#despite being from the central valley.

[shreddedparchment]

The Garden Gate

Pairing: Medieval!Loki x Reader Word Count: 6,514

Warnings: smut, mentions of infidelity, language, bodily fluids, jealousy, Loki in a poofy shirt

A/N: Well, I haven't done this in a while. I had to go look for an old post to see how I used to do these openings. LUL Anywho, y'all can thank @darkficsyouneveraskedfor for this one. She sent me a picture and then I asked her for three characters and three scenarios and this one is the one that spoke to me the most. I did put my own spin on it but that's just me. Anywho, I'm not sure how many of my old readers will read this but I hope y'all like it. Anything y'all have to say about it is also greatly appreciated. xoxo

Please DO NOT repost my stories on any other sites or blogs!!

REBLOGS are always welcome!

Your family’s fall from grace had been nothing short of spectacular.

It had started first with the crumbling of respect from the men and heads of other houses. The gentry had taken offense to the shame of your father and eldest brother’s retreat at the battle for Carmine Valley, so named for the blush of trees that peppered the expanse of lush green and the strange but beautiful red waters of the central lake.

Had Lord Odinson’s own knights not been flanking from the western ridges, the valley would have fallen into the hands of the northern enemy forces. A great loss seeing as the valley was the largest producer of grain and vegetables in the kingdom.

The fallout had been catastrophic. Both your father and brother had been sent to the wild woods to the southernmost parts of the kingdom to work off their shame and languish in the dangerous labor camps where men were said to be torn into shreds by beasts as large as a carriage.

Even though you loved them very much, you couldn’t help the anger within your veins at their betrayal to not only the kingdom, but to your very family. The abandonment that their retreat meant. They knew what doing so would do to you, your mother, and younger brother.

If it were not for the King’s good nature, you’d have no doubt found yourself working in some brothel alongside your mother leaving your younger brother, at the tender age of seven, exposed to the worst parts of society.

The seediest brothels were not above selling children, you knew. No matter that the King had signed a death warrant for anyone known to sell or buy said company. It was the worst of sins and it breaks your heart to know that one man’s generosity saved all three of you from that life when he could have very well condemned it.

Knowing this–knowing how bad it could have been–doesn’t change the fact that your life now is still torture. Torture of a different kind, but torture all the same.

The King’s kindness came in the form of service. While your family was stripped of all titles and wealth, you’d also lost your beloved.

That is the true source of agony in your chest as you struggle with the bucket of waste water you’re holding, trying desperately not to slosh it around too hard. The last thing you want to do is to go to bed smelling of someone else’s bodily fluids.

The thick wool of your simple navy dress and the apron you keep tied over it are both great for absorbing disgusting materials. Already in need of a wash, the white ruffle along the neckline is frayed and yellowing despite the gown being only a few months old.

Edging along the courtyard wall, you try not to rush. The exhaustion in your body begs for sleep. Even months later the labor of working in the castle as a servant to former peers has not grown easier.

Wincing as the rough rope of the bucket burns the center of your palms, you almost sigh but instead freeze at the sight before you.

You’d know his silhouette anywhere.

The light is low here, a small lamp just beyond the open garden gate illuminates them from behind and hides their expressions but you don’t need to see to understand.

Her lips are parted, head pressed back against the door, hand braced against the warm brown and ornately carved wood. Her legs are parted a little too wide, a subtle motion of his left arm and the bunch of fabric around his forearm tell you enough of what you’ve stumbled upon.

You’re embarrassed and try to fade back into the darkness of the small courtyard behind you.

His shoulder length hair, black as a raven’s feather, is disheveled. You notice her hand gripping it tightly as his arm pumps.

A wispy, sultry moan slips through her parted lips and you stumble, gasping your own bit of surprise as you try not to spill the bucket’s contents.

A small splash, luckily away from you but the shuffle of feet and the rustle of fabric tells you that you’ve been noticed.

You look up, Lord Loki stands facing you, hands fisted as she hides behind him quickly adjusting her skirts.

“Oh, it’s you,” Lord Loki says, disdain in his voice.

Everyone here hates you. You already know this. Your father’s sins are your own. Nothing can change that.

“Finally where you belong,” the girl says and you recognize the voice with a small shock of pain in your chest. “You smell like piss.”

Lord Loki chuckles and you shrink just a little. More embarrassed by your own situation than catching them in the act. In fact, you’re disgusted by both of them, not only because of their audacity to do this at all, but because the woman whose fingers Lord Loki were just in is also your once beloved’s fiance.

Your former confidant. Lady Amora Antress. You’d once considered her your closest friend. Now here she stands, betrothed to one brother while fucking the other. The venom she spits at you is also unappreciated and painful to hear.

How long had she hated you before your downfall? How long had she waited before pursuing Thor?

“Aren’t you going to reply to her ladyship, servant?” Lord Loki asks, gleeful mirth in his voice as he takes a step towards you.

You bow your head even more, holding the bucket in your hands as still as you can while your hands struggle with the burn of the rope.

Amora scoff, “Pathetic. Leave her be, Loki. She’s where she deserves to be. She’s not worth the breath in our lungs.”

You don’t mean to cry. The utter betrayal of your once friend hurts more even than the loss of your once future husband.

“Are you crying?” Amora laughs, moving around Lord Loki, her shoes clicking against the brick of the courtyard. She stops in front of you, arms crossed over her ample bosom, still exposed more than it should be from what she and Lord Loki were just about to do. “You’re pathetic. The least you could do is be invisible while you serve.”

You say nothing, fist tightening around the rope. Pain shifts into rage at the cruelty in her words.

The wind blows and you can smell the scent of their near copulation. Luckily, it’s driven away by the vines of jasmine that creep along the tops of the brick wall.

She doesn’t deserve Thor. But you know that he never deserved you either. The rate at which he moved on…

Almost as if she’s sensing your thoughts, she takes a step closer and drops her voice to a whisper. You know Lord Loki will still be able to hear.

“Poor little flower, so careless and trusting.” She smiles. “You know it was so easy to seduce Thor. Even before your disgrace of a father betrayed his kingdom, Thor came to my bed often. Such a chaste little thing you were. You had no idea that every night after he whispered sweet promises in your ear of a happy future, he was burying his cock deep in my cunt, whispering how glorious I felt around him. Promising that even after you married, he would slip away and fuck me because no cunt could be as good as mine.”

Whore. Your heart shattered. Finally your eyes met hers.

She took a slight step back at whatever she saw in them. The hatred coursing through you set your teeth on edge. You wanted so much to rip her hair from its roots. If you could gouge her eyes out with your fingers without the consequence of a beheading, you would.

Perhaps she could see that promise of death in your eyes.

She scoffed, a reaction to whatever fear she felt in that moment.

“Now, now, ladies.” Lord Loki chastised, “Let’s keep things civil.”

“Civility? From a servant?” Amora looked at him then back at you, her hateful smirk twisting her pretty face into an ugly mask.

No…this is her true face. Her long blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes might make her superficially beautiful, but you can see the true ugliness in her now.

“Trash knows no civility.” She spits.

Done with this encounter you make to move around her to finish your duties. You need rest. Body and now soul exhausted, the sanctuary of your quarters beckons like a beacon.

She steps in your way, smiling cruelly as she does.

You make to move around her again. She blocks you once more.

Body shaking with rage, you don’t bother stopping this time as she steps in front of you. Instead you let yourself fall against her, your bucket sloshing loudly as you angle the wide opening towards her.

The smell of piss and shit slices through the scent of sex and jasmine.

Amora screams, stepping back quickly until she bumps into Lord Loki who quickly pushes her away from himself, a wrinkle of disgust on his handsome face.

The green damask pattern of her silk gown grows slowly darker as the piss soaks into the fabric. A dark brown stain sets in towards the bottom.

“You probably should have moved out of my way, my lady.” The casual tone of your voice, the respect you can now fake like a professional grifter sounds so real that your taunt sounds like an apology.

“You bitch!” Amora growls.

Lord Loki catches her by the arm before she can move towards you.

“Perhaps, Lady Antress, you may want to go and change? If what you say is true and my brother will seek you out, I doubt very much he’d desire your company if you smell like shit and piss. No matter how delicious your cunt may be.” Lord Loki’s smirk gives away his delight at Amora’s distress.

Almost as soon as he’s grabbed her, he drops his hand and angles himself away from her slowly to avoid being soiled as well.

“Forgive me, my lady,” you curtsy, a perfect bow. “It was an accident.”

Amora glares at you then looks at Lord Loki who has taken to pressing the fingers of his right hand against his nose to shield from the smell, affixing her with a look of amused disgust.

Amora huffs, “Fuck you.” Then turns and stomps past you across the courtyard and disappears into the castle.

“That was nicely done,” Lord Loki says once you’re alone.

You give him a quick curtsy and move towards the gate to toss the remaining waste where it belongs in the river just past the far end of the large hedged garden.

Ignoring the sound of his following footsteps against the gravel and footstones, you wander through the fragrant rows of flowers.

“If anyone had been watching, no one would have doubted your sincerity with that apology.” He declares, hastening his footsteps to catch up with you, settling in to your right as he matches your pace. “I’m impressed. You never gave me the impression that you even knew how to lie let alone be deceptive.”

Grinding your teeth, you attempt to ignore him. You don’t engage.

He reaches out to grab your arm but you stop and twist away from him, disgust on your face as you stare at his left hand pointedly.

For a moment he looks confused and then laughs once in realization and takes his hand back.

“You won’t tell my brother, will you? About my…meeting with Lady Antress?” Lord Loki doesn’t sound like he actually cares.

You know that he and Thor never truly got along once they were of age. As children they had been inseparable. You’d followed them around and they’d welcomed you into their company as a playmate despite your gender.

Not until you also were of age did you realize that your parents and their parents had seen your friendship as an indicator of good fortune for a future marriage.

As the elder brother, Thor had been chosen. Your heart, having been devoted to Thor even as a girl, had been so full. Eagerly you’d thrown yourself into the arrangement of your marriage. Only now did you begin to realize that perhaps your heart had been the only one truly invested in the promises that Thor had made.

Agony cuts you again, tearing your heart apart a little more as the feeling of stupidity makes your eyes prick with tears again.

“Did you truly not know that Thor and Amora were fucking?” Lord Loki asks, voice devoid of anything but genuine curiosity.

A tear slips down along your cheek as you turn and resume your walk. Lord Loki follows.

“You wound me.” He says, voice low. “Were we not also friends before?”

Scoffing, you readjust the bucket and wince at the pain of the rope as you feel your skin break. You drop it, Lord Loki stepping back quickly but nothing splashes out this time. Most of the contents were currently soaking through Amara’s gown.

You lift your hand up, staring at the peel of skin and the slick of the pink muscle beneath as red begins to pool along the edges of the tear.

Just another wound. It’ll seal and heal and scar, joining the others on your once smooth hands.

The bite of pain gives you a reason to let your tears fall. You don’t hold them back as you sob quietly, uncaring of the audience to your humiliation.

“He’s an asshole,” Lord Loki states, stepping up in front of you. “Always has been. Arrogant, proud, and foolhardy. Thinks with his cock more than his brain.”

Again, you scoff. The irony of Lord Loki, whom you just caught fingering your former best friend in the garden, telling you that Thor thinks first with his cock does not escape you.

Lord Loki clears his throat, embarrassed?

“If I’d been your betrothed,” Lord Loki continues. “I’d have worshiped the ground you walk on.”

“You’re a liar, and just as susceptible to Amara’s games as he apparently is. Does it make you feel happy to sleep with your brother’s fiance? Does it give you pleasure to betray him?” You spit at him, angry at yourself, at Thor, at Amara, at your father and brother.

You’re just so angry. You’re always angry now. Even when you’re sad, you’re angry.

“Are you really worried about my betrayal against him when Amara just exposed him for the hypocrite he is?” Lord Loki demands, a little affronted by your ire.

Biting down hard on your lip, you squeeze around the wound on your hand.

“You’re all hypocrites. All of you deserve each other.” You realize and reach down to take the bucket again but are stopped by Lord Loki’s hand as it takes hold of the bucket for you.

He doesn’t wait for you to say anything and instead moves towards the gate at the end of the garden.

Quickly, you hurry after him, eager to take the bucket from him before anyone might look out onto the grounds and see him interfering with your duties. The punishment you’d receive would be painful.

“My Lord, please,” you finally beg, unable to really catch up with his long legged stride. “I’ll be punished if they find out.”

Lord Loki says nothing but strides out through the gate into the wooded expanse behind the garden.

Expertly, probably from the many hunts he’s gone on around the castle, he winds through the trees towards the rushing river whose roar you begin to hear.

“My Lord,” you hurry after him, nearly catching up but then he turns and disappears behind a tree only to emerge before another one. “Please,” you beg.

Taking a quick glance behind you towards the castle and its countless illuminated windows, you don’t see anyone watching but panic has begun to take hold.

He shifts and turns, stomping over the wild grass, the occasional crack of twig or fallen branch as he steps onto it, eaten by the rush of the water now louder.

You’re almost running now to keep up with him and still you lose sight of him when he turns around a particularly large tree. You stop beside it, scanning the area for him desperately.

The dungeons are so damp this time of year. You don’t want to get locked up if you can help it. Illness is something you don’t have much experience with and with your body weak and unhealthy now compared to the grace and flush of perfection you’d been with money and a constantly full belly, you might succumb to any serious illness.

You don’t want to die, despite the hardships you face.

With no sign of him, you move towards the section of river you always go to empty your buckets.

Minutes later you break through the treeline and spot Lord Loki crouched by the water, damp bucket set beside him now empty and rinsed.

Breathing heavily, you try to catch your breath and press your hand against your thundering heart, forgetting for a moment about the wound there and hiss.

Lord Loki rises, turning to look at you with a furrowed brow as he shakes the water from his hands and dries them on his dark emerald jerkin. He pulls down the puffed sleeves of his black shirt, fastening them around his wrists again but only finishes one before he’s holding his hand out for you.

“Come,” he orders. Not a request.

You don’t move, holding your wounded hand still as you watch him, pale skin nearly glowing in the light of the moon.

“Come here,” he orders again and this time you move towards him only a step. He steps towards you once, his hand held up again with more emphasis. “Shall I say please? Am I wrong? Were we not also friends?”

He smirks, amused by your hesitation for some reason.

Asshole. How dare he throw the past in your face. It’s coercion to remind you of your bond as children.

Unwilling to let him get the satisfaction of seeing you be defiant, you close the distance between you.

He takes your hand, holding it up close so that he can see it clearly. The moon is bright enough that he can and he pulls you towards the river’s edge. Squatting down again, he pulls you down with him.

You kneel, inching towards the edge as he pulls your hand into the water.

A hiss escapes your lips as the water coats the wound, tugging at the bit of skin still holding on until it tears free.

He holds it under the water for a minute then brings it back up to examine, pulling your arm so that you shift to face him and he does the same, kneeling before you.

“It’ll scar,” he realizes, but notes the other small scars that now cover your palm underneath the base of each finger.

You watch him as he traces each scar with his thumb, the golden emerald ring on his finger cool to the touch after being submerged in the cold river water for a bit. It feels nice against the heated skin of your palms. The friction of the rope burning them both.

“I remember when your hands were soft,” he notes.

Self conscious, you make to yank your hand from his grip but he tightens it and meets your eyes in silent order not to try that again.

Holding your gaze, he brings your palm up towards his mouth. Heart hammering against your chest, you try again to yank it from him but his lips close around the wound.

A strange tumble of knots in your stomach work their way up into your chest and constrict your heart.

More strange than that, a shift between your legs has your face and neck burning. Ears so hot that the breeze of the late spring air feels cold in comparison.

“Stop that,” you tell him, voice weak from shock at both his actions and your body’s reaction to it.

He does. Pulling your hand away from his mouth to look the wound over.

“The bleeding stopped,” he states, then reaches for your apron.

The tearing of fabric sends our heart seizing but more arousal pools between your legs. Embarrassed, you look away from him as he wraps your hand tightly. He must have dealt with many small injuries on his hunts because he ties the wrap around your palm securely and nothing save for cutting the fabric away will undo it.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He asks, voice low and deep. Almost dark in the way it slithers across your skin in a sultry embrace.

“No.” You answer honestly. “And it’s probably only because I caught you and you didn’t get to stick it in Amara.”

He releases your hand as you pull against his grip but he reaches forward to place his hand on your cheek. His left hand.

You almost pull away but remember him drying his hands on his vest. He’d deliberately washed both hands. Why?

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “I would have worshiped the ground you walk on. I still can, if you’ll let me.”

“I’m a servant,” you spit, turning to look at him with anger and betrayal. “Anything you do to me will be forced merely by the fact that I cannot deny you anything you might want.”

Lord Loki frowns.

“You think so badly of me?” He wonders, hurt in his green eyes.

Your mind flashes back to your childhood. You, Thor, and Lord Loki running to the stables of his estate. You fall. Both Thor and Lord Loki stop but it’s Lord Loki that rushes back to you, helping you up and dusting you off as you cry loudly.

Thor rushes away, laughing in his eagerness to mount his horse.

More memories of your childhood assault you with images of Lord Loki and his kindness. Frequent acts of compassion and what you might have once considered friendly love. Thor’s are fewer and mostly contained to the days after your betrothal had been agreed upon.

“You will never be a servant to me,” Lord Loki assures you.

“It is what I am,” you counter. “You cannot simply ignore it.”

Lord Loki sighs, “You’ve always been so stubborn.”

He lets his hand glide down along the side of your neck, over your shoulder, down along your arm, and then he settles it along the side of your waist, the shape stiff thanks to the corset underneath.

It’s almost unbearable that he’s here, in your shame of servitude. His touch is confusing. You almost ask him why it feels so strange but instead focus on what’s most important.

“Is it true?” you ask, voice wary and quiet.

“Is what true?” There are so many things you could mean, you realize.

Part of you almost doesn’t want to know. So you hesitate.

Something softens in Lord Loki’s eyes as if he suddenly knows what you’re going to ask.

“Were…did Thor and Amara…?” You shake your head, trying not to let the pain show.

“Yes,” he answers, voice firm. He wants you to know that it’s true. No hesitation in his answer. “A few times even with you nearby. You almost caught them a handful of times. Were you only a few moments earlier or later.”

Head falling, you can’t help the tears that spring forth. So much of your past had been a lie. The strength of your house. The friendships you held dear. Your betrothed hadn’t truly loved you. If he had, he would not have betrayed you.

“My brother paints a pretty picture. Despite what he wants others to think he is changeable. He is impatient. Clearly that was his undoing with you. He is rash and prideful. He doesn’t think about what he does before he does it and because he would be insulted by it, would it not be sweet revenge to dangle what he wanted most in the open for all to see?” His words are slow and sure.

The last bit of his speech is careful and calculated. You can hear the manipulation in his words even though he tries not to let you. You’ve known him too long. Lord Loki also changed when you were betrothed to Thor. A shift of his usual kindness had taken place and the sneering Lord had been born. Intent on his own machinations to pry forth the dreary truths of his life.

