#serving bawdy

[troishq]

CINDY KIMBERLY via tiktok.

[versacethotty]

a ruthless serve idc

[hookedonph0nixxx]

Loving my ever changing body, soul, and mind. Staying open to all possibilities and keeping my heart open despite the bullshit. I am a powerful alchemist, please watch yourself with me😘

[versacethotty]

@awayfromher us 🩷

UHD | Taylor Swift and Megan Thee Stallion at the VMA's, September '24

[ghostsstolemymoxie]

A request here for smut! enemies to lovers hot hate sex on a mission then people over the intercom back at the mansion here oops 🤭

AHHH OK I love this ideaaaa, just hoping I did it justice <3

【You're so gorgeous - then you start talkin'!】

Logan x F! Reader - Enemies to lovers: Hatefuck edition Divider credit @cafekitsune Tags: No use of Y/n, explicit content (18+, MDNI), unprotected p in v (be smarter than Logan and reader folks), rough sex, spitting, unintentional voyeurism, accidental exhibitionism Please don't click read more unless you're over 18 and willing to see 18+ content and the above tagged content. WC: 3k words

"He's the most arrogant, boorish, misogynistic, vile bastard I have ever met in my life!" You hissed down the comms, trying very hard to hide the scowl etched into your features. "Yes, but he's also your partner on this mission," Ororo replied, calmly, her voice crackling somewhat as it travelled into your ear through the wireless bud for your communications.

All around you, all you could hear was chatter, laughter and bawdy noises.

Serves you right, really. After all, you'd been so desperate to get back into the swing of things and get onto the missions since your injury, you had begged Charles to assign you the next mission, not even caring what it was.

Lo and behold, it leads to you and Logan being sent out on an intel-gathering mission at a casino just by the Canadian border. All you needed to do was listen out for some plan to do with Sentinels being built. Charles had been stingy with the details, though you weren't quite sure why. You supposed he'd given the brief more to Logan - the experienced X-man.

As though summoned by your distasteful thoughts, Logan soon joined you in the casino, already holding a glass in his hand. Whiskey, no doubt, with plenty of ice. He stepped up alongside you, glancing you up and down and taking in your black-tie attire with a smirk on his face. "You scrub up nice. Makes sense. You're only here as arm candy." He grumbled, taking a sip of his whiskey. In truth, it was a wonder that his muscles didn't burst free from the white suit he was wearing, but this was no time for gawking at the wonderful body attached to this awful man. "Has anyone ever told you that you're the worst person they've ever met?" You mock, even as you follow him to one of the tables. "Has anyone told you that you've got a smart mouth? That's not an attractive quality in a lady, y'know." Logan's retort was fast and icy, barbed in a way that only Logan's tone could be.

"Both of you, you need to focus on gathering intel, not on bickering." It was Scott's turn this time, shrill down the comms as he made sure that both of you heard. From the scowl on Logan's face, he heard perfectly.

A friend of Bolivar Trask was on the roulette table tonight - and apparently, he got loose lips after enough scotch. So, Logan took his seat at the same table, keeping his head down and focusing on looking inconspicuous, whilst you lingered at his side, playing the part of the pretty girlfriend attending alongside her man. Logan chugged the rest of his whiskey, holding out the glass to you. "Get me another one, won't you sweetheart?"

Sweetheart. God, that was the worst word he could use for you. It only made you angry. He had that stupid smirk on his face, too, that said he only knew how mad it made you. Despite his mockery though, you kept your composure, putting a smile on your pretty, painted lips. "Sure thing, hun." You said, leaning in, feigning a kiss on his cheek as you whispered: "Call me sweetheart again, and I'll cut your dick off."

He replied only with a scoff, as you headed to the bar, a scowl plastered on your face. The only way you knew it was because you glimpsed it in the mirror whilst waiting to be served. Once seen, it was schooled quickly, though that didn't stop a passerby from noticing.

Whilst you waited for the bartender, idly listening over your comms to hear whatever was being said at the roulette table, you barely noticed his presence, until he sided up right alongside you. He was a handsome guy, though regrettably not as handsome as your begrudging date for the evening, who remained at the table, unaware.

"Now, what could possibly make such a pretty face look so grumpy?" He asked, cooing the words so condescendingly. "I'm not grumpy." You reply, sourly, before forgetting that whilst you can always hear on comms, they can always hear you. A creak across the room sounds as Logan turns to look at you, and a look of something spreads across his face at the sight of the younger man quite obviously coming onto you. You didn't know what that something was, but it lit a strange, desperate spark in your stomach for just a brief moment.

Still, you needed to deal with the interloper first, so you turned back to him. "I'm kind of in a rush. I'm just here to get my partner a drink." "Partner, huh?" He chuckled. "I get it. Long-term relationship but no ring… has he convinced you that being partners is just as good as being married?"

He had clearly gotten the wrong end of the stick, though it was probably more your fault for saying partner rather than boyfriend. "It's not like that." You reply, trying to think of the best phrasing to get him to just leave you alone. "Then what's it like, gorgeous?"

The moron was grinning, missing the point as if he was a professional. All you could do was just roll your eyes and try to catch the bartender's attention. Sooner rather than later.

As you turned to speak to the bartender, the guy spoke up again, this time laying a hand on your arm as he did so. "Come on, Honey, you can tell me. I've been told I'm a wonderful listener. I've had my shoulders wet once or twice. I've got something else I'd love for you to get wet too."

The crudeness wasn't lost on you, and the thought of doing anything with this guy made your nose crinkle in disgust. But before you could reply with anything, you felt the guy's grip get snatched off of you as another, larger hand slid its way around your waist.

"Somethin' I can help you with, bub?" Logan's voice rumbled from behind you, and it clearly rattled the other guy to be challenged by him. After all, Logan was 300 lbs of muscle and adamantium and had the mug of a mean bastard to go with it. Even if that mean bastard was ruggedly handsome and carved from the finest Canadian oak.

You could have defended yourself. You knew this easily, and you were certain Logan did too, though the intensity of his gaze whilst he stared down the other guy forced a needy sensation in your core, betraying any lingering sense of feminism you had.

"No, just talking to the lady here." The guy replied, as politely as he could muster up, despite the fact he was no doubt shitting his pants. "Botherin' her, more like." Logan scoffed. "That cologne of yours is vile, by the way. You should probably try and wear something that doesn't smell like shit next time you try and flirt with a lady. Especially one who's spoken for."

The guy stammered, tripping over himself in trying to respond, his eyes running from you, then back to Logan, lips flapping comically but with no sound coming out.

Logan took this opportunity to tug you away from the bar instead. "C'mon, Sweetheart. Let's go have a talk." He snarled. "Logan, what are you doing? You need to focus on the meeting! Now is not the time for it!" Scott's voice down the communicator was cut off when Logan tore his out of his ear and yours as well (though he was uncharacteristically gentle as he plucked it from your ear).

He stuffed them both in his pocket, dragging you past the roulette table and the blackjack and into the men's bathroom. A single cubicle, with a lock on it that he immediately clicked shut the second that you were both in.

"What the Hell are you thinking?" You snap up at him, tearing your arm from his grip. Logan didn't reply instantly. His nostrils were flared, his beautiful mouth twisted in a vicious sneer and his whole body vibrating with the kind of energy that was more animal than human. His arms were tense, you could see the seams of his jacket nearly fraying at the effort, whilst those Hazel eyes of his burned into yours.

"I'm thinkin' about how furious I am." He snarled in reply, after a moment to think. "I'm thinkin' about how idiotic you are for even strikin' up a conversation with that guy in the damn first place. I'm thinkin'…" One tantalising step forward, and all of a sudden you were braced against the tiled wall. Thankfully the casino was clean, or at least looked it. Logan loomed over you, his breath heavy and stuttering, and for a moment you wondered if he had finally snapped and was going to drive those claws of his into your chest and finally be done with it. "I'm thinkin'… Dammit, that dress is good on you."

You blink, a few times as you look up at him, trying to confirm that you'd heard him correctly, that his eyes truly were raking down your body like that and not that you'd just dreamed it.

"Logan-" "Shut up." He snapped, cutting you off. "Just… shut up. Stop talking. God, you're so gorgeous and then you start talkin'!"

Despite your indignation, you didn't get a chance to reply. In moments he had gripped at your ass, squeezing full handfuls and lifting you from the ground, only to move you, seating you along the counter where the sink was, his eyes burning into yours all the while. He dropped you onto the counter with a thud, and in moments he was ruching up the fabric of your dress, the fabric slipping upwards from your ankles up to your mid-thigh. Hastily, you tried to tug it back down but he was far stronger, and it was a better option to have the dress lifted than torn, especially considering you'd both need to head back out to the floor. Now that there was a little give, he burrowed his strong thigh between your own, until his body was firmly planted between your knees.

"God, what am I doing?" He groaned, hanging his head, his hands planted on either side of your hips, trapping you in place. "You don't want this. You hate me as much as I can't stand you. But… I can't take this anymore. The… the tension, the burning, the need. The ache." His voice trembled as he spoke, his shoulders jerking with his difficult breaths.

As if all at once, you seemed to realise his intention here. He wanted you. Needed you. In a way almost primal and carnal, that seemed completely separate to the mission, or their usual distaste of one another.

A searing hot coil tightened in your gut, pulsating with desperation you didn't know you had in you. It had been a while, that much was for certain. 6 months? A year? Longer? Too long, by all measures. Too long since you'd shared your body with someone so vulnerably, so intimately.

And God, how you longed to share it with Logan.

"Shove me away." He demanded. "Shove me away. Smack me. Tell me I'm a brute and a bastard and you don't wanna fuck me. Do it. Because if you don't, I'm not stopping, mission be damned."

