#it’s the church euphemisms for me

[vidavalor]

The romantic implications of improper use of apostrophes

A short, little meta on rings and apostrophes...

Ok, remember Mr. Arnold of Arnold's Music Shop and his thoroughly relatable reasons for never wanting to go to one of these annoying Whickber Street Thingamajigs again? The second of his reasons, in particular? Note who the camera cuts to when Mr. Arnold brings up "improper" use of apostrophes:

Crowley's little eyebrows and squirming, as he is thinking about how he is guilty of improper apostrophe use just the day before-- "technically", as they'd say. Mr. Arnold bringing up apostrophes is a wordplay clue to hidden language-- "improper" apostrophes in shop signs, which is to say in shop language and names. There's only one scene in the series where that's a thing. It is also the only one that would justify the Crowley reaction shot in the Mr. Arnold scene... and the implications are pretty romantic.

It's this scene:

When Crowley adjusted the name of the bookshop when Aziraphale called from Edinburgh, he changed it in such a way as to denote a sense of ownership through use of apostrophes. Crowley knows that the place is really called A.Z. Fell & Co. and he could have said that or just his usual way of referring to the place: "booK.shoP." The choice to answer in such a way as to reference to whom the bookshop belongs when he suspects that this is likely Aziraphale calling is a nod to the our car/our bookshop acknowledgement that they have going on.

Because Aziraphale has acknowledged that the bookshop is theirs, it belongs both to "Mr. Fell" and to Crowley, but the wordplay joke is that, when spoken aloud, you can't hear where the apostrophe falls. (That you refer to where an apostrophe goes as to where it "falls" also makes this an even more amusing word joke.)

Meaning: Fell's Bookshop sounds identical to Fells' Bookshop... the latter of which would, of course, denote that the bookshop belongs to more than one person who happen to share the surname of Fell.

Crowley gets squirmy when Mr. Arnold brings up apostrophes the next day because he's thinking about how he was subtly referring to himself as Aziraphale's spouse when Aziraphale-- wait for it, my fellow word nerds-- gave him a ring (on the phone) from Edinburgh.

Aziraphale apparently heard it as intended-- or, at least is on the same page-- because, as we looked at it in other metas that I'll link at the bottom of this one, Aziraphale's use of "la jardiniere" in the French he spoke to Crowley ties to the French cooking term "a la jardiniere," which has a specific definition that resulted in Aziraphale subtly referring to Crowley as his spouse.

Aziraphale also gave him a flirty little smile and that knowing "but you understood me" after saying so, knowing that Crowley heard more than what he had translated back:

Not to mention to ring a bell... Crowley ringing the bookshop bell on Aziraphale's desk when he came back in 2.01; Shadwell on exorcising demons by "bell, book and candle"; God's cheeky interest in Pavlov's experiments in S1... the sexual euphemism that is to "ring my/your bell"... Mr. Arnold mentioning signs in shop windows and Crowley was looking through the window into the bookshop when Aziraphale rang the bell to wrangle the angels and demons, furthering the ring-related wordplay. A sign doesn't have to be paper hung in a window relaying information-- it can be your partner saying he's "had quite enough" and trying to take control of a situation. A sign of things to come.

I'll leave you with the paralleling scene from 1.01 when they first talk after having their romantic evening ruined by the start of Armageddon. Crowley gives Aziraphale a ring on the phone while what is in focus on Aziraphale's side of the conversation is his angel ring. When they meet the next day off of this phone call, church bells are ringing in the scene. Wordplay inspired by the visuals, as well as the first use of ring (phone, communication)/ring (jewelry) in the series:

I doubt it will be the last. 💞

Metas about Aziraphale's French in S2:

[cobragardens]

Aziraphale's Ring Is a Queer Symbol

In a previous post I hold forth about the symbolism of the lion rampant on the escutcheon of Aziraphale's signet ring. The upshot is that the golden lion is used by Heaven as a symbol of its threat and its merciless, murderous corporate culture, and I argue that in S3 Aziraphale must subvert this stamp of Heavenly ownership and symbolically redefine the golden lion by summoning the courage to be soft.

Now I've learned some new stuff about how signet rings are worn. Come, sistren, and get nerdy with me.

Aziraphale's ring is one of several we see angels wearing in Good Omens. Here in an indispensably useful post, @indigovigilance lists the known rings of Show Omens angels and those rings' qualities and placement. Note how of the angels who have rings, everyone except Saraqael and Aziraphale wear their rings on their LEFT pinky fingers. There's a reason for this.

Since the medieval period in Britain and Germany, and from there in the U.S., signet rings have been bestowed by professional associations as a sign of membership, particularly at the upper end of society: trade guilds, colleges, hospitals, the Church(es), noble families, and societies like the Freemasons all issue(d) signet rings to some of their members. The traditional placement for signet rings of show professional affiliation is the left pinky finger.

In fact, as it was not socially acceptable in or past the Victorian era for men to wear rings on more than one finger, men who wore signet rings and wedding rings both would have their wedding rings sized to fit the pinky finger below the signet. If a ring had to be moved to preserve masculinity, it wasn't the pinky ring that was going anywhere. Family signets can be worn on any of a number of fingers, but since the Victorian period the men of the British Royal Family (who are from Germany) have been especial sticklers about wearing their signets on their left pinky fingers as well.

So. If you're British and you have a signet ring that's meant to indicate professional affiliation, you wear it on your left pinky.

But Aziraphale wears his signet ring on his RIGHT hand.

Before I offer my opinion on what that means, here's some more fun background on the history and significance of pinky rings in Anglo-American culture:

The Victorian period was when pinky rings started to become associated with queerness.

As fellow members of the Hundred Guineas Club, Oscar Wilde and Aziraphale would likely have been acquaintances.

According to Wikipedia (ibid.):

"During the Victorian era, both single men and women uninterested in pursuing marriage could wear a ring on the little finger of their left hand."

This quickly expanded to a pinky ring on either hand. Here's Wikipedia's picture of farmer and philanthropist Caroline Rose Foster in 1917, the Edwardian era, wearing a pinky ring on her right hand:

Do you smell a euphemism in "uninterested in pursuing marriage"? I do!

By midcentury--so only 30 years after Ms Foster up there--American and British queers, both men and women, were using signet pinky rings specifically to signal queerness to each other.

"For gay men in the 1950’s and 60’s, a way of signaling to others was through the wearing of a signet ring on the pinkie finger."

"During the 1950’s and 60’s signet rings were worn to signify membership of the gay community; both lesbians and homosexual men wore such rings."

The pinky rings @indigovigilance points out Maggie wears may mean she's an angel; they also match her midcentury lesbian style. Devious of the costumers to give her pinky rings on both hands rather than commit to one or the other.

Screenshot by @indigovigilance

To review, there are three reasons a person in Anglo-American culture might wear a pinky ring:

They just feel like it--This can be any kind of ring and can be worn on either hand or both

Professional affiliation--This is a signet ring worn on the left pinky finger

To signal queerness--This is a signet ring and can be worn on either pinky finger

Aziraphale has worn a signet ring on his RIGHT pinky finger at least since he repaired the Eastern "Gate" in the Wall of Eden, so I'm not suggesting that he adopted the 20th-century pinky signet trend to signal his queerness (although as a clockably 'gay' 'man,' Soho fixture, and member of the Hundred Guineas Club, he may well have started it). What I am suggesting is that Aziraphale has been given a ring by Heaven that Heaven intends him to use to show his professional affiliation, but as with the flaming sword he gives away, Aziraphale doesn't use the ring for its intended purpose. By wearing the ring on his right hand, Aziraphale removes the option of interpreting it as a symbol of his professional affiliation with Heaven and renders it strictly a personal ornament. He subverts a symbol of Heavenly menace into an object of beauty and queerness.

I mean queerness in both senses. If a human takes any symbolic notice of his ring, they'll note the signet is on his right hand and conclude Aziraphale is gay. If another angel takes any notice of it, they'll conclude Aziraphale is a bit odd--that he doesn't pay attention to the finer points of how to fit in with the archangels, doesn't do things like other angels do.

In conclusion, pinky signet rings as a queer signal are just the fucking coolest and I vote we bring them back immediately.

[misanthropologymajor]

buggin' out (pt. 1)

plagas!leon x partner!fem!reader

You've known Leon for a long while—since his unlucky first day in Raccoon City. What the hell was up with him on this mission to save the president's daughter?

warnings: parasitic infections, descriptive violence, slow burn, anxious reader because my anxiety is so ingrained that I can't write someone who isn't anxious every second of every day, ignoring the treasure hunting aspect of the game because it is a little silly outside of the context of a video game, one use of y/n, lots of euphemisms for killing, awkwardly written combat, crossposted on ao3

part two -

feedback is appreciated :)

wc: 2.4k

"Roost, this is Condor Two. Condor One is totally out. We're in a boat and he's totally unconscious."

"Condor Two, what do you mean? Why are you in a boat?"

"It's so much-- there was a big fish monster, and we had to take him out so we could get to the area left on this one map to get the key to the church, but we killed the big guy, and Leon coughed up some blood and just collapsed. I'm taking us to shore, where we're less exposed." Leon thrashes in his sleep as you ramble, splashing some lake water on him.

"Condor Two, calm down, shelter him a bit, and update me when he wakes up. Roost out."

Pulling into the pier, you stop the boat. "Leon, you really are a bit of a damsel in distress." You pull him out, brushing his hair off of his forehead. He stirs just a bit, letting out a small groan.

Within twenty minutes, you manage to coax him into the nearest shed. You rifle through your waist pouch, leaving him with a small water bottle and a damp cloth on the nape of his neck. "Leon, I'm going to get you some medicinal herbs. Please wake up soon." Leon’s chest gently rises and falls. You brush his hair out of his eyes again before you leave.

You clamber up towards the Merchant's set up in the cave. "Excuse me? Do you have anything that can help my friend? Something's happened to him on the water; he's unconscious."

"Well, Stranger-- it may be best to let 'im wake up on 'is own. Never know what causes things 'round here-" you move to interrupt. "But, ‘f you must try somethin', try these herbs. Yellow an' red, if you will."

You hand him a few thousand pesetas and return down to Leon. After mixing them into his water, you coax him into taking a few sips. He groans, and you settle on the dirt beside him, cradling his head in your lap. "You've got to wake up, Leon. Ashley needs you, we have to save her."

After an hour of Leon's unconsciousness, you leave him in his shelter, obscured by an improvised curtain, and set off to get the key to the church. You sail the boat to the small boathouse and set through the path, pausing to fight three male villagers, two of which have their heads explode to reveal a bladed tentacle. Oh, joy.

