#because all ideals and men are equal in death.

[ebitenpura]

Eight is more than just a sword. He's a test of conviction for all those who want to change the world. He sees if you are worthy of sacrifice and change. He asks if you are willing to trade lives for the sake of ideals, and how far you are willing to go for them. He measures your life and your death, the strength of your beliefs against your belief in them; a proverbial sword in the stone. "A woman once taught me that the most important mission I would have... would be testing the hearts of others. If you cannot abide by the world you wish to create, I will stand against you.

If your ideals can stand against the world, there is nothing my sword will not cut for you."

In essence, he does this by offering himself as the first tool to be used for another's ideals. If those ideals turn out to be flawed and weak, the battles he fights under such a banner will make it evident. Yet it is not his place to judge; only to measure the strength of a person's character, the test of the steel in their soul.

[silkentine]

Wha--?! Silk finally finished her fem Zoro design after (checks notes) literally 6 months since she made the canvas in procreate?

I'll break down design thoughts and share some fun bonus pics under the cut:

I LOVE long hair on Zoro, I think that was the first change I wanted to implement. Zoro in canon actually has a really interesting relationship with gender dynamics which (if for some reason you're reading this and you haven't watched One Piece) can seem out of left field for the "dumb brute" character. His rivalry with and reverence for Kuina suggests he doesn't adhere to the idea that women are weaker than men. Later on, however, during his confrontation with Monet and Tashigi during Punk Hazard, his hesitation to slash her down reveals that he's subconsciously over-protective of women because he thinks they're inherently weaker. I actually don't have any problem with this character trait, I think it makes him feel more real as a person and he obviously gets shit-talked enough about it in the story itself. But how did I want to reflect these beliefs if Zoro had been born a woman? Easy: internalized misogyny and applying value to herself via her appearance.

My version of Zoro grew up wanting to fight with swords but her only chance of entering the dojo was to work under the proprietress, Lady Shimotsuki to maintain the property, cook meals for the male students, and eventually be a good wife to the current heir, Kuina. She learns that, to get what she wants, she must be the ideal woman, even if she stays up all night training swordsmanship with Kuina when she isn't supposed to. He treats her love for swordplay seriously and treats her like an equal, which sparks a bond between them and eventually leads to Zoro's goal of becoming the world's greatest swordsman after his sudden, accidental death.

After years of intense training (now that Lady Shimotsuki admits that she'll need a new heir and Zoro is the closest thing she has) Zoro's finally old enough to leave and begin her journey. She starts letting go of the idea that she has to look pulled together to be taken seriously because she can just kill anyone who looks down on her. Her clothing falls into disrepair, she wears outfits that help her move in combat, and she starts tossing her hair up into messy, knotted buns under her bandana. Even so, she keeps her hair long like rolling hills of grass. (At least during pre-timeskip. She lops off her hair to prove to Mihawk that she's serious about being trained.)

I've put her in a thin sweater that she stitches (poorly) back together after her first interaction with Mihawk. (I kept one sleeve because I was inspired by the santoryuu Nami that Oda drew that one time.) I also wanted to girl-ify the ubiquitous haramaki so I picked leg warmers for her because I think they're sufficiently "dated" enough to be kinda analogous with his old man belly warmer. I also love gyaru fashion, sue me.

Here is a screenshot of her as a blonde:

And here is a sketch of her post-timeskip where she's fully embraced her butch nature:

Hubba hubba, am I right?

Check out my tag "girl piece original design" to see more of my genderbending art! Next post, I'll put all my East Blue Crew designs together! I can't believe it's taken this long but I AM SO HAPPPPPYYYYY

[sunboki]

— THE ALCHEMIST. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. historical! au, set in 1940’s Korea, alchemist! au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst

WARNINGS. abusive behavior toward women, impoverished communities, overall sexist beliefs of the time, reader dresses as a man, mentions of death & disease, smoking (not reader or minho), war conflict, making out??

WORD COUNT. 9.6k words

AUG'S NOTES. although it was a bit out of the blue, i had such a great time writing and shaping this universe, thank you to all the love and support thus far<3 also, huge thanks to @comet-falls for instilling the peaky blinders/historical! minho vision in my head with how incredible tooth and claw was, i truly owe it to you :)

SYNOPSIS. Cities stricken with poverty, the lack of male presence in your home while surviving in a male-dominated society leaves meager food on the table and a piling debt. Left no choice but to make a risky decision, you decide that, if biology wanted to fail you, you’d simply try another approach.

alternatively :

In which deception introduces you into an entirely new reality, and The Alchemist.

It’s one thing surviving with the knowledge you can change something, whatever it may be that’s wrong. 

It’s another when that problem isn’t merely changeable, but biological. 

Your problem? You’re a woman. 

Not as easy to fix, right?

.

.

.

With your father lost in the war, fruitlessly straining to support a family of girls, the household is left helpless.

Representation is nonexistent, and merely walking outside frets harassment and laughter struck in your face at the mention of working. 

A woman, working? Hilarious. 

Or, apparently to the men in pubs it certainly is.

Some things you can’t change, yes, but there are always alternatives. And as for now, you’re helplessly searching high and low for that alternative, whatever it may be. 

Selling yourself is possible, though the inability to remain connected to your family eliminates that option. 

When you get so desperate, there’s no incentive in guarding your pride. Because being called derogatory names isn’t as bad as losing them, the people you call home.

October welcomes little warmth, biting your fingertips and sending a tremor of chills cascading down your spine. Minimal sunlight peers through dense clouds, shrouding the atmosphere in a depressing haze. 

You’re on your way to the apothecary, but not to purchase anything. The pennies in your pocket won’t amount to anything in the face of medicinal prices, which happens to be one of your many alternatives. 

Since day one, you’ve had a rock to rely on.

Medicine. 

Lack of money meant improper living conditions, entailing sickness. 

Constantly.

Whether it was your mother, your younger sister, yourself, an infection of some sort occupied your respiratory system, wreaking havoc for wallets and mental health altogether. 

Purchasing necessary medication became impossible the further you drowned in your debt, to the point drastic measures needed to be taken in order to prevent death from infesting itself in the household as well.

Then came the question. If you couldn’t purchase the medicine itself, why not collect the ingredients?

Alternatives.

Behind the apothecary you discovered mint hedges that, if mixed with wormwood and balm, could aid in curing Sun-ja’s current sickness, colic. 

Although, you’d have to be swift in your efforts, ensuring the shop owner didn’t notice your presence.

Too many times had you nearly been caught, risking a good beating from the red-haired, burly man regarded as Mr. Myeong.

Fiery red hair complimented an equally unruly personality you aimed not to cross by. Ever.

Yet, unlike Mr. Myeong, his wife was the polar opposite, an ideal magnet. She was petite and soft-spoken, but out of her appealing traits, you found her resilience to be most attractive.

Mrs. Myeong is stubborn. She’s strong in what she believes, sporting an unquestionably vocal opinion that can’t be quenched.

The woman is, likely, the only woman capable of sealing her husband’s mouth shut.  

Hidden between thorn ridden weeds sits your desired leaves, abundant in supply.

You clutch your satchel closer, plucking as quickly as possible whilst crouched to the ground, maneuvering through tickling grasses and itchy reeds. 

Your mission remains successful, until the wretched sound of a doorknob rips your head upward, the red-haired man in question standing nonplussed, arms crossed. 

He wears a cocked brow, examining what you’re desperately trying to veil away.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Stealing, are we?” Black boot clad frame thumping closer, you immediately prepare to run, hair standing on end like an agitated feline.

Instead, his huge hand swoops down to grab your collar, other evidently ready to land a harsh slap to your face.

Instinctively cringing, you brace for the stinging impact.

That is, before a saccharine, lullaby-worthy voice rings from the cracked doorway, belonging to none other than Mrs. Myeong.

“Honey! Have you seen the new envelope that came in?” 

Heels clicking whilst padding over cobblestone to where you two stand, her husband fixates you with a stern, threatening glare. 

Finally dropping your frame to the ground, you slump forward, pulse pounding loud enough you fear your chest may implode. 

Mrs. Myeong, though wearing a taut expression, ushers him off, delivering a curt nod your way, intentional brows furrowed in place. 

‘Thank you’ You wish to say, but hold your tongue, watching them disappear inside.

Another time.

Walking home was rather uneventful (much to your delight), left to enjoy the crisp, cool air sifting through your lungs in steady rhythm, the lazy billows of cigar smoke dwindling from gaping doorways.

Calm. 

Nothing calm ever lasts long.

Stashing the house key back into your decrepit leather draw bag, your footsteps still upon entering, struck terror-filled.

Your mother, strawn across the floor, hacks amongst her rampant coughs, body convulsing in desperate shivers, skin drenched a ghastly blue.

Sprinting to her side, you kneel down, rolling the woman over to find her face utterly battered, new black eye beginning to swell, cheek bruised a mawkish purple against hollowed cheekbones. 

Sharks.

To your left Sun-ja hides in the corner, rags for a blanket pulled to her chest, shielded between the wall and a tipped cabinet. 

Over and over they’ve begun visiting, to the point your mother became recognizable by her continuous black eye, her torn clothing and stooped posture. 

Exhausted, she was exhausted. 

Yet, she took the beatings. The torturous punches. Jarring slaps, traumatic insults, tarnishing. Your mother took it so you wouldn’t, so you and Sun-ja could live.

And it’s at that moment you make up your mind, discover this occasion’s alternative. 

“Cut it off.” 

“Cut.. Cut it off?” Hyunjin gapes, fingers stalling their descent down a strand of your hair. 

You smile, grimacing the longer consideration poises.

No point in thinking too much.

“Yep. Give me the most boy-ish haircut you can.” You emphasize, gesturing toward his scissors expectantly. 

Hyunjin, your personally appointed hairstylist, doesn’t seem too convinced. He’s debating, expertly reading your features.

Currently, you’re holed up in his room, a miniature apartment located near the furthest section of town, close to the coast.

In wee hours of morning you boarded the train here, inhaling salty, ocean-smelling breeze. Back in your old residence you met him, your neighbor Hwang Hyunjin. It’s a miracle you still stayed in contact, bond aging like the finest of wines over countless years. 

Enough to where you trusted him to help you enact this alternative of yours. 

Starting with a haircut.

The man stares at you through the mirror, dark, inky hair matting the longer he runs his hands through it. 

Thoughtfully trying to figure out your reasoning, he evidently catches on the moment you witness his eyes roll, releasing a heaving sigh.

“You cannot be serious.”

A torrential truth keeps you from responding, gaze directed at your feet. 

“Y/n,” He uttered, eyes filling with a concern you avoid meeting, avoid regarding in a whole. “You don’t have to do this, the war is going to end soon and your father will come ba—“

“He’s dead.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Collecting yourself, you scorn his frown.

“He’s dead and gone. Now I need to protect them, provide for them.“ 

You deny the shakiness of your voice.

“So, Hyunjin. Cut off my hair.”

Accordingly, he does without another word. Snip by snip, tress by tress falling below, scattering the tile floor in endless strands.

By the time you see yourself, it’s hard to recognize the person in the reflection. Never had you considered your hair a viable source of identity, but now that it’s so sparse, the effect is eminent. 

Failing to see yourself in your own reflection beckons a different kind of sadness. For the person you’ve introduced yourself as reigns no more. She’s been replaced.

Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, embrace just as comforting as you remembered. His hand reaches to caress your cropped hair, rocking back and forth on his heels, chin resting on your head. 

“Be careful, okay?”

Nodding into his shoulder, you wipe salty streaks from your cheeks. 

Hurts.

“And if you need a place to take shelter, I’ll be here.”

Steadying in his hug again, you pull back, cherishing his kindness with a chaste kiss to the cheek. 

“Thank you, really.”

Shaking his head at your gratitude, urging you out and lingering by the doorway till your figure retreats in the distance.

Next stop, Mrs. Myeong. 

If anyone has any idea how to source the clothing you’re needing, your best chance would be thanks to her. 

An hour later you arrive in familiar avenues, creeping out of sight into the apothecary in hopes the woman you’re looking for is working the counter. 

Much to your pleasure, after a few unsuccessful attempts do you grasp her attention, edging forward under the guise of a regular hoping to converse. 

“I need your help.”

Initially, she carries that sternness, wordlessly lifting your hooded head a bit to notice the latest adjustment. Shock written over her face, Mrs. Myeong drags you along with her, closing the door to a back room.   

“My child, what is going on?” She whispers, tone urgent. You can’t help but feel fond of the affectionate nickname.

“I need male clothing and,” You hesitate, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “something to bind my chest with.”

Similar to Hyunjin, she steps back, assessing the situation at hand. Spending a brief few seconds roaming your figure, the woman works hastily toward fetching a petticoat, meticulously fitting each article atop your stock-still frame.

“You’re conceited,” she grumbles. “And foolish.” Carefully peeling off your upper-wear, she’s managed to cut a piece of thick cloth to use as a make-shift binder, assembling the fabric over your breast. 

The experience, although strange, wasn’t as painful as anticipated.

“But be careful, and stay in contact.”

Your response is hushed.

“Breathe in,” The older woman instructs, securing her creation with a threaded pin before moving onto other aspects, like a proper coat and pants. 

Mr. Myeong’s trousers, though having to be sewn to fit, make do, and you’re reminded to return tomorrow for shoes. Otherwise, the attire is completed, paired with a curved hat to finish. 

Sure, the entire male concept is foreign, but given time, you’ll gradually acclimate.

Oh, right. 

Your alternative?

Since medicine is what you know, you’ll stick with that. Difference being medicine is a men’s occupation, and so, if you can’t be a female working in the field, why not become male? 

