#and you were a gladiator at several points and used for entertainment

[astralzeraphias]

a tool to be used

[mingiswow]

Lion Heart | Yeosang

Pairing: Prisioner!Yeosang x afab!servant!reader

Genre: Dystopian!Ateez, smut

Word Count: +5.1k (oopsie?)

Content Warning: mentions of poverty, mentions of alcohol and food, brief mentions of canibalism (the poor people pick up the pieces of the dead to have something to eat), mention of animal and human deaths, matriarchy (is that really a warning?), English is not my first language, if I forgot anything lmk

Smut warning: just pure filth omg, reader has a vagina and boobs, oral (reader recieciving), piv, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, fingering, kinda rough sex?, reader has their hands tied, dirty talking, Yeosang call reader servant and baby several times, unprotected sex (don’t be stupid, stds exist), cumshot, slightly cum eating and sharing (I said it was filthy)

a/n: another part of the Halazia series that you guys voted for me to keep writing (with the amazing 88,8% answering yes). Since the first time I saw the mv Yeosang reminded me of a gladiator so I had to make this scenario mixing the idea of gladiators and dystopia. It was really fun to make and I hope you guys enjoy it ^^

The loud cheers from the crowd announced that another one of the prisoners was killed. You winced at the thought of the man’s body torn apart, pieces scattered around the arena for the lion to eat. You always hated those battles, never understanding the need for that. How the world, which was in constant expansion, evolution, and technology evolving to the point of having automatic cars and smart houses, turned into this mess that could only be compared to the ancient times. 

The part of the Earth in which you lived was responsible for the meat, the fields that once were full of life were now dry and full of malnourished animals that only the richest could afford to buy, the other people would have to pick up the pieces of the prisoners to eat, not caring that once that was another human being, the hunger bigger than that. 

“Yn, can you please bring another cup of mead?” The daughter of the state chief, and your mistress, asked while not taking her eyes off the arena in front of her. You nodded and headed to the small makeshift kitchen to grab her drink. 

Not everyone had the luck you had, most people from where you came would be down in the crowd or probably dead like your parents. But destiny was good to you and put you on the same path and the same time and day that your mistress was, saving her from being killed by some of the government objectors. The chief and her husband were so thankful that they gave you a job as her servant and promised to take care of your family when you have one. You were both kids when that happened, so you grew up by her side, accompanying her in every step, even allowing you to study with her. 

It was during one of your study sessions that you learned that in ancient times they used to have something similar to what you had now, panem et circenses, a way of distracting the population from the real problems, keeping them entertained with the battles. It worked back then and it worked now. 

You gave the young woman her drink before going back inside the tent where the chief’s family stood to see the fights. “You really don’t like these, do you?” Her father, a middle-aged short man with a mustache and brows that resembled fluffy caterpillars, asked coming from the other end of the tent, the one where it led to the tunnel that connected the arena to the fort you lived. 

“Violence is not my forte” you replied, handing him a jug of mead. “Never really understood how people could enjoy seeing others being torn apart like rag dolls”

“Me neither, but they seem to enjoy it,” you nodded. “Why don’t you go home?” 

“Oh no, sir, I must wait for mistress and the chief, it’s my duty” 

“Oh don’t worry dear, I can take c-“

“YN! DAD! COME SEE THIS!” You stood by the girl’s side and looked over the arena. “He’s winning the lion”. Down on the sandy ground, you could see a man fighting against the lion, he outsmarted the feline, making it hit its head on the concrete wall several times. You could see the animal was dizzy and probably not seeing its target properly. The fighter grabbed one of the chains that were attached to his body - to make it heavier and harder to run or fight - and threw it at the lion, hitting his sides, the action making the animal roar and try to grab the man, that used the movement as his advantage and jumped on top of the lion’s back and swung another chain around the neck and squeezed tightly. The animal tried to fight but he ended up lying dead on the ground. 

Your mistress raised from her seat and clapped excitedly, joining the screams of the crowd, that cheered the man’s deed. “Bring the man to have dinner with us tonight” the chief said, leaving her chair and going back to the fort, her men following suit, as well as her husband. 

“Don’t you think he was amazing, yn? Killing that lion so cleverly” the girl asked while going back to the fort. “How old do you think he is? He didn’t seem old. Probably my age? Do you think he’d sleep with me?” you chuckled at her words, she was always finding new men to sleep with, her mom’s bodyguard not being enough anymore. “What about you, yn? I’ve never seen you interested in anyone” she looked at you, genuinely curious. You’ve been together forever now, she considered you her best friend, and so could you consider the same. 

“I don’t have time for that, miss Solbin, I have to take care of you” you said, her eyes rolling at your excuses. “Besides, it’s not like I haven’t had my adventures but no one ever caught my attention in that department” you confessed. The chief’s men weren’t your cup of tea, nor you were theirs, which was good to keep your relationship completely professional. And besides them, you barely interacted with anyone else, the ones you did were merely one-night stands.

“So you are open to a relationship?”

“I didn’t say that” she giggled excitedly, as if she was planning something. And knowing Solbin she was.

After safely arriving at the fort and being greeted by the guards, you ran to prepare the woman’s bath for the dinner, grabbing the warm sun water and putting it in the tub, filling it enough for her body to be under the bubbles. Sometimes - most of the times - you thought of how unfair it was for the richest to have warm water, bubble baths, soft pillows, warm clothes, and delicious food, all while more than 90% of the world barely had enough food to survive. All of their riches came from the exploitation of these people. And you, being their employee, enjoyed at least part of it. 

The giggles of the woman shook your thoughts away before leaving the bathroom so she could take her bath alone. When you entered the room she was already missing some pieces of clothing, one of the new guards looking like a lovesick cartoon from the doorframe. “Oh, yn, didn’t see you there” she grabbed the man, pulling him inside.

“I’m leaving now, miss Solbin. The bath is ready, if you need anything else let me know” you said trying to ignore the fact that the man was almost eating her neck. 

“Before I forget, mommy asked you to take some clothes to the prisoner and lead him to the service bathroom” you nodded before leaving, her excited giggles getting trapped behind the giant wooden door.

You walked past the corridor until you arrived at the central hall, where the chief’s husband was helping the employees to arrange everything for the dinner. 

“It’s an important day, no fighter has won the lion for the past twenty years” as if he was reading your mind, the man told you. “Hyebin wants everything perfect” you nodded. “Dear, take those clothes to the man, please. And take him to the service bathroom, it must be empty by now” you nodded again and dismissed yourself, going to the cells under the fort. 

Those cells haven’t been used for centuries, since it was too dangerous to keep the prisoners in the same place as the chief. The fort was an old castle built centuries ago, you always joked that it was when dragons used to exist of how old it was. But it was still some of the most protected and secure places to keep someone like the chief herself and her family. You walked past the only guard that was looking after the prisoner, that, now, wasn’t a prisoner anymore since he won the battle. So why keep him down here? 

As you got closer to his cell, you heard some of the most beautiful songs you’ve ever heard, the voice singing it soft, velvety, deep. The lyrics were about this world that once existed, where animals walked free and people were happy, with no worries in their minds, only spending time with their loved ones while baking delicious food. The closer you got, the clearer you could hear how beautiful the voice was and how it felt like you were laying in a soft bed with hundred of soft blankets wrapping around your body.

“Are you enjoying the show?” you snapped out of the trance when you realized you were already in front of his cell, staring at him while you listened to his beautiful voice. He smirked at you and you felt weak on the knees. You have never seen such a beautiful man in front of you. He had a built physique, not like the guards, but his arms were strong and his shoulders wide, giving him this almost superior look. Even all dirty in mud, sand and dry blood he still looked like the most beautiful creature you’ve laid your eyes on. “Are you the chief’s servant?” he asked, leaving the bed and coming closer to you and you noticed how tall he was. 

“Yes, I mean, I’m her daughter’s servant” you bit your tongue at how stupid you sounded stuttering to him. “I’m here to take you to take a bath and get ready for the dinner.”

“Are you going to help me bathe?” the mischievous grin he held as he walked closer to you was your end, making you wet for no reason. You felt so stupid, he said a couple of words and had a smirk and you were already wet.

“No, sir, I am going to show you the bathroom” you gave him the neatly folded clothes you held. “Here are the clothes the chief gave you to wear” he grabbed the pile, hand caressing yours in the process, smirk still on his lips. “If you’re ready, please follow me” you turned around and started to walk outside the dungeon, him following suit.

You could feel your back burning from his stare and unconsciously you started to sway your hips more, as if you were trying to allure him to do something to you. You felt pathetic really, wanting this unknown man to fuck you senseless until you had nothing in your brain besides that beautiful voice of his. And you couldn’t help but wonder how his moans sounded, making you bite your lower lip at the thought. 

“What's your name, sweetie?” if it was anyone else, you’d cringe at the nickname, but it sounded so good coming from his lips.

“Yn” you answered, finally arriving at the bathroom and opening the door for you two to enter.

“Mine’s Yeosang if you’re interested” he walked past you, leaving the pile of clothes in a dry corner near where the bath was already prepared for him. 

“I’ll leave you be, mister Yeosang, the guards will be waiting outside for you to get ready. Don’t get too long with the bath, the dinner is almost ready and you wouldn’t want to leave Ms. Hyebin and her family waiting” you closed the door behind you and let out a deep sigh.

“He’s that hot?” Yohan, one of the guards, asked you with a playful smile on his lips. 

“Fuck off and do your job” you left the place to go back to the hall, your head spinning in millions different directions. How could someone be this hot and alluring? What was his trick? 

You kept your way to Solbin’s room, hoping she had sent the guard she was fucking back to his job, you didn’t want to see anyone having sex. Not in the bothered state you were. 

For your enjoyment, the man was already gone and the woman was almost ready for the dinner, her beautiful delicate face adorned with a pink blush that gave her even more of a youthful look than she already had. You two had almost the same age, you being two years older than her, yet, you looked more aged than her, probably from work and sun damage. “Oh, you’re there, yn. I thought you wouldn’t come back” she smiled at you through the mirror. “Aren’t you going to bathe? The dinner is almost ready and I bet the man is almost done with his hygiene as well” you nodded. 

“I was just making sure you were on time, miss Solbin” you answered, helping her to put one of her hair pieces. “I was worried you’d be late again” she giggled. 

“Oh you know… these men never take too long” she lifted herself from the chair and went to the full-body mirror, admiring her outfit. “Now go, yn. You don’t want to leave mother waiting” 

“Yes, miss” you left her room and went to yours, which was next door. You sighed as you looked at yourself in the mirror, face wet in sweat, hair disheveled and clothes dirty.

You took your clothes off and threw the dirty pile in a corner, you’d deal with them later, and decide on a quick shower, not wanting to take too long. The cold water hit your warm skin, making the body hair bristle and the pores shiver. You started to hum the same song Yeosang was singing earlier and your mind wandered back to him, to his voice, his smirk, his voice. You kept imagining how he’d look under the bubbly water, his body in all its glory. How his muscles must be hard and defined, his legs just as strong as his arms. Maybe his little friend was as pretty as him. Without even thinking your hand went south, touching your body through the way down before finding its way in between your legs, playing with the folds of your vulva, the tip of your index and middle finger starting to slowly circle your clit. You threw your head back, mouth agape but no sound left, you got used to being quiet so no one would listen to you. You kept your assault on your clit, going faster with each passing second until you reached your orgasm. When you came back to your senses and you realized what you did, you felt dirty, almost disgusting, for masturbating to a man you didn’t even know. 

You quickly came out of the shower, putting on the only clothes you had for occasions like that. You looked yourself over in the mirror, the dress pants hugging your hips and thighs just right, enhancing every curve you had, the matching vest and beige button up shirt looked gorgeous on you, you had to admit that. Even though it was the only outfit you had, it still made you feel pretty confident in your body. You put on your black boots and went to the hall where Solbin and Yeosang were already there, happily talking. The guards and maids watched their interaction in their spot. 

You greeted the fellow staff and got to your position behind Solbin, a few steps back. The woman didn’t even realize you arrived, completely lost in her flirting game with the man in front of her, the two whispering things to each other and talking I. Each others’ ears. In the corner of your eye, you could see the guard she had previously fucked throwing daggers with his eyes at Yeosang. She only acknowledged your presence when the man in front of her smirked looking at you. She turned around and smiled at you. 

“Yn, come sit with us at the table” she motioned her hand for you to join them but you refused. 

“It’s okay, miss Solbin, I’ll stay with the staff”

“Oh come on, yn~” she extended your name, pouting at you. “I thought we were best friends” you chuckled at her, always trying to get you with her cuteness. 

“That doesn’t mean I’m not part of the staff, I’m still your servant” she rolled her eyes and when she was about to debate, her mother and father appeared. 

“Solbin is right, yn, you may be staff but you are almost part of the family” the woman spoke as she walked across the wooden floor, her steps echoing every time the heels met the floor. “Sit with us, I insist” she motioned to the chair next to Yeosang and you bowed, accepting the offer. 

You awkwardly sat by his side, still a little uncomfortable. Not only with the fact that you were having privileges over the other employees, which you always hated but also because you could feel your face heating with the thought that you just masturbated thinking about the man on your side. 

The maids brought over the tray carts filled with food and put the plates in front of you. You knew they had made Ms. Hyebin’s favorite, roast lamb with mint sauce. You noticed how Yeosang’s eyes shined looking at the food and wondered how much he starved.

Everyone waited for the chief to take the first bite before starting to eat as well. 

“So, Yeosang, right? How did you become a prisoner?” The woman asked, eyes never leaving the man. 

“I lost my job as a fisherman and couldn’t buy my sister’s medicine anymore, so when she died I got angry and drunk more than I should have and ended up breaking the pharmacy” he simply said, almost as if didn’t affect him, but you could see his left leg bouncing under the table and instinctively you put your hand on top of it to hold it down. 

“What did she have?”

"Leukemia. The medicine didn’t cure but it retarded the effects” she nodded to him once again. 

“I’m sorry that you had to go through that. I wish we could do more for the population but as you know, the main government doesn’t allow us to do anything without prior approval” it was Yeosang's turn to nod. “I assume I am really privileged to come from the family I came from and have the opportunities I had but not even 10% of the population worldwide have this chance” she sighed looking at her plate, defeated for being part of this system. 

“So… you were a fisherman?” It was her husband’s turn to talk, trying to lift up the mood and change subjects. Which worked. 

The dinner was nice, even the other staff joined after a while. Hyebin, a bit drunk and overwhelmed with her own feelings, invited them to be part of the celebration as well. It was past 2 am when the chief and her husband decided to go to bed, mostly him making her go due to her wasted state. You were the next one to excuse yourself, not wanting to cock-block Yeosang and Solbin, that seemed to get along pretty well. 

You arrived at your room, taking the clothes off and folding them neatly, and storing them away before putting on your nightgown and going to bed. You were almost asleep when you heard a knock on your door. Groaning a little from being interrupted, you left your bed and opened the door, a smirking Yeosang behind it. “Hi, sweetie” his voice a little bit lower and hoarse from the alcohol. 

“Can I help you?” You asked, a bit self conscious with the transparency of your camisole. 

“Yes, you can” he pushed himself inside your room and closed the door behind him. “You see, there’s this servant that I can’t stop thinking about, the way their hands were warm holding my leg still under the table” he started to take steps towards you, and you took steps back until the back of your knees hit your bed, making you fall sitting on it. He stopped in front of you and got on his knees. And you couldn’t deny that that was one of the hottest images you’ve seen. “The way the curve of their breasts kept getting my eye and all I thought was that I wanted to put my face between them while fucking them in front of everyone” you gulped at his words. The man grabbed one of your hands and put on top of his pants, you could feel his member hard under the fabric. “Can you help me with my problem?” You looked over his dark eyes and nodded, breath getting stuck in your throat when he pulled you closer to him by your waist and attacked your lips. 

And dear god you don’t even remember the last time you kissed someone so good. His lips were rough on you, moving with hunger, kissing you like your lives depended on it. His hands were everywhere, all over your body, giving special attention to your thighs that were right in front of him. You never felt so turned on by something, by someone, you didn’t know if it was his body, his voice, his smile, how his throat would do low rumbles every time he’d lower his kisses to your throat and collarbones. He stopped his ministrations so he could take off your nightgown, revealing your uncovered breasts and the thin material of your underwear, which he could see that it had a damp spot on it. His lips were instantly on one of your breasts, sucking the hardened nipple and soft flesh, all while his hand played with the other, pinching the soft bud in between his fingers, earning a soft moan coming from your mouth.

“Yeosang…” you mewled under his ministrations, aching more. “Please, I need more” he chuckled at your neediness but deep inside he was just like you. So his lips left your tit, to go down to your core, hands expertly taking your underwear off, the fabric sticking to your wetness. Yeosang didn’t waisted his time, mouth going straight to your cunt, licking a stripe from bottom to top so he could taste you.

“God, you taste so good, yn” he kept licking your slit, gathering all the taste he could, growls leaving from his throat. You were merciless, really, mind already empty, not a single thought just the way he was eating you out, making your hole pulse against nothing. 

His mouth attacked your clit, sucking the bud and making you moan louder than you expected. The long period without having sex made you more sensitive to anything he’d do to your body. You kept moaning as he kept sucking on your clit, your right hand holding his locks and keeping him close to your pussy, not that he planned on leaving soon. His assault on your engorged bud now getting rougher, the tip of his tongue dancing against it, going in circles. 

When you were getting closer to your orgasm, he stopped what he was doing, edging you and making you squirm on top of the bed, whining and pleading him for your release. “Impatient, aren’t we?” he chuckled at you before getting on his feet and grabbing your camisole. “I want you to be a good servant for me, okay?” you nodded, eyes watery from having your orgasm taken away. He manhandled your body with ease on top of the bed, making you lay right in the middle, head on your pillows. He grabbed both your hands and put them on top of your head, using your camisole to tie your wrists against the metal frame of the bed. “Are you gonna be a good servant for me and let me use you?” you nodded, almost cumming from the way he looked at you, from how merciless you were once again, you could be in danger, he could do anything he wanted to you, yet the situation only excited you more. “I want words, baby”

“Yes, use me, Yeosang. Please” you squirmed your hips, knots on your wrist tightening as you pulled them.

“So good for me, baby” he licked your lips. “I gonna use you and make both of us feel good, ‘k?” you nodded again, yesses leaving your mouth like a vice.

Before you could even register, he took off all of his clothes, discarding them on the floor, his dick finally free from the pants and your mouth watered at the sight, the tip already leaking pre cum and angry red, his shaft completely hard, tilting slightly upwards. He smirked at your reaction, getting between your legs again, but still not giving what you wanted, he inserted two fingers inside you, a loud and elongated moan leaving your lips at the sudden yet delicious intrusion. Yeosang didn’t give you time to adjust to his fingers or anything and started to pump his digits inside and out of you, disappearing completely inside of you before coming out and repeating the process at an excruciating speed yet so delicious. He added his thumb on your clit, now both of his hands working fast on you, orgasm approaching each second it passed and he could feel by the way your walls started to grip his fingers.

With a few more circles on your clit you came undone for the first time, exploding into his hands, lewd sounds coming from down under where your wetness increased even more. The man didn’t stop his ministrations, using your orgasm to enter a third finger easily, now his mouth going down to suck and lick your clit once in a while, overstimulation making your legs shake. 

“Go on, give me another one” he said, face millimeters away from your pussy, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive nub. He increased speed on your hole even more, your walls eating his three fingers as his thumb rubbed circles again on your clit. Before you could even register what was happening, vision going black and mind going blank you came again, your juices squirting all over him as you moaned so loud from the feeling. “Gosh you’re so hot, yn. I didn’t know you could do that” he licked your folds, cleaning a bit of the mess before licking his fingers and whipping the salty liquid from his face.

“Neither… Neither did I” you confessed, it was indeed your first time coming like that, and if you weren’t so fucked out already, you’d be proud of yourself. You locked your legs around his legs, moaning as a way to say you wanted his cock. He chuckled at your state, already completely gone.

“Are you sure you can take my dick, babe? Don’t you wanna rest a little?” you denied with your head.

“Fuck me, please, I need it so bad” you pleaded, hips squirming.

“Just because you were such a good little servant for me and let me use you” you nodded and hissed at the feeling of the tip of his dick touching your abused hole. “God, you’re such a slut, huh? Can’t be one second without being stuffed” you nodded desperately, begging him to fill you up, not a care in the world, not a single thought on your head besides Yeosang fucking you.

Before he entered you, he untied your wrists, letting your weak wobbly arms free to touch him. Finally. And then with a sharp and precise thrust, he entered you, filling you up to the brim, the tip of his long dick touching just the right spot. “Fuck, babe, your walls hug me so well. So warm” he started to move, taking almost all of his member out before slamming back in, a guttural moan leaving your lips each time, his speed increasing with each movement. Your arms finally regained some strength and you circled around his neck, pushing your chests together, your lips going to the junction of his neck and shoulder, leaving bites on the sun-kissed skin, and earning growls and moans from him as well.

You could feel his high approaching because his movements started to become more erratic, the pace slowing. “Cum for me Yeosang, I can feel you getting close. Don’t you?” he moaned at your sweet fucked out voice in his ear. You pressed your fingernails on his back, the pain making him even closer. 

“I want you to cum first” he managed to say. His right hand sneaking between your bodies and started to draw circles on your clit. 

You didn’t know who was more fucked out, you or him, but either way, he managed to make you cum around him once again, body leaving his and going limp against the bed, eyes closed and arms spread out as he kept riding your orgasm before he reached his, taking his member off of you and cumming all over your belly and chest, some of his load falling right on top of your nipple and he couldn’t hold himself, licking his own cum out of your still hardened nub, his salty taste being welcomed in his tongue.

You pulled his face and kissed him, his cum falling to your mouth as you hummed at the feeling and taste. The filthy act almost feeling like a bonding moment between you two.

You let your drowsiness get the best of you and fell asleep, all sweaty and covered and cum.

When you woke up, already the next morning, the sun rays leaking through a few holes in the curtain and birds chirping happily outside, you were already cleaned up, camisole back on your body, and no sight of Yeosang whatsoever. You moved, body still aching from the night before, a smile growing on your lips as flashes from the sex started to replay in your brain. 

Just as you were about to take a shower you found a piece of paper with messy handwriting and a tiny doodle in the corner.

“Sorry I couldn’t stay the night with you, baby, I had to go back to get my freedom. If you want to repeat the dose you can find me at the hostel next to the sea. I’ll be waiting. Ps.: I took a little souvenir from you with me. I hope you don’t mind ;) Yeosang”

You just then realized you were not wearing any underwear. That little pervert. Still, you smiled stupidly, thinking about looking for him as soon as your body recovered.

“I can see the night was enjoyable” you looked over the door, a smirking Solbin leaned against the frame, arms crossed on top of his chest as if she was scolding you.

“Was I too loud?” you asked and she just entered the room, closing the door behind her and sitting by your side on the bed.

“These rooms are soundproof, darling, you're safe. We actually saw him leave this noon” she smiled and held your hands. “Now tell me everything. I want to know” she giggled like an excited little girl getting a new toy.

“It was mindblowingly great” she squealed and you smiled, starting to tell her about your night.

Send a request or any feedback really | Masterlist

[bradshawsbaby]

Si Vis Amari Ama

V. Revelations

SERIES MASTERLIST

Pairings: Rooster (Roman Name: Gallus) x Female Reader (Roman Name: Sabina), featuring Hangman (Roman Name: Carnifex) x Phoenix

Summary: A girl whose freedom was stolen to pay her father’s debts. A gladiator enslaved for the entertainment of Rome. A love they never thought possible.

Author’s Note: And we’re back! Once again, I apologize for how long it’s taken me to update this series. This chapter went through a lot of revisions, but it opens the door for a lot of events that will happen later in the story. Hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 10.4k

Warnings: Slavery in the ancient world, angst, discussion of atrocities committed in the past, allusions to physical abuse, references to injuries and gladiatorial combat, mentions of death, slow burn romance, alternating point of view.

Baking had always been one of your favorite chores, from the time you were a little girl. It reminded you of your mother and the hours the two of you would spend in the kitchen together, laughing and singing songs. Mater had always smelled of the flour that constantly dusted her cheeks and fingers, paired with the smoky tang of ashes from the baking stone. It was a scent that was all her own, and one that you missed more than anything in this world.

You were reminded of her every time your nimble fingers worked to knead fresh dough or shape the loaves for baking, which was why you had been thrilled when you and Phoenix were assigned to kitchen duties this morning.

With the household being as large as it was, the kitchen was always a beehive of activity, particularly this early in the morning. And the queen bee of this hive was Alba, an older Germanic woman who had been serving the Cornelius family since the time your dominus was a boy. A stern woman with a face that hardly smiled and brooked no argument, she ran the kitchen with an efficiency that rivaled the government officials of Emperor Domitian and she had little time for laziness or foolery. On more than one occasion, you had seen her reduce several of the girls to tears for not working up to her exacting standards.

As of yet, you and Phoenix had managed to avoid displeasing her, so whenever you were assigned to work in the kitchen, the two of you were normally entrusted with tasks that left you in relative peace. Right now, that meant that the both of you were settled in the small courtyard behind the kitchen, manning the ovens used for baking the sourdough bread that sustained the majority of the household, from Dominus and Domina all the way down to the lowliest slave.

You and Phoenix had been working together for the past hour in companionable silence, Phoenix stoking the flames that burned beneath each testum, the earthenware pots used for baking, while you shaped the dough into flattened rounds and carefully placed them onto the baking stones. It was a tricky business, baking bread, especially bread that had to pass Alba’s strict inspection. If the dough wasn’t left to bake long enough, it would remain sticky and undercooked, but if you left it for too long unattended, it would char and taste like ash. You had to wait until that perfect moment when the edges started to curl up from the stone just slightly, the top of the loaf a golden brown. Then it was ready.

Humming softly underneath your breath, you pinched off another mound of dough and quickly molded it before carefully placing it on an open baking stone, cautious not to burn your fingers. Noticing that one of the other loaves you’d set down earlier was ready, you peeled it off gently and left it to cool with the others. Stretching your arms over your head, you felt your joints pop and you let out a small sigh of relief as you pressed a fist into your lower back.

One thing about baking bread was that it required you to spend a great deal of time hunched over the ovens, which could be brutal on your back.

“Almost done, I think,” you told Phoenix, who looked up at you with an almost startled expression when you spoke. Your friend had looked preoccupied all morning, her mind clearly somewhere else as you worked. “With the bread, I mean,” you clarified, indicating all the loaves you had already baked. It would be enough for now, at least until dinner that evening.

“Oh, yes,” Phoenix nodded, laughing softly, though the laughter didn’t touch her eyes. “I think it will meet with Alba’s approval,” she grinned, rising from her spot on the ground and rubbing her own sore back.

“I hope so,” you replied with a smile, beginning to gather up the ready loaves and arranging them into baskets to carry back inside.

“Hmm, an expert healer and a master baker,” Phoenix mused, a small smile tugging at her lips as she pretended to scrutinize the bread. “Is there anything you cannot do, my sweet friend?”

Embarrassed by her praise, you shook your head and waved her off. “Plenty,” you retorted, kneeling down once more to check on the remaining loaves. “My mother taught me how to bake when I was very small,” you explained, gently prodding at one browning loaf to assess its progress. “It was something we always enjoyed doing together. I don’t remember much about my childhood anymore, but I do remember that,” you confessed softly, feeling a knot of emotion unfurl inside your chest. “Sometimes, when I’m baking, I hum the songs she used to sing to me, and it’s almost like I can feel her wrapping her arms around me again, guiding my hands and showing me what to do.”

Phoenix knelt beside you, a look of deep compassion and understanding on her face as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders. Words weren’t needed, which was what you had always appreciated about her friendship. She could say so much without ever uttering a word.

“You’ve never talked much about your childhood,” she said slowly, after a few moments of quiet.

“No, I haven’t,” you conceded, watching as the bread slowly curled away from the baking stone and quickly snatching it up before it burned. “But neither have you,” you added, raising your brows in a pointed expression as you looked over at her.

