#i think i untangled the grammar of this sort of right?

[littleeyesofpallas]

GAMER ga Isekai Konten shite HAREM Jinsei e CONTINUE suru sou desu[ゲーマーが異世界魂転してハーレム人生へコンティニューするそうです] It seems GAMER in Anotherworld (must) turn (his) soul around to CONTINUE to HAREM life

[birdy-bat-writes]

Can I Have This Dance?

Merry belated Chrysler and a very happy New Year to everyone! As a special little gift to @quillsareswords for our Christmas Fic Exchange. I was your secret Santa :D May I present to you, a jolly little holiday fluff! Hope you like it.

also, feel free to check out the other amazing writers posting for this fic exchange :) @glorified-red @quillsareswords @zombybird @citrinesparkles

Pairing: Damian Wayne (aged up) x Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Nothing really, I suppose bad grammar might be one:,D

Please like, reblog and comment, I literally love hearing from you! :) And if I make a mistake (which I probably did because yo girl is sleep deprived yeet) please drop it in the comments and I'll fix it asap. Live y'all!

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It was the week after Christmas and The Wayne family were all scattered around the country for their post-holiday-pre-new year’s tasks. Bruce was out on a business trip, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Tim were on vacation with their significant others, Alfred was making use of his spa resort gift card, and Barbara, Cass and Stephanie took a girl’s trip in Star City. That left you and your boyfriend, Damian, alone in Gotham. Don’t get me wrong, you were more than happy to be there. In fact, the two of you volunteered to stay back and take some time to recover from your semester finals. You were looking forward to staying with the Waynes and getting to see your family friends again.

Everyone was expected back by the 29th. One small problem: this was Gotham city; the land of unforeseen setbacks and a blizzard had snowed in all the runways at the airport.

Each member of the family was panicking at a different airport and it might have even been a little funny to watch it go down if you didn’t need everyone back for the New Year’s Party in 2 days. If they couldn’t get here before the 31st, which they couldn’t, you and Damian were going to have to decorate alone.

After getting off the phone with everyone you broke it down. You could spend today finding a catering service that could make it in this weather and fishing through the storerooms for decorations. And in Wayne Manor, that was a task. The storeroom was easily the size of a basketball court. Bless Alfred and his color-coded shelves.

On the 31st morning, the last of the preparations were being sorted. The food was tucked away in the industrial freezers and navy-blue carpet was laid out at every entrance, adorned with gold confetti-filled balloons. As you and Damian sat alone on the ballroom floor, untangling the last sets of string lights, you fully realized just how exhausted you were. After your finals, your days were a blur of packing, traveling, and trying to stay awake through every Christmas celebration you agreed (and regretted agreeing) to going to. You never truly had moment to enjoy your time with the family or even the one person you really wanted to be with: Damian. He must have seen you getting into your thoughts and pulled you out with some song suggestions.

“Okay, then, what’s your favorite slow song?”, he asked.

“I don’t even think I have one.”, you replied.

“There’s no way.”

“Of course, there is!”

“You don’t even have one slow song you love? Like a song you thought you’d play at your wedding or dance to with your prom date.” You silently nodded.

“I guess I never thought about it, and I didn’t really dance with anyone like that at prom.”

“You’ve…never slow danced?”

“Nope.” Damian almost seemed like he wanted to say something but decided against it at the last second. “What?”

“Nothing. I’ll be right back.” While waiting on him, you hung the set of lights and looked around the room proudly. Twinkling stars strung with lights from pillar to pillar, reflecting light off the marble floors and satin tablecloths. Not bad. Not bad at all.

You began turning on your heel to go find your boyfriend when you stopped in place, heart melting at what you saw. Damian was kneeling in the doorway with a handful of roses, wearing cheeky grin. “Y/N L/N, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to tonight’s ball?”

“Damian, what are you doing?” There was no one around and no reason to be embarrassed, but you still felt your face heat up.

“At the moment, I’m hoping you’ll say yes so I can show you a magical evening, and slow dance with me.”

As shy as you felt, you couldn’t hold back a smile at what he said. Here was your boyfriend of 5 months, in a relationship well past the stage for formalities, down on one knee with flowers, asking you to a dance like a couple of high school sweethearts.

“Of course, I would love to.” You said softly. With that, you headed upstairs your get ready.

You chose a silky green gown that flared at the waist and paired it with a few simple pieces of golden jewelry. After styling your hair into some soft waves, you reached for your shoes and the tv remote. There was still time until guests would start arriving but if you flipped to some entertainment channel you were sure you would find some station covering the press and for the Wayne Gala. You were barely paying attention to the channels when you heard it.

“…the winds are only getting stronger, and roads are iced over, folks. Gotham city is now on snowstorm watch. We advise all citizens to stay home and stay warm.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. That’s when the landline started to ring back-to-back. The guests were sending their apologies and regrets for not being able to attend. You obviously understood, but you felt your heart sink a little. You had put in so much work for it all to go down the drain. Just then, you heard a knock on the door.

“Come in.” Damian walked in looking just as disappointed as you. He must have heard the news too.

“I’m so sorry, Sweetie.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. As far as I know, you can’t control the weather….or is that another secret you’re hiding from me?”, you joked.

“Yeah, I can control the weather and I choose to swing around the Gotham skies in -30 degrees at night. Great use of my secret superpower, don’t you think?” You two shared a laugh before getting Barbara’s call.

“Hey, you two. I’m so sorry, we just heard about the city shutting down.”, she said.

“Hey, Babs. It’s alright, are you still in the airport?”

“Well, we’re at an airport…”

“Who’s we?”, Damian asked. Barbara flipped the camera to face the whole Wayne family bundled up in scarves, huddled around their suitcases on the floor of some airport gate.

“All our flights got grounded in Metropolis. I’m sorry guy I don’t think we’re making it home tonight either.”

“Aww, well that’s okay. Just please stay warm and safe, okay?”

“You too. Bye.”

“Bye.” Damian turned to you with a look of sympathy.

“Well, I guess it all off then.” You whispered, kicking of the heels you barely finished putting on. “We should just go change into pj’s I guess.”

“We don’t have to.”

“Dami, no one else will be there. What’s the point of having a party alone?”

“We don’t need anyone else, the only person I really wanted to dance with will be there. That is, if she still agrees to accompany me tonight.” You looked at him, his eyes pleading with you. “We can play Axel F.”, he added, drawing a giggle from you. If nothing else, the two of you should get to enjoy the work you put into the place.

On the dance floor, Damian plugged his phone into the stereo system. He offered you his hand to Ed Sheeran’s Perfect.

The first few steps you took were slower than usual. He took you through an almost-waltz, twirling you around and sauntering across the room one step at a time. His hand never leaving yours. You wondered why you had never done this before. It was so much fun. Then again, maybe that had more to with your dancing partner than the dance itself.

You air-guitared and headbanged like rockstars, goofed around through a playlist on shuffle, and then box-stepped again to a Backstreet Boys song you would not stop making fun of him for.

“It’s a good song!”

“Whatever, babe, just remember you can never make fun of me for listening to Nickelback ever again.” Pulling in you in close enough to feel his breath on your skin, he said,

“The backstreet boys are infinitely better than Nickelback.”

“You wish.”

“I’m right and you know it.” That’s when the next song played, and it took you both pleasantly by surprise. Can I Have this Dance from High School Musical 3.

“I haven’t heard this song in ages.”

“Me neither. Wasn’t this one of your favorite movies?”

“Yeah, it was. I so wanted to be the main character in this. She was teaching Zac Efron how to waltz. That was probably the epitome of romance to me when I was younger.”

“Well, I’m no Zac Efron, but like the song says, can I have dance this dance?” taking his hand one more time, you took to the floor holding him even closer as if you didn’t want be away from him for even second. A little before the song came to close, you spotted the grandfather clock at the top of the staircase striking 11:59.

“Damian?”

“Yes, love?”

“Happy new year.” He turned towards the clock, seeing the seconds hand only a fourth of a rotation away from the new year. Smiling, he places his hand on your cheek.

“Happy, New year, Y/N.” and as the bell rang for midnight, he placed his lips on your and everything felt like heaven. Pulling him further into your embrace, you deepened the kiss. When you pulled away you said what he was thinking.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Not even a minute later, the doors to ballroom swung open and roughly 10 people scampered in, tracking snow. It was every member of the family and…Superman?

“It’s nice to finally see you, Happy New Year!” Duke exclaimed. When Damian wordlessly motioned to Superman in the corner, Dick answered,

“If anyone asks, we did not have superman fly us all to Gotham city in a broken-down school bus and there is not a school bus in our backyard. Don’t check.”

“Okay….” You wish you were surprised.

“Nice to have the family back together again.” Damian said squeezing your hand.

“Yeah, it really is.”

[silvanable]

Photogenic - V ( REWRITE )

an old one shot i decided to rewrite. this was actually my first attempt at an x reader back in the day ( 2016 to be exact ) loooooong before V’s route was ever even considered.

i thought reviving and revamping a relic would be good, plus i still love it. so have version 2.0, new and improved.

original that’s super old & has horrible grammar that might send you to the grave can be found here.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

↪  GUIDELINES

   ✒ warnings: n/a

   ✒ tags: fluff, gender neutral reader, i’m yeeting canon thanks, we’re calling this an au & v is losing his eyesight to an undisclosed illness/injury reader doesn’t know about

✏ Word Count : 3629

It was a beautiful and pleasant day. It had served you the perfect opportunity to take a long hike and indulge yourself in your favorite pastime. Photography.

By now the day had passed and was winding down to its end. You still were having your fun. You had found a particularly nice spot where you had the perfect view of the horizon. More specifically, you had the best position to get that one perfect photo of the sunset, even if you had to sit here until dusk to get it.

Luckily for you, you did not wait long for your perfect masterpiece.

The sky was darkening in its beautiful palette of oranges, pinks, and reds. The fading sunlight shone through the autumn trees and glowed through them like a halo. Below was the expanse down the trails into the woods and rolling hills, blanketed in soft shadows. It looked like a mystical, foreign land out of a fairytale.

It was exactly what you had waited for.

You lifted the camera up, leveling it with your eyes as you stared through the lens. Your index finger found its familiar resting place atop the button. The smallest amount of pressure on the button was awarded by a familiar click of a shutter and a brief pass of darkness in front of your eye.

You repeated the action several times, just for precautions. While one photo might suffice, you preferred to be prepared with a selection to pick your prize from.

After you were done, you lowered the camera from your face. Your fingers nimbly found their way to the buttons beside the screen to review your reward of patience.

A smile pulled at the corner of your lips as you reviewed the captures of the day on your camera. You did well if you did say so yourself and had plenty more to add to your collection, specifically the one for this particular trail.

You turned on your heel, aimlessly wandering back down the familiar trail to get back to your car before dark. While you practically knew these hiking paths like the back of your hand, you were not willing to risk stumbling in the dark and tripping onto your camera. This elegant piece of machinery was your most prized possession and arguably tied to your soul. If anything were to happen to it, you would most certainly cry. It could be replaced but still would feel like losing your first love.

Your eyes glued to the camera in your hands, your feet led you without visual guidance, and straight into a solid force.

A squeak, yes, an unmistakable squeak left your lips as your body tumbled back. Your hands clenched tightly around the camera in your grasp and you squeezed your eyes shut.

The only thing running through your mind was, Oh, how the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

You landed with a thud into the beaten dirt. A soft groan leaving your throat at the unpleasant throb of your rear from landing so hard. There was one good thing, though.

You opened your eyes to see the camera still safely in your hands, unharmed. A sigh of relief left you as your body relaxed.

Next was the matter of what you had walked into.

Your eyes rose up, only to find it was not what you had walked into but who.

“I am so sorry,” You blurted out quickly upon seeing a blue-haired individual in front of you.

“No, it’s alright. It was my accident.” He murmured gently in response. A pale hand extended down towards you.

You wasted no time in accepting the offer. Your hand clasped around his and with a little effort from you both, you found yourself back on your feet again.

The momentary stun you suffered from seemed to melt away from you, now that you were closer to this man. You did not mean to stare, but there was something ethereal about him. His hair was a light blue, like a summer sky on a clear day. His skin was ghostly, not in a way that showed illness, but glowed with youthfulness and livelihood. His eyes, though, were what drew you in, clearer than a freshwater spring or a lake frozen in winter but guarded and mysterious as they met your gaze.

