Arena: Chapter 12: Blood Wash
Jan. 20th, 2005 06:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brainofckTitle/Chapter: Blood Wash
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
muck_a_luck, posting in brainofck
Pairing: SB/VM (other pairings in later chapters)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Viggo is somewhere else, where everyone and no one is the same
Content/warnings: AU. Violence. Rape/Non-con.
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Slash is fiction. So while we may all be demented, slash is basically the author's ownporno script, populated by the individuals she feels would be ideal to fill the various roles if she ruled the universe if she were ever fortunate enough have the opportunity to bring her vision to the screen. *snortle*
Archive rights: www.rugbytackling.com, Green Opals, if they're interested, and my journalsmuck_a_luck and brainofck
Further Disclaimer: Any resemblance to Ancient Rome mostly incidental. I have never seen any gladiator flick. Ever. Honest. Not even stinky Gladiator that stole FOTR's Oscar. *glares*
Blame:uisgich, for encouraging me
Arena
Water and Oil
Flesh and Iron
Night Terrors
First
Opening
Closing
Last
The Mysteries of the Next Life, Part I
The Mysteries of the Next Life, Part II
Initiate
Sean had fought for weeks. It meant that every night the house guards arrived with his first patron. They would tackle him and strip him with rough, hard hands, then bind him as his patron directed.
As it went on and on, night after night, he couldn't deny that his mistress had been right. He wasn't doing himself any favors by fighting. The men who came to him enjoyed watching him tamed and subjugated. He kept thinking about what she had said about the conquered warrior.
So he just stopped fighting. He still didn't cooperate. The guards stripped him and bound him in a kind of evening ritual. But it clearly took away the thrill for quite a few of his regular patrons. Certain men stopped asking for him.
But he didn't have fewer visitors, just different ones.
His mistress came to see him not long after. He was practicing when she arrived. He had practiced as best he could since he had come here. They never let him leave his chambers, but the room was large enough for him to lunge and thrust and practice his footwork. He worked to keep the strength in his arms with arm balances and push-ups and other exercises he had learned over the years. In his mind he always fought Viggo, remembering vividly his friend's surprising, twisting lunges and flawless blade work.
"I'd like to make your life better," she said quietly. Sean didn't break his rhythm, continuing the dodge and weave of the practice exercises.
"I know you are not going to cooperate with the patrons," she continued, not put off in the slightest. "But I'd like to get my men-at-arms out of your quarters. If we could come to an agreement that she would be safe, I could send Zara to you before your patrons come. She could see to binding you."
Sean paused in mid-stroke and considered.
When he had first come to The Laurel, all his patrons had been the same to him. He had hated them all with equal passion and one cock up his ass had been the same as another.
But he had been doing this for months now, and he knew they were different, though he also despised himself as a whore for having learned and accepted the differences. The first thing he had realized was that some were gentle and some were rough. After months of sometimes three lovers a night, he had come to appreciate the patrons who were careful.
Then some were almost like suitors, half in love with him, and while they were pathetic idiots, he had trouble truly hating them.
The only ones he really hated anymore were the ones that came to his chambers to humiliate him.
Ursus seemed to take it as a personal insult that Sean never climaxed when Ursus fucked him. They had to gag Sean before he could be in the same room with his patrons, but if he could have discussed it with Ursus civilly, he would have pointed out that it was the rare slave in the house that really enjoyed sex with them. And besides, on principle, Sean refused to let himself find even the least pleasure in the experience. He felt less a whore if each encounter was against his will and an ordeal to be endured.
Ursus wanted Sean's cum. He tried seducing him. Licking and nibbling at all the right places. Nuzzling Sean's limp cock, breathing against him warmly, suckling him despite his obvious lack of arousal.
Then he tried a different tack. He would stretch Sean and oil him, then work Sean with his fingers, long and thoroughly, cleverly manipulating Sean from within, following up with long, sweet, liquid strokes of his cock. Sean couldn't stop the heat that would build and spread up from the root of his spine, til his fingers tingled and his face flushed.
The first time he brought Sean off, Ursus crowed in triumph, and rode him roughly to his own completion.
"So it can be done!" He gasped in breathless delight, as he rolled off Sean's back into the soft piles of quilts and pillows. "Oh! The feel of you, clenching on me! Nothing is better than feeling another man's ass pulsing around your dick! You loved it!" He left Sean as he was, helpless to so much as shift out of the disgusting damp spot under him. He dressed and went striding back out into the house as if he had just beaten the odds in the arena and the emperor himself had been in attendance.
