#Libations & Movement
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The Naughty Wench
Summary: You work as a barmaid at the raunchiest booth at the Renaissance Faire, and Eddie purchases a beer from you. He gets a little more than a "huzzah for the tipper" when he throws a fiver in the jar labeled "Thank you, Mistress". (Read: you talk dirty to Eddie while you pour beer down his throat) Based on this Tik Tok posted by @joyful_aura: https://www.tiktok.com/@joyful_aura/video/7244964514561543470
Word Count: 4.7k
Content Warnings: light degradation, dirty talk, sexual themes
Working the faire circuit was in one word… an experience.
Just last week you had been in Texas at Scarborough Faire, where it had been hot as balls underneath your layers of linen, lace and leather. The earlier months hadn’t been too bad, but there was one thing you’d learned about the southern states in your years of renaissance faire experience- when summer hits in the south, it hits hard. The moment you’d driven your van past the Indiana state line, you could have sworn the temperature dropped ten degrees on the spot.
Now here you were- all trussed up in your wench getup, tits pushed up high enough that they rested like two fleshy pillows right below your collarbones. The corset you’d chosen today wasn’t your most comfortable, but you looked damn good in it- milk chocolate brown with pale gold ribbons that laced up the front. The straps that ran over your shoulders provided some extra support, which you were grateful for with all of the movement your job required. Your skirts today were a warm shade of mustard yellow with a few mismatched patches sewn over holes and stains that had refused to come out over the years. Short sleeved blouses were a must, unless you wanted to pass out from heat stroke or have beer-soaked sleeves clinging to your forearms. Today yours was a pale cream color, with little puffed cap sleeves to cover your shoulders and a neckline that plunged below your corset, so the girls were front and center, ready to earn plenty of “huzzah for the tipper!”s.
Today was Sunday, and since this faire was weekends only, Sundays were basically Fridays as far as faire folk were concerned. As was tradition, you would all be going out for libations once the day was done, followed by a blissful night of sleeping late in your Volkswagen Westfalia.
You hadn’t known what to expect when you’d quit your job and joined the faire circuit, but every day you got to meet new people, play dress-up, and speak in a funny accent- which accent? You switched it up day to day. And the fact that you got paid to do that made it even better.
You loved your little renfaire life.
You stood with your hands on your hips inside the little wooden booth that served as your place of work for the next month’s worth of weekends. Every plastic cup was stacked in place, you had a fresh cleaning rag stuck into your apron, and patrons were already beginning to file into the fairgrounds. A pleasant breeze brought a smile to your face.
“Morning, love!” You turned to see your fellow barmaid, Ingrid, wiping her hands on her own apron after wringing out her own rag into a small bucket of soapy water. Her outfit today was- like most days- the polar opposite of yours. She looked more like a pirate wench while your color palette was more akin to what one might picture in a countryside tavern. Burgundy skirts and off-white petticoats swished around her black lace-up boots, and her black leather waist cincher showcased the smallest part of Ingrid’s middle. You gasped, acting scandalized by the bits of black lace from her bra that peeked over the neckline of her red blouse.
“Ingrid, what kind of place do you think we’re running here?” you tutted, smiling cheekily all the while. “This is a respectable establishment! People might start thinking we sell more than just the drinks here, you know.”
Ingrid cackled, hopping up to sit on the wooden counter behind her. “My dear, I have absolutely no clue what you could be talking about.” She shrugged, smirking behind a shared secret. “We do sell more than just the drinks.” You both giggled knowingly, continuing to complete all of the morning to-do’s around the bar.
Ingrid was right- drinks weren’t the only thing your bar was known for.
There were plenty of booths around the faire where patrons could purchase a drink, but only one where the barmaids would pour beer directly into their mouths while talking dirty to them- and The Naughty Wench just happened to be that booth.
Originally, the idea had been Ingrid’s- the two of you had been friends for a year now, meeting last year in this exact same spot at Indie Faire and working at what was then a run-of-the-mill beer booth. It was customary at any renaissance faire for bar wenches to proclaim “Huzzah for the tipper!” when presented with a tip of any kind, so neither of you was a stranger to putting on the theatrics when money was dropped into your tip jar. One day, however, Ingrid had put out not one, but two tip jars- one labeled ‘Thank You’, the other labeled ‘Thank You Mistress’. You had laughed at it at first. Then Ingrid started…changing the script.
A patron would chuckle to themselves, throwing a dollar into the Mistress jar, eyes going wide and cheeks flushing when Ingrid would smile and tell them they were “such a good boy.”
After a few more, she’d gotten even more creative. “Oh, you thought I only wanted money?” she would croon, holding the beer tauntingly out of their reach. “I want to hear you beg for it, say ‘please, mistress’,” When you’d heard it you’d been appalled, mouth opened wide in shock. You had already prepared yourself for the patron to yell in her face and demand their money back when you’d heard a shy, stuttering “P-please, mistress, can I have my beer?”
Throughout the day, Ingrid’s “Mistress” character only continued to amp up with every hour. At some point, you had joined in, repeating the sultry tones you’d been listening to Ingrid spout easily to strangers and even making up a few responses of your own.
“Only good boys get to drink at the faire, have you been a good boy?”
“You need to say please before you drink- good girl, you’re so very welcome.”
“Hands behind your back and open wide.”
Word about Ingrid’s sultry tipping strategy circulated quickly. Soon, more and more patrons were lining up at your booth ready to be degraded by pretty girls in tight corsets, and when you started pouring the beer into their mouths, tits pressed up higher on your chest while you leaned seductively over the bartop? People couldn’t get enough.
The success you’d both had with Ingrid’s brilliant idea had now landed you here- a booth that was dedicated to serving delicious beverages garnished with a splash of degradation.
Your first patron of the day- a young woman who looked ready to play a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream- stepped up to Ingrid, gazing up at her with a flutter of eyelashes as she ordered a can of beer and shyly dropped a one dollar bill into the jar labeled ‘Thank You, Mistress’. Ingrid smiled, asking “Do you know what that jar is for?” to which the fairy blushed and nodded, giggling.
“Mm-hm.”
Ingrid grinned flirtatiously, popped open the beer, and addressed the fairy, “Such tiny little hands you have, they’ll make my can look so huge…”
***
Eddie Munson was vibrating.
At least, he felt like he was. He could barely contain his enthusiasm as he looked around at every sword, every pair of elf ears, every corset- to his left, there was a booth selling handmade leather journals. To his right, a stage where a crowd had begun to gather to watch a group of bagpipe players. In front of him and behind him, a seemingly endless number of nerds who, like him, had found a place where being a weirdo was not mocked, not simply tolerated- but celebrated.
“I fucking love it here.” Eddie sighed.
Steve Harrington, whom Eddie was still a little astounded had been convinced to actually go to a renaissance faire, looked overwhelmed already. “I can’t believe there are this many grown adults who wanted to spend the last day of their weekend playing dress-up.”
“Playing dress-up and getting drunk.” Robin corrected. Unlike Harrington, she had thrown herself into the renfaire spirit completely, showing up in a tasteful pirate outfit that Eddie had a feeling was comprised mostly of oversized pieces she’d found in the men’s section of the thrift store, but she pulled it off. All she was missing were some real swords, which she had already announced she was on the hunt for today.
“I feel bad for people who are so out of touch with their inner child that they have to get drunk just to put on a costume.” Dustin said matter-of-factly, shooting Steve a judgemental look. Steve balked when he caught it, yapping at Dustin about growing up or the ridiculousness of how much quality costumes cost- something along those lines. Eddie wasn’t listening, he was too busy taking mental note of which booths he needed to come back to before they left; he knew if he ducked inside them now, he would blow all of his money on the first stall they saw, and he was determined to stretch his budget for the day as far as he could.
“Well I for one think we all look amazing, costume or no.” Robin said decisively. Eddie had to agree. He had spent weeks working on his own costume, digging through his and his friends’ closets to create an ensemble fit for a tiefling bard such as himself. He had fashioned himself a pair of red horns using one of Erica’s old headbands, toilet paper rolls, tin foil, paper mache and black paint. Now, they sat nestled securely among his brown mane of curls. The rest of his outfit had been easy- a blousy-looking shirt from Nancy’s closet that he’d rolled up around the elbows, one of Wayne’s old waistcoats from a suit that hadn’t seen the light of day since Eddie’s parents’ wedding, apparently, a pair of black pants that he’d tucked into his combat boots, and a plethora of accessories. Rings on every finger, every belt he owned slung over his waist or across his torso, one even looped twice around his thigh. Eddie had even gone the extra mile this morning and smudged some of Robin’s red lipstick (he was still amazed that Buckley owned lipstick) around his eyes as a nod to the fact that tieflings’ skin is normally red or blue. To finish off the look, he had even brought along his old acoustic guitar, which was slung over his back to mark him undeniably as a bard.
Eddie thought he looked pretty damn cool.
The rest of their party had also decked themselves out for the day, Robin with her pirate outfit, Dustin, Mike, Lucas and Will had done a fantastic job of transforming themselves into hobbits for the day. Max, Erica and El hadn’t been able to decide whether they wanted to dress as pirates or fairies- so they’d all chosen both. Now they looked happy as could be, skipping down the dirt path with fairy wings on their backs and plastic swords on their hips. That left Steve as the only normal-looking person in a sea of geeks.
Eddie chuckled to himself- for once in his life, Steve Harrington was the odd one out while Eddie Munson was effortlessly fitting in.
“First order of business is turkey legs.” Robin announced, eyes already darting in every direction in search of lunch as she wandered ahead.
Steve mumbled in agreement, along with something about finding something to drink so that he’ll survive the day. Just then, a trio of pretty young women in corsets caught his eye, immediately brightening his mood. He ran a hand through his hair, ready to say something undoubtedly Steve-y to them, when they beat him to the punch.
“Hi! Um, would you mind taking our picture?” One of them said, shoving a camera in his direction.
Steve, surprised but not altogether deterred, smiled and took the camera. “I’d be happy to, ladies.” However, he couldn’t hold back his shock when the girls all turned to the four teenage boys.
“You guys look like you came straight out of Lord of the Rings!” one of them exclaimed. “Best costumes I’ve seen all weekend, honestly.” The girls situated themselves between the blushing boys as they muttered different ‘thank you’s and complimented the girls’ outfits in turn.
Steve snapped the picture begrudgingly while Eddie slung an arm around his shoulders. “Looks like you’re losing your charm there, Harrington.” he smirked, earning an eye roll from Steve in turn.
“Yeah, yeah, piss off, Dante’s Inferno.”
“How have you read Dante but not Tolkien?”
Their bickering was cut short by corset girl retrieving the camera from Steve, then giving Eddie a shy, “I like your horns.”
Eddie turned his full attention to her with a toothy grin. “‘Preciate it, sweetheart.”
The girls waved goodbye with a thank you, erupting into giggles as they walked away. Steve shook his head in disbelief. “What world did I accidentally cross into where Munson has game and I have none?”
Eddie cackled maniacally, hopping onto a nearby picnic table and swinging his guitar to his front, strumming it a couple of times with a flourish of his hand.
“You’re in my kingdom now, King Steve!” Eddie plucked the strings of his instrument jauntily, unable to contain his glee. “Here, it pays to be a freak.”
Strum-strum-strum.
Eddie threw a fist in the air. “Huzzah!”
To his surprise, his call was echoed by several patrons and vendors, erupting in a hearty “Huzzah!” from all around him.
Accepted. Celebrated. Eddie felt at home.
That’s when Robin came bounding up from behind him, two turkey legs in hand. “Okay, I know where we’re going next.” She sounded excited.
Steve took one of the turkey legs from her hand, eager to get something in his stomach. “And where is that, Robin?”
She grinned largely, immediately launching into a retelling of a conversation she had had with another patron while waiting in line for the turkey legs, going on several tangents about how surprised she was that the line was short, how the patron had been dressed like a viking and actually had viking tattoos all up and down his arm, how she wasn’t sure how accurate they were but they sure looked cool-
“Robin!” Steve interjected impatiently.
“Right! Sorry! Basically one of the bars has wenches that talk dirty if you give them a tip, and I want to see that in action.”
Steve and Eddie’s eyes grew wide. Steve, hilariously, started to check behind him for the kids as if they were still too young and innocent to be talking about such things even though they were all about to graduate high school already. To his relief, they had all wandered into a booth selling leather goods.
Eddie responded before Steve could. His lips had curled into a mischievous smile, “Buckley,” he crooned, gesturing for her to lead the way. “I’m gonna need you to tell me more about these wenches.”
***
By noon, the line for your booth was easily at least ten people long and stayed that way no matter how many beers you’d poured. Luckily for the two of you, not every patron at the faire was seeking you out just for the bonus content. Most of them just wanted a drink, which you couldn’t fault them for. After all, nothing went with a summer day quite like a cold, bubbly beverage.
“Hey,” Ingrid’s voice caught your attention as you took a brief moment to wipe down the drain under the tap while the line had gone briefly shorter. “Remember that conversation we had where I called you out on having a type?”
You laughed, nodding your head. “Yes, I think I do. Why?”
“Tell me what that type was again?”
You sighed, tucking your rag back into your apron and patting your hands dry at your sides. “Let’s see, I think I remember you said long hair was involved-”
“Long dark hair, specifically.”
“-long dark hair, right.” you remedied. You busied yourself with fixing the next patrons’ drink orders as the discussion proceeded. “Tattoos were mentioned, and I think you said something about makeup?”
“You always get all swoony around men wearing eyeliner or some kind of eye makeup. Always. Without fail.”
“Yeah, yeah okay…” you rolled your eyes. She was right, but you hated that you were apparently so obvious about it.
“I would like to make an educated guess about another thing I think belongs on that list.” Finally turning to face Ingrid, you cocked your head, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Okay, I’ll bite- what else do you think belongs on that list?”
Ingrid grinned, looking pointedly at something over your shoulder. “I think you’re into guys who play guitar.”
You blanched- damn. That had been true since high school, how did she-
You spun around to see whatever Ingrid was focused on behind you, and felt your knees get weak when you found it. There was a man- in his twenties, from the looks of it- dressed as a tiefling bard with a guitar slung over his shoulder. It was true, from looks alone he checked all of your boxes. The long curly hair, the red makeup around his eyes, the tattoos that showed on his forearms…
“You okay over there, or did my business partner go brain dead for a second?” You heard Ingrid’s smirk before you saw it. She laughed at you good-naturedly when you faintly swatted at her with your cleaning rag. “It looks like they’re headed this way, you take him and I’ll take his blonde pirate friend.”
You took another look at the man- trying not to be obvious about the fact that you were looking- and noticed this time that he was traveling with two others: the aforementioned blonde pirate and a normal-looking guy who, admittedly, had very nice hair. They did seem to be headed your way; you quickly took a moment to turn around and top off the canteen that hung from the leather belt at your waist with some cold water. You quickly took a sip before turning around to face the counter, and when you did, there he was.
“Hi, uh-” his eyes were downcast, hands digging into his pockets for cash. “-can you break a twenty?” Pulling a crumpled bill from a money clip, his gaze met yours under an apologetic brow. Big brown eyes, framed with blood-red smudges- he pulled it off. Tremendously.
You didn’t have to force your service industry smile- it came naturally for him. “With pleasure, noble bard.” You propped your forearms on the wooden bartop, hoping your cleavage was looking particularly stunning at the angle from which he was gazing up at you. “And what sort of beverage might you be craving on this fine day?”
“That’s right, wrap your lips around my tip and drink me down, beautiful-”
Before he could answer, the two of you were both more than a little distracted by Ingrid’s filthy monologue. She held a freshly opened can of beer to the blonde pirate girl’s lips, and you were very impressed with how easily the girl was able to obey the instructions that Ingrid gave every customer who tossed a tip into the Mistress jar- hands behind your back, mouth open, chin up, eyes on me. You and the dark-haired tiefling were both entranced by the sight before you: Ingrid, with the endless stream of dirty words that tumbled from her mouth as she poured bubbly, golden brew down the throat of the tall blonde pirate.
“-keep that pretty mouth open you little minx, and look up at me as i finish down your throat. Yes, that’s a good girl, and swallow.” Ingrid pulled the can away from her lips with a smile, gazing proudly down at the pirate who sputtered out a soft cough after breathing down some much-needed oxygen. “Good job, darling.” Ingrid crooned.
The regularly-dressed guy standing behind her stared with wide eyes, and you couldn’t quite tell if he was appalled or impressed. “Oh…my god, Robin!” he guffawed.
“I’ll.. aha, um-” You refocused your attention to the bard standing before you, a natural blush now creeping into his cheeks beneath the red makeup on his temples. “-I’ll have what she’s having, please.” He nodded to his friend- Robin, apparently.
You smiled knowingly, taking the twenty from his hands and ignoring the rush you felt when your fingertips brushed his. You made his change, handing him a few fives and ones before giving the Mistress jar a gentle tap. You finished opening his beer just in time to see him toss a five into the jar- a generous tip, since the beer only cost $3.