Well, somewhat become male.

It’s a risky wager, easily placing your life on the line in the process. 

For your mother and Sun-ja, however, it’s your turn to take the beating. Your turn to endure.

Observation is a virtue. It can save and preserve, heed to oncoming danger, and simultaneously (and discreetly) supply useful information.

Today, seated on a bench in Daegu Station, your first observation is the abundance of people scurrying like mice.

Some tall, some short. Distinct moles, eyes. Upturned and downturned lips. Mustaches, beards. Much to see.

Your legs cross and uncross, Mr. Myeong’s oversized heeled shoes beginning to sink at your ankles. Hat strung low enough to peer out without attracting attention, your gaze is magnetically drawn to a magazine held on the adjacent side of the train tracks, title on display.   

Prized Alchemist Lee Minho suspected of being the lone survivor of the Red Plagu—

Ignorant to your surroundings, your senses posed numb to the incoming train, blocking off the last few words of the title from view the moment it soars past—nearly sweeping the fedora off your head. 

By the time the last few train cars passed, the man honing said magazine had disappeared, and you were left wondering if the experience was merely a figment of your imagination.  

Although, you did have one lead. A name.

Lee Minho. 

Where you’d find him remained unknown, deciding to rely on a magazine parlor first and foremost for more intel.  

To no surprise, nearly every magazine rack lay lined with haughty opinions regarding the war and its evident cruelty.

Many onlookers of both Americans, Koreans, and foreigners alike chatter amongst themselves about their own take between gossiping hands and fumes of tobacco.

In this town, located far off in the business district by a ship port, people are everywhere.

Wives of sailors, families of soldiers off at war. Women honing gleaning parasols and ivory gloves reaching to their elbows.

Languages you’ve never heard before utter their enunciated syllables, vocabulary petulant with accent—all shrouded in dismay.   

Roaming the store endlessly to no avail, you prepare to adventure back through dusty streets and battered wooden stall-shops before a peculiar name pauses your footsteps. 

His name, The Alchemist, Lee Minho.

“Bring ‘em home I tell ‘ya,” An aged man by the deepened grooves of his face, hollow cheekbones and bunched wrinkles grumbles.

A fat cigar hangs loosely from thin lips, pale baker boy cap adorning a bald head. 

Some sentences estranged, you identify his sentences as French, heavy in dialect, throaty and broad.

And although your fluency stay patchy, exposure from French immigrants who’ve relocated near home allow minimal understanding as to what they’re talking about.

“Say, did you hear that Lee Minho chap was a Red Plague?” His counterpart offered past his own leering cigar, foot tapping incessantly.

The other hacks his bewilderment, feeble fist pounding on an equally feeble chest.

“The Alchemist?” 

The man’s astonishment returned with a nod, you lean closer, pretending to be consumed in an article. 

“Said he was only nineteen when it happened. Shipped ‘em off only for disease to kill them all. One survived, now people are speculatin’ it’s him.”

Either of them sigh out long drags.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Is all the other huffs in disbelief, and upon recognizing the conversation approaching an end, you stir to action, willing your voice to deepen an octave.

Attempting to appeal in your broken French, you stall the two, cautiously claiming you’re in need of his whereabouts for an esteemed business transaction to which, through confused stares, you’re given loose directions.

Loose, but feasible.

80 Kent Avenue, dark blue doors.

Directions that, according to the sudden blank of streetlights, would have to wait until tomorrow. As for now, the world beckoned you to rest, and any progress would prove futile and rather impossible in the dark.

Luckily, a run-down Inn gifted good few hours of shut-eye before dawn peered through the windowsills and you were begrudgingly forced to your feet. 

Fitting the binder snug across your body and fastening your trench coat through minuscule belt loops, you’re taught with much haste the stark difference of men’s prestige entitlement. 

First access to everything, the ability to have their way with a woman whether she willingly obliges or not, and just about ten billion other things someone of your hidden status couldn’t fathom.

A man’s world is a world only possible through disguise. Yours just happens to be a last resort.

Charming the mistress at the front desk was unexpectedly effortless, not to mention how easily she spilled the details as to where Kent Avenue would be located.

Another noticeable attribute of your new appearance, no one asked as to where you were going nor your intentions, they merely dipped their heads and wished you off.

Adjustments.

Adjustments that, if you’d been born different, would be normal.

Kent Avenue lay twisted in shadows. The surrounding area brims in barely flickering labels and creaking doorways leading to who knows where. Quaint isn’t the word for it. More ancient, all-knowing. 

This place has been here for centuries with many stories to tell, most just haven’t heard them yet.

Significantly dark blue doors make the Alchemist’s residence easily noticeable, starkly contrasting with wooded architecture. Massive doorknobs engraved with lions, windows shielded by moth-eaten curtains. Grand, in its own form.

You swore each door stood eight feet tall, the left in particular left slightly ajar.

Wait, ajar?

Doing a double take to ensure your vision wasn’t playing tricks on you, you inch forward, widening the dark gap exponentially until all you faced was a black abyss—apart from the miniature lamp beaming yellow light in a far corner.

Carefully tiptoeing into said black abyss, the further you explore, the greater the visibility increases. Leather cushioned furniture, clean, polished desks. The desk the lone lamp rests upon is a chestnut wooden, ink feathers residing in the upper corner.

Somehow, the matter grants envy, resentment grating your nerves. This man lives comfortably while other’s are beaten for possessing nothing. Maybe it’s a petty, unnecessary thought; and maybe you’re foolish, but all odds are against you, your disposition seems righteous.

Getting too lost in your head turned out foolish as well.

“What’s this?” A voice behind you whispers, voice ghosting chills tickling your neck at an alarming pace. 

Whipping around, eyes struck wide in shock, the person responsible for the remark comes into view, his stature opposing the tone muttered in your ear seconds ago.     

Not a plump business man like you imagined, not adorning a spectacle, no pipe in sight. Instead, one lone button right below the chest fits snug white sleeves cuffed by his elbows, black vest hugging a slim torso.

Conniving, cat-like eyes analyze your expressions while dark brown hair parts to the side, loose strands covering his right eyebrow. And when he reaches up to brush a few frayed tresses to the side you note sleek gloves covering long, pale fingers. 

If anything, this man is more similar to a Vampire.

“Trespassing, are we?”

Collect yourself. This is your opportunity.

Swiftly brushing off your clothes, you clear your throat.

“I have an offer.”

“An offer?” A smile belonging to that of a Cheshire cat adorns his lips, one leg propping itself over the other, fingers intertwining in front of him.

Ensuring your voice is clear and concise (while keeping the deeper, male-ish tone), you state your claim, despising how utterly debilitating it feels being caught under his observative stare. 

Like he sees through you.

“I would be a valuable asset to your studies in alchemy. I know about herbs and their uses better than anyone else, and where they’re located.”

Sure, the bargain might’ve sounded arrogant, but you were technically cosplaying as a man when most men of your time couldn’t shut up about themselves, arrogance was the least of your problems. 

Gnawing at his cheek as you spoke, he pauses a moment, then laughs.

Amused. 

Dark lashes dust above equally dark eyes, nearly black as they study you.

“You want to be my apprentice? Is that it?”

You remain close-lipped.

“I’ll tell you one thing, kid. This world is all about money,” He raises a cane from where he reclined, using the end to tip your chin up and meet his eyes. 

“No?” 

To which you simply stare back at him, refusing to avert eye-contact. 

“I’m sure that’s what you’re here for anyways.” Rising from his place, he sighs heartily. “But see, I’m a greedy man, not a good man.” 

Abruptly, his countenance falls flat. 

“And my job isn’t fun, so you’re out of luck.” 

Immediately, you’re frantic, trying your hardest to ignore his obvious statement to leave. The last thing you need is to run out of luck, run out of options.

And so, you hastily wrack your mind for a solution, an excuse, whatever keeps you in this dimly lit room.

“You- You were part of the Red Plague, weren’t you?” Spitting out words from the depths of your racing mind, The Alchemist stops, fixing you with an unreadable look.

Red Plague as in, the group of young men enlisted during the war that all died of a deadly disease but one. One who, many speculate is the man before you.

Breathe in.

“I may not know much about you, but I know what it’s like to want to save somebody.”

Breathe out.

Now it was his turn to stand there, and for a second you swore you saw a flash of sympathy cross his face.

You wet your lips. “I’ll run your errands and wash your clothing, I’ll clean this place spotless. Plus, it’s not like I’m a woman asking for a job, so please, give me a chance.” 

Slowly, The Alchemist raises a brow, laugh disbelieving.

“Since when did being a woman have anything to do with this?” 

Huh?

How.. odd.

If anything, the majority would wholeheartedly agree, likely hiring you on the spot with how impalpable such a jest seemed.

He would’ve laughed, maybe slapped your back. Would’ve wrapped an arm around your shoulders, proclaimed you his friend.

Yet, you almost feel flattered. Flattered in a strange, unrealistic manner. 

Basking in a deplorable quietness, The Alchemist sighs, combing a gloved hand through silken strands. 

“I have a spare room around that corner.” He points, leather gloves narrowly highlighted by orange lighting.  “Make yourself useful, hm?”

And like that, even if it was a long shot, you landed it. More specifically, landed a job. 

How preposterous. 

How exciting. 

Yet, it began hesitantly. As if he was initially testing your usefulness. Sending you on runs to the nearby gardens, having you make sure a concoction didn’t derange itself while he fetched better flasks. Easy things.

However, you didn’t complain. A boring job was better than no job, and as long as a few coins were emptied into your pocket afterward, you’d continue to work without whining.  

Burdock, oregano. Motherwort that would erupt billows of chemically-infused air when added to oils or sugars.  

Then you noticed The Alchemist. His quirks, his  characteristics. 

He shifts between a long trench coat or tight vests, his hair is always styled a certain way, though some days, when he just wakes up, he has this tiny bird nest of hair atop his head, it’s charming. 

He yawns a lot. 

He wears heeled shoes, maybe from his shorter height, maybe preference. 

And rather peculiarly, the longer you stay in his lair, the greater you notice the many scars littering his forearms, collarbones. Miniature cuts and imprints left on porcelain skin. 

Those observations, conjoined with his reactions, make for a truly interesting character. 

Reactions being his dislike toward loud noises, the matter in which his shoulders scrunch at a loud clap outside, eyes blown wide, fearful. 

The longer you stay in his lair, the more you notice him, nonetheless his fears. Whether suspicion clarifies anything in specific, there’s no denying he’s a man of war. 

Lee Minho has secrets, and as badly as your nosiness itches to uncover them, you, as you had promised earlier, will keep your lips sealed. 

And it makes you wonder, what’s life like on your side of the street? What throng of unfairness left you awash, left you both suffering? 

You wonder about your oppositions and similarities in different points of each other’s lives. Minutes, decades before you ever met.

Certain stones shall stay unturned, but you hope, maybe one day, those questions will be answered.  

Interestingly enough, he never asked about your name; not even when you gingerly introduced yourself as your last name, a rather awkward fit.

Likewise, you don’t complain. There’s only two of you in the house after all.

A week in, you’re finally introduced to something new. 

The Alchemist plans to have you tag along with him to Port Nova, a docking station located on the outskirts of Busan.

Business thrives in ship ports, the sole source of connectivity for a growing country like Korea. Each day, millions of shipments come in from countries you can’t name, so you’re not surprised in the slightest he’s headed there for a transaction. 

You are surprised he decided to have you tag along.

Even more so that, as you hop off the transit, hurriedly tailing his left, he veers off a sharp turn, approaching a worn Burlesque Club, glittering sign halfway dangling from its perch on a scarlet red awning. 

English letters spell out Nova Burlesque, a few missing letters left astray to the side, electrical bulbs spasming with sporadic lighting on the dusty ground below.

In the daylight, the place appears ordinary, blending in with its crumbling, desolate surroundings. 

Although, you have no doubt this place utterly delights in the eve, pink-neon inviting enough to lure unaware foreigners upon first arrival. 

“Mr. Lee,” You utter, returned with a short scoff from the man who insisted you refer to him by his name, Minho. 

“Where are we going?”

It’s hesitant, unsure of whether to intervene, but Minho only smirks, whispering a not-very-assuring “You’ll see” you begrudgingly go along with. 

Inside is the last of what you anticipated. 

Oh dear.

You’ve only been to minimal Burlesque Clubs, but the ornery perspective of faux jewelry, a glittery, hallucinatory stage, and the constant rendition of Why Don’t You Do Right whirling on scratchy records isn’t present here. 

Alternatively, there’s stools scattered around a marginally illuminated clearing, some upturned, others occupied by burly men with equally burly beards. 

And in the middle, a boxing ring is situated. The stench of sweat and blood soaks the air in a metallic, pungent aroma.

A brisk realization crosses your mind, a conclusion of a sort.

Play a fool’s game, earn a fool’s reward.

Only you, Hyunjin, and Ms. Myeong know the lengths you’re willing to go to secure your family's well-being, and now, at odds you can’t compromise, you have to do everything in your power to maintain your act.

This is a test.

Sifting behind you, he murmurs a hushed: “Cover your ears.” That you begrudgingly oblige to, cupping either hand over your ears as Minho clutches his leather holster, concealed within the confines of a frequently worn coat.

In a split second, a gunshot is fired to the ceiling, the bullet's shell casing dropping atop the welt of his pointed shoe.

Stunned silence ensues.

Arm still extending the revolver in the air, you haphazardly remove your hands, dragging the hat further over your face as more eyes focus on the both of you. 

“I’m looking for Reiner and Manfred.”

