#descriptive language

[lost-hope-but-funny]

here are the snippets of captured maglor!au

(baldy translated)

(the original, in Russian, is under the cut)

torture and descriptive language below

— — — —

The orange eyes, which were the only light in the dark room, methodically pulled out his nails, one by one, exposing the tender, wet flesh, occasionally stroking his dirty cheek with his thumb as he sobbed loudly. A heavy, metal collar was tightened around his neck, the tears flowed down the cheeks in hot streams.

'Why make a fuss, hmm? There's no need to make a fuss.' Long fingers gently squeezed the skin, silencing him, sinking into the fire like a coal. With a soft crack, the last nail on his little finger fell off. The flesh was enveloped in cold and a moment of pain, followed by a burning sensation. His other hand rested on the filthy stone, curled into a relaxed fist, touching the remnants of his fingers with the back of his hand, causing an endless tremor.

The elf nodded slightly as it was released, watching as the stars rose, silently moving away from him, and then, with a creaking sound, they disappeared, leaving him to be consumed by the darkness.

— — — —

At some point, it became easier to keep the eyes closed and the hands pressed firmly against the ears, which, although covered with a dark, dried crust, still felt every sound like a slap worse than any slap, whose echo would linger in their shells for a long time. The room was small, like a closet, and just as colorless, although darkness has no color, and never has. The floor was cold and sticky with thick blood, and in the corner sat a shadow, faceless and afraid of everything.

Maglor, like an animal, squeezed himself between two walls, covering his head with his bitten, disfigured hands, and his crow's-nest curls barely reached his chin. The elf's fingers were gnawed to the point of bleeding, and his nails were chewed down to the pink, slightly moist flesh beneath. The pads of his fingers were rough and torn from the countless strings that had been plucked at some point in the past. However, Makalaurë did not know what that time was.

Some sounds were rumbling in the darkness, and the elf pressed his hands harder against his bitten and lopped ears, trying to burrow deeper into the corner, curl up his legs, and cover his head.

Like thunder, the sound of metal on metal echoed through the room, and Kanafinwe froze, bringing his head back to its original position, sucking in the dry, cracked air with his lips, which were still oozing liquid, a mortal air that smelled of orc saliva and something salty and sour. A crude collar was wrapped around the elf's neck, with chains attached to the wall, not long enough for him to lower his head. Right under the chin, there was an emblem of the dark Vala, which easily tore into a sharp chin.

Once again, strange, bright orange images flashed before his closed eyes, mesmerizing with their beauty and repulsive in their own way. Once again, goosebumps danced across his skin, like Sauron's nails, wrapping around his insides, tugging at invisible threads.

He longed to return home, anywhere where it wasn't so dark, but all he could do was close his eyes tightly and press himself against the cold stone.

There was no strength left to whine, because one thing had been clearly stated: if he made even the slightest sound, he would see his brother's broken, slender neck lying at his feet like a silent doll, and all he would have to do was gather his body as close to him as possible, rocking him back and forth like a baby, kissing the top of his red head with no weight behind it, because tears would not flow.

— — — —

For a while, all that could be heard were screams coming from somewhere far away, tearing at the eardrums, uprooting them, and then a rotting stench of something persistent and unwashed filled the nostrils. The throat refused to cooperate, and the ears throbbed as if a torn body had been dipped into a vat of boiling oil and then doused with ice-cold water.

His back met with a cold, stone wall. Dried blood lay on the floor in splinters, mixed with sour sweat. In the corner, the remnants of something lay crumpled in a ball, whining like a mangy dog, just as pitiful and repulsive. The heavy metal doors creaked, but the dog only cowered deeper into itself as a pool of thick, velvety-red blood oozed out. The orange eyes gleamed in the night like two suns, and they whistled something, then closed the bolt with a crunch as they left.

- - - -

Makalaurë woke up in a pool of his own sweat, sticky as blood, his clothes clinging to his body, lying on something soft, his bones sinking into it, which he knew were a slightly grayish color. His hair, roughly cut in a hurry, spread out over the low pillow in black, curly waves, reaching up to his cold forehead. His fingers ached with a dull, almost imperceptible pain.

