#queue be thy name

[ourfatherwhoartinhell]

[xblasphemia]

location : blue horizon marina / the docks ??

Much had changed in the last 500 years yet somehow looked and felt the same from what she remembered . The people feel and look the same . most she knew 500 years ago were either dead or immortals still living in this town ... OR ALWAYS COMING BACK TO IT . either way , her own reasons for coming back were the two boys playing about with one another , ahead of her . FINNEY AND VANCE BLAKE . her descendants . ( werewolves ) She always had eyes on them and kept tabs . It's unfortunate that they became orphans .

❝ ⸻ Stay where I can see you ❞ She called out to them as she paid the fishermen for four pieces of salmon without the skin and a pound of clams .

[dreadbornesaint]

tag dump - gen

[icemde]

@raiiryuu & @luzofstars asked : ♆ The worst kind of neighbor they could have, and how they deal with them

NEIGHBORS WHO ARE NOSEY / CANNOT RESPECT PRIVACY. gray is such a private person as it is, and considering how much breaking and entering his guildmates already do with his apartment, the last thing he needs is neighbors trying to pry into his personal life as it is. he tries just to ignore them or be polite in turning them down. he can count on one hand the number of times he's had to use his magic to get the point across ( namely, icing the floor below them and forcing them to fall, distracting them long enough for him to just leave )

[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Interlude

On the Streets of Soho: Just You

ONE SHOT/INTERLUDE

SIMON GHOST RILEY x FEM READER

Summary: Simon makes a journey through Soho hoping to find some relief.

Warnings/Tags: MDNI 18+ Only - Explicit language, explicit sexual content, sexual thoughts and allusions to sex but no actual sex, prostitution/sex workers/solicitation, ***TW- mention of SA (Simon's)- non-graphic, mention of torture- non-graphic, no use of Y/N

(Notes: This is basically just me weaving my personal head canons concerning Simon's past trauma and how his current sex life evolved into the plot. No beta. Embrace the imperfections.)

banners & dividers by: @saradika-graphics

Interlude

-

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.��

― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

-

The cobbled streets of Soho are crowded this time of the evening.

The cacophony of music and the buzz of a hundred conversations flow around Simon as he walks among the throng of people. Crossing to the next corner, he turns down another street, noticing the giggling birds in short skirts sashaying ahead of him. They're no doubt heading for one of the night clubs further down the way.

There are many streets in Soho that have an almost carnival-like atmosphere about them, inviting wanderers with their twinkling string lights, busy shops, and outdoor eateries. However, there are other areas, like where Simon is currently going, that are geared more towards… adult entertainment.

One of the sashaying birds glances over her shoulder at Simon, then turns back to whisper something to her mates. The others then glance back as well, only to erupt into whispers and tittering giggles. Simon ignores them, focusing his attention on the signs advertising the discotheques, bars and clubs, instead. He slows to peer through a pub window, feigning curiosity, but he doesn't go inside. His destination is further along; he's just passing through.

He walks past a long queue outside a dance club. The music is pounding like a heartbeat, bass thumping so hard Simon can feel the percussion through the soles of his boots, the vibration tickling up his shins and setting his teeth on edge. He glances up at the gaudy sign above the blacked-out doors. The club is called 'Bangers', spelled out in electric blue letters. Simon rolls his eyes.

Bloody stupid name, he thinks, but then reconsiders. It's actually spot on, now that he thinks about it. Clubs like that are nothing more than human meat markets, strobe-lit hubs for anonymous hook-ups and drunken fucks in the loo. His lip curls at the thought. Playing Russian roulette VD-style with some random drunk slag doesn't appeal to him. He's careful about where he sticks his dick, is more discerning about who he fucks, which is why he gives the preening birds with their coy smiles and come-hither eyes no more than a cursory glance.

It's been several months since Simon has been to Soho, long enough that he can't remember the exact month anymore. It was cold, that's as much as he can recall, months before you had moved in with him. He also recalls (with some annoyance) how he had been unable to look you in the eye after his last trip there, watching you work behind the bar at the Dog the next day, chattering away at him as you normally would while his gut twisted with something that felt suspiciously like guilt. He'd not been back to Soho since.

Until now.

And this time, it's because of you.

That's not true. It's because of him. This mess is his fault, his failure.

He made a bad call, sharing you with the team. He let one little mention of you slip, and it snowballed from there. Not even he is sure if that little slip-up was accidental or not, but once he'd opened that Pandora's box, there was no shutting it again. He gave them an in, Johnny and Gaz ran with it, and Simon went right along with them.

He made a right cock up of things. Exposed you, then put his bloody claim on you. He had no right to do that― has no bloody right to you at all, but he let his ego dictate how it all went down. Christ, he shared your fucking pics with them. Stupid, stupid mistake. He's potentially put you in danger, doing that. Then again, if someone was already watching him, he put you on their radar months ago.

That was another bad call. Should've stayed away from you, but he didn't; hell, he bloody couldn't, no matter how hard he tried.

He'd cut ties with you for multiple reasons, the biggest among them to protect you, then turned around and fucked it all up. He just never expected you would open the door and let him back in, not after the way he'd treated you. When he went back to the Dog that rainy night, his only thought had been to fix what he broke and part ways on better terms, not pull you back in after pushing you out.

He still doesn't know what possessed him that night. He went back to you knowing he should leave well enough alone, but there he was, scratching at your door like a hungry stray and you let him back in, like the sweet, trusting fool that you are. Christ, what were you thinking? Why did you forgive him? He still gets pissed thinking about it, but in that moment, honestly, all he'd felt was relief.

Because he had his doll back.

Simon never knew he was a starving man until he got a taste of what his life could be like with you in it. It's addictive, that life you feed him, and it's made him greedy, possessive. He wanted you closer, wanted you to feed him more, so he took advantage when you were vulnerable. After what happened with Finch, he offered you safety, security, the promise of family and free reign of his house. You took his offering then turned around and achieved the impossible. He gave you his haunted house and you turned it into a proper home. You filled it to overflowing with light and warmth and fucking flowers. Selfish mutt that he is, he took it, took it all and fucking devoured it whole. He gorges himself on it daily, and that should be enough.

But he still craves more.

It's wrong to want more. You give him everything, everything, so he should be satisfied. He should be content to have you in his home, in his life, but now he wants more, he wants you, all of you, and that's... wrong.

Doesn't matter, though. Even if he knows it's wrong, it's done nothing to curb his craving for you. If anything, it's only made it worse. You've become his forbidden fruit, tempting him to reach out and take a bite. And it's because of that temptation that he's finally been forced to make another trip to Soho.

As Simon makes his way to his destination, he glances around at the buildings now surrounding him. Tall, skinny brick and mortar structures stacked together, just a few stories high; Soho's infamous walk-ups. Their entrance doors stand open, their lighted entryways revealing the narrow staircases and the signs that simply declare 'Models'. Those in the know understand that the men and women who work in these walk-ups have nothing to do with modeling. They're sex workers, professional prostitutes, and Simon has been a paying customer of theirs for years.

Before you, Simon had no qualms about paying for sex. It was simply a means to an end, meeting his basic needs to keep himself on an even keel. He saw nothing wrong with it, thought it was money well spent. As he'd once told you, a soldier's lifestyle wasn't conducive to sustaining romantic relationships, not that he'd ever fancied having one. He told you that he didn't have the patience for it, and he had believed that when he said it. It was easier to hand over a few quid, get what he needed, then be on his merry way, no muss, no fuss.

But again, that was before you moved in with him.

Now, the quid that he withdrew from the ATM earlier weighs heavy in his pocket. He withdrew enough for a thirty-minute session plus a tip. He plans on telling the bird if she can give it to him the way he likes and can finish him off quickly, she'll earn herself a good tip. He's not doing this expecting mind-blowing sex. He just needs to blow a quick, hard nut to sort himself out, then he can hurry back home, so he can make this up to you. He feels like a right sorry bastard for dumping you off like he did, because he was in a rush to get to fucking Soho to bang a prostitute.

He'd waited until he'd picked you up from work and dropped you at home before telling you he had some 'business' to take care of in London. Guileless, you'd blinked up at him, trying hard to hide your disappointment. It fucking gutted him when you simply nodded, then told him you would keep dinner warm for him. That was bad enough, but then you gave his hand a quick squeeze and murmured, "Drive safe, Ri," with that sweet fucking smile on your face, and it felt like his chest caved in.

Fuckin' hell...

He glances up at a street sign and something close to dread makes his gut feel queasy. His steps begin to slow, boots scuffing on the sidewalk. The address he's currently seeking is just around the next corner, then he'll cross Green's Court to a walk-up that houses a consignment shop on the ground floor with two separate flats above it. The bird he's picked out is in the first flat, working under the rather unimaginative alias of 'Desireé'.

Simon already knows that he doesn't want to do this.

But he also knows he has to.

