.

🥀charlotte Gainsbourg rest.

11th housers:

This is kinda a “your friends are not my friends” placement and these natives can have very high priority on their friendships that often can cause a lot of damage and wounding to them if their friends aren’t as loyal and protective of their friendships as they are. They tend to show they’re more intense and brooding qualities around they’re friends and due to Pluto’s influence here they also attract the same type of energy back. Their views towards groups and revolutions can be baffling and many have a more odd and out their approach when it comes to groups and communities. They may even outright seek to control them. They also tend to have a sometimes harsh view towards order and structure and may periodically struggle with relating to the idea of it and them in the same sentence. They sometimes mix sex and friendships together and this is at times a bad idea because a lot of the time it not only makes things develop into something neither party was asking for but it can also alienate you from your friend-groups. The friends tend to be strong in nature and can have magnetic and captivating personalities! And these natives are also usually popular and have an easy time getting a following because of their own innate captivating personality that often infatuates many for better or worse.

Sex: Power is a theme for sex here-disputes the airy nature of this house, sex that allows them to be on top or feel above fulfills some here. Sex with friends and or those whom they’ve crushes on-as well as being turned on by lower vibration and higher vibration conversation and communication. That weird stuff. Imagine a boiling room party-with the Florecent blue to yellow lights. (So here is the calves and ankles and inbetween the breast and the pecks.)(can have an angular look to them! Can look like bananas for guys and may have something unique about them for males and females)

-Scarlett Johansson, Nicole Kidman, Jennifer Anniston, Bruce Willis, Bill Clinton.

🥀disclosure boiling

12th housers:

These natives are what I like to call an enigma. They often portray themselves in a way that is completely opposite from who they really are. They often present an easy going and passive demeanor and one that is both compressed and non-explosive as a means to control themselves. This is not to say they’re not beautiful and kind hearted; they truly are immensely healing and tender hearted people with a love as expansive as the universe itself but there’s often another side to them that many with this placement either choose to ignore or that they choose to disengage with. And for those aware of it there can be a tendency to be frightened of their more “powerful side” they have powerful emotions and at times these emotions can overwhelm even them. They’re not open by any means and out of all the housers dare I say even Pluto in the eighth they loathe opening up and hate anyone seeing the more intense and deep side of them. They are both extremely resilient and stronger than any in terms of what they’ve been through and what they can tolerate. They constantly rise from the ashes behind the shadows and deal with some of life’s most vicious of karmic lessons. They have an almost breathtaking intensity hidden below there cheery smiles and can often have a resting face that shows their true feelings with out them realizing it. They’re unconscious movements are aggressive and at times come across as very intense and agitated.

Sex: a world separating experience and can often have a romantic and seemingly soul touching level of depth to it. Can be sacrificial in sex but despite this they might sleep around in an attempt to find true peace through the act but a lot of them get used sexually and it truly hurts them.(the feet! Aha and really the finger tips and the lips) (can have very sensitive and translucent sexual organs! Can be undefinable or look different depending on the viewer)

-Marylin Monroe, Donald trump, Madonna,Steve jobs, Katy perry, Kurt kobain, Freddie Mercury.

🥀Florence + the machine long & lost

#pluto in the 1st house #Pluto in the 2nd house #Pluto in the 3rd house #Pluto in the 4th house #Pluto in the 5th house #Pluto in the 6th house #Pluto in the 7th house #Pluto in the 8th house #Pluto in the 9th house #Pluto in the 10th house #Pluto in the 11th house #Pluto in the 12th house #MINE

[scoobydoominuscoobydoo]

Part Two

“Someone that has a strong connection to you. A kind of emotional tether.”

When an average day for you is being tormented by some sort of terrifying creature that has the habit of chasing you with the (assumed) intent to harm; you tend to get jumpy.

Even if the terrifying creature always ends up being made of some sort of silicon that hide the face of a loser who had nothing better to do than mope.

After the gang had solved their first legitimately dangerous case together Daph couldn’t sleep a wink. Same with the second and the third and the fourth.

The constant chases, grotesque creatures popping out of the darkness of some sort of abandoned building. Her somehow always being the first to get grabbed.

It became way too much way too fast. 

Day after day she realized how selfish people can be, how quickly these people became convinced dressing up in a costume and hurting people was their only option.

How could she trust anyone that was outside of the van with the funky paint job?

She had no idea how Fred could look so many people in the eye and trust them, she admired how his faith in humanity hadn’t collapsed after seeing how evil it could be. She believed that was one of the reasons why she loved him, his ability to trust people. 

It had taken a while, but she was able to believe in people again. She wasn’t totally sure how she had done it, forcing herself to trust in people wasn’t exactly the easiest thing.

It wasn’t waves of therapists her parents threw at her.

It wasn’t listening to thunderstorms and drinking coconut water.

It wasn’t even stress eating that helped.

She figured if it worked for Shaggy then it could work for anyone.

But then she remembered Shaggy wasn’t “anyone,” he was far from being anyone.

He didn’t care what others thought about him, he wasn’t afraid to admit his flaws and his issues. He was a coward and proud of it. If he had a problem with something he would lay it all out on the table.

That was something Daph couldn’t imagine doing. Her stress was always layed out in a hinting manner, one that nobody bothered to pick up on. So instead she’d scream into a pillow for a few seconds until she felt like she could smile at normal people again.

Of course that was replaced later on by her new belief that people could be inherently good. That definitely made her happier.

The chases, the grotesque creatures, getting captured. It all was now met with her undefeated optimism. That was also added to the fact that they had all gotten a lot better at what they do, so the chance of something going wrong was at an all time low.

It felt nice to be able to outsmart people who deserved to be reminded how stupid they were.

But that didn’t mean there weren’t smart bad guys out there. Smart bad guys they were bound to run into eventually. And eventually those bad guys would outsmart the mystery solvers.

“I keep running through the plan over and over in my head a-and there shouldn’t be any faults to it.” Fred was pacing back and forth while he rubbed his forehead, maybe trying to get his brain to turn back on. Maybe trying to pull it out of the state of panic it was in.

“Freddie, thi-this isn’t your fault. That guy got the best of us, right Scooby?” Daphne was sitting on the back of the Mystery Machine, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Scoob didn’t move from where he was laying and nobody had been able to coax him out to talk or move or…..anything.

Velma had remained silent in the front seat, pretending to be busy looking for the keys to the front door to Daph’s vacation house in the glove compartment.

But Daphne knew she was distracted, since she had pulled out the right key three times then put it back in the compartment.

The gang was trapped in an unsettling, uncomfortable silence.

