#meanwhile back in zenith verse

[yuesya]

Yuji squints through the blinding explosion of light, feeling something inside his chest finally loosen.

It'll be fine now. Gojo-sensei is back. Gojo-sensei is back, and he'll be able to set everything right again.

.... Ever since the catastrophe in Shibuya, things had gotten steadily even worse. The chaos of the Culling Games, Kenjaku's manipulations, and then... then, Fushiguro. Fushiguro's sister, the one they'd been trying to save, had turned out to be the host of an incarnated sorcerer, and then Fushiguro had-

Fushiguro had-!

(Enchain. That single word haunts Yuji's nightmares, the low rasp of the voice that can only belong to a devil-

A curse-

"Ha! What a thoroughly foolish brat. A binding vow 'not to hurt anyone,' and yet he didn't even include himself in the terms!"

"Let's see something interesting now, shall we?")

... Fushiguro had been possessed by Sukuna. And because Yuji was weak, far too weak, he'd been unable to get Fushiguro back-

But Gojo-sensei would be able to.

("You'll be the first one I kill, sorcerer."

"What an honor it is to be targeted by Ryomen Sukuna, then.")

"Sensei!" The pillar of light from Angel's cursed technique disappears, leaving a thick cloud of dust obscuring everything in the air. "Sensei, is it safe to come closer?"

A faint silhouette can be seen through the smoke; relief floods through his veins.

Yuji steps forward, "Sensei-"

An arm is suddenly thrown in front of him; Yuji glances over, startled, as Okkotsu-senpai holds him back from approaching. Rather than looking happy or relieved, Okkotsu-senpai is frowning, and Yuji feels his heart drop down into his stomach.

He swallows roughly. Did something happen to Gojo-sensei?

"Who are you?" Okkotsu-senpai asks, voice cold, his eyes unerringly focused on the figure that emerges from the Prison Realm-

It's not Gojo-sensei.

It's not Gojo-sensei.

Startled gasps and sharp intakes of breath sweep across the other students and teachers present.

"What the hell?!"

White hair, blue eyes, and that's where all the similarities end. The person who waves aside the lingering smoke around them is a small slip of a girl, maybe a few centimeters taller than Nishimiya at most.

Yuji's first wild, insane thought is that somehow, the Prison Realm turned Gojo-sensei into a tiny girl.

"How rude," the strange girl remarks, seemingly unconcerned by the wariness and confusion from everyone surrounding her. She raises her arms and stretches, "How long have I been sealed?"

There's a beat of silence, where no one responds. The girl lowers her arms and surveys everyone surrounding her impassively.

Yuji inches closer to Okkotsu-senpai. "... Just making sure, Prison Realm is only supposed to hold one occupant, right? What happened to Gojo-sensei?!"

"That's what I'd also like to know," Okkotsu-senpai grimaces. "Because that is not Gojo-sensei."

"Satoru-niichan? Why would he be sealed? He was not the one who..." the girl trails off as a slight frown flickers over her lips. Niichan? Did she just call Gojo-sensei 'niichan?' Gojo-sensei has a sister?! Wait, no, that still doesn't explain where Gojo-sensei went?

Without Gojo-sensei... oh gods. Without Gojo-sensei, they're all doomed.

[kararisa]

darling, starling ✧

pairing: scaramouche x gn!reader

genre: social media au, modern/celebrity au, friends to lovers, fake dating

summary: being the world-famous singer-songwriter "zenith", the limelight has been on you ever since the start of your career. however, the media becomes relentless when leaks of music you never meant to release begin to circulate. your friend scaramouche, meanwhile, seems to have gotten stuck while writing his second book. with a deadline fast approaching, he comes to you with a deal: act as if you're dating him so he can gather reference material and, in turn, he'll help keep the press' eyes off of your leaks until you release your next album. a win-win in your book, so why not help a friend out?

side ships: venti x xiao; thoma x ayato

warnings: swearing, crack, slight angst (?), alcohol consumption, yn wears makeup sometimes, depictions of online hate; specific chapter warnings will be listed at the beginning of each chapter — will be updated as the series continues

status: ongoing

author's notes:

did some minor reworking so if you've seen this for the second time, you're not hallucinating dw

yes this is my second smau. yes I still don't know what I'm doing haha. timestamps don't matter unless I say they do

apologies in advance if i miss any grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language ^^

written chapters are marked with (★)

pre-concert party !!

