#the world is a big fuckin place and while broadly putting us all into one group is maybe an ideal choice politically

[suitablysolemn]

hot take but there are some people out there who don't fall into either the category of "transition surgery saved my life" OR "i regret getting transition surgery." i know its really easy and convenient to sort trans people into one of those two boxes for your trolley problems or whatever but it's actually a lot more complicated than that. hrt is a genetic grab bag--you're gonna have people who get zero traits they wanted and zero traits they hate, or youre going to get people with a little bit of both, or youre going to get people who dont like the changes that happened to their bodies but they don't regret or want to undo those changes either. gender affirming surgery runs the risk of complications and (depending on the surgery) hormonal changes that you may or may not have wanted or been equipped to deal with--and like before, that doesnt fall neatly into either the "love it" or the "hate it" box. some people want gender affirming surgery without it being related to a gender TRANSITION--gender affirming surgery and hrt are not just for trans people! moreover, depending on your body type some surgeries may not be POSSIBLE, and that also impacts "trans dissatisfaction" in a way that detransitioning/regretting specifically surgeries does not measure.

overall, it's a big fuckin' world out there. we're a big community with a lot of varied people who have varying opinions about their bodies. you can like some parts of your transition journey but hate others; you can feel totally neutral about it; you can even not UNDERSTAND how you feel about it, and all of those things are okay. and you can feel all of those things regardless of your gender identity. you can regret having surgery but still be trans, you can want/get surgery and be cis.....like i said, it's a big world out there and two neat little boxes just doesnt account for that! and it’s also not really a great thing to use people who regret having surgery as a way to point and go, "hey those people were WRONG about their bodies and that makes them bad people that we should throw under the bus while claiming that that supports trans rights."

that's all.

[buckyscrystalqueen]

Meant To Be: Part 2

Pairings: Machine Gun Kelly x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, drug use, descriptions of an overdose

Word Count: 2,384

A/N: Y’all can thank @wings-of-a-raven for this one….

Part 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Well look what the cat dragged in.” Your step mother, Anne cooed in her deep Southern accent as you walked into your family run road side stand to see if your dad could use an extra hand behind the register. “Wait until your father hears the good news! And look at this handsome little bean!”

“Is he here?” You asked as you pushed your Chanel sunglasses on top of your head and dropped the strap of your diaper bag on the handle of the stroller. 

“He’s out back, sugar.” She said as she gestured behind herself, vaguely while making faces at Gage. “Hello! Hello!” Your poor son, who had never met his grandparents before, started to cry, which made the damaged half of you giggle the slightest bit since Anne was the reason your parents got divorced in the first place.

“Oh, let’s go find grandpa, bubba.” You cooed as you stepped to the side of the stroller so Gage could see you as you pushed the stroller toward the back. “Oh, my goodness I know! The mean scary lady got right in your face…”

“Oh!” Anne gasped at your back. “Well bless your heart!”

“My heart don’t need blessin’!” You called out over your shoulder with a smile. 

“The hell did you say to her this time?” Your dad, Ross called out from under his 1972 Ford pick up.

“I didn’t say anything.” You said with a shrug as you let Gage chew on your finger to calm himself down. “I need work.”

“What, did that bright California sun finally burn all your nonsense hopes and dreams away?”

“Nope, the piece of shit baby daddy did that in three minutes and twenty two seconds.” Ross sighed and dropped his wrench in the dirt he was laying on and slid out from under the car to look at you.

“I never liked that punk anyways.” He sighed as he looked you up and down. “You look good, kid.”

“Thanks, pop.” You sighed as you ran your fingers through your freshly dyed red hair and put your sunglasses back on. “Now if only the modeling agencies would overlook the c-section scar like they did the thick thighs… and you know, the whole heroin addiction shit.”

“Yea, fuck those dumb shits.” He grumbled as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Wouldn’t know a good thing if it punched ‘em in the dick.”

“You need a hand behind the register?” You asked as you took an offered smoke and stood up.

“I’m guessin’ this little slugger’s taggin’ along?” He asked as you turned your stroller around so Gage could still see you when you smoked.

“Someone’s gotta count the register.” Your dad nodded his head slowly as he looked at his grandson and took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Fuck kinda name is Gage, anyway?”

“One that I fucking picked, asshole.” You laughed as you looked over at him. “Jesus, old man.”

“Gage.” He repeated with a shake of his head. “Sounds like a damn car part.”

“You’re an idiot.” You laughed as he pat your cheek and crouched down to go back to work.

“You leave your step-mama alone if you’re sitting at that register all day!” He called out as he picked up his wrench. “And don’t you be eatin’ all the damn honey sticks like your sister, neither or I’m dockin’ your pay, too!”

“Never liked the honey sticks anyways!” You called back before taking one last drag of your cigarette and heading inside. “I’ll take it from here.” You said as sweetly as you could to Anne as you pushed the stroller up beside the hand made counter your older brother had made when you were just a kid.

“Unbelievable.” She sighed as she grabbed her water bottle and got up from her little chair to go and complain to your dad. With a victorious smile, you picked your son up out of his car seat and smiled broadly at him as you waited for the couple customers in the store to pick out what they wanted.

——

“So the misfit daughter came back home.” Your older brother, Junior, said as he came into the farm stand the next morning with a giant teasing smile on his face. “Shit, when did he get so big?”

“I ask myself that every morning.” You sighed as you turned down the music playing on your phone, stood up, and headed around the counter to say hi to your brother. “How’s the fields?”

“Field-y.” He chuckled as he gave you a dirt covered one armed hug. “Still taking your clothes off for money?”

“You’re a fucking idiot. No, don’t touch my baby!” You snapped as you whacked at your brother’s hands. “I’m mad at you!”

“Oh, boo hoo.” He teased as he leaned over the side of the pack and play and reached in to brush his knuckle across Gage’s cheek. “Seriously, though. He’s adorable.” You thanked him softly and pulled your chair over to sit for a little bit while you monitored the morning delivery of the fresh produce. “You want me to kill him?”

“You don’t have to kill him.” You sighed as you ran your fingers through your hair. “I just… shit, I don’t even know anymore.”

“What don’t we know?” Your sister, Tabby asked as she came in the front with eggs from her chickens.

“What I’m gunna do with myself anymore.” You breathed as you rested your elbow on the counter and propped your head up on your palm. “I just keep asking myself where the fuck I went wrong in my life?”

“When you became a stripper.” Tabby said as she put the eggs in the old Coke fridge.

“I was never…”

“When you started dating that dickhead.” Junior interrupted as he pointed at your baby sister.

“When you though doing coke at dad’s wedding was a good idea.”

“When you dropped out of high school.”

“That time you drank a whole bottle of tequila at my graduation.”

“When you moved to California in the middle of the night without a word.”

“That time…”

“OK, enough you two.” You barked as you whacked Junior’s arm because he was the closest. “I get it, alright? I’m the black sheep of the family.”

“You two leave your sister alone and get back to work.” Ross said as he carried in a large box of cucumbers. “Shit ain’t gunna carry itself in.” You let out an exhausted sigh and gave your father a grateful smile as he paused just long enough to pat the counter. “You too, (Y/N). Those jelly jars won’t make it out on the shelves by themselves.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“And you better turn that assholes music off!” He yelled as he headed back out to finish unloading the truck. You scowled at his back and grabbed your cell phone to turn off YouTube and the amateur videos you had been watching from MGK’s show in Salt Lake City the night before to get to work.

——

“Dre!” You shouted from your kitchen counter top, where you had been flirting with another model from the agency you worked for that had just done a Harley Davidson shoot with you earlier that day. “Baby!”

“Lookin’ dime!” Your friend shouted over the loud music as he came over to give you a hug hello. “Brought my boy I was tellin’ you about.” You sat up with a giant smile and looked at the tall, super skinny white boy that was standing in your crowded living room.

“Well fuck me runnin’ naked in a corn field.” You groaned with a giant smile on your face as you jumped down off the counter and pulled your very short black dress down over your thick thighs a little more. “(Y/N).”

“Call me Kels.” He said as he shook your head and looked you up and down. “Damn. Dre said you were fuckin’ fine but I’m pretty sure that don’t even fucking begin to cover it.”

“Oh, a charmer.” You teased as you laced your arm with his and turned toward your friend. “Can I keep him, pretty please? He seems like so much fun.”

“You’re in for a wild ride with that one.” Dre joked as he handed Kels a mixed drink from the alcohol you had lined up on your bar.

