#Swift & Changeable

[shyfoxsky]

Theriotype List

So, to start out, for context, I think we've all seen a skeptic comment about how all therians are only "cool" animals. I personally have always enjoyed keeping up with those with "rarer" theriotypes and even using them as examples when these kinds of arguments are brought up, so I've decided to do a little bit of a personal project, that being creating a huge list of the wide variety within the therian community. Below is the list I've created so far, sorted by general species, then adding in subspecies/breeds, all in alphabetical order.

Please keep in mind and understand that for now, I am only putting Earthen animals on this list, mainly so I and the post can keep up, because there's a LOT here already and I know there are hundreds more out there. This list does need more entries though. If you have a theriotype that you don't see on this list, please comment or reblog and let me know so I can add it! You can follow and find it with the tag "foxskys theriotype list".

Adder - European Agouti Alligator - American Alpaca Ankylosaurus Anteater Argentavis Armadillo - Three-banded Arthropleura Axolotl Badger - American - European - Honey - Japanese - Sunda Stink Baryonyx Bat - Evening - Flying Fox - Vampire Bear - Black - Brown - Polar Bee - Bumble - Honey Beetle - Dor - Stag Binturong Bison - American Bonobo Butterfly - Buckeye Caiman Caracal Cat, Domestic - Bombay - Himalayan - Japanese Bobtail - Lykoi - Maine Coon - Norwegian Forest - Oriental - Ragdoll - Shorthair - Turkish Van Centipede - Amazonian Giant - House - Japanese Giant - Red-headed Cheetah Chickadee Chimpanzee Chipmunk - Eastern Cicada - White Ghost Coatimundi - White-nosed Cockroach Coot - European Cow - Holstein Friesian Coyote Coywolf Crocodile - Nile - Saltwater - Siamese Crow - American - Hooded Cryodrakon Damselfly - Blue-tailed Deer - Axis - Caribou - Hog - Marsh - Red - White-tailed Deinonychus Dilophosaurus Dingo Dog, Domestic - Alaskan Malamute - Australian Shepherd - Beagle - Belgian Malinois - Bernese Mountain - Blue Bay Shepherd - Border Collie - Borzoi - Carpathian Shepherd - Cavalier King Charles Spaniel - Czechoslovakian Wolfdog - Dalmatian - Doberman - German Shepherd - Golden Retriever - Greyhound - Husky - Irish Wolfhound - Karst Shepherd - Nova Scotia Duck-tolling Retriever - Saluki - Samoyed - Sighthound - Silken Windhound - Wolfdog - Yorkie Dolphin - Amazon River - Common Donkey Dove Duck - Mallard Eagle - Bald - Golden Elk - American - Irish Eusmlius Fish - Arowana - Barbel - Betta - Bichir - Bristlenose Pleco - Carp - Hag - Koi - Pike - Salmon - Zander Fly - Blue Bottle - House Fossa Fox - Arctic - Bat-eared - Blanford's - Corsac - Crab-eating - Gray - Red, American - Red, European - Swift Gecko - Day Goat Golden Cat - Asiatic Goose - Canada Gorilla Grackle Grebe - Pied-billed Guinea Pig Hamster Hare - Brown - European Hawk - Red-tailed Hawk-Eagle - Changeable - Wallace's Hedgehog Homotherium Hornbill Hornet - Bald-faced - European Horse - Akhal-Teke - Clydesdale - Drum - Mustang Hyena - Aardwolf - Brown - Spotted - Striped Ichthyovenator Iguana Isopod Jackal - Black-Backed Jaguar Jay - Blue - Florida Scrub Jellyfish - Moon - White Spotted Jerboa Kangaroo Kaprosuchus Katydid Kestrel - Eurasian Ladybug Lemur - Black-and-white Ruffed - Red-bellied - Red-ruffed Leopard - African - Clouded - Snow Lion - African - American - Mountain Lynx - Bobcat - Canadian - European - Iberian Macaw - Blue-and-Yellow - Hyacinth - Scarlet - Spix’s Magpie - American - Eurasian - Yellow-billed Margay Marten - American Pine - European Pine - Japanese - Yellow-throated Microraptor Millipede - Crested Mink - American - Sea Monkey - Capuchin Moth - Cecropia - Cinnabar - Common Domestic Silk - Gold - Luna - Rosy Maple - Satin Mouse - Harvest - Hazel Dormouse Muskrat Nautilus Newt - Marbled Octopus - Mimic Opossum Orangutan Osprey Otter - Giant - River - Sea Oviraptor Owl - Barn - Burrowing - Snowy - Tawny Panda - Giant - Red Pangolin - Black-bellied - Tree Parpsauropholus Parrot - Kea Peacock/fowl Pigeon Pitohiu - Hooded Plateosaurus Possum Pterosaur Pufferfish Python - Ball Rabbit - Lionhead - Lop-Eared Raccoon Raven - Common Ray - Sting Rhamphorhynchus Sable Scorpion Sea Lion Sea Slug Seagull - Greater Black-backed Seal - Harbor - Weddell Serval Shark - Chain Catshark - Nurse - Oceanic Blacktip - Sicklefern Lemon Sheep - Bighorn - Domestic - Hebridean - Herdwick - Mouflon Sinosauripteryx Skink - Blue-tailed Snake - Banded Sea Sparrow - Common House Spider - Black Widow - Orb Weaver Spinosaurus Squid Squirrel - Eastern Fox - Finlayson's - Gray - Red Stoat Stork - Shoebill Styracosaurus Tamarin - Golden Lion Terrorbird Tiger - Bengal - Siberian - Sumatran Toucan Tyrannosaur Uromastyx Vulture - Bearded - Black - Turkey Wasp - Potter Weasel Whale - Killer - Minke - Pilot - Right Whiptail - New Mexico Wolf - Alaskan - Arctic - Coastal - Eastern - European - Gray - Himalayan - Labrador - Mackenzie River - Maned - Mexican - Northern Rocky Mountain - Northwestern - Red - Tundra Wolfdog Wolverine Zebra - Grevey's - Mountain - Plains

[sunboki]

— THE ALCHEMIST. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

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

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

WORD COUNT. 9.6k words

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

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

alternatively :

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

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

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

Your problem? You’re a woman. 

