#I cannot form sensible words

[wolfpants]

I'm crying 😭 The postie delivered an extra special package today from the one and only @citrusses who BOUND RAISING HELL! I can't believe I am holding something in my hands that was made by your hands 🥹

Look at that beauitiful, deliciously horror-ific cover? The contrast of the red and black and grey, I'm absolutely floored. It captures the mood of this fic so well. And then there's the interior... the typesetting! The spooky, PERFECT illustrations! THAT BACK MATTER WITH THE PROMISE OF MORE AND DRACO'S DEMON MOBILE! Your attention to detail! istfg!!!

Lor, thank you so much for this, your gifts really know no bounds and you blow me away every day with your talent and kindness and friendship. I'm so lucky to be sharing this space with you 🖤🖤🖤

[riddlesrose]

kissin him stupid

w/ the housewardens

in which you were recently gifted a tube of lipstick from grim, you're unsure of where he got it or why he decided it's yours now but it's given you a fantastic idea.

(he probably stole it from vil somehow and wants to place the blame on you..)

note; malleus' is the shortest but the most full of love i swear to goooood but the post itself is quite long

part two!

if riddle could form a proper sentence right now, he might scold you for slacking off, or breaking rule six hundred and seventeen, or he may just ask you to do it again. if colours could speak, his face would scream in comparison to the red accents in the housewarden’s room, uniform and matching hair. 

you attempt to keep a sober expression but he seriously cannot be so flustered by a single kiss? the red lip stain on his cheek is bright against the flush of his cheeks, as he sputters vowels and consonants, attempting to speak, to protest, to ask you what in the queen’s name are you doing.

you invited riddle over to the ramshackle dorm under the guise of needing help with studying, but you had this motive the entire time. riddle could feel your rebel to his help and directions if he ignored the obvious fact you hadn’t even cracked the spine of your book yet (to be fair it was only assigned today, and it was a new book), and the devious smile you attempted to hide until now. 

riddle took a breath, finally feeling sensible enough, “what… was that.” 

“affection, riddle. this isn’t new.” you shot, tone dripping in sarcasm. 

“yes, my rose, i know that. i mean,” he grabs hold of your uniform tie, drawing you closer, “what’s with the lipstick?” your head probably could have exploded, where did this riddle come from and how can he be drawn out more often?

you press a swift kiss to riddle’s other cheek, thanks to the proximity. “i have no explanation,” you press another kiss onto his forehead, “i simply was gifted it,” a kiss to his temple, “this morning.” the grip riddle has on your tie loosens completely as it falls back onto your chest, slightly wrinkled from the force. 

“i just had this ironed!” you frown. 

“i-i’ll get it done again.” riddle stands, brushing invisible dust off his jacket, though nothing could distract from the shade of pink that covers his face. 

“you’ll iron my tie for me? how kind.” you wrap an arm around riddle’s waist, pulling him close. he drops his forehead against your chest with a thud, inaudibly mumbling to himself. 

you wrap your other arm around him as he takes your face between his hands, slightly squishing into your cheeks he drags your face to his height, kissing you feverishly. 

“where did this riddle come from? i like him.” 

“i just felt… bold i suppose.” riddle’s red tinted lips smile against yours.

“do it again!”

leona stirs underneath you. you’re sat, straddling either side of his hips, weight pressed on his defined torso. leona doesn’t know it but you’ve practically trapped him where he sleeps. where he’s asleep currently, that is. in your dorm. 

on your couch.

using your pillows, taking in the setting sun like a true feline, though you would never dare utter the word feline anywhere near him lest you face the wrath of a moody boyfriend. 

you silently laugh to yourself, leaning down and pressing your lips on the prince’s temple.

leona stirs again at that, attempting to roll over – he cracks an eye when you gasp. slowly, coming to his senses, he furrows his brows at your positioning. you weren’t there when he fell asleep, when did you do that, and why are you sitting on him with half of a sinister smile across your lips…

and when did your lips turn red? he brings a hand up to rub his face, trying to shake the sleep out of his fogged mind, but you catch his hand before it makes contant. 

“don’t, it’ll mess up all my hard work,” you say with a half hint of embarrassment. (just a hint; only because you were caught before you could slip away undiscovered.)

leona’s confusion increases, as he detaches your hand from his wrist. he takes his freed hand up to your lips and swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, smudging it further across the line of your lip.

he inspects his red finger, “is this… lipstick?” you purse your lips in an attempt to stifle the laugh that bubbles in your chest. he looks ridiculous; eyes half lidded, nose crunched in focus and red marks painting his face.

your tinted lips curl upwards slightly into a smug grin, “maybe?” if leona knows one thing, it’s smug grins. he matches yours and wipes his thumb on your cheek, smearing the lipstick off his thumb and onto your skin. 

you playfully swat his hand away and lean down to continue painting your masterpiece, placing another kiss on his skin – onto the spot between his eyebrows. leona’s hand find your hip, giving a teasing pinch to the side. 

leona may be a prince used to some pampering, but this is some treatment he could get used to. 

azul has a finger in every pie, as riddle likes to say. you’re very much aware of that as your boyfriend likes to talk your ear off about his investments, new opportunities and the lounge. you’re so very proud of all of his hard work but sometimes he gets off on a tangent that doesn’t stop until you make him. usually with a kiss. it flusters him just enough that he forgets what he was going on about and it works every time. 

this time, however, was a bit different. azul didn’t take notice of the hue change of your lips as you leaned in and shut him up. drawing back, you snicker at his pursed lips and flushed cheeks, and the red lipstick smeared around his lips.

azul peeked in your direction, curious. you usually find it funny when he’s flustered like this but you were laughing a little too much. he noticed the messy red lipstick and furrowed his brows, wiping a finger across his lips. 

you suppressed a smile as you watched him curiously examine his stained finger, “it’s lipstick.” he concludes. 

“well… obviously? i thought that would have been pretty clear,” you grab his hand, wiping the red off of his finger. 

before azul can retort you lean in to kiss him again; anywhere you can get your lips on before he shells himself away, utterly embarrassed. a kiss to his cheek, jaw, forehead, nose, other cheek, forehead again, has him sputtering, almost begging to be released. 

azul places his free hand on your shoulder, trying to push you away while laughing between breaths. when you do back up, leaning back on your hand, he almost looks sad. (as if he wasn’t actively trying to get you off!) 

“so, mister ashengrotto? feeling loved and appreciated yet?” you give him a toothy grin, watching as his face contorts from flustered to even-more-flustered. (if that’s possible.)

“well yes! i dare say i’m feeling very valued and cherished as well.” despite his rosy features, his voice is unwavering, full of conviction. 

his confident, put-together outer layer completely melts away when you’re alone with him, but this has him absolutely on fire, a feeling no number could replace. numbers can’t give affection, you give it tenfold in their stead. 

kalim’s permanent grin widens when you claim you’ve got a gift for him. he expectantly holds out his hands, making you shake your head. 

“it’s more of an eyes closed kind of gift,” you start, kalim instantly squeezes his eyes shut. he puts so much trust in you that you worry jamil has eyes everywhere. everywhere. but you brush the jesting idea away, believing that you wouldn’t even be allowed on scarabia grounds if jamil didn’t trust you with the housewarden. 

you turn to a nearby mirror, passing the tube of red lipstick over your lips. the smooth makeup applies nice and neatly. (doesn’t matter because you know it won’t be neat for long.)

you step back over to where kalim’s sitting on the edge of his bed, standing between his knees. he’s waiting not-so patiently, he looks like he’s almost vibrating, is he really that excited? you suppress a smile as you gently grab onto his jaw, tilting his head to the side as you press your lips to his cheek. his laughter immediately fills the room, making you press more kisses over his face. one to his forehead, one on the nose, another on the other cheek, his temples, and anywhere you can get before he’s laughing too much, pushing you away.

“it tickles,” he heaves a breath, “stop!” a wider smile grows on his face after seeing yours, the red lipstick you applied had smudged around your lips, looking not-so neat. his face isn’t much better, tan skin littered in red kisses.

while you’re mentally retaining the image of kalim covered in red lip marks, you notice him looking more intently at you. you raise a brow, curiously.

“my turn, give it here!” he reaches a hand out, expecting the tube of lipstick?

you look at him bewildered, “what?” 

“my turn!” he repeats. he seems real set on returning the ‘gift’ it seems. kalim’s all smiles as you hand him the black tube. he exposes the stick and passes it over his own lips, tossing it aside and pulling you down to his seated height. he flattens his lips across the expanse of your face, getting at any skin he can just like you did to him. 

when he deems he’s finished, you’re dazed and equally covered in red lipstick stains, smiles wide across your faces. matching stained faces for matching blitheringly infatuated idiots.

vil leans on the back of his vanity chair; his face littered in different coloured lip marks. the reason? he claims he wants to see which ones compliment him the most. 

you know he already knows exactly which shades of each brand line do exactly that. (thanks, rook.) vil doesn’t know that you know he’s already figured this out. 

you wipe the makeup remover-soaked cotton pad across your lips, ridding it of the pink. “what would all of your fans think if they knew you were being covered completely in rainbow kisses?” you wipe the moisture from your lips as vil reaches around you to grab another tube, but you stop him. 