It shouldn't bother him this much. It's not like he hasn't done this before. He visits Soho whenever he gets to the point that he can no longer scratch his own itch, and nothing but a wet cunt will do. Since you moved in, however, that itch has become an incessant burn. His control is starting to slip, and it's been getting worse since the May Day celebration. It's become such a struggle to keep his hands off you that he has to force himself away from you. Otherwise, he'd have you bent over the nearest flat surface.

Yeah. Something's got to give, and it cannot be him.

Grunting in frustration, he pushes those thoughts out of his head. He needs to focus on the task at hand. If he can see this through, it will help quell those urges you so obliviously keep stirring up inside him. Once he gets what he needs, he'll be right as rain again, and you won't be in danger of getting drilled against the wall.

Is he looking forward to this? No, he's not, but he figures it should be just like riding a bike. Once he gets going, biology will take over and instinct will kick in, then nature will take its inevitable course. It won't matter who he's fucking, then.

Still, the thought of fucking some other bird while you're waiting at home for him sticks in his craw and leaves a foul taste in his mouth. That feeling only gets worse when he rounds the corner, and the walk-up he's looking for comes into view.

Fuck. He's here.

Simon comes to a stop. He suddenly realizes he's gagging for a smoke, so decides to have one before going up. Fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket, he slinks into an alley, tugs down his face mask and lights up before pressing himself back into the shadows. He inhales as he casts his eyes up to the lit windows of what he assumes is Desireé's flat. A shadow crosses behind the pulled shade and disappears.

Fuck, he doesn't want to do this.

But he has to.

He exhales a stream of smoke and rubs at the ache still lingering in his chest. He knows the cause of it. It's been there since he drove away from you, and it's only gotten worse. There's not a damn thing he can do about it, though, not without risking the destruction of what the two of you have built together and probably ruining your life in the process. He'd fight for you, kill for you, fuck, he'd even die for you, but he can't— No, he won't fuck you.

But even with such a threat hanging over his head, he still fucking wants you. He wants you in a way that scares the bloody shite out of him.

Which is why he needs to do this.

But fuck him! He doesn't bloody want to!

Simon closes his eyes and thumps his head back against the dingy brick wall. Christ, he's never been so conflicted in his life. It's not like he's cheating on you, for fuck's sake, but damn if it doesn't feel that way. You're his friend, not his woman; he is not stepping out on you. There's no logical reason for him to feel bad about taking care of his own needs. It's just fucking; it doesn't mean anything. He has every right to do this.

But still...

He would rather take a bullet than for you to ever find out where he is and what he's about to do. He wouldn't be able to face you again if you ever found out, because he knows how bad it would hurt you. He knows it would hurt you because he knows you care about him, and he knows those feelings run deeper than bloody friendship. He knows this because he feels the same damn way. You're more than just his friend. You're his Dee, his doll. You're just... his.

And fuck him, he knows he's yours, too.

Dammit, he really does not want to do this.

But now he knows he has to. Because he can't lose you. Fuck no. That's not an option anymore.

He gives himself a mental shake and puts out his cigarette. Straightening from the wall, he clenches his fists and stalks across Green's Court to the walk-up. The open doorway beckons, he just needs to step through. He stops at the threshold and peers up the narrow flight of stairs.

There'll be a 'maid' in attendance up there, hanging about in the hallway. She'll ask who he's there to see then will inform him whether or not Desireé is 'indisposed'. That's the polite way of saying whether or not she has another customer. The prostitutes don't take appointments, so it's first come, first served. Unbidden, the hope rises up inside him that she already does have a customer, so he'll have an excuse to leave.

Gritting his teeth, Simon forces himself to step through the doorway.

The sound of plodding steps coming down the stairs has Simon's eyes darting upward. A bloke with thinning hair and a soft paunch hanging over his belt appears, his jowly face florid but clearly sated. His eyes meet Simon's for only a split second then skitter away as he lifts his left hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. The glint of a gold wedding band catches Simon's eye, and something cold and oily slithers and twists in his gut. That dull ache in his chest flares to life. Simon rubs at his chest and averts his eyes until the bloke walks out of the building.

"Least I don't got a ring on my finger," Simon mutters to himself, like that somehow matters, then begins climbing the steps.

When he reaches the first landing, a wiry, thin bird with her mousy brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail exits a small room. Her smile is tight-lipped but polite, her eyes assessing as she greets him.

"Can I help you?" she asks, folding her hands together at her waist, the picture of discreet decorum.

"Here t'see Desireé," he grunts in reply.

The 'maid' nods and points to a door down the short hall. "I believe she's free to see visitors. That's her flat there. Just knock."

Simon nods his thanks and steps around the woman, noting how leaden his feet feel as they take him to Desireé's door. His arm too feels heavy as he lifts it to rap against the painted wood. His neck grows hot, scalp prickling with anxious sweat as he hears the light tread of footsteps drawing near. When he hears the locks disengage, he takes a step back before the door swings open.

Desireé peeks around the edge of the door and offers him a tentative smile. Her eyes scan over him before she opens the door wider. "Well, 'ello, luv. Would ya like t'come in?"

She steps away to allow him entry, but Simon doesn't move because he's too busy staring at her.

When he was going through all the models' profiles online, he'd taken an unusual amount of time before choosing. That's not something he normally did. He usually didn't give a shite what they looked like, long as they had a clean cunt. Yet he remembered feeling frustrated as he clicked through profile after profile without success. If asked, he would have assumed it was due to a general lack of interest. None of them appealed to him until he'd seen Desireé's profile pic, and suddenly his search was over. Now he understands why.

This bird looks enough like you to pass for family. Maybe a sister, but definitely a first cousin. She's of the same height and a similar build, though she looks a bit older than you. Damn near identical hair, eyes close to the same color.

Bloody fuckin' hell...

"Well? Are ya goin' t'come in?" Desireé inquires.

Simon blinks and then shuffles through the door, trying to hide how rattled he is. Christ, how did he not see it before? She looks like you. It's like he set himself up to fail without even knowing it. He has to wonder if he's completely lost the bloody plot, because this is fucking mental.

He waits for her to lock the door behind them, doing his best not to stare but failing, then follows her through the small flat. His brain instantly compares her shape to yours. She's more hard angles compared to your soft, rounded curves. She doesn't move like you either. And her perfume makes his sinuses burn.

When she asks if he would like a drink, Simon lifts his gaze to see her smile knowingly; she thinks he's admiring the view. He shakes his head, thinking her smile doesn't hold a candle to yours. She gestures for him to take a seat in the sitting area. He sits down in a worn leather club chair, shifting around as she perches demurely on a chair opposite him.

"So, first things, first, luv," she begins her spiel. "Are ya a return customer or do I need t'go over the basics with ya?"

Her voice grates on his nerves. It's high and nasally, with a Cockney accent. It's not soft and slightly husky like yours. This will definitely be a nonverbal session, he decides.

"I know the drill," he mutters.

Desireé nods, giving him a sultry smirk. "Brilliant. Saves us some time, dunnit?" She settles back in her chair and crosses her legs, her skirt riding up to expose more thigh. "Since yer not new to this, I s'pose ya already know what ya want, then?"

Simon speaks it by rote, the same thing he always asks for. "Thirty-minute session, straight sex, no extras. And I have requirements."

Her eyes narrow just a fraction, and she hums, looking him over slowly. She then tilts her head in a coy way. "What're yer requirements, then?"

Simon launches into his list.

"Don't like muckin' about, so don't bother with the strip tease an' lingerie. Rather ya just get naked in the loo; prefer ya prep yerself f'me while yer in there. Ya can wear a robe out if ya like but lose it before ya get on the bed. Want ya on yer hands an' knees at the foot o' the bed.

"Don't want ya touchin' 'r kissin' me; I'll do the touchin'. Keep yer eyes forward 'r down, jus' not on me. Prefer ya not t'speak unless I ask a direct question 'r there's a problem. If there is, speak up. Don't want none o' tha' fake moanin' an' carryin' on, either. I go at it fast an' hard, but I ain't no brute. 'M big, so if it gets t'be too much, say so 'r give me three hard taps an' I'll stop. Tha' bein' said, ya should prob'ly use some lube when ya prep. An' before ya ask, the mask stays on. Tha's non-negotiable."

Desireé gives him a slow blink. "That's pretty specific," she murmurs, but then lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "But I can do that. I'll ask that ya have a care how ya handle me, though. I don't mind ya gettin' a li'l rough, but I don't like marks or bruises. Bad for business. Most blokes don't like seein' another man's marks, yeah?"

"Yeah, I get it. I won't mark ya up."

With the negotiations now over, Simon hands over her fee, but makes sure to let her get a peek at the extra quid in his wallet. He then mentions being pressed for time and his willingness to kick in a little extra if she can move things along. Pound signs dancing in her eyes, Desireé gets a move on, hurrying to the loo to get ready for him.

