#the only attractive englishmen

[amorfodaa]

finest british men (the bar is in hell)

[goetiae]

Leeches were largely popular in the medical field during the Victorian era both in Europe (primarily England and France) and America. The 19th century saw progression of the academic study of leeches as used in medicine that was conducted prior and laid basis for the modern application of anticoagulant in medical practice.

At the time, many famous Englishmen found leeches fascinating: zoologist Arthur Everett Shipley, for instance, wrote papers marveling at the beauty and functionality of a leech. This fascination often grew personal. Lord Thomas Erskine, a lawyer, underwent a successful bloodletting, afterwards taking with him two leeches; later naming them Home and Clina. According to the memoirs of Sir Sam Romilly, Erskine's friend, he took great care of making sure the leeches "knew him".

In France, the obsession with leeches took drastic turns as well. François-Joseph-Victor Broussais, a notable surgeon of Napoleon's army, was known to possess a certain infatuation with leeches.

Leeches were in growingly high demand in the 19th century Europe. France imported leeches in terrific quantities equating up to dozens of millions a year.

Overall, bloodletting for medicinal purposes is not strictly unique to the 19th century Europe. Like many other medical methods, it has its roots in Ancient Egypt and Greece where bloodletting via cutting veins was often practiced by the followers of the method described in the Hippocratic collection of the 5th century BC. The medicinal use of leeches dates back to 1500 BC and is not a recent invention. However, it is only in 1884 that Haycraft learned why leeches are so efficient in bloodletting: their saliva contains an anticoagulant hirudin (hence hirudotherapy). These observations are listed in Haycraft's work, On the Action of a Secretion Obtained from the Medicinal Leech on the Coagulation of the Blood. For this property, leeches are still in high medicinal demand.

During the Victorian era, leeches were used for all kinds of medical treatment: from headaches to hemorrhoids, from fatigue to nymphomania. Sir William Henry, for example, writes that bloodletting is far beyond any other medical treatment in helping many diseases.

Albeit, the effectiveness of such treatment is a matter of much questioning as often leeching only weakened the fragile state of those being treated. Some patients were, unsurprisingly, allergic to the treatment and either suffered reactions to leeches, larger loss of blood than intended, or even died during treatment.

Leeches and bloodletting were studied with much attention: physicians wrote books on the physiology and medical benefits of leech usage, and a very detailed description of leeches was added in the 1880 edition of Johnson's Universal Cyclopaedia.

The curiosity for leeches found its way into much earlier publications as well. For example, J. R. Johnson released multiple medical studies on leeches in the very beginning of the 19th century. His A Treatise on the Medicinal Leech (1816) and Further Observations in the Medicinal Leech (1825) dwelled on the precise details of leech usage and preservation.

From Johnson's studies mentioned above, we learn that he worked with cocoons of different sizes which he received from other leech enthusiasts. He recorded that leeches are to be kept in an enclosure with a stream of fresh water coming in and turf placed conveniently so that the leeches could "retire in a shady spot". He also studied leeches' detailed anatomical structure.

Such academic interest centered around leeches in England roots within earlier academic research done by the scientists of the 18th century - for example, an apothecary by the name George Horn who published his An Entirely New Treatise on Leeches: Wherein the Nature, Properties and Use in 1798. Interestingly, even this early into the studying of leeches, he mentions the dangers of infections if leeches were to be attracted by walking bare-legged into a river (as was done in India, according to him). Instead, he promotes the English method of agitating the leech-infested waters until the animals come up to the surface to then be caught by the nets. Overall, prior to Horn's manual not many spoke in favor of leeching: William Buchan in his study from 1769 speaks on leeches as unreliable and inefficient as it's unclear how much blood is taken per use.

Horn describes four species of leech (two of which are found in England) and dwells on their peculiar anatomy:

no eyes but a teeth-filled mouth

lips to catch blood from escaping

lack of a proper stomach

presence of the so-called "bags" across their body that "get saturated when leeches receive nourishment"

Based on the gathered information, one can claim leeches were awakening more and more scientific curiosity among the English apothecaries and physicians even at the end of the 18th century.

The medical treatment of patients with the use of leeches is described by Horn as well, though he tends to recommend additional treatment - usually mixtures of milk and syrup with herbs - to be given to the patient alongside bloodletting. This as well as other studies of the late 18th century certainly became the basis of medicinal usage of leeches in the upcoming 19th century and far into the 1910s.

It is impossible to speak of leech therapy of the early 19th century in England and beyond without mentioning the influence of François-Joseph-Victor Broussais, a surgeon of immense medical fascination with leeches who employed them vastly in his treatment of Napoleon's soldiers. Broussais used around fifty leeches a time per patient and was thus called "the vampire of medicine" for his fascination with bloodletting. He claimed, among other things, that all "fevers" had the precisely same origin: inflammation. Letting out "bad blood" was thus a plausible solution to the issue.

Women wore embroidery in colors inspired by leeches' dim, soft shades. A whole sort of fashion - à la Broussais - was born out of this unusual fascination. The notable traits of this fashion, according to Michel Valentin who wrote a large biography of Broussais, were purple garnitures - embroidery, trimming - and top coats that resembled leeches' colors.

This conclusion was, of course, the result of the "humoral theory", which was widely supported in Europe. Rooting from Greece, it centered around the idea that the human body held inside four types of liquids: two kinds of bile, phlegm, and blood. Each humor was associated with two qualities, either hot or cold, and either wet or dry. Having one of the liquids "in excess" was associated with certain conditions (for blood, it was any that caused redness, for example), hence bloodletting was a naturally sought out practice.

The leeches were placed “inside the nostrils, on the inside of the lower lip, on the chest, and on the side, sometimes by four at a time.” Leeches could access otherwise inaccessible parts of one's body (such as perineum) and were often used for treatment conditions that were believed to be connected to genitalia - for example, "nymphomaniac" states. To apply a leech, one would hold a small leech-containing vessel filled with water to the desired spot, wait until it bites, and then gently remove the container; tubes could be used as well.

A whole industry related to leeches was established in the 19th century: propagating leeches rose to the state level of importance and leech keeping became a popular activity. Leeches were, in fact, nearly hunted to extinction in some European countries in the 19th century, including England. Containing leeches started to become complicated: leeches only needed meals once every six months (and thus were not suitable for frequent use) and required specific conditions of containment. Thus, the mechanical leech quickly became a popular invention. The first prototype of 1817, called bdellomètre, is credited to French doctor Jean-Baptiste Sarlandière.

Transactions of the Pharmaceutical Meetings (1855) notes some statistical numbers regarding the "leech hunt" of the 19th century: in imports alone England received 8 million leeches annually, besides the large numbers collected within the country. The practice of using mechanical leeches (two types for different purposes) is mentioned as "ingenious" and discussed as a great opportunity to keep the natural leech healthy. The book tracks down purchases of various vessels for fresh water used as leech enclosures.

Actual preservation and propagation of leeches are described in various books of the time, though the peak of such publications in England comes around in the 1850s. In 1855, Specification of Nathaniel Johnston: Breeding, Rearing and Carrying Leeches is published. Johnston, whilst in Paris, invented an apparatus for keeping and breeding medicinal leeches: a complicated water vessel to keep leeches at the perfect temperature and humidity for the breeder - the inventor titled these containers hirudinieres. A similar invention was marked by another author in Specification of George Lifford Smartt: Vessels for Preserving Leeches and Fish Alive.

There was a lot of thought and effort put into keeping leeches healthy and vital - either for medicinal purposes or out of personal fascination.

[blueshistorysims]

Early January 1909, Willow Creek College, England

“How was your winter holiday?” Joel asked the moment Byron stepped into their dorm. 

“Horrible. I thought summer break was bad, but…” He sighed. “My poor sister.”

Upon returning home for the summer, Alexander and Byron learned of the argument Edeline had with their parents, and her refusal to even eat dinner with their mother. Byron pitied his sister greatly, and he felt anger at his mother for saying such horrible things. The summer only got worse since Alexander smartly decided to spend all his free time with his beau Edith so they could snog all day, leaving Byron to comfort his two sisters.

Christmas had only multiplied the awkwardness. Edeline still refused to speak to their mama, and Rebecca refused to apologize. Byron honestly thought that Edeline was going to run away and never come back, and he wouldn’t blame her. He had never been more glad in his life to leave after New Year’s.

“Well, maybe they will make amends.”

“I pray to God that they do,” he muttered, sitting next to his friend. 

“I still can’t believe next year is your last.”

“I know,” Byron replied. “I’m turning 14 next month, and I’m already looking at universities.”

“Good luck.”

The friendship he had with Joel was far different from the friendship he had with Reggie. It was a different connection, a different feeling, and Byron didn’t know how to describe it. He was always happier when Joel was there, and sometimes, when they messed around, and Joel would touch him, his heart fluttered. 

He didn’t know what to make of his feelings, so he went to the one place he found refuge, the library. More often than not, he found himself reading Leaves of Grass by Walt Wittman, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, among others, books that had been decried by Victorian society for their depictions of homosexuality, and yet, he couldn’t stop reading them. The words were comforting, relatable.

So perhaps it wasn’t surprising that it dawned on him, reading in the library late at night that reason why he connected with the words so much. The descriptions of the men and their relationships was how he felt about Joel. He was attracted to Joel. He was attracted to men.

The revelation shocked him, and if he hadn’t been in a library, he would have screamed. He liked men? That couldn’t be. He’d had crushes on girls in the past. He liked women. He was horrified by the thought. 

Unknowing what else to do, he went back to his room, close to tears, and to his relief, found it empty. He slammed the door shut and sat on the floor, leaning against his bed. “My god,” he whispered, tears spilling from his eyes.

So of course, five minutes later, the door opened, and Joel walked in, pointing at something. “Byron, are you  in t-what’s wrong?” He asked, surprised to see the state his friend was in. 

Byron looked up and wanted the scream. He was the last person he wanted to see. “...It-it’s nothing.”

Joel frowned and sat next to him. “I know we’ve only each other this year, but you can trust me. I consider you one of my closest friends.”

Byron wanted to scream. Instead, he wiped his face and shook his head. “...I couldn’t. I shan’t. Besides, isn’t it normal for us Englishmen to ignore our feelings and never speak of them?”

He laughed. “I am not like most Englishmen, Byron. I don’t think you are either.”

He turned to him, unsure of what to make of his words. “...What?”

Joel swallowed, his face growing pale. “I’ve seen what you’ve been reading lately,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m about to do something very stupid.”

Byron barely processed what his friend had said before Joel pressed his lips against his.

Byron blinked. Joel was kissing him. He was kissing Joel. He liked kissing Joel. After a second, he just closed his eyes and went with it, deciding for once not to care about the consequences. 