“i’m sure they would lose their minds,” you reach into your pocket, revealing a miscellaneous tube of lipstick, it matches none of the previously discarded lipsticks, nor does it have a brand logo on it. “where did you find this?” vil takes the lipstick in his hand, nimbly examining the exterior. he removes the top to reveal a rich, velvety red colour. his eyes widen just slightly. 

“it’s a secret,” you wink and take the lipstick from him and apply it, smiling as you replace its cap and let it fall from your hand, onto a messy vanity behind you. 

vil wraps an arm around your neck, drawing you closer to his seated level, “well, share your secret with me, if you would be so kind.” you swiftly close the gap between yourself and the housewarden, administering a healthy dose of red onto his lips and the surrounding skin. 

he parts first, his cheeks dawn a hint of pink that’s hidden behind the various stains on his otherwise perfect skin. he truly is the most beautiful person ever. makeup or not, hair tied back or loose, vil is sincerely as pretty as the morning's first light, a flower; freshly bloomed, and a fresh set of nails. 

“you’re staring. not that i mind,” you snap out of your hazy daydream about your gorgeous boyfriend and back into reality. 

“yeah, sorry. you’re just really fucking pretty.” you lean down and tenderly kiss his forehead as he internally squeals like one of his fan-girls. he really hit the jackpot with you as his (second) biggest fan.

idia looks up at you with wide yellow eyes, but they have a sort of gloss over them that makes you believe he would not want you to get up and leave his dorm right now. you grin at his feeble attempt of a silent, inconclusive plea. an ask to what, you’re unsure because his face (minus the eyes) and hands grabbing at you tell you he’s very much enjoying you straddling his hips right now.

you reach into your pocket, revealing your master plan. a tube of lipstick, you swipe it over your lips once, then twice before replacing the cap and tossing it down, letting it hit the plush bedsheet you’re atop. 

the translucent tips of his hair start to turn pink as you lean down towards his face. a trembling hand comes up to your shoulder, not pushing you away but seemingly grounding the housewarden underneath you. “how cute,” you smile against his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his left cheek, then the right. one more on his forehead for good measure. maybe one more. okay, one last one couldn’t hurt.

you sit upright and drag a hand down idia’s chest, over the sweater you know is probably two sizes to large for him, (but that’s how he likes them you suppose and it just makes for a more comfortable sweater when you steal ‘em) while admiring the definitely not smudge-proof lipstick marks on idia’s face, giggling as you compare the red smears to his blue features. you wonder if-

the rapid rise and fall of idia’s chest catches your attention, it almost sounds like he’s hyperventilating, but when you look up to his face it’s surrounded by fiery pink hair and a flush across his cheeks, spanning down his neck, you realize he’s fine. probably a little more than fine. 

“well, that’s some false advertising,” you smile, wiping at the edges of your lips lightly with a finger. idia snaps out of his stupor, hastily agreeing with a stuttered breath. his hands find your hips, giving you a small squeeze. you lean down and press a proper kiss to his lips, you lift away just as quick as you bent down, pushing idia back down as he chases you up, hoping for more. a pitiful whine escapes him as his hair burns brighter. 

the red lipstick mixes with his natural blue lips gives him a sort of purple that would put the octavinelle’s house colour to shame. though, he almost looks forlorn. the usual solemn and gloomy housewarden; reduced to a blushing mess after a few kisses. 

hilarious, isn’t it?

malleus’s eyes flutter shut, a pleased sigh escapes his lips. his hands, hidden by your sweater, trace messy patterns on your back as his nails scratch lightly. he’s unsure of how he got himself into this humanoid predicament but he’s not complaining. 

you’re sat in his lap, placing kisses all over his face, leaving red lip marks behind. 

“you look like you’re enjoying this more than i am, malleus.” you bring a hand up to rake it through his bangs, pushing them behind his horns and revealing the shiny scales hidden beneath. 

the housewarden cracks a sharp emerald eye, examining your features. the slope of your nose, the curve of your stained lips, your eyelashes, cheeks. your eyes. oh how he loves your eyes, the way they look up to him with adoration, not fear or indifference like other humans do. 

you cup his cheek, “malleus?” 

he blinks once, twice. the gloss over his eyes breaks, refocusing on you. “i apologize, i was lost in thought.” 

“i could tell,” you trace your finger to the tip of his ear, then drop your hand back into your lap. “what were you thinking of? me?” 

“yes.” 

“woah, okay. blunt!” heat rises to your face. 

a hand leaves your back, trailing around your side and up to tuck a piece of hair away from your eyes. “was i not suppose to tell the truth?” 

“no, malleus, you should have said you were thinking of pancakes.” 

“but i wasn’t? i was thinking of-” you cut him off, placing a kiss on his lips. 

“now, let me resume my art.”

malleus is more than happy to sit as still as the gargoyle statues he studies while you press kisses all over his face. he is, truly is.

this was so self indulgent i ain’t even sorry (is my favouritism showing??)

masterlist

[yeoldenews]

I'm not sure if you'll know the answer to this, but for the regency era, how common are contractions in letters and speech? Not the "Wm." for William kind, but your standard "couldn't," "wouldn't" and "shouldn't?" Thanks!

All common English contractions did exist by the Regency period. However, there is very limited period documentation or scholarly research as to whether they were viewed as "proper" English or not at the time.

Contractions were first used in the English language sometime in the last half of the 16th century, and by the late 17th and early 18th centuries were approaching what most people today would probably consider over-use.

By the time the Regency era rolled around however, many older uses of contractions had already fallen, or were in the midst of falling, out of favor. 'Tis, 'twas, ne'er, e'er, e'en, tho', thro', etc., were mostly confined to poetry by the early 19th century (though 'tis seems to have hung on a little bit longer than the others).

The last half of the 18th century had also already seen the almost complete disappearance of the most common use of English contractions in the 17th and early 18th centuries - using 'd in place of -ed - as seen here in an example from the 1736...

The frequency of use of contractions in the Regency period specifically, seems to have varied greatly from person to person. Jane Austen herself used very few contractions in her novels compared to some of her contemporaries. Couldn't, wouldn't and shouldn't do not appear at all in Pride & Prejudice, Sense & Sensibility or Emma, and all other contractions were used very sparingly.

In P&P, I counted one appearance of "I'm", one of "you'll", one "won't", two "can't"s, three "shan't"s and six "don't"s.

I compared this to Evelina, by Frances Burney (published in 1778) which (just in Volume One) includes: 14 occurrences of can't, 4 of won't, 35 of don't (vs only 15 of 'do not') and 11 of shan't (3 spelled shan't and 8 sha'n't).

Though couldn't, wouldn't and shouldn't all appear in Evelina as well (in an archaic forms which included a space between the modal verb and n't: could n't, would n't, should n't), I did notice they are used much more by lower class characters than by upper.

There seems to be some evidence that negative contractions (those ending in n't) began to be considered improper English in the latter half of the 18th century, and subsequently generally fell out of favor with the upper classes.

The Grammatical Wreath... by Alexander Bicknell, published in 1790, specifically cautions against using contractions in correspondence with social superiors.

"And be careful in not omitting any letter belonging to the words you write; as, I've, can't, don't, shou'd, wou'd, &c. instead of I have, cannot, do not, should, would; for such contractions not only appear disrespectful and too familiar, but discover ignorance and impudence."

This very interesting paper (which you can view in full if you have a free JSTOR account) analyzes the grammatical trends found through 50 years (1730s-1780s) of the correspondence of writer Elizabeth Montagu. The author marked a significant falloff in the use of negative contracted modal and auxiliary verbs over the course of Montagu's letters. In the 1730s Montagu used un-contracted negatives 62% of the time and contracted 38%, but by the 1780s Montagu used no contacted negatives at all.

Granted these are only the letters of a single person and, as the author notes, could have many other explanations (age, change in social class, familiarity with the correspondent, etc.), it does seem to reflect what I've personally observed in writing from this period.

So the answer to your question is - yes, contractions existed and yes, they were in fairly common use - with the asterisk that how they were viewed by society is not terribly well documented for the Regency period.

So I'd personally say feel free to use them in any Regency era stories you may be writing, but do so sparingly with very proper or upper class characters.

If you're aiming for very authentic period flavor, you could also try throwing in some contractions that have fallen out of use over the past two centuries - shan't, mustn't, needn't, mayn't, etc. I'd especially recommend using 'shan't' in place of 'shouldn't' where appropriate, and also remembering that if you're using 'can not' instead of 'can't' it is always one word - cannot.