The moon was shining from a high window, in the brilliance of which the elf was choking with all his might, keeping his coal eyes wide open, so that she would not disappear, so that she would not disappear from sight. His throat was wrapped in white bandages, the skin was stuck to them, and it would need to be soaked to remove it without opening the wound, without opening the eye that glowed on his adam's apple, while three peaks shone above him, burned out under his chin.

Maglor closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the pain. His head was spinning, and he saw orange eyes again. The nothingness mercifully took him into its chambers.

— — — —

На русском (in Russian):

Оранжевые глаза, что являлись единственным светом в темной комнатушке, методично вырывали его ногти, вытягивая один за другим, оголяя нежное, мокрое, мясо, иногда поглаживая его грязную щеку большим пальцем, при сильно громких всхлипах. Шею сдавливал тяжёлый, металлический, ошейник, а слезы выходили горячими ручьями.

'Зачем же шуметь, хм? Шуметь не надо.' Длинные пальцы чуть сдавили кожу, заставляя замолчать, впиваясь углем в огни, утопая в нем. В руки, с тихим треском, вылез последний ноготь, что был на мизинце. Плоть обдало холодом и секундной болью, потом - лишь жжение. Вторая ладонь лежала на отвратном камне, согнутая в расслабленный кулак, прикасаясь к остаткам пальцев тыльной стороной, вызывая лишь нескончаемую дрожь.

Эльф чуть кивнул головой, стоило ей быть отпущенной, наблюдая за тем, как звёзды поднялись, неслышно отдаляясь от него, а затем, за скрежетом, исчезая вовсе, оставляя его на растерзание темноте.

— — — —

После какого момента, глаза стало легче держать закрытыми, а руки - крепко придавленными к ушам, что, хоть и были изнутри покрыты темной, засохшей коркой, воспринимали каждый звук как хуже пощечины, чье эхо ещё долго бы томилось в их улитках. Комнатка была маленькой, как чулан, и такая же бесцветная, хотя у темноты цвета-то и нет, да никогда и не было. Холодный, липкий от вязкой крови, пол был выложен камнем, а в углу сидела тень, безликая, всего боящаяся.

Маглор, словно животное, втиснул себя меж двух стен, покрывая обкусанными, изуродованными дланями голову, а вороньи кудри еле доходили до подбородка. Пальцы эльфа были обглоданные до крови, ногти - сгрызанны до розового мяса, чуть влажного. Подушечки были грубыми, рваными от неисчислимых струн, которые дёрнули в свое время, какое-то время назад. Какое, Макалаурё не знал.

Какие-то звуки гремели не в тьме, что-то издавало ноты, эльф лишь сильнее придавил ладони к покусанным, местами обрубленным, ушам, всеми силами пытаясь углубиться в угл, поджать под себя ноги, да и макушку укрыть получше.

Словно гром, прозвучал в комнате шелест металла о металл, Канафинвё замер, возвращая голову в прежнее положение, заглатывая сухими, потрескавшимися губами, из которых, то и дело, ещё вытекала жидкость, смертный воздух, что лишь вонял орчьей слюной, да чем-то солёным, кислым. Вокруг шеи эльфа был обвит ошейник грубой работы, цепи которого крепились к стене, недостаточно длинные для того, чтобы он смог опустить голову. Прямо под подбородком было, заходящая за края, эмблема темного Валы, что с лёгкостью порвалась в острый подбородок.

Снова перед закрытыми глазами замелькали чужие, ярко-оранжевые, завораживающие своей красотой отталкивающие ею же. Вновь по коже заплясали мурашки, подобные ногтям Саурона, что обволакивали его нутро, будто дёргая да невидимые ниточки.

Он хотел домой, куда-нибудь домой, туда, где не так темно, но оставалось лишь плотнее закрыть глаза и вжаться в холодный камень.