[writingalice]

After reading Dracula's Guest because I heard about it, I can say this : Jonathan Harker isn't stupid. At least, he isn't that stupid.

I mean, I ever laughed while reading because the englishman of the story is so stupid that I can't stop myself (a thought for my long-suffering friend who endured the extra-long monologue I had about it, including extracts read in a very strange deep-voice).

But what is interesting about this is that we know it was cancelled before the edition, which means it was supposed to be a part of the book. And I know we all assume it was a previous version of our Jonathan, but I do think the main character is not Jonathan. He's one of the hundreds people who went in Castle Dracula and found death, because he was not clever enough to get far away from it.

What is interesting in Dracula's Guest (which I may have misinterpreted, as English is not my first language) is that we have the same type of character. A young man, English, brave and who seems to have some duty, with some language skills (in Russian, if not any other language) and some taste for beauty and picturesque. But, even if they have a lot of common points, they are really different.

Let's examine the situations. I take the 4th May extract from Dracula and the whole novella Dracula's Guest.

We have the same day : the eve of walûrgis Nacht. Both characters are warned it's Walpurgis Nacht and that there's something special about this particular night. Do they go away ? No.

We also have the same type-character (I'm sorry if it's not the good word) : a young, english man, who has some kind of mission or work to do. They are both guests of Dracula and everyone knows it.

But what is interesting is that they have not the same behavior. They are both some kind of a tourist (I saw some post that compares Jonathan to a foolish tourist the locals try to advert, and I think it's wrong, but this is not the point - I suppose I'll have to do this post later) and they both have some problems to speak with the locals. Jonathan listens and... well, he doesn't understand, but he accepts and he tries to comfort the innkeeper-wife, and the passengers and the coach make a deep impression on him. Besides, the Englishman doesn't care. he thinks it's just a little more picturesque. We can see this in : "Ah! I see, a suicide. How interesting!". He doesn't think it's sad, or even think as it as an event that happened to real people : he sees it as if it were an attraction. And when he says "Go home, Johann—Walpurgis-nacht doesn’t concern Englishmen.", it's just condescending (and the usual-racism of XIXth too, but it's in the whole book, so).

Also, the young Englishman doesn't have to go and see. He is gone for a nice ride and to enjoy a nice landscape, but the point is - it's leisure. He absolutely could go back, he doesn't have some duty. If it is scaring people around him, he could just go back and say "I'll visit it anyway, but another day, as you're all so anxious." But he doesn't and go to visit - and get nearly killed (he's just saved by some turnaround even I would not use). He rejects the help of Johann the coach and doesn't listen to the maître d'hôtel. We can assume that, if someone offered him a crucifix or some wild rose or tried to give him garlic or anything like that, he would have refused.

Jonathan Harker has to go to the Count's castle. As some people here have said, it is the way he can live. He doesn't have much money, and he is going to get married, and it is his duty anyway. He has an obligation with Peter Hawkins and he goes because it's the only way for him to do what he has to. But before, the locals try to advert him - and he listens. He takes the crucifix, and all the other gifts, even if he doesn't believe in such symbols. He really tries to comfort the innkeeper-wife. And I think if he had the capacity to do it, he would have stay in Bistritz only for the night, as everyone seems so concerned. He has a duty for now, but if he had the money and the capacity (for example, if it was a holiday trip) he would have stay to reassure the locals. In any way, he treats people with respect - and he doesn't laugh at the locals, as the young Englishman does, but he listens to them and feels concerned.

The point I'm trying to make is that the real difference is in their behaviors. It is, in many ways, a book about kindness and hope. And I think kindness saved Jonathan. He listened and tried so hard to understand and felt concerned, and he was here thinking it was weird but he had some duty to acomplish and couldn't just go back and say "sorry but the locals were strange and seemed scared". His kindness saved him : he was kind enough to accept the strange gifts and to wear the crucifix. He says himself "every one seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched." It could be vexing, or amusing, but it's touching. He cares on people. And that's what saves him.

(and there would be so much to say about the whole graveyard-sequence in Dracula's Guest but I'll let it to someone else)

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Les Trois Mousquetaires, Chapter 27

It's Athos turn, but, poignantly, this chapter is titled "La femme d'Athos."

It's a long chapter, and one of my favorites. I've always had a soft spot for Athos and his tragic backstory. It gives the book real depth and umph and also some darkness in all that harebrained swashbuckling. So let's dive into it, shall we? *rubs hands*

D'Artagnan and Aramis mount their horses to go looking for Athos, but it turns out that Aramis is continuing the Musketeer tradition of being "fine" when he isn't. He’s still too sore from flogging himself 😵 and he almost falls from his horse. D'Artagnan practically carries him back to bed and leaves without him.

(They're all idiots.)

At least Aramis is determined to spend his recovery time well from now on - by writing poetry aka love letters.

While riding, d'Artagnan muses about Athos - the one of the three he feels most drawn to, in spite of their age difference. There are several paragraphs of descriptions of Athos' physique, his manners, his behaviour, his skill set, his education and his character, in sum showing him as the contradictory, fascinating, mysterious, noble and emotionally baggaged creature millions of readers have fallen in love with - including me. (This is an Athos stan blog, in case you haven't noticed.)

Here's my favorite paragraph:

L'air noble et distingué d'Athos, ces éclairs de grandeur qui jaillissaient de temps en temps de l'ombre où il se tenait volontairement enfermé, cette inaltérable égalité d'humeur qui en faisait le plus facile compagnon de la terre, cette gaieté forcée et mordante, cette bravoure qu'on eût appelée aveugle si elle n'eût été le résultat du plus rare sang-froid, tant de qualités attiraient plus que l'estime, plus qu l'amitié de d'Artagnan, elles attiraient son admiration.

(Athos' noble and distinguished air, those flashes of greatness that sometimes leapt from the shadows in which he voluntarily dwelt, that unalterable stoicism which made him the best companion in the world, that forced and biting gaiety, that bravery one could've called blind if it weren't the result of the rarest cold-bloodedness - so many qualities attracted not only d'Artagnan's esteem or friendship but most of all his admiration.)

*swoons*

D'Artagnan also muses about Athos' melancholy, his drinking and his reasons behind it. We learn that "Athos alone drank for four", and "June and July were the most terrible months".

Pour le présent, il n'avait pas de chagrin, il haussait les épaules quand on lui parlait de l'avenir; son secret était donc dans le passé.

(He had no qualms with the present, he shrugged his shoulders if one spoke to him about the future; his secret must therefore lie in the past.)

Clever boy, our d'Artagnan.

My favorite quote from this chapter may be this one:

Athos, dans ses heures de privation, et ces heures étaient fréquentes, s'étaignait dans toute sa partie lumineuse, e son côté brillant disparaissait comme dans une profonde nuit.

(During his binges - and those were frequent - all the luminous parts in him were extinguished and his brilliant side disappeared into a profound night. )

🥺🥺🥺

D'Artagnan finally arrives at the inn in Amiens where he'd left Athos behind. When he asks the disgruntled innkeeper, he learns that Athos is, in fact, still there - barricaded in the wine cellar with Mousqueton. He'd retreated there during the sword fight and refused to come out ever since, and behaves "like the devil himself" whenever anyone tries to get him out.

Unfortunately for the innkeeper, the cellar holds all wine and food supplies, so he hasn't been able to serve any of his guests, and his business is about to go belly up.

After a tussle and some back-and-forth with two hungry and thirsty Englishmen, d'Artagnan finally manages to coax Athos out of the cellar, pale and severely drunk, claiming he must have drunk 150 bottles of wine in the past 15 days.

(Someone call UNOS for a liver transplant, STAT!)

The whole cellar is a trashed. Broken bottles, emptied barrels, leftover bones from eaten hams and broken furniture that was used as a barricade.

Oops.

To pay the innkeeper off, d'Artagnan sells Athos' old horse and gives him the money. (After all, he brought a new, better ride with him.)

Athos and d'Artagnan sit down for some wine (10 additional idiot points each) and ham, and Athos, drunk as he is, finally tells d'Artagnan his story (all the while claiming he's talking about some guy calle Comte de Berry, but he isn't fooling anyone at his point anymore but himself.)

This is the short of it:

As a 25yo he'd fallen in love with a 16yo woman girl who had been living with her brother, a pastor, both newly arrived, nobody knew where from. Athos, deeply infatuated, had married her.

One day, during a hunt, she'd fallen off her horse, and when he'd cut her dress open to give her some air, he'd found a branding on her - a fleur-de-lis, the mark of a criminal. Shocked, distraught and enraged, Athos had executed his rights as a noble landowner - and executed her by hanging her from a tree.😳

D'Artagnan is as appalled as you are, dear reader! He exclaims: "Ciel! Athos! Un meurtre!" (Athos! Heavens! A murder!)

Athos' answer: He grabs a bottle and empties it in one go.

Cheers, mate.

D'Artagnan can no longer listen to Athos' ramblings, thinking he'd go mad. He hides his face in his hands and pretends to fall asleep.

Athos, very morose: "The young ones no longer know how to drink. Although this one's one of the best."

Ha. Haha.

A brilliant chapter! Dumas walks a very fine line here between hysterical humor and a shocking revelation. Athos, raving mad, dropping insanely funny remarks and then slipping into deep, dark melancholy during his ‘confession’ makes us choke on our laughter. There’s a slippery slope from comedy to tragedy, and Dumas masters it with finesse. All the kudos, Alexandre!

PS: We will have to talk about the “I hung her from a tree” part, though. But I’ll leave that particular discussion for another day.

[thewordwideweb]

Mmmm...minty fresh

Just so you know, I don’t make any money writing this Word of the Day crap. (Um, I mean these informative, entertaining blog posts.) Nope, I’m not making a mint here.

A mint. Hmmm. That might make a good Word of the Day!

There’s a pretty cool fable behind the word “mint.” (Note: we’re talking about the aromatic herb from the Lamiaceae family that gives its name to the popular and refreshing flavoring, not the place where they coin money, which – as we’ve already established – I don’t get.)

The Latin name for “mint” (again, the plant, not the money place) is “mentha,” which is also where we get the word “menthol.” The Greek word for it was “minthe,” and that’s where the fable begins.

Hades, Lord of the Underworld, was married to the goddess Persephone. But Hades was a real horn-dog. One day, while touring his hellish domain, he espied (Note: things are not just “seen” by Lords of the Underworld; they are “espied”) Minthe, the nymph who watched over the Cocytus. (Get your mind out of the gutter! Cocytus is one of the rivers of the underworld.) Anyway, Hades not only espied her, he became smitten with her, and carried her off to his underworld abode for a bit of canoodling.

As you might imagine, Persephone was not amused by the infidelity of Hades. So, being the goddess of agriculture and vegetation, she directed her wrath at Minthe and turned the nymph into a plant. Hades couldn’t turn her back, but he was able to make her a sweet-smelling plant so she would still be attractive.

