#he was forced onto the notion that 'strong men like women' 'every man needs a wife to take care of teh kids' 'ur not a real man if ur gay'

[batj]

thinking abt TJ’s comphet and inner homophobia

[dwellordream]

“The mistaken claim that Amazons must have received their name because they were single-breasted was widely repeated by Greek and Roman writers, and every author thereafter is obliged to grapple with the paradoxical image. A fiction invented in the fifth century BC was behind the notion. This fake “fact” surfaced at least two centuries after the tribal name “Amazon” for an ethnic group of men and women was used by the Greeks (chapter 1). The historian Hellanikos of Lesbos (b. 490 BC) described Amazons as “a host of golden-shielded, silver-axed, man-loving, boy-killing females.” Then Hellanikos attempted to make their foreign name “Amazon” into a Greek word. The Greeks were fond of this sort of etymological exercise of forcing Greek meanings onto loanwords from other languages, based on similarities to sounds in Greek. The strong tendency of ancient writers to create and accept crude, “patently absurd” word derivations is well known.

In this case, Hellanikos maintained that Amazones must mean “breastless” or “lacking breast” because a- means “without” in Greek and mazos sounded to Greek ears a bit like mastos, the Greek word for “breast.” A rival folk etymology suggested that the name meant “without grain,” because maza was Greek for “barley.” The Scythian nomads were in fact meat-eaters, not vegetarians, but this dietary label was much too dull to compete with the lurid image of women who sacrificed their breasts to become warriors. Hellanikos’s false etymology demanded a story to explain the Amazon’s missing breast. Various dreadful scenarios were proposed for the method of this alleged self-mutilation, which was based solely on specious wordplay.

Airs, Waters, Places, a treatise attributed to the physician Hippocrates (fourth century BC), stated that Sarmatian women seared the right breast of baby girls with a red-hot bronze tool, so that the right arm would be stronger. The idea here was that the potential power of the breast would be displaced to the corresponding arm. It is physiologically true that handedness often corresponds to slightly larger hands and feet on the dominant side of the body, and that habitual exercise of one limb or hand can result in development of larger bones and musculature. (As noted in the previous chapter, bioarchaeological signs of right-handedness and larger finger bones among archers have been ob- served in the skeletal remains of warriors of both sexes in burial sites across Scythia.) Hellanikos and Hippocrates were contemporaries of Herodotus, our earliest and most accurate Greek source of detailed information about Sarmatians, Scythians, and Amazons based on his firsthand observations and interviews around the Black Sea in the fifth century BC.

Significantly, however, even though Herodotus describes many gruesome and extraordinary Scythian customs, he never mentions this self- inflicted breast deformity. Nevertheless, the idea took hold. Diodorus, Strabo, Pomponius Mela, Justin, and Orosius repeated the tale that Amazons used an iron tool to cauterize the breast at infancy or before pu- berty so that it would not hinder their use of the bow and spear. Pomponius Mela said that removal of the right breast made them “ready for action, able to withstand blows to the chest like men.” According to Apollodorus and Curtius, Amazons “pinched off” the right breast but retained the left for nursing their babies. Arrian described Amazons who came to join Alexander’s campaign in Persia (330 BC); to him, the right exposed breast appeared to be smaller than the covered left breast (see chapter 20).

We know that at least three later writers disagreed with the one-breast notion. John Tzetzes, the Byzantine commentator on Hellanikos, pointed out that the etymology was untrue because cutting off a breast would cause fatal bleeding. Another author, Philostratus (third century AD), rejected Hellanikos’s claim and proposed a more logical—and more humane—explanation, that amazon actually meant “not breast- fed.” Philostratus argued that real-life Amazons love their children but do not nurse them because the practice results in mollycoddled children and saggy breasts, undesirable traits in their warrior culture. Instead, the nomadic horsewomen nourish their babies with mare’s milk, honey, and dew. Tryphiodorus, a Greek poet of the fifth century AD, also defined amazon as “unsuckled.” Such a concept was far removed from Greek culture, with its stay-at-home nursing mothers, but seemed reasonable for nomadic hunter-warrior women.

A similar practice appears in a sixth-century AD Roman description of a northern nomad tribe called the Scrithiphini (probably the Sami people of the western Arctic region) whose women and men hunted together. According to Procopius, their infants were not nursed but fed with bone marrow and swaddled in cradle boards hung on trees while the mother and father pursued game. Once the sensational “factoid” of one breast became embedded in the catalog of Amazon attributes, each successive writer routinely included it in his description of the women warriors. Perhaps the concept seemed appropriate because Amazons represented the opposite of Greek wives and mothers, and their “terrifying asymmetry” signaled their barbarism.

Some modern scholars suggest that deliberately removing one breast was intended to symbolize the Amazons’ willful destruction of their own femininity and so resonated with Greek men who feared women who behaved like men. For Greek women, the removal of one breast would signify the terrible sacrifice Amazons made to become more like men. For other scholars “one-breastedness” signi- fied Amazons’ freedom from nursing and maternal attachments: Amazons “don’t need breasts because they will never raise children.” But many ancient Greek texts described Amazon mothers, and some referred to nursing babies (not to mention the archaeological discoveries of female warriors buried with children; chapter 4). According to another theory, Amazon “breastlessness” stood for the “sexual unripeness of the nubile adolescent” Greek maiden. Some scholars point out that Greeks associated the right side of the body with masculinity and the left with femininity. Most classical writers described removal of the right breast while the left was exposed, but some reversed the sides. And Greek artists were inconsistent about which of the two breasts was exposed in Amazon battle scenes.

If the concept of removing a breast was such an important symbolic attribute for the Greeks, then one must wonder why no single-breasted Amazons appear in classical art. Despite the popularity into modern times of “just-so stories” about how the Amazon “lost her breast,” ancient Greek painters and sculptors invariably depicted the mythic Amazons double-breasted. As noted, symmetry was an essential quality of the Greek ideal of beauty. Amazons of myth and art were always portrayed as beautiful heroic women, the equals of the handsome aristocratic Greek heroes. Perhaps physical asymmetry in artistic scenes would be jarring to Greek aesthetic sensibilities. (Ugly or deformed people appear in artistic illustrations of ancient comedies or scenes of daily life but are rare in heroic situations.) Moreover, artistic portrayals of Amazons are often erotic—showing mutilated women could interfere with sexual appeal.

Vase painters and sculptors often emphasized Amazons’ bosoms with diaphanous drapery or body-hugging garments. Another artistic “convention” was to show fighting and wounded Amazons in chitons (loose, short, belted tunics fastened at the shoulder—also worn by Greek males) worn in exomis style, with one breast and shoulder exposed. Art historians have interpreted this typical Amazonian pose in many different ways. Was revealing a breast an erotic gesture? Was the “one breast exposed” intended as a subtle, less graphic stand-in for the “one breast missing” literary motif ? Was a bared breast meant to evoke sympathy, in the case of wounded Amazons? Was flaunting the breast in the midst of battle a way of taunting or distracting the male heroes, or was it to make sure the men (and the viewer) understood that they were being attacked by women? In fact, one exposed breast reflected practical active attire. The archer goddess Artemis and the huntress Atalanta were dressed for action this way, and so were many Greek male archers, workers, warriors, and heroes. In Greece and other ancient cultures, the dominant shoulder of active figures was often left unclothed for freedom of movement.

Apparently Greek artists and their audiences were not persuaded by the literary trope that female archers were hindered by their breasts. But if artists never depicted one-breasted Amazons, why did the idea catch on and persist so stubbornly in Greek literature? Did some ancient cultures really practice breast removal or suppression? Was there some exotic custom or mode of dress that could have been misunderstood in antiquity, leading Greeks to believe reports of “breastless” or “single- breasted” women warriors? An atrocious practice in West and Central Africa today results in the maiming of millions of young girls by their mothers who hope to prevent rape. “Breast ironing” involves cauterizing budding breasts with a heated metal tool to inhibit breast development. Is it possible that travelers’ tales of similar African “breast-searing” customs were known to the writers of the Hippocratic texts and projected onto Sarmatian women and Amazons of Scythia?

There is no way of knowing how ancient this “secret” ritual of Central Africa really is, and in the absence of any other evidence the likelihood of a similar practice in ancient Eurasia seems slight. Nonetheless, the coincidence is striking, given that several ancient Greek sources mention the use of a heated metal tool. A fictional romance written in Egypt by Dionysius Skytobrachion, about Amazons transported to a Libyan setting, included ethnological details from North Africa to give local flavor to his tale (see chapter 23). When girls were born to the Amazons, he wrote, “both their breasts were seared so that they would not develop into maturity, for they thought that projecting breasts were a hindrance in warfare [and] this is why they are called by the Greeks Amazons.” He is the only ancient author to say both breasts were cauterized, as in modern reports of breast ironing. Did the author know of an African breast-searing custom? The answer is unknown.

A less violent, practical ethnological tradition of “breast suppression” for the comfort of horsewomen existed much closer to home—in the heart of ancient Amazon territory. Since antiquity girls and women of the Black Sea–Caucasus were trained to be expert archers and riders who hunted and fought. Ethnographic evidence among Circassians, Ossetians, Adigeans, Karbardians, Abkhazians, and other groups points to a long tradition of “flattening the breasts during maidenhood.” When girls were seven to ten years of age, their mothers laced a leather vest or corset around their chests, to suppress movement when the girls were riding and shooting. The leather corset was worn until marriage. On the wedding night, the groom slowly, patiently unlaced the fifty-some ties to demonstrate his love, respect, and self-control. Early European travelers in the Caucasus described this traditional article of young women’s attire, which later became known (and modified) as the “Circassian corset.” In the Caucasus, commented the German historian Julius von Klaproth in 1807, “young unmarried females compress their breasts with a close leather jacket, in such a manner that they are scarcely perceptible.” Archaeologist John Abercromby remarked in 1891,“There is nothing improbable in believing that the Caucasian custom has a long row of centuries behind it.”

One of the Nart sagas refers indirectly to the custom of enclosing the torso of girls in leather corsets. In one saga the hero Warzameg mocks a young woman for having “breasts like old bouncing pumpkins.” The simile reveals Caucasian cultural values, notes the Nart saga translator John Colarusso. Ridiculing large, unrestrained, bobbling breasts was meant as a great insult. Among horse peoples of the Caucasus, swinging, pendulous breasts were considered unsightly and awkward “for one simple reason.” Colarusso explains: “If a woman were to go galloping on her horse across the steppes with large breasts unconstrained, she would be uncomfortable and in pain from their bouncing. So there was a premium on small, firm breasts” for active outdoorswomen. Notably, in the 1920s, European and American women’s new liberated, active lifestyle coincided with tight bandeaus to minimize the chest and flatten the breasts into a boyish silhouette.

Athletic women of most body types tend to favor some sort of bosom support, and modern mounted archers wear tight bodices. It’s reasonable to guess that in antiquity, most female riders, archers, fight- ers, and athletes bound or supported their breasts in some fashion. “Support, binding, or restraint, or some form of sports bra for riding” was probably used by mounted nomad women. Greek artists often depicted Amazons with tight-fitting tunics and diagonal chest bands that may have functioned something like a modern “cross-your-heart” brassiere, notes one art historian. Was there any other special attire that could have been misunderstood by the Greeks as “breastlessness” in antiquity? In vase paintings, many Amazons are clad in cuirasses (rigid bronze breastplates), scaled armored tunics, laced corselets, and upper garments and straps, much like those worn by men and all of which had a “flattening effect”.

These artistic depictions reflected the chest armor of padded or rigid materials and scaled armor worn by real nomad warriors of both sexes in antiquity. Archaeological discoveries in Saka-Scythian-Sarmatian lands have turned up a variety of armored tunics fashioned from horn, hooves, bone, and small gold plates or scales in the graves of both men and women (chapters 4, 12, and 13). Baldrics (diagonal chest straps) and wide belts of leather with gold, bronze, and iron plates were also common in male and female burials. If the Greeks observed fighting women clad in protective chest armor that looked just like male armor, the flat-chested effect would help explain descriptions of “breastless” Amazons.

Modern “Amazon” fantasies often picture women wearing curvaceous metallic chest armor molded in the shape of breasts, à la Wonder Woman and Xena, Warrior Princess (fig. 16.4). An ancient version seems to be depicted in figure 5.1. But such erotic “breasted” armor is imprac- tical and dangerous. Experienced female soldiers of any era know that breast-shaped metal chest armor would be life-threatening. Why? Because cone-or dome-shaped projections would direct the force of blows of weapons toward the sternum and heart. Even a fall could be fatal, causing the sharp metal separating the breast hollows to injure or even fracture the breastbone. Therefore, armored fighting women in antiquity would have worn padding under chest plates shaped exactly like the men’s, presenting a flat surface or a ridge down the center to deflect blows away from the heart.

In antiquity, some male and female warriors wore heavier armor on one side of their bodies, leaving the other side less protected or exposed, which could give an impression of single-breastedness. As we saw in the archaeology of Scythians (chapter 4), the skeletons of warrior men and women indicated that most battle injuries were on the left side of the body, dealt by right-handed opponents. Heavy armor for a gladiator’s sword arm and shoulder was used in Roman times, especially for the gladiator known as the “Thracian.” Suits of armor with pauldrons, heavy plates protecting one shoulder and arm, were often used in mounted combat. One-sided armor or shoulder padding unfamiliar to the Greeks could have been mistaken for single-breastedness and could account for Arrian’s report of the asymmetrical chests of the Amazons encountered by Alexander.

The notion of single-breasted Amazons—which seems to signal something about a warrior women’s sexuality, willpower, and masculine strength achieved by sacrificing a feminine attribute—has clung to the standard literary description of Amazons for more than two millen- nia. It seizes the imagination because it is gruesome, just as the tale of African mothers who cauterize their daughters’ breasts grabs attention today. A seductive false “logic” still clings to the ancient image. To people who have never drawn a Scythian-style bow or observed women archers competing in Mongolia, it seems to make sense that womanly breasts might present an encumbrance in archery. But drawing the bowstring back along the cheek or holding the bow out from the body while turning to the side means that breasts are no hindrance and there is no danger of injury to them.

Instead, a real concern is that loose clothing might interfere with the bowstring. Therefore archers wear body-hugging upper garments, like those shown on many Amazons in ancient art. For beginning longbow archers, the most vulnerable area is the inner forearm, which can be struck by the bowstring. Yet the notion of protecting the chest persists in archery. Women—and men too—are often encouraged, even required, to wear chest-guards, even though expert male and female archers find that close-fitting shirts and a forearm guard are the only safety requirements. An analogy exists in modern boxing. Unsubstantiated safety concerns were long used to justify excluding women from boxing. Women won the right to box in the 1970s in the United States but were required to wear an unwieldy plastic chest shield, which caused more cuts and bruises and made the chest a much bigger target. In 2008, medical experts convinced the boxing commission to lift the regulation.”

- Adrienne Mayor, “Breasts: One or Two?” in The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Warrior Women across the Ancient World

[fanfiction-inc]

If you are still doing the Ns/fw alphabet thing would I be able to request one of Higgs Monaghan?

Oh, but of course! Now I must apologize to you and everyone else for the delay! I have finally been able to finish up some things for college and have a slow period to get some stuff done! I hope you enjoy this!

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

It all depends on the relationship he is having with the one he’s fucking. If it’s a one night stand, he has no obligation to clean up the other party, much less show them kindness or deliver niceties on his way out. He simply will redress, and leave whoever they are. Something more than a fling, like a friends/enemies with benefits or standard relationship warrants far more sweetness from the terrorist. He’ll wipe you down, clean you up of any mess and offer the sweetest praises. Now this man, despite all the terrible shit he has done, is the sweetest pillow talker, holding you as if he’ll never see you again and reminding you of what you mean to him. He hardly has quality relationships, so having you as a friend (or enemy with benefits) or partner is what he values most.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite part is of course that damn silver tongue he uses to charm you like always and the mouth it resides in. Be it the nicest words you’ll ever hear or the filthiest, he savors how it makes you react. The stammering or stern and silent look away when you blush. The subtle press of thighs or move of an object to cover a ‘growing’ problem. He loves it all. He also loves what he can do with that mouth and tongue that could get you going. Licking along a hot shaft with kitten like flicks of his tongue, or along folds that hold the honey pot he wishes to steal from.

It doesn’t matter the shape, size, or prominence, but Higgs will always be an ass man. Be it cupping it, squeezing it, using it to get a rise or having his cock buried deep, he will always love a good ass. He tends to be more sexual with asses when his partner is male (or presenting male), often finding moments like those intimate in the guy category. The ass on a woman (or presenting woman) is often more for holding, especially for stability when his tongue is buried deep in them.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Anywhere. Literally fucking anywhere. You want it inside you? Done! Want it down your throat? He’ll go right ahead! Want it covering your face or body? He’ll do his damnedest! He loves the sensation of filling you, but fucking hell does he love how it looks on your body and how it decorates you. Of course he finds humor if it gets in your hair or misses you from a wrong angle, but that’s the playfulness in him talking.

Now him taking any form of cum? That’s a different story. He is absolutely okay with cum inside him or down his throat, but he despises spitting it out or having it leak from him. It’s an intimate act to take such from his partner, so he’ll practically beg for it as long as you’re willing to give it!

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

This Particle of God who permeates all existence is by simple definition, a slut. Now, I say slut with all the love I have for him in the world, but it is quite true. Higgs is by far the biggest example of ‘switch’ energy. He wants to be used like a toy, wants to be used for the sake of giving others pleasure. Tie him up, decorate him in leather. Give him a few healthy smacks to the ass, but just know if he’s the dominating force in the relationship, he may never admit such. It’s something he prefers to keep to himself until he finds the perfect partner to open up to about it, so it remains his dirty secret.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Higgs has had some good flings in his time, allowing experience with both men and women alike and giving him a rather good sense of what he’s doing. He’s learned just what his tongue can do, how his words can make the body react. And when he rolls his hips just the right way, oh, he gets the idea and knows how to manipulate it.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Oh, he could never start off without without a good bit of foreplay. Typically with any partner, Higgs prefers a good bit of face sitting or ‘69’ play, though his main objective is to focus on his partner's pleasure. Anything he can do to get his partner off first, he will attempt to do.

When it comes to his partners, the positions vary. Up against a wall, he’d have their legs wrapped around him and fucking up into them. Don’t forget the wandering fingers to a sensitive clit or hand to a weeping dick. Laying down, it’s a toss up between missionary or spooning. Missionary is often used when he wants to keep his gaze locked with his partner's own, where as spooning is for those moments where he wants to hold his partner close. When he’s spooning, this can be for intimacy purposes where he goes slow and deep, keeping the moment drawn on to savor you or your body. But in other times, it’s the moment to jackhammer his hips into you until you’re a shaking mess. On your knees, and he has you in doggy. This position is also used more often for flings where no eye contact has to be made and is quick enough to be over and done with.

Now for himself, especially if it’s with a male/male presenting partner or during an intense pegging session, he’ll be begging for a form of missionary. He much prefers holding his legs up towards himself so his bum is presented to his partner. If you include a nice hand job while fucking him, then he’s done for in that position.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

This man is not only a switch in the dom/sub realm, but he also is in the serious/humorous realm as well. Higgs is often very humorous when it comes to sex, finding ways to make it fun and carefree. He’ll crack jokes, chuckle if something doesn’t go quite right, but above all, he’ll find it fucking hilarious if you joke back. Playful banter is all part of the fun, but sometimes the moment deserves some serious focuses. If his partner is ever down on themselves or their bodies, he’s serious in the moment. He will make fucking sure that they know what they do to him, but also how beautiful/handsome their body is. All encouragement and softness, but lacking the humorous tone. Then, there is the time were the two collide, where pleasure is the main goal.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Grooming isn’t usually a big concern to him, but he does do it here or there. Just like the stubble that grows on his chin, he sometimes just lets it go until it’s so long and thick that it must be taken care of, just like the onsets of a beard. The color is just as dark as his hair, but a little curled as compared to the well kept nature of his hair on top of his head.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

It truly depends on the partner. If this is a one night stand, Higgs won’t hesitate to call it a quick fuck and move on. He’s not going to give his attention or devotion to a person who doesn’t deserve the full on ‘Higgs Monaghan experience’, but if he feels it may be going somewhere, then expect some kisses or sweet words. Maybe even expect a bit of his strong façade to slip in the process.

Now, if you’re his friend/enemy with benefits, or his partner, then here comes the fucking romance train. Sweet, lingering kisses. Gentle brushes along one's skin followed by an unlimited amount of devotion and praise. He will worship the very ground you walk on as long as he gets a piece of you in some way, shape, or aspect. His love will show in every act, even if it’s a quickie or just a straight up fucking session. He may not be too brash, but his reminders will come at a constant, mixed in with lewd conversation and grunted notions.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Being in his clothes, be it his mask or just his cloak, is the best material he can go to for jacking off. Be it imagining you on your back, hands going to work on whatever gets you off while the fabric bunches beneath you, or the idea of you being in control, being ‘him’. Fuck, does it get his mind going and hand going even faster. The easiest thing to do in those moments is to call you up for some straight up dirty talk. If he’s going to be going after release, he wants you to do the same too (or tease the hell out of you until you’re on the brim and need him, because the cocky bastard loves that shit.)

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

BDSM (Bondage, Masochism, and Sadism mostly), Breath Play, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Face Sitting (partner and him), Impact Play, Knife/Weapon Play, Odaxelagnia, Orgasm Denial/ Control, Pegging/Anal, Praise Kink, Strap-on Play (to him), Teasing, Voyeurism, and Worship Kink.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

ANYWHERE. Literally fucking anywhere. He will do it at the Homo Demens base camp, right outside of a Bridges delivery location, or even in the middle of timefall (of course with proper coverage. He would never want you to get hurt by the timefall, nor the BT’s, but it does make it interesting to see how quiet you can stay when they begin to move about. It’s always with an underlying sense of danger or excitement of getting caught that fuels him. But this doesn't stop him when it comes to being home.

When with the Homo Demens, his room at base camp is an often place as well as the community showers. The bunker of Peter Englert, though smaller than a whole base, offers many places as well. These stationary places are his favorite for privacy and intimacy.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Your body, no matter what, is always an automatic turn on. Especially if there is exposed skin involved that he can hold onto or kiss at. He is a total ass man, always loving to grab at it or just keep his hand there when talking. Your ass, watching it as you walk or beneath him sends blood rushing down below and he may as well cum in his pants at this rate because holy fuck, is that ass perfection. He will worship that ass, constantly wanting to caress it or have a handful if you’re on his lap. Your hands are the next thing. Be them wrapped around his cock, grabbing at the sheets beneath you, or simply cupping his cheek in the afterglow, your hands are always the sweetest thing because they can do so many things that can make him fall apart at the seams.

What REALLY gets him going is being taken care of. Higgs is touch starved all to hell, and when he gets any sign of affection or sweetness from you, be it cuddling or kind words, he feels like he’s floating on a damn cloud. When he is being submissive, or is the bottom in the relationship, It’s especially a turn on when being taken care of leads to praise in the bedroom.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He will ABSOLUTELY refuse to involve any form of piss or scat in your play. It is an automatic turn off and he may as well be the cause of another voidout just from the mere recommendation of it. He can’t stand the idea of it. Higgs is into a lot of things, but those two will never fall under his category of things that get him going and needy.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

BOTH! BOTH! BOTH! He is an absolute lover of giving and receiving oral! And he isn’t too shabby at it once he gets used to how your body reacts.

When it comes to giving oral, he goes between a mixture of teasing and driving you mad with that damn tongue. Depending on the relationship you share with him, he either dives right in or takes his time with it. If he wants to, he’ll map out your sex, taking in how hard/wet you are, finding what bits make you mewl the loudest or give him the desired effect. He’ll go slow with his tongue, dragging it until you’re trying to get your cock either inside his mouth or his tongue on your clit (either way, he’ll leave you squirming). When he finally gives you what you want, being lavishing your core or sucking you off, he’s at it and he will go until you’re trembling and begging for no more, to which he’ll get one or more out of you just to prove the point that he can.

