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homomenhommes · 2 months

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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 … March 11

222 AD – Heliogabalus aka Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Roman Emperor, Died (b. c.203 AD); Heliogabalis, also known as Elagabalus, the boy emperor of Rome, appears to have been a total madcap, if not completely mad. His great love of swishing ceremony can only be suggested in the space available here.

Since even madcap Gay Roman emperors were expected to produce an heir, a suitable bride was chosen for him, and he went through with the motions of consummation, finding it all rather futile. But he was impressed with the ceremony itself and later went through it twice in one night, choosing as his "husband" a well-hung charioteer named Gorianus, and as his "wife" a boy named Hierocles. His wedding night with both was consummated in full public view. The Augustan History claims that he also married a man named Zoticus, an athlete from Smyrna, in a public ceremony at Rome. He lavished favours on courtiers popularly assumed to have been his homosexual lovers.

Cassius Dio reported Elagabalus would paint his eyes, epilate his hair and wear wigs before prostituting himself in taverns and brothels, and even the imperial palace:

Finally, he set aside a room in the palace and there committed his indecencies, always standing nude at the door of the room, as the harlots do, and shaking the curtain which hung from gold rings, while in a soft and melting voice he solicited the passers-by.

Herodian commented that Elagabalus pampered his natural good looks by wearing too much make-up. He was described as having been "delighted to be called the mistress, the wife, the Queen of Hierocles" and was said to have offered vast sums of money to the physician who could equip him with female genitalia. Subsequently, Elagabalus has often been characterized by modern writers as transgender, most likely transsexual.

He had the makings of a great theatrical producer and virtually invented the casting call by sending out his agents to round up for audition the men with the largest penises in the Roman empire. Eventually his enemies dispatched him with a sword up his bum and dumped his body in the sewer. He was just 18.

1544 – Italian poet Torquato Tasso was born on this date (d. 1595). Best known for his poem La Gerusalemme Liberata (Jerusalem Delivered) (1580), in which he depicts a highly imaginative version of the combats between Christians and Muslims at the end of the First Crusade, during the siege of Jerusalem. He died a few days before he was due to be crowned as the "king of poets" by the Pope. Until the beginning of the 19th century, Tasso remained one of the most widely read poets in Europe.

In the autumn of 1576 Tasso quarrelled with a Ferrarese gentleman, Maddalo, who had talked too freely about a same-sex love affair; the same year he wrote a letter to his homosexual friend Luca Scalabrino dealing with his own love for a 21-year-old young man Orazio Ariosto.

His poems barely hint at his homosexuality but his letters written to one Luca Scalabrino are very plain about his love of men. Here's a taste from the translated letters by Jill Claretta Robbins in the Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature:"You Lordship, in your last letter you ask forgiveness of me for not having revealed your sexual desire for me; and in your other ones that you wrote to me before, you have always shown that you believe that I am scornful of you, because you have not revealed to me this carnal desire of yours, and you express a very good reason for your secrecy and silence used with me....speak no longer of these things....In sum, I am all yours."

He suffered from what was most-likely schizophrenia, and spent several years in a madhouse. He died at age 51, having created his best work before he was 30.

1778 – Lt. Gotthold Enslin is the first recorded U.S. soldier to be dismissed for homosexuality.

1938 – Hans-Joachim Müller, born in Bitterfeld, Germany, is a German historian who specializes in the academic analysis of the persecution of homosexual men during the Nazi era.

Little is known about Müller's career. In 1959 he moved to West Berlin, studied in the Federal Republic and returned to West Berlin with the "teaching qualification for the intermediate level".

Later he belonged to the "Homosexuality Discussion Group" of the Protestant Church in Berlin-Brandenburg , in which persecution under National Socialism, not only of homosexuals, was an important topic.

Since 1984 he has been committed to the recognition of homosexual men as victims of National Socialism. During this time he began researching the history of gay men in sub-camp brickworks .He made his long-term research on the history of the previously taboo group of victims of homosexual men in Sachsenhausen concentration camp public for the first time in 1992.

He was one of the initiators of the first memorial event for homosexual prisoners at the Sachsenhausen Memorial. Joachim Müller worked at the Schwules Museum in Berlin and was a member of the international advisory board of the Brandenburg Memorials Foundation from 1993 to 2001 . At the suggestion of the Foundation, he was awarded the Cross of Merit 1st Class of the Federal Republic of Germany for his services on April 5, 2013.

1963 – David LaChapelle is a photographer and director who works in the fields of fashion, advertising, and fine art photography, and is noted for his surreal and often humorous style.

David LaChapelle was born in Fairfield, Connecticut and lived there until he was nine years old. Then he moved to North Carolina with his family, where they lived until he was fourteen. He was bullied in his North Carolina school for being gay. When he was 15 years old, he ran away from home to become a busboy at Studio 54 in New York City. Eventually he returned to North Carolina to enroll in the North Carolina School of Arts.When LaChapelle was 17 years old, he met Andy Warhol, who offered him his first job as a photographer at Interview magazine. Warhol reportedly told LaChapelle "Do whatever you want. Just make sure everybody looks good." His photographs of celebrities in Interview garnered positive attention, and before long he was shooting for a variety of top editorial publications. LaChapelle's friends during this period included Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat.

LaChapelle has four published books of his photographs, Heaven to Hell and Artists and Prostitutes (2006), LaChapelle Land (1996) and Hotel LaChapelle (1999 featuring his vivid and sometimes bizarre portraits.

"Kissing Sailors" - Diesel Ad

In 1995 David LaChapelle shot the famous 'kissing sailors' advertisement for Diesel. It was staged at the peace celebration of World War II and became one of the first public advertisements showing a homosexual couple kissing. Much of its controversy was due it being published at height of the Don't ask, Don't tell debates in USA, which had led to the U.S. Government to bar openly gay, lesbian, or bisexual persons from military service. On a CNN interview LaChapelle admitted to being a gay escort at the age of 18.

LaChappele's gay "Last Supper"

LaChapelle directed singer Elton John's show, The Red Piano at Las Vegas' Caesars Palace, which premiered in 2004. The show features extensive use of video technology on an LED screen backing the show that, when built, was promoted as the largest and brightest of all time. Several of John's songs during the performance are accompanied by short films by LaChapelle.

He has directed advertisements for major stores. In 2006 he directed 'Romeo and Juliet', a 5 minute long commercial for H&M's new denim brand and 'Tis the Season to be Gorgeous', a humorous Christmas commercial for UK retailer Boots showing very glamourous self-indulgent women doing relatively mundane Christmas tasks. Also in the UK, he directed the surreal Lost trailers for Channel 4, which show the cast dancing in 1920s costume amongst the burning wreckage on the beach.

His directing work includes music videos for many artists. In 2006 LaChapelle was presented with the GLAAD Vito Russo Award for outstanding contributions toward eliminating homophobia

Then in 2006, the already established LaChapelle abruptly quit the scene. He moved to a "...very isolated part of Hawaii in this forest. It's off the grid, bio-diesel cars, solar-powered, growing our own food, completely sustainable. I thought 'OK, I'm a farmer now.'" LaChapelle's change in path eventually brought him back to his roots. While in Hawaii, a longstanding colleague invited him to shoot for a gallery, which he hadn't done since his days as a fledgling photographer in New York. "I was really shocked", LaChapelle recalled. "I'm so known as a commercial artist, a big name as a fashion and celebrity photographer, I didn't think a gallery will take me seriously. It's like being reborn; it's like rebirth; it's like starting over. It's back to where I started, where I very first started in galleries when I was a kid. It's just come full circle."

1967 – Today is the birthday of Scottish singer, actor, and activist John Barrowman. Best known for his role as Captain Jack Harkness in the science fiction series Doctor Who and Torchwood. Born in Glasgow, Scotland, Barrowman and his family emigrated to the U.S. when he was nine. Growing up in the state of Illinois, his high school teachers encouraged his love for music and theatre and he studied performing arts at the United States International University in San Diego before visiting the United Kingdom and landing the role of Billy Crocker in Cole Porter's Anything Goes in London's West End.

In addition to appearing in several films and television series, Barrowman has featured on more than a dozen musical theatre recordings including cover tunes found on the certified gold album Another Side (2007), Music Music Music (2008), the second Top 40 album by Barrowman to reach the UK albums and singles charts, and his self-titled release John Barrowman (2010), the highest chart rating of any of Barrowman's albums to date.

Barrowman met his partner Scott Gill in 1993 and in 2005 they registered as civil partners under British law. They do not call their relationship a marriage: "We're just going to sign the civil register. We're not going to have any ceremony because I'm not a supporter of the word marriage for a Gay partnership." Barrowman explained later: "Why would I want a 'marriage' from a belief system that hates me?" A small ceremony was held in Cardiff with friends and family, with the cast of Torchwood and executive producer Russell T Davies as guests. The pair were legally married in the state of California on 2 July 2013, following the United States Supreme Court's decision to deny an appeal to overturning California Proposition 8 in Hollingsworth v. Perry.

In 2009, Barrowman published I Am What I Am, his second memoir detailing his recent television work and musings on fame. In the book, Barrowman reveals that when he was just beginning his acting career, a Gay producer told Barrowman that he should try to pretend to be heterosexual in order to be successful. Barrowman was offended by the incident, and it made him more aware of the importance of his role as a Gay public figure: "One of my explicit missions as an entertainer is to work to create a world where no one will ever make a statement like this producer did to me to anyone who's Gay."