You raised an eyebrow, smiling at him appreciatively. “Huzzah for the tipper.” you purred, opting to make the phrase just for him instead of yelling it obnoxiously for all to hear. After all, you were about to be plenty obnoxious already.
You nodded flirtatiously to direct his attention above you. “See those shackles up there, love?”
His eyes, shining with anticipation and the best kind of nerves, flicked up to what you were referring to- dangling from the wood above the bartop were a pair of metal handles that hung by black-painted chains. They were similar to an actual shackle, but it was obvious that they were there to hold, not imprison. The bard looked back down to you, returning your flirting gaze.
“I do.” he smirked.
You narrowed your eyes on him playfully. “I’m going to need you to reach up and take hold of them-” He did as he was told, and you admired how his blousy sleeves fell further down to his biceps, showcasing the way his ink stretched over lean muscles. “-oh good boy, you look so good stretched out for me like that. Hold tight now, darling.”
You had to hold back a chuckle at how quickly his flirty eye contact and smirk turned to a pure deer-in-the-headlights expression when you’d called him a good boy. You had an inkling that this guy wasn’t used to being told what to do in this particular way.
Leaning forward until your cleavage was practically up against his nose, you nodded at him sweetly. “Open that pretty pink mouth for me darling- yes, that’s right, lips around my hole and suck-” Once the can was to his lips, you began pouring a steady stream down his throat. His big doe eyes didn’t know where to look, torn between your eyes and your tits that looked just about ready to pop out of your corset. The rest of the words that tumbled from your mouth were less spoken and more so moaned while you gazed down at this gorgeous little tiefling who- for the next few moments- was completely at your mercy.
“-take it, yes, good boy, take me deep into your throat as you look up at me with those pretty brown eyes. Oh my goodness, you’re so obedient! I love it when a big strong man lets himself be this pretty and stretched out for me as he suckles on my little hole. No, don’t look away, my eyes are up here you wretched little thing- yes, that’s right, oh I only wish I could hear all the pretty noises you make when you take me down deep like this. Yes, you’re going to finish me, aren’t you? Oh yes, you’re going to finish me using that dirty little mouth-” Nearing the end of the can, you poured the last drop down his throat. “-yes, oh that’s a good boy, swallow every drop of me, good job love.”
He sputtered a final swallow, red-faced and breathing deep after chugging an entire can of beer. His eyes were still wide, but now there was also the way he looked at you- like he would do pretty much anything you ever told him to do at the drop of a hat.
Letting go of the shackles above your head, he managed to catch his breath before checking behind him to make sure he didn’t have a long line of waiting customers. No line had formed, but his blush had deepened when he saw his friends both watching him with smirks that said they were never going to let him live this down.
“Shit,” he chuckled looking up at you, his personality taking on a slightly more devil-may-care sort of attitude now. “I-uh- I think I blacked out, you might have to say all that again, I didn’t catch it the first time.”
You laughed, easily shirking the domineering attitude that you exuded for the job and relaxing into what felt natural- soft, sweet, and flirty- with this guy, at least. “Tell you what,” you said, coyly. You weren’t normally one to invite strangers out for drinks, but Ingrid had been right about one thing- this guy was definitely your type. “When the faire closes today, I’ll be at a bar called The Honeybee about ten minutes from here. If I happen to see you there,” you shrugged, and you didn’t miss how his eyes immediately flicked down to your cleavage as the motion made you bounce. “-then we can say all kinds of things to each other.”
The facial expression on the bard changed in an instant, his expression shifting from innocent and eager to knowing and darkly tempting. “Tell me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “Are you always as demanding as you were just now, or was that just an act?”
You knew what he was asking, and part of you wanted to tell him that he’ll have to show up at The Honeybee if he wants to find out, but something in you also wanted him to know the answer to that question- wanted him to know so many things about you it made your head spin.
“I can go either way and have a great time regardless.” you replied, smiling sweet as a spoonful of honey, and the devilish grin that he gave you in return took the breath from your lungs.
“Perfect.” he practically growled, “What’s your name?”
You told him, and the way he repeated it on his lips had you pressing your thighs tightly together. “And your name is?”
“Eddie.” he smiled.
You grinned in return. “Eddie.” you repeated. His name tasted like whiskey and cinnamon on your tongue. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”
To your surprise, Eddie laughed raucously, hopping back a few paces. “Oh, on the contrary, fair barmaid!” With a flourish, he swung his guitar from his back to his front, strumming a few chords in rapid succession and plucking them in a melody that showed a level of skill that you hadn’t been expecting. After a moment of music, he stopped short and looked up at you with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Mark my words, my love- you’ll see me again before tonight and you will- without a doubt- hear me before you see me.”
You let out a surprised laugh, fingers flying up to your mouth to block an obnoxious guffaw from escaping your lips. That only spurred Eddie on more. He made a sort of swatting motion with his hand, gesturing toward your own hand at your mouth. “Away, thou evil hand! How dare ye venture to hide the sweetest of smiles that does bloom on a flower such as this?” He plucked away at his instrument dramatically, as if doing so were a declaration of war. You couldn’t help but humor him, grabbing the offending hand with your other one and firmly clasping both in your lap.
Eddie smiled, still strumming his guitar. “Aye, and stay away! For there are far better things for pretty hands to do than hide even prettier faces.” He waggled his eyebrows up and down as he began to walk away with his friends.
Your jaw dropped as you let out a good natured scoff. “And what would the noble bard suggest I do with my pretty hands?” you knew that you practically yelled it, and it caused a few other guests to glance your way questioningly; you didn’t care, it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing you’d said today.
Eddie’s cackle rang out through the air like electricity during a storm, and your heart did a little backflip when he spun around once before facing you one last time before he was out of your line of sight. “Oh, my lady-” he called, smiling unabashedly, “-I humbly suggest you find the biggest can you have, think of me-” and then the motherfucker winked, “-and use your imagination.”
#eddie munson#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x reader#renaissance faire#naughty wench#rip-quizilla
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🗒️ 、 AFTER PARTY !
꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱💭 ・ 이희승 x fem reader. 장르 fluff implied non-idol au friends to lovers warning reader is tipsy hee’s in love & 375 words
ru’s note ・ this was actually written with a bllk chara but hee fits this concept too, reposted from my old acc yoi; in which under the moonlight, he discovered his love for you.
The night was cold, with a chilling wind whispering through the air, causing you to clutch your jacket, yearning for additional warmth. You were on your way home, accompanied by Heeseung after a delightful evening spent with friends.
The decision to forgo the car was deliberate; an inexplicable desire to walk amidst the enigmatic dangers that lay hidden in the darkness had taken hold of you. Understanding your inclination, Heeseung willingly joined you, ensuring your safety.
In your slightly tipsy state, courtesy of the libations consumed earlier, Heeseung thoughtfully draped his arm over your shoulder, preventing any inadvertent collisions with lampposts or obstacles. Progressing past shuttered establishments, their doors securely locked, you caught sight of a handful of illuminated 24-hour stores dotting the quiet streets.
Silent footfalls carried you both through the nocturnal landscape until you found yourselves standing at the entrance of a modest park, an intermediary on your journey home. In this moment, an inexplicable desire to dance enveloped you, compelling you to seize Heeseung’s hand. And lo and behold, before you stood a graceful fountain, its ethereal presence heightened by the feeble glow of a solitary streetlamp.
“Seung-Ah, dance with me,” you whispered, an impish smile playing on your lips as you met his puzzled gaze.
Embracing the whimsy of the moment, you seized the lead, swaying side to side, hands entwined with an invisible thread of shared joy. The rhythm of your movements carried you through spins and twirls, your laughter blending with the night’s gentle serenade.
Yet, the intoxicating effects of the evening’s libations betrayed your balance, causing a momentary stumble. In that instant, Heeseung’s reflexes kicked in, his arms swiftly encircling your waist, preventing your fall. His eyes, softened with tenderness, witnessed your laughter, a sight that tugged at his heartstrings.
As you regain your composure, you reciprocate his steadfast support, grasping his hand and propelling yourselves forward, hastening toward the warmth and comfort of your shared sanctuary. Giggles of pure delight escaped your lips, floating on the night breeze like ephemeral notes of happiness. And in that fleeting moment, as thoughts danced through Heeseung’s mind, he realised a truth that stirred his soul.
“Oh,” he thought, a warmth swelling within, “So this is what being inlove feels like.”
#𓂃⠀⠀⋆ ᝰ🖋️ ܸ#( literature )#enhypen#enhypen x reader#enhypen x you#enhypen x y/n#enhypen fluff#enhypen scenarios#enhypen heeseung#enhypen lee heeseung#lee heeseung#heeseung lee#heeseung#heeseung x reader#heeseung x you#heeseung x y/n#heeseung fluff#heeseung imagines#ethan lee#enha#enha x reader#enha x you#enha x y/n#enha fluff#enha heeseung#enha scenarios#enha imagines
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September 9th marks the 284th anniversary of The Stono Rebellion of 1739✊🏾
When an Angolan brotha called, Jemmy, led a band of 20 slaves into rebellion on the banks of the Stono River in Charleston, S.C., which put unprecedented fear in Whites. It was because of this uprising that laws were enacted that outlawd the enslaved from learning how to read, gathering in groups, & growing their own food. Thus, making it one of the most significant rebellions in the history of the U.S. colonies.
Jemmy & the rebel band marched southbound on a road toward the river, carrying banners that proclaimed their war very, "Liberty!". Their numbers swelled with more enslaved women and men as they went. By nightfall, 100 rebels had joined the cause. They broke into a local firearms store, arming themselves with guns & ammo. As they marched, they killed every overseer in their path and forced any reluctant slaves to join them.
From there the band marched toward the house of a Mr. Godfrey, where they burned the house & killed Godfrey and his family. It was just shy of dawn when they reached Wallace's Tavern. Because the innkeeper at the tavern was kind to his slaves, his life was spared. The White inhabitants of the next several houses in their path were all slaughtered. Those enslaved by a Thomas Rose reluctantly joined the rebellion, but not before hiding their slaver - of which they were later rewarded for. Still, many more rebels gladly joined the cause. By this point, a Lieutenant Governor Bull eluded the rebels & rode on horseback to spread the alarm. Once the band reached the Edisto River, Whites colonists set out in armed pursuit. Shots were exchanged across both lines. By dusk, about 30 rebels had fallen & at least 30 more had escaped. In the end, most rebels were captured over the next month, then executed. The remainder were pursued and captured over the following 6mo - all except 1 who remained a fugitive for 3 years. The few survivors were sold off to plantations in the West Indies.
The immediate factors that sparked the uprising remain uncertain. Many rebels knew of small groups of runaways had made their way from SC to FL, where they had been given freedom and land. There was also an ongoing malaria epidemic surging across SC. Ultimately, this unprecedented act of rebellion demanded unprecedented legislature. The European colonists finalized a Negro Act into law which aggressively limited the privileges & movement of the enslaved. No longer would slaves be allowed to grow their own food, assemble in groups, earn their own money, or learn to read. Some of these restrictions had been in effect before the Negro Act of 1740, but had not been strictly enforced. This also resulted in the forced indoctrination of slaves into Christian schools systems.
Let us remember Brother Jemmy and those who fought, willingly or not, against the colonizers. Their sacrifice may have set a great legal precedent in European colonizer politics, but it set an even greater one that would spark many fires and fan many more flames of rebellion, war, and freedom. Every step taken from this moment onward was a necessary one to achieve our "freedom" as we experience it today.
We pour libations of water (especiallyfrom the Stono River), speak their names, & offer prayers toward their elevation.
‼️Note: offering suggestions are just that & strictly for veneration purposes only. Never attempt to conjure up any spirit or entity without proper divination/Mediumship counsel.‼️
#hoodoo#hoodoos#atr#the hoodoo calendar#atrs#the Stono Rebellion#stono river#Angola#Angolan#slave rebellion#south carolina
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Afro-Jamaicans are Jamaicans of predominant African descent. They represent the largest ethnic group in the country.
The ethnogenesis of the African Jamaican people stemmed from the Atlantic slave trade of the 16th century, when enslaved Africans were transported as slaves to Jamaica and other parts of the Americas. During the period of British rule, slaves brought into Jamaica were primarily Akan, some of whom ran away and joined with Maroons and even took over as leaders
West Africans were enslaved in wars with other West African states and kidnapped by either African or European slavers. The most common means of enslaving an African was through abduction.
Based on slave ship records, enslaved Africans mostly came from the Akan people (notably those of the Asante Kotoko alliance of the 1720's: Asante, Bono, Wassa, Nzema and Ahanta) followed by Kongo people, Fon people, Ewe people, and to a lesser degree: Yoruba, Ibibio people and Igbo people. Akan (then called Coromantee) culture was the dominant African culture in Jamaica.
Originally in earlier British colonization, the island before the 1750s was in fact mainly Akan imported. However, between 1663 and 1700, only six per cent of slave ships to Jamaica listed their origin as the Gold Coast, while between 1700 and 1720 that figure went up to 27 per cent. The number of Akan slaves arriving in Jamaica from Kormantin ports only increased in the early 18th century. But due to frequent rebellions from the then known "Coromantee" that often joined the slave rebellion group known as the Jamaican Maroons, other groups were sent to Jamaica. The Akan population was still maintained, since they were the preference of British planters in Jamaica because they were "better workers", according to these planters. According to the Slave Voyages Archives, though the Igbo had the highest importation numbers, they were only imported to Montego Bay and St. Ann's Bay ports, while the Akan (mainly Gold Coast) were more dispersed across the island and were a majority imported to seven of 14 of the island's ports (each parish has one port).
Myal and Revival
Kumfu (from the word Akom the name of the Akan spiritual system) was documented as Myal and originally only found in books, while the term Kumfu is still used by Jamaican Maroons. The priest of Kumfu was called a Kumfu-man. In 18th-century Jamaica, only Akan gods were worshipped by Akan as well as by other enslaved Africans. The Akan god of creation, Nyankopong was given praise but not worshipped directly. They poured libation to Asase Ya, the goddess of the earth. But nowadays they are only observed by the Maroons who preserved a lot of the culture of 1700s Jamaica.
"Myal" or Kumfu evolved into Revival, a syncretic Christian sect. Kumfu followers gravitated to the American Revival of 1800 Seventh Day Adventist movement because it observed Saturday as god's day of rest. This was a shared aboriginal belief of the Akan people as this too was the day that the Akan god, Nyame, rested after creating the earth. Jamaicans that were aware of their Ashanti past while wanting to keep hidden, mixed their Kumfu spirituality with the American Adventists to create Jamaican Revival in 1860. Revival has two sects: 60 order (or Zion Revival, the order of the heavens) and 61 order (or Pocomania, the order of the earth). 60 order worships God and spirits of air or the heavens on a Saturday and considers itself to be the more "clean" sect. 61 order more deals with spirits of the earth. This division of Kumfu clearly shows the dichotomy of Nyame and Asase Yaa's relationship, Nyame representing air and has his 60 order'; Asase Yaa having her 61 order of the earth. Also the Ashanti funerary/war colours: red and black have the same meaning in Revival of vengeance. Other Ashanti elements include the use of swords and rings as means to guard the spirit from spiritual attack. The Asantehene, like the Mother Woman of Revival, has special two swords used to protect himself from witchcraft called an Akrafena or soul sword and a Bosomfena or spirit sword
Jamaican Patois, known locally as Patwa, is an English creole language spoken primarily in Jamaica and the Jamaican diaspora. It is not to be confused with Jamaican English nor with the Rastafarian use of English. The language developed in the 17th century, when enslaved peoples from West and Central Africa blended their dialect and terms with the learned vernacular and dialectal forms of English spoken: British Englishes (including significant exposure to Scottish English) and Hiberno English. Jamaican Patwa is a post-creole speech continuum (a linguistic continuum) meaning that the variety of the language closest to the lexifier language (the acrolect) cannot be distinguished systematically from intermediate varieties (collectively referred to as the mesolect) nor even from the most divergent rural varieties (collectively referred to as the basilect). Jamaicans themselves usually refer to their use of English as patwa, a term without a precise linguistic definition.
Jamaican Patois contains many loanwords of African origin, a majority of those etymologically from Gold Coast region (particularly of the Asante-Twi dialect of the Akan language of Ghana).
Most Jamaican proverbs are of Asante people, while some included other African proverbs
Jamaican mtDNA
A DNA test study submitted to BMC Medicine in 2012 states that "....despite the historical evidence that an overwhelming majority of slaves were sent from the Bight of Biafra and West-central Africa near the end of the British slave trade, the mtDNA haplogroup profile of modern Jamaicans show a greater affinity with groups found in the present-day Gold Coast region Ghana....this is because Africans arriving from the Gold Coast may have thus found the acclimatization and acculturation process less stressful because of cultural and linguistic commonalities, leading ultimately to a greater chance of survivorship and a greater number of progeny."