Not as easy to fix, right?

.

.

.

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

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

A woman, working? Hilarious. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Medicine. 

Lack of money meant improper living conditions, entailing sickness. 

Constantly.

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

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

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

Alternatives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart leaps into your throat.

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

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

Instinctively cringing, you brace for the stinging impact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another time.

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

Calm. 

Nothing calm ever lasts long.

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

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

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

Sharks.

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

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

Exhausted, she was exhausted. 

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

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

“Cut it off.” 

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

You smile, grimacing the longer consideration poises.

No point in thinking too much.

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

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

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

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

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

Starting with a haircut.

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

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

“You cannot be serious.”

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

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

“He’s dead.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Collecting yourself, you scorn his frown.

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

You deny the shakiness of your voice.

“So, Hyunjin. Cut off my hair.”

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

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

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

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

“Be careful, okay?”

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

Hurts.

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

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

“Thank you, really.”

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

Next stop, Mrs. Myeong. 

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

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

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

“I need your help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But be careful, and stay in contact.”

Your response is hushed.

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

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

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

Oh, right. 

Your alternative?

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

Well, somewhat become male.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Although, you did have one lead. A name.

Lee Minho. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His name, The Alchemist, Lee Minho.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Alchemist?” 

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

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

Either of them sigh out long drags.

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

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

Loose, but feasible.

80 Kent Avenue, dark blue doors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adjustments.

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

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

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

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

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

Wait, ajar?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trespassing, are we?”

Collect yourself. This is your opportunity.

Swiftly brushing off your clothes, you clear your throat.

“I have an offer.”

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

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

Like he sees through you.

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

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

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

Amused. 

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

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

You remain close-lipped.

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

“No?” 

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

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

Abruptly, his countenance falls flat. 

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

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

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

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

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

Breathe in.

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

Breathe out.

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

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

Slowly, The Alchemist raises a brow, laugh disbelieving.

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

Huh?

How.. odd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

How preposterous. 

How exciting. 

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

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

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

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

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

He yawns a lot. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are surprised he decided to have you tag along.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we going?”

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

Inside is the last of what you anticipated. 

Oh dear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a test.

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

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

Stunned silence ensues.

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

“I’m looking for Reiner and Manfred.”

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

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

Unusually, they seem to know each other.

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

Said acquaintances grumbles. 

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

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

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

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

Reiner and Manfred, you assume. 

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

Foreigners, certainly.

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

Pipsqueak my foot. 

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

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

Again, lips sealed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No use growing angered. The feeling is futile.

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

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

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

Safer.

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

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

At least, not yet.

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

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

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

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

Studious. He is very studious. 

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

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

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

This district had an infamous name. 

The Den.

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

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

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

Calm down. 

Calm down. Think of the goal. 

All you have to do is find a flower. 

Grounding yourself, you pinpoint some viable resources. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Genuinely, what is there to lose?

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

In and out.

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

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

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

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

A Greenhouse. 

Bingo.

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

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

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

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

It’s strange. 

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

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

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

A hiss?

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

You feel the need to know more.

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

A cat. 

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

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

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

This is your chance. 

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

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

To Minho to Minho to Minho.

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

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

Wait. You recognize that voice. 

“Hyunjin?”

How does he recognize you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait!”

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

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

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

He returns a miniature grin, teeming with mischief.

“Agreed.”

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

“Good luck!” 

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

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

Your perfect hideaway. 

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

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

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

“Mr- Mr. Lee?”

“Yes? Where are you?”

“Are you.. Are you allergic to cats?”

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

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

Relief.

“L/N wha..” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That fast?”

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

Minho snorts.

“What can I say, I get work done.”

Maybe he is a vampire after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. Right.

“Y’know I was about to get to that-” 

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

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

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

…

“Go on.”

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

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

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

Play a fools game, earn a fools reward.

You’ll mop the floor of your own mess.

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

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

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

“Fine, but you’d better have a plan.”

Ah. Great.

You don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop! Stop- Stop talking. Please.”

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

Perhaps now it’s safe to talk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait! We can’t just waltz in.”

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

Curse the butterflies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Alchemist curses as well.

Interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah-“

You stop.

“Soonie?”

“Yeah, Soonie.”

“You named her?”

“..Yes.”

It’s a genuine struggle hiding your laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He clicks his tongue.

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

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

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

“Unfortunately.”

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

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

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

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

Everything seems right, seems ideal. 

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

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

He, Lee Minho, The Alchemist, voices.

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

Then the bomb drops.

“You being a woman, that is.” 

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

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

“Forever.” 

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

You avoid eye-contact. 

“Because you thought I would fire you?”

A nod. 

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

Another nod. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Should stay that way.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s been scary, hasn’t it?” 

Well, you had held out thus far.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Minho.” 

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

Minho. 

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

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

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

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

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

You like this flustered Minho.

“I’ll.. I’ll run you a bath.” 

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

“Do I smell?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, you’re falling in love.

Or maybe you’ve already fallen.

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

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

“Would you like to join me?”

The Alchemist audibly chokes on his saliva outside the door. 

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

Your eyebrows shoot up with surprise. 

Daring. 

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

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

No more secrets. What a breath of fresh air.

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

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

“...I really wanted to kiss you.”

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

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

At least he’s cooperating.

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

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

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

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

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

Trust, the feeling is mutual.

Why waste the opportunity?

“What’s stopping you?” 

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

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

Back and forth, memorizing your taste on his tongue. 

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

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

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

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

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

Close, closer. 

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

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

That's something you might be able to promise.

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

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

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

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

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

“What was that?”  

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

FIC TAGLIST. @linocz @foxinnie8 @wonniesverse

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[lunastrophe]

BG3 Elven Lore 🌙 Astarion's Name

I stumbled across this popular theory that Astarion's name means Little Star - but personally, I prefer to derive his name from DnD version of elven language. I think that the result is much more interesting 🙂

Astarion - it looks somewhat similar to aasterinian (quicksilver, mercury as a metal), with the last syllable changed into a suffix -ion (noble).

