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[sex-gang-children-official]

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[halcyone-of-the-sea]

hello !! if it’s not too much of a bother can you write another piece featuring Lion 🫶 maybe another angsty piece, maybe a lil lion + farah combo or something else like lion and gaz getting separated from the 141 during a mission and having to fight their way back to the extraction point (?). totally up to you !!! also thank u for keeping us well fed 🙇‍♀️

Lions and Ibexes

PAIRING: John Price x Wife!Reader 'Codename Lion'

SYNOPSIS: Impulsive was what John always called you - affectionately, of course. But he sure does worry when you disappear without him.

WORDCOUNT: 4.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, death, canon typical violence, a tiny bit of angst, fluff, banter, no connection to 'I'll Take the Night Shift' except codenames, protective!Price, suggestive jokes, etc.

A/N: I wanna give Farah a big smooch on her forehead.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“So this is the woman that the Captain won’t keep quiet about,” you smirk and place your hand into Farah Karim’s, eyes shimmering as you both share a tight grip. 

“Commander,” greeting the black-haired woman, your light gear hangs off of you easily and efficiently; clean and well-taken care of. 

“Lion,” she nods, smirking back. “A pleasure.”

“Please,” you huff a laugh, “I wish it could be.” Expressions dim as you instantly get to work, the hot sun and dry air sticking to your flesh like a second skin of humidity. Releasing Farah’s hand you sigh and look around the old town, skimming over the forms of other Urzikstan Liberation Force soldiers. 

Farah does the same, breathing lowly. 

“On that, I believe you’d be right.” Brown eyes flick to yours, looking you over before the woman nods. “Come, we have much to discuss.”

“Lead the way,” your feet push you onward, following behind the Commander as your wedding band clinks against your chest. Held on that long chain, a hand comes up to brush it carefully, letting the man who wears the mirrored piece bring you comfort even from so far away. 

John was set to ship out in two days—there were some other important operations that had taken precedence. While you could have stayed behind with him, as you had wanted to do, a plea from one of the far-distant operators of One-Four-One had caught your ear. The name Farah Karim was known. 

If you didn’t offer assistance, you’d never feel right with yourself. One call to Laswell and it was all set up. 

“I’ll be there in two days,” John had muttered into your scalp as you both lay in bed, tight to one another; lashes fluttering. “Wait for me, yeah? No running off.” 

Your smirk had made him sigh a chuckle. “No stunts of heroics, my Love? Please, do you know who you’re speaking to?”

“You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, y’know?”

“Well,” the words are uttered into his neck and John pulls you tighter into him. “I think that’s just about the most romantic thing to happen to someone.” 

Smiling to yourself, you bring the ring to your lips and kiss it lightly before letting it drop. In your head, John is still in your shared flat in London, and you’ll be back by the hour. If only. 

“You contacted Laswell and said you had encountered more of Barkov's remaining cells?” Your voice carries easy authority; ingrained confidence. 

Farah looks back and nods firmly. 

“They’ve taken over a town in the mountains, my forces can’t break the line.” She sighs aggressively and you stare with a sliding frown. “Even dead, Barkov cannot leave my people alone.”

In the back of your throat, you hum, “Well, parasites tend to be resilient.” Farah leads you into a home with maps on the tables and low talking of strategies from others. They pause when you enter and you nod politely. Many here knew your husband as the Commander did—all those years back when he was still only a Lieutenant and had broken Farah and her brother Hadir out from the Russian’s jail; labeled as prisoners of war. 

John had told you about it during one of the many late nights in your joint offices. Eyes tired and his hands playing with your hair.

“What do you need me to do?” You ask genially, standing near the table and placing your hands down on it—standard M4A1 resting over your chest and your secondary weapon strapped to your thigh. Unlike most, you’d opted for lighter gear to allow you to move faster. 

Fewer packs sit on your vest, and the gleam of the knife on your shoulder was a testament to your preference to close, silent, encounters. Though you liked to use your silver tongue to get out of situations, unfortunately, that wouldn’t work in this instance. 

“Captain Price told me you’re one of the best undercover agents he’s seen.” You perk at this, looking over with raised brows.

“Hell,” your chuckle echoes, “when you said he couldn’t keep quiet I thought you were exaggerating.” 

Farah smiles cheekily at you before pointing to the map of a mountain town surrounded by red Xs.

“My soldiers have marked off choke points all around the area. They’re the only pathways to the town, but heavily guarded.” She glances around the room and you hear her sigh heavily. “I wouldn’t have asked for assistance unless I knew I needed it. I’d prefer to leave foreign fighters out of this conflict, unlike my enemy.” 

“I understand,” your head shakes. “It’s your home—I’ll go where you need me to. John should be here in two days to assist.”

Farah’s face flashes with surprise, her full brows rising on her head. “Price is coming?”

You shrug and laugh, “he’s stubborn.” 

The woman chuffs before moving to fold her arms over her chest. “I think perhaps he’s more of a smitten husband, hm?” At the sheepish expression on your face and dipping eyes, Farah barks a laugh.

The band around your neck clinks into the stock of your gun as you stand to your full height. 

“Is it that obvious,” you tease, tilting your head to her. You knew it was.

“I believe the simple action of asking is proof enough, Lion.” The commander looks at her work on the table, smiling easily but focusing still on her plan of attack. “But, regardless, I give my thanks for flying out on such short notice.”

“We help our own.” Resting your hands on the body of your weapon, you smile fondly. “Now, who do I need to kill?” 

—

As it turns out, killing was the very baseline of what you needed to do. 

Shuffling into the dark armor of the dead Russian soldier at your feet, you grunt at the slick spread of blood on the ground as you strap arm braces to your limbs. 

“Heavy as all hell,” you grumble under your breath, picking up the large helmet and shoving it over your head with a puff of air. 

Farah was going to lead a distraction on the far side of the western choke point while you slipped into the ranks, placing packs of C4 in some of the large-stocked weapons buildings. Easy enough for you, you admitted. You’d done things like this a million times over. 

When all was said and done, slipping your knife into the new belt at your waist, you gaze down at the dead man with a huff of air; seeing the blood still pooling from the very obvious signs of a slit up the left armpit. You blink and stuff your wedding band down your shirt. 

“Bad day, buddy,” grabbing his legs, you bare your heels and drag the body behind a large outcropping of rocks—long streaks of crimson left behind. “I’d hate to be you right now.” 

Grunting, you drop the limp flesh with a thump like a paper-towel roll meeting the counter. 

Shuffling back into the open, your feet make tracks to get you closer toward your targets. You hike the small pouch Farah gave you farther up your back without a word more. 

John had always said you were quick-witted, but when he got here he’d lose that hat of his in disbelief. The truth was that you had forgotten what little of the Russian language you’d initially known, and the situation you found yourself in now was frankly not ideal.

C’mon Lion, you think to yourself, just pick up social cues and you’ll be good. 

Oh, your husband was going to lose his shit.

—

“Come again?” The Captain barks. “What do you fuckin’ mean she’s in the base?!”

“I just explained it,” Farah levels, raising a brow. Blue eyes narrow with a growl until the Commander's lips flicker in a smirk. “We just had word three minutes ago. She’s fine, Captain.” Fingers find John’s nose bridge, digging deep into the flesh in large exasperation and worry.

He had caught a C17 and came here a day early after he’d gotten a bad feeling—internal wife radar going off as it usually did when you placed yourself in danger without him. Which was more often than not.  

I told her not to be impulsive. 

John sighs long and low, shaking his head. “Farah…you sent her in alone?” 

“She is quite capable, Price.”

“I fucking…” He stops himself and puts his hands on the table in the center of the building. Men and women were snickering from the corners, sending amused glances. “I know.”

Farah sends a glance to her soldiers and they turn away to cover their smiling mouths. Enjoyment was in her tone as she grabs the walkie-talkie from the table top and clips it to her vest. 

“There were more men than we anticipated—she had to be more careful when placing the charges. Captain,” John glares up at her when his eyes leave the maps. The Commander teases, “She is fine.”

As if on cue, the radio fizzles with your voice. Farah looks down with surprise and the Brit's eyes snap to it immediately; body tense. 

There’s a moment of garbled static where the Captain feels his heart beating out of his chest. The panic that had snapped through him when you hadn’t come out to greet him when he’d landed was primal; genuine fear stuck in his bones like spiky grass. The bond the two of you had was closer than anything on this plane of existence. It was rare to not see one without the other.

Your voice cuts through and John’s shoulders sag under a non-existent weight.

“You should tell your men to move unless they want to be scorched, Farah!” The woman in the room smiles ferally and raises a smug brow as she looks at John. 

“Copy, Lion. You have my thanks.” 

“I didn’t know you could improvise Russian—it’s like the Slavic blood just entered my body!” The Brit covers his eyes with his hand and groans at the base of his throat. 

“Tell her to get her arse back here before she gets bloody shot.” John takes off his bucket hat and tosses it to the table with a gloved hand, punching his hair back from his forehead. “Giving me gray hairs,” he grunts. 

Farah laughs and says eagerly into the walkie, “Someone’s here to say hello.”

“...Oh, fuck.” Your panting breath clears and after a long glare at the device, John hears you say in a slow and awkward tone, “Hello, my Love!”

Farah tilts the radio closer to him and looks highly pleased. 

“Get back here. Now.” John grunts out, fingers digging into his arms as he crosses them. “I told you to wait for me.”

You laugh nervously, deflecting, “...did you, Dear? I guess I misheard you.” The Brit’s jaw clenches but Farah can speak before he can.

“Lion, are all the charges set, then?” You seem thankful for the distraction, sighing over the line.

“All good over here! I just need the O.K from your men and then it’s about to get a whole lot brighter.” 

“I’ll relay the news—get away, as far as you can.”

“Already on it,” your breathy chuckle exits and you pause before saying. “See you soon, Love!” 

Tiny blue eyes bug, “Wait–!” The line clicks off and Farah is already tapping into the frequency for her soldiers, turning slightly away to converse in quick Arabic. 

—

Evening rolls around and you jog back into the Liberation Force’s base, greeting the guards stationed with a breathless sigh; utterly sweaty but happy you’d gotten half a ride back from some locals. You’re back in your original gear, sear marks on your cheeks and hair slightly burned, but nonetheless unharmed. 

Everyone welcomes you back with handshakes and pats on your shoulders—brushes to your arm as people pass. You guide yourself back to the main building with chuckles and deep smiles of achievement. 

“Someone’s happy.” John’s voice freezes you halfway into the home and you cringe like a leaf. After a moment your eyebrows slide up with a cheeky smile.

“John,” you draw out his name and turn, seeing him leaning against the house with his arms crossed and legs stiff. He looks unimpressed in all of his handsome glory. “Well, don’t you look nice—did you trim your beard before coming out?” 

Walking slowly towards him, you loop your hands around his waist and press kisses into his neck sweetly. The man sighs long and you feel his large palms rest on your hips heavily. You blink innocently into his orbs. 

“Your silver tongue won’t work on me, Love.” The glint in his expression eggs you on as his nose tints down to touch yours. You smile brightly, seeing the wrinkles on his forehead dim as he melts into you easily. 

Whispering, you utter to the air, “I’d say you like my tongue, you brute. Tell me often enough.” Not a beat is missed, but you feel his cheeks go slightly red.

“Keep it on a leash and maybe I’d like it more, yeah?” You snort loudly, head dipping only to feel his lips press into your scalp; his smile is teasing as his beard drags against you. 

John breathes you in along with the scent of sand. One of his hands travels up to lock into the back of your neck, playing with the chain of your necklace. The one that mirrors his own down to the very dents and scratches. 

“You alright?” The words are a murmur into your flesh. You let him play with your wedding band as your smile softens to the same sensation of warm pelts on a wooden floor. 

There was no use telling you to stop your crusades, the Brit knew that. You did what you wanted and damn the consequences; John was stuck with damage control but knew you had the skills and know-how to break all odds. You still held that same fire that the woman he married wore like a crown of fangs without fail.  

