#man i sure use the verb ducking a lot

[palbabor-writes]

OK so please consider typical Shig/reader where theres unspoken mutual attraction and they're not quite together but it's Post-kamino Shig, like IMMEDIATE post-kamino where he's still processing and incredibly vulnerable from just losing his sensei. I've had this in my head for a while but IDK how it would go and I think you'd do it justice (just ignore this if u don't wanna i just needed to put it out there 😌)

ugh, i loved this idea. where do you find them lydia? they just live in your mind rent free and i want to go to there. gosh, thank you for the ask.

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, SMUT, NSFW/18+ only, mild angst, pivotal life moments, TW: drinking/drug use, masturbation, blow jobs, face fucking, spanking/mild pain play, vaginal fingering, cunniliginus, overstimulation, switching, dirty talk, loss of virginity (if you squint), dominance, vaginal sex     

Word Count: 11,800

Notes: oh man. so, if the word count didn’t give it away, this is plot, with a hefty dose of porn. in my mind, this is all part of the grieving process for shigaraki and he’s having a rough time coming to terms with what he’s needing to do. yeah, AFO supported him and enabled him to build a following, but he also hid all of the major pieces from him (i.e. the doctor & gigantomachia) so i can see him mourning for AFO as a teacher & as a psudo loved one, after all, at the end of that chapter he’s clutching those hands to him like he’ll fall apart without them. 

Edited by the lovely Lydia: @kugutsuu. she is the best and if you’re not reading her works, all I have to say is: YOU SHOULD BE. 

Mise en Place

/mē-ˌzäⁿ-ˈpläs/ noun or verb  a French culinary phrase which means "putting in place" or "everything in its place.”

This has got to be the strangest, hole in the wall, bar you’ve ever worked at. 

The patrons are touchy and most seem downright dangerous. The whole lot of them are more like mid level criminals than the usual haggard, overworked, regular, citizens you find in local watering holes.  Meanwhile, the gentleman who runs the day to day operations shares more similarities with a will o’ the wisp than a man, and the bar itself is smack dab in one of the seediest parts of town. 

The liquor selection, however, is top of the line. Some of the labels you haven’t seen outside of posh hotels or high class country clubs, and many of the older bottles are rarities. Honestly, there are so many of the high brow bottles that you’re not sure who to ask about the rail selection. There’s no real order to the place and it’s the most free reign you’ve ever been given with your mixology experiments. There’s not even a listing of drinks to go off of. But, if the disgruntled evening crowd is happy, then so is the upper management. All they ask is that you lock up before you leave.

No, nothing about this place makes sense. But, it does pay well and, right now, that’s the only thing you need to worry about.

There’s one other barkeep, a stogy man named Akio. He usually works the day shift, but late yesterday afternoon, he’d given you a call and asked if the two of you could swap for the duration of next week. At first, you’d balked, worried you’d need to schmooze with an unfamiliar bunch of regulars, who’d then decline to tip simply because you were new. But, Akio had sweetened the pot with the promise of $20,000 yen, so, you’d agreed. 

“It’s fairly quiet in the afternoon,” Akio reassured you. “It’s really just putting away shipment and serving the odd customer who happens to pass by. The only thing...well, I’m sure you’ve met him. You’ve been working there for over a month, no way you could miss him.” 

“Who?” you ask, twirling your spoon in your mid-morning coffee, curious, but not wanting to seem overly eager in your questioning. You like your night shift and you’re not wanting this to become a regular swap. You detest having to lug heavy boxes to and fro, pulling liquor and checking lot numbers, ick. Plus, if it really is that slow in the afternoons, it would only be a matter of time before Kurogiri would come after you with a duster and ask you to clean the upper shelves. Yeah, no, thanks. This would be a one week deal, ONLY.

“His name is Shigaraki. He’s, er, different. I suppose you’ll meet him soon, if you haven’t already.”

“Shigaraki? No, that name doesn’t ring a bell. Is he--”

“I have to go, my son is here. Thanks again for the swap and talk soon, (Y/N).”

The line clicks and you let your phone fall from your ear, clattering the metal and plastic along your kitchen table. Shigaraki, you think, taking a scalding sip of your coffee, no, that’s not a name you’ve heard before. Wonder what it is about him that has Akio so on edge. It’s not like him to give you, er, whatever that strange heads-up had been. Either way, it would take more than a vague descriptor like different, to spook you off. 

******

Akio was right, on all counts, about the haze of monotony that permeated the afternoon shift at the bar. 

Well, right on everything except a sighting of that elusive Shigaraki guy. No, the whole afternoon it’s just been you, Kurogiri, and one, rather sloshed old man, who you’ve long since cut off, and propped at the far end of the bartop. It’s been a dull, slow, day. Thank God you’d taken that extra cash from Akio, or this might not even turn out to be worth your while. 

You’re slipping another bottle of whiskey on the lower shelf when you hear a barstool scrape back. You turn at the sound, your head already lifted and a small, friendly, smile lingering on your lips. There’s a lanky guy, dressed all in black with a mop of wavy white hair, working himself onto the small seat. His head is lowered and he hasn’t bothered to look up at you, not yet, anyway. He looks, not really young, but you can’t tell and you’re not about to let some underaged kid worm his way in here. You’ve had enough of those punks sneaking in in the evening, thank you. 

“Gimme a shot of scotch,” the man says, his voice low, with a quiet rasp racing along the tone. It’s a strange timbre and it makes you pause, your eyes scanning those pearlescent strands of hair that are hiding his face from view.

“Hmph,” you snort, arching a brow at his attempts at concealment. He must be underage, who comes up to a barkeep with a ducked head and demands a scotch? 

“Let me give you a piece of advice, don’t come into a bar and immediately refuse to make eye contact with the bartender. We’re like animals at the zoo, we startle easily and don’t like surprises. And, with your face tucked like that, I can’t gauge your age. So, before I get you that unnamed and unbranded scotch, I’m gonna to need to see some ID.”

The man lifts his head at your preamble and you feel your breath catch at the raw annoyance that’s etched across his scarred and cracked face. His eyes are a rich red, closer to ruby and they latch onto yours, insistent and sharp. It’s a deeply intense stare and you can’t seem to pull yourself away, your brow furrowing at his sudden shift in demeanor. 

“I don’t have an ID,” he snaps, his lips lifting into a snarl, showing you the vivid whiteness of his teeth. 

You lick your lips and his gaze follows the motion, eyes lowering, freeing you from that uneasy imprisonment he’d abruptly ensnared you in.

Your heart is beating rapidly against your throat and you shake your head, refocusing your bewildering reaction to this guy's presence. “I-I haven’t heard that one before,” you say, taking a few steadying breaths and tossing a dirty glass in the dishwasher, looking for any task that will let you step away from this strange interaction. 

“You must be new,” he says, leaning back and hunching those dark shoulders. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and shut the dishwasher door, hitting the button to run a cycle. 

“Nope,” you correct him, pulling out two fresh glasses and lining them up on the bartop, reaching for the rail scotch. “I’ve worked here for over a month.”

“Never seen you before.”

“That makes two of us,” you reply, flipping the bottle up and filling both glasses with four counts of the dark liquor. You press one to him and lift the other for yourself. The man narrows his eyes at you and looks pointedly at the glass in your hands. 

“You supposed to drink on the clock?”

You laugh and he shifts back at the sound, his head bowing forward, another scowl lifting his lips. Realizing you must have made him uncomfortable, you step toward him and clumsily clink your glass against his, tilting your head at the surrealness of this whole conversation. “They don’t really care what I do. Come on, stranger who has no ID, bottoms up.”

He looks from you to the shot a few times before finally relenting and taking the vessel in a strange four fingered grip, his middle finger arched carefully away. Once you’re sure he’s actually going to toast with you, you sling your shot back, enjoying the sharp burn of the rich liquor. 

You’re about to ask your new drinking companion another question when you hear his chair scrape back. By the time you’re stepping toward him, he’s already pacing down a back hallway, blending into the darkness and disappearing from your sight.

“Um! You can’t...I don’t think you can go back there. And you gotta pay, dude! Hey--”

“He doesn’t need to pay.” 

You always hear Kurogiri before you see him and today is no exception. He’s standing at the entrance to the back of the bartop and he’s watching the path the strange young man took, his shifting face turned from you. You cock your head at his assertion and swiftly place your empty glass into the soapy water of the filled sink. He likely saw you take the shot, but you’re not about to leave evidence behind. 

“What do you mean?” You ask, watching as the wisp like man turns and steps toward you, his amber slits watchful. It’s like he’s sizing you up and you shift on your feet, uncomfortable at the frank, open, assessment.  

“He’s Tomura Shigaraki, and he owns this bar.”

******     

You’re off for the next two days and the wait, the silence, is abjectly harrowing. You can’t sit down, can’t relax, can’t focus. The one time you decide to get overly familiar, of fucking course, it would be with the owner. But no one has called, and no one has sent you any messages. The empty static of your job's reticence doesn’t alleviate your nerves. 

Who knows, they might want to act out the sick power play of having you show up for your shift, only be fired as soon as you darken the doorway.

The next afternoon, you take a familiar route to the bar, your feet tapping hollowly along the steps and alleyways that wind to the rusty entrance. You come in the front, blinking against the darkness, and lock the door behind you. Everything is quiet. But, in forty minutes, the open sign will switch on and you need to get your bar set up, plus slap on a little bit of makeup. You’re so lost in thought that you’re almost to the long bartop when you spot him.

It’s Tomura Shigaraki. He’s sitting at the same bar stool and his head turns as you approach, those unearthly red eyes lingering over you. It’s a different look, very, very removed from that harsh glare he’d given you the other day. He looks less hostile and more, well, curious. 

You give him a cursory nod and pad behind the high counter, taking the final glasses out of the dishwasher and removing the stoppers from all the open liquor bottles. He’s still watching you and you can feel his gaze as it bores into your back, your side, your front. You attempt to ignore him, but the constant threat of those insistent red eyes is beginning to frustrate you. Finally, once you’ve replaced the cash drawer, you lift your gaze to his. 

“What is it?” Your voice sounds waspish, but you don’t care.

“Nothing,” he replies, leaning forward and propping his chin on his palm, not breaking that unsettling leer. 

“So stop staring at me,” you bristle, unsure why your heart is starting to beat a rapid tattoo against your ribs. You don’t know this guy. Sure, he’s mysterious and almost handsome, in a dark horse kinda way, but there’s no reason for him to give you this odd staredown. You’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant this attention, well, besides drinking on the job, but he could just fire you for that, if it was so troublesome. Either way, he should either speak up, or knock it off. 

He smirks at your impudence and murmurs a raspy, “No,” back, his head tilting, waiting for your next move. 

“You’re a real charmer, you know that?” You scoff, crossing your arms and jutting your chin defiantly. 

“Whatever you say,” he breathes, that smile of his deepening, making his vermillion eyes shine. And, just like that, the two of you wander into a stilted game of give and take. 

For the first few days, he makes sure he’s there before you arrive for the last of your afternoon shifts, his dark back already perched over the bartop as you shut the door behind you. Then, when you transition back to the evening shifts, he’s there too, sitting at that familiar perch, his eyes always, always watching, observing. You continue to ignore him and he seems to relish your agitated silence, flashing you dark smirks and quiet laughs.

Finally, two weeks into this stagnated stalemate, you make a point to strike up a real conversation with him. He’s obviously taken aback by your first few questions, his eyes wide and jaw tense, but he plays along. 

Over time, the two of you carefully erect a haphazard friendship. And that chair of his? That center barstool? He used to not mind if another person was sitting in it when he arrived late, but recently that’s all changed. Now he guards it ferociously. Snapping and glaring at anyone who is stupid enough to drift into it. 

Along with the lingering looks and burgeoning, almost flirty, dialogue you’ve pushed him into, he’s also gotten very demanding of your attention. If you spend too much time talking with another customer, or with Kurogiri, he pouts and darkens until you return, his tense form losing that sharpness.  It's almost like he’s got a crush on you, but he’s not sure what to do with the newfound sensation, lost and confounded by your teases and grins. 

Most people, you notice, give him a wide berth, but not you. No, you like his keen wit and heated musings. He’s fascinating and you want to see more. And in his flustered confusion, he lets you lean in, blinking and wide eyed at your open, flagrant interest in him.

******   

As the weeks drift into summer, things start to change at the bar. 

There’s some atypical deposit of power that’s been bestowed upon the place. People you’ve never seen before, begin to frequent the premises, sharing videos and whispered conversations about that man, Chizome Akaguro, better known to the general public as the Hero Killer. 

Tomura flits between several, dark moods, clutching his newly injured shoulder and murmuring complaints about hero society, All Might and the Hero Killer. Apparently, there had been an altercation between the two of them and Tomura didn’t hide his ire, his agitation from you. No, he would vent to you, his voice gravel and ash as he snarled his rage.  

Then, as if things couldn’t get any stranger, one evening a young girl begins to hang around, pestering you for a soda and prattling on and on about blood. Another new guy slips in a few hours later, his skin marred by thick, ragged burns and staples. He’s quiet, rudely demanding a shot and nursing it in a corner, his bright blue eyes flashing as he stares vacantly out at the crowd by the well. 

A quiet man, called Spinner, asks you for a water, and you acquiesce, watching as his green hands wrap around the glass, downing the liquid in a quick gulp. Later, there’s a robust, loud, clearly confused guy, wearing a skin tight black bodysuit loitering by your bartop. He keeps entreating you for a drink, then tells you to buzz off seconds later. Exasperated, you plunk a whole bottle down beside his glass and continue on with your work, ignoring his chatter. 

Finally, a man in a white mask and a top hat rounds out the strange posse and the group gathers together, hovering around Tomura, asking questions and listening to his rasping answers. 

Thankfully, the rag-tag group leaves soon after closing, all of them shouldering their way back out into the night. You shake your head as the door closes behind them, gathering the collection of dirty glasses they left in their wake. Only Tomura remains, sipping meditatively on his drink, his red eyes foggy and unfocused. You know from experience that it’s not a good time to ask him questions, so you continue with your closing duties, keeping your eyes down.

Something is going on, that much is clear. But, unless you could worm the information out of Tomura, you’d likely never fully know all of the details. Part of you warns that it’s likely dangerous. Many of the people who haunt the bar are low level villains or brokers, not a winning combination if you’re wanting to stay out of the fray, and on the right side of the law. 

You finish wiping everything down and return to Tomura, asking him softly if you can wash his empty glass. His eyes lift to yours and the expression that greets you almost makes you want to reach out and cup his cheek. He looks tired, worn thin and so, so needy. You’ve never seen him like this. It almost feels like he’s showing you something he’s never revealed to anyone else, a vulnerability that only you can see. He’s giving you access to a quiet secret that can hang between the two of you, safe in the knowledge that he can trust you with it. That urge to stroke a finger down his roughed brow rises again, but you shove the impulse away, rattled by your sudden, visceral, reaction to him. 

To distract yourself, you snatch up his glass, and turn from the intensity of his stare, a slow prickle of gooseflesh trembling along your skin. As you run hot water and soap over the vessel, you feel your heart begin to pound and you chance another peek at Tomura’s quiet form. As usual, he’s watching you, but he looks unfocused again, that broken vulnerability tucked away. You want to ask him if he’s ok, but before you can croak the words out, he pushes his stool back and paces down the dark hallway, leaving you alone and bewildered. 

******

A few days later, you ask Kurogiri if you can sneak away for a minute, you need a break. The bar has been packed since nine and you could use a quick breather. It’s the first night Tomura hasn’t stopped by and his absence has bothered you. You missed his grumpy quips and his persistent glances. All this time, you’d thought it was just him that was catching any kind of feelings, but it looks like he’s somehow managed to nag his way into your psyche, too. 

You take the back stairs quietly and let yourself out onto the alleyway balcony, climbing the rickety fire escape to the rooftop. You’d found the access to the roof your second week and it’s still your favorite place in the whole bar. On a clear night, you can see all the way to downtown Tokyo. It’s always quiet this high up, tranquil and serene. You brace yourself against the concrete wall and watch the lights of the city glimmer, like distant jewels, in the darkness.

You pull a small joint from your pant pocket and flick your lighter on, setting the edge of the rolling paper alight and taking a slow drag. The inhale fills your lungs with a light pressure and you savor the feeling before blowing a thin line of smoke into the night. You get a few more hits in before you hear the fire escape stairs rattle, signaling that someone is coming your way. You debate dampening your roach, but you don’t want to waste it, so you tuck the smoldering paper in your other hand, maneuvering it out of sight. 

The white shine of his hair always gives him away. 

Tomura hops over the ledge and his eyes are already lifting, searching for yours as he stands. You arch an eyebrow at his tense stance and you can’t help your giddy smile. “Everything ok?” 

“Kurogiri said you were taking a break,” he replies, dipping his long fingers into his pockets and sauntering over to the patch of concrete you’re braced against. 

“Yeah,” you confirm, waiting until he’s closer to lift the joint back to your lips, taking a steadying pull and scooting over, so he can fit beside you on the wall. “It’s busy, and I’ve been slinging drinks all night. Just wanted to decompress for a bit.”

Tomura doesn’t reply, but he does slot himself close, the warmth of his broad shoulder radiating against yours. The two of you drift into a companionable silence, and the only sounds that greet you is the quiet hush of traffic below and your inhales and exhales of smoke. 

“You got another meeting?” you ask, crossing your arms and pressing minutely closer, enjoying the distant shiver Tomura gifts you. 

“No,” he murmurs, his voice low. You think that might be the end of the conversation but he continues a few seconds later, his head tilting toward yours, those red eyes scanning your upturned face. “They’re on a mission. I’m not able to participate. It will need to be like a SIM game. They are the pieces that I’ll move over the board, they’ll act to my battle plan.”

You turn to him, your eyes wide. “So, they’re just...pawns? Little NPC’s that don’t matter?”

Tomura laughs and his teeth gleam in the moonlight and distant shine of the neon lights. “Of course not. Do I look that heartless? No, they’re valuable players and if this goes right, we’ll be able to take on the next level with a decided edge.” 

You let that last comment hover, pausing to take another huff, your eyes lowered, brooding over his words. “So, you’re their vanguard leader?”

“Sure,” Tomura nods, “We can’t keep grinding each mission, hoping to pick up any XP these heroes happen to drop. We need to make waves of our own.”

“Oh? Like the Hero Killer?”

“No,” Tomura snarls, his arm tensing beside yours, a hand rising to scritch at his scarred neck agitatedly. “Nothing like him. We’re looking past him. He was too short sighted, so busy following his own code of justice that he didn’t notice he was breeding more heroes, not putting them down.”

“Hmm,” you sigh, thumping your head lightly against the concrete behind you. “That is true. But, you can’t deny he’s brought up some serious divisions. It’s funny, really. It makes me think of this little hero toy I had when I was younger. 

It was of an older hero, he prolly died long ago, but I loved that toy when I was a kid. Then, as I got older, it stopped mattering and one day, without me even realizing it, it lost its importance entirely. I wonder if hero society will ever shift to that. With the fractures that have been seen at UA and all over Japan, it could be a matter of time before real change starts to happen. Anyway, I wasn’t meaning to grill you on your, uh, projects. I was--”

“What toy?” 

His question nonpluses you and you cock your head, blinking up at his peripheral stare. “Um, I think it was of that fast hero, O’clock. It was my older brothers originally, but he passed it down to me. No idea where it is now. It likely got lost in a move or accidentally left behind.”

Tomura lifts his eyes from yours, his jaw clenching and a slow gulp echoing down his lean throat. You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple, fascinated by the movement. That urge to touch him is back and you have to clench your fingers into your palms to quiet it. 

You’re so distracted by your primal reaction to him, that you miss his question and he has to repeat it, his eyes slipping back to yours, the red dark. 

“What?” you ask, blinking against the acuteness of his gaze. 

“Can I take a hit of that?”

“Of what...oh.” You lift the half smoked joint and chuckle at yourself, pressing the smoldering paper toward him. “Sure. You had one before?”

“Does it matter?” He scoffs, carefully taking the white roach from you and raising it to his chapped lips.

“Go slow,” you warn as he begins to inhale, his eyes drifting to a half mast, concentrating.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grumbles, pulling a tentative, but heavy, drag into his lungs.

“Fine,” you scoff playfully, “do what you want. But don’t blame me when you’re coughing up a lung.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t heed your advice and, seconds later, he’s clutching at his throat, dropping the joint onto the broken gravel and concrete as he heaves. Instinctively, you thump him on his back and run your palm soothingly over his lean shoulder blades, surprised by the corded muscle that greets you. For a relatively thin guy, he’s certainly packing some strength under that unassuming form of his. 

Tomura startles at your touch and he yanks himself away from you, his head ducked, eyes fastening onto yours, the irises accusatory and bright, burning with some underlying emotion that you’re too nervous to name right now. 

“Uh,” you begin, aghast that you’ve upset him, “m-my bad…”

But, he’s already leaving, his head firmly turned from you, clambering over the edge and back onto the fire escape, leaving you alone in the darkness. 

******                

After that night, you can’t slip him out of your mind. Even when you sleep, you can see those red eyes of his, gleaming and hungry. One evening, you’d even woken with your fingers firmly pressed to your throbbing clit, stumbling and gasping, shaking free of a dream of him. He’d felt so real, so in focus and you can’t catch your breath, fingers still rubbing a tight circle over your quivering bundle of nerves. You pant as you break yourself, sukling in the whites and reds that haze over your vision. Yeah, that crush of his definitely isn’t a one sided thing.

The next shift you work, he’s waiting for you, perched in his familiar seat, his shoulders curved and tight. You give him a glance, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. His hands are lowered, fiddling with something under the bartop. You begin to open your bar, trying to quiet your wandering thoughts, not wanting to perturb him again. You’re uncorking a red wine when he presses something across the mahogany wood of the bar, toward you.

It’s small, with dark colors and a tiny, familiar, upper half mask. You let the bottle of wine thud against the counter, abandoning the half opened bottle to move closer. It’s...it’s your-- No. It can’t be yours, but it is the same toy, the one you’d mentioned on the roof the other night. How did he?

You gulp and look up at him, your heart pulsing wildly against your ribs. For the first time, he looks away from you first, his white hair pillowing across his brow. His lips start to rise in an all too habitual scowl and his raspy voice lifts to your ears. “If you don’t want it,” he grouses, one hand pulling away from the offered toy, clearly flustered by your wondering gaze. Without thinking, you slip your fingertips over the top of his hand, prolonging the touch, sulking in the warmth of him. 

His fingers curl, some unconscious tremor racing along his digits. He almost yanks himself away, but then he stops, sighing as his eyes lift to yours. For a long moment, the two of you watch the other. You can hear his breathing speed up and you can almost smell the shift in the air. All it would take is one, tiny push to break that delicious tension. 

Tomura’s nostrils flare as you start to lean closer, your body curving toward his, fingers still pressing into his skin. Your tongue dips out, wetting your lower lip and pulling it into your mouth, sucking on the plush flesh. His eyelids have lowered and he’s mirroring your motions, his elbows assisting his lift, his face upturning, seeking, reaching.

With a bang, the front door is flung open and it breaks the spell that’s fallen over the two of you. Tomura leans away first, his eyes narrowed in agitation, sliding from your open face to the darkness of the entryway. You exhale a shaking breath and follow Tomura’s gaze. It’s that masked man, the one with the top hat and he’s already striding confidently forward, peppering Tomura with a series of questions. 

Snagging up his gift to you, you walk back to your bottle of wine. 

******    

You don’t have a chance to see Tomura again until he tells you, one evening, that the bar is going to be closed for the next few days. Then, over his shoulder, you spot the blonde boy, strapped and bound into a stiff chair and you blanch, stunned, too overwrought to give him more than a one word acknowledgement before stumbling back outside. In all of your talks, he’d never mentioned anything like this. That boy looked like a kid, barely past middle school, his eyes wild and defiant, but also so, so frightened. 

No, you think, pacing your apartment, it’s impossible to come to terms with this. You can’t stay there, can’t work there. It’s too dangerous, too close to a real criminal den for comfort. You have to look out for yourself, no matter your feelings for the man who’s wandering down some long, lost pathway, toward a future you can’t even comprehend, let alone see.

So, you hand in your written resignation. 

