#be wary of good men

[burnbrighterthanever]

a.x.e. judgement day, kieron gillen // full spectrum resistance part one, aric mcbay // the butcher's sher, daniel kahn and the painted bird // unknown // nice people made the best nazis, naomi shulman // the book thief, marcus zusak // the butcher's sher, daniel kahn and the painted bird // incredible tails aka. rosencrantz and guilderstern in space, bluemeany // powers of x, jonathan hickman // carpe jugulum, terry pratchett

[burnbrighterthanever]

I love the x-men so much because that's just what leftist infighting is like! that's literally all it is! xavier is a sellout and they all hate him but he's the only one with any money. everyone complains about "they keep switching sides and dating each other it's so fucking confusing" like my dudes have you never been a part of any socialist organisation, ever. then people will go "magneto is so strong how has he not killed a bunch of teenagers" HE DOESN'T WANT TO KILL THEM! this started in a goddam basement over coffee he does not want to hurt them he just wants them to shut up and listen and will fling cars to do so

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Historians having takes on frev women that make me go 😐 compilation

Sexually frustrated in her marriage to a pompous civil servant much older than herself, [Madame Roland] may have found Danton’s celebrated masculinity rather uncomfortable. Danton (1978) by Norman Hampson, page 77.

The Robespierres sent their sister to Arras because that was their hometown, the family home, where they had relatives, uncles, aunts and friends, like Buissart who they didn’t cease to remain in correspondence with, even in the middle of the Terror. There, among them, Charlotte would not be alone; she would find advice, rest, the peace necessary to heal her nervousness and animosity. Away from Mme Ricard, who she hated, away from Mme Duplay, who she detested, she would enjoy auspicious calmness. It is Le Bon that the Robespierres will charge with escorting their sister to this neccessary and soothing exile. […] If there is a damning piece in Charlotte Robespierre's case, it is this one (her interrogation, held July 31 1794). She seems to be caught in the act of accusing this Maximilien whom she rehabilitates in her Memoirs. She is therefore indeed a hypocrite, unworthy of the great name she bears, and which she dishonors the very day after the holocaust of 10 Thermidor. Charlotte Robespierre et Guffroy (1910) in Annales Révolutionnaires, volume 3 (1910) page 322, and Charlotte Robespierre et ses mémoires (1909) page 93-94, both by Hector Fleishmann.

Elisabeth, as she was popularly called, was barely past her twelfth birthday, younger even by three years than Barere’s own mother when she was given in marriage. On the following day the guests assembled again in the little church of Saint-Martin at midnight to attend the wedding ceremony of the handsome charmer and the bewildered child. Dressed in white, clasping in her arms a yellow, satin-clad  doll that Bertrand had given her — so runs the tradition — she marched timidly to the altar, looking more like a maiden making her first communion than a woman celebrating a binding sacrament. Perhaps the  doll, if doll there was, filled her eye, but certainly she could not fail to note how handsome her husband was. Bertrand Barere; a reluctant terrorist (1962) by Leo Gershoy, page 32.

The young nun who bore the name of Hébert did not hide her fate. She did not wish to prolong a life stifled from her childhood in the cloister, branded in the world by the name she bore, fighting between horror and love for the memory of her husband, unhappy everywhere. Histoire des Girondins (1848) by Alphonse de Lamartine, volume 8, page 60.

Lucile in prison showed more calmness than Camille. Before the tribunal, she seemed to possess neither fear nor hope, she denied having taken an active role in the prison conspiracy. What did it matter to her the answer they were trying to extract from her? They said they wanted her guilty? Very well! She would be condemned and join Camille. This was what she said again when she was told that she would suffer the same fate as her husband: ”Oh, what joy, in a few hours I’m going to see Camille again!” Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un couple dans la tourmente (1986) by Jean Paul Bertaud, page 293.

What did it matter to Lucile whether she was accused or defended? She had no longer any pretext for living in this world. She was one of those heroines of conjugal love who are more wife than mother. Besides, Horace lived, and Camille was dead. It was of the absent only that she thought. As for the child, would not Madame Duplessis act a mother's part to him? The grandmother would watch over the orphan. If Lucile had lived, she could have done nothing but weep over the cradle, thinking of Camille. Camille Desmoulins and his wife; passages from the history of the Dantonists founded upon new and hitherto unpublished documents (1876) by Jules Claretie.

