#there are many ways to burn a book & many more insidious ways to silence someone than burning single copies of mass market hardbacks

[girderednerve]

The rundown here is that the Chattanooga Public Library asked their staff to participate in a large weeding project (going through the collection and finding books that are outdated, in poor condition, or haven’t been checked out in a long time, and removing them the library system; this is common library maintenance work, although books are usually removed by a professional librarian, not paraprofessional staff). One of their staff members pulled, among others, books by Ann Coulter and Donald Trump, took them home with him after they had been weeded, and burned them in an Instagram video. Williams, who was fired after the video surfaced, points out that he was asked to weed the political science section by his manager and that there is no policy in place regarding what staff do with books that have been removed from the system; he believes that he was fired because the library was retaliating against him for his activist commitments with Black Lives Matter, and it’s hard to see how he could be wrong. Chattanooga Public Library serves a city that’s around a third Black, and, after Williams’ firing, has no Black staff members; Tennessee public libraries, as far as I can tell, were segregated well into the sixties.

Libraries have a mandate to provide a balanced collection to their patrons -- every book its reader, is the phrase -- and ensure equal access to all information, and much hay has been made of public libraries’ resistance to censorship; the American Libraries Association every year celebrates Banned Books Week and issues a list of the most widely challenged books in library collections. Leftist and marginalized library workers have contended for a long time that this insistence that libraries are neutral, or merely charged with reflecting the interests of their patrons, rings hollow given some of the choices in the profession, from personnel decisions to choices in programming, acquisitions, and meeting space policies.

[intim3ate]

To Follow a Lead | Claude/Sylvain [Fire Emblem: Three Houses]

Claude doesn't mean to keep running into Sylvain, at first. He doesn't mean to develop feelings for him, either. But, as they say: coincidence is the mother of intention.

This was originally just a short concept about Claude and Sylvain flirting, but somehow it turned into a 6000+ word fanfic... Let me tell you I was empowered by how good these two are together. Like... they're both so shady and deceptive and I feel like if anyone is going to appreciate Claude's somewhat-underhanded methods of flirting, it's probably Sylvain.

God I love them. What is it with me and rarepairs, though?

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Of all the quiet places in Garreg Mach Monastery, Claude thinks his favourite might be the library. It’s quiet, solitary comfortably familiar way. It’s hardly lonely – he’s joined all the time by the people around him, flitting about and minding their own business, completely unaware of the plots he’s hatching or the schemes he’s brewing – but it is isolating, somehow, in its silence.

But that same isolating silence is worth its weight in gold every time it is interrupted. It doesn’t take long for Claude to become a familiar fixture in the library. The bookshelves conceal all manner of hidden secrets; some written in ink and charcoal; some found in the people hiding behind the shelves, away from prying eyes or ears; and still more whispered between those same students, whose eyes roam the room to make sure nobody is listening.

But someone is always listening.

Claude learns, quickly, that people pay him no mind if he acts as if he is minding his own business. They ignore him at best, and cast wary glances and whispers in his direction at worst. He is used to it, though, unaffected despite the occasional wish that that wasn’t the case. Sometimes, he finds himself wishing that he was the one leaning in and whispering conspiratorially in a friend’s ear.

It isn’t even for a lack of trying, really. Claude has made it a personal mission to be at least friendly, if not kind, to everyone he approaches. Sometimes it’s a genuine attempt to make friends, and others it’s what they all expect: a hunt for information, for something to use in his next plan. His mother would call it catching flies with honey. She wouldn’t exactly be wrong, per se, but… Claude had quickly come to the realization that even honey would not work if the flies thought it dripped from a wolf’s teeth.

A lion’s teeth, however…

Sylvain Jose Gautier makes no effort to hide his ulterior motives. He speaks to everyone like they’re the most important person in the world to him, lifting them up and telling them whatever they need to hear to nudge them in whatever direction he has chosen for them. Insincerity spills from his lips like sweet, sugary poison, and he knows it. He weaponizes it in the most insidiously gentle way, mixing it into his speech alongside his real, honest feelings.

It’s rather impressive, really, that so many people recognize it and still give him what he wants.

The first time Claude truly comes to appreciate Sylvain’s… gift, as he calls it, is a late night in the library, long after the moon had risen above the spires of the monastery. He’s alone in the dim room save for Annette, whose nose had been buried in the same book for hours upon hours. It’s just as quiet and peaceful as ever, but something about the late hour and the way the candles along the wall have almost burned to nothing sets Claude on edge. Instead of the comfort he usually feels among the dusty shelves, he is restless.

He looks to Annette and wonders if she feels the same. Her foot shifts beneath the table, drawing out a pattern Claude can not distinguish. He wonders what she’s reading.

His restlessness gets the better of him, eventually. To his credit, Claude holds out for a while - much longer than he normally would - but, as put-together as he tries to appear, he knows his restraint cannot be checked forever. And so, curious, he approaches Annette with a carefully-applied smile. 

“Must be a good book for you to be up so late.”

Annette frowns up at him, sleepy and annoyed. “Oh, Claude. I’m… just studying. What does it matter?” 

Claude raises his hands before him defensively, backing away instinctively. His smile, however, does not falter. “No need to bite my head off,” he says lightly. “I was just curious is all.” 

“Yeah, well…” Annette covers her mouth, trying to muffle her long, drawn-out yawn. “I think I’ve hit my limit anyway. I should probably go to bed. Just... one more chapter, I think...”

Claude nods and shifts, feeling a touch awkward. “Right. Well… good luck, then. And try to take it easy tomorrow, all right? You look exhausted.” 

A small smile graces Annette’s lips - a personal victory for Claude, as far as he’s concerned - and she silently returns to her studies. Claude returns to his own seat a few feet away, ready to resume his own reading… Except that the moment he re-opens his tome, Sylvain Gautier comes barreling in through the door, effectively destroying both his and Annette’s concentration.

Not that Sylvain seems to notice. Or care.

“Annette! Thank the goddess you’re here,” he says, breathing heavy and laboured as if he had been running. Despite the raspiness of his tone, however, Sylvain looks alive, face flushed and smile wide enough to light up his eyes. “Say, have you done… something with your hair? It looks amazing.”

Annette sighs resignedly. Claude takes some satisfaction in the way her eyes roll. “No, Sylvain.” 

“Really? You’re trying to tell me you just always look this good?” 

An aggravated sigh this time. “Just tell me what you want, will you?” 

And he does. It’s the usual fare: a girl kicking up a fuss after he’d broken her heart (though he claimed she had been the one to shatter his). “I just need a place to lay low,” he says. “The library was close, and she’s… not exactly the studying type, if you know what I mean. I figure I’d be safe here, and if it looks like I’m helping a friend study…” 

Annette looks like she’s trying to fight back a smile, but she just can’t help herself. “Fine,” she says. “You can stay. Just don’t get in the way too much, okay?” 

“Me? Never.” Sylvain smiles and takes his seat next to Annette. True to his word, he doesn’t get in her way… at first.

Sylvain sits quietly for a long moment, but it’s easy to see that boredom is slowly overtaking him, because he starts to fidget incessantly. Claude can’t help but watch; it’s distracting, and there’s something about the way Sylvain looks like he’s holding something back that makes his hair stand on end. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait long to find out just what it is that’s being hidden, as Sylvain suddenly blurts out: “I can’t take in anymore. Annette, look. See this? This entire section here? It’s all wrong.” 

Annette looks at him like he’d grown a second head. “What?” 

“It’s wrong. The formula should go like this, and that rune should be tweaked slightly… see? It’s missing a stroke.”

Claude raises an eyebrow, intrigued. He glances down at his book and realizes he hasn’t read a single word in the last few minutes, so he closes it and sets it aside for now. His research on Hero’s Relics can wait; this is much more interesting. He’d never had the impression Sylvain knew much of anything about magic, but…

“You’re right,” Annette says, incredulous. “How did you know that?” 

Sylvain shrugs. “Guess I just have a knack for this stuff. I…” 

He looks away for a split second, just long enough to catch Claude’s eye, and pauses before turning back to Annette, gaze lingering on Claude even as he turns his head. “The better question is, why are you studying this stuff, anyway? Isn’t it a little above our current level?” 

A sense of disappointment washes over Claude, though he doesn’t quite understand where it stems from. Had Sylvain been about to say something about himself? If he hadn’t spotted Claude, would his conversation with Annette taken a different turn?

He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that he isn’t interested. Claude has gotten quite good at lying to himself.

“Maybe it is,” Annette says, calling Claude’s attention back to the present. “But I’ve been interested in it for a long time, and I always try to study and learn as much as I can. You see, my father…” 

Huh, Claude thinks to himself as Annette describes her past in detail she would never, ever willingly share with him. How about that.

  It really is just coincidence that he keeps running into Sylvain, at first. Claude spends so much time in the library it’s rare that he isn’t around when Sylvain pops in to hide from a girl or - much less often - to actually study. But no matter what his purpose is on any given day, Sylvain always manages to find himself a conversation partner (never Claude, though, despite the frequent lingering looks in his direction), and he always, always manages to pull something interesting out of them.

Like when he runs into Bernadetta, who had run from Claude when he’d asked what she’d been working on. Sylvain manages to get her to show him a new chapter in the book she had apparently been writing and she swears him to secrecy over it, not knowing Claude is listening in as he selects a book across the room.

Or like how Sylvain pokes and prods at Dorothea’s taste in literature until she tells him all about how she aspires to be like the singer in the book she’s reading, which she had memorized even before joining the opera. That one stings a little; as much as Claude has tried to flatter her, Dorothea still refuses to grace him with even a single note of her favourite song. 

Sylvain even manages to get Dedue to open him. Dedue, who rarely speaks to anyone who isn’t His Royal Highness. Claude listens to them exchange quiet stories of their childhoods in the back of the library, and wonders what could have possibly coaxed Dedue into smiling like that. 

It’s as frustrating as it is impressive. Sylvain, arguably, has an even worse reputation than Claude himself, and yet while Claude can’t get anyone outside of his own House to open up to him (and even within the Golden Deer, he still has his difficulties), Sylvain manages to pluck the most interesting things about a person straight from their lips without even trying.

Claude wishes he had that kind of talent. He tells himself that’s why he’s so interested in being around Sylvain, but he realizes, when he watches Sylvain coax Marianne into smiling for him, that there’s more to it than that. He doesn’t dare put a name the longing pang in his chest, though; he convinces himself that it’s simply his own curiosity shifting off of the people Sylvain talks to and on to Sylvain himself.

Because for all Claude knows of Sylvain’s reputation, and all he knows about their classmates through him, he knows frighteningly little about the man himself. And that simply will not do.

Claude resolves, as Marianne walks away with pink cheeks and a shy smile peeking out from behind her hand, that he will pick apart the mystery of Sylvain Gautier if it’s the last thing he does.

And if that means continuing to linger around him when he’s chatting with someone else, well… so be it.

  It’s surprisingly easy for Claude to find what he’s looking for, even if Sylvain himself never speaks of his own interests. He’s oddly secretive, deflecting and redirecting conversation with hollow flattery or disinterested shrugs anytime it comes around to him. It may be enough to get his conversation partner to leave him be, but all it does for Claude is intrigue him further, push him even deeper into this strange, budding fascination he’s developed.

But Claude knows how to get around the deflection. He’s careful about picking his moments, and when it comes to Sylvain, he realizes right away that it’s all about finding exactly the right one.

  The first thing Claude finds out that surprises him is Sylvain’s apparent love of board games.

On his way to his usual library table, he passes by Sylvain and Felix sitting across from one another with a chess board between them. A generous amount of Felix’s pieces stand off to the side, and the smile on Sylvain’s face tells Claude he’s all too aware of his impending victory.

But, as invested as Sylvain looks as he studies the pieces, brows knitted in concentration and hand to his mouth in thought, Felix looks completely and utterly bored. 

“Are you going to take much longer?” he demands. “I have better things to do than wait for you to move a piece on a board.” 

“Ah-ah,” Sylvain chides. “Patience, Felix.” 

He moves his piece and knocks Felix’s queen off its square. Sylvain plucks it off the board and adds it to his collection, catching Claude’s eye as he does. His smirk grows impossibly wide, and he honest-to-goddess winks before turning his attention back to the game and waving Felix’s queen tauntingly before him. “You can’t rush perfection.”

No, Claude agrees, heart fluttering. You can’t.

  The next thing Claude learns, when he spots Sylvain and Ignatz together in the library, is that Sylvain likes art.

He sits on a table, one foot resting on it while the other taps away on the bench Ignatz sits on. They chat idly about a portrait of a knight in a book laid out before them on the table, Ignatz’s own sketchbook with rough drawings of armour set off to the side.

