#The habit makes the monk

[osiiiris]

I love that Ghost has shifted all the attention to the aesthetics of clothing. 

In a world where pop stars focus almost entirely on nudity, ignoring the importance of clothing and how it plays a fundamental role in the game of desire, Ghost, both Papas and Ghouls, have been perfect in not underestimating the value of clothing, but rather in bringing it back to the spotlight.

The history of fashion is rich with examples of how clothing has been a source of literary inspiration, an object of desire and fetish, and a protagonist in cultural and aesthetic changes.

Leather gloves, intricate vestments, cravats, boots... they may seem like simple accessories, but they are, in fact, tools of seduction and personality manifestation.

With them, I feel as though we are returning to the European aesthetics of the 19th century, to the cult of beauty and elegance, as if having just stepped out of Leopardi's 'Dialogue Between Fashion and Death.'

I love the vanitas, the drama, the sophistication, the opulence of it all.

[sweetstrawberryys]

"Language, Soldier!"

Summary: Simon “Ghost” Riley finally has the perfect family—his loving wife and their little son, Ghostie. But old habits die hard, and Simon’s military swearing is legendary. His wife and son hatch a plan: a swear jar that’s filling up fast. When Simon’s team comes over for dinner, nobody is safe from the swear jar—and the family’s about to cash in big time.

Rating: Fluff overload. Found family. Ghost and his perfect family. Tf141 being big grumps. Ghostie gets rich rich.

Masterlist

---

The kitchen smelled like garlic and rosemary, warm and inviting. Simon “Ghost” Riley stood at the stove, expertly flipping chicken breasts with a practiced hand, though he kept glancing nervously at the small jar on the counter. It was an unassuming glass jar with a bright pink label slapped on it that read “SWEAR JAR” in glittery letters.

His wife, radiant and soft, leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. Their son, barely two but already suspiciously aware of the world, sat in his high chair, shaking a tiny piggy bank with a grin that could melt any hardened soldier’s heart.

“Simon,” she called, voice dripping with honey, “I’m telling you, this thing is making us filthy rich.”

Simon rolled his eyes but smiled, “Yeah, yeah. You and the little gremlin making money off my bad habits.”

Ghostie squealed and clapped his hands as his mom dropped a few coins into the jar. “More money! More money!”

Ghost glanced at the jar, then back at his son, and sighed. “At this rate, I’ll have to start talking like a nun. Or a bloody monk.”

She laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Or maybe just watch your language.”

Before he could answer, the doorbell rang. Simon wiped his hands on a towel and went to open it, revealing his entire team: Soap, Price, and Gaz, all carrying bottles and good spirits.

“Evening, Ghost,” Soap greeted, grinning wide. “What’s the occasion?”

“Just a quiet family dinner,” Simon’s wife said sweetly, eyes gleaming with a mischievous light.

Simon shot her a look but said nothing.

As the team filtered in, Ghostie’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Daddy’s friends!” he squealed, pointing at Soap, who crouched down to say hi.

Once everyone was settled at the table, the first plate of food passed around, and the wine poured, the real fun began.

Price was the first to slip. “Fuck,” he muttered as he missed the gravy boat and nearly spilled it on the floor.

Instantly, Ghost’s wife chimed in with a grin, “That’s five coins.”

Everyone’s eyes flicked to the jar, which suddenly seemed to glow ominously in the soft light.

Soap burst out laughing. “You’re shitting me. We’re actually paying for swearing?”

Simon shrugged. “Welcome to married life.”

---

As the evening rolled on, the team’s colorful language only got more creative. Gaz cursed under his breath about the cold draft near the window; Soap swore loud enough to make even a sailor blush; Price’s insults aimed at the dessert being “too bloody sweet” made everyone chuckle—and drop coins.

Ghostie, catching on, gleefully added to the jar each time his mom handed him a coin.

At one point, Simon himself cursed when a napkin flew into the salad bowl, earning a teasing smirk from his wife and a hefty contribution to the jar.

The room buzzed with warmth, laughter, and the occasional beep of a coin hitting glass.

---

As the night wound down and plates were cleared, Ghost’s wife counted the loot with a sparkle in her eyes.

“Well,” she announced, “we’ve got enough for a family day out… and maybe a new bike for Ghostie.”

Simon wrapped an arm around her, feeling more relaxed than he had in years. “Guess I’m gonna have to learn some new words.”

She smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Or just keep letting us cash in on your colorful language.”

Ghostie yawned, already half-asleep in his chair, clutching his piggy bank.

Simon scooped him up, feeling that perfect blend of exhaustion and joy. “Best damn family I’ve ever had,” he whispered.

And with that, the swear jar sat quietly on the counter, ready for its next round of “offenses.”

[kawareo]

Thank you @hellothisisangle for the template! click for better resolution

This was very fun, loved thinking about how being a different race would affect Strike. He canonically didn't have any ties to 'his' race, being raised for a few years by a tiefling and a halforc before he got snatched up by the cult, and his background is the same no matter the race. He's always primarily a sorcerer, but multiclasses into something else

Tiefling - Closest to canon, behavior wise. Funky and smug dude. Same multiclass as in canon, battlemaster fighter

Gnome (Assassin Rogue) - Do I know the difference between an adult gnome and a human child? Yes. Does Bhaal? Probably. Does he care? .... No clue, but Strike as a gnome is a grown man who can easily pass as a child if he tries, and he plays heavily into that. He's still almost forty and his personality is the same, he's just creepier about it.

Gith - (Bladesinger) Not nearly as charismatic as in canon, because being basically the only Gith in Baldur's Gate didn't give him many chances to learn to socialize. In canon he 'makes up' for being a drow by being charismatic enough to get away with pretending to be an elf, but as a Gith, he just embraces being a scraggly street rat. Braids his hair when fidgeting.

Human (Monk, Way of Drunken Master) - Found a way to monopolize his drinking habits. By far the messiest version. Without elf genetics, his age and consequences of his lifestyle actually show on his face.

Orc (Cleric of War) - he grew up with his orc mum telling him of what people thought of their race, so he purposefully went against that. Very suave, put together. Can rip you apart with his bare hands but prefers to do it in a fancy way.

Sun Elf (Paladin of the crown) - Take all of his daddy issues and multiply them severely since now Bhaal is also his patron. Version that is by far the most like Orin and has killed both her and Gortash before the Plan ever could happen. Just barely keeping it together. Ginger.

Dwarf (Spore Druid) - very friendly, trustrworthy and polite. His favorite food is still roasted dwarf.

Dragonborn (Storm sorcerer, no multiclass) - Canon personality but without the silly little guy persona. Ruthless and functional. Sometimes puts his whole mouth around Gortash's head and that is considered affection. Tbh his personality is usually the same, what changes is the act he puts on over it. Both tiefling and dragonborn can disappear completely if they close their eyes in the dark. Just lineart under cut

[minhoetaur]

nsfw. viking!orcs x nun!fem!reader (one) – historical (based in late 700 a.d.), based on the raid of lindisfarne, monsterfucking, smut, kidnapping, "man"handling, dubcon, forced religion, robbery, physical punishment, abuse (mentioned), violence (implied), blood (mentioned), no porn yet but we'll get there i promise, bodily fluids (mentioned), breeding season (mentioned), impregnating (mentioned)

ʚ a shrill scream, followed by a ruckus of crashes and running footsteps interrupt your morning prayer.

ʚ hoisting from your knees, you clench a fist around the thread of rosary beads a monk of the church gave you, and hurry to hide behind the chunk of stone that makes up the altar. upon it are offerings. riches of the people who took you in and taught you of the word. who promised you food and shelter if you wore a veil and habit and accepted their god as your own. who whipped cruel licks into your back whenever you repeated the scriptures incorrectly.

ʚ listening, your eyes fill with tears. sounds of a raid–terrified shrieks, buildings being torn apart from top to bottom, valuables clanging together in the sacks of whoever is infiltrating this shore of the peninsula–spread throughout the abbey. when the noises grow closer, your stomach flips and you whisper a hushed orison for the intruders to skip past what you hope they think is nothing more than a lowly monastery. your desires come crashing down when the wooden door bursts open.

ʚ you cup a hand over your mouth to swallow up the sob that tries to leave you. heavy footsteps pound their way throughout, grunting and bellowing in a tongue you don't recognize. they knock against the wooden benches in their spreading about, your entire body shaking with rough shudders as the meeting between you and they grow nigh.

ʚ lowering your head, you tuck even tighter against the rock beside you. eyes clenched and body jerking when a clanking of metal sounds right above your head.

ʚ this is it. they've found the gold and the jewels, and soon they will find you. hopefully, they are kind enough to gift you a quick death. end you with a single run of a sword so the world can cradle your soul and place it into the next body it deems fit.

ʚ you suddenly feel the shadow of a presence, even with your closed eyes and in your curled state. a huffing grunt sounds, and you flinch. the chuckle that follows after forces a gasp to interrupt your cries.

ʚ more hammering footfalls, mixed with rough, panting breaths alert you that you're now completely surrounded. you don't dare peek, but that matters little when a bruising grip yanks you from your crouch. the beads in your hand clatter to the ground, and you blink through the tears, gasping once more at the sight that encloses you.

ʚ monsters. that's the first word that comes to mind. the beings tower over your figure, regarding you with mean-looking eyes, their green and gray skins dull and dirtied with a substance you're happy not knowing. each of the three beasts, riddled with scars and drooling out globs of spit around what look to be large tusks, are have dressed their sculpted bodies in armor you've never seen before. through all your tears, you consider if they're from another world.

ʚ the creatures chuff out rough exhales, unmoved by your whimpering cries. before you can blink, your cries melt into screams when the one holding you arm tugs you closer and throws you over his shoulder. your kicking and screaming are less than useless as he carries you out of the monastery, the other two raiders fitting whatever they can into their sacks before hurrying to follow.

ʚ you struggle the entire walk to the beach where their boat leisures, but it's to no avail. the few in your community that remain alive but better hidden than you were only watch as the monstrous entities heave you away with their sacks of stolen goods and weapons covered in blood.

ʚ you're boarded onto the longboat despite your weeping pleas of "release me! i beg of you, please." when the one holding you plops you onto the deck, you make an effort to slip to the side of him and jump into the water. he blocks the escape easily, and you thud into his hard frame before falling onto the wood beneath you. rising once more with a grunt of struggle, you try again. he grabs you from behind this time, hands enveloping around your waist and tigething with a rough squeeze. your squeal ends just in time for you to hear the even-toned yet warning “stop,” he commands. you do as he says, and not just because you’re certain he could break you in half if he wanted.

ʚ he keeps his grip on you, and you’re forced to walk along with him as he nudges you further onto the boat. there are more of them–these things, whatever they are–aboard the ship… all of them hitching stares your way. yelling. hooting. stomping their feet and beating the butts of their weapons loudly against the deck. the beast that’s got you trapped ignores them all, shuffling past the several oars until the two of you come upon the stern of the boat.

ʚ finally releasing you, he throws his head with a huff. “sit.”