Instead, disobedient to his pleading, you slid your hands up his chest, feeling every ridge and valley even through his tuxedo. There were no words shared, no refusals or acceptances. Only a gentle touch between the fiercest of enemies.

His eyes flared, bright and incensed, and in moments he had shrugged off his jacket, tossing it haphazardly backwards, not caring where it landed, before dropping to his knees.

His hands planted themselves defiantly on your inner thighs, holding them open as he brought his face towards your core, whilst your needy fingers kept your skirt bunched up and out of his way. Logan didn't even bother to pull your panties aside, at first. He pressed chaste kisses at first to the seam of your womanhood, feeling how it slicked at his attention, enjoying the way you reacted to his attention, the way the scent of your desire seemed to permeate the air around him from every angle. He hummed into his kisses as well, the vibration only making that coil in your gut tighter. At the attempts to close your thighs, he only snarled, his grip getting firmer as he held them apart, shooting a glare up at you as if to warn you that if you didn't stop, he wouldn't keep going.

You relaxed your thighs, and he quickly crooked a finger around the gusset of your panties, tugging them to the side, taking in the sight of you with a cocked, eager eyebrow.

"You got a pretty pussy, sweetheart. She's a needy thing, huh?" He teased, before toying with his thumb, running along the seam a moment before holding you open, just in time for him to dive in again.

He kissed you as if he wanted to devour you like a hound starved for days on end would lap at the sweetest, most delicious meal. Quickly, he shrugged your thighs onto his shoulders, holding you against his face, as he slung one arm around you, holding your thigh in place on him and sliding his hand over the plane of your hip before he began to rub at your swollen clit, whilst his tongue diverted his focus to your weeping honeypot.

There couldn't be a finer sight anywhere in the world. You didn't care you were in a casino bathroom, or that you were meant to be working tonight on an important mission. Life or death meant jack shit compared to the sight of Logan kneeling between your legs and devouring you. He even seemed to hum in delight as your hand tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, nearly drowning him in your need.

He pulled back a moment later, strings of your desire still connecting you to his lips, before he swiped them away, licking them from his fingers.

At your whine, he only scoffed. "You don't finish anywhere but on my cock. You understand me?" He grumbled, standing up again, and unfastening his trousers, letting them and his boxers fall in a puddle on the floor in one swift, easy movement. When you glanced down, you could see he was already at full mast. Larger, thicker, veinier than any you had ever had before. It throbbed in his hand, with 3 beads of precum already leaking down his shaft. He palmed himself a moment, letting out a groan, holding his head in line with your clit as he rocked back and forth, gently. Just enough to soak himself in you.

"Mmm… I don't think you're wet enough." He grumbled, a smirk on his face. You were dripping on the counter, you could feel that already, so you knew he was lying, leading up to something. "So what are you gonna do about it?" You ask, locking your gaze with his own.

He pumps his fist along his cock still as he grins back at you, not averting his gaze as he spat, a thick glob of saliva landing right where his cock met your cunt. He smeared it on himself, on you - on where you both would soon become one - and he chuckled. "I always wanted to spit on you. Never thought you'd get so red from it." "I'm not red from tha-" You went to protest, but before you could finish, he had bucked, his entirety sheathed inside of you in one agonisingly ecstatic movement. All of him was buried in your warmth, and your walls shuddered around him. You didn't know which one of you had let out that moan - but you had a sneaky feeling it was both of you.

Your hand gripped his shirt, holding onto the fabric tightly, seeking to anchor yourself however you could, feeling how your body pulsated around him, acclimatising to his invasion. "Fuck," He cursed, resting his forehead on your shoulder, forcing himself to remain in place, not moving until you'd gotten used to him. "What, has it been so long since you've had a dick you re-virginised? You're so tight…" He ground his hips against your own, not yet pulling out, but making sure to give you that friction that brought another moan from your lips. "This pretty pussy's been needing a stretch. Don't worry, Princess, I'll give her a workout."

With that, he pulled back, each inch that he rescinded leaving you clenching down on nothing, feeling desperate without him. Against your will, you whined, tangling your fist further in the fabric of his shirt, urging him back again. Even after pulling out so slowly, he bucked in fast, torturous and barbaric in his speed. He bucked so hard that your entire body jolted with the collision between you, but he pulled back as if he wanted to watch you crying at the loss of him.

"What's the matter, Princess? You look about ready to sob." He mocked, before grunting as he thrust back in, just as hard, and you cried out in your mixed delight and pleasure. "You're the worst," You retort, through gritted teeth, trying to maintain your brain function even as every slight movement of his cock penetrating you seemed to make you want to melt into him, drooling and moaning like a moron who knew nothing other than taking Logan's cock. "Am I?" He purred in return, grinding his teeth as he let out three sharp thrusts in succession, robbing you of your breath as you forced your nails into his chest, drawing a groan of animalistic delight from him.

"Sounds to me like you're 'boutta cum, Princess. If I'm the worst… maybe I'll just stop." "No!" God, your voice sounded so breathy as it echoed back around the room, and Logan lit up at the sound. "No?" He parrotted, lips pursed and eyes amused, before he tutted. "No what? Use your words." "No, don't stop." "You don't want me to stop. 'cause I'm not the worst, right?" "N-not the worst…" You repeated. "Not the worst. Good girl, Princess. I'm the man who's 'boutta make you cum all over my cock, ain't I? I'm the best I am at what I do. And what I do is fucking girls like you 'til you're stupid. Right?"

By now your tongue had gone numb. You couldn't form a word in your mind, let alone in your throat or mouth. Instead, all that passed your lips were gasps and mewls and needy moans, as you forced yourself to nod, trying to get your point across.

It seemed Logan was too far gone as well, as he grinned down at you, feral and angry and delighted.

He leaned in, pressing heated, feverish kisses all over your neck, up and along the column of your throat before his forehead rested on yours.

"Fuck, Princess. I'm not gonna last much longer…" He panted out, his thrusts becoming faster and faster, no longer taunting you, and instead chasing his peak. His free hand reached down as well, his fingers splayed over your womb whilst his thumb played with your red, sensitive clit, eliciting another loud moan from you.

"Where'd you want it?" Logan snarled. "Tell me, and fast before I… ngh." He bucked, his movements sloppy and desperate. You longed for his warmth inside of you. To feel him spill and buck and ride out his afterglow whilst still nestled in your perfect pussy. To watch the look on his face as he pulled out and saw his own seed oozing from you. "Inside," You demand, the only full word you've managed in a long while. "P��please… inside. Inside." "Wish is my command, darlin'." He grunted out.

His lips crashed against your own, tasking of whiskey and pine and your own sweet nectar, the sensation of receiving a kiss from Logan so tender and desperate finally being enough to tip you over that final cliff.

Your legs wrapped around his middle, tugging him closer, as your pussy fluttered all around him, milking him for all he was worth, as a wave of white-hot euphoria rolled over your mind. Your moans were swallowed by Logan's mouth, as he kept kissing you, letting his own moans and grunts escape as well, the shared sounds of your pleasure rumbling in the caverns of your mouths. "Just like that." He rumbled, between open mouth kisses, murmuring into the plush flesh of your lips. "Cum all over me baby. Make my fuckin' day."

You barely even felt the sensation you'd so longed for as Logan buried himself as deep as he could inside of you, spilling every drop of his cum inside of you, whilst you squeezed every ounce he was worth, the pair of you riding out your orgasms at once.

It took a few seconds for you to catch your breath. Both of you had heaving chests and red faces. Logan pulled free from your lips, though not before offering one teasing, apologetic lip to the seam of your mouth, as though to apologise for kissing so hard and leaving you swollen.

You slid an arm around his shoulders, a silent plea not to pull away, as you pulled him in for one more kiss.

But he froze halfway, and glanced down at his trousers, his eyes growing wide and his jaw tensing.

"Logan? What's the matter?" You ask, leaning forward and glancing down as well, brow furrowed. "I didn't mute the comms." He replied, bluntly.

Didn't mute the comms. The comms that had been in his pocket, and would have picked up their activities.

"Get back to the blackbird, you two. Now. Before you're kicked out of the casino." Scott's voice, tinny and furious, escaped the two comms, even from where they were buried in Logan's discarded trousers. "And don't think for a moment you're not going to be punished for this."

Logan chuckled, reaching down to fasten his trousers back on, returning his gaze to you. "I dunno about you, Princess… but I don't care if I get punished. We're doing that again on the way back. C'mon."

You slid your panties and your dress back into place, stood from the counter and took his hand, heading out of the casino with him, already brimming with excitement for round two - this time with muted comms.

I hope you enjoyed and hope I did this justice - I've not really written enemies to lovers before so this was super fun <3 Feedback is super appreciated so please let me know if you enjoyed!! If you're interested, my requests are open so please feel free to send me any questions, ideas or headcanons you'd like me to explore (please just make sure you've read my pinned post first) TYSM for reading and hope you enjoy <3

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

from the flames | b. blake

masterlist

summary: season three — to signify the newly recognised alliance between the sky people and the grounders, a celebration is held within polis’ market square. a bonfire, alcohol, and the bawdy pulsation of drums is a sure-fire recipe for a stimulating night. add a watchful bellamy blake and his dancing muse into the mix, and, well… i’ll show you the consequences of such a potent combination.

pairing: bellamy blake x fem!reader

warnings: alcohol consumption/intoxication, sensual dancing, jealousy, sexual desecration??, mild possessiveness, arguments, bellamy speaking in trigedaslang (giggling and kicking my feet), dialogue-heavy, manhandling, mild angst, smut, unprotected p in v (do not), reader is short because i’m short, deal with it <3

notes: i haven’t recently been watching the 100 so the timeline and characterisation may be a little off. also, ik this took me a long ass time, but i’m gonna try and make sure the next two parts come out a little quicker <3 i love y’all!

word count: 2.5k

“People of Kongeda and Skaikru, tonight we gather as one, united by a common purpose and a shared future of alliance. Before us, this bonfire symbolises more than just a flame; it is a beacon of hope, an opportunity to cleanse old grudges and pain that has divided us for far too long.