“The composition leaves a lot to be desired,” Sylvain says. “If the artist had chosen a slightly darker shade for more contrast… or something else entirely, like maybe a bit of gold… Yeah, that would have been better. Still, the knight’s expression makes up for it. He’s pretty handsome… as all good knights should be, of course. By the way, if you’re looking for a handsome, dashing knight to paint…”

He looks up as Claude approaches, meeting his eye and greeting him with a silent smile (and what a smile he has, too). There’s something there, something playful, something Claude can’t quite place no matter how much he wishes he could. In response, he raises an eyebrow, and whatever it is he thinks he’s caught in Sylvain’s gaze dissipates.

“Speaking of art…” Sylvain nudges Ignatz, effectively cutting off what he was about to say. His eye shifts, like he’s looking right through Claude, and though he’d thought for half a second Sylvain had been addressing him, Claude quickly realizes he can hear some girls chatting behind him. He doesn’t dare turn to look at them, or let himself laugh at the absurdity of his own thoughts, but the temptation is certainly there.

Sylvain hums. “Looks like someone needs to talk to you,” he says. “Later, Ignatz.” 

Sheepishly, Ignatz smiles. “Right. Goodbye, Sylvain.” 

They both stand. Sylvain passes right by Claude, giving him a private smile as he leaves (Speaking of art, indeed). It would have made Claude grin if he wasn’t so frustrated - he had actually been meaning to talk to Sylvain this time. 

Ah, well. Nothing I can do now, he thinks as Ignatz approaches him. Claude gives his fellow Deer a winning smile of his own. 

“Ah, Ignatz, just the man I was looking for,” he lies. “I’ve been doing a bit of light reading on the divine, and I think I might have an idea for your next drawing…”

  He learns that maybe, just maybe, Sylvain is more an actor than he lets on.

Claude doesn’t hear the whole conversation. He only just catches the tail end of it as he enters the library: Sylvain is with a girl; one Claude doesn’t recognize. It’s not an unfamiliar sight, but something about the way she smiles at Sylvain and flutters her lashes at him tightens his stomach.

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” Sylvain says. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, tender as he tries to make it.

“Yes, you will.” The girl turns from him with a sly grin and exits the library, leaving Sylvain all alone.

Well, mostly.

Claude doesn’t mean to look. He really doesn’t. But it’s hard not to when Sylvain sighs like that, chest deflating and shoulders slumping. The smile he’d worn for his lady-of-the-night doesn’t fall from his face so much as shatter like a porcelain mask, replaced with something darker and more… real. If Claude had to put a name to it, he would have called it disdain, but even that doesn’t seem quite right. This look is Sylvain, uncharacteristically natural and unrestrained, and it sends more than one kind of chill through him.

He doesn’t give himself time to dwell on it, because a moment later Sylvain spots Claude out of the corner of his eye and turns away, expression unreadable. He exits the library.

Claude tries not to think about it.

  But then, two nights later, Claude learns that Sylvain is much more genuine and intuitive than he lets on, too.

Claude had been expecting to be alone in the library that night – it was late, and the nagging questions in his mind of what the church was hiding made him restless – but when he hears voices drifting into the hallway from inside, he pauses outside the library door and presses himself against the wall so as not to be seen. He catches Sylvain’s voice first, and then… someone else’s. Are they… is she… crying? 

“Hey, Ingrid, come on…” Sylvain’s voice is low, almost inaudible. Claude holds his breath and sticks to the wall, willing himself into complete stillness and utter silence. He does not want to get caught. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up such a bad memory.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Ingrid insists. Claude can hear the quiver in her tone, the hitch in her breath. He wishes he could see Sylvain’s face. “It was my fault. When I saw this book, I… I couldn’t help myself. Glenn used to read it to me and Felix all the time…” 

A heavy sigh and a pause; and then, quiet and fragile, like the whispering of a ghost: “You loved him, didn’t you?” 

Claude leaves before he can hear any more. 

  It takes some time, but Claude finally gets his chance to speak to Sylvain when he finds Teach lecturing him about ‘improper conduct.’ The library is blessedly empty but for the two of them, and so Claude finds it easy to settle in and wait his turn. He doesn’t expect to learn anything from this conversation - about either of them, really - and he doesn’t know how long it’s going to take for Teach’s quiet tirade to end, so he selects a book on war strategies and takes a seat at a nearby table. 

He tries to read, at first, but within the first ten seconds he realizes the attempt is futile. He decides to ignore the book and listen in. 

It’s hard not to, with the way Teach lists off all of the… many, many complaints against Sylvain. Byleth doesn’t sound particularly angry as they speak (when do they ever, though?), but Sylvain sounds uncomfortable all the same when he finally responds. 

“Look, I get it, okay? I’ll make an effort not to be so overt about my flirting…” 

“Sylvain.” 

“Fine, fine! I’ll try not to flirt at all. Better?” 

No response from Teach at first; just a long, drawn-out silence. Claude can see them giving Sylvain the stare-down - one he himself has been subject to many a time for his own brand of ‘improper conduct’ – before they eventually relent with a sigh. “If that’s all I can get out of you…”

The conversation doesn’t last much longer. When Teach finally exits the room, Sylvain is left to slump in his seat and exhale in what Claude can only assume is a mixture of relief, aggravation, and resignation. He straightens up quickly, though, and when he does, he looks right in Claude’s direction.

A sudden smile tugs at Sylvain’s lips; Claude hurriedly looks back down at his book.

There’s movement from Sylvain’s table. Claude doesn’t dare look up, trying to keep the illusion of disinterest going. He debates saying something, though; now is his chance, now that Sylvain is finally alone. Claude’s leg bounces. He bites his lip. What can he say, though? Sylvain is—

A hand covers his book. 

"You can stop pretending to read now."

Claude's eyes snap back into focus and he looks up, bewildered but careful to maintain a straight face. Sylvain stands at eye-level in front of him, bent over the table with one palm flat against the wood and the other firmly on the page Claude hadn’t been reading. 

"Hm?" Easy, Claude. Don’t let him know he’s caught you. With an affected nonchalance, he tilts his head to the side. Sylvain just laughs at him - a small, pleased noise that pulls at Claude’s heartstrings - and leans in close. 

Claude frowns. He doesn’t mind that Sylvain is blocking him from his book, but he knows he needs to keep up the act for… for some reason. “You know that’s my favourite part, right?”

Sylvain sits down. “Uh-huh.” He withdraws his hand and uses it to close the book. Claude does not protest as he pushes it aside, not even bothering to look as the corner of the cover slides over the edge of the table; Sylvain seems much more interested in maintaining eye contact than ensuring the book’s welfare. More interested in studying Claude, gauging him for a reaction. Is he trying to play some kind of game? 

If he is, Claude is all too willing to play with him.

Sylvain props his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his interlocked fingers. "Except you aren’t reading it,” he says. Damn him. “You've been staring at the same sentence for ages. I can't even remember the last time you turned a page.”

Claude smiles easily. He's played this game before. “Oh really,” he says, drawing out the word. “Do you make a habit of watching people while they go about their business, then?" 

"Maybe," Sylvain chimes. Claude isn't sure he likes what the smirk on his face implies, but he can't wait to see where it leads. "Could be something we have in common."

His heart sinks - was he really that obvious? - but his smile widens. Can’t give ground too early, he thinks as he leans in too, arms folded on the table. "Could be. Care to elaborate?" 

"You seem to spend a lot of time in this library. Especially when I’m around.” There's something hidden in Sylvain’s voice, something dark under the forced casual tone, the false familiarity. Suspicion, perhaps? Or something else? 

"Is that so?" Claude speaks as if making a statement, not asking a question. 

"Yeah." Sylvain nods. His smile never falters, but his eyes narrow a little, just the slightest droop of the eyelids, enough to say that he's looking for something. "Every time I turn around, there you are. Call me curious."

Claude shrugs with one shoulder, closes one eye in a lazy wink. "Does there have to be a why? Maybe it's just coincidence."

"Coincidence that any time I have a conversation with someone, you show up and make yourself comfortable? You, the guy who never seems to do anything 'just because?'" Sylvain snorts and shakes his head. "Come on, Claude. I know I may act like an idiot, but you've got to give me some credit."

Finally, Claude lets his smile drop. He sighs, knowing he’s been beaten. If there's one thing he's learned about Sylvain in these last few weeks, it's that he's anything but an idiot. He might even be too perceptive for his own good. 

"Fine," he says at last, though not without some bitterness. He hates being forced to play his hand. "You caught me." 

"Not sure it counts if you're trying to get caught." Sylvain's voice drops along with his gaze, and for a moment Claude wonders if Sylvain really does know. But he keeps his own gaze and his expression steady, determined not to let on any more than Sylvain thinks he has. 

"Trying to get caught, huh?" he repeats. "And why would I want to do that?" 

“I can think of a few reasons…" 

It's a stupid line and Claude knows it - knows it's one of the many he's used on girls in the past and he shouldn't let it get to him, but he feels goosebumps prickle up his arm anyway. He curses himself for it at the same time he thanks the stars his uniform has long sleeves. "Uh-huh. Take me to dinner first and I'll think about it."

Sylvain raises a brow as he studies Claude once more. The corner of his mouth tugs upward into a grin, and Claude immediately recognizes the signs that he’s about to lose control over the conversation. He cuts Sylvain off before he seizes the opportunity.

"Simmer down, pretty boy. Much as I know you'd like a piece of this, that wasn't why I was hanging around you." Something sits funny in his gut as he says it - Because it’s a lie - but Claude doesn't give himself time to dwell. "It's actually… Look. I know this is going to sound stupid, but… nobody trusts me around here." 

He frowns and decides that now would be a good time to look past Sylvain so that he doesn't have to see those lovely brown eyes agreeing with him. Self-defense, as always. "I don't know if you know this, but I've earned myself a bit of a reputation. I'm a schemer, right? I don't bother to hide it.” He frowns. “So, Sylvain, with that in mind… what would your reaction be if I, the untrustworthy and heretofore unheard-of heir to House Riegan, just came up to you out of the blue and struck up a conversation?"

Sylvain leans back, hands behind his head. He grins and winks. "'Hey, gorgeous.'"

Claude kicks him lightly under the table, but he can’t quite suppress the smile that stretches over his features. "Knock it off; I'm being serious."

"So am I!" But Sylvain laughs despite the insistence in his tone. "I take it not everyone's as willing to play nice as I am, though."

"Nope." Claude crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Everyone thinks I'm up to something, or that I have some kind of ulterior motive in getting to know them. They're not wrong," he adds before Sylvain can interject. "But it's left me a little short on friends."

"So you've been following me because… you want to be friends with me?" Sylvain's brows furrow. Confusion looks good on him, out of place as it is.

"Oh, no." Claude laughs. "If that was all I wanted, I would've asked you to play chess with me or something. And don't even try to tell me you wouldn't accept,” he adds. “I saw the way your eyes just lit up." 

Sylvain frowns, that little spark of intrigue Claude had caught extinguishing just as quickly as it had blinked into existence. He’s sad to see it go, but that doesn't outweigh the feeling of victory that warms his chest. He continues: "I've been lingering around you - not following you - because you're good at getting people to open up."

"So you were looking for pointers." Sylvain frowns, like he still doesn't quite get it. No real surprise there; he still hasn’t quite made it to Claude’s finish line. 

"Wrong again!" Claude waggles a finger reproachfully at Sylvain. "I was looking to learn something, sure. But not about how to get people to open up."

At last, something clicks. Sylvain’s eyebrows rise up past his bangs. "You were getting me to open them up for you."

"Now you've got it." Claude leans forward to rest his arms on the table again. Sylvain's eyes narrow and he lifts a hand to his mouth, knuckle to his lips. 

"That's so… devious," he says. And then he breaks into a grin. "...I'm kind of into it."

"I thought you might be," Claude lies. He tries to ignore the pounding of his heart, part relief and part affection. There was always a chance Sylvain would be fine with it - the more Claude had watched him, the more alike he had realized they were, after all - but there was also the chance that he'd be furious, and he isn't sure if he'd have been okay with that result. "You're quite the wingman, you know. Even when you're not aware of it."

"I'm good at lots of other things, too." He lowers his voice again, both in tone and volume, and licks his lips. Claude swears he sees Sylvain's eyes dart downward again, but he tries to ignore the way that makes his heart beat, too. "I could show you sometime, if you like."

He tries to play it cool. "Now that you mention it, there is someone else I'd like to get to know better…"

"Oh yeah?" Sylvain looks genuinely intrigued. "Tell me everything."

"Well, we're in different houses, for one thing." Claude holds up a finger on the word one.

