#post scriptum notes:

[foxglovesys]

Thinking about Changeling:The Lost and how the concept of the Fetch as allegory is kinda genius to a trans/nonbinary reading. The fetch is a facsimile left in the place of victims, spirited away and changed by the true Fae. It is impossible for most people to ever tell the difference:one could go their entire lives without suspecting that your family member has been replaced, but the fetch is different:it is static, resistant to change. the fetch of a child will grow up like you'd expect it to, and grow old as its expected to, as well, and nothing more:it follows the path that blends it in. Does things that those around them would look at go, "oh, they would do that. That is so like them." Consider the plight of a trans person snatched away before they came out, or their egg cracked. It stands to reason that their fetch would NEVER transition:Their family expects their boy to grow into a young man. A deviation from that pattern draws the wrong kind of attention. And when that person comes back, changed by their time in Arcadia, they might behold the Fetch living in their shoes: The imagery of Her family enjoying a holiday dinner with Him springs to my mind. And whats worse is that the family probably likes the fetch better. fathers and mothers pass the gravy to their perfect son when in another life, without the intervention of the kindly ones, they would have ran their true child from the family home when they came out. The same true child that watches from a window now as they share their hearth with an invader, a body snatcher of sorts. Thats gotta sting. I know how much it stings because my family forced me back into the closet multiple times:They simply ignored my confession that I didn't fit in the neat category of "boy" that had been lovingly prepared for me. They told me I wasn't transgender and that was that to them, or they just outright forgot after a while. I have been both the fetch and the changeling at the same time in this scenario. The question is, what does the changeling do now? does she simply vanish in the night like I did, leaving the past life to be content with its fake memory of her, or does she burst through the window and take that fake memory, cave in the loathsome imposters skull until he collapses into twig and twine and leaves, ripping that happiness and baring cruel, unbelievable reality like tusks at everyone witnessing the event? Does she meet her false self in secret, and try to work with it, understand it? That reminds me of half-measures I've seen taken by friends. Call me by my deadname around my dad. Please. I think the most horrifying outcome from a trans perspective is that of replacing the fetch:doing away with it in secret and concealing the truth about yourself to slip into your old life. But that life no longer belongs to you: His flat chest and blunt teeth are antithetical to who you really are, now. Your claws and yellowed eyes and femininity are going to scratch under that false skin forever, until you take it off. Maybe you'll do it in secret, letting your horns breath in nightclubs and venues and forest paths far from the eyes of the people who knew the false you (in both senses of the term) or maybe you'll stuff your true nature away as far and deep as you can, even if it destroys you. Change is deeply, deeply terrifying after all.

[nameless-pirate]

Ace: smutty headcanons

Summary: just some smutty Portgas D Ace headcanons. Tags: nsfw, for both afab and amab reader Notes: Here's to my fire baby!

– MDNI –

Ace is into meaningful connections. He's looking for a spark, understanding, and good conversations. Whether it's a one night stand, a three-day marathon, or a relationship—as long as it's unforgettable.

His one night stands often turn into a two or more nights. But once he's sure you're satisfied and he's also had enough, he's gone. The only thing he leaves behind is a burning candle and a thank-you note with a post scriptum that makes your heart skip a beat.

Likes to play games. Once you start making out, he's gonna pull away from you and ask you to choose a number between 1 and 10. Whatever you choose, that's how many times you're cumming that night.

Your choice is 1, 2, or 3? “Well, baby, that's guaranteed, but I can definitely do more than that.”

Chose a number close to 10? Prepare to be overstimulated. “I know, darling, but you chose this. Do it for me, give me more.”

If you’re in for a longer session, then it’s going to be filled with games. Little bets, such as whoever cums first, loses, guessing games like what he’s writing with his tongue on your body.

Consent is key. He will ask if you're okay to continue every now and then. If you say you'd like a break, it's no problem—you can just lay down next to each other and talk.

Ace is a switch, everybody!

Praise kink that goes both ways. You'll be showered with compliments and “oh, you take me so well”. If you don't reciprocate, he'll ask for it. He doesn't just want to know how good he's making you feel, he needs to know.

Sometimes falls asleep while having slow sex. You need to pull his hair a little or slap his back to wake him up.

Please pull his hair. He needs that.

Loudest moans on the Grand Line.

Loves cockwarming, so if you're in a relationship, you're going to be stuffed.

Might leave you with small burns all over your body. He's not the greatest at controlling his power, especially when his orgasm approaches. He'll feel very sorry and kiss every single burn on your skin as an apology.

If you're in a relationship, you might not get laid every night, but you'll definitely have sex every morning. At least oral as “breakfast is the most important meal of the day”.

(amab) Cum inside him when you're on top. Anywhere else is simply unforgivable. He wants it all.

He doesn’t care where he cums but he’d like to orgasm at the same time as you. Inside you is the preferred option (which I think is the case for most OP men?).

If he covers you with his cum, best believe he’s going to clean you.

If you combine his narcolepsy and love for cockwarming, you might find yourself sleeping with his dick inside you. Especially if you two are dating. In Ace’s eyes, it’s a physical form of how your hearts are souls are also intertwined.

He’s handsy!

Super into role play.

Sometimes he cums too fast. He can’t help it—you’re too hot for your own good (which he will tell you). Don’t worry, he’ll take care of you until he’s good to go again.

[estcaligo]

*Sebek x Prefect/reader (with future relocation to Briar Valley after marriage)

Perfect Correspondence

Sebek is by no means ignorant, but his inexperience with technology sometimes leads to confusing situations. He fumbles with phone features, misuses emojis, and often misinterprets the stamps your friends send in the group chat.

When you offer to teach him, he refuses with a firm shake of his head. "It's a temporary inconvenience," he insists, as in Briar Valley, nobody uses mobile phones. "It's a waste of time to learn such frivolities."

Instead, however, he proposes something far more fitting in his eyes - teaching you the etiquette of correspondence. In Briar Valley, where you'll relocate with him after marriage, letters remain a crucial form of communication. So, naturally, you agree.

After lectures, he takes you to the library, where you settle in a quiet corner. He brings an assortment of books on epistolary etiquette, along with papers and ink for practice. Respecting the library's quietude, Sebek keeps his voice low but commanding as he guides you through the nuances of crafting letters for various occasions: invitations, thank-you notes, requests, apologies - each with its own structure and form.

"It's not only what you write but how you write it!" he declares passionately, his voice briefly echoing a little louder than intended.

When you struggle to shape a particularly ornate letter according to etiquette, Sebek leans closer. His calloused hand gently envelops yours - hesitating for a moment at the warmth of your skin. Then, slowly, he guides your hand across the thick paper, merging your movements with his. Together, you trace the curves and lines, the ink flowing smoothly under his watchful gaze.

Even when the letter is finished, he doesn't let go - his hand lingers over yours as he glances down at the table. You can feel his warm breath against your neck - too close to focus on whatever is in front of you. "Good..." he murmurs, as if he hadn't just guided every stroke of the pen. For a few stolen moments, neither of you moves, oblivious to the reason you came here in the first place. But then a muffled noise from deeper within the library snaps you out of the haze of tenderness that lingered in the air. Sebek quickly withdraws his hand, jolting upright in an effort to compose himself.

You suppress a smile, staring at the drying ink and trying to steady your racing heartbeat.

"It's already late. We shall continue tomorrow." he says, busying himself with gathering his belongings, his cheeks still faintly pink.

"Okay… Sebek?" you call softly.

"Hm?"

"Should I send you a thank-you letter after this session?" a sly smile faintly tugs at your lips.

"Hmph! Only if you can do it properly!" he retorts, crossing his arms, trying to look indifferent, despite his blush.

And you both know what "properly" means - not the right choice of ink or envelope, but a loving kiss planted at the Post Scriptum section.

[the-magiarcheologist]

Reading the Ancient Magic Book Pages

I propose to you today a short analysis of the sections of text on the pages of the Ancient Magic book we find below the restricted section.

High-res images of the book’s pages have been shared by a kind soul. Here they all are:

I was working on a completely different post when I realised that the text on the last 2 pages was easily readable and written in Latin. So I just did a quick search and discovered that these are verses from the Vulgate (4th century translation of the Bible in Latin), more precisely from the Gospel of Luke from the New Testament.

A bit more research and I could find exactly which source they got this text from: the Book of Kells, a Celtic Gospel book written in Latin and illuminated in the Insular style (a combination of Celtic and Anglo-Saxon styles). The precise origins of the Book of Kells are debated but many believe it was created around the year 800 at the monastery founded by St Colum Cille on Iona Island in western Scotland.

Here I put side by side the pages of the Ancient Magic book and the pages from the Books of Kells where the text is from (folio 204r and 275r):

The verses they used are Luke 22:23

Et ipsi coeperunt quaerere inter se quis esset ex eis qui hoc facturus esset.

Which translates to:

And they began to enquire among themselves, which of them it was that should do this thing.

And on the second page, Luke 4:8-14

Et respondens Jesus, dixit illi: Scriptum est: Dominum Deum tuum adorabis, et illi soli servies. Et duxit illum in Jerusalem, et statuit eum super pinnam templi, et dixit illi: Si Filius Dei es, mitte te hinc deorsum. Scriptum est enim quod angelis suis mandavit de te, ut conservent te: et quia in manibus tollent te, ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum. Et respondens Jesus, ait illi: Dictum est: Non tentabis Dominum Deum tuum. Et consummata omni tentatione, diabolus recessit ab illo, usque ad tempus. Et regressus est Jesus in virtute Spiritus in Galilaeam, et fama exiit per universam regionem de illo.

Which translates to:

And Jesus answered and said unto him, Get thee behind me, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve. And he brought him to Jerusalem, and set him on a pinnacle of the temple, and said unto him, If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down from hence: For it is written, He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee: And in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone. And Jesus answering said unto him, It is said, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God. And when the devil had ended all the temptation, he departed from him for a season. And Jesus returned in the power of the Spirit into Galilee: and there went out a fame of him through all the region round about.

I’m not christian and don’t know much about the Bible so I have no idea why they chose these particular verses. Maybe someone more educated than me will be able to chime in. My hunch is that these verses were just chosen at random from old manuscripts that the artists for the game were using as reference for the art style.

Now, since I was on a roll, I also looked at the text on the other pages. Pages 1 and 3 have some text written in some old form of Icelandic (figured that out from the few words I could sort of read on those pages). So I started looking into old Icelandic manuscripts but it took me a ridiculously long time to find the exact source the text is from! I was starting to go mad but here it is! It’s from an illustration of the Prose Edda found in the Icelandic manuscript ÍB 299 4to., in particular the illustration of the god Týr presented as Mars (folio 60r).

They took the short text in the little box and copy/pasted it mosaic style to give the illusion of the full page of text but you can see it’s just short sections that repeat over and over on both pages.

(To note: this manuscript is from 1764 so it’s sort of anachronistic for them to use this source for an Ancient Magic book that already existed in the Keepers time, meaning the Ancient Magic book is from the 15th century or older.)

Týr is one of the principal war gods in Norse mythology (alongside Odin and Thor) but he also presides over justice and the law. Latin texts often identified him as Mars (hence the subject of the illustration).

I could not find any transcription or translation of the text on the image, I could only decipher some words here and there such as «sigir hielldu» which google translate tells me could mean «victories held» in Icelandic. A bit further down there is «orrustu guð» which could mean «god of war». So it seems to be a short description of the god Týr and at the end there are roman numerals that identify the section in the Prose Edda where the story of Týr can be found.

Again, I can’t really see how this text makes particular sense in the context of the Ancient Magic book, probably just placeholder text from some of the sources they were studying as inspiration.

There is one last book page, but the text on this one is so blurred I didn’t even try to decipher it. Although I do note that the artist has traced over some letters which are: W S M I(?) I(?) I(?) Z N R(?) P(?) G W Q O U(?) H W R(?)

Don’t know… some of them are hard to read or could be not from the Latin alphabet. Again, I just can’t make sense of that. There are not enough vowels for it to be an anagram of an English or Latin phrase so… what else? I leave this mystery to others with more powerful brains than mine!

Anyway, this is it! Not really much to say about this but I think other people are also planning on looking into these book pages so maybe these findings can help them out!