And that’s why we call the sweet-smelling plant “mint.” The end.

Okay…not quite the end. The “mint” where money is coined is derived from a totally different word, and a totally different mythological character. The Old English word for the money-coining place was “mynet,” and those Old Englishmen coined their word (see what I did there?) from the Latin “moneta.” The Roman goddess Juno was the protector of the community, the goddess of women and fertility, and many other things. Different titles were added to her name to signify her different roles. She was called, among other titles, Juno Lucina (goddess of childbirth), Juno Curitis (spear-holder), and Juno Moneta, whose temple was where Roman coins were minted. “Moneta” led to the modern English words for mint and money...which, as previously discussed, I don’t get and ain’t got.

The end.

[ardenrosegarden]

Overall, it is John’s effort to secure the combined intercession of the saints that should be stressed. Canonised Anglo-Saxons were certainly prominent: Edward the Confessor, Edmund, King and Martyr, and Wulfstan. It was sensible practice for kings to associate themselves with canonised predecessors. They could claim kinship with many of them. This was doubly the case for rulers whose origins lay overseas, a useful means of integration and assertion of their credentials as kings of England. John’s devotions also stood within a long-standing tradition of cultivation of ‘English’ cults by the Anglo Norman and Anglo-Angevin ruling class, dating to the generation that arrived in England following the Norman Conquest. Many Anglo-Saxon cults experienced a renaissance as their custodians responded to the impact of the cult of St Thomas Becket from the 1170s onwards. It was also entirely usual for incomers from outside England to cultivate local saints. Bishop Peter des Roches at Winchester was ‘a Frenchman who did more than most Englishmen to foster the cult of the Anglo-Saxon saints’. John’s devotion to cults native to England should not necessarily be viewed as forced upon him due to his continental losses.

Whilst the king’s efforts to seek saintly intercession had parallels in the actions of his predecessors, there are also parallels in the reigns that followed. Henry III, who only reluctantly abandoned his claims to the overseas lands, continued the tradition of which his father had been part. He attracted attention for reciting the names of the holy kings of England: Aethelbert, Edward the Martyr, Kenelm, Oswald, Oswin, Neithan, Wistan, Fromund, Edwuld, Edmund, and Edward the Confessor. Nonetheless, royal devotion to the saints was not limited to those with whom the Angevins claimed kinship. Their attachment to Anglo-Saxon saints was part of a more nuanced policy. Kings realised that they could venerate saints in combination. John was no exception to this trend. Thus, St Thomas Becket was equally important in the royal quest for intercession as the cults of canonised kings. Likewise, major Christian saints, such as the Virgin Mary, St James the Great, St Philip, and St Peter, could be the focus of royal prayers. As a body, John could hope that the saints would intervene on his behalf to help to ensure (or regain) stability of rule and successful kingship. His visits to shrines, and to the homes of relics, and the evidence that he travelled with relics to protect him, provide compelling evidence that the saints were an element central to the personal religion of King John.

-Paul Webster, King John and Religion

[homeahoy]

The Thing with The French

Warnings:Swearing

A Discovery of Blood- Chapter 2

Their introduction to British men who made up the S.A.S had been an interesting one.  They had been inspected by a man named Paddy Mayne. A man who looked wild, angry, untamable. There was something else, Augustin had smelt it and saw it when Paddy had drawn close to him quoting some T.S Elliot to him, no doubt having heard that Augustin was a poet and philosopher himself. The scent was the unmistakable scent of sadness, the kind that was all consuming. It reeked from every pore of the man, thick and cloying.  Augustin knew then despite the man’s posturing and comment that people had remarked that they were the similar, a remark that made the taller of the two men smirk and think if only you knew, that he wasn’t one to fear, not yet anyway.  Berge and Zirnheld had escaped the comments, instead this Mayne character turned his attention elsewhere. Clearly they had passed some kind of mark, even if they would be held in disregard, and were welcomed in. Not that the trio really needed to be welcomed in, since this was no home. 

Then came the incident with the gun which could have gone one of two ways. Paddy shooting Augustin and the truth coming out as he healed or Augustin turning the Irishman or at least drinking him dry.  The whole thing had drawn Augustin to Paddy, it was a weird sort of attraction. One that drove him crazy just like the words that spilled from the man’s mouth.  Georges had taken great delight in Augustin’s discomfort. Constantly laughing when Augustin took the bait and lost his temper.  Georges was just happy to see that someone had some sort of effect on his countryman, he was pretty sure though that there was something else that caused such reactions, attraction maybe? Andre however had managed to keep his head down, impressing the Englishmen with his prowess when it came to practising the jumps which wasn’t just down to his vampiric abilities but the fact he was one of the few who had actually jumped out of a plane on more than one occasion. 

Their thirst however had started to become a problem, it was harder to hunt for willing victims or familiars in the middle of the desert and their current situation saw that they couldn’t feed from the other men in camp without everyone finding out. This was also a two scenario playout, they would be caught and have to admit what was going on and risk being killed or they fed on someone willing to share their blood with them, making them lethargic and possibly putting them into a situation where others could be killed due to the donor being out of it on duty or a mission. They had come up with a plan which involved them sneaking out to the nearest encampment in the middle of the night, feeding and returning before morning. Something made easier by their superhuman speed. They had almost been caught once by the baby of the SAS Johnny Cooper who had spotted them walking round the back of the camp when he was on duty but the casual remark of them going to the toilet had seen them in the clear.  A jolly as the British liked to call it had seen it all come tumbling out.  It had been an attack on an Italian air field to the west.  Zirnheld had lost control and began to feed, the sight and smell of blood and a hunger that had not been quenched for a couple of weeks driving him on.  Once he had started the other two soon followed, tearing through the other men, ripping out throats, drinking their fill.  It had been the men they had been sent with, in a group that had found them.  Blood dripping from their mouths, their uniforms soaked in blood. The men who were known as Dave Kershaw, Reg Seekings and of course Paddy Mayne had stood there with their mouth’s agape in horror. Taking control Paddy had pulled them from the scene and shouted a warning that their better be a fucking explanation when they got back. The shouting had seen the frenchmen regain control and leave with their group.  Sitting in the truck with sharp eyes trained on them the whole way, they knew they would have to explain.

[celticbarb]

Book: Delighting Her Highland Devil

Author: Maeve Greyson

Series: (Time To Love A Highlander, Book 7)

Publisher: Dragonblade

Book Length: 295 pages

Overall Rating: 5/5 Stars

Blog Rating: 5/5 Saltire Flags

1760 Finnich Glen, Scotland

Jovianna Jacobs and her mother Amarantha Jacobs are both Scottish history professors at the University of Glasgow, from the twenty-first century, in the current year of 2023. Her mother is hilarious as a widow and always checking out well endowed men no matter how young they are. Now her daughter will not date any men from the office no matter how attractive they might be. It does not matter how attractive or braw they might be, she has seen from experience and from other co-workers how ugly this experience might be when the relationship ends which makes it awkward for everyone in the workplace not just the broken up couple but all their co-workers too. Unfortunately Jovianna’s new research assistant Sam just doesn’t get the hint no matter how many times she says no!

Jovianna is the daughter and is an extremely tall beauty being five foot eleven inches, but an absolute klutz as she is always breaking their department's expensive electronic equipment in the classroom. However when she is on one of her favorite field trips or in her zone on one of her dangerous archeology journeys, she is calm, cool and collected. Furthermore with a clear head and totally focused on whatever Scottish subject she was currently studying. However, on her latest trip things definitely don't go as planned and are nearly drowned while exploring the gorge this time where both mother and daughter get a touch of food poisoning from her new research assistant and are swept away and end up in Scotland in the year 1760. Now due to their extensive research on Scotland both professors always felt that time-travel was a definite possibility, yet both knew how bad this time period is for the Scottish people.

This is where Jovianna meets the handsome highwayman who introduces himself in gaelic as Diabhal Dubh-Chridhe, as the “Black Hearted Devil” and is shocked she knows their home language gaelic! It is fourteen years after the battle of Culloden being history professors Jovianna and her Mum know things are only going to get worse as their way of life is only going to get worse for the Scots not better.

Even though Jovianna was English she actually understood why this man Tobias Risk and his small group of men Fitch is his second in command the the other men are Cade, Donnor, Pag and Silas who were holding up these wealthy English Nobles. After all Scotland was suffering some were starving and even dying some even betrayed by their own people for sheep! It was devastating time for the Scottish people! Plus he is only trying to protect his people and lands from his black hearted brother. Who wants to clear his lands for sheep and demanding for outrageous rents. Plus burning his lands, the crofters homes and murdering his people. He is a bit like a Scottish Robin Hood, stealing from the rich wealthy Englishmen and giving to his people to feed, clothe and make the necessary repairs to his crumbling castle.

For Tobias he is doing everything he can. for his clan to live and survive. He discovers two Englishwomen in unusual men’s clothes. He is instantly attracted to the distrustful and disrespectful younger woman. A woman who calls her mother by her first name which he finds very rude. Plus she wants him to call her by her Christian name, a sassenach stranger. He needs to make sure she is not a spy after all the stealing he is doing. After all, he and his lads would be hanged by all of their recent unlawful activities. Yet Tobias falls for her instantly as does his people.

Soon he discovers this woman who owns his heart has betrayed him and his people. Now Jovianna had only been trying to help him. She had been afraid to tell him about her plan because he has a short fuse when it comes to his temper. He does not trust easily plus what will happen if these untrusting and superstitious Scots discover these two Englishwomen are from the future? Will they end up burned as witches? Will Tobias open his heart and let love in? Will Jovianna trust Tobias and finally discover true love? Will she forgive Tobias for his short temper and tell him about Scotland’s future and the clearances? Can these two star crossed lovers even have a chance at happiness or go their separate ways? Read and find out.

Again Ms. Greyson pens another phenomenal masterpiece. This is her time- travel finale in the incredible Time To Love A Highlander series that I absolutely loved! A book readers will be gasping for air with so many twists and turns in this spectacular read! You can read an of the books in this series as a stand alone book.

A book I highly recommend!

Time to Love a Highlander” Series by Maeve Greyson

Book 1 - Loving Her Highland Thief

Book 2 - Taming Her Highland Legend

Book 3 - Winning Her Highland Warrior

Book 4 - Capturing Her Highland Keeper

Book 5 - Saving Her Highland Traitor

Book 6 - Loving Her Lonely Highlander

Book 7 - Delighting Her Highland Devil

Disclaimer: I received an advance reader copy from Dragonblade publishing. I voluntarily agreed to do an honest, fair, review and blog through netgalley. All words, thoughts, ideas are my own.