He’d never been cold and harsh but he became so after your engagement. Thor had called him a snake and even then you could see it. The skill with which Lord Loki had developed his manipulating tactics and the precision with which he enabled them are known to you.

So you know what he’s saying even if he won’t say it clearly.

He takes hold of your chin and slowly lifts your head until he can see your eyes. There’s a strange eagerness in his own greens as he tries to read you. There’s a question there, an uncertain probing as his hand at your waist grows tighter, wrapping around to rest on your back, arching your body towards him.

That strange feeling between your legs surges. It’s Amara’s sneering face that breaks down your defenses. It’s the pride in her words as she’d bragged about being with Thor while you were still betrothed to him that shatters your will.

You do want to get revenge. You want Thor to know that you don’t care anymore. That he means as little to you now as you did to him then.

And what better way to show him that than with the one person he’d hate it happening with the most?

He might overlook some random stablehand. He might ignore some merchant’s son, even if he were above your station.

With Lord Loki…the bite would be as harsh as the sting of Amara’s venom was to you.

“Loki…” you whisper and he surges forward.

His lips are over yours, moving and massaging as you at first merely take his kiss.

He hates it. He pulls back and tilts his head the other way, kissing you more enthusiastically, trying to draw some type of reaction from you.

It’s taking you longer to submit than you thought it would take.

He pulls back one final time and tilts his head back again before this time pressing his lips against your own slowly. He doesn’t move then but instead waits, puckering against yours as he tugs you towards him instead of shoving himself onto you.

Strong lithe arms wrap around your waist and pull you up onto your knees and against his chest. He holds you so close, so tight. It isn’t rough or demanding but needy. As if he can’t get you close enough to his own body and he can only draw you closer and closer in the hopes that it’ll fill something in him that needs filling.

You place your hands on his shoulder as you tilt your head back with his kiss.

Finally, you find the strength in your body and pucker your own lips and return this gentle kiss.

Shock flashes in his eyes as he opens them to look at you. You watch the confusion bloom in them but then shut your own and give in.

Loki’s lips part and envelop yours. It shocks you the way it sends those knots back into your stomach. In response you do the same, enveloping his lips with your own.

Loki’s hands splay out against your back and he groans as he opens his mouth and the tip of his tongue slides against the crease of your lip in question.

In answer, you open for him and welcome his searching tongue with your own. The taste of him, the scent of him, it overwhelms and you gasp as you lose yourself in the moment.

You feel his hands drift around to your front, his right sliding up along your bodice until he can cup your breast, a groan slipping through his lips as he breaks your kiss and traces wet open kisses along your jaw, neck, and shoulder.

“Loki…” you gasp without ever having given your mouth permission to speak.

He bites your neck when you say his name. You moan and he licks the spot to soothe it.

“Loki…” You whisper again.

He’s driven mad by it and before your mind can understand what is happening, he’s laying over you, hands moving wildly underneath your back, running along your sides, fumbling around until he finds where your dress is fastened and he pulls at the ties.

“Should I stop?” He asks, breathless and looking as if he would like nothing more than to keep going.

“No.”

“Mm,” he moans and kisses you again, tongue claiming your mouth as his own.

You can feel him tearing away your apron and then your dress. Too eager to pull it off you completely, he merely shoves it down so that he lays spread out along your waist.

He looks down at you, the corset you wear hiding very little of your breasts. He kisses them each in turn, the soft fleshy bits that pool up above your undergarment.

You shudder at the touch of his lips.

“Has anyone kissed you here before?” He wonders. You’re not sure if he wants  an answer or not but you shake your head anyway.

As he nuzzles the soft flesh, his hands work on the corset, pulling at strings blindly until it gives way and he pulls it off of you exposing you completely.

The cool air of the night perks your nipples more than his touch already has and he takes both breasts in his hands, pushing them together as he stares to the point of embarrassment.

Before you can cover yourself, he takes one into his mouth, suckling softly to draw soft moans from your open mouth.

He sees it, your gaping mouth, and seals it with his own, his tongue nearly in a frenzy as he devours your whimpers.

Cool air hits your suddenly exposed legs. You gasp sharply as he thrusts suddenly and the hard press of his cock rubs against you, shielded only by the fabric of his pants.

“Shall I stop?” He asks again, hands running down along your torso where he takes each breast in hand, massaging them slowly before rolling each of your nipples in slow deliberate circles.

“Don’t stop.”

It’s almost torture when he removes his hands from your overheated body. But you enjoy the sight as he removes his jerkin, followed shortly by his shirt. His body is sculpted but tight, not bulky. Lithe limbs hard and eager as he reaches down beneath your skirts in search of what he desires.

He hisses when his fingers touch you, soaking wet, and you reach down to hold his wrist not to stop but simply to hold on.

The thought crosses your mind that he’s already had someone else like this tonight and it almost makes you pull away. You’re so close to stopping but he sees the thought in your eyes and leans over you, removing his hand he leans over you, pressing his chest against yours and silencing your thoughts with a slow kiss.

It burns through you, the meaning clear.

“Shall I only touch you from now on, darling?” he whispers, kissing your chin then suckling along your throat.

He’ll leave marks…

“Tell me and I will only touch you.” He promises.

“Don’t make me promises you can’t keep, Loki.” You chastise him, mood nearly breaking again at the memory of the endless promises Thor had made you.

“I will never break a promise to you. Tell me to refrain and I will. I meant what I said,” he kisses his way up to your ear, licking the shell of it before hot breath sends your skin prickling. “I will worship the ground you walk on if you will only let me.”

He thrusts again. You shut your eyes, gasping at the cock straining for freedom.

“H-How do I know I can trust you?” You ask, unintentionally letting him see how desperate you are to do so.

He kisses you again, genuine and hungry for it.

“Give me a week and I shall truly prove it. Trust me until then and you shall see the depths of my willingness and devotion.”

He thrusts again and maybe you’re a fool for allowing yourself to consider this when he’s got you right where he wants you, but you nod.

“Only touch me,” you order him.

He smirks. He reaches down between your legs again and with one finger slowly strokes from the bottom of your cunt to the top, the lurid sounds of your wetness poignant despite the rushing river beside you.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises.

One finger. He uses only one finger and the pressure is intense. Sensations you’ve never felt before awaken every nerve ending in your body. His thumb presses against your clit and you nearly sit up with the shock of pleasure that rushes through you.

He adds a second finger, moving slowly as he pumps them in and out.

“Shall I stop, darling?”

“Never stop,” you gasp, still gripping his wrist.

Another smirk on that handsome face, his green eyes dazzling you as he shifts back to his knees.

He licks his lips as he pulls a tie free at the front of his trousers and slowly pushes them lower and lower until he can kick free of them completely.

The length of him is breathtaking. He reaches down and strokes his cock, slowly running his thumb along the shiny pink head before he scoots closer, your skirt blocking him from view.

He rubs himself against you, slicking himself with your own arousal.

There he waits, watching you as you brace your hands on the soft grass beneath you but open your legs wider.

Your eyes meet and both of you know that there will be no coming back from this choice. Nothing either of you do will ever erase this line you’ve nearly crossed completely.

He pushes in slowly, leaning over you as he gets deeper and deeper until he’s buried completely. Chest to chest. Face to face. He grunts deep, face twitching as he settles within you.

It’s so much pressure it’s painful. The feeling of him is so foreign. You’re not sure whether it feels good or not.

“Fuck,” he whispers and tenses then shudders. You feel a wave of heat within you, followed by the sensation of slow moving drippage. “You feel…”

He seems lost for words. Do you feel terrible?

He pulls his hips back just a bit and pushes back in.

You whimper, pushing against his chest to look down where your bodies connect.

“Loki,” you fret.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises. “Be calm my sweet. I will ease you into this.”

Each thrust into you, his pelvis pushes against your clit and each time you moan, wishing he’d do that more. The feeling of him is filling, strange, but not unpleasant. Just different.

As your body relaxes a bit more, Loki’s thrusts grow faster. You smile unintentionally as he presses against your clit more often.

“You like that?” he wonders, stopping as he pushes all the way in and then rolls his hips against you.

Your responding moan gives him confirmation and he settles himself over you fully.

As he thrusts he presses harder against you, lingering for a moment before doing it again and again. The slap of his skin against yours grows louder and he finds a rhythm that has you both breathless and moaning.

“Loki,” you plead, feeling the build up of tension within your body.

“Come for me, darlin,” he kisses you, subduing your voice as he pumps into you.

You’re unsure for certain what he means but your body seems to listen. You wrap your legs around him, holding him as close as you can as he continues to thrust into you. The sweat of his body glistens in the moonlight. The soft silk of his hair tickles your skin as he arches up slightly so that he can take your breast into his mouth again as he keeps pumping into you.

You feel it…so close.

“Loki,” you whimper, wanting to reach the end of this tightrope.

He growls once and brings his hand down between your connected bodies. His thumb presses against your clit firmly. He presses and presses, rolling it in small circles with such precise pressure.

Your body explodes into endless fuzzy light. You arch into him, trembling as his thumb continues to draw pleasure from you in spasms as he keeps moving his cock in and out.

“Fucking hell,” he grunts and thrusts one final time his whole body tight in its release as that same sensation of heat fills you again.

Both of you seem to have stars in your eyes as he collapses on top of you, kissing you slowly with his eyes wide open to watch the expression of pure bliss on your face.

“I think-” Loki says, pulling back as he slowly helps to pull your dress up a bit to cover your exposed breasts. He kisses each one before he does so. “-it goes without saying that I would appreciate it if I was the only one allowed to touch you.”

You’re floating, swathed in golden light, unable to process anything he’s saying because of the pure escape from and yet complete connection to your body Loki’s cock just gave you.

You hear him chuckle. He pinches your cheek, drawing your attention back to him.

“Agreed?”

“What?” You gasp breathlessly.

“No one may touch but me. And I will touch no one but you.” He declares. “Is that understood?”

The authority in his voice draws your legs wide as that throbbing from before is renewed.

Loki’s face twitches at the movement.

“Show me again,” you plead.

“Tell me no one else will touch you,” he orders.

“No one else will touch me,” you agree.

“If you betray me,” you begin.

Loki’s eyes soften. He leans down to press a kiss to your lips.

“I promised you that I would worship the ground you walk on.”

He kisses you again, slowly, feeling every inch of your mouth against his.

“One week, my darling. I’ll prove to you my devotion.” He promises.

The sincerity in his voice has your legs spreading again and he hisses as you shift. Inside you, you feel him harden.

“Show me…” you beg.

“You’re going to be insatiable.” He realizes.

And revenge against Thor aside, you realize that being with Loki might be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.

“Do you have any idea how long I have waited to make you mine?” Loki wonders, stroking your cheek.

“How long?” You wonder, reaching up to take hold of his hand.

“I’ll show you.”

There will be NO tags.

[the-crooked-library]

The Gender Narrative - from Buffy the Vampire Slayer to A24

Alright so I know this topic has probably been explored to hell and back (pun intended), but a transgender lens reading of Buffy the Vampire Slayer has beckoned me for years; and seeing I Saw the TV Glow yesterday was probably the last push I needed to get this out in writing. As we know, the film features a fictional television show heavily inspired by BTVS - and the framing highlights the same aspects I've wanted to dissect, so let's dive into it.

Spoilers under the cut!

Throughout its run, and despite its imperfections, BTVS drew much of its messaging from 90s (and early 2000s)-era feminism. Buffy's presentation as a sparkly, pink, girly girl is central to her character and her destiny. She is an icon of what girls can do and accomplish, even with the whole world against them - and, in this context, it is absolutely, startlingly captivating that her personal life revolves around a perpetual struggle for her right to girlhood.

Despite being the picture-perfect blonde Valley Girl on the surface, Buffy often finds herself barred from that existence by her Slayer identity. She is consistently perceived as too strong, too capable, too aggressive, too independent, too dangerous - and, ultimately, too masculine to participate even in the most stereotypical milestones of a girl in high school. Still, that experience is what she craves the most; so she signs up for the cheer squad, she loves shopping, she runs for Prom Queen, and she goes out slaying in a halter top, with perfect bouncy curls. In essence, Buffy Summers is desperate to pass - which takes us to ISTTG and the root of its story.

The two main characters of ISTTG - "Owen" and "Maddy" - are obsessed with a popular YA series, The Pink Opaque; which, between its credits font, its girl power themes, and monster-of-the-week format, is demonstrated to be an in-universe parallel to BTVS. The Buffy equivalent - or, the pink, pretty, sensitive, and powerful Isabel - is a point of utter fascination for "Owen."

there are no good stills of her online yet please forgive me

She is everything he wants to be, everything he is meant to be; and the time he spends with "Maddy", wearing a pink dress, a pink ghost drawn on the back of his neck, the pink glow of the TV vivid on his face, is the only time he feels anything approaching to happiness or peace. The very first sequence of the film establishes that "Owen" barely responds to his own name, that his father is a walking threat of what society commands him to become, and that his mother is loving but distant. Even later on, when he apparently has a "family of [his] own", we never even see their faces. Within the context of his life, he is little more than a ghost, going through the motions; and as the story goes on, it is revealed that "Owen" is Isabel, trapped in a false reality by Mr. Melancholy, the Big Bad of TPO. Her heart was carved out, she is drugged, and buried alive; and the sound of her slowly choking to death overlays "Owen's" steadily worsening asthma.

There is no denying the truth of that alternate existence by the end of the film. "Owen's" life is a nightmarish suffocation. Isabel is dying from a life of a boy she never was - in what is, explicitly, a transgender narrative.

The same story is directly mirrored by "Maddy."

Within the premise of ISTTG, she is the similarly trapped and suffocating "Tara"; or, the second half of the Pink Opaque - who, over the course of the film, discovers the truth of their reality, returns to the world of the TV show, and then comes back, unwilling to leave Isabel behind. However, what is particularly notable is that while her character's name is, of course, an homage to Tara Maclay (made all the more obvious via Amber Benson's cameo), the "Tara" of TPO is nothing like the soft-spoken, pastel-wearing witch.

Instead, she is a bold, loud punk with slicked-back hair and a leather jacket, who snarks at the monsters-of-the-week and speaks in poetry - she's Spike; and that provides the basis for her dynamic with "Owen" throughout the film.

In the world of BTVS, Spike is largely presented as a foil to Buffy's character. He is her thematic (and extremely sexually compatible) opposite; and that extends to his own relationship with gender. His story arc is defined by his struggle to be perceived as a man; on the Watsonian level, it is an identity persistently overshadowed by his vampirism - and in the Doylist sense, his poetry, occasional eyeliner, and painted nails might have something to do with that situation. Regardless, it is a significant factor in his narrative, both before and after his original, human death - to the point where he bonds with Buffy's mother, Joyce, specifically because she "treated [him] like a man"; and in the context of ISTTG, the same themes extend directly to "Maddy." In S5:Ep7 of BTVS (Fool for Love), Spike states that "getting killed made [him] feel alive for the very first time" - and when "Maddy" returns from the world of TPO, she explains that the only way to survive what Mr. Melancholy had done to them was to bury herself alive and die in the false world. Her statement is a monologue of slam poetry, spoken without interruption and illuminated by the steady blue of a high school planetarium; and while "Owen's" experience of blue lighting is usually aggressive and abrasive, "Maddy's" is soothing. It is right. It ties directly to what she is meant to be, even as her story inevitably terrifies "Owen" - who, much like Buffy, is not yet ready to face the truth of who he is or allow himself to indulge the desires he's buried for all his life.

From what I understand, the finale of the film has proven to be divisive; some interpret it as hopeful, others as crushingly bleak - but as a BTVS fan, and a trans man myself, I cannot see it as anything other than a peak of sheer, overwhelming panic that is only experienced at the very precipice of Change. My reason for it is rooted in the parallels between the respective season 5 finales of BTVS and TPO. For Isabel and "Tara," the story ends with their apparent defeat at the hands of Mr. Melancholy; and Buffy's ends with her sacrificing herself to save the world. She dies. She is buried. And then there's season 6. As such, inevitably, "Owen" is going to accept the truth of himself; he is going to die, Isabel is going to claw her way out of a grave - and when she does, only one person is going to understand what happened.

In conclusion - they are T4T. To me. And to Jane Schoenbrun, I suppose.

[whencyclopedia]

Matilda of Tuscany

Matilda of Canossa (c. 1046-1115), the Countess of Tuscany (r. 1055-1115) and Vice-Queen of Italy (r. 1111-1115), was the final head of the noble House of Canossa following the deaths of her father in 1052 and her elder brother in 1055. One of the most influential women of medieval Europe, Matilda is noted for her military and political prowess, her ceaseless patronage of the Christian Church, and her defense of Papal authority. Though a vassal of the Holy Roman Empire, Matilda often acted independently. Her conflict with the imperial state included a nearly lifelong military conflict with Henry IV (1050-1106), the German king (r. 1056-1105) and Holy Roman Emperor (r. 1084-1105).

Most of Matilda’s holdings, including her family’s ancestral castle of Canossa, were located across the plains of the Po Valley in northern Italy, an invaluable intersection of trade routes between the Italian peninsula and Italy’s northern neighbors beyond the Alps. In the southern part of Matilda domain beyond the Po Valley was the Duchy of Tuscany, rugged with mountains in its north, rural hills throughout, and vital roads connecting to Rome. With these possessions and an impenetrable alliance with the Christian Church, she became an influential political figure in medieval Europe. Matilda was often referred to as the Great Countess (la Gran Contessa) by contemporaries and scholars, despite this title being lesser than her truer title, that of the Margravine of Tuscany. Although she was considered the rightful heir to her father’s northern Italian holdings, Henry IV never recognized her claims to the lands within the Holy Roman Empire.

Early Life

Matilda was a descendent of the House of Canossa, a noble family established by her great-grandfather Atto Adalbert of Lucca (d. 988), a 10th-century Lombard military leader from Lucca and vassal to the German kings of Italy. Adalbert and his son Boniface expanded their domain and by 1027, the Canossa family's influence encompassed the counties of Brescia, Cremona, Ferrara, Mantua, Modena, Reggio Emilia, and Veneto. In 1027, Roman Emperor Conrad II (r. 1027-1039) transferred the Duchy of Tuscany to Boniface. As Schevill explained,

With Tuscany added to his strength ... Boniface completely dominated central and northern Italy; and since he clung to his superior, the emperor, with more consistency than was usual among feudal magnates, he served as the main pivot of the imperial power in Italy in his day. (53)

In 1037, Boniface married Beatrice of Lorraine (c. 1020-1076), a direct descendent of Charlemagne and Conrad’s niece by way of marriage. Matilda was born to Boniface and Beatrice in 1046 after two older siblings: Frederick and Beatrice. Matilda’s place of birth has been disputed, though scholars have suggested Canossa, Lucca, and Mantua. On 6 May 1052, when Matilda was six years old, Boniface was killed by an unknown assailant, likely by an assassin of Holy Roman Emperor Henry III (r. 1046-1056). Frederick inherited the feudal land of their father while Beatrice governed on his behalf. Matilda’s older sister died shortly after Boniface in 1053, though details are unclear.