Having been widowed at the age of 23 [sic] years, Élisabeth Duplay remarried a few years later to the adjutant general Le Bas, brother of her first husband, and kept the name which was her glory. She lived with dignity, and all those who have known her, still beautiful under her crown of white hair, have testified to the greatness of her sentiments and austerity of her character. She died at an old age, always loyal to the memory of the great dead she had loved and whose memory she, all the way to her final day, didn’t cease to honor and cherish. As for the lady of Thermidor, Thérézia Cabarrus, ex-marquise of Fontenay, citoyenne Tallien, then princess of Chimay, one knows the story of her three marriages, without counting the interludes. She had, as one knows, three husbands living at the same time. Now compare these two existances, these two women, and tell me which one merits more the respect and the sympathy of good men. Histoire de Robespierre et du coup d’état du 9 thermidor (1865) by Louis Ernest Hamel, volume 3, page 402.

Fel free to comment which one was your favorite! 😀

[madseance]

I keep seeing people suggest Crowley's presentation in 1827 was feminine, and listen—headcanon what you want, I'm not your mom. But the justification is that he's supposedly dressed in feminine, as opposed to masculine, clothing? He isn't. You're just looking at Regency fashion with 21st-century eyes.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley are exemplaries of well-dressed gentlemen of the early 19th century, just in different styles.

On the left, a many-caped greatcoat like the one Aziraphale is wearing; on the right, a coat with puffed sleeves and a narrow waist like the one Crowley is wearing. (Both images seem to originate from Journal des Dames et des Modes, 1811 and 1826, respectively.)

I also saw something about Crowley's fob watch actually being a chatelaine?

Again, I have to disagree. What Crowley's wearing just looks like a watch chain, which both men and women wore. What you can see is the chain and a charm at the end; the watch itself is tucked into a pocket (same as with Aziraphale's).

Watch chain (left; another plate from Journal des Dames et des Modes) vs. chatelaine (right, from here).

While a chatelaine could possibly refer to a decorative watch chain, the chatelaines specifically associated with women are the accessories worn by female heads of household or housekeepers (hence the name) to hold keys and other useful items. They could get quite elaborate. Crowley's doesn't look particularly like a chatelaine more than it looks like a watch chain, to me.

To sum up, there's not really anything I can see about Crowley's fashion choices in 1827 that specifically says "female presenting"; it all fits in with men's fashion of the time. You can headcanon whatever you want! But this particular era isn't one in which Crowley's wardrobe and styling definitively reads as feminine.

Note for a couple people with poor reading comprehension: TERFs are not welcome on this post. Fuck off.

[teeth-draws]

“What do you mean he’s scary!! Look at him!”

— taking artistic liberties to scrunkle the face of @shepherds-of-haven’s Blade Bronwyn - a man with 0.6% body fat lol

[burnbrighterthanever]

My favorite Snarky Yiddish Line to give Erik is "a shande far di mentshn." (Literally: a shame for the humans.) Based on the saying a shande far di goyim, a common expression for a Jew who behaves in a disgraceful or self-hating manner that makes Jews as a whole look bad.

when magneto said to the psychic cue ball “You’re always sorry, Charles. And there’s always a speech. And nobody cares,” i felt that. magneto had tea in his cup he did

[biblicalhorror]

[ultimateinferno]

I got possessed with a compulsion to post a collection of memes that sum up my Mistborn OC, Brace. I'd post a photo of him but I hit the image limit. So here's every pic on my art blog tagged as him (if tumblr permits) (I don't post him enough to have it count as a lot)

[redemptiionss]

Thinking about how tragic it is that I still barely know people out of my workplace in the two years I’ve lived in this city

[burnbrighterthanever]

I genuinely believe Charles and my father would be less the way they are if they could just like. Talk. Communicate like a regular couple instead of posturing to be right about everything.

[yusuke-of-valla]

Ok so the cousin of the "Echoes of Wisdom not giving Zelda a sword is sexist" take is "Princess Peach Showtimes if built around dress up which is Nintendo once again co-signing her powers to being a Girl Thing" like Mario games aren't also built around getting new outfits to get powers

[bataddictedloony]

Here’s a thought I had as I’m reading my first ever crime novel:

How many women and girls have died because of “not all men”?