Kurogiri is behind the bar when you bring it in, and you’re hoping that the early morning conversation will spare you from having to see him. The wispy, purple hand of Kurogiri is just about to take your letter when Tomura barges down the hallway. His eyes immediately land on you and he steps forward, a dark look passing over his palled features. 

“Why?” he growls, fingers snatching the paper from Kurogiri and crumbling the parchment to bits, his quirk rendering your typed words to nothingness. 

“I don’t want to be a part of any kidnapping. It…” you pause, looking toward Kurogiri and, to your surprise, he nods to Tomura and moves away, leaving the two of you alone in the vacant bar. Tomura is still glaring at you, but he’s waiting for you to finish your thought, his jaw grinding quietly. 

“This doesn’t feel like you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Tomura scoffs, his chin jutting at the assertion. 

“This doesn’t change society. This is just some petty attempt to get back at the UA staff. It’s like...It’s like you’re asking for trouble to seek you out. You’re smarter than this. Besides, what are you going to do with him?” you smart, crossing your arms and balling your fingers into your fists. 

“What do you know about anything? That kid’s been oppressed by hero society, literally muzzled and bound--”

“As if you’re doing any better! He’s still muzzled and bound, Tomura! He’s just in a different location. This is insanity. Who put you up to doing--”

“That doesn’t matter. This conversation has nothing to do with that. You can’t leave,” Tomura snaps, his head lowering, soft white hair falling over his face. “Give it a few more days.”

“What? I can’t stay if the bar is raided and it’s prolly gonna be if you keep that kid. Besides, that’s not--”

“Just...just give me a few more days. I don’t want to beg you, I shouldn’t fucking need to beg you. It’s not an impossible request (Y/N). Just--”

“Fine,” you sigh, uncrossing your arms and watching him. He looks on edge, haggard and angry. Those emotions aren’t projected at you, you know that. Nevertheless, it doesn’t lessen the danger he’s asking you to stand with him in. But, you can give him a few days and you tell him so, trying to ignore the pattering of your heart when he looks at you and smiles.

******

Then, Kamino happens. 

You weren’t there, thank God. But he was, and now, no matter what he’d asked of you, no matter what he’d hoped for, everything shifts apart. Days linger into weeks and you’re trying your best to reason that he’d made it out in one piece. Surely, you would have heard something. The capture of the leader of the League of Villains would have been a morsel that the media would have wanted to crow about, especially after the loss of All Might. 

Late one evening, your phone rings. 

It’s an unknown, blacked out number, but something tells you to answer, so you pick it up. You almost gasp when you hear that familiar rasp and you listen to what he tells you. You can’t get over how brittle and cracked his voice sounds but you write down the address he gives you. He cloaks his true motivations with a lie. Apparently, he has your last paycheck. Like that even matters to you. Honestly, you’re just glad he’s safe and whole. But, he’s gone to all this effort to build a bridge back to him, so of course you’re going to go.

You check and double check the directions, carefully maneuvering and weaving through bus stops and back streets. Somehow, you make it and find yourself pressing open a dilapidated door and stepping into a small room. Only darkness greets you, even though the bright midday sun is shining outside. The place he’s brought you to is on a dock, on the outskirts of town, close to the salty edge of a bay. You can hear the mournful cries of a seagull as you close the door behind you, sealing yourself inside and blinking into the gloom.

It takes you a minute to catch sight of him.

He’s lingering along the edges but you can make out the glow of his eyes, red and fierce. He looks different. It’s only been a few weeks, but it looks like the weight of years has crushed him under its unfeeling grind in that short amount of time. No, Kamino has changed him, rendering him unhinged and dangerous, drifting along the peripheral of your vision. Still, you haven’t come here to witness him falling to bits at your feet. No, you’d come here with another, darker motive. 

Now, to work.

“What happened?” you ask, keeping your back firmly against the door. Watching him move closer, those red shoes of his glinting over the dark wooden floors.

“Sensei is...gone,” he replies, his voice hollow and faint. He’s mentioned his Sensei before and you’d heard the man’s strange voice echoing from that back television, like some distant, terrifying specter. But, you knew he was important to Tomura, more like a father than a teacher. However, you’d seen the news. You knew he was beaten to a pulp and captured, locked away and out of Tomura’s reach. Now, he can’t ask his Sensei for advice or support, not anymore. Even knowing what little you’ve gleaned about the strange man, Tomura must be devastated by his loss.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, genuine in your sympathy.

Tomura nods and fishes for something in the pocket of his trench coat, lifting a thin slip of paper out and showing it to you. “Here,” he sighs, still not meeting your eyes directly. 

“Oh,” you say, moving away from the door and taking a few steps toward him. “You really did ask me here for the check, huh?”

“What else did you want?” he grumbles, his voice regaining a small slice of that familiar rasping. The question lingers and you feel your pulse speed up, your palms itching at your sides. “Or, did you want to scold me again?” Tomura continues disgruntled, and you can see a grimace pass over his face.

“You deserved it,” you confirm, taking another step, only wavering when you’re a few feet from him. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn't kidnapped that UA student. Now, the kid, and your Sensei are gone and you’re stuck here. Wherever here is”

“Look at you, quite the oracle aren’t you? So, you did come here to berate me.” Tomura snaps, dropping your pay stub to the dusty floor. 

“No,” you shake your head, not wanting this to spiral out of your control, not wanting him to simply shut you out, alone on that pier, left with all of your what ifs. “No, I didn’t come here to do that. I-I...it’s just that...well...that wasn’t you. That whole plan...it still doesn’t make sense”

“How the fuck would you know what is, or isn’t, me? You said that that morning, too. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now,” Tomura bristles, closing the distance and bowing up to you. You can feel the sheer heat of him radiating against your shirt and you shiver at the sensation. If you lift your hand you could touch him, you think distantly. He’s so close...He’s so... 

You gulp, trying to quell your rising emotions. “I guess, I don’t know then.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” you say, biting your lip.

“Fine,” he repeats, no doubt thinking that will be the end of it, but you’re not finished.

“You’re better than this you know,” you tell him, eyes searching for his, not relenting your glare until he finally meets you halfway, his red eyes flashing.

“Better than what? Better than you? A half baked woman, slumming her way from mid range bar, to mid range bar. Hoping you’ll catch the eye of the right person, someone who can pluck you from all the muck and grime that you lift that pretty little nose of yours at.”

“What?” you breathe, a snarl of your own etching across your face.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing. Fucking leading me on like that--”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You thought I’d be your ticket out, or you could wager me later for a better piece, something stronger, someone that could do something for you.” Tomura is seething, his chest bumping against yours, the red of his eyes burning as he glowers at you. 

“Tomura- I don’t know what you’re talk--”

“Stop saying that. You stupid, or something? And stop saying my name like that. Like it fucking matters. You could have had anything, you know? But...but you took it all for granted. You had the world...and then it...it’s...it’s just gone.”

He’s not talking about you anymore. Even though he’s growling and spitting rage at you, he’s not talking about you. “Shigaraki,” you begin, trying to see some way to reason with him. To bring him back to you. 

“Don’t call me that,” he groans, his head dipping, almost resting against your shoulder. “I haven’t earned...that’s not me.” 

“Alright. What am I supposed to call you?” you whisper, overwhelmed and trying to resist that urge to pull him into your arms. You’ve never seen him like this, and you don’t know, you don’t…

“There you go again, acting like you care.” Tomura scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

“I do care, you ass,” you bite, turning your head toward him and letting your voice fall beside his ear. He snarls at the assertion and presses impossibly closer, trying his best to put on a show of wavering strength, knowing you might still be bullied into backing down, into denying him. But it’s not working, no you’ve come this far and you don’t want to leave him, not like this. 

“I care,” you repeat, still murmuring next to his cheek, so near you can hear, and feel, his ragged breaths, hot against your skin.

“About what?” he grunts, moving his head from you, determined to not let you win.

“About, well, you.”

“Liar,” he spits, but his voice wavers, showing you a tiny, tiny sliver of hope.

“Am not,” you counter and watch as he leans back, those vermillion eyes searching for yours. One of his hands lifts and he ghosts the digits over the top of your shoulder, watching as you shift toward the distant touch, pulled to him, like a magnet.

“Such a liar,” he posits, fingers hovering beside your neck, twitching with want. 

“No, I’m not,” you gasp, your voice so faint, you’re worried he might not hear it. But he does and he dips his head toward you, inches from your face, lips already parted and waiting. 

“Prove it,” he challenges, his voice deepening, losing that sharpened edge at long last.

So, you shove him. 

You’re not sure why that’s your first, instinctive reaction, but it’s too late to question your motives and it sparks a crazed response from the man in front of you, snapping him out of his head and refocusing him. 

He fumbles backwards, caught off guard, his red shoes catching as he lumbers, trying to not fall. His eyes flash at you and he instantly rights himself, moving back to you. Through it all, you can hear yourself saying something. It sounds like it might have been another taunt, but you can’t focus, not when he’s pressing himself against you, his fingers finally, finally touching you. 

Tomura can’t seem to settle now that he’s gotten ahold of you, his fingers tracing over your neck, your shoulders, your face, your sides. He’s panting and gasping, his fevered exhales fanning over your prickling skin.

“Get off me,” you moan, batting at his wandering hands.

“No,” he sighs, cupping your jaw and dragging you to his shaking lips. His kiss is clumsy, almost childlike. He lifts and leans, pressing halting smacks against you, grunting when you twist from him, fighting his hold.

“You don’t deserve it,” you tell him, wanting to lance that boil that’s festering in his mind, knowing he needs the pain before he can handle the sweetness of the pleasure. The last thing he needs is love. No, not right now. Hopefully, there will be time for that later. But for now, he needs something raw and shattered, something that will let him see that it’s not impossible to pick up the pieces, that he can be whole again, he just needs to try.

He drags his rough lips over yours and you lower your fingers into his snowy hair, pulling him closer, demanding that he give you more. He gasps at the sudden shift and you slip your tongue into his mouth, tangling it with his and yanking stammering moans from him. Your lips are slick now and you use the extra lubrication to slip down his neck, leaving him trembling above you. 

You dip into each and every scar, laving over all those old hurts until he’s snarling. You leave a bruising bite against his pulse and he snatches your face between his palms, dragging you back to his lips. 

“Stop squirming,” he complains, his forehead bumping against yours, trying to keep up with your rapid fire laps and sucks. 

“No,” you laugh, fingers lacing into the lapels of his trench coat and using the leverage to drag your breasts over his hardened pectorals. He grunts at the sensation, one arm wrapping around your lower back, pinning you to him. When he finally manages to work his way free of your frantic presses, he lowers his lips to your neck, mimicking the same path you’d taken with him, his teeth nipping and pulling until your humming, giving him a thin cry of encouragement that spurs him on. 

Tomura drags a canine over your pulse and you shiver, folding into his crumpled embrace. He’s almost having to hold you upright and he growls when you slip from his arms, annoyed you’re making this so fucking difficult. 

“I said, keep still,” he reminds you, heaving you back up, lean forearms bracing you to him. You smile and lace your arms around his neck, wanting his lips again. He allows the pull, loving the contrast of your plush skin against his. He’s a fast learner and this time, it’s his tongue taps and maneuvers for entrance, swallowing down your needy pants. His nose presses into your cheek and you cup at his jaw, stroking the warm skin until he slows his frantic pace, meeting you halfway, and lingering in your wet softness.

Then, just as he’s getting comfortable, you dig your teeth into his lower lip, pulling until you bleed out a little taste of copper. He snarls and shoves you away, lifting the side of his hand to his injured mouth. 

“What was that for?” He snaps, tapping his fingers against the wound, watching as they come back red. “The fuck is wrong with…” His ire stutters to a halt when he catches sight of you. 

You’ve already slipped your shirt over your head and now your fingers are twisting until you unclasp your bra, sliding the lace down your arms. The cool air makes your nipples tighten but you don’t attempt to cover yourself from him. Instead, you arch an eyebrow at his abashed expression and begin to unbutton your pants, your fingers teasingly lingering over the button and zipper, before lowering the denim down the curve of your hips. 

You don’t even hear him approach. No, you’re too distracted by your little show to notice him until you feel those warm fingers tracing over the newly bared swells of your skin. You lift your head and your eyes catch his, smiling at the hazy hunger that’s blazing out at you. His touch is tentative and you roll your eyes openly at him, lifting your own hands over his, pressing him until he’s digging those four digits into your sumptuous flesh. 

His thumb rubs over your pebbled nipple and you reward him with a low moan, your eyes slipping behind your heavy eyelids. He cups at your other breast and lifts the weight of you into his palm, openly marveling at the feel of you. Still, it’s not enough and if you’re going to get your point across, you need him to give you more than these lazy strokes. 

“Take off your jacket,” you tell him, stepping away from him, quaking minutely in the loss of his warmth. 

“What?” he asks, clearly too overwrought to hear you. So, you help him along. Your fingers snatch the shoulders of his trench and you yank it off him, tossing the fabric down to the gritty floors. Then, you shove at him again. He isn’t as taken aback this time and he rallies immediately, snatching at you and dragging you against him, making you gasp at the harsh sensation of his dark clothes against your bare front. 

“What do you want?” you ask him, licking your tongue along the underside of his jaw, listening to his shuddering breaths. “What do you want to do to me, Tomura? Come on, I know you’ve got some idea. Fucking show me. Don’t let me boss you around, unless that’s what you’re wanting today to be about. I can take those reigns from you. I’m better at this after all. Less...flustered,” you pause, sucking and nipping at his neck, enjoying the indecisive flex of his fingers on your upper arms.

He allows you one more bite and then he’s tossing you down, not caring where you land. Thankfully, you sprawl over his discarded jacket, the fabric sparing you from the neglected wooden floor. You’re trying to regain your bearings when you hear his belt clatter to the floor. You look up at him, watching as he flings that dark shirt away, showing you the lean muscles that you’ve wondered about for so long. God, for someone so lanky, he looks fucking good. 

Tomura smirks at your expression and swiftly yanks his pants and boxers away too, revealing something even more mouthwatering. Fuck, fuck, you think, an involuntary gasp leaving your lips. His cock is thick, pulsing and absolutely dripping with his precum. The tip is a lovely pink, curving toward that chiseled stomach of his and damn, you want to suck on it until he’s putty in your hands. 

As if he can read your mind, Tomura steps closer, giving himself a few tugs as he peers down on you, imperious and almost perfectly in control. “You want it?” He asks, trying to hide that sudden shift in his voice, wanting to show you that he understands what you’re expecting from him. You nod and bite your lip, looking up at him from feathery eyelashes. 

“Come here,” he requests, slowing those pulls and letting his precum slip from his fist to the floor, tempting you with those tiny droplets of arousal. Obediently, you rise to your knees, fingers tracing up his thighs, smiling at the light buckling he gives you, his calves twitching and shaking. 

You tease your way to the apex of his hips and pause, lingering along that dip of his stomach. “Can I taste you?” you question coquettishly and you adore the moan that falls from his lips. 

Taking that as a yes, you slowly lower your mouth to him, ghosting the tip of him over you. Rubbing him back and forth, painting that thick precum over your lips until they’re glistening. Tiring of this little game, his fingers dip into your hair and he grips you, hard. With one pull, he’s burying that velvet heat of his length past the ring of your lips and into the sweet cavern of your mouth. His cock swells and throbs as you lap ravenous at the hefty weight of him.

He’s salty and earthy and you let your tongue swirl over his slit, lapping into that leaking gap until he’s murmuring nonsense over you. He’s almost too big for you to take, so one of your hands lifts and wraps around his base, easing your sucks and ensuring that none of him is left out of this gift of mind numbing ecstasy you’re bestowing upon him. 

There are several veins, racing along the side of his cock and you tickle along each of them, pressing until you can feel the beat of his heart, frantic and fluttering. Soon, he begins to silently ask you for more, rutting his hips against your face, scraping himself along the back of your throat. When you heave around him he lets out a loud, elongated moan and digs in again, lingering until you’re nearly choking. 

You chance a peek up at him and are surprised to see him gazing right back, those red eyes of his clouded and muddled. His hand keeps an insistent pressure against the back of your head, demanding that you keep going. So, you pick up the pace, lapping and sucking, hollowing your cheeks until a thin line of your drool begins to trickle along your chin, dripping onto your knees.

“Can...can I…” he begins, fingers starting to tremble, his knees buckling. No, that’s not what you want from him. You shake free of his hand, letting him slip from your mouth, and he stammers and sputters at the loss, his eyes narrowed and dark, glaring at you with a raw frustration. 

“No,” you tell him, keeping one hand on him, stroking him, maintaining that steady pressure until he’s grunting, his hips instinctively canting into the tantalizing motion. “No, you don’t ask me for anything. Yeah, I can finish you off, if you need me to take control, but it’s not going to be on your terms. If you’re wanting something Tomura, you better fucking take it. Stop asking me for permission. I’m not-- mmph--”

He rips your hand off of his dick and his fingers curl beside your ears, forcing your mouth back, and impaling you on his length, immediately gagging you on his heady thrusts. You inhale sharply, your breath catching, failing as he keeps railing into you. More saliva slides out of your lips and you falter, a weak whimper echoing around him. 

“Mmm,” he growls, holding your face as he presses against the back of your throat loving the clenching and mewls you give him. “That feels fucking good, (Y/N). Taking all of my cock, ah- fucking choking on it. You’re so fucking greedy. Don’t worry, I’ll give you more. Let’s see, what would make this even better, oh, I know. Saw it in a porn once. Put your hands behind your back and don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

Immediately, you clasp your fingers together, letting them rest against your lower back. The suspension knocks you off kilter, but Tomura braces your head with his other hand, pinning you between his palms. His dick is still lancing in and out of your mouth, scraping against your tonsils, making you swallow and open, trying to push yourself past that oppressive gagging sensation.

“Ahhh, such a good girl, now spread your legs and lift up, just a little bit, yes- right there. Better keep those hands still,” he taunts, pulling his cock out until it hangs against your lower lip, glimmering with the sheen of your ministrations. Then, he dives back in, thrusting and grinding until his balls are papping against your soaking chin. Your legs tremble as you hold yourself up and you can feel your own arousal, slipping down your inner thighs, splattering onto that dark trench coat of his. 

You’re heaving under him, grunting and slobbering trying to not fucking choke on the girth that’s being pistoned into you. He’s gasping praise at you, his white head thrown back, and his lower abdomen is rippling, letting you know he’s so, so close to spilling down your abused throat. He bows over you as he cums, spewing thick ropes of his release into you. You gulp at him, determined to let every last drop slither down your waiting throat, longing to savor everything that he’s giving you. 

True to your promise, you keep your hands clasped and you nearly topple over when he tugs free of your lips. Tomura takes pity on your wilted form and lowers himself to his knees, wrapping one hand around you and tapping twice on your shaking digits, letting you know you can relax your grip. You fall forward, and he waits above you, watching you with a mounting fascination. Once you catch your breath, you look up at him, not caring that you’re still covered in a mix of tears, spit and his cum. He smirks at your dishevelment, pleased by your open display of your wanton lust for him. 

“See? It’s not hard to take what you want, to do what you want,” you pant, still trying to gulp down a few more rough intakes of air.

Tomura sucks his teeth at your bravado, but you notice he’s having a little bit of trouble steading his own breathing and his hands are twitching as they reach for you. You hum when he cups at your dips and curves, lingering over spots that make you moan for him. As he plucks at one of your puckered nipples his eyes lift to yours and he leans close, pressing a wet line of kisses against your collarbone.

“Lay back,” he rumbles, still sucking at the hollow of your throat. You do as he says, propping yourself on your elbows, curious and waiting. He’s slowed down now that he’s slaked that first brush of pent up aggression, but he’s still got a little more to burn. You can see it, lingering behind his vermillion eyes, gleaming under the carnal intrigue. 

His fingers, so dangerous and deadly, race down your sides, falling to the juncture of your legs and dipping into the slick that he finds. He parts your folds, bracing himself over you, his lips sucking bruises into your skin. The gossamer threads of your leaking cunt run down his fingers and onto his open palm and he groans into your neck, nuzzling his nose to your skin and inhaling, deeply. 

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice scraping, like sandpaper, hoarse and undone along your heated cheek. Ok, you think, arching as he dips one digit into you, you can let him have that one question, especially when your mind is fogging over like this, unable to think of anything but that ache that’s pounding through your core. You roll your hips again, urging that finger to slip further and he hisses as you pull him in, your walls trembling at the intrusion. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, lifting himself to look down at you, his eyes wide with an awed marvel. “You’re so…”

“Mmm, so what?” you ask, wanting him to keep talking to you, loving rasp of his tone as it tells you such sinful things.

“So soft and warm and...God...so wet,” he replies, adding another finger, watching as you whine for him, your lower lips parting and welcoming him. He pumps the digits, in and out, at a steady rate, waiting for each quiver and ripple, trying to feel his way along, wanting to please you. 

“Can--” he stops himself, flushing as your eyes open and snap to his, a rough displeasure written over your face. He tears his gaze from yours and scowls, letting his fingers press a rougher rhythm into you, sucking his teeth at his unspoken inexperience. 

“This feels good,” you reassure him, not wanting to completely leave him adrift, knowing that he does need a little piece of guidance, for this part, at least. “Why don’t you get a closer look?” 

Tomura looks back to you and nods before sliding down your body, lowering himself until he’s face to face with his prize. His mouth drops and he licks at his chapped lips, painting a few, warm, exhales against your sensitive folds. You squirm at the sensation and he grins, leaning closer, his free hand spreading you for his inspection. 

“Is this…” his voice trails off and you can feel him wandering his way to just the right spot. When he lifts the fleshy hood of your clit and thumbs the distended pearl you gasp and shiver, your head falling back against his jacket, thumping against the floor. 

He laughs and you can feel him getting ready to swipe at you again, his thumb already slippery and near, the heat of it radiating against that sensitive bundle. “You like that,” he crows, repeating the motion until you’re writhing. “But—” he ponders, moving so his lips are pressed against you, resting on those sopping folds, waiting for you to look up at him. Once your head lifts and your eyes meet his, he lowers his mouth, sliding his tongue over you. 

“Oh,” you whisper, your hands automatically lifting and curling into his hair, threading the white tendrils along your palms. His tongue is rough and bumpy as it glides along, pausing to lap at some of your arousal. He smacks his lips at the taste, savoring the flavor before voraciously pressing back into you for more. When he pauses his explorations to give your clit a soft suck, you can’t help but flail, your back bowing and thighs tightening around his head. 

Tomura grunts at the rough treatment, prying your legs apart but not letting up on that suction, pleased he’s found something that makes you tremble to pieces in his hands. He’s always liked working you up, so it makes sense that, in this instance, he’s no different. 

His long digits are scraping into you, dragging along your quivering walls and spreading your cunt apart, leaking your arousal all over his jacket and onto his chin. He’s not satisfied yet, you’re not satisfied yet, so he keeps going, listening and watching, catching on to what makes you cry out his name, learning and adapting at an alarming speed. 

“T-Tomura,” you keen, your hips lifting, grinding yourself against his face, begging him to not stop. You feel a smirk lift his lips and his tongue begins to circle and lick over your clit, maintaining a steady pressure. Meanwhile, his fingers have latched onto something delicate and spongy within your pussy, repeating an arched gesture, curling and uncurling as they stroke your budding flames higher. 

“So good…” you murmur, hardly able to form the words as you feel that all encompassing tingle race along your bloodstream. “You’re doing so f-fucking good.” 

In response, he begins to suckle on your clit, lightly tracing a canine over the pulsing bundle and that’s all that it takes. Your head dips back, pressing into the floor so hard that your neck arches with your back and your legs wrap around him, holding him to you as you quiver and shake under him. You can feel your heartbeat as you return to yourself, thumping a rapid beat over your breastbone and radiating out to your fingers and toes. 

Tomura, for his part, hadn’t stopped lapping at you, his tongue replacing his fingers as he pushes the wet appendage into you, soaking up each wave of your release. Even when you’d dropped your death grip, your legs and arms flopping away from him, boneless and shaking, he’d kept on. After a few minutes of this, his lips suddenly feel a little too ragged, the chapped skin scratching against your sensitive, overstimulated, flushed lower lips. You do your best to wriggle away, but he stills your movements, not quite finished. 