In 1054, Beatrice married her first cousin Duke Godfrey the Bearded of Upper Lorraine, while Matilda was betrothed to the elder Godfrey’s son, Godfrey the Hunchback. Although Pope Leo IX, another cousin of Beatrice, gave them his blessing to marry, neither received consent from their king, Henry III.

Using the marital transgression to his advantage in 1055, Henry imprisoned Beatrice and Matilda at Bodfeld in current-day central Germany and claimed their holdings. Frederick, the only son and heir to Boniface, is thought to have died in 1055, leaving the young Matilda as the sole child of the Canossa dominion. Since women did not have the right to own, govern, or inherit feudal land under imperial law, Frederick’s death made not Matilda but Henry III, Beatrice’s closest adult male kin, the rightful heir to Boniface.

The mother and daughter remained in captivity until Henry III suddenly died in October 1056. Until the adulthood of Henry’s heir, Henry IV, the widowed Queen Agnes acted as regent to the young king. In exchange for a renewed oath of fealty from Godfrey the Bearded, Agnes freed her deceased husband’s prisoners and authorized the marriage of Godfrey and Beatrice. Godfrey, therefore, controlled the Canossa holdings and established his court in the Duchy of Tuscany, where the family returned by the spring of 1057. Information concerning Matilda’s youth beyond these events is terse.

The marriage of Beatrice to Godfrey the Bearded remained intact despite Henry III’s efforts and was recognized by Queen Agnes. Matilda’s inheritance in Italy was passed to the governance of her stepfather, who, in 1064, also inherited the Duchy of Upper Lorraine. With her role as heir forfeited to her stepfather, Matilda abandoned her ancestral home in Italy in favor of her husband’s in Upper Lorraine. The betrothal to her cousin Godfrey the Hunchback was not fulfilled by marriage until May 1069 when Matilda was 23 years old and the elder Godfrey was expected to die after falling ill. Upon his death, the titles in Italy and Lorraine were transferred to the younger Godfrey. The only child of Matilda by Godfrey was Beatrice, named after her grandmother, but she died shortly after birth, sometime between May and August 1071.

Continue reading...

[wheregoodthingsthrive]

▲ Hopping onto the 'post your LoZ aus/originals' train cause I can no longer keep it in my head + oc I've wanted to post since forever. More under the cut if you're interested, it's just me yapping.

Anyways hi welcome to below the cut.

My LoZ story is really into the whole 'divine purpose' trope but also the variants I can put onto it. In this Hyrule, the kingdoms are not unified. Based on the BoTW map, there are the Central Hylians, the Sheikah, the Lurelin-Hylians, fresh water Zora, the Gorons, Akkalans (also might be the Ikana, shout out to MM but not sure), the Tabantha Rito, the Hebra Rito, the Kokiri, and the Gerudo. The only allied kingdoms are the Hylians, Sheikah, Goron, and Zora.

However, despite the disunity, there is one thing that unifies each kingdom: the sages. The cycle of sages forms the Council of Sages, rotating in seats based on which race gets what sage at that point in time. The sages are: time, light, shadow, spirit, fire, water, and wind.

Sages only do so little. After a sage is born into Gerudo territory, who have been at conflict with Hyrule, full war breaks out between the two and their allies.

Zelda is the newly anointed Queen Zelda after her mother passes and King Rhoam is killed in battle against the Gerudo. She bears the Triforce of Wisdom and is the reincarnation of the goddess, Hylia. She is determined to end the war against the Gerudo and defeat the works of Demise in her world. Her closest friend is Link from early teenage years.

Link is the Hero of Hyrule, bearing the Triforce of Courage which lays dormant until his final clash with the Triforce of Power. He is from a Lurelin-Hylian village, brought to Hyrule Castle to live and train after he is prophesied to be Hylia's Champion. During his time in the castle, he becomes close friends with Zelda and often trains with her. He is the Alice to the Gerudo's Jabberwocky.

Ganondorf is the king of the Gerudo, an empire in the depths of the Gerudo desert. He is also the bearer of the Triforce of Power and the vessel for Demise. He picked up his chieftain mother's war against the Hylians as his own. Additionally, he was raised by the twin witches Kotake and Koume, priming him to be the perfect vessel for Demise. To him, being Demise, power, the dark beast - what have you - is the way to protect his kingdom and to take Hylian land for their benefit.

Riar'svah is the sage of spirit, being a spirital guide to the Gerudo people (Gerudo governance comprises of three parts: chieftain/king (force), elder witches (magic) and a spiritual guide/priestess (spirit)). She and Ganondorf are close companions and she joins him in the war against Hyrule. When Ganondorf is defeated by Link and Zelda, she leads the rest of the Gerudo into war and upon their defeat, she divide the valley, isolating the Gerudo from the mainland - beginning their isolationist, thieving history.

[noirandchocolate]

It's the winner of my poll, so I hope you'll enjoy a nice big post about...

Yiga Clan Mask Culture and Traditions Headcanons!

History

The Clan adopted the practice of wearing masks fairly early on after their founding 10,000 years ago. Veils were already worn by powerful Sheikah monks as a symbol of martial prowess (being able to fight with hampered or absent sight), wisdom (being able to "see" what others could not, despite or because of a self-imposed "blindness"), and asceticism (being humble and near-anonymous). Those among the ancient Sheikah who worked as assassins, spies, guardians, and interrogators for the Crown also tended to wear masks covering at least part of the face. So, when the Sheikah who decided to defy the ancient King's genocide banded together to form the Yiga Clan, taking to wearing masks and veils to obscure their identities was a natural choice. The early Clan's face-coverings were among the first items they painted with the Inverted Eye that became the symbol of the group's defiance of their prior role as Hylia's chosen protectors and servants of the royal family.

The original Master Kohga, who had been the Chief of the Sheikah settlements around Satori Mountain, never actually wore a mask! (The practice of doing so had not fully standardized yet.) Instead, he took up wearing a veil to honor his grandfather, Monk Mogg Latan, and as a sign to those who would ask him and his people to shed their heritage, that he would not back down.

However, the First Master did provide the origin to one aspect of his successors' masks: While Sheikah who were considered masters in their chosen fields (including monks) traditionally wore a hairstyle featuring five long ornamental sticks, the First Master chose to wear six, as a symbol of a) his people's split from the Royal Family (cut an arrayed set of five sticks straight in half and you end up with six sticks--the formerly central one broken down the middle), and b) their continued claim to the power associated with the number three (note that the Sheikah monks found in Shrines (and Maz Koshia) all wear/display six golden bracelets). As you know, the current Master mask now features three horns on each side!

As time went on, in addition to providing protection and anonymity to Clan members particularly when traveling outside their main "hideout" base in Karusa Valley, the masks also became a unifying aspect of membership and family within the group. In other words, the masks are not only meant to hide one's face from outsiders, but to signal to insiders the bond between them. All within the Clan may don the mask, all may wear the same "face." All carry the symbol of the Inverted Eye. All are working together, all are playing their part. The Clan as a whole is quite a collectivist culture; the masks are one very obvious aspect of that.

The current mask designs have been in place for several millennia now, but it did take some time for the style to "settle" into this level of tradition and immutability. The Yiga have quite ancient scrolls and artworks depicting their ancestors wearing different styles of masks, including curved rectangular ones mimicking the shape of ancient monks' veils, and more complicated and demonic or deity-looking masks for Masters. During one period a few centuries into the Clan's existence, another Hylian monarch (this time, a Queen) sent troops across the kingdom to search for any remaining Sheikah (remember, Kakariko Village was "hidden" to most) to eradicate them. The Yiga began to appear "out of nowhere" to wreak havoc and sow discord among scouts and military camps, wearing masks painted with the inverted eye and large, red, smiling mouths. Quite unsettling!

How They're Made and How They Work

Masks are crafted of wood and, in the case only of the Master, an overlay of molduga bone. All those taking up the job of craft-work among the Yiga learn to make masks, but there have always been a few specially trained masters of the art who create masks and associated ornaments for the Master, Right Hand, presumptive Heir, and any spouse (Mistress or Consort) of the Master. These in particular are expected to be perfect, both in their specially-measured fit to the wearer's face and in their symmetry of shape and inlaid, painted design. And so, training to make them goes beyond the ordinary mask-maker's education, involving a great deal of practice but also meditation. A keen eye for detail and steady hands are paramount. These crafting masters are highly regarded, and often take on new names related in some way to their teachers', when they achieve their new position.

Yes, the masks are solid wood. Yiga are able to see "through" them using magic. The vast majority of current Clan members share a heritage that allows them to use magic (a subject for another post!) at least to some degree, and this Sight skill is one of the very first things Yiga are taught--whether as young children or as new additions if they join as teens or adults. As with many Yiga abilities (again, to be discussed in the future!), Sight has an accompanying rune/talisman that will keep it going perpetually. This is etched into an "active" mask when it is given to its owner. So, the owner puts on the mask, instantly starts the...for lack of a better word "spell," and then the rune keeps the ability "flowing" for as long as the user wishes.

Those vanishingly few Clan members who are completely devoid of magical ability must ask someone else to activate the rune for them. Unfortunately, their Sight through their masks is impaired by the fact that none of their own energy is being used to power the rune as it "flows." Such members do not take on/are not assigned to roles that will take them outside the Karusa Complex, as masks are absolutely required for such positions. Instead, they stay home, usually wear veils instead, and work within the Clan in other vital ways.

Current Designs

All Yiga masks save those for the Master and Right Hand share the same basic curved oval shape that contours around to cover the sides of the face, again for anonymity and conformity. Really the only difference about those two, too, is the addition of horns. All masks are marked with the Inverted Eye.

One other slightly different mask is that worn by the Heir, which is additionally marked by a curved slash of red down the sides of the face (most prominently visible in profile). This marks the Heir as one who is working to grow into leadership and one day wear a horned mask.

The horns on the Master and Right Hand's masks have that curved shape because they are meant to not only be horns, but flames. As in, flames of righteous fury against those who betrayed the Clan's ancestors, and the purifying flames of destruction they've hoped would purge the Kingdom of its ruling class! The red inlay of them of course matches the red of the Eyes, but also symbolizes the burning core of the Clan's intended vengeance.

The Master has three horns per side, and the Right Hand has one, so perhaps you've wondered: is there a two-horned mask? Why yes! I headcanon that there is! It is reserved for a Right Hand who is also the Heir. Which is not a very rare occurrence, since a Master would likely hope to rely on their Heir as their second-in-command, once they're of age and they've proven themself to be reliable, skilled, and powerful enough. (Great training to be Master themself one day!) Our current Best Guy Kohga remembers this mask as the one his father wore during his early childhood before his Nana died and Dad became Master. Kohga himself was also eventually given the two-horned mask when he became his father's Right Hand.

He was very proud to wear it.

He did not get to wear it for long.

The metal side ornaments on Yiga masks are meant to resemble fangs, and are meant to add an edge of ferociousness to the Clan's appearance. Even members who are not actively working in more martial positions wear them--a style similar to Footsoldiers', but with the subtle difference that the center ridge of their three-ridged design is red, instead of the top one.

Footsoldiers' ornaments are straighter and dagger-like, evoking their prowess with smaller, more concealed weapons and bows. The top ridge colored red indicates that they are in a martial position and their work--and if necessary, their bloodshed--protects the more "civilian" population of the Karusa Complex.

Blademasters' ornaments are curved and sharper, a show of their ferocity with larger, well, blades. Although usually hidden by their hoods when in they're in full uniform, their ornaments do still feature the three ridges with the top one in red.

The Right Hand's ornaments share the basic shape of the Blademasters', but are segmented more smoothly down their whole length, with the final, sharp segment at the tip in red. These show that the Right Hand is at the top of the martial hierarchy of the Clan, at the forefront of the Clan's protection and ready to stain their weapons ("fangs") with the blood of their enemies.

Finally, Master Kohga's ornaments' more hooked shape are similarly meant to represent curved fangs, but the more rounded, shiny red end-pieces are meant to evoke skill not only with weapons but with the special arcane techniques only a Master is trained in. The larger, round, red center of their five-ridged design shows that Master Kohga is the central figure for the Clan--not just the Chief or "top banana," but someone who lives among their people and keeps them together. Powerful, deadly, but also a unifying force.

Traditions Surrounding Masks

As suggested above, Yiga children start wearing veils and practicing using the Sight technique pretty young, so they're prepared for donning their masks when the time comes. Kids officially get their first masks at the very start of the year during which they'll turn eleven. Depending on the Clan's birth rate for a particular year there might be only a few getting masks or there might be a big group. Getting one's mask involves...

A trip to Satori Mountain with Master Kohga! The Mountain being a very important place for the Clan, it has been chosen for the children's (usually) first time leaving the relative safety of Karusa Valley. The Master takes them to the sacred spring among the sakura trees near the top, where they remove their veils and put on their first masks. This ceremonial part of the trip is fairly short, and involves a pledge to stay safe beneath the mask and to work to the best of one's ability for the Clan. Then, the kids get to have some fun exploring, doing some fun little tasks set by the Master--things like "pick four different kinds of mushroom" or "find the tree marked with the Eye." This is meant to give the children not only a chance to practice using Sight out in the open, but the opportunity to get to know the Mountain...and...well, to run around being kids rolling in grass and climbing trees, out in the world under the sky, using the basic tracking and stealth skills they've been learning through their childhoods. (This is truly another of the current Kohga's favorite days of the year. Man loves the kiddos.)

Once you've received your mask, you're also considered old enough to start doing more involved chores around the Complex and figuring out what jobs and roles you might want to start really training for. So it's a Coming of Age kind of event! Children's mask ornaments are again the same as footsoldiers' and civilians', but they have the lowest ridge painted red. Under the protection of everyone else. They'll have these until they turn sixteen--another milestone.

Clan members are expected to keep their faces covered or disguised even at home, once they have been given their first masks. I've said it before but it belongs in a post on this topic: one's true face is, after that age, reserved for one's very immediate family. Parents, grandparents, siblings, spouse, and kids/grandkids. So, when a child goes up Satori Mountain at the start of their special year, the moment between when they take off their veil and when they put on their mask may be the last time they see the real faces of their friends with whom they share an age. Honestly, it's quite poignant, a sort of shedding of one's childhood self and taking on of a new identity among the Clan.

After death, a person's final mask is kept for their family's area down in the Clan's ancestor shrine halls. Masks are cared for by family members as part of specific festivals and are brought out for various events like weddings and funerary rites within the family. Since so much of a person's energy flows through their mask over the time they wear it, it's believed to still carry a part of their essence. So it's felt that ancestors are especially "present" and watching over you, when you visit your family shrine, or when their masks are made a part of your special days.

Yiga masks are quite tough, and broken and outgrown ones are burned at home. Those who are assigned to jobs and missions outside the Valley must be adept at the disguise technique, but if one's mask is broken to the point it can no longer be worn and it is at all possible to break away from one's task, one is supposed to return home to retrieve a new one right away.

((Sooga's insistence on wearing his cracked mask is considered quite unusual and odd. It's honestly only permitted because he is the Right Hand and thus his horns and uniforms already make him stand out. He did have it reinforced and repainted after the incident. I gave his stated reasoning for keeping it in a prior post, but...it's also because he was initially ashamed at having broken the work of a master craftsman so shortly after he received it. To this day, years later, if pressed he will say that his mask is serviceable so there is no need to trouble anyone. Of course, now more than ever anyone would love to make him a new one, but...that's Sooga for you. T-T))

Married couples traditionally remove each other's masks on their wedding night, before shedding any remaining disguise. This is a profoundly intimate show of love and trust. Even within a marriage, consent must be given before taking off one's spouse's mask.

Once you turn sixteen, in fact, no one is allowed to remove your mask without your express permission. Even when you're disguised under there. That includes parents and romantic partners. It's considered incredibly rude and childish especially after that age, to grab at someone else's mask to try to remove it.

That said, poking at or rapping on someone's mask is just silly behavior between friends, and caressing a masked cheek is loving. Also, touching masked foreheads together is a gesture of closeness between family, friends, and partners. Especially with a romantic partner, it's like a masked kiss. Yes. It's true. Yiga bonk foreheads like kittycats. (/silly, not really)

Because Yiga tend to spend a lot of time with their faces--even their fake faces--covered up, as a culture they tend to be quite expressive with their bodies and vocal inflections. They don't have facial expressions to rely on for communication purposes all the time, so head-tilts and hand gestures and other body language are adopted from an early age to get one's point across. Of course this doesn't mean they don't know what facial expressions are and mean (don't be ridiculous)--they know those things too, for when they're using an unmasked disguise and for dealing with other races. Just...they tend to talk with their hands a lot and can tell another Yiga's intent or emotion by how far they're tilting their head or how they're leaning their body. In fact, not gesturing as much or using subtler postures is just as much considered "reserved" or "quiet" among the Yiga as simply keeping one's volume down. There's nuance in these things, that outsiders might not realize.

Yiga doing espionage have to sort of mitigate these instincts/learned behaviors; they can sometimes come off weird or unsettling, otherwise! Think of those travelers you may have seen on the roads...how they wave and call to you a little too enthusiastically, and smile just a bit too wide... But surely they're just friendly! You should go over to them and talk. If you're lucky, they might even sell you some bananas, at very fair prices!

And the last thing you see, will be the blood red of the Inverted Eye.

And there you have it! A whole bunch of headcanons about Masks! Hope you had a good time reading!

[covidsafecosplay]

The People’s CDC COVID-19 Weather Report: October 14, 2024

The People's CDC has released another updated report on COVID-19 data and action items for the United States of America.

Highlights:

According to data last updated 10/5/2024, the CDC’s national wastewater map shows 16 states with “High” or “Very High” wastewater levels.

According to the Wastewater COVID-19 National and Regional Trends dashboard, all regions continue to show a downward trend over the last several weeks.

Many Bay Area counties are set to reimplement mask mandates in hospitals from November 1 through Spring 2025. Some of the rules apply to only certain healthcare staff while others include visitors and patients. Though these mandates are limited in scope, duration, and geography, a few are expanded compared to last year’s Bay Area mask rules, a sign that pressure on decision makers is working. 

In the past week, the California Department of Public Health reported that 6 new cases of bird flu (H5N1) were confirmed in dairy workers in California, with each case being connected to contact with infected cattle in California’s Central Valley. While there is yet no documented human-to-human transmission, each new case presents a greater risk of the virus mutating to spread from human to human.

The Texas State Affairs Committee posted notice of a hearing at the Capitol on October 16 to discuss, among other things, “Unmasking Protestors.” Opposition is mounting, and people are organizing.

Read the rest of the report here:

Please note that the CovidSafeCosplay blog and its admin are unaffiliated with the People's CDC or its management, and are simply sharing the resource.

