#grammar is a social construct

[gluedwithgold]

Time for some LORE!

TLDR for those who don’t wanna read my wall of text: Leshy feels out of place among the old faith and believes the other bishops fear his power and don’t respect him so he makes his own cult. The others don’t like that and try to stop Leshy. Big fight ensues, four bishops injured, Leshy gets imprisoned, and the green crown gets lost in Darkwood.

Leshy, the youngest of bishops and newest edition to the Old Faith had always felt out of place- No. He KNEW he was the odd one out.

War, Pestilence, Death and Famine. They were the four horseman of the Apocalypses. They were a team. Just the four of them.

Originally, Leshy had thought the older bishops simply feared change. That they were stuck in their ways and with his domain being that of chaos, it had disrupted the balance the Old Faith had grown comfortable in .

But it was HIM they feared. They clearly feared the unpredictable powers of the green crown. They couldn't control him and it SCRAED them.

Shamura couldn't teach Leshy their traditions. Tradition was boring and Leshy wasn't one for the strict routine Shamura tried to enforce.

Narinder and Heket couldn't scare him into submission. Leshy had laughed at the idea of his older siblings trying to boss him around like he was one of their followers.

And Kallamar… We'll Kallamar had always been a coward through and through. The pathetic squid god would say what the others were too proud to admit.

There was no place for Leshy in their faith.

Since there was no place for him in the old faith, Leshy would just make his own faith! With a following of those who respected his domain. Then when his siblings saw how powerful he was they would HAVE to respect him.

Leshy isolated himself from his older siblings without warning and focused all of his efforts on making his own cult grow. The older bishops didn't pay any attention to this as they thought Leshy had finally gotten the message and was taking the teaching of the Old Faith seriously. Oh how wrong they were.

His following has always been much larger than his sibling's as Leshy was rather lax with the rules and his followers could usually do as they pleased. This made him more favorable among the mortals.

And as his following grew, so did his power.

It was only when followers started leaving the old faith to join Leshy did the other bishops realize what their youngest brother had been doing. They needed to put a stop to this before Leshy took his "New Faith" too far.

Attempting to confront Leshy was a horrible mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake.

