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unhinged-summer-fun · 8 days ago

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common grounds (oshamir) - chapter 19

Pairing: Osha Aniseya x Qimir "The Stranger"

Warnings: here there be smut muahaha

A/N: Dividers by me, many thanks to @desertbcrnnobody for beta help and also my high school physics teacher for fuckin me up about the nature of the universe and macrophysics

series masterlist

chapter 19: ins and outages

Osha remembered another lesson from her high school physics class, some weeks after the three-stage collision lesson. Her teacher had said the earth spun incredibly fast, too fast for anybody to really ever notice it. But there were signs of movement: sunrises and sunsets, weather, gravity itself—all those things were already so integrated into daily life on earth that it felt like the earth wasn’t even spinning at all, if one grew bored enough.

What would happen if it actually did stop spinning? Osha asked back then.

The look her teacher had given her seemed better suited to a man who’d stepped on a landmine’s pressure plate.

We would all die, he said. A simple and brutal truth. Everything would die.

And then we won’t have to worry about the midterm on Tuesday, because there’d be no such thing as midterms, or Tuesdays, or even the concept of worrying—because nothing would be alive to feel anything at all. The world would go… smooth, I think, like a marble. If the arrested motion were sudden enough, perhaps some tectonic plates would break off and go spinning into orbit. The earth would stop spinning, but everything not held down would keep moving—and that’s everything. And once homeostasis was reached, and there was nothing left but a homogenous mess of what used to be…

Things would be quiet. They would be quiet, because there would be nothing else left to be. All this would happen in less than a second—microscopic fractions of a second, before there were no more seconds at all.

Qimir’s sudden, total stillness didn’t portend the complete evisceration of the world around him, but his face held some of that devastation—just a microscopic fraction of it.

Osha didn’t know what to say to jumpstart things again, to reset something like gravity, but just before her blood went cold, he took a deep breath. She watched him, unmoving, as he broke the tableau and sipped his coffee—like he hadn’t just terrified her with the complete shift in his body language.

“I assume she was speaking with Vernestra?” he asked, voice carefully free of any inflection.

Osha still didn’t know what to say. Perhaps he’d been the axis, and she’d been the planet wiped out to a glassy, smooth marble. It wasn’t his world that was ending. He seemed… fine. Sipping his coffee, speaking evenly.

“She was,” Osha said, sticking to the bare truth. “They were talking about, um, working together again. I didn’t know what that… meant.” Even though Indara had kind of put the cart before the horse on that one.

He hummed, but there was a distinct lack of life to it.

This was a bad idea.

As he spoke, he kept his eyes away from her, focused instead on the middle distance. “Idise is a private investigator,” he said plainly, mostly to the wall. “About fifteen years ago, Vernestra hired her to follow me and report on my activities.”

Osha nearly vibrated with the sudden, flooding rage that swept in as her fears were confirmed. How dare she show her face at the Temple and get all cozy with Qimir after that?

“That was how we met,” he said. “I’d been gunrunning for the Hutts for six months when they brought her snooping to my attention—they told me to handle her. So I go out one night and lead her to where I wanted to rush her.”

“What?” Osha whispered. She felt like she’d be sick, forcing herself to take steady, even breaths through her nose.

“I had nothing to lose. I was slowly starving to death because, in those days, all I’d eat was black-market pain medication. If that wasn’t going to kill me, something else was bound to. I was just going through the motions.”

Her heart still didn’t slow as he kept going.

“And then she—” he laughed.

Laughed.

Wait, what?

“I lead her to this parking lot, and Idise just—rushes me. Just how I was going to rush at her. She comes at me with some—I think I called it kung-fu shit back then—she ended up breaking my nose before she put me in a one-handed submission hold that still almost makes me pass out—”

He was… smiling. It was a rueful, unhappy smile, but it was clear he took some actual joy from this memory. What the fuck?

“—but the specifics aren’t important here. She asked me who the hell I was to Vernestra Rwoh, and why the hell did she want to watch me so badly. I don’t know exactly what I said, but I told her the truth, I know that much. Told her I was a loose end. And that much is true now as it was then.”

He’d told her as much, more than a week ago—in his office, talking about destruction and conspiracies.

“I told you I was street fighting back then—the Hutts ran kind of the same fight night deal that Unplan does, but people often left that ring in body bags, not ambulances. I was in that ring for-fucking-ever. That time is just as fuzzy as my time at the Temple, probably worse, because of the drugs. I thought Idise was trying to kill me at first, I absolutely believe it’s not beneath Vernestra to put a hit on someone like me.”

He said it so casually it made Osha’s heart stop.

“But then, this P.I. chick breaks my nose, almost has me throw up and pass out, then she starts babbling about some conspiracy with the Temple, how she’d been piecing shit together and found a bunch of people who knew but were hushed up about it. I told her… I told her I didn’t care.”

“Wh—?” Osha wasn’t certain what she was reacting to: Idise knowing about the corruption in the Temple, Idise admitting that knowledge to Qimir, or his ultimately nihilistic attitude towards all of it. He cared, Osha knew. He had the capacity to care, deep as trenches.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because when he met her eyes again, his jaw flexed, chewing back whatever words he was going to say in favor of something else.

“I was in a bad place, Osha. I lived every day like I thought it would be my last, and not in a good way. My spine had been fixed by surgery when I was 17, but by the time I turned 19, I was in immense pain every single day—no support net, couldn’t get a job, hadn’t finished high school since Vernestra ‘homeschooled’ me. No money, no friends, no home. All the titles and accolades I’d won for Vernestra had been sanitized, marking the Temple as the victor against another fighter. And the prize cash was held in a trust I never ever saw. I had nothing.

“All I had was my pain, and I didn’t even want that. So I numbed it with drugs; the Hutts were more than happy to provide them as payment for my services.”

He drained the rest of his coffee, looking mildly disgusted.

“What happened after that?” Osha asked. He got up, getting himself another cup and sitting down before speaking.

“Obviously, I couldn’t kill her in the end. I pursued it for a while, it kept me occupied. She outfoxed me mentally, outclassed me physically, and knew more about me than I knew about myself back then. And somehow, breaking that routine, the dull violence and crime the Hutts tasked me with, it snapped some sense back into me. I didn’t want to kill her. I didn’t want to kill anybody. I didn’t want to hurt anybody, not on the streets, not in the ring. I’d seen other guys do it. But I couldn’t—” His voice tightened around an invisible chokehold. “I just couldn’t.”

Osha knew she was probably crazy for it, but she believed every word he said. She accepted every ounce of darkness he shared with her. Without hesitation or reluctance, she took his hand and held it tight. I’m here, she conveyed. I believe you, and I’m still here. It gave him bravery, she thought.

“Idise kept trying to talk to me, even after I tried to tell her off, tell her the Hutts wanted her dead. But she wouldn’t listen. She was focused on me joining her crusade against the Temple. I’d tried doing that before, throwing bricks and making threats against them. And it’s a truth I took too long to learn, that a lot of unfortunate people took too long to understand: the Temple is just too big to beat.”

Osha’s flare of indignance was difficult to obscure.

“But Idise had this idea. If enough people—people who know, you know—stand against the Temple, they might actually be able to do something. They couldn’t sue us all—that was her logic. I didn’t care, though. I was still starving, I was just a little more scared, now. I kept avoiding her, but she’d find me. Tell her off. Avoid her. She found me. Rinse-repeat.” He stopped again, taking a few breaths. Shaky inhale, shaky exhale. “Then the Hutts caught wind that I hadn’t—handled her.”

Osha’s blood finally went cold. “Shit,” she whispered.

He nearly tripped over his words, trying to speak quickly just to get this story over with. “It’s a—it’s a story not worth telling. It’s not important right now. When they were done with me, I was completely fucked up. They left me for dead out in the street. And then—”

With the curtains drawn back from the morning sunlight, they could hardly tell the power in the apartment had gone out—if it weren’t for the power-down bwrhhhh that seemed to come from the walls. Just as fast as the power had gone out, it returned.

Damn winter power outages.

“Keep going, please,” Osha said when he didn’t immediately speak up.

He looked like he wanted to protest for her sake, but nodded. “Idise found me. Took me somewhere safe. I got back on my feet. Got my diploma, then started college. I didn’t want to, but I tried to pay back Idise by helping her dig for information about Vernestra and the Temple. She didn’t have as much as she made it out to seem.”

“What—hold on, what about Vernestra hiring her?”

He nodded, an oh yeah expression on his face. “She’d fed Vernestra enough to get some information in return. When Vernestra’s stories started not adding up with what she had found out herself, she knew she had to get out of the spider’s web while she could. She told Vernestra that my trail went cold when I joined up with the slugs—code for I don’t wanna get involved with the Hutts. Two weeks after parting ways with Vernestra, Idise broke my nose in a parking lot.”

The wry little smile on his face was confounding.

This wasn’t what Osha thought she’d hear from him. She’d anticipated vitriol and a history of deceit, of… anything but nostalgia. She felt incredibly silly for making wild assumptions about Idise and her history with the Temple. Osha’s vitriol toward her at the gym all at once felt so stupid and embarrassing. She’d been telling the truth.

I’m not working for her. I wouldn’t do that to him.

“You told me you stopped searching for evidence,” Osha said.

He nodded. “I did. Almost a decade ago. Called off the hunt two years into pre-med. Before, my days were spent cramming science, my nights were spent helping the team follow any lead to take down the Temple. One half seeking to do no harm, one half only seeking harm. It was eating me up—scraping me raw. It was… I was in a dark headspace.

“One day, my advanced chemistry professor shared the basic formula for homemade explosives. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was obsessed. Night and day, my thoughts were consumed by the idea of ending the Temple just to stop having to think about it all the time. I never told Idise the real reason why we needed to stop; I told her it was just not feasible to continue, and I shut it down. She was never satisfied with my reasoning. But I shut it down, and eventually I graduated, I got my job, postgrad—wouldn’t have been able to safely learn all the delicate parts of the body if all I did was think about how I could use that knowledge to break the person who broke me.”

His eyes flickered, first to her, and then away as a cloud of shame settled over his head.

Fuck. Osha remembered similar states of obsessive, all-consuming despair. In the years following her injury, she remained in a floating, numb state of hopelessness. Very often and very easily, her mind would spiral into dark places she couldn’t claw her way out of, though most of her maladaptive daydreaming ended in a grave with her own name on it.

She empathized with him; she wouldn’t have wanted to continue either. Forgetting, remembering. They’re different pains that make you wish you had the other.

“But, eventually, the pain wasn’t all I had. Idise is a seeker. She’s a bloodhound, and she is fantastic at what she does. She saw that I had things… missing. She’d already found Paul, Kana, and Medora for me. She didn’t find it, but she was part of Unknown Planet, and brought me into the fold there. She’d found an outlet for the anger that was still there no matter how much I denied it. I owe her my life, a hundred times over. It’s hard to be friends or friendly with someone like that, but we’re close. It feels like fate brought us together, and now fate won’t let us part.”

It felt fucking cheap to ask, but Osha did anyway. “A lot of people at Unplan think you two were… involved. Were you?”

He startled at the question, his face incredulous. “Absolutely not.”

That seems a bit of an overreaction. “Uh, is there a reason why not?”

“Aside from the fact I’m very much not her type, we know each other too well, have been together through too much for me to feel anything but that bond. There’s no way I could be vulnerable around her like I can be with you. You’ve met her. She’s fucking intense.”

He wasn’t wrong. “Intense is a word for it,” she agreed, trying not to let her fluttering heart get the best of her. “But why do you think she was at the Temple?”

“What was said?” That wasn’t an answer.

Still, Osha relayed what she remembered about that day, and then halted when she realized another crucial piece of information she was leaving out.

“What is it?” he said, fingers laced beneath his chin. He’d been frowning through her story, deep in thought.

Why can’t we go back to dry humping in his bed?

“I’m… she also uh. Kinda cornered me at Unplan when I was working out later that week. She must’ve known I’d thought the worst of the situation and wanted to… I don’t know, clear the air.”

But Qimir’s expression had gone thunderous and dark. Rage simmered on his features like he was made of boiling magma. He was pissed. He held none of that anger for the violation toward his own privacy, but when it came to Osha, his temper flared like the goddamn sun.

“And what else did she say?” he asked, his voice gone tight. This wasn’t protectiveness over her, she realized. Why is he so angry? What the fuck happened between them?

“She asked me if I knew where you were. I didn’t tell her anything, of course. And then she said Vernestra didn’t want to hire her to follow you again.”

His throat bobbed, words swallowed down.

“What?” Osha said. “What aren’t you saying?”

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. The anger wasn’t so much boiling as it was now simmering, cooled off enough for him to form logical thoughts. “If she’s not following me, who else do you think she would want Idise tailing?”

“What—?”

He reached for her hand, squeezing once. “Who else at the Temple has been mistreated, injured, erased, overworked, and brought down enough to have one hell of a motive to tear it all down?”

Oh.

Fuck.

“Yeah, fuck,” he said.

Just like that, the perfect morning they’d started with had been balanced back to a net zero.

Q: Leave Osha out of this.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: I was wondering why I couldn’t text you.

UN: You break that phone on purpose too?

Q: She’s not a part of it, no matter what you’re doing.

UN: If she’s involved with you, she has no choice.

UN: What were you doing in Khofar?

UN: Didn’t take you for a cabin-in-the-woods type.

Q: Leave it alone.

UN: No :)

UN: What were you doing in Khofar?

Osha woke up from her afternoon nap, still on day one of limbo. Three days remained before Sol and Mae and the whole Temple returned from Theed. When she checked her phone, there were no new messages, so she suspected Mae hadn’t asked Sol what he wanted to talk to them about just yet.