One thing that is period authentic, but I won't personally recommend to any Regency era writers (unless you want to throw some meta commentary on the chaos that is the English language into an epistolary) - is that no one really agreed where to put the apostrophe in wouldn't/couldn't/shouldn't until well into the 19th century. It's very common to see the n't separate as in the examples from Evelina, but I've also seen wou'd'n't, would'nt, wou'd'nt, etc. etc. etc., sometimes multiple different ways within a single paragraph.

Hope some of that was helpful. I had fun digging into it!

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 1: The Season Begins

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: The season opens with silks and secrets, smiles and schemes. You, a beloved fixture in the Bridgerton household, are meant to be just another part of the family’s rhythm. But this season? This one hums with something different. A glance held too long. A conversation that lingers. A heart you thought you knew — and one that may never be the same again. Let the season begin.

Dearest gentle reader,

As the season commences, the ton is abuzz with anticipation, for what is a London season without its fair share of speculation and scandal? The debutantes, eager and resplendent, flock to the dance floors in search of favourable matches. Mothers sharpen their sights on eligible prospects, their ambitions rivaled only by their daughters’ own hopes for love—or fortune, whichever comes first.

Yet, amidst the familiar faces that grace our society, there are those whose presence requires no introduction. The Bridgertons, ever the picture of familial prominence, return to the heart of the season with the weight of expectation upon their shoulders. And at the helm of their ranks stands none other than Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, whose duty-bound heart is said to seek a wife at long last.

But let us not be quick to assume that duty will be his only companion this season. A certain cherished family friend, whose presence in their lives has been as enduring as it has been unquestioned.

One wonders—will this season bring nothing more than the usual pleasantries for our dear Miss Y/N? Or shall fate see fit to stir the waters of certainty?

As always, this author will be watching.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown.

The morning sunlight spills through the large bay windows of Bridgerton House, casting golden ribbons across the polished floors. The air hums with the sounds of a household in motion—servants moving swiftly through corridors, the faint clatter of breakfast being served, and, of course, the unmistaken chatter of the Bridgerton family gathered in the dining room.

You are seated at the long table, comfortably nestled between Eloise and Benedict, both of whom are engaged in a lively debate over the merits of poetry versus painting as the superior art form. Across from you, Anthony sits with his usual composure, skimming the morning paper with an air of practiced disinterest, his attention split between the news and the occasional interjection from Colin, who is, as always, brimming with some new tale of adventure.

“You cannot possibly believe that painting is the greater art,” Eloise scoffs, stabbing her fork into a piece of fruit with dramatic flair. “Poetry captures the depths of human emotion in a way no painting ever could.”

Benedict smirks over his teacup. “And yet, a painting requires no words to move its audience. A single brushstroke can convey an entire story.”

You glance between them, amused. “And yet, a terrible painting is simply dreadful, while bad poetry is at the very least entertaining.”

Eloise beams in victory while Benedict lets out a dramatic sigh. “I should have known you would side with her,” he laments. “You always do.”

Anthony, having remained silent thus far, folds his paper with measured precision and sets it aside. “Perhaps,” he muses, his gaze flickering to you with mild amusement, “the issue lies not in the art itself, but in the interpretation of the viewer. One can appreciate both poetry and painting, and yet still prefer neither.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “And what, pray tell, do you prefer, my lord? Or are you admitting to having no artistic sensibilities at all?”

Eloise snorts into her tea. Colin chuckles. Anthony barely lifts a brow. “I prefer that my breakfast not be disrupted by fruitless debates.”

“How very poetic of you,” you quip, earning a grin from Benedict and an approving nod from Eloise.

Anthony exhales through his nose—a sound that is not quite a sigh, nor quite a laugh. It is a response you are more than familiar with; a wordless acknowledgement of the game you play with one another. Nothing unusual, nothing significant.

Just familiarity. Just friendship.

At least, that is what it has always been.

Across the table, Violet Bridgeton observes the exchange with an unreadable smile before delicately setting down her teacup. “Now that we have settled the great artistic debate of the morning,” she says with graceful finality, “perhaps we might turn our attention to the upcoming ball.”

A collective groan ripples through the younger Bridgertons.

“Must we attend?” Eloise laments. “It will be nothing but insufferable small talk and matchmaking mothers.”

“Precisely why you must attend,” Violent counters, her eyes twinkling. “And as this season marks Anthony’s search for a wife, I expect you all to be on your best behaviour.”

Anthony, having just taken a sip of his tea, nearly chokes. He sets down his cup with a bit more force than necessary. “I do not require an audience, Mother.”

“You require a miracle,” Colin mutters under his breath.

You bite back a laugh as Anthony sends his younger brother a sharp look.

Violet, ever the composed matriarch, merely pats her eldest son’s hand. “Nevertheless, you will be there, and you will be charming. That goes for all of you.”

She glances at you, warmth in her gaze. “And you, my dear, will be an invaluable help, as always.”

You incline your head, smiling. “Of course, Lady Bridgerton. I would not dream of abandoning you to such a task alone.”

Anthony exhales. “At least someone is sensible.”

You glance at him sidelong. “Oh, I have never claimed to be sensible, my lord.”

He gives you a look, but whatever retort he might have offered is lost as Violet claps her hands together. “Then it is settled. We shall all attend, and we shall all enjoy ourselves.”

Eloise slumps back in her chair with a groan. “Unlikely.”

You cannot help but agree. The season has only just begun, and already, it promises to be eventful.

And yet, for now, all remains as it has always been. Just as it should be.

Bridgerton House, Your Chambers

The late afternoon light filters through the lace curtains, casting golden warmth over the quiet sanctuary of your room. A gentle breeze drifts in from the open window, carrying the scent of wisteria and the distant hum of carriages passing beyond Bridgerton House. It is a moment of stillness, a rare pocket of peace before the grand affair of the evening.

You sit before your vanity, wrapped in the soft elegance of your dressing gown, as Violet Bridgerton stands behind you, deftly weaving your hair into an intricate style befitting the ball. Her hands move with the ease of a woman who has tended to many daughters, though there is something particularly tender in the way she fusses over you—adjusting, smoothing, ensuring perfection without a single harsh tug.

“You have such beautiful hair,” she muses, gathering a section and twisting it between her fingers. “It takes well to styling. Much better than Eloise’s—though do not tell her I said that.”

You smile at her reflection in the mirror. “Your secret is safe with me.”

She hums in amusement, securing another pin. “I must say, I am rather pleased you are joining us this evening. Balls can be so dreadfully tiresome when one attends them alone.”

You arch a brow. “Alone? You will have your entire family present.”

Violet sighs, a knowing glint in her eye. “Yes, but my sons are notoriously unhelpful when it comes to navigating such events. And my daughters—well, one would rather read, and the other would rather hide.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head just enough to make her still your movement with a gentle hand. “I do not believe Eloise is quite so terrible.”

“She is stubborn,” Violet corrects, though there is no true exasperation in her tone—only the fondness of a mother who knows her children too well. “Much like her brother.”

At that, you pause.

Anthony.

Violet’s hands do not stop their work, but you feel the shift in the air. The weight of what has not been said. “You worry for him,” you murmur. It is not a question.

Violet meets your gaze in the mirror, her expression soft but distant, as if she is looking beyond you, into a time long past. “I do,” she admits. “How could I not?”

You hesitate before speaking again, choosing your words carefully. “It is not merely a wife he seeks, is it?” Violet exhales, her fingers stilling for just a moment before continuing. “No,” she says, quieter this time. “He seeks a responsibility. A duty fulfilled. A perfect match, on paper and in practice. But love?” Her voice turns wistful, almost, almost mournful. “That, I fear, he will not allow himself to find.”

You watch her in the mirror, the way her gaze lingers not on you, but on something unseen—memories, perhaps, of a love she once had. A love Anthony lost before he ever had the chance to understand it.

“He believes love is a weakness,” you say, carefully threading the thought aloud. “Something that clouds judgement. That makes a man falter when he should stand firm.”

Violet nods, her lips pressing together. “I have tried to show him otherwise. I have tried to tell him that love is not something to be feared, but something to be embraced.” She sighs, securing the final pin. “But some lessons, I suppose, must be learned in their own time.”

You glance down at your hands in your lap, considering this. Considering him.

Anthony has always been a steady presence in your life—protective, reliable, occasionally insufferable. You have known him as the eldest Bridgerton, the viscount, the ever-responsible brother and friend. But love? That is something he has never let himself be.

Violet watches you for a moment before placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “He listens to you, you know,” she says, voice warm with something unspoken. “More than he lets on.”

You look up, meeting her gaze in the reflection. “Does he?”

She smiles, though it holds a trace of sadness. “Oh, my dear. If only he knew it himself.”