Like, in the year of our boi 2024, I think we’ve cultivated a world where women know to keep an eye on men, in general, Just In Case. But how many women have been hurt or died because “not all men”? Even though the guy is acting odd and pushy - maybe he’s just socially awkward, doesn’t know how to interact with women well. Even though he’s asking her all the wrong things - maybe he just doesn’t talk with a lot of women, doesn’t have a lot of female friends. Even though his opinions and views are all red flags - maybe he just hangs out with the wrong group of friends and he needs more friends with different perspectives. Even though every single alarm bell in her instincts is going off - not all men are evil, there’s probably a reasonable explanation for why he’s acting like this, if i’m just nice to him he’ll show he’s actually really sweet, not all men, not all men, not all men.

[i-used-to-be-an-anti-feminist]

As a pro-life woman, I know and support other women who are pro-life for various reasons (not all of them religious), but I am becoming increasingly wary of "pro-life" men.

the nick fuentes “your body my choice” crowd make it clearer than ever that abortion bans are primarily motivated by the desire to control women, rather than deeply held religious beliefs about the sanctity of life or whatever

[sunni-stuff]

P1 P3

With the train ride now over, the sergeants ran, scouring the market for two familiar faces. Their footsteps in sync, crunching delicate mounds of white snow. Soap broke through the crowd first, then Gaz and Gary were right with him.

“Where the hell are they?” Gaz pants out, his breaths misting in the cold air.

“You said the marketplace,” Soap huffs.

“Yeah, I said the marketplace, but it's not like I know exactly where they went!” Gaz snaps back.

While the two sergeants bicker, Roach quietly breaks away, scanning the area until he spots the familiar figures they’d been hunting for. Price and Ghost stand outside a cigar shop, deep in conversation. The satisfied grin on Price's face tells Roach everything—he got what he was after.

“They’re over there!” Roach exclaims, snapping his partners out of their lovers' quarrel.

Gaz and Soap go silent, their eyes following Roach’s line of sight until they, too, spot their Lieutenant and Captain.

In a heartbeat, the three of them are sprinting toward their unsuspecting targets. Soap grins like a madman, practically buzzing with mischief, while Gaz shakes his head, both amused and slightly wary of what might unfold. Roach, meanwhile, is simply thrilled to be along for the ride.

They skid to a stop right in front of the two men, chests heaving as they catch their breath in the biting winter air.

“The hell is wrong with you lot?” Price’s voice cuts through, laced with a mix of annoyance and bemusement as he shifts his attention from Ghost to the winded sergeants.

Ghost, arms crossed, eyes them with quiet scrutiny. His winter coat does little to conceal his bulky frame, a silent reminder of his imposing presence as he stands beside Price.

Price and Ghost waited for an explanation, knowing well everytime those three got together, they were definitely up to no good.

Like how they put semi-permanent green dye in Ghost's shampoo for Halloween.

“We… we saw. A kid with your face,” Gaz manages, still catching his breath, pointing straight at Ghost.

Ghost raises a brow, baffled. A kid with his face? What the hell did that mean? Did they think he looked like a baby?

Soap huffs in mock disappointment, shooting a playful glare at Gaz. “Oi, I wanted to say it!”

Predictably, the two dive into another back-and-forth. Gaz isn’t one to shout, but Soap has a talent for riling anyone up.

Price lets their little show go on for only a moment before his stern voice cuts in, slicing through their bickering. “One of you properly explain, or you'll be walking back to base.”

Roach steps up, eager to clarify. “There’s a kid, probably about two, and she looks exactly like the Lt. Scowl, glare, and all!”

Price and Ghost pause, their expressions twisting as they both try—and fail—to imagine a little girl with Simon’s permanent scowl.

Price shudders, shaking the thought from his head. “That is not a face a kid should have.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Gaz chimes in, nodding emphatically.

Ghost throws him an offended look, his usually hardened eyes showing a glimmer of hurt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” they all exclaim in unison, even Price, who quickly averts his gaze as Ghost’s glare narrows on him.

Ghost huffs, then crosses his arms. “Did you take a picture?”

Soap snorts, leaning against the wall with a smirk. “Aye, right, 'cause that wouldnae be creepy at all.”

Ghost stares daggers Into Soap, rolling his eyes and pushing himself off the wall. “Okay, then where is she?”

The three stooges lead the charge once again, this time with their Captain and Lieutenant in tow. They weave through the crowd toward the train park, where Soap eagerly scans for the woman and kid he’d spotted earlier. But the line they were in is empty, the pair nowhere to be found.

“Shite. I think they’re gone,” Soap mutters, his Scottish accent thickening in his frustration, the words rolling out with a clipped bite. 

“So the imaginary woman and kid don’t actually exist,” Ghost deadpans, unimpressed.

“They exist!” Gaz insists, voice edging on exasperation.

