#and the nouns are not concrete yet at all

[sannehnagi]

Āsa’ā igāsatai huhuașāșu agelilana tu’au’eara

When the dead walk seek flowing water

Rāho natai agelilana șineneri’io

Because the dead will always avoid this

Igia’ai ui’i tu’esa hē sa’a’esage tine

Swift river is best or broadest lake

Agelilaþa saseta’a he oatā īnaī

To ward against the dead and haven make

Āsa āþāșișo uro itu’ā hanā

If water fails fire is your friend

Uro āþāșișo ata itu’ā gianașita’a

If fire fails it will be your end

[sequinsmile-x]

Salience

/ˈseɪlɪəns/ Noun

the quality of being particularly noticeable or important; prominence.

She’s immediately back there. The concrete floor cold and damp as it presses through her pants, the material of it sticking to her skin with what she knows isn’t her blood, yet, but the memory is confused. Everything happening all at once as she hears Ian’s laugh and smells the burning of her skin.

-x-

Hi friends <3 this is a fic for the lovely @ssa-sparks who deserves the entire world and who I love very dearly.

Hope you all like this, and let me know what you think <3

-x-

Words: 2.7k

Warnings: burns, panic attack/flashback

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

She felt anxious. 

Not in the way she was used to these days, but in a way she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager, all long limbs and insecurity about who she was as she tried to get the attention of the boy she liked. It was odd feeling this way as a grown woman. She knew who she was, a sense of self she’d clawed out of the grave that had once borne her name, the new her built out of the ashes of who she used to be. The fluttering in her stomach, the pleasant nerves thrumming under her skin as she stood on the brink of something new was enjoyable, entirely different to the pit she’d had there for months, the heavy weight that had settled low in her gut ever since she found out Ian had escaped from prison, and it was all because of one man.

Part of her wondered if Aaron would ever actually ask her out. They’d skirted around it for months, both of them a little shy because of everything they’d been through, and for a while, she wondered if they’d ever take that leap. If they’d ever jump over the line that they’d walked like a tightrope for years, ready to hold each other’s hand on the way down. She was just days away from asking him out, from breaking the pact she’d made with herself that she’d let him make the first move because it would be important to him, when he did it. His smile soft as he passed her a glass of wine and asked if she wanted to go for dinner, as if that wasn’t exactly what they were doing at the time, Chinese food containers spread out on his coffee table as Jack slept just down the hall. 

She thinks she said yes before he’d even finished asking the question, her answer prepared for much longer than she’d care to admit to even herself. She kissed him at his front door when she left that night, a gentle thing against his lips, an answer to a question she’d had for years about what he’d taste like. It had been three days since then and their date was tonight. Aaron had assured her that they wouldn’t end up having to go away on a case, something she was sure Penelope had something to do with, and she’d caught him looking at her all morning. His eyes fixed on her and his smile soft whenever she tried to sneak a look at him. 

She knows coffee could tip her over the edge, that it would make her anxiety shift from strangely pleasant to overwhelming. As she waits for the tea kettle to boil she digs through the cupboards for some chamomile tea.

“So,” JJ says, appearing out of nowhere, smirking when Emily jumps for a split second before glaring at her, “You and Hotch are making eyes at each other so much I’m surprised either of you are getting any work done.” 

Emily huffs out a breath and dumps a tea bag into a mug, “JJ-”

“Em, I’m just teasing you,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter, “Although, if you guys are this intense now I dread to think what you’ll be like after you’ve seen each other naked,” her smile gets wider when Emily rolls her eyes, “I’m happy for you both. We all are.” 

Emily hums, “So everyone knows?” 

“Hotch asked Penelope to make sure we didn’t get a case this weekend,” JJ says, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, “Plus, we’d be awful at our jobs if we didn’t see how the two of you are around each other.” 

She suppresses a smile at that, warmth blooming in her chest, flowers of hope and something she refused to call love crowding her lungs, “Thats…” she drifts off, not sure what to say, still so used to hiding everything from everyone, even those she loved, that she struggled to share even when she wanted to, “Thank you.” 

She lifts the tea kettle as it comes to a boil and starts to pour it into her mug. She’s distracted by the sound of familiar footsteps, by the smell of his cologne that was a calling card that let her know he was near, and she looks up for a split second.

“Em, careful-”

JJ’s warning is cut off as Emily’s hand moves just enough that the stream of boiling water slips over the edge of the mug and onto the hand holding it steady. She gasps, the pain burns through her and she drops the kettle down, a hiss of pain forcing itself past her lips. 

“Fuck.” 

JJ and Aaron spring into action simultaneously. JJ ensures the kettle is on the counter correctly, not wanting any more boiling water to spill on the floor. Aaron reaches out for Emily, his hand at her elbow as he starts to usher her towards the sink, saying something about needing to get her hand under cold water that she barely hears. Everything fades, even the pain. The edges of it fuzzy as she desperately tries to suck in a deep breath, her lungs aching as the smell of burning flesh overwhelms her, forcing her back into a memory she had tried her best to move forward from. 

She’s immediately back there. The concrete floor cold and damp as it presses through her pants, the material of it sticking to her skin with what she knows isn’t her blood, yet, but the memory is confused. Everything happening all at once as she hears Ian’s laugh, a cruel callback to a sound she’d once found strange enjoyment in, the ability to make him laugh something she’d prided herself on when she lived under a different name. She can hear him taunting her, claiming her as his own as he leans over her, the scent of cigar smoke and whiskey on his breath mixing in with the smell of her skin burning. 

Her chest feels like it’s on fire. Her skin melts as her lungs burn with the need for oxygen, and she can’t feel or see anything. Anything other than the smell of her burning skin out of reach as she desperately tries to scramble for it. 

Everything comes flooding back in a moment, the shock of cold water on her hand bringing her back to herself as she sucks in a shallow breath. She looks around, desperate to pull her hand from whoever was holding it, their grip on her wrist the next thing she’s aware of as her senses return. 

“Em,” Aaron says, his eyes soft and kind as she looks at him, “Em, it’s just me.” 

“Wha…what happened?” She chokes out, her eyes wild as she looks around them and realises they are now in the accessible bathroom. She has no idea how they got here, and has visions of him leading her through the bullpen, his hands on her back as he guided her through their concerned colleagues, “When did we get here?” 

“Don’t worry,” he says, smiling at her, his gaze flicking to her bright red hand under the cold water, “I didn’t carry you.” 

She chokes on a laugh, the sound raw and painful as it forces itself from her still aching lungs, “Thank fuck for that,” she says, wiping her cheeks with her spare hand, grateful that he hasn’t acknowledged that she’s crying, “Being clumsy enough to pour boiling water over myself and having a panic attack in the same minute is embarrassing enough,” she says, her smile fading as she tries to fake it, the corners if it never quite catching in place, “Last thing I needed was my boss carrying me like I’m some damsel in distress.” 

He smiles, reaching out with the hand not holding hers under the running water to tuck some hair behind her ear, the action so achingly gentle she has to stop herself from shying away from it on instinct, “You’re never a damsel in distress, Em,” he says, letting his knuckles linger on her cheek before he pulls back, not wanting to cross any lines, “You’re always the hero in my book.” 

She laughs bitterly, not sure how that could be true given everything that had happened over the last year, “I already agreed to date you, Aaron,” she offers him a half smile, “You can stop wooing me.” 

“Never.” 

“Never?” She asks incredulously, furrowing her brows and he shakes his head, his smile turning shy in a way that makes him look young, making her wonder if this was the version of him that had asked once Haley out. 

“We could be married 50 years and I’d still woo you,” he says, his eyes going wide as he realises what he’s said, and he clears his throat, his gaze once again fixed on her hand, “How does it feel?” 

“Cold,” she says, smiling when he looks at her, a look of mild disbelief in his eyes, “It stings a little.” 

“We have to keep it under here for 20 minutes. Then I’ll dress it for you. Good thing this is where we keep the first aid kit,” he smiles reassuringly in the way she’s seen him do with Jack when he presses Batman bandaids to his skinned knees and she wonders if he’ll kiss her injury better for her too. “What happened?”

She tenses, not wanting to get into it yet, the edges of her vision still blurry from her panic attack, “What?” 

“How did you miss the mug?” He asks, “I’ve watched you hit the bullseye when playing darts and at the shooting range. Didn’t take you for the clumsy type.”

She rolls her eyes at herself, focusing on the burn in her cheeks rather than her hand and the phantom burn in her chest, and she looks down at the ground between them, “I…was distracted by you.” 

He clears his throat, something that draws her attention up to him, and she watches him fight a smile, “Really?” 

“Please don’t gloat whilst my skin is still blistering.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, winking at her, and she can’t help but smile, entirely unsure when he started to have this effect on her. When he managed to sneak under her defences, leaving them intact to everyone but him, and make her smile just minutes after she was thrown back into one of the worst moments of her life.

She hums, biting the inside of her cheek as she continues to try to centre herself, “Everyone saw me freak out?” 

“JJ did. Derek came over when he heard you scream-”

“I screamed?” She asks, spitting it out, her cheeks warm with embarrassment drawn out of her by his naked honesty, his inability, and lack of willingness, to bullshit her as disarming as it was charming.

“You did just pour boiling water on your hand, Em,” he says, raising his eyebrow at her, “I think even you are allowed to react to that,” he quips and she huffs out a breath but nods, “They distracted everyone else and I brought you in here and locked the door,” he pulls her hand out of the stream of water for a moment to look at it before he returns it, the fresh sting of the coldness of it making her hiss, “I figured you wouldn’t want an audience.” 

She smiles at that, the butterflies in her stomach briefly starting up again, their wings singed by the panic attack, the flutters not as strong as they had been all day, “Thank you.” 

He smiles and nods, shrugging as if it was nothing, as if it wasn’t everything that he knew her well enough to get her somewhere no one else could see her, “You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart.” 

The nickname makes her want to confess her love for him there and then just so she can hear it for the rest of her life. The way it catches on his voice, how it sounds as he wraps his tongue around the syllables, but she stops herself. She knows she loves him, and she knows he loves her too, but she never wants to associate it with this. Her last ever first I love you in the air still tinged with the smell of her burning skin and a phantom ache on her chest. She wanted it to just be about them, not about the man who’d done his best to make sure she never had anything like this. 

Aaron keeps her hand under the water for exactly 20 minutes, an alarm on his watch that he stops from chiming the moment before it’s due. He guides her over to the toilet and closes the lid, encouraging her to sit down before he kneels in front of her, the first aid kit in hand. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, his focus briefly on the kit as he looks for the bandages he needs. She’s grateful that he’s given her time, that he didn’t ask the second she could breathe again. She knows if she says no, that if she wants to keep it to herself, he won’t push. He won’t force her to talk until she is ready. It makes her want to tell him, her desire to keep it to herself nowhere to be found. 

“It…” she clears her throat, unsure when she’d placed her good hand on her chest, her thumb rubbing back and forth over the brand covered by her shirt, the edges of it as familiar as the rest of her, “It was the smell.” 

He read the report about what happened to her. She already knew that, but that the way he looks up at her, his eyes briefly lingering over where she’s rubbing soothing circles on a phantom ache, only confirms it. He nods, returning his focus to her hand, his touch soft as he wraps the bandage around it. 

“For me, it was the sound.” He says, and she furrows her brow. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting him to say, not really, but it certainly hadn’t been that. He smiles softly when he looks up at her for a moment, “Of the knife,” he clarifies, “Every time I heard a knife against the air I just…froze,” he sighs as he’s visited by the memory, a spectre of his past sitting on his shoulder, “I couldn’t cook or prepare food for a long time. I lived off of frozen meals and takeout.” 

She presses her lips together, love for him bubbling in her chest, “How did you…get past it?”

He blows out a slow breath and tucks the edge of the bandage in under itself, testing it was loose enough not to hurt but secure enough to stay in place, “One day I did it without thinking,” he says, closing the first aid kit and looking up at her, “I went to the knife block and pulled one out of it and made Jack dinner. I didn’t even realise what I’d done until after he was in bed.”

She nods and stands at the same time he does, reaching out for him with her uninjured hand to link her fingers through his, “Thank you for telling me that.” 

“Of course,” he says, using his free hand to cup her chin to make her look up at him, “It will get better, Em. This doesn’t undo anything or make you weak.” 

She presses her lips together and chases his hand as he cups her cheek, stamping a kiss against his palm before she smiles at him, “Are you sure you still want to go on a date with me after seeing all of that?” 

He leans forward and kisses her, the action lost to a smile before he pulls back, “Nothing could make me change my mind,” he says, looking down at her injured hand, “Want to reschedule?” 

She shakes her head, “No, not at all,” she scrunches her nose up, “You may have to cut my steak up for me though.” 

He chuckles, “I’ll happily do that for you in 50 years too when you have dentures and can’t chew anymore.” 

She scoffs, narrowing her eyes as she shakes her head at him, “I’ll have you know I take excellent care of my teeth.” 

[wrishwrosh]

the vaster wilds has the typical goodreads problem of all the negative reviews just being “this book was gross and sad and nothing happened :((“ “the prose was stylized and hard to understand”” but as a gross sad stylized prose enjoyer these critiques do not get to the MEAT of all the evils herein present

- the problem of the enlightened protagonist, where a character who has nominally lived in the real historical past until the book begins and yet somehow manages to individually develop a 21st century twitter-educated perspective on colonialism, god, and nature. classic groffism nothing new

- remember that tweet about how hiking is a bourgeois affectation and indigenous people never hiked before colonization. imagine if that was the premise of an entire novel. written by somebody who went to amherst

- another classic groffism is taking a real historical figure about whom almost nothing is known and constructing a history for them that can’t technically be ruled out as impossible given the dearth of records but IS ahistorical, implausible, and kind of stupid while also making sure that the one thing that is concretely known about this person is weirdly and smugly deemphasized in the narrative. in this case the historical figure is “jane” the anonymous teenage girl whose remains were found at jamestown exhibiting signs of butchering. the cannibalism is treated as a twist ending which is dumb as hell and made the pacing insanely frustrating as this was obvious from the beginning to any true jamestownheads in the audience. also the cannibalism of a young woman seems like an obvious place of exploration for a novel nominally about the exigencies of subsistence survival and how hard it was to be a girl in the dark ages before second wave feminism but what do i know. obviously you should just kind of shoehorn it in as a gotcha in the last 20 pages serving as the millionth indication that the bad guys in this narrative are bad and do bad things

- speaking of the bad guys every single character aside from the narrator is a one dimensional paper doll present to essentially speak one of groffs points directly into camera and then vanish in a way that literally made me laugh out loud several times. Some Women Are Vain, Which Is Bad. Some Men Hurt Women And Native People For Fun, Which Is Evil.

- there was a stylistic decision made to not capitalize proper nouns which sure. it makes sense with what the book is trying to do to not capitalize god or english or powhatan. but then it was so inconsistently applied like why is atlantic (ocean) not capitalized but James (river) is. why is god lowercase but Sunday is uppercase. why are all the names capitalized but titles that function as names arent. stop the madness

- a personal nitpick now but i have spent a lot of time kicking around in the area where the book is set and was hoping at least there would be some evocative descriptions of this place that i love. and yet in this book nominally about wilderness there was so little specificity in the depiction of it! this could have been any forest! the specific natural setting did not feel like a tidewater forest! feels like groff wrote it based on a google search of pamunkey traditional lifestyles and a glance at a topographic map

- cant even get into all the reductive and underresearched gender stuff but know it’s there. classic groffism

- finally and most minimally yet perhaps most egregiously groff has yet again failed to internalize a religious worldview in order to write a religious character. this narrator is a change from marie in matrix as we are sternly informed on page 4 that she believes what she has been told about christianity. like once every 20 pages groff remembers that and has her pray or something and then once she has been away from her culture for about 200 pages she realizes god is a lie and that’s the arc. cool!

- why bother! why bother with this setting, this character, this real place and real historical event and real belief system, if you arent going to USE any of it. this should have been a zine about climate change. it should have been like six tweets. if it needed to be fiction (and im not convinced it did) it should have been a contemporary novel and like three things could have been changed. why! bother!

in summary, i went so insane that i googled every single person mentioned in the acknowledgements to see how many were historians or archaeologists or librarians or ecologists or associates of the pamunkey tribe or anyone else who might be assumed to have expertise here and there was: one. illustrative i think!!!!

[teenagerebellion]

Rat grinders songs :) !

Brave as a noun by ajj

Last night's fake blood by miniature tigers

Temple grandin by ajj

Lambs to the slaughter by defiance, ohio

Fresh concrete by bears in trees

I could go off the deep end / I could kill all my best friends

brave as a noun is the Most kipperlily song oh my god

You're just another evil girl I will have to forget / It's such a fantasy with her, I don't have to pretend / That this isn't happening to me again / Don't look here when you lose your friends

very good rat grinders vibes. this is somehow to me both klck singing @ riz and someone (maybe lucy?) singing @ her… but i would love to hear ur thoughts for this one :)

In the days before the damage no one knew if we were happy / In the days before the damage dying wasn’t nearly so easy

Cut the world in half I bet that you will go and find a sleeping giant

In the days before the damage boredom was the same as waiting

holy SHIT dude. 10/10 no notes.

You're a sheep in wolf's clothing, you got big important friends / Who with a twinkle in their eyes say they'll be with you 'til the end

Then one day with dismay your friends say you've been attacked / But you can buy a shred of safety with the shirt right off your back / And your sacrifice reveals your patriotic sons and daughters / Were once sheep in wolf's clothing now you're lambs at the slaughter

OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. you’re evil for suggesting this btw. i might cry. to me the rat grinders/jace are the sheep in wolf’s clothing SO hard with being tricked and killed into getting shatterstarred, and kipperlilly/porter are the “friends”. this song is genuinely so perfect for them i’m killing You (with love)

I look in the mirror at a person I’m not sure I know / Red cheeks, bleeding lips and bruises on each elbow

i like this song a Lot but this is another one i’d love to hear ur interpretation of!!! it’s not Quite clicking for me yet :O

THESE WERE WLL RLLY GOOD THANK U FOR SENDING THEM IN !!!

[kuiperblog]

It's easy for a writer to lose their own "voice"

Recently, I've been thinking about the topic of "voice" in writing, and why it's easy to recognize it when you see it, but it feels almost impossible to "teach" voice.

You can observe this in people who have years of experience writing, who then try a new form for the first time, and they write in a way that seems so utterly unlike their usual voice.

Most commonly, this happens when I have friends who have spent years writing forum posts, blog posts, newsletters, and other forms of nonfiction that have a clear distinctive style, who then attempt to "write a book" for the first time. Oftentimes, they write in a way that is is pleasantly idiosyncratic: maybe it's playfully sardonic, or refreshingly candid, or irreverent yet insightful.