When it comes to receiving, he is always down for such, but he is more likely to be down for it if he's the submissive partner in the relationship. He would rather worship and tease when in a dominant position. Taking care of you is the best thing in his mind. But being taken care of? Now that is what drives him absolutely wild. He is sensitive when it comes to the tip of his cock being played with, and will fall apart if it's played with.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

It really depends on his mood. If he is wanting to be in a kind and sweet mood, he’s slow and passionate, He’ll take his time to make sure you feel nice and good. Keeping eye contact and sweet praising as he takes you, gentle kisses followed by accented thrust that go just deep enough but not too fast to make it fucking. No, that in his mind is perfect for something he isn’t used to, which is love making. If it needs to be quick, or in his mind it’s a sexual punishment, he will be rougher, or faster with you. He’ll fuck you raw and leave you a mess. Either way you’ll be a mess when you’re with Higgs.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He usually has more time for quickies, as he is the entity trying to bring on the next mass human extinction. Of course he loves a good session of proper sex, being able to take his time with you or give you a chance to properly take him. But sometimes those are short lived moments, interrupted halfway through or being stopped before being able to bask in the afterglow because he has to leave. Duty calls, after all. His favorite places for them are generally at the Homo Demens camp, or on the go in some risky area that could accidentally get you guys caught.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

This fucker practically screams risk. Be it public excursions or a new tactic in the bedroom, he’s game. If you want to try something a little more dangerous with him, or something far more kinky then you two already do, he is down. He will always give you a chance to try things with him, and sometimes he’ll see what he can do to help expand your comfort zones by suggesting new situations or experiences. Maybe trying more intensive bondage would be the step up he would try with you from the light bondage you two may already do. Maybe he wants you to try choking him, or maybe YOU want to try choking him. Either way, he is always up for experimentation.

This man, being the exhibitionist he is, is obsessed with the thrill of potentially or actually being caught in the act. It’s something that he would GLADLY introduce you to if he had the chance, wanting that to be the first big experiment if you aren’t already into it. Now mind you, he will respect (generally) your boundaries on most things, but this is one thing that absolutely screams fun in his mind, and it’s so damn risky because you never know who is gonna see!

“Oops, didn’t see ya there Sammy! We’ll just finish up here.”

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

It really depends on the play and the partner. Higgs is a man who can go perhaps three or four rounds at the most, having stamina like a beast if he’s really hyped up for it. Usually this happens when he is in the domineering position, having full control over himself, and whatever control you’ll allow over you, be it full or less than full control.

When he is the bottom, taking whatever is being given to him, he’ll last two rounds at the most because let's face it, Higgs can become overstimulated quickly if the right touches and praises are given. Use the right sensation or hammer down on him when you fuck, and he’ll be a puddle of incoherent speech and needy rambling. Now this doesn't mean you can’t get more out of him, but he’ll be less likely to be as coherent as if he is in full control of the situation.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Oh he most certainly owns them, and he most certainly uses them when he wants to. He’s the kind of guy that if he doesn’t have a partner close by, and he wants to spice up a dirty call or get himself off quicker than he can with his hand, toys are the way to go. Be it dildos, vibrators, anything of the likes, he uses them and he will gladly use them on you or let you use them on him.

He doesn’t usually like using toys in every session, though. Sometimes feeling skin instead of whatever material the toy is is sooooo much better to him because he issued you and he wants to fuck properly. Now if you’re a person who requires the extra stimulation from a toy while you’re enjoying each other, then by all means, he’ll incorporate it somehow so that you get exactly what you need. Some people just need that extra push, and he is happy to supply!

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Excuse me, have you met this man? He is the ultimate tease! Especially publicly. He loves to get you hot and bothered or embarrassed and riled up when he’s around. Sinfully delicious comments against your ear or tracing motions through your clothes until you’re needy and he leaves you like that until you’re alone. In the bedroom, he will do whatever it takes to have his partner either be a begging mess or be so fed up with him that he gets exactly what he wants.

For a submissive partner, he likes to use his tongue the most to tease. Trailing along your chest, or over sensitive nipples. Light flicks to extra sensitive areas below the belt, be it the tip or sweet spot on a cock or the bundle of nerves between a woman's legs. Light kisses or nips to the inner thighs just to get you squirming, that man will do so until you get a bite to your voice or just needy enough to give you what you want. Then again, sometimes he likes the torture of continuing the teasing until you’re vision is blurry with tears and you can’t utter any other word than ‘please’.

With dominant partners, he will make every move or command he gets into a tease. Taking his clothing off too slowly, tracing his tongue too long or not putting enough pressure. Sometimes his kisses will pull away too quickly as to tease you. But that teasing is gone the moment you put him in his place, then he is the most compliant creature ever.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make

He is like a fucking air raid siren when he’s being taken, but his volume isn’t nearly as when he’s doing the taking over having someone on top of him in the form of riding. He’ll moan, that is for sure, but the most common noises are the high pitched hitches in his breathing or the grunts that come when he’s pistoning his hips to bring you over the edge. He may give a growl if the fucking is more aggressive, or he may release and airy chuckle from time to time if you two are having more fun than seriousness.

W = Wild Card (Random Headcanon)

He is more than happy to dress in some kind of outfit for your sexual encounters. Be it a Bridges outfit because he knows you get off from him playing as the unknown stranger at Bridges, Peter Englert, or a Fragile uniform because fuck do you love leather, he’s down. He’ll happily wear panties if you like him in feminine undergarments, happily dress with cock cages and leather straps if you want to see him in such. He’ll even stay in the mask if you ask, but when it comes to dressing up, he isn’t limited to dressing himself. He absolutely adores when you wear his mask, or wearing his cloak to cover your nude form.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He may not be the longest or the girthiest, but Higgs has a nice package. He’s about six inches long when fully erect, so about average (in American standards). He can go from well trimmed to near unmanageable depending on his mood, and also the partner. Some prefer hairless, some don’t mind the all natural look.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Pfft. Have you met this needy man? I mean seriously? He is OBSESSED with sex. Borderline nymphomaniac if you must, Higgs is constantly down for a good time as long as he has time. His big plans for the end of existence come first, but he will gladly give you his all or take whatever is given as long as he gets to enjoy it. He may ask for company more often than once a day given the day, or sometimes he’ll wait till it’s a time restrained time for you and get as much as he can until you just HAVE to do whatever it is you do. He can wait, but it only gets him more hyped for whatever will happen next, and sometimes it’s torture to him with waiting too long.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

Out like a fucking lightbulb. He may stay up for a few for some aftercare either giving or receiving, maybe even some light banter, but generally he’s so worn out that he is O.U.T out! That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like to stay up and chat the night away. Sometimes he does, sometimes he falls asleep like a light sleeping rock, and other times he’s having to redress to start whatever is next in his grand plan.

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame IV

Author’s Note: Hope everyone had a safe and fun Halloween! Not much else to say here as we start to delve deeper into Ivar and the Nuns new relationship and the two different worlds they come from. Thanks as always for being so awesome!

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 2217

Warnings: Language, Master/Servant dynamic 

His brothers had kept a close eye on Ivar since acquiring his new thrall. He still played at the leader of their army, but he had refrained from shutting them out of power entirely. Any chance they had at lending a commanding voice they took. Hvitserk's strategy of giving their little brother a distraction was paying off.

The changes in Ivar's behavior were minuscule. Only Ubbe and Hvitserk took notice. It was the same when they were children when someone would give a new gift to Ivar. It would be a stretch to say he was happy, but his vengeance had quelled. For the moment it was enough, and they could focus on securing lands for their people while Ivar was preoccupied.

It was strange for a thrall not to be seen waiting over their master's every whim, but it seemed Ivar wouldn't permit you to leave his quarters. The other slaves they had acquired tended to him during meals, and when he walked the streets with his guards, you were always absent. Ubbe walked alongside Hvitserk contemplating this.

"What do you think he has her do for him?" Ubbe wondered aloud.

Hvitserk's brows puckered in thought. "Don't know. I can't imagine they have much to talk about, and I know the one thing they aren't doing."

"What do you mean?"

"C'mon, think about it," Hvitserk jested with a smirk. "I suppose that must make him a good fit for her. She'll remain a virgin after all."

Ubbe latched onto Hvitserk's arm, pulling him to a stop as he gave him a harsh look. "Those are dangerous words, brother. Remember Sigurd. I don't want to see another brother dead because of Ivar's fragile grasp of his anger. He has poor sensibilities when it comes to that matter. It's unfair, but it's not his fault."

Hvitserk shook off Ubbe's grasp and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. "Right, that was stupid. I do pity him, though I don't think he'd want it. Who knows how he'll be when we start having families of our own."

Ubbe grunted. "He'll probably resent us, more than he does already. I think I understand why he keeps her away from everyone. Besides our mother, no one has ever taken to Ivar's company outside of obligation or familial bond. He's lonely."

"And it's not as if she can refuse," said Hvitserk. "But she's a Christian. That's got to account for some strife between them."

They continued on their way towards the center of the city. Food was beginning to run scarce, and it seemed the Saxons were holding steadfast on starving them out. While Ivar was willing to take their army to its limits to play Aethelwulf's game, Ubbe and Hvitserk were devising their own plan to negotiate land. They just needed a little more time. Many things rested in the hands of the nun, as unaware as you were.

"I just hope he hasn't harmed her," Ubbe said while they passed through the market.

Hvitserk looked grim, a heaviness settling on him that had replaced his usual cheer. "Ivar did always break toys. We have to hope that Christian isn't as weak as she looks."

ooOOoo 

You were growing accustomed to your new station. As a woman, it was your lot in life to suffer, and you took your new situation as a test from God. The heathen, Ivar, he had made no bid to harm you. That wasn't to say he was good company to keep. He had taken to trying to instruct you in a handful of words and phrases of his language. Some of the words were difficult to form with your accent, and when you mispronounced things, he would grow irritated and throw things at you. Uttering dark curses in his tongue, you were certain he had insulted you as well, but it was better than a flogging. 

At night you continued to pray, your back to your master, and the words spoken only in your head. You were sure they reached God, even without a rosary in your grasp or the piety to kneel. In your heart, you struggled to keep hope alive. If this test was to be your final judgment from God, its purpose remained clouded to you.

It was late when Ivar returned, and you had remained awake for his arrival. You now slept when he did, short and inconsistent hours of the night, only to be woken before the dawn. He did not rest well. Be it from his duties or pain you could not say, but he never faltered from exhaustion. This pattern must have been his usual routine, life at war.

Ivar's eyes sought you out the moment he came through the door, and you returned the stare. He had only just started walking in his new contraptions, a set of iron braces that he had created from pride. His determination to walk was admirable. You had never witnessed such a fighting spirit before, and you were certain it was a blessing from God.

"Something you wish to say?" Ivar interrupted your thought, a scowl on his face from your lingering gaze on his legs.

"It is a good thing," You said while rising from your corner of the floor. "I believe God has blessed you."

Ivar snorted, blue eyes rolling at your absurdity to insinuate such a thing. He took a slow seat on his pallet of furs and started to remove the braces. "Really, and why would that be?"

"You are not the first cripple I have met, but you are the most assiduous."

You could see him test out the word for himself, a lack of understanding passing over his face. "I'm not sure what that means, but I like how it sounds."

"You have an unrelenting heart. Strong-willed and resolute in your goals. I find you impressive."

He halted what he was doing, and took a long, considering look at you. "I've been this way for as long as I can remember. It is the way if I am to be seen as a true Viking to my people."

"So there are others like you?" You asked as you approached him with careful steps.

"There are not many cripples among my people, no. A child born with a deformity such as mine is left to die. I would have been if not for my mother. She was softhearted, and couldn't bear my loss."

You didn't want to have any strong sort of feelings towards your captor, but to learn that he had been left to die as a helpless babe engulfed you in sorrow. "It isn't wrong for a mother to feel pity for her child," You murmured, showing how distraught you were by such a story. "You don't sound grateful for her mercy."

Ivar's face hardened at your sentiment. "Mercy is for Christians. I would have done the same as my father. I loved my mother, but there are days I resent her for her choice. Her gifts failed to foretell the agony I would endure at the hands of compassion."

"What gifts?"

"She was a Vülva, a woman seeress of our people who has visions of the future."

You frowned at such a concept. "That sounds like sorcery to me."

"I forgot your people fear magic and witchcraft," Ivar said in a teasing tone. "My mother would have hated you. She was too steeped in the beliefs of our own people to have care about your sensitive notions of God. My father would have liked you though."

You blushed at the idea of such a great man holding you in favor. Though you didn't hail from Wessex you had heard the stories of the Viking King who fought for Mercia and befriended King Ecbert. "King Ragnar? Why do you think that?"

"He was often amused and curious about your God. Maybe you would have reminded him of Æthelstan, his Christian monk." Ivar resumed the task of taking off his braces, wincing in pain whenever a particular part pinched or pulled at his legs. "Here, come help me with this."

Startled by such a request, you moved with haste and uncertainty. Ivar showed you which parts to unclasp, and you would mimic his actions with a gentler touch, stopping entirely when he would let out any sound of discomfort. You were certainly slower at the task than if he completed it himself, but he seemed to enjoy watching you work over him, and you were grateful for the distraction. 

"What about your family? Where are your mother and father?" Ivar asked while leaning back on the strength of his arms.

"They're both dead," You said, pausing only a moment to collect yourself before continuing on his braces. "I was born in Rendlesham, in East Angles. My mother was a whore, and I never knew who my father was as a result of that. When she died, I was orphaned to the streets until the church took me in. Being of such low birth standing, I turned to the church as my ray of hope."

You could feel Ivar frowning at you, but you did not waver. "Did you not want to be something more than a nun?"

You breathed a laugh. "Such as what? Saxon women are not allowed to be warriors."

"Yes, but isn't there a way you could have improved your situation?"

"No," You said bluntly. "Blood is everything. Those who are of Royal standing will always be in power, and through marriage, their line continues. The best I could have hoped for was a marriage to a farmer, and he would have to have been a poor one. I would have raised his children, and likely died young from childbirth."

"I see now why you're a nun," said Ivar. When you chanced a look up at him, he appeared troubled by your story. "Those Saxons in power are greedy. They keep all for themselves and give nothing back. What chance is there of an honorable death for those forced to live a life of poverty?"

"If you die without sin, you go to Heaven. We have no need for honor."

"A life without sin," Ivar hummed. "As if any man is capable of such purity."

"A Priest is," You argued back. "It takes a nobleman to obtain such a pious position in the church."

"Is it noble for these men to keep silver and gold in their churches while children run through the streets, no better than dogs?" Ivar had sat forward, his eyes emboldened with the wrath of a demon. "I have seen your noblemen of the cloth, and they died screaming the same as any sinning heathen of mine."

You lost your balance, falling flat on your bottom as you gazed up at Ivar in terror. "What did you do to them?"

"The things I've done to your priests," Ivar paused, a calm washing over him. "It would make Loki grin."

The suffering of your people seemed to fall down on you like a star collapsing from the night sky. When he spoke, you could almost forget that Ivar was your enemy, but he had now made it clearer than ever where the line in the sand was drawn. You were just a slave, a Christian slave, and how soon would it be before he tired of you? You did not wish the same fate to befall you as it had for the priests, whatever it had been.

"I have not dismissed you," Ivar tutted when you began to walk away to your corner, unaware yourself that you had begun to do so. You craved distance from him, even if it was only a few feet away. 

At first, he tried to manage his composure, calling you back with his voice deliberately even. When it became clear that no amount of coaxing on his part would work, he started yelling in his language. That word came up again, 'Ólaug'. It had been peppered into a number of your one-sided conversations. If he had tried to brand you with a new name, you would refuse. He would not take who you were. 

Your fight ended with him throwing one of his crutches at you. It landed just before you, and you were able to contain your flinch. Ivar scoffed at your non-reaction and threw himself back onto the furs. He had finished disrobing and gave you the courtesy of his back, which appeared to be covered in a new etched design each time you saw him. Matched against your own untainted skin, it was a reminder of how different the worlds you came from were.

When you were sure Ivar had fallen asleep, you moved to get under your own thin pile of wool blankets. They were scratchy and held none of the warmth of the furs, but it was not the worst sleeping conditions you had ever weathered. That night you prayed for the lost Priests, and for God to take away your suffering. You didn't see a way out of your situation, but if God acted through you, you were certain to find your answer. Content to keep faith in your heart, Sister Mary Catharine slept, ignorant to the matter that Ivar was awake and watching you.

Taglist

@pomegranates-and-blood ​

@siren-queen03

@peachyboneless

@didiintheblog

@soleil-dor

@zuxiezendler

@pieces-by-me

@xbellaxcarolinax

@heavenly1927

@everyartistwas-firstanamateur

@youbloodymadgenius

@xceafh

@shannygoatgruff

@tgrrose

@1950schick

@castielsangelsx

@rose1729

@mlchael-guerin

@strangunddurm

@ladynightshade30

@dangerouspsychicgardenflower

@readsalot73

@ritual-unions-gotme

[concussed-to-pieces]

Whether It Works Out Or Not: Winter’s Cold, Part Two

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: High Honor!Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit T.

AN: Thank you all so much for being here! Enjoy!

[Spoiler warning for the epilogue!]

Tag List: @huliabitch​​ @cookiethewriter​​ @pedrosbigdorkenergy​​ @thirstworldproblemss​​ @anonymouscosmos​​ @culturalrebel​​ @karmezii​​ @teaofpeach​​ @crookedmoonsaultpunk​​ @wrestlingfae​​ @zombiexbody​​ @nelba​​ @scribblenotes76​​ @toxiicpop​​ @mstgsmy​​ @misty-possum​​ @gallowsjoker​​ @midnightbeauty35​​ @lackofhonor​​ @renegademustelid​​ @missfronkensteen​ @newplanetshine

Part One: Strangers

Part Two: Friends

Part Three: More

Bonus One: A Brief Diversion

Bonus Two: Back In The Cage

Winter’s Cold, Part One

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains emotional distress and self-loathing. Stay safe!]

The first time Arthur really felt...aware, like he was actually inhabiting his body instead of floating above and slightly to the right of it, he realized that he could hear chirping birds. A breeze stirred his hair; there must be a window open nearby. 

  It dawned on him after several moments that he could breathe. It still hurt, it pained him, but he wasn't hacking and wheezing every second. Dread flooded his soul then; either he was dead, or the law was in the process of meting out the rope for his noose. Bit of a raw deal for all those hellfire preachers if eternal damnation was only some downright mild discomfort (at least after everything else) and a lazy little breeze.

  His whole body still felt like it weighed too much to move. The idea of opening his eyes was a distant, faint notion; barely a fledgling consideration in the back of his mind. Arthur was more than content to lay just wherever it was that he had fallen, sunshine wavering in dappled patches across the insides of his eyelids.

  He dimly noticed that fabric was covering his mouth and nose. A bandanna, or some kind of mask? To keep him from spreading the infection, he surmised pragmatically. Through the material wafted a scent from his childhood, the alive smell of freshly-cured hay. Beneath it was the ever-present odor of manure, the crisp tingle of pine. So he must be in the mountains somewhere. 

  Odd. Last he knew, he was being shipped off to the city to be read his last rites. Had they decided to let him convalesce in the wilderness, drag him back from the clutches of death and then set his backside afore the law?

  Very odd indeed. But then again, justice had always been more of a performance than a true enforcement of moral integrity.

  I sound like Dutch.

  He drifted off again. Just thinking was exhausting, like wading through swamp mud.

  More medicine. Balm for his chest. A stew, lip of the bowl pressed to his mouth so he could slowly slurp it up. Rich, meaty broth, soothing his throat. How many days had it been?

  He couldn't even bring himself to move when he felt the familiar press of a flat blade against his neck. Hot water soaking into his skin, a warm cloth moving in circles to scrub away whatever grime was around his nose and mouth. The person was meticulous, sure strokes carefully ridding the man of the stubble he harbored on his face. How long had it been since he shaved?

  Christ alive, Arthur was tired. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to live or not. This caretaker, whoever they were, clearly wasn't letting him go without a fight. But he was so tired. 

  He wavered for what felt like a lifetime, hovering at the edge of eternity in the green fragrance of curing hay. It was safe here, at any rate. Nothing would harm him in this peaceful tomb. He could rest until he began to feel like he was in control of his body again, and one fateful day, Arthur Morgan finally realized that he wanted to see how much worse living could manage to be.

  His eyes opened slowly, squinting against the near-blinding illumination of sunset that played pink against the unfinished beams over his head. Lord, just doing that much had taken the wind out of his sails. Maybe he was already dead. 

  His eyes rolled shut wearily, blinking open again what felt like moments later to find the place dark. Night had fallen. Time was slipping past him, it would seem. There was a faint taste in his mouth: venison stew with wild carrots, if he had to guess. He didn't even remember eating.

  He squinted in the blackness, trying to force his eyes to adjust so he could at least take in his surroundings before he lost consciousness again. 

  Hay. Everywhere. He appeared to be in a loft of some kind, bales stacked neatly all around the tick he laid on. Night sounds filtered in through the open window, bats squeaking and the booming call of an owl telling him that the hour must indeed be late. 

  Arthur lapsed back into senselessness once more. He dreamed of hearing violin music and catching sight of a massive, pale buck through the window. It watched him from a far-off hillside, ears flicking back and forth to catch every sound. 

  He dreamed of Irene. Her smile, her eyes, the kisses in the tent that they had shared...

  Maybe, maybe sat like a block of lead in his gut. 'Maybe' was all he had ever had. A chance, a mirage. Pretty words from men and women who had made him feel useful, needed.

  So he had poured from himself until he was empty and it still hadn't been enough. 

  He was a fool. What was it that Irene had said to Jamie? "I'm not letting anyone else dig my grave and usher me into it." 

  Arthur, in contrast, had practically handed Dutch the shovel on a silver platter.

  I gave you all I had.

  …

  He was aware that someone was nearby, and he managed to open his eyes again for a brief moment. Long enough for him to hallucinate that it was Irene tending to him, Irene giving him whatever horrendous medicine it was and washing away the bitter taste with hot soup and small sips of tea. He must truly be long gone, mad with delirium or fever or the consumption that had wracked his chest until he felt paper-thin. 

  How would she even be here? How would that have even happened? There was no way. 

  Arthur almost loathed himself for choosing to live at that moment, because he was clearly missing a few more screws. He knew that some agues raged so strong they could burn the brain right out of a man and he feared that was the case with him. 

  Not that he'd had much brain to lose in the first place.

  Christ, he did wish she was here. He wished he could take her hand and never let her go again. 

  Allowing her leave that final time was a regret that had haunted him even more prominently than his bitter failure with Mary, for all that he knew there was nothing he could have done to make her stay with him. Irene had been on her own too long, flown too far and high to ever be tied down to some old, miserable bastard again.

  Mary had come to know him under false pretenses, and she had never truly reconciled herself with it. In a way, Arthur hadn't either. He had known she wasn't his from the very beginning, had known that he was playing a part or living a lie whenever he was with her. It never would have worked out, and it never did. 

  But Irene, despite their deceptive start, came to him with a certain honesty. The haphazard performance of masculinity had done little to hide her true nature, the kindness that she claimed to see in him so freely displayed in her as well. It also didn't hide the burdens she carried, though he hadn't understood the sadness in 'Frank's' eyes when they had spoken.

  The trials she had gone through...he at least had the gang, but she was wholly alone. She had endured, like a pine tree rooted on a crumbling and wind-whipped bluff. Storms of life howling all around and yet…

  And yet, when he had last seen her, she had held herself proudly in Lemieux's mansion, unshaken. The guts and wherewithal that had seen her thus far would continue, and Arthur had wished her nothing but the finest of luck even as he had sent her on her way. 

  …

  There were folded clothes on the floor beside him when next he stirred, and on top of them was a note. Arthur had no idea how long it took him to sit up, never mind move his arm, manipulate his fingers into picking the note up, unfold the note to read it…

  Lord, living certainly seemed to require a lot of steps. 

  Arthur,

Not sure if you'll really be awake today, but I've noticed you moving around a bit of your own volition. Left the clothes in case you feel up to getting dressed. I am uncertain if you'll recall, so I'll remind you that the waste bucket is in the far corner.

  The note was unsigned.

  Arthur huffed out a breath, clearing his throat experimentally. He reached for the union suit on the top of the pile, planting his face in the article of clothing with a groan as his head suddenly felt too heavy to support. "C'mon Morgan." He encouraged himself, the words thick in his mouth. Shit, how long had he been out for? It was like he had forgotten how to speak.

  Just pulling the suit up and over his legs was a task of Herculean proportions. Arthur doggedly kept fighting the urge to pass out, the desire to lay back down and let time zip by again. He had made the choice to live and by God, he would follow through with it even if it killed him.

  The longer he worked at getting dressed, the easier it became to keep his eyes open. Socks on over the suit, shirt, pants. His suspenders hung limp at his sides, but he did tuck in his shirt as best as he could after he relieved himself. 

  Boots. Boots, one tipped over on the space beside the ladder, the other within reach of the bed.

  Next, climbing down the ladder. Mercifully the loft was not particularly high. The whole barn seemed rather small as far as barns went, obviously originally built with one stall. A second one appeared to have been hastily grafted onto the building at a later time. 

