#(<- collects the same book in different languages)

[kaymarie-bell]

We have an official announcement for the English translation of the first novel! I'm so excited 💖🌹

[btm-txt]

I gotta confess...

I fucking LOVE slang language from the other side of the world.

It's the little shit, like calling people 'champion' or 'legend' as a casual compliment is everything.

I do something cool, or do a good job, or just fucking exist and I'M a champion? Me? a legend? No waaay~

Slaps harder than any 'you're awesome' or 'you're a rockstar' tenfold swear to god

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

SIMON RILEY DISPLAYING ALL FIVE LOVE LANGUAGES

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ simon riley displays all five love languages to his luvie

words of affirmation

simon was not good with words, but with you it was different. he wanted to tell you how perfect you were, how pretty and kind hearted you were to a scarred man like him. it first started off a little rough and awkward, him blurting it out. “yer look pretty.” the way you smiled shyly with your cheeks tinged a soft pink colour made him want to repeat it like a mantra. he didn’t care that it was random, how you were in your pyjamas at 2pm whilst stuffing your face with the leftovers from last night. you still looked utterly perfect in his eyes.

the way you seemed to glow with confidence after a few days after from his words made his ego swell. simon had you doing small clothing hauls after your shopping trips, making you spin with the new dresses. “you gotta get it in another colour luvie, you look perfect.” it would be small compliments here and there, or some more intimidate ones. you cuddled up in his bed whilst he whispered soft words to you, his calloused hand gently rubbed your back when you told him about your struggles. “yer doin’ so well luvie, toughest girl i know.”

simon treated sex like a sacred thing, gently whispering soft words into your ear as he plunged deep inside your small cunt, snuggly fitting around him. “my pretty luvie, perfect for me, your body, your face, your heart.”

physical touch

never in simon’s life did he think he would be a needy man, but here he is craving your touch constantly. it somehow seamlessly seeped into his routine, reaching out for your hand whilst the two of you walked on the street, constantly having his arms around your waist at the small local bars, or casually touching your thigh when you sat next to him. sometimes it felt like having a constant shadow around you. “hurry up and get to bed luvie, ‘s cold without you.”

sometimes his touches were intentional and not the ones he did just casually without thinking. he took extra care of you during sex, his calloused hands gently rubbing over your soft thighs and plush hips, like he was trying to engrave it into his memory. it felt like a sin having his hands who were responsible for the darkest things when he was in the military, and yet he couldn’t help but to worship your body.

acts of service

though simon loved using his words and hands to show his love to you, he was a strong believer in actions are louder than words. hence why he tried to make your life a little easier, even if it seamed a little mundane. he would have your coffee prepared early in the morning when you had to leave for work, just so you could have a little more time in bed sleeping. or he would have a nice relaxing bath prepared after you came home, essential oils and candles filling up the bathroom. simon loved your independence, but sometimes it annoyed him. having you come home all tired just for you to insist cleaning up the house. “i’ve got it luvie, go and relax yeah? let me take care of you.”

quality time

after deployment and first spending time without you during the early months in your relationship, simon realised how much he needed you around him. you didn’t need to be snugged up right by him - not that he minded at all, but even having you around him like being in the same room. you reading your book on the lounge whilst simon cleaned his collection of small knives. it was your presence that mattered the most. simon considered anything a days watching a movie on the couch? date. cooking dinner together? date. simon didn’t care what you were doing, as long as you were with him. he tried to turn small boring activities like housekeeping into something meaningful. the two of you opening up your deepest secrets and bonding through something small simple was something simon never took for granted.

gift giving

simon made tremendous amount of money in the military, and he was never one to splurge on himself, but on you? he didn’t even have for think twice. you would often ask him about what to get, holding up to dresses, “which one si?” he had no idea why you were even asking him, without saying anything he took them out of your hands and walked to the cashier. he loved spoiling his bird, having you all pampered and taken care of was something that he took great pride in. though it wasn’t something mindless, as much as simon loved spoiling you and buying whatever your heart desired, many of his purchases had intentions. like the pink to go coffee mug so you can take your coffee with you to work, or the heated blanket because he noticed how you snuggled deep into the blankets during the cold winter nights. essentially, simon was an attentive man to his bird’s needs.

tag list:

@happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666 @ghostsd8s @ama-eve @webmvie @your-internet-tenshi @novthewolf @1ilo @simpingreader @angeldoll1e @avgdestitute @anonymouse1807 @chaieanne @i-live-in-spite

[alexanderwales]

Spells are a non-renewable resource. One a spell has been cast, it can never be cast again.

But thankfully, what counts as a unique spell is permissive, and very early on in the history of wizardry, wizards found many ways to use the arcane language to specify a similar effect even if the wording was different.

And still, spells were a non-renewable resource.

There are only so many ways to call forth a beam of lancing light, only a limited number of methods of purifying food to make it safe to eat. Soon it became necessary for the wizards to start casting spells that weren't quite what they wanted: a beam of light that arced to the left, a purifying spell that added a bitter taste, some changes cosmetic and others very functional.

And still, spells were a non-renewable resource.

Wizardry was divided into ages by the historiographers. The First Age was the age of plenty, when wizards could make minor tweaks to the spells and cast as much as they liked. The Second Age was the age of modification, when wizards were jumping through hoops and using methods with side effects. But the Third Age was the age of decay, when so many spells had been used that only the oddballs were left. It was impossible to cast anything even remotely resembling a fireball, not even one that hooked to the left and exploded with sharp green shards.