ʚ for all your tears and terror, you find it easy to define him. he stares back at you, waiting for you to move. when you don’t, his eyebrows pinch with an annoyed furrow. “sit… now.”

ʚ your entire self quivers. your eye-line heavies with a thick wet. yet you still remain standing in silent disobedience. a few of the monsters have gathered closer, not as intrigued by the bags of jewelry that aren't theirs as they are with the scene playing out before them.

ʚ he doesn’t let the show go on for long, bending over you with an angry roar. you barely hold back your scream, cheeks dampening with tears once again when the sound crumples you onto into a pile of sniveling keens. he blink, watching you curl in on yourself. looking identical to when he and his fellow warriors found you. gaze trailing, he trails the curves of your body that are somehow still visible despite the ugly rags you’re wearing with a calming breath. good, he thinks to himself. you’ll be perfect for breeding season. perfect for he and his clan to spend the coming month stuffing you full of their buckets of cum… the jarl they’re sailing you back to getting first rights, of course.

[639-hear-me-out-bby]

under a thousand moons | jinu saja

each night, he plays his worn bipa beneath the temple eaves—music born not of glory, but of need, of survival, of something quietly breaking. she hears it from across the city, a melody like a secret meant only for her. when they finally meet, it isn't grand or loud—it’s soft, inevitable, like a thread tugging two hearts closer. in a city that forgets the poor and passes by the quiet, one boy’s song and one girl’s pause become the start of something neither of them expected—and neither can forget.

pairing: kpdh jinu x f. reader (she/her pronouns used) genre: rom-fantasy, timeless love, angst, slow burn (i hope i deliver aaaaaa) rating: teen and up audiences warnings: poverty, emotional vulnerability, animal neglect (implied mention), soft angst word count: 2.7k+ credits & honoraries: inspired by @scribblewytch’s incredible fic—thank you for letting me build off your magic ♡ nabi's notes: this movie has me in a chokehold im tellin' y'all soooo here's my entry to the fandom. to many more!✧˖° ⊹ ࣪ ˖

하나 . 둘 .

the bipa had five strings. two were frayed. one never stayed in tune, no matter how often he coaxed it. but when he sat down to play, it didn’t matter. the sound it made was still beautiful—raw and unpolished, yes, but achingly human. like something old and weathered that still remembered how to sing.

each day began the same way. at dawn, he rolled up his sleeves and helped his mother run the small tteok stall they kept on the edge of the lower market row. it was nothing special—just a squat wooden cart, its lacquer faded from too many summers, with a rusted grill and a few baskets of skewered rice cakes waiting to be cooked. they brushed each one with a glaze of sweet soy, let the sugar bubble and crisp over the coals until it shimmered, then handed them over with folded hands. some customers came with kind words. most came and went in silence. a few haggled over every coin. but his mother never turned anyone away.

by midday, the heat clung to their skin like syrup, and the scent of grilled tteok soaked into his sleeves. his fingers were often sticky from the glaze, and the soles of his sandals were worn thin from standing. still, they didn’t complain. that stall kept them fed. most nights, they brought home whatever hadn’t sold and reheated it for dinner.

only after they closed up—after the coals died down and the cart was wheeled into the narrow alley behind their home—did he sling the bipa over his back and make the climb to the temple wall.

there, just beyond the final incense stalls, beneath the tiled eaves that curved like crescent moons, he sat and played. the space was small, no wider than a doorway, but it shielded him from wind and rain. smoke from incense coils lingered in the corners, curling like ghost-thin ribbons around the worn stone. monks passed by in silent rows, their eyes never drifting toward him. not out of cruelty—just habit. to them, he was part of the landscape. a boy and his old instrument, folded into the city’s edge like moss on a wall.

he wore the same clothes each evening: a thin tunic that might’ve once been sky blue, now faded to the color of old parchment, patched at the seams. a ribbon of cloth—once red, now rust-brown—tied his hair back from his face. but the wind always had its way. strands slipped free and clung to his cheeks, kissed by the night air. he never pushed them aside.

around him, the kingdom moved. the scrape of sandals on cobble. the creak of carts laden with root vegetables and late-summer melons. laughter drifted up from the market below, mingled with haggling and half-sung lullabies. somewhere down the slope, a city official barked at delivery boys, his voice sharp as cut metal. and still, the boy played.

not for attention. not for pity. not even for coin—though sometimes a silver or two clinked to the ground from a passing stranger. there was no jar in front of him. no woven hat. only dust, and the long, curling shadow cast by the setting sun.

the music was quiet at first. a murmur. the low breath of something buried deep beneath the city’s noise. it didn’t rise like a grand overture. it seeped. moved. unfurled. a melody not born from memory but from need—notes remembered by the body.

it wasn’t a courtly tune, nor one meant for festivals or drinking nights. it was older. nameless. felt, not recognized. like something that lived between stories and prayers.

his fingers moved not with elegance, but with persistence. each note was earned. grit carved into calluses, calluses pressed into chords. his wrists ached from lifting tteok all day, from the strain of playing the same refrain until it stitched itself into his bones. the pain didn’t stop him. it was part of the rhythm.

"that again," muttered a woman, shifting the baskets on her shoulders.

"always that same sound," her companion said, wiping his brow with a rag.

"like a funeral."

"no," she said after a moment. "like something trying not to die."

a stray cat had taken up residence nearby—a scrappy thing with matted fur and ribs like bent reeds. it limped with every step, its tail dragging like a tattered ribbon. he sometimes fed it. never touched it. but he never made it leave. it came back each night and curled beside him, closing its eyes like it, too, needed the music to stay whole.

when the final note came, it didn’t rise. it fell—quietly, like the last ember giving in to ash. there was no applause. no dramatic hush. only the wind and the continued murmur of the city.

but the air had shifted. ever so slightly. like something had been scraped away, leaving a raw edge where silence used to be.

he leaned back against the temple wall. the stone was cool. firm. familiar in the way old things are—unyielding but steady. the wind slipped past him, threading through alleyways, brushing across rooftops like a whisper. his music went with it, tangled in the scent of grilled tteok, smoke, and rain.

down the crooked street, past the baker’s alley and silk stalls, a girl paused.

she was running errands, a woven basket clutched to her chest. her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, hands dusted with flour. her hair was pinned in a loose coil, held by a carved wooden comb that had begun to slip. people brushed past her, muttering complaints, but she didn’t notice.

her head tilted. not toward him—she couldn’t see him from where she stood—but toward the sound. that soft, distant melody floating between rooftops and lamplight. she had heard it before. every night, as she closed her father’s shop. always that same tune, never quite the same twice.

there was something in it—something that curled beneath her ribs and settled warm in her chest. as if the music was calling to something inside her she hadn’t yet named.

she didn’t smile. didn’t cry. she just stood there, for one breath longer than necessary.

and then she moved.

but her steps were slower now. not heavy. not sad. just... changed. as though the music had rearranged something inside her. smoothed something out. stirred something else.

she always heard it.

and tomorrow—maybe—she would follow it.

she was the shaman’s daughter, her mother, the royal spiritual and physical practitioner to the queen and the women of the palace. her mother’s hands—soft, but stained with oils and ash—moved between this world and the next with a grace that was half-learned, half-inherited. she was the one the queen called upon for warding dreams, easing births, or quieting the tremors that followed sorrow. her words were few, her silences deep. the girl had grown up beside her, tucked into quiet corners of court halls and forest shrines alike.

that morning, she walked the palace path with a woven basket in hand, heavy with herbs and thread. she was to wait by the eastern courtyard, where the garden met the temple wall, until her mother finished tending to the queen’s favored attendant—a young woman who had woken with a grief she couldn’t name. the girl did not ask questions. she had learned to let silence carry its own answers.

she sat on a stone ledge beneath a fig tree whose limbs arched low like old shoulders. sunlight filtered through the broad leaves, dappling her arms and the ground with uneven gold. the breeze carried the mingled scents of jasmine, roasted barley, and sandalwood. around her, the palace stirred with its usual rhythm—slippers whispering against stone, the faint clatter of bowls after morning offerings, the low calls of guards changing posts.

and then—she heard it.

that sound.

the bipa.

the boy had moved closer. she hadn’t seen him at first, but the music reached her before her eyes did. it always did. the thread of melody wove through the morning noise, rising from somewhere near the incense stalls beyond the temple gate. it was unmistakably his—rough around the edges, aching in places, but with a core of beauty that couldn’t be dulled.

she rose slowly and stepped out of the fig tree’s shade.

there he was.

seated cross-legged near the worn stone steps, tucked into the angle where two walls met, his back straight and his hands steady on the bipa’s body. the instrument looked more frayed than ever—its lacquer dulled with use, one string stretched so thin she was surprised it held. yet he played it like it was whole. like it had never known a flaw.

he didn’t play like the court musicians. there was no flourish, no poised performance. his hands moved with the rhythm of someone who knew work: who had scrubbed pots, flipped skewers, stacked bowls, then picked up his instrument. his sleeves still bore faint traces of dark sauce—evidence of the morning’s labor at his family’s stall along the lower market road. she had passed it once. she remembered a woman—likely his mother—turning skewers of grilled rice cakes over hot coals, brushing them with sweetened soy as steam rose into her face.

now, in the hush at the temple’s edge, he played. not to perform. not for coin. but for something quieter. truer. as though the sound was part of his breath, and he simply needed to let it out before it collapsed inside him.

she watched his fingers curve around the strings—not with elegance, but with effort. there was strength in the way he played, the kind born of repetition and necessity. the music wasn’t delicate, but it was deliberate. it resonated.

around them, the palace continued—vendors calling prices, monks sweeping walkways, officials stepping from palanquins—but it all seemed dulled, like the world had slipped underwater, and only the music remained sharp.

her fingers tightened around the basket’s handle.

her mother would appear soon—tall, solemn, cloaked in robes faintly scented with mugwort and pine. she would say nothing, only tilt her head in that knowing way, and the girl would follow. that was how it always went. routine wrapped in reverence. tradition passed like a cup of tea between hands.

but for now, she remained still.

her gaze lingered on the boy. his dark hair, tied back with a faded ribbon, caught the sunlight like thread in a loom. his face was calm, focused—neither hardened nor soft. his clothes were modest, worn but clean, carefully cared for even if the dye had faded to parchment hues. he looked like someone with nothing extra to give, but who gave anyway.

and the music—gods, the music.

it pulled at her, low in the ribs. not like a tune sparking memory, but like a sound tapping something older. like the cry of a crane over still water. like wind through hollow bamboo.

without thinking, her lips parted.

a hum slipped out—quiet, instinctive. a single note, then another. she didn’t sing in words, only tones. barely more than breath. a harmony beneath his melody. not strong enough to interrupt. just enough to thread through the spaces he left open.

her song met his like a second flame catching the edge of the first.

she didn’t know why she sang. only that her heart felt suddenly full—of smoke and sunlight and something she hadn’t named in years. something like longing. something like recognition.

and still, the boy never looked up.

he didn’t need to. the music didn’t ask to be noticed.

it only asked to be heard.

and across the courtyard, standing in that quiet pause between waiting and duty, she answered.

evening stretched thin across the city, staining the sky in folds of indigo and rose. the lanterns along the temple road were already lit, their warm glow pooling on the stone path like spilled gold. a breeze carried the scent of grilled chestnuts, burnt sugar, and the tail end of incense.

he sat in his usual spot, beneath the curved eaves of the temple wall, just beyond where vendors were packing up for the night. the bipa rested in his lap, its wood familiar beneath his fingers. he had just returned from helping his mother. his sleeves still faintly smelled of sweet soy and smoke.

he wasn’t playing yet. just sitting with the weight of the day in his limbs, brushing his thumb lightly across a string. adjusting. listening. breathing. the cat had already curled beside him, tail tucked in, eyes half-closed.

then—soft footsteps.

she appeared like a skipped beat in the rhythm of the street. a figure not meant to be there, and yet exactly right. she walked quickly at first, basket in hand, sleeves rolled from a long day, her hair pinned with the same comb now slightly askew. she looked like someone with tasks to finish, brisk in her steps, measured in her pace.

but then she heard it.

just a few notes, plucked like drifting questions. not a song yet—just a whisper of one.

she slowed. then stopped.

he noticed her before she noticed him. a slight hesitation in her step. a tilt of her head. she stood at the base of the stairs, caught between leaving and lingering.

he hadn’t meant to meet her eyes. but he did.

and something flickered—quick and quiet—between them. not quite recognition. just a shared pause. a subtle understanding neither of them could name.

she took a cautious step closer.