So, Astarion's name could be connected to a definition of mercurial character - changeable, cool and willful at one moment, utterly fragile the next. Mercurial can also mean: animated, quick-witted, having the characteristics of eloquence, shrewdness, swiftness, and thievishness. Suits him!

Suffix -ion is commonly used as a term of respect to address the scions of noble elven families who are not entitled to "lord" or "lady" (based on A Treatise on Espruar). It could nicely point to Astarion's social status: noble, but not of the highest rank.

Child name - if you prefer the theory that Astarion's name is his child name (customarily given by elven parents to their children and used until the elf can be considered an adult) - "mercurial" could still fit. I can totally imagine Astarion as a hyperactive, hard-to-control, shrewd kid... prone to mood swings, maybe?

Ancunin - using D&D Elvish as a point of reference, Astarion's last name can be neatly split into an (hand) - cu (in) - nin (ritual).

So, "hand in ritual". In a foreboding sense, it could point to Astarion's role in Cazador's ritual - but it could also suggest, for example, that his elven ancestors were connected to some arcane rituals or religious practices in their community.

[sensualnoiree]

The 1st House

personal impression, self-projection, and fresh beginnings

The 1st house in astrology encapsulates the initial impressions one leaves on the world and embodies the essence of self-projection. It serves as a canvas for fresh starts, a birthplace of individuality, and the genesis of personal endeavors.

The Beginning:

Upon birth, we enter a world that shapes the way we present ourselves. The 1st house represents the beginning of our personal story, reflecting our vitality, physical attributes, and our innate approach to life. As you gazed upon the stars on the horizon at your birth, this house imprinted its unique stamp on your existence.

Holistic Influence:

Much like a mold shaping clay, our birth environment—whether it be the town, street, or family dynamics—melds with the celestial energies of the 1st house, influencing our overall persona. The family plays a significant role, setting the stage for the roles we adopt, often driven by the needs of the familial unit.

The Development of Persona:

During childhood, the rising sign marks our first steps in constructing a persona—a mask of sorts—as we navigate the world. The 1st house invites us to immerse ourselves in its elemental essence, envisioning ourselves as children enveloped by these elemental forces. It's where we first grasp the need for a mask and begin constructing one.

The Quest for Identity:

Astrologers debate the importance of the Ascendant against the Sun sign, with some suggesting that the Ascendant steers us toward the promises held by our Sun sign, initiating a quest for our truer selves. This house embodies a journey of self-discovery, a path toward embracing individuality while breaking free from early influences.

Continuous Evolution:

Much like a mask we wear, the 1st house persona is an ever-evolving image, adaptable and changeable as we grow. Planetary transits through this house offer opportunities for reinvention, allowing us to redefine our self-image and reshape our perception of the world around us.

The Canvas of Self-Expression:

Symbolizing continuous refinement of identity, the 1st house empowers us to assert our uniqueness, paving the way for self-expression and new beginnings. It serves as a launching pad for personal projects and ambitions, fostering leadership qualities and a drive to define our own life paths.

Guiding the Inner Quest:

Ultimately, the 1st house guides us on a quest towards realizing our deeper selves, portraying not just personal identity but also influencing our approach to initiating various aspects of our lives. It beckons us to dive into the depths of our being, offering insights into our instinctive reactions and the way we present ourselves to the world upon arrival.

the signs through the 12h

Aries Rising

Individuals with Aries Rising possess an energetic and pioneering spirit. They tend to act impulsively, often diving into situations headfirst without much prior planning. Their swift and direct actions might sometimes come across as aggressive or quick-tempered. They exude an undeniable presence, leaning forward in their physical movements, reflecting their eagerness. Aries Rising individuals cherish independence, disliking restrictions and routines, and always seeking new experiences.

Taurus Rising:

Taurus Rising individuals radiate stability and reliability. They exhibit a strong sense of loyalty and responsibility towards their loved ones. Valuing material possessions and aesthetics, they often collect sentimental items. With a preference for a secure and predictable environment, they create comfortable sanctuaries. Taurus Rising can be stubborn yet affectionate, deeply committed to their relationships and displaying a classic sense of style.

Gemini Rising:

Gemini Rising individuals are communicative and adaptable. Curious and sociable, they enjoy learning and exploring new things. Their quick wit and love for conversations contrast with their relatively short attention spans. They possess two sides—bubbly and talkative or intellectual and occasionally harsh. Excelling in various fields due to their quick grasp of information, they struggle with superficiality or distraction.

Cancer Rising:

Cancer Rising individuals are gentle and nurturing, exhibiting a sensitive aura. Cautious in new situations, they take time to warm up to others and highly value security. They are deeply attached to their home and sentimental possessions, creating safe havens for themselves. While protective and caring, they might appear moody or overly sensitive due to their strong emotional connections.

Leo Rising:

Leo Rising individuals are generous, proud, and expressive, exuding confidence. They naturally draw attention and are seen as leaders, conscious of their impact on others. Loyal and protective, they might also display quick temper and pride. Thriving on appreciation and love, Leos have a strong need for recognition and exhibit a deep passion for their pursuits.

Virgo Rising:

Virgo Rising individuals are practical, analytical, and attentive to details. They maintain high standards for themselves and others, often striving for perfection. Their critical nature might pose challenges in relationships. Despite being reserved, they become loyal and steadfast friends once comfortable.

Libra Rising:

People with Libra Rising are charming, refined, and cooperative. They dislike disorder and strive for balance, often compromising to maintain harmony. They might face challenges in personal relationships due to their inclination towards aesthetics and a struggle to balance self-interest with the needs of others.

Scorpio Rising:

Scorpio Rising individuals are secretive and possess great determination. They have a fascination with emotions and healing, often displaying a strong intuition. Despite appearing calm, they are highly emotional inside, with a penetrating gaze that sees beyond superficiality.

Sagittarius Rising:

Sagittarius Rising individuals are idealistic, outgoing, and adventurous. They're interested in distant places and cultures but dislike focusing on details. Their charisma and curiosity make them great conversationalists. Despite feeling collective pain, they prioritize survival and may mask their emotional depth.