To this end, Barrowman is active in his community supporting the issues that matter to him most. He worked with Stonewall, a Gay rights organization in the UK, on the "Education for All" campaign against homophobia in the schools. In April 2008, the group placed posters on 600 billboards that read, "Some people are Gay. Get over it!" Barrowman contributed his support to the project asking people to join him and "Help exterminate homophobia. Be bold. Be brave. Be a buddy, not a bully." In the same month, Barrowman spoke at the Oxford Union about his career, the entertainment industry, and gay rights issues. The event was filmed for the BBC program The Making Of Me, in an episode exploring the science of homosexuality

In 1998, Barrowman was nominated for an Olivier Award for Best Actor in a Musical, and in 2006 he was voted Stonewall's "Entertainer of the Year."

1978 – Christopher Rice, American author, born; an American author. Rice has written six best-selling novels: A Density of Souls, The Snow Garden, Light Before Day, Blind Fall, The Moonlit Earth, The Heavens Rise, and his latest book, The Vines, which was published in 2014.. His parents are Anne Rice, who died recently. and the late poet Stan Rice; his aunt, Alice Borchardt, is a noted writer.

Rice is gay; when asked in 2002 about "being pegged a 'gay writer'", he replied:"That's not what I do. I might be more open to that label if I hadn't introduced ensemble casts of characters. Granted, " A Density of Souls" is as close to a gay book as you can get. It revolves around a character's homosexuality and others are described in terms of their reaction to the one character's sexuality. In that sense it's at the core of the book. "The Snow Garden" is about identity. With this book, I'm trying to shrug off the term "gay" author."

Nonetheless, Rice is proud of his large following in the gay community, explaining "it was incredibly rewarding when I got a huge positive response from the character Stephen in "The Density of Souls". More than a thousand young gay men contacted me and said that I captured what it was like for them going through those years. That means everything to me." Rice also writes a regular feature for The Advocate called "Coastal Disturbances," in which he discusses various topics and he is currently the President of the Board of the Lambda Literary Foundation.

Christopher Rice Near-naked Selfie

In 2012, Rice launched a streaming Internet radio show called The Dinner Party Show. Eric Shaw Quinn, his partner and co-host, was known for having ghost written two books by celebrity Pamela Anderson and a 1992 novel about gay adoption called Say Uncle. The show describes itself as "the Internet's first live comedy variety show" and became known for its hard-hitting satire. After a year on the air, the show dropped its run time to one hour and focused on celebrity interviews and scripted specials. Guests have included Patricia Cornwell, Dan Savage, transgender activist Chaz Bono and Tales of the City author Armistead Maupin.

In 2013, Rice made his first entry into the supernatural thriller genre with The Heavens Rise. It was nominated for a Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a Novel but lost to Dr. Sleep by Stephen King.

In 2014, Rice announced through his social media channels that he was scheduled to publish several works of erotic romance. The first of them, The Flame, was published in November 2014 as part of the 1,001 Dark Nights series.

He is now married to fellow actor/dancer Clay Thomson, and goes by the name Chris Rice-Thomson.

2010 – The direct action group GetEqual has gained attention as a result of its bold action, including civil disobedience, on behalf of the struggle for equal rights.

The organization was founded on March 11, 2010 by young activists Robin McGehee and Kip Williams. It was established to continue the message of anger and frustration presented at the National Equality March of October 11, 2009.

The National Equality March was born out of frustration with the loss of referenda on same-sex marriage and other rights; frustration with the alleged co-opting of the gay rights movement by the Democratic Party; and frustration with the failure of President Obama to fulfill the promises he made in his 2008 campaign for the presidency.

The march was called by veteran activists Cleve Jones and David Mixner, but those who responded to the call were primarily young people who had been angered by the passage of Proposition 8 in California.

Their disappointment with the loss of the campaign against Proposition 8 was compounded by their disillusionment with the Obama administration's failure to end the Don't Ask, Don't Tell (DADT) policy, to pass the Employment Non-Discrimination Act (ENDA), and to repeal the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA).

The march attracted some 250,000 participants and featured speeches by such new activists as Academy Award-winning screenwriter Dustin Lance Black, actress Cynthia Nixon, DADT protester Lt. Dan Choi, and pop singer Lady Gaga, as well as Jones, Mixner, and civil rights icon Julian Bond.

GetEqual was founded in order to fulfill this need for assertiveness in the fight. Its mission is to empower the glbtq community and its allies "to take bold action to demand full legal and social equality, and to hold accountable those who stand in the way."

GetEqual uses the tactics of nonviolent civil disobedience of the 1960s civil rights and anti-war movements and those utilized by ACT-UP in the 1980s: sit-ins, pickets, disruptions, and a great deal of political theater.

The organization has sponsored actions that range from sit-ins in former Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives Nancy Pelosi's office, disrupting traffic in Las Vegas and New York City, picketing the Ugandan embassy in Washington, D. C., heckling President Obama at fundraisers, to "glittering" politicians such as Republican Presidential candidates Newt Gingrich and Michelle Bachmann and, most dramatically, to chaining protesters to the fence in front of the White House.

It was the direct actions on behalf of the repeal of DADT that first brought GetEqual to national attention, especially the arrests of McGehee, Lt. Dan Choi, Captain Jim Pietrangelo, and others who chained themselves to the White House fence on several occasions, most notably in November 2010 when it appeared that the long-sought repeal of DADT would fail.

Although GetEqual has been criticized by establishment figures for its tactics—Congressman Barney Frank called them "tacky" and counterproductive—it is almost certain that DADT would not have been repealed in 2010 without the pressure applied by GetEqual through its demonstrations and civil disobedience.

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hiddenmoonbeam · 4 months

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(My app is being weird with asks so answering like this instead @neongreenllama @lynxindisguise )

Hello thank you both!! <3

Winter tale is a “small” thing I first thought about in November. I wanted to make something to post during December, leading up to Midwinter - which I obviously didn’t because 1) I still barely got any words out when trying to write, and 2) I realised that even if I could write this small tale in time, half the point of it was also illustrating it. And yeah, I’m too slow for that. I’m not actively working on this, but I do love it so we’ll see!

The vibe that inspired it is long winter nights in an old forest covered in snow and sparkling with magic beneath a starlit sky. The story idea is based around Scandinavian folklore about werewolves, mainly that they turn every night, not only during the full moon, and the curse can be broken by someone calling them by their (christian) name while they’re transformed.

Snippet:

What’s your name?

Silence, a bowed head, eyes on the grass between his fingers. I don’t know. I don’t remember.

Don’t people call you anything?

A wry smile in the corner of his lips, where one scar stretches. Lots of things. Nothing quite right for a name, though.

Sirius frowns, and the boy looks back at him from under long lashes, head tilted slightly to the side. You really don’t know? He asks it with a small voice giving away his uncertainty, and maybe also the slightest glimmer of hope.

The story is that Sirius is a witch apprentice to his mother, but doesn’t want to follow in her footsteps (needless to say, she disapproves of this). One morning when he avoids his duties by sneaking out into the nearby forest, he stumbles upon a wounded boy. The boy is scared, quiet, and doesn’t remember his own name. As Sirius keeps finding him the same way each morning, always taking care of him as much as he’s allowed, the boy eventually tells him he’s a werewolf. The village isn’t safe for him because everyone knows about him and would shoot the wolf on sight, and while he can’t remember his life before the wolf, he has a vague sense of home somewhere on the other side of the forest. He has tried many times to head there, but the wolf always returns to this village.

As autumn shifts into winter, and the nights grow longer, Sirius runs away from home, to follow Moony through the dark and mysterious forest. Hoping to find family on the other side, able to tell who he is, before Midwinter marks the night he will be turned to a wolf for good.

Send me WIP asks!

#wip asks #wolfstar #llama tag #lynx tag #winter tale #not actually what it would be called but it'll do for now #my writing

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thenightling · 1 year

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Over The Garden wall = People aren’t as bad as you think

Earlier today I stumbled upon a Youtube video analyzing the animated mini-series Over the Garden Wall. For those unfamiliar with it, Ove the Garden Wall is an animated TV mini-series from 2014 that told the story of two boys, Greg and Wirt, lost in a mysterious forest called “The Unknown.” The story that plays out is very Wizard of Oz-esque and nearly all the visuals are based on vintage, turn of the century, New England postcards- particularly postcards from the late nineteenth century to 1930s for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and even Christmas, though mostly depicting autumn. The characters and visuals from these vintage postcards adds to the surrealness of the setting. Now this particular Youtuber happened to be a very Christian individual who seemed pretty certain that the black cat (Enoch) that we first see in the Pottsfield story was actually God. And though I understood why this Youtuber believed this I did not agree with this particular stance.

Yes, the people of Pottsfield are dead and happily enjoying their afterlife much like the dead in Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride but I do not think Enoch is meant to be God. Again, I understand how he came to that conclusion but not everyone is C. S. Lewis.

One thing the Youtuber pointed out that I DO agree with, however, is the stance that Over the Garden Wall teaches us that people aren’t as bad as we’ve been made to think, that things aren’t always what they seem and aren’t always as dark or as sinister as they seem and I was a little surprised at myself that I hadn’t quite realized this was a recurring theme throughout the mini-series. But as soon as he said it I knew it was true. I hadn’t even consciously made this realization before but yes, this is one of the many reasons I love that mini-series. It’s so anti-cynical and wholesome.

Pretty much everyone and everything that Greg and Wirt encounter and Wirt thinks is a threat turns out to be benign, or out-right good, kind, and helpful. The only characters that actually turn out to be evil and dangerous are Adelaide of The Pasture and The Beast.