More detailed results stated: "Using haplogroup distributions to calculate parental population contribution, the largest admixture coefficient was associated with the Gold Coast(0.477 ± 0.12 or 59.7% of the Jamaican population with a 2.7 chance of Pygmy and Sahelian mixture), suggesting that the people from this region may have been consistently prolific throughout the slave era on Jamaica. The diminutive admixture coefficients associated with the Bight of Biafra and West-central Africa (0.064 ± 0.05 and 0.089 ± 0.05, respectively) is striking considering the massive influx of individuals from these areas in the waning years of the British Slave trade. When excluding the pygmy groups, the contribution from the Bight of Biafra and West-central rise to their highest levels (0.095 ± 0.08 and 0.109 ± 0.06, respectively), though still far from a major contribution. When admixture coefficients were calculated by assessing shared haplotypes, the Gold Coast also had the largest contribution, though much less striking at 0.196, with a 95% confidence interval of 0.189 to 0.203. When haplotypes are allowed to differ by one base pair, the Jamaican matriline shows the greatest affinity with the Bight of Benin, though both Bight of Biafra and West-central Africa remain underrepresented. The results of the admixture analysis suggest the mtDNA haplogroup profile distribution of Jamaica more closely resembles that of aggregated populations from the modern-day Gold Coast region despite an increasing influx of individuals from both the Bight of Biafra and West-central Africa during the final years of trading enslaved Africans.
The aforementioned results apply to subjects whom have been tested. Results also stated that African Jamaicans (that make up more than 90% of the population) on an average have 97.5% of African MtDNA and very little European or Asian ancestry could be found. Both ethnic and racial genetic results are based on a low sample of 390 Jamaican persons and limited regional representation within Jamaica. As Afro-Jamaicans are not genetically homogeneous, the results for other subjects may yield different results.
#african#afrakan#kemetic dreams#africans#brownskin#brown skin#afrakans#african culture#afrakan spirituality#asante#jamaican#benin#bight of biafra#gold coast#mtdna#afro jamaicans#twi#west africa#africa#algeria#uganda#ethiopia#ghana#myal#rastafari#rasta#rastaman#rasta love#kisumi amau#tegan and sara
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— my angel
Summary: Fires of passion, ashes of hate epilogue! Months had slipped away since the night they barely escaped from the crumbling building. The memories of that night’s hours-long conversation haunted Kaz’s thoughts until the moment he laid eyes on her at the party—the very gathering where he decided to finally set them both free.
Warnings: Mentions of drinking, low self-esteem, negative self-perception and self-doubt. Past relationships, mentions of breakup and heartbreak. No happy ending? (In my opinion, it is a happy-ish ending) and kind of ooc Kaz. Not proofread, so excuse any grammar mistakes.
Authors notes: In my opinion this can be read as a standalone or two-parter too. Anyway, this was, originally, going to be the ending to the series and, although the ending ended up being entirely different, I really liked this and wanted to do something with it. Lastly, there is no use of “Y/n”
The ballroom was alive with an electric energy, each corner aglow with the soft, golden hues emanating from the large chandelier adorning the ceiling. Its crystal facets refracted the light, casting intricate patterns across the room. Couples moved with effortless grace on the polished dance floor, their silhouettes swaying in perfect harmony to the melodious strains of the band.
Clusters of guests mingled and conversed, their laughter and animated gestures mixing with the soft tunes as waiters navigated skillfully through the crowd, balancing trays laden with glasses of champagne. The clinking of crystal and murmurs of delight filled the air as guests indulged in the sparkling libations, toasting to love, laughter, and the joy of the moment.
The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the ornate décor, casting shadows that danced playfully along the walls. The scent of fresh flowers perfumed the air, their delicate fragrance mingling with the sweet notes of champagne and the tantalizing aroma of gourmet delicacies being served.
His crew’s laughter reached his ears as he continued to glance around the bustling ballroom, the cacophony of voices blending into a steady hum. Their conversations ebbed and flowed, barely audible over the swell of music and the clinking of glasses.
His eyes swept over the crowd, scanning every familiar and unfamiliar silhouette, searching for a mark among the pigeons ripe for the picking. They moved back and forth between the guests' faces, seeking out the perfect opportunity, until they finally landed on her.
There, amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, stood her, illuminated by the soft glow of the chandelier above. Her hair was expertly styled into a fancy yet slightly messy bun that exuded an effortless elegance. Delicate rhinestones in shades of gold adorned the intricate twists and turns of her updo, while loose strands cascaded gracefully, framing her face with a captivating allure.
Her dress, a vision in forest green, draped elegantly over her figure, accentuating every curve with effortless grace. The low back of the gown hinted at a hint of allure, teasing without revealing too much, leaving just enough to the imagination. The fabric shimmered in the light, casting a subtle sheen that complemented the richness of her hair and the sparkle of her eyes.
His eyes traveled down her figure, lingering on her choice of footwear—a stunning pair of gold heels that accentuated the graceful curve of her ankles. The heels, with their intricate design and shimmering finish, perfectly complementing the forest green of her dress. With each step she took, the heels added a subtle sway to her movements, adding an extra layer of elegance to her demeanor.
But it was the jewelry that truly caught his eye—simple yet elegant in its design. He remembered the day he stole those pieces for her years ago, after catching her longing gaze upon the shop's window where they were displayed. The gold-dangling earrings perfectly matched her bracelet and necklace. Each piece seemed to enhance her natural beauty, radiating a quiet confidence and effortless charm that left his eyes frozen in place, unable to tear his gaze away from her mesmerizing presence.
He couldn’t hear her laughter amidst the cacophony of noise in the room, but he didn’t need to; he remembered the sound well enough to imagine it when he saw her head slightly tilt back, an open-mouthed smile gracing her face as her eyes squeezed shut. He watched as her shoulders moved up and down with every sound that left her mouth, the loose strands of hair gently swaying from one side to the other, following the slow movement of her head as she gently shook it.
He attempted to divert his gaze away from her to resume his search for the perfect prey amidst the crowd. Yet, every subtle movement that his peripheral vision caught seemed to tug at his attention, irresistibly drawing his eyes back to her.
They had encountered each other countless times since the building’s collapse, their paths crossing unexpectedly during jobs or by sheer coincidence, such as ending up waiting in line at the same café. At times, they had even spotted each other through the bustling crowds at the barrel, their eyes meeting fleetingly for just a second before they each continued walking in opposite directions.
Just as they had for years, they still fought and plotted against each other's success, seizing opportunities to disrupt each other's plans while praying for their downfall. The only difference was that their reactions were no longer as explosive as they once were.
Ever since that fateful night, after a long conversation and a couple of sips of the rye whiskey she had been so eager to drink, he hadn't been able to keep her out of his thoughts.
The images of her lying in his bed with the brand-new sheets below her consumed his every thought during the day.
The way that, despite her face being streaked with grime and dirt from the collapsing building they had narrowly escaped, her features remained striking. The sight of her sweat-dampened hair, tousled yet somehow still captivating, strands falling delicately across her forehead like they always seemed to do as she lay there. Her injured arm rested on her stomach, while the other hand gently massaged her temple in an effort to ease a headache.
The short sleeve of her shirt had been rolled up to her shoulder, revealing the dried blood that marred her skin. Her legs had been crossed, one foot gently tapping in rhythm to the song she hummed softly under her breath—a melody that had filled the air that night. Her brows furrowed, accentuating the lines on her forehead, as she kept her eyes closed, shutting out the world around her. Her lips tightly pressed together.
At night, while he shifted softly in bed with a subtle turn here and a slight adjustment there, as if he were navigating the landscapes of his dreams with the fluidity of a wandering soul, the memories of what they had once shared flooded his dreams. Each recollection brought with it a pleasant warmth that filled his heart, contrasting sharply with the urgent whispers of his subconscious urging him to wake up. Yet he remained nestled in the embrace of sleep, unwilling to part with the fleeting solace found within the depths of his dreams.
Blinking away from the thoughts that had started to consume him, he tore his gaze away from her silhouette and turned to face his crew. His lips moved, shaping instructions he couldn't recall, and before he could even register it, his feet were propelling him in her direction.
He felt his chest tighten, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he navigated the crowd. A couple of guests edged too close for comfort, prompting him to subtly maneuver away, doing everything in his power to avoid contact.
Silently thanking the saints he didn’t believe in for her remaining stationary and engaged in conversation with the woman before her, he moved as quickly as his bad leg allowed, inching closer to her with every uneven step. Despite the trembling of his gloved hands brought on by the encroaching crowd, he kept his eyes fixed on her figure, trying to steady his shaky breathing as best he could before finally reaching her.
After a couple more uneven steps, the sweet, intoxicating scent of cherries wafted through the air, enveloping him in a nostalgic embrace. With a sense of familiarity washing over him, his arm extended out, his gloved finger delicately tapping her shoulder twice.
Her radiant smile illuminated his world as she turned to face him, but it vanished quicker than he'd hoped, replaced by a confused expression overtaking her features instead. Her eyes quickly scanned over his face before she turned back to the woman she had been talking to, politely excusing herself from their conversation. Then, her attention swung back to him, and her focus was now entirely on his presence. “Brekker?”
His attention fixated on her face, meticulously memorizing the details that had been obscured from afar. He studied the subtle pink blush that graced her cheeks, then shifted his focus to the dark eyeshadow that accentuated the brightness of her eyes. As her lips moved once more, his gaze descended, settling on her lips, admiring the deep red hue of the lipstick she had chosen.
“Kaz?”
The gentle sound of her voice calling his name snapped him out of the trance. With a swift transition, the muffled sounds in his ear sharpened into clarity as he recentered his focus and locked eyes with her.
He cleared his throat, a subtle nervousness betraying his composed exterior, before extending his arm once more. His palm facing upward as he offered her his hand to take. “Dance with me, love.”
In a matter of seconds, her vibrant smile reappeared, accompanied by a quiet giggle that escaped her lips. Her eyebrows arched in a teasing manner, her voice rising in pitch as she responded, "Why, how could I ever deny you a dance, handsome?" Her hand extended to grasp his, but before it could make contact, he retracted his arm, pulling it closer to his body.
With a shaky sigh, he brought his other hand up, trembling slightly as he began tugging at the gloved-covered fingers of the hand he had just offered her. Slowly, he peeled the leather enclosure away, setting his hand free from its confining cover.
He tucked the glove into his pants pocket, mustering a deep breath, before extending his now-bare hand back to her. The sensation of her skin against his sent waves of nausea churning through his stomach as he battled with the ghost of his past, threatening to overwhelm him like crashing waves. Yet, the familiar caress of her gentle touch eased the struggle, empowering him to emerge victorious.
His previously tentative gaze, fixed on the ground, snapped to their connected hands in surprise. He hadn’t anticipated the tenderness with which she would grasp his hand, nor did he recall how deeply he once cherished the sensation of her skin against his own.
Her other hand slowly advanced, delicately grasping his chin as she awaited his reaction. Sensing his acceptance of her touch, she gently guided his face upward to meet her gaze, offering an affirming nod and a tender smile. As his surprise subsided, he returned the nod, softly squeezing her hand before leading her to the dance floor.
They found solace in a secluded corner, away from the throng of dancing couples and prying eyes. He swiftly withdrew his hand from hers, wiping away the sweat on his pants as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
He gauged his hand’s dryness before cautiously raising it, meeting her gaze once more, anticipating a teasing glint in her eyes. However, to his surprise, he found a warm smile gracing her lips, accompanied by an understanding gaze that met his nervous one. Without hesitation, she raised her arm and connected her hand with his once more.
With another shaky breath escaping his lips, he maintained eye contact as his free hand snuck around her waist, drawing her closer until their chests gently pressed together. Simultaneously, her free hand found its place on his shoulder, completing their embrace as they prepared to dance.
As the music enveloped them in its tender embrace, they began to sway in perfect harmony.
"Do you think that, perhaps, our love was too potent to coexist?" she whispered, her eyes probing his face for an answer as they swayed together on the dance floor.
His face turned to hers, her question echoing in his mind as he searched for an answer. “I believe it still is.” Her eyes shifted away from his, flickering back and forth as she processed his response.
With each step, their movements flowed effortlessly, as if guided by an unseen force. His hand, firm yet gentle as it led her through each graceful turn and dip, while her touch, light as a feather, traced patterns of warmth across his shoulder.
“There’s—” He hesitated, his gaze lingering on her face, before reluctantly tearing his eyes away, searching for the right words. “There is a breathtaking ache in knowing I’ll never forget our love.”
Their bodies moved as one, the music fading into the background as his heart’s erratic rhythm drowned out all other sounds. He hesitated, the weight of the words he needed to say hanging heavy on his tongue. “I can’t keep doing this, love.”
With a sigh, her movements stilled, and her arms lowered from their previous position on his body. Just as she had done before, his hand moved slowly, delicately grasping her chin before gently guiding her face upward to meet his gaze.
At the sight of her teary eyes, his heart dropped, making him regret his words. With a tender touch, his bare hand moved up from her chin, tracing the curve of her cheek, seeking solace in the warmth of her skin, while his gloved hand joined in, enveloping her face gently between both. As a tear escaped her eye, his thumb instinctively moved to gently wipe it away.
After a moment, he gently took her hand in his and guided her away from the dance floor, leading her towards the door that would take them to the tranquil garden outside.
As they stepped outside, the cool breeze gently tousled his hair, sending strands swaying in rhythmic waves with each gust, rustling the leaves of nearby trees, and sending ripples through the surface of a nearby pond. The air was filled with the earthy fragrance of damp soil and fresh foliage, mingling with the subtle hint of flowers in bloom.
“I meant what I said.” He rasped out. With each step, the soft crunch of gravel beneath their feet added to the symphony of sounds in the peaceful garden, creating a serene backdrop for their conversation. “I can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
He couldn’t bear the burden of resentment nor sustain the weight of a love confined to memories. “I really thought it was going to be you,” he confessed, his stride faltering. Halting abruptly, his grasp on her hand tightened, drawing her back towards him and compelling her to face him once more. “I really wanted it to be you.” His gloved hand reached out to grasp her free one, completing the union of their hands. With one hand bare and the other gloved, he held her securely, his thumbs gently caressing the soft skin of both of her hands. "Sometimes," he admitted softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "I still do."
He found nothing more humiliating than his own desires, and for that, he hated her, because anger was better than tears, than grief, than guilt.
The day she walked out of what used to be their shared room, his heart shattered into a million irreparable pieces. The warmth that had always accompanied her presence vanished with her, leaving him enveloped in a chilling emptiness that still lingered whenever she was absent.
“I can’t keep hoping for something that will never be.” There were days when he believed he had finally moved on from her, only to find himself longing to hear her voice and feel the warmth of her embrace enveloping him once more.
Every day he sought out the sensation of being truly alive because, in truth, the last time he had felt truly alive was when he gazed into her narrowed eyes, their voices rising in intensity, breathing the same air, witnessing her every step as she walked out of his life.
The last time he felt truly alive, he had been slowly dying, watching his world crumble before him as the sound of the slammed door behind her echoed in his ears.
From that point forward, he found himself endlessly replaying every moment they shared in his mind, mourning the loss of what they once had and resigning himself to the fact that they wouldn't be creating any new memories together.
During the initial stages of their relationship, he dwelled in a state of confusion. He couldn’t comprehend how her bright eyes had seen the hell in his and loved it anyway.
She was a kind soul forced to navigate in crowds full of evil. Unafraid to stand up for what was dear to her, never hesitating to shield everything she loved. And, saints! Her love flowed like scorching waves through both her words and deeds, showering him with a kindness he believed was beyond his deserving. And it was only in her angelic gaze that he found refuge, for it alone could discern the remnants of goodness within him.
She remained the sole divine thing he believed in—the one enduring belief he still clung to.
Her touch was a gentle caress that gradually transformed him into a man more deserving of love. Under her influence, he became the type of man who would pause as he passed the florist shop, turning back to pick out flowers for her. He memorized her coffee order and took the time to prepare a somewhat presentable version of her favorite dessert. Her sweet demeanor reached a part of his heart he thought could never be touched.
In contrast, his touch only left claw marks on her, slowly eroding the essence of the girl he had once met in Lij. His voice demanding she transform into something so different from herself. Something filled with anger and cold calculations. A girl he had polished to the point where he could see his own reflection in her.
That was something he regretted deeply. She had picked up all his broken pieces and put them back together, while he had picked her apart, fragment by fragment. And it pained him so much because he knew that Kaz Rietveld would have loved her endlessly and passionately. But he was not him; he was Kaz Brekker, the man who loved her ruinously.
“I can’t keep hurting myself—“ His voice wavered, grappling with the weight of his words, for he knew deep down that that wasn't really it. He deserved to carry the weight of his own pain, regret, and grief, but her? She deserved a life free from the turmoil that plagued him, filled instead with boundless joy and love. “I can’t keep hurting you.”