She didn’t know what to do about Vernestra hiring Idise to keep an eye on her, and Qimir just said he’d handle it. In the context of his story, she didn’t feel too good about that assurance.

“You’re being fucking stupid, Osha,” she muttered, getting up to get ready for work.

Kana and Medora were there when she arrived.

Paul, and Kana, and Medora.

Hold on, who the fuck is Paul?

“You alright there, Osha?” Kana asked when Osha hadn’t finished taking off her coat to hang up. She jumped, turning around to hide her embarrassment.

“Sorry! Still waking up a little bit.” She shook her head.

“Been there. Go make yourself a coffee, girl.”

“I think I might,” Osha said, smiling at Medora.

“Did the power go out at your place, too? I’m glad I was already here when it happened.”

The wintertime sometimes messed with the badly-weatherized power grid, knocking out power in parts of the city. Osha had come back from Qimir’s to a bunch of clocks blinking 12:00 and had spent the better part of her afternoon resetting everything.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Pretty lame.”

Kana picked up their conversation again. It warmed her to know they didn’t feel the need to keep secrets from her.

“So the police got involved?”

“Yeah, they wanted to question her but I told them to fuck off.”

“I mean she’s four, don’t they have any better leads than a traumatized toddler?”

“That’s what I told them!”

Osha closed her locker and tied off her apron. She wasn’t trying to hide that she was listening in, but she wasn’t trying to involve herself in their conversation either—no matter how intriguing it sounded.

Medora seemed to catch onto that, turning to her and bringing her into the conversation herself. “Have I ever told you what my day job is, Osha?”

She shook her head. “I figured you didn’t need one; they tip you so well here.”

Kana barked a laugh. “A flatterer!” he crowed, leaning back in his chair.

Medora just threw him a look before she said, “I’m a youth counselor for the FDO.”

“That’s amazing,” Osha said, smiling warmly.

“I always wanted to help out. I spent all my time in the medical wing of the building growing up. Asked a billion questions of all the doctors there.”

She sounded like Mae, constantly asking questions and endlessly curious. At the end of the day, she was kind, thankful, and caring.

“So you always knew you wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much,” she said, shrugging.

“Medora’s being humble for no reason, she got her doctorate same year as Q. They were neck and neck for summa and magna cum laude their whole last year.” Kana sounded so proud, lauding his siblings’ accomplishments.

“It wasn’t a race, you idiot,” Medora grumbled. “I’m still surprised Paul let you go to art school.”

“Yeah, well, Paul knew the fuckin’ apartment needed someone in the humanities, or we’d all starve. Has Q cooked for you, Osha?”

She remembered the smoke alarm interruption from earlier that morning. “He’s… tried to.”

Kana laughed again, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes. “Imagine a house of four grown adults, and three of them have Q’s cooking skills.”

“Who’s, um.” Her mouth went dry the moment before she could say—

“Paul?” Medora said, her voice pitched high. “What the shit, Q doesn’t talk about Paul? Does he talk to you at all? Or does he do that brooding thing the whole time?” She did an (accurate) impression of her brother’s raincloud demeanor.

“We talk,” Osha said, stepping in to defend Qimir. “He’s kind of tight-lipped about some things from his past, but he’s told me quite a bit.” Obviously not enough.

“Well, you know his spine issues as a kid,” Kana said. “Paul ran the pediatric spine clinic Q got treated at. Did the surgeries himself when he—” The sharp cutoff, combined with the grimace, said when he broke his back at 17.

Osha nodded, signaling that he didn’t have to rehash it. “You still keep in touch?”

“Idise managed to track him down after the clinic mysteriously shuttered,” Medora said, playing with the end of her braid. The mention of Idise still brought a sick little twist to her stomach, but Osha was learning to accept that embarrassment and move on. “Q was with him a few months by then, recovering from that horrible car accident. Then she found Kana, and I was just about to age out of the FDO when she found me. She brought us all back together again, after everything.”

“That’s—that’s really great,” Osha said. Car accident. They either didn’t know the Hutts had messed him up and left him for dead, or they didn’t know that Osha knew the real story.

Her awkwardness was overshadowed by fraternal teasing. “Ooo, when she found you, so romantic, Medora.”

Her face flushed a little pink, and she scowled at Kana across the breakroom table. “Shut up.”

Kana checked the clock after antagonizing her with another teasing grin. “Moonrise is in five. Let’s lock in.”

“Got it.”

So Medora absolutely had a crush on Idise. It made sense why Qimir was so adamant that he was never with Idise like that. But if Kana was aware of Medora’s crush on Idise, why would he tell Osha otherwise? The thoughts followed her through her shift, but there were enough things to do at the bar that her daydreams only skimmed the surface of those quandaries—though that surface was obviously still distressing.

“You look grouchy,” Kana commented two hours into their shift. She hadn’t been avoiding him, but the question of his false implication about Qimir and Idise had her wondering what he had to gain from it. “S’on your mind?”

Osha winced, wiping down the same section of the bar as she’d done for the last twenty minutes. It was slow tonight. Had everyone in the city gone to Theed with the Temple?

“Why did you—” Osha cut herself off, turning back from where her body had started moving to face him. She faced away.

“Why’d I what?” he asked, moving to her peripherals.

“It’s uh, nothing.”

“Let’s take a break.”

She heard the order for what it was.

They grabbed their jackets and went to the back parking lot. Osha’s heart pounded, wondering what he would say to her. Kana was her boyfriend’s brother but also her boss. And here she was thinking that things couldn’t possibly be weirder than when Mae was on shift with her at the cafe.

Kana lit a cigarette and offered one to her. She accepted it impulsively.

“You seem overwhelmed,” he said, lighting one off the other.

“I am overwhelmed,” Osha said, all her breath leaving her in a whoosh. She fidgeted with her sleeves until she could take a drag.

She’d smoked a little in high school, out of sheer stress and the lack of anything better to do. Cal had thought she was so cool, smoking behind the school auditorium. She’d kissed him so he could know what it tasted like, but he’d coughed so hard he almost puked, then sweetly asked to try again. That was near the last time she smoked—because smoking led to Cal’s interest, which led to Cal’s kissing, which led to Sol almost pounding a 17-year-old’s face in.

Osha was a touch out of practice, but smoking came back to her as easy as fighting.

“Qimir is an enigma. I wasn’t lying to you when I said he’s lonely and prefers it like that.”

So he knew what she was stressing about. “Were you… testing me? That night?”

He shrugged. “Suppose I was. Medora’ll give you the official shovel talk when the time comes, but you can’t blame me for looking out for my brother.”

She doubted Mae would risk giving Qimir the shovel talk. She didn’t even want to think about Sol meeting him—though, history proves they already know one another.

“That’s fair,” she said, looking out at the dark lot. “How’d I do on your test?” she asked. She hoped she didn’t sound bitter, but her emotions had been out of wack since she arrived.

“I certainly wouldn’t have put you on my shoulders if you failed,” he said dryly. She finally realized what was so uncanny about this conversation. He sounded different from how he’d spoken indoors—he wasn’t running his words together or using that city drawl Osha never got the hang of. Compared to how he was speaking to her now, the voice he used inside was closer to Qimir’s doofus accent.

They really were brothers.

It made Osha laugh—too late to be laughing at his remark. “What?” said Kana.

She shook her head, smiling. “I’m just glad I know you all.”

It put him at ease, a fond smile taking over his face. They smoked in silence for a minute—until the lamps above them suddenly powered down, dimming almost to total darkness before clawing their way back to illumination.

Damn it. She’d just reset the appliances.

Kana didn’t seem too worried about it, continuing their conversation as if nothing had happened.

“I know Qimir would never say as much, but Paul’s absolutely his dad—and Qimir’s Paul’s son. Me and Paul, we don’t got that kind of relationship. We’re tight, and he’s family, but he’s not my dad like he’s been for Qimir and Medora.”

“Did he encourage them to pursue medicine?”

“That’s a way to put it,” he said, chuckling. “I’d say he was the damn reason for it.”

“That’s cute,” Osha said, smiling. The anxiety in her chest seemed to float away with every drag on her cigarette. “My dad’s…” Oh shit. She’d walked herself into this corner. She didn’t want Kana looking at her how Qimir had looked at her after that welterweight comment. She settled on, “Weird.”

“Weird?” Kana laughed. “Weird how?”

Weird how Sol seems deeply involved in this whole fucking mess. Weird how Sol seems way too okay letting the Temple hang albatross after albatross around his neck. Weird how he fucking passes out on my couch on my birthday because he doesn’t know when things have gone too far. Weird how he insists on family dinners but never lets us act like a family. Weird how Qimir clearly hates him but never talks about it. Weird how Sol had a framed photo of him in the room full of memories he didn’t care to dwell on.

“Just… weird. He adopted me and my sister hella fast after our—well, after we lost our family. And it’s been seventeen years, but he still hasn’t gotten the hang of fatherhood. Family dinners with him are really awkward.”

Kana didn’t pry, picking up on Osha’s discomfort. “Well, we all usually get together once every few weeks just to hang out at Paul’s place. Just to shoot the shit, take walks together. I think you’d like it. Paul’s a good guy. I hope you meet him soon.” I hope Qimir invites you soon, he was saying.

It sounded so nice—but Qimir had never mentioned Paul in the first place. There was so much Osha had no idea about. Qimir’s life was still unfolding in front of her—like a map that started out as small as her palm but folded out to the size of a beach towel. She’d been fairly adamant about her position on deception, especially where omitted information was concerned. Even so, each new answer only brought twice as many questions. It was so difficult to keep up with.

And eventually, it’d catch up with her, a warning voice intoned in her head.

But she stayed in the moment. “I’d like that, too. He sounds nice,” she said.

Kana put out his cigarette and tossed it in the metal receptacle by the door.

“Does Qimir join every time?” she asked, doing the same.

Kana’s hand stilled on the handle of the service door. He looked over his shoulder at her, just the glint of his eye shining in the shadows.

“Not for the last three months.”

O: [IMG_9322.HEIC]

?: Is your shift over?

?: You look beautiful.

O: Yeah I’m omw home now

O: All the damn lights are reset ugh

Osha got a wicked impulse.

O: Wanna come over?

She forced herself not to look at her phone for the entire drive back to the apartment, equal parts nervous and excited for whatever his answer might be. When she parked, she finally checked her phone—

The knock on her window made her scream.

After a few adrenaline-fueled seconds, she finally recognized Qimir’s bewildered face through the glass. “What the fuck!” she laughed, near about to pass out.

“Sorry,” he said, muffled through the glass.

She finally looked at the text.

?: Yes I’ll be there when you park.

Sent ten minutes ago.

She got out of the car, fueled by the urge to slap him silly and kiss him just the same. The second urge won, her hand twining in the scarf around his neck and pulling him down to her. She kissed him right there with her car door between their bodies, remnants of her fright still racing through her veins.

He pulled away, humming and happily content. Then he stopped, frowning. “Were you smoking with Kana?”

“Howwww the hell do you know that?”

“You taste like his cigarettes,” he said. It felt ridiculous to imagine him jealous—

Oh.

He was jealous.

“I can go brush my teeth,” she said lamely, basically gawping up at him. Maybe wash my mouth out, maybe get punished over a knee—now that’s a thought—

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, gathering his composure again.

Before it could settle, before logic could win, she rattled the bars that kept the beast in him locked away. Osha stood on tip-toes, moving her hand from his scarf to his hair to pull him down again. If her nails slightly pressing into his scalp bothered him, the low, pleased growl he gave in return didn’t say so.

Qimir’s hands went to her shoulders, maneuvering her around the side of her car door so he could kiss her up against the freezing surface. She squeaked at the sudden cold against her back, but he didn’t care. He was ravenous, kissing and licking into her mouth like he wanted to erase any claim left by someone else. Like he’d go so far as breathing against every inch of her skin that was stained with phantom tobacco so she wore the scent of anybody but him.

For fuck’s sake, Kana was his brother. Why did it turn her on so much to think he was acting this way because Kana gave her a cigarette?

She didn’t give a shit, taking as much as he gave her. She was slightly stunned when he pulled back, fixing her with a sharp glare.

“Smoking is very bad for you.”

Then he resumed, lips trailing down to her jaw, her neck, that soft spot behind her ear that made her shiver when he ran his tongue over it. Osha’s breathy laugh sounded so ridiculously wanton in response to his chiding. She kept her hand in his hair as he worried his teeth over her sensitive skin. He must have reached where she’d sprayed a bit of perfume earlier, because his low moan made her insides go to jelly and her knees threaten to buckle.

“M-maybe we can go inside?” she asked, sounding weak to her own ears. Round two, yes please.

He found a place to pause; lips still formed around her pulse—all he’d need to do is bare his teeth, and he’d be that wolf again, demanding submission.

Maybe it’s about time I bare my neck for him, too…

“Inside,” he agreed.

Qimir walked a half-step behind Osha, one hand perched at the small of her back. She looked down into her bag to search for her keys, cursing under her breath as she rummaged.

There was a sudden yank at her belt loop, tugging her two swift steps to the right—to avoid walking into a neighbor passing them in the hall. The neighbor ignored them, just as wrapped up in their world as Osha was, but Osha turned her surprised look up to Qimir, who released her and re-settled his hand at the small of her back. He just shrugged, a smug smirk threatening to surface on his lips.

She finally found her goddamn keys, but then spent another few seconds trying to decipher which one meant open door.

That hand at the small of her back smoothed its way to her hip, another joining at the other side as he stood behind her. Her ability to concentrate took another horrific blow—practically at death’s door, and all his fault.