Sean hated him more and more with each visit.
Micon was an artist, with skills much like Viggo's. He could capture life in line on a piece of parchment or canvas in a way that sometimes almost frightened Sean.
He entered the room alone. He was no nonsense tonight, making Sean hopeful that really all he wanted was a quick fuck.
"You're looking lovely, as always." He murmured as he took Sean by the hips and lifted him up to take the first thrust. "I don't know how you manage it. They tell me that you haven't been outside this room since they brought you here. But you still look like a warrior, just out of the arena. It's the most amazing thing. Poetry in line and plane and muscle." Sean's hopes of a quick end to the session were dashed. Once Micon started talking it was always a long night.
When he had sated himself, he stepped back from the bed and surveyed Sean and his setting with a critical eye.
Often, at this point in a session, Micon would bring in the house guards to arrange his subject. Sean's arms and legs would be positioned just so. Then the bed clothes would be draped to hide the bindings. Or sometimes not. And sometimes the guard would be commanded to stay. Or one of the girls brought in. Or one of the boys.
Then the bastard would draw him. Or them. Capturing the grace of limb; the flow of cloth; the joining of bodies; the ecstasy on the guard's face; the killing anger in Sean's eyes.
Micon would always show the drawings to Sean afterwards.
Sometimes Micon drew a lie. Taking away the gag, and drawing languid, drowsy contentment on Sean's face. But almost always he drew the truth. The anxious tension of Sean's muscles, and the searing hatred for the artist. The edges of the parchment should have been curling and blackening with it.
Tonight, it seemed that Sean was fine as he was. Starkly bound by four points to the carved bed, spread out on the red covers. Micon moved to drape a white cloth across Sean's midriff, hiding nothing. Sean hoped the man had only paid for the night. Sometimes Micon would stay into the day, if he was feeling inspired. The drawing was like foreplay to him, and when he had done a series of renderings that particularly pleased him, he would use Sean's awkwardly bound body so roughly that Sean often couldn't accommodate a patron the next evening.
The drawings that night were perfect.
Sean hated Micon even more than Ursus.
Viggo couldn't imagine why Sennet would be providing his services to a man like Micon. But Sennet's instructions had been clear. Viggo was to make his way by stealth into the estate and meet Micon in his private chambers. Maps had been provided. Viggo was to learn the details of Micon's business, and begin a plan for carrying out his instructions. Apparently Sennet and Micon had already agreed upon a price.
Viggo slipped in off the balcony into a well-lit sleeping chamber. He was surprised to see that the walls of the room were covered with drawings. The most realistic drawings Viggo had seen since he came to this place. The artist was certainly ahead of his time and his culture.
Intrigued, Viggo began studying the pieces. There were many, some hardly more than sketches. Others serious studies.
Then he came to Sean.
Viggo had not seen Sean in almost two years. He had, in fact, nearly resigned himself to never seeing Sean again. Since he had started this work for Sennet over a year ago, no one had been able to tell him anything about his friend. He had started to believe that the story about the rumors of Sean's sale had just been a manipulation by Sennet, and in the last month or so had started to idly consider killing Sennet, taking his "earnings" and going to find some place to live quietly and mourn Sean in peace.
But here Sean was, clearly this artist's regular model. He looked healthy and fit. Wherever he was, they were looking after him. But Viggo was shocked at the expression the artist had captured on his friend's face. Hatred. Pure. Unadulturated. And Sean was bound in every piece. There were a few renderings showing Sean basking in what appeared to be a relaxed afterglow, but those struck Viggo as false. The artist was very good. But he hadn't caught Sean's mouth at all, and his nose wasn't right, and the beautiful crinkle of Sean's eyes when he smiled was missing. Viggo thought the expression was probably from the artist's imagination, hiding the fact that Sean wouldn't smile for him at all.
"What do you think?" Came a soft voice from behind him. "He's the most amazing model I've ever had."
Viggo turned to greet his host with an appropriate bow of his head. "He doesn't look very happy to sit for you." Viggo said, surprising himself with the calm in his voice and the cold knowledge of what he was about to do.
Micon shrugged. "He's a slave at the Laurel. I pay well for his services." Viggo's eyes drifted again to a drawing where Sean's face was hidden, and the soldier above him was clearly in the throes of orgasm.