“Point well taken,” Phoenix laughed, sweeping away the ash from the fires as you collected the rest of the bread. She sighed then, a heavy sound that came from deep within her chest. “I don’t think too often of home anymore,” she admitted, brushing her sooty fingers on her tunic without a care for how Domina would react. “It hurts too much.”

“I understand,” you murmured with a nod, knowing exactly how she felt. It was painful to dwell too long on what had been, considering how both your childhoods had been so violently cut short.

Phoenix glanced over her shoulder at you, her dark eyes still and thoughtful as she seemed to consider something for a moment. Then she walked over to you, sitting you down on the bench behind you and taking the spot next to you.

“Have I ever told you the name of the island where I was born?” she asked, the early morning sun glinting off her dark hair as she gazed at you expectantly.

You shook your head. You knew that Phoenix had been born in Greece, but nothing more. You had learned over the years not to press anyone you worked with about their past. In a world where everything had been taken from you, the story of who you were, of where you had come from and of the dreams you’d once held dear, was the one thing that was still yours, the one treasure you could keep locked away inside your heart where not even the cruelest master could reach it. It was an unspoken rule among the enslaved that you didn’t try to pry that gift out of anyone’s hands unless they chose to bestow it upon you.

Phoenix took a deep breath, twisting her hands in her lap. Reaching over, you covered her hands with your own and offered her a soothing smile.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you assured her, knowing better than anyone that it was never easy to talk about the past.

“No, I want to,” Phoenix insisted, squeezing your hand as she straightened her spine. “Sabina, you’re the closest friend I’ve ever had. You’re like the sister I always wanted. I want you to know where I’ve come from.”

Touched, you swallowed back your emotion and smiled encouragingly, waiting in patient silence to let her begin. You would give her all the time and space that she needed.

“I was born on the island of Melos,” Phoenix began, glancing up at the sun as if imagining the place of her birth. “It’s a small island in the Aegean, right near Crete. It’s so beautiful there. The water is so blue, like nothing you’ve ever seen before,” she breathed out, her dark eyes growing filmy with memory.

“It sounds wonderful,” you said softly, trying to conjure up an image of it in your mind. Rome was all you had ever known, and the Tiber River was certainly not the bluest water you had ever seen.

“My people were fishermen,” she went on, smiling sadly at the thought of her family. “My father had his own boat, and he was good at what he did. My family always lived comfortably, and we always had enough of everything we needed. I had four older brothers, and they were all learning the trade of our father.” She glanced downward for a moment, trying to compose herself. “My mother always wanted me at home, helping with the chores, but I wanted to be on the sea, with my father and my brothers. My father used to joke that perhaps I was really a sea nymph and not their daughter.”

You smiled at that, feeling a pang in your heart for the close relationship your friend had shared with her family, and for the losses she had inevitably faced.

“When I was around four or five years old,” Phoenix continued, “my father started to take me with him on his boat. I used to stand at the bow and spread my arms out wide and pretend that I was flying. Have you ever been on a boat, Sabina?”

You shook your head, biting down on your lower lip. “No,” you admitted, though she made it sound so wonderful. “No, I’ve never left Rome.”

“Maybe one day,” she smiled, taking your hand in hers and squeezing. “I loved being on my father’s boat. No matter what was going on, I always wanted to go with him. One time I was playing with my brothers and I fell and broke my arm, but even then, I still tried to follow him out to the sea,” she recalled, laughing at the memory. “He called me his little phoenix, because he said that no matter what happened, I always managed to rise back up again from the ashes.” Her lashes were wet as she turned to look at you. “When they brought me to this city and made me give them my name, I told them it was Phoenix. I swore to myself that no matter what happened, I was going to keep rising again, just like my father said.”

“Oh, Phoenix,” you gasped softly, hugging your friend tightly as her tears started to fall. You had never seen her so emotional before, so open and vulnerable. You wanted to do whatever you could to comfort her and shield her from the pains of this life.

“No one knows what my real name is,” Phoenix told you, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “What my parents and my brothers called me.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” you told her, not wanting her to feel that she had to divulge all her secrets.

“It’s Nyx,” she said without missing a beat. “My parents said that when I was born, my hair was as black as midnight, so they named me for the goddess of night.”

“That’s beautiful,” you smiled. It suited her. “But you’ll always be Phoenix to me, my brave friend who rises from the ashes,” you added, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders and hugging her.

She smiled at that, sniffling softly as she rested her head against yours. The two of you sat in silence for a few moments. You weren’t sure if there was any more of her story that Phoenix wanted to share, but you wouldn’t push either way. It was her story to tell, how and when she wanted to.

As if sensing your thoughts, Phoenix suddenly sat upright and looked at you again. “I was eight years old when the Romans ransacked our island. We already belonged to the empire. I’ll never understand why they couldn’t just leave us in peace,” she whispered hoarsely, swallowing back her tears.

Your heart sank like a stone, dreading what she would tell you next.

“They killed all the men,” Phoenix said, covering her mouth with her hand as she clearly struggled with the memory of that day. “The boys, too, if they were old enough. My father and my brothers—they put them all to the sword,” she sobbed, her shoulders trembling as you held onto her. “They burned my father’s boat, our homes, everything. The women and the children they loaded up onto their ships and they brought us here in chains, like we were nothing. Like our lives were worth nothing more than a sack of grain or an amphora of wine.” She took a shuddering breath, trying to calm herself down. “The last time I ever saw my mother was that day at the slave market. A merchant from Egypt bought her and they just dragged her away from me. We were both screaming and crying, but the traders didn’t care. They told me to shut up and get back in line. To this day, I don’t know what ever became of her. But I want to believe that she’s safe, that she’s okay.”

“I hope so, too,” you murmured, tears streaming down your cheeks as you held your friend’s hands tightly in your own. “Oh, Phoenix, I’m so sorry,” you told her, your body hot with shame that your own people had wreaked such havoc and destruction in the lives of so many.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Phoenix said firmly, wiping your tears away with one hand even as she wiped away her own. “Look at us, a couple of bawling messes.” She looked into your eyes, smiling through her pain. “It’s been so long since I’ve spoken about my family. It wasn’t easy, but I’m glad that I did. Thank you for listening to me.”

“You would do the same for me,” you told her sincerely, knowing without a doubt that it was true.

“In a heartbeat,” Phoenix nodded. “Whatever you want to tell me, I’m here for you and I’m all ears,” she promised.

“Another time,” you murmured softly, patting her arm. It had already been a heavy enough morning, and the both of you would be in trouble if you didn’t get this bread back to the kitchen soon.

“There you two are,” Hrodebert announced in relief, suddenly appearing in the entryway of the courtyard. “Alba’s grumbling about how long you’re taking out here, but I think I managed to smooth things over,” he said with a crooked grin. With him and the old cook both being from Germania and sharing the same mother tongue, Hrodebert had managed to secure one of the limited soft spots in Alba’s heart, which he was sometimes able to work to the advantage of others.

“Such a grump that old woman is,” Phoenix huffed, wiping one last time at her eyes before she rose from the bench and pulled you up with her. “We’re coming, we’re coming.”

As he stepped closer and got a better look at your faces, Hrodebert seemed to realize that something significant had passed between the two of you and he looked between you apologetically. “That’s actually not the only reason I was coming to find you.”

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Phoenix tried to hide a smile as she nudged his arm playfully. “What is it now?”

“Titus is on his way to perform the physical inspections of all the gladiators,” Hrodebert explained, glancing over at you and noting your confused expression. “It happens every six months or so. Dominus wants to ensure that his gladiators are in top fighting form at all times, so he makes sure that they have physical evaluations at least twice a year.”

“And let me guess, the old man wants us to assist him,” Phoenix interjected, her voice filled with an undeniable affection for the medicus.

Hrodebert couldn’t help but smile at that, nodding. “Precisely. But you know it takes a while, so he said he wants them fed before he starts the inspections so they don’t start their grumbling. I’ve already sent some other girls over to feed the newer recruits, but can you two deliver breakfast to the Pugiones?”

“Of course,” you nodded, trying to mask how eager you felt. Domina had been keeping you busy around the household these past couple days, so you hadn’t had much of an opportunity to get over to the ludus. It had been a few days now since you’d last seen Gallus and you were shocked by just how much you missed his brooding presence.

You were so caught up in your own thoughts that you nearly missed the silent exchange that passed between Hrodebert and Phoenix, some unspoken conversation that had Phoenix looking a bit flustered. You raised a curious brow as you glanced between them, but knew it was better not to say anything.

“Come, Sabina,” Phoenix muttered quickly, helping you snatch up the baskets of bread you’d prepared and leading you back into the kitchen.

Alba gave a grumpy grunt of approval when she saw the loaves you’d baked, eyeing both you and Phoenix irritably. At least you were saved from a more severe tongue-lashing thanks to Hrodebert’s intervention. “There,” she stated bluntly, pointing at a large pot of bean stew, which was what the men of the ludus typically ate most mornings before their training bouts. Beside it was a small stack of earthen bowls on a wooden tray. “And take this,” she added, shoving one basket of bread into your hands.

Knowing it was no use to argue with Alba or give her any sort of attitude, you and Phoenix simply nodded and were off as quickly as possible, Phoenix hefting the pot of stew while you carried the tray with the bowls and bread.

“A woman’s work is never done, huh?” Phoenix teased, winking at you as you both crossed the barrier between the villa and the ludus.

“Never,” you grinned, feeling a small thrill rush through you once you stepped foot on the training grounds. Even after only a few days away, it felt nice to be back again.

As much as Gallus may have occasionally enjoyed his fellow gladiators’ company—in reasonable doses—they were starting to drive him crazy this morning. They’d all been dragged out of bed even earlier than usual, put through their paces of independent exercises before being informed that Titus was arriving shortly to conduct his physical examinations of every man in the ludus.

It felt ridiculous at this point, that the Pugiones needed to go through a whole show of being examined. Everyone knew that they were the fittest fighters in Rome, so it seemed pointless that Atticus made them perform this charade every few months.

Scattered among the training compound in the already hot sun, all of the men seemed cranky and tired, muttering to themselves or picking fights with one another.

But no one was crankier than Gallus. He’d been on edge these past few days, his mood shifting like the undercurrent of a storm, his frustration building up inside him like that of the caged lions and tigers they kept chained up in the labyrinth beneath the Colosseum.

No one dared say anything, but from the sideways glances they shot him whenever Titus or Phoenix arrived at the ludus without you by their sides, he knew they could all tell what was eating at him.

Where were you?

It had been three days now since he had last seen you and he felt like he was going insane. Phoenix assured him that Aurelia was just keeping you busy in the villa, but he needed to be able to see for himself that you were okay. That bruise on your wrist hadn’t been the last mark he’d seen on you, and it made his blood boil to think that even now, that miserable bitch was causing you even an ounce of pain.

Flexing his fists and breathing deeply through his nostrils, Gallus gritted his teeth and tried to drown out the conversation that was going on around him, pacing around the perimeter of the compound irritably.

“I’m starving,” Felix groaned, lying flat on his back on the small patch of grass beside the training grounds where the Pugiones practiced. He clutched his stomach like a dying man, sighing dramatically.

“Says the one who stole two servings of dinner last night,” Pollux smirked, dumping a handful of grass onto his fellow gladiator’s face.

“Hey!” Felix sputtered, sitting up and wiping the blades of grass out of his face with a grin. “I didn’t steal anything! I can’t help it if Flavia from the kitchens thinks I’m cute,” he teased, waggling his eyebrows.

“She doesn’t think you’re cute, she thinks you’re puny,” Caius jumped in, laughing as he prodded Felix’s leg with a sandaled foot. “She’s trying to fatten you up so you don’t get slaughtered in your next contest.”

“Slaughtered?” Felix scoffed, feigning offense as he jumped to his feet. “I’d like to see any man try. You just so happen to be looking at the greatest retiarius in all of Rome,” he smirked, bouncing lightly on his feet as he took playful jabs at Caius.

Caius smirked in return, eyes twinkling in amusement. “Oh, I’m really scared, fisherman,” he joked, deftly blocking all of Felix’s pretend hits.

“You should be,” Phoenix called out, startling both men. “Fishermen are some of the bravest men I know.”

Everyone’s heads, including Gallus’, whipped in the direction of Phoenix’s voice.

Carnifex nearly tripped in his effort to rise from the low wall where he’d been lounging lazily, the long blade of dry grass that had been stuck between his teeth falling to the ground in his haste.

Gallus barely noticed because just as his line of focus zeroed in on Phoenix, he caught sight of you following right behind her and he felt his heart begin hammering inside his chest.

There you were. You were okay, at least from what he could tell at this distance. Aurelia hadn’t been able to keep you away this time. Mouth suddenly feeling dry, he managed to get his feet moving, bringing him closer to you with every step. And when he saw that your eyes were on him, a small smile gracing your lips, he moved all the faster, feeling inexplicably drawn to you in a way that he still couldn’t comprehend.

“Alright, Pugiones, fall in line,” Phoenix called out, setting down a large pot of what smelled like—unsurprisingly—bean stew. “You’re only going to get your breakfast if you’re all on your best behavior,” she smirked, resting a hand on her hip.

“No cutting! I’m first!” Felix exclaimed, running to stand in front of Phoenix with an eager grin on his face.

“See? Look how quick on his feet he is! You all could learn a thing or two,” Phoenix laughed, winking playfully at Felix.

Pollux and Caius rolled their eyes, but chuckled as they fell in line behind Felix, followed by Carnifex and Gallus in the rear.

Gallus couldn’t tear his eyes away from you as you began moving down the line of men, handing each of them a bowl with a smile and a kind word of greeting.

“Nice to see you again, Sabina,” Pollux told you, grinning as he accepted his bowl. “We’ve missed you around here these past few days.”

“I’ve missed you all, too,” you murmured, almost shyly, which made Gallus’ chest tighten with the overwhelming need to protect you and make sure that no harm ever befell you.

When you finally came to the end of the line and looked up at him, he was embarrassed by the way that his breath caught in his throat. What had you done to him?

“Hello, Gallus,” you greeted him, your voice sounding so small as you held out a bowl to him.

He stared at it for a moment, as if not comprehending why you were giving it to him. Coming to his senses, however, he shook his head and reached out to take it from you, a jolt of lightning shooting up his arm as your fingers brushed against his. “Hello, Sabina,” he murmured in response.

“How have you been?” you asked, averting your gaze and staring down at your bare feet. He didn’t fail to notice the way you twisted your fingers in the folds of your tunic, a nervous habit. He had grown so accustomed to examining his opponents in the arena over the years and taking their measure in an instant that there wasn’t a single move you made that escaped his attention.

“Fine.” he replied, hating how sharp and short his words sounded. He was so used to being a brute, but he didn’t want to be one with you. Trying to soften his tone slightly, he said, “I’ve been fine. How have you been?” His eyes quickly scanned your arms for any visible signs of Aurelia’s brutality. He noted one small bruise near your elbow, which made him grit his teeth and tighten his grip on the bowl you’d handed him, but otherwise you looked to be physically unharmed.

“I’ve been fine, too,” you replied, glancing up at him and piercing him with a small smile.

“Good. That’s good,” Gallus murmured, suddenly feeling at a loss for words, which made a growing sense of panic rise within him.

He was saved at that moment, however, when Phoenix called out to him, “Come on, Gallus. We haven’t got all morning.” She tapped her foot against the ground, feigning impatience as he sheepishly shuffled forward for his breakfast. “There you are,” she said, scooping a hearty helping of the bean stew into his bowl. “And take a round of bread, too. Sabina made it just this morning,” she added with a knowing grin.

He could feel his ears growing hot at his friend’s pointed comment, quickly snatching up a small loaf of bread and mumbling his thanks before turning to look for a place to sit down.

“Why don’t you ask Sabina to sit with you?” Phoenix asked in a low voice, grinning slyly. “Titus wants us to help with the physicals, so we’ll be here all morning,” she told him, merriment sparkling in those dark eyes of hers.

With that, she sauntered off to sit with the rest of the Pugiones, taking a spot in between Caius and Carnifex.

Clearing his throat, Gallus slowly approached you, noting the way you looked like a skittish deer as you clearly debated what you were supposed to do without Phoenix right by your side. He felt a sudden rush of gratitude for the friendship the two of you shared. He knew that Phoenix looked out for you, and it was good for her to have a friend in the household as well, one she could trust the way she clearly trusted you.

“Would you, um, like to sit down…with me?” Gallus asked awkwardly, mentally kicking himself. Could he sound any more like a giant oaf?

Your eyes widened a fraction as you looked up at him, but you nodded your head, following behind him as he found a comfortable spot for the two of you on the grass, just a few feet away from where the others were sitting. Felix was loudly rejoicing about how good the stew was.

Starving after an early morning of exercises, Gallus began to swallow down the stew quickly, though he flushed in embarrassment when he noticed the way you were politely averting your gaze, picking at the grass near your feet.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, lowering his bowl and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I really am a barbarian, aren’t I? I’m not used to eating my meals in front of a lady,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck as his face and chest burned red.

“Oh, no,” you insisted, shaking your head. “Please, enjoy your breakfast. Don’t take any pains on my account. I’m not a lady. I’m just a slave,” you said, lifting one shoulder in a meek shrug.

His heart broke for you in that moment because he could tell that you really believed what you said. There was no guile in your tone, no self-pity or victimhood. You had resigned yourself to this life, to the way most people saw you. You had accepted it.

But he wouldn’t.

“No,” he said firmly, waiting until he had your full attention before he went on. “You’re a lady, Sabina. Don’t let anyone make you believe otherwise.”

You seemed embarrassed at that, lowering your head so that your hair shielded part of your face, hiding it from view. But he caught, for just the briefest moment, a tiny smile curving your lips and he felt more triumphant than all the times he’d been declared the victor in the arena.

“Thank you, Gallus,” you whispered, the sound of his name on your lips warming him from the inside out.

Not wanting to make you uncomfortable, he changed the subject, lifting up the small loaf of bread he’d taken with his stew. “Phoenix said you baked the bread this morning,” he noted, tearing off a piece and taking a bite. He didn’t think he’d ever tasted sourdough so good before in his life. “It’s delicious,” he complimented, his words ringing with sincerity.

“Thank you,” you murmured again, looking pleased. “My mother taught me how to make bread when I was a little girl,” you told him, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“I’m sure she would be very proud of what you’ve made today,” he told you truthfully, taking another bite.

“I hope so,” you said, chewing on your bottom lip. Your voice had gone much softer now. “She’s gone now.”

He felt the bread lodge in his throat, suddenly tasting like a stone. What had he been thinking, saying something so stupid as that? Feeling like an apology wouldn’t be adequate, he instead said, “Mine, too.”

His eyes met yours and he could see a flicker of empathy there, of understanding. “I’m sorry.” The words, so trite from anyone else, sounded like a cooling balm coming from your mouth.

“I’m sorry, too,” he murmured, feeling closer to you at that moment than he had with anybody else in a very long time.

Glancing down at the half-eaten food still resting in his lap, it suddenly dawned on him that you were sitting there empty-handed. “Are you hungry? Have you eaten enough today?” he asked, feeling once again like a giant oaf.

You waved away his concern with one hand, smiling slightly. “I had something this morning,” you assured him. Something about the way you said it, however, made him feel like you were evading the question.

“But are you hungry?” he repeated, indicating the large pot of stew that still rested on the grass behind him.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, shaking your head. He didn’t fail to notice the way your lower lip caught between your teeth. “That food is for the gladiators.”

Ah, so that was it. You’d been told you couldn’t eat the food that was prepared for the men of the ludus. Frowning, he tore off a huge hunk of the bread you yourself had made and handed it to you. “Eat,” he told you.

“Gallus, really, I don’t—”

“Eat,” he said again, his tone brooking no argument. He watched out of the corner of his eye as you sighed, but slowly began nibbling on the bread. You were trying to hide it, but he could sense that you were much hungrier than you had been letting on.

“If you’re ever hungry, you can take the food right off my plate,” he said suddenly, looking directly into your eyes as he spoke. “I mean it. They give me more than I can eat anyway.”

“I suppose they need their champion well fed,” you replied, rewarding him with a smile that could have rivaled the sun.

He smiled in return. It felt like a long time since he had last done that. “I suppose so,” he conceded. “But a lady deserves her fill, too.”

You giggled at his words, and he felt his chest puff up with pride. It felt like a private joke now that the two of you shared, something that only you and he would understand. He liked that. He liked that very much.

The two of you sat together in comfortable silence for a while, Gallus enjoying simply being in your presence. He finished his bean stew, while you took small bites of bread. Occasionally, snatches of conversation from the others would float over towards you, but Gallus was more than happy to stay lost in this little private world, just you and him.

“That’s healing quite nicely,” you said suddenly, pointing at the long scar now running across his chest—the injury that had first brought your worlds colliding together. The skin was still a bit raised and tender to the touch in certain spots, but it was healing over as well as could be expected, given the nature of it. “Titus really is a master medicus.”

“Just don’t let him hear you say that,” Gallus whispered conspiratorially, a hint of humor sparking to life in his dark eyes. “He already thinks he knows everything and loves to boss us around. I shudder to think what your praise would do to him.”

Your praise, he had come to realize, would be enough to bring a dying man back from the brink of the Underworld.

“He might end up as cocky as Carnifex,” you teased, the playfulness in your tone catching him off guard as much as your words did.

Stunned, Gallus let out a loud laugh, which caught the startled attention of the others for a moment. He so rarely laughed that it was a sound everyone, himself included, was unaccustomed to.

“Phoenix is starting to rub off on you, I see,” he chuckled, lowering his voice.

“Maybe a little bit,” you grinned, nodding your head.

The both of you glanced over to where the others were still sitting, engaged in some conversation that had them all particularly animated. Gallus couldn’t help but notice the way Carnifex had wedged himself closer to Phoenix’s side, their knees brushing together. And Phoenix was doing nothing to push him away. A small furrow developed between his brows as he frowned, but he was distracted from wondering further about what was happening between them when your voice suddenly brought him back to the present moment.

“What happened here?”

Turning his head, he was a bit startled to see that you had moved closer to him, just a handbreadth away from him now. He was trained to sense even the smallest movements around him. How had you managed to be so stealthy that he hadn’t even noticed you approaching? Your movements were so delicate and light, like the fluttering of a dove’s wings.

Torn away from his private musings, he realized that you were indicating a large bruise on his shoulder, the dark purple of his mottled skin slowly giving way to a yellowish-green.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he assured you, brushing it off. “I got hit with a shield the other day during a practice bout. Pollux is a fierce opponent,” he said, admiration coloring his voice as he spoke of his fellow Pugio.

“You respect them,” you said, your hands resting in your lap as you looked at him straight on. It was a statement, not a question. “Your fellow gladiators, I mean.”

“Of course,” Gallus nodded, setting his empty bowl down in the grass beside him. “Even my opponents. I know that none of us chose this life. We’re all just doing what we must to survive. I can’t begrudge a man doing all he can to cling to his life.”

He noticed the shudder that ran down your spine, didn’t fail to pick up on the way your chin dipped downward and you began picking at a loose thread on your tunic. “It must be hard,” you murmured, your voice so low he almost missed what you said. “Having to—having to take a man’s life just to keep your own.”

Swallowing, he nodded his head once, sharply. “It never gets any easier.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. Your hand reached out and came to rest over his, your delicate fingers pressing warmth into his large, scarred ones.

He suddenly found it very hard to breathe, or to form a coherent thought. But he managed to gruffly mutter, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I’m sorry all the same,” you countered, piercing him once more with those large, innocent eyes of yours.

You would be the death of him.

The private little world the two of you had been occupying was all too soon invaded by the sound of Titus’ arrival, everyone scrambling to clean up the remains of their morning meal when they realized that Atticus had come with the medicus, evidently wanting to oversee the examinations himself.

He always did keep a careful eye on his investments, Gallus thought with disgust.

Phoenix quickly dusted herself off and grabbed you by the hand, the two of you keeping your heads down and your mouths shut, doing whatever Titus asked of you.

It was a long morning, the evaluations feeling even more thorough and intense than they usually were. Gallus’ frown grew deeper as he heard Atticus bark orders at Titus, forcing the old man to push the gladiators even harder, nearly to the breaking point for some of the newer recruits.

You and Phoenix were providing water to the men, and a soft word of encouragement when Atticus was out of hearing range. No matter where you were, Gallus’ eyes sought you out, following you around the compound like a hapless beggar, desperate for even a glimpse of you.

When he turned and caught sight of Atticus staring intently at him, however, he stiffened and hardened his expression, standing up straight and gazing ahead with a look of feigned disinterest.

Atticus knew better than just about anybody how to sniff out weaknesses and exploit them for his own gain. Gallus had seen him do it time and time again in the years since he’d been forced into his ludus. It had always been easy for him to make sure that Atticus never found any weakness in him, mainly because he cared so little whether he lived or died. There was nothing, he thought, that Atticus could take from him that hadn’t already been taken, nothing he could hold over his head.

Until now.

Atticus was a lot of things, but a fool wasn’t one of them. And if he had noticed the way Gallus had been watching you, then nothing would stop him from sussing out what you were coming to mean to him.

He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.

Gallus might not be able to protect you from Aurelia’s clutches in the villa, but he would protect you from Atticus’ schemes.

For the rest of that morning and into the afternoon, Gallus pointedly avoided meeting your gaze or looking in your general direction at all. Let Atticus believe him to be completely indifferent to you, just as he had been completely indifferent to all the other pretty slave girls that had been paraded in front of him throughout the years. It was the best way—the only way—to keep you safe.

But late at night, as he lay alone in his bed, his thoughts were consumed by you and only you. That longing, that ache, that had so often plagued him in the middle of the night—the one he thought he had long since rooted out of his heart—was back with a vengeance, screaming out to him in agony.

And when he did finally manage to fall into a fitful sleep, he dreamed of nothing but the feel of soft, delicate hands, their touch as gentle as the flutter of a dove’s wings.

As the days and weeks passed, he realized that the only time he knew peace was when he looked upon your face.

Only you quieted the desperation screaming inside him.

Only you.

The next few weeks passed in relative peace within the household of Atticus Cornelius Juventus. Dominus and Domina had been attending parties on the Palatine more frequently, often until the early hours of the morning, which meant that Domina in particular had less time for tormenting the household servants.

It also meant that you and Phoenix, as well as the others, had a bit more freedom to come and go as you pleased around the villa once all your chores were done. As the stewards of the household, Hrodebert and the other men who ran things were always conscious to make sure that everything was kept up to your master’s exacting standards, but they were also more than willing to turn the other way when those who had performed their duties sought a small break.

For you and Phoenix, it meant that you had the ability to spend more time with your friends in the ludus without worrying about the watchful eye and  jealous rage of Domina.

In the time since you had started working more regularly in and around the ludus, your friendship with the Pugiones had grown stronger and stronger. Where you had once been terrified to go near gladiators, now you found yourself counting the fiercest fighters in Rome among your closest friends and protectors. They were like the older brothers you had never had. Seeing the way that Phoenix interacted with them, and knowing now that she had lost her own brothers, you knew she felt the same.

You loved them all, but you would be lying if you said that each time you stepped foot onto the ludus’ grounds, your eyes didn’t immediately seek out one above all the others.

Gallus.

In the weeks since the two of you had sat together over his breakfast, your relationship with the famed gladiator had continued to grow in ways that set your heart aflutter. You’d been concerned that day of the physical examinations, when Gallus had refused to even look at you after you’d shared such a personal revelations with one another, but the next time you’d seen him, with none around but Titus and the others, he’d smiled at you once more and you felt yourself breathing easier again.

With Dominus and Domina being more frequently occupied outside the household, it gave you and Gallus more opportunities to speak with one another over the meals you served him or while you were tending to his injuries. You found that you were no longer afraid to share your thoughts with him, and you were pleased to discover that his smiles and laughter were becoming more frequent.

At night, when you came to deliver his evening meal to his cell, you even managed to sit with him for a little while, when Atticus and Aurelia were out of the house.