0.1 - lost hearts • 0.2 - welcome back, shithead

profiles:

clown central™ ([name]'s friends)

the waffle house (scara's friends)

1st verse — for future reference || playlist

1 - is this real? • 2 - enjoying yourself: a guide

3 - bitchless since birth • 4 - attention

5 - unwritten rules (★) • 6 - we're doing couple things

7 - safe with my indifference • 8 - when's the wedding

9 - iridescence (★) • 10 - worst date ever

11 - then beg • 12 - a little bit scandalous (★)

13 - not too late • 14 - only here for you

15 - i can fight • 16 - wine-stained lips (★)

2nd verse — where words fail, music speaks || playlist

17 - it's so joever • 18 - famefucker

19 - i miss my parents • 20 - none of your business

21 - child of divorce • 22 - don't text and drive

23 - neon escape (★) • 24 - this can't be real

tba

3rd verse — hate to be lame || playlist

tba

encore !!

tba

— the taglist is currently open! if you’d like to be added feel free to reply or send in an ask! – if your blog isn’t highlighted it means i can’t tag you.

[saddayfordemocracy]

Abdel Wahab Yousif (aka Latinos) 

A young Sudanese poet’s prediction of his fate came true last week when he drowned in the Mediterranean.

Abdel Wahab Yousif, better known as Latinos, died when a rubber boat packed with African immigrants sank into the sea shortly after setting off from Libya on its way to Europe.

Latinos was well-known among the young generation of poetry fans in Sudan. The cocktail of hardships he had endured in his short life colored his verse with thick shades of melancholy:

I’ll run away from a homeland scourging my back with lashes day and night;

From a woman who doesn’t know how to feed my soul from her body’s nectar.

I’ll run from everything,

nonchalantly embrace demise.

Born to a poor family in Manwashi, Southern Darfur, Latinos managed against the odds to shove his way into the University of Khartoum. But even the bachelor’s degree he obtained from the Faculty of Economics failed to open up any window of hope. And, like scores of Darfurian youth, his last resort was Libya, a gateway through which successive waves of Africans continue to brave all perils in the hope of getting safely to European shores.

Latinos’ tragic departure last week sent shock waves among his friends and poetry fans in Sudan. Adding to the tragedy was the realization that the way he died was a perfect demonstration of a scenario that was depicted in his recent verse.

You’ll die at sea.

Your head rocked by the roaring waves,

your body swaying in the water,

like a perforated boat.

In the prime of youth you’ll go,

shy of your 30th birthday.

Departing early is not a bad idea;

but it surely is if you die alone

with no woman calling you to her embrace:

“Let me hold you to my breast,

I have plenty of room.

Let me wash the dirt of misery off your soul.”

The poet hit the zenith of despair in the last poem he published shortly before his death:

You are destined to go;

Today, tomorrow,

or the day after.

No one can halt the heavy wheel of destruction

running over life’s body.

It’s all in vain

no last-minute savior will come

and rescue the world’s body.

It’s all in vain

no flash of light,

to scare away the darkness.

Everything is dying:

Time. Language.

Screams. Dreams.

Songs. Love. Music.

All in vain.

Everything is gone,

except a violent vacuum

dead bodies wrapped in melancholic silence

and a heavy downpour of destruction.

The sad departure of this young man underscores the evolving tragedy of the people of Darfur. Although the Sudanese people managed to uproot al-Bashir’s 30-year dictatorship in December 2018, the people of Darfur are still enduring ceaseless spates of violence while peace talks between the transitional government and the rebel forces hit one stumbling block after the other. Meanwhile, more and more desperate youth seem intent on taking this perilous course, sacrificing their lives in the hope of a better future.

By Adil Babikir 

Abdel Wahab Yousif

[autumnslance]

libera me - write a small drabble about why your muse is awake at 2 am

((I’m already working on a longer piece rewriting the latter half of Eden’s verse, but have a little drabble about it meanwhile (as an angsty treat?).))

The rain pattered steadily on the tent, wind gently rustling the edges, unable to find purchase in the secure knots and buttons of the canvas. Their camp remained relatively dry and warm, though not uncomfortably so.