“Kaz-“
“No! I don’t want to keep hurting you.”
He couldn’t bear the thought of completely banishing her from his life. He wanted to keep her within reach, even if it meant maintaining a cautious distance. He longed to witness her laughter, as he had earlier that night, and to feel the warmth of her gaze upon him. Saints, he still yearned to know if her lips tasted like the cherries that defined her scent.
But she wasn't his anymore.
He knew her like the back of his hand, but he couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that she was slipping away, morphing into a stranger. He knew every single one of her favorite locations, her preferred foods, and the ones she despised. He's keenly aware of her most ticklish spots and knows precisely when to cease the frantic movement of his fingers on her side to evade a punch to the face.
Her favorite color, her favorite type of jewelry. He knows how she washes her vegetables and how she cuts them. What pisses her off and what makes her happy. Her favorite song, and for fucks’ sake, he knows the name of her childhood cat.
But were all the things he remembered as her favorites still her favorites? He didn’t know. People change with time, their preferences constantly shifting, and he hadn't had a real conversation with her until a couple of months ago, and even then, he hadn’t asked.
The warmth of her hands squeezing his brought him back to the moment, infusing him with a sense of courage he had longed for as he summoned the strength to utter his next words, "I need to set you free, and you need to do the same for me."
“I know, but I-“ Her eyes struggled to blink away the tears, their rapid movement tugging at his heartstrings as he watched his beautiful girl fight to maintain a strong facade, a frown etching across his brow in silent pain. “I don’t want to forget you.”
He maintained the sad but soft smile on his face for a moment as he studied her expression. “Am I that easy to forget?” He finally said, his previous smile morphing into a teasing one, his playful tone carrying a mock offense as if he were truly offended.
“No.” She laughed softly, shaking her head as her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “If you were, we wouldn’t be here.”
Silence enveloped them for a while as she took a moment to compose herself. As she averted her gaze from him, her hand slipped from his and moved to her cheek, wiping away the tear that had finally escaped her eye.
When her gaze returned to him, he gently took her hand back in his, feeling the warmth returning to his bare hand. “Will you forget me?”
“My love,” his body drew closer to hers, their chests almost touching as his gloved hand departed from the warm embrace of her gentle grasp. It traveled up her face tenderly, cradling her cheek with affection. “You have a place in my heart no one else could ever have.”
As a soft gasp escaped her lips in response to his words, his gaze flickered down to them, observing them part in search of words, yet none emerged. After a moment, he finally looked up to meet her eyes, only to find that, much like he had been moments ago, she was fixated on his lips. Slowly, he inched his face closer to hers.
As his face drew closer to hers, he felt the warmth of her breath on his skin, their eyes locking in silent communication, his gaze seeking permission from hers.
The nod of her head came slowly, a silent affirmation that Kaz cherished as he leaned in, closing the distance between their lips.
His shoulders dropped, tension melting away as his body relaxed, and her arms gently wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as they melted into the kiss.
He battled his inner demons for as long as possible, but when the nausea became overwhelming, he reluctantly pulled away from her. His eyes closed as he let a quiet chuckle out.
“What’s so funny?”
"Oh, nothing, love.”
She patiently waited for him to regain composure, and once he did, she waited for him to make the next move.
Tears welled up in his eyes at the prospect of forever letting go of her, yet he knew it was the right decision. With gentle determination, he reached for her hands once more.
His grip tightened briefly before releasing, lifting her hand to his lips, where he placed a tender kiss against her knuckles. As he did, he couldn't help but notice the subtle blush that graced her cheeks and the sparkle that danced in her eyes when they met his.
“Goodbye, Kaz.”
With one final, gentle squeeze of their intertwined hands, he lowered hers, savoring the all-too-familiar sensation of her skin against his for the last time before releasing her grasp.
“Take care, love.”
He stood there for a moment, his gaze fixed on her as she turned away from him. Her shoulders slumped slightly, a barely audible sad sigh escaping her lips before she began to walk away. Away from him, away from what they had once shared.
He allowed his gaze to linger on her back for a couple more seconds before he, too, turned to face the other direction, his uneven steps carrying him away from the scene as a bittersweet smile graced his lips. She did taste like cherries.
For the first time in their lives, they didn’t look back. They keep moving forward, each step a silent acknowledgment of the paths they must now walk alone.
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Hiiii, regarding the 300 follower event, can I request prompt 2 with Itoshi Rin? Tsym and have a good day ◑▽◐
MOONLIGHT SONATA.
prompt. that warm feeling they get when they successfully make the other laugh out loud.
includes: itoshi rin x gn!reader. reader’s a bit tipsy, not that much dialogue, mentions of drinking and alcohol but barely, pro player / aged up rin — wc: 374
The night was cold, with a chilling wind whispering through the air, causing you to clutch your jacket, yearning for additional warmth. You were on your way home, accompanied by Rin after a delightful evening spent with friends. The decision to forgo the car was deliberate; an inexplicable desire to walk amidst the enigmatic dangers that lay hidden in the darkness had taken hold of you. Understanding your inclination, Rin willingly joined you, ensuring your safety.
In your slightly tipsy state, courtesy of the libations consumed earlier, Rin thoughtfully draped his arm over your shoulder, preventing any inadvertent collisions with lampposts or obstacles. Progressing past shuttered establishments, their doors securely locked, you caught sight of a handful of illuminated 24-hour stores dotting the quiet streets.
Silent footfalls carried you both through the nocturnal landscape until you found yourselves standing at the entrance of a modest park, an intermediary on your journey home. In this moment, an inexplicable desire to dance enveloped you, compelling you to seize Rin’s hand. And lo and behold, before you stood a graceful fountain, its ethereal presence heightened by the feeble glow of a solitary streetlamp.
“Rin, dance with me,” you whispered, an impish smile playing on your lips as you met his puzzled gaze. Embracing the whimsy of the moment, you seized the lead, swaying side to side, hands entwined with an invisible thread of shared joy. The rhythm of your movements carried you through spins and twirls, your laughter blending with the night’s gentle serenade.
Yet, the intoxicating effects of the evening’s libations betrayed your balance, causing a momentary stumble. In that instant, Rin’s reflexes kicked in, his arms swiftly encircling your waist, preventing your fall. His eyes, softened with tenderness, witnessed your laughter, a sight that tugged at his heartstrings.
As you regain your composure, you reciprocate his steadfast support, grasping his hand and propelling yourselves forward, hastening toward the warmth and comfort of your shared sanctuary. Giggles of pure delight escaped your lips, floating on the night breeze like ephemeral notes of happiness. And in that fleeting moment, as thoughts danced through Rin’s mind, he realised a truth that stirred his soul.
“Oh,” he thought, a warmth swelling within, “So this is what love feels like.”
NOTES. BRO I GIGGLED SO HARD WHILE MAKING THIS BYE. it kinda strayed off from the original prompt but there’s some hints there ykyk—tagging some of my moots who seem to love rin cause!
TAG LIST. @rintosei @m8bius
LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED! ‹3
#꒰ miru’s mini event ꒱#( ru’s works )#blue lock#blue lock x reader#blue lock x you#blue lock x y/n#blue lock fluff#blue lock imagines#bllk#bllk x reader#bllk fluff#bllk rin#bllk itoshi rin#itoshi rin#itoshi rin x reader#itoshi rin headcanons#itoshi rin fluff#itoshi rin x you#itoshi rin x y/n
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🍷🌿✨ Embracing Dionysus: Revelry, Ecstasy, and Liberation ✨🌿🍷
✨✨ Calling all seekers of wild abandon, ecstasy, and the freedom of the soul! Today, let us embark on an intoxicating journey to connect with Dionysus, the god of wine, revelry, and transformation. Known for his ecstatic celebrations and boundless energy, Dionysus beckons us to embrace our primal nature, unleash our inhibitions, and find liberation in the depths of our being. 🍷🌿🔥
💫✨ Who is Dionysus? ✨💫
In Greek mythology, Dionysus, also known as Bacchus in Roman mythology, is the embodiment of revelry, pleasure, and the transformative power of wine. He represents the wild and untamed aspects of life, inviting us to embrace our passions, indulge in sensory experiences, and surrender to the blissful ecstasy that lies within us all.
🍷🌿 Invoking Dionysus: A Ritual of Unleashing ✨🍷🌿
1️⃣ Sacred Space: Find a space where you can fully express yourself without limitations. Decorate your altar with vine leaves, ivy, colorful fabrics, and symbols of celebration. Create an atmosphere that reflects Dionysus' vibrant energy and sets the stage for ecstatic revelry. 🌱
2️⃣ Libation: Pour a generous offering of wine or grape juice into a chalice. Lift the chalice high and offer a heartfelt toast to Dionysus, honoring his presence and inviting his energy to infuse the libation with divine essence. 🍷
3️⃣ Dance of Liberation: Begin moving your body freely, allowing the music to guide your movements. Release any inhibitions and surrender to the rhythm, letting the music carry you to new heights of liberation. Let the wildness of Dionysus awaken within you as you dance with unabashed joy and passion. 🍇
4️⃣ Ecstatic Chanting: Chant or sing invocations to Dionysus, allowing the vibrations of your voice to resonate throughout your being. Let the words flow spontaneously from your heart, expressing your deepest desires for freedom, transformation, and revelry. 🪘
5️⃣ Sensory Indulgence: Engage your senses in a feast of pleasure. Savor the flavors of decadent foods, embrace the touch of luxurious fabrics against your skin, and inhale the intoxicating aroma of fragrant flowers or burning incense. Allow yourself to fully immerse in sensory experiences, celebrating the richness of life. 🍲
6️⃣ Communion with Nature: Connect with Dionysus' affinity for the natural world. Venture into the wilderness, dance among the trees, or immerse yourself in the cleansing waters of a river or the ocean. Feel the pulse of life and the untamed energy of nature, recognizing your own place within the intricate tapestry of existence. 🌹
🍷🌿 Embracing Dionysian Energy: Integrating Freedom and Transformation 🌿🍷
1️⃣ Embracing Authenticity: Allow Dionysus' energy to inspire you to embrace your authentic self. Release societal expectations and embrace your unique desires, passions, and creative expression. Embrace the freedom to be unapologetically you. ✨
2️⃣ Celebrating Life's Pleasures: Revel in the joys of life and indulge in sensory experiences. Explore new flavors, engage in sensual encounters, and seek moments of pure bliss. Find balance in seeking pleasure while honoring your well-being and the well-being of others. 🍷
3️⃣ Embracing Change: Embrace the transformative power of Dionysus. Recognize that change is an inherent part of life's cycle and surrender to the process of growth and transformation. Embrace the unknown and trust in the wisdom of your instincts. 🍾
4️⃣ Cultivating Community: Foster connections and create spaces for communal celebration and shared experiences. Gather with like-minded individuals to celebrate life, engage in deep conversations, and foster a sense of belonging. Allow Dionysus' energy to nurture unity and connection among kindred souls. 🧠
🍷🌿✨ May Dionysus' Spirit Guide You: A Liberated Soul's Blessing ✨🌿🍷
As you dance in the embrace of Dionysus, may you experience the liberation of your spirit and the transformative power of surrender. May you find joy in celebrating life's pleasures, embracing your authenticity, and weaving your unique tapestry within the vibrant fabric of existence.
🌿💫 May you revel in the ecstasy of life, guided by Dionysus' intoxicating energy! 💫🌿
Mokosh
#Dionysus#dionysus worship#magic#spirit witch#witchy#dark witch#ghost witch#hecate#hekate#witch community#love witch#woman owned business#grimoire#book of shadows#bos
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Since we are on a lore roll, its time to say a little about the Malto nobles
Started by Eric El Ton Jon of the Voices, they are a movement of aspirants and mortal warriors from Malto, who fight together in specialist units to boost human-Astartes relations in the sector, supervised by the Voices of Favor
As it is for all space marine chapters, their aspirants have to go through a special set of trials, rites and medical procedures before they can be truly accepted by the Voices of Favor Unlike with most chapters however, their medical procedures are done earlier and in sets (for instance: phases one through five are usually done separately, but in the case of the aspiring Voices, they are all done simultaneously). Another unique thing of the Voices is that their neophytes skip the duties of a chapter scout (hence why the Voices have no neophyte scouts!). In between medical procedures, they either train or familiarize themselves with the chapters equipment and ways under the watchful eyes of the chapter techmarines and chaplains. Their trials truly conclude after receiving the Black carapace at the age of 16 (note: which is two years earlier than aspiring marines from most chapters). This occasion is celebrated with a “baptism” – the aspirants, who made it this far, share their first drink (note: the Voices drink wine and offer libations for every special occasion) with the senior members of the chapter. There, the aspirants receive their first power armor, a heavily modified collage of old armor models, and start their service within the order of the Malto nobles
As "nobles", they will fight alongside augmented mortal warriors of Malto for the next decade. At the end of this service, the Astartes receive the Mark X. power armor in the chapters colors, and are allowed to train for specialist roles (note: infiltrators, eliminators, hunter company, ...)
The majority of fighters of the Malto nobles movement are, as mentioned, mortal men and women of Malto, who were either too old to enter the trials to join the Voices, or could never fully ascend due to the biological limitations of the procedure. Still, the Voices offer these volunteers a selection of augmentations which they can accept (like the Black carapace), pretty much improving them to the level of a "firstborn" space marine (minus a handful of Astartes organs and immortality, of course). The Voices treat these "Noble marines" as their equals, offering many honorary positions within the chapter and the opportunity to wear the chapters colors instead of the heraldry of their noble houses
Aiza, the "Meteor", is one of such nobles - present here in her custom Lemonator terminator armor
#warhammer 40k#warhammer#warhammer 40000#wh40k#40k#astartes#space marines#space marine#primaris#miniature painting#miniature#VoF#voices of favor#female space marines#imperium of man#lore
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Words, words, mere words
Super glad the Eorzibethean basics infographic is useful! :3 I've seen in a couple of places folks looking for a wordlist as well. This stuff is super relaxing for me, so conscripting @davetheshady once more into helping put a quick Eorzibethean wordlist together.
The words that follow were selected by the extremely scientific method of skimming Urianger's lines in Dialogue Collection FFXIV and @uriangertxt and being like hey that's a fun word, gimme one of those, yeah I'll take one of them, and that one too…and then sprinkling in a couple more just for the heck of it. If you think of any others please pop them in the comments and I'll add them!
The short definitions are from our heads and my favorite toy a great resource, the Online Etymology Dictionary, which is linked on each for further reference and linguadorking.
Abiding - depending on the context it can mean lasting (“abiding love”) or staying/living/remaining somewhere (“abiding in the town”)
Akin - related/similar to
Amenable - to be okay with something
Anon - soon, in a little bit, right away
Arbiter - someone who sits in judgment making decisions
Arms - weapons
Aught - something, anything
Aye - yes
Begotten - born from, caused by
Behest - command, urging (“I did it at their behest”)
Benevolent - kind, wanting to do good
Borne - carried, or endured (the present tense is “bear”)
Brazen - to do something in an obvious way (usually arrogantly)
By my reckoning - I think, by my calculations
Cease - stop
Counsel - advice
Curst - ill-tempered
Divest - to take away stuff, to take off stuff
Duplicity - deception, dishonesty
Ere - before
E’er - ever
Errant - wandering, traveling
Fain - gladly ("I would fain have thee accompany me")
Fair - attractive
Falsehood - a lie, telling lies
Forestall - prevent, get in the way of
Forsooth - indeed, truly (see also “sooth”)
Forth - forward
Froward - petulant, contrary
Hark - pay attention to, listen to, listen up!
Hence - from here
Hie - go quickly
Hither - to here
Howsoever - in whatever way
I pray thee - please (literally “I beg you”)
Impertinent - sassy, rude
Import - importance
Impropriety - being improper, being rude, usually with euphemistic connotations of drunkenness or sex
Inclination - something a person likes
Indolence - inaction
Insidious - deceitful in a sneaky way that might be a trap
Insinuate - to imply, to indirectly suggest (usually something negative about a person)
Ken - to know or understand
Knave - a tremendous jerk, an asshole
Libations - drinks (usually alcoholic)
Linger - to hang around in a place, especially after you know you should go
Morn - morning
Morrow - morning, tomorrow
Must needs - necessarily, important to
Myriad - many, a lot of
Nascent - coming into being, just beginning
Naught - nothing
Nay - no
Ne’er - never
O’er - over
Oft - often, repeatedly, frequently
Parlance - how someone talks
Peevish - petty, ill-tempered
Petitioner - someone who is asking for help
Portents - omens, usually bad or ominous
Predilection - inclination toward something, predisposed to like something
Pressing - urgent
Pretense - disguise, faking something
Proffer - to give something
Provender - food
Puissant - strong, powerful, influential
Quicken - become alive (the moment life was considered to have begun in a pregnancy was "quickening," when the parent could feel movement)
Roused - awakened or energized
Scion - heir to, child of, descendant of
Scourge - a harmful force (the literal meaning is a particularly nasty kind of whip)
Sooth - truth
Straightways - right away, immediately
Suffer it - allow it
Supplicant - someone who is humbly asking for help
Surpassing - very much, exceeding
Thence - from there
Thither - to there
Thus - in this way, as follows
Unhand - let go of
Unto - to, up to, as far as, until
Varlet - rascal
Verily - truly
Visage - a person’s face
'Ware - beware, be warned about, be careful of
Wend - to travel to a place
Wherefore - why
Whither - to where
Wont to - in the habit of, likely to
Yea - yes, indeed
Yester - yesterday
Yield - to give something, to give up something
Yonder - over there (usually a moderately far distance)
And there you have it, with many thanks to Jen! Hope it helps! If there are any other writeups that would be useful let me know; it's genuinely nice to have fun things to make on insomnia nights.