“Sure,” Ghost replies, his tone flat and thoroughly unconvinced.

Roach snickers, then glances over at Price—only to see him staring slack-jawed through the window of a nearby café, his cigar dangling from his mouth, forgotten.

“Cap?” Roach says, touching the older man’s shoulder.

Price doesn’t look away, nodding toward the café. “Found them.”

Everyone turns toward the café, eyes landing on you and Adira. The little girl is happily weaving between your legs, her tiny hands gripping your coat as she entertains herself, all while you order hot chocolates to fend off the winter chill. A soft smile touches your lips as you watch her play, blissfully unaware of the audience gathering just outside.

The barista, with a warm smile, hands over two cups, one with a little extra marshmallows for Adira, her voice bright as she wishes you both a merry Christmas. You take the cups with a grateful nod, handing one to Adira. She immediately takes her drink, sipping eagerly, her small feet bouncing on her heels from the sugar rush.

“Yummy?” You ask, glancing down at her with a soft smile, a wave of motherly pride swelling in your chest as you watch her delight in the simple joy of her drink.

Adira nods eagerly, her eyes lighting up as she pulls away from her straw with a satisfied sigh. “Yummy.”

With a soft chuckle, you both leave the warmth of the shop, stepping out into the crisp air. Hand in hand, you walk back toward the park, the world around you feeling peaceful despite the cold. As you reach the crosswalk, you stop, waiting for the light to turn. Adira looks up at you, her little face filled with contentment as she swings your joined hands back and forth, her sugary energy still buzzing.

Across the way, the team stood frozen, unable to look away from the scene unfolding before them. Everyone but Ghost was struck by how much Adira looked like him—her features unmistakably mirroring his, save for the color of her hair and skin. The resemblance was uncanny, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world had stopped around them.

“She looks nothing like me,” Ghost stated plainly, his voice cutting through the stillness as though it were fact. His expression was unmoving, a wall of stubbornness in his eyes. He was ready to die on that hill.

Then, as fate would have it, a woman walking her dog passed by, and Adira’s cherub-like face hardened into a cold, calculating stare. It was subtle, but unmistakable. 

“Nevermind,” Ghost muttered, his earlier conviction faltering as he watched her shift before his eyes.

“So… you’ve been having fun these past years?” Roach asked, his gaze flicking between Adira and Ghost, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Not that I know of,” Ghost grunted, his eyes still locked on you and Adira, a mix of unease and something else flickering across his face. He couldn’t pull himself away.

“Let’s get closer,” Price commanded, already making his move. Soap and Roach exchanged a shrug, falling in line without hesitation.

“Excuse me?” Gaz sputtered, though his body had already begun moving before his brain could catch up, unable to defy the Captain’s order.

Ghost fell silent, teeth gritted. This wasn’t a situation he was used to, especially not one where he was forced to go in blind. He stood stiffly at the crosswalk, trying to hide his glances, his focus split between the team and you.

Soap ended up the closest, standing just next to Adira. The little girl paused, her big, doe-like eyes lifting from her drink to catch sight of him. The recognition was instant. Her lips pursed into a small line, and her gaze grew heavy with annoyance. 

“Ugee…” she whispered, scooting closer to you.

Soap froze, his mind stuttering for a moment. Did she just—? Did she call me ugly?

Gaz, standing behind him, couldn’t contain himself. A muffled laugh broke through as Soap turned to look at the others, wide-eyed and speechless, completely taken aback.

“Do ye lot think I'm ugly?” Soap asked, his voice thick with disbelief, clearly thrown off by the little girl's words.

“Not the time, Mctavish,” Price said, a tiny laugh tugging at the corner of his lips despite the situation.

The streetlight flickered green, signaling it was time to move. You adjusted yourself, ready to cross the street. Each member of the team started mentally preparing, unsure of how—or even if—they should approach you. Ghost, however, was the first to make a move, determined to intercept you. But Soap, ever the opportunist, beat him to it.

Ghost wasn’t exactly subtle, and having him try anything would probably send you running in the opposite direction.

“Excuse me, aren’t you the lady from the train?” Soap called out, his voice light, though his intentions were clear.

You paused at his interruption, recognition flickering in your eyes. You remembered the man who bumped into you earlier. “Yes? Is something the matter?”

“Do you happen to know where I could find Leslies?” Soap asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice, though he tried to mask it.

“The pub?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Soap confirmed, his face lighting up with a mix of relief and surprise at your easy response.