“Ah- that...it’s starting to hurt,” you grouse, pushing a hand against his bowed head. That declaration seems to get through and, finally placated, he gives you one last lick and lifts his head, his eyes glinting down on you, dark and mischievous. 

“I want to fuck you,” he tells you, wiping a hand across his mouth, dragging the last of your essence away. You tilt your head and grin up at him. “So fuck me,” you reply, spreading your legs again, making room for his trim hips.

“Not like this,” he qualifies, his eyes hooded as he runs a hand along your leg, enjoying your skin, warm and pliant under his palm.

“Then how?” you ask, a little bewildered by this shift in attitude. Tomura leans up, resting on his haunches, leering at your nakedness, another smirk lifting his lips, arching that scar.

“Stand up,” he instructs. 

You pull your legs away and slowly rise to your feet, waiting for him to do the same. Once the two of you are eye level again, he tugs you to him, his lips pulling and nipping at yours. You can’t help but melt into his persistent touch and when he feels you slacken against him, he starts to push you backwards. He walks you slowly, carefully, but once your back touches the cold wall, his caresses become rougher, more insistent. 

He’s lifting your chin and his teeth are doing more biting than nipping, pulling at your lips until you’re gasping and swollen. He begins to lift away and you protest the movement, but his hand presses into your chest, shoving you back to the wall. You freeze at the forceful treatment, your eyes opening and fastening onto his. Waiting for his next move.

Tomura’s regained that wild look, his eyes hardening, sharpening like ruby slips of flint as they linger over you. “Turn around and brace your hands against the wall,” he commands and, for an instant, you debate pushing back, challenging his order, but that’s not what you’re here for. No, you’d come here with one thought in mind. 

To see if you could show him what choices, what strong inner drive, wholly independent of his Sensei, he did have. 

You’d watched that kidnapping debacle and all you could think about was how much better, how much stronger he’d be if he could just get out from under the thumb of that man, that voice on the tv. Even with this informal exercise of your own, Tomura had taken to your carnal lessons like a fish to water. He had always been a natural born leader, someone who cultivated and demanded change, he just needs a chance to try. A chance to prove that he didn’t need to ask permission, to ask questions. No, he only needed to act and he could make his aspirations a reality. 

So, you turn, splaying your fingers against the wall and waiting for his next move, tilting your head, wanting to see him. He runs a calloused hand over the plush swell of your ass, kneading the skin and stepping closer. Once his hips are flush with your posterior, he ruts his newly re-hardened cock against you, his ever copious precum aiding his motion, letting him glide between your cheeks, easing into that cleft. You groan and press back, wordlessly asking for him to keep going. 

Suddenly, his palm smacks against your ass, stinging the flesh and sending a sharp crack around the barren room. “I said, push out more. How am I supposed to fuck you when you’re plastered to the wall like that?” Tomura questions, his voice deep and guttural. You brace your hands against the peeling wallpaper and jut your ass out, presenting yourself to him, quietly hoping he’ll reward you with another spank. Pleased, Tomura does just that, his other hand lifting and smarting against your other, neglected cheek, imprinting his mark on you, even if it’s only for a brief moment, and his fingers linger on the warmth he’s raised from your skin. 

“Good girl,” he groans, taking his cock in his hand and searching for that weeping entrance to your waiting pussy. You aid him as best as you can, arching your hips until he finally, finally slips into you. Tomura lets out a deep sigh as your cunt devours his cock, slicking him into the heat of your rippling channel. “Oh, fuck,” he moans, pressing until his hips are flush with your ass, grinding his bony hipbone into your supple softness.

He gives you a brief second to adjust before he bows his head over your shoulder, panting and grunting. “Hold on,” he gasps, slowly pulling his hips back and then ramming his straining cock back into you. You mewl at the sudden ferocity of his thrusts, your head dipping against the steady weight of the wall. 

He offers you no reprieve as he pounds into you, his teeth latching onto your skin, sucking and drooling, losing himself in you. His balls tap against your swelled ass and you moan when he traces one hand around you, his fingers seeking your clit and pinching at the nub. 

Your teeth begin to chatter, but he doesn’t let up, maintaining that mind numbing pace, pressing and grinding until you can’t fucking think straight. He’s completely untethered and he slakes out all of those pent up questions, feelings, hurts and wants against you. After a time, he begins to murmur things to you, finally sucking up his loose tongue and resting his chin on the mess he’s left on your skin.

He’s worried he can’t do it. 

He’s never been alone, not like this. 

Sure, he has the others, he has Kurogiri, but it’s not the fucking same. 

He needs to see this through. 

He wants to, he has to.

Where do you go, when there’s no one else to turn to?

It’s like a confessional, this rutting he’s doing and it’s bleeding all of those thoughts away, letting them pool against the front of his mind and then, pop, they shift away. 

Oh this helps, he thinks, loving how you’re fucking taking him, how much you fucking need him. He can’t let you go. He can’t, he won’t. You’re all he has left. After all this, he can’t lose anything else. No, you were right, he’s gotta start taking things, snatching up pieces until he becomes this unstoppable force, greater than his Sensei, greater than All Might, greater than all of them. Yes, yes, yes, when he has you like this, everything else feels so fucking simple. 

He’s slowing, his hips beginning to stutter and press erratically against you. There’s no need to worry about you cumming for him, not when you’ve already broken around him so many times in the last few minutes. No, the second he started panting all of those thoughts against you, you were lost, your cunt gripping him so tightly you were worried it might never let go. 

Finally, with one last thrust, Tomura grinds his hips against you, his cock swelling and pulsing as he spills himself into you. The sensation of his cum splashing against your walls hurtles you over that edge one last time and you almost collapse, your legs shaking so badly you can't support your own weight. The only thing that prevents you from falling is Tomura. His arms snake around your waist and he holds you to him, his forehead resting heavily against your shoulder, sticking to your skin. 

After a long beat, Tomura pulls himself out of you, grunting at the loss of your warmth and sinks to the floor, dragging you with him. Naked and gasping, the two of you cling to the other, waiting for the world to stop spinning as you come back to yourselves. Tomura recovers first, tugging you to his chest and wrapping himself around you, his chin perched on the familiar slope of your shoulder.

“You didn’t...you didn’t need to do this, but...” Tomura halts, his voice soft as his lips press rough kisses to your skin, silently saying what he really means, what you mean to him.

“That’s not true,” you counter, turning your head toward him. “You deserve to make a choice for yourself. You’re your own boss now. Now all you have to do is act like it. Don’t make those mistakes again. You call the shots, not your Sensei, not anyone else in the League, just you. You’ll have other choices soon, so don’t doubt yourself, it’s not like you.”

He huffs out a laugh and buries his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent as he licks at a rising bruise. “I don’t think you’ll like my next choice,” he rumbles, one hand drifting over your side and cupping the soft mound of your breast.

“That depends on what it is,” you smile, your eyes closing at the tempting touch.

“Mmm, do me a favor,” he begins, nipping at your earlobe. “Get on your knees and open your mouth. You looked so fucking pretty when you were sucking on my cock, I wanna see it, one more time.”

“What?” you question, absolutely incredulous, “again?”

“Do as I say (Y/N),” he replies, rubbing his rising length along your ass.

“God,” you gasp, bucking at the sensation, “what have I done? At this rate, I won’t be able to walk for a week.”

“You’ll like it,” Tomura promises, his voice dark, “I’ll make sure that you do.”

Notes: never have i ever liked that kidnapping bullshit. i guess it lets AFO face off with All Might, but for Tomura’s development? it makes no sense and he’s never done anything like that again, in canon. so, uh, yeah. booo kidnapping scheme. 

Tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love

#asks #answered asks #pal muses #on Tomura’s dick #and his trauma #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #tomura x reader #tomura x y/n #tomura x you #tenko shimura #shimura tenko #reader insert

[ginnyzero]

Does Your Story Suffer from Exposition-itus

Exposition. What is it? What does it do? Exposition according to dictionary.com is a noun and the definitions that concern us are numbers 2, and 3. The act of expounding, setting forth, or explaining. And Writing or speech primarily intended to convey information or explain, a detailed statement or explanation.

Or in author terms. Info-dumping.

It is the opposite of action. Action being the dialog and actions that move your story forward.

Now, not all exposition is bad. In fact, there are going to be places in your book where information is necessary. However, if your exposition outweighs your action, it will slow your story down and turn off readers. Especially, if your exposition is in the beginning of your book. Especially since most exposition is in passive voice. A lot of times, I find exposition to be the author starting the story in their own head and explaining everything up to the point where the inciting incident starts, and then not realizing it’s exposition and not editing it out later.

So, here are 9 symptoms of exposition-itus, a readers perspective and in author terms b/c I also happen to be an author.

1) It reads like a history book.

In fact, it might as well be a history book, as the author has decided to spend so many pages on the historical and cultural facts that have brought us to this point in the story. This can actually be disguised as dialogue, where one character is telling the other character everything they need to know whether or not the reader actually needs to know about it or not. This can include things like background, family history, asking what is going on in the other character’s life, and so on and so forth.

Boring. Yawn. Especially if this happens in the beginning of the book. There is no interaction or action, reaction going on for us to care. These are words for the sake of words and the author needs to edit, figure out when or if this information is actually important to the story and then casually slide it in there.

2) It reads like a character sheet.

This is when the author, instead of relying on their ability to show us character traits, decides to tell us the traits of these characters instead.

In the Lone Prospect, I could tell you “Gideon was a man in his mid-twenties exactly (25), fresh out of a medical discharge from the military and wearing his worn out, too thin, farm clothes from his teens that strained against his adult physique. He loved his mother and didn’t want to worry her, but he and his father weren’t getting along. Thus, leaving Gideon looking for a new place to settle down. He was mildly optimistic about it. Oh. And he was a werewolf, so it made things a tad more complicated.”

Or, I can do what I did, wait until chapter three, have Gideon write a letter to his mother while interacting with a duck and hope I conveyed the same information in a way that doesn’t bore you to tears.

In telling us the ‘traits’ of the character, the author makes it doubly difficult on themselves on top of frustrating the reader. If you tell the reader the character is competent, sarcastic, and reckless, then you have to show it too or risk not having consistency in the book. Instead, know your character traits, keep them close to your chest, and simply have your characters act. That way the reader can determine them for themselves, and character consistency is maintained.

3) It reads like a scene summary.

So, you’re reading along in the story and there in the middle of what could be a good scene of character interaction is a paragraph about how there was character interaction because these are all great friends, really! But instead of showing you, the author instead has decided to tell you.

Which completely ruins the point of the reader figuring out these people are good friends.

Again, in the Lone Prospect, I have a scene I could have summarized. Gideon has just been accepted into the pack after a potluck dinner. This turns into a party. And I could have summarized the party; people having motorcycle races over here, the hand to hand combat spars over there, people dancing to loud techno-metal music over here, what is the pack doing with a military grade drop ship in a hangar? Oh wait. Instead, I turned it into a several page scene where you see this all from Gideon’s point of view and actually interact with people.

4) It reads like a list.

Description. It’s difficult. It’s especially difficult when you aren’t sure how to do it. So, authors will often resort to lists in order to get it out of the way so they can get on with the exciting bits, the story. Without considering how much or if the character their using as a point of view character is going to notice such things, or if the reader is going to care.

Most readers will not care about detailed descriptions of clothes. They just don’t. As a person trained if fashion, this is painful, but I’ve come to terms with it.

A list description reads like this, “Gideon was six foot even with light olive skin, short brown hair growing out of a buzz cut and two days worth of stubble, and golden brown eyes that were best compared to aged whiskey. No one gave a damn if he shaved anymore, so why bother. He wore a too thin white t-shirt straining against his military physical trained muscles, and stone washed jeans that were spattered with bleach spots and worn around the knees. His black combat boots were all he had left of his uniforms, outside a few tailor made dress blues he only got to keep because they were tailored, and a mess of ribbons and awards he didn’t give a damn about. The boots were broken in and comfortable and one of his two pairs of shoes. Thus, why he was wearing them with his jeans.”

There are better ways to work in description. This is boring. In fact, it’s probably not even relevant. I don’t think I’ve mentioned he’s six foot yet. I may have mentioned Savannah is 5’2”. Or just that she comes up to his chin and it amuses him.

5) It reads like the author is telling themselves the story up to this point.

Instead of opening with some type of action or dialogue, the story instead opens with a ramble of words about the location, the history, or the characters, or combination thereof. What I mean is, the author doesn’t jump straight into the scene, they are instead setting the stage a lah ‘it was the best of times, and the worst of times, on a dark and stormy night.’

Maybe you could get away with that a hundred or more years ago. You can’t today.

Get to the point.

(This is especially frustrating when you’ve had a decent straight to the point prologue and a chapter, and then chapter two or three we’re on our third hook and it becomes an author ramble.)

6) Passive voice. Passive Voice. Passive voice.

You might notice in most of the points about, there is a lot of the use of the verb ‘to be.” Or it sounds like a newspaper story where the author is rattling off the facts of the incident.

Usage of the verb ‘to be’ slows the story down. Telling us things. Summarizing things, instead of ‘speeding’ the story up, makes the reader feel like the author thinks we’re stupid and can’t read between the lines. (Yes, it’s better to show AND tell emotions. Like, I said, exposition isn’t always bad.) Or, the author simply doesn’t know how to write. Because why would you skip the fun, and yummy character interaction scenes.

Go through your manuscript. Find the verb to be, kill it without prejudice as much as possible. Look for summarization and flesh it out! Then, figure out if you really need that scene or is it a ‘darling’ and needs to be excised with fire. (Or lovingly saved into a separate document for later. Yes. Yes. My precious.)

7) It’s irrelevant to the story at hand…

Many times, when your story suffers exposition-itus. It’s because the information you’re explaining or giving is simply not relevant to the story right that moment. The reader doesn’t need to know the information to get full enjoyment out of the book. And the information given is more or less to show off their world building or sometimes to simply up the word count.

As an author, I recommend taking all your exposition and creating a world building document called a “bible.” This will put all the world building into one place, get the urge to explain everything out of your system, AND give you the benefit of seeing places your world building might be weak. Then you can while you’re writing be able to put the relevant information into the book as the reader and character needs to know it.

Especially if the character doesn’t know the information yet or can’t know the information.

OR

8) It answers all the questions the reader is asking.

This is where the author feels the need to explain everything. The character is in a new situation. So, there is another character who knows what is going on, but can’t get involved for ‘reasons’ training the character. So, the author tells the character and the reader all the information including motivations and enemy capabilities.

And, well, there is the entire book and mystery ruined.

That is only one scenario mind you.

Your job as an author is to set up questions about the character, and the world, and the situation. The character and the reader go on a journey to answer these questions. These mysteries keep the reader turning pages and buying the next book. If you answer these questions in the prologue, or the first five chapters, then the reader has no reason to keep reading the book.

9) The story isn’t moving forward.

One thing about exposition is it stalls the plot.

Your story is like being in an elevator. The scenes that move the story along are like the elevator moving between floors with the chapters being the elevator stopping and opening the doors to let people on and off. Exposition is the elevator stalling between floors.

You’re hanging there, precariously over a long shaft by wire cables, and the elevator has stopped without any way for you to leave as the soothing and yet aggravating music drones on and on. Eventually, you hope, things start moving again.

And so, when the elevator stops at the next floor, the reader gets off and refuses to get back on. Or if they’re really aggravated, they will figure out how to crawl out the top of the elevator and pry open the doors to get out.

Exposition is the ‘dead spots’ of your story. They’re places where the reader starts skimming hoping to get to the next bit of action or character interaction that is relevant. Exposition kills your tension and makes readers set down your book.

If anything, put exposition near the end of your book, “Dumbledore Explains” style or “Elementary, my dear Watson,” mystery style. By this point, you have your readers so invested into the plot of the story, they’ll be more likely to forgive you a momentary ramble or history lesson.

I know I have exposition at the end of the Lone Prospect about different types of motorcycle clubs. One. This is actually relevant information that given the book is about a motorcycle club, you the reader need to know. And two, I’m not planning on addressing it directly by showing the differences until book five! Three, Gideon needed to know this information as it influences his decision on if he’s going to stay or not.

So, I’m hopeful, as an author, you can forgive me for my ramble about motorcycle clubs in the form of Hunter telling Gideon a story. Well, Hunter and Brand because Brand had to get in on it.

Anyways, here are 9 symptoms of exposition-itus. I hope it helps. Please remember, your action ratio should always outweigh your exposition ratio by a large margin. Be precise and be concise. Especially in the beginning of the book where you’re trying to keep readers reading your story.

#writing tumblr #writing advice #writrblr #exposition #info dumping #writing tips #show don't tell

[zivacaps]

Hi. It’s me again. The ‘Tony knows she’s alive’ broken record. I’m sure this has already been discussed on here before, and I’m bringing up redundant information, but I’ve been combing through scripts/scenes in the light of what we’ve been told, and it’s making lines like this one stand out so hard for me:

Palmer: Yeah, Ziva, she would’ve, she would’ve gone out swinging, you know? You know, just fighting till her last breath. Bishop: Instead of ambushed in her sleep by some coward with a mortar launcher.

Fighting being the operative word that I keep going back to. Palmer got it right.  In the previous episode, they’re scrambling to contact Ziva and discover that she’s seemingly gone off the grid. “Ziva’s cell is disconnected, and she’s not answering e-mails.” We hear this information way before the farmhouse is blown up - I don’t know exactly how long but it’s enough time for her silence to have nothing to do with the mortar attack. 

Ziva wanted to change. She wanted a life as a different person, but I don’t care how refreshed and removed from it all she might’ve been. She’s not, for lack of a better word, a fool. Plus, she’s now a parent. And she’s Ziva. She’s a Ziva-parent (the verb Ziva-parenting can be used accordingly), she ain’t letting those defences down - she’d be ramping them right back up.

Vance: I got Mossad to confirm that Ziva’s been residing at the farmhouse, Gibbs. That’s all they were willing to share. 

This line, along with the scenes with Orli, gives me the impression that Ziva was still embedded with Mossad. It goes without saying that Mossad is infamously sneaky and private for the sake of security, but they have zero need to be cagey and vague about Ziva to NCIS. I think this resistance for disclosing further details is an order coming from Ziva herself.

 Mossad had to have sensed what was up and would’ve had warning/Intel to provide for Ziva. They knew (and Ziva knew) that she was essentially becoming a sitting duck by being at the farmhouse. She prepared as if something like this was going to happen - like she knew it was going to happen. That necklace*(*edited because I am a noob who completely forgot that Tony had the necklace the whole time), scarf and picture frame weren’t accidentally or miraculously scorch-free. She got Tali ready – had been getting Tali ready, pointing at Tony’s face – to be with Aba while she had to fake her death and go into hiding. 

Then there’s this line:

Tony: I’m going to take Tali to Israel. Look for some answers.

By ‘answers’ he could mean a hundred different things, it’s an ambiguous line. Maybe without too much debate, you could say he wants to go there for her remains, to maybe pick up any additional possessions she has and pay his respect to the place where not only Ziva was born but where his daughter was born too. Those possessions he may find, and he can pay his respects but those remains don’t exist, and I think that would bother him. A lot. And I think Ziva would’ve known it would bother him and would’ve known that he wouldn’t stop investigating, the exact same way he did in 11x01 and 11x02 (and S6, beginning of S7 and the end of S10). I say that because using the word ‘answers’ suggests that he thinks that there is underlining, unresolved information to find. He’s got Tali now, and he is, as he says, her whole world, and with that being his view, he doesn’t need any answers to any questions if he believes Ziva to be dead. If he’s just going there to get her stuff and visit Tali’s homeland, you don't use the word ‘answers’. Maybe closure or peace but answers? 

With all of that though, this moment between Orli and Tony makes all the stock I’ve put into believing the writers were carefully constructing this episode rapidly disappear: 

Orli: She was quite comfortable and confident raising Tali on her own. Tony: Without ever telling me. Orli: Actually, she came to regret that decision as Tali grew but she struggled over how to break the news. She didn’t...she knew you wouldn’t be pleased.

Without any other context to put it in, that exchange is pretty damning. It’s the weakest writing in an episode that is already pretty shallow in quality. Even if there was something else going on beneath it (and I have to believe that there was), it’s such thin, illogical reasoning. It makes Ziva look selfish and worse, like a coward - it’s character assassination for the plots gain. She just supposedly died. Why dirty her name like that for no functional reason? Unless there is one. She kept Tali from Tony not because she was a ‘fiercly independent woman’ (yuck, yuck, yuck, a man definitely wrote those words) but because she wanted to protect him, herself and Tali from the oncoming threat of an attack. That still leaves questions though and is still pretty thin of a justification. I respect canon, for all its pitfalls and inaccuracies but canon is straight up stupid wrong on this particular front: Ziva - Cote’s Ziva, our Ziva - would have told Tony she was pregnant. 

Look. It’s really complicated either way, if he does or if he doesn’t know if she’s alive. A lot of this stuff is probably me projecting and naively assuming that the writers care enough to put a sliver of thought into anything Ziva related, but again, it’s fun to speculate.