You believed the eyes were the windows to someone’s soul. His eyes, however, were guarded and any secrets sealed away. It only intrigued you more. You found yourself wanting to know this stranger and why his eyes allured you so. You wanted to know that unheard story deep in his heart.

“Are you alright?” His gentle tone broke you from your trace.

“O-oh?” The stutter left you before you realized it. You were staring. How rude could you be? “Yes… I’m sorry, though. I didn’t mean to walk into you. I guess I wasn’t paying attention, too busy staring at my camera,” You wiggled the object in question in your hands, “And you would think I would be paying more attention because of it.” A nervous chuckle escaped you.

“You enjoy photography?” He asked.

You nodded shortly in response. “Yes! I mean, I dabble. It’s something I enjoy doing a lot but it is really just a hobby right now.” Your words grew to a soft murmur at the end.

You loved what you did but wished you could do more. It was not exactly easy for you though. There were some issues with confidence and the opportunities that you seemed to need to wildly chase. If you had the chance to do this as a profession, as your living, you most certainly would jump at the chance.

“Is that so? I’m sort of a professional, but it’s really just a passion of mine.” He said, “I could give you a few tips if you are interested.”

Your eyes lifted to his again, a smile stretched over your lips. “That would be great, it means a lot to learn from someone else who has the same passion.” You drew the camera close to your person. “And I’m absolutely forgetting my manners,” You said, introducing yourself as you held out your hand to him.

He hesitated for a moment before taking your hand, “My friends call me V.” A gentle smile graced his lips.

Your heart seemed to betray you at that moment with a harder than usual beat. And since when did the cool autumn air feel so warm? That might be the blush that crept over your face.

“Well, V,” You cleared your throat to try and get your bearings, “Can I treat you to dinner?” You asked, “As pre-payment for helping me out, you know?” You added quickly, “That is if you aren’t busy.” You had to fight the urge to awkwardly squirm in place.

You suddenly felt like a schoolgirl. How embarrassing this was. More concerning was the fact you had so quickly asked him out. Apparently your heart had forcibly taken the wheel and your mind was tied up and thrown to the back of the bus.

“I’m free tomorrow night,” The soft chuckle that left V’s lips was a sweet sound to your years. “Let me give you my number. We can discuss the details later.”

Much time has passed since then…

There was a gentle laugh in the air that traveled through the park. It had fallen from your lips as you twirled in place. One of your hands folded over your decorative hat to prevent it from blowing off as you moved. Your white spring attire flowed in the breeze with you.

Much quieter than your laughter, there were several familiar clicks, the sound of a shutter closing. Behind the camera was a familiar blue-haired man, wearing a smile that was contagious to you.

Your laughter continued as you turned to the camera, making childish faces or striking elegant poses.

For quite some time you two had spent time together. Ever since the two of you met, you had grown ever closer. You often made brunch or the occasional dinner plan. Sometimes it was a professional matter that involved photography and others were for leisure as the two of you would go out on strolls or to the movies.

You know that you had grown attached to V. You admired him maybe a bit too much and often found yourself lost in thought with him on your mind. You tried to deny that the connection was anything more than friends, but your heart since the very first day liked to remind you that you were absolutely smitten. You were in denial, actively in a way, despite the thrum of your heart.

The feeling was foreign but warm and welcoming, just like the smile you were being given from V. The more you thought about it, the more you felt as if you had fallen. You had not fallen into some darkness but a place of warmth and brightness. The feeling was foreign but warm and welcoming, just like the smile you were being given from V.

The sweet smile you received only served to make your heart swell more. It was a collision of feelings that made you feel so many things you doubted you could untangle them without being overwhelmed first, both good and bad.

While you adored V, there was also still so much you did not know about him. He was still a mystery, one you had yet to find the hidden story about. You learned about him but he was so reserved and what you found out only served to create an even bigger mystery.

It all had something to do with those shaded glasses that covered his eyes and the red striped cane he had begun to carry with him more frequently.

“Don’t you have enough already?” You called out teasingly to V.

He shook his head, that grin ever-present. “I need a few more.”

You shook your head in response, “Alright, you have enough! It’s my turn and I want to see!” You rushed over to him, reaching out to take the camera from his hands.

He rose his arms over his head, the camera just out of your reach.

“That’s not fair, V! I can’t reach!” You protested.

“That’s the point,” He laughed.

Even stretched up on the tips of your toes he was able to keep the camera just from your fingertips. You were relentless, though, and would not give up the fight as you puffed and tried to stretch further.

You came to the conclusion during your stretching and huffing that there was no way you could reach the camera. So you had to find another way to get what you wanted.

There was a list running through your mind and allowed you to contemplate all your options quickly. There was nothing that seemed quite right.

You looked up towards the man and an idea popped into your mind. Without thinking, you took action.

“I will take these then!” You said and took several steps back to create distance between you both.

Your lips twisted into a defiant pout as your eyes flickered down to the stolen item in your hands. Your fingers delicately curled around thick, black sunglasses.

Your mind registered what you held and what you had just done.

Panic surged up through you faster than your body could comprehend the emotion. Your expression contorted with regret and your eyes reflected your internal panic.

“I‒” The words got stuck in your throat as you tried to force them out. 

You knew very little behind the injury that had cost V his eyesight. He was going blind, a slow process that would take his vision from him. It happened long before you met him or you had assumed so at least, as you learned about it sometime after meeting him. Though one thing you knew very plainly was how insecure he was about the loss of his eyes. It was a very sensitive topic that he often avoided and respected his wishes not to push for answers.

“I’m so sorry, V‒” Your voice left you broken and shaken.

You wanted to say more but found you swallowed your own voice again as your eyes met with the man just out of arm's reach from you.

V looked stunned. As if he was still processing what had happened.

Your eyes met his expectantly, waiting for the worst.

Even in your fright, though, you found yourself admiring his eyes. It had been such a long time since you had seen them as he wore the glasses more frequently as time carried on. You had missed them, their pale, clear color, and the look of fondness they held in them for you when he looked at you.

From where you stood, he was set against the cloudless sky and bright, renewing green plant-life of the spring. A gentle breeze seemed to hair his pale blue locks and small dandelion seeds danced around him. His black sweater and jeans contrasted with the brightness around him. His expression seemed calm to you almost and he held the camera in his hands just so perfectly… He was a masterpiece of perfection and beauty to your eyes.

Something overtook you in that moment as you scurried towards where you had dropped your bag. You wear almost spastic as you searched for your own camera and rushed back to where you had been standing a moment before. Then proceeded to throw yourself to the ground for the perfect photo.

V’s eyes had followed you the entire way. A small smile began to pull at the corner of his mouth. You had not even noticed that he had broken from his trance only to be enthralled by you.

There was a familiar click of camera shutters again. You were absolutely dismissive of everything around you as you fiddled with the camera.

V’s smile only grew.

It was adorable to watch as you so intently focused, barely aware he was watching you as you took pictures of him.

It was a childish and rash decision of yours, but you would never forgive yourself for letting that masterpiece of him go in the moment. The beauty that had unfolded before you was not something you could easily pass up, not when you could cherish the look in his eyes and that smile forever with a photograph.

Your finger stopped short of fully applying pressure to the camera’s button. You finally realized that his stare was not distant but fixed on your through the lens of your camera. Your finger came down against the button, the shutter sound louder in your ears than it was a moment before.

You were rooted in the shot you had crouched in, camera grasped in your hand, and V’s glasses hooked in your fingers. You dared not lower the camera and further embarrass yourself.

“Am I that photogenic to you?” V asked, a sweet curiosity in his voice. He was in front of you in just a few steps, staring down at you.

Reality hit you and reality hit hard.

A shameful sound left your lips, one you dared not to call a squeak despite it being exactly that, as he leaned down into your face.

He wore a coy expression and you found yourself mesmerized by clarity in those icy orbs of his. There was no coldness despite the pale color of his eyes, instead, there was a warmth and love you hoped you were not mistaken for in them.

Your intent gaze, searching so deep inside of his own glassy one, had taken him back. Everything reflected in your eyes, the admiration, and the fixation as if you had found something strange, new, and deeply terrifying.

“Gorgeous…” The word left your lips in awe and caressed his own lips with your warm breath.

You were too much for him. The look on your face is far too pure with admiration and the soft sound of your voice all too much for him to take. You were captivated, the dazed look on your face said enough that you were mesmerized by his beauty, and that alone made his heart swell. He had never seen a look so honest, so clear, and so full of love than the one you gave him.

It was in that moment, with each gentle beat of your heart in your chest, those words you refused to admit were clear to you in your mind. You had fallen for him, for his kindness and compassion, and for his beauty without and within.

You believed deep down, at this moment, you saw who he was. There were no barriers, no resistance, nothing clouding his soul to you. You could see a man, who was so full of love and passion but suffered. The pain and sorrow swam in his eyes but mingled with it you could see curiosity, love, and selflessness hidden deep inside. You could see the understanding and trust, but it was held back by fear and loss that threatened to bloom and consume him, so he hid with the intent to do good in the favor of another’s well being.

There was no saying how true anything you saw was but you believed it all to be as it was given to you. You believed in that moment V had opened up and revealed himself to you. One thing you knew, was that he was genuine, and the soft, loving look he gave you was not something you dreamed up. It was real.

“V…” His name left your lips like a whispered prayer.

He replied quietly with your own name as if that was all that was keeping him from unraveling at that very moment.

A smile graced your lips. A sort of trance fell over you both as a daze seemed to overtake you both. Time seemed to slow down as you stared at one another, waiting with bated breath for the other to dare and break the strange but welcoming atmosphere around you.

His hands came to wrap gently around your hands. Your heart quickened and pounded violently against your chest. You were frozen as his fingers softly caressed your cheek as he cupped your chin.

His lips brushed against your lips, so close but as if chasm was still between you. You tried to force yourself to speak, to break away from your thoughts and shatter this illusion your mind gave you before you were too deeply invested.

No sound left your lips, though, instead your mouth was covered by V’s own. The gentle sensation against your lips surprised you, almost as if you were dreaming. Your daring prince, however, intended to break that spell from you with this very kiss. It woke you from the trance you believed yourself to be trapped in, taking the fire in your heart from a lump of smoldering coal to a raging flame.

You threw your arms around his shoulders in response to pull him closer. The two of you tumbled back into the grass but the kiss was not broken.

His lips moved slowly against your own, soft and passionate, conveying all the affections he had held for you and you returned all of those you had tried to ignore. With this kiss alone, you felt as if you could melt into him, and you wished that this moment would never end.

Sadly your lungs demanded air and you two had to part. Emerging from the oceans of your affections with a deep inhale.

V’s breath was as uneven as your own as the two of you sat there in silence, gazing at each other, and listening to the sound of each breath you took. His forehead came to rest gently against your own, another contagious smile on his lips that infected your own. Neither of you spoke, just held each other close as you lied there in the midst of the park.

“Did you drop the camera?” A sudden panic hit you with the realization and you tried to sit up.

V held you in place, the smile still present on his lips. “No, I put it down before you dragged me to the ground.”

“I did not‒”

“Did you drop my glasses?” He cut you off.

Your panic shifted as you wiggled your fingers. His glasses tapped gently against his shoulder, still safely hooked in your fingers.

“Nope,” You let out a breath of relief, “I would never dare,” You added quickly, trying to hide your momentary panic of possibly ruining his glasses in your forgetfulness.

“Though…” Your voice was quiet as you trailed off, a sudden seriousness in your tone.

V rose a brow at you, his eyes still fixed on your face, taking in your concerned features as whatever thought ate away at you. “What is it?”

“I was just… just wondering if there was something we could do for your eyes…” Your fingers gently trailed over the corner of his eye. “I don’t know if you looked into it, but it’s a shame to lose this part of you.”

“I never really bothered me,” His tone was forlorn, “I came to terms with losing my sight until I met you.” He placed a soft kiss on your forehead and murmured your name, “I don’t think I can bear not to see your smile light up my every day now though.”

A gentle smile found its way onto your lips. Your eyes closed to relish in the sweet kiss as you tried to imprint the feeling in your mind forever.

“I love you,” You said softly.

“I love you too,” V whispered back.

You leaned up, pressing your lips gingerly against his own in another kiss.