“I like these jeans,” he said conversationally, as if he was talking about some medical journal he’d read recently. “You make them look nice.”

She wasn’t sure that was how clothing-based flattery was usually structured. She didn’t respond, eliminating key by key by—

Another yank at her belt loops, this time pulling her back into him. Her hips made contact with his, and she jolted a little when she realized he was hard behind her. Holy shit holy shit key gods, please—

There.

The door swung open, and they stole inside like bandits. She would have thought he would want to continue that next logical step (so logical. The most fucking logical thing ever) from what he’d started on the doormat, but his eyes suddenly filled with curiosity that stopped all ardor in its tracks.

He was in her apartment.

The revelation struck her just seconds after it did him. She felt giddy with it. “You ever see the other floorplans here?” she asked, awkwardly making a show at playing host to him.

“There’s more rooms in this one,” he said, both truthfully and sarcastically.

“Your powers of observation are stunning, Coach Lo.”

He leveled an I’m not playing, you’re gonna get it if you push me look at her, one she responded to with a coquettish smile. They removed their shoes and she turned on a few lights to point out the obvious: kitchen, living room, bathroom. She scowled at the blinking 12:00 on the stovetop in the kitchen.

“That’s Mae’s room over there, and—”

MYAHHHH???

“You haven’t met my other roommate,” Osha said, rushing to the cat tree in the corner. She scooped up the cute ball of fur in her hands and returned to Qimir, who was still taking in the living room—more specifically, he was looking at the bookshelf, pulling out random books to peer at in the light. When Osha approached, he gave her his attention. “This is Pip. Pip, this is my stranger.”

He sighed deeply. “Fuck you for holding something cute while saying that.” He sounded actually tormented by it—I am so oppressed, my girlfriend is using her kitten as a shield against my horny nature.

Osha loved pushing his buttons.

Pip seemed to like Qimir, using his sharp kitten claws to traverse the sleeve of his black denim jacket up to his absurdly broad shoulders. Osha could have died at the image of Qimir’s surprised face when Pip came and bumped his cold little nose against his jaw.

Then Pip descended down the back of his jacket, his claws making little tiny scratch noises. “Oh no—” Osha said, stepping in to help.

Pip had lodged himself right in the center of Qimir’s shoulder blades, where even his long arms couldn’t reach him. He grunted as he tried to get Pip back to safety, and Osha just started to laugh—though it was well past quiet hours in her building. Pip made a series of feline battle cries, hanging onto his conquered jacket with imperious greed.

“Oh my god, this is insane,” Osha laughed, finally prising her cat off of his jacket. “You naughty boy!” she declared, kissing the top of his head. “Good job, Pip.”

Qimir took the opportunity to remove his jacket, laying it over the back of her couch like it belonged there. She finally understood why he reacted so intensely to her wearing his clothes—this was another sign of his possessive nature. Staking his claim, leaving his things about, touching her books.

With intent to sleep in her bed.

It was a queen, and with his size, it’d be a tight fit.

I bet he likes a tight f—

To sleep. They would be sleeping.

Wait, was lewdness on the table? Could she ask for lewdness?

“Are you hungry?” she asked, covering her bases before they slept.

He shook his head, but something in his eyes told her otherwise.

Osha ensured Pip was cared for, sleeping soundly in his bed, before she took Qimir’s hand and led him to her bedroom.

He hadn’t said much since they walked in, keeping all his observations to himself. Even here, he took his time to take her room in.

Qimir lived quite the spartan life, hardly keeping any personal effects in his home, his car—hell, the most clutter she’d seen was in his office, but that seemed like the exception to his rules. Osha hadn’t been joking that first time she met him in his office; her room was chaotic but it was her.

She tried looking at her room from his perspective. The bed looked perpetually unmade, the comforter hopelessly tangled within the confines of the duvet cover. Her desk hadn’t been used since high school, and currently housed her very tiny, very new makeup collection. The desk chair had instead become a chair closet, holding a pile of laundry—oh fuck, was that one of her bras?

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

But he wasn’t looking at the lacy bundle that may or may not have been a bra—his eyes were on the windowsill, one hand reaching for the small purple butterfly—

“Don’t,” she implored, not really sure why. He’d freely touched plenty of things in her apartment until now—herself included—but the little crystal figurine seemed too precious for her to share with him tonight. “Please,” she added, though they were sure she didn’t want to say it.

Qimir retracted his hand, watching Osha now as if she were the new object of his interest. “It’s beautiful,” he said, not looking at it.

“I sometimes forget it’s there,” she said.

“It was the first thing I saw. It caught the moonlight just right.”

She hadn’t ever looked at it in the moonlight before. In the dark moments before sleep, she could never bear to look at it, lest it invite nightmares of her last moments with her mothers.

But he was right; it sparkled and glittered the way it had that day in the shop. The cool moonlight made the purple seem regal, faceted reflections and refractions cast upon the windowsill like bold splashes of light.

She said nothing more, holding out her hand for him to come closer.

Wanna come over? she’d asked him. She wished she’d been more specific, because now that he was here, she had no clue what to do with him.

He seemed to have his own ideas, though.

He stepped into her space, one hand on her hip and the other coming to tilt her face up to his. But he didn’t kiss her; not just yet. He came close, looking her over with a face of yearning intensity she was becoming familiar with.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

She didn’t shy from the compliment; she didn’t want to run from this, run from him and all his feelings. If she was allowed to feel as deeply for him as she did, then she wanted him to feel the same. And she’d never know it if she kept running from every declaration he made to her.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

Qimir smiled like he knew the amount of growth and healed self-esteem it had taken to reach this point. He rewarded her with a kiss, just a simple lean and they were one.

Osha closed her eyes and fell against him, arms wrapping around the back of his neck. His hands grasped her close, like he dared any other to separate them. Their kiss wasn’t feverish, but the heat rolled like a campfire, an eternal flame to keep them warm in this lonely, dark winter.

Especially when the goddamn power went out—and didn’t seem to come back on after the usual fifteen seconds.

They didn’t move apart, quietly laughing at the absurdity. “All fuckin’ day,” she giggled.

“Well, I guess that means it’s lights out,” he said, teasing.

She shoved her palm against his shoulder playfully. “I’m not sleepy, are you?”

Instead of answering, he simply kissed his way down her neck, humming as if in thought. “Hungry.”

She blinked in the dark, even as stars danced before her eyes at every little zing of feeling he gave her. “I just asked you if—”

“Not for that,” he interrupted, on the wings of soft, dark laughter.

Oh fuck.

His teeth joined the distracting mix, dragging down to where her shirt lay open at the front. “You’re hungry?” she asked, voice going a bit high. Her inexperience had to have shown sometime—why not now?

But he didn’t withdraw. He was offering her something, something he knew was new to her. He nodded, smooth and comfortable just doing what he was doing—but she knew that a single word from her would have him going full bodice-ripper romance hero.

At least, she hoped so.

She moaned softly as his lips wrapped around the delicate line of her collarbone, indulgent like he was savoring her. She buried her fingers in his hair and was rewarded with a hot, sudden exhale through his nose. But he still didn’t bend. A hand in the hair won’t do it, Osha.

She tried pushing her hand up under his shirt, splaying across his toned stomach. But it didn’t make him snap. Touching isn’t consent, Osha, her logical brain reminded her.

“Well, I’m more than happy to feed you if you’re hungry,” she said, a little breathless as she pulled on his hair. She chewed her lip, hoping he understood her correctly.

Even in the pitch darkness, she could tell just how dark his eyes had gotten. Qimir’s face was open with want, not a single ounce of desire shuttered behind his expression. “Alright,” he breathed, and then moved.

He had her lying across her bed in under a second; his body pressed atop hers like he’d done that morning and kept her pinned in place. Her belated gasp came against his lips as he claimed hers in another kiss. This time, he didn’t straddle her, keeping his body angled slightly to the side of her, curling around her supine form.

His hand mimicked what hers had done just a moment ago, splaying across her lower tummy beneath the edge of her shirt. She was still mostly in her work clothes, save her shoes. His hand spanned so wide, his thumb and pinky touching both her hipbones simultaneously. She always felt so small when he did this, truly feeling their size difference.

But then his hand moved, pushing up, up—teasing right at the edge of her bra before it moved back down, pressing gently on every rib his fingertips passed. She groaned, half in frustration and half at how good his touch felt. She must have been starved for it before to react this much to his touches. That had to be it—she couldn’t have been responding just to him.

On the downward pass, he skimmed over the waistband of her work pants, fingertips brushing over the seam at the middle. “I can feel you; you’re so hot for me, Osha,” he murmured. “Will you be wet if I touch you right now?”

She could only whine, overwhelmed by his attentions. When his hand moved to cover the entire area, she repeated the noise, this time raising her hips needily. He moved his hand up and down over her, and yes, yes she’d be wet if he touched her.

“I guess I’ll have to find out, won’t I?” he chuckled. Deftly, he undid the button and fly of her work pants and let them stay like that. His mouth kept up a steady stream of commentary in her ear as he touched her.

“You’ve probably got the prettiest pair of panties on for me—and just absolutely ruined them, haven’t you?” he said, lips brushing her ear softly enough to make her shiver. “There’s nothing like soaked lace over a hot, wet pussy—love to see you like that someday, pretty girl.”

Osha’s moan seemed obscenely loud in contrast to the quiet room, the soft murmurs he was giving her.

“Good girl, telling me how she feels.” He kissed her cheek so gently and chastely that right now, it seemed filthy. “Wanna hear every noise you make from her on out. Don’t you dare hide them from me.” His fingertips brushed over her clit, through her soaked panties—making her gasp. “That’s right, that’s for me.”

For a while, he just rubbed her over her panties, nearly to the point where she was sure he wasn’t going to move past that—but then his hand drew back and then he was pushing beneath them, trapped under that wet cotton he’d only gotten wetter. She moaned helplessly at the feeling of his direct touch on her pussy—how long had it been since she last touched herself not to the thought of him? This was so, so much better.

His rough fingertips spun tight little circles over her clit, occasionally dipping down to where she was wettest to slick the way. His tongue matched what his fingers were doing—drawing wet little spirals that left a cool trail in its wake. It made her shiver and sweat all at once. He would never push them in, though, always just dipping his fingertips in—like a penitent man crossing himself with wetted fingers from a cathedral font.

She grew impatient, bringing her hands down to shove at her bottoms. The elastic snapped against her as it crested the ridge of his knuckles, but she didn’t give a fuck. Her hands went next to her work shirt, unbuttoning the front with fingers that trembled in their eagerness.

He moaned her name at the sight of her undressing for him, though his hand remained where it had been, stilled for now. When she sat up to remove her bra, he sucked in a breath but didn’t stop her. All she knew, in the spinning room that was her mind, was that she needed no clothes and more him.

At the revealed skin, he marveled, expression awed as he beheld her as some kind of sacrament. It should have intimidated her to be so clearly regarded as a holy thing. But Osha was used to being worshiped, even 17 years out of practice.

One thing she knew about worshipers was that they would kneel.

Her hand found his hair, and with ease, she pushed him toward the edge of the bed, pushed him down, pushed him into place between her thighs. She knew this much, at least. He finally looked like how he’d teased—hungry. No, starving.

Then she pulled him back to her.

His lips never once stopped moving, whetting their thirst by wetting them with her. She moaned, low and long as he hauled her legs up over his shoulders. Just barely, she could make out the feeling of the scar on his back beneath her heel. With how hunched over he was as he ate her out, she needed only to lift her head a few inches off the bed to see it. His tongue pushed into her, then out—not testing the waters or stretching, but consuming. She swore softly under her breath and shifted her hips up a little for him to go deeper, to take more.

She wasn’t freaking out how she thought she would. For years and years, thinking about some faceless, imaginary partner would inspire all kinds of anxiety in her. But now, with her stranger here, none of those worries were even on the same planet. She was relaxed, blissfully relaxed beneath him, above him, wherever he wanted her to be. Her orgasm was ready to step in if she wanted it to come, but for now, the intimacy of Qimir’s head between her thighs was enough to pull a satisfied sigh from her lips.

She felt his lips twitch against her—smiling. Qimir was now taking his time, laving his tongue over every inch he could get at. She could live like this forever, teetering on a thinning platform of pleasure and joyfully falling over the edge whenever she wanted.

His eyes met hers through the darkness, glinting with the moonlight streaming in through the window. She wondered what the look was for a moment before he concentrated his lips to suck at her clit, leaving room for a finger to press gently inside of her. She moaned weakly, the unfamiliar feeling making her head spin even as he held still, letting her get used to him.

Testing how it felt, she bit her lip and squeezed around his finger. All his breath left him in a whistling wheeze, eyes practically rolling back in his head. She did it again, and his other hand disappeared from where it’d rested on her thigh. She didn’t see where it went, but by the rhythmic motions of his shoulder, she could guess what it was up to.

He pressed another kiss to her clit before he added another finger. He was a large man, and his hands were absolutely proportionate to that standard—the stretch was a pleasant burn within her, equal to stepping into a too-hot bath and letting yourself bear the heat until it was tolerable. The burn became tolerable very quickly, with how loose-limbed he’d made her.

“Mm?” he hummed against her clit, letting his lips brush back and forth against it for a moment before resuming his sucking kisses.

“Yes,” she rasped, her voice all but abandoned her. “Yes.”