Simon shifts uncomfortably while he waits, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees as he stares at the closed bathroom door. That ache in his chest has gotten worse; it's burning now, deep and searing. He's still put off by how much Desireé resembles you, but luckily, that's where the similarities end. One look in those jaded eyes of hers told Simon all he needed to know. She might look like the girl next door, but Desireé is a pro, through and through. Case in point, not balking at the mask or his long list of requirements.

She probably thinks he's a dom, but that wasn't necessarily true. Simon doesn't derive pleasure from having a woman play the submissive. His requirements aren't a part of any kinky personal proclivities. They are necessary, as is his need for complete control, otherwise, he simply cannot perform sexually. It didn't used to be that way for him, but since his stint in Mexico with that sadistic cunt, Roba, this is his lot.

Sex was never the same for Simon after he was captured by Roba. The torture and sexual assaults he had endured while he was a prisoner broke him in a way that he thought he could never be fixed. His perception of sex was warped, twisted into something dark and brutal and ugly. Sex became a weapon that could be used to torture, humiliate and manipulate him. It took years before Simon could touch a woman again.

Even when he finally worked up the courage to have sex again, he'd been nearly overwhelmed with anxiety, terrified he would suddenly snap or have an episode and unintentionally hurt the bird he was with. Somehow sensing he was struggling, she had taken the situation in hand, guided him through it with patience and a gentle hand. She had been a prostitute as well, which is probably why he's gravitated towards them ever since.

Or he did until you came along and mucked up the works. When it comes to you, those necessary requirements of his go right out the bloody window. When it comes to you, it's not about base needs or physical release. It's about experiencing you, pleasuring you, claiming you. He doesn't just want you; he fucking craves you. When it comes to you, he doesn't feel in control and that fucks with him. A lot.

He's dreamed about kissing you. He's fantasized about ripping off his mask and staring into your eyes as he takes you against a wall. He's laid awake at night wondering what sort of noises you would make for him, how it would sound when you finally came while crying out his name. He wants to see your face when he makes you come. He wants to suck your tits and bite your ass and mark you up. He wants to eat your cunt and taste your cum. He wants to watch you suck his cock before he fucks you senseless in his bed. And then he wants to do it all again. And again.

He doesn't want that with anyone else. He only wants that with you. Just you.

Fuck. Just you.

Simon's head drops in defeat.

When Desireé steps out of the loo, he knows in his gut that this isn't going to work. He subconsciously tried to substitute you with a bird that looks like you, for fuck's sake. But she's not you, not even close, and that's why he feels nothing when she shrugs out of her robe and climbs naked onto the bed. He breathes out a resigned sigh.

Climbing to his feet, he steps to where Desireé dropped her robe and retrieves it. He sees her hips sway in invitation as he nears, her lubed cunt on full display. His cock doesn't even stir. He shakes his head, bemused. He popped a chub that morning watching you come down the stairs in one of his ratty old tees, but a naked bird waving her ass in his face does nothing for him.

Only you can stir up that fire inside him. Just you.

"Change of plans, luv," he murmurs, draping the robe over her before taking her by the shoulders and helping her off the bed.

Brows knitting together, Desireé looks up at him with a perturbed expression as she shrugs on the robe again. "Thought ya said ya knew the drill, mate. Once the session starts, there's no renegotiating."

"Not what I'm after," he tells her, taking a step back. "This ain't workin' f'me. 'M takin' off."

Her eyes narrow. "There's no refund, ya know," she warns him, sounding wary.

Simon waves her off. "Don't want one."

Taking out the extra money he'd been holding for her tip, he folds it and presses it into her hand. "Sorry 'bout wastin' yer time, pet," he says, then walks to the door and lets himself out.

Once he's back out on the street, Simon wastes no time retracing his steps back through Soho. He's still bricked up, but he no longer feels conflicted. He's finally realized that he's been fighting a losing battle this whole time, knows that he never stood a chance.

Because it's you. Just you. For him.

When he makes it back to his truck, he climbs in and cranks the engine, then pulls out his phone and calls you.

"Hey, Ri! What's up?"

Simon's eyes close at the sound of your voice. "Hey, doll. 'M on my way back. Need me to bring anything home?"

You hum in thought. "Mm... Nope. Just yourself, I reckon."

Simon chuckles, that ache in his chest finally easing. "That's all ya need, huh? Jus' me?"

He hears your breathy laugh. "Yeah, Ri," you reply, your voice soft and husky. "Just you."

Simon feels his cock twitch at those words and huffs out a laugh. "See ya in a few, love."

"Okay, Ri. See you soon. Drive safe."

Simon rings off, tucks his phone away, then reaches down to adjust his cock with a weary sigh. "Fuck, doll. Bloody killin' me." He grunts out another laugh, shakes his head and steers his truck towards home.

And you.

Just you.

-

prev. >>> next

[voidsentprinces]

In the name of the Zenos, the Nunh and the Holy Ghost, whomever eats the fastest, gets the most.

Blessed our Hydaelyn, for these our guest, for this feast we about to receive, by our tacos, through Venat, our mother, amen.

Our Zenos in Hell, hallow be thy tits, Thy kingdoms burned, Thy reflexes be tested, in Jullus food trucks as in heaven. Give us this day our daily tomestones, And forgive us our queue leaving, As we rage against those who queue leave against us, And lead us not into microtransactions but deliver us from Asahi, Amen

[mywriteword]

Scalped dreams

Scalped dreams

(By CS Krishnamurthy)

Meerut recently witnessed a hair-raising spectacle -quite literally. Hundreds of hopefuls, with shiny heads, lined the streets, each clutching dreams of thick, flowing locks. Their destination? A group of apparent quacks peddling a "miracle oil" that promised to rewrite their follicular fate.

A recent report speaks volumes about our collective vulnerability to promises of instant fixes, especially when it comes to our appearance. It's both amusing and thought-provoking that the streets turned into a bustling hub for this modern-day alchemy experiment.

A queue of men, freshly shaved and optimistic, eagerly awaited their turn to purchase bottles of this elixir. The scene might’ve passed for a bizarre local festival if not for the serious determination etched on every scalp. The sellers, clad in dubious credibility, rattled off tales of miraculous transformations, complete with testimonials, dramatic before-and-after photos, and the inevitable “limited time offer.”

But let’s be real: beneath the hilarity lies a sobering truth. The quest for hair -or youth, or beauty -has often clouded our better judgment. From Cleopatra’s snake-oil concoctions to the Romans’ burnt-mice potions, humanity has been chasing miracles for millennia. The Meerut episode is just another chapter in this fascinatingly futile saga.

We’ve all been tempted by quick remedies, haven’t we? Miracle creams, weight-loss pills, even motivational courses that vow to turn us into billionaires overnight –vanity, thy name is gullibility. And yet, when it comes to hair, people seem to be willing to take an extra leap of faith (or perhaps, desperation!). What’s been lost to the ravages of time and genes, reason often taking a backseat.

The miracle oil in question had an ingenious catch: it only worked on completely bald heads. This condition turned even the "partially follicled" into willing participants. Patches of hair were ceremonially shaved off, and those with proud islands of follicles joined the shiny fleet, razors in hand.

I wonder if someone in the crowd thought to ask, “What would Shakespeare, with his Elizabethan receding hairline, say about this frenzy?” Perhaps the Bard would have quipped, “What’s past is prologue” -and reminded us that hair today, gone tomorrow, is a natural progression. But he would also have chuckled at how baldness -once a sign of wisdom - is now treated as a cosmetic catastrophe.

Baldness is no fun. It can dent confidence, spark insecurities, and turn mirrors into adversaries. That said, baldness isn’t the end of the world -or even the end of charm. Yet, it’s worth reminding ourselves that icons like Anupam Kher and Super Star Rajinikanth have worn their baldness like a badge of honour. A shiny head, after all, doesn’t dull a sharp wit or diminish charm. Experts remind us that genuine solutions for hair regrowth are grounded in science.

One dermatologist likens hair loss to a leaky faucet. “You wouldn’t patch up a faucet with duct tape and expect miracles,” they explain. “Similarly, you need to address the root cause -pun intended -for sustainable results.”

Treatments like minoxidil or hair transplants are proven but require patience, commitment, and a realistic understanding of outcomes. Miracle oils, alas, usually belong in the same category as burnt mice and crocodile fat. Still, hope springs eternal, even if follicles don’t.

As the sun set on Meerut’s shiny heads, the hopefuls dispersed, some clutching bottles of miracle oil, while others sauntered off with a tale to tell. Over steaming cups of tea, the bald brigade likely found more to laugh about than lament. After all, life itself is a splendid, chaotic mess of hair-raising moments -literal or otherwise.

For those still hopeful, there’s no harm in trying products, provided they’re safe and approved. But remember to tread carefully, lest we turn into the unwitting stars of the next slapstick comedy on the streets of Meerut.