[ckret2]

No Tongue, No Teeth

If Rodan and Ghidorah are supposed to be courting each other, then it’s high time that Rodan explain to this big clueless alien what exactly that means on Earth.

And meanwhile, the Monarch scientists responsible for translating titan language are driving themselves crazy trying to figure out what the hell Rodan and Ghidorah are talking about.

This is part of an ongoing series of Rodorah one-shots. If you don’t want to read the others, all you need to know is: Ghidorah doesn’t speak any Earth languages so Rodan’s teaching them, and at this point they’re making an A in “creative uses for limited vocabulary” but a C+ in grammar; and Rodan’s never heard the word “Rodan” before and considers himself Nido. Links to the other fics are in the source at the bottom of this post.

###

"Look at them." Xochitl pressed her fingertip to a screen displaying a live feed from one of the many cameras Monarch had trained on the volcano. It was barely past dawn, with reddish sunbeams breaking weakly through patchy morning rainclouds—it had been raining since Rodan and Ghidorah had come home yesterday—and the two titans were sitting together in a narrow valley between the eastern side of el Nido del Demonio volcano and the neighboring hill. Rodan was chattering steadily to Ghidorah, pausing to shake off the morning drizzle every once in a while, and Ghidorah only occasionally cut in with questions or requests for clarification. "They've never been this chatty. Or this... this incomprehensible. It's like they're speaking a completely different language."

Arturo decided not to point out to her that they were.

"I can't believe it." Xochitl propped her elbows on her wobbly desk and planted her face in her hands. "Days they spend in the Antarctic circle. And when they come back, I can't understand a thing they're saying."

Arturo patted her shoulder sympathetically. This had the effect of causing her to crumple down to the desk, hiding her face in her arms in despair.

Dr. Xochitl Flores Rosales was the primary mind behind “lenguaje de los pájaros titánicos (para principiantes),” the YouTube channel produced by Outpost 56-B—which consisted of a trio of trailers at the edge of the volcanic rock on the outskirts of Rodan's territory. For weeks now, she and the rest of 56-B had been studiously recording every single squawk and trill that came out of Rodan and Ghidorah's mouths as Rodan painstakingly—and with copious easy-to-follow pantomime—taught Ghidorah his language. She'd been stitching videos together out of footage they were taking of the titans from dozens of different angles, editing and subtitling every word between them, and then releasing the videos to the public. (To the consternation of Monarch HQ, who hadn't approved a project utilizing footage that they thought of as Monarch property.)

Until now several days ago, Outpost 56-B had been riding high, buoyed by the explosive popularity of their real-time language lessons and their Monarch-unauthorized Twitter account documenting the odd-but-oddly-harmless day-to-day activities of Isla de Mara's two resident titans. Even the false alarm from several days ago had ended happily: after a long night spent sending very serious updates to the official Monarch HQ Twitter account about the unexpected skirmish between Rodan and Ghidorah, the resulting hurricane-wreathed chase scene through the Atlantic down to Antarctica, and the subsequent far more vicious fight, it had been a relief to receive pictures from the Antarctic Outpost 32-B skeleton crew showing Rodan and Ghidorah cuddling up against each other like nothing had happened. 56-B had promptly added an impressive array of heart emojis to the pictures, added a caption celebrating that the lovers' spat hadn't ended in an apocalypse, and posted it to their very unofficial Monarch Outpost 56-B Twitter account.

(Monarch HQ, again, asked them not to refer to Rodan and Ghidorah as a romantic couple, even as a running joke for their Twitter audience, due to the fact that they had no idea what was really going on between Isla de Mara's two titans; and until they saw evidence that the titans were actually some sort of mating pair, 56-B was deeply abusing the reputation of scientific authority that came from the name "Monarch" by referring to them like they were. 56-B responded by pointing out that half the times Godzilla was mentioned on the official Monarch Twitter account, Dr. Russell's totally unproven "alpha" label was still getting flung around, despite the fact that last week Godzilla had sat on a beach for six hours trying to untangle a fishing net from his dorsal plates while Kraken occasionally snuck up behind him to re-tangle the net.)

No apocalypse had happened. 56-B's personal favorite soap opera couple had come back from the brink of a breakup, gone on a cruise together, and literally cuddled for warmth. Rodan, newly-adopted pride of Tamaulipas, had done what no other titan had done thus far by defeating Ghidorah in single combat. And now they'd come back to Rodan's nest with naught but a light summer rain to disturb the weather. This should have been a happy homecoming.

But while the two titans in question had spent the last few days fighting/chilling in Antartica, riding on a supercarrier, and setting off a goddamn volcano on Bouvet Island, the 32-B skeleton crew had sent absolutely useless videos that didn't help the 56-B crew understand a single thing Rodan and Ghidorah were saying. They'd barely managed to pick out a couple of new words when the wind was right. Xochitl had spent several hours straight furiously rewatching footage from a Monarch observation ship, palms pressing her headphones to her head, volume turned up to maximum, staring at her laptop with her eyes two inches from the screen, trying desperately to lipread two creatures that didn't have lips to read as Rodan dropped rocks one after another in front of Ghidorah and she knew he was teaching him to count, dammit! She KNEW he was! And she couldn't hear the numbers!

If the U.S. Navy didn't turn over the footage they'd recorded while Ghidorah had been lounging on their supercarrier, she was taking a rowboat to Washington D.C. and challenging Admiral Stenz to a fistfight.

So here Xochitl was. On the verge of pulling out her hair because she no longer understood a damn thing coming out of their mouths. This was sobering news for “lenguaje de los pájaros titánicos (para principiantes).”

"Rodan's even changed the name he's calling Ghidorah," she grumbled. "Just slightly. But you can hear the difference if you compare recordings. What does it mean?"

"Maybe it's a rank thing?" Arturo suggested. "Since he beat him in a fight?"

"Shut up. That's what Russell would say." She sighed heavily, propped her chin on the desk, and put her headphones back on. "Okay. Shit. I'm going to figure out what they're talking about if it kills me."

"Good luck," Arturo said solemnly.

"At least Rodan's explaining new words again," Xochitl muttered. "He's usually easier to understand when he's explaining new words. Damn."

"What's he teaching now?" Arturo asked.

"Body parts," Xochitl said. She watched dully, copied the way Rodan stuck out his tongue, and frowned. "I think he's telling Ghidorah not to lick him?"

Arturo considered that. "Okay," he said. "That's reasonable. I wouldn't want Ghidorah to lick me either."

###

"Chest," Nido said, puffing his chest out demonstratively—and inadvertently showing off the newest golden face print that the golden ones had left on him. (It was a fabulous bit of decoration, he thought.) The golden ones dutifully echoed the new word. "Back." He turned. "Wings," spread wide. "Tail," wiggled.

"Small tail," the golden ones' left head added unhelpfully.

Nido gave him an exasperated look—well, they couldn't all have a million miles of spines hanging off their asses, could they?—but grudgingly conceded, "Small tail." He turned back around, wiggled his feet, then his hands, "Talons. Claws."

They repeated the new words, then waited attentively for whatever he said next.

"No touching," Nido said.

Their tails drooped.

"Touching is after courting," Nido said. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," they said. One of the voices in that chorus sounded gloomy. 

"Before courting: head and neck." He kicked a couple of rocks at the appropriate anatomy on the golden ones, since compared to them he didn't have much to speak of in the way of a neck. "Touching head and neck is okay. Not body."

"Is body touches head okay?"

Nido thought about that. He'd never considered that arrangement before. He tried to imagine a wing rubbing his head, and said, "No. Not okay."

"Is head touches body?"

Technically, in proper courting, that was a no-no too. But he was really getting to like the way that they left golden imprints in his armor when they pressed into him just after he emerged from a lava bath, and he didn't want to say no to that. "Sssometimes."

"What is 'sometimes'?"

"Between yes and no?" Nido tried.

The golden ones gave him a collection of perplexed/affronted looks. "'Maybe' is between yes and no," the right one reminded him.

With a careful mask of mildly curious indifference, the middle one asked, "'Sometimes' is between maybe and yes?"

"Is 'probably,'" the left one supplied, and then dodged as the middle one snapped halfheartedly at his horns.

"No, no, uh..." Nido tried to think of another way to illustrate the word to them. "Sometimes, the sky is raining; sometimes, the sky is sunny."

"'Sunny'?"

"Sunny! You know 'sun'. Sunny is 'the sun is here.'"

The golden ones considered that, then made a satisfied noise.

They weren't supposed to be talking about the weather. Nido tried to remember what the original question had been.

Right! Boundaries! "And no tongue," he stuck his out demonstratively, "and no teeth." He didn't really have teeth to demonstrate that with, so he clacked his beak a couple of times and hoped they'd figure it out from context.

"After courting?"

"No! Not before or after. No tongue, no teeth."

Middle and right immediately looked at left head. Lefty reared up, looked at Nido with the deepest of offense, and said, "Tongue tastes you."

Nido hopped up to the golden ones, made deep, soulful eye contact with each of them, and said, calmly but passionately, "I want you to not taste me."

Lefty made a displeased noise.

"Do you understand?"

They considered the question. "What is 'want'?" the right one asked. The other two, sensing an opportunity, immediately piped up: "What is 'not'?" "What 'taste'?"

Oh, they were comedians now. He fluttered up, brandishing his talons at their faces. They backed off with only one stray snap at his feet, making a rumbling noise low in their throats that was probably either a death threat or a sound of amusement. Nido was going to take his chances that it was the latter.

He landed a bit up his nest's slope. "No tongue, no teeth," he repeated. Then, considering what little he instinctively knew about mating, amended himself: "Maybe teeth, after courting. Sometimes. No tongue. Do you understand?"

"Yes!"

"Good!" So there was one topic covered. What next?

They'd been up since long before dawn discussing courtship—which Nido had attempted to convey to the golden ones was the process of getting from "maybe love later" to "yes love now"—and, specifically, all the rules and rituals that went with courtship; and since Nido was the winner of the most recent fight to determine whether they were going to continue courting, that made Nido the one in charge of deciding the exact way they were going to handle this.

He'd like to think the rules he'd laid down so far weren't tyrannical. Some people, he knew, went into courtship with a list of rigid standards and demands that they required any prospective partners to meet. Nido wasn't interested in any of that. He'd always thought that, when there was finally someone else around to court, he'd let his suitor do whatever they wanted to demonstrate what kind of mate they would be. It made more sense to him than commanding them to fit into Nido's preconceived notions. If he'd been sticking to some list of standards he'd developed without having ever courted before, would he be entertaining a courtship from a three-headed gold-plated alien? No, he would not, and his life would be poorer for it. Preconceived notions could get stuffed. Nido was going to be lax about the rules.

He just needed to be sure that the golden ones weren't going to, like, make him feel like they were about to eat him. He figured that was a very reasonable baseline level of trust for any healthy relationship.

They'd started with nests. It was normal to hang out at the reigning champion's nest, and honestly kinda weird to hang out at the loser's nest; but considering that the golden ones didn't have a nest, Nido was going to say it was understandable that they'd been hanging out at Nido's instead. And now that he'd won their most recent fight, it actually made sense for them to hang out at Nido's place. If the golden ones wanted to choose their own nest and then won a fight, then Nido would be expected to visit their place.

(He didn't tell them that they shouldn't choose an Antarctic volcano for their nest—he did, after all, want to see what they were actually like, not demand that they change their behavior to impress him. But privately, he thought that if they did choose one in Antarctica, that was going to be a pretty strong indicator that they were going to have irreconcilable differences.)

And they'd covered fights. They could each challenge the other to a fight at any time. The most recent loser had the right to turn down challenges; but the reigning champion did not. (Some people considered accepting a challenge mandatory no matter what. While Nido thought that in an ideal world, everyone ought to be ready to throw down at all times, he had made enough friends who didn't like fighting to recognize the value of allowing people the option to say no. But he thought a current winner really had no excuse to refuse a challenge to their position.) Fights were called when one combatant hit the ground, yielded, or fled.

Because the current winner was the combatant who'd recently proven to be the more impressive potential partner, they were therefore the one who needed to be impressed by the other combatant. Consequently, the winner had the right to issue (non-combat) challenges to the current loser and to set the terms of courtship. The winner also got to lead the loser around if they decided to go out on any flights together, and—of course—they hung out at the winner's nest. Now, the loser didn't have to get dragged out on any flights if they didn't want to go. They were allowed to turn down requests to go out. But most didn't because usually, if the loser was courting the winner, it was because they actually wanted to spend time with the winner, right?