That silence continued until Velms said, “I found them….” Nobody responded, they all just got up and headed towards the fluorescent purple house.

A few minutes later they were all sitting in the safest room in the house, the sauna. 

Daph was leaning against the door frame as everyone else took a bench, Scooby still shoving himself into a corner. Fred had let out a sigh before turning to Velma, “Okay let’s lay out our situation, figure out our next step.”

Velms nodded slowly before looking down at her lap.

“Right, so exactly two weeks and four days ago Eli McElroy the famous chemist was perfecting his formula which he believed would be capable of turning common geological objects into gold.” She paused and fidgeted, “He…..He was then found dead with the formula gone as well as his eyes.”

Daph hugged herself, inhaling loudly through her nose. Listening to it now, it was stupidly clear they had been over their heads from the very beginning.

Fred then stepped in and continued, “We were able to look at the security footage and it showed a masked figure leaving the lab….which matches up with McElroy’s time of death.”

“We deduced that the um….the victims eyes were taken as well for some sort of retinal scan.” Velms took off her glasses and began to wipe them with her sweater with a vigorous force, “But when we inquired about that the security guard said there were up to ten different areas in the lab that required a retinal scan, McElroy having access to all of them.”

Daph jumped in, “We had interrogated all of the staff and there was no single motive or suspect provided.” The more they unpacked the events, the stupider they began to sound.

Fred nodded, “Then Shags made the observation that we shouldn’t figure out who the culprit is but where the culprit is trying to get to.”

Everyone fell silent again. They should have just told that to the police.

“And so, “ Velma finally broke the silence, “After looking into McElroy’s research I made the deduction that he had created a new element that when mixed with certain types of limestone could convert it into a sort of metal. Most likely copper.”

That information alone could bring in millions of dollars. And it was now in the hands of a bunch of kids. It would probably get them killed if things went wrong.

Daph shifted her weight from one foot to the other, not wanting to continue. But Velma still opened her mouth, “Anyway we found out through one of the other scientists that the element was being held in a cooler in Sector 7, one that requires a retinal scan.”

She put her glasses back on and took a deep breath.

Before she could say anything Fred said it for her, “And so we did what we always do, had Shag and Scooby wait as the bait and eventually lead the culprit towards the rest of us.”

“And that was the stupidest thing we had ever done Fred!” Daph snapped at him, her hands falling to her sides as her voice quivered.

Fred and Velma looked at her in shock, she had been totally calm and optimistic on the ride here.

“I…..I know Daph-I just-”

“Fred this guy killed somebody and cut out their eyes out, this is absolutely nothing like the other times.” He avoided her eyes since they were now narrow and totally cold, “Those guys were committing delightful pranks compared to this psychopath!!”

Velma stood up, “Daphne, cool it we’re not gonna get Shaggy back if we start getting mad at each other.”

Daph scoffed, she felt a lump forming in her throat, “We would still have him if we had just called the damn police and not taken this matter into our own stupid hands!!”

She knew they always took Shag for granted because he was always the first one to suggest getting professionals involved, and she used to just brush him off too.

But now it was different, he could be in serious danger.

Like the life threatening kind. His eyeballs could be getting scooped out of his head at this very moment. And it was just killing her to think about that.

Her lower lip was trembling, “I think we should get one thing clear right now.” She took a deep breath, knowing she’d burst into tears if she didn’t stand her ground, “We do not ever, ever, put each other’s lives in jeopardy. We’ve been doing that for years with Shaggy and Scooby and we didn’t even bat a fucking eyelash!”

Fred and Velma looked at one another and then at their feet.

“We’re best friends and I actually do care whether we make it through this life together! Alive and well!”

For the first time in the five hours Shaggy had been taken, Scooby actually turned around and looked at her. His eyes were tired and he actually looked like a dog for once.

Daphne didn’t know if he was sending gratitude or comfort because she found that she was way more upset about Shag being kidnapped than she previously thought.

She was about to ridicule her friends further but found that she couldn’t say anything without breaking out in horrible sobs.

Normally when Daph cried she had no problem sharing that experience with everyone she knew. But the idea of her crying right now made her feel like she was giving up on Shag, on the idea of saving him.

And that wasn’t even and option.

So without saying anything else she left the sauna and trudged slowly towards the entry way to the house. Hoping nobody would follow her, she backed against the wall, letting herself lean against the purple striped wallpaper.

She took a few deep breaths but nothing was getting rid of the lump at the back of her throat.

The last time she had seen him, he was covering up his terror with chuckles and random puns. And she had just patted him on the back and told him he’d be fine. And then he gave her this smile that told her that her words meant something to him.

And the last she had heard from him was an ear piercing scream.

The last she had of him was the walkie talkie they had given to him. A whole lot of good it had done. 

Every time she blinked she saw that smile, every time she held her breath she heard that scream, every time she moved she felt the walkie talkie in her back pocket.

But that was nowhere near as perfect as Shaggy being right there in front of her, nothing could compare to that.

She felt herself slide down the wall, but she wasn’t totally sure since her eyes were stuck shut, hoping that she could keep the tears trapped inside. What if he was hurt? What if the culprit wasn’t a hostage type of guy?? Oh God, how did they know he wasn’t already dead?

He couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t.

Daph couldn’t handle anything if he was gone, she needed him. He helped her where Fred and Velma couldn’t.

He was the reason she searched for the good in people. Why she was still sane.

Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and she could do nothing to stop it, she just let it happen. There was no point in her bottling it all up, that was what had caused her distrust in people when she was younger.

She knew getting it all out now was Shaggy’s best chance.

Daphne wasn’t sure how long she had been crying but was quickly pulled out her misery when she heard foot steps.

She opened her eyes slowly and it was like she had been holding her breath the whole time. Her eyes felt wet and hot and stung as the air hit them. It took her a second to process all the bright purples and pinks and greens and grays. 

After a couple seconds attempting to handle the waves of color she spotted Velma and her favorite orange turtleneck.

Her lips felt dry as she sternly said, “What is it?” She didn’t mean to sound hostile but it just came out like that. Velma raised an eyebrow at her attitude but said nothing about it.

“I think Freddie and I have figured out where he is.”

When she heard this Daphne stood up quickly, having to lean onto the wall after realizing her legs had turned to jelly.

“W-Who? Shaggy? Or uh-the the um…. the culprit?” It was taking her forever to gather her thoughts and she didn’t even know what words were coming out of his mouth. She must have looked desperate to hear the answer because Velms walked over and placed her hand on Daphne’s shoulder, “Both Daph.”