The longer the tension rises, the further you grow self conscious.

“Already?” A man bellows from inside the ring, breaking the awestruck spell whilst gripping his opponent by the collar, fist poised and ready to strike. 

Unusually, they seem to know each other.

Minho merely exhales a loud sigh through his nose, practically two times smaller than his apparent acquaintance. 

Said acquaintances grumbles. 

“Leave it to our champion to interrupt the show.” 

And with that, he hooks the contender in the jaw, sending him pummeling down to the tarnished mat where hoards either cheer or groan, hustling money left and right over the victor.

Champion of the show? You’re adding that to your collection of never ending questions that’ll likely stay unanswered.

From the crowd arises two men. The victor from the ring and another from the crowd, dressed lavishly opposed to his white tank top-wearing counterpart. 

Reiner and Manfred, you assume. 

Serving as a mere shadow in The Alchemist’s wake, the four of you hustle outside, met with a nonplussed Minho and two, mildly confused (and enormously tall) men. 

Foreigners, certainly.

“..Care to introduce the pipsqueak?” Reiner presumably more talkative, piques, beady eyes scouring your figure enough to where you scorn the beads of sweat collecting upon your temple. 

Pipsqueak my foot. 

You stave down the retort, inhabiting Minho’s shadow as the three discuss matters of a hospital transaction. Almost like you weren’t there at all, as it’s always been.

If it weren’t for the technicalities, you would’ve interjected, made your presence known. Except, other than herbal instances, you’re a novice in the business department. You’ll leave that up to your current mentor to arrange.

Again, lips sealed.

Minho, ignorant to the previous victor’s question, continues to sign legal documents supplied by the calmer individual, Manfred. You internally thank the gesture.

Well, before Reiner’s sordid gaze becomes too stifling to brush off.

“I’m Mr. Lee’s apprentice, L/N. Nice to meet you,” You initiate, fearlessly reaching out a hand he heartily shakes, features graced with amusement, massive hand practically engulfing yours. 

Pardoning a gruff “Likewise”, he nearly sends you flying from the timbre of his voice alone.

“Say,” Reiner mutters, finally completing the last of the package transfers. “Don’t you think this one seems a bit feminine?”

Your jaw ticks, nervousness shrouding your being like an unrelenting fog. Minho’s fingers close around your elbow, pulling you closer, brows knit.

“Perhaps you need your eyes checked, Reiner,” He offers, tone nonchalant opposed to the vice-like grip latched to your arm.

Heftily chortling, the man only pats your back, causing your entire body to surge forward upon impact.

“Well regardless, it’s a cute little thing ain’t it?”

Manfred simply grunts his acknowledgment while you bite your tongue, coveting your retaliation when he referred to you as “it”.

No use growing angered. The feeling is futile.

Luckily, your irritable arrangement comes to a hasty close, more than gleeful to have an understandably annoyed Minho steer you from Port Nova onto a short train back to Kent Avenue, to your newly established home.

A home, but not really a home. Semi-permanent, unofficial.

Either way, you wouldn’t complain. Despite the constant efforts in diminishing your past identity, you didn’t feel as conscious when around Minho. 

Safer.

As if, in an alternative reality, you could tell him. Your truths, your burdens.

No. You won’t jeopardize this opportunity. You can’t.

At least, not yet.

“I’ll be back Mr. Lee!” You shout, wielding a briefcase bag to your person, nudging the ghoulish door open using your hip.

As usual, you’re headed off on a restocking trip.

Except on this occasion, the restocking consists of hunting down a peculiar herb: Chinese Chrysanthemum. It’s an appealing plant with fluorescent leaves and a constant need for sunlight. 

It’s no surprise he’s sent you to fetch such goods. After two months, you soared in and out of the residence routinely, scouring Korea while Minho hunched over a wildly diverse array of vials and flasks, glasses propped on his slightly hooked nose, hands firmly resting on a wooden exam table.

Studious. He is very studious. 

However, a catch diverts itself from eye view. A catch you hadn’t considered until your two feet stepped from squealing train tracks.

Somehow, although unusually intentional, you wound up in a rather peculiar area. An area you never imagined paying a visit to in your wildest dreams.

In the midst of economic outrage and warring circumstances, you’re standing in one of Korea’s most unstable, informal districts. A place that, according to your overhearing ear, was where your precious Chrysanthemum lodged.

This district had an infamous name. 

The Den.

A fitting name in actuality, where a person didn’t realize they were stuck till it was too late, unable to see where they’re going, living in belief there’s an incentive to the finish line in a race run in circles. 

Also, a place the Sharks who torment your family report to.

You can hear your heart thrumming in your ears, nearly ricocheting out of your chest with its horrid cacophony. 

Calm down. 

Calm down. Think of the goal. 

All you have to do is find a flower. 

Grounding yourself, you pinpoint some viable resources. 

Fertile soil, maybe even sandy, likely in the inner portion of The Den.

Plus, you’re dressed as a man, you might as well act outrageously boisterous.

But you’re not, you’re afraid. Perhaps not external, but inside, your lungs feel as if they’re being violently crushed, sinking deeper in an unsteady submersible to the very bottom of the ocean. And for a second, you truly contemplate going back, telling Minho you’re incapable of the task.

Yet, what would you say? You’re haunted by a vision that hasn’t happened? Fearful for a future event with no guarantee? If you had ever done something so horrid, they would’ve found you ages ago.

This time, you’re in their domain, invading what’s theirs as they’ve done to you. 

Greater. You aren’t who you used to be, in more ways than one.

Genuinely, what is there to lose?

That’s it. You’ll complete the mission and return. No run-ins, no fear barricading your job.

In and out.

Initially, you scout out your surroundings, regarding the faint sound of voices funneling in the distance, the smell of mixtures you hate being able to identify, far off machinery croaking before smoke spurs from rusted screws and bolts.

Amongst the chatter of street vendors and the many, notorious gang members patrolling in and out of abandoned shops, you roam avidly, keeping as low a profile as possible.

Number one priority is to not be noticed. Drawing attention to yourself is a one way ticket to failure, and the last thing you need is to arrive back to Minho empty-handed.

However, through the blinding clouds of smoke billowing from exhaust pipes, a specific building, shrouded in the shadows of charcoal residue, douses your peripheral.

A Greenhouse. 

Bingo.

Quickly looking around, you shrink low to the ground, racing forward to carefully creak open glass double doors and slip inside. 

It feels as if you’re enclosed in a furnace. Mere seconds in and sweat already begins gathering upon your temples.

Though that becomes the least of your concerns after assessing what lies inside. 

Hundreds, maybe even thousands of flowers and herbs. Rare species, some critically endangered, just sitting here.

It’s strange. 

Why would, in the case such an abundance existed, not be used? Why hadn’t this Greenhouse been raptured from the inside out for such valuable items? 

It’s not until a commotion stirs ahead of you that you understand the answer to the question. 

With about five plucked Chinese Chrysanthemums expertly sealed into their coordinating bags, a piercing hiss followed by multiple shouts and hollers cause you to shrink back, gazing around haphazardly.

A hiss?

From your perspective nearly kissing the dirt, your vision allows a minuscule glimpse of multiple backs turned, boisterously amused men gathering around something in the front of the Greenhouse.

You feel the need to know more.

Inching forward tip-toe by tip-toe, amidst the roaring crowd, you spare a look between the sea of legs to find an utterly deplorable sight.

A cat. 

No, not just a cat, cat fighting. They’re watching cats maul each other for the fun of it. As if they aren’t living creatures, but toys for their entertainment. 

And perhaps it’s a foolish decision, perhaps laughable being worried, being angered, but you are and you refuse to leave knowing you could’ve done something to help them.

Hastily scouring the floors, a can of Spam discarded below Foxglove stems proves useful enough, tossing it as far as possible where it whacks against the glass wall, immediately averting their attention. 

This is your chance. 

As dark clouds and incoming rain thunder outside, you don’t waste the opportunity, sprinting forward while the men make toward the direction of the sound and hoisting the first cat you see into your arms. 

Sprinting past narrow pathways and dimly lit streets, you force your eardrums numb to the threats they call after you, mind trained on one thing besides getting as far as possible from here.

To Minho to Minho to Minho.

A hand grabbing your shoulder causes you to shriek, swiftly dragged off where you swear your last breaths will be taken, the feline in your arms scrambling with panic.

“What are you doing?” Your captor furiously whispers, hidden in the low lighting of an apparent alleyway.

Wait. You recognize that voice. 

“Hyunjin?”

How does he recognize you?

Just then does a breeze swipe past your head, sending chills trickling down your rain-soaked neck. 

Your hat is gone. Must’ve fell off while you were running. 

“Wh.. what are you doing?” Slipping from his grasp after the men’s hushed conversation becomes inaudible, you regard the man with an incredulous stare.

“Answer my question first,” He reprimands, and as the cat resounds a pained meow do you assess the dire nature of the situation.

You need to get this cat to Minho, and fast. 

“Can’t- Can’t talk right now I’ve got to go—“

“Wait!”

Though, as your footsteps breach the security of the alley, the placating cry of crows mock your left, hurried footsteps belonging to those occupying the Greenhouse heading toward you in rampant haste.

Hyunjin’s hand holding your wrist, you grace a tight-lipped smile his way. 

 “Let’s not see each other like this again, okay?”

He returns a miniature grin, teeming with mischief.

“Agreed.”

Upon letting go, you race off, attempting to speedily navigate back to the train station whilst torrents of streaming droplets cascade down your face. 

“Good luck!” 

“Thanks, I’ll need it!” You respond back, voice permeated against the rain, eyes frantically searching for a place to evade. 

Finally, a crowd appears, swarming amongst diners and flickering street lights.

Your perfect hideaway. 

Swimming through the hive of people, you catapult yourself into the nearest phone booth in sight, fumbling through deep pockets before cashing a coin into the metal slot and jarring your index over slippery metal numbers.

Praying the combination is correct as you hold the wired telephone to your ear, you’re consumed with utmost relief upon hearing The Alchemist’s voice answer on the other side of the crackling line.

Amidst roaring rainfall drowning the booth, you differentiate shouting a ways off, likely belonging to the men from earlier. 

“Mr- Mr. Lee?”

“Yes? Where are you?”

“Are you.. Are you allergic to cats?”

Never in your life did you think you would be so overjoyed seeing blue doors. 

Clambering inside—the rather upset cat in your arms hissing their dismay—you’re overwhelmed with an unexplainable happiness seeing Minho’s face peer from the guest room. 

Relief.

“L/N wha..” 

Words dying in his throat as he gives you a speechless once over, your urge to hug him dissipates instantly, beckoning a new set of garments upon realizing how utterly drenched your precious disguise is.

Simultaneously shoving the cat his way before rushing to your room, you thankfully strip of your fretfully cold attire, welcomed in the comforting embrace of clean clothing.

A mere five minutes later you exit, greeted by Minho’s stockstill frame. Hand half-raised, evidently about to knock.

You forcefully clear your throat, praying the momentary awkward tension is alleviated.

Luckily, The Alchemist takes it upon himself to break the spell, eyes dancing across the floorboards in order to avoid your own.

“Well, she’s stable. Her vitals are fine, nothing too critical apart from a few cuts here and there. Just shaken up.”

Your stare of astonishment earns a confused tip of his head.

“That fast?”

Said (apparently female) cat rubbing her body along your calf with an obviously delighted purr, you appear nearly concussed, crouching down to pat the soft, striped fur lining her back.

Minho snorts.

“What can I say, I get work done.”

Maybe he is a vampire after all.

Mirroring your crouch, he watches your interaction, similarly feline-like inspection unnoticed till glancing up.

And for a swift moment, you swear he saw through you. Lips parted, eyes scrutinizing. Piecing together the building blocks to a wavering structure you’d strived so hard to build, to protect.

No. You’re overthinking. He couldn’t possibly know.

You failed to notice the forlorn look on his face, one that ushers to ask if you’re okay, fetch a hot beverage to warm your evidently cold hands.

“Might I ask how you ended up bringing this one home?”

Leave it to him to take the title as your greatest ally and worst enemy at the same time.

Ah. Right.

“Y’know I was about to get to that-” 

You pause, deriding the high pitch of your voice into something more appropriate. He cocks a brow.

“As I was saying, it wasn’t my intention to bring her back, but the place she was trapped at, the place with the men- the plants..”

According to his expression, you’ve grown two heads.

…

“Go on.”

“Look, the place I found the Chrysanthemum was having cat fights. Do you remember hearing about the dog fights in Gangwon? It’s the same thing. We can’t just sit still while they’re torturing innocent animals.”

“I don’t know what you got yourself into, but I’m an Alchemist, not a hero,” He sighs, and your hand stalls its petting, face falling while the cat in your lap flicks her tail back and forth expectantly.

He has a point. You got yourself into this, you went into the Greenhouse. It’s not his duty to clean up after your messes, but perhaps you can convince him, even by a small margin.

Play a fools game, earn a fools reward.

You’ll mop the floor of your own mess.

“Minho, please. Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?” 

Stifling silence making an additional appearance, you nervously await the verdict, perched rather hilariously outside of your bedroom door.

Chewing the skin of his cheek, he scolds himself for falling so susceptible to you, though you won’t ever know that.

“Fine, but you’d better have a plan.”

Ah. Great.

You don’t.

At dawn’s arrival you’re swept upward, fixing a hasty bout of tea and toast prior to dressing in the privacy of your appreciated quarters. 

You don a much-needed hat, hopping aboard the first train of the day with a well-dressed Minho in tow.