In one fluid movement, Viggo turned and drew his long knife. His host didn't even have time to look startled before the blade was thrust under his ribs and pierced his heart. His last screams drowned to a mere gurgle as his lungs filled with blood. Viggo twisted and yanked the blade free and Micon fell into a heap at Viggo's feet. Viggo began swiftly removing all the drawings of Sean from the walls. Then, in a last moment of twisted inspiration, Viggo stripped off Micon's clothing, mopping up as much blood from the floor as possible, then wrapping the sodden, dripping cloth in the thick embroidered bed cover and disappearing back out into the moonless night.
His mistress brought him the portrait herself. She had, of course, opened it when it had been delivered to the door. Now she handed it to Sean, watching his face intently.
It was a drawing Micon had done of him, months ago. Possibly one of the very first ones. But it was unlike any work he had ever seen Micon do. It was washed and tinted, in a pigment he immediately recognized as the color of spilt blood. Curiously, he brought the piece towards his face. Yes, it was blood. And fresh. Sean lowered the drawing and stared at it. It was repulsive, a beautiful rendering of the biggest and stupidest of the house guards, in full uniform, taking Sean for his pleasure, and of himself, naked and bound and helpless. The whole thing drenched in blood.
Sean was about to let it fall to the floor when his mistress said, "There's a mark on the back, and a message."
Turning the page over, he saw the message. Written in Viggo's clear hand, in the outlandish writing that Viggo had taught him so that Sean could read Viggo's odd poetry.
But this wasn't poetry.
"He's dead. A poor gift, but the only one I can give you. I’ve been looking for you since I got back, and had given you up for dead. But I know where you are now, and that is something."
It was signed with Viggo's distinctive mark. The one tattooed on his shoulder. And below the mark, in typical Viggo fashion, the further message, "The guard is as good as dead."
Sean turned the piece over, looked at the blood tinted face of the guard, and smiled a cruel, bitter smile. He turned the page over again, ripped out Viggo's mark, and cast the rest into the fire.
He showed the mark to his mistress. For the first time in his residence in her house, he bowed to her respectfully, as a slave should do. He handed the scrap to her.
"My lady," he said, "I would like to have this done in ink on my body. Will you allow it?"
She gave him her most brilliant smile. The one she reserved for her best customers - many of whom were Sean's most frequent patrons.
"I know just the artist for the job," she said brightly. "I'll arrange it for this afternoon."
Sean bowed his thanks deeply, and she fairly skipped from the room. Sean sat looking at the small bright fire on his hearth and felt happy for the first time in months.
Sword Practice, Part I
Author:
muck_a_luck, posting in brainofckPairing: SB/VM (other pairings in later chapters)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Viggo is somewhere else, where everyone and no one is the same
Content/warnings: AU. Violence. Rape/Non-con.
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Slash is fiction. So while we may all be demented, slash is basically the author's own
Archive rights: www.rugbytackling.com, Green Opals, if they're interested, and my journals
muck_a_luck and brainofckFurther Disclaimer: Any resemblance to Ancient Rome mostly incidental. I have never seen any gladiator flick. Ever. Honest. Not even stinky Gladiator that stole FOTR's Oscar. *glares*
Blame:
uisgich, for encouraging meArena
Water and Oil
Flesh and Iron
Night Terrors
First
Opening
Closing
Last
The Mysteries of the Next Life, Part I
The Mysteries of the Next Life, Part II
Initiate
Sean had fought for weeks. It meant that every night the house guards arrived with his first patron. They would tackle him and strip him with rough, hard hands, then bind him as his patron directed.
As it went on and on, night after night, he couldn't deny that his mistress had been right. He wasn't doing himself any favors by fighting. The men who came to him enjoyed watching him tamed and subjugated. He kept thinking about what she had said about the conquered warrior.
So he just stopped fighting. He still didn't cooperate. The guards stripped him and bound him in a kind of evening ritual. But it clearly took away the thrill for quite a few of his regular patrons. Certain men stopped asking for him.
But he didn't have fewer visitors, just different ones.
His mistress came to see him not long after. He was practicing when she arrived. He had practiced as best he could since he had come here. They never let him leave his chambers, but the room was large enough for him to lunge and thrust and practice his footwork. He worked to keep the strength in his arms with arm balances and push-ups and other exercises he had learned over the years. In his mind he always fought Viggo, remembering vividly his friend's surprising, twisting lunges and flawless blade work.