But then, when it comes time to open up the document and start writing chapter 1, page 1, suddenly all of that posting experience goes away and is replaced by a new voice that can be best described as "someone doing their best impression of what they think prestigious writing is supposed to sound like."

(If you're a standup comedy buff, you'll observe a similar phenomenon at some open mic comedy night: there are certain novice comedians who haven't developed their own voice, or just don't feel confident speaking with their own voice. So, you get a lot of first-timers on stage who are clearly delivering copying the style of another comedian: they're not necessarily stealing jokes, but you can clearly tell, "Oh, this guy is doing his best Chris Rock impression," or "that's very clearly a Brian Regan-style delivery.")

In writing, this kind of "putting on airs" can take lots of forms. "Purple prose" is a commonly-named example. Another common failure mode is "thesaurus.txt" (wherein an embryonic wordsmith endeavors to traverse the labyrinthine corridors of the lexicon, brandishing polysyllabic colossi with a zeal that obfuscates rather than enriches their narrative tapestry, leaving the audience ensnared in a quagmire of lexical opulence.)

A more common and representative failure mode looks something like this:

His eyes sparkled with a luminosity that seemed to illuminate the very essence of his soul, a beacon of hope in the shadowy dusk of uncertainty.

I could pick this sentence apart and name specific issues with it. For example, there's some redundancy: "sparkled" and "luminosity" are both words that are gesturing at the same thing, so we're kind of belaboring the point about his eyes.

I might also point to the fact that there's more metaphor than actual concrete language here. In fact, we only get three words of actual physical description -- "His eyes sparkled" -- before we begin pondering "the very essence of his soul" and other abstractions. It's kind of unfair to pick this apart in isolation, because it's fine to have sentences like this occasionally, but this kind of melodramatic navel-gazing needs to exist in the context of a larger passage with enough concrete language to actually anchor it in the story, and some writers seem over-eager to leap right into excessive introspection.

There's also the fact that the sentence ends with an appositive phrase that is 10 words long: "...a beacon of hope in the shadowy dusk of uncertainty." This is weird in two ways: first, the appositive is long, and secondly, appositives usually go in the middle of sentences, rather than at the end. (For an example of a short appositive used mid-sentence: "My brother, an avid cyclist, participates in races every weekend.")

Also, it's grammatically unclear what the appositive phrase at the end is even referring to:

His eyes sparkled with a luminosity that seemed to illuminate the very essence of his soul, a beacon of hope in the shadowy dusk of uncertainty.

What specific noun is being described as "a beacon of hope in the shadowy dusk of uncertainty?" Is this phrase referring to his soul? His eyes? The luminosity in his eyes? Even though I get the general gist of what this flowery language is gesturing at, it's not precisely clear what this sentence actually means.

I could probably go on, picking apart that sentence to describe all of the ways in which it's "flawed," but I don't think this finely-tuned dissection is really necessary, because I think people instinctively understand what's wrong with it, even if they couldn't fully articulate it. In my eyes, all of these issues boil down to the same thing: it comes across like a sentence written by someone who is trying too hard.

That issue of "trying too hard" extends to a large swath of critique leveled at this sort of amateur writing mistakes, including purple prose, forced poeticism, and text that is overloaded with metaphors.

I want to be clear about one thing: Avoiding these problems isn't a matter of creating a list of "things not to do." In fact, I've developed a bit of an aversion to any piece of writing advice that begins with the word "DON'T" or "AVOID." Writing well isn't just a matter of "avoiding flaws." This isn't a school assignment where you're trying to minimize the amount of red ink the teacher leaves on your paper.

As an aside: that mindset is a bit at odds with a lot of the ecosystem of "online writing advice," because some of the most widely-circulated writing advice tends to be things like "top 10 mistakes new writers make." You can observe this on YouTube: even on channels that cover a mixture of "negatively framed advice" and "positively-framed advice," sort their videos by "most popular," and you'll find that the negative framing tends to be the more popular format by far:

To be clear, Jed Herne (pictured above) does plenty of stuff that is framed positively! He has plenty of videos that aren't themed around "things you should avoid doing." However, when you sort his videos by "most popular," you notice that the thing viewers seem to have the biggest appetite for is the video that promises to show them all of the potential failure modes that they can stumble into as a new writer.

I understand how this type of "writing advice" can be addictive. Part of why these sorts of videos are so popular is that they encourage a consumptive mindset that leads to higher "engagement" and "watchtime" and all of the metrics that the YouTube algorithm is designed to reward: YouTube wants you to stay on YouTube so you can keep watching ads; YouTube does not want you to close the app and start writing. And in looking at the most popular videos from "writing advice" channels on YouTube, we see an emergent phenomenon that reveals which videos are best at keeping viewers stuck in a consumptive watch loop: "6 worldbuilding mistakes every new writer makes." "First chapter mistakes new writers make."

This format is great at making you feel justified in your consumptive behavior: "Well, I can't just start writing -- I need to learn all about all the classic 'new writer mistakes' first!" But I think this is ultimately counterproductive for new writers. Not just because it encourages "content consumption" over the act of writing, though that is of course a problem. But, perhaps worse than that: even when writers do finally decide to write, they do so with a sense of dread and anxiety. They're aware of all of the various ways that their writing could fail, and they're deathly afraid of falling into one of those "new writer traps" that the top 10 list helpfully informed them of. So, rather than just sit down and write, they agonize over the opening sentence. They can't "just write," because they don't want to stumble and embarrass themselves. And I think that this place of insecurity is actually what causes people to write in a way that feels like it is "trying too hard."

If you want to write fancy prose and use ornate metaphors because that's what you're comfortable with, go for it! But all too often, I think that these are downstream of new writers' insecurity with their natural writing voice. They sit down, think of a sentence, and think, "Oh, I can't write that. It's too plain. Too boring. Too normal." And that's when they reach for the thesaurus, or whip out the mixed metaphor, or add a 10-word appositive to the end of the sentence, because somehow they feel that their natural voice isn't "good enough" for the book they are writing.

The irony is that a lot of people stray away from their own natural voice because they're afraid that something that sounds like their everyday speech will sound "too generic." And so, in the quest to avoid "sounding generic," they abandon their own unique voice, and instead write their best impression of what they think a prestigious-sounding writer is supposed to sound like. They start trying too hard, and that is how they end up with cliche-sounding sentences like "His eyes sparkled with a luminosity that seemed to illuminate the very essence of his soul, a beacon of hope in the shadowy dusk of uncertainty."

Assessing the uniqueness of your own voice is one place where you cannot trust your own judgment: your natural voice might sound "generic" or "normal" to you, because you live with it every day. But your voice is unique in ways that are completely invisible to you, that will nonetheless shine through if you just get out of your own way.

More than anything, I'd really like to disabuse young writers of this fear of writing something that sounds too "normal," as if the sort of writing that feels natural to you is going to appear "generic" or otherwise "not good enough."

To be clear, it's fine to experiment! Certain voices work better for different characters and styles of narration. Maybe you have written enough to realize that your most 'natural voice' doesn't work for the story you're telling, and you need to make several attempts at exploring different styles before you find one that really "clicks" with you. Every time I try writing a different viewpoint, or write a plot that is paced differently, my voice often shifts, and there's a bit of time as I work out the best way to write a story that is faster-paced and less contemplative, or a story from the perspective of a younger and more naive character. I am always trying new things to see if maybe there's a better way than my current "default."

But, before you begin, maybe it's worthwhile to ask yourself: is the voice that you've spent your entire life thinking and speaking in suitable for the story you're writing? Before you begin writing that sci-fi novel by doing your best impression of some other sci-fi writer, or writing the way that you think fantasy narration is "supposed" to sound, consider that perhaps your existing voice is already "good enough." You won't know until you try.

[seeingteacupsindragons]

I’ve got another question, if that’s alright—do you have any advice for varying sentence structure? I feel like it’s a skill that is mostly natural / unconscious and I’ve been wondering if there’s a good way to deliberately practice it, apart from my current method of writing as usual and revising with a specific eye on sentence structure

You given me war flashbacks to my tenth grade English teacher and her"sentence starter" worksheet with 10 different opening phrase types for English, and we had to use at least 8 of them in every essay we wrote.

I do not recommend this approach. Most of them did not sound natural or fluid at all. At the end of the day, the vast majority of English sentences are going to start subject-verb because that's just the way English syntax is at its most natural and least stressed. And yet, neither that sentence nor this one did.

Ultimately, sentence structure varying is important not so that it varies, but because varying it has different effects.

Short sentences feel quick and choppy and adding them to short paragraphs feels a lot like movie cuts switching every few seconds. Good sometimes, but you don't want the whole movie filmed that way, either.

Longer sentences will feel slower, drawing out a moment to linger on it and connect things together. A lot of them together can be used to really highlight a character's spiraling mental state.

A lot of knowing which to use is just practice and developing a knack for which part of the book needs what.

And different people talk differently. Yes, they use different vocabulary, but they also structure their sentences differently. "I really wasn't thinking about home," could also be, "Wasn't really thinking about home, you know?" and they mean mostly the same thing but the sentence structures are different.

So it might be a good idea to do some warmups or exercise also focused on character voice.

I pulled out this section from Ceiling Fan to see if I could dissect it for you to show how and why sentences varied, but I actually...ran out of highlight colors because the sentences are all really quite different.

That second-to-last paragraph is all fragments. Long fragments, mostly, but none of them are actually complete thoughts on their own. They're punctuated like that because functionally, they're each their own points of emphasis.

I also have asides to sentences in both parentheses and em-dashes. But they serve different purposes. The parens basically reduce the "probably" to a muttered, under the breath note. The em-dashes are spoken at an equal volume, but it wouldn't otherwise fit into the sentence. Cameron is basically interrupting himself with dashes.

The second sentence starts with a gerund noun phrase because it sounds better than "It was only half the exam to study the formulas"--more natural, and it puts actual concretes upfront instead of a meaningless pronoun.

There's an ellipsis where Cam trails off a thought, searching for words before picking up with the next paragraph and sentence with an interjection.

There's a lot of variety in this...half a page if you look, and I did almost none of it while thinking about it or caring at all about sentence structure. This is just what felt natural when I was writing someone talking. This is what made Cam sound the way I wanted Cam to sound.

I picked up these instincts from reading, mostly--I saw what was impacting me and gave me what tones--so reading with an eye for structure and then writing to capture voice really well, I think, are my strongest recommendations. And then on making sure the pacing flows.

It's hard for me to give advice on how to achieve a means to an end, I think--the means are often different for everyone. You want the goal, and the goal isn't "interesting sentence arrangements." The goal is to make Cam sound like Cam (fill in your own characters here lol) and the pacing and focus to be where they need to be.

[bizarrequazar]

GJ and ZZH Updates — March 12-18

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This is part of a weekly series collecting updates from and relating to Gong Jun and Zhang Zhehan.

This post is not wholly comprehensive and is intended as an overview, links provided lead to further details. Dates are in accordance with China Standard Time, the organization is chronological. My own biases on some things are reflected here. Anything I include that is not concretely known is indicated as such, and you’re welcome to do your own research and draw your own conclusions as you see fit. Please let me know if you have any questions, comments, concerns, or additions. :)

[Glossary of names and terms] [Masterlist of my posts about the situation with Zhang Zhehan]

03-12 → L’Oreal posted a video teasing Gong Jun as the new spokesperson for their haircare line. This upgraded his endorsement with them from “inspirational spokesperson” to “brand spokesperson”.

03-13 → Yet another case of airport Zhang Sanjian photos, this time supposedly arriving in Beijing.

→ Shanghai City Living magazine posted an interview with Gong Jun talking about the time he spent living there as a student. [subbed video]

03-14 → Gong Jun posted the full commercial for L’Oreal, which was reposted by L’Oreal and his studio. L’Oreal later also posted a photo ad. (1129 kadian)

→ Hogan posted one of Gong Jun’s Thailand photos, highlighting their shoes he was wearing. (1129 kadian)

→ The Instagram posted two selfies of “Zhang Zhehan” and changed its pfp to a photo from the previous post.

03-15 → L’Oreal posted a video spoken by Gong Jun announcing the livestream that will be held on 03-24.

→ An Elephant That Can Fly, the drama Gong Jun was set to film soon, was said to be cancelled. This got on Weibo hotsearch.

03-16 → Gong Jun flew from Shanghai to Beijing. Both arriving and leaving, he bowed to the fansite cameras filming him.

→ L’Oreal posted a photo ad featuring Gong Jun.

→ GQ posted a picture of a schedule teasing the posts that would follow. (1129 kadian) Fan Observation: Excluding the last two, the intervals between the times all include the digits of 1640.

Starting four minutes later, ten black and white close up photos of Gong Jun’s body were posted in quick succession: “【Ear】: ①The auditory organ is located on both sides of the head; ②It is used to perceive sound and can be used to whisper.” “【Leg】: ①The general term for shin and thigh; ②The body parts that support people and animals to move horizontally and vertically.” “【Throat】: Refers to the cartilaginous protrusions in the human throat, especially in men.” “【Hand】: ①The part of the front end of the arm of a human or other primate; ②Controlled by the brain, it can complete grasping, holding and other behaviours.” “【Face】: ① Refers to the face, which is an important symbol to identify a person's identity. ① Through it, several expressions can be made to express emotions.” “【Arm】: ①The upper limbs of a person; ②You can develop muscles here through anaerobic exercise.” “【Back】: ①It is composed of two shoulders and the upper part of the back; ②It is the most suitable part of the body for bearing weight.” “【Abdomen】: ① commonly known as ‘belly’, which is the part of the trunk below the chest; ② ‘abdominal muscles’ can be produced here through anaerobic exercise, and the number of blocks varies from person to person, generally between 0-8.” “【Shoulders】: ① On the physical level, it refers to the part where the upper part of a person's arm connects to the torso; ② On the social level, it refers to the courage to take on responsibility.” “【Chest】: ①Located on the front of the body, between the neck and abdomen; ②It can also be replaced by the heart.”

Following those was a video in the same style. Caption: “【Black and White Image】  Noun: ①Here is a dynamic lens language, reducing color interference and highlighting beautiful lines; ②Recording @ Gong Jun Simon 's body parts, explaining the theme of ‘everything starts from the body’.”

Then there was the cover reveal, followed by an artist’s sketches of Gong Jun. Captions: “【’智族GQ’ March 2023 issue cover】 Noun: ①The cover of a magazine publication, the cover character: @ Gong Jun Simon ; ②A form of display of @ Gong Jun Simon’s body.” and “【Body training ground】 Noun: @ 商亮SHANGLIANG's creative theme expressing that the body is full of vitality in the process of constantly trying to evolve itself.”

Then a video (flashing images cw) from the main photoshoot, “【Body language】 Noun: A language used by @gongjunsimon to express self-awareness, which usually takes the form of thinking, breathing, and beating.”,  followed by sixteen photos, “【Human body plane】 Noun: ① A kind of body documentary method of @ Gong Jun Simon; ②Here specifically refers to the expressive force of @ Gong Jun Simon.”, a preview of the interview, “【Gong Jun Interview】 Noun: A means of @ Gong Jun Simon expressing opinions; it has the three advantages of precision, efficiency, and expressiveness.” [translated interview], and ten more photos, “【Open Season Plane】 Noun: ① A future fashion trend performed by @ Gong Jun Simon ; ② You need to wear some clothes that give the body more contours.” Fan Observations:  -  The belt worn with the sparkly top has the same buckle (though upside down) as one worn by Zhang Zhehan on 2021-07-12.   -  The belt outfit is by the brand Jeanne Friot, which advocates for genderless sustainable clothing.

Lastly was a commercial for Fresh, which Fresh reposted. (A bit anticlimactic lol.)

→ Fresh posted two photos ads featuring Gong Jun.

→ Gong Jun’s studio posted a video (flashing images cw) of behind the scenes footage from the GQ photoshoot. Caption: “Boss @ Gong Jun Simon close-up perspective to explore multi-faceted dimensions, reshape pioneer vision.” BGM is Opal by 92elm. 

→ Gong Jun posted twelve of the GQ photos to his personal Weibo. (13:39, 1640 kadian with the date) Caption: “Phased results display... update! Thanks @ GQ and @ Rocco Liu.” He also posted sixteen of them to Instagram as two posts [1] [2], captions: “Everything is the best arrangement!” and “Very happy to shoot!” and eighteen to his Xiao Hong Shu, caption: “Come and see!  Fitness results, thank you @ Rocco Liu Chong 📸” Fan Observation: The first Instagram caption (“一切都是最好的安排！”) is an exact quote from Word of Honor episode 20 (timestamp linked).

→ Gong Jun’s studio posted a douyin (flashing images cw) with more behind the scenes footage. Caption: “Boss @ Gong Jun Simon’s new LOOK” BGM is omega by vowl.

→ Fresh posted another photo ad featuring Gong Jun.

→ As the finale to their earlier posts, GQ posted a video interview in the form of Gong Jun going through his sleep routine. [text translation] Caption: “【Goodnight】 Noun: ① A kind of word that @ Gong Jun Simon will say before going to bed; ② A kind of words that some people say but don’t really fall asleep; ③ A kind of words that may be accompanied by supper activities after saying.”  Fan Observation: The candle and eyemask are from BEAST’s most recent line.

After this, GQ also made one more post of an alternate cover. (22:51, 511 kadian) Caption: “【Easter egg】 Noun: here refers to the content that pops up suddenly when everyone thinks that the cover release is over, such as the one attached now. As night falls, good night, gentlemen.” 

→ Rocco Liu, GQ’s executive producer, made a Weibo post explaining his thought process behind the photoshoot, on which Gong Jun commented: “Thank you Rocco, a pleasant shoot, although I was a little embarrassed in the middle of the shoot [husky emoji]” Rocco Liu also posted a photo to his Xiao Hong Shu of himself and Gong Jun from the photoshoot. Caption: “What kind of experience is it to take a photo with a perfect body?  Experience: I'm going to work hard to keep fit.”

03-17 → Gong Jun’s studio posted a notice that they are in the process of suing 72 online antis in a total of nineteen legal cases. Penalties stipulated are public apologies and fines. Additional Info / Fan Observations:  -  Two earlier cases listed have been closed and were already public knowledge (under 08-06 and 11-16 if I’m not mistaken).   -  The nine other cases listed are at various stages of completion. Several of these open cases are against people who were involved in last March and April’s slander and doxxing incidents; the most recent cases were filed on 03-06 of this year.     One of the open cases is against a marketing account involved in the Zhang Sanjian scam, one is a whaler who attempted to get off on only a public apology but had this rejected, one also slandered Zhang Zhehan, and one is a CPF anti.  -  This is a nice reminder: legal stuff is always happening in the background even if we don’t see it. 💙

→ GQ posted their photoshoot with Gong Jun to their Instagram. [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] The issue sold out on the same day.