"Right, of course." Sylvain nods. "Why would you need my help talking to someone in your own house?" 

"Exactly! They're kind of obligated to talk to me." Claude snickers. If only that were true. "I knew you'd understand."

"Mhm. So if you need me, then you're probably interested in someone from the Blue Lions…" 

Claude nods. "Yup. You might even know them."

"Oh?"

"They're clever, perceptive, take all the worst opportunities to make jokes…" Claude laughs. "Or pretend to, anyway. And they're unbelievably attractive…"

"Ohh…?" Sylvain's smirk spreads, catlike, and his eyes narrow even more. He's practically making bedroom eyes at Claude by now, and it's all the Golden Deer leader can do to meet them with a straight face. "They sound like a charmer. Never mind helping you out with them; can you introduce us?" 

Claude shrugs nonchalantly. "I dunno, I get the impression they're already interested in someone else."

The quirk of a brow, and Sylvain's smirk twists into something more amused. "And who might this mystery man be?" 

"Well, he's dashing, smart, and always seems to have an ulterior motive for everything…" 

Claude meets Sylvain's gaze and holds it. He's still smiling, but he's acutely aware that it doesn't meet his eyes. He's studying Sylvain for a reaction this time, searching for whatever he's not getting on the surface. He can see something has definitely shifted, though; Sylvain has gone from easy flirtation to something a little more guarded, a little more careful. He's analyzing Claude just as much as Claude is him. 

But finally, after what feels like hours, Sylvain breaks the silence. "... So," he begins slowly. "How does this mystery man feel about them…?" 

It's like a weight is lifted from Claude's shoulders. Sylvain is curious - he's moving cautiously, afraid to reveal too much of his own hand - but he's receptive, at least.  And Claude has already come too far not to play every card he's got. 

"I'm not sure yet," he admits. "I was hoping I could find out over dinner."

"Ha!" Sylvain pulls back, lifting a fist to his mouth in an incredibly poor attempt to hide his wide, toothy grin. His knuckle bumps his teeth; his shoulders shake with held-back laughter. 

Claude tilts his head to the side, careful to maintain a curious, but amused expression. He wishes Sylvain would quit laughing and answer the damn proposition, but as with all things, he knows to be patient with this. 

Eventually, Sylvain’s silent amusement gives way to actual laughter. Claude feels a small jab of annoyance hit him in the chest, but it flashes like lightning and vanishes a split second later when he realizes it's pleased laughter, not mocking.

Even so, Sylvain trembles, and Claude manages to realize that it’s not with mirth, but nerves. It’s a subtle difference, one he has only come to recognize from so frequently seeing someone come close to piercing Sylvain’s careful façade.

"Ha ha… did you just… Did you seriously just ask me out on a date?" he asks, incredulous. "Damn. I gotta say, I'm not used to being the one asked out.” He pauses and looks away, scratching his cheek without realizing he’s drawing attention to how red it’s become. “It's… kinda nice."

"It'd be nicer if you said yes," Claude says, voice a thousand times calmer than he feels. It hits him all at once that yes, he really did just ask someone out on a date (but he's not just someone, is he? He’s Sylvain Gautier, who’s left a hundred hearts broken in his wake), and that he's tantalizingly close to actually getting one.

He just needs to make one more small push. "Tomorrow night?” Claude holds out a hand, palm-up. Sylvain looks down at it, and his hand twitches as if he wants to reach out and take it, but doesn’t yet dare. “We could go into town."

Sylvain takes a deep breath. His smile isn't quite… gone gone, but it's definitely morphed into something… different. Claude isn't sure what to call it - curious, perhaps? Disbelieving?

…Or maybe even pleased, if he dares to give himself that hope? 

Sylvain meets his eye. Holds his gaze. "Wow," he breathes. "You… you really are serious about this, huh?" 

Claude winks. Sylvain's face turns an even darker shade of red. 

"You know…" He looks away again, he grumbling into his hand as if he is suddenly unable to meet Claude's eyes. "There's a joke in here somewhere. Something about deer and lions…"

"Tell it to me over dinner." He's pushing it a bit hard now and he knows it, but the way Sylvain's lips twitch on a huff of laughter tells him it's a very welcome push. 

"R-right. Okay… yeah. Yeah, sure, why not? I’d like that. It sounds like a good time." He laughs again, a sound caught between disbelief and giddy satisfaction, and Claude finally permits himself to believe that the look on Sylvain's face now is one of genuine excitement. He's learned how to tell when Sylvain is acting for someone else's sake, and at the moment his countenance bears no sign of its usual pretense. Sylvain’s smile now isn’t the kind he usually wears: he is not waiting for someone to turn their back, not forcing anything he isn’t actually feeling. This smile is real, genuine. One of the few Claude has ever caught him wearing.

It’s… nice. And that is all Claude will allow himself to think.

"Great," he says, maybe a little too loudly. He tries to calm himself, taking a long breath through his nose in an attempt to still the furious beating of his heart. He's certain he must look like he's vibrating with the intensity of it. "I'll come get you sometime around… Hm, after the evening bell goes off?" 

It takes Sylvain a moment to compose himself, like he can hardly believe what he's hearing. Claude can't blame him – he’d never meant to take the game this far, even though it had been his end goal for a while. But Sylvain does manage to pull himself together, slipping his mask back on like it had never fallen away. And then it's right back to his old self, reaching (at last) for Claude's hand and taking it in his own. He grins flirtatiously as he turns it over in his palm.

Claude raises an eyebrow, simultaneously asking what Sylvain is doing and giving him permission to go ahead with it.

Sylvain does not disappoint. He grins and lifts Claude’s hand to his lips, closing his eyes as he leans forward to lay a ghost-like kiss on each knuckle. When he finishes, he gazes up at Claude from under his long, long eyelashes. "It's a date."

Damn him, he’s good. Claude swallows the lump in his throat, fights down the flush on his cheeks. “Can’t wait,” he says, a teasing tone to his voice.

Sylvain nods, a tiny jerk of the head (is he surprised he didn’t get a stronger reaction out of Claude?), and lets his hand go. He lingers a moment, once again holding Claude’s gaze, as if he’s trying to figure something out. But then he blinks, stands, and turns to leave.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

Claude waves goodbye and happily watches him head to the library door. “Yes, you will. Just don’t keep me waiting too long.”

“Handsome guy like you?” Sylvain pauses to turn, wink, and blow a kiss in Claude’s direction. “I would never even dream of it.”

It’s unbelievably cheesy, but it’s Sylvain’s way of getting the last word in. Somehow, Claude finds he doesn’t even mind the embarrassed flush that creeps up his neck in response as Sylvain smirks at him over his shoulder. How can he, when in the end they’ve both gotten exactly what they want? 

Claude smiles. Tomorrow night is going to be fun.

[shadowdianne]

Prompt Regina is one of the worlds best managers but her personal life is miserable her spouse is cheating on her with the personal trainer or so she thinks her car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and in a run down bar she discovers a young taltened muscian and falls in love with her her name is Emma

Thanks forthe prompt anon, hope you like it 😉

“First timehere, isn’t it?”

The line madeRegina growl inwardly for a moment as she felt the warmth of a body approachingthe vacant stool she had managed to defend for the entire night ever since shehad walked into the bar; sopping wet and mascara smudged enough to hide the fartoo telling red rimming her eyes. She had heard similar lines after she hadswallowed her pride and had walked towards the bar counter, asking quickly fora phone only to be denied one with a curt “no good signal with this storm ma’am”that had left her more or less hopeless.  Still, the bar, despite the dim light, theobvious not well-kept wood that made 90% of its interior and the stale scent offried food and alcohol, was warm as opposed to her Mercedes and so she hadstayed, asking for a glass of something that felt like a badly made cider. Onethat she was still nursing as she glanced at her right, at where the voice-feminine but with enough intention for her to feel suspicious- had come from.

Thescathing response she had prepared died on her lips as she was faced with theblonde beauty that had been strumming an old guitar up until a few minutes ago;her voice low but still filling the shoddy pub. Regina hadn’t recognized thesongs that had fallen from the blonde’s pink lips, but she had found herselfentranced by those, despite her mood. Or, a voice whispered in the back of herhead, precisely because of it.

She hadn’tonly noticed her mouth though but the faraway smile that the woman got as shesang had kept her grounded as she kept her back straight as a rod, her freehand clutching her handbag against her midriff and lap, the pieces of her phone’sscreen where she had smashed it a few hours prior still protruding from thesoft leather of the bag but not as painful as they had been before.

Blinking,she realized the woman was still staring at her, blonde curls reflecting thegold dim light just as much as her green eyes did and Regina found herselflowering her gaze to the white tank top she wore and the tight jeans and bootsthat completed an outfit she could only describe as gay. Not like she wouldknow anything about it, would she? The question bore the insidious voice of hermother, the same tone she had heard over and over again during her formativeyears returning with a scary accuracy, one strong enough for her to almostglance above the blonde’s shoulders; almost expecting Cora to be standing there,eyes glowing like embers and about to strike.

Fortunatelyfor her, Cora wasn’t there and so she let herself focus back on the blonde, onhow her smile hadn’t wavered. She had approached the stool, yes, but hadn’tseated herself on it; her hands clutching the combed wooden bar that worked as theplate and back. She, Regina realized belatedly, had very nice arms, a detailshe pushed to the back of her mind, not willing to give that any thought atall.

Shaking herhead, she urged it to clear itself from the spell she seemed to have falleninto only to raise her chin and narrow her eyes at the woman that looked two orthree years younger than her even with the juvenile clothes she downed. Whenshe finally spoke, Regina grimaced at how she sounded, the usual modulatedversion of her voice deeper and tired.

“How veryastute of you.”

Any otherman that had tried to approach her after she had seated herself had left while mutteringvarious expletives at her replies and Regina had found some comfort on that.This time, however, the stranger chuckled at her before pointing at the verystool she had in front of her, palm upwards, extended.

“May I sit?”

And, truly,Regina didn’t know how to feel about either the question or the answer she wassupposed to give. She just felt tired, exhausted, and the prospect of needingto wait until the storm ended, stranded in the middle of nowhere with no phoneand no signal should have been enough for her to simply turn her back towards theblonde while swallowing whatever spark of desire she was feeling about her. Nomatter how rooted her fear was, the fear that had transformed into suspicionthe moment she had seen Robin almost -almost- kissing that other woman she wasn’t…like that. She would never follow that, whatever that was.

Still, shefound herself nodding to the question, the scattered conversation around thebar, the one that had been filtered away ever since the blonde had spoken toher, returning back to her ears now that she could spy to the other woman’sprofile: on how she put both of her elbows on the counter, apparently notbothered by its stickiness or the occasional peanut crumb.

“Name’sEmma by the way. Emma Swan.”

The blondespoke effortlessly, an easy smile on her lips and yet, Regina quickly noticedafter so many years of learning how to read a table full of possibleshareholders and board members, guarded. Her green eyes sparkled with obviousinterest but the back of them glimmered with something else and one side ofher, the curious side, wondered what that could be. Not that she herself was theperfect example of an open book of course.

Emma. Thename somewhat fitted her, and she found herself repeating it, splitting thesound, elongating the “m” in a way that made one single brow of the blonderise.

“I’mRegina.” She stopped herself for a moment, at the surname she had almostuttered after that. She had grown accustomed to it, at using it as an armor, asthe perfect presentation for herself. This time, however, she didn’t feel likeusing it and so she pressed her lips together once more, a lopsided smirk Emma’sgreen eyes followed with far too much intensity. One she should put an end to. “I’mmarried.”

It came outof her far too blurted, far too strong and she could almost feel the physicalblast the last word created between she and the other woman. Not like the wordfelt real to her at the moment, not like it had been this morning, last week,last month, but it still held some weight, even if she had taken out her ringin a fit of rage. Emma’s answer to that was a blink and stiffness on hershoulders, stiffness that eased up just as quickly as she rose her hand andcalled the bartender over, the words “the usual” rising, melodic, before sheturned back to Regina.

“I’m not.”Her eyes lighted up, mischievous, but some of her general demeanor changed;less strong, less burning and Regina found herself smiling at it, at thewelcomed changed. “I’m harmless though. Promise.”

And Reginafound that she believed her, believed on her earnest eyes and slightly slouchedposture. Rising her glass when the usual turned out to be a beer bottle, shecheered alongside with Emma, taking a sip of an already far too lukewarm cider.

“You shouldhave asked for one of these.” The blonde said while still holding the bottleup. “I really think that’s rat poison.”

“Have youtaken enough of that to be sure about it?”

The banter,the joke, came far too naturally for her, to her usual uptight and ratherworried about how she was perceived self but she found herself enjoying that easinessEmma created around her; even if part of it was manufactured and, at her laughter,Regina found herself growing more at ease with each passing second.