"I'd like to make your life better," she said quietly. Sean didn't break his rhythm, continuing the dodge and weave of the practice exercises.
"I know you are not going to cooperate with the patrons," she continued, not put off in the slightest. "But I'd like to get my men-at-arms out of your quarters. If we could come to an agreement that she would be safe, I could send Zara to you before your patrons come. She could see to binding you."
Sean paused in mid-stroke and considered.
When he had first come to The Laurel, all his patrons had been the same to him. He had hated them all with equal passion and one cock up his ass had been the same as another.
But he had been doing this for months now, and he knew they were different, though he also despised himself as a whore for having learned and accepted the differences. The first thing he had realized was that some were gentle and some were rough. After months of sometimes three lovers a night, he had come to appreciate the patrons who were careful.
Then some were almost like suitors, half in love with him, and while they were pathetic idiots, he had trouble truly hating them.
The only ones he really hated anymore were the ones that came to his chambers to humiliate him.
Ursus seemed to take it as a personal insult that Sean never climaxed when Ursus fucked him. They had to gag Sean before he could be in the same room with his patrons, but if he could have discussed it with Ursus civilly, he would have pointed out that it was the rare slave in the house that really enjoyed sex with them. And besides, on principle, Sean refused to let himself find even the least pleasure in the experience. He felt less a whore if each encounter was against his will and an ordeal to be endured.
Ursus wanted Sean's cum. He tried seducing him. Licking and nibbling at all the right places. Nuzzling Sean's limp cock, breathing against him warmly, suckling him despite his obvious lack of arousal.
Then he tried a different tack. He would stretch Sean and oil him, then work Sean with his fingers, long and thoroughly, cleverly manipulating Sean from within, following up with long, sweet, liquid strokes of his cock. Sean couldn't stop the heat that would build and spread up from the root of his spine, til his fingers tingled and his face flushed.
The first time he brought Sean off, Ursus crowed in triumph, and rode him roughly to his own completion.
"So it can be done!" He gasped in breathless delight, as he rolled off Sean's back into the soft piles of quilts and pillows. "Oh! The feel of you, clenching on me! Nothing is better than feeling another man's ass pulsing around your dick! You loved it!" He left Sean as he was, helpless to so much as shift out of the disgusting damp spot under him. He dressed and went striding back out into the house as if he had just beaten the odds in the arena and the emperor himself had been in attendance.
Sean hated him more and more with each visit.
Micon was an artist, with skills much like Viggo's. He could capture life in line on a piece of parchment or canvas in a way that sometimes almost frightened Sean.
He entered the room alone. He was no nonsense tonight, making Sean hopeful that really all he wanted was a quick fuck.
"You're looking lovely, as always." He murmured as he took Sean by the hips and lifted him up to take the first thrust. "I don't know how you manage it. They tell me that you haven't been outside this room since they brought you here. But you still look like a warrior, just out of the arena. It's the most amazing thing. Poetry in line and plane and muscle." Sean's hopes of a quick end to the session were dashed. Once Micon started talking it was always a long night.
When he had sated himself, he stepped back from the bed and surveyed Sean and his setting with a critical eye.
Often, at this point in a session, Micon would bring in the house guards to arrange his subject. Sean's arms and legs would be positioned just so. Then the bed clothes would be draped to hide the bindings. Or sometimes not. And sometimes the guard would be commanded to stay. Or one of the girls brought in. Or one of the boys.
Then the bastard would draw him. Or them. Capturing the grace of limb; the flow of cloth; the joining of bodies; the ecstasy on the guard's face; the killing anger in Sean's eyes.
Micon would always show the drawings to Sean afterwards.
Sometimes Micon drew a lie. Taking away the gag, and drawing languid, drowsy contentment on Sean's face. But almost always he drew the truth. The anxious tension of Sean's muscles, and the searing hatred for the artist. The edges of the parchment should have been curling and blackening with it.
Tonight, it seemed that Sean was fine as he was. Starkly bound by four points to the carved bed, spread out on the red covers. Micon moved to drape a white cloth across Sean's midriff, hiding nothing. Sean hoped the man had only paid for the night. Sometimes Micon would stay into the day, if he was feeling inspired. The drawing was like foreplay to him, and when he had done a series of renderings that particularly pleased him, he would use Sean's awkwardly bound body so roughly that Sean often couldn't accommodate a patron the next evening.
The drawings that night were perfect.
Sean hated Micon even more than Ursus.
