Queer Werewolves Destroy Capitalism

by MJ Lyons

  Queer werewolves destroy capitalism: Five Smutty Queer Stories

  © 2021 Michael Lyons

  © This edition Microcosm Publishing 2021

  First edition - 3,000 copies - May 11, 2021

  eBook ISBN 9781648410062

  This is Microcosm #563

  Cover by Nicholai Avigdor

  Edited by Lydia Rogue

  For a catalog, write or visit:

  Microcosm Publishing

  2752 N Williams Ave.

  Portland, OR 97227

  https://microcosm.pub/queerwerewolves

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  Microcosm Publishing is Portland’s most diversified publishing house and distributor with a focus on the colorful, authentic, and empowering. Our books and zines have put your power in your hands since 1996, equipping readers to make positive changes in their lives and in the world around them. Microcosm emphasizes skill-building, showing hidden histories, and fostering creativity through challenging conventional publishing wisdom with books and bookettes about DIY skills, food, bicycling, gender, self-care, and social justice. What was once a distro and record label was started by Joe Biel in his bedroom and has become among the oldest independent publishing houses in Portland, OR. We are a politically moderate, centrist publisher in a world that has inched to the right for the past 80 years.

  Contents

  • Queer Werewolves Destroy Capitalism

  • Obsidian Devil and the Dead Man’s Hand

  • Peril on Gargara-5

  • Heir

  • The Painting of the Empty Bed

  • Queer Werewolves Destroy the Oligarchy

  “To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,

  To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then?

  I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.”

  —Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric,” Leaves of Grass

  “Sitting pretty in the prime of life

  I’m so tasty and the price is right

  Stewing in the black dope

  I’m filthy and I love it”

  —“Take A Slice,” Glass Animals

  Queer Werewolves Destroy Capitalism: A Precarious Revenge Fantasy

  “QUEER WEREWOLVES DESTROY CAPITALISM”

  The graffiti scrawled on the side of the Hero Burger at Church and Wellesley sends chills of terror and elation up my spine.

  Morgan is home when I schlep the grotceries through our apartment door. He stands over a steaming pot on the stove, the apartment filled with the earthy tang of crushed cellulose. He’s scrolling through his phone as he drops a teaspoon of aconitum into the concoction.

  “You see about the labour minister’s office getting trashed last night?” he asks, delight in his voice. I’d seen the headline getting shared around on social media; last night a group protesting the provincial government’s announcement to freeze minimum wage at $14 and scale back labour rights had trashed an MPP’s office in Lindsay, Ontario. They’d vandalized the place and decorated it with pro-labour graffiti.

  I kiss Morgan as I go about unloading the groceries. Treads-Through-Oblivion, his familiar, weaves through our legs, his fluffy cat tail twitching in agitation until I drop a piece of smoked salmon. The cat shoots me a look of disdainful gratitude as he dives on the morsel. There’s a knock on the door and Morgan goes and opens it a crack, accepting an empty thermos and bag of onions. I give him a look—I’d picked up onions as well, so now we’ll be swimming in them. He ladles some of the mixture into the thermos, filtering out the plant matter with a tea strainer before heading back to the door and handing it out.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asks me.

  “Itchy.”

  Morgan nods and is about to say something when there’s another knock at the door. This time it’s a thermos and a hundred dollar bill. Morgan stuffs the bill into a jar that says “VACATION FUND” before repeating the process.

  Full moons are always like this, a steady stream of people after Morgan’s wolfsbane tea. He’s not the only witch in the city, but he’s one of the few we know whose family perfected the mixture, passing it down through generations. He’s shared it with others, but no one seems to be able to get it just right, there’s been accidental poisonings. Morgan’s is a sure bet. He offers the tea on a barter system, his customers bring what they can spare, but he’d never turn a werewolf away. That’s how we met. I’d been desperate, struggling to hold it all together. Full moons put me out of commission for days, it’d been impossible to hold down a job. Then this beautiful witch boy sent me a DM on Instagram. A friend of a friend had passed me along and Morgan always loved a good charity job. I moved in a year after we met. Morgan is an amazing witch, but he’s an even better boyfriend. I don’t deserve him.

  Morgan closes the door after accepting some banana bread for a reusable coffee cup of his tea. I’m done with the groceries and take the moment of quiet to sneak up behind him and wrap my arms around him as he stirs. I nuzzle my lips into his neck and begin to nibble.

  “Mmm,” he sighs. I run my hands up under his loose tank top as I take some of his nape between my front teeth and bite down. I hear a slight hissing of pain and feel him melt backwards into me. “Feeling feisty?”

  I kiss the fresh mark, the white-bordered indents of my teeth roiling into an angry purple-red. “Bad moon on the rise,” I whisper.

  He laughs quietly to himself. There’s a moment of silence before he whispers, “Harder.”

  I nip and kiss my way around to the left side of his neck and sink my teeth in the soft skin of his nape. I’m careful not to break the skin, but I’m not gentle. I feel his body shiver in my arms as he gasps. He grinds backwards against me.