Would that warmth remain, once they drew out the ice?

Aeryn stared at the shadowed lines of the tent above her, fingers idly tracing over Thancred’s forearm, draped over her midsection. She dared not move more; he could be a terribly light sleeper, especially when he was concerned. He had left Urianger to take care of the girls in Eden’s control room to follow Aeryn back to the base camp to rest after fighting the sin eaters.

Also to avoid Urianger’s in depth history lesson of Shiva. She already knew the story, after all.

In her mind’s eye she saw Ysayle, thoughtfully melancholy in the light of the campfire. It was how Aeryn always began remembering her, on that quiet night before they finally reached Zenith and the truths told by Hraesvelgr. Then walking across the Smoldering Wastes back to Loth ast Vath, speaking of primals and their battle with Ravana. Then talking in a chilly tavern as the Scions prepared to chase the Soleil, and Ysayle saying she was returning to Zenith for more answers.

Then Ysayle falling, gunfire bursting across the strange skies of Azys Lla.

Aeryn sighed and shifted, causing questioning grumbling from Thancred, now at her back. She feigned sleep until his arm squeezed her gently, and then he fell back into slumber himself, holding her.

There would be no more excuses tomorrow; she would have to remember Shiva, and the ice. The biting cold of Ahk Afah, the sight of the goddess fighting Ravana, freezing the Gration in the skies…

Ysayle repeating Hydaelyn’s words. Ysayle laughing with Alphinaud. Ysayle arguing with Estinien. Ysayle talking with Aeryn about what it meant to be Mother’s Chosen.

Ysayle falling.

Aeryn squeezed her eyes shut. Tomorrow. That was tomorrow. Tonight, she needed sleep.

It was a long time coming, and came with memories of a girl alone in the snow.

—

((Another version of this prompt is in my E8 rewrite “Return to Dreams of Ice”))

[bickwrites]

Announcement time!

Hello, everyone! Guess what, I’m still alive, and I’m about to become a lot more alive in the near future!

Though I’d hoped to start posting it last year, 2020 obviously had other plans ;v; But it’s a new year, and a new start, and I’m happy to announce that I’m finally ready to debut a new story.

On April 16, The Sky Is Our Fortress will go live on Tapas and Webnovel! 

Here’s the summary:

All his life, Theo has had weird dreams about flying cities and magic diagrams. But when he's awake, his biggest problem is working up the courage to start his own emo band. At least until he stumbles into an arena straight out of his dreams where a knight is battling a dragon.

Somehow Theo escapes with not only his life, but a brand new magical contract with the knight. Now the knight, Sir Zenith, is going around calling Theo his wizard and saying it's his duty to serve as Theo's familiar. It all sounds like a sick joke to a kid who doesn't even have the guts to sing in public.

Too bad he doesn't have time to adjust. An army of demons is after him, and they might share a connection to his past. If he wants answers - and to survive - Theo will have to trust Zenith and find the strength to fight alongside him.

Basically if you like JRPGs, old school shoujo fantasy, magical soulbonding, and sweet slow-burn BL romance, this story should be for you! I actually sort of view it as an update of Weaponmaster, dealing with a lot of similar themes and relationship dynamics. But hopefully a lot better written.

On that note, yeah, I’m confirming it: Weaponmaster is dead. I’ll keep it up for a week or two after The Sky Is Our Fortress goes live, in case anyone wants to save it. But yeah, I started Weaponmaster way back when I was in college and I feel like I’ve grown past it by now. It’s just not representative of my skill and interests as a writer anymore. I hope that if you enjoyed Weaponmaster, you might also find something to love in The Sky Is Our Fortress. 

And yeah, I’m no longer going to use my Fictionpress account. I had a good run but from now on I’m going to make Tapas and Webnovel my main writing platforms. They’re a lot more active and will give me the chance to potentially monetize my writing as well. My username on both sites is also bickazer.

Though I’ll take down Weaponmaster, I still will keep up my Magus Verse stories because idk where else to put them while I’m preparing for publication...which is...totally...gonna happen....sometime............;;;;;;;;;;;;;  But meanwhile you can check out The Sky Is Our Fortress, which will update daily for at least the first month.