  Arthur had to take a breather at the base of the ladder, clinging to it just to keep his balance. His knees felt like they were made out of jelly. Had his boots always been this damn heavy?!

  He floundered onward after a moment, grateful for his hat as he emerged into the blinding sunlight of the outside world. 

  Arthur rubbed his eyes, nearly losing his footing as he did so. He had already been uncertain of the reality of his current situation, and this idyllic scene in front of him wasn't helping matters! 

  A small paddock stretched out on the left, and a cozy-looking cabin was nestled into the green, flower-dappled glen alongside the barn he had just emerged from. Arthur staggered to the paddock fence for support, draping himself over it. From the shadow by the barn, a shape stirred. He forced himself to focus on it, his eyes widening when the horse meandered lazily out into the sunlight to graze.

  "Chase!" Arthur rasped, his voice rough and cracking from disuse. The mare's head jerked up and she looked around. His heart leaped in his chest when she whinnied excitedly at him, trotting across the paddock and bumping her nose against his chest. Arthur held her tightly, cupping her muzzle and scratching beneath her jaw. "That's my sweet girl, my good girl." He murmured, feeling foolish for getting choked up. 

  There was an explosive snort to his right and a familiar pink nose snuffled over his shoulder. Arthur squinted, turning his head to the side and realizing that it was Bluster. The horse whickered, mouthing at the sleeve of his shirt. 

  Arthur Morgan was speechless. He must be dead. How else could he have his horse, and Irene's horse besides? He sat there mutely for God only knew how long, just petting Chase with his eyes closed to luxuriate in the sensation of sun on his skin. 

  Behind him, the wind carried faint sounds to his ears, and he flinched when he caught a child's high-pitched squeal of laughter. Just where the hell was he, if he was indeed alive? What buffoon would nurse someone like him back to health, yet leave him unbound and unguarded? Something was very odd about this whole scenario.

  Arthur turned and leaned back on the fence, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun as he looked up at the ridge of the glen. There was an abrupt flash of motion to the left on the edge of the gully, and he watched a woman that he desperately wanted to recognize chase after a child. The little one was fairly shrieking with mirth, scurrying away from their pursuer until they flopped down dramatically and allowed themselves to be caught.

  It felt like his heart had left his body, the damn thing soaring and shattering all at once. A girl, it was a little girl, her hair the color of a pale buck. Irene scooped the child up, laughing breathlessly and tossing her into the air before spinning the two of them in a dizzying circle. 

  Irene.

  Arthur swallowed hard. Fate was indeed a cruel mistress if this was the vision he was greeted with upon making his decision to live! He continued to just slouch against the fence, silently observing the duo as they frolicked at the top of the ridge. Irene had flowers in her hair just like she had at the Mayor's little soiree, and he realized dimly that her dark brown curls were much longer. Just how much time had he lost?

  He finally mustered up the strength to wave at them and he liked to think that Irene went still out of happiness. In a moment she caught the child up and fairly bolted down the hillside, her skirt hiked around her knees as she ran. 

  "Arthur!" 

  Christ, Christ he wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready for the sight of her with a babe on her hip, the agony of maybe, maybe that ripped at his insides. In another life, it might have been his child that she had been playing with. In another life, this might have been the home that they had built together.

  But instead, she had gone on and made a fruitful existence without him. He couldn't, wouldn't blame her for it. He had cut her loose, after all.

  Irene came to a halt inches away, her chest rising and falling from the effort of her sprint. "Y-You--you're up!" She panted, her smile burying itself in his ribs like a blade. Christ, his heart was too weak for this.

  The child in Irene's arms gawked up at him with crystal blue eyes and he tried to muster up a smile, startled when Irene embraced him tightly. He felt her fingers dig into his back, and then her shoulders quivered while she buried her face in his chest. "Oh no, c'mon now Miss Irene." Arthur said hoarsely. "I ain't worth all that fuss, it's okay."

  ...

  "Mama?" Anna asked tentatively. "Mama okay?"

  "Mama's fine, love." Irene managed to say, kissing her child's forehead. "Just very happy is all. You remember my friend Mister Arthur, right?"

  "Sick." Anna replied, her attempt at a fake cough making Arthur chuckle. "Better now?"

  "I'd reckon so, little miss." The man drawled hoarsely. God, that voice. Irene hadn't realized just how much she had missed him. She had seen him every day, of course, nursing him back to health, but he hadn't been conscious for most of it. "S'pose I have your mama to thank for that."

  Irene noticed him glancing over her shoulder, like he was expecting someone else to show up. "Your friend, Mister Trelawny--"

  Arthur chuffed out a breath through his nose, making Anna giggle. "Friend? Man's a cockroach in a waistcoat." He groused.

  "Yes, he mentioned that the two of you may not be as close as he posited. Nonetheless, it's thanks to him that you're here now, alive."

  "Really. Huh. So I am alive, then. I wasn't shoah. This place is…" Arthur gestured vaguely around. "S'beautiful, Miss Irene." His tone was melancholy. "Like a dream."

  "I'd like to think I chose well, Mister Arthur. It hasn't been easy, but the two of us have made it work." Irene said proudly, nuzzling her nose against Anna's. "My tough little frontierwoman."

  "Just...what, you an' the baby?" Arthur asked, his confusion evident. 

  "Yes. Who else would there be?" Irene replied with her own question, brow furrowed. Arthur blinked down at her. His eyes darted momentarily to Anna, and Irene bit her lip, wondering whether he would put it together immediately. 

  "I-I jus'...I figured there might be a third person, is all." Arthur stammered. 

  Irene couldn't help her sad smile, shaking her head at him and extending an arm. "Come inside, Arthur. It's nearly suppertime anyways."

  It was so strange, finally having him in the main room of her little house. She had thought about this scenario more times than she could count. Just the walk across the front yard thoroughly tired him out, and the man seemed more than content to doze in one of the kitchen chairs while she put the finishing touches on the evening meal. Obviously it would take time and care for him to regain even a fraction of his former strength. He had been bedridden, or something close to it, for nearly five months!

  Anna played noisily on the floor with a few carved horses that Irene had made for her when she was teething, their forms scored with scrapes and marks from the event. The child didn't seem apprehensive about the large man currently nodding off in the chair by the table, which had Irene feeling hopeful. Maybe, just maybe…

  "Dinnertime." She said softly, "put away your toys, love." 

  Anna pouted, holding up a finger. "One?" She bargained, clutching her 'favorite' horse to her chest. "One for Art'ur." 

  "Oh it's for Arthur now, is it?" Irene teased, wiping her hands off on her apron. "Go on then, you scallywag."

  The little girl fairly beamed, placing the horse with a laughable amount of care alongside Arthur's arm. Then, she impatiently bounced in place as Irene fetched the riser for her chair so she would be level with the table when she sat. 

  "Ah ah, go wash up! You know the rules." Irene instructed the eager child, sending her on her way to the porch.

  "She is just the cutest damn thing." Arthur mumbled, almost like he was talking to himself. His fingers idly played along the curves of the little horse by his fork. "How old is she?" 

  "A touch over two. She was born during the winter." Irene watched Arthur nod absently, and what she was about to say got caught in her throat as Anna toddled back inside.

  Arthur accepted the coffee Irene poured him with all the gratitude in the world, his eyes closing in enjoyment as he took his first sip. "Ah, that's good," he sighed. "Ain't nothin' like a decent cup of coffee. Feel like life is comin' back to me."

  "Well, don't forget to save room for dinner." Irene buttered Anna a little piece of bread and scooted it across the table to keep her occupied while she loaded two plates with corn, mashed potatoes and a spoonful of precious pork gravy from tomorrow's slow-cooking dinner. "Corn is Anna's favorite, right love?"

  Anna nodded, blue eyes wide as she munched on her bread. "Mine!" She announced sharply, scrunching up her nose when Arthur chuckled at her. 

  "Sweeting, be polite. There's more than enough for all of us, you know that!" Irene chided her daughter, rumpling the little girl's hair fondly after she placed Arthur's plate in front of him. "Always enough here." 

  Anna's plate, as usual, required a bit more preparing, so she brought it along with her own to her chair beside the child. Anna immediately started digging into the mashed potatoes as her mother carefully shucked the kernels off the cob in neat rows. "Th'nk y'Mama." Anna said through a mouthful of food.

  "You're welcome Anna, but slow down. No one will take it from you." With a touch of amusement Irene noticed Arthur visibly slow his pace in response, the man obviously used to wolfing his food. "Drink your water, Anna."

  Arthur ate mainly in silence, aside from a few appreciative grunts. He couldn't contain his laughter when Anna started to imitate his sounds, the man apologizing for his poor table manners. "Forgive me, Miss Irene, I've always been awful at eatin' in the presence of polite company." 

  "Mama says I'm a little piggy." Anna informed Arthur, seeming confused when he burst out laughing again. 

  "If you're a li'l piggy, Miss Anna, then I must be the biggest boar alive." He said once he managed to rein himself in. 

  …

  Arthur lingered on the front steps, the lantern in his hand ready to light his way back across the yard. He felt exhausted, stuffed with good food and more than ready to get a full night's rest.

  So what was he waiting for?

  Many thoughts had gone through his head during dinner. How beautiful Irene still looked, how good of a mother she clearly was. Anna was a precocious little thing, those blue eyes bright with the possibility of mischief. 

  Her eyes…

  Arthur didn't dare to hope that one of he and Irene's little diversions had borne fruit, if only because it would throw into question his oh-so-noble attempts at prevention. Had he truly tried as hard as he could to be safe, or was there always that selfish desire in the back of his mind waiting to be acted upon?

  He jumped guiltily when the door opened and Irene stepped out, half-turning to face her with a brittle grin. "Howdy ma'am. Little one safely abed, I take it?"

  "After a bit of deliberation, yes." Irene sighed, her posture weary. "She's very opinionated for someone who cannot manage eating a carrot unless it has been sliced into wheels. I do fear for the future, Arthur."

  The future.

  Arthur cleared his throat. "Irene, is...did we…?"

  She put a hand on his shoulder, silencing his stammering with a sad little smile. "Later, Arthur. Right now, rest is what you need."

  He wanted to deny that, but it was fairly impossible to do so. He was nearly asleep standing up as it was. "Tomorrow?" He bargained through a yawn.

  "Tomorrow. I promise."

Summer’s Warmth, Part One

[baybee45]

Ka’ra

A/N: Always scanning the crowd Jabba the Hutt notices his favoured bounty hunter staring at his new toy. You.

Boba Fett x Female Reader

Chapter 2

Warnings: Deals with mature subjects (slavery, women being objects, canon typical violence)

The air was stale and seasoned heavily with spiced t'bac smoke. Each inhale burned your lungs as if the roasting-spit fire behind, had actually been set up between your ribs. Searing their edges with each breath and charring your heart. The jewel tone fabric of your barely their outfit only cemented the notion you were forced to swallow, to accept as truth; you were an object, a thing. To be looked at, lusted for, and eventually replaced once the sparkle of your newness was eroded away by greedy, corrosive hands.

For now you wait, laying as still as possible next to the dozing, humid belly of the Hutt, counting the seconds as they slowly dripped by. If you are nothing more then an ornament on Jabba slab of a throne. He is nothing more then a snot nosed child, who had pushed and murdered his way to where he now sits. A king on top of a putrid garbage pile. A crime lord overseeing a kingdom of filth, scum and treachery. His palace was as oppressive as the afternoon heat outside, a place where bright futures come to wither and die.

An excited whisper enters Jabba the Hutt’s ear as he and the crowd begin to stir. A silent anticipation was growing loud in the hushed room. It was punctured only by the clinking of metal descending down the entrances stairs. Curiosity gets the better of you overriding your fear of punishment. You look up from your own predicament to view another’s.

A man in green Mandalorian armor enters, a halo of musty light forms behind him. He brings with him a dead men. A breathing corpse. Fear had clawed itself so deep into the Rodian’s face, terror oozed out with each reluctant step forward. After a swift kick to the back of prisoners legs, he falls before the Hutt and like a house of cards he flolds onto himself. Dust dances and twirls around after each laboured breath from the Rodian’s trembling body.

The dead men's mouth quivers as mumbled words try to make their way out. ‘Please’ you hear finally manage to slip past. The word not even able to lift off the floor, shudders and gasps. It lies dead besides him before it could even reach the Hutt’s ears. The Rodian drags his eyes like an arduous weight off the floor, latching onto yours. Desperate. Pleading. Not for mercy but for the only thing you can give; sympathy.

(Sympathy: the comfort in knowing you are seen. To be seen; the personal belief that your presence was felt by others.)

So like a solemn hug after terminal diagnosis you hold onto his gaze tight. In it's reflection you see yourself; standing there at the mercy of Jabba and his childish whims. With each passing day you know your own value decreases. It is only a matter of time befor— the trapdoor opens.

The screams of the Rodian are quickly enveloped by the jeers of the blood thirsty audience's own rowdy shouts. They in turn are only quieted by the sound of a spine snapping crunch of the beast's jaws. An eerie silence always seems to follow. It lingers only momentarily, swept away by Jabba's hand motioning towards the band to play one of his favourite tunes. Everything carries on as normal and lets face it, nothing out of the ordinary happened.

You have not been around the Hutt long enough to understand his bellowing tongue but you could tell he was talking about you, because his grubby hands passed your leash off to his Majordomo, a rat of a men, Bib Fortuna. His beady-eyes and sharpened and pointy teeth only reinforce your theory. Without warning Jabba's rat pulls you forward. Barely able to catch yourself, you struggle to get a footing and keep up behind him. He drags you through the debauch crowd still gathered around the viewing grille, watching the rancor finish off the last bits of the Rodian. He pulls you past them with a steady and uncompassionate pace.

"For you Boba Fett, as thanks from Jabba the Hutt. For dealing with the last problem in record time. And bringing some much needed, uh, entertainment for today." Bib speaks in a sugary sweet voice that causes the few occupants of your stomach to threaten to leave.

Whipping you towards the man wearing tarnish green armor, you stumble into his lap. The rat then pulls your heavy chain taut, bringing you inches from his sharpened teeth. Your knuckles lose blood flow and you're positive bruises would’ve been left on the man's legs if it wasn't for his armor, as you try desperately to avoid being pulled any closer to the Majordomo noxious breath.

"Make him happy and don't try anything, if you do..." The rat sneers and his free hand clutches your face, his long and yellowed claws dig deep into your soft skin.

"... Jabba said next time he wont care if I bruise up your pretty little face." His tongue darts across his lips, savouring each word of his threat, his promise. Each hot syllable spewed out of his mouth, felt like a slap hitting you hard across the face. They left a swelling, invisible mark. The sting of it now has tears threatening an escape.

"Enough." Demanded Boba. It froze your tears, like a thin layer of ice in place and sent a chill down your spin. His voice was deep and expectant, he was not someone who was used to being disobeyed you quickly concluded.

“Remove the collar.”

"Ar-are you sure? She is new, and still a little... wild."

Boba cocked his head, amused by the notion that you had caused enough trouble to evoke such a warning. He shuffles you around as if you were a paper doll. You now half faced him and half faced the henchmen. Boba made sure the lock of your collar was facing Bib as an answer to the Majordomo concerns.

"Very well." Conceded Bib. Who takes extra time and added pleasure of causing you more discomfort as he roughly frees you from one of your two constraints. Avoiding eye contact with either of your captors, you focus down at the second: A long delicate but strong chain tying both your wrist together.

“Leave us.” And with that Bib scuttles back to his master, and leaves you alone with your temporary one. Boba would never admit to it but he had been transfixed by you the moment he entered the dingy throne room and saw you defiantly look up at him. Your quiet confidence had captured his thoughts and his recurring gaze. So much so that Jabba had notice. Bibs concerns and warnings only made him more intrigued by you. Boba couldn’t say what the color of your eyes are in this dimly lit alcove, but he could feel the fire behind them. Your tear stained, watercolour painted eyes couldn't hide the burning beneath. They matched the power of the twin suns of Tatooine he thought. You fascinated Boba more then any other gift Jabba had offered him before.

"Ka'ra." He thinks out loud, barely able to be heard above the music and hum of those in the room. It hits your shoulder, causing both of them to slump under its weight briefly before you can straighten again. Some sort of slang or vulgar term you assume. Then for a long time— a minutes or so— you just sit there. An offering waiting to be used but his gloved acidic hands lay idle.

Something warm runs across your skin, your frozen tears had managed to thaw and are now escaping down your face. They sizzled and burned your cheeks the same way rain would, if its droplets were to fall on the sun-baked sandy ground outside. You look away from the bounty hunter and mistakenly towards the roving eyes of Jabba. He does not like to see his playthings cry. Especially when they are entertaining a favoured guest. His booming voice sends his henchman scurrying towards you with a malice glint in his eyes, his promise so quickly to be satisfied.

You quickly turn yourself around straddling Boba and putting your arms around— He roughly grabs your wrists. The chain of your shackles clinks as it hits the hard metal of his helmet. Placing your hands against his armored chest, he makes sure none of the chain had gotten behind him. Instincts had taken over, protecting himself from an unforeseen attack. Boba’s hands then quickly find the back of your thighs pushing you closer to him. Only for a split second does a hand leave your bare skin, motioning to the Majordomo. Waving him away like a pest. His touch wasn't how you imagined. It was soft almost... kind. In sharp contrast to how he dealt with your wrists, they still felt the dull ache from his reprimand.

"Ka'ra" He said as you stare lost into his emotionless visor, looking at a familiar but unknown reflection. Ka’ra? He said it like it was your name. Your name? You can barely remember it. Like a foreign word it makes your tongue feel thick and stupid.

After you were sold, you would use your name like a swear word every time the slavers tried to beat the individual out. You recited it like a fervent prayer each night. Until one day you realized, no one was listening. No one would be rescuing you. And Names? Names are for people not things. The next day you were deemed ready and gifted to the great and powerful Jabba the Hutt.

The bounty hunter suddenly stands up taking you out of your thoughts and up with him.

"Come." He orders as he lowers you back to the ground. You follow him up the back stairway through cavernous belly of Jabba's palace. There is no fight, there is no point. Choice is not a freedom you have. Besides a man receiving gift from Jabba is not a man to be trifled with.

[for-i-am-dying-of-such-love]

that time I watched Antony + Cleopatra

I don’t even know where to start with this one. Please don’t mistake my criticism of the episode with my hating it, because I actually think there’s a lot going on here with Xena (and Gabrielle too, but I am less focused on her arc) that’s quite nuanced and compelling. I love that Xena’s role in orchestrating Marc Antony’s downfall contributes to her moral and emotional conflict. What I abhor (and refuse to accept) is the suggestion that it’s born out of her falling in *love* with him, especially when there are far more consequential things in Xena’s life, past and present, fueling her angst in this moment. I have my own reading of what’s causing Xena’s uneasiness here, but more on that in a bit.

First: I think my greatest frustration is with the show itself. Like, THE FUCKING AUDACITY to foist a Boyfriend of the Week on us with just a handful of episodes left in season five. After everything, *everything*, that Xena & Gabrielle have suffered through (actual, literal HELL), and the continued devotion they show for one another, it’s just not believable that Xena would fall in love with someone else, let alone a ROMAN GENERAL. The emphasis here is important, but patience grasshopper, I’ll get to that.

Now, here’s where we start to get into the weeds with this notion of ‘Xena falling in love’ and there’s a lot to unpack around it, but before I do, let me just finish unspooling the threads of frustration I have with the show and it’s AUDACITY. Because it’s important to note that the show’s intention *was* to frame Xena’s attraction for Marc Antony as romantic - on top of whatever else she may have initially felt (indifference, intrigue, lust) - and not just sexual. And while I’ll concede that a story where Xena is forced to sacrifice her heart for the greater good by killing the man she loves is intriguing, it’s one we’ve already seen (Immortal Beloved). More than that, it’s a story that doesn’t fit with the Xena we know now, and the show, better than anyone, should have recognized this.

I know I’m being hard on the show runners here, so allow me this small tangent to give a little contextual understanding before furthering my arguments. As much fun as it is wrestling with the internal logic of this show (a surprisingly uphill battle all the time), I understand the unfortunate truth is that character motivations don’t always drive the story in the ways you would expect. Sometimes external factors complicate the stories XWP wants to tell and the ways it’s *allowed* to tell them. I get that.

I also get that Xena: Warrior Princess - both the show and the character - was expected to be sexy (hello, an easy win because Xena & Gabrielle). And that means, from time to time, it had to tease the audience with sex and seduction and romance (I guess fighting demons in Hell for the soul of your SOULMATE is not romantic enough, but I DIGRESS). What that often translated as on screen was a parade of Boyfriends of the Week for our two favourite Gal Pals, and by this point in the show, well, frankly it had been a while since Xena had had her a boyfriend (the Ares arc in season 5 doesn’t count). Simply put: a Marc Antony type was past due.

In this case, he wasn’t just past due, he served a dual purpose - fulfilling their Boyfriend of the Week quota, but also helping to re-establish Xena’s sexuality after she’d had her baby. I happen to think the latter take is overly simplistic and misguided (because, what, pregnant women are not also capable of being sexual creatures?), but it’s something Rob Tapert has commented on. So, ok, sure, fine whatever.

To be fair, I’m not sure if the show was deliberately signalling the return of Sexualized!Xena, or if it was simply a byproduct of the chemistry between the characters, and the inherent sensuality of the story’s setting. Regardless, the end result was certainly titillating. And I get it. I get why they want Boyfriends of the Week sometimes. Sex sells, and this episode was a blockbuster.

And before I return again to being hard on the show runners about dumb boyfriends, I just want to point out that my specific problem isn’t that Xena has been given a *boy*friend. Xena is bisexual, so men are always going to be an option when she’s considering a romantic or sexual partner. My issue is that she’s considering *any* romantic partner at all! By the gods, she’s essentially married to Gabrielle at this point.

Ay, but there’s the rub. Because the same expectation that dictated XWP should be sexy, also dictated that it should be heteronormative. The show can repeatedly double down on Xena’s & Gabrielle’s emotional and spiritual fidelity but it can never be seen explicitly to be sexual too (just a reminder, I haven’t seen S6 yet). That’s the unfortunate and uncomfortable reality of television in the late 90s and early 00s.

But this is where I take umbrage: XWP may’ve been limited (by studio notes) to giving us a chalk outline of what Xena’s & Gabrielle’s relationship really looked like, but they most definitely had the ability to control how they coloured the relationships Xena & Gabrielle had with their Boyfriends of the Week. And again, in ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ the show chose to frame it as a love story, a romance, when simply playing it off as Xena’s libido run amok would have satisfied the episode’s need for sex appeal, while also honouring the fact that her heart has long been spoken for (don’t worry: taking Xena’s heart out of the equation won’t lessen her moral or emotional conflict any - I’m getting there!).

Because here’s the thing: Xena getting caught up in the heady thrill of a seduction play, especially with a man as attractive and powerful as Marc Antony is totally believable. And really, Xena taken in by *lust* makes sense, especially at this point in her life. I mean, it’s been a while since she’s had to play this seductive cat-and-mouse game (Ares doesn’t count) and maybe she’s forgotten how easy it is to slip into this character, how much fun it can be. Maybe it’s even a little liberating - this return to form from when she was wild and free - because a lot has changed since she last had to do this; she’s changed and in ways she never anticipated. She’s settled down, even if she’s still travelling the known world. Made a commitment to Gabrielle to share a life together, had a baby, and now the three of them are carving out their own little domestic sphere. And all of this is happening while she’s still reconciling the person she was before with the person she is now. Maybe she’s a little itchy.

Because this… this tension, the cadence of a feint and parry charm offensive, it’s familiar. Comfortable in a way she didn’t know she missed until she felt it again. It would be easy to see her drunk with dark delight, to momentarily lose sight of her head. It would be believable. What’s not believable is that she - a pragmatist - would ever lose sight of her heart. Because the stakes of the game are so high, for Egypt but also for her. (And for you in the back who’s clearly read ahead on the syllabus and is about to point out Xena’s checkered romantic history and her self-proclaimed soft spot for Bad Boys Who Love Like Fools - don’t worry, we’ll get there too.)

What I’m taking a generous amount of time to say is this: if they simply wanted to give us a lush and sexy episode, they could have delivered on the sexiness without attaching it to a love story! We are long past believing Xena only kisses people she’s in love with, or that she’s in love with all the people she kisses. There’s no need to pretend her sexual agency is only relevant or operational within the confines of a romantic plot line. But more than that, throwing an unbelievable romance into the mix really only serves to threaten the integrity of Xena’s motivations, because it risks reducing the entirety of her turmoil to: Xena loses another boyfriend, how le sad. And that is absolutely not the point.