And now, after a quick lesson on words for body parts, they'd covered physical boundaries—which would hopefully prevent the golden ones from coiling around him like a hungry sea serpent as a sign of affection again—so what was next? They'd hit the most important topics, Nido felt. At this point he didn't really have any rules, per de. But maybe the golden ones would appreciate an overview of the kinds of things that normally came up during courting? Since Nido had no idea what kind of alien frame of reference they were coming from? He could touch on common things like dancing, offering gifts, kidnapping and murdering each other's enemies, and appropriate grooming behavior. Or maybe he should call it a morning and let them figure out their own way. Not that he wanted to leave them completely floundering—

"Is fighting touches body okay?"

Oh, they had another question. "Fighting is different."

"What is 'different'?"

Nido opened his beak, realized he had no idea how to concisely explain the idea of "different" with the words they had available, and decided to skip that question for now. "Yes, touching during fighting is okay—"

"We challenge winner."

"What?"

With a squawk, Nido was tackled by a hundred forty thousand tons of static-charged gold.

He wildly slashed his talons at their abdomen until they rolled off of him, cackling madly all the while.

Oh, he liked them.

He liked them a lot.

They'd barely gotten back on their feet and wings before he launched himself straight at them, claws aimed for their throats.

###

Arturo had been put in charge of both the camera feeds monitoring the tussling titans and the big red "call the Armada de México for help" button while Xochitl pored over the mountain of footage they'd collected that morning, listening to sentences over and over as she picked out new words and phrases.

"Any luck?" Arturo asked.

"Mmr," Xochitl said distractedly.

He gave her a moment. Then he tried again: "Any luck figuring out what they're doing?"

"What?" Xochitl finally looked over at Arturo.

He gestured at the camera feeds. "Is this just a little argument, or should—" He was interrupted by a fractured bolt of lightning lancing down the side of the volcano and a crack of thunder that rattled their furniture. "Should we be calling for help?"

"Oh. Yeah, no, no they're fine. Don't worry about them."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah." She tapped a finger on her headphones. "They're playing."

"Oh." Arturo paused. He looked back at the camera feeds. Ghidorah had one set of teeth latched into Rodan's shoulder while Rodan tried to claw through his chest. Arturo looked at Xochitl again. "Sorry, what?"

"It's a—I think it's a ritual? Rodan's started using way more complicated grammar—the winner gets, uh... social benefits. Picking date night destinations and the like."

"Oh." Arturo looked at the camera feeds again. In his opinion, anyone who fought like that over a date night ought to be well past breaking up and on to filing for a restraining order, but— "Hold on. 'Date night'? Like joking-around-on-Twitter 'date night,' or like actually...?"

"They keep using a handful of words they obviously worked out when we weren't recording that I haven't definitively translated yet," Xochitl said, "and—they're discussing some kind of social rules—Rodan defined the word for whatever this rule system is using one of the words we don't have. But, from the context, the most reasonable translation that fits that context is that he's laying down dating rules."

Arturo's jaw dropped. "You're serious? So that's—" the island rumbled as somebody got knocked over, "that's actual titan dating?"

Xochitl tipped back her chair, arms crossed triumphantly. "Dr. Rodan-fought-Ghidorah-to-steal-his-'rival-alpha'-title Russell can suck my entire ass."

A particularly heavy thud knocked over Xochitl's chair. "Shit."

###

Nido was pretty sure that the golden ones' faces just weren't built to properly make shit-eating grins. Nevertheless, as Nido flopped back first into his volcano and let the lava ooze soothingly into his new bite wounds, he could feel them exuding the aura of a shit-eating grin. "What."

"We win."

"No!" Nido flailed back upright. "You do not!"

"Do," they insisted. "We fight. You fall. We are winner." They took turns with the sentences—which made their accent much thicker than when they traded off with the syllables each was best at pronouncing, but incalculably increased their smugness.

"Not a fight!"

Some of their smugness dissipated as they gave him a wary look. "What?"

"A fight in the sky is a fight! A fight on the ground—" he dismissively flicked a chunk of rubble from the hive the humans had built over the top of his crater, sending it bouncing and clattering down the side of the volcano, "is not a fight. You're not a winner if you don't win." With the last word, he raised his wings, pantomiming flying, reminding the golden ones that that was the other definition of the word: you're not a winner if you don't fly.

"You—! You are—!" The golden ones stopped there, apparently unable to conjure up a word that illustrated exactly what they thought of Nido. They were making that low, deep, rumbling noise that he'd determined was either a threat or a laugh. 

"Cheater?" he offered them gleefully. "Liar? Fraud? Hustler?"

They climbed to the edge of the crater, loomed over Nido, and venomously hissed, "Insult."

Nido flopped back and cackled until he choked on his own lava.

They leaned over the crater and bunted his forehead so hard he momentarily saw stars. Now he was sure: they were laughing.

Somewhere southward, a couple of scientists at 56-B were adding a viciously cutesy photo filter to a shot of the bunt and posting it to Twitter.

###

(Replies/reblogs are welcome! Check the “source” link below for my masterlist of KOTM and Rodorah fics, as well as my AO3 and Ko-fi links.)

[orchidbreezefc]

“Of course you’d believe that…” OR "your hands are so much larger than mine" with samben, because I cannot decide! :D

(SO I GOT A LITTLE CARRIED AWAY AND ALSO KIND OF HAD TO TWIST THE PHRASE TO MAKE IT WORK BUT!!! PROMPT 2 IS A GO)

Accidents happen, especially in this town. Bad things happen to good people, or at least people like Sammy Stevens, who has not always been good, but has been trying his ass off for a long time. Things like the void, the Doorstep, the rainbow lights–they take things from you, things you cannot always predict, things you do not always get back.

Emily got back her memories, eventually. The doctors, Ben writes to him with shaking fingers, are not sure Sammy will be so lucky.

For a while, notebooks are a necessary evil. Sammy hates this twist of irony, figures the void was listening to his fucking issues with those, from both Jack and Ben, and that’s why it took his hearing, to make him deal with more bullshit writing on the wall. Ben gets a new one, though, a blank one purely for use with Sammy. 

If Sammy were more poetically-inclined, he’d have a lot to say about how it was some sort of symbolic tossing of the old shit that got between them and this new one as a bridge. But he’s not, and sure as shit will never be now. Just like he won’t be a radio host. Just like he’ll never hear Ben’s voice again. Or Jack’s, but he gave up on that a long time ago.

Ben’s handwriting is atrocious, is the thing. And it’s slow. And it just feels wrong when Sammy says something casually, a sentence lost to his own ears but for the vibration through his jaw, and Ben has to scramble for a pencil to get back to him. They both hate it. And Sammy just can’t seem to get the hang of lip-reading, try as he might–he knows the vowel sounds, mostly, but the consonants are a mess.

One day Ben has an entire fucking letter written for Sammy by the time he wakes up. Sammy reads it aloud back to him, even though he himself can’t hear it, just so that he can interject skeptically at the right times. But then his voice falters when he reads past Ben’s waffling introduction and comes to the words ‘sign language’. 

Ben twists his fingers together nervously as Sammy stops reading aloud and sweeps his eyes over the rest of the letter–Ben found a really highly-recommended Youtube course, he has an HDMI cord (whatever that is) and figures it made sense to sit down, maybe forty-five minutes a day, and try it out. Has to be better than this bullshit, right?

Sammy looks up at Ben. Words fail him, or more accurately, they fail Ben, because they would have failed Sammy even if he had them. Ben looks even more anxious, trying to gauge Sammy’s reaction, and Sammy realizes he’s left him hanging.

“You really want to–? I mean… that’s a whole new language, Ben. With words and grammar and everything.”

Ben’s fingers untangle from their anxious knot and he slowly lifts them. Sammy watches in disbelief as Ben makes a series of movements–points to himself; gestures like a toss over his shoulder; mimes pinching something off one hand and touching it to his head; pushes his hands, held flat, together, like miming a box; and finally, turns his pointer fingers in a circle like a wheel. The whole time Ben is making this incredibly sheepish expression.

Then Ben sits down and gently takes the notebook from Sammy. , he writes, a translation of his own movements. He glances up self-consciously at Sammy’s face, and continues writing. That’s what I just said. I learned some. Just to see if the course was OK. And I think we could do it. 

Nobody has ever, ever offered to do anything like this for Sammy, let alone done it with such an apologetic attitude, like he’s afraid Sammy could possibly be upset. Like Sammy would be mad about Ben deciding to learn a goddamn language just to make his life a bit easier.

“God, Ben,” he says, sure his voice breaks, and wraps his hands around Ben’s. “I cannot believe–you’re a fucking miracle. Yeah. Yes. Let’s do it.”

Ben grins ear to ear, then laughs. Sammy can’t hear the noise, but he can feel the vibration through his hands and body, and see the glee on his face. Ben shakes his head and holds his hand up with Sammy’s, Tarzan-and-Jane style, before interlocking them. Ben’s hands are so much smaller than his. He looks forward to hearing Ben again through them.

[waywardrose13]

The Frayed Ends of Sanity- Chapter Four

Catch up here!- TFEOS Masterlist // Rose’s Masterlist

Summary: Y/N Winchester was the sweet, innocent younger sister of Sam and Dean Winchester. After a fight between her and her eldest brother, she is abducted by Lucifer himself, who turns her into someone completely different. Someone feral and psychotic. Something that will be the perfect weapon against the Winchester brothers.

Pairing: Winchesters x Insane!Sister!Reader

Warnings: Angst, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of death, mentions of torture, deadly disease.

A/N- So, I’m not 100% happy with this chapter, but it gets the point across and it went where I wanted it to go. But here it is, and hopefully THD will be posted tomorrow or Wednesday:) Love y’all and hope you enjoy!

*Please excuse any/all grammar mistakes. I’m not a professional writer whatsoever. I proof read but may not have caught everything. Thanks!*

It was worse than he thought. Her soul was almost dead, the small light almost completely faded out. And once it burned out, so would she, and Y/N would be dead, not even in the empty. Completely obliterated without any way to bring her back.

Lucifer had done quite a number on her, and if Cas couldn’t find a way to heal her, Y/N Winchester would cease to exist.

Castiel bent down, his eyes scanning Y/N’s life force carefully. She shook like a leaf, her E/C eyes full of fear, pain and something Cas could only describe as desperation. Her knees were tucked up under her chin, blood dripping from each wound steadily.

“I’m going to do my best to heal you, Y/N,” Cas told her. “But I’m going to have to get close to you, is that alright?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment. She knew Cas wouldn’t hurt her, but what if this was another one of Lucifer’s tricks? It wouldn’t be the first time he had gotten into her mind pretending to be her angel, saying these things to weasel his way further into her mind and hurt her more.

But this time, it seemed different. Worry was etched into Castiel’s features, true horror flickering in his blue eyes. Lucifer’s version of Cas always had a sense of bitterness to him, he certainly wasn’t as gentle as this Cas was, which made Y/N think it really was Castiel.

So she nodded her head reluctantly, hoping to God this wasn’t another one of his tricks, and this was really her angel.

Castiel reached out to her, Y/N’s eyes squeezing shut as he did so, and placed two fingers onto her forehead. A light emitted from them, a warmth automatically spreading through the broken girl’s soul and flooding through her, the black veins under her skin pulsing angrily.

She winced, a sudden jab of pain splitting through her head. The light under her skin began to move from her head to her neck and shoulders, reaching its long fingers to the wounds there and wrapping themselves around them, the missing chunks of flesh on her shoulders slowly filling in, her skin stretching and restoring itself.

Castiel looked closer at the dark veins clearly seen underneath Y/N’s mangled skin. Whatever coursed through them, moved rapidly, and he could see almost a shimmer as it pulsed through her.

His heart tightened when he realized what it was, and what exactly Lucifer had put inside her. He wasn’t sure what could kill it, or even if there was a way too, but he was determined to find one.

Castiel could feel his energy quickly draining with the strength it took to undo the work of the devil himself. With each pulse of light from him, a bit more of his energy was drained.

His light didn’t move much further from her shoulders, just wrapping itself tightly around the wounds there, focusing in on one specific area.