Once you enter the cave, you find a large plinth between two narrower, notched pedestals, holding what seems to be the key to the church entrance. In the next room, a large map on the wall indicates the cave you're in and one across the lake.

Going through the cave leads to a new boat, which you take to check on Leon. In his shed, he's more responsive to your gentle probing, but he's still nowhere near conscious. 

"Leon, I'm going to get the first part of the key. I'll be back as soon as I can." You return to your boat and approach the smaller cave across the lake. The ride is uncomfortable without Leon’s quiet breathing or snarky mumblings. 

Arriving in the cave reveals a small building with an eight-buttoned console to the left of a relatively large door. Following a bit of multi-story investigation, you find the correct buttons for the entrance, revealing the detachable head and a few treasures in the room. You return to Leon, who is nearly awake.

"Condor Two, it's been almost two hours since you called in. Are you any closer to Baby Eagle?" Hunnigan’s voice crackles through your earpiece as you consider your next course of action. 

"While Condor One has been napping, I went to get one half of the way to unlock the key to the church. We'll get the other half once Condor One is back in action."

"Good to hear, Condor Two. Have Condor One call in once he's awake. Roost out."

It took another twenty minutes for Leon to fully wake up and adjust to his surroundings. Wrestling himself up by his elbows, sat with his back along the wall. "What the hell happened?"

"I was hoping you'd have the answer to that. We took down that big fish, and then you coughed up blood like you were in a period drama before passing out. Don't tell me you have tuberculosis."

"Definitely not. I think it may have to do with this cult; I saw a cloaked figure talking about a sacrificial body." 

"Don’t be so quick to rule out TB, Leon. Last year, an estimated eight million- Wait, fuck, that big priest said, 'Your blood or whatever accepted the gift.'"

"Oh, he worded it exactly like that. Wait, why do you know so much about tuberculosis?" You lightly smack the back of his head before filling him in on the work you'd done while he was asleep. His eyes crinkled as he looked up. He gestured for you to help him up off of the ground.

"One, we have to head to get the second part for the key to the church. Two, Leon, we literally work against biological terrorism, and I wouldn’t put it past Umbrella’s people to work out how to use TB. Are you good to go, or should I leave you here? Either way, call in to Hunnigan."

"I'm fine. Saving the president's daughter is all that matters."

"Leon, saving her doesn't matter much if you go down again and she gets taken… again.''

He ignores you. "Roost, this is Condor One. I'm up and at it, Condor Two is freaking out over nothing." 

"Condor One, you were radio silent for three hours. I think that Condor Two may be right to worry."

As he updates Hunnigan, you walk over and start up the boat. The retrieved stone head looks up at him as he enters the boat. “I take it we’re looking for another one of these bad boys?”

You nod an affirmation and take the boat to the dock indicated on the map. At the dock, you try the grated metal door to the right. "Locked. Looks like we have to go the long way."

"Let's get to it."

"Oh, by the way-- our friends sometimes pop big stabby tentacles out of where their heads are now. They don't like bright light. Just be ready."

"What the fuck?"

"Let's go, Kennedy."

Leon shoots a little wildly when the first Ganado you face grows into a bladed tentacle. Eventually, the head bursts, revealing another few enemies. You take them down as you head deeper into the cave section. Leon climbs up a ladder as you finish clearing the bottom level. You can hear him in combat up on the ledge. "They just keep coming!"

You finish down below and take the far ladder up to the ledge. Leon shoots his last opponent and jogs over to you. "This is the same console as the other cave. Let's look for symbols."

After finding the three symbols, you input them to unlock the door. You let Leon discover the bloody surprise under the stone head and eventually make your way back to the initial cave with the church key.

Putting each head on the pedestals unlocks the circular church key. Leon takes it and tucks it into his briefcase before leading you back to the Merchant's grotto. "Ashley's waiting for us; let's get going."

You head up the stairs towards the quarry. As you both step in, the gate slams behind you. A red figure atop the highest cliff gestures towards the gate across the quarry. The gate quakes, and the blockade begins to fragment.

"I'm not sure I'm a big fan of that comically large hammer anymore." You begin to load your rifle and aim it towards the gate.

The gate slammed open. It reveals a massive, lumpy humanoid. "Woah! Goddamn, you're a big boy!" Leon uses his handgun to fire a round of 3 burst shots at the giant. The giant seems unphased by the shots, and you take the opportunity to fire your shotgun at his back. He's marginally more impacted by this, which distracts him enough for Leon to begin to move away from the path of rampage.

Leon switches to small grenades and discovers another weak point on the giant's back. A small white figure pops out from the giant's upper back. 

A wolf howls at the top of the cliff. Leon points up to the top. "Hey! It's that dog again!" The giant looks frantically towards the moving wolf. After jumping down to the quarry, the wolf bites at the ankles of the giant.

You and Leon focus your shots on the smaller white figure, eventually leading to the giant falling low enough to attack the little white guy with your knife. After a few seconds, the giant moves to stand back up.

After another few rotations of knocking the big guy down and hacking at the little white head, the giant goes down. Leon stares down at it. "Damn. We were almost pancakes."

The wolf bounds off into the night, and you and Leon continue back toward the church. "Those bastards better not have moved Baby Eagle on us. I think I might lose it if we do much else without confirmation that she's okay." You adjust your side holster and reload each of your weapons.

"Let's not give them the chance." Leon opened the gate to the churchyard and slotted the key into the door. The door opens to a fairly basic chapel, with a jumbled stained glass in the center of the altar.

"Ashley Graham? Are you here?" You and Leon search for any location that could hide a full human being. "Leon, there's a blue knob in this cupboard."

"There's a gate over there, There's blue in the stained glass and a handle on the wall. Let's try this."

Leon fiddles with settings on the revealed console, pulling the gate above the doorway.

You walk through the doorway, checking for hidden combatants before climbing the ladder. You approach the door, indicating for Leon to open it.

"Ashley, Ashley Graham? Are you in here?" A figure swung at Leon with a candelabra.

"Just let me go!" A blonde girl in an orange blazer and a green plaid miniskirt swung again at Leon with the candelabra.

Leon caught it and threw it to the floor. "Easy with that. My name is Leon, this is (y/n). We're here on the president's orders." Ashley looked between the two of you before running between you out of the room. "That went well." Leon walked out of the storage room.

"Leon, you could have led with 'I'm not a bug man.' Yet, I guess." You stumble over the discarded candelabra momentarily before catching your footing.

"Because you were such a big help there?" Leon jogged to reach Ashley. "Hey, it's dangerous outside. You need to listen to me-"

Ashley interrupted him. "What is that? Over there."

You followed her eyeline. "That looks like more villagers. We need to be ready..." You trailed off as Leon and Ashley both grabbed their temples and groaned in pain. "Guys? What's wrong?" As they opened their eyes, you maneuvered Ashley to face you, pulling a penlight from your waist to check her pupils. You looked between her fairly normal pupils and the quickly approaching mob. "Kennedy, what happened?"

Leon and Ashley press along the gaps between windows to your right as you slide to put Ashley between you and Leon. Leon addresses you around Ashley. "Not good; let’s be ready."

Ashley looks between the two of you. "What do we do?"

Leon leans slightly toward her. "Your father trusts us, and I need you to trust us, too." Following a noise downstairs, you and Leon motion for Ashley to stay back as you look down at the villagers coming in.

You all crouch down as you move towards the left, passing Ashley's smashed phone. "Seriously? I just bought this."

You notice the sticker indicating Sigma Gamma Phi. "When we get out, we'll get you a new one. Let's get you back to your sisters first."

You reach a dead end and spot for Ashley as she climbs atop Leon's back to get the ladder down. You climb up the ladder, and Leon follows you. The only option is a window, which Leon and you hop through to the next ledge. Leon persuades Ashley to jump as you descend the ladder to the ground. 

A fallen bookcase blocks your path. Leon's voice crackles through your earpiece as you begin to clear the route. "Roost. We've secured Baby Eagle." You leverage your arms and thighs to move it back into the correct spot, as Hunnigan replies.

"Copy that. Is she okay?"

"Affirmative." Leon and Ashley approach your path.

" Well done, Condors. I'll dispatch a chopper ASAP. I'm sending you the coordinates for the extraction point. Make your way there. And don't let anything happen to Baby Eagle. Hurry, the weather is getting worse. Roost out."

You walk to the front courtyard with your gun drawn. "Ashley, stick close to one of us unless we tell you otherwise. Be loud if you need help." Ashley tucks herself behind you. As you finish speaking, an old woman with a pitchfork turns towards your little crew. You take three shots before her head is replaced with a tentacle. Leon fires twice more before that, too, explodes.

The sounds of her death summon another three villagers. Leon moves to create an artificial bottleneck of access to Ashley. Those villagers go down with only one more tentacle as four more enter the courtyard. You narrowly pull Ashley out of the path of a charging pitchfork.

When those four are taken care of, you leave Ashley with Leon to explore the cemetery. As you finish dealing with the visible, another gets close enough to grapple you. You yell in surprise as you fish for your combat knife, and Leon runs toward you. Ashley stumbles behind him.

Before Leon can get halfway down to you, you wrench yourself from his grasp and stab at his attempts to grab you again. You dispatch him with finality as you turn toward Leon and Ashley. "That could have gone better. Nice to meet you, Ashley."

"Oh! Nice to meet you too, I guess. Wish the circumstances were better."

“Don’t we all?" You pat her shoulder comfortingly before walking ahead.

[alexandria-thornton]

Daddy brother Alexander, you seem very distraught at the prospect of being kicked out of the abbey. I just want to remind you that the approval of the abbot and your brothers should not be your sole source of happiness or of faith. Besides, he who is without sin shall cast the first stone, after all, and I believe your brothers will see how hard you endeavour to follow the Lord’s will, and how your faith has held up through these trying times, even though your smoking hot body is downright sinful, you are not to blame for how good you look, and how good you must feel, fuck, holy shit Even if you were to be kicked out, there is more to faith than the abbey. A bishop at a church is not any more loved by God than the little girl who doesn’t yet understand the concept of God but loves going to youth service because her friends are there, or the man who is devout in his faith but does not have means to donate to the church, and whose bible that was given to him freely was thrown into a lake with his backpack and he cannot yet get another. You are and will be loved by God, regardless of whether you are at the abbey. You can hold your faith to God, regardless of whether you are at the abbey. While it may be a large lifestyle change, it would be one that you undertake under His watch. And you could making a damn killing as a pornstar or as a stripper with those muscles, those hairy legs; fuck, with your innocence about those euphemisms on your blog you might not even be hard pressed to find a sugar daddy willing to pay for everything you need, give you everything you need

I will face whatever future happens to me with dignity and determination.