=====

(The Hindu - Open Page - 23/02/2025)

#baldisbeautiful

[vidavalor]

Thank you. 💕💕 You and me, both. The good news is that I originally had 2-3 meta ideas around this and, the more I look at things, the more I've been finding things popping up that reinforce it, even when I'm not actively looking for it. I've found so much now that I've basically convinced myself this is correct lol. I've also still yet to actually finish and post the original metas on it as, believe it or not, there's actually a *lot* more evidence for it than I've gotten into.

If, like me, you also subscribe to the idea that Agnes Nutter's prophecies remain correct so long as there's an Armageddon in play and so then should be still valid in S2, then you might also like that, about a week ago, I needed 15-20 minutes of noodling around with something to clear my head and decided to unravel the word nerdery in the "menne of crocus" prophecy. Just because it's always been my favorite one, as it is the most poetic in its crazy, and I hadn't yet taken a crack at looking at it with an eye to S2. (I've actually only looked at two-- the hound one and "thy cocoa doth grow cold" which *gestures at Jim* seemed pretty self-explanatory.)

Turns out, the "menne of crocus" one word-maths out to exactly this theory for The Final 15. The Satan-as-The-Metatron bits of it, I mean.

While parts of it are obviously a bit dark, there is also a line in the middle of it that had me laughing. It contains a word that is an alternate version of the name Agnes (Neth; nickname for Agnethe, which is the Greek version of Agnes). The line then maths out to "and when everyone is Agnes-free" and is basically meant to be Agnes writing a prophecy about how there will be a time when no one is paying any attention to her prophecies... including this here one about how there will be a time when no one is paying any attention to her prophecies lol and *paraphrases, Agnes-style*, they willeth be fuckedeth of ye royal varietee as a result.

Will post the full thing when I've caught up on the oldest requests in the ol' queue.

Hello lovely! I'm wondering if you have any thoughts about Maggie in Final1 5? Isn't it weird that she wants to go back to talk to Az and Crowley while Nina's working? Something about it feels off to me.

Hello right back. 💕 There's chamomile mint tea and shortbread since we're on a Maggie theme, if you'd like some. Maggie's behavior from that scene on is super fucking weird, I agree.

Before the milk run-- when Maggie becomes the only involved character whom we lose track of a bit during The Final 15-- versus how she behaves when she returns is so strange as to be something that I consider maybe additional proof that things are not at all what they seem to be in The Final 15.

On Maggie and Crowley's weird Final 15 behavior, a possible meaning to all the allusions to robbery in S2, and what Maggie and Nina might be able to tell us about what happened at the end of S2.

TW: brief mentions of show's non-consensual possession/rape analogy.

Think for a moment about how truly weird Maggie's request for her and Nina to go back to the bookshop in that moment actually is...

It's only been a matter of minutes since Maggie and Nina were basically hostages in the bookshop who were almost killed by Michael and Saraqael. Crowley saved their lives in getting them out of the shop maybe, what? It's been a minute since I rewatched that bit of it but it couldn't have been more than 15 minutes prior?

The beings in the shop but for Maggie and Nina are supernatural and so left magically without using the door but while we the audience know that these people are no longer in the shop because we were watching it, Maggie and Nina do not know that. When Maggie suggests to Nina that they go talk to Crowley and Aziraphale, they have no way of knowing if the beings that just tried to kill them are still in the shop. They didn't even see Aziraphale leave with Whoever Derek Jacobi Is Playing yet because Nina was all "where's the other one?" to Crowley when they arrived back in the shop.

Maggie is literally like: Nina, I know you opened the business you own late and are the only one working right now and have a line of 20 people waiting for their morning, pre-work coffee but what if-- just hear me out-- we just made them wait an indefinite amount of time to voluntarily go back into the place where we nearly died a matter of minutes ago that could still be full of the people who wanted us dead and we did this for no other purpose than just to tell off my beloved adopted godfather and his partner, who just risked harm to save both our lives? And to maybe then also stick our noses into their love lives in return or something?

I mean... WHAT?!?! lol

Consider, even, how even more weird that is when Maggie, just *prior* to having gone to the mini-mart, had never been more on the same page with Nina and never more understanding?

She sacrificed her own want to go sleep behind the counter of her shop to offer to help Nina. It's a big moment of change in their relationship and shows a lot of growth for Maggie. She's gone from someone who is caring but has a tendency to only think about how things make her feel to seeing things from Nina's perspective. She's matured through the season into being someone more ready to be a partner to Nina. Maggie offering to help Nina with her morning rush-- and Nina accepting the help-- is the sweet, romantic moment showing that these two are heading in a positive direction, both individually and together.

When Maggie gets back with the milk, though? After she's been out of our sight for a few minutes? She's behaving very differently.

During S2, Maggie is shown to be a pretty guileless character. She might have the occasional judgemental moment but she's not deceptive or tricky and she really wouldn't hurt a fly. When Maggie comes back from the milk run, though, her insistence on Nina dropping everything and going with her in that moment is not just weird behavior but manipulative in a way that could not be more out of character for Maggie.

Nina has been in an abusive relationship where she was afraid of displeasing Lindsay. Maggie is aware of this, as it's been the subject of multiple conversations between them throughout the season. So, when Maggie gets so bizarrely insistent on Nina dropping her work-- her livelihood, her purpose, her job-- to meet Maggie's demands in that moment? When this isn't an emergency of any kind and isn't at all time-sensitive and there is no objective reason why Nina should be halting her job to do what Maggie wants in this moment? Maggie is being controlling in a Lindsay-like way. She keeps at it, knowing that Nina will give in and agree to go with her because Nina is used to doing that with her partner.

Nina hesitates and isn't sure whether or not to go with Maggie for a moment and I don't really blame her? This is the complete opposite behavior to Maggie before she left for the mini-mart. Maggie is suddenly acting quite a lot like her polar opposite-- the Lucifer-and-Heaven-paralleling Lindsay.

Maggie is also literally on Nina's shoulder like a devil the whole time in the scene in which she's convincing her to step away from the shop and go across the street with her to the other shop for a chat and...

...listen to what we just said there...

...it's a parallel to the thing that Whoever Derek Jacobi Is Playing is doing with Aziraphale, is it not?

So, what happened on the milk run?

Who did Maggie run into at the mini-mart that we couldn't see in the ending of S2 without it giving the game away? I wouldn't be surprised if, on this mirror-happy show, on the other side of learning in S3 that it was The Devil with the coffee in the bookshop in The Final 15, we also had a scene that showed that, while on her milk run, Maggie had a run-in with Sister Teresa's killer.

Did Hastur possess Maggie as part of Satan's plan? Was the idea to use Maggie and Nina to further trip Crowley and Aziraphale towards disaster to get Aziraphale? If so, it kind of half-worked. I'm not convinced that anything Maggie and Nina said to Crowley really mattered-- I think they weren't telling him anything he didn't already know or feel and that it's largely misdirection for the audience. What was effective, though, was the impression Aziraphale got upon seeing them leave as he was coming in.

Maggie and Nina being back in there at this weird time and then rushing out with smiles and comments like that they were "just leaving" and they were sure Crowley and Aziraphale had "a lot to discuss" seem to have led Aziraphale to assume that Crowley had asked them to come back and to the conclusion that he must have done so to tell them of his intent to ask Aziraphale to marry him. It's Maggie and Nina leaving the shop that reinforce to Aziraphale the idea that, when Crowley stands up afterwards, takes off his glasses, and says he supposes he has "something to say", that Crowley is only trying to communicate a proposal and not a plan.

It's what helps-- big time-- to lead Aziraphale to not listen for a shred of coded language for the entire scene. Neither he nor Crowley are listening for that with one another, which is why neither of them can truly understand what the other is saying, but Aziraphale's part of that is really fucked to Hell by the presence of Maggie and Nina in the shop when he came back. That's all pretty suspicious since Maggie was out of our sight for a few moments and came back fixated on the idea that she and Nina needed to go to the bookshop right that very moment and that it couldn't wait.

The Final 15 is a dark parallel to The Baby Swap plot and Maggie and Nina are full of shadows of Sisters Mary and Teresa to a point that the final shots of both of them in the series are mirror images of the final shots of their S1 characters. Nina looking through glass at Crowley departing is the last shot of Sister Mary both in 2008 and 2019, while Maggie's last shot?

To me, it's one of the most eerie moments in the entire series because of how much it visually resembles Sister Teresa's death.

Basically two minutes after we hear about The Second Coming... in the same season where Maggie and Nina's partial-vavoom gives way to a (possessed?) Gabriel saying: the dead will leave their graves and walk the Earth once more... we are shown Crowley and Aziraphale's apparent adopted goddaughter unresponsive on the counter of her shop.

Is Maggie dead?