[romeodraw250]

What do you mean I'm obsessed with Mammon 👁️👁️?

I have a passion to do a lot of doodles of the demons. I made a note where I wrote every demons I already drew. Anyway here's a post filler cause we enter a new arc. The "art block" episodes. Hope you are ready for me being absent for a while 😎 love on yall.

Post scriptum : Thank you deeply for all you support from my last post. I really appreciate it and I have no words to tell you how it helps me.

Sometimes it happens that an art you did really wasn't the one you expect to do. So I was very disappointed by the results.

I'm glad that from another perspective. People seemed to like and send me that much support. I don't usually talk knowing some will read. So I really mean you all were helpful. Thank you again for all your support. I'm glad I found in whb a community I feel good. I wish to keep going in those silly demons (and angels) drawings.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Frev Friendships — Saint-Just and Robespierre

You who supports the tottering fatherland against the torrent of despotism and intrigue, you whom I only know, like God, through his miracles; I speak to you, monsieur, to ask you to unite with me in order to save my sad fatherland. The city of Gouci has relocated (this rumour goes around here) the free markets from the town of Blérancourt. Why do the cities devour the privileges of the countryside? Will there remain no more of them to the latter than size and taxes? Support, please, with all your talent, an address that I make for the same letter, in which I request the reunion of my heritage with the national areas of the canton, so that one lets to my country a privilege without which it has to die of hunger. I do not know you, but you are a great man. You are not only the deputy of a province, you are one of humanity and of the Republic. Please, make it that my request be not despised. I have the honour to be, monsieur, your most humble, most obedient servant. Saint-Just, constituent of the department of Aisne. To Monsieur de Robespierre in the National Assembly in Paris. Blérancourt, near Noyon, August 19, 1790. Saint-Just’s first letter ever written to Robespierre, dated August 19 1790

Citizens, you are aware that, to dispel the errors with which Roland has covered the entire Republic, the Society has decided that it will have Robespierre's speech printed and distributed. We viewed it as an eternal lesson for the French people, as a sure way of unmasking the Brissotin faction and of opening the eyes of the French to the virtues too long unknown of the minority that sits with the Mountain. I remind you that a subscription office is open at the secretariat. It is enough for me to point it out to you to excite your patriotic zeal, and, by imitating the patriots who each deposited fifty écus to have Robespierre's excellent speech printed, you will have done well for the fatherland. Saint-Just at the Jacobins, January 1 1793

The proposal [to have Robespierre enter the Committee of Public Safety] was made to the committee by Couthon and Saint-Just. To ask was to obtain, for a refusal would have been a sort of accusation, and it was necessary to avoid any split during that winter which was inaugurated in such a sinister manner. The committee agreed to his admission, and Robespierre was proposed. Memoirs Of Bertrand Barère (1896) volume 2, page 96-97.

Patriots with more or less talent […] Jacquier, Saint-Just’s brother-in-law. Robespierre in a private list, written sometime during his time on the Committee of Public Safety

Saint-Just doesn’t have time to write to you. He gives you his compliments. Lebas in a letter to Robespierre October 25 1793

Trust no longer has a price when we share it with corrupt men, then we do our duty out of love for our fatherland alone, and this feeling is purer. I embrace you, my friend. Saint-Just.  To Robespierre the older.  Saint-Just in a post-scriptum note added to a letter written by Lebas to Robespierre, November 5 1793. Saint-Just uses tutoiement with Robespierre here, while Lebas used vouvoiement.

We have made too many laws and too few examples: you punish but the salient crimes, the hypocritical crimes go unpunished. Punish a slight abuse in each part, it is the way to frighten the wicked, and to make them see that the government has its eye on everything. No sooner do we turn our backs than the aristocracy rises in the tone of the day, and commits evils under the colors of liberty. Engage the committee to give much pomp to the punishment of all faults in government. Before a month has passed you will have illuminated this maze in which counter-revolution and revolution march haphazardly. Call, my friend, the attention of the Jacobin Club to the strong maxims of the public good; let it concern itself with the great means of governing a free state. I invite you to take measures to find out if all the manufactures and factories of France are in activity, and to favor them, because our troops would within a year find themselves without clothes; manufacturers are not patriots, they do not want to work, they must be forced to do so, and not let down any useful establishment. We will do our best here. I embrace you and our mutual friends. Saint-Just To Robespierre the older. Saint-Just in a letter to Robespierre, December 14 1793

Paris, 9 nivôse, year 2 of the Republic. Friends. I feared, in the midst of our successes, and on the eve of a decisive victory, the disastrous consequences of a misunderstanding or of a ridiculous intrigue. Your principles and your virtues reassured me. I have supported them as much as I could. The letter that the Committee of Public Safety sent you at the same time as mine will tell you the rest. I embrace you with all my soul. Robespierre. Robespierre in a letter to Saint-Just and Lebas, December 29 1793

Why should I not say that [the dantonist purge] was a meditated assassination, prepared for a long time, when two days after this session where the crime was taking place, the representative Vadier told me that Saint-Just, through his stubbornness, had almost caused the downfall of the members of the two committees, because he had wanted that the accused to be present when he read the report at the National Convention; and such was his obstinacy that, seeing our formal opposition, he threw his hat into the fire in rage, and left us there. Robespierre was also of this opinion; he believed that by having these deputies arrested beforehand, this approach would sooner or later be reprehensible; but, as fear was an irresistible argument with him, I used this weapon to fight him: You can take the chance of being guillotined, if that is what you want; For my part, I want to avoid this danger by having them arrested immediately, because we must not have any illusions about the course we must take; everything is reduced to these bits: If we do not have them guillotined, we will be that ourselves. À Maximilien Robespierre aux enfers (1794) by Taschereau de Fargues and Paul-Auguste-Jacques. Robespierre and Saint-Just had also worked out the dantonists’ indictment together.

…As far from the insensibility of your Saint-Just as from his base jealousies, [Camille] recoiled in front if the idea of accusing a college comrade, a companion in arms. […] Robespierre, can you really complete the fatal projects which the vile souls that surround you no doubt have inspired you to? […] Had I been Saint-Just’s wife I would tell him this: the sake of Camille is yours, it’s the sake of all the friends of Robespierre!  Lucile Desmoulins in an unsent letter to Robespierre, written somewhere between March 31 and April 4 1794. Lucile seems to have believed it was Saint-Just’s ”bad influence” in particular that got Robespierre to abandon Camille.

In the beginning of floréal (somewhere between April 20 and 30) during an evening session (at the Committee of Public Safety), a brusque fight erupted between Saint-Just and Carnot, on the subject of the administration of portable weapons, of which it wasn’t Carnot, but Prieur de la Côte-d’Or, who was in charge. Saint-Just put big interest in the brother-in-law of Sijas, Luxembourg workshop accounting officer, that one thought had been oppressed and threatened with arbitrary arrest, because he had experienced some difficulties for the purpose of his service with the weapon administration. In this quarrel caused unexpectedly by Saint-Just, one saw clearly his goal, which was to attack the members of the committee who occupied themselves with arms, and to lose their cooperateurs. He also tried to include our collegue Prieur in the inculpation, by accusing him of wanting to lose and imprison this agent. But Prieur denied these malicious claims so well, that Saint-Just didn’t dare to insist on it more. Instead, he turned again towards Carnot, whom he attacked with cruelty; several members of the Committee of General Security assisted. Niou was present for this scandalous scene: dismayed, he retired and feared to accept a pouder mission, a mission that could become, he said, a subject of accusation, since the patriots were busy destroying themselves in this way. We undoubtedly complained about this indecent attack, but was it necessary, at a time when there was not a grain of powder manufactured in Paris, to proclaim a division within the Committee of Public Safety, rather than to make known this fatal secret? In the midst of the most vague indictments and the most atrocious expressions uttered by Saint-Just, Carnot was obliged to repel them by treating him and his friends as aspiring to dictatorship and successively attacking all patriots to remain alone and gain supreme power with his supporters. It was then that Saint-Just showed an excessive fury; he cried out that the Republic was lost if the men in charge of defending it were treated like dictators; that yesterday he saw the project to attack him but that he defended himself. ”It’s you,” he added, ”who is allied with the enemies of the patriots. And understand that I only need a few lines to write for an act of accusation and have you guillotined in two days.”  ”I invite you, said Carnot with the firmness that only appartient to virtue: I provoke all your severity against me, I do not fear you, you are ridiculous dictators.” The other members of the Committee insisted in vain several times to extinguish this ferment of disorder in the committee, to remind Saint-Just of the fairer ideas of his colleague and of more decency in the committee; they wanted to call people back to public affairs, but everything was useless: Saint-Just went out as if enraged, flying into a rage and threatening his colleagues. Saint-Just probably had nothing more urgent than to go and warn Robespierre the next day of the scene that had just happened, because we saw them return together the next day to the committee, around one o'clock: barely had they entered when Saint-Just, taking Robespierre by the hand, addressed Carnot saying: ”Well, here you have my friends, here are the ones you attacked yesterday!” Robespierre tried to speak of the respective wrongs with a very hypocritical tone: Saint-Just wanted to speak again and excite his colleagues to take his side. The coldness which reigned in this session, disheartened them, and they left the committee very early and in a good mood. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de salut public et de sûreté générale (Barère, Collot, Billaud, Vadier), aux imputations renouvellées contre eux, par Laurent Lecointre et declarées calomnieuses par décret du 13 fructidor dernier; à la Convention Nationale (1795), page 103-105

My friends, the committee has taken all the measures within its control at this time to support your zeal. It has asked me to write to you to explain the reasons for some of its provisions. It believed that the main cause of the last failure was the shortage of skilled generals, it will send you all the patriotic and educated soldiers that can be found. It thought it necessary at this time to re-use Stetenhofen, whom it is sending to you, because he has military merit, and because the objections made against him seem at least to be balanced by proofs of loyalty. He also relies on your wisdom and your energy. Salut et amitié. Paris, 15 floréal, year 2 of the Republic.  Robespierre. Robespierre to Saint-Just and Lebas, May 4 1793

Dear collegue, Liberty is exposed to new dangers; the factions arise with a character more alarming than ever. The lines to get butter are more numerous and more turbulent than ever when they have the least pretexts, an insurrection in the prisons which was to break out yesterday and the intrigues which manifested themselves in the time of Hébert are combined with assassination attemps on several occasions against members of the Committee of Public Safety; the remnants of the factions, or rather the factions still alive, are redoubled in audacity and perfidy. There is fear of an aristocratic uprising, fatal to liberty. The greatest peril that threatens it is in Paris. The Committee needs to bring together the lights and energy of all its members. Calculate whether the army of the North, which you have powerfully contributed to putting on the path to victory, can do without your presence for a few days. We will replace you, until you return, with a patriotic representative. The members composing the Committee of Public Safety. Robespierre, Prieur, Carnot, Billaud-Varennes, Barère. Letter to Saint-Just from the CPS, May 25 1794, written by Robespierre. It was penned down just two days after the alleged attempt on Robespierre’s life by Cécile Renault.

Robespierre returned to the Committee a few days later to denounce new conspiracies in the Convention, saying that, within a short time, these conspirators who had lined up and frequently dined together would succeed in destroying public liberty, if their maneuvers were allowed to continue unpunished. The committee refused to take any further measures, citing the necessity of not weakening and attacking the Convention, which was the target of all the enemies of the Republic. Robespierre did not lose sight of his project: he only saw conspiracies and plots: he asked that Saint-Just returned from the Army of the North and that one write to him so that he may come and strengthen the committee. Having arrived, Saint-Just asked Robespierre one day the purpose of his return in the presence of the other members of the Committee; Robespierre told him that he was to make a report on the new factions which threatened to destroy the National Convention; Robespierre was the only speaker during this session. He was met by the deepest silence from the Committee, and he leaves with horrible anger. Soon after, Saint-Just returned to the Army of the North, since called Sambre-et-Mouse. Some time passes; Robespierre calls for Saint-Just to return in vain: finally, he returns, no doubt after his instigations; he returned at the moment when he was most needed by the army and when he was least expected: he returned the day after the battle of Fleurus. From that moment, it was no longer possible to get him to leave, although Gillet, representative of the people to the army, continued to ask for him. Réponse de Barère, Billaud-Varennes, Collot d’Herbois et Vadier aux imputations de Laurent Lecointre (1795)

On 10 messidor (June 28) I was at the Committee of Public Safety. There, I witnessed those who one accuses today (Billaud-Varenne, Barère, Collot-d'Herbois, Vadier, Vouland, Amar and David) treat Robespierre like a dictator. Robespierre flew into an incredible fury. The other members of the Committee looked on with contempt. Saint-Just went out with him. Levasseur at the Convention, August 30 1794. If this scene actually took place, it must have done so one day later, 11 messidor (June 29), considering Saint-Just was still away on a mission on the tenth.