“is that a bipa?” she asked, voice low, careful not to disturb the silence.

“it is,” he replied, adjusting the tuning peg. his voice was soft, a little rough from the smoke and the long day, but steady.

“it sounds like…” she hesitated. “like wind inside a memory.”

he smiled—not widely, but enough. “that’s a good way to put it.”

she looked at the worn edges of the instrument, the curve of its belly, the way it seemed to fit him like a second spine. “i always hear it from down the hill. at the weaving stalls. every night.”

“i didn’t think anyone noticed,” he said.

“i notice.”

another silence stretched—longer now, not heavy, but held. she set her basket down at the stone wall’s edge and sat, folding her legs beneath her. not too close. not too far. the cat, ever territorial, glanced at her, then looked away.

“do you take requests?” she asked.

he chuckled softly. “only if you don’t mind it sounding a little... frayed.”

“i don’t mind.”

she looked at him then—not just his face, but the whole of him. how the threadbare tunic sat across his shoulders. how the ribbon in his hair was more string than silk. how his hands looked strong and worn and capable.

“what you play,” she said, “feels like it’s holding something together.”

he paused. then nodded, gaze lowering to the strings.

“i play because if i don’t,” he said quietly, “i’m afraid something in me might fall apart.”

he plucked the first note.

it rang out, low and full, then trembled softly into the night. the next followed. and the next—until the music unfolded like breath held too long. there were no words to the song, but she understood it anyway.

he played for her—not with grandeur, but with honesty. like unspooling thread from the chest. the sound rose and fell, shifting between shadows and lantern light. around them, the city exhaled. voices passed. the day let go.

when the music faded, she didn’t speak right away.

“do you always play like that?” she asked finally.

he shrugged lightly, wiping his fingertips on his tunic. “only when someone’s really listening.”

she looked down at her hands. then up at him again. “i’ll listen tomorrow, too.”

he didn’t answer. but something in his expression warmed.

then she stood, lifted her basket, and introduced herself.

he nodded. “i know.”

her brow lifted, amused. “you do?”

“you ask for the broken tteok at the end of the day,” he said. “you give it to the street dogs when you think no one’s looking.”

she flushed. “so you do notice.”

he shrugged. “only some things.”

she smiled—not wide, not bright, but real. the kind of smile that made the evening feel whole.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

then she turned and walked down the path. her steps were quieter now, as if she didn’t want to disturb the fading echo of his music.

and he sat a while longer, fingers resting on the strings, eyes on the place where she had been.

they had met by chance.

but in the way the world stilled for just a breath—just long enough for two people to notice each other—they had met at exactly the right moment.

should i continue? heart, reblog, or interact whatever. i highly appreciate feedback!

[gabriel-seths-pr-assistant]

Do space marines wear any normal clothes, like something a baseline human in Imperium would wear but made for their size? I'm new to warhammer and in most art of them I have seen they are either in armor or naked in underwear.

Yes, Space Marines do have "normal" clothes for everyday use.

They will often use their power armour for formal occasions since it's more impressive and intimidating — one of my favourite Gabriel Seth moments is in the short story Know Thyself by Andy Smillie when an Inquisitor pays the Flesh Tearers a surprise visit and Seth is literally not wearing pants:

Seth knelt in the Reclusiam’s centre, naked save for an ashen tunic that draped his broad frame.

Seth has to send two battle-brothers to distract the Inquisitor while he scrambles into his power armour to make a good first impression. 😂

However, as I have mentioned earlier, wearing power armour for extended periods of time creates an ungodly body odour. So when they're not in a combat AO, Astartes wear various types of formal, military, or casual clothes.

In general, Astartes are warrior-monks and will often wear monastic robes and habits (which can be quickly shed for a duel or close combat like Jedi in Star Wars:)

However, some Chapters also follow the fashions of their homeworld.

Here are some descriptions of Astartes clothes from the canon:

Ultramarines

Ultramarines are culturally inspired by Ancient Rome and often wear tunics or togas when performing administrative duties among mortals:

— Marneus Calgar.

Messinius was garbed in simple clothes: loose trousers, boots and a tunic that left his massive arms bare. He enjoyed the freedom of movement they gave him. So much of his life was spent enclosed in ceramite, he enjoyed being free of it.

— The Avenging Son.

They spoke in Guilliman’s library, his most sacred sanctum. Guilliman had removed the Armour of Fate, though it physically pained him to do so. Like Maxim, he wore a tunic and trousers. The primarch’s clothes were ultra­marine blue to Maxim’s forest green, and unlike Maxim’s heavily embroidered garb, Guilliman wore no decoration besides the buckle stamped with the ultima that fastened his belt. As usual, he sat at his desk, working while he talked.

— Godblight.

However, Ultramarines also have more formal wear:

Sicarius left his former quarters a short while later. He had donned a gilt-edged red cloak and light carapace breastplate over his training fatigues.

Prabian wore fatigues and light training armour like Sicarius, but he also had a small combat shield strapped to his left arm and wore a sheathed gladius at his left hip. A soft blue cloak with a silver trim swished in his wake.

— Knights of Macragge.

War Hounds

We also get descriptions of formal wear from the Great Crusade era, specifically the War Hounds (early World Eaters):

He looked at Dreagher again. Like Khârn, the man was dressed in white, bands of blue glittering across the high-collared tunic, boots and gauntlets a dark ceremonial blue rather than functional shipboard grey. The Emperor's lightning-bolt emblem gleamed at his collar and shoulder. His dress matched Khârn's own: the formal garments with which the War Hounds symbolised they were about their most solemn business.

— After Desh'ea.

Dark Angels

Dark Angels embrace the ascetic warrior-monk aesthetic to a very high degree:

— Will of Iron.

Space Wolves

Like most Fenrisians, Space Wolves wear furs and deerskin leather clothes:

Arjac moved to the other side of the throne to Fenrir so that he could see the vid-feed from the frigate approaching the space hulk. Like the Lord of Fenris, he was not in his armour, but dressed in a hide tunic and leggings, his arms banded with leather totem cords hung with fangs and bones, his thick belt riveted with iron honour badges. His freshly shaved scalp shone with the speckled starlight from the display. He dragged his fingers through his thick, newly trimmed beard.

‘It’s your pack, you choose the marking,’ growled Ullr. He was out of his armour too, but unlike the grey robes of Gaius and his companions he wore hide breeches tied with thongs from ankle to knee and a fur-lined jerkin that left arms and chest exposed.

— The Wolftime.

Blood Angels

In Dante, Dante himself dresses casually in red and gold day robes while doing office work. In Devastation of Baal, Dante also asks the assembled representatives of the Blood Angels Successor Chapters to attend a meeting in their day robes:

Erwin looked around, his curiosity piqued by the diversity of men who staffed his brother Chapters. As a last symbol of peace (although Erwin thought it more to save space) Dante had ordered that they attend in their day robes. These were almost as varied as their wearers.

— Devastation of Baal.

Blood Drinkers

The Blood Drinkers' homeworld, San Guisiga, is described as a hot, volcanic planet criss-crossed with lava rivers. In addition, a mutation of the mucranoid geneseed organ causes the Blood Drinkers' skin glands to atrophy, giving them very dry, itchy skin. As a result of the hot climate and skin irritation, the Blood Drinkers wear loose trousers and tend to go shirtless:

Chapter Master Caedis worked in his chambers. He was stripped to the waist; baggy, blood-red trousers on his lower half, soft black boots on his feet and a black tabard hanging between his legs – the manner of dress all Blood Drinkers affected when out of their battle-plate. The battle-barge was warm, the way the Blood Drinkers preferred; warm as the volcanic halls of San Guisiga, warm as blood.

— Death of Integrity.

Novamarines

The Novamarines, an Ultramarines Successor Chapter, lean more towards the battle-monks aesthetics:

Like him, he wore a bone-coloured habit, a deep-blue tabard hanging down the front displaying the Chapter badge: a skull surrounded by a stylised starburst. A silver sash embroidered with many campaign markings, the honours of a Deathwatch kill-team veteran, crossed the brother’s chest.

— Death of Integrity.

Entertainingly, in Death of Integrity, the Novamarines invite the Blood Drinkers to a formal dinner before embarking on a joint campaign and then fret among themselves about what to wear when welcoming the other Chapter, discussing the symbolic value of different attires. They finally decide on wearing their armour because they want to show the Blood Drinkers that the Novamarines are ready to follow the other Chapter into battle.

Iron Snakes

The Iron Snakes are heavily inspired by Ancient Greece, which also shows in their clothing:

Barefoot and dressed in a loose white chiton, Priad stood on the marble deck of the observation platform at the summit of the Chapter House's fortress.

— Brothers of the Snake.

Raven Guard

Agapito was dressed in black trousers and a sleeveless tunic. His arms bulged with muscles studded with the silvery wink of nerve shunt ports. His pale skin was shadowed by subcutaneous black carapace.

— Lord of Shadows.

Unnumbered Sons

His wargear was held in a makeshift armoury Daelus had set up at one side of the room. He left his armour on its stand and dressed himself in a loose tunic and trousers, pulled on his boots, and belted his bolt pistol around his waist. It was freezing in the station, but he didn’t feel it, and besides, nowhere was as cold as those millennia on board Cawl’s vessel. It was good to be out of his armour for a while. He had a loathing of confinement.

— The Great Work.

Areios had a few inches on the Firstborn Messinius. Neither of them wore their armour. Messinius was dressed in simple robes, Areios the off-duty uniform of short-sleeved tunic and trousers common to all the Unnumbered Sons.