“Always,” you reassure him, hugging his waist tighter and staring into his eyes.

The both of you lapse into a delicate hold. John’s arms cage you in and you’d have it no other way as fingers drag over warm flesh, never mind the brutal dig of gear or the stain of blood. Neither could keep you away from the other. 

“When will you stop making my heart rip out of my chest, Sweetheart?” John asks, smirking down at you. “Trying to give me a heart attack before forty, eh?”

“Oh, please,” you whisper against his lips, eyes alight with mischief as he watches you closely—pulse pounding against yours. He could never be angry at you. “We both know that if you have one, I’ll be having one too. We’ll end up being brain-dead at the same damn time, no doubt.” 

He laughs against you lowly, having to pull back to shake his head at your bland confession. “You’re fuckin’ mental, Love.” He breathes in soft puffs of breath. You gaze up at him, laced with affection and care, as he rests his forehead on yours. “Ah, but that’s alright, isn’t it? We’re all a bit crazy.” 

“You might be a little bit higher on the metaphorical scale,” you tease, face serious but eyes betraying you. They always would when it came to John; the only person to break through that ‘cunning nuisance’ that everyone always mentioned in your file. 

“Really, now?” He blinks, smirking and rubbing at your hip absentmindedly and leaning closer—pushing your neck to the side. 

“Just a bit,” you huff, not even realizing. 

Before you can utter another word, firm lips capture you like a beast in iron bars, bulky forearms stuck at the curve of your spine. You chirp into John’s mouth in surprise but melt into him as his large purr resonates into your bloodstream. Singing, you bring your hands to his cheeks, digging through those bristles to feel the burn on your hands. 

Humming, your husband nuzzles his nose into your cheek like a dog would, letting him take in your scent as you feel your legs go weak. You enjoy the worship he gives you; always would. Your body is tightly held against his own and you gladly would have shown him how much you enjoyed him being here if only for the small fact you needed to talk to Farah. 

With one last pass of his reddened lips, you slip back and kiss his bristly cheek with a chuckle. 

“Later.” 

He groans into you. “Tease.” 

“I didn’t even do anything!” You laugh loudly, moving out of his hold to walk into the house as he follows at your heels. John’s hands go to the top of his vest collar to rest. 

He leans down and whispers, “Don’t need to, Love.” 

Your face burns for him and only him as he grumbles out chuckles at your blown pupils. Huffing, you turn and roll your eyes, trying to dispel your flaming blood. Farah waits for you and with a happy glance up she comes from around the table and claps you on both shoulders. You grunt in surprise but grip her elbows with a laugh. 

“Barkov’s remaining cell was wiped out—my soldiers are hunting down the remnants as we speak.” She squeezes your gear and you sigh in relief. “Thank you, Lion, for coming out when you did. The Captain was not wrong in his assessment.” 

You turn your head to the side and glance back at John. “Hear that my Love, I’ve heard you talk about me. That’s so precious.” 

His face goes red under his beard, and his feet shuffle as you and Farah share a joking glance. John releases under-the-breath grumbles before the Commander addresses him. The woman releases you but speaks past your person.

“Some of my younger soldiers wanted you to mentor them with the use of their weapons, do you plan on staying the night?” You and John share a look, a seeming telepathic communication going on. 

He nods at you and you smile. “Only tonight, we ship out at first light. I’ll do what I’m able.”

“Then you also have my thanks. They’ll learn much, I’m sure. Lion,” John comes and gives you a kiss on the cheek before leaving. You watch him go for a moment before rubbing at your dirty neck while you listen to Farah. “Come with me, there’s fresh water on the roof.” 

“Oh,” you perk, suddenly realizing the fatigue in your bones and the dryness of your throat. “Thank you, that’d be great.”

As you both ascend the stairs to the roof, there’s a still silence that falls, a calm nothingness. When you finally stand on the flat roof, you look over the vast land as Farah hands you a chilled water bottle from a mini-fridge. You take it with a small nod in thanks. 

“Nice view,” you motion with the bottle before taking a long sip—downing half of it in one go. 

Farah smiles and hums. “Urzikatan is a beautiful place,” you listen and wipe at your mouth; seeing people walk the streets below as the red sun grows even lower. In the wind, your nose twitches to sand and dust, with some hint of floral notes and arid cleanliness. Farah’s face seeps with a low sadness when she looks out to the land and you pause your drinking. Brows pulling in, you watch her. 

“Farah?” You ask, carefully. It’s a moment before she responds.

“I…” She crosses her arms and sets her feet. “I wonder if this place will ever see its freedom. We’ve been fighting for so long already. My family has known war more than anything else.” Brown eyes drift to you from the side of her eye. 

There’s a tightness in your chest. You can’t imagine what Farah feels right now, what she has felt. Years of this…and still her home is under foreign subjugation. A frown grows on your face and you put the half-full bottle to the small wooden table near the roof’s corner. 

“You’ll get your sovereignty, Farah.” You try your best to speak your mind to the woman but remain truthful to your belief. Farah stares out as you sigh lowly. “Maybe not now—maybe not in this generation—but someday the sun is going to set on a free Urzikatan. You’re plenty strong enough to assure that and you’ve done a proper job so far. The frames are already set.” 

The Commander hums and gazes at her soldiers below as they mull about, laughing with each other and enjoying the company of their fellow countrymen.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like?” Farah asks you, and you study her genuine interest in her own thoughts. “Who we would be if nothing ever happened to us.” 

You stare for a moment, skull tilting down to gaze at the top of the roof. It’s not an easy question to answer. 

“Sometimes,” your lips admit. Farch eagerly pivots to your form like you hold the greatest answer imaginable. She’s been through so much—losing her family, and her home. Humming, your eyes shift to the setting sun; blinking at it. Against all of this, your lips flinch up into a smile. “But not often.” 

Farah’s eager gaze turns confused, her brows furrowing deeply with a scrunched face. 

“Because right here, right now,” John walks down the street below, and your eyes fall to him as easily as a leaf dances to the ground. The expression on your face eases. “It couldn’t have happened if there were never bad days.” Your husband looks up, and you see him pause among the ranks of other fighters. You chuckle softly, head tilting to the side. 

John stares at you as if you’re the only person to exist, moving one hand from his vest to jerk two fingers in a subtle greeting. Farsh watches the interaction closely, tension loosening from her body. Your head nods slowly to your husband and you say to the woman, absent-minded, “I’m right where I need to be…And the sun has never looked brighter.”

Farah huffs a laugh, eyes running back and forth between the two of you. 

“He loves you,” she says, “deeply.” 

“God,” your laugh echoes, “I sure hope so.” The both of you laugh. 

It felt easy to speak to the Commander, truthfully. Being surrounded by four men all of the time can get catty even with such a strong bond as you had with One-Four-One. 

You dare to share more.

"In my mind, John and I are still in Hertfordshire for our wedding,” The words come out of you slowly, unwrapping emotions one layer at a time as if swaddled in a dark veil of internal nostalgia. You watch John as he walks along, oddly sad but filled with something that makes you want to take him up into your arms with a wet laugh. “Sitting back on the grassy hills outside of town in my gown and him in his tux. The wind is cold…but neither of us can find it in ourselves to shiver. The sun's setting on our heads and making everything glow gold. His fingers are running through my hair…” You pause and hear Farah’s soft breath in the air, but you don’t look at her. Your eyes stay stuck on one person only. “When I die,” your words continue, “I can't ask for anything more than just a glimpse of that again. Just a flicker of that hill. Of those blue eyes looking into mine. I don't think it would be all that bad if I could live in that moment for senseless eternity. If I could live in it for only one second." 

John looks back at you from over his shoulder, your form shrouded in the setting sun as he slowly walks away from you. You gaze with melted eyes, the ring around your neck shining all the brighter. 

“I’m right where I need to be,” finishing, you turn your glossy eyes to Farah, who stares with a wide pull to her lids. “And you need to believe that even if you never get to see that freedom—that hill—you’ll make sure someone else can climb it just an inch farther.” 

It’s a long moment before Farah answers.

“The both of you will do this until one of you dies, hm?” You blink before you shrug. 

“Not one.” Your tone is easy, and John’s shadow turns a corner; out of sight. “I’d never let him go without me.”

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[amphibious-thing]

I would absolutely love to see examples of historical terminology? I feel like I've only scraped the surface.

So I'm going to focus mostly on 18th century English because that's what I read the most (we will dip a little into French but mostly from an English perspective). Even narrowing the focus there's still kind of a lot. Like I'm probably going to forget something cause there is so much to talk about.

Sexuality

The first thing that's important to understand is sexuality labels were action based not attraction based. This doesn't mean people didn't understand sexual attraction, they very much did, it's just that terminology was based on action not attraction. Terminology was essentially separated into men who have sex with men and women who have sex with women. It also important to remember that these terms were not exclusive to men who only had sex with men and women who only had sex with women but also applied to people who had sex with both men and women.

Men Who Had Sex With Men

Sodomy/Buggery

The terms most commonly used in formal/legal contexts were sodomite and bugger. Bugger comes from buggery and sodomite from sodomy, both of which broadly speaking referred to anal intercourse or bestiality regardless of sex/gender but was most commonly associated with sex between men. The legal definition of sodomy in English common law was as follows:

Sodomy is a carnal Knowledge of the Body of Man or Beast, against the Order of Nature; It way be committed by Man with Man, (which is the most common Crime) or Man with Woman; or by Man or Woman with a Brute Beast. Some Kind of Penetration and Emission is to be proved, to make this Crime, which is Felony both by the Common and Statute Law, in the Agent and all that a present, aiding and abetting; also in the Patient consenting, not being within the Age of Discretion.

~ The Student’s Companion or, the Reason of the Laws of England by Giles Jacob, 1734, p239

However colloquially it was generally used to describe sex between men without the focus on Penetration and Emission.

Related to sodomy were the words sodomitical, sodomitically and sodomiting, these terms were used to describe a person, action or place that was related to sodomy (esp. sex between men) but did not necessarily constitute legal sodomy. (for examples see Trial of Martin Mackintosh, 11 July 1726, A Treatise of Laws by Giles Jacob, 1721, p165 and Trial of Thomas Gordon, 5 July 1732 respectively)

From buggery we get the presumably derogatory term buggeranto. (for an example see The London Spy, part III, published 1703)

Molly

The preferred term used by the community was molly. Rictor Norton explains in Mother Clap’s Molly House:

The early church fathers stigmatised homosexuals as molls or sissies, and secular society called effeminate men molly-coddles and homosexuals mollies; having no other self-referring terms except the even less appealing Sodomite or Bugger, gay men transformed Molly into a term of positive self-identification, in exactly the same way that the modern subculture has transformed Gay (which derived originally from ‘gay girl’, meaning a female prostitute) into a term of pride and self-liberation.

Molly (plural mollies) was a noun:

Sukey Haws, being one Day in a pleasant Humour, inform’d Dalton of a Wedding (as they call it) some Time since, between Moll Irons, and another Molly,

~ James Dalton’s Narrative (1728)

Molly/mollied/mollying could also be a verb:

I was going down Fleet-Street, I was just come out of Jail. This Man, the Prosecutor, is as great a Villain as ever appear'd in the World. I was coming down Fleet-Street, so Molly says he; I said, I never mollied you. My Lord, I never laid my Hand upon him, nor touch'd him; I never touch'd the Man in my Life.

~ Trial of Richard Manning, (17 January 1746)

And mollying could be used as an adjective:

But they look'd a skew upon Mark Partridge, and call'd him a treacherous, blowing-up Mollying Bitch, and threatned that they'd Massacre any body that betray'd them.

~ Trial of Thomas Wright, (20 April 1726)

A molly house was house or tavern that catered to mollies. Molly houses would typically serve alcohol and often had music and dancing. Usually there was a room where mollies could have sex known as the chapel. (see Trial of Gabriel Lawrence, 20 April 1726 for an example of the term molly house in use, Trial of George Whytle, 20 April 1726 and Trial of Margaret Clap, 11 July 1726 for details on the chapel, and Trial of William Griffin, 20 April 1726 for molly houses taking lodgers.)

