#''I declare that I am england. you declare that I have drowned''

[vimbry]

it's sad how many reviews and stuff around tmbg seem to centre linnell as the sole dark and creepy writer of the band, never really crediting flansburgh too. do "hide away folk family," "dirt bike," "rabid child," "black ops," "cloisonné" mean nothing to them, smh.

[milezperprower]

tw// light blood

”i declare that i am england,

you declare that i have drowned!” 💐

[drlombriz]

We could be sleeping in the flowers

We could sleep all afternoon

You'd proclaim that you're an island

I'd proclaim that I'm one too

Then we float into the harbor

With just piers and boats around

I declare that I am England

You declare that I have drowned

[imaginesbymonika]

Oh, baby, baby, have you seen Dave tonight?

Part 1 of 2

Pairing: Dave (Darf) England x fem!Reader

Warning: mentioning of blood, swearing, Darf being an asshole, a bit angst, humor (this is a comedy)

Plot: It's like Britney said "there's only two types of people in the world/ the ones that entertain/ and the ones that observe" and your crush of four years just happens to take "well, baby, I'm a put-on-a-show kind of girl" a bit too serious when he is drunk.

A/N: I am working on the Knoxville finale, I just needed something else for a moment to break out of my writers block.

Song to listen to while reading:

You absolutely adore your friends, you really do. But as much as you loved them, the hatred you felt for their parties was almost as strong (and keep in mind you once took a literal bullet for Johnny). You sigh as you take another sip of your Pina Colada when you hear how Chris walks up to you from behind. You slide a bit to the side, to let him sit down next to you.

"You're having fun, babe?", he takes a sip from your drink without asking and looks at you with dissatisfaction: "Not strong enough for me." You simply nod.

A Jackass party primarily consisted out of three things.

1. Celebrities

Your eyes widen as you glance past him: "Is that Paris Hilton?" Chris blinks a few times at you before he follows your stare, and when his eyes land on the stunning blonde woman he nods. "She is friends with Steveo, I spoke to her a couple of hours ago. She's super nice."

"I'm a huge fan of her music.", Ethan's voice emerges from behind you but you don't change positions, you just watch how the IT-Girl talks to Knoxville. You only hear how he starts to hum the chorus of "Turn you on", but the loud music that fills in the entire house drowns his voice out.

2. Drugs

You chuckle softly: "Is she friends with Steveo or friends with his drugs?" Chris joins in but turns his head to peek at you. You attempted your best to avoid all the substances that were being exchanged at this type of Hollywood party. But it often felt like walking on a minefield made out of Cocaine and Ketamine.

"By the way.", you say and tear your eyes off Paris. You notice how Jason and Steveo have joined you, and are both sitting on the floor around the glass-table. "Has anyone seen Dave?"

Chris whistles and you softly shove him with your elbow, while your cheeks begin to burn up. You made an effort to keep your foolish crush on the blonde Jackass on the low, but apparently, people were really quick to connect the dots.

Jason scoffs and takes a sip of his drink: "Have you looked at the time, it's almost three AM. Dave has probably already left by now."

"That's not true.", Steveo chimes in and lights up a cigarette. The smoke hits your face directly and you cough, he glances at you apologetically before he takes another deep breath: "I just saw Dave like ten minutes ago, walking towards the toilet with some random woman."

With a woman. You feel how your stomach drops.

"Yeah, but that wasn't Dave."

The moment Jason finishes his sentence a loud sound comes from behind you and when you turn around you observe Dave laying on the ground next to the grand piano. He clutches the side of his face, while he begins to curse under his breath.

And you immediately realize what he meant by 'that wasn't Dave'.

3. Darf

You see how a few drops of blood make their way down his temple and drop on the white marble floor. And while his friends all laugh you stand up and make your way towards him.

You kneel down and flash him a short smile: "You're good?"

"If you'd- you'd suck my dick I'd be feeling better.", he declares and you only roll your eyes. Whenever Dave drank too much alcohol, it turned into some live-action performance of 'The Exorcist' and your best friend turned into Darf. A douchebag who wrote assault with an enormous capital A.

When it came to you, the assault happened to be sexual. Not that you were minding it very much. Without talking back to him, you help him up to his feet, lead him out of the living room, down the hallway, and towards the bathroom. "You- you look so hot.", he lets out and you feel his hot tequila breath against the side of your face. "Oh, shut up.", you simply mumble and sit him down on the toilet.

"Let's clean you up, shall we?".

[richmond-rex]

AU - Margert Beaufort's plans succeeded when she learns her son Henry seduced and eloped with King's sister Lizze, but as she reviced letter from her son shocked her , that Henry admit that he and Lizzie really love each other

Hello! I'm not sure if anon simply wanted me to give my thoughts on this AU but here's a little snippet I ventured to write after thinking about it. We start here from the premise that Edward V survives and defeats his uncle in this scenario. Under the cut!

When the messenger found Margaret at last, the sun was only then starting to peak on the horizon, a shock of white light haloing in the dark blue expanse pooled on the back of St Paul's highest spiral. She opened the sealed missive carefully, with increasingly tremulous fingers, kneeling at the priedieu before the carved altar niche in her chamber. Her breath held deep in her chest, she sent a prayer to the Virgin to give her the necessary fortitude to bear what news they had sent her. She was confronted with her own dear son’s handwriting.

Madam, my most entirely well-beloved lady and mother, in as humble manner as I can think, I recommend me to you, beseeching you that I may explain to you my mind and sincere enterprise before any others, bitterly vexed that a report should have been made to you before this my own letter, calculated to diminish the great genuine and motherly love you have always borne me above all others, as I know for a certainty. And I thought I should not offend you, which I will never do willfully, to advertise unto you that it is my heart’s desire and intent to take the Lady Elizabeth the king's sister to wife, and that for this my said enterprise we make passage onto Calais, trusting Almighty God to give us safe and speedy shelter in those parts. Desiring therefore not to encumber you, but that I would make some recompensation for your displeasure with my writing, in my hearty wise I declare unto you that the lady has made her long and grievous suit to me, tears flowing on her face, humbly imploring me that I should deliver her of her fate and tragedy to be sent into the parts of Bourgogne to be wed to Maximilian the Archduke of Austria, according to the king’s disposition, as my lady well knoweth. And, finding my heart not less well-disposed towards hers than hers towards mine, I am decided to follow it as much as God will give me grace, as the only woman I have chosen to take as my lawfully wedded wife, under the leave of the Holy Father and the Church’s full blessed sacrament, if the Pope will be so kind as to grant us the dispensation in good time.

Margaret paused, drowning at a dark and despairing loss for words. She would never have predicted that sudden turn of events. Her son, enamoured with the king’s sister! Who could tell? Margaret had only seen the long glances the young lady, England’s beloved Bessy, had bestowed on Henry upon his return to the country, but she had deemed them but a young girl’s passing curiosity towards a stranger and former exile—a fascination with the unknown, and nothing more. Having aided the king in his just cause against his uncle, Margaret would never have thought her son could so soon turn against the young sovereign’s wishes by eloping with his sister. The picture was grim.

Verily, madam, the lady is good and virtuous, a peerless gentle and wise maiden of the highest degree, so chaste and beautiful to behold it fully caused my heart to ache without her sweetest presence by my side, so that I have not wished to see or hear any other human presence since I first laid my eyes upon her fair face, for I love her with soul and body, and trust our Lord to never make us part in this life or beyond. Therefore I truly wanted to tell you, madam, if I be too bold in this enterprise, or any my desires, I humbly beseech you of your pardon, knowing well how great and unremitting have been your benevolent and watchful efforts for my advancement, so much it were difficult to express. Wherefore I pray you will make suit into my lady’s mother the queen for the great and singular friendship it has pleased her at all times to bestow upon you, to plead for our cause next to her son the king, and that we may know her mind and pleasure on our behalf. And if I should never have the king’s nor the queen’s blessing, my mother, yet your kind dealing is to me a thousand times more than all the favour that can be dispensed on my cause. I thank you most heartily, wishing God to ever preserve you in good health and long life. Accept the writing I send, and have of me all the faith and devotion there is.  By your humble son and loyal friend, H Richmond

Margaret folded the letter and pressed it against her heart for a long moment. If King Edward were still alive, her son’s eloping with his eldest daughter would be nothing short of treason. Now that Elizabeth was but the king’s sister, however... there was perhaps a sliver of hope, though she dared not yet to grasp it. Catastrophe and fortune hung in the air, suspended as a some great bell about to ring. Margaret wanted to stay and pray for her son but there was no time. She needed to act, and act she would.

“Joan,” she spoke to the damsel in her room, “Send for the carriage at once.”

[ladywhistleclown]

Benedict Bridgerton x M!Reader: Valentines Fools

Summary: Benedict does something special. Word Count: 3334 A/N: I read this post about Valentines in Regency England, and found it so interesting that I had to write about it. of course, I made it gay. duh. Also, I wrote the ‘poem’ later myself, but its inspired by many LGBT poets/writers from history who wrote poems like it, about hope for future LGBT folks, just very simplified. This is some of my best work, and I don’t want it to get snubbed just because its not f/m, so like, give it a chance! MLM fic is also fun :) Enjoy! Warnings: Fluff, Drinking, Giggly men doing giggly men things (being stupid) -- Valentines Day, in your mind, was a rather dreadful event. Ladies and Lords spent days agonizing over hand-made letters, writing disgusting poetry about love, or rejection. You had never partaken in the act, partly because you had never had anyone to write to, and partly because even if you had, you had neither the patience nor skill to craft such detailed notes of devotion. You thought it best to leave such things to artists and ladies, of which you were neither. This year was only slightly different. After having met Benedict at Lord Granville's, striking up conversations about art, women, and your places in society, you had developed a rather strange relationship, one that you would almost call a courtship, if it wasn’t so clearly an impossibility. Benedict simply wanted to explore something new, something outside the realm of society and expectations, and you, lovesick fool that you were, happily obliged him. It was nothing more than attraction and curiosity. Second son or not, Benedict could never marry a man. Even if he wanted to.