“Will you stay with me?” he asked one night, the first time he had ever done so. Normally, you just dropped off his meal with a smile and then hurried back to the villa with Phoenix. “Just for a little while,” he quickly amended, blushing. You could tell he didn’t want you to think he intended for you to spend the night with him, which made your own skin grow warm.

Since your master and mistress were out for the evening, you nodded and stepped inside, keeping him company as he ate.

“I figured I could still use some more practice, eating in front of a lady,” he told you with a small, lopsided grin that warmed your heart.

After that night, whenever Atticus and Aurelia were out for the evening, you sat with him in his cell, the two of you talking of nothing and everything as he ate his dinner, his table manners growing more civilized with each passing visit.

“I think you’ve finally mastered eating in front of a lady,” you joked one evening, your eyes crinkling as you smiled at him.

He smiled back, his dark eyes glowing like amber in the light of the candle beside him. “And you’ve finally mastered referring to yourself as a lady,” he teased in return, a warmth in his expression that turned your insides to mush.

“We’re both learning,” you murmured softly, surprised when he pushed part of his meal towards you. “What’s this?”

“Your dinner,” he told you, waving his hand over the food. “I told you, they feed me more than I can eat, and I don’t think they feed you nearly enough.”

You bit your lower lip, a pang of hunger in your belly confirming his words. You hesitated for only a moment before tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into the barley and bean stew that Alba had prepared.

“Thank you,” you whispered, savoring what you could of your shared meal.

“You’re welcome,” Gallus said softly, a hint of some emotion in his voice that you couldn’t quite place.

The two of you easily fell into a routine in the evenings when you were free from the watch of your masters, sharing meals together and enjoying one another’s company for longer and longer stretches of time until you finally had to force yourself to leave, Phoenix always meeting you near the gate of the ludus.

“Where does Phoenix go, while you’re here with me?” Gallus asked curiously, knowing that the two of you always came together to deliver meals to the Pugiones.

“She visits with the others,” you explained, laughing as you told him about the coins your friend had managed to win from Pollux and Felix after a successful game of knucklebones.

Tonight, as you and Gallus enjoyed a vegetable broth that Alba had spent all day preparing, you took stock of the increased amount of food on the tray you’d delivered. In fact, you had noticed over the course of the past several days that the portions of all the gladiators’ meals had been steadily increasing.

“Is Alba afraid you’re all starving over here? She keeps putting more and more food on your plates,” you joked, taking a small bite of bread as you gazed across the small table at him.

Instead of laughing as you thought he might, Gallus’ expression sobered and he dropped his bread beside his bowl. “The summer festivals will be starting soon,” he said in a low voice, as if that would be explanation enough.

When you simply blinked in confusion, he added, “That means more rich Romans will be trying to win the people’s—and the Emperor’s—favor by sponsoring games.”

As his meaning sank in, you felt your stomach hollow out. Suddenly nauseous, you let your own piece of bread fall back down to the table as well.

Besides that first day that you’d met Gallus, when he’d been so horribly injured in a fight, you hadn’t seen him or any of the other Pugiones actually leave the compound for a bout in the Colosseum. Some of the newer men had gone—many of whom had not returned—but never the champions of the ludus. Phoenix had explained to you once that because they were so popular and sought after, Atticus had the luxury of being more choosy about which games he enrolled them in. The Pugiones had earned enough fame and status that they were considered a major draw in the arena—and Atticus used that to his advantage to charge a hefty price for their public appearances.

It had been a couple months now since any of them had fought publicly, but with the summer festivals coming up, that meant more elaborate games would be hosted in the Colosseum. And those who sought to curry the most favor would pay whatever money they had to to ensure the best.

Gallus and the others would be fighting again soon.

Seeing the understanding dawn on your face, Gallus winced slightly. “They always start to increase our rations when we have to prepare for the games. We train for longer hours, and we have to be at our best when we fight in the arena.” His voice was flat, unfeeling, as he explained it to you.

“So it will be soon then?” you questioned, hearing the emotion catch in your voice.

“We haven’t been informed of anything yet, but I would guess within the next month or so,” Gallus nodded, his shoulders drooping slightly as he lowered his head.

“You’ll be fine,” you said, more to reassure yourself than him. “You and the others, you’ll all be fine. You always come back,” you murmured, trying to fight the rising tide of anxiety within you. “You’ll come back.”

Gallus lifted his head and met your gaze over the flickering candlelight, something intense and inscrutable in his eyes. “I’ll come back,” he promised, nodding his head slowly.

The two of you sat and finished your meal in silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts and fears. When all the food was finally gone, you stood on trembling legs, knowing that Phoenix would probably be waiting for you and that you should be getting back to the villa.

Gallus stood as soon as you did, his large frame dwarfing you in the already tight confines of his cell. “Sabina,” he murmured, reaching out and lightly brushing his fingertips against your arm.

Unbidden tears started burning the backs of your eyes, but you looked up at him anyway, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He did.

“Everything is going to be fine, I promise,” he told you, squeezing your arm gently. He let go a second later, as if afraid to touch you for too long.

You just nodded, knowing your voice would betray you if you spoke.

“Get back safely,” he whispered, a rugged tenderness in his voice as he walked you to the door. “And get some rest.” You could feel his fingers gently catching on the ends of your hair, which you’d worn loose tonight.

“Good night, Gallus,” you said softly, gazing up at him one last time.

“Good night, Sabina.”

And then you were gone, into the night.

You quickly approached the gate that led back to the villa, assuming Phoenix would already be there waiting for you. The apology you’d been conjuring up died on your lips, however, when you realized that she wasn’t there. Frowning in confusion, you glanced around, wondering if perhaps she was playing a trick on you, hiding behind some shrubbery. You knew for a fact that she never would have left the ludus without you.

For a moment, you grew worried, but then you let out a breath and a soft laugh, figuring that she had also lost track of the time and was probably still swindling Pollux and Felix out of some pocket change.

Doubling back, you approached the cells of the other Pugiones, assuming that Phoenix must still be inside with some of them. As you headed towards Pollux’s and Felix’s cells, however, you suddenly caught a snatch of light coming from Carnifex’s cell, where the door was the tiniest bit ajar. You thought nothing of it until you suddenly heard Phoenix’s voice coming from within. Letting out a sigh of relief, you stepped closer to the door, but froze when the conversation happening inside became clearer.

“How many times do I have to tell you that it’s dangerous?” Phoenix whispered, a worried edge in her tone.

Surprised, you glanced through the small crack in the door and were shocked to see your friend’s hands splayed across the blonde gladiator’s bare chest, while his hands were wrapped around her waist.

“And how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t care?” Carnifex countered, keeping his voice down only when Phoenix pressed a hand to his lips.

“You should care,” she hissed, groaning in frustration. “Hrodebert already figured it out. Do you really want someone else to find out and have to bear the burden of knowing?”

“I don’t care if it’s dangerous and I don’t care who knows,” Carnifex muttered stubbornly. “All I know is that I want you.” And with that, he swallowed up any further arguments Phoenix would have made with a kiss, his fingers buried in her dark hair as she melted against him.

You couldn’t help it. You gasped, your eyes widening as you clapped a hand over your mouth, stupefied.

Letting out horrified gasps of their own, Phoenix and Carnifex whirled around, catching sight of you at the door.

“I’m sorry!” you whispered, turning in a panic and fleeing back towards the villa.

“Sabina!” Phoenix called after you, the sound of her running footsteps catching up to you before you could reach the gate.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” you told her, fearing she would be angry with you. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”

“Sh, sh, sh,” Phoenix whispered, covering your mouth with both her hands until she could tell that you had calmed down somewhat. Slowly lowering her hands, she looked into your eyes, remorse and sadness evident there even under the dark cover of night. “It’s alright, Sabina. I’m the one who’s sorry,” she said softly. She glanced over both her shoulders before saying, “Come with me.”

Taking your hand, Phoenix pulled you through the gate, but instead of heading towards the house, she pulled you in the direction of the small bathhouse that Atticus and Aurelia had recently renovated on their property. Checking that it was empty of any of the other servants, she dragged you inside and lit a candle, settling you both down on a bench fit into an alcove in the wall.

“Phoenix, I’m so sorry,” you apologized again, mortified beyond belief. “I didn’t mean to spy on you. I just went to the gate and you weren’t there and I thought that maybe—”

Phoenix held up a hand to cut you off, silencing you with that single gesture. “Sabina, you don’t have to apologize. This is my fault. I lost track of time and I was being stupid. I—well, obviously you know what you saw,” she sighed, twisting her hands in her lap.

“H-how long? Have you and Carnifex—?” To say you were stunned would be an understatement. But as the shock slowly wore off, you were suddenly reminded of all the small signs you had noticed and failed to pay much attention to, the hidden looks and innocent touches, the way their eyes seemed to communicate without saying a word.

“It started before you even came to the household,” Phoenix confessed, running a hand through her dark hair.

Your eyes widened at that revelation. It had been going on the entire time you’d known her, and yet you’d never put the pieces together.

Realization struck you. 

“Is that where you go at night? The reason why you come back to our quarters so late sometimes?” you asked, thinking how much more sense it made now.

“Sometimes I really am helping Hrodebert with the accounts,” she replied, looking ashamed. “But…yes.”

You sat back and took a deep breath, letting that information wash over you. How had you not figured it out? Why had Phoenix not told you? You felt a small stab of hurt. You thought the two of you shared almost everything with each other.

“I would never tell,” you murmured, looking over at her crestfallen face. “If you had told me, Phoenix, I promise I would have kept your secret.”

“I know that,” Phoenix rushed to tell you, taking your hand in between hers and pressing an affectionate kiss to the back of it. “Oh, I know that. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you that I didn’t tell you. It’s because I wanted to protect you. And everyone else. I didn’t want Hrodebert to know either. He just figured it out.”

You looked at her in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why would you not telling us protect us? Protect us from what?”

“From having to lie for us,” Phoenix whispered miserably. “If Atticus—or Aurelia—ever suspected, if they started asking questions—I don’t want any of you to have to make up lies to protect us.”

“Why would they even care? What concern is it to them?” you demanded, feeling a growing anger on behalf of your friend, that she had to sneak around and lie like this, just to feel safe.

Phoenix let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, my sweet Sabina. You really are too good and innocent for this world. Atticus and Aurelia prey on weakness. They seek it out and they exploit it. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. If they knew what’s been going on between me and Carnifex—if they found out—”

“Do you love him?” you asked, cocking your head to the side as you gazed into your friend’s eyes.

Phoenix froze at your question, avoiding your eyes as she leaned back and ran a tired hand down her face. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m such a fool,” she whispered, her voice filled with pain.

“But do you love him?” you pressed, thinking of the way you’d seen her clinging to him in his cell.

“I—I shouldn’t love him,” she whimpered brokenly, burying her face in her hands. “It’s better for the both of us if I don’t love him. And he shouldn’t love me either. But I just—we—we can’t stay away from each other.”

“Oh, Phoenix,” you murmured gently, wrapping your arms around her in a comforting embrace. You understood what she was saying. As hard as you tried, you didn’t think you could stay away from Gallus either, even if your relationship with him wasn’t quite the same as Phoenix’s with Carnifex.

“I’m scared,” Phoenix confessed in a small voice, holding tightly to you. “I’m scared of what will happen if anyone else finds out.”

“What would Atticus and Aurelia do?” you wondered, suddenly feeling terrified to know the answer.

“They’re so cruel, especially that witch Aurelia,” Phoenix whispered, not directly answering your question. “She can’t have the Pugiones, and she doesn’t want anyone else to have them either. Before you came—” She seemed to shudder with the memory of it.

“What?” you asked, biting down on your lower lip. “What happened?”

Phoenix took a deep breath, sitting up straight and turning to look at you head on. “Before you came, there was another gladiator in the Pugiones. His name was Rufus. He was one of the best. And he fell in love with one of the slave girls in the house, Niobe. They used to sneak around to see each other. But Aurelia figured out what was going on, that jealous bitch. All she had to do was say the word, and the very next day Atticus sold Niobe to a friend of his who was moving his family to Sicilia.”

You gasped in horror. How was it that Domina’s cruelty still didn’t fail to shock you?

“Rufus was heartbroken,” Phoenix went on, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. “He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t talk to anybody.”

“What happened to him?” you asked quietly, a bad feeling growing in the pit of your stomach.

Phoenix let out a sigh, heavy-laden with sadness. “He told the others that he had nothing left to live for with Niobe gone. Nothing left to fight for. Atticus enrolled him in the Saturnalia games, and—and—Gallus told me later that he just gave up. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t want to win. They say he died in the arena that day, but I know that he died long before that. He died the day they took Niobe away from him.”

You lowered your head and closed your eyes, your heart moved with sadness for the ill-fated lovers.

“That’s why I’m afraid,” Phoenix whispered, resting her head on your shoulder. “That’s why I don’t want anyone else having to bear the burden of knowing what’s going on between me and Carnifex. I should end things with him. I know I should. It would be safer for both of us. But I—”

“You love him,” you told her. It was no longer a question.

“Oh, Sabina,” Phoenix cried, her face crumpling as she started to sob in earnest.

“Sh, sh, it will be alright,” you cooed softly, pressing your cheek against the top of her head and rocking her back and forth slowly. “Everything is going to be fine, I promise,” you assured her, echoing the same words Gallus had told you earlier.

The two of you stayed a while longer in the bathhouse until Phoenix had composed herself enough to return to the main house.

Crawling onto your sleeping mats in the slave quarters, you curled up side by side, Phoenix slipping her hand into yours and squeezing tightly until she finally fell asleep.

Sleep evaded you, however. Pulling your knees up to your chest, you silently reflected on all you had learned of that night—the upcoming summer games, Phoenix and Carnifex’s affair, the story of Rufus and Niobe.

In the midst of it all, Gallus’ face kept flashing in your mind, his dark eyes shining brightly like they did whenever they were illuminated by candlelight, his scars standing out sharply against his tanned skin.

The peaceful picture was suddenly replaced by a horrific scene as your mind conjured up images of him being cut down in the arena, slaughtered during the summer games as Atticus and Aurelia laughed.

He just gave up. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t want to win.

A cold chill ran down your spine and you squeezed your eyes shut tightly, trying to force away those savage thoughts.

Gallus had promised you that he would come back, that everything would be fine. It had to be. It just had to be.

But would it?

Much like doomed Rufus, you were no longer sure you would know how to go on in a world without Gallus.

Closing your eyes and covering your face with your hands, you prayed to every god you could think of that you would never have to find out.

[thepilgrimbetweenworlds]

Antiverse Revised Character Profile: Meltdown

Meltdown

Donor Name: Fyro-klese Pūlmo

Age: 27

Species: Pyronite

Birthplace: Pyros (Antiverse)

Hair: Plasma infused Mohawk

Eyes: Pitch black with sickly yellow iris

Height: 6ft 1in

Weight: 232 lbs.

Powers/Abilities:

-Napalm Bombs: Here comes the boom. Meltdown can produce a napalm-like explosive from his hands. These bombs are coated in a thin plasma membrane, allowing them to stick to surfaces, and the flames they produce are difficult to put out.

-Self-Ignition: Rage burns like fire, and consumes the soul. Meltdown can set himself ablaze by expending energy from his fiery core, becoming a walking inferno. This technique is highly dangerous if not properly controlled, as it drains him of energy the more often it is used.

-Plasma Breath: “Scream warrior! Let them hear you!” By concentrating his energy into a single attack, Meltdown can fire a beam of pure plasma. This beam can melt most objects instantaneously, but drains Meltdown’s energy very quickly. If used too long, it can even cool him to the point of death.

-Heat Absorption: Cling to that warm spot, for it might not last. Meltdown draws life from heat, and can drain it to replenish himself and boost his power. Gain enough, and Meltdown can enter a super mode and unleash and explosion of monumental proportions.

-Innate Melee Expertise: In a battle to the death, everything is a weapon. Kevin’s innate combat awareness is amplified as Meltdown by drawing on his countless years of combat experience. Though he seems to have a special preference for spears and tridents.

Physical Description: Fyro-klese’s appearance is best described as Mad Max meets Ghost Rider. His body is composed of two parts: his igneous outer shell, which contains and regulates his energy, and his inner core, the source of his life and power. His oddly trapezoid shaped head rests upon a thick neck that is always hunched over. His stocky upper half slightly outgrows his waist and legs. Fyro-klese is covered in gladiator style armor over much of his body and legs. His shoulders carry spaulders that channel his flame through specialized ports, and spikes line the front and back of his chest. His outer hide is pitch black, save for the cool yet lively red shine of his inner core. The armor is colored in several shades of grey and yellow. The Antitrix symbol is located on his chest.

Backstory: The Antiverse is filled with violence and death. To its dwindling denizens, death is a common occurrence. But for Fyro-klese Pūlmo, death became entertainment. When Pyros was ejected from its orbit, civilization collapsed. In the aftermath, a dictatorship was formed, and horded the last active sources of geothermic energy to keep the populace in line. After centuries of despotic rule, a resistance movement was created to overthrow the emperor. But like all light on cold Pyros, the heat of rebellion soon flickered and began to wane. Desperate, the resistance launched a final assault on the emperor’s palace but were swiftly captured. The ringleaders were imprisoned and sentenced to fight in Pyros’ infamous gladiatorial arena. But a far more deplorable fate awaited their wives and lovers: They would be used to breed warriors for the arena… Fyro-klese was one of those children.

From birth he was already a warrior. Displaying a fierce personality and ferociousness at a young age, he was handpicked to be a part of the emperor’s personal gladiators. But Fyro-klese hoped for something beyond the confines of the arena dungeon. Hope that he would one day he would find freedom for his mother and siblings. But the emperor was not about to lose his newest toy. He had the young Pyronite taken from his mother, and for many long and grueling years “trained” him in his private arena. The light of hope was soon snuffed out, and from the broken shell of Fyro-klese came an animal, burning with rage. His pet ready, the emperor unleashed him on the public. Fyro-klese had become a spectacle of carnage and destruction, slaying many innocent gladiators. His deathmatches were recorded and sent to black markets across the Antiverse, where one managed to find its way to a special traveler, far, far away…

Personality: Fyro-klese is consumed by rage and hate. As he was born into a life of death and gruesome entertainment, he views all living things as potential opponents. He is near feral, bloodthirsty, and feels no peace until all who oppose him are bloody stains. Yet buried deep beneath his burning exterior lies a poor boy, hiding from death under the masque of wrath.

Influence on Kevin: Kevin becomes consumed by rage whenever he transforms into Meltdown.

Trivia:

-Fyro-klese is easily the most vulgar of Kevin’s aliens, and he'll often swear in the Pyronite language.

[cinebration]

My Dear Soothsayer (Loki x Reader) [Request]

thor ragnarok era drabble where reader is part of the grandmaster's court. she has a special gift where she can tell when people are lying, so she makes a game out of talking to loki since he's always twisting his words. it drives him crazy at first, but then he finds different ways to admit his feelings for her to see how long it takes for her to figure it out. just lots of fluff with good ole banter. — Requested by anon

This didn’t come out how I wanted, but oh well.

Warnings: none

Gif Source: MCUFAM

When Loki first appeared in the Grandmaster’s court, dragged in by the Grandmaster’s scrappers to your feet, the Grandmaster asked you if the silver-tongued devil was lying.

You told him no.

This carried on for several days, with the Grandmaster asking you if you sensed Loki was lying—always within the trickster’s hearing.

Each time you said no.

Each time, you saw the twinkle in Loki’s eye and the upturned curve of his lips as he suppressed a faint smirk.

You had him right where you wanted him.

By the end of the first week, Loki had secured himself a position in the Grandmaster’s entourage. The party that night raged long and chaotically into the morning hours.

It was then you pounced, cornering the trickster in the hallway.

“Silver-tongue,” you called.

He stiffened, spinning sharply to face you. A condescending smile pulled at his lips. “I didn’t realize we had progressed to name calling.”

You matched his smile with a viperine one. “I merely speak the truth.”

“The truth is malleable.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

A faint crease appeared in his brow. “Did the Grandmaster send you?”

“No.”

He swept his gaze over you. “You sent yourself?”

You laughed and leaned forward into his personal space. “I did. You see, I have some use for you.”

His eyebrows arched, lips curving. “Oh?”

“Yes. You see, I am desperate for an escape from this place, as you are, I suspect. You’re going to help me.”

Loki’s gaze sharpened as he laughed. “I’m not the helpful sort.”

“The Grandmaster,” you continued, meeting his stare, “will continue to believe me when I lie to him about your honesty, but only so long as I decide to keep it that way.”

The smile fell from his face.

“Yes, I know you’ve been lying the whole time.”

“I…have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Clucking your tongue, you stepped away from him. “I suppose you’re not the kind of man I need. I’ll inform the Grandmaster accordingly.”

You made it a few feet when Loki called out, “Wait!”

You smiled. He was right where you wanted indeed.

~~

“How does this work, then?” Loki asked the second night after the party.

“Well,” you mumbled, picking at the food on your plate, “I will deliver to you information as to how to escape.”

“I don’t believe you would be so magnanimous.”

“Obviously I would be going with you.”

“Ah.”

You could sense him forming the lie before it spilled past his lips.

“I make a most agreeable partner.”

“Clearly, when you are partnered only with yourself.”

He chuckled. “That is no partnership.”

“Then why am I speaking to a copy of you and not your actual self?”

The frown slashed his face so completely you laughed. The illusion vanished before your eyes, and the real Loki emerged from behind an archway, glowering.

“You see, there needn’t be any trust between us,” you informed him when you regained your composure, “because I always know when you’re lying, and you always know I can’t be lied to.”

“How unfair.”

“You have your magic tricks, and I have mine. If anything, that makes it fairer.”

Loki leaned against the archway, arms folded across his chest, and sized you up afresh. You could see his mind working, his eyes hard with deep thought.

“So,” you said, pushing yourself away from the table, “do you have anything more to say?”

“Such as?”

“Perhaps, ‘Thank you for choosing me to escape with, else I may be trapped here forever.’”

“We haven’t succeeded yet. Or tried, for that matter.”

You nodded. “Ah, well, it was worth a shot.”

You moved past him, intending to leave, but his hand circled around your bicep, forcing you to look at him. He searched your face intently, brow furrowed again.

“I see you dislike me.”

“I’m not in the habit of liking the people who place chains on me.”

“Perhaps you should get better at avoiding those chains.” Tugging your arm away, you sauntered off, unaware of the shift in Loki’s expression.

~~

The following week, you managed to pry Loki away from the Grandmaster. The former had been doing much to please the latter, enough to make you nervous. Serving you up to the Grandmaster would surely earn Loki the kind of trust he needed to earn himself a permanent position beside the Grandmaster.

“Is it now?” Loki asked.

“No, of course not. I haven’t told you anything of the plan.”

“Yes, about that—”

“Not now.”

You led him into another room in the grand palace and locked the door behind you before relaxing a fraction. The gladiator match wasn’t scheduled for another hour, so you had time to spare.

“I must say,” Loki purred, circling around the room, “no one has ever managed to keep me trapped for long.”

“But they still trapped you all the same.”

A cloud passed over his face. He met your gaze across the room. “Some traps are worth walking into.”

Your senses tickled, but it wasn’t because he was lying. Frowning, you watched him wander around the room, seemingly aimless. You knew, however, that nothing he did was uncalculated.

“So, the plan,” he prompted.

“It’s a matter of timing.”

“Isn’t it always?”

You matched his bared teeth with your own. “Besides, why would I tell you the plan just so you can run off without me?”

“You overestimate me.”

The laugh burst out of you. “I believe no amount of overestimation can truly scratch the surface of what you’re capable of.”

Loki’s sharp smile pulled at his lips. “Are you so desperate to scratch under my surface?”

Snorting, you ignored the bells chiming quietly in the back of your mind and redirected the conversation. “I hear you’re scheduled to fly with the Grandmaster on his pleasure ship.”

The mischief in Loki’s eyes glimmered. “Envious?”

“Hardly.”

“Then why do you mention it?”

“Because it may behoove you to pay particular attention to its security protocols.”

Loki paused, searched your expression. “Ah, this wouldn’t perhaps be related to your enigmatic plan?”

“Who’s to say it isn’t a misdirection to keep you occupied?”

“Ooo, am I boring entertainment?”

“You misunderstand what entertains me about you.”

Pushing away from the table in the center of the room, Loki sauntered over to you. “Oh, I think I know exactly what entertains you. My silver tongue.”

An unexpected shiver ran down your spine. Keeping your composure, you countered, trying to ignore how close he had drawn near you, “Insofar as I can use it.”

“Use it any way you like, my dear.”

Leaning forward, you felt his breath brush your lips. “Yes…I do believe it would look good mounted on my wall.”

You pulled back as he smirked, his eyes sharp with amusement.

“Tell me, soothsayer,” he purred, “how long have you been lying to the Grandmaster?”

“Longer than you, and better by far.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps you should offer to teach me, seeing as we are partners.”

“‘Partners’ implies equality.”

“Am I not your equal?”

“If you were, we would be gone from here.”

“Perhaps I’m not so keen on parting ways just yet.”

You frowned. “Why? Simply because you have the Grandmaster’s favor?”

“I was speaking more along the lines of the perks that favor brings me.”

“They won’t last.”

It was his turn to frown. “Well, I’d like to make them last as long as possible.”

His stare unsettled your stomach. Stepping away from him, you made for the door. “Keep your eyes open and your memory sharp,” you informed him.

“As you command, my dear soothsayer.”

Fighting the unusual feeling rising up within you, you fled the room.

~~

Loki’s adopted brother ruined everything. You watched the plan fall apart as Thor wreaked havoc in Sakaar, as Loki raced against Scrapper 142 to locate his brother. When they stormed through the Grandmaster’s building to reach the ship hanger, you raced up to intercept them, hoping you wouldn’t find the hanger empty of the one ship you had wanted for your escape.

What you found, to your surprise, was Loki writhing on the floor, one of the electric modules the Grandmaster employed set to the highest setting on him. Getting rid of it, you waited for Loki to still, the color in his cheeks returning to normal as he stared up into your face.

“Your silver tongue failed you this time,” you couldn’t help quipping.

“It seems my brother had grown wise to my tricks,” he grumbled.

Helping him to his feet, you pointed at the ship some of the prisoners were boarding. “It wasn’t my plan, but it still works.”

As you both crossed the hanger bay to the ship, you felt Loki’s gaze on you. “What?”

“I didn’t intend to leave on my own.”

He wasn’t lying, to your surprise. “But you turned on your brother.”

“He was never part of the plan.”

You blinked, slowing to a stop. “What plan?”

“Are we or are we not partners?”

A slow-dawning realization spread through you. Quirking your lips, you countered, “That implies we are equal.”

“I do believe you have the upper hand, my soothsayer—for now.”

Laughing, you helped him across the gangway, thanking the universe for having delivered a silver-tongued devil to you.

[medli20]

I hope Curse of Strahd is going well! You've given us some Brendan lore, but I'm curious about the other party members too, if you can tell us more about them. :-0

It’s been on hiatus for a bit due to scheduling conflicts, but we’re soon approaching the end of the campaign! 

My understanding of the other party members’ lore is a bit spotty, but here’s what I got:

Diana

A wood elf and a cleric of the Raven Queen, Diana is a bookish nerd who is also the party’s mom and moral compass. She hails from Candlekeep where she worked as a librarian of sorts. Apparently she had a dragonborn friend who had died at one point, and now that dragonborn friend has kind of gone off the deep end and is in sort of a state of half-life? 

Other than that, Diana is remarkably well-adjusted as a character, and as a result she doesn’t have a whole lot in her backstory that has come back to bite her.

Korag

A half-orc Eldritch Knight, Korag is (usually) the quiet type, being our party’s rock and lone braincell. Korag’s parents met under rather unusual circumstances. Korag’s orc father was captured and jailed for the heinous crime for being too orcish while he was taking a stroll near the castle where Korag’s human mother lived. Korag’s mother was like “yo that’s fucked up” and tried to get him out of jail but couldn’t, so she did what she could and cared for him while he was incarcerated. 

