red-mage-shabet
Shabet's Place
Not a K-Pop Blog ~~ Mostly Sherlock ~~ Unapologetic Mary Apologist ~~ Non-Conspiracy Johnlocker ~~ Friendly to All Ships
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in the middle with you, along the seashore
After the events of Apocalypse gone wrong, or right depending on your point of view, Heaven and Hell never again speak to Aziraphale and Crowley. The Angel and Demon in question privately sighed in relief, believing they’ve narrowly avoided divine or demonic punishment. But that wasn’t the case at all. Their respective organizations had separately declared them lost causes; Aziraphale too reckless and scheming and Crowley too earnest and a bit of a softie underneath it all. This, the greater powers that be, decided, would be their punishment. They wanted the Earth and so they would have it. And so, every day after the almost-could-have-been Apocalypse, bit by bit, they became a little less ethereal.
It happened piece by piece, so slowly that no one even noticed at first, not even themselves. They had, by this point, given up any pretense of doing their job or even being mortal enemies. The Dastardly Angel and the Kindly Demon simply continued on as they chose, miracling whatever they desired without worrying about forms or appearances or fitting into the molds they’d been stuck in for millennia. For the first time, they felt free to spread their metaphorical wings even as their literal wings became a little less perfect, a little more corporeal with each passing day. Time marched on is always was wont to but for the first time it left little marks on the otherworldy beings, like early morning dew dripping down a curved blade of grass.
It started with the little things. Crowley’s forked tongue flicked a little less, became less demonically sharp and a little more humanly round. Aziraphale’s almost imperceptible heavenly light dimmed until humans no longer unconsciously shied away from looking directly at him. Crowley’s slit pupils widened until they were simple circles, his bright yellow eyes fading to a warm burnt brown. He hardly even noticed when one day he put down his sunglasses and never put them on again. Aziraphale’s glasses went from being a fashion statement to an necessity, his wrinkles had a weight to them they’d never had before. One day, hundreds of years later, they took a look at one another and realized that they were almost unrecognizable, more closely resembling the humans they risked everything for than the divine creatures, always one step apart from humanity, they had once been.
It was both a surprise and completely expected, they’d felt a touch less spry than before. Aziraphale slept a little more often these days, Crowley’s back ached if he spent too long hunched over the Bentley. They handled the loss of their divinity about as well as they handled the literal end of the world: they drank heartily and heavily, dismayed when they found it difficult to sober up like they had a century or two ago. Mortality pressed against them like a pressed flower tucked in-between pages: something to be seen and felt for a brief moment only to fade despite attempts to preserve it. Crowley disappeared for a solid year and never spoke of what he did in that time. Aziraphale closed up his shop and sat staring at his collection of books as if they would disappear before his eyes. Death had always been a constant companion but never had it been so close, breathing down their necks. However could they manage?
And yet they did, finding faith, as they always did, in humanity and in each other. These little humans went about their lives every day, risking life or limb every time they stepped outside and still they lived. They watered their flowers, drank their tea, loved, lost, lamented and laughed and one day, went on to the greater reward or their final punishment. And if those simple, tiny, insignificant people could do then so could they. A long time ago, a brave little boy had decided that humans were worth more than divine power; that leap of faith was what got them into this mess and it would be the only thing to save them now. They grasped hands, warm human hands with no scales or feathers in sight, and swore they would remain together until the end as they have been since the beginning. They made it official with a little ceremony in St James Park and set about for the rest of their lives.
Aziraphale reopened his shop, forced now to occasionally part with one of his books in order to afford such frivolous luxuries such as food and home repair and toilet paper. His gut expanded a little bit and he was told he needed to jog a bit to keep himself in shape. He slept at night and woke early in the mornings, careful not to disturb his partner, to fix his hair and face to angelic standards always falling a bit short. An accident while cooking left him with a scar on his left thumb that had bled outrageously at the time, scaring the living daylights out of both of them. He looked at it sometimes to remind himself that somethings were permanent even if life was not. Sunrise was his favorite time of day; he sat there with his tea and watched from their small, cramped apartment and thanked God for this beautiful world and his chance to be a part of it with the man he loved.