Capricorn Rising:

Capricorn Rising individuals are sensitive and ambitious. They appear competent and reliable, focusing on their image and working hard towards their goals with determination. Despite appearing composed, they might worry about the future and often sacrifice personal attachments for larger goals.

Aquarius Rising:

Aquarius Rising individuals are altruistic, independent, and intellectual. They value humanitarianism and new ideas but might shock others with their unconventional opinions. They are good at organizing and attract friends easily due to their open-mindedness. Often feeling "different," they may struggle to express their concerns or feel misunderstood.

Pisces Rising:

Pisces Rising individuals are sensitive and compassionate, with a dreamy and artistic nature. Highly empathetic, they absorb energies around them, feeling overwhelmed at times. Seeking stability in relationships, they might struggle with decision-making and facing harsh realities due to their changing and sometimes impulsive nature.

For more info check out my blog in the bio or my insta 🤸🏿‍♀️

[rosesradio]

After all, someone with sea blood is just a werewolf in fake skin, Infinitely changeable, pulsating and bubbling with liquid bones, mother-of-pearl radiance and a facade of too perfect beauty What kind of beast bites their ribs and scratches their hearts?

About the nature of Percy as the son of Poseidon and a sea creature.

blood of an actress lost in stunts, blood of the sky, risking swift departure, nailed to the spot, despite a forbidden, drifting spirit the beauty of a roman statue, the mind of a boy the weight of praetor’s robes, the weight of religion, the weight of longing, longing to drift away with the wind, longing to find the salty air of the sea.

About the nature of Jason as the son of Jupiter & a praetor.

[jakeperalta]

what's your taylor album rankings with and without the rerecords?

it's a bit changeable depending on phases I go through of loving certain albums and it feels mean because she just has so many albums that some favourites don't get the top spots, but:

evermore

red

folklore

lover

fearless

speak now

taylor swift

the tortured poets department

midnights

1989

reputation

the only way I'd say the rerecords have affected this is by giving fearless the edge over speak now because I love those vault tracks a bit more (whereas red and 1989 I like the vault overall the same as the main album) — none of them the rerecorded versions have any significant impact on my enjoyment compared to the originals

colour coded by the rough tiers I view them in (which are less changeable than the specific rankings) with pink = god tier, purple = still count as favourites, blue = also beloved, green = enjoy but not a favourite

[sunshinesmebdy]

The Chatty Moon Takes Charge: Business & Finances Under the Gemini Moon

Mercury’s swift messenger, the Gemini Moon, flits into action, bringing its signature blend of communication, adaptability, and intellectual curiosity to our business and financial endeavors. For some, this can be a period of booming ideas, quick deals, and fruitful networking. But beware, dear entrepreneurs, under the Gemini Moon’s changeable nature, things can shift faster than a Twitter trend. Buckle up and take notes, as we navigate the highs and lows of this lunar phase for your business and finances:

Prospering Under the Silver Tongue:

Communication Confidence: The Gemini Moon empowers clear and persuasive communication, making presentations, negotiations, and sales pitches flow effortlessly. Leverage this energy to connect with new clients, close deals, and strengthen existing partnerships.

Embrace the “Gift of Gab” under the Gemini Moon! This lunar phase imbues you with captivating clarity and persuasive charm, making sales pitches effortless and negotiations dance in your favor. Whether presenting to potential clients, striking deals, or fostering partnerships, tap into this cosmic fluency. Let your words weave magic, connecting hearts and closing deals with the persuasive power of a silver tongue. Seize the opportunity to build bridges and solidify trust, for under the Gemini Moon, communication becomes your secret weapon for business success.

Idea Powerhouse: Your mind buzzes with innovative solutions and marketing strategies. Brainstorm with your team, explore new collaborations, and experiment with unconventional approaches. Remember, the best ideas often appear when you least expect them!

Under the Gemini Moon’s electric influence, your mind becomes a vibrant marketplace of ideas! Innovative solutions and bold marketing strategies sprout like dandelions, urging you to break free from the conventional. Spark brainstorming sessions with your team, explore collaborations beyond your usual circles, and embrace unconventional approaches. Remember, the most ingenious solutions often bloom unexpectedly, so stay open to those “aha!” moments that pop up while sipping coffee or taking a shower. This is your chance to think outside the box and unleash your inner inventor, igniting innovation for your business!

Network Ninja: This is your prime time to connect and expand your professional network. Attend industry events, join online communities, and reach out to potential collaborators. The Gemini Moon favors quick connections and information exchange, so be open and adaptable.

Sharpen your social butterfly wings, for under the Gemini Moon, networking becomes your superpower! Industry events, online communities, and even casual conversations transform into fertile grounds for expanding your professional circle. Don’t be shy — strike up conversations, join discussions, and connect with open-minded individuals. The Gemini Moon favors quick, information-rich interactions, so be adaptable and receptive to unexpected connections. Remember, a casual chat today could spark a fruitful collaboration tomorrow. Seize this lunar window to weave a web of valuable connections and watch your network blossom like a vibrant garden!

Navigating the Gemini Moon’s Fickle Phases:

Scattered Energy: The Gemini Moon’s flitting nature can lead to multitasking mayhem. Prioritize your tasks, set clear deadlines, and avoid jumping from one project to another without finishing anything. Focus on quality over quantity.

While the Gemini Moon fuels your multi-tasking engine, beware of becoming a scattered squirrel hopping from branch to branch! Its flitting nature can lure you into juggling too many projects, leaving them all half-baked. To avoid this productivity purgatory, prioritize ruthlessly. Define clear deadlines for each task, and resist the urge to jump ship at the first shiny new idea. Remember, scattered efforts yield mediocre results. Channel the Moon’s mental agility into focused sprints, conquering one task at a time with laser-sharp efficiency. Quality over quantity — that’s the mantra for navigating this lunar phase without succumbing to multitasking mania!

Impulsive Spending: The chatty Moon loves gadgets and trends, making you susceptible to impulse purchases. Stick to your budget, research before buying, and avoid shiny object syndrome. Remember, long-term financial stability is more valuable than fleeting fads.