“Let this fire signify a new beginning and serve as a reminder that unity is not our weakness, but our strength. Let it be known that from this day, we join not as enemies, but as allies, and anyone set upon spilling the blood of our allies is spilling the blood of us all. Let it be known: Jus drein, jus daun!”

“Jus drein, jus daun!”

As much as Lexa’s words intended to inspire harmony, the crowd massed below the second-floor balcony of the dominating tower she resided on reacted in any way but. Fierce declarations of worship were cried out; large fists were pumped in celebration; and misty clouds of brew and saliva were sprayed into the tepid night air.

All was well, for the first time since we landed on Earth.

“Happy Unity Day,” I murmured to myself, taking a sip from the metal cup in my hand. I was standing on the outer edges of the unruly crowd of dark, rugged figures, who were surrounding an unlit wooden mountain and raving as it abruptly burst into vociferous flames.

The monstrous tepee of sticks was raging at the centre of Polis’ trading square, an open area bordered with stalls and operating food vendors that infused the air with a salivating meaty aroma. Glimmers of light chipped away into the familiar starry night above and an orange ambience was cast throughout the square, seeming to blaze beneath the skin of those who orbited the fire.

It was a somewhat perplexing scene: to be together as one people, celebratingratherthan being at war with one another.

A pensive mechanic stepped in beside me, eyeing the mixed crowd of Grounders and Sky People.

Raven folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t you think the fact that the Ark originally had thirteen stations and the coalition now has thirteen clans is kind of…”

“Unsettling?” I finished for her. “Yeah. Probably best not tell these guys the story of how Polaris got blown out of the sky. Don’t want to give them any ideas.”

“Polaris… Polis…” she continued contemplating. “Think there’s anything equally unsettling about that?”

I looked at Raven. She looked back at me.

I sucked in a sharp breath—“I’m not drunk enough for this conversation”—and tipped the harsh contents of my cup down my throat. The liquid was molten in both its ferocity and colour and was infused with some potent earthly spice; it was a blow to the stomach upon consumption.

“Is that such a good idea?” Raven asked, judging me as my head craned back to capture the last few drops of throat-scorching goodness. “I’m all for pouring a glass when the occasion calls for it, but these people have stomachs lined with steel—what do you think yours is made of?”

I grimaced at the taste. “You tell me. You’re the genius.”

The roll of her eyes was deafening. “I’m just saying, they’ve probably spent decades perfecting their drinks to suit them, to match their tolerances. I mean, even that human fountain over there couldn’t handle it.” She nodded towards a cluster of barrels where a titan of a man wearing armoured shoulder pads and breastplates was hunched over, violently emptying his stomach onto the cobbled ground.

I swallowed my own stomach at the sight.

“I just assumed you wanted to spend the night somewhat differently,” she said, a sweet undertone of provocation twisting her words.

My brows furrowed, and I turned to face her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her lips twitched at the corners—never a good sign.

The thing was, I knew exactly what she meant. Her unspoken words had already been circling my mind for days, weeks, months even, increasingly accumulating with both heat and fervour.

As ironic as it was, I think it’s fitting to compare my situation to that of a star’s formation.

There I was, a delinquent sitting stagnant in a cold nebula of misery in the Sky Box, parted from my family and friends, sent hurtling to Earth to die, only then to have my cold, miserable cloud intruded upon by a fiery presence, a head of tousled brown waves and a pair of rich, dark chocolate eyes.

An awakener. An activator.

This intruder began filling my head with his words, his laughter, his brooding stare. The weight of his presence began to grow; thoughts of him consumed me. From the most surprisingly vulnerable conversations to even the tensest arguments, he had a heat inside me swirling and it was sweltering to unfathomable heights. It showed no signs of stopping.

Raven’s malevolent brown eyes were pointing plainly at something far behind me as if to answer my question. I knew what I would see even before turning around to look, but moronic as I was, I looked anyway.

Chin hovering over my shoulder, my eyes wandered through the scattered crowd of Grounders and Sky People alike that loitered the bonfire’s outskirts. There, sandwiched between Lincoln and an unoccupied trading stall, was a face that not only had my stomach contents lodged in my throat, but my heart as well.

Bellamy.

He was standing with his arms crossed, each one concealed beneath his distressed guard jacket. And although his stance screamed ‘Don’t talk to me,’ his face said otherwise. He and Lincoln were engaged in some high-spirited conversation, much unlike themselves (although the supply of drinks may have been to blame). Bellamy was speaking through one of his overconfident half-grins while alternating between gesturing to-and-fro with a single hand and tucking it back under his opposing bicep.

My chest was burning; the bonfire somehow must’ve seeped into my heart.

It should be stated here that when a nebula accumulates enough particles, it turns into a protostar—not a main sequence star like our sun, but something that holds the potential to be. At this point, the formation is at its most precarious. If a sufficient amount of mass is not acquired, the protostar will fail to stabilise and will cool into a brown dwarf, forever existing in the cold, lonely expansion of space as a reminder of what it could have been.

Bellamy’s head gravitated in my direction. Our eyes met through the asteroid belt of rugged figures between us. My breath caught in my throat, and I turned back around.

A reminder of what it could have been.

Sometimes I worry my insufficiency has damned me already.

“Oh, my god.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh my god, Raven, why would you put me through that?”

“In the hopes that you’ll finally grow a pair and do something about it,” she replied, taking a sip of her drink to conceal her smirk.

“About what?” Now I was just being evasive.

She let out a frustrated huff and folded her arms over one another. Her countenance was a reflection of impatience: the raised eyebrows, the slight downward tilt of her head, the pursed lips. I almost laughed at her theatricality; then again, I almost cried because I didn’t want the reason behind it to be true.

I wanted Bellamy Blake.

The confession was boiling inside me; it was burning the tip of my tongue, and I knew I had to let it out to cool. And if the words were never spoken to him, then they at least had to be expressed to someone else, even if I never admitted them in the exactness I felt, for the exact words would be so heinous, so—hedonistic, that if anyone were to hear them, I’d be thrown into lock-up for the rest of my days.

“Fine, I guess I’m… attracted to Bellamy,” I spoke slowly, cringing at my own words. Raven’s face immediately lit up like an overzealous Christmas tree, her smugly curved lips parting to no doubt release an incongruous stew of condemnation and encouragement, which I stopped before it could even start. “Anattraction that I am not going to act on, Raven; our friendship is rocky enough as it is. I mean,” I scoffed, “have I even told how we first met? I held a pocketknife to his neck our second night on the ground because he threatened to pry off my wristband in my sleep. And he actually tried! You know that tiny scar he has on his cheek? That was from me!”

“Yeah, sometimes I forget how much of a self-righteous dick he was for a while there,” Raven mused. Her face then screwed with confusion. “Wait, how did you two even become friends? Because when I came down, you were at each other’s throats every single day over one thing or another, and then out of nowhere, it was as if the slate had been wiped clean.”

Ah.

The day the slate had been wiped clean.

A thick blurriness blanketed my vision as my mind withdrew from the present. You know when you get run down with some kind of sickness and your mind gets all scrambled and foggy? Like a fever dream? That’s what that day seemed like to me. Too many unimaginable things had happened, too many emotions and losses were felt, and I’d only shared them with one person before.

“You still there?”

My gaze flickered to Raven momentarily. She was staring at me, half with impatience, half with concern. “Just—” I raised my hand slightly in front of me “—give me a second.”

I inhaled. One, two, three. And I exhaled. Three, two, one.

A vulnerable creature of some sort nestled in my brain, softening the tone of my voice as I hesitantly began, “It was the, uh, the day the Exodus Ship crashed. My dad was on it,” I said, my last words barely audible. “Knowing that he was gone was one thing, but watching the ship crash? That messed me up for a good while.”

Raven, taken aback, muttered her apologies. I just shook my head in return. I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing the memory into the cobwebbed corners of my mind, and then continued, “Bellamy had found me in the woods that night. It wasn’t exactly a pretty sight. I think that seeing me in such a vulnerable state forced him to set aside his asshole-ry for a while because he actually managed to… comfort me.”

I remembered the tone of his voice, so shockingly gentle yet hardened in his trademarked sort of way as he reassured me endlessly that I would be okay. I remembered the warmth of his body as I lay crumpled and sobbing in his lap on the forest floor, clinging onto his arm as if it kept me from plummeting into a bottomless pit. I remembered his hands, swiping away the thousands of tears that streaked my face, the hair from my eyes.

I remembered our brief conversation as we walked back to camp: “I won’t tell anyone. I promise,” he had said, to which I whispered, “Thank you,” and after a short pause, he spoke again, “We all need someone sometimes. I know we don’t have the best history together but… I can be that someone if you ever need,” and then, once more, with an unwelcome flutter in my stomach, I whispered, “Thank you.”

A small, bittersweet smile lifted my lips. My voice sounded distant to my ears as I continued speaking. “We still nicked at each other here and there after that—that tension between us has never really disappeared—but there was also this new mutual understanding. And somewhere from mutual understanding came a rough-around-the-edges friendship, and then friendship turned into something else.” I paused to recollect my thoughts. “Well, for me, at least.”