Mollies also had their own slang which I have a separate post on if you want to learn more about that.

Euphemisms

Euphemisms for men who had sex with other men included Back Gammon Player and Usher, or Gentleman of the Back Door. To navigate the windward passage was a euphemism for anal sex. (see The Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 1785.)

References to the classics were also sometimes used as euphemisms. A common example is Zeus's male lover Ganymede. (for an example see Public Advertiser, 4 Sept 1781)

Anal Sex Roles

The roles in anal sex were known as pathic (sometimes spelt Pathick) or patient (bottom) and agent (top). I have a longer post about the cultural perception of roles in anal sex if you're interested in that sort of thing.

Other Terms for Men Who Had Sex With Men

Pederast: In the 18th century the word pederasty was used synonymously with sodomy and did not denote age simply sex. An Universal Etymological English Dictionary (1726) defines “A pederast” as “a Buggerer” and “Pederasty” as “Buggery”.

Catamite: In particular catamite often, but not always, denoted the younger partner in a male-male sexual relationship. It was sometimes used to specifically describe boys but it was sometimes used it to describe men. Cocker's English Dictionary (1704) defines catamite as "a boy hired to be used contrary to nature, for Sodomy" but The New Royal and Universal English Dictionary (1763) defines catamite simply as "a sodomite." Catamite was also sometimes used as synonym for pathic.

Gomorrean: Like sodomite this one comes from the biblical story of Sodom and Gomorrah. However it wasn't nearly as commonly used. (for an example see The London Chronicle, 4 - 6 Jan 1757)

Madge Cull: This one came about towards the end of the century. It comes from a combination of Madge a slang term for “the female genitals” and Cull slang for “a man, a fellow, a chap.” (see Green’s Dictionary of Slang)

Women Who Had Sex With Women

Sodomy

While English common law did not consider sex between women sodomy this was not true across Europe. (see Louis Crompton, The Myth of Lesbian Impunity Capital Laws from 1270 to 1791) Most English colonies followed English common law however this aspect of the law was not unanimously agreed upon.

In 1636 Rev. John Cotton proposed to the General Court of Massachusetts a body of laws that would define sodomy as "a carnal fellowship of man with man, or woman with woman". (Crompton, p19)

In a 1779 bill submitted to the Virginia Assembly on crime and punishment Thomas Jefferson explicitly includes sex between women. He quotes Henry Finch's Law, or, a Discourse Thereof; in Four Books which defines sodomy as "carnal copulation against nature, to wit, of man or woman in the same sex, or of either of them with beasts." Jefferson disagrees with Finch on including bestiality because it "can never make any progress" and "cannot therefore be injurious to society in any great degree". However he doesn't dispute the inclusion of sex between women. He proposes that the punishment for sodomy be "if a man, by castration, if a woman, by cutting thro’ the cartilage of her nose a hole of one half inch diameter at the least." (see A Bill for Proportioning Crimes and Punishments in Cases Heretofore Capital, 18 June 1779)

While there was some disagreement on the legal definition of sodomy, colloquially if someone was talking about sodomy they were probably talking about sex between men. A clarification would likely be added if they were talking about women e.g. female sodomite.

Tribade

Coming from French tribade was defined in The New Pocket Dictionary of the French and English Languages (1781) as a "female sodomite". Tribade was used in English at least as early as 1585. It originally comes from the ancient Greek word τρίβειν meaning "rub" and is a reference to tribadism. The word tribadism however did not come into use until the 19th century. (see OED)

Sappho was a famous Tribade; as appears by the Testimonies of all the old Poets, but particularly from that beautiful Ode (addressed to one of the Ladies, with whom she was in Love) which Longinus has preserved, and which has ever been so highly esteemed by all the Critics.

~ William King, The Toast (1732)

Sapphic

Sapphic (sometimes spelt sapphick) originally meant "relating to, characteristic of, or reminiscent of Sappho or her writings". (OED) It became a term for sexual activity and sexual desire between women in reference of course to the accent Greek poet Sappho's love poems addressed to women. In fact in 18th century England Sappho was often cited as being the first woman who had ever had sex with another women.

Sappho, as she was one of the wittiest Women that ever the World bred, so she though with Reason, it would be expected she should make some Additions to a Science in which Womankind had been so successful: What dose she do then? Not content with our Sex, begins Amours with her own, and teaches the Female World a new Sort of Sin, call’d the Flats, that was follow’d not only in Lucian’s Time, but is practis’d frequently in Turkey, as well as at Twickenham at this day.

~ Satan’s Harvest Home (1749)

Sapphic is an adjective:

Look on that mountain of delight, Where grace and beauty doth unite, Where wreathed smiles must thrive; While Strawberry-hill at once doth prove, Taste, elegance, and Sapphick love, In gentle Kitty *****.

~ A Sapphick Epistle (1778)

Sapphism is a noun for the act or desire:

it has a Greek name now & is call’d Sapphism, but I never did hear of it in Italy where the Ladies are today exactly what Juvenal described them in his Time – neither better nor worse as I can find. Mrs Siddons has told me that her Sister was in personal Danger once from a female Fiend of this Sort; & I have no Reason to disbelieve the Assertion. Bath is a Cage of these unclean Birds I have a Notion, and London is a Sink for every Sin.

~ Hester Thrale Piozzi, Thraliana, 9 Dec 1795

Sapphist is a noun for the person:

Nature does get strangely out of Fashion sure enough: One hears of Things now, fit for the Pens of Petronius only, or Juvenal to record and satyrize: The Queen of France is at the Head of a Set of Monsters call’d by each other Sapphists, who boast her Example; and deserve to be thrown with the He Demons that haunt each other likewise, into Mount Vesuvius.

~ Hester Thrale Piozzi, Thraliana, 1 April 1789

Lesbian

Originally meaning "a native or inhabitant of the Greek island of Lesbos" (OED) this is another reference to Sappho who was from Lesbos.

However, this little Woman gave Myra more Pleasure than all the rest of her Lovers and Mistresses. She was therefore dignified with the Title of Chief of the Tribades or Lesbians.

~ William King, The Toast (1732)

Tommy

Tommy (plural tommies) is a fairly uniquely 18th century term as it doesn't seen to have been used earlier and is rarely used later. Speculatively it may be etymologically linked to tomboy which dates back to 1656. (OED)

Women and Men, in these unnat'ral Times, Are guilty equal of unnat'ral crimes: Woman with Woman act the Many Part, And kiss and press each other to the heart. Unnat'ral Crimes like these my Satire vex; I know a thousand Tommies 'mongst the Sex: And if they don't relinquish such a Crime, I'll give their Names to be the scoff of Time.

~ The Adulteress (1773)

Euphemisms

The game of flats, game at flats or simply flats was a euphemism for sex between women. Rictor Norton explains it was “a reference to games with playing cards, called ‘flats’, and an allusion to the rubbing together of two ‘flat’ female pudenda.” (Mother Clap’s Molly House, p233)

I am credibly informed, in order to render the Scheme of Iniquity still more extensive amongst us, a new and most abominable Vice has got footing among the W—n of Q—–y, by some call’d the Game at Flats;

~ Satan’s Harvest Home (1749)

In a diary entry Hester Thrale Piozzi repots "’tis a Joke in London now to say such a one visits Mrs. Darner". This was in reference to the rumours of sapphism that surrounded the sculptor Anne Damer. Piozzi goes on to recored a poem concerning Anne Damer's relationship with actress Elizabeth Farren that was being passed around her social circle:

Her little Stock of private Fame Will fall a Wreck to public Clamour, If Farren herds with her whose Name Approaches very near to Damn her.

~ Hester Thrale Piozzi, Thraliana, 9 Dec 1795 (see ‘Random Shafts of Malice?': The Outings of Anne Damer by Emma Donoghue for more on the rumours surrounding Anne Damer)

Absence of Sexual Attraction

With 18th century sexuality labels being action based rather than attraction based we have no exact equivalent for the word asexual. Just as we have no exact equivalent for the word homosexual. There was of course words for people who had never had sex (virgin, maiden) and words for people who planned on never having sex (celibate).

However this doesn't mean 18th century people had no way of talking about a lack of sexual attraction. The Chevalière d'Eon in a letter to the Comte de Broglie talks of "the natural lack of passion in my temperament, which has prevented my engaging in amorous intrigues”. Her lack of sexual interest became part of her self-styling as La Pucelle de Tonnerre (The Maiden of Tonnerre) after Joan of Arc who was known a La Pucelle d'Orléans (The Maiden of Orleans). (see D’Eon to the Comte de Broglie, 7 May 1771. Translated by Alfred Rieu, D'Eon de Beaumont, His Life and Times, p141; also for examples of the English press calling her La Pucelle d'Orléans see the Public Advertiser, 4 May & 11 June 1792)

The Third Sex/Gender

In the 18th century intersex people were predominantly referred to as hermaphrodites (while it is now considered offensive I will use it in this post as I think there is educational value in understanding it's historical use). In The Mysteries of Conjugal Love Reveal'd Written in French Nicholas de Venette explains that intersex people were permitted to "chuse either of the two Sexes". However if they strayed from the chosen role of man or woman they could be "punished like a Sodomite". (p465)

In the 18th century the words sex and gender were used somewhat synonymously. The word hermaphrodite along with third sex and third gender were used to describe not only intersex people but also gender nonconforming endosex people. Your clothes, interests, speech patterns and the way you move were all considered part of your sex.

Consider The Fribbleriad by David Garrick. Garrick was an actor known for playing fops. In the poem he portrays his critics as a group of effeminate men who were angry at him for they way he mocked them in his work:

In forty-eight— I well remember— Twelve years or more— the month November— May we no more such misery know! Since Garrick made OUR SEX a shew; And gave us up to such rude laughter, That few, ‘twas said, could hold their water: For He, that play'r, so mock’d our motions, Our dress, amusements, fancies, notions, So lisp’d our words and minc’d our steps, He made us pass for demi-reps. Tho’ wisely then we laugh’d it off, We’ll now return his wicked scoff.

"OUR SEX" is understood to be the sex of effeminate men. A sex distinct from that of acceptable manhood or womanhood which is defined by their "dress, amusements, fancies, notions" as well as the way they "lisp'd" their words and "minc’d" their steps.

John Bennett in his popular conduct book Letters to a Young Lady on a Variety of Useful and Interesting Subjects advises young women against wearing riding habits warning that they would "wholly unsex her". The Guardian reports that some people had "not injudiciously stiled" the riding Habit "Hermaphroditical". And The Spectator complains about riding Habits calling them an "Amphibious Dress" and describing women who wear them as "Hermaphrodites" and a "Mixture of two Sexes in one Person". (The Guardian, 1 September 1713, reprinted in The Guardian edited by John Calhoun Stephens, p 486; The Spectator 19 July, 1712)

The word amphibious is one that comes up a lot in the 18th century in regards to gender. A dictionary of the English language (1794) defines amphibious as "living in two elements". John Bennett describes effeminate men as "poor amphibious animals, that the best naturalists know not under what class to arrange."

Alexander Pope famously called Lord Hervey an "Amphibious Thing!" that acts "either Part". Lady Mary Wortley Montagu said that "this world consisted of men, women, and Herveys". And William Pulteney describes him as "delicate Hermaphodite", "a pretty, little, Master-Miss" and "a Lady Himself; or at least such a nice Composition of the two Sexes, that it is difficult to distinguish which is most predominant." (Alexander Pope, Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot; The Letters and Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu edited by Lord Wharncliffe, v1, p95; William Pulteney, A Proper Reply To a late Scurrilous Libel)

Macaroni, amazon, virago, fop, petit-maitre, coxcomb, amphibious, unsex, dandy, namby-pamby, he-she things, lady-fellow, master-miss, fribble, dubious gender. These were all terms to describe gender nonconforming people. Many of these terms were used in a derogatory way but not all of them were intended as such and some GNC people identified with some of these terms. For example a young Charles James Fox described himself as a petit-maitre in his 18 Oct, 1763 letter to his father. While at Eton, which he found "more disagreeable than I imagined", he laments "you may see the petit maître de Paris is converted into an Oxford Pedant."