— Throne of Light.

Knights Errant (early Grey Knights)

Clad in a long chiton of unadorned grey over a tan bodyglove with plastek-seals over his armour interface sockets, he was armed only with a few gardening tools hanging from a leather work belt.

— Luna Mendex.

Night Lords

In the Night Lords omnibus by ADB, the Night Lords are described as wearing robes or traditional Legion tunics (those of them that can still remove their armour, that is).

I hope this gave you a fair idea of how Space Marines might dress when they're not wearing armour. 😊

If others have more examples, feel free to add them!

[inupibaldspot]

From you, For him

| Part 2 of At him, For him

Note ₊˚⊹♡ : Normal like no curse and stuff AU where Gojo is in love with Geto’s lover but this time he has the chance to change everything. This contains time travel!

I wrote it in a way you can understand what’s happening even if your don’t read part 1 btw

·:*¨༺ Part 1 ༻¨*:·

Gojo Satoru feels as if he can’t breathe.

He inhales. His chest hurts and he has a horrible attempt at keeping his glazing eyes in check as he fakes a smile and claps his hands together; there was a blur silhouette of Geto and you in a distance in tears ,both wearing matching rings.

“Woah—! Congratulations you two.” Shoko smiles wildly as she brings her hands close to her mouth,cheering. She briefly turns to Gojo and looks back at the couple. “Keep it together,Gojo… you’ve done that for years so why bother showing it now.”

Gojo lets out a laugh. “How cruel…” of course Shoko knows he has had this unrequited love for years. He breathes out. “I’ll head out for a second.”

Shoko nods as she reaches out and puts a cigarette and lighter in his pocket. He mutters a ‘thanks’ as he opens the door, cold breeze immediately greeting him. He breaths in again as his hands search for warmth in his pockets, turning to the alleyway.

Once when he is secluded, he brings out the piece of cigarette Shoko handed him earlier as he places it in between his lips, his hands bringing up the lighter with one on the lighter as the other hand wraps to protect the small flame.

He did not smoke often—more like he didn’t even the last last time he did. Gojo sucks in a breath, his throat feels hot but his chest is lighter, no-he remembers smoking back in high school simply because of Shoko and Geto. His only two friends would leave him for smoke breaks and he didn’t want to be left alone so he simply picked up the habit. 

Gojo quit after he met you since he didn’t feel the need to tag along Geto and Shoko anymore.

Somewhere in between college,meeting you and now, he didn’t seem to care anymore.

“Hey kid.”

“Fuck!” Gojo jumps, his teeth biting into the cigarette as his eyes glare sharply in the direction of the sound. A man sits along the far end of the alley way, away from him.

The white haired man contains his jumped heartbeat as he walks over the man who called him over. His eyes trail the dress he wore; it was a traditional dark piece of clothing and beads around his hand. This man was cosplaying as a Priest. 

He didn’t say the word ‘cosplay’ lightly because first, to begin with, the man in front had a ‘magic ball’ in front of him as if he was waiting for people to share their future and second, he wasn’t too serious because boy—! That monk had thick hair on his head, not the shaven look you’d normally see.

Gojo met scammers; near the shopping center, outside popular restaurant and tourist attractions, by his house ringing on his doorbell and right now, infront of him.

“What‘cha gonna tell me,old man.” Gojo says as he peers in, with also taking in a puff of smoke. “That I’ll be having a wife and two kids in my 30s… If it’s not that, it means one of you is lying.” By ‘one of you‘ refers to the scammer-I mean fortune teller he let in his house because he was bored. 

“Hahaha-! That’s not it.” The man laughs as he faces Gojo directly, it was then when he finally notices a stitch mark which stretches across his forehead. “Just wondering if you’d ever regretted things… ‘things’ which you wished you could go back and change..”

Gojo laughs as he drops the half-piece of cigarette on the ground, stomping on it. No long interested. “Of course. I still wish I could go back in time and not erase my answers because my teacher made all the answers to the MCQ ‘c’ just when I didn’t study.” 

Fuck—just why did Yaga REALLY do that? Gojo thinks back at the thought.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Gojo turns when he hears the man speak. 

The man stands close—very close to him as his hands were making a V-sign (a peace sign) , fingers pointed near his eyes before the old man was stabbed into his eyes.

“Oh my god— shit! That hurt, old man.” Gojo places his hands on his eyes as he tries to soothe the pain from it. “What are you trying to do—huh…?”

He blinks once.

Twice.

He takes a deep breath. ‘It’s fine.’ He thinks to himself. ‘I’ve just lost my mind a tiny bit because y/n and Suguru are getting married.’

Gojo let out the breath and opened his eyes. Same scene. He was by a tree, near a building; he remembered this place being behind the building for the Class 1-3 who were studying the normal curriculum whereas advanced classes of class 4-5 students were in another building. 

“What the actual heck is happening?” Gojo grumbles as he looks at the calendar on his phone. He was back in high school. He was sent back in time by about 7 years. “Fuck… I guess that man wasn’t a quack….”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“That’s why I need you to help.” You wiggled your toes in your shoes as you stand, smiling. The teacher,Yaga Masamichi, was in front of you, sitting on his chair as he continued to talk- maybe complain would be a better word- about a certain boy from the advanced class. “The boy is smart but he lacks discipline! He needs someone as hardworking as you and maybe it’ll rub on to him.”

You’ve heard of Gojo Satoru. You’ve never seen him but he was very infamous in high school . First, for being the son of the Gojo Estate. Two, for being a very tall, conventionally attractive boy. Third, for being a delinquent. 

And that last part bothers you a lot, you’ve heard him get into fights, rumors of him smoking along the alleyway, ripping love letters into pieces and recently he skipped over all his tests making him fail his mid-terms. 

You gulp. Hope he doesn’t beat you up… 

Just then the door to the staff room slides open. You see enter, he was tall with white hair and lashes and the eyes in the most beautiful shade. No way this was Gojo right? He was so— beautiful.

Did he just make eye contact with you?

“Gojo come here.” Yaga calls out as he huffs. Gojo clears his throat as he walks to the teacher. When he was close enough Yaga continued. “This is y/n and I’m assigned to be your teacher. She’ll make sure you get all your works done plus make you study for the reassessment for the exam you skipped on.”

You watch Gojo who was towering beside you raise his hands and brought it up to his face, but from the angle you see the upward turn on the corner of his lips. Why was he smiling?

“Isn’t this -he points at you- from the normal department?” You huff when you were referred to as ‘this’. “You sure she is smart?”

“Don’t mess with y/n just because she isn’t from the advanced class— And also! In the last exam she was placed third overall , right below Suguru.” Yaga shouted back.

Your eyes trail back to him when the boy beside you seemed to still, You’ve heard of Geto Suguru too. Apparently a boy from the advanced class who was also popular for his good looks. But not only that— he had a delicate aura around him which makes people like him and to add on he was very much academically smart.

Gojo lets out a breath, as if it were more of an amazement in your opinion. You watch him take a small step back as he turns around and gives you a smile, god was unfair when he crafted this smile. “Then please take care of me, my tutor.” His face was close to yours.

‘My.’ You face almost burst with heat.

“Gojo stop bothering y/n.”

“Ouch—! That hurt sensei.”

Ever since then, once you hear the bell ring indicating school was over for the day, there would be Gojo poking his head into your class with a boyish grin plastered on his face, he takes your book-filled bag, slings it over his shoulder as you guys would walk to the library.

He sometimes passes by your classroom which is in the opposite building whenever he wants to go to the restroom in between classes—I mean he never did specify which restroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

And when he does, his gaze flickered towards you, taking in the way your gaze reflected the warm sun from outside.It becomes clear to Gojo then that even now, despite everything—in between ever but of confusion, anger and guilt, he doesn't actually want to lose you. To his best friend. To anyone else.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Warm.

The way the curtains fluttered from the gentle wind, letting in a cool breeze and a glow of the evening sun and you. You sitting not even an arm's length away and just like the pace of his heart which picked up, pushing every worry he could still have further and further away because there was no space for those in that moment.

There was just you. And he could feel your presence a lot closer now, her warmth not far away from him.

God, you were beautiful.

So beautiful, he would not mind spending the rest of his life memorizing each feature belonging of yours.

“Stop staring at me.” You let down the pen you were holding, looking away from your homework.

“I can’t stop.” He admitted.

You huff, the smirk on Gojo widened as he could see a faint color rush to your cheeks. “Just do your work…” you wave him off as you grumble.

“I’m already done,love.” He continues his teasing.

You pink as you let out a small shriek at the nickname; you rush close to him as you cover your hands on his mouth. “Shut up—Gojo, I don’t want to be murdered by your fangirls because of this.”

He pecks your hands by pursing his lips forward, into the palm of your hands making you shriek once more pulling away.

“Gojo!” You glare at him as you reach your hands out and comically wipe your hands on his blazer as he laughs at your reaction. He leans forward as he looks at your books. “What’s this?” He asks.

“Ah…” you say as you bring out a book closer to him. “I’m studying for my entrance exam for this university.”

“Already?” But that’s like months away.

“Yeah.” Your voice is laced with a smile, gojo almost sees shining glitters surrounding you. “It’s like… kind of my dream as a kid to go here.”

Gojo laughs at how adorable you sounded. “Why that university though?”

“My parents-“ you turn almost too quickly to face him but then you stop yourself as you clear your throat. “My parents went there and that’s how they met and fell in love.”

“Ah…” Just like you and Geto… His heart pains again as he is reminded.

You bend down as you lean your head on the table, letting out a sigh with your hands on your sides. “I hope I get in though…”

“You will.” He says confidently. He knows you will. “Nerds like you will get in.”

“Gojo, I’m not a nerd.”

“Whatever you say, princess.”

“I’m not princess either!”

“Sure thing, love.”

“Oh— Gojo,stop that!”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“I need you to be serious, Satoru!”

He listens to you shout, even without turning to your direction he could basically sense you ‘huffing and puffing’, a habit you took till adulthood. He reaches out into the bushes, pushing the leaves away. “I am—! Sheesh, let me breathe.” Gojo laughs.

You two were currently near the patch of grass by the football ground; you had lost your key to the music club room—a room which was basically unused but you guys needed a room so you two can continue on with your study lessons. 

You bend to look over the bushes while Gojo does around the bushes checking every shrub. “Oh lucky— someone’s cigarette and lighter is hidden  here.” His smile widens as he reaches out for the gift, someone had kept here. “Satoru, don’t steal others' stash.” He puts it down upon hearing your words.

“So this where you go after classes,Satoru?”

He knew it was inevitable but he hoped he could extend it for as long as he could.

In front of him, holding a key was Geto Suguru, smiling at him with Shoko, a lollipop in her mouth peers over from beside him. “What you doing?”

Geto throws him the key at him which is catches instantly.He wanted the two of his friends meet you but he selfishly hoped it would be after like maybe, after you and Gojo date. Wow—what an optimistic! Gojo gulps, afterall what would he do if the two of you fall in love again? 