Thanks to all my readers for supporting me across the years, and I hope you’ll follow me on the next stage of my storytelling journey.

Best and lots of love, bickazer

[ulfwolf]

The Art of Dying

Jerusalem

This is how I began seriously to stir awake.

Leif the Kind (there’s a separate fragment about him) had suggested that I interview for this job (I think he had called the personnel office and in fact proposed and recommended me) as a summer substitute nurse at this mental hospital just north of Helsingborg called Sankta Maria (Saint Maria).

To show my best side, I had dressed up (to the degree that I could with what few clothes I owned) for the interview. Clean shaven, hair either newly cut or well-combed, don’t remember which; presentable.

The interview was going well. And when the proverbial push came to the ditto shove, I did, as came natural to me, fall back on my always-ready-to-take-a-swing ample gift of the gab, which let me talk at length with (as in charm) just about anybody about anything, and this nice and somewhat fascinated (with me) personnel officer lady was no exception.

Yup, got the job.

Done deal. Come back Monday and report to the three-day crash course (which, again, has its own fragment).

Went away, happy, and yup, did that—returned Monday.

First day, must have been the afternoon break—in memory I sense the sun past zenith—the covey of summer substitute nurses to be (or most of us at any rate) stretched out on the large lawn in front of our ward slash class-room building. Beautiful day. Horrible class, though.

Now, part of the story is that at this time I owned and wore an Egyptian gold puzzle ring, one of those that consists of six (or eight—mine was eight) individual slender ring-strands that, when arranged just right would come together in a golden embrace as the most beautiful wider ring.

Yup, had one of those.

Next to me, on the lawn this lovely afternoon, hitched up on his elbow, half-lies half-sits this dark-curly-haired guy about my age with diamond-shaped (very hippie, though not rose-colored) glasses, who also, as it turns out, sports a puzzle ring.

He notices mine and asks me if he could look at it, so, sure, I slip it off and give it to him. I reciprocate. We both have very nice rings and apprise one another of this flattering fact.

Now, another part of the story is that in his mind (his name was Hakan, by the way) these puzzle rings constituted the secret sign: he (or she) who wears one is a hashish smoker. Since I didn’t speak Ring, I wasn’t really aware of this, but he sure was, because he then, in a very roundabout way, asked me if I ever, you know, had, well, you know, tried, this, you know this hashish stuff.

Well, says I (having spent the last two years doing not much else while listening to music), once or twice. You? Yes, once or twice there as well.

A little further into this conversation we now have established that we both are long-term, pretty serious hashish smokers and now we are true hashish-brothers.

Next, he springs this on me: he has just returned from Persia (by way of Elat, Israel) and he has managed to conceal two kilos of high-grade opium tinged hashish from Swedish customs. He said, if I heard correctly, the hashish-to-opium ratio was fifty-fifty, but in retrospect I find that hard to believe—yes, I’m sure there was some opium in it for, really, this stuff got you stoned all right, a little beyond the beyond, but fifty percent sounds a bit much. Be that as it may, for the next, nice, logical question, was:

Would I want to try some after class?

Yup, I would. Like. Very much.

Two hours later we’re on a bus on the way into town and a little later we’re in his very nice apartment and Hi to his very nice, tall, blond, though a little bossy wife.

“Wait here,” said Hakan and slipped out to ascend up into the building attic where he had stored the hashish stash. He was back soon with a small suitcase that featured a false bottom. He opened it, cleared the few items of clothing (socks, mittens, a knit cap and such) onto the bed then eased the false bottom out and there, a foot by two feet (and a couple of inches thick) cake of pitch-black hashish. I had never seen so much hashish at one time in my life and was (naturally) duly impressed and very much fascinated.

I smelled it. Pungently beautiful, that smell. Deep and dark with magical promise—for I knew what promises it held.

He then broke off a piece, asked me to hold on to it while he returned the little suitcase to its hiding place.

Back down, we lit up.

I got very, very stoned. Deliciously so (probably due to the opium tinge). Hummingly so. Earth-leavingly so.

Another part of this story is that Hakan had a fantastic stereo system. Bang Olufsen turntable and amp and Carlsson speakers (high-end, very good and very popular speakers in Sweden at the time—with those who, like Hakan, apparently, could afford them).