[xbuster]

i know youve explained it before but ive forgotten, can you remind me why the hell Oyahou Ohayou Bonjour Girl is doing that

Immediate story reason: She got kicked out of the church she lived in because she sucks at being a nun and everyone hates her. Oogami took her in for a night and this was her idea of waking him up before poisoning him with her “cooking.”

Lore reason given in the prequel OVA: She asked the priest who was looking after her what a euphemism for sex meant (she is very stupid) and he didn’t want to give this 16 year old sex ed so he said it’s when a man and woman love each other so they perform a good morning dance for god.

And this is why she has the maracas.

[nerves-nebula]

Something to be said about trans people (all types of trans people) and dresses

I can’t wear dresses, but it’s hard to tell why. They aren’t inherently uncomfortable. I only ever wore a dress to high school once. Everyone told me how nice I looked and it made me realize how ugly the usually thought I was. Because I wasn’t performing femininity enough. And I knew if they saw me as masculine at all then they wouldn’t have said I looked nice. I hated that. School was bad that day and I asked to be dropped off at a fast food place. The first time I’d worn a dress in years (outside of Sunday mass) and a man old enough to be my father hit on me a block away from my house. I told him my age to warn him off (15? 16? I’m not sure) He said he could keep a secret.

Dresses are so interesting because they aren’t much different from other clothes. But even though my sister could wear a suit (not without their own misgendering and issues, mind you. We didn’t live in a place that was too progressive) the idea that my brothers could wear dresses was ridiculous.

Trans women have their own issues with dresses, either being denied them, or feeling like the expectation is that they should wear them to prove themselves (or a billion other more complicated reasons and issues I couldn’t even imagine)

And what about me? I’m only masculine because my idea of myself fits that category more, not because masculinity mean anything to me. Manhood and womanhood sound like silly sexual euphemisms to me. Maybe one day I’ll wear a dress again. Dresses are kept so out of reach and so close by. I can tell it’s not right for them yet.

Forced to wear a dress every weekend, but then again church was like it’s own little universe. Things that happened at or around church didn’t matter outside of it to me. I can’t stand the idea of wearing a dress and being seen as anything other than what I am. I love femininity on men, but I’m not a man, so I think that effect is weakened on me.

When people see a monster they often think it’s a he by default, when they see a monster with tacked on eyelashes they laugh and default to she. She’s a girl because of that one thing, and she’s a joke because she’s a girl. I don’t want to be a she monster. The idea of it makes me sick.

[thefisherqueen]

The telegram is before me as I write. It would appear to have been handed in at Vere Street at eight o’clock in the morning of May 11, 1897, and received before half-past at Holloway B.O. And in that drab region it duly found me, unwashen but at work before the day grew hot and my attic insupportable.

A telegram sent from Vere Street, eh, Hornung? If that name doesn't ring a bell for you, Vere Street was the infamous location of a rare, early, widly reported on police raid in 1810. The raid targeted the White Swan, an established so called 'molly house' (a social meeting place/bar/brothel, definitions are vague, for queer folk). 27 men were arrested, 8 of which were tried and convicted, 2 were eventually even hanged. Rumours tell of marriage ceremonies, performed by John Church, having taken place at a chapel in this molly house. We actually have remaining textual evidence of the name Vere Street being used as an euphemism for homosexuality in a 'he's from Vere Street, if you know what I mean' way. Hornung's being very unsubtle here

[smokingpotatostuff]

Pisses me off so much that the state makes people go to AA. That shit is a cult, and their treatment plan boils down to "obviously you're too fucked up of a person to get your shit together yourself, so you just have to accept that and let God (not a euphemism, literal Christian God, because fuck the separation of church and state I guess) handle the issue for you." Like why the fuck is going to that a part of the plea deal for everyone I've ever known with any substance-related criminal case?

[iced-coffee-jesus]

Shout out to you about the Glee bit bc I saw so many people praising it and I was kinda dumb founded bc in after gay marriage was legalized, I had a long time friend look me in the eye and say, “what’s next are they gonna let people marry dogs?”

Like, Glee did not fucking end homophobia and like yeah, it did have some of the first queer characters that a lot of people were exposed to but the idea that Buck was somehow post Glee and that there was this magical changing of people’s opinions after glee started and they LOVE gay people now is NUTS

Thank you for the shout out anon! There is so much I could say about that speech but I'm gonna try and be concise.

I know that they were going for a moving moment about homophobia and being excepted, and I will give you some leeway in the fact that I haven't really seen Glee and, sure, it did bring a kind of representation that was lacking to TV. But Buffy had a lesbian couple way before them, Ellen came out in her sitcom in the 90's, Friends had a gay wedding that was somewhat handled well, plus a million other shows that also had queer rep by the late 2000's to mid 2010's. Glee was not the first to do it nor the best, lets be real.

Also, Buck is frankly too old for Josh to use the 'pre-Glee' euphemism. Buck was born in 1991-1992... he's in his fucking thirties, for Christ's sake. Josh has been out longer and is older than Buck, but that doesn't give him or Tommy any right to claim or suggest they experienced homophobia in a way Buck never will. Buck is also Bi, not gay, and his experiences will be different; I'm not saying worse, simply different.

And, like I mentioned in my tags, I've been called slurs, and I'm definitely 'post-Glee'. I'm 26, Glee started airing when I was eleven. I'm Bi, and I've been called a dyke and a faggot and a muffin muncher (I'll be honest I'm not sure if that one is a slur or not, I lean towards not). And those are just by one of my brothers. My church started participating and orchestrating conversion therapy when I was a teenager, a year or so after I realized I was queer. I can't be out at my job because we have a 'morals' clause (it's run by a church, and unfortunately legal). There was a horrible case a few years ago that I won't go too in-depth where a queer couple was murdered and dumped in the river. But police insist it wasn't a hate crime (it was).

I'm not trying to say we shouldn't respect or appreciate our queer elders. But Tommy and Josh aren't really queer elders to Buck in a way that makes the Glee conversation make sense. It just came across wildly tone deaf and like a straight person wrote it; queer people who came after Glee still faced almost 100% of the same struggles as the people before Glee. And the reason we don't face 100% the same struggles is not because of Fucking Glee.

Alright, rant over.

[mariana-oconnor]

Shoscombe Old Place full

First of all, in my head this story is either called Shoscombe Old Spot*, and is about pigs, or Is a repeat of the Boscombe Valley Mystery. I cannot call it the right name to save my life.

This is all I am going to see for every character in this story. I apologise in advance.

*There is a type of pig called a Gloucester Old Spot.

Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a low-power microscope. Now he straightened himself up and looked round at me in triumph.

"Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings in the seam of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance of the microscope.”

And 100 years later it would be used in flashy, edited montages of pretty forensic scientists also identifying glue and threads from a tweed coat.

"Watson, you know something of racing?” “I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension.”

Did Mary die, or did she throw him out for his gambling addiction and they both agreed to pretend the other was dead because it's Victorian Britain?

“It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street money-lender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly killed the man.” “Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that way?”

I would call that neither interesting, nor indulging, but you do you, I guess.

Sir Robert Norberton. Sounds like a great guy.

"He should have been a buck in the days of the Regency—a boxer, an athlete, a plunger on the turf, a lover of fair ladies, and, by all account, so far down Queer Street that he may never find his way back again.”

That took a distinct turn for the unexpected at the end there. Quite the euphemism there. Apparently it just means he has money problems (presumably because of being a horrible person and a gambler) but the joys of linguistic evolution strike again.

Is he... far down Queer Street, or has he just gone a few steps?

“There are the Shoscombe spaniels,” said I. “You hear of them at every dog show. The most exclusive breed in England. They are the special pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place.”

The spaniels are now also pigs in my brain. Everything is pigs. It's actually a long con that Lady Beatrice has been pulling for years. 'Most exclusive breed' = they're actually pigs in disguise.

...the firm, austere expression which is only seen upon those who have to control horses or boys.

This absolutely made me laugh. Excellent description.

“First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has gone mad.”

Really? How could you tell? He seems like such a level-headed and calm person with absolutely no emotional issues whatsoever.

No really, how could you tell?

“Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things, there may be a meaning to it, but when everything he does is queer, then you begin to wonder."

😐😐😐

They did say he was pretty far down Queer Street, my dude. That's probably what the issue is.

This story is already one of the most unintentionally hilarious we've read. I hope it doesn't end with the deaths of horses or children. Or some woman marrying the abusive arsehole. That would ruin the joy.

And ah, we have reached the casual antisemitism. Because of course we have. Money lenders were mentioned, clearly there was going to be some.

"Then there is his conduct to Lady Beatrice!” “Ah! What is that?” “They have always been the best of friends. They had the same tastes, the two of them"

Does she also enjoy whipping people almost to death? Family dinners must be a riot!

“And a bitter, savage, spiteful quarrel at that. Why else would he give away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her child?"

"But then, again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night? And who is the man that meets him there?”

...I mean... Do we really want to get into that?

There's a haunted crypt? Excellent. Ghost pigs abound.

"So we up when Sir Robert was gone and pretended we were just having a walk like in the moonlight..."

Just a casual moonlit bro walk at midnight in the hook-up graveyard. Like bros.

What even is this story? I don't need to provide commentary, it's all in the text (apart from the pigs).

‘Hullo, mate! who may you be?’ says I. I guess he had not heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the devil coming out of hell.

You were in the haunted graveyard. He thought you were a fucking ghost my friend. And if he didn't, he should have done and I will be very annoyed.

"From Dr. Watson's description of Sir Robert I can realize that no woman is safe from him."

Or man. Or non-binary person.

“No, sir, and there is something more that I can't fit in. Why should Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?”

I feel... like you could have opened with the grave robbery? Maybe. Could be important. Seems relevant, if not to the case as a whole then just to... general interest, honestly.

If he dug up a grave at the haunted hook-up graveyard on Queer Street, man's going to be haunted by all the queerest ghosts. It's going to be Queer Eye for a Live Guy all over that place. Though I suspect Sr Robert is beyond their undead assistance.

"It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner was a bit of a human body.”

A bit... Which bit?

"It was just the head and a few bones of a mummy. It may have been a thousand years old."