At least you could drown yourself in booze at Lord Granville's. He was a good listener, with even better advice, and you knew that he understood exactly your pain. It was here you found yourself, a day before Valentines, throwing down your sixth beer and lamenting to Granville, who sat patiently by your side. “Society is not kind to those like us.” You sighed, running the tip of your index finger along the outer edge of your glass, staring blankly at it, as though if you drank enough, the answers would appear in the liquor. “No, it isn’t. But we are kind to each other, and ourselves.” He replied, looking over you with pity. You had never been much of a drinker, not for as long as Granville had known you, but your infatuation with Benedict had brought it out in you, and he wondered if it was a mistake to invite the Bridgerton boy here, if it caused an old friend to suffer in a way that was very familiar and personal to him. He knew the pain of impossible love too well, and saw himself reflected in your morose state. “Of course. You’re too kind to me, Granville. I talk your ear off about my foolish troubles with Bridgerton, but never think to ask of yours.” “I am not nearly as troubled as you are. And as I said, we must look out for each other, as the ton certainly will not.” he lifted up his own drink, pausing just before it reached his lips to glance at you, “Perhaps I should dis-invite Bridgerton from future events?” “Oh hell, Granville, don’t torture the man on my account. He enjoys the art and the company, and besides that,  I’d rather him here than at some brothel.” you grimaced as soon as the words left your mouth, an embarrassing slip revealing just how deeply attached you were. “Apologies. The alcohol has loosened my tongue.” “No bother. I understand that jealousy quite well.” Granville said, his voice still light and amused, and you couldn't help but laugh as he took a sip, winking at you before putting his glass down. “What jealousy?” Came a loud voice from directly behind you. You jumped, Granville almost knocking his drink over in his shock. Of course, he would arrive now, when you were drunk and foolish. You breathed out quickly, praying that you would say nothing incriminating before turning to face Benedict. He looked confused, glancing from Granville's face to yours, before reiterating, “What jealousy, Granville?” “Merely of other artists. I’m sure you know it too.” He recovered, taking another drink before gesturing to the table, “Care to join us?” Benedict sat in the chair closest to you, and you shot Granville a look of pure spite. In your drunken haze, everything seemed too much. His voice was too smooth, his smile too large, and the way he draped an arm across your chair, caging you in, was entirely too casual. You promised to whatever God was listening that you would slaughter Granville for this. “Of course I do. You know better than anyone.” He agreed, sliding easily into the conversation. You remained silent, not trusting yourself in your inebriation to respond beyond a simple hum of agreement or a grunt of displeasure. If you allowed yourself to speak freely, no doubt you would be weeping in Benedict's arms like a little girl within minutes. “What do you think?” You started, retreating from your thoughts to find both Benedict and Granville looking at you. Benedict’s eyes shone with thinly veiled concern, tilting his head and gently shaking you by the shoulder, while Granville simply smiled in amusement. “I..was lost in thought. My apologies.” You said quickly, waving Benedict’s hands away and sitting up completely. You were drunker than you thought, and briefly you wondered if you would even be able to make it to your carriage without help. You figured if you couldn’t, you would force Granville to escort you. He certainly owed you, after pulling this little stunt. “You’re wasted. Perhaps you should head home.” Benedict said gently. You huffed, shaking your head. “Don’t concern yourself with me, I can take care of myself. Now. My opinion on what, exactly?” “Valentines,” Granville supplied, glancing into his empty cup, “we were talking about all the effort that goes into such cards and letters. Artistry, in a way. What do you think of it?” “I find the holiday wholly unnecessary. And it takes far too much time to make such delicate things. A canvas is much more secure.” you huffed. Benedict stiffened beside you, although in your semi-consciousness, you barely noticed, your eyes fluttering between shut and open. “So you wouldn’t make any?” Benedict asked. “No.” “Would you receive them?” “I suppose it would be rude to deny such labors of love. But I have never received one, and I doubt I will this year. Ladies don’t send cards to men like me.” you shrugged, drooping over the table. The longer you sat, the harder it was to hold yourself up. If you passed out, it would be a good escape from such intimate topics with Benedict, so you allowed yourself to slump on the table, sighing. “Alright, that's enough. I’ll help you home.” Benedict declared, standing up and taking you by the arm, heaving you up. You groaned in protest, but didn’t fight as he slung your arm over his shoulder and half dragged you away from the table, Granville following behind. “Apologies, Bridgerton. Next time I won’t allow him to indulge quite so much. You may end up getting more than 10 minutes with him that way.” He said cheerily. “I’m sober enough to know when I’m being mocked, Granville.” you opened your bleary eyes to glare at him, finding his eyes twinkling with amusement. He patted your shoulder. “It’s no trouble. I was about to head home, anyway.” Is all Benedict said as he helped you into the carriage, climbing in after you and seating himself on the same bench. Granville waved you both off as Benedict rapped his knuckles on the carriage, directing your footman to take you home. “Now you have me alone and vulnerable. Not very gentlemanly of you, Bridgerton. What would the ton think?” you teased, leaning lazily against the side of the carriage, away from him. You hoped it was subtle, that he thought you were just drunk and loose and tired. You couldn’t bear the thought of him finding out just how weak you were for him. Then he would leave, and you would be crushed. “They would think nothing, because we’re men.” He pointed out, leaning closer to you. You hummed, acknowledging his words, but didn’t reply beyond that. It was only then that you realized how precarious a situation you were in. Drunk, alone, with a man you loved, who seemed to be moving closer and closer by the minute, although maybe you were imagining that part. Anything was possible when you were this drunk. “They would be wrong, though.” Benedict finished softly. He reached over, brushing his fingers along your jaw, moving downward to loosen your cravat. You sighed, tilting your head back to allow him easier access, cursing yourself but unable to shove him away. You were such a fool. “Are you planning something?” You asked. He finally managed to pull your cravat away, revealing your neck to him. He laughed at your question. “With you this drunk? No. I only wanted you to be more comfortable.” He tossed the cloth onto the other bench, leaning safely away from you to stare out the window after. While you were partly disappointed, you were mostly relieved. You wouldn’t have been able to resist, and only would have brought yourself more shame and confusion in regards to him. But Benedict was a good man, and he would never take advantage of you in your current state. Your heart squeezed. Too good of a man. “I’m sorry to be such a burden tonight.” you blurted suddenly. Benedict looked at you, his head whipping away from the window so quickly it almost made you dizzy. “I shouldn’t have drank so much. It was foolish.” “You’re never a burden to me.” He said, his voice soft and indignant, almost as if he was offended by the mere idea that you had inconvenienced him. “You shouldn’t have to chaperone me home like a weak debutante.” “I’d rather you than a debutante. Trust me.” You chuckled, shaking your head and glancing out the carriage window. You could see the square, and your home, fast approaching. It appeared as though your time with Benedict was over for tonight. Relieved and downtrodden, you sat up and attempted to right your swirling vision as the carriage came to a stop. Benedict stood, helping you up and out of the carriage. After explaining the situation to your housekeeper, he hauled you all the way into your home and bedroom, even being kind enough to help you out of your boots as you lay back in your bed, arm over your eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning. “I’ll be going, then.” He said quietly, standing up and brushing his hands together. You lifted your arm, making certain you weren’t going to puke before crooking one finger, beckoning him closer. “Come here.” You breathed. He obeyed, moving dutifully to your side, remaining silent despite the question in his eyes. You sat up slowly, ignoring your dizziness. Placing a hand on the back of his neck, you pulled him closer. Benedict, realizing what you were after, leaned down and forward, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. You flopped back into your bed after he pulled away, grinning, although you couldn’t see it, having already rolled over and buried your face in the covers. “Goodnight. I hope you enjoy tomorrow.” He said ominously, the clicking of his heels against the marble floor the only indication you had that he had left. Before you could even think of the meaning of his strange farewell, you were dragged into rest. -- The first thing you registered after waking was the pounding behind your eyes. Moaning in pain, you lifted your arm over your face, blocking out the light that your butler had let in through the curtains. “My apologies, My Lord. Should we have a cure made?” He asked politely, noticing your haggard state. “Quickly.” You begged. He nodded, bowing before swiftly leaving the room to procure you a bit of relief. Sitting up, you turned away from the windows completely, opting to try and find your balance. After a moment, you were able to make your way to your wardrobe, pulling on your breeches and doublet. Today you had no need to dress formally. Valentines was a day you dedicated to staying completely shuttered away from the rest of the ton, tending to your estate and business ventures. It was easier than being bombarded with reminders of love, and much easier than running into any Bridgerton, although one, of course, you wanted to avoid above all else. It would only pain you to see him giving or receiving such intimate letters, especially with the women of the ton. Once your butler had delivered your cure, and you had thrown down the slimy, disgusting mixture, you were feeling much improved. You made your way to your study, smiling at your maids as they bowed before rushing off, no doubt in a hurry to finish their work and make off with their sweethearts for the day. You felt a twinge of jealousy, smiling sadly as you opened the door to your study. Oh. In your study sat piles and piles of cards, all handmade, some gilded with gold while others were trimmed with lace. You picked one up, in awe at its intricate gold-foil flowers, embossed on the front and lined with sharp swirls and embellishments, all clearly hand done with a calligraphy pen. You opened the card. The script inside was as lovely as the rest of the card, although it was the words that brought tears to your eyes. I sit and I look into your face And I see those before us, Who have loved as we do, And I see those after, And I pray that our impossibility Will become their reality. Yours. You choked on a sob, quickly closing the card and setting it down. The last thing you wanted was to ruin something so perfect with tears. It was not signed, and it didn’t have to be for you to know. Benedict. You looked around the room. There were at least 3 large piles of cards, enough to last an entire year, all handmade and intricate. You wondered how long this had taken him. It would take you days just to read them all. Surely, your servants thought you were either the biggest rake in the ton, with all these notes. You couldn’t care less. You gathered them all, handling them as gently as you would glass, slipping them into your desk cabinet and locking it. They were yours, no one else's. Benedict's words were just for you. Dazed, you leaned back into your office chair, holding the first card, running your fingers over the edges and rereading the lines over and over. It wasn't quite a poem, nor a letter, but a sentiment. A dream, a wish. You would be lying if you said that it wasn’t your dream too. A future where love like yours would be special, not sinful. Love. You jolted. And then laughed. How could you ever have doubted him? Surely, it was only love that would drive him to do this. Only love that would have him escort you home, make sure you were safe and comfortable. That would make him sit for what must have been weeks, if not months, working tirelessly on card after card just to take advantage of the one day where letters between unmarried men and women could be sent freely. Of course, he did so for a cover. But was that not also love? He wanted to protect you from ire, from harm, and so he delivered all the letters he felt he couldn’t today, just to keep from drawing unwanted eyes. Crying and laughing all at once, you pressed the note to your chest. How had you doubted his love for a second? His devotion? You truly were a fool, although not in the way you had expected. It took you half an hour to calm yourself, and by that time, your headache was back and worse than before, thanks to your emotional outburst. But another thing was back, too. Your butler, standing in the doorway with an impassive look on his face, glancing about the room, no doubt looking for the heaps of cards the servants had dropped off. “Do you know what card came from which maiden?” You asked, holding up the first card. It was the only card you had yet to put away, and though you were loathe to show it to him, you thought you should make it try and seem as though you had no idea who they had come from. “The cards were delivered mysteriously early this morning, My Lord. No names, no signatures.” “I see. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. None of them will be receiving a response.” You laughed, setting the card down. “What is it?” “A visitor, sir. The Second Bridgerton. Says he has something to discuss with you, about Lord Granville's gathering last night.” Your heart stuttered. “Send him up. No doubt he wants me to apologize for making such an ass of myself last night.” You joked, and he smiled back, giving a quick nod before rushing off to fetch Benedict. You quickly tucked the last letter into your desk drawer, pulling out a decanter of whiskey and pouring yourself a small glass. “No better cure for a hangover than more drink, right?” Benedict stepped into your study, shutting the door behind him even as he teased you. You laughed, pouring him a glass as well. He took it gratefully, sitting down in the chair across from yours, the desk between you two. “You may mock me if you wish, Benedict, but I am feeling positively delightful.” you said dramatically, lifting your cup in cheers. Benedict touched his glass to yours, and you took a sip. He did not. “Would that have anything to do with any deliveries?” He questioned, a secretive smile spreading across his face. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” “That’s why I asked.” You snorted, shaking your head quickly. “It would, if you must know.” Dropping all pretenses, he leaned forward, smiling even brighter now. “So you’ve got them. Do you like them?” “Of course I do,” you breathed, leaning in as well, dropping your voice to a whisper, “how long did they take you? They’re beautiful. True artistry.” “Much too long, as you said last night. But they were worth it, if you like them.” You nodded once. Smiling, he brought one hand to rest on your desk, palm up and spread open. You took it, intertwining your fingers. “Do you truly...love me? In that way?” you asked nervously, avoiding his gaze in favor of staring at your two hands. “No, I spent hours of my precious time making hand crafted love letters for a man I consider a friend.” He rolled his eyes. “If anyone would do such a thing, it would be you, Benedict.” “Certainly not. It would be Colin.” You laughed, and he grinned. Standing, he quickly rounded your desk and pulled you up by your still connected hands, pulling you against him and kissing you firmly. It was sudden, but not unpleasant, and you wrapped your arms around him, carding your fingers through his hair before resting your hands on the nape of his neck. After a long moment, he pulled away, eyes shining mischievously. “I do love you.” “And I you.” you said quickly, desperate to reciprocate. You had spent so long convinced that Benedict only saw you as good fun, that the revelation of love had left you reeling. But you would be damned if you passed up this opportunity to tell him of the affections you had kept secret since your first meeting. In response, he kissed your jaw once before pulling away, still smirking. “But you taste of garlic and egg. You truly should not have indulged so much. Now I can’t kiss you.” Groaning, you turned away from him, clamping your lips shut even as he wraps his arms around your middle, pressing kisses to your neck and cheek lovingly, cooing affections like a lovesick fool. You smiled at that passing thought, leaning into Benedict and returning his whispers in kind, leading him with purpose to your bed chamber. Perhaps you were both lovesick fools. You could live with that.

[hafanforever]

It’s Good to Be Bad

I’ve described in previous analyses that I have a strong affinity for villains in fiction, including those by Disney. But like any fan of Disney, there are villains that I love and ones that I deeply detest with every bone in my body. So for my last analysis of the year, I will discuss my five most favorite and five least favorite Disney animated villains, though I also want to list a couple of other characters as honorable mentions to explain why I like or hate them.

The reasons I have for liking my favorite villains are simple, if not somewhat shallow, because I don’t exactly have deep reasons for liking them. Regardless of how evil, sadistic, cruel, and ruthless they are, I like them primarily because they are funny or charismatic. But it’s so much easier for me to list why I hate my least favorite villains, which is largely attributed the kinds of traits they display (most of which I cannot stand in people), their motives for being evil, and how they carry out their evil deeds while showing their evil natures.

This essay has turned into a longer one than I anticipated, so I am adding the “Keep reading” feature. Before I begin, I want to thank my dear buddy and soul sis @minervadeannabond for coming up with this title. Here is yet again another analysis of mine for you to enjoy, sis! 😁😄😉❤️

Most Favorites

Scar - Since The Lion King was the very first Disney film I ever saw in theaters as a child, and the first one I remember well from my childhood, many of my favorites Disney things come from it, including Scar being my #1 favorite Disney villain. Yes, he is a sadistic, tyrannical, narcissistic, cold-blooded murderer, but I think it is because of his cunning, smooth, elegant, charismatic nature and how pivotal he is to the story, particularly with how much he turns out to be a dark reflection of Simba, is why I love him so much. Furthermore, his song “Be Prepared” is my favorite villain song and among my favorite Disney songs of all, further showing how much The Lion King has given me Disney favorites since I was a child. 😁

Hades - Another one I remember well from my childhood, Hades is undoubtedly one of the funniest villains from the Disney animated canon. Although he is as cruel, evil, ruthless, and sadistic as any Disney villain, Hades is also so fast-talking, sleazy, sarcastic, cheeky, and hilarious that it makes it hard for me to take him seriously as a menacing villain. And while he constantly goes into fiery rages and blows his hot-headed top when furious, these help make Hades far more a comical, rather than scary, figure. Heck, when I was a kid, I always laughed, rather than got scared, whenever he unleashed one of his temper tantrums (except when he blows up at Meg with “I OWN YOU!!!”). And James Woods’s performance, especially since he ad-libbed many lines, helps make Hades such an unforgettable and memorable, if not lovable, character. So yeah, Hades’s wisecracking, talkative personality made him a memorable villain for me as a child, and I’ve loved him for it ever since. 😆😂

Ursula - Much like Hades, Ursula is sleazy, scheming, and cunning, yet wisecracking and comical at the same time. Besides her dry sense of humor, Ursula’s eccentricity, flamboyance, and elegance have always been the traits that drew me to her, and Pat Carrolll’s performance of the character is pure excellence. 😉

Maleficent - Despite being an incarnation of pure evil, including with her self-proclaimed title as The Mistress of All Evil, to me, Maleficent is by far the coolest, most badass Disney animated villain of all! 😆👍🏻 Yes, she curses Aurora with no true motive whatsoever, and she’s sadistic, ruthless, blasphemous, and murderous, but her display of her ill temper and dark magic just makes her totally awesome, most especially when she zaps her minions for their stupidity and incompetence upon learning they were only looking for a baby during their 16-year search for Aurora. 😁

Ratigan - Again, Disney has an evil, murderous, sadistic villain in Ratigan, but I love him because he is very collected, calculating, sophisticated, and charismatic, not to mention Vincent Price delivers such a great vocal performance as the character. 😉 What I also love about Ratigan is the moment when he undergoes what is known as a villainous breakdown, which is when a villain snaps and goes utterly crazy. During the film, Ratigan has some moments of losing his cool, but just as quickly manages to become calm and regain his composure. However, upon seeing Basil and Olivia escape from him inside Big Ben, along with Basil having having foiled his earlier scheme to kill the queen and take over England, Ratigan finally snaps, turning from a formal, sophisticated, composed rat to a highly feral, aggressive, savage one. It is the moment when Ratigan reveals the monster within and looks like a true rat, with an aggressive expression, hunched back, elongated claws, and running on all fours. The fact that Ratigan’s breakdown juxtaposes what kind of rat he was for the majority of the film is why his villainous breakdown is my favorite of any Disney villain.

Most Hated

Gaston - I have stated this before in “Bride and Prejudice”, but I pick Gaston as my #1 choice as my least favorite Disney animated villain. And it’s not just because of his extreme vanity, egotism, chauvinism, and arrogance, which are the very traits I hate in people, but because of his inferior, sexist, misogynistic views of women. Gaston is THE walking definition of toxic masculinity, the fictional example of the worst kind of man, the epitome of what men should NEVER be! 😡😡😡 He thinks men are the superior gender and that women are inferior to men, with their only purposes being to serve men and be their sex objects. And since I am a feminist who believes in gender equality, I dislike men who have low, sexist opinions of women, and Gaston fits the profile of what I think is the worst example of such a man. I could go on and on explaining just why I loathe this monster of a man with all my heart, but you can just read the aforementioned analysis to find out more.