It came to be that few wizards could produce a spell on their first attempt. They would try, only to discover that someone else had already taken their idea and the spell does not work. They would try again, only to discover that their second idea had also been taken. Wizard battles, which had once been glorious light shows, were reduced to two wizards standing in a field trying to be the first one to stumble upon a spell that had never been cast before.

~~~~

Here are some plot hooks:

Wizards jealously guard their knowledge, fearful that someone will learn of a "seam" of untapped spells, but they also write down every spell they know to have been cast, to reduce their search space. Obviously this trove of knowledge is highly valuable.

The existence of spell "seams", which are really just collections of spells that work off the same cluster of discrete variations, mean that wizards tend to be very specialized. The Sheep Wizard knows eight hundred ways of turning someone into a sheep, because he's studied that area of the arcane language extensively, as well as historical precedents that have been ruled out. The natural enemy of a Sheep Wizard is, of course, another Sheep Wizard.

During the Second Age, a group of wizards get together to deliberately reduce the spell-space, largely in the hopes of reducing the capacity of wizard-kind for making war. Their work largely consists of sitting around casting as many fireballs as they can, depleting all options for everyone else.

During the Third Age, a group of wizards gets together and in the spirit of mutual cooperation begins to define "spell blocks", a collection of spells that a single wizard is entitled to and all other wizards agree not to use. When you become a wizard, you're given a thousand spells which are thought to still be valid, and will lose your license to practice wizardry if you cast any spells that are outside your block. This is difficult to enforce, rife with accusations and suspicion, but is thought to be better than nothing.

During the Fourth Age, a group of "wizards" (none of whom have ever actually cast a spell) are working on the arcane language in the hopes of a revival. As the age of hoarded knowledge has mostly passed, they're able to get their hands on many books that weren't previously available. One day, they invent a new form of specification that allows hundreds of thousands of new spells, re-igniting wizardry.

[wobblingjello]

Shadows of His Past

Summary: Spencer had a routine he always did on Maeve’s death anniversary. Lost in his own grief, something, or rather, someone, completely slipped out of his mind. You. He was hyper-focused in his grief that he hurt you in the process.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5111 (This is now officially the longest fanfic I’ve ever written!!!)

Author Notes: This fanfic was born from one line that stuck in my head for days: “Do I have to compete with her for a place in your heart my entire life?” I’m clearly not an expert on the language of flowers. I simply read people’s blogs/articles about flowers and their meanings as I wrote this. Sorry for any inaccuracy.

In the last two months, you’ve noticed that Spencer has been acting a bit off. It became more noticeable every time you spent the night at his apartment. You’d find him standing in front of the bookshelf, simply staring at his collection, or maybe one certain book, you weren’t entirely sure. Yet he never actually took anything off of the bookshelf. He clenched his fists, as if he restrained himself from reaching out to that book. After a few moments, he’d usually go to a different part of the apartment; either it was the kitchen or the bedroom. You didn’t know if he was even aware of what he was doing, and you didn’t know the reason he did that either.

Knowing that something bothered him but didn’t know how to help him irritated you. One night, you’ve had enough of this behavior, so you pulled him to the couch, and confronted him. You could tell that he was taken aback by the question — proving your suspicion that he wasn’t aware of his actions. He didn’t answer immediately, but you knew his big brain was running its gears to form an answer for you.

“It’s almost Maeve’s death anniversary.” His voice was shaky, and it was barely audible.

That was the only response you got from him, before he buried his face in the palm of his hands. You didn’t know what kind of answer you expected from him, but that was entirely off the table. You weren’t sure what to do, but you offered him a hug. The moment you pulled him to your embrace, he immediately held you close. As if he was afraid he’d lose you.

One of the first things he had brought up when you two started dating was how his job could possibly be a danger to the people in his life. The people he loved. That was also the day he first ever mentioned a woman named Maeve, who tragically had been murdered by her stalker, right in front of him. Possibly the first woman he ever loved.

You didn’t think much of it when he told you about her. Didn’t even think she was still relevant to the relationship you had with him right now, because it’s been years since it happened anyway. Right?

A week after Spencer told you about Maeve however, when his female colleagues invited you for a girls night’s out, you instantly said yes — thinking it could be the perfect opportunity to ask them about her. After the second round of drinks, you mustered up the courage to ask them about her. Once the question left your mouth, you were greeted by an uncomfortable silence. You clearly had put them in the hot seat, and most likely ruined the night. They hesitated to tell you, afraid that it wasn’t their place to share the story. You encouraged them that it was alright, that Spencer had already told you, you just wanted to know the story from their perspectives.

So, they eventually told you everything they knew about Maeve, which was pretty much the same things Spencer had told you. However, they revealed that what happened to her greatly affected him mentally and emotionally. Which at some point also clouded his judgment in the field. It took him weeks to seek out help from the team, and another weeks to give himself a proper closure. The topic surrounding her and the relationship with Spencer seemed to be more sensitive than you let yourself to believe.

The sound of a muffled cry brought you back to the present. You were so lost in your own head you didn’t even realize that Spencer was crying. You tried to sooth him as best as you could; one hand rubbing his back in gentle motion and the other hand brushing his curls. At one point, you managed to convince him to call it a night. That night you slept with his hands tightly wrapped around you, like he needed proof that you were real.

The next day, you wanted to ask him when exactly her death anniversary was, but he didn’t even try to give you a further explanation, so you went along with him. Pretending that the conversation from the night before had never happened in the first place.

Days, weeks, passed by since that night, and things have returned to normal. At least, that was what you wanted to believe. Both of you still communicated like you two normally would. He still informed you when he was about to travel for a case or when he was about to go home. From time to time, you still spent the night at his place, or him at yours. It was just that both of you carefully avoided the subject altogether.

One day, the buzzing sound from your phone wouldn’t stop. There were dozens of texts in the group chat. The one group chat that consisted of you and Spencer’s female colleagues. You were overjoyed when they added you to the group chat — how they considered you as one of them. However, today, as you read through the texts, you felt… confused? They were talking about going to another state to catch yet another bad guy, guessing who they’d share the room with, etcetera.

You were confused because you received no text from Spencer that indicated those things. No, scratch that. You received no text from him at all. You thought he was busy juggling piles of case files, thus he hadn’t responded to your text, but apparently that wasn’t what was happening.

You tried to send him another text before putting your phone aside. Trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in your gut, and getting back to your work.

By lunch time, you still hadn’t heard anything from Spencer, and you began to worry. A bit desperate for an answer, you made a phone call to Penelope.

“Hey, sweetness. It’s always a great time when you call. A distraction that I need. Anyway, do you need anything?” She sounded like her usual cheerful self on the other side of the line.

“Hey, Penny. Um, it may sound weird, but I wonder if you happen to know where Spencer is? I haven’t heard from him all day.”

“Oh. I don’t think I’m the right person to tell you about it, hun.”

“Will you please tell me what’s going on? I won’t be mad at you. If he’s going to be mad at you for telling me, then it’s his problem with me. I promise.” Considering what’s been going on between you two, you didn’t like the implication that he hid something from you.

She went silent for a moment. Probably contemplating her choices. Then you heard her sighing. “Every year, on this day, Reid always takes a day off. Today’s Maeve’s death anniversary.”

Your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach. You vaguely heard Penelope’s worried voice through the phone, but you barely registered what she said after that. Her previous words echoed in your mind — played over and over, like a broken record.

Every year…

He takes a day off…

Today’s Maeve’s death anniversary…

You didn’t even remember how you ended that phone call. All you could remember was the pain that grew in your heart.

As reality started to kick in, a bitter laugh escaped your lips. Knowing how demanding his job was, you two rarely made a plan for dates. Your dates always revolved around his day off. Even on your birthday, you only received a phone call because he was miles away solving a crime. Meanwhile he willingly took a day off, to do God knew what, on his almost ex-girlfriend’s death anniversary?

What did he do that he needed an entire day off? Did he visit her grave? Where was he now?

You had so many questions, yet you didn’t have any idea how to communicate with Spencer, when he hadn’t responded to any of your previous texts.

The rest of your day went on a blur after that phone call with Penelope.

---

Even after years had passed, waking up on this day never got any easier. The moment Spencer opened his eyes, everything that happened that day flashed before his eyes as if it just occurred yesterday. Then the guilt would follow close after. As he laid on his bed, he constantly asked himself the same question; was there something he could’ve done differently in order to save her?

Every year, today, he’d do the same routine. He’d start his day by reading “The Narrative of John Smith”, the book she gave him. At this point, he had completely memorized every word page by page. He didn’t really mind, because this was the only thing he had left of her. If he normally could read 20,000 words per minute, he took his time when reading this one. He wanted to completely immerse himself in the memory of her.

When he was done reading the book, he’d take a ride. His first stop was a florist, where he always bought 2 bouquets of flowers for different purposes. Beth, the lovely elderly woman who owned the place, would have the bouquets ready for him when he arrived. She knew Spencer would stop by to get the bouquets every year on this day.

Once the bouquets were secured, he drove to his next destination; the crime scene. He put the first bouquet at the entrance  of the loft. After the first year of Maeve’s death anniversary, he learned that her parents went to her grave around noon, hence he opted to go to this place first. Spencer would stay in his parked car, pull out the “The Narrative of John Smith” book from his messenger bag, then read it again for an hour or two, before finally driving to the cemetery.

There was a bouquet at her grave when he arrived, definitely from her parents. He put his bouquet next to it. He’d stay there, and simply talk to her. Over the years, he’d tell her the same things. To this day, aside from the fact he failed to save her, his other regret was he didn’t get the chance to tell her how he felt. He knew that Maeve was smart enough to realize that him saying he didn’t love her was part of the plan, but he wished he didn’t have to do that. He wished for the alternative outcome where she was alive, and he could tell her how he felt in person. He’d apologize for what happened to her, how he couldn’t save her, asked her if she had forgiven him, and asked if it was okay to forgive himself.

He felt lighter when he drove home. Usually he’d try to recall their phone call conversations. How Maeve laughed when he attempted to make terrible jokes, how she often made intellectual puns, or how she sounded like when she told him that she loved him. It scared him that someday he would forget the sound of her voice.

The sun had already set by the time he was back to his place. Spencer was exhausted and starving. The last time he had meals was before he left his apartment. He’d make himself a quick dinner, then get ready for bed. He was about to get a few ingredients from the fridge, when he saw it; a bottle of juice he usually didn’t drink. Odd. Then the realization hit him like a ton of bricks . That was your favorite juice that he stocked in his fridge for you.

Shit.

He quickly pulled his phone from his pocket and turned it on. Once it was on, Spencer noticed tons of texts and calls from you and surprisingly Garcia too.

He had completely forgotten about you.

You [09:47 AM]: Hey, genius. Are you heading somewhere or stuck in Quantico doing paperwork today? You [11:29 AM]: Spence, are you okay? I haven’t heard anything from you. You miscalled (3) You [04:31 PM]: Can you at least tell me that you’re okay? You miscalled (2)

Garcia [01:15 PM]: Your girl found out through the ladies group chat that the team headed to San Francisco today. She asked me about you because she couldn’t reach you. I’m so sorry.

The last call from you was one and half hours ago. He grabbed his bag and car key, then in an instant went out of his apartment again. Before he started the car engine, he tried to call you once but it went straight to voicemail.

Garcia miscalled (2)

Garcia [04:26 PM]: Please call her back. She’s worried about you.

How could he be so ignorant?

The fact that you had called him out for his odd behaviors lately was bad enough, then you found out the significance of today from someone else. Not from him. That felt like a punch to his face. You were kind enough for not forcing him to explain everything to you immediately that night. No, you tolerated him enough to not bring up that topic again. He should’ve told you sooner.