Hold onto your wallets, for the silver tongue of the Gemini Moon can seduce you with the latest trends and must-have gadgets. Remember, its chatty nature thrives on novelty, tempting you with impulse purchases that might leave your bank account singing the blues. Don’t let “shiny object syndrome” lure you astray! Stick to your budget like a mantra, research thoroughly before clicking “buy,” and resist the urge to splurge on fleeting fads. Remember, long-term financial stability is infinitely more valuable than momentary thrills. Think of it as an investment in your future success — say “no” to the impulse and “yes” to financial security!

Overpromising, Underdelivering: Enthusiasm is great, but don’t overestimate your abilities under the Gemini Moon’s influence. Be specific about your commitments, manage expectations, and deliver on your promises to maintain trust and credibility.

The Gemini Moon’s energetic spark can fuel your enthusiasm, but be cautious of outpacing your capabilities. Don’t let its fast-talking charm lead to overpromising! Remember, under this lunar influence, it’s easy to underestimate the time and resources needed. Be specific about your commitments, managing expectations realistically. Overestimating your abilities can erode trust and credibility. Delivering on your promises, even if it means scaling back or adjusting timelines, is key to navigating this transit with integrity. Remember, slow and steady wins the race, especially under the ever-shifting influence of the Gemini Moon.

Tips for Taming the Moon’s Mercurial Energy:

Plan, Prioritize, Execute: Before diving into the whirlwind of ideas, create a clear plan of action with defined priorities. Focus on completing one task at a time to avoid the scatterbrained blues.

Before surrendering to the whirlwind of the Gemini Moon’s ideas, channel your inner architect and draft a clear blueprint for action! Define distinct priorities, like pillars holding up your plan. Resist the siren song of multitasking and instead, focus on tackling one project at a time with laser-sharp concentration. Remember, scattered efforts under the Moon’s changeable nature lead to unfinished business and scattered blues. Prioritization becomes your mantra, ensuring each task receives the dedicated attention it deserves. So, grab your pen, map out your priorities, and execute with focused determination — that’s the recipe for success under the ever-shifting lunar tides!

Collaborate & Communicate: Partner with others who can provide balance and different perspectives. Communicate openly and honestly to avoid misunderstandings and ensure everyone is on the same page.

The Gemini Moon thrives on connection, so don’t go it alone! Partner with individuals who offer diverse perspectives, acting as anchors to your whirlwind of ideas. Open and honest communication becomes your bridge, ensuring everyone stays on the same page and misunderstandings don’t derail your progress. Embrace the Moon’s collaborative spirit, leveraging the strengths of your team to tackle challenges from different angles. Remember, two minds (or more!) are better than one, especially under the ever-shifting influence of the Gemini Moon. So, build bridges, foster open dialogue, and watch your projects soar to new heights through the power of collaboration!

Research & Reflect: Don’t let enthusiasm cloud your judgment. Before making important decisions, research thoroughly and take time for introspection. Use the Moon’s analytical side to weigh pros and cons carefully.

Under the Gemini Moon’s intoxicating energy, enthusiasm might mask potential pitfalls. Before diving headfirst into decisions, don’t let excitement overpower reason. Tap into the Moon’s analytical side! Conduct thorough research, examining details and potential challenges with a critical eye. Don’t skip the due diligence — every angle deserves exploration. Take time for introspection, considering your gut feelings and weighing pros and cons carefully. Remember, informed decisions pave the way for success, and under the Gemini Moon, a balanced approach is your key to navigating enthusiasm without compromising wisdom. So, research, reflect, and make choices that empower your future, not just fuel a fleeting impulse.

Remember, dear business owners, the Gemini Moon is a double-edged sword. By harnessing its positive energy while mitigating its pitfalls, you can navigate this transit to propel your business forward and create lasting success. So, put on your thinking cap, sharpen your communication skills, and network like a pro — the universe of opportunities awaits under the silver sheen of the Gemini Moon!

Bonus Tip: For personalized insights, check your own Sun and Moon signs and see how they interact with the transiting Gemini Moon.

[alchemist-whisper]

Well, well, well, my curious kittens! 👀✨

Your Alchemist Whisper here, confessing to a little guilty pleasure. You know how Taylor sings about looking in people's windows? Guilty as charged! There's nothing quite like a bit of mystical people-watching to get the tarot juices flowing. After all, every lit window is a story waiting to be told, right?

Speaking of stories, a little birdie (or should I say, a little snake?) whispered in my ear, asking about the possibility of Karlie expanding her nest this year. So, naturally, I couldn't resist peeking into the cosmic windows of possibility!

I shuffled my deck faster than you can say "champagne problems" and pulled out these juicy cards:

🐍 The Snake (7): Ooh, snakey! Wisdom, but with a twist.

🐕 The Dog (18): Loyal as a Swiftie to her fave's Easter eggs.

🏠 The House (4): Home sweet home, or in this case, womb?

Now, let's stir this mystical pot, shall we?

The Snake slithers in with its wisdom, suggesting Karlie's got some clever plans up her sleeve. But remember, snakes shed their skin – perhaps she's ready for a transformation?

The Dog bounds in next, all wagging tail and puppy eyes. It's screaming loyalty and family ties louder than a stadium full of fans during "All Too Well (10 Minute Version)".

And finally, the House settles in, cozy as can be. It's giving major "nesting" vibes, if you catch my drift.

Put it all together, and what do we get? A recipe for baby number... wait for it... three? The cards are hinting that Karlie might indeed be planning to add another little one to her family tree this year. But remember, my starry-eyed friends, the future's as changeable as Taylor's hair color over the years!

So, keep your eyes peeled and your gossip antennas up. Who knows? We might spot a baby bump faster than you can spot the next Taylor Swift easter egg!

Until next time, keep looking through those windows (metaphorically, of course – let's not get arrested, shall we?), and may your curiosity always be as strong as a Swiftie's dedication!

Alchemist Whisper, over and out! 🔮✨

[dawn-of-worlds]

Changeable as the Sea

[emex 9 cont.: 6-6=0]

Even as the cradle is torn apart, its oldest child raises a new kind of people onto the world stage. In the depths of the ocean, the Queen of Fortunes finds a tricksy species of octopus, and enhances their natural abilities. The Framelings are primarily aquatic shapeshifters and mimics, short-lived and swift to action.