“You see McElroy’s colleague, Danny Sheppard, had been having a dry streak when it came to his projects and discoveries because the lab wasn’t properly funding him.” Velma pushed up her glasses as she walked by the police men and motioned toward the cuffed culprit

He gave her a scowl but said nothing, like the smart guy he was he wasn’t going to admit to anything.

Fred jumped in and crossed his arms, “After some digging he found out that it was because his budget was being swapped for a much smaller amount. While his original budget was being given to McElroy and his experiments.”

Velma sent him a smirk and Daphne continued, “That was enough to convince Sheppard to quit and find employment at another lab. But before he could quit he accidentally stumbled on confidential information which revealed McElroy’s current project and top priority.”

“A formula that turned certain types of limestone into gold.” Velma had walked back next to Fred and was now leaning against the squad car, “His initial plan was to just steal the formula and claim it as his own discovery.”

She looked over at Fred and he nodded, “But after he had killed McElroy and stolen the formula he had found that the formula required an element of McElroy’s own creation held in a confidential location.”

It was Daph’s turn to jump in.

“And that was Sheppard’s greatest mistake.”

She saw him flinch at those words but still he said nothing.

“You see that was how we learned he was the culprit. Only McElroy and his lab assistant knew the location of the element. So there was no way that Sheppard would have been able to tip us off about where the criminal would be headed.”

This case had unwound like every other except it eerily didn’t end with “And I would have gotten away with it too etc. etc.”  But to be fair this guy was different from the other weirdos they had caught.

Daphne let out the long breath she had been holding in, they had caught him.

But then she remembered something and ran over to the squad car where the officers were about to shove him.

He looked over at her slowly, she could feel the hatred but knew he wouldn’t risk threatening her. “Where did you put him?” The police raised an eyebrow at her statement, the fact that their was a hostage adds a lot to the case against him.

Clearly he knew this because he responded with feigned ignorance.

Daphne’s brows furrowed and she grabbed the collar of his shirt, she wasn’t afraid to punch his lights out, “Tell me what the hell you did to him!!” Before she could put him in a proper choke hold Velma and Fred had dragged her back.

She kicked and struggled but she didn’t wanna do anything to hurt either of them so she let them push her back.

Helplessly, she watched as Velms and Fred both tried to get information about where Shaggy was out of him, but he just wasn’t budging.

Daph let out a huff and crossed her arms as she looked over at Scooby.

He gave this hopeless look and she returned it. They weren’t getting anywhere, and since Fred and Velma weren’t letting her beat the information out of him they had no clue where Shaggy is.

It then occurred to her that they hadn’t even searched the whole house.

Without saying anything, she made her way through the open front door and started to look in any spot she could think to hide a 6′0 person.

The closets, the huge freezer in his back yard, the bathtubs, the attic. At this point she was even checking under the beds and there was still no sign of him, she could feel panic setting in but she chose to ignore it.

He’s not dead, he’s alive and well and in a few hours he’ll be back to complaining about how hungry he is even though he just ate. She was beginning to get desperate, opening the kitchen cabinets even though she knew it didn’t do any good.

She felt the tears returning.

He should be here. She should be able to find him. She should be able to save him!!

She tripped on a rack of shoes by the front door and fell to her knees with a loud thud. Not bothering to get up she looked down at the floor, she could see her tears falling on the hard wood.

She had lost him she couldn’t find him.

She had no idea what she was gonna do now. How was she ever gonna laugh again if she knew that she had let him fade away?

Her tears fell fast and she only got angrier with herself, with Fred for putting him in danger, with Velma for letting Fred go through with it. Any second now a group of cops as well as her friends would come in here and wonder why she had been tampering with potential evidence and see her crying like a baby.

Right when she decided she didn’t even care anymore she spotted something out of the corner of her eye.

It was a doorknob just sticking out of the wall.

No clear reason why it was there but it was all Daphne had at this point.

Slowly, she got back to her feet and took a swift peek out the open front door. Fred and Velma hadn’t seemed to notice her absence, neither did Sheppard or the police present. But Scooby seemed to send her a quick glance before pretending he hadn’t seen her.

Not wasting any time, she dashed toward the doorknob. She wasn’t sure exactly how to approach this so she started by turning it.

Locked. Of course it was.

She moved her hands and let her fingers find the edges of the door. She had no idea how she didn’t find it before, now that she saw it clearly hidden in the wall.

There was no way she was gonna waste any time searching for a key when it was her last chance to find him. She flipped her hair behind her shoulders and took a step back. Taking a deep breath she quickly lifted her leg and sent a front facing kick into the door.

She watched as the door flew inwards, the lock still stuck in place.

Normally she would have been proud of how well that was executed but her heartbeat had picked up and she was already running down the flight of stairs behind the door.

Her hands ran along the wall for some sort of light switch.

But by the time she had reached the bottom of the stairs a string hit her in the face.

She ignored that fact that she had almost screamed because she thought it was a spiderweb for a demon spider from hell and pulled on the string with such force she was surprised it hadn’t broken off.

The second the light came on her eyes found a pair of baggy brown pants and a matching pair of long legs to go with it.

He was still in one piece, he didn’t even look that battered, there was just rope around his wrists. Slowly, he looked up at her, his eyes were tired and disoriented. Probably from being in a pitch black room for several hours.

“Daph? Like, I…I haven’t finally gone crazy have I?”

She let out a combo of a giggle and a sob as she hopped into the basement and ran over to him. 

Not sure whether to hug him or untie him, she found herself just staring at him. He was okay, he was alive and he was getting out of here.

“Oh please be in no hurry to save my life Daphne just tied up and dying.” She giggled again and leaned forward to untie him. Once the ropes were off she saw his raw and red wrists and his shaking hands. 

She grabbed them quickly and held onto them tight, afraid he would get snatched away again otherwise. 

“Please never do that ever again.”

“Do what? Get kidnapped by a damn eyeball scooper?” He tightened his grip on her hands, the shaking stopping.

She smiled at him, hearing footsteps above them signalling that Fred and Velma had found out she was in the house. 

Neither of them did anything, they just sat there in blissful silence hand in hand until Scooby came flying out of nowhere and pushed all three of them into a hug. 

She was so glad to hear that laugh again. 

#scooby doo #shaphne #shaggy rogers #daphne blake #shaphne fanfiction #teen wolf #stydia

[ladyemberswrites]

Vested Interest_Chapter I

Title: Vested interest

Pairing: Aluseras( Alucard x Seras)

Fandom: Hellsing/Hellsing Ultimate

Warnings: Blatant Alcoholism 

Chapters: 1/?