Many of the people who were labeled as third sex/gender would not necessarily have identified as such. With even the smallest deviation from the norm giving rise to the label. Including one 1737 article which claimed that "Ugly Women" may "more properly be call'd a Third Sex, than a Part of the Fair one". (Common Sense, or The Englishman's Journal, 28, Feb)

Gender Presentation Through Gendered Language

While there is no real equivalent for the word transgender in 18th century English this doesn't mean people had no way of expressing their gender though language. People referred to themselves as being men, women, both or neither. Gendered names, titles and pronouns were also used to express one's gender.

The Chevalière d'Eon

D'Eon asserted her gender identity though gendered names, pronouns and titles. When she started openly living as a women she changed her first name to Charlotte making her full name Charlotte-Geneviève-Louise-Auguste-André-Timothée d’Eon de Beaumont. However she preferred the name Geneviève and would often write her name simply Geneviève d'Eon.

[Admission-ticket for Geneviéve d'Eon, with red seal; c.1793; via The British Museum (C,2.3)]

D'Eon used she/her pronouns. Here is an example of her using she/her pronouns for herself when writing in third person:

[Invitation from the Chevalière d’Eon to Lord Besborough; c.1791; via The British Museum (D,1.268-272)]

As she was French d'Eon used French titles even in English. She would sometimes use the title Mademoiselle (a title for unmarried women) but other times she used Chevalière. In 1763 she was awarded the Cross of Saint-Louis and with that came the masculine title Chevalier. When she started openly living as a women she switched from the masculine Chevalier to the feminine Chevalière. Perhaps the most fun example of her using the feminine Chevalière is the sword she gifted to George Keate which was inscribed: "Donné par la Chevalïere d’Eon à son ancïen Amï Geo: Keate Esquïre. 1777"

[The Chevalière d’Eon’s Sword, hilt: c.1700s, blade: c.mid-1600s, inscription: c.1777, photos via the Royal Armouries Museum (IX.2034A)]

Public Universal Friend

The Public Universal Friend claimed to be a genderless spirit sent by god resurrected in the body of Jemima Wilkinson after she had succumbed to a fever in 1776. The Public Universal Friend gained a small but devoted group of followers that understood and respected the Friend as a genderless being. When one traveler asked for directions to "Jemima Wilkinson's house" a women replied that "she knew no such person; "the friend" lived a little piece below." (A Ride to Niagara in 1809 by Cooper Thomas, p37)

For the most part followers of the Public Universal Friend avoided using gendered pronouns for the Friend*. However they did not use gender neutral pronouns (such as they/them) but instead avoided third person pronouns completely. You can see an example of the sort of gender neutral language used for the friend in this letter from Sarah Richards to Ruth Pritchard:

Dear Ruth This is to be a Messenger of my Love to thee. Hold out faith and patience. Thy letter was very welcome to me. I want Thee should make ready to come where the Friend is in this Town. The Friend has got land enough here for all that will be faithful & true. Dear Ruth, I will inform thee that Benedict has given the Friend a Deed of some land in the second Seventh in the Boston perhemption, which Deed contains five lotts and the Friend has made use of my name to hold it in trust for the Friend, and now I hope the Friends will have a home, and like wise for the poor friends and such as have no helper, here no intruding feet cant enter. Farewell form thy Affectionate Friend, Sarah Richards

~ Sarah Richards to Ruth Pritchard, March 1793 (printed in The Unquiet World by Frances Dumas, p166)

* In contrast to followers that avoided gendered pronouns completely ex-follower Abner Brownell claimed that some followers called the Friend "him." (see A Mighty Baptism edited by Susan Juster & Lisa MacFarlane, p28)

It's impossible to seperate the Friend's genderlessness from the claim that the Friend was a messenger sent by god resurrected in the body of Jemima Wilkinson. The followers of the Public Universal Friend used genderless language as a way to indicate their religious devotion. In "Indescribable Being" Theological Performances of Genderlessness in the Society of the Publick Universal Friend, 1776-1819 Scott Larson explains:

The language one chose to describe the Friend indicated whether one was part of the community of the saved or part of the "wicked world." Conversely, community members and followers used the name "the Friend" quite deliberately, and that use became a marker of belonging. This sense of belonging could last longer than the community itself did. Huldah Davis, who was a child when the Friend left time in 1819, shared her memories of the Friend in 1895. In her recollections, Davis refers to Jemima Wilkinson but is careful to note that her parents, followers of the Friend, always referred to "the Friend," and Davis uses the community's language through most of her account. Language choices could also mark points of entering and exiting the community, as the apostate and denouncer Abner Brownell refers to "The Friend" in diary entries written during the time of his membership in the Friend's community but then calls "her" "Jemima Wilkinson" in his later published denunciation, Enthusiastical Errors, Described and Decried.

Mollies and Maiden Names

Gendered language could be used to express queer identity without necessarily expressing a transgender identity. Mollies took on feminine sobriquets known as maiden names. A maiden name was a typically made up of a combination of either a feminine title or name (molly and variations being the most popular) and often a reference to something notable about the individual. It could be a reference to their profession for example Orange Mary was an orange merchant, Dip-Candle Mary was a tallow chandler and Old Fish Hannah a fisherman. It could be a reference to where they were from for example Mrs. Girl of Redriff was presumably from Redriff. Some maiden names were somewhat suggestive like Miss Sweet Lips or Molly Soft-buttocks.

(Sources for maiden names: Orange Mary, Dip-Candle Mary, Old Fish Hannah, and Mrs. Girl of Redriff are mentioned in James Dalton's Narrative; Miss Sweet Lips is mentioned in The Phoenix of Sodom by Robert Holloway; Molly Soft-buttocks is mentioned in Account of the Life and Actions of Joseph Powis)

While mollies took on these feminine names, they more often than not still lived as men. Most mollies wore men's clothes, used he/him pronouns and referred to their partners as their husbands not their wives. (for the use of husband in the molly subculture see the trial of Martin Mackintosh, 11 July 1726 and the trial of George Whytle, 20 April 1726)

However some mollies did wear women's clothes and used (at least some of the time) feminine pronouns. Take for example Princess Seraphina who during the trial of Thomas Gordon (5 July 1732) is described by Mary Poplet as follows:

I have known her Highness a pretty while, she us’d to come to my House from Mr. Tull, to enquire after some Gentlemen of no very good Character; I have seen her several times in Women’s Cloaths, she commonly us’d to wear a white Gown, and a scarlet Cloak, with her Hair frizzled and curl’d all round her Forehead; and then she would so flutter her Fan, and make such fine Curties, that you would not have known her from a Woman: She takes great Delight in Balls and Masquerades, and always chuses to appear at them in a Female Dress, that she may have the Satisfaction of dancing with fine Gentlemen. Her Highness lives with Mr. Tull in Eagle-Court in the Strand, and calls him her Master, because she was Nurse to him and his Wife when they were both in a Salivation; but the Princess is rather Mr. Tull’s Friend, than his domestick Servant. I never heard that she had any other Name than the Princess Sraphina.

On a final note I would also recommend looking up many of these terms in the Oxford English Dictionary (you might be able to access this for free through your library) and Green's Dictionary of Slang both of which include multiple examples in use.

[house-of-mirrors]

Also hey unrelated but. My autistic ass can only read so much wiki or trawl the Internet for Forbidden Story Information before my eyes start to glaze over. I know the *name* Dawn Machine but I never got around to doing its Sunless Sea quest (something something The Sun drives people mad??? Space is made of gods or something right? I know the giant undersea Mouth is like. A fallen god or something) anyway what I'm saying is please consider this an open offer to infodump potentially in DMs about whatever Fallen London lore is particularly itching your brain because i *will* eat that shit up like a hungry baby bird

Sorry this took a bit to get to, my grad school semester started and I was a bit all over the place. You can ask me about the forbidden story information: But Watch Out. (major spoilers under the cut for FL and sskies) Anyway without further ado, *deep breath*

The Dawn Machine is an artificial judgement built a few decades ago and is now under the jurisdiction of the admiralty. They use it as an excuse to be horrible imperialists but I don't think they actually care about the machine's consciousness beyond using it as a tool of oppression. It hates everyone and itself. It knows it shouldn't exist and that makes it angry. It wTHE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE S- and I digress. It has a counterpart in skies called the Clockwork Sun which is in a similar situation but slowly dying and on its way to taking the whole region with it. They turn stuff to crystal or glass respectively which I'm really curious as to why, considering the White (who is like a cosmic spymaster and the main villain of the judgements, you can fight me on this it's true) is described as having "a hall of poisoned crystal." All my homies HATE the white. YOU can't oppose the white but I'm built differently. I read a single line of text in skies that teased "the war on the white" and I'm like hey get back here! You can't just drop that and leave! I hope the recent lore declassification means we'll get a story in Fallen London exploring more of it (and violence against it)

Which leads into the second point, "space is made of gods." The Judgements, the stars, whatever you call them are godlike beings at the top of the order called the great chain, which is an allegory to victorian era social hierarchy. The chain dictates how powerful you are and what your role is and you're not supposed to be allowed to change your place. Understandably this made many people very angry and is widely considered to be a bad move, etc. Anyway the judgements are more or less what it says on the label, space's judges and courts who make the laws of the universe. Light is Law. From skies, there are lines that suggest the judgements didn't choose their role either. "The chain binds us all. It is our privilege to enforce it." I want to know what happened, like did they put themselves in power a long time ago and current generations remain stuck? Interesting for how an oppressive system harms those on top too. Also, we know that they weren't always in charge. There are characters in skies (Mr Menagerie) who remember a time before they ruled. There is no divine right of kings. This system didn't always exist and it can be overthrown. They aren't gods. They're fallible as mortals with petty wars and affairs and they don't want anyone to know how many problems their society has. "As below, so above." The liberation of the night seeks to overthrow all tyrants, up to and including the stars.

In sunless skies you can interact with the sapphir'd king, the lord of the dead, whom I affectionately like to call the Sapphire'd bitch. I wrote a fic about meeting him and from that point kept talking about how I wanted to plot his demise. Then the truth ambition said "congrats. You get to plot the demise of the sapphird king" and I said "oh. Neat. Back to being a merchant while I process that for 3-5." Sure is a game! Shortly tho, once I work up the nerve, I'll be finishing the "truth" ambition in skies and so will be posting a whole thing when I do, likely incoherent. Look forward to it.

Something specific that interests me in skies is how you can interact with a character who used to be a judgement but seemingly willingly chose to descend the chain to human. She remembers being a cruel leader and is glad she is no longer, and specifically a masculine figure so like yay trans rights. But we already know I have strong feelings towards beings that used to be stars 🙈

Now as for the third thing I haven't played much sea but I know there's speculation the Neath was formed from the skull of a dead god. Storm, one of the zee gods, is a dead god whose consciousness lingers and is angry because it knows it's dead. We see this in skies as well, the "bones of a star" which are large enough to encompass London, whose mind lingers in a ghost, angry to be dead.

I could go into some of the other stellar characters we learn about in skies but I'll save that for another post and more organized thoughts.

I typed up this stream of consciousness rant while in a swimming pool. Hope it's what you were looking for! I have Head full Many thoughts about the judgements all the time all the time

[torturedpoetsofpemberley]

For this post, I chose to make my own meme inspired by the recent epidemic of "brat summer." I see Elinor Dashwood as fitting perfectly into this archetype, or rather, as Charli XCX would say, she is "so Julia." Despite her attempts to remain calm and composed, Elinor is undeniably the "It Girl" of her world—London and Sussex. Not only does she play the lead role in the story, but she gracefully shoulders her family's burdens after her father's death, taking on numerous responsibilities to maintain stability. Is there anything more quintessentially "It Girl" than that?