Between the moment I started speaking to the moment I stopped, my gaze had wandered sheepishly to the toes of my boots. I felt so exposed, like the outer layers of my being had been cracked open to reveal a part of my soul to a girl I hadn’t even known existed until two months ago. Suddenly I remembered why I didn’t drink often.

I stood awkwardly, waiting. The weight of my confession and vulnerability were looming above us.

Raven was quiet; she made no witty remark or tease. Her eyes had only softened with understanding, shifting back and forth as my words were mulled over in her brain. And it was only from her foreign silence that I realised what her next question could be: why don’t you just tell him?

I began, “I don’t want to ruin—"

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she finally interrupted, shaking her head as if to dismiss my unspoken sentiment. “The age-old ‘I don’t want to ruin what we have right now’. But what exactly is that?” Her eyes once again interrogated mine. “Because I’ll make it clear to you right now and say that what you two have is not just friendship. Come on. You and Bellamy?” She shifted her head to catch my drifting gaze. “Anyone with eyes can see something is there, but clearly, neither of you have a pair.”

Talk about tough love.

A harsh outflow of air exited my nose, and I pushed my hair back out of my face. Everything was much more complicated than I thought it was. Was I really as blind as Raven said? I would have already seen what she does if it were true, right? Did Bellamy really feel the same?

Am I drunk?

I glanced behind me once more, catching a glimpse of Bellamy tilting his head back to finish his drink, exposing the sculptured column of his neck. Heat flushed through my cheeks.

Christ. I couldn’t let this one go. There wasn’t a chance.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked, still watching him.

An uproar of hoots and howls exploded throughout the square as the sound of drums and horns began to play, bringing my attention to the second-floor balcony of the Commander’s Tower where the noise floated down from. Drums pulsed with bawdy rhythm; horns bellowed with lewd backbone; a woman purred tribal vocalisations.

Bodies began swaying in disharmonious synchronisation around the bonfire, in pairs, in groups, individually. What tethered them was the raunchiness of their movements and the subtle carnality of their interactions with one another. I’d never seen anything like it; as I looked over at Raven and saw her similar intrigue, I knew she hadn’t either.

That was my mistake—to even acknowledge her in such a moment, especially after speaking about our previous topic. Her lips began stretching and stretching into a particularly wicked grin, and she turned to me. The devil was burning in her dark eyes.

Her answer to my question: “Give his eyes something to look at.”

part two

[arcielee]

Insatiable

Summary: Osferth finally has a moment with the barmaid he has been pining for. Paring: Osferth x Plus Size Reader Word Count: 1575 Warnings: AFAB Reader, kissing, titty sucking, grinding, pre ejaculation because baby monk is thrumming with life being tucked between your thighs, implied sexual themes. Author's Note: This was requested by the lovely, the wonderful @helaelaemond 💜 I hope this does justice to your request. Thank you @aemondsbabe for being my beloved beta reader for this hot mess I wrote at 1 in the morning and thank you @myfandomprompts for the title! 🥰 Dividers by @saradika

They prefer your tavern and its reputation, your wit and your hired help–always the loveliest of girls you gave sanctuary too. In return, you enjoyed both their coin and their company, which was something all encompassing whenever they would enter your establishment.

On this night, it was the tittering of your barmaids that alerts you before the bawdy Irishman announces their arrival. He fills the door frame, his dark eyes settling onto you and you returning his cheeky grin. 

“Lord Uhtred and his pretty boys,” you greet and he guffaws. You begin to pull empty tankards from the shelves behind. “To what do we owe the honor?” 

Finan pushes up towards the bar, his teeth bright beneath his dark beard. “My lady, tonight we are celebrating!” 

“What are we celebrating?” You fill up a mug and pass it over to his wide grasp. 

He begins to gulp it down, ale spilling the corners of his mouth before setting it down, his smile roguish when he says: “First bloodshed.” 

Osferth had slain the great Dane, Sigefrid Thurgilson, and its tale was already webbing throughout the cities that settled along the river bank of the Temes, rising from the ashes of Beamfleot. 

Your brow raises with your surprise. The warrior monk was a recent addition to the motley swart of men that shadowed Lord Uhtred’s steps. Osferth was a solemn addition, tall and lean, with piercing blue eyes that would cut through the crowd, searching for you whenever they visited. 

You could not help but favor him out of all the men that served Lord Uhtred. He was handsome with his sharp features, but you noticed how they softened with your voice whenever you spoke with him. You relish his reaction, the soft pink hues that stained his cheeks, his soft timbre to answer you, and you actually began to mourn him, assuming his inevitable demise at the end of a blade. 

But instead, Osferth showed himself to be so much more. 

The wooden walls begin to vibrate with the jubilation of surviving another day as the locals pour through the doors, adding to the cheers of their heroism. Lord Uhtred and his men preen under the attention, always adoring your pretty help, your girls flutter throughout to refill mugs or fall into an empty lap. 

You were watching, sipping at your own cup, dressed to complement your curves, the low neckline of your blouse to draw the eye to your heavy bust, aglow with the umpteenth retelling of baby monk’s bravery. Only then did you notice that Finan was trying to call your attention. 

“Please,” his lilt was thick as he began to beg, his ruddy cheeks burning and his dark eyes finally pulling away from your cleavage to meet with your own. “Osferth has been so hopelessly besotted with you. I was thinking you should give him a kiss to congratulate that he is now truly a man.” 

His words, partnered with the ale, warm your blood with the realization, flushing your cheeks and your cleavage. It propels your feet forward, pushing through the crowd towards Osferth, whose eyes were already trained to you. They widen, bright and beautiful and blue, to drink in the sight when you lean over, his skin prickling with your whisper to his ear, “Come with me,” and he is quick to stand and follow after you. 

The cheers of his comrades are drowned out with the call for another round, and you leave it to your help to tend and to fawn over the rest of the men as you pull Osferth away.  

The oak door shuts out the noise and you look back to see his lithe frame leaning against the wood. In the intimacy of the room, you could smell the musk of the battle won, lining his angular features, his sandy locks disheveled with the uneven new growth of his old religious style. 

You reach for his hand, pulling him towards the bed, and he follows, towering over you, watching as your hands pull at the collar of his alb; he helps you peel it off, showing the pale planes of his chest beneath.

Even as he sinks to sit on the edge of the bed, he is still so very tall, and you blush, turning to grab a clean cloth from the basin, coming back to touch his jaw and to wipe away the ash smeared across his face. 

Osferth hums with your touch, leaning into your palm, and your blood thickens beneath your skin with his close proximity. Your eyes watch the rise and fall of his chest as he tries to steady his breath, and when he finally looks back up at you, you can see the lustful black swallowing the cerulean coloring of his eyes; they wash over you, drinking in your curves, and a bashfulness stricken your bones with his heady gaze.  

You take a step back to return the cloth, and only then does Osferth dare to push up, towering over you. His large palm catches your elbow and pulls you back towards him. “May I–?” but his question stops on his tongue, your hands already moving to pull him close enough to kiss. 

The taste of ale is present, but not overwhelming, his mouth pleasantly warm and his lips soft to press against your own. You melt against his chest and a soft sigh escapes, allowing his clever tongue to curl, to deepen the kiss and find its tandem with your own. His large hands move, respectful but appreciative of the tactile nature of your figure, touching your soft waist, moving to settle on your hips with a firm hold as he continues to draw the very breath from your lungs. 

You break away for air, for who knew he would kiss like a man starved? You see his lips still pursed, kiss swollen, the hue now darkening to a red stain on his cheeks and on the tip of his nose. 

“Forgive me,” he says after a movement with the same sweet diction you were always fond of, and he grows shy with his admittance, “but I have thought often of how you would taste and I now find myself insatiable.” 

You close the space between, finding his mouth once again, and his palms roam, his stance staggering as he follows the pull backwards, until you both fall onto the bed. 

His arms cage you against the mattress and he dips forward for another desperate kiss; your blouse laces are pulled to allow the natural slope of your breasts, your hands rutting your skirt up so he can slot his slender waist between your plush thighs. You softly whine with the pressure of his length against your clothed cunt, and his deft fingers travel to remove your smallclothes. Osferth then pulls back with a pause, a moment of admiration with the enticing way of how you now spill from your clothes. 

You burn under his gaze, your fingers bold to loosen his ties, his length straining against the crotch of his slacks, now flush and upright towards his bellybutton. Osferth melts against you with his soft groan, your own soft sighs echoing with the delicious pressure of him against your slick folds. Your fingertips move to dig into the divots of his lower back, pulling him to rock against you with the genial glide of the underside of his cock against your warmth, rubbing your clit, and a pleasure begins to lick at the base of your spine. 

He is lost in the rhythm, the now crimson flush spilling from his face to his neck to his chest, panting and trembling against you; his eyes search for your face and you pull him in for another quick kiss. Osferth groans into your mouth, breaking away to return his attention to the tops of your breasts, his hot mouth leaving blooms of color as he suckles and savors every bit of your skin now showing. 

You squirm beneath him, your soft moans spurring his motion, and his brows knit with a focus on your pleasure, your sweet sounds, but it shatters so easily with your breathless whisper of his name that tickles his ear, “Oh, Osferth…” 

With a strangled cry, you can feel the hot pulse of his spend between your thighs. You tighten them around his waist, supporting him as he lowers his weight on top of you. “Forgive me,” he is panting against your flush skin, the ripple of gooseflesh in the wake of his exhale. “Forgive me, my lady, it is no excuse but I…have been thinking about this, about you, for so long…” 

You press a finger against his lips and Osferth is quick to kiss the pad. You smile with his gesture, your hand moving to curl the back of his neck, bringing his lips to your own for another sweet kiss. “Would you like to make it up to me?” Your voice is sultry, velvet, and you can feel the twitch of his cock in response.