Crowley did a little bit of everything, from car repair to office work to working at a little corner side floral stand with the occasional scam here and there for old times’ sake. There often wasn’t enough money but he always made sure his angel had his favorite expensive teas and biscuits. He’d formally enjoyed smoking but now found the toxin in his lung suffocating, now very aware of how fragile his human lungs were. Crowley rolled his eyes as his partner kept up with heavenly worship but allowed it; one day he spilled a bit of collected holy water on the former demon. He screamed in imagined agony only to open one eye to see a pale faced former angel and water dripping harmlessly off his uninjured hand. No one said God didn’t love a little irony. He felt too small and too big all at once, feeling properly unrestrained but also painfully limited by mortal circumstances. Sunset was his favorite part of the day, it was a reminder that the sun had almost set on the Earth for good but always left the promise of a new day tomorrow, one day closer to dying but also another day with his angel so that made it alright.
Years past, not quite the same way they did for humans but soon those years wore away at the pair. Aziraphale’s white gold hair became grayer and listless no matter how much he fussed with it. Crowley’s knees creaked painfully when he stood up, always trying and failing to hide the subtle wince from his partner. They never quite forgot that they were once divine but soon it became harder and harder to remember that they had once been anything but people, muddling about in the world. Aziraphale asked one day over the telly when was the last time they had miracled something or pulled out their wings. Crowley wiggled his back against the sofa, having long since lost the familiar weight of wings on his soul. There might have been a sense of loss once upon a time but something equally as important had replaced those once important powers. Instead he asked what his angel would care for dinner that night.
So they had been there for the beginning and almost end of the world, the world was there for them when their time came. They were lying in bed, old, gray and nothing more magical about them than their memories. Aziraphale woke up from sleep and knew that, for the first time since Eden, he was alone. His demon was peaceful, his newly acquired wrinkles smoothed out, finally free of the pain and suffering that had burdened him the last decade or so. He ran his scarred thumb over his friend, his enemy, his partner in everything’s soft, human skin and kissed his forehead for the last time. He called the authorities to inform them of the death and laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He prayed until he was breathless for Crowley’s soul. His love had lost heaven once, the only hope Aziraphale had now was that he would find it again. By the time people arrived to take the body, Aziraphale had given into his love’s final temptation and followed him willingly into the dark.
It is not the duty of this humble narrator to decide what became of that wily pair. Did they return to their shared heaven or sink back to the depths of hell? Or did they merely settle into a mixed up heaven and hell of their own making, for where else could a demon and angel make a home but somewhere in between? Someone once asked if a bird fell in love with a fish then where would they live? The obvious answer is along the shore, in the middle between land and sea. This is a story of ineffability, of the Apocalypse only not really, of bookshops and motorcars, fishes and birds and maybe even a little bit of love if you look between the lines. This is a story of an Angel who fell a little bit downwards and a Demon who rose a little bit upwards and on the Earth, on the middle ground between heaven and hell, they found their home with each other.
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pentragon
I heard from a guy whose zucchini tasted bitter and shortly after he died. Can you do something wrong with growing zucchinis that makes parts of them poisonous?
Toxic Squash syndrome is something that happens if you eat squashes that are not meant to be eaten, such as ornamental pumpkins. Zucchini are notable for their ability to cross-pollinate with other squashes, so if you grow ornamental varieties alongside edible varieties, you risk contaminating your crop.
If you take a bite out of a squash and it tastes bitter, it’s a contaminated crop.
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Advice for girls: buy skinny jeans in the boy’s section
They’re more comfortable, still form fitting, and best of all: THE POCKETS. THEY HAVE ACTUAL POCKETS.
don’t believe me? look:
these are boys pants, and they look just as good on me as any other skinny jeans I own
See that phone? I’m going to put it in the pocket. Must be so small right??
Ah yes, girl pants length. Probably can’t fit any further than that-
what? what’s this?
Good god. Oh good lord in heaven. This is blasphemous.