A quiet settles between you, thick with unspoken truths. Then, with a final part to your shoulder, Violet straightens. “There. You are ready.”

You rise, letting the dressing gown slip from your shoulders as you move to step into your gown for the evening. Violet helps with the delicate fastenings, smoothing the fabric once it is in place.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she says softly, “promise me you will enjoy yourself.”

You turn, giving her a small smile. “I promise.”

But as you glance once more into the mirror, seeing not just yourself but the weight of the conversation lingering in the air, you wonder if that will truly be possible.

[marichive]

𝐖𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒

A collection of prompts from Wuthering Heights , by Emily Brontë. Adjust gender / pronouns / wording / etc. as needed.

❝ He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. ❞

❝ If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger. ❞

❝ Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! ❞

❝ I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy, and free. ❞

❝ May you not rest as long as I am living. ❞

❝ You said I killed you--haunt me then. ❞

❝ The murdered do haunt their murderers. ❞

❝ Oh, God! It is unutterable! ❞

❝ If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day. ❞

❝ I have not broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. ❞

❝ She burned too bright for this world. ❞

❝ Terror made me cruel. ❞

❝ What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? ❞

❝ He's always, always in my mind. ❞

❝ If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave. ❞

❝ I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death; and flung it back to me. ❞

❝ I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas. ❞

❝ You teach me now how cruel you've been - cruel and false. ❞

❝ Why did you despise me? ❞

❝ Why did you betray your own heart? ❞

❝ I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. ❞

❝ Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you - they'll damn you. ❞

❝ You loved me - what right had you to leave me? ❞

❝ I have to remind myself to breathe -- almost to remind my heart to beat! ❞

❝ It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn. ❞

❝ It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands. ❞

❝ Honest people don't hide their deeds. ❞

❝ May she wake in torment! ❞

❝ She's a liar to the end! ❞

❝ You said you cared nothing for my sufferings! ❞

❝ Heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth. ❞

❝ He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. ❞

❝ He shall never know I love him ❞

❝ A person who has not done one half his day's work by ten o'clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone. ❞

❝ Treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies. ❞

❝ You know that I could as soon forget you as my existence. ❞

❝ ❞

❝ Why am I so changed? ❞

❝ I am now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town. ❞

❝ A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself. ❞

❝ Time brought resignation and a melancholy sweeter than common joy. ❞

❝ Had he been in my place and I in his, though I hated him with a hatred that turned my life to gall, I never would have raised a hand against him. ❞

❝ You may look incredulous, if you please! ❞

❝ The moment her regard ceased, I could have torn his heart out, and drunk his blood! ❞

❝ If you don't believe me, you don't know me. ❞

❝ I'll be as dirty as I please. ❞

❝ The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her. ❞

❝ I hate him for himself, but despise him for the memories he revives. ❞

❝ The thing that irks me most is this shattered prison, after all. ❞

❝ I’m tired of being enclosed here. ❞

❝ I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be. ❞

❝ That proves I love him better than myself. ❞

❝ How cruel, your veins are full of ice water and mine are boiling. ❞

❝ Existence, after losing her, would be hell. ❞

❝ I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing. ❞

❝ She was a wild, wicked slip of a girl. ❞

❝ You must forgive me, for I struggled only for you. ❞

❝ How can she love in him what he has not? ❞

❝ Your presence is a moral poison that would contaminate the most virtuous. ❞

❝ Your cold blood cannot be worked into a fever. ❞

❝ Good words, but deeds must prove it also. ❞

❝ Remember you don't forget resolutions formed in the hour of fear. ❞

❝ Why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? ❞

❝ Make everything stop and stand still and never move again. Make the moors never change and you and I never change. ❞

❝ As different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire. ❞

❝ It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing. ❞

❝ I never told my love vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears. ❞

❝ He might as well plant an oak in a flowerpot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares! ❞

❝ I have no pity! ❞

❝ It would degrade me to marry him now. ❞

❝ Hereafter she is only my sister in name; not because I disown her, but because she has disowned me. ❞

❝ In secret pleasure — secret tears, this changeful life has slipped away ❞

❝ Thoughts are tyrants that return again and again to torment us. ❞

❝ I begin to fancy you don't like me. ❞

❝ I wish I could hold you 'till we were both dead. ❞

❝ I care nothing for your sufferings. Why shouldn't you suffer? ❞

❝ Will you forget me? Will you be happy when I am in the earth? ❞

❝ Would you like to live with your soul in the grave? ❞

❝ I'm not going to act the lady among you. ❞

❝ You'll be ashamed of me everyday of your life, and the more ashamed, the more you know me; and I cannot bide it. ❞

❝ Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living. ❞

❝ Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. ❞

❝ Nonsense, do you imagine he has thought as much of you as you have of him? ❞

❝ This lamb of yours threatens like a bull! ❞

❝ I'm mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking down. ❞

❝ I have neither a fear, nor a presentiment, nor a hope of death. ❞

❝ I could not help wishing we were all there safe together. ❞

❝ He’s not a rough diamond - a pearl-containing oyster of a rustic; he’s a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. ❞

[thorough-witness-enjoyer]

The Traveler captures the essence of Destiny’s humanistic and existential message with touching inspiration.

I’m coming out to say that the Traveler is my favorite character in Destiny by FAR and has been for years. I promise I’ll make a full thought dump on Cayde’s decision, but I just want to quickly talk about the absolute beauty of the narrative surrounding the Traveler that I have cried numerous rivers over. The Traveler’s philosophy and essence has touched my spirit so intimately, I cannot thank Destiny enough for blessing us with that beautiful white orb.

The Traveler is the most endearing thing ever to be conceived of to me because the idea of a creator who believes it should serve its creations in the best way it knows how is so refreshing. We as humans are so used to stories to about gods who we must respect because they contributed to the universe we live in; gods who believe they have jurisdiction over all and expect us to follow their word for they are wiser than any mortal. Free will is a heavy burden to bear and, as a result of humans wishing to alleviate the anxiety that comes with the knowledge that you must be responsible for all your directionless choices and the potential pain that comes with them, we create stories about deities who understand the things we don’t and will guide us in a universe that provides no instructions on how to live properly.

The Traveler is so respectable and inspiring because though it can bend the laws of physics with its paracasual abilities and was responsible for the birth of the universe, it doesn’t view itself as any higher than the life forms it fostered. Its devotion to free will and the love it has for all is heart throbbing, especially when sticking to its ideology is detrimental to its safety and well being. It’s so hopeful and believes in the good of sentient life, even if shown how awful beings can be. It has wishes and beliefs, but it will never impose them on anyone because it believes the universe is ours rather than the universe being entitled to it.

The Traveler could have been god and gave that up so we could have complexity and free will; so that we wouldn’t have a destiny. It is so mindful of people’s inclination to look beyond themselves for purpose in order to make their suffering more sensible and it chooses to not speak so that we may never hinder our ability to define our lives to be what we truly desire it to be. That choice, the choice to not be god because you believe so deeply in people’s self efficacy that you don’t see a god to be necessary, is one I hold dear to me.

Destiny is not a game about gods, it’s about powerful people who either realize that their powers do not mean they can enforce their will on others, leading them to enjoy the complex experience of being a living being, or become pseudo gods, meeting their end to godslayers who refuse to let anyone determine their fate. The Traveler is powerful and loving for it could have chosen servitude from all , but it chose to be of service instead, even if it would get hatred in return from those who did not understand the power it was granting them. It’s love is unconditional and it would suffer untold eons for anyone, even if the affection wasn’t returned.

Destiny asks the question “What do you do when you can’t force the universe to care about you?”

What do you do when the logic is sharp, the Winnower cuts away at the excess of reality, and you cry out prayers to get no response in turn?

It answers it with “Who cares if the universe thinks we matter or not, we decide if we matter and we can care for each other when the Winnower refuses to”.

I’ll forever thank the Traveler for allowing us to not only find that answer, but experience it with mouthfuls of the sweetness freedom bleeds when you breach the deterring sight of possibility.

Traveler, I love you more than you could understand and when I think there is no hope in my life, I think of you standing strong in the sky after eons of fear and torment and I get the courage to stand strong against the the tides of causality.

The universe may be unmoved by whether we suffer or not, but there will always be beings who will help us understand that this isn’t a problem to be solved, but a truth to embrace and free ourselves with.

Beings like the Traveler, who never understood why we looked up at it when we could have looked down at our own hands. We may want god, but what we really need is ourselves and each other. This is something we will struggle against for a long time, but the Traveler knows we will get there eventually.

It has patience and hope beyond infinity, traits I will forever think of when humanity stumbles over existential questions time and time again.

[cosmerelists]

Allomancer Jak Across the Cosmere

As requested by @troacctid :)

Allomancer Jak (Mistborn Era 2) is a worldhopper now! Naturally, he will be writing serialized accounts of all of his adventures. Let's take a look at a few excerpts, shall we?