First Greg and Wirt come across the suspicious woodsman and he’s just a sad old man being manipulated by The Beast. Even the creature that attacks them is just a semi-possessed dog (Beatrice’s dog). And the dog is harmless and no longer possessed by the end of the tale.

When the boys come to Pottsfield, first Wirt thinks the towns people are going to severely punish them for what they did. Instead they get a very minor punishment. Also when Wirt thinks Greg and Beatrice have abandoned him, they were still there helping him get free. And in the end the residents of Pottsfield were not a threat at all (despite the reveal that they were all skeletons wearing Pumpkin and straw bodies). Even at the tail end of the Pottsfield adventure, when the boys are invited to stay there’s no pressure or threat to it. The Pottsfield residents are genuinely decent (though dead) people.

Soon the boys find the old-fashioned schoolhouse with anthropometric animal students playing out a Shirley Temple-esque movie scenario. It, at first, looks like the school teacher’s father is a classic style bad guy of the story. Also the teacher’s lover has run off on her and abandoned her. By the end of this story you find out her lover was just stuck in a gorilla costume that he had been wearing to earn money to marry her and her father had actually been afraid they’d have to close down the school. The school is saved by a charity concert and the teacher and her lover live happily ever after.

In the next chapter of Over the Garden Wall, the boys get to The Dark Lantern Inn. And at first it looks like the people in the inn might be a threat. Nope. The innkeeper is a Betty Boop-esque character and all her patrons seem to be self-aware storybook characters who expect everyone to be playing a particular (though easily explained) character role. And they are eager to help you find your role in your story.

Then the boys meet the wealthy (and very eccentric) Quincy Endicott (who may or may not be a ghost as you see his tombstone later in the “Real world”). Endicott thinks his mansion is haunted.�� Fred the Horse (yes, a talking horse) is very suspicious and briefly gets Wirt to believe that Endicott might be a murderer who killed the lady of the house and will murder them. No, he’s just a lonely old man who ends up falling in love with his business competitor (they both run tea companies and their mansions are accidentally connected).

Then we come to Adelaide of The Pasture who actually is evil. When we, the viewers, meet Adelaide, it appears to us that she’s deceiving poor Beatrice. Not only does she want the boys as her slaves but also we get the chilling thought (as most modern viewers may) that she’s lying about the magical scissors that would turn Beatrice and her family human again (they were cursed to be bluebirds). The easy assumption is that Adelaide was cruelly lying and that cutting off Beatrice’s wings (and her family’s wings) won’t turn them human. It will just leave them mutilated birds who cannot fly. But even the sinister Adelaide is not as bad as we are lead to think. Yes, she’s a villain. Yes, she wants the boys as her slaves. But even her darkness is limited.

After Adelaide is defeated Wirt takes the magical scissors and later gives them to Beatrice. He only withheld them from her for so long because he was angry at her near betrayal. And if we trust the epilogue in the last episode of Over the Garden wall, the scissors actually worked and Beatrice and her family are human again.

Now we meet Lorna and Auntie Whispers. At first it looks like the very weird looking Auntie Whispers is a Baba Yaga-style witch who has been eating people and using Lorna for slave labor. She even reveals that the evil Adelaide is her sister. The fact that Aunt Whispers is voiced by Tim Curry, who usually plays villains, also aids in the illusion. Again we are misdirected. Auntie Whispers is just trying to reign in the demon that is inside Lorna. She has been controlling it with the aid of a magical Bell. At first she looks like a cannibalistic witch or even crazed religious fanatic who has convinced Lorna that she’s evil, or somehow both. No, she was just trying to protect Lorna from herself and others and to keep Lorna from killing other people. She just didn’t consider that perhaps the magical bell to compel the demon might also be be used to banish the demon but Wirt figured it out.

It’s also revealed that Auntie Whispers is really just lonely and wanted Lorna to stay as her live-in companion and ultimately that’s the quiet life Lorna chooses.

When the Woodsman finally finds out where the Adlewood trees really come from he turns against The Beast to help our protagonists.

Even Jason Funderberker, who Wirt kept building up as an attractive jock that he was jealous of, and insecure against as a rival, was revealed to be nothing more than an awkward nerd and not at all the way Wirt described or saw him.

Over the Garden Wall pretty much shows you that Greg’s innocent and trusting mindset is the better view to have. It’s the opposite of most stories that tell you to be suspicious and to embrace cynicism. And pretty much every time Wirt assumed the worst about someone (except in regard to Adelaide and The Beast) he was wrong.

Over the Garden Wall teaches you that often people are not as bad as you think. Things aren’t always as they seem. And though there are terrible people out there like Adelaide and The Beast, usually people aren’t as bad as you think they are.

I think this precious lesson has been lost for a long time. People aren’t as bad as you think once you really get to know them. No wonder I think of Over the Garden wall as comforting and chicken soup for the soul.

#Over the Garden Wall #OTGW

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erinsintra · 6 months

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stupid shit i believed (and did) in as a kid

I thought parrots could talk. Like, talk for real, like a cartoon character. When I visited my aunt, who kept a parrot as a pet, I kept trying to engage in small talk with it, and was pretty disappointed when I realised all he could say was my aunt's name.

I once read this comicbook story about a magical tree that was immune to the flow of time, and such its leaves did not change colour during autumn nor did they fell during winter. I live in a tropical country, and all the trees here are like that, so I just assumed they were all magical as well.

If you ate fish and drank water afterwards, the fish would come back from the dead inside your stomach.

I thought these things (idk how they're called in english) were tiny DVDs for ants.

I would refuse to eat seedless fruits. It didn't matter if they tasted good, it didn't matter if they were cheap. They were an unholy creation of mankind and would never be welcomed inside my mouth.

When my mum yelled at me, I would go to my grandpa and ask him to ground her. It did work once.

In my head, the Moon was a giant living being that could see us from where she stood on the sky, and I was 100% sure whe was following me wherever I went.

Wasps were the boy version of bees.

I believed George Washington was like Santa Claus for Americans and he also wasn't real.

Whenever I heard a cicada singing (or ringing? idk), I would sing back to them so they wouldn't feel lonely.

When presented with a new kind of food, I would first imagine myself eating it. If I didn't like the taste inside my head, I wouldn't even bother eating the actual dish. There's still a shitton of stuff I have never tasted because of that rule.

When I was like, seven or eight, I watched a few clips from the Chucky movie on youtube. After that, I started to believe all dolls had the potential to become evil muderers, and so I would always be nice to the ones I owned (asking them if they were okay, sitting them comfortably on my bed instead of laying around on the floor) so if they ever turned evil they would at least spare me.

I believed the voice in my head was a different person, and whenever "it" got mad at me, "it" would start endlessly listing all of the things I feared in order to make me anxious. I still don't know how to explain this, but I'm glad they stopped doing that.

For over eleven years of my life I genuinely believed everyone in Greece still went around wearing togas and worshipping the twelve Olympians. I was rather disappointed when I learned they are mostly Christian nowadays.

I was one hundred percent sure the Easter Island was not real, and it was instead some sort of fictional fantasy place like Wonderland that at some point became public domain and everyone started using it. Even nowadays, I still go "oh, right, this exists" whenever someone mentions the place.

When I raised my hands in a windy day, I could feel the wind passing between my fingers. I thought I was the only person who could do this, and this I had secret airbending powers that would show up when I got older or something.

Johnny Bravo was the grown-up version of Johnny Test. I mean, they were both blond, from the same channel, and were both named Johnny. It made perfect sense.

Whenever I closed my eyes to wash my hair at the shower, a demon showed up in my bathroom to try and kill me, so I had to open my eyes as fast as possible, even if I got some shampoo on them by accident, otherwise I would die.

I couldn't sleep in total darkness, I always needed some light source near me, however small it was. I wasn't necessarily scared of the dark, or anything lurking in it, I just believed that if my eyes suddenly vanished for whatever reason, I wouldn't know I had been blinded if it was dark. I don't understand that part either.

I thought Halloween was an American celebration about having burned all their witches and the reason we didn't celebrate it in my country was because we still had witches here.

My mum once gave me this fancy plastic cup with a built-in straw and a small extra cavity to store tiny things and I loved it so much I would only drink water from that specific cup. I also started drinking water a lot as an excuse to use it, and whenever I was sad, I would drink more water because using the cup made me feel a little bit better. To this day, I still drink a lot of water when I feel upset.

I had my own place at the couch, just like Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang. I wouldn't mind if anyone sat on it, but I would never sit in another part of the couch unless explicitly forced to.

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guysinleatherpants · 7 months

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🍁 Christian Boy Autumn🍂

#leather pants #guys in leather pants

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rosesnvines · 7 months

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The Legend of the Blackberry Sword - Part 1

@inklings-challenge so, this story takes place on two worlds, it starts on Alixandria and the majority of it is on Havorest. The Christian theme kinda doesn't come into play until the final act, which is in part 2, so, I assume that works? Anyways, enjoy this lovely artwork I commissioned (Autumn Adventures is the name of the set of, well, adventures these characters have on Havorest), and I hope you like part 1!

(Some words to know: kisiae are pumpkin nymphs/fairies, lampades are lantern nymphs, meliades are apple nymphs, spunkies are a short and stocky humanoid race with glowing eyes. From the picture below, Gasper Gold and the Forsters are humans while Jackie Little is a kisia.)