BUY LINKS:

https://www.amazon.com/Delighting-Highland-Devil-Time-Highlander-ebook/dp/B0C471X4BZ

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/delighting-her-highland-devil-maeve-greyson/1143492936?ean=9781960

[richmond-rex]

okay I just saw a Richard III stan on twitter claim that there's no way Elizabeth of York could have loved Henry VII because he was Ugly(tm) and so I just had to say/vent: the obsession with using physical attractiveness to unironically rate and compare historical figures is really fucking weird. This generally tends to happen with women (Henry VIII's wives in particular) but it's pretty common to see it with fans of Richard III as well, who are generally negative to Henry VII. Which is both very frustrating and very funny, because putting aside the generic compliments issued to royals, NEITHER of them were hailed as singularly attractive or singularly charismatic during their time as far as I know, they both looked like Some Guys who ruled the nation and (in Henry's case, idk much about Richard's reign) were quite good at it. And in Henry's case, its doubly weird and mean-spirited because I believe he was sick when his portrait was being made?

I mean, it's certainly not as though someone insulting a historical monarch's physical appearance is a major crime or anything lol, you do you, but it does become an issue when it spills into an analysis and examination of them as rulers and individuals. There's really no need to turn important periods of history into a hotness contest.

Also (more of a general rant), generally speaking, attractiveness was a feature conveniently assigned to most people of high status, and was almost a exaggerated. It's also relatively easy to identity genuine undeniable attractiveness based on the sheer intensity and awe with which contempraries raved about the people who possessed it (Elizabeth Woodville, Edward IV and all their children were key examples of that lmao, as well as geoffrey of anjou and Philip iv of France as far as men were concerned), which was usually quite rare because the majority of people were not supermodels and were not expected to be lmao.

(a bit irrelevant, but I feel like the guy who played Henry in the white princess was absolutely perfectly for a younger version of his portrait, I haven't watched the show but I absolutely loved his casting)

Oh, I think Jacob Collins-Levy does look like a young Henry VII indeed, even if a more 'polished' version of him. Certainly, I think the real Henry VII had a much stronger nose, which leads me to the main part of your comment: some people find big noses attractive, for example. People experience attraction in such different ways! Someone might be attracted to another person's voice or hands, to someone's attention to detail or alternatively to their carefree attitude, to someone's jokes or their way of speaking or caring for their family or someone's intellect and insight. Attraction is a vast and varied universe, and to me it seems quite childish to reduce it only to someone's facial features. We don't even know what his body looked like, for example; we only have Vergil's word that his height was 'above the average', and Bishop Fisher's word that Henry was 'tall and of a fine build'.

Even if you consider Henry Tudor to have been the ugliest man in the world (which I doubt, as he was described as 'remarkably attractive' in his later years still), it's quite possible there was something about him that charmed people around him, in the sense that he was able to inspire extraordinary loyalty throughout his life. Thomas More said Bishop Foxe would give up his own father's head in order to serve Henry VII; Thomas Lovell was reported to have only one painting in his multiple residences, precisely a portrait of Henry VII. Henry was able to inspire and retain the trust of 400 Englishmen for two years in exile. The same thing that was attractive to his followers might have been attractive to Elizabeth of York as well, surely? We don't know!

According to a Venetian ambassador, Henry was 'gracious and grave', and according to Commynes, he was 'very pleasant, an elegant character, and a fine ornament in the court of France'. Once, during a conversation with the Spanish ambassador, his speech was described as 'like precious jewels'. I find it doubtful that Henry VII was an all-around unlikable, unattractive figure. And that's simply going by the premise that he was extraordinarily ugly, though when compared to other European rulers at the time, it seems reasonable to call him 'just some guy', if not actually attractive (see Charles VIII, Maximilian I, Louis XII, Ferdinand of Aragon, and even Philip 'the Fair').

I linked portraits in this ask but I don't even believe they are much conducive to a good discussion on attractiveness at all. It's not uncommon to find that many figures who were described as handsome/attractive (eg: Philip the Fair) don't actually look handsome/attractive to a 21st-century audience. And that might be simply because portraits or painting techniques of the time weren't able to transcribe their real physical attractiveness to us or because their ideas of attractiveness were different from ours—to which I ask: what's even the point of using portraits to call a historical figure attractive or unattractive, then? It's perhaps more useful to go by awed reports of a certain historical figure's attractiveness, as you said, and even then, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. The resident Spanish Ambassador in England, for example, never once mentioned Elizabeth of York's looks in fifteen years, even though her beauty was mentioned elsewhere by other people.

Those types of comments against Henry VII do sound mean-spirited, as you said, even if not especially heinous (he and his family are, after all, dead). It's a sterile argument and proves no point as to a historical figure's ability to inspire loyalty or love in someone else, and even less as to their ability to rule well. If anything else, quite frankly it's not an argument at all, it's just the expected pettiness of a bad loser lol It gets even weirder at their insistence that Richard's reconstruction is especially handsome (which has inspired even some... questionable poetry).

(x)

[alex51324]

Guys, the queerness is actually historically accurate: A book report by me

I kind of thought it was, but I haven’t really studied this period, so I wasn’t sure.  But when I had to take a break from reading about gay pirates on Tumblr to go to work at the library, I figured I might as well read about gay pirates there. 

And you guys are all in luck, because I found this book:

Burg, B. R. Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition : English Sea Rovers in the Seventeenth-Century Caribbean. New York University Press, 1995. EBSCOhost.

It’s an older book, from the previous generation of queer scholars, so some of the language is not what we would use today--even when he is using contemporary-to-him language, rather than the period-accurate “sodomy” or “buggery”--but it’s full of interesting information! 

 I only had time to read the introduction and the first two chapters, but basically, his thesis is that pirate communities in the Caribbean in the late-17th to early-18th centuries were queer as fuck.  

Actual direct quote:

...among pirates in the Caribbean, where the essential features of their homosexual activity, exclusivity and the absence of constraints imposed by a more powerful and unsympathetic society, meant that buccaneer communities could evolve and mature with little or no interference from a dominant, restrictive, and sometimes hostile heterosexual nation. This opportunity to constitute and develop a community where homosexual contact was the ordinary form of sexual expression...

Behind the cut are some quotes and summaries from the first half of the book-I’ll plan on doing the same for the rest when I get around to reading it.  

The first couple of chapters are more generally about homosexuality in England in the period and about pirate career paths, so I’m expecting the remaining 3 to be even more interesting.

“Extreme hostility to homosexual acts was a relatively recent acquisition for Englishmen in the closing decades of George III's reign. {That is, the early 1800’s—Alex} Two hundred years before, in the early seventeenth century, homosexual acts were rarely  condemned by anyone. They were ignored by ordinary citizens, officers of the church, the military, and by leaders of the civil government. Later in the century, after the Civil Wars and the Interregnum, when Charles II was restored to the throne in 1660, homosexual acts and the men who committed them continued to attract little attention. Men who engaged other men for sexual purposes were found on every level of society, from the royal court, through the nobility, in the commercial classes, and on down to the sailors who manned the king's ships and the crews of the merchant fleet. For the most part, Englishmen regarded homosexual behavior as simply another sexual activity, a peculiarity to some, a matter of jest to others, a thing for public cognizance when circumstances warranted, but mostly a practice to be ignored. Even for clerics and moralists profoundly concerned with sexual transgression, homosexual activities were minor matters, no more dangerous than the heterosexual promiscuity they perceived to be corrupting the English nation.”

(Introduction, pages xxxvii-xxxviii)

“Among pirates, either aboard their ships or while living on isolated West Indian islands, homosexual acts were not integrated with or subordinated to alternate styles of sexual contact. They were the only form of sexual expression engaged in by members of the buccaneer community.”

(introduction, page xxxix)

“Although homosexual behavior was widely tolerated in late seventeenth century England and the structure of society encouraged it on several levels, such practices remained only a facet of English life and were thus subject to restriction and regulation by the larger community. This was not the case among pirates in the Caribbean, where the essential features of their homosexual activity, exclusivity and the absence of constraints imposed by a more powerful and unsympathetic society, meant that buccaneer communities could evolve and mature with little or no interference from a dominant, restrictive, and sometimes hostile heterosexual nation. This opportunity to constitute and develop a community where homosexual contact was the ordinary form of sexual expression was unusual enough, but to do it while free from persecution and opprobrium was unique, and although pirates did not indulge in conscious social experimentation, the all male society they built and sustained in the West Indies for three quarters of a century was a singular reflection of their peculiar situation.”

(Introduction, page xl)

Chapter One summary:

Opening chapter, about general attitudes toward homosexuality(sodomy) in England and its colonies at the time, reports that it was criminalized from the 13th century on, but asserts that prosecution was rare until the 19th century and that the laws do not reflect actual social attitudes.  

During the Interregnum—period of Puritan rule—prosecution was slightly more frequent, but the Puritans outlawed just about everything fun, and prosecutions also rose for things like drinking, patronizing sex workers, and adultery: basically, no evidence that homosexuality was singled out.

Morals loosened up substantially when the monarchy was restored in 1660.  In literature, the Restoration—AKA, in-show, the period when Stede and Ed came of age—is known for raunchy sex comedies.  Some of these had homosexual characters, who were typically portrayed as effeminate, and always the butt of the joke.  

TLDR: this chapter clarifies that the opening remarks—quoted above—should not be taken as indicating that mainstream society at the time was queer-positive; however, sodomy was put on the same level with other things that people considered wrong but did anyway, e.g., adultery.  

“Attitudes in the England of Charles II, as a single feature of society, would have been wholly insufficient to provide a base for the formulation of a functioning and resilient sodomitical pirate society three thousand miles away in the West Indies had it not been for a complex of interrelated social, economic, and psychological conditions. These made it possible for homosexual conduct to become virtually a normal pattern of behavior among large numbers of Englishmen and for many of these same men to transport their sexual practices to a Caribbean shipboard milieu where they became so well integrated into the total social equation that heterosexual contact became a genuinely exotic manner of sexual expression.”

(Chapter 1, p. 42)

 Chapter 2 summary:

Chapter 2 talks about the social conditions that pirates may have experienced in their pre-pirate lives.

One point potentially of interest to fic-writers is that working-class children frequently left home to work around age 7 or 8.  Burg suggests that running away from a work situation that was abusive or otherwise unsuitable was often the first step into a life of piracy or other crime. Also asserts that homosexual behavior was very common in criminal/vagrant groups, so some of these kids would have grown up in an environment were same-sex relationships were the norm.  

The other entry point to a career of piracy was working on a “legitimate” ship, either military or commercial, and gay sex was common on those, too.  (Although it was officially punishable in the English Navy, that didn’t stop anyone.)  Seafaring careers could also start at young ages, so again, pirates from that background might have come of age  in a very queer environment.  