1. Roshar [Stormlight Archive]

In that moment I could only think of the words that the Storm Prophet had spoken to me on that fateful day, warning me that the world-crushing storm that the people of this land call the Highstorm was due at sundown this very evening. And here I was--trapped in the bottom of a chasm, with no way to escape! My tin-enhanced ears could already pick up the distant rumble of the storm that would surely bring my death.

Please do not think, dear readers, that I gave myself over to despair for more than the merest breath of a moment, however. For I could hear something else as well: the distinct clack clack clack of the beast I had faced down just the day before: the monstrous shelled creature that stalked these very chasms, the one that the beautiful bald priestess had told me is named Chasmfiend.

And that was the moment I realized what I had to do. I would tame this beast, and I would ride upon its back to safety!

2. Canticle [The Sunlit Man]

"Please," she whispered. "This Sunheart is your only means of escape. You must take it, and you must take my ship, and you must outrun the sun before it is too late."

"I will not--I cannot--leave you, my dear lady," I proclaimed, closing her shaking fist around the proffered Sunheart, letting my hand linger over hers.

"It is too late for me," she said, her voice growing ever softer. "I can hear the Shades calling for me. Soon I shall join them."

"I shall not allow them to take you!" I cried. "Shades! You were once her people! Protect this woman whom I love so dearly! Protect her!"

Any sensible readers among you will doubt my next words, I am sure, unless of course you have grown to trust me over the many, many years that I have poured out my heart in true honestly. And I speak with complete and unvarnished truth when I tell you that the Shades themselves rose up in a cloud around us, forming a barrier, blocking out the Sun itself!

3. First of the Sun [Sixth of the Dusk]

And I saw myself, dear readers, being swallowed whole by the swampy ground. The parrot on my shoulder, as dear as companion as faithful Handerwym had once been, was once again showing me the death that would surely await me if I continued on this path. But dear First of the Morning, that most beautiful of women, was waiting for me beyond that swamp, captured by the Ones Above and surely calling my name.

"Death cannot have me. I will face it head on," I told my parrot, and I stepped forward, into that swamp of death.

4. Lumar [Tress of the Emerald Sea]

The pirate queen eyed me with renewed suspicion. I had thought that I had finally earned her trust after she and I fought back-to-back to protect the ship from the Sorceress's dark minions, but it seemed that her faith in me was not so strong. Not for the first time, I mourned that Glint had vanished beneath those red waves (little did I know then that I would see Glint again, and in the jaws of a dragon no less! But that is a tale for another time). What I did have was the crude firearm that the Sprouter and I had constructed from his tools, powered by aether and by my faith in the Survivor. I knew the risk of using such a weapon, especially now, on this ship, as the distant rains came ever closer. But I also knew that I had no choice. I raised my weapon.

"Wait!" a voice cried from behind me. It was the Sprouter! "You don't understand!" he continued, frantic. "The pirate queen...is a King's Mask!"

5. Sel [Elantris]

The silver citizens of that silver city had by now come to accept me. I walked along their strange streets, tipping my hat to those strange citizens, and I received back nods of acknowledgment, sometimes even of respect. Ever since I had stood before the gates of their city to face down the Dakhor monk, they had come to accept me, despite our rocky start. I dare say they wished for me to stay, perhaps even to learn their strange magics, but I will admit that this sterile, clean city was not for me. Even now I longed for the dusty winds and the comforting heat of the Roughs. Not for a man like me was a place like this!

6. Nalthis [Warbreaker]

Never in all of my wildest fantasies would I have expected to find myself in such a situation, dear readers. The undead squirrels were all around me, snapping at me with their vicious jaws, and I had only one shot left in my gun. My tin, as you will recall, was all burned--I had used the last of it escaping from the God King's dungeon. What was I to do? If I shot one of these zombified beasts, the others would surely descend upon me. Unlike animals still counted among the living, these monstrosities did not react to sound or light, so firing my gun in the air would not work the way it did the time that I was set upon by that pack of panthers.

"I cannot move forward or backwards or right or left," I muttered, casting my eyes all around. "And so, the only way to go--is down."

And I fired Glint directly at my feet, shattering the floor and plunging me into the secret tunnels beneath!

[aliciavance4228]

I cannot believe that I have to say that, but the idea of Medusa being a hunter of rapists in the Bronze Age is far from ridiculous.

Look: Did ancient greeks knew the concept of having sexual intercourse against your will? Absolutely! But did they have the exact same perception on rape that we have nowdays? Ehh... While they condemned rape of their women and those accused of it were punished for their actions, there were also instances where they excused different forms of sexual assault.

Take as an example the way lots of Zeus' famous escapades with different mortal women (Danaë, Europa, Alcmene etc.) didn't start to be acknowledged or interpreted as rape until later, while there are still people who consider them to be love stories due to the ambiguity of the language. Take also into account the fact that ancient greeks didn't have a word for rape. Not to mention that we're talking here about a time period where slavery existed (which expands this subject's complexity to a whole another level) and the siege of a city was usually followed by the mass rape and enslavement of its women. I don't want to hear about the importance of consentual sex on an abstract and ideal level in a Greek Mythology Retelling knowing all these aspects about the ancient greek society purely for the sake of tickling our modern sensibilities.

On this note, do I even have to mention that concepts such as a patron of SA/Rape victims, a punisher of rapists or a women's shelter are contemporary projections onto the ancient world that have little to nothing to do with reality?

And allow me to say: Medusa is one of the least mythological figures to be interpreted either as a feminist icon or a hunter of rapists. Even if we talk about Ovid's version she's not even in top 50 the most tragic rape victims from Greek Mythology. If you would really want to turn her into a badass monster and a menace to mortals then you could keep her archaic appearence instead of making her a conventionally attractive woman, and write a retelling of that one episode where she and her sisters were fighting against the Amazons; but I quess this idea won't be on these authors' tastes, because apparently the exact same people who usually erase Stheno and Euryale cannot stand the idea of our slay queen girlboss Medusa intentionally doing any harm to a woman. But don't assume that she's a punisher or hunter of rapists nor a feminist. Not only because all of these are linked in our modern mentality and terminology, but also because she didn’t conciously petrified all those predators and sick men (Polydectes, Phineus, Proteus); she was already dead. It is Perseus who used her head in order to kill them and avenge his wife and mother by default all this time.

[the-mortuary-witch]

THE 9 SATANIC SINS AND THEIR MEANINGS

STUPIDITY: the top of the list for Satanic Sins, the Cardinal Sin. It's too bad that stupidity isn't painful. Ignorance is one thing, but our society thrives increasingly on stupidity. It depends people going along with whatever they are told. The media promotes a cultivated stupidity as a posture that is not only acceptable but laudable. One must learn to see through the tricks and cannot afford to be stupid.

PRETENTIOUSNESS: empty posturing can be most irritating and isn't applying the cardinal rules of Lesser Magic. On equal footing with stupidity for what keeps the money in circulation these days. Everyone's made to feel like a big shot, whether they can come up with the goods or not.

SOLIPSISM: can be very dangerous. Projecting your reactions, responses, and sensibilities onto someone who is probably far less attuned than you are. It is the mistake of expecting people to give you the same consideration, courtesy, and respect that you naturally give them. They won't. Instead, one must strive to apply the dictum of "Do unto others as they do onto you." It's work for most of us and requires constant vigilance lest you slip into a comfortable illusion of everyone being like you. As has been said, certain utopias would be ideal in a nation of philosophers , but unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, from a Machiavellian standpoint) we are far from that point.

SELF-DECEIT: It's in the "Nine Satanic Statements" but deserves to be repeated here. We must not pay homage to any of the sacred cows presented to us, including the roles we are expecting to play ourselves. The only self-deceit should be entered into is when it's fun, and with awareness. But then, it's not self-deceit!

HERD CONFORMITY: it's all right to conform to a person's wishes, if it ultimately benefits you. But only fools follow along with the herd, letting an impersonated entity dictate to you. The key is to choose a master wisely instead of being enslaved by the whims of the many.

LACK OF PERSPECTIVE: again, this one can lead to a lot of pain. You must never lose sight of who and what you are, and what a threat you can be, by your very existence. We are making history right now, every day. Always keep the wider historical and social picture in mind. That is an important key to both Lesser and Greater Magic. See the patterns and fit things together as you want the pieces to fall into place. Do not be swayed by herd constraints—know that you are working on another level entirely from the rest of the world.

FORGETFULNESS OF PAST: be aware that this is one of the keys to brainwashing people into accepting something new and different, when in reality it's something that was once widely accepted but is now presented in a new package. We are expected to rave about the genius of the creator and forgot the original. This makes for a disposable society.