On his way to your place, his brain ran a mile a minute; thinking of what would be the best explanation to give you. At this point he knew his explanation would probably sound like an excuse to you, but he’d still try. If you wouldn’t listen to him today, then he’d try again, and again, and again.

Once Spencer parked his car, he realized he didn’t know if you were even home. There was still a probability that you were somewhere else. He remembered how you once stayed the night at Garcia’s place when you weren’t feeling well, and he was unfortunately away for a case — you could be at her place again. Now that he was standing in front of your door, however, he could vaguely hear the sound from your TV. He released a sigh of relief. You were here. He could do this.

He knocked on your door twice — you didn’t answer. The sound from your TV was gone. He tried knocking again. Still no answer.

“Sweetheart. I know you’re in there. Can we please talk?” He pleaded as he rested his head on your door.

Silence.

The silence stretched too long for his liking. He tried knocking again. He didn’t want to give up on you. On this relationship.

Then he heard a shout from inside the apartment. “Just go away, Spencer! I don’t want to talk to you!”

Even through the door, he recognized the hurt in your voice. He hated that he caused that pain. You were alone inside your apartment, hurting, and it was because of him.

Determined, he simply had to try again. “You don’t have to talk, if you aren’t up for it. I just need you to listen to my explanation. Please.”

He heard footsteps coming his way, and he allowed a tiny hope blooming in his chest. You opened the door, and the sight of you made his heart shattered instantly. Your eyes were red and puffy, the unmistakable proof that you were crying. Spencer was furious at himself, looking at the undeniable evidence that he caused that. He wanted to caress your cheeks so badly, and to tell you that everything would be fine, that you both would be fine. But he restrained himself from doing so. How could he? When he was the source of your distress to begin with.

“Babe—”

“I’m tired, Spence.” Your voice was hoarse, definitely from the crying. “I don’t want to deal with any of this now. Just go home.”

You didn’t entirely turn down his effort to make it up to you, he’d take that. So he tried a different approach. “I’m helping the team from Quantico, so if you’re up to have the discussion tomorrow, or any day really, just let me know.” He eventually reached for your hand, and the tiny hope from earlier grew a bit bigger when you didn’t flinch at his touch. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you like this.”

“Good night, Spence.” You let his hand go, and closed the door on his face.

---

When Spencer woke up the next day, he couldn’t shake the guilt that lingered within him. The look on your face kept replaying in his mind like a movie. You looked so broken and defeated — a far cry from your usual bubbly self. He felt sick to his stomach knowing he did that to you. If he had to spend the rest of his life making up to you, then he’d do exactly that.

As he walked out of his bedroom to get ready for work, he checked his phone, and no text from you. Understandable. After all, he ignored you all day yesterday, why would you text him today?

Before he left his apartment though, he texted you.

Spencer [07:18 AM]: Hey, sweetheart. I know that you’re still mad at me. Rightfully so. But let me know if we can meet up today. I want to properly explain everything to you. I love you.

As he stepped into the bullpen, he immediately walked to Garcia’s office. It’d be more efficient if they assisted the team together from her office. After he knocked on the door, he didn’t bother to wait for an answer, he just walked right in. He was hoping for the usual witty greetings from her, but the moment she saw him, her expression was a mix of sadness, worry, and perhaps pity.

“Oh, Reid.”

Knowing what she was probably about to say, he held his hand up to stop her. “Let’s not talk about that, yeah?”

Having his mind occupied with the case was the distraction that he needed. However, Spencer couldn’t help himself from checking his phone every now and then, in case you texted him. You didn’t. He could feel Garcia’s stare every time he checked his phone, but he didn’t really pay attention to it.

He appreciated her for granting his wish to not talk about his personal life, and they were strictly discussing anything work related. Although, he knew she was dying to say something; asking him how you were, had he apologized, or something.

Ever since Spencer introduced you to the team, they instantly adored you. Of course they were. How could they not? You were kind, funny, smart, and beautiful. They told him that the two of you were a perfect match, but also joked that you were too good for him. That wasn’t wrong, because for him, you were perfect. To this day, he couldn’t believe the fact that you two were dating. 

If the rest of the team easily welcomed you, then Garcia practically adopted you as her sister. He had lost count how many times you had lunch with her when the team was away. You once joked that you were actually in a relationship with her, and not him. He didn’t really mind, in fact, he was glad knowing you could share such a bond with one of the people he considered family.

Frankly, he wasn’t even surprised that Garcia told you the significance of yesterday for him. Spencer might know her longer, but you were her chosen sister. He also understood that she had no ill intention when she informed you. She simply helped someone she cared about.

As he packed his stuff, ready to go home, his phone buzzed. He immediately checked it. A text from you.

You [05:47 PM]: You can come to my place now if you want.

He hurriedly packed the rest of his stuff, not caring if the folders were folded in his messenger bag. In all the years he had worked in the BAU, he didn’t think he ever ran to the elevator that fast.

When he arrived at your apartment, he tentatively knocked on the door. This time though, it didn’t take long for you to open the door. As if you were waiting for him to be there.

You already changed your work outfit to your favorite pajama set, makeup had been washed, and you put your hair on a messy bun. Despite all of that, you still looked beautiful to him.

“Hey.” Spencer greeted you with hesitation.

You didn’t respond, simply step aside and let him in.

The two of you sat on the couch, but you kept him in an arm’s distance. He disliked how you even needed a space from him, as if being in any close proximity with him would hurt you.

You still hadn’t said a single word since he stepped into your place. The tension that filled the silence started feeling unbearable, so he began talking.

“I’d like to apologize to you first. For the way I behaved lately, but especially yesterday. I didn’t mean to hurt you, at least not intentionally. I’m so sorry.” You just shrugged it off, and he took it as permission to continue. “It’s like a habit at this point, something I do every year. It wasn’t my intention to ignore you. It’s just… I always have my phone off.”

“Because you don’t want anybody to disturb your time with Maeve.”

It felt like you mocked him, and perhaps he should be ashamed that he pitied himself for how you reacted.

“No, that’s—”

“Then what, Spencer? You forgot that I existed for the entire day.”

“I didn’t mean to.” It sounded like a pathetic excuse even to his own ears.

“I’m here, still breathing, and pretty much alive, while she’s 6 feet under! Yet, she’s still at the top of your priorities.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is it? You willingly take a day off to spend it with someone who’s dead, while I constantly got rescheduled dates. No, shit, Spence, that sounds like she’s more important to you.”

To some extent, it was perhaps true that there were other things at the top of his priorities, his job for example. However, he never put Maeve above you. No, never mind, she wasn’t even on the list of his priorities to begin with. He never thought he made you feel like that.

For someone who once saved both his and Hotch’s lives by talking, right now the gears in his brain stopped working, and he couldn’t form a proper response for you. Besides, he felt like no matter what he said to you at this moment, you wouldn’t believe him. He couldn’t even blame you for that. After all, it was him who put you both in this situation.

Big fat tears freely fell from your eyes. He ached to reach for you and hold you close.

“I feel like I’m living under her shadow. Do I have to compete with her for a place in your heart my entire life?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“What? No! I love you. I’m so sorry for making you feel that way, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making up to you.”

Spencer tentatively moved closer to you, and when you didn’t react, he tried reaching for your hand. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when you didn’t take your hand away from his.

“Sweetheart. I’m really sorry for what I did. Please give me a chance to make this right.”

“I don’t know, Spence.”

He panicked. “You… Do you no longer love me?” The question left his mouth before he even realized.

“I still love you, but I don’t know if I can forgive you yet.”

He’d gladly take that answer. At least he knew that he still had the chance to right his wrong. He could plan what to do in order for you to forgive him. He would grovel if he had to. He didn’t really care, as long as he could obtain your forgiveness.

“What can I do to make this right?”

“Give both of us time and space to thoroughly think about what we want.”

“No, but… I don’t need those to know what I want.”

“I do, Spence.”

That night, Spencer reluctantly left your apartment, but not before promising you one more time that he’d do whatever it took to right his wrong.

---

It’s been two weeks since Spencer came to your apartment. True to his words, he continuously made amends while still respecting your wish for time and space. You didn’t contact him as often as you usually did, but he would still tell you about his whereabouts throughout the day. You knew from Penelope that he would ask about you through her, because of course he knew you would talk to her. You apologized to her that he kept bothering her, but she only shrugged it off like it wasn’t a big deal for her.

While he was away for a case, every other day, he sent bouquets of flowers to your apartment. He had sent 3 bouquets so far. Knowing Spencer, each of the flowers must’ve been chosen with intention, and not random at all. Therefore, you looked up the meanings for each flower.

The first bouquet he sent was a mix of Lily of the Valley; the classic apology flower, Red Tulip; for one’s true love, and one that represented your birth month. The second one was a mix of Statice; for remembrance, Dahlia; the symbol of commitment, and one that represented the month you both started dating. The last bouquet you received yesterday was a mix of roses in different shades. Red Rose; the ultimate symbol of eternal love, Peach Rose; for gratitude, White Rose; represented a new beginning, and Yellow Rose; for lasting happiness.

As you were about to make yourself dinner, you heard your phone buzzing. A text from him.

Spencer [06:29 PM]: The case is closed. We’re going home tonight.

You reread his text a few times, then glanced at the flowers he gave you — now neatly put in a vase and placed in your kitchen counter. Maybe it was time to have another talk with him?

You [06:34 PM]: Can I come to your place tomorrow?

The response came immediately, like he was waiting for you to reply.

Spencer [06:35 PM]: Of course. Just let me know when you’re on your way.

Truthfully, you weren’t even sure what you wanted to talk about, but one thing you knew for sure was how you missed Spencer. You just hoped you made the right decision.

The next day, after informing your boyfriend, you went to his apartment around noon. Aside from your rapid heartbeat, the commute to his place was uneventful. The last time you felt this nervous at the prospect of meeting Spencer was probably on your first date with him, which was funny considering the current situation you both were in.

It only took two knocks before he opened his apartment door. The corner of your mouth drew downwards at the sight of him. Penelope had told you that Spencer looked like a mess ever since he left your apartment two weeks ago, but you didn’t know he looked this awful. His hair was in disarray, as if he’s been running his fingers through his curls in the last hours. The dark circles under his eyes were more noticeable, perhaps he had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t like yours were any better, but at least you managed to conceal them with your makeup.

“Hey.”

“Hey, please come in.” He stepped aside to let you in.

You immediately went to the living room, and tried to make yourself comfortable. From the couch, you could see Spencer in the kitchen, probably making tea for both of you. Your guess was correct when he walked to the living room with two cups in his hands. A tiny smile adorned your face when you noticed one of the cups — doodles all over it. You insisted on buying it when you two went to the local market close to his apartment a few months ago. You wanted to have something that was yours in his place. He always made your drink of choice in that cup. Spencer put the cups on the coffee table, then sat on the other corner of the couch.

You could tell that he was nervous. Probably more nervous than you were. He was most likely afraid he’d say something wrong that’d jeopardize the relationship further. You put an end to the silence by striking up a conversation — something easy.

“Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I also did my own research on the language of the flowers.”

“You did?” 

You noticed the way his eyes lit up from your confession. “Of course. I didn’t even know there’s a flower that represents my birth month.”

You missed this, having a laid-back conversation with him. However, you knew the heavy conversation was also inevitable, so you told him that he could start his explanation if he wanted to.

He told you everything, from the beginning down to every tiny detail, like the book “The Narrative of John Smith” and the bouquets of flowers. He even mentioned how Beth, the florist, had remembered him and his order after the second year. 

The knots in your stomach felt more and more undeniable as his story went on. It hurt knowing how the guilt still consumed him, and the fact that to some extent Spencer still cared about Maeve.