“Wait, you don’t want that shit!” You said quickly as you yanked the cup out of Kels hand before he could even take a sip. “Handsome guy like you deserves my personal fave. Help me.” With a glance back at Dre, he held on to your hips and gave you a small push so you could climb up on the counter. You teetered a bit in your heels as you grabbed a half empty bottle of Johnnie Walker blue label from on top of the cabinets, and turned back toward him. “I have to hide it from the Goddamn heathens.”

“You’re gunna break your fuckin’ neck, girl.” Kels laughed as he grabbed your hips again and pulled you off the counter. You squeaked when you accidentally landed on his toes and fell forward into his tattooed chest.

“Jesus, when the fuck did my Southern ass stop being able to hold my fucking liquor.” You giggled as you placed your hand on his chest to catch your balance. He shrugged as you looked up into the most blue eyes you had ever seen. “Damn. I really wanna keep you…”

“I think that can be arranged.” He said through a smirk as he gave your hip a small squeeze. A slight blush crept up your cheeks and you cleared your throat as you held up the liquor bottle.

“Drink to it?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Colson laid in his bunk after yet another show, slowly flipping through photos from the cloud on his new phone from the first night you met. He remembered that night so well, the way your laugh made everything in his world feel right. The sweet noises he pulled out of you as he fucked you relentlessly in your bed while the party raged on the other side of the wall. And he especially remembered the small whine you made when he tried to leave.

“Stay with me.” You whispered as you reached up to try and rub your reddish pink lipstick off his throat. “Looks like you have to, because I marked you.”

He smiled at the memory as he got to the last photo from that small bunch; the one he had taken the next morning before you had to rush out the door for work, 20 minutes late because he couldn’t help himself but to take you once more. You were laying in bed in the shirt he had worn to the party, your hair was a mess, and you had a small smudge of mascara under your eyes that hadn’t come off the night before when you washed your face. To this day, he thought it was one of the most beautiful photos of you he had ever seen.

“Damn, baby.” He sighed as he brushed his thumb across the screen. “What the fuck happened to us, girl?” With a huff, he grabbed his cigarettes and got out of bed, even though it was nearly six in the morning and he had just finished a concert in Oklahoma. He plodded past the other bunks and flopped down on one of the couches as he looked at the same photo. He laid the phone down gently and reached for a joint, before grabbing a receipt off the table and a pen. He sat back in his spot and started jotting down ideas for a new song for you.

——

“It’s not fucking right.” Kels said for the hundredth time as he listened to the playback of your song. His band groaned as he stood back up and headed back toward the small studio in his tour bus. “Let’s do it again…”

“Kels.” JP sighed as he stuck his arm out in front of the door. “Man… you gotta stop.”

“Don’t gotta go shit.” 

“Bro!” The younger man shouted as he stood up and got into his ‘brother’s’ face. “The reason it doesn’t sound perfect is because (Y/N) isn’t the one hearing it. Shit is gunna sound rough as fuck to you until she hears it and we all fucking know it. You’ve been a royal dick for weeks…”

“Man, fuck off.”

“No, you fuck off!” JP roared as he shoved the singer back. “Go fucking find her already! Even if you don’t want her and you just want your fucking kid, go do something about it! Because you’re a fucking dick that none of us wanna be around right now!” Kels looked around at the rest of his crew, who were all either slowly nodding their head in agreement or looking away to avoid the wrath Kels had been dishing out the last few weeks, before he sighed loudly and took a step back to sit down on the closest chair. His eyes drifted outside to the scenery racing past and he caught a glimpse of a road sign that had a city he knew was near your hometown on it.

“Yo, pull over.” He said as he got up and headed toward the front of the bus. “Pull over!”

“We’re on the interstate…” The driver tried as he gestured to the road while Kels quickly pulled on his sneakers and grabbed his phone.

“Pull the fuck over!”

“Just take this exit.” Slim said, calmly as he pulled Kels back away from the door. “We’re going, OK?”

“What about Atlanta?!” His manager, Ashleigh, shouted as she finally looked up from the email she had been reading.

“Cancel it.” Kels said simply as he pushed down the seat above the stairs and sat down to wait impatiently. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly googled the first and frankly, the only place he’d know where to find you. “Take 85 east. That way.” With a slightly hesitant nod of his head, the driver followed the artists direction as the guys and girls in the back of the bus simply sat down and shut up for the first time in a long time.

Part 3

[sortyourlifeoutmate]

“If it has turned its attention our way once more then we are naught but food for the gods! Food for the gods!”

I know the ship sailed on this years and years ago but I still infinitely prefer the Oldcons. And I have reasons for this.

Ahem.

You see, the Oldcons, as they were, serve as both a foil to the Tyranids and to Chaos, and also sit as another existential threat in the 40K universe (as though there needed to be more).

I’ve thought about this much more articulately on my walk to work but I’ll do my best to vomit my thoughts out here, for the edification of no-one.

(This worked out way longer than I initially thought it might, so I’m putting in a cut.)

SETUP

The basic schtick of the Oldcons - and I can’t remember how much and how little of this passed over intact in the retcot, quite a lot as I recall - was that the Necrontyr, a long, long, long fuckin’ time ago, were on a planet dying a lot. They had super-good technology but their sun basically fried them to death, so their lives sucked.

Then one day they met the Old Ones, classical precursors of the 40K universe and Those Who Shall Not Be Seen. The Old Ones were basically immortal and liked to cruise around space through their webway, seeding life and generally just being precursors.

The Necrontyr got mad about this because, well, they were bitter and angry that these guys got to live forever and they didn’t, so they had a war. That’s maybe an oversimplification but a war did happen.

Now the Necrontyr had super-good technology, as said, so did very well for themselves all things considered, but the Old Ones had access to the webway and mastery of the warp and basically just ran rings around the Necrontyr and kicked the shit out of them so much the war fizzled to nothing and the Necrontyr were pushed to one podunk corner of the galaxy to sit and get even angrier.

The Old Ones pretty much forgot about them at that point.

Meanwhile, the Necrontyr had been studying stars. This was partly because, as they had a somewhat rocky relationship with their own sun they kind of hoped they might have found a way to make their lives less blighted and shitty, and partly on the off-chance they’d find something useful to go fuck with the Old Ones.

The former didn’t work out, the latter most certainly did.

To cut a long story short they found the C’tan, star gods. These ancient, ancient, formed-at-the-start-of-the-universe entities that lurked around old stars feeding off them.

For some reason the Nectrontyr immediately knew that this was a key turning point? I don’t know. Guess they knew they were powerful somehow (they were).

But! Since the C’tan at this point were just enormous, planet-sized diffuse clouds of energy they couldn’t really relate to the world as the Necrontyr were aware of it. They needed bodies. And so the Necrontyr built them bodies, using the same super-duper living metal they used to make their super-duper spaceships.

This was one of those points where things - already not great - started getting worse.

The C’tan (in a process you shouldn’t think about too hard) poured themselves into these fancy-pants new bodies and in the process got a new, different understanding of the world and how things worked. And they liked it. To quote the codex:

“As the C’tan became ever more manifest with the focusing of the their consciousness, they began to appreciate the subtleties and pleasures of both matter and life. The close weaves of dancing particles enthralled them and the deliciously focused tickles of electromagnetism leaked by the mortal bodies of the Necrontyr about them awoke a hunger in the C’tan quite unlike the one they had sated among the raging torrents of stars.”

As you might not need me to tell you that last part is kind of important.

So these star-devouring things had bodies now, and were basically gods. They could do all sorts of reality-bending shit (don’t look into the hows or whys, they just can) and they got a real taste for being the object of adulation for their mortal subjects.

The next part always kind of confused me, but here we go.

So with their super-duper technology and ships that could cross the galaxy in the blink of an eye and their own GODS walking around and willing to pitch in, the Necrontyr were ready to get the war started again, but before they did the C’tan came to them with an offer.

The offer boiled down to “Hey, do you want indestructible, eternal, metal bodies so you can be our servants forever? You’ll totally get to kill the Old Ones!” The Necrontyr leapt at the chance but - surprise! - they weren’t told the whole story. While they did get their shiny bodies, they also basically had the whole essence of their species devoured by their ravenous gods, almost all of them ending up as blank, hollow shells that existed only to serve and a slim handful retaining only a glimmer of their former selves.

Why this always confused me was because there aren’t many details provided about the process, what it involved and why it was even the C’tan who floated the idea - they’re not the ones who made all the technology, after all, were they? Why weren’t the Necrontyr the ones who cooked up the ‘transfer ourselves into everliving bodies’ plan? And what was it the C’tan ate? Their souls? Or just their vague ‘life energy’?

(This ‘What is it C’tan actually eat?’ question is another one that always bugs me, but I don’t think it matters especially - souls or the bio-electrical energy of living beings they eat people one way or another and that’s what counts.)