His eyes are soulful and wide, with the returning blue a stark contrast to the flush of red that remains on his face. “More than anything,” he vows, “I will spend all night right here, if you wish it.” 

And you kiss him again, unable to help the giggle that spills from your lips. “I wish it,” you whisper and you can feel his smile in return. 

Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @black-dread @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @girlwith-thepearlearring @lauraneedstochill @theobjectofyourire @troublesomesnitch

[notbougie]

Chlöe serving bawdy

[unknownknowns]

Auntie Mary Serving Real Bawdy With The Yeeks

[historiaxvanserra]

I know I've been gone forever but I'm back and working on a forced proximity, political allies to lovers, arranged marriage, azriel x CoN reader fic that might grace your dashboard in the coming days...

sneak peak below

The narrow streets of Hewn City are rife with transgression; I hear the echo of it in the lurid shouts from the merchants and patrons. As they beg, barter and brawl in the slums in the rotten heart of the city. The fetor of petrichor and decay linger in the air. So putrid and palpable I can taste it; even through the bouquets of vervain and bitter almonds that shade the wheelhouse in their noxious musk. Throngs of beggar children chase the carriage as it rolls turbulently through the pools of waste upon the wet, cobbled stone. Though, I only catch fleeting glimpses of them each time the cruel, seraphic light cuts through the blanket of the dark inside the small carriage.  As I pass through the Streets of Silk, I hear the bawdy rhymes of the fallen women as they call out into the night like a siren song; all sultry-eyed and dressed in lace that billows in the wretched breeze like the tendrils of a monstrous chimera. Fated to lure wayward sailors to their watery tombs.   It is then that panels of the carriage yawn open to reveal a tavern. The building stands as one of the last unsanctioned pleasure halls in the city; its weary slate facade is cut from the same dark stone as the mountain that oppresses the city and the neglected roof tiles gleam in the pallid silver faelights, like moonlight on the murky-green depths of the Sidra. Above it's dark mahogany door, I observe the pillory that bears the establishment's name.  The Jade Pearl. Painted in varying gaudy shades of green and gold. The pleasure hall on the outer banks of the mountain city is alive with sordid activity. The whores in their fine silks twirl and dance in merry rings like water nymphs, and the serving girls fill up the cups of patrons with a sly smile. The high-arching melody of lyres cuts through the cacophony of carnal sounds; officious laughter, vulgar curses and the honeyed words, whispered into the skin of wind-beaten sailors and fat merchants.  Here, patrons and prostitutes alike, subject to their most base desires.  I adjust the hood that veils my face and retreat into the darkest parts of the tavern, nestled somewhere near the open hearth.  “Can I help you, mistress?”  I look up from my seat, across the emerald painted surface to the wraith standing before me. She’s a slender looking creature, with pale blue eyes that look almost silver in the dying light of the hearth. Her long, white hair is braided over her shoulder like the tendril of some mythical siren.  Dangerous and inviting.  “A drink and a warm meal perhaps,” She purrs, her voice low and sultry as she looks at me with those pale eyes, “or maybe you desire some company tonight?” She’s dressed in the gauzy, silk robes of a whore. The garment flows like water over the curve of her hip and with a deep slit in its middle that exposes the graceful swell of her breasts beneath. And through her guise of beauty and seduction, I see the chains that bind her. “A drink would be nice,” I say, sliding a gold coin across the polished surface of the table, “If it’s not too much trouble.” “It is not trouble at all, mistress- but this far too much coin.” The wraith begins to untether the cracked leather coin purse from her hip. She begins to exchange the gold for smaller coins of silver and bronze, counting them in her open palm.  “You should keep it -- I’ve no use for it anyway.” I say, nodding towards the coin in her hand. The wraith shakes her head and tries to protest but a call from the brutish looking owner, whose name I know to be Arik, draws the girl's attention away.  She voices her gratitude again before leaving me to my pitcher of ale.  The liquid is of a deep carnelian color that glimmers like burnished bronze in the dying light of the hearth. It is cloyingly sweet and viscous like honey and flavored with moonflowers and jasmine.  A voice, thick with mirth and malice, beckons my attention. 

[beas-mind]

Serving BAWDY and giving Gojo🤍🤍🤍

[watchnrant]

A Bold Twist on History: Why My Lady Jane is a Hidden Gem in the World of Fantasy

My Lady Jane is a defiant breath of fresh air in the world of historical fantasy, embracing its bonkers nature with unapologetic enthusiasm. This series takes the rulebook of realism, tosses it out the window, and instead opts for a wild ride that blends history, fantasy, and romance into one delightful package. The show doesn’t just flirt with the boundaries of reality; it gleefully dances right past them, making a Black man the King of England and introducing shapeshifters as part of the social fabric. This bold move pays off beautifully, inviting viewers to suspend disbelief and simply enjoy the ride.

What sets My Lady Jane apart is not just its entertainment value but its sharp wit. The protagonists are a joy to follow, with Jane and her fellow female characters serving as the true heart of the show. Jane herself is fantastic—her earnestness is both endearing and occasionally irritating, but always compelling. Surrounding her are standout characters like her cunning, sex-positive mother, Lady Frances, and her fiercely independent sister, Lady Margaret, who exudes a strength and determination that would give even Lady Lyanna Mormont a run for her money.

The series doesn’t just rely on its characters to make an impact; it excels in world-building and plot twists, all presented with a satirical sense of humor. The tone is a unique blend of modern feminism and historical toxic masculinity, creating a fresh take on the period drama genre. It’s a show that doesn’t shy away from revising history, much like Dickinson or The Great, and in doing so, it crafts a narrative that feels both contemporary and timeless.

However, the show isn’t without its faults. At times, the blend of genres and tones may feel jarring to some viewers, and not all of the humor lands perfectly. The pacing can also be uneven, with some episodes feeling slightly stretched while others race through pivotal moments. But these are minor quibbles in an otherwise delightful series.

For those who enjoy a mix of romance, action, and wit in their shows, My Lady Jane delivers in spades. The chemistry between Emily Bader and Edward Bluemel is nothing short of magnetic, their love story evolving from enemies to lovers with a perfect balance of spice and sweetness. Their portrayal of Jane and Guildford is so compelling that you can’t help but root for them, even as they navigate the treacherous waters of political intrigue and personal growth.

The show’s historical twists add tension and excitement to the narrative, making it more than just a simple retelling of history. It’s a femme-centric romp that flips the script on traditional damsel-in-distress stories, showing what happens when women take control and defy the patriarchal constraints of their time. My Lady Jane is outrageous, audacious, and delightfully bawdy—a show that isn’t afraid to be dirty and daring.

That said, this show might not be for everyone. Fans of more traditional period dramas or those who prefer their fantasy with a bit more realism may find the show’s irreverence off-putting. But for viewers who appreciate a fresh, bold take on history with a heavy dose of humor, My Lady Jane is a gem.

Although My Lady Jane was one of the best-reviewed new shows this year, it sadly failed to find a broad enough audience. The series received a 91% critical approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes, yet it never landed on Nielsen’s Top 10 weekly streaming rankings for originals. Despite the initial online buzz, it didn’t translate into enough viewers, leading to the show’s quiet exit.

In my opinion, insufficient marketing and the overshadowing by other, more heavily promoted series prevented My Lady Jane from reaching the wider audience it deserved, ultimately contributing to its untimely cancellation. It’s a real shame, because this show had all the elements of a hit: humor, heart, and a unique blend of magic. From the clever reimagining of history to the standout performances, My Lady Jane was special in many ways. For those who did find it, My Lady Jane remains a gem—one that will be missed but fondly remembered.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Let's talk about Hound Dog

With the upcoming release of the movie Priscilla, it seems that there are tons of trolls out and about on Tumblr trying to inundate the #Elvis tag with lies and misinformation about Elvis.

Like, for one, that he stole music from black recording artists. One of the most pervasive--and incorrect--rumors specifically revolves around the song "Hound Dog."

People say that Elvis stole the song from Big Mama Thornton, a talented (and black) rhythm and blues singer/songwriter.

But what if I told you that "Hound Dog" was written by two Jewish guys?

And that Elvis' rendition was not based on Big Mama Thornton's 1952 version, but rather on Freddie Bell & the Bellboys 1955 version?

First, let's talk about how the song came to be in the first place.

In 1952, bandleader Johnny Otis introduced Willie Mae "Big Mama" Thornton to songwriters Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, who were inspired by her powerful and gritty blues style to write the song. Characterized by its bold lyrics and Thornton’s robust delivery, the song told the story of a woman dismissing a useless man from her life, with the iconic opening line serving as a euphemism for a man who is a burden rather than a benefit ("You ain't nothing but a hound dog/Been snoopin' 'round my door/You can wag your tail/But I ain't gon' feed you no more").

The writing process was influenced by both Thornton's imposing physical presence and vocal style and sought to capture her fierce and unapologetic personality without using explicit language.

And quite frankly, the song is kick ass. Have a listen here:

It was written for a woman to vocally chastise her selfish and exploitative man, making use of metaphor and sexual double entendre common in the bawdy genre, and effectively embodied Willie Mae "Big Mama" Thornton's robust and unapologetic persona.

In a stroke of genius, Leiber and Stoller crafted the iconic piece in just 12 to 15 minutes, with Leiber jotting down the lyrics spontaneously during a car ride. The process involved a challenging rhyme scheme and a complex metric structure of the music. In addition to the original version, they also created an alternate version titled "Tom Cat," adding diversity to Thornton's musical repertoire.