By the time he was done with his explanation, his eyes were looking anywhere but you, and his hands were fidgeting the hems of his cardigan. The guilt you saw in his eyes wasn’t the reflection of how he felt towards her. It was the regret for causing you pain.

“Spence. Honestly, I’m still hurting, and I don’t know if I can fully forgive you just yet.” You saw the moment the light in his eyes dimmed even more, and maybe your heart cracked a little. “But I’m willing to try again. You have to be patient with me though.”

He looked directly into your eyes, probably searching for any hint of doubt in them. “Anything. I’ll do anything to gain your forgiveness.” He slowly moved closer to you on the couch, but still maintained some distance, afraid he might startle you. “I love you. I’ll do everything in my power to correct my wrongdoings. I promise.”

You offered him your hand, which he immediately took. You smiled at him as he squeezed your hand. For the first time in a while, you knew it’d be alright. It might take some time, but you knew that the two of you would survive this one.

[lolitalovess]

thinking about loser vi with a mean reader. oh my god i am about to BUST (rec from anon, nsfw under cut)

loser vi who is absolutely unbelievably broke (maybe from the ridiculous amount of money she's spent on funko pops, sims 4 game passes, the expensive ass eye shadow pallets she has (and will also buy for her baby sis) because she will absolutely never leave the house without a smoky eye, her belt collection (that you'd tie her hands with WHAT WHO SAID THAT), the vintage comic books she likes to collect (basically just anything interesting to her WILL lead to bad financial decisions. especially you.)

loser vi who's love language is physical touch with a little bit of gift giving and words of affirmation. will buy you anything just because she wants to (but not flowers, she'd make a bouquet herself by picking flowers she sees on her walks). just out of pure love. she thinks with her heart (cannon), she appreciates you and loves you and she wants you know that.

you two go thrifting together. you see a mini skirt or a flannel you like. you go up to her and ask for it (the same way she asks you to buy some fuckass spiderman boxers from target), and she cannot say no. you're her collar.

loser vi who likes tea. black tea. and colouring those colouring in books with markers and art pencils she borrowed from pow. and shed a good cook. makes lethal spaghetti.

loser vi who thinks you're so alluring. your style. the way you think at different times during the day. the music you like. the way you respond to people during arguments. how many blankets and pillows you like to sleep with. the way you get ready for the day. the piercings and tats you already have, and the ones you want to get. the way you wake up. your interests (bonus points if you have the same ones as her).

loser vi who would try to tease you herself throughout the day by wrapping her arms around your waist from behind, her hips pushing up against your ass a little more than it normally would with a normal hug, being all confident and saying something like "you're gonna be a good girl for me later, right?"

and you are so incredibly unbothered. and she absolutely loses her shit when you do this to her first chance you get, biting down on her bottom lip and giving you those needy puppy eyes when you rut your foot in between her thighs.

loser vi who is naked, face down ass up later that day without you doing anything to her and you're still fully clothed sitting next to her. she's begging for you to touch her when she hides her pink dusted cheeks in her hands and pillows, her pussy so wet that she's sure she can feel it smeared on her thighs.

loser vi who loves 69, especially when she's ontop with her ass in the air for you to grope and slap, moaning with her tongue pressed flat against your cunt when you do.

loser vi who would bark like she wants it. pls tell me someone gets this.

loser vi who, when it gets to a certain point of teasing from you would start crying, hands cupping her face and wiping away her tears with your thumbs and leaning your head down a little bit to kiss her. you won't slow with your thrusts, of course you won't, because she's just so cute when you're fucking her with your strap and you won't let her cum, the whimpers and moans she lets out being one of your favourite things ever.

loser vi who will beg to eat you out. mentioned this in a past post, she likes hiding her whole head under your skirt when she eats you out (this is for more of a fem reader sorry), she just finds it so sexy when you finally let her after you make her wait for so long, licking at your pussy like it's her favourite sport. it is.

loser vi who gets so frustrated when you ride her in reverse cowgirl, the harness of the strap brushing against her clit in a way that makes her uselessly whine in protest. she knows she can't touch you in any way, knows she can't slap your ass or grab your waist and hips or thrust her hips up to meet you or whatever the fuck because she knows she'll get introuble by you. not that she already isn't.

loser vi who likes taking you to the 7/11 that's 5 minutes away from her (parents) house after sex (or whenever, really), lowk melting into your touch when you kiss her in the middle of buying slushies and rainbow sour strips♡!!

sorry this isn't a fic i couldn't find it in me to write one. i fear she has risen my standards to beyond heaven. this is so ass. loser vi who is such a loser. that's it. there's nothing else to put.

[womanofwords]

Everybody's Favourite (Part 1)

Everything turned upside-down when the principal pulled you out of class when you were seven years old. You'd been colouring nicely when she came in.

"Y/N, I'd like to talk to you," she said. "Could you come with me?"

"Have I done something wrong?" you asked.

"No, dear. Just get your stuff."

You collected your things and went with her, where a police officer was waiting. "Here's Y/N, officer," she said to him. That was when you learned, in a haze of horror, that your dear mother had died while you were colouring in class without a care in the world. Car accident.

"Not to worry, she made arrangements as to who would look after you in the event of this happening," the police officer said. "Your biological father . . . Bruce Wayne."

So off you went to your new home, away from your friends and old neighbourhood and everything you'd ever known, and towards the figure known as Bruce Wayne.

The first thing you noticed about your father was that he was, obviously, very rich. All his cars were the fancy ones you used to stare at with your mom when you would walk together.

When you arrived, you had all sorts of questions for your father. "How did you meet my mother? Why didn't you talk to me before this? Did you like spending time with her?"

"I'm rather busy, Y/N. I'll show you to your room," Bruce said, escorting you to a guest bedroom. "We can decorate it later."

Later never came.

After a few weeks, you met his other kids, Dick, Jason, Tim, Barbara, Cass, and Stephanie. They all looked so cool, like teenagers from a movie. But they always had to 'do stuff'.

"What kind of stuff?" you asked.

"They're a part of scholarships for gifted students," Bruce said, before any of them could say anything. "I happen to be privately tutoring them."

"Oh. So you spend time with them because they're talented?"

"You could put it that way."

That revelation lit a fire underneath you. If your father wanted talented kids, then you would have to be a talented kid.

In everything you could get your hands on.

You became a polyglot, devouring different languages like nobody's business. You took part in gymnastics, just like Dick, and also track. You got straight As in everything, forcing yourself to study night after night. You read the same classic books Jason loved so you could (hopefully) have something to bond with him over. You took some coding classes so you had something to talk about with Tim.

Alfred became a consistent source of comfort, bringing you food and making sure that you didn't over work yourself. He came to every event you had, loyally videotaping it for future viewing.

Nobody cared to look at the tapes. Nobody watched you collect your awards for fastest times, or graduate early as valedictorian. Nobody listened to your headmaster sing your praises as he listed your various scholastic accomplishments.

Damian was the worst. The moment he met you, it was clear that he would hate you until he died. He looked at you with such disgust, such contempt for your existence. Once, he cornered you with a katana that he held so close to your neck that you were cut. Another time, he sicced Titus onto you, leading to a nasty bite mark on your arms when you put them up to defend yourself.

"Titus mauling you would have been an improvement to the Wayne bloodline," he sneered, as you bawled your eyes out. "When are you going to get it through your simple-minded skull that we don't care what happens to you? It's annoying to hear you chatter to us and make conversation about being head of your class and breaking sports records. We all scoff about it when we're on patrol."

Your throat went dry. "Patrol?"

"Of course. Father, Dick, Jason, Stephanie, and myself all have our own alter egos. I am by my father's side cleaning the streets of scumbags as Batman and Robin while you are trying to be top of your stupid little class." He punched you in the stomach, hard. "Honestly, it's a relief to get away from you and your nauseating neediness."

Alfred came to console you after the fact, but he wouldn't hear a word against Damian for hurting you, or Bruce for letting it happen. "Master Damian has had a . . . difficult life, Y/N," he said. "And Bruce's childhood was by no means easy."

You gave up on your family after that. Nobody really wanted you, and Damian actively hated you.

You were nobody's favourite.

Part 1 <- You are here

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

[deathofacupid]

synopsis: in which what begun as an arranged marriage, blossomed to love. for sukuna, at least. a/n: for my beloved @salsakiyoomi, whom i wrote this for, and who also inspired me. it's, like, 1.7k words, so definitely longer than i'd thought. banner credits to @/aquazero.

"do you think," he begins, his voice a hesitant murmur, so unlike the usual booming pronouncements of a king, that you almost miss it. "do you think it would be fair… to give us a chance?"

you glance up from your book, a collection of ancient poetry, the words blurring as you try to process his question. "sorry?" you ask, genuinely unsure if you’ve heard correctly. the firelight dances in his usually sharp, confident eyes, softening them in a way you’ve never witnessed.

he clicks his tongue, a nervous tic you’ve only ever seen him display in moments of extreme agitation, and shakes his head slightly. a flush creeps up his neck, staining his pale skin a delicate pink. it’s a startling sight on the usually stoic king.

is it embarrassment? fear? the thought is so foreign, so incongruous with the image of sukuna, that you almost dismiss it. almost. yet, as he stands there, fidgeting like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, you can’t fathom any other explanation.

sukuna clears his throat, the sound rough in the sudden quiet of the room. "i think… we could try," he says, the words coming out in a rush. a pause hangs in the air, thick with unspoken possibilities. "us."

you blink, your mind struggling to catch up. "what do you mean? we are married, are we not?" the words feel hollow even as you speak them.

"that’s different," he grumbles, scuffing the toe of his boot against the expensive rug. "that’s… not real."

you close your book, the leather binding snapping shut with a sharp sound. setting it aside, you watch him pace, a restless energy radiating from him. you’ve never seen him this… uneasy. vulnerable. it’s unsettling. "we sleep beside each other. we eat together. we share the same last name. what is not real?"

the answer comes quickly, almost too quickly, as if he’s been rehearsing it in his head. "our love. that’s not real."

you shake your head, a small, involuntary movement. "well, of course. we agreed that—"

"—fuck what we agreed to," he interrupts, the crude language shocking you into silence.

"sukuna," you breathe, your eyes widening.

gathering a sudden burst of courage, he steps closer, taking your hands in his. his touch, usually so demanding, is surprisingly gentle. "petal," he whispers, the nickname he only uses when he thinks no one is listening, "i want more."

"i… i don’t think that’s wise," you stammer, instinctively pulling back. the hopeful light in his eyes dims, and your stomach clenches.

"you don’t love me, sukuna," you continue, your voice trembling slightly. "we wouldn’t work like that. things are… perfect right now. the arrangement we have, we’re at the top. we don’t have to worry about… feelings. we—we don’t have anything getting in the way."

"who’s to say they would get in the way?" he counters, his voice laced with a desperate plea.

"we know they would," you insist, the years of carefully constructed logic solidifying your resolve. "and what makes you believe that—that i feel the same?"

"nothing," he admits, his gaze dropping to the floor. "i don’t know. but if we’re already ‘married,’ would it hurt to…?" he trails off, the question hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken desires.

"besides," you say, grasping at any logical argument, "we’re awful to each other."

"i don’t mean any of it, though," he protests, his voice rising in frustration.

"you did before," you remind him, the memory of his cruel words stinging even now. "and i don’t know if i can be with someone like that."

"people change," he whispers, his eyes searching yours for a flicker of understanding.

for a fleeting moment, you waver. you allow yourself to imagine it: a life with sukuna, not as a political alliance, but as something… more. a warmth spreads through your chest, a dangerous, tempting feeling. but then, the cold reality of your responsibilities crashes down on you. you can’t risk it. you can’t risk the stability you’ve worked so hard to achieve.

what if it all goes wrong? what if you have an irreparable fight? what if he uses his power as king to ban you from the battlefield? you love being out there, fighting alongside your troops, protecting your people. you won't be confined to some gilded cage. you won't be stripped of your purpose.

"no," you whisper, the word a death knell to his hopes. "no."

love was a liability, a weakness to be exploited. and you, you were strong. you had to be.

"petal," sukuna breathes, his voice thick with a desperation that claws at something buried deep within you. he reaches for you again, but you recoil, the chill in the air a stark contrast to the heat that had pulsed between you moments before.

"don't," you say, your voice flat, devoid of the warmth he craves. "don't do this, sukuna."