So the Necrontyr are now the Necrons, the C’tan have vast legions of unkillable, implacable, mechanical doomtroops and technology the likes of which can be scarcely imagined. The war kicks off again, and this time the Old Ones are the ones getting their arses handed to them. They’ve still got the webway and their warp magic but the C’tan and their Necrons are more-or-less unbeatable in the real, physical world.

Things get worse from here.

The Old Ones are pushed into a few isolated spaces and barely hold onto these. Meanwhile, elsewhere, everywhere else in the galaxy the Necrons and the C’tan are in charge and they run the place about as well as gluttonous, capricious gods who feed on life itself can be expected to run the place - that is to say, badly. Planetary populations are harvested to sate the hunger of the C’tan, whole species made into cattle, etcetera.

And even that’s not enough! Not enough to satisfy the C’tan! So greedy are the C’tan that they start turning on one another, eating each other even as the war continues.

It’s worth bearing in mind for later that the C’tan don’t need to do this. They just want to do this.

The Old Ones, with their backs to the wall, start getting desperate. They start engineering species to act as living weapons in the war, species that can use the warp given that it’s their main edge. This is where Eldar come from, explicitly, and I think it’s also implied this is where psychic potential got put into humans (Necrons also put the Pariah gene in here, but I don’t know if that’s still true).

Oh, and Orks also got invented. Maybe. It’s less clear but I like to think it’s true that they made the Orks towards the end and never got around to finishing them properly. But that’s me.

So now you’ve got a galaxy teeming with life, all of it tapping into the warp in a millennia-spanning, apocalyptic conflict for the fate of the galaxy itself. This is when the warp starts getting bad, because it’s being fucked around with so much. Beforehand the warp was actually fairly sedate, but now since it’s being swung around like a big stick for years and years and years it start getting messy. It starts getting angry. Nasty things start appearing in it.

The C’tan have a plan for this, it should be said, and that plan is to seal off the material world from the warp. Completely. What this would mean in practise is unclear but as far as they were concerned it would just fuck over the Old Ones and that’s what counts.

And then things get WORSE.

Enslavers appear. You may have heard about these. Weirdo warp beasts. Possess those with psychic potential, melt their bodies down into gristly flesh gates that more Enslavers can come through, enslave everyone to make this easier and defend against threats that might want to stop it, repeat across whole population across whole planet, repeat across whole system, etcetera.

EVERYTHING STARTS TO DIE.

The C’tan have eaten themselves down to a nub at this point and there’s only a handful of them left. The Old Ones are basically done too, the webway is breached, their uplifted races are in disarray, shit’s fucked. Across the galaxy Enslavers are just wiping out whole populations, everyone and everything is dying.

But the C’tan don’t really care. The Old Ones have lost at this point and that’s the only thing that really matters. That all life is dying out is just a passing thing, they can ride that out and come back later. The C’tan plan to settle in and have a nap. In a few million years the Enslavers will be gone and the galaxy will have produced new life and they can get restarted on their ‘Seal off the warp, feed on life forever’ plan.

And, millions of years later, 40K happens.

That’s it in broad strokes.

OLDCONS

If you followed any of that congratulations. 

The practical upshot is this:

A) The Necrons are an undying, soulless race of borderline indestructible machines that are the slaves of the C’tan B) The C’tan are immeasurably ancient, star-eating beings given physical form by the the Necrons and who really, really, really like having physical form C) Neither the C’tan or the Necrons have anything to do with the warp other than not liking it. They are NOT PSYCHIC, they have zero presence in the warp. It has nothing to do with them other than being an obstacle.

Now I’ll tell you why I like this and why I think they serve as a good foil to a couple other factions in 40K.

GOALS

Broadly speaking, every faction in 40K has their own little motivation, right? 

Orks want to fight forever. The Imperium basically wants to survive and kill everything that looks at them funny. The Tau want to expand and spread their philosophy. The Eldar want to cling on for just another day please just another day (and also fuck chaos and Necrons). The Tyranids want to eat everything and then leave. Chaos wants to sunder reality and just sink into a mire of mindless chaotic indulgence forever, maybe, kind of, whatever it’s chaos.

And so on.

The Necrons (as a faction) I always liked to think of having some distinct lines that run close to some of the others, but don’t cross over.

So let’s, uh, talk about that.

CHAOS

Necrons are associated with sterility, lifeless sterility. They are associated with order - serried ranks of mindless machines marching in lockstep across the surface of dead worlds; towering, silent monoliths of black stone built to sever the material world from the immaterial, to eliminate variables and ensure that everything runs as desired for eternity.

In this they’re fairly obviously set against Chaos.

Chaos! The Chaos gods! Beings born from both the unrelenting, brutal psychic warfare of the War in Heaven (as the war between the Old Ones and the Necrons was called) and from the constant, churning wants and desires of the countless beings in the galaxy.

The Chaos gods are distinct, separate beings but they are also intimately tied to the souls they were born from. They’re individuals, yes, but they’re individuals born from very specific things. They have purviews, they have domains. They are - and are for - these things.

Khorne is as much an incarnate desire for bloodshed and furious anger as he is also a sapient entity who happens to enjoy those things.

If you can follow that?

By contrast, the C’tan existed first. They weren’t born from the desires of mortals, they were just there, sucking on stars until they were put into bodies. They exist separately from mortals. They don’t need mortals, they just want them so they can eat them.

The Chaos gods, for all their cruelty (the extent of which is the result of the War in Heaven is kind of an open thing), want and need mortals. They need mortals to act in certain, often contradictory ways. They need mortals to be chaotic, to give into their desires, to want things.

The C’tan need mortals to eat them. And that’s it. Maybe to do things they don’t want to do, but mainly to eat them since, hey, they’ve got the Necrons if they want stuff done anyway.

So while the Chaos gods would, ideally, like a galaxy overrun with (appropriately enough) chaos so that the endless roaring conflict can generate a lot of that sweet, sweet tumult they thrive on, the C’tan want a nice, quiet galaxy where they can eat in peace.

Order and Chaos, see? Foil!

Oh, and of course the other part about Chaos being All About the warp while the C’tan are All About the physical, real world. Gods both, but on the flipside, yo.

Tyranids

Now I’ve mentioned a lot that the C’tan like to eat people, and you might (rightly) be thinking “Hang on, eating people? Isn’t that the schtick of the Tyranids?” and, again, this is one of those things where they run close, but don’t cross, and in an interesting way.

See, the difference is in the approach. Or something.

The Tyranids are ravenous, the C’tan are gluttonous. To put it simply.

The Tyranids come in a great, all-consuming swarm to strip worlds completely, down to the bedrock, just everything. They do this world by world, system by system just across all of space. They leave nothing. And their hunger won’t ever let them stop, they’re always pushed forward by it. Their hunger is their defining characteristic. 

The C’tan specifically eat living beings. They savour the flavour. What’s more, like I said before, they don’t need to eat people. They could easily go back to being sun-sucking energy clouds and get by just fine. The point is they don’t want to.

See? Ravenous versus gluttonous. The Tyranids are pushed by constant hunger to devour everything and have no future planning beyond moving on to the next meal, the C’tan want to arrange the galaxy so they can a specific thing without interruption forever.

So that’s the difference. The Tyranids would leave the galaxy utterly stripped and barren and dead because of their hunger, while the C’tan would have the galaxy turned into an eternal farm-stroke-slaughterhouse-stroke-whatever because of their desire to eat.

TO SUM UP

Chaos: The galaxy as an anarchic maelstrom of reality-bending madness forever

Tyranids: Eat everything move on.

Necrons: A sterile galaxy, severed from the warp, everything in it as food for the gods, forever

IN CONCLUSION

I know why they did what they did. The Necrons did come across kind of bland. 

Their only characters were two C’tan (one of whom didn’t say anything), all of their fluff was written from the perspective of other factions (like the Tyranids, actually, but again that’s another reason to change them around) and there was just kind of a...sterility, I suppose.

Appropriate, really.

And while I like that - indeed, it’s the whole reason I like them, as you might have picked up on - I guess others didn’t, and it didn’t really give the writers anything to work with. 

So now they’re basically a fallen alien empire that wants to reclaim its glory. The C’tan have been jobbed out and the Necrons have leaders with personalities now, internal factions, competing interests, the capability of having plans beyond SERVING THEIR HUNGRY GODS and so on.

Which I can see the appeal of, I really can. And they’ve also left in Oldcons after a fashion, saying that some are still like that, but that’s a sop for me - it’s all or nothing.

But it’s all water the bridge now anyway, no going back. I just liked them the way they were. Oh well.