Growing up in a castle full of racists, Korag was frequently harassed, and at one point he had his head shoved into some hot coals, severely burning half his face. Despite this, he managed to work his way upward into knighthood, where he’d befriended the court wizard and learned to cast spells that would help him better protect himself and the people he cared for. 

All of that quickly came to an end, however, when Korag had been tasked with the protection of a young nobleman and heir to the castle. Upon failing to stop an assassination, Korag was ruthlessly harassed until he decided “enough is enough” and left, because honestly he deserves to have much better people in his life.

Recently, we’ve actually discovered that Korag’s wizard mentor is in Barovia, but he was driven mad and just about killed us once or twice. We just brought him back to his senses though, so I’m looking forward to seeing where this thread leads us. 

( Drawn by @spitterskag ) Casimir

Casimir is a high-elf swashbuckler who had previously worked as an entertainer in an arena, as a gladiator of sorts. Being one of the party’s two twinks, he is the party’s charming grifter and Big Numbers Sneaky Boi. He and Brendan have a bit of a Tulio-and-Miguel sort of dynamic going on, and Brendan considers him to be his best friend. 

Cas was raised by a grouchy old dwarf named Darius, whom he was very fond of. One day though, Darius went missing so Cas was like “oh shit my dad’s gone on a journey out of nowhere! This seems out of character for him; I’d better go look and see if something’s gone wrong,” which led to Cas adventuring through Barovia with us. 

So about halfway through the campaign, we managed to meet Marie, a human woman who he thinks of as his sister. They were both in the thieves’ guild at some point and as the saying goes, they were as thick as two people who are thick with each other. WELL as it turns out, Marie actually MURDERED Darius and used brain magic to wipe this from Casimir’s memory, so now we’re tracking down Marie so Cas can finally get some answers.

[thephantomessoftheopera]

Notes on Gaston Leroux‘s „The Phantom of the Opera“ - Chapter 22: „Interesting and Instructive Tribulations of a Persian in the Cellars of the Opera“

<< Previous chapter

This is a flashback chapter that allegedly reproduces the Persian‘s personal account of his previous interactions with Erik before he and Raoul jumped into the torture chamber. It also provides some background on Erik‘s time in Persia. The Persian’s narrative begins with him stalking Erik in the hope of finding a way into his house. On one occasion, when he has taken the boat to get to the wall where the door of the house is hidden, he encounters the “siren”, one of Erik’s ingenuous defense strategies. The trick of the “siren” is to attract any intruder with its singing (as sirens usually do), so they can easily be snatched and dragged underwater when they are close enough. The “siren” is none other than Erik himself, who is using a reed to breathe and sing underwater - something that he learned from the Pirates in Tonkin, a french colony in northern Vietnam (does anyone else want to see Erik give Jack Sparrow a run for his money🏴‍☠️??). He recognizes the Persian just before he can drown him, and drags him to the shore instead, where he tells him that he does not want his presence in his house.

Apparently, when the Persian saved Erik’s life in Persia, he made him promise that he would not commit any more murders. Therefore, he wants to know if Erik was involved in the fall of the chandelier, but Erik denies it, saying that it was badly worn, and that he didn’t make it fall. It’s hard to know if Erik is lying or speaking the truth here - we naturally assume that it was his doing in the context of the novel. However, as the chandelier’s counterweight falling was a real event which happened in 1896, killing one person, all we know is that most likely, it did in fact fall without someone actively dropping it - unless you assume that a real ghost had a very real hand in making the accident happen.

Erik‘s brand of violence in general is a very artistic and impersonal one, which helps him separate his crimes from himself and focus on the art instead of the crime. When the Persian reminds him of the „Rosy hours of Mazenderan“, it is evident that he wishes to suppress those memories, sadly stating that he tries to forget about them, but that at least „he made the little sultana laugh“. Another indication of this mental compartmentalization is Erik‘s occasional use of „illeism“, i.e. referring to himself in the third person. This illustrates the „feeling of "being outside one's body and watching things happen", a psychological disconnect resulting from dissonance either from trauma such as childhood physical or sexual abuse, or from past outbursts that cannot be reconciled with the individual's own self-image.“ I think we can safely say that in Erik‘s case, both factors come into play. Erik was traumatized practically from birth - we don‘t really know about any physical abuse, but in any case, he was emotionally and mentally abused from his earliest childhood (a lack of affection is crippling to a child’s development). Disassociating himself from his crimes then serves as a coping mechanism for him. In his speech, he actually uses the first person far more frequently than the third person, though.

The Persian‘s insistence on controlling Erik‘s behaviour is due to him feeling responsible for any crimes he might commit since he saved his life, and it seems that he regards him as a mixture between an unruly child and a very dangerous animal. Later, we will learn that it was in fact the Persian who brought Erik to Persia in the first place, thus probably also feeling some responsibility himself for whatever Erik did there, and whatever he might do in the future. It is important though that Erik and the Persian - as chief of the Mazenderan police - were both in the employ of the Persian rulers, and those were allegedly far more monstruous than Erik himself, perverting his genius in a way that served their cruel ideas of entertainment.

Throughout his account of the story, the Persian usually calls Erik a „monster“ and always fears that Erik will go through with his threat against „many members of the human race“. He has been spying on Erik and Christine during their lessons, but cannot believe that Erik‘s voice would be „enough to make her forget his ugliness.“

When he witnesses the progression of the relationship between the two, and that they are now seeing each other, he once again tries to stop Erik when he is on his way out to go shopping for Christine, on the morning after the first night she spent at his house. For those who wonder how Erik was able to go out and run errands, here is the resolution:  when he went out, he wore a papier-mâché nose with a mustache attached, which would hide the fact that he had no nose - which is apparently his most horrible feature. The fake nose made him „almost bearable“ to look upon, so he was able to go out without wearing a full-face mask.

Erik is angry at the Persian for constantly following him around, endangering his secrets, and threatens that terrible things would happen should he be betrayed. He mentions the mysterious „man in the felt hat“ again, speaking of how he had to take the Persian to the managers twice, and that he himself was there, too. Unfortunately, this is not any more conclusive than before, as Erik usually speaks of his alter egos (the siren, for example) as if they were separate entities.

The Persian insists that he has come for Christine and accuses Erik of keeping her as a prisoner (which is not really true at this point, as he offered her her freedom the night before, and she hasn‘t unmasked him yet). Erik makes the Persian promise to leave him alone if he can prove that Christine loves him for himself by coming back to him of her own free will, and the Persian agrees because he thinks that no one could love „that monster“ Erik for himself (which is kind of a sad thing to think…).

He is therefore reasonably amazed when he sees Christine freely come to and leave Erik’s house, but concludes from observing Christine‘s and Raoul‘s engagement game that Erik „occupied her mind by terror, but her heart belonged wholly to Raoul de Chagny“. Now, as we‘ve seen through Raoul‘s eyes and Christine‘s own account, it was not as simple as that. While terror was definitely in the mix, Christine herself said she cared more about Erik’s tears than his threats, and despite her fears, was unwilling to hurt him and run away until it was too late. Therefore, I personally don‘t think that the Persian has much authority to speak of Christine‘s heart, especially since he does not seem to know her particularly well.

The Persian still intends to find the entrance into Erik’s house and one day, watches Erik enter it through the third cellar. The house is apparently not soundproof, as Erik’s music can still be heard in the cellar above, but obviously no one knows where this “ghost music” is coming from.

He then recounts the events of the day of Christine’s abduction and how he briefly considered preemptively denouncing Erik („the monster”) to the police, but chose not to do so because no one would believe him. He then provides several details from Erik’s backstory: how he learned to use the punjab lasso in India, how he fought as a type of gladiator armed with only the lasso for the amusement of the sultana of Mazenderan in Persia, and how he worked as a contractor for Charles Garnier and was therefore secretly able to build his house into the foundations of the opera during the Franco-Prussian war and the siege of Paris from 1870 to 1871, while official construction work on the opera house was suspended. The house is located between the inner and outer casing that was built to contain the water in the underground lake, presumably towards the western side of the building and roughly on the level of the fourth cellar.

Upon finding himself in the torture chamber, the Persian recognizes that it is the same type of chamber that Erik had built in Mazenderan, and which was used for the execution of prisoners (and occasionally, random people as well) by the sultana. He also concludes that Joseph Buquet must also have been trying to follow Erik and had fallen into the torture chamber where he hanged himself, and that later Erik must have moved the body and hung it on the set piece from “Le Roi de Lahore” (which basically translates to “The King of the capital of the Punjab” - did I mention he has a twisted sense of humour??). But as the lasso, being made of catgut, might have aroused suspicions, he apparently decided to get rid of it somewhere else.

Now, upon finding the lasso at his very feet, the Persian’s fears rise and he tries to get Raoul to stay silent and motionless so as not to alert Erik of their presence in his house...

Next chapter >>

[travelwiththefallons]

Roman Ruins & Bibich Winery

Our last morning in Split was spent sleeping in, packing bags, and thanking our AirBnB host for a lovely stay! We grabbed an Uber and headed off to the car rental where we were given a Volkswagen T-Cross for our journey.

John and Lynn had mentioned that there were Roman ancient ruins a few miles outside of

Split and we decided that we needed to add that to our itinerary. 15 minutes later, we were in the town of Salona. Salona was the capital of the Roman province of Dalmatia and where Diocletian was born. At one point, the city was home to 60,000 inhabitants. Unfortunately, as with most areas that have been conquered several times throughout history, the remnants are fairly limited and it doesn’t appear that they are being protected today. We did walk along the ancient walls where we saw the main complex where the Emperor, his family, trusted advisors, and slaves lived. From there, we followed the wall to an old basilica, along the way there was a ditch (for lack of a better word) where 16 sarcophagi were buried, and ultimately further down the wall to the amphitheater/ baby colosseum where gladiators provided entertainment and sacrifice themselves to the god Nemesis while fighting for their lives. There were several signs along the way that provided additional history and recreations of the various sites we were looking at. Like most of the Roman remains in the region, large portions had been destroyed, neglected or modified for different uses by the Christians and Venetians that would rule over the area later.

(Main Roman Complex)

(Amphitheater - the hole that you see covered up in the center is where they would move the dead gladiators and animals)

(really cool, still functional - Roman Bridge)

Apparently, the entire wall is about 5 kilometers long, but we didn’t have time to do it all. I had made reservations for Bibich Winery that I absolutely did not want to miss. We first heard about Bibich Winery after watching one of Anthony Bordain’s Parts Unknown. When he got there he was under the impression that he would just be drinking wine because they don’t really have a kitchen. However, the owner's wife started whipping up food for them to eat along with copious amounts of wine. It all looked fabulous and Bordain could not stop gushing about how amazing everything was. They now serve a very limited menu (or did they always serve a limited menu and just didn’t advertise \0/). When I booked our tickets and started planning our trip, I knew we had to go out of our way to visit.

One of the things I read about Bibich is that they only operate off of reservations. So I emailed about a month out from our trip to finalize a time. I got a response a few days later saying that they may be closed for the season by then, but to email them again 10 days out. My hopes were a bit crushed. I am sure Jimmy heard me bemoan at least 10 times about it! However, when I pinged them a week before our trip, they said that we were in luck and they would see us then! We arrived at a picturesque chalet with white walls and light green shutters. As we walked in, we were greeted by the most lovely waitress. She suggested that we sit outside to soak up the last few days of sun!

Once seated, she asked if we would like to start off with some sparkling wine - again, the answer is always yes! We got one Brut Rose and one white Brut. She was back in a flash with our wine and walked us through what grapes they were made of and how the menu works. We took our time enjoying our perfectly dry bubbles. Our waitress was back and we decided on octopus on potato/truffle cream and steak tartare to start. Entrees woulld consist of veal on a potato cream and skradin ravioli. We also asked for a nice pairing for our dishes for the whole experience. We left wine pairings in the capable hands of our server who seemed very happy with the chance to show us her favorite pairings.

Let’s get one thing out of the way, you’re going to hear us talk about truffles a lot. They’re local and relatively abundant in Croatia and the chefs are willing to take full advantage of that. If you’re not a fan of truffles, Croatian cuisine may pose some challenges for you, but luckily we both adore these little flavor bombs. Our starters were delivered and I honestly think the Octopus was the best thing I have ever eaten. It cooked to perfection and sliced thin and sat on top of this truffle cream that had the consistency of an alfredo sauce, finished with some sliced truffles and green onions. Every bite was heavenly. She paired it nicely with a lovely white wine.

The steak tartare was also lovely. It was served with a sous vide egg yolk on top along with focaccia bread. This was served with a nice Merlot. Again the pairing was spot on and every bite was great.

We took a small break to let our food settle and try another glass of wine. I went with a locally traditional orange wine and Jimmy decided on a Shiraz. The orange wine was really interesting. It’s basically white grapes that have been treated through a red wine process. It’s flavoring was very similar to a cognac with touches of hazelnut. I don’t know that I would ever order it again, but I am glad I tried it. Jimmy absolutely loved his Shiraz!

Our entrees arrived and, again, the presentation was lovely and the aromas were to die for! The veal sat at the bottom of a bowl with a potato cream and curry sauce with powdered butter on top. I had never had powdered butter before, but it was a really interesting taste and texture on it’s own. Once I mixed my bowl together, you could see it melt and added a nice butter taste on the backend. The veal was very tender and tasted as if it had been slow cooked for days and the curry complimented it really nicely.

We still aren’t entirely sure what “skradin” is, but we suspect that the ravioli was filled with the same veal that my dish had or something similar. It was topped with a light cream sauce, adjacent to a vodka sauce with a distinctly unique flavor profile with less richness and more savory notes.. Topped with a saffron foam. It was fabulous. Every bite was exquisite and the flavors all played very nicely off of one another.

While I could have ordered the whole meal again 4 times over, we decided to end on chocolate cake. Although, I would say this was more torte/ mouse/ almost lava cake esque. It came with a bite of strawberry jam and vanilla cream. This was paired with a really big and bold Cab. Again, every bite was amazing and our server knew the exact right wine. She told us this was because she loved both the food and wine there and had tried every combination. She was somewhat of an amateur sommelier by trial and error. I couldn’t believe that they could continue to nail every single dish, but they did!

We ordered a few bottles of wine to bring back to the states and were presented the bill with two caramels. They looked like the caramels that you buy for Halloween wrapped in clear plastic wrappers. However, they were homemade with a bit of 24k gold and the “wrapper” was completely edible. You just popped the whole thing in your mouth and it all melted into this perfect little treat. Lots of caramel flavor, but not overly sticky like you would expect.

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 15: Thunderous

thunderous (adjective)

relating to or giving warning of thunder.

very loud.

very powerful or intense.

Faiolan stood before Brande, who looked over his pupil with a critical eye. Just beyond this chamber awaited the impatient spectators of the Bloodsands, wishing to witness an exciting bout play out before them, where the winners were not only those who excelled in combat, but those who properly placed their bets. And it was the duty of men and women such a Brande, who drilled and trained the next generation of combatants, to ensure each fight was just as thrilling as the last.

"I hope yer ready for this, boy, and that you remember ye aren't goin' out to fight like some hoity-toity knight. Yer a gladiator now, which means ye'll use whatever ye have to to come out on top. They've got high hopes for ye out there. Put you up against a real bastard of a fighter, a Sea Wolf called Silver Hill. Takes his name quite literally, decked in shinin' silver armor and about the size of a small bloody hill too. Favors the hammer of all things, and the one he's got is about the same size as he is. One wrong move, and he'll splatter ye into a puddle o' yer own blood 'n' guts. Every bone in yer body'll be like dust, yer organs vaporized into liquid, yer skin keeping it all in a neat little sack so it's that much easier to clean up when yer done. I've seen 'im fight once or twice before this, and that's all it took: one strike, and the fight was over. But yer light on yer feet. I'd say ditch the shield, since the damn thing won't do you any good anyhow. Best to be quick with that blade of yers. Probably go for the legs, slow 'im down. This'll be a battle of attrition. Every swing o' that big hammer's gotta take a lot of energy, and so long as you dance around him, ye shouldn't have a problem. And if ye DO have a problem... I'll make sure they name the stain after ye."

"Not much of a pep talk," Faiolan lamented, but Brande was done speaking his piece. "At the very least try not to embarrass me. No gladiator I have ever trained has lost their first match. Do not be the one to break that streak." With nothing left to say between them, Brande departed to spectate the match, leaving Faiolan a moment to prepare himself. He left behind his shield, checked that his armor was closely fitted and properly secured. He checked the sharpness of his blade, and when the portcullis at the end of the passage began to rise, he marched toward the growing light and the thunderous cheers.

The sound of the crowd was almost deafening as the sound of their screams broke upon his ears. His heart raced wildly in his chest, and even moreso when his opponent came upon to the field opposite of he. Silver Hill was indeed a towering figure, and Faiolan wondered if perhaps he was the child of an actual mountain and would eventually grow into one himself. Some in the stands exploded into ferocious praise at his approach, but there too were those who endeavored to see the new blood of Brande's win the day. They were both announced, but Faiolan's focus was on his opponent. He heard their names from above, but heeded not what else was said. He drew his sword, Hill hefted that hammer of his, and the two faced one another. Sand crunched beneath Faiolan's feet, reminding him somewhat of the Coerthan snows. With a bloodcurdling roar better fit for a beast, Silver Hill charged with hammer in hand... and was surprisingly fast for someone of his size.

Faiolan's surprise at this almost cost him the fight. He jumped to the side at the very last moment, Silver Hill bringing the hammer down into the ground. A burst of sand flew up from the impact where a moment before stood the Elezen. With incredibly strength and dexterity, Silver Hill hefted the hammer back up and swung wide, Faiolan jumping back and out of the second strike. One wrong move, Brande had said, and the battle was over.

Getting behind Silver Hill seemed to be the best plan, but the way the Roegadyn swung his weapon with reckless abandon, that seemed impossible. No amount of maneuvering seemed to provide an opening, and Faiolan did more dodging than anything else. And therein lay the key that Brande had hinted at earlier: to wait for Silver Hill to tire himself out. The best defense was an onslaught of offense for this particular fighter, and Faiolan only needed patience.

He envisioned Silver Hill as a dragon, a lumbering hulk of a thing with its claws seeking to tear flesh from bone and leave nothing behind to bury. Deftly dodging each assault meant that he would survive for another moment, bringing him closer to victory inch by inch. To the crowd, however, it seemed more of a dance than a fight, with Silver Hill providing all the entertainment and anticipation of a soon-to-be squashed opponent.

At last, Faiolan saw his opponent falter, albeit slightly. As his hammer came crashing into the wall behind Faiolan, his strength slipped for a mere second. Before he could retrieve the weapon and resume the attack, Faiolan slipped past him and slashed at the back of his left. With another tug of the hammer, Silver Hill pulled it free, but the exertion and weight of his weapon caused his knee to give out. Faiolan slashed again, this time at the other leg, but was beaten back again when Silver Hill threw his weight behind the hammer so thoroughly that the blow spun him around, the hammer making a full revolution that came but a hair too close for Faiolan's liking. Silver Hill was not deterred, for now he knew the Elezen's strategy. It took a very precise slash to strike at the weak points of his armor and the back of his legs, and he had suffered far more dire wounds.

However, both Faiolan and the crowd saw that despite Silver Hill's adrenaline driving him to stand and resume fighting with familiar fervor, his movements were much slower. He was struggling to force his legs forward and back, to and fro. Thus began again the dodging dance, though Faiolan was occasionally offered the opportunity for a quick slash at the side, or a thrust at an arm outstretched in overreach. Silver Hill grew more and more furious, allowing him to further ignore the wounds that were beginning to stain his armor with blood. Another successful strike, yet another slash that would be death by a thousand cuts, and Silver Hill's rage reached its apex. He launched the hammer through the air at Faiolan, the Elezen easily moving out of the way, only to experience the anger of Silver Hill firsthand.

Weaponless, Silver Hill used his fists instead, smashing one great blow into the side of Faiolan's head that sent the Elezen reeling. His sword dropped him his hand as the world around him spun out of control. It was not a deathblow by the hammer, but it was quite a formidable strike. Another wave of cheers and applause from the camp of Silver Hill, while those who had gil riding on Faiolan's victor clenched their teeth and jumped up from their seats. He recovered from the blow, but Silver Hill quickly landed another against his chest, robbing him of the air from his lungs. He caught sight of his sword, just out of reach. He had no hope of standing up to Silver Hill at his own game, for it would be as futile as punching an actual hillock.

Silver Hill drove him backward, striking several more times and almost removing Faiolan from the fight. He must have cracked a rib or two by now, his head throbbed, and blocking the blows were akin to a hammer striking an anvil, if that anvil were made of flesh and bone. Silver Hill delivered quite the haymaker, and Faiolan dropped to the ground to avoid it. This seemed to place him in a position most precarious, on the ground and at the mercy of Silver Hill. Silver Hill hefted himself upward, breathing deeply of anticipated victory before bringing down a pair of mighty fists. Faiolan rolled out of the way, swiping his sword from the sand after strategically falling to the ground just beside it. Silver Hill's fists slammed into the dirt, allowing Faiolan to jump to his feet, drive the blade through the back of Silver Hill's knee. He pulled the blade free, but Silver Hill was still intent on fighting. Faiolan responded by stabbing him through the inside of the elbow where was left space between armored plates so the arm could bend. Silver Hill swung his other arm vainly, but Faiolan stepped back a single step to avoid, bringing the blade at last to rest at his opponent's throat. And just like that, he had won his first match upon the Bloodsands. The first of many battles to be fought for the glory and gil of those whom believed themselves his betters.

[seyaryminamoto]

Masterpost: answering a single anon in a single post

So. I wasn’t going to answer asks today but frankly, considering what I should be writing I’d rather answer asks, might actually get a laugh out of it. Most of all, because of what I intend to answer here.

To spare y’all from the pain and annoyance of having to read through any of my answers to we-know-who, I’m going to do it differently this time. All in one post. Because frankly, filling my blog with their TWENTY asks, no less (and it’s official this time, used to be sixteen but then I reblogged that post about conflict in stories and they went wild, as usual) isn’t worth anyone’s time. Hell, it’s not even worth mine, but procrastination is overpowering.

Here we go. If you’re not the anon in question and still want to read this, I hope you have fun.

This is a free world. That means multiple things some people can’t seem to accept. One such thing is that people have no obligation to even interact with each other, let alone to do what others demand of them, especially when they don’t want to. The fact is, being harassed (because, yes, there’s no other word for it) by someone has been a pretty irritating and stressful thing for me, to the point where it has impacted my ability to write...

And the harasser doesn’t give a single fuck about it and just keeps going :’)

With such introduction, I decide to engage my least favorite person in this site once again because clearly, ignoring them, blocking them, closing asks, deleting and rewriting reviews, is still not enough to get across the message that reiterating an opinion a million times doesn’t automatically make it more valid. So let’s see just what’s going on with this very much desperate person who apparently can’t stop seeking my attention:

First of all, I asked this person, point-blank, to address their asks, if they would continue sending them, to my main blog. Let’s see how that request turned out:

Oh my, astonishing! They sent it to Gladiator’s blog instead! And what a bigger shock: they’re, as usual, trying to control and direct what I write and how I write it. While sprinkling empty compliments that don’t mean a thing, such as claiming RESPECT for me and my work when every single ask they’ve sent is an outright disrespectful act against me, considering how many times I’ve requested, directly, that they stop this, and how many times they’ve ignored me. It even is extra poignant considering my request for them to send asks to my main blog instead, and yet they deliberately sent it to Gladiator’s blog. This is what RESPECT looks like, in this anon’s head. Fascinating stuff, isn’t it?

And then comes the mad onslaught that left me facedesking for days:

... I mean. Can someone please read this and tell me the person on the other side, with their vague condition, whatever it may be, has any idea what an apology even MEANS? 

For someone who’s so obsessed with alleged consistency, you’re damn bad at it yourself, Anon. You can’t send four asks in a row, to the WRONG BLOG, demanding for explanations you don’t even care to read, because every single time I’ve taken your whining seriously you’ve disregarded all my responses and gone right back to the same BS as before, and THEN pretend you’re here TO APOLOGIZE.

You don’t feel any remorse. To this day, you don’t even KNOW what you did wrong. This is NOT expressing yourself: THIS IS HARASSMENT. Need me to define the word for you to understand what it means, seeing as it’s becoming abundantly clear your reading and interpretation skills are not the greatest?

Definitions of harassment:

1. (n) the act of tormenting by continued persistent attacks and criticism 2. (n)  a feeling of intense annoyance caused by being tormented

I’ve said it before: PEOPLE HAVE HAD COMPLAINTS ABOUT THIS STORY, FAR MORE VALID THAN YOURS, AND I’VE NEVER REACTED THIS WAY. Care to guess why?

Because you NEVER stop. Because you keep going, constantly, never slowing down to think YOUR behavior is affecting a REAL LIFE HUMAN BEING. You’re obsessing over what happens in a fictional story that, by the way, is a fanfic, ergo, it obeys certain rules that general fiction does not. Among such rules is abiding by ORIGINAL characterization to a certain extent, and that means, hahaha, that Azula ISN’T an experienced character in any social or romantic situations because she ISN’T in canon, and there was no reason to change that, especially considering the worldbuilding I crafted, which makes it CRUCIAL for Azula to be careful with her virtue, despite she doesn’t want to be and realizes the whole notion of female virginal purity is absolute BULLSHIT.

But why am I explaining anything anyway? You won’t understand it, because you don’t want to. You claim, constantly, that you’re asking things OUT OF CURIOSITY, as if that makes ANYTHING better, when the truth is you’re just here to impose your cursed opinions on everyone else, especially me, and pretend you somehow own this fic and ship and your demands mean more than anyone else’s. Meanwhile, oh, I understand you PERFECTLY: you don’t want Sokka to ever have any experiences with any other women because you only believe in pure, untainted love of virgins who wait for each other and don’t ever make mistakes or are forced into unwanted situations. Because, again, you can’t understand that those sorts of things CAN happen. Because you don’t see there’s nuance to human beings, nuance I attempt to capture through my characters too.

I said it semi-jokingly, back in my past answers, now I say it directly: IF YOU CAN’T STOMACH THESE SITUATIONS AND CAN’T ACCEPT THEM, THIS STORY IS NOT FOR YOU.

An M-rated story doesn’t owe you any apologies for being what it is. An M-rated story, at the end of the day, is a STORY. You are a human being who should be capable of controlling not only your impulses but your reactions to things, at least to some degree, and yet you refuse to. You, in fact, continue to prove you CAN’T control yourself in the least because hey, just now, halfway through writing this post? I got THREE MORE ASKS by you. No less than three. And you finished them off, again, with a pretense that you’re going to stop pestering me...

... But hey. You said that at the end of the last ask I pasted up there. Hmm. And yet...

You came back, over and over and over again? :’)

RIGHT ON ALL ACCOUNTS! So... how do TWENTY ASKS, after claims that you’d finally stop, count as “regret”? You’re not changing at all, anon, because YOU DON’T WANT TO. You don’t, to this day, see what you did wrong. You don’t get it. And you won’t get it. So how about we just keep going with the next four?

Oh! But hey, you actually switched blogs this time. Super sweet of you to finally listen to ONE thing I said. Very nice.

I’ll just point out: I received the last NINE asks I’ve pasted here in a SINGLE DAY.

Nine. In one day.

I only ever got that many asks in a single go during review parties (admittedly, there were more than that, but still). The fact that you felt the need to send me NINE ASKS, to beg for forgiveness with a completely dishonest apology, is all the proof of harassment anyone could possibly ask for, right? If you weren’t an anon and at least had the GUTS to own up to your opinions, which you seem to consider absolutely sacred and completely correct, you’d have never gotten away with this. Ergo why you don’t have those guts, and why you keep sending anon reviews and asks too.