This would be the first and hopefully last time any of the bishops would ever seen raw chaos magic in action as they witness the power of the green crown and for the first time see Leshy's eldritch form.

~~~ BATTLE AND AFTERMATH ~~~

-Kallamar was the first to be attacked by Leshy. Kali's ear's were permanently damaged by being too close to Leshy screaming while he transformed into his eldritch horror form. Kali was left deafened immediately after the attack. Leshy then flung Kali through the forest with his tail and chased a panicked Kallamar until their other siblings arrived. Kali chained the tail shortly after Heket managed to restrain Leshy for long enough.

After the battle, Kali's paranoia only grows as he believes Leshy is still watching him from the shadows. Now unable to hear, Kali is constantly looking over his shoulder and hold his weapons at the ready, much to the dismay of his followers who might get a blade pointed in their face. He does suffer from auditory hallucinations which only make the paranoia worse

-While attempting to muzzle Leshy, he grabbed Shamura in his mouth and burrowed violently through the ground until Narinder captured him. Shamura experience permanent head trauma from the attack which had also left them severely traumatized. They chained the upper body.

Shamura was left a shell of their former self. Not only from the brain damage but from the grief they feel over failing their youngest sibling. It was Shamura's job as the oldest and wisest bishop to teach their ways and they failed to reach Leshy. If they had only tried harder. Tried to understand how the chaos god saw their world. Shamura had the powers to stop any of this from happening and yet they still failed them all.

-Heket's throat was slashed open by one of Leshy's antlers while putting the collar shackle on him. This was the only attack from Leshy which was purely accidental. Heket was the first to successfully chain Leshy. She chained his neck.

Heket now has to speaks telepathically through her crown as she was muted by the attack and it pains her to try and speak. She was the sibling Leshy was closest too and his betrayal hit her hard. Was she too hard on the young god? Was she not hard enough? For the first time in her long life, Heket questions her choices. Her uncertainty manifests itself as unbridle rage as her iron grip over her cult only tightens.

-Narinder was the last bishop to arrive shortly after Shamura, he had gotten his left arm bitten off while attempting to restrain Leshy and rescue Shamura from the jaws of the rampaging worm. He chained the lower body.

After almost dying at the hands (mouth?) of Leshy, Nari has been struggling with the concept of his own mortality. The god of death himself being afraid of dying? How painfully ironic. Despite all this, Nari is the one to visit Leshy the most out of all of the siblings. The two of them, were never that close by any means but Nari will occasionally check in on the youngest god...

[desognthinking]

im fascinated what is tomb guardians au i am immediately imagining ava trying to get (very serious about her job) bea to talk to her (t4t aka tomb for tomb communication) like “it’s because you’re always on that damn guarding the tomb” and bea staring at her like “oh (relevant semi-religious curse word/deity invocation), i HAVE to fuck her”

Hi 😄  tomb guardians au is exactly that! except a little weirder, i think. Because they arent the guards stalking the graveyard they are the inhumanly stone-and-metal-but-not-really guardians themselves ☺️it's like what if beatrice had two heads and stood watch over the sealed, entombed heart of a bloodline. And ava was the new, terrible protector of a clan of craftsmen on a hilltop, buried with chambers of generations of their art. And what if they were necropolis neighbors 😳

This is one chunk previously posted and this shorter thing is set a little later, during the wedding mentioned in the first part. i think it kind of matches this ask pretty well 🥺:

Weddings are just like funerals: they’re never safe. The procession overflows from the courtyard at the mouth of the tombhouse, and nobody turns their attention to the other side of the hill. That's Ava’s job. Beatrice, perched carefully atop her roof in a long line of others she can vaguely make out, stretched across the rim of the hills, can see her sway and duck through kitestrings and tree-hung lanterns blowing in the wind as she keeps vigil. 

There’s fire, and an uncoordinated symphony of chattering accompanying music, and colored smoke that drifts up and drenches the air in pinks and yellows. The party had started at the Salviuses’ inner city tombhall, and then wound its way through the cobbled streets to settle here sometime around midday. Now the sun has cooled from its boil and the clouds are dissipating in streaks leaving swatches of color overtop the trees.

Celebration mixes with ceremony in equal parts, and Ava’s soaking it in, so she told Beatrice herself. Amidst the rush of activity at the Silvas’, she’d found her way over yesterday, dangling her human legs over a particularly stubborn branch that tipped over a brass gate, lurching under her weight towards brown grass.

“And, if you want,” she’d said quickly, “the view from atop our central mausoleum is incomparable.” Following the parched trajectory of Beatrice’s traitorous eyes, Ava had reached up to hurriedly smooth out the colorful combs that had erupted from her crown as she blurted out the offer. “You could see the dances up close.” 

She paused, as Beatrice reached out, at first hesitantly, then bravely, to gently still Ava’s hands from patting down the sharp, fiery crests. It’s okay.

(I like them.)

“We’re close enough that you could still keep a lookout for things over here.” 

Proximity, of course, was in truth the last thing that Beatrice feared would compromise her duty, and she knew that Ava knew it too. 

They sat in silence, not uncomfortably. Hot plumes, from where the days-long feast was being prepared in great earthen pots and pits on the rolling green surrounding the Silva walls, thinned out as they passed through the trees to Beatrice’s clearing. 

Whispers of stews, and meats, and spices. Beatrice felt, suddenly, terribly hungry.

“Will you ask again tomorrow?” she chanced, finally. 

Ava, bright and shocked and delighted, laughed. In her relief she nearly fell backwards off the branch, taking with her Beatrice, who had joined her on the tree.

Razor-edged fronds sprung up again from the top of her sun-warmed head. “Horrible”, she joked. 

Beatrice disagreed, and let her know.

Now, the sky is dampening, and the wedding party, in dribs and drabs, pauses to refill its cups and light its candles. In this twilight Beatrice lets herself turn to the west.

It is not easy to see, but the creature on the Silva house is there, beyond the clasp of woods, and when Beatrice meets its eyes its form unfolds in magnificent, menacing span and its unmistakable, jagged tail rises, quick and high, as in warning or challenge. 

From this far away, and half-hidden by foliage, it is impossible to make out the details of that bolted, harsh surface, but Beatrice knows how it feels under her palm, fluttering and leathery and spiny and warm, just as she knows by a glance the towering shape of the display and the exaggerated, daring, silly invitation that it extends across the space between their roofs. 

Ridiculous. 

Ava – terrifying as she extinguishes the numerous wraiths that have already sought to take advantage of the guardian transition, serious as the new caretaker of an artistic legacy, and an achingly, brilliantly quick learner of that uncommon dialect spoken by Beatrice’s house – lifts off her roof in a dramatic jump, and lands with a shaking thud that sends shivers through the ground all the way over. 

\

Help arrives so quickly that Beatrice knows said help is going to give her a hard time. 

“Mary,” she greets, relieved all the same. “Are you sure you don’t mind keeping watch?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Shannon's got it all handled back home,” Mary traces the perimeter easily, scanning the horizon in each direction and then feeling the hollows and convexities of the tombhouse in quick reappraisal. Beatrice stands aside as she smoothly pads across the surface of what she must have judged to be possible points of weakness, tests the robustness of a couple of Beatrice’s carefully constructed defenses, then nods, satisfied. 

A great-aunt, peeking out too to watch the celebrations, looks up, sees Mary, and waves. Mary sends her a bow. 

“You know, Bea, she’s right,” she hums, finally. ��It’s not too far away, and you’ve always been focused when out visiting.”

The bait is not particularly subtle, and Beatrice narrows her eyes. 

“I just don’t think it’s safe to reduce any protections during a celebration when everyone’s guards are down.” She busies herself with cleaning up the place, tightening the wards and doing some final redundant sweeps and checks. “It’d be easy for someone or something to slip through, especially with so many unfamiliar faces.”

“Mm. And you’d be distracted.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Sure.” Mary circles, then sits down, settling in and getting comfortable. She uncoils and reaches out to nudge Beatrice gently where she’s examining the shifts in some stones very conscientiously. “And I promise not to look over.”

“Mary.”

“What?” She shrugs, casually puts out a strong claw and kicks Beatrice firmly off the parapet. “Time to go-o.”

There’s a shower of stone fragments as Beatrice shakes and gathers herself to snap and snarl halfheartedly and harmlessly up at her from the ground. 

Mary looks over the edge and shakes her head, grinning. “Oh, baby girl,” she tsks, “Don’t tell me you need me to teach you how to fuck her.”

“Mary!”

Mary’s laughter echoes as Beatrice turns and steals into the darkness, necks hot with embarrassment. “Now hurry up, Beatrice,” her call seeps, howling, into the roots. It warps with the topography of the earth into something deep and old, sinking its frigid teeth into Beatrice’s bones. But the shape of the wind whipping past Beatrice’s ears is fond and teasing in its turbulence as she tears through the thicket. “Your poor girl’s waiting for you.”

[blood-orange-juice]

Starting to think that the use of "we" in academic texts is a form of bedside plural ("how are we today?").

[earlgraytay]

God, there really is nothing like 20s detective fiction to remind you that prejudice is a social construct.

You'll have a story with a crossdressing thief which is mildly transmisogynistic but completely devoid of modern vitriol; it literally comes off as "here is a fun oddity that lets me be Clever about French grammar"

And in the very next story you will learn fifteen different slurs for Italians

[transmutationisms]

grug need big breasted and wide hipped mother to bear and feed grug’s large children

ok im not like, calling you out here but i do think these types of jokes about 'cavemen' have long been based in racist & colonialist anthropological/ethnological notions of 'primitive' peoples who represent an unevolved, simplistic version of humanity & that includes the 'grug' thing on here and also every iteration of the 'broken caveman grammar' joke. and i think people perceive these jokes as acceptable because their idea of a 'caveman' is like, prehistoric peoples who have literally been dead for 50,000 years. but these sorts of comparisons and judgments of which people and social characteristics are 'civilised' or 'advanced', along with the idea that the uncivilised ones are funny or stupid or whatever, are very much still present in discursive constructions of indigenous peoples, colonised populations, racialised people, &c so i do actually think it's fucked that these jokes are still considered neutral and not harmful. but anyway i do understand the point you were making and yes that is how evolutionary psychology types talk about gender and try to essentialise reproductive roles. now like, unpack the implications of those academic discourses relying on the notion of a primitive prehistoric Male(TM) who is completely at the mercy of his own base biological instincts to reproduce/fuck, and how that relates to, again, current beliefs in hierarchies of 'civilisation' or 'social advancement' &c &c

[uceyliyahh]

Summary: You are just a distraction to me nothing more.

smut warning; it’ll come in the story randomly so PLEASE, PLEASE look out for it I’m not really good at writing ✍🏽 smuts but I’m improving at the moment.

warning contains: attempted suicide, toxic

word count: 3,857

Jey Uso x Remiyah

AWFUL GRAMMAR IM GETTING BETTER I SWEAR LOL.

comments, likes, repost are appreciated I would love the constructive feedback in what area I need to approve in. 🤍

ALSO! I don’t not want nobody stealing my fanfics or take it as theirs that will be an issue fasho so keep it cute respectfully.

I only own my OC along with the make up scenarios

this will be a four-to-five-part series hope y'all will like it trying something new. 💁🏽‍♀️

TAGS ⬇️ lmk if you wanna be tag 🏷️@pinkwithhearts @420days @jstarr86 @empressdede @angiedawn02 @biancasreign

@bebesobrielo @skyesthebomb @aikosilo @papireigns-05 @punksyeet @paigereeder @magnificentbouquetmusic @yana3sworld

@hunnidmilly @celesteheartsjey @charmed-dreamssss @fearlesschimera @partypoison00 @mselenalovebug @bloodlinesbabe93 @luvrsluxe @4milly @xbriexx @trippinsorrows @yyaktayak

DISTRACTION

Ø2

REMIYAH

It's been a couple of weeks since I last spoke to Jey. After going through his phone and seeing the messages exchanged with Jaida, I found it hard to shake off the thoughts. However, I realized that I need to redirect my focus towards my career and let go of something that was never meant to be.

He would often reach out, checking in to see if everything was alright or questioning why my texts had slowed down. I couldn't quite grasp why he was so concerned, especially since he was involved with someone else. I was seated in the catering area, enjoying my meal and scrolling through social media when I suddenly heard someone clear their throat. When I looked up, I was surprised to see it was Jimmy.