Lady Tremaine - If it weren’t for Gaston being my #1 pick because of his extreme sexism and misogyny, I would pick Lady Tremaine. She comes such a close second because her motivations for abusing, oppressing, and being so cruel to Cinderella are petty and stupid, ESPECIALLY because Cinderella never even did anything to deserve such treatment from her in the first place! 😠😡 Lady Tremaine hates Cinderella and is very jealous of her purely because Cinderella so much better-looking and kinder than her own daughters and herself. So they abuse her and make her their servant to make her miserable and unattractive so that they can look better than her instead. Additionally, Lady Tremaine has a deep-rooted obsession to be above Cinderella at all costs that she resorts to lying, manipulation, trickery, and cheating in order to stay above. I particularly loathe it when she manipulates her daughters into tearing up Cinderella’s dress just so that she can appear fair and keep her word regarding her side of the bargain (she says ”if you can find something suitable to wear”, and once it’s wrecked, it’s no longer suitable) while simultaneously making sure she doesn’t have to keep her promise since she never wants Cinderella to go in the first place. All that being said, do these sound like justifiable excuses for hating a completely innocent woman? I DON’T THINK SO!!! 😡😡😡

Claude Frollo - Now if weren’t for BOTH Gaston and Lady Tremaine coming first, Claude Frollo would come on top as well! 😡😡😡 Frollo is without a doubt in my mind the most evil villain in the Disney animated canon. Unlike most Disney villains, he is COMPLETELY devoid of any likable or redeemable traits, making me have nothing but feelings of pure hatred for him. Ruthless, cruel, blasphemous, racist, and evil to his core, Frollo holds a deep-seated hatred for the gypsies and seeks to eradicate them from Paris, making him not only murderous, but genocidal, especially since he seeks to kill them simply out of his own racism, supremacy, and superiority. Throughout the years in his quest to eliminate the gypsies, Frollo murders Quasimodo’s mother by violently kicking her, causing her to fall and hit her head on the stone steps of Notre Dame, then tries to burn Esmeralda at the stake, declaring that she must be killed because she has been practicing witchcraft. After killing the mother, Frollo even attempts to drown baby Quasimodo simply because of his deformity. What makes Frollo even more evil besides doing his deeds is that he is a judge with control over the city, yet he proves himself to be corrupt and hypocritical by violating the laws to accomplish his dark, sinister deeds. Perhaps what makes Frollo the most evil villain of all is that he is in complete denial about how evil he really is. He has a delusional belief that he is a good, religious man doing God’s work by trying to purge the world of evil, when all he really does is twist his “faith” and hypocritically use it for his own evil purposes. What’s worse is that Frollo never once takes an ounce of responsibility for his crimes; he makes excuses to justify his actions, painting himself as guiltless and his victims as the only ones at fault. So with Frollo being such a blasphemous, hypocritical, racist, genocidal, murderous, corrupt judge who never believes he is doing anything wrong and always lays blame on the victims of his misdeeds, I can’t say there is a single thing about him that I like, and I’m happy he met his death in a fiery blaze! 😡🔥

Mother Gothel - A character I see as being an amalgam of Gaston, Lady Tremaine, and Frollo, the reasons why I hate all three of these villains are also found in Gothel: vanity, narcissism, oppression, mental abuse, trickery, manipulation, dishonesty, hypocrisy, and flat-out cruelty. First of all, Gothel’s vanity, narcissism, and obsession with her own beauty makes her extremely insufferable and annoying, not to mention the fact that she hoarded the flower to herself for hundreds of years just to stay alive shows how incredibly selfish and possessive she is. And due to her selfishness, she kidnaps Rapunzel, hides her in a tower, lies to her about the outside world, and continually mentally abuses, manipulates, oppresses, mocks, and belittles her just to ensure that Rapunzel will never leave the tower and the flower’s magic in her hair will keep her (Gothel) alive and young forever. On par with her narcissism, Gothel is shown to be a very spoiled, childish, immature woman who seeks to always have things her way and throws tantrums or other emotional outbursts when she doesn’t get her way or what she wants, especially the very moment she wants it. Furthermore, Gothel possesses a martyr, or victim, complex, which is shown perfectly when victimizes herself and places all the blame on Rapunzel whenever any sort of conflict befalls their lives and relationship, especially when they argue. So with all these flaws in mind, like Gaston, Lady Tremaine, and Frollo, I can’t find any good reason to like Gothel at all. “Mother Knows Best”? More like “Gothel Knows Worst”! 😠😡 

Governor Ratcliffe - I said above that I hate Gaston because of his bigoted, low views of women, and prejudice is the main reason why I hate Governor Ratcliffe. However, his prejudice is in the form of racism, the kind of bigotry that I hate the most. Ratcliffe displays this attitude towards the Native Americans, considering them savages and seeing himself as better than them all because of his race, which makes him a white supremacist. Besides his supremacy and superiority regarding his race, Ratcliffe is intensely greedy and selfish since he wants to keep any riches found for himself and believes that the Virginia land and anything he finds on it is his for the taking. In relation to his bigotry, he is also quite delusional and self-righteous, which makes him believe that any theory he has is right and he refuses to believe otherwise or listen to reason. For example, Ratcliffe dismisses Wiggins’ correct assumptions on why the Indians attacked the settlers and John’s claim that there is no gold in the lands after Pocahontas tells him this. The hatred I hold for Ratcliffe is significantly less than the other four listed here, but the reasons I gave are virtually like those I gave for Frollo, so I’m confident with Ratcliffe and his place on my list.

Bonus Mentions

Hans - Hans is a villain that I place in the middle between my most loved and most hated villains, because I love him for WHAT he is as a villain while I simultaneously hate him for WHO he is as a character. I have said it to friends and some of my other analyses before, but one of the reasons why I love Frozen is because it took many of the traditional fairy tale elements and tropes used in their preceding films, and turned them upside down. So rather than having another prince as the heroic male lead in this film, Frozen twisted that trope around by making him the villain instead. And when Hans finally reveals his true nature, you realize that he has fooled not only Anna and the other characters who interacted with him, but first-time viewers as well! So while I love Hans for being a villain who keeps his true nature under wraps for the majority of the film and almost gets away with his crimes because of it, I also hate him because of how cold, cruel, callous, ruthless, and sadistic he really is. When he reveals his true nature and explains his plan to Anna, he mocks her intelligence, naïveté, and desperation for love while explaining just how easy it was for him to deceive and manipulate her into being a pawn in his plan to take over Arendelle. Throughout the whole scene, Hans smiles wickedly and sadistically, clearly showing the delight he is getting from tormenting Anna and watching her suffer while he explains his scheme and extinguishes all light sources to accelerate her death. It’s also easy to see his sadism when he announces his plan to murder Elsa, and that he will get even greater joy out of carrying out the act itself (which we see when Hans smiles widely while swinging his sword over Elsa’s head as he tries to kill her on the fjord).

Chi-Fu - While he is not a true villain, and not even evil at all, Chi-Fu is a very detestable character, one whose guts I hate completely because he has the same traits that make me hate Gaston: arrogance, conceit, egotism, bigotry, superiority, and misogyny. Prejudice against women is a main theme in Mulan, and Chi-Fu is the one man whose prejudiced opinions never change. While Shang and Mulan’s fellow soldiers initially hold views that women are beneath men, they learn to change them after Mulan proves herself a capable warrior in the army (even after her disguise is revealed), most especially when she helps save China from Shan Yu’s reign of terror. Despite the majority of his bigotry being aimed at women, Chi-Fu is also detestable because he shows it towards nearly everyone else, except the Emperor. As the second-in-command to the Emperor, Chi-Fu sees himself superior to almost everyone else around him, which enhances his pompous, elitist, arrogant attitude. Because of all these antagonistic traits, I loathe Chi-Fu while I don’t hate Shan Yu at all, even though the latter is truly pure evil and genocidal! 😠😡 It just goes to show that some people who are neither necessarily good nor bad can be even more contemptible that the most malevolent, murderous people.

[scotianostra]

On May 11th  1685  Margaret Lachlane, or McLachlan, and Margaret Wilson were put to death.

The sins of our past are sair tae bare at times and this is certainly one that qualifies as such, what makes it all the more sad is that they had been reprieved, but the distance from Edinburgh to Wigtown but for reasons unknown it never made it to save the women.

Here’s the background, some of you might know but not all, back in 17th century religion was very important to most people in Scotland, indeed the worldover. The reformation waa over and Protestants were in the vast majority, especially in the more populace lowlands.  By now The Stuart Monarchy ruled both Scotland and England, having survived a civil war in which Charles I lost his head, eventually his son, Charle II was invited back to take the throne. You would have thought that Charles II had learned his lesson, his old boy had tried to enforce the English form of the Protestant religion in Scotland but failed, young Charles tried again but the Scots were not having it, many Scots signed what is known as The National Covenant that pledged to defend “their” true religion against innovations like those down south. Many were put to death for refusing to swear allegiance to the King and “his” prayer book. Over the years there were many battles and lives lost, it is now known in Scotland as “The Killing Time"

ny way the people thought it might come to an end in February 1658 when Charles II died, those who had been hiding from persecution started returning to their homes, including  the young Wilson girls who were sheltered at the home of  Margaret McLachlan, a 63 year old widow who lived at Drumjargan in Kirkinner Parish.  A local man betrayed them when they came into Wigtown, and the two girls were taken prisoner.  At the same time, Margaret McLachlan was seized while at prayer in her own home, and held in custody with them.  The women were required to take the Oath of Abjuration which had earlier been administered to everyone in the County over the age of 13 years.  This had been introduced on 25 November 1684 by the Privy Council, in order to catch sympathisers of Richard Cameron.  In a public declaration at Sanquhar Cross, Cameron had denounced the King as a tyrant and declared war on him.

Refusal to swear the Oath allowed execution without trial;  men could be hanged or shot;  a new sentence had been introduced for women:  death by drowning.  The women refused the Oath and were brought before the Commission.  The Commissioners, Grierson of Lagg, Sheriff David Graham (Claverhouse’s brother), Major Windram, Captain Strachan and Provost Coltrane of Wigtown, have been described as “five of the most vicious scoundrels in Scotland”.  

Margaret McLachlan with Margaret and Agnes Wilson were found guilty on all charges and they were sentenced “to be tyed to palisadoes and fixed in the sand, within the flood mark, at the mouth of the Blednoch stream, and there to stand till the flood over flowed them, and [they] drowned”.  Agnes Wilson (aged only thirteen at the time) was reprieved, when her father promised to pay a bond of £100, a fortune in that day.

A pardon was issued in Edinburgh, dated 30 April 1685, for both women   It remains a mystery what happened to it, since no record of it remains beyond the Council Chamber.  They were taken out and tied to stakes in the waters of the Bladnoch on 11 May 1685.  The older woman was tied deeper in the river channel forcing young Margaret to witness her death, in the hope that she would relent. ��Instead, she seemed to take strength from the older woman’s fate, singing a psalm, and quoting scripture.

The events are recorded in the Kirk Session records of both Penninghame and Kirkinner parishes, vouched for by elders and ministers who were present on the day, and the records confirmed by the Presbytery of Wigtown.  The Penninghame records say that Margaret Wilson’s head was held up from the water, in order to ask her if she would pray for the King.  She answered that she wished the salvation of all men, but the damnation of none.  When her watching relatives cried out that this proved she was willing to conform, Major Windram offered her the Oath of Abjuration again, but she refused, saying “I am one of Christ’s children; let me go”.

The Kirkinner records state that Margaret McLachan’s head had been “held down within the water by one of the town officers by his halberd at her throat, til she died”.  A popular account adds that the officer said “then tak’ another drink o’t my hearty”.  Legend has it that for the rest of his life the man had an unquenchable thirst, and had to stop and drink from every ditch, stream, or tap he passed, and he was deserted by his friends.

Likewise the constable named Bell, who had carried out his duties with a notable lack of feeling, allegedly said, when asked how the women had behaved, “O, they just clepped roun the stobs, like partans and prayed”.  Clepped means web-footed, partans are crabs.  Bell’s wife bore three children all with “clepped” fingers, and the family was referred to as “the Cleppie Bells” which was believed to be the sins of the father being visited on the children.

It was not only women who died, William Johnstone, John Milroy and George Walker were hanged in Wigtown the same year, for refusal to take the oath, but Margaret Wilson, due to her young age has become the most famous of the martyrs and is the subject of a famous painting by the English artist  John Everett Millais called The Martyr of Solway.

Art conservators have x-rayed the painting and found out that Millais had originally painted the upper torso of the young woman naked.  However when the painting was exhibited in 1871 there were strong puritanical views on nudity in paintings and Millais’ work offended Victorian sensibilities.  It was badly received and was the butt of many negatively critical reviews. Hence it was painted over to save the Victorian eyes of such a sight!

The photo is from Stirling Old Town Cemetery a monument  to the Wigtown Martyrs, further afield a  Victorian statue of Margaret Wilson’s martyrdom is on display at Knox College, University of Toronto, Canada, as seen in the second pic, the third pic is the Martyrs' Grave, Wigtown parish church, Dumfries and Galloway

[ragingbookdragon]

A Christmas Eve Proposal

A Haytham Kenway x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1,500 Warnings: Explicit Language, Alcohol Consumption

Author’s Note: DAY 5 CF! WOOWOO! ENJOY! -Thorne

Spending Christmas Eve in the tavern wasn’t his ideal way to pass the night, but there were worse things he could be doing, he figured, and the thought of being surrounded by Charles and the others made his mood sour like curdled milk. He briefly remembered a happier time with his family when he was younger, but it was fleeting.

It wasn’t necessarily busy, with most people being at home with their families for the evening, the only people there really were the usual drunkards. He was heading for a table in the corner when he caught sight of a young woman sitting alone at the bar, her head lowered on the counter. A tankard was in her hand and she kept tapping it with her pointer, telling him that she wasn’t passed out drunk. But what really intrigued him was her dress—a wedding gown, the hem of it dirty from the streets of Boston.

           He narrowed his gaze and walked over, taking the seat beside her. Evidently, she’d felt his presence because she muttered, “Pal, I’m not interested in anything you’ve got to offer.”

           Snorting, he waved the bartender over. “I was going to offer you a shoulder and an ear.” He looked at the man. “An ale and another of what she had.”

           The bartender walked off and she picked her head up, slightly glaring at him. She’d taken her veil off, having tossed the lace on the bar beside her, and he thought she looked like an angel. An incredibly angry, possibly drunk angel. He’d handled worse things in his life, but this felt like the new challenge.

           “I don’t care what familial relation you have to Gabriel. I don’t care how far this will take you with his terrible, deceptive family.” She spat. “I’m not going back to the church and I’m not marrying him.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked into her tankard, hissing, “He can go fuck himself for all I care.”

           He arched a dark brow, steel eyes taking in the sight of her seething rage. Either she’d been stood up, or she’d discovered a dark secret. He chose the latter—no man in his right mind would leave a woman as beautiful as her at the altar. “Sleep with someone you know?” he wondered.

           She scoffed, rubbing her temples like it’d soothe the headache she had. “My fucking maid of honor actually. Got her pregnant too!” Her eyes met his. “I’ve lost two friends in one day.” A scowl appeared on her face and she took a swig of her drink, face scrunching up at the taste.