#Urianger Augurelt#ffxiv urianger#elizabethan english#early modern english#urithan#thanuri#linguadork
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based on this post from @taavicleric and the idea their doodle sparked for me:
Looking back, my memory of that night has a veil of impossibility encompassing it. As I think about how to explain it I find myself struggling to find the strings that connect the moments, to fill in the times before and after the snippets I recall. It all seems like it could've been a dream, but I wouldn't still have the tiny key on a chain around my neck if it all came from nothing more than a reverie.
I was alone in a home that was far too ostentatious for someone like myself, left to wander the winding halls and behold the Rococo boiseries that lined the walls and ceilings. I shuffled my feet through the plush carpets and ran my fingers along the labyrinthine designs of the wallpaper, reveling in every aspect of the sumptuous atmosphere. Crystalline chandeliers dripped from the ceilings of the rooms I entered and candlesticks were abundant across surfaces, the candles they held casting warm glows everywhere I turned. I did my best to keep my hands in my pockets or clasped behind my back as I leaned in to regard the vases and trinkets and sculptures and candelabras that seemed to line every available surface, while the voice of my inner child constantly chattered about how cool it would be to try to stack them and what if there was something hidden inside and what does that engraving feel like? I was far more mature than that voice, though, and could remember consuming enough expensive-tasting wine that I doubted my hand-eye coordination would play nicely with the forces of gravity that would surely pull the delicate figures from my grasp. Every moment felt fragile, like too sharp of an exhale could shatter the scene I was exploring.
As the asymmetrical gadroons and sinuous engravings that decorated every object in sight began to swirl in front of my eyes, I sought the comfort of a plush duchesse brisée along a wall of what I could only imagine was once the study of a wealthy aristocrat. I gave my eyes a short reprieve from the excessive ornamentation they were bombarded by as I sank into the cushions, quickly fading from consciousness. Between the influence of the libations and the depth that evening seemed to take on I can't be sure how long I dozed, but when I gently roused the stars were still in the sky.
As I came back into my surroundings I relished in the velvety ambience the room seemed to embrace me with. I could imagine a crackling blaze in the fireplace, casting dancing shadows between baubles on the mantle and reflecting off the gilded inkwell its affluent owner would have dipped his quill into. I gazed towards the open roll-top desk that served as the central fixture of the room and was surprised to see a rich banyan hanging over the high-backed chair sitting askew in front of it. While everything else I remember of the home had a museum-esque quality to it, simply arranged for display, I could've sworn someone had just pushed away from the desk and left but a moment ago. I held my breath as I squinted at the doorway, but I heard no footsteps and saw no movement.
I approached the desk, acting on impulse as I swept the banyan from where it was draped and wrapped it around myself. The silk gave me the comfort of a beloved robe, though I couldn't have ever dreamed of owning anything as finely embroidered. I sat in the chair and pulled it forward so my legs were tucked comfortably under the desk, crossing my arms around my midsection as I took in the tabletop. The exact gilded inkwell my mind's eye had conjured moments before sat at the back corner of the leather writing surface, a white quill pen sitting within. I lifted the pen and felt briefly mesmerized as I watched the black ink drip from its once-white tip back into the pot. When I finally blinked and set the quill down I looked around the rest of the desk, taking in the elegant floral designs embossed into the wooden surface. Vines and flower petals encased the edges of the tabletop and the curving legs it stood upon. I lost myself in following the fanciful marquetry as it danced around the table, finally pulling me back to the writing surface.
I couldn't stop myself as I reached for the small handles of the drawers that served as the back edge of the tabletop. All but one easily pulled forward at the first tug, revealing nothing but stale air and dust that hadn't been moved in at least a century. The final small drawer didn't budge though, and it wasn't until I traced my fingertip along the surface of its rose-petaled shape that I discovered the minuscule keyhole hidden at the center of the design. I sat back in the chair, letting my arms fall to my side as I deflated in defeat. I tipped my head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment before noticing that my hands were perfectly aligned with the pockets of the banyan I wore, as though it had been tailor-made to fit me. I slid my hands in, seeking all the comfort I could muster as disappointment dripped like ink through my veins. My left hand found only the soft lining of the pocket, though the fingers of my right alighted upon a small metallic object. I pulled it out, drawing a candle from across the desk closer so its glow could reveal what I had found.
It was a tiny skeleton key, with an intricate and swooping handle that matched the curves found everywhere else in the home. It was barely half the length of my index finger, and even its delicate teeth seemed perfectly designed to match the decor. I looked between the key and the locked drawer, willing my breath to slow as a building excitement overcame me. I knew this was it, this was why I was here.
It took all my focus to stop the trembling of my fingers long enough to align the key with the lock, but it slid in and turned with no resistance. I took another deep breath as I withdrew the key, placing it back into my pocket. I pulled the small drawer open.
There was a small scrap of yellowed paper inside, and as I lifted it I could see the glint of the still-wet ink on its surface. In a flourishing longhand script the words "use it well" had been penned. When I put the paper down I saw that it had been sitting atop coins of pure gold. Their surfaces each had uniquely etched embellishments, but I didn't pause long enough to examine them as I scooped them all up and into my pockets.
I looked once more around the room as I stood, knowing I couldn't wait a moment longer but hoping to commit every possible detail to memory, wishing with all my being that this wasn't a fading dream.
I flew through the halls of the home and somehow made it back through the main doors, not even glancing over my shoulder as I left it behind. The gravel of the path crunched under my feet as I ran as fast as they would take me through the crisp night air, a peal of laughter burbling up from deep within my chest as I ran and ran into the darkness.
When I awoke in my bed the next morning I was still wrapped in the banyan, and I clutched it tightly around myself as I made my way to the pawn shop. I was practically vibrating as the purveyor examined the coins, muttering about where they could've possibly come from. I smiled and shrugged, knowing they would never believe me if I tried to tell them. I purchased a simple necklace chain from them with a minuscule fraction of the sum they gave me, immediately threading it through the head of the key and clasping the chain around my neck.
The money they gave me in exchange for the coins was enough to turn my life around and then some, enough to let me leave my old life behind and become the version of myself I've always dreamed about. I've never tried to explain to anyone more than mumbling something about an inheritance. Most people I've come to meet haven't seemed to want to dive into a conversation about deceased relatives, so I've simply left it at that.
I still wear the key around my neck, and maybe someone will inherit it from me when I pass.
author ramblings and links to resources about rococo style I used for inspiration under the cut (if you're like me and like having visuals):
Fashion and Decor: A Cultural History - Rococo: French Frivolity
Galerie Atena: The Rocaille, The History of an Ornament
Britannica: Rococo Design
Fashion History Timeline: Banyan
The whole rococo style idea is 100% from my annual rewatch of Over The Garden Wall and I will not apologize for that
I would honestly love *constructive* feedback on this. I'm absolutely aware it's not a masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination. But I feel like it's relatively coherent as a 'story', and it's a thing I managed to make and am putting into the world. Which is sort of a big deal for me right now.
Also @lemonizzy is my sideblog, I originally posted the idea there because I still can't work up the courage to break my imaginary rule of only being able to post textposts to this blog :P
#i've spent far too much time today on this#but i was actually able to harness an inspiration and make something i don't completely hate out of it?#just proving that i can still actually do the whole writing thing feels like such a huge accomplishment for me rn#writing#short story#fiction#stochastic ramblings#stochastic stories
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Hidden Agenda
This story is my (late af) submission for #kiaratheronappreciationweek, utilizing Day #3 (diplomat/polyglot) and Day #5 (relationships/friendships). This is also an answer to an ask: @twinkleallnight requested a portrayal of Kiara’s diplomatic skills.
@ao719 requested a fun/goofy side of Liara (Liam x Kiara) which I will have to answer in another story.
The story takes place within my Liara Arrangement AU; if you wish to catch up/re-read, it can be found on my Masterlist under Liam x Kiara. (It’s incomplete but should be updating soon)
This flashback chapter takes place before the story start, when Kiara realizes that she’s in love with Liam.
I also attempted to utilize Prompt #3 from @choicesflashfics: “I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.” Which I did, but word count … so I’m borrowing it instead.
THANK YOU to all who read this over and assure me it makes sense, and not-so-subtly reminded me I need to return to this series. Your feedback, as always, is invaluable.
THANK YOU to all who will read this story. Your likes, comments, and/or reblogs are appreciated more than you know.
Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. MS Editor rates this story as 98% error-free.
Rating is T for Teen.
All characters belong to Pixelberry
Song Inspiration: Lay Your Cards Out, POLICA
Word Count: 4,127
The Royal Council was in recess, its members milling about the Palace’s East Wing Grand Conference Room partaking of refreshments as they grouped off to discuss the meeting’s progress thus far.
The room was an opulent mix of burnished wood furnishings, brass accents, and marble flooring. Cushions and curtains were a rich, plush burgundy. The Cordonia seal took prominence above the dais, and the country’s flag was strategically placed in corners throughout the space.
Lady Kiara Theron was praised for the effective forward movement of her plan to have Castelsarreillan Wineries, LLC purchase the Ramsford Vineyards. The Lady of House Theron successfully argued that wine export comprised only 12% of Duchy Ramsford’s total revenue, whereas it was 73% of Duchy Castelsarreillan’s.
One wine to represent Cordonia, with grapes picked from various regions throughout the country, would make the libation more exclusive, thus promoting a better demand for it while keeping workers employed and creating new jobs.
Lord Neville Vancouer was only slightly satisfied. While the Council agreed to his request for more allocations to Cormery Isle, they included the friendly amendment that upon completion of a second golf course to accommodate the increase in tourism, Cormery Isle would be subject to a tax increase up to but not to exceed eight percent of its current rate.
The Duchess of Lythikos was in discussion with A. Justin Severus, the Royal Communications and Marketing Director, about promoting her duchy as a year-round ski destination. “May as well make use of constant snowfall,” she pointed out as she sipped lemon tonic water.
Mr. Severus was in complete agreement and offered to set up an appointment to meet within the next two days.
The Queen prattled to Ana De Luca and her press team of the progress she and the King were making as they worked to unify Cordonia across race, political, and class lines.
The King was across the room, talking quietly with Rashad Domvallier, his personal legal counsel, and the country’s Comptroller regarding the upcoming closed session portion of the meeting.
“Are you certain Lady Theron is the correct person to lead the discussion?” Rashad asked, his brows furrowed slightly.
“It’s neither a legal nor a financial matter at this time. Preliminary hearing at best, which requires someone who will best represent and protect Cordonian interests in a sensitive, tactful manner. It requires a … diplomatic touch.”
The King’s eyes surveyed the room as he let his comrades process his explanation. They lit up at seeing Kiara, alone at the buffet table.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” he murmured as he began making his way to his lover.
It was the night before Coronation; Liam and Kiara were in the hedge maze, standing beneath a large tree that held a lone wooden swing. Liam’s back was leaned into the tree bark, his hands shoved into his pant pockets. He studied the ground as he spoke.
“Tomorrow night, I’ll choose the Countess to be my bride and Queen,” he muttered in a broken voice.
Kiara’s palm cupped his cheek; it was damp with quietly shed tears. Her heart twisted at the feel; she wasn’t in love with Liam, but she did care deeply for him.
“Ne pleure pas, mon doux Liam,” she whispered. Don’t cry, my sweet Liam. “It’s for the best. I care for you and immensely enjoy our time together, but I’m not ready for duty and tradition. Madeleine is.” Kiara stared at her shoes before speaking again. “Et je suis désolé, mais je ne rends pas tes sentiments.”
And I’m sorry, but I don’t return your feelings.
Liam lifted his head, transferring his gaze upon Kiara. “I don’t care you aren’t in love with me! If I’m marrying for duty, why can’t it be YOU?” he questioned angrily.
There was the slightest impatience in her voice when she replied. “THAT is a question for your father and Duke Karlington! Frankly, I’m GLAD! I want a career, a chance to be free from titles and Court, to see the world and put my skills to uses that DO NOT involve pouring tea and kissing ass!”
“Are you referring to me, or to Court?” he asked tightly as his jaw jumped slightly.
“COURT, LIAM! I’m not HAPPY we’ll be broken apart, but I swear to you … I’m not Queen material at this point in time.” Her arms and hands raised in supplication. “There’s too much I want to do while I’m still young enough to do it.”
The lovers stared at each other, both breathing heavily from the intense emotions flowing through their blood. Liam’s gaze grew thoughtful as he pondered Madeleine’s offer the night before. He held out an arm, entreating Kiara into his embrace.
A pout on her lips, she relented; she inhaled his scent deeply when her head lay on his chest.
“If you’re agreeable, there may be a way for you to have what you want, and still be a part of my life.”
Kiara was a vision: Her long, straight dark hair had ringlet curls at the ends; her dress was an ankle-length black pinstriped affair with a skinny black belt buckled at her waist. A black slub cardigan covered the ensemble; gray snake-skin stilettos were on her stockinged feet.
“Hi,” Liam greeted bashfully when he was beside her.
Kiara was reaching for a plate when she glanced up. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart beat a tad faster.
It’s ridiculous how handsome this man is, she thought.
She returned her attention back to the brunch selections offered, debating between citrus-glazed salmon, beef wellington, and grilled duck.
“Ahem! HI! Say it back.”
The future Duchess giggled at the irritation in her King’s voice. “You are so rude!” She lifted her eyes to meet his.
“You’re the one ignoring me,” Liam grumbled.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” she cooed sweetly.
He leaned in closer to her, his lips at the shell of her ear; Kiara repressed a shiver at his nearness. A smile curved her lips as she listened to his sweet nothings. She felt butterflies in her tummy and a giddiness overtake her.
Kiara Theron was in love. With the King of Cordonia. The married King of Cordonia. She wasn’t sure when it happened, or how. But ever since their return from America last month, Kiara found herself … dissatisfied with their arrangement.
Kiara’s first inclination was to turn down the offer. While Cordonian arrangements were commonplace, they were typically between a couple married to other people. As a single woman in an arrangement with the King no less, the Lady would be branded a gold digger which could bring a certain notoriety upon House Theron.
Liam promised her the utmost discretion; only four people knew of the agreement: Liam, Kiara, Madeleine, and Rashad. The Queen and the Counselor had both signed non-disclosure agreements. The contract drawn up offered something to all parties involved:
Kiara was appointed to the Cordonian Office of Ministries as the Diplomatic Liaison for Governmental Relations and given a Junior Ambassadorship representing Cordonia within the UN’s Alliance of Small Island States. Because her work would keep her in the Capital, a gorgeous three-bedroom, three- bathroom townhouse was purchased through one of the Crown’s many foundations for her in nearby Stormholt. In addition to her salaries, which were determined by the government pay sale, she received a robust monthly stipend for her availability and discretion.
Liam received three overnights a week with his lover; business trips abroad with Kiara where diplomatic services were deemed necessary, or the Queen’s presence was not required; daytime luncheons with the caveat that the couple remain businesslike while in public to avoid rumors and gossip.
The King modified his will so that Kiara would be taken care of in the event of his passing. It wasn’t a requirement of the arrangement, but something he wanted to do.
Madeleine was given the freedom to take a lover, or lovers, of her choosing excluding members of House Theron. The Queen would relinquish such lovers once the monarchs began in earnest to provide the country with heirs to secure the Rys line of succession. She was gifted Duchy Valtoria.
The couple agreed to use contraceptives to prevent pregnancy, and to not bring their romance inside of the Palace, or any of the Queen’s properties.
The day the contract was executed, notarized, and attested, the Queen met with a lawyer outside of Court circles to add codicils that no one else needed to know about.
Liam bought Kiara a black Jaguar XF to celebrate.
It had been a satisfactory arrangement so far for Kiara: She had a career doing what she loved, downtime when she needed it, a gorgeous house, and an attentive lover. But between the overnights, trips to countries she’d never visited, and once-a-month trips to New York City where Liam spoiled her with carriage rides in Central Park, dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants, and shopping sprees … Kiara found herself wanting more.
With Liam.
Only Liam.
She was in love with her lover.
But when to tell him?