Isn’t it around the same time (a few days before thermidor) that Saint-Just and Lebas would dine at your father’s house with Robespierre? Lebas often dined there, having married one of my sisters. Saint-Just rarely dined there, but he frequently went to Robespierre’s and climbed the stairs to his office without speaking to anyone. During the dinner which I’m talking about, did you hear Saint-Just propose to Robespierre to reconcile with some members of the Convention and Committees who appeared to be opposed to him? No. I only know that they appeared to be very devided. Do you have any ideas what these divisions were about? I only learned about it through the discussions which took place on this subject at the Jacobins and through the altercation which was said to have taken place at the Committee of Public Safety between Robespierre older and Carnot.  Robespierre’s host’s son Jacques-Maurice Duplay in an interrogation held January 1 1795

Having come to the Committee of General Security three or four days before 9 Thermidor (July 23), I was told that the two committees of public safety and general security would meet between noon and one o'clock in the place where the first held its sessions, and that I had to go there. Having asked what the reason for this meeting was, I was further told that it was to mutually explain the division which, according to what Robespierre had claimed on different occasions to the Jacobins, existed between the government committees. As I did not have the slightest knowledge of this alleged division, and as I was completely ignorant of what Robespierre had said to the Jacobins, I went to the Committee of Public Safety where I found several of my colleagues who had preceded me, and above all Robespierre, walking with long strides, glasses on his nose and throwing at everyone, from the height of his grandeur, looks which marked the deepest contempt. After a few minutes of silence, Saint-Just spoke and said in his exordium that although the youngest among us, he spoke first since we had often seen young people open opinions which enlightened those who were older; he then spoke on the necessity of organizing a constitution and ended up making a pompous eulogy of Robespierre, calling him the martyr of the liberty of his country and assuring him of all his esteem. This praise having been applauded and confirmed by Le Bas, Robespierre believed that it was time to burst out and first complained in general about his numerous enemies, whom he said were too cowardly to ever allow themselves to persecute him; he then indicted Amar, Vadier, Jagot, Carnot, Collot and Billaud, reproaching them for the fierceness with which they tore each other apart, which, having given rise to explanations, was the cause of Carnot telling him to his face that he did not like him, and Billaud and Collot repulsed his attacks with so much vehemence, energy and noise, that I more than once invited Collot to speak more quietly. Now, in the heat of this explanation, I heard for the first time that Robespierre was also criticized for having intended to put on trial the 72 of our colleagues who were still incarcerated; I also heard him being told that he had complained that one had not yet made use of this infinity of denunciations which were in the Committee of General Security against others of our colleagues, that nothing had been done so as not to provoke new troubles and to maintain concord and peace between us. This storm having passed and Robespierre having seemed to calm down, one agreed on ending the session, and that Saint-Just would make a report on behalf of the two Committees to inform the National Convention that they were not divided. Philippe Rühl in a speech held March 23 1795

…Saint-Just then fell back on his report, and said that he would join the committee the next day (9 thermidor) and that if it did not approve it, he would not read it. Collot continued to unmask Saint-Just; but as he focused more on depicting the dangers praying on the fatherland than on attacking the perfesy of Saint-Just and his accomplices, he gradually reassured himself of his confusion; he listened with composure, returning to his honeyed and hypocritical tone. Some time later, he told Collot d'Herbois that he could be reproached for having made some remarks against Robespierre in a café, and establishing this assertion as a positive fact, he admitted that he had made it the basis of an indictment against Collot, in the speech he had prepared. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de salut public et de sûrété générale… (1795) page 107.

I attest that Robespierre declared himself a firm supporter of the Convention and never spoke but gently in the Committee so as not to undermine any of its members. […] Billaud-Varenne said to Robespierre, “We are your friends, we have always walked together.” This dishonesty made my heart shudder. The next day, he called him Peisistratos and had written his act of accusation. […] If you reflect carefully on what happened during your last session, you will find the application of everything I said: a man alienated from the Committee due to the bitterest treatments, when this Committee was, in fact, no longer made up of more than the two or three members present, justified himself before you; he did not explain himself clearly enough, to tell the truth, but his alienation and the bitterness in his soul can excuse him somewhat: he does not know why he is being persecuted, he knows nothing except his misfortune. He has been called a tyrant of opinion: here I must explain myself and shine light on a sophism that tends to proscribe merit. And what exclusive right do you have to opinion, you who find that it is a crime to touch souls? Do you find it wrong that a man should be tenderhearted? Are you thus from the court of Philip, you who make war on eloquence? A tyrant of opinion? Who is stopping you from competing for the esteem of the fatherland, you who find it so wrong that someone should captivate it? There is no despot in the world, save Richelieu, who would be insulted by the fame of a writer. Is it a more disinterested triumph? Cato is said to have chased from Rome the bad citizen who had called eloquence at the tribune of harangues, the tyrant of opinion. No one has the right to claim that; it gives itself to reason and its empire is not the in the power of governments. […] The member who spoke for a long time yesterday at this tribune did not seem to have  distinguished clearly enough who he was accusing. He had no complaints and has not complained either about the Committees; because the Committees still seem to me to be dignified of your estime, and the misfortunes that I have spoken to you of were born of isolation and the extreme authority of several members left alone. Saint-Just defending Robespierre in his last, undelivered speech, July 27 1794

One brings St. Just, Dumas and Payan, all of them shackled, they are escorted by policemen. They stay a good quarter of an hour standing in front of the door of the Committee’s room; one makes them sit down onto a windowsill; they have still not uttered a single word, pleasant people make the persons who surround these three men step aside, and say move back, let these gentlemen see their King sleep on a table, just like a man. Saint-Just moves his head in order to see Robespierre. Saint-Just’s figure appeared dejected and humiliated, his swollen eyes expressed chagrin. Faits recueillis aux derniers instants de Robespierre et de sa saction, du 9 au 10 thermidor (1794) by anonymous.

The Committee of General Security was being spied on by Héron, D…, Lebas: Robespierre knew, through them, word for word, everything that was happening at said committee. This espionage gave rise to more intimate connections between Couthon, Saint-Just and Robespierre. The fierce and ambitious character of the latter gave him the idea of ​​establishing the general police bureau, which, barely conceived, was immediately decreed. Révélations puisées dans les cartons des comités de Salut public et de Sûreté générale ou mémoires (inédits) (1824) by Gabriel Jérôme Sénart.

Intimately linked with Robespierre, [Saint-Just] had become necessary to him, and he had made himself feared perhaps even more than he had desired to be loved. One never saw them divided in opinion, and if the personal ideas of one had to bow to those of the other, it is certain that Saint-Just never gave in. Robespierre had a bit of that vanity which comes from selfishness; Saint-Just was full of the pride that springs from well-established beliefs; without physical courage, and weak in body, to the point of fearing the whistling of bullets, he had the courage of reflection which makes one wait for certain death, so as not to sacrifice an idea. Memoirs of René Levasseur (1829) volume 2, page 324-325.

Often [Robespierre] said to me that Camille was perhaps the one among all the key revolutionaries whom he liked best, after our younger brother and Saint-Just.  Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834) page 139.

After the month of March, 1794, Robespierre's conduct appeared to me to change. Saint-Just was to a great degree the cause of this, and this leader was too youthful ; he urged him into the vain and dangerous path of dictatorship which he haughtily proclaimed. From that time all confidences in the two committees were at an end, and the misfortunes that followed the division in the government became inevitable. […] We did not hide from [Robespierre] that Saint-Just, who was formed of more dictatorial stuff, would have ended by overturning him and occupying his place ; we knew too that he would have us guillotined because of our opposition to his plans; so we overthrew him. Memoirs of Bertrand Barère (1896), volume 1, page 103-104.

The continued victories of our fourteen armies were as a cloud of glory over our frontiers, hiding from allied Europe our internecine struggles, and that unhappy side of our national character which acts and reacts so deplorably as much on the whole population as on our nghts and our manners. The enthusiasm with which I announced these victories from the tnbune was so easily seen that Saint- Just and Robespierre, being in the committee at three in the morning, and learning of the taking of Namur and some other Belgian towns, insisted for the future that the letters alone of the generals should be read, without any comments which might exaggerate their contents. I saw at once at whom this reproach was directed, and I took up the gauntlet with the deasion of a man willing to once more merit the hatred of the enemies of our national glory, and the bravery of our armies. Then Samt-Just cried, “ I beg to move that Barère be no longer allowed to add froth to our victories.” […] While Saint-Just was reproving me, Robespierre supported the longsightedness of his friend… […] The next day my report on the taking of Namur was somewhat more carefully drawn up, and I alluded to the observation of my critics, who were envious of the power of public opinion in favour of our troops, then busied in saving the country. This phrase in my report was much commented on, although its meaning was only clear to those who had heard the debate in the committee on the previous evening “Sad are the tunes, sad is the period, when the recital of the triumphs and glories of the armies of the Repubhc is coldly hastened to in this place! Henceforth liberty will be no longer defended by the country, it will be handed over to its enemies!”This pronouncement was not of a nature to be forgiven by Saint-Just and Robespierre, so they determined to supplant me with regard to these reports. They forced that idiot Couthon to attend the Committee of Public Safety at eleven in the morning, before I got there Couthon asked for the letters of the generals that had come in during the night, and took his usual seat at the back of the hall, waiting until the assembly was sufficiently full for him to announce the victones. About one, Couthon, being paralysed and unable to stand up in the tribune, coldly read the news from the armies from his place. This time, no effect was produced in the Assembly, or upon the public. This attempt, authorised by Robespierre and Saint-Just, having missed fire completely, the committee signified its dissatisfaction at the innovation. Ibid, volume 2, page 123-125

After his return from Fleurus, Saint-Just remained some time in Paris, although his mission as representative to the armies of the Sambre and Meuse and the Rhine and Moselle was unfinished. The campaign was only beginning, but he had several projects in hand, and he stayed in committee, or rather his office, where he was always absorbed and thoughtful. Robespierre, in speaking of him at the committee, said familiarly, as if speaking of an intimate friend: ”Saint-Just is silent and observant, but I have noticed, in his personality, he has a great likeness to Charles IX.” This did not flatter Saint-Just, who was a deeper and cleverer revolutionist than Robespierre. One day, when the former was angry about several legislative propositions or decrees that did not please him, Saint-Just said to him, “Be calm, it is the phlegmatic who govern.” Ibid, volume 2, page 139

This tyrannical law was the work of Saint-Just Consult the Momteuv of the 22nd of Germinal, where it is reported with the explanation of his motives, and you will see that, if there had been no committee, SamtJust would have used his power with as much dictatorial fanaticism as did Manus, that great enemy of the Roman anstocracy. Robespierre’s fnend never forgave me for having dimmished the force of this blow. Whilst I was at the tnbune of the Convention, he came, with someone unknown, and perused my register of requisitions. He took down certain names, and some days after, towards midnight, Robespierre and Saint-Just entered the committee, where they did not usually come (for they worked in a private office, under pretext that their duties were completely private) A few moments after their entry Saint-Just complained of the abuse I had made of the requisitions, which had been granted, said he, in such profusion that the law of the 21st of Germinal had become null and void. Ibid, volume 2, page 146

Robespierre, Saint-Just and Couthon were inseparable. The first two had a dark and duplicitous character; they pushed away with a kind of disdainful pride any familiarity or affectionate relationship with their colleagues. The third, a legless man with a pale appearance, affected good-nature, but was no less perfidious than the other two. All three of them had a cold heart, without pity, they interacted only with each other, holding mysterious meetings outside, having a large number of protégés and agents, impenetrable in their designs. Révélations sur le Comité de salut public by Prieur-Duvernois

Robespierre, who had great confidence in Le Bas because he knew his wise and prudent character well, had chosen him to accompany Saint-Just, whose burning love of the fatherland sometimes led to too much severity, and who had a tendency to get carried away. […] [Saint-Just] also had friendship for me and came often enough to our house. […] Finally our providence, our good friend Robespierre, spoke to Saint-Just to engage him to let me depart with them, along with my sister-in-law Henriette. He consented, but with some conditions. Memoirs of Élisabeth Lebas (1901)

Volume 8 — page 153. ”Saint-Just, his (Robespierre’s) only confident.” His only confident? Élisabeth Lebas corrects a passage in Alphonse de Lamartine’s Histoire des Girondins (1847)

The Lamenths and Péthion in the early days, quite rarely Legendre, Merlin de Thionville and Fouché, often Taschereau, Desmoulins and Teault, always Lebas, Saint-Just, David, Couthon and Buonarotti. Élisabeth Lebas regarding visitors to the Duplay’s during the revolution

—

When arriving in Paris in September 1792, Saint-Just first lived on No. 7 rue de Gaillon up until March 1794, and then on No. 3 rue de Caumartin (today’s No. 5) up until his death. Both those places were within a ten minute walking distance from Robespierre’s home on 398 Rue Saint-Honoré.