           He peeked over her shoulder and looked down at its contents. “I take it you’re not accustomed to drinking ale?”

           “Overpriced wine and champagne are more my natural area.” A sigh left her. “I wanted to see if I could drown myself in cheap alcohol.”

           “Why not overpriced liquors?”

           She scowled again. “Because then I’d have to go home and listen to The Iron Lady patronize me that I should’ve done a woman’s duty and married him anyway.” She slammed the tankard down, ignoring how it spilled on the counter and her hand. “Overbearing, stubborn, pug nosed, bitch.”

           He would have been appalled by her language, but the mention of the woman overrode it. “I’m sorry,” he started, “Did you say, ‘The Iron Lady’? As in Lady (L/N)?”

           Nodding her head, she propped her chin on her hand, lazily staring at him. “Mhm. My mother.”

           His eyes went wide. “Oh my god.” He blurted out. “You’re (Y/N) (L/N)?”

           (Y/N) sighed. “Fantastic. A member of the elite is just what I needed to run into right now.” Her eyes drew up his figure and she reached over, flicking a finger under his cravat. “You’re way too overdressed for our colonial asses. Which part of England are you from?”

           He huffed a laugh. “Queen Anne’s Square.”

           “London,” she mused, clearing her throat as she straightened up slightly. “What’s your name, Londoner?”

           His jaw twitched at that, but he smiled politely, offering his hand. “Haytham Kenway.”

           (Y/N) reached for his hand, but he took it and pressed a kiss to the back of it, tasting the ale on her skin. “A pleasure to meet you,” he murmured, watching her gaze narrow.

           “We’ll see in time, Mister Kenway.”

           “Haytham.” He corrected, and when she arched a brow he added, “Since we’re both seeing each other at an informal moment.”

           Her eyes dropped to the front of her gown and she said, “Oh, I’d forgotten about that.” She chuckled. “It’s my fault you know, for trying to get married on Christmas Eve.” Waggling a finger, she quipped, “Father Christmas didn’t like me taking his night.”

           Haytham chuckled and she heaved a sigh. “Oh, I can’t even imagine going home like this,” (Y/N) gestured to herself. “I’m never going to hear the end of it from my mother and I know that Gabriel’s family is going to harass me forever.”

           She dropped her head down onto the bar. “A good man. That’s all I asked for. Hell, he didn’t even have to be a good man, just faithful at least.” Another sigh passed her lips and Haytham thought he saw a tear slide down her cheek. “I knew the Livingstons were trouble and yet I allowed Mother to make this marriage happen. Should’ve run away when I had the chance.”

           “You’d leave it all behind? The money, the fame, the better life?” he enquired, genuinely curious behind her reasoning—no elite in their right mind would wish for a common life.

           (Y/N) picked her head up and looked at him with such a clarity that it made his heart race. “What good is never wanting for a thing if you’re never happy? What good is living in a mansion, draped in pearls, and rolling on silk sheets, if you’re lonely? What good is life if you can’t find someone to love and be loved in return?”

           She looked away. “Look at us, Haytham. We have everything we could ever want. Money, power, titles…and yet,” her eyes met his steel ones. “we’re both sitting in a bar on Christmas Eve because we’ve no one to spend it with.”

           Haytham gaped at her, pure unbridled shock running through him from such a declaration. He found himself again, and against his better judgment, he murmured, “Would you like to spend Christmas Eve with me?”

           (Y/N)’s eyes went wide, jaw dropping at the forwardness of his request. “I—” she shut her mouth and dropped her gaze, trying to find the words. For a moment she didn’t respond, then she glanced at him. “We just met like thirty minutes ago, and you want to spend Christmas Eve with me?”

           He nodded, flirting, “What better to do than spend a holiday with a beautiful woman?”

           She scoffed, but a grin crossed her lips. “Toss a better line my way and I might consider it.”

           He took her hand where it rested on the bar. “This is going to be forward, (Y/N)—”

           “I’m not surprised,” she countered, rolling her eyes when he glared at her interruption.

           Haytham cleared his throat and said, “You’re looking for a husband, I’m looking for a wife.”

           She stared at him like he had three heads. “Did you just offer to spend Christmas Eve with me and then propose in the same minute?”

           “I did.”

           “We just met. Why in God’s name would you even want to marry me? You know nothing about me?”

           He smiled. “That’s the beauty of marriage.” Haytham pressed a kiss to her hand. “We get to learn about each other.”

           (Y/N) sent a withering look his way, scrutinizing him like a test subject, then she asked, “And how do I know you won’t abuse me? Or commit adultery?”

           Haytham’s face turned solemn. “I’ve never laid my hands upon a woman in a dishonorable way. I never have, never will.” He took a sip of his ale. “As for the adultery…if I were to sleep with another woman, you’d never learn of the dalliance.”

           She scoffed. “That’s not exactly a trust building offer, Haytham.”

           He shrugged. “Perhaps not, but I am a man of my word. You’d never learn of it.”

           “How many women have punched you because of that?”

           “Only one.” he quipped.

           (Y/N) huffed a laugh then went silent, staring into his eyes. He searched hers, an amused expression on his face.

           “How about this—we start the courting process, and we’ll see if we’re compatible. If we’re not, we never see each other again.” She offered.

           “And if we are?” Haytham countered.

           She grinned. “Then I’ll be sleeping on the left side of the bed, and if you try and move me from my spot, I’ll bloody your lip.”

           Haytham barked a laugh and raised his tankard, watching her raise hers. “That’s fair enough.”

           (Y/N) winked. “To Christmas Eve and new beginnings.”

           “I’ll drink to that,” he replied, tapping his drink to hers.

[lauwrite1225]

The Fire in the Heart || Finan x reader

A/N : God! It took me a long time to figure out a story, but thanks to @othermoony and @bird-on-a-wire20, I finally found something ! I tried my best to do a good fluffy fic and not fall into smut lol. So I hope you'll enjoy it 😌💕

Masterlist

Warnings: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF. Maybe a little angst ?

Words : 3603

The loud scream of Ragnar made you shivered. Sat against the wall of one of Dunholm’s houses, hands on your injured arm, blood streaming between your fingers, you closed your eyes. Finally, Kjartan was dead. Years you wondered what you'd feel the day the man you had pledged your sword to would die. And now, you knew. 

You felt nothing. You despised Kjartan. You were pledged to him only because your father was loyal to him. 

You couldn't help but smile through the pain. You were free now. You could go wherever you wanted. The idea was pleasant. You wanted to leave right now, see more of the world. Fight for other earls, for new lands. You were a shieldmaiden. Fighting was what made you feel alive. Every time you gripped the handle of your sword, it started a fire in your chest.

The idea of travelling somewhere far from here overwhelmed your mind. You could see the sea and the boats ready to leave. The smell of salt water tickled your nose and the feel of sand under your feet made you forget the pain of your arm. You started to run to the boats, screaming them to wait for you.  But you didn't even have the time to reach the water that a hand on your shoulder woke you up. 

You slowly opened your eyes again, narrowing them, blinded by the sun. And suddenly the sunlight faded and you met two brown eyes. You couldn't look away from them, they were hypnotizing. But mostly, and strangely, they were lightening a fire in your heart. 

"Are ya all right?" 

You blinked several times, finally staring at the whole face just in front of you. It was a man, around your age but his skin was damaged and marked by scars still healing, making him look older. His hair, dark and thick, was attached and a beard was covering his jaw. 

The pain of the deep cut on your arm started to resonate in all your body again and your face writhed. The man looked down to your wound, concerned. The blood had started to dry causing the bleeding to moderate. His fingers grazed your arm and you squealed, muscles contracting in reaction of the touch. 

“Ya need to fix tha’.” He muttered, frowning. He stood up and lent his hand to help you. 

You hesitated a moment. He wasn’t one of Kjartan’s men, what could keep him from killing you? Seeing your wary, he smiled.

“The fight is over, I won’t kill ya.” He narrowed your eyes, studying him. He was thin for a warrior, but his arms were strong and his shoulders broad. “I promise.” He added. 

You sighed and caught his hand. He lifted you, not too harshly, and he guided your hand so your uninjured arm was around his shoulders. You wanted to complain that you could still walk, but when you made a step, your head started to spin because the amount of blood you lost. You relied on him and he led you to the Great Hall of Dunholm. 

“Kjartan is dead?” You asked him. Even if you knew the answer, you needed to hear it, to make it realer. He nodded and you smiled widely.

“I saw you fighting.” He said, admiration sparkling in his voice. “A real devil.” He grinned.

You chuckled a little as you finally made it to the Hall. Other people were being healed, of both armies. The man walked you to an empty chair and you slowly sat on it, sighing. 

“Thank you.” You said him, bringing your arm against your stomach. “What’s your name?”

“Finan.” He smiled.

“Y/N.” He nodded. He took a stool and sat in front of you, leaning to rest his elbows on his knees.

“You’re not of Ragnar’s army, right?” Finan asked. 

“No, I am… I was pledged to Kjartan.” You answered, sinking in your chair.

“You don’t look sad that he’s dead.” He raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth lifted, probably knowing the answer.

“I despised him.” You admitted, now that it could be no longer a secret. 

He was ready to say something else, but a healer came to both of you.

“Well, now that you’re in good hands, I should leave ya.” He declared, standing up. You kindly smiled at him as he swung a little on his feet, seeming hesitant to leave. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Maybe.” You repeated, your smile not leaving your face. 

After, slightly shaking his head up and down, he finally left you with the healer. In an hour, the cut in your arm was stitched and a bandage was wrapping it. 

Finan staid in Dunholm a week. During this time, you spend time with him. First, it was just small talks during dinner with others, and as days passed you came to spend time just both of you. You learned he came with Uhtred, Ragnar’s brother, whom, since he was free of a life as a slave, he had decided to follow. 

But what you mostly retain, was the fire building in your chest every time he was around. Never before, someone made you feel that way. Each of his smile made your stomach flip and your cheeks burn. It was a strange feeling, that only him could create. And yet, even if he had that power over you, you couldn’t help but feel confident with him. So, you talked to him about your own life, good and bad moments. It could last until the middle of the night, when only the night birds were witnesses of your discussions as you were both laid in the grass outside Dunholm. 

Unfortunately, the moment to leave for Uhtred and his men came. You joined Finan in the stables where he was saddling his horse. He turned to you when he heard your footsteps, a wide smile on his face. You gave him back, but yours was tainted with sadness. 

“How’s your arm today?” He asked, pointing to your bandages with his chin. 

“Good. The healer took a look this morning.” You said, lifting it and slowly shaking your hand, proving that the pain was fading. 

“I am glad it’s gettin’ better.” You nodded and he turned back to what he was doing. “What are ya goin’ to do now?” 

“Hum… I don’t know.” You admitted. You wanted to do many things, but where to start ? And anyway, your mind was too filled by thoughts of a certain Irishman to think about what you’d do when your arm would be heal.

“You said you wanted to travel. To fight and discover new lands” He looked at you above his shoulder. “You should do it.” 

“You are probably right.” You admitted, looking down to your feet.

“Of course I’m right, I am Irish.” You giggled cheerfully and you perceived some sort of sorrow in his eyes. “I’m gonna miss that laugh.” He confessed, just loud enough for you to hear him, looking away. 

You stared at him, your lips parted as you realized the meaning of his words. The flames grew in your heart, making your body feel hotter. You let out a sigh like it could weakened the fire that was consuming you. But it didn’t. 

So, you took a step toward him. Your hand found its way to his shoulder, causing his eyes to meet yours. You hold your breath a moment as your fingers ran to his neck then to his cheek. Your thumb rubbing it, he leaned his head a little on your palm. 

“I am going to miss you.” You admitted, not only to him, but to yourself. You knew the feeling would leave with him. 

You stood a moment like this, staring at each other in silent, just enjoying the last time your heart will burn for something else than the adrenaline of a fight. When you finally removed your hand, he leaned toward you until his lips met yours. You gasped, not expecting it, but you quickly let yourself drown in the kiss. His lips were still bruised by his life on the slave ship, but you didn’t care. Your hand slid to the back of his head, deepening the kiss. 

When you separated, you were both breathless. Your hand ran down his arm and your fingers meet his, touching sheepishly. 

“I’m gonna miss this even more.” He smirked and you chuckled again, catching his hand to bring him in another kiss. 

Only the voice of Uhtred was able to broke this moment. Finan’s lips left yours to press them against your forehead. He moved away to untie the reins of his horse and lead him outside the stables. 

You followed him and before he got into the saddle, he turned to you. 

“Promised me you’ll follow your dream.” He said on a serious tone. You pinched your lips a little before shaking your head up and down. 

“I will.” You smiled at him.

“Promised?” He insisted.

“Promised!” You chortled.

“Good, you’ll have to tell me everythin’ when we’ll meet again.” You couldn’t help but smile at the idea of seeing him again, even if it seemed improbable to you. 

And on these words, he got on his horse, looked you one last time and rode toward the gates. As he went away, you felt the flames in your heart diminish.

 …

 You kept your word. For years you traveled across England and other land at the other side of the sea. You even went to Ireland once. And as many times in all those years, you couldn’t help but wonder where could Finan be.

You fought a lot, following different Earls wishing to gain lands or take them back. You got even more skilled with time, able to fight man over twice your weight. Fighting became once more the only way to bring fire to your chest. And sometimes it saddened you. You missed Finan and the few memories you had could only light blazes. So, you just learned to leave without, loosing yourself into more and more fights. Just like that night.

After coming back from Frankia, you decided to go back to Dunholm for a time. Basically, you wanted to rest for a time before leaving again, but you handed up playing at one of the many games Ragnar organized each night.

“I win.” You said, knee on your opponent’s chest and sword just under his throat.

The man under you was still stunned by the fall and couldn’t push you away. You smiled, proud and finally stood up. You raised your arms in the air in response to the shouting crowd around. It was the third fight you were winning tonight. The fight implied no blood, but you enjoyed it anyway.

You laughed when one of your friends wrapped an arm around your shoulders and handed you a cup of ale. You drank all of it and threw the cup, the crowd cheering you even more.

“Who will fight me?” You exclaimed pointing your sword to the peoples in front. You knew most of them and probably trained with all of them.

As you scanned the men and women in front of you, you gasped when your eyes crossed ones you knew well. Flames grew and you almost dropped your sword. Finan was widely smiling. He had changed, a lot, probably just like you. His hair was shorter and messy. You could notice some wrinkles on his skin as the torches illuminated is face, but not the healing wounds from slavery he used to have.

He winked at you before moving to blend in with the crowd. You blinked several times, catching the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You turned your back to the place Finan used to be and forced a smile on your face.

“You know what? I think none of you merit to fight me.” You quipped, handed the training sword to the first person you crossed the way and walked to join Finan.