“You found it!” You jump, unaware that the two figures were his friends. You turn your head to look at him, at him. Despite Geto Suguru standing near you, you looked at Gojo. The white haired boy’s heart pulsed, the slow and steady pump now erratic and heavy with emotions. Just you looking at him with a smile, at him like he was the only one on the planet m. For the first time.

“Who is this?” Shoko says as walks to to the bush and sticks her hands in. You laugh. “That cigarette was yours?” Shoko nods.

“This… this is y/n.” Gojo grumbles, speaking low. “She is helping me with my reassessment.”

“That’s what you get for skipping assignments and test.” Shoko teases. 

Geto laughs.

Gojo eyes at your reaction and sighs in relief when you were still acting the same. Thank god, there was nothing of that ‘love at first sight’ going on. “I don’t need to take those test.Even Yaga knows I’m smart.”

Your roll your eyes. “I guess we won’t have those study sessions of now on, Gojo.”

“Wha— no! I need it.” Gojo jumps, as he comically starts shaking you, as if he got the most shocking news of the century. “No- nope! You can’t do that. I need you—!”

“Geto, let’s get going now.” She turns. Shoko looks over to Gojo, they make eye contact and the brown hair girl smiles. 

He knows that smile. 

That’s the smile Shoko gives when ever she figures out something. And equipped with a teasing look, Gojo is certain she knows that he is in love with you. “Good luck,Gojo.” With his studies or with you? Geto gives you guys a wave as he also turns around and walks way. 

From then onwards, it’s as if the friendship which you guys have in the future,college days were happening now. Hanging out, study sessions, sometimes sneaking into parties and café date; the four of you. Just like right now as you’re in Gojo’s room, a flat rented nearby your future college.

“No way.” Shoko starts. “We’re all going to be attending the same college.” Her smile widens when you cheer and jump into her arms, she quickly looks over and sees a fond smile on Gojo’s face…hilarious!

Geto laughs as he takes a sip on his coffee as the two girls snuggle closer to each other. “Did you know about this?” He peers over to Gojo who finally seemed broken from his trance—you.

Gojo nods. “Yeah… I mean I’ve seen her study for her exams.” He clears his throat. “Have you played the new ‘digimon’ game?” He changes topic, whenever Geto speaks of you or to you, it makes him feel small. This isn’t good. He relishes this yet it was suffocation. Gojo would never hate his best friend—never, but sometimes it’s insecurity and sometimes it’s guilt which swallows him whole. ‘Is this okay?’ 

Shoko breaks away from the hug and she pulls on your cheeks fondly, she thinks you’re the most adorable human as she turns to Geto. “Smoke break.” Geto smiles and nods, following behind Shoko who led the way.

Gojo turns to you, eyes carefully trying to take in your presence that is before he notices something—your eyes are ‘lingering.’ He follows your gaze, carefully in the direction.

You were looking at Geto.

All emotions are wiped from his face. Gojo knew this could happen, you can fall in love with Geto all over again. He was the one who was messing with fate and time, yet— it hurt.

You turn to Gojo, your face tilts up to meet his gaze as your lips turn into a teasing smile which quickly flatters when you see Gojo’s expression. Your heart settles and softens, you relax and reach over the table to grab one of his hands. “…Satoru?”

He turns to you, and smiles. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

“No…just thinking.”

You gulp wondering why it felt as if suddenly there was a huge rift when they were barely centimeters apart; for someone as big as Gojo his voice was so—so small. “…About?” You were almost scared to ask.

“Are you in love with Suguru?” Gojo beats himself for this, he has gone and done it now! 

You tilt your head. “where did that come from?”

“Friends don’t give each other love-filled lingering looks.” He scoffs. “So tell me-“ no he was being pushy. Gojo felt so backed into a corner for a moment but when he locked eyes with you, he was hurting you with the way he was acting.

He stands up. “I think I need some fresh air.”

“If I did love him, what would you do?” 

Were you testing him? 

“Please—please don’t fall for anyone but me…” he mumbles.

You watch as he slumps down on the floor, on his knees, burying his face into his hands, curling up almost as if to protect himself. Gojo is no longer confident egoistic boy you know, right now he seemed so weak; as if he was tired after a long journey. “I have surrendered myself to you for all of time; past, present and future I am yours…”

Your head is dizzy with all this information. You need time, you need clarity. Gojo feels like he is losing himself in his thoughts and also rambles with no coherence to what his mind has to say. “I don’t know what do do with this emotion but if I try to stop them they overflow and-” 

His heart seemed to thud to a stop in his chest and then start up again erratically, hands seemed to be incapable of doing anything other than hang close by his sides.

“Satoru, I love you…” you whisper and it is only then when he realizes you were also on your knees in front of him, thumbs wiping tears from his cheeks. “I’m sorry for joking— I don’t love Geto. It’s you I love. Don’t hate me?”

How can he hate you when you were still his everything: you were his everything even when you were intertwining hands with someone else?

“It’s me?” He breathes out. “Did you say you’re in love with me?” 

You nod.

“Oh wow.” He says which makes you laugh.

“I love you…” He says, years of these words inside the depth of his heart, was dug out. “From the bottom of my soul, I’m head over heels for you, my love.”

You almost cry at his tone, so gentle.

He caresses your hair, tenderly, running his fingers through the soft, silky strands. When he eventually has his hands on your cheeks; your cheeks flushing as he gazes at you, captivated by your presence. Your eyes sparkle with wonder, your lips plush and rosy. 

You are flawless, perfect in this moment and beautiful in his embrace.

Gojo didn’t even realize when he started to get so close to you. His lips pressed against her pulse in a kiss before he nipped the skin.His limbs burned where he touched you, you were warm. So it was cold after all, he realized somewhere along the line. His hands were freezing, clinging to your lower back. 

Gojo wants to stay like this, holding you for a minute longer or forever.

A whisper in his head was telling him to let go—that it wasn’t right, but Gojo wouldn't. He was hanging onto a life line, it hurt, but if he let go now, he would drown.

Gojo was vulnerable. And you kiss him back. Kiss him till he is fine. Kiss him until all his worries fly— till he understands, you are equally so stupidly in love with him. 

Unbeknownst to you two, Shoko peeks over inside the door, a small crack reveals what’s inside “You think they’re done?”

Geto laughs. “Of course not…but give them more time and they’ll be in bed.”

Shoko laughs lightly making sure she isn’t spotted yet as she then peers over to the taller boy beside her. “What about you? You good?”

“Yeah… it was just a crush.”  Geto looked at Shoko from the corner of his eyes and his lips curl into a smile. Shoko was always so observant. 

Taglist ˙✧˖° 🫧 ⋆｡—I tagged people who voted for time travel! Hope you guys don’t mind: @uuu55r64z46 @leviswifey-act62 @royaleashlyn @bakananya @bejwls @ritsatoru@washeduphasbeen @satorus-babygirl

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[amerricanartwork]

A quick little general slugcat headcanon (featuring a not-so quick drawing to go with it)!

Slugpups have a habit of riding on their parents' tails, kinda like how human kids sometimes cling to their parents' legs! However, for slugcats it's not just for fun, but actually a somewhat instinctive behavior that provides some utility in allowing the parents to carry their kids around more easily when they're small and can't keep up as well on their own. Since slugcats naturally drag their tails — the tail's inherent thickness and large fat stores make it too heavy to lift off the ground all the time — it doesn't really hurt or hinder the parents' movement much, and so is generally pretty efficient when traveling with pups, especially for couples with larger or multiple litters to care for.

Besides that, young slugpups may ride on their parents' backs (usually with the parent walking on all fours in this case), sitting on their shoulders, or just straight-up being carried in their arms, though the final is generally the most difficult option. Once they're big enough they usually walk beside, holding one parent's hand until they're trusted to not stray too far.

Honestly this whole headcanon is pretty much just an extension of this from Survivor/Monk intro:

[slightly-knot-insane]

Monk's Temptation (part 3-1)

🙘⠀✟⠀🙚

[ Reader's POV ]

[ part 1 ] [ part 2 ] [ art 1 ] [ art 2 ]

a/n: slightly nsfw chapter like the others, but nothing explicit tw: frotteurism

You certainly noticed the monster monk as soon as he entered the chapter house during the choir practice. This small town didn't have a lot of non-humans to begin with, and he was the tallest sentient being you had ever seen, with tiny horns on top of his head protruding through his hood.

When you first saw him, last week, you thought he was really intriguing looking. Kinda cute even though you couldn't see his face in the deep shadows of the hood. Just two dimly glowing eyes. He always seems a bit nervous, though. And his singing... Ooof, his singing is appalling. How did he even get accepted?

Just as soon as the abbess announces a break, you turn to the towering monster behind you. His shining eyes blink, surprised.

"You know," you start, "you have a wonderfully deep voice. It's probably the lowest bass I ever heard. But I feel you don't use your stomach. It's as if you're trying to sing through your throat and that will damage your vocal cords. I know that sounds silly, but next time try to sing from here."

You hold your hand out and touch him just above his belt. Does he have an armor underneath it? It's so... hard. He flinches as if you slapped him.

"Oh sorry!" You truly are - you completely forgot he's a monk. "I'm very sorry! Ah, yes, just try to sing from your belly button. Think about your belly button and pull the voice from there. Do you understand what I mean?"

He stares at you and you feel oddly... small. Is he mad at you? Maybe you shouldn't even speak with the monks at all. But nobody warned you about anything. They just said not to wear uncovering clothes, that's all. Eventually, he slowly nods and replies, with a voice like a streaming thunder. "I... think I do."

You let out a sigh of relief. "Hope it helps!"

You really hope it helps. You can't stand listening to his croaking behind you a minute longer.

The abbess instructs you to sing Carmina Burana, but after just a few notes, she screams: "No, no! The bass is too strong! It falls from above like a storm cloud and suffocates all the other voices."

She marches toward the choral raiser and pulls the monster guy standing behind you. "You are too high! Stand on the step lower, there." She pulls him down, right behind you.

He is lanky but quite big too, so he brushes against your back... assets. You look up and see his hooded shadowed face looking back at you. Was there some saying about gazing into the void and it will gaze back at you?

"What is your name?" you ask him.

His glowy eyes blink again. Or do they? "Atanas," he replies quietly, as if he's unsure about it. There is a low tremble in the way he articulates the last syllable and it makes you shiver.

The practice begins again, and the immediate intensity of Carmina Burana washes over your senses. You full-heartedly sing, until... Until something presses against you. From the back. Did... did Atanas lean closer? It's not just his thick habit touching you. There is something else? Something hard.

Please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me, please... You think you hear quiet and breathless chanting behind you. It's overpowered by the song so you can't be for sure. But something is happening against your back. Atanas is... fidgeting? Or is he...?

You continue singing, keeping your back straight, pushing back against the towering presence behind you. He doesn't stop squirming behind you, but he is warm and firm. Such an interesting person, you think to yourself.

Once the choir reaches the beginning of Floret Silva, there is an obvious hitch in his breathing. Almost inaudible, yes, for everyone, but not for you. The fidgeting stops. You look behind your shoulder and up again, into the void... and it is gaping back at you with a crimson glare.