For so long, she’d been denied what she wanted, been second-guessed to the point of defeating herself, been forgotten and pushed aside by those she cared for. Qimir knelt before her as the antithesis to her very negative expectations. He encouraged her to not only want but ask, and take. Experimentally, she tightened her fingers in his hair and pulled her back up to her mouth. He moved with grace, his fingers still pushing in and dragging out of her with the same steady rhythm that was rattling her composure with aplomb. In the absence of his mouth, his thumb took up the mantle, rubbing tight little circles in time with the rest of his hand.

His bare chest pressed against her—when had he taken his goddamn shirt off?—and near his hips, something incredibly hot and wet touched her bare thigh. She was too busy kissing him to look down at him, too busy tasting herself on his lips to care.

Tension thrummed beneath his skin, as if his bones were made of struck tuning forks. She wasn’t certain of the reason, but she guessed it had something in common with his pouty face when she pulled him away from the meal he was making of her.

“Fuck, Osha,” he said, his pitch all over the place as he balanced on the tightrope of self-control. He rested his forehead against hers, meeting her eyes just like that morning. “Can I make you come like this?” he asked breathlessly, his fingers curling a little, searching for—

“Ah! Fuck, please, there, please,” she whined, practically squirming beside him.

“So beautiful when you come, can’t wait to see it again,” he said, his movements speeding up only minimally as he sought to abuse the angle that had her crying out for him. “C’mon, baby, wanna feel you. Wanna taste you all fucking day, stay down there for the rest of my fucking life if you wanted me to.”

She almost laughed, for she’d been thinking nearly the same thing. But she couldn’t laugh, not when he was moving just like that and she swore the power was coming back on with how bright the stars flared in her eyes. She garbled out half his name, the syllables sounding foreign on her tongue. “Wanna come,” she whined.

“I know, baby, I know.” His voice took on a deeper edge, dark and sharp like obsidian. “I wanna make you come, too, wanna know this pussy so well you don’t have a goddamn choice but to come when I want you to.” The words blazed through her every vein like a wildfire, all-consuming and inevitable. “Get you to come on my tongue, too, so only I get every fucking drop of you. I’ll never share you. Never.”

“Mine,” she breathed. She felt that whole-body lurching sensation that typically preceded her more devastating orgasms. “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” he vowed to her. “Only yours.” He kissed her, hot and filthy and fucking delicious.

She whined, her muscles tensing around his fingers to tease at what’s soon to come.

“That’s it, baby. C’mon—oh, fuck,” he groaned as her back arched off the bed towards him. He brought his mouth down to suck at her breasts, tonguing at her nipple between declarations. “Attagirl, that’s my girl, good fucking girl, come for me so pretty.”

She was pretty sure she had shed a few goddamn tears, between all the praise and the overwhelming orgasm he gave to her. This, too, was another language of him to learn. She wanted more. She wanted to be fluent in his desire, too. She kissed him back as best she could, though it was all very messy and wet and unrefined. Her ears were ringing, and she couldn’t fucking move even as he carefully withdrew his fingers from her. She could only watch as he brought them to his lips, first licking the pad of his thumb, and then sucking his two gleaming, wet fingers into his mouth.

And then there was his other hand, moving over his cock in harsh, quick motions. His self-pleasure looked almost violent, and even in her post-orgasm haze, she found herself flushing even hotter at the obscenity of it all. He’d gone from sacred to profane in an instant, a heathen wildman seeking to—

A groan wrenched its way from his throat, declared to the air a moment before hot splashes of his come striped over her belly, even up to her breasts. She felt marked, claimed for him alone. She reveled in the feeling, depraved as it was. She moaned for him, tugging him into relaxation once he finished coming and only shook in place, the aftershocks hitting him hard.

She kissed all over his face, just babbling whatever came to mind. “Fuck, you’re so good, Qimir. So good to me, I love—I loved watching you come,” she whispered, her words coming quicker after her little blunder. With any luck, he didn’t catch the slip-up.

He melted against her side, their slightly sweaty bodies curling together in peace. He said nothing, more contented to simply lay beside her and melt into the coverlet while she all but vibrated with energy. His hand lay limp against her thigh, curled slightly as if to protect her clean skin from the mess on his palms.

She kissed his forehead and got up for them, navigating through her pitch-black apartment with ease of familiarity so she could wet a washcloth and return to him. He hadn’t moved except to roll over on his back, stretched out across the bed.

Yeah, he’s definitely not going to get any personal space in this bed if I have anything to say about it.

He made a noise as she started to clean herself up in the moonlight. He frowned, moving to take the cloth from her and do it for her, but she shook her head. “I’m okay, you just relax.”

He still pouted, but did as she told him to. The small thrill of power whenever that happened always took her off-guard, but she didn’t mind.

She cleaned off her thighs and pussy first before wiping his come off of her belly.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked once she was pretty sure she got all of it.

He shook his head, still mute—but not concerningly so.

Osha stepped closer, acclimated to the darkness enough to see him. She folded the cloth into a clean square and knelt by his side, very gently wiping down his face while he stayed obediently still for her. She followed with his hands, then his own belly, and when it came to the rest—

He took the cloth from her then, thank god.

She pulled on some sleep clothes for herself, and only after she had did he roll into motion, slinking to the floor beside her. He would sprinkle many kisses against her shoulder between stretches, and thank goodness for her sleepiness, because she would have been giggling and tittering at each one otherwise.

If they didn’t whisper goodnight, then that was their secret.

Osha shouldn’t have been doing this shit again.

The first time was bad enough, with Mae just ten feet away in the shower as Osha went through her phone. This time was worse, going through Qimir’s phone while he figured out lunch.

“Can I give Pip some turkey?” he called to her. She nearly fumbled his phone onto the floor.

“Yeah, but not too much! Not even if he asks nicely.”

She wasn’t sweating as she scrolled through his texts, but it was a near enough thing. Seriously, does he save any numbers besides mine?

And then one caught her eye.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: What were you doing in Khofar?

A quick peek at the thread made Osha 99% certain that this was Idise. So she put the number in her phone and waited until he was gone to send a single text.

O: I think we need to talk. You said there were things I should know, and I want to know them.

Idise responded with a place and time.

CHAPTER 20

#unhingery #common grounds #osha x qimir #oshamir #oshamir fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #the acolyte #the acolyte fanfiction

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jimi-rawlings · 4 months ago

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Mozambique's rubies: A blessing or a curse? | DW Documentary

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In Mozambique, agriculture is the mainstay of the economy and the country has a great potential for growth in the sector. Agriculture employs more than 80 percent of the labour force and provides livelihoods to the vast majority of over 23 million inhabitants. Agriculture contributed 31.5 percent of the GDP in 2009, while commerce and services accounted for 44.9 percent. By contrast, 20 percent of the total export value in 2009 originated from the agriculture sector, mostly through the export of fish (mainly shrimps and prawns), timber, copra, cashew nuts and citrus, cotton, coconuts, tea and tobacco.[14]

There are large mineral deposits, but exploration has been constrained by the civil war (1977–1992) and poor infrastructure. The World Bank has estimated that there was the potential for exports worth US$200m by 2005 – in the late 1990s they totaled US$3.6m, some 1% of total exports, and a contribution of less than 2% of GDP. Minerals currently being mined include marble, bentonite, coal, gold, bauxite, granite, titanium and gemstones. Illegal exports from artisanal production are estimated at US$50 million.[original research?]

Mozambique exported its first batch of coal in 2011 and expects to become the world's largest coal exporter. It is also spending about US$50 billion in infrastructure projects to access its coal reserves. Mozambique is reported to have the fourth largest reserves of natural gas in the world, after Russia, Iran, and Qatar.[20]

The Our Lady of the Rosary Cathedral[1] (Portuguese: Catedral Metropolitana de Nossa Senhora do Rosário) also called Metropolitan Cathedral of Our Lady of the Rosary, is located in Beira,[2][3] a town in the African country of Mozambique[4] and is the cathedral of the Archdiocese of Beira.

Beira is where the Pungwe River meets the Indian Ocean. It is the fourth-largest city by population in Mozambique, after Maputo, Matola and Nampula. Beira had a population of 397,368 in 1997, which grew to 530,604 in 2019. A coastal city, it holds the regionally significant Port of Beira, which acts as a gateway for both the central interior portion of the country as well as the land-locked nations of Zimbabwe, Zambia and Malawi.

A marina (from Spanish [maˈɾina], Portuguese [mɐˈɾinɐ] and Italian [maˈriːna]: "related to the sea") is a dock or basin with moorings and supplies for yachts and small boats. A marina differs from a port in that a marina does not handle large passenger ships or cargo from freighters.

A fishmonger (historically fishwife for female practitioners) is someone who sells raw fish and seafood. Fishmongers can be wholesalers or retailers and are trained at selecting and purchasing, handling, gutting, boning, filleting, displaying, merchandising and selling their product. In some countries modern supermarkets are replacing fishmongers who operate in shops or fish markets.

Beaux-Arts Architecture: Banco da Beira; Casa Infante de Sagres, Beira; Edifício do Almoxarifado, Beira; Escola de Artes e Ofícios, Beira; Palácio dos Desportos, Beira; Standard Bank Building, Beira; Tribunal da Beira

S & M GOALS TEAMPLATE

Stretch Goals: Central African Republic Ranks Top 8 in FIFA World Rankings for Men's and Top 5 for Futsal

Micro Goals: All Time Laureus World Sports Awards Winner for Africans, Laureus Team Award, All Time African Footballer of the Year, AFCON Host Nation Champion*, African Transfer Record*, Insead and WSJ Conferences*, Jeune Afrique Cover*, Verified LinkedIn Member*, and Agriculture Startup Reality TV

CAPÔI HABITANT CURRENCY MODEL

Pigou Effect, Corporate Tax Havens, Capital Gains Tax Havens, Private-Public Sectors, Joint Venture Plantations, Market Extension Mergers, with Business Incubators, and Enterprise Foundation, Holding Company, Subsidiaries, and Horizontal Integration for Monopoly.

A currency union (also known as monetary union) is an intergovernmental agreement that involves two or more states sharing the same currency. These states may not necessarily have any further integration (such as an economic and monetary union, which would have, in addition, a customs union and a single market). [Pigou Effect Currency (Short FX), Currency Board Currency (Retirement Fixed Exchange Rate), Market Currency (FX Long Currency)]

Gross national product (GNP) GNP is related to another important economic measure called gross domestic product (GDP), which takes into account all output produced within a country's borders regardless of who owns the means of production. GNP starts with GDP, adds residents' investment income from overseas investments, and subtracts foreign residents' investment income earned within a country. Whilst GDP measures the total value of goods and services produced within a country's borders, GNP focuses on the income generated by its residents, regardless of their location.

Gross National Income (GNI) is the total amount of money earned by a nation's people and businesses. It is used to measure and track a nation's wealth from year to year. The number includes the nation's gross domestic product (GDP) plus the income it receives from overseas sources.

Agriculture Central Hedge Fund, Mining Unions: Peninsula Agronomique Engineering, Commodities Options Exchange (Credit Spread Options, Farm REITs, Crop Production; Fertelizers and Seeds; Equipment; Distribution and Processing Stocks, Ag ETFs and ETNs, Ag Mutual Funds), Tableau Économiques, Investments Farms REITs, Art Financing Mardi Gras

Index Franc: Tobacco-Tobacco Soil Index/Franc Tabac Currency Pair (TBS/TAF)

The overlapping generations (OLG) model; consumption-based capital asset pricing model (CCAPM); Endogenous growth theory; Material balance planning; Leontief paradox; Malinvestment; Helicopter money; Modern monetary theory

Mercantilism Spectrum of CDF/CFA

CDF Raw Materials and CFA Products. (Prices); CDF Holding Company and CFA Conglomerate Company. (Equity and Dividend Yield); CDF is Gold Standard and CFA is Helicopter Money. (FX Rate/Hedging); CDF Helicopter Money [Supplier Currency] and CFA as Purchasing Power [Consumer Currency] (Currency Union & Currency Board and Negative Interest Rates); CDF is Congolese Franc and CFA is Central African Franc

CHAMA ROXA

Purple Flame represents Spiritual Development for Martyrology in Mozambique

It is also a Slang Term for “What Religion do you practice?”

Team Name for Mozambique National Team

DOS SANTOS FREE-ROLE

Supporting Striker (Inverted Winger)

Central Winger (False 10)

Overlapping Run/Defensive Winger (Half-winger)

An inverted winger is a modern tactical development of the traditional winger position. Most wingers are assigned to either side of the field based on their footedness, with right-footed players on the right and left-footed players on the left.[65] This assumes that assigning a player to their natural side ensures a more powerful cross as well as greater ball protection along the touch-lines. However, when the position is inverted and a winger instead plays inside-out on the opposite flank (i.e., a right-footed player as a left inverted winger), they effectively become supporting strikers and primarily assume a role in the attack.[66]

The "false 10" or "central winger"[55] is a type of midfielder, which differs from the trequartista. Much like the "false 9", their specificity lies in the fact that, although they seemingly play as an attacking midfielder on paper, unlike a traditional playmaker who stays behind the striker in the centre of the pitch, the false 10's goal is to move out of position and drift wide when in possession of the ball to help both the wingers and fullbacks to overload the flanks. This means two problems for the opposing midfielders: either they let the false 10 drift wide, and their presence, along with both the winger and the fullback, creates a three-on-two player advantage out wide; or they follow the false 10, but leave space in the centre of the pitch for wingers or onrushing midfielders to exploit. False 10s are usually traditional wingers who are told to play in the centre of the pitch, and their natural way of playing makes them drift wide and look to provide deliveries into the box for teammates.