When you managed to pass through the crowd, you finally perceive him, backed up to a wall. As you approached him, you felt the feeling you missed so much overwhelmed your body. You stopped just in front of him, studying him a moment. He clearly looked in better shape that the first time you met him.

“What are you doing here?” You asked him, still amazed that he was right here.

“Uhtred had some troubles in Wessex.” He said raising his eyebrows and looking to the side. “So, we ended up ‘ere.” He shrugged before straightening. “And ya? What are ya doin’ in Dunholm?”

“Well, I came here to rest before leaving again.” You said, your eyes unable to leave his.

“You weren’t really restin’ right now.” He chuckled stepping toward you, making the step between you two smaller. “You still fight like a devil.” He smirked.

“I had time to improve.” You answered, on the same tone as him.

You both remained silent for a moment, simply staring at each other. Discovering new marks and scars, signs of the years who had passed. But time didn’t change the way fire ignited your heart. As the gap was getting even more smaller, your fingers touched. You sighed, wishing you could go further than an accidental touch.

“I missed you.” You said, not daring to meet his eyes. You were a shieldmaiden, never scared of a rough fight, but you couldn’t hold his gaze while admitting a truth. But yet, you kept talking. “Wherever I went, for whoever I fought, you were still in my mind.”

Finan’s fingers gently came under your chin, lifting it so you looked at him. And suddenly, his lips crashed on yours. First gently, but then deeper. You wrapped your arms around his neck and his hands found your waist, bringing you closer. And fire spread in all your body as you felt filled by the feel of his mouth on yours.

Finan broke the kiss, but your noses were still touching. “I missed you too.”

A large smile spread on your face, you ran a hand in his thick hair to meet his lips once more. That night, the fire didn’t go out and when morning came, Finan was still in your bed.

You woke up at the feel of his finger on your naked back, running along the tattoos. You slowly opened your eyes, meeting his smile. You smiled back, enjoying the feel of his hand on your skin. He then removed it to rest it at the other side of your body, leaning to kiss you. You turned on your back and brought him closer to you.

“You need to talk to me about your tattoos.” He whispered against your lips. “Just like of your travels.”

“I will.” You breathed, fingers travelling on his bare chest.

His lips caressed your neck, making you sighed at the feel before he let himself fall on the bed. “I need to join Uhtred.” He said, disappointment clear in his voice.

You sat up, bringing your legs against your chest, crossing your arms on your knees and resting your cheek on them. “Then go, I’ll see you later.” You gently smile at him. He loudly sighed and stood up to get dress.

It was the first of many nights he got to share your bed. The fire never faded during the days Finan spent into Dunholm, your eyes always finishing to meet his. You told him about all your travels, the beautiful landscape you saw, the terrible storms and the warriors you met. He told you about Coccham, Winchester and the new battles he fought alongside his Lord. And you could listen to him for hours, your head rested on his chest and his arms around your waist.

But it couldn’t last, and after the arguing of Uhtred and his brother in the Great Hall, the Irishman ran to you.

“Come with us.” He almost begged you, his hands holding yours.

His brown eyes were pleading you to accept but you were unable to decide. Leave with them but to where? You were a Dane, you never wished to fight for some Saxon Kings. You wanted to travel until you the end of the Earth. But in the other hand, there was Finan. Just him. And all the feeling he made you feel, the flames he created in your heart. But could it be enough to replace the life loved?

You avoided his gaze and removed your hands from his. “I can’t, Finan.” You immediately regretted your words, but you couldn’t take them back. He didn’t move for a moment, like he wasn’t sure of what you said.

“Alright.” He said, his voice so cold it blew away the fire.

He made a step back as you held tears to run down your cheeks and he finally left you.

 …

 Days and weeks passed and regret grew even more. You thought you could handle his absence just like you did during years, but you couldn't anymore. Missing him wasn't just a feeling rising in the middle of the night, when you felt alone, it was every day and at any time. Wherever you were in Dunholm, it somehow felt empty without him. 

You missed his presence in your bed, where he used to talk for hours with you after he had made your mind forget the world and your body shiver with pleasure. 

But as you were grieving his departure, the world change and you found yourself joining the Dane army, walking South to defeat Wessex. At least a fight would make you forget him just for a time. 

When you heard the first screams of battle, a smile spread on your lips and you caught the handle of your sword. Fire exploded in your chest as you shed the first blood. Your blade doing precise movements, you enjoyed the sound of steel against steel. 

But suddenly, your attention was caught by a voice you well knew. Your eyes widened as you saw Finan, killing danes with fierce strokes of his sword. He must have seen you, because for a moment you swore you could have seen his eyes sparking the same way they did when you were alone with him. And once more, regret overwhelmed your body. But you couldn't let yourself drown into it. Not now. Not in middle of a battle.

You took a deep breath and tightened your grip on the handle. You rushed toward him, avoiding bodies on the floor. When you were close enough, you raised your sword and split the air in direction of his shoulder. He hadn't seen you coming and he stopped your blade at the last second. But it was what you wanted. 

For a moment you thought he'd push you away, that he hadn't forgave you for the decision you made. But he didn't and your eyes met. You could feel his breath on your face, jerky because of the fight. Flames he created join the one born with the battle. 

"When it's over." You said. "Join me to the lake."

He frowned, confused. You removed your sword, freeing him from the pressure you were exerting. You raised your eyebrows, waiting for an answer. He finally nodded and you smiled at him. You stepped back, leaving him still confused but the battle quickly brought him back to reality. Just as you. 

You let yourself drown in the fight, your mind already thinking of the end of it, no matter the winner. You just needed to survive and leave for the lake you noticed earlier in the day. 

Your muscles were aching when you finally heard someone shouting to retreat. It was a Dane earl. You lost the battle, but you didn't even feel disappointed. You simply ran from the battlefield with others and find a place to hide until the night.

When dawn fall, you could only hear the scream of joy from the Saxons. You stood up, your body tired, and you managed to leave the forest to the lake. When you arrived, a shadow was already there.

"Finan?" You called him and he turned to you. A wide smile on your face and a heart in fire, you ran towards him. "I am sorry." You told him as he was frowning. "I should have joined you." 

His eyes widened a little at your words, but you couldn't see them, to focus on your hands as you apologized. 

"I thought, I could handle to leave without you a second time. But I couldn't. You are always in my mind. Day and night and…" He cut you by bringing his hands to your cheeks and leaning his head until his mouth met yours. 

You froze a moment and finally close your eyes appreciating the kiss you so longed for. Your whole body was burning as he left your lips.

"It's alright." He murmured, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. 

You smiled to him, small tears of relief shining in your eyes before you wrapped your arms around his neck and hid your face in it. He was smelling blood and dirt but you didn't care. 

"Will you come with us then?" He asked you, hope clear in his tone. 

You moved away from him, just enough to meet his eyes. "I will." 

His smile widened so much, you thought the corners could touch his ears. He pressed his lips against yours, kissing you deeply, lightening the fire that never faded in your heart since.

  Tagged: @geekandbooknerd​ @amyyreblogss​ @for-bebbanburg​ @bird-on-a-wire20​ @beowulfsdottir​

[bopinion]

2021 / 28

Aperçu of the Week:

"For some reason, the climate issue has suddenly become a global issue."

(Armin Laschet, current Minister President of, of all places, North Rhine-Westphalia, who apparently lacks both foresight and perspective. Yet he leads in the polls to become Germany's next chancellor).

Bad News of the Week:

Last week I wrote: "Who still doubts the man-made climate change: look out of the damn window!" And now it is really here, the climate change. Or rather its effects. On our doorstep. No more threatened islands in the South Pacific, no more melting polar ice caps far away, no more fires in North America, no more sinking groundwater in the Middle East - here, in our neighborhood, immediately, now.

It doesn't take a tsunami, a tornado, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption. It just needs rain. Much rain. Lots of rain. Former small streams burst their banks as torrents, mountain slopes slide down, floods rush through inhabited areas, sweeping everything away. Entire towns are under water, houses collapse, cars are thrown around like tennis balls, complete infrastructures are destroyed, people drown - almost 200 so far.

In parts of Bavaria and Saxony, but especially in North Rhine-Westphalia and Rhineland-Palatinate, the pictures look like a war zone. Not only because military recovery vehicles are often the only vehicles that can even pass the roads full of rubble and mud. The suffering of fellow citizens who have lost a loved one or simply their entire possessions from one moment to the next seems incomprehensible. Overcoming the consequences is a joint task. Politicians are putting together aid packages, while the solidarity of individuals and the commitment of many volunteers are setting standards.

One of the hardest hit places is called "Schuld", literally "Guilt". And this brings a bizarre realization: yes, we are guilty for what is happening. Not an unexpected phenomenon that comes out of nowhere. But the concrete result of what we have done and are doing. Or rather, what we have not done or are not doing.

It is always said that a crisis is the hour of the executive. Because it can decide, take concrete measures, send help, make money available. Normally, this is done - yes, we are currently campaigning for the federal elections in September - at the expense of the opposition, which, in the absence of government responsibility, can really only show concern. In this case, the Greens, the strongest challenger to the current governing coalition of conservatives and social democrats. But they are the ones who have always warned about the consequences of ignoring nature, who have declared sustainability to be the guiding principle and who are the only ones with concrete environmental and climate protection plans in their party program. Let's see how this realistic far-sightedness and this credible commitment will carry the day when the voters have to put their crosses. Hopefully in the right place...

Good News of the Week:

At the Eurovision Song Contest, many are always surprised by the hardly known countries in Europe (okay, we'll leave out the questionable participations of Israel or Australia). This includes for example the Republica Moldova. A small country between Romania and Ukraine, (almost) on the Black Sea, one of the many former Soviet republics. It shares the same classic fate of autocratic structures, corruption, an ailing economy, isolation from the West, and dependence on big brother Russia. In Transnistria, there were already pro-Russian independence efforts supported by Moscow before there were more high-profile ones in the Ukrainian Donbas region.

But just as in Ukraine, a democratic spring is dawning. Back in the 2014 parliamentary elections, pro-EU parties won a clear majority of 55 seats to the pro-Russian 46, but then failed due to cronyism, dubious entanglements and sabotage. But then came Maia Sandu. Coming from the World Bank as a lateral entrant, she first gained a reputation as a fearless fighter against corruption as education minister in the Liberal Democratic Party before failing as prime minister due to a lack of support for her radical judicial reform. In 2020, however, as the candidate of the "Partidul Acțiune și Solidaritate" ("Action and Solidarity Party" / PAS), which she co-founded, she finally won the presidential election with 58% in the runoff against incumbent Igor Dodon.

In last week's parliamentary elections, PAS was now the clear winner, winning a clear absolute majority in parliament with 63 of 101 seats. Memories of Emanuel Macron and "En marche" are awakening. PAS and Sandu now have the power to shape the government, freed from coalition concessions or multiparty dependencies. And their objectives were unambiguously defined as democratization and turning toward Europe. Sandu: "The people here have been lied to and disappointed so many times". The election results express "the desire of our people that order be established in this country and that corruption be fought. People want law and justice."

The great challenge will be to rid the country's institutions of the felt, to clean up and reorganize the administrative apparatus. For only on this basis can an economic perspective emerge for one of the poorest countries in Europe. It is precisely this lack of prospects that has caused an exodus of those willing and able to perform: one-third of Moldova's population now lives abroad. Sandu's first priority is therefore to modernize the education system and infrastructure and to develop a healthy sector of small and medium-sized enterprises. Only then would positive outlooks for the future have been created for the population - by their own efforts and they could then seek cooperative support from the EU. That this is not a foregone conclusion can be seen by looking across the border to neighboring Romania: a member of the EU for 14 years, the country is still struggling with economic misery and fundamental structural reforms. One can only wish the Republic of Moldova all the best and Maia Sandu a lucky hand.

Personal happy moment of the week:

I don't really know...

How pleased am I that Japan will not succumb to the commercial temptation to allow the same spectator madness at the Summer Olympics starting next week as England and Hungary did at the European soccer championships?

How satisfied am I to have found a solid solution to a complex challenge in weekend work that I can present to colleagues in the office tomorrow?

How relieved am I to live neither on a riverbank nor in a valley and therefore to be exposed to flood hazards only in underground garages and underpasses?

How happy am I that my wife will be standing in the kitchen tonight while I open the red wine, listen to the spherical sounds of Tangerine Dream and comfortably read the newspaper?

In some weeks you just have to be satisfied with the little pleasures in between. All good.

I couldn't care less...

...that insurance companies fear being confronted with claims arising from the flood disaster. After all, their business model should be to provide support in the event of an emergency. And not to look for backdoors and exclusion clauses in the fine print of their cryptic contracts.

As I write this...

...I'm tasting delicious olives my daughter brought back from her graduation trip in Tuscany.

[astraeagreengrass]

Hope Springs Eternal

Bucky Barnes has one last thing he needs to do before he goes to war

Pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2.583

Warnings: angst, mentions of war and war-related themes, light smut - not explict, but please don’t read if you’re under 18!

A/N: This is my extremely late submission for @thinkoutsidethebex’s 600 Follower Writing Challenge - thank you Bex for having me! Special thanks to @xbuchananbarnes for proof-reading this. This story is part of When The World Was At War We Kept Dancing, but can totally be read as a stand-alone. The banner picture was found here. I hope you like it ♡

It was an ordinary wedding.

Early Sunday afternoon, in a tiny church in Prospect Park. The ceremony was brief, less than thirty minutes long, presided by a minister that confused your last names.

"Barlow sounds nothin' like Barnes,” you heard Steve grumble from Bucky's left, cut off by Becca's loud shush. You didn't have it in your heart to rebuke the priest: your wedding was his fourth of the day, and he still had a dozen or so more to go ahead of the sunset. Besides, he'd been kind enough to move the nuptials forward when Bucky's furlough dates changed, so you could grant him that mishap.

The groom wore his army greens. Olive jacket and pants, shirt and necktie in shades to match. The gold buttons shone bright and brand new, like American glory. The long months at Camp McCoy had changed Bucky - his hair was shorter, his shoulders broader, his palms rougher. You'd waved goodbye to a man in November and welcomed another in June: a Sergeant, with a suit and cap to match his responsibilities.

You felt the calluses as you slid the ring on the left finger of his right hand - the same hand he now used to reload bullets and pull triggers. According to Steve, Bucky must’ve been extremely good at it, otherwise they’d never have promoted a young, conscripted soldier like him to Sergeant so quickly.

You wanted to be happy about it. To not feel an atom of fear as the minister declared you husband and wife. To not tremble behind your veil or choke in the words you had to repeat. There was no time for personal vows - too many women in white were waiting to walk down that aisle, wondering if they'd only ever be granted two weeks with their spouses before a war they never asked for ended their marriages that never had a proper chance to start.

Uncertainty was a typewritten letter on military-stamped stationery, a snow-barren Wisconsin field, a ship departing to England on the fifteenth morning of July. It left a bitter taste in your mouth when you and Bucky kissed for the first time before God, your families and your country. From that moment on, you were his and he was yours, the minister said.