#zivacaps meta #long post for ts #ziva david #tiva #hey! trying to meta my way through terrible terrible writing

[olatokunbo]

Birds and Bird spotters

130 species, 187 miles and lots of energy drinks: Inside the World Series of Birding A white SUV ground to a stop near a sliver of New Jersey marshland, tires snarling against the gravel and sand access road. Three men – Christopher Takacs, David Bernstein, and Michael Wolfe – bounded out. Brine lingered in the moist air as they rushed forward on foot, traveling below an overpass. Reeds lined the lane, which was somewhere along the Hackensack River. Midges and ticks lurked in the dark as the trio waited for midnight. Takacs’ phone alarm chirped. It was finally midnight. As if on cue, something trilled in the near distance. “There’s a shorebird calling!” one of the men said. “And there’s his friend calling!” another said. The trio swiftly matched this semi-squeak to a species. It was a spotted sandpiper. After they identified the brown-and-white bird, they moved on to the next one. Bernstein whistled, ooh-eeh-ooh. Takacs clapped his hands. It was likely too dark to make visual IDs, so they needed birds to call back – and fast. Because the clock was ticking: they only had another 23 hours and 50 minutes to log as many bird species as possible. Takacs, Bernstein, and Wolfe, who form the Meadowlands Marsh Hawks team, were competing in the World Series of Birding. Every year, hundreds of birders from across the United States flock to New Jersey for what organizers call the “country’s largest and most prestigious birding competition.” (A note on avian language in this article: while some ornithophiles don’t believe there’s a significant distinction between “bird watching” and “birding,” others do. Writer Julia Zarankin says “the two verbs, ‘birdwatching and birding’ refer to vastly different experiences and states of mind. Birdwatching is a passive pursuit. Birders, on the other hand, are slightly more obsessed versions of birdwatchers. The birder is actively, sometimes even compulsively, pursuing birds; they are in it for the chase ... In a sense, birding is about our human impulse to hunt, but without the blood.”) Participants had 24 hours from midnight on Saturday 11 May to see and hear as many bird species as possible. The annual contest, put on by New Jersey Audubon, started 36 years ago in response to regional birdwatching enthusiasts expressing interest in tallying as many species as possible in a single day during spring migration. Pete Dunne, who recently retired from New Jersey Audubon, thought that a competition could get them into gear. The rest is history. *** The 2019 competition came amid what could be a pivotal point in birding. While birders have long used web-based platforms to tally sightings and compete, a mandarin duck’s appearance in Central Park last fall inadvertently introduced tens of thousands to birdwatching. “Our Twitter site grew tremendously in followers. Initially, I’m sure that many of those followers came for the mandarin duck,” says David Barrett, whose Manhattan Bird Alert Twitter account helped turn the “hot duck” into a viral sensation. “They wanted to be part of that, and see the photos we were posting every day … you would see hundreds of people come on weekend days to see the mandarin duck. It got people realizing that it’s fun to go out and look at birds.” Indeed, J Drew Lanham, a professor of wildlife ecology at Clemson University and author of The Home Place: Memoirs of a Colored Man’s Love Affair with Nature, believes birding is attracting younger fans. “Birding is having much more than a moment. It’s a movement. It has transcended the old and quirky and moved into the realm of young and cool,” Lanham told the Guardian in an email. There are regional and statewide competitions in the World Series, and the Meadowlands Marsh Hawks were competing in the former. Because the number of bird species differs from county to county, competitions are scored on a “par” system rather than overall numbers, says Lillian Armstrong, special events director for New Jersey Audubon, which has used the World Series as a fundraising vehicle that has generated almost $9m for bird conservation efforts since its inception. This year drew 400 participants and 59 teams, including one bicycle-based group that came to the Garden State from Guatemala for the competition. Experts determine what species are in a region in a given season. The goal for teams in the regional competition is to get as many of these par birds as possible – “all the getable species for this time of year in that county,” Armstrong explains. Teams submit their sightings throughout the day via a phone app. Two brothers, themselves birders, developed the app specifically for the World Series. Competitors don’t need evidence: it is an honor system. There is a write-in category for birds that don’t belong in the region, so organizers can decide later whether to count them towards a team’s total. *** Keeping watch over a New Jersey lake. Photograph: Victoria Bekiempis The Guardian rode along with the Meadowlands Marsh Hawks to get a sense of this marathon. Sometime after their initial pass through marshlands, the men decided they needed to move. The inactivity was weighing upon them. “We could really use some night birds,” Bernstein said. Wolfe was behind the wheel and Takacs rode shotgun, scanning a weather radar app on his phone. Bernstein was in the backseat. They were now headed to a camp usually used by boy scouts. Wolfe stopped the car in a wooded area. The team exited and Wolfe hooted a barred owl call, which he had perfected in the shower. They waited a few beats for a response. Nothing. After several tries in other thickets, they gave the owl search a final go. Whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo-whoo-whew, Wolfe called. Something big stirred in the branches, answering Wolfe’s call with its own whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo-whoo-whew. “Finally!” Takacs exclaimed, elated they had finally got their owl. The team would wind up racing between meadowlands, lakeshores, preserves, parks, hills and cliffs. After arriving at a location, they would rush out of the car, scour the treetops and sky for birds, note their findings, return to the car, and then zoom off, ready to repeat the process at the next location. “We’ve put in years, getting this together and modifying it ... paying attention to how and when birds are moving and where there more likely to be” Takacs explained. “There’s never any guarantee. You have to make modifications as you go along.” They had the energy of tornado chasers, dedicating every last bit of adrenaline to checking birds off the list. Takacs occasionally sipped on an energy drink, and Bernstein apologetically asked for coffee about 12 hours in. The Meadowlands Marsh Hawks’ endurance was impressive. While they were in various stages of middle age, only the 31-year-old reporter wound up napping. Nerves started to fray as the day went on, however, when the returns weren’t looking as good as they had hoped. And there were injuries too. At one point, when Takacs was in a hurry to arrange a boot, one of his fingers bent back at a terrifying angle. Takacs surmised that he “dislocated or broke” his finger. “I sent my wife a text,” Takacs told the group. “No migration. Dislocated finger. Worst day ever. Still having a good time.” He added: “She wants to know if she can see me.” “We don’t have time for that,” Wolfe replied, and it wasn’t entirely clear if he was joking (as it happened, Takacs’ wife did show up. She wrapped several of his fingers together and then disappeared after a few minutes.) Around 5pm, the team was tired. They had driven 187 miles and trekked 14 more on foot. They decided to stop at a 7-11 for drinks. “We did a shit job,” Takacs said. “No, don’t say that,” Bernstein said. “We put in a lot of effort,” Takacs conceded. “We hit everywhere we were supposed to be,” Wolfe said. “There are some people who had birds at 8.30 and at 8.30, we were somewhere else,” Takacs said. “You can’t be on both sides of the county at the same time.” The Meadowlands Marsh Hawks would ultimately tabulate 130 bird species, good enough for third in the regional competition. Takacs admits that “we were disappointed a little bit ... we know we could have done better.” He remains optimistic for 2020, however: “We will be back. We’re already formulating a game plan for next year.”

[vocalfriespod]

Foul-Mouthed Women Transcript

MEGAN: Welcome to the Vocal Fries Podcast, the podcast about linguistic discrimination.

CARRIE: I’m Carrie Gillon.

MEGAN: And I’m Megan Figueroa. Today we’re going to be talking about swearing. One of our favorite topics, right?

CARRIE: Yes and today obviously - we’re always not-safe-for-work - but today is particularly not-safe-for-work. Just be forewarned.

MEGAN: Yeah, put your headphones in. Don’t play this around children - unless you want them to be exposed to this. It might be good for them.

CARRIE: Depending on their age, yes. There’s probably an age that’s too young, but I’m not gonna say what that is, because that’s none of my business.

MEGAN: Yeah, exactly.

CARRIE: We wanted to talk about swearing for many reasons, but partially it was just because we swear a lot, and women get judged for swearing more than men do. We wanted to explore what’s actually going on. And also, there have been a bunch of weird studies about swearing and my favorite one is the association between swearing and honesty. Supposedly there’s a correlation between those people who swear and those people who are honest, so I thought that was really fascinating. If that’s true, that would be super fun.

MEGAN: Which means that Abraham Lincoln probably swore a fuck ton.

CARRIE: I think it goes in the other direction. I think it’s only if you swear, you’re honest, not if you’re honest then you swear. I could be wrong about that. I didn’t really read this study that carefully because that’s not my area of expertise.

MEGAN: All right. Don’t believe me on that.

CARRIE: I like it though! Let’s pretend it’s true.

MEGAN: What would swears have looked or sounded like back then? I was looking at the OED and looking at some dates and there would have been some “fucking”, back then, a little bit.

CARRIE: Oh yeah, “fuck”’s been a swear word for centuries. Many, many centuries.

MEGAN: Yeah.

CARRIE: Probably more religious-oriented swearing than now.

MEGAN: Yes

CARRIE: But I think some of the ones that we have now are still the same.

MEGAN: Yeah like the excrement stuff, like “shit” must have been.

CARRIE: Yes, I’m pretty sure yeah that’s an old one too. I mean “shit” and “fuck” are both very Germanic so that means they’re old.

REGGIE WATTS: [sings] You take some fuck, then some shit, then some fuck, then some shit, you got a fuck shit stack, a fuck shit stack, take some fuck, then some shit…

MEGAN: We can tell they’re Germanic. It’s a short word. A lot of words that we still have from Germanic are very short: home.

CARRIE: Wife.

MEGAN: Wife yes, lord.

CARRIE: Lord.

MEGAN: That was our Old English lesson for the podcast.

CARRIE: We wanted to make a note that sometimes swearing is very abusive. It’s not that we think that swearing is always good; it’s just that it’s not always bad. We will talk a little bit more about abusive swearing in a bit.

MEGAN: This might be a content warning for anyone that needs that.

CARRIE: And also, you can still be an abuser and say all the right things. Just because someone swears, does not mean they’re a bad person. We also talk about different kinds of swearing, so the ones that maybe are better versus worse. And also time and place. I always try to make this argument. Sometimes you shouldn’t say something, because it’s the wrong time or place. For example, maybe you don’t want to be swearing in your house of worship. But you probably already know that. That’s just the background to why we’re talking about swearing.

MEGAN: I am a scientist so I can’t say “always” or “everyone” but almost everyone swears.

CARRIE: One of the things - okay I didn’t double check to make sure that this number was correct but -according to the BBC, 90% of Brits swear on an average of 14 swears per day.

MEGAN: Wow.

CARRIE: I have no idea what the numbers would be for the United States or any other country, but my guess is, at least in English-speaking countries, people swear a fair amount.

MEGAN: So the average is 14 and I am extraordinary. If I were British, I would be extraordinary.

CARRIE: I have to assume that the Australians swear the most. They might be even higher than that.

MEGAN: Right and their swears look different, right? I mean is “bloody” actually quite swear-ish in England, say?

CARRIE: I think it’s more sweary there than it is here. Here it sounds really silly, but I still don’t think it’s a super-strong swear. It’s not like “fuck”.

MEGAN: Oh, it’s not? Okay, when I was reading Harry Potter or watching the Harry Potter movies, when they say “bloody”, I always thought they were saying “fuck”. It was cute, because we were an American audience. I didn’t know. I guess it couldn’t be PG.

CARRIE: No, she wouldn’t use really harsh swears, I don’t think. For example, one of the swears that Brits used way more than North Americans do is “cunt” and they use it like really freely. And there it’s not nearly as strong as it is here right. What we’re sort of tiptoeing towards is the fact that swearing really tells you something about a culture. It tells you what’s taboo. Magnus Ljung wrote a whole book on swearing called “Swearing: a crosscultural linguistic study”. He noticed that - and this part is not new - swearing involves taboo words. That’s obvious. But there’s also something to be said about the literal meaning being not there. So if you say something like “the shit hit the fan”, you’re not saying anything about literal feces.

MEGAN: Wait, but what if you’re a monkey. That was my cute little joke that I thought was hilarious, because shit really does hit things when you’re a monkey.

CARRIE: That is true. I don’t know how often they throw shit at fans, but if they do, then yes. Then that would be literal. All idiomatic expressions, there are literal versions of them. So: “he kicked the bucket”; I guess you could be talking about a human male kicking a bucket. But normally it means “die”.

MEGAN: Yes, but the point is these are very idiomatic. Swears are very idiomatic, which means that they’re hard for second language learners too, or if you’re in another country.

CARRIE: Speaking of being in another country: there are some countries that will arrest you for swearing. So, don’t swear in all locations.

MEGAN: That’s what goes back to the time and context thing.

CARRIE: Ljung also pointed out that swearing is a type of formulaic language - and that is really true. Think about “he’s hungry as fuck”. That’s become this little formula that we add to the end of sentences now.

MEGAN: And “for fuck’s sake”. I was looking at the OED and “for fuck’s sake”, the first known occurrence was in 1943, which was earlier than I would have guessed. And apparently “fuck a duck”.

DONALD DUCK: Oh yeah, fuck you.

MEGAN:  Another idiomatic expression, first in 1931, and the sentence was “tell her to go fuck a duck”.

CARRIE: Well that one’s so old I don’t even really think about that one. But that first one, “for fuck’s sake”, I don’t know why I wasn’t as surprised that it was that old.

MEGAN: Really.

CARRIE: “Flying fuck” is kind of old too. I can’t remember what the dates are. I want to say 19th century. And originally it meant “fuck on a horse”.

MEGAN: Oh!

HORSE: [neighs]

MEGAN: I didn’t know that. Like literally?

CARRIE: Supposedly.

MEGAN: Okay.

CARRIE: It just seems so difficult, so I can’t.

MEGAN: This one also surprised me. Maybe I’m just surprised by how profane our ancestors were, but “not to give a fuck”, the first occurrence was in 1879. And I really love the sentence: “for all your threats I don’t care a fuck/I’ll never leave my princely darling duck”. I don’t know if it was a poem.

CARRIE: Sounds like a poem. It sounds actually familiar to me but I can’t place it.

MEGAN: It says that it’s from Harlequin Prince Cherrytop? I don’t know.

CARRIE: Oh, okay.

MEGAN: Line 19. Anyway, they talked a lot about ducks back then

DUCKS: [quack]

MEGAN: So yes. “Fuck” has been around for a long time, and idiomatic ways to use it have been around for a long time too.

CARRIE: Although not nearly as long as the word “fuck” itself. That’s from at least the 14th century. “Fuck” is.

MEGAN: And it was a verb first.

CARRIE: Yeah. Originally it meant “to hit” or “to strike”. That’s interesting because now we use “I want to hit that” to mean “I want to have sex with that person”.

KEVIN HART: I hit that. Yes.

MAN: You hit that.

CARRIE: So we’re coming back full circle. Another thing that Ljung pointed out is that swearing really reveals the speaker’s attitudes and feelings. I think that’s really important. Especially if you’re talking about slurs, which we’re talking about a little bit in a minute, but it tells you more about the speaker than the person that you’re speaking to. I think that’s a good thing to remember about slurs. So: slurs. They are a type of swearing, but we’re not gonna focus too much on them. Obviously, some of them will come up, and we will talk about them, but we’re not gonna talk about all of them, and we’re not gonna talk about them in that much detail. Partially because even mentioning them in some cases is so painful to the targets - the people that are targeted by them - that I just don’t even want to go there. Also they’re very complicated, even more complicated than other swearing I think. If we were gonna talk about them, we would probably do a whole show on them. Again, slurs really do say more about the person uttering them than the person that they’re targetted it at, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not gonna be hurt by it, so we’re just gonna set them aside. I try to stay away from most of them, personally.

MEGAN: Me too. There’s four different ways in which swears come about. According to Benjamin Bergen, a cognitive scientist, there are four major contributors for swear words: 1. sacred concepts like

CARRIE: “damnation”

MEGAN: Right. “Jesus Christ”, that’s blasphemous for some people to say. Growing up for me I got a side eye if I ever said “Jesus”. Maybe that’s why I like to say so much now. Especially combined with “fuck”. “Jesus fuckin Christ.” 2. Sex and sexual organs is another contributor for swear words. So, “cunt” and “dick” and all that. 3. Things that come out of your body: “mierda”, “shit”. What else comes out of your body?

CARRIE: “Piss”, I guess, some people call that.

MEGAN: Yeah, I guess, but that seems so weak right at this point.

CARRIE: Yeah, that’s not a swear word to me, but to some people I think it is.

MEGAN: Finally, 4. derogatory words for social groups. That’s gonna be where slurs come in. We have all those ways to create swears, and then we have this subgroup of slurs that we’re not gonna really talk about.

CARRIE: What I found really interesting about that list is that all those categories you can slot in English, but it used to be that English in the Middle Ages, body parts and excretions were not taboo. You could talk about these things very freely and in fact both “cunt” and fuck were used in place names. I’m gonna totally mangle this pronunciation but there was a place name called Bele Wydecunthe. Something like that. Like “wide cunt”. Literally the name of a city or a town or whatever. That was in 1328. There were also names with “fuck” in them. Like people’s names too. It was not a big deal. But now they’ve obviously become more of a big deal. In the past, it was more about religion, because fear of God, and people were more devout than they are now.

MEGAN: I feel like in Britain right now they are more comfortable with sexual organs and excretion - and all those words - than we are in the US, as I’ve seen from BBC shows. I think it’s this whole family values/religious thing in the United States that has made it kind of even more taboo to say certain words.

CARRIE: Well, it’s the puritanical thing. The Puritans left the UK and came here. I wanted to point out that - and I’m not the first person to point this out, many people have pointed this out before me - that really we should reclaim “cunt”. Because etymologically it’s way more feminist than “vagina”, because “vagina” is dependent on the penis for its definition. It literally means “sword sheath”. I think we should try to reclaim “cunt”. I know it’s hard, because in North America it can be used so viciously. I get it, but I’m gonna plant my flag here and say “let’s do it”.

MEGAN: I love the thought that “cunt” is etymologically feminist. That would make a really good bumper sticker. “Cunt” is one of those words where people are really taken aback when they hear it. That’s why it’s so hard. Because you’re kind of putting yourself out there when you use it.

CARRIE: People even have a hard time saying “vagina”, so…

MEGAN: What is it that Oprah used to say? “Vajayjay”? That was a thing.

OPRAH: My vajayjay is paining!

MEGAN: What Oprah says, goes. I remember thinking “vajayjay” was how to say “vagina” for a very long time. I was a big Oprah fan in my childhood. So yes. Let’s reclaim “cunt”.

CARRIE: Also it’s very culturally dependent, as we’ve already said. Even within English, what counts as a swear word in the UK is a little bit different than in North America. Same thing with French. In Quebecois French, but not European French, many of the swear words are derived from words for Catholicism, like “tabarnak”, which it’s just “tabernacle” or “Criss”, which is “Christ”. It’s very fun to hear Quebecois French being spoken.

MEGAN: That is so funny to me that those are swears. Catholics in the US aren’t offended by that right? You could say “tabernacle” and they’re not like, “oh my god”.

CARRIE: When would you ever say “tabernacle”, though.

MEGAN: I don’t know what kind of conversations Catholics are having. So that’s not fair for me to say. But okay fine.

CARRIE: It would be weird for an English speaker to be like “tabernacle!”, trying to swear. No one would understand it.

MEGAN: Do other Canadians know that this is offensive to the Quebecois?

CARRIE: As far as I know. Well, I’m a linguist so I don’t know. I think so. I think Canadians know, but yeah.

MEGAN: It’s another thing where again, like we’re saying, some swear words like could get you arrested in other places. But you can go to other places and not know that a word is a swear word to them.

CARRIE: Well, you’re unlikely in this instance to use that word out of the blue. If you were to use it you would be using it as like a description. I don’t even know what a tabernacle is, to be honest. I just know it’s part of a Catholic thing.

MEGAN: I don’t know what it is either, but I feel like you’re daring me to add this to my lexicon.

CARRIE: Find the Spanish version of it and try and turn that into a swear.

MEGAN: It might be already. I don’t know. A lot of them are Catholic.

CARRIE: Yes, I know.

MEGAN: I’ll have to look into that.

CARRIE: I was obsessed with swear words back when I was getting much younger. It’s fascinating, because it tells you something about another culture. So I asked one of my friends who’s Diné, which is the proper name for Navajo, how to swear in Diné Bizaad, which is Navajo, and she told me that bears are considered to be so powerful that if you invoke the name of the bear twice, then that is kind of like swearing. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s a taboo animal. So powerful. Women, I think we’re so taboo, that words referring to us become swear words, or at least just bad very easily.

MEGAN: I like the Spanish example of how “que madre” is a swear. Literally, that’s “what mother”, but “que padre”, “what father” is “how cool”. That’s like a really good one to look at side-by-side.

CARRIE: Or the difference between “cunt” and “dick”. Come on! “Dick” is so so- uh, soft.

MEGAN: So soft! [laughs]

CARRIE: “Dick” is so gentle in comparison.

MEGAN: That’s still funny. You know it really is, it’s kind of playful.

CARRIE: Yeah, it’s much more playful. You call someone a “dick”. Maybe you’re saying that they’re a bad person, but it still just doesn’t have the same harshness to it.

MEGAN: Like when we use the word “cunt” or “bitch”, if people were referring to men, or people that identify as men, it’s usually to insult them in some way, because women are seen as lesser.

CARRIE: Weak.

MEGAN: There is also - the word “bitch”, I feel, is really complicated. So, when we use it for women, it’s often used for women that are actually quite competent, good at their jobs, etc. I feel like it’s a way to put them in their place kind of thing. We’re uncomfortable with women being so competent or getting the job done or whatever these things, these kind of characteristics that are normally reserved for men, that we see them as bitches.

CARRIE: I think there’s something about - well it’s definitely misogyny, but I think the misogyny comes from this place of men being afraid of women. Menstruation scares the shit out of them for example. So it’s very common for words of referring to women or women’s body parts to become negative in a way that usually men or men’s body parts don’t, or at least not as much. Even “hussy”, which is not really a swear word, it’s too gentle to be at least for me, I don’t consider it to be a swear word, it just meant “housewife”. How do you go from “housewife” to whatever “hussy” means.

MEGAN: It probably says a lot about what we think about women in the home, or just woman in general.

CARRIE: Just women in general, because you don’t think of a hussy as being in the home. Hussy is the side piece.

MEGAN: That’s true. It transforms somehow though through our history, from “housewife” to “hussy”. I was reading a book called “How emotions are made”. I thought that the 2016 election recently was a particularly high time for “bitch”, because it was used a lot to refer to Hillary Clinton. In this book it says, “whenever I see a savvy male politician play the angry “bitch” card against the female opponent I take it as an ironic sign that she must be really competent and powerful. I have yet to meet a successful woman who hasn’t paid her dues as a “bitch” before she was accepted as a leader”. That kind of sums up how I feel about people calling Hillary “bitch”, or saying that she was flawed as well, even though that’s not a swear, all these adjectives that were describing her ultimately come back to how uncomfortable we are with women.

CARRIE: I actually kind of half like the word “bitch” and half hate it. It’s fun in some instances. I like to call a group of people “bitches”. It’s fun!

RU PAUL All right girls!

DRAG RACERS: Good morning, bitches!

MEGAN: Yeah, it is. There’s some reclaiming happening.

CARRIE: But it’s only partial, and it still gets wielded it as a weapon.

MEGAN: It’s true. There are definitely a lot of women that are still uncomfortable with “bitch”. It’s one of those things where I want to like it, but I also don’t want to make people uncomfortable.

CARRIE: I do think women using the word can be better, although there are definitely women who used it in a very sexist way, because just like with our last episode, women are part of the problem too.

MEGAN: Ooh, some new words that are becoming swears in English.

CARRIE: My favorite new one - even though it’s horrible - is “cuck”. Every time I see it - because they almost never hear it, you almost only just see it written - every time I see it written, I just laugh, because I’m like, “why does this person think this is really an effective slur?”

MEGAN: We’re seeing it in the neo-nazi community.

CARRIE: The neo-nazi, the so-called alt-right, the dirtbag right.

MEGAN: They also love the word “snowflake”, which is hilarious to me.

CARRIE: Because anyone who seems to use that word themselves seems to be very sensitive.

MEGAN: There’s some projection going on, for sure.

CARRIE: I think that’s also what’s going on with “cuck”. The only reason why you’re gonna call someone that is because a) you know that there’s this section of porn that involves cuckolding, which I mean why do you know this or why do you care, it’s just somebody’s fetish, why is that even a thing that crosses your mind that you’re like, “haha!”

MEGAN: I know. I didn’t think about it that way, but you leave people’s fetishes alone! Just leave that alone.

CARRIE: I think there’s also a racial component to cuck that they are trying to key into, but again it says more about you, if you’re using it. You’ve got some weird obsession.

MEGAN: And then “SJW”. I don’t spend a lot of time engaging with any sort of neo-nazi web presences.

CARRIE: You don’t have to! They’re everywhere.

MEGAN: Yeah, but I didn’t know - I had to google “SJW” when I first saw it. Thankfully urban dictionary is a thing, and it’s very helpful. “SJW” is social justice warrior. “SJW” is something that - you let yourself be known that you’re kind of an asshole when you use “SJW”, in my eyes.

CARRIE: Yeah, it means that you think social justice is not worthwhile, so therefore why do I care what your opinion is?

MEGAN: Right, exactly.

CARRIE: Okay, so why do we swear? Why is it fun?

MEGAN: I feel like we swear because it is fun. So that’s one of the reasons. This isn’t science for me, but it’s fun because people some people just really don’t like it when you do it.

CARRIE: That’s true! So pissing off certain groups of people. One reason that people swear is to signal in-group status. Around like-minded people, or within a group, you’re more likely to swear, because you’re all pals.

MEGAN: Time and context, as well. I swear much more when I’m with my friends. My parents don’t love it. I try not to swear in front of them, because I am a conscientious daughter. But some people use it to be abusive.

CARRIE: Yes.

MEGAN: Especially with slurs, but it can be some of the words that we think are more fun, like “fuck” can also be used abusively.

CARRIE: Yeah, if you’re yelling at somebody, that’s obviously gonna be more abusive. It also can show that you’re really good friends with somebody, like, “hey, you old bastard!! How are you doing?” Not that I would say that particular…

MEGAN: Have you ever done that?

CARRIE: No, not that. But I know people have.

MEGAN: This is where I imagine Abraham Lincoln, like this is what he would say.

CARRIE: Maybe.

MEGAN:  Right?

CARRIE: I literally cannot imagine being in that time, so I don’t know. It also can help us let off steam. If you’re really angry, sometimes it’s good to not swear AT anybody, but just swear. Or if you stub your toe, supposedly, it relieves the pain.

MEGAN: There was a 2009 study that people cite when they talk about this. It took the world by storm. Because there are some scientific studies that are really sexy, and this was one of them. I read it, because I always like to read sexy science. One of the findings was that people that swear more daily didn’t get the effect as much. The authors tied this to gender. They said that men seem to swear more daily, so they didn’t have as much of an effect as women did. I think, of course, this goes back to sexism, because, again, we seem to be more okay with men swearing. The study also tied swearing to aggression, which I don’t think is completely fair. Especially since aggression is culturally defined, but a lot of times psychologists think of it as more universal, even though it’s not. Aggression looks different in different cultures. Their study was linking aggression with swearing, and people associate both swearing and aggression with men, but it being okay with men. For women to be aggressive is not okay. There might be something there, where we don’t like when women swear, because we think of it more as aggressive, possibly.