Сил скулить не было, ведь было четко сказано одно - хоть один звук, и он увидит лишь сломанную, тонкую, шею брата, что будет лежать у его ног безмолвной куклой, и останется лишь собрать его тело как можно ближе к себе, убаюкивая, качая из стороны с сторону, будто младенца, как когда-то, целуя рыжую макушку совсем невесомо, ведь слезы не польются.

— — — —

Какое-то время, были слышны лишь крики, исходящие откуда-то издалека, рвущие барабанные перепонки, выкарчовывая их с корнем, а затем в ноздри ударила гниющая вонь чего-то стойкого, несмываемого. Горло не слушалось, в ушах пульсировало, будто рваное тело опустили в чан с раскаленным маслом, а, затем, облили его ледяной водой. 

Спина встретилась с холодной, каменной стеной. На полу, осколками, желала засохшая кровь, смешиваясь с кислым потом. В углу лежали, скомканные в клубок, остатки чего-то, да скулили будто паршивая псина - так же жалостно да отвратительно. Тяжёлые металлические двери заскрипели, но собака лишь глубже вжалась в себя, пока из-под вытекала лужа густой, бархатно-красного цвета, крови. Оранжевые глаза блестнули в ночи, словно два Солнца, и что-то просвистели, а, затем,  с хрустом, закрыли засов, уходя.

Макалаурё проснулся в луже собственного пота, липкого словно кровь, с одеждой прилипнувшей к собственному телу, лежащий на чем-то мягком, утопая в нем костями, что, знал он, были чуть серого оттенка. Волосы, грубо обрубленным на скорую руку, разметались по низкой подушке черными, кудрявыми, волнами, залезая и на холодный лоб. Пальцы рук зубило тупой болью, почти что не ощутимой. 

Из высокого окна светила луна, в блеске которой эльф захлёбывался что было мочи, держа угольные глаза распахнутыми, лишь бы та не исчезла, лишь бы не скрылась из виду. Горло его было обмотано белыми бинтами, кожа к которым прилипла, размачивать ее надо будет, дабы снять, не открывая раны, не открывая того глаза, что светился на кадыке, пока три пика сияли над ним, под подбородком, выжженные. 

Маглор закрыл глаза, силясь дышать через боль. Голова кружилась, вновь мерещились оранжевые очи. Небытие, милосердно, приняло его в свои покои. 

[thecraftyfoxthewriterscorner]

Taking character personality into account when using descriptive language calls back to earlier posts I wrote about dialogue—how dialogue (both internal and external) should be unique, distinct, to each character. This is true for descriptive language as well. For example, if Character A has the ability to manipulate water, the descriptive language in their internal dialogue might feature a lot of references to liquid, coolness (temperature-wise), and/or aquatic life. A reader’s emotional response or resonance to descriptive language applies to this idea of using descriptive language that suits a character’s unique personality. I strongly believe this aspect of descriptive language—highlighting a character’s unique personality and voice—is important to creating compelling characters, and a compelling story. As an editor, I do my best to help authors achieve this effect during a line edit.

Links to dialogue posts on Substack:

Thoughts on internal vs. external dialogue: https://thecraftyfoxwriterscorner.substack.com/p/lets-talk-dialogue

Thoughts on diction: https://thecraftyfoxwriterscorner.substack.com/p/lets-talk-dialogue-part-2

Thoughts on nonverbal communication and dialogue tags: https://thecraftyfoxwriterscorner.substack.com/p/lets-talk-dialogue-part-3

A couple of tips for editing dialogue: https://thecraftyfoxwriterscorner.substack.com/p/editing-dialogue

[thepagewitch]

Día Dos:

Hoy desmantelamos decoraciones de Navidad. 🎄 La casa se siente siempre vacía después de Navidad. También obtenemos una nueva alfombra . Mi madre y yo conducimos y escuchamos mucha música musical en el teatro. 🎭 Mi madre volvía cansada porque mi canto. 🎤

New Words:

Vacía - empty

Desmantelar - take down

Alfombra - carpet

Conducir - drive

[bookenders]

Good Metaphor, Bad Metaphor, Who’s to Say?