I offered him a subtle smile before saying, “Hey there, Big Jim! What’s going on?” as I set my phone down on the table.

Jimmy glanced over and asked, “Is this seat taken?” I quickly shook my head. “Nope, feel free to sit,” I replied. He settled in beside me, diving into his meal as I returned to my own tasks.

Jimmy truly felt like a big brother to me. He was always there to offer advice, even on matters I hadn’t considered before. I found myself unsure about whether to share my feelings regarding the situation between me and his brother.

While browsing my social media, I stumbled upon a story posted by Jey that piqued my curiosity. However, once I clicked on it, I immediately wished I hadn't. There he was, in his locker room, with Jaida—wasn't she supposed to be in NXT? A wave of emotion hit me, and I felt tears welling up as I set my phone aside, desperately trying to regain my composure. This didn’t go unnoticed by Jimmy, who quickly picked up on my distress.

"Are you alright, Miyah?" Jimmy inquired, noticing my gaze on him. I nodded in response, hoping to avoid drawing attention to the situation.

I stood up from my seat, my plate in hand, a weight settling in my chest as I realized that I should have stayed out of his affairs. It puzzled me why his story had such an impact on me, especially since I meant nothing to him. To him, I was merely a fleeting encounter, someone he could use and then move on from to pursue someone he truly desired.

I tossed my plate aside, barely registering Jimmy's calls. I needed solitude after that moment; I had never felt so utterly foolish for a man who clearly didn’t want me. As I made my way to the locker room, lost in my thoughts, I unexpectedly collided with someone.

As I glanced up, I realized it was Jaida, wearing that infuriating smirk that screamed ownership—he's mine, and he has no interest in you. I was left speechless, unsure of how to respond, until she finally broke the silence.

“You must be Remiyah right? The same person who thinks that she could be with my man? Tuh girl please,” Jaida spat as she brushed past me leaving me dumbfounded.

I reached my breaking point and chose to avoid returning to the locker room. Instead, I made my way to the garage where my car was parked, opting to stay there until it was time for my interviews.

I found myself in the car, tears streaming down my face, overwhelmed by a profound sense of loneliness. It felt utterly foolish to be in this position, unsure of how to navigate the situation. Running away wasn’t an option, but I certainly had the power to ignore him and keep my distance.

He might say what I want to hear if we ever discuss this, but ultimately, he'll just rush back to her, cozying up to her instead. I wish he would be that close to me, but I doubt I'll see that happen anytime soon.

As I wiped away my tears, a sudden knock on the window startled me. When I looked up, I saw Jimmy, his expression filled with concern. I let out a heavy sigh, contemplating whether I truly wanted to open up to him. After all, he would likely just defend his brother, as family tends to do.

As I unlocked the car, he slid into the passenger seat beside me, his worried expression immediately catching my attention. "I’m fine, Jim, I promise," I reassured him, crossing my arms to emphasize my sincerity.

As I unlocked the car, he slid into the passenger seat beside me, his worried expression immediately catching my attention. "I’m fine, Jim, I promise," I reassured him, crossing my arms to emphasize my sincerity.

"Miyah," he exclaimed, locking his gaze with mine. "I can see it in your eyes; something's bothering you. You wouldn't just walk away like that. What's happening?" I let out a heavy sigh, tilting my head back as I struggled to hold back the tears.

“Am I not good enough Jimmy?” I asked him which took him by surprise. “What do you mean? You’re good enough Miyah,”

"It seems that wasn't sufficient for your clueless brother," I mutter just loud enough for Jimmy to catch on. I hadn't gone into specifics about what was unfolding between me and his brother initially because it didn't seem important, but now it appears to have piqued his interest.

Jimmy let out a heavy sigh. "You both really need to have a conversation. Miyah, just express how you feel." But what good would that do? He’s with Jaida, and it would only lead to more embarrassment for me. What a brilliant idea…

Jimmy, there's really no reason to pursue that when he doesn't share the same feelings. I’d rather avoid the embarrassment that would come from it. I glanced at my phone and realized I needed to head back inside for the interview segment soon.

It’s possible that finding closure could help you both move on, but the real issue is that I struggle to distance myself from him. His sweet words and romantic gestures pull me in, only for me to feel foolish later. I sighed and turned to the mirror, determined to touch up my makeup and mask the tears I had just shed.

“That’s the issue Jim, I can’t leave him alone. He got me so fucking attached to him it’s killing me honestly makes me not want to show to work,” I vented to him.

As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, a sudden knock on the car window interrupted us. Both of us turned our heads, and to my dismay, there stood Jey—the last person I wanted to see.

As I rolled my eyes at him, Jimmy and I stepped out of the car together. I could see the frustration and confusion etched on his face, clearly questioning why Jimmy was with me. He glanced at his brother, silently indicating that he wanted to have a private conversation with me.

As Jimmy turned to leave, he wished me “good luck.” I responded with a slight smile as he disappeared back into the building. Now, it was just Jey and me, standing face to face in a heavy silence.

Before I could say something he cut me off, “the fuck is yo’ problem Miyah?” Here we go again with the blame game, which really gets under my skin. I rolled my eyes at him, crossing my arms defiantly.

“My fucking problem? My problem is you Jey that’s what the fuck is the problem,” I said.

He arched an eyebrow at me, crossing his arms over his chest in a mirror of my own stance. “Me? I’m the issue here?” Seriously, do I need to say it again? I’m not trying to sound like a stuck record.

I nudged him softly, making him lose his balance just a little.

“Yeah! Nigga you’re the fucking problem! Playing in my damn face like I’m so fucking doll!” I shouted at him feeling all of this pain and hurt inside of me.

Jey taught me a crucial lesson during our secret encounters: never raise your voice at him. Doing so doesn’t just provoke him; it fuels his desires. With his intense sex drive, he once gripped my throat, asserting dominance in a way that left me breathless. In that moment, I knew I was completely at his mercy.

“Lower your fucking tone when you speaking to me Remiyah,” he said in a raspy tone that sent waves down my spine.

“Fuck you Jey, I fucking hate you so much. treating me like shit….i fucking hate you…” I could feel myself crumbling in his presence, a sight he didn’t need to witness since he was indifferent to my struggles.

His expression clearly softened when he noticed the tears welling in my eyes, but that didn’t change the way he was treating me. If he truly didn’t want me, he could have simply walked away, and we could have avoided all of this heartache.

I tried to hold them together but my tears began to fall onto my cheeks, “I hate you, I fucking hate you!” I shouted pushing him and hitting his chest.

His grip on my throat tightened as he pinned me onto my car looking into my eyes deeply I could see the fire burning through his eyes. “Don’t fucking push it Miyah because you finna piss me off,” I scoffed at him was he fucking serious?

“What are we then Jey? Huh? I’m just some fuck buddy while you have yo’ bitch bullying me huh?” I forcefully pushed him away, spitting in the process as I yanked his hand from my throat. I was indifferent to whether I angered or frustrated him; I just had to express what was weighing on me.

“Remiyah I told you what it was when we start doing this and now yo’ ass caught feelings for me knowing I don’t want anything serious,” Jey said.

Damn that hurt like a bitch

Tears streamed down my face, smudging my makeup as I hastily wiped them away, shaking my head in frustration. "If I mean nothing to you, then let's just end this. I'm exhausted—mentally drained, to be honest. You and Jaida look so happy together, and maybe that's why you don't want anything serious with me. It's hard to ignore that," I said, my voice trembling as I noticed the shift in his expression.

I realized he was trying to control me into staying with him, but that was never going to work. I had reached my limit; I simply couldn’t endure this situation any longer.

He remained silent as I let out a frustrated sigh and walked by him. Suddenly, he seized me by the throat, pressing his lips against mine. I struggled to push him away, but his strength overpowered me. He intertwined his fingers with mine, intensifying the kiss that bound us together.

I would call myself a fool for falling for this.

His tongue danced within my mouth as he flung open the car door, pushing me into the back seat and slamming the door behind us. In an instant, his lips crashed against mine, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around his neck.

This was the control he had over me.

“Take this fucking shit off,” His voice had a richer, deeper quality than usual that completely captivated me.

I was in a missionary position with my legs bend towards my sides while he was drilling my shit in while I was trying to escape from this but he wasn’t haven’t it today, I had my eyes rolling in the back of my head touching on his tatted chest something that turned me on.

Jey was pounding me into the damn seat all of this pumped up anger that he had build up all because of me but did I give me a damn? No I didn’t even care how angry he was right now after all of the shit he had put me through—throughout this whole entire thing between us.

I was done with this and I was done with him.

“I fucking hate you,” I spat at him as he chuckled at me.

“You don’t hate me baby, you love me that’s why you actin’ like this but it’s okay I’ll fix it all up,” Jey grunted as he wrapped his hand around my throat giving me his deep, mean, strokes causing me to moan loudly.

Every single thrust that he had given me had me seeing stars I didn’t know what to do with myself when it comes to him I didn’t like this toxic dynamic between us, I pushed him by his stomach trying to slow down his movements I couldn’t handle it.

He leaned closer whispering nothing my nasty shit in my ear I began wrapping my arms around his muscular body tugging on his mullet letting my heart getting in the way whispering in his ear back.

Jey pressed his lips against my neck, claiming me as if I were his Luna. The truth was, I wasn’t his; someone else held that title, and it shattered me even more. “Tell me you love me, I need to hear it,” he urged. But how could I confess my feelings to someone who didn’t truly care? It wouldn’t make a difference.

Again my heart got in the way.

“I love you Jey, only you.” I moaned throwing my head into the seat feeling his dick hitting my cervix.

“Oh, fuck. mama you feel so fucking good.” he cooed at me as he continued to circle his hips into my g-spot.

I could feel all of this pressure building up causing me to dig my nails inside of his back while he hissed at the pain but didn’t mind knowing that he’s fucking me good like no other.

I couldn't believe I had allowed him to treat me this way, but love has a way of clouding judgment. Despite my feelings of foolishness, I was deeply in love with him. As he pulled his lips away from my neck, I could see the satisfaction in his eyes, admiring the marks he had left behind.

My walls clenched up against him moaning his name was like music to his ears, apologizing to him like an idiot, telling him that he was the only man that can get me like this something that he wanted to hear from my lips.

Jey thrusted his dick in and out of me deeply had me rolling my eyes in the back of my skull at this fucking point I could see him stealing glances down there watching it going in and out.

“This my pussy right? You won’t act out like that anymore baby?” Jey purred at me as I nodded my head.

But that’s not answer that he wanted out of me thrusting deep making me gasp loudly, “yess! I won’t do that anymore daddy! fuck!” I cried out.

Jey had a smirk on his face, “good, baby. You know your pretty ass ain’t goin’ anywhere,” I had tears coming down my face feeling like I wasn’t gaining any control of this situation like I did earlier.

My mind couldn’t even comprehend anything anymore felt like I needed to be rebooted at the way he was fucking me, his dick was gliding through my g-spot like crazy I felt more and more pressure building up.

I clenched on his dick some more as he placed his lips on mine trying to make me forget about the pleasurable pain that I was having right now, I could feel a knot coming down inside of my stomach signaling that I was about to cum within seconds.

Did that matter to him?

No

I could see that the windows were fogging up along with the car shaking violently due to his mean strokes that he was giving me at the moment feeling sweat dripping down on his body.

He kept thrusting deeper and deeper inside of my wet cunt as my mouth parted into an “o” effect still tongue kissing each other in the process.

"I understand you, mama; my love for you is unwavering, and you alone hold my heart." Yet, his words felt hollow, mere echoes of what I longed to hear. The realization that he didn’t truly mean them deepened the ache in my heart, making it all the more painful to hear those sentiments from him.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I desperately wished to believe in his love for me. The painful truth is that he never truly cared, and that realization is devastating. “I love you too, daddy fuck. I’m finna cum,” I muttered between the kiss.