In Italian football, the term mezzala (literally "half-winger" in Italian) is used to describe the position of the one or two central midfielders who play on either side of a holding midfielder and/or playmaker. The term was initially applied to the role of an inside forward in the WM and Metodo formations in Italian, but later described a specific type of central midfielder. The mezzala is often a quick and hard-working attack-minded midfielder, with good skills and noted offensive capabilities, as well as a tendency to make overlapping attacking runs, but also a player who participates in the defensive aspect of the game, and who can give width to a team by drifting out wide; as such, the term can be applied to several different roles.

On occasion, the false-10 can also function in a different manner alongside a false-9, usually in a 4–6–0 formation. Midfield collective of False 9, False 10, Box to Box, Holding, Half Winger, Attacking, Defensive.

Thiago Motta’s ‘Super Offensive’ 2-7-2 Formation Explained: Instead of the traditional way of looking at a tactical set-up horizontally, the Brazil-born manager instead split the field into three vertical lanes. This means he effectively has seven players in the central channel with two players out wide on each flank.

We are not stretching the defensive line itsself, but the space between the defensive line and the goalkeeper

Adjust Free Role System to The Scoreboard

The Central African Games was an international multi-sport event for countries within Central Africa. (Boxing, Athletics, Tennis, Football, Rallycross, Olympic Weightlifting, Volleyball, Trap Shooting, Basketball)

The Central African Football Federations' Union, officially abbreviated as UNIFFAC[a], is a sports governing body representing the football associations of Central Africa.

Teenage Prospect World Cup Medium of Exchange Jersey/FIFA Potential Rating System 65-80 Minutes Time Played Instrument; Match Rating System

W; I; M; V; Box Keeping Formation with 3 Centre-Backs

Spacing, Possession, Pass Completion, and Counter Pressing with Pursuit and Ambush Predation One Team Box Touches and Capture the Flag with Analytics-Geometry Total Football Trixie Bet on CNS Drugs (Xanax and Modafinil); 1-1-2-1 Diamond Rover Futsal Pivot Formation

Define a run in one of two ways: (i) as a set of consecutive goals scored by one team, without the other team scoring a goal; (ii) as a set of consecutive scoring events by one team, each event being either a goal or one or more Set Piece. Play aggressive and with counter pressing and run it up on the score board in the first half and after halftime play defense. You get a break at half and it's easier to win when someone plays defense and looks for opportunities instead of Attacking.

Posterior Chain Super Compensation and Speed-Endurance (Elastic-Connective Tissue) Force-Velocity Curve; Crescent Moon Horizontal Plane Vertical Force Sprinting Mechanics.

WM or Diamond Rover Futsal Pivot Formation

Positional Game is Diamonds Tic-Tac-Toe with Enforcer and Avoider. Striker [Enforcer] (Inverted Winger and Centre Forward), Deep Lying Playmaker [Avoider] (Holding Midfielder and Inverted Winger), and Sweeper Wingback Deep Lying Playmaker [Avoider] (Centre Back). Use Playing Styles, Manipulated Positions, and Combinational Games for Positional Play as Johan Cruyff students.

Set Piece Stylistic Biomechanics: Shooting Knee at Wall for Curve and Placement Knee for Corner. Follow through with Shot with proper Body Alignment

Knee to Feet or Shoulder to Feet Cradling for Touch/Entertainment

UEFA Front Office Curriculum

DOS SANTOS Placement Mechanics: Ankle-Heel Linedrive and Arch-Knuckle Raised Curve; Placement Foot and Reverse Rotation with Shoulder for power and Accuracy; Arch of Feet at Target for Follow Through Accuracy

Agility Ladder Eyes Pocket: Eyes Between Defenders Feet and Ball, Numbered Footwork V-Step (Shifting Defenders with Momentum) et L-Step (Explosive First Step), All moves should form a Triangle or an Incomplete Triangle

Sprint Size Up: A series of feint Karaoké dribble moves with Eye Tricks (Fake Pass) but Sprint Position Finish

Triangle Philosophy: All Dribbling Moves should form a Triangle or an Incomplete Triangle while using V-Step (Shifting Defenders with Momentum) et L-Step (Explosive First Step).

Thé Crescent: In Close Dribbling; Crescent Footwork with L Shapes

On the Run Dribbling Moves: Letters and Shapes; Still Play 1 on 1: Numbered Footwork

À ma sauce Courts: Drills Side/Box Play with 1 Net; Design Vaporwave Action Painting Angels; Knee for Direction and Sole Drags for Dribbling Touch and Crescent Moon Sprint Mechanics

Gambling Games: 5 Roll (Captain, Ship, Crew); Live-Pool Betting Monopoly

Stylistic Biomechanics: Dribbling Foot To Ball Contact (Balls of Feet and Arch of Feet); Knee for Direction; Foot Drags; & Hip Angle, Crescent Moon Running Mechanics, and Laces Kick.

Futsal Courts: Drills Side/Box Play with 1 Net; Design Vaporwave Action Painting Angels; Knee for Direction and Sole Drags for Dribbling Touch and Crescent Moon Sprint Mechanics

Diamond Football (15 mins)

Set Up

-Lay out two overlapping sets of 4 flat markers in the positions shown above.

-Ask the players to stand on a flat marker for their teams colour (Red on Red, Yellow on Yellow).

Instruction

-Whenever the ball goes out for a kick in or for the defenders ball, the players must stand on their markers before play begins.

-As soon as the ball has been played in, players are free to move.

-Reset everytime the ball goes out.

Coaching Points, Progressions Ect.

-Ask players to shout out what each position on the park is to devlop understanding of their roles.

-If you decide to go to a normal game , leave the markers out for a visual aid for the players.

-If more than 8 players, Add in Goalkeepers who would then play the ball out to the DF,LM,RM.

-Rotate Positions, Ask Players to stand on a marker they haven't been on before

RUSSE NOIR ACCENT

Lingua Franca of Renaissance Latin (Vocabulary) and Atlantic–Congo Fon (Grammar).

Volta–Congo is a major branch of the Atlantic–Congo family. Fon (fɔ̀ngbè, pronounced [fɔ̃̀ɡ͡bē][2]) also known as Dahomean is the language of the Fon people. It belongs to the Gbe group within the larger Atlantic–Congo family.

In linguistic typology, subject–verb–object (SVO) is a sentence structure where the subject comes first, the verb second, and the object third.

Haitian Creole (/ˈheɪʃən ˈkriːoʊl/; Haitian Creole: kreyòl ayisyen, [kɣejɔl ajisjɛ̃];[6][7] French: créole haïtien, [kʁe.ɔl a.i.sjɛ̃]), or simply Creole (Haitian Creole: kreyòl), is a French-based creole language spoken by 10 to 12 million people worldwide, and is one of the two official languages of Haiti (the other being French), where it is the native language of the vast majority of the population. The language emerged from contact between French settlers and enslaved Africans during the Atlantic slave trade in the French colony of Saint-Domingue (now Haiti) in the 17th and 18th centuries. Although its vocabulary largely derives from 18th-century French, its grammar is that of a West African Volta-Congo language branch, particularly the Fongbe and Igbo languages.

Prose Accent Congo and Modern Accent Congo.

Full Lips Endings with Vertical Narrow Mouth and Soft Rs.

A noun phrase – or NP or nominal (phrase) – is a phrase that usually has a noun or pronoun as its head, and has the same grammatical functions as a noun.

BELMÔNT'S SIN INDEX FUND PORTFOLIO

Sin stock sectors usually include alcohol, tobacco, gambling, sex-related industries (Cabaret and Burlesque), and weapons manufacturers.

Diageo

Phillip Morris

Sports Betting Investment Trust

Pharmaceuticals

Business Clusters with Scrum Management and Accelerators to produce Festivals.

Example: Create a Index Fund Portfolio of 15-20 Stocks and using Supply Side Economics to create Decentralized Gambling Economy.

BELMÔNT'S DECENTRALIZED GAMBLING ECONOMY

Corporate-Capital Gains Tax Haven

High Stakes Minimum Buy In

Card Gambling (Signal and President): Top 2 highest bids fight for the Coup d'état and the other two are lesser men, the lesser men are subordinates that aid in playing cards for the warlord, the winning team splits the money, the warlords switches based on the 13 cards dealt and bets placed, the first team to shed all of their cards win.

Domestic Gambling: Boxing

Retirement Gambling: Boat Racing

Residency Program for Tax Benefits

BELMÔNT'S TURF ACCOUNTING MODEL

+EV

Python Programming Gaussian Distribution

Exotic Options Trading Live Betting

Parlays Minimum for Round Robins

Daily Fantasy Sports Rakes

RUSSE NOIR PALACE

Definitions of ballroom. noun. large room used mainly for dancing. synonyms: dance hall, dance palace**. types: disco, discotheque.

Go Go Music Influenced, Eurphoric Trance Chord Progression Melody, Progressive House and Drum n' Bass Percussion-808 Call and Response Staccato Polyrhythm or Layered Kick and Punch 808.

In his 1972 study of French lute music, scholar Wallace Rave compiled a list of features he believed to be characteristic of style brisé. Rave's list included the following: the avoidance of textural pattern and regularity in part writing; arpeggiated chord textures with irregular distribution of individual notes of the chord; ambiguous melodic lines; rhythmic displacement of notes within a melodic line; octave changes within melodic line; irregular phrase lengths.

Have the Snare and Kick say, "Hi, How are you?" And the 808 say, "I am good thanks for asking.”

Use progressive House to push the Drums Conversation to either Fast and Punchy for Happy or Slow and Deep for Sad.

In technical terms, "go-go's essential beat is characterized by a five through four syncopated rhythm that is underscored prominently by the bass drum and snare drum, and the hi-hat... [and] is ornamented by the other percussion instruments, especially by the conga drums, rototoms, and hand-held cowbells."[5]

Polyrhythm: In music, a cross-beat or cross-rhythm is a specific form of polyrhythm. The term cross rhythm was introduced in 1934 by the musicologist Arthur Morris Jones (1889–1980). It refers to a situation where the rhythmic conflict found in polyrhythms is the basis of an entire musical piece.[1]

Four-on-the-floor (or four-to-the-floor) is a rhythm used primarily in dance genres such as disco and electronic dance music. It is a steady, uniformly accented beat in 4. 4 time in which the bass drum is hit on every beat (1, 2, 3, 4).[1] This was popularized in the disco music of the 1970s[2] and the term four-on-the-floor was widely used in that era, since the beat was played with the pedal-operated, drum-kit bass drum.[3][4] (Punch 808-Kick)

Polyrhythm 4 on the Floor examples 2:4 or 5:4

Hard trance is often characterized by strong, hard (or even downpitch) kicks, fully resonant basses and an increased amount of reverberation applied to the main beat. Melodies vary from 140 to 180 BPMs and it can feature plain instrumental sound in early compositions, with the latter ones tending to implement side-chaining techniques of progressive on digital synthesizers.

Singles Only Email Raves Blogger then Multi Market Distribution Deal: A distribution deal is a contract to release the music to platforms, but not own the publishing or exclusively lock the artist in. Record Artist Producer Label: Have Polyrhythm Artist earn Streaming Percentage under a Recording Artist Deal. Label has Distribution Above Me and I have Manufacturing over Polyrhythm Artist. Have a end of the Year Album for New Year's Raves!

BELMÔNT'S SYSTEM: CAPÔI RETAINER AGREEMENT WITH ASSET PROTECTION TRUST

Capo: Describes a ranking made member of a family who leads a crew of soldiers. A capo is similar to a military captain who commands soldiers. Soldier: Also known as a “made man,” soldiers are the lowest members of the crime family but still command respect in the organization.

A capo is a "made member" of an Italian crime family who heads a regime or "crew" of soldiers and has major status and influence in the organization.

Consigliere: Defense and Corporate Lawyers

Head Boss: Ministry of Medicine

Underboss: Pharmaceutical Industry

Capo: CAPÔI RETAINER AGREEMENT

Soliders: Artisans

Commercialism is the application of both manufacturing and consumption towards personal usage, or the practices, methods, aims, and distribution of products in a free market geared toward generating a profit.

Commercial art is art created for advertising or marketing purposes. Commercial artists are hired by clients to create images and logos that sell products. Unlike works of fine art that convey an artist's personal expression, commercial art must address the client's goals.

The word 'Commercial' is defined as follows: Concerned with or engaged in commerce. Commerce is the exchange of goods or services among two or more parties.

Craftsmen are committed to the medium, not to self-expression. Artists are committed to their self-expression, not the medium.

A medium of exchange is an intermediary instrument and system used to facilitate the purchase and sale of goods and services between parties.

Stretch and Micro Goals

Music Medium System: Distribution and Retailers Contract Theory (System) for Music (Instrument)

Football Medium System: Analytics and Geometry for Free Role (System) Trixies (Instrument)

Age 16-19

Bond Funds

Farmland REITS

CFDS

Real Estate Brokerage Trust Account

Age 20-30

Farmland Recession Proof Stocks (Cosmetics, AgTech, Ag ETFS, AgETN)

Incubator and Startup Accelerators

Real Estate Joint Ventures

Age 30-40

Farmland Blue Chip Indexes w/ Credit Spread Options

CURRENCY, OIL, & GOLD COMMODITIES CANDLESTICK CHARTS

Swing Trading: Use mt4/mt5 With Heiken Ashi Charts, Setting at 14 or 21 Momentum Indicator above 0 as Divergence Oscillator and Volume Spread Analysis as Reversal Oscillator and Trade when bullish candlesticks above 200 exponential moving average and/or 20 exponential moving average (EMA) on H1 (Hourly) Time Frame; use H4 (4 Hours) and D1 (1 Day) as reference.