The new fluff for the flayed ones is dumb though, I hate it.

Or do I like it? I can’t remember.

[clumsyclifford]

the second verse & chorus of for baltimore for malum 👀

god reading these lyrics anon you’re a fucking visionary. anyway this fic was written whilst listening to the stories for monday and most of legendary albums by the summer set, thank you meghna for that rec, so if you want to truly channel the energy of this fic, shuffle that while reading. cant explain what happened here but it sure did happen

side note to that other anon who was stalking helen’s blog i am posting this for you <3

-

Their first Baltimore show has an energy that Calum hasn’t felt in a long time onstage, the kind that feeds right back to him, so he comes away from the show more energized than when he’d started it, and he’s buzzing at his fingertips. He can’t stop laughing, wrapping his arms around Michael and kissing Luke on the cheek and poking Ashton’s chest and he knows he’s being a little weird, but it doesn’t matter. This night feels untouchable, and Calum feels on top of the world. Somehow he sweet-talks them all into coming out with him. Sure, they have another Baltimore show tomorrow, but Calum can feel in his bones that it’s not going to feel like this one, that nothing will. He wants to savor this. 

Five shots and an hour in, Calum is about ten seconds and one more shot from doing a keg stand. He knows objectively that’s a terrible, terrible idea, but he’s so unbelievably tempted to summon a keg from wherever kegs come from just to do one. This is just a regular bar, but there must be somewhere to get a keg.

“Hey,” Michael says, grinning sloppily at Calum as he appears. Calum immediately drops the keg stand line of thinking in favor of grinning broadly back.

“Hey,” he says, and tries to collect himself a little bit, which is a pipe dream after five shots and Michael looking equally drunk but in the prettiest way; cheeks flushed pink, hair just this side of mussed up. Calum desperately wants to tug his fingers through it. He wants to push Michael against the bar and kiss him until tomorrow.

“Good idea,” Michael says, apropos of nothing. Calum tilts his head. “Going out,” Michael says. “It was a good idea. That show was insane.”

“That show was fucking mad,” Calum agrees, emphatically. 

“Baltimore,” Michael says, exhaling. “Baltimore is good. Baltimore should win a million awards.”

“Best city in Maryland,” Calum says, not that he could name any other ones. He’s not even 100% sure that Baltimore is in Maryland. Michael laughs at that, more than it deserves to be laughed at, but it makes Calum’s gut twist with delight. He loves making Michael laugh.

“Best 5SOS show,” Michael puts in, through persisting giggles.

“Best, um, tequila.”

“I hate tequila.”

“Well, I’m giving it the best tequila award. It’s not your award.”

“Fine.” Michael scrunches up his nose. Calum wants to reach over and smooth the wrinkles out. He flexes his fingers, trying to keep them at his sides. “Uh, most…fuck, I don’t know anything about Baltimore.”

“We’re so bad at being famous,” Calum snickers. “Buy me a drink?” He doesn’t mean it to come out flirtatious, like a come-on, but it does anyway. 

“Okay,” Michael says, even though he shouldn’t. Calum started it, though, so it’s not really Michael’s fault. But it makes Calum wonder how far he can push this. If he keeps opening doors, will Michael keep walking through them? 

Michael calls the bartender over, flashes a smile that would make anyone’s knees weak, and asks for tequila, straight, and vodka on the rocks. 

“God, you’re such a prick,” Calum says. “On the rocks.” Michael doesn’t even care if the drink has ice; he just thinks it’s cool to order something on the rocks. 

“Excuse me,” Michael says. “I’m buying you a drink. You should show me some respect.”

“I’ll buy your next one,” Calum says, “and then we’ll be even. It’s far too late for me to show you any respect, Mikey.”

Michael scowls, but his eyes sparkle. “I hate you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Michael shakes his head. “Just you wait.”

“You don’t,” Calum insists, and feels himself lean into Michael, crowding him against the bar. Part of him is trying to stop himself, but the overwhelmingly greater part of him is pushing him forward. “You love me. You told me before the show.”

“That was then, this is now,” Michael says dismissively. He turns to take the drinks off the bar and proffers Calum’s to him. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Calum says fervently. They clink glasses and drink; the tequila burns in the best way, and Calum exhales, smacking his lips and watching as Michael does the same. Michael’s lips look pinker than anything under the drunken glow. Calum is hungry to taste them, and he keeps jerking himself back. There’s supposed to be space between them. They keep the space there for a reason. They’re supposed to be just friends. That was the decision. The band is more important, they’d agreed.

Still, he’s dying to know: if he kissed Michael right now, what would Michael do?

Before he can decide, Michael is pushing against Calum’s chest, glass discarded on the bar. “Let’s go somewhere,” he says.

“We are somewhere.”

“Somewhere else. Come on. It’s — this is the big city! Well, for Maryland.” Calum wouldn’t know. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Somewhere you’re thinking of?”

“No,” Michael says. “I just want to go somewhere with you. Just us. I miss going places with just us. Come on, Cal.”

“Fine,” Calum says, as if he’s not itching to take Michael’s hand and run them both off the grid. Sometimes his love for Michael threatens to drown him, to fill his lungs and swell up his chest until it’s impossible to ignore.

Michael’s face lights up. He pays off their drinks and then he and Calum weave their way through the crowd. Michael pulls his snapback out of his back pocket and tugs it backwards over his head, as if that’ll somehow make him less recognizable. Calum does nothing. It’s going on one in the morning in Baltimore — if someone wants to stop him for a picture at this hour, so be it.

The moment they step outside the stuffy bar into the fresh air, Calum inhales like his life depends on it and throws an arm around Michael’s shoulders. It’s different doing it now than it had been just after the show, with Luke and Ashton around, too; then it could have been for show, but Calum and Michael are alone now, and there’s no more pretending. 

“Baltimore,” Calum says, even though the city’s name is starting to lose all meaning. “Baltimore with you, Mikey. I can’t think of fuckin’ anything better than that.”

Michael hums. “I miss this,” he says lightly. “Is it crazy if I miss you?”

“Yes.” No. Calum regularly misses Michael just from an absence of touch. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah,” Michael says under his breath. “Not close enough.”

Calum’s heart stutters against his chest. He’s too drunk for this. Or maybe just drunk enough. Or maybe it doesn’t matter how drunk he is, and this is supposed to happen like this. Maybe fuck the band. Maybe he and Michael can do whatever they want, and the band can deal with it.

“Michael,” he begins, trying to decide what he’s planning to say next, but nothing on the tip of his tongue feels like the right thing to say other than I’m so in love with you that it physically hurts, and I’m willing to hurt for the rest of my life just to spend any of it with you.

“Never mind,” Michael says.

“You said, we said,” Calum tries. “I mean, right? Didn’t we decide? Not to?”

“I said never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“Well, it’s not really about what you want.”

“I think it is.”

“It’s not.”

“It should be. What if you’re what I want? Why don’t I get to have that?” Calum challenges, stopping so short that Michael steps ahead of him, and has to turn around. Michael looks pink-cheeked and Calum can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or if he’s blushing, or maybe it’s just the cold of the nighttime air.

“Because we decided,” Michael says thinly.

“Okay, well, I changed my mind,” Calum says. “Fuck the band.”

“Calum. Grow up.”

“No, you grow up,” Calum says angrily. He’s not really angry, he doesn’t think, or not at Michael, but he’s mad at something, some ephemeral force that’s surrounded him and Michael for years, whatever fucked up entity made them think it was a good idea not to pursue this crackling tension between them, whoever decided that he and Michael don’t get to be happy, decided that they can kiss anyone they want as long as it’s not each other, when Calum’s been alive for almost 22 years and the only person he’s ever really wanted to kiss in that time has been Michael. “Why can’t I say I want you? Why can’t I want to kiss you? Why can’t I fucking be in love with you, Mike?”

“You’re — don’t say that.”

“Why not? I mean it.”

“You can’t mean that,” Michael says fiercely. “I don’t — after all this time we can’t just —”

“Yes we can,” Calum says, even though it’s the middle of the night in the middle of Baltimore and it’s just one in the morning on a Thursday like any other, like it’s not a monumental statement. “If we want to. Do you want to?”

“Of course I do,” Michael breathes. “Of course I — Calum, Jesus.”

Calum reaches over and pulls Michael’s hat off, tucks it into his own back pocket; he threads his fingers around back of Michael’s neck, and Michael tilts his head back a bit, exhaling. “Just so you — this isn’t a drunk, like — I meant what I said. All of it.”