“Come on Greg, let’s go!” Bert whispered, trying to usher his younger brother out the door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Greg whispered in reply as he shouldered his backpack. He grabbed his jacket off his bed and followed Bert out of their room. Bert slowly and quietly closed the door. The two glanced down the darkened hall at their parents’ door. No light could be seen through the tiny sliver at the base of the door, nor could a sound be heard. The brothers shared a look before tiptoeing down the stairs. They made their way to the front door without any noise. So far so good. Bert turned to Greg and let out a soft huff. Greg merely nodded. Bert gave a curt nod and grasped the front door's handle. He pulled, and it refused to budge. He let out a soft gasp and pulled again. It still would not budge. Greg began to giggle.

"Greg!” Bert hissed.

“The deadbolt,” whispered Greg as he pointed.

Bert blinked and turned back to the door. Sure enough, the deadbolt was locked. Letting out a frustrated huff, Bert slowly unlocked it. There was a soft clang as the deadbolt released its grip on the door. The boys winced and waited. No sound came from up the stairs. Bert proceeded to open the door again, this time with success. Greg tiptoed past him, and Bert followed, closing the door softly behind him. The two ventured into the woods back of their house, keeping to a path they knew well, one that seemed to vanish behind them.

Before long they were standing in front of an old, gnarled tree. Bert grabbed a piece of bark at the base of it and pulled it away from the tree, revealing a large, gaping hole. Greg dropped to his knees and crawled in. Bert followed, carefully pushing the bark back into place. They crawled through the tree and came out the other side. They straightened up, and took a breath.

Greg stretched. “Wow, how do those taller guys do it?”

“I guess they can squeeze in anywhere,” said Bert with a shudder. “I’m just glad they got the portal moved here so they can’t get to our house again.”

Greg pouted. “But now it’s a longer walk to get to Pottsville.”

“That’s why we’re here,” came a voice from behind a tree.

“Your own personal linkboys!” Two Spunkie boys no older than Bert stepped out from behind two trees with glowing turnips on sticks and huge grins on their faces.

Bert gave them a deadpan face. “Oh hi Freddie, hi Lenny.”

Greg gave them a very enthusiastic wave. “Hi Lenny, hi Freddie! Did we keep you waiting long?”

Freddie scoffed. “With your brother, I’m surprised you got here as soon as you did.”

“Hey!”

Greg giggled. “He did have trouble with the deadbolt.”

“Greg!”

The two Spunkies laughed.

“Why am I not surprised?” quipped Freddie.

“Well don’t just stand there, come on!” Lenny waved them on. “The festival’s going to start soon and the others have already arrived!”

“All of them?” asked Bert.

“Yes, all of them, even the Torresses,” said Freddie.

Bert brightened. “The Torresses are here?”

“Oh yes, the Torresses are here.” Freddie smirked and a mischievous glint appeared in his eye. “And last I heard, Jason Falkner wanted to dance with Sara Torres all … night … long …”

Bert let out a yelp and dashed down the lane. “Well come on, let’s go!”

“It always amazes me how you always know what to say to get him to move,” quipped Lenny.

Freddie grinned. “What can I say? It’s one of my many talents.” Lenny laughed, and the two and Greg took off after Bert. They caught up with him, and with Freddie and Kenny leading the way with their turnip torches, got to Pottsville in a matter of minutes.

"Whoa!" The brothers exclaimed upon following the Spunkies past the village. A giant fairground had been set up, complete with rides and stalls. There were loads of boys and men dressed up as knights, while women wore medieval gowns. Turnip lamps lined the fairground, providing the much needed light in addition to the glow from the harvest moon. Strange animals walked beside their masters, but the brothers knew them all by now. One such animal, a repean, or the glowing turnip bird, flew around their heads once before flying off over the fairgrounds.

Greg took a long sniff. "I smell popcorn!"

Bert took a sniff. "And funnel cakes!"

Lenny waved his hand. "Well, let's go get you in your costumes before we go eating! It's early enough that there's still plenty to go around." The brothers followed them to a mid-sized, red-and-white striped tent just on the outskirts of the fairgrounds. People were mostly coming out of the tent, decked out in medieval outfits.

"Bert! Greg! There you are! Was wondering when you were going to get here." Bert's twin, Betty, approached them from the side of another tent. She had already changed into a blue dress, with her hair pulled up into a fashionable bun. A few ringlets fell loosely around her face.

"Bert was trying to open the door before unlocking the deadbolt," said Greg between snickers.

Bert groaned and rolled his eyes. "Greg!" He then pointed at the backpack. "That's the real reason."

"What?" Greg unzipped it. A frog poked his head out. "I couldn't leave Jeremiah!"

“And you should not have to,” came a woman’s voice. A tall, elegant Kisia, a pumpkin nymph, joined their group. She leaned over and petted the frog. “After all, if it hadn’t been for him, we might not have had a Michaelmas faire. He’s just as invited as you are to all our events.”

Greg grinned. “Thanks Mrs. Fields!”

A head popped out of the tent. “I thought I heard your voices.” The teen turned back into the tent. “Mom! Bert and Greg are here!”

“Well get them in here! The faire’s about to start and they’re not in their costumes yet!”

The teen turned back to them with a grin. “You heard Mom, get in here!”

“Coming, Aunt Caroline!” Bert shouted before grabbing Greg’s arm and pulling him into the tent. Freddie and Lenny dashed in after them.

A few minutes later, they emerged all dressed up in medieval garb. Greg even had a medieval bag that Jeremiah was comfortably sitting in. Aunt Caroline also stepped out, and handed each child a bag. Greg immediately opened his bag to see bills shaped like leaves and coins shaped like acorns.

“There should be enough to get you through the night, but if you need any more, come see me, or any of your aunts and uncles. We should be able to get you some more.”

Greg pouted. “I wish mom and dad could have come.”

Aunt Caroline placed her arm around his shoulders and gave him a hug. “I know, they wish they could be here too. But there’s always next year. Plus, your baby brother will be old enough to join us then, and we’ll all have a great time.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, can’t wait!”

“Wonderful. Now run along and enjoy the fair. But be sure to head to the big tent in an hour! The play starts then!”

“Will do!” The children waved as they dashed off.

"Where to first?" Bert asked Freddie.

Freddie grinned. "You'll see. We hit it up first every year, it's a tradition Gaspar started." The group weaved their way through the crowd, Freddie in the lead. They passed stall after stall of mouth-watering goodies.

Greg giggled and pointed at one. "That one says Trick or Treat and Tea!"

"Aw, that's cute!" Betty exclaimed.

"We'll come back to them, don't worry. They're another yearly tradition."

"But isn't trick-or-treat for Halloween?" Bert asked.

Freddie shrugged. "I mean, yeah, but they got to be so popular that they just stayed open all year round." He shot them a grin over his shoulder. "Besides, this is Havorest, the autumn planet. We could technically go trick-or-treating for all the holidays."

Greg jumped in the air. "Yeah! Free candy for all the holidays!"

"Greg, we get free candy for all the holidays," said Bert. "We just don't go trick-or-treating."

Greg pouted. "But trick-or-treating is more fun!"

Betty chuckled. "Yes, but that has always been a Halloween tradition."

"Well, it should be a tradition for all holidays!"

Freddie chuckled as he slowed to a stop in front of a stall. The aroma of fresh baked bread got caught in the chilly, autumn wind while the sign overhead advertised the name “Hollowed Bread”. "Spoken like a true Havorester."

"And a true Havorester is never late!" Another Spunkie lad around Freddie’s and Lenny’s age stepped to the front of the stall, his arms crossed.

“You can thank Bert and Greg for that,” quipped Lenny.

“Hey, we were just wanting to make sure we didn’t wake our parents and baby brother!” said Bert as he crossed his own arms and let out a huff.

“Then you should have left earlier.”

“Oh knock it off, Charlie, it’s only a few minutes.” The lanky teen laying at the foot of the sunset colored maple, Gaspar Gold by name, lifted his straw hat just a bit, an odd accessory with his medieval garb. “If it was two hours, yeah, get upset, but a few minutes?” The teen scoffed. “You have got to give people a break. The bread is still fresh, and there’s still plenty to go around.” He jumped to his feet. “But now that you are here, why are we waiting? Let’s get some dragon bread!” Gaspar led the group to the stall and they perused the different kinds of dragon bread. There were the small dragon croissants, the regular dragon loaves, the serpentine-like dragon baguettes, dragon head biscuits and scones that had apple slices for teeth and craisins for eyes, treasure box bagels that had an assortment of fruit clustered in the middle, and sword-shaped breadsticks with a blackberry at the ends. They each opted for a dragon croissant, a dragon head biscuit, and a sword breadstick, with blackberry syrup drizzled over all of them. Each was given little bowls of butter and blackberry jam on the side.

Gaspar bit into the biscuit. "Mm, oh yes, Michaelmas has officially begun!"

Betty laughed. “Oh man, know what you mean! It doesn’t seem like it’s Christmas if I don’t smell that fresh pine and sugar cookies!”

Freddie clicked his tongue. “This is Havorest, autumn holiday talk only, Betty.”

“Yeah, Betty,” quipped Greg between chewing mouthfuls of bread.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Alright, then it doesn’t seem like Halloween without that lovely pumpkin scent or that delicious aroma of apple cider.”

Gaspar grinned. “That’s more like it.” He placed his arm around her shoulder. “And now that we have our dragon bread, it’s time to get into the rest of the traditions of Michaelmas.” He glanced around at the group. “Who’s ready to hit the games?”

“Me!” chorused the boys.

“Do you think we should hit Dragon Fight first, or wait until after the Michaelmas play?” Lenny asked.