his eyes, usually blazing with arrogance, now flicker with a vulnerability that makes your chest ache. he looks like a wounded animal, cornered and confused. it almost breaks you. almost.

"is this about the throne?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "is that what this is about?"

you clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms. "it's about what's best for the kingdom," you say, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "it's about… stability. it's about ensuring our people are safe. love is a luxury we can't afford."

he laughs, a harsh, broken sound that echoes through the opulent room. "a luxury? you think this is a life of luxury? living a lie, pretending to be something we're not, for the sake of appearances?"

"it's the life we chose," you reply, your voice unwavering, even as your heart crumbles inside. "it's the life we have to choose. there's no other way."

he stares at you, his gaze searching, probing, as if trying to find a crack in your resolve. but you’re a fortress, built on years of expectations and responsibilities. you won’t yield.

"you're wrong," he says finally, his voice low and dangerous. "there's always another way. you're just too afraid to see it."

he turns and walks away, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy. he doesn't look back. you watch him go, your breath catching in your throat. a single tear escapes, tracing a lonely path down your cheek.

as the door closes behind him, the silence in the room is deafening. you’re left alone with your carefully constructed world of duty and obligation, a world that suddenly feels cold and empty.

you’ve won. you’ve protected the kingdom. you’ve made the right choice. but as you stand there, the weight of your crown pressing down on your head, you can't shake the feeling that you’ve lost something far more precious than anything you could ever gain.

the victory tastes like ash, and the silence screams with the echo of what could have been, a haunting melody of a love that was never given a chance.

a love that was a liability, a weakness to be exploited. and you, you were strong. you had to be.

"petal," sukuna breathes, his voice thick with a desperation that claws at something buried deep within you. he reaches for you again, but you recoil, the chill in the air a stark contrast to the heat that had pulsed between you moments before.

"don't," you say, your voice flat, devoid of the warmth he craves. "don't do this, sukuna. you're playing a dangerous game, one you're destined to lose."

his eyes, usually blazing with arrogance, now flicker with a vulnerability that makes your chest ache. he looks like a wounded animal, cornered and confused. it almost breaks you. almost.

"is this about the throne?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "is that what this is about?"

you clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms. "it's about what's best for the kingdom," you say, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "it's about… stability. it's about ensuring our people are safe. love is a luxury we can't afford."

he laughs, a harsh, broken sound that echoes through the opulent room. "a luxury? you think this is a life of luxury? living a lie, pretending to be something we're not, for the sake of appearances?"

"it's the life we chose," you reply, your voice unwavering, even as your heart crumbles inside. "it's the life we have to choose. there's no other way."

he stares at you, his gaze searching, probing, as if trying to find a crack in your resolve. but you’re a fortress, built on years of expectations and responsibilities. you won’t yield.

"you're wrong," he says finally, his voice low and dangerous. "there's always another way. you're just too afraid to see it."

he turns and walks away, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy. he doesn't look back. you watch him go, your breath catching in your throat. a single tear escapes, tracing a lonely path down your cheek.

as the door closes behind him, the silence in the room is deafening. you’re left alone with your carefully constructed world of duty and obligation, a world that suddenly feels cold and empty. you’ve won. you’ve protected the kingdom.

you’ve made the right choice. but as you stand there, the weight of your crown pressing down on your head, you can't shake the feeling that you’ve lost something far more precious than anything you could ever gain. the victory tastes like ash, and the silence screams with the echo of what could have been, a haunting melody of a love that was never given a chance.

and in the quiet solitude of your gilded cage, you realize that the greatest sacrifice you made was not for your kingdom, but for yourself. you sacrificed your own happiness, your own chance at love, and in doing so, you condemned yourself to a lifetime of regret, a slow, agonizing decay of the heart.

the crown is yours, but the cost… the cost is everything.

[ponderingmoonlight]

Basen hating kissing the hell out of you

Pairing: Basen x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,7k

Synopsis: That General who is so full of himself, who never misses a chance to put you into your place. And you? A hot-headed nurse with outstanding tactical abilities and a big mouth. What can possibly go wrong?

Warnings: enemies to lovers y'all, why is it always the side characters on this blog 😭 language, injuries, heated kisses hehehe

You never thought you’d end up here - stuck in the middle of the Imperial Palace’s tangled web, tasked with not only saving lives but also becoming a strategic advisor in matters of war. Did you even dare to dream of taking in this role at the palace?

Not once.

Despite being the head nurse of the Imperial Army’s medical corps, your knowledge stretches far beyond medical healing. You’ve studied the anatomy of war, how to break down the enemy’s tactics, and how to keep the army fighting even when the odds seem overwhelming.

After all, your father was a general himself before he found his own end on the battlefield, leaving you behind with nothing but the knowledge you’ve gained from his mission reports and books.

To be honest, the anatomy of the body and war never differed that much to you anyway. It took you no effort to catch attention by the medical corps of the Imperial Palace by a very young age, to outshine even some of the doctors and Generals with your expertise.

But Gao Basen, the General of the imperial forces, refuses to acknowledge any of this.It’s not that he’s rude. No, Basen is far too well-mannered for that. He simply doesn’t take you seriously.

To him, you’re just a nurse, someone to bandage wounds, prepare medicines, and keep the soldiers on his trenches alive. The fact that you have a better understanding of battlefield strategy than most generals seems lost on him.

Every time you try to offer a suggestion, he dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

“Stay out of this, nurse,” he barked at you during one of the many operations you’ve been forced to collaborate on.

His tone wasn’t unkind, but it carried that arrogance that made you want to punch him in his oh so perfectly-shaped face.

“Leave the tactics to us.”

That was before the rebellion reached its peak, though. Now, the battlefield is everywhere - the palace, the streets, even the walls of the very city you swore to protect. The emperor’s will is being challenged, and General Gao Basen is leading the charge.

Well, at least he thinks he does.

The first real test of your worth comes when the emperor orders a new assault on a rebel refuge. The battle is expected to be brutal, and the medical corps is rushing to prepare under your command.

But even in the chaos, you’re needed beyond your station. You, who can read a battlefield like a map, who understands how to turn the tides of war by just knowing where to place your forces and where to strike, are called in to offer strategy.

Oh, you know a certain someone who will be absolutely fuming about this.

“You’ve all seen the plan,” Jinshi states, voice cool and collected, his eyes flicking between the generals and advisors gathered around the table.

“But we have little time. I’d like to hear your thoughts, head nurse.”

You take your place at the table, your gaze meeting Basen’s across the room while you’re barely able to hold yourself together. He looks at you, his face unreadable, but his posture stiffens ever so slightly. It’s as if he’s already decided you don’t belong here, as if the sheer fact that you breathe the same air as him almost drives him over the edge.

What a sight.

Ignoring him with that feeling of satisfaction filling you to the brim, you pull a map towards you, running your finger along the terrain.

“We need to utilize the terrain to our advantage,” you begin, your voice steady and confident.

“The rebels have set up in the valley, but there are high ground positions on the left and right. We could use those as staging points for a two-branched attack while simultaneously sending a smaller unit to flank from behind.”

One of the generals gives a soft grunt of approval. Except for Basen, everyone silently acknowledged you a long time ago.

“But what about the cavalry?”

“That’s where we’ll hit them hardest,” you respond quickly, already sketching the next steps on the map.

“The cavalry has been spread too thin. A concentrated effort here”, you point to a key point on the map, “will take them out before they can reinforce.”

For a moment, there is silence. You’re aware of Basen’s gaze on you, the sharpness of his eyes, the way his jaw tightens. You know he doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like you in the war room at all. You, a feisty woman, nothing but a nurse in his eyes. But the others are nodding, murmuring their agreement. Even Gao Shun, the general who raised Basen, looks at the map thoughtfully, his hands resting on the table.

“This could work,” he remarks gruffly.

“But what if the enemy has hidden reserves?”

You smile a little, the answer already forming in your mind. As if you didn’t already think about that beforehand.

“We keep a unit in reserve, hidden by the eastern ridge. If we’re caught in a trap, they can flank and assist us from behind.”

Finally, Basen speaks, his voice cold and cutting.

“You’ve had a lot to say for a nurse. I’ll admit, you know your battlefield tactics, but I’m still in charge of the military strategy.”

You don’t flinch, even though his words sting. After all these years of assisting him while watching him take on the role of a General, this is everything he has to say about you?

“I’m simply offering suggestions, General Gao Basen,” you remark, your tone calm and composed.

“I don’t need your approval.”

Thick anger rises up your veins before you can stop it.Who does he think he is? That son of a high-ranked General who never had to work as hard as you. What does he know about you, your status, your abilities?

A long silence follows before Jinshi speaks up, his voice laced with amusement.

“It seems we’re in agreement. Let’s put it into action.” 

The battle rages on in your pounding ears. The rebel forces are relentless, and the wounded are going to the roof. As the battle shifts in your favor, the injured flood in, and you’re forced to treat one soldier after another, your hands moving quickly, efficiently, but your mind on edge. You can feel the heat of the conflict seeping into the very walls of the palace - this is more than just a rebellion now. It’s a war for survival.

In the midst of the chaos, Basen is everywhere. His presence is a force of nature on the battlefield, his commanding voice cutting through the fog of war and the walls of your tent. You can’t help but peak through the curtains, to watch him from afar.

That smug bastard. He moves with precision, taking down rebels and barking orders, his form a living testament to his father’s iron rule.

But even someone like Basen can be overwhelmed.

You’re in the middle of stitching a soldier’s gash when you hear it - a scream, followed by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. Your heart skips a beat, and your eyes snap to the scene unfolding before you.

There he is.

Basen, bloodied, injured, and holding his side where a deep wound has opened. He’s trying to walk, but the blood pouring from him makes it clear he can’t keep going much longer. His men rush to help him, but he punches them away, his teeth gritted in pain.

You barely register the distance between you before you're already on the move, pushing through the chaos to reach him out of instinct.

“Basen!” you shout, voice cutting through the noise.

He looks at you with cold, narrowed eyes.

“I don’t need your help. And it’s General Gao Basen to you,” he grunts, his voice a low snarl as he stumbles slightly, trying to steady himself.

You ignore the words, rushing to him and pulling him toward the nearest medical station.

“You’re bleeding out, Basen! Let me treat you, idiot!”

Your hands are already at his side, but he jerks back, glaring at you with all the stubbornness and pride you’ve come to expect from him.

“I told you,” he snaps, voice sharp as a whip, “I don’t need a nurse to patch me up. I’m not some weakling who needs tending to. And if you call your General an idiot one more time, I’ll make sure you’ll get punished.”

His refusal and harsh words sting like they usually do, but you don’t let it show. Not now, not when he might bleed out in front of your very own eyes if you continue standing there.

“You’ll die if I don’t treat you, Basen!” you reply, frustration boiling over, your hands gripping his arm to keep him in place.

He recoils violently, his face flushed with anger.

“I don’t need you to save me,” he growls, his breath ragged.

“You think I care about your medicines and bandages? You think I’m some soldier who needs to be babysat?”

“Stop acting like a damn fool!”

The words fly out before you can stop them, the tension that’s been building between you both finally snapping.

“You’re not unshakable, Basen. You can’t fight everything on your own.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to walk away again. But instead, he takes a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. His eyes flicker with something dark, something intense, before he takes a step closer to you.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous.

“To always be expected to be perfect. To always have people looking to you for answers. To be the one everyone depends on and never let down. I can’t… I won’t be weak.”

The raw emotion in his voice hits you harder than you expect. You take a step forward, your hand reaching out almost instinctively to touch his arm, to comfort him in the way you know how - by offering your help, by showing him that you care, that you’re not judging him.

But before your fingers can make contact, Basen moves. His hand shoots out, gripping your wrist tightly, and with a sudden, jerking motion, he pulls you closer.