→ BEAST posted a teaser video for an upcoming ad campaign featuring Gong Jun. (1129 kadian)

03-18 → The sixth stolen song was released on Western streaming platforms. This is supposed to be the last one.

→ L’Oreal posted a photo ad featuring Gong Jun.

→ Gong Jun posted a promotional photo for the Weibo Night Awards, announcing that he will be attending this year. Caption: “The grand ceremony is about to start, and the power of Weibo will make the world more beautiful. See you @ Weibo Night!” His studio reposted this with the added caption, “At the beginning of the vigorous growth, the boss @ Gong Jun Simon and 2022 #Weibo Night# will go to the appointment on time, shining in the night.”

→ QuelleVous posted that the owner of the fake Lufei (see 05-27) has been identified and is related to the Chens.

→ Gong Jun’s studio posted a photo of him. Caption: “New ID photo of boss @ Gong Jun Simon! 📷” Fan Observation: The jacket is extremely similar to one that Zhang Zhehan wore for Everyone Wants to Meet You.

Additional Reading: → Flora’s daily fan news → Addition 03-21: It was noticed back at the start of the month, around the same time as him deleting half his Instagram posts, that the follower count on Gong Jun’s Instagram has been fluctuating wildly due to bots following and unfollowing. It was noticed that his Weibo follower count has also been increasing unusually recently. There are worries that this is setting up to create an image of fans mass unfollowing him. [record of activity]

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This post was last edited 2023-03-21.

[booksbooksbooksreadingreading]

Ernest Hemingway:

A Farewell to Arms- 1929 The conclusion of the novel—in which Catherine and the baby die, leaving Henry desolate—is emblematic of the Lost Generation’s experience of disillusionment and despondency in the immediate postwar years.

Interpretations of the title vary. The novel may take its name from a 16th-century poem by the English dramatist George Peele. In Peele’s lyric poem, conventionally called “A Farewell to Arms (To Queen Elizabeth),” a knight laments that he is too old to bear arms for his queen, Elizabeth I:

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;

And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms,

A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,

And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:

But though from court to cottage he depart,

His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

Peele’s poem reflects some of the core themes of Hemingway’s novel: duty, war, and masculinity. However, there is no evidence to suggest that Hemingway knew of the poem’s existence, let alone took its title. As some scholars noted, Hemingway selected the title relatively late in the publishing process, while performing manuscript revisions.

Another interpretation of the novel’s title stresses the dual meaning of the word arms. In deserting the Italian army, the protagonist bids farewell to “arms” as weapons. When Catherine dies, he bids farewell to the loving “arms” of his mistress. This interpretation of the title blends the two major themes of the novel: war and love.

Hemingway sought advice on the ending from F. Scott Fitzgerald, his friend and fellow author. Fitzgerald suggested Hemingway end the novel with the observation that the world “breaks everyone,” and those “it does not break it kills.”

Hemingway in a Red Cross ambulance

Lost Generation, a group of American writers who came of age during World War I and established their literary reputations in the 1920s. The term is also used more generally to refer to the post-World War I generation.

The generation was “lost” in the sense that its inherited values were no longer relevant in the postwar world and because of its spiritual alienation from a United States that, basking under Pres. Warren G. Harding’s “back to normalcy” policy, seemed to its members to be hopelessly provincial, materialistic, and emotionally barren. The term embraces Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Dos Passos, E.E. Cummings, Archibald MacLeish, Hart Crane, and many other writers who made Paris the centre of their literary activities in the 1920s. They were never a literary school.

Ernest Hemingway (born July 21, 1899, Cicero [now in Oak Park], Illinois, U.S.—died July 2, 1961, Ketchum, Idaho) was an American novelist and short-story writer, awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954. He was noted both for the intense masculinity of his writing and for his adventurous and widely publicized life. His succinct and lucid prose style exerted a powerful influence on American and British fiction in the 20th century.

Hemingway’s prose style was probably the most widely imitated of any in the 20th century. He wished to strip his own use of language of inessentials, ridding it of all traces of verbosity, embellishment, and sentimentality. In striving to be as objective and honest as possible, Hemingway hit upon the device of describing a series of actions by using short, simple sentences from which all comment or emotional rhetoric has been eliminated. These sentences are composed largely of nouns and verbs, have few adjectives and adverbs, and rely on repetition and rhythm for much of their effect. The resulting terse, concentrated prose is concrete and unemotional yet is often resonant and capable of conveying great irony through understatement. Hemingway’s use of dialogue was similarly fresh, simple, and natural-sounding. The influence of this style was felt worldwide wherever novels were written, particularly from the 1930s through the ’50s.

The novel was partly based on Hemingway's own experiences serving in the Italian campaigns during the First World War. The inspiration for Catherine Barkley was Agnes von Kurowsky, a nurse who cared for Hemingway in a hospital in Milan after he had been wounded. He had planned to marry her, but she spurned his love when he returned to America.

[grandhotelabyss]

My God, what an amazing episode on A Portrait! (People, please, PLEASE offer a paid subscription!) Somewhere in Ellmann's oeuvre, there's a penetrating sentence about Joyce's politics to which I always refer. (I reached for my well-worn biography and Ulysses on the Liffey but couldn't find the exact quote, so you'll just have to trust me.) He suggests that, for Joyce, politics is fundamentally a modifying adjective for the proper noun of Art, and this calculation settles it, I think: daily civics, sure, bourgeois socialism, fine, but only if it can be subsumed under the cosmic statecraft of the emancipation of the soul. This perspective also aligns with a common experience of reading Ulysses, at least for me: initially, in youth, one is captivated by the unsurpassable whirligigs of his adjectives—the livid sea, violet night, uncouth stars, etc.—but on revisiting, these modifiers become almost quotidian—beautifully quotidian like a smile or the sea, mind you—and it's then that his achingly sublime concrete nouns reveal themselves as searching, perfect, and, well, catholic: “Me. And me now.”

Following your example from last year, I'm now working through the Old Testament, guided in part by your wonderful capsule reviews and the original Mr. Wonderful himself—you know him, you love him—Herman Northrop Frye. (If you haven't yet read it, I cannot recommend The Great Code enough; it embodies all the best qualities of his work—witty, graceful, diagrammatic, bookishly magisterial, interrogatively mind-expanding, although I do concede, with a creeping complaint shared by McLuhan, his sort of… hermit-eutics, if you will.) I am also slowly trying to integrate his Romantic systems-thinking with Ulysses.

I wonder if somewhere within his schematism there might be a clue to help unravel what you write about regarding Aeolus onwards—the inorganic technological—and whether Joyce's more formalist experiments can also liberate the imagination as much as they can constrain it. To create, as Frye did with Anatomy, an expanding, invigorating scientia. If memory serves, he even remarks on Ulysses being the most perfectly balanced work of prose narrative ever written, at least in terms of harmonizing the four genre narratives. At present, I think schematas and episodes seven through 17 are probably closer to the wicked power of the atom in the twentieth century that ought not, must not, fall into the wrong or clumsy hands (how often have we heard that Joyce is to literature what Einstein is to science?), but still, there may be something there.

Apart from Hamlet, Munro (sorry!), personal love letters, and notes and cards from my family, Ulysses is the most important "text" in my life, for good or ill—the collection of words I will always, like the sun, be drawn towards, or against which, like a son, I must break free (here I refer to the dearly departed, not my dear, perfect mom), so I am giddy for the next six weeks. I simply cannot wait! And people, I know I sound like a crazed anonymous street evangelist, but please, please, PLEASE accept the Gospel of John and pay for these lectures!

P.S. I finally found time to flip through the respective collections of Levy and Cash. (To borrow from Johnson, and like Joyce with anyone within five feet, to push the limits by borrowing twice, “no man but a blockhead ever read books through.”) I must say, and perhaps this is because we've sadly learned up north that building louche bouncy castles near the halls of power will get your bank account frozen: Cash is King.

Thank you, David! And yes, please, offer a paid subscription for The Invisible College, my series of literature courses for Substack subscribers. The six-week guided tour of Ulysses begins this Friday in advance of Bloomsday. I spent two hours bent over "Proteus" just this morning, the margin a deepening palimpsest of the years' glosses: exegetical modality of the legible.

On Joycean scientia, I will report back once I've reread those episodes yet once more. A sketch of a possible argument: their styles are more firmly rooted in their substances than I gave them credit for. Rather than arbitrary conceits, they illustrate how forms of life—the journalistic life, the musical life, the novel-reading life, etc.—incarnate themselves as forms of language, forms of language that reciprocally structure their germinal forms of life in turn.

The recipe for post-Joycean writers, then, is to apply the insight to whatever forms of life it has fallen to them to convey. Joyce's otherwise dissimilar contemporary Heidegger, not that I understand any philosophy, comes to mind with his presences presencing, his verbing of nouns in art's disclosure of being: in "Aeolus," journalism journalisms; in "Sirens," music musics; in "Cyclops," nationalism nationalisms, in "Nausicaa," romance romances; etc. To anticipate your final paragraph, our honorificabilitudinitatibus Zoomer is a true daughter of Joyce: in her best work, online onlines.

(The catechistic form of "Ithaca," on this theory, is the book's final version of Stephen's scholastic consciousness, just as "Eumaeus" is the popular prose Bloom would write if Bloom could write. The final three episodes of the Nostos, including Molly's monologue, are therefore the novel's three consciousnesses in their purest unfolding: Bloom Blooming, Stephen Stephening, and Molly Mollying. "Oxen of the Sun," meanwhile, is the novel's recapitulation of its own gestation in the amnion of English, just as "Circe" is its dream of itself, the double matrices of literature in tradition and psyche—literature literaturing.)

Re: Cash and Levy—mustn't anticipate my forthcoming review, but agreed, with the caveat that Levy will be fine if she starts writing poetry or unclassifiable essays-poem-stories (something like your compatriot Anne Carson) and stops forcing herself to write prose fiction, at which Cash is a natural.

[wordtowords]

The Epistle: Thumbs-up for Letter Writing

epistle - noun - a letter (Merriam-Webster: Google)

   In this age of over-the-top technology, the emphasis, of course, is on communication. Yet believe it or not, there are some who shun the popular means of reaching out by clinging to what worked well in the past, letter writing, for example. Ah, you may turn up your nose and/or scoff at what you may deem to be outmoded. However, there are some solid reasons why you might want to return to penning and sending an epistle (a letter) as opposed to using email, texting, a Skype/FaceTime, or a phone call to catch up with others. Here are five good reasons why you should go back to letter writing (and they have nothing to do with Lucy van Pelt's fingers or fist):

   One: A letter is palpable, concrete yet abstract at the same time. You can experience a letter via all five senses albeit I wouldn’t recommend tasting it. (And to experience the audio sense, you can rustle it in a soft breeze as opposed to tearing it up.) It also can convey symbolism or other literary tropes if the writer happens to be a poet and tries very hard to impress the recipient.  

   Two: A letter can defy time. Just think of all the letters written by famous people over the years that have wound up in museums or books. Think Mary B. Shelley’s in the Huntington Library if you have ever been there. If not, definitely put it on your bucket list.

   Three: A letter can unite (or separate) people. If I hadn’t found the letter that my current love interest had written to me in 1980 while digging around in my attic, he and I would not be an item today. Admit it: If you are intent on your lover remembering you over time, write him or her or them a love letter. Letters are way more romantic than emails, and you won't delete them by mistake.

   Four: A letter is a display of written expression that can be telling. Handwriting analysis or graphology has helped people fathom an individual’s personality, unlocking the mysteries of the self. (Okay, maybe not legitimately, but it sounds good.)

   Five: A letter (esp. a love letter) is a purveyor of joy in the moment and over time. The recipient can read and reread it until she or he is convinced that it is real and not a come-on. Or if the recipient is trustworthy, he or she can read and reread it for the pure pleasure of it. (I admit to doing just that.) After all is said and done, digital won't last over time because technology is constantly being changed and upgraded, whereas analog (the basic paper epistle) will if you take time to preserve it.  

   I probably can think of more reasons as to why the letter shouldn’t go the way of the Pontiac. (Gosh, I miss my Sunfire.)  I'll leave it up to you to come up with a few more reasons on your own, perhaps in a letter to yourself? :)

#word-to-words, #slice-of-life,  #blog, #blogging, #editorial, #reading, #vocabulary, #ReadersMagnet, #spilled thoughts, #good advice, #personal-essay, #writing community, #writing, #philosophy, #truth #relationships #self #therapy  

[theimperials1]

мститель

[mstitel']

Avenger - Noun. One who avenges or vindicates.

An avenger of blood

“-You!”  

There was no time for her to even react, the Solver Glyph soon enough smashed V through the window, Doll advanced, her eye healed and her whole body pulsing with power, the footsteps of the Russian drone soon left the solid concrete and turned soft over the snowy ground, today was perhaps one of the calmest nights in Copper’s history, with only few snowflakes falling and the wind howling only so barely.

Yet, that didn’t mean she did will not carry on with this clear scarification of the land’s peace. So much blood had been spilled regardless, so much oil, that a corpse more to the pile was little more that something this land, brutalized from the inside out and turned into little more than a dead carcass of a planet, will have to accept.

The glyphs on her hands appeared as she approached the disassembler, she stared, determined to not leave this place until, below the rays of moonlight, only a digital soul remained standing on this ground.

Doll’s optics focused on her adversary, she found her preparing already to counter-attack, tail lashing, claws out, and growling due to the anger of having to face her again after the humiliation at the prom. Yet the difference here, prevailed, no backup.

“Defiant to the end, I guess?” Doll asked simply.

“I’m sick and tired of you and your angsty whining over your fucking dead parents, foolish orphan-“ The claws were exchanged by the swords, the wings sprang.

The ‘O’ word was not too much of a trigger to her, albeit all it did was simply made her even more hungry for revenge.

“When this is over…while I maul your corpse” It was not a threat; it was prophecy “You will beg to have left my family alone that night”

Doll crossed her arms, two daggers appeared on her hands.

“When I rip your core out, one wire at the time, you will beg me int tears to stop the pain-“

“Murderer”

Both drones launched themselves towards a fight to the dead, a fight to end all things between them and put to rest, one way of the other, the blood-feud that had forged itself with oil and rust between both of them.

doll is just a simple russian girl~

i was suffering from art block but then got the idea to draw the girl herself, the murderous russian sapphic solver drone :3

screw clean lines, cel shading and being super accurate to canon!! i loved doing her hair sm!!!

(wah... you might have to click on the art to see the good quality...)

[rogue-of-broken-time]

On Anti and Types of Fear: Redux

Heya. It's been about two years since I wrote the Second Edition of this theory, so I figured it's about time for a new version. However, this won't be a straight copy-paste from the old ones like I did before (even though I will be citing some of the same sources)– this is all written brand new from scratch. A full redux!

For those who maybe haven't seen the original, this is a sort of theory about how Seán once said that Antisepticeye is supposed to represent "the embodiment of fear". Fear itself is a very broad term with a good amount of sub-categories within it. In this theory, I'll be breaking down those more specific types and how they apply to the various major appearances of our favorite glitchy boi and his influences. When carefully analyzed and compared, the events really show how amazingly crafted Anti and the rest of the egos truly are.

So, if you're willing to go on this journey with me yet again, read on.

--

SAY GOODBYE: Horror

Horror (noun): the feeling of innate revulsion that usually follows a frightening sight, sound, or otherwise experience.

This is how “horror” is defined in a literary gothic sense. No, it’s not synonymous with “terror”, despite what people probably believe since the words are often used so similarly (more on that later). Horror, as a feeling, is the realization that happens once the frightening event fully manifests itself to you. It’s the gut-wrench you feel when you stumble upon something you were never meant to see, the thing that makes your hands start trembling once you’re aware of the implications.

In this vein, horror was what was being played upon during the pinnacle of the October 2016 season. Considering that the community quite literally willed Anti into existence over the course of the month, he not only played on Jack’s fears (the “found footage” glitchy look), but our own as well (the fact that we, the fans, created an entity who essentially wants to take Jack’s place). By accurately placing the blame on us, he created that sense of realization, that feeling of “what have we done?”, in a way that was incredibly effective from a storytelling standpoint. 

ALWAYS WATCHING: Shock, Fear Conditioning

With ALWAYS WATCHING, I find myself almost struggling to put a definitive name to the type of fear I associate with it, so take this title with a grain of salt.

The thing about this appearance was that it was both expected and unexpected, in a way. Prior to this, the only super concrete evidence we’d really seen of a return was within the Detention series, which just sorta... happened and left us hanging. However, it did put the idea of him back in our heads, which is all we really needed to fuel what came next: the trigger. Remember the montage of glitchiness that happened before Anti showed his face again in this video? You probably can still think back to the first image in that series: a screengrab of Jack’s first gameplay of FNaF Sister Location, sitting in the elevator with HandUnit in all its glory. That was the moment it was all confirmed; the moment we were sent from uncertainty to certainty, and the moment the shock of the implications of past events truly began to hit.

So, the reason I also titled this one with “Fear Conditioning” is because, in a way, Seán did create a negative association from the stimuli here. If we were to see that still frame of Sister Location again, we’d all be reminded of this appearance and of the original series Anti appeared in. It created this association with him and the concept of a fear’s rebirth, linking the two irrevocably within the ego lore. 

KILL JACKSEPTICEYE: Dread

To “dread” something means that not only are you afraid of that thing, you are so afraid that you’re willing to do all you can do to avoid that thing. It’s all in the anticipation that sits in your chest, the sense of foreboding you feel when you realize it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets even remotely better– this is what we theorists call “the slow burn”. 

When it came to the Summer Antipocalypse of 2017, it was like Seán had this down to a science. We were warned, even given an exact date of when it was all gonna go down, and he kept us in that pinnacle of tension right up until it happened. And even after KJSE came out, when there was no second upload, that was just it. He did such a good job of making the fictional seemingly impact reality, and that’s what drove it all home.

OVERNIGHT WATCH: Terror

Let me preface this by saying again that “horror” and “terror” are NOT the same. Where “horror” is the sickening realization, that feeling of “what have I done?”, “terror” is the overwhelming fear of the unknown that precedes that. A better descriptor would be that terror is the moment before the monster is revealed, or the moment your mind runs wild with what could be happening before any actual answers are revealed to you. Terror is what turns your mind against itself– to put the sheer power of this sensation into a little perspective, Stephen King has been quoted with saying that terror is “the finest emotion” and that he strives to achieve it the most often when he’s writing a scary story. He’s also been quoted of describing terror as “[the feeling you get] when the lights go out and when you feel something behind you, you hear it, you feel its breath against you, and when you turn around, there’s nothing there”.