Gaspar rubbed his chin in thought before glancing at the Forster siblings. “How well do you know the story of St. Michael?”

Bert shrugged. “That when Satan rebelled against God, St. Michael took up the lead in fighting him on God’s behalf.”

"He defeated Satan and sent him down to Hell," said Betty.

“And that a third of the angels went with Satan and became demons,” said Greg with a frown.

Gaspar gave a slow nod. "Right, but, do you know about the Blackberry Sword?"

The siblings blinked. “The Blackberry Sword?”

“If that’s a part of the St. Michael legend, I’ve certainly never heard of it,” quipped Bert.

“Is that why there’s a blackberry on the sword bread?” asked Greg as he picked up the bread to look at it and the blackberry on the end.

Gaspar nodded. “Yup, but I won’t say anything else until after you’ve seen the play.” He turned to Freddie. “I guess that means Dragon Fight after the play.”

Freddie shrugged. “It’s alright with me, as long as we play it once today.”

“Another Michaelmas tradition?” asked Betty.

Gaspar grinned. “Naturally, and now we can head to all the games and rides we want to until the play starts.”

“Not necessarily,” remarked Charlie as he glanced at his watch. “We have about an hour before we need to head to the big tent.”

“Ah well, we’ll show them as much as we can.”

“Oh Gaspar, didn’t you say there would be hayrides?” said Betty.

“Aw, but I wanna go turnip carving,” said Lenny.

“Nah, let’s go play some of the games,” said Freddie.

“Personally I would like to see the jousting,” remarked Bert.

“And the knights!” exclaimed Greg.

Gaspar tapped his chin. “Well, how about you guys head to the jousting area, the turnip carving and several of the games are close by. I’ll take Betty on a hayride and we’ll meet you at the big pavilion in an hour.”

"Great!" chorused the boys before taking off.

Gaspar turned to Betty and bowed. "Shall we make our way to the best hayride this side of Golding, my lady?"

Betty curtsied. "Yes, my good sir, let's!" Gaspar held out his arm, she took it, and with the two balancing their plates, walked to the hayrides.

Everyone was having so much fun that the hour flew by very quickly. Gaspar and Betty were the first to head in the direction of the pavilion. When they arrived, a girl no taller than their waists was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and feet tapping.

"How did I guess she's why you're late?"

"Oh come on, Jackie, I'm not that late, maybe a minute. I'll head to the back and start on my portion of the play."

"Oh, Gaspar, you should have told me you were helping with the play! I would have kept an eye on the time!"

Gaspar shook his head. "I wanted to keep an eye on it myself. I need to get better at it."

Jackie placed her hands on her hips and huffed. “Well, you are getting better at it, but you’re still late, so get in there!”

Gaspar let loose an infectious laugh. “I’m coming, Jackie! Don’t lose your top!” He turned to Betty with a grin. “I’ll see you after the play. Can;t wait to see what you think of it.”

“Then get in here and get started!”

Gaspar rolled his eyes. “Did I not just say to not lose your top? I’m coming!” He walked into the building and Jackie slammed the door behind him.

Betty let out a huff and made her way to the front of the pavilion and found a seat. Only a few people had begun filing in, so the pavilion was mostly empty. She reached into her pockets and pulled out two books. The first one was the first book in the Anna Woods mystery series, Secret of the Ghost Tree, and the other was a Gothic story, Ravenmist Manor. She glanced at the summary on the back of the book.

“Three orphans live in the shadow of Ravenmist Manor, a grand, castle-like estate that has its fair share of spooks and secrets. One specter takes a particular interest in the three, and as they grow up, the mysteries of her past intertwine with the mysteries of their future.”

“Hmm, interesting,” she muttered to herself.

“What is?” She jumped a little before glancing up. Her brothers had walked up to her.

She showed them the book. “According to Mrs. Crane, this is a Havorester classic.”

Bert clicked his tongue. "Go figure. Any books for me or Greg?"

Betty shrugged as she pocketed the books. "Not that I noticed, but Mrs. Crane was trying to sell these books first before pulling out any others. Maybe by the time the play is over, she might have a few you and Greg might enjoy."

"Hopefully one is about frogs!"

Bert rolled his eyes and turned to their little brother. "I don't think they would have many books on frogs, if any. Frogs aren't exactly a fall animal."

"But there might be one. Mr. Crane told me that frogs can stay out longer than most other cold-blooded animals, but they all have to be in hibernation by winter."

Betty shot him a smile. "We can look, but you might want to think of a different theme, just in case."

Greg gave her a very serious nod. "Right."

“Say, where’s Gaspar?” Bert asked, glancing around the room.

“Oh, he’s in the play,” remarked Freddie as he tossed popcorn in his mouth.

“He’s in the play?” the siblings chorused.

Lenny peeked around Freddie’s frame and bobbed his head. “Oh yeah, he’s in the play. We don’t know which part he got, he wanted that to be a surprise.”

Betty turned to the stage with a smile. “I’m sure he’ll do well.”

“Hey, don’t eat all the popcorn before the play even starts!” blurted Bert as he tried to snatch the bowl away from Freddie.

“This is my popcorn, I can eat it whenever I want. Go get your own!” quipped Freddie as he tightened his grip on it and pulled it away.

"Yeah, Bert, I want some popcorn!" Greg said.

Bert groaned. "Fine." He turned to his sister. "You want some too?"

Betty stood up. "Yeah, and I'll come with you." She looked at Greg. "Now make sure no one takes our seats, and I'll get you a big bowl of popcorn."

"Yes!" Greg quickly got up and sat in Betty's seat. "Make sure it's loaded with butter and cheese!"

Betty grinned. "You got it!" The two went off in search of the popcorn. They found it not far from the pavilion’s front doors. They placed their orders and paid. “I wonder which part Gaspar got?” wondered Betty as they waited.

Bert shrugged. “According to Charlie, there are only three roles in the play; Saint Michael, Satan, and the narrator, who also plays God.” His face broke out in a toothy grin. “It would just be his luck to play as God too.”

Betty pursed her lips. “Though he would rather have the role of Saint Michael.”

Bert scoffed. “Who wouldn’t. But I am curious about this whole blackberry sword bit. How does it all tie in?”

Betty shrugged. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” They had to wait a couple more minutes for their popcorn, but as soon as it was ready, they grabbed the three bowls and made their way back into the pavilion.

The pavilion was filling up now, people were wandering about, looking for seats. As promised, Greg had kept their seats reserved. And as Betty promised, she had gotten him popcorn loaded with butter and cheese.

Greg licked his lips. "Yum!" He grabbed the bowl and popped a couple pieces in his mouth.

Betty gasped. "Greg! Did you wash your hands after handling your frog?"

Greg popped another in his mouth as he nodded.

“He had to use the bathroom before we came, and I made sure he did,” stated Bert as he sat in his chair.

“Attention, attention please. Quiet please!” The hall went silent at the sound of the booming voice as all eyes turned to the stage. A leaf-eared meliade stood in front of the curtain. “Everyone get to your seats, we shall be starting the play in five minutes. Thank you.” He stepped behind the curtain. Everyone who was standing rushed to their seats.

The Forsters glanced around in bewilderment.

“Wh-what’s going on?” asked Bert.

“You’ll see,” quipped Freddie with a grin. “And don’t worry, it’s part of the play.”

“It only lasts a couple of minutes until the narrator's done,” blurted Charlie. Freddie whacked him. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Don’t tell them!”

“It’s not like I spoiled the whole thing! Besides, they need to know that they need to be absolutely quiet for the beginning!”

“Why?” the Forsters asked in unison.

Freddie elbowed Charlie for good measure and said, “You’ll see.”

A moment later, the pavilion went dark, pitch dark. Several people gasped while others hushed them, and all was silent. The Forsters jumped in surprise when the booming voice from earlier broke the stillness.

"In the beginning there was only God. But He desired to create many things, and out of love, He did. But he had to start somewhere, and what a start it was. Let there be light!"

The lights burst back into life, nearly blinding everyone.

"Whoa," whispered Greg, eyes wide. The meliade grinned and winked at him before continuing with the narration.

“God created the universe in six days. But within those six days, he created angels. One angel, called Lucifer at the time, found great favor with God and was given grace, beauty, wisdom, and command over the others. But then, for one reason or another, it’s never revealed, Lucifer gets the idea that he should be the one running things, not God. He starts talking to the other angels, trying to get as many of them as possible on his side. But most did not agree with his way of thinking, and one angel in particular voiced his disappointment in Lucifer’s desire for control." The curtains parted behind the meliade, revealing a sky blue backdrop and fluffy clouds floating on string.

"Lucifer, stop! This is ridiculous!" A teen walked on stage wearing a red and black suit with golden accents and wings. Gaspar Gold followed him on the stage, also wearing golden wings, his signature straw hat absent from his golden head. A few people gasped, Freddie and a few others let up a short cheer before quickly being hushed. "I would call what you're doing treason!"

The teen in red waved his hand dismissively. "And what would you know of this matter? You're nothing but a mere archangel!"

"I warn you, Lucifer, if you try anything, I will see to it personally that you are kicked out of Heaven!"

The Lucifer character scoffed. "You, kick me out of Heaven? Ha! Not only are you a mere archangel, but you were not given command of all the angels. I was! Now enough of this! If you've made up your mind on the matter, then leave!" He walked off stage.

"No, wait! Lucifer! Lucifer!" Gaspar followed him off the stage, and the curtains closed.