I’ve seen some advice posts about this goin’ around and thought I’d add my two cents.

[All images in this post are line breaks.]

What is a Metaphor?

A metaphor is a literary device wherein one thing is compared to/equated with another without using the words “like” or “as.” So, rather than saying “it was hard to get to know her,” one might say “she was a closed book.”

What Makes a Metaphor Good or Bad?

Good - fits tone/narrative voice, often in character, tells us something, accurate

Bad - inaccurate, cliché, forced, does not fit with the tone/theme

In simple terms, good metaphors aren’t noticed (or, rather, noticed in a good way) and flow with the rest of the writing. Bad metaphors don’t work and take the reader out of the story.

It’s like puzzle pieces. The blue goes in the sky, not the lava.

[Continued below the cut:]

Basic examples of in character metaphors (ft. my improvised prose):

If I’m writing about a person who loves space, their pulse would skyrocket, their thoughts would orbit one topic, their confusion would be nebulous, and their smiles would burn bright like distant stars.

If I’m writing about an accountant who was passionate about their job and hated art, I wouldn’t say that they did things in broad strokes, or painted their paperwork with the sweat of their brow, or minded their calculations as a modern Michelangelo, everything planned and ready to bleed black and white on paper canvas.

I’d say that their mind clacked through figures the way a gray matter abacus operates, exacting and precise. I’d say they held their clients’ futures in their Atlas hands, dedicated to keep them afloat in uncertain times. 

[I’m gonna look at accurate and tonal metaphors in a minute, so hang in there until then, because they need context to be understood.]

BUT.

Because there’s always a but.

If you’re consistent, it can work out just fine.

It’s all about tone and mood, really. If you’re writing about trees, don’t compare everything to race cars unless your character is a former driver who is now a lumberjack trying to fit in and make sense of his new job, or you compare everything to race cars. That sort of thing.

Douglas Adams can write Douglas Adams metaphors because that’s his absurdist style of humor. Unless the voice of your story is like that, or your POV character thinks that way, it’s probably best that you don’t pepper in absurdist/surreal metaphors.

Okay, But How Do You Write a Good Metaphor?

If I had the answer to that, I’d never need to edit my work again.

But let’s take a stab at it, eh?

To reiterate, a good metaphor is accurate, is fitting of the tone/voice, reveals information, reveals character, and/or echoes the theme of the story.

Alrighty, let’s look at some good metaphors (in my opinion, anyway) and examine why they’re good:

“Every night I stunned myself with gin.” (Jac Jemc, “A Violence”)

First of all, it’s accurate. I can see it in my head even without knowing the exact context. Getting black-out drunk is a sort of stunning. There’s a “person vs. self” conflict in the story, as well, and a theme of self-punishment, which this metaphor mirrors. That’s what makes it work: it’s accurate, flows with the tone and theme, and doesn’t pull you out of the story. You read it and think, “yeah, that fits, that makes sense.”

On a side note, if you wanna take a look at acoustics really quickly, there are all those elongated “n” sounds that bring a numbing sensation to the sentence, like your tongue is falling asleep just reading the words. It’s practically a borderline hum.

This metaphor works because it is accurate, mirrors the story’s theme, and reveals information about the character and their relation to their world.

“Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest, // You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.” (Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”)

Poetry is a little different than prose in this case, but it is also where some stellar metaphors can be found, since poetry is a true home of figurative language. I mean, look at these lines. A woman is the creator of life, the bearer of life, and the exit of life. “The gates of the body,” going in and out. Gates of the soul, finding and leaving. It’s all a bunch of very clever ways to refer to a woman’s sexuality and body separately, but also at the same time.

He calls attention to both the concrete, with gates, and the abstract, with the soul and rest. Which is what the entire poem is doing. He’s “singing the body electric,” praising all the body can be in both an physical and metaphysical sense. 

This metaphor works because it is accurate, tells you how the speaker feels/reveals character, and fits the narrative tone.