TUNNEL STRATEGY (OFFSHORE BANKING)

Purpose: Permanent Residency Card

$250k Deposit

$125k: 60/40 portfolio, 60% Fixed Income & REITs and 40% Blue Chip Stocks

$50k: Guaranteed Investment Certificates (GICs) and term deposits are secured investments. This means that you get back the amount you invest at the end of your term. The key difference between a GIC and a term deposit is the length of the term. Term deposits generally have shorter terms than GICs.

$75k: Spending Cash

SIN STOCKS PORTFOLIO

Sin stock sectors usually include alcohol, tobacco, gambling, sex-related industries, and weapons manufacturers.

Sports Betting Investment Trust

Pharmaceuticals

Example: Create a Index Fund Portfolio of 15-20 Stocks and using Supply Side Economics to create Decentralized Gambling Economy.

FESTIVALS DEAL

NEUROPLASTICITY DRUG-CRIME NEXUS BASED ON TRAFFICKING

CPP, CNS Depressants, et FENTALOGS: Cul-de-sac

Defensive Penalty Capture The Flag Raiding Warfare

Grey-Decentralized Markets

Bastilles: Cul-de-sac Artist Résidences Penthouse Complexes

Polyrhythm Raves

Acid House Art Gallery

International Film Festival

Hôtel Chefs

Seigneurial System/Tableau Economique Raw Material Économics Production Spot

Surautomatism

Discount Networking Acid House Party

Opium Dens and Fragrance Festivals

Pill Pressers

CNS depressants

Upper-tier County System

Defense Lawyers are Traplords (Trafficking P4P and Malicious Prosecution)

Cash Conversion Cycle (CCC)

Brain Receptor Dealing

Neuroplasticity Drug-Crime Nexus

Religious Ecstasy

Entheogens are psychedelic drugs—and sometimes certain other psychoactive substances—used for engendering spiritual development or otherwise in sacred contexts

Live-Pool Betting Monopoly Board Game

Summary Sentencing

Urban Level: Street Culture Art Gallery (Street culture may refer to: Urban culture, the culture of towns and cities, Street market, Children's street culture, Street carnival, Block party, Street identity, Street food, Café culture, Several youth subculture or counterculture topics pertaining to outdoors of urban centers. These can include: Street art, Street photography, Street racing, Street wear, Hip-hop culture, Urban fiction, Street sports, Streetball, Flatland BMX, Freestyling), Art Pedagogy, Artist Residency, Art Schools, and Art Plugs

Art Pedagogy: Arts-based pedagogy is a teaching methodology in which an art form is integrated with another subject matter to impact student learning. 28-30. Arts-based pedagogy results in arts-based learning (ABL),11 which is when a student learns about a subject through arts processes including creating, responding or performing. Aesthetic Teaching: Seeking a Balance between Teaching Arts and Teaching through the Arts. In aesthetic education, learning must be developed especially with the inclusion of sensations and with the help of feelings. Sensations and feelings should lead to movement, representation, and expression. Aesthetic learning often entails learning to distinguish certain qualities or objects aesthetically in different ways depending on the situation and the purpose. Certain things can be experienced in negative ways in one activity and in positive ways in another.

A designer drug is a structural or functional analog of a controlled substance that has been designed to mimic the pharmacological effects of the original drug, while avoiding classification as illegal and/or detection in standard drug tests

Patchwork tattoos are a collection of tattoos collaged together to create an overall design. Each individual 'patch' of the tattoo can be a different design, symbol or element with a little space in between. Patchwork tattoos are a collection of tattoos collaged together to create an overall design. In short, the gun-toting angel was a multifaceted metaphor. “It undoubtedly also reflected the Catholic Counter-Reformation militaristic rhetoric,” wrote Donahue-Wallace, “which promoted the church as an army and heavenly beings as its soldiers.”

DECADENCE AESTHETICS THEORIES

Slogan

J'Cartier, Je cours après les vœux de champagne,

Subjective

Based on or influenced by personal feelings, tastes, or opinions

Gastronomy

Precarious Balance

Precariously: If something is happening or positioned precariously, it's in danger. A glass could be precariously balanced on the edge of a table. If something is on the verge of danger, then the word precariously fits.

Grey & Decentralized Markets

Tableau Économique

Semblance

Semblance is generally used to suggest a contrast between outward appearance and inner reality.

High Socioeconomic Status & Tattoos

Phantasmagorical

Having a fantastic or deceptive appearance

adjective. having a fantastic or deceptive appearance, as something in a dream or created by the imagination. having the appearance of an optical illusion, especially one produced by a magic lantern.

Socioeconomic Status Development Immigration Multilingual Sensory Play

Law of Polarity in Relationships

In any successful relationship that has an intimate connection and sexual attraction, there is polarity. What does this mean exactly? Polarity in relationships is the spark that occurs between two opposing energies: masculine and feminine. Gender does not affect whether you have masculine or feminine energy.

Second Reflection

Burden Aesthetics with Intentions

The Second Reflection lays hold of the Technical Procedures

Tattoos

SOCIO-PSYCHOLOGY

Keystone Theory Habits

Game Theory

Behavioral Finance

Self-actualization is the complete realization of one's potential, and the full development of one's abilities and appreciation for life. This concept is at the top of the Maslow hierarchy of needs, so not every human being reaches it.

Potential Psychology: Psychological potential is a very broad concept. It may include one's capacity to conform, change, re-invent oneself, bounce back from adversity, etc.

SOCIO-FORMAL SCIENCE

+EV Optimal Game Theory Poker

Civil, Agriculure, Solvent Levelling Effect Chemical Reaction, and Biomechanical Engineering

SOCIO-PHILOSOPHY

Ontology

IMPERIALISM, THE HIGHEST STAGE OF CAPITALISM

Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism,[1] originally published as Imperialism, the Newest Stage of Capitalism,[2][3] is a book written by Vladimir Lenin in 1916 and published in 1917. It describes the formation of oligopoly, by the interlacing of bank and industrial capital, in order to create a financial oligarchy, and explains the function of financial capital in generating profits from the exploitation colonialism inherent to imperialism, as the final stage of capitalism. The essay synthesises Lenin's developments of Karl Marx's theories of political economy in Das Kapital (1867).[4]

Tax Mergers Law; Market-extension merger: Two companies that sell the same products in different markets. 4.2.2 Corporate Taxation At the corporate level, the tax treatment of a merger or acquisition depends on whether the acquiring firm elects to treat the acquired firm as being absorbed into the parent with its tax attributes intact, or first being liquidated and then received in the form of its component assets.

SOCIOCULTURAL THEORY OF DEVELOPMENT

Seconds Liberal Arts are often viewed as pre-professional since, while conceived of as fundamental to citizenship, they address the whole person in recognition that our moral and spiritual identities develop best through participation in a society that perpetually renews the rights and responsibilities of membership.

Executive management master's degree programs often result in an Executive Master of Business Administration, or EMBA. They are primarily designed to act as accelerated graduate programs for working professionals who already hold management or executive positions.

Engineering college means a school, college, university, department of a university or other educational institution, reputable and in good standing in accordance with rules prescribed by the Department, and which grants baccalaureate degrees in engineering.

Monopoly Family Boarding Schools: The socio-historical context refers to the societal and historical conditions and circumstances that influence events or individuals. It involves elements like the cultural, economic, and political circumstances during a certain time period.

Agriculturism is an ideology promoting rural life, a traditional way of life. It is characterized by the valorization of traditional values (the family, the French language, the Catholic religion) and an opposition to the industrial world.

CAPÔI CLASS STRUCTURE

Demonym Examples: CAR Congolese, Gabon Congolese, Afrikaans Congolese, and Congolese

Monopoly Family (Apartheid)

Chief Executive of State (Apartheid)

Political Class (RUSSE NOIR)

Upper Class (RUSSE NOIR)

Working Class (RUSSE NOIR)

JEAN-CLAUDE TRAORÉ BUSINESS ADVICE

Blue Ocean Strategy; Solvent Levelling Effect Chemical Reaction Engineering and Economic Science.

TENNIS AGRICULTURE

A clay-court specialist is a tennis player who excels on clay courts, more than on any other surface.

Due in part to advances in racquet technology, current clay-court specialists are known for employing long, winding groundstrokes that generate heavy topspin; such strokes are less effective on faster surfaces on which the balls do not bounce as high. Clay-court specialists tend to slide more effectively on clay than other players. Many of them are also very adept at hitting the drop shot, which can be effective because rallies on clay courts often leave players pushed far beyond the baseline. Additionally, the slow, long rallies require a great degree of mental focus and physical stamina.

CASAPIANOS MARTYROLOGY ORDER (CATHOLIC COUNTER-REFORMATION)

The Casa Pia is a Portuguese institution founded by Maria I, known as A Pia ("Mary the Pious"), and organized by Police Intendant Pina Manique in 1780, following the social disarray of the 1755 Lisbon earthquake. For almost three centuries, thousands of young boys and girls were raised by Casa Pia, including many public personalities, called casapianos. Casa Pia is Portugal's largest educational institution dedicated to helping youngsters in risk of social exclusion or without parental support. The organisation is composed of ten schools and enrolls approximately 4700 students. In addition to standard schooling, the organisation also provides boarding for children in need. It strives to enable these youngsters to become healthy and successful members of society, by developing intellectual, manual, and physical traits, in an environment promoting spiritual, moral, and religious values. The institution is proud to have had amongst its students many outstanding Portuguese personalities, including politicians, journalists, and artists. A martyrology is a catalogue or list of martyrs and other saints and beati arranged in the calendar order of their anniversaries or feasts. Local martyrologies record exclusively the custom of a particular Church. Local lists were enriched by names borrowed from neighbouring churches.[1] Consolidation occurred, by the combination of several local martyrologies, with or without borrowings from literary sources.

The Canons Regular of St. Augustine are priests who live in community under a rule (Latin: regula and κανών, kanon, in Greek) and are generally organised into religious orders, differing from both secular canons and other forms of religious life, such as clerics regular, designated by a partly similar terminology. As religious communities, they have laybrothers as part of the community.

Clerics regular are clerics (mostly priests) who are members of a religious order under a rule of life (regular). Clerics regular differ from canons regular in that they devote themselves more to pastoral care, in place of an obligation to the praying of the Liturgy of the Hours in common, and have fewer observances in their rule of life.

Lay brother is a largely extinct term referring to religious brothers, particularly in the Catholic Church, who focused upon manual service and secular matters, and were distinguished from choir monks or friars in that they did not pray in choir, and from clerics, in that they were not in possession of (or preparing for) holy orders.[1][2][3][4][5]

In female religious institutes, the equivalent role is the lay sister. Lay brothers were originally created to allow those who were skilled in particular crafts or did not have the required education to study for holy orders to participate in and contribute to the life of a religious order.

Lay brothers were found in many religious orders. Drawn from the working classes, they were pious and hardworking people, who though unable to achieve the education needed to receive holy orders, were still drawn to religious life and were able to contribute to the order through their skills. Some were skilled in artistic handicrafts, others functioned as administrators of the orders' material assets. In particular, the lay brothers of the Cistercians were skilled in agriculture, and have been credited for the tilling of fertile farmland.[1]

Lay sisters were found in most of the orders of women, and their origin, like that of the lay brothers, is to be found in the necessity of providing the choir nuns with more time for the Office and study, as well as creating the opportunity for the illiterate to join the religious life. They, too, wore a habit different from those of the choir sisters, and their required daily prayers consisted of prayers such as the Little Office or a certain number of Paters.[1]

All canons regular are to be distinguished from secular canons who belong to a resident group of priests but who do not take public vows and are not governed in whatever elements of life they lead in common by a historical rule. One obvious place where such groups of priests are required is at a cathedral, where there were many Masses to celebrate and the Divine Office to be prayed together in community.

In modern astrology, Mars is the primary native ruler of the first house. Traditionally however, Mars ruled both the third and tenth houses, and had its joy in the fifth house. While Venus tends to the overall relationship atmosphere, Mars is the passionate impulse and action, the masculine aspect, discipline, willpower and stamina.

Mars rules over Tuesday and in Romance languages the word for Tuesday often resembles Mars (in Romanian, marți, in Spanish, martes, in French, mardi and in Italian "martedì"). The English "Tuesday" is a modernised form of "Tyr's Day", Tyr being the Germanic analogue to Mars. Dante Alighieri associated Mars with the liberal art of arithmetic. In Chinese astrology, Mars is ruled by the element fire, which is passionate, energetic and adventurous.

According to John Clements, the term martial arts itself is derived from an older Latin term meaning "arts of Mars", the Roman god of war, and was used to refer to the combat systems of Europe (European martial arts) as early as the 1550s

A religious congregation is a type of religious institute in the Catholic Church. They are legally distinguished from religious orders – the other major type of religious institute – in that members take simple vows, whereas members of religious orders take solemn vows.

In the Catholic Church, a religious order is a community of consecrated life with members that profess solemn vows. They are classed as a type of religious institute.[1]

Catholic School Girls Moon Evangelical Prophets: Consecrated life is "placed in a privileged position in the line of evangelical prophecy," whereby its “charismatic nature” and communal discernment of the Spirit "makes it capable of inventiveness and originality.”

