in which i pretend to be good at writing

this time, last year, i cut my hair short and shorter. i stopped being angry, i spent my money on paint, i walked a lot, bought old books and a blanket and found a spot to devour language, or i tried to because language is not that easy, sometimes it hurts you and you let it, sometimes you’re the one that writes hurt and some people will tell you it heals them somehow, even just a little bit, which i think is good. this time last year, i stopped pretending i was okay, i started talking about what bothers me, i started talking, i started talking, i started talking, not about everything yet, but i think it’s a good start. i don’t want my bestfriend telling me, “kharla, sometimes i feel like i don’t even know you. you keep things and i’ve known you for a long time.” it’s the truth. i keep things, i’ve gotten good at telling people happy stories so they don’t ask questions. “are you okay?” “what was your childhood like?” “who hurt you?” “how much did they hurt you?” “how deeply?” i’ve gotten good at building walls that even i couldn’t break them. this time, last year, i stopped pretending everything was alright with me, i let myself cry, i started saying sorry to the people i care about, i let myself cry, i hugged my sister for the first time and we both cried, i talked to my mom crying, i talked to my older sister crying, i told my brother it wasn’t his fault, i talked to my dad about the last time he got angry. this time last year, i started forgiving myself, i started telling myself that it wasn’t my fault too. it’s wasn’t my fault. it isn’t my fault.

How the Mighty Fall (In love) *version 2.0*

Well.

Word of God, recently handed down re: birthdays ha snow officially collapsed the waveform.

  • Accordign to the “Man, Machines, Monsters” artbook, Aeksis Kaidanovsky is 7 years younger than Sasha
  • According to Beacham, he’s 3 years older

So!

This is an age-corrected version of “How the Mighty Fall (In love)” (aka Kaitlyn’s wholly unsubstantiated view of how the Kaidanovsky’s met)

The original, with bby-7-years-younger-Aleksis can be found here

For 3-years-older (but still bby) Aleksis, read on!

Keep reading

hoot-eggs  asked:

UT and UF Sans and US Papy react to their S/O uncomfortably fiddling with the skelly's hoodie string/jacket sleeve and when they ask the S/O what's wrong, they ask the skelly if they love them. When the skelly does tell them, the S/O just says I" love you" back and pretends like nothing happened. Later on, the skelly finds out from maybe Toriel that the S/O has an insecurity that people around them don't like them and just wanted reassurance from hehe skelly.Feel better& good luck with thepiano!

* Heavy breathing.
* You’re asking all my favs
* Thanks for the luck! I’m gonna practise Waterfall again later ugh so hard


UT!Sans

He already had a sneaking suspicion this was the case on the day it happened. Finding out from Tori just confirmed it. He’s always been physically affectionate but he understands the need to have vocal confirmation of things. He tells his S/O that he loves them at every opportunity possible, sneaking in a kiss or a hug. He never confronts them about their insecurity, understanding how embarrassing it can be to ask for affection, especially for an unwarranted insecurity. He just ups the affection, hoping he leaves no room for doubt of his love.

UF!Sans

When he finds out from Toriel, it’s like a whole new revelation. He’d never have guessed on his own that his S/O was insecure about his affections for them, being caught up in his own insecurities. Then again, he’s not exactly the most straightforward guy when it comes to these things. He gets flustered by touch and sucks with words. He ends up blaming himself for not making it clear enough that he loves his S/O very much. He pulls them to one side, sits them down and tries his best to explain the above. It ends up in a terrible, stuttering mess but his S/O gets the message. He puts in a greater effort to be more casually affectionate and it does help him get over his weirdness with touch, bringing them closer as a couple.

US!Pap

He picks up on it on the night after the incident, when he’s laying in bed and pondering their strange behaviour. He ups the affection immediately, murmuring I love yous into their skin whenever he can, holding them close and kissing them softly. When he hears the confirmation from Toriel, he confronts them about it, telling them that if they ever feel this way, it’s totally okay to tell him so that he can show them how much he loves them.

First Love (Yoongi scenario)

Originally posted by beui

It’s been a while since you were home. Being surrounded by the familiar environment, it made you feel good. You got to spend some time with your family whom you miss very much. Since it was the weekend, you decided to spend the day walking around the city. You were reading at a quiet, empty cafe to kill time while waiting for someone.

“Y/N-ah?” you hear that familiar voice and you knew he wasn’t the one you were waiting for.

You looked up from your book and saw Yoongi standing in front of you. Yoongi was your closest friend back in school. He always stuck by your side, protecting and taking care of you. As cliche as it seems, he was also your first love - unrequited first love. You knew he would never return your feelings so you decided to forget him. You stopped texting him, looking for him, contacting him. The fact that he started working as a music producer and you were going overseas to continue your studies right after graduation made it easier. Now that you’re back home, you thought everything would be just fine but here you are, face to face with Yoongi.

As he took a seat, you observed him. He wore a mouth mask and cap to disguise himself from the public eye. Even so, he looked good, a lot better than the last image of him that you had engraved in your mind, which you desperately had tried to erase.

“How have you been?”

Yoongi wasn’t much of a talker but every time he speaks, you melt a little on the inside listening to his voice. As much as you want to deny it, he still has that effect on you.

“I’m fine. I see that you’re doing extremely well these days, with your music and producing,” you replied, as the waiter served your drink.

“I see you’re still drinking Iced Chai Latte? You’ve never changed since then.”

You loved how he remembers the littlest things about you - from your favourite Avengers character (he wasn’t even a fan of Marvel) to how you look if you’re heading out or home after school. They may seem like insignificant details but they mean so much to you.

“Y/N-ah, I know it’s been a few years but… Why didn’t you tell me when you left home to go overseas? I had to find out about it from Kihyun. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I know I don’t do much but I had so many things prepared for you. I, I wanted to tell you about my feelings for you,”

You felt your heart beating quicker. You couldn’t believe what you heard. Before you could say what you’ve held in for many years, you felt an arm wrapped around your waist and a peck on your head.