🙘⠀✟⠀🙚

[ next part ]

[lazyalani]

| Blue Lock

| When they like you

| fluffffffffff, fluffiness, just random thoughts and ideas

Ft. Rin, Sae, Nagi, Reo, Chigiri, Barou, Kunigami, Bachira, Isagi

| Blue Lock Masterlist

| Main Masterlist

RIN

Definitely tolerates you more than anyone else. This man has a patience of a lady in her worst mood during period. Let's say you aren't the best in english as most japanese are, or even as worse as bachira, he'd take time to actually try to teach you rather than wait for you to try and pronounce words that would make his ear irk. He'd even share his twin popsicles with you. And maybe, just maybe, he'd watch you fall asleep on your desk.

SAE

He'd buy you nice souvenirs from his trips. He's definitely the type to stare at one thing he passes by and thinks oh, this reminds me of them, and then proceeds to by it and gift it. He'd pass it out casual though. I don't think Sae is the type to get all flustered and overthink when he has a crush, I think he'd be chill about it. He's like, oh, i kinda like them, cool. He's the type to show it so casually you wouldn't even realize he likes you, and until he's decided to ask you out or you found out, he'd keep it that way.

NAGI

Man, I don't know. This guy's a slug and freaking dense. He wouldn't even know he likes you, and even he did he'd treat you no different than a friend. Okay, maybe a little bit more, but Nagi is the type to be effortless with everything except football. If he likes you enough, then I think he'd actually put in a little more effort into talking to you or staying awake while you talk his ears out in class. But if it's just a little admiration then there's no difference from that to being his friend.

REO

Ah, definitely talks yours ears out every damn second. Don't expect seeing him without a gift for you. He spoils you a lot. Treats you like his significant other even before he asks you out, which is not far off because obviously he can never hide what he's feeling. Everyone can see he likes you, even you. He accompanies you almost everywhere, asks your favorite everything just to bring them to you the next day, texts you day and night. How dreamy.

CHIGIRI

Lets you make silly princess comment on his hair. He doesn't get annoyed, playfully bites back on your remarks. Indulges you in your rants about fashion, skin care, hair care, make up, routines and even adds things he uses or thinks might be good. He might awkward about liking you at first, but remains casual about it and doesn't mention or think about it often. It just comes naturally as if he's talking to a friend he's comfortable with.

BAROU

Man, this one's tough. Definitely indenial at first, he wouldn't even know what he's feeling. He's not stupid, but he's also not one to think he could actually like someone since he's definitely got high standards for himself and for other people. He'd shake off the feeling at first, might even tend to be harsher with you ay times, but gradually just accepts it but swears never to mention or bring it up. Becomes more attentive to your hygiene and habits. Avoids the topic of liking someone like a plague. Never ever asks you out. (Liked but never pursued heh)

KUNIGAMI

This one's the type to get flustered when he realizes it. Gets all shy around you at first and Chigiri definitely notices and points it out. Decides to listen to Chigiri's advice to just act normal and cool because he's being too obvious. Tries not to get flustered around you but everytime he sees you it reminds him of his realization. Is definitely more protective of you when other guys are around, especially with ones like Raichi and the bald monk I forgot the name of. Acts of service type of guy.

BACHIRA

Too perceptive for his own good, sees it coming. He doesn't care whether anyone notices or not. Not the type to be shy about anythin and that includes having a crush on you. Sticks to you like a leech and talks to you 10x more. Notices your little hobbies and tries to match then so you could have something in common. I just know he's the type to do these cute little things because he just wants to enjoy things with people he likes.

ISAGI

Ah the shy-est one. Dense, indenial at first, but the ever so nosy Bachira notices and makes him realize it. Will stutter around you and get a little fidgety but pays more attention to you than ever. Helps you with even the smallest tasks like carrying things or helping making a decision and giving advices. If it's in school, he'd even offer to walk you home but then get all flustered. The sweetest.

[bloomzone]

2025: #10 take care of your mind

your brain is the most powerful tool you will ever own. YOUR BRAIN IS MORE POWERFUL THAN UR PHONE, LAPTOP ... . Yet how many of us actually take care of it? How many of us think twice about what we feed it, how we use it, or how we let it rest? u don’t rise to the level of your dreams you fall to the level of your mind. And if your mind isn’t sharp, disciplined, and protected, you’re setting yourself up for failure.

✒️..You’re probably wondering: “What does it mean to take care of my brain?” It’s simple but not easy. First, let’s talk about what you’re consuming EEEEVRY single thing you watch, listen to or read is planting seeds in your mind. Are you planting weeds or flowers? Scroll endlessly on social media, filling your brain with nonsense, comparison, and negativity—guess what? You’re planting weeds, and they will grow. Your thoughts become your beliefs, and your beliefs become your actions.

THE TRUTH IS you are what you allow into your mind. If you keep surrounding yourself with negativity, if you keep replaying the same self-doubt, if you keep absorbing content that doesn’t serve you don’t be surprised when you feel stuck, overwhelmed, or anxious. You’re not broken you’re just fueling yourself with the wrong things.

"So, what do you do?"

1. Detox your mind. Cut out the noise. Start filtering what you consume. Unfollow accounts that drain your energy. Stop watching content that makes you feel small. And for the love of everything pookie stop engaging in drama—it’s not worth the space it takes up in your head.

2. Feed your brain the right fuel. Read books that challenge you. Listen to podcasts that inspire you. Surround yourself with people who uplift you. And no, this isn’t just some feel-good advice it’s about wiring ur brain for growth. The more you surround yourself with knowledge, positivity, and action-oriented energy, the more your brain starts working for you instead of against you.

3. Train your focus. Your brain is a muscle. If you don’t train it, it gets lazy. Meditation isn’t just for monks it’s for anyone who wants to build laser-like focus. Start small—two minutes a day. Sit down, breathe, and let your mind rest. Because a rested brain is a powerful brain.

4. Protect your energy it mean it’s about who you let into your space. People can either fuel your fire or extinguish it. If someone in your life constantly drags you down, you need to set boundaries. Your mental energy is sacred. Guard it fiercely.

🪧-FACT BOX !

『When you kick unhealthy habits to the curb, your brain actually starts to thrive! Imagine cutting out constant stress it’s like a weight lifted off your mind, lowering cortisol levels and giving your memory and learning a boost. Eating betteeeeer and healthier cuz those omega-3s and antioxidants help reduce brain fog while also cranking up serotonin and dopamine, the feel-good chemicals that keep you motivated and happy. Regular exercise is like a power-up for your brain, releasing endorphins and encouraging the growth of new neurons. It’s like giving your mind a fresh start every day (try to wake up early and do any type of exercise and u will see how well ur day will roll) Sleep is another secret weapon—by getting enough (6-7 or even 8 )you’re helping your brain detox and organize memories, keeping everything sharp. And let’s not forget about avoiding things like alcohol and drugs—this keeps your brain’s reward system in check and prevents it from burning out or killing you lmaooo .. All these changes together supercharge your brain, boosting focus, creativity, and mental strength. Your brain will thank you!』

@bloomzone ❕

[i-suc-at-art]

DpxDc prompt #2

Full prompt from this idea

Tim and Danny are apart of an online RPG which is basically DND but anonymous and online. (it’s mainly for secret nerds who don’t have anyone irl to play with)

Danny plays as a changeling rogue who will often swipe things from players they don’t like

Tim plays a Variant Human, monk who wields a pole staff (my guy is not subtle) and will often give back the things danny (who’s known as wraith) (Tim goes by Scarlet Redpoll (mainly just Scarlet though)) stole

Rules of the RPG:

Everyone remains under their game handle (so there’s no doxing) NO REAL NAMES

You can interact with other parties who are using the same campaign as you, however when interacting with main story plot your party will go into its own private server

You can have a party of any size however it’s recommended to have a party over 4.. However you can make it with two or three or solo (but that’s just kinda sad..)

There is a chat feature and call feature in the game, however no hate speech, or bigotry

You can’t join a call unless your apart of the party

ofc this doesn’t stop it from happening but that’s not really relevant to the story

There are Dms (dungeon masters) but your team can also just use the computer for your Dm

Your character can be completely customized, and you’ll move around on a map

Ok now to the fun stuff

Danny and Tim (Wraith and Scarlet) have been playing together for about 3 months, and have made a commitment to play every 2 weeks on sunday (ghosts tend to take a break every 2 weeks on sundays (and B forced Tim to take a break from everything including cases every 2 weeks on sunday) Although sometimes each will get pulled away from the game and they’ll have to end early.

Anyways their campaign doesn’t super matter, only that they are online friends. Ok so one day Tim texts Wraith (they use online name bc y'know tim’s like uber famous) that he can’t make it to their session today bc his dad is forcing him to “bond” Aka he’s going to a gala with Bruce and Dick to stop a heist team that has been rampant across socialite and high society events. Wraith tells him it’s alright, and that coincidentally he’s busy too and was just about to cancel.

As Tim surveils everyone he curses Bruce for making him come. Tim had gotten into the habit of getting a night off from everything. He’d also not gotten a chance to do ample research on the guests beforehand because he’d been working on researching the thieves. He’d heard some chatter about the group looking into a possible haunted vahz, that was on display for the night. Tim had been surveying the party staying near the vahz making sure everyone checked out. Dick had texted saying that he’d cornered a possible thieving candidate and that he needed Tim to run an face ID check, on the picture he’d taken. The photo was of a young woman, her red hair caused Tim to think of Babs, but the woman’s simple teal evening dress couldn’t be further from her style. He’d done a quick search of the woman, she seemed to be some sort of rich young socialite, definitely Dicks type.. Her name was Kelly Jankins, no criminal history, or past arrests, she had a couple of parking tickets that were waved from her late teens. But nothing out of the ordinary. Tim texted Dick the information (save for the part about her being Dicks type) before stuffing his phone back into his pocket and moving from his post to go and get a drink. About 20 feet from his post he bumped into a nicely dressed guy, his hair black and suit tailored.. He also wore a Vladco pin on his left breast pocket.

He’d apologized and Tim told him it was no big deal, his eyes were blue.. But he could have sworn they were green when he first looked up. And his voice.. It sounded so familiar. Why did it sound familiar..?

As Tim walked away it hit him like a truck.. Wraith.

—————

Danny, Sam, Tucker, and Jazz had been stealing for some time now, after Danny had been outed as Phantom to the whole town by his parents. Him, Sam, and Tucker had decided to all leave Amity since all of their parents were unaccepting.. Sam’s parents had gone so far as to write her out of their will.. Danny had told her and Tuck to stay in Amity and fix their relationships with their family, but they’d both said ‘that if Danny wasn’t in Amity Park then they didn’t have their family.’ So they left. The three stayed with Jazz for a bit but she was a broke college student that barely had enough money for food and rent. So the three started stealing food.. It was out of necessity at first, and only from big companies, but when Sam got an online invitation to a big gala that was showing off some old artifacts from a rich guy’s private collection, Danny felt a pull toward a particular item from his core. The item belonged to someone in the ghost zone.. and he needed to have it. He needed to return it.