Thornton’s rendition of "Hound Dog" played a pivotal role in transitioning black R&B into rock music and symbolized the blending of racial lines in music ahead of legal desegregation in public schools. Initially, Thornton performed the song as a ballad, but Leiber and Stoller, who held her version as their favorite, guided her to the more rhythmic and edgy style that became iconic. New York University music professor Maureen Mahon highlights the significance of Thornton's version as "an important [part of the] beginning of rock-and-roll, especially in its use of the guitar as the key instrument."

Many assert that Elvis was the first to cover her song, but that is untrue. By the end of 1953, at least six "answer songs" that responded to 'Big Mama' Thornton's original version were released. According to Peacock Records' Don Robey (who, it would come to be known, defrauded Leiber, Stoller, and Big Mama Thornton out of money for "Hound Dog"), these songs were "bastardizations" of the original and reduced its sales potential.

By 1955, enter Freddie Bell and the Bellboys.

In 1955, Bernie Lowe of Teen Records believed "Hound Dog" could have a broader appeal and commissioned Freddie Bell of Freddie Bell and the Bellboys to rewrite and sanitize the song for mainstream audiences.

Jerry Leiber found these alterations irritating, criticizing the new lyrics for making "no sense", even though the modified version became a regular feature in Bell and the Bellboys’ Las Vegas act.

You can listen to their version here. Sound familiar?

Finally, we come to Elvis.

In 1956, Presley and his band first heard "Hound Dog" while they were in Las Vegas, where they were booked to perform at the Venus Room of the New Frontier Hotel and Casino. During their stay from April 23 to May 6 of that year, they encountered the song at the Sands Casino, where Freddie Bell and the Bellboys were performing their sanitized version of the tune, having transformed it from a racy song about a disappointing lover into a song literally about a dog.

Elvis Presley was instantly captivated by the song. Its catchy melody and lyrics had him returning to the performance multiple times to grasp its chords and lyrics fully. Scotty Moore, Presley's guitarist, and D.J. Fontana, his drummer, corroborated that Elvis was heavily influenced by the Bellboys’ version of the song. Presley, although acquainted with Big Mama Thornton's original bluesy version, was more drawn to the Bellboys' rock and roll, more comedic rendition.

Soon after, Presley introduced "Hound Dog" to his own live performances, first showcasing it at the New Frontier Hotel in Las Vegas. Initially, his execution of the song bore a more measured pace and almost burlesque feel, influenced directly by the Bellboys’ comical, Las Vegas-style performance.

At around 1:30 in the video below, you can see and hear the slowed-down version as Elvis might have performed it in Las Vegas.

It was not long before the song became a staple in Presley’s performances, and a twangy guitar and a hard-driving rock and roll beat were added, making its debut as the closing number at the Ellis Auditorium in Memphis on May 15, 1956. The audience of 7,000 at the Memphis Cotton Festival witnessed the inception of what would become a classic element in Presley’s shows, enduring for a time as his standard closer.

Elvis Presley’s version of "Hound Dog" is not considered a direct lift of Thornton’s original, but rather an adaptation of a song that had not reached the status of a "standard" in the music industry. Presley encountered the song through the Bellboys’ version, which was itself one of a number of covers of the original. Furthermore, respected music analysts and critics, including George Plasketes and Michael Coyle, emphasize that most of the audience in Presley's era were not familiar with Thornton's 1953 original recording, and thus, Presley's version cannot be perceived as a theft or usurpation.

Moreover, it is essential to highlight that Presley held a deep respect for Thornton’s original version and even had a copy in his personal record collection, indicating an acknowledgment of the song's origins.

Presley's rendition of "Hound Dog," influential as it became, was part of the broader practice of artists adapting and interpreting songs to suit different styles and audiences. Presley's had often recounted his admiration for other renditions and related songs--and often rebuked the notion that he was the King of Rock and Roll, instead preferring to refer to Fats Domino with the title.

Contrary to persistent stereotypes suggesting Elvis Presley claimed sole credit for the rise of rock and roll, the singer himself acknowledged the black community’s paramount contribution to the genre. In a 1957 interview with Jet magazine, Presley openly dismissed the notion of being the originator of the genre.

In the interview, he expressed his admiration for black musicians, conceding that his own renditions could not match the authenticity and soul of artists like Fats Domino. Elvis cited his childhood experiences attending black churches, such as Rev. Brewster’s church in Memphis, as instrumental in fostering his love for the music that would later define his career. Through such statements, Elvis sought to underscore the black community's foundational role in shaping rock and roll.

His open admiration for and familiarity with black music and black artists proved that his interpretation of "Hound Dog" was not an act of appropriation, but rather a contribution to the evolving landscape of rock and roll.

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … November 17

Andrea Doria as Neptune 

1503 – Agnolo Bronzino (d.1572) was one of the leading painters of the Florentine School in mid-sixteenth-century Italy. He eventually became court painter to Cosimo de Medici. Born in Monticelli in 1503, Bronzino studied with mannerist painter and portraitist Jacopo Pontormo (1494-1557).

Most scholars conclude, based on a series of sonnets Bronzino wrote upon Pontormo's death, that the two men enjoyed a more intimate relationship than that of master and pupil. Later in his life, in 1552, Bronzino also adopted one of his own pupils, Alessandro Allori (1535-1607), as his son. In sixteenth-century Florence, this type of arrangement often signaled a sexual relationship between two men; an older man adopting his younger lover was quite common. The two artists lived together until Bronzino's death in 1572.

Famous mainly for his portraits, Bronzino also painted biblical and mythological scenes, designed tapestries and frescos, and composed poetry. While some of Bronzino's poetry consists of rather conventional lyric verse, as well as the sonnets upon Pontormo's death, he also wrote a considerable body of burlesque verse. Often obscene and erotic, burlesque verse circulated among Florentine intellectual and aristocratic circles, whose members would have detected obscure allusions and subtexts beneath the bawdy wordplay. Bronzino's burlesque poetry is distinguished by its large number of homoerotic references and allusions.

Cosimo I de' Medici as St. Sebastian

There is an undeniable homoerotic subtext to several of Bronzino's famous portraits, including Andrea Doria as Neptune (ca 1545) and Cosimo I de' Medici as St. Sebastian (ca 1538-1540).

In both his writing and painting, Bronzino contributes significant insights into same-sex desire and relationships in sixteenth-century Florentine society.

1851 – Major Lord Henry Arthur Somerset (d.1926) was the third son of the 8th Duke of Beaufort and his wife, the former Lady Georgiana Curzon. He was head of the stables of the future King Edward VII (then Prince of Wales) and a Major in the Royal Horse Guards.

He was linked with the Cleveland Street scandal, wherein he was identified and named by several male prostitutes as a customer of their services. He was interviewed by police on 7 August 1889; although the record of the interview has not survived, it resulted in a report being made by the Attorney-General, Solicitor-General and Director of Prosecutions urging that proceedings should be taken against him under section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885. A piece of paper was pasted over Somerset's name in the report, as it was deemed so sensitive.

However, the Director was told that the Home Secretary wished him to take no action for the moment. The police obtained a further statement implicating Somerset, while Somerset arranged for his solicitor to act in the defence of the boys arrested over the scandal. After the police saw him for a second time on 22 August, Somerset obtained leave from his regiment and permission to go abroad.

Lord Arthur went to Homburg, although he returned to England. When tipped off in September that charges were imminent, he fled to France to avoid them. From there he travelled through Constantinople, Budapest, Vienna, and then back to France, where he settled and died in 1926, aged 74.

1854 – Louis-Hubert Lyautey (d.1934) was a French Army general and colonial administrator. After serving in Indochina and Madagascar, he became the first French Resident-General in Morocco from 1912 to 1925. Early in 1917 he served briefly as Minister of War. From 1921 he was a Marshal of France. He was dubbed the Maker of Morocco and the French empire builder, and in 1931 made the cover of Time.

Lyautey was born in Nancy, capital of Lorraine. His father was a prosperous engineer, his grandfather a highly decorated Napoleonic general. His mother was a Norman aristocrat, and Lyautey inherited many of her assumptions: monarchism, patriotism, Catholicism and belief in the moral and political importance of the elite.

As Resident-General of Morocco from 1912 he was publicly deferential to the sultan and told his men not to treat the Moroccans as a conquered people. It was he who governed Morocco for the French, developed its economy, extended its borders, and pacified native resistance. During WWI, even with diminished troops, Lyautey maintained an iron rule over this French protectorate.

During his administration, inadvertently, perhaps, Morocco became a place of refuge for homosexuals from all over Europe who came to sample the delights of the native population. Lyautey is one of the many real life homosexuals who people��Roger Peyrefitte’s novel, The Exile of Capri.

1887 – Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery, 1st Viscount Montgomery of Alamein, KG, GCB, DSO, PC (d.1976). Often referred to as "Monty", he was an Anglo-Irish British Army officer who successfully commanded Allied forces at the Battle of El Alamein, a major turning point in the Western Desert Campaign during World War II, and troops under his command played a major role in the expulsion of Axis forces from North Africa. He was later a prominent commander in Italy and North-West Europe, where he was in command of all Allied ground forces during Operation Overlord until after the Battle of Normandy.

After retirement the outspoken views of the best known general of the Second World War became public and his reputation suffered. He supported apartheid and Chinese communism under Mao Zedong, and spoke against the legalisation of homosexuality in the United Kingdom, arguing that the Sexual Offences Act 1967 was a "charter for buggery" and that "this sort of thing may be tolerated by the French, but we're British - thank God."

However, several of Montgomery's biographers, including Chalfont (who found something "disturbingly equivocal" in "his relations with boys and young men" and Nigel Hamilton have suggested that he may himself have been a repressed homosexual, that he had a "predilection for the company of young men" and enjoyed platonic love affairs; in the late 1940s he conducted an affectionate friendship with a 12-year-old Swiss boy. One biographer called the friendship "bizarre" although not "improper" and a sign of "pitiful loneliness."