"The angels, once united by love and duty towards God, were split into two factions. What's worse was, angels were created with a hierarchy, and Lucifer was close to the top. It threw them into disarray. But that one angel rallied the good angels around him and fought Lucifer and his army. Soon they had chased them out of Heaven and to Earth." The meliade stepped to the side as the curtains opened again. The Lucifer character let out a snarl as he stepped on the stage, sword drawn. Gaspar, as Michael, stepped on after him, sword raised. The Lucifer character turned and charged him, their swords ringing as they met in the middle. The swords met again and again, the fight getting fiercer and faster with each blow.

Freddie let out a gasp as his eyes widened. "They're, they're using real swords!" he whispered harshly.

Betty turned to them with wide eyes. "You-you mean they usually used fake swords?" Freddie nodded.

"I bet that's why they got Gaspar and Bobby, they're the best swordsmen in town!" Lenny blurted.

Bert's mouth twitched. "And Bobby makes a rather intimidating Lucifer," he mumbled.

"And Gaspar makes a handsome Michael," said Betty.

"He's kind of intimidating too," muttered Charlie.

“Good, Bobby Bones can’t be the only intimidating guy in the town,” muttered Bert before plopping another kernel in his mouth. The group stopped talking as the battle between Gaspar and Bobby intensified, the two moving across the entire stage, swords ringing.

#inklingschallenge #Team Lewis #genre: portal fantasy #genre: space travel #theme: shelter #which shows up in part 2 #part 1 is the main theme as I had started this before Michaelmas #It's just taken me this long to get this far on it #part 2 will probably be coming by the end of the month #story: unfinished

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ashandquiet · 1 year

Text

Cowslip and Raindrops

Soma Jarlskona x F!Reader

Summary: After being cooped up for months, you are able to run free and wild in the meadows. A mild boar attack leads to you being saved by a gallant lady Jarlskona, and a romantic attachment blooms in the meadows of Mercia.

Warnings: Mostly fluff, a little angst, mentions of Christianity, mentions of murder

Read it on AO3

Since the arrival of spring in the shire, beautiful little blooms had begun popping up all over the fields in exuberant displays of life after the harsh winter. Even the trees had begun bursting with bloom signaling a bountiful summer harvest of fruits. As spring progressed around the sprawling estate that had been a prison most of the winter months, you ached to be free of the musty roman brick and cold stone. Your lady had begun her seclusion in the early autumn, and as spring stretched its tender wispy fingers of greens and bright colors, she neared her time of delivery.

You had been busy at work since dawn stitching extensions into your Mistress’s smocks, for all her dresses had little give around the swell of her stomach. The midwife said the baby was strong and perhaps it would be a boy, and the other lady’s maids oohed and awed at the prospect of a little lordling. Yet as you worked, you couldn’t help but be distracted by the beckoning of the season and all its bountiful glories. The anticipation of the babe’s arrival seemed to have skipped you altogether. All you could think of was the wispy wildflowers blooming in the fields beyond the manor. As your thoughts became clouded by the promise of the outdoors, there was a cough behind you, pulling you from your stupor and causing you to jab the needle into your finger. You gasped looking at the bead of crimson pooling and stuck the digit into your mouth quickly to stop the bleeding, you turned to see who had interrupted your sweet vision. There stood the head maid, her head tilted slightly as if examining your work.

“Agnes, I didn’t hear you come down,” you offered meekly, looking at the small red welt on the skin of your hand. It’s not that you feared her, Agnes was known for her calm demeanor but she was also known for her vehement hatred of idleness; daydreaming was the exact kind of behavior that would have you emptying chamber pots for the next fortnight.

“Y/N,” Agnes gave your work a long glance. “You’ve accomplished much, our lady sends her thanks.”

She picked up the bulk of your work, letting her gaze linger on the garment laying in your lap. The stitches had become noticeably looser and more haphazard, they glared as a bold indicator of when spring had begun distracting you. You braced yourself for the inevitable, but Agnes just sighed and gave you a cordial smile.

“Perhaps, it's time you took a break? I know being cooped up in this old building for so long has begun to weigh on my own mind,” Agnes suggested shifting the weight of the dresses in her arms.

You balked for a second then looked towards the window then at the unfinished work in your lap, you glanced back at the older woman. Under her headdress, her sorrel eyes had become heavy and her once-tanned skin pale and lifeless. It was as if the air of the large house had begun to suck the life from her. You had noticed it in all the women that occupied the house, most blaming it on the arduous winter.

You hesitated, “After I finish this dress you mean…?”

Agnes shook her head, “Idle hands make for tawdry work, it's best if you get some rest. Perhaps you could bring some spring blossoms to brighten the birthing chamber, and our lady could use them to alleviate the stress of her vigil.”

You brightened at the idea and moved your work off your lap, “Of course, I would love to bring her some joy.”

Agnes nodded and started up the stairs to the lady’s rooms. You watched her leave before making haste to your quarters that you shared with the other lowly ladies’ maids. Retrieving your lightest cloak and a small knife from your personal belongings to ease the work of cutting flower stems, you rushed to the doors that led to the outer gardens. The guards paid you little heed as you traipsed outside for the first time in far too long.

Immediately you felt lighter, the air outside was clean smelling, and the warm rays of afternoon sun kissed the cold skin of your face and hands. Even the chill breeze of spring did little to weigh your spirits down.

Gathering your skirts you rushed for the hole in the wall that you had gazed at through the window for far too long thinking up romantic stories of escapes and daring rescues from knights. It was just large enough for a person to ease through with a little difficulty.

You knew you could ask to be let through the main estate gate, but that meant talking to the guards that leered at you like a piece of meat. As the seasons wore on you knew they grew more and more desperate for a release of flesh, and several of the other girls had deigned themselves upon them. The thought made you ill at ease, perhaps soon you could be rid of this place. As soon as the Lady had the babe that is. It would be better to raise a baby away from the old stone building come spring and summer.

Climbing through the wall, your veil snagged on a briar and was pulled from your head letting your hair free. With a fruitful laugh, you snatched it from the vine not caring for the scratches that its thorns left on the back of your hand. You glanced at the piece of fabric and decided that it didn’t matter who saw your hair outside the walls anyway. So you tucked away into a pocket of your dress jumping down into the thick lush grass that grew outside the wall.

Venturing out of the wall's shade the season's bounty beckons you like a siren's song urging you into meadows and across fields, away from the oppressive Roman estate and into the countryside.

Once free of the walls your mind began to wander back to a simpler time. In the time before rules and rigidity you had run wild and free around the moors, a creature of the world wild and begone. Your mother had been a midwife, dealing in all the cares of women from pregnancy to affairs of the heart, illnesses, and even doing away with unwanted children. She cared for women and loved women, and the Christians killed her for it. They would likely sneer and call her a witch now, as the priest that had passed you to the Abess had.

They had cleaned you up, torn you away from everything that made you precious in the eyes of your mother, forced you into a lady’s role and now you served as a lady in waiting for a lord’s wife. “A very moral example of a good Christ-serving woman.”

You snorted at the thought, they’d never understand how much like a caged wolf you were inside. Still wild, still craving the caress of the forest in your bones, The rush of the rivers in your veins, and the songs of the land deep in your heart.