Men Mars Angelology Conversion System: Church Enterprises (Planetary Intelligence Church District Real Estate; Liberal Arts Catholic Immersion Schools; Gold; Athletics; Cooking);

Church Gatherings (School Nights Virgil, Weekend Noon Mass then Weekend Sports League) Francis de Sales and Don St. Bosco Influence

Harquebusier Angels Patchwork Tattoos: Biblical Crowns, Praying Hands, Gun Toting Angels, Dirty Dancing Angels, Drug Using Angels, Heavenly Choir, Summa Theologica Sherman, Saints and Pastors, Hebrew Tetragram, Council of Trent

HARQUEBUSIER ANGELS GANG BLUEPRINT: PARDISUS MEDIAE; Spirit Unity Oversoul Angelology Shaman, Eros Influence Angels: Ecstasy-Painkillers Trafficking Angel Spirit Type Oversoul, Jupiter-Mars-Venus with Planetary Intelligence; Erotes are Horcruxes, Google Imprint Oversoul, Choice of Choir is Heavenly Host, Lightning-Ice Element, Wings Transfer Invocation, MARS-JUPITER Syncretism Planetary Intelligence, ESTJ Sensory Myers-Briggs Personality Indicator Syncretism, Church Expenses Occupation (Festivals, Venues, Freeports, Art Gallery, Underground Garages, Tobacco Store, Restaurants, Réal Estate Brokerage, Impure Aesthetic Thrillers Publishing Imprint et Production Company, Body Etching, Lipodissolve, and Hyaluronic Acid Fillers Cosmetics Surgery

ANGOLAN HARQUEBUSIER ANGELS STRUCTURE; Commission on the Social and Cultural Affairs; Commission for Ecumenism; The Commission on Christian Education; Liturgical Commission; Missionary Committee; Chief Executive of State and Military Religion Legislation; Stretch and Micro Goals

Material religion is a framework used by scholars of religion to examine the interaction between religion and material culture. It focuses on the place of objects, images, spaces, and buildings in religious communities. The framework has been promoted by scholars such as Birgit Meyer, Sally Promey, S. Brent Plate, David Morgan, etc.

Physiocracy (French: physiocratie; from the Greek for "government of nature") is an economic theory developed by a group of 18th-century Age of Enlightenment French economists who believed that the wealth of nations derived solely from the value of "land agriculture" or "land development" and that agricultural products should be highly priced.[1] Their theories originated in France and were most popular during the second half of the 18th century. Physiocracy became one of the first well-developed theories of economics.

The Bible typically describes the Heavenly host as being made up of angels, and gives several descriptions of angels in military terms, such as their encampment (Genesis 32:1–2), command structure (Psalms 91:11–12; Matt.13:41; Rev.7:2), and participation in combat (Job 19:12; Rev.12:7). Other passages indicate other entities make up the divine army, namely stars (Judges 5:20, Isaiah 40:26).[1][full citation needed] In Christian theology, the heavenly host participate in the war in Heaven.

The doctrine or theory of immanence holds that the divine encompasses or is manifested in the material world. It is held by some philosophical and metaphysical theories of divine presence. Immanence is usually applied in monotheistic, pantheistic, pandeistic, or panentheistic faiths to suggest that the spiritual world permeates the mundane.

The Dionysian Mysteries were a ritual of ancient Greece and Rome which sometimes used intoxicants and other trance-inducing techniques (like dance and music) to remove inhibitions and social constraints, liberating the individual to return to a natural state.

Religious nationalism can be understood in a number of ways, such as nationalism as a religion itself, a position articulated by Carlton Hayes in his text Nationalism: A Religion, or as the relationship of nationalism to a particular religious belief, dogma, ideology, or affiliation. This relationship can be broken down into two aspects: the politicisation of religion and the influence of religion on politics.

Dioceses ruled by an archbishop are commonly referred to as archdioceses; most are metropolitan sees, being placed at the head of an ecclesiastical province. In the Catholic Church, some are suffragans of a metropolitan see or are directly subject to the Holy See.

The body of light, sometimes called the 'astral body'[a] or the 'subtle body,'[b] is a "quasi material"[1] aspect of the human body, being neither solely physical nor solely spiritual, posited by a number of philosophers, and elaborated on according to various esoteric, occult, and mystical teachings. Other terms used for this body include body of glory,[2] spirit-body, luciform body, augoeides ('radiant body'), astroeides ('starry or sidereal body'), and celestial body.[3] The concept derives from the philosophy of Plato: the word 'astral' means 'of the stars'; thus the astral plane consists of the Seven Heavens of the classical planets. The idea is rooted in common worldwide religious accounts of the afterlife[4] in which the soul's journey or "ascent" is described in such terms as "an ecstatic, mystical or out-of body experience, wherein the spiritual traveller leaves the physical body and travels in their body of light into 'higher' realms."[5]

The canon law of the Catholic Church (from Latin ius canonicum[1]) is "how the Church organizes and governs herself".[2] It is the system of laws and ecclesiastical legal principles made and enforced by the hierarchical authorities of the Catholic Church to regulate its external organization and government and to order and direct the activities of Catholics toward the mission of the Church.

An institute of consecrated life is an association of faithful in the Catholic Church canonically erected by competent church authorities to enable men or women who publicly profess the evangelical counsels by religious vows or other sacred bonds "through the charity to which these counsels lead to be joined to the Church and its mystery in a special way".[1] They are defined in the 1983 Code of Canon Law under canons 573–730. The Congregation for Institutes of Consecrated Life and Societies of Apostolic Life has ecclesial oversight of institutes of consecrated life.[2]

In Christianity, the three evangelical counsels, or counsels of perfection, are chastity (NEVER), poverty (or perfect charity), and obedience (RECKLESS ABANDONMENT).[1] As stated by Jesus in the canonical gospels,[2] they are counsels for those who desire to become "perfect" (τελειος, teleios).[3][4] The Catholic Church interprets this to mean that they are not binding upon all, and hence not necessary conditions to attain eternal life (heaven), but that they are "acts of supererogation", "over and above" the minimum stipulated in the biblical commandments.[5][6]

Catholics who have made a public profession to order their lives by the evangelical counsels, and confirmed this by public vows before their competent church authority (the act of religious commitment known as a profession), are recognised as members of the consecrated life.

The Council of Trent (Latin: Concilium Tridentinum), held between 1545 and 1563 in Trent (or Trento), now in northern Italy, was the 19th ecumenical council of the Catholic Church. Prompted by the Protestant Reformation at the time, it has been described as the embodiment of the Counter-Reformation. The Council issued key statements and clarifications of the Church's doctrine and teachings, including scripture, the biblical canon, sacred tradition, original sin, justification, salvation, the sacraments, the Mass, and the veneration of saints[4] and also issued condemnations of what it defined to be heresies committed by proponents of Protestantism. The consequences of the Council were also significant with regard to the Church's liturgy and censorship.

Initiated in part to address the challenges of the Protestant Reformations,[3] the Counter-Reformation was a comprehensive effort arising from the decrees of the Council of Trent. The effort produced apologetic and polemical documents, heresy trials, anti-corruption efforts, spiritual movements, the promotion of new religious orders, and the flourishing of new art and musical styles.

Tradwave is a Catholic artistic style using synthwave and vaporwave art to promote traditional catholicism. Tradwave usually uses traditional catholic paintings, sculptures, or photographs of saints, given with vaporwave effects, often with a bible verse or quote about catholicism. The art usually tries to convey a resurrection of catholic spirituality in the modern atheist world. Figures often depicted in Tradwave art include Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, Ven. Fulton Sheen, Cardinal Robert Sarah, and Mother Angelica.

Tradwave music often takes the form of two main styles. One of them is catholic hymns with vaporwave effects and traditional Vaporwave/Lo-Fi music. It can also have quotes from modern prolific Catholic figures, such as Ven. The other theme is Fulton Sheen and Cardinal Robert Sarah.

Heavenly Virtues: Another phrase to describe this obedience to the voice is “reckless abandon.” It simply means that we let God do what God wants to do through us. It means if He tells us to do something or say something—we do it.

Intercession or intercessory prayer is the act of praying to a deity on behalf of others, or asking a saint in heaven to pray on behalf of oneself or for others. Intercession of the Saints is a Christian doctrine that maintains that saints can intercede for others. To intercede is to go or come between two parties, to plead before one of them on behalf of the other. In ecclesiastical usage both words are taken in the sense of the intervention primarily of Christ, and secondarily of the Blessed Virgin and the angels and saints, on behalf of men.[2] The doctrine is held by the Catholic, Eastern Orthodox Churches, the Assyrian Church of the East, the Oriental Orthodox churches , and some Lutherans and Anglicans (chiefly those of Evangelical Catholic or Anglo-Catholic churchmanship, respectively).[3] The practice of asking saints for their intercession can be found in Christian writings from the 3rd century onwards.[4][5][6] Catholic doctrine supports intercessory prayer to saints. This practice is an application of the doctrine of the Communion of saints. Some of the early basis for this was the belief that martyrs passed immediately into the presence of God and could obtain graces and blessings for others, which naturally and immediately led to their direct invocation. A further reinforcement was derived from the cult of the angels which, while pre-Christian in its origin, was heartily embraced by the faithful of the sub-Apostolic age. The doctrine of intercession and invocation was set forth by the Council of Trent, which teaches that "... the saints who reign together with Christ offer up their own prayers to God for men. It is good and useful suppliantly to invoke them, and to have recourse to their prayers, aid, and help for obtaining benefits from God, through His Son Jesus Christ our Lord, Who alone is our Redeemer and Saviour".[10] Intercessory prayer to saintly persons who have not yet been beatified can also practiced by individuals, and evidence of miracles produced as a result of such prayer is very commonly produced during the formal process of beatification and canonization.

In short, the gun-toting angel was a multifaceted metaphor. “It undoubtedly also reflected the Catholic Counter-Reformation militaristic rhetoric,” wrote Donahue-Wallace, “which promoted the church as an army and heavenly beings as its soldiers.” These "Harquebusier Angels" or "Arcabuceros" are full-length depictions of winged angels, elaborately dressed, and carrying matchlock guns (harquebuses).

The related term astrolatry usually implies polytheism. In anthropological literature these systems of practice may be referred to as astral cults.

A friar is a member of one of the mendicant orders in the Roman Catholic Church. There are also friars outside of the Roman Catholic Church, such as within the Anglican Communion. The term, first used in the 12th or 13th century, distinguishes the mendicants' itinerant apostolic character, exercised broadly under the jurisdiction of a superior general, from the older monastic orders' allegiance to a single monastery formalized by their vow of stability. A friar may be in holy orders or be a non-ordained brother. The most significant orders of friars are the Dominicans, Franciscans, Augustinians, and Carmelites.[1]

Romans 8:31; Exploring Biblical Imagery is one of the most important keys to interpreting and gaining a deeper understanding of the Bible. The Bible often communicates truth to us through images and patterns.

Throughout history, armed priests or soldier priests have been recorded. Distinguished from military chaplains, who are non-combatants that provided spiritual guidance to service personnel and associated civilians, these priests took up arms and fought in conflicts as combatants. The term warrior priests or war priests is usually used for armed priests in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, and of historical tribes.

Slang: In Romans 8:5-8, Paul presents a compelling contrast between living according to the flesh and living according to the Spirit. The flesh, with its disordered desires and rebellion against God, leads only to spiritual desolation. Martyr, one who voluntarily suffers death rather than deny their religion by words or deeds; such action is afforded special, institutionalized recognition in most major religions of the world. The term may also refer to anyone who sacrifices their life or something of great value for the sake of principle. A religious allusion is a brief reference to a person, event, place, or phrase from religious texts or traditions, without describing them in detail. 5 Those who live according to the flesh have their minds set on what the flesh desires; but those who live in accordance with the Spirit have their minds set on what the Spirit desires. 6 The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace. 7 The mind governed by the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law, nor can it do so. 8 Those who are in the realm of the flesh cannot please God. Martyr/Romans 8 Allusion Slang.

The Roman Martyrology is an official liturgical book of the Catholic Church, with ancient origins, that lists the martyrs, confessors, virgins, and other saints, each on his or her dies natalis, or birthday into eternal life, as well as major feasts of Our Lord and Our Lady.

The Roman Martyrology is also central to the Divine Office or Liturgy of the Hours—a daily set of prayers marking the hours of each day and sanctifying it with worship. During the Office of Readings, specific entries from the martyrology are recited to inform and inspire those in prayer.