1889 – The New York Times published a report on the "Cleveland Street Scandal," a case involving a house of male prostitutes and members of British nobility.

The Cleveland Street scandal occurred when a homosexual male brothel in Cleveland Street, Fitzrovia, London, was discovered by police. At the time, sexual acts between men were illegal in Britain, and the brothel's clients faced possible prosecution and certain social ostracism if discovered. It was rumoured that one of the brothel's clients was Prince Albert Victor, who was the eldest son of the Prince of Wales and second-in-line to the British throne. The government was accused of covering up the scandal to protect the names of any aristocratic patrons.

One of the clients, Lord Arthur Somerset, was an equerry to the Prince of Wales. He and the brothel keeper, Charles Hammond, managed to flee abroad before a prosecution could be brought. The male prostitutes, who also worked as telegraph messenger boys for the Post Office, were given light sentences and no clients were prosecuted. After Henry James FitzRoy, Earl of Euston, was named in the press as a client, he successfully sued for libel. The British press never named Prince Albert Victor, and there is no evidence he ever visited the brothel, but his inclusion in the rumours has coloured biographers' perceptions of him since.

The scandal fuelled the attitude that male homosexuality was an aristocratic vice that corrupted lower-class youths. Such perceptions were still prevalent in 1895 when the Marquess of Queensberry accused Oscar Wilde of being an active homosexual. Wilde sued Queensberry for libel but his case collapsed. He was arrested, found guilty of indecency, and condemned to two years' hard labour.

1925 – Rock Hudson (d.1985) was a popular American film and television actor, noted for his stunning looks and most remembered as a romantic leading man during the 1950s and 1960s. Hudson was voted Star of the Year, Favorite Leading Man, or any number of similar titles by countless movie magazines, and was unquestionably one of the most popular and well-known movie stars of the time. He completed nearly seventy motion pictures and starred in several television productions during a career that spanned over three decades.

Hudson was born Leroy Harold Scherer Jr. in Winnetka, Illinois, the son of a telephone operator, and an auto mechanic who abandoned the family during the depths of the Great Depression, in the early 1930s. His mother remarried and his stepfather adopted him, changing his last name to Fitzgerald.

After graduating from high school, he served in the Philippines as an aircraft mechanic for the Navy during WW II. In 1946 he moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career and applied to the University of Southern California's dramatics program, but was rejected due to poor grades. Among a number of odd jobs, he worked as a truck driver for a couple of years to support himself, longing to be an actor but with no success in breaking into the movies. A fortunate meeting with powerful - and gay - Hollywood talent scout Henry Willson in 1948 got Hudson his start in the business - and Willson renamed him "Rock Hudson."

Neither a gifted nor a natural actor, he was neverthless blessed with enormous charm and with time proved to have a flair for comedy and was capable of strong and memorable performances in drama. He was coached in acting, singing, dancing, fencing and horsebackriding, and he began to feature in film magazines where he was promoted on the basis of his good looks. Success and recognition came in 1954 with Magnificent Obsession in which Hudson plays a bad boy who is redeemed. The film received rave reviews, with Modern Screen Magazine citing Hudson as the most popular actor of the year.

Hudson's popularity soared in George Stevens' Giant, based on Edna Ferber's novel. Co-starring Elizabeth Taylor and James Dean, and as a result of their powerful performances both Hudson and Dean were nominated for Best Actor at the Oscars.

Following Richard Brook's notable Something of Value in 1957 and a moving performance in Charles Vidor's A Farewell to Arms, based on Ernest Hemingway's novel, Hudson sailed through the 1960s on a cloud of romantic comedies. He portrayed humorous characters in Pillow Talk, the first of several profitable co-starring gigs with Doris Day; followed by Come September; Send Me No Flowers; Man's Favourite Sport, with Paula Prentiss, and Strange Bedfellows, with Gina Lollobrigida.

His popularity on the big screen diminished in the 1970s. He performed in a 13-city US tour of the musical Camelot. He was quite successful on television starring in a number of made-for-TV movies. His most successful series was McMillan and Wife opposite Susan Saint James from 1971 to 1977.

Following years of heavy drinking and smoking, by the early 1980s, Hudson began having health problems. Heart bypass surgery sidelined Hudson and his then-new TV show, The Devlin Connection, for a year; the show suffered for the delay and was cancelled not long after it returned to the airwaves. He recovered from the surgery, but a couple of years later Hudson's health had visibly deteriorated again, prompting different rumours.

In 1984 and 1985 Hudson landed a recurring role in Dynasty. While his inability to memorise dialogue was the stuff of legend, now he was exhibiting all the signs of a man in serious trouble. The need for cue cards was one thing, but when his speech began to deteriorate, everybody knew the least of Hudson's problems was simple forgetfulness. The word cancer was tossed around, but the phrase 'gay cancer' was not mentioned- not, at least, by those who had something to lose. Not yet.

While Hudson's career was blooming, he was struggling to keep his personal life out of the headlines, although the Hollywood media was complicit in concealing his homosexuality from the general public. Throughout his career, he epitomised an ideal of wholesome manliness, and in 1955 he wed Willson's secretary at the time, Phyllis Gates, and the news was made known by all the major gossip magazines. The union lasted three years. Gates filed for divorce in April 1958, charging mental cruelty; Hudson did not contest the divorce. Loyal friends and the now-unimaginable support of the media kept Hudson successfully in the closet to all but those 'in the know' until the 1980s.

According to the 1986 biography Rock Hudson: His Story by Hudson and Sara Davidson, Hudson was good friends with American novelist Armistead Maupin, and Hudson's lovers included: Jack Coates (born 1944); Hollywood publicist Tom Clark (1933-1995), who also later published a memoir about Hudson, Rock Hudson: Friend of Mine; and Marc Christian, who later won a palimony suit against the Hudson estate. In addition, Darwin Porter's book, Brando Unzipped (2006) claims that Hudson had an affair with Brando. Hudson was also a close friend of Burt Lancaster, who was reportedly bisexual, and Lancaster's FBI file suggested the two stars had attended Gay parties in Hollywood together.

An urban legend states that Hudson married Jim Nabors in the 1970s. In fact the two were never more than friends. According to Hudson, the legend originated with a group of "middle-aged homosexuals who live in Huntington Beach" who sent out joke invitations for their annual get-together. One year, the group invited its members to witness "the marriage of Rock Hudson and Jim Nabors", at which Hudson would take the surname of Nabors's most famous character, Gomer Pyle, becoming "Rock Pyle". Those who failed to get the joke spread the rumor. As a result, Nabors and Hudson never spoke to each other again.

In 1985, Hudson joined his old friend Doris Day for the launch of her new cable show, Doris Day's Best Friends. His shockingly gaunt appearance, and his nearly-incoherent speech, was so shocking that it was broadcast again all over the national news shows that night and for weeks to come. Doris Day herself stared at him throughout their appearance together.

Hudson was diagnosed with HIV on June 5, 1984, but when the signs of illness became apparent, his publicity staff and doctors told the public that he had liver cancer. It was not until July 25, 1985, while in Paris for treatment, that Hudson issued a press release announcing that he was dying of Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome. This had an enormous impact as he was the not only the first major celebrity to come out with the disease but because most of his army of fans still had no idea that Rock Hudson was gay.

Shortly before his death Hudson stated, 'I am not happy that I am sick. I am not happy that I have AIDS. But if that is helping others, I can at least know that my own misfortune has had some positive worth.' Hudson's death is said to have pushed his long time friend and then Republican President Ronald Reagan to change his tune on efforts to fight and publicise the epidemic. Rock Hudson's death from AIDS was a highly significant and tragic milestone in bringing the disease to a wider public consciousness.

Rock Hudson was cremated and his ashes buried at sea.

1960 – RuPaul Charles, best known as simply RuPaul, is an American actor, drag queen, model, author, and singer-songwriter, who first became widely known in the 1990s when he appeared in a wide variety of television programs, films, and musical albums. Previously, he was a fixture on the Atlanta and New York City club scenes during the 1980s and early 90s. RuPaul has on occasion performed as a man in a number of roles, usually billed as RuPaul Charles. RuPaul is noted among famous drag queens for his indifference towards the gender-specific pronouns used to address him—both "he" and "she" have been deemed acceptable. "You can call me he. You can call me she. You can call me Regis and Kathie Lee; I don't care! Just as long as you call me." He hosted a short-running talk show on VH1, and currently hosts reality television shows called RuPaul's Drag Race and RuPaul's Drag U.

RuPaul was born in San Diego, California. His name was given to him by his mother, a Louisiana native. The Ru came from roux, an ingredient used in gumbo. RuPaul struggled as a musician and filmmaker in Atlanta, Georgia during the 1980s. He participated in underground cinema, helping create the low-budget film Starrbooty, and an album by the same name. In Atlanta, RuPaul often performed at the Celebrity Club (managed by Larry Tee) as a bar dancer or with his band, Wee Wee Pole, which included the late Todd Butler.

In the early 1990s, RuPaul worked the Georgia club scene and was known by his full birth name. Initially participating in genderfuck-style performances, RuPaul performed solo and in collaboration with other bands at several New York nightclubs, most notably the Pyramid Club. He appeared for many years at the annual Wigstock drag festival and appeared in the documentary Wigstock: The Movie. In the '90s, RuPaul was known in the UK for his appearances on the Channel 4 series Manhattan Cable, a weekly series produced by World of Wonder and presented by American Laurie Pike about New York's wild and wacky public-access television system.

RuPaul is credited with the statement "We're born naked, and the rest is all drag."

Rock Hudson - A Personal Encounter:

By Ted

Back in 1966, on my way to Canada, I had a brief brush with Rock Hudson.