“Hey babe,” your boyfriend, Jimin, said with a smile.

“Ah, Jimin, this is Yoongi. Yoongi, Jimin,” you introduced them to each other.

As they shook hands, you felt as if your past and present collide.

“It’s great meeting you. I should get going,” Yoongi stood up, getting ready to leave.

“Actually, Jimin, can you give me 5 minutes with Yoongi? I’ll meet you outside,” Jimin nodded and gave your hand a squeeze before walking to the door.

“Yoongi, I’ve always liked you. You were my first love. I’ve always wanted to tell you how I felt but I didn’t think you would feel the same way. So I decided to move on,”

“And now you found someone to replace me. I guess I deserved it for not confessing sooner,”

“I’m sorry Yoongi,”

“Don’t say that, it’s not your fault. This is a few years late but, I guess, this is goodbye,” you embraced him in your arms, trying to take in as much as possible.

“Bye Yoongi,” you whispered and made your way to Jimin.

You intertwined your fingers with Jimin and he greeted you with a peck before you started walking. As you walked away, the image of Yoongi in the cafe got smaller and smaller.

Wandering Thoughts

Fourth installment of the Castiel “At First Sight” series, which consists of “At First Sight,” “You’re Growing On Me,” and “Under His Wing,” all linked on their titles. Requested by anon, but altered to fit my own persona plot line. “For the At First Sight continuation (I’m not very good at this but I love this series of imagines so much! Thank u by the way for writing!) what if the Winchesters actually knew Cas & y/n were together” Oh, they know. They’re just really good at pretending they don’t. “so they purposefully leave the bunker on a “hunt” to give them alone time. Maybe smut, fluff? And in the end the couple comes out of their room to see the Winchesters grinning because they were right? Thank you again for your imagines, love em!” I’ve warped the ending with intent to shock. Hope you like it!

(All past and future installments can be found on the “The Story Continues…” page.)

WARNING: SMUT

Castiel’s hand rested beneath yours, sharing his warmth in a gradual, tender way, his wings tinkling like silver bells as they brushed against your shoulders, their song trilling sweetly against your cheeks, flooding your usually gore-drenched world in serenity. You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly, the pitch landscape of your eyelids painted by the melodies produced by Castiel’s glorious feathers. His body was pressed against yours, his arm wound beneath yours, your palms pressed together, fingers interlaced, his very scent an unavoidable distraction in such close proximity. These… human gestures weren’t as much a rarity as they had been in the previous weeks of your relationship, and you valued his touch equally to the ever-present caress from his wingtips. As if on cue, a feather trailed along the line of your cheekbone, pausing at the corner of your lips before flitting away. You opened your eyes at the absence of the quill against your face, the loss of the unimaginable softness sparking your interest. Sapphire eyes glowed brighter when they locked on yours, the angel’s smile translating to the way his wings trembled, the feathers stretching themselves when your face mirrored his. His eyes dropped to the surface of the library table, dissecting your movement as you turned the alarmingly thin page in an elderly book of lore, determined to refocus on your occupation, the ivory parchment between your fingers stiffened by time and brittle beneath your touch. His eyes watched your every movement, wings curling inward to over above you, a canopy of alluring lights and unnameable colours.

You sighed once more, leaning into the angel’s shoulder, allowing him to support your weight. His arms wound easily around your body, his wings adjusting above to envelop you further, their feathery shroud closing in. You were practically running yourself into the ground, staying awake so far into the morning that it became pointless to attempt sleep, but you had no other option if you were to keep up with the work load. You were constantly ringing a mutual hunting partner named Garth when you were fortunate enough to pluck a detail from the ancient texts, relaying the information to him in hopes that it somehow applied to his ongoing mystery hunts. The man was too good at getting himself into trouble, but you would try your damnedest to ease him through each escapade. The excruciating hours seemed fewer with Castiel at your side, enjoying your presence in more ways than one, his position beside you exhibiting his desire for a human-specific touch that even the hyper-sensitive nerve endings adorning his wings could not satisfy. He was wholeheartedly content with watching you work in silence, his thumb rubbing foreign letters into the backside of your palm, his thoughts very obviously preoccupied with his wings. The restraint he upheld was weaker, less strict as you grew closer, but he continued to at least attempt to keep the trilling of his rustling feathers to a hushed minimum to lessen the level of glimmering distraction, though his attempts were oftentimes unsuccessful. Every minute or so into Castiel’s fruitless quest, you’d feel the silken touch of his wingtips. You would never be able to deny the luxury of such contact, but you both understood the need to complete certain assignments, especially when it came to Garth. Thus, Castiel would mumble an apology, cheeks burning low over his dazzling smile, before flexing his wings away from your body. This charade was repeated as soon as you had immersed yourself in the inkblots and crude sketches, your skin tingling beneath the cautious, involuntary extensions of Castiel’s feathers, your head growing misty from the delectable aroma wafting from his chest… his every feature lured you from your work.

You were going to get Garth killed.