Here is a quote that is not really about the queer aspect, but could be useful for coming up with character backstories:

“The origins and backgrounds of men who became pirates in the Caribbean during the Restoration era and the decades immediately following were comparable. The romantic notion of scions from great families being deprived of inheritances by evil brothers and scheming uncles, and then running off to recoup lost fortunes as commanders of pirate ships, has little basis in fact.  {Except for that one time--Alex} The infants who would one day reach maturity and ultimately sail as Caribbean pirates were most likely to be born to couples who belonged to Gregory King's consuming classes. They were the children of cottagers, paupers, and agricultural laborers, or their fathers might have been soldiers or sailors. They were forced into economic self sufficiency usually by the age of thirteen, working for their keep as servants or laborers. If fortunate they may have been apprenticed to a master of one of the less prestigeous and less lucrative trades. Another frequent pattern for their lives was to have been ejected from home with little training and no opportunity to acquire a marketable skill. For those in this circumstance there was some chance to find work, but there was also the opportunity to turn to petty crime, starve, or join with other lads in similar situations — runaways, fleeing apprentices, and the like — to become a member of one of the bands wandering the English roads and drifting into the nation's towns and villages….

(p. 64)

“Those youths from the lowest levels of English society who were unable to gain employment in these areas in many cases went to sea or became vagrants, gypsies, thieves, and beggars. The feature that distinguished the adolescent experience of young men gone to sea or into various types of vagrancy and illegal occupations from the experience of other English youth of the same general social levels is that the training period was not only shorter, and perhaps more demanding in some respects, but that in the years between the ages of ten and 14 or 16 when they had become adult sailors or criminals, they lived in environments populated either largely or entirely by males. Young men at sea were members of a society composed entirely of men…”

(p. 65)

[cobertaddict]

Excerpts from Mary Curzon - part 1

This is the beginning of a little series I thought I'll share with you guys. It will be a series of excerpts from the book Mary Curzon by Nigel Nicolson. Mary Curzon, or Mary Leiter, was an American heiress and the real-life inspiration for the character Cora Crawley from Downton Abbey. Mary would later marry the British aristocrat George Curzon in 1895. Please be reminded none of these are my words, all excerpts are the original work of Nicolson himself, along with his research and findings. If necessary, I'll provide annotations (**) for clarification before an excerpt is listed.

**After the Duchess of Westminster's ball, Mary was invited to Lady Brownlow's house party in Ashridge, where George Curzon was one of the many attendees. It was at this party where Mary and Curzon became formally acquitted with each other. The following excerpt discusses what followed after Lady Brownlow's party.**

~

She had fallen in love with George Curzon, and he was greatly attracted by her. Years later he confessed to her that when she took him into the rose-garden, 'I had a strong inclination to kiss you, with difficulty restrained.' During the ten days that remained before she left England, they wrote to each other daily letters which grew rapidly in intimacy, exchanged presents and photographs, and met on every possible occasion. Her first letter to him, written on the day after returning from Ashridge, is the only one to address him as 'Dear Mr Curzon', but it is signed M.V. L [Mary Victoria Leiter]. The others have no beginning at all, as if what was already assumed between them could not yet be stated. But there were other ways:

Mary to Curzon: 30 July 1890, midnight. 'A tiny little moonbeam showed me my treasure [an amulet which he had given her] while driving home. I shall put it to the test of the Garuda stone, and my first wish will be that you rest, and leave all that tires you. If every wish comes true, I shall be happy. M.V.L.'

Curzon to Mary: 31 July. 'I got your letter this morning. Thank you for it, dear, and for the words. It is a pleasure for me to have met and known you here. I shall think of you while you are away; and beg you both to come back and not wholly expel me from your memory in the interval. I wish you a happy season in Washington, and American males whose charm will just fall short of making you forget that Englishmen can also be charming. God bless you, Mary Victoria. G.'

To this she replied by sending him a pearl from her necklace, 'and had it set for you as emblematic of the tear I shed at leaving London. You, I mean'. He wore it as a tiepin that night, and promised always to wear it 'in memory of the dearest girl I have met for long. That girl is Mary Victoria.'

[sunflowers-and-mooncakes]

To Dream of an Angel

Part 2 of Dreams of Birds and Angels a series of two one shots written for @pawsitivelymiraculous for the Maribat Valentine’s Day Fic Exchange hosted by @eat0crow!

Ao3

Part 1 can be found here

***

Damian Al Ghul knew only the bare minimum about soulmates. He had been taught by his instructors in the League that they were a phenomenon that no one quite understood. To the members, they were a hindrance and should be terminated promptly. In respect to their targets, they were used as leverage to get information.

After the young boy turned 8 years of age, he dreamt of her. A small girl with wide blue eyes who would draw dresses in bright colors. The next night, his mother would explain in hushed tones what soulmates really meant. A soulmate is someone who is meant to compliment you perfectly, and once you met them you would never want to let them go. She would whisper to him about the man who helped create him, and how desperately she wished he had been the angel meant just for her.

Angel, he thought with a humorless laugh, what a fine name for the soulmate of the Heir to the Demon.

Every night when Damian would close his eyes, he would be greeted with the sight of his blue-eyed Angel. He would watch as she played with her friends. He would laugh in amusement as she spilled flour all over herself while working in a bakery. He would frown when she was pushed around by a blonde-haired bully.

The girl puzzled the young heir greatly. She was a bizarre sort; always smiling even when being knocked around. No matter how much abuse she took from that blonde trollop, his soulmate was always kind to others and give everything she could to help them, all the while asking nothing in return. It frustrated him to see someone so wholly selfless. Didn’t she know that she would be better off trying to profit from her interactions with others?

At the age of 10, Damian’s life rapidly changed. No longer was he revered as the Heir to the League of Assassins. Now, he was in his father’s home, fighting against his father’s wards for attention, and being told to relearn everything he had ever known to be true. It was frustrating, being so out of his element, but the longer he was Damian Wayne instead of Damian Al Ghul. He realized how skewed his world had once been.

While his mother had tried to soulmates explain differently from the Leagues teachings, he had always seen her words as foolish. It seemed futile to him, her longing for something she couldn’t have. However, living in Wayne Manor also allowed the now ex-assassin to see a different side of soulmates. Grayson would often talk about his dreams of his mate Starfire with a dopey grin on his face. Similarly, Drake would mention in passing how his dreams started at an older age due to the elder Superboy having not been created yet.

It was strange, living in a house of people who weren’t constantly ready to fight him. His new siblings were perplexing. Grayson was always trying to rope him into some strange “bonding” activity. With Todd’s return came his aggressive attitude, yet occasional helpfulness. Drake was usually passed out somewhere or so full of caffeine he couldn’t even hold a proper conversation. Cain was the most tolerable, having shared similar experiences and understanding the importance of silence.

The biggest influence on his new lifestyle, however, was Alfred Pennyworth.  His dedication and care for the family was to be admired. The Englishmen had a way with words and always knew just what to say to help Damian through his many sour moods. Most importantly, the butler’s selfless love for his charges helped the young Wayne to understand his soulmate’s behaviors.

As his world changed, so did his dreams of her. He would see her take her drawing from paper and bring them to life with fabric. He would look on as she made new friends. As well as enemies. If Damian had been able to, he would have fought that sly fox himself, but the smug smile on his face when Angel put her in her place.

What was most jarring to see, was her fighting villains in a red and black spotted suit. Magic had never been something he took kindly to; it having more than once put his and his family’s lives in danger. After watching countless battles in his visions, and later finding recordings of them online after much research. He could only conclude that the nature of her powers and villains were indeed magic.

It didn’t take Damian long to figure out that his soulmate was the Parisian heroine Ladybug. However, this still did not allow him to meet her. At the very beginning of her tenure, Ladybug and the government of Paris had barred all Justice League access to the city, keeping him from getting there using the cover of Robin.

His next plan was to go to Paris as a civilian. However, he could find no way under his family’s constant hovering to get there. He couldn’t use the private jet without getting caught, and him buying a plane ticket would be immediately suspicious. The last thing he wanted was for his family to find out about his blue-eyed soulmate and get involved. While he had come to care for them more than he ever imagined, in some manners they were simple too overbearing for him to deal with.

So, Damian, rather begrudgingly, chose to let fate take its course. After much thought, he realized that his Angel may not even want to meet him. She had spent the early years of their bond watching him act as a bloodthirsty killer. She was most likely appalled. Who would want a soulmate like him anyway?

Now 18, the black-haired boy spent most of his days the same. He would take Titus for walks in the park, help his father and Drake at Wayne Enterprises, and fight back the crime of Gotham in the dead of night.

Damian was on one such walk when Titus suddenly pulled his leash out of the boy’s grasp. The dog went racing down the path and out of sight with a loud bark.

“Titus!” he called, jogging forward to see the Great Dane stopped in front of a woman who had bent down to pet him.

“I apologize, miss,” he said, coming forward and lowering himself to be at the same level as Titus and her. He put his hand on the dog’s head to pet him as well, bumping the woman’s hand slightly.

“He usually doesn’t go running off towards strangers…” he looked from the dog to the woman and trailed off. His eyes widened as his heart skipped a beat. He tried hard to control his reaction. Now that he was up close, he recognized that face. It was the face of his Angel.

The woman, noticing his change in demeanor, looked up at him. When their eyes met, her expression quickly turned to surprise as well. Looking at her now. the blurry image of her that he had known before began to fill in.

He had always been attracted to his mate. Once he had assumed it was simply because the strange magic of soulmates dictated it so. But now, seeing her face to face, she was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. She had a small button-shaped nose. Her blue-black hair that had once been pulled into cute little pigtails was now in one long braid over her shoulder. What drew his attention most was her big round bluebell eyes that were so kind, yet held mysteries that even he, who had seen much of her life from afar, didn’t have the answers to.

Damian looked down at his dog who seemed quite smug, almost like he knew who he had brought his owner to. It was then that he noticed the marks. On the back of their hands flew a ladybug being followed by a red-breasted robin.

“Miss?” he called, looking back up at her.

“Yes?” she replied. He would never admit it, but his heart melted a bit at the sound of her voice like tinkling bells.

As they made eye contact once again, he made a small gesture towards where their hands sat atop Titus’ head. He swore her eyes couldn’t get any wider as she looked from the marks back up to him. “It appears we are soulmates,” he said plainly as he stood up from the ground, doing his best to appear less shaken than he was. She stood as well. “It appears so,” She gave him a nervous smile and held her hand out to him. “I’m Marinette,”

The boy hesitated for a moment, having a hard time believing the situation he found himself in was real and not a fantasy.

After a moment he took her hand and shook it. “My name is Damian,”

“Well, Damian,” she smiled brightly at him. “would you like to go on a walk and get to know each other?”

He gave her a soft look back. “I certainly would.”