“Wouldn’tyou want to know…”

Emma, asRegina soon found out, wasn’t from the small village she had passed a whileago, nor she lived in a cot at the bar’s storage room as the blonde was quickto point out with a pitched laugh. She actually, was from the city just asRegina was although the neighborhood she mentioned wasn’t exactly near toRegina’s own. She had lived in many places however, a backpack always with heras well as a guitar. She had had many odd jobs, the one she had enjoyed themost working with someone that almost sounded like a mentor as a bailbondsperson and, despite everything, music seemed to be the thing she always wentback to, no matter what.

“I justenjoy it far too much.” She said, deep into her second bottle as Regina askedfor her own first, the taste quite the upgrade from the cider. “What about you?”Emma gestured wildly at the almost dried black suit Regina wore; chaffed andwrinkled but ostensibly more expensive that the younger woman’s clothes. “Doyou work for a law firm? You look like you do.”

Reginacouldn’t help herself but laugh a little at that. Her mother would have lovedthat assumption.

“No, I don’t.”She replied but didn’t offer any more on that, her silence apparentlyeverything Emma needed to drop the subject.

And it wasodd, Regina thought, because despite Emma’s obvious curiosity, she never pushedwhenever Regina let her know she didn’t feel comfortable enough to talk aboutcertain things. Like her husband for example. A topic that made Regina’s throatburn as she took a big swig of her second -third? - beer. The blonde wasobviously about to make a joke, one that would make Regina smile and forgetthat line of conversation, but Regina pressed the tips of her fingers againstthe glass of the bottle, the slight pain on her knuckles acting almost as atrigger.

“I think heis cheating on me.”

Emma’s eyesdarkened slightly at that and while her words were slightly slurred than at thebeginning she still hold that earnest undertone to it as she replied.

“Then he isan idiot.”

And,despite herself, despite everything, Regina felt flattered. Truly flattered.Enough to mutter a “maybe” under her breath that got Emma smiling and laughinga little, pushing her shoulder against Regina, her forearm brushing hers, her warmthobvious and welcoming in a way Regina wouldn’t have imagined for it to be a fewhours prior.

Eventually,the storm fizzled out, patrons beginning to leave and, despite the good time thebrunette was having, she realized that she, too, should as well.

“It’s beena pleasure, Emma.” Her voice was thick with tiredness, the crumbs of her driedmascara biting her eyes as she blinked. “I should leave though.”

“You can’tdrive like this!” Emma’s voice rose in protest, following Regina’s movements,standing up in a jump that made her stumble as her own equilibrium was tested. Andwhile that was endearing on itself, Regina rose a brow to the words, even ifsome part of her knew that the blonde was right: she had drunk far too much todrive with wet asphalt and dark shadows cornering her car. Car she wasn’t evensure that would start up. Although she truly hoped it would and the malfunctionhad simply been overheating. One that should have passed and that would allowher to cover the distance between the bar and her home; what she had seen whenshe had left the house in blinding hot tears a thing she would deal in themorning.

“What doyou suggest?” Her mouth asked instead. “Sleep in that cot you definitely don’thave here?”

She feltshe was about to have an answer to her question the moment Emma’s eyes traveledfrom her to the bartender, the one that Emma had called Aesop at some point andwho was definitely smirking at this point.

“Actually…”

Actually,Aesop had a small room above the bar, small and just as shoddy but good enoughfor “occasional” guests. Regina should have been appalled but she didn’t findenough of herself to care at this point and so she had accepted the offer, evenif that meant sharing with an almost total stranger. The man left them to theirdevices once he reminded Emma to leave the small key right where he always put itand, despite everything, despite every word and every warning and every doubt,Regina almost wanted to kiss the blonde as she knew they both were alone in thedingy room; a bed and an armchair the only thing that filled the small space.

She, however,resisted the impulse. It was a bad idea, she told herself as she watched asEmma jumped out of her jeans, the red panties she was able to see after that a scorchingmark as her mother’s words from earlier returned with even more intensity. Itwas a really bad idea, she whispered as she too discarded her clothes, foldingthem as neatly as possible and leaving them in the seat of the chair, tryinghard not to think on how her faced looked, on the makeup she still feltclinging to her pores, on the almost sticky feeling the rain had left on herskin. She would go back to her life the following morning, talk to Robin, maybefile for divorce, maybe discover she had been wrong, maybe trying to fix amarriage she wasn’t sure that was worth the effort. Maybe…

She fellasleep within seconds, the last thing she heard a whispered goodnight as themattress dipped and shivered as Emma turned into her side to look at her.

Thefollowing morning found her alone, her clothes and purse still where she hadleft them and, on top of her blazer, a note with a scrambled handwriting withjust a phone number on it and an even skimpier sentence: If you ever want to talk again. Next to it, Aesop’s key also waitedfor her although, turned out, she didn’t need to leave it to whatever place wasthe usual one as the man was already downstairs. He looked at her once beforetelling her that she should be able to make a call if her car didn’t start. Hedidn’t mention Emma but he still smiled at her with the same smile he had givenEmma during the night prior and Regina swallowed thickly at that; not reallyunderstanding what to make of it.

Sheeventually didn’t need to call for help and so she rode to the city, phonelessand with Emma’s memory on the back of her brain.

She didn’tcall her, but she kept the note and during the following weeks she pushedherself to sort things right; to grief a marriage that wasn’t making her happydespite the countless promises both she and Robin had once shared. To file fordivorce, to call Kathryn and her sister and tell them the most stupid ideas ofall; of how she had out of love and in love in the same night, the culprit ofthe later a blonde woman with a name Regina loved how it sounded.

Until, oneday, three months and a half after that morning, she found herself pressing thelast button of a number she already knew by heart due to the many times she hadstared at it.

“Yes?”

Reginarolled her eyes at that; Emma would never answer a call in the proper way, ofcourse she wouldn’t. And she was nervous, and she didn’t feel any bit ready,but she still wanted to share a strange night with the woman. A conversation, adrink so she could get to know the blonde. Truly know her.

“Emma?”

She heardthe silence at the other end of the line, one that felt too long and one thatmade her almost end the call, afraid. Up until she heard a shaky breath andjust one single word.

“Hi.”

[xeno-aligned]

copy & pasted under the read more in order to have a local copy.

A Brief His and Herstory of Butch And Femme

BY: JEM ZERO 16 DEC 2017

When America’s LGBTQ+ folk started coming out of the closet in the 1950s, the underground scene was dominated by working class people who had less to lose if they were outed. Butch/femme presentation arose as a way for lesbians to identify each other, also serving as a security measure when undercover cops tried to infiltrate the local scenes. Butch women exhibited dapper and dandy aesthetics, and came to be known for being aggressive because they took protective roles during raids and other examples of homophobic violence. The image of the butch lesbian became a negative stereotypes for lesbians as a whole, leaving out femme lesbians, who are (pretty insultingly) considered undetectable as lesbians due to their feminine presentation.

In modern times there’s less need for strict adherence to these roles; instead, they become heritage. A great deal of political rebellion is wrapped up in each individual aesthetic. Butch obviously involves rejecting classically feminine gender expectations, while femme fights against their derogatory connotations.

But while butch/femme has been a part of lesbian culture, these terms and identities are not exclusive to queer women. Many others in the LGBTQ community utilize these signifiers for themselves, including “butch queen” or “femme daddy.” Butch and femme have different meanings within queer subcultures, and it’s important to understand the reasons they were created and established.

The Etymology

The term “lesbian” derives from the island on which Sappho lived—if you didn’t already guess, she was a poet who wrote extensively about lady-lovin’. Before Lesbos lent its name to lesbians, the 1880s described attraction between women as Sapphism. In 1925, “lesbian” was officially recorded as the word for a female sodomite. (Ick.) Ten years before that, “bisexual” was defined as "attraction to both sexes."

In upcoming decades, Sapphic women would start tearing down the shrouds that obscured the lives of queer women for much of recorded history. Come the ‘40s and ‘50s, butch and femme were coined, putting names to the visual and behavioral expression that could be seen in pictures as early as 1903. So, yeah—Western Sapphic women popularized these terms, but the conversation doesn’t end there, nor did it start there.

Before femme emerged as its own entity, multiple etymological predecessors were used to describe gender nonconforming people. Femminiello was a non-derogatory Italian term that referred to a feminine person who was assigned male—this could be a trans woman, an effeminate gay man, or the general queering of binarist norms. En femme derives from French, and was used to describe cross-dressers.

Butch, first used in 1902 to mean "tough youth," has less recorded history. Considering how “fem” derivatives were popularized for assigned male folks, one might attribute this inequality to the holes in history where gender-defying assigned female folks ought to be.

The first time these concepts were used to specifically indicate women was the emergence of Sapphic visibility in twentieth century. This is the ground upon which Lesbian Exclusivism builds its tower, and the historical and scientific erasure of bisexual women is where it crumbles. Seriously, did we forget that was a thing?

The assumption that any woman who defies gender norms is automatically a lesbian relies on the perpetuation of misogynist, patriarchal stereotypes against bisexual women. A bisexual woman is just as likely to suffer in a marriage with a man, or else be mocked as an unlovable spinster. A woman who might potentially enjoy a man is not precluded from nonconformist gender expression. Many famous gender nonconforming women were bisexual—La Maupin (Julie d'Aubigny), for example.

Most records describing sexual and romantic attraction between women were written by men, and uphold male biases. What happens, then, when a woman is not as openly lascivious as the ones too undeniably bisexual to silence? Historically, if text or art depicts something the dominant culture at the time disagrees with, the evidence is destroyed. Without voices of the Sapphists themselves, it’s impossible to definitively draw a line between lesbians and bisexuals within Sapphic history.

Beyond White Identities

Another massive hole in the Lesbian Exclusivist’s defenses lies in the creeping plague that is the Mainstream White Gay; it lurks insidiously, hauling along the mangled tatters of culture that was stolen from Queer and Trans People of Colour (QTPOC). In many documents, examples provided of Sapphic intimacy are almost always offered from the perspective of white cis women, leaving huge gaps where women of color, whether trans or cis, and nonbinary people were concerned. This is the case despite the fact that some of the themes we still celebrate as integral to queer culture were developed by Black and Latinx LGBTQ+ folk during the Harlem Renaissance, which spanned approximately from 1920 to 1935.

A question I can’t help but ask is: Where do queer Black, Indigenous, and other People of Color fit into the primarily white butch/femme narrative? Does it mean anything that the crackdown on Black queer folk seemed to coincide with the time period when mainstream lesbianism adopted butch and femme as identifiers?

Similar concepts to butch/femme exist throughout the modern Sapphic scene. Black women often identify as WLW (Women-Loving-Women), and use terms like “stud” and “aggressive femme.” Some Asian queer women use “tomboy” instead of butch. Derivatives and subcategories abound, sometimes intersecting with asexual and trans identities. “Stone butch” for dominant lesbians who don’t want to receive sexual stimulation; “hard femme” as a gender-inclusive, fat-positive, QTPOC-dominated political aesthetic; “futch” for the in-betweenies who embody both butch and femme vibes. These all center women and nonbinary Sapphics, but there’s still more.

Paris is Burning, a documentary filmed about New York City ball culture in the 1980s, describes butch queens among the colourful range of identities prevalent in that haven of QTPOC queerness. Despite having a traditionally masculine physique, the gay male butch queen did not stick to gender expectations from straight society or gay culture. Instead, he expertly twisted up his manly features with women’s clothing and accessories, creating a persona that was neither explicitly masculine nor feminine.

Butch Queens Up in Pumps, a book by Marlon M. Bailey, expounds upon their presence within inner city Detroit’s Ballroom scene, its cover featuring a muscular gay man in a business casual shirt paired with high heels. Despite this nuance, butch remains statically defined as a masculine queer woman, leaving men of color out of the conversation.

For many QTPOC, especially those who transcend binary gender roles, embracing the spirit of butch and femme is inextricable with their racial identity. Many dark-skinned people are negatively portrayed as aggressive and hypermasculine, which makes it critical to celebrate the radical softness that can accompany femme expressions. Similarly, the intrinsic queerness of butch allows some nonbinary people to embrace the values and aesthetics that make them feel empowered without identifying themselves as men.

Butch, Femme, and Gender

It’s pretty clear to me that the voices leading the Lesbian Exclusive argument consistently fail to account for where butch and femme have always, in some form, represented diverse gender expression for all identities.