Oh wow, is this the thing where people ate mummies for their health or something? There was a massive fad where people were just like 'I guess eating this person who is dead will stop me from dying, that makes logical sense and isn't disgusting at all' nom nom nom. Please tell me one of these people is a cannibal. Not like cannibalism yay, obviously, but that's pretty much the last thing this story needs to become completely epic.

"The creature was howling outside the old well-house, and Sir Robert was in one of his tantrums that morning. He caught it up, and I thought he would have killed it. Then he gave it to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to take the dog to old Barnes at the Green Dragon, for he never wished to see it again.”

Ways in which Sir Robert Norberton is better than Sir Eustace of The Abbey Grange fame: instead of covering the dog in petrol and setting it on fire, Sir Robert just sent it away. The bar is so incredibly low for Holmesian villains.

Also, there was something in the old well-house. Probably a horse. Dog was giving it away so dog had to go.

But he didn't kill the dog. So proud. He can whip men half to death, but he draws the line at hurting dogs, apparently.

“It's the upper condyle of a human femur,” said I.

Hey. Look! Watson did a doctor thing! And it wasn't brandy.

And now they're going undercover.

Part 2

"...refuses to stop at the stables to greet her favourite horse..."

This makes me feel like it's not her favourite horse. We've already been told the horse has a doppelganger. Did the real horse die and now he's got a problem because all his money is on the horse winning the race, but he's only got the rubbish one? Or was there only ever one horse in the first place and it's rubbish? But the bone is a human femur, or so Watson says.

"Let us suppose, Watson—it is merely a scandalous supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument's sake—that Sir Robert has done away with his sister.”

Did not see that coming. I think I missed that no one at all had seen her other than the maid. I guess it makes sense because if she dies, the estate goes to someone else and then he has no money at all. I have been distracted by horses.

Though the fact that Holmes is saying this implies to me that it's not the case. On the other hand, this is only a two parter, so there can't be that much more plot to go.

“My dear Holmes, it is out of the question.” “Very possibly, Watson. Sir Robert is a man of an honourable stock."

There is so much wrong with this exchange, I don't know where to start.

"Never mind me. I shall stand behind this holly-bush and see what I can see.”

By which you mean whether the 'spaniel' wants to go to its mistress.

Aw, he's such a good boy.

Then they stop in the suspected murder investigation to have a fishing day. That's the thing about the Holmes stories. ACD isn't afraid to say 'and there was nothing that could be done right then so we just had a jolly day out'. Crime fighting is such a leisurely business.

“‘Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right,” said he. “Appearances are against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise.”

A surprisingly reasonable response here from the man that we have been repeatedly told by multiple people likes to punch first and ask questions never.

"Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of Evans, has for some years been my sister's confidential maid."

The maid is married!? and her husband's a character?! That Sir Robert knows?! Plot twist!

So she died of natural causes. That's kind of nice. If it wasn't for all the antisemitism, this one would be pretty good.

Except for how the violent gambling addict magically makes good in the end and turns out not to be so bad after all. Though I suppose I should be happy he turned his life around. Maybe a little anticlimactic, but it's a good twist that I didn't see coming because I was too busy thinking of horses.

And pigs.

[mrspasser]

After the snap - chapter 1 - Sterek fanfic

Another fic from a while back that didn't get put on Tumblr. Well, it's here now. Please keep some tissues nearby, I'm told they're needed.

The werewolf across from her shifts in his seat. It's always a bit like pulling teeth with him, getting him to share his thoughts. At first, she was convinced he would give up on therapy. Truthfully, even after almost four years of it she still wonders every now and then if he would just stop showing up some day. Yet, he keeps coming to their weekly appointments. They're short, only thirty minutes, and sometimes no more than ten words come out of her client. However, she has learned to listen to what isn't being said, to read between the lines. It’s how she knows that getting therapy is a promise he made to someone important, before The Snap.

Find it on A03 and Wattpad

After the snap - Chapter 1

Melody Brooks looks over her schedule for the day. She has five clients today. Two in the morning, two in the afternoon and one in her evening slot. After that, she has a short session with her colleague, to evaluate their day. Or, to just unload all the worries her clients have bestowed upon her that day. It's not unusual for them to do it over a glass of Bordeaux, after all, they're just human. As are all of her clients too, even though some of them are a little more than human.

It's something the world learned after The Snap, or The Blip, the euphemisms used to describe the annihilation of half the people on the planet. Most churches stopped using the phrase "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" after that catastrophic day, as it was too painful for their congregation to hear. Melody tries to see the irony in that, believing that humor can be a healthy coping mechanism when deployed appropriately. It's one way to deal with it, as there are many ways, not all of them healthy or right. Still, each person has a right to deal with it in their own way, to act as they see fit. She is just there to help them along the way, if they want her to.

The people suffered from the loss of their loved ones, some to the point of being no longer able to deal with those losses. Suicide rates had gone up after that day, and now, almost five years later, they're still higher than before. Melody lost clients, some of them even after years of therapy. Others, she was able to help pick up their lives again, to live on with the memories. Everyone's progress is different, some are faster than others. And with some, the pace is glacial. 

"So, Derek, tell me. What's new this week?"

The werewolf across from her shifts in his seat. It's always a bit like pulling teeth with him, getting him to share his thoughts. At first, she was convinced he would give up on therapy. Truthfully, even after almost four years of it she still wonders every now and then if he would just stop showing up some day. Yet, he keeps coming to their weekly appointments. They're short, only thirty minutes, and sometimes no more than ten words come out of her client. However, she has learned to listen to what isn't being said, to read between the lines. It’s how she knows that getting therapy is a promise he made to someone important, before The Snap.

"The old fox burrow is in use again," he says, his gaze locked on the coffee table between them.

"Oh? Just one fox? Or a family?" Melody actually quite likes the information Derek Hale shares with her about the animal life in the Preserve that surrounds most of Beacon Hills. With his heightened senses the werewolf can discern more than others. It's his job too, he's been a park ranger for two years now. Getting the job was cause for celebration, to her surprise the man had even hugged her, momentarily overwhelmed by emotions.

"Two. I think there'll be a family soon." He smiles a little then, looking up from the table. The Snap had affected all living creatures, animals and man alike. To see nature finding its way again is important beyond measure.

"That's good news!" Melody acknowledges, before moving on to a new subject. "Did your shipment of timber come in yet?"

Derek nods. “Not all of it, but the large beams are there, so I can start on the framework.”

In the past two years, the werewolf had torn down the charred remains of his old family home in the Preserve bit by bit, meaning to build a new house in its place. Melody had once happened upon the old house when hiking the trails. She was not a native to Beacon Hills, but her friend was, and he had told her about the Hales and the tragedy of the fire that took the lives of most of the family. Of course there was more to that story than the average townspeople knew, as it all happened before people were privy to the existence of werewolves and other supernatural creatures. 

The alien invasion in New York proved that they were not alone in the universe. And after The Snap, people discovered mankind wasn’t alone on Earth either. Or rather, that mankind was more diverse than they’d all thought. And The Snap had affected everybody. Werewolves without pack, witches without their coven, forests that were suddenly bereft of their protecting druids, the list went on and on. One good thing that came out of The Snap was that mankind bonded together, reaching out to the people that remained. And, to some people’s surprise or even anger, that bond also extended to the people that were a little more than human. People were so happy to see their neighbour survive that they didn’t even care that their neighbour went furry each full moon. Melody’s parents, who had both miraculously survived that dreadful day, discovered that their neighbour from across the street was a druid. Her father just said it explained a lot about why Ted’s rose bushes were always the first to blossom. 

Derek is more at ease with the older man than with the younger, she knows they get together a couple of nights a week, drinking beer and playing cards, or watching a game. She has met the sheriff a couple of times and admires him strongly. He lost his son in The Snap, a boy in his early twenties, and most of his deputies. However, out of a strong sense of community, the sheriff kept on going. It is mainly thanks to him that the town pulled through the way they did. 

Besides a werewolf, Melody also has a witch as a client. William Johnson is the retired head of the local elementary school, always dressed in a sweater vest, with his dark, bald head shining like a bowling ball. He was one of the most positive people she’d ever met, but he’d lost his wife and almost his whole coven in The Snap, and that was more than enough to rattle a man.

Derek Hale also lost his people, his pack. For the second time, as it turned out. The man had experienced trauma upon trauma and he was most certainly not ready to rehash all that. So they work on the little things, on moving forward, one step at a time, to keep on living. He is not totally alone, that helps a little. There is another werewolf, an Alpha like him, and there is a human, the father of one of his lost packmates. The three of them have formed a new, makeshift pack, even though a pack usually has only one Alpha. Melody knows the new house will have rooms for them, even though they don’t live together now and maybe never will. 

After Derek has told her about his work on the house, she asks about his pack. “How’s Scott? Did you talk to him this week?”

Over the years Melody has learned that Stiles, the sheriff’s son, held an important place in Derek’s life. There were Boyd, Erica, Isaac and Jackson, all connected to him through the bond between Alpha and Beta. There was Scott, who was a rather reluctant member of Derek’s pack, which explained their rocky relationship in the present. And there was Stiles, not a werewolf, yet maybe the most loyal member of Derek’s pack nonetheless. Of the pack only Scott remained. At first there was Scott’s girlfriend too, but she had moved away with her family to Europe after The Snap and Derek had mentioned them breaking up not long after.

Derek scoffs quietly. He doesn’t always see eye to eye with the other werewolf and they often have little spats because of it. At first, Derek was bottling everything up inside, afraid to lose yet another pack member. In time, he’s learned that he wouldn’t lose his friend just because they argued. It is slow learning, heavily influenced by past experiences. He had to learn that he was not the only one that needed the other, that his friend would never truly leave him, even though they might not speak for a couple of days because emotions ran high between them. 

“It was different… with Stiles,” Derek had once said in one of his rare moments of transparency. “We argued all the time, but he always stayed, even when I didn’t want him to.” A wistful smile had crossed his face. “He was always there.” For me , was left unsaid but still heard.

“Scott has been doing that speed-date thing again,” Derek answers after a short pause. “He wanted me to come too.”

“It could be nice, meeting new people?” Melody knows to tread lightly when it comes to this subject. There are names in Derek’s past, Kate or Jennifer for instance, that have done a lot of damage. And there is one name he still holds on to, long after his disappearance.

“I don’t need to sit down at a table to do that.” It sounds bitter and Melody knows the reason behind that. Derek is a handsome man, beautiful to most standards, even with the white hairs that have appeared in his short beard. It’s a face that makes people look twice, even though most days he doesn’t carry the most friendly expression. It’s a face that makes people approach him, has women - and some men - give him their number or outright proposition him. 