  One of my hands roams down under the waist of his pyjama pants. He’s going commando as usual, a major turn on. We’ve both got a bit of an exhibitionist streak in us. He might be wearing less if he weren’t answering the door. I help him along the way, nudging his waistband down with my wrist as I run my fingers over his junk. The pants slide down his legs and he shivers as his skin hits the cool air.

  “Fuck,” he whispers as my fingers start to stroke him, my fingers dipping down between his boy pussy lips. He’s wet; I want to throw him up onto the kitchen counter and take him right there.

  Of course there’s a knock on the door just as I start to really get him moaning. He starts to bend to pick up his pants but I’m quicker. I step on his pyjama pants between his ankles—spread slightly apart—and growl, “Leave them.”

  He smirks at me, stepping out of them, and walks over to the door, his tank top draping over the top of his gorgeous little ass. He cracks the door open, leaning around it, the muscles in his legs contorting, stretching at the awkward angle so only his head, shoulders and right arm are in the doorway. I don’t mind the sight. The guy outside gives him a quizzical look, but Morgan greets him with a breathy “hey” and accepts a reusable coffee cup and a twenty dollar bill. “Just give me a second.”

  I have him pinned against the door before it’s even fully closed, turning him around to face me. I slide my fingers back into his front hole and he gasps, arm flailing to put down the cup before he drops it. My teeth find his neck and I start to toy with the tender spots I’ve already made while I fingerfuck him, the slick sound of his front
hole wet from my ministrations is so fucking sexy I want to pound him against the door.

  He starts to groan and I lift my lips from his neck so we’re face to face, his hot breath against my stubbly chin. “Shh.”

  I push our lips together, my tongue darting into his mouth, and he moans while my fingers slide in and out of him as he writhes. Morgan pushes himself down onto the two fingers I’ve got inside of him to meet my knuckles. I quickly add a third and he groans.

  There’s a polite knock on the door behind him and a muffled, “Everything okay in there?”

  My fingers slide out of my boyfriend and he looks at me, furious. He can come pretty quick when we get filthy so he might have even been close. I step back, leaning against the counter, the bulge in my pants twitching for him as my hardon slides down my right pant leg. I love the desperate look in his eyes as he scrambles to fill up the thermos.

  As he stands behind the door in the same awkward position as before, just as he begins to turn the doorknob, I step behind him and reach around, pushing his tank top up and out of the way, my right hand wrapping around his engorged clit, his hot fucking trans man dick, jerking him off. He gasps as I stroke him in earnest, shoving the thermos through the crack in the door. The guy on the other side accepts it gratefully.

  “Thanks dude, don’t know what I’d do without it.”

  I grind the bulge in my jeans between his ass cheeks as I keep pumping his twitching cock. “Uh huh,” Morgan grunts out. “No problem.”

  “You see about that politician’s office on the news?” the guy drops his voice to ask.

  “Um,” is all Morgan can get out as he squirms against the bulge in my pants. I can’t tell if he’s trying to escape my grasp or trying to tease me back. I push into him hard with my hips and he stumbles a little against the door. It takes all he can not to fall against the wall as I dry hump him.

  “They say it was werewolves,” the guy whispers conspiratorially.

  Morgan grunts, doing his best to make it sound like an affirmative, but I choose that moment to lean over and sink my teeth into his neck. Morgan’s vocal, and the best he can do to suppress the most of his pleasure as he comes to my fingers stroking him is a guttural, “Oh shit!”

  The guy nods but gives him that same quizzical look. “You okay, dude?”

  “Fuck yeah,” Morgan gasps, doing his best to make it an answer, but it’s not convincing. The guy outside the door nods again but a sly smile is creeping across his face. He’s catching on, maybe he can even smell what’s happening; it is getting close to dusk. He says a goodbye as Morgan slams the door, bracing himself against it, a high whine as he comes once, then again to my strokes, waves of pleasure coursing through him. His knees sag and I catch him, lifting him up and collapsing with him on the living room couch laughing.

  “You’re such a fucking asshole,” he gasps, smiling, but he’s gotten me back. He’s soaked the front of my pants where I was humping into him. He massages my cock through my jeans for a bit, but there’s soon another knock on the door. This time he shoots me a daring look as he pulls his pyjama pants back on. I pout, my cock’s aching for round two.

  The dozens of visits drop off not long after, as pinks and oranges colour the warm October evening. Morgan fills my favourite mug up with tea and kisses me before heading out, his neck all marked up. Full moons are as busy for witches as they are for werewolves; he has a full coven meeting, witches from all over the region gathering to weave extraordinary magic. We’ll both be exhausted tomorrow after our late nights.

  I sit down on the couch with the warm mug cradled in my hands, my arousal tempered by the smell. The tea is pungent, which pales to how bitter it is, which is still better compared to how painful it is to suppress the worst of the transformation. Morgan’s recipe tries to compensate for the strategic toxicity of wolfsbane—a generous dose of chamomile for taste and valerian to offer a little pain relief, but it’s still harrowing. I remember my first time taking it, writhing in pain on my bathroom floor, my half-wolf body crammed between the toilet and the wall, feeling like vomiting but knowing I had to keep it down until the worst of it had passed. Who could answer the call of the hunt when they were half-poisoned, half-dead?