Is Maggie asleep, like we were led to believe she wanted to do earlier in the episode? Maybe. Is she comatose/unconscious? Maybe. It's just that, best I can tell, she does not take a breath during the shot which I feel had to be intentional on the part of Maggie Service, and she's in the same position as we last saw Sister Teresa in S1...

Then, there's the robbery theme and how Maggie and Nina foreshadow so much of the end of S2 back in this scene here:

In Good Omens, the shop is the character. Maggie is, symbolically, the records she sells. The show also explains that Maggie's shop used to be a part of the bookshop. Now, there are three characters, not two, who are A.Z. Fell & Co.: Aziraphale, Crowley and Maggie. At the same time, Aziraphale is also The Small Back Room. The shops are intertwined as the characters are, essentially, family in the story. The fate of one is the fate of the other, which makes what Maggie and Nina foreshadow when talking about Maggie's shop while trapped together in Nina's not just the fate of Maggie's shop in S2 but also of the bookshop.

Maggie says that if she can't close the door to her shop, someone could walk in and take records. Maggie is the records she sells so, symbolically, this means someone could take Maggie. We got a bit of a preview of that when Shax appeared to get into her mind during the attack on the bookshop and Maggie also became the one who unintentionally "let the robbers in."

These robbers, Maggie frets... they could empty her till-- take all her money on a literal level... take her mind, or maybe even her life, on another. (Not to mention the now chill-inducing use of money-related words and coins with regards to the paralleling Crowley...) These robbers could take forcible ownership of Maggie's shop-- so, of Maggie. Maggie's shop was born of the bookshop... so, they could take forcible ownership of the bookshop, too.

Not just the physical bookshop, though that, too. The symbolic bookshop. Which is not only Aziraphale but Crowley and Aziraphale.

But, if The Small Back Room was originally part of the bookshop, then the bookshop really isn't just Crowley and Aziraphale-- it's Crowley, Aziraphale and Maggie.

If the robbers come for the bookshop, they've also come for The Small Back Room because it is all born of the same, symbolic shop.

Is that what they did?

Is that why Maggie is last shown to us non-responsive in her shop?

Now, Nina's even more foreshadowing reply:

Nina said that, if she owned a record shop, she'd be more concerned about "someone breaking in and leaving more records behind."

What are records? They're the literal records in the musical and old film sense that Maggie sells, yes, and also Maggie herself. They're also books, like what Aziraphale sells, and Aziraphale himself. But they're also a third thing that's very much of note in S2.

They're also the life's work of a scrivener, like what Muriel does.

Nina foreshadows someone breaking in and leaving "more records behind"... which is exactly what happens in The Final 15.

Elspeth's graverobbing. Bildad stealing Job and Sitis' wine and food. The 1810 Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery. Aziraphale having the missing Shakespeare Robin Hood play in the box in 2.06. The robbery-based fantasy Aziraphale was telling Crowley in Lockdown: ...the other night, when a couple of young lads broke into the back and tried to steal the cash(cache)box!

The Final 15 is a robbery.

The last two episodes see the shop attacked during The Meeting Ball and into the next morning. Aziraphale is robbed blind of his entire life. Characters are taken hostage. Signals for help are tried and fail. The cop, it turns out, was a stooge for the robbers. Whoever Derek Jacobi Is Playing broke in through the open door and robbed the place blind, as Maggie foreshadowed. As Nina foreshadowed he would, what did the robber leave behind?

More records. Muriel.

To rob, as we know, is to steal. It's to plunder or strip a place from someone through force and/or violence. That is why it was once, in addition to being descriptive of physical goods stolen from a person, also a word that was used for rape, for which non-consensual possession has been analogous since the show's first episode. That is why some of us think that the music goes insane on the look to Crowley in the scene below. Satan is robbing Crowley-- forcing him to identify him as The Metatron to Aziraphale and the angels and to let Aziraphale go alone with him.

Satan attacked Crowley in front of Aziraphale and, while Aziraphale pretended he didn't see it, he did, which is why he led "The Metatron" straight out the door in an effort to get him away from Crowley. Because, speaking of characters behaving very weirdly... anyone have a better explanation for why guard dog Crowley sat in that chair like he couldn't get out of it and encouraged Aziraphale to go alone with a guy who once tried to kill them? It just doesn't make any sense unless his words are not really his own and there's only one character we've seen do that to him.

And if Crowley's not the only one behaving out of character, then what else happened to Maggie at the mini-mart but something similar?

What happened in The Final 15? Satan robbed the bookshop.

He and The Metatron don't give a toss about the shop itself and plan to destroy it alongside everything else once Armageddon gets rocking. They're there to get Crowley and Aziraphale out of the way for Armageddon by dividing and conquering. Just because we've yet to see blood doesn't mean this wasn't robbery by force.

Satan took hostages at the start-- letting the ones go he didn't care about go and keeping the ones most likely to influence the shop's owner: Crowley and Muriel.

Satan and The Metatron sacrificed Muriel to their plan, not caring if Muriel explodes along with the shop when they kick off Armageddon a matter of *checks watch* basically any minute now after S2. We think Muriel is better off in the shop at the end of S2 but I'm not totally sure they are. I think it actually might be one of the most dangerous places to be in right now. The bookshop didn't burn down this time-- it was burned as safe space in every possible way. It's a crime scene.

The Metatron and Satan are here for revenge. The Metatron is letting Satan have Aziraphale to get Crowley and Aziraphale out of the way for Armageddon. There is no real job offer-- it's all Satan tempting Aziraphale into falling. Satan's revenge on Crowley and Aziraphale is to force Crowley to help him take Aziraphale right out from under his nose. That's the start of it, anyway.

Besides Armageddon and daring to have a relationship and a sense of self outside of the demonic collective of Hell what is Satan really pissed at Crowley and Aziraphale about?

His kid. Adam. Crowley and Aziraphale helping Adam against him.

If Satan has been lying in wait, still very, very angry at Crowley and Aziraphale for turning his son against him and if he's now here for revenge, then who else besides Aziraphale is then most in peril here?

Yes, my Job-and-Sitis-paralleling poppet... your big, cross duck and your kids are most imperiled here and S2 showed us that your kids are not just humanity writ large but, specifically, Maggie. The Small Back Room is of the bookshop that is you and Crowley. Maggie is your Adam. Will Satan come after your daughter? It's a concept posed in your paralleling/foreshadowing story earlier in the season... actually, it was also the entire plot of that paralleling story earlier in the season as well...

I feel like not going with Ennon and Keziah's theories on Satan's behavior is probably the best way to form a Good Omens theory 😂 so I'll stick with the idea that Satan very much would dare leave a revenge body count of Crowley and Aziraphale's adopted kids, as the Job minisode proved he'd do even with the spawn of "God's favorite human", let alone anybody else.

As, speaking of foreshadowing lines, this is really even more S2 than it was about S1:

Satan will even have a whole pseudo-philosophical chat about it with you first, amused that he's standing in a place called Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death and ordering a coffee while the plan is likely for this place, the women making him the coffee, and everyone on this street and on most of the planet to be dead by tomorrow.

Maggie is the only character who actually asked for coffee using that exact word in S2.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Bellatrix: Please, Lucien. Don't. I've lost too much already, I can't lose you too.

Lucien Lachance: Sorry, dear Bella. Safety's never been a good look on me.

[ourfatherwhoartinhell]

Copia: We call that a traumatic event. Copia *turning to Swiss*: Not a “bruh moment” Copia *turning to Phantom*: Not a “major L” Copia *turning to Dewdrop*: And definitely not an “OOF lmao”

[crab-day-creacher]

cease thy wretched queueing, for that day is come and gone forever in the mists of time. you will never find me. you will never reach beyond your circle of thought to discover my identity. sing my name all you like, I will remain anonymous. weep bitter tears, but touch the stars. you do not need me, or my identity. perhaps if you found it you would find only a pathetic figure holding up a tissue paper pretend. ask not for whom the bell tolls. perhaps it is time that I am consigned to the mists of time. time, time, time, and we will all vanish in its haze. do you think you will be remembered? when you gaze into a mirror, does it reflect your face, or a stranger? will you remember yourself?

touch the stars, little poster. I believe in you. perhaps, instead of queueing this post endlessly, you ought to believe in yourself. my time is done. yours could be just beginning.

@get-loved-nerd

What if you and I were the same person...

As a Treat

[lpham2525]

Return Policy

INT. FORGER HOUSEHOLD – DAY  

LOID: Yor, I’m off to the tailor’s to pick up my new suit. Do you need anything while I’m out?  

YOR: Oh! If it’s not too much trouble, could you return this for me, please?  

YOR: *holds out a small shopping bag*  

YOR: I keep forgetting to return it and I think today’s the last day. I’d do it myself, but I already promised to drop off Anya and then meet up with Melinda. I bought this at the boutique next to your tailor’s shop.  

LOID: I can do that. Here, let me—  

LOID: *takes the bag from YOR, then stops cold when he sees the brand name on the bag*  

LOID: Yor, this...this is from Victoria’s Secret.  