Viggo couldn't imagine why Sennet would be providing his services to a man like Micon. But Sennet's instructions had been clear. Viggo was to make his way by stealth into the estate and meet Micon in his private chambers. Maps had been provided. Viggo was to learn the details of Micon's business, and begin a plan for carrying out his instructions. Apparently Sennet and Micon had already agreed upon a price.
Viggo slipped in off the balcony into a well-lit sleeping chamber. He was surprised to see that the walls of the room were covered with drawings. The most realistic drawings Viggo had seen since he came to this place. The artist was certainly ahead of his time and his culture.
Intrigued, Viggo began studying the pieces. There were many, some hardly more than sketches. Others serious studies.
Then he came to Sean.
Viggo had not seen Sean in almost two years. He had, in fact, nearly resigned himself to never seeing Sean again. Since he had started this work for Sennet over a year ago, no one had been able to tell him anything about his friend. He had started to believe that the story about the rumors of Sean's sale had just been a manipulation by Sennet, and in the last month or so had started to idly consider killing Sennet, taking his "earnings" and going to find some place to live quietly and mourn Sean in peace.
But here Sean was, clearly this artist's regular model. He looked healthy and fit. Wherever he was, they were looking after him. But Viggo was shocked at the expression the artist had captured on his friend's face. Hatred. Pure. Unadulturated. And Sean was bound in every piece. There were a few renderings showing Sean basking in what appeared to be a relaxed afterglow, but those struck Viggo as false. The artist was very good. But he hadn't caught Sean's mouth at all, and his nose wasn't right, and the beautiful crinkle of Sean's eyes when he smiled was missing. Viggo thought the expression was probably from the artist's imagination, hiding the fact that Sean wouldn't smile for him at all.
"What do you think?" Came a soft voice from behind him. "He's the most amazing model I've ever had."
Viggo turned to greet his host with an appropriate bow of his head. "He doesn't look very happy to sit for you." Viggo said, surprising himself with the calm in his voice and the cold knowledge of what he was about to do.
Micon shrugged. "He's a slave at the Laurel. I pay well for his services." Viggo's eyes drifted again to a drawing where Sean's face was hidden, and the soldier above him was clearly in the throes of orgasm.
In one fluid movement, Viggo turned and drew his long knife. His host didn't even have time to look startled before the blade was thrust under his ribs and pierced his heart. His last screams drowned to a mere gurgle as his lungs filled with blood. Viggo twisted and yanked the blade free and Micon fell into a heap at Viggo's feet. Viggo began swiftly removing all the drawings of Sean from the walls. Then, in a last moment of twisted inspiration, Viggo stripped off Micon's clothing, mopping up as much blood from the floor as possible, then wrapping the sodden, dripping cloth in the thick embroidered bed cover and disappearing back out into the moonless night.
His mistress brought him the portrait herself. She had, of course, opened it when it had been delivered to the door. Now she handed it to Sean, watching his face intently.
It was a drawing Micon had done of him, months ago. Possibly one of the very first ones. But it was unlike any work he had ever seen Micon do. It was washed and tinted, in a pigment he immediately recognized as the color of spilt blood. Curiously, he brought the piece towards his face. Yes, it was blood. And fresh. Sean lowered the drawing and stared at it. It was repulsive, a beautiful rendering of the biggest and stupidest of the house guards, in full uniform, taking Sean for his pleasure, and of himself, naked and bound and helpless. The whole thing drenched in blood.
Sean was about to let it fall to the floor when his mistress said, "There's a mark on the back, and a message."
Turning the page over, he saw the message. Written in Viggo's clear hand, in the outlandish writing that Viggo had taught him so that Sean could read Viggo's odd poetry.
But this wasn't poetry.
"He's dead. A poor gift, but the only one I can give you. I’ve been looking for you since I got back, and had given you up for dead. But I know where you are now, and that is something."
It was signed with Viggo's distinctive mark. The one tattooed on his shoulder. And below the mark, in typical Viggo fashion, the further message, "The guard is as good as dead."
Sean turned the piece over, looked at the blood tinted face of the guard, and smiled a cruel, bitter smile. He turned the page over again, ripped out Viggo's mark, and cast the rest into the fire.
He showed the mark to his mistress. For the first time in his residence in her house, he bowed to her respectfully, as a slave should do. He handed the scrap to her.
"My lady," he said, "I would like to have this done in ink on my body. Will you allow it?"