“Calum, shut up and kiss me,” Michael says, but doesn’t wait for Calum to act; he leans forward and captures Calum in a kiss, their first real one in years, and the pressure in Calum’s chest bursts. Kissing Michael feels like drowning too, like suffocating, but addictive. Michael tastes like his vodka on the rocks, and tastes like the chill in the air, and tastes familiar and unmistakably like Michael. He snakes an arm around Calum’s waist and tugs so they’re flush against each other; if they got any closer they’d have to become one person, and Calum makes a noise into Michael’s open mouth, not sure what he’s trying to communicate except that he doesn’t want to ever stop doing this.

The kiss ends anyway, with Calum gasping out of it. “God, why the fuck did we stop doing that?” 

“This is something, right?” Michael says nervously, splaying his palm against Calum’s collarbone. “Even after tonight?”

There’s something special about tonight, but Calum nods, and chases Michael’s lips for another kiss. “Especially,” he says. “Fuck the band.”

“I don’t think the band will care,” Michael says. “I don’t think — I don’t think we’ll ruin the band unless something ruins this, and I’m not planning on it.” 

“I’m not,” Calum promises. “I’d rather die.”

“Well, don’t die.”

Calum giggles. “So much for keeping this ‘just friends.’”

“Worth it,” Michael says. “Just wish we’d done it earlier.”

Calum’s not sure they could have. He firmly believes that Baltimore is responsible. There’s a magic in the night atmosphere, sparkling and vibrant and unmistakably alive, something Calum can’t pin down and wouldn’t even want to.

“Let’s live here,” he says, not sure what that means. Michael makes a sound of surprise.

“Where, Baltimore?”

“No. Just. Here.”

“Here is Baltimore, you moron.” Michael’s voice is rife with suppressed laughter.

“Fuck you. I mean in this, like, moment. I don’t know. Doesn’t it feel — magical?”

“It would feel more magical if we were kissing,” Michael says.

And. Well. That’s a very good point, so Calum obliges. Who is he to deny the whims of Baltimore and whatever magic it possesses? 

[bastionkeeper]

Idk if you’d be interested but I absolutely die for 10 meeting Crowley somewhere in history and having a fun lil mix up with the trouble they’re both in

Anonymous said: Can I get some fuckin uhhhh Donna content? If you want!

I’m so sorry this took a million years and came out totally different, shorter, and probably less good than expected asdflkja it’s been a long bit of getting back to school, working in preparation for the festival that’s gonna kill me this weekend, and the big sad writer’s block, I decided to just post it now while I have SOMETHING at least

"I promise this is going to make up for that whole mess with the novasquid."

"It better, my hair still smells like calamari and I've showered four times now."

The sound of fond bickering often filled the TARDIS, though the incident with the novasquid had, indeed, increased the usual amount of bickering quite a bit. 

"Look, 3308, Mars, the nightlife is incredible," The Doctor assured Donna. "I once spent a night there, don't remember a thing, might have gotten married or… divorced, anyway…"

"I can't believe it, we're going clubbing," Donna laughed.

"Well, yeah, but on Mars," the Doctor emphasized, hoping for the usual human wonder at travel in time and space.

"You gonna go dressed like that? All suit and teacher glasses?" 

"You're one to talk, showing up to a 3308 club dressed like it's 2007," the Doctor said, grinning and raising a critical eyebrow.

He threw a lever and flipped a switch, and the TARDIS stopped groaning and shaking as they landed.

"Alright, Mars," Donna said, dramatically tossing her hair. "Lock up your husbands."

"Right…" the Doctor raised an eyebrow and headed for the door, grabbing his coat on the way.

The door opened and Donna and the Doctor stepped out…

...onto a London street.

"Mars, right?" Donna huffed. "You need to fix that GPS. Are we at least in the future?"

"Uh…" the Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and took readings only he could read from a device with neither screen nor speaker. "Depends… we're either somewhere in the nineties or 2019…"

"How can it be either the nineties or 2019?" Donna asked. 

"This is really strange…"

"No stranger than usual, you promising a vacation and us ending up in the wrong part of the universe."

"No, I mean…" the Doctor looked at the sonic with a frown. "These readings for Earth are all… well… it's saying it's only about six thousand years old."

"So it's busted then," Donna said. 

"Maybe…" the Doctor pocketed the sonic and looked around. "Well, so long as we're here."

"Oh no," Donna sighed. "No, don't get distracted. Let's get back in the TARDIS and go to Mars."

"Look! An old bookshop!" The Doctor beamed, pointing out the building. "Love an old bookshop, let's take a peek."

"Oh no," Donna groaned, as the Doctor grabbed her hand and dragged her towards the shop labeled: A.Z. FELL.

"Your orchid is getting lazy."

Aziraphale looked up from his book to where Crowley was examining a flower, one he'd brought to the bookshop as a gift a month ago.

"Maybe it's just enjoying a quiet moment away from all the yelling," Aziraphale said coyly, returning to his book. 

The bell at the door rang as a pair of customers entered, and neither demon nor angel took notice. 

"Sure, let it go soft," Crowley scoffed. 

"As if you don't like soft," Aziraphale shot back, not looking up from his book.

Crowley made a big show of snarling like he was offended as he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's waist and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Don't you have things to do today? Besides harass the orchid?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yeah, but I'll be back for it," Crowley said with a wink. "You enjoy chasing people off all day."

Aziraphale waved him off, and for a split second two non-humans with remarkably similar faces passed by each other without noticing.

Then Crowley left the shop.

"Are you done yet?" Donna sighed, leaning heavily on a bookshelf. The Doctor was nose deep in a book, and had been for about an hour. Not the same book, no, he kept poking around in books and peeking around the bookshop much to the owner's dismay. Donna suspected if it weren't for the other customers that he'd have personally chased them off long ago.

"Something's very strange about all this," the Doctor said, not looking up. 

"Yeah, strange how you promised me adventure and now we're standing around looking at antique books," Donna said. "I think you do this on purpose."

"I wish I could claim that," the Doctor chuckled. "Nope, all accident."

"Well so long as you're reading, I'm going to go find something to do," Donna said. "You know, while you gather dust."

The Doctor waved her off and she stuck her tongue out at him, before heading for the door. 

The Doctor was reading Hamlet or rather he was sort of reading it, because it was just a little different from what he remembered. 

For starters it was completely dull, not at all the play remembered by the ages. Second of all the publishing date was definitely not the correct one, and yet he was certain this was an original copy. An original copy somehow lovingly maintained without a temperature controlled room or protective case, just placed on a bookshelf surrounded by several other well loved books.

"Oh, you don't want that one."

The Doctor looked up at the voice, the owner had left his post and come over to him. Aziraphale hadn't seen the customer's face yet, only seen his back as he pursued for far too long with too much interest. Another collector, probably, hard to shake.

"Oh?" The Doctor asked, turning to face Aziraphale. "Why not?"

For a moment surprise spread over Aziraphale's face, and then confusion.

"Wait… but…" he squinted. "Crowley, are you playing some kind of trick?"

"Uh, no, no tricks here," the Doctor said with an equally confused look and a friendly shrug. "Sorry, what did you call me?"

"Oh stop it," Aziraphale huffed. "You've barely even shapeshifted, are you trying to be funny?"

"Well now that's just rude," the Doctor said. "I'm very different now, got all long and grew my hair out, and the ears are totally different."

"Ears?" Aziraphale asked, bewildered.

"Do you know me?" The Doctor asked curiously.

"I should say so I…" Aziraphale paused. "... or maybe I don't. You don't feel… demonic. Are you not Crowley?"

"I'm the Doctor," he replied. "And I'm not a demon, sorry."

"That's bizarre." Aziraphale gaped. "You look just like him…"

"You did say demon, right?" The Doctor asked, and Aziraphale blanched.

"Did I?" He asked casually.

"Oh, don't get secretive now," the Doctor chuckled. "Would it help if I said I was an alien? I show you mine you show me… well, you get it." He pulled a face at his own choice of words.

"That's impossible," Aziraphale laughed. "She hasn't started work on the other worlds yet."

"She?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," Aziraphale said finally.

"Why didn't you want me to buy this book?" The Doctor asked. "And why's it all wrong? It's Hamlet but it's garbage, Hamlet's not garbage."

"That's the pre-edited copy," Aziraphale said smugly. 

"What edits are those?"

"The important ones." Aziraphale looked impatient now. "Who are you, really?"

"I told you, I'm the Doctor, I'm a time lord, I'm not from around here."

"Time lord? Sounds a bit pompous…"

"So does claiming intimate knowledge of the writing of Hamlet, but I think maybe we've both got the right," the Doctor said, eyes burning with interest. "Were you there? When it was written?"