Framelings mostly live in small semi-nomadic communities tending to schools of fish or marine mammals. Their unparalleled mimicking abilities make it easy for them to fit in with their herds, and let them gently guide, protect, and cull them. In terms of deadweight, they are about the mass of a large human, but capable of stretching or shrinking body parts to absurd degrees and can play anything from a starfish to a whale. They are also capable of imitating sounds, and may communicate long-distance via song.

Though the Framelings are generally capable of communicating with one another, they are spread widely across the oceans and far from a united people. Communities are rarely double-digit individuals, but they tend to be a part of larger tribal confoederations, united by common heritage, way of life, social norms, and physical proximity.

The eight main tribal groups are:

Merrowings - Inhabiting the Inner Sea, the Merrowings are the Framelings most commonly in contact with humans, shadowing their ships from below, or joining them on shore in disguise. Sometimes they even approach them openly, in trade or war (though rarely, as both of those things are still better done in disguise).

Lotings - Living off the south coast of Akhon, the Lotings enjoy a relative isolation, and have perfected the cultivation of kelp and grow it in vast fields. They are also the Framelings spending the most time on shore, and thus the only ones with full mastery of fire.

Coralings- The Coralings have made their home in Tokhtamysh's reefs in the Bay of Hunger. Shaped by their dangerous envirnoment, they are known to be more vicious and ruthless than most.

Selkings - The most northern of Frameling tribes, the Selkings are neighbours with the Thuva, and often compete with them for fish. Though capable of mimicking the sea-trolls, their isolationist nature and tremendous life-span makes true understanding difficult.

Ledolphings - Roaming the open ocean south of the Green-Lands, the Ledolphings herd various cetaceans, and generally consider themselves the most traditionalist, originalist Framelings, and the see the others as being too preoccupied with on-shore business.

Arnsgulfings - Taking their name from their mythical ancestor and religious leader, and the vast gulf on the southern side of Tullus, the Arnsgulfings consider their home sacred, and forbid outsiders, both from sea and from land, from entering its waters.

Melusings - Melusings are unique among Frameling for living in freshwater, inhabiting the great Cardinal River. Since there are no real physiological differences between them and their kin, they can only accomplish this by dietary supplements. They are also famous (and ridiculed) for keeping waterfowl, more than true marine animals.

Nicorsings - The Nicorsings occupy the sea between Akhon and Kuiri. Like the Merrowings they enjoy relatively frequent contact with Humans, though the Humans enjoy it less. Nicorsings are known to be thieves and tricksters, and sometimes lure Humans to a watery grave by imitating their songs or screams.

Map of Core Territories

[haliotropes]

got a damien karras idea: karras x vampire reader (i imagine them as male but any gender is also fine). the idea is vampire reader notices karras’ ordeal, corners him in a night lit alley and gives him a deal: they can make it so he can be immune to the demon at a terrible cost, only to be refused. they show respect to his faith before bidding farewell, kind of a sad story. they can pepper in charms in between but this isn’t mandatory, for example turning his jaw or teasing him “you know little, don’t you?”. im fine if this doesnt get picked up tho, have a nice day!

Anon...when I tell you I SPRINTED to my desk.

I hope this is what you wanted. I love this sad-eyed hunk and his rando vampire friend.

-·=»◆‡«=·-♡·=»◆‡«=·-

Blood of the Father (Damien Karras and M!Vampire)

Rated: T I guess?

Tags/warnings: ANGST, CATHOLIC GUILT, gays being mean to each other, hurt no comfort, religious trauma

It is the greatest of ironies that He cannot step inside the church. Instead, He has to resort to watching from outside the stained-glass window. He watches in the heat, watches in the cold, watches from the well-shaded tunnel of an alleyway. Georgetown was so changeable, but darkness and dimly lit streets are always reliable. The Bible is reliable, regardless of how others choose to change it. But religion? Church? Priests? These are wavering, tenuous. Born on shaky legs and dying on broken bones.

Damien Karras is one so flappable.

He watches him in particular for a very long time. He’s not His only subject, but certainly his favorite, for as long as the dance lasts, anyway. And it does not last long. Yet another leaf threatening to break away with a November wind. 

He’s watching from the ground below, hands in his pockets, the wet leaves illuminated by a nearby lamppost. A swift change in direction and the wind catches a maple and tugs it away with a sigh. It put up what fight it could. Even weak soldiers are still soldiers.

Or Jesuits. He turns when he hears him coming from a half-mile away. Coming from the Macneil residence, bundled up in his windbreaker. Collar turned against the heavy rain. He adjusts his collar, straightens his jacket. Strides along the opposite end of the sidewalk. They meet at the steps and He pulls the priest into a tight space between the steps and the brick casing of a house. 

Damien Karras barely breathes. Whatever he’s just seen makes every simple fright pale in comparison. He’d be jealous if He didn’t feel so sorry for him.

“I don’t have any money,” Damien says. He feels his arms under the windbreaker and smirks. He’s strong, toned, muscles well hidden under any choice of clothing. He could push Him away, really fight him, make a break for it. But he won’t. 

“I know. It’s a helluva good thing I don’t want any.”

To his credit, Damien does break His arms away. He peers back out onto the narrow street, in the direction Damien came from.

“You have no idea what you’re up against. But I do. I’ve been watching you, Dimmy. Not like the other one. But we’re much different, anyways. He’s a certified devil. I’m just…well. I’m a night trader. But I can still offer you a fantastic deal.”

Damien tries to walk as soon as the last syllable leaves His red lips but His arms brace against the brick and the priest can’t budge past them.

“Don’t be rude. It’s un-Christian.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s about time you asked. Do you know the only thing that can really, truly save your soul from the devil?”

Damien doesn’t answer. He doesn’t bother to say God, or repentance, or prayer. The man leans his face close to where its freezing skin gives Damien a chill.

“To be a devil yourself.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sometimes that’s true. Not in this case, however. We have encountered one of the few instances where I know better than anyone, actually. Aren’t you the least bit interested? You can withstand the temptation of that devil down the street, save that little girl’s life? Be a hero?”

“I withstand the temptation of one devil by giving into another?”