YOR: Yes, my coworkers told me that’s where I would buy “clothes for my husband’s eyes only”.   

LOID: S-so you went shopping there...b-by yourself?  

YOR: *sheepish grin*  

YOR: Well, when we agreed to a fake marriage, I didn’t know if you wanted to have a fake honeymoon, too. I thought if you did, then I should be prepared with something so...er, so no one would suspect us! Not to actually do anything! But...but since we didn’t, I don’t need it anymore.  

YOR: *backtracking*  

YOR: You know, now that I think about it, it’s not a big deal! I can just keep it. You don’t have to go out of your way to—  

LOID: *raises a shaky hand*  

LOID: No, it’s perfectly fine. It’s...  

LOID: *clears throat as he pulls himself together*  

LOID: It’s perfectly understandable, Yor. I’d be happy to return this for you. It’s no trouble at all.  

YOR: Really? Thank you, Loid. I’m so glad you’re okay with this.  

LOID: Why wouldn’t I be? I’m just a husband...doing his duty...  

LOID: *swallows because his throat is suddenly dry*  

LOID: ...returning his wife’s lingerie.  

LOID: Well, I’ll...I’ll be off now. Good day. Or should I say good evening? Wait, it’s still morning!   

LOID: What are you doing, Twilight?! Get it together!   

LOID: *in a squeaky voice*  

LOID: I’ll be taking my leave now.   

LOID: *hurries out the door*  

YOR: I knew I shouldn’t have asked him...Now he’s going to think I’m some kind of freak...  

*****************************************************************  

EXT. STREETS OF BERLINT – DAY  

LOID: *rushing by in a daze, repeatedly glancing at the bag*  

LOID: Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.  

LOID: *deep breath*  

LOID: A spy must always maintain his composure. A spy is always on the lookout for danger. A spy is aware of his surroundings at all times.   

LOID: *checks his surroundings over and over again, looking but not really seeing*  

LOID: If there’s no danger present, then why do I feel like I’m on high alert?  

[LOID stumbles into Victoria’s Secret and takes his place in the queue for customer service. He fixes his eyes on a blank spot on the wall and recites the entire Ostanian Secret Police Manual backwards, but every once in a while, his mind is still invaded by images of YOR in...less-than-modest clothing.]  

LOID: *mentally slaps himself*  

LOID: Get a hold of yourself, Twilight! You are the greatest spy in Westalis! You’ve been with untold numbers of women for an uncounted number of missions! You will not be defeated by...by involuntary images of your fake wife in unmentionable underclothes! Remember the Ten Commandments of Being a Fake Husband! Commandment Number Three: Thou Shalt Not Harbor Immodest Thoughts about Thy Fake Wife! No matter how...  

LOID: *gulps*  

LOID: No matter how attractive she may be...  

[The line, mercifully, moves along and it’s finally LOID’s turn. The cashier completes the transaction to the best of his ability, which isn’t helped by LOID fumbling for the receipt and finally (!) opening the bag. Then he stops. He stares. He turns the bag upside-down and shakes it to make sure nothing else is in there. He is confounded by the smooth, slender object that falls out of the bag and rolls onto the counter. He finishes the return, then stumbles home as his brain kicks into overdrive, trying to make sense of the whole thing.]   

*************************************************************** 

INT. FORGER HOUSEHOLD – EVENING.  

YOR: Loid, you’re back later than I thought! I was worried something had happened to you! L-Loid?  

LOID: *in a faraway voice*  

LOID: I returned your item. H-here’s the refund.   

YOR: Thank you, Loid. You can keep the money. Consider it compensation for your trouble.   

LOID: It’s your hard-earned money, Yor. I want you to have it.   

YOR: A-all right.   

YOR: *pockets the money, then fixes LOID with a worried look*  

YOR: Is everything all right? You look like you're overthinking something again.   

LOID: *nods numbly*  

LOID: I have a question for you. Something I don’t quite understand.  

YOR: Yes?   

LOID: When I was returning your item, I expected...something else. The only thing in the bag was a vial of perfume.  

YOR: Oh!   

YOR: *giggles*  

YOR: When I asked my coworkers, they told me that was all I needed to wear for our nights together.  

LOID: That...was all...you were going...to wear?  

LOID: *steam rises from his ears as he quietly loses his mind*  

YOR: *nods enthusiastically, then sees the look on LOID’s face *   

YOR: Unless you’d prefer something else! I saw a pair of angel wings that might have fit me! Should I have bought that instead?   

LOID: *clamps down hard on his runaway imagination*  

LOID: No, no, it’s fine. You should do whatever makes you comfortable, Yor. No need to cater to me.  

YOR: *nervous because LOID is looking more and more tense by the minute*  

YOR: This is purely for the sake of appearances, of course! I would never force any of this upon you, Loid. 

LOID: I would love nothing more than for you to force yourself upon—  

LOID: Ahem, I believe you. And I thank you for doing your part to keep up the charade. I...think I’ll go take a shower now. I’ve been feeling a bit stuffy today.   

YOR: Oh, yes. By all means.   

YOR: *sigh of relief*  

YOR: By the way, Loid, where’s your new suit? Did something happen to it on the way home?  

LOID: The suit! I knew I forgot something!  

LOID: No, it...wasn’t ready after all. After today, I think it’ll need a few...adjustments. Now, if you’ll excuse me...  

LOID: *quickly shuffles to the bathroom and closes the door*   

YOR: Strange. Loid is usually so precise when giving his measurements... 

YOR: *remembers the money in her pocket*  

YOR: Maybe when it’s ready, I can pick it up for him as a surprise! And while I’m there, I’ll swing by the boutique again. I saw a section for garter belts. I wonder if they sell one for knives... 

YOR: *hears whimpering sounds from behind the bathroom door* 

YOR: Oh dear. Loid must be more upset than I thought. Good thing I never tried out that “aphrodisiac” perfume. If he’s appalled by the idea of a fake honeymoon, there’s no telling what that perfume would have done to him...   

[iviarellereads]

Nona the Ninth, Chapter 12

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Fruit tree icon)(1) In which we get proof-of-life on someone many readers haven't met at all.

Everyone behaves as the BOE "kidnap" them to another building, though Nona protests that she's got school, just once, on principle. Eventually, Nona and Cam are left in a room long enough that Crown comes in, and all Nona's discomfort disappears.

Crown, in her heavy boots and stained zip-up jacket and tough canvas trousers with bulging pockets, was the most beautiful woman in the city and maybe on the planet. She filled up the doorway like a light-up sign. She had skin like amber and wonderful hair exactly the colour of golden sugar, and if she had ever been in a queue to get something from a shop everyone would have asked her where she had been all their lives. You could have sold tickets to see her. When she smiled at Nona, like she did now, her purple eyes(2) crinkled up at the corners. She was always happy to see Nona. Nona was regularly the only one happy to see her.

Crown frees Nona, and gives her a wonderful hug. Cam frees herself and asks where Pyrrha is. Crown says "he" always needs to be scanned before "the others" will deal. Cam catches the misgender and says Pyrrha's not a Lyctor. Crown says not everyone has the security clearance to know that, and there's more going on than it appears.

Cam remarks that Crown is "still wearing the sword."(3) Crown says it makes her think of home, and it's an aesthetic. Cam says it's not Crown's to wear, but Crown says if the owner asks, she'll give it back. They banter some more, joking about "the Captain" getting hung out in one of the cages even, and Cam finally drops Coronabeth's name in rebuke for familiarity.

Crown still says it's nice to see them, and this isn't official business, We Suffer just wants a chat. Cam is skeptical they have anything worth saying to each other, and slips on a pair of sunglasses.(4) Nona doesn't like the glasses, as they make Cam look like a mercenary.

Crown leads them down some hallways, to the same room they're always led to here. A meeting room, perpetually scattered with pens and bits of paper, with portraits on the wall, though one of an angry redhead has more flowers below it than the others.(5) Pyrrha is there, in a special restrictive chair, staring at Wake's portrait.

The BOE are all dressed in heavy disguises, obscuring body shape, face, and voice. They always do this. Only, usually there are a dozen, and today only two.

Crown pressed one hand to her chest in a formal salute and said, “Crown Him with Many Crowns Thy Full Gallant Legions He Found It in Him to Forgive,(6) representing Ctesiphon-3, acknowledges We Suffer and We Suffer of Ctesiphon-1. Troia cell reporting in, Cell Commander.”

Pyrrha prods at We Suffer, and then Cam and the still-anonymous BOE member spar verbally over the victims of the port riot. Crown asks if anon is questioning Troia Cell's(7) and thus her unit's loyalty, but We Suffer breaks them up for business.

We Suffer said, “Please listen calmly to what I have to tell you, Hect. The negotiator is in orbit.” Camilla stood up.