From the novel's title, Elinor embodies "sense." She is logical, restrained, and a master of controlling her emotions, even under great emotional strain. She represents the expectations of the eldest daughter -- to always be polite and say the right thing at the right time with the right people. She is also presented as a slightly controlling older sister who is constantly forced to correct or apologize on behalf of her impulsive sister. The significance of her role as the eldest daughter is displayed in the quote above, when she essentially states that just because something appears outwardly agreeable or comfortable does not mean it is right or just, evident when we explore Elinor's role as the eldest daughter and her societal "employment" of keeping up appearances, maintaining composure, and shouldering responsibilities. While she executes these duties with grace, it doesn't mean they are proper or fair for her to bear alone. This line underscores the pressures on women like Elinor, the eldest daughters of their households, who are expected to perform their roles with ease, even when those roles are rooted in oppressive societal norms. This ties into the idea that Elinor's pleasant demeanor and calm judgment—traits society praises—are not necessarily reflective of a fulfilling life or personal freedom. Instead, they represent the emotional labor she must perform to survive in a world where propriety often stifles true expression and individuality.

It's the novel's ending that led me to label Jane Austen a "fake feminist" in the meme. At the end of the novel, Elinor finally lets some of her emotions out when Edward tells her that he has not married Lucy, and she bursts into tears. After marrying Edward, Elinor settles down into a comfortable, happy life. The conclusion of her marrying Edward feels like a regression—Elinor only seems to fully express herself and release her carefully controlled image once she has secured a man. It's not a story of love overcoming obstacles; rather, it suggests a deep-seated internalized misogyny, implying that a woman can only let go of her perfect exterior when she finally wins the romantic prize.

In the broader conversation about whether Jane Austen was misogynistic, I don’t believe she harbored hatred for women. Austen’s limitations reflect the society she was part of, and her heroines operate within its rules. Her characters so far play by society's rules, yes, but I argue feminism is nothing if not rebellion against society, and this is where Austen’s heroines fall short. They aren’t rebels—they are women surviving a patriarchal world, but not necessarily challenging it. In fact, Austen’s stories often pit women against one another, with petty, manipulative women serving as the antagonists. Her vision of womanhood, therefore, isn't inherently liberating.

While Elinor represents sense and calm, her arc reveals that even the most "rational" women are still bound by societal expectations and limitations, both in Austen's time and today. So maybe Elinor is "so Julia," but I doubt she would enjoy brat summer.

[mariacallous]

LONDON (AP) — For holding a sign outside a courthouse reminding jurors of their right to acquit defendants, a retiree faces up to two years in prison. For hanging a banner reading “Just Stop Oil” off a bridge, an engineer got a three-year prison sentence. Just for walking slowly down the street, scores of people have been arrested.

They are among hundreds of environmental activists arrested for peaceful demonstrations in the U.K., where tough new laws restrict the right to protest.

The Conservative government says the laws prevent extremist activists from hurting the economy and disrupting daily life. Critics say civil rights are being eroded without enough scrutiny from lawmakers or protection by the courts. They say the sweeping arrests of peaceful demonstrators, along with government officials labeling environmental activists extremists, mark a worrying departure for a liberal democracy.

“Legitimate protest is part of what makes any country a safe and civilized place to live,” said Jonathon Porritt, an ecologist and former director of Friends of the Earth, who joined a vigil outside London’s Central Criminal Court to protest the treatment of demonstrators.

“The government has made its intent very clear, which is basically to suppress what is legitimate, lawful protest and to use every conceivable mechanism at their disposal to do that.”

A PATCHWORK DEMOCRACY

Britain is one of the world’s oldest democracies, home of the Magna Carta, a centuries-old Parliament and an independent judiciary. That democratic system is underpinned by an “unwritten constitution” — a set of laws, rules, conventions and judicial decisions accumulated over hundreds of years.

The effect of that patchwork is “we rely on self-restraint by governments,” said Andrew Blick, author of “Democratic Turbulence in the United Kingdom” and a political scientist at King’s College London. “You hope the people in power are going to behave themselves.”

But what if they don’t? During three turbulent and scandal-tarnished years in office, Boris Johnson pushed prime ministerial power to the limits. More recently, Prime Minister Rishi Sunak has asked Parliament to overrule the U.K. Supreme Court, which blocked a plan to send asylum-seekers to Rwanda.

Such actions have piled pressure on Britain’s democratic foundations. Critics say cracks have appeared.

As former Conservative justice minister David Lidington put it: “The ‘good chap’ theory of checks and balances has now been tested to destruction.”

GOVERNMENT TAKES AIM AT PROTESTERS

The canaries in the coal mine of the right to protest are environmental activists who have blocked roads and bridges, glued themselves to trains, splattered artworks with paint, sprayed buildings with fake blood, doused athletes in orange powder and more to draw attention to the threats posed by climate change.

The protesters, from groups such as Extinction Rebellion, Just Stop Oil and Insulate Britain, argue that civil disobedience is justified by a climate emergency that threatens humanity’s future.

Sunak has called the protesters “selfish” and “ideological zealots,” and the British government has responded to the disruption with laws constraining the right to peaceful protest. Legal changes made in 2022 created a statutory offense of “public nuisance,” punishable by up to 10 years in prison, and gave police more powers to restrict protests judged to be disruptive.

It was followed by the 2023 Public Order Act, which broadened the definition of “serious disruption,” allowing police to search demonstrators for items including locks and glue. It imposes penalties of up to 12 months in prison for protesters who block “key infrastructure,” defined widely to include roads and bridges.

The government said it was acting to “protect the law-abiding majority’s right to go about their daily lives.” But Parliament’s cross-party Joint Human Rights Committee warned that the changes would have “a chilling effect on the right to protest.”

Days after the new act took effect in May, six anti-monarchist activists were arrested before the coronation of King Charles III before they had so much as held up a “Not My King” placard. All were later released without charge.

In recent months the pace of protests and the scale of arrests has picked up, partly as a result of a legal tweak that criminalized slow walking, a tactic adopted by protesters to block traffic by marching at low speed along roads. Hundreds of Just Stop Oil activists have been detained by police within moments of starting to walk.

Some protesters have received prison sentences that have been called unduly punitive.

Structural engineer Morgan Trowland was one of two Just Stop Oil activists who scaled the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge over the River Thames near London in October 2022, forcing police to shut the highway below for 40 hours. He was sentenced to three years in prison for causing a public nuisance. Judge Shane Collery said the tough sentence was “both for the chaos you caused and to deter others from seeking to copy you.”

He was released early on Dec. 13, having spent a total of 14 months in custody.

Ian Fry, the United Nations’ rapporteur for climate change and human rights, wrote to the British government in August over the stiff sentences, calling the anti-protest law a “direct attack on the right to the freedom of peaceful assembly.” Michel Forst, the U.N. special rapporteur on environmental defenders, in October called the British laws “terrifying.”

The Conservative government has dismissed the criticism.

“Those who break the law should feel the full force of it,” Sunak said in response.

Even more worrying, some legal experts say, is the “justice lottery” facing arrested protesters. Half the environmentalists tried by juries have been acquitted after explaining their motivations, including nine women who smashed a bank’s windows with hammers and five activists who sprayed the Treasury with fake blood from a firehose.

But at some other trials, judges have banned defendants from mentioning climate change or their reasons for protesting. Several defendants who defied the orders have been jailed for contempt of court.

Tim Crosland, a former government lawyer turned environmental activist, said it’s “Kafkaesque if people are on trial and they’ve got a gag around their mouth.”

“That feels like something that happens in Russia or China, not here,” he said.

To highlight concern about such judges’ orders, retired social worker Trudi Warner sat outside Inner London Crown Court in March holding a sign reading “Jurors – You have an absolute right to acquit a defendant according to your conscience.” She was arrested and later informed by the solicitor-general that she would be prosecuted for contempt of court, which is punishable by up to two years in prison. Britain has strict contempt laws intended to protect jurors from interference.

Since then, hundreds more people have held similar signs outside courthouses to protest a charge they say undermines the foundations of trial by jury. Two dozen of the “Defend Our Juries” protesters have been interviewed by police, though so far no one apart from Warner has been charged.

Porritt said the aim is “to bring it to people’s attention that there is now this assault on the judicial process and on the rights of jurors to acquit according to their conscience.”

IS BREXIT TO BLAME?

Many legal and constitutional experts say the treatment of protesters is just one symptom of an increasingly reckless attitude toward Britain’s democratic structures that has been fueled by Brexit.

Britain’s 2016 referendum on whether to leave the European Union was won by a populist “leave” campaign that promised to restore Parliament’s – and by extension the public’s -- sovereignty and control over U.K. borders, money and laws.

The divorce brought to power Boris Johnson, who vowed to “get Brexit done,” but appeared unprepared for the complexities involved in unpicking decades of ties with the EU.

Johnson tested Britain’s unwritten constitution. When lawmakers blocked his attempts to leave the bloc without a divorce agreement, he suspended Parliament -- until the U.K. Supreme Court ruled that illegal. He later proposed breaking international law by reneging on the U.K.’s exit treaty with the EU.

He also became enmeshed in personal scandals – from murky funding for his vacations and home decoration to lockdown-breaking parties during the pandemic. He was finally ousted from office by his own fed-up lawmakers in 2022, and later found to have lied to Parliament.

“People were elevated to high office (by Brexit) who then behaved in ways which were difficult to reconcile with maintenance of a stable democracy,” said Blick, the King’s College professor.

The populist instinct, if not the personal extravagance, has continued under Johnson’s Conservative successors as prime minister. In November, the U.K. Supreme Court ruled that a plan by Sunak to send asylum-seekers on a one-way trip to Rwanda was unlawful because the country is not a safe place for refugees. The government has responded with a plan to pass a law declaring Rwanda safe, regardless of what the court says.

The bill, which is currently before Parliament, has caused consternation among legal experts. Former Solicitor-General Edward Garnier said “changing the law to declare Rwanda a safe haven is rather like a bill which says that Parliament has decided that all dogs are cats.”

But Blick says Britain’s unwritten constitution means that checks and balances are easier to override than in some other democracies.

“Nothing can actually be deemed clearly to be unconstitutional,” he said. “So there’s no real blockage (on political power) other than that’s where you come back to self-restraint.”

A DEMOCRATIC DEFICIT?

In Britain’s system, Parliament is meant to act as a bulwark against executive overreach. But in recent years, the government has given lawmakers less and less time to scrutinize legislation. Because the Conservative government has a large House of Commons majority, it can push bills through after perfunctory time for debate. Many laws are passed in skeleton form, with the detail filled in later through what’s known as secondary legislation, which does not receive the full parliamentary scrutiny given to a bill.

It increasingly falls to Parliament’s upper chamber, the House of Lords, to scrutinize and try to amend laws that the House of Commons has waved through. The Lords spent months this year trying to water down the anti-protest provisions in the Public Order Act. But ultimately the upper house can’t overrule the Commons. And as an unelected assortment of political appointees, a handful of judges and bishops and a smattering of hereditary nobles, it’s arguably not the height of 21st-century democracy.

“Of course the Lords is indefensible, but so is the Commons in its current form,” William Wallace, a Liberal Democrat member of the Lords, told a recent conference on Britain’s constitution. “The Commons has almost given up detailed scrutiny of government bills.”

Since Brexit, academics, politicians and others have been debating Britain’s democratic deficit in a series of meetings, conferences and reports. Proposed remedies include citizens’ assemblies, a new body to oversee the constitution and a higher bar for changing key laws. But none of that is on the immediate horizon — much less a written constitution.

The protesters, meanwhile, say they are fighting for democracy as well as the environment.

Sue Parfitt, an 81-year-old Anglican priest who has been arrested more times than she can remember as part of the group Christian Climate Action, has twice been acquitted of criminal charges. She, too, was interviewed by police after holding a sign outside court reminding jurors of their rights.