Summary:

Seras has feelings for Alucard, and so does he, however, to Seras, she knows her master better than anyone and knows how he can be and what he is capable of and is completely unsure of her former master intentions or the length of his apparent devotion, and accompanied by an ever changing world, old allies dead, as new ones rise, she wonders if she will be able to pull through, as well as be able to maintain a romantic relationship with her former master.

*I’m reposting this fic on my blog again*

Edit:  Nothing major, I just wanted to fix a few things, and spelling errors, and give this first chapter a little bit more meat, such as adding and changing dialogue.  

  A/N: This is a serious canon-divergence and is a part of an Au; I’m creating, so this is kind of the first part.  This takes place 500 hundred years, after Integra’s death, just to let everyone else, I hope I didn’t confuse anyone.

Comments, Reviews, Criticisms are all welcomed!!!!!

Tell me what you guys think!

“Have you changed your mind, yet?”

Seras huffs, before chugging down a significant amount of ice, cold beer and contemplated whether or not to drink until she was too plastered to stand. She couldn’t do this now or more like she didn’t want to deal this now, it was childish of her, she knew, it wasn’t like high school, where she could forge a make up a doctor’s note to skip out on gym- she was adult now, and being adult meant being mature, even when you desperately, desperately don’t want to, but! But! - UGH!

Can’t she just slam her face on the table! This was an entirely different situation, and it wasn’t like she could fake an illness to get out of it either, seeing that she came here out of her own accord.

She just didn’t know what to do. Her heart said one thing, while the more reasonable, sane, logical side of her brain completely argued against her acting on impulsive emotions.

“If you were human you probably would’ve damned your liver right about now.”

She finally removed the glass from her lips, placing it delicately upon the bar table with a click.

She looked at him this time for the first time since they’ve been here.

 Here, being a bar, a bar named Igor’s, promptly named after the owner Igor, who was just as ancient as her former Master, except for the fact that he was of the Lycan variety, and except for the fact he did appear worn down by age, from the hard wrinkles under his eyes, the rigid scar that tore through his left eye sealing it shut and a strip of flesh ripped from the right side of his face, giving a grotesque view of red gums, and his sharp, pearly white canines.

He was quiet, a type of no nonsense man, a very large man who only responded in gruff, grunts and growls, and stood a good two feet above her master. And speaking of her master, Igor wasn’t his biggest fan and wasn’t afraid to show it, since he busted up his bar in some petty fight a couple of years back. Breaking hundreds of bottles of expensive liquor and countless damages in infrastructure. Surprisingly, enough her master paid for the damages with 70% interest drawn from one of  his, probably many treasuries that he has hidden all over eastern Europe. He was a king before; at least she hopes that’s where his money is coming from, either way she really didn’t wanna know.

 And grudgingly and beyond her comprehension, he let her master come back, he still didn’t like him (she doubted that Igor was a very forgiving man) but, Alucard left generous tips, so he left it at that. From what she could tell her master seemed quite fond of the little bar.

It was small, cozy even and surprisingly, sit -spot clean and she also suspects what honestly, caught master attention the most was that it was pretty quiet, never too crowded most of the time and was simplistic in design. For Seras she could almost call it home, she found the place soothing to be in, many times she found herself here on raining days, lounging about and reading one of the many novels she “stole” from her Master endless library. Not to mention Igor served more than booze and had an array of coffee and teas, much to her pleasure.

 But she was getting off track here, trying to avoid the topic at hand.

 From the looks of it he hadn’t moved his gaze from her not once, and it unnerved her to no end, as he peered at her with half-lidded eyes and a passive gaze, which perturbed her more because of the ridiculous beard. He appeared so different……..with that thing on his face, and she desperately hid the urge to want shave it off his smug face.

“Being inhuman certainly has it perks; I don’t have to worry about liver failure.”

“That still doesn’t make you any less of an alcoholic, Master. That’s your fifth glass of scotch, and we’ve only been here 30 minutes.” she nodded towards the shot glass in his left hand, while the other supported his chin. He was also, startlingly, dressed casual, a white dress shirt and black slacks, it was a breather, to actually see him in normal clothing, and not any of his tone deaf attire that he is, so fond of wearing, the pimp hat, the 80s trench coat, well at least he didn’t really wear those anymore not since Integra’s passing, anyways, she thought solemnly.

“I don’t get as drunk easily as you, my dear.”

She stuck her tongue at him, mainly because he was right, one beer was usually enough to have her slurring her words and giggling like a lune, but she’d be darned if she admitted that to him.

“And I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a moment of stillness, the delay of the inevitable, so to speak.

Seras mind was running amok, she only came here on a whim, when her master, former master, she should say had called her out of the blue, and asked her to meet him here.

 She should’ve said that he was bonkers for calling her out here at three in the morning, and hung up, because after a long, stress inducing day of work, from listening to one person after, another complain to her about whatever, to settling disputes that almost turned violent if she hadn’t intervene between councils members, comforting others, and dealing with screaming children, she had quite enough dealing with other people’s emotional turmoil, and drama. All wanted for her weekend off, was a cup of hot coco, her soft pjs, and array of rom coms to compensate for the lack of a love life, was that too much to ask for.

 But, she didn’t-

   However, the quietness continue with the couple, occasionally sipping on their respective beverages, as they listened to the news which was currently splayed upon the small television that sat at, well more like hung at an angle over the bar, it was cracked and had many wires sticking out of it, but apparently it’s been working for years, seeing that not once did it short circuit, since they’ve been coming here.

Seras, barely paid attention, one thing that about being a vampire these days is that human politics have no effect on her anymore, well somewhat if you count recent events, and second, British politics or anything involving politics  is endless hell, you better off with setting your own self on fire, then trying to reason with other people, and lucky she didn’t have the responsibility concern herself with it, unless Hellsing was involved in any case, but human-vampire relations was something else entirely.

Alucard listened more closely, yet remained apathetic, it was all Greek to him, voting, elections, parliament, electoral colleges, primaries, it was all nonsense, it didn’t make any sense to him, leave it to humans to make everything more complicated than it needs to be. Everything was better when the world adhered to monarchies and systems, everyone had a place and duty, and none one didn’t question things, like the good old day.

 “Y’know in retrospect, it makes our jobs a whole lot harder doesn’t it?” someone had to cut the ice, she supposed, but could herself laughing bit too nervously.

His attention snapped back to reality or to the woman before him. She abruptly went silent, her gaze met his from brief moment, brows raised and her fingers tinkering with her locket that hung from her neck and rested at the valley of amble chest.

“Seras?”  She quickly fixed her attention back on her locket, he threw his head back, and took a long, burning swig from his drink - it was now or never, he didn’t call her down her here at 3 in the morning to discuss politics.