"Were you?" Aziraphale countered.

"I was."

"Well I certainly don't remember you."

The Doctor looked triumphant at having gotten a confession that might help him puzzle out the situation, and Aziraphale sighed.

"Alright, which office sent you?"

"What offices?" The Doctor asked.

"Heaven! Hell! What "department" are you?" Aziraphale pushed. 

"Neither, and what exactly are you?"

"I am an angel," Aziraphale said defensively. "And I am very confused."

"Confused isn't so bad, confused means you get to figure something out," the Doctor said. "Tell you what, you tell me about Heaven, Hell, and Hamlet and maybe we can figure this out."

Aziraphale sighed and gestured to the back room, miracling on some tea. "Might as well. This way."

Donna was just starting to get bored when she saw him, crossing the street just a bit away. She chased after him, shouting when he didn't stop for her.

"Hey! Spaceman! You gone deaf and blind?" She huffed, grabbing Crowley by the arm and surprising him considerably. "You finally done with that bookshop then?"

"I… what?" Crowley asked.

"What have you done to your hair?" Donna asked. "And your…" she gestured broadly to all of him. "... all that."

"Well, nothing recently, bout time for a change," Crowley said. "Do I know you?"

"Haha, very funny." Donna rolled her eyes. "Can we go now?"

"Seriously, who are you?" Crowley asked.

"Oh God, I know what this is," Donna sighed in exasperation. "Martha told me about this, you got a pocket watch on you then?"

"Why would I have a pocket watch? What year do you think it is?" Crowley scoffed. 

"C'mon, it's not funny," Donna said. "Just hurry up and-"

Crowley snapped, trying to put the woman in a trance so he could get some answers out of her.

But Donna Noble was not so easily tranced.

"Are you snapping at me?" She shouted, putting her hands on her hips.

"Nngk!" Crowley choked, startled into backing up, arms pinwheeling comically.

"Something happened to you at that bookstore, is that it?" She said. "Right, we're going back, I'll not have you walking around looking like Mr. Goth Fashion and snapping at me."

"I'm… sorry?" Crowley spluttered, finding himself being dragged along. Oh well, she was headed towards Aziraphale's anyway, at least he'd have backup.

Crowley and Donna entered the bookshop just as Aziraphale and the Doctor had decided to go looking for them. There was a minute of Donna, Aziraphale, and the Doctor gaping in confusion at the demonic and alien doppelganger situation, before Crowley broke the silence.

"YOU!" he accused. "Of course it's you!"

"So you know me?" The Doctor asked.

"And you don't know me yet? Great," Crowley huffed. "You made a real mess of the thirties, you know that?"

"Not yet I haven't," the Doctor said, sounding offended.

"So you know him, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yeah, he's the idiot with my face who always got me blamed for everything," Crowley said. "Trying to get back to his own universe, is this day one then?"

"What. The hell. Is going on?" Donna asked.

"Funny you should mention hell," the Doctor chuckled. "You know I met Satan once."

"Twice," Crowley corrected him. "Look forward to it. That one actually did me a favor, I was employee of the month."

"No one's answered me," Donna pointed out.

"You and your alien boyfriend are about to time travel through our world till you find a way back to yours, that's what's going on," Crowley said.

"Not my boyfriend," Donna said just as the Doctor said "I'm not her boyfriend."

"And Mr. Fell and his friend here are an angel and a demon," the Doctor added.

"We're not friends," Aziraphale said, just as Crowley corrected him to "partner."

"No way," Donna said.

"I assure you, miss," Aziraphale said. "Very much 'way.'"

"Satan, you're so embarrassing," Crowley chuckled.

"You know, normally I've seen a face before I steal it," the Doctor said.

"Likewise," Crowley said. "But I've got a few thousand years on you so I can say for sure She didn't copy paste me."

“Copy paste?” the Doctor asked, offended.

“Regardless, it seems we’ve sorted things out,” Aziraphale said. “Though I must admit , knowing you really are a time traveling alien from another dimension opens up so many questions…” his eyes glittered with that familiar look he got when discovering a new and fascinating book. “I have questions,” he said, taking the Doctor by the arm and leading him to the back room where he’d ply him for stories with refreshments and stories of his own.

“I’ll just be a minute, Donna,” the Doctor called over his shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s what he said last time,” Donna sighed.

“We’ll be lucky to see them sometime this century,” Crowley sighed along with her. “I’m going to have to dust him off again.”

“Whatchu say we leave them and go get some drinks?” Donna suggested.

“Told you, he’s my partner… thing,” Crowley said awkwardly, as Donna rolled her eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself, hellboy, you’re all bones and sunglasses,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “C’mon, I want to know which of my friends are going to hell.”

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Picture Perfect. || One.

Wine Drunk.

Authors Note: Hello, lovelies. Here is the first Chapter of my new fanfic ‘Picture Perfect.’ I have to give an extremly big shout out and thank you to my lovely mutuals that have been my BETA and encouraged me to keep going with writing this fic even when I have wanted to throw my laptop at my wall and drown myself in wine. @lostinreality014 @haroldsflowerchild @hellohazzza

The enthusiasm and the rush after shows have always been something I enjoy observing, there is something about the way Harry waltzes off stage and is pulled into a different world that has always fascinated me. He goes from standing on stage in front of thousands of fans, pouring his heart out to the lyrics, to bouncing with joy backstage and slowly mellowing down.

Harry opens his arms wide as I stand in front of him, an extensive smile painted across his red lips, “Ah, you made it.” He is enthusiastic and rather excited to see me.

I chuckle and give him a nod, “I did, I promised I would. You, Mr.Styles are too sweaty for a hug,” I benevolently poke his soaked button up and he forces his lips into a frown. I roll my eyes and lean up and kiss his sweaty cheek, showing him my appreciation of our friendship and his concerts. “You did well out there.”

“Mhm, is that before or after the first set you missed?”

“Harry,” I snicker nervously, unaware that he knew I missed the first set. For someone who constantly has thousands of fans in front of him, he is incredibly observant.

Harry arches a sly brow. “Tell me, love, was it for a man?” He teases, well aware that my love life at the moment is nonexistent. I don’t remember the last time I went on a proper date where the guy wasn’t an asshole who just wanted to try to get into my pants. It has been quite a while.

I shake my head and benevolently swat his arm, “Yeah right, I wish,” I chuckle, “I got stuck in traffic and held up at security.”

He rolls his eyes and looks down at his phone for a moment, “I have to change, meet you in the car in about ten? Sound good?” Harry offers while shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the chords to his earpiece and what not. “Bloody thing, always fuckin’ gets tangled,” he grunts and I gesture for him to turn around so I can help him.

“As always,” … “Harry, if you’d stop jumping around out there so much, this wouldn’t be so difficult,” I comment, carefully untangling the equipment.

“Get excited.” Harry shrugs and I tap his shoulder and he turns around, “Thank you, m’love.” He grins taking the small box from my hand.

—

“So, your plan is to find the love of your life on this journey?” I curiously ask I sip a cup of coffee while Harry stands beside me in the check-in line.

Last night, actually a few hours ago, we may or may not have ended up celebrating the end of his tour with his mates. Where we may or may not have had a bit too much to drink. Well, he did. He somehow managed to come up with this idea that he would find the love of his life on our vacation of ours. How, I do not know. Something about ten cities and ten new opportunities. I honestly think it was the tequila talking.

Harry nods, “Yes, think about it, it is a brilliant idea.”

I shake my head at the absurd of his idea, “It is a ridiculous idea.”

“No, it isn’t,” Harry opposes.

I edge closer to Harry as a little child politely excuses his way through the line. “What are you going to do? Scour different bars for girls in each place we end up in?”

Harry lifts his shoulders into a shrug. “No, not just bars but the places we go too. Maybe my wife is here in this airport, who knows?”

I roll my eyes and tenderly nudge him while I lower my voice. “You’re a knob, but whatever.”

“Instead of rolling your eyes at me, get your passport out and don’t lose it from here to the desk.” Harry gestures towards the kiosk where a man is giving out boarding passes to those on ready to fly to their next destination.

***

The airport terminals are reasonably lively for the hour of the morning. With numerous passengers coming in and various others leaving, there is a constant movement of both people and planes. I never realised how energetic the airport is at this hour, then again, I am usually at the airport just to pick Harry up when he touches down in London after extended tours and the few getaway vacations.

After clearing the security check we head to the waiting area. It is this section of the airport that provides a clear picture of the runway. Several appreciate peering through the glass, to watch planes land and take off. Me being one of them. I find it to be calming and gratifying to observe planes take off and land.