Retracing your steps turns out easier than you anticipated, The Alchemist tailing you as you had done him at Port Nova.

Though, just when the task seemed a cake walk, you manage a meager detour, regarding your unimpressed mentor.

“From what I can remember, it’s around here somewhere. But I might be wrong, I stumbled upon it by accident and it looks a bit scary but I think—“

“Stop! Stop- Stop talking. Please.”

You quickly shut your mouth, allowing the man to lead instead till the sight of familiar landmarks becomes a gradual reassurance of your location.

Perhaps now it’s safe to talk.

“Mr. Lee, what did Reiner mean by calling you a champion-“

Shoved against the brick wall, your sentence dies instantly, panickedly glancing in all directions assessing the all too familiar pistol Minho‘s drawn, conspicuous in close proximity. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” He enunciates, tone unusually gruff whilst scanning your surroundings.

Your face warms an involuntary pink you clamber to ward off, drawn to the sight of his tense jaw and the feather-like arrangement of long lashes, focused on something elsewhere.

Your retort dies not only from his beauty, but upon the familiar Greenhouse coming into view.

“Looks like we found where your little friends are playing.”

Though, as the man begins forward, you grab him by the sleeve.

“Wait! We can’t just waltz in.”

His hand, slipping from the warmth of his pocket, cups your chin, unbearably close to your face to the point you can feel his breath on your nose. 

Curse the butterflies.

“Well there’s no need for an introduction, so let’s listen this time, shall we?”

Left at a loss for words either from your slack mouth or the concerning amount of sweat building upon your palms, you don’t argue back, lingering right outside the door, craning to hear voices. 

By the sound of it, at least four people are inside at the moment, and the longer you stay out here, the more ample time becomes for additional threats to show up. 

As if reading your mind, he slips through the rugged door, gesturing for you to follow while silently navigating through dense, humid underbrush and overgrown foliage.

However, your quiet voyage is quelled when a twig, unbeknownst to the two of you, cracks under the pressure of his foot. 

“Shit,” He mutters, cringing back at the immediate quietness that ensued.

The Alchemist curses as well.

Interesting.

Amidst the men bearing closer, Minho turns to you, tone urgent. 

“When I get up, you run and free the cats. Don’t look back, just go.”

Nodding hastily, you reacquaint yourself with the area, ensuring a dead set beeline to where the cats were held without interruptions. 

Minho, a split second before you can ask a question, whips the gun from his coat pocket, the sound of bullets whipping through the air enough indication it’s time you go.

Finnicking hands make it hard to unscrew the wired cages, surges of adrenaline helping speed up the rescue as you double check every feline has escaped.

Heeding to instruction, you don’t look for The Alchemist, solely driven to freeing the cats and fleeing the scene. No more problems. 

Almost an exact replica to your last visit here, a hand drags you off right as you exit the Greenhouse doors, back pressed against his (whom you realized was Minho, not Hyunjin, thanks to the leather gloves) front. 

And perhaps from running, perhaps from something else, you can feel his heartbeat, oscillating in a nonstop orchestra that sends your own heart pounding from the confines of your rib cage. 

Stifling a shaky inhale you’d held in as the last of the perpetrators scattered elsewhere, you instantly step back, denying every urge to coddle him like a child, fretfully check him for injury. 

A certain fondness lay reserved for Lee Minho, a fondness you can’t discern of at the moment. 

“C’mon, quick, Soonie might get scared if we’re gone for too long,” He ushers, crashing your tunneling train of thought right off its rails in the process. 

“Yeah-“

You stop.

“Soonie?”

“Yeah, Soonie.”

“You named her?”

“..Yes.”

It’s a genuine struggle hiding your laugh.

“I didn’t find you the type to take in cats.”

“Today you’ve been proven wrong, apparently.”

A sort of giddiness you never experienced fills your chest, wishing nothing more than to look back at the man and swoon. 

How could you not? He was very much dexterous, and attractive without a doubt, that much was known to anyone who laid eyes on The Alchemist.  

Your trek home proved relatively easy, able to skillfully get to the station away from prying eyes and trod along a mixture of gravel and dusty roads without issue.

Silently celebrating your success, you nudge your counterpart's hip, the unimpressed side-eye he grants doing little to dull your happiness.

“Aren’t you an Alchemist? How come you’re oddly good with a gun?”

He clicks his tongue.

“Aren’t you my apprentice? How come you’re getting yourself into trouble when your only instruction was to fetch herbs?”

You conceal a smile he obviously catches, glare failing to quiet your bubbling laughter, his own lips tugging upward.

“It was necessary Mr. Lee! And you know you love Soonie.”

“Unfortunately.”

Nearly a month into her residence, and Soonie has become an effervescent force to be reckoned with. Although initially sassy and wary, she’s transformed into the most affectionate cat you’d ever met.

You have to give it to her, she’s grown on the both of you, a lot.

Plus, you might just have to thank her for unleashing Minho’s tender side, whether that’s the two of them cuddling on the couch while he naps or him picking her up and treating her like a baby while you watch from afar. 

Over the course of the five months you’ve been here, you’ve sent countless checks back home—enough to where dues could finally be paid and the hope for a good life came into view.

Everything seems right, seems ideal. 

But of course, on an equally ideal Thursday evening, a thousand pounds of bricks drops right on top of your head. 

“How long were you planning to keep it from me?” 

He, Lee Minho, The Alchemist, voices.

Simultaneously, your stomach plummets to your feet, peeking over your shoulder to find his back facing you, hunched over a straus flask. 

Then the bomb drops.

“You being a woman, that is.” 

Abruptly pausing, you don’t reply, worried you’d say the wrong thing, unintentionally summon the catalyst to this arising catastrophe. 

Yet, you can’t stay quiet for too long. And a fear lingered inside, a fear that if he looked at you, you would break.

“Forever.” 

Doing just what you dreaded, he turns to you, wearing a horribly serious expression. 

You avoid eye-contact. 

“Because you thought I would fire you?”

A nod. 

“And that’s why you said that, when you first came to me? That you weren’t a woman asking for a job?” 

Another nod. 

He sighs, pulling glasses from atop a hooked nose. You remain staring at the floor.

“I don’t decide who to hire based on what they are. If you can do your job and do it well, you’re worthy enough to work.”

Minho spoke softly, the dim, orange lighting of his lamplight doing little to shake how overwhelming the occasion is, how it feels as if your disguise is wearing, thinning to an impossible degree. 

Except, your world isn’t ending like you thought it would if someone found out, so why do you feel so heartbroken? So overstimulated with realization?

“How did you..” you trail off, raging tears longing to spill. 

No, you can’t afford to cry now. You’ve held out so far, it will stay that way. 

Should stay that way.

Minho dips his head lower in order to fully see you in all your lip-chewing, anxiety-ridden glory. The ghost of a smile rests upon his lips. 

“It was impossible not to tell. You’re unusually tiny, those shoes are massive, and, um, I do the laundry.” 

Watching his once bemused expression dissipate, you mark this as the first time you’ve ever seen him genuinely flustered—and, upon realizing he’d likely seen more than necessary as well, you’re also diminished to a bright red. 

The room wilts in stillness before he exhales, stepping a bit closer to where you linger by the bookshelf, your heels tapping against the frame. 

Tone minimizing itself terribly gentle, The Alchemist carefully collects your cheeks in his hands, urging you to see him, see those terribly thoughtful brown eyes granting a terribly kind disposition. 

“It’s been scary, hasn’t it?” 

Well, you had held out thus far.

Cracking into pieces, you melt like droplets of honey in his fingertips. He perfectly catches them in the jar. 

Out of anyone in this world, you can’t help but be grateful he was the one who found out, found you.

Chest bubbling with breaking sobs, Minho’s thumbs caress your under eyes, swiping away the many salty droplets in their continuous descent. 

Own hands shakily reaching up to hold his resting on your face, you stand there, soaking in his wooded, earthy scent and the soft hums he occasionally emits as if a reminder he’s still there, listening to your cries without intent to leave.

“Mr.. Mr. Lee… It was so scary, I’m so tired Mr. Lee,” You hiccup, mentally berating the endlessly freefalling tears, how your once staved emotions reduced your strong, dutiful voice into nothing but a stuttering mess.

Carefully swiping drool from your chin, he leans forward, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“I don’t know why you did it, but I promise it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay.”

Then another kiss to your forehead, staying there until your sniffling and breathing calms.

Gathering yourself if only slightly, you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him into a warm hug he gradually accepts after a beat of shock. 

“Thank you, Minho.” 

And just when he thought the shock faded, he’s struck again from the sound of his name leaving your mouth.

Minho. 

Mr. Lee had been charming, but Minho, it was different. A good kind of different. 

He particularly favored the way it sounded falling off your lips, two syllables he’d replay over and over, savoring each a little bit more than the last.

More so, he wished to substitute his nagging thoughts with you, have you narrate the phrases bouncing inside his skull.

Perhaps then everything wouldn’t be so loud, if he had your voice to nullify the battlefield.

Unfortunately forced to separate, Minho adjusts his tie, clearing his throat in a manner you can’t help but feel nervous about. 

You like this flustered Minho.

“I’ll.. I’ll run you a bath.” 

You wince at the rawness of your skin when your face wrinkles in a chuckle.

“Do I smell?” 

Minho, frantically scrambling for an excuse, rubs his temples, exasperation evident in the grooves of his face, the curve and dip of prominent cheekbones portraying a mature visage.

“No I-“ He grumbles. “It helps calm you down.” 

Merely able to halfway staunch your irrevocable glee, you call his name as he begins stepping out, ears an adorable pink.

“Y/N. My name is Y/N. L/N is my last name.”

Not allowing you view of his front-side, you listen to his whispering with delight, testing the newly discovered title on his tongue as if to memorize it.

Ah, you’re falling in love.

Or maybe you’ve already fallen.

Hastily closing the door behind himself and letting you get situated in the bath, it’s not long into your relaxing that you notice a shadow seeping through the door’s crack, a figure standing there, debating.

“Minho?” You announce amusedly, watching the shadow jump and causing you to bite your frothing laugh whilst choosing what to say next. 

“Would you like to join me?”

The Alchemist audibly chokes on his saliva outside the door. 

Sparing a few seconds for him to collect his oxygen, you hadn’t been prepared for when he replies a quiet: “Another time”.

Your eyebrows shoot up with surprise. 

Daring. 

Then his shadow, after furious shuffling, disappears, serving as a reminder of your extended time spent bathing. 

Assembling the copper drain and pulling foreign nightwear over dampened skin, opposed to your usual rush to your room, you allow the chilling air to grant its harsh greeting, leaving the steamy room in its wake.

No more secrets. What a breath of fresh air.

Minho, still cooped up at his desk like routine, barely moves when you place your hands on his shoulders, adorning those charismatic glasses, lips pursed thoughtfully.

“You should go get some rest Mr– Minho,” You beckon, response a sleepy blink of his eyes, obviously exhausted.

“...I really wanted to kiss you.”

The remark drifting off as a murmur, you crane to hear him, wondering if your mind was playing tricks on you. 

“Hm?” Humming, you lightly push his back toward his quarters, the man begrudgingly following your inaudible orders. 

At least he’s cooperating.

Abruptly, he turns around, evading your hands that ease his back forward, sporting a pout adorable enough you might just lose your mind.

How unfair that someone could behave like this and expect you to not go insane.

“When you started crying.” His eyes flicker to your lips, if only for a moment. “I really wanted to kiss you.”

A portion of your stock-still frame wants to blame his tiredness, but another so badly wants it to be true, wants those words to be irrevocably real.

Fighting the urge to scream with how stupidly childish he’s making you feel, you reject every ounce of sensibility, looping one arm around his neck, using your other hand’s index to tug him closer by the belt loop. 

Trust, the feeling is mutual.

Why waste the opportunity?

“What’s stopping you?” 

The utterance barely graces air, and in milliseconds he’s crashing into your lips, a wordless confession it is real, not a mere figment of your imagination.

Stumbling to loosen his tie whilst keeping your faces impossibly connected, you fall deeper and deeper into the manner he tilts his head, expertly diminishing you into puddy in his touch. 

Back and forth, memorizing your taste on his tongue. 

Clumsy footsteps lead to his sofa, your fingers tangled in his dark strands, his kneading your waist.  

And it’s not until your lungs cry for oxygen that you pull apart, Minho’s bottom lip tugged and bitten, yours swollen with his feverish kisses. 

Both of you avidly messy, you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy enjoying the afterglow, his dazed smile.

“Whoever you want to save,” He starts, carefully smoothing over your skin with his thumb . “I will save them, deal?”

Returning that same lazy smile he directs at you, the both of you lean back on the couch, a twine of legs and limbs flailing in every direction.

Close, closer. 

A part of you aches at the thought, blinking up at such a stunning tragedy. Aches knowing you can’t return the favor, can’t say the same, promise him that same promise. 

Because according to the Red Plague, he’s lost that person, those people. So you remain silent, merely hoping one day they’ll receive proper eternal rest. 

That's something you might be able to promise.

Tipping your chin up to where it sits right above his heart, those brilliant eyes of yours blinking up at him do little for his well-being. 

Has anyone told you you’re beautiful? Because he thinks you are, he knows you are. 

Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?

Minho grins deeper, brows creasing, expression doused in unadulterated adoration. 

“And yet, you rope me into something else,” He whispers to himself. 

“What was that?”  

“Nothing, let’s run another bath. I’ll join you this time, hm?”