 “Why?” she murmurs, at bit pitifully, her brows scrunched together tightly, her lips pursed, her shoulders raised in apprehension “I mean-” she huffs at her.

 He knew that look, she was thinking, trying to pick and choose her words, so he gave her, her space which was alright with him as it gave him extra time to just - look at her.

She was wearing a short, black dress, which modestly reached her knees, the prude,

And had long sleeves.

Her lips and nails were painted a bright crimson, as he observe them tapping ceaselessly upon her golden locket and her hair was left untouched as it rolled down towards her waist in a heap of curls. After, what, he honestly, couldn’t remember, she stopped cutting her hair and just let it take a course of her own, he didn’t know about her, but to him it was the best decision she ever made. He liked how soft it looked, how it framed her face, how it made her look mature, like the master vampire she’s supposed to be. However, despite this, her expression was sullen; her red lips were twisted in a long frown, as she watched the drips of water slid down her glass.

“Um-Master, how long have we’ve known each other?” she voice started off low.

“ Since the day I put a bullet through you, why?” he was a bit taken back, out of all the ways he predicted this conversation to go, this wasn’t one of them

 Her sapphire gaze snaps in his direction “I’m being serious!”

 “Alright, Alright, a couple of centuries.” he narrowed his eyes “and May I ask why that matters?”

“Remember, back when I told you how I felt, about how I was in love with you and you rejected Me.” it was more matter of fact than anything. She wasn’t upset, well maybe not too upset, because she knew the answer beforehand. She knew he would reject her, and it hurt, but not as bad as it would have been if she entertained the fantasy of him actually being in love with her. She had feelings, but she was also no fool. But, now, so many decades later-

“…..Yes.” he winced that wasn’t his most shining hour in his opinion, and there were plenty of them.

“Yet, after all this time, you love me, now. Why?”

She gazed back at him, her sapphire eyes filled with confusion.

He didn’t break contact; he hoped all that liquor he drank would give him the confidence to speak his mind, without hinges, without being vague about his emotions.

 “Let’s just say, the past few years, I’ve had a couple of eye openers.”

“Are you talking about “her”?”

“Sort of off, but not quite.” she had an odd look in her eye, wide, and in some sort of disbelief, until it dawned on him “and no, I’m not chasing after, you because my other relationship went up in flames, so speak, and trust me I’m not crawling back to her, ever, hell would have to freeze over before that happens.”

 “A-are you sure?” she scrutinized him, eyes narrowed, her nose wrinkling, a quirk of hers every time she seemed to be contemplating something.

 “Yes, Seras. She is out my picture book forever, trust me, a pit of vipers would be more welcoming than ever sharing her bed again.”

“B-but?”

 “But?” he waited for her to continue.”

“But, that doesn’t explain, why you-you love me now.”

“Seras, I have long since stopped viewing you as just my loyal servant. You’re -you’re more to me than just that, over the years you been my partner, my companion, someone that I could trust.”

 “It doesn’t seem like that all the time. “She whispers.

 “I know. But, that was because of my own hubris than anything. It was nothing you did, my dear.”

She smiles, softly at that, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, shyly.

 “So, am I more to you now?”

 “You are mistaken on that part.”

“How, so.”  

“I’ve had…. feelings for you four quite some time.”

“Y-you have?” she should be ecstatic, yet caution was the only thing blaring through her thoughts. She knew her master and knew him well, both the good and the bad, well more bad than good. “Even, when you were with-”

“Yes. Look, Seras, I know our relationship hasn’t been-” he was looking for a word that didn’t come as harsh.

“The best.” she adds in, a little too quickly.

 “I was thinking a bit dysfunctional lately, but I guess “not the best” sounds….better put. But anyways, what I - what I’m trying to say is that I’m interested in courting you.”

Courting was such an odd word then again using the word dating, when referring to herself and Alucard was even stranger.   

 “Seras?”

“Huh-yes.”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?

“Will you let me court you?”

“Master, I-”

“Vlad.”

“What?

“That is my birth name. I want you to call me by it from now on.” he raised, a cautious hand, a bare hand, relieved of his gloves, to push a strand of golden hair behind her ear, gently brushing his knuckles against her cheek.

Seras bit her lip, what was she to say? What should she do? She felt the beer she drank desperately, wanting to make an encore.

“Mas-Vlad, I -I don’t know.” she murmurs, peering down at her locket, again, twirling it between her slender fingers.

“Why?” he had to stop himself from saying more, before he starts sounding desperate. He will not be one of those “men”.

“What you said before about people changing.”

“Yes, what about?”

“It’s just that-just -I mean- Vlad, sometimes……sometimes….. People don’t change. Especially, people like you.”

“What’s that supposed to me?”  He should have taken offense to that, but the stinging pain of hurt was the only feeling that was consuming him at the moment.

“I know what you are. I’m not blind. Please, don’t look at me like that, I’m not saying that to hurt you, trust me.

I love you, I really, really do. Sure I can deal with all your bizarre idiosyncrasies, but that was only because our relationship was- well was master and servant, I could live with that then. But, now, now I don’t know if I can. Your impulsive, rude, I can never anticipated your moods sometimes, your fickle when you want to be, not to mention cruel and bloodthirsty. How do I know you’re going to be committed, and not just one day get up and leave without so much as a single word? How do I know this isn’t all a game to you? How do I know that you truly want to love me and be my equal, if you keep shutting me out all the time or pushing me away when you don’t feel like being bothered? “She paused a moment, looking him dead in the eye to make sure she got the point across.

“I-I can’t do this, I can’t be with you, if you’re going to act that way. I can’t.” she didn’t want to cry, she told herself, lectured herself not to cry, but the tears involuntary came forth, warm, as well as unwelcoming, burned a pathway down her face.

He was stunned silent for a while he didn’t know what to say, his mouth felt uncomfortably dry, like his mouth was filled with sad, but it did stop him from wiping her tears away with the side of his thumb.

“Seras? Seras look at me.” he lowers his voice, to attract her attention. She wiped her nose and face with the back of her hand, sniffling as, she tried to gain the courage to look at him.

“Y-yeah.”

“You speak the truth, people don’t change, especially people such as I, we never do nor ever will, but for your sake I’ll do anything you wish of me, I promise you that at least.

I know I’m more monster than man, and I can never be what you truly deserve, but I can do what I can, if you’d be mine.” he sounded, so sincere, so sincere that she couldn’t bare it anymore, and the impulsive need to wrap her arms tightly around his neck and kiss him senseless was overpowering and that’s why she needed to leave. To leave, so she could think rationally and thoroughly.

“Vlad. Vlad can you give me some time to think about?”

“Of course, I don’t want to pressure you. Take your time.”