[let-the-dream-begin]

A Family of Our Own: Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Read on AO3

May, 1754

Claire was in her garden with Maggie. Brianna and Kitty were supposed to be helping as well, but they were a bit preoccupied chasing chickens and making the dogs bark their heads off.

“I don’t want to hear it if either of you get bitten!” Claire called over her shoulder.

“We won’t, Mummy!” Brianna said, exasperated.

Claire turned back to face Maggie again, and the girl shook her head.

“Ye canna stop them,” she said. “No’ until it’s too late.”

“You’re too right.”

Claire was just about to demonstrate something for Maggie when the sound of a horse’s hooves caught her ear.

“Girls! Get the dogs inside!” They obeyed, turning it into another game of sorts to corral the beasts. She didn’t want the dogs spooking the horse and throwing whoever the rider was to the ground. It was midday, and they weren’t expecting any visitors. Claire squinted down the road, wiping her hands free of dirt on her apron, her throat clenching on instinct at the sight of a flash of red. Her nerves settled however, when she remembered.

Once a quarter.

Apparently it was time for Jamie’s first visit from Lord John Grey.

“Who is it, then?” Jenny appeared on the porch, flanked by the girls, including Janet this time, all having realized that getting the dogs inside could only mean a visitor on horseback.

“It’s Lord Grey,” Claire said, returning to Maggie’s side.

“Lord ha’ mercy,” Jenny breathed. “Inside, girls. Now.”

“He won’t hurt anybody,” Claire said, furrowing her brow. “There’s no need to worry. Jamie trusts him.”

“That makes one of us,” Jenny said, her jaw hard, and her eyes fierce. “Inside,” she said again, and Maggie trudged past Claire to obey her mother.

“Wait, Brianna,” Claire called, stopping her from joining the throng.

“Are ye mad, sister?”

“I want her to meet him,” Claire said lightly. “It’s about time she meets a respectable Englishman,” she reasoned, with no little disdain directed at the assortments of horrible Englishmen they’d been harassed by over the years. “Besides, he’s a friend of her father.”

“Respectable and English dinna belong in the same sentence,” Jenny grumbled, ushering the girls inside.

“Should I take offense to that?” Claire said testily, putting one hand on her hip and the other on Brianna’s shoulder.

“I’ll let ye know in a bit.” She gestured with her chin, and Claire turned around to see the horse crossing the threshold of the archway. She was surprised by his appearance; she didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because he bore little to no resemblance to the scrawny young lad from all those years ago. His face was kind and gentle; his eyes held both quiet mirth and an impenetrable sadness. He was slender but still finely muscled, the makings of a good soldier.

“Good day, Madame,” he said, slowing his horse to a stop. “Is this Broch Tuarach?”

“That it is,” Claire answered.

The man paused for a moment, blinking back something that was seemingly shock, his lips parting silently, then closing. “Well,” he said, awed. “I do believe I’m in the presence of the Englishwoman I’ve heard so very much about.”

He dismounted, keeping hold on the reins. He bowed lowly, bringing his tricorn hat to his chest, maintaining eye contact all the while. “Lord John Grey,” he said. “I am entirely at your service, Ma’am.”

“Claire Fraser,” she answered, curtsying, keeping one hand on Brianna’s shoulder. “And I do believe it is I who is at your service, my Lord. You’re the reason I’m no longer a widow, after all.”

He smiled, almost seeming uncomfortable as he put his hat back in place. “Yes, well, it was the least I could do,” he said. “And this is?”

“Brianna Fraser,” Claire said proudly, nudging the girl a bit so that she’d curtsy. “My daughter. Jamie’s daughter.”

“My God,” John breathed, his eyes wide with wonder. “No wonder she’s his spitting image. He never mentioned…”

“He never knew,” Claire said sadly. “I wasn’t showing until after Culloden. She was quite the surprise.” Claire gripped both of Brianna’s shoulders.

“Indeed,” John said. “Well, Mistress Fraser, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Brianna answered, her normally hybrid speech entirely posh, her nose stuck in the air. Claire briefly contemplated that perhaps her daughter was mocking John’s Englishness, but she quickly dismissed the thought.

“She doesn’t have the burr, then?” John said, amused.

“She has whatever she wants in the moment,” Claire said with a chuckle. “She’s quite the impressionist. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Indeed, Mother,” she said in the same tone, staring John down, or up, rather.

Both of the adults chuckled, perhaps a bit uncomfortably.

“This is one of Da’s dearest friends, Brianna,” Claire said cheerily, squeezing her shoulders and looking down at her. “He’s the reason that he came home to us. I’d like it if we were all friends. Wouldn’t you?”

“I should indeed love to make the acquaintance of one of the King’s finest,” Brianna said rather obnoxiously, drawling the vowels like a veritable fop. “Even if he’s a bloody Redcoat,” she added, not skipping a beat, her accent remaining perfect.

“Brianna — !”

“John!”

Before Claire could scold her daughter’s behavior, Jamie came running from the side of the house, trailed closely by Rabbie, likely along to take care of John’s horse. John smiled uncomfortably at Claire before turning to greet Jamie as he quickly approached. Claire was rather shameless in how she admired her husband, glistening as he was with sweat from a long day in the fields, curls damp and wild, shirt slightly stained at the collar and clinging to him despite its loose fitting, exposing the overworked muscles beneath. She had to remind herself there was company, including that of their small daughter.

Dragging her eyes off of her husband’s beautifully made body, she immediately noticed she was not the only one aware of said beauty.

John immediately changed when Jamie came into view, in ways that Claire could not exactly put her finger on. He seemed lighter, as if being fed for the first time after months of starvation.

Christ...this isn’t attraction.

This man is in love with my husband.

“Christ, man, it’s good to see ye,” Jamie said enthusiastically, shaking John’s hand with fervor. “Ye’ve met her then? Ye met my wife? And my child?”

Any insecurity that had just seized Claire’s heart upon her realization melted away, and she strode contentedly to meet Jamie, pulling Brianna along by the hand. She smiled, standing at Jamie’s side and settling herself into him, warming to her core as Jamie draped an arm over her shoulder. She reveled in the smell of him; dirt, manure, sweat, and Jamie, his general masculinity.

“Yes, I’ve had the pleasure,” John said, smiling more genuinely at Claire. “Beautiful, both of them.”

“Thank ye, a charaid.” Jamie was warm against her, flushing with pride. “Can ye imagine? I had a bairn all those years and I hadnae a single clue.”

“I can’t imagine,” John said. “You must have been overjoyed.”

“Aye.” Jamie looked down at me, catching my eye sweetly, then winked down at Brianna. “She is...they both are my greatest joys.”

“It does my heart good to see you so happy, Jamie,” John’s voice became soft and light, his eyes glistening. “To have seen you through such pain, then to see you like this…” He stopped himself, seemingly overcome. Claire threaded her arm around Jamie, grasping at his side. “It’s overwhelming.”

“It is,” Jamie agreed. “There are still days I canna believe it’s true. I’m overwhelmed near every day at my luck. And it’s because of you, John. You are the reason I’ve got them back.”

He grasped John’s hand, tightly. Claire felt herself go flush, and she tightened her grip on Jamie’s side despite herself.

“I’d do it again and again, Jamie, no matter the risk.”

Their hands remained clasped together, and they maintained eye contact, and Claire suddenly felt like an unwelcome voyeur to something she did not fully understand.

He told me nothing happened. He told me nothing happened. He—

“Mummy,” Brianna piped, still not dropping her put-on airs. “I would quite enjoy something to eat.”

“Christ, a nighean, why’re ye speaking like yer mother?” Jamie wrinkled his nose down at Brianna, finally releasing John’s hand.

Brianna shot a look at John, her nostrils flared. “I’m hungry.”

“Alright, lovie. Go inside and ask Mary MacNab for something from the kitchen. We’ll be in.”

Claire briefly brushed a few curls away from Brianna’s face before the girl scampered inside, apparently all too eager to get away.

“I’m sorry…” Claire said once Brianna was inside. “She’s not normally so rude.”

“She was rude?” Jamie furrowed his brow.

“Before you got here, she called him a bloody Redcoat.”

Jamie snorted, then smiled crookedly at John. “Well, she isna wrong.”

Claire pinched Jamie’s side, causing him to jerk a bit.

“She also was most certainly mocking his speech,” Claire said. “She does that sometimes, impersonates the Redcoats that come by. To make her cousins laugh. I suppose she thought she’d try doing it to your face since she knows you’re a friend.”

“Yes, well,” John dipped his head a bit, clasping his hands behind his back. “I can’t say I blame her. I’ve heard brutal things.”

“Aye. My family suffered many an indignity in my absence at the hand of some Redcoat or another,” Jamie said, tightening his grip on Claire. “My brother-in-law told me Claire was beaten.”

“Oh, Jamie,” Claire said. “I wish he hadn’t…”

“No, I’m glad he did. Because if he ever returned — ”

“I know Lord John is a friend,” Claire interrupted quickly. “But perhaps it’s best either way to...refrain. From what you’re about to say. Or anything similar.”

Jamie nodded, tight-lipped. “Aye. Well, ye get the idea. The wean’s trust has been broken. Hers and the rest of my family, unfortunately. My sister is none too pleased ye’re here.”

“Brianna has had to lie to protect me, us, all her life,” Claire said softly. “She saw me bruised and bloodied after that beating. She’s...she’s only eight. Back then she was only six. It’s...difficult to conceptualize a ‘good Redcoat’. For everyone, not just her.”

“I understand,” John said. “Believe me, I do. The last thing I want is to make anybody uncomfortable. I’ll just fill out the report and be on my way.”

“Ye mean just leave?” Jamie said, incredulous. “I’ll no’ have that. Ye’ve been traveling fer days, no doubt, no’ a home-cooked meal in sight.”

“Well, yes — ”

“And beds at an inn arena so comfortable, I ken it well.”

“Stay the night?” Claire said, perhaps a little too abruptly. “Do you think that’s the best idea? You know...Jenny?” she added quickly.

Not because I’m threatened...because of Jenny.

“Jenny can hang,” Jamie said, genially. “This man sacrificed his own safety to see me home. Right this minute he’s putting himself in danger, knowing as he does I’m no Mister Malcolm. The least we can do fer him is give him some leisure, good food, and a warm bed. Fer one night.”

Claire sighed. “Alright. But you are talking to Jenny.”

John chuckled, oblivious as to just how much he should fear Janet Fraser Murray.

“Speaking of Mister Malcolm, should I mention a Mistress Malcolm in my report?” John asked.

“Well...the other officers who’ve come by know me as a Fraser cousin, and a Scot at that,” Claire said uneasily. “Elizabeth Fraser.”

“I suppose I could say Mister Malcolm was made a widower during his time in prison, and that he’s remarried to the previously unmarried Fraser cousin. Would that make it easier for you both to live your lives together?”