The fact that you’re so obsessed with this problem, to the point of believing Sokka’s best sex was with JUNE? We’ve literally finished an entire arc of Sokka and Azula banging across the Fire Nation with no restraint, with the two of them repeatedly remarking this is the best time they’ve ever had, and you’re so completely obsessed with this problem that you apparently think Sokka angrily fucking someone WHILE DECEIVING HIMSELF INTO THINKING IT WAS SOMEONE ELSE is... better? Are you FOR REAL? Are you seriously THAT BAD at reading?

Please, click here. I can’t even stand it anymore. It’s not even for my own sake but yours. You need it.

Also... you’re projecting so bad. Like, so bad. June’s teasing in that chapter is 100% intended to piss them off. The fact that she starts asking for Azula to lend her her “second boyfriend”, AKA Rui Shi, should tell you just how much stock June puts in what happened between her and Sokka: SHE DOESN’T GIVE A DAMN. She’s honestly more entertained by pissing off Azula as a consequence of it than over the sex she had with Sokka, especially considering she even lost her temper with him after he started apologizing in 28. You’re so completely beside yourself you can’t see ANYTHING clearly?

If you REALLY need it spelled out, no, Sokka wasn’t June’s best sex. June has probably done anyone and everyone she ever wanted to, and chances are she absolutely found someone, or several someones, who actually wanted HER, for HER, just as much as she may have wanted them. And that, you insecure mess of a human being, would absolutely make for a much better lay than what she got with Sokka. Why don’t I outright state this in the story, you’ll ask? Because despite what you may believe, this story ISN’T a love triangle between Azula, Sokka and June! Oh my, the horror! We’ve literally spent 198 chapters building up the story and developing Azula and Sokka’s relationship but the ONE TIME encounter with June apparently makes her that pivotal for your whole existence?

Dude, I literally don’t look at 28 AT ALL these days, because I don’t care to. Because even when I wrote it, it hurt me so bad having written it that I was crazy about getting to everything else so I could put it behind me. Whenever I reference it, I do the same way I reference ANYTHING ELSE. The only person who seems to think I’m doing it to further torture anyone IS YOU. 

And yes, did I just say it hurt me too? Oh, my, what a SHOCKER! The fact is, that scene is only as intense as it is because I literally couldn’t bring myself to write it. It wasn’t until it came to mind that Sokka COULD imagine Azula in June’s place that I finally found the way to do it: it wasn’t just Sokka imagining Azula instead, it was ME. Because if it had been anything else? I wouldn’t have been able to write it at all. I basically wrote it as hatesex Sokkla because I NEEDED to in order to write it. “THEN WHY DID YOU EVEN WRITE IT?!?!?”, you’ll scream, I’m sure: BECAUSE I TREAT MY CHARACTERS AS HUMAN BEINGS WHO MAKE MISTAKES AND DO THINGS THEY SHOULDN’T HAVE. BECAUSE SOKKA WAS IN A DARK PLACE AND DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT AZULA WAS FEELING OR THINKING. BECAUSE AZULA WAS IMPULSIVE AND CONTROLLING AND COULDN’T REALIZE THAT THE MORE SHE TRIED TO FORCE SOKKA TO BEND TO HER WILL, THE MORE HE WOULD TRY TO BREAK FREE.

But all this is clearly too complex for you. Can’t even fathom understanding anything remotely close to characterization and conflict within relationships, no. You’re something else entirely.

And so, we move on to the post-apology Anon: you DO realize that forgiveness is something earned? I mean, it’s kinda funny because Sokka actually earned his own. He spent ages working for it, and even AFTER Azula told him he was forgiven, he still feels so bad about having hurt her that, to this day, he regrets it. Being FORGIVEN was not a condition for him to feel remorse. He regretted his actions because HE KNEW THEY WERE WRONG. Because he’s an actual, decent human being who, when faced with a catastrophic mistake, actually wants to amend it and wishes he had acted differently despite he can’t take anything back anymore.

But you? You can’t even begin to understand what regret means. I guess another dictionary definition would help?

Definitions of regret

1. (v) feel remorse for; feel sorry for; be contrite about

2. (v)  feel sad about the loss or absence of

3. (v)  express with regret

4. (v)  decline formally or politely

5. (n)  sadness associated with some wrong done or some disappointment

So, your attempts to beg for forgiveness fall completely flat. And I say it in plural, ATTEMPTS, because in case you think I’m daft and forgot your old reviews and asks, I didn’t: THIS ISN’T YOUR FIRST ATTEMPT TO APOLOGIZE FOR THIS BULLSHIT. I thought I should clarify that, because heh, you have claimed you won’t come back, you have claimed you’re sorry, you have said many platitudes in the past that actually had no meaning... and I could tell they didn’t, which is why I never answered them. Because there was no way someone who had exhibited such obsessive behavior would actually control themselves and get over their issues after MONTHS of persistent harassment.

And so, you didn’t disappoint, because I had zero expectations that you’d actually abide by your apologies. Empty apologies, again, because to this moment you don’t even know what you did wrong. You don’t get it. To put it in the way I did for someone else who talked to me about this mess:

You could be complaining to me about something else entirely. You could be here, demanding that I explain why I’ve been writing Sokka killing people, for instance. You could be disregarding all sense, reason, historical precedents and what-have-you as to why a warmongering, canonically genocidal nation like the Fire Nation would ever have a system like the Gladiator League and enslave other cultures to do their bidding. 

And if you came back with those complaints PERSISTENTLY, FOR A YEAR, I’D BE JUST AS ANGRY AS I AM NOW.

It’s NOT about the situation you’re throwing a fit over. It’s NOT about me having it out for you. It’s about YOU not knowing limits or boundaries, going as far as you constantly, consistently have, ever seeking to twist my story into whatever warped, fucked up perception you’ve developed over it, without ever slowing down to think that your actions and your behavior are affecting someone else. I’m not just a rambling robot who can’t seem to stop talking or writing or whatever you may think I am: I’m an actual person with a FUCKLOAD of problems, who literally just had the WORST year of her life, and you just decided to continue adding to the pile, never slowing down to consider that your feelings, and your opinions, and your pain, does NOT invalidate other people’s, let alone does it make you EXEMPT of hurting others. Which, heh, if you knew how to read, you could’ve even LEARNED this from Gladiator! :’D 

Because Azula, so hurt as she was, took to hurting Sokka too, in many, many ways. And Sokka, once he understood how wrongly he had judged Azula, simply let her hurt him because he thought he deserved everything she threw at him. Later on? Azula realizes all the pain she caused Sokka COULD have led him to choose the White Lotus over her. She’s in a life-or-death situation, unable to fight back, and the ONLY reason she doesn’t get screwed over and captured by the enemy is because Sokka decides she matters more to him than joining forces with sketchy people who are out for revenge. But what if she’d hurt him more than she had? What if she’d done WORSE than she did? Maybe he would’ve been so hurt too that, at this point, he would’ve chosen the White Lotus and not only abandoned her but handed her over to her nation’s enemies! :’) oh, the horror. Is it really that unthinkable? Why, it’s not to me. And why not? Because if Azula had been as unforgiving and unyielding as you are, if she had been so obsessive over whatever caused her pain and refused to move on... this story would SUCK. BADLY.

Makes you wonder what that says about your mentality, doesn’t it?

Alas, after all this digression as to why your behavior is absolutely appalling to me, let’s see what you did indeed, right after your absolutely shallow apology that was obviously not sincere, because you don’t regret having bothered me at all, you just regret that I won’t abide by your whining...

Is THIS what an apologetic, remorseful person looks like? Really, now? Honestly, if Sokka were half as bad as you are, he would’ve slept with half the Fire Nation by now while constantly coming back to Azula like “Oh woops did it again, sorry!”

Yes, I can honestly make the link pretty easily. Must be why you keep assuming he’ll ever be with someone else, because if you were in his place, you would do exactly that :’) beautiful how things just come full circle, isn’t it?

That ask came as a response to another, potentially ill-intended one, potentially sent by you too. An ask I answered with a whole list of unique things Sokka has done for Azula. Not only did you NOT understand the list’s purpose despite you may have even been the one to ask for it... but you took a line directly referencing OBVIOUS events like chapters 64, 69 and 93, moments in which Azula either put a stop to opportunities where she and Sokka might have ended up going too far, and he accepted it without complaint... or Sokka himself put a stop to them, KNOWING that Azula would be taking a huge risk if she gave herself to him completely as she does from 97 onwards. That you literally took something that was SO VERY OBVIOUS, and twisted it into chapter 28 again speaks LENGTHS of how absolutely messed up your perception and interpretation of this whole story is. You have issues. Serious issues. And I’m not saying this just to be an ass, I’m saying it because it’s clear as day that if you CAN’T stop linking absolutely everything I say or do to chapter 28, whether it’s being referenced or not (and in this case, it was NOT), the problem isn’t me, IT’S YOU.

And here we go again. You are actually trying to POLICE the Sokkla fandom at this point? An ANON? And hey, you returned to the Gladiator blog! Which means you were so pissed that I didn’t answer your previous asks and your phony apology because I KNEW you’d come back that even your teeny, tiny behavioral correction was pulled back because you were MAD. And you HAD TO MAKE YOUR OPINIONS KNOWN, AGAIN.

Do tell, are you the same ass who harassed a pretty new friend I’ve made in this fandom? An honestly solid writer who happens to feature Sokka having other, prior relationships to Azula because, haha, if you work with CANON settings, that’s basically guaranteed since Sokka already has canon relationships before even knowing Azula exists? And then, even if in those experiences Sokka ends up going “... I bet it’d be better with Azula”, you STILL take this as a slight and you consider it a reason to go around harassing writers and potentially even THREATENING to report their content because you’re mad that Sokka isn’t exclusively Azula’s in every single story you pick up?

The worst part is, I actually wrote at least 2 stories in my Saturdays’ oneshots where Azula and Sokka are each other’s first everything, absolutely so. And I got nothing from you for it, not even a teeny tiny “HEY THANK YOU YOU FINALLY WROTE WHAT I WANTED TO SEE!”. No, you only come out of your hole to ATTACK writers. To tell us what to do when you think we’re not doing it right. As if you had the SLIGHTEST right to tell ANYONE what to do.

I literally have been here for EIGHT YEARS. I’ve been creating content for this ship for that long, when nobody else was anymore. I won’t take credit for the ship’s rise in popularity, despite yes, it’s far from a major ship no matter how far we’ve come... but my story didn’t reach the heights it has out of sheer dumb luck. I worked my ass off with Gladiator in every way I could to make it a story of the scope and depth it deserved to be, and the fact that people who didn’t even ship Sokkla were interested in reading the story all the same has always been something I take pride on. A ton of multishippers read this story, and support Sokkla too: neither you nor ANYONE has any right to demand or claim or pretend that someone else has no right to be part of this fandom or to set guidelines as to what their content should be. There’s LITERAL stories out there of Sokka having a goddamn HAREM, just so you know, with Azula included amongst the women involved in it... and you’re here, throwing a fit over people featuring Sokka having one-time encounters and brief relationships with other girls before committing completely to Azula.

I’ve been here, working my ass off for Sokkla, not only in writing but literally developing my art skills to the best of my ability so I could ONE DAY create the visuals and images these two evoked for me... 

And yet I don’t feel I have any right to tell ANYONE how to make their content. 

If there was a set number of words in fics or artworks someone needed to make for a ship to prove themselves worthy of obtaining the skill of GATEKEEPING, I am 100% positive I have more than outdone that limit.

And yet I DON’T play gatekeeper. I NEVER have, and I NEVER will. People can create whatever they want to create, whether I enjoy it or not is up to me, and if I DON’T enjoy it, I DON’T read it. If there’s Sokkla content out there I can’t even STOMACH? I would ignore it and move on with my life. You? You make it your whole life’s crusade to attack people over anything that tickles you wrong. That’s how it works, isn’t it?

Unless you’re planning on pulling a Scooby-Doo-esque twist where you remove your mask and reveal you were a known Sokkla fan and content creator all along, which I find ABSOLUTELY unlikely, then this means you haven’t done anything, ANYTHING, for this fandom beyond sending anonymous harassment to people who are actually taking time out of their lives to create content for this ship. The main reaction I’ve seen at you from ANY of us, whether anons like yourself or actual content creators like myself, is that you have too much time on your hands and need a better hobby. And I agree, completely.

So, where people like me and my fellow Sokkla creators are actually making content that convinces people, if not to ship it, to at least CONSIDER this ship a possibility... you’re out there, in hiding, pretending you have any right to tell us what to do and going ignored on most accounts. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: if I had any respect for someone, and they either stopped responding to me or started responding by telling me to leave them alone, I’d feel like such stain of garbage I’d never even try to interact with them again. While people absolutely can be different and react differently to things... I can’t see how, exactly, you have any respect for me when knowing you’re a problem for me has never stopped you and most likely never will.

I’ll admit, this one actually made me laugh. Like... you’re seriously trying to tell me that a sex scene was way too good and that’s why I have to change it. I actually disagree on every account, because the last time I revisited 28 I thought the scene was absolutely distant from my best work? I’ve written soooo much smut recently and literally any of those scenes kicks 28 out of any “best smut” contest by MILES. But... heh. This one, apparently, was too good.

I mean... thank you? For telling me that my smut skills are apparently that great they need to be toned down? Fascinating, really.

But again, “it sadly seems to be a too late to write chapter 28″. Sadly?

SADLY?

You can stick your sadness up where the sun doesn’t shine, dude: 

SOMEONE WHO THREW SUCH A FIT OVER THEIR REVIEWS BEING REWRITTEN SHOULD

NEVER

TELL SOMEONE ELSE THAT IT’S TOO BAD THEY CAN’T REWRITE ANY OF THEIR CONTENT.

EVER

You can’t pretend, again, that you were EVER sorry for ANY of what you did... while still trying to tell someone they should rewrite their content. Honest to gods, you’re an asshole. You are. And if you think I’m one too, great, I own up to it gladly. But you’re the one willingly intoxicating their brain with my content, only to consistently go MAD over it, and then unleash this kind of illogical nonsense right back at me. I know art can generate a myriad of responses, but I am NOT responsible for your immaturity and inability to handle serious subjects and topics that SHOULD MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. If you don’t KNOW how to deal with the fact that there’s a lot of questionable, dislikeable things in this world, then my damn story is the least of your concerns because you’re well on your way to leading a VERY miserable life, Anon. Better get ready for it, will you?

And again, the Gladiator blog. Again, pretending to be well-mannered, and also, again, using the world “sadly”, same as the ask above. Like... man, what on earth is wrong with you. Are you seriously this masochistic? Do you also drink arsenic for sport? What on EARTH brings you the belief that asking how far or how much was done between Sokka and his previous one-night-stands would help you IN ANY WAY, WHATSOEVER? 

I think I’ll answer that question, for once, with actual quotes, taken right from some of your favorite chapters, no less:

"When you and Ruon Jian got married, was he…?" she asked. Mai only raised a confused eyebrow, and Azula had the distinct feeling that Mai knew what she was talking about, but would force her to blurt it out anyways. She sighed: "A virgin."

Ty Lee's hands flew to her mouth as Mai raised her eyebrows. To Azula's astonishment, she merely shrugged.

"I don't know. I never asked," she said. Azula snorted.

"Then you're smarter than me. By far," she grunted. Mai smirked.

And as things digress there into Azula explaining what happened, let’s skip that and go straight to Mai’s direct answer:

"I've never asked Ruon Jian about whether or not he had anything serious with other girls before me because I seriously don't care," said Mai. "If I knew about it, I'd probably have a bout of jealousy like yours, I suppose… but it's in his past, and he left them behind to make me his present and his future. So, whatever he might have experienced before, with however many women there were, isn't something I'm overly concerned about."

"You're awfully mature compared to me if that's the case," said Azula, slipping her fingers through her hair again. Mai smirked.

"You've been complimenting me quite a lot today, Azula, that's not like you…"

"Shut up," Azula grunted. Mai chuckled.

:’) 

This is the only answer this ask warrants. The fact that you’re so immature and so obsessed as to want to know more about what happened with something you HATE is completely cringeworthy and absurd. If you want to get angry imagining Sokka having wild sex with every woman who crosses his path, go ahead and do it, but do us both a favor and torture yourself, and yourself alone, with those thoughts rather than coming back TWENTY TIMES to my inbox looking for MORE reasons to get angry. You’re honestly unbelievable.

You know, that reading comprehension site I linked up there? Courses, 20% off! Seriously, perfect fit for you. You need it, direly.

Like... how can someone read a story built on the premise of Azula literally defeating Sokka painfully in battle to the point he’s left unable to move, taking Sokka away from home, turning him into a slave, being objectively responsible for the WORST TWO YEARS OF HIS LIFE... and then come to my inbox asking if Azula will ever hurt Sokka?

Dude, you’re off the deep end. You can’t even pretend you have a grasp on reality if you SERIOUSLY THINK Azula has NEVER hurt Sokka. Like, seriously, it feels like you’re reading this truncated version of Gladiator that’s only chapters 28, 111, 112 and perhaps 123? Is that what’s going on?

I’ve had Sokka and Azula arguing over ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING, whether for humorous or for serious purposes, since the very beginning of the story. Their first serious falling out is LITERALLY caused by the direct conflict of their worldviews clashing in chapter 12. Their second falling out was indeed caused by women: by Azula’s discovery that Sokka didn’t want to fight women, which of course, doesn’t bother you in the least because you and I both know that’s NOT what your problem was.

I could literally run through the whole story listing every single argument they’ve had, every single time they’ve hurt each other if that’s what you want: their first time? It literally comes from a very serious argument where Sokka believed he had reached the pinnacle of his potential as a fighter and feared Azula would need someone else to achieve her goals instead of him.

AND YOU’RE SERIOUSLY HERE ASKING IF THEY’LL EVER ARGUE OVER ANYTHING ELSE.

You don’t read this story. This ask absolutely proved it to me. You only read chapter 28 and everything potentially connected to Sokka having anything with other women. You don’t CARE about anything else, simply. Because if anything actually had ANY impact on you? You’d say something about it. But the only thing that touches your weird heart is Sokka sleeping with anyone else or having any potentially romantic interactions with someone else, whether he rejects them or not. 

You don’t care about Gladiator. You only care about your ego, and the validation of your worldview and puritanic morals.

And to that I say, fuck that noise. I write whatever the hell I want to write, and you’re not going to rope me into playing it safe just to please insecure harassers who don’t know boundaries and are completely incapable of empathizing with anyone while demanding everyone should understand their feelings.

Final note on this matter: you, also, have no idea what love is. You plain and simple don’t understand it. You’re even more confused by what love should be than Azula was at the start of this story. You don’t get it, AT ALL.

All you want is for them to get even on things? You literally asked me, when I was in my angry spree of deleting your bullshit, to make Azula and her future husband have happy consensual quality sex with who knows how many orgasms... because it was only fair!

AGAIN: YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND LOVE IN THE LEAST.

If you think love is about getting even, you’re seriously an asshole. If you think love is about both people being 100% equal in social regards and experiences, you don’t even UNDERSTAND human relations. Do you live in a bubble, by any chance? Maybe you do! You must have zero contact with anyone other than people with your same puritanic beliefs, right? So that means you assume everyone who’s different from you is fundamentally a bad person? I take it?

Like... literally at this point I think you’d hear about someone who was abused in their childhood, molested, and your reaction would simply be “Oh wow I hope someone molests whoever they end up marrying too, so that way they may be even in the future and been molested by the exact same number of people, otherwise it’s not really love”.

This is fucking sick. I’m not holding back at this point, it’s SICK. It’s TWISTED. It’s VILE. Your mentality is absolutely repulsive to me. You don’t know what love is, and you have the most literal, obvious change to understand it better by reading this story properly, but instead you just read chapter 28 over and over and over again, isn’t that right?

And here’s the evidence of that. You really want me to answer that last question?

No, it doesn’t bug me to read that AT ALL. Because unlike you? I don’t obsessively reread 28 while disregarding everything else in the story. Unlike you, I don’t revisit the chapter every day to pick apart every line to look for reasons to get extra angry at those developments.

Most of us, when faced with things we DON’T like in fiction? We move past it. You, instead, dig yourself into a hole and continue digging, and then pretend to hold other people responsible for whatever impact this may be having on your psyche. Because yes, you’re holding me responsible for whatever trauma or insecurity this is awakening inside you when you continue to pester me as you have: if you’re an adult, you should have the tools and brains to determine what is and what isn’t acceptable behavior, as well as to curate your own experiences with media, with fandom, with EVERYTHING to do with these communities. If you choose to look for things to hate instead of things to love, THAT’S ON YOU.

And if you’re allegedly looking for things to love but can’t find ANY that suit your purposes (which... is bullshit. Clearly, your only priority is “Sokka must be a virgin who never had anything with anyone else”, and such stories DO exist, which I guarantee considering I’ve written at least THREE of them, where it’s absolutely stated that Sokka’s first and only one is Azula)...

Well, it’s funny. Because when I got here? I was looking for some very specific fics so I could explore whether or not Sokkla made any sense. And I didn’t find them.

Which resulted...

... In me writing the very stories I wanted to see.

Oh, my. Imagine taking your impulses and channeling them into something productive rather than looking for reasons to get angry 24/7! Must be such a NOVEL CONCEPT for you!

Seriously, you have no right to dictate what anyone does. Again, worth bringing up because you INSIST on the rewriting matter. Even if you’re claiming you’re done asking for it, you somehow KEEP bringing it up. And then you act like me mentioning 28′s events here or there in the story is absolutely outrageous... but you just go right on ahead and do the same thing yourself, don’t you? Funny how much of a hypocrite you really are, isn’t it?

The fact that you’re bringing up something I have NEVER written, and have NO INTENTIONS of ever writing, as some sort of stupid, ridiculous argument to be made AGAINST the post I literally reblogged TODAY... is just absurd beyond belief.

The fact that I ever even wrote Sokka cheating on Suki with Azula, which I DID, still bothers me. Because yes, it made for a good story, but the truth is, it doesn’t sit well with me. It worked in The Reason, worked in my collab story with a friend, but it doesn’t mean I feel 100% happy with that choice. Even if the cheating only amounted to a kiss in The Reason, and then a lot worse than just that in the other story, it’s still not cool! :’) I know this!

... And yet no one, NO ONE, has ever caught me writing Sokka cheating on Azula. In fact, when my collab story with my friend seemed to start moving towards that angle I BEGGED her not to do it, and then she didn’t, and my heart was deeply relieved and blissful for it. Because not only did it mean we wouldn’t have to deal with the very controversial and unsettling notion of someone in a good relationship cheating on their significant other... but because in that story, it also showed how much he had grown, and how he was truly devoted to Azula despite he hadn’t been to Suki.

But alas, I have my qualms with that concept, of course I do. And I don’t like it. Ergo, I’ll never write it.

Which begs the question as to WHY, exactly, you’re so obsessed with the notion of Sokka cheating on Azula? Like... do you get off on it? Are you wanking at the idea of Sokka and June every single night and then wake up feeling like crap and then take it out on me, by any chance? Is that what’s going on? Because I’m seriously starting to believe it is.

You clearly don’t understand anything about storytelling, which is probably why you don’t have the guts to create your own content in the first place. But the fact that I reblog a post about how conflict in a story is GOOD, and your first thought is “THEN THAT MEANS YOU APPROVE OF SOKKA CHEATING!” actually says A LOT MORE about you than it says about me. You need help. Clearly, the therapy site I was sending you to the last time wasn’t much good, was it? I guess you just ignored it in the end. Hopefully the reading comprehension one will suit you better, right?

Fuck you, seriously, for coming to someone who has been working this hard for this long, for a ship that they’re completely devoted to, to spout this kind of senseless shit. To think you seriously ever believed I’d accept your half-assed apologies when you’ve been doing this sort of bullshit for this long... you’re a piece of work. If you have the time to write that BULLSHIT into my inbox, at the very least use that time to look INWARD and ponder just what your damn problem is, resolve it on your own, AND LEAVE ME THE HELL OUT OF IT. Someone as immature and unstable as you has no business reading M-rated fiction, and I honestly rue the day you ever clicked my story. Both your life and mine would be countless times better if you simply had scrolled past it.

And on and on we went today. The THREE MORE ASKS that arrived as I was typing this insanely long response. Which resulted in you bumping the total, successfully, to 20. MIGHTY NICE OF YOU TO PROVE ME RIGHT! :’)

Now then, getting serious here... I must say your priorities are fucked. Like. Really fucked.

You’d rather Sokka tries to KILL AZULA than have a one-time sexual encounter with someone?

Like... you’re here, condoning VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN to that extent...? :’D and then you... you actually have the balls to whine because apparently him  hurting her feelings is WORSE?!

Are you EVEN LISTENING TO YOURSELF???

You know, I think I have to offer you some REALLY good advice right now: go watch Naruto. Seriously, all of it. Go watch it, and enjoy your sweet loins’ release once Sasuke and Sakura start trying to kill each other, ONLY TO END UP TOGETHER AT THE END! :’) They were both 100% faithful to each other too, in the sense of Sakura getting depicted as a girl who can’t ever get over the guy she had a crush on when she was 6, no matter if he tries to kill her or her friends once he starts to go off the deep end, and Sasuke getting depicted as a guy who treats everyone like garbage, even the people he loves, because his manpain story somehow validates him being absolutely toxic to everyone he knows, so that’s absolutely up your alley! 100% the love story you’ve been looking for! You’re gonna LOVE IT.

Man, I just can’t believe you. I really can’t believe you. You’re seriously asking me to feature Sokka trying to kill Azula because that’s more acceptable to you. There was a story out there, you know? With Azula basically using Sokka to commit suicide, impaling herself on his sword and dying? You should just go look for that too, perfect fit for you (though it may be gone from the depths of this wretched site by now, which tbh I’d be grateful for, since it was the most unsettling, disturbing read).

Also? Thank you, truly, for all  the remarkably shallow compliments you’ve thrown at me to “soften” your “criticism” (which, again, is whining, not legitimate criticism). Calling me a capable writer is super NICE of you, especially after all these months of persistent harassment and constant repetition that I should rewrite whatever you don’t like. I mean... that’s definitely the way someone treats a capable writer, isn’t that right? 

“The problem isn’t conflict it’s what the conflict is”, the anon says. I’ve been writing a story for 8 years, 198 chapters and counting... and I’ve had a ton of different types of conflicts for Sokka and Azula to deal with. If your problem is “I don’t like this conflict”, FINE. But... hey. There have been THOUSANDS of other sources of conflict across the story, so many I don’t think I can even promise I’d ever take my time to count them all... there’s whole ARCS with conflicts regarding world politics and the war’s consequences and both Azula and Sokka completely changing their worldviews as they realize their realities are soooo much more complicated than they ever knew...!

Ergo. There ARE other conflicts. There are SO MANY of them that there’s no point in even listing it all out.

And yet you are obsessed with the one conflict you didn’t like, outright acting like THIS IS THE ONLY CONFLICT THERE EVER WAS, as proven by that preposterous and mindless “when will Azula ever hurt Sokka” ask. The one development you were pissed at, because it tickled your loins the wrong way. Oh yes, I’m a capable writer, I could’ve done things differently...!

BUT I DIDN’T!

And aren’t you thrilled that I didn’t? You would be a complete nobody in this fandom if this hadn’t happened, because otherwise what would you POSSIBLY have to complain about?! To harass someone about?! You’d be SO BORED! You’d be so unknown, nobody would even be aware of your existence...!

Though.

Wait.

You’re an anon.

You’re unreachable and nobody really knows who you are.

... So never mind, you actually still are a complete nobody in this fandom and your only attempt to even take part in it is to be a negative, irritating presence that literally makes people facepalm, laugh and ridicule you to the extent I and many others have laughed at you.

And yes, that post I reblogged was 100% worth reblogging. Why? Because it hits the nail on the head:

I DIDN’T WRITE 28 SO YOU’D BE HAPPY WITH SOKKA.

I DIDN’T WRITE THAT CHAPTER TO MAKE PEOPLE THINK “OH WOW WHAT A WHOLESOME SITUATION”.

I WROTE IT BECAUSE IT WAS MEANT TO DETONATE CONFLICT AND SPEED UP CHARACTER GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT, WHICH IT DID.