The shock of his touch makes your breath catch in your throat. You look up at him, his eyes wild, burning with frustration, with something else.

“I don’t need your pity,” he hisses, but his voice wavers for just a second.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Basen pulls you the rest of the way toward him, his lips crashing into yours with a force that leaves you breathless.

It’s hot. It’s furious. His mouth is demanding, his kiss claiming, as if he’s trying to drown the fury and frustration he feels inside, trying to lock it all away in this moment.

You’re too stunned to move at first, the shock of it all coursing through your veins.

But then, instinct kicks in.

You kiss him back. You’re not sure what drives you. Anger, desire, or the way his entire body is shaking with unexpended emotion? But it doesn’t matter. There’s no turning back now.

His hands tighten around you, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you, his heartbeat loud in your chest as his grip on your wrist shifts to your waist.For a moment, all the anger, all the long lived hostility between you, melts away.

It’s just him, just you, the heat of the battle fading into the background as his kiss deepens, becoming more desperate, more primal. You pull away just enough to breathe, your chest heaving, your heart pounding in your ears. His face is inches from yours, and his breath is just as ragged as yours.

You…hate him, don’t you? You always hated Basen with all of your heart. Hated the way he looks down at you, hated his cold gaze, hated how he always urged to be in charge, to be the one in control. Gao Basen is the epitome of all the things you have, and yet…

“Don’t ever… do that again,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

You can’t tell if you’re angry, confused, or something else entirely, but your chest feels tight, as if your breath is trapped beneath his hands.

Basen doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans his forehead against yours, his voice a low rasp.

“I don’t know what this is. But I can’t stand seeing you with anyone else, not even with Master Jinshi. Can’t stand you not being by my side, can’t stand you putting yourself on display for danger almost every single day… can’t stand it…”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know how to respond to the confession that feels raw and completely out of place in this moment. Instead, you step back, shaking your head slowly, even as your heart races faster than you can understand.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur, but there’s no real heat in your words anymore.

You’re too confused, too overwhelmed to be angry. Was all of this just a dream? Those words, the desperation in his gaze?

No.

You shake your head ever so slightly, eyes shifting to the gaping wound on his side.

“And I’m still treating that wound.”

Basen’s eyes narrow, his pride not letting him fully back down. But there’s a shift in his look, a flicker of something deeper, something softer that you can’t quite place.

“You’re stubborn,” he mutters, his voice still rough.

“And you’re insufferable…kissing me in the middle of the battlefield like that…”

“But you kissed me back-“

“I DID NOT!”

[madameisaacpereire]

random modern tsh au headcanons

bc i cannot stop thinking about how each of them would be if they were gen z 🤍 tried to keep all of this as true to character as possible

Edmund ‘Bunny’ Corcoran

- Writes his essays with Chat GPT last minute

- Uses swipe to text

- Doesn’t have Marion on Snap (at least for a good, long while)

- Always has a cookie or snack cake with him when he showers

- Voted for Trump proudly

- Does not, somehow, own a MAGA hat. or at least, he doesn’t have one at Hampden

- Spends hundreds of dollars on Subway Surfers and Minion Rush every month

- Will not get anything with cinnamon dusting bc he inhaled cinnamon in public once by mistake

- Often sells Cloke ½ of his ADHD meds

- Makes Henry pick up his prescriptions

- Bluetooth Headphones. Bunny gives me major Beats vibes, tbh

- His favorite candies are Satellite Wafers

Francis Abernathy

- Keeps a refillable vape on his person at all times (his is silver and as small as refillables come,) but also has Strawberry Lemonade Loon disposables hidden places he frequents. Two in his coat pocket. One in his book bag. One hidden in his room. Two hidden at henry’s. Even one in an empty classroom at the Lyceum. He smokes cigarettes sometimes, too, but likes the accessibility of vaping

- Complains often about the TikTokification of “quiet luxury” and “dark academia”

- He has both WebMD apps

- Plays computer Sims at night & has a Sim for each person in the Greek Class. He keeps this secret bc in his Sims game, he’s married to Charles

- Walks out of the room when politics come up

- Spends time practicing writing in different fonts

- Has a pretty sizable internet following, most specifically on TikTok because he posts his outfits to brooding sounds. To his knowledge, the group is unaware. (Except Charles, anyway.)

Richard Papen

- Always asking Judy and Francis if he can hit their vapes. Will not touch Charles’s vape with a 10 foot pole.

- Dab pen under the mattress

- ‘Borrows’ Bunny’s adderall on occasion

- Sleeps through the day & forgets to eat so frequently that he has a permanent $800 dining dollar balance

- He peels his lighters until they’re white and leaves them around campus

- Has a 3 year long Duolingo streak in one language. Scottish Gaelic, of all things.

- Follows Francis’s TikTok on a burner account and spends hours stalking his posts

- He likes brat, secretly. He listens to it at Judy’s while they gossip and get high

- He’s very into Letterboxd even though he doesn’t often watch movies anymore

- A day does not go by that he is not at least looking on Depop

Henry M Winter

- Has a flip phone that he keeps in the breast pocket of his coat

- Everyone thinks he doesn’t know how to text but Camilla showed him (her first phone was a flip phone,) he just texts her and Bunny exclusively. it takes him 15 minutes to draft a text, though, so Bunny usually calls instead

- Has a collection of bespoke vintage lighters

- Keeps a single pair of unworn Golden Goose sneakers at his parents house bc he’s fascinated by the way they look so beat up and awful, yet so expensive in the same breath.

- His suits are all custom

- Always one slip of the tongue away from passionately ranting about AI & US literacy rates, or how people who vape are cowards

- Has a very large stash of swiss chocolate in his bedroom

- Bunny forced him to buy a signed Duran Duran record during one of his phases & Henry still listens to it on occasion

- Francis gifted him The Cure’s Three Imaginary Boys & Wish on vinyl freshman year and he very much enjoys listening to those on occasion as well.

- Has a 10 step Korean skincare routine

- Will not drink soda of any kind. Water, coffee, and good liquor only. On very rare occasion he’ll have some juice

- He orders his liquor online because he can’t find anything good local, and Julian always signs for it. This started when he was 18 & just kept going on, even after he could sign for things himself

- Has never voted. Does not look at the news in any capacity. Would not know who the president is if it wasn’t for Bunny

- Once expressed that he found the Eras Tour rather grand & everyone pretended not to hear him because how does he even know what that is

Camilla Macaulay

- Always looking for an excuse to mention one of 3 things: how she does not have much of an internet presence, how she’s the only girl she knows who doesn’t like Taylor Swift, & how she only reads weird girl literature and classics.

- Does not carry cigarettes bc she likes to just take them from Charles or Henry

- Giggles (at least internally) every time she thinks of or speaks to Bunny after she has read Bunny by Mona Awad

- Learned how to do laundry on YouTube when she first moved to Hampden (their family always sent laundry out)

- She knits

- She tints her lashes at home to keep up the illusion of not wearing makeup

- Borrows Francis’s vape often (when Henry isn’t looking)

- Has a Samsung frame TV in her bedroom & she uses it to play study ambience that’s just paintings and classical music

- At one point she has the same haircut as Charles. They’re surprisingly difficult to tell apart when this is the case.

Charles Macaulay

- He’s got an instagram DM roster he can’t even scroll to the bottom of

- Has a tiny tattoo on his ribs of Camilla’s initials (which are also his initials- he was blacked out when he got it) and as a result refuses to swim in the summer

- He likes wax sealing envelopes. It’s relaxing

- Smokes Camel Blues (Lights) & carries a Cool Mint Puffbar disposable vape for when he inevitably loses those

- Has been known to purchase a blueberry RedBull on occasion, though he usually chugs it before anyone else in the Greek Class can see

- Also uses a burner account to stalk Francis on tiktok. Francis knows it’s him, though, because he wasn’t very inventive with the username (when will he learn to leave it as user random numbers??)

- His entire fyp on that account is Francis, people who look strikingly similar to Francis, & slime tutorials with Lifetime movies playing

- Wired headphones truther

[artytaeh]

THEODORE NOTT HAS A LOT OF MONEY. and even though that's a relief that indulges his own impulsive spendings to pamper himself, it still doesn't feel like he properly makes use of it.

the large bookshelf on his bedroom, at the nott mansion, might suggest otherwise.

( what? theodore enjoys special editions; no, it's not silly to want a first edition of one of his older favorites, or a hard cover version with a better illustration, really. much less having paid more for a book on his native language, given that he's in london, a bit too far away from the city he was born, millan. )

but then, ah— there it is! the reason why his family's ridiculous wealth makes sense, now!

because what theodore nott lacks in a few matters, such as communication or spending a lot of time with you, when he needs his time alone, he'll compensate like this.

one might perceive this as a heartless, uncaring way to press bandaids over emotional wounds; believe me, it couldn't be farther than this.

theodore just likes to see you smile, and given that his black card is a means to such an end, well, why not?

things are just things; but things do bring happiness, so yes, you can buy happy feelings!

theodore would love to know if you collect something— mugs? he's bringing a new one for you, now paying extra special attention to crockery themed stores. snowglobes? there's this one he found, with a charm to it! if there's a comic series you like, theodore would discreetly surprise you every week with a new volume.

only for you to go and break his heart, standing in front of his door with his gifts in arms, extending them for theodore to take it back.

cluelessly, and looking a bit like a kicked puppy, theodore frowns. are you angry at him? isn't this the type of thing you like? should you reassure him that your only issue is the excessive money spent on you, theodore feels like a weight left his shoulders.

huff; so, he does know how to please his girlfriend and what she likes!

... but why are you rejecting him? 'hey, bella, don't offend me— this isn't going to empty nott's vault any time soon.'

should his puppy eyes work, well then, you're doomed.

because theodore will use this same excuse over and over again, when he brings another thing that reminds him of you. what? you mentioned that you like coats like these! it's a color you like to wear, and you'll need warm clothes like that in a matter of weeks!

do you not like his gifts? theodore will give you a look that, if you didn't know better about his cynical shenanigans, you'd believe that his heart was being shattered to pieces.

that's the reason why dates at hogsmeade are so dangerous. i'm being serious— you might as well keep your eyes on the road, stare at the snow beneath your feet, because if you spend more than four seconds staring at something inside a shop...

there isn't time to process anything else; theodore's mind works fast. you saw it, you seem to like it, he's buying it. in a blink of an eye, theodore already has his card between his index and middle finger, nonchalantly making his way inside.

'can't a man spoil his girl? goddamn it, dolcezza.'

clothes are almost worse. if he sees something that you're staring at, and likes it, theodore is putting so much (discreet. not so discreet,) effort into convincing you to let him buy it for you.

'you'd look good in it. see, it's a color you like, it would look really good, given your skin tone.' and then, he takes a different approach: 'trying it on doesn't hurt, right?'

a cruel plan, you see, because then you fall in love with this dress, as much as theodore fell in love with the idea of you wearing such pretty clothes.

his arms embrace your waist, like a snake slowly trapping its victim; the fabric feels right under his skin, the dress looking as if it was sketched for you, fitting better than a glove.

theodore rests his chin on your shoulder, holding back a smirk as he sees you mourning the idea of leaving the dress here— it's just so pretty! and theodore's compliments don't help!

🗯️ : but teddy, it's really cold these days. i wouldn't be able to wear it, anyways.

t : and that's why we learned simple warming charms during third year.

🗯️ : sure, but— i don't have where to use it, so it's not worth it if it's just going to look pretty in my dresser.

t : no worries, bambina. i'll think about a perfect date for you to wear this, looking so pretty for me. bellissima, la mia bella ragazza.

NO USE IN ARGUING WITH HIM; theodore nott always wins these rounds. the battle is won, and the war is benefitting his side.

even if you do not let him spoil you with such impulsive thoughts and freedom, theodore would never, for the life of him, let you pay for a single coffee or meal while you're with him.

lunches at hogsmeade are a favorite of his. obviously, he's paying. this slytherin doesn't joke about the topic; will give you the biggest side eye if you take out your wallet.

who do you think he is? his mother raised a man that knows how to treat a girl right, and a good boyfriend! no way in hell is any soul at hogsmeade, scotland, europe— hell, galaxy!— considering that he's not taking care of his amata ragazza properly.

ALL IN ALL, THEODORE FINDS IT SWEET how much you worry over it, and insist that he could spend this same money on things that he likes.

but that's what you fail to understand— what theodore likes, more than a new book with a promising synopsis, or an exquisite astrolobe— is seeing you smile for something that he got you.