“He’s quick,” He sucks against his sharp teeth. “To be a martyr is the best thing in your God’s eyes, isn’t it? This way, you get the title without having to deal with the whole dying business.”

“You still haven’t explained your offer.”

He smiles.

“I am offering eternal life, eternal death, wakeless days and sleepless nights. Sanguine. You’d be immortal, imperceptable, and all for the price of your soul. Isn’t that nice? And you wouldn’t be without company, either. You’d have me, of course. I’ve been watching you, Damien. I’ve seen you, the way no one else has or will. Not even your precious Jesuit friend. You fear for your eternal soul and his anyway. I’m no mind-reader, but I’d say there’s some mutual feeling there. That’s another benefit they don’t tell you about. No one can truly judge you if you cannot die.”

“You can die. Anything can die. And there is one to judge.”

“True. But if you do something much worse first, sodomy disappears to the bottom of the list.”

Damien’s fist collides with the man’s face quick enough that He’s able to register it right before it happens, and He allows it. His head barely moves, his lip splits, but it does not bleed.

“I could go on. Abandoning your poor mother. God cares more about that than who you share a bed with.”

“You son of a bitch-” Damien grabs the lapel of His coat and draws him near. He shakes with rage and tears roll down his sculpted cheeks, mixing with the rain.

“If you don’t believe in a God, then what does it matter? Bring it down to science. I said I’ve seen you. The very idea keeps you up at night. How can you fight against something if you don’t believe in the one weapon you have against it?”

Damien pushes Him away, wipes his mouth with his knuckles. 

“Whatever it is, I’m not broken enough to buy it. Whatever you think you know about me or anyone else is false.”

“And yet you’re still here. Come on. Lay down this burden. Don’t be so selfish as to pawn it off on someone else. How do you think this ends for you? For her?”

Damien looks at the ground. He clenches and unclenches his fist.

“If that, that thing can exist, and if you can exist, and these things you believe in, then there has to be something, or someone to balance it all out, hasn’t there?”

“You’re asking me to tell you if God exists?”

Damien shakes his head, spilling more water droplets onto the sidewalk. He watches them with a hunger.

“I don’t need to hear anything else you have to say.”

The man straightens. “The pain would go away. The responsibility. The guilt.”

“It’s what makes us human.”

The man leans a hand against the brick wall beside Damien’s head. He smiles, then sighs. Wipes his face. 

“I can’t twist your arm?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hm.” A beat. “I lied earlier. The guilt doesn’t go away. I don’t know why. But it doesn’t.”

He extends a finger, exposing a long, sharp nail and traces the line beside Damien’s mouth. 

“You know little, don’t you?”

Damien waits until He takes His hand away to respond.

“I know enough.”

He nods.

“Yes, I think you do.”

He withdraws his arm from the wall and Damien rushes out into the sidewalk. The man follows him slowly after a spare moment, leans against one of the posts of the staircase. Watches him jog.

“Goodnight, Father. And good luck.”

Damien looks back only for a moment, as if to make sure it really was this stranger that was speaking. He doesn’t respond before disappearing from view. The man sighs, turns towards the MacNeil house, mutters something in a long forgotten language, then disappears from Georgetown forever.

[sunboki]

— THE ALCHEMIST. TEASER a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

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

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

AUG'S NOTES. trust.. there’s much more drama and minho from here… for now, tell me what you think of the teaser!!

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

alternatively :

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

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

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

Your problem? You’re a woman. 

Not as easy to fix, right?

.

.

.

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

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

A woman, working? Hilarious. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Medicine. 

Lack of money meant improper living conditions, entailing sickness. 

Constantly.

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

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

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

Alternatives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart leaps into your throat.

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

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

Instinctively cringing, you brace for the stinging impact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another time.

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

Calm. 

Nothing calm ever lasts long.

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

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

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

Sharks.

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

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

Exhausted, she was exhausted. 

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

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

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[military1st]

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[infjtarot]

8 of Pentacles. Tarot of the old Path

Movement. A young man with curly red hair and red tights, wearing what appears to be a stonecutter’s apron, sits at a bench calmly chiseling pentacles on disks one after another, it seems. If you look closely at the ones hanging on the wall, you will notice they are each slightly different from the others. We might see this as the sign of a craftsman (as opposed to a machine) or perhaps of an apprentice learning his trade. We might compare him to the master sculptor of the Three of Pentacles. Either way, the theme of movement has become grounded in work. That is, each new pentacle moves him further, not to an end goal (there’s no sense of a quota here, or the impatience some see in the Seven) but just in the satisfaction of what he does. A city appears in the distance, with a road that seems to run from the city gate to the carver’s workshop. But no one is there beside him, nor does he appear concerned over whether his pentacles will sell. He seems content just to keep doing what he does. The eighth position on the Tree of Life is sometimes linked to Mercury, the god of intellect. Mercury is swift and changeable, but in the realm of Pentacles the mind becomes steady, focused, and dedicated to its work. Divinatory meanings: Stability, especially in a work situation. Satisfaction, dedication. Slow, steady progress. The opportunity to work or do some other activity that you enjoy without having to worry about the result. Rachel Pollack

[cagemasterfantasy]

Dnd Cosmology: Elemental Plane of Water

Planar Portal Color: Green

The Plane of Water is an endless sea called the Sea of Worlds dotted with atolls and islands that rise up from enormous coral reefs that seem to stretch forever into the depths. The storms that move across the sea sometimes create temporary portals to the Material Plane and draw ships into the Plane of Water. Surviving vessels from countless worlds and navies play these waters with little hope of ever returning home.

A warm sun arcs across the sky of the Plane of Water seeming to rise and set from within the water at the horizon. Several times a day the sky clouds over and releases a deluge of rain often accompanied by spectacular shows of lightning before clearing up again. At night a glittering array of stars and auroras bedecks the sky.

The weather on the plane is a lesson in extremes. If the sea isn't calm it is battered by storms. On rare occasions a tremor in the planar firmament sends a rogue wave sweeping across the plane swamping entire islands and driving ships down to the reefs.

Any lands that rises above the surface of the sea is hotly contested by the few air breathers that live on the plane. Fleets of rafts and ships lashed together serve as solid ground where nothing else is available although most natives of the plane never break the surface of the sea and thus ignore these habitations.