CARRIE: I do think that there is such a thing as aggressive swearing.

MEGAN: Right of course.

CARRIE: And it may be the case that maybe men swear that way more than women do? I don’t know. Again, like you say, that’s probably culturally specific. It’s absolutely true that women -it’s less good for us to swear than it is for men to swear, because culturally.

MEGAN: It’s important to note that this is so much worse for black women and women of color.

CARRIE: Yeah, of course.

MEGAN: They’re viewed so much worse if they’re seen as aggressive.

CARRIE: Black women are often accused of being aggressive way more often than say white women are, that’s absolutely true.

MEGAN: Right

CARRIE: So, it’s harder for them to get away with swearing. Again, we should push back on that. It should be - everybody should be allowed to swear, at least time and place. It should be the same no matter who you are.

MEGAN: When we see and when we think about things like this we see the anti-blackness of it, or the anti-person of color of it. You see how ridiculous it is to judge people for their swearing, and you can see how culturally defined it is.

CARRIE: We also use swearing just to emphasize, like, “oh that’s fucking stupid” is more emphatic than just, “that’s stupid”, or whatever.

MEGAN: Or “that’s fucking awesome”.

CARRIE: That’s right.

MEGAN: It doesn’t always have to be negative, when you’re emphasizing something.

CARRIE:  The other thing that swearing might be correlated with is honesty. We talked about this before, but there’s one study that shows - and you should always take any one study with a grain of salt, so if it gets replicated, then okay -  but the study says that if you swear, then you’re more honest. David Stillwell says, “swearing is often inappropriate but it can also be evidence that someone is telling you their honest opinion”. What he’s basically saying is if you’re not filtering your language, then maybe you’re also not filtering your views. So you’re getting a better snapshot of that person’s internal mind. And even if this is not ends up not being true, that feels true. It just feels like, “oh yeah, that makes sense”. You should always be skeptical of anything that’s like, “oh that makes sense”.

MEGAN: Some articles say that it might be correlated with intelligence. This also speaks to what swearing doesn’t mean. It doesn’t mean you have a shitty vocabulary.

CARRIE: No, not at all.

MEGAN: There’s a study that found that swearing was positively correlated with measures of verbal fluency. So again, take everything with a grain of salt, but in this study people that swore more, they had a very nuanced speech. They’re very fluent in their speech. There was no poverty of vocabulary. Folks were fine.

CARRIE: I do wonder if it means that - like how you use the swears. Because if you’re just saying “fuck shit”, like that’s it, that’s your entire utterance, that doesn’t seem like any evidence one way or the other of anything. But if you’re using these more elaborate swearing techniques, that means you have to have a very good vocabulary.

MEGAN: Ooh, elaborate swearing. Does that mean that I am really fluent, because I like to compound my swears - so “motherfuckin Jesus Christ”. I like to combine everything, so I’m sure that speaks to my intelligence. So, it might be correlated with intelligence. It definitely for a fact does not mean that you have a shitty vocabulary.

CARRIE: Right. And it might - again time and place - might be good for your career, because if you swear in front of the right person at the right time, they might be like, “oh, you’re not that snob that I thought you were”. Or, “you’re not uptight”. Now again, certain people, certain places, you’re not gonna be able to get away with it. And so I’m not saying, “swear and you’ll get a better job!” No. But if you can tell that you would do better in the job if you swore, then by all means pull it out.

MEGAN: It also might show that you’re passionate about something. So maybe something good at work happens or whatever.

CARRIE: That’s true. It can either be a, “hey, we’re all in the shitty experience together” or a, “oh wow, we’re in this awesome experience together”. So yeah, you’re right.

MEGAN: Yeah exactly. You come out of a bad meeting and then you turn to your boss and say, “well that was shit”. There’s something. I don’t know. Maybe that that’s what it is. But I would still be careful as a woman or as any sort of marginalized group, because these things don’t work as well for us always.

CARRIE: Yes, so be careful.

MEGAN: Also swearing can be used to reclaim language. We talked a little bit about “bitch”; some people are reclaiming that. “Cunt”: Carrie says we should reclaim that. I like that. What else? “Slut.” I think “slut” is being reclaimed or has been reclaimed by a lot of people.

CARRIE: Some people have tried to reclaim it; some people really strongly reject reclaiming it. I’m kind of on the fence about that one, because I just kind of think it shouldn’t even come up. I don’t care who you’re having sex with or how many people you are having sex with. I just don’t care. Oh yeah, Yankee used to be a slur against Americans. “Yankee Doodle” is not a good song. You’re being mocked, Americans.

MEGAN: Yankee Doodle Dandy, isn’t “dandy” -

CARRIE: Like a fancy - like a man who dresses fancily. Something to do with macaroni style - you know, I’d have to look it up. The Brits were mocking Americans for the way they were dressing.

MEGAN: Another thing that we should just lay off. Let people dress they way they want to dress.

CARRIE: Yes, if someone wants to wear a bikini, let them wear it. just go on with your life.

MEGAN: And anyone can wear a dress that wants to wear a dress. Like, come on. Those are some of the reasons why we do swear or why we use swearing. But what swearing doesn’t necessarily mean is that you have X trait. I was reading a study that said that wearing is negatively correlated with ranking high on agreeableness and conscientiousness, which is part of the Big Five inventory of quote unquote universal traits that humans have. I am agreeable as fuck, but I cuss all the time. I just want to put out that this goes back to time and place, because I am i- n conscientiousness as well - I am aware of my surroundings and when I should cuss and when I shouldn’t. I think that these kind of studies are - the blanket claims that you might be more kind or aware of your surroundings if you don’t cuss is too much of a blanket claim.

CARRIE: I’d have to look at it, but my guess is that it’s a very small effect. So even if it’s true, it’s probably a very small effect. Of course you’re gonna have counterexamples, regardless. You as a data point doesn’t take this down.

MEGAN: Oh, it doesn’t.

CARRIE: However, I agree with you in general that it’s probably not that great. Even if it’s true, it’s a tiny amount. So just because you swear, doesn’t mean that you’re not agreeable or not conscientious.

MEGAN: I’d be careful with those kind - it also said that swearing is positively correlated with extraversion.

CARRIE: That seems yet completely wrong.

MEGAN: I know.

CARRIE: But I don’t know.

MEGAN: I think the point here is be careful with anyone or any study that claims that you’re a certain type of person or have a certain type of personality if you swear.

CARRIE: Or anything. Those personality studies are a little suspect.

MEGAN: They are. Again, it’s usually by Western scientists who define these things.

CARRIE: And they’re only studying WEIRD people. Western, educated. What’s the I?

MEGAN:  And they do the studies on college students. There are so many people that are left out of higher education for so many reasons, and the ones that get there could be there for certain reason. It’s just not a random sampling.

CARRIE: No, it’s not.

MEGAN: That is not random sample.

CARRIE: It’s usudally just on college students, which - college students are not even fully grown.

MEGAN: They’re not fully actualized human beings yet.

CARRIE: Our brains don’t finish growing until around 25. We definitely should not be basing all of psychology on that - I’m not saying all of psychology is based on 20 year olds, but a lot of it is.

MEGAN: Psychologists, the comment section is below.

CARRIE: Psychology is going through a shift, so. So now let’s just talk about her favourite swearword. Mine is “fuck”, because it is so versatile. You can say it in any which way. A noun, a verb, an adjective - can you say it as an adjective? Yes

MEGAN: Yeah! Of course you can!

CARRIE: An adverb. You can say it in so many different ways, so I just really love it. In fact, there’s this whole scene in “The Wire” where McNulty and Moreland only utter some version of “fuck”. “Fuck”, “motherfuck”, “motherfucking”, “fucking a” and “fuck me”. Maybe I missed one. We’ll put this up on the tumblr, because I think it’s an interesting video to watch. That’s all they say for 4 and a half minutes. It’s amazing. It’s glorious.

MEGAN: Listening to you say that, I can imagine how much is expressed through that, even though they’re just using the word “fuck”.

CARRIE: They’re exploring a crime scene and they’re trying to figure out how this woman was murdered. They’re trying to figure out where the bullet casing was. They’re exploring this scene and they’re just saying “fuck”. It’s amazing. Anyway. I love it.

MEGAN: My favorite swear word is also “fuck”. It’s because it’s just so recursive. I can just keep going with it.

CARRIE: It’s true.

MEGAN: I like to compound it with everything, like I said. There’s maybe some semantic bleaching for me or something, because it doesn’t feel like a swear word as much anymore, depending on who I’m around.

CARRIE: It definitely feels like gentler than it did when I was a kid. I don’t know if their has been some bleaching going on, or if we just hear it more now. My guess is yes, we do hear it a lot more. We use “as fuck” all the time on the internet. Maybe it has become less of a swearword.

MEGAN: Yeah.

CARRIE: I just want to say: if you’re gonna swear, just swear. Don’t use asterisks. It really bugs me, because you’re putting it into our mind anyway. We can see that you’re swearing, but putting those little asterisks doesn’t change anything.

MEGAN: No, it’s not gonna help children. Children that can read are gonna see it and know exactly what you mean.

CARRIE: Yeah, so if you don’t wanna swear, just don’t swear. That’s a valid life choice to make. But this intermediate thing - I don’t know why it bugs me so much. Okay well, unless you have anything else you want to add.

MEGAN: No, I’m just “fucking a”, man.

CARRIE: So, “asshole”, it turns out, is not gentle enough to make it on to the iTunes directory.

MEGAN: Wait, didn’t we use asterisks.

CARRIE: No, we didn’t, but even if we had, it would have probably gotten rejected - apparently. So, we had to change “asshole” to “jerk”. You’ll see in our description that we use “jerk”, but that’s not what was originally intended. We were originally calling people “assholes” who were discriminating on the basis of language.

MEGAN: And then iTunes discriminated against us. “These fuckers don’t deserve to have their own podcast channel.”

CARRIE: It’s my fault for not making sure that that was okay. Again: time and place. I get it. Maybe you shouldn’t have it in the description, so mea culpa.

MEGAN: Which means that you might have to resubscribe.

CARRIE: Yes, if you subscribed from the first episode, you may have to resubscribe.

MEGAN: Hopefully you’re hearing this. You might not even be doing this. Hopefully we will find you again. One of our many mistakes that we will surely make.

CARRIE: We will make more for sure. I hope you enjoyed this episode. What is our next episode gonna be on, Megan?

MEGAN: Our next episode is going to be on Southern English, which was a request, but also very, very important. A lot of things to say about that. I don’t know how we’re gonna do in 30 minutes.

CARRIE: We’ll figure something out.

MEGAN: Much love to southern English and we’ll be talking about that.

CARRIE: Thanks again and don’t be an asshole.

MEGAN: Don’t be a fuckin’ asshole.

CARRIE: The Vocal Fries Podcast is produced by Chris Ayers for Halftone Audio. Theme music by Nick Granum. You can find us on tumblr, Twitter, Facebook and Instagram @vocalfriespod. You can email us at [email protected].

#transcript #swearing #cussing #sexism #linguistic discrimination

[unicyclehippo]

oh gosh PLEASE expand the accidental marriage AU PLEASE. it's so good PLS

they say that rao created the suns and stars and planets to keep him company, that he loved his creations for their beauty and order so much that he made krypton, and its people, to delight in it with him. they said—they said—he was so pleased with his children that he gave to them everything he had: wisdom, and passion, and strength, and intelligence, and within all of these gifts, his love.

she knows rao made order. a delicate, incredible dance. that rao set the rules of it all and made the music and the room to dance in, and the costumes, and the decorations, and the love and rhythm of their heartbeats—all of that, everything that exists, and somehow he couldn’t account for his tiny children running amok. couldn’t account for them making up their own rules, or for their countless missteps.

there was a stretch of time—a considerable stretch indeed—when kara hated him. because if rao had brought order to the universe, he missed a step. didn’t look far enough ahead to consider the end of his jewel, his love, his krypton.

kara read a lot when she came to earth, about religions and gods, both the divine and the fallible, but mostly she read about people. she was only thirteen when krypton—when it happened—but she remembers the quick thrum of her mothers pulse, fearful, and the way her father smiled at her with so much love in his eyes it burned, like he knew it was the last thing he would ever get to do and he wanted it to leave some kind of mark. well, it was, and it did. and she thinks a lot about choice and self and people and how it might have been easier for her if she hadn’t seen them right there. right next to her. how it still felt cruel to have seen them, and to have been made to leave them.

and the what ifs, that loud, endless wave of what ifs: what if one of them had gone with baby kal, what if they had made those stupid, stupid pods with room for two, what if her mother had never sent astra to the phantom zone, if non had never killed a guard, if kara had never called astra home, if someone had spoken up sooner, louder, more insistently, if her mother had just agreed to try, if generations ago the house of el had never even been formed—and everything stacks up on everything that came before and kara gets lost in it.

but there’s no point. there’s no point, because krypton is dead and left far behind, and that’s where it will stay.

all that remains of krypton is a fortress of toy relics, a man with her blood but the heart of a human, and shards of her dead planet. and her, still her. and there is no point in hating a god who died with the rest of her world.

//

years later, standing on the roof of national city’s tallest building—which isn’t catco, as much as cat might like to think it is—she hates him again.

the rain is so cold even she is shivering. head tilted up to the sky, she doesn’t both wiping away the torrent drenching her face, her hair. her cape drags heavy on her shoulders, a sopping weight, and she whips it to the side when it tangles around her ankle. the move flicks water off it like a spray of diamonds, shattering against the concrete where the rest of the water, the rest of the world, trembles at her step. she paces the roof of the building, eyes fixed on some distant point, the heart of the storm.

there comes a sound that only she can hear, and she pauses at the corner of the building. poised there, lightning cracks and illuminates her against the backdrop of a broiling, immense storm. it cloaks the whole city in shadow, clings to everything with its misted tendrils, and she is no exception. she would be engulfed in it, but for the power gathered behind her eyes—white-hot and furious.

and when the thunder drums again, like a call to war, kara’s edges are sharp enough to be a war all by herself.

lightning cracks the sky wide open. thunder follows it instantly in a boom. the wind that comes tearing flings back kara’s hair, her cape, shudders against the windows stories far below her feet.

kara clenches her jaw, braces herself against it. her eyes flash hotter.

she saw diana catch lightning in her hands once, knows better than most that many things in the world are more than they are given credit for. this storm is more than crashing particles—this is her challenge, her fight, and by everything that exists in this world, rao will hear her!

“DUAHZ VOIEHD KRYPTAHNIUM,” she yells up to the clouds.

the thunder rolls. grumbles, shatters into itself.

“TA-RRIV RRAOP-RAO RAOGRYHS PAHDH IRSTUN OSH KHAP!”

she gets no answer save the lightning that zips down toward her and kara’s eyes flash. she grits her teeth around a scream and launches herself right at it, catches it on the bands diana gifted her and doesn’t stop, punches right up through the clouds to the heart of the storm. she winds the lightning around her, grips it tight.

“rao,” she yells, voice dragged raw.

the wind is stronger here and it whips her hair across her face, stinging, and everything tastes like hot metal and salt water. she holds tight to the lightning just to feel it burn. feels the answering sting in a line down her chest, sternum to navel. “rao, ta-rriv rraop-rao pahdh voiehd? khap eiahm,” she whispers. the words are tugged from her, ripped from her lips. she wills it out, up, to the right ears. the right heart. “khap eiahm, ewuhsh gehd.”

1. a formal introduction; or, skulir: verb, the active form: to look, to examine.

//

kara is six years old when she finds out that she will have a husband. she considers it for two days, silently, before bringing it up to anyone.

a tall figure in blue—that’s all kara can see under her thin blanket—stands in the doorway of her bedroom. “your mother says you’re not well. do you want to come out from under that blanket?”

“no.”

“no?”  the bed creaks as she sits on kara’s bed. “then perhaps i shall sit here with you. is that alright?” kara murmurs her assent, scoots over a little to make space in the bed. “i brought your stars, little one. are you sure you don’t want to see them? we were only partway through the primaries.” astra waits a moment for kara’s response. when it doesn’t come immediately, she offers, “you may hold the star jar, if you wish.”

kara kicks her feet under the blanket as she considers that.

finally, she pulls down the covers. “just the stars?” she asks, fixing her aunt with a suspicious look.

astra leans over, presses a kiss to her forehead. “just the stars,” she promises, and kara rolls around in her bed, bundles the blankets around herself, and thumps down into astra’s lap. her aunt pulls her close, strokes her hair back from her forehead.

“there is my darling star,” she murmurs. she activates the holo-reader—kara’s ‘star jar’—and scatters the stars across the ceiling. once it’s active, she allows kara to hold it in her little hands.

kara stays there, tucked up into astra, listening to her explaining the primary stars and astra cards her fingers down her long hair until kara’s nervous gut unclenches and she asks what has been bothering her.

“does everyone get married?”

astra’s voice falters, and then stops. she looks down at her niece, bemused by the topic change. “married?”

“fardhogh-cheh says that everyone gets married. that parents pick someone and then you have to spend your whole life with them.”

“did he put it like that?” astra crooks a finger under kara’s chin, tilts it up to look at her. “hmm, little one?” she tickles under kara’s chin and astra’s eyes, so clear and fond, are brighter than rao’s midday light. kara cuddles into her, ducks her head again. “have you been concerned about this?”

“...no.”

astra tickles at kara’s shoulder, makes her squirm. “for how long?”

“…two days.”

“i see. you do like to keep things to yourself, don’t you, little one?” kara shrugs. “well, it is nothing to be concerned about. marriage is a union between families.”

“who will it be?”

“he will be of good standing—”

“will he be nice?” kara asks, and with it comes the flood of questions that have blinded her for the last few days. “do i know them? how long do i have? what happens? do i have to get married? do i get to choose him? why do i have to get married? what does it do? is it scary?”

“these are a lot of questions.”

“i have a lot of questions,” kara agrees quietly.  

“a curious mind can be dangerous, little one,”

“questions are good!” she argues, struggles to sit up and away, and astra nods. she helps kara, tries not to laugh at the bundle of a girl who wriggles away, irate at the suggestion that questions might not be a good thing.

“always. but you should share them with your family or else you may get lost in them.” astra strokes  down her cheek. “and i would not like that.”

“oh.” kara waits a moment. “so?”

astra glances away, tries not to smile. “your betrothed,” she tells her niece, “will be chosen by your family, we who love you. we will not let you be bonded to someone unworthy, not when you are more precious to us than all else.”

“but what’s the point?”

“marriage is a union. do you know of shokh?”

“truth,” kara nods impatiently. “the first virtue.”

“the primary virtue, yes, on which we base all dealings. shokh is the virtue all unions are based on. a family would never agree to a union without first knowing who their beloved shall be bonded to, just as one would never agree to an alliance or business without knowing who extends their hand. it is a virtue that persists throughout a union—shokh is constant. unwavering. it is about learning and knowledge and discovery. sharing.” she hugs kara to her, strokes her hair again, out of her thoughtful eyes. “does that make sense, little one?”

“yes. but,” kara smiles, a little shy, when astra laughs. “i have more questions.”

“of course you do. share them with me,” she encourages, sets the star field aside for another night.

alura joins them later, knocking gently on kara’s bedroom door. she peeks in, relaxes against the door when she sees them curled there.

“you are feeling better then, kara?”  kara nods—sheepish, small in her aunt’s arms, but she nods. “i’m so glad. you’ve had us worried. we had to call in reinforcements.”

“reinforcements?” kara sits up quickly, looks back over her shoulder at her aunt. “you’re reinforcements?”

astra laughs, throws her head back. “your parents were worried.” she lets kara go when she wriggles away from her, goes to stand defiant in the centre of the room, her little frown stern and her little arms crossed. “do not be displeased with me, little one.”

kara considers the request for a time, before she flicks her hair back over her shoulders and walks out of the room. she makes her way out of their home and down the long corridor before loud steps follow her and she breaks into a run before zor-el plucks her clean off the ground and carries her home.

“i’m mad at you.”

“it was your mother’s idea,” he tells her, in that low rumble of a voice she loves so much. she leans back into his chest—but keeps her arms folded to show her displeasure.

“zor-el!” alura is waiting for them at the doorway to their quarters and she shoots him an unamused look before she cups kara’s face, drags her thumbs over her cheeks. “we were worried,” she tells kara. when her daughter just pouts, she nods for zor-el to take her to the table. they sit her at the table and kara swings her little feet, plops her chin down on the edge. alura turns to her sister. “astra, will you join us?”

“if the little one will have me,” she agrees, and kara huffs but doesn’t disagree. she’s pretty sure she doesn’t get to disagree—astra sounds far too amused for kara to have any real say in the matter.

it’s alura’s night to cook and kara waits to be served. her little feet swing under the chair and she holds her cutlery in a clumsy fist, prods at the food in front of her.

finally, she heaves a great sigh.

“who will you choose for me?”

her father looks up from his comms, peers across at her. “choose for what?”

“to be my husband.” she pouts a little, bottom lip jutting out with a stubborn, stubborn chin. “if he’s not nice, i’m not gonna say yes.”

“he’ll be nice, my sweet,” her mother laughs. kara frowns over at her and alura reaches out, draws a finger down the crinkle in her forehead. “why are you so distraught? he will be your companion, your most trusted friend.”

“because of truth?” kara rolls her eyes, plops her fork in her food, swirls it around. “what about…love?” she stumbles over the word a little. it’s not said often. she’s only heard it twice before; her aunt and uncle, in love, and once by her tutor when kara asked him to explain it.

“love?” zor-el blinks twice before he smiles at his wife, and astra. “you have a few years before we’ll start looking. at least two.”

“zor-el!”

“i’m joking, i’m joking!” to kara, whose pouting has doubled, he smiles, leans down to press a kiss against her soft, sweet-smelling hair. “if you find someone,” he tells her, “let us know.”

she wears her outfit like armour, black and red, and her smile is like a serpent—quick and striking.

kara knows who she is—she wasn’t allowed out of the house the day alex found out that lena luthor had moved to national city—but it’s not the same as standing in front of her. which she only gets to do for a split second because lena luthor moves surprisingly quickly in her heels.

“i won’t ask how you got to this level without an escort,” she says with that smile again, “if you promise to make this quick. i’ve a meeting in fifteen minutes, one i really can not miss.”

her eyes linger on kara longer than clark.

“i know what you’re here for,” she says, and she flicks her hair back over her shoulders with a quick gesture. strides into her office—kara glances around at the sleek modern lines, the white, the small touches of any life. this isn’t an office to relax in, this isn’t a place to hide in. she follows the lines back to lena. “you’re here to find out why i wasn’t aboard the venture yesterday.”

she doesn’t give an inch the entire conversation—only stumbles over her words once when she looks at kara again, curious, and this time kara is able to catch the look, to hold her gaze, and then kara gets to introduce herself.

it’s…clumsy.

clumsy is really the only word for it. she stumbles over her words and it’s not polished or smart—and it makes probably the worst impression for catco not to mention herself—but lena listens before throwing out a little tidbit clark’s way.

kara can’t get a firm idea on who she is though—clark thinks he knows, clark always thinks he knows, but kara waits and waits and then lena is looking right at her and that’s the moment. she looks her dead in the eyes and it’s the chink in the armour: “i’m just a woman trying to make a name for herself outside her family”, lena tells her, and when she asks if they can understand, kara says yes. before even thinking about it. it was just a glimpse but...she’s seen her.

she can’t stop seeing her.

she’s dynamic, and brilliant, and quick, and she’s built herself up again and kara isn’t able to recapture that moment—that moment when she’s sure, absolutely, of who she is seeing—but each time she gets close enough to open another door, it confirms what kara has already seen.

lena, who builds hospitals for children. who defies her mother. who works late into the night, who says she will change her company for good and follows through, who dares and pushes and fights, who has something sharp and fierce and dangerous inside her and keeps it locked up tight. someone who fills her office with flowers, who crosses into kara’s life briefly, gently, like she’s afraid she’ll be overstepping should she stay too long. someone who leans in and admits with a quirk of a laugh that she only has one friend, and kara wants to take her hand when lena’s eyes tell her not only that it’s true, but that she’s not sure she even has that many.