And he had some really nice albums—LPs, of course, what we refer to as “vinyl” these digital days. The Doors and Cream come to mind.

And here, he says, are the two most amazing acid-heads in England, and he hands me an album titled “The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter” by a band called The Incredible String Band. Not really a band by the looks of it, just the two guys, pictured on the front with an extended hippie family and on the back as just the two of them: Mike Heron and Robin Williamson (it took me months to actually figure out, correctly, who was who).

Now, another part of the story is that I had actually heard one of their earlier albums once before, though not all the way through, and had not cared too much for them at the time (by the cover—“The 5000 Spirits or The Layers of the Onion”—I had expected psychedelic rock, which they are not, not by any stretch), but I did not make that connection as I looked the album cover over. Hakan, meanwhile, holding it (correctly) by the edges, was loading the black, vinyl disk onto the turntable, then lowered the stylus, then returned onto his huge, low bed (which we both sat on, dead center between the two wonderful speakers) and leaned back to listen.

That this album was made specifically to be listened to very stoned on Hakan’s great hashish, is beyond dispute—not even up for discussion.

Sheer magic.

“And this song,” interrupts a voice that I, after some quick and intense research, discover belongs to the very same Hakan, “This song is beyond…”

I nod and perk my ears up another stoned notch.

The song is “A Very Cellular Song” by Mike Heron (who, by the way, some years later, when I was fortunate enough to come to know him quite well, told me that he had been so high on acid when he wrote this song that his fingers had turned to sausages and quite useless with strings, that is, he could no longer use them with his guitar—instead, he said, he pressed a small toy keyboard into service and wrote the song one sausage note after another, but that’s another story).

A short minute into this thirteen-minute song (forty-eight seconds to be exact, says my current mp3 version) begins a fragment of it called “The Good Night Song” (also called “I Bid You Good Night”, made famous by The Grateful Dead among others) adapted by Mike Heron from a Pindar Family version, and here the magic elevates into full-scale wonder: It is the most beautiful song I have ever heard, and it just goes on and on and on and on in its incredible beauty. I look over at Hakan in dumb wonder and he only grins an “I-told-you-so” grin and I sail on and on and on with the song across god knows what waters.

And then, eventually, Heron arrives at the last two verses: “I remember quite well; I remember quite well. (Good Night, Good Night) When I was walking in Jerusalem just like John.”

At those words, something reached in and seized and gently shook my heart: a childhood’s hand, perhaps, or was it my grandmother Olga’s hand, or perhaps even Minta’s hand; and as either or all of them seized and shook this startled heart it also opened it up to let rush in the forgotten childhood wonder of that holy city, of Jerusalem, the city Olga would sing about, would glorify to me in words a child could understand and remember. God’s city. The city of holiness. The city of Light of Truth. The city of those now long-ago days when I lay nestled up against Olga in her high, straw-mattrassed bed listening to her reading to me from her dark, colossal Doré bible; and hearing again and again of the wonders of Jesus and the ancient people of Canaan and of that wondrous city: Jerusalem.

“When I was walking in Jerusalem just like John.”

And as my heart ruptured a gate opened and my world has never been quite the same since.

A forgotten holiness, a buried innocent longing for this light resurrected and pointed: toward the light. There is no other way, it said. There is no other venture or purpose on this Earth, it said. Toward the light, it pointed.

I have to go there, it said; I have to find it.

I didn’t cry then, though I easily could have—today I feel like I should have. But I hugged the memory of my grandmother Olga to me and hugged and hugged and thanked her for singing Jerusalem for me.

The city on my new horizon.

For the remainder of the summer, I would listen to all, then three, of The String Band’s albums, especially to those Mike Heron’s songs that, once my heart-gate had been swung wide open by Jerusalem, I now understood perfectly well, and words like, “You know what you could be, so tell me my friend why so worried all the time what you should be?” (which once and for all cured me of any civil engineering notions) and words like “I have nothing to do, I have nowhere to go and I’m not in the slightest way upset” and words like “The gentle hand of music lifts me smiling” and words like “Read your book and lose yourself in another’s thoughts, he might tell you about what is or even about what is not; and if he’s kind and gentle, too, and he loves the world a lot; his twilight words may melt the slush of what you have been taught.”