 “Vlad.”

 “Hhhmmm.”

 “Thank you.” she couldn’t help herself, but she threw her arms around him, placing her face in the crux of his neck, nuzzling his shoulder. “Thank you.” she whispers.

He pats the top of her head, feeling slightly awkward by the sudden intimacy.

It took a few good moments for her to let go “Um, I have work soon, so I better get some sleep.”

“Ah, right. Do you want me to accompany you home?”

She shakes her head “That’s alright I want to walk by myself tonight, if you don’t mind.”

“Are you sure.”

She nods her head in affirmation, slowly sliding off her seat, to leave, however, another wave - call it a need or maybe want, but whatever it was made her lean over and press her lips to his. It was chaste and he certainly wasn’t expecting it, but he returned it with fervor, pulling her closer and gently biting bottom lip, as she held onto his shirt for dear life. He wanted more, he wanted her, yearned for her taste and her touch, her scent alone, smelling of sweet vanilla, drove him mad, but in the most delightful ways, he wanted to continue, but was suddenly interrupted, by  loud grunt. Seras immediately pulled away from him, her cheeks flushed, and bottom lip swollen and her hair in slight disarray, she looked absolutely tempting - but the dirty look Igor gave him kept him doing anything further.

“Sorry, about that.” Seras smiles apologetically to the old bartender. He only tips his head in acknowledgement, quickly turning back to washing glasses.

She glances back him a shy expression lightens her face “Good night, Vlad.”

“Good night, Seras.”

“ Alright, see you later.” she waves, as she particularly skips out the front door, her heels clacking against the wooden floors, the bell up to the entrance signaling her departure. He sighs as leans back, having zero intention of leaving anytime soon.

He jiggles his empty cup devoid of anything, but halfway melted ice.

“Do you have anything stronger than Vodka?”

“Mmmmmhh.” Igor responded, completely disinterested.

“I’m very sure that you can actually talk.”

Igor grunted, turning from his finished task to stare at the other man, he glances down at the no-life king’s empty glass, back up to him, glaring.

“What!?…. Trust me I haven’t had my fill of alcohol; he didn’t want this man to break up his bar again due to being in a drunken stupor.

Igor shakes his head, arms crossed, clearly exasperated. He hated it when customers’ abuse their drinking privileges, and it pissed off even more, because was one that had to clean it all up, after closing.

“I’ll pay extra; I’ll even buy you a brand new television set.”

Didn’t this man have anything else better to do than, spend his nights indulging in alcoholism? Igor, sighs beside himself, well, whatever, it was his life that his was drinking away, not his, beside brand new television did sound pleasing, he was getting of watching his soap operas on a cracked scene, anyways, and maybe his regulars will stop complaining about how small his t.v set is.

Without another word, he traveled to the back to pick out a bottle of Everclear, which just came in this afternoon, maybe this will shut the lunatic up.

Alucard was curious when the Werewolf reappeared again with a large silver bottle of clear liquid, and handed it to him, practically shoving it in his arms.

The master vampire spinned it around, it was room temperature “ Everclear” he twisted it around once again to read the table of contents on the back with a raised eyebrow “ colorless, flavorless, 95 % concentrated Alcohol”  he whistle at that.

He glance back at the bartender, he just shrugged in response and continued about his work.  

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to leave this bar sober, hopefully.

TBC

Edit: Nothing major, I just wanted to fix a few things, and spelling errors, and give this first chapter a little bit more meat, such as adding and changing dialogue.  

Like for the instance, the part where Seras assumes Alucard has treasuries hidden all over Western Europe,I didn’t think much about that line, until now, realizing that Alucard is Romanian, which is in Eastern Europe, so he would have secret stashes hidden all over Eastern Europe, not Western.

   A/N: Is this chapter a bit too sappy, I don’t know maybe. I’m just wanted to write a Aluseras fic, where alucard doesn’t act like a grade A- A-hole with no redeemable qualities and for absolutely no reason, which I see an abundance of in a lot of fan fictions concerning this couple, note that I have nothing against anyone who does write these kind of fics, nothing personal, just not my cup of tea.

Anyways, can you believe it took me a whole day to write this, not to mention on a horribly upset stomach, ugh, it was the only way to keep me distracted from the pain.

Well, that’s it for now, Comments are always welcomed.

 @deyity @kyoandyuya @these-three-peeps

#alucard x seras #aluseras #hellsing #hellsing ultimate #f/m #m/f #vampires #vampire romance #canon divergence #canon-divergence #hellsing au #ocs #my ocs #my writings #my fanfiction #my fanfic #seras victoria #seras x alucard #alucard #seras #hellsing ova

[spicynbachili1]

The Sunday Papers | Rock Paper Shotgun

Sundays are for canine walks. Final time we had been out we noticed somebody with their canine on a lead and their cat loping after them, so I’m wanting ahead to what wonders we’ll be handled to this time. You’ll simply should make do with high-quality writing about video video games from the previous week.

I think about you’ve seen Rockstar co-founder Dan Houser bragging in regards to the 100 hour working weeks his workforce put in for Crimson Lifeless Redemption 2. I think about you’ve additionally seen the common rebuking he’s acquired for endorsing crunch tradition, however Patrick Klepek’s latest piece for Waypoint focuses on the simple journey Vulture sport him within the authentic interview. Given how widespread the unfavorable response was, there’s hope different journos will take Klepek’s factors on board. I do know I’ve.

What’s the human price of modeling the way in which horse testicles react to climate? Is it value it? How do the Housers strategy scaling labor, as their hyper-detailed worlds demand extra? This has most likely modified over time, so what classes have they realized? Rockstar felt obligated to publicly reply to the notorious “Rockstar Partner” letter alleging damaged working situations through the growth of the unique Crimson Lifeless Redemption, so what’s modified?

I do know the papers usually develop into the Waypoint present, however you possibly can blame that on them for writing so many thought-provoking articles. In his newest Postscript column, Cameron Kunzelman argued that PVP nuking in Fallout 76 gamifies horror that needs to be left alone. I wouldn’t condemn these mechanics to the identical diploma, however now I’m struggling to justify why.

Regardless of who you’re, irrespective of how highly effective you suppose you’re, the fact is that nuclear battle will both destroy you or make your life unlivable in its present form. This actuality is basically at odds with how the design of blockbuster video video games work. That signifies that taking nuclear weapons significantly in a blockbuster sport is unimaginable.

I don’t have a lot curiosity in enjoying intercourse video video games, however I’m very glad Kate Grey writes about them. Right here’s her evaluation of Unusual Flesh for Kotaku.