“oh my god,” lena whispers, and kara buckles under the weight of a truck for a split second before she stands—it’s not that it’s heavy, it’s really not at all, it’s just that she’s holding a truck in her hands and lena is standing two feet away and staring. “oh m-you’re her,” she breathes, and there’s something small and pained and shaky in her voice, in her eyes, and kara is afraid.

she’s afraid, standing in jeans and flats and her favourite bright yellow sweater and holding a truck over her head. her glasses are sitting askew on her nose, the woman she thinks is her best friend looks like she doesn’t recognise her, and the box of donuts she’d been holding is on the road. splattered.

she’ll hate you for it, lillian had said, and the words spread like ice from her sternum and out, freezing her chest and making her breath come brittle and sharp.

“lena,” she starts, and it snaps them both out of the frozen moment.

lena glances quickly around, hisses at kara to put the truck down.

kara catches it before it hits the ground, lowers it gently. she checks on the driver, who is unconscious, and with a nervous look lena’s way, kara lowers her glasses to check him over. because, what the hell, right? lena knows. lena knows. lena already knows so kara can use her x-ray vision around her and free him from the crumpled cabin where he had crashed before the truck careened toward them.

she lays him out on the pavement, calls the ambulance for him and, when she looks over at lena to decide on their next move, lena takes her by the hand and kara follows.

“lena,”

“don’t.”

kara bites down on her tongue all the way back to her apartment. her hands are shaking badly when she tries to unlock the door so lena does it for her, and kara opens and closes her hands but they still feel cold right to the tips.

lena shrugs out of her coat, hangs it on the hook. she drops her bag on the floor.

kara stands in the centre of her living room and closes her teeth around her tongue and- “look at me,” lena requests, and kara shakes all the way down her spine but lifts her chin and opens herself up for lena to see. to see her.

“lena,”

“it’s too late to say it was adrenaline,” lena tells her, voice thick. “or a doppelgänger. or whatever it is you’re about to say so just save it.”

“i wasn’t—i wasn’t going to make an excuse,” kara whispers. “i was just going to say t-that i’m sorry.”

lena purses her lips, pulls her brows into a harsh frown, but what makes it so, so bad is that kara can still see her. see how she’s doing it—letting herself get angry, get cold and harsh, because this whole thing is hurting her and it’s easier, better, less shitty to be cold, to be angry, than have someone you trust hurt you.

“what was it?” lena asks. kara makes a tiny sound of incomprehension. “what convinced you,” lena clarifies, voice so clear and steady, “of who i am? that i couldn’t be trusted?” kara blinks. “shall i guess?” she slaps her phone down on the counter, stalks over to closer to the door. she faces away from kara for a moment before spinning back around, a parody of a smile in place. “it was beth, wasn’t it? see, i thought that was too good to be true. you listening to me, holding me. i should have known you were hearing how easily i could become a true luthor.”

“lena, no,”

“or did i have no chance at all? dear lex,” she sneers, top lip curling. “my dear brother. he didn’t stand a chance, you know. not with lillian for a mother. that’s how it goes, isn’t it? we all become our parents? it’ll be me next, i suppose,” she laughs.

“stop it,” kara whispers. lena’s words are too prepared to be new. she’s showing more of herself to kara now than maybe she even knows. or maybe there’s no reason now to hold back these fears. or maybe it’s better to say them when lena knows they’ll hurt kara the most.

“stop?” she laughs, a brittle sound. “why? why should i? i saved the world with you!”

“i know.”

“but it doesn’t matter what i do, only what i become. and everyone’s made their mind up about that already.”

“no,” kara tells her, steps toward her.

lena steps quicker away, toward the kitchen to put the island between them. kara stops.

“i refuse to believe that is true,” she insists. “i see you, lena,”

“you and everyone else,”

“i see you! not your parents. not your brother. i see you.” lena scoffs. kara reaches out, not to lena since she won’t allow it, but presses her fingers to the hard wood of the counter. “we are not our parents. and you are not this cold, hard person you pretend to be! i won’t let you use that excuse!”

“excuse?” lena’s eyebrows shoot up.

“to leave! to give in, give up. whatever you want to do! i won’t let you, i will fight for you,”

“right,” she scoffs.

“you are my friend and i am not losing you over this,” kara insists, nods firmly.

“friends. a super and a luthor,”

“kara and lena,”

“oh please,”

“you please,” kara snaps, tries to mimic lena’s scoffing tone. she flings her hands up, frustrated. “stop making this into that.”

“we can’t escape it that easily, kara,” lena says, forcing more of that drawling edge into her tone in a way kara knows is supposed to make her feel stupid and childish and little. “we are what we are made to be—”

“then guess what,” kara bites out, narrows her eyes. “i’m a soldier. i’m a warrior, made only to follow orders. i was built. i was chosen specifically to be fast, and strong, and smart. the perfect soldier. that’s who i was made to be. or, or if i’m to become my parents like you think then guess what. my parents lied to their entire planet. my father built a bomb to kill everyone except for people like him. the one your mother found?” kara smiles, humourless.

lena stares, eyes dipping to that smile.

“he made that. and my mother? she cast judgement on her own sister and put her in the depths of space. it’s an awful place.” her voice dips, wavers. “there is no light there, and no hope. and my mother put her there to let her rot. my parents were proud and stupid and selfish,” kara tells her, and her voice shakes. she’s distantly aware that she’s crying but lena…lena can never let herself be soft, kara knows that about her, so she’ll do it for her. she’ll melt, she’ll cry, she’ll be soft, and give and give and give. she’ll do that, if that’s what needs to be done.

kara pulls on every scrap of el courage to push her shoulders back and do just that. keeps her eyes steadily on lena, open. she sniffs, wipes at her cheek, but doesn’t look away.

“they built a spaceship in secret and they saved me, but they lied to everyone there and let them all die. just to save me and my cousin.”

lena blinks.

her lipstick is a dark plum today. kara watches her hesitate, pull a corner of her bottom lip into her mouth and suck away some of the colour.

“and, and maybe i am going to be like them. but i want to believe that i will be their best qualities. we, kryptonians, we came from people who had forgotten how to love so much so that my cousin was the first natural born child in generations. i don’t understand how that can be,” she says quietly. her gaze goes a little fuzzy and, for a moment, she thinks she can see them standing there with lena in her kitchen. “they loved me so much that they did everything they could. every selfish, horrible, secret thing they had to do to save me. and my father was proud and protective and he made an awful ting in the defence of his planet and i won’t do what he did. but his decisions? i am the only one left who knows them, and i will bear that. because if i don’t, then maybe one day i will become that alien your mother is so afraid of. i am my parents child, but i will be me first. and i,” kara swallows. her eyelashes flutter and she finally closes her eyes, leans in against the corner of the kitchen island. presses the blunt edge of it against her palm. “i just wanted you to see her. me. not telling you was never, ever about you not being good enough, lena,” she insists. “i just wanted to be me.”

she thinks she hears lena sigh, hears the faintest “oh” escaping on the back of that breath, but when she opens her eyes lena still looks cold and unmoved. the longer lena stares, the more kara wants to pull away.

but she doesn’t. or can’t. not when she remembers lena curled into that couch telling her about a woman in prison she wants to kill, and about how afraid she is, and about the paths laid out ahead of her and how she’s paralysed. because down each path is more fear, or madness, or death, and she wants so desperately to pick the right path.

and kara remembers how lena had let kara hold her.

she sees her.

and lena stares right back. it hits her, in a lurching way that feels like falling without powers, that lena sees her too. sees someone.

kara desperately wants to know what lena sees, who she is to this woman. feels herself crack a little when she realises what she’s done. what she’s tried to hide, the secrets she’s laid out, whatever hope there was behind them, to pretend to be a person lena could like.

lena, who has had to live with artifice and secrets her whole life.

“i’m sorry,” she says into the silence, and lena jerks her chin up slightly. kara sags. lifts an exhausted hand up to her glasses, apparently still sitting askew. huh. she hadn’t noticed. “i’m so sorry. i just, i wanted,”

“what were their names?”

lena looks as surprised about the question as kara feels, if the way she plucks at her fingers means anything.

“names?”

“your parents.”

“oh. i,” kara blinks a few times, quickly. “alura, my mother. and zor-el, my father. and me, kara zor-el.”

lena nods. folds her arms over her stomach, nervous fingers clenching around her arms. “you took your fathers name.”

“we aren’t so different,” kara jokes, and lena’s lips quirk upward very, very slightly. “they would have liked you. intelligence was one of our most admired traits.”

lena doesn’t seem to know what to do with that, and kara doesn’t know what to do at all.

all the tension has seeped out of the moment, leaving the corners of the room hollow and making each breath and nervous step sound louder than they are. finally kara reaches up, shakes her hair out of its plait. tosses her glasses onto the couch. after a moment, she goes after the glasses and places them instead on the coffee table because she has twelve pairs of broken glasses as historical evidence that she’s going to forget they’re there and sit on them.

she runs her hands through her hair, plucking out the bobby pins.

“can i see?”

kara yelps, bobby pin yanking at her hair, surprised by the question. “huh?”

“the,” lena unfolds an arm, gestures toward kara who stands frozen. “the…i mean,” she laughs quick, nervous, eyes flick over kara like she’s suddenly realising she’s been fighting with a superpowered alien. “you held up a truck.”

“it was going to hit you.”

“you can fly.” there’s the slightest edge of hesitation, like lena is about to say screw this, it was adrenaline after all, and kara steps up into the air before she can. touches her fingers to the ceiling. floats back down. she’s not going back, she’s not running away from this. she can’t. not anymore.

“i can.”

“you saved my life.”

“you’ve saved mine too.”

“that’s true enough,” lena agrees, lips snaking into a satisfied smirk. kara is enraptured by the way her eyes soften, though. she feels her jaw drop open a little, can’t help it, and something shifts and settles in her chest.

kara shivers.

lena knows, finally. everything is out in the open.

lena sees her too. what she does with it now, kara doesn’t know, but after all this time...it’s a beginning.

#tagging my stories #accidental marriage fic #supergirl #supercorp #i know i said it was going to be a oneshot but it was getting out of control #& its silly to keep from posting the complete bits #anyway whatever pls enjoy #Anonymous

[eorumverba]

anyw...happy birthday my lovely twin @judaru im lov u sm nd i hope..u had a Good bday

Kiss (verb - with object): touch with the lips as a sign of love, sexual desire, reverence, or greeting

1.The Forehead Kiss

Judal is asleep now, stretched out on Sinbad’s couch, and Sinbad can’t help the fond smile that spreads across his lips as he hears a quiet snore come from behind him. He’s doing work at the coffee table, and some point, between bothering Sin and playing games on his phone, Judal had fallen asleep. And Sinbad doesn’t blame him - Judal has the attention span of a toddler and he’d probably gotten bored, closed his eyes, and promptly knocked out.

Sinbad is now finally used to the kid’s sleep schedule, or lack of - Judal never manages to sleep for more than a few hours at a time, and ends up wandering around the house with heavy bags under his eyes even as he bugs Sinbad for hours on end. He’ll retreat to his or Sin’s rooms and Sinbad will usually find him under a pile of blankets, snoring away. Judal is a light sleeper, and that makes it even worse; Sinbad types out a reminder to buy more fragrant teas and candles for Judal. Sometimes the soothing aromas help him sleep better, and Judal always brews the best loose leaf tea.

Judal shifts and mumbles something out in his sleep, so Sinbad gathers his things as quietly as he can and stands, putting his things in the kitchen before detouring to his room to grab a heavy blanket for Judal. After draping the blanket over Judal’s lanky frame, Sinbad bends down and brushes his lips against warm skin, pulling away when Judal stirs. He doesn’t wake though - just rolls over and Sinbad smiles to himself again before dimming the lights and retreating to the kitchen so he can at least try to get some more work done.

2. Kiss on the Hand

For how uncommon it is for two men to be seen dancing together, there is a lot of it being done at Lord Sinbad’s annual winter ball. This is Judal’s first year receiving an invitation, and he fingers the silver envelope, anxiousness coiling through his belly. It’s a masquerade this year, and he’d been sure his long hair would give him away, so he’d taken a risk and purchased a billowy ice white dress and had thin silvery-white flowers placed in the elegant braid of his hair. His delicate mask completes the costume - he’s a swan, elegant and beautiful.

The carriage stops and Judal ignores the helping hand to step down on his own, balancing easily in his heels. He’s almost having second thoughts about the whole thing, but he swallows all his unease and follows the queue of people inside.

The ballroom is vast and somehow crowded already, dresses of all color swirling alongside dark suits - it would seem like any other ball, if not for the men dancing together alongside women doing the same. But who is he to judge, Judal decides, considering he’s the one wearing a dress. He spots Hakuryuu flirting with Alibaba’s redhaired escort but doesn’t go over to them, choosing instead to retire to the balcony, breathing in as deep as he can. The air smells faintly of roses and lavender, and Judal can’t help imagining reclining on a bed scattered with fragrant petals, still in his dress but not in his horrid corset. (It does wonders for his figure, but it’s not like he needs it.)

Someone clears their throat from behind him and Judal spins around, breath catching in his throat at the sight of high cheekbones and tan skin. Lord Sinbad.

“Dance with me,” Sinbad demands, and Judal is helpless to his whim.

They spin together in the middle of the ballroom, Judal’s cold hand warming under Sinbad’s. Sin’s other hand flirts with the curve of Judal’s waist, daring to push the boundary of what’s acceptable as his lips curve up, playful. His mask is nothing but a strip of cloth tied around his eyes, and Judal rolls his own.

“You didn’t try hard this year, Lord Sinbad.” Sinbad doesn’t seem at all surprised or perturbed at the deep voice paired with slim, otherwise feminine features.

“Just Sin. Who are you?”

“Judal.”

“Ah. You turned eighteen this year, no?”

“I did.”

“My - ah...what would you call him? Assistant? He has a rule against inviting anyone under eighteen because, well. One of Hakuryuu’s stepsisters - I thought she was old enough, but alas.” Sinbad’s sigh is dramatic and although Judal does know Kougyoku fairly well, he can’t help smiling, laughing a little.

“A very wise rule, Sinbad, considering your reputation.”

“Reputation?” there’s a roguish grin flirting with Sinbad’s lips, but before Judal can answer, the song comes to an end and they bow to each other. Sin takes one of Judal’s hands in his own and presses soft lips to his skin, lingering for a touch too long before straightening again, still holding Judal’s hand.

“I have to go make more rounds, but save a dance or two for me, Judal.”

Shocked to silence by Sinbad’s easy grin, Judal nods weakly. As the night goes on, he finds out that it’s impossible for him to say no to Sinbad.

3. The Lingering Kiss

Judal is more than half-asleep, lounging on the rock they’re slumped against. The sun is beating down on them but they’ve just come from a swim so the heat is more than welcome, and the gentle waves stir their tail - they’ve lost Sinbad a while back but Judal can’t really bring themself to care with how relaxed they are. There comes a rippling of the water and Judal’s eyes flutter open to see Sinbad next to them, propping himself up by his elbows and staring at them with nothing but love in his eyes.

They don’t need words anymore from the many years that they’ve been together, but Sinbad still moves slowly as he shifts over so he’s behind Judal. He drops a chaste kiss to the skin of Judal’s forehead before beginning to comb his fingers through Judal’s inky tresses, humming under his breath as he does so. The gentle fingers scratching their scalp makes Judal shift and purr, lips curving up despite themself. They’ve always been so weak for having their hair played with.

They don’t know how long they stay like that, with Sinbad’s hands in their hair and only the sun and sea for company, but it changes when Sin’s hands press against Judal’s cheeks, a wordless sign that he’s finished. Sin swims around again and heaves himself up on the rock, blanketing Judal’s body with his own and pushing his hair from Judal’s skin when Judal huffs.

Sinbad tastes like saltwater and Judal wants to drown in the taste flooding their senses, and they tangle their fingers through long, wet hair to pull Sinbad closer, their lips sliding effortlessly against Sin’s. Sin’s smiling against Judal’s lips and he slowly drops so there’s no space between them, just skin against skin and tail against tail.

“Hi there,” Sin murmurs after one last teasing suck to Judal’s lower lip. He looks so effortlessly beautiful like this, tanned skin and dark hair and shining eyes focused on them, “what are you thinking about?”

“You.”

Sin flushed pink and his smile turns softer, shy and when they duck down for another slow kiss, it says all the things he can’t.

4. The Vampire Kiss They’re both far too drunk for this and that makes it all the better; Judal barely feels his back slam against the bathroom stall’s wall, focusing instead on the man pressing against him, hot skin and even hotter lips. He tastes like whiskey and cigarette smoke, and he swallows all of Judal’s pitched noises as easy as breathing. He mouths his way down the column of Judal’s neck, lips like fire against Judal’s throat. Judal bites back a moan when the man’s teeth scrape against his skin but it’s nothing compared to the strangled noise he makes when the man really bites.

This time when they kiss, it tastes like whiskey and cigarette smoke and sweat and sugar - the man pulls away and his breaths are harsh when he asks, “Is that sugar?”

Judal laughs and leans back, catching his breath as well before murmuring, “Why don’t you see how far down it goes?”

His stranger kisses the smirk from Judal’s lips before trailing back down to his neck, and if the way he’s attacking the skin of Judal’s neck says anything, he’ll have marks to boast about this for weeks.

5. The French Kiss

Fanservice. It’d been just that - fanservice.

That’s what Judal tells himself, what he tells the others, but they all know that this had been a long time coming. All of the comments on Judal’s twitter and instagram are asking if he’s dating Sin and since when - Judal turns off his phone and goes to his laptop instead. He doesn’t have to do much digging to find what he’s after, and watching the video, he does have to admit that it doesn’t look like fanservice, not by the end.

They’re in the middle of a song and Sin has always loved skinship, pushing boundaries, fanservice - so Judal isn’t surprised to feel a heavy arm thrown around his shoulders as Sin lets the cheering crowd sing his lines. Sin’s grinning and Judal doesn’t know if it’s the adrenaline pungent in the air or the joy mirrored in Judal’s stomach and Sin’s eyes, but something makes Judal cup Sin’s cheek (which isn’t unusual, and it just makes the crowd roar louder as Sin’s smile grows) and lean in and close his eyes as his lips press to Sin’s.

He can’t hear the crowd anymore, entirely focused on the stop of Sin’s breath before Sin’s lips begin to move against his, eager as he licks into Judal’s mouth. Somewhere in the back of Judal’s mind, he wonders if maybe they shouldn’t be doing this where thousands of people can record it, but the little noise Sin makes makes Judal melt into him.

And when he finally draws away, he’s breathless and eager, but Sin is smiling, and Judal realizes that he’s absolutely screwed.

6. The Spiderman Kiss

If Judal has chosen this tree to lounge in on purpose, no one needs to know - Judal gazes down at Sinbad beneath him, head pillowed by his arms. He’s more than half held up on the thin tree branch by magic, but it’s also partly his own balancing skill. Sinbad is directly beneath him, and while he has paperwork spread out in front of him, held down by pretty looking paperweights, he’s been nodding off for the past half hour.

And Judal doesn’t blame him - the shade of the tree is the perfect combatant against the heat of the afternoon sun, and it’s quiet here, warm and still.

And Sinbad is here.

Judal would like to think that his traitorous heart is fluttering from the sights around him and not from the man below him, but he knows it’s not - it’s the light scent of roses and something earthier, it’s Sinbad.

Quietly, Judal slips from the branch he’s perched on and lets his magic float him down so he’s upside down in front of Sinbad. Judal’s eyes fall to Sin’s lips and he purses his own before reaching out to touch the swell of Sin’s lower lip. It’s soft, soft enough for Judal to lean in further, just enough to brush his lips against Sin’s. It’s when he’s about to pull away that Sin shifts in his sleep and immediately, Judal lets his magic carry him back up to his branch, where he watches Sinbad stir awake with flushed cheeks and trembling fingers, the memory of his stolen kiss enough to keep him flustered for the rest of the day.

7. The Bite and Nibble

For some reason, Judal love love loves to bite - Sinbad is long used to the sting of Judal’s teeth on whatever part of skin is available, to the soft brush of his tail before he bites down hard. He always always always leaves marks, and he’ll hum in approval as he looks at the bruises before moving away like nothing’s happened.

Sin had been startled at first, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary now - just one of Judal’s habits. Which is why he barely flinches when Judal comes up to him and squats in front of Sin, frowning up at him with twitching ears until Sin sighs and rolls over onto his back. Judal makes a happy little noise and clambers on top of Sin, staring down at him with an unreadable look in his eye. Sin is prepared for Judal to lean down, but he’s not prepared for the brush of soft lips against his own. When Sin makes a soft noise of surprise, Judal’s teeth scrape against the curve of Sin’s lower lip, noticeably gentler than how he usually bites, but still harsh.

Sin nearly loses himself in the scrape of Judal’s teeth and the soft of his tongue, in the slow rolling motion of his hips and the warmth between them. When Judal pulls back, his ears are twitching and his tail searches out Sin’s, curving around his as Judal’s lips flirt with a shy smile. And before Sin can say anything, Judal scurries away, but not before Sin can see the flush high on his cheeks. (Sinbad thinks he can get used to this.)

8. The Big Tease

Sinbad doesn’t get why Judal’s called him over in the dead of night until he steps inside and sniffs the air. Immediately, he’s simultaneously slamming the door shut and taking in greedy breaths, the scent of Judal’s pheromones high in the air. It’s clear now that Judal is in heat, his first one, that he’d called Sin over-

Sin hears a quiet noise from upstairs and he takes the steps two at a time, stopping short in the doorway when he sees Judal on his bed, pale skin flushed pink. He’s completely naked and clearly eager, ass high in the air with three fingers inside.

The eager movements of his fingers stop suddenly and Judal sniffs the air audibly, swivelling around (at any other time, Sin would laugh at his gracelessness) and staring at Sin with hunger clear in his eyes.

“Alpha,” he murmurs, “alpha, please. Sin-”

That’s all he’s able to get out before Sin crosses the room and blankets Judal’s quivering body with his own. When he manages to get Judal rolled over so they’re facing each other, Sin crashes their lips together, easily, effortlessly licking into Judal’s mouth and muffling his moans with his lips and teeth and tongue. His kisses start at Judal’s lips and slowly make their way down to his neck, where Sin forces himself to stay - he can smell Judal leaking and it’s making him impatient, needy, eager. To alleviate the quickly building pressure, Sin ruts into Judal, but it just makes his omega whine and wrap long legs around Sin’s waist to press closer.

It feels like ages before Sin is finally able to suck one dusky nipple into his mouth, and immediately, Judal arches further, a broken noise escaping his lips. Sin decides then that he’s teased enough, and he sits back enough to take his clothes off before turning Judal over and the only warning he gives Judal before pushing in is the way he grabs Judal’s hips and ruts the head of his cock against his puffy rim once, twice, thrice before easily sinking into tight tight heat.

9. The Cheek Kiss

There’s a boy playing in the sandbox all alone, and Sinbad finds his gaze drawn towards him from his place on the swings. He jumps off the swing and soars through the air for one long moment before crashing down to earth - he scrapes his knees but he doesn’t care all that much (scrapes mean bandaids, and bandaids mean getting to show off how high he jumped!) and when he’s sure the pretty boy isn’t looking, he scurries over and crouches in front of him.

“Why are you playing alone?”

The boy looks up at him and frowns before looking at Sin’s knees and widening his eyes. He points, doesn’t say a word and Sin looks down at his bloody knees as well. “It’s just a scrape, I’m fine. I flew.”

The boy gives Sin this look, incredulity tinged with disgust and almost...contempt - but Sin doesn’t care. The look suits him. “Do you talk?”

The boy shakes his head, then nods, then shrugs, leaving Sin to fill in the gaps.

“Just not today?”

A nod this time.

“That’s fine. I can talk for the both of us!”

That gets him the wisp of a smile and Sin settles down in the sand next to the boy, frowning. “Can you write your name in the sand?”

Pretty pink lips purse in a pout that’s cuter than it should be, and without thinking, Sin leans over and kisses the boy’s cheek. It’s soft, like peach fuzz, and Sin giggles. “My mom and dad do that a lot. You’re really cute, I like you.”

The boys cheeks are pink like his lips now and he shakes his head, clearly trying not to laugh. He opens his mouth then and mumbles a quiet, “My name’s Judal.”

Sin likes that. “I’m Sinbad, but everyone calls me Sin.”