“It surprised [the protagonist] how fond he had been of his teeth. His tongue, a flat sleek seal, used to flop and slide so happily among the familiar rocks, checking the contours of a battered but still secure kingdom, plunging from cave to cove, climbing this jag, puzzling that notch, finding a shred of sweet seaweed in the same old cleft; but now not a landmark remained, and all there existed was a great dark wound, a terra incognita of gums which dread and disgust forbade one to investigate.” (Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin)

I admit, I love Nabokov’s writing. And look how gorgeous this is. Now, I haven’t read this novel so I don’t know the context, but this is an excellent extended metaphor (which means it’s a metaphor that goes on for a while and explores several different aspects of the comparison).

A tongue as a “flat sleek seal”? Accurate, visceral, visual. The following description mimics the motions a tongue makes when running over the teeth, picking things out of them, examining them from the inside. “Finding a shred of sweet seaweed in the same old cleft” is like finding something between your teeth. And when a tooth is pulled, it does feel like something great and wide is missing. A “terra incognita of gums” - the undiscovered area, what was hidden from your tongue’s previous explorations and a place you don’t really want to touch because it’s weird and kinda gross now. 

This metaphor works because it’s accurate, echoes the theme of the passage, and tells you something about this character and the way they feel.

“Put out the light, and then put out the light: If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.”

William Shakespeare, Othello v.ii

Let’s get classical for a minute. This is one of my personal favorite Shakespeare metaphors. I’ll take this one beat-by-beat because Middle English.

The first line refers to both the lantern he’s holding and Desdemona (his wife’s) life. First he puts out the flame he’s using to see, then he kills her. He goes on to say that if he puts out the light that is the flame, he can light it again no problem, but he can’t do the same with her life. This is the point of no return for him. 

The extended metaphor here is the candle and light. There’s fire language (flaming, quench, heat, light, relume, etc.) and direct comparisons to said fire. And we have a direct allusion to the story of Prometheus, the Greek titan who created humans and stole fire from the gods to give to them, with “Promethean heat.” Putting out a candle = putting out the light of her life, the fire gifted by Prometheus, but Othello can’t light it again because he is not Prometheus and cannot find it again. There’s also a running theme of passion throughout the play, and what happens when passion is stoked too high (there’s another metaphor for ya) and spirals out of control. 

This is also an example of how a cliché can work in your favor. There’s no direct reference to passion in this passage, but passion is often compared to heat and fire. By using fire as a comparison for life, Willy is using that cliché to his advantage by allowing the audience to connect life and passion via this metaphor. Clever, yeah?

The metaphor works because it’s accurate, it fits the tone, and echoes Othello’s character.

As always, if you have any questions or concerns, shoot me a message! I’m always happy to help!

Some extra sources if you’re looking for a more in-depth look at metaphors and more examples:

Metaphor: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

How to Avoid Clichés and Bad Metaphors

Grammarly: What Is A Metaphor? (Also Metaphor vs Simile)

Want more original fiction?  Take a gander at my original writing tag and my short stories tag!

For writing advice and observations, check out my advice tag.

Want info on my WIPs? Have a look-see at my WIP page!

Do you like the way I put words together? Consider buying me a Ko-Fi! (Link in my blog description!)

Want to be added to my original fiction tag or my WIP tags? Let me know! 😊

[motherfuckinglanguages]

(Video Source)

Transcript:

Language. Language, language, language. In the end it all comes down to language.

My language (as the sum of my discourses, as linguistic strata that betray my history, as geology or archaeology betrays history) is my language and it is a piece of who I am, perhaps even the defining piece.

For me, it is a cause of some upset that more Anglophones don’t enjoy language. Music is enjoyable it seems, so are dance and other, athletic forms of movement. People seem to be able to find sensual and sensuous pleasure in almost anything but words these days. Sadly, desperately sadly, the only people who seem to bother with language in public today bother with it in quite the wrong way. They write letters to broadcasters and newspapers in which they are rude and haughty about other people’s usage and in which they show off their own superior ‘knowledge’ of how language should be. I hate that, and I particularly hate the fact that so many of these pedants assume that I’m on their side. When asked to join in a “let’s persuade this supermarket chain to get rid of their ‘five items or less’ sign” I never join in. Yes, I am aware of the technical distinction between ‘less’ and ‘fewer’, and between ‘uninterested’ and ‘disinterested’ and ‘infer’ and ‘imply’, but none of these are of importance to me. ‘None of these are of importance,’ I wrote there, you’ll notice – the old pedantic me would have insisted on “none of them is of importance”. Well I’m glad to say I’ve outgrown that silly approach to language.