Because the point is this: Rome fucking corrupts and perverts everything it touches. And Xena’s motivations are built from her (and now Gabrielle’s) tortured history with the empire and the men who run it. And if you’ll permit me, like 4,000 words, we can get into it and, hopefully, you’ll agree that shit is heavy enough on Xena’s mind without a ‘star-crossed lovers’ storyline. Remember, it was only a year ago that they both were nailed up by Romans and left to die under a cold, grey sky at the foot of Mount Amaro. That cross alone, and the long shadow it casts, is more than capable of supporting the dramatic weight of this episode, never mind the crosses that came before it.

So, I can’t overstate the importance of Xena’s past connection with Caesar and Rome. It informed so much of who Xena was to become, as a cruel and bloodthirsty warlord, and then later, as a warrior fighting for good. Even now, after Caesar’s death, that connection is still informing her. It will never stop. And, Rome will never be absolved of its sins against Xena & Gabrielle. There’s simply too much trauma in that shared past. Trauma that‘s telegraphed onto every interaction Xena has with Rome and its strongmen going forward.  

And it’s exactly the reason Xena would never fall in love with Marc Antony. She might well lust after his body, but she will never pine for his devotion. Because, even in that moment under the stars when he is just a man with his chest cracked open, offering up to her his heart, beating strong and hungry in want of her affection, she can’t help but see the hardened, black veins where the love of Rome - like a creeping scourge - has left its vile mark. Of course she recognizes it, her own heart bore the same disease. A gift from Caesar. The pretty boy with his pretty words and his pretty promises, who so subtly disarmed Xena and then skillfully stripped away her defences until she had bared her heart to him. Who didn’t hesitate to flay it with a knife of her own making, it’s blade poisoned with his love for Rome.  

He did not take her heart - sometimes she wished he had - but left it to rot in her chest, slow and angry. And it nearly destroyed her. Nearly drained her of every ounce of humanity she had left, as hatred and spite and cold brutality filled her up instead. He had weaponized Xena’s affection for him and used it against her and she was forever changed. In that singular moment she saw Caesar, and Rome - because Caesar was Rome and Rome was Caesar and they were one and the same - for what they truly were: insidious and unrepentant in their calculated villainy. And she hated - not just the man who betrayed her, but the monster who nursed him with poisoned milk, and all the other strongmen who nursed at the same teat. Because in that moment too, Xena learned that all the men who kneeled before Rome and lusted after her glory were the same.

But she didn’t let her hatred go unproductive. She had been careless and imprudent in her dealings with Caesar, and nearly paid for it with her life. Except she survived and then thrived, in her own insidious, unrepentant, calculated villainy. And she never forgot what Caesar had done to her, how he had done it. She turned it over and over and over again in her mind. Studied it from every angle. Studied *him*. Until she knew how he thought, how he moved, where he was weak and unsuspecting. Until she knew every single one of his plays, and how best to counter them. Where and when to lay siege. A secret weapon she cultivated, not just to destroy the man who destroyed her heart, but to lay waste to all the fools who followed in his footsteps. She wouldn’t be taken in by Rome again.

And, to be fair, the episode doesn’t try to run from this history. It just doesn’t linger in it any longer than is necessary to give a brief nod to Brutus and the crucifixion (which is a shame, because it informs so much of both Xena’s & Gabrielle’s psychology, but we’re getting there!!!). Even still, Gabrielle’s first words are loaded with its legacy, if not also quiet resignation: “Are we really going to do this?” Because: Fuck! Rome, again? They’re only willing to go another round with Rome because of Cleopatra, only willing to embrace the ghosts this will stir up because they feel they owe it to a friend.

So, of course they’re going to do this. Only, it’s no longer about vengeance, at least not the white fury that once burned hot in Xena’s veins. This is different. Xena’s ire still seethes, but she doesn’t plan to wield it like a mighty sword, rather she’ll channel it with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel poised to excise a tumour, deliberate and clinical. The plotting is easy - Xena has a library of schemes stored away in the vast reserves of her grey matter - but made easier by the fact that she knows Caesar’s playbook so intimately. The man may be dead but he lives on in Rome and the hearts of all the faithful men who love her - proud and predictable. Puppets whose strings she knows she can deftly manoeuvre.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            The problem is that Xena’s too comfortable in her self-assuredness. Her plan and her assumptions of how Roman strongmen operate and her ability to manage everything is founded on her understanding of Caesar. And none of these men are the next Caesar.  And it’s a problem, because this was supposed to be a quick and straightforward trip up the Nile to Memphis to do a little housekeeping on behalf of a friend and it’s been complicated by the fact that her pawns are not being cooperative.

This entire endeavour is not what she was expecting, Antony is not at all what she was expecting. He’s disarmingly handsome and charming, like many of Rome’s great strongmen, and their chemistry is electric - a bonus when you’re really trying to sell your part in a seduction play - but she realizes a little too late that the game she plays with him is not the one she had planned on. It’s actually much more dangerous.

And, I get that many fans believe Xena’s sexual attraction to Marc Antony is meant to telegraph an underlying romantic attraction as well. That as their physical encounters become more intimate and intense, so too must Xena’s feelings for him. And it’s easy to read it this way because Gabrielle’s own jealousy seems to reinforce the very idea, and Xena, herself, looks increasingly unsettled after each interaction. But I think it’s too simplistic an answer. Xena’s unease about Antony is growing because her plan has been frustrated by unforeseen hurdles, none of which include her falling in love with him.  And Xena is frustrated in return.

We totally see this play out in Xena’s treatment of Gabrielle. She is curt and cool and dismissive (at least until their balcony talk), especially after Gabrielle puts a spectacular halt to Xena’s picnic with Marc Antony. But Xena’s distance here is not because she’s being defensive (at Gabrielle’s continued suggestions that she’s lost the plot), or because she’s angry for the interruption (ok, I’m sure there’s a very base part of Xena that *was* disappointed), or because she’s hurt (how could Gabrielle not have faith in her?). It may come across that way, but, really, Xena’s just acting out her frustrations.

Because this whole situation with Marc Antony, if a little intriguing at first, is irritating. And Xena’s frustrated. On many levels. The most obvious, and least surprising, being that Antony’s attentions have left her itchy and it’s distracting. And not because the chemistry between them has set off a chain reaction of romantic feelings for him - Xena is not spending her free time daydreaming about the man behind the General. It’s simply because there’s a kind of fire in her veins now that she wasn’t expecting to deal with this time out and it has the tendency to keep her on edge. And it’s not that she can’t handle it - spontaneous combustion is sometimes an occupational hazard when she’s playing at desire - it’s just that this particular element was not part of her plan.

That’s the real frustration: Xena’s not used to her plans being stymied. Her opening move - rolling herself, naked and chained, out from a carpet - though, brazen, should have been the perfect lure, should have painted her Cleopatra as an easy, if not unwilling, target for Antony’s ambitions. Because all Roman strongmen are the same: pretty boys with pretty words and pretty promises and pretty predictable tastes for cunning and seduction that they weaponize for the glory of Rome; heartless but for their love of res publica.

And so, this exact play is one Xena is confident any ambitious Roman would pounce on - remember: she knows their playbook, was once herself on the near-losing end of such a gambit, back when she was still a little naive and the right words could soften her heart; before her legs and her psyche endured the full force of Rome’s wrath. Except Antony doesn’t take the bait, like she expects, and it catches Xena flat-footed, a position she rarely finds herself in and one she isn’t particularly fond of. And so now she finds herself having to regroup and change tactics on the fly, which is fine - she’s used to that too - it’s just that her forward momentum is frustrated by the fact that she can’t get a good read on Marc Antony, doesn’t quite know his angle. He’s an unknown and unpredictable variable in a plot that already has a lot of moving parts and it introduces just the tiniest element of doubt into the equation.

Which is why it doesn’t help that Gabrielle is dubious of Xena’s motivations surrounding Antony. Not that Xena blames her for her concerns. She knows they aren’t really meant to provoke - that they come from a place of genuine anxiety, born from Gabrielle’s intimate understanding of Xena’s unhappy past with both bad-boy types and the ravages of Rome. Knows that Gabrielle, whose heart has traced all the scars of that past and let her love be a salve, is steadfast in her belief in Xena, even when the wheels are falling off. But Gabrielle’s questions do provoke. They pique Xena’s frustrations. It leaves her feeling cagey - like her back is up - and she hates it because it means she’s dangerously close to being on the defensive.

And really, by the time Marc Antony invites her to meet him under the pyramids, Xena is running out of options. Her back isn’t just up, it feels dangerously close to being backed up against a wall. She’s only playing this game because she’s confident she’ll win - that’s why she led with such a shameless opening bid, presenting herself to Antony as she did - but with each round Antony’ coyishness has forced her to up the ante while she waits for him to play his hand. Once upon a time she might have enjoyed and encouraged this slow, deliberate back-and-forth - would have been willing to play it out until she was out of chips (and her clothes) - but she no longer has the patience. Not that she’s entirely immune now to the thrill of what they’re doing - Xena has always enjoyed the hunt and then playing with her food - it’s just that she needs him to reveal his hand before he can call her bluff because there aren’t anymore chips to spare and she has too much on the line to go all in.

But Xena’s emotional conflict isn’t just being driven by her frustrations with the way her plan is playing out - it’s priming the engine, to be sure - there are other feelings at work here too. And chief among them is a deep and growing unease with the roles she and Gabrielle have cast themselves in and the very real consequences that will come from their interference. It doesn’t sit well with Xena, the way they’re toying with the futures of Egypt and Rome - as if they are just prizes to be won and Brutus, Antony and Octavius are the game pieces that need to be maneuvered around the board until a winner appears. As if there aren’t millions of lives at stake. She hates it. Hates that she has been somehow cast above it all, to dabble, like some unworthy god, in the lives of so many, and yet also stuck in the thick of it, an unwitting pawn herself.

And the longer Xena’s game is in play, the murkier everything becomes. What seems like a straightforward plan on paper, is actually a mess of competing interests, each as cold and ruthless as the next. And right at the heart of it all: Xena (and Gabrielle too), judge, jury & executioner. Because despite her business-like approach when they arrived in Egypt, Xena’s ability to remain detached and objective is under pressure, especially as all the players in her game reveal themselves and their motivations resolve into finer focus.

And there’s something about Marc Antony. He’s truly unnerved Xena. Because he didn’t play by her rules, the rules she owed to Rome - and he, a Roman no less. Maybe there would have been a time in her past when this would have endeared him to her, but now it’s left her uneasy. He needles at her resolve, the confidence she has in her plan. There’s a part of her that starts to wonder if she’s mis-read him completely, and that’s the start of a slippery slope into thinking she has mis-read this entire situation. And she doesn’t have the time for back-sliding.

But the problem is this: no matter how she looks at it there’s no clear answer, only devastating consequences if she’s wrong. For herself, for the lives she’s playing with, and probably for most of the known world. Because Rome and her strongmen will stop at nothing to take it all. And that thought never leaves her. Rome is a constant drum beat in her mind: Rome Rome Rome. Xena knows what Rome is capable of, what these three men jockeying for her power are capable of, even if Xena doesn’t know *them*. It echoes in her mind every time one of them is before her - even as Marc Antony’s kisses leave behind a fever in her blood - Rome Rome Rome.

And while her mind whirls constantly, turning over strategy and tactics, she’s tried to keep her heart mostly out of this affair. Left it unburdened by the machinations of statecraft and violent political intrigue. Except for a dull ache - when she thinks about Eve downriver in Alexandria, or when her eye catches Gabrielle in an unguarded moment - Xena could almost believe the desert sun had turned her heart to dust. Almost. Except that ache is there and, like her frustration and unease, it’s been growing more persistent.

Because Xena has more than herself to consider now. Sure, she’s spent the last five years dedicated to preserving the greater good - whether fighting for her closest friends or the nameless, faceless masses - but it’s different now, she’s different, and not just because she has a daughter who needs her to come home. She has Gabrielle too. They have a little family. And even though Xena has loved Gabrielle for years, she feels fiercely protective of Gabrielle’s heart and love now, in a way she’s never felt before, with anyone. But then, maybe it’s not surprising: they did battle demons in hell for each other’s soul. That sort of thing changes everything.

And Xena can see how this is affecting Gabrielle, even if she doesn’t say it out loud. Remembers the pierce of iron through the flesh of Gabrielle’s hands as surely as she remembers it through her own. Rome has robbed them both and Xena sees the weight of it in Gabrielle’s gaze. Sees, too, the way Gabrielle traps her bottom lip in her teeth as Xena smiles seductively at Antony. Watches the flush creep across Gabrielle’s pale skin when Antony’s kisses become more emboldened. Catches the dangerous flash in Gabrielle’s green eyes. The one that hasn’t gone away since they arrived in Egypt. Xena sees and it makes her heart lurch. To watch her beloved watch her take delight in the charms of another. And to know the sight of it is a white hot grip on Gabrielle’s heart. Xena feels the burning clench around hers too.

And this is the Xena we see when she meets Marc Antony under the pyramids. Frustrated and uneasy, heart aching. Tired. Tired of this game and her role in it. Tired of Rome, but mostly tired of all the horrible things that happen by her hand because of Rome. And then there is Marc Antony waiting for her. Disarmingly handsome and charming, unnerving in his refusal to play into her hands, a Roman above all: a pretty boy with pretty words and pretty promises. And like all Romans, she expects the promises to be lies. Except, there’s something in the way he’s played his hand, the way he’s held back all this time, that tells her there might be truth in his words when he tells her he wants her love.

She can sense his confession even before the words are out. Maybe on some level she always knew, had seen the inevitability of this moment even as she refused to believe in the possibility. But his words pierce the haze that has kept her from seeing her own folly. And it’s like lightning in a bottle. The way every frayed nerve snaps and jumps and arcs all at once - the rain of sparks illuminating everything that had left her mind and heart unsettled - in an instant of sudden, total understanding. It steals her breath and slices at her heart, this clear and unbearable realization. What she’s done and what she still has to do to bring this absurd game to a close.  

See, she’s made a terrible miscalculation. Because in her mind Roman brutes are heartless. Capable of loving only Rome. And her seduction of Marc Antony was only ever meant to be a power play. How could it be anything more? She had weaponized lust and sex in the past to get the things she wanted, this was to be no different. Except that it was. And her hubris - her prideful overconfidence in her infallible, little plan, coupled with her resolute belief that all Roman men are Caesar at their core - has led her to overplay her hand. Not that she won’t still find a way to win. It’s just the cost will be much higher than she could have anticipated.

Because she has unwittingly weaponized Marc Antony’s affection for her and now she is going to have to deliberately use it against him. It is devastating. To see his chest bared to her so willingly, and to know that she must flay his heart with a knife of his own making. It shakes her resolve. It brings tears to her eyes.

But of course it brings tears to her eyes. She has done the unthinkable: she herself has become Caesar. The thing she hated most. The man who won her trust and her love and then betrayed her. Cold and hard and heartless. Brutal and ruthless and willingly so. In this moment she is Caesar. And soon she will become Rome, sacrificing another man, who might yet have been good, in the name of her unrequited love.

This moment under the pyramids is so important. Everything hangs on this declaration from Marc Antony, on Xena’s tears. I know people see it as confirmation of Xena’s feelings for him - and she has feelings to be sure - but they’re not romantic. Xena’s emotional reaction, and the genuine unease she wears thereafter do not hinge on her being in love with him. Xena’s humanity is enough to soften both her heart and her regard for Antony in this moment. Her compassion and regret are not dependent on attraction or attachment. And so the story doesn’t need to frame her tears for Marc Antony as a lover’s heartbreak, because her heart was always going to break for him, as it breaks for herself and Gabrielle and the ruin left in their wake.

And there will be ruin. Xena is certain of it. Although, for a moment, she might have held a glimmer of hope for Antony. This Roman who’s willing to give up his army for love. For love. Not that she wants what he’s offering. She just wants to believe he could be different. Not for her. For Rome. But then his sword is hilt deep in the belly of one of Brutus’ men and then slicing through the throat of another. And Xena knows - even as she and Gabrielle dance around the subject hours later, bathed in moonlight and disquiet - that any hope for him is misplaced. Knows exactly what he will do with Brutus’ army and Octavius if he prevails. Is keenly aware of what awaits if he learns of her deception and is allowed to live.

Because once upon a time she was the one who trusted and loved and was betrayed and lived. And thousands paid the price at the end of her sword for Caesar’s treachery. Xena can’t even imagine what Marc Antony, favoured son of Rome, might do. Can’t risk the chance. So he must pay the price at the end of her sword too. Xena wishes it weren’t so, tries to avoid the fight that will take his life - because now that she’s seen the humanity in her enemy she wants no further part in this madness she’s helped to orchestrate - only she doesn’t have a choice now. Alea iacta est - the die is cast, and her blade and her betrayal find Antony’s heart all the same. And when the end comes, there’s Xena, soaked in blood and rain and tears, in the middle of this fucking mess, the dead and wounded scattered about her. She can’t escape the truth of it then: she did this.

And it’s this! All of this - the many layers of trauma in need of reckoning and Xena’s tangled heart, twisted further by the part she is forced to play in Egypt and the goddamn fucking senselessness of it all - that carries the emotional weight of the episode. Who needs a Boyfriend of the Week when there’s already all this angst?

And, ok, I hear you say: Pattie, you’ve made some valid points about Xena’s state of mind, but why can’t Xena’s emotional and moral conflict be born from this fraught personal history AND from the fact that she *was* falling in love with Antony? Wouldn’t that make it an EVEN MORE dramatic and powerful story? Because she was specifically falling in love with a ROMAN GENERAL, the very epitome of the thing she has spent most of her adult life hating?

I would like to agree with you, dear skeptical reader, but the simple truth is that there isn’t room for both in *this* story. The reality is this: a 44-minute-long, action-focused show like XWP just doesn’t always have a lot of extra time to linger on the emotional beats. And this episode, in particular, already so busy with all the palace and political intrigue, has even less. So much of what we’re able to read of Xena’s psychological state - and *why* it’s so deeply fraught - doesn’t even come from this episode. It relies on past emotional beats to inform our understanding of her behaviour. (And, I don’t know, perhaps this is why a casual viewer might pass off Xena’s and Marc Antony’s interplay as romantic - because most of the horrible things that have happened to Xena by Roman hands are left unsaid, and surely, if we’d been reminded of them we would never accept that Xena would fall in love with a golden boy of the empire.)

As it is, there’s barely space for any kind of meditation on how either Xena or Gabrielle are feeling about the roles they are being forced to play and the seemingly callous and ruthless tactics they increasingly use to do so, let alone a tenuous romance. And the former is what this episode should be actively engaging with: the moral ambiguity that has been driving season five and will continue on through the end of the series.  

Further complicating things with a love story, doesn’t make the episode more dramatic, it just takes up emotional bandwidth that could be better served elsewhere. Because, yes, Marc Antony is the epitome of the thing Xena has spent more than a decade hating! Xena’s history with Caesar and Rome (and everything they both stand for) is richly layered and devastating. It cannot be erased or ignored. To suggest that she is capable of falling in love with Antony (and to ask us to then believe it) without also deliberately exploring the tension inherent in that act is obtuse.

Those kinds of emotional beats need room to fucking breathe. And the episode doesn’t do this because there’s just too much happening. It tries - in broad, moody strokes - to capture the tenor of Xena’s emotional landscape, and it succeeds in wrapping us up in the same angst that drapes Xena, but the source is nebulous. Her haunted looks and tears - under the sphinx and when her sword finds Antony’s belly - can only telegraph so much, especially when we have been given very little reason to feel invested in her supposed affection towards him.

And here’s where we finally touch on Xena’s checkered romantic history - and her self-proclaimed soft spot for Bad Boys Who Love Like Fools (10 points to Ravenclaw for your patience) - because I’m sure you’re about to suggest that Marc Antony’s air of a Bad Boy is itself cause enough to garner Xena’s affection. Powerful, disarmingly handsome, and charming? Check, check, check. Capable with his ‘sword’? Bonus: super check. But just because her past is littered with dysfunctional relationships and Bad Boys - though I’m sure not all were bad, and some were definitely women - doesn’t mean she’s interested in repeating her mistakes. The Xena of old is vastly different from the one we know by season five, even if there are parts of her that are very much the same.

The principal driving force in her early adult life and formative romantic relationships was lust. It ruled over every part of her. Lust for: power and for violence and for blood and for riches and for infamy, and, of course, for sexual gratification. And so, she sought out partners - themselves driven by the same hunger - who could satisfy all of her desires, not just her (very) carnal appetite. She fell hard and fast and burned white hot until something, or someone, else came along and made her feel even more incandescent. In those early days, Xena wasn’t looking for *love*, she was looking for a good time.

Now, that’s not to say Xena’s past romantic entanglements were frivolous or lacking in genuine sentiment. At the very least, I suspect many were sustained by the warm affection that comes naturally from the intimacy of sharing your life with someone, whether they’re riding into battle alongside you or just warming your bed over a long winter. Nor is it meant to be dismissive of whatever fondness she felt for her lovers. Because: not all love looks the same. There are different kinds of love and different ways to love.  

For Xena, though, whose heart had been so thoroughly and devastatingly mangled by Caesar’s betrayal, love was immaterial. At best, it was the unintended, if pleasurable, byproduct of a mutually beneficial arrangement. At worst it was a weakness that her enemies could exploit. Mostly, it was just a silly notion to scoff at. And the feeling Xena would come to associate with love - whether she acknowledged it as such, or not - was informed by both the dynamics of her relationships with Bad Boys and her own dark, irrepressible designs. It was selfish, and often cruel. Grounded in hot blooded impulses and savage desire, rather than growing out of an honest and patient connection.

And it became so thoroughly ingrained in her psyche. It was her overriding view of love. Even after she came to recognize how different love could be - and look and feel - once it was no longer centred in selfishness, when it was open and giving and kind, it was a struggle for Xena to undo her conditioning, to rewrite her love language. Because: first, she had to accept that she was worthy of this new kind of love, and then she had to actually accept it once it was offered.

But, old habits die hard, even for Xena, and I’m sure there were times - when she was just beginning to reframe how she viewed love and was learning how to reopen her heart - that she slipped back into her outmoded ways of thinking. Conflating lust with something else; allowing herself to be tempted by dalliances with partners who stoked her selfish desires, instead of tempering them. And maybe if Xena had crossed paths with Marc Antony then - back at the beginning of the series when her history with Rome was still messy but not nearly as tortuous as it is by the end of season five (you know after Britannia and its fallout which was the beginning of The Rift, and the deaths of Crassus and Ephiny and Pompy and the countless others who were the collateral damage surrounding those events, and, of course, Xena’s & Gabrielle’s own death on the cross) - I’d be willing to believe that she could love him.

Because, at one time Xena might have been interested in a man like Antony, might have been able to look past the Roman tunic and pursued him, taken in by his magnetism and allure. But by this point in the series Xena just isn’t interested, and not because her duplicity has made it impossible for her to be, but because by now her entire understanding of love - of being loved and giving love and nurturing it and making room for it to grow - has fundamentally changed. It’s been re-centred in selflessness, and everything that Marc Antony represents is antithetical to this new appreciation.

And I get that there’s an argument in here somewhere, that suggests Xena’s new approach to love might have softened her heart in such a way that she’s both able and willing to see the man behind the General, and be open to loving him too. But I would argue that the very things, the very people, whose love has transformed Xena’s heart are also the very things that would stop her from ever letting her heart go there. It’s not just that her point of reference on love has changed, it’s that she’s had years now of lived experience to break that cognitive dissonance between her attitude - knowing the kind of love she wants, the kind of love that’s *good* for her - and her behaviour - choosing that reaffirming, selfless love instead of the tempestuous, selfish one. She’s not blind to her past weaknesses, she knows exactly the sort of temptation Marc Antony offers - as surely as Gabrielle does the moment she lays eyes on him - but recognizing it is not akin to considering it. Because: Xena’s already found the love she needs and wants (and knows she’s earned and deserves).

Ok, but what of Xena’s admission on the balcony, when she cops to having a soft spot for Bad Boys Who Love Like Fools? I think it’s less about admitting (to herself as much as Gabrielle) that she’s developed romantic feelings for Marc Antony, as it is about Xena acknowledging a certain sort of fondness she feels for these ‘Bad Boys’. A fondness that’s born from a mutual understanding. Because: I think Xena sees herself in these men - at least an earlier version of herself - when she was ‘bad’ and foolhardy at love, and her heart tugs at the memory of it. Some curious mix of nostalgia and empathy, that softens her regard for them.