Below are the most important features of the plane:

Citadel of 10,000 Pearls: The nominal emperor of the Marids dwells here an opulent palace made of coral and studded with pearls. The is the glittering centerpiece of the Sea of Light. Visitors are welcome to ask favors of the emperor whose mood is as changeable as the sea.

Darkened Depths: The deeper extents of the plane where no sunlight reaches are the Darkened Depths. Horrid creatures dwell here and the absolute cold and crushing pressure mean a swift end to creatures accustomed to the surface or the Sea of Light. Krakens and other mighty leviathans claim this realm.

Isle of Dread: One of the Few island on the plane is the Isle of Dread which is connected to the Material Plane by means of a storm that regularly sweeps over the island. Ships from different worlds of the Material Plane end up wrecked on the rocks and reefs around the island and settlements across the island are populated by the descendent of sailors who never found a way home. Theoretically travelers who understand the workings of the storm could use it to travel to a desired Material Plane world.

Sea of Ice: Bordering the Para Elemental Plane of Ice is the Sea of Ice. The frigid water is choked with icebergs and sheet ice which are inhabited by cold loving creatures from the Plane of Ice. Drifting icebergs can carry these creatures farther into the Plane of Water to threaten ships and islands in warmer seas.

Sea of Light: Life flourishes in the sunlit waters of the Sea of Light located in the upper reaches of the Sea of Worlds. Aquatic peoples craft castles and fortresses in the coral reefs here.

Silt Flats: The region of the Plane of Water nearest to the Para elemental Plane of Ooze is called the Silt Flats. The water is thick with soil and sludge turning into muddy ground before giving way to the great swamp that is the Para elemental plane.

Elemental Plane of Water Adventure Ideas: The nature of water is to flow not like the gusting wind or the leaping flame but smoothly and steadily . It is the rhythm of the tide the nectar of life the bitter tears of mourning and the balm of sympathy and healing. Given time it can erode all in its path.

Elemental Evil emphasizes the erosive power of Water as well as the destruction wrought by surging tides deadly maelstroms and raging torrents. Cultists of Evil Water believe the seas and deep waters are eager to reclaim the water trapped in the bodies of living creatures and think it's their duty to return others to the primal waters by drowning them or shedding their blood.

@doodl3

[peregrineggsandham]

It is like this: Reapers of new deaths are born when they first occur. If that death is rare enough, their following existence can be quite boring. And nothing is more horrible to an immortal than boredom.

So she learned to bake.

It passed the time, and it was a comfort - not only to her, while she waited patiently for the call of her domain, but to those for whom the call never ceased.

Her mother was the Reaper of Drowning. She changed shape like the liquid that former her body - small and innocent, three inches of death in an unsupervised kiddie pool - enormous and mindless and roaring, crashing waves upon a great lake during a November storm.

After the rip tides had exhausted another unwary swimmer, she was exhausted too. And her daughter was there with gingersnaps, sharp against the tang of salt water.

The daughter made her own brown sugar, and her own rum, and rolled crumbled cookies into balls that warmed and comforted until her mother had quite forgotten that she, too, was a harbinger of death. The Reaper of Alcohol Poisoning eyed her homemade rum appraisingly and seemed to grant her a weary respect, at least. But brown sugar is very hard to fear. Certainly harder by far than the sea.

Her father was the Reaper of Workplace Accidents. Many were fast. Lightning-fast. Immediate, painless if you're lucky, disfiguring and disabling for life otherwise. He was a steady being, not as changeable as her mother. He spoke firmly, as so often he needed to convince those he guided that they had, in fact, died. There. Look. There is what is left of you, caught in the gears. I'm sorry. Come with me. Few words, and quick ones - the slow deaths he hated, clothing caught in machinery, fate looming for dreaded seconds or even minutes.

His daughter was slow. She crept to him with a treacle tart once, after a pressure explosion had flattened a factory. Those were his favorite. The explosions, not the tarts - quick and done with and with minimal suffering, at least for the dead. He told himself it was because he did not like treacle that he turned down his daughter's baked gifts, but as she rolled towards him, inch by sweet inch, he could only ever turn and flee with the swiftness of pressurized steam from that horrible sickly dread. She sighed.

Her uncles, the Reapers of Lava and of Pyroclastic Flow, were married one summer. They were scoffed at, for their deaths were so rare they had the time to indulge in such frivolties. What is a Reaper who has no job to do? Never mind how terrible their jobs, when done. Never mind that the latter uncle's eyes were ash-gray and haunted by the thousands of souls he shepherded from St. Pierre, from Pompeii and Herculaneum.

She baked their cake, a towering thing of spices and chocolate, and went about the after-party nearly unnoticed. Slow, creeping, and without a death to her name since that which birthed her. The guests who saw her called her sweet, and forgot entirely what she was.

The former uncle drew her aside after the wedding, thanked her for the cake, put a hand on her shoulder and told her:

"We move faster than they think, you and I."

In 1906, Vesuvius erupted again, and she went with her uncles to Naples. With one hand she helped the Reaper of Lava pull spirits from where they were trapped behind the flow. With the other, she offered them a plate of cookies, rich and well-spiced. She saw how quickly her uncle's element could overwhelm. She stared at her flour-dusted hands and for the first time, saw how one day she might be needed. So she practiced, running to outpace destruction, plunging those hands into liquid horror to draw out flickering souls and cradle them.

Sometimes she was noticed, and mocked: "This is not your domain, little baker. You are too harmless to deal in such things. You are too sweet. Keep to your sugars and spices and do not pretend you understand death."

It was thirteen years later that she would feel the call, would pull 21 souls to peace with those hands, would outrace a flood too viscous for her mother to wrangle and too slow for her father to bear.

Today still she bakes, for she does not expect to be called again for some time.

But when she is, rest assured, the Reaper of Molasses will answer.

Each type of death has a unique type of Reaper. The Reapers of Drowning collects the souls of the drowned. The Reapers of Old Age collects those that have come to their natural end. Write a story about a Reaper for an unusual death finally having a soul to collect.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled # 10990

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