COUNTERPRODUCTIVE PRIDE: that first word is important. Pride is great up to the point you begin to throw out the baby with the bathwater. The rule of Satanism is: if it works for you, great. When it stops working for you, when you've painted yourself into a corner and the only way out is to say, I'm sorry, I made a mistake, I wish we could compromise somehow, then do it.

LACK OF AESTHETICS: this is the physical application of the Balance Factor. Aesthetics is important in Lesser Magic and should be cultivated. It is obvious that no one can collect any money off classical standards of beauty and form most of the time so they are discouraged in a consumer society, but an eye for beauty, for balance, is an essential tool and must be applied for greatest magical effectiveness. It's not what's supposed to be pleasing—it's what is. Aesthetics is a personal thing, reflective of one's own nature, but there are universally pleasing and harmonious configurations that should not be denied.

[da-janela-lateral]

MP100 S2E01 under a writer's perspective

The Emi Fukami episode in Mob Psycho 100 was a beautiful display of Mob's character development in relation to his individuality and a earnest vision of emotional vulnerability, but I want to call attention to a single detail: Emi being a writer.

Out of all the secret truths that the cast masks during the narrative, Emi's must be one of the most mundane. She is writing a book. She doesn't want people to know about it, much less read it, as Emi was led to believe this hobby of hers was embarassing.

I find it very interesting that Emi, character whose focus episode revolves around vulnerability, has writing has her main passion. In a way, writing is one of the most revealing art forms that there is. Literary choices are a reflection of the author's context, beliefs, likes and dislikes, fears and dreams, even though many of these choices cannot be perceived in a sensible level. Even if I suddenly decided to write a tale about a random theme - you say, a blue-footed booby who becomes an architect while wearing ballet shoes - it would say something about me. It could be a preferred text type, my sense of humor or even my idea of what is "random". Word choices, rhythm, figures of speech, themes, narrative structures, spins on a literary genre's expectations - all of these and more consist of conscious or unconscious decisions made by the writer. Writing as an art form serves as a mirror to the artist's very mind.

As a result, a piece of text can be a very delicate thing. Many people would only reveal their works to a exemplarily trusted someone, or to no one at all. That's the origin and end of uncountable masterpieces. It is also associated to passion. Few are the writers who characterize themselves as such and don't feel a duty to write. Yes, duty. Not all pieces are a labor of love, but it's almost universal that they're one of resolve, as little as it might be. One can unlock a fundamental will to write something in spite of it being weary work. At this point, for many writers, it's not a simple hobby. It's a need. It's a compulsory manner of expression hardwired onto our brains; thus, it's an inseparable part of who we are.

So what does any of this have to do with Emi's arc?

S2E01 is all about being vulnerable. Even though Emi had only asked out Mob because of a bet and hanged out with him for a week, she felt safe enough to show him her book. Her own friend group didn't have an idea that she was working on one, and once they discovered this, they ridiculed Emi's effort and teared it to shreds. Emi tried to alleviate this rejection by affirming she didn't care for her work, while everything shown previously on the episode proved this was wrong. In turn, Mob uses his psychic powers to put back her text together - his first public demonstration of them since he was a child. Mob was honest about himself by revealing he was an esper. Emi was honest by wanting his opinion on her book.

Emi is a fourteen year old girl going through a confusing and ever changing phase of her life. After doubting on Mob's emotions, she tells him that she too doesn't know well who she is, and her actions around her friends prove how she was prone to peer pressure. Her mind and identity were on an uncertain state, and this would also reflect on her writing. Emi uses complicated words, perhaps to make her writing sound more serious. Based on a translation of her work "Adventure", she uses more of a stream of consciousness prose and ambiguous descriptions. She immediately decides to write something different after her experiences with Mob. Emi has a personal style! She has techniques and topics she enjoys and active choices about how she will employ them! Emi has a bit of her on her story and this was why she hid it so much: a mockery of it would be synonym of a mockery of herself.

This is what makes the plotline with her book so important to express the episode's themes. Emi felt insecure to reveal such an integral part of herself to the world until someone came and not only took it seriously, but appreciated it enough to make an effort to understand it better. It tells a lot how Mob's demonstration of caring made her leave the people who destroyed her work.

As a writer, this detail gave a whole another layer of significance for the episode. I've felt Emi's struggle in a very intense level on the past. Storytelling is something so dear to me I can't see myself without the adjective of "writer", but the acknowledgement of my work would be the same as exposing myself to the world. It can be scary at times, to divulge something so sincere to others. However, such is the writer's role: divulging. For reasons long unknown a magical excess of words was born to me, and this coincidence can't be supressed and abandoned on the dark. There is something I can offer copiously hand in hand and its words. Words. Words. Words... And the reflection of me resonates on others.

[imitationgame77]

Murderbot and ART - aromantic but ... (lost in translation?)

Romantic (adjective) - summary of various dictionaries

of, relating to, or of the nature of romance; characteristic or suggestive of the world of romance

displaying or expressing love or strong affection between people

Usually Romantic. of, relating to, or characteristic of a style of literature and art that subordinates form to content, encourages freedom of treatment, emphasizes imagination, emotion, and introspection, and often celebrates nature, the ordinary person, and freedom of the spirit ( classical )

Romantic (or romanchikku ロマンチック)

in Japanese, in addition to above,

describes something grand, nostalgic, idealistic, or deeply moving

something that invokes a deep, idealistic, or emotionally significant experience

What the above shows is that the words like "romantic", "roman(ce)" have generally broader meaning in Japanese. They often evoke a sense of grandeur, adventure, or nostalgia, which are emotionaly significant to the experiencing individual. It is not just about romantic love, as in the Western sense. This could be influenced by the way Western Romanticism was interpreted in Japan, blending with local aesthetics and sensibilities.

When a Japanese person says, "there is a sort of romance in their friendship", they don't mean 'romantic love' in the western sense. It often indicates admiration for a profound and idealistic friendship.

Japanese language has many borrowed words from foreign language (often written in katakana). While they generally keep roughly the original meaning, sometimes there are differences, anything from subtle to substantial. This can result in misunderstanding if a Japanese speaker uses the borrowed word in the way used in Japanese. (For instance, a word 'naive' means 'sensitive' in Japanese - so if someone says 'You are naive', it's not an insult or criticism)

-----------------------

In fandom, disagreements can happen easily. In the case of Murderbot Diaries, some people consider the aromantic/asexual, i.e., aro/ace-ness of murderbot to be central to its character, and do not want to see it in any form of romantic / sexual relationship. Other people want to see it in romantic/(sometimes even sexual) relationships.

Personally, having read the books multiple times, in terms of relationships, I particularly like the one between Murderbot and ART. I also like the special bond between Murderbot and Mensah, but while Mensah has family and close friends, ART does not appear to have other non-human friends, and it is clear that it was taken with Murderbot almost from the beginning of their acquaintanceship. They rapidly build mutual understanding and trust, bonding over watching media together. They can bicker and insult each other in the way they never do to humans. ART might be 1,000 times more powerful than Murderbot, but they are equals. They have this "I'll kill for you", "I'll die for you" vibe.

I first got myself into trouble (of a kind) with aro/ace fans by describing my experience of seeing them as 'romantic'. Now, whether or not you read romance into their relationship is up to the reader. The thing is, I don't think they are 'romantically attracted to each other' in a human way. They have a special kind of implicit understanding and intimacy, which I find moving.

When I see friendship like that, I find that romantic, but more romanchikku (japanese definition) - something that invokes profound and emotionally significant experience. I also get a sense of 'romance' (Japanese usage) when I read the way Murderbot and Mensah interact, though in a different way. Again, I don't see romantic love between them. Just something that is very moving.

Words can be so difficult. If all the users can agree on the definitions completely, they are useful symbolic tools. But very often, words with abstract meanings come with connotations that people cannot quite agree with. Love is too broad. Friends is too broad. Romance is potentially too narrow and loaded. How can we describe something very special between two individuals that care deeply about each other in the way that does not come with unnecessary connotation or innuendo?

[theanonymousninja247]

Pretty Random Turtle Thunks:

Christmas Gifts

Just some silly HC ideas on what I would get the Bayverse Boys for Christmas with all the money I got from working overtime during the holidays:

(for all the folks who do overtime in any form or fashion, y'all are my heroes. Thank you 🙏🏼🧡🫡)

Rating: Milk (This one’s for everyone!)