Via the People's CDC About page:

The People’s CDC is a coalition of public health practitioners, scientists, healthcare workers, educators, advocates and people from all walks of life working to reduce the harmful impacts of COVID-19.  We provide guidance and policy recommendations to governments and the public on COVID-19, disseminating evidence-based updates that are grounded in equity, public health principles, and the latest scientific literature. Working alongside community organizations, we are building collective power and centering equity as we work together to end the pandemic. The People’s CDC is volunteer-run and independent of partisan political and corporate interests and includes anonymous local health department and other government employees. The People’s CDC is completely volunteer run with infrastructure support being provided by the People’s Science Network

[a-whispering-echo]

Princess Cross of Arlendor

Cross has a tall, disciplined build and wears military-style dress robes that reflect his soldierly upbringing, with polished black and silver tones that give him a formidable appearance. His face is stern, marked by a scar over his right eye.. His diadem is plain and tall with spikes, and one that comes down over the bridge of his nose. he arrives to the ball wearing war paint in purple. he has a large fur lines cloak that he wears often, bundling himself up in it most of the time, and appearing as just a solid shape of fur.

Cross is obedient to a fault, raised to see emotions as weaknesses and to fulfil his duties without complaint. He hides any sign of fear or sorrow, pushing down his emotions as he was trained. Despite this, Cross has a kind heart that he rarely lets show, expressing his feelings in private moments when he thinks no one is watching.

At first, Cross views his role as a suitor as just another duty to fulfil, but he’s surprised when Nightmare shows kindness. Nightmare senses the reluctance and pain Cross tries to hide, and he encourages him to express himself. Over time, Cross begins to open up, letting himself be vulnerable in a way he never could back home. Nightmare’s respect for Cross’s strength helps him feel more at ease in his own 'skin'.

Cross is initially distant, but Horror’s quiet kindness allows him to relax a bit, and the two begin training together.

Killer’s teasing annoys him, yet Cross learns to tolerate it, eventually growing amused by his jokes, especially when Killer aims them at others.

With Dust, Cross feels a kinship; their silences become a shared space of unspoken understanding, and he feels a quiet responsibility for Dust’s well-being.

Arlendor is renowned for its martial prowess, producing some of the greatest soldiers and strategists in the world. It’s a proud kingdom, highly disciplined, and boasts the strongest military force among the neighbouring regions. The people of Arlendor have a fierce sense of loyalty, valuing honour above all else.

Training is central to Arlendorian life, with children taught combat from a young age. Nobility often hosts tournaments to celebrate feats of strength, with victors earning respect and titles. The kingdom celebrates the Festival of Blades annually, a day of duels and contests that the people eagerly anticipate.

Arlendor worships the Iron Path, a doctrine that values strength, discipline, and sacrifice. Temples dedicated to the god of valour, Enfor, are few but grand, and offerings include weapons, battle standards, and symbols of victory.

King Valour reigns over Arlendor, a stoic and rigid man who enforces discipline among his people and family. Cross was raised with strict values, taught to prioritize his kingdom over himself. He is one of several siblings, though his siblings are either too young or already serving in the army. This structure makes a kingdom in constant need of capable leaders, where the royal family itself is militarized to ensure security and readiness.

Arlendor’s architecture is strictly functional, with towering stone fortresses and fortified walls. The kingdom is built in a valley surrounded by high, rocky mountains, with narrow passageways that can be easily defended. Homes and buildings are made of sturdy stone with limited embellishments, making the kingdom look as resilient as its people. The majority of the kingdom all live within a fortified settlement, with large brick towers and walls surrounding them, to keep them in, and others out. the only exception to this is a small, similar structure further west of the Grounds, where a village of people live.

Clothing in Arlendor is durable and simple. Soldiers and nobles alike wear layered wool, leather, and furs, designed for movement and protection. The only decorations are often symbols of rank, such as fur linings or metal clasps, and soldiers bear the kingdom’s crest on their uniforms.

Arlendor’s valley is shielded from harsh weather, making it cold but manageable. The winters are severe, though, with snowfall that can isolate villages for weeks. This cold climate has fostered a culture of practicality, with clothing designed to hold up under heavy use.

Arlendor’s people subsist mainly on hardy grains, root vegetables, and preserved meats. The diet is simple but hearty, with emphasis on long-lasting foods that can be easily rationed. The scarcity of fresh foods makes feasts rare, and common foods include stews, hearty bread, and salted meats.

Flora in Arlendor is minimal due to the rocky soil, though juniper, pine, and hardy alpine plants grow in abundance. Their dyes come from these natural sources, so clothing colours are typically muted, including shades of brown, grey, and dark green. The kingdom’s animals include mountain goats, wolves, and large hawks, all symbols of strength and resilience in Arlendor’s culture.

-

i FEEL BAD for not fully rendering Cross' drawings here! but i just got so fed up, so its sketchy lines and limited shading for the babygirl. i have technically already drawn him a thingie out so... i also did trace over his face from the other image because FUCK that. still MY art, but yeh.

and also, he may LOOK all scary, but most of the time, he looks like this:

just.. fluffball with blankie really. (can you tell i dont draw chibis? cus that sucks but oh well. oops)

[gsirvitor]

The Battle of Kapyong

The Battle of Kapyong is one of Canada’s greatest, yet least-known, military achievements.

For two days in April 1951, a battalion of roughly 700 Canadian troops (the 2nd Battalion of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry Regiment) helped defend a crucial hill in the front lines of the Korean War against a force of about 5000 Chinese soldiers.

Besieged by waves of attackers, the Canadians held their position amid the horror of close combat until the assaulting force had been halted and the Canadians could be relieved.

Their determined stand contributed significantly to the defeat of the Communist offensive in South Korea that year.

The 2nd Battalion of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry Regiment (2PPCLI) arrived in Korea in December 1950, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Jim Stone, a Second World War veteran.

The battalion had initially been deployed when the war was quieting down, with North Korean forces being pushed across their border back into the North.

The Canadians were prepared for little more than carrying out garrison duty.

The war was subject, however, to wild swings in momentum.

Stone quickly had his men trained up to fight with other forces against what would become a renewed enemy offensive in the spring of 1951, after China entered the war on the Communist side.

The battalion was attached to the 27th British Commonwealth Infantry Brigade.

It was soon thrown into a series of skirmishes and battles in the winter of 1951, learning how to fight on the harsh, hilly terrain of Korea, as UN forces tried once again to remove the Chinese and North Koreans from the South.

In mid-April, the Chinese withdrew just past the 38th parallel.

This was part of a plan to lure UN forces into a position where they would be vulnerable to a major counterattack, which was unleashed on the South Korean army on 22 April 1951.

The South Koreans were dislodged by the Chinese offensive, and the following day the British brigade was ordered to protect the South Korean withdrawal through the Kapyong River valley, about 20 kilometers south of the 38th parallel in central Korea.

2PPCLI and the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Australian Regiment were assigned forward hilltop positions, the Canadians on the west side of the valley and the Australians on the east.

The Australians bore the brunt of the initial attack and after heavy combat were forced to withdraw, with 155 casualties, late on 24 April.

While the Australians fought, Stone ordered his Canadians, about 700 troops, to dig in on Hill 677 and prepare to repel a large brigade of massing Chinese forces, estimated at nearly 5000 strong.

After attacking the Australians, the Chinese turned their attention to the PPCLI, which managed, through heavy all-night fighting on 24 and 25 April, to stop the Chinese advance.

At one point in the battle, 400 Chinese soldiers descended on a single Canadian company of roughly 100 men, but the attack was repelled.

Private Wayne Mitchell, despite being wounded, charged the enemy three times with his Bren gun.

He earned the Distinguished Conduct Medal for his efforts.

The Chinese launched most of their attacks at night, in successive waves, using an intensive and aggressive approach of mortars, grenades and machine gun fire close to the Canadian front.

On the night of 24 April, the Canadian battalion headquarters was attacked, and the assault was repelled with heavy fire.

The relentless waves of Chinese soldiers almost overran the position of D Company.

With his men securely entrenched below ground, company commander Captain J. G. W. Mills, desperate and overrun, called for an artillery strike on the position of his own 10 Platoon.

He relayed the request from Lieutenant Mike Levy, who was hunkered down with his men in shallow foxholes on the hill.

A battery of New Zealander guns obliged, firing 2300 rounds of shells in less than an hour, destroying the Chinese forces on that position.

Though the barrage landed just metres from Levy’s position, he and his men were unscathed.

Levy wasn’t recognized for his bravery until 2003, when Governor General Adrienne Clarkson granted him a coat of arms.

The following night, Private Kenneth Barwise recovered the lost Vickers machine gun position in D Company, grabbed the gun, and ran back to his platoon.

He had also single-handedly killed six Chinese soldiers during the attack on D Company, earning the Military Medal.

Amid the fighting, Stone refused to allow his men to withdraw, as he believed the hill was a critical strategic point on the front.

This stemmed the tide of the Chinese offensive.

While they defended the hill, the Canadians were cut off and had to be supplied via air drop.

As Canadian soldier Gerald Gowing remembered:

"We were surrounded on the hills of Kapyong and there was a lot of fire. We were pretty well out of ammunition and out of food too. We did get some air supplies dropped in, but we were actually surrounded… that was a scary moment, let me tell you."

The 2PPCLI were eventually relieved on the front line by a battalion of the 1st US Cavalry Division

The holding action of the Australians and Canadians at Kapyong allowed the UN forces to consolidate their troops for the next stage of operations.

They had fought tenaciously against a Chinese army with a force several times their size.

Stone, and other veterans of the Second World War, utilized their experiences fighting on the rugged terrain of Sicily and Italy, and applied it to the hills of Korea to good effect, but at a price.

Ten Canadian soldiers were killed and 23 wounded during the battle.

Australian losses were higher, 32 killed, 59 wounded, while the Chinese force suffered an estimated 2000 casualties.

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Sixteen

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Strong Language, Smut, World on Fire spoilers

Word Count: 9.3K

Notes: Hiya pals.

“Welcome home, Mr Bennett.”

Tom looked behind the suited man and his clipboard. Beyond the small dockyard pier, he could make out the beginnings of a town still sleeping. Mist, or was it rain, was rolling in from the horizon of hills. In just a few hours, the train would take him through those valleys, along the Pennine Way and to Manchester.

“Not quite home,” Tom said to the man, who smiled in turn. “But almost.”

The boat from Gibraltar to Scotland had taken five days and, after his journey through central Spain, Tom was glad to be back at sea. In England, summer would have been making way for autumn but the heat still lingered in Spain. Days of walking, being bundled between cars, and of weeks waiting in Gibraltar for any news of his departure left Tom agitated. The heat had not helped. The days at sea had given him plenty of time for reflection. Stood on the stern of the boat, gazing as mainland Europe disappeared, he watched the surface of the water for disturbance. After the Battle of River Plate, he couldn’t shake the fear that U-boats were lurking beneath the waves, waiting to strike. Fighting for attention alongside these fears were thoughts of Bess. She had told him, before he left, that the Navy could be the making of him. In a way, she was right, for faced with the open ocean and endless sky, Tom felt freer than he ever had on land.

Home was so close now; he could almost smell it as the gentleman on the dock led him and a few other evaders towards a waiting vehicle. Roast dinners, grease from the dockyard, rain on the cobbles, perfume at the Palais and buttered chestnuts at Belle Vue. The dusty picture house, clean linen, Bess’ hair. Tom had tried to think of what he would do when he saw her, for seeing her was inevitable. For a while he thought of going to the Infirmary; she couldn’t scream at him while in her uniform. Or else, he could climb into the window of her flat like old times, but he didn’t know which was hers and hadn’t she said that the boarding matron had a strict rule of no gentlemen? Perhaps Tom could charm the woman. He wasn’t a gentleman, after all. He settled on seeking her in Longsight. Neutral ground. What he’d say he didn’t know, but that was one part of the plan he could account for; no more performing.

By evening, Tom and the other evaders that had made the crossing were trundling southwards, through Scotland and towards England. It was a supply train, and they had been given bunks by the men that worked to deliver steel, food and other resources across Britain. Tom watched as the sun set below the Pennines, knowing that in the morning he would awake in Manchester. He looked at the photograph of Bess. Almost nine months since he had laid eyes on her at the train station. Maybe tomorrow, he would see the real thing.

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Bess removed the blackouts to be dazzled by sunlight. She stood at her window a while; autumn was coming and soon all warmth would disappear from the sun. God she hated Manchester in winter. She scanned the city skyline. At least, what was left. As if in some perverse game of dominos, a few buildings that had been there last night were gone, dark smoke billowing in their stead. She had heard the first loud crashes. The air raid sirens hadn’t noticed this attack, and after the first distant explosion came banging doors as the girls of Carver Mills, dressed in nightgowns and curlers, hurried to the shelter at the end of the road.

Despite the terror of the night past, Bess found herself in unusually high spirits. The months had not been kind to her, and she could count on one hand the few times she had been truly happy since new year. Most of those times had been the first promising two weeks of 1940, sharing stolen kisses and glances with Tom. But this morning, with the sun shining through the horror, Bess felt perhaps if she couldn’t conquer the world, she could at least conquer the day.

She sat at the small vanity. She had been dancing at the Palais over the weekend and her rollered curls lingered. If she draped them just right at the base of the neck, she could hide them from Sister Stern under her nurses cap. Bess surveyed her reflection. It was a day that called for rouge. Rolling the lipstick from its tube, Bess swiped the colour across her lips and thought of the men at the hospital. She’d certainly brighten their day. The last thing to do was grab the photo from her nightstand. The paper was worn at the edges but despite this, and the black and white hue of the paper, Bess could feel Tom’s blue eyes gleaming at her. She tucked him into the pocket of her apron and donned her coat before glancing round the flat. It wasn’t much, but in the early autumn light, it felt like home. Perhaps she’d have Joan and Helen over that evening for supper and wine, if they could find some.  

The bus was just pulling away from the stop when Bess reached it, and she ran to join it. Douglas appeared at the open door and held out his hand to haul her onto the moving vehicle.

“Thank you,” she half whispered, half panted. Douglas touched his cap. A little awkwardness still coated the air after she had kissed him then revealed her feelings for his son; the month since had left little time for her to visit but she made a point to every time she was in Longsight. She valued Douglas’ friendship too much to allow her moment of insecurity and fear get in the way.

“Your father’s down the front,” he said as Bess moved to find a seat. “Looking a bit worse for wear.” Bess nodded and found her father slumped against the window behind the driver. His hair was unkempt and a little stubble was starting to show.

“Dadda,” Bess nudged him as she sat down. “Dadda!” He woke with a start and looked at her. A sleepy smile spread across his face and he took her hand in his own, patting it gently.

“I was going to pop into the hospital on my way home, to see if you were okay.”

“We’re all fine,” Bess squeezed his hand in reassurance. The Blitz was taking its toll on Fergal. More frequent air raids on the city meant that after his shifts at the dockyard he was straight into his warden’s uniform and on patrol, helping put out fires or guiding civilians to safety. Since Albie’s death, he was rarely home, his time taken up with helping the war effort and avoiding his grief. Bess laid her head on her father’s shoulder and they sat in amicable silence.

“Heavy night last night, they got Oxford Street. Palace Theatre got hit.”

“Many dead?”

“A fare few my girl, a fare few.” When they arrived at the Royal Infirmary, Fergal spoke again. “I do worry about you Bess. It’s only a matter of time before they get the hospital-”

“We’ve got a shelter in the basement, Dadda, we’ll be fine.” She kissed his cheek. “Tell you what, I’ll come by at the weekend for dinner. Stay over?”

“I’d like that, you take care.”

She waved off her father and Douglas from the stop as the bus made its way to Longsight, then hurried in to begin her shift. Sister Stern said nothing about her hair and lipstick, though from the twitch of her eye, Bess knew she wanted to. She was right too, the men loved it. She, Joan and Helen were the most popular nurses at the Infirmary with their beauty, charm and care. With every flirtatious comment, smile to her friends and patient helped, Bess felt her heart lighten. Uncertain the cause of this newfound contentedness, Bess was desperate to cling onto it regardless, and set about making plans for the evening with Helen and Joan.  

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

On any other day, the walk from Manchester London Road to the Bennett house would take an hour. But as Tom strolled the streets that had coloured his childhood, his buoyance at being home turned to horror. The pub in which he snuck into for his first pint was no more than a pile of rubble. Houses of friends gone, skeletons of their childhoods all that remained. Even his secondary school, once an imposing building, had been brought down to a singular wall and the scaffold of the gymnasium. He felt sick. The war had at last come home. What if he arrived in Longsight to find it no longer existed? Walking through smoke and the rising dust of devastated buildings, he saw lines of people watching on as wardens and firemen attempted to put out the still simmering flames of the night before. At Victoria Park, a woman was trying to calm her young children, some of whom sat atop the rubble, as men scavenged what they could from the bombed-out street. A football lay abandoned in the road and Tom, taking pity on the woman, offered to kick the ball about with her sons while she rested.

By the time he had arrived in Longsight, any thoughts of happy reunions had vanished, replaced by the anxious dread that had followed him since his final days on the Exeter. The fear that around every corner, no matter how safe or familiar, life could be upended as easily as the spinning of a top. Keen not to feed his fear, Tom walked along the ginnel, avoiding the sight of the street and what it may hold. He reached the gate to the yard of his home as paused, taking a deep breath. The handle was cool in his hand, and it clicked gently as he opened it. Washing was strung across the line, mostly his dad’s shirts and a few of Lois’ small things. Instinctively, Tom took the sleeve of one of Douglas’ jumpers and brought it to his face, inhaling the smell of familiar laundry detergent. It fluttered from his hand in the breeze, and for a moment, Tom felt he could cry. It was that exact sound that stopped him. High and coarse, a wailing cry came from within the house, and Tom’s heart somersaulted.

Tentatively, he opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside the house. A dull light streamed through the net curtains. Nothing had changed. The piano sat unused, the chairs the same, exactly where the family liked to sit. Douglas at the table, Lois by the window and Tom at the hearth. The only difference was the baby that lay swaddled and crying in its basket, set on the kitchen table. Slowly, ever so slowly, Tom inched towards the little creature. Its red face contorted as it kicked its covered legs and balled its tiny fists. He didn’t know who it belonged to, but Tom knew that somehow, he loved the little babe. Steps thundered on the landing upstairs. Tom just managed to tear his eyes away from the child when a pair of feet appeared on the stairs.

“I’m coming, I’m coming-” Lois slipped down the last few steps in her haste, buttoning the blouse she wore. “Come here then, you little bugger.” There was a moment when Tom thought he was a ghost, had died at Dunkirk and drifted home, for Lois looked straight through him with unseeing eyes. Her steps faltered as she made towards the Moses basket, looking at the space Tom occupied. She stopped and the wailing continued. The two siblings stared at each other, neither moving, as though scared they would startle. It was when Tom smiled at his older sister, dimples appearing in his cheeks, that Lois knew he was real. With a shriek she leapt at him, arms tight around his neck as she burst into sobs.

“Hiya,” he whispered with a laugh. She pulled back to look at him, taking his face in her hands and assessing him, making sure he was there. Deciding it was true, her brother was really home, she took a step back and smacked his arm, hard.

“You bloody bastard,” she laughed through her tears. “We’ve been so worried.”

“And busy,” Tom nodded his chin in the direction of the baby. Lois wiped her face with a watery smile and scooped the baby into her arms.

“Give over,” Lois huffed, unbuttoning her blouse and sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth. Tom watched as the baby’s cries turned to snuffles of contentment.