Saint-Just was away from Paris (and therefore Robespierre) on missions between March 9 to March 31, October 17 to December 4, December 10 to December 30 (1793), January 22 to February 13, April 30 to May 31 and June 10 to June 29 (1794).

[mercysought]

(an additional note written as a post-scriptum on another letter. the handwriting is beautiful but shaky, as if the hand holding the pen is trembling.)

Asharen, you have never been afraid to tell me what you think. So let me return the favour. I know you are more than capable of anything you hope to accomplish. You are strong enough to make it through whatever you are going through and wise enough to see the best route forward. I do not need to tell you how to do anything. But I fear for you. I wish you would not shut us out like this.

I will try to come to you. I don't know if I can make it. I want to see you again.

unprompted, my beloved // always accepting // @skyheld an addition to this

Ahn'ea abelas i'tel vhenan? Raea min, emmalath, raea min. What is sorrow without heart? It is this, my beloved, it is this. Sathaan is'ghest, aron manaan. An endless hungry beast, like the ocean.

It is a song that she doesn't know but the words keep circling around in her skull. Long fingers tap against the side of the untouched cup of tea, long nails hearing how the china sounded against her fingers out of tune and out of time and yet right all the same. The letter was open and left to the side, keeping her company on the steps to the backyard to her house. The sun was starting to touch the top of the orange trees and soon enough her whole yard would be bathed in the sun.

The day's heat had yet to fully settle down onto the city and yet the sweat already bunched on the side of her brow - though even that she knew had hardly anything to do with the weather. Not much did anymore. The world had become smaller, as small as the four walls in the room that she often found herself in - by choice, true, but by necessity more. It was not that she enjoyed this solitude, but it was the only way that she knew of trying to fix this.

This was something that she had chosen. Whatever reasons, she had made that choice. She had used the gifts provided by the artifact that she had hardly understood. And while she didn't regret it, it was deeply impossible to not feel an insufferable amount of petty anger towards it. Like being offering poisoned bread to a famished soul - what choice did one have?

Between two world shattering choices, she much preferred that the one that was set to tear itself asunder was the one within the walls of her body - not the one that was starting to get bathed by the sun in front of her. She now needed to carry it, sharpened edges and all.

Ahn'ea abelas i'tel vhenan? What is sorrow without heart?

A pause.

Ahn'ea abelas melahn rasa? What is sorrow when it finds one?

And the song keeps humming itself, weaving itself in between the bone and the soft tissue of her brain, the winding paths of her ears - the back of her eyes. Weaving itself in a soft cerulean meant to soothe. She didn't feel soothed, she felt exhausted; smothered. She felt herself torn from bone and tendons - fraying at the edges, impossible to fix.

Hopeless. Worse of all, she felt disappointed. Disappointed in herself.

There had been a time where she would have been glad to simply walk the streets of Antiva City as just anyone else. She would have closed her eyes and let herself be dragged by the crowd wondering where she would end up. And she still craved it, that anonymity of disappearing into a crowd never to be seen again. She now knew what was out there. She knew what she could do. She still remembered, even if some days it was dim, the joy that life could give her.

It was hard, holding onto those thoughts, but she did - with her knuckles bone white, she did. Even if the days grew darker and darker and the thought that she should just... accept that she was who she was, the choices she had made, was all that she could do.

Light eyes move to the letter though she doesn't pick it up. Instead, the cup is placed next to it.

There was truly nothing that she could say, reply that would make things better. She could tell them how deeply sorry she was, and she was. Deeply sorry for how disappointed he would be in her if he were to look at her now. How she could not even bring herself to write back for what could she write that would put their minds at ease? She could lie, but with what energy? For what?

Scratching her forehead, she keeps the tears that start forming in her eyes from pouring. They burn, they burn just as much as her lungs do. As the bitterness of disappointment. She picks up the letter though doesn't turn it towards her. Slowly she gets up from the step and heads back inside. All that was left was for her to continue, continue and push through her own disappointment - she needed to be done, to be successful before Ameridan actually could find his way there. And hope that her family could convince him to stay resting instead of attempting such a trip.

The letter is left neatly in the same pile that she has of other unanswered letters. There was a lot of work to do.

[shiraoyagi]

so basically you already decided that Fuuta is fully cultist at this point and everything he does is to be viewed via cult's prisoner prism.

You just picked any dubious shit and weaved a tale that fits your suspicions.

I am so brash because I am genuelly infuriated with how people pick on Fuuta in everything. "Fuuta responsible for girl's death" (even though he only targeted wicked people like S- harassers and ONLY gave a starting point, it was NOT his fault stop pinning collective will on one person for God's sake), "Fuuta "technically" responsible for Haruka's death" like Fuuta is the root of all evil. You didn't mention kotoko in your original statement though she also knew Haruka's intentions and even found amusement in them. You just pinned it on Fuuta specifically with "well multiple ppl are" how even and just of you.

"You can't find salvation there" from Fuuta and "lol yeah you go boy, I wish everyone was like you" from kotoko — which is more encouraging?

You have the guts to say DEFINETLY like you had an epiphany and scriptwriters themselves blessed you with hidden knowledge of Fuuta' guiltiness. But you're oh so gracious giving him a bit of slack since he's "under cult influence". Poor boy, so mischaracterised and responsible for all shit happening in milgram fan's heads.

For those who genuelly lack ability to read sarcasm or irony: Fuuta is not responsible for shit until proven otherwise, and by proven I mean actually proven not "deducted" by one fan from vague dialogues. I know coping with collective fck up can be tough, but face it. Fuuta did NOT kill Haruka, nor did he say anything as encouraging as kotoko did. And even LESS shit must be on him for ppl to think he killed Shidou. Shidou, who SAVED him. If you want to look at the truth, It's those who DROVE to this point, THOSE who VOTED amane guilty in t1 and forgiven in t2, those who voted kotoko, Haruka and muu forgiven in t1, then guilty in t2. It's all on these VOTING people. By extension, it was Es' brewing. Not Fuuta's. Stop pinning shit on him.

Post scriptum — I was using meme from my country's internet segment with schizo-theory as something too detached from reality and incoherent. I didn't recognize people here do not know it.

I still think your theory is too far from reality and it does not hold well under opposing questions.

Those who threaten to beat the shit out of me did not learn Fuuta's pre-Milgram story at all. 😄 If you do beat me like you want, and I end up dying, would you accept yourselves guilty for my death? Or is it """another""" thing and you're not guilty, because I said "bad thing" and must be punished? Then why is Fuuta guilty and you wouldn't be?

Side note to demonsy-lovely-draw: "Get out of anon so I can beat you up" yeah lol you wish 😘

i understand your point, especially with how i phrased my original post. it was more of a personal prediction rather than something i believe has a 100% chance of happening, and i didn't think anyone would really see the post.

also, yes, i understand that everything that happens in milgram is largely the audience's fault. i literally voted muu guilty in t2 because i cared more about my own judgments than haruka's life. however, i personally don't think this means the characters lack agency in what they do, so i don't think we are going to come to a mutual understanding on this. also, i never said fuuta killed haruka, i said that he is partially responsible. not half or full, *partially.*

either way, i don't appreciate how aggressive you have been to me over a single post. even if you've been frustrated with the fandom and how they've treated fuuta (with my behavior included in that fandom), that doesn't mean you should phrase your counterargument as so disparaging of my character (i.e. saying things like "you have the guts to", which is a bit assumptory) ((and sure yes, maybe i've been assuming things about fuuta, but i'm a *real* person and fuuta is a fictional character)).

i would've been open to discussion regardless if you had just sent me an ask saying that you think i'm wrong.

and also, i get that you meant that comment as a joke now, but it does frustrate me that i apparently have to ask for an apology... have a good day

[ratkingdotsai2]

I slept three hours last night and I'm about to make it everyone's problem so I present

joyful reunion characters send you a valentine's day card

cw: spoilers for ending and extras, multishipping, terrible jokes, knives

duan ling: it's a very pretty card, the paper has flower petals and rare plants embedded into it. in it, he reveals that he's the crown prince of your kingdom, and begs you to never treat him differently, even after he ascends to the throne

wu du: he personalized the card with pictures and drawings of things you like, and it smells very good (almost too good if we're being honest... and you start feeling a little drowsy after opening it). he put some trinkets he thought you'd like inside the envelope as well. however, the post scriptum asks you to remind him what your name is

lang junxia: there is a card, but he hid it so well that you won't find it until six months after you two break up. inside there are all the words he didn't tell you while you were together. you find yourself wishing you'd never broken up with him, and go stargazing on your own

zheng yan: there's no card. he's already in your house, naked covered only by a bouquet of flowers, and a five course meal with accompanying wine menu is ready on the table

A LOT more under the cut dkdkfkf but this post is already too long

chang liujun: the card is plain and the handwriting on it is terrible, but it's fully handwritten, and you can tell how much effort he put into it. it asks if he can bring his son protegé on your date

borjigin batu: there's no card. he kidnaps you and takes you to his house, where he gifts you a dagger and begs you to become his anda

helian bo: he bought an over the top card from a chain, but his handwritten note inside is very thoughtful. however, it says that he has been promised in marriage to your distant cousin, and you can't be together

cai yan: the card is very cute, covered in little doodles he drew while overthinking what he should write in it. several versions of the same message are crossed out, and you think the crossed out versions are better than the final message. it begs you to never leave him

yelu zhongzhen: it's a beautiful, handcrafted, and clearly expensive card. the words inside are concise, but will remain with you for a lifetime. you understand that you will never see each other again, unable to forget the little time you had together

li jianghong: it's an anonymous piece of paper with a cryptic poem instructing you where to meet him at midnight on valentine's day. the last words are 'burn after reading'

li yanqiu: it's handwritten on expensive paper with the imperial stamp on it. it summons you to the palace with utmost urgency. are you getting executed or married? who knows, probably not even him

lang junxia: there's no card. he attempts an assassination on you on valentine's day three years in a row. it fails each time

li yanqiu: there's no card. he sends zheng yan to kidnap summon you

zheng yan: the card is plain but tasteful. inside it he promises you the marquis of huaiyin's loyalty to the li family

wu du: the card is blank, but as soon as you touch it, the poison enters your bloodstream and you drop dead. as you draw your last breath, you remember that one time when you were a little too friendly with duan ling

cai wen: it's a store bought card, but exactly to your taste. he asks if you mind if he brings his little brother on your date

li jianghong: it's another anonymous scrap of paper. it asks if you can find his son and raise him for five years

lang junxia (again. sorry): there's no card. he makes you a shrine instead. yes, the whole building, including a hand painted mural. it's unfinished though

duan ling: you happen to both be at an event together, and he asks you to speak in private. you think he's going to give you a card, but he slaps you and calls you an ungrateful, unfilial, unworthy corrupt official instead

yao zheng: you haven't spoken with her in years after a disagreement. in the card, she apologises for that, and then talks herself into another argument with you