FIC TAGLIST. @linocz @foxinnie8 @wonniesverse

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[femboy-central]

… if you want to read my essay on how gay Nick Carraway is it’s under the cut

Until recent years, very few authors had the courage to express homosexuality in their work for fear of institutional punishment or negative social reaction. With stories like that of Oscar Wilde, writers were accurately terrified to explicitly explore the diversity of the sexual and romantic interests of their characters. Despite this, they were not stopped and authors chose to implement their gay characters with artistic subtlety. F. Scott Fitzgerald's most well known novel, The Great Gatsby, homes one example of this type of character. Although he does not live in a time period where he can be open about it, Nick Carraway is a homosexual man and this fact is crucial to truly understanding his self and his relationship with Jay Gatsby.

Perhaps the most damning evidence of Nick's sexuality is the fact that the only sexual encounter he is implied to have had is with Chester McKee after the party in New York (28), but it is not all. Nick's homosexuality is most casually clear in the descriptions he gives of the people in his life. Although he does acknowledge past romantic relations with women, he does not read as particularly interested in them. When questioned about a rumoured fiancée out West, Nick remarks that he is very opposed to "being rumored into marriage," (15) and in his first meeting with his supposed love interest, Jordan Baker, Nick compares her to a cadet (an exclusively male occupation at the time) and points out her most masculine features as ideal including her small breasts and erect carriage (8). In comparison, Nick's descriptions of the men around him are rich with intrigue; Nick notices how Tom Buchanan's eyes establish dominance in his face and the way his muscles move under his clothing (5). When Nick speaks about the train conductor on the hottest day of the summer, he critiques people who think of kissing flushed lips and laying with a partner in the heat despite no one else in that scene expressing those feelings (87). The suddenness of this flustered complaint implies that Nick is reacting to his own desires; desires he wishes he did not have.

While Nick is at least vaguely attracted to multiple men in his story, there is one he is consistently interested in throughout: Jay Gatsby. From their first meeting where Nick goes on about how pleasant a smile Gatsby has (36) onwards, Nick is very fond of Gatsby, going so far as to emphasise that he is the only rich person he did not end up disgusted by (2) and that all of the East was haunted for him after Gatsby's death (137). In Gatsby's life, Nick even expressed his affections to him in whatever ways he could. For example, when Nick agrees to reintroduce Gatsby and Daisy, he does not allow Gatsby to reimburse the favour (62). Also, after Myrtle's death, Nick only leaves Gatsby's side because he feels like he is intruding (112), returns to a bed he can not fall asleep in, and takes the first opportunity available to meet Gatsby again at dawn (113). Nick listens to Gatsby's story then (114), something nobody else would do in favour of spreading scandalous, borderline slanderous rumours.

Nick claims he is not a judgemental person, but proves himself wrong as the novel progresses in regards to every person he has met but one. Despite remarking that he disapproved of Gatsby "from beginning to end" (118), he was equally endeared to him. Nick also claims to be an honest person (44), which he proves not entirely true either. Realising Nick's true feelings for Gatsby reveals the intricacy of his character and calls into question the reliability of his narration. Although his intentions are always sympathetic, Gatsby is by trade a bootlegging criminal and yet even after meeting Meyer Wolfsheim and being told about his business (54), Nick plays ignorant about Gatsby's involvement. To Nick, the idea of Jay Gatsby is related only tertiarily to the idea of "Wolfsheim's men". Nick makes this clear every time he visits Gatsby after Wolfsheim's men begin working at his house by how suspicious he always is of them, even describing one's face as “villainous" (86). Nick does not judge Gatsby as the same as these people nor the Buchanans despite not being so different in truth because he is already in love with him and truly wants to believe he is a good person at heart. Even Tom Buchanan is aware of this on some level, showing his cognisance after Gatsby's death by telling Nick that "(Gatsby) threw dust into (Nick's) eyes just like he did in Daisy's" (138).

To ignore Nick's sexuality is to intentionally misunderstand his character and The Great Gatsby as a story. On his surface, Nick Carraway is a single objective voice in a world of desires and deceit, but as much of The Great Gatsby does, his character requires the reader to look below to his own human biases if they intend to comprehend him.

[bulldyke-rider]

In another universe, people are saying men were designed to work and then die because their body strength and small, quick and easy contributions to reproduction makes them ideal for being worked to death.

But I had to be born in the one where every variety of woman believes, in some form, men were built to overpower us.

Coulda been born into a world where men haul lumber and then we kill them off when they become useless, but instead, I was born into a world where even feminist women cry about not being as good at weightlifting.

Coulda been born into the world where women's bodies were seen as the centers of creation and men were seen as empty and incapable of creation. Coulda been born into the world where men are seen as existing for women, less valuable. The world where a man is killed for not giving his wife a daughter. The world where all gods are female, or a world with no gods because women are right there being the creator. Coulda been born into the world where man is divorced from God and has to go through his wife rather than the other way around because woman is closer to God in heaven by being God on earth. The one where women outliving men in harsh conditions is testament to the fact that it's better for men to die than use up our resources. The world where women are seen as natural leaders by leading their children. The world where lineage is purely matriarchal. The world where only the most fit and good looking men even get the chance to reproduce because male's role in reproduction is an expendable cheap resource, so you only need the most fit men. The world where women are choosing partners because of this. The world where men are the ones questioning their worth because their looks have been called to question for thousands of years, not ours. The world where women are described as "visual creatures" with our superior color vision to back it up.

Or I could've been born into an equal society where we don't get philosophical about muscle mass and pregnancy and small physical differences.

But no, had to be born not only into a world where men have warped the value of women, but also the world where like every woman buys into it and believes the bullshit.

[autisticrosewilson]

Hello to the one blog I've been loving to read for the past few days :) <3

Just wanted to add a little something that I started thinking abt after reading a few of your really cool posts, I think we should also discuss abt how Bruce's argument abt killing (with Jay) are often framed with "you're not the judge, jury & the executioner" which is really telling of who he thinks can exersise this legitimately? ? ?

I think it'd be constructive to actually properly discuss this aspect of Bruce's philosophy too. Plus, we get more nuanced Bruce characterisation. (Also keeping in mind uh... comic book propaganda of the writers and DC themselves)

YES ABSOLUTELY! Like what if someone is given a death sentence by a court of law? Does Bruce still care? I'm sure most writers would tell you no because Bruce has become a cop allegory. He's a violent enforcer of the law, and he seeks to uphold the law. Which is a recent switch! Batman comics used to be more radical, but now they're being written by old white men. So it's another one of those things where you can ignore it for your PERSONAL INTERPRETATION but you can't say that it's not A Thing because it's been like this for at least a decade.

His argument would likely be that everyone deserves a fair trial, that everyone has the right to be seen in court. Something which I do think Jason would agree with because when he's being written well he's not just shooting petty criminals! Jason's stance comes in with the big players, the disgustingly rich or well connected upper class who get away with murder. This has been true since the Garzonas case, the whole point was that Felipe was virtually immune to the law, and Jason couldn't allow that.

I think what it comes down to is whether they believe in reformative justice or punitive Justice, and I can most assuredly say that Batman believes in the latter. You can argue that Bruce is an advocate of prison reform but we don't really have evidence of that. He considers himself a punishment for criminals, he considers himself an equalizer but that's not true because he just delivers criminals into a system that is fundamentally corrupt and unfair. Do you actually think a trial in GOTHAM of all places is going to look at a rich man vs a petty crook the same way? That rarely happens even in real life.

And I don't think that Bruce does what he does out of inherent malice. Bruce is a deeply empathetic person, the core of Bruce Wayne is that he cares. But that's not enough, Bruce was allowed to grow up sheltered and it gave him an intrinsic idealism. He only has a Birdseye view of what the common people go through, that is not enough to stand there and say that he understands . Because he doesn't. He literally can't. And I think this bias, certainly one projected by the writers but that's another issue, comes through the most with Jason and Steph.

As far back as Jason's Robin era - widely regarded as Bruce's peak of being a good dad - he still makes some pretty big mistakes. Because he finds this homeless kid whose family has been ripped apart by the corrupted systems, who has actively experienced the worst Gotham has to offer, and he comes to the conclusion that if he doesn't take Jason home Jason will inevitably become a criminal even after Jason explicitly says he doesn't like stealing. So he takes Jason in but he makes that position as his son synonymous with Robin. And this is where we have to talk about meta because Jason is intrinsically tied to meta narratives. I'm not sure if you saw my other posts about Robin, as a concept, but I'll summarize here.

Child sidekicks are fine, in early comics. When things were campy light hearted whodunnit mysteries with a few action sequences, when you always knew that the child hero would come out unscathed, would always live till the next issue. And so when Bruce makes Jason Robin you have this veil of suspension of disbelief. But Jason's era is where you start seeing these kids' storylines get worse. More gruesome, more violent, more cruel. They start really testing the limit of Bruce's morality.

Batman: The Cult - Robin Jason has to crawl through a pile of dead bodies and while Bruce is having a mental break this MAYBE 14 year old is trying to get them out. The Diplomats Son - Jason watches a rapist be let go, because he's powerful and his dad has money. He sees exactly the kind of damage it does to the victims, he's the one who finds Gloria Stanson. A Death in the Family - Jason is murdered. Tortured and murdered and betrayed. He's dead and he was always intended to STAY dead. And all throughout Tim's run and then into Steph's the writers retroactively change everything about who Jason was because it has to be HIS fault, because if it's not Jason's fault then it might be Bruce's. Because how can audiences see Bruce as just and good for taking in new kids after what happened to the last one?

The suspension of disbelief shatters. Because now Jason is back and he's angry. Because maybe we as readers know that Tim, and Steph, and Damian need to be Robin because Robin makes money with young readers. But you know who doesn't know that? Jason, who no doubt assumed that his survival depended on being Robin. Who was sold out because he was Robin. Who was badmouthed and disgraced the entire time he was gone by people he loved and trusted. Jason doesn't know that he's in a comic book, but I argue he knows he's in a Batman story.

If not from his first appearance then definitely in recent ones. What can you do besides lay down and forgive and keep coming back when you know that the universe revolves around one man? How do you get rid of the terror and anger at realizing that you can never leave, that no matter how much he hurts you the universe will bend itself in half so that he is still just and right? When you realize that the love that has defined you is a disease rooted so deeply that to rip it out would be to kill yourself, that you can't even stay dead because Bruce does not want you to be.

And they couldn't even stick to Jason being the problem! Because then Steph dies. And all I could think was "Of course she did. She's an East End girl whose been compared to Jason constantly. Or a version of him. Of course she would be tortured to death trying to get Bruce's approval." Here we are, history has literally repeated itself, and...Tim is Robin again. Why? Because this is a comic book, and Batman needs Robin.

But what do you think everyone in-universe thinks? What do you think that looks like? How can you possibly still call Bruce a good parent under these circumstances? Bruce calls Robin a blessing, a gift, a necessity. He relies on Robin, physically to watch his back and emotionally to keep him in line. He trains them, he molds them, he loves them.

But sometimes love just isn't enough and the good Robin does shouldn't negate the harm they get in the process. Robin then becomes this horrible force of change, you get it and you know that this has doomed you, one way or another. Because Bruce believes that suffering is noble, that pain can reform people. It's baked into his character. Even if he doesn't intend to hurt his kids, it's not like we haven't seen him justify it to himself and others. "I love you, I did this for your own good, I thought I could help you, it was your fault I did that, it won't happen again, I lost control of myself but only this once, we can be a family again if you just come home." It reads an awful lot like an abuser trying to convince you or himself that he's not in the wrong.

This was longer than I intended it to be, but I guess my main point is that Bruce and Batman can't ever be fully separated. Something that I think his relationship with Cass shows us he's aware of but chooses to ignore. We know that Batman is dangerous, that he wouldn't hesitate to hurt his kids, we saw that with Zurr-Batman (WHO BRUCE ADMITTED WAS A FACET OF HIMSELF YOU CAN'T SAY IT WASN'T HIM BECAUSE HE HIMSELF SAID THAT IT WAS). So why try and act like it's this impossible out of character thing for Bruce to be harmful? For his kids to feel angry and hurt about his actions or for their feelings to be as or more valid than Bruce's. Batman has and will hurt his kids and Bruce will try to rationalize it all away because he loves them, he would never want to hurt them. And the narrative will tell us that Bruce is right, that this is good and fair and just, that Bruce's perspective is the correct one, that his kids deserve this, because this is a comic book and outrage sells. Or they'll retcon it and pretend it never happened. Or they'll just never bring it up again. Or Bruce will be forgiven regardless just to hammer home how good and right he is.

Because this is a comic book about Batman, and Batman is a hero, he is our protagonist, and so he is reliable and we should never doubt him, or call him out, or be mad at him. Naturally.

[sagelasters]

𓇼 Metaphysical philosophers, connection to the mind.

Anne Conway 

Lady Anne Conway was one of the few female philosophers in the seventeenth-century and notable for her legacy in STEM. Her work consisted of the three layer hierarchy, in which she classified them as ‘species', Anne believed that although all creatures are born with a body, the spirit/soul/mind is better and has the possibility to be perfect like ‘God’. She rejects the material world and explains that suffering is a part of spiritual recovery. All creatures have the potential to be ‘perfect’, but nowhere near the perfection of ‘God’, she stated. The context of ‘God’ here can be interpreted in a different lens, it doesn’t necessarily entail religions. The context of so-called creatures are human beings limited by the laws of our Earthly realm. ‘God’ however are the ones who broke free, it is the limitless consciousness, it is the ego. 