You closed the leather-bound pages, defeated, your resolve shattering within you like a wall of cracked glass… and there were his wings, already furled on your every side, ready to sweep up the fragments and invite you into their owner’s loving arms. All you had to do was shift, lay your cheek against his chest, and you were in a whole other world, surrounded by spectrums of heartbreaking hues and waves of calming light. Castiel’s wing-song flourished instinctively, every quill vibrating in the awareness that they now had your attention; it was an almost victorious sort of tune, you noticed with a chuckle. You tilted your face to your angel, watching his tongue dart tentatively over his lips before he leaned towards you, feathers ushering you closer…

A doorknob squealed in an adjacent room, and Castiel’s wings had plastered themselves as best they could to his spine, his hand flying from yours, his face one of guilt and embarrassment as he swiftly relocated you more firmly in your own seat, abandoning the shared space as both Sam and Dean exited the bunker’s small armory. You grimaced, both at your predicament as well as the memory of helping to stock the room as if you were in a war zone; your biceps still protested almost all movement due to the deep-set ache grinding against each contracting muscle from the strain of hauling boxes of heavy bullets. The brothers strolled over to the library’s extended table, their eyes unassuming and free of accusations, carrying with them their usual nylon duffle bags. Sam tucked a glimmering angel blade into the inside of his jacket, Dean’s eyes remaining respectfully on a fissure forming on the wall’s aging paint opposite you and Castiel, peeking up after a few seconds and, finding you weren’t in a compromising position, he offered a supposedly-clueless smile. You didn’t buy his elaborate facade for a half-second, but you appreciated the effort. The air above your head shivered visibly, at least to you, as Castiel’s eager feathers strained against his rigid composure, his hold weakened by the state you were in when disturbed. These human indulgences were as exhilarating as the otherworldly embraces you shared. Surely, the brothers could identify tension, thick as it hung around them, pushing down from all sides like garlands of stressful discomfort. They were merely acting the unobservant roommates.

"We’re heading out. Rick Dawson just called, says he’s got a demon problem not too far outside of Hays, thought we’d help him out. Only a few towns over, shouldn’t take too long,” Dean’s eyes shifted to Castiel, who now upheld a stiffer posture than even his usual, as if he were concerned about their figuring him out, discovering you to be his lover. You supposed he thought he was protecting your honor by maintaining the secret. Close quarters, your near-family family members present at almost all times, that sort of smudge he thought your record didn’t deserve. An angel thing, apparently. They were all chivalry and pixie dust. Dean gave him a little nod, his mouth opening slightly as he winked, turning on his heel and marching towards the vault door that sealed the outside world away from your Heaven, his heavy boots setting your nerves on edge. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t burn the place down,” he warned, the industrial locks within the bunker’s entryway spinning shut with a weighted conviction behind Sam, his figure back-lit by the milky moon, avoiding eye contact all together as the portal to reality swung to a close. Castiel’s wings erupted in a collected sigh of relaxation, every vane shivering closer to you as his hand ran from your shoulder to your elbow, his touch as cautious as if you were made of sand, his conscience constantly nagging him to mind the particles of you as they tumbled downward. His very touch sent your heart beat racing towards dangerous speeds, his smile nearly audible as his fingers traced over your skin.

You turned to face him, his wings humming a strange tune you hadn’t heard before… it was a hymn of excited agitation, a swell of happiness and a sudden drop to silence before fizzling back to life, the feathers quivering in undecided confusion. You had never been alone with him, truly alone with him, before. The idea elicited thoughts that someone corresponding to the Heavenly Host might find… alarming. His eyes trailed to your collarbones, his hands spreading warmth upward as he traced his way to your shoulders, his wings shuddering blissfully. You laid a hand against his chest, his eyes closing in peaceful serenity as you inched your fingertips towards the nape of his neck, his head tipping back as you stood, his hands falling to your hips as your lips connected. His wings, as you had grown to expect, erupted in overwhelming song, music you couldn’t place with words tugging on your heartstrings as your lips moved against his. To say you were comfortable with each other physically was an understatement; you were almost always touching, excusing the few hours you spent sleeping (if you slept at all, that is. Lately, you were running on vapors), but you had never experienced the type of carnal contact you found yourself desiring. Your lips pulled on his with a cautious fervor, his hands lowering still to wrap around the backs of your thighs, pulling you to straddle his lap, his breath passing over your face as he exhaled. He smelled strongly of honey and of an unplaced, yet equally mouthwatering scent, your mind exploding as the sensory overload swaddled your mind. His hands smoothed over your back, following the trails his feathers left along your skin. He pulled his lips from yours, which was apparently a great effort on his part, his hands moving to cradle your face, his eyes bright with sapphire passion. His jaw flexed as he exhaled, enforcing the already evident, and somehow painful, genuinity of his expression. He touched his forehead to yours, his hand sliding from your cheek to bring your palm to rest over his heart, to feel his pulse beat rapidly in perfect synchronization with your own. His lips were tugged upwards in a bashful grin, the striking galaxies in his eyes dancing as his feathers whispered against your ears, his breathy chuckle barely carrying over the humming of his wings.

“Y/n,” he whimpered, his voice more breath than speech, “I should let you know… when we touch, my thoughts… they wander into yours. It’s a minor reflex. I would apologize, but it appears that we… we share…” he panted, gulping back another chuckle as your face burnt, the pad of his thumb smoothing a line over the curve of your blazing cheekbone. “I love you, and I would very much like to be with you.” He had whispered, though you were alone in the bunker, your pulse thrumming wildly against your throat. You stared into his eyes, letting your thoughts wander, your breath coming faster. With a mighty swell, his wings had propelled you both to your feet, his hands guiding your legs around his waist, his lips pressing into yours with sincere longing as he walked towards your bedroom. Once within the confines of your room, he rolled his shoulders, his wings producing enough of a breeze to slam the door behind you. His body bent over you as he laid you onto the covers, removing his trench coat once you were nestled among the unmade sheets. Your eyes swept over the thin fabric stretched over his abdomen, your stomach a bundle of rusted nails and screws. Castiel’s hand reached forward, his eyes on yours as his fingers smoothed over your rib cage, your clothing vanishing, leaving your skin at the mercy of the chilled bunker air, were it not for the wings that rushed to your rescue. He held himself over you, the mattress squeaking beneath his weight, the soft brush of his lips against yours enough to ease your nerves, your body relaxing into the tug of your clothing melting away and the warmth of his hands grazing your body, your mind going hazy from the thrilling trill of his wings. Soon, your room was alight with a roseate hue, his gemstone wings flinging primarily crimson arcs of light against every and all surfaces, his body nestling between your legs before his eyes found yours again, his arms shifting as he held himself over you, your hands trailing down the ridges of his muscled torso, wings above you stretching experimentally, feathers murmuring as Castiel’s body trembled from your contact. Your finger stopped at the elastic waistband of his briefs, his eyes shooting open, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as you tentatively reached inside, his hardened member meeting your touch. His wings beat erratically, knocking a lamp from your bedside table. Castiel’s face progressed to scarlet in embarrassment, his jaw tight. Your own cheeks flushed, your free hand reaching beneath Castiel’s arm to stroke where the feathers met skin, his hips dipping to yours. You pulled away from his erection, your hands working the fabric from his body, another wing beat moving in time with the disappearance of both your and his remaining undergarments. His eyes shifted over your body, wings fluttering slightly before he ran his hand over your breast, pressing a kiss to your jawline. The entirety of the experience was… surprisingly relaxing, and as gentle as if you were forged of glass instead of flesh. Castiel whispered your name as he eased inside of you. His wings dipped towards you as he thrust again, your neck craning against the feeling of something so blindingly perfect, someone so cherished. A shy moan filtered through your lips, Castiel’s feathers humming almost inaudibly in response as the angel’s lips dove to your neck, his lower body rolling in and out at a slow, almost torturous pace, the air of romanticism never overwhelmed by the lust building in your core.