Where are they going? Are people going on a vacation? Are they permanently moving? Visiting family? We don’t know, but the plane is on route to somewhere.

Harry takes a seat facing one of the glass windows of the terminal and I suspect it is because he grasps my slight love for watching aeroplanes landing and taking off while following the lights of the runway. Harry gets comfortable and spreads his long legs out with a heavy sigh. Glancing out of the broadly spread windows, I catch a glance of an aeroplane, wheels settled on the concrete ground as the mechanical, yet pleasant, voice on the public address system calls for the announcement that flight 820 is now boarding at gate 6.

I sit and wonder for a little bit, allowing my thoughts to find themselves and sort themselves out as I have some time on my hands. I glance beside me at Harry as he scrolls through his phone to find a song to listen to so he can disconnect from the world and not listen to the public addresses by the attendants.

Harry has always been that humorous quirky guy that perpetually says ridiculous things but I am not quite sure how he is going to live out his latest task he has toasted to himself over a few too many glasses of alcohol. I am not quite sure how he is going to pursue his adventure of unearthing a girl on this little vacation of ours. I presumed he was joking but he appears to be serious.

Is he going to find a girl in each place and hope for the best by the end of it? He is going to have like ten girls if he takes that plan. I have no idea how in the world he is going to manage this thing of his, but good for him, I guess…

“If you don’t stop worrying you will get frown lines.” Harry’s voice diverts me from my thoughts and curiosities of his plans.

I cock my head to the side and glance over at him, “What?” I challenge, observing as he places his phone in his lap and tilts his head to the side to gaze at me.

He provides me with a petite smile to match his iridescent, malachite-green eyes that despite being exhausted from the previous shows are radiant. “You’re worrying about somethin’, stop… Our first stop is Napa County, Cali… It is all mainly hillside vineyards, do I need to tell you not to get drunk while we wine taste?” Harry questions with a smirk caressed to his plump cherry red lips.

I roll my eyes at him before swatting his chest, catching him off guard, “ouch,” he grumbles, knowing very well that he deserved it.

“Why did you choose wine tasting for our first stop?” I whine subtly, “We all know you’re like a wine snob.” I point out with a bit of a sigh.

No matter what anyone assumes, he is considered the wine enthusiast/snob. He brings the expensive wines imported from Europe to gatherings meanwhile I have the imported from the local store type of wines.

“Ay, now.. That isn’t very nice, m’love, not a wine snob.” … “But I thought it would be nice to go to a vineyard, see a winemakers studio.” A smile dangles on the corner of his lips.

“Do you plan to tell me where exactly these other places are or is this just a blind vacation?”

“Jus’ trust me, it’ll be fun. Just us, America, my camera and your way of words with whatever the hell you do.” Harry gestures towards me and I stare at him.

“It is called journalism.”

“Yeah, yeah, that… and yet, ye’ still can’t get me out of the press,” Harry grins and I roll my eyes at him for what I am sure will not be the last time by no means. I go to open my mouth to argue against his comment but he quickly hushes me, “I am taking the piss out of you.”

“I am sorry my boss doesn’t let me control what is said about you. He kinda keeps that hidden from me. Good guy though.” I inform Harry, once again apologising for the lack of pull I have when it comes to what is written about Harry in certain articles. I don’t have much rank when it comes to those sort of articles that will blow up and cause media attention. That is quite frankly what brings us money, it is what pays my salary, to be honest. Harry scoffs. “Do you not agree?” I challenge, raising a brow at him as he shakes his head.

His lips screw into irritation, “Ye’ boss, he fancies himself the bee’s knees, but frankly he’s quite the wanker.” Harry grumbles. He has a devil-may-care outlook and a stellar smile but at times he can be a bit harsh with his words himself when he is rubbed the wrong way.

“Harry, that isn’t nice.”

The muscles in his face tighten and he shrugs, “Indeed, but neither was that shit they wrote about me.”

“I know, I know. But for what it’s worth, you’re still as cute as a button.” I giggle with a cheeky smirk, knowing well enough that it will draw a rise out of him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Harry groans as he attempts to hold back a chuckle and that grin I always manage to pull out of him. “They’re calling for us to board, come on, love.” He stands to his feet, grabbing my carry on bag as I stand up and begin to look through my purse, frowning when I don’t manage to clasp the boarding pass that I could have swore I put in here. Harry tenderly takes my attention as his hand presses against my arm and a flick my eyes to look up at him. He holds my boarding pass in his hand with a smirk that quite literally states, ‘I told you so.’

He did warn me earlier that I was going to lose the boarding pass if I didn’t let him hold it for me, but me being the stubborn person that I truly am, was determined to disagree with him.

I expel a breath in a whose. “Don’t give me that look,” I mutter as I graciously take it from him while he gives me a gleam of deviltry. He doesn’t say a word, instead, he just continues to grin before we make our way to line up to board our plane.

We settle quite promptly into our seats on the aeroplane shortly after takeoff, and the second Harry notices a flight attendant he ever so graciously orders us a glass of wine each.

“To new adventures.” He toasts and I hold my glass up next to his, clinking mine with his before I take a sip.

*** ***

A pageant of smells floats in the spring air this April morning. I inhale the warm Mediterranean-like climate and smile as Harry and I exercise down the petite path towards the vineyard where a horde of dandelions litter the meadow.

Harry and I wander closer where the fields are glade-green that is home to several of the attributes to the wines such as lovely berry clusters that will ripen gradually and evenly,. Harry benevolently draws me to the side for a moment, my small wedge shoes touching the verdant green grass as my dress flows delicately with the slight breeze.

My eyes meet the stunning views of Spring Mountain to the west and Howell Mountain to the east, rows of varying colours set the horizons and quite literally take my breath away.

“Beautiful view,” Harry comments as he stands behind me, peering over my shoulder, something he tends to always do due to our height difference. I also assume it is his way of making sure I am safe and sound.

—

Harry and I spend the day tasting wines in its various stages from barrels while learning about fermentation and how the grapes, that are exquisitely lined, are harvested in the early hours of the morning.

I chuckle to myself as Harry hands me another small glass of wine and he rolls his eyes at me, “lightweight,” he whispers graciously with a small laugh.

“Wine snob,” I wink cheekily, clinking my glass with his before I take a sip of the lovely wine and turn my attention back to the tour guide that has done an amazing job with informing of us of the step by step processes of the winemaking.

The man flashes a delicate smile to the small group of us and begins to express to us the history of grapes and ‘grape stomping,’ also known as foot trodding or one could use a french saying, pigéage à pied (or “punch-down by foot”).

“You,” the man points to me, catching me off guard and instantly causing my heart to beat a lot quicker than one would think.

I hate being called out, I am shy and prefer to cower behind Harry or to skulk on the edges of the crowd while someone else has the limelight. “Take your shoes off for me and kick start us in the process of grape stomping.” He gestures to the grapes beside him and I bite my lip for a moment, a little nervous to do so.

I hear Harry chuckle to himself before he takes the wine glass from my hand and I look up at him, of course, he is of no help with trying to turn down the offer to be the first one chosen. He curls his arm around me while I unclip my shoes before making my way to the barrel of beautifully coloured grapes that are soon to be crushed. Harry offers his hand and helps me step into the cold, fresh pool of grapes. I feel the grapes squish between my toes and for a moment I screw my nose up at the feel of grapes splattering under my feet, but it slowly becomes a soothing and relatively fun activity. I giggle to myself quite amused by the fact that this old method turns fresh, delicate fruit into delicious, shelf-stable wine.

“Atta girl,” Harry grins, holding his wine up to me while holding his camera in his other hand.

I flutter my eyes over towards Harry. “This is quite the workout, Styles… You should give it a go,” I gesture towards the grapes that are far denser than they seem and foot treading is a solid workout.

“Not a chance,” … “Much prefer watching you do it.” Harry winks, stepping closer and kindly helping me out so I can press my feet to the poster paper to mark my footprints in grape juice.

*** ***

After Harry and I relaxed on the terrace,  appreciating the views over Napa Valley while savoring a glass of wine that has been freshly created from this very vineyard, I find myself chuckling as I collapse in a stupor the soft sheets of the hotel, the bed seeming as if it is miles long as I roll over to reach the middle.

“Ye’ quite something.” Harry laughs and I flutter my eyes to glance at him as he claps his hands on his hips, arms crooked like sugar bowl handles.

I let out a laugh that is uncontrolled in a way that is playful or full of energy. “Can’t believe ye’ wine drunk. Even warned ye’ not to.”

I stretch extravagantly and yawn before defending my wine habits today. “Hey, you can’t just blame me… you kept ‘em coming.”