I find myself in a vulnerable position, admitting my feelings for a man who seems to only turn to me when things go awry with his other relationship. It pains me to realize that my heart longs for a deeper connection, one where I can be his sole focus and not just a fallback option.

Maybe the dick was too good making me feed into my delusions of being in a serious relationship with him, maybe the way he spoils me rotten had me thinking he’ll love me, I was blind as damn bird to believe any of that.

“Make a mess on me baby, daddy’s gotchu,” that’s all it took was those few words coming from his mouth as I let out a loud moan coating his dick up with my milky cream while my body began to tremble underneath him as he continued to fuck the brains out of me.

“There you go mama, such a good girl for me,” Jey praises me while placing a kiss on my temple.

All you could hear were skins slapping against each other while the air was thickening around us smell like sweat and sex, I couldn’t say anything else letting tears flow down my face while he hid his face in my neck cursing underneath his breath.

His movements were becoming sloppier and slower within every thrust he had given he wanted me to feel him—all of him as a matter fact reminding me that I wasn’t going anywhere knowing that his dick got me feeling this way.

I felt his dick twitching inside of me as the car shook deeply, my mind my foggy at some point during all of this I tried to fought my negative thoughts and feelings on this matter but I couldn’t.

“Oh, shit. I’m finna nut baby girl, let daddy nut all in his pussy,” I didn’t respond to him just let him do it like he always did.

I wrapped my legs around his waist as he drilled into my gushy insides to the max determine to get his nut just like how I did, “Fuckkk, mama fuck,”

Jey thrust into me one last time as his warm seeds began shooting out like a volcano eruption into my walls filling me up good, hearing him letting out a deep groan at the sensation I arched my back letting it sink in for the moment.

He thrust himself into slowly making sure none of it was coming out of me and laid onto my chest hearing breathing up and down.

Jey finally withdrew after what felt like an eternity, leaving me yearning for his presence, a soft whimper escaping my lips at the sudden void. Yet, I was too lost in the moment to care. I could barely move my legs as I watched him slip into his sweats and that playful crop-top tee, his gaze locking onto mine.

I sat up straight, trying to put on my underwear and skirt while also fixing my hair. The car was completely silent; none of us spoke a word. I could sense his gaze on me, but I chose not to meet his eyes.

I reached a moment where I just wanted it all to be over. I realized I held no significance in his life, so what was the purpose of continuing? It felt foolish to think about driving my car off the road and disappearing forever.

I decided to break the uncomfortable silence, saying, “Feel free to head back inside; I’m heading home for the day,” as I made my way to the driver’s seat.

“What bout yo’ interview segment?”

I scoffed why did he care so much about that?

"Please, Jey, just give me some space. I really need to be alone right now. I can't handle any more questions." I'm feeling overwhelmed and hurt, and I just don't know how to process it all. I need this time to myself.

Jey stormed out of my car, slamming the door behind him. I couldn't care less about his attitude; my frustration with him far outweighed any annoyance he felt toward me. I fired up the engine and pulled out of the garage, determined to leave the tension behind.

I was at a loss for where to turn. Returning to my hotel room was not an option; that was the very place he would track me down, attempting to persuade me to continue this friends with benefits arrangement. I simply couldn’t entertain that idea any longer.

I pressed down on the gas, tears streaming down my cheeks as they splattered against the steering wheel. I felt utterly foolish, believing that someone like him could ever love me. After all, Jaida was stunning—light-skinned and curvy, exactly the type he was drawn to.

In every relationship I've had, I always felt inadequate, as if I was never enough. Time and again, I found myself betrayed, with partners choosing others who seemed far superior to me. Now, here I was once more, caught in a familiar cycle. My heart raced, adrenaline coursing through me as I sped down the street, grappling with the weight of it all.

My sight blurred, and I lost track of my direction as I sped through red lights, narrowly avoiding collisions with other cars. In that moment, I felt indifferent to it all; I just wanted to escape this place.

Was this dumb to kill myself over a man?

Yes.

Did I care?

No

I had given up on the idea of finding a man who would truly love me for who I am, flaws and all. I longed for someone who would reassure me that I was enough just as I am. Instead, I found myself lost in thought, driving aimlessly until I crashed my car into a tree, leaving me breathless and defeated.

I could sense the world around me swirling as blood trickled down my face, realizing that I had likely broken my nose in the process.

Maybe a broken rib or two.

The final sound that reached my ears was the blaring of my car alarm, accompanied by the rush of people approaching to check on me. They were urging someone to call for an ambulance, a request I desperately wished to avoid. In that moment, all I wanted was to escape the pain, to be free from this life rather than to continue living.

Never feeling like I could be enough in this world.

Not even for a man like Jey Uso himself.

In that moment, darkness enveloped me, and silence reigned, as I clung to the hope that my wish would be granted. I yearned for the chance to find happiness once more, perhaps in a place beyond the clouds, where joy awaited me.

I hope you’re happy.

A/n: honestly feel bad for Remiyah she doesn’t deserve all of that, hopefully she’ll gets better in the end and Jey is probably going to hear about this.

But I hope yall enjoy this part lmk in the comments below.

STAY UCEY.

1.

[pokemonshelterstories]

Have you heard the studies about Koko the Slaking? I grew up thinking they could teach a Pokemon how to talk, but recently I saw in Mewtuve a video explaining that it was just anthropomorphism and pattern recognition. What are your thoughts???

koko had a very...complicated situation. the short answer is no, koko the slaking did not learn how to speak in sign language.

almost all pokemon have, to some extent, an ability to make word associations. it's what allows us to battle alongside them successfully. some pokemon are better wired to understand human language than others. for example, ninetales' inherent psychic abilities allow it to better process human speech (studies have shown that they can understand a greater complexity of modifiers than most pokemon), and a captive chatot was able to combine words together into phrases with a very rudimentary "grammar."

slaking is unfortunately not one of those pokemon. typically, the pokemon that tend to respond best to human language experiments are the ones that have complex social structures that slaking really just lack. the only time you'll really see them together in the wild is when they're tolerating each other's presence in the fruit season. they aren't cognitively wired for complex communication because it's not particularly helpful to them.

in koko's case, i don't doubt that she was able to replicate some signs and understand some basic word associations. but it also seems that she used sign language in a fairly arbitrary way, with no indication that she understood how to construct a meaningful sentence. there's also the issue that, because slaking's movements are so slow, her interpretors would sometimes read into movements because they were anticipating certain responses.

honestly, koko's situation was tragic in a lot of ways, and unfortunately misinformation about her has done a lot ot damage to the public understanding of how pokemon communicate.

[fatehbaz]

Who gets to be human? On Black geographies, damned people living in inhospitable places, other ways of knowing and being, and racist legacy of European academic epistemologies.

---

---

The idea of the plantation is migratory. [...] Past colonial encounters created material and imaginative geographies that reified global segregations through “damning” the spaces long occupied by Man's human others. Here, damning can be understood in two interlocking ways: as a fencing in and as a condemnation of racial-sexual difference. The uninhabitable - in particular, the landmasses occupied by those who, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, were unimaginable, both spatially and corporeally - is the geographic (non)location through which the plantation emerged. From Caliban's “uninhabited” island in Shakespeare's The Tempest, to the regions within Africa identified as too hot to be livable, the landmasses deemed uninhabitable presented a geographic predicament upon “discovery.” [...] [A] "new symbolic construct of race," which coincided with post-1492 colonial arrangements, organized much of the world according to a racial logic. [...] The colonial enactment of geographic knowledge mapped “a normal way of life” through measuring different degrees of humanness and attaching different versions of the human to different places. […] [I]n the sites of toxicity, environmental decay, pollution […] inhabited by impoverished communities […] the [current] geographies of the racial other are emptied out of life precisely because the historical constitution of these geographies has cast them as lands of no one. So in our present moment, some live in the unlivable, and to live in the unlivable condemns the geographies of marginalized to death over and over again. Life, then, is extracted from particular regions […]. If we believe that the city [the prison, the resort, other "postcolonial spaces"] is the commercial expression of the plantation and its marginalized masses, and that the plantation is a persistent but ugly blueprint of our contemporary spatial troubles, Wynter's essay asks that we seek out secretive histories […]. [R]acial violence haunts, [...] the struggles we face, intellectually, are a continuation of plantation narratives that dichotimize geographies into us/them and hide secretive histories that undo the teleological [...] underpinnings of [colonial, imperial, modern] spatiality.

Text by: Katherine McKittrick. “Plantation Futures.” Small Axe, Volume 17, Number 3, November 2013 (No. 42), pages 1-15. [Emphasis mine.]

---

---

Registering the marine world as central to the making of modernity - from slave ships and sea-borne empires to container logistics and the industrialized extraction of its resources (from fish to fossil fuels) - we encounter the constant of colonialism in the haunting racism that produces the violent grammar of inhospitality, today etched on the body of the contemporary migrant. [...] This is to interrupt and rework Occidental historiography, sociology, and philosophy, and to puncture their faith in rendering the world transparent to their will. […] Promoting the instability of critical language is to take responsibility for what Achille Mbembe calls the becoming-black of the world: where the production of subjection provokes alternative knowledge, practices, and politics […]. Today the increasing use of drones in the Mediterranean as part of the technology of governance marks the latest abandonment of social responsibility to the bio-surveillance of unwanted bodies and discarded lives. Smart borders take migrants far below the category of “bare life,” [...] and extends the racial profiling written into the historical premises that betray their deep incubation in the refusal to register the languages and limits of the white myths [...]. From the Black Atlantic to the Black Mediterranean: seas of dispossession and unbelonging have constantly demonstrated the political, juridical, and onto-epistemological limits of modernity. They promote a constant critique of the epistemic foundations of Western [colonial "liberalism"]. Those on the water, the wretched of the sea, the damned [...], who cannot source their identity in the territory of the nation-state, are without rights. They have no social [...] validity. [...] Yet they simultaneously [...] exist, persist, and resist. [...] The algorithm sputters in the dark while cut-up, bricolage, collage, and montage work the critical gaps [...]. The archives unwind to expose other computations of time and further folds in space: the promise of foreign cartographies [...].

Text by: Iain Chambers. A section by Chambers in the essay co-authored by Tiziana Terranova and Iain Chambers. “Technology, Postcoloniality, and the Mediterranean.” e-flux Journal Issue #123. December 2021. [Emphasis mine.]

---

---