“Christ. Everything’s so different,” Tom whispered. Manchester, the war, a baby. The home he had longed for was irrevocably changed. And yet, looking at his sister cradling that little baby in her arms, Tom felt that somehow everything would be ok in the end. Lois watched Tom watching the baby and another small sob left her. “Don’t be soft,” Tom laughed, though he held out his hand and Lois took it.

“I’ve missed you,” she wiped her eyes again. “Needed you here.”

“Did you know? Before I left?” Lois nodded. “You should have told me.”

“I was scared. I’m sorry,”

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and Lois gazed back down at the baby. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” He said with a chuckle. The baby had finished feeding, and Lois held the little creature up.

“Sit down then,” she said, indicating the armchair opposite the rocking chair.

“You what?” Tom tried to sound light, but a spike of terror caused his ears to turn pink.

“Just sit down!” Tom did as he was told, and Lois lowered the baby into his arms. She laughed at her little brother, whose eyes were wide in shock. “You can relax, Tom. Lean back in the chair and I’ll put a cushion under your arm. Just take her head, that’s it-” Everything in Tom’s body stilled. His breath became deep, his racing thoughts quietened and any sound beyond the house disappeared. The baby in his arms licked its little pink lips, still milk-drunk, and looked up at him with shining eyes. “This, Tom, is your niece.”

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Language.” Lois teased. “And this, little one, is your uncle Tom.” Knowing she was in tender care, the little girl gargling in his arms took hold of the finger that had reached out to brush her cheek.

“Fuck,” Tom said again, and wiped a tear of his own from his eye. With Tom missing, Harry married and facing a world of raising a child on her own, Lois had lost all expectations for the future she once dreamed of. A little piece of hope she thought missing slotted back into the space of her heart, as she watched her brother embracing her daughter. She ran hand through Tom’s hair tenderly and he leant into the touch, reminded of their mother. After minutes of contented silence passed Tom, never looking away from his niece, spoke.

“Is she Harry’s?”

“Yes. Though what he’ll have to do with her, I don’t know.”

“Bastard.”

“Quite.”

When he spoke again, it was to his niece. “Doesn’t matter thought, does it? You’re perfect.” Lois smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Are you alright with her there? I’ve got some folding to do,” Tom waved his hand; he’d sit there forever. “Not sure what to call her yet, I thought it’d be nice to name her after mum?” Tom nodded and Lois’ heart burst with pride. Her little family would be ok.

They talked for hours. Tom told Lois about his travels around the south of Europe, and about Dunkirk. How he ended up in Paris and his escape. About Claudette and the others he met along the journey. Lois told him of ENSA, Harry’s betrayal and of adoring Vernon. Of the baby and the birth; she spared him the detail, all but one fact. “Bess helped me deliver her.”

“Oh right,” Tom’s voiced croaked and Lois smiled to herself.

“You’d better go over and see the Vaughns later. They’ll be so happy to see you.” She came back to sit next to Tom and her daughter, now sleeping in her uncle’s arms. “I don’t suppose you’ll have heard that either, God, there’s so much to tell you-”

Tom didn’t get the chance to find out what Lois had to tell him, for the front door clicked open. Douglas walked in, shucking off his shoes and coat. “Where’s my granddaughter then?” He was happier than Tom had heard him in a long time and his stomach sank a little. Was it wrong, to have hoped to find his father devasted? Maybe he was right after all, maybe things were easier if he wasn’t here.

“Dad,” Lois’ voice was soft.

“Yes, love?” Douglas turned from hanging up his coat and glanced at his daughter, before his eyes flickered to the man sat beside her, cradling his granddaughter. Tom stood and Lois hastily took the baby from his arms. Douglas looked between his daughter and son, mouth a little ajar, and swayed on the spot.

“Hi dad.”

The words were barely out of Tom’s mouth before Douglas clapped a hand to his own and laughed. He bent double, laughing, and at this Lois began crying again. It was when his father stood straight that Tom saw the tears rolling down his face. “Dad,” Tom stepped forward but hesitated. For the second time in his life, he froze. The first was when Bess fled from this very house in tears, the second was now. Luckily for Tom, he didn’t have to wait long, for Douglas staggered forwards and gripped him in a desperate hug.

“My boy,” Douglas laughed through his tears. “My boy,”

“Hi dad,” Tom said again, weakly. Douglas, as Lois had done, cupped Tom’s face to look at him.

“My brave, brave boy.” Tom laughed awkwardly, but his heart soared with happiness. At long last, he was home.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

The afternoon was reaching for evening when the Bennetts finally grew tired of chatting. Baby Bennett was sleeping on her grandfather’s shoulder, who was watching his two children with adoring pride. Tom had taken the picture of Marie down from the wall and placed her at the table, the way the Vaughns did with their mother. Sipping the last of their tea, they sat in gentle silence and simple enjoyment of the fact that their family was together again. And not just together, but growing.

“What are your plans, Tom?” Douglas asked as he placed the babe back in her basket.

“Well, I imagine it won’t be long until I’m called back.” He hurried on at the darkness that befell Douglas’ face. “But it won’t be for a while. I’m not sure how much paperwork it takes to resurrect the dead. In the meantime, it’ll be a few good meals and see as much of home as I can.”

“Speaking of which,” Lois said. “You best get over the road. They need some good news and I think you’re just the thing.”

“Must have been devastating when I left, all the good-looking fellas gone-” Lois smacked his arm again.

“Be off with you!” Tom kissed her cheek and patted his father’s shoulder.

“Save some tea for me, Lois. I’ve been dreaming of your roast dinners.” Dressing in an old jumper and clean slacks, he made for the door and the Vaughns. The air was still warm from summer though an autumnal breeze was gathering through the street. A few little girls playing in the street shrieked when it lifted their petticoats around their woollen tights. Tom laughed. That’ll be the little one someday. Crossing the road, something else fluttering in the wind caused him to stop dead. A black ribbon, tied around the knocker of the Vaughn’s front door. His blood ran cold. Surely, Lois would have told him if it was one of the girls. If it was Bess. The sensitivity of the day’s emotion caught at the back of his throat and he swallowed. Hadn’t Lois tried to tell him something before his dad arrived home? Tom watched with quiet fear as the ribbon teased him, before stepping to the door and knocking. He straightened his jumper and ran a hand through his hair. God damn it, he should have looked in a mirror before he left. Or at least washed. Tom was just shaking out his shoulders when the door opened and he snapped to attention.  

“Co-” The words died in his throat as the eldest Vaughn sister jumped at him.

“Oh my God!” Cora withdrew to look at him, then crashed into him once more. “Oh my God! Dot. DOT! Come down here right now!” She dragged him over the threshold. As yet, Cora had said nothing to Tom, and no words were exchanged further when Dot came hurtling from the back room and screamed at the sight of him. Running across the kitchen, she jumped into his arms and bounced up and down.

“You’re alive, oh thank God,” Dot turned back to her sister. “Some good news at last!”

Cora didn’t take her eyes off Tom. “Bess will be thrilled,” Tom could have sworn he saw Cora smirk.

Bess. Tom remembered the front door. “Cora. What’s happened? The ribbon on the door,” Dot stopped her giddiness, still holding on to Tom’s hand.

“Oh Tom,” Cora shuffled around the table to hold her sister. “It’s our Albie. The Siege of Calais-” Her voice died away and Dot hiccoughed. Tom looked between the sisters.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hating how feeble the words were and how they sounded in his mouth. Dot looked up and tried to smile through her watery eyes.

“But at least we have you back. And like Cora said, Bess will be thrilled.”

“I’m going over there to Manchester soon actually, Tom, taking some food round for Bess. If you want to come?”

Cora looked to Dot, who still had hold of Tom’s hand. She began to swing it, looking up at him mischievously. “Um,” he coughed. “Yes, will do.” Christ.

The journey back into the centre of town was easy. One of Douglas’ friends from the bus service gave he and Cora two free tickets on account of him returning home, and the bus detoured around the bombed buildings. Tom thanked God; he didn’t know if he could stomach it. Not when his mind was so occupied on seeing Bess within the hour. Next to him, Cora chatted away about Roger and how well he was doing with the RAF, about the memorial mass for Albie, and at that Tom tried to listen. But through imagined glimpses of the Vaughns’ grief, all he could see were flashes of Bess running alongside the train. It wasn’t until he and Cora departed the bus and arrived at an old mill building that he noticed he hadn’t been paying attention at all to the route they had taken. All he knew was that this was the old cotton trade quarter of the city. Tom looked up at the tall chimneys, smog-stained red brick and the shadow the old mill cast. Half of him thought that facing the Germans would be less terrifying than stepping in here and he laughed. Cora smiled lightly.

“Are you excited to see her?”

“Pardon?” Tom’s reaction was quick, so quick that when he whipped his head around from gazing up at the mill, he heard it crack.

“Give over Tom, I’m not stupid. I know all about you and Bess. She told me, after I caught you both kissing in the window.”

Tom grinned mischievously and rubbed the back of his neck. “I always get caught, in the end.”

“At least this time it isn’t trouble. Though I’ll tell you know, Tom Bennett. I adore you, but if you break her heart, I’ll kill you myself.”

“I think Dot’d kill me first.”

Cora laughed. “That she would. Now,” she put her hand on the door knocker. “Mrs Russo, the boarding mistress, doesn’t like gentlemen visitors so we’ll just tell her you’re waiting outside. Then we’ll sneak you in when she isn’t looking.”

“Aye, aye!” Tom saluted and with a laugh, Cora knocked. Once. Twice. Three times. There was a little noise behind the door and the two heard a pair of footsteps growing louder. It opened to reveal Mrs Russo, broom in hand and beaming, her bonny face shiny with exertion of cleaning.

“Cora, love, hello!” She pointed at the basket of food in her hand. “Got any for me?”

“Just deliveries for Bess I’m afraid,” the two women laughed and Tom sensed this was an ongoing occurrence. Mrs Russo then turned her eyes to him appraisingly and did not hide that she clearly approved.

“And who is this handsome lad?”

“Mrs Russo, this is Tom.” Cora lightly touched his shoulder. “A childhood friend. He’s just returned home this morning.”

“Ah, the missing fella!” Mrs Russo clapped her hands. “Bess has told us all about you, of course.” Tom felt a blush rise up his cheeks and Cora smirked. “Now, I don’t allow young men in the house, even ones as good looking as yourself, but would you take a cup of tea while you wait for Cora? I can open up the courtyard for you.”

“Only if you join me, Mrs Russo.” Tom winked.

“Oh, he is a charmer! I can see why you girls are so fond of him. I best get back to my cleaning but if you follow the building round, I’ll open the gate to the courtyard. Coming, Cora love?”

Tom began to walk along the red brick wall as Cora whispered, “I’ll come and get you when the coast is clear!”, and followed the lady inside. Mrs Russo had already opened the courtyard gate and hurried back to her chores when Tom reached it. Washing, bedsheets and nurse’s uniforms, hung between every window and at the centre of the small patio was a table and two chairs, a steaming cup of tea already awaiting him. No sooner had Tom sat down and taken his first sip was Cora hissing at him from a side door.

“Psst! Tom!” Tom hastily threw the tea into a plant pot and strode towards Cora. “Bess is still at work but I can let you in. You’re alright waiting for her, aren’t you?” Tom nodded his assent and felt his heart rate double. The two wound their way quietly up a few flights of stairs before Cora stopped to fumble with a set of keys. “Here we are, Bess’ humble abode.” She entered the flat first and Tom followed. It was as if he was trespassing on the room of someone recently deceased; it was so full of life yet the occupant was nowhere to be found. He half expected Bess to jump out at them.

The kitchen was miniscule. A cup and plate had been left by the sink, and Cora set about washing them for her little sister and putting away her parcel of food. On top of a rickety table was a vase, the dried flowers losing their leaves and scattering around two picture frames. One of Bess and her family, one of Etta. Tom smiled and moved to the window. Despite the missing buildings and the faint smoke rising from the air raids, Manchester looked magnificent in the late summer light. The sun was low on the horizon, piercing through chimneys, spires and mills. A little way off, Tom could make out the cranes of the dockyard. Beside him was an old armchair, its fabric faded and patched in places. Over the top lay some clothes, haphazardly draped, and a book of Nursing Practice. A little to his right, the bedroom door was askew, and Tom just caught a glimpse of the bed when Cora spoke. She was halfway out the door.

“I know what happened, Tom, before you went away. Bess has a steely mind and a sensitive soul, but she needs the truth.”

She didn’t allow Tom to add anything more before shutting the door. He was left alone.  

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

“Got a bottle of wine from one of the lads,” Joan said, placing dirtied bedding into the wash bin. Helen was smoking discreetly out of a store cupboard window, carefully avoiding Sister Stern.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“Said I’d give him a kiss,” Joan said sweetly and Bess laughed.

“Honestly,” Helen pretended to chastise her friend, but still smiled as she exhaled a plume of smoke. “What time shall we come up to yours Bess?”

“Eight o’clock, I’d say.” Bess was helping Joan to tidy away the linens before heading home to pick up some sewing work. “Gives me a chance to finish the clothes.”

“I wonder if there’ll be another air raid?” Helen worried the skin of her lip as she flicked her cigarette away.

“If there is,” Joan straightened and stretched her back from the day’s labour. “I’m glad I’ll be with you girls.” Bess squeezed her hand and waved her goodbyes.

The five o’clock sun set the city ablaze, and when Bess stepped onto the street, the glare the sun cast from the windows caused her to walk straight into somebody.

“I’m so sorry,” she held out her hands to steady herself against the person.

“Bess,”

Bess looked up, and into the sullen and scarred face of the man before her.

“James!” Bess took an instinctive step back. “How are you? The scarring is healing well, glad to see my stitching was neat.”

“Yes, I uh-” James looked nervously at her and shuffled on his feet. “I’m here to see one of the doctors about my sight. If he thinks I’m healed, it’ll be back to the front for me.”

Neither spoke for a moment, then Bess reached out to hold his arm. “The offer still stands, James. If you want someone to write to, you know where to find me.” She gestured to the building behind her. “Good luck.” She began to walk away when the calling of her name stopped her.

“Bess, if I do go back, would you come for dinner with me before I go?”

“James-”

“Please, just one last time.”

Despite his height, the soldier seemed to slouch under Bess’ gaze. His messy hair blew in the breeze and the coat he wore hung loosely around his shoulders. He looked completely lost.

“James, I’m sorry. I’m taking care of my heart at the moment, I don’t think I can handle any more heartbreak.” The man she spoke to straightened at this, seemingly buoyed by the fact that in some life somewhere, he could have the capacity to break this magnificent woman’s heart. The reality was entirely different, and Bess’ mind drew images of blue eyes and thin lips before her. Still, this little offering seemed to ease the soldier’s spirit and she smiled. “Good luck, James,” she said again, before heading for the bus stop.

Mrs Russo was exiting Carver Mills when Bess arrived home a while later. The little woman was buttoning her coat over a blue skirt Bess had mended for her when she spotted her tenant.

“How was work love?”

“Exhausting.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that Cora popped round a little while ago with a very handsome man and a food basket for you.” Bess smiled, imagining the fuss Mrs Russo surely made over Roger. He really was taking his time with that proposal.

“Perfect. Helen and Joan are coming up for supper later if you’d like to join us?”

“Oh heavens no!” Mrs Russo smiled. “I’m off to see my daughter, and besides, you girls don’t want an old biddy like me hanging around. No, you have your fun.”

“And you,” Bess passed Mrs Russo in the doorway and dragged herself up the stairs towards the flat. Despite her weariness, and run in with James, Bess still felt in her heart the lightness that had settled there that morning. For the first time, she smiled as she thought of Albie. Bess had never been particularly faithful, unlike her mother and father, but she wondered if this happiness and warmth came from her brother watching over her. Perhaps he was annoyed at her moping and was sending her a gift from the heavens. He always got annoyed when she was miserable, the likely cause being their twin moods. Or maybe it was because she had finally settled into her life in Manchester, away from her family. It was true, she missed them, and missed the piano, but this newfound sense of freedom gave her something she hadn’t known since she worked at the atelier. Only three miles away from where she was born, yet somehow this little world felt like hers entirely. The only thing that could dampen her happiness was Tom. She heard Albie’s reassuring and logical voice in her head. “Missing, not dead.” She reached the door to her flat, a little out of breath and pulled her keys from her bag.

“Missing, not dead.” She said aloud to the stairwell, placed her key in the door and began humming Mack the Knife. The sun painted her kitchen a brilliant gold, and Bess stood in the open doorway letting the last of the day’s warmth touch her face. She turned back to the door, still humming and locked it before removing her coat and shoes. Reaching up under her dress, she unhooked her itchy tights and pulled them off also, the cool tiles of the floor sending shivers up her legs. It was as she was retrieving the contents of her bag that the sudden and harsh scraping of a chair across the kitchen floor caused her to gasp and spin around.

A man was stood at the table. Wisps of his blond hair were haloed in the golden sunset, his broad shoulders squared, and Bess could just make out the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Electricity hummed in her fingers tips. If I reach out and touch him, she thought, I might spark. At this surge of power, of energy, warmth welled in her bosom and her chest burned, as though taking her first gasping breaths of oxygen. Bess’ body, far before her mind, reached out to the figure, lit like a beacon in the autumnal light. She stepped forward, yet the figure didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

Bess would have known it was him had she been blind. If he’d not been a man, but a perfect ray of sun or a bird perched on her window or the chime of bells on Sunday, she’d have known. She would have known it as the air stilled around them. If he hadn’t come back until she was an old maid, and he an old man. She would have known it was him, just like she knew he was the reason for the day’s high spirits. Bess raised her hand and, shielding her eyes from the light, she saw him. The depths of those grey eyes, the sweep of hair. The strong neck that led to that stone jaw. The slope of his nose, pink at the tip and those lips, curved and oh so tempting. She edged ever closer, her hands instinctively reaching out to him.

Tom had been prepared for stony silence, a confrontation, or an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a “welcome home”. But when Bess looked at him as though he were the only man on earth, Tom Bennett could do nothing but watch. Watch, as she stood bathed in the sunlight. Watch, as she took in every feature of him. Watch, as her shock turned into recognition, and watch as she advanced on him, her dark eyes set and certain.

“Bess, I-” his voice was barely above a whisper, and the hopeful need he heard in his own was matched in the stormy eyes of the woman before him. Months of despair and self-hatred, years of waiting and wanting all came undone at the sound of his voice. Taken over by carnal desire that only he could ignite, Bess rounded the tiny kitchen table and collided with him.

“Tom,” her voice was shrouded in desperation, and no sooner had his name left her lips were they on his, warm, wanting and needy. Tom sighed, letting Bess devour him in a frenzy of lips, teeth and tongue, and in an instant his hands were at her back, pressing her body flush against his chest. Bess pushed Tom into the wall and pawed at his chest, desperate to touch any part of him she could. Pulling away from his lips, she tugged at the jumper he wore. She dropped it to the floor and pressed her body against his, wanting nothing more than to melt into his touch. Bess untangled her hands from Tom’s hair and frantically began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Her nimble fingers made quick work of the offending garment and Tom watched with proud awe as she ripped it away from his body and ran her eyes over his hard chest. When a small gasp left her parted lips his pride turned to fear however, until Bess ran gentle fingers under the skin his left shoulder. There, above his heart and below his collarbone, the puncture of scar tissue darkened his alabaster skin.