Punch or seduce sufficient individuals into exploding and also you’ll collect power-ups. One will increase your punch energy, one other will increase your smoky seduction energy, and the ultimate one is principally your particular assault meter — solely the bartender’s “particular assault” principally entails placing his loaf of bread within the breadbox, when you catch my that means.

It’s like enjoying Streets of Rage, besides as an alternative of rage, it’s an enormous outdated peen social gathering, and also you’re the fortunate birthday boy.

On Polygon, Mark Brown known as out the pointless gratuity of Tomb Raider’s grotesque loss of life animations – most successfully by highlighting alternative routes video games could make loss of life really feel impactful.

Participant loss of life is definitely a bizarre factor for designers to reconcile. In most video games, it’s a weird break of the fourth wall: a reminder that the precise flip of occasions will see Lara Croft narrowly keep away from loss of life at each flip, and that your screw-ups are only a non-canonical, “what-could-have-happened” dream sequence of kinds.

That is from final month and video games don’t get a glance in, however I’ve to point out you Taylor Clark’s deep dive into Meow Wolf’s magic kingdom. I’m gonna get me to that home, in the future.

Inside Home of Everlasting Return, hidden bookcase doorways result in rainbow-lit simulations of non-Euclidean space-time. Flora musically luminesce at your contact. Subsequent door to the interdimensional journey company, on the way in which to the mastodon cavern, a protracted, tubular owl slowly blinks down at passers-by from its glacier-blue roost. “The primary time I walked by way of, I believed, My god, that is what it seems like whenever you dream — come to life! ” stated Winston Fisher, a Meow Wolf investor who now sits on the corporate’s board of administrators.

I discovered Hannah Fry’s essay for Aeon about AI’s capability to generate artwork fascinating. I’d argue that if an AI can generate artwork that’s indistinguishable from human endeavour, then it doesn’t make sense to not name the outcomes artwork simply since you discover the method missing. Oh no I’m speaking about what artwork is ABORT ABORT

If you happen to’re in search of a background observe to your web site or your YouTube video that sounds generically like a people track, you don’t care that it’s much like all one of the best people songs of the previous. Actually, you simply need one thing that avoids copyright infringement with out the trouble of getting to compose it your self. And if that’s what you’re after, there are a variety of corporations that may assist. British startups Jukedeck and AI Music are already providing this type of service, utilizing algorithms which might be able to creating music. A few of that music will probably be helpful. A few of will probably be (type of) authentic. A few of will probably be lovely, even. The algorithms are undoubtedly nice imitators, simply not superb innovators.

Mark Brown (him once more) continues to supply impressively in depth steerage for the way video games will be made extra accessible for disabled gamers. His newest video focuses on motor disabilities.

These screaming Pokemon are enjoyable.

Music this week is Lengthy Means Down by the Steeldrivers. A number of the bands I like appear to make music movies the place they go play in some woods.

from SpicyNBAChili.com http://spicymoviechili.spicynbachili.com/the-sunday-papers-rock-paper-shotgun/

[yespoetry]

What Dementia & Sexual Trauma Have in Common — And How to Heal

By Joanna C. Valente

He didn't remember me. Sometimes, there would be glimpses of him coming out of his body and I could see in his eyes that he recognized me, but those moments were becoming more and more fleeting. Moments of remembering, of having memory, were rare. I would push the grocery cart around every week, following him as he picked out his favorite foods (vanilla wafers were a must), and listen to him talk to himself. I would agree and nod. Most of the time, I didn't know what he was talking about or even understand what he was saying.

It didn't matter. I didn't need to understand. He didn't need me to understand. Manny was my great uncle, a Greek immigrant, who worked as a medic in World War II, then later as a mailman. He never married and lived alone in his one bedroom apartment in Yonkers, New York - only a few minutes away from my parents and my yiayia, his sister. When I grew up, there was an unspoken truth about him: He was "different." We didn't speak about why. No one called him "special" or said he had special needs or a disability. He just was. And that's what mattered. He was just Manny. 

When I was in high school, he was found inside his apartment one day, muttering to himself. It quickly became clear he had dementia. My mother found him on the hardwood floor. He was alone. He was babbling. He was surrounded by forgotten garbage. He was a human suffering in his own humanity, in a world that doesn't cater to those who don't fit into neatly an able-bodied society. 

Soon after, he was moved into a nursing home where he eventually died. He lived in that nursing home for close to 10 years. No one wanted him to be there, but the question any caretaker and family member asks themselves when a loved one is diagnosed with dementia or Alzheimer's is this: How can you take care of someone who can't remember themselves? Who can't remember to eat or go to the bathroom? Unless you have 24-hour care in your home (which requires a lot of money), it's impossible. That fact alone, the impossibility of that kind of care, is devastating.

Everyone feels like a failure. How can you not feel like a failure when you feel like you're abandoning someone you love, even if it's in their best interest? Even if you aren't actually abandoning them, but allowing them to continue living. But that idea of living is different than thriving - and what does it mean to live without your identity, your sense of self, your memory? What does it mean to exist inside a shell, to have your spirit trapped inside a place in the body that is no longer accessible? 

When you don't remember yourself, your agency is lost. This means we aren't in control of our bodies anymore - our bodies have become something or someone else's, but whose? Caretakers, in a legal sense: Our bodies are controlled by our caretakers, by a seemingly indifferent universe. But what does consent mean in those situations? Legally, we allow others, usually loved ones who act as power of attorneys, to control our bodies and make major decisions; yes, we have rules for this, but rules can't govern the spirit or the mind. They can't govern what you don't see. They can't govern ghosts, or the ghosts of ourselves. 

In those moments, it can feel as if your body was never really yours to begin with. If you believe in any kind of God, it feels like an awful trick, as if God is Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream putting an ass' head on you and watching what happens. In many ways, I started learning about consent because of Manny, because of his dementia. I didn't want to, but I was. 

My mother would drive me to visit Manny in his nursing home often. I grew to look forward to the visits, even if I pretended I didn't want to go as a depressive, moody teenager. Most of the people in the nursing home were like Manny, unable to remember, unable to care for themselves. And if they could remember, sometimes it seemed worse - to be stuck inside a body that no longer does what you want it to. I couldn't decide which fate was better, which luck of the draw I wanted as I got older. 

This fear of forgetting is exactly why we write about ourselves, detailing our lives even in obscured details, as a way to keep a tab on ourselves even when we can't. What's the point of other people remembering us if all we exist in is a void of darkness? It was Nabokov, after all, who told his friend Edmund Wilson in April 1947 why he wrote his memoir, Speak, Memory: "I am writing two things now 1. a short novel about a man who liked little girls - and it's going to be called The Kingdom By The Sea - and 2. a new type of autobiography - a scientific attempt to unravel and trace back all the tangled threads of one's personality - and the provisional title is The Person In Question."