Gargi Vachaknavi

Gargi Vachaknavi is a notable Vedic scholar and daughter of sage Vachaknu, she explores the knowledge of metaphysics and what was beyond the body. Gargi explains the journey of ‘koham’ (Who AM I?) and that the inquisitive mind aids us in the revolution of finding ‘soham’ (I AM). She challenged the notions of existence by daring to ask challenging questions like, what was the ‘woven, warp and woof’? Referring to what is beyond human understanding of the world beyond the sky and earth. It is notable that Hinduism seems to be the few religions where divine knowledge can be passed to both men and women equally. Although there is sadly a lack of English source materials, Gargi’s philosophy revolves around the fundamental ontology of the world. 

Plato

Plato is one of the oldest philosophers during the Classical era in Ancient Greece. He is a big believer in Dualism, separating the body and mind into two substances (the mind can live without the body even after death). His most famous theory is allegory of the cave where prisoners trapped in a cave believed that the shadows on the wall were their reality, the prisoners regarded the cave as true and nothing else outside of it exists. Eventually, one of the prisoners steps outside and is faced with true reality or enlightenment. The prisoner returned to the cave and tried to tell his peers, only to meet with hostility because everything they’ve known their entire life was false. The lesson of his allegory was the escape from ignorance, one must question every assumption they have about the reality they call ‘real’. Plato believed that reality is created by the mind. 

Hypatia of Alexandria 

Hypatia was a renowned astronomer, mathematician, hellenist, and philosopher in the Classical era of the Roman Empire. Most of her work did not survive through the test of time, but she was a strong believer in Neoplatonism. Neoplatonism was coined from Plato’s Platonic theory that argues that the world which we experience is only a copy of an ideal reality in which lies beyond our material world. Overall, Neoplatonists believed that happiness and prosperity can exist without an afterlife. Hypatia’s belief in Neoplatonism drove her to seek knowledge in mathematics and astronomy.  

[saraannereads]

On the portrayal of Illyrian culture in ACOTAR

I’m Sara - by ethnic origin, I am Arabic and Turkish. I was othered my entire childhood and dealt with seriously atrocious racist attacks.

As I got older, those things lessened and people started assuming I was white or biracial in part due to my having dyed my hair blonde.

Since then, I’ve experienced racism of a different kind - I get told I am a “shallow white girl” who doesn’t have the right to speak about issues facing POC by people from all different ethnicities.

I’ve had enough of that. I may not look like your typical WOC but I am a woman of color. And I will not be silenced.

Why I am not offended by the portrayal of Illyrian culture in Sarah J Maas’s books:

1. I’m from a Muslim family and grew up going to mosques in the Western World, where some of the very oppressive and sexist ideals about women and their place in society were preached from the stands and actively shared by members of the community.

2. I was chronically shamed by my peers in the community for being into my education and for wearing makeup or for daring to speak to boys.

3. The above happened in the United States in the community I grew up in because oppressive, sexist ideals travel across immigration. I clawed my way out of this community and will never look back.

3. Honor killings still happen where I’m from. To this day.

4. Genital mutilation still happens in the regions where I’m from to this day.

5. Women are not allowed to drive in some countries in the region where I’m from to this day.

6. Women are publicly beaten or stoned to death in those regions to this day.

7. Women have to be fully covered up when they leave the house in the region where I’m from to this day.

8. Women are silenced and told not to speak in public - even just to talk to someone - and not to leave their houses without a male chaperone in the region where I’m from to this day.

9. Women are glorified birthing vessels and it is socially accepted for men to have multiple wives to have as many children as possible in the region where I’m from to this day.

10. Women do not have full equality or even basic, fundamental human rights in the the region where I’m from to this day.

How does this relate to Illyrian culture and ACOTAR?

Do I really need to explain the answer to that? I realize that some people may have grown up in Middle Eastern families and not had the experience I had. Some of my experience is also due to Islamic religious ideas and not simply cultural ideals. And there are some people who may love where they came from and have had a radically different experience than my own. That does NOT make my experience less valid, nor does it make my criticisms of the culture and countries I’m referring to less valid or accurate.

To me, the portrayal of the Illyrians is an accurate representation of what goes on in some pockets of the mid east, and for that very reason, I’m not offended.

In fact, wing clipping is essentially the fictional version of genital mutilation, which still happens in the cultures that people say Illyria is inspired by.

It is not racist to look at something and call it out for what it is. If I were to say, every single ME person I’ve ever met adheres to some of the more fundamentalist and sexist rhetoric I heard and continue to see, that would be racist and untrue.

The reality is there will also always be people who attack Sarah J Maas because she’s Jewish, especially at this time with conversations about Zionism running rampant. I married a Jewish man. I’ve seen anti-semitism firsthand. I also saw it growing up among the more nationalistic people I grew up with who hated the idea of an Israeli country.

What you can do:

Stand up for women around the world who don’t enjoy the same freedoms you do, and quit picking fights about a book series. Look to solve real problems instead of making some up.

Note - If you attack me in the comments, I will not respond. I will immediately block. This was not an easy post for me to make in any way, and I feel vulnerable having shared so much.

[thegoatsongs]

The Harkers' marriage has much in common with what New Woman authors and their male allies were positing as an ideal union, one founded on "love and trust and friendship." (29) Friendship is a recurring theme in New Woman discussions of marriage. In an 1884 letter to Olive Schreiner, Havelock Ellis muses, "the best kind of union between a man and a woman is a sort of camaraderie ... between two people who care about the same things, who are going the same way, & can walk arm and arm, & kiss & encourage each other on the way." (30) Though most New Woman authors shared Caird's view that such a companionate union was "well-nigh impossible" in the present day, Stoker is more optimistic. Possessing the "love, respect, intellectual likeness, and command of the necessities of life" required for an "ideal" marriage, the Harkers could "look clear through one another's eyes into one another's hearts." (31)

In treating Mina as his peer, Jonathan Harker is most unlike John Seward, whose dealings with Lucy demonstrate an inclination to perceive a woman's beauty rather than her brains. Yet Seward, though not a New Man, has the potential to become one.

When Mina telegraphs to announce her arrival, John is far from pleased: she is a distraction from the important work of reading the papers Van Helsing has given him. "I must get her interested in something else," he determines, and "I must be careful not to frighten her" (195). Mina's appearance--"a sweet-faced, dainty-looking girl" (194)--fits his stereotype of a woman needing protection. When Mrs. Harker asks to see his account of Lucy's final days, Dr. Seward declares, "Not for the wide world!" (195). "Why not?" she asks, and, realizing (with the same acuity Lucy possessed) that he is "trying to invent an excuse" for demurring, is charmed to see him, "with the naivete of a child" and "unconscious simplicity," blurt out an excuse whose truth he realizes only as he speaks it: he cannot let her listen to his account of Lucy's death because he has dictated it into his phonograph and does not know how to locate it in the cylinders (196).

His grimaces and exclamations of "That's quite true, upon my honor" and "Honest Indian!" underscore his boyishness. Bemused, Mina replies that, in that case, he must let her type out all his notes. The doctor cannot argue. Begging her pardon and admitting that she is "quite right," he makes "the only atonement in [his] power" by entrusting her with the cylinders (196). We need have no secrets amongst us," she tells him; "working together and with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than if some of us were in the dark" (197).

Impressed by her "courage and trust," he embraces her modus operandi. By the end of the evening, he has accepted on equal footing the woman he at first dismissed as an annoying distraction whom he must "be careful not to frighten," telling her, "We must keep one another strong for what is before us; we have a cruel and dreadful task" (198). [...] In this scene, we glimpse the future Caird envisions, "when men and women shall be comrades and fellow-workers as well as lovers and husbands and wives." (32)

Winstead, K., Mrs. Harker and Dr. Van Helsing: Dracula, Fin-de-Siecle Feminisms, and the New Wo/Man

[intermundia]

hey will um- any thoughts on feyd-rautha and paul’s dynamic? not even necessarily from a shipping pov. i just feel like you’ll have some juicy insights lol

I don’t have anything really new to say that hasn’t been said, but it IS fascinating to me that Paul and Feyd-Rautha were supposed to be married, with thousands of years of Bene Gesserit design to create these two ideal parents for the chosen one, but Paul’s divergent masculinity broke that union and made them into antagonists. They’re foils, like the way you place a gem on metal to make it shine brighter, yet the light that Feyd-Rautha shines on Paul illuminates Paul's dark side, rendering his negative self visible, warning about it and exemplifying it.

In the sense that Paul was raised in a culture of honor, and yet chose exploitation, Feyd-Rautha was raised in a culture of exploitation, and chose honor. He contained that unexpected virtue, not enough to redeem him, but enough to cast light on the honor that Paul discarded. When Paul says “so this is how we’ll survive, by being Harkonnens,” the audience knows with dread what part of Paul’s essential personhood that he will be leaning into, the cruelty and exploitation of others, the wanton violence, the selfish ambition.

Also it’s fascinating that unlike Feyd-Rautha, Paul is NOT sexually vulnerable; he’s simply not available to be manipulated through sex, he does the manipulating. He resists Irulan’s seduction entirely, and doesn’t give any real power to Chani. He indulges in sex because he feels love and desire, and he maintains control in the realm of sexuality over Irulan, whose life path is controlled by the fact that he denies her children. If he had been the wife of Feyd-Rautha, he would’ve been able to gain and keep power in the relationship using sexuality and children as a tool.

Feyd-Rautha, despite being a psychopathic power hungry dominant force in much of his life, still would’ve bent to Paul-as-lover, Paul-as-giver-of-intimate-pain. Feyd-Rautha was born to be a sire for Paul's child, born to serve as stud for a powerful woman to create the one. It’s an inherently complementary role, a dependent one. Once they took his seed, and once they established sexual control over him, he would be theirs to use or discard. He’s a tool and a weapon, where Paul should’ve been the sacred vessel, the ultimate woman and mother.

I also deeply appreciate the design choices that Villneuve made that diverge from the written text in a way to visually communicate important personality and ideological information. They are equal-and-opposite visually as well as narratively. Seeing that final duel, Feyd-Rautha is bleached of all natural color, hairless and clean, his shiny black armor tells the story of an industrial culture, versus Paul in sandy brown, natural cloth with a natural blade, coming from the people who lived on the land, in balance and sync with the land, and against those who steal and exploit the land.

It's an archetypal clash of civilizations, embodied in these two young men fighting to the death. They just look like a matched set, opposites that synthesize a thesis of Atreides and antithesis of Harkonnen into a higher being, that should have been their child. The fact that they fought to the death instead of generating life is a bad sign for the galaxy—not that their child necessarily would have been the one to lead into a better future, but Paul killed billions. Jessica's usurpation of Paul's motherhood of the one disrupted that plan, and Paul's masculinity and sexual independence led to a disaster.

[nesiacha]

The Ambiguous Political Relationship Between Lazare Carnot and Félix Le Peletier

On the surface, and even at a deeper ideological level, a lot divides these two men. Félix Le Peletier became one of the most well-known republican opponents of the Directoire period (among the famous opponents of this period are Bernard Metge, Xavier Audouin, Antonelle, Jean-Baptiste Drouet, Gracchus Babeuf, Victor Bach, although some of them were not aligned on the same ideals—for example, Metge was a liberal follower of the Constitution of Year III and anti-Babouvist), whereas Lazare Carnot was one of the most important members of the Directoire. Carnot was much more conservative on many points compared to Félix Le Peletier. However, their relationship is far more complex than simply being sworn enemies.

Here is an excerpt from their complex relationship: "In early November 1795, upon Carnot's recommendation, Félix Le Peletier was offered a position as a commissioner of the Directoire in the department of Seine-et-Oise. He rejected it with surprising virulence, informing Carnot that he regarded him as a tyrant and would continue to work to overthrow him. Carnot-Feulins, in his Histoire du Directoire, asserts, however, that Félix Le Peletier and his brother had close relations and frequently conversed. In 1796, when the Conjuration des Égaux was suppressed, Carnot led the operation. Yet, Félix Le Peletier escaped the police. Was this with Carnot's complicity? It seems hard to believe, especially since an archival document suggests that he narrowly escaped a police dragnet because he was detained in a café on Rue des Deux-Écus with a soldier. However, when in May 1796, he dared to publish his Second Reflections on the Present Moment, a strong indictment in favor of equality and common happiness, it is certain that he benefited from effective protection. At the same time, an arrest warrant signed by Carnot was issued for Félix Le Peletier, 'accused of conspiracy against the internal and external security of the Republic.' Despite this, Félix Le Peletier acted quite freely in Paris and Versailles. Was Carnot playing a double game? One might assume so. There is testimony to support this. A passage from the Mémoires sur Carnot by his son claims that during the Grenelle uprising, Carnot warned Félix Le Peletier the very morning that the police were about to intervene. Félix Le Peletier supposedly shared this warning with several others. Finally, the close ties between Carnot and Félix Le Peletier are evident during the Hundred Days. Carnot was appointed Minister of the Interior. On his recommendation, Félix Le Peletier was appointed commissioner of the Empire in the department of Seine-Inférieure, where he lived. Elected to the Chamber of Representatives after the May 1815 legislative elections, he went to Paris and was offered the Legion of Honor by Carnot, which he refused."

What is strange is that Félix Le Peletier never forgot that Carnot was responsible for the death of his friend Gracchus Babeuf (whom he was very close to). I believe that while Félix Le Peletier was a staunch activist, he did not believe in the death of a republican martyr and was prepared to continue living and fighting without abandoning his friends. After all, Félix Le Peletier accepted help from his childhood friend Saint-Jean d’Angely when he was persecuted by Bonaparte and nearly deported. So, he might have accepted help from Carnot as well, even though his friend Gracchus Babeuf had been condemned to death, for in any case, Félix could have done nothing.