[T]he framing of the inhumanities forces a reckoning with the humanist liberal subject that orders the humanities: an invisible and indivisible white subject position [...]. In Césaire’s (2000 [1972]) Discourse on Colonialism, he suggested that “at the very time when it most often mouths the word, the West has never been further from being able to live a true humanism [...]”. In another searing critique of [White, European, liberal/colonial] humanism, Fanon (1961) tied the unrealized figure of a true humanism to the earth, as a wretched counterpoint, whereby the inhuman residues of the colonial project abide as discarded matter […]. Those blackened colonial afterlives in “modernity’s project of unfreedom” (Walcott 2014, 94) are still very much present in the political geologies of climate change vulnerabilities, the wasting effects of racial capitalism, and neo-extractivist economies […]. The narrative arc of humanism, Scott (2000) suggested in conversation with Wynter, is often told as a kind of European coming-of-age story. […] The Anthropocene discourse follows the same coming-of-age humanist script [...]. Sylvia Wynter, W.E.B. DuBois, and Achille Mbembe all showed how that genealogy of man [as universal concept] was underscored by the racial division of life and nonlife. […] In its simplest iteration, there are forms of life on one side and nonlife on the other; nonlife that is constituted through death, and more recently in Mbembe and Povinelli’s writing through forms of social death, exhaustion, and extinguishment, wherein nonlife emerges as a zone of governance. The gravitational pull that centers these divisions between life and nonlife is the human subject as it is conceived through a Western normative frame [...]. As new forms of racialized beings were articulated through sixteenth- through nineteenth-century paleontology in the context of colonialism, geology was also articulating new origins of the earth, as well as forming the material praxis of their rearrangement (through mining, ecological rearrangements and extractions, and forms of geologic displacements such as plantations, dams, fertilizers, crops, and introduction of “alien” animals). [...] Historically, this normative sphere of humanism was racist and specifically antiblack, and without challenging that history, it remains so, every time the universal or human is invoked. Some of the greatest challenges, of course, came from anticolonial thinkers struggling to make sense of their painful histories in their fullest terms, such as Fanon (1959, 1961), Césaire, Glissant, C. L. R. James and Wynter. As Wynter (2000) commented, “The degradation of concrete humans, that was/is the price of empire, of the kind of humanism that underlies it” (154). For Wynter (2000), “what is called the West [...] begins with the founding of post-1492 Caribbean” (152). Wynter challenged the geographical imaginary that the Americas and Caribbean are somehow an epistemological outside to Western knowledge […].

Text by: Kathryn Yusoff. “The Inhumanities.” Annals of the American Association of Geographers, Volume 11, Issue 3. November 2020. [Emphasis mine.]

---

---

But what becomes of the native-occupied “uninhabitable” zones is a geo-racial reorganization. The “new symbolic construct of race,” which coincided with post-1492 colonial arrangements, was spatially organized according to a new […] logic. […] That is, the uninhabitable […] is underscored by racial and sexual differences. To transform the [land] […], and make this transformation profitable, the land must become a site of racial-sexual regulation, a geography that maps “a normal way of life” […] This is expressed through uneven geographies: spatial arrangements [...]. The inhabitability [...] also produces [...] forms of geographic nonexistence, which differ from what was assumed was "not there." [...] [W]hat Edouard Glissant describes as the "real but long unnoticed" places [...]: cultural sharings, new poetics, new ways of being [...]. Those who occupy the spaces of Otherness are always already encountering space and therefore articulate how genres or modes of humanness are intimately connected to where we/they are ontologically as well as geographically. To return to an earlier discussion, spaces of Otherness are “palpitating with life.” [...]

Text by: Katherine McKittrick. “Demonic Grounds: Sylvia Wynter.” Demonic Grounds: Black Women and The Cartographies of Struggle. 2006. [Emphasis mine.]

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

Just had the wild realisation that I can write whatever I want here. This is a thing that I am allowed to do. I can scream into the void. I don't have to tag my posts. Grammar is a social construct. It doesn't matter who's listening. The people I love and who love me will talk to me posts or no posts. Someone's going to read this and smile. Even if it's just me.

I can watch only the finales of shows to see their happy endings. I can eat cornflakes in the afternoon. I can go into bookstores just to creepily stare at the hardcovers of Victorian literature. I can write meticulous notes for subjects I'm not studying, and highlight it to Pinterest perfection. I can tell people I want to bite them out of sheer love. I can write long emails to my friends about weird slippers that remind me of them.

I can tell you that it's been a hot year, the hottest one to date, and that April hasn't seen a single drop of rain fall onto the earth. But it's hanging in the air, making it heavy with moisture and that relentless, relentless heat. It's muggy and the swamp theme I chose for my bullet journal couldn't be more appropriate. I can tell you how I keep singing that song in my head, Corner Of My Sky, the one whose music video has Michael Sheen wrangling with an occult toaster. "The rain, the rain, the rain, thank god the rain."

I can tell you anything I like. I can tell you that I'm afraid of being forgotten, that I've always longed to be famous, that I have a hard time not caring about every single little thing. I can tell you that I'm ace and I'm afraid that no one will ever love me the way I need them too, even if I love them the way that they need me to. I can tell you the nightmares have gotten better, but they're still there, they don't seem to want to leave me. I can tell you that I'm so much more ill and broken than I dare think about. Because I am afraid that if I start thinking about it, I shan't stop, and then it will become everything. And I don't want it to be everything. I can tell you that. I can tell you that I have beautiful memories, too, not just the fear and the loss and the anger.

I can tell you that I'm a performer, an entertainer, and I love making people laugh. I'm more comfortable on stage, where people are already listening, than trying to go up and make conversation to groups of strangers. I can tell you how wonderful it feels to have been able to speak to so many people all around the world, to have them know me, to listen to me, and to listen to them in turn. I can tell you that I don't know where to draw the line sometimes, I'm never entirely sure when I'm joking, and the act easily becomes a second skin. I can tell you all of that.

I can tell you all the things that I used to tell myself in letters sealed in envelopes addressed to Future Me. And it won't matter, and it does matter, and it's all so fucking absurd. It doesn't make any sense at all. Does it? I don't know. I can tell you that I don't know very much at all. Knock knock. Who's there? No one. No one who? No one who matters. Knock knock. I haven't been able to walk around for a month. This room is an oven and I'm being slow-cooked, broiled into a little Asmi pie. I read fanfiction yesterday after a long while. That was nice. I think it's really cool that you all know me. You do know me. Sometimes better than I know myself. I can tell you that.

I can tell you the truth. I can tell you I love you. And that to be seen and to be known is a gift that I will always be grateful for. I can tell you that you don't have to listen. But if you do, then hi! Nothing makes sense. Let's sit in the nonsense for a while. I have biscuits. Would you like one? I'm very human. It's one of the things that gets me so easily hurt. Maybe it happens to you too. I can tell you that my plant Crowley is surviving, unlike the others did. I can tell you that maybe you and I are, too.

It's 8:02 in the morning. I might just eat breakfast now. It does seem like the thing to do. How weird and wonderful that is.

[goosewriting]

Worth the trouble (rottmnt Leo/Donnie x reader)

scenario 16: (Leo) B sitting/standing behind A and leaning into them as they show/teach them how to do something. prompt 44: (Leo) “Why are you staring at me?” “Because I think you’re beautiful.” prompt 19: (Donnie) “You’re bleeding.” “No kidding.”

summary: reader gets into a fight for a rare figurine and arrives all scratched up at the lair.

relationship: Rise!Leo & Donnie x GN reader (separate)

warnings: mention of blood

word count: 1.1k

A/N: thank you sm for the redo of the request <3 hope you’ll like it! also this one’s in headcanons format because it’s a shared scenario/set-up!

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

— — —

For once in your life you felt like the social media algorithm was working in your favour as you got the ad for a rare limited edition vintage Lou Jitsu figure being sold at your local nerd store. You were scrolling through your feed like usual and almost choked on your snack when you saw it, and immediately got ready to leave your house. You would get that figure for your boyfriend, no matter what.

Once you got to the store however, you noticed the huge line. Luckily most of the people were there for other rare items that had just been restocked. You were pretty sure that the Lou Jitsu franchise had never been so big as for someone to come and try to snatch the precious figure away. You inwardly apologise to Splinter at the thought; if it hadn’t been for the turtles, you wouldn’t even know who Lou Jitsu was in the first place.

As it turned out, you were wrong though. The moment you laid eyes on the box on the shelves, you beelined towards it. To your surprise, just as you reached out towards it, another pair of hands mirrored you. You looked up to the stranger, about to counter them with a polite ‘I saw it first’ but the frown on their face made it clear that you wouldn't get out of this without a fight.

Now usually you’re not one to get physically violent; you leave that to the turtles, as they have actually been properly trained. That day was the first time in a very long time you threw some actual punches. The store staff didn’t seem bothered by it at all. In fact there were more than a handful of rowdy customers storming the merchandise and fighting each other.

You did land one punch to their jaw, but not without getting one to your face first. The important thing was: you ended up victorious. 

Hurrying to the register, you checked out and even got the box wrapped as a gift with a little bow and everything. The people on the street gave you some strange looks but you decided to ignore them, instead heading directly towards the lair. You just couldn't wait to see your favourite turtle’s reaction to your gift.

🔵 Leo

When you arrived at the lair, Leo’s smile immediately transformed into a frown.

He was obviously worried.

Because you have a black eye.

You tell him about what happened.

And on one side he was like: You did that? For me? 🥺

He was super happy about your gift.

Leo lifted you up in a hug and spinned you around a couple of times.

He couldn't wait to show his brothers and his dad.

On the other side he was like “I gotta teach you how to properly counter and defend”.

You pointed out that if he was gonna teach you to fight, might as well teach you to use katanas.

Since you found them very cool.

He got all smug at that obviously.

Asking you several times which part you find the coolest and don't you just swoon when you see him kicking butt etc.

You agreed to all of it, genuinely.

In the end he decided to actually teach you.

You were both in the dojo as Leo explained the basics of his katanas, adjusting your grip on them and having you hold them in different positions so you’d get a feel for their weight.

When he corrected your stance, he stood behind you and you could feel the warmth radiating off of him onto your back, which had you blushing and he knew it. Leo isn't shy about lingering touches that he played off as corrections but he was clearly trying to fluster you. He sneaked in a kiss or two as well.

Once you got the stances down more or less, he took a couple of steps back, having you repeat some movements with the blades, both defence and offence. Then he just looked at you, kinda lost in thought.

You were expecting him to correct you or make remarks about your stance, but he was just silent.

“Why are you staring at me?” you laughed, slightly embarrassed at the way his eyes roamed over you incessantly.

“Because I think you’re beautiful,” he said with a genuine smile. 

A furious blush spread on your face, and you almost let the katanas fall to the ground as your heart skipped several beats. 

🟣 Donnie

The adrenaline of the fight at the store and the excitement of bringing your gift had you unaware of your state.

But just as you were entering the lair you started feeling some stinging at the corner of your mouth.

You wiped over it, expecting it to be bruised.

But instead you felt something damp and warm.

Now you understood the looks you had gotten on the street.

You went directly to the lab, knowing you'd find Donnie there.

When you greeted him he looked up from his work, and for a split second he grimaced when he took your face.

“You’re bleeding,” he remarked.

“No kidding,” you deadpanned.

He asked what happened as he cleaned the wound.

You explained all you had to go through to get a certain object.

He asked what could possibly be worth all the trouble.

When you took out the wrapped box and passed it to him, at first he had a questioning look on his face, his drawn eyebrows rising in surprise. “For me?” he was quietly asking, as your gesture took him off-guard. 

Donnie felt a bit conflicted, knowing that you got hurt because of him indirectly. But you reassured him it was nothing and you hoped he'd like it. So he took the box cautiously, not sure what to expect. When he opened it up, you could see the roller coaster of emotions that went through  his eyes and you smiled victoriously to yourself.

The turtle thanked you, bringing you in for a hug and telling you how much he loved it, and that he couldn't wait to rub it in his brothers’ faces that he had this, and that you got it for him. 

“You’re the best partner ever,” he muttered into your shoulder as he hugged you again, and you smiled with a hum at his comment, softly swaying from side to side in his arms. He didn't let go immediately, though, so you stopped moving, holding onto him a little tighter.

“You really shouldn't go so far as to getting hurt like this for me,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Oh please, I can take a punch or two,” you retorted, pulling back to look at him and placing a quick kiss on his cheek. “Besides, you're worth it.”

At that, Donnie hugged you even tighter, and you let him hold you as long as he needed. 