Cas became weaker with each passing moment, the amount of energy pouring from him close to painful. He pushed his light and grace into her at full force, but Lucifer was stronger, and whatever was inside her was eating at her at a rapid pace. The thick, black substance that ran through her veins barely flinched at the angel’s light, and he knew that it would be difficult to get through, if he could at all.

The shoulder wounds were nearly healed, but Cas began to feel the pain of his power decreasing. He pushed a little more, his eyes falling shut and his body shaking with the force it took. Another jolt of power was sent through his fingertips and into Y/N, the two largest wounds on her shoulders healing.

He pulled his hand away and fell to his hands and knees. He took in gasping breaths, his energy low and faltering. Y/N opened her eyes and glanced down at Castiel, her eyes widening as he tried to regain his strength. As she moved her arms to help him, she didn’t feel the ache of stab of pain it brought with it. She looked down and gasped at what she saw.

She ran her fingers over her newly healed shoulders and a small smile spread across her face.

“Thank you, Cas,” She said. He looked up at her, a smile growing on his own face at the sight of hers.

“You’re welcome, little one,” He told her. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “I will be back when I’ve regained some strength to heal you some more.”

“Thank you,” She murmured. He smiled brightly, his eyes looking around, his heart lifting at the what he saw.

The small ray of light had grown, not by a lot, but Castiel could clearly see it had grown a bit. It was working, but he knew it would be incredibly difficult to fix her completely, if he could at all. It unfortunately seemed like it would take much more than him to fix Y/N’s soul, but he wasn’t sure he trusted anyone enough to allow them inside her mind.

He felt himself being sucked back suddenly, the world around him folding in on itself. A screeching sound shot through his ears and he found himself beside Y/N once again in Bobby’s study.

His eyes flickered up to the men watching anxiously, Dean’s eyes hopeful.

“Well?” He asked. “How’d it go?”

Cas sighed and looked back down at the now sleeping girl, his hand reaching over to run through her untangled hair.

“It’s worse than I thought,” He said. “But I managed to heal her a bit. But I’m afraid if I don’t heal her more soon, she will die-” Dean sucked in a harsh breath, his heart clenching in his chest- “There’s some sort of… substance inside her. I’m almost positive Lucifer put it there. I know what it is, and unfortunately, my grace barely poked it.”

“What is it?” Bobby asked crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t like the sound of that, and he knew if Cas’ grace couldn’t do anything to it, it would be a bitch to get rid of.

“It’s called ‘infernum in plaga’, or, ‘Hell’s plague.’ It comes from the bowels of hell, a place the darkest of demon’s won’t touch. But Lucifer… He created it. It was used as a punishment for disobedient or treasonous demons. One catches it by having it injected into their bloodstream or blood contact with a carrier of the disease. My guess is that she was injected with it but I’m not sure.”

“Can this… Hell’s plague… kill her?” Sam asked.

“Yes. Once it spreads to the brain or the heart, it will suffocate it. If it reaches the heart first, she’ll die within two days. But with the brain, the plague will eat away at it slowly until she dies, painfully,” Cas answered.

“Will you be able to cure her?” Bobby asked.

“Maybe. There are a few ways that I could try to treat her, but I must also work on the soul itself. But I’m weak. I need to regain strength before even attempting to get inside her mind again.”

“How will you do that?” Sam asked. Cas shrugged, a simple gesture on vulnerability. He wasn’t sure how to regain strength very quickly without touching a soul. But he was reluctant to do that, knowing how painful it was for a human, and how large of a toll it could take on them.

“I’ll need to refrain from using my powers. There are a few things I could try, a few different spells and hex bags that could help, maybe a few sigils I could surround myself with, but that could take up to two weeks to get back to full strength.” He looked back at Y/N, his thumb moving to soothe the worry lines etched between her brows. “But I’m afraid we may not have that long. Without constant care of her soul, healing everyday, the darkness spreading within her, I’m afraid that if it spreads to her brain- or heart- it’ll kill her right away with how damaged she is.”

“How close is it to either of those?” Dean asked. Castiel looked up at him, his hand still running through Y/N’s hair.

“Honestly?” Cas said. “Best case scenario, it’ll reach her brain in about a week and her heart in about two. It seemed to be making its way upwards through her arm. I think that’s where Lucifer injected her with it. It’s crawled over her shoulders and up her neck. It moves slowly but effectively, evidently destroying everything in its path. Blood, healthy tissue, everything. If we don’t find a cure, and fast, she’ll be dead by next Friday.”

The room was silent then. If Cas couldn’t get his strength back up before the plague reached her brain, Y/N was out of luck. Her soul would have been completely eaten away, and there would be absolutely nothing anybody could do about it. If they couldn’t find a cure, it would be out of Cas’ ballpark, out of anyone’s really. Not even a demon could fix it. The only person who held the key to a cure that would definitely work, was Lucifer.

Lucifer had injected Y/N with the infernum in plaga for this very reason. He wanted the men to know they were helpless against him. That he would always win, and there was nothing they could do about it. Yes, he loved having Y/N as his pet, but honestly, he enjoyed watching the brothers torture themselves over this even more.

He currently sat at one of the cool, metal tables in the common room of the old prison. His latest victim sat tied to the wooden chair merely ten feet from him, the corpse lifeless and the head sitting arms length from Lucifer on the table. He twirled the small vile through his fingers, a pleased smirk on his face. Whether the Winchesters knew it or not, he was still inside Y/N’s mind. He knew every thought and feeling she had, and when he felt a new presence inside her mind, he knew his plan was working. The angel had entered her mind, trying so desperately to heal her. And when he was in there, he found Hell’s plague running through her veins. He knew Castiel would scurry back to the brothers and tell them about his findings, tell them there may be a way to save her.

Lucifer laughed at how naive the angel was. He sat the vile down on the table, a smile ghosting on his lips as he stared at it, as he stared at the only cure to the infernum in plaga. He laughed once again, a hearty laugh that echoed off the crumbling walls around him. Because even if the boys didn’t know it yet, he had won, just like he always did, and always will.

The Frayed Ends of Sanity tag list:

@crowleyshenchmen

@starlight-xxxx

@i-am-now-a-taco

@gh0stgurl

@fandom-trash-worth-it

@susan-in-the-house

@constant-writers-block

@lovethyname12

@theunemployableparts

@emwinchester1

@bee-wrecker

@anothershothuman

@mellxander1993

@hahahahahangst

@weirdoblogger69

@colie87

@capsofwinchesters

@internationalmusicteacher

@humanexile

@spn-imagines-fics

@shadowstalker102001

@maisley

@nyxveracity

@weirdest-nerd-you-could-find

@prettylittlebxitch

@thoughtfullyfurryangel

@danica-queen-of-hell

@jackjackljaqui

Forever tag list:

@jennalyncarrigan1230

@mogaruke

@kittyk26

@lurelarry

@luciferslucille

@cookiecakeslive

@wheres-my-cheese

@supernatural-strangerthings-1980

@sunnysaysbookreviews

@nyxveracity

@raining-murder

@just-a-supernatural-sister

@hi-my-name-is-riley

SPN tag lists:

@impatient-witch

@sandlee44

@blackcherrywhiskey

@ain-t-bovvered

Dean/Jensen tags:

@aubreystilinski

@whimsicalrobots

[ggourami]

Klance Week 2018 - Day One: Fake Relationship

Okay this is faaaaarrrr too late but I had an idea and I couldn’t perfect it until now. 

I know, fake relationship usually means pretending to be a couple for the sake of the mission or whatever but honestly. Did y’all really expect fluff from me?

This story’s set in the end of January this year, when there was the super blue blood moon. Lance and Keith have been a thing for a while in this story, except they started off really dysfunctionally. Their relationship’s been really rocky but they find a balance despite it, which is why they’ve lasted for 3+ years. But two years ago, Lance’s mom died, and ever since, Lance has been in some severe depression. 

I don’t think I suffer from depression, but I sorta self-inserted parts of my own current mood into Lance’s depression, so everything’s bleak, grey, no contrast, no colour, and of the sort. I’m sorry if it’s not an accurate depiction of depression, but honestly I wrote this to get a grip on my own emotions. Sorry for any grammar mistakes, no one beta’d this.

dear moon [keith + lance]

He wakes up to soft kisses pressed against his back.

Lance relaxes into the touch, trying to find comfort in it. He does, but it’s not like before. He looks up, checks the time.

9:13.

Lance closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to wake up. He’s scared this is a dream.

“Lance.” Keith’s voice is raspy, quiet, conspiratory. The voice that used to get Lance excited, sparks travelling up his spine. Everything’s faded now. “The moon’s up.”

His eyes blink open. The super blue blood moon. That’s tonight.

A thrill rises from his desaturated heart, brings back colour. Lance jerks up, tripping on the blankets as he tries to stand up. Keith catches him, a supporting hand on his back and amused smile on his face. Lance thanks him like he would thank anyone else. Keith’s smile falls.

It’s not that Lance doesn’t love Keith. He does. He loves how Keith is there to remind him that he’s worth a damn, picks him up when he falls, wakes him up with gentle kisses to his back. But something’s missing, like everything has been in his life for the past year, ever since his mother died. Everything’s lost its colour, black and white look the same faded grey to him. There’s no contrast, no saturation. Just the world, spinning along.

Lance feels empty. And he knows Keith is trying to fill the void.

He untangles himself from the blankets. He walks over to his balcony, opening the beranda doors and slipping on a robe to protect himself from the cold. Keith is right by his side.

Lance looks up at the moon.

Colour bursts before his eyes. He sees the deep blue of the sky, the mustard yellow of the super blue blood moon, the silver of the railing, the blacks of the shadowy New York buildings, the bright colours of the billboards, the lights from the thousands of cars racing through New York--everything gains colour.

It lasts a moment. But it’s the most happy Lance has been in a long time.

Lance turns to Keith. His bed hair accentuates the sharp angles of his face, especially in the moonlight; but that’s not what catches Lance. His eyes scream with defeat, lips slightly open in realization.

Lance wants to say sorry. He wants to say sorry for not being enough for Keith, beautiful Keith, who gives without thought of his own needs. Sorry that being with Keith doesn’t give him the thrills the moon is giving him. Sorry that Lance can’t give to Keith what Keith has given to him. Sorry that Lance is in patches, and pulling Keith down with it.

Keith swallows. “How long until this falls apart?”

Lance can’t answer the question. Because he knows the goddamn answer.

Keith nods, curt, sourly. He turns his face back to the moon.

“Hey,” and then he pulls Keith into a hug. It’s nothing compared to what Keith has given him, but it’s what Keith needs now, and since they don’t have much time left, Lance wants to give what he could to Keith. And what he can give is comfort. He lets Keith grip at his shirt, dig his face into the crook of Lance’s neck, lets him cry for the sacrifices he made, now wasted. This is Lance’s fault. He can’t solve it, but he can own up to it.

Tears well up in his eyes as he thinks back on the clock, ticking steadily to the end of this part of his life. Sorry, he whispers into Keith’s hair. Sorry, he cries into the kisses he presses onto every inch of Keith he can reach. Sorry, he pleads, to Keith’s heart.

Lance wishes that they can have a do-over. But they can’t. Keith has given chance and chance again for Lance to take his hand, start again with a blank slate. Time and time again, Lance has refused. And now, like a goddamn idiot, he’s crying because of the pain his own choice has given him.

So he prays to the moon. Dear Moon, he starts, let me save him. Let me start again, let me be a better person. If I can’t start again, let me learn from this, let me understand that I can’t lose hold on the people close to me. Let this never happen again. Please. I need this. Keith needs this. Tell me that everything will be okay.

The Moon doesn’t reply.

Lance closes his eyes and drops his forehead on Keith’s.

_________

The next morning, Keith is gone. Lance knows he won’t come back.

He remembers the soft kisses. He feels their ghost on his skin. He feels Keith’s tears caught by the fabric of his robe.

There’s a burn behind his eyelid. Lance tries to blink it away. He fails.

He reaches for the phone on his nightstand, then calls Keith. He doesn’t expect an answer. That’s okay. Keith just needs to hear what Lance has to say.

Keith needs to hear the apology he’s deserved for quite some time.

The ringing stops. The lady tells him to leave a voicemail.

“Hey Keith. I…” Lance bites his lips. Formulates his words, tries to find a phrasing for all his thoughts.