duan xiaowan: you two never really dated. she left you a sheet of paper informing you that she's pregnant and that she'll raise the child on her own, good luck finding them. thankfully you happen to know a guy

mu kuangda: the card asks if you want to be his co-conspirator and overthrow the government with him (old man yaoi rights)

fei hongde: it's not a card, it's a ten page essay on how to manage the city you govern

li xiao: the card is expensive and beautiful. inside, it says that she holds the vast majority of the military power in huaiyin and to tread very carefully if you want to keep your head on your shoulders (for a character with no more than three lines of dialogue I love her very much)

bian lingbai: the card is very friendly and flattering. he invites you to see his secret stash of gold. you're certain there's no nefarious intent behind this (sorry if this is inaccurate, it's been a while since I read this arc sjdkfkf)

xie you: it's not a card, it's a letter with the shadow guard's stamp on it. all it does is ask if you know the location of the other half of the jade arc

lang junxia (sorry I have to exhaust all the lang junxia ships): the card promises that no matter what happens, you'll go through it together. you really want to believe that he won't abandon you like everyone else did, but deep down, you know he will. you accept anyway (I'll be so fr i can't remember if this is novel canon, audio drama canon, or a fic I read. if it is a fic and you're the one who wrote it, fuck you thank you for getting me into langcai)

duan ling: there's no card. he barges into your house screaming that someone is trying to kill him and you're completely lovestruck. you ask him to marry you right there and then (zhongling my precious underappreciated ship)

borjigin batu: the card is anonymous. you open it and there's no message, only a picture of a dog made of lettuce leaves

chang pin: the card just asks you for help to find some guy you've never heard of. you think it's very suspicious so you accept just to keep an eye on him. he mysteriously disappears a few days later

han bin: the card informs you that he burnt your birth certificate

zheng yan: the card relentlessly makes fun of you. it informs you that, if only you were a decade younger, he'd happily go at it with you for three days and three nights straight (listen that part is too funny not to use it skdkfl we have langzheng rights in this household)

I'm pretty sure I exhausted all characters in foxghosts' reference index that have actual dialogue lmao (plus duan xiaowan bc she's a queen and she simply must be included anyway)

[thosearentcrimes]

Read Orlando by Virginia Woolf. It's very good, I know that much at least, but I confess I still feel lost as to anything else that should go in here. What about it is good, other than the writing broadly?

It is immediately apparent why the book needs to start in the late 16th century. Much of the book is obviously engaged in a parody or recapitulation of the didactic novel trend, in which the blissfully ignorant protagonist passes through a sort of summary of the world, ultimately learning of the folly of all earthly pursuits and the necessity of trust in the grace of God. I don't recall if any of those feature an episode in which the protagonist (so far as I know invariably born a man, and so also in Orlando) becomes a woman. And in any case, in Orlando, Orlando seems rather less affected by this change than by her other experiences.

Virginia Woolf really is very good. I had always been told so, and so did not particularly believe it, but perhaps I really should trust more in popular opinion. Well, perhaps not so much popular, a touch elitist really, but anyone who insists on their own artistic taste is an elitist by definition anyway, so certainly I should be one myself.

The book is pretty funny, a lot of the jokes really do land. Some of the satire not so much. I am not British, and I do not live in the early 20th century, and thank providence for that. But I feel it perhaps deprives me of some of the humor of the book. Some of the musing on the force of zeitgeist over individual persons was, on the other hand, very cutting and depressing, as it encourages some pre-existing fears of mine.

Most of the book I frankly don't know what to make of. I perceive it seems to exist for a purpose, and yet have not divined which one. I think perhaps with enough effort and attention and reading of expert commentary I could figure out most of them. I have moved on to other books, however, so all my observations will have to come subconsciously. Under these conditions I struggle to provide my usual recommendation. How could I know who should read it, if I do not seem to properly know what it even is? All I can say is, in this instance I think you lose nothing by respecting the established opinion.

Post Scriptum: I have been extremely remiss in failing to note that the book is very racist. For such a short book it sure can fit a whole lot of racism in it. The reason I failed to note this is that I have been reading a pile of 19th century British (and some French) literature and so I'm so used to it and it's so clearly tacked on and unnecessary that I do not think of it when sitting down to write. But that is no excuse for failing to remark on it.

[osappleobeneduci]

OSAPP/BENEDUCI: "MASSIMO IL TEMPOREGGIATORE, POST SCRIPTUM DI UN FALLIMENTO"

di Leo Beneduci_ Come gli antichi romani aggiungevano note decisive dopo aver concluso le loro lettere, ecco il nostro post scriptum sulle gesta di Massimo il Temporeggiatore. Quinto Fabio Massimo, console romano contro Annibale, evitava lo scontro diretto preferendo tattiche dilatorie: non risolvere mai definitivamente, sempre rimandare. Massimo quello più recente del Dap , ora promosso sul…

[ccaptain]

I kinda wish the more modern shipping memes had a little post scriptum at the end for the muns so I could me mushy in the form of words. Like the 'leave a note for the mun' kinda thingy.

[bopinion]

2023 / 38 - Brief compromise edition

Aperçu of the Week:

"Compromise is the best and cheapest lawyer."

(Robert Louis Stevenson, Scottish writer of the Victorian age, author of classics like "Treasure Island" or "Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde")

Bad News of the Week:

The classic plot from a scary science fiction movie: an alien species invades your homeland, takes over, and displaces the resident species. Of which only a few remain, because they hide themselves particularly well. Meanwhile, that's exactly what's happening here and now: Invasive species. Which, due to climate change (or stupidity - but let's leave aside those who smuggle in a baby crocodile in their in-flight luggage), are encroaching on biospheres that are surrendering virtually without a fight due to lack of time to adapt. We already have the first ecosystems tipping. The raccoon is one of my all-time favorite animals. But actually, the cute little crook has not to be in Germany. Just as little as the tiger mosquito, the camper crab or the red fire ant. They not only displace native species, but also bring parasites and diseases that we can't handle here. The dengue fever outbreak at Lake Garda could be just the beginning.

Good News of the Week:

Ukraine is making progress in reclaiming its homeland. Although experts (true and self-proclaimed) disagree on whether the long-awaited counteroffensive is going according to plan, one thing to note is that terrain gains have been made only by Ukraine for weeks now. The highlight of the last few days: the headquarters of the Black Sea Fleet in Sevastopol in the Crimea was severely hit and partially destroyed. Since it is or was the nerve center of the Russian "special operation," this could actually be a turning point.

Personal happy moment of the week:

On Friday evening I was at the "Wiesn" - vulgo Oktoberfest. And it was fun. With colleagues who had fun. Danced on the tables without falling down. Drank a lot but not too much beer. Talked a lot but hardly at all about their work. It's nice to be positively surprised. Thank you.

I couldn't care less...

...that Rupert Murdoch is stepping down. At the age of 92. The Australian mogul has taken the political impact of the media to a new level. Trump or the Brexit would not have been possible without the tendentious continuous fire from his journalistic cannons. It is unlikely that his son who succeeds him will change course or even return to the real roots of serious journalism: critical reporting based on objectivity and neutrality.

As I write this...

...I am dog-tired. Because a special project for the boss is keeping me unexpectedly busy for a long time, I'm currently not only overworked, but also late with my blog. And I have to shorten it, otherwise it won't work out at all this week. Sorry.

Post Scriptum

In less than two weeks there will be an election in Bavaria. That the government will continue to be led by the conservative CSU (Christian Social Union) is no question. The only thing that will be interesting is how it performs - especially in comparison to its previous and designated coalition partner, the Free Voters. Prime Minister Markus Söder has never left any doubt that he wants to continue in this "bourgeois coalition." And he is fighting primarily against the Greens, whom he ruled out early and definitively as a potential partner. The party proves him right: with 96.6%, he was re-elected as party chairman on Saturday. That can be seen as a deliberate manifestation of the status quo. Without any vision. And aligned with the supposed will of the voters, who see migration as a four times bigger problem than climate change. Well, every nation gets the government it deserves. One day we will have to look at ourselves in the mirror. And admit that we have made it too easy for ourselves.

[thelonelyraven]

Ok so I need to gush on main about Punisher because THAT ALBUM

The more I listen to it the more I fall in love with it.

And it’s like a slow burn too. At first I was really into I Know The End which is great and that I coupled with Phoebe’s cover of That Funny Feeling cause they fit so well together

but like

Then I got big into Punisher itself when I kinda got into Elliott Smith from Rick and Morty of all things, well vibing to Between the Bars and realising I’d had Everything Means Nothing to Me for years that I’d heard on Mr Robot and loved.

ANYWAYS I looked things up and saw that Phoebe had this song that’s a kind of love letter to him and I also saw about Third Eye Blind’s There’s No Hurry to Eternity which damn I didn’t expect something instrumental and with those kinds of feels from the band that made Semi-Charmed Kinda Life and like Slow Motion (don’t get me wrong, great song, but completely different vibes). Also somewhere on the internet I read the TEB song is also for Jeff Buckley whose music I love (especially his darker stuff like Dream Brother and that amazing a capella You And I, also his cover of Calling You is really impressive) but I couldn’t actually confirm that. Anyways so uh yeah Phoebe. Punisher and Between the Bars are also perfect songs to fall asleep to and that means I get more listens out of them and I think it helps them become earworms for me, idk.

So after all this I kinda get into Kyoto. Again, bit of a slow burn but I also vibe with the remix and stuff.

And more recently I also had a couple days where I kept listening to DVD Menu cause I think it burrowed deep in my brain (I blame some level of similarity with Dexter’s Blood Theme) and then when doing stuff around the house I put on the whole album cause I felt like listening to Kyoto and maybe Punisher too and I just discover the lyrics to Chinese Satellites there and then in the garden while shovelling dirt for some trees and I am floored. I vibe with this so much? Idk it’s wild. Note that chloe moriondo’s song Plastic Purse and the lyrics “I’m a punisher call me Phoebe” helped me vibe even more with her and the Kyoto remix is just hyperpop enough I put them together and it was great.

But yeah so I’m standing here getting hit by lyrics and the Moon Song bit about Tears in Heaven resonates with me personally for… reasons I won’t get into and also Lennon who was like a massive influence for me growing up like musically (I didn’t know much about his life at like 8 or 10 years old but damn did I know a lot of his songs by heaaaa— eeeh, well, I knew the music and like some words I thought were the lyrics but might have been mostly yoghurt as I very much am not a native English speaker believe it or not and didn’t speak the language properly till age… 13 to 15 ish?)

But yeah like… the whole album and lyrics and level of detail? Care? Just… the… the lyrics? And all the links between the songs on the album and songs on her previous album/EP and to other people and songs and the thread of the relationship between the artist and the fan and all the implications for us, fans, gushing over her lyrics and the references to dozens of other works??

That album is SO GOOD?!?

And I wish I could spend hours just analysing it but I can barely sit down and read the lyrics as I listen to it because these days I’m too unfocused (I really should see about that adhd diagnosis Jesus) but yeah uh

Fangirling i guess. But what else is new on tumblr?

(Also keeping the proud tradition of someone who barely uses tumblr putting random shit in the tags like they’re just an excuse for fun little phrases you can’t fit in the text — an ungodly post scriptum of some kind)

[neutron-stars-collision]

Waiting for the Night

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Chapter 20 - In the glow of the moon

Chapter 19; Masterlist Summary: Some conversations cannot be avoided. Especially when it is Bruce, who becomes impatient... Warnings: Swearing; angst. Too much talking. Author's Notes: Alas, we've made it. This is where the story ends *sniffles*. While I've got a short epilogue in mind, it's going to be more of a post scriptum, so I'm treating this as the conclusion to the journey. And what a journey it had been! 🥺 It only took me a year and a half to finish the series, but I'm so glad I did. Those idiots did not make it easy, but I'll sure miss them. This chapter is a long overdue punchline some of you had been waiting for. I hope it meets your expectations. Thank you for reading, waiting and supporting me in the very rocky process. You all made it much easier to convince my brain it was worth continuing 💕 And thank you, Shet, for dealing with my whining, doubts and endless drama - always grateful for you! Hope you all enjoy and let me know what you think? Tag list: @thecraziestcrayon, @kookiewastolen, @imimsy, @tuskens-mando, @sugarcoated-lame, @blue-aconite, @hypnoash, @rabbitdictionary, @nicklet94, @mcrmarvelloki, @shimmeringgrim, @ttae-yong, @freyadruid, @siriuslydestiny, @ms-dont-care, @raphaelaisabella, @itsmytimetoodream, @brightjimini, @castellandiangelo, @grunge-n-roses5 (let me know if you wanted to be removed/added).