~~~~~

🐥 taglist: [more info in my pinned post!] @hearteyedracoon, @maribatshipper, @whygz, @lovelylovelydreams, @o0-starboy-0o, @xnorthstar3x, @yarabutterfly, @theoriginalmintyyyshake, @dybynyght, @lieutenantlashfaz, @galaxtic-writings, @mountain-wire, @koalaray

[haggishlyhagging]

The dichotomy between what lies inside or outside of a dwelling, and its linguistic effects, appear clearly in Jespersen's discussion of language "conflict," a situation in which speakers are bilingual. What he said about German and Scandinavian immigrants in the u.s. and the Basques of the Pyrenées is interesting for its description as well as its substance.

A difference between the language spoken by men and that spoken by women is seen in many countries where two languages are struggling for supremacy in a peaceful way—thus without any question of one nation exterminating the other or the male part of it. Among German and Scandinavian immigrants in America the men mix much more with the English-speaking population, and therefore have better opportunities, and also more occasion, to learn English than their wives, who remain more within doors. It is exactly the same among the Basques, where the school, the military service and daily business relations contribute to the extinction of Basque in favour of French, and where these factors operate much more strongly on the male than on the female population: there are families in which the wife talks Basque, while the husband does not even understand Basque and does not allow his children to learn it. [My emphases] (241)

What is being "exterminated" in such situations is whatever belongs to the women's domain; whatever is locked inside, what is not taken outside—in this case native language and culture—dies, unless extraordinary measures are taken, as in the case of the modern Basque Separatists fighting assimilation. The men who control access to the "outside world" of business and money impose their linguistic supremacy. The imposition of Norman French on the conquered English is a typical example. Within English dwellings—the women's domain—native Germanic words such as ox, sheep, lamb, and eat were used, but Norman French replaced English as the language of "worldly" (read: male) affairs.

How the two experiential domains determine the language or dialect one speaks answers at least one question posed by contemporary psycholinguistic research. On the one hand, some scholars give priority to the mother's language, which children learn and speak during their formative years. This alleged priority then seems to contradict the findings of other researchers, who point to the well-documented fact of male control of standard languages and grammars. If women are the earliest teachers of native speech, and if it is their linguistic patterns that children learn, how can one talk about "male linguistic control"? The answer should be obvious now. As long as male children remain inside, within their mother's sphere of influence, they imitate her speech. As soon as they step outside of the dwelling, however, into the world of the fathers, they must either abandon their "mother tongue" or find themselves consigned to a limited, impoverished existence beyond the home. The "question," then, isn't a question at all, but a consequence of the separate experiential spheres constructed by PUD [Patriarchal Universe of Discourse]. Aspects of the woman's sphere are restricted and contained within the world named by men. The function of language in maintaining and perpetuating patriarchal social structures and assumptions is more complex than it may at first appear, but it is also consistent across cultures.

-Julia Penelope, Speaking Freely: Unlearning the Lies of the Fathers’ Tongues

[weird-arcanefangirl]

Rainy Days

TW:signs of depression, blood(described), wounds and later chapters WILL discuss suicide and self harm. If you are triggered by these themes do not read this. I will make happier stories

I do not relate to this, and this might not be accurate. My grammar and writing abilities aren’t good, please correct me or give me constructive criticism ❤️ also, this story was !!!PERFECTED!!! with AI, I wrote it myself, everything, but because I’m German and my whole family doesn’t know much English, this is one of my only options. I have the original where I wrote it into my notebook and made notes for myself and I still have it in it’s earlier stages (I already wrote much more when I was younger, my grammar was pretty bad tho) if anyone wants proof (the notebook) I’ll release it on @toulouseradiosilence <3

enjoy!