So they stole it. Danny was to be Sam’s plus one as he’s basically a haunted item metal detector. Sam would steal the item and Tuck would turn out the lights and secretly system. Then Danny would get him and Sam out of there. Most of their plans would be similar to this format. Sam would also grift from the other patrons, only stealing from the ones who seemed to have a shit ton of money. Eventually even teaching Danny how to do it too, she’d told him that ‘using his ghost powers were a cop out’ when he brought that up.. and that ‘anyone would be able to feel the chill of it.’ Which Danny was sure that that was untrue.. But he learned how to steal a wallet, or a phone Sam’s way.

Jazz had been against the thefts at first saying that all of these items belonged to the original owner. But soon she was persuaded when Danny told her that they were stealing stolen items. Stolen ghost items. Some of the items even had a ghost core attached to it. So Jazz became their planner, she’d make sure they’d have all the info they needed and that no one got caught.

Danny ends up in jail after being caught trying to lift someone’s wallet.. Jazz was there to legally get him out and pay the bail. Tucker got caught in a backroom of a place they were stealing from. ‘Oh yeah that’s her brother who would often get himself trapped in closets looking for the bathroom.. She apologizes profusely..’

So when Tucker had found their newest item, a haunted vase that had a shit ton of death and destruction attached to it, Jazz had thought up the plan. She’d heard whisperings that Vlad had gotten invited to the party but Danny was going to go in his place since Vlad would never go. Then they had a plan. A plan they were meant to stick to, until someone ran her face and Danny started being followed. So they abandoned the vase opting to get out of there instead of getting caught.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi there, I’m planning on writing gothic/gothic romance fiction. Do you have any tips?

Do you also have any tips to not make your writing too repetitive? I have a habit of repeating words a lot.

Writing Notes: Gothic Fiction

Gothic Novel

European Romantic pseudomedieval fiction having a prevailing atmosphere of mystery and terror.

Its heyday was the 1790s, but it underwent frequent revivals in subsequent centuries.

Called Gothic because its imaginative impulse was drawn from medieval buildings and ruins, such novels commonly used settings such as castles or monasteries equipped with subterranean passages, dark battlements, hidden panels, and trapdoors.

The Gothic is characterized by its darkly picturesque scenery and its eerie stories of the macabre.

It draws its name and aesthetic inspiration from the Gothic architectural style of the Middle Ages ⁠— crumbling castles, isolated aristocratic estates, and spaces of decrepitude are familiar settings within the genre.

Gothic fiction is rooted in blending the old with the new.

As such, it often takes place during moments of historical transition, from the end of the medieval era to the beginnings of industrialization.

Contemporary technology and science are set alongside ancient backdrops, and this strange pairing helps create the pervasive sense of uncanniness and estrangement that the Gothic is known for.

Past & present fold in on each other; even as man’s technological advancements seem to make him increasingly powerful, history continues to haunt.

Elements of Gothic Literature

The Gothic is a genre of spiritual uncertainty: it creates encounters with the sublime and constantly explores events beyond explanation. Whether they feature supernatural phenomena or focus on the psychological torment of the protagonists, Gothic works terrify by showing readers the evils that inhabit our world.

CHARACTERS

Characters in Gothic fiction often find themselves in unfamiliar places, as they — and the readers — leave the safe world they knew behind.

Ghosts are right at home in the genre, where they’re used to explore themes of entrapment and isolation, while omens, curses, and superstitions add a further air of mystery.

ATMOSPHERE

Eeriness is as important as the scariness of the events themselves.

In a Gothic novel, the sky seems perpetually dark and stormy, the air filled with an unshakable chill.

THEMES

In addition to exploring spooky spaces, Gothic literature ventures into the dark recesses of the mind: the genre frequently confronts existential themes of madness, morality, and man pitted against God or nature.

Physical and mental ruin go hand in hand — as the ancient settings decay so do the characters’ grips on reality.

History of Gothic Literature

The vogue was initiated in England by Horace Walpole’s immensely successful The Castle of Otranto (1765).

His most respectable follower was Ann Radcliffe, whose The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) and The Italian (1797) are among the best examples of the genre.

A more sensational type of Gothic romance exploiting horror and violence flourished in Germany and was introduced to England by Matthew Gregory Lewis with The Monk (1796).

The classic horror stories Frankenstein (1818), by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, and Dracula (1897), by Bram Stoker, are in the Gothic tradition but introduce the existential nature of humankind as its definitive mystery and terror.

Easy targets for satire, the early Gothic romances died of their own extravagances of plot.

But Gothic atmospheric machinery continued to haunt the fiction of such major writers as:

Charlotte, Anne, and Emily Brontë, Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and even Charles Dickens in Bleak House and Great Expectations.

In the second half of the 20th century, the term was applied to paperback romances having the same kind of themes and trappings similar to the originals.

Tips on Writing Gothic Fiction

SETTING

Gothic fiction can, of course, be set anywhere – but 2 key components of Gothic settings are as follows:

Gothic settings are isolated – a small community, a rural town, a single-family home on the open moors… wherever your Gothic story takes place, make sure that the setting is in isolation from the rest of the world. Places that are difficult to get to, with small populations, or are only home to one family or small group of people are ideal for weaving a Gothic tale. Even if your characters are not physically isolated – maybe they live in a city, for example – their isolation should be present in some way; maybe emotionally, maybe socially. There are plenty of options therein.

Gothic settings revolve around a home base – not necessarily a home or house, though that is quite common; but, with almost every Gothic tale, a central setting is introduced very quickly and almost all the action takes place inside or around it. This furthers that feeling of isolation, and also helps the house or laboratory or island or whatever else feel alive, as if it is a character itself.

These settings are often fun to develop and aid the story so, so much by being atmospheric and anthropomorphic.

By creating a strong setting and central location, you are setting up your Gothic fiction for success.

VOICE & CHARACTER

A strong voice, usually in first person, is a staple of Gothic fiction.

Gothic main characters are usually curious, determined, and unable to rest until whatever is going on around them is uncovered.

They are not faint of heart and often have experience dealing with hardship in the past; they are uniquely qualified for whatever disturbing events are going on.

Your character’s voice should be curious, but not paranoid; apprehensive, but not frightened or cowardly; and, above all, interesting.

As many Gothic are written in first person, you want your main character to take action and investigating the goings-on.

ATMOSPHERE

Similar to setting, it’s important to focus on atmosphere. Make sure you appeal to the five senses – let your reader know how it sounds, smells, feels!

The more details, the better; immerse your reader by making them feel as if they are actually in the space.

Often, as mentioned, Gothic novels take place in areas that are remote, experience frequent storms or bad weather, or otherwise have a very ominous environment.

Of course, Gothic novels can take place anywhere, but the takeaway here is to remember to highlight aspects that go beyond the visual.

SUBGENRE

Know what the genre within your Gothic work is or is going to be.

Are you writing a Gothic romance? A Gothic thriller? A Gothic horror? There are even types of books one might categorize as a “cozy Gothic” – taking the elements of a cozy mystery, but with a Gothic setting and characters.

There are some very specific geographical locations and time periods for Gothics, Victorian or Regency-era Northern England being a couple of them; but they are not all set in Europe in the 19th century, nor should they be.

Consider such settings as seen in Southern Gothic in the 2020s, for example, or Canadian Gothic (set anywhere in Canada, but usually southern and rural Ontario) in the late 90s, among many others. These are only a few examples of hundreds!

Dark academia titles can often fall into the Gothic genre as well, and, of course there are Gothic fantasy and sci-fi titles as well.

Carefully consider what sub-genre your Gothic fiction falls under before writing it, or during the early stages of writing as your work gets fleshed out. It may fall under just one category, or multiple! Either way, knowing this will help you write and later market your title.

MARKETING

Think about marketing at an early stage. Make it clear that it is a Gothic novel!

And consider publishing your title at a time when the Gothic genre might be in higher demand, such as during the month of October or the winter in general.

Appeal to fans of grim stories, horror romance, and what have you by theming your marketing.

If writing a Gothic novel is new for you, be sure to highlight that!

It can be exciting when an author tries out a new genre and moves into a new literary space. Be sure to let your readers know of this new venture.

Gothic Romance

As a genre, gothic fiction was first established with the publication of Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto in 1764. Characterized by a dark, foreboding atmosphere and outlandish, sometimes grotesque, characters and events, gothic fiction has flourished and branched off into many different subgenres in the centuries since its creation.

While Walpole introduced what would later become the definitive tropes of the genre (creepy castles, cursed families, gloomy atmosphere), it was not until Ann Radcliffe’s A Sicilian Romance in 1790 that gothic romance began to develop as its own legitimate subgenre.

Radcliffe kept many of the same tropes established by Walpole’s work, such as isolated settings with semi-supernatural phenomena; however, her novels featured female protagonists battling through terrifying ordeals while struggling to be with their true loves.

This concept is what separates gothic romance from its cousin, gothic horror.

Female leads would come to dominate gothic romance, especially after the publication of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre in 1847.

A young woman struggling to maintain her independence as she falls for a dark, brooding, handsome man became a genre-defining plot of gothic romances published in the decades that followed.

A renewed public interest in gothic romance came on the heels of Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca upon its publication in 1938.

Authors such as Victoria Holt, Mary Stewart, and Phyllis A. Whitney dominated the gothic romance trade paperback market from the 1960s to the 1990s.

The image of a young woman running away from a darkened castle became a staple of gothic romance novel covers.

In 1983, Gaywyck, by Vincent Virga, became the first published gay gothic romance.

Modern additions to the genre continue to reflect its interest in both terror and romance, while also delivering updated or reimagined versions of familiar tropes.

Tips for Avoiding Word Repetition

While repeating a word or phrase can add emphasis and rhythm to your writing, it can also make your writing awkward and difficult to read. When you’re not using repetition as a rhetorical device, repeating words can get in the way of good writing. Here are some tricks for avoiding unnecessary repetition of words:

Read your work aloud. Reading aloud will help you avoid unintentional word repetition. Reading your work aloud is an excellent way to both hear the sonic effects of your prose and catch awkward repeated sounds or other unintended effects.

Read your work backward. Reading your work backward is an editing trick that forces your brain to slow down and pay close attention to the individual sentences. Start at the end of a chapter, paragraph, or page and read the last sentence of that section. (Don’t read the sentence itself backward—it won’t make any sense.) Next, read the second-to-last sentence, and so on. This will allow you to work at the sentence level, catching any unintended repetition or other small mistakes that your brain naturally skims over.

Consult a thesaurus. So you’ve found a repeated word. Now what? You can try rearranging your sentence to get rid of the repeated word, or you can keep the sentence the same and plug in a different word in its place. If you’re at a loss, consult a thesaurus for a list of synonyms. You want your writing to sound like you, and to be accessible to your audience, so it’s best to avoid using words you aren’t familiar with. But if you find yourself unintentionally repeating the same word over and over, a thesaurus can help you identify another word that more precisely captures your meaning.