“People at a speed-date event tend to be looking for a relationship instead of a one night stand. It wouldn’t be the same.”

“Don’t care.” With that, Derek closes off again. Melody makes a soft sound of acknowledgement, knowing the werewolf can hear her. She’s not judging and Derek knows that by now. It’s another thing he’s learned. 

“It’s almost time,” she says, closing her notebook. “Will I see you next week?”

Derek nods, getting up from his chair. “I’ll be here.”

***

“Thanks, son,” Noah says as he takes the beer from Derek. “God knows I could use a cold one after the day I've had.” He has been out and about all day in the California summer. He’s grateful that Derek’s loft is nice and cool, partially thanks to the dark curtains in front of the large window. 

“Dinner’s ready in twenty,” the werewolf informs him, taking a seat at the kitchen table across from him. They always sit here when they’re in the loft; they have their own seats, their own routines. Derek’s kitchen table is a comfortable place to be. The table is handcrafted from wood from the Preserve, made by Derek himself. The chairs are a fairly recent addition to the loft; comfortable seats that invite you to sit in them for long nights filled with good food and interesting conversation. 

“Smells good already.” Noah takes a long drink from his beer, washing away the dust from the day. He’d spent most of the afternoon directing traffic, when a truck with live cattle went off the road. Only one of the cows was hurt bad enough that they had to put her down, the others came away with minor scratches and a good scare. At his age he wasn’t going to run after escaped cows anymore, he’d left that to his young deputies and had taken it upon himself to direct traffic around the area of the crash. He likes doing that, most of the people waving a hello at him when they move past him.

“I used one of Claudia’s recipes,” Derek says, drinking from his own beer.

“The beef casserole,” Noah nods, “I already thought it smelled familiar.” Between the two of them Derek is the best cook; Claudia’s recipe books are in good hands with him.

In the comfortable silence that follows Noah looks idly around the room. Over the years the loft has become more homey, with Derek adding furniture, carpets and drapes to the industrial open space. He knows a lot of it was Stiles' idea, his son urging his Alpha to make a more permanent home for himself. Stiles hasn't been around to see how much of his suggestions Derek has actually followed, with most of it happening after that disastrous day that cut down the world's population by half. Still, it warms Noah's heart to see what Derek did - and still does - to keep the memory of his pack, and Stiles foremost, alive. 

One of the walls is covered in photographs, most of them taken from the phones of the kids. Stiles is in a lot of those photos, often smiling. There is one picture that he loves best, one that was taken without Stiles knowing. If he remembers correctly, it was Erica who took it. She was responsible for the lion's share of the pictures on the wall, on account of her always taking pictures with her phone. In the photograph Stiles and Derek are sagged out on the sofa, sitting shoulder to shoulder and both with their socked feet up on the coffee table. Stiles is throwing up a piece of popcorn and Derek is tracking it through the air with his eyes, his mouth already partially opened to catch it. In the corner of the photograph is Lydia, her bare feet wedged underneath Stiles' thigh. She is watching the tv outside of the frame, snuggled comfortably underneath Jackson's arm - the only part of him that is visible in this particular photo. Noah loves how relaxed they all are in the picture, the way you can see how close they all are. 

Just one of the kids in that photo survived. The sofa is still here too, yet nobody sits on it anymore. Scott has urged Derek more than once to get rid of it, to get rid of the painful memories it contains. Derek refuses, a recurring point of strife between the two werewolves. 

***

The sofa is a silent memorial to those who were lost, sitting smack dab in the middle of the Alpha's living room. Stiles was sitting there when he turned to dust, visiting Derek during his break from college. Derek had just gotten up to make them coffee when it happened, his claws raking through dusty flakes a moment later. Noah had covered the desperate claw marks with a throw spread that had been in Stiles' dorm room, something that Derek allowed only because it smelled like Stiles.

Maybe it isn't healthy for Derek to have such a monument in his living room, to hold on to the sliver of hope that they would return some day; to think that there would be a day that Stiles would sit there again, throwing up popcorn for Derek to catch. Maybe it is unfair of Noah to like that Derek keeps the sofa untouched and waiting. Maybe. But Noah will never be the one to take it away.

"That's good. She sounds nice," Allison says in her soft voice. "How's Derek? And Noah?"

Allison smiles at him from the screen, her cheeks dimpling in that familiar way he loves. It used to ache to see her, but not anymore. They are in a different place now, one where they can be friends and look back fondly upon the time they had together. 

Scott tells her about the date he had with the girl he met at the speed dating event the week before. They'd gone out for coffee, to get to know each other.  "I was the first werewolf she ever met, but she seems cool with it. I think I'm gonna see her again."

"The sheriff's been well. Still not thinking about retirement though." Scott grimaces a little. Noah isn't getting any younger, but he doesn't want to hear of stopping. "Derek is… well, Derek." He shrugs. "We've got most of the framework up for the new house. You can really start to see how it'll be when it's finished. You should visit us when the house is done, we'll have a housewarming party or something!"

“What?” Scott is a little confused. Just a moment ago Allison was talking about the representation of supernatural entities in the government of the European Union, and now he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “What are you on about, Ally?”

"You know what, I think I will!" Allison smiles jovially and continues by telling what she and her father have been up to in Europe. They have ties with what remains of The Avengers, the supernatural branch of it at least. Scott doesn't really know much about it. On the one hand Allison doesn't tell him much - or isn't allowed to tell. And on the other hand it's something that Scott doesn't want anything to do with. What happened in The Blip was horrible. He lost his mother, his best friend and many other friends and family members. But it also brought good things. He feels as if the world is closer knit together than before. He doesn't have to hide his supernatural side anymore. So he tries to look forward, to see the good things. There is nothing to be gained from getting stuck in the past.

“Things are happening, Scott. I can’t tell you about it, hell, I don’t even know much about it myself, but there is something!”

“Thanos! There might be a way to defeat Thanos!”

Scott frowns. “I thought he was gone? Like, gone off to some far away planet where nobody can find him?” It had taken him some time, but eventually he’d accepted that Thanos was in a whole other league than their usual monster of the week . There were other people to deal with him; real life superheroes, who had gadgets and weapons and who worked with the U.S. government. Sure, he wanted to kick Thanos’ ass just as much as every other human being on this planet. But he couldn’t, being a werewolf did not make him a match for the Titan, far from it. And besides, he wouldn’t even know where his ass was to begin to kick it.

“I’m telling you, Scott, there might be a way!”

***

It happened on a monday, May 21 in 2018. The date is engraved in Derek’s memory, like the day his family’s house burned down or the day Laura died. It’s the day he lost his family for the second time. 

It happens on a normal weekday in October, 2023. Derek is sitting at his kitchen table, enjoying a cup of tea after dinner. He’s reading an old novel, one from the James Bond series that his father used to love. Derek has seen most of the movies, the newer ones at least, and he rather enjoys the novels too. 

The sound from the street reaches him first. The building his loft is in used to be abandoned and run down, but it was the first project he undertook when his life settled somewhat. Now, all the apartments are lived in and the street sees some light traffic. It’s a quiet street, yet outside there’s the sound of screeching tires, followed by confused shouts. Derek rushes towards the window, looking down at the dark street. There’s a car shoved halfway up the sidewalk, the driver’s door open, with the driver shouting at a person who is standing in the middle of the street. The person, a man dressed in stained overalls, is looking around himself in a dazed way. He clearly doesn’t know what’s happening.

Derek is about to dismiss him as a drunk, when there’s a small noise behind him. Something like the wind blowing through the leaves, only there is no wind and there are no leaves. 

“D… Derek?”

His heart falls through his stomach and his knees buckle in the same moment. Derek crashes to the floor, his eyes locked on the phantom vision in the middle of his living room. There, on the sofa, dressed in the grey University of Berkeley hoodie he was wearing when he disappeared, is Stiles.

The young man makes a noise of distress when Derek hits the floor and rushes over to him. The hands that grab his shoulders feel real, solid. 

Change washes over him involuntarily, his fangs lengthening, his nails sharpening and his vision washing red. But the man at his side is not deterred. “Derek? What’s happening? Derek?”

He grabs the grey hoodie with both hands, his claws piercing the fabric. “You’re not real,” he wrings out of his closed up throat. “You, you can’t be.”

Yet everything is telling him the boy is real. His hands are firm and warm. His breath is coming rapidly, his heart beating even faster. The hands close around his wrists, holding them but not pulling them away. “Derek? What is this?”

The werewolf sags against the boy, burying his face against his chest. Stiles barely manages to stay upright, catching him in a tangle of limbs. “You’re here,” Derek says breathlessly, “you’re here, you’re here.”

“I am,” Stiles answers, voice wobbling slightly. He wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders, holding him against him. “I’m here.”

Derek can’t say how long they are sitting there like that. At some point Stiles pokes and prods them into a different position, complaining about pins and needles in his leg, but they keep holding each other. He has his face buried in Stiles’ neck, breathing his scent in over and over, to keep reminding himself that apparently this is real. Stiles is really here. 

When his phone rings in his pocket, he knows it’s Noah. It’s the only reason he picks up, the only reason he takes one hand off Stiles to take his phone out of his pocket. 

“Derek?” The sheriff sounds like the way Derek feels. “Is he…?”

“Yes,” Derek croaks. “He is.”

“At the loft?”

“Yes.” It’s all Derek can get out.

“I’m coming.”

Derek puts the phone away. From this close, Stiles was able to hear the conversation even without werewolf hearing. He doesn’t need to repeat it for him. Couldn’t, even if he tried. He doesn’t have the voice for it.

Stiles doesn’t ask for it either. Doesn’t ask whether that was his father on the phone. He just lets Derek burrow back against him, keeping him as close as Derek does him. 

“Huh,” Stiles says after a moment, his fingers scratching idly in the short hairs on Derek’s nape. “You put up curtains.”

Chapter 2

[vidavalor]

Joy

Today, as we know, the word joy usually means happiness in either a non-sexual way ("the cute, baby pumpkin I bought for fall is bringing me so much joy!") and/or in a way pertaining to religiosity ("the Lord brings me joy!"). Neither of these things were original meaning of the word.

The original meaning of joy was sexual ecstasy. It was descriptive of sensual pleasure and/or of having an orgasm. It was a very common way to refer to sex and, prior to an estimated sometime in the 15th century, if you told someone you wanted to "joy with" them, you were saying you wanted to make love with them.