He can’t.

The phone drops onto the blankets.

[mywritingstuff98-blog]

You Are PURRfect To Me

Just something that I wrote, that I think came out cute, so I decided to post. Feedback is always welcome, and if you find some mistakes or grammar problems, please let me know, because english is not my first laguage so. Yeah, that’s all. Thank you! x

Based on this prompt, that I found in pinterest.

Prompt:  “I may have accidentally sort of adopted five cats”

Thalia has always been the impulsive type. For example, she’s been saving money to buy a nice car but one day decided to purchase a 900 $ handbag. Or changing her haircut from long curly brown hair to a short with blond highlights, just past her shoulders. She has always been this way.

So, one day, on her way home from university she does something a little over-the-top.

Lia’s been having the worst week. Not in a bad way, more in a stressful way. Just this past week she had to hand 3 projects and one paper about something uninteresting, that she’s pretty sure that she failed. And it’s not finals seasons yet, this is just the middle of the semester. That’s what she gets for getting in med school.

But now she has a break from school. And she’s using it by relaxing, do some shopping and, most importantly, spend some time with her boyfriend, Harry.

“Hey babe, are you ready?” Harry called from downstairs.

Thalia and Harry live together, in a small house, close to the university they both attended.

Even though they have very busy schedules, with them in med school (Thalia in her third year and Harry in his fourth), the couple tries to spend as most time together as possible.

“Almost!” She yelled “Let me just put my shoes on!”

Harry rolled his eyes, because he’s been waiting for her for a good half an hour. “Hurry, or we’re goin’ to be late!” Harry stated, looking at the clock in the kitchen, where he has just finished placing the groceries in the fridge.

They decided, since they didn’t have to do much studying, to go to the movies, to see Jumanji. And they were late. As usual.

And finally, Harry heard her footsteps, and saw his girlfriend, beautiful as always, dissolving, just a tiny bit, his frustration.

“I swear to God, Lia” Harry (x) said to his girlfriend exasperated. “The first time that we are actually on time for something, I’ma throw a fucking party” Harry glared at her as he watched Thalia putting her arms around his neck.

“Hello to you too, booboo” Thalia (x) joked, giving him small pecks around his face. Harry kept his glare, so Thalia gave him one last kiss on the lips before untangling her arms. “C’mon grumpy pants. Let’s go”.

“I’m not grumpy” Harry murmured, pouting.

They went to the movies, and on their way back, Thalia stopped suddenly, making Harry stop. And then he saw the pet shop, making him roll his eyes, because he already knows what’s coming.

“But Harry look!” Thalia exclaims, pointing at the animals. “They’re so cute and tiny and… cute”

“Thalia, for the hundredth time, we can’t have pets in the house. We can’t even take care of bloody plants!”

Thalia looked at him like he’s stupid.

“Babe, they’re cats. And cats are really independent, they’re not plants!” Thalia said. “The only thing we have to do is feed them, clean the poo and love them. C’mon H, Pleeeeeeeease.” Thalia pouted, opening her big eyes, looking at him.

Harry doesn’t look impressed.

“First of all, that stopped working the minute we started dating” Thalia huffed and crossed her arms. “And second, no. We can’t afford a cat, sweets. Now let’s go home and cuddle, because it’s getting really cold and dark.” Harry held her hand and dragged her to walk with him.

But that didn’t stop Thalia for thinking about the kittens. So, one week later, on her way home, from university, she stops, again, in front of the pet shop. And the kittens are still there, looking at her with the big eyes and being well… cute. “I’m gonna just have a look at them” She thought. But them the lady from the shop said that she could hold them, and she said yes, and one thing led to the other…

Thalia had adopted, not one, not two, but five cats. Five cats. With that she also bought the food and some toys for them to play, and on her way home she already had named the five kittens (x): Milo, Mila, Lilo, Lola and Mola. You would think How is she going to remember all of their names? Even more if they all look the same? Well, she also bought them name tags.

Only when she got home, she realized what she had done. Harry was going to kill her. While she was waiting for Harry to come home, she thought of many ways to tell her boyfriend what she had done. She knew she was in deep trouble, but she couldn’t contain herself. So, she put them in the laundry room, in their bed, while she waited. And then she heard him.

“Baby, I’m home” Harry exclaimed, while putting the keys in the plate, and taking his shoes off.

And before she started to panic, Thalia went to meet her boyfriend.

“Hi baby, how was your day?” Thalia asked, with a sweet pitchy voice. And then Harry started to wonder.

“What did you do this time, Thalia Marie?” Harry said, crossing his arms.

“What do you mean?”

“You just called me baby, which you never do, only when you want to ask something, and your voice is weird.” Harry explained “So, what did you do?” Harry asked the second time.

“Fine ok, but please don’t be mad at me.” Thalia pleaded.

“Thalia…”

“Promise me you won’t be mad.”

“I won’t, just tell me.”

“Pinky promise.” Thalia said, sticking her pinky out at him.

“Seriously? Okay, fine.” Harry put his pinky with hers. “So now tell me. What did you do, for the third time?”

“I may have… accidentally… sort of… adopted five cats?” Thalia smiled at him innocently.

Harry looked at her shocked. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, and they’re really cute, and I already named them and… you know.”

“Thalia, what the actual fuc…”

“You pinky promised you wouldn’t be mad” Thalia interrupted.

“I mean, yeah, but five cats? Really?! If you were going to do something crazy, at least you would adopted just one!” Harry exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air. “And where are they?”

“They’re in the laundry room. I’m gonna bring them here.” Thalia said excited. He wasn’t so mad after all.

“See?” Thalia showed the kittens in their bed sleeping. “Aren’t they the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

And when she looked at him, he was smiling at the sight in front of him.

“Right?” Thalia pushed.

Harry sighed. “I’ll admit. They are pretty cute. But babe we can’t have five cats, you know that right?” Harry asked.

“But why?”

“Thali, they are cats. Normally people have one or two. Because they fight a lot.”

“Okay fine.” Thalia huffed, putting the kittens in the ground.

And then Harry smiled at her fondly.

“What?” Thalia asked.

“I swear to God, that one day I’ll come home to find that you bought a yacht.” Harry said fondly, shaking his head. “But since I love you very much, and the kittens are pretty adorable, we can keep two.” And that made Thalia smile, really big.

“Really? Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Thalia said in between kisses.

“Yeah, yeah. You would’ve worn me out at some point.” Harry murmured.

“I love you too Haz” Thalia kissed him.

“Wait, you said you named them, right? What are their names, then?”

“Milo, Mila, Lilo, Lola and Mola.” Thalia said, clapping her hands.

“What?” Harry said, slapping his hand on his forehead. “Oh, c’mon Lia…”

I hope you like it. It’s not the best, but I’m quite happy with how it turned out. Thank you for reading. Byee

[buckygirl-fanfiction]

Sparks Chapter 31

Pairing: Bucky POV X Reader POV ft. Other characters from the Avengers team.

Word Count: 1.7K

Summary: A Fourth of July without Bucky. ANGST ALERT!

A/N: This chapter is unfinished but boy that last ask rlly made me question my entire existence so here:

June 14, 2017

y/n’s POV

It’s been almost nine months since I’ve seen him yet he possesses the power to haunt my dreams like he’s just left the room a second ago. I can feel him between my legs. He looks up smiling before I see his mouth back on my cunt. I can feel it and it feels real. I can feel his beard scrape the skin of my inner thighs and his hair brush against me. It’s unnerving how realistic he feels. But he isn’t real is he? Were we real? Why was it so easy for him to leave me? We must not have been real either…

I wake up with a start. Sweat sticks the sheets of the duvet to my skin. I hate when I have dreams like this, they leave me feeling hungry with an insatble pit in my somtach that no one else could possibly fill. I’m left frustrated and alone. But, the feeling of arousal usually dissipates when I think about the likelihood that i’m having a wet dream about a man who is now most likely dead. That’s when sorrow fills my heart again and I lay back down staring at the ceiling until I fall asleep again or sunrise, whichever comes first. At least wet dreams are better than the other ones. The ones of him dying in my arms. I don’t even want to think of those right now.

I don’t know what time it is. But I know it’s early. Not early enough to be light but just enough for the sounds of the early birds chipping to be heard. I untangle my legs from under my sheets and get up. I don’t bother to check the time. I don’t need to, it’s not like I have anywhere to be. I’ve been forced to take a leave of absence from work. On paper it’s of my own volition. In reality it was Cho’s ultimatum—either take a leave of absence or tell Tony and the others about my little problem—that made me decide. She was right, even I have to admit that. Sooner or later I would have slipped up and made a mistake and I can’t afford to make mistakes.

It’s been a month or so of lounging at home. I wait everyday for Cho to stop by after work with dinner. We eat together then she leaves. Sometimes Steve joins us but the silence of the entire scene must make him feel like a stranger encroaching on personal territory so he leaves Cho and I to it. To our silent meal with unspoken words and a decade worth of friendship, love, and commitment.

Why couldn’t he just give me that? That’s all I wanted. Sometimes I think I feel betrayed. Sometimes I don’t blame him because I loved him just the same. Except I was scared and he couldn’t seem to understand that.

This is pathetic I thought walking towards my kitchen. It’s been nine months. I need to stop letting him destroy me. Its ironic he probably isn’t even alive, it’s his memory that’s haunting me. It’s the idea of a man, not the man himself who derailed my life.

I walk over to my sink, kneel beside it, and open the bottom cabinet. Once inside I use the camera on my phone to locate the thin loose board in the back. It’s a small compartment. Just a hole in the wall the plumber didn’t board up properly the last time a pipe burst. Inside I have a single bottle of sleeping pills tucked away for nights like this. I don’t know why I hide the bottle. Cho wouldn’t necessarily be angry with me if she saw them. She would understand.

I take one and put the bottle back and carefully replace the loose board. I push myself off my knees, pop the pill in my mouth, turn on the faucet, and drink right from the spigot. I need to go back to work. This domestic stay at home life isn’t for me. I need something to tire me out, to arouse my intellect, to spark my soul. Without my work who am I? I head back to bed, lie down on the soft cold sheets, and close my eyes.

…

I wake up to my phone ringing. I sit up quickly at the disturbance and pick it up. It’s still dark outside and i’m annoyed at whoever disturbs me.

“Hello,” I answer in a scratchy voice.

“Open your door. I’m outside. I brought Wanda.” Cho’s voice chirps in a little too energetically for my taste.

“What?” I ask a little confused. “Why are you here so early?”

“Early?” Cho asks.

“Yeah, since when did we start doing pre-dawn breakfasts?”

“It’s 7pm, are you okay?” Cho asks trying to choose her words carefully in the presence of Wanda but the concern in her tone betrays her.

“Oh, yeah… Right,” I say caught off guard. I slept through the day. Those pills Effy gave me are stronger than I thought. “I just overslept.” I say as I push myself of the bed and walk towards my dresser. I try my best to quickly fix myself up in the mirror and put on my best smile and walk towards the door. I turn the big lock, grab the tarnished gold knob, and twist it. This is going to be a long night.

June 19, 2017

I’m back at work. After what seems like an era. I sit at my office trying to catch up on all the new projects. I spend the better part of my morning reading and revising reports from the other teams working under me. The latter part of my day is spent trying to get my lab back in order. I receive the odd glance or two from interns, probably judging me for my abrupt leave of absence and return. But, it was necessary I needed to come back to work and Cho saw that. Sometimes I think she doesn’t know—how to take care of me, how to make sure i’m alright, how to fix me—and she ends up giving in and buying into my facade of normalcy.

I am not weak. That’s all I need to remember. I am strong and I will not be reduced to one of those women who tragically and pathetically pine over their lost lovers. He wasn’t my lover. He was my friend. I mourned the loss of a friend, now it’s time to move on.

July 3, 2017

The past two weeks at work have been the most boring of my life. I miss the drama, the threat of danger, the thrill, the exhilaration, the spark. Despite all that it’s cost me—being apart of them, the Avengers even if it was just as a lab rat, gave my life a higher purpose—and I miss it. I saved lives, I may have also lost a couple friends on the way, but ultimately I made a difference. Now I oversee boring old administrative stuff and I felt as useful as a sword still in its sheath.