Yes, yes, yes, I understood, and was ready to shed all slush and set out for my resurrected, spiritual (and not necessarily Christian at all) Jerusalem.

And then he sang, “Listen to the song of life, its rainbow’s ends won’t hold you” and he sang, “My eyes are listening to some sounds that I think just might be springtime; with daffodils between my toes I’m laughing at the wind.”

And later, as I grew more used to Robin Williamson’s reedier, roving voice and more ethereal lyrics, he entered my heart as well with wonderful words like, “Setting your foot where the sand is untrodden; the ocean that only begins;” and “The golden leaves that jewel the ground, they know the art of dying;” and “Dark or silvery mother of life, water, water, holy mystery heavens daughter, wizard of changes water, water, water; God made a song when the world was new waters laughter sings it is true, Oh, wizard of changes, teach me the lesson of flowing.”

And these words, “Like an eagle in the sky tell me if air is strong.”

And these words, “The new moon is shining the harmonious hand is now holding lord Krishna’s ring the eagle's wing the voice of mother everything.”

And these words, “Earth, water, fire, and air met together in the garden fair, put in a basket bound with skin, if you answer this riddle you’ll never begin.”

And again, by Mike Heron, “Who would hear directions clear from the unnamable namer?”

And the Heron blessing slash good wishes that have followed me all my life, “May the long-time sun shine upon you, all love surround you, and the pure light within you, guide you all the way on.”

All was so perfectly clear to me now, and all so very true, so very true. The light did exist. And this gentle light was findable by young humans (Mike Heron had found it, Robin Williamson had found it) and again I confirmed to myself that there was nothing else I could possibly do with my life, but to look for and find that light, that truth.

And yes, to this day I maintain that this life-quest was sparked that late afternoon in August of 1968 by the word “Jerusalem.”

And yes, I am still, fifty years later, on that quest—the one thing I have remained true to all my life.

(c) Wolfstuff

http://wolfstuff.com/aod-intro

[yuesya]

You wrote in the Box Swap AU, canon jujutsu team is promptly horrified that instead of Gojo Satoru, they get an utterly unknown wisp of a girl who looks like Gojo Satoru but whom is not Gojo Satoru. They are, in fact, devastated. Their sole hope of defeating Sukuna and Kenjaku, just like that, trampled beneath the remains of Prison Realm. It must be a horrid joke of the universe. Their world is just doomed. (Meanwhile Kenjaku is over the moon.)

HOWEVER THIS MADE ME THINK!!!!

What is the Zenith jujutsu kaisen world thinking in this Box Swap AU?

Like, they know who Shiki is. They know she's terrifying, frightening, deadly, a sorcerer second only to Gojo Satoru. The rumoured Heir. The child who could kill special grades without collateral damage. The blade of the Honoured One. The holder of eyes similar to the Six Eyes. The Blessed Child.

They would be thrilled to have their blessed child back and ready to stab a few special grade curses.

Imagine going through all that effort of trying to get this Blessed Child out of the box (gods please let's just get shiki out of that seal, they really do need shiki to deal with their problems and she makes everything easier, but main reason is that gojo satoru is fucking insufferable) because while they do have Gojo Satoru, it's just not the same. Also, Shiki doesn't make them pay for collateral damage as much as Satoru does /j

They open the box, with full expectation of getting back Gojo Shiki and putting an end to their suffering of enduring a prissy, passive-aggressive Gojo Satoru whose off his rockers because his cousin is imprisoned (ok, they're all pretty mad too) and to get back one of their trump cards in the battle against Kenjaku and Sukuna.

Instead, they get another Gojo Satoru.

Zenith JJK: ...

Zenith JJK: wtf is this bullshit

-----

In short, it could be summed up like this:

Canon JJK is horrified they don't get Gojo Satoru.

Zenith JJK is horrified they don't get Gojo Shiki.

I thought it would be funny if both sides are similarly devastated they aren't getting what they wanted.

That's pretty much exactly what's going on in the box swap AU! Canon-Kenjaku is probably over the moon right up until the point Shiki pulls out a sword and starts killing things.

On the other side, the cast in zenith-verse is probably just about ready to throttle Gojo Satoru ("Why did we get another one of you? Where's Shiki??").