And the thing is? Maybe, in the future, I’ll write other stories, just as I wrote the Saturdays’ stories, and Sokka won’t have either meaningful or worth mentioning encounters with anyone else in them. Maybe I’ll write original fiction, and there won’t be any twists like what happened in 28! 

But you will never get over this.

You will never care about any other content beyond this.

And that’s your failing, not mine.

If you would rather obsess over what makes you angry, that’s on YOU. But I’m damn sure I wrote a pretty reasonable conflict, character-wise, that was not only consistent with characterization but with the slightly darker take of the Avatarverse I’ve been working with. Not only that, but I NEVER skipped the consequences of their actions. I literally had them facing those consequences for whole arcs. Sokka assumed he’d never have a chance to be with Azula and made his peace with it, WITHOUT EVER PRETENDING HIS DEVELOPING FEELINGS FOR AZULA WERE ANYTHING THAT ENTITLED HIM TO HER LOVE IN RETURN. But oh, that’s too complex for you to understand, isn’t it? The fact that Sokka actually loves Azula for her, and not for himself, that he devotes himself to her in every imaginable way, that he fights people who dare disrespect her, that he would stop at NOTHING, even coming close to killing someone, to keep her safe despite he’s completely against killing people? That all means NOTHING to you.

And again? THAT’S YOUR PROBLEM. THAT’S YOUR FAILING. THAT YOU’RE SO OBSESSED WITH 28 AND CAN’T MOVE PAST IT IS NOT MY FAULT, IT’S YOURS.

Because I damn right moved past it. I’ve moved so far past it I literally don’t ever THINK about that damn situation until your stupid asks start arriving. Heck, maybe if you didn’t ASK so much about it, I’d stop bringing it up in recent chapters of the story :’) how do you feel about that particular kernel of unexpected information? Maybe you’re impacting the story in a whole shocking manner by inception-ing 28 into my head all the time and that’s why I can’t seem to stop throwing in lines referencing it for you to go completely BONKERS over. How about that? :’)

Say... how exactly do you think this fic is special? Literally all I know is you think I’m a capable writer who can create something perfectly catered for you, and yet ALL the feedback I’ve ever gotten from you is “REWRITE 28 AND EVERYTHING ABOUT SOKKA HAVING ANYTHING WITH OTHER GIRLS I DON’T UNDERSTAND ANY OF THIS I’M GENUINELY CURIOUS THIS IS LEGITIMATE CRITICISM SIGNING OFF BYE”. Your compliments are completely devoid of meaning because they’re literally just a handful of “you’re a good writer” and you don’t even say WHY you think I’m good. You don’t ever come here to tell me how much you enjoyed a certain scene, or how happy you are with a certain development... No.

Because when Sokka and Azula got married? What did I get?

“HOW CAN YOU LET SOKKA AND AZULA GET MARRIED NOW WHEN HE SLEPT WITH SOMEONE ELSE IN CHAPTER 28?!”

I wish I had screenshots for those, but you and I both know the truth, you irksome anon, and the truth is you did exactly that. And with every new development in Shu Jing, I got yet more reviews and ask(s), persistently whining about how UNFAIR it is that now Azula apparently is locked in marriage with this unfaithful man who has been unfaithful to her a grand total number of ZERO TIMES ever since their relationship began! How DARES he even think about marrying her?! Scourge of earth, let’s murder him in cold blood because DEATH IS BETTER THAN CHEATING!!!

If you think highly of Gladiator for ANY REASON, you’ve kept those reasons well and safely tucked away in the depths of your broken heart or shared them with anyone but me. Look at all these asks, damn you, and tell me at what point in time did you convey ANYTHING beyond “why don’t you write what I want you to write?”, huh? Because hell, I don’t see it in any of them. Literally nowhere. No backwards (: emojis are compliments or evidence of how much this story allegedly means to you. All I know is that you hate 28 and everything about it.

And you see...

I don’t give a flying fuck. 

I don’t.

You can hate 28 all you want.

You can hate June.

You can hate Sokka.

It is, INDEED, a free world.

But you have no right, NONE WHATSOEVER, to commit to this level of harassment as you have, for A WHOLE YEAR, and pretend the problem is that I, Seyary, the “evil super-sensitive author who writes Sokka sleeping with other people and doesn’t even break a sweat but then crumbles to pieces when “negative” feedback arrives”, can’t handle your comments properly.

I’ve said it before, damn you: NO ONE NEEDS TO REITERATE THEIR OPINIONS A MILLION TIMES. NO ONE. NOT YOU, NOT THE PEOPLE DEMANDING FOR THE PLOT TO KICK INTO HIGH GEAR, NOT THE ONES WHO THINK THIS SHIP IS GARBAGE, NOT ANYONE.

NO ONE HAS ANY RIGHT OR REASON TO COME BACK PERSISTENTLY THORUGHOUT A YEAR TO HARASS SOMEONE NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES THEY’RE TOLD TO STOP IT.

Point being: HATE WHAT YOU WILL! But keep it the fuck off my blog. And if you CAN’T? Get used to these responses. Because you’re going to get them, constantly. I guarantee it.

I know your damn opinion already. I know it by heart and I damn wish I didn’t. You are perfectly free to go read all the other stories where I’ve had Sokka staying faithful to Azula, with Azula being his first, or with Azula being much more experienced and sleeping around while Sokka stays mostly chaste... but you don’t. You come back, every time, to my miserable inbox that must cry every time you show up in it, to make these demands and pretend you have any power over what I should be writing.

Again, no, I have no idea why this story matters to you at all. And at this point? I’d rather NOT know. Because I’m 100% sure the only thing that matters most to you is chapter 28. So you know, go ahead, wank to it again and cry yourself to sleep. It’s kind of fascinating to have written something that has such a visceral emotional impact on a complete and total stranger. Makes it clear I’ve made a lot of progress as a writer if I can fuck up someone’s life to this extent with what I’ve written.

Yeah. Sure. You really think I’ll buy it? You really think this is goodbye? Oh, no, Anon. You can’t stay away. You’ve been told to, you’ve been asked to, but you can’t.

So no, I’m not wishing you good luck back. And I’m certainly not wishing you any fun with my fic, because it’s more than clear that the only source of entertainment it provided you was chapter 28, seeing as it’s the only impactful thing I apparently ever wrote. And someone who’s that obsessed with one of the chapters I most disliked writing despite I knew the plot would benefit from it in the long run simply can’t deserve to have fun. So... good suffering over Gladiator, if anything? Go ahead and continue to wrack your brain while trying to unravel why, oh, why would ANYONE ever write what I wrote and still call themselves a Sokkla shipper?! 

I dunno, maybe go on and write something similar yourself. Could be you’ll finally figure out what your problem is if you take to writing the cheating storylines you’re so very much obsessed with. Only, heh, I can guarantee I’m not touching anything you write, out of principle more than anything. I plain and simple don’t want anything to do with you... but as I don’t intend to close my inbox again, it seems I have no choice, do I?

Good fucking luck sticking to this alleged goodbye... but we both know you’ll be coming back very soon, won’t you? No worries, Anon, I’ll be waiting this time. Let’s see if you can break your 20-ask-streak record next time, shall we? :’)

It’s December 13th, at 2:32 PM, in my location. Let’s see how long it takes you to come back, shall we?

EDIT: I neglected to check constantly so it definitely arrived earlier than this, but officially received a response at least 2 hours after this post went live.

Didn’t I call it? Yep, absolutely called it.

[lady-of-endless]

Heavy in Your Arms (Muriel x Reader)

Author’s Note: This is some sort of an AU in which the apprentice actually worked as a healer at the coliseum at first. I've crushed my heart writing this so I pray it's going to be good. Thank you for your time!

Everything was so loud that after every fight, the noise was echoing inside his head even if the act of violence was over. His whole body was not aching because of the well-known exhaustion or the constant severe injuries, but because of the sharp regret and guilt that were torturing him more than any sharp blade, heavy chain or ruthless hit. For the sake of his only one friend, Asra, he had to endure this over and over again and never dare to complain.

'He said that he'd hurt Asra if I didn't work for him. So I hurt everyone to keep him safe.'

As Muriel stepped into the light, at the start of every sick show in the coliseum, he would remind himself those phrases, repeating them even during the fight.

Blood and sport, entertainment for many people of Vesuvia, naive enough not to see how sadistic and rotten everything was.

If he could only mute the cheering from the coliseum at least for a day. He wanted peace, the sound of nature over the disgusting screeches that were begging for more brutality, more critical hits, more victims. He wanted to disappear and not be remembered for his deeds, not be remembered at all. After every long day, all that Muriel wanted was to be left alone in silence where he could not hurt anyone, being his only wish. Even if the only place where he could hide after every fight was an underground cell with bad lightning, he would sit on the ground with his back against a cold humid wall and listen to the sound of his own tears hitting the ground. It was all that he could do, taking some moments of his own silence to think about the ones he killed that day without wanting it.

Nothing was going to last, not even the apparent peace from the underground halls of the coliseum where the cells were located. It was all disturbed when you finally appeared.

As a healer of the court, you were put in charge of the area of the coliseum, moreover, to take care of Lucio's champion. There were not many healers that wanted to work there because of the risk but the principle that everyone deserved healing, even him, brought you there.

The only difficulty was that he never wanted you or your help.

Daily, you tried to run as fast as your feet could through the halls and secret rooms of the coliseum to where the fighters rest after the murderous show. As you reached his cell, the door would always close before your eyes, because of him. Being so close but so far away to reaching him and always losing the chance to help was frustrating, unfair. It burned your composure down bit by bit. Stubbornness had you waiting for him, leaning against his door until you were forced to leave the cells of the coliseum at night.

Even if no word was exchanged between you two ever, Muriel knew all that you were trying to do. He knew how you always struggled to reach him, but he still never accepted your help. He knew how you followed him every time after a match and never let you get closer. Seeing how you were running after him to help confused him and irritated him. Who would want to get in touch with a ruin? Who would care about a murderer?

“I saw today’s match, I’m glad that you’re safe but I would feel better to see you and make sure that you really are safe.” Those were some usual lost words when you waited against his door, seated on the ground, for something that could not happen.

You stole the calmness from the only place where he could find such thing as a gladiator and it bothered him more than you thought.

“Maybe one day you’ll let me in.” You’d always say, pulling your knees up to your chest. “We could talk, I could take care of you properly.”

Insistence, constant knocking on his door, your voice when you begged him to let you help, those were the elements that were being present each day. With each day of this ritual, Muriel gradually started to get closer to that door to the point in which he would also sit on the ground, back against the same door and listening to your voice, never responding.

“I know that you don’t want to do this…” You said in a more whispered voice when the guards faded temporary from the area of the cells. Carefully, you repeated that phrase every day since you discovered that truth.

You always watched him from afar during every duel, ignoring all of the rumors about him that were floating around those who watched him because of clear reasons that were visible to you. His face never showed any pleasure for another's suffering, his moves were always hesitant, and he never started the fight. In the end, when he turned his back to the crowd in order to return to his cell, the face behind his long strands of hair was a pained one, full of sorrow, while his chest was moving erratically because of the heavy breathing and anxiousness. He never wanted to do it, but only you observed it and since that moment, you decided to try and reach him harder, analyze him more.

Seeing him so often, your mind never stopped to reach new realizations. Muriel’s hair was long enough to cover his face, messy enough to indicate that he was slowly forgetting about his well-being. The metal collar and chains were the burden of a prisoner, a possession. Those were so heavy that it made him think how if there ever will be a chance to make them disappear, he will not be capable of slow or gentle moves of his hands anymore. His right arm was encased in an armor, cursed with the resemblance of the one Count Lucio had. With this, the Count only wanted to associate the strength of his fighter with him. The strongest color from what Muriel was dressed with was a brutal red that stole the attention from other colors such as the calm green from his eyes, the shade that was capturing a whole forest. Each element that could show his true self was hidden, creating one perfect weapon for Lucio to use, and no one deserved this.

How could so many people enjoy his pain so much? How could they not see the truth? Those simple questions were able to make anger overflow from you at the start of each duel when the spectators were screaming in joy and excitement.

Now, after another day and another round, he was carrying himself into the narrow dark tunnels towards his cell and you were running after him, just as always. Following the clinging sound of his heavy chains you wanted to shout for him to stop and wait. Unfortunately, your lips were sealed in this case, not knowing his name and not going to accept the thought of calling him how everyone did. 'Scrooge of the South' disgusted you. Everyone from inside the court affirmed that he was a brutal man, but they never heard of anyone being hurt after the show. That was because he was always isolating himself, keeping himself away from everyone so that he could not make more victims, but again, only one person could see this.

All of these thoughts pushed you further, made you run faster, reaching the opened cell door. Stopping in front of that door, where he was standing, you were breathing heavily while watching his intense stare, feeling so relieved and lucky that you finally caught him. The gladiator looked at you closely for some moments in which you tried to catch your breath so that you could talk.

“I found you.” You said still breathlessly smiling softly to him.

That was the only smile that looked pure and was offered to him since he has become a gladiator.

It was the first time you saw his eyes closely. The green shade was warm, clear, calm while looking at you. Muriel realized that he stopped in his tracks for too much time.

“Forget this ever happened, go heal someone else who really needs it. Leave and forget me.” He said before closing the door with a slam.

He did not have any right to be healed or taken care of after what he did. He was hurting people, you were healing them, it was impossible for him to do that to someone like you, to let you get closer to his blood stained hands.

…

With the sudden death of the Count, the coliseum died as well, becoming a ruin after a long time in which it should have been destroyed. Time passed and somehow, Muriel finally reached the silence he was wishing on. Even if things changed, some remained the same as a memory of who he was. Those were heavy reminders of who he was in the past, one around his neck and two around his wrists along with other scars and flashbacks.

Days were full of activities in the nature, able to wash away the times in which he was forced into something he never wanted. Muriel was not missing a thing from the coliseum, except for one act that happened on the daily basis. He did not want to admit that he had questions about your actions.

What evoked the thought of you was an innocent dream he had in which your face could be seen again. Waking up from that dream or memory, he was drenched in sweat, breathing heavily and thinking about how you probably disappeared in an excruciating way just like the other workers from the coliseum. There are myths about the ones who you dream of that are saying how those persons are subconsciously missed by you. Muriel did not believe in anything like that.

Of course, no one can be sure of myths.

Unexpectedly, in one rainy night, a memory was waiting for him, knocking on his door.

Already frowning at the thought of some unknown visitors, Muriel sighed and opened the door just to see who was it, without the intention of letting strangers in or even talking to them. His breathing stopped, his mouth dropped open slightly, his eyes were wide and his mind was trying to understand.

“I found you.”

If only you were a nameless ghost he could banish and not one of his fears. Unknowingly, you were not any of those in reality. You were the most gentle shadow of his past. Hearing your words and seeing you again made his stomach fold inside out and his head spin. It has been so long since he has not seen the relieved expression from your face and suddenly, Muriel knew exactly how many years past. Five years of change in his life in which the way you looked at him now was the same as from the past. Only the pressure of his lungs reminded him to breathe again.

He could not forget your persistence but could you forget his frustrating declines?

Muriel's grip on the wooden door of his hut tightened. It could be so easy to let you go again the exact way he did in the past, with a slam of a door in front of you, but he was too stunned to move and unsure if he truly wanted to do that once again.

“No.” He said as a reassurance for himself and a way of convincing you that you did not know him at all. “You have to go, now.” Worry that you could remember him made Muriel doubt the spell and its effects even more.

Swallowing hard when he was asking himself why was he so hesitant, Muriel averted his eyes from your face when he saw you wanted to protest.

“I can't, please listen. I got lost into the woods and you were the only one around here.” You explained everything rapidly watching the man curiously, asking yourself why he looked so shocked. “Please, do you think you can help me?” You asked before catching your breath.

From all the times in which you were asking him to let you help behind a closed door at the coliseum, now you were asking for his help.

No. you were asking a stranger for help.

Something intangible in him did not want to close that door anymore. You could not remember him, it seemed, and you needed help, those were the only reasons that convinced him to let you in.

“It's dangerous out there at this hour...” He said, already doubting his decision, moving away from the door. “But tomorrow, you're gone.” His voice sounded guttural for some reason.

Those words were not a requirement, obligation, or favor. It was just something he knew it would happen, it was just to remind him that eventually, everyone leaves him.

Remembering your burning wish to help him, made Muriel want to return the favor at least once. However, once was enough for you to want to come back frequently.

After that night, you returned to thank him properly and after that, you kept on showing up the next few days under some well thought pretext. Something was drawing you closer to him from the beginning, it was a feeling that you could not explain. It made you curious to find out why by yourself.

The hut was a blossoming place. Surrounded by flowers stuck into a healthy soil, rays of sunshine that were warming the inside of the hut along with a fire. Getting used to the slightly bitter but pleasant smell of freshly cut wood was a bliss. The murmuring sound of the river that was close to the hut was soft enough to never wake him up in the morning. Your presence from time to time almost felt natural in that place but intruding in the same time.

Some people keep happy moments in the form of memories, in their minds and lock them until there comes a time in which they want to reach the feeling from when they were happy again, fantasize about it. What did Muriel have as real peaceful moments? Before he let you in that night, it was when he found Inanna and that was all. Now, Muriel had to admit that he gathered some other memories you offered him.

Even the moment when you exchanged names was a calming memory. Watching you lay down on the ground in the forest, between forget-me-not flowers, smiling at him and inviting him next to you was another one. Helping him find wood for the fire, or cooking with him and even the times in which you'd accidentally fall asleep next to Inanna.

Muriel hated how he connected your presence with the symbol of the coliseum initially, when you never gave him the agitation of that place from his past. Guilt was starting to tie around him when he saw you smile at him unknowingly of who was the one standing in front of you.

That guilt made concentrating on usual tasks almost impossible. It dug up the past and threw it in his face.

That was not the only thing that grew stronger. As the guilt was pushing him closer to the point of telling you everything, your perception got faster to the finish line. The odd feeling you had when you saw the broken chains from around his neck and wrists was getting bolder. So strong that one day, the inevitable happened.

It all came back to you in full force like a frontal hit. The man that you found when you got lost in the forest was the man you tried to reach so many times.

You looked at him in shock and silence. Muriel was taking care of the fire from the hut, his back facing you. Looking at his scared back and shoulders, you finally remembered how each scar was created in the past, being more worried about the scars from his heart.

The echoing sound of your fists banging against his door in the coliseum filled your head now.

“Muriel.” You softly called his name, ending that terrible sound from your head. Even when you only called his name, it was so hard to understand what he was feeling exactly. This time he knew what he was feeling because of the tremble from your voice. Fear and anticipation. A part of him knew why your voice sounded so broken but the other part of him did not want to accept it. “I know you. From before...” You tried to explain, being washed by the wave of flashbacks.

The day he was most afraid of was finally here and even if he was planning it in his mind, he was now unprepared and watching you tremble in place because of him.

As you stepped closer, Muriel's posture changed immediately, backing up and making his chair fall in the process, the sound making Inanna wake up from her slumber. Day by day, Muriel tried to tell you about his past but seeing how peaceful everything was going, delaying the truth every time seemed to be better even if he was never proud of that. It was a mistake not telling you, letting hesitation devour his motivation. Now, you found out alone and nothing will make you stay. He was sure of it. He lost, once again being his fault.

“Now you finally have the best reason to leave. Staying here would only do harm to you.” He said not believing in his own words, screaming on the inside for you not to listen to what he was saying.

His deep voice was always calm when he was not letting you go but now when he had to, his voice was dead. The eyes that were embracing the whole forest in his irises were now at the bay of tears, burning.

All of the people he met along the way were scared of him, his past, face, height, scars. But not you, not at the coliseum and not even now in his hut when he wanted to be left alone again for the sake of your safety. Now, when it was logical for you to leave, you had no intention of proceeding to do so.

“I don't need any reason because I don't want to leave. Why do you want me to go so badly?” You closed your eyes in a frown remembering how hurt he is.

Muriel looked away as well and Inanna whined while tugging onto the ragged material of his trousers with her teeth. She then looked at you desperately and back at him, repeating her tries to make him stop pushing you away. Muriel looked at her and sighed. Inanna was the one to always scold him for not letting you closer but as much as he was attached to his familiar, Muriel thought how she does not understand the whole story.

“I never truly wanted you to leave.” Muriel admitted without even breathing during that phrase. “But someone like you should be protected, appreciated.” The last word was a low growl, thinking about how he never got to tell you or show you how much he appreciated you or how much he started to depend on your presence. “What you found, was never what you needed.” He explained referring to himself and the words you told him when you reached him, twice.

He turned his back, taking a seat on the ground in front of the fireplace, watching it closely. Muriel never really experienced what true warmth felt like before you. You brought that warmth where everything felt cold, and he did barley anything. Even if at first, he had no idea of how to handle it, Muriel let some unseen scars heal. Blaming himself for not showing you how special you were to him was now his current activity.

“That is exactly what you do now, can't you see?” As much as you did not like to raise your tone, you had to at that moment, trying to make sure he understood what you were desperately trying to say between tears. “I'm always so happy to come here and see you, help you with the chickens, play with Inanna, feel special, wanted, finally.” Your breath hitched with the last words.

What Muriel wanted more than anything was for you to never get hurt by him. You both saw in the past what he was capable of doing and in his mind, fear was transforming the possibility of hurting you seem true even if it was a lie. Along flashbacks at night with the screams of his innocent opponents, something more disturbing appeared. It sometimes terrified him to the point of refusing to sleep, being scared to close his eyes the next night.

“I wanted to protect you from myself.” He insisted, repeating, this time his tired eyes being directed to you with no hesitation.

His voice was always calm but not now, when all of his fears reached him, it was trembling. His eyes were always locking down hope when looking at you secretly.

“Is that why you never accepted my help in the past?” You asked even if it was all clear, recalling each time he tried to keep the distance and every word making sense.

No answer came from him after this. Muriel hid his now watery eyes with strands of hair that covered his face and sit down in front of the fire, in silence. He tried to deal with what he was feeling now alone, in silence, just like he always did when he was alone.

Inanna looked at you with big gloomy eyes while resting her nose on her paws, her ears being back.

You stepped closer to Muriel, knelt in front of him and embraced him with your whole body without saying anything yet. Muriel froze at the feeling of you clinging to him so tightly. He never really wanted you to go away from him. Not even when he was in that cursed place and you were chasing him. Muriel was feeling so heavy in your arms because of all that self-condamnation. His hands were hovering over your body without touching you. Being held by you was always feeling so fulfilling but not deserved by him.

“Tell me, how am I supposed to leave the one that makes me feel more than just safe and appreciated?” You asked in a whisper, burying your face in his hair.

You shut your eyes tightly and stayed there, holding him, feeling his heart beating hard against his rib cage. Your chest was pressed against his, heart racing as well in the proximity of his. He could not escape you and he did not want to.

Living his life on the principle that he is a burden did not let him ever want something from someone but now he wanted you, your words, presence, affection. He wanted to ask you what will happen if this want of his will transform into need, scared that he will depend on you.

You slowly pulled away from him to press your lips against his forehead while your hands traveled to the sides of his warm face.

With that, his hands finally dared to touch your skin, arms around your body pulling you closer. Seeing how he was capable to be as gentle as he wanted, Muriel buried his face in your neck, breathing in, eyes closed. Unexpectedly, he finally felt how letting go was not about forgetting, it was all about learning to move on, accepting what was happening to him.

“Thank you.” He said still not being satisfied with his own words but embracing you tighter.

Muriel kept his eyes opened, thinking how he was ready to thank you in a more effective way. If he was never good at expressing things with his words, he was ready to let his gestures speak to you and confess. His right hand gently pushed your hair behind your ear while his eyes were fixated on your lips. You froze when you realized his intention and waited patiently. You both stayed like that for some moments in which his face got slowly closer to yours, eyes looking back up at yours for consent and again at your lips. None of you knew whose heart was beating louder and harder.

You smiled softly at him and closed your eyes, thinking how he will understand that it is alright. His left hand found yours and caught it tight while locking your lips with his for the first time. He was so gentle in the kiss as if your lips were only flower petals that could bend.

Muriel felt how his soul was finally home. That place was found in time on your shoulders, where he was always laying his head on. Your shoulders that carried his suffering to the end of the line, started to carry Muriel's love after.

Your stubbornness was powerful enough to push you closer to him, closer than you ever expected. His hands were scarred from murder and yet you trusted them completely, more than anything.

Muriel learned every day how soft souls have the chance to see themselves in the mirror of the soul of someone else and how the past can be erased with help. He learned to believe in change and steps took forward.

If two people cannot stay apart, they are not meant to be apart.

[bradshawsbaby]

Si Vis Amari Ama

II. Healing Hands

SERIES MASTERLIST

Pairings: Rooster (Roman Name: Gallus) x Female Reader (Roman Name: Sabina), featuring Hangman (Roman Name: Carnifex) x Phoenix

Summary: A girl whose freedom was stolen to pay her father’s debts. A gladiator enslaved for the entertainment of Rome. A love they never thought possible.

Author’s Note: Time for them to finally meet! I’ve been looking forward to this part, and I hope you enjoy it!

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: Slavery in the ancient world, injury in gladiatorial combat, mentions of blood, references to medical treatment, angst, brief language, alternating point of view.

“Sabina! Just the person I was looking for!”

You looked up in surprise at the sound of the semi-familiar voice calling your name, carefully lowering the serving platter you’d just spent the last twenty minutes painstakingly scrubbing onto the long, flat wooden surface of the kitchen work table. 

Without thinking about it, you wiped your hand down the side of your tunic and then winced. You were still getting used to the finer quality of your clothing now that you had been acquired as a household slave in the villa of Atticus Cornelius Juventus. All your life—or, at least, all the time you’d been the property of someone else—you had only ever worn roughspun tunics made of cheap fabric that tore so frequently you’d become an expert with a needle and thread before your seventh birthday. Now, however—now things were different. Dominus and Domina had very exacting standards when it came to appearances, from their own all the way down to the lowliest kitchen slave.

“Everything has to be perfect where they’re concerned,” Phoenix had once whispered to you, the tiniest hint of derision in her voice. You admired the way the loss of her freedom somehow hadn’t stripped her of her independent spirit. “Even their slaves are the best dressed in Rome,” she explained, her dark eyes rolling back for a moment.

It was true. Though your tunics—you actually had more than one now—were nowhere near as fine or as delicate as Domina’s, there was no denying that the quality was the best you had ever known. It had made you anxious at first, wearing such a fine tunic while carrying out all your chores around the villa. You’d seen others punished for making a mess of themselves, and you didn’t want to face the same fate.

Over the past two and a half months since you’d entered the service of your masters, Domina had scolded you on several occasions for being too careless with your appearance.

“Don’t wipe your hands on your tunic like a common sewer rat,” she’d snapped one evening after you’d finished helping to set the table for dinner, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “You should count yourself lucky that we’ve deigned to give you something so fine.”

“Yes, Domina,” you had murmured in embarrassment, lowering your head as was expected.

“I think our generosity deserves a bit of gratitude, don’t you, my love?” she asked, tilting her chin in the direction of Dominus.

He looked more interested in his wine than he did in the conversation at hand, but he nodded and waved his hand in agreement anyway.

Domina turned her gaze, shrewd as a cat’s, back on you. “Go on. Say thank you,” she demanded.

“Thank you, Domina. Thank you, Dominus,” you said meekly, bobbing a small curtsy for emphasis. Nearby, you could sense Phoenix’s eyes narrowing in the direction of your mistress.

“Now be gone from my sight,” Domina waved you off, reaching for a ripe fig resting on the platter before her.

From then on, you’d been incredibly self-aware of your treatment of your clothing and your appearance, though from time to time you still caught yourself slipping up.

Like now.

You bit your lip, but the tension in your shoulders eased when you realized that there was no one about who would scold you for the simple mistake. Not even Titus, though he was a freedman and in the employ of your masters.

It was Titus who had called for you, much to your surprise. Though you had interacted with the medicus on a few occasions over the past couple months, the conversations had always been short and you could see no reason why he’d be seeking you out now.