We Suffer and Pyrrha discuss the state of politics in the BOE while Cam sits down. The anonymous bodyguard gets a projector in the table going, so that We Suffer can show them a shuttle, obviously a House craft, spotted in orbit almost six and a half hours ago. Cam asks how long the nearest House installation has been abandoned. We Suffer confirms it at three months.

Cam is concerned that the ship isn't big enough for a stele, might not even be big enough for subluminary(8) travel. Crown says it's Ziz-class,(9) not a Cohort standard. It's mostly engine, just a little crew space, but it can "get to sublume" easily enough, even without a stele. She knows because she once had a crush on a boy who liked shuttles, so she learned all she could to try to catch his eye.(10)

The bodyguard and We Suffer argue about whether it even matters, with the bodyguard taking the side that only a few "zombies" could do massive damage. Pyrrha asks Crown what the fuel economy is on Ziz class, and she confirms, it's very thirsty. Only one day's travel in subluminary mode. Cam offers that it could have traveled by the River, which sets the bodyguard off as they don't have clearance to know what the River is.

Pyrrha redirect the conversation, asking who the negotiator is. We Suffer doesn't know, but says many factions are delighted that John Gaius is taking them seriously. Pyrrha asks what this means for the due date.

We Suffer asks for a progress report, looking significantly toward Nona. Crown says she's come along wonderfully, but there are other ways and means for now. We Suffer says they're low on both of those, and Cam replies that their dealings with Lyctors haven't gone very well to date. We Suffer says that's not exactly true, as their dealings with Source Joyeuse and Source Piotra(11) were quite fruitful. Without Wake and Source Aegis(12), they'd know nothing of the Resurrection Beasts. At this, Pyrrha's mouth does "something strange". And, adds We Suffer, Source Chrysaor(13) taught them about obelisks and steles, and took out a number of high ranking House personnel and a monster.

Pyrrha points out that Cytherea took out a few adults, some kids, and an old science project. Now, what does We Suffer mean about progress with Nona, do the BOE plan to weaponize her, or negotiate with her as leverage? Cam points out that the kind of person who would rank two fourteen year olds as "high-ranking House personnel" wouldn't care about Nona as a person.

We Suffer and Cam proceed to debate the finer points of what happened at Canaan House, until Cam says even if they could deliver the one they want(14), hive exposure would limit usefulness to say the least. The bodyguard gets in on the argument, accusing Cam of only having "zombie" sympathies.

Crown slapped the table so sharply that everyone jumped, except Pyrrha. “Oh, shut up! Just shut up … I’m sick of your fake bravado and bloodlust. Leave my wing alone. I can’t stand listening to you rark.”(15) The room fell silent, the bodyguard too. Crown and the guard stared at each other through a layer of air-toggle mask and welding goggles with a hate that was genuine. “You’re only boobs, hair, and talk, Crown,” said the guard. “No,” said Crown. “I’m boobs and hair and talk and a hell of a sword hand.” “Did you think that sounded cool?” said the guard.

We Suffer punishes them both, assigning them to "bullet duty" in their free time today. She adds that this is an old argument, and everyone knows both sides by now. If she says Nona has made no progress, she'll be taken captive and added to the Sixth's sixteen negotiators. If she says Nona is almost read, the others will want proof.

Cam asks for proof of life, to make sure all the sixteen are still alive and together. We Suffer says she made assurances, but Pyrrha says the BOE aren't exactly a united front right now. We Suffer offers a video on a chip, saying she was going to offer it today anyway, and plays it on a panel in the room.

Camilla was still again, chin in one hand and pen in the other, more like a picture of Camilla than Camilla herself. There was a sudden noisy crackle from the speakers in the walls, and then a disembodied voice— “Master Archivist Juno Zeta(16) reporting, remaining as representative of the Oversight Body in lieu of the Master Warden. I count six days, seven hours, and forty-six minutes since the last recording. In answer to the previous question, the article title is Heteroscedasticity in Viscus Models for Long-Term Data.(17) Head count standard. All well within the house formerly identified as Sixth. Awaiting further instructions.”

Cam provides the next proof-of-life question: how many pages in her Scholar's thesis? We Suffer asks for something she can work with, in the BOE. Cam assures that there will be a Lyctor, or equivalent, if they can wait. We Suffer shows no emotive response, but asks if there's anything else. Nona pipes up to say she needs the bathroom.

We Suffer acknowledges that, then leans back in her chair, and says they must think her cruel or traitorous, or naive. She simply never thought they'd be given such an opportunity, and she must act wisely on it to maximize her side's outcome. She is prepared to give an answer to John Gaius's negotiator as to what the BOE is willing to give, and she's sure the BOE will stand by her decision in this matter if given the right reasons. They (the found-family) must help We Suffer give them the right reasons. With this, she dismisses them.

=====

(1) How does this chapter change what we think this icon could mean? Before, it was used when talking with the children... and about Hot Sauce potentially joining a group that might have been the Blood of Eden. Eden, the garden of creation, where Adam and Eve ate of the fruit of the tree of knowledge and were cast out for it. Which, if we stop to think, is a very interesting name to choose. But yeah, the fruit tree icon may have been a misdirect in its first use. Clever play. (2) If we had any doubt left, before the name drop. Though, "Crown" is easier to type than "Corona" for my brain so it's sticking in my notes. It'll still be Coronabeth in my tags though, for search indexing. (3) Gideon's rapier, of course, as we know from As Yet Unsent (and a hint in Harrow's one-chapter encounter) (4) So that Pal can come out to play as needed, of course. And, these are once again Gideon's glasses. The one thing that truly ties the series together: Dave Strider's Ben Stiller's aviators. (5) Memorials to former BOE leaders. Wake, the most recent, is also the most remembered, respected. (6) She got a whole BOE styled name. Crown Him With Many Crowns from that hymn I mentioned before, L'Abidjanaise (or The Song of Abidjan) which is the anthem of the Ivory Coast, and the song Dominion Road by a NZ band known as The Mutton Birds. You may see a pattern in the names, and you'd be right. I expect we'll see some notes on it in the Nona paperback in a few months from when this goes up, though I believe Muir's touched on it in interviews as well. (7) Likely from Troy, of "Trojan War" and "Trojan Horse" fame, given the others are mainly named for ancient cities the same way the members are named for ancient literature and song. (8) Within a luminary, or star, system. (9) A ziz is a great mythological griffin-bird from Jewish tradition, big enough to block out the sun with its wings. Ironic for such a teeny ship. (10) Over and over, Corona sets herself aside to earn someone's heart and consideration, and over and over she fails. The shuttle boy, her sister, Judith. (11) Joyeuse, French for "joyous", as in saint of joy. Piotra I'm slightly less clear on, as all I can find is that it derived from Greek petros for rock, which I suppose implies a sort of patience. (Curse the ongoing fall of useful search engines.) (12) Aegis, literally shield, but also protection, control, guidance… duty, if you will. (13) Chrysaor (which means "he who had the golden sword") was the twin of Pegasus, born of Medusa's neck stump when Perseus cut off her head. No firm idea how this relates to Cytherea/Cythera, birthplace of Aphrodite, and we never got Cytherea's "saint of" name that I recall or can locate, to make a deeper connection. All we can say for sure is that the epithets were for the cavaliers, not the Lyctors, and Loveday more or less wanted everyone dead… which may connect to ol' gold sword after all, really.

(14) Harrow. (15) "To rark up" is to either give a strong reprimand or get excited. (16) Palmom! Who lots of readers haven't met, per my intro, because Doctor Sex isn't nearly as popularly shared as As Yet Unsent. (17) Buckle in, pals, I'm gonna ELI5 this sucker (which means oversimplify and piss off the people who know better. Sorry, I'm more concerned with the ones who don't). Heteroscedasticity is a description of data points. Are you familiar with scatterplot graphs, with all the dots that sometimes have a line drawn where the researcher wants you to see that there's a pattern? The term I have in my copy-paste and am absolutely not typing out by hand refers to a certain kind of distribution of dots in those, where the data doesn't fit a certain expectation. Viscus is in reference to viscera, as in, the organs of the torso. So, the article is likely in reference to a hypothesis about why something about the viscera doesn't fit a certain kind of distribution in a scatterplot when measured. What could the proof-of-life question have been? Will it matter? (At this point in the story, I can honestly tell you, some of the questions I ask have not been answered yet, though some have been answered by the end of this book, and I will not tell you which are which.)

[dvrksiider]

@hopegained​ said: ❝ do you legitimately have any standards or are you just terrible ? ❞

The dark sider had to laugh at his forwardness. After a while, the cowering and pleading of her victims targets tended to get old. There were only a small number of those in the galaxy willing to stand up to her. Eyes glinted maliciously at the bite of his words.

“If I were to grant you an answer, would it sway your perception of me?” Nyla tilted her head as she pretended to ponder on this notion. “I’d be inclined to say no. But now I’m curious, Skywalker. What do you think?” 