There are all kinds of pedants around with more time to read and imitate Lynne Truss and John Humphrys than to write poems, love-letters, novels and stories it seems. They whip out their Sharpies and take away and add apostrophes from public signs, shake their heads at prepositions which end sentences and mutter at split infinitives and misspellings, but do they bubble and froth and slobber and cream with joy at language? Do they ever let the tripping of the tips of their tongues against the tops of their teeth transport them to giddy euphoric bliss? Do they ever yoke impossible words together for the sound-sex of it? Do they use language to seduce, charm, excite, please, affirm and tickle those they talk to? Do they? I doubt it. They’re too farting busy sneering at a greengrocer’s less than perfect use of the apostrophe. Well sod them to Hades. They think they’re guardians of language. They’re no more guardians of language than the Kennel Club is the guardian of dogkind.

If you are the kind of person who insists on this and that ‘correct use’ is something that exists, I hope I can convince you to abandon your pedantry. Dive into the open flowing waters and leave the stagnant canals be.

But above all let there be pleasure. Let there be textural delight, let there be silken words and flinty words and sodden speeches and soaking speeches and crackling utterance and utterance that quivers and wobbles like rennet. Let there be rapid firecracker phrases and language that oozes like a lake of lava. Words are your birthright. Unlike music, painting, dance and raffia work, you don’t have to be taught any part of language or buy any equipment to use it, all the power of it was in you from the moment the head of daddy’s little wiggler fused with the wall of mummy’s little bubble. So if you’ve got it, use it. Don’t be afraid of it, don’t believe it belongs to anyone else, don’t let anyone bully you into believing that there are rules and secrets of grammar and verbal deployment that you are not privy to. Don’t be humiliated by dinosaurs into thinking yourself inferior because you can’t spell broccoli or moccasins. Just let the words fly from your lips and your pen. Give them rhythm and depth and height and silliness. Give them filth and form and noble stupidity. Words are free and all words, light and frothy, firm and sculpted as they may be, bear the history of their passage from lip to lip over thousands of years. How they feel to us now tells us whole stories of our ancestors.

It is language that makes me, you, and every single one of us, human.

[ladybugslikewriting-blog]

it was her first time seeing the sun

Her eyes grew wide. Great swathes of light billowed down from the heavens, slipping from cloud-made hands and falling like silken hairs through loose fingers. Scattered by the sun, they dabbed upon the sky intermissions of soft yellows and cyclamen pinks, amidst the gravel greys and chalky whites and the colours in between that she couldn’t quite name, broken by lulls of darkness where the clouds grew too thick to penetrate, and clumsy patches of bright blue where the cotton veil broke. The sun itself she couldn’t stare directly at, though most of it was covered; what little she could glimpse at was bright enough to burn her eyes, scorching her face and feet even without heat. All the candles she lit in her old home couldn’t compare to its brightness; even the most painstakingly crafted lantern turned dark before this great body of light, effortlessly bright, whose very existence meant illumination of all that were and would be. The lake that had looked so gloomy at night shimmered with glistening scales, reflecting dazzling shards of gold and silver, and the tips and bends of the tallest leaves in the palm trees glinted lazily as it moved with they wind, like a bejewlled hand showing off its wealth. The sun crowned all, bestowed upon them titles of kings and queens and emperors, from the smallest shrub to the swiftest bird, colour and movement and verve exploding underneath its radiance. 