(gif credit: @1038276637)

In the morning, you dared believe the universe must have a soft spot for you within its core. As soon as your eyes opened, your gaze noted two things. One, Bruce was gone. Two, there was a note with his handwriting on your bedside table.

Without letting your mind run away with the first fact, undoubtedly working itself into a spiral like no other you rolled over to pick up the page. The contents were simple: “Sorry I’m gone. The hospital called to say Alfred had been signed out, so I went to pick him up. See you soon.”

The spark of relief drowned out everything else as you dropped the paper onto the covers and smiled at the ceiling. Everything was still fucked. But this was something. Something that could take your mind off the reality. It was easy to admit that one thought. You missed Alfred. Missed his clever blue-grey eyes that saw through your bullshit. Maybe it was what you needed… Maybe.

The thought was a motivator to drag you out of bed and into the closet, absentmindedly searching for anything you could wear. The first proper wake-up of the morning came when you entered the ensuite and found yourself facing the mirror. Finding mussed hair and a red bruise on your neck. A few more below, scattered like flares across your body. Drawing attention to what happened. Making it impossible for you to deny it, even before yourself. A wave of shame rolled in your stomach, erasing the budding hunger. You turned your head the other way and never looked back until you were ready to leave the bathroom.

It was cold enough for a turtleneck, anyway.

The distraction kicked in as soon as you made your way downstairs. A chorus of voices could be heard coming from the kitchen. A sound you had not heard in the tower since the explosion. A quiet sigh of relief was all the noise you made as you headed into the room. Eager to see what was going on. Having reached the doorway, you peered inside. Bruce was the first one you saw, leaning against the kitchen counter with a timid yet bright smile. He seemed happy. Lighter than when you had first met him.

Another dangerous thought you did not want to entertain. Your gaze slipped over Bruce to settle on Alfred. He was leaning heavily on his cane, but no bandages were in sight anymore. Only a fading yellowish bruise and darker circles underneath his eyes. Dory was talking with him animatedly, her hands gesticulating broadly. A grin broke out on your face as you stepped through the threshold, immediately drawing attention to your arrival. All three pairs of eyes landed on you. Without meaning to, you met Bruce’s gaze first. The look in his eyes shifted, but his face was still open. As if he was happy to see you. Even after the previous night. You never had the time to pull that revelation apart.

“Glad to see you join us, darling” Alfred crossed the remaining space towards you with a bright smile.

Affection filled the caverns of your heart, making it impossible to get rid of that one feeling. The one that reminded you that you had not felt this welcomed anywhere in a very long time. That this, the three of them, almost felt like the home you had lost twenty years ago. You swallowed past the lump in your throat to reply, a cheeky smile masking the emotions tearing through your chest:

“Pardon me, I didn’t know we’ll be having a kitchen party” an answering scoff from Bruce was enough of a validation for the weak joke, “It’s good to see you back, Alfred” you met the butler’s gaze with a fond look of your own, not hiding just how much you had meant it.

You knew he understood, instantly adjusting his stance to open his arms and invite you in for a hug with a quiet croon:

“Oh, c’mere,” you did not need to be asked twice, returning the embrace with care, mindful of his lingering frailty.

But Alfred’s hug was everything but frail, instantly making you sink into the comforting touch you did not know you had missed. After a beat, aware of the company and the prolonged silence, you pulled back, squeezing his arms one last time. Over Pennyworth’s shoulder, you caught Bruce’s gaze again. The softness in his eyes was replaced with something more tender. Almost as if seeing you close to Alfred meant much more to him than he could say. You sent him a small smile as the butler spoke again:

“I see my boy at least had the decency to invite you to stay for longer” the older man threw a pointed look over his shoulder at Bruce before setting his piercing gaze back on you.

You did wonder whether the blush on your cheeks was as telling as you worried it might be. Because there was no escape from it.

“Of course, I-” Bruce’s offended rebuttal was never meant to be heard.

Only because you feared what he might say and whether you could mitigate the effects without the scene dissolving into chaos. You threw Bruce an apologetic smile and interrupted him with faux chirpiness:

“He did. At least until everything settles down in the city,” the apologetic note was not easily eradicated from your voice.

Because no matter what, you still felt like perhaps you were a nuisance to them. Like maybe you should have disappeared a long time ago and never bothered them again. But then Bruce was the one to ask… And the previous night, he seemed happy with you staying… You barely resisted shaking your head against the barrage of thoughts as Alfred remarked:

“Well, we’re certainly not short on space” he glanced at Dory as if awaiting her approval.

You followed his gaze only to see the older woman smile at you warmly. Giving her blessing with your favourite question of the morning:

“Coffee?” she raised the mug to accentuate the gesture.

“From you? Always” there was no need to think as you flashed her your brightest grin and joined the woman by the counter.

Perhaps it was alright for you to stay. Just a little longer.

***

The illusion of peace lasted approximately 32 hours and 27 minutes. It shattered in the afternoon of the second day of Alfred’s return as Dory left the dining room table, leaving you alone with the older man. As if he had been waiting for the occasion to arise, Pennyworth instantly settled his heavy gaze on your face. You got as far as awkwardly clearing your throat before he launched the first question:

“How are you doing?” you knew the nonchalance in his tone was only a means of keeping you calm.

And making you stay at the table, despite the alarm bells in your head urging you to run away. Because hell knew Alfred was damn good at seeing through your bullshit. Unfortunately.

“I’m good,” you pasted what you hoped was a convincing smile.

Hoping it would be enough to deter him. Foolishly.

Alfred leaned forward, putting more weight onto his forearms as he levelled you with another long look:

“Are you?” your heart stumbled in your chest as if begging to say: No, I’m not; he paused, seemingly to find the right words before driving another striking blow, “Because it took me a little over a day to see that things are not exactly easy between you” you could see the tactful turn.

The exact moment when Alfred noticed he needed to be gentle with you. When he saw your fragility and discovered the cause without you needing to say it aloud. That need to run and hide only grew stronger.

“Well… we get on just fine” you shrugged, aware that it was a futile attempt on your side.

It wasn’t a lie. Even after that night, things were fine. As in, Bruce talked to you, still shared his work updates, and checked in on you throughout the day. But he kept his distance. And you tried your best not to dwell on the fact fearing the heartbreak that would follow if you did.

“I know that you do,” compassion in Alfred’s eyes told you he noticed it too, “But I also know Bruce. And I can see that he’s desperately trying to fix something, but he doesn’t know where to start” the hint of hurt in his face was enough to crack your heart.

It was one thing to know you had been hurting Bruce. Another to hear it from someone else. Someone who knew him more than you. A wave of shame threatened to drown you as you gasped quietly and trained your gaze on the table. A lone tear slipped from the corner of your eye and dropped onto the cloth. There would be no more pretending.

“What do you want me to say?” the hysterical note crept into your voice as you heard yourself spill confessions you never dared put into words, “I’m scared, Alfred. Always had been. Because there are feelings that I can’t get rid of no matter what I do” more tears rolled down your cheeks as the desperation you had tried stifling reared its head “I don’t want to hurt him, but…” you trailed off, your voice breaking under the weight of emotions.

But that was it. The truth was spoken for the first time and somehow more terrifying. You knew how it sounded. How utterly pathetic it was to be afraid of the thing many were willing to die for. But you could not help it.

“You’re also hurting yourself, though” Alfred’s gentle statement was enough to make you look up.

You fixed your red-rimmed eyes on his face, resisting the sudden urge to scoff. He was right, but that did not change anything. After twenty years of hurting, what was some more? An eternity? Easy. Much easier than whatever was going on right now.

“That’s inevitable” you could only shrug, staring at him blankly.

Because that’s just the thing. It’s inevitable. There is no outcome where you could have this and walk away unscathed. No such variant of the reality.

From the disbelief on Alfred’s face, you knew he disagreed.

“What if it doesn’t have to be like that?” you opened your mouth to protest, but he did not let you speak just yet, “What if you could have everything you wanted and be happy?” the conviction in his eyes was something you wished you could share.

But you couldn’t. It sounded like a fable, a tale too good to be true. It sounded like your childhood before.

“I don’t think that’s possible” you levelled him with a resigned look and brushed the drying tears from your cheeks.

Suddenly you wanted nothing more than to burrow underneath the covers and disappear from the world until the morning. Only Alfred had one more thing to say…

“I beg to differ” with his tone urging you to listen, you fell quiet as he continued, “I can’t tell you what to do or think, but… You make him happy” his gaze softened as your heart panged, barely able to sit idly for much longer, “And I know that’s mutual” though there was no need, you nodded weakly, confirming the correct assumption “Love is terrifying, but it’s also worth the pain” unable to withstand the vulnerable moment, you closed your eyes, hiding the pain he could find there; he hit the metaphorical bullseye “Don’t let the fear take it away from you” as Alfred finished the speech you let out a long exhale.

As if sensing you were barely holding on, he stood up from the table and left the dining room. But not without reaching out to squeeze your shoulder first. Only once you were alone did you let the tears flow freely.

You desperately wanted him to be right.

***

Only two days later, things came to a head with the most unexpected beginning. Although it was late, you were still busy with work, reading up on different witness accounts of the aftermath of the flooding. While you were still officially off work for another week, you wanted to make sure you had something to write about as soon as you could. And as much as you wanted to, Riddler’s case was off-limits. The decision was difficult to accept, but it was a no-brainer. You could not write about events that hit so close to home and expect it to be unbiased. And any good at all.

So, with a heavy heart, you began a quest to find something new. To your utmost surprise – Bruce offered to help. And help he did, sharing various stories he has heard during his patrols, dropping hints towards the whispers passed around in the dark. You were more grateful than you knew how to express.

Glancing at the clock in the upper corner of the laptop screen, you groaned at the late hour. Perhaps it was time to finish for the night… Perhaps you could- You never got to end the thought as sudden feedback sound rang out in the study. Its whine made you startle, head snapping up in rapt attention at whatever would follow. That was familiar. A memory from what felt like ages ago. It took you another moment to catch up and recognise the song. The subtle strumming was almost indistinguishable. And then…

You got up before you knew what you were doing. Like a siren call leading sailors to their demise, the increasing volume of the music dragged you down the stairs. Once you got closer, you could hear him sing. Quietly, as if he never wanted anyone to have heard him, but still. His low, gravelly voice was enough to increase the cadence of your heartbeat and make you pick up the pace.

‘You're just like an angel

Your skin makes me cry

You float like a feather

In a beautiful world’

You knew the lyrics well enough to feel the familiar tension fill your chest when you reached the study and held your breath upon the sight.

‘I wish I was special

You're so fuckin' special’

Bruce had his back to you, the broad plane of his shoulders covered with a washed-out black t-shirt. Body hunched over the guitar. Without seeing his face, you knew that his eyes were closed. As the volume grew, his strumming got angrier. Dexterous fingers hit each note as they were supposed to. The pain in his voice perfected the picture and made you tighten your grip on the railing. It was terrifying to think about the song choice and what it meant. Whether it meant anything at all.

The longer you stayed, frozen by the sight, the more you knew you should have never given in to the pull. Because now you could not walk away. Not without talking to Bruce. Even if only just about the music. The longing got almost unbearable.

The guitar’s tone slowed; the riff returned to its gentle opening. Bringing the number to a close. Bruce’s voice turned smooth, rolling over your torn heart like a soothing balm. But only just so. Before you realised it, a solitary tear had rolled down your cheek. You whispered the closing lyrics alongside him:

‘What the hell am I doin' here?

I don't belong here

I don't belong here’

Bruce finished the song with a long exhale. For a moment, you contemplated running back up the stairs like you had never been there. But you could not move. Your mouth opened on its own accord:

“You’ve got a beautiful voice” you winced as Bruce flinched, his body tensing as he turned to face you with a shock evident on his face; still, you trudged on and added, “But that was a rather gloomy choice, don’t you think?” an unconvincing smile graced your face.