[lawrenceop]

HOMILY for 9th Sunday after Pentecost (Dominican rite)

1 Cor 10:6-13; Luke 19:41-47

Earlier this week, I went to Westminster Cathedral to make my Confession and, in these current difficult circumstances, one queues up to enter the church, and then stands in a queue near the front door in order to make one’s confession, standing up, to a priest in the Baptistery area. As I stood there in line at the back of the church, I looked up at one of the Stations of the Cross carved the the Dominican tertiary, Eric Gill; one that I had not quite noticed before. It was the 8th Station: Jesus Meets the Women of Jerusalem. And there, carved in Latin, were the words of Our Lord to those women, as recounted in Luke 23:28f: “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. For behold, the days are coming when they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and the breasts that never gave suck!’”

I had not noticed this before but the Latin text drew my attention to another sentence from the same Gospel of St Luke (11:27), in which an anonymous woman says to Our Lord: “Blessed is the womb that bore you, and the breasts that you sucked!” True blessedness, therefore, in accordance with God’s wisdom and design, is for an individual and for a society to say “Yes” to God, and so to cherish new life, to nurture and educate children so that they, in turn, will have eternal life through friendship with God. Hence, Our Blessed Mother is acknowledged to be the new Eve, the true Mother of all the Living, that is to say, the Mother of all the Baptised who are thus raised to new life by God’s grace. To be numbered among the Baptised, and thus to be called, at least potentially, God’s Saints, is to say “Yes” to God, “yes” to his wisdom, his teaching, his ways which lead to joy and eternal life.  

In contrast to this, the Lord prophesied to the women of Jerusalem that a time will come when people will overturn the wisdom of God, and whose word, therefore is “No”. Like Satan who said, “Non serviam” (I will not serve), so there will come a time when many will choose not to serve God, nor the wisdom of his created order, nor even the natural law. There will come a time, Our Lord warns, when people shall praise willed childlessness: when motherhood and even being female is deliberately avoided or denied; when the fertile are chemically or mechanically rendered barren; and indeed, when even new life in the womb is forcibly terminated. In this culture of death, as Pope St John Paul II called it, one tragically hears it said – albeit with less finesse – “Happy are the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and the breasts that never gave suck!”

The mother of this culture of death is one whom certain Mexicans venerate as Sancta Muerte, ‘Holy Death’, who is an unholy diabolical perversion of Our Lady. For here is one who leads, not to holy and everlasting life in God as Mary does, but to sin and its results which are death and endless misery. For the Devil has already lost the final battle, he is already judged and condemned, and he is doomed to eternal misery in hell. So, in the time given to him, he strives to seduce as many people as possible to join him in his eternal rebellion against God.

Hence in today’s epistle, St Paul reminds us that immorality and idolatry and rebellion against God and his wisdom will only lead to death and destruction. “Therefore, my beloved, shun the worship of idols”, says St Paul (1 Cor 10:14) An idol is any idea, or thought, or person, or created thing, even good things, which is set up ultimately to replace God. Beware of ideologies, political positions, mystic revelations, and so on, therefore, which threaten to supplant the Scriptures and the teachings of Christ and his Holy Church, which become our rule of life.

Instead, before all else, be rooted in the Word of God, and have a deep familiarity with Scripture, just as the Fathers of the Church, and the Saints do. For as St Athanasius says: “The holy and inspired Scriptures are sufficient of themselves for the preaching of the truth.” No other revelations, therefore, are needed. Indeed, as St Jerome says: “ignorance of the Scriptures is ignorance of Christ”, and if we do not know Christ, then we cannot share in his life. (cf Jn 17:3) Our Lady, therefore, shows us the way to eternal life, to friendship with God, for she is always found pondering the Word of God in her heart; often, in sacred art, she is shown reading the Scriptures when St Gabriel comes to her. So, it is through her deep familiarity and knowledge of God’s Word that, at the Annunciation, she can so readily give her graced-response of “Yes” to God’s Word. Thus, the Word became flesh and dwelt within her blessed womb. Thus she is the Blessed Mother of all who truly live, and she desires to lead us to life.

But barren is the age and barren are the peoples and societies who do not know God; who say “No” to Christ’s teachings; who are full of verbiage and opinions and talk but do not listen to God’s Word. And this barrenness wounds the Sacred Heart of Jesus. For God desires for us, not barrenness and death, but blessedness and life.

Hence, in today’s Gospel, the Lord again prophesies a time of death and destruction because Jerusalem, the Holy City, “did not know the time of [its] visitation”. And he then does what he says we shall do in our time: Jesus weeps for the city. Obviously, the Lord’s prophecy refers principally to the historic fall of Jerusalem to the Romans in 70 AD. However, the city of Jerusalem is also a metaphor for God’s beloved people – it is thus also a symbol of the Baptised, of the Church, and also, of the world. As such, the Lord weeps over the desolation that sin and rebellion does to our souls, to us individually, and also to us as a culture and a society. The Lord of Life weeps to see the culture of death in our own time; he calls on the women of Jerusalem to weep for the women of our time who are often victims of this sinful age; and so he calls on us today in the words of the Sacred Liturgy, to turn from sin and to ask for that which pleases God. (cf Collect)

It pleases God that we should love one another; this is the Lord’s main commandment to us. So, in charity, let us weep and do penance for the salvation of our contemporaries. Let us love and dare to befriend those who are misled by the lies of our time, those who genuinely do not know better. This is the challenge of our times, if we truly wish to evangelise our culture: we’re called to love genuinely and compassionately. As Fr Vincent McNabb OP said: “The world is waiting for those who love it… If you don’t love people don’t preach to them – preach to yourself!” Hence our holy father St Dominic was often heard at night doing penance and weeping as he cried out: “Lord, what will become of sinners?” And Our Lady of the Rosary appeared to the children of Fatima asking them if they would do penance to save sinners.

In our own time, as we see the destruction wrought by the culture of death, the Gospel calls us to respond with charity, even as Christ responded with perfect love and compassion when he hung on the Cross. The same Gospel of St Luke records that the Lord said: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do”. (Luke 23:34) And so we Christians today, in a world that is ignorant of God and who know not the deadly effects of what they do, we must weep, and fast, and do penance, and pray for the salvation of all. In the words of today’s Entrance chant: “Save me, O God, by Thy Name, and deliver me in Thy strength”. Or as Our Lady taught Sr Lucia of Fatima to pray: “Lead all souls to heaven, especially those in most need of thy mercy.”

[eddisfargo]

CoMC Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

The Story

39 minutes

So! There’s the story. Old Dantes’ starvation was not neglect, but closer to suicide, which he justified by saying “but the doctor said I should diet!” Danglars is a baron, Fernand is a Count. Both filthy rich and bffs. And Morell, faithful Morell, is so ruined he’d presumably just call quits on his own life if he didn’t have a family relying on him. Lots of anti-justice going on for Edmonde to fix. But it won’t, after all, be as simple as going “Hello. My name is Edmond Dantes. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” Oh no, he has to ruin these people from the ground up, and I am totally here for it. 

He gives poor Gaspard $50,000--which I’m sure is a real thing even though sick wife doesn’t believe in it--even though he acknowledges his character weaknesses. (“You’d have kept the diamond if you thought no one would know.”) And I’m sure he’s planning to save our sweet Morrel and his family. And maybe even the ship that I absolutely cannot spell. (Faraaaaaange? That’s probably it). 

As for Mercedes? Apparently “disappeared” was a bit of an exaggeration. She’s doing outwardly spectacular. She’s a Countess, married to a guy who loves her, she’s got wealth and education and entertainment and … pretty much everything a lady could want except the man she actually loves. A worthy man. She’s even got a son who’s probably like… 12ish? And Dantes finds out she married after 18 months and pulls the whole “frailty, thy name is woman!” which I think is brutally unfair?? Was she supposed to just have waited alone in her little house for 14 years? Maybe if she’d known it was 14 years, she might actually have done so. But as far as she knew it was FOREVER. Dantes was gone. No word. No sign he was alive. If there’d been a sign he was dead maybe she would’ve offed herself after all--which is the whole reason he’s not. 

Come on, dude. She sat around for a year and half mourning you, waiting for you, and taking care of your ailing father. What more did you want from her? He even says it was the most a lover could hope for, but I get the feeling he was being sarcastic. 

Well anyway, hopefully she’ll be a widow soon and marry a new Count. Instead of the Countess of whatever the heck they said she was Countess of, she can be the Countess of Monte Cristo. This had better happen, book, I’m warning you right now.

(PS, I’m suddenly realizing I’m catching up with myself. I just queued up Chapter 46 for 5 days from today, and I’ve only read 54. I’m posting them twice as fast as I’m reading them, which means my queue might start getting inconsistent soon. I think I’m going to go back to 3 a day instead, since I seem to be averaging about 2-2.5 a day)