Overnight Watch was the embodiment of that, in my opinion. There were moments where my heart was pounding so loud in my ears that I completely missed audio cues (like Silent Night), moments where I was convinced that something was happening when it really wasn’t, and moments where it became way more than collective suspension of disbelief– it was just straight-up belief. And we were held in that state for twenty consecutive hours. It doesn’t get much closer than that.

DARK SILENCE: Anxiety

Not to be confused with the clinical definition, “anxiety” in the sense that anyone can feel and be subjected to is defined as when the brain is unable determine whether a threat is real or not. It’s when we don’t know whether a situation is legitimately life-or-death; it puts our minds into the fight-flight-freeze response and holds us there because every instinct we’ve ever evolved to protect ourselves from harm is going bonkers. 

This one is something I’ve been meaning to come back to, in light of some new information. During Jacksepticeye Community Theory Stream #4 Part 2 (the vod of which you can watch here), I was able to talk with @turquoisemagpie​, and they said something rather interesting about Chase, who was previously confirmed to be the one in that infamous red hallway facing Anti down: 

“The definite thing with Chase, is that... he is on that depressive scale, but it’s at that point where... he is a man who’s got a lot of uncertainties in his life, so... let’s just say, he can’t really tell the difference between what is considered ‘reality’ and what is his own imagination.”

In this light, let us just consider what happened at the end of Dark Silence. Chase, probably drunk to some extent, in a dark environment, hearing children’s screams all around himself while being unable to find his own. Finally happening upon a doorframe cloaked in red light, seeing somebody who looked like himself standing in it, and coming to this conclusion that we all know: “Where are they? What do you want from me!?”

Could the picture get any clearer? If Anti was not a being who preys on the fears of others, subjecting them to facing their worst ones when it may not actually be their reality, how else would this scene make sense? He was going after Chase when he was weak, putting him into his own worst nightmare wherein harm may have befallen his kids– but that doesn’t mean anything actually happened to them.

From a storytelling standpoint? This is extremely clever. It allows Seán to explore his characters more and to have more of a variety of content for Anti to be part of. Because Anti isn’t just the embodiment of his creator’s fears. He’s the embodiment of all the egos’ fears as well.

... I know there have been other minor Anti appearances since Dark Silence (what with him being in the background of Chase’s car, him being in Marvin’s orb, and him sorta taking control of JJ in Jolly Jaunts), but these are the main “official” appearances that I’m taking into consideration in this post for now. 

If you made it this far, thanks for reading and taking this journey with me again. It’s been a blast to rewrite this and incorporate new information! As always, reblogs are appreciated (as I did put a lot of work into making this a functional post), and I look forward to discussing this more with the community as new ego content comes out. :)

[palbabor-writes]

Practicum

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, student/teacher sex, tw.dubcon, tw.sub/dom dynamics, brat taming, fingering, masturbation, a table is pretty roughed up in this, so pls hold a brief moment of silence for it    

Words: 12,857

“So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And...answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Notes: the title was selected because it’s got the word cum in it. ahhh, the things that crack me up. anyhow. 

this is part of the BNHA Degeneracy server’s 9 to 5 collaboration! i had a ton of fun participating in this and thank you guys for making this so freaking awesome! special shoutout & thanks to @albinoburrito​ & @kugutsuu​ for their beta edits! this was a departure from what i usually write about and i appreciate all of your notes and help!  

Practicum prac·ti·cum /ˈpraktəkəm/ noun a practical section of a course of study

It’s your senior year, they said. Live a little, they advised. Stop and take a breather, you’re practically home free! Take some easier classes. Focus on what’s in front of you, it’ll be over before you know it! On and on and on. 

Spring semester is almost here. You’ve applied for graduation, the cap and gown ordered, and you have a shiny class ring sitting on your pinky. It’s in the bag. Just breeze through four more classes and you’re out. Well, it would be an easy shot, if you hadn’t put off this one class. 

It always popped up, so it’s not like you could plead ignorance. Your advisor warned you, each quarterly meeting, that you needed to get it out of the way. Take it seriously, he cautioned, clacking out his notes, typing down that you’d failed to heed his sage advice, again. If you wait too long, you’re not going to get the professor that you want.

That was the other problem. You’re a procrastination superstar. If there was some kinda award for putting off assignments, you’d have won it ten times over. You liked the heart pounding race to the deadline, the sleepy boasts that you’d tackled the project within hours of its due date. 

It’s a stupid habit. Every semester you promise yourself that you’ll do better. You won’t wait, you’ll tackle things one assignment at a time and turn them before the hard cut off at 11:59 pm. Who the fuck did you think you were kidding? Certainly not your friends, or your advisor. He could read you like a book. Hell, he’d even sent warnings. 

‘Don’t forget about the deadline for senior registration!’

‘You don’t want to be on a waitlist. You especially don’t want to take one of the harder professors. These are freshman level classes, they’re designed to flunk undergrads. Don’t forget (Y/N), chew them up and spit them out tactics are employed.’ 

But you had. You’d set an alarm on your phone, then neglected to give it a title, so you’d only chuckled and smacked the chirping into silence that morning, snoozing the all important deadline away. 

Fuck. 

Most of the classes for biology are wait-listed. No, scratch that, all the classes for Intro to Genetic Biology are wait-listed. You opt into the waitlist for all of them, just in case, and a week later your phone alerts you that one has an open seat. Actually, it has several open seats, too many open seats to be natural. However, you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so for now, you’re enrolled in BIO 1208: Principles of Cell and Organismal Physiology - For Non-Science majors. 

Perfect.

Yeah, no. You’d looked up the professor, since the whole open seat thing was still giving you the heebie-jeebies, and your heart dropped. You’ve heard of him, most of the student body has. His classes are notoriously small. Not because the university limited them, or planned for smaller class sizes. No, his classes are tiny because he is infamous for failing students. 

Most, when they realize they’re scheduled for his bio classes, frantically drop, taking the withdrawal and praying for better luck next semester. Others, brave souls who think they can come out unscathed, attempt to grit their teeth and push through. But, by midterms, they’re war torn and haggard, shaking their heads and praying for a ‘C’, at best. Fewer still, pass.

This pedagogy isn’t a sign of good teaching; quite the opposite, in fact. You don’t want your student body failing. Yet, year after year, Professor Tomura Shigaraki keeps teaching the same Intro to Bio class. It boggles the mind, but you’ve never had to worry about it. Well, until now. 

When you’d received the notification that you’re enrolled in the B section and spied the name Shigaraki under the professor listing, you’d scarfed down your suddenly flavorless lunch and dashed up the steps to the student advising hall, praying there was some way you could wiggle your way out of this growing disaster.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to take it earlier and to take it in the fall when there are more freshman level classes available. I swear I said that to you. And, AND, I even sent you emails, several times if my sent inbox is to be believed, to NOT forget when senior registration ends.” 

Your advisor is peeved. You don’t blame him. He’s right, this is your fault, but there’s gotta be some kinda loophole. Something, fuck, anything, that can pull you from this mess. 

“I know, I know! I’m so sorry. You’re right. But, I mean, can’t I just hold off for another week? See if the waitlist clears?”

The man that you’ve known for four years, that’s seen you progress from freshman to senior, steeples his long fingers and purses his lips, likely debating on a tactful scolding, or a firm rebuttal. He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but sink into the soft cushioning of the chair, your nose wrinkled and brow furrowed, mentally preparing yourself for the worst.

“Do you know how many students we require to take BIO 1208?”

“No,” you gulp, nibbling on your lower lip nervously. 

“Over 7,000. Do you want to hear the statistics that would need to shake out in your favor for you to miraculously avoid taking this specific class? Nothing is going to open for you, it is this class, or no class.”

You sigh, and your advisor nods, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Well then, I suggest you brush up on your study skills. Find a classmate that you can compare notes with, join a study group, go to the student union and ask for a tutor. I would hate to see you back here for the summer semester. You’re scheduled to walk the stage this spring and you’ve worked hard for this, so don’t fuck it up, okay?”

You’ve attended this university for four years, but the first day of term always gives you the jitters. It doesn’t matter that you know your way around, or that you know ten professors by name, and bump into several friends on the way to your next building, you’re always buried in your phone, checking and double checking the next class’ room number. 

Despite all that caution, you’re lost.

In your defense, it’s your first time stepping foot in the Graduate & Research building and the whole concrete block is a fucking maze. There must be a basement because the numbers don’t match up with the floors and they seem to jumble further every time you round a corner. Like what the hell? How can this next room be GR 3.03.05 when this is clearly only the second floor and GR 2.03.11 was right down that other hallway?

Exasperated, you lean against the nearest wall and tug your phone out again. Shit. Class started ten minutes ago. 

Part of you wants to call it a day, end the search here and try again on Wednesday. Maybe take a few extra minutes to scout out the building next time and have some idea of where you’re going before the start of class. 

Ugh, why is this so stressful? 

It’s the first day of classes. Surely Professor Shigaraki won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late; besides, if you’re lost, others must be too. 

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and resume the hunt. Two hallway turns later, you find your mark.

Your hand pauses beside the heavy wood, and you take a steadying breath. Again, why are you so nervous? Just go in and take a seat, it’s easy, stop freaking out over nothing. 

The door groans open, hinges protesting the sharp push, and you stumble into a darkened room. The low glow of the projector doesn’t help your blurry vision. Ah, shit, it’s one of those older rooms, so it’s built like a bad movie theater. Oh well, better get to a seat before he spots you. 

Swiftly, you make your way toward the raised steps of the aisle and the second row of chairs, plopping into the first one you reach that’s empty. You’re too busy fiddling with the zipper of your backpack to notice that the speaker has stopped his rasping preamble, but as you pull your laptop out the ominous weight of that heavy silence hits you and you toss a hooded stare toward the front of the lecture hall. 

Immediately, your eyes land on the professor’s and you feel a low shiver shake up your spine. 

He’s watching you. 

The gleam of the overhead projector makes his red eyes flash, and he openly scowls at your gaping expression, his lips curling into a dark sneer.

“Well, thank you for joining us, Miss…?”

He’s waiting for your response and you squeak out your last name, mindlessly rubbing your moistening palms against your thin skirt. 

“Ah, Ms. (L/N). Now that you’ve graced the class with your belated presence, may I continue?”

“Uh,” you gasp out, your mouth dry, tongue sticking to your teeth, “I’m sorry. I got–”

“I didn’t ask for an explanation, or in your case, an excuse. Or are you now attempting to disrupt this class purposefully?”

“Wha– I-I’m–” your words stumble to a halt, voice failing under the intense glare that he’s giving you. “No,” you finish lamely, ducking your head, nails digging into your sweaty palms. 

“Thank you. Do me a favor, stay after class.” His voice is gravel, threatening and low. You don’t like the edge in his tone. It makes your skin prickle and your knees knock. He sounds like the kind of guy that you don’t want to run into in a dark alleyway, or a classroom, for that matter. Even so, it’s not your fault, and despite your feelings of unease, you can’t tamp down your need to protest his unreasonableness. 

“But, professor, I didn’t mean to–”

“If I need to repeat my insistence for silence, I’ll make things easier on both of us and fail you now.”

Stunned and fuming, you bite your tongue and lean back into your chair, crossing your arms and blinking back mounting tears of frustration. Great, just great. It’s the first fucking day of class and it looks like you’re already on his shit list. And for what? For being late on fucking syllabus day! What an ass. 

You look over at him as you defiantly finish setting up your computer, hoping each pull of a zipper or screen reboot will grate under his stuck up skin. He’s not inordinately tall, or old. In fact, he looks like he might only be in early 30s. He has long white hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail and, from what you can make out in the dim lighting, some kinda skin condition on his forehead. That, or he’s prematurely wrinkled, and let’s be honest, if he’s gone through life with that big of a stick up his ass, he deserves each and every pull on that mottled skin of his. 

You linger in your seat when class is over, lips pulled into a thin line and legs crossed. Finally, when the last student has left the room, professor Shigaraki flips a switch beside his elevated podium, filling the lecture hall with a sharp, fluorescent light. He pauses by his raised computer system and clicks off the overhead projector, blanketing the massive room in an uncomfortable silence. 

“Since you missed the part of class where I go over the syllabus, I’ll give you a brief rundown. Under no circumstances will I tolerate tardiness. If you do it once more I’ll mark you absent and three absences knock you down a full letter grade.”

Glumly, you cross your arms and peer up at him, finally able to get a good look at his face. Your first observation was correct. His skin is sharper around his forehead, but his wavy white hair does a pretty decent job of covering up the imperfections. He has two scars: one nicks across his right eye and the other splits down his rough lips, parting the skin and granting him an even more foreboding appearance than his already gruff demeanor does. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and he’s wearing a low slung v neck shirt. It’s a brilliant red and it brings out that otherworldly glint of his red eyes. Shit, you think bitterly, while he’s not conventionally handsome, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes either. 

You shake your head against these unproductive musings and curtly snap out a clipped, ok.

“What was that?” Shigaraki scoffs, tilting his head at your sullen figure. “Speak up.”

“I said,” you bristle, eyes narrowing and chin lifting, “Okay, I apologize for interrupting your lecture, it won’t happen again. But, in my defense, if I’m allowed to do that in this class, I’ve never been in this building before, and it’s not like–”

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then you’ve had four years to figure out the layout of this university. The excuse of ‘being lost,’ isn’t an option for you. You know the buildings and you’re fully capable of turning up early to sort out the rooms.”

You let out a long sigh and look away, mumbling vague protests. This guy is ridiculous. You’re not a science major and it’s not your job to know the ins and outs of each building. How fucking stupid. Who does he think he–

“Speak up. I won’t ask you again.”

You bite your lip and look back at him but he’s moved in that distracted moment, silently stepping down from his raised platform and is now leaning over the first row of chairs, looming over you. You can’t help your sudden flinch as you sink further into your chair, away from him.

“If you’re gonna complain, Ms. (L/N), I’d much rather hear it. Don’t you think It’s rude for you to mutter under your breath about me? You don’t see me doing that to you.”

“Fine,” you blurt out, turning away from his insistent, and all too close, gaze. “I was saying that I’m not a science major. I get that I’m a senior, but you can’t seriously expect me to know every nook and cranny of this campus.”

“No, but I can ask for you to be a little more thoughtful. I put time and effort into my lessons and I won’t have you undermining them by bouncing in here with those legs and that flouncy little skirt.”

You’re about to counter his little haughty speech on politeness when you finally process that final comment he’d breathed out. Flabbergasted, you raise your head back to his, but he’s already moving away, snatching up his shoulder bag and waving you a curt goodbye as he presses open the squeaky door. “Next class is at 10 am sharp, so be on time Ms. (L/N).”

You’re still slumped in your seat when the door glides shut again, your eyes wide and jaw no doubt comically unhinged. 

Wait. Did…did he really just say that?

Obviously, for the next class, you’re early. You’re so early that you’re the first one in the lecture hall. You select a seat toward the back and fiddle with your computer, checking your messages, adjusting your brightness, replying to old emails, anything to keep your head down and attention occupied. 

The door opens and, despite your best efforts, your head flies up, expectant and tense, ready to meet those red eyes of his head on, to show him you’re here and he better… oh. It’s not him. It’s two chattering freshmen. One of them gives you a quick smile, but they both quickly take their seats, a few rows over, and continue their soft conversation, leaving you to fall back onto your earlier distraction tactics. You twiddle with your phone and shoot off a few texts, change your wallpaper, accidentally close an app you meant to leave open, and then the lecture hall door reopens.

He steps in slowly, completely ignoring you and the other scattered students, opting to sort out a few papers and set up his login on the school computer. The minutes tick by and you can’t seem to jerk your eyes away from him, suddenly fascinated by his languid movements. He looks more relaxed than he did on Monday, looser and fluid, completely in his element. True to his word, at ten am on the dot he begins class. 

Professor Shigaraki has an interesting voice. It’s low, calculated, bordering on a rasp. It’s one of those tones that makes you want to lean forward and listen up, even though he’s only discussing cellular biology. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest topic for that shockingly dulcet timbre of his. 

Wait. Sexy? 

Your pen falters against your notebook, and your eyes drift up to his frame. He’s switched the lights off again and the shine of the overhead projector is the only illumination in the hall. His white hair gleams in the dim lighting and his long hands animatedly illustrate his points, elegant fingers opening and closing, gesticulating about the intricate nature of the human genome. You’re so focused on watching his movements that your elbow partner has to push the slip of paper onto your collapsible desktop. You blink at the sheet, your pen nearly clattering from your hand, and you twist to peer at the unfamiliar student beside you. 

“It’s the attendance sheet and, um, I think you’re the last one,” they whisper, careful to lean away after they finish their explanation, not wanting to draw professor Shigaraki’s ire. You maneuver the paper under your pen and scribble down your name, biting your lip and silently berating yourself for your poor selection in seating. Great, now you’ll have to take the paper down to him after class. What if he talks with you again? Shit. 

At 11:25, class ends. You collect your things and plod down the steps, the attendance sheet clutched between your fingers. He’s just snapping the projector light off when you reach his podium. 

“I, uhh, have the attendance. You want me to just leave it here, or…”

“I’ll take it,” his hand is extended toward you and those red eyes are fixed on you now. It’s not the same disgruntled stare he’d given you on Monday. No, this look is a little more curious. Again, you’re taken aback by your reaction to him. He’s not even saying anything, just patiently waiting for you to deposit the sheet into his open palm, but there’s something about him that’s making your heart race. 

Maybe it’s those eyes of his. 

They are an unusual color and they have a strange intensity to them. Right as they narrow, the vermillion shining under the sharp lights; you press the paper to him and he pulls it from you, studying the names that are listed. 

You want to say something. Maybe toss him a quick, friendly, goodbye. Or apologize for the other day? Ugh. What can you even say? ‘Gosh, so glad I was on time today! All that fascinating information about the genetic code! So glad to be here!’ No, that sounds stupid and a little patronizing. Besides, why do you want to talk with him at all? He’s an ass, remember?

“Did you need something?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor and you numbly shake your head at him, already lowering your gaze, but his exhaled chuckle makes you pause, your fingers curling around your backpack straps.  

“I know I upset you the other day, but I appreciate you taking the effort to correct your mistake.” 

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes finding their way back to his. “Yeah, well, like you said, I’m a senior. Gotta take responsibility for myself someday.”

“Ah,” he smirks, that long scar on his lip quirking upward. “Seems like you’ve got some determination after all. You might be more interesting than I gave you credit for.”

“God,” you scoff, popping out a hip and crossing your arms at the bemused leer on his face. “Just come right out and say you think I’m a bad student, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he amends, tucking the attendance sheet into his shoulder bag and snapping the clasps closed. “There’s plenty of time for you to end up right back at square one with me.”