You ran your hands through his hair, feathers brushing against your lips, your eyelids, your wrists as Castiel’s head ducked into your shoulder, his pace increasing just barely, his wings pressing backward to propel himself forward, the feathers roiling like timid waves. He breathed your name again and again, his hips bucking into yours, your legs squeezing around his waist as your pleasure increased. Soon, you found confidence in your voice, fingers clenching around masses of heat and feathers as you spoke his name aloud. Your lips moved to his, your fingers tangling in feathers, hair, clutching to his skin. A new light began to fill the room, coming from the base of Castiel’s wings, a semi-blinding white light. He slowed as the light burned brighter, pushing once, twice, three times before the coil within you sprang loose, his wings pressing backward as far as was possible before diving downwards, shuddering to immobility, the light dying, a new warmth spreading between your legs. You stared agape at him, his breath ragged in his chest, his lips meeting yours with a sloppy determination, a whispered ‘I love you,’ escaping from between your lips. He smiled into your skin, his fingers relocating stray strands of hair behind your ear. He pulled away, moving to rest beside you, waiting for your joined breathing to slow when the sound of the bunker’s entrance screeched against the stagnant air within. Castiel’s eyes shot to yours, confusion painting his otherwise calm features, his clothes appearing on his frame the second yours did on you, his hand pulling your from the bed and into the library in time to see Sam and Dean stumble down the stairs, clutching at various open wounds, blood seeping from between their fingers, their faces streaked with a garish red. Your hand went limp in Castiel’s, his wings pinned behind him in shock. “Dean, what’s hap-” Castiel began, but the look of aggravated terror on the hunter’s face silenced him. His wings were silent.

“Rick Dawson is dead. Cas, they saw us coming,” Castiel began once more, his speech impaired by his fear, his voice strangling off as Dean threw three bloodstained angel blades onto the library’s glossy table. His wings were without song, and now without movement of any kind. Sam pulled his own trophy from within his jacket, shooting you an expression of concern as he set it beside the three already present, Dean unzipping his duffle to present… yet another blade. Five? Dean jabbed a finger at the pile of angelic weaponry. “These are not ours. We’ve got our two back in the car,” Dean’s eyes broke through his struggling composure, burning with intensity. “Damn it, Cas, they know. They’re coming for her.”

Not Gently

Part the first of a sprawling Kaidanovsky fix-it.

For a given value of fix-it.

In which I seriously was on Hong Kong gov’t websites, looking up numbers, and there is obligatory mention of Ukrainian Hard House.

Title: Not Gently

Rating: PG-13ish

Pairing: Sasha/Aleksis

Summary: Do not go gently into that good night.

Keep reading

Some monsters pretend to be human and
some humans pretend to be monsters.
Good luck at figuring out which one you are.
—  I.S., @lunatic-poet

anonymous asked:

yo dude i just read the newest chapter of whms and it's so good! im literally never disapointed when you update (which is why i have update notifications on lol). also just a ps, you got me so scared for their break up... like... oh boy...

i’m scared for their breakup too ha,,ha maybe i’ll just never get around to writing it and we can pretend it never happened 

6

In which Midorima already passed out in embarassment www (’(゚∀゚∩ 

hinagikuzeelmart. Hope you don’t mind I choose Midorima this time (^^ゞ Midorima is not my expertise though. I tried >.<

chaitea09  asked:

"Can I kiss you?" for Xal :)

From the sappy prompt - it was harder than I thought it’d be x) I hope it’s good though :p Thank you for the ask <3


    The tavern was animated this evening, much like every other evening. Maryden was singing a song about the Inquisitor and his loved one ; in corner of the tavern, on the upper floor, laughs burst out. Around the table, Bull was telling another joke, to which Sera fall off her seat. Dorian was just sipping his wine, pretending to be disgusted by said joke. And the Inquisitor… well he was head on the table, gripping his stomach, unable to breathe.
“Hahaha please Bull wait - I can’t breathe anymore !”
Dorian glanced at his amatus, before putting his drink on the table. “It wasn’t even funny, Xalynir. How can you laugh to this ?”
Getting back on her chair, Sera giggled, a crooked smile on her face : “Aw c'me on… It’s obvious. He’s drunk !”
Xalynir was bearing red cheeks and an honest smile since his… third ? Fourth glass ? Ah he can’t remember it.
“Boss’ been under a lot of pressure these days. He can usually hold his drink… Guess that’s the stress effect.” says Bull, taking away the bottle from Xal’s side of the table.
Dorian breathed out, shaking his head. He looked back at Xalynir - dilated pupils, red cheeks, laughs at anything, huge stupid smile. The Inquisitor was drunk.