Seeing horror flash across her eyes, Tom placed a hand on hers and held it over his scar. “They shot me,” he said simply with a sad smile.

“And that’s why you didn’t come home,” it was a statement more than a question, and Tom nodded. Slowly, Bess removed her hand from the scar and placed a tender kiss to the mottled skin. Tom’s wayward heart drummed in his chest as something akin to hope anchored there.

“I’m sorry,” Bess whispered, peppering kisses across his chest, always returning to kiss the gunshot. “I’m so sorry,” her voice quavered and when Tom moved away from her she whined. Tears were forming in her eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She reached out to Tom but he batted her hand away and instead took her face in his hands.

“Why are you apologising?”

“I didn’t say goodbye to you,” Bess took a shuddering breath. “What if you hadn’t come back? It’s, it’s-” Her voiced raised in pitch. “It’s so close to your heart, Tom.” She had barely finished the words before prolonged grief racked her body. She tried to hide her face but Tom didn’t let her. Instead, he ran a thumb over her cheek and committed this moment to memory. In the streaming, yellow light, and filled with tears, her brown eyes looked gold. She must have been wearing lipstick during the day, for the faded pigment lingered at the centre of her full lips, now wet with his kisses and slightly parted. A flush covered her cheeks and nose, and her eyebrows were knitted with anguish. Tom grinned with tenderness for her. Once more running a finger over her cheek, he wiped away a tear and spoke softly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he kissed her slowly, savouring the taste of her salty tears and the warmth of her tongue. “I’m here, Bess. I’m home.” At this, Bess whimpered through his kisses and clutched at his shirt. The sound sent tremors straight to Tom’s cock and he inhaled harshly, attempting to restrain his desire to take Bess where they stood. Urgent for closeness, Bess wound her hand through Tom’s sandy hair and gripped hard at the nape of his neck. When he moaned aloud, she ran her tongue along his lips before moving to nip at his jaw, down his neck and his bare torso. His head fell back and hit the wall as she ran her tongue up the length of body, skirted her hands over his chest and wound them around his neck. She bit him there once again and Tom laughed.

“I missed you so much, love.” Tom whispered, the ghost of a smirk on his handsome face.

“Tom,” Bess ran her tongue along the column of his neck and bit the pulse point there. The action caused Tom to buck his hips and Bess giggled. She did it again and this time, Tom growled. “Fuck, Tom,” once more her hands found his hair and she tugged him down in a fiery kiss, their tongues fighting to gain dominance. One of Tom’s large hands gripped Bess’ waist and pulled her towards his groin, where she felt the growing hardness beneath his trousers. Head spinning, and whining at the friction through his trousers and her layers of uniform, Bess broke the kiss and licked her lips seductively. Tom pulled forward. She pulled away.

“I dream of this every night, Tom Bennett.”

That was it. That was all it took for Tom Bennett to snap. Months, if not years of wanting Bess Vaughn burst from him as he roughly took hold of her face and crashed his lips onto hers. No longer were his kisses soft and loving, but hard and wanton. Bess mewled at his display of ownership over her and began unbuckling his belt.

“Fuck,” he tore his mouth away from hers to suckle at her neck; hot, wet kisses as she fought to free him from his trousers. When the belt was undone, still dominating her mouth with his tongue, he gripped her hips with his hands and forced her backwards until her legs hit the wood of the kitchen table. With both hands under her backside, he hoisted her onto its surface and she grabbed him for another devouring kiss. Without coaxing, she spread her legs and Tom groaned as he stood between them, grinding against her layers of skirt.

“Tom,” Bess’ head tipped backwards and he ground into her. He reached behind her back and pulled the ties of the nurse’s apron and threw it to the ground. With her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms about his shoulders, Bess clung to Tom as he fought with the buttons and zip of her bodice. Cold air and Tom’s long fingers traced the skin there when he managed to undo it, and no sooner had Bess moaned is name was Tom pulling her free of the arms and bodice of her uniform. He huffed at the sight of her brassiere, and with no warning or hesitation, ripped its satin straps so that Bess’ chest was entirely bare to him. Instantly, her pink nipples puckered with cold and Tom’s eyes blew wide. He dipped his head to kiss at the full flesh there, and Bess’ hold around his waist tightened.

“Please, Tom.” His name was all she could say. Tom was all she could comprehend. Still teasing her breasts, Tom reached beneath her skirt and roughly pulled down her knickers. She moaned with need as Tom ran a finger through the treasure he found there.

“Fuck,”

Bess bucked her hips.

“Fuck,” he said again, bringing his lips back to hers and moaning into her mouth. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined doing this to you.”

Bess laughed with the pleasure and power those last words brought her. “Yes I do,”

“Confident,” Tom smirked as he continued to kiss her and run his long fingers through her now dripping folds.

“’I’d have fucked you with my mouth, my fingers, my cock. Watched you take me.’” Bess quoted, and Tom stilled. Through lust-hazy eyes, he looked down at her. His fingers stopped their work and Bess whined.

“What did you say?”

“’I don’t want to imagine anymore what those nimble fingers of your can do.’” Bess quoted again, and she watched as his pupils dilated further and his Adam’s apple bobbed with nerves. He huffed a laugh and Bess bit her lip.

“How do you know that?”

Bess tried to drive her hips upwards, frantically trying to feel his fingers against her but he moved them away. “What do you mean?”

“I-I didn’t send that letter,” Tom whispered, his mouth close to hers. Bess frowned a little, confused but eager for their reunion to continue.

“Well, you have a guardian angel because not only did they send you back, but they sent that letter too. And I’ve read it every night and every morning since it arrived. I’m tired of using my hand and pretending it’s your mouth around me.” Bess kissed him quickly, chastely.“I could say exactly the same.”

Tom regarded her with admiring shock then, with a harsh thrust as quick as lightening, brought his fingers to dip inside her. Bess cried out but was silenced by Tom’s hot mouth on hers. Who was more wanton, neither could say, for no sooner had he touched her was Bess bucking her hips onto his hand. Faster and faster, Tom fucked her sex with his fingers. First one, then two. When he added a third he felt Bess clench hard around him and he buried his head in her chest.

“Please,” she whimpered, curling an arm around his neck for purchase. “Please, I need you Tom.” At the sincerity of her words, a singular sob rent its way from Tom’s tense body. He looked down at her, at his Bess, spread before him on the table, half dressed and flushed with lust. It was true that Tom had thought of this moment, though his dreams could never equal the excitement, terror and elation that he felt roaring through his veins. But his obsession with Bess was so much more than lust. These nine months he had carried her in his pocket, through battles and enemy-occupied states. If he did have a guardian angel, surely it was she. Surely, it had always been her. On the Exeter, wasn’t it her hair he saw in the flames? When entangled with another woman he didn’t know the name of, wasn’t it her lips he’d imagined? It was memories of her, teaching him piano, nights at Belle Vue or the Palais, the momentous occasions he had made her belly laugh, or quiet evenings sharing a cigarette that had got him through those lonely, fearful nights at sea. It was the certainty that when he got home Bess would be there, waiting for him or not, that dragged his tired and war-battered body across Europe to safety. He needed her, completely and entirely.

With a swift kiss, Tom removed his fingers from her arousal and fumbled hastily with his slacks. Bess bolted upright and her hands found his. Together, with smiles and desperation, they wrestled with his slacks and briefs until the growing hardness that had strained so uncomfortably against the hard fabric was freed. Bess’ mouth watered at the sight and she kissed Tom with a renewed hunger. Looking back to his hard erection pressed against the soft flesh of her thigh, she whimpered. A few pearlescent beads of precum were gathered at its pink and swollen tip, and the veins that travelled along the shaft to its base in the thicket of blond curls throbbed. Without hesitation, Bess gripped his wide length and Tom hissed as she pumped his arousal before lining it up with her centre. Bracing his hands on the table either side of her lips, Tom’s head fell forward against Bess’ and she ran the tip of his cock along the entrance of her dripping sex. She inched closer to the edge of the table, mouth falling open in a silent moan as the tip of Tom’s painfully hard cock pressed against her entrance. He was panting with need, and the effort to not slam his hips forward and fully seat himself inside her. Already, their kisses were sloppy. The small kitchen was alite with the heat of the sun and their bodies. Bess’ hands gripped his broad shoulders and Tom took himself in hand, but when her legs wrapped around his slight waist, he faltered.

“I-I-Christ,” he was cunt-drunk before he’d even fucked her. “I don’t have a sheath.”

Bess ran a hand through his flaxen hair. She had waited years for this man, known since the war began that it was Tom Bennett or no-one. Any consequences of loving him wholly be damned. “I want all of you, Tom,” she whispered. “Please.”  

And Tom, with a shuddering breath, inched himself slowly into the welcoming heat of Bess’ body. Simultaneously they groaned, as Tom bottomed out in the warmth of Bess’ cunt. Her head tipped backwards and exposed the column of her elegant neck. Not moving within her, Tom leant forward to kiss the delicate skin there, the act pushing him forwards so that the tip of his cock brushed that sensitive spot within Bess’s pussy.

“Fuck,” her cry sounded pained, and Tom would have withdrawn from her were it not for the piercing of her nails in his shoulders, or the plump flesh of her thighs holding him ever closer. Slowly, so tantalisingly and cruelly slowly, Tom edged out of her heat, causing Bess’ eyes to flutter shut. He paused to watch the heaving of her breasts as she raggedly gasped for air, and at his stillness she looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Please-” Whatever she was to say next died in her throat, for Tom slammed his hips so forcefully into hers that she saw stars. Over and over, Tom thrust his aching cock into her heat as she mewled and clawed at any part of him she could reach. With every snap of his hips Bess’ body came alive for him, from the quivering of her walls around his cock to the babbled gasps of “more”, “Tom”, and “harder”.

For Tom, the tight heat of Bess around him, the image of her coming undone at his touch and the desperation with which he had always wanted her reached a feverish pitch in which the overwhelming cacophony of feeling rendered his mind utterly blank. All he knew was Bess, the sound of her pleading voice, the harsh rasps of their hot breath on each other’s bodies and the obscene sounds of their love making. Harder and faster he pounded into her, all thought of gentleness gone from both their minds, bodily need and years of craving each other taking over.

The banging of the table legs against the floorboards of the old flat was barely audible over Bess’ moans and Tom’s muttered adorations, and neither noticed nor cared. Tom was too caught up in the waves of pleasure washing over Bess, and when her body fell back against the table and revealed her parted sex taking his cock so perfectly, he reached down to circle a thumb over her needy clit. Bess gripped his wrist and Tom felt her cunt clench around him.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, and at her demand Tom felt he could continue no longer. Eager to satisfy her, he ground his jaw and with a hand at her hip and the over rubbing perfect circles over her sex, he watched as a flush of red bloomed across Bess’ cheeks and chest. Her body tensed and began to quake, and Tom knew he had never seen anything so beautiful; he promised himself he would bring Bess to pleasure as often as he was able. The shockwaves of her orgasm pulsed through her body, hard and untameable, and at the feeling of her climax Tom came undone, growling lowly as he came within her. Bess’ body went limp and he brought her against his chest, cradling her in his arms. In turn, Bess kissed the side of his forehead and laughed. When he looked at her through his loving and fucked-out gaze, he saw the surely uncomfortable position she was in; legs spread wide around his waist, leant slightly against the hard table and half dressed. Slowly, Tom pulled out of her still quivering sex and Bess gasped. The sound made Tom grin with smug satisfaction and Bess laughed. He kissed her smiling lips and pulled her to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered with a chuckle. Bess stood and, as she did so, the skirt of her uniform slid from her hips and pooled on the floor. Completely naked in front of him, Tom reached out a hand and caressed he full hips.

“Now you’re the one apologising!” Bess stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his perfect lips and feeling his cock grow hard once more at the touch of her bare body. He laughed.

“I had grand plans for when I came back to you, and fucking you on the kitchen table wasn’t one of them. I’m sorry-”

“I don’t know,” Bess cut him off with a languid kiss. “It seems appropriate to me, the course of our lives seems to have occurred in the kitchen.”

“Not anymore, love.” Bess raised a quizzical brow but her question went unanswered, for Tom bent low and flung Bess over his shoulder. She squealed and held his waist, Tom’s own hands firm on the plump roundness of her bottom. Bess could sense the shit-eating grin her wore and she smacked his arse.

“Cheeky,” Tom walked her to her bedroom, kicking open the door and dropping her on the bed. His eyes were hungry and she expected him to ravish her. Instead, he crawled atop her and rested his head against her soft stomach and curled his hand around her hips. It was then that Bess realised that hunger and lust for another person were not the same, and her heart beat with a fresh wave of love for the man clutching at her body.

“I missed you,” he said again, running his hands up her sides. She shuffled beneath him, rolling onto her side and Tom was forced to look up. Bess was reaching for the drawer of her bedside table.

“I want to show you something,” her voice was strained as she stretched awkwardly to retrieve something amongst the pile of makeup, magazines and fabric samples. Sitting up, naked and vulnerable, Bess handed Tom a bundle of paper. It was only when he looked closer that he realised they were letters. Each dated, with his name in the centre. He looked from them to Bess with wide eyes, doubting that anyone, including his father or Lois, had ever loved him this much.

“I never stopped writing, after you went missing,” she wiped her eyes and a glimmer of the old Bess, defiant and hardy, appeared before Tom. He wrapped a hand in the copper hair at the base of her neck and kissed her deeply.

“You’re some woman, Bess Vaughn.” And with dexterous fingers, he opened the first letter and began to read.

Notes: I’m sorry this took so long, hen dos and Eurovision and mega work deadlines and illness got in the way. Forgive me. Expect communication and long, sexy, heart-felt smuttiness in the next chapter! See you soon (I promise!)

EDIT: If you've read Come Back To Me, you may have noticed that in my illness-addled mind I called Bess the wrong name. All sorted now.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring

[hepbaestus]

Coming home to my family afterward makes the work richer, easier and more fun.

Day 1 of the Hideduo Kiss Week Event by LazyCat

Day 1 prompt: Kiss on the cheek

1.6k words|stardew valley au family fluff| no TW's apply|ao3 link

After a long day in the mines, all Fit wants to do is sit at the fire with his husband Pac and their three kids, Richarlyson, Ramón and Rosa. This is him doing exactly that and what comes after.

Fic under the read more

The sun set slowly as Fit was walking back to the farm from the mountains, having gotten up early to go mining for a quest put up by Shane on the questboard at Pierre’s shop. He was tired and he hadn’t seen Pac all day, both of them having important things to do, on and off the farm. Despite his exhaustion, he still felt like walking back to the farm instead of taking the rickety minecart that he had given away bars of copper, iron and gold to the community centre for its repair. He didn’t yet trust that it wouldn’t break down mid journey, so he took the scenic route; past Linus’ tent and the Carpenter’s Shop.

Pac, the night before, had insisted that he’d stay at the farm the next day, wanting to spend time with their sons Ramón and Richarlyson and daughter Rosa, wanting to get the new animals that they’d bought recently from Marnie to get acclimated to the farm. Fit smiled to himself, despite being the primary owner of the farm, it having been his grandfather’s before him, he would not have thought to try to acclimate the farm animals personally. He’d have just let them do their thing until they were comfortable enough for him to shear them or take their eggs. But that was very in nature for Pac, especially when he, while Fit went mining or to Calico Desert for the Skull Caverns, looked after their two boys and the newest addition to their family. Though that’s not to say that Pac didn’t also do those things, they took it in turns to go mining while the other spent time at the farm.

Reaching the northernmost point of the farm, Fit made a pit stop to the water bowl outside the house, refilling it with water from his watering can. It was a task that normally they’d let the kids do but Fit noticed it to be empty. He didn’t like their cat, at first; it being a mangy old thing that Ramón had fallen in love with when it had made its home underneath the covering over their small orchard. He ’d succumbed to the puppy dog look that his three boys pulled when he suggested moving the cat somewhere else. Having filled Katos’ bowl and emptied his items in their assorted chests, he headed into the house.

Their house was laid out in a pretty standard way, Fit thought, with the first room you entered from the front door being the living room with kitchen on the left, in an open plan design. On the furthest wall from the front door was a fireplace that he and Pac had built together, as the house when he first moved in had no central heating. It wasn’t built well, clearly having multiple repairs made to it over their time living on the farm but he loved it. It was a show of their love of their home. Of their life spent together.

Shouts too loud for the time it was could be heard from the armchair in front of the fire, followed by little footsteps that could only belong to his two sons. He crouched down, reaching their height as they bulldozed their way into his arms, feeling the full force of two young children slamming into his body.

“Well isn’t it good to be back home eh? I hope you boys have been behaving yourselves for your Pai,” Fit looks at the two boys in his arms, having stood up with a child in each arm.

They both nod before, in almost unison, rambling about what happened while he was gone, voices getting muddled as they spoke on top of one another. Fit nods as if he’s understanding the two, when in reality, their voices blend into one amalgamation that no one would be able to understand. The young boys don’t notice this however, both too engrossed in informing their dad of the day’s events.

He walks to where Pac was still sitting with their youngest child Rosa leaning on his chest, sleeping soundly. He gently lowers each of the boys back onto the armrests of the chair, ruffling Ramón’s wavy hair, knowing that it wouldn’t have the potential to badly affect the boy’s hair like it would Richarlyson’s tight, curled hair.

“Oi Fitchie. Tudo bem?” Pac talks quietly, aware of the sleeping toddler, eyes quickly taking in any visible injuries on Fit’s person. Fit smiles to himself at the action, feeling Pac’s love through his searching eyes. He had no injuries for Pac to treat but he allowed his husband to look for some anyways.

“Oh you know, the usual. Too many slimes and cave flies,” Fit reaches a hand out to cup Pac’s face before kissing his cheek, “I’ll let you continue the story while I shower and get ready for bed.” He emphasises the end of his sentence, knowing that his boys do not like the preemptive part of going to bed, but adored the actual act of sleeping greatly. Pac, as if their relationship was brand new and not several years old at this point, blushed scarlet at Fit’s action, still not fully used to the initially stoic man showing such affection.

He heads off to shower and as he walks away, he can hear Pac picking up from where he left off, midway through telling a story of an adventure of him as a teen with their Tia Bagi and Tio Cellbit. The trio were known as the ‘troublesome trio’ growing up, having grown up in Pelican Town unlike Fit.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Feeling fresh and mostly rested after his shower, Fit walked back into the living room to see Pac having finished his story with their two boys on the verge of sleep, resting their heads on his shoulders. Picking up Richarlyson softly, so as to not rouse him from his almost slumbering state, he leads Pac holding both Rosa and Ramón in his arms to the children’s bedroom. As the two boys were still young they shared a room while Rosa got the smallest room that connected to Fit and Pac’s room. Once the two grew older, they’d commission Robin to build another room in the house for whichever of the kids to move into.