He’s already halfway out the door by the time you right yourself from the shock of his last comment and you follow him, a string of low curses falling from your lips. 

The spring semester always flies by, and before you realize it, a full month has bled away. You’ve kept that same seat in Shigaraki’s class and at the end of each session you head down to his little platform, attendance sheet outstretched. Each day of class has a different ebb and flow. Sometimes he chats with you and it’s gotten easier to talk with him, both of your eyes holding and lingering, lips raised into calculating smiles. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s flirting with you. Other days he only spares you a curt nod, his white hair curtaining his expression from your curious gaze. You’re not bothered by these silences, not when you’ve got your secret weapon. 

The days that you like best, the ones that you plan, sorting through your closet until you’ve found the perfect choice, are the days when you wear one of your skirts. You’d even gone on some skirt shopping sprees as of late. On those days he doesn’t just make some sort of fleeting eye contact with you, no, on those days he stares. 

At first, you’d tested out your theory, staggering your outfits, careful to not screw up your suspicions with a hasty miscalculation, but as they say, the third time’s the charm. How did he expect you not to notice? He never bothers to hide those sharp ogles and recently you’ve made a point of dramatically gathering your things when you wear these cute little ensembles, bopping down the steps so his eyes have to work to follow the line of your hips and the long paths of your bare legs. One rainy afternoon you’d worn over the knee stockings, that came to an abrupt halt over the plush skin of your upper thigh, under your mini skirt and he’d practically leapt over the podium to grab the sheet from you, his eyes hooded and dark, almost wild.

“Test, on Friday,” he warns, eyes finally rising to meet your bemused expression. “Don’t stay out too late tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, brushing at a rogue fold in your skirt, luring him back to your legs. 

He scoffs at you, that jagged scar arching into a smirk. “Humph. You’re dressed up. Most of the students just wear the sweats, or pjs, and call it a day.” 

“I like to put a little effort in all that I do,” you retort, grinning up at his vermillion stare. 

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. You certainly look the part…and you’re keeping up with the workload of this course.”

“Ahhh,” you crow, clapping your hands excitedly. “Are you saying I might get an ‘A’ in this class? Be the first time someone’s done that in a while, from what I’ve heard around campus.”

Shigaraki sneers and tuts out an inaudible reply, leaning a little closer to you, making you inadvertently fall back a step. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Awe,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m doing ok on all the quizzes and the classwork.”

“So far,” he taunts, his pearlescent hair falling over his broad shoulder.

“Tch. Don’t be like that. I’ve been studying.”

“Sometimes it takes more than that.”

“Oh?” you smile, raising your chin. “What else should I be doing, professor?”

“We’ll know that after Friday, won’t we?”

God. 

You’d felt so confident when you’d turned in your test and that stupid, horrible, sexy little quirk of his lip scar that he sends you, when you’d handed him your papers, carries you on some strange, half aroused cloud all weekend. Maybe, just maybe, this class won’t be so bad after all.

The tests are handed back the following Friday, passed from row to row so everyone can fish out their papers and marked Scantrons. Yours, since you still occupy that final seat on the back row, is the last. Biting back a grin, you flip it over, so ready to see that A, that grade that you worked so fucking hard for, that… wait.

The gross flash of red across the top of your paper leaves you reeling, your breath catching against the back of your throat. It’s not a terrible grade, well, it wouldn’t be, but there are only three tests in this class, so it’s going to plummet you down to a B. One more fuck up will leave you with a C, or worse, an automatic failing grade. 

No. No, no, no, no. 

You can’t afford a bad grade, you honestly can’t even let yourself slip to a B. Your fucking cap and gown have just come in and with them that cord that you can wear around your neck at graduation. The one that marks you as honors cum laude. Fuck. You’re already pulling one B, in one of your other classes, because you’ve been focusing so much time and effort on this one. Another B will strip that cord from you, leaving you barren, with a less than ideal GPA. 

God fucking damn it.

You glare up at Shigaraki, who’s busy taking the rest of the class through a review of genetic mutations, but you can’t hear him anymore, too incensed, too overwhelmed to even care about what he’s saying. The test crumples under your fingertips, the paper shaking in your hands, and you seethe, your teeth biting your lower lip to pieces. 

It’s not fair. You’d paid attention. You’ve taken all the notes. Read all the chapters. Drilled and studied till your eyes had drooped, heavy with exhaustion. You’ve done it all right. Plus, he’d been so fucking flirty, so open with you. You’ve never chatted with a professor this way, never gone out of your way to wear clothes they like, that make them watch you, their eyes hungry pinpricks as you walk to them, mindful of the luscious sway of your hips. 

No. Fuck him. Fuck this class.

Before your elbow classmate can leave, you ask for them to hand in the attendance sheet. You barely hear their response, too busy slamming your laptop into your backpack. As you storm past the podium, you can feel his eyes on you. The distant sensation of his gaze makes your flesh prickle, but you ignore your involuntary reaction and shove your way out the door. 

“(Y/N), you can’t switch classes this late. It’s almost midterms. Besides, I don’t think anything has opened up and if you’re going to drop it, you’ve gotta get the signature of the professor,” your advisor tells you, blinking at your stony expression over his thick glasses. “I don’t get it. Why do you want to drop it? Your grades are alright and it’s just one test. You can always try–”

“Gimme the paperwork.”

Shigaraki’s office is on the top floor of the research building, tucked away down another winding and weaving hallway that once again requires your careful inspection to navigate. When you finally hit the right set of doors, you slowly make your way forward, counting the numbers up as you pass. His door is wide open, a yawning cavern that’s filled with the distant light of a lamp. You brush a hand down your skirt, smoothing away any wrinkles and steadying your nerves. 

You’d tossed on the skirt this morning, before you’d gotten the grade, and you hadn’t thought to go home and change, too consumed by that simmering rage bubbling within you. And now, like this fucking class, this skirt felt like a mistake, something stupid and vapid that you wished you had time to change out of. He’d told you he liked your attire, liked that you put effort into your outfits. At the time, you’d been so thrilled and excited that he’d complimented you, but now you wish you were confronting him in baggy jeans or lazy sweats, anything that would turn that avid gaze of his away from you. 

Lost in thought, you waver beside his open door, nibbling on your lips and tugging at your clothes. It’s now or never. No point in putting it off. What’s the worst that can happen? What can he do now? Or, a darker side of you whispers, what do you want him to do to you? What? That’s a stupid thought, you scold yourself, lifting a hand to the wall and rapping against the beige paint, announcing your presence. 

When the sound fades away, swallowed up by the empty and darkened hallway, you poke your head around the corner, searching for him. His head is tilted quizzically, and he blinks twice when he spots you, that all too familiar smirk lifting his lips. 

“Ah, Ms. (L/N), what can I do for you?”

His voice is softer than usual and your name sounds like honey, his tone resting on the syllables and consonants for a beat, almost as if he’s savoring their lift, their sound. You can’t help but swallow heavily at his appraisal. Suddenly this may be a terrible idea. 

Ugh. Get a grip (Y/N). 

“I-I need you to sign this withdrawal paperwork,” you finally reply, digging in your bag and tugging out the thin leaflet, holding it out to him. He’s silent after your demand, meditatively threading his fingers and peering up at you, his red eyes bright. 

“Step inside and shut the door behind you,” he instructs, his gaze never falling from yours. Despite the simplicity of his request, you can’t help but bristle at his imperious tone. Why does he always have to sound like that? Like he’s seconds away from taking control of the situation, or of you? He’s always one stupid step ahead, and no doubt he’s going to try and talk you down. Or, he’ll sign it and say that he always knew you were a screw up, someone who only did things halfway, who could never match up to his lofty expectations. Humph, the sooner you’re outta here and out of his class, the better. So, you obey, closing the door and petulantly flopping into the unsteady chair that sits in front of his low desk. 

He maintains that uneasy quiet, his red eyes whisking over your disgruntled face, waiting, watching. Unable to take this strange standoff, you push the university paperwork toward him, sliding it as close as you dare to his bent elbows. “I would like to withdraw from your class,” you repeat, lips setting into a thin line. 

“Why?” he asks, cocking his head so his loose white hair falls a little further down his rough brow. 

“Something came up.”

“Hmm, I can try to work with a new schedule, if it’s your job, or home life,” he counters, eyes narrowing as he sharpens his observations of your brittle expression. 

“It’s not that,” you smart, crossing your arms. Great, he’s going to make this difficult. 

“Then I suggest you tell me what’s on your mind,” Shigaraki replies, mirroring your movements and leaning back in his chair. 

“I don’t think this class is working out for me.”

He exhales a soft laugh at your lie, and you watch that tiny mole at the edge of his chin lift in his quiet mirth. “This is a freshman level course and you’re a senior. You’re in my class because it’s likely the last pre-rec that you need to take before you graduate.”

“Um, yeah. But–”

“And now, you’re wanting to drop it because of one poor grade.”

You grind your teeth and fix him with a stark glower. “I–”

“There will be two other tests. If you read your syllabus, you’d know this.”

“I read the syllabus. Your tests are worth a stupid amount of points and it only takes one of them to tank my grade.”

“Frankly, you did better than most of the class. You only need to work on practical application. I said that the written portion would be a major component of the exam. I also provided you with a review and a rubric. So I’m not sure–”

“Your grade drops me to a ‘B’, and that ‘B’ pulls me from the honors list. And… well… I thought that…”

“Oh? What did you think?” he presses, his voice suddenly dropping to that lower octave it had drifted into when he said your last name. 

“I thought I’d get a better grade,” you spit out, turning your head and biting at your lip again. 

“Why?” he counters simply. His obtuseness is making your blood boil.

“What do you mean, why?” It takes all of your will to not slip a ‘jackass’ into that question. 

“It’s not a hard thing to answer. I graded you fairly and according to my rubric. Why exactly do you feel you merit a different grade than the one you earned?”

You fall into a frustrated silence. You can hear your heart pounding against your ribs and you want to scream at him, to leap over his desk and shake him until his teeth fucking rattle. Your shoulders are rising and lowering disjointedly and his vermillion eyes are honed in on your face, shifting over your pinched expression with a distant interest. You can feel tears pricking at your eyes and you hastily rub a fist over them, brushing away any rogue drops of moisture.

“How can you ask me that? You think I didn’t notice you staring at my legs? Or that you always had something to say to me when I was wearing a skirt? What was I supposed to think, huh? I fucking thought shit like that was gonna help, ok? God, I’m so stupid. I can’t… fuck.” 

Shigaraki arches forward when you finish, a deep sigh leaching through his parted lips. His teeth snap together when you look up at him, your eyes gaining back some of that earlier defiance, and he gives you a quick grin, clearly pleased by your shift in attitude and pushes your paper aside, fixing you with a dark look. “Here’s a thought, since you feel you’re so different, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a chance to make up the score.”

“I don’t care about the score anymore. I wanna drop your class,” you snap, but it’s a halfhearted barb. Something has changed in his demeanor. He’s dropped the concerned professor act and is leaning so close you can hear his steady intakes of air. He’s only a few inches away; if you want, you could touch him.

“I doubt you want to attend a class in the summer. Besides, they won’t let you walk if you haven’t finished your freshman level courses. And you can’t tell me you don’t want to graduate, to earn that cord that lets you into the honor cum laude. So stop pouting and hear me out. I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever like anything about you,” your voice is sharper than you mean it to be, but the challenge makes Shigaraki smile. As it crosses his cracked lips, it pulls that scar up and it makes those eyes of his glow. He looks like the cat that’s got the cream and you’re not sure how to respond, so you cross your legs and wait for him to make the next move. 

“You sure about that? Well, I’ll have to change your tune then, won’t I? But that can wait, lemme tell you what my requirements are. I’ve got a copy of the textbook in here. I’ll have you review some of the major concepts, you’ll read the passages aloud so I’m sure you’re on the right track, you’ll hand the book back to me, and then I’ll verbally quiz you over the material. If you answer them correctly, I’ll bump you to an ‘A’ on your test.”

You have to actively work to keep your mouth closed. “So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And… answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands. 

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin. 

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Your eyes boggle and you have to clench your thighs tighter, your stomach churning, you feel light-headed and you can feel your core fluttering with your sudden arousal. “Wh-what did you just say?”

“Stop gaping at me like that, you’ll make me blush. Now come on.”

Your jaw snaps closed and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind from your whirling emotions. He takes this reaction as a surrender and stands, stepping toward a marred table that rests a little ways away from his desk. He licks his thumb pad and flips through a few pages before finally settling on an appealing section. Once he places it on the table, he twists back to you and crooks a finger your way. “Come here,” he orders, his voice deep and languid. Obediently, you rise on unsteady feet, hands tugging at the length of your skirt, careful to keep it pressed down as you walk toward him. 

He makes space for you to stand in front of the book and shifts back, one hand resting on the table, propping him close to your bent figure. You look up at him, but he only nods his head toward the table, a wicked smile curling the corners of his lips. Blink a few times but finally, the words clear and you can see the block of text that’s in front of you. It’s passages on DNA encodes and RNA proteins, hefty stuff, things that you had to make flash cards for. This isn’t going to be easy. If anything, he’s picked some of the harder concepts, the ones that take steady knowledge in the foundations. Flustered, you look back to him, but he’s moved. He’s leaning against the wide window beside the table, a dark mark against the glass.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a laugh bubbling in his tone.

“There’s no way…” you stammer, shaking your head at him. 

“Want me to throw a curve in?”

“I should ask what kinda curve, but knowing you, it’s likely gonna be something terrible.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he rumbles, stepping away from the window and leaning close to your stiff form. “It just takes an open mind and some enthusiasm on your part.”

“Enthusiasm?” you question, trying your best to withstand his closeness. You can feel the heat radiating off of his broad shoulder and if you tilt a little nearer, you could graze against him, or feel his breath on your skin. 

“You’re right,” he amends, his forearm contacting your side. You startle at the touch, a gasp falling from your lips, but you don’t pull away and you can’t stop staring up at him, your eyes wide. “Obedience is a better word. From here on out, whatever I tell you to do, I expect you to obey it, although it’s not exactly, ah, school approved.”

“You want me to suck you off or something?” you sneer, hoping to stumble him off his guard, even if it’s only for an instant. Too bad he’s always one step ahead. 

“Don’t be vulgar. Think outside of the box, (Y/N). Do you think I’m going to go for something so short sighted when I could have you bending to my will? Obeying every little demand that I make? I’d much rather see if that skin of yours tastes as good as it looks, then simply have you on your knees. No, I want you to fucking scream for me while I stuff you full of my cock. But first, you need to put in some work. You should know that by now.”

Oxygen is suddenly very hard to come by and you can feel your mind hazing over as you stammer up at him, your mind flitting from word to word disjointedly. Shigaraki grants you a wolfish grin, and he dips his lips beside your ear, whispering over those tiny hairs that rest against your tender skin. “I’ll make this part easy. Nod and I’ll give you the first set of instructions.” 

What did he say? Nod? What happens when you nod? Fuck, why are you letting him do this? Is your grade really worth it? Are you that desperate that… that… 

Shigaraki is whispering other promises over you as you war with yourself, speaking his words gently, slowly, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. It’s like you’ve fallen under some kinda spell and before you realize it, your traitorous head is bobbing up and down, letting him know you want him to keep going.

“Perfect,” he sighs, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear, jerking a shiver from you. “Now, lean forward and put your hands against the table.” 

You do as he says, but he’s not satisfied with your positioning, his fingers wrapping around your wrists and yanking you forward, jutting your ass out and pressing your chest down, maneuvering you until your nose is right above the pages of the textbook. “There we go,” he rasps, pulling away so he can admire your splayed form. “Hmm, your legs are too close together. Spread them.” Knees trembling, you obey, gasping when he runs a palm against the curve of your thighs.

“You’ve got such nice legs (Y/N), so let’s put them on display, shall we?” His fingers search against the top of your skirt and they still when he reaches his prize: the zipper. When he pulls it down, you let out a sharp squeak of protestation but he silences you with a swift pinch to your side. 

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You nodded, remember? Besides, you could have left when I told you I’d give you a curve but you couldn’t help yourself could you? You want me to keep going and to do that, I need you to take this skirt off. No, don’t move. I’ll get rid of it for you. Why don’t you focus on the task at hand, hmm? Aren’t you supposed to be reading for me?”

You arch away from his fingers and he chuckles at your impudence, one large hand hooking under your chin and pulling you toward his face. His red eyes blaze as they find yours, the dark pupils threatening to swallow up that deep vermillion. “Let’s start with the second paragraph. If you do well, I might grant you a reprieve.” 

Jerking your face from his grip, you twist back to the text, trying, and failing, to ignore his inquisitive fingers, unable to resist sighing as he works one up your inner thigh. He pauses when no words fall from your lips and you grumble out a few low curses before acquiescing to his silent demand. 

“The flow of genetic information in cells from DNA to mRNA to protein is described by the Central Dogma, which states that genes specify the sequence of mRNAs, which specify the sequence of proteins. The decoding of one molecule… the… the… molecule… by spec-specific…”

He’s slipped your skirt down over the swell of your ass, but he’s taking his time, flexing out the front of the material and dipping his fingers over the bump of your lower stomach, kneading into the delicate flesh that’s stretched out for him. You can’t help the twitch of your spine and you involuntarily wiggle, palms slipping forward, dragging you further along the tabletop. Shigaraki chuckles above you, running his rough lips over the back of your neck.

“You’re so sensitive. I’ve barely touched you.” 

He circles his hands back to your skirt and edges it along, lowering it sharply on one side and then giving the same treatment to the other. You’re doing your best to keep up with your stammering readings, but it’s difficult when he keeps sighing and running his long nails across your newly bared skin. Finally, he works the skirt down and it thumps against your bare ankles; the fabric tickling your skin. 

Meanwhile, his other fingers skitter against the elastic band of your rapidly dampening panties. Once he hooks the lace under his hand, he yanks them along your legs, trailing them sinfully slowly, ensuring that they glide down the billow of your thighs. His teeth nip at your ear when you stumble to a halt in your recitation and your hands tense over the grains of wood beneath them, your nails pinching into your palms. “If you stop, I stop,” he warns, his head bumping against yours, his sharp nose pressing against your pulse.

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” you grumble, doing your best to ignore his renewed pets and strokes. 

“Stop complaining,” he smirks, leaning away from your head to peer at your newly exposed flesh. “You better pay attention to what you’re reading or you’re not going to pass the questions I’ll be asking you.”

“Yeah, yeah, ow!” you squawk, whipping your head around to glare up at him. He fucking pinched you again! This time, he’d slipped his hand between your spread legs and tweaked your inner thigh, painfully. 