    “Can I kiss you ?”

Dorian stopped for a while, and turned to his man. Did he imagine it ? He peeked at Bull and Sera who seemed equally chocked, but soon a knowing smile displayed on their faces. That could not be good…
“Dooooorian. Can I kiss youu ?”
Xalynir was pursing his lips, eyes begging. He cocked his eyebrow and said slowly :“So I’d taste your liquored up breath ? I’ll pass this time…”
Xal pouted and got closer to Dorian. “But you said you’d never refuse a kiss from me. That you liked my red lips.”
Dorian could hear their companions snicker -of course they’d be here when this happens. He’s never gonna hear the end of it… He shifted his seat to face the Inquisitor, and whispered :“Not here. Try to contain yourself. You are drunk.”
But Xalynir didn’t listen to him, and crossed his arms on the table before putting his head on it. Still pulling a face. Kaffas, what a child. Dorian didn’t know how Trevelyan acted when drunk, but he didn’t to find out like this, in this place, surrounded by two idiots that didn’t help. He hissed at Bull and Sera, who exploded in a loud laughter.

Then Xal shifted, putting his elbow on the table, holding his head clumsily.
“Y'know what… You’re not very good at pretending you don’t want me,” he mumbled.
Dorian choked, and it was when the other two companions completely lost it. Traveling his finger on Dorian’s shoulder, Xalynir continued :“Mmmh have you been working out again ? Because I…”
Dorian put his hands on Xalynir’s mouth before he could say anything. “Vishante kaffas. Festis bei umo canavarum, amatus.”
Trevelyan looked at him, eyes squinting, apparently not seizing the meaning of the sentence. “Fesbutt carnavalum… what ? What'you talkin’ Lenn…Laanena… Llenla.. Aw shucks.”
Dorian chuckled at Xalynir’s failed attempt to pronounce his word of endearment. He put an arm around his amatus’ shoulders, the latter becoming tired. “Let’s go rest, amatus. I’ll make it up to you another time, when you’re sober.”
He agreed silently, eyes closing slowly. Dorian helped him get up, and they left the tavern.
Bull and Sera immediately went to Varric. The lovers are going to get teased… for a whole month at the very least.


Xal was trying to say the word “Leannan” which means lover, sweetheart in Irish/ Scottish Gaelic. I just searched google, I am not Scottish nore Irish so I apologize in advance if it’s not the right term and/or definition :p
Also, don’t hesitate to correct me if something is wrong in the phrasing :)

Four Leaves to a Clover- The King, the Princess, the Knight and the Dragon

Drabble Request from Sophaoat

Or When Humanity in a Handbag writes a Drabble and it’s 40 Fucking Plus Pages Please Let’s Just Pretend It’s a Drabble Okay? Okay.

According to tradition, such leaves bring good luck to their finders, especially if found accidentally. In addition, each leaf is believed to represent something: the first is for faith, the second is for hope, the third is for love, and the fourth is for luck.

In which grief is merely a way to leave your tears in a trail: One must learn to follow them eventually.


For sophaoat (and also dainesanddaffodils who co-requested it at one point), who requested this a long time ago, and was going to receive a 2000 word quick drabble but is instead receiving this 40 some odd page monster.

Darling, I tried. Oh god did I try.

For those who don’t know, I was challenged to write a drabble that included the topics of “will you marry me?”, “I’m pregnant” and one other surprising factor that I totally forgot but let’s just pretend it was “SURPRISE!” and my brain took that and was like, yes… I can angst that… oh hell to the yes I can…

For thatchickwiththeheadphones who has been waiting for this, and who inspired the ending, because I just couldn’t. I honestly just couldn’t. Sometimes I have to give in and make sure that even angst has a happy ending. And because, girl, you’ve done literally nothing but support me on this one. So thank you for giving me the boost I needed to finish it. It really, truly helped.

For gigiree, because girl your angst is actually the greatest and yet you take the time to rave with me about my stuff. And from my home in the seas I’m saluting you right now. 

And a special shout out to likethestarsthat-shine. Because girl you met me in the fucking city to rave about this stupid story. 

And artbymaureen, who’s wonderful pictures of Butterfly Bog Family Fluff helped me so much with reference stuffs. You have been so supportive of me darling. And I am so endlessly grateful. Thank you. If you haven’t checked her out, please do!!!

And for anyone who has literally done nothing but support me while I was going insane with long work weeks and not enough time to write (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, you guys are the best, I’m getting to reviewing all your stuff and writing my own, and now that this is finally finished I feel like I can actually get to completing and publishing more and it’s all thanks to you. You’re the best. Now take this before I go insane. 


It would all begin, they supposed, when marriage became something neither could avoid any longer. 

It would have happened eventually. They all knew that it had to. Everyone had expected it, and everyone in both Kingdoms nearly flew into a tizzy at the idea of the two star crossed lovers (who would have rather taken insult to the idea that anything between them was remotely star crossed thank you very much) finally tying a knot that was already far gone in its entanglement. 

Some loved it.

Most hated it. And hisses, growls and pinched looks were all too common, the idea of a Fairy and a Goblin almost too different for anyone to stomach. Then again, they’d always been different. Even when the idea of going through with a ceremony had, in its own way, been nothing anyone had expected.

“I thought there’d be more fire,” Dawn told Sunny honestly, whispering from the side of her mouth while clapping for the wildly uncomfortable couple who’d been corralled atop a platform to wave regally at the large crowd. “Or, you know, at least one kidnapping.”

“I was expecting a song,” he tipped back on his heels, smiling when Marianne shot him a thumbs up. “Something rock and roll.”

“Huh. Yeah. I guess it’s weird they didn’t do that either.”