Chapter 1: Rose

I wake up to the sound of rain pouring onto the roof. The first thing I do after lying on my side for another 5 minutes is to look at the alarm clock. The time it’s displaying is barely visible, yesterday’s meal is standing in front of it. Would you call that dinner or breakfast? It was at about 4AM, so I’m not really sure, but it also does not matter, so I shove the leftover ramenbox and cheap diet lemonade off of the bedside table. The bottle shatters on the floor, startling me. Besides the cars, rain and airplanes outside this is the first noise I’ve heard today, and probably one of the ones I will hear. I finally look at the time. 10:30 AM. I’m not late to anything, I haven’t been late to anything in months.. or years. Because there is nothing to be late to. Nobody needs me, I’m not part of this “system”. And I think that’s not as bad someone would expect. I don’t have any responsibilities whatsoever. I don’t have to take part in this society, I can do whatever I want. And I choose to lay in my bed, draw or sleep. I have food in my storage (ramen, diet lemonade/ water). Sometimes I crave foods I used to eat when I was younger, but it’s certainly not worth going to the store for. Some days I eat a lot, some I don’t eat at all. Most days, actually. Some days I don’t get out of bed and some I don’t even wake up. Others I don’t sleep. Sometimes I look at drawings or other posts on tumblr. That’s all I really do. Sometimes I think about signing up and posting my drawings, but I’m not good with social stuff and this is too social for me in many ways, so I don’t. I have to go to the toilet, which is pretty unusual for me, considering i barely drink anything. I don’t want to get up though, so I continue lying in my bed for another 20 minutes, until I feel too uncomfortable. I sit up and put my feet into the ground. Something sharp cuts into one of them. I don’t do anything; I don’t even look down to see what just hurt my foot. Another minute of just sitting there and staring goes by until I decide to check. A piece of a broken diet lemonade bottle. I stand up and shove the trash under my bed, I didn’t remove the shard. I start walking. The cut stings. I really do not care though. Dragging myself into the bathroom, I push the door open and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, but I quickly look away. I sit down onto the toilet and.. pee.. yeah, I pee. Afterwards I continue sitting on the toilet and my eyes trail along the way I was walking on, from the toilet to to the door. The door is open. I live alone. There’s a trail of blood on the floor. What? Oh. It’s my blood. Wait, yeah, of course it is. Who else’s would it be? I put my leg into the other to look at my foot. The shard is still in there. I actually kind of panic because it looks really, really bad. Almost my whole foot is cut open. And THAT is a reason to stay in bed all day (as if I wouldn’t do that anyway.. but now I have an excuse, I guess.) I limp over to my bed, but before laying down I check whether I still have some water. Luckily, I do. So I let myself fall onto the bed back first, take a chug of water and start to sleep.

Next chapter will probably release next week❤️

omg I just read through it and the amount of typos I made?? Guys pls tell me if there are mistakes this is embarrassing 💀😭

Also I hate the pace, its so fast…

[conlangery]

Do you ever start with example sentences and work backwards to figure out the grammar? Like start with a pseudo conlang just to look at? Can you recommend any linguistic nonfiction for a hobbyist? I read the art of language invention and the language construction kit but I want something that has more focus on linguistic anthropology.

Thanks in advance

I’ve personally never tried that method. A few professional conlangers have had to work with significant amounts of canon gibberish made by a writer beforehand. And I have seen experiments where one person invents gibberish and the other acts as a field worker trying to analyze it.

The issue with working that way is it’s much harder to make a consistent system. Language is a complex system with a lot of parts. Trying to construct that system to fit something pre-existing means finding some kind of consistency within essentially random noise. Building from the ground up is easier, since you can make things consistent from the start.

On the linguistic anthropology angle, I have a couple of recommendations that might interest you:

The Last Lingua Franca by Nicholas Ostler is a fantastic book about different lingua francas throughout history. It really helps understand the different social dynamics that can lead to one language becoming dominant.

Language Death by David Crystal is all about the social power dynamics that cause languages to die (or that kill them, because there can very much be intent from dominant cultures to kill off minority languages).

Those won’t necessarily help you in the construction process, but they can help you understand the social dynamics of your language’s role in your world. Plus, it’s just valuable to understand this to live in society, especially if you’re a native English speaker like me and shielded by Anglphone privilege from seeing these things.

I’m sure the community can come up with plenty of other books for you to look into.

[webcomixwastaken]

Honestly, every time I see someone insist they need AI for writing, be it for getting an idea or drafting their piece or even basic grammar my instinct is to say:

"Just... GET GOOD."

Like, have no ideas? Then read more books in ALL sorts of genres, styles, and authors. Even read different age groups (if you only read YA but are over the age of 20, I promise you there is plenty of Adult out there you will love. Find it. You deserve it.) Do the same for movies, shows, and plays. Go to festivals and exhibitions and concerts. Dabble in different hobbies to observe and talk to people, all sorts of people. EXPERIENCE LIFE, that's how you'll be inspired to write about it. Know the world and how you feel in it beyond what the internet tells you to. (Also, you'll find out that your "brilliantly unique concept" has likely been done before and that your personal life experience will be the thing that makes it genuinely unique.)

Think your writing is bad? AI can't make it good for you. AI is a shitty writer. If you want to write I assume you like to read. (If you want to write but don't like to read then you have an incredibly tough, nigh impossible road to "being a good writer" ahead of you.) Again, read as widely as you can. Fanfic alone will not help you unless you only want to write fanfic which I do know applies to a lot of people. There's a fantastic thread floating around here that explains why writing for fanfic vs writing original work for publication are very different spheres. And as someone who reads a bunch of both, the best fanfic still has structure, character development, and actual plot, very similarly to books. (This is very much my subjective opinion, but I despise "no plot only vibes" -- to me both are integral to a good read. This 100% applies to tradpub too; the social media trope-focused marketing annoys me to no end. What is your story ABOUT?? If you can't tell me I have no interest in reading it.)

Instead of taking the shortcut that is actually sending you back to the start anyway, just... GET GOOD. And you get good by BEING BAD. Compose some trite purple prose nonsense rife with cliches. Have all your characters be shameless Mary Sues. Or, as I see the most often in early writers, be pedantic and repetitive as fuck because you don't know that you're doing it yet until after a year or so you look back and go "why the hell did I talk so much about this irrelevant thing? it totally disrupted the momentum of the scene and doesn't even develop character." And then, you'll realise that you've learned how to edit! Congratulations! You must understand that AI doesn't know this. AI is just plagiarising a couple hundred thousand people. AI has no brain. Don't trust it. Don't even play with it. It is a pathetic zombie concoction that only causes damage to others and the environment. Trust YOUR BRAIN. You are SO MUCH SMARTER. You KNOW what you want and like, you have way better ideas and images you want to convey. And in time you will know how to convey them accurately and compellingly in a way that sounds like you.

And finally, AI for grammar and spelling? Hoo boy do I have some opinions. Well, just one. Which is to simply GET GOOD!!

People bitch that English is a difficult language to learn but hey! All languages have their rules and nuances, so that's merely subjective! Whatever language you want to write in, learn those rules!! Seriously, just GET GOOD!! it's doable! I do it! In fact, many people do it and have DONE SO FOR YEARS.

Honestly, I don't use ANY kind of grammar software beyond the basic spellcheck automatically built into browsers and word processors nowadays (the ones that give you wiggly lines while you're typing and even then I rarely right click to accept since I find it faster to simply retype properly) because I KNOW MY SHIT. I know how to construct sentences, use consistent tense, punctuate properly, and capitalise or italicise or utilise any other convention of the English language I wish to follow or break because this is my craft, and I know how to shape it to become what I want my work to be.

So here is where I expect people to be all like "but what if I'm NOT a native speaker of the language huh huh??" Well, you're choosing to write in this language though. Do your level best -- and here is where I will say that this grammar stuff IS the most forgivable aspect anyway. Spelling errors or janky phrasing never hurt anyone when we can tell it's coming from a place of true diligence and effort, in fact one of my favourite fanfics of all time was set a summer camp and the NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKING author wrote "councilor" until about chapter 20 when they asked us, utterly mortified, in the notes why nobody had corrected them (because the plot and characterisation were immersive AF and felt like it came from a real person with real experiences). Some of the most poetic syntax and delightful descriptions I've come across were from people writing in not their first language, or even second or third -- children and adults alike, still learning and still TRYING because they took this shit seriously and were putting in their all.