Nothing exists as stationary, our minds are always changing, even with dementia. Manny's life was measured in black and white photographs my yiayia kept, his endless stories he would tell me, his repetition. As Nabokov illustrated in his own memoir, if the self is only endless projections, like a projector showing us a film of who we're supposed to be and who we want to be (and where our self meets somewhere in the middle), what does this mean? 

I of all people understand how flawed memory is. We often misremember details, black them out, or purposefully color them in, all as a way to survive and navigate trauma. As an assault survivor, I often have questioned my own memories, both happy and traumatic ones. Like many survivors of trauma, I blocked out certain details for a long time, usually details during the assaults themselves, because it was easier not to remember. Nabokov does the same thing when he recalls the idyllic events of his life, painting a gorgeous memory for us that may not be accurate; here is he painting an exquisite picture of his mother:

As often happened at the end of a rainy day, the sun might cast a lurid gleam just before setting, and there, on the damp round table, her mushrooms would lie, very colorful, some bearing traces of extraneous vegetation—a grass blade sticking to a viscid fawn cap, or moss still clothing the bulbous base of a dark-stippled stem. And a tiny looper caterpillar would be there, too, measuring, like a child’s finger and thumb, the rim of the table, and every now and then stretching upward to grope, in vain, for the shrub from which it had been dislodged.

Memory can only be as accurate as accurate as we allow the exercise in remembering to actually be, which is mutable at best. In 1966, Nabokov said, “As a writer, I am half-painter, half-naturalist." He also wrote about butterflies in Speak, Memory - which are intrinsically beautiful, but also indicative of change (and change confuses memory and how we remember):

I have hunted butterflies in various climes and disguises: as a pretty boy in knickerbockers and sailor cap; as a lanky cosmopolitan expatriate in flannel bags and beret, as a fat hatless old man in shorts . . . Few things indeed have I known in the way of emotion or appetite, ambition or achievement, that could surpass in richness and strength the excitement of entomological exploration. 

So, what does this mean, trying to invoke beauty into memory, or take out the grotesque? What does it mean, then, when we talk about illnesses like dementia or PTSD, or our brains post-trauma? With any trauma or illness, we are forced to forge new identities and reinvent ourselves; if we don't, we die. How can you remain stagnant when parts of your own agency are taken away by something or someone outside of you?

Our minds yearn to be transcendental, and transformed, into magic. We want to live in a curated fairy tale whenever possible, which means much of our power as humans is distortion, is storytelling. Much of our power as humans is memory, and the ability to recall, regardless of whether this recalling is truth (and whose truth?).

A better question, then: What does it mean to our humanity when we can't remember? This doesn't make us less human, but it does take our power and our agency away. My own misremembering of my assaults has been both powerful as a coping mechanism and a means to survive, but also as a way my own identity shifts, for better and worse. Who are we without our memories and our "real truths?"

When Manny died, we were relieved. We were relieved as much as we were devastated. Manny was in his late-90s when he passed, and in some ways, you could hardly say the death was tragic, that being released from his own mind-prison was unfair. If anything, he was free, regardless of where he went after he died. I remember throwing a flower into his open grave, the soil freshly dug, the air smelling of earth - both sweet and rotten. 

I cried. But I didn't cry long, because I wasn't sure what or who I was crying for. I had mourned him a long, long time ago; I wasn't sad for his body or the fact that his body could no longer move or breathe. Years later, I realized I was sad for his lost memories, for his lost self. He never wrote a memoir like Nabakov, he didn't leave behind a long journal of his experiences during the war, or if he ever fell in love or what his favorite childhood memory was. He didn't leave behind anything except for our memory of him, a faulty legacy in the brains of bodies that will also forget. 

People warn you about this, about forgetting them, begging you not to. We lose each other in the noise of our lives long before we lose our minds. When we part, we pray and wish each other luck, do spells to direct energy to the right places, hoping for the best. Even on a daily basis, we say phrases like "I'm always around," as if our self is capable of that. While we might mean it, for as long as we humanly and bodily can, our bodies sometimes strip ourselves from us. That is perhaps what I'm afraid of most: losing myself. 

In all my art, like many artists, I explore identity. I explore what it means to be alive in a body in a place in a time, locked inside a structure we can't control, to have a fluid identity in a rigid society (a society that still questions interfaith and interracial relationships and queer bodies and different backgrounds and religions and skins). I, like you, am trying to find agency when everything around us vies for our freedom and our minds.

What's the solution, other than science trying to find a cure, than writers trying to scribble down their lives and truths on paper and in the vast space of the internet? Dementia is just one face of finding and losing our true selves, of finding and keeping love, of trying to hold and make a future.

We try, constantly, to be our perfect selves in a world where capitalism pushes us to the impossible goal of "having it all" and being perfect versions of humans. That idea takes away our vulnerability, because how can we truly be vulnerable when we search for the impossible, and try to be the impossible? In my uncle's dementia, I didn't find hope or a cure or an answer, but the realization that wasting time is the truest crime.

This realization, the fear of dementia, gave me the freedom of "coming out" as queer and nonbinary, to write about assault and trauma, to write about abortion, to make hard choices that I know will make me more fulfilled ultimately. It's not bravery, as some people will call it, the will to be yourself, but it's a decision made out of the fear of forgetting everything, of never having been to begin with.

And that's the only thing I come back to, after every trauma and heartbreak and change and anxiety: Don't waste time on things you don't love, on things that don't love you, on something that isn't helping you figure out your identity and your happiness. Legacy, that perfect history and reputation (whether in textbooks or curated on a social media feed), will be forgotten too. Because everything passes, even you. And what's the use of living a fake life when that life will be forgotten by you and everyone around you anyway?

Joanna C. Valente is a ghost who lives in Brooklyn, New York, and is the author of Sirs & Madams (Aldrich Press, 2014), The Gods Are Dead (Deadly Chaps Press, 2015), Marys of the Sea (The Operating System, 2017), Xenos (Agape Editions, 2016), and Sexting Ghosts (Unknown Press, 2018). They are the editor of A Shadow Map: An Anthology by Survivors of Sexual Assault (CCM, 2017), and received a MFA in writing at Sarah Lawrence College. Joanna is also the founder of Yes, Poetry, a managing editor for Luna Luna Magazine and CCM, as well as an instructor at Brooklyn Poets. Some of their writing has appeared in Brooklyn Magazine, BUST, Them, Prelude, Apogee, Spork, The Feminist Wire, and elsewhere. 

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