﹙★﹚ won't give you gifts to earn his forgiveness earlier, though. he wants his presents to feel like he genuinely thought you'd like it, not as a bargain or bribery.

anyways, i love this man. 🌷

[felassan]

Thread: Sylvia Feketekuty on the influences of Emmrich and the Mourn Watch

The rest of this post is under a cut due to length and possible spoilers.

Sylvia Feketekuty: "I think I've gotten to most people’s questions, and I promised I'd talk about influences on Emmrich and the Mourn Watch before wrapping this up. So here we go! It took me while to figure out Emmrich's character voice. I'm happy with where I landed, but he was a tough one. A few books helped me out. MR James' Collected Ghost Stories (1890-1930) My favourite ghost stories of all time. James excels at building dread, at writing people finding strange things in books, or around the corner, or in the old lane at night."

"He was also an antiquarian and a scholar at Cambridge. I wanted Emmrich and the Watchers to feel formal, but not like they were from another epoch. James’ language, polished by a rich academic career, was an excellent benchmark for 'older, but not ancient'. E.g.: if using contractions was appropriate for James' time, it was appropriate for Emmrich. It freed me up, mentally speaking, to deploy them whenever they improved cadence or flow. Thomas Ligotti's Songs of a Dead Dreamer Fellow Ligotti fans may already be thinking Emmrich doesn't really share the philosophy underpinning Ligotti's work, and they’re right. However!"

"Songs of a Dead Dreamer is filled with fantastical imagery that’s a bit lusher than that found in Ligotti's later works. It was really good at bringing to mind the kind of moody, expansive dreamscapes I think our necromancer mentally occupies. It’s from a different book (Noctuary), but Ligotti’s “The Spectral Estate” also merits a mention. If you plunked it down in front of Emmrich to read, he’d know exactly what it was on about. The Romantic poets (or any poetry on similar themes: overpowering swells of emotion, the grandeur and awe of nature, love and loss and grief.) Palgrave's Golden Treasury was usually in reach."

"If I was in a jam, or psyching myself up for a scene, sometimes I’d read a few poems to get into the proper head space. Or just for the pleasure of it. Poems are great! Please take a link to Shelley's "A Dream of the Unknown", one of my favourites. [link] I also read a few books by morticians and funerary directors. A friend lent me Smoke Gets in your Eyes and From Here to Eternity by Caitlin Doughty (probably the most famous mortician on the internet?) I also checked out Nine Years Under: Coming of Age in an Inner-city Funeral Home by Sheri Booker."

"These books were full of lessons about how people react to death, how different cultures treat it, how anger and grieving express differently but come from the same wellspring. Very humane looks at how we deal with loss and other people. Moving on to non-books: My First Cadaver, a podcast of stories from medical students and medical professionals."

"I listened to a few episodes My First Cadaver, and there were some incredible tales in there. Gross (I could never be a doctor) but incredible. And I was struck by was how much students working on donated cadavers got attached to them. I can’t remember if it was in MFC or not, but there was one story about a medical student introducing his date to the cadaver he was working on like she was a beloved aunt. It was very sweet! Peter Cushing in Horror of Dracula (1958) and The Curse of Frankenstein (1957) These films are filled with handsome costumes, ominous sets, and the oversized passions I associate with gothic melodrama. Cushing's perfect in them."

"His portrayals of Van Helsing and Baron Frankenstein are brisk, determined, obsessive, and brimming with energy; they’re scholars who are experts in their field, yet still men of action. They felt like natural touchstones for a professor suddenly called to grand adventure. I also ended up reading Cushing's memoirs. In a bit of strange synchronicity, there were similarities between his life and traits I'd already decided to give Emmrich. Cushing came from a working-class family, had an intense phobia (his was of the dark), was vegetarian, and so on. I'd had no idea."

"(Humans tend to pattern-match, but it was a little eerie.) A side note: I've seen people speculate Emmrich was based off of Vincent Price. There’s a bit of the good Mr. Price in there, but Cushing got to play more heroic roles than he did. He felt more right to me. A second side note: did you know Vincent Price was a gourmand who loved to entertain? He and his wife Mary put out a beautiful cooking book, A Treasury of Great Recipes, filled with warm and charming commentary. If you're interested in that kind thing, highly recommended!"

"One influence when I was pitching the Memorial Gardens to the rest of the team was Swan Point cemetery in Rhode Island. It's where Lovecraft was buried, and like many a Weird Tales nerd before me, I was curious and wanted to see it."

"I wasn't prepared for was how lush the plants and flowers were, and how beautifully landscaped everything there is. Swan Point is a historical burial place, and also a carefully tended garden and arboretum. It stunned me. I'd never been in a cemetery like it. Emmrich complains about Hezenkoss making him play complicated wargames when they were students, and that one in particular had three separate rulebooks."

"I've seen people guess whether I was referencing D&D or Warhammer 40K. D&D was formative, and I know a frankly embarrassing amount about WH40K at this point (No regrets. Necrons and Admech 4-ever.*) But the origin is even sillier. *Why yes, Mechanicus 2 IS my most anticipated upcoming game. I used to own the first edition of a board game called Mansions of Madness, and was supposed to learn the rules so I could lead my friends through it. But come the day, I’d procrastinated, and was running short on time."

"Fantasy Flight's previous game in the same vein was Arkham Horror, and AH is not a simple game. But I remember being hopeful, as I peeled the shrinkwrap off, that maybe MoM would be easier to learn than AH. Have streamlined rules, or fewer things to remember. Then the top popped off, and three separate rulebooks fell out and slithered to the floor. (The DAV game’s not meant to be MoM, but the absurdity of that moment stuck with me.) (It's not the game's fault, by any means, that I was unprepared, and the session went as well as it could have with me flipping through the books going "Okay wait...hold on...I think that was here...no, wait.") The Nevarran hazelnut torte recipe is actually a family recipe from my grandmother, on my father's side. I’m beyond delighted people have actually made it. (Our recipe uses metric measurements, but the DA style guide uses imperial, so I was worried about the conversion. Looks like it went okay.)"

"On my mother's side of the family: my grandmother cooked and cleaned for a living, and my grandfather was a butcher. He passed away before I was born, and my grandmother when I was very young. So I gave Emmrich’s parents those professions as a little nod to the grandmother I only knew very little, and the grandfather I never met at all. I would’ve liked time with them both. And to end on a lighter note, "Ever thought of becoming a hat person?" is an extremely oblique reference to a line spoken to one of gaming's greatest characters: Murray, the demon skull from Curse of Monkey Island. (Curse is the first Monkey Island game I ever played, and therefore my favourite.)"

"Small bonus: here’s the music I listened to most while working on Emmrich and the Watchers. Some of it probably only makes sense to me, some of it seems thematically obvious. (I don’t have Spotify so best I can do is an itunes screenshot.)"

"Not on the screenshot because I changed PCs halfway through, but I also listened to a lot of music from Cryo Chamber, a great dark ambient label. [link] And their sister label, Cryo Crypt, which does "Dark Fantasy Dungeon Synth." [link] And also Allicorn IS on the screenshot but I think I've listened to his stuff on every game I've worked on by now. [link]"

[thread source link]

---

Bonus: follow-up comments and exchanges -

User: "I KNEW the torte was somebody’s family recipe!!" // Sylvia: "My only regret is that the icing was originally a stove-boiled icing made with eggs and chocolate and butter emulsified together. I couldn't get it working, however, these past few years. I think we lost some crucial part of the steps when trying to write out a clean copy. So I went with ganache for the game, because I didn't want to print something that didn't work, and I've used ganache myself. It's good! But I'm going to try to replicate the original again one day." [source, two] // User: "I noticed that sometimes, ingredients doesn't react the way they used to and part of that is probably due to some "industrial" changes in the recipe for ingredients like chocolate or butter to cut the cost of making them, imho. It's sad because it means we lost a very specific way to do things..." // Sylvia: "Yeah, that was the first thing a friend who bakes a lot suggested. I wonder if I was a victim of "Buttergate" when Canadian cows were being fed so much palm oil butter was harder to spread as a result. After a long search, I found a local place that makes butter that actually tastes good, which is an incredibly sad sentence to have to type out." [source, two]

Sylvia, re: Vincent Price being a gourmand and his cooking book: "It's extremely cool. My library had a copy and I remember it being pretty big, too." [source]

User: "I was following this thread and I'm delighted about all of these facts and information. Thank you for sharing!" // Sylvia: "Aw thank you! And thanks for reading, it was nice to unpack all the stuff kicking around my mental attic." [source]

User, re: MFC: "Sorry to post again but this one got me- my mom is a doc, and i remember her telling me stories of the cadaver she worked on (evidence of different surgeries she had, the cancer she had, etc), and mom always ended her stories saying how thankful she was to her. It really does stick around." // Sylvia: "No need to apologize, I liked hearing about your mom's reaction! It's exactly what I kept hearing and reading about, a sense of reverence for the gift." [source]

Sylvia: ""The irony that I had to convert the measurements back to metric" Haha. I tried to get as close as I could. Here's the written down metric version of the cake batter. It's an older recipe so I had to try to guess what a "knife tip" ended up as." [source]

A user on the torte being a family recipe: "Oh my gosh 🥹 that makes it all even lovelier!" // Sylvia: "Thanks! I was really excited to share the family recipe, it's a bit of work but it's one of my favorites." [source]

A user under the post about MR James' Collected Ghost Stories: "So you're probably the one behind the mysterious bronze whistle, I take it?" // Sylvia: "Haha, guilty. Cameron Harris, our editor, helped me figure out a phonetic guide to the latin. (If it fails anywhere it's very likely my fault.)" [source]

User: "As an avid Emmrich lover & someone trying to write some Emmrich POVs in my Emrook fanfictions, I can not thank you ENOUGH for this wealth of info / music inspo to go off of" // Sylvia: "Thank you! (Seriously though some of those songs probably only make sense to me, they're not all thematically on point, but some are. Hope you enjoy!)" [source]

User: "As another "needs a million hours of droning ambient music to write" writer I appreciate these greatly" // Sylvia: "We both have good taste! 🎶" [source]

User: "Thank you for writing out this list!! Peter Cushing makes so much sense as an influence. I love the variety of media here, it gives me so much new stuff to check out!" // Sylvia: "Thank you for reading! If you do check out some of this stuff, hope you enjoy!" [source]

Sylvia: "thanks so much, and for reading the thread! It was fun to write." [source]

User: "Thank you for sharing these books!I was looking for a good ghost book" // Sylvia: "Thanks! Hope you enjoy James. "Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad" was the first story of his I read and I'll never forget that experience." [source] // Sylvia: "I just love the mood James could create, so much." [source]

User: "ELECTRIC SIX MENTION" // Sylvia: "My greatest favorites, now and forever." [source]

Sylvia: "Please archive away, I am intent on deleting the account eventually but it'd be nice to know people could look this stuff up later if they're curious. (Future generations need to know which Atrium Carceri tracks I listened to!)" [source]

User: "Amongst many things, not the least of which is the gratitude and delight of having your fantastic insight into the writing process of Emmrich, my grandmother’s hazelnut torte is fantastically close to the Nevarran version which was a delightful discovery." // Sylvia: "Ah now nice. I assume she was also central/eastern European then? I suspect it was a popular recipe at a certain time." [source]

User: "As an ex-mortician turned game writer, this was a FASCINATING read!" // Sylvia: "Haha, I definitely took inspiration from morticians! (Thank you for checking it out, that thread got long)" [source]

User: "ATRIUM CARCERI - Such a perfect band for the Mourn Watch!" // Sylvia: "I stumbled on Atrium Carceri when I was a student, and there's happily so much dark ambient available now, but Simon Heath's particular vibe can't be beat." [source]

User: "Rockefeller Street is just like that, man. It's sticky." // Sylvia: "Yes! It's so good, it just hits a certain mood dead center." [source]

Sylvia: "Ginkys of BlueSky has created a Spotify list of the music I listened to when writing Emmrich and the Watchers! Almost everything's on there. Thank you Ginkys. (FYI: Not everything I listened to matches the MW vibe, sometimes it was just a song that got stuck in my head for a few weeks.) - [link]" [source]

User: "I appreciate Replay being on here so muuuuch" // Sylvia: "My favorite song on the album! Though 911 was also real solid." [source]

User: "Love that there's Lady Gaga" // Sylvia: "Friend just sent me Abracadabra, I'm excited for the Gothic Camp here." [source]

Sylvia, about the torte recipe: "If it's useful, here's the full thing in metric. WARNING: Last two times I tried this cooked icing, it failed. I'm not sure whether I miscopy a crucial step, or if changes to local butter were the culprit. Either way, proceed with caution. A ganache is way safer, and very similar." [source]

^ User: "Thank you! That's helpful. I haven't baked many cakes before so I'll do some research about icing/ganache before trying. Hopefully looking at local (Swedish) recipes will give me a hint of what to be careful with." // Sylvia: "Ganache is SUPER simple (you basically heat cream and pour it over chopped chocolate), so I lean even more towards recommending you go with that instead of the cooked icing. Hope you the baking." [source]

