i did this days ago

slavic languages gothic

You see a sentence written in cyrillic. Some of the letters are familiar. You see the meaning shimmering underneath the surface. You almost grasp it, but it slips away. The letters on the page mock you silently.

You know this Czech word. You’ve already learnt it in Polish. It is not the same word. It is a grave insult. Your slavic friends are shocked and embarassed for you when they hear you speak it.

There is a sentence in Croatian. There is a sentence in Serbian. There is a sentence in Bosnian. They are all the same sentence.

You have to write about your day in Slovak. You spend the night polishing the draft. You fail your assigment. It’s written in Czech. You don’t know Czech.

P is not what it seems. You have to remember that.

The Croatian sentence does not mean what the Bosnian sentence means. They both mean the same in Serbian.

That word has a diminutive. The diminutive has its own diminutive. The diminutive of the diminutive also has a diminutive. Nobody knows what the final diminutive of a word is. Some say the knowledge had been lost in centuries past and matrioshkas are the echo, the tangible warning left for us to remember. No living creature should hold the means of diminishing something into nonexistence.
Others say you may still find some of them in old soviet textbooks, if you dare to look in abandoned schools of Chernobyl.

Someone is speaking to you. Is that a he or a she? You aren’t sure. It’s an abstract concept. Why does it have gender.

You see a word in a dictionary. It has seventeen letters and only one vowel. You close the dictionary very carefully not looking at the phonetic transcription. The shape of it haunts you in your sleep. You wake up face damp with tears, a bitter taste on your tongue. The clock blinks 3:03AM. You do not dare look up that word again.

This word means the same thing in the five slavic languages you’re familiar with. You use it in the sixth one. That word does not exist in this language. It never did. There is now a word-shaped void in the fabric of this language. The natives look at you uneasily. There is a new quality to the silence and your palms start to sweat.

H is not H. H is not H. H is not H. H is not H.

One day you flip through your dictionary. A page is missing. What was the word? You can’t remember. There is pressure building at the back of your head. The clock blinks 3:03AM.

You write my name is in cyrillic. There are shadows dancing on the walls. They grow longer with each letter you write down. It is not cyrillic you’re using. You keep writing my name is. The shadows now bleed from the tip of your pen. It’s irrelevant. You need to remember the right letters.

N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not… If only you could remember the letters. The letters are important. What was it, that wasn’t N?

There are nine different prefixes you can add to a verb to change its meaning. There are fifty three different suffixes you have to add to a verb to make it work. In the end the only thing left of the original is a vague shape of one of its middle consonants. You can feel the anguish radiating from the verb’s mutialted form. A desperate sob escapes through your clenched teeth. You’re so, so sorry, you didn’t meant to. You didn’t. It doesn’t matter.

You now read a text in Russian. You’ve never learnt Russian. Why are you reading that text? The words burn your eyes, the meaning searing your mind.

There’s a shot of vodka in front of you. You don’t drink alcohol. You don’t care. All existence is meaningless, your soul’s in eternal pain. A broken matrioshka lays at your feet. There is no salvation, she says boring into your eyes. You open your mouth to answer, but there is only a burst of harsh rustle. It dies in whispering echoes a moment later. Your glass is empty again.

Hey, A friend commissioned me to do a Dan.Va with a selfie game and I thought it was funny so I hope you enjoy it as well.

I’m so sorry.

let👏jeremy👏heere👏wear👏a👏crop👏top👏

anonymous asked:

I have this personal headcannon where Andrew actually has the cutest laugh in the fucking world but NO ONE CAN EVER KNOW THAT HES SO CUTE. Anyway, could you write a thing where Neil or even the foxes hear it for the first time and are like ???? He's so cute???

The years go on and on, and even though the other foxes might not think so, Neil can tell that Andrew is making huge steps in his recovery. He can see it in the way Andrew carries himself, in the ways he responds to certain situations, and how he acts when they’re alone together.

Quite frankly, he doesn’t care if anyone else notices, and neither does Andrew. Bee probably knows; her and Andrew still do weekly sessions over skype once he graduates and moves away, and that helps too.

More than anything, Andrew learns how to enjoy little things in life, and it all builds up to more and more good days. He still has bad ones, but deep wounds can still heal with time and distance and therapy.

Today, they’re having a quiet day in on their rest day. It’s mid-November and Chicago is miserable, so they’re content to wrap up in blankets and drink coffee and write the day off as a rest day. Neil wakes up to find Andrew in the kitchen, mockingly meow-ing back at King who is pacing around his ankles.

“He’s talkative this morning,” Neil mumbles, pouring himself coffee and then leaning against Andrew who is making them eggs.

“I drop one bit of egg on the ground and he suddenly thinks it’s all for him,” Andrew says, his hip bumping Neil’s in a silent good morning.

Neil chuckles, making kissy faces at King and drinking his coffee until the eggs are done.


After breakfast, Andrew and Neil grab their spare blankets and wrap up on the couch (which is really more of a loveseat), both of them in a corner with their legs tangled up together. Andrew grabs a book from the coffee table and opens it to wherever he had stopped last, and Neil messes around on his phone before deciding to flip through the TV channels.

It’s peaceful until King begins meowing up a storm again, pacing all around the couch like he can’t quite decide where is the best place to jump up. Andrew meows back at him once more, which gets a smile out of Neil, and Andrew glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Neil sees the telltale signs of Andrew’s happiness around his eyes, and although it’s still a rare occurrence, it’s not a complete surprise when Andrew grins too.

What does surprise both of them is the fact that King tries to jump up onto the back of the couch. It’s a lower seated piece of furniture, so he usually can make it, but today his claws sink into the fabric next to Andrew’s shoulder and squirms around for a second before dropping back to the floor. It’s almost comically Lion King-esque, and Andrew and Neil both stare at him for a second.

Then, Andrew laughs.

It’s short, but it’s almost a giggle and it’s nothing like the quiet snorts Neil has gotten so used to.

It’s so endearing that Neil can’t help but laugh along, and while he still laughs like it’s been startled out of him, he catches the way that it makes Andrew smile a little wider.

Neither of them mention it, because they don’t have to. They just go back to reading and watching TV, but every once and a while Neil can’t help but sneak a peek at Andrew.

“Pay attention to your show,” Andrew comments, not glancing up.

“Can’t,” Neil says, smile sliding back onto his face as Andrew finally looks up at him.

He doesn’t smile again, but his eyes soften and he nudges Neil’s knee with his own. “Your attention span has gotten worse and worse.”

Neil shrugs, clicking the TV off and snuggling back into his corner. “It’s not as interesting.”

Andrew rolls his eyes and looks back down at his book, and slowly Neil drifts off into a nap. Their house is quiet and calm and full of everything that makes Neil happy, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.