You just couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he was more theirs than he was yours.

My love,

In seventeen hours, I’ll be home. One last bus trip and one last train ride until I see your face again. This letter will probably arrive at your doorstep after I do - and by then I hope you’re not there anymore. I hope it gets lost in the mail because you’ve changed your name and moved to the home you’ll share with your husband. And I hope you know that lucky bastard will be sure to tell the postman you’re Mrs. Barnes now. Y/N Barnes. It sounds pretty good if you ask me.

“Promise me you’ll write as soon as you get there?” you asked.

The train’s whistle drowned out Bucky’s answer, and you grimaced, muffling out the deafening noise with your gloved hands.

When it was over, Bucky gently removed your palms from your ears and laced them with his. He gently pressed his thumb to the knuckle of your finger, feeling the ring underneath the fabric. It was a simple band with no stone, far from luxurious but still more expensive than he could afford. He was almost embarrassed as he proposed, mumbling about the ring “not being enough” for you, but you shushed him with a kiss, whispering that you’d marry him with a twisted piece of wire.

“I’ll write to you everyday until I get home,” he promised. “You’ll beg the postman to stop delivering my letters.”

“Never,” you swore.

Three minutes to nine and you were one of the last couples lingering at the platform. Bucky's train would leave at the top of the hour to Chicago, and from there he'd go to Camp McCoy in Wisconsin until the army granted him a short furlough before the eventual departure to Europe. You were trying awfully hard not to think about that last part.

“I’ll miss you, Jimmy,” you said, holding back tears.

A shadow of a smile bloomed on the corner of his lips. Your handsome soldier - strong and unwavering, even as the unknown lurked on the corner of his life.

“I’ll miss you a lot more, doll,” he declared, pulling you in for a hug.

“Impossible,” you replied, voice muffled by his jacket.

Bucky grinned.

“Wanna bet a dance on that?”

The train whistled one more time and the railway man started screaming for the last passengers to board. Your answer was lost to the smoke billowing from the locomotive.

“Take care of my girl for me, will ya? If anyone gives her trouble, tell ‘em her man’s away at training camp. He’ll be back before she knows it.”

You rolled your eyes.

“She’ll be fine. Just hurry home.”

One last peck and Bucky was gone, the last passenger in before the train door shut with a bang that echoed in your heart. You waved at your fiancé from the edge of the platform until his figure was long gone, the engagement ring he gave you weighting your hand down with all the promises this war was daring him to keep.

My journey home seems longer than wintertime in Wisconsin. Did I ever tell you that there was still some ice on the ground in early April? I thought nothing would ever bloom in that place, but then some daisies sprouted on a patch of grass near the barracks a couple of weeks ago. They reminded me of Mrs. Roberts and the daisies she used to keep at the front windowsill of the boarding house. Are they still there? Do you think you’d like to have some daisies at our house? Or maybe roses?

The conscription letter burned a hole in Bucky's pocket.

He swore he could smell it, even. There was something foul prickling his nose and he thought it was the letter aflame, scorching the paper, his pants, his life. It's what he wished he'd done to it, anyway: set the rough parchment on fire like he would a cheap cigarette, then step on the stub for good measure, but it was useless.

The letter was Bucky and Bucky was the letter. It'd given him a number made of ashes, and now he was no longer man - he was ember, stoking the flames of the fire that laid waste to his world and time.

All the way to the boarding house you called home, Bucky thought of Steve. He'd hate that Bucky was drafted - to the 107th, no less - and he wasn't. It would only make him restless, even more determined to join a war that Bucky wanted no part of. And he hated the part of him that was envious of Steve's bravery right now, because the other part was busy making plans to run away with you to Mexico.

Bucky was supposed to marry you, not sail across the Atlantic. You'd been dating for over two years and he'd saved enough money for an apartment. His Ma kept complaining about grandchildren and Becca resorted to dropping not so subtle hints over Sunday lunch, like if you'd rather have emeralds or sapphires on your engagement ring. His savings weren't enough for neither, but Bucky still hoped you'd take him as your husband.

Hope was a funny thing for a young man like Bucky Barnes to have in 1942. Hope that you'd marry him. Hope that Steve wouldn't find a way to join the Army. Hope that he wouldn't lay to rest in a shallow grave with hundreds of other men in Europe.

Mrs. Roberts, the landlady of your boarding house, was tending to her daisies when he approached. She was a grouchy old woman whose husband died in the Great War - the greatest one so far, at least - who ignored Bucky most days, unless he did something she considered incredibly scandalous, like bring you home after 10 P.M. Today, however, she cast him a glance from behind the bushes.

“Well then,” she started. “They called ya name, didn’t they?”

Bucky was confused.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve seen that look on your face before,” Mrs. Roberts said, plucking a flower from the stem with a pair of gardening scissors. “It was the same look my husband had when he came out that very door to get the mail one morning and found out he’d been conscripted.”

She waved to the front door of the boarding house with the hand that still held the scissors.

“How are you planning to tell her?”

Bucky cleared his throat.

“I’m not sure yet.”

The woman shook her head.

“There’s no easy way to do it - and I mean all of it. Wars are nasty things, son. No one really wins them.”

In a fraction of a second, Bucky thought he could see a young Mrs. Roberts, before the grief and the heartache, yet as quickly as it came, it disappeared.

“I’ll marry Y/N before I go,” he declared with all the certainty he could muster, but his promise sounded empty.

Mrs. Roberts smiled, and before then Bucky never knew that a smile could be sadder than tears.

“Just don’t forget to come home to her.”

Whatever you want, we’ll have it. One of the boys in my regiment said you should toss rice on the newlywed couple as soon as they leave the church, did you know about that? According to him, it’s good fortune. Or maybe he was just teasing me (‘cause he said something about a garter belt, as well. Now, I am no Becca Barnes, wedding expert, but I’m sure that can’t exist).

You and your husband walked out of the church hand in hand, under a soft smattering of rice thrown by your few guests.

He kissed you under the arched entryway, pulling you in against his chest with more vigor and less modesty than he had on the inside. The buttons of his green jacket pressed your breastbone through the fabric of your dress.

Steve was the first to congratulate you, hugging you and Bucky at the same time. You were surprised to see that, behind him, Ms. Roberts was discreetly wiping her tears. Bucky’s mother Winnifred was delighted, cheerfully announcing to the guests of the next wedding: “Look at my children!”

There was no reception or party. The greetings at the front lawn of the church were brief, and soon another bride was walking down the aisle and Bucky was holding the door of a taxi open for you.

"You look beautiful, Mrs. Barnes," he whispered in your ear as Brooklyn rushed by.

The apartment was a small two-bedroom on the third floor of a building that probably housed more people than it should, yet, in your eyes, it was perfect - even with the handed down pots and pans, and the two or three boxes of clothing you hadn't had the time to unpack the previous week. It was simple, modest and perhaps a little messy, but it was yours.

Bucky surprised you by lifting you in his arms and carrying you through the threshold. Your giggles echoed off the walls, dissolving in a sigh when he laid you gently on the bed. The sheets smelled like him from having slept on them the night ahead, comforting you. It wasn't the first time you and Bucky had sex, but it was the first time you'd do in your own home, your own bed, as husband and wife. This realization brought a shiver down your spine.

He took your shoes off, placing them on the floor with care before running his hands carefully up your ankles and calves, through the light fabric of your stockings. When he got to your knees, Bucky pushed the white fabric of your dress skirt away just far enough that he could graze your thighs, until his fingers brushed your garter belt.

He grinned, blue mischief tinkling is his gaze.

"I knew it!"

You wanted to hide your face in embarrassment, and curse Becca for having such a terrible idea in the first place, yet Bucky was quicker, pulling the garter down with the left stocking and then quickly reaching for the right one. He turned the strip of lace in his hand, a sly smirk in his pink lips.

You rose to your knees, pulling him to you by the green tie. You ripped the jacket from his shoulders with such force that some of the gold buttons flickered to the ground in twinkling melody. The bed creaked and Bucky laughed at your eagerness:

"Did you miss me?"

"Yes," you breathed into his collaborne, pressing kisses in whatever bit of skin you could find.

“Do you love me?”

“Lots more.”

His deft fingers found the zipper of your dress, and he pulled apart just enough to undress you. Your lingerie was made of the same fabric as the garter belt, and Bucky's eyes widened.

"How did I get so lucky?" he breathed.

The muscles of his back hypnotized you as he took off his shirt, dragging you to his lap, legs tangling together in the mattress. Your nails left indents on his biceps and a twisted thought occurred to you that maybe they could stay there forever.

That way even Death herself would know Bucky was yours, and wouldn't dare take him from you.

“Touch me,” you gasped. “Touch me, James, please.”

Your lovemaking was lascivious and fast. You and Bucky had been apart for too long and there was too much frustration, absence and lust clouding your judgements. Tiny droplets of sweat descended from the underside of your chin down your throat and the valley of your breasts, which were pressed firmly against Bucky’s chest. You wanted to keep your eyes open, to record in your memory the way his hands gripped your waist and his hips girated against yours, but the absolute ecstasy of having him again was nearly maddening.

Bucky came mere just seconds after you did, groaning curses in your temple. Your tired bodies collapsed in the bed, yet your feet were still somehow entwined, making it look more of a tumble and less of a graceful catch of breath. The late afternoon sun reflected on your husband's wedding ring and you wondered how long it would take for him to have a tan line.

Bucky pulled you to him and you rested your forehead on his shoulder.

"I love you," he said.

You didn’t reply, instead just breathed in the salt on his skin. After the pictures, the greetings and the sex, fear showed it’s ugly face again. You weren’t religious, but you found yourself hiding in the crook of Bucky’s neck, praying to the same God that united the two of you in matrimony.

Please don’t take my husband away from me.

I want more than two weeks.

I want a life.

Bucky called your name, raising your chin with the tip of his forefinger.

“I love you,” he repeated. Then smiled: “Mrs. Barnes.”

Something in the sound of it made you believe that everything would be alright.

“I love you too, Mr. Barnes,” you laughed. “I really do.”

I guess I'll see for myself when I arrive. It won't be long now, darling. Wait for me, I’m almost home.

Always yours,

Bucky

[maaaddiexo]

Chapter Seven | Peter Pevensie

[Red Series Book Two: Ribbons]

Rosemary returned to England to find things just how she left them - her father and brother missing and her mother drinking in her bedroom. But Rosemary wasn't going to give up this time. She took charge of her family as the Pevensies took charge of a country. 

But it's been a year since all five of them returned to England, and when they are called back by Susan's magic horn, they return to a completely different Narnia. Magic has been dormant for centuries and men now rule Narnia but with brute force and terror. 

The Pevensies know why they've been called back to Narnia but Rosemary is once again left in the dark. And with Aslan making himself sparse, the five kids are left to their own devices to answer their own questions.

Do they trust the exiled prince? Can they save Narnia again, and this time without Aslan swooping in to save them? And in Rosemary's case, why was she called back?

[Chapter Eight] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

From behind a pile of logs, Peter watched as hundreds and hundreds of men worked. The Telmarines worked in teams: some cut down trees, some removed branches in order to prepare them, and others worked on building the bridge across the river. Most of them weren't  soldiers - they didn't have helmets or weapons aside from the tools provided for work. The only soldiers that were present oversaw the work but didn't seem to be lifting a hand.

"They're expanding their territory," Trumpkin observed. "If they get far enough North, they'll find us."

"We won't let it get that far," Lucy insisted. But looking at the sight in front of people - the number of men available to build a bridge - she wasn't as certain anymore.

A horse whinnied close by and they all ducked just in time to not be seen by approaching Telmarines. Rosemary covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her heavy breaths.

"Perhaps this wasn't the best way to come after all."

"You think?" Rosemary interjected, though she knew Susan's words were meant only for Peter. One more glance at the building site and the group of six were off with Peter retracing his steps back to the River Rush. Rosemary easily caught up with him. "How are we going to cross?"

"I don't know but we couldn't stay. The longer we stayed only increased the risk of being seen."

The group was far enough behind for Rosemary to grab Peter by the elbow. He stopped and turned back to look down at her. "That scene back there may not prove that Aslan existed but either way, you owe Lucy an apology. You don't have to believe that Aslan was there, but act like it for Lucy's sake. Please, Peter."

Peter squinted at Rosemary before glancing back at Lucy, who was looking back where the bridge was. He could see the fear in her eyes and understood what Rosemary was implying. Believing she saw Aslan was what was motivating Lucy. He looked back at the group once more and after confirming no one was looking, he leaned down and pecked Rosemary's temple. "Okay."

Rosemary smiled as the familiar blush crept up her neck and to her cheeks. "I am so happy I don't have to swim."

•

"So where exactly do you think you saw Aslan?"

"I wish you'd all stop trying to sound like grown-ups. I don't think I saw him - I did see him."

"Sorry, Lu. It's been sixteen years." Peter hesitated. "I'm trying."

Lucy nodded, glad to see a bit of her brother poking out from behind the dark cloud that had been hanging over him since they left Narnia. "It was right over-" She screamed as the ground below her gave way and she dropped out of sight.

"Lucy!" Edmund surged forward and peered over the edge, expecting to see his sister's body in the water far below. Instead, she was just a few feet below them on another ledge. Safe.

"Here."

Edmund laughed breathlessly. "Guess you found our way down."

Up close, the river was much less daunting. It was more of a stream now, no more than five inches at its deepest point.

"I thought you said you were learning to swim?" Peter asks as Rosemary kept as far away from the water as possible. "Not that you could even swim in it, though I'd like to see Edmund try."

"Ha. Ha." Rosemary stared unamused at Peter. "It only takes two inches to drown."

"How would you drown?" Edmund wondered from behind. Rosemary could hear him trying to hide his laughter behind fake coughs.

"I could trip, fall, and hit my head on a rock and fall unconscious or something."

"Then we would pick you up and carry you. And Lucy has the cordial. Rosemary," Peter grabbed Rosemary's hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth. "Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise."

Rosemary looked between Peter's azure eyes and their joined hands. She could see the determination and surety in Peter's eyes and feel his assurance in his grip on her hand. Firm but gentle. She was brought back to the time they crossed the melting river - a situation fairly similar to the one they were currently in. Peter had taken it upon himself to take care of Rosemary when he had no loyalty to her. She wasn't part of the prophecy so her death wouldn't have had any impact on the outcome of Narnia's fate. Still, Peter took it upon himself to care for others.

And then she remembered Aslan's words. Don't doubt your importance.

She didn't know if Narnia would be different without her, but she didn't have to wonder because she didn't need to know. Peter would keep her safe and that was enough for her. "I believe you."

"You better." Peter pulled her closer to him, their arms bumping. "I mean it."