Look at how much room is still there. There’s chaos in the streets. Babies are crying. Fashion designers are screaming out of fear of the unknown.
Buy your pants in the boys section, girls. Live in the beautiful world you deserve where you can fit shit in your pocket.
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so, this is what i’ve done all day apparently
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the brit guide to getting off
Following @aibidil‘s post about how they never knew that in the UK “getting off” with someone means kissing, rather than sex: I’m guessing some of you writers in British fandoms might want to start using it?
Which is why I’ve put together this quick, handy, only-slightly-randy guide for using “get off”.
1. literally every rule I post here will be contradicted by a fellow Brit.
2. write what you want, who gives a fuck about my rules?
with that out of the way…
3. getting off is the kind of kissing you do in a club, not in front of your parents.
4. while not all kisses are sexual in nature, getting off is always sexual.
5. “I got off with him” never “I get off with him”.
6. “Because you were too busy getting off with her” never “Because you were too busy gotting off with her”.
7. “I didn’t plan to get off with them!” never “I didn’t plan to got off with them.”
8. English sucks, I know.
9. Generally, I wouldn’t ask someone if they “got off” with someone, it sounds like I’m asking if they stepped off the bus.
10. When two characters are talking about someone else kissing: “Did you see Draco getting off with Harry?”, “Molly said she saw John getting off with Sherlock”, “I heard Nick and Louis got off with each other at Harry’s house party.”
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Oooh I never thought of it that way...well done!
I know that John is the narrator, but it just hit me. John is the narrator.
The way we see the entire show is his interpretation of the events. It’s how he characterizes all the players. And he characterizes Molly as a meek, submissive woman who fumbles all over herself around Sherlock. Every motivation Molly has, in John’s narration, is 100% focused on Sherlock. It shows her having no ambition outside of him.
The only time we see the show outside of John’s narration is in Sherlock’s Mind Palace. That Molly is ENTIRELY different than the one we see in the rest of the show. The Molly in Sherlock’s Mind Palace is dynamic. She is controlling of the situation, and she is his savior. She helps him stay alive after being shot, and she keeps him focused. She disregards the rules in TAB, an episode which takes place entirely in the Mind Palace. She breaks the law in order to assert herself as a capable doctor, and even though Sherlock knows it is her, he still creates a situation in which she fools him. Her motivations have nothing to do with Sherlock when he envisions her. Her motivations are for herself and also a greater scheme to uplift other women.
To summarize, Sherlock sees Molly as not only his equal, but a mind to rival his own and to even best him. Meanwhile, John sees her as window dressing for Sherlock’s narrative. Sherlock even sees John as a misogynist in TAB. Every interaction John has with a woman is him being callous and dismissive and trying to assert control over them. He even considers suffragettes as a threat. The only woman he shows complete understanding and empathy with is Molly, and she isn’t even allowed to live her life as a woman. She’s posing as a man in order to keep her job. “Amazing what one has to do to get ahead in a man’s world.”
And since this episode is within Sherlock’s own mind, that means that this is how Sherlock sees John. That’s not to say that he hates John. He clearly doesn’t; he shows that John is incredibly important to him and a great motivator in his life. But he thinks that John is insensitive and in need of change.
TLDR: Sherlock is taking his Respecting Molly Hooper vitamins and John is sexist. John is an unreliable narrator because he tries to hide and gloss over his own prejudices.
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miles “who’s morales” morales’s biggest weakness is the cover story
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SOMETHING TO SNOUT ABOUT
you’re wandering across the plains of Mongolia, wondering where the fuck you left your horse. suddenly, the ground shakes! like the beginning of the stampede scene in the Lion King. you hear a distant thunder, as if caused by many hooves! like the stampede scene in the Lion King. you shift anxiously as the noise grows louder, wishing you’d paid more attention to the Disney classics.
suddenly the herd comes over the rise, and you laugh so hard you fall over and are immediately and tragically trampled to death.
surprise! it’s the-
and it’s rude to laugh. (but boy, is it hard not to.)
the Saiga (sigh-guh) is a goat-sized antelope native to the Eurasian steppe. they’re found from the Carpathian Mountains to Mongolia. and they uh, have a bit of a nose situation going on.