‘Butch’ and ‘femme’ began to die out in the 1970s when Second Wave Feminism and Lesbian Separatism came together to form a beautiful baby, whom they named “Gender Is Dead.” White, middle class cis women wrestled working class QTWOC out of the limelight, claiming that masculine gender expression was a perversion of lesbian identity. The assassination attempt was largely unsuccessful, however: use of these identifiers surged back to life in the ‘80s and ‘90s, now popularized outside of class and race barriers.

Looking at all this put together, I have to say that it’s a mystery to me why so many lesbians, primarily white, believe that their history should take precedence over… everyone else that makes up the spectrum of LGBTQ+ experiences, even bi/pan Sapphics in same-gender relationships. If someone truly believes that owning butch/femme is more important than uniting and protecting all members of the Sapphic community from the horrors of homophobic and gendered oppression, maybe they’re the one who shouldn’t be invited to the party.

As a nonbinary lesbian, I have experienced my share of time on the flogging-block. I empathize strongly with the queer folks being told that these cherished identities are not theirs to claim. Faced with this brutal, unnecessary battle, I value unity above all else. There’s no reason for poor trans women, nonbinary Black femmes, bisexual Asian toms, gay Latino drag queens, or any other marginalized and hurting person to be left out of the dialogue that is butch and femme, with all its wonderful deconstructions of mainstream heteronormative culture.

It is my Christmas wish that the Lesbian Exclusivist Tower is torn down before we open the new chapter in history that is 2018. Out of everything the LGBTQ+ community has to worry about already, petty infighting shouldn’t be entertained—especially when its historical foundation is so flimsy. Queering gender norms has always been the heart of butch/femme expression, and that belongs to all of us.

[dionysus-is-my-dude]

A horror movie enthusiast’s thoughts on Halloween (2018)...

***warning: possible spoilers ahead (Also this is gonna be long)***

I was introduced to the horror genre at a very young age. Around five or so, if I remember correctly. I remember that I was at my dad’s friend’s house, and someone had put on “Jeepers Creepers”, the original one. I remember being absolutely terrified by the monster/demon/thing. But also terribly fascinated by a movie that 1. wasn’t an animated princess movie, and 2. depicted such graphic violence and scary images. The next day, my cousin and I were playing with walkie talkies and she kept scaring me by singing the Jeepers Creepers song. It scared me because I thought that, by singing the song, the monster would show up and eat us.

As a child, I had access to the library in my school, and nearly every single time we were sent to pick a book, I picked an edition of “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark”. The images scared me. The stories scared me. But I couldn’t stop reading everything, delighting in it in some twisted way.

The next horror film I watched was when I was around ten or so? It was the American version of “The Ring”. And instead of scaring me to the point of crying, I was incredibly fascinated by how it made me feel. Afraid, but in a way that felt exhilarating and FUN. My mom let me watch “Alien” and “Aliens” with her, which, though not classified as horror films, gave me the same rush.

From that point on, I was hooked. We’d go to the movie rental store and I’d rent scary movies that were popular at the time. I’d always search for scary TV shows to watch, like ghost hunting shows and other scary things. I became obsessed with the paranormal, playing with Ouija boards and doing hours and hours of research.

After a terrifying REAL experience with ghosts in which I was actually scared for my life, I took a long break from watching scary films. But that sure didn’t keep me away from them once I’d calmed down. Every horror film that was coming out, I was going to see. Every horror film on Netflix, I was watching. Ghost Adventures on TV? You bet I was watching it. Literally ANYTHING Tim Burton related? Yep, I’m on it. I was reading scary stories. I was doing research on horror films themselves and why people like me like them. I had nightmares and sleep paralysis and be extremely paranoid. But I couldn’t stop.

I started to learn the tricks and ins-and-outs that made horror movies, in my opinion, good. I learned that I dislike excessive jumpscares, and I avoid movies that seem like that’s all they’ll be -like several modern-day horror films like the recent “Insidious” entries and such. I realized that, as a music enthusiast as well, the music was what set the tone for me. If I thought the music -or lack thereof done properly- was great at causing suspense, I was feeling more scared. I learned that tension was more fun than jumpscares. Modern movies I love include the first two “Insidious” movies, “The Conjuring” series, and “Mama”. What I love about those films is not only the great background music, but the story and the lack of useless jumpscares. The imagery and focus of the shots are incredibly fun to watch, seeing things move in the background without the characters noticing, all that fun stuff.

But, with all the scary movies that come out nowadays, I’ve sorta lost my love for them. Nothing has really given me a good, fun scare in a long time. (”Annabelle: Creation” doesn’t count; that movie was both jumpscare heavy and openly too terrifying for me.) When I heard they were doing yet another “Halloween” sequel, I was prepared to have some good fun with my favourite classic slasher film.

I watched the original “Halloween” around twelve or so. I thought it was a good, campy slasher. My mom saw it when she was really little and has been scared of it ever since. Every year around Halloween-time, I scare her by playing the music around her or sending her pics of Michael Meyers that I find in costume shops. To me, it wasn’t scary. I had a ball watching it, not getting the real scares from it, but just having a good time watching the utterly silent Michael Meyers walk around just killing horny teenagers. Classic. I remember watching a marathon of the movies and barely remembering them because they weren’t as good or as fun as the first one. I’d resigned myself to “Halloween” being just a classic favourite of mine, nothing more.

Tonight, I saw the 2018 sequel, which takes place forty years after the events of the original movie....and I’m just...in shock. I went into the theater thinking I’d just crack jokes with my dad and cheer Michael on.

I left the theater with my heart pounding, my legs shaking, and a huge smile on my face. I knew I’d come home and be paranoid walking from my car to the backdoor. I know I’ll probably be paranoid for several weeks and see Michael everywhere.

I sat through that movie either bouncing my legs in my normal ADHD way and making commentary with my dad, or curled up in silent, paralyzed anxiety. This movie, for all the hype it got, was, in my opinion, horror gold. Story-wise, it was fantastic, of course. A wonderful sequel to the original, with homages galore and many tracks from the original score which brought back a lot of memories.

But from someone who had nearly given up on modern-day horror movies, this one gave me hope. Each shot was scary, the jumpscares wonderfully played out with not a lot of fake-outs, the music -the MUSIC- played just  like in the original (which I thought at first would make this cheesy, but it was only scarier), and the tension tension tension was palpable. The entire movie was full of it. Every single scene with Michael in it was filled with silence and shaking heads from us in the audience, each of us helpless as he killed yet again.

I was unable to make jokes during this movie. I was too busy holding my breath and gasping in shock. I was too busy bouncing my leg, then pulling them both up and holding myself. The last twenty minutes or so, I was just...staring at the screen, my heart pounding. I had never felt so hushed in a theater while watching a horror film in my whole life. It felt like I was being held on a string with scissors dangerously close every time the music stopped. I was no longer playfully cheering Michael Meyers on, “Yasssss, honey, kill those stupid teens, yassss”. I was genuinely SCARED of him. I’d lived my whole life never once scared of Michael Meyers. I pranked my mom every single year with him. Even when her husband, who’s a big guy, ran around the house with the mask on, I was laughing more than anything. But I am now actually terrified of this deranged, masked killer. I understand how scared my mom was when she was little. I understand her fear after all these years. I actually ran from my car to my door, looking out into my pitch black backyard, actually afraid that I would see the dirty white of the mask before I inevitably was killed.

I can’t stop thinking about each scene where he killed someone. Each scene where he appeared out of nowhere, completely silent and merciless as he killed and killed and killed. The ending (SPOILER), I thought would satisfy me. After all these years, was Michael Meyers FINALLY dead? At long last, was the nightmare over? It...It’s hard to tell. We never actually saw his body being burned up. We just had to assume he died in the fire. I don’t know if that was deliberate to keep us guessing -which is genius-, but it was terrifying nonetheless.

Did I enjoy myself? Absolutely. It was a wonderful homage to my favourite classic slasher. It had all the classic Michael Meyers traits, like the eerie way he sits up when knocked down, the head tilt, his love of stabbing people and hanging them from things. Hearing the classic music was wonderful. The story was perfect and made sense. The twist -if you can call it that- was a little predictable but quickly resolved. The continuous shots, especially the ones in complete silence, were absolutely incredible to watch. As soon as the credits started, I felt like I’d just gone through a life-changing experience.

What is it about “Halloween” and Michael Meyers that brings a smile to my face? Is it the fact that he never once -not even once in over ten films that’ve been made- utters a single word? Barely even makes a sound unless he’s been, like, hurt or something. His superhuman strength, able to take on every single victim he goes through? His odd fascination with his kills -the head tilt as he looks at his victims? Why is the music so scary, even though it seems like cheesy 70s synth? I’m just...so confused and amazed that this franchise has been going off and on for over forty years and it’s THIS movie that actually scares me. Maybe because it takes place in modern day, instead of years and years ago?

Whatever the reason, I hope horror filmmakers take note. THIS is how you make a good, memorable scary movie. Don’t use jumpscares as a crutch. Jumpscares are the laziest way to scare people. If people wanted jumpscares, they could go to a haunted house. But this movie did horror so WELL. The tension was fantastic. The music was great. The shots were done beautifully. The actors were all incredible. I just love every bit of this movie and wish I could just rewatch it for the first time over and over and over. If more horror movies were done like this, I would pay more money to see them in theaters.

Ok, mega post over. I just loved the movie so so much and I wanted to share my too-big feelings before I attempt to go to sleep and make myself understand that Michael isn’t in my closet.

[chthonicbeekeeper]

The Book of Joseph. Chapter 5

“They command you not to kill,

not to steal. Do you think they are

doing it to save your soul? No.

They could not care less about your

soul or your life. Killing, stealing —

they just want to be the only ones

allowed to do those things.”

Sermon from the Project at Eden's Gate.

One night, Jacob woke John and me. Without a word, he led us out of the barn and began pouring gasoline on everything inside it. Then, he set it on fire.

After that, he freed the animals and burned the stables as well. As the flames rose higher, the light, the crackling, and the cries of the animals woke our guardians. They ran outside in a panic, still wearing their pyjamas.

By then, Jacob had swapped his cans of gasoline for a sturdy axe handle. He knocked out the still drowsy man with a few blows. He was left lying on the ground, face bloodied, illuminated by the flames, his wife screaming in terror while we watched the sight without the slightest feeling of pity.

We had been lied to. Now there was no chance that we would call them Mum and Dad.

Jacob also burned the house, the cars, and everything our guardians owned. When there was nothing left to bum, we sat on the ground and watched the fire consume and purify the place where we had endured so much suffering, like scouts watching a campfire.

And so we confirmed the suspicions of the psychiatrists who had examined us the first time: the Seed brothers were dangerous. They had a tainted and nefarious bloodline. What did it matter that we had been humiliated, exploited, and starved? The rest of humanity was not satisfied. Who were we to dare to rebel? We had to be stopped. We needed to be separated urgently. The authorities placed Jacob in a juvenile detention centre, which could be more accurately described as a prison for minors. He left between the arms of two police officers, like a guilty man, like our father. But before he did, he reassured us, promised us that we would be reunited soon and that we would never leave each other again.

He told us everything was going to be ok. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

For John and me, still at the orphanage, it was time to get back on the adoption merry-go-round. We were visited by infertile couples, visited by people who were bored but too allergic to get a dog, visited by those who wanted to save their souls by doing a good deed; we saw anyone who wanted to adopt a child, whether or not they had good intentions.

John was the first to go. He was the best looking, the least odd. He was adopted by a rich family who, I imagined, lived in luxury in Atlanta or one of those gated communities we had never set foot in.

As for me, I was picked a few times with varying results. Once, and only once, I ignored the psychiatrist’s advice and talked about the Voice. I was immediately sent back to the orphanage, the same way you return a defective household appliance. I think they were hoping I was still under warranty and they could quickly exchange me for a more normal child free of charge.

But most families who welcomed me in treated me well. They were brave people who almost made me forget that my brothers were far away.

I hope they do not suffer when the end comes.

Of course, I came across many other children during these years: temporary siblings, classmates, teammates, and the like. I had a hard time connecting with them. I was different. I could feel it. Everyone saw me as the odd one out secretive, a lonely orphan. Teachers and professors worried about me spending so much time on my own. They did not know I wasn’t alone. The Voice’s message was on a constant loop in my head, promising me an extraordinary destiny.

And so, I went from family to family, year after year. When I became a man, and was free to travel wherever I liked, I returned to Rome with the intention of finding my two brothers.

I had not heard anything from them. We had not seen, called, or written each other. I knew that the government would not help me. They did not have the right and no one would make the smallest effort for the brothers to find each other. But I did not doubt that we would be reunited. This was our destiny. I returned to our neighbourhood, looking for our street, our house. But neither the house nor the street were there any longer.