Some Writing Strategies to Avoid Repetition

Excerpts from writing tips on repetition by Dr. Ryan Shirey:

While repetition is not an inherently bad thing (and can quite often be used to great effect as in the classical rhetorical technique of anaphora), most of us want to make sure that we’re not boring our readers by saying the same things over and over again without any variation or development.

If you’re worried about repeating ideas, then one of the easiest and most illuminating things that you can do is to reverse outline your draft. When you reverse outline, you take your draft and distill each idea and piece of evidence back into an outline. Some writers like to do this in the margins and others prefer a separate sheet of paper. Whatever your preference, a reverse outline will let you see rather clearly whether or not you’ve returned to the same idea or piece of evidence multiple times in the same essay. If you find that you have, you can think about rearranging or cutting paragraphs as necessary.

Another strategy if you’re worried about repeating ideas is to use different colored highlighters, colored pencils, or coloring tools in a word processing program to mark areas of your text where you’re working on specific ideas. If I’m writing a paper on the history of the run up to World War I, for example, I might decide to mark all the areas where I discuss treaty arrangements in green, all the areas where I discuss colonial expansion in blue, the parts that discuss arms manufacturing and trade in red, and so on. Once I’ve visualized these ideas with color, I can see more easily whether or not I keep returning to the same topics or whether I need to restructure any portions of my essay. Be careful, though–you don’t want to create artificial distinctions that might negatively impact your overall point. For instance, if a conflict over colonial expansion leads to a treaty arrangement, I would need to be very careful about using the context in which I’m discussing that treaty dictate how I code that sentence or paragraph.

If you’re worried about repeating words or phrases, you can use the “find” feature in your word processing program to highlight all of the instances where you’ve used it. Once you’ve identified the problem areas, you can look for ways to combine sentences using coordination or subordination, replace nouns with pronouns, or (very carefully) use a thesaurus to diversify your vocabulary.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing!

[aspureasamelody]

The dǒulì is a Guan-and-Dashi thing in my mind

Like, a habit Guan picked up because of Dashi, either consciously or subconsciously

Right down to Guan making sure that his statue of Dashi includes the hat, even though Dashi seemed like he only wore it when he was trying to be off duty as a monk

[the-most-humble-blog]

You Are Being Haunted — and Science Can’t Save You.

You are being haunted. And you don’t even know it.

Not by ghosts. Not by demons. But by something far worse.

Something that follows you. From inside you. From before you were conscious — and long after you think you’re dead.

I. What Follows You Without Footsteps?

In quantum physics, there’s a term:

Superposition — the idea that particles can exist in multiple states at once, until observed.

Observation collapses the wave. But what collapses you?

Answer: Your shadow.

You think it’s a trick of the light. But in quantum terms, it’s something else:

A probability field. A projection. A permanently entangled copy of your presence in spacetime.

Not metaphor. Not poetry. Physics.

II. It Comes Back. Every Time.

You can try to change.

Move cities.

Get therapy.

Shave your head and call it rebirth.

But the shadow doesn’t care.

Because the shadow isn't a symptom. It’s a recording.

A data echo of everything you’ve been. And everything you're capable of being again.

If you’ve ever tried to escape yourself — Only to circle back into old habits, old wounds, old lusts — That wasn’t weakness. It was recursion.

And recursion is physics. Not failure.

III. Quantum Haunting Is Real. Here's the Data.

Not allegory.

Literal evidence exists.

Hiroshima, 1945.

When the atomic bomb dropped, thousands vaporized in microseconds. But their shadows did not.

人影の石 (Hitokage no Ishi) — The Human Shadow Etched in Stone.

A woman sitting near the Sumitomo Bank. Vaporized by thermal radiation.

But the stone steps behind her were bleached — except where her body shielded them.

Her final shape. Frozen into reality. A dark imprint of her last moment of life.

They call it: The Human Shadow of Death. The Blast Shadow.

But let’s be precise:

It wasn’t just a stain. It was a recording. Of presence. Of heat. Of witness.

And here’s what’s worse:

You’re leaving them, too. Right now.

IV. What Science Still Won’t Admit

There is no unified theory explaining consciousness.

We can split atoms. We can map genomes. But we can’t explain:

Why you dream of your ex.

Why trauma shows up as smell.

Why some memories scream without sound.

Why the past lives in your body.

There is no consensus on how the mind locates itself inside the body.

But evidence suggests:

There’s something watching you from within the field of you. Something that records every shame, lust, betrayal, fear — not emotionally, but energetically.

Your trauma? Not stored in the body. Encoded.

In the wavelength of your biofield. In the negative space of your choices. In your shadow print.

V. The Observer Effect (and Why You’re Fucked)

Quantum mechanics says:

Observation changes the outcome.

If that’s true…

What happens when you observe yourself?

Guilt. Self-hatred. Shame. Depression.

Those aren’t emotions. They’re echoes. They're your own wave function collapsing on itself.

And the more aware you become of who you’ve been — The darker the shadow that stands behind you.

VI. No One Escapes. Not Even The Enlightened.

Go meditate. Go fast. Go run barefoot through forests chanting mantras.

It won’t matter.

Even monks report psychological possession during shadow integration.

Carl Jung, the man who coined the term “the shadow self,” wrote:

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life — and you will call it fate.”

But Jung didn’t know quantum field theory.

If he did, he would’ve known:

You’re not just fighting patterns. You’re resisting a mirrored field embedded into the architecture of time.

And here's the kicker: You destroy it — you destroy yourself.

VII. The Human Shadow is Not Just Metaphor — It's Mechanism

Remember Hiroshima.

The shadow was left behind. Because the body absorbed the light.

That’s not poetic. That’s radiological fact.

Let me rephrase it for clarity:

The body was erased. The shadow stayed.

And still we ask:

Is the soul what survives death?

What if it’s not the soul?

What if it’s the shadow?

What if what stays behind isn’t divine — but undeniable?

What if you die… And what remains is everything you couldn’t face?

VIII. Ladies and Gentlemen, Meet Your Quantum Stalker

You call it:

Guilt

Anxiety

The past

A bad habit

But science has a term for it too:

Quantum entanglement.

The particles that make you… you Are never alone.

And if they once interacted with trauma? They are forever linked to the energy of that event.

Even when you leave the place. Even when the person dies. Even when you heal.

The field doesn’t forget.

And neither does your shadow.

IX. Why You Should Be Scared

Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer told the story of the bomb.

But not the blast shadows.

Hollywood won't show you the real horror:

People permanently burned into stone — by light.

That’s not science fiction. That’s what’s left when energy remembers.

And energy always remembers.

You? You think you’re safe.

But the field has you documented.

Every word. Every orgasm. Every betrayal.

There is no deleting your shadow.

X. Final Revelation

You're haunted.

By what you've done. By what you've denied. By the part of you that watched you sin — and never blinked.

This is not metaphor. This is physics.

You are not being followed. You are being mirrored.

And the only way to kill your shadow?

Is to never cast one again. But to stop casting one…

You must destroy all light.

Including yourself.

And so it comes back.

Every time.

🧠 Call to Action

You are being watched. By a part of you that remembers what you’d rather forget.

Reblog if the idea of your own shadow now makes your skin crawl. Reblog if the physics of guilt suddenly makes sense. Reblog because maybe you’re haunted too — and you didn’t even know it.

⚠️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

This post is psychological horror, quantum theory satire, trauma field exploration, and sociocultural commentary. It is protected under the laws of literature, symbolic science, and emotionally accurate terror. If you’re uncomfortable, that’s your shadow blinking back.

[newkatzkafe2023]

Can you imagine the monkey King's wife being exactly like chi chi from dragon ball 😂.

A monkey version of her

They are very scared of her, and she's the only person the monkey King is intimidated by.

I blame the Lego monkie kid voice actor 😅

OH MY GOD!!! THAT IS BOTH AMAZING AND TERRIFYING I LOVE IT!!!!!!🤩🤩🤩🤩

That's the weapon you have Below👇👇👇

(Lmk Wukong) Ohhhhhhhhhh he pisses you off every second of everything day, and it's scares him hell even Macaque is scared of you. It's bad enough that he tends to be irresponsible and Take everything even more difficult with his poor communication skills. Then if it were to cause problems for poor Mk, then that's where you draw the line, and with every life threatening event that is centered around your husband and son. Well both Mk and Wukong Would be actively running from you by the end of it🤣

(MKR Wukong) Man he would take the monk's anger over your anger any time That's how scared he is of you. You know his sh*tty attitude and personality and his habit of having bouts of violence but you. Oh no he would do whatever it takes to stay away from that territory of upsetting you, but if it happens anyway he would get his act together immediately. The pilgrims always gets baffled by his submission and Fruity would say that mama is scary.

(HIB Wukong) Well now at least he knows the Do's and don't's parts of your marriage, considering the results and Consequences. But unfortunately he has to come back home to you after 500 years and he'll have to make up an explanation for his absence. Even worse when you told him time and time again not to go and attack heaven On the count of that is not the best idea to handle the war. Wukong had stupidly disregarded your words and now he has to come home to you, he was right to be worried because you tore him a new one because he Deliberately Disregarded your objections as your environment shook and crack from your yells. the only reason you stop was because he came home with a little boy and baby girl.

(NR Wukong) Li and Su had dumbfounded looks on both of their faces. In the living room was Wukong cowering behind the couch as a female monkey also with a metal mask was screaming profanities at him. The was the day they met you Y/n L/N Wukong his wife, but boi were you quite Intimidating to them. Thankfully they quickly learn how sweet and kind you actually are and the two even fell in love with your godly cooking. You quickly explained that Wukong had fail to tell you that Nezha was recarnated as you stuff Li with food because That's where you always did 3000 years ago.

(Netflix Wukong) Man you used were so little, quiet and cute🥰 when you a cub now your tall, loud, and scary😨 and married to him. You are the more responsible and grounded of the marriage but his reckless behavior makes you both worried and angry. You usually wack him with stick because of his condescending attitude and he should know not to talk to you like that. Then the last straw was when he got to his head in his kaiju form and Lin had to get you and well.....you can imagine how shocking it is to see a giant male monkey to wimper as a tiny female monkey yells at him.🤭🤭🤭

(BMW Wukong) GOLLY!!! you were always the wrong one to mess with 😰. For him pissing off heaven will always be less terrifying than pissing you off😬. Especially when your as powerful as he is, and would have that large club bat you dubbed as Excaliborg That you would occasionally beat his ass with. Unlike Erlang whom he's more then happy to taunt and mess with he knows better then to do the same to you unless he wants to be an must be classified smeer on the ground😬🥶.

(Destined one) He wouldn't get on your nerves in the slightest, mainly because that's a terrible idea but he's a sweet mildly Obedient man to you. You get worried about him alot because he's so selectively mute, so you made sure to engage him in conversations. The one thing you do love is how much he loves your cooking 🍳 and you are more then happy to make large batches for him to eat. He's a good Quiet husband to you and that's good enough for you.

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG😈🍳