“Are you prepared for closed session?” Liam asked as he partook heartily of a western omelet.
He and Kiara were seated at a small round table on the veranda. The King rose when he saw his Queen approach them, a plate of fruit and toast in her hand. He guided Madeleine to the table before pulling out her chair and placing her meal on the wrought-iron tabletop.
“What are we discussing?” Madeleine asked, her emerald-colored eyes darting between her husband and his lover.
Normally the Queen of Cordonia would not care what her husband and his plaything were discussing, but given that there was still more meeting to be had, she felt it best to see if there was any information they were willing to share.
“Auvernal,” Liam replied as he lifted his coffee cup to his lips.
“My research was quite informative,” Kiara offered in answer to Liam’s question before they were interrupted. “I must admit to some … curiosité as to why this task landed in my lap.”
She looked uncertainly between the two monarchs.
Liam’s fork speared another slice of egg, meat, vegetables, and cheese. “Auvernal has approached the Queen and I with an alliance; while they have not outright said it was a marital union they seek, one can only presume that is their agenda.”
“But there are no heirs yet, are there?” Kiara hoped she was hiding the dismay she felt at the thought of Madeleine being pregnant.
“Arrangements and alliances are formed decades, scores … even centuries in advance. The very makeup of today’s Court, the laws we abide by … all formulated by the politics of our ancestors. Personally, I have nothing against an alliance with our neighbors to the east,” Madeleine said in a tone that suggested she was speaking to a small child.
Kiara’s eyes cut to Liam, who shook his head slightly, silently telling Kiara to ignore Madeleine’s tone. He placed his palm atop the back of her hand. “You’ll do wonderfully, Lady Kiara. Consider this a fact-finding mission, so that all parties have the information needed to make the best decision for Cordonia.”
A bell rang, three times. Madeleine rose. “The meeting is convening.” Her dress swished about her calves as she hurried back inside.
“You’ll do wonderfully.” Liam’s lips lingered on Kiara’s cheek. “I’ll see you this evening at the townhouse?”
Kiara nodded, motioning Liam ahead as she struggled to collect her thoughts, torn between hating him and loving him. Why would he ask HER to research Auvernal for a marital alliance between the Cordonian heir and Auvernal’s?
Why wouldn’t he?
Liam thought he was the only one in love.
She was his diplomat. He asked her to do her job.
Now that her duty was done, when would he begin his?
FUUUUUCCCKKKKK.
The thought made her almost physically ill.
When Kiara entered the conference room, she took in the surroundings: Councilmembers seated on the dais, conferring quietly amongst themselves, palms covering microphones. Kiara wondered why no one bothered to simply turn the devices off.
The monarchs were seated at the conference table: Liam and Madeleine sat beside each other on one side, Bradshaw and Isabella on the other, a seat separating them.
Rashad and the Comptroller sat along the wall, notepads and ink pens in hand.
Taking in a deep breath and plastering a smile on her face, Kiara took her seat at the head of the table. “Good afternoon, everyone.”
Head nods and murmured greetings in response.
Kiara shuffled through papers. “I am Lady Kiara Theron of House Theron, Duchy Castelsarreillan. I will be facilitating today’s discussion regarding a potential alliance between Cordonia and Auvernal, item G.1 on the agenda.”
She looked up, her gaze trained on the Auvernese rulers. “What exactly is your proposal? There’s nothing in writing, and the monarchs have not received any information.”
Kiara noted that Bradshaw was handsome in a feeble way. His body was lithe and held muscle definition, but his chin was weak, and his eyes beady.
“I am of the belief that one gets it in writing, not puts it in writing,” Bradshaw quipped, though there was no humor in his tone.
Kiara arched an eyebrow in surprise.
Beneath the table, Isabella kicked her husband sharply in his shin. Bradshaw winced before glowering at his Queen. Isabella was oblivious as she smiled brightly at both monarchs and the diplomat.
“What my … husband is attempting to say, in an extremely crass manner, is that we wish to have a verbal discussion first before drawing up a proper alliance. We don’t wish for either party to be short-changed in what we hope will be a mutually beneficial exchange.”
“King Bradshaw, how long have you been sovereign of Auvernal?” Kiara asked as she placed her palms flat against the table’s surface.
Bradshaw frowned. “Five years.”
Kiara nodded. “And how long have you and Queen Isabella been married?”
All the monarchs were frowning; the Councilmembers leaned forward ever so slightly in their seats. What the hell was Joelle’s daughter doing, and where was this line of questioning leading?
“Five years. Why?”
“July 26, 2017, to be precise, correct? One week after Isabella’s coronation as Queen of Auvernal following her father, King Renaldo, stepping down due to declining health. A wedding not one member of Cordonian Court received an invitation to.”
Everyone’s attention was focused on the Auvernese monarchs.
“What are you implying, Miss Theron?” Bradshaw growled.
“I am saying that you are not the ruling monarch of Auvernal; the Queen is. You are nothing more than Prince Consort.”
Liam’s eyes, which had narrowed at Bradshaw’s deliberate slight, widened at the revelation although he shouldn’t have been surprised. He recalled sporadic visits to Auvernal in his youth and meeting with Isabella, but never Bradshaw.
He cursed himself for the oversight.
“His title in no way invalidates his power nor his ability to speak for us as a couple,” Isabella interjected coolly.
Kiara offered a conciliatory smile. “I’m not saying it does. I’m merely getting the facts straight, so Cordonia knows who holds the power within your dynamic.”
“Bradshaw holds every authority,” Isabella affirmed.
“So again, what is the proposal you wish to present?” Kiara sipped from a glass of water.
“We wish to set forth a marital alliance between our children and the Cordonian heir. We have fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. Preferably, Cordonia will provide its country with more than one child, and an agreement can be placed for both our children.”
“Where would they rule?” Kiara inquired.
Blank stares from Bradshaw and Isabella; interested looks from the Council, Rashad, and the Comptroller.
The question was an excellent one.
In the modern age, a dual monarchy was a rare occurrence, happening only when two separate kingdoms were ruled by the same monarch, followed the same foreign policy, existed in a customs union with each other, and had a combined military but are otherwise self-governing.
That was not the case with either country.
Silence while the visiting rulers struggled to supply an answer. Kiara took the opportunity to gauge the room. Looks of begrudging admiration from the Council, a huge smile from Rashad. The Lady’s eyes met the King’s; he gave her a covert thumbs up. The Queen stared stoically at Bradshaw and Isabella.
“That would be a discussion to be had at such time we actually enter into an alliance,” Isabella responded slowly.
“This alliance you are offering has been paraded before other countries, no? Hidar, Monterisso, Vallenheim just to name a few. Why is Cordonia only now in your sight lines? Surely you are both aware the King has familial ties to your country, and that we have been neighbors since the unification of the Five Kingdoms. A unification Auvernal resisted.”
Bradshaw drummed his fingertips against the highly polished, massive table. “Precisely the reason we chose alternate avenues; despite our shared history and proximity, Auvernal and Cordonia are merely neutral at best. We have no trade agreements in place, no treaties … we exist peacefully, yet uneasily. When talks stalled between other countries, Isabella and I agreed to extend this olive branch in an effort to at least become allies.”
Kiara settled back in her chair, crossing one leg over her knee. Her foot swung rhythmically.
Liam felt his manhood rise in his pants.
“And what exactly are you offering, Your Majesty?” Kiara put sarcastic emphasis on the moniker.
“In exchange for the marital alliance of at least the firstborns of both countries, and an annual monetary gift of $1 billion US dollars until the desired marriage comes to fruition, Cordonia has unrestricted access to the Auvernese military, free reign and use of our ports, and we will provide you with border protection.”
Liam flushed red, disbelief and anger marring his features. “ONE BILLION US DOLLARS? A YEAR?” he repeated in a voice that bellowed throughout the room.
Madeleine leaned over to whisper in his ear.
The Council watched with wide eyes. The Comptroller began patting his vest pockets for his heart medication. Kiara looked at her monarch with concerned eyes.
“King Liam, do you need to be excused?”
He shook his head. “My apologies for the outburst. The amount took me by surprise.” He glared at Bradshaw. “What the hell do you need with that amount of money?”
“It would be a sign of good faith,” Isabella clarified.
“For far less than that amount, we could assemble our own military, which we are in the process of doing. We plan to have a fully functional army, navy, and air command within the next five years,” Madeleine pointed out.
“Cordonia is prospering at a rapid rate. With prosperity comes growth. And enmity, both within and outside of your borders. A five-year plan is good, but a lot can happen in that time. Should your country be breached, it’s simply a matter of time before your foes are at our door. The use of our military is a preventive measure, albeit a bit self-serving,” Bradshaw explained.
Kiara followed the exchange carefully. “So, you are asking for the monarch’s firstborn at the very least, an estimated $21 billion dollars, and in exchange we get your military not only infiltrating, but surrounding Cordonia as well?”
Bradshaw nodded in conformation.
Kiara smirked mirthlessly. “Most countries would call that a takeover. Just ask Rivala.”
“It wasn’t like that with Rivala, and it wouldn’t be that way with Cordonia!” Isabella contradicted, her tan complexion paling at the mention of the country.
Kiara uncrossed her legs and pulled her chair back to the table. “Let’s discuss the children, shall we? How old are they?”
“Their names are Isaac and Lyra; they’re four years of age,” Bradshaw replied proudly.
“And yet, there are no medical records in Auvernal or any of your neighboring provinces to corroborate Queen Isabella’s pregnancy or hospital stay. I did find birth certificates for the twins; Bradshaw Achilles is listed as the father, but the mother has the same name as the children’s nanny.”
“Lady Theron, what exactly are you saying here?” Duchess Adelaide demanded.
Kiara kept her gaze trained on the Auvernese monarchs.
“My research has uncovered that Bradshaw’s children are not of royal or even noble lineage. Bradshaw Achilles is a decorated war hero who has never seen combat, and a commoner whose wealth bought him a seat on the Auvernese throne.”
Gasps and the buzzing of muffled conversations erupted within the chamber. Madeleine’s eyes were slits as she glowered at her guests. Kiara calmly sipped her water.
“I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this,” Isabella’s calm tone cut through the cacophony.
“Please, explain to us how you expect to marry off commoner children to the future offspring of our King and Queen, whose noble lineage goes back centuries?” Bertrand questioned as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
Isabella’s lower lip quivered; she was making the most of the attention paid to her in this moment. “What I am about to say is very private and personal between myself and my husband. I trust that it stays in this room.” She looked around, seeing the nods of affirmation from the Cordonian Court.
“Bradshaw and I tried to conceive, but it just … wasn’t working. We decided to attempt with a surrogate. The procedure was performed quietly, with outside personnel. Neither of us could risk the gossip and scandal. The children share my blood; they simply did not share my body.”
Liam and Kiara met eyes. She shook her head, indicating Isabella was lying.
The Comptroller cleared his throat. “May I inquire what became of King Achilles’ fortune? It is my understanding that the country’s coffers are not as full as they could be, confirmed by the financial assistance Auvernal seeks.”
“I spent my money building the mightiest military in the Mediterranean. Being prepared is expensive,” Bradshaw replied, his eyes shooting daggers at Kiara.
Drake Walker looked around the dais. “I think I speak for all of Council when I say we will not approve an alliance proposal at this time, or any time from Auvernal. It’s simply not advantageous to Cordonia, and quite possibly a threat to our national security.”
Murmurs of agreement from the dais.
Madeleine spoke. “I am willing to consider an alliance, given there are certain … modifications.”
Heads turned and spun in her direction. Madeleine looked around, a scowl on her face.
“WHAT? The King and I have a duty to this country to produce heirs, which we will begin trying later this month to do. It is UNHEARD of to have royal heirs not affianced by birth. Find us another alliance, and I am willing to review their terms. Until then, a revised proposal from Auvernal is welcome.”
Shocked silence as the Queen stalked from the conference room.
The meeting was adjourned.
Liam came to Kiara’s side as Council members gossiped amongst themselves. “Love, I had NO idea …”
Kiara stared up at him, her eyes threatening to spill tears. “You’re going to start a family …”
It was neither question nor answer. It was a realization.
Liam shook his head. “No, no, no …”
Kiara briefly shut her eyes. She had planned to tell Liam tonight that she was in love with him. But she couldn’t. The timing was too suspicious; the day the Queen announces that they were trying for a family, the King’s mistress tells him she loves him?
No.
Appearances were everything.
Her eyes opened and she began gathering her papers. “I don’t want company tonight. I’ll be busy summarizing this research for Rashad to review.”
Liam’s expression was stricken, his eyes wide. “Kiara, don’t!”
“You still have two nights this week,” she answered coolly.
It was breaking her heart, but she had to remember her place in this Court, in Liam’s life.
An arrangement. Strange how it never bothered her before.
Madeleine was his wife. Kiara knew they slept together on rare occasions, but that was just sex. A spousal duty. But now, children would be involved. It was now Cordonian duty.
Even stranger how much that hurt her very soul.
“Lady Kiara!” Rashad called out as he approached the couple.
She looked up, a false smile on her face. “Lord Domvallier! Walk me to my car? We can discuss what you’ll need from me.”
Liam slumped in a chair, watching the woman he loved walk away, upset by the rantings of a tantrum-throwing Queen. Not even Queen; Queen Consort. He would find Madeleine and have a talk with her to remind her she held no political power, and her title was merely a formality.
A thought struck him as he ran his palms down his face. Was it possible Kiara could actually return his feelings?
No. She would have told him.
Elsewhere in the Palace, Madeleine was escorting Bradshaw and Isabella to the side portico where their car was waiting. She spoke in low tones; although unseen, guards were always around.
“I meant what I said. Provide me with a modified alliance proposal with far less money, and no military subversion and I will review it carefully, but I will have … needs of my own that will need to be incorporated.”
“Such as?” Bradshaw demanded curiously.
Madeleine’s green eyes bore into Isabella’s brown ones. “For starters, how did you fake your pregnancy?”
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The Dawn of Redeeming Grace
previous chapter <=> next chapter (coming soon)
You can also read here : https://archiveofourown.org/works/43003029/chapters/123137017#workskin
Chapter 7:
Dream falls into step once more beside Hob, his gaze fixated on his friend. Hob's cheeks still bear the faint trails of tears, but an exuberant smile adorns his face—a radiant, boisterous expression that suits him perfectly. There is a nervous but joyous cadence to his stride, as though he might burst into an impromptu dance at any given moment.
It shouldn't come as a surprise to Dream, then, that this is precisely where Hob intends to lead him—a place in which to dance.
It is a known truth that Morpheus does not partake in the art of dancing. Yet, amidst the ambiance of this particular venue, he finds he perhaps doesn’t mind staying. The establishment is unassuming, neither excessively crowded nor deafeningly loud. It is infused with the spirit of jazz, from the music to the decor—mahogany and brass. Skilled individuals adorn the dancefloor, their movements a testament to their mastery. Some of them form a circle, engaging in spirited dance duels, while others catch sight of Hob and hail him with unbridled enthusiasm, calling out his current alias. Dream lingers, observing them with a mix of intrigue and curiosity. He senses his friend's urge to join them, but Hob seems to remember himself and instead waves them off, beckoning Dream toward the bar. With the confident air of a regular, Hob places orders for their libations.
"Do you frequent this place often?" Dream inquires, holding a brightly coloured cocktail that Hob announces cheekily is called a "Golden Dream."
Hob stifles a laugh in a cough as if he had found something humorous in Dream’s words, which leaves the latter briefly perplexed.
"Yeah, it's a delightful spot to be. There's nothing quite like dancing to truly feel alive, is there? Well, a good old-fashioned brawl can also do the trick, but I've become a respectable man these days, you see? Dancing carries fewer legal entanglements. You can pour your heart out on the dancefloor without fear of being judged. You can look silly or sexy or both. I've always relished the versatility," Hob replies, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he shuffles his feet and rubs his earlobe, seemingly readying himself for what he is about to ask.
"Do you dance?"
Dream hesitates, taken aback by the question. For the longest time, he has maintained a steadfast refusal to partake in dancing Yet, as he looks into Hob's eyes, an uncharacteristic uncertainty seeps into his being. He falters, unable to immediately provide his customary response. Why he feels this way, he cannot decipher. With a furrowed brow, Dream offers a noncommittal explanation, "In truth, I do not dance, although I suppose this form would comply with any requirements asked of this particular endeavour."
A smile dances upon Hob's lips, playful. "Ah, but wouldn't you care to give it a try?"
Dream feels the pull in his chest, a magnetic force drawing him toward Hob's outstretched hand. He yearns to take it, to succumb to its lure. But he resists, his hesitation winning over his yearning.
"I believe I would rather watch you," Dream finally replies, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. Hob's cheeks flush a shade redder, and Dream wonders if it is the warmer temperature compared to that of the outside that caused the change.
Hob nods, a mix of disappointment and understanding flickering in his eyes. "Well, you can sit there, if you wish. If you grow tired of it, just let me know, and we'll go. Alright?"