Instead, there was a shopping centre. One fine morning, someone had decided that our suburb needed to become both respectable and profitable. And to do so, the rabble had to be pushed out and their hovels razed. Someone had simply thrown a dart at a map and thus sealed the fate of dozens of families. Because, when the rich move in, the poor get kicked out. Where the Seed house once stood, there was now a fancy pet store with a frame maker and an overpriced barbershop on either side.

The neighbourhood was unrecognizable. Back then, people threw rocks at stray dogs and shaved in broken bits of mirrors, and the most valued skill was knowing how to avoid having your meagre possessions seized by the repo man or a collection agency.

The local residents had also radically changed. They now had jobs and cars, houses with manicured gardens and happy children. They didn’t need to borrow money to pay their bills.

I would find no answers here, in this place where I no longer belonged. I left before any of the residents, casting suspicious glances my way, could call the police.

I began squatting in a part of town that looked more like where I had grown up. It was an old packing plant, unused since its production line was relocated elsewhere.

I no longer needed to worry about where I was going to sleep, but I didn’t have anything to eat. I was a well-presented and polite young man, so it was easy for me to find a job as an elevator operator at a hotel.

It was a night job paying minimum wage, but my needs were few and I wanted to keep some of my time free to search for leads on my brothers. It was a win-win.

My duties consisted of asking people who got in the elevator what floor they wanted and pressing the right button. That was it.

I suppose it must have been reassuring for customers to see a man dressed like an organ grinder’s monkey paid to press a button for them.

One night, after several uneventful months, three drunk men wearing tuxedos entered the elevator. Alcohol had made two of them extremely chatty, clouding their better judgement, which usually prohibited them from talking to the hired help. The third man was blind drunk, and I had to help the other two get him back to his suite. They offered to buy me a drink as thanks, but I declined.

They asked if drinking was against my religion. I said no. They asked what religion I belonged to. I said I didn’t know, but that the Voice spoke to me. They didn’t say anything in response, but notified the hotel manager the next morning.

He called me into his office and fired me on the spot. As easy as pressing a button.

I took it as a sign: I needed to refocus my energy on finding my brothers as quickly as possible.

I searched the archives and newspapers. I flipped through year-books, scanning all the faces in the pictures of dances and sporting events until my eyes watered, but I never spotted the name Seed or the familiar faces of my two brothers.

While frequenting the city’s libraries, where I had become a regular fixture, I grew interested in religion. In spite of myself, I still sought to understand why the Voice had chosen to speak to me. Living in a society where people who wore the wrong brand of shoes or who hadn’t read the right books were openly disdained, how could I understand why the Voice had chosen to speak to the middle child of a poor family from the South? Society is harsh and insidious; it keeps us from living just as it keeps us from rising. Society needs to disappear.

I read everything I could get my hands on. I discovered something about those who took a vow of silence, who danced to exhaustion, who lived in caves as hermits their entire lives; those who fasted, vowed celibacy, prayed non-stop, ingested hallucinogenic plants to speak to spirits in the afterlife, flagellated themselves in the name of their God. All of them had the same goal in mind: They were begging for something to fill the emptiness inside of them.

These people know they are missing something, something that cannot be found in this world, at least not in the world as it is today. They are the most sensitive people in society, the most tormented, the most radical, and also the craziest. It is from these people that saints, martyrs, and chosen ones are selected. I knew that when the time came, I would have to choose from among these same people to share my destiny.

[firstumcschenectady]

“Nonviolence” based on 1 Samuel 3:1-10 and John 1:43-51

I'm intrigued by the words in 1 Samuel, “The word of the LORD was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.”  The story says, in those days, it took a while before the one being called by God realized it.

Since the beginning of October we have offered a “Contemplative Prayer Service” on Sunday mornings at 10AM.  Since the middle of November it has been online.  I've gotta admit, it has exceeded my expectations.  They were pretty low ;)  It turns out that getting on zoom, muting your mic, and praying while other people are sitting on zoom (mostly with their mics off) praying actually IS more connected than praying alone.

It is easier to be still then.

This week I've found that I can't get through the day without some silence in prayer.  I just get too agitated.  And the angst builds and builds, until I take time away from inputs to simply be with the Divine.

These defined times of prayer – with others in the Contemplative Prayer Service as well as the ones I've taken out of deep and abiding need – have reminded me of some things I'm embarrassed I'd forgotten. Perhaps I hadn't forgotten, but at the very least they came as well needed reminders when other things had started to take precedence in my being.

Ready?

First, God is still THERE, or HERE, or however you say it.  I'd like to claim I NEVER forget that, but each time I settle into prayer and I sense the peace that passes understanding and the grace that abides I'm … surprised again.  Maybe this is just because God's goodness is better than I'm ever able to remember, but each and every time I encounter it I'm relieved to find it there.

Second, stillness is …. possible.  It often feels impossible right until it happens.  I get drawn into the news, into the COVID statistics, into my own to-do lists, and then I get distracted by baby cries or squeals,  - or emails or texts – and the whole of life seems to be carefully created to keep me from finding stillness (and letting me have excuses about it) but then when I do it, it is still there waiting for me and it is GLORIOUS.

Third, there is a vibrant, thriving, almost tangible connection between all living things and the Living God.  When the noise of the world isn't in the way, the spiritual wonder is breath-taking.

Perhaps these reflections are able to serve as a reminder to you of things you also know.  Or perhaps they serve as a reminder of a need to find time for contemplative practice.

For me, they serve as a source of transformation.  My emotional responses to the world right now are....sharp.  I'm horrified.  I'm terrified. I'm disgusted.  And yet, closer to home, I'm also delighted, and exhausted, and grateful, and worried, and relieved.  It is just a whole lot to hold.

I have been thinking about the retreat we did in 2017 with Bishop Susan Hassinger, looking at spiritual practices that uphold social justice work.  This might also be called the grounding for building the kindom, or following the way of Jesus without burning out.

The needs of social justice work, of kindom building, are so BIG that I'm overwhelmed by them unless I get grounded in the unfailing love of the Divine.  Worse, in this moment, I've finding it easier to get pulled into the polarization of our society – which dehumanizes “the other side” than ever.  This is a BIG problem, particularly for one who seeks to be a Jesus follower.  

Are you ready for today's challenge?  One of the great interpreter's of the life and teachings of Jesus in our tradition, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote,

To our most bitter opponents we say: “We shall match your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering. We shall meet your physical force with soul force. Do to us what you will, and we shall continue to love you. We cannot in all good conscience obey your unjust laws, because noncooperation with evil is as much a moral obligation as is cooperation with good. Throw us in jail, and we shall still love you. Send your hooded perpetrators of violence into our community at the midnight hour and beat us and leave us half dead, and we shall still love you. But be ye assured that we will wear you down by our capacity to suffer. One day we shall win freedom, but not only for ourselves. We shall so appeal to your heart and conscience that we shall win you in the process, and our victory will be a double victory.”1

I feel quite confident that the most bitter opponents of the work of Rev. Dr. King, and the kindom, have been hard at work in our society, and their work has exploded into violence, death, fear-mongering, and the disruption of our democracy.  Rev. Dr. King worked against the forces of white supremacy, by working for the full humanity of all people.  

And that man, that wise prophetic man, that man whose life itself was taken by the violence of the world, is the one who said, “Do it us what you will, and we shall continue to love you.”

He refused to face violence with violence, he believed that the Jesus movement was founded in NONVIOLENCE.  He refused to meet hate with anything but love.  Now, of course, LOVE did not mean “compliance.” Love meant naming evil, love meant good analysis of power dynamics, love meant strategic planning of protests, love meant taking care of the people's spiritual well being so they could keep on working for God's greater good.  Love does not require us to back down.  Love does not require us to become passive.  Love does not require us to become silent.

But, love does require us to seek the well-being of ALL OF GOD'S BELOVEDS, and dear ones, this week, that includes people who are part of white supremacist groups, and people who are part of QAnon cults, and even the people who use those people to gain and keep power.  Love requires us to want what is good for all of them, although – thank goodness – that doesn't include that they get to keep power or continue using violence.  Perpetuating violence hurts both the one who is violated and the one who violates.  No goodness or love comes out of it.  

But following the way of Jesus, nonviolent, loving resistance, that builds the kindom.  You may remember the admonition in Matthew to turn the other cheek, “But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well.“  (Matthew 3:39-40, NRSV)  Walter Wink's teaching informed me that these teachings are the ultimate in nonviolent loving resistance.  In those days there were two forms of striking a person – one used for equals and one used for inferiors.  A backhand vs. a slap.  The left hand was NEVER used because... well... toilet paper hadn't been invented yet.  To turn the other cheek is to respond to the diminishing insult of a backhand with an invitation to hit again – but this time as an equal.  Similarly, the Hebrew Bible forbids anyone from leaving a person naked in the process of seeking loan repayment.  So, if a person seeks restitution of a loan by demanding your OUTER garment, and you offer your INNER garment as well, you put them in the situation of having to refuse to take both or stand in violation of religious law.

I sort of wish today's gospel lesson has the question “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” asked to Jesus himself, but I think John does well with it anyway.  The answer of the whole book is “YES” and the person asking the ignorant question is immediately aware of his error.  Loving nonviolence here includes seeing the world, and its locations, a new.

I am a little bit concerned that because I have focused on spiritual grounding for kindom building, and nonviolent resistance as the form of kindom building, that someone might not have heard me speak imperative truths.  So, please give me a moment to be abundantly clear:

People who perpetuate violence in the name of Christianity are not following Jesus.

Christianity itself has been profoundly co-opted by white supremacy in this nation (and many others), and it is our obligation to CONTINUALLY root it out, transform it, and be self-aware of how it is playing out in our lives and communities.

The violence we have seen in terms of mobs attacking governmental institutions in this country are the angry expression of mostly-white, mostly-men who believe they have a fundamental right to be more important than others.  Like any other abuser, they are most violent when they fear they are losing control.  THEY ARE LOSING CONTROL, and they are truly terrifying as such.

The progress we have seen in humanizing people from the fullness of humanity is NOT GUARANTEED – these angry abusive mobs have friends in very high places, and a lot of backing.  

God is always, always, always on the side of full and abundant life for ALL PEOPLE.

So that's the side we are on.  We don't want power consolidated with mostly white mostly men because no one group is able to adequately seek the good of all groups.  It is only through shared knowledge, resources, and power that we can seek the common good.

And THAT is why I want us to be grounded in contemplative prayer, good analysis, and God's grace.  Because I believe those are means of countering the insidious voices of white supremacy and it's close cousin the patriarchy.  To move towards the kindom requires seeking clearly what is happening, and letting God's love transform us, and the world through us.

So, dear ones, please find the time to connect with grace.

Please allow grace and love to fill you up.

Please let Rev. Dr. King's reminder of the way of Christ continue to challenge you. Please recommit to Jesus's way of nonviolence.

And may God grant us wisdom for the facing of this hour.  Amen

1Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. “On Loving Your Enemies”  found at https://www.onfaith.co/onfaith/2015/01/19/martin-luther-king-jr-on-loving-your-enemies/35907 on March 29, 2018.

Rev. Sara E. Baron First United Methodist Church of Schenectady 603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305 Pronouns: she/her/hers http://fumcschenectady.org/ https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

January 17, 2021

[swan-archive]

some fig tree wereverse content, nothing much to see here. takes place maybe a month or so after the events of “crawl til dawn on my hands and knees.”

You end up having a lot of mending on your hands when you’ve got a werewolf pup in the house, it turns out. Scuffed trouser knees from going on all fours too early, claws torn through the toes of stockings, buttons torn away from a daring wriggle through a just-barely-wide-enough gap under a fence, you name it, Alexander has done it to his clothes, and with a vengeance. Hence the small mountain of clothes in need of patching lying there on the settee next to Rachel.

She hasn’t been avoiding doing it, not really, not actively, but the task has been picked up and then put down again more times than she can count in the past few weeks. Always some slightly more urgent fire to put out, something that needs her hands on it immediately, until this morning Alex had come out to breakfast wearing breeches with a great rent torn in one leg. She’d been obliged to cut a tail-hole in his last good pair of trousers so as not to leave him wandering around looking like a beggar.

So: this is the emergency that requires her attention now. She pricks her thumb with the needle, curses softly and sucks away the bead of blood before it can stain the shirt in her hands.

At least she has the house to herself, so she can work without interruption. James is off at work, Jamie and Alex are both out playing—the neighborhood kids have finally gotten over their fear of a wolf in their midst and welcomed Alex back into the fold. Thank God. Alex is a bright child, more willing than most to entertain himself with a book or practicing his letters, but Lord, the energy in him now, the way he tears around the house when he grows bored of his lessons. It’ll be good for him to be around other children more. Give him a chance to burn some of that off.