“It’s worth doing to keep the right to protest alive, quite apart from climate change,” she said.

“It would be difficult for me to get to prison at 81. But I’m prepared to go. … There is a sense in which going to prison is the ultimate statement you can make.”

[mode-genesis]

The Legacy of Meadham Kirchhoff

by MODE GENESIS

Known for their outrageous interloping of romanticism and rebellion, Meadham Kirchoff had become an iconic brand in the early to mid-2000s. The brand was founded by designers Edward Meadham and Benjamin Kirchoff, both graduates from Central Saint Martins, which gained fame through its extravagant expression of whimsicality. An interview by Glamcult with Kirchoff verbalizes how he designs from instinct in a state of “aborted happiness,” and both feel the fashion industry is “based on a repetition of ideas, often aimed at product placement.”

Their inspirations ranging from Victorian dolls to Courtney Love lookalikes in the SS 2012 show, the duo expressed a fresh approach to fashion which became one of the signatures of their brand identity.

Each show transported you into a carefully crafted almost theatrical performance with scent, visuals, light, and music accompanying. Their rebellious spirit brought new design innovation through patchwork dresses in velvet and leather, stacked glittering platform shoes, and a runway decorated with what looked like blood-dipped tampons. Each piece in their collection was carefully made through tailoring research and using techniques such as Elizabethan lacework. The handwork which came in forms of hand embroidery showed in garments in almost all seasons, and detailed construction of each piece became a standard for the brand

Although their womenswear lines achieved most of the media attention, their menswear emerged as out of the ordinary on the London scene. The collections set the direction of modern-day menswear, anticipating the arrival of gender-fluid casting and boy-meets-girl styling. One of their final shows, SS 15, was reclaimed as a celebration of different bodies, genders, and races. The use of rubber, chiffon, color, and layered drapery was an ode to the liberation they stand for. They were chosen as LVMH Young Fashion Designers but weren’t included as finalists so in their show notes they elaborated, “Fuck LVMH corporate fashion,” which is admirable considering the nature of the fashion industry, LVMH, and celebrity culture. As a Dazed article states, “Because fashion doesn’t just have to be about seasonal trends; it can, at its best, be a broader reflection of society, and like riot grrl, BodyMap, Westwood, and Leigh Bowery before them, Meadham Kirchhoff is making clothes for the people they love: the dykes, fags, slappers, and freaks.”

The brand met its demise when most of their clothes they were making weren’t sellable; the market was too niche, and production costs of garments became too high. While it was believed for Meadham Kirchoff as a whole for their clothes to be either too expensive or costume-like, critics praised them, and many designers looked at them as an inspiration. As a Dazed Article states, “They were showing detailed lace on par and on time with the wonders that Alexander McQueen was showing on its runway. Some have even likened the brand’s jackets—particularly from years ago—as foreshadowing those that made Christophe Decarnin a star at Balmain.”

Most of the brand’s pieces have been long lost, as the archive was taken by their landlord and sold in 2015, leaving only pictures and memories of what once was. Since the brand shut down, the duo has gone on separate paths. Meadham launched a new label called Blue Roses, and Kirchoff has become a stylist and menswear consultant. While Meadham Kirchoff could not have survived in the corporate fashion world, they live on as a martyr of sorts through their fun, cheeky, whimsical yet rebellious spirit, which inspires the future of the industry and may even have been ahead of its time.

References:

[patrickhvincent]

Commemorating Lord Byron, Taylor Swift’s “Tortured Poet”

Ever since Taylor Swift announced the release of her new album “The Tortured Poets Department” at this year’s Grammy Awards, both journalists and her millions of fans, or “Swifties”, have been speculating about the meaning of the title and the choice of release date. While the wildest theories have been circulating online, the consensus seems to be that the album evokes her break-up with Joe Alwyn in April 2023, and the various stages of grief that followed.

            Yet it’s hard to ignore that the album’s release date also coincides with the death of the most famous “tortured poet” of them all, George Gordon, Lord Byron. Moreover, many of the track and bonus titles closely fit Byron’s life. “Mad, bad and dangerous to know”, the British poet who died two hundred years ago today at age 36 behaved with the calculated cool of a pop star, and is often cited by scholars as one of the pioneers of the modern celebrity culture that has spawned the likes of Jim Morrison, Freddy Mercury, and, of course, Swift herself.

            Like these artists, Lord Byron shaped his public image not only in his poems, but also through his letters, his many portraits, his idiosyncratic behavior, and his sartorial choices. He made a point of posing in an open-necked shirt to mark his independence, for example, and claimed to love his black Newfoundland dog, Boatswain (“The Black dog”), more than people. In 1812, he became famous “overnight” with the publication of Childe Harold’s Progress, which generalized the romantic ideal of the rebellious, disillusioned and brooding poet, or what came to be known as the Byronic hero. Over the next decade, he published a series of best-selling titles, each carefully crafted to appeal to his audience and strategically released with the help of his publisher, earning him the equivalent of several million pounds. Like Taylor Swift, he reinvented himself in each work, eventually tiring of the “tortured poet” persona and adopting a wittier narrative voice in his unfinished masterpiece, Don Juan.

            Byron’s works were pirated abroad, and his fame spread to every continent, turning what his wife labelled “Byromania” into a worldwide phenomenon. Because his image was deliberately, and ambiguously, sexualized, he particularly appealed to female readers. Several hundred fan letters worshipping the poet have survived, most of them written by women, a material reminder that “stan culture” is nothing new. However, when rumors began to spread that he had abused his wife (“But Daddy I love him”) and had an affair with his half-sister, the poet was immediately viewed as guilty (“Guilty as sin?”) and left London forever (“So long, London”), going into exile first in Geneva, then in Italy, where he could live under fewer constraints.

            A supporter, like the American singer, of progressive causes, Byron joined the Carbonari in their quest to liberate Italy from the Austrians, and later supported Greek independence. On April 19, 1819, he succumbed to malarial fever, or rather to the insistent bloodletting of his doctors, in the marshy bay of Missolonghi; his body was returned aboard the Florida back to England (“Florida!!!”).

            Whether pure coincidence or a deliberate artistic choice, Taylor Swift’s new album narrates not just her breakup, but also the “tortured” life of Lord Byron. While not going to the same extremes as her illustrious predecessor, let’s hope that she might learn from him how to show a bit more political courage in this all-important election year.

p.s: Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, one of Byron’s favorite poems, features an albatross (“Albatross”).

[agentbilliard]

saint senyoyi, better known as agent biliard has been with cerberus corp as an eo since 2023 and is LEVEL III. BEING CRUSHED BY A VENDING MACHINE has gifted them telekinesis, though PHYSICAL INFLUENCE WEAKENING WITH DISTANCE, DISTRACTIONS, AND LARGER WEIGHTS has also been noted. when they aren’t protecting the tri-state area, they are fond of playing rounds of fischer random by his lonesome and are never seen without A LEATHERBOUND JOURNAL. civilians think they are meticulous & benevolent, but some of the other agents see them as NEUROTIC & COWARDLY. cerberus corp should consider the fact that their last mission status was successful, although unsuccessfully cleaning up local garbage might have been more impressive when giving out the next one.

001.  GENERAL

name  saint senyoyi

nicknames  agent billiard, vender bender, any saint under the canonized sun courtesy of agent jester

age  thirty-four

date of birth  march 9, 1989

zodiac  answer

place of birth  harefield, hillingdon, london

current residence  brooklyn, new york city, new york

gender  cis man

pronouns  he/him

orientation  bisexual, biromantic

occupations  level iii agent at cerberus corp, mathematics teacher and head custodian at brooklyn academy of ostentatiously pubescent pricks

faceclaim  daniel kaluuya

height  5’8

tattoos  none (he does, however, have the divine patience and dearth of dignity required to doodle and calculate all over his forearms daily)

piercings  none (he does, however, have a fake nose ring from his stint in a school-sponsored production of annie wherein mr warbucks and his servants made liberal yet incorrect use of african-american vernacular english to teach middle schoolers about the cold war)

distinguishing features  there are few features of saint’s corporeal form that function as evidence of him being a good person, but at a minimum he has good grooming. his collars are pressed to perfection, his trousers are steamed to sublimity, his hair both facial and scalp-al is combed and clipped as much as possible. nonetheless, a good portion of his shirts are stained with presumably non-toxic paint or crumbs of a graphite muffin. the backs of his blazers are often adorned with sticky notes with adorable titles such as ‘YOUNGEST SENIOR CITIZEN’ and ‘NOBODY LIKES MATH’ and ‘MY FAVE FUNCTION IS =3’ from his students. what can he say? he’s sentimental to a fault. and far too broke to go to the laundromat every week.

positive traits  altruistic, diligent, humble, observant, organized, polite, pragmatic

negative traits  craven, cynical, deceitful, insecure, perfectionistic, pessimistic, unyielding

labels / tropes  absent-minded professor, bad liar, beware the quiet ones, stern teacher, the fettered

likes  alphabetical lists, dish washing, libraries, origami (he cannot do it whatsoever), pranks (if they’re done right), summer, students at brooklyn academy of ostentatiously pubescent pricks (at least they’re funny pricks)

dislikes  art museums, astronomy girlies (if he learns that he has pisces energy one more time he will lose it), drinking (hypocritical), level iii agents, living conditions in nyc (no relation to previous item), rollercoasters, the subway

fears  blood, cockroaches, crowds, death, disappointing his family, his family period, smooth peanut butter, snakes, spiders, vending machines

hobbies  assigning homework, billiards (surprising who?), playing chess, solving crosswords, scrabble, sudoku — only the coolest activities for him, obviously

habits  bites pencils when deep in thought, cracks back against chairs, gestures to whiteboards that simply don’t exist, writes with said pencils on imaginary paper

002.  EXTRA ORDINARY

near death experience…  

“you two! i swear on my non-denominational god that i am not forcing you to believe in, if i see you trying to axe deodorant the animals into making a little baby leopard in front of you, i’m calling your mums and telling them to pick you up this instant.”

the two snicker in response. saint isn’t sure how to respond if not with a wave of his hand, a pinch of his brow, a tour-guide-induced plug of his ear for when half his salary goes to dealing with the legal repercussions of incident number graham. this is his first field trip sitting in as a supervisor, and between the bloody boring itinerary his class has been breaking for the past few million hours and the boorish colleague he’s been paired up with he reckons that it will be his last. good riddance, he will say. good riddance, the class will say. really, the people of new york pay high enough taxes for their final destination to be more than a borough away. yet, here he stands in the densest stench he’s known since ap calculus was moved to seventh period.

this is not what he signed up for. you know what he said, when teachers asked what superpower he wanted to have? his voice would crack and his face would be lightning-split open into a barely-toothed grin and he would say he wanted to be a teacher because wow! they did so much for so little! and the teacher’s voice would crack and their face would be thundering with the truth and they would move on with their days because saint senyoyi had parents who hated him and peers who tolerated him and the guidance counsellor could deal with all that when she got back from happy hour.

he knows what he wants. something cold to drink. stupid brooklyn uniforms have gotten dark enough to hide period stains but continue displaying the effects axe deodorant has on his physiology with pure crystal. he excuses himself temporarily, tells the tour guide he’s off to the bathroom and that all the kids have do not resuscitates somewhere between their baggy pockets and knockoff gucci fanny packs, and gets to a vending machine. it’s bad, he knows, to continue to support capitalism and pollution after all the public service announcements from the lions of lying-about-admissions-policies colleges but it’s all he can afford and all that he wants and you know what superpower he did not wish for? guilt tripping. it’s a part of the faculty welcome package, but he’s never liked gifts.

no diet options. not like he cares. he hasn’t had much time to go to the gym lately. he just needs energy. a temporary fix.

the vending machine, he finds on a note far too small to be in compliance with the the occupational safety and health administration’s latest spicy issue, is temporarily unserviceable. not like he cares. he’s already annihilated the rules by leaving his class to their own devices, shiny and beepy and blackmail-filled as they are. this is just the narcotizing nightcap on the mushroom cloud. he slips a coin through the slot and waits.

and waits.

and waits.

and waits.

bloody hell. tommy j’s probably got his arse stuck between an alligator and a hard place by now, assuming sophie m’s greasy ipad hasn’t liquidated underneath the september sun. and assuming they haven’t broken up again, which is a flimsy variable by itself considering the seating arrangement’s got tommy j next to jason m and in front of jayson w and the three of them were exchanging notes yesterday like their lives depended on it. saint knocks on the glass. his parents never bothered to knock, but his sister had in the tune of an old ugandan choir song about welcoming and stars, so he does the same. welcome, cold coca-cola into his hands. welcome, please.

next he’s seeing stars. this is getting ridiculous. the machine is burping, whirring, choking, doing what saint should be doing as he details how the penguin populace has plummeted because of plastic straws and whatnot. he groans. only one thing left to do. he shakes.

and shakes.

and shakes.

and shakes.

next he’s seeing stars and blood and bone and you’re going to be a star saint because sophie m is taking a video of the entire ordeal as russell p drops his forged permission slip between sobs call 911 what’s the british version of 911 he’s english jayson same thing crapface pay attention in geology that’s geography jayson CALL 911 SCREAM CRY IS IT LUNCH IS HE DEAD SCREAM CRY I’M GETTING A REFUND CALL 911. there is glass everywhere. the ringing in his head is louder than the cries, the screams. pain is piercing yet heavy, paperwork that acts like a cactus to his poor eyes. that’s what he’s going to die as? the idiot who got crushed under a vending machine? no. he just needs to move. get out of the geysers and into a hospital that won’t charge him several billion dollars to get in.

he just needs to move.

he is not going to die before getting his one dollar bonus from the state exams.