And she certainly sees herself in Marc Antony. The parallels between her story with Caesar and the story she’s now playing out with Antony are unavoidable, and if she’s cast herself as Caesar in this shadow play then Marc Antony is her younger self. Of course she would have a soft spot for him, she knows how this story ends. Knows, specifically, what it’s like to be willing to give your trust and your love only to be betrayed in return. And, of course, it’s made only more complicated with the knowledge that she’s the one who will ultimately be his ruin.

So, finally, exhausted and exasperated and, like 7,000 words into this, I hear you ask: what does it really matter? Xena doesn’t choose Marc Antony in the end, so what does it matter if it was lust or love or guilt or a fucking mid-life crisis that was driving her in this episode? Well, dear, patient reader: it matters because Gabrielle deserves better (THIS IS A BOLD STATEMENT, I KNOW, AND IT’S NOT AN INDICTMENT ON XENA’S CHARACTER EITHER, IT’S JUST THAT I FEEL VERY PROTECTIVE OF GABRIELLE’S HEART, OK! AND THE ONE THING THIS EPISODE DOES IS GIVE GABRIELLE THOSE LITTLE BEATS WHERE WE LINGER ON HER VISIBLE REACTIONS TO XENA’S TETE A TETE WITH ANTONY AND SHE’S CLEARLY JEALOUS AND HURT AND WORRIED AND SO, LET’S NOT LOSE SIGHT OF THE FACT THAT HER EMOTIONAL STAKES ARE ALSO INCREDIBLY HIGH IN THIS EPISODE, NOT JUST BECAUSE HER LIFE PARTNER IS SEDUCING SOME DUDE, BUT ALSO BECAUSE THE LEVELS OF BRUTALITY SHE’S INCREASINGLY HAVING TO EMPLOY ARE ALARMING. AND SO, SOMEONE IN THE WRITER’S ROOM WAS THINKING ABOUT THIS WHEN THEY WERE OUTLINING THE STORY - UNDERSTANDING THAT THERE’S AN UNDERCURRENT IN XENA’S & GABRIELLE’S RELATIONSHIP THAT WOULD MAKE SEEING XENA WITH ANTONY UNCOMFORTABLE, BUT THEN NOT ALSO RECOGNIZING THAT THAT SAME UNDERCURRENT WOULD MAKE IT EQUALLY UNCOMFORTABLE FOR XENA. AND IT’S JUST LIKE: TEAM, WHY DO YOU HAVE TO DO THAT TO GABRIELLE? HER HEART MUST HAVE BEEN IN A TERRIBLE STATE. AND WHY DID YOU HAVE TO MAKE XENA COMPLICIT IN THIS?)

But, seriously, I’ve spent all this time diving deep into this episode and the ways it comes up short and why, and while I’ve alluded to it, I’ve mostly avoided the elephant in the room.

We need to talk about Gabrielle.

Because: Gabrielle is at the heart of why a romance between Xena and Marc Antony feels contrived and unconvincing. At this point in the show, it’s clear Xena & Gabrielle are fully and completely committed to each other (and, yes, I know that doesn’t necessarily preclude either of them from also seeking romantic or sexual partners elsewhere... I just don’t think they’re the sharing types, but I DIGRESS) - I mean, we *just* had ‘Kindred Spirits’ where they were nesting and talking about domestic bliss and privately teasing each other about their sex life in the most blatant way possible and failing miserably at breaking up but winning at being cute and married and adoringly in love. And I think it’s important to acknowledge the weight of Xena’s decision to very clearly have Gabrielle as her *life* partner - because implicit in the act of choosing to commit yourself to another person is a vow of fidelity, a bond that would be near-holy to Xena, whose word means everything.

But more to the point: Xena loves Gabrielle and Gabrielle loves Xena, and their love has been the beating heart of this show from the beginning. Gabrielle’s care and tenderness has been transformative - everything that Xena has come to understand about love, everything that she does to honour and protect it, is because of Gabrielle and the heart she’s so selflessly given of. And it’s this love story - and how the show has framed its slow and beautiful unravelling - that becomes the bench mark, the gold standard, for how all other love stories in this universe should be viewed, for how Xena, herself, now views love.

So, I guess what I’ve been saying all along is this: Xena can’t possibly be falling in love with Marc Antony because she’s already in love. Deeply, profoundly, bound-for-all-eternity in love. And no one, in this life (or any other, let’s be real) will ever compare. Not pretty boys with pretty words and pretty promises. Not Bad Boys Who Love Like Fools. Not even a god himself. There is only Gabrielle.

[sserpente]

A/N: Request from anon. Pure smut. Really. Enjoy. ;-)

Words: 2265 Warnings: smut smut smut

Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Frustrated, you closed your laptop shut and placed it on the empty space on your bed next to you. Porn was so obviously an exaggeration with women moaning in ecstasy at the slightest touch near their pussies and men with long and thick dicks that probably wouldn’t even fit into horses.

All you had meant to do was find some inspiration to get yourself off. The image of a strong man above you, pleasuring you by every trick in the book, doing hot things you had seen in some of the videos you had watched.

It was no use. As soon as you closed your eyes, your hand sneakily wandering down your body until you reached your dripping folds to tease yourself, the only man you saw in front of you was the Norse God of Mischief, his raven hair tickling your skin and piercing blue eyes devouring your naked form beneath him.

A sigh escaped your lips. You might as well… your fingers found your slit, gathering some of your wetness to circle your clit lazily. The simple touch made you shiver, your body arching its back in joyful anticipation of what was to come all the while the one you imagined exploring your soaking cunt was him, with long and soft digits taking the time to examine you.

Loki had been dominating your thoughts for weeks, months. It had all started during a risky mission, one that had almost cost you your life if it weren’t for Loki who saved you. Before that, he had been the mysterious, cocky but also restrained little brother of Thor, the bad guy and handsome god of trickery you occasionally imagined fucking. His heart was locked away in a chest, out of reach even for him—but on that day, you got to see a very different side of Loki.

His stunning blue eyes had been sparkling with concern for you, his body shielding yours in the most vulnerable manner. He had carried you back to the helicarrier without so much as any hesitation, ensuring the doctors on board would treat your wounds.

Loki was so much more than he let on; not only pleasing to the eye and skilled with a mischievous nature… but he was a good man. A good man with a warm heart which had been hurt, sliced and cut open one time too much, a heart which he himself was afraid of to lose to darkness and evil.

You loved his dominant aura, picturing the things he could do to you in bed… and yet you longed to see his soft side again, the side he hid so well from the Avengers and SHIELD because to them, he would always remain the war criminal. The villain.

The thought excited you, your hand starting to move faster. Loki would bury his face between your legs, ravishing your cunt like a sweet dessert, his skilled silver tongue working its magic on your sensitive bundle of nerves until you begged him for your release. And only after forcing you into countless orgasms that left you sweating and screaming his name, he would push your legs wide apart for access and sheath his huge and hard cock deep inside you.

The God of Mischief had, of course, not the vaguest notion of your growing feelings for him. For all he knew, the whole compound loathed him for his actions in the past. Sometimes, secretly, you imagined walking up to him determinedly, in front of the entire crew and the Avengers and kiss him senseless to shut them up.

Gods, you were so wet…

“Loki…” You moaned, throwing your head back into your pillow. “Loki…”

 -

They hated him. And of course, how would they possibly not? Thor’s own hostility had driven a dagger into Loki’s tormented and tainted heart and now he remained as what he had been born—the outsider.

For all he knew, his help on various missions as well as the fact he had saved countless human lives ever since his return to Midgard was considered but a means of compensations for his actions in New York. Actions which he had not been entirely responsible for and yet, even his own brother refused to listen to his one attempt to explain himself. He should not be surprised.

This shortly before Halloween night, causing some mischief around the compound was the least he could do. He was a Trickster, always had been. If a good laugh upon seeing the famous Avengers scream and howl in fear posed his only reward for tolerating his new life on Midgard, then so be it.

Tonight, it was your turn—and since sleep would rarely come to him these days, the subconscious fear of the nightmares returning too great—and reading through Stark’s library proved to be ineffective, he might as well have some fun with triggering eye-watering reactions by casting eerie shadows, turning objects into snakes, skulls and body parts and even shapeshifting into repulsive creatures from the horror movies they all liked to watch so much at this time of the year.

Smirking to himself, he approached your room, knowing you never locked it at night. He knew you were terrified of the scary dead girl from “The Ring”. If he was lucky enough, you’d even jump into his arms for protection. He had very much enjoyed taking care of you before. The way you had clung onto him, trusting him with your life during that one fateful mission… quite frankly, you were the only Avenger in the compound he, so he had admitted to himself, had taken quite the liking into.

Loki was as quiet as a mouse when he turned the doorknob and peeked inside your room. The lights were out, your petite form, to his anyway, moving on the bed and breathing heavily in your sleep. He was about to send an illusion of the horror girl into your room when he suddenly heard it.

You were moaning his name.

-

You were close, so close, so close! Moving your hand furiously now, you applied just enough pressure to trip over the edge. You imagined Loki wrapping his arms around your hips dominantly, his tongue greedily lapping up your juices and his blue eyes locking with yours as you came undone for him. Your walls clenched around emptiness, longing to feel his cock inside of you, your orgasm rippling through you like thousands of waves of electricity.

“Ahhh… Loki!” You screamed, bucking your hips in a desperate attempt to ride out your climax.

Loki swallowed thickly, his trousers tightening with a start. You were not asleep. You were wide awake. You were… masturbating to the thought of him?

He gnashed his teeth, a sudden hunger awakening in his body. Having your small body in his arms, it was one thing… fucking you roughly to satisfy both his and your carnal needs was entirely another. The urge to join you on the bed rose, to force your legs apart, smell your arousal and bury his hardening length deep inside you, giving you what you so obviously craved.

You wanted him. It had been a while since a woman had longed for his touch instead of Thor’s.

Another moan escaped your lips as you withdrew your fingers from your dripping pussy. Covered in your juices, you simply wiped them off on your bedsheets, then turned over and closed your eyes, hoping that the relaxing orgasm would help you fall asleep faster.

Loki smirked to himself. If he held such power over your thoughts and imagination, he might as well hold power over you for real. Now, there was another way to scare you a little.

Without making a sound, he treaded into your room, approaching you hungrily. When was the last time he had shared his bed with a woman, satisfied his most carnal needs?

Before he could change his mind in fear of rejection, he pressed his palm against your mouth to keep you from screaming. You reacted instantly, thrashing around and struggling, attempting to strike your attacker.

Loki shushed you. “It’s me, little mortal.” You calmed down just a bit, attempting to say his name through his hand. “And I must say,” he continued. “That was quite a tempting show you put on for me. You could have just asked, you see… perhaps I would have taken pity and satisfied you. I can be a merciful god, after all.”

Loki’s voice was hoarse, your eyes widening upon hearing those dirty words coming out of his mouth. This was too good to be true. Surely, you were dreaming, even though… even though it felt so real. How could he… had he… was he watching you cumming and screaming his name?!

A moan escaped your lips, your arousal heating up your body faster than a lightning bold.

“Would you like me to take care of your needs?” Loki whispered darkly. “All you need to do is say the word.” He needed your consent, needed to know that this was what you really wanted. He was many things but he was not cruel. He liked to manipulate and trick but he would not force a woman to give him pleasure if she not wished to do so herself.

Unsure of what to expect, he removed his hand from your mouth. You were panting. “Yes… Loki, please do.”

Loki growled. It was all he needed to hear. Impatiently, he climbed on the bed, hovering above you like a predator all the while freeing his hard manhood from his black leather trousers. If only you could see him properly in the dark… for he adored the way your lips parted, tongue flicking out in joyful anticipation of what was to come.

Your legs fell apart willingly when he forced himself between them. What by the Norns had come over him? Devouring a woman without having courted her properly? His mother would have chided him and yet… the lust filling the warm air in the room clouded his mind like the moist autumn fog in the mornings.

“Loki…” You croaked out of breath, overwhelmed by the wonderful sensations he elicited. His skin against yours, his hands exploring your curves, kneading your breasts and playing with your nipples until they hardened under his touch and then, suddenly, he reached down to grab both your wrists and hold them down to both sides of your head, immobilising you.

You whimpered, afraid of losing your mind in this tornado of pleasure threatening to tear you high up and away, even more so when you felt his hard and warm length pressing against your dripping entrance. You moved your hips up, eager for him to sink himself inside you but Loki took his time, making sure he would not hurt you—claiming you agonising inch by agonising inch.

He growled like a wolf once he had finally sheathed himself inside your welcoming heat, your walls moulding around him like your body had been made for him. You threw your head back, exposing yourself to him devotedly, and when he withdrew and thrust back into you, you moaned his name so loudly you feared the others would hear you.

“Does that feel good, my sweet little mortal? Is this not better than your own hands bringing pleasure upon that tight quim of yours?” He muttered into your ear, his cool breath sending pleasant shivers up and down your spine as you climbed the ladder of orgasm higher and higher.

Loki fucked you both gently and roughly at the same time, his cock filling you so perfectly hitting all the right spots.

Unable to respond, you simply nodded, your hips bucking to meet his eager thrusts until you were ready to burst into a million pieces.

“Don’t you dare cum yet,” you suddenly heard him order out of breath. You swallowed thickly.

“L-Loki… please…”

His chuckle was dark but soon replaced by his own animalistic grunts as he neared his climax. Loki picked up his pace, rutting into you wildly and relentlessly. His lips came crashing down on yours, abusing your mouth for a passionate kiss which left you breathless. Oh, oh, you were going to…

“Loki, please!” You shrieked.

“Cum! Cum around my cock, now!” The God of Mischief choked out, stilling as he came and spurted ropes of his seed deep inside you, marking you all the while you obeyed him helplessly, your own high washing over you like a tidal wave. You clenching around him rhythmically, milking his cock for all it was worth.

Loki rocked into you a few more times, helping you ride out both your orgasms until he collapsed on top of you completely spent, only now letting go of your wrists. For a brief moment, neither of you moved but enjoyed each other’s bodies, still joined, and listened to each other’s rapid heartbeats and breathing.

Eventually, he withdrew, leaving you feeling empty at the loss of his now slowly softening length. He sighed. This… this had been amazing. Too amazing to be true. Perhaps it would be for the best if you believed it had been but a wet dream, his irrational fear of rejection returning with a start and hitting him in the chest like Thor’s hammer.

Loki pressed a tender kiss on your forehead, making you smile as your eyes closed before he reluctantly pulled up his trousers and left the room so he would not forget himself and pull you in his arms, bathing in the affection you had just showered him with.

-

A/N: No worries. Read Part II here.

Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! Also, if you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

[foulserpent]

only human

long character analysis + fan fiction hybrid involving critically acclaimed worst best game of all time The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion! martin is in a mental and emotional hell! ned and martin resolving unresolved sexual tension after like, 100000 false starts! being mentally ill with the bro’s! "fluffy" ending!

cw: brief depiction of violence, ptsd, implications of past relationship based trauma, borderline explicit but not really sexy sexual content (nothing p*rnographic but 18+ pls)

On some nights, Martin was in hell.

The world was on a slow death march towards ruin outside the walls, this much he knew. Not even the strongest fortification could shield him from it. Every night from his gilded cage, he heard the screams, breathed the foul smoke and burning flesh and disemboweled gut, see the daedra drag the near-dead into the shadows to be torn apart, still crying out as they were devoured. His hands wet with blood, shaking in vain as his healing failed him and the survivors were pulled apart by their own wounds. The long walk out of the doomed Kvatch, past swarming flies and hundreds of blank eyes looking into the unforgiving sun. The revelation that all this was for him.

On the worst of these nights, staring into the ceiling of Cloud Ruler Temple as the sun began to creep over the horizon, he would wish he had just died.

This time last year, he was on track to live out the rest of his days in obscurity. Probably in Kvatch, probably remaining a priest, where the only weight on his shoulders was giving people their assurances that the Divines would look out for them and hoping he would finally taste truth in these words. It would be better than this. Those who held the reigns of the Empire were even more deluded than he'd thought, if they believed that his noble blood would divinely grant understanding of what to do, some inborn ability to keep collected and strong and sane trapped here as his friends faced death at his behest.

He would be called "lord", shone and polished as a commodity, loved and utterly devoted to, and never, never known. His feelings did not matter. This message had been thoroughly beaten into him. None of it mattered to whatever hand kept him guarded as preciously as the helpless king on the chessboard, behind a line of pawns to the sacrifice. Xikeel bringing him little gifts from gods-know-where (some teeth, a ring, a few spoons), slithering down from the rafters to visit him in the late night hours. One of the blades- bewildered - walking in on them dancing, without rhythm or music.

Long conversations with Ned, who would never treat him like an emperor, who barely even seemed to want to be there but had become doggedly devoted to Xikeel and himself. Bringing him wine, face softened into a smile in anticipation of an evening sitting outside in comfortable, quiet company. Tired and spiteful, but so warm.

He did not know when his feelings had turned to want. There was never an astonished realization, no moment that had changed everything. The first time he consciously acknowledged it was not as a revelation, but as an observation. Ned had cut his hand, a simple, foolish mistake that left Martin wearily healing him, in spite of the bosmer’s protests. Martin had held onto his hand longer than the spell needed, feeling the pulse in his fingers and wanting to entwine him in his own. Wanting to pull him in closer. Noticing that he wanted this, and noticing that it did not surprise him.

It was one of many things to think about, significantly less distressing than every other aspect of his current existence to say the least. He wondered if it was the day he had returned from his nigh-suicidal mission to cheat a god, haggard and shirt bloodied and yet with the softest eyes Martin had seen in the man, cracking a weak smile (a flash of teeth) that said "I've done it, and I hope you can forgive me". He wondered if it was Ned's unwavering devotion to leaving his shirt half-unbuttoned, the burn tearing through his chest on display like a trophy. The necklace would fall across the older man's breast while he laughed and joked about stupid things with Martin as if they were old friends. He was not above simple things.

Perhaps this was a test of the temperance he had spent years cultivating, hollowing out a part of himself to nurture the seed. After all, he had not been with anyone for a long time.

---

He had loathed the existence of the arena in Kvatch, drawing in men and women from all around in what amounted to mass suicide. There was little honor in it, just desperate people consuming themselves for just to grasp a thread of glory, dying in the mud as the crowd roared.  But Martin was only human. He had found himself looking on the men as they passed through town, all muscle and scars and fiercely alive. He had found himself drawn to one who had come into the temple for a blessing of protection. The man never said why, though Martin knew where he was bound. It was never hard to tell.

The man was tall and rather handsome, with a muscular frame and dark hair and looking to be only a few years younger than himself, (this had to be around when he was forty-one or forty-two. Had it been that long?). They'd spoke first as strangers do, running through the motions of a blessing under a thick smoke of incense and flowers burnt in offering to the Dragon. Martin averted his gaze from the sword at the man's hip as he prepared the oil. Its hilt glittered in iron filigree and unmistakable rust of dried blood struck gold by the afternoon's dying light. His eyes wandered to the man's face instead, moving to begin the anointment. The dark haired man swiped his tongue over his lips and glanced away, and Martin's heartbeat spiked.

For gods sakes.

The man talked compulsively, glancing around as if something stalked him in the shadows between the stained-glass-light. Martin had silently hoped he would grow bored with the old priest and be on his way, if only so that he'd have time to himself to contemplate what the hell was wrong with him. So, naturally, the man kept talking long after the ritual was complete and the candles extinguished. About where he had come from, (all the way from High Rock, it turned out), the unusual rains lately, family. Partners. Lovers. The conversation turned here, and had fallen with such a speed that he barely realized what was happening. The man had found Martin beautiful, and Martin, exhausted with penitence and enthralled by the stranger and aching to just be human again, had found himself quietly slipping out with him.

Martin's home was truly tiny when occupied by two, an unfamiliar claustrophobia that was quickly dragged into the mire and drowned in a little too much wine. It was cheap and burned his throat with its sweetness, but he didn't care. They'd stumbled and fallen into his bed.

"For good luck," the man had said, as they kissed rough and far too clumsy.

"For good luck," Martin had kissed into the man's neck.

The man was a bit fumbling, all muscles and scars and fierceness. No matter how close their bodies pressed, no matter the grip Martin had - his fingers marking new trails over a scarred back -  there was that distance. Two magnets repelling, even as they forced themselves together. These men going to their deaths couldn't be touched. And neither could he, no matter how he tried. There weren't even the barest roots of love here. Just body on body, flesh on flesh. It wasn't bad, though. Martin was only human.

He didn't know what to say in the morning, as the man collected his belongings to go off to the fight. "Good luck," Martin said again, feeling stupid. The man had said "thank you" with his eyes distant. He bent down and out the door, and walked out into the humid morning air, leaving Martin with a strange emptiness in his gut. He never saw him again.

It shouldn't have impacted him so badly. He'd had a one-night stand that was, frankly, pretty good. He'd given another man some comfort, something above and beyond his duty as the Priest-Healer-Penitent. It wasn't really against any vows. His lungs still breathed the smoke of offerings to the Dragon, a shrine to Dibella was dutifully kept at the foot of his bed and given a clumsy offering before the main event. He had not fallen back into the snares of that damned daedra. It wasn't a betrayal of those he'd lost. So why was he guilty?

---

And yet here he was now, on the precipice yet again. Really, he was long into the fall.

Him and one-of-two Heroes of Kvatch had slept together for a week now. Nothing more than the sharing of a bed and body heat, their day to day lives much the same as the world crumbled around him. They had kissed a few days ago, slightly dizzy with wine and the memory returning only in a haze. They'd kissed again the night before, sober and beyond any deniability as the bosmer was making his way out on errand. Ned had blushed and flicked his ears back, leaving him with a soft smile and a quiet "See you," as he slipped into the night.

Now, Martin found himself kneeling as if in prayer at the foot of his bed, his companion sitting up before him. Ned was half naked, body all muscle and scars and an exhaustion that ran far deeper than that. Martin had been healing a wound on his stomach- sliced open by a nasty (and thankfully, poorly aimed) dagger. The Mythic Dawn long since knew what he looked like, though they had hardly been this bold before now. They stalked the base of the mountains like jackals at the edge of a kill, waiting for an opening to lunge in and tear off some scrap of flesh. Ned hadn't wanted to talk about this one. His hands shook as he'd taken off his bloodstained clothes, and he scoured them with a washcloth long after they were clean.

"I'm fine." He had said. "I'm just tired."

Martin was tired too. That first night together, he had this romantic notion that being held by his friend would keep away the nightmares. They had come as they did most nights, crawling out of the depths of his subconscious with the worst of him they could offer. He'd woken up, breathing hard as terror dripped down his body. There was one difference. There was a warmth pressed to his back, and it breathed a half-snore as it moved in closer, nuzzled into his trembling neck. Ned hadn't woken. He had just wrapped Martin up into strong arms, and settled back into a deep sleep. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but even as the last traces of the nightmare pulled out its spurs, Martin felt safe. All he wanted was to return the favor.

Now, Martin leaned to kissed the gash across Ned's chest, the one that the man would wake up in terror clutching at, eyes somewhere far away and breathing hard. He trailed kisses down the line of skin warped by fire and blade, and Ned laughed. "I can barely feel it."

"Really?" The sword and its burns had probably damaged a nerve. Or done something worse, something that cut deeper. It was a daedric weapon after all. Martin would later ask where exactly he had sensation, to see if anything could be done about it. Later, perhaps. Now, he was tired of being the Priest-Healer-Penitent.

He leaned back in, close but just out of reach. His lips hovered down over the soft hair down his middle, making a glancing contact below the wounds. Even there, the skin seemed to have been broken and healed many times over a long life. How could someone live like that?  He kissed him, just below the lower scar.

"How about here?"

"S'better"

Ned was definitely feeling something. The man's breath caught just slightly at the touch. He overcorrected, shifting in his seat a little and clearing his throat. Uncrossing his legs. Martin moved further down, just a little past his navel, laying another kiss on the recently healed wound. He wanted nothing more than to taste - touch the man before him, and to wake up with no guilt, no loneliness- he kissed him again.

"Or here?"

"Little better," the man's tone was flirtatious. "I mean, it'd be lot more sensation if you went just a bit low...er."

Ned had trailed off in the last word and froze at his own indiscretion. He was tensed like one with a hand raised against him, expecting a blow. As if he could have misinterpreted where this moment could go, alone and naked with his friend kneeling before him. As if Martin would be mad.

"Sorry, I didn't mean-uh." Ned flailed, pulling his knees shut.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I'd like to, if you would."

Ned's breath hitched. He looked utterly bewildered.