“Hello, Titus,” you said politely, rising from your seat at the table and bowing your head respectfully, though he waved you off. As a former slave himself, he never stood on such ceremonies. “Can I help you with something?”

The older man smiled, the deep lines on his forehead and around his mouth creasing as he did so. “Actually, yes. Yes, you can. I need your assistance at the ludus,” he told you, his steady, well-trained hands resting calmly at his sides.

Your eyes widened at his request, and you felt a strange dip of—it wasn’t quite fear, but rather some disconcerting feeling deep within your stomach.

You had known when you had been sold here what kind of household this was. Dominus didn’t acquire his riches by chance, but rather through the lucrative business of gladiators. And from what you had gathered, his private ludus boasted some of the very best fighters Rome had to offer—including their champion.

Any trepidation you’d had about living on a property with such brutal men had been put to rest, however, when you realized just how large the villa of Atticus Cornelius Juventus was. Situated in the fashionable district of the Palatine Hill, the household itself was separated entirely from the ludus—the gladiator school where the fighters worked and trained and ate and slept. You knew that many of the household slaves from the villa also performed duties at the ludus—Phoenix was one of them—but you yourself had never had occasion to cross that barrier.

And you’d been perfectly content with that arrangement.

“Oh,” you stammered shyly, looking up at Titus as he gazed back at you expectantly, kindness brimming in his dark eyes. “But I thought that—well, I just—”

Titus laughed softly, though in a way that let you know he wasn’t mocking you. “Dear girl, you don’t have to look like a gazelle they just let loose in the arena. The boys won’t bite you, I promise you that. Well, most of them won’t.”

You felt your face growing warm at his words, and you bashfully twisted your hands in the folds of your tunic. “O-of course. I just thought that—well, doesn’t Phoenix normally assist you at the ludus?”

“She does,” Titus nodded, running a hand through his graying hair. “But she’s out at the moment running errands for Aurelia.” The corner of his mouth twisted slightly at the mention of Domina’s name. Your mistress seemed to have that effect on many people. “And the boys just arrived back from an event at the arena. I’m afraid Gallus is wounded rather badly, which means I’ll need an extra set of hands.”

Gallus.

You recognized the name. Though you had never been to the Colosseum yourself, it was impossible not to hear the talk of the famed gladiators who graced the sands of the arena. And even if you didn’t hear the talk, the graffiti plastered across the city was enough to get the point across, down to the lewd and shockingly explicit drawings.

Gallus was the one they called “The Barbarian from Britannia,” the undefeated champion of Rome who was able to take down any opponent thrown his way, man or beast.

And he resided right here, in this household.

“Me?” you asked, eyes widening once more, this time in shock. “You need me to help you? I mean, wouldn’t there be somebody better—”

“From what Phoenix tells me, you have quite the touch when it comes to caring for those who are sick and injured,” Titus cut you off, a smile curving his lips as he raised his eyebrows curiously.

Your skin grew hot at the undeserved praise. “Oh, but that’s different. I mean, I can help with small cuts and burns, bruises and bumps. Things like that. But a—a gladiator?”

“Trust me, he bleeds just the same as you and me,” Titus assured you, taking you by the arm and leading you through the kitchens and across the open gardens of the villa until you came to the locked gate through which you had never entered before. Pulling a small ring of keys from inside his toga, Titus fitted one into the lock and turned.

The sound of it reverberated through your skull as the old medicus guided you through the opening in the gate.

Titus must have noted your growing agitation as you walked across the empty training grounds and towards the private cells where the gladiators resided because he gently patted your arm and glanced down at you with a sympathetic look in his eyes.

“He’s asleep right now,” he told you quietly, guiding you surely past sealed door after sealed door. How many gladiators were kept here exactly? “He wouldn’t do you any harm—don’t let the name fool you—but even so, he should be fairly worn out while we’re tending to him.”

“What happened to him exactly?” you asked, your trepidation slowly giving way to a sort of gentle curiosity. You had seen brutal injuries over the years, but the thought of seeing a gladiator’s injuries up close made you feel a little woozy.

“Took part of a battle ax to the chest,” Titus replied, as if it were the most common thing in the world. He must have noticed your eyes bugging out of your head because he quickly added, “It’s not as bad as it sounds. And he’s been through worse. But still, between that and some other smaller wounds, I could really use the assistance. I’ll walk you through it,” he told you calmly, finally stopping in front of a closed door, the farthest one from the training grounds. It seemed that being the champion had its perks, for this cell afforded its occupant the most quiet and the most privacy.

You held your breath as Titus pushed the door open, your heart thumping in your chest as you followed behind him on quiet feet. Maybe he was right—you really were like a gazelle they’d just let loose in the arena, terrified of being devoured by the prowling lions.

The cell was smaller than you had initially anticipated and scarcely furnished—for all that he was Rome’s champion, you realized with startling clarity, Gallus was still a slave. There was a small bronze brazier in the corner, which Titus had evidently already lit to provide some illumination—the small window high on the wall only afforded so much daylight. Against another wall was a small wooden table, on which sat a pitcher and a couple scattered cups. There was one stool tucked neatly underneath. You took in all this before your eyes slowly glided to the other end of the room, in which there was a low bed pressed against the wall.

And on that bed lay a man.

The largest man you had ever seen.

You let out the breath you hadn’t even realized you’d still been holding as your eyes fell on him, taking in the unconscious form of “The Barbarian of Britannia.”

You weren’t really sure what you had been expecting. Maybe, with a name like that, you’d secretly been anticipating some kind of monster, a half-man with twisted fangs and sharp claws, like in the stories you’d heard growing up as a child.

But he was just a man.

Not a beast. Not a monster. A man.

As Titus nudged you closer toward his bedside, and your eyes adjusted to the dim light in the cell, you were able to take a fuller measure of him.

He was nearly naked. You were suddenly acutely aware of that fact. You had seen naked bodies before—there was no dignity afforded the enslaved—and it didn’t embarrass you, not really, but you suddenly felt a burning urge to avert your gaze and look anywhere but at him.

Maybe it was because of his size. He was just so large, that you almost wondered how you and Titus had managed to cram into this tiny cell beside him. His shoulders, his chest, his arms, his legs—they all looked so massive and powerful, even as he lay in that vulnerable state. No wonder he was undefeated.

As your eyes shyly made their way back up his form, you took note of all the scars that marked his skin. His thighs were littered with them, including a deep gash just above his left knee. His arms and hands were much the same, including some fresh marks that he must have acquired just today, as Titus had said.

His chest and shoulders were what caused the gasp to catch in your throat. There, right across the center of his chest, was a bloody gouge, the lacerated edges indicating the mark of a Roman battle ax. And up on his shoulder was a massive scar, the skin pink and puckered from a wound that had clearly taken a long time to heal.

Finally, your eyes landed on his face. His chin was deeply scarred as well, the marks telling a story you could only begin to imagine. You tilted your head to the side, gazing curiously at the hair that adorned the top of his lip. Living your entire life in Rome, you’d only ever seen men clean-shaven, perhaps with a day or two’s worth of scruff. You had never seen a man appear to grow hair so intentionally on his face before, and you found yourself transfixed. 

It was dark, as was the rest of his hair, though as you moved closer to the bed you realized that there were streaks of gold buried in the thick depths. It seemed to fall softly, not as short as the way Roman men wore it, yet not quite as long as you would imagine a barbarian from Britannia to keep it.

His dark lashes fluttered slightly as you stood over him, but he didn’t wake.

And for some inexplicable reason, you weren’t afraid.

By all accounts, this man had slaughtered hundreds, had stolen their very life breath with the hands that now lay still at his sides. And yet, as you stood beside him, you felt no fear.

“Here, take a seat,” Titus told you kindly, reaching for the stool that sat beneath the small table and setting it down for you beside the bed. “I did a cursory cleansing of his wounds when he first arrived back, but it looks like the cut is deep enough that it’s going to require sutures. While I’m preparing the instruments, I would like you to apply a poultice I made. It should hopefully relieve some of the pain and cleanse the gash further.”

You simply nodded in response, reaching for the strips of clean linens that had already been prepared. From the smell of them, Titus had put together a concoction involving acid vinegar. Grabbing hold of the longest strip, you laid it across Gallus’ chest and began to gently press it into his open wound. He let out a soft hiss under his breath, which made you stiffen slightly, but still he did not wake. Breathing deeply, you reached for another vinegar-soaked linen strip and laid it across one of the minor wounds on his forearm.

Within moments, you had the poultice applied to every wound that was visible to your eyes, your heart growing heavy as you began to take stock of just how many injuries—both new and old—this man had suffered in his life. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw that Titus was still preparing his instruments for suturing, soaking his needles in vinegar and passing them through the flames of the brazier.

Looking back down at the gladiator who had somehow ended up entrusted to your care, you found your heart moved in a sudden rush of compassion for him. What had his life been like before he was brought here? Did he have a family? A home? Did he even want to be doing this?

Reaching out slowly, you found yourself stroking his forehead with gentle fingers, brushing his hair away from his face. Your fingertips trailed slowly down his cheek, tracing the contours of his skin, feeling the firm bone beneath. His skin was so warm that it was practically hot to the touch.

You were gazing down at him, cupping his cheek in your hand, when his eyes suddenly fluttered open, two dark orbs staring up at you.

He blinked once.

Then twice.

Confusion passed through his eyes for a moment as he gazed at you, your hand still resting on his cheek.

Then his expression hardened, his dark eyes as stony and unyielding as obsidian.

“Who are you?” he demanded roughly, his voice sounding angry. He tried to sit up, tried to move away from your touch, but ended up wincing in pain.

You removed your hand from his face immediately, suddenly feeling foolish. “I—I—” you stammered, not knowing how to respond. Your tongue was suddenly stuck to the roof of your mouth.

“Oh, don’t be such a brute,” Titus scolded, suddenly appearing over your shoulder as you rose from the stool, nearly tripping backwards over it. “See, you’ve got the poor girl all upset when all she was trying to do was help you.”

Gallus scowled coldly at the medicus, eyes narrowing. “What is she doing here? Where’s Phoenix?” he demanded, his gravelly voice making goosebumps rise on your skin. He spared a brief glance in your direction, but then his eyes narrowed further and he quickly turned away.

“Phoenix had other obligations, and I needed the help. What were you thinking, taking an ax to the chest like that?” Titus asked, seemingly unfazed by this hulking man’s barely concealed fury.

“My apologies,” Gallus spat bitterly, glaring. He glanced down at linen bandages covering his body, wincing some more as he forced himself into a sitting position despite his obvious agony. Blood was already starting to soak through most of them.

“Oh, you shouldn’t!” you exclaimed before you could stop yourself, instinctively moving towards him to try to fix the bandaging.

He pulled away from you and his glare intensified. You swallowed, dropping your gaze to your bare feet.

“Get her out of here, Titus,” he said coldly, turning to stare at the far wall.

“Gallus, she—”

“Get. Her. Out,” he forced out through gritted teeth, refusing to look at you again.

“I’ll go,” you said softly, holding up a placating hand towards Titus when it looked like the older man was going to continue to argue. “I’m sorry,” you added, almost to yourself, as you slipped out of the cell and ran without looking back out of the ludus.

You hoped you would never have to go back there again.

He had never felt hands so gentle in his life.

For a moment, just for a moment as he’d started to come to, he’d wondered if maybe that Germanic fighter’s ax really had killed him and he was being welcomed into the fields of eternity.

That was the only explanation for a touch so soft, a touch that seemed to reach deep down into the very core of him.

But then he’d opened his eyes and he realized that the sweet release of death had not yet claimed him.

He was still in his dank, dingy cell, his body wracked with an agony that he’d somehow learned to live with over the years. He was not yet free.

And yet, that touch remained.

That face had appeared, floating above him and looking deeply into his eyes—when had he last seen a face so innocent? When had he ever seen a face so innocent?

When had he ever felt a touch so gentle?

Never.

And so he recoiled instantly, knowing that a man like him didn’t deserve a touch so light and tender. A man like him didn’t deserve to be in the presence of such innocence.

He would only destroy it, as he destroyed everything else.

He felt shame—damn, when had he last felt shame?—bubble up inside him as that innocent face fell at his cruel and cutting words, disappearing from his sight as its owner fled his cell without a backwards glance.

Good.

He didn’t like the feeling that innocent face and those gentle hands had stirred deep inside him, deep inside that place that still ached and longed for something just beyond his reach.

He hoped she never came back.

“You really are a fucking brute, you know that?” Titus scoffed in disgust, pushing him back down onto the bed and forcibly adjusting his bandages.

His hands certainly weren’t gentle.

“Shut up, Titus,” Gallus muttered brusquely, turning his face away from the older man. He and the medicus had known each other for quite some time, and neither of them had any qualms when it came to blunt honesty.

“She only came here because I asked her to,” Titus went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “And I only asked her to because Phoenix told me how good she was at tending wounds,” he said pointedly.

Gallus just blinked. If Titus expected him to look chastened, he would be sorely disappointed, no matter that a nagging feeling of guilt was tugging at his gut.

“Why didn’t you just bring Phoenix?” he demanded, frowning like a petulant child.

“I told you, she’s busy. Or have you forgotten that she’s at the beck and call of Atticus and Aurelia, and not you?” Titus asked sharply, raising a brow as he looked down at him.

Gallus flushed angrily at his words, his hands balling into tight fights.

“Easy there, barbarian,” Titus murmured, his tone softening slightly. “She’ll be back soon enough. I’ll have her come check on you later tonight.”

The two of them were quiet for a while as Titus focused on his work, beginning the slow process of stitching up the wound on Gallus’ chest. Gallus’ jaw clenched, but he made no complaints.

“You should apologize to her,” Titus said quietly, once his work was done and he was washing his hands in the small basin he’d brought with him.

“I’ve never even seen her before,” Gallus said gruffly, leaning back against the wall. “What, does she live here now?”

“She belongs here now,” Titus corrected. “She’s just as much a slave as you are, Gallus, so you don’t have to take out your rage against Rome on her.”

He deflated slightly at the medicus’ words, that nagging feeling returning to his chest. “I’ve never seen her before,” he said again, more quietly this time.

“She was only brought here a couple months ago. Aurelia keeps her busy in the villa, so there’s never been any reason to send her over to the ludus,” Titus explained, drying his hands and packing up his supplies.

Gallus’ jaw tightened angrily at the mention of Aurelia’s name, but he ignored the feeling of disgust that rose inside him. “So how do you expect me to apologize to her then?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Titus shrugged, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, I’m off to see to the others. Have a good evening, barbarian,” he said without malice, closing the door to the cell behind him as he left.

“Sure,” Gallus muttered darkly, lying back on his bed and trying not to remember what the touch of those gentle hands had felt like.

It took a few days before he saw you again.

It wasn’t like he was going out of his way to find you or anything like that. No, he was just keeping an eye out. If he happened to see you, he would apologize, and if not, then he wouldn’t.

If he just so happened to walk by the fence that separated the ludus from the main villa more often than usual, what was that to anybody?

Almost a week after his abrupt dismissal of you from his cell, he had just about given up hope that he would ever lay eyes on you again when he suddenly saw you appear at the opening in the fence, Phoenix by your side.

He could only assume, judging by the large baskets you both carried, that you had come to collect laundry from the ludus. Well, and there was plenty of it. He saw Phoenix say something to you, but from this distance, he couldn’t judge what it was. All he knew was that she suddenly left your side, retreating back through the fence towards the villa.

This was it. Probably the only opportunity he’d have to apologize. He’d never hear the end of it from Titus if he didn’t.

Sighing, he stepped into the hot midafternoon sun and began crossing the pathway until he was just a few feet away from you.

You had seen him coming. He’d seen the way your eyes had caught on his figure as he approached—it was rather hard for someone of his size to be stealthy—and he didn’t fail to notice the way your shoulders stiffened slightly.

He frightened you.

Normally, he didn’t mind. He often relished the fact that he was able to strike fear into people’s hearts. But this time, the realization rankled.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he muttered without preamble, his voice sounding gruff to his own ears.

When was the last time he had apologized for anything?

Your eyes widened as you stared up at him, but you didn’t say anything in response.

“I was—rude to you the other day,” he went on awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot as he stood before you. “It wasn’t your fault that—well, I just mean—I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m sorry.”

The quiet between the two of you stretched until it became almost unbearable. He was about to turn on his heel and walk away when you suddenly stepped forward, staring at a spot on his arm.

“You’re bleeding,” you said softly, pointing at one of the bandages on his arm, through which dark red blood was starting to seep.

“What?” he asked in confusion, blinking down at where you were pointing. “Oh, that. Yeah. Stubborn thing just doesn’t want to heal. It keeps opening,” he said, shrugging it off.

“I can help,” you told him, stepping closer and gingerly touching his arm on either side of the wound.

He stiffened and you flinched.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured as you let him go, your head lowering just as it had when he’d demanded to know who you were. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s alright,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I’ve heard you’re a very good healer.”

“I don’t know about that, but I know how to patch up wounds,” you replied, chancing a glance upwards.

He suddenly found himself wanting to know where you had acquired that skill—and why it had been necessary.

“My name is Gallus,” he found himself saying, not quite sure why.

Your lips started to curve into just a hint of a smile as you opened your mouth to reply. “My name is—”

“Sabina!”

Phoenix’s voice suddenly rang out as she came hurrying back through the fence and onto the grounds of the ludus. She came to a sudden halt when she saw him standing beside you.

“Is this barbarian bothering you?” Phoenix asked, the humor in her tone shining through.

“No, no, I was just going to—”

“No time. Aurelia is demanding your presence in the kitchen,” Phoenix sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’ll handle the laundry over here. You go.”

“Oh, but Gallus’ arm,” you countered, indicating the bloody bandage wrapped about his forearm.

“I’ll be fine,” he hastened to reassure you, though he felt his blood growing hot at the demand from Aurelia.

“I’ll check it for him,” Phoenix promised, pushing you along. “Now go. I don’t want you getting in trouble,” she said firmly.

Your eyes drifted over Phoenix’s shoulder and landed on him once more.

He hadn’t been mistaken. Yours really was the most innocent face he had ever seen.

“Goodbye, Gallus,” you said softly, turning and disappearing back inside the massive walls of the villa.

He glanced down at his arm, where he could still feel your touch.

“Goodbye, Sabina,” he whispered in response.

Your head felt a bit fuzzy and unfocused as you tripped your way to the kitchen, rushing to get there so that Domina would not be displeased.

But at the moment, your domina was the least of your concerns.

For the past week, you had been doing your best to avoid the ludus at all costs, never wanting to step foot on those grounds again.

Now you were wondering how you could get back.

[tfwhynoy]

Megatron finding out his crush (alien if possible if not human) ((if alone same size ish if you don’t mind? No biggie with that though)) was a gladiator? And maybe said crush showing some scars (anywhere) and then some fluff, confession then make out? If you don’t mind, of course!

So I forgot about the whole confession and make out part but fuck do I love the creature and would love to make a continuation of this. I’ll probably even make a drawing because there was so much description of them I left out. Just know if possible I’m going to have one of these creatures be the reader when applicable because I love it that much. I really hope y’all enjoy

You were a peculiar creature, to say the least.  Few organics were as large as your species, let alone ones that also lived as long. Your kind had originally been made to fight, often sent to fight in wars on distant planets. A free one is a rare sight and one you are proud of being.

You had always jumped from place to place, planet to planet. Not many were fond of you. Three sets of large arms and sharp claws as hard as steel weren’t a friendly sight. Your more ‘uncivilized’ proportions didn’t help, many saw your ability to run on four legs like an animal as yet another point to be hostile towards you.

It’s when you finally reached into the places where larger inorganics and the rarer sized organics were commonplace that things truly began to look up. You still didn’t quite fit in perfectly, but you could get work and found your many sets of arms a great use in busy places like bars where you could serve several people at the same time.

After a while, you had heard about a large underground fighting ring. It paid more money than you had anything ever seen in your entire life. Per match. 

You cautiously joined in and found great success. You were an oddity that for the first time, was celebrated. The more brutally you fought, the more you let your instincts take control, the more you shredded your opponent to pieces, the more you got paid. Even in the harder fights that you got injured in you were quick to recover, you always got the best medicine with your newfound riches after all.

Then rings began to get shut down, your fame and animalistic slaughter of opponents was enough to draw attention from the planets legal enforcers. Things began to fall apart again, and you needed to run away.

You spent a large portion of your money to get something to hide who and what you were, an armor that made you look mechanical. Under enough scrutiny, it wasn’t hard to figure out you were still organic. Still, the complete change in looks mixed with the change in deminer was enough to confuse those searching for you as if you were a runaway animal on the loose.

Somehow in all your drifting, you found yourself on the Lost Light, surrounded by cybertronians. Most of them were shorter than you but just a few were taller. Everyone knew you weren’t a cybertronian but everyone but those you were close to assumed you were inorganic. That was most easily seen by those who felt comfortable shit-talking them around you, implying them all to be weak and fragile, assuming they all were like the small squishy humans Swerve was so fond of. As much as you wanted to prove them wrong, to show your true face and rip those people to shreds, you couldn’t. You had spent so long learning to stop letting your instincts control you anymore and you weren’t about to throw all that away.

During your time on the lost light, you had grown closest to Megatron. His similar size and serious demeanor drew you to him. After all, he was one of the few bots who didn’t go off the wall once a week. He was rather standoffish at first but with enough patience, you two happily discussing poetry and past events together. He knew you were organic. Considering the large amount you had to eat you often spent your free time with him talking over a meal, something you couldn’t do with your helmet on. 

It was over such a meal that he asked about the lighter markings on the parts of your neck that were visible.

“Markings?” you touched around your neck for a moment before realizing his mistake, “You mean my scars?”

His brows furrowed, “Scars?”

You smiled, your several rows of sharp teach showing through your thin lips, “When organics get hurt if the wound is deep enough the flesh that heals will often be colored differently. I was a… I think the closest word in your language would be a gladiator? I fought in underground rings for entertainment. Many would try to rip out my throat, not realizing I have a thicker shell-like structure to protect my airways beneath the skin and muscle.”

Something flashed across his face that you couldn’t recognize. “You were a gladiator?”

“Yes. Did I bring up something for you?” 

He gave a small nod, “Shortly before I started the war I was a gladiator. I used it as a starting point, turning the whole world into a ring.”

You nod and take another bit of haunch that makes your meal. Serrated teeth quickly tearing the flesh off as you shake your head back and forth.

You remember the first meal you shared with Megatron. His glass of energon so clean and unthreatening, meanwhile you were left to tear raw flesh from a larger creature’s bones. Megatron had found your display deeply unsettling. Each time you threw back your head to swallow the torn piece whole he tensed. You had offered to not eat in front of him anymore but he said it was his problem. Megatron wouldn’t force a friend to eat in isolation just because he was uncomfortable.

After you swallowed your current bite you looked back to see Megatron completely unfazed, he no longer cared how or what you ate anymore.

“I’m guessing you don’t have the same remnants left on yourself that I do?”

“Scars? No, such scratches tend to be mended after larger injuries,”

“Would you like to see more of mine?”

Megatron blinked in surprise, “Wouldn’t that require you to remove your armor?”

You chuckled and blinked slowly back at him, “You are my friend. I don’t feel the need to hide behind the metal. If you feel comfortable I would gladly show you my scars. I’m quite proud of them, to me they show the many trials I have overcome to become who I am.”

He nodded and you stood from your seat. Had you fewer arms it would take intense instruction and several people to take it off. You knew were all the switches and buttons were and which order to make the metal release. The locks clicked and released, the whole armor splitting down the back to allow you to step out of it. Without you, it folded compactly into a large but unassuming briefcase. The only hint that it was abnormal being its insane weight.

You stretched, you often forgot just how much the armor limited your range of motion.

You looked back at Megatron, expecting him to find you disgusting. He always took time to adjust to anything new about yourself he saw. 

But even as you stood on your two jointed legs and hunched posture he didn’t look at your with anything but curiosity.

You sat back on your chair, stretching out and doing your best to subtly show off your many scars and abnormal joints. “Do you enjoy the view?” You joked.

You could hear his fans kick in as a small smile shone across his face. Even if it was subtle you always loved how cute he was when he got flustered. 

Your smile couldn’t be any wider as you took the last few bites of your meal. A comfortable new conversation about your revealed body settling around you two.

[edgymegatronus]

The Pits of Kaon

The lights of the arena where always blinding. Searing white light that chiseled its way into your optic nerves, washing away any other surrounding colours so much that one may think they’re joining with the Allspark once they step out onto the ashy plain. This is purposeful, of course, for the arena was a stage for the barbaric, where the onlookers can see it’s actors, but the actors cannot gaze back at them. Once you have shuttered your optics several times and they begin to adjust, only spots of bright light decorating your vision for a short while, the arena comes heaving into view, stagnant and intimidating. Massive, beyond comprehension, the blackened jewel of Kaon. You’d have to squint to see the opposite end of the Energon-crusted pit. The steep, cold grey sides rocketed up towards the skies, the heavens where the audience sat to eagerly absorb the slaughter. Every brandish of a sword, every amputation of a limb, every scream or victory holler, every spark taken was feasted upon by those hunger bound optics. In the lower areas of the arena, closer to the action, there were boxes reserved for the higher caste aristocracy from great cities like Iacon and Vos. Above them, with a more strained view, sat the rest of the Cybertronain populous. It was never correctly calculated how many the arena could house- it depended on how tightly the lower class worker mechs packed themselves together to watch the entertainment. There was always shoving and drunkenness, fights began over the limited space and smaller mechs often simply got crushed under pede if they didn’t move fast enough. Very few actually from Kaon ever got to sit in the golden boxes, where quality high-grade Energon flowed like ground oil as its famed patrons gawked down into the pit. The atmosphere was always rancheros, the first death spelled out the kick-off for the day's events to begin. In the mornings there were petty fights. Weak slaves pitted against each other, unarmed mechs left to the mercy of some of the most vicious beasts Cybertron had to offer. This got the crowd vying to see more Energon spilled on the ashy floors of the pit. As the hilarity reached its crescendo into the afternoon, we were brought out.

Titled ‘Gladiators’, we were prime time entertainment. Romanticised as strong mechs each with some characterisation the media invalidated us with to entice the onlookers into made up rivalries between us, adding passion to the murder. Some mechs actually sank into this, and took signature moves and mottos played into their characters, worked to gain support from those oppressing them. Usually, this was the quickest way to die. The arena owners would only allow a Gladiator in the limelight for so many matches and killed them before they became too boring, and to make the audience more invested as each match progressed. They died deluded, for we were just slaves with swords. Brought from all over Cybertronain, but most commonly hailing from places like Kaon, Tarn, and Praxus. Sold off from our previous services because we were no longer needed, a better model had been introduced, rule-breaking, being damaged, or because our masters had taken a general disliking. Being sold to the arena was most times a death sentence, an execution in front of the masses. Gladiators were ones who had won their petty matches by some flailing chance of Primus, and in turn proven their metal, and therefore their worth as a mascot. We were not Gladiators.

Our namesake competed by choice, for fame or honour or glory. For a fractured misconception of what they believed to be justice or righteousness. We were slaves, forced to kill our peers, and stare them in the optics as we did, giving a good performance. Refusal meant immediate death, and showmanship was integral. Most of us only lasted a few months before losing a match and being offlined, the longest-reigning mech making it just over a year before the Arena Owners decided he had nothing left to give, no new tricks, and threw him in the pit unarmed with four Krystar Iron-Bears. Some audience members genuinely cried when he passed. But by the next week, he was replaced by a new favourite Gladiator to root for.