Fit took off Richarlyson’s prosthetic, knowing the boy would be too drowsy to unhook the little bands and clasps, before tucking him into his bed. He also tucked Richarlyson’s hair into his bonnet, preventing the potential for his hair to frizz as he slept. His side of the room was a lot messier than Ramón’s, with a mural in its beginning stages being painted on one wall and paint supplies and sketches strewn across the floor. As Pac had told him once, if it had happened at the orphanage where he grew up, the culprit would’ve been forced to get rid of it themselves; sanding away the paint and giving the wall a fresh coat of whatever bland off-white they’d decided to paint that specific room.

To Fit’s right, he could see in his peripheral vision that Pac was doing the same with Ramón, tucking him in tightly and leaving a kiss on the top of his head before exiting the room. Fit followed after him, having leaned Ricarlyson’s leg against his bedside table so that it was in arm’s reach for when the child woke up. Ramón’s side of the room was no less messy, more it being an organised mess. He knew where everything was despite the numerous pieces of machinery he’d been tinkering with scattered across any available surface.

They go back to the lounge after having put Rosa in her crib, sitting together on the armchair despite them clearly not being able to fit comfortably. Speaking in quiet voices, they tell each other of their days; who they spoke to, what fofoca Pac managed to get and other such things. As they spoke, the crackles of the fire faded into background noise, the two solely focusing on each other with a slight ear out listening for the potential of Rosa waking up.

It’s late into the night when their conversation dwindles down, the need to sleep finally taking hold of their bodies. Pac kisses his cheek before lightly tapping his ass, signalling him to get up from his lap so that they could go to bed. It’s not a common motion for Pac to do, so it causes Fit to stutter and stumble slightly as he lifts himself from his husband’s lap and walks to their room, glancing briefly at all of the different adventures the family had been memorialised in a gallery wall.

Their room was decorated simply. With framed birth certificates for each of their children and the deed to the farm pinned to one wall. Their bed rested against another wall and was a successful experiment of Robin’s, and was kindly given to the pair as a wedding gift when she had heard Pac jokingly complain about Fit’s old bed. They walked to the bed, each choosing a side, before getting comfortable. They were both quite specific on how they slept; Fit needed flat pillows for he slept on his back, having needed to sleep that way when living in a rundown area of Zuzu City, and Pac needed fluffy pillows for he slept on his side facing away from the wall, needing to be aware of his surroundings at all times because of the hostility in the orphanage he grew up in. They fell into a deep sleep quickly, the events of the day fully catching up to the pair.

With the sound of chickens clucking and their other animals waking up, Fit rouses to a weight on his chest. Expecting it to be Pac, he rests his hand on their hair, only to feel the bonnet that he’d gotten Richarlyson to wear not even twelve hours prior. He lifts his head up slightly, looking to his side to see his position replicated but with Pac and Ramón, his heart warming at the sight. 

This was home, Fit thought.

[cincinnatusvirtue]

Countries that are no more: Achaemenid Empire (550BC-330BC)

It was not the first empire of Iranian peoples, but it arose as probably the greatest in terms of influence and became the measure by which all subsequent Iranian empires tended to compare themselves and its influence on culture, government & civil infrastructure would influence others beyond the span of its territory and the span of time. This is the Achaemenid Empire.

Name: In Old Persian it was known as Xšāça or the "The Kingdom or the Empire", it was named the Achaemenid Empire by later historians. Named after the ruling dynasty established by its founder Cyrus the Great who cited the name of his ancestor Haxāmaniš or Achaemenes in Greek as progenitor of the dynasty. It is sometimes also referred to as the First Persian Empire. The Greeks simply referred to it as Persia, the name which stuck for the geographic area of the Iranian plateau well into the modern era.

Language: Old Persian & Aramaic were the official languages. With Old Persian being an Iranian language that was the dynastic language of the Achaemenid ruling dynasty and the language of the Persians, an Iranian people who settled in what is now the southwestern Iranian plateau or southwest Iran circa 1,000 BC. Aramaic was a Semitic language that was the common and administrative language of the prior Neo-Assyrian & Neo-Babylonian Empires which centered in Mesopotamia or modern Iraq, Syria & Anatolian Turkey. After the Persian conquest of Babylon, the use of Aramaic remained the common tongue within the Mesopotamian regions of the empire, eventually becoming a lingua franca across the land. As the empire spread over a vast area and became increasingly multiethnic & multicultural, it absorbed many other languages among its subject peoples. These included the Semitic languages Akkadian, Phoenician & Hebrew. The Iranian language of Median among other regional Iranian languages (Sogdian, Bactrian etc). Various Anatolian languages, Elamite, Thracian & Greek among others.

Territory: 5.5 million kilometers squared or 2.1 million square miles at its peak circa 500BC. The Achaemenid Empire spanned from southern Europe in the Balkans (Greece, Bulgaria, European Turkey) & northwest Africa (Egypt, Libya & Sudan) in the west to its eastern stretches in the Indus Valley (Pakistan) to parts of Central Asia in the northeast. It was centered firstly in the Iranian Plateau (Iran) but also held capitals in Mesopotamia (Iraq). Territory was also found in parts of the Arabian Peninsula & the Caucausus Mountains.

Symbols & Mottos: The Shahbaz or Derafsh Shahbaz was used as the standard of Cyrus the Great, founder of the empire. It depicts a bird of prey, typically believed to be a falcon or hawk (occasionally an eagle) sometimes rendered gold against a red backdrop and depicts the bird holding two orbs in its talons and adorned with an orb likewise above its head. The symbolism was meant to depict the bird guiding the Iranian peoples to conquest and to showcase aggression & strength coupled with dignity. The imperial family often kept falcons for the pastime of falconry.

Religion: The ancient Iranian religion of Zoroastrianism served as the official religion of the empire. It was adopted among the Persian elite & and had its unique beliefs but also helped introduce the concept of free-will among its believers, an idea to influence Judaism, Christianity & Islam in later centuries. Despite this official religion, there was a tolerance for local practices within the subject regions of the empire. The ancient Mesopotamian religion in Babylon & Assyria, Judaism, the Ancient Greek & Egyptian religions & Vedic Hinduism in India was likewise tolerated as well. The tolerance of the Achaemenids was considered a relative hallmark of their dynasty from the start. Famously, in the Old Testament of the Bible it was said that it was Cyrus the Great who freed the Jews from their Babylonian captivity and allowed them to return to their homeland of Judea in modern Israel.

Currency: Gold & silver or bimetallic use of coins became standard within the empire. The gold coins were later referred to as daric and silver as siglos. The main monetary production changes came during the rule of Darius I (522BC-486BC). Originally, they had followed the Lydian practice out of Anatolia of producing coins with gold, but the practice was simplified & refined under the Achaemenids.

Population: The estimates vary ranging from a low end of 17 million to 35 million people on the upper end circa 500BC. The official numbers are hard to determine with certainty but are generally accepted in the tens of millions with the aforementioned 17-35 million being the most reasonable range based on available sources.

Government: The government of the Achaemenid Empire was a hereditary monarchy ruled by a king or shah or later referred to as the ShahanShah or King of Kings, this is roughly equivalent to later use of the term Emperor. Achaemenid rulers due the unprecedented size of their empire held a host of titles which varied overtime but included: King of Kings, Great King, King of Persia, King of Babylon, Pharaoh of Egypt, King of the World, King of the Universe or King of Countries. Cyrus the Great founded the dynasty with his conquest first of the Median Empire and subsequently the Neo-Babylonians and Lydians. He established four different capitals from which to rule: Pasargadae as his first in Persia (southwest central Iran), Ecbatana taken from the Medians in western Iran's Zagros Mountains. The other two capitals being Susa in southwest Iran near and Babylon in modern Iraq which was taken from the Neo-Babylonians. Later Persepolis was made a ceremonial capital too. The ShahanShah or King of Kings was also coupled with the concept of divine rule or the divinity of kings, a concept that was to prove influential in other territories for centuries to come.

While ultimate authority resided with the King of Kings and their bureaucracy could be at times fairly centralized. There was an expansive regional bureaucracy that had a degree of autonomy under the satrapy system. The satraps were the regional governors in service to the King of Kings. The Median Empire had satraps before the Persians but used local kings they conquered as client kings. The Persians did not allow this because of the divine reverence for their ShahanShah. Cyrus the Great established governors as non-royal viceroys on his behalf, though in practice they could rule like kings in all but name for their respective regions. Their administration was over their respective region which varied overtime from 26 to 36 under Darius I. Satraps collected taxes, acted as head over local leaders and bureaucracy, served as supreme judge in their region to settle disputes and criminal cases. They also had to protect the road & postal system established by the King of Kings from bandits and rebels. A council of Persians were sent to assist the satrap with administration, but locals (non-Persian) could likewise be admitted these councils. To ensure loyalty to the ShahanShah, royal secretaries & emissaries were sent as well to support & report back the condition of each satrapy. The so called "eye of the king" made annual inspections of the satrapy to ensure its good condition met the King of Kings' expectations.

Generals in chief were originally made separate to the satrap to divide the civil and military spheres of government & were responsible for military recruitment but in time if central authority from the ShahanShah waned, these could be fused into one with the satrap and general in chiefs becoming hereditary positions.

To convey messages across the widespread road system built within the empire, including the impressive 2,700 km Royal Road which spanned from Susa in Iran to Sardis in Western Anatolia, the angarium (Greek word) were an institution of royal messengers mounted on horseback to ride to the reaches of the empire conveying postage. They were exclusively loyal to the King of Kings. It is said a message could be reached to anywhere within the empire within 15 days to the empire's vast system of relay stations, passing message from rider to rider along its main roads.

Military: The military of the Achaemenids consisted of mostly land based forces: infantry & cavalry but did also eventually include a navy.

Its most famous unit was the 10,000-man strong Immortals. The Immortals were used as elite heavy infantry were ornately dressed. They were said to be constantly as 10,000 men because for any man killed, he was immediately replaced. Armed with shields, scale armor and with a variety of weapons from short spears to swords, daggers, slings, bows & arrows.

The sparabara were the first line of infantry armed with shields and spears. These served as the backbone of the army. Forming shield walls to defend the Persian archers. They were said to ably handle most opponents and could stop enemy arrows though their shields were vulnerable to enemy spears.

There was also the takabara light infantry and though is little known of them it seems they served as garrison troops and skirmishers akin to the Greek peltast of the age.

The cavalry consisted of four distinct groups: chariot driven archers used to shoot down and break up enemy formations, ideally on flat grounds. There was also the traditional horse mounted cavalry and also camel mounted cavalry, both served the traditional cavalry functions and fielded a mix of armor and weapons. Finally, there was the use of war elephants which were brought in from India on the empire's eastern reaches. These provided archers and a massive way to physically & psychologically break opposing forces.

The navy was utilized upon the empire's reaching the Mediterranean and engaged in both battles at sea and for troop transport to areas where troops needing deploying overseas, namely in Greece.

The ethnic composition of Achaemenid military was quite varied ranging from a Persian core with other Iranian peoples such as the Medians, Sogdian, Bactrians and Scythians joining at various times. Others including Anatolians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Anatolians, Indians, Arabs, Jews, Phoenicians, Thracians, Egyptians, Ethiopians, Libyans & Greeks among others.

Their opponents ranged from the various peoples they conquered starting with the Persian conquest of the Medians to the Neo-Babylonians, Lydians, Thracians, Greeks, Egyptians, Arabs & Indians and various others. A hallmark of the empire was to allow the local traditions of subjugated areas to persist so long as garrisons were maintained, taxes were collected, local forces provided levies to the military in times of war, and they did not rebel against the central authority.

Economy: Because of the efficient and extensive road system within the vast empire, trade flourished in a way not yet seen in the varied regions it encompassed. Tax districts were established with the satrapies and could be collected with relative efficiency. Commodities such as gold & jewels from India to the grains of the Nile River valley in Egypt & the dyes of the Phoenicians passed throughout the realm's reaches. Tariffs on trade & agricultural produce provided revenue for the state.

Lifespan: The empire was founded by Cyrus the Great circa 550BC with his eventual conquest of the Median & Lydian Empires. He started out as Cyrus II, King of Persia a client kingdom of the Median Empire. His reign starting in 559BC. Having overthrown and overtaken the Medians, he turned his attention Lydia and the rest of Anatolia (Asia Minor). He later attacked the Eastern Iranian peoples in Bactria, Sogdia and others. He also crossed the Hindu Kush mountains and attacked the Indus Valley getting tribute from various cities.

Cyrus then turned his attention to the west by dealing with the Neo-Babylonian Empire. Following his victory in 539BC at the Battle of Opis, the Persians conquered the Babylonia with relative quickness.

By the time of Cyrus's death his empire had the largest recorded in world history up to that point spanning from Anatolia to the Indus.

Cyrus was succeeded by his sons Cambyses II and Bardiya. Bardiya was replaced by his distant cousin Darius I also known as Darius the Great, whose lineage would constitute a number of the subsequent King of Kings.

Darius faced many rebellions which he put down in succession. His reign is marked by changes to the currency and the largest territorial expansion of the empire. An empire at its absolute zenith. He conquered large swaths of Egypt, the Indus Valley, European Scythia, Thrace & Greece. He also had exploration of the Indian Ocean from the Indus River to Suez Egypt undertaken.

The Greek kingdom of Macedon in the north reaches of the Hellenic world voluntarily became a vassal of Persia in order to avoid destruction. This would prove to be a fateful first contact with this polity that would in time unite the Greek-speaking world in the conquest of the Achaemenid Empire. However, at the time of Darius I's the reign, there were no early indications of this course of events as Macedon was considered even by other Greek states a relative backwater.

Nevertheless, the Battle of Marathon in 490BC halted the conquest of mainland Greece for a decade and showed a check on Persia's power in ways not yet seen. It is also regarded as preserving Classical Greek civilization and is celebrated to this day as an important in the annals of Western civilization more broadly given Classical Greece & in particular Athens's influence on western culture and values.

Xerxes I, son of Darius I vowed to conquer Greece and lead a subsequent invasion in 480BC-479BC. Xerxes originally saw the submission of northern Greece including Macedon but was delayed by the Greeks at the Battle of Thermopylae, most famously by Spartan King Leonidas and his small troop (the famed 300). Though the Persians won the battle it was regarded as a costly victory and one that inspired the Greeks to further resistance. Though Athens was sacked & burnt by the Persians, the subsequent victories on sea & land at Salamis & Plataea drove the Persians back from control over Greece. Though war would rage on until 449BC with the expulsion of the Persians from Europe by the Greeks.

However, the Greeks found themselves in a civil war between Athens & Sparta and Persia having resented the Athenian led coalition against their rule which had expelled them from Europe sought to indirectly weaken the Greeks by supporting Greek factions opposed to Athens through political & financial support.

Following this reversal of fortune abroad, the Achaemenid Empire not able to regain its foothold in Europe, turned inward and focused more on its cultural development. Zoroastrianism became the de-facto official religion of the empire. Additionally, architectural achievements and improvements in its many capitals were undertaken which displayed the empire's wealth. Artaxerxes II who reigned from 405BC-358BC had the longest reign of any Achaemenid ruler and it was characterized by relative peace and stability, though he contended with a number of rebellions including the Great Satraps Revolt of 366BC-360BC which took place in Anatolia and Armenia. Though he was successful in putting down the revolt. He also found himself at war with the Spartans and began to sponsor the Athenians and others against them, showcasing the ever dynamic and changing Greco-Persian relations of the time.

Partially for safety reasons, Persepolis was once again made the capital under Artaxerxes II. He helped expand the city and create many of its monuments.

Artaxerxes III feared the satraps could no longer be trusted in western Asia and ordered their armies disbanded. He faced a campaign against them which suffered some initial defeats before overcoming these rebellions, some leaders of which sought asylum in the Kingom of Macedon under its ruler Philip II (father of Alexander the Great).

Meanwhile, Egypt had effectively become independent from central Achaemenid rule and Artaxerxes III reinvaded in around 340BC-339BC. He faced stiff resistance at times but overcame the Egyptians and the last native Egyptian Pharaoh Nectanebo II was driven from power. From that time on ancient Egypt would be ruled by foreigners who held the title Pharaoh.

Artaxerxes III also faced rebellion from the Phoenicians and originally was ejected from the area of modern coastal Lebanon, Syria & Israel but came back with a large army subsequently reconquered the area including burning the Phoenician city of Sidon down which killed thousands.

Following Artaxerxes III's death his son succeeded him but a case of political intrigue & dynastic murder followed. Eventually Darius III a distant relation within the dynasty took the throne in 336BC hoping to give his reign an element of stability.

Meanwhile in Greece, due to the military reforms and innovations of Philip II, King of Macedon, the Greek speaking world was now unified under Macedon's hegemony. With Philip II holding the title of Hegemon of the Hellenic League, a relatively unified coalition of Greek kingdoms and city-states under Macedon premiership that formed to eventually invade Persia. However, Philip was murdered before his planned invasion of Asia Minor (the Achaemenid's westernmost territory) could commence. His son Alexander III (Alexander the Great) took his father's reforms and consolidated his hold over Greece before crossing over to Anatolia himself.

Darius III had just finished reconquering some rebelling vestiges of Egypt when Alexander army crossed over into Asia Minor circa 334BC. Over the course of 10 years Alexander's major project unfolded, the Macedonian conquest of the Persian Empire. He famously defeated Persians at Granicus, Issus and Gaugamela. The latter two battles against Darius III in person. He took the King of Kings family hostage but treated them well while Darius evacuated to the far eastern reaches of his empire to evade capture. He was subsequently killed by one of his relatives & satraps Bessus, whom Alexander eventually had killed. Bessus had declared himself King of Kings though this wasn't widely recognized and most historians regard Darius III, the last legitimate ShahanShah of Achaemenids.

Alexander had taken Babylon, Susa & Persepolis by 330BC and effectively himself was now ruler of the Persian Empire or at least its western half. In addition to being King of Macedon & Hegemon of the Hellenic League, he gained the titles King of Persia, Pharaoh of Egypt & Lord of Asia. Alexander would in time eventually subdue the eastern portions of the Achaemenid realm including parts of the Indus Valley before turning back to Persia and Babylon where he subsequently became ill and died in June 323BC at age 32. Alexander's intentions it appears were never to replace the Achaemenid government & cultural structure, in fact he planned to maintain and hybridize it with his native Greek culture. He was in fact an admirer of Cyrus the Great (even restoring his tomb after looting) & adopted many Persian customs and dress. He even allowed the Persians to practice their religion and had Persian and Greeks start to serve together in his army. Following his death and with no established successor meant the empire he established which essentially was the whole Achaemenid Empire's territory in addition to the Hellenic world fragmented into different areas run by his most trusted generals who established their own dynasties. The Asian territories from Anatolia to the Indus (including Iran and Mesopotamia) gave way to the Hellenic ruled Seleucid Empire while Egypt became the Hellenic ruled Ptolemaic Kingdom. The synthesis of Persian and Greek cultures continued in the Seleucid and Greco-Bactrian kingdoms of antiquity.