Because you knew Bruce would see beneath the mask. He would notice the drying tear on your cheek and the pain in your eyes. That one look would be enough for him to tear you apart.

“It felt accurate” Bruce shrugged, his façade drawn up and ready to hide all hints of emotion.

But you could see him look at you, gaze searching and assessing. Noticing everything there was to see. Like he always did. Unable to withstand eye contact much longer, you let your gaze roam as well. Slipping over his forearms and hands, still carefully holding the instrument. As if he expected you to leave so he could continue. But it was not that easy.

“If you’re a creep, then I’m a weirdo” you gathered enough courage to look back up at him, finding Bruce still gazing back; it was enough of an encouragement to make you drop the nonchalance, a veiled confession ready on your tongue “Kindred freaks and all,”

For the first time since he looked at you, you saw Bruce’s mask slip. A flash of surprise passed through his blue eyes and, then, something more tender. The aching chasm in your chest grew wider as you stepped down from the landing and took a step closer to him. The movement woke him up. Bruce took off the guitar strap from around his neck and placed the instrument back on the stand. Silence echoed in the vast room.

“I didn’t think you’d hear me play” when he raised his head again, part of that wall hiding him from you was gone.

In its place, you could see wary curiosity. As if Bruce did not expect to see you tonight or have this conversation. As if you caught him by surprise. For some reason, the idea settled with heavy guilt in your stomach. Because maybe you were trespassing, bothering him with your presence when he would rather be alone. You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat and whispered:

“I’m sorry” your body had half made up its mind to turn around on your hell and march up the stairs.

Like you should have done when he finished the song. A goodbye was ready on your lips before Bruce spoke, making you freeze:

“Did you mean it?” the cautious tone arrested your attention.

As did the fleeting hope in his eyes. Gone so fast you assumed you had imagined it. Your heart skipped a beat as you understood what Bruce was asking. There was only one thing it could be. As if eager to spite you, your mind readily offered the memory. A sentence blurted out in a moment of passion. Your undoing, as it seemed. Heat filled your cheeks as you felt yourself shake. Panic took over; its job was simple – you couldn’t admit it. Not yet. Ideally never. So, you did what you do best.

“Mean what?” a confused smile was ready on your lips, masking the descending terror with a weak attempt at deflection, “The line just now? I-”

You should have known better. Bruce interrupted your pathetic one-woman play with a simple injection:

“You know what I mean” frustration rolled off him in waves, making him clench his hands into tight fists as Bruce stared at you with growing desperation.

Urging you to drop the act. But it was too late. The cold panic had settled, freezing you on the hardwood floors. Freezing your mind on that one thought – you couldn’t tell him. He can’t know.

“Bruce, I’ve no-” you tried again, without the foreign smile and bullshit nonchalance.

In your head, a pleading chorus was rising in volume. Drop it. Please drop it. But Bruce did not want to listen. He took a step closer, briefly reaching out his hand before letting fall back down. As if he wanted to touch you but soon realised that would not do.

“Please, just- Don’t lie to me” his voice broke on the last word, pain squeezing your heart like a vice; it only got worse when Bruce added, “I don’t think I can do this anymore” he glanced at you almost passively.

Almost as if he had not just crushed your heart in the palm of his hand with that one sentence. Cold fear rose in your throat as you took a step forward, voice wavering as you asked the only question you could:

“Do what?” even though you knew.

You could feel it in your bones. Bruce was done with this. With you. You could even guess why. And if that was it, the end, then you could not blame him, only yourself. A new wave of tears rose in your eyes as you waited for Bruce to cut the cord and end your suffering.

“This,” he vaguely waved his hand at the space between you before turning to pace the room, restless energy permeating every cell of his body, “It hurts too much to pretend. And- I mean, it’s pretty obvious. You must know by now” what? The question painted itself in the crease between your eyebrows as Bruce glanced at you with passion in his gaze, begging you to understand, “It’s not like I’m good at hiding it anyway” the following scoff was self-directed, as if Bruce was angry with his actions, or lack of them, as well.

But none of that explained what he meant. The bewilderment was evident on your face. You could tell Bruce saw it because he let out a long frustrated sigh. He stopped pacing, eyes trained on the floor as if taking part in a heated debate you were no part of. You reminded yourself to breathe, still frozen in your spot with no pointers towards where it was going. What was going to happen next. You opened and closed your mouth in a question that never quite came and went back to staring helplessly at Bruce. Fully aware of the pained look in your eyes and the shaking in your hands.

Later, you could pinpoint the moment he snapped. When the silence became too much to bear, and Bruce rushed in to fill it with words. More words than you had ever heard him say, unprompted. He walked back towards you, eyes wide and awake despite the late hour. But nothing you could see in his face warned you of what was coming:

“I know I’m new to this whole thing, but… I think I’m in love with you” oh. Oh. The breath hitched in your chest. The sincerity of his confession was the reason why you swayed on your feet, only just managing to grasp the railing before you fell at his feet – literary and figuratively; before you could process what Bruce had said and what it meant, he trudged on, seemingly unable to stop now that he began talking “Hell, I know I am, because nothing has ever torn me apart and put me back together all at once. No one else, but you” remembering to breathe, Bruce took a greedy inhale as his eyes met yours; the blue of his irises was set ablaze with that emotion you could never quite decipher. Until now, “I’m tired of pretending this is fine when it’s anything but. Nights like that last one are the worst because, for a moment, I get to feel what we could have, but then you- You leave, and it hurts twice as much because I know what I’m missing. What I’ll probably never have unless it’s with you” tears rolled down your cheeks as you stared, feeling the fear and love wage war in your heart. It was almost impossible to understand what was going on. And why the pain in his eyes only seemed to grow with each confession, the words dropping heavily onto the space between you, staining the floorboards with blood and despair. Yet still, Bruce’s next words slashed your heart anew, “And sometimes, I think… I think that maybe you’re the same” he looked at you again, the unasked question evident on his face.

A question you could not answer. The fear had won, claiming reign over your head and heart as you stared back. Still too frozen to move. Still unable to understand what had just happened. Bruce loved you. He was in love with you. He reciprocated, even though he did not know it. Fuck. All at once, you wanted to howl - be it from joy or pain, you could not decide. What now?

Your thoughts rushed a hundred miles per hour, spiralling and panicking. Worrying about every single what-if you could think of. All your mouth could form was a plea:

“Bruce, please- Don’t-” you did not even know what you were begging for.

Mercy, mostly. But with every second passing, you began to understand there was no way out of this. For better or for worse.

As if reading your feverish thoughts, Bruce closed the gap between you and reached out a careful hand, letting his fingers skim down the length of your forearm. Immediately, he had drawn attention to the chill you could feel settling in your bones as goosebumps followed his tentative touch. The sole-minded focus was still in his eyes:

“I swear I’ll leave you alone, detach myself from whatever is going on between us, if you’ll tell me I’m wrong” softening his voice a notch, Bruce searched your face, looking for the answers himself, “Tell me you don’t think of me like that and I’ll let it go. I promise” his hand clasped around yours, squeezing your palm as a reassurance that he meant it “Just tell me- Tell me you don’t love me” there, simple.

Or not so simple at all. A shudder went through your body as Bruce repeated the cursed word. Now it was entirely in your hands. The weight was resting on your shoulders, waiting for you to choose. For a second, you considered taking the way out that was still there. Faint and going against every promise you had made to yourself, but it still existed. You could deny everything, tell him he had it all wrong, lie and flee the scene with only the price of Bruce’s wounded heart on your conscience. But you couldn’t. Could not make yourself consider it beyond the basic set of assumptions and potentials.

Instead, you could only offer him an incomprehensible stutter, a collection of sounds paired with the colour draining from your face:

“I can’t- I-” the desire to run was still there, growing stronger with each second Bruce had spent staring at you.

He must have read it in your eyes for the moment you turned on your heel, body poised to run up the stairs, his arms were around you in a second. Caging you with your back pressed to his chest. Your shocked gasp was the only sound you could make.

“Don’t run away from me now,” Bruce’s plea was whispered right into your ear, making you shiver, “Please” only once you had the time to breathe, you noticed how lose his hold was; it would not take much to free yourself, should you want to “I’ve got you” the reassurance got through the white noise in your ears, making you relax.

Even if just by a fraction. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath at your back, the wisps of air across the back of your neck and cheek. One of his hands traced small circles on your arm, slowing your heart rate to a manageable pace. That was it. You couldn’t run from it anymore. You took a deep breath before you spoke:

“I’m so scared,” the admission was easy enough to utter.

A fragment of truth you owed Bruce. The reason for everything, as he would come to understand very soon. His embrace tightened slightly as he pressed a fleeting kiss to the crown of your head. It was almost enough to quieten the panic.

“I know, my love. Trust me. I know” the gratitude at his understanding was quickly overshadowed by the nickname he used.

The heart stuttered in your chest, unable to process it. My love. Two words that had never been aimed at you; have never related to you. A term of endearment you had come to envy in the quiet of your heart, yearning for something you never expected to have. But here it was, within your reach. If only you were brave enough to take it.

You closed your eyes, willing the courage to fill your veins as you pressed your back to Bruce’s chest. He wouldn’t hurt you. The statement filled your head like a mantra as you slowly forced more words out:

“You see me. The real me and it’s scary because what if you come to hate me? I don’t think I could survive that” it all came out in a rush of breath, leaving you gasping.

But it was out there. The truth for Bruce to hear and take in. The bravery was draining the energy from your body as you waited for a reply, a comment – anything at all. Anything to show you he understood.

He did not disappoint, offering you another gentle squeeze before speaking:

“I could never hate you” the certainty in Bruce’s voice was what you later considered as the thing that tipped the scales.

Because, for once, you pushed against the denial and believed him. After all, Bruce was the one with more to lose. The first to reach out. To come clean before you. Goddamn it, if he was brave enough, maybe you could be too… Maybe.

Cold shivers ran through your body as you tried to give voice to the words that had been choking you for days. If not weeks. You never thought to keep track and were too busy keeping them in. Despite everything. Perhaps there was no better time than now.

You squeezed Bruce’s hand to assure him you were not running away and turned in the embrace. It was better that way. Proper. You met his boundless gaze, now filled only with hope and the feeling you had recognised as the love he spoke of. It was enough. With a shaking voice, you released the confession from the prison you had made for it:

“Christ, I- I- I love you” the words came out wavered, and your breath stuttered with each syllable, but the light in his eyes was a reason to go on, “So fucking much it kills me” now that you started, the admissions did not seem to stop, slipping through your lips in a steady stream, slowly gaining speed “I’ve no idea when it happened, only that now you’re all I can think about. Every day, I go crazy because of you. Because I want you so much, I don’t know what to do with all those feelings. Sometimes it feels as though they’re going to tear my heart apart” running out of steam, you swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in your throat; it felt like a fraction of the weight had been lifted, now drowning in the blue gaze that did not stray away from your face. There was one last thing to add, a conclusion stating the obvious “But I’m still afraid,” the cursed punchline you did not seem able to shake off.

Only now, once the words were out, you allowed yourself to look back at Bruce. His shy smile acted like a magnet, drawing out your helpless twist of mouth. Your eyes followed the line of his nose (slightly crooked to the right) up to his eyes. Instantly drowning within the depths of blue irises filled with affection. Almost as if what you revealed did not change anything for him. As if, somehow, it would be alright. He would try rather than run away from you and your complex feelings no one seemed to fully comprehend. Not even you yourself. Too lost in his eyes, you only noticed he had reached up to touch you when you felt the gentle thumb brushing over the apple of your cheek. Caressing your skin and quelling the worries.

“Of what?” Bruce’s simple question acted like the needed push in the right direction.

A reason to put into words and label what you never dwelled on. But now, you had no choice but to piece it apart. Even if only because Bruce deserved it from you. He earned an attempt at trying from you. Because, when faced with the reality that he felt the same, you knew you could not deny it anymore. It was terrifying. And oh, so hopeful. You let the feelings in his eyes anchor you in the moment as you spoke:

“That you’re going to leave. Or something takes you away from me” you could see the recognition pass through his face, making the addition nearly redundant “I don’t have a great track record with love” still, the sad scoff could not be kept in.