July 4, 2017

It’s July 4th and I miss him. I sit alone in what was once our little hideaway on the 82nd floor looking out at the soundless fireworks before me.

For a second I wish life could be like those cheesy romantic movies Wanda makes me watch. The ones where the long lost war torn lover returns during a magnificent moment and there are fireworks. All their previous incompatibilities and character flaws are overlooked; They live happily ever after.

But, life isn’t like that. There is no happily ever after. Someone always dies first, leaves first. Thats existence. It’s unfair, and flawed, and it’s beautiful. Our time together was beautiful and he’s changed me for the better. It’s a great feat to change another person, but he changed me, and that’s beautiful. I’ll miss him forever.

I don’t wait for the show to finish. Instead I get up from my solitary spot on the bed and walk towards the elevator to once again join civilization. To join my friends. I stayed away for a while, fearing i’d lose them too, but it’s time now. It’s time to embrace life and all the breathtaking emotions it moves you to feel.

I wait patiently for the elevator doors to open. I stare at my reflection in the polished metal of the doors and my reflection gives way as the doors slowly slide open. My reflection gives way into him.

For a moment I don’t believe my eyes. I question my eyesight, my sobriety, and briefly even my sanity. However, there was no time left for questioning. When the doors opened wide enough he stepped out of the box and towards me. He looks different, scarier. I realize why in a couple seconds. For one thing he is wearing his mask. His attire is exclusively black and his arm looks different, the metal one, the one that I designed. It looked altered with some sort of weaponry and it glowed almost dangerously. I felt violated myself. I’d spend the better part of six months perfectly designing that arm and thinking of the man behind it and now it was defiled. I barely had time to finish my thought when I felt his butchered metal arm clasp it’s fingers around my neck. My hands instinctively went up to his grip trying to pry his fingers off. But, he was too strong. My vision was already beginning to blur when I realized this was one fight i’d never win. Instead I closed my eyes and let my body go limp. He felt my weight give in and let go. I fell to the floor still partly conscious, but fading fast. His grip on my throat had had a more adverse effect than i’d expected. After I hit the floor I heard his footsteps echo away from me towards the private labs. I pushed myself off the floor quickly and grabbed my phone and called the only person I know who loved him as much as I did, the only person who could save him now: Steve.

Leave me feedback guys. Even if its something like ‘your grammar is trash’ idc i need feedback.

[elabo-rat]

I feel like I have a little box of talents and gifts inside of me, but I misplaced the key to the box and it really is very tragic that the gifts are so present yet inaccessible. I feel like a great part of me is dormant and I just wish it could stop being so full of sleep. Sometimes I feel like I’m yelling at a TV or sitting with my Girlfriend in a Coma. It’s kind of like... I have a lot of tools, but they sat in the shed untouched for years and now they’re all dusty and I’m so confused as to how I might use them and very afraid of sniffing in any dust for I might sneeze or score a rash!!!! Every time I realize that I have potential, I cry because I feel like something is holding me back from using it -- and I don’t know what it is but I think it is me. And it hurts even more because it’s not even real. It’s just a mind trap: a mind trap that I accidentally built and that I now purposefully have to deconstruct. I’m “the architect of my own nightmare” and the only one who can solve this puzzle. Edit: Just because something is abstract does not mean it’s not real!!!! Intangible things exist. Say it with me now: Intangible things can exist. JUST a mind trap?! Kiddo, “just a mind trap”?! Sheesh! Mind traps are serious, and you’re not weak or defective or silly for struggling with them. You’re super good at untangling. If you had to untangle some headphones or a ball of yarn, you would not hesitate because those are tangible objects; but this is yarn that you can’t see or touch with your eyes or your hands. This is metaphysical yarn, and it’s a little more complex -- but it is manageable.  It’s kind of like having knots in your hair, and your mom tries to brush it out and it is so frustrating and painful; but these knots are IN your head instead of on top of it. Sometimes I feel like the knots aren’t just in my head, but that they ARE my head. I used to love the apple-scented detangling spray with the picture of the octopus on the bottle. Maybe I need some of that now. (I think the detangling spray in this situation might be Prozac). Well I think I’m starting to fall apart here. If I were a fancy man giving a fancy speech, I would say, “I digress.” We’ve reached the point in the night where I start talking to myself and psychoanalyzing my writing. I use a lot of similes to express myself and a lot of analogies to problem-solve. I think it has something to do with perspective and understanding. I just read that the idea behind analogical thinking is that one problem can be used to solve another. Similes serve emotions, while analogies serve logic. That’s making me think about  false dichotomies which I am not going to go into right now. I’m also worrying that I’m crazy and what that means or doesn’t mean and what grammar rules I broke. I can stay focused in the beginning, but as we see here I’m now super meta and disorganized and thinking about many different things all at once. Maybe that just means I need to take more breaks. Writing is kind of like pouring paint onto an invisible figure. [Maybe a good exercise would be to try to explain my analogies afterwards. Example: ___ is like ___ ~in that~ ...] Words help me see my thoughts. Feelings --> Thoughts --> Words. “Words, words, words.”  Making the abstract a little more tangible. I feel like I’m intelligent and good at thinking and writing and therefore I should be in school; but I feel like I am very bad at working under pressure and I do not have enough practical skills to just survive. Which is why I often feel like a fish out of water, helpless, and a lil’ defective. Defective Detective. I feel like if I were striving for self-betterment I would study Philosophy and Literature and Psychology independently, but to survive in this society I need to work my way through the institution and acquire some sort of credibility. Also, I need human contact. I love collaboration and learning with others. Plus, isolation just doesn’t do a dude good. If I studied independently I am afraid that I would become more estranged from society and from reality. It’s hard because I just feel like my brain doesn’t work the way education is designed for. I think that I’m special or a “genius” but then I worry that these thoughts are the results of narcissism or delusions of grandeur. On the flip side, I worry that I have ADHD or autism or something. My dad told me I’m not any smarter than anyone else and I’m not special and need to stay in school. I think that is partially true only because I think that everyone has unique abilities that make it so that it’s not very meaningful to compare people that way. I think I need to just stop worrying about whether or not something is wrong with me and just live. Because maybe there are some things you can’t fix anyways or some things that aren’t meant to be fixed. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it? Que Sera, Sera Recognizing some shabby logical arguments: -Reasons for not studying Psychology: “It’s the most popular major” That’s me trying to be individualistic. But I don’t need to try. I’m already a nonconformist whether I like it or not. By trying to not conform to society, I’m conforming to my own twisted set of beliefs. -Reasons for not studying English: My dad majored in English, and I don’t want to follow in his footsteps because he is in non-technical terms a pretty evil dude, and I want to be better than him. Also I think that I need to do something with more heavy thinking and can study English more independently and apply it to whatever else I plan on studying. Also, whenever I start editing I use judging skills because that is how you edit, but the my critical inner voice takes this as a welcome call and just goes at it (Ok so the second reasons for English were not so shabby) I am kind of sleepy and dehydrated because it is 12:21 and I did not plan on writing this much. These were some terrific tangents, though. And they all were at least a little bit connected. I didn’t leap from pineapple to Russian poetry, so that’s good. I enjoyed the exploration and think it was important and that maybe I’m not as disorganized as I think. Maybe. Anyways, I will end by saying I am always seeking to understand things and I hope someday I will find someone who understands me. Goodnight.

[tumblunni]

Man i cant stop thinking about that ‘tappy talk’ app post now... I know I’m able to talk but still I feel like using something like that would be incredibly helpful to me. I dunno if this is common to all autistic people but I kinda think in pictures and have to like.. translate my thoughts into english before I write them down? Its why i have a lot of trouble being coherant when I speak out loud as opposed to writing, its hard to mentally edit stuff without like... pausing for ages and getting stressed out that everyone thinks you’re dumb. And man like I dont even get the idea of an ‘inner voice’, the only ‘inner voice’ I have is how I sorta read my own dialogue out loud in my head to try and understand what i just said and convert it back to proper thoughts, to make sure I ‘translated’ correctly. I dont hear my own voice in my head unless I’m actually speaking or writing to somebody else. And god its just SO HARD sometimes to remember what the words are for a concept, or untangle a big abstract picture or emotion or sound or smell into a word that can explain it... But the problem is really that if I actually tried communicating with pictures then it’d be intuitive to *ME* but I dont think anyone else would understand it! It’d be like a code they’d have to puzzle out, and I guess at least they’d understand how english looks to me, lol. God, the idea of learning a second language is so impossible when ive spent my entire life ravenously reading and writing 90% of every day forever and I STILL stumble over speaking english! And dont even get me started on SPELLING and READING CURSIVE, gahhhhhh! I think maybe its even why I get attatched to characters that talk uniquely in videogames or books, cos i spend more time decoding their english and thus i focus more on them than the others? And pulling off a joke that relies on uncommon grammar rules is like MAGIC to me, I laugh SO MUCH when I finally get it, even if its something ridiculously minor like an egotistical character trying to hide their greedy plots through silly euphemisms. or, at least, thats the best excuse I have for why evil characters talking uniquely is even better? maybe just cos evil characters are more likely to have smart sassy jokes. And its SO FUN to try and write fanfics for them cos I have an excuse to practise learning to write in that unique speech style, which helps me figure out the rules and learn stuff that can improve my comprehension of regular english too! And GAHHH this is also why I love drawing but why its so easy for me to get demotivated and unconfident with drawing. I have very vivid pictures in my head of what I want to make, and then i get way too worked up when i lack the skill to recreate it on paper. And I suck at putting it in words so I can find reference images or tutorials. And it especially sucks when im trying to express an emotion that I cant express in words, cos i also suck at reading people’s faces thus i suck at DRAWING them! But maybe thats encouragement to be more creative, cos I like to find ways to express emotion through metaphor and actions rather than faces. Maybe its why i ended up gravitating towards games instead of comics? You can express so much through animation or through the choices you give a player! its a way to make someone get inside my head and finally hear the stuff I suck at saying!! also im sorry i always make super long posts, i think this is part of it too I suck at explaining what im trying to say, and i overcompensate by overexplaining, and my grasp of writing is bad so i cant tell when ive said the same thing twice with synonyms or if my grammar is hard to read GAHHHH basically i am just SORRY and also the guy who made that app is amazing and i hope it helps a lot of kids live happier lives and i think it could be very useful for people with anxiety problems or other cognitive difficulties even if they arent completely nonverbal it might be cool if it could expand into a full series of different variations geared towards different disabilities, maybe with some sort of customizeable functions to help crowdsource suggestions to add to the dictionary? (or just to customize it because not all pictures are universally understood the same in all cultures) MANNNN it makes me think so much about how powerful games can be in helping people with disabilities!! so many stuff on my dashboard all about this!! im so proud of indie developers using their power for good and just seriously i wish i could try this app, cos just seeing how it translates pictures to words might be able to help me learn better at some of the pitfalls i still have in grasping the english language even after 24 years of speaking it. And man if there was some sort of app that could teach me all the spelling variations that’d be awesome too, there’s a huge gap in my vocab where I can grasp a lot of unusual pronounciations and then it IMMEDIATELY stops as soon as we get to the stuff that wasnt given to us as a game or worksheet in school. and lol i can remember the grammar rules for the extra letters of the welsh alphabet even though i cant speak any more words of welsh and its totally useless in english! You’d think that “dydd is pronounced deeve” would be more difficult than figuring out if its thier or their! (I STILL CANNOT GET THAT RIGHT) (...also when im supposed to put the apostrophe in its) ... ANYWAY SORRY LONG POST

[arpparently]

Quick rant into the faceless, technically public facing void because there’s noone else to talk to at 4 AM. I need to have these things verbalized somewhere because I’ve been avoiding thinking about it for so long.  I need these thoughts to solidify and be real and affect me.

I missed all my classes the week following spring break.  For some of my classes, such as all of my sociology major classes, I’ve been skipping for even longer because I’ve been overwhelmed thinking about the work I have for those classes, or I didn’t do the homework so therefore I shouldn’t show up for class, ad nauseum, for almost a month now. 

My Sociology of Work class, I’ve missed the midterm and most of the class assignments for the past three weeks.  It weighs heavily on my mind, and I avoid thinking about it whenever possible in order to function.

My Research Methods class is terribly boring but I’m doing my research thesis proposal for that class.  That part is fun, but just very grindy and I haven’t been keeping up with the work. 