Judal smiles.

10. The Jaw Kiss

They’re all drunk off their asses, celebrating their success in this week’s battle of the bands, and Sin’s arm is heavy around Judal’s shoulders. He’s got a bottle of something in one hand and he’s talking to Sharrkan in a voice far louder than need be. Judal grimaces when Sin turns around to look at him even as he laughs at something Sharrkan’s said. Or no, Sharrkan is currently straddling Masrur’s lap and...well.

Judal turns his gaze from them, trying and failing to ignore the way Sin is looking at him. His gaze is heavy with intent, and before Judal can move from his grip, Sin leans in and kisses him - or tries to. His lips end up brushing against Judal’s jaw, but it’d been an open mouthed kiss and Sin ends up slobbering all over Judal’s jaw.

It feels weird.

Judal pushes Sin away with ease and wipes at his jaw with Sin’s shirt sleeve, wrinkling his lip in disgust even as Sharrkan laughs at them. Sin’s still staring at him with a dopey look on his face, and Judal rolls his eyes, well aware of Sin’s crush on him.

(While it may hurt them both, it’s easier to pretend that he doesn’t have a crush of his own.)

11. The Air Kiss

Judal’s day starts like clockwork - he’ll sleep through all the alarms he’s set and jolt awake when he sees the time, and he’ll grab the first set of clothes he sees before grabbing his bag and rushing out the door. He’d tried one day to skip his daily coffee and it’d fucked him up so badly that he spent an hour one evening calculating the shortest route from his dorm to the coffeeshop to the building where his first class (calculus) is.

The same employee is at the register and by now, they’re familiar enough with each other for the man to blow him a kiss when Judal comes running through the door. He’ll have Judal’s coffee waiting and all Judal has to do is slap the money down before running out the door, barely a thank you falling from his lips.

And the pattern remains the same.

Until for once, Judal wakes up early - nearly two hours early. It’s nice to be able to take his time picking out his clothes and brushing his hair, walking to the coffeeshop and startling the lone man at the register.

“Hi, tall vanilla latte?”

The man spins around and there’s shock clear on his face, but he nods and gets to making the coffee right away. “You’re early,” he comments. There’s still a bit of shock in his voice, but it’s easily overshadowed by amusement, and Judal snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Your coffee.”

Judal pays and instead of going to sit, he stands by the register, waiting for his coffee to cool as his gaze locks with the other man’s.

“What’s your name?”

“Sin. You?”

“Judal.” It feels weird and oddly intimate like this, so Judal picks up his coffee and gives Sin an awkward half smile.

“I’m going to go to class, so. Bye, I guess.”

The next day, he wakes up early as well, so Judal heaves a sigh and heads to the coffeeshop again. This time, Sin waves and blows a kiss, and Judal is prepared. “Why do you do that?”

“You’re cute, and it’s funny.”

“I’m glad I amuse you.”

Judal takes his coffee and leaves as soon as he has it, too flustered by the look on Sin’s face to do anything else.

It takes a while, but after about a month of dancing around each other and half-conversations, Judal returns Sin’s air kiss with one of his own

(And a few weeks after that, Judal marches right up to the register and kisses Sin full on the mouth, and Sin easily returns it.)

12. Single Lip Kiss

Sin has been Judal’s figure skating partner for years now, which means he knows how to read Judal better than anyone. So when he doesn’t see the usual burning determination in Judal’s eyes, instead of prepping for their second toss, Sin catches Judal’s wrist with his and brings them to a gliding stop, swiveling around so he can face Judal and frowning at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Judal mumbles, but it’s painfully obvious that he’s lying.

“I know you’re lying.”

“It’s nothing!”

Sin rolls his eyes and watches Judal skate towards the entrance to the rink, irritation laced on his features. “Maybe next time I’ll drop you!”

“Fuck you!” Judal calls back. He doesn’t sound angry though, and Sin sighs before going to follow him.

He finds Judal sitting on one of the benches outside, fingers trembling as he struggles to unlace his skates. He looks so small suddenly, and Sin bites his lip before going over and brushing Judal’s hands away to undo the laces himself.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Judal makes a noncommittal noise and Sin purses his lips as he finishes one skate and gently takes it off. Halfway through unlacing the second skate, Judal speaks again, voice quiet. “I’m distracted. We have the competition next week, but…I can’t focus.”

“Hey, hey. Whatever it is, tell me and we’ll fix it. Can’t have you zoning out next week.”

“I like you,” Judal’s voice breaks and Sin freezes. The skate is halfway off of Judal’s foot and Judal reaches down with trembling fingers to push it off completely before fumbling for his own shoes and wrenching them on.

“You like me?”

Judal makes an annoyed noise and when Sin finally looks up at him, he’s flustered and there are unshed tears shining in his eyes. “Yes, I like you. I like you and it’s so distracting being this close to you, and I can’t afford to fuck this up for the both of us just because I can’t get over a stupid crush-”

That’s when Sin leans up and in and kisses Judal, soft and eager. When he moves to pull away, Judal fists his hands in his hair, keeping him close. Judal’s lips are soft and they taste like the salt of his tears, and more spill when Sin wipes his cheeks dry.

“Come on, then. Are you leaving or staying?” Sin asks, standing now.

Judal frowns up at him, but it’s more of a pout than anything, and Sin can’t help laughing. “What was that then?”

“What was what?”

“You kissed me! Do you like me?”

“Yeah, I like you.”

“Oh. We can stay. Lace my skates!”

Sin sighs and reaches for Judal’s skates, tired of his partner’s tricks already. He realizes only then what a handful he’ll have - but if it’s Judal, it’ll be worth it. (Even if he doesn’t think he’ll ever like Judal the way Judal likes him.)

13. Lizard Kiss

The sight of the silver ball on the pink of Judal’s makes Sin’s knees go weak, and when he sees Sin staring, Judal sticks his tongue out, wiggling it playfully. “Like my piercing?”

“Get over here.”

Judal hides his laugh behind his fist before slipping from the counter and moving over to where Sin is sitting at the table. He easily slides into Sin’s lap and kisses him open-mouthed, gasping into Sin’s mouth as Sin easily finds the piercing and sucks at it, eager from the start. It’s not long before Sin tells Judal to stick your tongue out and when Judal does so, Sin sucks Judal’s tongue into his mouth and shallowly bobs his head, using his actions to show what he’d do later, what would make Judal moan and cry out and come with Sin’s name on his tongue.

At the first muffled cry Judal makes, Sin lets Judal’s tongue slip from his mouth, a smirk on his lips. It turns unsteady when Judal licks back into Sin’s mouth, piercing warmed from Sin’s ministrations, and when he catches the tip of Sin’s tongue once and then again, Sin gets what he’s trying to do - he lets the tip of Judal’s tongue trace circles around his own before sucking his tongue back into his mouth.

Judal is left breathless and trembling when Sin pulls away, and they both laugh sort of awkwardly when their gazes meet.

“I really like your piercing,” Sin says. It’s unnecessary, but it just makes Judal laugh even harder before he slips from Sin’s lap and saunters off towards the fridge.

14. The Eskimo Kiss

They’re studying together in the library - or Judal is trying to study, and Sin is distracting him with kisses pressed to Judal’s neck and shoulder when he thinks no one can see. Hakuryuu is across from them, and he keeps glaring at Judal whenever Sin does it - like Judal can control Sin! - and Judal is trying to ignore the both of them.

“If you’re going to keep doing that,” Hakuryuu mutters, “at least do it quietly. Jeez.”

“Can’t,” Sin mumbles back, “not until Juju does what he’s promised.”

When Judal chances a glance up at Hakuryuu, he’s not sure if the disgust on Hakuyruu’s face is from the petname or because of the way Sin is nuzzling into Judal’s neck and peppering his skin with kisses.

“Jesus, Judal - just do what he wants! It’s getting ridiculous, honestly…”

“I think you’re just jealous.” Judal contemplates tilting his neck further to let Sin kiss him even more, but at the strangled noise Hakuryuu makes, Judal huffs and pushes Sin away before facing him. He wants to ask Hakuryuu to at least look away, but that’ll make it worse, so Judal just takes a breath and leans in to rub his nose against Sin’s, squashing down a pleased smile at the pleased noise Sin makes.

“You’re disgusting.” Hakuryuu sounds two parts squicked out and one part happy, and when Judal looks at him, he’s smiling.

“It’s almost cute. I’m glad you two are happy, really. But maybe tone down on the making out, yeah?”

Judal opens his mouth to agree with Hakuryuu, but before he can say anything, Sin answers for him as he curls an arm around Judal’s waist. “Nope!”

15. Kiss of an Angel

For all the many years that Judal has been dead, he hasn’t felt anything for any of the people that have moved into his house, not anything more than passing amusement. He’s always pulled his pranks (what sort of ghost would he be if he didn’t?) but he’s never really cared about any of the living.

Until Sinbad.

Sin’s been living at the house for over a year now, much longer than anyone else, and Judal is...rather fond of him now. Sin barely flinches at all of Judal’s pranks now, just chuckles and rolls his eyes and continues with what he’s doing.

Sin is taking a nap on the couch now, lips parted to take in quiet breaths. Judal contemplates maybe knocking some books off the shelf, but Sin will only sigh and put the books back, if he even wakes up. So Judal resorts to sitting on Sin’s chest - not that Sin will feel him anyway - and staring at his sleeping face. Sin is actually pretty handsome, Judal’s noticed, but despite his overwhelmingly good looks and personality, he’s never had a girl or guy over.

Judal leans in closer, staring hard at Sin as if that will somehow wake him up. He wants to kiss Sin in that moment, but to do that would mean making himself be seen, and felt. And that can’t happen.

Judal pushes his heavy braid back and leans in further, letting his lips just barely touch the space between Sin’s eyebrows. Almost as soon as he does, Sin’s eyes flutter open and Judal falls back and off the couch, heart pounding in his chest as Sin sits up and looks around. His eyes land on Judal and he frowns, and Judal waits for Sin to look away, but he doesn’t.

“Who are you?” he asks.

And oh, Judal thinks. Oh.

16. Seductive Kiss

“You two probably aren’t even dating,” Sharrkan’s frowning, “you probably just said it to get couple discounts or something.”

Sin gasps, as if outraged. “We’re totally dating!” As if to prove it, he throws his arm around Judal’s shoulders and pats the side of his head.

Judal snorts and ducks free of Sin’s heavy grip, but he nods in agreement. “Totally dating.”

“Prove it.”

“How-”

“Kiss!”

“Voyeur,” Judal huffs, ducking his head into the curve of Sin’s armpit to hide his flush. Sin’s shirt smells like laundry detergent, and Judal takes in a deep breath, both to calm himself and because it smells good.

Sharrkan makes an offended noise and Sin laughs loud - they both seem to forget that they’re in the middle of a crowded ice cream shop, and Judal stabs a spoon into his shared dessert with Sin. “Fine, we’ll kiss. You’re still nasty though, Sharr.”

Before he can lose his nerve, Judal turns back to Sin and cups his cheeks in his hands to bring Sin down to his height. They’ve never kissed before, so the way Sin so easily licks into Judal’s mouth makes him gasp, and a strangled little noise falls from Sin’s lips when Judal’s teeth scrape against his lower lip. Sin’s the one that pulls away and they’re both breathless, and Judal shoves his hands below the table so Sharrkan doesn’t see their trembling.

“I never want to see you do that again.”

“Good, because it won’t happen again.” (At least, Judal thinks, not where Sharrkan can see.)

#magi #sinju #i havent..done sinju in Years #also ok i did this all today so im kinda :') proud of htat lmao #even if it is late yike #my writing

[jaxxonpollux]

notes for vivien during her whatever of whatever v3

hey pee brain

writing here makes me feel less bitter, and it helps me maintain some level aloofness i think. moreso than calling you twice a day and pining away like a ghost wife that passed away out on the cliffs, the moors or whatever, waiting for her sailor soldier husband to return. i know you're a sweetheart but sometimes you're a real pain in the butt too. a real heck and a half. and i'm not like, dumb. i know what busy is and i know phone calls can still be squeezed in even then, but business and time are never really the problem when this stuff happens. i know i don't make myself very easy to talk to, being a sassy emotional sack of old balls and all that, so i wouldn't expect you to either. just enjoy being where you are and living a big life again and i'll watch your cute butt as you leave the room.

that's like a real mad men thing to think and say huh? "boy oh boy i sure do love to see her leave a room!" even when you dress it up and disguise it, it still sounds piggish. something joan would narrow her eyes at, or at the very least give like that phony 1960s "i'll take that as a compliment, you dumb pig man" smile.

i don't know why i feel bitter. god why do i have my ceiling fan on? i'm freezing, it's been in the 50s here. anyway, i don't know why i feel bitter. it's a gross feeling, it really does make me feel like a ghost wife, like just haunting you from the past and trying to drag you back into the deep black water. very selkie actually. it's loneliness doing its evil things and whispering in ears and gnawing on hearts and making me reach out my ugly haunted hand and trying to either have you pull me out of the afterlife or pull you back in. i just spelt gnawing as "knawing," and it doesn't say that it's a typo, is this some secret alt word i've discovered? some special 4am word?

knaw

Verb

(third-person singular simple present knaws, present participle knawing, simple past and past participle knawed)

Archaic spelling of gnaw.

Verb

(third-person singular simple present knaws, present participle knawing, simple past knawed, past participle knawn)

Eye dialect spelling of know.

what the hell is eye dialect? it sounds like when people talk with their eyes "her mouth says no, but her eyes say YES"

"her mouth says no, but her eyes say KNAW"

or basil's wife perhaps, "oh i knaaawr." you gotta slap an r at the end there because they're british. anyway

writing gets real out of hand real fast at 4am y'know. and i'm writing this on my phone too, what kind of sick fuck writes his autobiography on his phone? that sounds like the kind of thing b would do, but i don't have any business knowing the kinds of things b would do

is there anything i actually wanted to say? i've been buying and drinking wines like a madman. i drank half a bottle in an afternoon when i was trying a new wine and my mom goes "that's a LOT of trying!" like not really tho. wine is a trap cuz you gotta drink it freshly corked or else you're fucked. you gotta share wine, i'm always trying to coax my mom into a glass or two so i don't feel stupid drinking it all by myself. i feel like how my mom used to describe my grandma (on my dad's side), taking her wine medicine every day because "it's healthy" or whatever. i really don't drink like that. i actually forget that there's alcohol in there because it never occurs to me. i've still never been drunk. i was possibly tipsy when we had two bottles in miami and we were sitting out on the smoking bench together, but even then i was just slightly louder and happy.

i've tried merlot, pinot noir, pinot grig, rose, sauvignon blanc, "laurel blanc," chardonnay and i've got a riesling on the way, stashed someplace. i feel such like a stereotypical college early 20s girl when i drink wine, like hmmm like the thing where they order fancy tasty alcoholic drinks at bars and stuff? where they can't taste the alcohol at all and get wasted really easily? not that i'm over here getting wasted, but i mean that i'm picky about flavors, like sometimes wine to me is just bad-tasting grape juice that burns a little and makes you want to burp. i popped open a chardonnay yesterday and the intense oaky "full-bodied" flavor kind of offends me. at the end of the day, i'm still just a real soda jerk at heart, like i wanna drink things that taste good. sugary snacks and orange juice and stuff. sarsparilla. wine tastes bad in comparison to most other beverages (like, let's just be real here for a second, all alcohol tastes worse than a sprite), but makes me feel more sophisticated is all, and i already drink bitter black teas to fill that niche in my life.

i'm more just drinking all these different wines to take a peek into a life i don't live, i think. try to understand people i know that drink wine a little better. i wrote about this before, getting to know you through the back door? watching abfab and fawlty towers and reading swamplandia, following in your footsteps, inching my way through the path you hacked through the jungle. like that scarjo alien movie (another example), living in your skin. why is it so impossible for me to talk about getting to know you without diving into some creepy stalker persona? i don't get it. i must be naive to my own creepiness. i have been called "a creeper," but only once in middle school, and i don't think i was doing anything creepy at the time. just standing somewhere looking sad and emo probably. people just called each other creepers back then left and right. it really is a hurtful term, considering i still vaguely remember it

anyway, i have no idea what you're doing in new york, why you're doing foot stuff with strangers, who you're hanging out with, how long you'll be there, why you can't ever think about me or call me or have any space in your life or in your thoughts for me and i have no idea why everything is so difficult and i have no idea about divorce or wine or new york in general really. and i'm just always over here baking 50 loaves of bread and 600 chocolate bavarians and dumping rainbow sprinkles and maraschino cherries into bowls and putting 350, 850, 1100 pieces of flourless chocolate cake on plates over and over again and checking instagram every time i walk through the halls because it's the only way i know you're not dead. and i know you're awake at 4am when i'm walking into work and i miss you and think of you then, when we're the only souls up at that hour, but then you get like 7 likes on your 4am instagram post and i realize that's actually bullshit and yeah. i'm a dumb jealous bitch, but only like, a little bit, and every person that comments on your instastuff i just imagine that it's somebody that lives in new york and is in your entourage and is more important to you and more interesting than i ever was and i should really just keep dumb mouth shut about everything.

i warned you i was a boring boy, and i warned myself too. you're out there living big again, cool people dragging you into cool big city cocaine club experiences, swapping stick and pokes and fur jackets and call girl stories, writing novels and shooting music videos and hosting parties where you get to avoid your guests and be in the vip back room... (my imagination is endless you see!)

and i'm like a dumb ducking small town country hick boy pining and sending senpai-notice-me pictures of rice krispy treats as if it's anything to sneeze at (it isn't), pretending like my baking or my pictures of clouds or cats is worth anything in your life, because i'm just fumbling and grasping at straws and presenting them to you, like hey look at these straws eh? pretty neat eh? wanna go out with me? i feel like that picture of that kid holding a bunch of roses out to rihanna. a reference which is apparently too dated to show up on google images, grumble

speaking of baking, i went to this japanese bakery the other day to inquire about a job opening and the girl there, well first of all it's really cute because all the girls there wear brown berets and brown overalls, but anyway the girl there said they have TWENTY bakers working there. TWENTY. i keep telling people this hoping for a reaction because apparently only a baker understands how bonkers this is. a small mom and pop bakery with TWENTY bakers. i mean, their stuff is pretty nice, and they do a wide variety of things, but i work at a place with three bakers and we make food for hundreds of people every day.

what else do i have to say, hmmm... i feel like i dropped the ball on the whole self-loathing thing really early, like those couple of paragraphs up there are really more of a finisher but whatever. i'm just rambling, just ranting, just stream of conscious jack kerouac jacking myself off and it's honestly just fine, i don't gotta organize this any particular way do i? nah

but like, don't take any of this stuff too seriously (but do if it makes you like feel really bad for me and miss me or whatever heh), everything is a fleeting thought or feeling nowadays, some times are better than others. some days i text you simply because i wanna share something with you and i'm thinking of you, real simple, and i don't even think about how dumb and bitter i can get, but other days i just want to give up on you and crawl back into my haunted lake and stop trying and kill myself or hurt myself or at the very least make desperate phone calls to people i used to talk to and make myself feel relevant again. but eh. what a soap opera. i like how you think YOU'RE crazy when i'm like just a pile of flesh filled with howling, howling winds, like i'm a real fucking whirlwind in here, a real wuthering heights crazy animal sex energy in here. haunting away from my creaky old miasma mansion. i'm just full of sludge, i'm the swamp and trump never drained me, turns out.

anyway, like i said don't take it too seriously, i'm ok. i'm only flexing muscles, really, but i do miss you, and probably will forever, because i don't think we'll ever be Together Like That. which is fine but it also sucks. "don't you forget about me"

hey also if you happen to read this prior to halloween, or at all, send me some songs for a playlist i'm putting together for no particular reason. i listen to it at work. i've been in a real halloweeny mood even though i never have time or any reason to dress up. but i do all the other stuff, i carve pumpkins and wear candy corn socks and do generally love the season. nobody ever sees it, but i do love the season, i just never share my love with anybody the way i wish i could. just don't send like, the marilyn manson version of i put a spell on you or whatever, unless it's really good, i didn't actually look into it.

sincerely,

from out here on the moors,

the other brian

p.s. just in case new york actually really sucks for you right now and is really not fun or exciting and you are actually feeling very rotten and lonely, i do aplogize profusely! my imagination runs too fast for me to catch up sometimes. just always missing you and always beating myself up. i hope i don't ever rub you the wrong way. https://youtu.be/UDhmnoBVYlQ

p.p.s. 11am now, just wanna say i stand by this big black chunk of coal letter, except i didn't want it to be quite so angry and bitter. your business is your business and i'm silly for assuming i need to be included, as per, i'm really not as desperately invested as i come off. i feel stripped of a friend maybe, but not helpless hopeless careening into a black hole or anything. stay warm stay safe, i'm here when you need my brand of friend again, but i'm gonna make a concerted effort to stop prying. xo

[laurajanecostello]

Words are important. As humans, we spend a majority of our day expressing ourselves through words. We share words with others, teach using words and get what we need by using words. Some might say the world revolves around words…One of the things I love about this age (19 months for anyone not keeping track) is the fact that Eden is starting to develop other ways to express herself than the standard shout, cry or laugh. She’s developing words. Actual words! That she uses in the correct context at the right time

We obviously knew that around now would be the time when she would start really talking – or at least when we could expect the start of her language development, but what I didn’t realise was exactly how much she would pick up and use over such a small amount of time.

Baby Centre tells us…

The vocabulary of a typical 19-month-old toddler may consist of as few as ten words or as many as 50. Yours may be able to link two or more words together, and is starting to use more “action” words. Verbs like “go” and “jump” are common, and so is linking a verb with her name (or pronoun), as in “Come me,” meaning “Come with me.” (It will be some months before she inserts the preposition.) Many 19-month-olds are also well-versed in direction words such as “up,” “down,” “under,” “out,” and “in.”

Eden is really doing well with her language. Some words she has been saying from really early on, such as “doggy”, “mama” and “mummy”. Nowadays the actual number of words that she is saying is pretty huge conmsidering that six months ago she barely had any words at all.

Here’s a short round up of her favourites…

People/Characters – Mummy, mama, Mickey, Minnie, Doc (McStuffins. Also known as “doo doo dooo”), Blaze, Paw Patrol (Raw Roll), Everest, Skye, Marshall (ars-all), She calls anyone from Moana “you’re welcome”, Elsa, Sofia, Masks (PJ Masks), Gekko – (Yes, we watch a lot of Disney Junior!)

Things – Hat, Juice, Water, Shoes, Nose, Eyes, Mouth, Feet, Toes, Ears, Hair, Head, Tree, Road, Floor, Door, Baby (which, hilariously, is any child. Whether or not they are older than her), Book, phone, toy, Milk, Bottle, Banana, Apple, Orange, cake (!!!), Yoghurt, Stairs , Ball, Buggy, Slide, bubble

Animals – Mouse, Duck, Birdie, Cat, Doggy, Moo Moo (that’s our dog, Misty), Loki (Our Other Dog), Amber (dog next door…), Puppy, Pig (which always comes with accompanying pig noise)

Descriptions – Pretty, Hot, Cold, Wet, Cute

Other – Thankyou, You’re Welcome, Hi, How Are You? (which is more like howyooooo), Bye, See You Soon (seeeshooooon), I sure, I OK, Help (usually shouted whilst getting strapped into the buggy), Night night (with accompanying snoring), Bounce, Walk, Get Out (of her buggy usually), Get Down (usually shouted at the dogs), No, Yes, I sit, I pooed, I peed, upstairs, downstairs, hey

When I write those down it is actually a LOT of words! I’m impressed with our little girl and how she seems to be soaking up the world around her. Being able to have conversations with her really helps us connect as well as to work out exactly what it is that she wants when she is upset or wants something. I also feel like she understands us a bit better when we speak with her now too and enjoy asking her things like “where is the duck?” and “can you see a birdie?” It’s all part of what I love about being a parent of a child Eden’s age.

I love that she can now voaclise the world around her, even if it does mean that she spends ten minutes shouting “HAT!!!” at a man on the train who was wearing a hat and trying his best to ignore her…

#lesbian #mummies #trying to concieve #donor sperm #babies #two mums

[zorilleerrant]

Felencia and John pored over the maps, while Ocean stared skeptically at the mouth of the cave, unsure whether they really wanted to walk all the way up the hill to join their friends. Ornate carving decorated the rock – inlaid before the robbers got to it, probably, although Felencia was their geologist, and she’d be the one to know where the colors were from – and the message was familiar enough, if in a different language.