[maximumkillshot]

I Will Never Deserve

Warnings: some descriptive language, cursing, fluffy Dean, angry Dean, whole bunch of Dean feels really, insecure reader

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Characters: Reader x Dean, Sam

A/N: Ok so I kid you not this happened to me. I have been interested in a guy for a while (relationship wise). We haven’t talked in forever and then a few months later, he starts to conversate with me and basically asks me to be in a threesome.... with himself and his girlfriend...I DIDN’T DO IT! I altered parts of the conversation that I put in. So this fic is a bit of what I wish someone would have said to me... of the Dean variety.

(all the way up to the read moire line is the basic summation of what happened)

“Y/N your phone went off”, yelled Dean as I was in the kitchen.

“Who’s it from?” I asked, usually nothing too risque comes through my messenger, except for Derick, but I haven’t talked to him in months. Not since he got that girlfriend after I laid all of my feelings out on the line, and all he did was never answer. Then to add the cherry on top, he started dating her five days after my birthday.

“’Well look at that, there’s an old face’ Ahh shit Y/N it’s that guy Derick again, want me to tell him to fuck off?” Asked Dean as he sauntered into the room with my phone. Dean knew all about Derick... I spent many nights in his room just crying, trying to figure out what it was about me that said that I wasn’t enough. He would hold me as I quaked with tears filling my eyes. Sometimes he’d even let me sleep in his bed. He’d hold me through those long nights of racking my brain and talk me through all of the doubt. Dean, in a way, made me whole again over these few months, helped me keep my head up high and focused. Now that I think about it, Dean is literally my rock, that person I can cry to and laugh with.

“No I got it” I said, truth is I had a drink and I don’t mind the conversation. I replied with a happy face and typed in “hey it’s been too long”

Then he replied with “yeah it has lol”

After asking him what’s up he said that he was just looking for conversation. 

After a bit of banter back and forth the past conversations got mentioned... which were very steamy. 

I texted him “Yeah they were steamy, but I’m respectful of relationships.”

He told me that it was all good and asked me if it was because of my conscious that I won’t have relations with him while he’s in a relationship.... 

After setting that straight he began to reveal his true motives to me. 

Then I get the message “My girlfriend wants me to find a woman we can share, she likes girls as well and she wants to experiment” 

Did he? Does he really think I’ll go for that? This is some bullshit. I said to myself. Why is he doing this to me, again? Like he can’t just leave me alone to take the “L”? I then told him that I’m straight and that I don’t work like that, plus I have really bad body image so I couldn’t see myself getting naked in front of him let alone somebody else and that I have a surgery. To which he countered with that I didn’t have to get naked and that the lights would be turned off. 

After basically telling him no I can’t, he then said that it was a shame that he was going to drive to me. I basically told him that was nice of him and he laughed and so did I. 

Internally I am currently fuming, hurt, and confused.

Dean, of course reads it in my face and says “what happened?”

I did nothing but hand him the phone and go to the library to pour a good four shots of whiskey into the tumbler.... yeah, that’ll be enough to forget him I think to myself.

Dean’s POV:

Oh god I know that face I think to myself. That adorable face that Y/N makes when she’s trying to hide something from me. But this time it’s different, it’s full of hurt and anger. 

“What happened?” I blurt out. If this son of a bitch hurt her again... I will kill him. 

She hands me her phone and then darts out of the door... 

I start to scroll through the conversation and I can’t believe what I’m reading. This dude is delusional to think that she’d ever go for this. Especially after the way that he hurt her. Not talking to her for weeks and then starting a relationship with someone else... I guessed that he didn’t have the balls to be upfront with her about his feelings back then... but this, now .... this is torture. 

She doesn’t deserve this shit... My god she deserves so much more. I’d give her the fucking world if I had a chance with her. Her heart has to be crushed. To be treated like this. 

No.... she’s gotta know .

I make my way to the library to see her sitting with a tumbler of whiskey, it looks like she’s trying her hardest not to break... Not to fall apart after all of the progress she’s made. It’s killing me inside, just seeing her like this.

I sit right next to her and after a while she talks.

“What did I do to him? For him to torture me like this?” says Y/N, her eyes closed tightly, most likely so that I don’t see the redness and tears building up in them.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Princess” Is all I have to say. She didn’t do anything wrong, if anything she showed some major confidence in just telling him how she felt and he threw that all away. 