I was on my fifth month. My last match had been a near miss. Bad damages all over my frame, lost an arm and my sword-wielding servo was crushed. Inches over and my spark chamber would’ve known the cold of a blunted blade. My opponent was of a bigger build than me, but still new, he had chosen the name ‘Ignode’ for himself after the Arena Owners had given him a flashy new red paint job, replacing his basic menial grey. For some appalling reason, he’d made the mistake of choosing two weapons, rather than one and a shield. An underestimation, I suppose. The new Gladiators, nicknamed ‘Pickrings’ by the rest of us, often got too cocky and suffered the consequences. The day I was declared fit for fighting it was a ‘Winner stays on Tournament’ these often drew larger crowds due to the anticipation and tension aspect that was attached to them. Clearly my medical bills were going to be well paid for by this grotesque procession. The objective to continually kill, over and over, to vanquish spark after spark until eventually, you grew so weak from each consecutive battle that you could no longer hold your own – and you were killed, your deathbringer taking up the mantel and the cycle continued deep into the night while the crowds drank and laughed and indulged.

The bellowing winds that spun like a lifeless tornado around the arena whipped uncomfortably over the exposed cables on the back of my neck. The piece of armour plating that usually protected it had been lost last round and was therefore subject to the treatment of the blowing grit and ash that made a point of invading every crack and gap in plating. Everything felt too heavy, most notably my spark. I had just completed round fifteen, downed fifteen opponents, and somewhere I doubted if Primus would accept me into his loving cradle. My frame was ex-venting in long, drawn out drags. An attempt to cool my shot systems. Every inch of plating was dented or scarred, with slices and holes, faintly missing main Energon lines or mobility joints. I smiled. Before entering the arena, each slave got to choose two tools to utilise during the match. Almost classically, I wielded a long sword with some form of age old forgotten crest on the hilt. I had nicknamed it ‘The Pick’ and it occupied my right servo. To my left brandished a thick oval-shaped silver shield, decorated dashingly with chipped paint and emblems. These things were my trademark, my protection, my symbol, and my saviours.

The spotlight swung intricately around the arena floor once more towards the pit entrance. The thick metal gates opening with the same slow dramatism to reveal my newest combatant. The light fell on him, illuminating his thickset grey frame for the crowds to gawk at, tantalising their optics with the slick view. He smelt like blood and burnt circuitry. They were enraptured, seeing that I was weakening and that this new rival seemed finely built to deliver onto me the final blow, one of those agile miner types. I sized him up immediately; hazarding a guess the Arena Owner’s hadn’t expected much to come from him, only bothering to add spiked red paint under his optics and the larger areas of his expansive grey plating. His optics were stifling, staring directly at me as I stood blatantly forward with my shoulders rolled back, awaiting. We couldn’t yet commence as the Announcer hadn’t yet called for us to do so. Most Gladiators took this brief interval to entertain the crowd, picking up the bodies of mechs they’d killed and throwing them, giving grand victorious gestures and shouts with their weapons, lapping the arena, cheering. I stood still and stared, unwilling to give them any more than the battle.

“Welcoming! Megatronus of Tarn! A heavy-hitting ground-build from the Mines of Messatine! During his petty match earlier this week, Megatronus won against two fellow contestants and a Decopodian in record time! Let’s see how he will fare against our reigning Knight! May Round Sixteen Commence!”

Of course- I had viewed that match from my cell screen. Looking at him now, his crimson optics dimmed. He seemed like a mech who had slaughtered millions, not just two. He made the first step forward, revealing to me his weapons. A small, lightweight shield and a ridged axe. A very decent choice for a mech of his stature. A bow or daggers would’ve been suicide, he was too stocky to be properly dexterous with them, and he was clearly aware. A mech overtly aware of his own capabilities was inherently more dangerous than one who overestimated, or even underestimated themselves. I resumed my ‘defensive stance’ as his larger frame drew closer, each step meticulous and powerful and calculated. He was so self-assured, confident in his ability to wield and kill on his first ever Gladiator match. His EM’s were almost suffocating. I struck the first blow, my long sword firmly embedding itself between his thick shoulder plating. The weapon felt so leaden in my tired arms, each movement causing a low static to run through my circuits as they protested in earnest. My frame was tired, and my processor malcontent. The grey mech swooped his axe low and he raised his smaller shield, directing it precisely so my sword repelled off of it, the force driving my abused frame backwards – into the sharpened blade of his axe.

The Arena began to swirl maliciously as I opened my optics, my HUD showing severe damages to my left leg, and to my back spoilers which had taken the brunt of the hurt as I hit the engulfing floor of the pit. Through the static shock that vibrated through my audial, the faint crazed shouts and cheering from the crowd, layered over the Announcer speaking in a hurriedly excited tone. They were joyful in the revelation of my oncoming demise.

He stared down at me blankly, lifting the axe while calculating the weakest points to strike in my neck or spark chamber. The lights of the arena shone brighter than ever, searing into my optics as they flickered and faded.

He took his victory unlike any other, simply lifting his arms and throwing away his weapons in retribution. They hit the floor of the pit with an almighty clatter, and the crowd cheered and chanted his name, making members of the elite recoil.

[things2mustdo]

On July 6th 1994, twenty-six year old Troy Kell, inmate and white supremacist gang member at Utah State Prison, killed Lonnie Blackmon, a black inmate, with 67 blows from a prison shank while prison guards videotaped the attack. The deed done, Troy wiped his hands clean of the blood and walked away, proudly yelling:

“Got some white power jumpin’ off around here!”

Later, in an interview with HBO for it’s documentary Gladiator Days : Anatomy Of A Prison Murder (2002), Troy explained his reasoning behind why he killed Blackmon.

TROY

“I went into the situation that I’m gonna hafta kill the guy – I’m not gonna…jus hurt ‘em, I’m not gonna stab him two times and say ‘yeah we’re even’, you know, cause the philosophy in prison is, you know, you stab me I kill you… I just stabbed the shit outta him, you know, until he didn’t move anymore.”

“I’ve seen guys hesitate…on not thinkin’ somethin’ was serious, and it was serious, and they get themselves stabbed up. Or they get themselves fucked off…they get themselves killed.”

A brutal view on life. Yet it’s not surprising to hear from an inmate who had been imprisoned for another murder since he was eighteen. Troy’s first murder was James Kelly [real name James Thiede], a twenty-one year old Canadian man in Troy’s hometown of Las Vegas. Troy, with the assistance of Sandra Shaw (fifteen at the time) and another friend, lured Kelly into the desert and ambushed him, where Troy shot Kelly six times in the face at point blank range.

Who was Troy? Where did he come from? What was the series of events that drove him to commit two murders, both of which placed him on death row?*

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xL_PlbqyLcI

One of the most startling aspects of Troy, from watching the documentary, is just how intelligent, almost proverbially All American he comes across as. Troy was not some trailer trash kid, doomed for eventual incarceration.

TROY

“I was raised in Las Vegas, Nevada, little middle class family. I’m the only child.”

“I think I was probably just an ordinary kid on the block, I wasn’t any different, or anything from anyone else that I noticed.”

“My father’s into horses, and kinda a redneck background, country boy kinda thing, and we had horses and stuff.”

“I was expected…to be successful, you know, my family, you know, they’re not losers.”

His neighbourhood was middle class, his school was middle class. Troy was thoroughly middle class. So why did he, at eighteen, kill James Kelly? For the answer to that, we have to turn to Sandra Shaw.

Sandra was three years younger then Troy. They met quite early, when they were children.

SANDY

“Troy’s been a part of our life, um, ever since I first came to Las Vegas. Um, since I was probably, like, six years old. We lived on one corner of the street and on the opposite street he lived at the other corner. And um, me and a couple of friends, two little girlfriends, were walking down the street and him and his little friends were sitting in front of their house on their bicycles and you know they were watching us googly eyed cause he’s three years older then me. So when we got all the way to the end of the street, towards the desert, you know, we turned around and said somethin’ real sassy and they chased us on their bikes and we ran and he jumped off his back and tackled me into the grass and you know it just became like a plaything. And since then he was like, ‘You’re gonna be my girlfriend’ and I was like, ‘No I don’t even like boys’.”

There was obviously some romantic tension going on between the two of them from a very young age. Though Troy and Sandy both refer to each other in a younger sister older brother dynamic, it’s clear that at least Troy felt a deep attraction to Sandy. Why shouldn’t he? After all, she was the quintessential girl next door whom eagerly spent time with him. Sandy was a cute little girl, and Troy was no slouch himself.

SANDY

“His father was really really strict, and um, I remember one time on his birthday, we were, he was turning thirteen and I believe I was ten and I rode my bike all the way to the mall and I bought him a Nike outfit and he had to sneak out in his back yard and climb up on the brick wall for me give him his gift, because he was on restriction – he was always on restriction – just, for absolutely nothing.”

That’s an almost classical scene of romance, and one wonders how many other secret rendezvous Troy and Sandy had over the years.

In many ways Sandy herself was the counterpart of Troy – the proverbial All American girl; pretty, a cheerleader, precocious and outgoing – though her family was struggling on the line between middle and lower class (Connie Shaw appears to be a single mother). By all counts, Sandy was destined for a typical middle class life herself. Perhaps even with Troy.

SANDY

“When I was thirteen years old I was spending the night at a friend’s house and her step father went into a jealous rage and shot and killed her mother and her mother’s two friends and then killed himself. It changed my life.”

That man was Alex Egyed, a budding computer entrepreneur who may have been a well recognized name today if he hadn’t gone on a rampage and left Sandy covered in blood, huddling in a bathtub with her friend. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only incident Sandy was going to have with extreme violence.

CONNIE

“Another episode happened to her; she’s walkin’ home from school, uh, sees this guy runnin’ up behind her, girl in front of her, sees the guy shoot…the girl, in the back of the head. She’s already gone through this. Now this is two. How many times – I mean, I’m forty-eight years old, I mean, I’ve never seen anyone, in my lifetime, get shot. She’s seen two.”

These episodes left Sandy a broken girl; a girl barely on the cusp of her womanhood.

SANDY

“I detached myself from my emotions, I didn’t have a sense of life or death, it’s all the same to me.”

Yet she was still a significant part of Troy’s life. And Troy really needed love in his life, since his own family had self destructed.

TROY

“My parents got divorced and I kinda bounced back and forth between them. It was kinda a struggle for me for awhile but, it’s nothin’ outta the ordinary… Any other kid goes through it.”

CONNIE

“His father must have been very tough on him, very abusive, I believe, with him. And his mother was never around. I know they were separated. But I don’t think his mother came around too much, I don’t know if it was because of the father…or what, you know, but uh, I guess he looked at me, more like a mother figure you know because he’s always sent me, even till this day, sends me a bouquet of mother’s day flowers.”

Troy and Sandy were both set adrift at a young age, both from broken homes, both experiencing severe forms of trauma – albeit Troy’s were less extreme. Because of his need for love, Troy grew ever closer to Sandy while Sandy threw herself into an abyss. Like many traumatized girls, Sandy began to slip down into degeneracy and self abuse. She began to hang around shady men and casinos while barely being a fully fledged teen, and at the age of fourteen she ran into James Kelly at the Circus Circus casino.

SANDY

“I met Cotton Kelly at Circus Circus eight months prior to this actual tragedy.”

“He ran some type of, um, adult entertainment business. He wanted me to pose nude for him.”

“He had started following me and calling my house constantly, harassing my family… And as a fifteen year old child, I made a very bad decision, a very immature request and I called upon Troy to beat the man up. To have him, leave me alone.”

A normal girl with a strong family could have resolved this situation with ease. A simple, hard talk by a good father with this James Kelly character would have spared everyone a lot of tragedy. Sandy, however, had drifted far away from being a normal girl and with nothing but a weak family at her disposal she allowed this situation to escalate and continue. Perhaps she even began to be sexual with Kelly, though she does not mention the full depth of their relationship.

In the end she turned to the one man she knew she could depend on.

TROY

“Me and a friend of mine from high school agreed to beat this guy up, because he was doin’ some things to some teenaged girls that we knew. She was a friend of mine, she was like a, a sister kind of, to me.”

“This guy, I felt, was takin’ advantage of a friend of mine, and she asked for my help… And…I…went, kinda overboard.”

Eight months. That’s how long Sandy allowed James Kelly to be a part of her life. How many nights did Sandy turn to Troy? How many nights did she cry on Troy’s shoulder, detailing the horrors that James Kelly inflicted on her – and which she allowed to be inflicted on her. How many times did Troy have to hear Connie, a powerless mother, express her grief and frustration over this older man taking advantage of her daughter? Troy loved both these women.

Troy decided to save them. He told Sandy to lure Kelly out to the desert. So one night, in 1986, Sandy did just that. She made Kelly stop the car, claiming that she needed to pee. She went out, came back, pretended to hurt her leg and when Kelly came out to help her Troy put six bullets in Kelly’s head.

TROY

“For a reason that I, uh, can’t really understand, I decided to bring a gun and shoot the man. And killed him.”

“I didn’t go to sleep that night.”

Troy Kell, eighteen, murdered a degenerate man. He did it because he loved the tragic but degenerate Sandy Shaw. Because they bragged about the murder, soon schoolmates were visiting Kelly’s body in the desert.

When asked if he thought about running Troy said; “Yeah, of course.” When asked why he didn’t, “I…I don’t know. I didn’t have anywhere to run too. I couldn’t just keep on runnin’ and runnin’.”

Troy didn’t run because everything he loved lived on the corner one street over from his house. There was nothing else in the world for him.

One of the children who visited the body in the desert told their parents, and soon the police had Troy, his accomplice and Sandy in custody. They would convict Troy.

Surprisingly, Sandy was also tried and convicted. These were the days just before peak feminism so women weren’t the infallible angels that they are treated as today but still, after hearing about her abuse and her tragic past, the jurors sent a fifteen year old girl to jail for over twenty years.

In order to survive in jail, Troy quickly joined up with the white supremacist gangs. Eventually this would lead to the second murderous ambush of his life. Troy and fellow gang member Eric Daniels attacked Lonnie Blackmon with Eric holding his legs and Troy stabbing Blackmon with a shank 67 times. For this second murder Troy himself is currently waiting to face death.

I reiterate once more; by all accounts Troy was a normal kid. There was nothing in his childhood that would have led anyone to believe that Troy one day would end up a murderer of two men while leading a white supremacist gang in prison. If he just had to weather a broken home, as far too many middle class children nowadays do, he may have had a chance to move on and become a man of worth; other men have suffered worse and managed to raise good families and live a good life. Unfortunately Troy had the tragic fate of loving a girl who also came from a broken home, and like most women from such situations Sandy did not have the inner strength struggle for normalcy. She gave herself to degenerates and came to Troy whenever she needed to use his love.

This is a theme all too familiar with young men today. Young men are struggling to find peace in their lives while having to deal with their broken female counterparts. Most men can’t help loving who they love, and far too many men pay too high a price for this once noble emotion. The tragedies surrounding Troy Kell and Sandy Shaw provide an extreme example of this – and in the case of Sandy her despair motivated self destruction is understandable – but the dynamic of good men who need love and the rotten women who use it is one of the great (and unnecessary) social plagues of the modern age. Perhaps it always has been, going back through every society since time immemorial.

It seems nowadays that there is an epidemic of men being destroyed because of single parent upbringings or broken women. Yet Troy was destroyed in 1986. Who knows how many potentially decent men in the past have been destroyed because of similar situations. Who knows how many more in the future we’ll have?

We know the symptoms – it’s time to cure the disease, or we can expect nothing but more and more unnecessary tragedies like Troy Kell’s to occur in the future. Do we really want to grow old and live in a society full of young men like that?

I end with a comment from the video’s youtube page,

Darrylizer1

“Troy Kell is one the one hand a despicable human being, a stone cold killer, a sociopath or near one and a racist. But he’s in some ways he’s likeable, even admirable: he’s articulate, intelligent and is absolutely honest with himself and for the most part unblinded by bullshit. I’m not saying that he should or shouldn’t be put to death. His circumstance is just a very sad waste of human potential.”

*As of this article’s publication, Troy is still awaiting his death sentence. He requested to be shot by a firing squad.

Read More: Sunday In The Park

Although it was written decades ago, Bel Kaufman’s Sunday in the Park remains just as relevant today, if not more so, to what it means to be a man. Her story centers on a family enjoying a Sunday afternoon at the park and is told predominantly from the wife’s perspective. Relaxing on a bench, the wife watched happily as her son Larry played in the sand box before her. Sitting next to her, while reading the ‘Times Magazine section,” was her husband Morton.

Morton. A man as nerdy as his name sounded. Who was, “So city­pale, cooped up all week inside the gray factorylike university.”

As Larry played on, she noticed another boy digging in the sand too. This boy was fatter, more aggressive than Larry. And his father, a grizzly looking man, sat on the opposite side and  “seemed to be taking up the whole bench as he held the Sunday comics close to his face.”

Suddenly the fat boy threw sand at Larry, making him upset. After hesitating a moment, the wife intervened;

‘Don’t do that, little boy,’ she said sharply, leaning forward on the bench. ‘You mustn’t throw sand!’ The man on the bench moved his mouth as if to spit again, but instead let her speak. He did not look at her, but at the boy only. ‘You go right ahead, Joe,’ he said loudly. ‘Throw all you want. This here is a public sandbox.’

She felt a sudden weakness in her knees as she glanced at Morton.

Morton was listening too. But he hid under his magazine. Seeming to hope the matter would solve it self.

It didn’t.

He put his Times down carefully on his lap and turned his fine, lean face toward the man, smiling the shy, apologetic smile he might have offered a student in pointing out an error in his thinking. When he spoke to the man, it was with his usual reasonableness. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said pleasantly, ‘but just because this is a public place….’

The other man cut him off, and an argument ensued until the large man said “Aw, shut up!” They both rose. Morton reluctantly. The wife nervously imagined the coming violence, about what she should do, how she should react.

Until…

Morton adjusted his glasses. He was very pale. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said unevenly. ‘I must ask you….’

‘Oh, yeah?’ said the man. He stood with his legs spread apart, rocking a little, looking at Morton with utter scorn. ‘You and who else?’

For a moment the two men looked at each other nakedly.

Then Morton backed down.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He walked awkwardly, almost limping with self-consciousness to pick up his son Larry and left with his wife by his side.

At first she was relieved. There was no violence. No one was hurt. But as they left the park, she began to feel something else, something…

Inescapable. She sensed that it was more than just an unpleasant incident, more than defeat of reason by force. She felt dimly it had something to do with her and Morton, something acutely personal, familiar, and important.

While walking to their car, Morton rambled on and tried to rationalize his defeat. But the more he did, the more distant she became.

Getting pulled further away from the sandbox, Larry’s cries grew worse. But once he started dragging his feet, Morton and his wife finally had enough.

‘If you can’t discipline this child, I will,’ Morton snapped, making a move toward the boy.

But her voice stopped him. She was shocked to hear it, thin and cold and penetrating with contempt. ‘Indeed?’ she heard herself say. ‘You and who else?’

—

At first glance Bel Kaufman’s story seems simple: There’s a stronger male, Morton backs down, he’s a wimp, needs bigger balls, women hate beta males, etc…

We know that already. But there’s another point to her story that’s hidden below the surface. Because Kaufman’s story isn’t just about lacking courage, it’s about what causes that cowardice; namely, apathy.

As a man, your first reaction to the story might be that she’s saying being a big brute pays off more than being a weakling. The big guy might have shown some dominating, alpha characteristics, but to think that way is to miss Kaufman’s point entirely.

The wife didn’t care that Morton was a nerd; that’s probably why she married him. Perhaps she was one too. But it was Morton’s lack of anger, his lack of pride in himself that bothered her. That he never developed the animal-like rage proving that he was the family’s protector in the most critical of moments.

…more than defeat of reason by force. She felt dimly it had something to do with her and Morton, something acutely personal, familiar, and important.

Morton’s cowardice proved to her what she knew deep down all along, that he didn’t love his family enough the way she did.

It is critical to realize that Kaufman never gave the wife a name in the story but did for the husband. By doing this she was trying to show that the wife had given her up identity to the family, and expected Morton do the same by being a man and fulfilling his end of the bargain.

That courage isn’t so much about standing up for yourself as it is about standing up for others. But he didn’t and that was the source of her resentment. So repeating the “You and who else” remark was a way of saying, “How are you going to raise your son to be a man if you’re not even one yourself?”

The great thing about Bel Kaufman is that she came from a time where women encouraged men to be what they are and not what they should be.

[solastia]

Dear Authornim | 2

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader

Word Count: 1,862

Summary: You’re a writer of BTS fanfiction. rockstarjin is your favorite reader that you’ve actually come to be friends with…and maybe had a bit of a crush on if you were honest. You’re up for quite the surprise.

Warnings: Not really much this chapter. Single instance of the word whore, but no one was calling someone that. It was just a comment. Semi-vague sort of sexting (you’ll see). 

Notes: I might make a separate chapter after this is done - like a bonus type thing - featuring some comments from rockstarjin, if you guys are interested. I wasn’t sure if everyone would want to see them or if they’d bore you, so I kinda glossed over that. Let me know if that’s something you’d want! Commissioned by @kimseokmomjins

Being a writer - even if it’s simply for fanfiction - you take comments and reviews very seriously. A good comment or review can lift your spirits and leave you smiling for a whole day. A negative comment often leaves you questioning everything and going over your chapters with a fine-tooth comb. The rare unicorns were the readers that took the time to leave long and detailed comments, stating exactly what they liked and disliked about the latest chapter. Many of these were filled with valuable suggestions and helped you decide the path that your stories would take. 

One such unicorn was named rockstarjin, a reader that had been following your work for nearly a year now. His first comment had practically been drabble-sized, and had covered everything from his enjoyment over how realistically you characterized Kim Seokjin to how he was certain he would never use the “W” word (he literally typed out “W” word instead of whore, something you still teased him over to this day). 

That first review of his was only one of many. He took the time to give detailed reviews on every single chapter you posted until you discovered that in your head you were practically writing for him. It had even gotten to the point where several of your stories were ideas that the two of you had chatted about on tumblr for months, working through every detail. He still seemed a little iffy on the smut, but he’d gotten you to consider the idea of writing Seokjin as “Less aggressive” in the bedroom. 

Your friendship had grown until you were now friends on practically every social media app - nevermind that his profiles were always suspiciously void of personal information. The more that you talked to “Rocky” (you started calling him that months ago since he didn’t seem excited about telling anyone his name, though he knew yours), the more you looked forward to interacting with him. 

You couldn’t even explain really why you were getting so attached to some blank face behind the screen. You didn’t even know all that much about the real him, just small observations from chats. Like, you knew that he seemed similar to Seokjin in a lot of ways, which is probably why he claimed him as a bias. 

Rocky was very fond of puns and dad jokes, often sending you one first thing in the morning on KKT instead of a hello or good morning like a normal person. This morning it was, “Why did the tomato turn red? Because it saw the salad dressing.” You were ashamed that they always made you laugh at least a little bit, but it made you happy that one of the first things he thought to do in the morning was send you something. 

He was also fond of talking to you about food and recipes, acting affronted whenever you mentioned not knowing what something was. He would literally bully you into going to the grocery store and buying the ingredients he’d list out, demanding pictures of the final product like he was Gordon Ramsey. You had to admit he had good taste in food, even if you didn’t think your cooking skills were quite on par with his. It sometimes made you wonder if he was a chef, but the one time you’d brought it up he’d claimed to be too damn tired to cook and was living vicariously through you. Of course, that led to you asking what he did that got him so tired and he gave you another vague answer, stating he was in entertainment. Whatever the hell that meant. 

It bothered you sometimes that even after all this time he was disinclined to tell you anything, but you couldn’t help it as your feelings slowly evolved from those of friendship to...well, something more. You were a little hesitant to use the L word, considering you only knew what he wanted you to know, but you definitely had a crush at least. Not surprising considering he seemed to be everything you were looking for. He was considerate and compassionate, funny, creative, and so many other things. However, the fact that he was so very loud and proud about his love for Seokjin made you avoid looking at your feelings too closely. Because while you were over here pining for him, the only person that praised Seokjin more than Rocky was Kim Seokjin himself. And that could mean any number of things. 

Even when he helped you with smut ideas he got you excited. He had slowly gotten you to lean away from always writing Seokjin as some powerful dom - something your other readers had begun to notice and comment on - and now most of your scenes had him as being the more submissive one. He seemed to like it best when the main character was more of a soft dom, willing to take charge and take care of Seokjin. Rocky claimed that a man like Seokjin who was always working hard and worrying about one thing or another would relish the idea of being taken care of. You had to admit it made sense. 

You sigh and glance at your phone again, noting the lack of notifications. Your morning pun was the last you’d heard from Rocky today, something that had been happening for a few days now. Considering BTS was on tour right now, you’d expected a lot more messages about how he thought Seokjin was especially handsome today. Instead, for almost a week it had been nothing but your morning jokes and once he sent you a picture of his fancy looking dinner complaining about the portion size. You were beginning to really miss him, but you figured he must be busy. 

You wanted to scream with him today, considering BTS was finally going to be in your city in a couple days. You’d bought the tickets months ago, and Rocky had even convinced you to get pit tickets, something you never do because it’s basically a gladiator stadium up there. You were currently waiting for one of the boys to show up on vlive since the last concert before they traveled to your city had just finished a bit ago. It had been a fantastic show and Seokjin had looked as beautiful as always. You hoped he would be the one to go live, but that was rare unless he was with another member. 

Suddenly, your phone beeps and shows a message on KKT. 

Rocky: Kill me

You smile widely, excited flutters starting in your belly. It was ridiculous how pleased you got just to hear from him. 

You: Is there an option B? 

Rocky: We could run away and start a new life on a deserted island. Our descendants will become known as the most beautiful people on the planet. 

You blush and force yourself to cough to cover up the giggle that threatened to escape. 

You: Is that so? 

Rocky: Naturally. They all take after me, of course. 

You: Of course. 

You: What brought this on? 

Rocky: I’m so damn tired. My body hurts and I just want to sleep for a week. 

You: Oh no! Do you have time to soak in the bath? Epsom salt works wonders.

Rocky: I’ll be able to soak later. Right now I’m just forcing myself to stay awake long enough to eat. I feel like a zombie. 

Rocky: Hey, why did the zombie cross the road?

You: Why? 

Rocky: TO EAT THE CHICKEN 🤣

You: 🤭 

You: Really though, take care of yourself. I don’t want you getting sick on me. 

Rocky: How would you take care of me?

You gasped, peering hard at the phone. This was new. Of course, you could be reading this the wrong way, and he’s simply asking to ask. 

You: Depends. Are you asking for tips or in the white boy “What would you do if I was there with you” way?

Rocky: Let’s try it this way. Say I’m Kim Seokjin. I’m tired and hurting after another long night of performing. You’re waiting for me in my hotel room. How would you take care of Jin?

You: Omigosh, are you voluntarily helping with a smut scene? 

Rocky: Sure 

You: Ok, let's see. This scene can’t get too crazy if he’s tired like that. I think mostly I would focus on his comfort. 

So, he’d show up and I’d already have a bath waiting and food on the way. Maybe some aromatherapy candles are lit and some quiet instrumentals in the background. I’d let him soak until the food got there, hang out in the bathroom with him and let him vent to me if he wanted. 

After his meal, I would put a towel on the bed and have him lay on top so I could rub him down with massage oil. Naked, of course ;) 

I’m sure he gets it from professionals, but I think he’d appreciate it right after a concert and bath. 

Then, it would just depend on what kind of story it was. I could either rub him down like that until he falls asleep, or it could go the smut way. There are lots of options for that too depending on the story. I could give him a handjob while I talk sweetly to him, I could ride him and tease him, maybe peg him if he’s into that. Anything that would keep him soft and pliant, because the goal is to get him comfortable and happy. To show him he can just let go with me, let me be in charge of his pleasure. Show him he’s loved and cherished.  

Rocky: Fuck

You: Too much? 🙊 

Rocky: No

The phone was silent for a whole two minutes. Surely he’d heard worse from you, so you didn’t think you’d freaked him out or something. When another message came in you breathed a sigh of relief. 

Rocky: So, I’m gonna be in your city for the concert

You: No shit?! I can suggest so many great places for you to eat!!!

You: Or if you wanted, we could meet up? No pressure and I totally won’t be offended if you don’t want to. Stranger danger and all that. 

Rocky: You know what

Rocky: Let’s meet