•

When Rosemary woke up the next morning, it wasn't to Peter gently shaking her awake. Edmund was practically jerking her from side to side. Through blurry eyes, she could see his mouth moving but it took a moment for the words to register in her mind.

Peter and Lucy are missing.

Rosemary jumped up, gathering her things. She noticed Susan and Trumpkin doing the same. They stood for a moment, wondering which direction the two could have gone. It wasn't like there were any paths for them to take.

"Wait," Trumpkin held his hand up. "Listen."

There was yelling and the faint clanging of swords in the distance. Peter was obviously fighting with someone.

"Where's it coming from?" Susan asked, spinning in circles. The sound was echoing in the trees.

Rosemary chose to stand still. Like her father had taught her, she closed her eyes and focused. The skill was meant for hunting, listening for where the prey was. But listening for Peter and Lucy would work too. "This way." She ran north.

The clanging of swords had stopped but Rosemary continued to run. She trusted her instincts and they were rarely ever wrong. She spotted a familiar shade of orange in the distance and pushed herself to move faster. Lucy. Emerging behind a bush, she saw what had Lucy frozen in her tracks. A sword was being held at Peter's throat while Narnian creatures simply surrounded them and watched. She raised her bow. "Lower your sword."

"Rosemary?"

The Protector briefly looked away, her hair flying. "Over here, Ed."

A faun squinted, spotting the red ribbon in her hair. "Is that..."

"Peter!"

Susan, Edmund, and Trumpkin ran up behind Rosemary and Lucy, observing the scene in front of them. Rosemary glared at the man holding Peter at swordpoint. "I won't tell you again. Lower your sword. I don't miss."

"High King Peter," The man whispered in disbelief, glancing at the sword in his hand. Peter's sword. Slowly he lowered it and Rosemary approached, her arrow still aimed at the man's heart.

"I believe you called."

When she no longer considered him a threat, Rosemary lowered her bow, the nocked arrow aimed at the dirt in front of her shoes. "Alright, now who's this joker?"

"I am Prince Caspian the Tenth," The man argued, clearly offended he wasn't recognized. "And who are you?"

"She's the Protector!"

Rosemary turned, smiling at the faun. With her back turned to him, Caspian could see the signature red ribbon. His professor had told him stories about her. After she left, nobody wore ribbons in their hair - especially red ones - as a sign of respect. "Rosemary is just fine."

"I thought you'd be older," Caspian breathed, still staring at Peter. Part of him couldn't believe he was real and the other part couldn't believe he was standing in front of him. Caspian was only a prince, but the boy standing in front of him was a king. The King.

"Well, if you like, we could come back in a few years."

"No!" Caspian rushed to correct himself. "That's alright. You're just...not what I expected." He particularly glanced at Susan when he admitted the last part. Rosemary giggled.

"Neither are you," Edmund replied, warily glancing at a minotaur close by. His time with the White Witch flashed before his eyes.

"A common enemy unites even the oldest of foes," a badger declared, standing next to a dwarf.

Someone else stepped forward. A mouse. It bowed at Peter's feet. "We have anxiously awaited your return, my liege. Our hearts and swords are at your service."

"Oh my gosh, he is so cute," Lucy whispered to her sister. Her eyes were on the mouse while Susan's were on a long-haired boy. Still, the older girl heard and giggled.

"Who said that?" The mouse held his sword up, scouring the crowd for the gossiper. Nobody called him cute.

Lucy stood up straight. "Sorry."

"Oh." The mouse hid his toothpick-sized sword behind his back. He went down into another deep bow. "Your Majesty. With the greatest respect, I do believe 'courageous,' 'courteous,' or 'chivalrous' might more befit a Knight of Narnia. My name is Reepicheep."

"Well," Peter smirked. "At least we know some of you can handle a blade."

"Yes, indeed. And I have recently put it to good use, securing weapons for your army, sire."

"Good. Because we're going to need every sword we can get."

"Then you'll probably be wanting yours back."

Peter gratefully took his sword back from Caspian, securing it in its sheath. He didn't feel like himself when it wasn't with him.

"How much did you take from the Telmarines?"

"Enough for two of their regiments," Caspian smirked, recalling the message he'd left on one of the weapon carriages.

You were right to fear the woods. X.

[Chapter Eight] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

[worms-wav]

Inhabiting The Body

I began this essay wanting to write a structured, academic piece about the body as a home. Habitat. But the more I searched, the more I realised academia is not the framework within which I can best unpack and understand my (or anyone’s) relationship to the body. I grew up being told that Western forms of knowing were the only ones that were correct. You cannot write an essay without citing sources. It is not enough to just know something, or to inherit knowledge passed down in whispers. Real knowledge is double-spaced, Times New Roman, and cold. This is not to say that I don’t think that kind of research and knowledge is valid. I think there are certainly situations where I want to understand something through the lens of academia, through other people’s research, through a bright, naked paper trail.

But trying to write this essay has taught me that that can’t be the only kind of essay I try to write when I want to understand. Which has been a difficult thing to unlearn, especially when the body has always felt like a site of public discourse. Even more so when the body is femme, grew up as a cis girl, of mixed heritage. Less so because the body is able-bodied, light-skinned, Chinese-passing, and cis-passing. The body -- and I say ‘the’ body instead of ‘my’ body because in analysing it, it rarely feels like my own -- is a crazed intersection of privileges, learned behaviours, unlearned truths and internalised value systems. Who owns the body? Who has a right to the body? When do these people have a right to the body? What is the body in the context of the self? What is the body in the context of society? What is the body in the context of other bodies? These are questions that, perhaps, can be trudged through in Scopus and JSTOR, but are really, honestly, best understood through turning inwards, thinking, and speaking quietly to the people who don’t necessarily wish to filter their experiences through the pipes of academia. Western academia feeds into the myth that the mind thinks, and the body follows. The genesis of an idea can never be in the doing -- it is in the conceptualising, the theorising, the thinking. So when we think about the body, we think of it as primal and lesser and full of instincts we must evaluate before following.

And even as I write this, I know that this essay is not exactly the anarchist anti-academia piece it wishes it was. Perhaps I am Southeast Asian, but I have been so colonised that my regional awareness is clinical, not cultural. I come from Singapore, which has been dubbed ‘the imperialist of Southeast Asia’ because of how passionately we suck the empire’s cock and try to distinguish ourselves from the rest of Southeast Asia. Last year, we celebrated the ‘Singapore Bicentennial’. What is that? It was a nationwide commemoration marking the 200th anniversary of Stamford Raffles’ arrival in Singapore. Raffles was the British son of a slave trader, whose arrival on our shores marked the beginning of our colonisation. So when I speak about the body outside an academic understanding of it, as much as I want it to be an ode to local, indigenous ways of understanding the body, I know it never will be.

So here is the first marker of my body: colonised, but also, coloniser. Literate, in someone else’s tongue. Literate in someone else’s tongue that, for most of my growing-up years, was indistinguishable from my own. 

This essay is self-serving. It’s not meant to be a great essay. There are millions of great essays out there by much more qualified people than I. All I want through this essay is a space in which my thoughts and feelings can visibly exist. I speak about my own body and my own feelings, and I understand that academia does not always enjoy these things. We are meant to be rational and disconnected, a voice displaced from personality. But again, perhaps academia is not the entity that needs to read this, and perhaps there is merit in writing about my own experiences and those of the people around me. If art is about externalising the internal, then here is my contribution.

The genesis of this project lay in my own tangled relationship with my body. I used to believe it was normal to be unable to perceive my body accurately -- after all, we drown in images of other people’s bodies on the daily, and we’re constantly told what our body should and shouldn’t look like. It was unsurprising to eleven-year-old me that the sight of my body in mirrors and photographs repulsed me. But the nonchalance turned to concern when the repulsion morphed into vivid hallucinations, also often centred on my body. They ranged from the mild (the body grows old, then it is a man, then it is my father) to the terrible (the skin on the body melts off flesh, exposing neon maggots within).

I wish I could package that discomfort neatly within my relationship with my gender. I wish I could make a broad, sweeping statement like, “once I acknowledged I was non-binary, the hallucinations stopped, and I felt more connected to my body” but this is wholly untrue. I’m sure, deep down, there is some connection between my gender trouble and my disconcerting grip on reality, but on the surface at least, the only thing they have in common is my body. And so this is where we begin - at the body. At my colonised, coloniser, dissociating, disconnected, immaterial, tangible, hallucinogenic, Queer body.

I think most of us begin to conceptualise the body as a space long before we find the words for it. We explore our bodies, trace topography, memorise shortcuts, collapse geography, navigate terrain. We know what goes where, what feels good, what hurts, what is part of our body and what is outside it. We create a distinction between our own bodies and other people’s bodies. Just as geography is not simply a matter of cartographic divisions, the borders between bodies are not simply physical. Our bodies and what they mean, where they are, bleed into each other in meaning and solidarity and sex and pain. How do we group some bodies together, decide the societal value of bodies based on similarities and differences? A friend named Ants points out that the body is not truly separate from the world around us - we are a microcosm of organisms and other things, the “edges” that cut us off from the air around us do not truly exist. Art teachers tell you to look at the world and recognise there are no lines -- this is true on a bodily level as well. This friend points out, ‘the notion of a “home” relies on the ability to invite in and to refuse entry - but actually wow humans are more permeable than we like to admit.’

This permeability goes beyond the physical entanglement of us and our surroundings. We are not the only ones residing in our bodies - we share the room with a thousand other people’s opinions of us, some more dangerous than others. Some bodies, the system has decided, do not belong to themselves. There is a lot to be said about the colonisation of the bodies of Black and Indigenous People of Colour (BIPOC) by the violence of white systems of power within which much of the world operates. There is also a lot to be said about the gentrification of our bodies to fit in, the policing of femme bodies by a patriarchal system, the cheapening and exploitation of some bodies, and the way some bodies must mortgage themselves to imposed power structures in order to survive.

If the body is a space, then capitalism wants to cut us all up into little bitty pieces and make sure each of our components is most efficiently and clinically used. And, as dystopic as this idea is, it has already been achieved. We all labour under capitalism, our bodies are broken and exploited (again, some more than others. Some much more than others.), and we all go to sleep only to wake up to do it again. When the world is constructed such that nothing belongs to you without capital, the body feels like precious real estate (or, conversely - the body feels incredibly fucking distant). We want agency over it, we want control over it, we want it back. We want to feel comfortable in our skin, so we pay a premium to make sure our physical, spiritual and emotional selves line up with the identity we have created for ourselves in our minds. We find ways to slide ourselves into our bodies, we look for things like connection and authenticity. We want our bodies to feel like home. And yet, the language we are given to talk about habitation of body, of space, corner us to think about our agency in very specific terms.

When we think about habitation, we think about the home. ‘Where do you live?’ is the same question as ‘where is your home?’ or, more transparently, ‘where is your house?’ Although the concept of home is arguably intangible, we find ways to ground it in a very material context. Linguistically, we position ‘home’ through idioms like ‘home is where the heart is’, ‘a man’s home is his castle’, ‘home ground’... The English language has developed a very extensive range of phrases that link ‘home’ to a sense of permanence, ownership and identity. This conceptual positioning of the home is mirrored in very tangible ways. We want to buy a house, not rent one. We have landlords who own our houses but do not live in them. We deliberately build walls, doors and locks to demarcate ‘our’ space. And ‘our’ space is defined mostly by the fact that it is not anybody else’s. 

We think of habitation in terms of property. It is not really surprising that England declared the legal definition of property in the 17th century, around the same time the colonial empire was established. Theorists like John Locke tried to naturalise the concept of ownership -- in the process, also cementing who was viewed as a person and who was not. Property is an inherently racist, sexist and problematic idea. And yet, we don’t view home ownership as the selfish offspring of imperialism (see: mass deaths and poverty). The home, by all means, is a warm, comforting concept. The home is where the heart is! The home is where we take off our bras, put on a stained shirt and dance arrhythmically to Diana Ross. It is a safe space, where we unfurl, exist without fear of being watched, exist without concern about acing the performance. The home is apolitical - you don’t have to have the right opinion when you are at home. You can just be.

Before thinkers like Proudhon, Marx, Lenin and Mao called for the abolition of private property, there were indigenous peoples who viewed the land as sacred, as living, as relatives and ancestors, who continue to view the land in this way. We do not own the land - we exist alongside it. In many ways, we owe our existence to it. In 2017, New Zealand’s Whanganui Maori iwi won a 140-year-long legal battle to give their ancestral Whanganui river the same legal rights as human beings. India’s Uttarakhand high court cited this case when it ruled that the Ganges River and the Yamuna River have the legal statuses of people. I’m going off on a tangent. The point is that before we dive into thinking that abolishing private property is a radical new thought, it is important we remember it is the age-old thought of the voices we have drowned out.

The relationships between land and humanity, between property and agency, between capitalism and the individual, are complex and political. So when I speak about the body as a site of habitation, there are thousands of unavoidable histories inherent. When I refer to the body as a home, that claim does not exist in a vacuum of happy thoughts and first-world identity crises. Bodies and land are both sites of violence and ownership - historically, they have been, and presently, they continue to be. I move away from describing the body as a ‘home’ because of the way I’ve unpacked it in this essay - but I also want to be clear that I am not trying to police the language we use to discuss our bodies, our relationship to the land, the spaces between us.

In my work, I spoke of the body as a habitat. A space, landmark, geographical love letter. The home is not a habitat, and vice versa. While ‘home’ conjures images of place and ownership, ‘habitat’ alludes to something more natural, more accidental. The space we end up in because it is best for us. The space that feeds us, shelters us and places us within a larger ecosystem of which we are an essential part. When I ask ‘how do we inhabit the body?’ I am not asking ‘how do we make the body a home?’ because the home has already been made for us. It is a question, then, not of altering the body to a point of marketability, but of peeling it back and returning to the state that feels the most comfortable.

So what does it mean to inhabit the body? What does it mean for Queer people whose bodies often feel inherently hostile? How do you slide into a body that, for one, does not feel like the body you want to slide into, and for another, does not feel like it belongs to you? How do you exist as a transgender and/or non-binary person whose body doesn’t feel like the habitat it is naturally supposed to be?

At this point in the essay, I got stuck. I messaged a friend saying, ‘I forgot what my point was.’ And was promptly reminded that I started this essay to de-intellectualise the relationship I have with my body. To feel my way through the words, rub out this idea that I have to have sources and academic knowledge to discuss my primary site of existence. If that was the point of this essay, then you and I both know I have failed. I’ve intellectualised the hell out of the body. And I realise a lot of us Queer people do this - we see the body as distant, so it is much easier to evaluate it without engaging directly with the sense of loss that comes with putting ourselves inside our bodies (not to mention the fact that most of us are rarely, if at all, inside our bodies). But perhaps this, too, is a Western approach to Queerness. I think of the thousands of indigenous cultures that treated Queerness as the norm until their land was colonised and their beliefs stamped out to make way for Western laws. Singapore’s ‘main’ ethnic groups and our indigenous peoples all have long histories of non-binary genders: from the five genders of the Bugis people to the gay Hainanese sex workers to the Malay sida-sida. Was gender ever supposed to be this complicated? Or are the complications a Western import? You can understand my rage with Western LGBTQIA+ activists who view Southeast Asian countries as ‘behind’. ‘Behind’ is a flaccid word coming from those who tread on us until we could no longer walk forward.