“I don’t know if he could’ve done an encore to Mistreated-”

“He’s Boggy, Sunny, he’d find a way to do it.”

“Too true.” His fingers wound through hers and she gave them a light squeeze, beaming up at Bog who was looking a little more pallid than he should have been, hunching down at a new barrage of whistles and hoots, his smile shy and his eyes bright. Clawed hands found themselves filled with long Fae fingers and Dawn had to let out a long, dreamy sigh. 

“They’re just so perfect together, aren’t they?”

“Mmhmm… Wait. How did he do it again?”

“Do-”

“Propose.”

She shrugged. “Nothing big, really. Which was a shock. He just sorta… asked. I kinda thought there’d be more. But, I mean, she seemed happy. And they’ve talked about it for a while, so who’m I to complain, right!?”

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Roadhouse Rage

Requested: {Hi, can you do a one shot where you’re a hunter who’s been dating Dean for a while, and he decides to introduce you to Ellen Jo and Ash, and Jo ends ups disliking you because she’s jealous that Dean loves you? Thanks!}

Note: I hope you like it! Thank you so much for requesting this, it was fun to write:)

Characters: Dean x Reader, Ellen, Jo, Ash

Word Count: 1810

Warnings: none

“It’s just a few more miles.”

“Hey, I’m good. Those Milk Duds hit the spot.” Dean grins as I pat my belly, pretending to look bloated. Despite the fourteen hour drive, it has been a fun trip. Relaxing and uneventful, both of which are words hardly ever used in our lives.

“You’re gonna love the place. And Ellen- you’re gonna love Ellen.”

“Just hope she likes me.” I toy with a piece of frayed leather from my seat, feeling those butterflies awaken in my stomach again. I had been putting off this trip for months now, ever since Dean had suggested I mean his ‘extended family’, and they meet me. I’ve heard way too much about them to not be nervous, and I know how much Dean looks up to them.

“They’re gonna love you, okay?” Dean reaches over and pats my knee. “Don’t worry about it.”

Easier said than done, but I give him a smile and force myself to focus on the positive. What’s the worst thing that can happen? They hate me and we move on. But will their opinion change how Dean feels about me? My stomach twists at the thought.

We have been dating for nearly six months, but of course we’ve known each other for much longer. After a hunt gone wrong, we’d joined forces and become a team. Shortly after that, Dean and I had started dating, and I have a feeling that it’s getting to be very serious. Hence this long drive to meet these people.

A few minutes later, and the Roadhouse comes into view. It’s daytime, so there’s only two trucks parked outside. The front door and windows are open to let in the fresh air. Dean parks the Impala outside and turns to me with a big smile on his face.

“Are you ready?”

“I feel like I’m meeting the parents.”

“Relax, it’ll be fine.”

“Easy for you to say.” I mutter, climbing out of the car. Dean walks around and takes my hand securely in his. I’m grateful for his support. We walk up to the building and step inside. There’s only two customers, two guys, sitting at the bar quietly drinking beers together.

An older woman is cleaning shot glasses with a white cloth, her dark brown hair falling past her shoulders. She turns at the sound of footsteps and a slow smile causes her brown eyes to crinkle.

“Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe.”

“Hya, Ellen.”

Ellen comes around the counter and wraps Dean in a hug. It’s quite touching to see someone care about Dean in that way. Ellen seems to have assumed the motherly role in his life, and I’m glad.

“Jo! Look who’s here!”

A blonde headed girl comes in through a back door. Once she sees who it is, she runs across the room and throws her arms around Dean. This is less touching then watching Ellen. While Jo is much younger, I can sense a fondness in her being that goes beyond sisterly love. Warning bells go off in my brain, but I remind myself not to judge and that they are just friends.

“Alright, Jo, don’t squeeze him to death.” Ellen laughs.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” Jo playfully punches Dean on the shoulder, smiling up at him.

“Just decided at the last minute. Plus I wanted to surprise you.” Dean turns and smiles, directing their attention to me. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet-”

“Dean! Good to see you, old buddy.” A middle aged man steps into the room, and judging by his hairstyle, I figure this is Ash. He slaps Dean on the back.

“Hey, Ash.”

“You’re just in time. Little bird told me about a case down in Virginia, sounds just like-”

“Ash,” Ellen cuts in, looking exasperated. “Dean didn’t come alone.”

“Sure, sure, Sam can help too.”

“No, idiot,” Jo’s eyes are narrowed as she looks at me. “He brought her.”

Dean steps away from them and puts an arm around my shoulders. “This is Y/N Y/L/N, my girlfriend.”

Ash gives a low whistle, which makes my face burn. “Boy, you snagged yourself a nice one.”

“Mind your manners.” Ellen extends her hand to me, which I shake firmly. “Good to see Dean’s finally found himself someone. I take it you’re a hunter.”

“Oh yes,” I give Dean’s hand a squeeze. “I love hunting. Deer, moose, bears….”

At the surprise and fear in their eyes, I hurriedly continue, “I’m just kidding! Yes, I am a hunter, been one all my life.”

Dean is laughing at the relief on all of their faces. Well, not all. Jo has a look on her face that reminds me of sucking on lemons.

“And she has humor.” Ellen smiles then. “Good job, Dean. Come on and sit down. Y’all hungry?”

“For your cooking, always.”

Ellen goes to the kitchen, while the rest of us sit down at a booth. Dean and I on one side, with Ash and Jo on the other. Despite my previous decision to give Jo the benefit of the doubt, I can’t help but feel uneasy as I watch her look at Dean. Like he’s some kind of prize and she’s set on winning it. He’s oblivious to it, thank goodness.

“So how did you two…” Ash waggles a finger between the two of us.

“Meet? Well, that’s a story- do you want to tell it or should I?”

“Oh, you go ahead.” It warms my heart to see Dean so happy and at ease. He goes into the tale- which is really just that, a fable and hardly close to what actually happened. I don’t mind. Dean’s version is much more exciting.