Lost in her own thoughts, it takes Rachel a few long minutes to process the squeak of the side door’s rusty hinge. Someone in the house. She sits up straight, heart kicking into a sprint, but no creak of boots on the floorboards, no intruders appearing in the doorway. She relaxes a little. The house settling, maybe. That’s all.

After a moment, a soft rustle and a scraping sound from the kitchen, like a chair being bumped. Then silence.

…Or maybe not. “Jamie? Alex?” Rachel calls into the back of the house. No reply. She sits still for several seconds, listening.

Another scrape, and then a quiet play-growl.

“Alexander,” Rachel says. “Alexander, you had better not be where I think you are.”

Silence again.

Rachel sighs and rises and walks into the kitchen. She nearly treads on Alex as she steps through the doorway, where he’s lying sprawled out on his belly on the floorboards. He squeaks and flinches away with a look of abject guilt on his face that would put a real dog to shame. “I didn’t do it,” he yelps, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

Rachel raises an eyebrow. Looks down at the chair nearest the door. One of its legs has fresh little toothmarks in it, and is still wet with saliva.

“I didn’t,” Alex repeats, trailing off in a pitiful whine. She’s not sure when he picked up the kicked-puppy act, but he performs it to an almost alarming degree of perfection. Even Rachel is tripped up by it, the way it pings the part of her brain that says poor little animal, poor little hurt creature before the part that can analyze what’s actually been done here.

She can’t encourage this sort of behavior, so when Alex starts in on another whimper, she interrupts as quickly as she can. “That’s it, up, out of the kitchen,” she says, catching Alex up and lifting him to her shoulder. He squirms unhappily, and it’s not like holding a child, not this time of the moon; he’s all thick fur and loose skin underneath that, wriggly and roly-poly like a baby animal. His limbs jut out at odd angles, not quite settled into the orientations that will leave Alex stuck on all fours. It’s all Rachel can do to keep him from slipping out of her arms.

“I can walk—I don’t want—”

“No, I am not letting you out of my sight,” scolds Rachel, carrying Alex back out to the front room with her. “What have we told you about chewing on the furniture, Alexander?”

“Not to do it,” Alex mumbles.

“Right. So I think, if you’re going to be in a chewing mood, you’d better stay in here with me, where I can keep an eye on you.” Rachel deposits him on the settee next to where she’d been sitting, and he turns himself around in a little circle before sinking down to the cushions with a sulky expression on his furry face.

“I don’t need…” he begins, but Rachel just looks at him, her no nonsense now, my boy look, and he trails off. Sighs, the heartfelt sigh of an inconvenienced dog, and drops his chin to his paws—to his hands. Rachel suppresses her own sigh and picks up her mending again, keeping one eye on Alex.

It’s getting worse.

Not that she ought to have expected any different, but she’d hoped, maybe, that her son was bright enough and clever enough and special enough to resist the pull of his own body, to stay himself despite everything. Which—no, that’s cruel, cruel to say he’s beyond recognition, and a lie besides. He still has his wits, his stubborn will, that smart mouth that has gotten him in trouble more than once. Still that love in him that astounds Rachel even now with its fierceness. Still the right face, a few days a month, if not right now. Plenty there to make Alexander.

As for the rest, though. Well. He’s her son, her baby, but he howls out the window at the dogs in the street and pisses off the neighbors, digs in the garden, shoves his nose into foul filthy things and makes a mess of the house like an ill-trained pet. Doesn’t understand what’s wrong with any of those things when reprimanded, or does, but too late to make any difference, just soon enough for Rachel to see the confusion and horror bloom on his face as he stands there to be corrected. And the very next day he’s off again. Can’t help himself. The curse is too insidious, the instincts taking root in his brain are too strong.

All Rachel can do is watch them do their work.

This is what comes of thinking you’re a special case, Rachel, my girl, you get your heart broken in the end every time, Rachel tells herself viciously, snipping off a thread like it’s done her a personal injury. How many people over the centuries must have been inflicted with the wolf-curse? When, in all that time, had wishes or prayers or denial or bargains ever done a lick of good to break it? Never. Not once. Stupid, Rachel, stupid stupid stupid.

Alex curls himself up in a ball. Licks at his hands and mouths them absently. And that’s a bad sign, Rachel knows from experience that he’ll chew them raw if he’s not paying attention. She reaches over and taps him on the nose.

“Don’t do that, love.”

“Mmff—sorry, Maman.” He licks the cleft in his upper lip, flexes his fingers. Wrinkles his nose in displeasure, in a way that suggests he’s going to find something else to sink his teeth into in a few minutes. Redirect that.

“You don’t need to stay right there next to me, Alex. We can fetch you your toys, and you can play, but I want you in here with me, okay?”

Alex grumbles something indistinct and curls himself up tighter, comically small. Not interested.

“What were you even doing back here so soon?” Rachel asks, more gently. “I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you were still out playing with your friends.”

“I…I didn’t wanna play anymore.” He tries to give this an air of nonchalance, but he’s even easier to read than he was as a human boy—his ears droop and he glances away from her, caught in a lie. He pouts a little harder at Rachel’s skeptical look. “Well, I didn’t! I wasn’t having fun. Why should I play if it’s not any fun?”

“Hmm.” Something else there, an undertone to his voice that needles at Rachel. Ought to tease that out before it manifests itself in more furniture-chewing. She lays the shirt she’s mending aside and holds out her arms. “Baby, can you come here for a second?”

Alex puts his head up and looks at her with ears pricked suspiciously, but the offer of physical contact is too much for him to pass up, and he crawls over into her lap. Puts his arms around her neck after a moment, as if remembering that that’s how a child ought to cuddle, waggles his tail side to side as he gets comfortable. Rachel runs a soothing hand down his back and feels the tension coiled there, like he’s about to spring at a rat or a bird. No wonder he’d needed to get his teeth in something.

“Do you want to tell me what happened out there, Alex?”

“Nothing! Nothing happened—”

“Alexander.”

Alex will fuss and grouse and put on a brave face until the cows come home, if you let him, Rachel knows this, recognizes her own stubborn pride in that. Where gentling him won’t work to tease out the truth, sometimes a bit of extra firmness will. Show him he’s not fooling anyone, and let his talkative streak do the rest.

It works. Alex huffs, bumps Rachel’s chin with his cold little nose in a last-ditch attempt at the cuteness defense, and finally says, “Nothing happened. Really. I don’t care. It was just a game. It doesn’t matter.” Alex nestles himself a bit closer to Rachel, and adds, in a very small voice, “I’m tired of always dying though.”

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“It’s—I—they always make me be the monster. Because I roar better, that’s what Peter said, but that’s stupid, I don’t roar, I’m not a lion, it’s called growling, that’s what I told him—anyway. Um.” Alex swipes at his face. The fur under his eyes a little matted, a little damp, Rachel can tell from this close, scrubbed-away tear tracks faint down the sides of his muzzle. “They made me be the monster again. And I didn’t want to, so I said, I wanna be the knight for once, it isn’t fair, but they told me you have to, it’s not as good when someone else is the monster, you do it best, and besides you can’t hold a sword when you’re crawling around on the ground like that. And then, and then Anders said, he, he said…” Alex trails off, his voice gone inhuman-rough with a snarl of anger and shame. Tears pooling again in his eyes.

“What did he say, love?”

“He said,” Alex chokes out, “well, you can’t be the knight, but maybe you can be the horse. And then he laughed. They all laughed. Like it was a really good joke.”

Oh.

Rachel’s stomach churns, searing rage and cold, leaden pity both clawing at her. How dare he, how dare that child—how dare his parents tell him that was—how dare they treat her son—

She clutches at Alex, who babbles on, unable to stop now that he’s gotten himself going. “And I, I know you said not to get mad at people, because it might scare them, but I got a little mad and I’m sorry and I didn’t mean to growl for real but then Anders’ mom—we were playing in front of his house—she came out and yelled at me and called me a—nasty word, and told me to go away and it wasn’t fun anymore anyway so I came back here. But then I was bored. So.” His shoulders quiver with one sob, another. No kicked-dog whine in his voice now, just the hitching of a hurt child. “I’m s-sorry. Sorry I chewed the chair. I shouldn’t have done it. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Alex, baby—” But what is there to say to him? You didn’t deserve that is true, but it’s  cold comfort, Alex has heard it already a thousand times, and the words trip on the fact that he acted out against another child. Not worth the reaction he got, but he should know better, it’s not safe for him to behave like that anymore, what if it had been Anders’ father home instead of his mother, and he’d had a gun—

Catastrophizing, Rachel, she thinks, reining herself in, deal with the problem you have, not the one you’re making up to scare yourself. Not useful. Not useful. Crying child in her arms, and another one out there somewhere who’s seen a monster—figure out, maybe, which of them is hurt more. God forbid it’s the other boy, but she has to be sure.

“Alexander,” she asks, as carefully as she can, “you didn’t—no one was hurt, were they—?”

“No!” Alex yelps, pushing away from her, shocked through his tears. “No, no, I said, didn’t I say all I did was growl? I wouldn’t, I’d never, I promise, I’m not bad, I know not to bite, I’m not like—like him—”

His face twists with horror, and he shakes his head hard, squeezes his eyes shut against the flood of tears, and oh, God, like him. Only one him Alex could be referring to. “No, no, no, Alex, that’s not what I meant, you’re not like that at all,” Rachel says desperately, wrapping her arms around him. Alex bares his teeth, lets out a harsh painful noise that sounds like neither child nor wolf, but in the end has nowhere else to go. He collapses against Rachel with a wail and lets her enfold him.

“I’m not like that,” Alex sobs into her dress. “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not, I wouldn’t…”

“I know, baby, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to growl. I know it was wrong. I know I was bad.”

“Shh. Shh. Later, love. Don’t worry about that now.”

“I’m n-nuh-not…” The rest of the sentence is lost in another wave of sobs. Rachel strokes his ears, strokes the scraggly remnants of his hair, mostly gone to fur by now, and says nothing.

Alex weeps stormily for a while, trembling and clinging to Rachel like he’s expecting her to to shove him off her lap any second. She rocks him like she’d done when he was a tiny baby, whispers little nothings against the tips of his ears. I’ve got you. I’m here. I love you, my darling, oh, I love you. You’re still my baby. You’re still mine. Nearly misses him gnawing at his paws again until he squeaks and twitches with pain in her arms. Sharp white puppy teeth digging into the pad of his thumb, when Rachel draws away to look.

“Alex, what did I say?” She tugs his hand away. He drags it back up to his lips automatically.

“Not to,” he says against his knuckles. An awful note of hopelessness in his voice, eyes dull despite the tears still glistening there. “I know you said not to. But it’s hard. I don’t know how to stop.”

Redirect, redirect, Rachel tells herself desperately. He doesn’t deserve to tear into himself for this, not for a playground disagreement. She’s not a fool, and her baby is hurting. There must be something she can do for him…

An idea occurs. She shies away from it on reflex—no, no, animal, condescending, not my baby, can’t subject him to—but all she’s got right now are bad options, and this is the most palatable. Worth a shot.

“Alex, I’m going to fetch something for you, okay? I won’t be gone five minutes. Wait for me here?”

Alex mumbles assent and permits Rachel to shift him from her lap to the settee again. He splays himself over the cushions, and she gives him a quick rub on the velvety bridge of his nose before hurrying out of the room. Back through the kitchen to grab a clean-ish rag from the shelf above the hearth, and from there out through the side door into the alley. It’s almost comically simple when she looks at it now: Alex has a chewing problem, she’d made a stew just the other day, point A to point B to point C. Still, she wishes she’d thought of it a little sooner, before she’d thrown the kitchen trash out for the neighborhood strays to take care of.

Rachel approaches the garbage heap, and it’s their lucky day, because there are still a couple of chunks of soup bone resting at the top. She picks up the largest one gingerly between thumb and forefinger. Must be a reason it hasn’t yet been carried off, Alex could probably tell her what makes it a less desirable tidbit, but it’s what they have to work with. With a grimace, she dunks her rag in the rain barrel standing nearby and scrubs the bone off as best she can—luckily, it hasn’t been sitting out long enough to pick up a particularly foul stench—and carries it into the house.

Alex perks up immediately when she walks back into the front room, hops down off the settee and lurches toward her on all fours, sniffing the air. Rachel holds out the bone awkwardly and the flash of mute unthinking delight in his eyes cuts her to the core, but he recoils just as quickly from her hand and ducks his head.

“I thought…you said I wasn’t allowed. Not from the garbage heap,” he says, and of course a quick wash wasn’t enough to hide the smell from him. He tugs at one ear, his gaze flicking from the bone to Rachel’s face with the nervous energy of an animal that’s scented a trap.