Leo: Cordless Vaccum with Additional Brushes

Hear me out. HC Leo has pretty bad OCD/ Anxiety. (feel free to ask me questions on why I think this; short story, man folds his arms and does his little nervous foot-tapping dance thing) It doesn't necessarily always look like that because he's worked on shoving it so far down (the emotionally constipated turtle he is) that its one of the reasons he can tend to be a bit…well…high strung. All that chaos, the responsibility, the weight that is contained his mind can be a bit maddening and one of the ways he works through it or tries to redirect that nervous energy is through cleaning. It gives him something he can do and see an immediate result to. Leo’s also a meticulous perfectionist, so what better to get him for Christmas than something that will allow him to clean every nook and cranny he can without being hindered; finally putting that pent up energy into something useful. Clean, orderly, and sensible. Because even if the rest of the world is crazy, doesn't mean his mind or his home should be. Well…or at the very least his room. Everything in place as all good things should be. At least that how it feels being with you 😉💙

Donnie: Hand Massager

Something cheesy I know I know. But think about it. Donnie has spent practically his entire life building gadgets and gizmos that help other people. Sure, there's the occasional more specific stuff for him and his brothers, but I don't think he really thinks all that much about building stuff to specifically help himself. You know this turtle gets on that one track mindset waaaaay too often and struggles with taking care of himself. Especially his hands. His hands are his livelihood. His chance to express himself when sometimes emotions and words cannot. I just think Donnie deserves a little break and to put some TLC into the hands that so often reach out to others. Donnie deserves to know that he's worth taking care of himself too. And the best part is if he doesn't like it, he can always tinker with it to make it better. Because that's what Donnie does, makes the world better by being himself and of course, being with you. 😉💜

Raph: Minky Couture Blanket

A blanket? Really? I know what y'all are thinking but hear me out. Raph is a our big boy. The protector. The muscle. The hard headed bruiser who's always on the front lines taking every hit so his family and the rest of the world doesn't have to. He takes the hits because he knows he can handle it and give it right back. That's what he's good at, and he's proud of it. But its not easy. It hurts. And I imagine it can get rather exhausting. Sometimes I think Raph forgets that his heart is a muscle too and it needs to be taken care of just like the rest of the muscles that he puts so much effort into. These blankets are by far the softest that I have EVER had the privilege of touching. Silky smooth to the the touch AND THEY CAN COME WEIGHTED TOO! I think Raph deserves something warm and soft (I HC that he's super touch and texture sensitive) to come home to after fighting in this cold hard world. (A blanket will do. At least until he has you 😉❤️)

Mikey: Thyme and Table Black and Gold Cookset

I’ve always loved the thought that Mikey was the biggest foodie in the family which honestly makes sense. Because what better way to bring people together, no matter who they are, than the ultimate connector that is the love of food? Mikey loves people and he loves expressing himself. What better way than doing that through magic that is cooking?! I want to get him this set because it looks super classy (and I think Mikey needs a reminder every once in a while that he can be cool and chic just like the rest of his bros. That he isn't always just the goof and the brunt of the joke) Mikey, like anything in black and gold, is a statement piece that deserves his own chance to shine! Also with it being speckled, it looks clean while being dirty too. The mess in a masterpiece if you will.

Just like our Mikey!

And you bet your bottom dollar that he is gonna to LOVE trying to make some magic for you😉🧡

Splinter: Lego Tranquil Garden

Splinter is a part of this family and deserves something nice too! My favorite thing is surprising older folks with something considered “childish” and watching them have a chance to explore their inner child once again. Not to mention these lego sets are basically just 3D puzzles and old folks love puzzles! Because puzzles are just workouts for the brain! (at least that's what my grandma keeps telling me) And I think Master Splinter would like to have something fun to work on while his boys are always out saving the world. You know, a little piece of serenity that never fades away (because plastic is eternal and what not) in the crazy world that he gets to call home with his sons. 🤎

[tgmsunmontue]

Upon which our souls touch 11/?

Hangster Fantasy!AU with Dragons. SLOW BURN.

SUMMARY

Tradition and the stories have been the same for thousands of years. Until Bradley and Jake came along and broke all the rules without ever speaking a word to one another...

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN

(Map of the world in my head can be found here...)

PART ELEVEN

              “You have no fear of dragon kind?” Bradley asks as they continue walking.

              “Should I?” Jake replies, because he has never been harmed by a dragon. Cannot imagine ever causing any of them harm. His families ties with the golden kind have given him a deep appreciation for the bonds that can form, even as he mourns the knowledge that he will never have that bond himself.

              “No, I suppose not. You are… good with them.”

              The words look like they almost pain him to say, but Jake doesn’t say as much, nods and accepts it, what he’s going to take as a compliment, even if Bradley didn’t mean it as one.

              “I am not looking forward to this boat ride my mother spoke of…” Bradley says, and Jake appreciates that he is clearly trying to make conversation.

              “I am. Thinking of a body of water that big? Like the sky but deep and wide. The boats must be significant if they can carry dragon kind as well.”

              “Yes. I have seen them. I just never thought I would need to step aboard one.”

              “Does it frighten you?”

              “I am not frightened. However I am cautious with the unknown. Seems a sensible approach.”

              “Hmm,” Jake hums, because his parents have never described him as cautious. Rash and a little hotheaded, but definitely never cautious. “I suppose it does pay to be more careful when you live alone like you do.”

              For some reason that causes the expression on Bradley’s face to twist, but it clears quickly enough, but he files it away. Maybe one day he may be considered a friend, and he can ask. But now there is a truce between them, whatever the effects of being around Bob easing their interactions and he’s glad of it, wonders if Bob has ever argued with anyone.

              “I do like my solitude. Enough people seek me out that I am never lonely.”

              “What do they seek you out for?” Jake asks, because he’s just realized that he doesn’t actually know what Bradley might do, from what he has seen he’s accomplished in many things, but nothing yet which has seemed like an extraordinary gift or talent that could be used in trade.

              “I am a healer. Particularly of dragon kind. I have… an affinity for them.”

              Jake stops walking, stares at Bradley’s back as he keeps walking a few steps before turning to face him.

              “What?”

              “You heal dragon kind and have an affinity for them despite not having one yourself?”

              It’s blunt. It sounds incredibly rude and terrible to his own ears as he blurts it out, he fully expects Bradley to scowl at him, or… well. He does not think of Bradley as violent, even with regards to hunting he suspects the man to be merciful with any killing, and he does not think Bradley would lash out and hit him in anger; but… Bradley does not look displeased at all, is simply shaking his head, the beads in his braids clicking a little.

              “Sometimes I think it is because I do not have one myself. All dragon kind seem to… know I mean them no harm. That I actively want to help them.”

              “Can you converse with them?” Jake asks, because no one has been able to do that, not that he’s heard. However, he has seen Bradley with Little Mist, and Flurry, and there had been something more there than he has ever seen before.

              “I… not in the way we converse with one another. But it’s… Odd. I can sense them. Their emotions. It is enough to help them.”

              “That’s… that must be amazing.”

              “Yes. Sometimes I wonder if it is better than having one of my own. Being able to help many…”

              Jake wishes he could even feel a little like that, except he’s been flying with his parents on their dragons for as long as he can remember. He knows he shouldn’t have expected to simply have what they had, but also he’d been raised with the expectation that that is what would happen. To have it not happen has left him floundering. Made him feel like he’s failed somehow. He begins walking again, Bradley falling into step at his side eaily.

              “I hope that I can find my own path,” he settles on saying, because it’s true, even if he has no way of knowing where it lies. Travelling will expose him to a lot of new things, and even if Bradley doesn’t like him Jake is starting to feel like not having a dragon does not mean he cannot have a good life, even as he yearns to fly again.

…           …           …

              Bradley reminds himself that while he is younger, Jake is younger still and only days ago had no doubt had his entire world view fold inward upon itself. He at least had heard mutterings, doubts whispered when people thought he could not hear them, that he might not have an egg glow for him. He had been disappointed, scared. No doubt feelings Jake is experiencing now.

              “You have time… and the travel will bring with it many new experiences.”

              “Like riding on the big boats,” Jake says with a grin, lips stretching wide over his tusks and Bradley realizes he’s teasing him and he shakes his head, a little amused despite it all.

              “Like riding on the boats. Maybe you will end up a sailor… My mother has us taking a very… meandering route. I am not sure why she does not wish to take the most direct route when she believes it is the distance from my father that is causing her heart sickness…”

              “She must have her reasons.”

              “Undoubtedly. Just… we get to Solrin and then we wait for my mother…”

              “What will we do while we wait?”

              “I usually work. Some people will come to me for help.”

              “Oh. You have such a reputation that they will seek you out?”

              “Hmm. Some. Some will spit and rather die, however others are not given the choice, the dragon kind seek me out. They seem to know I can and will assist them. It will keep me busy.”

              “Could I help? Could you teach me?”

              Bradley doesn’t turn to look at him, doesn’t offer an immediate answer, but neither does he snap out a negative either. Instead he seriously considers it, thinking about it and Jake’s affinity for dragon kind as well. They have just talked about Bradley’s own ability to be able to sense the emotions of dragon kind when they are close to him. Maybe Jake will have something similar. He might as well see if he can try and figure it out.