“Read,” he repeats, running those guilty fingers upward, lingering beside the heat of your cunt, careful to not get too close. When you start on the next sentence, one of his hands tugs up the fabric of your shirt, snaking upward until he’s thumbing against the wire of your bra. Once again, you falter to a halt and exhale a wavering breath. 

Goddamn it. This review is no review. You’ll be lucky if you can even recall what a cell is if he keeps this up. You hear his ominous intake of air and quickly resume your recitation, mumbling something about RNA and mRNA differences. 

Wait. Didn’t you just…  

“Looks like you’re having trouble listening to me. I told you to read aloud, not to repeat the same passages over and over.”

“Hey, at least I’ll have a firm grasp on those. You should ask me something about that s-section… ah–”

The hand that was resting under the cup of your bra has made its way underneath the lightly padded material, and his thumb and index fingers have trapped your peaked nipple between them. As soon as your snarky comment left your mouth, he’d twisted the bud, squeezing it until it throbbed. 

“Pay attention,” he commands, shoving your bra upward, freeing the globes of your breasts and cupping both of his broad hands under them. Your abused nipple stings and the mixture of sharp pain and jarring arousal goes right through you, stoking that coil that pulsed within your core, and sending a tacky flush of your essence down your spread thighs.

The next few words are a struggle. The text keeps blurring and your breaths are coming in fast and heavy. Shigaraki is still feeling you up, keeping his lips close to your ears, rasping sharp commands to you and dealing out lightning fast rounds of pinches and squeezes each time you falter. 

“I–I can’t… I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore,” you bemoan, your hips pressing against the edge of the table, legs trembling as you attempt to keep them apart. He’s deliberately ignoring your throbbing clit and a desperate edge is creeping into your voice. 

“Are you always this whiny? Fine. I’ll give you a moment to read without any distractions.”

Thank God.

True to his word, he slips away from your back and you’re left shivering against his sudden absence. Despite your quaking, you’re determined to make the most of this chance and you quickly read out the paragraphs that are on the second page. As you ramble down to the last bit of text, you realize you can’t hear him anymore and when you finish the last sentence; you start to really wonder where he’s drifted off to. A tense silence follows your completion of the material and you arch up on the tips of your toes, jutting your ass out and stretching the stiffened muscles of your lower back. 

“Didn’t say you could stop reading, and judging from all of your complaints, I don’t think you got some of those earlier concepts, so I’d suggest doing a quick review,” he taunts, the sudden rasp of his voice startling a low gasp from your lips. 

He’s close; somewhere behind you and to the left from the sound of it. You try to twist around, your chest lifting from the table, and when he notices, his hands return, creating a rough pressure against your neck as he forces your body back down. His weight plasters you to the surface, scraping your partially exposed stomach and tender breasts over the nicked wood. Shigaraki is merciless in his swift correction, his breath puffing out angrily behind you. “Didn’t say you could move, either.”

Stunned, you freeze. Your arms are arched awkwardly, but he keeps his weight against you, flattening your breasts and forcing your back to arch into an awkward bend. Fuck, you think, how are you supposed to stay like this? Your legs are already aching and if he shifts away again, he’s likely going to expect you to maintain this absurd pose.  

“Yes,” he groans, his voice catching against the word, “Good girl. Now, stay just like that.”

Damn it.

“Go on, read the first part again,” he instructs. 

“The entire genetic content of a cell is known as its genome and the study of genomes is gen-genomics. In eukaryotic cells, but… but not in p-prokaryotes, DNA forms a complex with histone proteins… with histone proteins… sub-substance… of…”

His teeth have latched onto your neck, and he’s sucking bruises into your tender skin. He’s still pinning you to the table, but his hands are widening their explorations. He’s started dragging a fingernail across the puffy folds of your cunt, teasing against the dripping and swollen flesh, chuckling when you buck against his hold. 

“You always seem to lose it when you get to cellular modulations.”  

“I–I–It’s not… I can’t help that you keep…” you whimper, your fingers curling under your palms, head shaking back and forth. You can’t think. He’s not being fucking fair, and you can’t even string your goddamn words together. Shit. “Y-you’re not being fair,” you accuse, falling on the only thing that keeps running through your mind, your splayed feet shifting uncomfortably under you.

“Not fair? Not once did I say fairness would come into this arrangement,” he lifts himself off of your back and leans beside you, one arm planted beside your crooked elbow. His fingers trace over the curve of your ass, cupping at the thickest part of you and squeezing. 

“But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get a little satisfaction out of this arrangement. I bet you look good when you cum. And you’ve been working so hard to get my attention these last few months. So careful to do what I tell you. Looking at me with those big eyes of yours, all wide eyed every time I catch you looking at me. And don’t even get me started on your lips. You’re lucky I didn’t fucking bend you over after class, especially when you started wearing all of those cute little skirts for me. Ahhh, don’t moan like that, I won’t be able to help myself if you do. Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?” 

Without warning, he slips his longest digit into your cunt, groaning loudly when he’s sucked into your welcoming heat. Your pussy, hungry for any kind of scrap, ripples around his intrusion, clamping and pulling, desperate for more. 

“Fuck,” he groans, his weight falling against your shoulder. “You’re soaking.” His elegant digit pushes deeper and you roll your hips under him, urging him closer, sighing when he sinks to the last knuckle. As he pulls his finger back, he adds another, swiftly v-ing the two before curving them together as they slip back out, dragging a steady line of pleasure from your quivering cunt. Shigaraki whispers another round of awed praise against your ear, his voice dark and breathless. 

A third digit is added on another trip out, and it creates a ragged sensation within you. It’s close to what you like, but he’s stretching you too far and it’s starting to hurt. He either needs to speed up, or give you a little more pressure. If you can hump your clit against the edge of the table, maybe it’ll give you the friction that you need. When you mindlessly buck your hips, your thighs threatening to lose that spread, he stops, holding his fingers inside you, laughing as you agitatedly try to shift him back into his earlier rhythm.

“So eager. I’d say you’re ready for my questions.”

“W-what?” you gasp, wholly focused on making him restart the push and pull of his fingers inside you. 

“I’ll start you off with something easy. What’s the cell membrane?”

“W-what? The cell… ah–” 

“Answer me. Now,” he grunts, leaning forward, re-steadying you as his fingers pull outward, dragging against your sensitive folds and schlicking through your arousal lewdly, loudly. You moan and your eyes roll back, completely ignoring his demand as you fall into the haze of pleasure that comes after his movements. 

His free hand travels up your neck and he tangles his fingers into the tendrils of your hair, yanking and jerking at the strands, demanding your attention.  

“I said, answer me.”

“Shigaraki–I–fuck. I can’t even… ugh… think right now!”

“Do you want the grade, or not?” he questions, his voice tense. “Answer correctly and I’ll give you what you want.” 

“I–I don’t think I can,” you whine, pressing your hips back as he thrusts his fingers forward again, curving them upward, searching for the spongy pad of nerves that rest against the front of your pelvis. 

“Oh? What happened to wanting that A? What about your graduation? You gonna let me fuck up your entire college career? I can do it, you know. I’ve done it to so many simpering freshmen. I fail kids left and right and you’re no different, (Y/N). 

The university lets me ahh–there it is! God, you’re so fucking wet. 

Where was I? The university can’t say no to me; they let me do what I want. I bring in too much money, too many tempting grants, and that’s all they really care about. So what’s it gonna be? Let me see that you can answer this basic crap and I’ll pass you. Or would you like for me to tie you down and force it outta you another way?”

He’s picked up the pace of his fingers as he rambles over you and a swift press against that newly discovered spot inside you has you falling to pieces in his hands, popping up onto your tiptoes and rutting yourself against the surface of the table. “O-ok, God, ok! Just–fucking repeat the goddamn question,” you pant, head slumping forward, forcing his fingers to tighten against your hair to hold you upright. 

“What is the cell membrane?” 

You wince your eyes closed, trying to rack your brain to focus on something other than the heavy pressure of the three fingers that are teasing their way across your dribbling pussy. He’s moving his presses with a lackadaisical, inconsistent rhythm now and it’s hard to fucking think. You can’t tell if his next thrust will be hard, or soft, or so rough that it’s bordering on that bittersweet line of pain. 

You shake your head, doing your best to ignore the mounting pressure that he’s building inside you and the ache of your neck and legs. Finally, after another sharp tap against that secret bunch of nerves at the front of your cunt, you latch onto a vague remembrance. 

“It… it’s a double layer of–of phospholipids that make a boundary between the cell and t-the surrounding… ugh… it controls the passage of materials.”

“Very good. Elaborate on the cellular wall.”

He’s unrelenting in his domineering treatment, twisting and frigging his fingers each time your breath hitches, and your arousal is leaking down your legs, making your skin stick and pull. It’s too much, you can’t! How can he even ask this? Words are falling from your lips incoherently, and all too soon you’re gasping out his name rather than reciting the answer. 

“Cellular–oh, fuck, Shi–Shigaraki–Please, keep–don’t stop! S-Shigaraki, God that… feels… ah–keep going!”

He ignores your request and pulls his fingers away, robbing you of that sweet pressure that he’s so carefully mounted within you. 

“I’ll count that one as incorrect. Your ‘A’ is swiftly becoming an ‘A’ minus, (Y/N)” he snarls, his teeth gritted, hands falling to the swell of your hips, wet fingers digging into your soft skin. 

“What? No! You didn’t give me enough… e-enough time! How can–can you expect me to answer that qui-quickly!”

“Let’s try another.” 

It hurts. That ache that he’s drawn out of you is starting to sting and throb and he’s being such a dick about it! You twist and grind under him, and he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“I don’t–” you protest weakly, your legs trembling and chest heaving under his weight.  

“Do you want this? Wouldn’t you like to pass this class? To graduate with honors?” he growls, leaning closer, his hands braced against you, his fingers no doubt leaving bruises on the supple crest of your hips. 

“You’re such an ass! Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then answer another question. What’s diffusion?”

“D-diffu-diffusion is the process by which molecules move from an a-area of… of… fuck- of high concentration, to low concentration. Shigaraki!”

“I should count that as another miss, but you got the major concept correct.” He removes his fingers from your waist and yanks your ass toward him, keeping your overeager hips away from the fleeting relief of the sturdy table. “Pop your legs together,” he commands, one hand wrapping around your arched throat, squeezing until you obey. His other hand drops to that thatch of curls that rest between your quivering thighs and he gathers up your gossamer strands, rubbing against your clit for one hazy instant, sending a flash of spots across your vision.

“Mmm, now that’s a pretty sight. Good girl, don’t move,” he reminds you and you want to scream at him. Right before you can spit some frustrated vitriol out, he’s releasing your neck, his hands dropping from your skin and letting you fall back to the uneven surface below. Just before your chin contacts the wood, his hand is back in your hair, tugging you upward, holding you a few inches above the table. The sharp pain makes your scalp tingle and you unconsciously rut against the tempting heat that’s now plastered to your ass. He’s hard. You can feel the stiff bulge of his cock straining against the front of his dark jeans, pressing into the cleft of your posterior. 

“T-that’ can’t be comfortable,” you pant, twisting your head so you can look up at him from the curve of your shoulder.

“Oh? You worried about my cock?” he asks, his red eyes flashing down at you challengingly. You don’t bother giving him a verbal response, opting instead to grind your ass up, catching against the jut of his length, earning yourself a low groan. His lips curl when you repeat the motion and you realize you love watching that smug face of his drift into a look of tense pleasure. It makes his scar on his lip flush and those red eyes of his fall to a lazy half mast. He spies your arched brow and pleased grin and pushes himself off of you, leaving you alone and open on the table.   

“Keep pushing your luck. I’m more than happy to drop you back to a B.”

“What?” you scoff, teeth clinking together as you clench your jaw. “I didn’t move!”

“No, but you’re trying to take control of this and we can’t have that can we?” Shigaraki sneers. “Now, how shall I punish you?”

“P-punish me?” you stammer, a chill racing down your spine. 

“Ah, I know. This’ll really piss you off,” he twists from your strained gaze and walks back toward his desk. What? What the fuck does he mean? You can’t see him from this angle, not with the way your legs are stretched and back is lowered, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, your chin lifting upwards as you do your best to keep him in focus. 

Ugh. It’s no use. He’s slipped past your field of vision. 

Hearing is likely your best bet, so you shift your forehead back to the table and listen, straining your ears to pick up any morsel. Something opens and closes and you catch the sound of the wheels of his chair as they shift, squeaking across the floor, and the groaning of the springs when his weight is applied to the cheap leather. 

Okay, so he’s in his chair. Is he just gonna look at you? That’s not… wait… 

There’s a faint clicking sound. 

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar to your ears, but once the teeth slide over the last pull, you realize. It’s a zipper. 

Oh fuck. Is he going to jerk himself off? With a gasp, your head whips back around. He’s still positioned himself away from you, and you can only just make out the sounds that are accompanying the undoubted rise and fall of his fist. All you can see is a tiny sliver of his body, but you catch sight of the coiling muscles on his neck and you notice that his head is dipped forward, pearl white hair settling across the cut of his collarbone. The one red eye that meets yours is blazing and hungry, it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up.  

God, he’s staring at you, watching you, getting himself off as you’re half naked and bent over a desk in his office, fully subjugating yourself to his whims and fancies for the sake of your grade. 

Damn it, (Y/N). This should not be a fucking turn on. You should be disgusted, but the flush of slick that drips down your thigh says otherwise. 

He lets out a choked moan, picking up the pace of his hand, letting you hear the click and slip of his palm as it strokes up and down his cock. A shiver echoes up your spine and your hips seem to have a mind of their own, grinding your clenched thighs over the dip of the table, easing the clenching pulsations that your cunt is shuddering through you.

“Look at you, so desperate for my touch that you’re humping the fucking table. Such a dirty girl, and so disobedient. You’ve only answered a few of my questions correctly and yet your slutty little mouth and body keep pushing at me. Making me put you in your place. Let me ask you something, why should I go out of my way to fix your grade when you can’t even prove to me you understand the simplest concepts? 

Ah, here’s a thought. What if I told you I’ll wave the other requirements; no more readings, no more quizzes, but I won’t let you cum? What if I just get myself off? You’re putting on a such a good show for me! Why should I bother with seeing that you’re satisfied when that table seems to do the job for you? Sound good? Or would you like for me to come back over there and make you cum?”

“I–I don’t… I don’t want…” You can’t get the words out, your tongue feels leaden between your lips and you can’t think of anything but the steady itch that’s spreading from your clit. 

“Speak up,” Shigaraki demands, slowing his jerking fingers. The chair he’s sitting in groans as he leans forward, and his eyes wide as they take in the delicious sight that’s propped before him. “You don’t want to cum? Is that it? You’d like for me to get myself off and leave you there?”

“No!” you cry out, your fingers digging into the scuffed wood of the table. “I-I want you to make me cum.”

There’s a sharp clatter and you jump at the abrupt noise. It must be the chair you think, your heart pounding against your chest, waiting for Shigaraki’s next move. He only lets a few seconds drift by before he presses himself back to you. He leans his broad chest over your back, the front of his legs pushing against the back of yours. His exposed length is wedged firmly against the cleft of your ass and its tempting hardness makes you squirm under him, but he’s propelling you forward, pinning you against the rough wood, and you can only flail uselessly under his control. His lips skim over your neck and he bites into your skin, sucking and licking bruises as he inches closer to your pulse.  

You say his name pitifully, wantonly, and he lets out a shaky gasp. Something about your tone has shifted something within him and you can feel his cock swelling, dripping a rope of wet pre-cum down your shaking leg. 

He leans away, removing his sticky hardness from your ass. “Seems your priorities have shifted. You’re a little preoccupied right now, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice gravel scraping against your overwhelmed senses. You let out a weak moan and he snaps into action, his fingers pushing under your flattened stomach and tugging against the fabric that he finds. He yanks you upward, pulling your shirt up as he goes. His palms dip under your half lifted bra, and he cups at your breasts, massaging the rounded bulbs and plucking at your peaked nipples. Your head lolls back, and he sucks at your earlobe again, his breath warm and rasping as it passes by. 

“Hold still,” he commands. 

It’s not an easy position, this stretched upward arch that he’s forced you into, but it’s worth it when you feel his cock pushing between your tensed legs. He doesn’t thrust into you, opting to run his weeping tip against your slippery folds, pressing until his bulbous head is twitching against your pulsing clit. 

Goddamn it, you think as he stills, his lips smacking open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, it’s not enough. You wiggle your hips back and forth and he abruptly exerts a firm pressure against your windpipe, leaving you sputtering and gasping. “What’s wrong? Not happy with this? Do you think you deserve something more? Do you think you’ve earned that?” He shoves you back against the surface of the table, his broad chest following the plane of your back, trapping you under his heavy form. 

You’d replied, you know you must have, but you can’t hear yourself anymore, your attention attuned to the warm length that’s pressed against your shuddering folds. You’d likely thrown in a please for good measure because Shigaraki rewards you with a quick peck to your shivering neck and his thumb, swirling it around your clit, creating a cresting ache that leaves you mumbling incoherently, a thin line of drool slipping from your parted lips. As he keeps that faint osculation up, your fingernails scrape over the wood of the table, your feet lifting you onto your toes, curving your back, and shoving your leaking pussy into his open palm. 

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” Shigaraki says, a breathy desperation lingering around the edges of his rasping voice. “But it’s just not enough, right?” 

You nod, licking up some of the excess saliva that’s built under your heavy tongue and crane your head back at him. His eyes are the first thing you see. They’re wild, ravenous and glinting with a roughness that makes you whisper out a soft whine. Fuck. It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to want him this badly. Goddamn it. Now that he’s caught your gaze, he won’t let you look away, and he presses himself closer, his cock twitching and warm, the tip rubbing back and forth, keeping time with his circling thumb.

“You gonna fuck me, or not?” you finally ask, unsticking your lips and smirking up at his hardened face. 

“Tch. Don’t rush me,” he grumbles, removing his hand and teasing cock from your cunt, watching as your body convulses under him, your pussy quivering against the excess stimulation that he’s wrought over you. Your thighs burn, aching to break free from his control, to rub against that throb, that tingling that keeps shuddering outward.

“One more question,” he tells you, lifting his dripping thumb to his lips and sucking off the traces of your arousal. The sight of him licking his pink tongue over his gleaming knuckles almost makes you lose your balance, your arms shaking precariously under you. 

“A-another? Come on,” you pout, your eyes following the curve of his wicked lips, watching as his scar quirks upward, amused by your useless defiance. 

“Make you a deal, answer it correctly and I’ll give you my cock. Sound fair?”

“Ugh, whatever, just hurry up,” you snap, so impatient and turned on that you can hardly think. 