[thread source link]

[lolitalovess]

thinking about vi as your wife ♡ (multiple recs put into one, nsfw under cut)

wife vi who cooks for you everyday. it's one of her love languages, taking time out of her day to make yours better with something she made for you. she has many cook books in her nerd collection, every recipe in there has been made by her and she's written down her overall rating of each recipe on every page. mention it to her momma and she'll show you videos of pow and vi making cheese toasties together my shaylas 🙁

wife vi who can't let go of you in the mornings. she is a super heavy sleeper and it doesn't matter what either of you have to do today, how important your job is or who you have plans to see. she WILL be hiding her face into your neck with her leg slung over you, or will be tucking you, the blanket and her childhood bunny plushie into her chest. especially when it's winter. you literally can't escape her.

wife vi who is never seen not wearing her ring and gives you the most baffled look when you're not wearing yours.

wife vi who pulls up in her 1966 cherry red ford mustang to pick you up, her ring shining from the reflection against the sun with i just died in your arms by cutting crew (DON'T laugh at me) playing and her heart shaped lips curling up into a smile when she sees your pretty face before you lean over to give her kisses.

wife vi who is good at art and buys and makes you gifts and gift baskets like this or this or this every time she feels like it. it doesn't even need to be valentines or your birthday or any occasion, she just wants to give.

wife vi who wants a rottweiler with you so fucking bad (to have a baby with you, and to protect you when shes not around even if you can handle yourself) but she knows that they're a massive responsibility and alot of work needs to be put into dogs, so you two settle on rescuing an old kitty from a shelter, a ginger one with a few missing teeth and sass as bad as vi's. his name is screwdriver. screwdriver sleeps in bed with you two every night.

wife vi who would lowkey be your house wife if you made big money... i can't stop thinking about this.

wife vi who would fall asleep on the couch like a dad while watching tv with you almost every single night, and when she's not doing that she's most definitely 110% passing out after you eat her pussy after you two finish dinner.

wife vi who is super into public sex because she likes the idea of it and also just needs you all the time that she should be locked away.

wife vi who would beg for you to let her eat you out under a table or in the bathroom of her dads bar when you're sitting in the car outside and about to go in, or would press the softest little kisses to your jaw, giving you her puppy eyes and asking you if you can put a vibrator on her clit when you two are about to leave the house.

wife vi who loves shower sex. sometimes when you two can't see eachother alot because you two leave for work at different times, both get home late and sometimes there just isn't enough time to fuck like how you both want. so she starts tongue fucking your pussy when you're washing your hair, and you do the exact same when she's washing hers!!

wife vi who's ceo of giving you back messages in the bath after sex. she's got you on her lap, face resting on her chest while her skilled hands search for your sore muscles, massaging the knots out when you press kisses to her collarbone.

this isnt very freaky pls don't kill me i'm just tired and need a lobotomy. but if you do want more freaky shit with wife vi lmk (mischievously rubs hands together 😈) i just know this is gonna flop miserably

@h0neymiel

[kxsagi]

"𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢"

isagi yoichi has been your childhood friend since the end of grade school. 

the two of you met as pen pals, paired together by your teachers in a random classroom exercise. at first, it was just an assignment, another task to complete, but writing to isagi quickly became something more that never stopped. he had a way with words that made every letter feel effortless, as if the two of you had known each other for lifetimes. 

you were polar opposites – he, the athletic dreamer, chasing soccer with everything he had; you, the studious one, always lost in books and ambition. but even in your differences, there were bridges you crossed together – shared music tastes, the same love for certain foods, the way your minds met in a space only the two of you understood. 

despite living an hour’s train ride apart, in entirely different cities, the two of you agreed on three simple rules: 

no social media. 

no phone numbers. 

no pictures. 

letters were your only means of communication – old-fashioned, tangible, and filled with a mystery that neither of you wanted to shatter. isagi never minded. in fact, he loved it. he loved the way your cream-colored envelopes always arrived with a gold-stamped lotus wax seal. the way your handwriting curved in distinct strokes, familiar yet mesmerizing. even the navy blue ink, scented faintly of blueberries, became something he cherished, something uniquely you. 

and somehow, through those letters, he had fallen in love. 

fate, it seemed, had its own plans. 

at his favorite café in saitama, isagi stood just a few meters away from you. unaware. 

he entered as he always did, stepping through the glass doors, eyes scanning the menu out of habit before deciding, as always, to stick with his usual order. after paying, he moved to the side, waiting near the pickup area, his mind drifting to thoughts of soccer strategies, until something pulled him back to the present. 

a song. 

infrunami by steve lacy. 

a song the two of you had once raved about in your letters, one you would occasionally quote to each other like a secret language. 

and then, accompanying the melody, was a soft voice, almost absentmindedly singing along from a nearby table. 

he turned instinctively, ready to start a conversation with this stranger about the song, only for his breath to catch the moment he laid eyes on you. 

you were absolutely gorgeous. 

the way loose strands of your hair fell as you leaned over your notebook. the subtle gloss on your lips, the same brand of balm you once mentioned using to keep them from drying out. but also, the navy blue pen in your hand, identical in shade to the ink that stained the letters he reread too often. the curves of your handwriting… your handwriting. 

it had to be a coincidence. he blinked, rubbed his eyes, convinced that maybe he was just imagining things. but then, he heard your name called. 

and the nickname. his nickname for you. 

you glanced up at the sound, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment. to you, it was just another awkward moment of unintentional eye contact with a stranger. you brushed it off, stepping up to the counter to collect your matcha, offering a quiet “thank you” to the barista before turning back toward your table. 

but as you passed by him, the supposed stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all, you heard him say something, something so soft, so filled with disbelief, that it stopped you mid-step. 

“this whole time… you were right in front of me." 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

a/n: infrunami is my favorite steve lacy song guys (let’s not talk about how i mispronounced this song name for months until someone called me out on it)

[fanfoolishness]

I like to imagine that in the future, people remember the clones. After Palpatine falls for good on Exegol, imagine an explosion of freedom and knowledge in those days after the final defeat: imagine archaeologists and scholars plumbing the depths of Imperial and First Order records, trying to figure out what had happened so it could never happen again. And through it all they find the clones’ story woven into everything, until a new field emerges of Clone Studies, a loose alliance of military history buffs and research biologists and anthropologists and ethicists.

They catalogue the Kaminoans’ research; they review the clone memorials on Coruscant, on Zeffo, monuments as large as a massive wall or as small as a quiet statue, from people throughout the galaxy who were grateful for what they did. They study the great tragedy and betrayal of the chip, finally understanding the scope of Palpatine’s plans and bringing them out into the open, sharing the truth that the clones never chose to betray the Jedi Order and Republic they had served faithfully. They study old war vids and oral histories from people of long-lived species or whose grandparents remembered the clones; they build, memory by memory, a sense of the culture, the camaraderie, the brotherhood, the loyalty. They collect vids of battle songs and in-jokes and an interior language shared among them, springing up over the years.

They find and list their names, self-chosen or given by their brothers: Rex, Fives, Howzer, Echo, Tup, Gregor, Wolffe, Cody, Boil, Waxer, Cut. They study the clones whose differences defined them and knit them into a family whose ties could not be broken, Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair, Omega. They study the discarded who nevertheless still had value - 99, Emerie, the clones who were culled in infancy for being wrong. There are specialists who devote their entire branch of study to the only male unaltered clone and his infamous exploits throughout the galaxy, so alike his father’s. They study the years of the clone rebellion, a fight that paved the way for the next wave of fighters and the next after them.

The clones are gone. That is undisputed. Their kind came for a little while, and then vanished, burning brightly; their tale was a tragedy, but one unique in all its seeming sameness. There are conferences and holovids and books. There are debates and research firing up young scholars about a time only their great-grandparents can remember.

In the future, after all the clones are gone, there are still stories.

[aventurineswife]

I forgot Valentine’s Day is coming up—

Can we have Reader gifting Dan Heng a bouquet of his favorite flowers, a small pouch of homemade mint dark chocolates, a custom-made diting plush and cooking dinner?

✨💚 Nothing but the best for Dan Heng~ 💚✨

A Language Without Words

Summary: On Valentine's Day, you decide to surprise Dan Heng with a thoughtful collection of gifts—his favorite flowers, homemade mint dark chocolates, a custom-made Diting plush, and a home-cooked dinner. Though he isn't one for grand gestures, your quiet sincerity reaches him in ways neither of you expected, leading to a moment of warmth and unspoken understanding.

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Slow Burn, Valentine's Day, Gifts & Gestures, Soft Moments, Mutual Feelings.

Warnings: Just pure fluff and softness.

The Astral Express hummed softly as it drifted through the endless expanse of space. The usual warmth of the train remained, but tonight, something in the air felt different—subtle yet lingering, like the quiet promise of something special.

You glanced at the bundle of carefully prepared gifts in your arms, a nervous flutter in your chest. Dan Heng wasn’t the easiest person to approach when it came to sentimental gestures. He kept to himself, rarely indulging in celebrations, but that didn’t mean he was indifferent.

And tonight, you wanted to show him—quietly, gently—that he was cared for.

Taking a deep breath, you made your way toward the archive room, where you knew he would be. Sure enough, Dan Heng sat at his desk, flipping through an old text, his eyes flickering under the dim lighting.

At the sound of your footsteps, he looked up, surprise flickering in his gaze. "You're still awake?"

You smiled, stepping closer. "I could say the same about you."

He blinked, then set his book aside as his eyes landed on the bundle in your arms. "What's this?"

You held out the bouquet first—a delicate arrangement of blue lotuses, their petals soft and luminescent under the lights. "Happy Valentine's Day, Dan Heng. I wanted to get you something special."

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His gaze lingered on the flowers, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the petals with an almost reverent touch.

"Lotuses…" His voice was quiet, but there was something in it—something softer than his usual detached tone.

"You mentioned once that you liked them," you murmured, watching him carefully. "So, I thought…"

He exhaled, barely a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You remembered."

You nodded, then placed the next item in his hands—a small pouch, filled with dark chocolate infused with mint, wrapped neatly with a simple ribbon. "I made these myself. I know you don’t like overly sweet things, so I adjusted the bitterness just right."

Dan Heng hesitated, then took the pouch, fingers grazing yours briefly. The contact was fleeting, but it sent warmth up your arm.

"You… made these?" He looked at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

"I did," you confirmed. "I wanted them to be something you'd enjoy."

Instead of answering right away, he undid the ribbon, taking one of the chocolates and tasting it. His lips parted slightly as he registered the taste, and for a brief moment, his normally stoic features softened.

"They’re perfect," he admitted, voice quieter than usual.

Relieved, you pulled out the last gift—a small, custom-made plush in the likeness of Diting. Its soft fabric and tiny embroidered eyes made it look even more adorable than the real thing.

Dan Heng stared at it, clearly caught off guard. "This is…"

"A companion for you," you said with a small laugh. "Since you spend so much time alone in here, I thought it might keep you company when no one else is around."

Something in his expression shifted—so subtle that most wouldn’t notice. But you did. His grip on the plush tightened slightly, and his shoulders lost some of their usual tension.

"You… went through all this trouble for me?" His voice was barely above a whisper now.

You nodded. "Of course. You're important to me, Dan Heng."

His eyes widened slightly, but before he could respond, you added, "And, I also made dinner. If you're up for it."

For a long moment, Dan Heng simply looked at you, as if trying to decipher something he couldn’t quite understand. Then, at last, he exhaled softly.

"Alright," he murmured. "Lead the way."

As you turned to leave, you felt something warm brush against your wrist—his fingers, just for a second, before they retreated. When you glanced back at him, he was already averting his gaze, but there was no mistaking the faint pink dusting his cheeks.

It wasn’t much. But for Dan Heng, it was enough.

And maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something more.