Choose Your Fighter Partner

writing fanfiction is just. i’m being so creative and original. i’m plagiarizing everyone by accident. i’m a genius. i’m cringe. i’m too angsty. i’m too cheesy. this is not in character. it doesn’t matter that it’s not in character because these are my characters now. i love my hobby. this is the worst possible use of my time. i’m seeking validation. i’m projecting my own personal problems onto this story and i’m barely hiding it. i know so many words and i’m using all of them wrong. im on tumblr posting about it instead of writing it.

I FOUND YOU!! -blue blue blue blue blue blue blue

hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi

hey, if you’re still doing panacea, I’d love to be added to the taglist!

yes i am still doing it!! it’s been kind of at a stand still because i’ve hit a chaotic spurt with college but i will definitely add you on to my taglist for it!!!

a quick psa to anyone recently getting into greek mythology and is a victim of tumblr and/or tiktok misconceptions:

-there is no shame in being introduced to mytholgy from something like percy jackson, epic the musical or anything like that, but keep in mind that actual myths are going to be VERY different from modern retellings

-the myth of medusa you probably know (her being a victim of poseidon and being cursed by athena) isn't 100% accurate to GREEK mythology (look up ovid)

-there is no version of persephone's abduction in which persephone willingly stays with hades, that's a tumblr invention (look up homeric hymn to demeter)

-as much as i would like it, no, cerberus' name does not mean "spot" (probably a misunderstanding from this wikipedia article)

-zeus isn't the only god who does terrible things to women, your fav male god probably has done the same

-on that note, your fav greek hero has probably done some heinous shit as well

-gods are more complicated than simply being "god of [insert thing]", many titles overlap between gods and some may even change depending on where they were worshipped

-also, apollo and artemis being the gods of the sun and the moon isn't 100% accurate, their main aspects as deities originally were music and the hunt

-titans and gods aren't two wholly different concepts, titan is just the word used to decribe the generation of gods before the olympians

-hector isn't the villain some people make him out to be

-hephaestus WAS married to aphrodite. they divorced. yes, divorce was a thing in ancient greece. hephaestus' wife is aglaia

-ancient greek society didn't have the same concepts of sexuality that we have now, it's incorrect to describe virgin goddesses like artemis and athena as lesbians, BUT it's also not wholly accurate to describe them as aromantic/asexual, it's more complex than that

-you can never fully understand certain myths if you don't understand the societal context in which they were told

-myths have lots and lots of retellings, there isn't one singular "canon", but we can try to distinguish between older and newer versions and bewteen greek and roman versions

-most of what you know about sparta is probably incorrect

-reading/waching retellings is not a substitute to reading the original myths, read the iliad! read the odyssey! i know they may seem intimidating, but they're much more entertaining than you may think

greek mythology is so complex and interesting, don't go into it with preconcieved notions! try to be open to learn!

Reblog if you’re a traitor to your sisters 😔🤟

babygirl I know video game lore you wouldn't even care about

The amount of effort ficwriter does in order to write a fic. "nah the story doesn't need to be that accurate it's just a fic I'm not getting any money out of it" and then as they keep writing and posting their browse history is something like "moon calendar in 1981"

The Ones You Save [Prologue]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word count: 1,759

Summary: The one where your chaotic mind is reset.

prologue | part 1 | part 2

There is a part of you that believes you used to know what life was like before you were stuck; stuck in whatever chaotic mess this was. A mess of what you could barely recognize as an endless cycle  ― one that Alexander Pierce constantly thought of; one that involved strange, sickly liquids being pumped into your system; one that had parts of your brain constantly being erased. The endless cycle of you searching for orders in the brains of agents who were deemed superior to you, completing the orders  ― going through with horrendous actions that would leave your hands more blood-stained than before.

Your superiors don’t care about that, though. They don’t care about the amount of blood that tarnishes your hands. They don’t care about the screams and pleas that echo in your head. They don’t care about how unclean you feel; how wrong, how disgusting, how tainted. They only care that you can complete your missions, that you can pave their way in the messy world. As long as you’re a determined, dangerous tool  ― they don’t need to look into your mental state.

There’s an urge in your brain  ― an urge to dig through the mess of barriers and fragments that the electricity from the machine has left behind. But you shove the urge down; trying to hide it deep among the broken, shattered parts of what you once were able to recognize as a person with free will. There’s another urge right alongside that one. It’s telling you to escape from this room, the compound. It’s telling you to get out before the doctor can bother to mess with your mind again. It’s the again part that catches you off guard. You can’t remember another time that you were in this room  ― a cloth shoved between your clenched jaw, metal bonds holding down your arms and legs. You can’t remember anything, actually. Except in uncontrollable spurts. But the thought of trying to conjure up a past memory sends a shockwave of pain through your frontal lobes.

Your eyes focus around the room and you let go of the guard that you had yanked up on your mind. Your eyes are quick to close as every single thought in the room hits you at once. You can tell that your mind and your control have become unstable  ― everything is so loud and you can’t concentrate on a single thought. You’re only able to catch a few keywords, ones that add up to a splintered sentence: seventh time in, looming cryogenic chamber, a mess. The fragmented sentence seems to match your mind and your emotions, making you feel like you have been tossed into a never-ending vortex that happily holds you captive. It seems dead-set on tearing you down.