That was what was causing trouble for Ocean, though.

So they weren’t a translator. That was John’s job, if he’d shut up for half a minute about the gods-awful conditions he was being made to trek through/camp in (but where else were you going to get someone who knew the Old Tongues, really), but it wasn’t like Ocean hadn’t been through school. They knew enough to translate the basics.

The question was, then, how much of it applied? It was the same construction on the cave mouth as on the famous painting of the sword (Not Man Nor Woman Shall Wield Me), that much was certain – although Ocean couldn’t tell whether the verb formation was meant to indicate ‘enter’ or ‘traverse’ or what, not that it mattered – it was really more a matter of intent. Of course man and woman were going to be what the words translated to now, because how else were people going to put it, but…they tried to think back to their lessons.

Not that there was a lot of nuance in the typical history lesson, mind, even if more so in language classes than in actual history classes, but, listen, they’d gone to a good school, so it should’ve been something at least touched on, right?

Like it definitely wasn’t the words for ‘male’ and ‘female’ the way the ancient civilizations had used them, because after Sinead Hyun they’d known exactly how to deal with that problem, hadn’t they? Good gods, Ocean had been in love with her as a little kid, top cursebreaker in the entire world, right there. Anyway, it wasn’t like they wouldn’t have just sent her after a new cave if that was what it had said in the first place.

That wasn’t a thing, though, was it? Surely if there was another group of people who could just waltz in and grab artifacts out of cursed cave systems, someone would’ve found out by now? So Ocean was kind of reluctant to try to go inside until they could remember exactly what ‘man’ and ‘woman’ had meant to the – well, this looked Rumann. Maybe.

They really hoped this wasn’t one of those sexuality things that got translated as gender just to keep it from looking indecent in front of children.

Well, you never knew until you tried, right?

They took a tentative few steps to the cave entrance. It was a long walk, but not so long they couldn’t see the sword glowing at the other end, just regular long.

Okay, so if they tried, what was the worst that could happen? Bouncing off the cave entrance, probably, that was the most likely, that was why Felencia and John were searching for one of the other ways in, but if not – well, Ocean could just duck back out again, right?

They tried not to imagine the earth cracking open into a giant lava pit, or salivating monsters appearing, or arrows flying back and forth as a dungeon door clanged shut behind them. That was…that was why they’d trained as a magician in the first place, wasn’t it, there was no time to be getting cold feet right now, they had a sword to quest and –

Quiet. Ocean found themself over the threshold of the cave, and there was nothing there except the panicked sound of their own breathing and the soft drip of water somewhere farther inside. The caves glowed a little, but that was moss. It was a kind of creepy moss to be sure, but it was the same creepy moss everyone expected in caves around here, so that wasn’t surprising in the least, except that now Ocean was thinking about the fruit flies they’d injected with the moss genes to see if they could get them to glow too and they didn’t really want to be thinking about that. Then the creepy glow of the moss gave way to the much more magical glow of the sword no one had wielded in millennia – that no one had ever been known to wield – and that was…soothing somehow.

Ocean wondered if that was an aura the altar gave off, or whether it was just comforting to get away from the horrible flora of magical caves.

They lifted the sword from the altar, and it gave a brief glow of acknowledgement, and then went slack in Ocean’s hand. Well, they might be nonbinary, but they weren’t a Champion, and they’d known that in the first place so it wasn’t any real surprise the sword could tell, too. At least it wasn’t electrocuting them or something, just weighing 30 pounds and being a pain in the ass to carry back outside.

The walk back out was almost more anticlimactic than the walk in had been. Everything smelled like wet rock and stale air, which was arguably pleasant, and certainly nonthreatening. If not for finally getting to study the ancient magicks applied to this relic, they’d be almost disappointed. As it was, the scholarly tension was palpable enough that the sword thrummed weakly in response to it, delighting Ocean to no end.

They squinted in the sunlight, holding up the sword – it was terribly designed, honestly, like it couldn’t be made to be usable since magic was going to guide it anyway, who came up with that, it must have been a wizard – in a sort of triumphant pose. Kind of.

Ocean figured it would’ve made an awful picture, if their friends had bothered to take one instead of just staring blankly.

“So, um,” Ocean said, continuing to hold the sword awkwardly aloft, “I would appreciate if you would start using they/them pronouns, maybe?”

#fantasy #nonbinary character #my writing #i was going to make up terrible fantasy names for them but i couldn't be arsed

[arthur36domingo]

10 Words and Phrases to Never, Ever Use at Work

Every industry has its jargon. But some words and phrases can be unclear, unnecessary, or even offensive. Maybe some of these are phrases you like building into your business vocab, but use them with caution. If you’re going to offend or annoy someone, or if there’s a clearer way to say something, why not go the easy way?

Our little caveat: every office has different protocol. If you’re buddies with your coworkers, it’s not so strange to talk to them about personal issues. And if you’re in the thick of the consulting, tech, or business world, you might feel inclined to use the lingo and play along. But the joy of language is that there’s always another way to phrase something.

1 “Assume”

We’ve all heard it: “When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.” Cute. But even if the catchphrase earns your eye-roll, it’s a good point: don’t accept something to be the case without proof. For example:

“I assume you finished the report?” “I assumed Bob would run that part of the presentation.” “I assume you’ll be working on Saturday?”

From a boss, “assume” is a passive-aggressive way to show authority. From an underling, it looks like ducking responsibility. In both cases, there are ways to make your point without making an ass out of you and me.

2 “Like”

“I like these doughnuts” is fair game. But avoid using “like,” “um,” “sort of,” “basically,” and other weasel words that fill dead air. They make you sound less confident and can even sort of give the impression that you basically don’t know what you’re, like, talking about.

See what we mean?

3 “We made a $400K offer”

Or, “I finally got that $10K raise,” or even “I’ve never eaten there because it’s too expensive.” Good rule of thumb: avoid stating the amount of money you make or the pile of dough you spent on your trip to Iceland. If someone makes a lot more or a lot less than you, it could lead to awkwardness.

4 “Open the kimono”

Some business folk use this to mean “reveal information,” but it sounds a little sexist. And racist. It’s a good idea to steer clear of words that could be misinterpreted or cause offense, even if they’re not meant that way. That includes things like “Happy hump day” and “open the kimono.” Try not to open that can of worms.

5 “Hey, man”

Not everyone who works is a man, and even seemingly innocent phrases like “Hey, man” or “What’s up, dude,” when used between people who identify as men, can create an environment of exclusion. Nicknames in general can help build a bond of casual camaraderie—but when that bond is based on being the same sex, that means anyone who doesn’t fall under the category of “man” or “dude” is excluded from the camaraderie.

Most people who use these phrases aren’t being exclusive on purpose. But by calling out a connection based on something that other people in the office don’t share, these “dudes” might be making it harder for women to build the connections that will get them ahead.

6 “Let’s talk that”

“Talk about it”? “Discuss it”? “Have a meaningful and productive dialogue about the issue and its repercussions”?

Here’s why Grammarly doesn’t like this phrase: “talk” is not traditionally a transitive verb because it doesn’t take a direct object. You can talk about something, but that’s an intransitive verb with a prepositional phrase: a very different category.

While phrases like “we can talk it out” or “let’s talk things through” have shown the potential for talk to take on transitive qualities, “let’s talk that” is a step too far.

7 “That was a fail”

If you’re pointing out someone else’s mistake, you seem blaming and harsh; if you’re talking about your own, you risk undermining your coworkers’ sense of your abilities.

Here’s how to turn it around: if you messed up, find a task too tough, or aren’t sure how to address a problem, don’t start in with “I can’t,” “it’s hard,” or “I failed.” Find someone to ask for help and tell them what the problem is, what you’ve tried so far, and what you need to know or do to fix it.

On the flip side, some companies love talking about failures as opportunities for learning and growth. If you work in an environment brimming with that kind of positivity, kudos. But no matter whether your company embraces the word “failure” or avoids it like the plague, same idea goes: focus on next steps and ways to learn moving forward, not on who’s to blame.

8 “She was in labor for 20 hours”

Everyone loves kids, right? Sure, once they’re out and about in the world. The details of how long, how painful, and how bloody—whether it’s your experience, your female partner’s, a friend’s, or a TV character’s—are better kept to yourself. Even if you’re friends with the coworker (or even if it’s a non-work friend), ask them if they’re comfortable hearing the details before you pop ’em out.

When it comes to labor, keep it to the kind you do with your coworkers in the office Monday to Friday.

9 “Over the wall”

It could be about the latest debate on immigration. Or, to give it the benefit of the doubt, a Humpty-Dumpty reference.

In business, “throw it over the wall” can be translated as “send it to the client.” This is one of the cases where jargon gets in the way of clarity—and that can, in turn, lead to things not getting done. If you want to be understood, this is a phrase you can throw over the wall—as in, get rid of it.

10 “Think outside the box”

If your goal in the office is to think outside the box, why not do the same with your well-worn clichés? There’s nothing really wrong with this phrase, but it’s been used so many times that we dare you to find new ways to express the idea. You can keep it simple, like “innovate,” “find unusual solutions,” or even “come up with creative ideas,” or you can invent something totally new like “think one galaxy over.” (Though if you’re going for clarity, you might want to stick to “brainstorm.”)

Either way, if you’re trying to find creative solutions at work, you might as well think outside the box in how you use language, too.

The post 10 Words and Phrases to Never, Ever Use at Work appeared first on Grammarly Blog.

from Grammarly Blog https://www.grammarly.com/blog/10-bad-words-at-work/

[ber39james]

10 Words and Phrases to Never, Ever Use at Work

Every industry has its jargon. But some words and phrases can be unclear, unnecessary, or even offensive. Maybe some of these are phrases you like building into your business vocab, but use them with caution. If you’re going to offend or annoy someone, or if there’s a clearer way to say something, why not go the easy way?

Our little caveat: every office has different protocol. If you’re buddies with your coworkers, it’s not so strange to talk to them about personal issues. And if you’re in the thick of the consulting, tech, or business world, you might feel inclined to use the lingo and play along. But the joy of language is that there’s always another way to phrase something.

1 “Assume”

We’ve all heard it: “When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.” Cute. But even if the catchphrase earns your eye-roll, it’s a good point: don’t accept something to be the case without proof. For example:

“I assume you finished the report?” “I assumed Bob would run that part of the presentation.” “I assume you’ll be working on Saturday?”

From a boss, “assume” is a passive-aggressive way to show authority. From an underling, it looks like ducking responsibility. In both cases, there are ways to make your point without making an ass out of you and me.

2 “Like”

“I like these doughnuts” is fair game. But avoid using “like,” “um,” “sort of,” “basically,” and other weasel words that fill dead air. They make you sound less confident and can even sort of give the impression that you basically don’t know what you’re, like, talking about.

See what we mean?

3 “We made a $400K offer”

Or, “I finally got that $10K raise,” or even “I’ve never eaten there because it’s too expensive.” Good rule of thumb: avoid stating the amount of money you make or the pile of dough you spent on your trip to Iceland. If someone makes a lot more or a lot less than you, it could lead to awkwardness.

4 “Open the kimono”

Some business folk use this to mean “reveal information,” but it sounds a little sexist. And racist. It’s a good idea to steer clear of words that could be misinterpreted or cause offense, even if they’re not meant that way. That includes things like “Happy hump day” and “open the kimono.” Try not to open that can of worms.

5 “Hey, man”

Not everyone who works is a man, and even seemingly innocent phrases like “Hey, man” or “What’s up, dude,” when used between people who identify as men, can create an environment of exclusion. Nicknames in general can help build a bond of casual camaraderie—but when that bond is based on being the same sex, that means anyone who doesn’t fall under the category of “man” or “dude” is excluded from the camaraderie.

Most people who use these phrases aren’t being exclusive on purpose. But by calling out a connection based on something that other people in the office don’t share, these “dudes” might be making it harder for women to build the connections that will get them ahead.

6 “Let’s talk that”

“Talk about it”? “Discuss it”? “Have a meaningful and productive dialogue about the issue and its repercussions”?

Here’s why Grammarly doesn’t like this phrase: “talk” is not traditionally a transitive verb because it doesn’t take a direct object. You can talk about something, but that’s an intransitive verb with a prepositional phrase: a very different category.

While phrases like “we can talk it out” or “let’s talk things through” have shown the potential for talk to take on transitive qualities, “let’s talk that” is a step too far.

7 “That was a fail”

If you’re pointing out someone else’s mistake, you seem blaming and harsh; if you’re talking about your own, you risk undermining your coworkers’ sense of your abilities.

Here’s how to turn it around: if you messed up, find a task too tough, or aren’t sure how to address a problem, don’t start in with “I can’t,” “it’s hard,” or “I failed.” Find someone to ask for help and tell them what the problem is, what you’ve tried so far, and what you need to know or do to fix it.

On the flip side, some companies love talking about failures as opportunities for learning and growth. If you work in an environment brimming with that kind of positivity, kudos. But no matter whether your company embraces the word “failure” or avoids it like the plague, same idea goes: focus on next steps and ways to learn moving forward, not on who’s to blame.

8 “She was in labor for 20 hours”

Everyone loves kids, right? Sure, once they’re out and about in the world. The details of how long, how painful, and how bloody—whether it’s your experience, your female partner’s, a friend’s, or a TV character’s—are better kept to yourself. Even if you’re friends with the coworker (or even if it’s a non-work friend), ask them if they’re comfortable hearing the details before you pop ’em out.

When it comes to labor, keep it to the kind you do with your coworkers in the office Monday to Friday.

9 “Over the wall”

It could be about the latest debate on immigration. Or, to give it the benefit of the doubt, a Humpty-Dumpty reference.

In business, “throw it over the wall” can be translated as “send it to the client.” This is one of the cases where jargon gets in the way of clarity—and that can, in turn, lead to things not getting done. If you want to be understood, this is a phrase you can throw over the wall—as in, get rid of it.

10 “Think outside the box”

If your goal in the office is to think outside the box, why not do the same with your well-worn clichés? There’s nothing really wrong with this phrase, but it’s been used so many times that we dare you to find new ways to express the idea. You can keep it simple, like “innovate,” “find unusual solutions,” or even “come up with creative ideas,” or you can invent something totally new like “think one galaxy over.” (Though if you’re going for clarity, you might want to stick to “brainstorm.”)

Either way, if you’re trying to find creative solutions at work, you might as well think outside the box in how you use language, too.

The post 10 Words and Phrases to Never, Ever Use at Work appeared first on Grammarly Blog.

from Grammarly Blog https://www.grammarly.com/blog/10-bad-words-at-work/

[unicyclehippo]

Please tell me you're writing the accidental marriage fic as a 'proper' fic. Like I rambled in tags I need to know everything! What are the seven steps exactly? How did they fulfill them? How is Kara going to tell Lena? How will Lena react? What do they do????? Please, I need it!!

yknow what i live for validation & encouragement so im gonna post a bit of it for yall tonight ok

they say that rao created the suns and stars and planets to keep him company, that he loved his creations for their beauty and order so much that he made krypton, and its people, to delight in it with him. they said—they said—he was so pleased with his children that he gave to them everything he had: wisdom, and passion, and strength, and intelligence, and within all of these gifts, his love.

she knows rao made order. a delicate, incredible dance. that rao set the rules of it all and made the music and the room to dance in, and the costumes, and the decorations, and the love and rhythm of their heartbeats—all of that, everything that exists, and somehow he couldn’t account for his tiny children running amok. couldn’t account for them making up their own rules, or for their countless missteps. 

there was a stretch of time—a considerable stretch indeed—when kara hated him. because if rao had brought order to the universe, he missed a step. didn’t look far enough ahead to consider the end of his jewel, his love, his krypton.

kara read a lot when she came to earth, about religions and gods, both the divine and the fallible, but mostly she read about people. she was only thirteen when krypton—when it happened—but she remembers the quick thrum of her mothers pulse, fearful, and the way her father smiled at her with so much love in his eyes it burned, like he knew it was the last thing he would ever get to do and he wanted it to leave some kind of mark. well, it was, and it did. and she thinks a lot about choice and self and people and how it might have been easier for her if she hadn’t seen them right there. right next to her. how it still felt cruel to have seen them, and to have been made to leave them.

and the what ifs, that loud, endless wave of what ifs: what if one of them had gone with baby kal, what if they had made those stupid, stupid pods with room for two, what if her mother had never sent astra to the phantom zone, if non had never killed a guard, if kara had never called astra home, if someone had spoken up sooner, louder, more insistently, if her mother had just agreed to try, if generations ago the house of el had never even been formed—and everything stacks up on everything that came before and kara gets lost in it.

but there’s no point. there’s no point, because krypton is dead and left far behind, and that’s where it will stay.

all that remains of krypton is a fortress of toy relics, a man with her blood but the heart of a human, and shards of her dead planet. and her, still her. and there is no point in hating a god who died with the rest of her world.

//

years later, standing on the roof of national city’s tallest building—which isn’t catco, as much as cat might like to think it is—she hates him again.

the rain is so cold even she is shivering. head tilted up to the sky, she doesn’t both wiping away the torrent drenching her face, her hair. her cape drags heavy on her shoulders, a sopping weight, and she whips it to the side when it tangles around her ankle. the move flicks water off it like a spray of diamonds, shattering against the concrete where the rest of the water, the rest of the world, trembles at her step. she paces the roof of the building, eyes fixed on some distant point, the heart of the storm.

there comes a sound that only she can hear, and she pauses at the corner of the building. poised there, lightning cracks and illuminates her against the backdrop of a broiling, immense storm. it cloaks the whole city in shadow, clings to everything with its misted tendrils, and she is no exception. she would be engulfed in it, but for the power gathered behind her eyes—white-hot and furious. 

and when the thunder drums again, like a call to war, kara’s edges are sharp enough to be a war all by herself. 

lightning cracks the sky wide open. thunder follows it instantly in a boom. the wind that comes tearing flings back kara’s hair, her cape, shudders against the windows stories far below her feet.

kara clenches her jaw, braces herself against it. her eyes flash hotter.

she saw diana catch lightning in her hands once, knows better than most that many things in the world are more than they are given credit for. this storm is more than crashing particles—this is her challenge, her fight, and by everything that exists in this world, rao will hear her!

“DUAHZ VOIEHD KRYPTAHNIUM,” she yells up to the clouds.

the thunder rolls. grumbles, shatters into itself.

“TA-RRIV RRAOP-RAO RAOGRYHS PAHDH IRSTUN OSH KHAP!”

she gets no answer save the lightning that zips down toward her and kara’s eyes flash. she grits her teeth around a scream and launches herself right at it, catches it on the bands diana gifted her and doesn’t stop, punches right up through the clouds to the heart of the storm. she winds the lightning around her, grips it tight.

“rao,” she yells, voice dragged raw.

the wind is stronger here and it whips her hair across her face, stinging, and everything tastes like hot metal and salt water. she holds tight to the lightning just to feel it burn. feels the answering sting in a line down her chest, sternum to navel. “rao, ta-irstun rraop-rao pahdh voiehd? khap eiahm,” she whispers. the words are tugged from her, ripped from her lips. she wills it out, up, to the right ears. the right heart. “khap eiahm, ewuhsh gehd.”

a formal introduction; or, skulir: verb, the active form: to look, to examine. 

//

kara is six years old when she finds out that she will have a husband. she considers it for two days, silently, before bringing it up to anyone.

a tall figure in blue—that’s all kara can see under her thin blanket—stands in the doorway of her bedroom. “your mother says you’re not well. do you want to come out from under that blanket?”

“no.”

“no?”  the bed creaks as she sits on kara’s bed. “then perhaps i shall sit here with you. is that alright?” kara murmurs her assent, scoots over a little to make space in the bed. “i brought your stars, little one. are you sure you don’t want to see them? we were only partway through the primaries.” astra waits a moment for kara’s response. when it doesn’t come immediately, she offers, “you may hold the star jar, if you wish.”

kara kicks her feet under the blanket as she considers that.

finally, she pulls down the covers. “just the stars?” she asks, fixing her aunt with a suspicious look.

astra leans over, presses a kiss to her forehead. “just the stars,” she promises, and kara rolls around in her bed, bundles the blankets around herself, and thumps down into astra’s lap. her aunt pulls her close, strokes her hair back from her forehead.

“there is my darling star,” she murmurs. she activates the holo-reader—kara’s ‘star jar’—and scatters the stars across the ceiling. once it’s active, she allows kara to hold it in her little hands. 

kara stays there, tucked up into astra, listening to her explaining the primary stars and astra cards her fingers down her long hair until kara’s nervous gut unclenches and she asks what has been bothering her.

“does everyone get married?”

astra’s voice falters, and then stops. she looks down at her niece, bemused by the topic change. “married?”

“fardhogh-cheh says that everyone gets married. that parents pick someone and then you have to spend your whole life with them.”

“did he put it like that?” astra crooks a finger under kara’s chin, tilts it up to look at her. “hmm, little one?” she tickles under kara’s chin and astra’s eyes, so clear and fond, are brighter than rao’s midday light. kara cuddles into her, ducks her head again. “have you been concerned about this?”

“...no.”

astra tickles at kara’s shoulder, makes her squirm. “for how long?”

“…two days.”

“i see. you do like to keep things to yourself, don’t you, little one?” kara shrugs. “well, it is nothing to be concerned about. marriage is a union between families.”

“who will it be?”

“he will be of good standing—”

“will he be nice?” kara asks, and with it comes the flood of questions that have blinded her for the last few days. “do i know them? how long do i have? what happens? do i have to get married? do i get to choose him? why do i have to get married? what does it do? is it scary?”

“these are a lot of questions.”

“i have a lot of questions,” kara agrees quietly.  

“a curious mind can be dangerous, little one,”

“questions are good!” she argues, struggles to sit up and away, and astra nods. she helps kara, tries not to laugh at the bundle of a girl who wriggles away, irate at the suggestion that questions might not be a good thing.

“always. but you should share them with your family or else you may get lost in them.” astra strokes  down her cheek. “and i would not like that.”

“oh.” kara waits a moment. “so?”

astra glances away, tries not to smile. “your betrothed,” she tells her niece, “will be chosen by your family, we who love you. we will not let you be bonded to someone unworthy, not when you are more precious to us than all else.”

“but what’s the point?”

“marriage is a union. do you know of shokh?”

“truth,” kara nods impatiently. “the first virtue.”

“the primary virtue, yes, on which we base all dealings. shokh is the virtue all unions are based on. a family would never agree to a union without first knowing who their beloved shall be bonded to, just as one would never agree to an alliance or business without knowing who extends their hand. it is a virtue that persists throughout a union—shokh is constant. unwavering. it is about learning and knowledge and discovery. sharing.” she hugs kara to her, strokes her hair again, out of her thoughtful eyes. “does that make sense, little one?”

“yes. but,” kara smiles, a little shy, when astra laughs. “i have more questions.”

“of course you do. share them with me,” she encourages, sets the star field aside for another night.

alura joins them later, knocking gently on kara’s bedroom door. she peeks in, relaxes against the door when she sees them curled there.

“you are feeling better then, kara?”  kara nods—sheepish, small in her aunt’s arms, but she nods. “i’m so glad. you’ve had us worried. we had to call in reinforcements.”

“reinforcements?” kara sits up quickly, looks back over her shoulder at her aunt. “you’re reinforcements?”

astra laughs, throws her head back. “your parents were worried.” she lets kara go when she wriggles away from her, goes to stand defiant in the centre of the room, her little frown stern and her little arms crossed. “do not be displeased with me, little one.”

kara considers the request for a time, before she flicks her hair back over her shoulders and walks out of the room. she makes her way out of their home and down the long corridor before loud steps follow her and she breaks into a run before zor-el plucks her clean off the ground and carries her home.

“i’m mad at you.”

“it was your mother’s idea,” he tells her, in that low rumble of a voice she loves so much. she leans back into his chest—but keeps her arms folded to show her displeasure.

#tagging my stories #this isn't the full first part im just dumping this #anyway lol #enjoy #supergirl #kiarcheo