"OH- yeah, sure? Uh- Yes. Yeah." He sputtered.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment that lasted an eternity. Neither man dared to even take a breath. Ned cracked the tiniest fraction of a smile.

They both laughed, pulling apart. The tension had snapped, and the ache in his gut relented, put itself to the side. Martin hoisted himself back up onto the bed, sitting to his friend's side with a chaste several inches between them.

"It's... Been a while." Martin sighed. "Look at me, acting all nervous."

"Me too man, me too." Ned laughed, covering the blush on his face and utterly failing to hide the red of his ears. "’Promise I'm not usually like this, I have no friggin' idea what my problem is."

"Well, this'll just have to do." Martin made a show of shrugging and frowning in mock-resignation.

Ned let out a 'ha!' and leaned back, all muscles now relaxed as he smiled up at his companion. His words and smile were casual, but he was looking at Martin with such soft eyes, as if this tired old man was the damn moons and stars.

"Can I kiss you?" Martin asked.

Ned nodded.

He leaned over him, and went in for another kiss. And another. This time, it was as if a dam had burst. All lips and tongue and teeth and breath and hands moving on skin with a practiced clumsiness that spoke to years of experience, and spoke to one treading a ground that was brand new and wonderful for it.

As they pulled apart, Ned smiled and squeezed Martin's hands, and he squeezed back. They guided each other downward.

Now, Martin's lips were at a precipice below deniability. His hands held ready at the man's waist, a few fingers interwoven with his, beyond caring if their palms sweat or if their arms shook. He looked up to meet Ned's gaze, who cracked a smile and looked away, threading his other hand into Martin's hair in spite of his sheepishness.  

"Can I keep going?" Martin asked.

"Yeah," Ned answered, still smiling. Eyes closed. "Please."

Ned's thumb brushed his cheek, a gentle encouragement. A 'thank you'.

And he kissed him.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Wicked, part 4 (DT royal AU)

Summary: With the L word in the mix, the two go from lovers to enemies.

Warnings: swearing, angst, talk of physical, sexual and mental abuse

Word count: 4500

WICKED - SERIES MASTERLIST

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~                          ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

''Oh?“ Cameron nearly laughed out loud with the notion, but the fallen look in her brother's eyes had stopped her from acting so inconsiderably.

''YuP!“ Popping the P for effect, Grayson shook his head. ''I told her I love her and she just said 'OH' with a bewildered look on her face.“ Sighing heavily, Grayson bit his lower lip before chuckling dryly. ''She went to sleep right after, on the other side of the bed. She tucked the blanket around her so I couldn't even touch her.“ His gaze falls on the glass of a very expensive scotch he's been sipping on since early morning when he woke up to an empty bed, no sign of his darling dragon wife at all.

''Don't you think you're being a little too judgemental of her reaction? I mean, with the life she's had and the only example of love she had seen, I wouldn't blame her for fearing the words. And I think she was scared, Gray. She was completely at ease with you and she had given herself to you in every possible way a woman can give herself to a man and the words spoked her.“ Cameron reason, well aware she might be more thoroughly briefed on Dracovian royal relationships than her brother considering the confused look that had replaced the sad looming one he sported since he had picked her up from the airport.

''You clearly have better insight, so tell me what is so awful that she had seen that might make her fear my love?“ Grayson was ready to snap, his imagination unable to conjure up the possible terror she might have witnessed – his small, fragile love that was so lonely in this world – his world.

''I do have many spies placed in high places. From what they've told me, the king was an animal toward his wife. In fact, she was the actual Queen, the one who was born to dragon blood and had the throne passed onto her from her mother as well. The king was an extremely charming man who made sure to win that poor woman's heart. She was such a beauty, so fierce and strong, absolutely terrifying to all who would try something against Dracovia and her family. She was a true Queen, but once she let him into her heart, he had broken her apart – piece by piece. It didn't start as openly until she signed his crown matrimonial and she only did it because he made her believe she was losing her mind when Y/N was only four years old. They say he had made her believe she was haunted and that the people questioned her sanity and would ask for her head if they suspect the kingdom may be in peril. He told her he'd protect their family if she signed the crown matrimonial and she did.“ Cameron grabbed Grayson's glass, downing the scotch first. The story was heavy to narrate and hard to hear, something anyone could understand.

''He had cheated on her with multiple women after as he had her declared unfit to rule. He had abused her both physically and sexually aside from mentally. They say the royal guards stationed before their bedroom door would weep as they listened to the monstrous things he had done to her. One wanted to help her but was stopped...you see, they were under orders to protect the queen, but not from the king. The princess would sit in a corner of her bedroom, her hands over her ears as she sang to herself to drown it all out. She was seven years old when her mother mysteriously disappeared at sea. They say their ship was destroyed, but no one knows by who. Some claim we're to blame, others mention Gandria decided to try their hand at war with Dracovia and some say it was the king of Dracovia who wanted a way to get rid of her in order to raise Y/N to his liking.“

Staring blankly at Cameron, Grayson could hardly breathe let alone say anything. Not playing the hero, he opened his drawer and found his inhaler, taking two puffs to help his airway clear.

''That's why she hates me, isn't it?“ His breathing strained, Grayson offered his sister a sincere tear as it slipped past his defenses and slid down his cheek. The tear got lost in his scruff, but his eyes are still glossy, a witness to how painful it was to hear of the unfortunate life his wife's mother had lived and how much it must have affected the love of his life.

''All I'm saying is that you need a lot more patience. She's been under his influence her whole life and while she's come a long way from the ice princess you've described, she's still got miles to go.“

Before he has a chance to respond, a guard runs into the study. Breathing heavily, the young man bows in respect before asking forgiveness for interrupting as well as permission to speak. Once granted, he informs Grayson of a worrisome choice his wife had made.

''The princess left this morning. She was with her lady, but they managed to evade security.“

The sadness leaves Grayson, but it's replaced with a fit of sinister anger he felt setting fires to his entire body – from the blood inside his veins to his mind. How could she leave without even saying something to him? How could she go unaccompanied in a country that tried to invade hers just last week? She may be his wife and he may love her, but his people still see her as the Dracovian royal blood from the stories they've heard for years on end.

They say she was born from ice, that she can transform into a dragon at will. They say she takes what she wants with fire and blood as any dragon would, but most of all – they say she can't be killed...that she can't even bleed easily and when she does that her blood isn't red, but blue.

Grayson knew the stories weren't true, of course...Anyone can be killed.

''You're telling me she's out there alone?���

While Grayson was losing his mind and sending out his men into town to find the wandering princess, Y/N had already returned to the castle, willingly.

Instead of heading back to her room, she finds her way to the cliff garden she once had breakfast at with her husband, the king. Standing atop the cliff, there's no denying she's got a lot on her mind. For the first time since she learned of her pregnancy, Y/N was faced with the reality of carrying a child in her womb. Seeing the tiny blob of cells growing inside her with each passing day had shaken her into a lucid, awake state. She was forced to think more of the new life she would bring to this world and she didn't want to be at war with the father. She had to find a way to mend their relationship and she had to be sincere. Her plans are all futile now for her blood is forever mixed with that of a Dolan. She'll be a Dolan now too...she'll be the dragon who will take the Dolan name and do whatever she has to for her child to grow up in a happy, safe home.

''Why would such a beauty ever be sad? It's a tragic sight to behold.“ The voice is alike Grayson's, but her senses alarm her to the difference in tone, color, emotion. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, giving her a warning the man who is most certainly not her husband is extremely close to her – close enough for her to smell his heavy vanilla perfume and to feel the heat of his body.

''I'd say it's tragically human.“ She responds, very aware of every move he makes as he steps beside her and gives her some much-needed distance between them.

''There's nothing human about you.“ Ethan chuckles, honest to a fault. In his eyes, Y/N was most definitely a magical being – maybe not a dragon, but an angel at least. In angels he could believe.

''I'll have to disagree, but it's nice to know some still see me as the woman I was before I came here.“ Y/N sighed, casting a fleeting glance toward her brother in law, long enough to see he's relentless stare is set on her alone.

''Has my brother harmed you in some way?“ Ethan questioned, his eyebrows furrowed as if on command. His voice doesn't have the airy tone that's ever-present in their usual conversations which are far and in between. It's genuine worry, she concurs.

''If I ask something of you, could you give me an honest answer?“ Y/N turns to him entirely, no longer letting her eyes wander the ocean or the nearly finished road that leads to home that stretches as far as the eye can see. Ethan has her undivided attention and she can tell he's aware of it as he puffs out his chest and lifts his chin ever so slightly as a peacock would. She'd smile at the way he's so clearly showing her his interest, but she needed information and she had to use his affection for her benefit.

''Most certainly.“ Ethan's usual smirk is nowhere to be found as the serious persona takes over. She's aware his way of speaking is adapted to hers and she appreciates that just as much as his clear intention of helping her.

''Does Grayson keep paramours?“

''I'll be honest even if it hurts me longterm and say no. My brother hasn't even looked at another since we learned we'd have to compete in the kingly trials, months before there was need for them. My brother believes in love and marriage and for him, marriage is a lifelong commitment of loyalty.“ Ethan sighed at the slight curve of her pursed lips, aware he had made her feel better just enough for the air around them to change.

''He's a romantic then. I'm not sure I believe in love, prince Ethan.“ She sighed, her eyes falling to her feet – something he had never seen her do. That woman always had too much pride to walk with her head down.

''I wasn't sure either...I've believed love was for fools, a mere trap made by ancient witches to keep the loneliness away when their looks fade. It's obvious I was the fool for I hadn't been able to think straight nor slow down my heart since you came onto our shores. Your beauty has bewitched my very soul and I'm saddened as every day passes for I have to suffer...not only have I lost the throne, but the most beautiful woman that has ever walked the earth.“ Stepping closer to her, Ethan had nearly forced her off the cliff. Managing to capture her in his embrace, he moved to press his lips against her, at least once. With the taste of her lips upon his, he'd die a happy man for Grayson would surely kill him.

But, as the princess found her footing, so did her palm against the prince's cheek. The slap was quick and well-aimed and it didn't hurt his face as much as it hurt his heart. He understood then that she was already in love with his brother and as she rushed off toward the castle, Ethan wished he could turn back time and do the trials again. If he got the chance, he wouldn't let the throne go as easily as he did. He was never jealous of anything his brother had in their lives, but he was jealous now.

Out of breath, the princess didn't stop for anyone. She ran as fast as she could and she couldn't help but notice just how easier it is to move in jeans she decided on that morning instead of the dresses she usually wears. Sure, the jeans aren't nearly as beautiful or glamourous or as comfy either, but they're very handy in running away from conversations you don't want to have or situations you don't wanna be in.

Huffing, she stumbles into her bedroom, vision blotchy from the running.

''Someone's out of shape.“ A female voice startles her and Y/N nearly screams...She would if she had any strength to spend her breath on anything other than breathing at that moment.

''I'm Cameron, Grayson and Ethan's sister. I believe it's long overdue that we meet.“ Cameron smiles as Y/N walks closer to the sofa she sat on, stifling laughter for the poor girl looked winded and her cheeks had darkened to a crimson shade.

''I finally understand why my brothers act like besotted fools around you. I mean...you do have some cute jeans (genes)“, Cameron adds slyly, enjoying the confused look on Y/N's face way too much.

''Uh, thanks. My lady got these for me and I wasn't quite sure.“ Y/N ran a hand through her hair, deciding sitting with Cameron might not be a bad idea.

''Oh, I didn't mean your jeans! I meant your genes because those chromosomes combined beautifully.“ Cameron explained and it only made the blush on Y/N's cheeks grow. Out of all the things she expected would happen once she met someone other than Ethan in this family, to be flirted with so shamelessly was not one of them. But then again, she felt very flattered.

''Thank you.“ Y/N smiled, tilting her head to the left so slightly, pushing her hair back so effortlessly that Cameron could finally enjoy her elegance as well.

''You know...I kind of expected you to be a total bitch to me.“ Cameron chuckled, earning herself a raised eyebrow from the princess.

''Why is that? After all, you are my equal. Had Astros been as 'modern' as it claims, you'd be the Queen now and I might be married to you.“ Cameron knew the girl wasn't joking with her explanation and while the thought was certainly tempting, Cameron knew she needed to stir the princess in the right direction concerning her brother and their issues.

''You do realize you got the best Dolan. No one will love you like Grayson does, that's a promise. He's the good-hearted one. The one you can trust with your life...the kind of a man you can show bloody hands to and he'd bury the body to protect you. Y/N, he's out of his mind right now, looking for you in every corner of the city and all because he's scared they would kill you. And that would kill him.“ Cameron's words bring forth some guilt in Y/N's heart, mostly because she really didn't want to worry him.

At first, she had to take a walk to clear her head, but then she realized she needed to see a doctor about the baby and she couldn't just come out and tell everyone of her condition. So, with Lady Mareen's help, she found commoner clothes and went undetected. Not only did she know her child is healthy and alive, but she got some helpful pointers about diet, vitamins and everything she might need until the next month.

But before she can confide in Cameron, the trembling rage of her husband storms into the room and Y/N's wall is back up and all the progress she made with Cameron is gone.

''Leave.“ He growls at Cameron who whispers in his ear. ''Patience, brother. Remember that.“

He did try to be patient, but after months of being very nice and helpful and open to letting Y/N call the shots, Grayson was tired of being made a fool before everyone. Y/N had repaid his love with nothing but indifference and he wasn't patient any longer, especially when she was playing with her safety and as such, with his sanity.

''Why the fuck would you leave without a guard? Or telling me? HUH? WHAT WAS SO IMPORTANT THAT YOU'D DISOBEY EVERY FUCKING RULE WE HAVE?!“ Grayson was screaming loud enough for the girl to tremble as if she was sent back to a distant memory she couldn't quite understand, hearing someone else screaming just as loudly, just as unforgivably.

''I...I wasn't hurt. No one even spared me a second glance. I was smart about it.“ She tried to keep her voice leveled and her wits about her, but she couldn't stop her eyes from watering and her fingers from shaking as she hooked them together to hide the telltale sign he had frightened her.

''YOU WEREN'T HURT TODAY! Y/N, for fuck's sake, you're not invincible, alright?! Your dragon blood can't save you from a bullet to the head!“

As Grayson stood towering above her, Y/N let out a shaky breath. The dread and anxiety deadened her mind and body. In her frozen state, she let out a shaky breath, closing her weary eyes. He was right and she knew it, but something about his approach had paralyzed her. She never felt as needed as she did with him, but in this particular moment she was barely holding on the idea and to all she wanted to discuss with him. She was terrified of him and of what he might do to her.

Instead of opening her eyes, she felt to her knees and curled up. Her arms hugged her stomach as if to shield the baby from his attack. She sobbed quietly as she waited for the pain to come, the pain she remembered being afflicted by others but never him.

‘’Y/N, love, what is it?” Grayson had fallen to the ground just as quickly, his arms surrounding her but not in order to harm her but to give her comfort, to give her the safety she forgot he promised her.

‘’Hit me anywhere but my belly. I’ll take everything, just don’t touch my belly.” She sobbed, unable to look at him and that’s when it finally hit him. She was scared he’d hit her…or worse, that he’d harm their baby. And even worse, Grayson realized she was used to being beaten by men and she thought he might do it to her as well.

‘’Y/N, baby, look at me.” Grayson cooed, his eyes overflowing with tears as his voice broke. It was an overwhelming feeling of absolute heartbreak for this woman he had come to love and cherish, but still struggled to understand fully and it’s because he was missing puzzle pieces he didn’t even know existed until today. And while everything she says is relevant, he realized he’d have to think about why it’s so significant to her…he’d have to watch her actions, her words and he’d have to find out about her past to truly know her complex soul. She is the strongest woman he’s ever met, yet she crumbled before his eyes and he was crumbling with her.

Once she looked at him, her teary eyes reluctantly settled on his as his own tears formed new paths down his cheeks.

‘’Y/N, I will never, ever hit you. I was just angry you put yourself at such a risk and because…Because if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself. I’d lose my mind.” Grayson’s soft confession had scared her just as much as the possibility of him hitting her, but she just nodded, mute to her own feelings.

‘’I know you can’t say it back just yet, but I do love you. Wholeheartedly. And I know you think I’m none the wiser, but I know of the little dragon we’ll have too and I love him or her just as much. I will protect you no matter what happens, alright?” Grayson forced a smile for her own benefit but as he smiled, she had gotten a glimpse of a terrible future she would have to endure.

“Please, love. Please stay with me!” Y/N sobbed over Grayson as he struggled to draw in a breath, just one more breath of life that he’d use to tell her how much he loves her. Just long enough for her sorrow to be lessened.

“I need you. Grayson, our son needs you! If you die, we’ll be doomed. Please, stay. You promised to protect me…to protect us. We…We have so many plans, remember? So many plans! I need you here!”

Grayson smiles as widely as he can, enough to hide just how much pain he’s in or how much it hurts to know he’s broken all his promises. But he believes he’s protected them even now, even as he fades fast. “I…I-love...”

Opening her eyes wide as she draws in a sharp breath, Y/N swallows thickly.

“No one can protect me. You can’t even protect yourself.” Sniffling, Y/N wipes her tears away as her eyes fall back on the man she desperately wants to save but all she gets are glimpses and dreams of different ways she loses him. No matter what way it is, they all end with his death and her crying over his coffin.

“I’d give my life to protect you. If my life is the price I need to pay to save you two, I’d pay it gladly.” Grayson assures her and that’s exactly the reason why she’s so tormented. He’d die for her, yet he’d refuse to sign the crown matrimonial.

“What about crown matrimonial, huh? If you die, our child and I will likely be executed. We’d die, Grayson and the only thing that can protect us isn’t you, but your signature on a piece of paper.” Y/N chuckled dryly once he seemed to be silent for hours while it was likely only a few minutes.

“I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, Y/N. And if I do, Ethan would protect you.” Grayson frowns deeply, biting his lower lip in thought.

“You mean the same man who tried to force a kiss on me today? Because I don’t think he’d enjoy being a babysitter for the throne he’d never get to keep! If he got the feel of it, he’d never let it go and you know it just as well as I do.” Y/N states. Licking her lips, she knows she’s caught him off guard with not only the revelation of his brother’s advancements but of his quest for power as well. Grayson knew Ethan always wanted to be the king and he would have let him have the crown before he saw what comes with it. He didn’t want to believe the worst of his brother, but Y/N’s worst did cast a shadow of doubt and it wouldn’t go away anytime soon.

“I’ll deal with my brother, but know I won’t be signing that paper. Not when your goal was always to kill me and take the throne yourself.” Grayson stands abruptly, throwing her plan to her face to cover up his own guilt and insecurities.

“How long have you known?” She barely speaks, her throat closing up as if there’s not enough air for her to breathe.

“Since the first night. I’ve shared your bed ever since, addicted to you and the hope you may care for me as much I care for you. But I see I was wrong. You don’t love me and you never will. If you did, you wouldn’t use our child to manipulate me into signing the crown matrimonial and you wouldn’t try to push a wedge between my brother and I. You’ve broken my belief in love, so congratulations. You’ve won there, but I’m no longer willing to play the puppet in your show.”

Swallowing thickly, Grayson turns to leave. He’s ready to leave, to go and leave her behind, so hollow and yet filled with sorrow to the brim. She’s truly beaten him in all heart matters that Grayson can hardly believe it.

“Where are you going?” She manages to say despite tears welling up in her eyes. She wasn’t using their child as a pawn in this game of love and thrones, because she knew his future would be short and violent and it was hard enough to know she’d lose him but to lose her own child? That would kill her. It was of no use to tell herself she didn’t love him any longer, but she couldn’t tell him…not now. Had she told him last night, they would be wrapped around each other now, lost in their well-rehearsed dance of sensual touch and pleasure, but she didn’t. Anything she says now wouldn’t have meaning to him for he’d assume she’s lying.

She wanted to scream for him to stay as he gripped the doorknob, to beg and demean herself if it meant he’d remain in their bed and hold her close. She’d do anything, but it would be of no use.

“My room.” He responded coldly, his back turned on her, unaware just how badly she’s breaking.

“But…this is your room. Our room. Grayson…” She wanted to say the words, to let him know she loves him just as much if not more than he could ever love her. After all, she was willing to forget all her plans and forgive all his sins, just for him to look at her as softly and lovingly as he used to.

Did he even love her anymore, she wondered. Can someone stop loving you overnight? Can you truly stop loving someone as her mother and father had stopped loving each other? Would that be her story as well? Is it because she didn’t share the news of the baby before? Or because she didn’t tell him how she feels too? Or is it because he finally saw through her and decided he was wrong in loving her in the first place?

She wished she realized where her heart lies sooner. For every moment they spent apart, Y/N had found her mind wandering to Grayson and what he might be doing. She realized she was thinking only of him and she wondered how long he was on her mind. Then it occurred to her, he was there from day one.

“I suggest you get a good night of sleep, princess. You’re supposed to rest more.” Grayson left the room straight after, her sobbing sounding before he even closed the door behind him. Hearing her cry nearly pulled him back in but Grayson knew it would be of no use. If she didn’t love him by now, he had clearly failed and he needed to be a king now, not the man who had fallen for a woman who had no intention of letting him love her.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~           ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~  

Tags: @graysavant​ @yaren-ates​ @beinscorpio​ @dolandolll​ @godlydolans​ @dolanstwintuesday​ @accalialionheart​ @peacedolantwins​ @heyits-claire​ @graydolan12​ @gia-kerks​ @justordinaryjen​  @dopedoodes​ @sunshinedolantwins​ @pitreshawn @melodiesforari​

[monaedroid]

Janelle Monáe: Trans Folks to the Front    

Story by Peyton Dix

Sometimes it's hard to be proud during Pride. Janelle Monáe attended her first ever Pride parade this June in New Orleans. That same day a(nother) trans woman of color by the name of Layleen Polanco was found dead in her cell at Rikers. The 27-year-old House of Xtravaganza member is one of 12 trans women killed this year on record, and underlines an increasing issue of violence against Queer and Trans People of Color (QTPOC). Although these exist separately, Pride is oftentimes a month that makes it much easier to focus on the former (parades, rainbows and glitter that gets stuck in your hair for years) instead of the latter (the fact that many queer people are still largely at risk of violence and oppression).

Over the phone, Monáe unpacks parts of her past and dives into the 2018 Grammy-nominated Dirty Computer, but her passion pops out elsewhere. She mostly leans into battling bullies ("We have to be taught how to deal with bullies and bullies need to be taught the repercussions of bullying somebody"), creating active change ("Sexual identity needs to be taught in school. There should be courses on mental health, how to coexist, how we can all learn from each other"), and the importance of empowering and standing up for QTPOC ("In the same way we want white folks to support us and be better allies and use their privilege to make change in those power dynamics, it's up to us to protect those who may not be as privileged").

Throughout the conversation, Monáe is steady in the way she speaks, but her tone shifts and her pace increases when reaching these topics. The performer's anger and sadness are palpable and warranted. "I look to Indya Moore, Mj Rodriquez, Janet Mock (my Pose family)... Laverne Cox, those women are putting themselves and their lives on the frontline everyday. When their trans sisters and brothers get murdered, they feel it. We have to support them... It's just a responsibility I feel. I could do better. I'll do better."

This isn't the first time Monáe, someone at the epicenter of pop culture, has recentered the narrative to focus more on one of the most othered groups in the LGBTQ community instead of herself. Although Monáe can only attest to her own experiences, she has actively made sure to advocate, and make space, for her entire LGBTQIA community. Her performance of Dirty Computer's "Americans" on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert opens on Pose star Mj Rodriquez, who's trans, before the camera slowly pulls out to reveal a group of POC femmes holding each other. She sings a song that says:

Until women can get equal pay for equal work This is not my America Until same gender loving people can be who they are This is not my America Until black people can come home from a police stop Without being shot in the head This is not my America

Monáe publicly dedicated her two Grammy nominations to her "trans brothers and sisters," who she says "are shunned from these sorts of events." Institutional award shows, including the Grammys, are inherently and historically spaces of white, cis, male privilege. While they have recently gotten Blacker, our understanding of diversity must always continue to grow more intersectional. This is part of what Monáe is working toward herself, and advocating for from her audience.

Dirty Computer itself was an honoring of the 'other,' full of anthems for the ostracized. The genesis of the project was birthed from her understanding of Monáe's own self. Her "walking in truth" got her two Grammy nods, a GLAAD Media Award for Outstanding Music Artist, and was named one of the Albums of the Year by The New York Times, Complex, TIME, and Rolling Stone, among others.