My minors, CompSci and Japanese, I’ve had A’s in and have done all the work up until this past week, when I collapsed and got overwhelmed.  Honestly, I was having so much fun with how straightforward and interesting these class’s content was that I was using them as distractions from my major Sociology classes.  That was a bad habit. 

I feel like I’ve tried so hard to learn all of my class material the right way, though, and that’s so much easier with Compsci and Japanese than with Sociology.  Japanese learning has been grammar, vocab and nuance.  Compsci has been syntax and coding and tricks.  All such fun.  Sociology encompasses what I want to do with my life, with my future, it encompasses how I should think about everything, my identity building, politics, everything I see that is right and wrong with the world.  Sociology affects my beliefs, my philosophy.  Readings in sociology are incorporated and negotiated with my existing beliefs.  When I don’t have the mental bandwidth to consider those things, I end up ignoring both my personal knowledge development AND the associated class.  Maybe that was a mistake, of sorts, but it seems like such the right thing to do.  Everything I learn in Sociology is so IMPORTANT, and that’s why I want to put so much effort in that classwork, and why it’s the first set of classes I falter in when I don’t have the capacity to put forth that effort.  I care so much.  I want other people to care so much.

Already being overwhelmed, my head space was also being taking up by the Democratic primaries.  Biden winning so many delegates, man, that made me despair.  America is fucked.

And then the coronavirus situation.  I was already overwhelmed for days on end, not getting out of bed, not eating, fucked up sleep schedule.  The coronavirus, seeing all the spin on Twitter about Chinese government this and US government that, trying to negotiate that to find what’s right. Man, that took it out of me.  Man, I was doubly mentally exhausted.

Now we have the transition to online classes.  I have trouble dealing with change.  When things are orderly, when I know what’s happening, when I have everything set and my foundation of sleep/food/schedule is set and I don’t have to make as many useless decisions that drain me of mental stamina, I work well.  Change makes me question myself every decision and micro-decision I make.  Deciding what I need to eat for breakfast can ruin me, because if I don’t eat soon or eat the right amount or eat enough protein or have to take a bath soon or etc.... I mentally bankrupt myself into decision paralysis.  I need consistency to function on my bad days.  I haven’t been functioning.

These are the thoughts that have been consuming me and draining me and plaguing me for the past month.  I’ve been so, so stuck in mental feedback loops, decision paralysis, anxiety and avoidance, and mental bargaining.  I was, what I personally call, braindead.  I wasn’t making any decisions, and I couldn’t.  I was not present for myself.  Please, please, I was thinking.  Please what?  I didn’t know.  I couldn’t figure that out.

Being overwhelmed sucks.  My schedules all get fucked.  I run out of food and self-starve.  I can’t take medication because I can’t eat.  My sleep schedule inverts because the night time has less noise.  I hide away from all my obligations.  I avoid.  And I tell noone, because noone understands, and going to the psychiatrist won’t snap me out of it. 

But I’m awake right now.  I have food.  I have my medications.  I have the mental wherewithal to figure out what I need to do.  I’m not braindead, and I have enough of a start that I can figure out my path forward.  I can untangle the ball of impossibly tangled strings that is my life.  Breathe in, breathe out, one step at a time.  It’s tedious, but doable.

I’m on the rebound.  I can navigate this.  I’m here. 

wooo.

[markwatersme]

Antithesis and “A Room of One’s Own”

      Virginia Woolf is probably one of the top writers to have ever graced this planet.  She redefined what writing is through a style that only she could muster.  In the book, “A Room of One’s Own” Woolfe uses an unseen rhetoric force to tell us about the struggles and issues associated with female authors in the early 1900’s.  It is within this “voice” that she is able to untangle the hypocrisy and sexism associated with writing and publication.  A few things came to mind while I was reading “A Room of One’s Own.”  The first being her usage of rhetorical devices and the second focusing around her literary elements.  The main rhetorical element in which is consistently employed throughout the book is “antithesis.”  The University of Kentucky, Department of Modern and Classical Languages, Literature and Cultures, defined “Antithesis” as a rhetorical device focusing on “opposition, or contrast of ideas or words in a balanced and parallel construction.”  The second thing that came to mind was the literary concept of “the other” which seems to fit in as both as a literary element and a rhetorical device.  My primary focus is on how Woolfe used these rhetorical devices to “show” the readers some of the issues faced by female writers.

      In the book, “A Room of One’s Own” Virginia Woolfe tells a tale of what it is like to be a female author.  The reader learns of her struggles through her use of antithesis as a driving force used to clarify and explain a pretty terrible situation.  She starts right at the beginning by telling us, the reader her views on “Women and Fiction.”  She starts out by telling us what the “words” “Woman and Fiction” might mean and begins to tell us her story.  “They might mean simply a few remarks about Fanny Burney; a few more about Jane Austen; a tribute to the Brontës and a sketch of Haworth Parsonage under snow; some witticisms if possible about Miss Mitford; a respectful allusion to George Eliot; a reference to Mrs Gaskell and one would have done.” Woolfe goes on to tell us the opposing side to her argument… “But at second sight the words seemed not so simple. The title women and fiction might mean, and you may have meant it to mean, women and what they are like, or it might mean women and the fiction that they write; or it might mean women and the fiction that is written about them, or it might mean that somehow all three are inextricably mixed together and you want me to consider them in that light. But when I began to consider the subject in this last way, which seemed the most interesting, I soon saw that it had one fatal drawback. I should never be able to come to a conclusion.”  She may never be able to “come to a conclusion” but through their antithesis, the reader is clearly able to come up with the conclusion on their own.   It is within this binary opposition that she begins to create and build upon her rhetorical force.

      The opposition of Woolf’s antithesis could very well be the “male” himself.  According to Annette Kolodny’s “Some Notes on Defining a ‘Feminist Literary Critism’” Woolf had studied a great deal of male authors for their style and technique in an effort to establish why they were being published.  Kolodny tells us that Woolfe studied male writing in such great detail that “…a similar confinement could not be possible for the richness and variety of women’s writing.”  The interesting thing here is that the antithesis contained within her writing is also embodied within the criticism of her writing.  Kolodny goes on to say “But it is precisely that richness and variety which will escape us if we practice a criticism based on assumptions…”  The literary critic, Annette Kolodney now faces the similar opposition as Woolfe herself expressed in the book.  

      Virginia Woolfe continues to use her rhetoric and voice as the story progress along.  She never tells the reader what he or she should think and feel she just tells us the facts and we are able to draw our own conclusions as to what we should feel.  A prime example is when Woolfe tied her antitilogical style into an example using Shakespeare… “I looked at the works of Shakespeare on the shelf, that the bishop was right at least in this; it would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare.”  Woolfe continues on with the other half of the antithesis… “Let me imagine, since facts are so hard to come by, what would have happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister, called Judith, let us say. Shakespeare himself went, very probably,— his mother was an heiress — to the grammar school, where he may have learnt Latin — Ovid, Virgil and Horace — and the elements of grammar and logic. He was, it is well known, a wild boy who poached rabbits, perhaps shot a deer, and had, rather sooner than he should have done, to marry a woman in the neighbourhood, who bore him a child rather quicker than was right. That escapade sent him to seek his fortune in London. He had, it seemed, a taste for the theatre; he began by holding horses at the stage door. Very soon he got work in the theatre, became a successful actor, and lived at the hub of the universe, meeting everybody, knowing everybody, practising his art on the boards, exercising his wits in the streets, and even getting access to the palace of the queen. Meanwhile his extraordinarily gifted sister, let us suppose, remained at home.”  According to the book “Literature after Feminism” by Rita Felski, “Woolfe is a figure who is torn and contradictory, ambivalent and multifaceted, concerned with aesthetics and politics.”  It is through this articulation of style that Woolfe is able to lock on to certain literary devices and essentially “ride” them through the entire story.  This is demonstrated throughout the story and Felski’s commentary on Woolf’s contradictory style further emphasizes her technique.

      Virginia Woolf’s comments on other authors such as George Elliot in order to further show this “opposite but equal” comparison.  Woolf tells us about how useless men are “It is useless to go to the great men writers for help, however much one may go to them for pleasure. Lamb, Browne, Thackeray, Newman, Sterne, Dickens, De Quincey — whoever it may be — never helped a woman yet, though she may have learnt a few tricks of them and adapted them to her use. The weight, the pace, the stride of a man’s mind are too unlike her own for her to lift anything substantial from him successfully.” Woolfe then goes on to tell us how great these same male authors were … “All the great novelists like Thackeray and Dickens and Balzac have written a natural prose, swift but not slovenly, expressive but not precious, taking their own tint without ceasing to be common property.” It is, once again her usage of antithesis as a literary devices that allow us to “see” both sides of the story.  It is through this rhetorical voice that we, the reader feel like we are getting an unbiased account of what it is like to be a female writer.  On one hand she tells us that men are not so good but she is willing to point out the good qualities as well.  According to Margaret Kirkham’s book “Jane Austin Feminism and Fiction” Jane Austin saw men in a similar way, particularly George Elliot; she goes on to tell us that… Woolfe “sees Austin as the well nigh miraculous example of the female artist of androgynous mind, whose are transcends such irritations as the author, as a women, must have experienced.”  This androgyny view of Woolf’s further exemplifies the usage of antitheses within the story.  The term androgynous is an example of opposing and balanced ideas, as was defined by “The University of Kentucky.”

      There is one line in particular that really stood out as a prime example of the antitholigical rhetorical device.  Woolf was talking about Mary Carmichael’s novel, “Lifes Adventure” and she was thinking about Carmicheals writing style; and Woolf’s thoughts were on weather, “she has a pen in her hand or a pickaxe.”  This once again resurrects the idea of antithesis and binary opposition.  The pen has the ability to create, while the pick axe has the ability to destroy.  The fact that she was wondering this about a female author and not the male counterpart shows us that either the male of the female can create or destroy.  It was that line that eliminated any remaining idea that I may have had that Woolfe was more bias towards women.  It was that idea that showed the equal oppositions associated with antithesis.  

      Another critical element employed by Woolfe was her concept of the “other.”   Annette Kolodney tells us “That women often write out of that different and sometimes ‘other’ perspective of experiences has now become virtually a truism in feminist critical circles.”  She was talking about the variations of styles between women and men.  Woolfe mentions “…when a woman speaks to women she should have something very unpleasant up her sleeve. Women are hard on women. Women dislike women. Women — but are you not sick to death of the word?”   This ties into the concept of the “Other” in a sort-of-reverse manner.  In this particular case, we are led to believe that the women are not the “Other” or literary “the one”.  The previous quote lays claim that, that is not the case.  So, in fact, women would be “the one” and the male counterpart would be classified as the “Other.”  Jacques Lacan  spoke of the “Other” in terms of…  “…the very place called upon by a recourse to speech in any relation where it intervenes.  If it speaks in the Other, whether or not the subject hears it with his own ears, it is because it is there that the subject, according to logic prior to any awakening.”  Using Lacan’s description, I am once again reinforcing that Woolfe is describing women as the “one” and men as the “Other.”  

       A Room of One’s Own is a masterpiece of literature.  Virginia Woolf beautifully weaves this story using many different literary devices.  The main literary device that stands out is her usage of antithesis and how she employs it and ties it into a flawless rave of rhetoric’s.  Finally, she concludes this work of art with the literary element of the “other” nicely tying everything together and allowing the reader to make his or her own judgments about the types of challenges faced by female writers.  In the end…Woolf’s room of her own, gave her a voice of her own.  

 Bibliography

Castle, Terry. Boss Ladies, Watch Out!: Essays on Women, Sex, and Writing. New York: Routledge, 2002. Print.

Felski, Rita. Literature after Feminism. Chicago: University of Chicago, 2003. Print.

"Kentucky Classics." University of Kentucky - Welcome to the University of Kentucky. Web. 02 Mar. 2011. <http://www.uky.edu/AS/Classics/rhetoric.html>.

Kirkham, Margaret. Jane Austen, Feminism and Fiction. Sussex: Harvester, 1983. Print.

Kolodny, Annette. "Some Notes On Defining A "Feminist Literary Criticism"" 1975. Feminist Criticism: Essays on Theory, Poetry and Prose. USA, 1978. 37-58. Print.

Lacan, Jacques. The Meaning of the Phallus. Print.

Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One's Own. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1989. Print.