Ash gets a few laughs out of the story, and Jo echoes his enjoyment, but it’s forced. She ignores me completely, focusing only on Dean. By the end of the story, Ellen returns with steaming plates of food. It is the best food I’ve ever tasted.

“Mrs. Harvelle, Dean told me you were a good cook, but he didn’t do you justice. This is terrific.”

Ellen smiles and I think her chest lifts a little in pride. “Glad you like it. I’d give you the recipe, but it’s an old family secret and meant to stay in the family. Maybe if you and Dean…”

I turn to Dean, clasping my hands together in a beseeching gesture, “Will you marry me? I HAVE to have that recipe!”

Everyone laughs, except for Jo. She is finally looking at me, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead right now. I try to give her a smile, but she looks away. Maybe I can talk to her later.

When everyone’s done eating, Ellen starts to clear the table and I hurry to help.

“You don’t have to do that.” Ellen says, waving me off. “Jo can help me.”

“No, really, I’d like to help.” I stack a few dishes and carry them into the kitchen. Ellen and Jo follow, filling the sink with hot, soapy water. Mother washes while daughter dries, so I go back out to get more dirty dishes.

As I come back with an armload, I can hear the ladies’ voices getting louder as their conversation picks up.

“I don’t care how you feel about it, it’s done.” Ellen’s voice sounds tired and frustrated. “They’re happy together. It’s mean to be, there’s an end to it.”

“Come on, Mom, we don’t know anything about her. You’re just going to let Dean fall in love with someone who could probably be a siren or a demon?”

“Joanna, that’s enough. She’s not a siren and she as heck ain’t a demon. Dean’s smarter than that. Now this needs to stop. Besides, Dean is much older than you are.”

I sigh and take a few steps back so they won’t know I was eavesdropping. I shift the dishes so they clank, then walk into the kitchen. Jo refuses to meet my gaze, but Ellen offers me a smile.

“Will you and Dean be staying in town tonight?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a motel down the road.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask Dean.”

Jo slaps the dish rag onto the counter and storms out of the room.

“Jo Harvelle!” Ellen calls after her, but it does no good. She sighs and shakes her head. “I’m sorry about that. Don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

I’m not one to beat around the bush. I like clearing the air and settling things as soon as possible. Less drama that way. I mutter something about being right back and head in the direction Jo had. I find her outside, tossing rocks at an old shed across the yard. Judging by the force used to hurl those stones, I figure she’s seeing me and not the shed as her target.

“Hey, Jo.” She ignores me and picks up another rock. “Can we talk?”

“I have anything to say to you.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that clear.”

“What do you want?” She turns and faces me, her expression wrinkled in a frown. She would be so pretty and cute if she’d learn to smile.

“I want to talk. Let’s see, what could we talk about? Oh, I know, let’s talk about how cold it was back in the Roadhouse. Or who those rocks are really meant for.” I have to work hard to keep my tone free of sarcasm. Experience has taught me not many people respond well to it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Jo, sure you do. You like Dean, I get it.”

Jo’s eyes narrow. “You don’t know what you’re-”

“Yeah, I do. You’ve got a crush on Dean, and everyone knows it. It was cute for a while, now it’s not. He’s moved on and found someone else. You need to do the same, Jo.”

“You have no right- no idea what’s going on!” Jo looks ready to cry and, really, that’s the last thing I want. “You don’t understand!”

“Sure I do. I went through the same thing when I was your age. And I can’t fault you for taste. But Dean is a lot older than you, and honestly? he thinks of you as his sister.”

“That’s not true. We’ve done a lot together, been through a lot. He just needs a little time to figure it out.”

“Sweetie, he has figured it out. And he’s moved on. He’s got me.”

“Not if I have anything to say about that.”

Helping other people write applications for school/jobs is way more fun than writing my own because 

a) I think my friends are awesome and I want whoever is reading their application to think they are awesome too, whereas I think I’m mediocre at best and so convincing other people that I’m great feels disingenuous

b) I can bullshit like a champion and spin anything into something that sounds good 

c) I get to judge someone else’s writing in a ‘constructive’ manner which is always more fun than it should be

d) I like to pretend that I know what I’m talking about

Also I’m the snarkiest proofreader ever so I get to give notes like “read that again and consider your regrettable pluralization choices” and “lo! a wild comma splice appears!”

Version of Love
  • Version of Love
  • Will Jay
Play

Since people asked for it. 

Lyrics: 

Thanks a lot Shakespeare, where’s my Juliet? 
Books have set my standards high, I guess my type is nonexistent 
My dumb ideas fool me again 
Always lose myself in words in which I’m not holding the pen 

Oh, but now I’m done with pretending 
I don’t need happy endings anymore

Oh yeah, I’m tired of falling 
Oh yeah, for someone else’s story 
‘Cause he gets the girl and I get paper cuts 
I guess it’s time to write my own personal version of love 

Said it’s just a script, faces on a screen 
Yet I’m in love with how in love they sound when all they are is acting 
It’s unrealistic; they’re way too good looking
Can’t use their dialogue, might come off odd ‘cause I’m no Ryan Gosling 

Oh, don’t need those happy movies 
Fairy tales, they don’t suit me anymore 

Oh yeah, I’m tired of falling 
Oh yeah, for someone else’s story 
‘Cause he gets the girl and I get ticket stubs 
I guess it’s time to write my own personal version of love 
My own personal version of love 
My own personal version of love 

I’m tired of the fiction, all of the chick flicks 
I want my own Love Actually 
‘Cause who says that romance can’t happen to me? 

Oh yeah, I’m tired of falling 
Oh yeah, for someone else’s story 
Oh yeah, I’m tired of falling 
Oh yeah, for someone else’s story 
I won’t need one book to read or one movie to see
‘Cause I have the own 
But before that I need to write my own personal version of love 
My own personal version of love 
My own personal version of love 
My own personal version of love 
My own personal version of love.