  I dump the tea down the sink and grab my keys, giving Treads a scratch before I head out. Tonight I answer the call.

  The itch has devolved into full on aches as my feet pound the concrete across the Cabbagetown park. That’s the new, trendy Cabbagetown, full of million dollar heritage homes, not Cabbagetown of the working poor of old. The Don Valley, bisected by a busy highway, glitters below, the river of commuter cars the only light in the din of early evening in the urban valley. The new monolith of a hospital glitters across the valley to the East.

  A few of us who aren’t taking wolfsbane meet in the woods near Riverdale farm, on the lip of the valley. Normally, it’s a cruising area for guys, but they know to avoid it during the full moon. It’s not always the same werewolves, but there are often regulars I recognize. There’s Patricia, a young trans woman and community activist, and Randy, a cute bi guy, a student at Ryerson University I’ve seen on Grindr before, among a few others.

  We strip and neatly pile our clothes and shoes, then stand shivering in the frigid October air. Patricia’s sniffling, which is unusual, so despite typical etiquette of stoic silence before a transformation I ask her what’s up.

  “I got fucking fired,” she says, cold fury colouring her tears. She explains that she worked for a bank, a progressive bank that sponsors Pride and a bunch of art events, even covered some of her hormones and transition costs.

  However, they’d been in hot water recently. A few year’s ago they’d been discovered funding anti-LGBTQ politicians in the States for some unfathomable reason, which had freaked Patricia out. More recently, higher-ups were putting pressure on tellers to sell customers products and services they don’t need. It had been all over the news for a while and then promptly forgotten when the news cycle moved on. Patricia had resisted it. She wasn’t going to sell a pensioner overdraft protection when they were counting nickels and dimes. There’d been words with management; she’d threatened to go to the media.

  “Of course, that’s not the reason they gave,” she said, wiping angry tears away as the sky darkened above. “I’d been speaking at a lot of events about police participation in Pride, which, surprise surprise, they sponsor. But they said my recent performance reviews had been substandard and my ‘values would align with other career opportunities.’ Fuckers. I’ll show them.”

  Before I can respond the sky clears above, the inevitable full moon bathing the valley with cold silver light.

  The transformation is like a thunderclap. A splitting headache, joints on fire, muscle fibres splitting, full body convulsions, hair follicles blazing outward, bones mutating faster than should be possible.

  And then there are a half dozen werewolves leaping through the woods, answering the call of the hunt.

  Animal smells permeate the air, squirrels, raccoons, unlucky lost house pets. Even the forbidden scent of man in the distance. Then the smell of blood as two of my kin leap on prey, eviscerating it, muzzles covered in blood.

  My gut burns for the taste of flesh, I sniff the air and catch the scent of droppings, a family of racoons nearby.

  I turn, narrowing down on the scent of the sow, ready to pounce on the den.

  No. No, this isn’t right.

  We have such power, even just a dozen of us gathered in the woods.

  We’re hunters, but we’ve been hunted. The police task force. They come into the woods with traps and riot gear. They electrocute us, net us, drag us off to cramped holding cells, wait for the transformation to pass and then find us freezing, naked, weak. They press us for names, threaten to reveal our identities. They ship us off to be “treated.” Treatments that leave us husks of who we’re meant to be. We are hunters, predato
rs.

  I step in front of my pack sister, who has caught onto the scent of the sow and her nursery. I give a high, chirruping whine and she stops, confused. I straighten my back, I feel my tail stand tall and bare my teeth, and she responds in kind, a battle of the wills. I back off, whimpering. These are not our enemies, these weak creatures.

  She whimpers back, understanding.

  We find our brother, who chews at some viscera, scavenging from the larger werewolves. He displays submission, but that’s not what we need of him. We’re gathering the pack.

  I throw my head back and howl. My brother and sister join, and suddenly the howls of a dozen of us echo through the woods. And then we are off, shooting through the woods.

  Going into the city is dangerous. We’re visible, exposed. But we’re swift, a lone human will not dare get in our way. They flee in terror, the scent of their fear delicious. A few of the pack are almost tempted away to give chase, but we do not consume the flesh of men any more. This is known. It is a temptation, but it is for our survival.

  No, our prey is a temple of glass and metal. Of electricity and plastic. The human temple of wealth. My sister shows us where she’d been wronged, and I throw myself against the facade, cracking the tempered glass. My sister joins, using her front claws to lift a metal canister off the street side and pitches it with all her might. The glass shatters, and we are within. We tear devices out of the walls, overturn the installations, plastic and paper scattering everywhere, mixing with the shards of glass. A klaxon blares into the night, but I start up a howl and together we drown it out.

  “You were out late last night,” Morgan murmurs to me, cuddling up behind me in bed late the next morning, my big spoon. I groan in pain, he goes and returns with some Advil, some water and a freshly rolled joint, promising a nice hot cup of tea with a couple soothing incantations that will help. I can call in sick to work, he says, take it easy today.