and that’s the understatement of the century! the Saiga’s mighty schnozz is its defining feature, and no other hooved animal on earth has such a robust snoot. the Saiga pities their pathetic little faces for it.
that’s a lot of nose to look down. geeze.
so why this immense not-quite-trunk? maybe they use it to make noise, or to intimidate rivals? not so much, actually. both males and females have the tremendous facetrumpet, though females do lack horns and a desire to kill. (but more on that later.)
obviously this big ol clown honker must have some purpose, or it wouldn’t exist. or maybe God was just bored, who nose. (har!) but I kid, this punderful snout actually does have a purpose!
and that purpose is to look ABSOLUTELY STUNNING.
as I mentioned, Saigas are herd animals. and at some point, Evolution decided to provide them with a semi-helpful wedgie. that monster snout helps to filter dust kicked up by their 50ish neighbors out of the air they breathe, as they stumpf semi-majestically across the plains.
it also helps to warm the air they breathe in the cold months, which is an adaptation anyone who’s ever stepped out of their front door directly into a -10 hellzone is surely jealous of. (god, you don’t even know.)
I’m not bitter! I’M NOT.
and they migrate really far! herds of these ridiculous little antelopes can cross thousands of miles, and travel up to 72 miles in a single day! they ford rivers, brave valleys, and scuttle inspiringly across the tundra like they think they’re in a Lifetime movie.
their goal is to reach their seasonal feeding grounds; they spend the winters in the south and the summers in the north. like retirees, except without the tacky golf pants.
BRENDA, HAVE YOU SEEN MY SHORTS.
Saigas eat a wide variety of plants, including some that are toxic to other animals. like goats, Saigas put all of their skill points into the ‘eat anything’ slot. and it seems to have paid off; they were once found across all of Europe and Asia, and even in paleolithic North America! (though the end of the last ice age put a brutal stop to that.)
just imagine being a prehistoric hunter-gatherer and looking out your tent one day to see a moving sea of these ridiculous little muppet antelopes. I bet it was a fun time.
GROK, YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHAT I’M LOOKING AT RIGHT NOW.
but I did promise I’d get back to the heart-full-of-murder thing, so I guess I’d better do that. Saiga are a lot like other ungulates in that their herds are mostly made up of females, with one attendant male who just kind of hangs out and get poached for his horns sometimes. at least, until breeding season. (DUN DUN DUUUN)
males spend the entire breeding season fighting each other for access to the ladies, which isn’t unusual for a hooved mammal! but what IS unusual is the fatality rate- 90% of these fights end with one male just fucking killing the other. I guess the Saiga ladies are just really into blood sport.
maybe we can get them to just watch Game of Thrones instead like normal people.
but their conservation status is another story altogether. (it’s depressing how many species this is true for. welcome to the Anthropocene, I guess. the geological era where everything sucks.)
around two decades ago, more than a million Saiga wandered across the Eurasian Steppe. but unregulated hunting for food, trophies and the Saiga’s ‘medicinal’ horns decreased their numbers to less than 50,000 in just 10 years. and if that weren’t enough, bacterial infections have been taking huge chunks out of the remaining population: a mass die-off in 2015 killed half of them.
but there is good news: these goofy little hooved bastards are now enjoying governmental protection and conservation efforts to raise their numbers. there are still around 50,000 of them and with luck and maybe a little less murder, these goatish nostril maniacs will be thundering across the plains once more.
(lord willing.)
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thanks for reading! you can find the rest of the Weird Biology series on my tumblr here, or check out the official archive at weirdbiology.com!
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IMAGE SOURCES
img1- Tim Flach img2- Saiga Conservation Alliance img3- World Atlas img4- elelur.com img5- Andrey Giljov and Karina Karenina img6- Mongabay img7- IUCN img8- LabRoots
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When people tell you “have you even read the book” and you look them in the eyes and say “yes, Mary Watson loved and appreciated Sherlock Holmes and his relationship with her husband in those too.”
I mean they had a place at their house for him to stay people.
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