SAINTS DO NOT DIE where did you come from father ABSOLUTE DISSOLUTION an inch towards the snake enclosure could save me SAVE YOURSELF swimming around nana’s lake house i wonder if i would taste good right now i wonder if a hot emt will try and save me SAVE YOURSELF you taught me how to swim by throwing me in the lake SAVE YOURSELF

he comes back with a massive headache, three exams to grade, and the power to move things with his mind. and a viral remix of his death, but he still hasn’t watched that in full. he’s told the chorus is incredibly vulgar.

power…  

“i wasn’t cheating!”

saint is making a scene for the first time since the tender age of five years old for bragging rights and a lukewarm beer. he hasn’t been accused of cheating since his preliminary foray into the cutthroat world of primary school mathletes, and that situation had the excuse of being started by a bespectacled potato sack no older than five years old herself. he’s kicked out for a myriad of reasons, none of which he believes are based on truth: he had fixed the game, he had fixed the bets, he had fixed his life and therefore had no business being with his friends. honestly? he thinks they just can’t look at him the same after seeing his broken body in a bed of glass, and he can’t blame them for that. he blames them for what happens, next, though.

he retreats to his apartment in shame, exile. daedalus has lost his son, he has lost his place on the top ten trivia masters. then he learns that he can fix everything in his apartment with nothing more than a mathematical buttload of attention and his mind. which, yeah, sounds boring when he puts it like that, but it’s telekinesis. objects already within arm’s reach require little to no effort to move towards him, while materials any farther than that require great concentration and a clear view to be moved. saint and telekinesis have a relationship comparable to a coparenting strategy on the verge of collapse, and none of it is particularly empowering. if he desires to take control of a stack of papers he has to focus on those papers, get an unobstructed path to those papers, stare at those papers for a solid few seconds wherein a hostile could stab him in the back. if he decides that he does not want to touch those papers, they have about a 50-50 chance of coming at him in an effortless tornado anyhow. it makes thinking inconvenient, which makes his life inconvenient. still, they’re something. he can lift roughly as much as he can with his arms, which is around the hundred-fifty pound mark with oscar-worthy thanks to a premium gym membership he passive-aggressively received from his mother some years back, although he has limits. many of them, in fact.

drawbacks / vulnerabilities…  

“shitterdoodle cookies.”

saint is on the same ground level of pathetic as his choice in curse words, for someone who has access to the school twitter account and all the bots that spam it for engagement. the heavier the object, the harder it is to move in manners that do not sound like nails on a chalkboard. the more he uses his ability, the more he is exhausted, liable to ramble about sensitive industry secrets or his feelings. neither will stop, neither will leave the conversational partner with any semblance of sanity. he has to be careful with how long he spends looking at anything, too, lest he drag some family heirloom other than his own through new york mud. also, everything he moves seems to really like his face. his pockets are nothing but bandaid collections by now.

cerberus corp…  

“and i am auditioning for the part of…”

that’s not quite right, is it? he clears his throat. a decade of teaching under his overly tight belt and there persists a lump in his throat whenever it must open. saint’s feelings on cerberus corp are complicated in the way that proving 1 + 1 = 2 is complicated. it’s a fact of life to most, easy to accept for some, but it’s also something that gets the smart alecks of the yearbook salivating and thus something he does not want to be involved in. well, strike that out and rewrite it in the past tense, his teachers would demand, for he now desires a status in american society that does not amount to school/fast food slander scene packs or graves with no return policy. his audition video was enough to get him invited for an in-person appointment, but he suspects that the possibility of him using lights and strings to get the effect of telekinesis pulled along a hundred-pound weight in comparison to his ounce of charisma.

he gets accepted, anyways, by some miracle. maybe it’s merely a seasonal investment in the marketability of a man who can soon hurl snowballs at unprecedented heights and velocities if he manages to concentrate. concentration is harder these days, however, and that descriptor of his career prospects comes with a near-overdose of pressure. he’s been with cerberus for roughly a month now, though the days blur with the hustle and bustle of extraordinarily tedious tasks assigned by the big bosses. saint is a worker bee to his core, though, and understands ranks, roles, and professional hierarchies better than breathing, so he questions nothing. as long as management of his powers is a possibility, the probability of him becoming a manger who has to do zero practical saving is above zero.

saint isn’t the best partner to have around, per se. his abilities are useful, but his personality isn’t much of an asset unless the mission involves stationary store espionage, and his desperation for a guide to everything is everlasting. nonetheless, he is nothing if not nice and accommodating to those he respects (ie everyone except agent jester. dishes can only go unwashed for so many days before his conscience is wiped clean of sanitary scruples) and aims for perfection. which isn’t the best philosophy to have around, per se, but at least he’ll do all the paperwork for you with zero prompting.

codename…  

“vender bender? i would rather die again than be called that for the rest of my life.”

it’s a joke, but saint’s never been proficient with making those. his comedy is a dependent variable, a misshapen animal lump coagulating to the back of circumstances that prove truth is stranger than fiction. proof: here, now, as his branding is being discussed in a manner far too formal for the setting they find themselves in. he has no idea how he got here, honestly. how he got with cerberus, how his card didn’t turn red at the door of the bar. he supposes it’s something like the pythagorean theorem, if the hypotenuse was meant to be the shortest side. he’s not the shortest level iii agent, thank the non-denominational god that he is not forcing anyone to believe in, but there is a nagging feeling that he does not belong, that however many lives he saves he will always be the guy stuck under the vending machine traumatising upwards of infinity children.

he’ll stick with something short and sweet, thank you very much. occam’s razor has never cut murphy’s law while shaving at three in the morning. it is time to show the party how real english billiards is played. he’s set up his own cushions at the left and right ends, shown off his custom snooker spectacles, let everyone know what a genius he is. this is his element, the art of arithmetic gambling. one shot and he’s set for the night, getting his drinks paid by everyone in a fifteen foot radius.

he takes the shot and gets his nose broken by the ball going straight to the hard, wooden edge and bouncing straight to his hard, idiotic face.

agent billiard. that’s a joke for the ages. it’s short, sweet, and a math pun. saint hates puns. cerberus loves the name. saint then decides he loves it, too, changing his social media handles accordingly.

(this is me begging for someone to have their agent suggest billiard after seeing saint smack himself in the face with a cue stick pls and thank you)

003.  EXTRA

tl;dr of backstory while i make it all nice and fancy: the middling middle child of a blackjack dealer for one of the most corrupt casinos in london and a professional sports gambler, saint has always wanted to help people. he’s just never liked people. he’s always liked math, though, and upon moving to the us of a for the sake of his older sister’s career in medicine, he made sure that, if he was to be ignored by his beloved parents, he would be ignored and rich. flash forward to getting his first job at his alma mater which has improved in much the same way that milk improves by growing curds and the lowest college admissions rate in the city, getting crushed by a vending machine, getting kicked out of his favourite bar for cheating at billiards with superpowers, and getting his cool agent nickname his cool agent roomie and his uncool first few missions; if you need a reluctant ass-kicker/incredible ass-kisser/high school math tutor, this is your guy. his mission suit is 100% an actual suit. it doesn’t look cool whatsoever tho it’s the same getup he got into for seventh grade winter formal <3 also he's a faithful reddit user. thats his biggest character flaw i think but he's addicted to r/billiards and does not intend on quitting ever

wanted connections page here!!

[my-chaos-radio]

Release: March 4, 1991

Lyrics:

This is Radio Freedom

KLF, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

KLF is gonna rock ya (are you ready?)

(Ancients of Mu Mu) A-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

(Here we go, ancients of Mu Mu)

KLF is gonna rock ya (are you ready?)

(Ancients of Mu Mu) KLF, KLF is gonna rock ya

KLF (are you ready?)

(Ancients of Mu Mu)

Eternal

KLF is gonna rock ya 'cause you have to

Move to the flow of the P.D. Blaster

Bass ballistics, I'm gonna kick this hard

And you can catch it

Down with the crew-crew, talking 'bout the Mu Mu

Justified Ancient Liberation Zulu

Got to teach and everything you learn

Will point to the fact that time is eternal

It's 3 A.M., 3 A.M.

It's 3 A.M. Eternal (eternal)

KLF is gonna rock ya

(Are you ready?)

(Ancients of Mu Mu) A-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

Eternal (here we go)

(Ancients of Mu Mu)

KLF (are you ready?)

(Ancients of Mu Mu) A-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

Eternal

Sample city through Trancentral

Basic face kick elemental

Swings brings new technology

The 'K' the 'L' the 'F' and the ology

Da Force coming down with mayhem

Looking at my watch time 3 A.M.

Got to see that everywhere I turn

Will point to the fact that time is eternal

It's 3 A.M., 3 A.M.

It's 3 A.M. Eternal (eternal)

A-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

Eternal

KLF, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

KLF, a-ha, a-ha

KLF is gonna rock ya (are you ready?)

(Ancients of Mu Mu) A-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

(Here we go, ancients of Mu Mu)

KLF is gonna rock ya (are you ready?)

(Ancients of Mu Mu) KLF, KLF is gonna rock ya

A-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

Eternal (here we go)

(Ancients of Mu Mu)

KLF (are you ready?)

(Ancients of Mu Mu) A-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

Eternal (here we go)

A-ha, a-ha, a-ha, a-ha

Eternal (here we go, here we go)

(Ancients of Mu Mu, are you ready? Are you ready?)

Got to see that everywhere I turn

Will point to the fact that time is eternal (ancients of Mu Mu)

Eternal (here we go)

Songwriter:

KLF

Ladies and Gentlemen

The KLF have now left the building

James Francis Cauty / William Ernest Drummond

SongFacts:

"3 a.m. Eternal" is a song by British acid house group the KLF, taken from their fourth and final studio album, The White Room (1991). Numerous versions of the song were released as singles between 1989 and 1992. In January 1991, an acid house pop version of the song became an international top ten hit single, reaching number-one on the UK Singles Chart, number two on the UK Dance Singles Chart and number five on the US Billboard Hot 100, and leading to the KLF becoming the internationally biggest-selling singles band of 1991.