What I personally find intriguing is Carnot's attitude. I mean, he clearly saw that Félix was not a real threat and decided to protect him. That is to his credit. Yet, he led a repression against the Babouvists, including Félix Le Peletier's friends. I get the impression that Carnot overestimated the "danger" posed by Gracchus and his Babouvist associates compared to other elements under the Directoire regime, and that’s why Carnot acted this way.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons why Gracchus (and Buonarotti) spared Carnot from most of the criticism, while he was virulent against Cochon, the Minister of Police, and Grisel, despite the terrible ordeals Gracchus endured, such as being transported in a metal cage from Paris to Vendôme. The reason may be that Carnot at least protected some of his friends, in addition to other reasons I’ve mentioned here. Indeed, in the last letter Gracchus sent to his friend Félix, he told him that he knew F��lix would be spared, even though Gracchus was to be executed, as you can see here.

But the fact that Carnot wanted to recruit Félix Le Peletier offers a plausible explanation for why Émile Babeuf might have worked for Carnot, specifically on a mission during the Hundred Days, as shown here. Indeed, Émile Babeuf, like Félix Le Peletier, aligned with Bonaparte during the Hundred Days. Now, we know that Félix Le Peletier was a protector of the Babeuf family and very close to them (he considered them as a family, and vice versa, not to mention their shared political views on several points). So it’s likely that if Carnot wanted Félix Le Peletier to work for him, Félix could have served as an intermediary for Émile Babeuf to send a letter to Lazare Carnot. This now makes more sense to me, considering what happened between Carnot and Gracchus Babeuf.

Sources (about the excerpt) :

[amateurvoltaire]

When I first saw a draft of what failed to  become David’s Oath of the Tennis Court, one man caught my eye. He stands out from the others around him, with his hands pressed over his heart, his emotion so intense, so clear, it’s almost unbearable. He’s not just joining in the moment, but he is giving himself completely to the ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity. This man is not simply swearing an oath but dedicating his very heart. This is Robespierre.

Beside him stands another man. Perched on a chair, firm stance and extended arm, he swears the oath but doesn’t lose himself in the moment. This is Dubois-Crancé.

They make for an interesting and contrasting duo, don’t they?

In 1792, Dubois-Crancé wrote a book expressing his views on his fellow members of the Constitutional Assembly. It’s an interesting collection of portraits of men whose work still shapes the world we live in today. This is what he said about the person forever depicted beside him.

As always, this is my translation and is by no means perfect. Explanatory notes are included at the end.

Portrait of Robespierre by Dubois-Crancé (translation)

General of the Sans-Culottes, the enemy of all subjugation and fearless defender of the rights of the people, Robespierre lacked only an imposing physique, a voice like Danton’s, and, at times, less presumption and obstinacy. These minor flaws often harmed the cause he defended; he was proud and jealous yet just and virtuous. His fiercest detractors have never been able to accuse him of a moment of misjudgement. Always steadfast in the most austere principles, he never wavered.  Like he was in the beginning, so he remained until the end, and such praise applies to very few individuals.

In the Constituent Assembly (1), Robespierre was neither president, secretary, nor member of any committee. The patriots themselves respected him but did not love him. The reason is simple: this man, nourished by the morality of Rousseau, had the courage to emulate his model.  He possessed the same austere principles, manners, reclusive nature, uncompromising spirit, proud simplicity, even moroseness. He lacked the talent, but that did not make Robespierre an ordinary man. Taking counsel only from his own heart, he often faced disfavour for his opinions, which were almost always seen as extreme because Robespierre never wanted a monarchy and believed that freedom exists only in a state of perfect equality. He always spoke from his principles, and at the time we were concluding our constitution, he spoke as if its amendments did not exist.

Robespierre had enough discernment to constantly despise Barnave (2), the Lameths (3), and that minority of the nobility who had betrayed their order only to rise individually on its ruins. Calumnies, even outright insults, never deterred him. I saw him resist the entire assembly and demand, as a man conscious of his dignity, that the president calls it to order.

The Jacobins contributed more to Robespierre's glory than the National Assembly. There, he had friends, was listened to and encouraged, and often developed excellent ideas. He rarely had this opportunity in the National Assembly. In the beginning, he was almost non-existent, even showing a condemnable indifference in deliberations that did not please him. At that time, he would have seen limited liberty as objectionable as slavery. He refused to support the suspensive veto (4) because he wanted no veto. He was right, but since the cause was lost, was it better to leave to the schemers the ability to grant an absolute veto?

After the death of Mirabeau (5), the defection of the patriotic party (6), and the betrayal of the Lameths (7), Robespierre showed great character. Despite the extreme disfavour of his opinions, he compelled the respect of his enemies, even triumphing over them in some very thorny circumstances, and at least deprived them of the right to scheme in the following legislature.

I do not know if Robespierre was well-versed in the tactics of the Assembly. This seems unlikely, for he would have sacrificed his zeal or self-esteem for the public good. He did not place himself next to the president’s desk to seize and stubbornly hold the floor. He would have known that the Assembly's scheming leaders called him their Maury (8), deliberately giving him free rein by preference (and then the president was at their command) to alienate the moderates, shape their opinions, and secure a majority. He would have seen that while he might gain glory through the press and the tribunes, he was harming the public cause within the Assembly. Finally, he would have let men as pure but less extreme than himself, less absolute in their opinions, and who, in more measured terms, would have redirected the assembly's focus towards its duties and the principles of the Constitution.

Nevertheless, let us render justice to virtue, honour, and integrity. Robespierre was never involved in any intrigue. Always alone with his heart, he bravely faced the most violent of storms. If the Assembly had been composed only of Robespierres, France might perhaps be nothing but a heap of ruins today. Still, amidst so many intrigues, baseness, vices, and corruptions, amid the clash of opposing interests, diverse opinions, tumults, calumnies, fears, and assassinations, Robespierre stood as a rock, an impregnable rock. Thus, he did his duty, he served his country well, and his example is a precious model for our successors.

Source: Le véritable portrait de nos législateurs ou Galerie des tableaux exposés à la vue du public depuis le 5 mai 1789, jusqu’au 1er octobre 1791. A Paris, 1792

Notes

(1) In the text, Dubois-Crancé refers to two separate bodies, both of which he and Robespierre were members of, the National Assembly and the Constituent Assembly. While related, these are not the same thing. The National Assembly (Assemblée nationale)  existed from June 17, 1789  to  July 9, 1789 and was an initial revolutionary body formed by the Third Estate during the Estates-General. The Constituent Assembly (Assemblée constituante)  was its successor and existed from July 9, 1789, to September 30, 1791. The purpose of the Constituent Assembly was to draft France's first written constitution and restructure the government.

(2) Antoine Pierre Joseph Marie Barnave (1761-1793) was a prominent figure in the National Constituent Assembly who was part of the Feuillants, a group known for supporting constitutional monarchy and advocating moderate reforms. He is most known for escorting the royal family back to Paris during the Flight to Varennes, and secretly acting as Marie Antoinette’s advisor in the aftermath.

(3) The Lameth brothers—Charles (1757-1832), Alexandre (1760-1829), and Théodore (1756-1854)— were French nobles known for their general moderatism and  support of constitutional monarchy. Both Charles and Alexandre were active in the Constituent Assembly, with the former also joining the Jacobin club. The brothers were known for their liberal views and were part of the moderate faction within the revolutionary movement. Dubois-Crancé probably refers to Charles and Alexandre, because Theodore primarly  served as an officer in the French army and did not engage as directly in the political sphere as his brothers. Fun Fact: Like Robespierre, Charles represented Artois in the États Généraux.

(4) The suspensive veto was a political power granted to the king by the Constitution of 1791. This type of veto allowed the king to temporarily block legislation passed by the Assembly. However, it was not an absolute power to prevent a law from ever taking effect; instead, it delayed the enactment of a law. If the king used this veto, the law could be reconsidered and potentially passed by the next legislative session, bypassing the king's objection. This system was designed to limit the monarch's power, ensuring he could delay but not permanently block legislative progress.

(5) Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, comte de Mirabeau (1749-1791) was a prominent politician and orator during the early stages of the French Revolution. He came from a noble family and had a rebellious and scandalous life In 1789, he was elected to represent the Third Estate at the Estates-General as a representative of Provence, where he emerged as a leader and an advocate for constitutional monarchy. He was instrumental in drafting the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen and was a prolific writer and speaker, earning the nickname "the tribune of the people". He died of natural causes in 1791, at the height of his popularity and influence.

(6) The revolutionaries split into several different factions in 1791, because they had more and more divergent beliefs and many members quit the Jacobin club.

(7) The Lameths were initially active members of the Jacobin Club and were influential in its early days. However, they were part of the moderate faction that sought to work within the bounds of constitutional monarchy rather than pushing for more radical Republican changes. As the Jacobin Club became increasingly radical in their eyes, they and other moderates found themselves increasingly alienated. In 1791, this culminated in a split where the Lameths and other moderates left the Jacobin Club to form a new group, the Feuillants Club.

(8) Abbé Jean-Sylvestre Maury (1746-1817) was a significant counter-revolutionary figure, known for his inflexible defence of traditional values and the ancien régime. Initially celebrated for his sermons and literary acumen, Maury quickly ascended as a key clerical voice in the Estates-General, defending the privileges of the Church and the monarchy against revolutionary reforms. As a member of the National Constituent Assembly, he opposed the civil constitution of the clergy and other radical changes, positioning himself as a leader among royalists and conservative factions. Calling Robespierre "their Maury" implies that he was seen as a dogmatic and dominating presence within the assembly, albeit for a different ideological cause.

[lyteofgod]

So tired of the unnecessary Mayhem banter and also the obscene amount of fucking posers who are LITTERING all things Mayhem. Are they actually the best black metal band? Imo, no, there's way better out there. The reason they're the most popular is because they're the most legendary!! I don't think Euronymous's riffs are actually that good, and I don't think Dead's vocals are actually incredible and set the standard-- but I respect their legacy and I respect the people who are in that band and who have been in it (even Varg....... a little bit) because they are/were real human beings and their only relevance in life isn't that they played in some fucking band, they had/have personal lives and thoughts. Just because Pelle is smiling and looking silly in a lot of his photos doesn't undermine the fact he was terribly unwell, he's not your fucking tragic golden angel, he was some guy you probably wouldn't have liked if you knew him personally. Tears didn't trickle down when he wasn't feeling too great, he cut himself and killed small animals?! And Euronymous wasn't some fat, ugly, gay dickhead, he was well liked among his peers!! People just hate men who aren't conventionally attractive (it's literally just that he didn't wash his hair) -- "He took a picture of Dead after his suicide!" DO YOU EVEN PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT THIS BAND HAS BEEN TRYING TO TEACH FOR LIKE, THE PAST 30 YEARS!?!?! It's about guts, gore, hatred, and everything antiChrist!! of fucking course he took a picture of Dead, dead. It was also most likely an incredibly traumatic moment for him!? Dude went off the rails after Pelle died

And why does no one talk about Hellhammer?? He was there!!

he's pretty :p And there's so many other guys who were/are in Mayhem, why is the focus always shone on Dead, Euronymous, and Count Dicksnack!!!?! Necrobutcher is sometimes mentioned... but only as a source of historical knowledge, even though he's a POS and incredibly biased ... because,, as I've stated before, these guys aren't characters in a play for you, they're everyday guys you maybe wouldn't even like... because they preach sin, death, and the devil...?

I've also seen some REALLY bizarre statements stemming from people who have a passion for shitting on Mayhem. Such as "Dead was self-centered" and the most insane take yet "Euronymous deserved it" FUCK OFF!!!!! He did NOT deserve death. I will defend Øystein Aarseth to my grave, I swear. I don't agree with, like any of his opinions and ideals, but I wholeheartedly believe he did not deserve to be murdered. Did he burn down churches? Yeah, and that's fucked up. Did he take a picture of his friend's corpse? Yeah, and that's fucked up. Did he deserve to be murdered? NOOOO!! Anyone who thinks he deserved to be murdered.... hear me now: I will fold you like laundry then shove you up my ass. You're actually fucking deranged to say that about a person.

Making fun of Mayhem everytime someone mentions it, even going out of your way to find someone talking about it... you will never be kvlt sorry :P you aren't cool you're just fat. "They're too popular" and you are listening to Darkthrone? Almost equally as popular? If not that you're listening to Bathory and Venom guaranteed

Also I am #1 Pelle Ohlin fan cause no one else who simultaneously really likes him also respects him as a person and as a deceased person. The crown is mine cause wtf?? All Mayhem fans on Pinterest should be banned

Finally, do I even like Mayhem that much? No, they're pretty mediocre. But they were the first band I was really invested in, so I will defend them and die on this hill.

[velvet4510]

A Beast x Mystique Defense

Beast x Mystique is a ship that is given very little love in the X-Men fandom - and for reasons that I can understand - but as a non-comics, Fox-movie-only X-Men fan, I think they are one of the most beautiful Marvel couples and it was a brilliant choice to develop a romance between them in the prequels.

The bond they form over their physical mutations and struggle to feel normal is very deep and special. Their personalities also have several compatibilities. Raven is obviously impressed by Hank’s intelligence and large skill set. Hank is obviously impressed by Raven’s uniqueness, courage, and strength. Every time they interact, it becomes clear how well his inherent calmness and gentleness perfectly balances out her fire and energy, while his inner beast proves to be a passionate match to her said energy in their Rogue Cut love scene.

And their eventual disagreement and falling out over what to do about their mutations is a heartbreaking parallel to Cherik - the writers even said in the documentary that those two relationships were intentionally written as parallels.