The tip of his cock presses against your sopping entrance, pushing forward just enough to part your dripping folds but stopping before he clears that first, tight ring of flesh. The promise of his dribbling tip makes you lose any semblance of self-control. You thrash under him, but he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“No! Don’t stop! Come on Sh-Shigaraki–Don’t be such a fucking–ah–” 

“Do you want this? Do you want my cock?” he growls, leaning over you, his fingers squeezing down, no doubt leaving bruises in the supple crest of your hips. 

“Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then you better answer. What are cytosines?”

“They… they’re n-nitrogenous base… fuck… base that pair… that pair with guanine during D-DNA replication… I–please, please, Shigaraki! Fuck me! I want your cock! Fuck me, fuck me!”

Thankfully, he either takes pity on you, or can’t control himself anymore, his hips surging forward, gliding his thick length into your cunt and snarling at the mind numbing heat that waits for him. He keeps driving upward until he bottoms out, sharp hipbones grinding against the plushness of your ass. 

He’s not gentle with you, no he’s animalistic and raw, his thrusts papping into you with a terrifying strength. You would have liked something slower, something that lets you enjoy each imperfection and dip that raced along his cock, but this, oh, this is an exception because this is perfect. It’s not what you want, but it is what you need. 

The heavy fullness that he’s stuffing you with leaves you breathless, but you somehow manage to gasp out a string of nonsensical praises each time he drives back into you, overwrought by his roughness. 

This coupling isn’t kind, isn’t right, and is not healthy, for either of you. No, not with the way he’s using your shivering body, distracted with slacking that euphoric thrum that’s making his cock pulse and swell inside you.

But fuck it feels good and you can’t help but tremble with delight. These intoxicating thrusts of his ram him up against something that’s buried deep inside you, and each time he hits it another star of bright pleasure races through you. The familiar coiling of release is steadily mounting with each rapid fire rut he gives you and if he could just, ah, there’s something that’s… no, fuck, it’s, it’s not going to work. It feels good, but it’s missing one vital ingredient, one thing that he’s neglected to pay attention to, to notice. 

Your clit needs to be tweaked and rolled, and right now it’s pulsing away against the table, beating a sad tattoo into the grainy wood. Oh well, you think, head fuzzy, lost in the euphoria of his powerful cants, grinding your ass into his hips as he digs into another teeth chattering thrust. He’ll likely finish soon, and you’ll probably need to get yourself off later. It’s not something new, and it’s not like he’s going to care enough to focus on that, on you. This whole thing has been about control, so there’s likely no room for your own pleasure.

“What’s wrong,” he gasps out, his fingers lifting from your hips to curl beside your turned head. 

“What? N-nothing–I–” you pant, eyes rolling back as he hits that spongy patch of nerves again. 

“Tch. Hold on,” he interrupts, his voice rasping and breathy. He pulls himself out of you with a grunt and yanks you upward, hauling you onto the tabletop and flipping you on your back, bending your stiffened legs and bracing your knees against his lean forearms. 

He holds you apart, spreading you open with his powerful hands. You can see him properly now, and the sight makes your breath catch against the back of your throat. Fuck, he looks good. 

His long white hair is draped across his bare shoulders and his eyes are blazing pits of hunger, devouring the sight of you with those red irises. His jaw is clenched, and he glares down at you from his imperious height, his nostrils flaring as he drags in a quick intake of air. To your shock, he gives you a little time to acclimate to this new position, opting to languidly step forward, letting his slippery cock head press and tease at the dip of your opening. But right when you think he’ll move again, he stops, his eyes roving over the lines of your face. 

His sudden stillness makes you peer quizzically up at him and you scoot closer, your feet lifting from the table. The movement snaps him out of his stupor and he grabs your ankles, roughly pinning you back down.

“Keep still,” he snarls through clenched teeth, that scar of his lifting. 

You nod mutely and he rewards your unquestioning obedience with another powerful thrust, sinking his swollen cock back into your waiting cunt. He lets out a sharp groan and grabs at your hips, jerking you forward, already drifting back into that all-consuming rhythm he’d started earlier. His ruts are a little slower from this angle but, in no time at all, that familiar ache pools in your core, stoking and building at an alarming rate. The driving force of his hips soon has you blinking back spots and distant stars, and this time he adds the all important pressure of his thumb, circling the finger pad over your clit and dragging a broken moan from your quivering lips. 

“So that’s what you needed. You close?” he grits out, his lips set in a curled scowl. He’s lost some of that early control, his hips stuttering as they connect with yours, his power lessening, cooling, as he looks for your release. 

“I–I think–oh fuck, do that again. Yes! Just–ah!”

He angles your hips upward and gives your clit another quick oscillation, pressing down until you’re gasping. “There you go. That felt good. You’re getting tighter,” he laughs, looming over you, shoving your heaving chest downward as he jerks your hips into him, forcing your body to do most of the motion, making your shoulder blades scrape across the uneven wood. “Cum for me. Fucking cum on my cock, (Y/N). Cum and I’ll give you your A, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

Your spine arches as you break around him, your cunt greedily pulling him deeper, slipping him past the barrier of your tender cervix and earning you a weak shout of praise from Shigaraki. Seconds later, he’s pulsing and twitching against your walls, the warm pooling of his cum filling you up and spilling down your spread thighs. 

His head drops to your shoulder and the rough skin of his forehead sticks to your sweat dampened flesh. For a long moment you’re both still, each of you struggling to catch your breath, luxuriating in the tingling sensation of release. 

“I fucking hate you, you know,” you gasp out, your arms circling his back, fingertips etching vague patterns over his neck and shoulders. 

“Ha,” he snorts, “I’ll have to remember that. Don’t worry (Y/N), I’ll pay you back for that little remark next time.”

“Oh? Next time?” you chuckle, moaning as he twists out of your hold and pulls his softening length out of you. 

“I’ll fail you on every assignment if you try to keep away,” he threatens, his eyes falling to the gaping mess that he’s left behind. You cross your legs, denying him the satisfaction of leering at your dripping pussy. 

“Fine. But next time, fuck me on something softer than a damn table.”

tags: @spicy-skull​, @xwildskullx​, @yixxes​, @ghstmthr​, @rekoii​, @diaouranask​, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love​, @libiraki​ <--- i’m coming for you. you’re gonna have to read for this, lady. so, uh, i’m officially noneconing you here. 

notes: you made it! this thing is a monster & i’m so sorry i can never stfu

[spacesealing]

It must be strange to the good people of this world, to see a ball-joint puppet wander through the fields, picking up stones and chunks of dirt and placing it in its pockets with vigor. It must be even stranger to hear the puppet speak, repeating questions about a portal, a space station, and a place with enough electrical energy to let it charge. It is very strange indeed, but Herta never really cared about how most people feel. Decorum was just a noun—courtesy, a concept. Even when she is at her most helpless, she doesn't find use in pleasantries. Ask, get an answer, then move on. Though her already-thin patience is wearing down. She's been here for a few system hours, yet no one seems to want to take her seriously.

Asking for help is a nuisance. Especially when one has as little regard for social standing as Herta. She doesn't really need people, though. It's not as though she couldn't get herself out. Had she the resources of the space station to aid her, she thinks she could have found her way back in less than a system hour. Unfortunately for her, all she has is her puppet and this vast expanse of unfamiliar land. And so she asks.

But it isn't so bad. People aside, Herta enjoys the change in scenery. The Blue was… well, blue, and the Space Station was always different shades of gray, but this place was teeming with a vibrant green. Forests stretch by the mile, swallowing its surroundings in a sea of leaves. The city she finds herself in, a place called "Sumeru," she's overheard, seemed less like the sprawling concrete and chrome metropoli of her realm and more like roots of a grand tree, each house blending organically into the environment. Had this puppet have any olfactory sensors, Herta imagines she would smell fresh grass and dewdrops. And a new place means tons of research potential. Already, she has filled her pockets with samples of the land. Stones, dirt, strange grasses and flowers that she finds particularly interesting. She's starting to run out of space—she's considering using her hat to store her finds instead.

Would that she could stay like this forever, collecting odds and ends to analyze once she returned to a lab. But that's precisely the problem, isn't it? Returning.

So Herta sighs. She wipes the soil off her hands, being extra prudent with the ball joints, and resumes her hunt for answers.

She spies a potential candidate easily enough. Already she could tell that this one was different from the others, though she's not adept enough to articulate how—was it their hat? She likes their hat.

"Hey. You there" Herta calls to the hat man, "Have you seen a portal around here? Semi-large, hole-y… portal-like? Probably up in the sky. If you don't—you probably don't—could you at least take me someplace interesting? Oh, and before you ask, I'm not a toy. I'm a puppet. Big difference."

@fuujinwanderer

do puppets dream of ball-jointed sheep?

[ herta & wanderer ]

[spanishskulduggery]

Hi, I'm the anon who wanted to learn some basic Spanish and I'm looking for grammars

♡♡♡

So my first recommendation is for www.studyspanish.com/grammar because they have a really good intro to the basics of pretty much all of the grammar (minus some more advanced things)

Also I would recommend: https://tildesites.bowdoin.edu/~eyepes/newgr/ats/

And I can't go over every single piece of grammar in Spanish but I will do a very bare bones overview of the major tenses/moods that you'll find in Spanish and a basic explanation of them

If you're a beginner a lot of this may go over your head until you're there but I'm not totally sure of anyone's level so!

Strap in everyone, it's a long post again and I'm going to explain like a solid 65% of the most important Spanish grammar concepts including tenses and moods, and even I think I need a read more for this one.

I didn't include things like concordancia "agreement (between nouns/adjectives)" and other fundamentals because I assume you probably are aware of those and so I'm focusing more on verbs and tenses/moods, but if you are a total beginner I'm more than happy to discuss the fundamentals in more depth

As always if anyone has any questions on anything I've mentioned here specifically, please let me know. I have no problem delving deeper into specific concepts but this is just a general overview of most of the big grammar concepts you're going to come across as you learn Spanish.

-

First things first, they don't totally teach you this in Spanish, you kind of just have to figure it out yourself or delve into it later on by yourself but there are tenses and moods. I mean they teach you that there are tenses, but they don't totally explain the idea behind tenses and moods and I think it helps to know them to keep them straight.

It's not required learning but it is helpful for overall concepts. It is required learning if you're going more into the linguistics side of things though, but practically speaking you don't really need to know what a mood is to use subjunctive, but I find it helps.

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What is a linguistic mood?

In Spanish a mood [modo or "mode"] refers to the ways in which grammar should be used. The moods encompass the tenses themselves.

There are three moods, and really you only need to worry about two.

There's the indicative, subjunctive, and the imperative.

Getting imperative out of the way real quick, it's commands. Commands are very easy to spot because they boil down to affirmative commands ["do it"] vs. negative commands ["don't do it"]. There are some things to mention with imperative but I'll do that towards the very end for miscellaneous grammar concepts

Indicative mood is hard to explain linguistically. It's honestly mostly defined as "not subjunctive or imperative". This is default explanation of things. Most of the tenses are indicative - present, preterite, imperfect, future, conditional.

Subjunctive mood is harder to explain but really important. It doesn't totally exist in English, at least not in a noticeable way so it's something that people really struggle with. Subjunctive mood is usually described as the mood you use for desires, wishes, polite requests, imposition of will, hypotheticals etc

You usually find that subjunctive is 1 of 2 things. It's usually either a kind of imposition of will, where it's one subject making a wish/request or imposition on another subject like quiero que hables "I want you to speak"....... or it's subjunctive clauses. Subjunctive clauses tend to be kinds of conditions, that something will happen once a condition is met; "until", "unless", "so that", "as long as", "provided that", "even if", "as if it were"... Those are kinds of subjunctive clauses.

Some subjunctive clauses make more sense than others for English speakers. It can be its own sort of topic.

...

A Tense on the other hand [tiempo or "time"] in Spanish refers to the time in which grammar is used.

A mood is used to explain the way in which Spanish gets used, but a tense determines if you're talking about it being past, present, or future... or something in between.

You can usually divide the tenses between past, present, or future. There are some "in-betweeners" which I'll mention in miscellaneous but in general it's like this:

Present [things happening now at this very moment] = Present Tense, Present Subjunctive

Past [things that happened or things started in the past (either completed actions or ones that may still be going on)] = Preterite, Imperfect, Imperfect Subjunctive

Future [things that will happen or have the ability to happen] = Future, Conditional, Future Subjunctive [*obsolete now mostly], Imperfect Subjunctive [sometimes] .......also ir + a + infinitivo expressions are somewhere between present tense and future, it's a thing, we'll get there

Again, tenses don't have much to do with the imperative mood because a true command is always "do it" or "don't do it" at that moment. If you're saying "I want them to do it" or "I wanted them to do it" that becomes subjunctive.

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Present

The present tense is probably the most important tense because it encompasses a lot of things and it isn't always talked about fully. Plus it's the tense you use the most.

The present tense as the name implies talks about things happening now. Most of your declarative statements are things happening in the present. "I am", "you have", "we are here", "it is blue", etc tend to be present tense

The other facets of present tense are what make it more important than most tenses. In present tense there are two other important functions: "continuous present" and "short-term future"

Continuous present is synonymous with the gerund/progressive forms which I'll talk about more below in miscellaneous. What continuous present means is that you may be translating it as the -ing forms in your head. For example: leo may be "I read" as a present tense declarative statement like leo mucho "I read a lot"... or it could be leo "I am reading" depending on context. It's very subtle but something like leo el libro could be "I read the book" OR "I am reading the book". If you knocked on someone's door you would hear ya voy "I'm coming (right away)"

With the gerund forms, you are specifically talking about something happening right at that moment. But it is a function of present tense as well. Both are correct, mostly synonymous, and useful in their own ways but I mention it because it isn't often mentioned

There also exists a facet of present tense that is understood as "short-term future". There exists the possibility to use present tense to talk about things you plan on doing shortly or things that will happen in the very near future. This is somewhat different than ir + a + infinitive forms since those can be in any tense. It's just something to be aware of.

Preterite

Preterite tense (also called simple past) is nice and easy. It exists only in the past tense and it's for completed actions.

The hallmark of preterite is that they're actions rather than descriptions, and often involve set time phrases like ayer "yesterday", antiayer/antier "the day before yesterday", anoche "last night" or they include things like times, dates, days, or implied time frames

Think of preterite as "I did it", no muss no fuss

Imperfect

Imperfect tense is all muss and fuss

In linguistic senses, "imperfect" means "not yet completed", or "not yet past". You see it used for description rather than concrete actions and so it is very commonly used for narration and description; telling time in the past, talking about something's appearance or moods, and uninterrupted actions

In the context of preterite vs imperfect the very basic (possibly too reductionist, even) is that the imperfect tense is often used to set up a situation while preterite marks the action that interrupts the setting

In other words; dormía y sonaba el teléfono "I was sleeping and the phone was ringing" is all imperfect and it seems to imply the sleep was not interrupted. Saying dormía y sonó el teléfono is a mix of preterite and imperfect "I was sleeping and the phone rang". It stops being description and marks an "interruption" and if I read that, I would assume either "I" woke up, or we're paying special attention to the fact that the phone rang, and that it's not just casual description

Just like present tense, imperfect tense can be used as "continuous past"... saying leía could be "I read" [past] or "I was reading" [past continuous]. You could also say leí "I read" for preterite, though that's a completed action. Saying leía "I read" sounds more like description to me

You will also find that imperfect tense is used for "used to" to describe habitual things. This can be done with the verb soler [which only really exists in present tense as "to be in the habit of" or in imperfect "used to"]. Imperfect is a simpler way but it is important to note.

So for example: iba a la playa could be "I went to the beach" [description], "I was going to the beach" [continuous", OR it could be "I used to go to the beach" [habit that may or may not continue]

You often see this "used to" with certain time phrases or something qualifying it like cuando era niño/a "when I was a kid" or something like that. It's just important to note because saying something like vivía en Londres could be "I lived in London" or "I used to live in London"... If you saw it as vivía en Londres cuando era joven "I lived in London when I was young(er)" is more specifically a "used to" sort of phrase.

Future

Future tense is exactly what it sounds like

Actions that will happen in a long-term setting. Things that WILL happen, that imply more certainty.

You'll also want to note that it means "shall" as well. It's less common in English to say that, but in older texts and especially the Bible you're going to see future tense like that... no matarás is "thou shalt not kill", literally "you will not kill"... same with no robarás "thou shalt not steal"

Depending on tone, you might see no volveré translated as "I will not return / I won't return" or "I shall not return / I shan't return". Future tense has a sense of finality to it, very much like preterite does in past.

In general I would say that the future tense is unremarkable and kinder to non-native speakers, but do note that there are Spanish speakers who sometimes use future tense the way English might use present tense; serás idiota for example is a way to say "you're an idiot" rather than eres idiota (present tense)

I would say think of that particular expression as "stating the obvious" or "it's a foregone conclusion"... I only mention it because in some countries, especially Spain, you will see future tense used like that sometimes

Present Subjunctive

Present subjunctive is subjunctive mood that takes place either in the present, or the short-term future. It carries that same continuous and short-term future vibe

Again, subjunctive typically works with a set of 2 clauses [that is, two different subjects and verbs] with an imposition of will in some way... or subjunctive clauses. These just happen to be in present

So for example; quieren que (yo) hable con ella "they want me to talk to her"... has two clauses [ellos/ellas quieren and then yo hable] with a kind of imposition of will

This is common for polite requests or someone giving orders; exige que hagamos la tarea "he/she demands we do the homework"

Subjunctive clauses in present are more straightforward once you know the clauses: sea lo que sea "whatever it is / whatever it may be", or para que sepas "so that you know", or antes (de) que te vayas "before you leave"

Conditional + Imperfect Subjunctive

These two are often taught together and for good reason

The conditional tense is indicative, but it talks about something that will happen... as long as a condition has been met. It can be a little harder to nail down, but in "if/then" statements, conditional is the "then"

Conditional talks about things in the future and that can make it difficult for English speakers because we use the same conjugations for multiple things.... podía hacerlo "I could do it" is imperfect so it's past, it means I had the ability to do it... and podría hacerlo "I could do it" is future, so it talks about something you do have the ability to do, but you haven't done it yet

Though I do need to say that "should" is usually either in present tense or conditional: debo decir "I should say" or "I must say"....

But then no debería haberlo dicho "I shouldn't have said that". That kind of should is very often conditional and that can be weird for people

The main thing to know is that conditional isn't unlikely or doubtful, it just hasn't happened yet... but it COULD.