[morefromthisworld]

i dont know how to structure this post

vergil did/osdd headcanons under the cut (this is pretty much canon, sooo)

the "original". is still mentally a child. like actually not older than like 12. trauma has completely stunted his emotional growth, and he simply cannot see the world from the perspective of an adult. his main interests are reading abt stuff, and finding any way to fight with dante that he can. horribly misguided throughout most of the series, but hes starting to learn in dmcV.

the first "split". gains his own consciousness on that fateful day™. is technically emotionally an adult but is also very stunted, and also kind of like,,, timid. while 'vergil' has kind of stopped emotionally aging altogether, v matured wayy too fast, and saw himself as an adult long before vergils body was actually that age. also terribly misguided at first, not yet realizing they are two separate people, vergil and v kind of agree on finding revenge, and that was a bad idea.

the "second split". gains his own consciousness upon facing mundus and losing. something like a fragment of nelo angelo, left behind even after being freed. not a good person; wholly driven by fear, hes the entire motivation behind vergils hunt for power. has gone through mind shattering pain too many times to count, both physical and mental, and is just looking for a means to stop it, even if its to end anything that could potentially bring him pain. not talkative, like, 3-4 word sentences, and barely any of those; just enough to get his point across. potentially doesnt say or do much of anything after dmcV?

part of the "final batch". when he struck himself with the yamato, he split into two forms, his human and his demon form, but there were also fragments of confusion and trauma that bled out into reality in the form of the nightmares that accompanied nelo angelo; griffon, shadow, and nightmare. upon reunification, the three of them have pretty much been destroyed, but the source fragments still remain, existing within, and as, vergil. they remain dormant for quite a while, but eventually, manage building into formed consciousnesses again. griffon, despite his attidute, is probably the most sensible out of all of them, always trying to guide down the right path with snarky remarks and mocking sentiments. never not mocking somebody or something, he gets into a lot of fights, both verbal and physical. he means well, but hes not gonna admit it. the most visually vain and flashy side of vergil.

part of the "final batch". literally a cat. can technically use his voice but has no comprehension of human speech, so if needing to communicate, he does so with gestures and grunts (think link from loz). prefers to be by himself though, doing cat-like things, like napping, bathing, poking things just to have touched them, and so on. has a tendency to wander aimlessly by himself, but somehow never gets lost, despite often ending up in the middle of nowhere. he does have the capacity for cooperation, willing to work with others if need be, but tends to be forgotten about bc hes either really quite or not there anymore.

part of the "final batch". completely unstable. i mean he has almost no mental coherency and a penchant for smashing and destroying literally everything in his path. not commonly "awake", so to speak, so its not really too often an issue, but if he comes to its destruction until he falls back asleep, with no current known solutions from anyone on how to ease him. due to lack of general cohesion, he doesnt really try to communicate, though hes often nonverbally yelling, whining, or groaning, or a mix of the three that probably really hurts his throat ngl.

somehow these guys work together to make an almost functioning person, idk.

[dedalvs]

Random question:

So a while back I read something where someone was talking about how if English spelling were reformed so every sound had a unique symbol that we’d lose the “visual alliteration” of Cape Cod.

I cannot figure out what that means. Are those /k/ sounds not both [k]? The only difference I’ve been able to notice is a feeling of the airstream moving outward in “Cape” and inward in “Cod”, but I can’t tell if that’s due to vowel influence or what.

Let's back up. The "someone" who was talking about this was either (a) wrong, (b) uncooperatively pedantic, or (c) imagining a very specific, non-alphabetic spelling reform of English (e.g. spelling English with logographic or syllabic glyphs).

Assuming (b), the only way that English spelling could be reformed such that the C's in Cape Cod would be different is if the spelling reforming was as sensitive as a narrow IPA transcription. If that was the case, then there are some transcriptions of English that would transcribe the first as [kʰʲ] and the second as [kʰ]. This level is detail is phonologically important for some languages. English is not one of these. A sensible spelling reform would spell those the same, whether C (because all instances of [k] become C) or K (because all instances of [k] become K). A nonsensical spelling reform would actually spell aspirated and unaspirated voiceless stops different, but even then, these two would be the same, as they're both aspirated.

The airstream is the same for both (egressive). What you're feeling, I expect, is the very slight movement in tongue position as the initial [k], which is palatalized, moves backward to an unpalatalized position. The reason you feel this is the tongue doesn't have to do anything in between the onset of the first word and the onset of the second. The tongue gets in position for [e], and in this position you can pronounce [k] well enough, then with [p], your tongue doesn't have to do anything; the lips take care of it. This means your tongue body can remain in place. For "Cod", it moves back as the tongue prepares to pronounce [ɑ] (or whatever back vowel you have there). Notice also that the tongue body has to go down, the tongue tip retracting slightly to pronounce [ɑ]. That's all part of it.

Now, assuming (c), yeah, that's indeed going to happen. Consider Japanese katakana. This is how "Cape Cod" is spelled: ケープコッド /keːpu koddo/. The relevant characters—the ones that begin each syllable—are ケ /ke/ and コ /ko/. And, yeah, they're different, so you do lose the visual alliteration. However, what you lose in visual similarity you gain in economy. To write /ka, ke, ki, ko, ku/ in an alphabet you need 6 different letter forms and 10 total glyphs. To write the same thing in katakana you need 5 different letter forms and 5 total glyphs. Consider an old style text message, which had a hard character count. A syllabary allows you to fit more letters in than an alphabet because each character encodes more information. When it comes to sheer character count, then, the Japanese writing system is much more efficient when it comes to writing Japanese than the English Romanization is.

Of course, that's for Japanese. For English it doesn't make as much sense because of our overabundance of consonant clusters. Typing lava in an alphabet takes 4 characters; in a syllabary, it takes 2. Typing straps, though, requires 6 characters in an alphabet and 5 in a syllabary. That doesn't save you a lot space—and a syllabary like Japanese's throws in extra vowels that have to be there, even if they're not pronounced, destroying its efficiency by, essentially, adding extra noise to the signal. Returning to straps, you have 6 characters, and all elements are vocalized. In katakana, you'd have to do ストラプス /sutorapusu/. You save a character with ラ /ra/, but then you have a whole bunch of vowels you have to remember not to pronounce.

Long story short, if you were going to reform the English spelling system, I don't think a syllabary (or even an abugida) makes sense, and a logography would be quite a thing to drop on the unsuspecting populace, even if it would be more equitable. This is why I guessed that what you overheard wasn't (c) and was likely (b).

Anyway, that's my 2¢. Hope it helps.

[cipher-grailwar]

You stood before the lake, finishing your incantation.

She emerged like a shadow. The summoning circle flashed with an unfamiliar light, magecraft pushing against your own magical circuits, like a cold hand crawling through your veins and tickling your nerves. Rather than a being summoned to serve you, it felt like you were being used an anchor for a being to manifest itself.

"Must I introduce myself... very well."

Her voice sent chills down your spine, filled with a coldness that went beyond the sensibilities of human emotion. It was coy and playful, yet hollow at the same time. The type of voice that left you unsure of the sincerity of the words- or rather, left you to decide whether they served as 'sincere' or not.

"Caster. Morgan le Fay. I have come in response to your summons."

She fully manifested, darkened clothing billowing, her form shrouded by dark mist. The look in her eyes was impossible to read, clouded even further by the darkened veil, though you saw the ghost of a smile flit across her face.

"I humbly await your commands, 'Masters'."

She said, with that insincere sincerity.

Morgan le Fay is unharmed! (3/3)

Caster Crew has three Command Spells remaining!

SKILLS:

TRAIT: If the Caster decides to play defensively, and are attacked by another Servant, they get +4% to their combat poll results and do not suffer the ambush demerit.

Witch of the Lake (A Rank) - When 'Playing Defensively', the Caster-trait score boost is increased +5%, and you cannot be caught off guard. Demerits (including those from Noble Phantasms) against Morgan are reduced in effectiveness by 3%, and she gains a +3% boost in one-on-one battles.

Reciprocated Slaughter (Scheming) (EX Rank) - When involved in a Free-for-All, gain an immunity to non-Noble Phantasm demerits, and inflict a -5% demerit on opposing Servants.

If Morgan gains 1st place in the Free-for-All by a margin of 10% or more, inflict a -3% demerit to your foes for their next round and gain a +3% boost for your next combat round.

NOBLE PHANTASM: Garden of Fata Morgana (A Rank)

The world briefly becomes Morgan's plaything- her garden in which to command.

Grand illusions and deceptions, impossible magecraft and witchcraft, all things fall under her rule.

Morgan gains a +25% boost, and her enemies take a -10% demerit, and she deals 2 ‘wounds’ instead of one. The next round, Morgan has a +10% boost, and her enemies take a -5% demerit, but only 1 wound is inflicted upon victory.