Also, even when leaving him at the end of FC, and even when they’ve only just reunited in DOFP, Raven is always encouraging Hank to be himself and sees him as handsome just as he is, Beast form and all, and loves him for his true self. In both timelines, it is her insistence that he be “mutant and proud” that set him on the path to living in his true form all the time, even when on national TV. He has severe self-esteem issues that she plays a massive role in healing. She is a very positive influence on him, and I’d argue she does just as much to help him embrace himself as Charles does, maybe even more. And this is especially significant when you consider the ruthless assassin she becomes in the OG trilogy timeline, leaving so many trails of destruction and death in her wake. She hurt so many people, Hank included since she left him, and yet despite that, Hank’s true form and his ability to be “mutant and proud” in the 21st century are her most positive legacy.

As for his impact on her, when you think about it, Hank is Raven’s only true equal. All of her other loved ones in these films either feel a conditional love for her or find some way of looking down on her. Charles adores her like family, yet his overprotectiveness of her prevents them from ever being genuine equals. Erik initially appears to be an ideal match for her, and yet in every timeline, that illusion inevitably shatters. Whether it’s leaving her behind as a human in X3 or choosing to try to kill her for the sake of mutantkind in DOFP, Erik always makes it clear that she will never be his priority and that he only values her for her usefulness to his cause and he is more than willing to sacrifice her (compare that to his reactions when Charles rejects him in FC and jumps in front of his gun in DOFP.) But not Hank. Though he isn’t good with words and that ends up causing great damage to their relationship (more on that in a sec), his actions signify his true feelings. He is quick to trust her as someone who he can confide in, and (just like with Cherik), he shows her that she is not alone, and she isn’t the only one struggling with looking so different and wanting to be normal; he validates her feelings because they are in the same boat. Then 10 years later, when they haven’t seen each other in so long, he casts aside his fear of being exposed to the public as a mutant, sacrifices his long-kept privacy, and unleashes the Beast to fight for her in the middle of a crowd, more than willing to kill Erik to save her. Erik’s fears are more important to him than Raven’s life; Raven’s life is more important to Hank than his fears. Unlike Charles, Hank looks Raven in the eye with empathy instead of down on her with condescension, and unlike Erik, Hank is willing to fight for Raven and prioritize her wellbeing.

Plus, the fact that his blue form was triggered by a serum that he made with her DNA means she is basically the reason he is blue. So in his Beast form, he is carrying a part of her with him every day of his life.

(And the fact that both of their natural forms are blue - soulmates, maybe?)

Their falling out in FC stains many people’s impressions of Hank’s feelings for Raven considering his hurtful words, but my rebuttal to that is: listen more closely to what he’s really saying, and then watch the Rogue Cut of DOFP.

What he says specifically in FC is: “my feet and your natural blue form will never be deemed beautiful.” The bolded words are important. He includes himself in that statement; he doesn’t make that point just about her. He means to say “we are in the same place; I share your pain; we both are outcasts.” Also his use of “deemed” is essential, because he’s talking about his fears of what the world will say. It’s understandable that she takes it personally, but it’s also rather simple to see what he really means when watching the scene as an objective viewer.

As for the Rogue Cut, their scene in it is so important to their relationship, and he provides a much-needed clarification there. When she brings up what he said, he echoes his earlier words by again making projection of his fears about society’s reaction: “You saw what happened in Paris. You know what they think of us.” But then she asks what she should’ve asked 10 years ago: “What do YOU think?” Then he caresses her face in the most loving and gentle touch she’s ever been given in this whole film series, and confesses his own truth: “I think you’re beautiful.” So he himself admits that he does accept her for who she is; it goes both ways. Furthermore, even though she comes to the mansion in that scene to destroy Cerebro, that doesn’t negate the romance of the scene; she could’ve just told Hank she was tired and needed to go to bed in order to get him out of the way so she could sneak into Cerebro. But she instead chose to spend those few moments with him and kiss him and hug him again. She definitely still loved him, and meant every encouraging word she said; she probably was hoping to maybe convince him to run away with her, before the moment passed. Plus, again with the Cherik parallels, even when they haven’t seen each other for a full 10 years, they still remember the exact words they said to each other so long ago: she quotes his words about her beauty and he quotes her words about mutant and proud. That’s a sign that a love and connection are real, if their words stay with you that long.

We don’t know if they ever spoke to each other again in the pre-DOFP Sentinel timeline, but regardless, the Rogue Cut shows that they remained on each other’s minds for a good long while in every timeline, even if they never got the chance to express that in the OG trilogy’s world. I firmly believe that even in the OG timeline, they never forgot each other and thought about each other more often than they ever expected to. Even though their romance had not yet been written when X3 was filmed, Kelsey Grammer’s performance is so nuanced that you can retroactively interpret the somber look on his face when Hank sees Raven on the prison monitor as an indicator of buried feelings and memories from so long ago - definitely not unlike Charles’ reactions to seeing Erik in prison. And we can imagine anything if we consider what it’d be like for Raven if she were to see Hank again - but she would undoubtedly be proud of him for embracing himself, if nothing else.

(Speaking of Grammer, it makes me sad that we will probably never see him and Rebecca Romijn interact onscreen as Hank and Raven - I can only imagine, with their talent, how much of Nicholas Hoult and Jennifer Lawrence’s sizzling chemistry they could’ve recaptured with just one little moment of eye contact, if nothing else.)

But once the timeline is changed, then there is hope for these two again. Indeed, the change in circumstances enables them to reunite post-Cuba, and after he fights Erik tooth and nail to protect her, they almost immediately begin kissing and reminiscing about their first few months together, as soon as they’re alone. That’s nothing to scoff at. That’s a sign of something very profound between them, only further emphasized by the long look they share at the end of DOFP, not unlike the long look shared between Charles and Erik. Parallels once again.

(By the way, Beastique is my favorite ship name for them, but if you mix their real names, you get Haven - which also works. She is his safe haven, and in the altered timeline, he gets the chance to be her safe haven as well.)

In my Apocalypse-free and Dark Phoenix-free headcanon, I like to think that things between them did work out, and the changing of the timeline also allowed them to “have a precious few of those wasted years back,” just like Cherik. So they lived a long happy life together - as they really are perfect for each other. They each are the only person who can genuinely make the other happy - he is her only real equal, and she is the one who sets him free.

Hopefully that made some sense and somebody sees what I mean…

[littencloud9]

hi hi hi i am dropping some prompts like a cat leaving a mouse<3

beast kunichuu + "it's okay to grieve"

and

souheki + "what the hell is that"

HII NESS <3 im on mobile rn rip but. have some hurt/comfort (the comfort is vague) and silly fluff

—

Chuuya finds himself at the top of the tallest Port Mafia building, looking over the edge with a disdainful sneer, when Kunikida says, “It’s okay to grieve, you know.”

Chuuya’s first instinct is to yell. The idea that he would care enough to grieve his death, when he was nothing more than an empty, hollow shell of a puppeteer, is insulting. Chuuya has never held an ounce of respect nor trust for him, and his death is, if anything, a blessing.

The floor beneath his feet crack under the pressure. He quickly regains control of his ability, not realising he was exerting gravity again.

“I do not grieve for a man that was nothing,” Chuuya hisses. He turns his back to the edge, leaning backwards. Kunikida doesn’t move to stop him. “I could pull the exact same thing he did right now and no one would care, because it was cowardly and disgusting and—”

“I would care,” Kunikida interrupts. “I think you do too.”

Chuuya thinks, if it was anybody else who said those words, he’d have already punched them into the ground.

Chuuya despises men who act like they can see right through him—understand his thoughts and feelings to his very core and strip him of all his walls. But while he did it to use him like a pawn, Kunikida simply looks right past.

It’s funny. They couldn’t be more different.

Chuuya isn’t grieving, but maybe he’s too empty to feel anything at all. Maybe the void dragged him in and left him an equally hollow shell when it disappeared.

“He was a single-minded stubborn fuck,” Chuuya says. “Nothing I did could have stopped him from achieving his goals. That’s what I hate the most.”

“You like me, though,” Kunikida whispers.

“…I don’t.”

“You do.” Kunikida’s voice doesn’t waver. Not once. He’s always stood his ground and fought for what he wants, never bending his ideals no matter what Chuuya does—

Huh. Maybe he does like Kunikida. Maybe the implications of that make it worse.

He doesn’t feel like confronting that right now. With two large steps forward, Chuuya reaches for Kunikida’s ribbon and drags him into a kiss, emptying his thoughts.

—

“What,” Dazai says, and he cannot emphasise enough, “the hell is that.”

Ranpo pouts, waving the object in his hands. “Are you dumb? Obviously it’s a bouquet of roses.”

“I know what those are!” Dazai snaps. “I mean what the hell are you doing giving it to me?”

“Can’t I spoil my favourite princess?”

The nickname makes Dazai flush red. “That is not— I’m leaving.” They grab their cane, ready to book it out of the office, but Ranpo blocks their path resolutely.

Dazai is going to die if this goes on any longer. They can feel eyes on them already—Kenji is beaming, Yosano is rolling her eyes, and Sigma is giving them the most distasteful look ever.

Plastering on a fake, bright smile that pulls at their cheeks and makes their lips hurt, Dazai graciously accepts the bouquet from Ranpo. “Thank you, my sugar plum! I should go put these in a vase at my dorm! If you’ll excuse me.”

“I’ll come with you,” Ranpo shrugs, hooking their arms together. Dazai stumbles when he starts dragging them, barely keeping up. Kunikida doesn’t bother scolding them for ditching.

When they’re far enough from the office such that no one can hear them anymore, Dazai huffs and looks down at the roses. “You’re so fucking embarrassing.”

“You’re not saying you don’t like it.”

“You probably didn’t even buy these. I bet Kenji-kun grew them for you.”

“He did! Because he knew how precious my beautiful girlfriend is—”

Dazai smashes the bouquet in Ranpo’s face, blushing furiously. “Shut up!”

[dailyanarchistposts]

A.2.1 What is the essence of anarchism?

As we have seen, “an-archy” implies “without rulers” or “without (hierarchical) authority.” Anarchists are not against “authorities” in the sense of experts who are particularly knowledgeable, skilful, or wise, though they believe that such authorities should have no power to force others to follow their recommendations (see section B.1 for more on this distinction). In a nutshell, then, anarchism is anti-authoritarianism.

Anarchists are anti-authoritarians because they believe that no human being should dominate another. Anarchists, in L. Susan Brown’s words, “believe in the inherent dignity and worth of the human individual.” [The Politics of Individualism, p. 107] Domination is inherently degrading and demeaning, since it submerges the will and judgement of the dominated to the will and judgement of the dominators, thus destroying the dignity and self-respect that comes only from personal autonomy. Moreover, domination makes possible and generally leads to exploitation, which is the root of inequality, poverty, and social breakdown.

In other words, then, the essence of anarchism (to express it positively) is free co-operation between equals to maximise their liberty and individuality.

Co-operation between equals is the key to anti-authoritarianism. By co-operation we can develop and protect our own intrinsic value as unique individuals as well as enriching our lives and liberty for ”[n]o individual can recognise his own humanity, and consequently realise it in his lifetime, if not by recognising it in others and co-operating in its realisation for others … My freedom is the freedom of all since I am not truly free in thought and in fact, except when my freedom and my rights are confirmed and approved in the freedom and rights of all men [and women] who are my equals.” [Michael Bakunin, quoted by Errico Malatesta, Anarchy, p. 30]

While being anti-authoritarians, anarchists recognise that human beings have a social nature and that they mutually influence each other. We cannot escape the “authority” of this mutual influence, because, as Bakunin reminds us:

“The abolition of this mutual influence would be death. And when we advocate the freedom of the masses, we are by no means suggesting the abolition of any of the natural influences that individuals or groups of individuals exert on them. What we want is the abolition of influences which are artificial, privileged, legal, official.” [quoted by Malatesta, Anarchy, p. 51]

In other words, those influences which stem from hierarchical authority.

This is because hierarchical systems like capitalism deny liberty and, as a result, people’s “mental, moral, intellectual and physical qualities are dwarfed, stunted and crushed” (see section B.1 for more details). Thus one of “the grand truths of Anarchism” is that “to be really free is to allow each one to live their lives in their own way as long as each allows all to do the same.” This is why anarchists fight for a better society, for a society which respects individuals and their freedom. Under capitalism, ”[e]verything is upon the market for sale: all is merchandise and commerce” but there are “certain things that are priceless. Among these are life, liberty and happiness, and these are things which the society of the future, the free society, will guarantee to all.” Anarchists, as a result, seek to make people aware of their dignity, individuality and liberty and to encourage the spirit of revolt, resistance and solidarity in those subject to authority. This gets us denounced by the powerful as being breakers of the peace, but anarchists consider the struggle for freedom as infinitely better than the peace of slavery. Anarchists, as a result of our ideals, “believe in peace at any price — except at the price of liberty. But this precious gift the wealth-producers already seem to have lost. Life … they have; but what is life worth when it lacks those elements which make for enjoyment?” [Lucy Parsons, Liberty, Equality & Solidarity, p. 103, p. 131, p. 103 and p. 134]

So, in a nutshell, Anarchists seek a society in which people interact in ways which enhance the liberty of all rather than crush the liberty (and so potential) of the many for the benefit of a few. Anarchists do not want to give others power over themselves, the power to tell them what to do under the threat of punishment if they do not obey. Perhaps non-anarchists, rather than be puzzled why anarchists are anarchists, would be better off asking what it says about themselves that they feel this attitude needs any sort of explanation.