The Achaemenid Empire lasted for a little over two centuries (550BC-330BC) but it casted a long shadow over history. Its influence on Iran alone has persisted into the modern age with every subsequent Persian Empire claiming to be its rightful successor from the Parthian & Sasanian Empires of pre-Islamic Iran to the Safavids of the 16th-18th century and the usage of the title Shah until the last Shah's ejection from power in the 1979 Islamic Revolution. Even the modern Islamic Republic of Iran uses Achaemenid imagery in some military regiments and plays up its importance in tourism and museums as a source of pride to Persian (Farsi) & indeed Iranian heritage. Likewise, its form of governance and the pushing of the concept of divine rights of kings would transplant from its Greek conquerors into the rest of Europe along with various other institutions such as its road & mail system, tax collection & flourishing trade. Its mix of centralized & decentralized governance. Its religious & cultural tolerance of local regions even after their conquest would likewise serve as a template for other empires throughout history too. The Achaemenid Empire served as a template for vast international & transcontinental empires that would follow in its wake & surpass its size & scope of influence. However, it is worth studying for in its time, it was unprecedented, and its innovations so admired by the likes of Alexander the Great and others echo into the modern era.

[stephensmithuk]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: A Retrospection

It was common to refer to foreigners by the foreign versions of their titles; much less common today.

Costa Rica declared its independence from the defunct Federal Republic of Central America in 1838. Bar three small exceptions, most of Latin America was independent by 1889.

It was much easier for people to establish new identities back then - documents were much easier to forge.

The British Museum opened in June 1753; its two most controversial exhibits, the Elgin Marbles and Rosetta Stone had long been present by this time.

Dr Mortimer would be facing a professional conduct hearing today - he's blabbed about a man's heart condition to a stranger with no good reason!

Fulham Road, aka the A304, runs from the bottom end of Chelsea to Fulham Palace, then the home of the Bishop of London and now a museum. It passes Stamford Bridge, home ground of Chelsea FC.

Ross and Mangles sounds a rather on-the-nose name for somewhere that sells big, vicious dogs.

The "West Country" is an area covering SW England; precise definitions vary, but it would include Cornwall, Devon, Dorset and Somerset, along with the city of Bristol. There is an ITV region called ITV West Country that covers this area, with its own local news programme.

One assumes that the page survived despite Stapleton/Baskerville shooting him like that.

"It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England" - although there have been quite a few well-known people with that name since, such as Anthony "Tony" Blair or Anthony Ainley, the latter being the Master in Doctor Who from 1980 to 1989.

I can't find a white jessamine, but there are several plants called "white jasmine".

Les Huguenots is an opera by Giacomo Meyerbeer that premiered in Paris in 1836. It's about the events leading up to the 1572 St Bartholomew's Day Massacre, which was the mass murder of Protestants by Catholics in that country. A 2018 production can be viewed here:

The de Reszkes were three opera singers from this period who came from what was then the Russian-ruled "Congress Poland" - Josephine had retired at this point (and would die in 1891 aged 35), but Édouard and Jean were hugely acclaimed, making popular performances in London and later being honoured by Queen Victoria with the Royal Victorian Order.

That award, created in 1896, was and is at the sole discretion of the monarch; it is typically given for personal service to the monarch. Justin Welby, the current Archbishop of Canterbury, was made a Knight Grand Cross in that order in 2023 by Charles III, basically for doing the Coronation. Needing to adjust the Crown on his head clearly didn't count againat him.

That wraps The Hound of the Baskervilles. Onto The Valley of Fear!

[sharpjay217]

So Minecraft has new wolves!!

I am very happy about this, but it does make me curious what species each variation is based off of! You too? Awesome!

Rusty Wolf = Dhole

Seeing a little red jungle wolf took me right back to reading The Jungle Book as a kid, so I pretty much instantly decided they were dholes! A.k.a. Asian wild dogs or red dogs. They're an endangered canid native to Central, South, East and Southeast Asia, and they live in large clans ranging from 12-40 members.

Pale (Original) Wolf & Black Wolf = Grey Wolves

Our familiar friends have probably always been North American grey wolves, just pales ones! Despite their name, this iconic member of the canid family has an incredible amount of variation, and different subspecies of them are scattered all over North America.

Striped Wolf = Aardwolf

Okay, this is interesting, because they are definitely aardwolves! However, despite their names, aardwolves are actually the tiniest member of the hyaenidae family! Native to East and Southern Africa, they are exclusively insectivores and are known for following aardvarks to use their vacated burrows and foraging grounds. I think it's fascinating that a hyena was chosen for the wolf skins!

Snowy Wolf = Arctic Wolf

One of the many subspecies of gray wolves, arctic wolves are native to the Canadian Arctic and Alaska. Thanks to their territory being generally undesirable to humans, they are the only subspecies that can found across the entirety of their original range. Arctic wolves seem the most logical choice for snowy wolves, through there are several other pale-coated northern subspecies they could technically be.

Ashen Wolf = Northwestern Wolf

Speaking of northern subspecies, let's have some fun with the ashen variant. I'm pinning them as the Northwestern wolf, a.k.a. the Mackenzie Valley wolf! Native to, well, the northwestern part of Canada and Alaska, they are arguably the largest subspecies of wolf we know of. They match up pretty well with their Minecraft counterparts both in terms of habitat and possible coloration!

Woods Wolf = Eastern Wolf

Ooo, okay, I went down a rabbit hole with this one! Eastern wolves, a.k.a Great Lakes wolves or Algonquin wolves, are native to the Great Lakes region of North America. They exist in an identification limbo, with no current ruling on whether they are a subspecies of grey wolf, red wolf, or their own unique branch that drifts closer to coyotes on the canid family tree. There is even some debate on whether the Great Lakes and Algonquin variants should be counted as the same subspecies, which I think is fascinating!

Spotted Wolf = African Wild Dog

The more people who know these good bois exists, the happier I am. African wild dogs, a.k.a. painted dogs or Cape hunting dogs, are the largest wild canine in Africa. They live in packs of 5-30 members and are known their cooperative hunting tactics, using stamina to wear down prey. They're highly social animals, and you'll never find a lone dog.

Chestnut Wolf = Bat Eared Fox

So, initially, I wrote off these guys cause I wasn't counting foxes, but I gave in. The chestnut wolves don't look like much of any existing canines, and nothing that lives in taiga forest. So, bat eared foxes are my best guess. They're small canids native to southern Africa, and are part of the subfamily Otocyoninae, which is a sister family to the families containing true foxes and racoon dogs.

Speaking of raccoon dogs, they're my second best guess for the origin of the chestnut wolf. Their habitat makes slightly more sense, being from the forests of Japan and east Asia!

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 5/5

Book Blurb:

Ali Hazelwood promises “the cello scene in this book will change your life” in this Reylo-inspired grumpy-sunshine romance full of sharp banter, deep emotion, and irresistible humor.   When professional—and self-taught—violinist Gwen Jackson plays, she disappears into the peaks and valleys of each song, a quiet passion that never quite explodes into pure emotion. Xander Thorne is the exact opposite. A cellist and a rock star, he’s all about big emotion, but not even his six-foot-four frame can contain his skill, his genius . . . and an attitude that borders on jerkitude. 

Not only did it take Xander a year to notice that he and Gwen both play in the Manhattan Pops, but he also always seems to have the perfect cutting criticism about her technique. When Gwen is offered the role of first chair of the orchestra, something Xander has secretly coveted for years, their existing hostility goes up a notch. Yet, despite her best efforts, Gwen can’t ignore the sizzling chemistry between them. Forced to work more closely with each other, they can’t help exploring their attraction. As they begin to compose and play songs together, it’s clear that their powerful connection could make for a performance that would blow everyone’s minds. Suddenly, they’re box office dynamite, and the fragile romance growing between them is in danger of being crushed beneath a publicity stunt.

Review:

He's the grumpy famous professional cellist while she's the sunshine self taught violinist, both of them are part of the same orchestra and after a run in at a wedding.... a song has begun to be created between them. Gwen is a self taught professional violinist, she's kept to herself in the orchestra and enjoys playing music. Alex "Xander" Thorne is the complete opposite, he's the rock star cellist who is not only giant but is also grumpy and one could say, a bit of a jerk. When Gwen and Xander run into each other at a wedding, Xander begins to notice Gwen... and he can't seem to stay away. Gwen doesn't know why he's suddenly focused on her but he goes from giving her critiques on her technique to begging her for a coffee date. Things only escalate when Gwen is offered role of first chair, the one position that Xander has secretly coveted for years, their hostility only grows up.... but so does the chemistry. So when both of them are forced to work together they also begin to explore their attraction.... while composing songs and creating music together.... romance is beginning to be written out as well if only they could find a way to make the delicate song between them work without being crushed by everyone else's expectations of them. This was such a delight to read, as a musician I just adored this book so much. It gave me, if you've ever read it, La Corda De Ora vibes ( I was so obsessed with this manga when I was like 13). I had so much fun reading this one and I loved just how positively obsessed Alex is with Gwen, he fell head over heels for her music and was determined to have her as his partner. They were such a cute couple and I just had a smile on my face the entire time I was reading this and can't recommend it enough. I've been a huge fan of Julie Soto's writing for a while now and this one was just perfect, I can't wait to read her next book!

Release Date: July 16,2024

Publication/Blog: Ash and Books (ash-and-books.tumblr.com)

*Thanks Netgalley and Forever (Grand Central Publishing) | Forever for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

[longwindedbore]

An individual with the intelligence of a box of rocks gibbering nonsense about a giant Canadian faucet that can divert water to Southern California.

Despite there being neither riverway nor aqueduct to transport said water from the totally imaginary faucet.

Let no to video:

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZTFFMv66M/

Everyone in So Cal except Dementia DonOLD knows that the aqueduct extends 400 miles to the Sierra Nevada.

Every farmer in California’s Central Valley understands the water distribution system, where the water comes from and how muc it costs.

DonOLD is disconnected from reality.

[horizon-verizon]

Rhaenys is mixed race so her being on the whitish side isn’t unusual. The other Dornish characters in Asoiaf comics do look more brown.

An answer to this post, maybe this post as well.

The Dornish are not PoC. They are "spicy" white people; even in today's society, the British/Western EU white people can be both xenophobic and racist towards Southern/Central white Europeans.

Rhaenys' mother, Elia, was "white" bc the Martells (yes, translated into modern racial identities) are "white". Rhaenys was "white" and Rhaegar certainly wasn't any sort of PoC or PoC adjacent.

In her world, Rhaenys was just not the "right kind" of "Westerosi"/"white" that we'd also consider to be "white". Which is pre-extensive slave trade England-France-Germany--NorthWestern Europe pale people--in our specific matrix of global racial systems.

Which also doesn't include her own father; he is not shown to be xenophobic towards Dornish people.

Her maternal lineage/ethnicity.

So really, she did not have the "right kind" of lineage even as these people didn't actually think of her as "Dornish" bc she was born into the Targaryen royal family...just a "Dornish person's child". Any child born into the Westerosi royal family is not considered "Dornish", northerner, etc. They are considered part of the nonDornish Westerosi family, but with a different lineage. Remember Larra Rogare (mother to Aegon IV, Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragon Knight), how non-Dornish Westerosi were xenophobic towards her and her brothers despite the fact that she was pale skinned/pale-haired AND had Valyrian roots/lineage? Because she refused to speak the Common tongue, kept to herself and her Essosi/Lyseni ladies-in-waiting, and worshipped various Essosi gods instead of adopting the Seven?

At the same time, there was the idea that people who worshipped different gods or/and looked as if they came from an area associated with such "foreign" types of worship or speak the same language a particular "native" way or eat similar enough sorts of food (i.e., Rhoynar are Essosi and Essosi don't worship the Seven near-ubiquitously like and Dornish people eat much more spicy foods), xenophobia can overlap with racism or really lead into it. As it would have done if Daeron I had been successful in conquering Dorne. That is how racism originated, btw--religion & class distinctions and not necessarily skin by itself.

It'd be more accurate to say Rhaenys is a mixed-lineage child.

I raise these maps bc I want to make it clear that Dorne is not that populous compared to other realms; only a few people live in the Red Mountains, the southern deserts, and the Greenblood river valley. As you can see, the major castles and most people live near or on the few rivers

This is the description of Dorne in terms of cities in AWoIaF -- "Dorne":

There are no cities in Dorne, though the so-called shadow city that clings to the walls of Sunspear is large enough to be counted as a town (a town built of mud and straw, it must be admitted). Larger and more populous, the Planky Town at the mouth of the river Greenblood is mayhaps the nearest thing the Dornish have to a true city, though a city with planks instead of streets, where the houses and halls and shops are made from poleboats, barges, and merchant ships, lashed together with hempen rope and floating on the tide.

AND

The Red Mountains that compose its western and northern boundaries have kept Dorne separate from the rest of the realm for thousands of years, though the deserts have played a role as well. Behind that wall of mountains, more than three-quarters of the land is an arid wasteland. Nor is the long southern coast of Dorne more hospitable, being for the most part a snarl of reefs and rocks, with few protected anchorages. Those ships that do put ashore there, whether by choice or chance, find little to sustain them; there are no forests along the coast to provide timber for repairs, a scarcity of game, few farms, and fewer villages where provisions might be obtained. Even freshwater is hard to come by, and the seas south of Dorne are rife with whirlpools and infested with sharks and kraken.

For more reading, you may look at 🔗this essay [excerpt]:

In the mountains, access to rivers and rainfall raised the Daynes and the Yronwoods to kingship - although clearly trade was equally an important factor, given the rise of the Fowlers who claimed no such water access but who dominated the Wide Way that is the major caravan route in and out of Dorne. In the southern deserts, water was so important that the political class were called "the lords of the wells," although technically the Drylands and Ullers were/are riverine rather than oasitic. The Greenblood gives us the best example of how geography and culture interact: here, the necessities of cooperation to construct extensive irrigation works, which take larger labor forces than any one in-group could provide, as well as the common reliance on a single river (which requires some means of negotiating water rights between upstream and downstream), contributed to the creation of an elective High Kingship in that region. Other aspects of geography can be shown to have shaped Dorne in other ways: the wind and water currents that cause the "big storms that formed down in the Summer Sea would pick up moisture moving north until they slammed into Cape Wrath. For some strange reason the storms never seemed to strike at Dorne, "which restricts agriculture to a few regions and leads to Dorne's "thinly peopled" status. The lack of accessible harbors along the southern coast of Dorne which restricts maritime commerce to the far east of Dorne (although I remain puzzled as to how merchants going from and to Lannisport or Oldtown do for water and other supplies).

So to that past anon who was all like "like climate and geography is not the same as culture", no it is not, but it definitely and always gives rise to the particular character of a culture as culture is basically humans' response to their environment.

This is the Greenblood, described as having "shallow" waters:

🎨: Juan Carlos Barquet

So we're trying to pin down whether the Martells AND Dorne are a PoC realm/people/etc, right? If we are talking about how "race" exists within the world itself, it is almost impossible to really transfer what we know as "race" onto characters from Dorne based on skin color alone bc their world is simply not like ours at the end of the day. The history & current conditions are not the same, even with it being similar in some ways I already described below to Spain's own history and the Welshmen's own histories.

I know that the comics may have Dornish characters that are "browner" than nonDornish Westerosi in skin color. But it is just a fact that GRRM made the Martells (as a unit/popilation/a people/a collective) and several "salty" Dornish to look more like European Southern and Mediterranean white people [look at the 2nd link above--that pic I showed of his blog answer to a specific question abt it]. Those white people that English and German people have thought of/racialized as the "spicy" whites bc their culture is a lot closer to the non white ME, North African, and other Asian influences throughout their own history and thus have had ME, North African, etc. influences in their own culture. It doesn't make those "white" EU territories any less "white" in our own many racial systems. But they are considered "lesser" whites, esp the darker they are.

Spain has a lot of Arabic architecture, the language is heavily influenced by Arabic bc of Ottoman, "Moor" (an exonym that encompassed several people: Arabs, Amazigh, and Muslim Europeans), and other non"white"EU peoples. There were "interracial"/interracial marriages here and there. There was the Umayyad conquest and the subsequent Muslim imperial control from 711–720s. You see all these influences in the foods and some other practices....it doesn't make Spain a non white country. Dorne is the fictional analogy of Spain (imperfectly, but closest of all we have) if Spain constantly fought to keep itself out of others' imperial rule, like the Welsh and Irish.

I actually say all this more or less HERE, & HERE too.

But to continue anyway:

AND the population of what we call Dorne also has paler skinned non-Martells like the Daynes, the Fowlers, and the Yronwoods. All these houses have pale skinned, a range of eye colored, and blonde haired members from time to time. They are what Daeron I called "stony" Dornish; those who had the least Rhoynish "influence", but still have the accent and some Rhoynar ancestry.

In that post I linked all the way above, I also already gave the picture of Oberyn Martell GRRM had referenced made by Amok, one of the few artists he says represents many of the canonical physical features of his characters. Some of which he personally instructed Amok with detailed descriptions himself. And Oberyn has "olive" toned skin, but so do many Greek, Spanish, Portuegese people.

As for "sandy" Dornish people they tend to be much darker than either the exonymically named "salty" and "stony" peoples. Examples are the Ullers & the Qorgyles. They also existed before Nymeria came around and were First Men/Andal peoples then, like most other Dornish Houses I listed. They were "white" before her arrival. Some maybe married a few of her female warriors OR the children of those women and the Martell/other "half" Dornish people and thus you have a line of people stretching from before the Conquest who people would call "mixed" but that's like saying that Spain is full of mixed people bc of their own long past history of mixed marriages. The Dornish are uniquely themselves, or supposed to be:

LINK to So Spake Martin on Dornish Influences

Now why did the population per mile, or the "thinly-populated" detail matter? To paint a picture of how many people we can actually maybe say a "brown" racially vs "white", and thus from what we see here, Dornish people are mostly "white", and even the Ullers and Qorgyles, in our own world's racialization, is racially "ambiguous" (again, how U.S. and I assume England would racialize...GRRM is born-raised American writing to a mostly American audience and will likely be writing under the racial understanding of Americans). Therefore, it is a "spicy white" territory/state. And it is not like the U.S. that has a history a different race from somewhere else colonizing/enslaving the "native" populations and then down the line we still see differences b/t the Dornish populations where darker Dornish are put oppressed and deliberately segregated from paler people and yield a "nation" with several different ethnicities. Dorne is a territory with different Rhoynish influences-by-degree, and nearly all still worship the Seven like Andal nonDornishmen. Nearly all "forgot" the Rhoynar language but still speak the common tongue with a noticeable accent bc of that Rhoynish influence (I tend to imagine it like if a person were always speaking English with a Spaniard Spanish accent). Nearly all the houses practice absolute primogeniture, unless we go more north ("stony"), and even here it's told it's "some", not all.

In their world, racialization is just...not the same as ours (I'm talking U.S. and England) and even under the evaluation of race-translation, the Dornish are apparently more Spaniard/Portuegese white than South East Asian-East Asian-Mid Eastern, etc.

Even with Aerys making as if she "smells" like a Dornish person--NW Europeans often did the same to S and Medite Europeans towards renaissance and the early mod period. Sometimes continue to do so even today, and to Central Europeans like those from the Balkans.