“We can make an exception. Just this once.” Rachel kneels down to his level and brushes her fingertips against his muzzle. “I’m going to give you this, okay? It’s for you to chew. But I want you to promise me that as long as you have it, you’re not going to go after the furniture, or your own hands. Can you do that for me, Alex?”

“Yes, Maman,” he chirps, nodding hard enough to make his ears flop about, his tail already up and wagging again. “I can, I will, I swear I’ll never ever do it again.”

And how many times has a man told her that particular lie? More than enough for her to know better than to believe it, that’s for sure. Never again. I promise. I’ll never hurt you. Never leave you. Never let you down. This was the last time.

Alex isn’t James, though, isn’t Johann. Isn’t even George. He’s just a baby. Too young for willful malice and too young for the little white lies told to soothe a cut that’s already bleeding. He means exactly what he says in the moment, and maybe he’ll even keep his promise for a while, until the next time he’s bored or hurting or angry and he doesn’t think, he just acts. It hurts a little less, knowing he’s sincere. Just a little less, though.

Rachel could probably extract a better promise out of Alex if she were made of sterner stuff. Scare him into compliance, scold him until his canine brain understands this is not how we behave, not be shaken by his big sad eyes or the face of a baby animal, something that needs to be cuddled and cosseted and protected. Make him safe, no matter what it takes.

But Rachel is already made of, pardon her language, pretty fucking stern stuff. Wouldn’t have made it to this point if she weren’t.

This is the way things are. The wolf demands concessions, one way or another, and denying it the small things now only means it’ll need more from her when she finally caves. So.

She waggles the bone tantalizingly, ignores the twist in her gut. “Go ahead, then.”

With a yip of excitement, Alex snatches the bone out of her hands and settles down on the floor before the settee with it, his crying jag all but forgotten. Easier for him to keep a grip on it, with his stubby fingers and thumbs, than it would be for a dog, but he sinks his teeth in with the same half-starved gusto as you’d see in a stray, rumbles out a happy growl that makes Rachel’s hair stand on end. The growling is hard to bear. Whines and yelps could almost be child noises, and any old hound can bark, but the growl is a predator’s sound, too deep and too wild for a little boy.

Alex puts his head up, cocks it at her, and Rachel realizes she’s staring. She gives him a small wave to cover. His tail frisks, back and forth.

“Thank you, Maman,” he says. “It’s good. Better than the chair.”

“That’s…I’m glad, baby,” says Rachel, forcing a smile. It is good. Really it is. Not such a difficult fix, in the end. She can start saving the soup bones after she cooks with them. No big deal.

Rachel scoots over so her back is against the settee, sits there on the floor with her skirts spread around her like she’s a girl. A girl and her dog. The soup bone creaks a little under Alex’s onslaught, and it might be worth it to fetch the other scraps on the trash heap for when he finishes with this one. Later, though. Later. Alex flashes a wolfish grin at her, his tongue lolling out, and she reaches over to scratch at the side of his neck. Drool on his chin. Rachel ought to wipe that away, chide him for being messy and uncouth. Doesn’t.

With a sigh, she pulls her sewing basket down onto her lap and picks up the half-mended shirt again.

[forcri]

'They just wanted to silence her': the dark side of gay stan culture

For gay men, ‘stanning’ – being a super fan of – female pop stars can be a valuable part of your identity. But too often this fandom lapses into misogyny and body shaming

Ahead of Britney Spears’ record-breaking show at Brighton Pridethis year, Aaron Hussey noticed a fellow fan wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of Spears’ nervous breakdown: the 2007 incident when, head shaved, she attacked a photographer’s car with an umbrella. “I think he thought he was being funny,” Hussey says. “He wasn’t.”

“Brightney Pride”, as it has affectionately been nicknamed, was one of the biggest events of the gay calendar – so big that 4,000 revellers were left stranded once the city’s heaving public transport system failed under the pressure. Surely only dedicated Spears “stans” – the most dedicated kind of fan, a portmanteau of “fan” and “stalker” taken from Eminem’s hit about a crazed follower – would have braved these conditions to glimpse their idol. So why the cruel taunt?

Gay male culture has always coalesced around female pop stars, from Judy Garland to Lady Gaga and Ariana Grande. Academics and critics have puzzled over the source of this connection, their often misplaced theories ranging from the outlandish to the oedipal. But gay men and the women they worship are usually happy to bask in the mutual affection. This year, Spears was honoured with an award by the US’s Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (Glaad) for promoting equality. She responded by saying the gay community had shown her “unconditional love”.

But “unconditional” is often precisely what this love is not. Scratch lightly at the surface and what flakes off is, yes, reciprocity and genuine affection, but also callous misogyny.

One theory of the gay fan-diva link is that of shared oppression – gay men and women are both ground under the wheel of hetero-patriarchy. Perhaps in that model, the Spears T-shirt could be read as a show of solidarity, a knowing acknowledgment of her pain and our understanding? But there was nothing knowing in the way another gay fan photoshopped an umbrella into his meet and greet photo with the unwitting star and later circulated it online. These actions have a distinct edge of mockery, the air of a joke that their subject is not in on.

Dr Michael Bronski, a Harvard University professor and the author of books on queer history and gay culture says “There is a long history of gay male fan culture latching onto famous women and then turning on them. Queens would come to a Judy Garland concert and then scream at her when she was too drunk to finish it. The women have changed – it’s no longer Marlene Dietrich and Judy Garland. But the dynamic remains in western culture.”

The love-hate dynamic of gay stan culture that Bronski describes is now largely mediated through social media. Heckling in smoky nightclubs has been replaced by “hate memes”, when stans circulate unflattering edited pictures or examples of a star’s least-becoming behaviour, while the cheering has morphed into a lexicon of superlatives and put-downs that may seem impenetrable to the uninitiated: “we stan” favoured female pop stars, they’re “iconic”, a “kween”, an “unproblematic fave”. “She outsold” describes both someone’s commercial successes and a general sense of their superiority. Anyone who fails to meet those standards? “Fat”, “flop”, “failure”.

This online community relies on a dense matrix of references and neologisms informed by everything from drag culture to reality TV. Sami Baker is 21 and a self-professed gay stan – his favourites are Grande, Beyoncé and Charli XCX. He explains that the culture reaches further than many beyond the community might realise, citing the example of the recent avalanche of memes of reality star Gemma Collins. “They originated from gay stan Twitter. The language used within this culture is taken from the same place that Drag Race gets its lexicon, namely the underground subculture where LGBT people compete in various drag and performance categories, documented in the film Paris is Burning, and an inspiration for Madonna and Beyoncé.

For many gay men, Baker and myself included, gay pop stan culture is the distillation of everything meaningful in life. That statement reeks of camp melodrama, but it’s true. To my teenage self, women like Lady Gaga were the only light in a world where my queerness left me feeling like an outsider. As I grew up, the process of connecting my love for them with a wider culture of fandom enhanced my realisation that I was not alone as a queer person. “As I learned more about pop culture and references, that’s when I found people with the same interest,” says Baker. “These same people became my friends, my support network.”

It is hard to overestimate how meaningful the fan-diva relationship is for gay men. What is so perplexing is why this pseudo-religious devotion has always been laced with spite. Earlier this year, pop singer Hayley Kiyoko criticised Rita Ora, Cardi B, Bebe Rexha, and Charli XCX for their single Girls, a song about bisexuality that she, as a lesbian, thought was appropriative. Within hours, stan Twitter had unearthed and circulated incriminating tweets by Kiyoko from nine years ago (when she was 18) in an attempt to “cancel” her – excluding a person entirely from online discourse, except as the target of hate memes – for daring to critique a song they liked.

For Adam Byrne, a 23-year-old gay stan, this was a prime example of gay misogyny: “They didn’t care what she had to say. They just wanted to silence her.”

For him, this behaviour typifies gay stan culture: female artists must obey the rules or suffer the consequences. “A sinister side emerges when their ‘fave’ isn’t giving them exactly what they want,” Byrne explains. “Often jokes made at their expense are said in fun but it’s grim to see the joy [the community] sometimes takes in seeing these women fail: ‘She’s over!’, ‘Flop!’ ‘This era is dead!’ Look at the smug tweets about Nadine Coyle cancelling her tour; the way Katy Perry became gay Twitter’s punching bag.”

Baker says: “I’ve seen stan Twitter make jokes about the Manchester attacks, Demi Lovato’s recent overdose, Beyoncé’s skin tone, Noah Cyrus’s appearance.”

Much has been written about the “queer art of failure” – how queer people are always viewed as failures by heteronormative society, and thus must make a success of their own non-conformity. Perhaps, in this context, it’s unsurprising that gay men seem to revel in the perceived setbacks and shortcomings of their stanned subjects. But the sympathy one might expect to accompany this identification seems absent. The behaviour is less like a playful poke in the ribs, and more like a slap in the face.

Just last week, singer Marina Diamandis – an idol of the gay community – tweeted back to a fan who is part of the gay stan community after he sent her an abusive tweet. “There is a fan culture of degrading people online that I’m really not into. I haven’t been on social media a lot the past 3 months because I suffer from depression and the negative comments really affect me,” Diamandis posted. “Marina omg please don’t take it the wrong way I’m a stan and this was just intended as a harmless joke,” the fan protested. As Diamandis herself pointed out, stan culture can fail to grant humanity to the subjects of their worship.

I think they are real fans. But there is a fan culture of degrading people online that I'm really not into. I haven't been on social media a lot the past 3 months because I suffer from depression and the negative comments really affect me.

Even when gay men aren’t raining outright abuse on these women, their praise can sometimes reveal different forms of misogyny. One recent trend is to laud women by hailing them as “skinny” or a “skinny legend” – a trope that took off with a meme about Mariah Carey. Though it is used figuratively to imply flawlessness, it is revealing that a word historically used to police female physicality has naturally evolved in the gay male vernacular. Can it be anything other than chauvinist body-shaming?

Indeed, “skinniness” is just one of many hyper-feminine traits that gay men seem to prize in our stanned women. Helen Moynihan, 23, is a self-identifying queer woman who says the stanning of Ariana Grandeexemplifies precisely what is problematic about gay male idolatry. “Often I think gay men only see beauty in hyper-feminine, not butch, women,” she says. “It made me laugh when Grande was called a queer icon because she is the least queer person to me: someone who’s always trying to escape hyper-femininity.”

Grande’s blinding highlighter, swinging ponytail and heels are ubiquitous hallmarks of the gay stan hall of fame. Buzzcuts and Doc Martens are few and far between. It’s conditional love again – do we only stan the “right” type of women? Other forms of gay culture are similarly plagued by this insidious heteronormativity – men on dating apps like Grindr use refrains like “masc4masc” to praise masculinity and shun femininity in other men.

It’s important to remember that gay male culture exists at the confluence of many social currents, including wider male misogyny and societal homophobia. It is easy to apportion blame to gay men who are merely trying to find escapism and belonging, and to scapegoat behaviour that is universal. “In our culture of binary, heterosexual dysfunction, men hate women,” says Bronski. “It just so happens that some of them are gay.”

This is an important qualifier. Stanning itself is not exclusively homosexual territory – Eminem, the originator of “stan”, is hardly a queer icon. Dr Lynn Zubernis is a professor at West Chester University in Pennsylvania and an expert in fandom. She says the bullying behaviours found in gay stan culture are common to all fandoms.

“Because the object of a fan’s adoration becomes very important to the fan’s happiness, when there is some sort of disappointment, that brings a strong – and sometimes problematic – response. That is the dynamic behind the ‘mood swings’ you see in fandom, where fans love something one day and turn on it the next. It’s not about misogyny. It cuts across gender, sexuality, type of fandom, even time. Sports fans sometimes turn on star players in the same way. I don’t think it’s a male-female thing or a gay-straight thing. I think it’s a human thing.”

However, not all fandoms operate with the same power dynamics. In football, the vitriol Dr Zubernis uses for comparison takes on a new dimension when it intersects with racism. In gay stan culture, gender does not just occasionally intersect with online hatred – it defines the landscape. The abuse and objectification of these women is distinctly gendered – any man, gay or straight, tweeting “fat!” at a woman is unarguably misogynistic.

Gay men and pop’s women alike benefit from the mutuality of their “special relationship”. Spears is unlikely to have noticed one nasty T-shirt through the love heaped on her that day. But with gay male misogyny being discussed more widely than ever, in terms of our nightlife, queer spaces, and social movements, what does it say when this relationship is often so heartless? What kind of permissiveness are we helping to cultivate around misogyny? Deep down, do we really know what it means to love these women?