Good questions for your first date
  1. Do you believe in the noumenal/phenomenal divide?
  2. If I tell you my favorite theologian of the mid-twentieth century is Niebuhr is your response “Yeah! Mine too!”, “Um, who?”, or to narrow your eyes suspiciously and ask “Which one?”?
  3. Are you better at pretending to understand Marxist, postcolonial, or postmodernist rhetoric?
  4. Do you write your papers drunk, high, or sober?
  5. Refworks, Endnotes, or Zotero?
  6. Do you think James Cone has adequately addressed womanist critiques of his theology?
  7. Who’s your favorite minor prophet?
  8. It the translation of the word “devas” when used in a Buddhist context into “gods” appropriate? Compare the general decision not to translate “bodhisattvas” into “gods.”
  9. If you could obliterate the works of one philosopher other than Foucault, who would it be?
  10. Was the specification that the philosopher not be Foucault necessary in your case?
  11. What is your favorite early Christian heresy?
  12. Which medieval theologian would you most like to punch? Does your answer change if Thomas of Aquinas is not an option?
  13. Have you ever used “Judeo-Christian” unironically outside of a quotation?

Stiles gets over Lydia the day he meets Veronica Mars. He feels really, really bad about that, because he’s always thought his thing for Lydia was more than just a thing, but he can’t help it. The heart has its reasons, of which the mind could probably know quite a bit if it took a good long honest look at its track record, but hey, Stiles is still young enough that he can pretend he doesn’t know any better.

Here’s how he meets Veronica:

“No, okay, imagine a bus,” Stiles is saying into his phone. “The seats are in rows of two, and everybody wants to sit near the front, but nobody wants to sit next to somebody else. So the first electron sits in one of the seats at the front, and then the next electron sits in the next one, and then when all the rows have at least one person in them, then the next electron gets on the bus and it’s like, shit, no window seats, so it sits down next to the first electron. ‘Cause if it can’t have a row to itself, at least it can sit at the front, right?”

Someone starts jimmying open the window. Stiles is in a corner of the room where he can’t see more than a flash of fingers through the pane, but it’s obviously just Derek, so he doesn’t pay much attention. He should probably start leaving it open to cut down on wear and tear to the lock, but at least this way he gets half a second of warning to minimize his RPG forums or stick his dick back in his pants or whatever.

“So lithium is this tiny little bus with two rows of seats, and it has two electrons sitting in the front seat and one electron in the back seat. And then beryllium has another electron in the back seat. And boron–”

A hot blonde slithers into the room, glances at him, and says, “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi,” says Stiles. “Scott, stay on the line for a sec and if you hear me screaming, call Dad. Who the fuck are you?”

Repeat

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and your friends call you Bucky, and you love your friends. You know this because they came back for you, of course they did, who else but your friends would hold you like this, firmly by your shoulder?

But it hurts, and you don’t know why it hurts, but it hurts but you love your friends, and they wouldn’t—he wouldn’t hurt you.

So someone tells you to open your mouth, and you open your mouth and—

{x}

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and your friends call you…a lot of things, they’re idiots, really, your friends are idiots, probably they took you out to drink to your not-dying, and once the fog clears from the pounding hollows of your skull, this is will all resolve into some gin joint with pretty waitresses and only a few bullet holes in the windows.

You’re with your friends, of course you are, held fast by your forearm which is something only friends do, and it—

But it hurts, and you need to tell Steve, once you work up the will to move your lips, once your mouth is not so terribly terribly dry, that just because he’s the Captain now, and just because you’re drunk still doesn’t mean he can beat you at arm-wrestling, he’ll see, Serum is cheating and cheating isn’t winning and if he would just let go of your arm, it hurts.

But you and Steve, you look out for each other, so someone tells you to open your mouth, and you open your mouth and—

{x}

Your name is James.

You know it’s James.

Your name is James, and his is Steve, your friend, and you love your friends, and you don’t know why it hurts so much, something…happened, something must have happened.

But you’ll pull through, and if you can’t, Steve will pull for you, and someone takes your hand, someone tells you to open your mouth, and you open your mouth and—

{x}

Your name is unimportant.

So is his.

The important things, the things you know are cold, burning blue cold and a bright, silvery-red pain that snakes from fingertips to chest.

There is cotton in your eyes and on your shoulder and these hurt only marginally less, and there is a voice telling you to open your mouth, so you know this.

You know this.

So someone tells you to open your mouth, and you open your mouth and—

{x}

The man on the bridge.

You know him.

You knew him.

So someone tells you to open your mouth, and you open your mouth and—

I tell my students that when you write, you should pretend you’re writing the best letter you ever wrote to the smartest friend you have. That way, you’ll never dumb things down. You won’t have to explain things that don’t need explaining. You’ll assume an intimacy and a natural shorthand, which is good because readers are smart and don’t wish to be condescended to. I think about the reader. I care about the reader. Not ‘audience.’ Not 'readership.’ Just the reader.
—  Jefferey Eugenides

I can never sleep this is so annoying like I wake up at 3am to pee and then my brain is like OH LOOK SHE’S AWAKE and then just goes into overdrive with ideas and scenarios and my escape plan if I ever get kidnapped and pretend arguments with strangers where I have really cool comebacks which is why I’m still wide awake at 5am yay

Eventually I just give up and write or draw which is actually pretty peaceful since it’s all dark and solitary *swan dives into bed again*

Cold War

Ok, but you have to promise not to shoot me because of the title.

(pretending to be a real author now. Been reading too much Spanish Lit, so it turned all pseudo-magical realism)

Pairing: Enjolras/Grantaire

Verse: I don’t even know if this is a verse. But let’s call it ‘Brothers on a Motel Bed’

Rating: Hard PG-13

Summary: It’s the same room every time

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