Jamie and Claire exchanged a look. “What d’ye think, mo ghraidh? Any interest in being Mrs. Malcolm?”

She hummed an amused laugh. “It would be an honor.”

He leaned in to kiss her sweetly, and Claire was so swept up in the moment, she nearly forgot John was standing right in front of them.

“I thank ye, John,” Jamie said warmly.

“We thank you,” Claire corrected, smiling at John while embracing Jamie, “my friend.”

“It is a privilege to be known as such by such a woman,” John said with a small bow of his head.

“Shall I show ye around the grounds, then?” Jamie said, excited. “The lads are in the fields waiting fer me to return, but they can surely wait. Fergus can lead.”

“Fergus. Your son?” John said, as if recalling.

“Aye,” Jamie said, swelling with pride. “Ye’ll meet him at supper.”

Claire nearly offered to show John around herself so that Jamie may get back to work, but she knew that he was proud of his ancestral home and that he would find great joy in showing his friend all there was to see.

But she was too curious to pass up the opportunity to be alone with John for a few minutes.

“Why don’t you tell the lads you won’t be back so they’re not waiting for you? The last thing we need is Jenny’s wrath that productivity was slowed for all this,” Claire said.

“Aye, ye’re right.”

“We’ll wait for you in the stables, I’ll show him the stock.”

Jamie made a Scottish noise of approval, squeezing Claire to him and kissing her temple before darting off to the fields.

“Shall we?”

Claire looked up to see that John was offering her his arm. She curtsied slightly before accepting, fitting her arm in the crook of his elbow before heading off around the house and toward the stables.

“You have no idea how often he spoke of you,” John said, seemingly out of nowhere. “He loves you dearly.”

“I know,” Claire said. “I can assure you it is equally returned. Believing him dead was...nothing short of horrific. For eight years.”

“I am sorry,” John said, sincerely. “If there were a way to get word to you safely…”

“Please, don’t. You’ve risked yourself enough as it is.” Claire gave his arm a squeeze, offering him a reassuring smile.

A small silence passed between them, nothing to be heard but the bleating of the goats, the clucking of the chickens, and the leaves rustling around them.

“You love him,” Claire said.

John stiffened against her, nearly stopping in his tracks. “No, I hardly know what — ”

“It wasn’t a question,” Claire said, strengthening her resolve a bit, hardening her jaw. “Jamie told me of your predilections.”

He made to pull away, panicked. “Madame, I — ”

“It’s alright, my Lord.” Claire tightened her grip, not letting him get away. “Where I come from...such things are not so taboo.”

He gawked at her. “I’d certainly like to know where that is.”

“It’s...hard to explain,” Claire said wistfully.

John cleared his throat. “How...how much did he tell you?”

“He told me of your friend that you lost. Which…I am sorry for that loss.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice tight.

“And he told me how you...looked at him. And now that you’re here...I see it.” Claire looked away, staring ahead at the stables as they came into closer view. “You look at him the way he looks at me.”

“I…” John sighed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m not sure either.” Claire kept her gaze ahead, uncomfortably aware of their closeness. “In a way, selfishly...I’m glad you love him so much. Because that’s what brought him back to me. But it’s...cruel, isn’t it?”

“How is that?”

“Because he...he’s not…” Claire almost stopped, as John nearly had before. “He isn’t. Is he?”

John chuckled softly, smiling sadly. “There were a few times where I thought perhaps he might be. But his heart belongs to only one.”

Claire could feel his eyes on her, so she turned her head, making uncomfortable eye contact. “So you really never…”

“No, Madame, I did not. We did not.” He did stop then, looking at her seriously. “I’d never met you, of course, but I’d not be able to live with myself if I was part of betraying you.” He started walking again, his more serious point made. “I confess I hardly even had the desire, knowing as I did how madly he loves you.”

“Hardly?” Claire’s brow furrowed.

“Well…” She could feel the heat from his blush radiating off of him. “I couldn’t say never. That would be a lie. And I do pride myself on my honesty.” His words were clipped and terse; Claire almost regretted bringing it up. “You could say the mind was willing, but the flesh was weak. In a way.”

Claire nodded slowly, staring ahead again. “If it...weren’t for me. Would you have?”

She felt him stiffen again. “No. It would be an abuse of my power over him. Such a thing would be despicable.”

Despite his discomfort, Claire could hear the genuineness in his voice. It was a comfort to know, but that still wasn’t what she meant.

“What if...that wasn’t an issue?” she pressed further. “Would you have?”

She heard him swallow. “Well...yes. I’d have tried.”

Claire nodded. “Would he…?”

“You know him better than I do,” John said, not a hint of malice. He meant it.

“I’m...I’m not so sure about that,” Claire said, sounding more sad than she’d meant to. “I just mean it’s...it’s been eight years. A lot of things can change in that time. People change.”

“While that may be true, Madame Fraser, one thing has not changed,” he stopped again, turning to face her, taking both of her hands in his, “and that is the love he bears you. That I can assure you.”

Claire forced a smile, gratefully squeezing his hand.

“God, you are a dreadfully forward woman,” he said, chuckling.

“I’ve always been terribly honest,” she said sheepishly.

“While frightening, I don’t find that necessarily a detriment,” he said lightly. He offered his arm again, and she took it much less hesitantly, leading the rest of the way to the stables.

“Do you know that I bear you no ill will?” John said rather suddenly. “I realize how shallow of a promise that may seem, given that you have everything I’ve ever wanted and could never have. But it’s true.” Claire felt shame burning in her core to think of her initial reaction to the depth of John’s feelings. “Do you know what I said to Jamie after he was freed?”

“Cherish that wife of yours, Fraser,” Claire quoted fondly. “He told me.”

“Did he tell you why I said it?”

“No?”

“He asked me what he could do to repay me,” John said.

Claire felt an unexpected rush of tears, suddenly overcome with something resembling pity, mixed with immense gratitude. She squeezed his arm and looked at him.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“John,” he corrected lightly. “Please.”

“Then I’m Claire,” she echoed, “John.”

“Alright, Claire.”

They finally reached the stables, and Claire took the initiative to introduce him to all of the horses. Rabbie was in a stall with John’s horse, still brushing the beast down as he gnawed on his hay. John was absolutely tickled when Claire introduced Alastair as Brianna’s horse.

“Takes after her father, then?”

“Quite. She’d been begging me to ride since she could talk. I delayed it for years because of her condition.”

“Condition?” John’s brow furrowed, concerned.

“Oh, she’s perfectly healthy. Just...leftover complications from a difficult birth. If she fell it could kill her. I’m just...paranoid.”

“I see,” John said, though he still seemed concerned. “Does Jamie know?”

“Do I know what?” Jamie appeared in the doorway of the stables.

“Brianna’s condition,” Claire said, welcoming Jamie back into her arms.

“Oh, aye, I ken all about that,” Jamie said. “She’s a fighter, my daughter. Braw wee thing.”

“I can tell,” John said, smiling knowingly.

“Alright,” Jamie said, taking the place that John had just had, settling Claire’s arm in the crook of his elbow. “Ye’re acquainted wi’ the beasts, aye? Shall we move on to the rest of the land?”

Claire and John exchanged a fond look before both looking up at Jamie.

“We shall,” John said.

[betterthanvenus]

(XiaojunxLucas) His Name Was Xiaojun

I have never been a good person. There were times where I found myself laughing like kids, and it was disturbing. Those white dots forming in my skin made me hate myself; I felt weak, vulnerable. I wanted to be powerful- not in a charismatic sense or any way that involved logic. I wanted to violate. I don’t remember the source of this obsession of power. Oldest memory I can reach was the day that I was watching another drama involving how Englishmen led the world with glory. The king never seemed attractive, and I have always been invested in the side leads. This changed however, I remember the episode where king had a fever and was clutching his chest. It was beautiful, and I was only learning how to do math.

Was I romanticizing pain? Probably. Whatever it takes to see a strong man in a vulnerable state. I did not want to be the reason of their suffering though. As much as I loved feeling superior and loved having credits for my successes, I hated the idea that an inferior being (not in general sense, just inferior compared to me) could blame me, or even worse, hate me. I felt like the cheap politicians; indeed, I was fit to be one. If I could find what I have been looking for, I would have been a governor or something already. It did not have to be a physical object, could be an abstract concept that was supposed to be my missing piece, or whatever. I often found myself seeking this piece in people.

I desired to have a husband, who is either a soldier or a judge, or a morally grey doctor, anyone with authority over people. I wanted to witness their serious facial expressions, only to find them weeping in the house while hugging themselves. I would do nothing to help them though, I would just utter the most superficial stuff- just to make them think I did try my best to help them. Maybe I would try to physically comfort them. If I had viewers to see my bullshit, they would call this action as taking advantage of their vulnerable states. I would not object to it.

That desire was never hidden, I could tell those to everyone if they were to ask the right questions. However, asking required suspicion, and I was lucky to be seen as an easy-read person. Whenever I wanted to violate someone, my stares would be interpreted as signs of love. And even more thankfully, I was able to romanticize or art-isize everything. When I saw a trace of a chain in a person, I would say it resembled to a braided hair. When I saw a burn on someone’s face, I would go by flowers and show modern art with flowers drawn over people’s faces in portraits. Young women loved that, found it cute and boys called me childish, a pure soul. The rest though, saw through my comments. They saw how I was unbothered by the memories of these pain marks, and rather than interpreting it as a way to embrace all physical stuff and being comfortable in one’s skin or any other nonsense- they saw me. That was when I was okay with being called as an easy-to-read person, because it would be true this time.

I dated lots of people and if being with me did not make them miserable, I would find a way to do it. Manipulating? No, I would be honest with them in a really brutal way. I would not send a message when I missed them, but I would never miss on a chance to say whenever I did not want to talk to them, because it would be boring. I would never change the truth. I would even break up with them if I did not get the chance to witness their beauty, but would me breaking up with them ever caused their vulnerability? I often found myself regretting because I chose to not visit them to witness their beauty when I sent those end-er messages. I could have just manipulated them and put them on an emotional roller coaster just so I can go to their side 5 seconds after break-up, and see their glum faces, and go back to being together.

I was doing my best, for my standards. I was helping people, doing random favours, helping my friends with their relationship issues or to those who were depressed. I am not saying this to show-off, for the opposite actually. With every weird advice, heads would turn and they would follow it. I did not want them to be happy thanks to a small advice, no, I wanted my advices to succeed by using those innocent and inexperienced souls. Maybe I am discrediting myself too much, having said lots of negative things, it is easy to undermine my white sides. Let it be, because I have not met my missing piece yet, and it is getting harder and harder for me to forgive myself.