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Imperfect subjunctive on the other hand is a very wide topic. What you need to know for this to make sense is that once upon a time in Spanish imperfect subjunctive was used for the past tense subjunctive [imperfect being "not yet complete", again]... and then you had a separate branch of subjunctive that was more future and that would have been your hypothetical situations and contrary to fact statements

Today the same tense pulls double duty so that's why it's a big topic

You'll see it for past tense subjunctive: querían que hablara con ella "they wanted me to speak with her"

But you'll also see it for more nebulous or doubtful futures. This is the kind of imperfect subjunctive that gets used with conditional tense.

In "if/then" statements, imperfect subjunctive is the "if". And that's what we mean by hypotheticals and "contrary to fact statements"

si fuera jefe/jefa "if I were the boss" is your if statement. I would call this contrary to fact. It implies "I" am not the boss

The "then" would be in conditional because you're talking about some condition being met... si fuere jefe/jefa, no lo haría "if I were the boss, I wouldn't do it"

Or, si tuviera dinero, viajaría en el extranjero "if I had the money, I would travel abroad". You can translate it as "if I were to have".

But don't hate on Spanish for doing this. English does it too. We say "if I was president" and "if I were president" and they both mean a contrary to fact future.

...Oh also I should mention that if you look up imperfect subjunctive conjugation you'll find two forms. So like you'll see hablara, hablaras, hablara, hablaran, habláramos... and you will see hablase, hablases, hablase, hablasen, hablásemos

Both conjugations are correct, but there's a lot of history involved in this that I can't totally get into without it being a big discussion.

Suffice it to say, it's historical, and Latin America tends to use the -ara and -iera forms for both. Spain makes more of a distinction, where they'll use -ara/-iera for past subjunctive, but use -ase/-iese more for the hypothetical subjunctive

So just as an example: both Spain and Latin America would say querían que lo hiciera "they wanted me to do it" because that's past subjunctive

But Latin America would say si tuviera dinero, compraría una casa "if I had money I would buy a house"...

And Spain would more often say si tuviese dinero, compraría una casa "if I had money I would buy a house"

Again, both are totally fine, but I personally don't use the -ase/-iese forms very much in my own life. I see and read them more than I use them myself, but I'm also in the United States and not Spain.

And that's your bare bones overview of the tenses and moods

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I'll also just include some other key miscellaneous grammatical concepts real quick:

Silent Subject (sujeto tácito)

This is very basic and not talked about often, but in English we're taught that we always need to put the pronouns in our sentences. It's always "I do this" and "you do that"

And that makes sense for us because our conjugations have less variation; "do" could be anyone

But in Spanish, it's not as common to include the subject because the subject is often implies by the verb. If hablo only exists for yo, and hablamos is always nosotros/nosotras... then mentioning the pronoun seems irrelevant because it was implied

However, habla and hablan are different; habla could be "him" or "her" or "it" or even usted. And hablan could be multiple people but is it ellos or ellas or ustedes?

It becomes more common to mention the subject if there's a chance you'll be misunderstood

The general rule is you mention your subject and the verb... and you continue on until your subject changes and then you mention a new subject so no one's confused

As an example; ella habla con Marco y siempre menciona sus amigos y familia, pero Marco no habla mucho sobre su vida personal "she talks to Marco and always mentions her friends and family, but Marco doesn't talk much about his personal life"

When it's obvious like yo [except in certain tenses], you rarely mention the subject. Saying something like yo hago la tarea, yo limpio la sala, yo leo el libro doesn't come across as "I do the homework, I clean the room, I read the book"...... it comes across as "I am the one who does the homework, I am the one who cleans the room, I am the one who reads the book"

When you mention the subject over and over when it's obvious it sounds either like bragging like "look at all the things I do aren't I great!", or it sounds like complaining "I'm the one who did this, I'm the one who did that, not you, it was me"

When it's obvious you tend to keep the subject out. But you can put it in when you want some emphasis! Such as yo mando aquí "I'm the one in charge here / I give the orders around here"... which is kind of like if you'd italicized or bolded the "I/I'm" there

Infinitives

Infinitives are the dictionary form of verbs, you probably know that already even if you didn't know what they were called

They're unconjugated so the show up ending in their -ar, -ir, or -er forms... hablar, vivir, comer for example

By themselves you read them like... hablar "to speak/talk"; that's what I mean by dictionary forms

When you come across multiple verbs together, one is conjugated and the other tends to be in either infinitive (or gerund but that's next)

So, quiero aprender "I want to learn", quiero nadar "I want to swim", or quiero aprender a nadar "I want to learn to swim" for example

Also be aware that infinitives can be used as the noun forms of verbs. That is, they are "the action or result of a verb". In English we tend to translate them as the progressive forms, but in Spanish the gerund is a verb conjugation implying motion or continuation

For example: errar es humano, perdonar es divino "to err is human, to forgive divine".

Or hablar es fácil pero escuchar me cuesta "speaking is easy but listening is difficult for me"

Gerund/Progressive

The gerund form (also called progressive) is the equivalent of the -ing forms in English

In Spanish they usually end in -ando, -iendo, sometimes -yendo, and there are a few weird ones here and there because of irregular verbs

They're different somewhat in that in Spanish, gerund is a form of motion or movement in some way, so we don't use them quite the same way that Spanish does - see above with infinitive

You're using this when you're specifically talking about something in the moment.

Very often you're going to see gerund forms either by themselves, or you'll see them with the verbs estar, ir, andar, seguir, continuar or some kind of verb of motion or continuation

As an example teniendo esto en cuenta "keeping that in mind"

Or... estoy aprendiendo "I am learning", voy aprendiendo "I'm learning" [as in "it's a process and I'm in the middle of it" or "I keep on learning and I am making progress"], or sigo aprendiendo "I'm still learning".

Additionally you can see infinitive and gerund used together in some cases: quiero seguir aprendiendo a nadar "I want to keep learning to swim"

Past Participles

The past participles are other conjugations of verbs

While the infinitive is the noun form of a verb, a participle is the adjectival form of a verb

These mostly end in either -ado or -ido... although there's a whole host of irregular ones that you need to memorize

By themselves they can be just straight up adjectives and can lead into the passive voice... or just used by themselves

dicho eso "that said / that being said" where dicho is the past participle of decir

Or something like limpiado "cleaned" is the past participle form of limpiar "to clean"; and you could say el suelo limpiado "the cleaned floor" or la ventana limpiada "the cleaned window"

Past participles lead straight into passive voice, or the perfect tenses

Perfect Tenses

Speaking of the perfect tenses, these are "tenses" that are sort of their own thing but they use forms of the verb haber + past participles

The perfect tense is like a time traveler. It can exist in any tense and any mood (minus imperative). It's function is to make everything just a little more past tense

Again, if "imperfect" means "not yet completed"... then "perfect" means "already completed", since it literally means "done thoroughly"

The perfect tenses make use of haber and you most frequently are going to see present perfect and the pluperfect [sometimes called pluscuamperfecto which is "more than perfect"... aka "past-er than past"]

These follow very closely with English.

he hablado is "I have spoken/talked" (present perfect), and había hablado is "I had spoken/talked" (pluperfect)

The goal of perfect tenses is to make everything a little bit past tense while still keeping the impact of it in the present which is why I say it's a time traveler.

Instead of hablé "I spoke" you're saying he hablado "I have spoken", which means that you're now reporting on what happened once you did it. Maybe you're saying "I've talked with them and this is how it happened" or "I've already talked to them and it made no difference". Either way you're reporting on a past event but it still has bearing on the present.

Pluperfect is the same just more past. You're using the imperfect form of haber + past participle and it's very common in 3rd person narration. This is something that someone "had done". It's still got some bearing on the present but the action took place further in the past

había hablado con él antes "I had spoken with him before" makes it sound like you're reaching further into the past, but you're still going to report on how it went

But like I said, they could be used in any tense or mood except imperative; si lo hubiera/hubiese sabido, no lo habría hecho "if I had known, I wouldn't have done it"

Indirect Commands

Indirect commands are the murky space between the subjunctive and imperative moods

It's very simple though. It's basically you're telling someone else to have something be done. Kind of like delegating a command.

que canten for example is "let them sing", but it could be translated as "sing" as a plural command... it's sort of like pointing to someone and being like "I want them to sing" or "go tell them to sing"

Indirect commands are more polite than regular commands. A command can be rather brusque and impolite, depending on how it's said or phrased. Indirect commands are just nicer.

Instead of hazlo "do it" you might soften it with que lo hagas "go ahead and do it"

Indirect commands can be more impersonal and distant however. They can be used as a more... patronizing tone almost? For example: que así sea is "so be it". Literally that's "let it be so"

"We" Commands

The "we" commands are technically imperative mood but I mention them separately because they show up a lot as "let's"

For example hablemos con ella "let's talk to her"

Or something like seamos amables "let's be nice"; no seamos crueles "let's not be cruel"

It's a less common type of command, where you're part of the nosotros group, but also issuing a command to everyone else in the nosotros group

Sometimes the "we" commands are done just with present tense, but there's always the option: nos vamos could be "we're going" but may be "let's go"... while vámonos is "let's go" specifically

Oh did I mention you can stick object pronouns and reflexives onto these? Because you definitely can; hagámoslo "let's do it" or hagámonoslo "let's do it (for ourselves)"

The next ones are bigger and more confusing so I'm just going to attach my tags and other things that might help if that's okay because they are important but they're big and confusing:

Active Voice vs. Passive Voice

Indirect Objects

Direct Objects

Reflexives / Pronomials Additional reflexive stuff Dativo ético which is very advanced and confusing but involves reflexives so I will include it but just be aware it's like advanced advanced stuff

This is also not including spelling changes for stem-changing verbs and verbs with certain endings like -car, -gar, -zar.

And I also didn't mention irregular verbs just in general so they're really that's more of a linguistic thing. I can just tell you some verbs are irregular and require memorization so you get the spelling right and so you sound smart

I also didn't include por and para because good lord that is a huge topic and very confusing for people so really just better for me to link to more info on it rather than try to explain it because it's hard to do briefly in a way that feels complete and makes sense

Also I didn't include different verbal expressions like tener expressions. Those are important but sort of separate grammar concepts in my mind. If you've studied other Romance Languages you probably have seen them and are familiar, but it's more of a translation thing because English speakers are more likely to say "I am hungry" rather than "I have hunger" for example.

[starshipsofstarlord]

Killer Inside

Pairing | Bucky Barnes / The Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary | As HYDRA’s weapon, Bucky Barnes has always felt used, but he was not the only Winter Soldier that felt this way. They look to one another for closure and comfort, only to lose it all once their brains go back in the blender.

Warnings | SMUT, unprotected sex, denied orgasm, angst, death, murder, a concussion, mention of abuse

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Soldat closed the door behind himself, the blood on his hands a normality for the pair of you. The scientist tilted your head once more, Bucky as you knew him frowning at the action.“What are you doing?” One thing that he had not been taught was to ask the handlers questions, but a part of him, deep down in his cold exterior was warm.

It was as thought the ice of his winter exterior was refrained by a crack; a singular flaw that set him apart from the newer soldiers that had been introduced within the gloomy base. There were a whole bunch of them, though, they seemed to prefer the originals, you and him. The majority of the time, neither one of you paid your dues to resist orders, or lash out at the surrounding agents.

At least, not in the same way as the newer breed. Though, they were much larger in mass, and had far more strength behind their pushes, which was evidential, considering the bruise that swallowed up the side of your face.

And the soldat cared, as little as he did, of was made to, he still valued you. The pair of you had experienced so much harm together, endured the needles that sled through the skin in a harmony, it had to have meant something. Whether that be because of your shared traumas, or the fact you were the same, it was not nothing. The image of the world’s most efficient assassins gave him something to hold onto.

It made him feel strong, even against the new batch of winter soldiers that had been introduced. They were out of control, disobeying the instructions that were imbedded in their heads. The two of you, though strong were so meek and small in comparison to the newcomers, they would toss you around like rag dolls, seeing you as nothing more than the enemy, when in reality, you were victims all the same.

“She’s got a concussion.” The scientist speculated, releasing his grip on you chin as you tried and failed to focus on the words that were fleeing from his mouth. It appeared that you were dazed, blown out of your body mentally from the nasty hit that you had taken whilst following your own orders. It involved protecting the scientists from the small and capable of army, and it was quite evident that you had endured a run in with them personally.

“Bucky.” You weren’t sure what the name meant, but it fell from your lips, a frown contorting your face as it was the only thing that made any sense, yet none at the same time. Or at least, you guessed that it was the labelling of a person, it felt like such as it vividly rolled from your tongue, and invaded the air.

There was a tenseness within the room after you spoke it, as though it were a forbidden hymn. And it probably was, from the dissolved way that you were eyes, as though you were revealing that you had gone through time, and time travelled, which you had, thanks to the concept of cryo.

The man examining you froze, and the soldat realised that you had struck some kind of nerve within your superior. It appeared that it was a word that you were forbade from uttering, one was both familiar and foriegn on your tongue.“Who the hell is Bucky?” He asked, but he had to learn, he was not in the placement, nor did he have the status to ask questions.

The person clothed in the white lab coat reached for a device that he used to communicate, and spoke into it. “They need to be wiped again.” At that, Bucky tilted his head, glaring at the man that had suggested that your memories been erased; the action had happened far too many times.

Yet this time, the winter soldier resisted the prospect, reaching out with his metal hand, and grasping onto the wired strands emitting from the doctor’s head. With the grip that he had obtained, the soldat pulled his neck back, only to push it forwards as he slammed his face into the corner of the desk, over and over again.

The sight had no immediate affect on you, instead you coldly viewed the uninstructed command that the soldier carried out, feeling nothing towards the blood that dropped upon the floor. Bucky knew that his time was limited, that name, which he assumed to be his own, and if those soldiers that were experiencing the whims of their ability could lose control, he sure as hell could too.

He needed to break free, so that he remembered who he truly was. Here, he was nothing more than a prime asset, and now, he released his grip on the man whose name he couldn’t remember, and allowed his body to drop from the chair lewdly to the concrete floor, a harsh thud clear as his lifeless body collapsed.

“Bucky?” You spoke again, this time in question, as you squinted at your well renowned comrade, and the way that you said it, Bucky was almost certain that the name belonged to him. For a long time, he had not even thought of what his real name may have been, all the executives of this organisation had names, and yet, he was stuck with the noun of ‘soldier’, as were you.

The metal armed knew that he was on the clock, the currently dead man had called in for an order to be carried out, the others would be here soon to carry out his firm request. And then, all would be blank once more, clean from any of this, the reminder of who he was gone in a split second. And that meant that you wouldn’t remember you either, and that the foundations of companionship that you had founded, would need to begin all over again.

As you remained confused, sitting upon the examination table with little clue that was going on around you, Bucky tenderly grasped your chin, watching as your eyes fluttered with contentment. He couldn’t keep up his resilience any longer, instead, pulling your face gently closer, and locking his lips wit yours.

It almost felt like a first kiss, it was messy, and there was a lot of overlapping. His hands raked down your sides, feeling the metal grid that kept your ribs upright, after the thing that lead you here happened. HYDRA had admittedly ruined the life you had once had, yet, now, against your non existent will, you were being treated like an abused dog. They had stolen you from the possible peaceful death and trained you to be nothing short of a killer.

Grasping onto the volume to the back of Bucky’s tactical gear, despite feeling slightly wavy in the head. You understood, the same as he did, that this would be the last piece of freedom that you would have the chance of seeing, under any context. This would also not be the first instance that you remembered giving into your carnal hunger for each other, but for some abrupt reason, it felt like the last.

It was an inevitable end, one that you were being sentenced to without so much as an argument from your side. There was no point in fighting back, for it always ended the same way, with your minds spun in that hellbent contraption, coming out as nothing more than an obedient slave, until the act had to be repeated. The cycle was never ending, there was no way out from the toxic lifestyle, it was what it was.

And thus, Bucky preached the bottoms off your legs, caring not about if he tore them, as he let them hang around the middle of your thighs. He stood closer between the section, doing some shuffling himself to relieve his hard cock from its strict confines, feeling a fluttering of pride swell in his chest as you looked down at his aroused appendage, and licked your lips.

The detail that there wasn’t enough room for foreplay within the gap of time that you were gifted was well apparent. You wanted nothing more than to come undone beneath the soldier in every single way that your body ceremoniously ached for, however, there just was not enough moments to spare, and instead, nothing more than penetration was offered on the table.

Wrapping his hand around his precum leaking cock, he stroked it a couple times whilst it was in his grip, before rubbing the desperate head around your exposed pussy. He could feel how wet you had become in such a short amount of minutes, and that factor seemed to do nothing more than fuel him further. And so, without a second though, he pushed into your entrance, giving you no time to adjust as his hips clashed with yours in colliding thrusts.

Animalistic and loud grunts escaped the soldier, for once, he was able to voice his pleasure, it wasn’t in the secrecy of the corner of the shower as he took you from behind, or in one of your bunks during the dead of night. He didn’t have to avoid being caught, because they were definitely on their way here anyways.

You didn’t hold back your noises either, gasping into Bucky’s open mouth as he rutted against you, causing a prominent squelching of your combined essences to fill the air. Not only was that prominent, but the room now reeked of sex, the hormones rolling off the starved pair of you in euphoric waves. His metal hand reached down, rolling your clit between his cold fingers, causing you to screech the name Bucky out into the air, loud enough for everyone within the compound to here.

“Cum y/n.” At that, the pair of you froze, staring into one another’s eyes as you took in the detail, prolonging the peak of your orgasm. It was undeniable, that was your name that he had just spoken in a breathy matrimony. The bar caused shock in both of you, but was quickly replaced as soldiers entered through the door.

Bucky couldn’t help himself, at their presence, he began to wildly thrust inside of you, trying to reach your edges before the pair of you were removed from each other’s lustful union. As one tried to peel him off you from the shoulder, he raised his hand to hit them from where he couldn’t see, and continued his administrations. He needed to empty inside of you, and complete this own personal mission of his.

You clung to him, trying to hide yet be stuck in his embrace, well aware of the men that were trying to separate the pair of you. The sounds of his skin upon yours, and his balls slapping against you reverberated around the room, only aiding you to come closer to your orgasm. “Bucky.” You moaned, almost reaching your climax, yet it was stolen from you, as a needle was injected in the back of Bucky’s neck, causing him to wobble for a moment, until he fell out of you, his dick flopping in the open from his forced exit.

You cowered at the sight, your walls clenching around nothing as you felt the emptiness. Though, there was not only an emptiness inside you, but there was one gleaming behind your eyes as you watched them hold the super soldier up, and drag him out of the room, not even having the decency to tuck him back inside of his trousers.

It was well assumed that you would be granted a similar treatment, and so, you did not fight as the dismissing injection was moved towards your pricked skin, welcoming the darkness that would accompany the side affects, but not the name that you would lose once they put you in that grand metal chair, and erased the slate of your mind for the unknown anniversary number.