She gave him her most brilliant smile. The one she reserved for her best customers - many of whom were Sean's most frequent patrons.
"I know just the artist for the job," she said brightly. "I'll arrange it for this afternoon."
Sean bowed his thanks deeply, and she fairly skipped from the room. Sean sat looking at the small bright fire on his hearth and felt happy for the first time in months.
Sword Practice, Part I
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-03-24 04:07 pm (UTC)I told you they're cookies...I keep typing/squeeing/commenting like I'm on a sugar rush. ^_^
The breaks in the timeline
Date: 2005-03-24 04:13 pm (UTC)So yes. If there's a big break I've left, I probably don't have any intention of going back to fill it in. So if you were interested in writing within the parameters I've set up, that would be awesome!
I'm on AIM/MSN during most of the business day, and am available via e-mail, if you wanted to talk it over. My stats are up on
The blood wash
Date: 2005-03-24 04:14 pm (UTC)That was a total muse moment, too. I woke up at 6am on a Saturday with this idea and sneaked out before the boys woke up and pounded it out.
The inside of one's brain is such a weird place...
Re: The blood wash
Date: 2005-03-24 04:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-24 04:43 pm (UTC)Waiting patiently *yeah right* for more.
Getting inked
Date: 2005-03-24 04:47 pm (UTC)Dude, that is so awesome! I hit a kink that hadn't even occured to me!
no subject
Date: 2005-03-24 07:07 pm (UTC)Sorry, sorry, sorry!
Date: 2005-03-24 07:11 pm (UTC)Hope to have the next two open this evening. :)
no subject
Date: 2005-03-24 09:53 pm (UTC)i mean... fuck *mustbepolitetoauthor* ... i love you.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-25 02:40 am (UTC)Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2005-03-24 10:09 pm (UTC)Thanks!
Date: 2005-03-25 12:03 am (UTC)Re: Thanks!
Date: 2005-03-25 07:43 am (UTC)*smiles* Thanks ;)
Glad you liked it.
Welcome and I do; a lot. I have this fic saved on my PC for easy rereading! ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-03-24 10:35 pm (UTC)You are not authorized to view this protected entry."
i'm begining to bloody hate those words.....
*meep*
Date: 2005-03-24 11:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-25 01:44 am (UTC)Good, this means that the real sex isn't far behind! :)~
Very nice I am totally enjoying it!!! ;)~
Pr0n on the way
Date: 2005-03-25 03:30 pm (UTC)Re: Pr0n on the way
Date: 2005-03-25 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-25 04:07 am (UTC)But I want it NOW!!!!!!
Sorry, but I had to get that out of my system.
I am a sucker for a well-researched historical AU...a sucker, I tell you. And now, thanks to Arena, I am putty in your hands.
Research
Date: 2005-03-25 02:14 pm (UTC)Regarding research... It is to laugh! The only research I did was to see if I was even close to how gladiators would be treated. And according to this one website I saw, they got the best food, best medical treatment, and had groupies and fangirls for all the sex they wanted. My research, for whatever it's worth! Oh, and that documentary about hormones where they described the use of oil and scrapers...
Re: Research
Date: 2005-03-25 03:27 pm (UTC)I wish I could articulate this better, but this story *feels* like it's set in Imperial Rome, and not a slavefic with some scenery thrown in.
Re: Research
Date: 2005-03-25 03:29 pm (UTC)I personally have one of the worst reality squicks you are ever likely to encounter. It makes me so happy to think that I'm writing something that is working. :)
But you *did* research.
Though I'll be laughing over that all day. :)
Thanks so much!
no subject
Date: 2005-03-26 12:00 pm (UTC)(yells at viggo)oh yeah, dammit, you go get your man! like now!
i'm sorry, and probably shouldn't admit to such, but that non-con scene at the beening was... it was like being a slash newbie all over again. time to change the underwear kinda thing. *EEEEEP!* even it was bad and nasty, what happens to sean.
i didn't like the skeezy little weasel of an artist, either, and i'm glad viggo offed him. just amazingly good this story... i hope you're next chapter's up and running.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-26 12:07 pm (UTC)time to change the underwear kinda thing
LMAO! You do realize that this phrase is my very standard of good
pr0nerotic fiction. *snickers*no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 03:01 pm (UTC)Thanks!
Date: 2005-05-03 11:22 pm (UTC)Re: Thanks!
Date: 2005-05-04 12:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-21 11:56 pm (UTC)