But it isn't these accolades that make Monáe proud. In fact, it was her choice to do something scary, to take a risk and tell the truth, and thankfully that resonated. "I'm just happy that my personal story has also been personal stories for so many other people. There's so many young people who grew up in the South or Baptist families, who were told that they won't be accepted by Christ. They can listen to this album and feel hugged. They can feel loved. They can feel seen. They can feel heard. That's the most beautiful thing." Monáe's fans were not just able to find parallels with her journey, but able to find validation in being "dirty." With this album she extended an open hand.

"Folks who are not comfortable speaking out about your sexuality publicly, we see you and you are valid and you matter."

Right before dropping Dirty Computer Monáe came out as pansexual in Rolling Stone, calling herself a "free ass motherf*cker." She reinforced that notion with songs like "Make Me Feel," "Crazy, Classic, Life," and "Django Jane." She solidified it every time she championed free gender expression with her clothing, and drove home the point when her boob winked at us this past Met Gala. Monáe is so exceptionally herself, so sacred in her skin, which shines not only through her music but in her powerful roles in 2016 films Moonlight and Hidden Figures Her character in Moonlight, Teresa, a pseudo-guardian to the young, Black, gay protagonist Chiron, sees many parallels with Monáe herself. She is strong, proud, protective, nurturing and poised. But that wasn't always the case.

Monáe grew up in Kansas City in a Baptist church, with a Christian family and in shoes very different from the ones she walks in now. She remembers being quite young when she realized she was queer, and although the vocabulary wasn't there, the feelings were. "I was like eight," she remembers. "I don't think I actually knew how I identified. I knew that I was attracted to women, girls, men, boys. I knew that." Like many LGBTQIA+ people raised in more rural and religious areas, Monáe found it difficult to ask those questions without feeling ostracized.

"I've seen people get beat up because they were considered to be 'too feminine' or 'too masculine' for how they identified," she says. Some of those people were family friends, including a gay male friend of her aunt's, whom she watched be shunned from his community. "It was because of Black men who thought he was trying to come onto them, but he wasn't," Monáe says, "It was their own ignorance and insecurity and fear that led them to lash out. When I saw that..." her voice trails off. "To be a gay Black man, and Black men are like the 'heads of the households' and I'm a Black woman, this young kid. I thought, then it's really over for me."

Imagining that side of Monáe's experience is difficult now that she's cultivated such a strong and specific voice around queer politics and gender identity. It's hard to imagine that side of her experience having seen her on her Dirty Computer tour last year, and having been part of the sea of voices in Madison Square Garden shouting "I'm dirty, I'm proud" back at her. Pride has become such a staple in her narrative and her art.

But this month it's all too easy to feel forced into living your most out and proud life, when for many that's actually much easier said than done. "We have to make sure that we don't pressure people to come out," Monáe says. "Everybody doesn't have the same set of circumstances. There are people, young people in particular, that will be cut off from their family, hanged or jailed if they walked in their truth. Folks who are not comfortable speaking out about your sexuality publicly, we see you and you are valid and you matter. We have to protect our babies, especially in the LGBTQIA+ community. We have to do better. "

Photographer: Kelia Anne 1st Assistant: Carlos Quinteros Jr. Gaffer: Brandon Waddell Hair: Nikki Nelms Makeup: Jessica Smalls Stylist: Alexandra Mandelkorn Nails: Kim Truong & Diem Truong (using KISS Nails at Star Touch Agency) Location: Smashbox Studios

http://www.papermag.com/janelle-monae-pride-2638969039.html

[baekhyuns-abs]

His human, his protector [1] >REPOST<

Reposting because it was wrongly flagged by the new shitty tumblr and I wasn’t allowed to appeal it for reasons unknown. 

Prologue Masterlist

Mentions of death

She clutched her belly as tears threatened to spill. Her other hand flew over her mouth and she closed the body drawer. She swallowed a sob and told herself repeatedly to calm herself; you could be caught. Subjects 00, 07 and 68 had been ‘terminated’. She refused to believe what she heard in passing that three of the unfortunate souls had been put down. She had sped down to the mortuary at the first bell for her break.

They’re too valuable to kill.

She felt horror in the pit of her stomach pulling out the drawer of subject 00 his tall body crammed in the small space. He was a beautiful creature that deserved better. She hadn’t been let into his cell before, they had male nurses and doctors only for him, he was prone to violence.

She then stared at subject 07, she had taken his blood samples on numerous occasions and he never failed to smile sweetly at her as she always struggled with her morals. How could he smile with the things he suffered? He was well behaved, she struggled to see why he lay in front of her, frozen and lifeless.

She hated this job.

68 had been the most volatile of the three. He was fast, agile and the most emotionally thawed. He’d lash out whenever he could at the workers who got too close. He’d take every chance he could get whenever a nurse or doctor would let his restraints loose; he’d run. However, she failed to see why he needed to die, why any of them did.

“Can I help you?”

She tensed and she swallowed, her throat closing up in apprehension. She turned around, hoping her eyes didn’t betray her emotional state.

“One of the doctors has already come to sign off their medical forms.” The somewhat clueless morturer was a small balding man and he looked anything but menacing.

She still didn’t relax. She thought quickly. “Oh really?” She forced herself to smile with a scoff. “The communication in this place is unbelievable.”