You look around for a moment, trying to remember and see the street names of your current location. “Uh…it should be about a couple blocks south from here. They have a big sign, you can't miss it.”

Thank God for Soap, because that one question was all he needed to keep you trapped in a conversation, his charm working its magic as you giggled and chatted away easily, the awkwardness of the situation melting away.

Meanwhile, Ghost’s attention shifted to Adira. He looked down at her, and she, almost instinctively, looked up at him. Their eyes locked in a silent staring contest, each of them studying the other. The intensity in their gaze was undeniable, both sets of eyes reflecting the same quiet, unwavering strength. It was like looking in a mirror—a mirror that mirrored back his own hardened stare and no-nonsense attitude.

Adira was, quite literally, his mini me. The resemblance was impossible to ignore.

“How old are you?” Ghost asked bluntly, his voice low as he kneeled down to Adira’s height, his gaze intense but trying to soften.

Adira paused for a moment, glancing up at you for help, but you were still caught up in conversation with Soap. She turned her focus back to Ghost, her small fingers fidgeting with the hem of her coat as she murmured shyly, “Two…”

She was two. Two. Ghost’s mind raced, trying to piece together the details, but nothing clicked. Nearly three years ago… what had he done three years ago? He kept everything categorized, stored in his mind like a well-organized file system, but this was something that didn’t fit.

Then, Soap’s voice broke through his thoughts. 

“You don’t seem like the type of lass to frequent Leslies.”

You giggled, a soft blush creeping up your cheeks at Soap’s question. He wasn’t wrong… at least, not entirely. “I’ve only been to Leslie’s once, and, well… it’s how I ended up with my little blessing.” You glanced down at Adira, the warmth of your smile radiating as you spoke.

Everything shattered in that moment. Ghost’s stomach twisted painfully, his heart skipping a beat as the realization slammed into him like a freight train. Leslie's. Almost three years ago, during that stupid holiday.

His mind began to piece it together, the hazy memories from that night slowly coming into focus. He remembered the bar, the laughter, the way you had caught his attention. You were easy on the eyes, easy to make laugh, and most importantly—unlike everyone else. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry, you just let him lead, let him slip into the night with no strings attached.

But now, as he looked at Adira, everything fell into place. The way she stared at him, those familiar eyes, the resemblance he couldn’t ignore. His breath hitched, and the weight of the truth crushed him—she was his daughter.

A knot formed in his throat as he tried to process the fact. Adira. His daughter. The little girl standing before him was his flesh and blood, the result of a moment he'd long since buried in the depths of his mind.

---

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[twopercentboy]

I've never been in a STEM college class until this semester and I am one of three 'girls' in the class and I'm very aware of it especially bc most of the class is part of the hockey team and from what I've overheard of their conversations in class today, they are questionable

[burnbrighterthanever]

So I wrote a thing in this 'verse, featuring casually badass Erik and very Jewish family fluff.

The X-Men adaption of my heart would in fact be a low-stakes sitcom about the Mutant Brotherhood. Yes, they are absolutely getting up to world-shaping shenanigans off-screen, it's just not central to the story.

Episodes would include:

- Magneto is trying to plan a Pesach seder and keeps getting interrupted. Interruptions range from "Dad, we tried to bake more matzah and somehow the oven caught on fire and Pyro tried to help and now the whole kitchen is on fire!" to "No, Erik, we have to reschedule the seder because we need to assassinate this Senator tonight."

- Wanda accidentally opened a portal to Hell while experimenting with her powers, and now everyone is scrambling to get rid of all the demons, curses, and general chaos before Erik gets home.

- X-Men vs. Brotherhood prank war. Pietro moves all of the furniture in the X-Mansion two inches to the left. Kitty sneaks into the Brotherhood's headquarters and glitterbombs everything. Wanda puts an actual curse on the X-Men uniforms that just ties everyone's shoelaces together at inconvenient moments.

- The Brotherhood has a betting pool on Magneto's relationship/intensely homoerotic rivalry/frienemies with benefits set-up/kismesitude with Professor X. Mystique is trying to "subtly" rearrange circumstances in order to win the bet. So is Angel. So is Emma Frost.

Unbeknownst to them, the X-Men also have a betting pool on Professor X's relationship/intensely homoerotic rivalry/frienemies with benefits set-up/kismesitude with Magneto. Jean Grey is also trying to "subtly" rearrange circumstances in order to win the bet. So is Gambit. So is Kitty Pryde.

Chaos ensues.