An extreme pain explodes throughout your head and you immediately realize that your brain is trying to push back your mental barriers. You know that a memory is trying to be brought up, one that you don’t want to recall. You thrust it back down. You thrust it as far down as you can, pretending that you are locking it away in a hidden chamber  ― chucking the key to the opposing side of a very long, very deep ocean. The memory disappears and your eyes lock with a man who is kneeling in front of you. The cold, empty look in his bright green eyes throw you off. You instantly recognize him as your primary doctor.

"Ghost, if you don't get your shit together soon ― we're tossing you in the chamber."

You know that already. You gathered that much from the mess of a sentence that your mind inherited. You’re thinking, though, that you wouldn’t mind the chamber. Your body yearns for a break. You don’t sleep much outside of it. Maybe being chucked into the cryogenic chamber would fix you, maybe it would soothe your aching mind. Maybe you could get some answers for why your mind is so mangled. But you know that it wouldn’t work in the long run. You’d be thrown back into the dreaded chair and your mind would be wrecked even further.

"We're using a different drug today." The doctor speaks again, easily catching your attention. You hadn’t noticed before but the protective barrier in your mind has been pulled back down, everything has become increasingly quiet. You barely acknowledge that you enjoy the silence.

The doctor moves and you’re focusing on his face again; observing the concentration that has sprung up on his facial features. Your eyes flicker over to the IV and you watch as the substance begins to flow down from the bag. Your gaze is forced away from the substance as your head is moved forward. You try not to tense as your head is secured with the headpieces of the chair, the pressure mainly on your frontal lobes. You settle with curling your hands into fists ― your eyes closing as the chair is slammed back. You’re not ready for the procedure to begin, but they don't care that you’re not ready.

You can almost feel the liquid moving through your body ― a freezing cold sensation taking over every inch of your being. There's a quick, fleeting memory that whirls around in your brain; reminding you of the month that you were stuck out in the Russian wilderness, a strange man accompanying you. The machine you are hooked to gives a soft whirl and pain erupts throughout your brain, yanking the memory out of your grasp.

The pain itself is unbearable. It is searing and bright; spreading quickly throughout every inch of your body. It seems to fill every nook and cranny within a split second. In response, you shove yourself up ― your body beginning to convulse against the bonds that chain you down. Your jaw is incredibly tense, tenser than it has been in a while, and you want to scream. You want to scream and cry and thrash, but you fight the urge. It will give the sick minds around here some sort of satisfaction and you refuse to give it to them.

The pain is suddenly disappearing, but it leaves behind an electric feeling. It's a muddled type of electric, though. The pain is still slightly buzzing about your body, lessened by the murky black medicine that's still sluggishly crawling around in your veins. The freezing effect of the strange drug has worn off. In your mind, it's probably due to the electricity that has just bombarded every single cell in your body. You don’t yearn for the cold, though, because the medicine has made you feel numb ― like you’re unreachable to the world around you.

You don’t feel when the needle is pulled from your skin, barely registering what is happening as you are being pulled to your feel. The numbness you feel is intoxicating and, in a way, you yearn for more of it. Your dangerously trained mind would recognize it as a danger if you were fully functioning  ― you’re too apathetic to really care.

Your instincts have kicked in to give you a helping hand. Your back is as straight as it can go and your eyes are void of emotion; like a robot waiting patiently to be programmed. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the doctor's eyes, but you are more confused by the look on his face. It is filled with humor. You are puzzled by it; if you were sobered up, you could take his tall build down without effort.

"Longing." Your eyes blankly focus on a man standing behind the doctor. His eyes seemed so dark that they were nearly back. His voice seemed to penetrate through the numbness; your skull exploding with a dull ache. You want to curl into a tight ball and press your hands tightly against your ears. You want to do whatever you could do block out his voice, to preserve the sweet numbness ― you don’t want to know what the punishment would be.

"Rusted. Furnace."

The second and third words seemed to roll off his tongue effortlessly. Your conscious mind begins to slip out of your grasp. It was becoming increasingly difficult for you to fight to hold on to your self-control. Usually, it was easier for you to cling to what broken bits of free will that you had. The drugs in your system were making it easier for them to brainwash you. Clinging to control would be an extremely hard predicament for anyone in your situation, though. It didn't matter how many cc's of the drugs were in your system when the words officially took hold. You would become dangerous.

"Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. "

The ache in your skull seemed to be getting worse with every word that slipped out of his mouth. Your whole being seemed to be screaming at you to resist the words ― to block him out, to run far away from this place. But you couldn't. There was no way for you to resist the words.

"Nine. Homecoming."

The words had begun to echo around in your brain. It didn't matter what anyone else was saying or thinking at this point. All that mattered to you was the right words that had already been spewed out of his lips. They seemed to be booming among your skull, reverberating among the soft tissue and harsh bone. They began to take away every thought you had about the drugs in your system; instead shattering the identity that you once thought that you still had a tight hold on.

"One."

You let your eyes flutter close. The darkness you were met with was almost welcoming. It was far more easy to deal with than the agents that were in the room ― entranced by the process that the lead doctor was in the process of completing. Many of them had seen the process before, had watched the transformation that took place after your mind was scrambled like eggs. But they were repeatedly astounded by the process, almost like it was a strange fetish of theirs. Your muscles relaxed against your will, losing all the tension you had been holding on to.

"Freight car."

Your eyelids snapped open, eyes focusing on the black orbs in front of you. You recognized the glint in them, but you didn't acknowledge it. You had no reason to question the malice that the dark orbs held. 

You instead spoke, your tone matching his cold heart, "I am ready to comply."