I came to North America by ship from Fremantle, Australia, via the far east, and on the leg from Japan to North America, my friends and I, all travelling second-class, met up with a wealthy American travelling in first class. My friends were a couple of lesbian Australian nurses, and Joe, my cabin-mate, a straight Swiss guy. We were all about 25 at the time. The wealthy American, Lloyd, was a short chubby guy in his sixties. In retrospect, I think he looked a lot like Artie Johnson. He was very ostentatious, and seemed to have a never-ending wardrobe of clothes and of jewellry— neck-chains, rings, bracelets, and watches. He claimed to be a millionaire, and Pat Boone's boyfriend. The very idea was rather shocking to us small-town folk. The way he told it, he had been to Japan for Pat Boone's tour there, but Lloyd hated flying, so was travelling by ship instead while Pat flew home. At the time, Pat Boone was separated from his wife, and had not yet become "born again."

The reason Lloyd was associating with us obvious, though unstated — my cabin-mate Joe was a hottie! He was also absolutely straight, but Lloyd hoped to change that. He would buy us drinks to get us to leave him alone with Joe. He even gave the girls some expensive jewellry to get rid of them. He never really got anywhere with Joe, however.

Anyway, our landfall was in San Pedro, south of Los Angeles, before sailing north to San Francisco and Vancouver. When the American - from L.A. - was leaving ship, he invited us the a "welcome-home" party the next night. He said he would send a car for us. We never really thought he would do it, but the next evening we got a message from the purser's office that a car would be waiting for us at the foot of the gangplank at 8:00 that night. Sure enough, there was not just a car, but a limosine waiting for us. Imagine four young people from the boonies riding in a limousine into one of the poshest areas of Los Angeles (I'm not sure if it was Beverly Hills, or Hollywood Hills, but it was very posh and in the hills on the outskirts of LA)!

I'm not really sure who the "welcome home" was for — Lloyd or Pat Boone. If it was for Boone, he never showed at the party, at least while we were there. Nor was I sure just whose home it was held at. All I remember was that it was a huge ranch-style with an immense patio and pool at the rear. It was around this pool that the party was being held, on a warm, late-June evening. I got the impression that the house was not Lloyd's, although he treated it as if it were. I think it actually belonged to Robert Wagner or Natalie Wood, both of whom were present, although they were not married to each other at the time. They were actually between marriages to each other.

Lloyd greeted us then left the girls and I at the pool to fend for ourselves, while he hustled Joe off to the interior of the house - probably to a bedroom. There were maybe 60 people at the party when we arrived around nine pm. Most of them were males, mostly has-been movie or tv actors or wanna-be's and agents. I really don't remember most of them. I do recall Mickey Rooney being present. I remember him as a nasty little man who was absolutely rude to almost everyone, even though people were trying their hardest to be nice to him, because his estranged wife had been murdered earlier that year. It completely destoyed my pleasant memories of him as Andy Hardy on The Hardy Family radio show of my childhood.

Most of the guests were rather condescending to us small-town hicks with out "adorable accents." I remember Peter Graves (who had starred in a Australian TV "western" a few years before) being particularly snide - maybe because his Aussie western was a major flop.

This was where I had my brief brush with Rock Hudson. He arrived later than us, and made his way round the pool saying hi to everyone, including the girls and I. Unlike many of the guests he was really pleasant to us. After chatting to us for a couple of minutes he moved on, with another tall, fairly good-looking man in tow. One of the other guests told us that the second man was Rock Hudson's boyfriend. He mentioned the man's name, but I didn't recognize the name then, and don't remember it now. It may have been Jim Nabors, but I really don't know.

Around eleven pm, the party got nasty when a fight broke out. I don't know who started it or what it was about, but I know it somehow involved Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner. Someone ended up in the pool fully-dressed. Someone else got a bloody nose. A table of glasses got smashed, and so did a sliding glass door, and someone got badly cut. An ambulance was called and so were the police.

At about the same time, Joe and Lloyd emerged from the house, both looking rather pissed off. Lloyd rather brusquely informed the four of us: "The police are on the way. You'd better go!" He promptly left us standing there, having made no offer of a ride back to the ship or anything. We made our way to the front of the house, rather obviously at a loss. Someone who was leaving at that time offered us a ride back to Los Angeles, which we gladly accepted, because a taxi back to the ship would have been beyond our means, and a couple of squad cars were just arriving.

So, our night of glamour turned into a long wait at the seedy downtown L.A. bus depot, a long ride back to San Pedro on the last bus of the night, and a long walk from the San Pedro drop-off to the ship, past all the little late-night bars with drunk chicanos whistling at the girls – and me and Joe.

Joe never did talk about what happened with Lloyd, but from Lloyd's reaction I presume Lloyd never managed to get into Joe's pants — but then, neither did I, and I spent 9 weeks, on and off ship, trying!

[hislittleraincloud]

Afterburn Status Update

It's fucking hot in here and I can't sleep/write/do anything but stare at the wall after that spider attack (LOL) so perhaps for the 2 people who are interested:

Yes, still working on the last chapter of Satisfying Afterburn. Made some decent progress now, after my dog passed and there's no more having to take care of him 24/7. This whole damn year, coupled with the shit with the neighbor bullshit really fucked with my creative output. But it will be finished before year's end, I believe (and I know when I want to release Part 1, but I DON'T WANT TO JINX IT so I'm telling no one until all of the scenes are placed). I'll be messing with the soundtrack, because I think I've decided on a new song for one of the more important Wenovan scenes (and I need to add in Thing's Wake song and the Britney Spears one).

But as I mentioned in said aforementioned spider attack post, I'm already working on a soundtrack for Afterburn 2. I told one fic wife that I think 2 will have a lot more world building in it, as well as history re: the outcasts in Jericho/Goody Addams/Joe Crackstone. It will be very, very Nightshades heavy. Both the newbs (Wednesday & Co.) and the olds (Morticia & Co.). I fucking love Chancellor...but I also love Xavier's father, Vincent Thorpe. Both older men will be involved with AB Wednesday in their own capacity. No, it's not that...girl is super faithful to Donovan.

I had already planned to bring Pugsley and Morticia to Jericho pre-all of the W2 leaks/filming commencement, so AB Pugsley will be attending Nevermore...with Wednesday Jr. 🐕🐾 But ABW is going to absolutely despise what occurs with Morticia. Clash of the fucking Titans there 💀

Not sure what else I am willing to say, other than there will be distasteful shit in here again, but nothing to do with sex (but there will be a fair share of smut in there too): It's the Goodmen parts that will make people uncomfortable. My readers will have to remember that these are characters, some based on or patched together from real people; real racists, real bigots, real Trump Loyalists pieces of work. And in some places I will want to illustrate how disgusting these types of people are. Some of the whole cultist bigotry thing will be addressed with Gideon and Morningsong, but the worst of it will be with the Goodmen bunch and the Breeding brothers.

Sounds like a lot of heavy stuff to cover, but I'll be sure to keep the humor in there too. Maybe some soft serve for the fic wifey.

Aight, that was squick.

Maybe more squick. Or more bawdy stuff, like the Carnivorous Plants class scene.

I guess we'll see, won't we. 👹🖤💙🕸️🚔

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Baptist preacher here. If you are interested in my thoughts on mocking God...well, I can probably offer some more interesting reading suggestions than anything I will say. [.... ] But here goes.

1. People do not need to defend God. People do often feel the need to defend the religious practices they have centered - and the ways they have chosen to behave because of what they believe to be true about God. But that is not the same thing as defending God. The accusation that one is mocking God begs questions about what precisely the accuser is defending.

2. Treating an Italian painting of white Jesus as sacrosanct is most certainly honoring something that is not God. The accusation that one is mocking God begs questions about what exactly the accuser is honoring.

3. A depiction of Jesus welcoming table guests that others shun is Biblical. The accusation that one is mocking God begs questions about which Gospels the accuser is reading.

4. "Mocking God" is a mean-spirited critique. The accusation that one is mocking God begs questions about the intention of the accuser.

But more than any of this: the fact that American Christians so wildly missed the celebration of the Greek gods is stunningly and embarrassingly a result of the anti-intellectual tragedy into which the far right has invited evangelical Christians.

Listen. There is no shame in not already knowing something. It is ok to not readily recognize the Feast of DIONYSOS (Dionysus). I have to look up how to spell it every time I write it.

But the Greek gods are at the heart of the history of the Olympics.

And the opening Ceremony in Paris was about things deeply rooted in French culture and in Olympic history.

Artwork from the Louvre was highlighted.

And though there are depictions of the last supper in the Louvre, the particular painting in question is not at the Louvre because it is in a church in Italy. It has nothing to do with France-or the Olympics and it would have been wildly off topic.

It makes much more sense for the bawdy scene in question to be a depiction of the Feast of DIONYSOS (Dionysus).

I hope you will stop spending energy being angry about the opening ceremony mocking God.

And.

There are things that dishonor God.

Policies that make it harder for children to eat dishonor God.

Policies that strip dignity and self-determination from those whose realities you do not understand dishonor God.

The dismantling of public education dishonors God.

Racial injustice dishonors God.

Centering heteronormative relationships dishonors God.

Championing women who are able to birth live children as virtuous or honorable dishonors God.

Using tricky words to herald a society where freedoms and safety-nets are taken away in the name of some false nobility of suffering dishonors God.

Lying dishonors God.

Cheating on your partner dishonors God.

Destroying ecosystems dishonors God.

Filling the oceans with plastic dishonors God.

Hoarding wealth dishonors God.

Choose, then, whom you will serve.

[Mary Elizabeth Hanchey - Preacher, Author]