How joy came to be so desexualized as a word is unknown but some etymologists theorize that it is a bit of linguistic revenge for people blasphemously evolving the word passion into being the foremost word used to describe erotic love when it was first developed by Christian theologians, intentionally and specifically, from the Latin pati ("to suffer") as a word to describe the crucification of Christ.

Yes, the current best theory for why joy's primary meanings have evolved away from the erotic is vengeful priests being big mad about people not taking their Jesus word seriously enough and using the church writings and masses to reboot the popular sexy word into a religious one... which then later was also secularized by people to mean just happy, upbeat things. So, if ever there's been a perfectly Good Omens-y word... 🤭

There is actually a song that is, more or less, about this. If you've ever heard Three Dog Night's 1970 song "Joy to the World"-- not the Christmas carol; the one that starts with "Jeremiah was a bullfrog"--what you might not realize is that the song is a trolling of the desexualizing of the word joy by poking fun at religious fundamentalists at the same time as it is using joy in its original meaning. It's both about sex positivity and an anti-war song and was a massive hit. (If Crowley didn't write it in the Good Omens universe, he definitely loved it.) What it wound up showing, though, was just how desexualized the word had become by that point, as many did not realize that the song was using the word's etymology and, instead, credited Three Dog Night with coining joy as an euphemism for sex when, really, they were just explaining its full history and using it in its original meaning.

So, anyway, if, say, a word nerdy demon who has been on Earth since its start were to say to, say, his equally etymology-loving, secret, romantic partner that he thinks it's time for a delivery of some "black market joy", he is absolutely saying he would like to joy with his partner, in the original sense of the word, later that night.

Especially because the literal thing the two of them are delivering in the moment that Crowley brings up joy is whiskey, which is alcohol, and alcohol (all-co-hol = fucking one other) is something we know they enjoy in quite extraordinary amounts (amounts 😂).

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Christopher Mathias at HuffPost:

There’s a quote often attributed to Sinclair Lewis that has gone viral again and again since Donald Trump first ascended to the White House, fodder for liberal memes on Facebook and reposts on the platform X: “When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying the cross.” There’s no evidence that Lewis, the early 20th-century novelist, ever said or wrote that sentence — its origin remains unknown — but it’s understandable why people think he did. Lewis, after all, wrote “It Can’t Happen Here,” the widely read 1930s dystopian novel depicting an Adolf Hitler-like figure rising to power in the U.S. — the type of fascist who eschewed the word “fascist” itself but “preached enslavement to Capitalism under the style of Constitutional and Traditional Native American Liberty,” and who “could quote not only Scripture but Jefferson” — and setting up concentration camps for members of certain marginalized groups, as well as for his political enemies.

The book’s sardonic title has served as the genesis for innumerable op-eds and magazine features in the decades since it was published, with headlines like “Could It Happen Here?” and “Did It Happen Here?” musing whether the horrors of 1930s and 1940s European fascism might be arriving on America’s shores. These musings, of course, sometimes elided the fact that many Americans, especially Black and Indigenous people, were already living under a type of fascism: white supremacy. Still, with the 2024 election victory of Donald Trump, there’s a very good argument that the particularly virulent strain of fascism imagined in Lewis’ novel, and the destruction of whatever semblance of democracy this country has enjoyed, are on the cusp of happening here and now. Like the apocryphal quote said, it is wrapped in a flag and carrying a cross.

Trump’s connection to Christianity has always been tenuous, with critics speculating whether his faith was authentic or crafted out of political expediency, especially after a 2015 interview in which he was asked to name his favorite Bible verses and repeatedly demurred. But since his initial ascent to the White House, and especially after a July assassination attempt this year, his religious rhetoric intensified.

“My faith took on new meaning on July 13 in Butler, Pennsylvania, where I was knocked to the ground, essentially, by what seemed like a supernatural hand,” Trump said last month, suggesting that divine intervention saved him from a would-be assassin’s bullet. “And I would like to think that God saved me for a purpose, and that’s to make our country greater than ever before.” While Trump’s rise to power in 2016 instigated an explosion in fascist groups — the Proud Boys, Identity Evropa and so many more — many of those organizations have since collapsed, falling to infighting and scandal, their members arrested or doxxed. These groups, in many ways, served as shock troops for the “Make America Great Again” agenda, sacrificing themselves to open the Overton window — that is, the spectrum of acceptable political discourse — so wide that Trump frequently parrots their words and ideas these days, openly talking about “remigration,” for example, a well-known euphemism for ethnic cleansing.

Yet the most enduring fascist formation, the one that has survived and thrived out in the open over the past eight years, counts millions of members among its ranks. As HuffPost has reported extensively, they gather at a loose confederation of churches on Sunday mornings, speak in tongues, perform faith healings and are led by self-described prophets and apostles who claim to have a direct line to God. Their revealed word always bears a striking resemblance to the latest MAGA or Republican Party talking points you might hear on Fox News, and contains prophecies that Trump is destined to rule over the U.S., returning to the White House to implement a reign of terror and vengeance over those who ever dared oppose him.

Trump has repeatedly threatened revenge, lashing out at the “enemy from within,” calling the press “the enemy of the people” and promising “retribution” and to be a “dictator” on day one of his next administration. His work will begin in earnest this January. And he’ll have the support of churches in the New Apostolic Reformation, or NAR — a burgeoning movement of charismatic evangelical churches that are characterized by a belief in the supernatural, in modern-day miracles and in modern-day apostles and prophets, as well as an embrace of Christian dominionism, the idea that America was founded as a Christian nation and should be governed with an ultraconservative interpretation of scripture. This latter belief is articulated in something called the Seven Mountain Mandate, which states that Christians must conquer the “seven mountains” of societal influence — the financial system, the church, education, arts and entertainment, family, media and government — to form a perfect world. Once that is accomplished, the prophecy goes, Christ will return to Earth.

It is a movement that is fundamentally hostile to the type of democracy required for equal governance in a diverse and pluralistic society like the U.S., which is why it’s no surprise that NAR prophets and apostles played such a fundamental role in fomenting the antidemocratic Jan. 6, 2021, attack on the U.S. Capitol, and why they’ve found a home in the highest reaches of a Republican Party increasingly beholden to a politics of outright domination.

The GOP’s official party platform is rife with NAR-inflected language, including a call to “keep foreign Christian-hating Communists, Marxists, and Socialists out of America.” Such language can also be found in Project 2025, the sprawling fascist blueprint for a new conservative administration that was spearheaded by The Heritage Foundation think tank and depicts Christians in America as under siege by “woke” enemies. Trump and JD Vance, now the vice president-elect, have repeatedly courted the New Apostolic Reformation, including in September when Vance spoke at an event hosted by an apostle who believes that Trump was destined to save America from Kamala Harris, with the Democratic presidential nominee purportedly sent by the devil to “take Trump out.”

[...] Fascist movements often imbue their leaders with mythological, divine qualities, and the NAR is no exception. Trump was destined to rule for “such a time as this,” according to the movement’s prophets and apostles, who have at various points over the last eight years “made a hobby of connecting the famously profane, philandering, greedy real estate mogul to biblical heroes and quotable Bible verses,” wrote Matthew Taylor, a senior scholar at the Institute for Islamic, Christian, and Jewish Studies and the author of “The Violent Take It by Force.”

With Tuesday’s destructively decisive win by Donald Trump, Christian Nationalists feel further emboldened.

See Also:

RWW: With Trump's Win, Lance Wallnau Says Christian Nationalists Must Tear Down 'The Gates of Hell' In Government

The Guardian: US Christian right celebrates after prophecy of Trump win comes to pass

[best-overplayed-song]

Re: Take Me To Church in response to anon-- a take by someone who first heard it a bit After it came out at the age of 20, was concerned it was overhyped, and on listening had to admit that it was in fact good. (Also disclaimer, I've got less context about like, Irish/English history and stuff than OP so uhhhh sorry this is just gonna be my own personal vibecheck)

Tw: sex mention.

A lot of my feelings on the song are more related to this bit: Take me to church I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies I'll tell you my sins, and you can sharpen your knife Offer me that deathless death and revolve around a. Possibly more sexual interpretation, so take that as you will (I was horny at 20 what can I say)

Okay first off let's talk about Why Church Is Horny. Religion and sex are both things that people often have a lot of feelings about. Christians specifically have even more feelings about sex, usually because they're saying it's bad. However, from a Catholic perspective, there's often a LOT of erotic imagery and stuff going on behind the scenes. See: lactating Jesus, saints' mysticism (for instance, Theresa of Avila, Catherine of Siena), and honestly just general medieval saints… people were SO horny for God. Plus, from an anti-sex Christian perspective, stuff still gets horny more often than you'd think. Milton was a Puritan, and that doesn't stop Paradise Lost from having originated Sexy Satan as a trope. All of which boils down to, coming from Christian, English-speaking cultural context a lot of your feelings about sex and religion, both of which carry enough baggage on their own, become intertwined.

So. All of that means you get the invocation of Christian stuff in the Bedroom anyway--lots of people say stuff like 'oh god' during sex, for instance. Think about the popularity too of the sexy nun trope, or even Destiel. A lot of people find desecration of the (Christian) holy, hot as shit, though it remains taboo.

For that reason! "Take Me To Church" being a song about sex?? About a woman referred to as a "lover," not a wife? Sex as worship? Get all those cultural hotbuttons pinged. (And that's just the first line we're looking at.)

I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies Hoo boy. So, again, worship = sex? That's a lot as seen above. Invoking the dog imagery as part of deference to a woman also gets into stuff about gender roles, taboos, and the breaking thereof. There's a lot to unpack here-- deference of a man to a woman, of an animal to the holy, the admission that it is a shrine of lies, and tied into all that is the implied desire and consent to do these things. That's sexy!

I'll tell you my sins, and you can sharpen your knife Shame is a strong feeling-- one that comes up a lot when we look at this religion/sex network. Telling of sins evokes the Catholic sacrament of confession. And then we get to the knife. I don't know how to explain my interpretation of this without getting real kinky so uh, let's just say that pain and blood can have significant associations with both Christianity and sexuality, and the use of the knife thing in this context brings in Yet Another hot-button thing.

Offer me that deathless death I always just interpret this as euphemism for an orgasm. But! That's not to belittle it. Could a deathless death also be an assumption to heaven? In the context of the previous line(s), it takes on so many alternate connotations it's insane. Has he been stabbed for his sins? (That carried penetration imagery with it fyi.) Has he been forgiven his sins and gets to go to heaven? Or is it sexual release? With the ambiguity the song leaves, all three are possible, keeping up all those threads of violence/pain, shame, ecstasy, sex, divinity, submission… there's A LOT here.