And yet, ‘behind’ is such an important position to us -- in Singapore, we want to be ahead. Myself, in my body, wants to be better, as if better is an absolute point that can be reached if I just do the right things, am the right type of person. ‘Better’ is a weird thing to want for a body that does not really feel like it belongs to you. Early in the morning, my mama chides me: ‘you’ll never know what it’s like to fight until you have your own children.’ and I think about the life that I fight to live and I wonder if that’s not real fighting because the body I am fighting for is so far removed from my soul, the soul that is trying its best to inhabit it. And again, what does it mean to try our best to inhabit a body? At what point have we succeeded in being?

This essay is maybe useless academically, but it is useful spiritually. Writing this piece has felt like detangling a very long clump of hair in a drain, spreading them out on wet tile bathed in sunlight and watching them dry til they curl back in on themselves. I am no longer interested in coherence. I am interested in this dissonance, the words I say versus the words I learned, the land I walk on versus the land taken away from me versus the land that was never really mine to begin with. The body as its own agent but so bounded by words and language and bullshit that I have to write an entire essay just to arrive at the point of: oh. Perhaps it is okay for all these feelings to be messy, to be just loosely strung together. Perhaps it is okay that the only thing that they have in common, is my body.

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter twenty-six (a new edition)

December 27, 1988. The Bronx, New York.

The next morning, given the snow had stopped overnight, Candace offered to take the subway with Lars and me both back to the Bronx to fetch my car. We get there upon walking through the snow drifts to find that it's absolutely caked in thick piles of pure white snow. The sun is shining over us and the cleared streets of the northern side of the City: everything feels crisp, even more so by the sight of tiny ice crystals floating about in the air around us.

“Are you sure that's your car?” Candace asks me as the three of us stride up to the art gallery I had parked at.

“I broke down before an art gallery, so yeah.” I flex my fingers inside of my leather gloves to keep the blood flowing. “This is definitely where I parked.”

“Do you have a scraper or something or other?”

“I don't, no.”

“By the way, do you have the—?” She waves her finger at me.

“Nestled right under my arm.” I lift my right elbow part of the way from my coat.

“Don't tell him, please,” she says to me in a low voice even with the noise from the street around us.

“We can, however, do this—” Lars lunges forward to shove the snow off of the hood. I think his intent was push it off in a single blanket but he instead falls face first right into the pile. Candace and I burst out laughing at him, and then she steps forward to help him up. As he's rustling the clumps of snow from his face and head, she shakes her head at him. She says something to him, probably in Danish, and he replies something, probably in Danish, with a broken voice no less. I take a step forward and reach past them with my left hand to push the thin blanket of snow off of the windshield on the passenger side, or rather Lars' side.

“I still can't believe you only got a one way ticket,” I confess to him as I round the front end of the car to tend to my side.

“There's a good reason for that, though, mind you, Joey,” he points out.

“Well, yeah, of course. It's just that I can't believe it's come to the point in which you had to fly out here to get away from your old lady.”

“Oh, man, that blows,” Candace remarks to him, clasping her hands together.

“Eh, what're you going to do,” he confesses to her, fixing the lapels of his coat. Once I have some of the windshield cleared off, now is the big question: will this thing start up. I unlock the door and, once I knock a great deal of the snow off the sides of my boots, I climb inside and tug the door closed in the wake of the traffic. I stick the key into the ignition.

It whirs and makes a funny whiny noise but it rustles itself to laugh. Maybe it was just tired. This car is a piece of crap, after all.

“You guys be careful, alright?” she tells us as she puts her arms around him.

“Of course, of course,” he assures her before stepping away from her and opening the passenger door. He collapses into the seat next to me; I peer out the partially cleared windshield to find her blowing a kiss to me. I pat my chest and return the favor to her once Lars shuts the door behind him. He waves goodbye to her before I pull out of the space and into traffic. We head around the corner to the next block: I don't know where we're going, and the big, halfway collapsed heap of snow on the hood and the fogging up of the windshield isn't helping matters. I don't know where we're headed other than the freeway to take us out of the City.

“So—forgive me if I'm a bit nosy, but may I ask what were you guys talking about before I dove right into the drift?”

“Candace made me promise not to tell you about it,” I confess. “But it's about Maya, though.”

“Surely you can tell me. After what happened yesterday with her confession to us, surely you can tell me about it, Joey.”

“I can't, though. She made me promise.”

“But it's got to be important, though.”

I purse my lips together as I notice that the inside of the windshield is fogging up even more.

“God, it's cold,” I remark, trying to act all oblivious to what he's asking me.

“Come on, tell me!” he insists, rubbing his hands together.

“Alright, fine.” I fetch a sigh as we pull up to a stoplight. Using his gloves, he reaches forward to wipe off the condensation on my side of the windshield. “Apparently—Maya is a liar.”

“She's a liar?” he echoes, sitting back. “How so?”

“She's good at creating diversions. You know how Candace told us she took the worst of it?”

“How could I forget.”

“Yeah, well, I guess Maya running away to New Orleans was to divert the attention away from Candace and onto her.”

He frowns at that. “How's that a bad thing, though? She was trying to help her sister.”

“Yeah, but imagine what else she could've been lying about, though, Lars. She could've been lying ot us about everything.” The light turns green and we roll forward. “Inside of my jacket, there's a never before seen edition of Watershed that Candace gave me last night from the top of her fridge.”

“You want me to reach down your jacket to fetch it for you,” he says in a flat tone of voice.

“You are curious, though,” I point out, changing over to the right lane to get us closer to the freeway.

“Joey Belladonna, you cheeky bastard.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do? Carry it plain sight while there's snow and ice everywhere and get it ruined? I don't think so.”

“Alright, fine.”

I've got both of my leather clad hands on the wheel as Lars reaches over my right arm so as to open my coat. I hold still as we're headed down this straight stretch of pavement which I know makes it easier for him to take the zine out from underneath my coat. He then pushes my coat closed without refastening the buttons. Then again, we are getting heat into the engine now, but not enough for me to turn on the heater as of yet.

I've got my full attention on the street in front of us and the clumps of snow falling off the hood as he opens to the first page.

“'I need to let whoever is reading this know,'” he reads aloud, “'that my history with foster families and living on the street has made me rather apprehensive of confronting the full truth about anything. I am always wanting to run and hide and seek out the comfort of certain things, things that had been taken from me as I was taken from a place I had just began to call home.'”

“Well, that explains the need to create a distraction,” I conclude.

“Right? 'I cannot seem to help it. I need to lie and create diversions like how human beings need to breathe.' Yeah, just imagine what she's lied to us about…” His voice trails off as I spot the onramp to the freeway taking us back upstate.

“My point exactly. But keep going, though.”

“'My apologies ahead of time to Lars Ulrich, whom of which I met in England through his wife of two years. I am responsible—'” He stops.

“What's the matter?” I ask him; I take a glimpse over at him and the look of sheer disgust on his face. “What?”

“'I am responsible for his wife's turning to alcohol. I coaxed her into it.'” The tone of his voice turns more curt as he reads along even more. “'When I met her, she seemed normal, but I knew she had that fatal flaw. I took advantage of it: I forced her to drink so much that the other alternative was to shove her down the stairs. I don't know what summoned me into it. It was just something I needed to do. I need to say that—I cannot in any way be trusted. I lie and cheat and steal things, and yet I feel the need to redeem myself.' I—” He lifts his head as we're merging onto the freeway.

“I—how could she,” he mutters in a soft voice. “How could she do that?”

“And make you test the limit of your sanity to boot,” I add, turning the heater dial. And yet he continues reading aloud.

“It says here she's divided down the middle, between doing horrible things to people and atoning herself. And then there's something about wanting to kill people only to apologize to their corpse… saying how they're both primal needs, 'to walk the line of sheer evil and sheer good' as she puts it. How—this is just—I—”

“Can't even think straight,” I finish for him.

“Not at all.” He closes the zine and sets it down on the dashboard before him. We're both silent for most of the way out to Monticello and into the mountains: once the high piles of snow rise up to the level of my car's windows, he speaks up again.

“It could just be from everything that she's been through.”

“Could be,” I reply with a shrug. “It's an after effect of all of that.”

“That would actually explain why she's so apprehensive of me.”

“She's afraid of being found out,” I tell him; I recall that one line about feeling afraid to digging too deep and drowning as a result of that.

“Find out the truth about her,” he grumbles, resting the side of his head against the backs of his knuckles. “While seeking out the comfort of something she didn't get as a child.” He turns his head to me; I glance over at him and the grave look on his face.

“The comfort of—an Iroquois man,” I follow it up.

“So—not to change the subject or anything, but,” the tone of his voice is still quite terse, “where am I going to sleep at your place?”

“When we get back to Oz?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there's my bed—”

“And the risk of getting kicked in the head again,” he grumbles, “like I need anymore of that.”

“There's also the couch. The recliner's not bad, but I wouldn't recommend it.”

“At any given rate, I'd rather sleep on the floor.” He shakes his head; I can't take any of that personally, though.

“I'm so sorry, Joey, it's just—it's just—” He covers his face with one hand.

“That was so shitty on her part,” I declare.

“Disgraceful,” he corrects me, his voice breaking. “Maya ruined my marriage. She ruined—” He stops and I know he's crying. I fetch up a sigh.

“There's a rest stop coming up here in a few miles so—you can get out and throw some snowballs if you'd like.” I don't know what else to do.

“Thank you,” he whispers, sniffling. Indeed, I catch the sight of the nice rest stop off his side of the road, one with some nice bathrooms and a plain stretch of ground leading to the trees. Once I pull up to the first parking space before the bathrooms, he barrels out of his seat and dives head first into the nearest snow drift. Even though I have to pee, I also have to watch him tear up some of this big pile of snow. He's chucking clumps of ice over the pile and into the flat part. He kicks up some of the snow, punches it, slams his fists into it, slams his knees into it, and I know at some point he's going to get too cold for comfort.

I leave the car running as I climb out to get him. His face is bright pink from the combination of the cold and anger; his eyes are brimming with tears.

“Lars—” I tell him as he throws even more snow over the pile, just whole clumps of snow, not even balls. He shouts something in Danish.

“Lars, come on—you're gonna get hypothermia—”

“I don't want to live!” he shrieks, his broken voice echoing over the grass and the sidewalk. He throws even more snow. “I! Don't! Want to! Focking! Live! I—” And then he breaks down into sobs. I reach down to catch him before he falls ass over teakettle into the drift. He bawls so loudly as I hold him to my chest. I hold the back of his head and he wraps his arms around my lower back.

“It's okay,” I assure him in a gentle voice. “It's okay—I'm here. I've got you, I've got you.” It's just like the night I found Maya. He lets out a loud sob and that's when I guide him back to the car. Lucky for me, we're the only ones here.

He sniffles loudly and pushes a piece of his hair back behind his ear. I let him climb in first and then I round the front of the hood to my side. I don't know what else to do now than take him home and sift through Maya's lies. He buries his face in his gloves as I get into my seat.

“One thing's for certain,” I confess to him before I close the door behind me, “one thing is for certain, Lars.”

“What's that?” he weeps out, sniffling again.

“I have an album to record.”

[illbefunnylater]

Happy International Women’s Day!

For today, I have chosen to look at the woman who was set to be England’s first queen,

Empress Matilda, Queen of Germany

Now, if you’re anything like me, you just looked at the words ‘empress’, and ‘queen of Germany’ and wondered how the hell I am talking about England’s first Norman queen.

Stick with me, because she actually is pretty cool.

Matilda was born to Henry I of England and Matilda of Scotland in 1102. As the granddaughter of William the Conqueror and Matilda of Flanders (that’s three on the Matilda count), she was a member of the new Britain’s hottest family. She became betrothed to Henry, king of Romans when she was 8, and later became Queen of the Romans.

When her husband, Henry V became the Holy Roman Emperor, this was a big old tick in the Queen of Germany box. At this time, Germany wasn’t Germany, but instead the Holy Roman Empire, that had a surprisingly small amount to do with either religion or Romans, but heyho, they loved fancy names in the olden days.

Unfortunately for anyone who didn’t get married when they were eight, Matilda became a widow at the age of 23. At more or less the same time, her only brother drowned, leaving Matilda the only royal not currently called Henry. Returning to Britain, her father made his barons swear to recognise her as their future ruler.

Bear in mind, this was 1127, not a time typically known for being extremely feminist or progressive. To name a woman as the rightful heir to the throne was a big step. If only it had payed off.

When Henry died in 1135, Stephen of Blois, Matilda’s cousin, sailed to England to claim the throne, an action generally frowned upon when someone else already has that job, but this is feudal England, what can ya do.

Stephen had the support of his brother, the Bishop of Winchester, and several other barons. By now, Matilda had been unhappily remarried with two sons (you’ll never guess what new and original name they gave the first), with another baby on the way. There was little the rightful queen could do as Stephen was crowned at Westminster Abbey.

Two unsuccessful English campaigns were carried out against Normandy before Robert, Earl of Gloucester, Matilda’s illegitamate half brother, lead a rebellion against Stephen in 1137, declaring support for Matilda. Her uncle, David I, king of Scots declared support from the north, and Geoffrey if Anjou, Matilda husband, invaded Normandy.

In 1139, Matilda launched an invasion of England. During this time, she stayed at Arundel Castle in Sussex, the home of her step mother and her step mothers new husband (this family was big on remarriages). Stephen besieged the castle, but they reached a truce. Matilda was released, and she went south, causing more trouble and attacking more castles.

The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (which sounds more like a newspaper than a historical document) describes the 19 year period of civil war as a time when ‘Christ and all his saints were asleep’.

Eventually, the fighting ended, but not with a great big badass battle, but with Matilda reluctantly moving back to Normandy, leaving her son, Henry Plantagenet, to take up the fight. After Stephen’s death in 1154, Henry took up the throne as Henry II of England.

Matilda died in 1167, living a long, if not tempestuous life. Her tomb reads ‘Here lies, Henry’s daughter, mother, wife, great in all three, her son the glory of her life’.

Like I said, a pretty cool lady, and the perfect embodiment of what it means to fight for your right to be a woman.

Btw, Stephen’s wife was also called Matilda.

Which puts the Matilda count at 4 and the Henry count at 3. This family was unoriginal.

If you think I’ve got anything wrong here, don’t hesitate to tell me so that I can correct it.

Please share with your favourite historical women!