**

And I met him, too. Young, mind filled with misogynistic ideas, pursuit of perfect male body… He was perfect, in every aspect. I loved how skinny he was, how insecure he was, how angry he would get when people made jokes involving queers. I loved him a lot. I wanted to dress him up in an oversize white shirt that would make him feel small, and inferior. I would love to make him get strawberry ice cream- which may seem small, but make him slightly uncomfortable. I would love to carry him in my arms. However, my domestic dreams would sometimes go darker, where I would love to see him in a wheelchair, feeling castrated. It wasn’t my fault, blame this fantasy on Freud.

His name was Xiaojun. Sharp eyebrows and eyes of a warrior. I would stare at him, just to admire his jokes and his little understanding of life. There were times where I wanted to protect that smile, but that would mean throwing away my future, and my satisfaction. I know he had a legit fan base all over the world, and more friends than I could ever have. If they were to get a glimpse of my thoughts on him, it would be a total catastrophe.

However, I knew that I was not alone in thinking that. Every person responsible for doing his hair I would choose light colours, and white for clothes. I knew that everyone wanted to see him in a vulnerable state, they would just not admit it. Unconsciously, they would draw him in a cute style, and try to make him look simple, basic and they were very content for having eyebrows as his only distinguishing feature. That was an uncompleted theory of mine, where every person wanted to have control over one other. However, this was an unfinished theory, and he was still a perfect embodiment of the audience’s ideals. He was fairy-like in every comeback. Slender figure, smooth voice, smiles and simplicity. The beauty of contrasting images; an angry body put in a soft suit.

I really discredit myself sometimes. I could immediately start plotting a plan on how to get him, or calculate my steps. I could either find a new person or just ignore him. No, I did none of those. Everyone would expect me to take my sweet time and implant the seeds of misery. I did none, never. I just kept all those fantasies inside me. I had annoyed him though; it would make all of us laugh. This made me think that what I was doing was actually spontaneous, natural. I never disrespected or humiliated him with my jokes. I was aware of his fragility, though I never actually exploited him by using those flaws. If I had made a plan to really hurt him, which would happen out of habit, I would step back. There was a time where I planned to go to his room when he was in a very emotional state, so he would have attachments towards me- I never visited him that week. I would reject going out with him sometimes, until I made sure that I would not hurt him.

Why though? If he were to break down as I always wanted, I could see every step since we are forced to live together. I could thank to corporates for their paranoid-capitalist-profit first thinking styles, for once. I could finally be the person I wanted, be the bystander to pain, to fall. I chose to dismiss every chance to do that, fully aware. This conflict kept me awake every night. My urges were getting worse. I had to go to bathroom, and cry from the amount of violence I had dreamt- and the guilt would start dripping from my eyes. Nightmares. Every night, I would see the extremity of violence that I am capable of performing, and it would terrify me.

My roommates would usually think I was jerking off in there, so no one would check. Bathroom had become a safe space for me, where I sat on the seat and held my ankles, making sure to keep them on ground. I started looking into the mirror when I did that, and witnessed my own misery, vulnerability and all. It was horrifying. I felt like violating the reflection when I cried, I was hyper aware of the decline in mental health. Maybe it was not a decline, it was a step needed to make me realize things. However, even if it was, I decided to stop this and go back to my old ways, so that I could stop my misery. I decided to canalize my frustration (actually I am not sure what it was) towards my poor doll, my beautiful Xiaojun.

We started to hang out, practice and shop together. He was not dependent on me, despite all my attempts to help him in every single task. He was willing to become the best, not quite sure in which set. He did not talk about his emotions, or his family, or anything that can give me power over him. He was opposing my advices and finding them weird. He was seeing right through me. I was desperate and he was starting to be a threat to my being. Devastation. He was becoming the mirror that showed me how cheap I was in dreaming all those, when I was the actual weak one. I was not able to control him, and that scared me a lot.

Once, I get so low that I caressed his cheek. It was soft and was painful the next second. He slapped my hand right away, and stared right into my eyes. He sensed it. He sensed everything. Oh, that little powerful angel saw me, the ugly me, the little unlearning Dorian Gray. He saw it all, and I have never felt more inferior. He reminded me of the teachers whom caught my lies about my homework. He was commanding, direct. After that day, he would give me a quick glare across the room, which would keep me in check. He was literal police behind his fair looks.

**

I tried to romanticize those glares too, and failed. I was not enjoying inferiority in any way. All of my coping mechanisms were failing and I was forced to face with bare reality and had to use my logic, rather than reflexes. I hated thinking, I hated going out of my usual way of thinking. I had to construct everything from the start, I had to go to the roots of my ideas. I felt like that Greek man, Orpheus. However, I was afraid of retrieving a weaker version of myself to the light. It was weird that I imagined myself as both Orpheus and Eurydice. It felt good, though.

Xiaojun helped me a lot. Fortunately, he wasn’t aware of it. Every glare kept me under his panopticon, controlled. I was never going into bathroom outside of needs. Is this how God works? Man wants to jump into lava and is chained to a rock, for his own sake. Was this how religions worked? Was Xiaojun in the role of God, and if he was, what other beings were playing the God in my life?

I wanted to kiss him. I started to seek his presence in every corner of the room. He was always touring around the rooms, never in his own. I eventually started to visit other members too, while trying to find him. I was seeing their lives, what they watched and their lives. One day I asked YangYang about his girlfriend, and he shrugged it off. I asked again if he had followed my advice, and he said he tried for a while, and then forgot about it. My mind started to form another theory on insignificance of every single thing. This theory was insignificant too.

**

I kissed Xiaojun. It was after he told me about his family, where he also added elements from his current life and his goals. I did not kiss him right after though. Many of you think I have taken advantage of his emotional state, but I did not. I kissed him when he said how he would love to kiss someone right now. Invitation. I granted his wish- and my wish, our wish. Many people don’t believe in being able to forget a one-night stand if they are literally living in the same dorm. They don’t believe in insignificance. I don’t, too. It wasn’t a one-night stand too, or rather- it did not stay as one.

He was in his usual white clothes, specifically oversize, feminized in every possible way, and forced to do aegyo or something. He was seen not worthy of being a manly-male-man due to his appearance, basically. I did not like it. He was clowned for being girly, which made him angry. It made me angry too. He was not a simple figure; he was not a girl nor a kid. His identity was being distorted for the sake of fun and appeal; it was disrespectful. I disliked it. When we went to the room, he was on the verge of tears. He wrapped his arms around himself, and before he could look at my face, I wrapped my arms around him. I held him tightly, standing in the middle of the room. I was angry as if I was the humiliated one. How dare they? I covered him from sharp eyes of the world. 

It was surprising to see new sides of myself. I did not enjoy his tears, even though I imagined them for hundreds of times. Because when he cried, it was not coming from an empty well. I was seeing my own vulnerability when he was in a weak state. I was feeling that my own control was at risk if he was gone. I may not have been dependent on him when he was with me, but I knew that once he was gone, I would become an addict. It was a weird thing, that I was feeling. I saw myself in him, I saw him as my equal, my uncanny twin, my half, me and sometimes more than me. Once, I told him about this. He laughed and said it resembled a story he had read, before pulling the blanket over our bodies.

**

I have never been a good person. But I can laugh now, with less caution. I can help people, with less guilt and more freedom. I have never been a good person, but I have never been an evil one either. Now I have found a piece that doesn’t fit my old puzzle, rather, this piece is the start of a new one.

Now I have met him, I can see the insignificance of that gap in puzzle. Do I have to complete the puzzle? Yes, I will, one day. But maybe not today, tomorrow, or the day after. His birthday is approaching, should I get him a dog?

[theficpusher]

Delicate by FallingLikeThis | T | 1492 They say opposites attract. Maybe that’s why nerdy, shy Harry Styles has such a huge crush on rough, brash Louis Tomlinson. And now, he's stuck in a lift with him.

an honest mistake by disgruntledkittenface | nr | 2048 “You look different when you’re not covered in come,” he blurts out, immediately regretting each and every life choice that has led to this exact moment. Elevator Guy is going to hate him. Louis has ridden the elevator with his neighbor all week. The first time they speak, there’s a misunderstanding.

No Matter What by fallenflowercrowns | T | 2416 Two Englishmen (and two Germans) in New York. Or, a chance meeting.

Lift by threeturn | E | 3940 Liam and Louis try to get to the fifth floor.

Theory of Evolution by YesIsAWorld | G | 4652 Louis has never backed down from a dare and isn’t about to start now.

Lovin' It Up by letsjustsee | nr | 6986 What did Niall know? This had nothing to do with the few times (okay, countless times) Louis had pined over the idea of Hot Neighbor while drinking. Nothing at all. So what if he had perfect lips and long legs and the cutest little curls around his ears? Certainly not Louis. He continued to scribble away, most of his words indiscernible except for one written in large letters at the very top of the napkin: REVENGE Or, a neighbors AU in which Louis vows to get revenge on the guy who didn't hold the elevator for him - no matter how ridiculously attractive he may be.

I Can Feel Your Heart Inside of Mine by flyinghome21 | E | 8336 When you're within one mile/kilometer of your soulmate, your soulmate's first name will beat out in Morse code by your heartbeat and pulse in your wrist. It poses a problem because it's just the first name, and if you mess up translating the Morse code, you can go about thinking or looking for the wrong soulmate. Harry Styles heard the name of his soulmate when he was fifteen. The only problem? He missed most of it. Nearly ten years later, he's all but given up hope in finding his soulmate when he gets stuck in an elevator with a beautiful man....

Wearing Nothing But Your Kiss by dinosaursmate | E | 10017 The lift stopped and Harry sighed, picking up the shopping bag and looking up. They weren’t at his floor; in fact, they were at no floor. The lift seemed to have lost power, the lights flickering off and he was plunged into the relative darkness of a dim emergency light. “Great.” The man in the lift with Harry sighed, then quickly crossed the small space and pressed the alarm button to no response. Harry watched him with dull curiosity before… shit. It was that guy! Something Tomlinson, and if Harry wasn’t mistaken, he’d just been nominated for an Oscar. He dropped the shopping bag to the floor, his palms sweating. --- Harry gets stuck in a lift with that actor with the incredible arse and tries to remember how to function as a human being.

to lure a hummingbird (you had me moonstruck) by brokenbeaks | E | 81439 Before the dawn of their first proper interaction, Louis William Tomlinson doesn't know the impact of the starlit atmosphere. He doesn't know that snails can sleep for three entire years, nor that an octopus' heart rate is tripled due to its inheritance of three cardiac organs. He doesn't know, because he's yet to dive into the enigmatic, limitless mind of Harry Edward Styles. And when he finally knows, he doesn't ever want to go back. Or: An enemies-to-lovers fic where Harry and Louis are neighbours who are forced to get along due to the inconvenience (or convenience) of a broken lift.