Anyway I'm gonna stop there cuz this is too long. I don't even like this song THAT much, I'm just here to explain why people do.

OH YEAH AND PS: ADD TO ALL OF THIS THE SHAME/RELIGION/SEX FEELINGS AND ASSOCIATIONS CAUSED BY THE LISTENER BEING QUEER okay bye

I loved reading your interpretation! Thanks for the breakdown!

[stabby-sheepy-writes]

Flesh of the Cattle

Genre: Horror/Romance, 3.5k

TW: Cannibalism as a Metaphor, Implied Homophobia, Violence, Euphemisms for Lesbian Sex

AN: I wrote this piece largely to explore a worldbuilding idea surrounding cowboy werewolves, and it turned into a horny lesbian piece

Summary: Have you ever been so fucking horny for a hot cowgirl that you want to turn into a monster and eat her alive?

When I woke up this morning, I was informed by a young boy in uniform that my husband had been drawn, quartered, and decapitated by the town hunters. I was given a pamphlet of condolence, 100 silver dollars for my trouble, and the invitation to see my husband’s head where it was strung up in the town square if I saw fit. The clergy would come by later this morning to cleanse my house of the beast and its corruption from my walls, and the butcher would come in the afternoon to take the remains of the slaughtered cow in the middle of our—now my—fields. Terry Gomez, the victim of the attack, was being seen by the town doctor and to be put on a week of bed rest to recover from his newfound nerves and ravings. 

“They did a real sight to him ma’am,” the young boy stated with a glimmer in his eye, as if the event stood alongside the latest outlaw coming to town to linger in the saloon, and not the death of a man, “caught the beast in the middle of the fields with one of yer ranch hands”. 

Not a man—I sighed as I opened the pamphlet to see the black and white photo of a half skinned, half furred face, blood still dripping from the maw—a werewolf. 

“A shame, he was a good husband. I’ll have to donate his things to the church.”

“Oh no, ma’am, can’t have that,” the boy chortled, as if I was still naive and young, “their sickness and sin sits in their stench. Best to burn it all with the body of the beast. Can’t leave even a bone behind.”

   I nodded, unsure whether I wanted to simply go back to sleep and call it a wash for the day, or rip out the neck of the uniformed boy standing on my porch and leave him to dye the porch red beneath him. The color would match the preacher’s shawl, who was bound to be showing up within the hour with his cursed sons and their herbs and holy water. Before I could make a decision that I would possibly regret, the bell of my kitchen timer pulled me out of my thoughts, reminding me of the morning apple pie I had in the oven and that I, in fact, still had things and people to live for.

“Yes, you’re right, Rather a shame, that,” I retorted quickly, cutting off the rest of whatever the boy had to say as I shut and bolted the door. 

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

My husband and I would never talk about the nights he came in late from the fields, once or twice a month, clothes in tatters and blood coating his hands and mouth. He would strip at the door, leave his clothing in the wash basin for me to sew up the next morning, and would go into the washroom to scrub the blood off of his skin. I would offer him dinner, a meal I had cooked after having already eaten my own, and he would decline.

   “And how many cows this time?” I would ask, once he was freshened up and coming to join me, dragging the wash basin behind him to get a start on salvaging the tatters from his clothes. Always he would answer with 1 or 2 heads, barely a noticeable loss in our massive acreage. 

“And will Terry be fit to deliver to the Pueblos in the morning? Or will he find himself ill?”

“I believe he’ll be finding himself under the weather, I’ll see to the delivery myself tomorrow,” my husband would answer, humor and satisfaction tinting his words as red as the water in the wash basin, hanging the cleaned cloth over the wire at the fireplace to dry and retiring to his bedroom for the night. 

In the morning I knew he would wake up with the sun to butcher and skin the cattle in the field, load the meat, bones and the hide to the wagon and set off for the tribes to sell and barter for thread and leather. He would come home with clothes to replace what he had ripped and tattered, as well as a piece of jewelry to thank me for my vigil, and always, always, a gift for Terry. My husband and his hunger would be sated, those nights, the blood from the fields long soaked into the grass. 

After he would go to bed, I would ignore the ravening in my belly and loins and devour the dinner I had made for him whole, counting the days until I could control myself no longer.  

◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢

The wormwood burnt in my house from the clergy burned my throat and eyes for the first week, and yet a widow in mourning was best not to be seen until at least a month after the death of a husband-turned-beast. Gifts were left from others in town—food, cloth, medicines and thread—the whispers of gossip tickling my ears as clergy burnt incense in my home to banish sin from the very grain of the wood before leaving me to my allotted solitude. Thus, I was stuck in the house, my windows and doors opened wide for the stench to escape when she came to my doorstep. 

A knock on the wood drew my attention from the kitchen, revealing a tall, tanned woman standing on my porch, blonde hair tied back in a braid and a brown cattleman of leather hide perched on her head. Even from the distance I could tell she was a head and shoulders taller than me, the muscle of years of farmwork boasted through her buttoned-up shirt. Her features were sharp, lips already pulled into a sly grin as dark brown eyes drank me in—a gaze I returned, trailing slowly down from smile to neck to waist to boots, and back again. 

“Mornin’ ma’am, you the woman with the husband trussed up in that town square?” 

Her voice was smooth and dark like coffee, her eyes inspecting the inside of my home even as her nose wrinkled at the pervading smell. 

“And what would give that away? I know you ain’t from around here,” I retorted, feeling my stomach start to tighten as she crossed the threshold and maintained a polite distance away, watching every move like she might spring towards me in a bid to eat me whole. 

“Could smell the wormwood from the bar, and figured you needed a new ranch hand since you seem to be down a pair of hands. I need the lodgin’ and the work, won’t ask for nothin more than a bed to sleep and food to eat.” 

Her eyes ripped through me, and my stomach rolled itself into knots. 

“Not runnin’ from nothin, are you, stranger? I’m not going to be taking kindly to any trouble on these fields for the next few seasons,” my hands twitched as her weight shifted, eyes drawn to the small flash of the tanned skin of her hip before snapping back up to meet an amused gaze. 

“Nothin’ that’ll be able to catch up to me here, I can assure you that, ma’am.” 

It was an answer I’d have to take—common sense bid me to send the woman off, tell her to walk the 2 miles back to town and find herself a new ranch that didn’t already have the stink of wormwood soaking into its bones. But hunger bid me differently.

“And your name, ranch hand? Unless you’ve left that behind with trouble, too.” 

She smiled, a toothy, sharp grin that could make a nun ache and politely took off her hat to give me a proper nod: “Lobelia, ma’am. But you can call me Lobo, everybody does.” 

The joke wasn’t lost on me, but neither was her sharp, daring stare. Despite the ache in my torso, I hummed and pointed back out the front door towards the quarterhouse—”Quarterhouse is about half a mile on the other side, next to the horse barn. You passed it walking up here, so you should know where it’s at. We’re working with around fifteen-thousand heads of cattle out there, so get comfortable. We start work at sunrise.”

The other woman nodded, hat settling back on her head as she turned to leave. My eyes couldn’t help but slip down as she walked, swallowing heavily and thinking of the meat sitting on my kitchen counter. My mouth opened before I could think—a newfound habit I was already dreading: “And Lobo?” 

She turned, amusement still sharp in brown eyes, and I gritted my teeth into a smile of my own, “Keep any trouble off the east acres, the pastor’s boys like to walk it at night these days. They like to check up on the cattle, you know how us rural ranches tend to…lose a few heads, at nights.”

I was met with a wink and a “I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am”, and then I watched her walk off.

When she left, I closed my front door to prevent any more unknown visitors, and turned quickly to ravage the meat on my kitchen counter—barely pausing to shred the parchment and the butcher’s twine before tearing into it raw. 

The hunger sated, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the phantom tingles of knowing, brown eyes on the back of my neck. 

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

I did not know hunger until my early teens, when my family sent me to an all-girl’s school in the North. They wanted me to learn math and business, so that one day I might make a valuable wife to one of the sons of the many powerful ranching families in Arizona.   

Northview Conservatory stunk of wormwood, a measure they said meant to keep out the beasts, burnt every morning mass. Yet the girl who sat next to me in class taught me what a beast was, everytime she came to class with her skirt rolled up at the hem in order to match the fashion of the times. Blonde hair in a high ponytail, a kiss of pink to plump lips that begged to be bitten, piercing blue eyes that made my chest flutter and stomach ache every time they focused on me. 

I would have killed to keep those eyes focused on me. 

Hunger, those days, had felt exciting and new. I felt it for every pretty girl I saw, eyes following every bend and curve, mind picturing the blood flow and warmth beneath. The daydream of sinking my teeth in and eating my fill until blood dripped down my chin filled my waking moments, the subject changing every few weeks or so. But that blonde girl with the blue eyes stayed consistent, taunting me every day. I ignored the preaching of the pastor against hunger, against sin, allowing the hunger to grow and fester. 

One day we took a trip to the city—the girls all done up in our sunday bests, the nuns lightheartedly chastising us for vanity but reassuring in the same breath that they, too, were once teenage girls. I remember that trip the blonde girl let her hair down from her ponytail, and I thought to myself that I would have her, that night, teeth kissing flesh starting from where the bottom of the skirt touched her legs.

I learned that day my hunger was different when I watched the corpse of a man be engulfed in flames, the fur on his body patchy and coarse from malnourishment and tar. The execution was an event, a showing of triumph against sin. The man—the beast—had hungered and devoured to his end.

“But what had he done?” I remember asking, dread filling my chest as every eye turned to pierce my own. Those blue eyes burned the brightest, with curiosity and an emotion unknown that burned in the pit of my stomach. The Sister guiding us that day hushed me, a pitying glimmer in her eye.

“It is a beast, dear. A monster that devours the innocent for its own desires, to sate its own hungers.”

“But what was his name? He is a man, is he not? A man like you or I?” 

The Sister shook her head, her expression warning me to hush before I said something that needed to be acted upon, “Beasts have no name, child. A beast is a beast, and what makes a beast is their hunger for flesh. It would be wise to leave it there.” 

The realization shocked me silent for the rest of the outing that day, and yet blue eyes followed me as I moved. The rumbling in my stomach felt sinister, would the taste of the very flesh and blood I craved sate me? Or would I grow only more monstrous? And yet the blue watched, like a deer taunting a wolf. 

Later, when we were grown and our graduation dresses had skirts that couldn’t be rolled at the hem, I was able to gain my answer with those same blue eyes and long, blonde hair. A sanguine taste that left me hungrier all the way home, where my arranged husband was waiting. 

◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢

Lobelia took to the fields as naturally as one with her build and clear experience could be expected to. She sat naturally on a horse, eyes sharp and expression full of ravenous joy as she worked with the other hands in herding cattle to their fields. I watched from the porch, eyes following every movement as she bent and twisted and hunted. Her brown eyes met my own, sharp and wild with adrenaline, ripping straight through me to the growing pit in my stomach. 

She cocked a brow at me, a teasing smirk breaking across her lips, and the ache only grew. I had not spoken to her since her hiring, she had yet to be assigned to collect the allotted food from the main house’s kitchen, and yet every day our eyes locked at least once. The grin she would send me, knowing and equally hungry, would send shots of heat through me and leave goosebumps behind. This burning in my stomach was a hunger I was used to, a heat and pain that was constant yet bearable, and yet being on the receiving end of such hunger was…thrilling. 

The opportunity came for conversation, one afternoon, when I stepped out to the cow herds to inspect the state of the newer heads of cattle and the healing brands in their rumps. The cows always flinched away from my presence, instinct I figured, for these were too young for it to be from memory. My focus on them left me distracted, leaving me to jump in surprise as a low whistle sounded from behind me. 

“Shouldn’t the owner of a ranch have better things to do than follow a ranch hand?” Lobo chuckled, sauntering around from the other side of the cow where she had been previously out of sight. It was a shock to see her here, the work with this herd already finished for the day, and yet here she was. Like she had known I would come here, and had hunted me down. 

Her hand dwarfed mine where it came to rest on the side of the cow, calloused on the pads of her palms from hard work, tanned from many hours in the sun. I ignored the rising heat in my cheeks and instead huffed, lifting my hand away.

“Hardly following, these are my fields and my cows. I may go where I wish,” I snapped back, harsher than I intended and yet the flush in my face betrayed me anyway. Lobo chuckled down at me, eyes slipping over to focus on the cow beneath her hands, fingers scritching behind its ears and letting out a small giggle at the happy wiggle the cow gave beneath her hands. I watched her, my chest tight and my throat dry, wanting desperately to make conversation but not knowing how to start.

“So, how have you been adjusting to the work? The other hands giving you any hassle?” I hummed, slipping around to check on another cow if only to avoid those brown eyes that lingered over me. The animal let out a huff beneath my hands and flinched away, but stayed put overall as Lobo stepped to its otherside, boxing it between us. 

“Been fine, work is good, food even better. Must say, I’m a real big fan of your cookin, ma’am. Gets me hungry just thinking about it,” Lobo smirked, hand patting down on the rump of the cow between us. 

“Well, you’re fed with the cattle on this ranch. I’m glad to hear it’s to your liking, and that you’ve found your accommodations suitable,” the cow surged forward, a push to get out from between us, and I swore as I backed away to avoid being trampled. Lobo let out a low whistle as she surged to get in front of it, the animal cringing backwards in equal fear--trapped between two predators. With nowhere to go, and a comforting scritch on the top of its head, the animal soothed, and I stepped away to give it space.

Lobo let out an amused huff, adjusting the hat on her head, “Not real good with them things, are you, ma’am?” 

I sighed and shook my head, “Never have been. They’ve never been able to sit still for me.” 

“A shame,” Lobo grinned, shooting a pointed look “she acts like you’re going to eat her alive.”  

It was a question, I knew. A question that leaves husbands hanging from town squares, and cattle dead in the fields. But my stomach growled, and I gave an answer all the same.

“At this rate I very well might, but I’m sure you know the joys of eating cattle.”

 The blonde woman gave a hearty laugh, a genuine smile breaking across her face that sent a renewed emotion tingling down my spine, “That I might, ma’am. Tell me, you get hungry often?”

She was stepping closer to me, and it was like she was growing before my eyes, taller and more beastlike as the sun was starting to approach the horizon. I hummed, stepping back to put space between us again, “Rather direct question, is that not?”

“Can’t blame a girl for getting curious, can you ma’am?” Lobo kept the distance between us, but every muscle seemed prime to spring. She would eat me alive if I let her, that hunger shared between us red and ripe.

Hunger leaves husbands hanging from town squares. But this was my ranch, now, and I was not my husband. 

“Well, I’d love to have you for dinner, Lobo,” my eyes glanced to the sun, calculating out the hours before the moon would rise, “perhaps you would join me tonight, after the hand’s finish the last chores.”

Her eyes followed mine to the sun, doing the same math and the smile full of fangs growing only hungrier: “Will we be eating at the house?”

The thought drew a small chuckle out of me, reminded of the many early fights I had with my husband, and my resolution to never clean blood out of floorboards again, “No, the west fields. Much easier to tidy up, afterwards.”

Lobo’s laughter filled the fields, even as we parted ways. My stomach pitched and rolled with each high and low of her voice, hunger warm and waiting. 

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

My husband and I never talked about the nights that I didn’t come home from the fields. The moon would be in the sky, shining down like the eye of God to watch as I would finally indulge. Finally sate myself, and become the monster I am. 

My body would change with the moon, my jaw filling with fangs and my nails turning to claws. I would set upon the cattle in the back fields, furthest from civilization, and I would feast. Their cries would sing in my ears, different each night that I would lose myself, sweet like song every time. They would bend and I would rip into the flesh, pliant and powerless beneath my hands as I ate my fill. 

After the frenzy I would sit in the fields and stare up at the sky, my mouth and hands stained and grass around me watered with the result of hunger repressed too long. The bodies would sit around me, heads counting to the 10s, 20s or some nights, 30s, the remains of a feast still gasping and recovering beneath the full moon.

The prize of the night would always be beneath me when I came out of frenzy, her flesh still bare and beautiful in the light. Chest heaving and eyes pleading beneath me, and my fingers would drag up along her belly, along heaving ribs, towards the throat to grip and feel the breathing beneath my palms. The cattle would change every time, eaten whole and left to soak into the grass until another came to take its place, but always those eyes would stay with me. 

Never before had I met eyes as hungry, as monstrous, as mine. Hunger was mine alone--mine to revel in, to power my body to eat and dine on the flesh of cattle until finally someone would come to feast on me, to devour me whole. 

But until then, I would continue to eat my fill, waiting for the day a monster as hungry as I comes to rip me apart.

[aniron48]

for the age of the earth, and after

This short fic came a bit out of nowhere--I didn't plan it, I didn't anticipate it, and suddenly, here it was. It's a bit of steam with feelings, and I'll let it speak for itself, except to say that apparently this is what happens when you read about the Kantian idea of the sublime at an impressionable age. You can read it on ao3, or here, below the cut.

(Oh, and the lovely picture above is from Smithsonian Open Access: Mountains in Jamaica. It seemed fitting.)

It starts when Bond says, “Tell me how you like it,” and Q says, “Slow.”

They are fully undressed, standing next to Q’s bed, and this is already different from his usual, isn’t it: both of them bared to the other; no clothes left on that might conceal a weapon, no formalwear rucked hastily out of the way that has to be set to rights again, after, masking what they’ve done. Only the two of them, and nothing to hide.

And ‘slow’ isn’t something he’s indulged much, either—not in years, not since her, and not when desire, most days, is a stepping stone, and survival the other side of the river: stay too long in one place, and you might slip before you make it across.

But this is Q, finally and for the first time; Q who is lying down on the bed by the window, and even through the blinds, the light crests his body like dawn on the mountains. 

Bond sits down beside him, running a hand over the dip of his stomach, and the jut of his hip. “I learned mountaineering, as a boy,” he says, almost to himself. “They sent me out alone, with a compass and a map.”

“And what did you learn, out there in the wilderness?” Q asks, chasing his touch. “Perseverance and fortitude? A sense of direction?”

Bond lingers on Q’s chest, spreads his palms wide and runs gentle fingers across the nipples that are as sinfully red as Q’s mouth. “I learned how to pray,” Bond says, and he leans down to take one between his lips.

He can hear Q’s heartbeat, like this, close as they are, and then Q pulls him closer still, one arm around his back, and his legs entwined with Bond’s. He draws Bond up for a kiss, and whispers in his ear. 

“Set me to rights,” he says. “But take your time. Lots of lovely things take time.”

Bond was a navy man, before he was an agent, and he remembers how to take an order. He sets to work mapping Q’s body with his hands and mouth, a cartographer taking the lay of the land, and he thinks, incongruously, of the old family Bible, of the times he sat in church as a lad, hiding a smirk when the priest read aloud from the Old Testament about a patriarch who lay with his wife, and knew her. A clumsy euphemism, he’d thought then, but not now, not when it’s knowledge he craves above all else, to know Q as no one ever has.

”I want to know you by touch, after this,” Bond says. “I want to memorize you by inches.” He moves his fingers just so, showing Q what he means, and for a time, it seems all Q can do in response is breathe. But then—

“Glaciers,” he says, spreading his legs so Bond can move between them. “Glaciers travel by inches. Impossible to see with the naked eye, but they can cleave mountains in two. Create valleys and lakes as they go.”

Bond accepts the invitation, draping Q’s long legs over his shoulders and kissing each of his knees, pressing in, pressing close as Q cries out.

“‘Cleave’ is a contronym,” Bond says, his hands gentle on Q’s body as he waits for his breath to even out, and his grip to loosen. “It means itself, and its opposite. To split apart, or to join together.”

“And which,” Q asks, his voice unsteady in Bond’s ear, “do you mean to do to me?”

“Both, God help me,” Bond says, and he kisses Q like it’s an invocation. “Both.” 

His hips are moving almost involuntarily, now, and it’s a mercy for them both, though they stay as slow as they promised. Before tonight, Bond had always thought of creation as a furious thing, had imagined Earth formed in fire and catastrophe, in ice and violence. There’s some of that here, too, he thinks, a searing need coursing just below the surface like a river of molten rock. But the history of the Earth is so vast that it’s written in geologic time, in eons and eras, epochs and ages; in a call and response of oceans and mountains, faultlines and tectonic plates. In movements imperceptible but ceaseless, toward, and toward, and toward.

They were always headed here, Bond thinks, his muscles aching from the strain of keeping his rhythm steady as the need between them builds. They were always meant to come together like this, both of them perpetual forces building to a convergence that’s no less cataclysmic for all it’s been coming on by degrees. He wants to tell Q all of this—he means to tell him. But what he says instead is as much of a prayer as those he said as a boy, alone and in the Alps, staring down a glory that could destroy him. “Hold tight to me,” he says, and again, “hold tight,” and he does, and Q does, and they will.