Dream nods in agreement, his eyes never leaving Hob's figure as he walks away, joining the other dancers. He sees one of them ask him something, pointing in his direction. Their eyes meet again briefly, and he sees as Hob laughs and punches the man lightly in the biceps. Easy, friendly banter. A mixture of emotions surge within Dream—pride, longing, and an unspoken ache for something he can't quite name. He sits at the edge of his seat, his jaw clenched, unable to tear his gaze away.
As the dancers engage in their spirited rounds, an opportunity presents itself, and Hob joins their ranks. He moves with a carefree elegance, exuding a charisma that captivates all who watch. Like a star in the night sky, he shimmers, even more so under the warm embrace of the yellow-hued lights.
Dream catches glimpses of lustful daydreams emanating from some of the onlookers, but he does his best to ignore them, his focus unwaveringly fixed on Hob.
Irresistibly drawn, he steals fleeting glances at Hob's own reveries—visions he shouldn't intrude upon. They are vibrant and alluring, and he feels echoes of himself within them, as his friend imagines him in the stead of his dancing partners.
A palpable tug in Dream's chest urges him forward, compelling him to seize this astonishing man and accept his request. It whispers of making this dream come true, pulling at his very essence.
Dream remains frozen, incapable of movement.
Somewhere in the Dreaming, a strike of lightning marks his realisation.
He is certain of his emotions now, there can be no doubt. Just a few hours earlier, Hob had recounted some of his darkest memories, recalling the most abhorrent acts committed by humanity. Tears had streamed down his face, unfiltered and unashamed, as he had allowed himself to fully experience the weight of his sorrow. And now, amidst this jubilant gathering, he surrenders himself to the sheer joy that saturates the air, dancing among fleeting mortals with an unencumbered spirit, embracing the present moment with unwavering abandon.
Dream gazes at him and sees unyielding resilience. A remarkable capacity for hope. Hob lives deeply and authentically, without reservation or hesitation, unafraid of the pain that life may bring.
Dream gazes at him and comprehends all that he lacks, all that he yearns to become. He longs to nestle within Hob's ribcage and listen to the symphony of his heart, singing its love for existence. He yearns to kiss him, to consume his blissful joy, and to return it a thousandfold.
He... loves. It is a realisation that strikes him with terror.
He rises from his seat. As if attuned to his intentions, Hob turns in his direction, even amidst the throbbing music. Their eyes meet, lingering for a moment suspended in time. In that beat, Dream contemplates remaining, defying the pull to flee. He considers the ghosts of his past lovers, the remnants of hurt, destruction, and chaos always left in his wake. As if deciphering his resolve from the depths of his gaze, Hob's smile dims and his shoulders sag, a gesture of resignation. A look of worry- of despair-
And Dream turns away.
***
The Dreaming encompasses him. He is the Dreaming. The skies hang heavy, thunderous, and the rain pours down violently, an unstoppable force that splatters, ripples, and forms rivulets upon his kingdom. The tears running down his face are born anew with every drop, in a cycle of perpetual sorrow.
He aches.
He yearns.
He wants.
But he cannot have.
Crouched on his knees, he curls inward, a hand clenching his chest where his heart would reside, were he human.
Oh, if only he were- then he could- A blinding flash of light and an apocalyptic roar rends through his realm.
Above the cacophony of his despair, a voice struggles to be heard. "Boss! BOSS! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"
Matthew, his loyal raven, makes a difficult landing, knocked off course by the raging downpour and the howling wind. He hops swiftly to his side, a dark pebble ricocheting on the rain-drenched puddles. He croaks.
"Boss... Boss, are you alright?"
Dream offers no response. He cannot. Grief for what could have been, for what should have been, strangles him. There are no words left to say. Only pain remains, tearing at his eternal mind, stretching into infinity. His sister Despair has ensnared him, he knows her all too well—she is never too far away. Now, he feels her presence so strongly that he feels as if his realm might merge with hers.
The raven perches on his shoulder, nudging at his face, attempting to shake him from his prostration. Movement eludes him. It is but a distant, forsaken concept. He lacks the strength, even with his endless power. He finds that this fact does not matter. He has no use for movement. Perhaps he will cease to move entirely from now on. Perhaps he shall lie here until his dearest sister draws back the curtains on the universe.
He is reminded once again why he refrains from caring for others. He cannot be himself, cannot wield the torch that illuminates the deepest caverns of the collective mind, when he is saturated in such flooding sorrow. What is there left to do, truly? But to remain here, immobile, waiting for an end—any end, as long as it comes soon.
He thinks of his past lovers. He thinks of his son. He thinks of how he has failed them all, and how it seems to be his destined role. Dream of the Endless simply cannot afford to tether himself to any being, at any point, lest he bring them ruin. The Fates are cruel. He shall not tempt them further. Nor shall he tempt his sibling Desire by giving in, and intruding upon their realm. Oh, how Desire would revel in this. Perhaps they already do. Perhaps this is yet another machination from them- perhaps-
He would have believed before that this entire situation was nothing more than this. A manipulation from Desire. But now, he must admit that his emotions extend beyond his sibling's reach. They surpass even his own comprehension. They consume him.
Matthew's words are indistinguishable, lost amidst the tumultuous storm. Yet, Dream feels the touch of wet feathers against his cheek. The presence, the contact, soothes him. His pride attempts to push Matthew away, but he quashes it. He needs this solace, and he lacks the strength to deny himself the comfort he craves. He is mortified. He is grateful. More tears silently stream down his face, mingling with the tears of the skies.
Time passes, indistinct and fleeting.
Gradually, Matthew's words regain clarity, no longer muffled by the murky waters of his mind, and Dream starts processing them:
“Is there something else happening? Something like the Vortex? Does it have anything to do with your visits to London? Did something happen with the guy you meet ther-”
The vague allusion to Hob drives a stake through his metaphorical heart: his face hardens, and he orders:
“Peace, Matthew.”
“I…Yeah, okay.”, comes the chastised answer.
He remains a silent presence for a bit- the only sound between them is that of the rain. After a time, however, as Matthew is never able to hold his beak for long, he speaks again:
"Boss. Don’t bite my head off, but, last time you got, eh, like that, you, uh, talked to your sister and uh, I don't know, she seems nice? Maybe you should talk to her about this? I'm sure she would be happy to see you, right?"
"My sister..."
He contemplates the suggestion. The rain still falls, sparser now, a constant drizzle. He inhales and exhales, in a manner humans do, seeking solace in the meditative rhythm of breath. The way Hob had, he thinks, and shudders.
"Thank you, Matthew."
"You're welcome, boss. Didn't do much, to be fair—and, like I said, if you want to talk, I can't promise I'll provide solutions. I'm a bit rubbish at that. But, well, I have good ears. Ravens, you know? Excellent hearing. Wait, of course you know, you’re the raven guy. The guy with a raven. I simply meant—"
"Thank you."
A beat of disbelief fills the air. Dream realises then that he may not have expressed his gratitude to his raven as much as he should have, if twice such words startle him so.
"Oh, uh, right. Well... Don't worry about it, anytime, boss. Anytime. I hope you're going to—no, not that I would dare say what you should or shouldn't do, mind you”, he does not sound quite honest on this part, “—but..."
"I will meet with her.", Dream cuts him off, voice a whisper.
"Good. That's good.”, he says, relieved and a bit out of breath. “Well... See you around, boss! Say hi to her for me! And—"
"Farewell, my raven."
It is a clear dismissal- yet the words are said softly. He does not have it in him to be harsh anymore.
"Right, sure, boss.”, and there is still worry in his voice. “…I’ll… see you around, then."
Matthew hops off and takes flight, disappearing into the distance. Dream watches him depart, and from the watery depths of despair, something begins to bubble within his chest. Something lighter, something brighter. He feels an infinitesimally small smile grace his face.
He rises, and takes his leave. In the spot where his tears fell, sprouts timidly emerge from the soil.
He has a meeting to get to.
***
The shore of the Dreaming recedes, fading into the ethereal distance. Dream finds his way to the gallery in which his sibling’s sigils hang. Slowly, more hesitant with every step, he approaches the ankh— he hesitates, then takes it cautiously in hand.
“My sister.”, he addresses the silent chamber “I stand in my gallery and I hold your sigil. Can we talk?”
A few beats pass, and he wonders if he will receive a response. After all, his sister is forever occupied—perhaps the busiest of them all. He would understand if she hesitates to entertain him, especially so soon after their last encounter. Reaching out to her now, without any urgent matters at hand, may be an imposition.
He waits, motionless as a statue amidst the tomb-like silence of the gallery. The fragile, glimmering hope that had stirred within him, fueled by his raven's optimistic counsel, begins to crumble and fade. After a few more beats of dread, he puts the ankh back in place and turns back, his coat billowing dramatically behind him. Then, a warm, familiar voice slices through his spiralling thoughts.
“Oh hi Dream !”, his sister's disembodied voice resonates, and he freezes in his steps. “I’ll come through, if you don’t mind? My place is a little bit overcrowded.”
He recalls the disarray of her realm and a faint knowing smile tugs at his lips. "Of course," he respectfully nods, stepping back a few paces to allow her entry.
The sound of a tear and a whirling of light, and she materialises before him. “Hey, little brother.”, she greets him with a soft smile. Under her gentle scrutiny, unbearably caring, he wonders if it was a good idea to invite her after all. She always saw through him with a most uncanny ability, far surpassing his own- it is unpleasant, to be seen as vulnerable, and in spite of his maintaining composure, he knows she can tell at a glance the way he feels : like a newborn fawn, frozen under headlights. He has no idea how he is supposed to seek her advice on the matter troubling him. How is he meant to admit to her what he only just admitted to himself? Lines of concern crease her face, and he realises he may have lingered in silence for too long.
“I thank you, my sister, for agreeing to meet on such short notice. I understand your time is precious, and I would not wish to burden you.”
"Well," Death begins, a half smile playing upon her lips, “Maybe this could be one of those dreams that feel very long but are indeed very short? What do you think?”
He feels stupid having not thought of it himself. He is too used, perhaps, to the ways of his realm- the obvious is oftentime overlooked. Or perhaps this simple solution has eluded him in his worry. Worry of being a nuisance to her. Worry of being an existential threat to the man he loves. Perhaps.
“It shall be done.”, he acquiesces solemnly. “Please follow me.”
They step out of the gallery, and in that instant, time and space twist and contort around them. When the distortion settles, they find themselves in a covered courtyard, a sanctuary of gothic architecture adorned with ancient azalea beds and arcs of pink roses. The wind continues its melancholic howl, a mournful symphony that blends with the soft patter of raindrops.
“I would show you to the Fiddler’s Green, I know you are fond of him. I must apologise—the weather scarcely allows for such a stroll.”
As they round a bend in the courtyard, a sight catches their attention. Behind an artfully topiary bush sculpted in the form of a lion, a round table with two chairs emerges into view. The table is adorned with gleaming silverware, a china teapot that bears a striking resemblance to the one in Hob's apartment, and a magnificent fruit basket brimming with a dazzling array of exotic fruits. Resting atop the fruit basket are two beautiful apples, their shiny skins enticing and vibrant.
Without hesitation, Death gracefully takes her seat at the table, her eyes fixed on the tempting display before her. She wastes no time in plucking one of the luscious red apples from the basket, sinking her teeth into its crisp flesh.
Dream, however, regards the feast with a mixture of disdain and weariness. His lips curl in a subtle expression of disgust, for his appetite has waned to the depths of his melancholy.
“So. Dream.”, she says after swallowing her bite. He looks back upon her smiling face, warmth radiating from her as it always does, and he absentmindedly wonders how anyone could be scared and upset with such a kind being at their side. Thoughts of Hob, and his refusal to die, cross his mind, and he hopes that his friend will never choose the path to the Sunless Lands, no matter how caring his sister may be. If Hob were to give up on life, Dream would rather have him stay here, in the Dreaming, with him. No amount of gentleness from his sister would soothe him if she were to take his friend away. As he contemplates the depths of his emotions, a sense of dread begins to rise within him, much like it did in the dancing hall. Once again, he contemplates how he does not know what he is supposed to say. How he is supposed to act. He cannot simply state what he feels, can he? He must speak, however. He starts off with something neutral.
“Greetings, my sister.” Then, recalling their last meeting and her advice, he asks : “How have you been faring?”
“My,”, she sounds fairly impressed, “quite well, thank you.” Taking another bite of her partially eaten apple, she continues. "It's a nice start. You could even sit with me, like a true gentleman." Their eyes meet stubbornly for a few moments, and then Dream, remembering his role as host, swallows his pride and takes a seat opposite her. She extends an apple towards him, but he chooses not to react. She shrugs and remarks, "Never too late to learn new tricks. Like this, making social calls? Unusual. I love it, I'm not complaining. I usually have to track you down to wherever you go hide to brood."
Indeed, it is uncharacteristic of him. He feels obligated to provide an explanation and reluctantly responds, his eyes straining to look beyond the rainy backdrop, "I... received advice that I should perhaps reach out to you."
"And you followed it," she says, leaving the core on her plate as she reaches for another apple. "Who was it?"
"My raven."
"Oh, I love him. I'm glad I took him in his sleep. He's so good for you."
Even by Dream's standards, this is a peculiar statement. Yet, her sincerity and self-satisfied smile make him hesitant to question it. He offers a neutral reply, "I suppose so."
"Well... I would ask how you've been, but honestly, you look terrible, and by that I mean worse than usual. You needed me here. What for, little brother?"
Cutting right to the chase. She has always been rather efficient. She certainly needs to be, in her line of work. He slowly unclenches his jaw to answer:
"I find myself in a situation I do not know how to navigate. I thought perhaps I could ask for your advice, as it concerns someone you also know."
"Is it one of our siblings?"
"The matter concerns Hob Gadling."
He is resolutely not looking at her anymore.
"That old codger? Is he well?"
"He is..." Dream grimaces at the memory of Hob's heartbroken face as he left, "...well enough."
"Hmmm, there's something you're not telling me. Come on, spill the beans."
He reluctantly continues, "I met him. As you had foreseen, he was indeed happy to see me."
She observes him with a knowing smile- he does not have to look at her to feel it. He compels himself to carry on with his retelling, one step at a time:
"It went well.”, a beat. “We agreed to meet again."
"Ah, so what did you decide? Another hundred years or going back to once every 89?"
Dream recalls one of the most common dreams of humanity—falling. The brief feel of weightlessness followed by the inevitable crushing impact at the end. Usually, the dreamer wakes up at once, as they crash to the ground. Dream doesn’t sleep, however, so he cannot wake up from this. It is most unfortunate. He takes a slow, deep breath, and admits :
"We have been meeting once a week for a month now."
“That’s brilliant! Oh my, my little brother is finally making friends! I’m so proud of you.”
She reaches out from across the table, putting her hand over his, and he freezes, eyes downcast.
"That, my dear sister, is the crux of the matter."
“What is?”, she asks softly.
“I am not certain the nature of my feelings are exclusively friendly.”
“Oh. I see.”
There is a moment of silence. Then, the crunching sound of her biting in another apple. His frown deepens. He reclaims his hands, crossing his arms.
"You fail to grasp the weight of my predicament."
She leans back, a glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes.
"Ah, Dream, ever the romantic. But this time, you've truly gone further. This time you actually learned to know the person before falling heads over heels. It might even last!"
“I have feared that perhaps Desire’s decided to meddle in my affairs. Again.”
“Well, they would not dare interfere with my affairs, and I am definitely involved.”
Her tone turns colder, and in that moment, she looks every bit as old and powerful as she is.
“I ruled the possibility out. I… I have not felt this way before. I’m afraid it goes beyond what Desire might succeed in influencing. I’m afraid the problem doesn’t lie with them, for once. I….”
Thunder rumbles and crashes in the distance.
“I have been thinking of Nada. She did not deserve her fate. Nor would he, if-”
“Aw, Dream.”
She lets out a sigh, extending her hand toward him. A precaution, after his earlier reaction, but he bristles at the notion of being coddled. He tenses. This conversation is going nowhere either way. Nothing helpful has been said yet, he is still as lost as ever.
As he rises, so does she, and before he can truly walk away, she wraps her arm around him in a half-hug, and, against his will, he immediately melts into her embrace, his defences crumbling.
“Several things.”, she begins to say against his shoulder, “First, he doesn’t count as a mortal anymore, so, that rules out any unpleasant business connected to stupid laws of old. Secondly: I’m proud of you.”, she squeezes him tighter, “I know you, you are probably freaking out right now, which, considering your history, is a natural thing to do, but I think this, this is a good thing. I think you’re learning from your mistakes. ”
“I… believe I may have made yet another mistake, last I saw him”, he says, quietly as the softest wind.
“Oh no. What did you do, you foolhardy idiot.”, she punches him in the arm. He would question why she always resorts to hitting him with something- a baguette, her fist- but at this moment, he feels like he deserves it.
“I left.”