She then chokes out “Then why is he doing this?”

“He’s doing this because he is a douche bag who doesn’t see you for who you really are and he’d rather be with someone as low as him, but he still wants the experience of being with someone as  genuine as you... Which frankly, he nor I will never deserve” I state as adamantly as I possibly can. 

Then I realize... I said ‘I’.... SHIT.

Now there are tears going down her face “Why do you treat me so well?” she asks.

I can’t help but let everything go now. “I treat you so well because that is the only way that you deserve to be treated. You are kind, funny, infectious, hell your smile can get me through anything. My heart leaps when I’m around you. Waking up with you in my arms are still my best memories to this date. You are so strong, agile, you are so amazing, the only words that I can use to describe you are ‘Princess’, ‘Beautiful’, ‘Sweetheart’, and ‘Badass’. Why do you think that they’re your nicknames?”

I got her to smile... my god I miss that smile. I reach out to dry her tears and I say “They are your nicknames because you are the only woman that I’ve ever met, let alone ever had the pleasure of living with, that has all of those qualities. And seeing you like this because of a guy, not a man, a guy, it kills me.”

It seems like she’s getting her bearings now “Wait? why does it kill you?” she asks.

I ask her “Do you want the real answer or the bullshit answer?” 

She then looks at me with those adorable y/e/c eyes and she says “The real answer”.

I replied with the only thing I know, which is the truth “It kills me because I love you. More than a friend, I love you more than anyone...”

She doesn’t looked shocked... she looks like she just had an epiphany.

I try to save the friendship by uttering “Look I get it that you’re hurt and you don’t have to say anyth-”

She cuts in with “I love you too”.

I can’t process what just happened so my mouth just hangs open and she continues.

“My god I’m such an idiot. You, you have been right in front of me all along. You are the only one that gets through my thick skull, that can put me back together, that can make sense to me when the rest of the world seems like one big shit show... It’s always been you... I’ve always loved you, Dean” she confesses.

Now is the first time that I’ve ever seen this in her. She has a glimmer in her eyes. It is the most beautiful thing that I’ve ever seen. Just as we are leaning in to kiss eachother Sammy decided to enter the room.

Sammy exclaims “AWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE look at you two! It’s about damn time!!” 

As we both pull back I say “How much did you hear?”

All Sammy replied with was “Enough to know that you two are finally getting together.”

“If you know that we’re finally getting together then you know how loud it’s gonna get tonight Sam” retorted Y/N.

“Just lemme charge my headphones please...” said Sam.

I chuckled, grabbed Y/N , and started to make my way to my room and yelled over my shoulder “It better be rapid charge because it’s about to get loud”.

Finally I heard her laugh.

Little did I know I’d be hearing that laugh many times that night... among other noises.

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[thepagewitch]

Currently working on an original work centered around pirates! Here’s a little snippet:

 ... Nicky had been on the crew for over a year now, wanting to make a little money for his mother back home. At first, he had hounded Captain Reeves for his paycheck, but he always blew him off. Or made him go empty the chamber pots. 

When that didn’t dissuade Nicky from pestering him, Reeves took him into the captains quarters, and spoke only one sentence. “Treasure for me, and treasure for you.” 

That was almost 6 months ago now, but he repeated those words when he started to lose himself. It happened more than he liked to admit. He was not made for the cold face of the ocean. 

What was made worse by this realization for Nicky, was that what the Captain was chasing wasn’t real. Some fairy tale mcguffin that he thought would solve all his problems. He was wasting away his life, and he was taking his crew down with him. Of course, it was easy to get swept up in the glory of it all. 

A guaranteed seat among gods was appealing, but the promised riches were greater. Nicky fantasized of buying his mother the big house on the cliff in his hometown, the one where the old spice merchant used to live. Although he never handled any of the cargo, he imagined that his house always smelled of cinnamon, like the stall in the market boasting his wares. His mother used to look up from the beach and admire the large windows....