This is the part that I personally cannot comprehend (but in a practical way I do, only because I see it EVERYWHERE) of people claiming that they just can't "get" grammar and need some brainless software running on codes and algorithms to "correct" them - don't you want to be FREE of this dependence?? Wouldn't you prefer to write KNOWING that it says what you WANT it to say instead of hoping that maybe 30% will remain after a program strips it of voice and style (and then because you're no longer paying attention, it also makes your sentences just WORSE and not "succinct" at all)?? Don't you want to be grown and confident with SKILLS instead of whining for help (which just boils to someone doing it FOR you, not actual help) all the time???????? Like seriously!! Have some self-esteem!!!!! You deserve it!!!! GET GOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have been teaching fiction writing as my day job for nearly a decade now and when my students fret over their sub-par skills I always ask them how old they are. Because they should know that 9 year olds aren't supposed to spell everything correctly. Instead, they're supposed to make mistakes so they can learn how to fix them. Then, they should practise and practise and practise until they're 19 and realise that the habit has developed so beautifully that they're finding it HARD to make mistakes!

And if you're 29 and still struggling, no it's not too late. The best time was to start 20 years ago but the second best is now. Writing is pretty much a lifetime gig so keep going, and GET GOOD!!

[lingthusiasm]

Lingthusiasm Episode 87: If I were an irrealis episode

Language lets us talk about things that aren't, strictly speaking, entirely real. Sometimes that's an imaginative object (is a toy sword a real sword? how about Excalibur?). Other times, it's a hypothetical situation (such as "if it rains, we'll cancel the picnic" - but neither the picnic nor the rain have happened yet. And they might never happen. But also they might!). Languages have lots of different ways of talking about different kinds of speculative events, and together they're called the irrealis.

In this episode, your hosts Gretchen McCulloch and Lauren Gawne get enthusiastic about some of our favourite examples under the irrealis umbrella. We talk about various things that we can mean by "reality", such as how existing fictional concepts, like goblins playing Macbeth, differ from newly-constructed fictions, like our new creature the Frenumblinger. We also talk about hypothetical statements using "if" (including the delightfully-named "biscuit conditionals), and using the "if I were a rich man" (Fiddler on the Roof) to "if I was a rich girl" (Gwen Stefani) continuum to track the evolution of the English subjunctive. Finally, a few of our favourite additional types of irrealis categories: the hortative, used to urge or exhort (let's go!), the optative, to express wishes and hopes (if only...), the dubitative, for when you doubt something, and the desiderative (I wish...).

Click here for a link to this episode in your podcast player of choice or read the transcript here.

Announcements:

Thank you to everyone who shared Lingthusiasm with a friend or on social media for our seventh anniversary! It was great to see what you love about Lingthusiasm and which episodes you chose to share. We hope you enjoyed the warm fuzzies!

In this month’s bonus episode, Gretchen gets enthusiastic about swearing (including rude gestures) in fiction with science fiction and fantasy authors Jo Walton and Ada Palmer, authors of the Thessaly books and Terra Ignota series, both super interesting series we've ling-nerded out about before on the show. We talk about invented swear words like "frak" and "frell", sweary lexical gaps (why don't we swear with "toe jam!"), and interpreting the nuances of regional swear words like "bloody" in fiction.

Join us on Patreon now to get access to this and 80+ other bonus episodes! You’ll also get access to the Lingthusiasm Discord server where you can chat with other language nerds.

Here are the links mentioned in the episode:

'Irrealis' entry on Wikipedia

'How do you get someone to care about Shakespeare? Two words: Goblin Macbeth' on CBC

xkcd comic 'Conditionals'

'Pedantic about biscuit conditionals' post on Language Log

'The pragmatics of biscuit conditionals' by Michael Franke

Lingthusiasm episode 'This time it gets tense - The grammar of time'

'Realis and Irrealis: Forms and concepts of the grammaticalisation of reality' by Jennifer R. Elliott

'If all the raindrops' on YouTube

'If I Were a Rich Man (song)' entry on Wikipedia

'Rich Girl (Gwen Stefani song)' entry on Wikipedia

'Louchie Lou & Michie One' entry on Wikipedia

'Louchie Lou & Michie One - Rich Girl' on YouTube

'Semi-Toned - Rich Girl (acapella)' on YouTube

'Subjunctive mood' entry on Wikipedia

'Céline Dion - Pour que tu m'aimes encore' on YouTube

WALS entry for 'Feature 73A: The Optative'

Lingthusiasm bonus episode 'How we make Lingthusiasm transcripts - Interview with Sarah Dopierala'

Lingthusiasm episode 'Listen to the imperatives episode'

'Dubitative' entry on Wikipedia

'A grammatical overview of Yolmo (Tibeto-Burman)' entry on WikiJournal of Humanities

You can listen to this episode via Lingthusiasm.com, Soundcloud, RSS, Apple Podcasts/iTunes, Spotify, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts. You can also download an mp3 via the Soundcloud page for offline listening.

To receive an email whenever a new episode drops, sign up for the Lingthusiasm mailing list.

You can help keep Lingthusiasm ad-free, get access to bonus content, and more perks by supporting us on Patreon.

Lingthusiasm is on Bluesky, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Mastodon, and Tumblr. Email us at contact [at] lingthusiasm [dot] com

Gretchen is on Bluesky as @GretchenMcC and blogs at All Things Linguistic.

Lauren is on Bluesky as @superlinguo and blogs at Superlinguo.

Lingthusiasm is created by Gretchen McCulloch and Lauren Gawne. Our senior producer is Claire Gawne, our production editor is Sarah Dopierala, our production assistant is Martha Tsutsui Billins, and our editorial assistant is Jon Kruk. Our music is ‘Ancient City’ by The Triangles.

This episode of Lingthusiasm is made available under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share Alike license (CC 4.0 BY-NC-SA).

[gaywattpadstorykid]

Rainy Days

TW:signs of depression, blood(described), wounds and later chapters WILL discuss suicide and self harm. If you are triggered by these themes do not read this. I will make happier stories

I do not relate to this, and this might not be accurate. My grammar and writing abilities aren’t good, please correct me or give me constructive criticism ❤️ also, this story was PERFECTED!!! With AI, I wrote it myself, everything, but because I’m German and my whole family doesn’t know much English, this is one of my only options. I have the original where I wrote it into my notebook and made notes for myself and I still have it in it’s earlier stages (I already wrote much more when I was younger, my grammar was pretty bad tho) if anyone wants proof (the notebook) I’ll release it on @toulouseradiosilence <3

enjoy!

Chapter 1: Rose

I wake up to the sound of rain pouring onto the roof. The first thing I do after lying on my side for another 5 minutes is to look at the alarm clock. The time it’s displaying is barely visible, yesterday’s meal is standing in front of it. Would you call that dinner or breakfast? It was at about 4AM, so I’m not really sure, but it also does not matter, so I shove the leftover ramenbox and cheap diet lemonade off of the bedside table. The bottle shatters on the floor, startling me. Besides the cars, rain and airplanes outside this is the first noise I’ve heard today, and probably one of the ones I will hear. I finally look at the time. 10:30 AM. I’m not late to anything, I haven’t been late to anything in months.. or years. Because there is nothing to be late to. Nobody needs me, I’m not part of this “system”. And I think that’s not as bad someone would expect. I don’t have any responsibilities whatsoever. I don’t have to take part in this society, I can do whatever I want. And I choose to lay in my bed, draw or sleep. I have food in my storage (ramen, diet lemonade/ water). Sometimes I crave foods I used to eat when I was younger, but it’s certainly not worth going to the store for. Some days I eat a lot, some I don’t eat at all. Most days, actually. Some days I don’t get out of bed and some I don’t even wake up. Others I don’t sleep. Sometimes I look at drawings or other posts on tumblr. That’s all I really do. Sometimes I think about signing up and posting my drawings, but I’m not good with social stuff and this is too social for me in many ways, so I don’t. I have to go to the toilet, which is pretty unusual for me, considering i barely drink anything. I don’t want to get up though, so I continue lying in my bed for another 20 minutes, until I feel too uncomfortable. I sit up and put my feet onto the ground. Something sharps cuts into one of them. I don’t do anything; I don’t even look down to see what just hurt my foot. Another minute of just sitting there and staring goes by until I decide to check. A piece of a broken diet lemonade bottle. I stand up and shove the trash under my bed, I didn’t remove the shard. I start walking. The cut stings. I really do not care though. Dragging myself into the bathroom, I push the door open and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, but I quickly look away. I sit down onto the toilet and.. pee.. yeah, I pee. Afterwards I continue sitting on the toilet and my eyes trail along the way I was walking on, from the toilet to to the door. The door is open. I live alone. There’s a trail of blood on the floor. What? Oh. It’s my blood. Wait, yeah, of course it is. Who else’s would it be? I put my leg into the other to look at my foot. The shard is still in there. I actually kind of panic because it looks really, really bad. Almost my whole foot is cut open. And THAT is a reason to stay in bed all day (as if I wouldn’t do that anyway.. but now I have an excuse, I guess.) I limp over to my bed, but before laying down I check whether I still have some water. Luckily, I do. So I let myself fall onto the bed back first, take a chug of water and start to sleep.

Next chapter will probably release next week❤️