She takes hold of his arm, and drags him to walk around the garden. They remain in silence for a bit. Dream feels like a stone being pulled through the current by a rope.
“Do you believe he reciprocates?”, she asks, gentle again.
Dream thinks back on Hob, his eagerness to impress him, to accommodate him, to give him what he wants, not only what he needs- he thinks of the way they held each other, he thinks of the daydreams of them dancing, he tries to condense six hundred years of memories into one forward sum: he finds that he cannot. The wind screams louder. His words can barely be heard over its howl.
“I do not know for certain. I would not impose my feelings upon him either way. I would not doom him so. I can remain as I was- as we were. I do not need such things.”
The potentiality of rejection makes him want to go lying back down under the rain and take root there.
"Come now, brother," she insists, tugging him gently beneath the gallery once more. "Everyone needs company," she remarks, gesturing toward the vibrant roses. Her fingers graze the petals, and they seem to shift hues under her touch- white, red, purple, yellow, and many more. "To be held. To be loved. It's not bearable to be absolutely alone for all of eternity, is it?"
"We are Endless. And I am not alone," Dream responds, gesturing vaguely at his realm beyond the pointed arches.
She looks into his eyes, her gaze filled with understanding. "You may not be alone, but loneliness is whole other subject. You want more. I get it. We all need kinship. Love."
He hesitates, then counters, "And yet, you don't seem to need this, sister."
Her smile is enigmatic as she answers, "We all seek different kinds of companionship. I may not be up to your bleeding heart's standards, but I do cherish my friendships.”, she plucks a single yellow rose, and breathes it in. “You'd know if you asked."
He considers her words and replies thoughtfully, "Maybe I shall, someday."
“Maybe you will.”, she smiles, and, taking his hand, opens it to lay down the rose in his palm, now white as a snowflake. “And what about Hob Gadling?" she inquires.
"Perhaps I shall reach out to him too," he says, closing his fingers on the rose gently and letting down his hand.
She nods approvingly. "Ah, to see the romantic in you emerging once more.”, she has a short, sunny laugh. “It's remarkable you haven’t decided to court him at least a century earlier. But perhaps it was necessary. Your past self might have mucked it up. I have higher hopes for your present and future selves."
"Then, my sister, let us hope that your hopes are not misplaced,” he offers her the smallest smile, to which she answers with a wide smile of her own.
"We shall find out either way,” she says, squeezing his arm in a comforting gesture. He acquiesces solemnly.
Before parting, she kisses his forehead, and he closes his eyes, savouring the rare touch. She then pats his head with affection, and he arches an eyebrow at her, more amused than offended.
With a wink and the sweep of her wings, she vanishes. Left in contemplation, he gazes at his kingdom, restored, powerful, the sun starting to pierce timidly through the clouds, and hope takes root within him.
He gazes back at the rose clutched in his hand, finding that its colour has deepened to a rich crimson. He looks at it for a while longer, then sighs and opens his coat, hiding the bloom within its starry depths.
Having informed Lucienne of his imminent departure for Hell, he prepares to leave.
And he does.
Things do not go as planned.
Calliope's plea reaches his ears, and without hesitation, he answers her call.
Lucifer leaves him the keys to Hell. Events keep piling up.
When, finally, he has freed Nada and sent her on the path to reincarnation, having found someone worthy to guard the keys to Hell, he feels an infinite weariness consuming him. Yet, he cannot bear to remain in his realm and rest, yearning for the one his heart longs for.
Gathering his strength, he casts his sand into the air, and in a moment, he stands before a magnificent building, a temple of knowledge, golden in the dawning light of the evening.
Recalling his last conversation with Hob, he remembers the interest the man had shown in having him attend one of his classes. Perhaps, this could be an opportune way to approach him after their time apart.
Though the separation hasn't been long compared to the vast expanse that used to lie between their meetings, the months have an unfamiliar weight this time, burdening him with trepidation.
It is with uncertainty in his stride that he finds himself in the midst of a bustling hall. Echoes of dreams collide all around him, disorienting his senses. Feeling lost, he stands amid a sea of young human beings, unsure of his next move.
A woman with tortoise glasses and a colourful name tag appears before him. He needs not read it. Hedwige Thomas, the head secretary, whose dreams are filled with kittens and monstrous cupboards throwing up papers and messing with the classification.
"I am looking for Robert... Gadling?" he inquires, hoping he is using the correct name for this lifetime.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear. Professor Gadling isn't here. I hope he'll return soon, though. The paperwork," Hedwige responds, her voice carrying a hint of exasperation on the latter word.
Confused by her words, he probes further, "What do you mean?"
Things, yet again, do not go as planned.
"Well, he hasn't been in for a week," she answers with a nonchalant shrug. "I must be off now, and if you see him, do remind him that he's got some papers to forward to us? Thank you, dear."
Dream does not acknowledge her departure. Instead, a glacial sense of worry overtakes him. For the smallest instant, he feels frozen with dread, as if encased once again in glass- around him, students start dreaming anxiously over their exams, their relationships, their life goals. Realising this, he rushes out of the building. He must find Hob, to ensure he is safe and well. Without hesitation, he disappears in a swirl of sand, leaving behind a trail of fleeting nightmares in his wake.
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On August 30th we venerate Young King Brother Fred Hampton on his 75th birthday 🎉
Deputy Chairman Fred Hampton was the one of THE greatest orators, leaders, and visionaries to join the Black Panther Party Of Self-Defense 🖤✊🏾
Fred Hampton was born & raised in the Chicago suburbs of Illinois. Civil liberties, rights, and laws were always of great interest to him. After graduating high school, he enrolled in a pre-law program at Triton Junior College in River Grove, Illinois. He joined his local NAACP branch to get involved in the civil rights movement. He rose to the position of Youth Council President for his strong leadership and organization skills. In this position, Brother Hampton mobilized a racially diverse group of 500 young men/women who successfully lobbied city officials to create better academic services and recreational facilities for Black American youth.
In 1968, he joined the Black Panther Party of Self-Defense, headquartered in Oakland, CA. Shortly thereafter, he was selected to head the Chicago Chapter. Here, he created strong personal and political ties with his mentor & chaplain, Father George Clements at the [then] Holy Angels Catholic Church; which served as a safe haven for the Panthers targeted for police surveillance or harassment.
Brother Hampton accomplished a great many things as a young, prolific leader of the BPP Chicago Chapter. He successfully negotiated a gang truce on live television.One of his greatest successes was an unprecedentedly integrated approach to sociopolitical unity; he formed a “Rainbow Coalition”, which included: the Students for a Democratic Society, the Blackstone Rangers, a street gang and the National Young Lords, a local Puerto Rican organization. He was the first leading Panther to achieve this. This alliance is what truly struck the cord of fear in the Chicago P.D. & the FBI. In an effort to neutralize the Chicago Chapter of the BPP, the Black Panthers were placed under heavy surveillance & were subjected to several harassment campaigns.
By 1969, several Black Panthers and Chicago cops either suffered injury or were killed in shootouts across the city, which resulted in the arrest of over 100 members. On Dec 4th of that same year, under the FBI's initiative, the County PD & Chicago PD conducted heinous, unlawful, and unnecessary raid on the Black Panther Party's HQ in the early morning hours while Brother Hampton, leader Mark Clark, and other Panthers slept. They fired over 100 rounds into the apartment without warning. Twelve officers executed Brother Hampton as he slept, drugged by a sedative slipped into his drink by "Panther"/FBI informant O'Neal. Naturally, in Jan 1970, the County Coroner's office ruled the Black Panther leaders' deaths as "justifiable homicide".
Over 5,000 souls attended Brother Hampton’s funeral. Many civil rights activates eulogized him, including his good friend and mentor Father George, who also held a Requem Mass for him at his church.
After many years of coverups, internal investigations, lawsuits, raids, and conspiracies confirmed, the FBI, County PD, & Chicago PD finally admitted to the wrongful deaths of Brother Hampton and Mark Clark. In 1990, and again in 2004, the Chicago City Council passed resolutions commemorating December 4th as Fred Hampton Day. Today, Brother Hampton rests at the Bethel Cemetery in Haynesville, LA where his parents are from - which continues to endure violent desecration from White Supremacist vigilantes/supporters.
" You can kill a revolutionary but you can never kill the revolution. People have to be armed to have power" - Young King Fred Hampton
We pour libations & give him💐 today as we celebrate him for his love of our people, his relentless dedication to the BPP cause, and his young yet wise spirit that lives on. May be the find restful peace in spirit that he was/is denied in the physical.
Offering suggestions: flower offerings at his grave, libations of water, prayers and frankincense toward his elevation
‼️Note: offering suggestions are just that & strictly for veneration purposes only. Never attempt to conjure up any spirit or entity without proper divination/Mediumship counsel.‼️
#hoodoo#hoodoos#atr#atrs#the hoodoo calendar#the black panthers#Fred hampton#Chicago#black panther party#BPP#ancestor elevation#ancestor veneration
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A Poisonous Revelation
Anthea pushed Sion through the open door to her apartment, giggling. As soon as the two were in she closed the door behind her and turned to him with a mischievous grin. After staying with Sol for so many days her body was feeling much better… and her appetite for her boyfriend had grown considerably. “So… where were we?” Anthea canted an eyebrow before moving slowly toward him.
Sion chuckled, “I’m not sure… perhaps I need a reminder?” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her tightly into him, his strong arm pressing her against his body.
Anthea gasped at the sudden movement before relaxing into his grasp, she looked away, embarrassed. Out of the corner of her eye a tall glass bottle on the kitchen counter by the entryway caught her attention. She put her hand on Sion’s arm and cocked her head curiously. “What… is this?” He released her and she moved to investigate the bottle. There was a small note scribbled in delicate, flowy script attached with a string. She read the note aloud:
“I am deeply saddened that you weren’t available to present yourself at our grand opening. However, I do hope you enjoy a delectable libation from my latest collection of beverages. Toodaloo! Dusk”
“Toodaloo?” Anthea repeated softly, astounded.
“A friend of yours? How sweet of him…” Sion said, reaching for the bottle.
“Honey, NO!” Anthea grabbed his hand quickly, pulling it away. “That isn’t safe. Dusk doesn’t talk this way, not in this world or any other.”
Sion frowned at her, “So who left this here? And how did they get in?”
Anthea thought back to the events of the past week and a look of horror grew on her face as she made the realization, “...Acantha. She was here.”
She ran further into the apartment to see that where she had left the box of her grandmother’s journals and notes, there was nothing. It was all gone. “I-I entrusted Miss Bertha with the key! Acantha, she must have been here after tending to the cafe! She’s stolen all of my grandmother’s tomes!”
Anthea dropped to the floor, defeated. “I-I can’t beat her… I can’t win. Those books were my only chance…” Her head drooped forward as tears began to fall to the carpet, her vision blurred by her helplessness. “They were all I had left of my grandmother, Sion.”
Sion moved over to Anthea and sat next to her on the floor, his eyes ablaze. He put his arm around her shoulder, leaning her head onto his chest. “We’ll find her, moogle… and we’ll make her pay.”
((Thank you to my lovely friends, the writers of Sion, Sol, and Dusk, for allowing me to include their OC's in this short! Dusk's carrd can be found here: https://dusk-shadowclaw.carrd.co/. I had so much fun writing this one ♥))
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The boutique jeweler on the corner of Fifth and Langley is protected by two separate sets of silent alarms, motion sensors, bullet-proof glass display cases and a time-locked safe. It is also on the fiftieth floor of a building where the main entrance is guarded by an armed doorman twenty-four hours of the day, with CCTV cameras in all the corridors. It is closed on Sundays aside from by appointment, and any movement within the vicinity would surely attract the notice of passers-by.
However, no one seemed to pay any mind to the two figures clad in the goggles and dark jumpsuits of a window cleaning crew rappelling down from the rooftops. A mere ten minutes later, and Gin and Tequila climb in through the narrow window of the manager’s office. Gin removes her goggles and her cap, and pulls a hairpin out of her mane of blonde hair even as Tequila vaults over to the keypad on the wall and types a dizzying sequence of numbers to disarm the alarm before the sixty-second mark. The safe under the desk is cracked open a short while later, and Gin methodically counts the money even as Tequila makes his way down to the showroom with the enthusiasm of a socialite shopping for an engagement ring.
Half an hour later, CCTV footage of the fiftieth floor shows a beautiful young couple—a blonde woman in a trench coat and a handsome young man in a dark suit—walking towards the elevators. She carries one of those oversized designer purses and he has a fancy gift bag from Macy’s in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other—the very picture of a well-to-do couple perhaps headed out for a fancy anniversary brunch. In the elevator, though, Gin turns to Tequila with a scowl.
“Did you put it back?”
“Put what back?” Tequila has the face of a fallen angel, all lush lashes and beatific smiles and sharp cheekbones, but Gin none-too-gently pushes him up against the elevator’s walls.
“That pair of diamond cufflinks and the unmarked ten thousand in the safe.” A stiletto no longer or wider than her pinkie is pressed against Tequila’s abdomen. “Don’t make me stop this elevator right now and drag you back up there like a bratty child. I promise you, you won’t be half as pretty once I’m done with you.”
“Aww, why are you being such a spoilsport, Ginny? You know they’re a mob front anyway and any of the funds and goods within came from ill-begotten means. I’d be happy to put five of the ten thousand towards a charitable institution of your choice!”
“We’re not here to do that,” Gin says haughtily. “Ruth would be furious if you padded your inventory, you know she would. And don’t call me Ginny.”
“And you should loosen up a bit,” Tequila says defensively, but he gives a long-suffering sigh and pushes the button on the elevator leading back up towards the fiftieth floor. “Stop sulking because they called for Whiskey again. It doesn’t mean that you’re less in demand. I know I wouldn’t enjoy his type of libation.”
“Ruth and J also live in constant fear that you’ll end up in the deep end and lose your designation.” Gin glares at Tequila’s reflection in the mirrored elevator walls. “Cal can do as he pleases. We hardly ever have occasion to mix and mingle, and I doubt that will be changing any time soon.”
Tequila gives her a sidelong glance, but to his credit—and perhaps to his sense of self-preservation—he refrains from letting his expression settle into a smirk. Teasing Gin is acceptable to an extent with the length of their acquaintance, but he knows quite well not to push too hard. “Perhaps you two just need to talk it out. Or hug it out. Or something.”
The door dings at the fiftieth floor, and Gin strides out without a backwards glance. “Cal would sooner cuddle a cactus. Or a grizzly bear. Now put those diamonds and that cash back before I break your nose.”
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@piratedking said: “when a woman desires something, no one can stop her”
THE WORDS KISS HER SKIN WARM AS A HEARTH as the pirate king leans in close, hand balancing her weight to the grain of the wood beam that Esmeralda finds herself most fondly pressed against. woman. sovereign. goddess. Elizabeth WANTS with all the weight of divinity itself, and Esmeralda would happily lose herself in the curve of her lips that pout like the swell of the sea, WINE-DARK and made for the sweetness of a kiss. much as she tries, she cannot tear her gaze FROM THEM, for it flickers only momentarily to those dark brown eyes that enchant her. she knows, now, how ADAM FELT, unable to resist in the face of a woman’s desire, the way the blood rushes to PLEASE HER, drowning out all thoughts of God. Esmeralda’s hand rises up between them to trace her abdomen as if it were a KISS, bare skin instead of black leather –– as tender as the touch of a priestess reverent before her ATHENA.
❝ the original sin. the fondness of woman’s tongue for FORBIDDEN FRUIT. ❞
she bends her head to nuzzle at her neck, breathing deep the scent of salt, and rum, and tar, and gunpowder which on her skin seems as fine as the scent of LIBATIONS burning to the heavens in devoted offering. Esmeralda grits her teeth to resist the pull to kiss her now, for how EASY it would be ! another faint movement, barely a breath. her hand tenses. NOT HERE. not where anyone might see, for such rituals demand a sacred place. it seems ... wrong, to take to bed such a lady when the two of them have hardly yet BEEN ALONE, the weight of their conversations lost amidst the hum of the Brethren Court and fickle politics, or shouted ‘cross bloodied decks in the open seas. ( and yet isn’t that the very thing that has bewitched her ? witness to the FORCE she commands at the head of a fleet, the elegance of her diplomacy, the stature of a lioness who was all the more beautiful when she BARED HER TEETH. ) she has not known a moment’s peace since knowing her, her every thought distracted, her every dream tormented and ORNAMENTED with her image. Elizabeth is burned into the bottom of her lungs and she would happily choke on the flames just to taste her.
DEATH looms on the horizon for them all. if it is to be a noose around her neck tomorrow, she would have it be her FINGERS tonight.
❝ I want you. please, majestad, ELIZABETH –– ❞
#uhhhh SO I MADE IT SPICY#i am ... thinking gay thoughts about their height difference grace#tw suggestive#piratedking#✘; LOOSE，CATCH THE WIND ( meme response )
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