Harry nods partially in agreement, “Mhm… close those pretty eyes and get some sleep.” Harry instructs as he moves to lean down and press a kiss to my forehead.

“Bestest friend, ever,” I mumble while he shuffles away from the hotel bed.

“Uh-huh. I’m right next door if you need me.” Harry gestures towards the door that connects our rooms together and a smile dangles in the corner of my mouth.

He is the bestest best friend I could ever have asked for, such a genuine bloke.

And with that last thought, I close my eyes and fall asleep.

Harry Masterlist found HERE

If you’d like to send me feedback feel free to send me an Ask. It sometimes helps to see what the reader feels and thinks. :) xx

[qqueenofhades]

Medieval cosmetics: The history of looking good

So, I recently saw a post on my dash with someone lamenting the fact that in the medieval era, they would have been considered ugly as there was no makeup, and someone else offering a well-meant attempt to reassure them: that since they’d have no pox scars, rotten teeth, filthy hair, etc, all medieval men would think they were amazingly hot. While I appreciate the sentiment, there’s.... more than a little mythology on both sides of this idea, and frankly, our medieval foremothers would be surprised and insulted to hear that they were apparently the stereotyped bunch of unwashed, snaggle-toothed crones who put no care or effort into their appearance, and had no tools with which to do so.

(Or: Yep. Hilary Has More Things To Say. You probably know where this is going.)

I answered an ask a couple weeks ago that was mostly about medieval gynecological care and the accuracy of the “mother dying in childbirth” stereotype, but which also touched on some of the somehow still-widely-believed myths about medieval personal care and cleanliness. Let’s start with bathing. Medieval people bathed, full stop. Not as frequently as we do, and not in the same ways, but the “people never washed in Ye Olde Dark Ages” chestnut needs to be decidedly consigned to the historical dustbin where it belongs. “A Short History of Bathing Before 1601″ is a good place to start, as it follows the development of bathing culture from ancient Rome (where bathhouses were known for their use as gathering places and influential centers of political debate) through to the modern era. Yes, common people as well as the nobility washed fairly frequently. Bathing was a favored social and leisure activity and a central part of hospitality for guests. Hey, look at all these images in medieval manuscripts of people bathing. Or De balneis Puteolanis, which is basically a thirteenth-century travel guide to the best baths in Italy. Or these medieval Spanish civic codes about when men, women, and Jews were allowed to use the public bath house. There was also, as referenced in the above ask, the practice of washing faces, hands, etc daily, and sometimes more than once. Feasts involved elaborate protocol about who was allowed to perform certain tasks, including bringing in the bowls of scented water to wash between courses. They associated filth with disease (logically). Anyway. Let’s move on.

Combs are some of the oldest (and most common) objects found in medieval graves -- i.e. they were a standard part of the “grave goods” for the deceased, and were highly valued possessions. Look, it’s a young woman combing her hair (that article also discusses the history of medieval makeup for men, which was totally a thing and likewise also suspected of being “unmanly.”) The Luttrell Psalter, now in the British Library, includes among its many illuminations one of a young woman having her hair elaborately combed and styled by an attendant. There were extensive discourses on what constituted an ideally attractive medieval woman, and the study of aesthetics and the nature of beauty is one of the oldest and most central philosophical enquiries in the world (as were beauty standards in antiquity). Having a pale complexion was a sign of wealth (you didn’t have to work outdoors in the sun) and women used all kinds of pastes and powders to achieve that effect. Remember the Trotula, the medieval gynecological textbook we talked about in the childbirth ask? Well, it is actually three texts, and the entire third text, De ornatu mulierum (On Women’s Cosmetics) is dedicated to makeup and cosmetics. What weird and gross sort of things do they advocate, cry editors of “7 Horrifying Medieval Beauty Tips You Won’t Believe!”-style articles? Well...

First come general depilatories for overall care of the skin. Then there are recipes for care of the hair: for making it long and dark, thick and lovely, or soft and fine. For care of the face, there are recipes for removing unwanted hair, whitening the skin, removing blemishes or abscesses, and exfoliating the skin, plus general facial creams. For the lips, there is a special unguent of honey to soften them, plus colorants to dye the lips and gums. For the care of teeth and prevention of bad breath, there are five different recipes. The final chapter is on hygiene of the genitalia. [...] A prescription said to be used by Muslim women then follows.[...] The author gives detailed instructions on how to apply the water just prior to intercourse, together with a powder that the woman is supposed to rub on her chest, breasts, and genitalia. She is also to wash her partner’s genitals with a cloth sprinkled with the same sweet-smelling powder.

Wait so... hair care, skin and facial creams, toothpaste, lipstick, and sexual hygiene?? With the latter based on that used by Muslim women??? Zounds! How strange and unthinkable!

L’ornement des Dames, an Anglo-Norman text of the thirteenth century, offers more tips and tricks, and explicitly references the authority of both the Trotula and Muslim women: “I shall not forget either what I learnt at Messina from a Saracen woman. She was a doctor for the people of her faith [...] according to what I heard from Trotula of Salerno, a woman who does not trust her is a fool.” So yes. The beauty regimes of Muslim women were transmitted to and shared by Christian women, especially in diverse places like medieval Sicily, and this was valuable and trusted advice. Gee. It’s almost like women have always a) cared about their appearance, and b) united to flip one giant middle finger at the patriarchy. (You can also read more about skincare and cosmetics.) Speaking of female health authorities, you have definitely (or you should have) heard of Hildegard von Bingen, a twelfth-century abbess and towering genius who was the trusted advisor of kings and popes and wrote treatises on everything from music to medicine to natural science (she is regarded as the founder of the discipline in Germany). This included the vast Physica, a handbook on health and medicine, and Causae et curae, another medical textbook.

Did the church grumble and gripe about women putting on excessive adornments and being too fixated by makeup and the dangers of vanity and etc etc? You bet they did. Did women ignore the hell out of this and wear makeup and fancy clothes anyway? You bet they damn well did. Also, medieval society was fuckin’ obsessed with fashion (especially in the fourteenth century.) The sumptuary laws, which appeared for the first time in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, regulated which classes of society were allowed to wear what (so that fancy furs and silks and jewels were reserved for the nobility, and less expensive cloth and trimming were the province of the lower classes -- the idea was that you could know someone’s station in life just by looking at them). These were insanely detailed, and went down to regulating the height of someone’s high heels. So yes, theoretically, the stiletto police could stop you in fourteenth-century England, whip out a measuring tape, and see if you were literally too big for your britches.

(”But, but,” you stammer. “Surely they had rotten teeth?” Well, this is probably a bad time to note that in addition to the five toothpaste remedies mentioned in the Trotula, there are even more. Jewish and Muslim natural philosophers and herbalists had all kinds of recommendations -- see Practical Materia Medica of the Medieval Eastern Mediterranean. Also, since there was no processed sugar in their diet, their dentistry was far better than, say, the Elizabethans, and white and regular teeth were highly prized. There would be wear and tear from grist, but since fine-milled white bread was a status symbol, the wealthy could afford to have bread that did not contain it, and thus good teeth.)

Of course, everyone wasn’t just getting dressed up with, so to speak, nowhere to go. What about sex? It never happened unless it was marital rape, right? (/side-eyes a certain unnamed quasi-medieval television show). Oh no. Medieval people loved the shit out of sex. Pastourelles were an immensely popular poetic genre which almost always included the protagonist having a romp with a pretty shepherdess, and anyone who’s read any Chaucer knows how bawdy it can get. Even Chaucer, however, is put to shame by the fabliaux, which are a vast collection of Old French poems that have titles so ribald that I could not say them aloud to an undergraduate class. (”The Ring That Controlled Erections” and “The Peekaboo Priest” are about the tamest that I can think of, but I gotta say I’m fond of “Long Butthole Berengier” and the one called simply “The Fucker,” because literally people are people everywhere and always. And yes, you perverted person, you can read the lot of them here.) This was incredibly explicit and bawdy popular literature that was pretty much exactly medieval porn (and like usual porn, did not exactly serve as any kind of precursor of feminist media or positive female representation, but Misogyny, Take a Shot.)

So yes. Once more (surprise!) the history of cosmetics goes back at least six thousand years, and is one of the oldest aspects of documented social history in the world. It existed broadly and accessibly in the medieval world, where women had other women writing books on it for them, and was just as much as a concern as it is now. People have always liked to look good, smell good, accessorize, dress fashionably, try weird beauty trends, and so forth. So if by some accident you do stumble into a time machine and end up in medieval Europe, you’ll have plenty of choices. Our medieval foremothers, and the men who loved them and thought they were beautiful, thank you for your time.