There was something freeing in seeing the knowing look on Bruce’s face. In knowing that he understood the feeling, perhaps better than anyone else ever could. That, no matter what happened next, you were placing your heart in the palm of someone who gets it. That you had fallen for that same boy you felt a kinship with days after your childhood ended. It was almost poetic.

“I don’t plan on leaving” when Bruce gave voice to the affirmation, you wanted to believe him.

Because he said it before. Every time you let your insecurities win. You clenched your teeth against the denial bubbling beneath the surface and asked a question:

“Why?” hoping he would know what you meant.

It was the only way you knew of asking him why you were the one to make him care. Why you? Bruce only smiled in response, leaning in to kiss your forehead before effortlessly meeting your gaze and baring his heart. Again.

“Because you’re incredible, beautiful, smart, and you see me. You see Bruce Wayne where everybody else sees a symbol, an idea of who I am” the sincerity of his words made your heart seem too big for your chest, each beat threatening to be the one that would make it implode, “Only you see me as I am” as did the gratitude and love in his gaze.

Showing you that the feeling was mutual. You saw Bruce just as he saw you. Like no one else did. The discovery was enough to make you sure – it was worth it.

Aware of the likely sparks in your eyes and the foolishly lovesick look on your face, you cleared your throat and whispered a question:

“Can I kiss you?” you did not know why it felt necessary to ask when you never did before.

When it was probably a given, considering everything he just said. The only thing you were sure of was that you had to let him know. Had to show how much it meant to hear him say it.

Bruce’s fond smile was an answer enough, but he still brushed away your concerns.

“You don’t have to ask” leaning in, he nudged your nose with his and waited for your decisive move.

After all, it was you who had asked. Getting onto your tiptoes, you returned the playful nudge and placed your hands on his shoulders. From then on, everything was a reflex and acting on well-practised instincts. Your eyes closed as you leaned in, slotting your lips over his in a tender kiss. Bruce responded immediately, tightening his hold over your waist and opening his mouth underneath your tentative tongue. The kiss quickly turned heated, drawing out a muffled gasp from your throat and a half-stifled whine from his. Your fingers tangled in the hair on the nape of his neck as you gently sank your teeth into his bottom lip. Enough so to make Bruce groan and pull you closer.

That long-buried, sentimental part of your brain could tell this kiss tasted different. More carefree, unrestrained. Nothing stopped you from tracing the confessions on his skin as your tongue whispered words only Bruce could hear. You did not think anyone ever kissed you quite like that. Like it was the only thing he wanted to do until the end of time. Like the time spent caressing your lips and body was his holy ritual and never a waste of time. Like it mattered enough to be something Bruce devoted his attention to. Until you broke the contact to catch a breath, you were only his, and he was yours. Then, as your eyes met again, wearing matching infatuated looks, the kiss became a promise of more to come. You noted his blushing cheeks and offered a remark:

“I like what you called me, by the way” from the way Bruce’s eyes lit up instantly, you knew it was no slip of the tongue.

Even more so, it was a reason for your heart to beat faster. He meant it.

“My love?” his gaze traced the movement of your tongue, licking your drying lips.

And collecting the remains of the taste of his kiss. A pleasant shiver ran through your body as Bruce repeated the endearment. You could get used to it.

“Yeah, that’s new” you nodded, not even trying to school your features and erase the hope blooming there.

Bruce smiled, drawing out a gasp from your lips as his fingers crept beneath your shirt, lightly touching the skin on your waist. It almost distracted you from his next words.

“It can stay if you want,” without needing Bruce to elaborate, you knew what it meant; the feeling only grew stronger as he added, “If you’ll stay,” a meaningful pause signing off the conditional.

If. You still had a choice. At least, Bruce seemed to think so. What he did not know was that you had already decided. Or that your heart has chosen for you. There was no alternative there. But the slightest bit of uncertainty in his eyes told you he needed an answer:

“I’ll try to” the honest reply was a perfect opening for another question, one that you had been holding back for a while, “Are you mine?”

It was the final assurance you needed from Bruce if only to convince your head it was safe to give him your heart, body, and soul. For as long as he was willing to have them. For as long as he would have you.

Bruce used his unoccupied hand to squeeze your palm as he lowered his head to catch your eye. You had no doubt he caught the nerves lurking there; impossible to be exiled entirely. Unknowingly, you held your breath, waiting for his answer as if the world depended on it.

“If you’re mine,” Bruce’s reply was simple, bringing out your chuckle at the banter you had fallen into.

The joy was reciprocated, too, if the creases at the corners of his eyes were anything to go by. Not for the first time since you had met, you had been struck by a thought, a recognition that he was beautiful. The sharp features and striking eyes always pulled you in and made it impossible to look away. To stray your eyes from his. To find anyone else worth looking at. At this moment, in the dark gothic study, lit up only by the fireplace and the lamp, you knew it was always a lost cause. You had lost a long time ago.

Instead of replying, you kissed him quickly, relishing in the sharp gasp you got in return. When you parted, an answer was easy to conjure:

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one willing to put up with this” upon Bruce’s questioning look, you motioned at the meagre space between you, highlighting the truth he might have missed.

That there was no competition there. Only Bruce was willing to endure you for this long and in this way. He was the only one wanting your love and loving you back. You were not quite ready to piece apart why (or how) that could be.

“I’ve always been told I’m relentless” the cheeky uptick of Bruce’s mouth was a hypnotizing sight.

You did not miss the telling glimmer in his eye or the smooth move which resulted in your body being pulled closer to his. Almost flush against his chest. It was impossible to deny your brain’s desire to offer you a recap of every moment you had shared which had begun in that way. And to stifle the shiver and the knowledge that, if the universe were gracious, you would have many more coming. The reminder was enough to make you smile and return the playful smirk:

“Good for me” struck with sudden weariness and feeling the rapidly dropping adrenaline, you tugged Bruce’s hand and wordlessly led him towards the sofa; only once you had fallen onto the cushions with a sigh and curled up next to him, you asked the question “What happens now?”

You knew Bruce would get what you meant. He always did.

You felt him shift, one arm coming up to rest around your shoulders, drawing you closer. The other hand was placed on your knee, providing gentle warmth and helping you stay present with him. It was almost too easy to let go and fall back on his constant support to keep you grounded. The doubts were still there, rising and falling like the natural ebb and flow of the tide, lapping at the edges of your conscience. You suspected they would probably always be there, somewhere. Ready to take over at the tiniest chance of something going wrong. The best you could do was hope that would never happen.

As if sensing your mental chatter getting louder, Bruce leaned in to leave a trail of kisses on the shell of your ear and nuzzled your temple. The resulting sigh was effortless on your part. As always.

“We try not to fuck it up” he had his answer ready, eyes trained on you and waiting for whatever might come up.

You had to admit it sounded simple. Almost doable. But…

“And if we do?” you turned to catch his eyes with what you knew to be a wild gaze.

You needed Bruce to say it. To promise he would fight for whatever you were to become. It had to work. Please. You already knew you would be willing to sacrifice a lot for this fragile thing between you. It was already a fact.

A fact Bruce could undoubtedly see in your gaze, for the confidence bled into his voice as he replied:

“Then we’ll try harder” he grabbed your hand, which restlessly picked at the loose thread on the hem of your shirt and squeezed it.

On a reflex, you threaded your fingers through his and pressed your palms together. You had no choice but to trust him. To do the unimaginable and place your heart in his hands, surrendering control in the process. You swallowed past the fear in your throat and pressed your mouth to the corner of his lips. It felt like an apt conclusion to the conversation long overdue.

A little later, once another kiss had ended, and a new one had not yet begun, you raised your head from its comfortable placement on Bruce’s shoulder and fixed your gaze on the black and white guitar resting on its stand. An in-direct reason you had the conversation in the first place. You briefly contemplated sending a thank-you letter to the manufacturer but were struck with a better idea.

“Bruce?” taking pleasure in how his name rolled off your tongue, you marvelled at the rare peacefulness of the moment.

There was nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. Nothing, but feeling the low rumble of his voice as Bruce hummed.

“Mm?” he kept tracing letters onto the skin of your arm, leaving you to guess their meaning on your own.

Sometimes you were willing to bet he was repeating the confessions he just spoke of. The thought drew an involuntary smile onto your face.

“Play me something” you met his gaze with that same affectionate look in your eyes.

There was no need to specify the request - you knew Bruce would choose well. He only grinned at you in response and disentangled from your embrace to stand up and pick up the instrument. You watched his forearms flex, tendons dancing beneath the pale skin as Bruce placed the strap around his neck and bowed over the guitar. His eyes closed in concentration, but he was not tense. It was a far cry from how you found him over an hour before.

With a breath trapped in your chest, you awaited the first notes. When he began the rhythmic strumming, a fond chuckle escaped your lips. You had to admit Bruce was nothing, if not predictable. Humming the chorus alongside him, you met his questioning gaze. You smiled, mouthing the words that were no longer forbidden. Love you. Sweetheart.

“Something in the way, huh?” the laugh spilling through the gaps between the vowels.

“What? You did not specify” teasing edge you would have never even imagined becoming so accustomed to.

“I knew I didn’t have to,” and then, just to see him roll his eyes with that enamoured exasperation “Babe,”

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Did desmoulins had any kind of connection with robespierre after he was arrested and during his imprisonment? And danton also did robespierre had any contact with any of them during that time?

Bonus question:

Was desmoulins aware of what robespierre decided on his faith with his partner danton?

For Desmoulins and Robespierre meeting after the arrest of the former there exists one anecdote, and it first appeared in the memoirs of Charlotte Robespierre (1834). I would however declare myself sceptical regarding the authenticity of the story, mainly because it contradicts the confirmed actions of both Desmoulins and especially Robespierre around the same period. I’ve already talked about this at length here, so you can check that out if you want more details.

We have no evidence for Robespierre meeting Danton after the latter’s imprisonment. There does however exist a bunch of anecdotes regarding the two meeting in the weeks right before the arrest, I’ve already compiled all I could lay my hands on here. How many of them actually happened I will leave unsaid…

As for the question if Desmoulins was aware of the role Robespierre played in deciding his fate, that is pretty much confirmed by what he wrote to his wife on April 1, one day after the arrest:

If it was Pitt or Couburg who treated me so harchly, but my colleagues! But Robespierre, who has signed the order for my imprisonment!

I assume it’s most likely Camille was shown the arrest warrant by the guards who came to escort him to the Luxembourg prison and spotted Robespierre’s signature on it.

It would however appear like Camille was unaware of the extent Robespierre was actually involved in the affair. It’s unlikely he knew that Robespierre was the one who had prepared notes for Saint-Just to use for his indictment of the dantonists (I’m not actually sure if anyone outside the Committee of Public Safety knew of the existence of these notes until their publication in 1841). In fact, two pieces actually seem to suggest Camille undermined Robespierre’s involvement. The first is in a post scriptum note added to the first letter he wrote to his wife after his arrest, where he reported the following:

I’m writing to Robespierre, he will respond to you without a doubt.

The second clue is in Camille’s defence, written around the same time in his prison cell, where he attacks several members of the Committee of Public Safety and Committee of General Security but spares Robespierre from any, at one point even accusing David of being a false friend of the latter. Both these texts suggest Camille was still counting on Robespierre and perhaps hoping he could get him out the situation.

Lucile Desmoulins (who we might assume held the same view as her husband on the issue) too seems to have pictured Robespierre as having been forced into condemning Camille by his coworkers (Saint-Just in particular), rather than as the mastermind behind the operation. This is proven through an unfinished letter she wrote Robespierre somewhere between Camille’s arrest on March 31 and her own on April 4:

…As far from the insensibility of your Saint-Just as from his base jealousies, [Camille] recoiled in front if the idea of accusing a college comrade, a companion in arms. […] Robespierre, can you really complete the fatal projects which the vile souls that surround you no doubt have inspired you to? […] Had I been Saint-Just’s wife I would tell him this: the sake of Camille is yours, it’s the sake of all the friends of Robespierre! […] [Camille] was without a doubt slandered near you, Robespierre, for you cannot believe him guilty.