She scurried past him, avoiding his stare. “Sorry for disrupting your work.” She called over her shoulder.

~~~

She made it to the junior nurse’s lunch room, her heart still in her chest. She walked to the back, towards the lockers to get her sandwich from her bag.

“Excuse me nurse, may I have a word?”

She almost dropped her sandwich in fright at the sudden voice behind her. She whirled around quickly and met the face of a well suited man. He was a young caucasian male with kind eyes, his brown hair neatly swept atop of his head. Fear gripped her - he wasn’t a doctor, what did he want.

Was she in trouble?

“Y-yes, absolutely!” She gushed, her voice breaking and she wanted to hit herself.

The visit to the morgue had left her a nervous wreck and she was an open book to anyone - friend or foe. He smiled and it nothing but nice as he motioned for her to follow him but she dared not let her guard slip. She clutched her sandwich dumbly as the man in the suit lead her out of the busy lunch room. Her blood was roaring through her ears as her imagination played horrific scenarios to her.

She thought back to a few weeks prior, how she pulled the fire alarm in a moment of desperation and mercy on subject 99. She remembered the look in his eyes, the look of confusion and fear as she let her guard down in his cell. The feel of his erection against her body - she decided that was a side effect of the drugs that must have been pumping through his veins. She was kind and she didn’t want to inflict pain and suffering on any of them.

Was he going to punish her for that? Was he going to dismiss her? Would he throw her in her own cell to be tortured and experimented on?

Oh fuck.

They came to a row of unoccupied conference rooms and offices and he let out a light hearted chuckle. “Spoiled for choice.”

He flicked her an amused look and she let out an uncomfortable laugh. She never had been in this part of the facility, she was a low ranking nurse, they didn’t involve her in any meetings of importance.

“This will do.” He opened one of the doors and stepped through, turning to her with a obligatory smile as he motioned her inside.

“Sit.”

She did.

She waited, her fingers clenched together in anxiety of what was about to unfold. He sat opposite her and he placed a large planner in front of her. He opened it and sifted through some sheets of paper. Looking at him then, she realised he sported a visitor’s tag on his lapel. He didn’t work for Nova Sciences, he was from the outside, where was his guide?

She read his name Dr Richard Francis.

“This is a confidential meeting.” He began, not looking up from his planner. “No one in your company will know.”

She didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse. “You can eat your lunch, I don’t mind.”

She kept her sandwich on the table untouched as she waited for him to say more.

“I’m a doctor for an independent non profit organisation called Revive.” He continued, his voice strong. “And I think you’d benefit by working for me.”

She blinked at him, her brows furrowing at the bold statement from a stranger. “Excuse me?”

Richard’s smile wavered. ���I have read through your file, your background and your incident with subject 99.” She noticed how he seemed uncomfortable addressing him with his identity number. “I watched the security footage and you sparked my interest so I got my hands on more footage of you with the patients.”

Patients. She didn’t miss that, was it a slip of the tongue; referring to them as something more humane than subjects? She didn’t disagree with the notion but she felt shock settle in her stomach - it was the first time she had heard of it. Yet it made her feel more at ease.

She made a face which made him hold up his hands in defense. “I know how that must sound.” He laughed, nervous. “You’re nice to them, I noticed.”

The smile that had snuck onto her face slowly diminished, maybe she was wrong, maybe she was about to be punished.

“You have empathy.” His tone lowered, becoming serious. “And that’s rare.”

She sighed, gathering her thoughts trying to seem nonchalant. “Why are we having this conversation?” She looked up to the clock. “My break ends in 10 minutes.”

“I want you to work for me.” He pressed on. “Work for the company I work for - undercover.”

Undercover. She felt uneasy at the word. She didn’t know if she could handle more secrets and lies.

“Experiments like what Nova are doing here is global, hundreds of men and women are being tortured, their DNA altered gaining supernatural abilities some are even being mixed with other mammals creating a whole new DNA structure.”

  “Some die before results are made, some are killed.” He leaned forward on his chair. “Revive want to free survivors, bringing them into the world like they deserve but we can’t do that without inside help from the facilities we aim to bring down.”

She pieced together his words trying to make sense of it all. Her heart budded with hope, hope for her, hope for 99 who she saved. She longed to save him properly, she wished she could save them all. But it was impossible. What could she do? She stared at him, reeling in her heart who tried to run away with the idea of his heroic sounding plans.

“Is this a test, Mr Francis?” She asked, her breathing was rapid.

She knew she had failed if it was, she knew she had given away her position with the glint in her eyes.

“I promise you, it’s not a test.” He pulled out a small card from a slot in his planner. “It’s an expression of interest.”

“Here’s my business card.” He handed it to her. “We need informants and we want you on our team.”

She took the card gingerly, staring at it with a curious expression. On it was his name, his doctorate and his contact details on the back - no company name.

She paused, the room falling silent. She knew he was waiting for her response. It was as if the gods had answered her blind prayers, her opportunity to help and free the patients, it could happen. She longed to grab onto this opportunity with both hands, she knew she ought to, but she had learnt one valuable thing at her time with Nova, deception was everyone’s second nature.

“How many informants?” She asked.

“I can’t give out that information for safety reasons.”

“And if I went running my mouth about this conversation about your supposed company?” She wouldn’t, even if it was a pack of lies.

“You won’t.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You seem so sure.”

“We’ve been monitoring you for months to know you well enough you won’t”

She bit her lip. “I’m a nurse here, Francis but if I worked for you I’d only be an informant.”

He shook his head. “I understand that. Once we have freed the patients in this facility all informants will be able to continue their work but with us in the rehabilitation of the patients.

“We want to give them lives, help them discover their humanity for the first time. Some of them have been in here since they were children, never experiencing even the little things we take for granted.

“You’re a junior nurse, you have yet to be exposed to more of the awful happenings in those cells.” He said. “But we need more, we need more to get rid of this bastardisation of a scientific government experiment.”

She was stunned into silence. Richard Francis’ voice became more poignant and his expression became riddled with anger. She became increasingly torn, she couldn’t deny the rawness of the display of emotions in front of her; no actor could be that good.

She sat in silence, every one of his words sinking in. She thought of subject 99, the bruises on his body, the heartbreaking defeat on his face as his resolve slipped from his fingers as he waited to die. She wondered of that’s how they all went, a gun to their head. How could she be so foolish? Believing them all when they swore they were all too important to science to die. There was a reason for the morgue in the building, there had to be more than three to die to facilitate such a department.

She decided then; determined to bring Nova down. If he was a liar, if she was stripped of her integrity, tortured or killed trying to rescue the patients she knew it was for a good cause. She didn’t want to be the nurse who meekly followed immoral orders out of fear.

She wanted to be the one who tried - even if it costed her her life.

[afjakwritesarchive]

Title: Done Deal Pairing: USUK Words: 2,246 Rating: T AU: Human Genre: Romance/Comedy Story summary: Things quickly go awry when Alfred pretends to date Arthur’s elder brother. A/N: Here’s a cute little fic I wrote as a break from Almost Human hahaha, let me know what you think!

“Seriously, Arthur, you’re gonna love him! He’s Scottish and his accent is so hot, plus he’s witty and sarcastic so you two’ll definitely get along. Trust me, you’ll like this one.”

This is what Arthur’s best friend, Alfred, had told him over the phone two days prior when he’d asked if Arthur would have lunch with him and his new boyfriend. Arthur had been skeptical, as he always was when it came to Alfred’s partners—the American had terrible taste in both men and women, really, and Arthur had made his distaste for all of Alfred’s previous lovers known immediately. And, despite Alfred’s insistence to the contrary, Arthur was sure that Alfred’s newest boyfriend was no different from the countless others who had been entirely wrong for his best friend in the past. He hadn’t even bothered to pretend he would give the American’s latest fling the benefit of the doubt—he’d told Alfred that he would go to lunch, but that he highly doubted that this new one was as great as Alfred made him out to be.

“I really like this guy, Arthur,” Alfred had said then, laughing a bit. “At least try to be civil for my sake. Please?”

And Arthur had sighed into his phone and forced himself to sound nonchalant despite the pang in his heart. “Alright, fine,” he’d said with an artificial laugh.

“Thanks, man. See you Friday!”

Alfred had hung up then, leaving Arthur to toss his phone onto the couch and run a hand through his pale hair. God, he hated meeting Alfred’s new partners. It didn’t matter to him that they never lasted long—every second Alfred spent with them drove a knife through Arthur’s already damaged heart. For years he’d been forced to meet lover after lover of Alfred’s, all the while he’d harbored secret feelings for his best friend. He comforted himself with the notion that he was still top priority to Alfred—in fact, Alfred had ended things with many of his partners after they’d expressed distaste for Arthur. Still, the American continued to date frequently, bringing countless men and women to meet Arthur. Arthur was quick to come up with reasons for his disapproval, most of which Alfred easily dismissed—but when things inevitably ended, he’d always admit that his best friend had been right. Arthur hadn’t the heart to tell him that half of the reasons for his disapproval had been of his own invention when, after every breakup, Alfred would rest his head on Arthur’s shoulder and smile sadly, saying, “at least I’ll always have you, Artie.”

Arthur knew it was wrong, of course. It was sick to take pleasure in the knowledge that, as long as Alfred was single, he’d have the younger man to himself. Arthur was ashamed of himself for it, berated himself over it every time another one of Alfred’s relationships ended, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit his feelings to his best friend. He was far too afraid of what would inevitably happen: Alfred would be disgusted with Arthur, refuse to talk to him, and they’d fall out of touch. If Arthur admitted his feelings for Alfred, he ran the risk of losing Alfred forever—a risk he simply wasn’t willing to take.

Thus, Arthur found himself outside of Alfred’s apartment that Friday with an artificial smile on his face and a repeating mental mantra in his head: this fellow will be just like all the others. He won’t last more than a month.

Alfred opened the door and beamed at the sight of Arthur. His sunny smile went straight to Arthur’s heart as per usual, improving the Brit’s mood tenfold. He was ushered into the house by Alfred’s strong hand on his back and had to physically will himself not to melt into the familiar touch of his best friend. Alfred took his coat and tossed it onto the couch, then led him into the kitchen.

“Alistair’s in the bathroom but he’ll be out in a second. Help me set the table?” Alfred asked happily.

“And here I thought I was a guest,” Arthur laughed as he picked up a bowl of potato salad and brought it out to the table. “Alistair, you say? You know, that’s my brother’s name—that doesn’t look so good for him.”

“Well, his last name is Kirkland, if that makes it any better. Funny coincidence, isn’t it? He thought it was cool that my best friend’s last name was Kirkland too—said it meant I must’ve been looking around for the right Kirkland!” Alfred laughed aloud, but Arthur was staring at him in horror.

“Alistair Kirkland?” Arthur repeated. “You—You said he was Scottish, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, why?” Alfred asked, gazing at him with confusion.

“How old did you say he was?”

“I didn’t—he’s in his thirties, I think. Dude, you’re acting weird, are you—“

“He doesn’t have red hair or green eyes, does he?”

Alfred was staring at him with wide-eyes. “Dude, do you know him?” Then, a realization seemed to dawn on him and his jaw dropped. “Oh my god, are you guys related?”

Before Arthur could answer, the sound of a door opening and then closing was heard and then a voice all too familiar to Arthur sounded.

“Alfred, has our guest arrived yet? I’m anxious to meet this—“ Alistair stalled in the doorway, eyes immediately falling upon Arthur. “...You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What the fuck, Alistair?!” Arthur cried immediately.

“Wha—what are you yelling at me for?!” Cried Alistair in return.

“First of all, what the hell are you doing in the states? Second of all, why the hell are you standing in Alfred’s kitchen?!”

Alistair worked his jaw. “If you must know, Arthur, I’m in the states on business to determine whether or not I’m going to make a permanent move here or not for the company! And second of all, I’m here because I’m in love with Alfred!”

“Wha—in love?!” Arthur cried loudly. “How long have you two known each other?!”

“About a month, Arthur, but I know we’re meant to be!” Alistair said, hooking an arm around Alfred’s waist and tugging him closer.

“Wha—You’ve been here for a month and you didn’t tell me?!” Arthur shouted, then looked to Alfred. “You’ve been seeing my brother for a month and you didn’t tell me?!”

“I-I didn’t know! We hadn’t really talked about his family or anything!” Alfred cried, raising his hands in surrender.

“I-I can’t believe this!” Arthur cried. He was practically shaking with rage at the sight of Alistair’s hand resting so familiarly at Alfred’s waist, their hips pressed together. It was infuriating, knowing that his elder brother had been with Alfred in ways Arthur had only dreamt of. “I’m sorry, but of all your lovers, Alfred, he is by the far the worst one you’ve ever had me meet! I can’t accept this!”

Alfred bit at his bottom lip and looked nervously between the pair. “Well, that makes what I was about to say a little harder…”

“What?” Arthur demanded, feeling dread descend upon him immediately.

Alfred and Alistair looked at one another, and then Alistair reached out and took Alfred’s hand in his. “I’ve asked Alfred to marry me and move back to Scotland with me if I can’t move here.”

For a moment, all Arthur could do was stare at the pair, completely incredulous. His green eyes were practically bulging out of his head, his jaw dropped. It took all he had not to scream at the top of his lungs—his brother and the love of his life, for Christ’s sake! He settled for yelling instead, gesticulating wildly at the pair as he shouted.

“You two hardly know each other! You’ve been together a month and you’re getting married?! Alfred, have you gone absolutely mad?! No, no, I can’t accept this! Damn it, Alfred, you can’t really be thinking of going through with this, can you?! You’re really going to pick Alistair?! Out of everyone you could have, out of all the people, you’re going to marry my brother, who you’ve only known for a month?!”

Alfred looked helplessly at him. “Why shouldn’t I? I love him!”

Arthur threw his hands up in the air, positively enraged. “Why shouldn’t you?! Christ, I can name a thousand reasons why!”

Alistair frowned. “Fine, then! Lay it all out on the table, Arthur! My fiancée,” he said the word pointedly, seeming to know it would anger his brother, “and I think it’s best for you to let it all out before the wedding!”

Arthur’s head practically exploded. “Don’t you dare call him that! Alfred is not your fucking fiancée! He’s an idiot making a mistake which I intend to fix! You two are rash and impulsive and you have no idea what you’re getting into—“

“Oh, come on, Arthur! What’s the real reason behind this?!” Alistair goaded, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“You want the real reason?” Arthur shouted. “Fine! I’ve been Alfred’s best friends for six years now, damn it, and I’ve been mad for him the whole time! And if you think for one second that I’m going to let you of all people have him without a fight, you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought!”

At this, both Alfred and Alistair paused, wide-eyed. Then, much to Arthur’s shock, Alistair doubled over, laughing hysterically. He’d brought both hands to his stomach and was bent over, guffawing loudly.

“Wh—don’t you fucking laugh at me!” Arthur shouted.

“Oi, Arthur, it was a prank! Alfred and I aren’t really together!” Alistair wheezed.

Arthur’s eyes widened and looked to his best friend, who was staring at him in shock. He didn’t seem to find the situation nearly as funny as Alistair, simply gazing at Arthur as if he were seeing the man for the very first time.

“You’re in love with me?” Alfred asked.

Arthur’s face went red. “You’re not marrying my brother?”

“No,” Alfred said stupidly. Then, realizing he needed to explain, he elaborated. “I met him in a coffee shop on Wednesday by chance. When we realized that we both knew you, we decided to play a prank on you and pretend we were getting married.”

“...Oh.” Arthur said, unbelievably embarrassed.

He suddenly felt like running out of the apartment and never turning back, if only to escape Alfred’s burning stare. Usually Arthur could read his best friend like a book as Alfred wore his heart on his sleeve, but now his expression gave away nothing of his emotions. His eyes flickered rapidly over Arthur’s face, his brows furrowed in thought as though the Brit were a math problem he couldn’t solve.

Arthur didn’t have to know exactly what Alfred was feeling to know that he wasn’t wanted anymore. The American wasn’t saying a word, a clear indication of his distaste, so Arthur turned and headed for the door. The last thing he expected was for a familiar hand to take his wrist, stopping him. He turned back around, wide-eyed. Alfred was staring at him looking equally surprised, as though he hadn’t meant to do it.

Then, Alfred’s surprise melted away and a soft, affectionate smile came to his face. Arthur felt a wave of relief wash over him, along with confusion. Alfred was smiling at him, but why? Was it possible that Alfred felt the same way? Had he been worried for nothing all this time? No—Arthur quickly denied this line of thought. Alfred was far too good for him, would never see him in that way. There was simply no way.

And yet, Alfred’s smile only grew and he reached out, a tan palm grazing along Arthur’s strong jawline before settling at his cheek, cupping it gently. Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, and then another, and then another. He could hardly believe what was happening.

“Artie…” Alfred murmured softly, sweetly. “How come you never said anything?”

It took Arthur a moment to realize that he’d been asked a question, so distracted by the gorgeous man in front of him. He’d never seen Alfred look like that in all his life—that in and of itself was a shock to his system. He’d long prided himself on knowing Alfred better than anyone, thinking he’d seen Alfred in every state the American could be in. But this—this was new. This sweet, surprisingly gentle man with that something that was so foreign and so familiar to Arthur.

“I didn’t want to drive you away,” he said after a moment, looking down.

Alfred gently guided his face back up and smiled at him. “You could never.”

The Brit blinked. It was like Alfred was speaking in tongues—nothing that was happening made any sense to him. Did that mean what Arthur thought? Could Alfred really love him? Was this real?

“Alfred, do you…?” Arthur trailed off, unable to get the words out for fear of Alfred immediately rejecting them.

“Are you daft? O’ course he loves you! Don’t you pride yourself on being the smart one?” Alistair interrupted loudly, making both men jolt.

Alfred laughed. “What he said.”

Even Alistair’s presence couldn’t ruin Arthur’s good mood. He tugged Alfred closer and kissed him as he’d longed to for so long, humming with delight when Alfred’s strong arms tugged him closer. God, they fit together even better than he’d imagined. It was perfect—absolutely perfect.

When they pulled apart, Arthur looked to Alistair and then back to Alfred. “I’d better be the only Kirkland you date.” He warned.

Alfred grinned. “Deal.”

[automaticenemycrusade]

Morgo’Boondax: Exordium

                                            ﷼ Exordium ﷼

The golden city, grand was its majesty. It glimmered before his eyes, eyes that now lay behind lenses of distress and unease. With a hand still clasped on the door, he glanced over his shoulder and shouted a final warning, “Barricade de doors n’ don’t let nobody in! If it ain’t me, dey ain’t safe.” The prelate wouldn’t stay long enough to see his demands met, for as soon as the words left his lips, he stepped outside and slammed the door behind him. It was as if he feared that for every vestige of strength he hadn’t put into securing the door, his foes would take their due. Donning his mask, he glided down the intricately-paved roads with all due haste, tossing fleeting looks from here to there in an attempt to see if the enemy had risen past the city’s first line of defense.

Luckily for him, all his gaze caught onto was a familiar lone sorcerer, plagued with fatigue, and he supposedly had a message for him, if the standing salute had anything to say.

“Soldier!” The prelate announced. “What’s de situation at de flank?”

Oddly, the sorcerer shook his head, his response bedeviled with baited breath, “Nah, mon! Dey be attacking from de docks now! Nazmir was just a ruse.” The prelate looked on with sudden horror, as his counterpart continued, “Our forces gonna need time ta reconvene at de stairs!”

“By de Loa,” He said grimly. “Hurry on den, wit’ me! We gotta be reinforcin’ da forward line.” With a nod from the sorcerer, they pressed further into the city. Somewhere along the way, the prelate regarded the troll at his side with a warm smile, as he knew the man from battles long since fought. Raptazi, was his name.

It wasn’t long until they spotted the first signs of resistance. The duo came upon a bridge, and on said bridge, a small skirmish was taking place. Zandalari warriors, a pair, were holding their own against their oppressors to the best of their ability. They were outnumbered by several Alliance paratroopers, all varied in race, though one amongst them was a Pandaren. The prelate’s heart sank at the notion. It was he that once traveled across the sea in an effort to see the maddened prophet’s vision fulfilled, and yet, here they still stood, on opposing sides of a war. Despite this, the Pandaren, as well as the rest of his comrades, were still taking part in assaulting the city, his city, and his honor be damned if he let them lay a finger on his kin. So, he met their bloodlust and animosity with that of his own, bounding into the fray and joining the melee alongside his companions. 

The confrontation went surprisingly well at first; he landed a strike here and a jab there, ushering in the crimson tide of his foes. However, they were still outnumbered seven to four, and he and the men he led slowly grew overwhelmed by their adversaries. 

Rumble, rumble. What was that? Rumble, rumble. The sound grew louder as it got nearer, and soon enough, in the distance, the prelate could spot a familiar face atop an armored Direhorn. 

Brandishing a finely-decorated broadsword, the troll atop the beast called for his mount to ram into their flank. The ivory of its horns glistened with blood as it shredded through their ranks, providing the Zandalari the edge they needed to turn the tide completely.

The prelate’s features brightened beneath his mask, so much so that he felt inclined to show his glee wholly by removing the faceguard and hooking it onto his brooch. “Hakolho!” He exclaimed, with an emotion unlike what the situation would portend: happiness. “Knew ya couldn’t stay away.”

Hakolho, as he had been revealed to be, met the optimism with a wily grin, hollering out in response, “If it ain’t Jorgo’Boondax!” and with that, he swung out the broadsword and leapt down from the Direhorn to finish the deed. With his aid, the allied forces triumphed.

Although Jorgo desperately wished for a moment of respite to catch up with Hakolho, a troll that he hadn’t seen for far too long, the conflict all around him only worsened, so in agreement with his better judgement, he pushed reunions aside and barked out the order, “Regroup! Everybody ta de steps!” His command was followed. The battalion assumed formation at the prelate’s back as they barreled to the docks, drenched in sweat and gripped with exhaustion. Nearly there…

Fear and disquiet took their hearts once they laid eyes upon the horrid sight, the sight of the port and its Alliance infestation. They were countless, endless, merely a wave of steel-clad men and women with that same azure tabard and that same lion’s crest, wielding an insurmountable arsenal of swords, bulwarks, and firearms. Boomsticks, they called them, a machination that Jorgo had come to find dishonorable and cowardly. A bow required a hunter’s senses, a keen eye, and the strength to nock an arrow, but these things, they accomplished the same goal, just with the added convenience of pulling a trigger. For an instant, Jorgo’Boondax embraced the calm before the storm, as he lifted his spear to a sky clouded with smog and cried out, “Fah Rastakhan! Fah Rezan!”

“FAH ZANDALAR!”

A cacophony of war cries and thunderous cheers echoed out across the field of slaughter, as steel clashed against steel and plate grinded against plate, a tide of human, dwarf, and elf descending upon the small battalion, though despite their struggle against overwhelming odds, they held strong at the top of the steps, which would soon be flooded with blood. Even still, Jorgo fought on, for behind him were the homes of his people, his family, and the families of his men. The burden on his shoulders was heavy,

Ten.

But it was necessary that he hold this position until reinforcements return from their fool’s quest in Nazmir. The situation was growing unsalvageable as their enemy gave no quarter. One by one, his men began to fall, as their shields cracked against the onslaught of steel and left them exposed for attack. A warrior was felled by what felt like a thousand blades, as another was struck with arrows like needles to a pincushion.

Nine.

An outrunner had slipped past his defense and deftly avoided the halberd aimed at them, a dagger emerging from their sleeve and tearing through a warrior’s backside. The crimson result gushed onto the prelate, only delving him further into a senseless battle trance.

Eight.

Everything went out of focus, as he blindly drove his spear through the outrunner’s neck, then another, then another. He lost count, eventually. The more that came within his reach, the more corpses that landed at his feet.

Seven.

An agonized shriek ruptured from the Direhorn’s throat, which, notably, was now deluged in both its own and its enemy’s blood. It was difficult to tell which fluid took the majority on its hide, but either way, it thudded forward and sluggishly swayed to the rhythm of its own death, sliding onto its side, and eventually, down the steps themselves, which hurled Hakolho from the saddle and into the ravaging maw of the Alliance masses.

Six.

Try as he might to aid Hakolho in his time of need, he was all too preoccupied by the torrent of Alliance dogs he was being forced to single-handedly deal with. The spark of hope within him was at last fading as his deterrence was continuously breached, but, when all seemed lost, the rallying cries of his reinforcements finally met his ears, to which his faith was instantly reignited. If he was to die here, he wouldn’t die alone.

Five.

With his load lightened, he took the time to stumble behind the newly-formed frontline of Zandalari and tend to his wounds, calling upon his Loa’s light… except nothing would answer. Each attempt led to a measly flicker within his palm. He clenched his hand into a fist.

Four.

Something was off. “Push forward!” He called out, unsteadily, and yet the feeling did not expire. Something was wrong.

Three.

He looked off the right. Nothing.

Two.

He looked off the left. Nothing… or so he thought.

One.

Among the last things he saw were the barely visible silhouettes of the archers atop the pillar and a despondent, bloodied Hakolho ascending the stairs, just as the sharpened tips of arrows dug into his chest and sent him spiraling to the ground.

Doriyah.

Morgo… Morgo.

[elaianna]

The Captive Blackfyre

Are you really so bold? That was the first question coming to mind when Warlund had slowly stirring from being knocked unconscious. He didn’t know where he was, though he could surmise—he could guess well and true, for he’d recognized the banners and sigil of House Sydor, so he must’ve been taken to see her. He was somewhere underground; he’d been in a couple of cells in his lifetime, and most were tucked away beneath a keep somewhere. Cold, dark, built for intimidation. But Warlund was not easily intimidated. The former lord kept quiet, considering what options he had available to him. Knowing Lady Sydor, she would come to see him—sooner or later, she’d want to talk. She enjoyed gloating, like a cat fat off its most recent catch. Similar to Warlund, she wanted you to know your captors. The mighty Lady Sydor. What a stupid fucking thing you’ve done. He picked himself up off the cold, stone floors beneath him. He couldn’t make out anything beyond a couple of feet in front of him, for it was darker than a cloudy nighttime sky. “Sydor!” Warlund called, loud enough for any guard to hear. He gripped the iron bars prohibiting his chance at freedom. “Sydor, Sydor, Sydor…”

It would be some time after his outburst, calling for the Lady Sydor. A name she no longer bore, but not a fact anyone divulged to Warlund. Let him live in the past Elaianna had told the guard reporting to her that he had called out for Sydor. She knew it wasn't Haleth he was yelling for. Of the two of them, Haleth was the least likely to show any mercy save for killing him then and there. Even Elaianna wasn't so sure that wasn't what she would do. 

 After a few hours, Elaianna had beckoned for her personal guard, Kaitlyn Cavanaugh to join her. The steady click, click, click of heeled boots was the first sign to Warlund that finally she was, as he predicted, coming to speak to him. The door to the dungeon was opened, light spilling inside the otherwise dimly lit area. Two shadows poured into the room, the silhouettes of the two women at the entry way before the door closed behind them. Further into the cells they walked, before coming to a stop several feet out of reach from Warlund's cell.

 There was a click of Elaianna's tongue as she reached for her pistol and raised it to take aim. She had been all but ready to pull the trigger with little to no hesitation. She had underestimated the rage that flared within her at the very sight of him. Warlund had Kaitlyn to thank for his life, as the guard grabbed Elaianna's arm and pushed it downwards, the shot echoing in the cell, but hitting  the floor, rather than it's intended target.

Kaitlyn had guessed the fury her lady bore toward this Blackfyre man. Though, she only knew snippets from the guards and servants it was enough to know that Elaianna Sydor might be a bit unpredictable where this fellow was involved.  Her grip on Anna's arm was strong and sure, pulling the arm down before silently twisting the pistol from her hand with a warning look that said it all. 

She'd been told they were to have a conversation, well, an interrogation and one couldn't ask a dead man questions. Truth was, if the man were to end up dead in the end, she could give two shits but she would hold her charge accountable for her previous intent to at least speak to him first. 

Once assured that Anna wouldn't attempt any other violence for now, she took up station beside her lady, hand on sword and at the ready. Should he attempt to do anything stupid, he would sorely regret ever having the notion enter his dark mind.

The shot surprised Warlund, causing him to flinch. But he figured that was the intended point. If she wanted him dead, there was little to no sense in capturing him. What would a woman like Lady Sydor want with him? Their feud was nearing a year—still in its infancy. The irony of him being captured so soon after escorting Raven through the North was not lost on him. She was, after all, the cause of their petty disagreement. A disagreement in his eyes, of course. “You missed,” stated the former lord. It wasn’t anger, or wrath, or outrage clinging to Warlund’s tone. She was not on the receiving end of his ire. Yet. It was none of those things. Instead it was disappointment. “You missed from where you’re standing. That’s the second time you’ve fired at me, Sydor. I still bear the mark of your first shot. My forearm, remember? It’s an ugly scar.” 

Warlund peered through the bars at Anna. “Closer, why don’t you? Closer.”

"You have my guard to thank for your pitiful existence, otherwise I wouldn't have missed," she hissed at him. "You know well enough from that ugly scar you have that I don't miss." There was little more than pure venom in her tone. Where he spoke with disappointment she still spoke with all the rage of a woman who nearly lost her child to this man's overreaction. One she made him regret in the moment with a shot. 

 "What in the Light's name possessed you to come through on my lands?"

Kait said nothing. She merely stared the man down with that bland near emotionless expression that had many of those at Barrowfield wary of her, even the lady's new husband tended to change his demeanor around her. As Anna spoke of her being the reason he still lived, she merely tilted her head mechanically and lifted a judgmental brow. She knew men like him. She'd dealt with men like him her entire military career. A singular nod was given, not that he even acknowledged her presence. Typical. In the end, that would work to her advantage if need be.

Warlund huffed out a forced sigh of relief. “Is that what this is about? I crossed into your lands?” A dry, throaty chuckle filled the air. “Well, my Lady Sydor, all I wanted was a cup of tea! With you!” He stayed eyeing her. “If you didn’t want to have a nice cup of tea with me, you could’ve just said so.” Warlund shook his head and took a tone of judgement, as if she’d done something terribly wrong. “You didn’t need to kill my men. They had lives. They had families. They were good, loyal men, and now they’re dead.” 

“Fuck them, I guess,” he added. He stepped away from the bars of his cell, turning his side to the pair. “You’re bold, Anna. I’ll give you that. You’re fucking bold.”

"Your men fought mine, on my land. They died as consequence for their loyalty to a traitor," Elaianna stated plainly. "Can you conjure any singular reason that I would refrain from killing you? ...Or perhaps I will let Haleth have his way with you. He has taken to some rather... cruel.. ways of dealing with people as of late."

Kait's lips pursed into something akin to an amused expression as she leaned over to 'whisper' into Anna's ear, "Is he always like this?"

Unknown to Warlund in a hushed breath, Elaianna replied, barely audible. “Worse.”

“Is this what you do now?” Warlund inquired. He was genuinely curious; it had been a long time since he’d heard anything of Anna. “You ambush old enemies and threaten them with death? You’re ageless, aren’t you? You’re a fucking vision, by the way. Have you been eating healthier?” He wasn’t about to die in the cells of fucking House Sydor. He had plans for himself. He had plans for the North. “Let’s not fuck around anymore, Anna. You aren’t going to kill me. If you kill me, your House comes to an end. My family would wipe yours off the map. My allies would be at your gates. This place you love so much—this Barrowfield—would become your tomb.” 

“So. In thirty words or less, why the fuck am I here?” he inquired.

Elaianna was nonplussed by his words. "Maybe I won't, but I imagine Haleth may," she countered coldly. "You did try to kill me and by proxy his child. Not to mention everything else while you paraded around as Lord Creek. As for your allies? You speak as if I am without my own. Unlike you, I am not an exiled traitor. I am not known for my misdeeds. I am not known for being against the crown, nor am I known for... oh what was that thing I read in the paper? Murdering children? You'll have to come up with a stronger argument than that."

 "You're here because you came onto my lands. You are an enemy of my family, thus promptly dragged here for me to decide your fate. I am in the present moment, deciding if it's worth letting you loose on the world or letting you disappear for good. It's not looking in your favour,” she continued.

Kait merely smirked at her lady's words. She really did enjoy the fire, so long as it wasn't burning out of control.

The former lord took on a more serious look. Perhaps he had wronged Lady Sydor, but in his eyes, she was not without blame. “You speak as if I randomly attacked you,” he said, “You were threatening to reveal my contact inside Stormwind Intelligence, Anna. I couldn’t allow you to do that. She meant much to me, as there are those who mean much to you.” He stepped to the bars. “My death will come without apology, if you want it. I have done monstrous things and I own every single one of them. But I am a man of principle. When I attacked you, I broke my principles. You were pregnant. I do not harm children, regardless of what your Royal Courier says. Children are precious. They are the future.” 

“So,” he added, “I cannot see why you’ve done something so foolish, Sydor. You might have allies, you might even have a moral responsibility to take my life, but I don’t think you have the numbers. And in war, it is arithmetic that wins the day—not your morality.”

Elaianna stared at him with a neutral expression. She wasn't about to over-boast or undersell her numbers. She was not giving any shred of information to Warlund about how things were in the year he had been absent from her lands. In fact, she wasn't even sure he had ever made it to her lands previously. Near them, yes, always near, but never on. She looked to Kaitlyn. "What do you think? You've always had a much clearer head for this sort of thing when I am otherwise more prone to rage." She sought out her guard’s opinion, already knowing hers to be rash in that moment as all she wished was the man dead.

Kaitlyn shrugged, "I know nothing of the man save that he is a known traitor to the Kingdom of Stormwind and it's territories. I know the laws state that trespassing on a nobles lands gives them the right to kill on sight, something you didn't do. A testament to your reasonability. His men died because they fought, the fault lays with them and not you. Traitor. Trespass. I say have him executed, publicly, cite his crimes and be done with it. I've known his kind all my life. They like to inflate what they really have hoping to use intimidation to set others to pause. Send him the executioner. Death would be mercy over the things your ex husband might do to the old man."

“Old man?” Warlund inquired. “Now that’s just hurtful.” He turned to gaze upon Lady Sydor. “Anna, if there’s one thing you know about me, it’s that I do not bluff. I do not bark when I have no bite. If you kill me, you will suffer. Think about your children. Your family. Your home. Think about the woman advising you to kill the most notorious man in the Eastern Kingdoms.” He considered his own words, then theirs. “Just to state it for the record… I didn’t betray Stormwind. I committed a series of crimes and freed myself from the Stockade, but I was never branded a traitor by Varian. I wasn’t ever accused of high treason. They do not forgive you of that—not even the Church.” 

“And I was forgiven.” He had little more to say. Turning from them, Warlund approached the far end of the cell and slid down to the floor. “Consider carefully, Anna. I’ve no wish to die, but I also have no wish to rot in a cell.”

Elaianna clicked her tongue. "See, I'm not so keen to allow him mercy, but, to do it the old fashioned way, even the other Lords of the North wouldn't dare dispute my choice of removing him." There was a long, drawn out exhale akin to a sigh as she listened to Warlund. One way or another, Warlund's days were numbered. She'd see to that. 

Elaianna glanced to Kaitlyn. "See to it that all guard personnel are made aware that Warlund is not permitted neither food nor drink during his stay here." She turned away from the cells, but not before cutting a glare to Warlund. She still wished she had just put a bullet through his brains and been done with it. Patience, however. The Lady Stalsworth made her exit from the dungeons, but permitted Warlund the thought that things had not changed.

Kaitlyn merely nodded as she ignored the man's 'pleas' for reason.  As Anna, left, she lingered a moment, merely peering at him with a curious expression before moving on and already bellowing to the guards in the prison area,"The Prisoner, Warlund Blackfyre is to be denied food and water until further notice on your lady's orders. Disobey and punishment will be dealt out swiftly and with impunity."

[ The conflict begins once more! All conflict with Warlund is discussed prior/ooc for consent, and kudos to him for consenting/suggesting to start us off Warlund ends up in Anna’s dungeons. ]

@warlund-blackfyre @gloryofsteel @wrahaleth @thomasstalsworth

[yeoldontknow]

It Was The Night: 2

Author’s Note: welcome to part 2! again, please note this is not meant to be historically accurate lmao i cant seem to stress this enough Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: drama; historical au; romance; suspense Rating (this chapter): PG Word Count: 1,722

II.

It has never escaped my attention that Monsieur Park had, from the time I was child, better perceptions of my future and interests than I have ever been able to decipher. From the moment he saw me, singing to God and to the mass, he seemed to know me, seemed to see inside my soul, or, perhaps, heard my soul, and divined my needs before I could voice them.

My arrival at the Opera seemed, for all intents and purposes, a very long overdue homecoming. At long last I had found men and women, boys and girls, whose knowledge and passions so greatly matched mine. Their continual and profound sense of humour, wit, and imagination provided me with the endless hours of the entertainment I had so been craving.

Within weeks I had made a home of my new chambers, secret imaginary friends replaced with boys as talented as I, and girls with pink, smirking lips, glimmers of possibility contained in the bat of an eye or the flick of a skirt. In the seamstress, I had found the mother figure I had been lacking; in the various stagehands, teachers and playmates, limitless in their knowledge and boundless in their energy, their playfulness.

My first night, the older girls in the room, wickedness and mischief dancing in their rises, pushed our six beds together. As we clambered onto our thin mattresses, they began to tell us, the three new choral members, the story of the Opera Ghost. We sat cross legged, our night dresses tucked beneath our knees to keep out the draft, with a slight forward lean to our spine as we clutched desperately to every word Clara, the eldest in our room, spoke.

Keeping her voice low, she told of music in the recital hall from a grand piano without its player, of footsteps in the rafters of the chapel, dark shadows lurking in mirrors. Always the same shape yet existing wholly without a true form, a paradox of malintent that left a chill wherever it passed.

I drank every detail, eyes wide with curiosity. I imagined a gruesome hanging in the chapel, a suicide in the throes of the black death, and, perhaps most surprising of all, I did not blush for my indiscretion. In truth, I was titillated by the drama of these thoughts, giggled to myself, excited by the thought of what Father Ezekiel would think of me now so soon after my departure. Had I already succumbed to a Godless city? Given over to the temptation of the scarlet warmth of bloodshed? Excessive, theatrical, melodramatic, and turning from the watchful eyes of angels?

‘How did he die?’ asked a young, quiet tongued girl named Jacqueline, with whom I had shared my carriage ride.

I was so pleased she had asked the question begging release from my lips. Yes, I mentally pleaded, tell me if it was bloody, if it was silent, if his guilt is spread throughout the mortar of the stones.

‘That’s the thing,’ Clara whispered, forcing all of us to lean centimetres closer. ‘He is very much alive!’

The moment she said “alive,” Elisabet, Clara’s partner in crime, shouted with a howl so terrible, all the girls screamed. Clara laughed in the candlelight, her jaw seeming to detach with the force of her cackle as her cheeks and eyes suddenly became sunken, hollow. Our cries and their laughter only subsided when Madame Catherine, the caretaker of the grounds, opened our chamber door and demanded we turn out our candles with a draconian glare.

I stayed awake that night beneath the itchy cotton of my bedding, until the birth of the sun in our picture window, imagining a man draped in shadows and living without light. Would his skin feel like wax? Did he move along the river of plumbing, with the tide of the Seine and amongst the bones of fallen stone masons? His hands dominated my mind, the fingers of a pianist with the bones of a skeleton, strong, cold, and lethal.

But as wild as all these thoughts may have been, as scandalous and fascinating they were, I decided just before dawn that his existence was impossible, a fabrication in the minds of girls hoping to exert their authority.

Such a thing could not be real, I told myself pragmatically. Surely such a famous institution would know of a man living within its walls, either to hide from Parisian police inspectors or the slow starvation of poverty. No, such a thing would not be tolerated.

I lived, rather joyously, for three years with this notion, and I watched, yearly, as Clara, and eventually Elisabet told the story of the infamous Opera Ghost. Such experiences had never once happened to me, nor to any of the members of staff I had bravely asked on a December night when the wind held a particular musical howl in its blusters.

‘Your stitches are becoming messy, child,’ scolded the seamstress as I mended a torn frock.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then, tried furiously to ease their dryness and bring forth the sound of blood rushing into my ears. These things, I hoped, would distract mind from the sound of the wind.

‘Apologies, Madame,’ I said, attempting hastily to re-thread my needle. ‘It’s just...the wind…’

All further words died on my tongue before I could voice them, suddenly feeling terribly foolish for these worries, but still, in my childish mind, the possibility of an opera ghost felt terribly real, if only for this brief moment.

The seamstress scoffed, drumming her fingers on the mess of my table. ‘Fear not the wind,’ she stated, though there was some compassion in her tone. ‘It will bring you no harm.’

Still, though, these platitudes did not appease me. For it was not the wind that bothered me, it was the humming within, the pattern and its wistful qualities that brought a chill to my spine. My fingers fumbled with my needle for several moments, caught between the desire to speak and the desire to align myself with the adults around me, wanting to sound mature and ladylike in my beliefs. In the end, my fear won over, wanting confirmation or, perhaps, affirmation, that my suspicions were correct.

‘But the opera ghost, Madam. Does he not live in the wind? In the walls?’

Even as I said the words, I regretted them, wanted to slip beneath the stones of the floor because even such a statement sounded implausible, foolish in its sentiments. And, for this, I was reprimanded.

The seamstress laughed, although the sound was hollow, pressing a hand at the bodice of her corset to ease her breath before she spoke. ‘Ignorant child,’ she said as her laughter calmed, ‘that is simply a story. A story that has been told even when I was a girl in this opera. Don’t believe such tales. Head down and focus your energies on your stitches.’

These words silenced the conversation, made my back curl over as I diligently returned to my work. A sense of pride settled into my bones, glad for the assurance that this was impossible, unlikely, and that I, of course, had been correct in my suspicions. My stitches, then, became straighter, more taught, and no longer did the wind carry a hymn.

Like this, I lived in jovial contentment until the eve of my seventeenth birthday, when I was the last to bed as it was my turn to assist the maids in costume redressing for Les Abencérages. Under the cover of twilight and with one crooked candle as my guide, I made my way to the basins for my nightly wash. The halls had grown dark, shadowed high with the contrast of dark stones and the flicker of firelight. Alone, my footsteps fell in hurried patterns, carrying my body on the balls of my feet so as not to disturb the silence.

Sometimes, as I turned sharp corners, I felt myself being followed, heard scratches in the walls that felt animalistic or in human. As I walked, I reminded myself the building was old, that the foundation of the architecture had settled into the ground like bones. I imagined the building growing, a great maw behind the walls opening to shift around the stones, the structure of the opera house constantly expanding as though it were alive.

In the bath salon, I grimaced as I set my candle on the stand by the mirror to undress, the thought of bathing in the left over, cold water infinitely less than ideal. There was no rush in my motions, choosing instead to delay the chill of the dull water over my skin for as long as possible. My mind raced with music and lessons from the day, fingers still store from my grip on the needle, joints aching. Distracted, perhaps, is the best way to describe my mind, eyes sore and tired, and I think that is why I felt the truth of this evening was muddled in the mire of exhaustion. To this day, I sometimes wonder if I saw it at all, if the vision had been a truth, even though I have every confirmation that it was.

For as the light flickered, I noticed a shadow in the corner of the mirror. It appeared first out of the corner of my eye until I offered it my full focus, my full attention. I waited in stillness for the vision to fade and, when it did not, I became entranced.

I did not yell, I did not gasp. Instead I remained, still, trembling fingers poised on the drawstring of my bloomers as I studied it. It held the shape of a man, tall, and slim, distracted and paying no attention to me. I could only see the outline of his profile as he spoke, quite vigorously, with an unseen conversation partner. Finally, with a flick of his hand, he turned to face me and, in the dim light and the grit of the mirror, I could only just see full lips and a strong jaw before he slipped away through a corridor that did not exist behind me.

I left the bath salon, then, choosing instead to wash the following evening.