For now, you conceded, you would have to settle for the little bits of freedom you could. And if picking flowers gives you that freedom so be it.

~~~

The patch of spring bloom you had settled in seemed to stretch onwards forever, the primroses bloomed so fiercely here. Further down the rise, you found patches of cowslip and sweet violets, the fragrance filling your nose as you picked the flowers delicately from their stems. You watched as the bees buzzed about hard at work and the distant rustling of birds in the tree line made your heart swell with joy beyond imagining. You had watched a mother doe and her two young fawns cut through the meadow from a distance. The twins were both gangly small things, probably born within the week. And if the mother had noticed your presence she hadn’t been too badly bothered by it. You watched them pick their way across the open expanse and then looking towards the trees, you noticed a bright patch of light, highlighting an Elecampane plant at the beginning of its spring growth.

Remembering the herbalist knowledge passed to you from your mother, you knew that its early spring root would be a perfect allergy reliever, and as some of your fellow ladies maids had begun to sniffle with seasonal allergies this was the perfect opportunity, something you simply could not pass up.

If you hadn’t been so distracted by the spring growth in front of you, all your senses diverted by the bountiful sounds, colors, and smells you would have noticed the large boar rooting about in the shaded undergrowth, his long tusks ripping up dirt in search of treasures. You also might have noticed how dangerously close the elecampane was to his rooting patch. Yet you hadn’t, your senses dulled from the time away from the wild countryside. It wasn’t until you began tilling the damp dark soil around the plant's base, that you got the sinking feeling that you were not alone. Cautiously you raised your head and listened, there in the woodland just ahead of you, you became aware of the short heaving breaths just inches from your head. Trying not to panic you shirked away from the sound. But it was too late!

He burst forth from the dark bracken with a guttural squeal that sent the hairs on the back of your neck up. His powerful hooves tore up the elecampane plant as he launched himself at you with a vicious snarl.

You screamed stumbling backwards fumbling for the short knife you had tucked into your dress, but in the chaos, it was flung from your reach. You kicked up at the large boar reaching desperately for the knife, its metal blade glinting in the afternoon light. His large tusks cut through the skirt of your dress, tearing the flesh of your leg and you screeched in pain. He lunged back towards you, his tusk now coated in blood from the cut he made; your blood.

You felt a desperate panic fill your chest, you could not die here, could not be felled by a boar.

You gained purchase on the blade and slashed at his long snout managing a short slice to his nose. He reared back in pain, releasing a blood-curdling squeal into the afternoon air.

From the thicket another boar burst, this one seemed to tower over the first, thick swamp grass hung from its back and it heaved hot air as it charged toward you. You scattered to your feet attempting to run but your legs were forced down by the weight of the first boar slamming into you full force.

As you hit the ground the air was knocked out of you and the knife was sent flying. A vicious high pitched ringing filled your ears and you knew you were done for.

There was a muffled clamor and then a yell, a shriek of pain followed by a squeal that was cut off violently; and then there was silence save for the ringing that persisted in your ears. You didn’t dare move, you just listened. There was some delegating and then the sound of a weapon being sheathed; the ringing stopped.

The world came into focus as a gentle hand cupped your shoulder, and then a voice crooned, “Are you alright Dove?”

Lowering your hands from your head you peeked up at the figure backed by light. They were glowing, and you struggled to make out their features. They crouched and helped you sit, gently drawing your injured leg out from under your now ripped and blood-soaked skirt. From this angle you could better make out their features, it was a woman who had saved you. A Dane woman at that.

“O-Oh I’m quite alright,” you stuttered out as you watched her examine your leg.

She looked up and gave you a soft smirk, the mirth behind her storm cloud-colored eyes said what you knew was the truth; no you weren’t alright, and she knew that. And you were truly in no place to refuse her help, seeing as she had just saved you from those boars.

“What did you think a little knife like this could do to a boar that size Sweetling,” she asked as she passed you back the knife that had fallen when you hit the ground the second time.

“I wasn’t meaning to hunt boars!” You retorted feeling your face go hot. She poured a little water over the cut and dried it with her cloak and then bound it tightly with a bandage.

“That’s not too tight now is it?” Her voice was gentle as she retracted her hands from your leg, some part of you screamed at the absence of her touch. But you shook your head.

“If you weren’t meaning to hunt boars what were you doing Sweetling?”

“I was picking flowers, and I…,” you trailed off looking back at the ruined elecampane plant.

She followed your gaze and gave a knowing sigh. The boars were gone, likely carried off by her men. You had heard her delegating to someone, was she someone important? She wasn’t dressed like the bandits that pervaded the countryside, and she had an air of decorum and importance. She offered you a hand and you took it, rising to her feet she tugged you up with her. You wobbled a bit and she supported your waist with her other hand. The skin under your dress where she touched tingled with longing. You gazed up at her, finding yourself admiring her strong features, high cheekbones, and warm eyes. Her hair was a dark chestnut brown, pulled away from her face but with a slight wave, the color made her grey eyes seem lighter, and there was a wisdom about her. Some scars marred her perfect face, yet they did not detract from her handsome appearance. You found yourself wanting all at once to know how she got them and to kiss them. She must’ve noticed your staring because she raised a quizzical arched brow. You looked away.

“Perhaps,” She said softly, a smile curling at the corners of her lips. “I could help you find another plant like the one they ripped up?”

You blushed at the suggestion and nodded, finding yourself eager to spend more time with your mysterious Dane rescuer.

She helped you search along the treeline for more elecampane well until the sun began to set, in the end, you only managed to find one fully grown plant that you felt well enough to harvest. You were shocked when she stopped you from digging up the plant yourself.

“A lady such as yourself should never have to dig,” she purred out, making you flush. A cord began to form around your heart.

“I’m no lady,” you whispered back, showing the crescent moons of dirt beneath your nails and the scars from years of hard work. She only shook her head and took your hands in hers.

“You may not be a lady in rank, but you are a lady to me…” She smiled and gently caressed the backs of your hands with her thumbs.

Your skin once again burned at her touch and you could feel your thoughts slip away into dangerous territory. She watched your face, eyes going soft, and then dropped your hands softly. She used the butt of her axe to carve away at the dirt and then pulled the plant up by its stalk shaking the roots of dirt. She presented it to you with a smile and you nodded approvingly.

She then stood and helped you pick your way across the meadow back to where you had abandoned your harvest of primrose, cowslip, and violets, all the while carrying the harvested plant for you. You paused before bending to pick up the bundle of flowers. Once you left this meadow you might never see her again, perhaps it was better that way, you knew that the Danes lived violent lives… Or was that just a lie that the church and ruling class wanted you to believe. This woman was tender, gentle, and kind and all the while she had saved your life. You gazed up at her and she was smiling, so much softness and kindness behind her gaze.

“I…,” you trailed off feeling shy. “I never got your name…”

She cupped your cheek softly with her clean hand, her thumb brushing gently along your cheekbone. You watched her eyes feeling flush under her touch, and the cord around your heart tightened. She was looking for something, and desperately you hoped she saw that something in you.

“My name is Soma, Jarlskona of Grantebridgescire…,” Soma said softly. “And may I have your name?”

You felt yourself stiffen, you had heard of the Danes and their Jarls, she ruled a clan of Danes and you, well you were nothing but a lowly orphan turned ladies maid. Here she had traipsed about a meadow with you all afternoon, even stooped to dig in the dirt. And here she was now, holding a plant for you, her hand on your face, and her gaze expectant, waiting. You had a feeling that she would wait for your answer forever if she had to.

“Y/N…” you suddenly felt very small, yet she was still giving you her attention, she didn’t shirk away, she just smiled and rubbed her thumb again.

Her hand slowly left your face to take your free hand, which lifted to her lips and kissed the back softly. Soma gazed at you with mirth in her eyes, “Hello, Y/N… may we meet again…”

She gently laid the elecampane atop the rest of your harvest and stepped to the side, but not before giving your hand the gentlest of squeeze. You wanted to melt, you wanted to go with her, fall at her feet and beg her not to leave you. But you didn’t; instead, you just smiled and nodded and began to walk away.

You felt foolish, silly, and a bit like a girl again. You had duties now, and so did she… but couldn’t you prioritize your happiness just this once you reasoned.

So you spun around, Soma had just started to turn herself but she stopped and gave you a small smile.

“Soma! When can I see you again?” You called out across the meadow, her smile broadened.

“In two days’ time,” She called back, you could hear the smile in her voice. “In this meadow Sweetling.”

You smiled, her last statement wasn’t a question, it was an order and it made you feel weak in the knees. Bringing the flowers close to your chest, you gave a hearty nod and a small bow. Soma only grinned and gave a small wave, but that was all you needed, your heart still soared with happiness.

“You should go before it gets too dark, Dove, I promise that I will be here,” she said motioning to the sun.

You nodded, turned, and began the trek back to the looming estate, hoping to beat the sunset.

~~~

The days seemed to drag on longer than ever now, you anticipated every minute of every hour, time ever approaching when you would see Soma again.

What would you talk about, what would you do? The thoughts of Soma swam in your head as you worked. You had thrown yourself into every possible chore, just to stay in Agnes’s good graces. From the moment you made it back into the building you had been bombarded with questions, like; what had taken so long, how had you managed to pick so many, how far had you gone, and what in God's name had happened to your dress.

All the other questions were easy, but for the last, you had to lie, you knew if you were to regale the tale of the boars and the dashing Jarlskona who had saved you, you would never be allowed out again. They had views about Danes here. So you had made up some lie about falling in a ditch, snagging your dress on a particularly sharp branch, it worked well enough as everyone seemed to believe you. They had taken the flowers away to the birth chamber and you had gone to your room to rest.

That night your head had swam with thoughts of Soma, your body remembering everywhere she had touched you. The way your skin seemed to pulse at the memory made you flush. Something coiled in your belly and you pushed it down. Your ears begged to hear her croon at you again, you yearned for her secret words just for you.

Sweetling…

Dove…

Overall it had been a very restless night.

On the second day it was raining, a torrential downpour in the morning that had kept everyone inside clinging to warmth from the fires. You had set about laying down pots to catch the water that fell through cracks in the old mortar and tile roof. Every glimpse you caught of the rain weighed your spirits down. Surely Soma wouldn’t venture out to see you in this weather, which made you worry. If this weather wore on through the season would she forget about you? Your stomach tied itself in knots as you tried desperately not to think of it, yet it chewed on your mind like a dog with a bone.

And yet, the weather wasn’t the only thing bringing your spirits down. It had become abundantly clear that your mistress intended to leave the countryside altogether after the birth. The reprieve from the musty old villa that you had craved just days ago was in sight, yet now you wanted so badly to stay. Soma was within reach here, the countryside lively and full of promise. It reminded you so much of your girlhood freedom that you couldn’t desperately bring yourself to leave now. Yet duty compelled you; should you run, where would you go?

Perhaps Soma would give you a home amongst her clan, but you knew you had none of the skills that it seemed the Danes valued. Your expertise in herbs and knowledge of tinctures could be useful, but what if they saw no use in that skill? You dreaded the thought of being unwanted by her. You had known her only a short while but you yearned for her approval and praise. Craved being wanted by her in both body and soul so much you almost ached. You shook your head to dispel your thoughts, you still had some time yet to formulate a plan and there was no use in puzzling over it now.

Resting your head against the cool stone window frame you closed your eyes and decided to take a quick rest.

Come afternoon the skies had lightened along with your spirits, and the downpour turned to a drizzle. The meadows beyond were streaked with light that cut through the rain clouds. There in the light, the flowers had started to shed the water that weighed them down, and animals emerged from their shelter from the storm. You glanced from where you sat at the window, searching the large room for Agnes. She had gone up to the mistress' room ages ago, telling you all to busy yourselves with personal time. The others were all occupied with small tasks, embroidery, and mending hose, and two of the girls were busy playing a game of draughts. She hadn’t said not to go outside, and surely she couldn’t be that mad if you went out.