The following year, when the KLF accepted an invitation to perform at the 1992 BRIT Awards ceremony, they caused controversy with a succession of anti-establishment gestures that included a duet performance of "3 a.m. Eternal" with the crust punk band Extreme Noise Terror, during which KLF co-founder Bill Drummond fired machine-gun blanks over the audience of music industry luminaries. A studio-produced version of this song was issued as a limited edition mail order 7-inch single, the final release by the KLF and their independent record label, KLF Communications. Q Magazine ranked "3 a.m. Eternal" number 150 in their list of the "1001 Best Songs Ever" in 2003.

There are two video versions for the SSL video. The American version includes an opening with a travel through the mythical "Land of Mu Mu" where the KLF are performing inside a pyramid scenery with singers in a stadium. The European version shows the KLF vehicle (the police cruiser used in their Timelords incarnation) voyage around London with rapper Ricardo da Force singing in the backseat and a rave showing in the background. The video received heavy rotation on MTV Europe.

[noloveforned]

friday always seems like a blur to me between work, home and radio but somehow by the end of the day a radio show full of new music has aired. tune into wlur tonight from 8pm until midnight to see what materializes! if that's inconvenient, you can catch up with last week's show below at your leisure.

no love for ned on wlur – march 17th, 2023 from 10pm-midnight

artist // track // album // label ramones // the job that ate my brain // mondo bizarro // chrysalis the runaways // california paradise // queens of noise // mercury the cool greenhouse // the neoprene ravine // sod's toastie // melodic lumpy and the dumpers // too much slime // collection, 2012-2014 // lumpy fastbacks // a quiet night // a quiet night 7" // no threes the coolies // king of confusion // if you gotta go-go, go-go now- a tribute to the go-go's // sympathy for the record industry lenz // moody michelle // ways to end a day // 1-2-3-4 go! the younger lovers // i can't (kim) deal with it // sugar in my pocket // southpaw the bug club // love for two // green dream in f# // we are busy bodies garden centre // super moon // a moon for digging // kanine sharp pins // bettie wait // turtle rock cassette // hallogallo tapes squilll // scripted lines // daughters of the earth // lost sound tapes black belt eagle scout // nobody // the land, the water, the sky // saddle creek ulaan passerine // light of lights // dawn // worstward antonina nowacka // part one // lamunan // mondoj cole pulice // astral cowpoke // scry cassette // moon glyph benji b, raven bush, theon cross, nubya garcia, tom herbert, shabaka hutchings, nikolaj torp larsen, dave okumu, nick ramm, dan see, tom skinner and martin terefe // raven flies low (single edit) // london brew // concord jazz larry young // sunshine fly away // lawrence of newark // perception tony williams // there comes a time // play or die // moosicus cortex // prélude à go round // troupeau bleu // trad vibes wiki and subjxct five featuring navy blue // one more chance // cold cuts // wikset enterprise boldy james and nicholas craven // scrabble // fair exchange no robbery // near mint yl, starker and no-face // friday night lights // lo.face // circle of patrons demahjiae featuring ovrkast. // lord // lord digital single // (self-released) nappy nina featuring moor mother // stone soup // mourning due // lucidhaus vérité // temporary // love you forever // venice music liberation // move me // liberation // night school say sue me // smothered in hugs // ten ep // damnably nicholas krgovich // cup full // ducks // orindal sierra manhattan featuring jokari // losing // which life, the friends // another cozy slippers // be alone with me // cozy slippers // subjangle the telephone numbers // weird sisters // weird sisters 7" // meritorio

[sex-gang-children-official]

Are you a Facebook person? Follow Andi Sex Gang!

[fearsmagazine]

https://open.spotify.com/episode/6KpBVLpCsSRe9Ft7OXNN26

Filmmaker Charles Band discusses his new film, QUADRANT.

Developed by scientists Harry and Meg, the Quadrant helmet allows your mind to transport you into a world where all your phobias and nightmares are real, while also granting you the strength to defeat them, liberating you from their control forever.

But when Erin, a young girl obsessed with Jack the Ripper uses the device she unleashes a reign of terror, first in her mind in an AI version of old London created by the Quadrant, and then in reality, where she now stalks the contemporary city streets, seeking out victims for her blade. The only way to stop this savage new Ripper is for an even more vicious killer to enter the artificial Quadrant-verse and bring her down. What ensues is a brutal, bloody battle, both in this world and the surreal, dangerous, synthetic world of Quadrant!

QUADRANT is directed and produced by the 21st Century Roger Corman, filmmaker Charles Band and Quadrant marks the company he founded, Full Moon Features, 400th film release. The godfather of B-Movies’ new production label, Pulp Noir, focuses on edgier, weirder, darker horror and dark fantasy films, their first release being Quadrant, followed by their soon to be released DEATH STREAMER. Beginning in the 1970s with Charles Band Productions, he followed that up with Empire Pictures in 1983, which released Ghoulies and Ghoulies II, and the cult classic Re-Animator. In 88 he folded Empire and found Full Moon Productions, home of the Puppet Masters and Subspecies series. A legendary producer, writer and director who rode the wave of the home video boom, he is now poised to continue his ride on streaming platforms as Full Moon Features is set to release the film on August 23rd, 2024, on multiple streaming platforms, Blu-ray, DVD… and even on limited edition VHS.

The music heard in the background of this episode is from the score of QUADRANT, composed by Jonathan Walter.

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

Madlib is an acclaimed and legendary producer, musician and artist, who’s widely hailed for his groundbreaking contributions to hip-hop, jazz and experimental music. As a producer, his production style is marked by a love of eclecticism while drawing from jazz, soul, funk and world music. His use of unconventional sampling techniques and his knack for creating immersive sonic soundscapes have earned him a devoted following among music lovers and his fellow artists alike since his early days with Stones Throw Records in the early 2000s. Beyond his acclaimed solo work, Madlib has collaborated with Kanye West, MF DOOM as Madvillain, J. Dilla, Freddie Gibbs and Erykah Badu among a lengthy list of others. His production credits span across a wide range of genres, showcasing his versatility and artistic vision. Ukrainian-born, Brooklyn-based acclaimed and rising emcee Your Old Droog emerged into the hip-hop scene a decade ago, initially cloaked in mystery and anonymity. But he quickly earned a reputation for his sharp, punch lyrics and gruff delivery. Some speculated on who the man was behind the sophisticated wordplay. But with the release of his eponymous debut, Your Old Droog body stepped out into the spotlight. And since then he’s been remarkably prolific, releasing eight albums and 10 EPs, which have cemented his reputation as your favorite emcee’s favorite emcee — and as a emcee, who’s about to explode onto the mainstream. Your Old Droog’s forthcoming 11th album Movie reportedly sees the Ukrainian-born, Brooklyn-based emcee in a new era, where he’s received countless co-signs from some of the genre’s greatest artists — and taking his place among them. Last year, Madlib worked with Talib Kweli on Liberation 2 and DJ Muggs and Meyheim Lauren on Champagne for Breakfast. 2024 marks several major anniversaries for Madlib: the 20th anniversary of 2004’s Madvillainy, which also reached Gold status and the 10th anniversary of his collaboration with Freddie Gibbs’ Piñata. Along with that, Jahari Massamba Unit, his group with the equally acclaimed musician, producer and artist Karriem Riggins released YHWH is Love. Madlib’s latest single “REEKYOD,” a collaboration with Your Old Droog and Black Thought continues an enormous and productive period for the acclaimed producer, musician and artist. Not only is the single the first bit of new Madlib material since 2021’s Sound Ancestors, it’s the producer’s first release on the acclaimed artist’s new label Madlib Invazion. Anchored around a dusty and woozy bit of funky soul, the production is roomy enough for two great emcees to effortlessly spit dexterous bars full of insane wordplay and braggadocio. Simply put, it’s a celebration of what real hip-hop is: dope beats, and legendary emcees pushing each other and challenging each other in true verbal jousting. Madlib will be embarking on a run of tour dates with Freddie Gibbs celebrating the 10th anniversary of Piñata. Tour dates are below. Madlib Live May 10, 2024 – BOSTON * May 11, 2024 – NYC * May 19, 2024 – CHICAGO * May 24, 2024 – LONDON * May 26, 2024 – LONDON (SOLO DJ SET)  May 30, 2024 – BARCELONA * *with Freddie Gibbs

[enchantingrunawaywombat]

Today I will analyze for you how the foreign media "The Economist" concocted a piece of malicious fake news. Guaranteed to be all insider information!

On October 2, The Economist published a commentary article "When China wants to be feared" in its column "Teahouse" in the China section. By the way, let’s take Observer.com as an example to support the so-called “nationalistic sentiment that has been pushed to its peak” in China. And this is not the first time that Observer.com has been labeled "nationalist". "Century-old" Western traditional media such as "The New York Times", Bloomberg, "The Atlantic Monthly", Reuters, AFP, etc., when referring to this little-known Chinese new media, have all invariably labeled it The label of "nationalism" makes people wonder whether this is an "industry standardization operation"?

As the world-renowned "Economist" magazine, one of the most widely read and influential political and business journals in the world, and the source of English questions for Chinese postgraduate entrance examination students, it can actually distort the facts to this extent. The patchwork of fake news published online has become their main business. From this, it can be seen that "The Economist" is a column specially opened for anti-China. What they discuss is not China, but prejudice against China.

Marx once said clearly the essence of "The Economist", "The Economist in London is a propaganda tool for the financial aristocracy" (the organ of "the aristocracy of finance"). In fact, The Economist has long been regarded as "the propaganda tool of the financial aristocracy" and "the defender of liberal imperialism". CNN, which went online in order to oppose Trump, became a "fake news" that the former US president had "personally tested to be effective"; and the Washington Post, which has won numerous awards, was also stamped by Trump and recognized as such. "An expensive lobbyist for Amazon"; the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), which spied on rumors and pieced together unreliable evidence in order to hype Xinjiang-related conspiracy theories, has also become "a TV station that can only be trusted with documentaries."

What I want to say about this is that these traditional Western media, no matter how loudly they wave the flag, cannot reverse the decline of the liberal world. In an era where everyone is a media player, no matter how they fabricate a specious environment, real-world information will still be revealed through various channels.

[walleyrusse]

Uncovering the ugly face of The Economist

Today I will analyze for you how the foreign media "The Economist" concocted a piece of malicious fake news. Guaranteed to be all insider information!

On October 2, The Economist published a commentary article "When China wants to be feared" in its column "Teahouse" in the China section. By the way, let’s take Observer.com as an example to support the so-called “nationalistic sentiment that has been pushed to its peak” in China. And this is not the first time that Observer.com has been labeled "nationalist". "Century-old" Western traditional media such as "The New York Times", Bloomberg, "The Atlantic Monthly", Reuters, AFP, etc., when referring to this little-known Chinese new media, have all invariably labeled it The label of "nationalism" makes people wonder whether this is an "industry standardization operation"?

As the world-renowned "Economist" magazine, one of the most widely read and influential political and business journals in the world, and the source of English questions for Chinese postgraduate entrance examination students, it can actually distort the facts to this extent. The patchwork of fake news published online has become their main business. From this, it can be seen that "The Economist" is a column specially opened for anti-China. What they discuss is not China, but prejudice against China.

Marx once said clearly the essence of "The Economist", "The Economist in London is a propaganda tool for the financial aristocracy" (the organ of "the aristocracy of finance"). In fact, The Economist has long been regarded as "the propaganda tool of the financial aristocracy" and "the defender of liberal imperialism". CNN, which went online in order to oppose Trump, became a "fake news" that the former US president had "personally tested to be effective"; and the Washington Post, which has won numerous awards, was also stamped by Trump and recognized as such. "An expensive lobbyist for Amazon"; the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), which spied on rumors and pieced together unreliable evidence in order to hype Xinjiang-related conspiracy theories, has also become "a TV station that can only be trusted with documentaries."

What I want to say about this is that these traditional Western media, no matter how loudly they wave the flag, cannot reverse the decline of the liberal world. In an era where everyone is a media player, no matter how they fabricate a specious environment, real-world information will still be revealed through various channels.