You glanced back out the window, who could tell how long it would be clear out you reasoned, now was your chance permission or not.

Making haste you ran to grab your cloak and snuck out into the garden. The garden was clear of guards so you ran straight to the hole in the wall, removed your veil, and ran to the meadow.

You didn’t care about your wet dress and shoes, or the way the wet grass tried to snag and pull the bandage from your leg. All that mattered was seeing if she would truly be there.

When you reached the meadow your dress was soaked through, and your hair was plastered to your face from the drizzle. You looked around desperately hoping this wasn’t all a waste; then there she was. Sitting under a tall oak just at the edge of the meadow, Soma’s head was bowed, and her hands were busy with a long object that appeared to be wrapped in leather. She was just as handsome as you remembered, and she looked much drier than you.

You balled up your skirt and picked your way through the long grass. You wanted to run to her, and throw yourself in her arms, yet your nerves kept you at bay. How would she react to you, how long had she been waiting, why wasn’t she looking up. Your stomach was doing flips, you felt hot despite the chill in the air. You were sure that the water that pooled on your skin and eyelashes could have become steam with how hot your body felt at this moment. All this just from seeing her, you felt foolish.

She looked up, all of her features brightening at the sight of you, her smile stretched across her whole face. It made you shudder with happiness, that smile was for you.

She stood and held her hand out to you, ‘It's dry under here Sweetling.”

You took her hand eagerly, they were a welcome balm against the cold air that nipped at your poor fingers. She caressed the underside of your wrist gently with two fingers as she pulled you towards her. Your stomach filled with a deep ebbing warmth, you wanted to cling to her, lay yourself bare at her feet, subject to her every whim and desire.

Soma purred softly brushing wet hair from your face, “Thank you for coming to meet me, even with the rain.”

You swallowed blushing and nodded coyly.

“Don’t be shy Dove, have a seat,” Soma cooed and gestured to the rug she had laid out on the ground. You marveled at it for a moment, such an intricately woven textile surely cost a fortune, yet she brought it out on a rainy day to cover the ground. You glanced up at the Jarlskona and she simply raised a brow waiting for you.

You sat quickly fixing your skirts and surveyed the scene. Soma’s horse grazed lazily in a patch of cowslip and clover just on the edge of the tree line. On the rug rested Soma’s shield, it was a heavy-looking thing, made of both metal and wood, and you couldn’t help but marvel at the thought of how muscular her arms must be. Soma sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off her body.

“I was worried you had forgotten,” Soma teased gently, her voice full of mirth. “I’m glad you didn’t…”

You shivered at the added statement and watched as she turned towards you. Up close you could see the object she was holding was a dagger. The handle was made from what appeared to be deer antler and its sheath was the color of fresh hide stamped with the twisting sigils of the Danes. You had seen them carved into the hulls of their long boats that traveled the rivers of Mercia.

“I brought this for you, should you encounter any more boars this will surely do more damage than that sorry knife you wielded the other day,” she said, holding out the dagger for you to take from her hands.

“I couldn’t-,” You attempted to refuse, it was a beautiful gift, but what would the others say if they saw you with such a powerful instrument?

“Nonsense, even a lady should have the tools to properly protect herself,” Soma laid it in your lap. “It’s just a small gift Dove…”

You gazed down at the dagger in your lap. You couldn’t help but notice that the handle was perfectly sized for your hand, and carved in a way that it would not cause you any discomfort. You glanced up at Soma and she nodded encouragingly as if saying, “Go on, pick it up.”

It had a surprising heft to it, but the weight balanced perfectly even with it still in its sheath. Both comfortable and weighty in your hand, you wondered how to wield it properly. Soma pulled the sheath off so you could see the blade. It glinted in the light and along the spine of the blade, runes were inlaid in the metal. You rotated it in your hands looking up at her. She was watching you, a soft kind smile gracing her features that made your heart flutter. She had put a lot of thought into this gift, a small gift she had said. What did Soma consider a large gift?

She held out the sheath to you, “There’s a strap to attach it to your belt, so you never have to fumble with your pockets.”

You marveled up at her and smiled accepting the sheath back, “Thank you… It's a beautiful dagger.”

“We call it a seax,” Soma said, as she watched you slide the blade safely away. “They see much use on and off the battlefield.”

She paused for a moment, “I could teach you ways to defend yourself with it if you’d like, but I do enjoy saving you, Dove…”

You looked up at her eyes wide, your face was flush, you wanted to say; I love when you save me as well .

All you managed was a squeak that made Soma grin. She ghosted her fingertips over your hand sending a shiver up your spine. You tried to speak but your tongue had tied itself in knots and all that came was an audible gasp. Withdrawing her hand she sat back putting a distance between you again. You released a breath you didn’t know you had been holding. Was this all some kind of test? Every movement she made dripped with confidence, she ebbed with raw magnetic power, and oh Gods how you wanted to taste it.

Soma pulled you from your thoughts, “Have you eaten today Sweetling?”

You shook your head, you hadn’t felt well enough to eat what was offered to you this morning. Soma’s brows knit together concerned and she reached behind herself and pulled a small basket forwards, flipping the lid off. Inside was a small jug, which you learned was filled with mead brewed by a craftsman from her clan, a crescent of rich cheese, and two perfectly golden bread rolls. You felt your mouth water, since your lady had begun her seclusion the food afforded to the ladies’ maids had been meager at best, dwindling into a poor pottage and tough meat after the arduous winter. Soma must’ve noticed your stare because she held out one of the bread rolls with an affectionate smile. You took it eagerly and reveled at the smell of the fresh grains.

You sat in a comfortable silence enjoying each other's company, the food she had brought, and passing the bottle of mead between the two of you for quite some time. The afternoon brightened and the bees began to flit between flowers, the smell of the earth after rain made your heart sing and you released a contented sigh.

Soma glanced at you and smiled, “How is your leg Dove?”

You looked at her with surprise, she genuinely cared to remember your injury, when all the others had simply forgotten about it. It hadn’t been causing you much pain but the bruise that had formed around the wound was a ghastly-looking thing. Lifting your skirt you moved to show her, and she let out an audible hiss at the size of the bruise.

“Have you had an opportunity to rest, Sweetling? It's dreadful to look at…,” Soma’s voice was gentle. “Have you kept the wound clean?”

You nodded, “There's not much time to rest it I’m afraid… My mistress should be having her babe any day.”

You left out how busy you'd be after the baby was born, or how you’d likely be leaving the countryside altogether. Soma gently grazed her hand over the wound and looked up toward your face.

“Then you’ll rest now…” She said softly with a kind smile.

You fell into a secure silence again, periodically glancing at your company just to make sure she was still there.

“After her seclusion, where will you go?” Soma asked, breaking the silence, she was gazing out over the meadow. You felt your stomach drop. You hadn’t expected her to ask.

There was a hard lump in your throat, and you couldn't bring yourself to look at her as you spoke, “Away from the countryside… I know that much, likely back to the home of my lady’s husband. It's far from here, we were sent away for the season because of skirmishes with Danes…”

You trailed off staring down at the knife in your lap, would this be the only piece of your time with Soma that remained when you were gone?

“I thought maybe I would stay, but I can’t protect myself, and I can’t hunt. I could live the way my mother had before me, trading and tending to the sick, but how long would it be before the Christians came to kill me just like they killed her,” It pained you to say it aloud.

You glanced over at Soma, her strong brows were knit together with a frown stretching across her features. Her eyes were stormy, the unease apparent in her body language. You gently laid your hand atop her hand in a comforting gesture, and she softened. There wasn’t much you could do, you could only hope she felt the same as you. Yet perhaps together you could better come up with a solution. You closed your eyes for a moment just relishing this moment together even if it would be your last. There was a shuffling next to you after a long moment, and you peeked your eyes open. Soma had moved both her hands to cup yours, tenderly she raised them to her lips.

“Come with me, back to Grantebridge,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

You froze your eyes flitting around her face looking for a twitch, any telltale sign that she was having a go at you. She only gazed back at you, her eyes full of tenderness and affection.

“I can’t fight, I’m not skilled at anything that would benefit a clan,” You attempted to reason, but she only shook her head and cupped your cheek.

“You won’t have to Dove, don’t you worry about any of that. Please let me carry this burden for you,” Soma spoke softly, her thumb brushing along your cheek soothingly. “Come to Grantebridge, you’ll fit perfectly with my clan… with me…”

“You will have every desire in your heart Dove, should you decide to make Grantebridge your home. We have bountiful meadows just beyond the walls, and the city is a heart of trade, you’ll never be bored, my clan throws the most exciting parties…” Soma continued holding your free hand in hers while she caressed gentle circles against your cheek with her thumb. “Let me fulfill your every desire…”

Your heart skipped a beat, eyes stinging with tears. She wanted you after all, even with your faults. Her face was full of reverence and love as she waited for your answer, she was as patient as the rivers were wild.

“Truly…?” You stammered, biting back a sob.

Soma’s eyes went soft and she brushed a tear off your cheek gently, “Yes, truly, let me treat you as my lady, my queen…”

You nodded blindly, Soma gently cupped your face in her hands and pressed a loving kiss to your forehead, letting her lips linger against your skin. She chuckled softly and pulled you in for a sweet hug. You clung to her embrace, heart racing and warmth blooming in your chest. She rubbed your back soothingly, her hands strong and steady keeping you from floating away.

You laughed softly wiping your nose, “T-then you’ll be able to teach me how to use the seax afterall…”

Soma looked at you a grin scrunching her features and she laughed, “As you wish my Dove.”

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