Romeu e Julieta (Casapianos Order 1996 Adaptation 18+ Romance Thriller)

While it retains the original Shakespearean dialogue, the film represents the Montagues and the Capulets as warring mafia empires (with legitimate business fronts) and the Capulets were "a Latin family, sort of,"[15] played by Latin-American and Italian actors.[16] It is set in contemporary United States, where swords are replaced by guns[17] (with model names such as "Dagger", "Sword", and "Rapier"), and with a FedEx-style overnight delivery service called "Post Haste".[18] Shakespeare and Impure Aesthetics explores ideas about art implicit in Shakespeare's plays and defines specific Shakespearean aesthetic practices in his use of desire, death and mourning as resources for art. In fiction, a subplot or side story is a secondary strand of the plot that is a supporting side story for any story or for the main plot. Subplots may connect to main plots, in either time and place or thematic significance. Subplots often involve supporting characters, those besides the protagonist or antagonist. Subplots may also intertwine with the main plot at some point in a story.[1]

THE ENCYCLICAL PASSIONARIES ABOUT YHVH CASAPIANOS (MARTYROLOGY BIBLE)

Specifically, the royal psalms deal with the spiritual role of kings in the worship of Yahweh. Aside from that single qualification, there is nothing else which specifically links the ten psalms. Each of the psalms make explicit references to their subject, the king. Royal (messianic) psalms deal with the king as God's anointed or chosen one. Many are prayers for the wisdom of the king, his long life or success in battle. Some are prophetic in nature in that they also point to the ideal future king, the Messiah or the King of kings. A martyrology is a catalogue or list of martyrs and other saints and beati arranged in the calendar order of their anniversaries or feasts. Local martyrologies record exclusively the custom of a particular Church. Local lists were enriched by names borrowed from neighbouring churches.[1] Consolidation occurred, by the combination of several local martyrologies, with or without borrowings from literary sources. Simple martyrologies only enumerate names. Historical martyrologies, also sometimes called passionaries, also include stories or biographical details. (Reckless Abandonment; Mars Shamanism and Casa Pia Wing Transfer Invocation)

The term "revolutionary martyr" usually relates to those dying in revolutionary struggle.[50][51] During the 20th century, the concept was developed in particular in the culture and propaganda of communist or socialist revolutions, although it was and is also used in relation to nationalist revolutions. In the martyrdom narrative of the remembering community, this refusal to comply with the presented demands results in the punishment or execution of an individual by an oppressor. Accordingly, the status of the 'martyr' can be considered a posthumous title as a reward for those who are considered worthy of the concept of martyrdom by the living, regardless of any attempts by the deceased to control how they will be remembered in advance.[1] Insofar, the martyr is a relational figure of a society's boundary work that is produced by collective memory.[2] Originally applied only to those who suffered for their religious beliefs, the term has come to be used in connection with people killed for a political cause. (Armed Friars and The War for Central Africa between Casapianos and The French; The Fall of Yoruba for Bembé; Arcubusier Angels in Africa)

The Metal Ages is a term for the period of human civilization beginning about 6,000 years ago during which metallurgy rapidly advanced, and human populations started using metals such as copper, tin, bronze and finally iron to make tools and weapons. By heating and shaping metals in hot furnaces, humanity also learned to use precious metals such as gold and silver to make intricate ornaments.[1][2] With these technological adaptions, human society became more productive and human settlements became larger and more prosperous, but also more violent.[3] The Metal Ages are divided into three stages: the Copper Age, the Bronze Age, and the Iron Age.[1][2] (Calcium Age of Mozambique)

Religious practices in ancient Greece encompassed a collection of beliefs, rituals, and mythology, in the form of both popular public religion and cult practices. The application of the modern concept of "religion" to ancient cultures has been questioned as anachronistic.[1] The ancient Greeks did not have a word for 'religion' in the modern sense. Likewise, no Greek writer known to us classifies either the gods or the cult practices into separate 'religions'.[2] Instead, for example, Herodotus speaks of the Hellenes as having "common shrines of the gods and sacrifices, and the same kinds of customs."[3] Various religious festivals were held in ancient Greece. Many were specific only to a particular deity or city-state. Altogether the year in Athens included some 140 days that were religious festivals of some sort, though they varied greatly in importance. (Festival Martyrology)

Gnostic cosmogony generally presents a distinction between a supreme, hidden God and a malevolent lesser divinity (sometimes associated with the biblical deity Yahweh)[1] who is responsible for creating the material universe. Consequently, Gnostics considered material existence flawed or evil, and held the principal element of salvation to be direct knowledge of the hidden divinity, attained via mystical or esoteric insight. Many Gnostic texts deal not in concepts of sin and repentance, but with illusion and enlightenment.[2] Gnostic writings flourished among certain Christian groups in the Mediterranean world around the second century, when the Fathers of the early Church denounced them as heresy.[3]

The original sense of apotheosis relates to religion and is the subject of many works of art. Figuratively "apotheosis" may be used in almost any context for "the deification, glorification, or exaltation of a principle, practice, etc.", so normally attached to an abstraction of some sort.[1] In religion, apotheosis was a feature of many religions in the ancient world, and some that are active today. It requires a belief that there is a possibility of newly-created gods, so a polytheistic belief system. The major modern religions of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism do not allow for this, though many recognise minor sacred categories such as saints (created by a process called canonization). A mural crown (Latin: corona muralis) is a crown or headpiece representing city walls, towers, or fortresses. In classical antiquity, it was an emblem of tutelary deities who watched over a city, and among the Romans a military decoration. Later the mural crown developed into a symbol of European heraldry, mostly for cities and towns, and in the 19th and 20th centuries was used in some republican heraldry. (Mural Crown Wing Transfer)

In religious studies, an ethnic religion is a religion or belief associated with notions of heredity and a particular ethnic group. (CHAMA ROXA)

An illusion is a distortion of the senses, which can reveal how the mind normally organizes and interprets sensory stimulation. Although illusions distort the human perception of reality, they are generally shared by most people.[1] (Sensory Process Sensitivity)

Capricornus is one of the 88 modern constellations, and was also one of the 48 constellations listed by the 2nd century astronomer Claudius Ptolemy. Its old astronomical symbol is (♑︎). Under its modern boundaries it is bordered by Aquila, Sagittarius, Microscopium, Piscis Austrinus, and Aquarius. The constellation is located in an area of sky called the Sea or the Water, consisting of many water-related constellations such as Aquarius, Pisces and Eridanus. It is the smallest constellation in the zodiac. (Men)

Leo Minor is a small and faint constellation in the northern celestial hemisphere. Its name is Latin for "the smaller lion", in contrast to Leo, the larger lion. It lies between the larger and more recognizable Ursa Major to the north and Leo to the south. Leo Minor was not regarded as a separate constellation by classical astronomers; it was designated by Johannes Hevelius in 1687.[2] (Women)

Dancehall is a genre of Jamaican popular music that originated in the late 1970s.[4][5] Initially, dancehall was a more sparse version of reggae than the roots style, which had dominated much of the 1970s.[6][7] In the mid-1980s, digital instrumentation became more prevalent, changing the sound considerably, with digital dancehall (or "ragga") becoming increasingly characterized by faster rhythms. Key elements of dancehall music include its extensive use of Jamaican Patois rather than Jamaican standard English and a focus on the track instrumentals (or "riddims"). Dancehall saw initial mainstream success in Jamaica in the 1980s, and by the 1990s, it became increasingly popular in Jamaican diaspora communities. In the 2000s, dancehall experienced worldwide mainstream success, and by the 2010s, it began to heavily influence the work of established Western artists and producers, which has helped to further bring the genre into the Western music mainstream.[8][9][10] (DOS SANTOS was this first generation of Dancehall Consumers)

5 SENSES CITY MARTYROLOGY BIBLE: LIGA CASAPIANOS (GOVERNMENT)

A congress is a formal meeting of the representatives of different countries, constituent states, organizations, trade unions, political parties, or other groups.[1] The term originated in Late Middle English to denote an encounter (meeting of adversaries) during battle, from the Latin congressus.

A federation (also called a federal state) is an entity characterized by a union of partially self-governing provinces, states, or other regions under a federal government (federalism). In a federation, the self-governing status of the component states, as well as the division of power between them and the central government, is constitutionally entrenched and may not be altered by a unilateral decision, neither by the component states nor the federal political body without constitutional amendment.

The League of Corinth, also referred to as the Hellenic League (Greek: κοινὸν τῶν Ἑλλήνων, koinòn tõn Hellḗnōn;[a] or simply οἱ Ἕλληνες, the Héllēnes),[3] was a federation of Greek states created by Philip II[4] in 338–337 BC. The League was created in order to unify Greek military forces under Macedonian leadership (hegemony) in their combined conquest of the Persian Achaemenid Empire.[5][6][7]

The League was governed by the Hegemon (leader)[21][22][23] (strategos autokrator[24][25] in a military context),[26] the council (Synedrion),[27] and the judges (Dikastai). Delegates of the member-states (Synedroi) were responsible for administering the common affairs of the League. They were summoned and presided over by a committee of presiding officers (Proedroi), chosen by lot in time of peace, and by the Hegemon in time of war.[19] Decrees of the league were issued in Corinth, Athens, Delphi, Olympia and Pydna.[28] The League maintained an army levied from member states in approximate proportion to their size, while Philip established Hellenic garrisons (commanded by phrourarchs, or garrison commanders) in Corinth, Thebes, Pydna[29] and Ambracia.

Heortology or eortology is a science that deals with the origin and development of religious festivals,[1] and more specifically the study of the history and criticism of liturgical calendars and martyrologies*.

Religious Ecstacy Entheogens are psychedelic drugs—and sometimes certain other psychoactive substances—used for engendering spiritual development or otherwise in sacred contexts (Birth as a Festival Capital)

Taste: Lamb and Wool

Touch: Tomato Food Fight

Scent: Overnight Fragrance Festivals

Sight: Fireworks on the Waterfront

Sound: Bassline Genres

ANGELOLOGY GANG BLUEPRINT: CHAMA ROXA (MARS ANGELS MARTYROLOGY BIBLE)

Spirit Unity Oversoul Angelology Shaman

Eros Influence Angels: Ecstasy-Painkillers Trafficking Angel Spirit Type Oversoul, Neptune-Jupiter-Mars-Mercurcy with Planetary Intelligence; Erotes are Horcruxes

Google Imprint Oversoul

Choice of Choir is Principality Heavenly Host

Lightning-Ice Element

Wings Transfer Invocation

ESTJ Sensory Myers-Briggs Personality Indicator Syncretism

Church Expenses Occupation (Festivals, Venues, Freeports, Art Gallery, Underground Garages, Tobacco Store, Restaurants, Réal Estate Brokerage, Impure Aesthetic Thrillers Publishing Imprint et Production Company

Body Etching, Lipodissolve, and Hyaluronic Acid Fillers Cosmetics Surgery

CASA PIA FEDERATION

🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿��🇿🇲🇿🇲🇿

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 6 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 5.3k

Library

Chapter 6 - It’s Just The Time for Dancing

The next few days pass quietly for you. Which is a good thing, really. Your lip still hurts from biting it so hard. Luckily, it didn’t swell much. You need a few days to get back into your daily routine, making sure you are where you are supposed to be, and you’re seen by the people who need to see you. The tram driver on your morning route, the lady at the bakery on the corner, your co-workers as you clock in, the security guard reading the newspaper under his desk—everything is normal, everything is routine, everything is as it should be.

Except for the American pilot you have hiding in the loft. But no one needs to know about that.

You exhale heavily, puffing out your cheeks as you look at the wet streaks your mop leaves on the marble floor. Finally back on the evening shift, you spend the hours after dark mopping floors, dusting shelves, wiping down desks, swiping ration books, polishing brass doorknobs, collecting forgotten cups, forging two new identity cards, dusting shelves and taking out the trash.

It’s an unpopular shift for many reasons. On a bad day, you’re cleaning until midnight. And it’s generally a creepy place. The Ministry of Interior is housed in an imposing, modern-looking building that, at best, looms ominously over the city from its position on top of one of the hills surrounding the river valley. And at night, when the building sits deserted, a chill sets over the place. Many of your coworkers speak of strange sounds, like the ghostly ticking of typewriters echoing through the halls and strange shadows moving in locked rooms.

You don’t mind, though. Possibly because you were the source of those phenomena. The national police and gendarmerie are headquartered here, and for all the reorganization for efficiency in the last few years, civil servants will always be too overworked to really notice (or care) about small discrepancies in the paperwork. Or they are crooked, which makes getting ration books near child’s play. Plenty of crooked cops sell them on the black market, so they usually keep a stack stashed away somewhere—a somewhere you’re bound to find as a cleaner—and it’s not like they can report them missing.

And it’s really nice of them to have all the forms prepared like that—it saves you a lot of time filling in travel permission forms, adding a stamp here, making a file disappear there, and creating two new identities with legit personal numbers.

Because all the forms are the same and most people working here fill them in on autopilot, they most likely can’t recall which they actually did, or which might have been slipped into there by you. The efficiency of the system has made it so monotonous that it dumbed everyone involved down, ironically.

It’s the day shift that generally gives you the shivers. When the place is filled with men and women with sour faces and their ill-fitting suits, complaining about the workload, dutifully submitting their reports on people and signing off on another arrest, another cog in the machine of the regime.

No, you’ll take ghosts over those beasts any day.

Carefully reaching under your tabard apron, you adjust the ration books tucked between the waistband of your skirt, making sure your sweater is covering them. First, you have to finish mopping this hallway, and then you will wipe down the desks in the offices on this floor, paying extra attention to the desk of the officer handling identity cards.

You take your time mopping. It’s natural to want to work fast as the adrenaline starts pumping in anticipation of… well, committing a crime. Even if you believe it’s for the greater good, identity fraud is not a small crime. Besides, the more people filter out of the building, not wanting to spend a minute more here than necessary, the less noise there is.

The empty, almost gaping halls and cold marble floors might feel might be spooky in the way they eerily echo the smallest sounds, but they also make it virtually impossible for anyone to sneak up on you.

Slowly, lowly humming, you work your way down the hall. The dirty water sloshes in the metal bucket as you carry it into the stairwell, leaning your mop against the wall. You wait for a moment, listening for any sounds from the other floors. It’s quiet. Good. Fishing a dusting rag from your apron. Time to get those desks cleaned.

By the time you reach your destination, your heart starts beating harder. You force yourself to breathe calmly—don’t let fear rule you. You’re going to need a steady hand.

You wait a moment in front of the office door. Still not a sound.

Now you hurry. With quick movements, you pull out registration forms from different folders, so the ID numbers are not consecutive, and therefore will be easier to… lose in the filing system. Sitting down at the desk, you stretch and flex your fingers.

Calm.

You start diligently filling out the forms on the typewriter—the quicker, the better, because this is the noisy part. New names, new birthdays—new people. Carefully, you unscrew the cap of the too-fancy fountain pen, hesitating for a small second before copying the signature from one of the other papers on the table with a flourish. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t look quite perfect—actually, it’s better. It bears every mark of a hastily processed form by an overworked civil servant trying to get home at the end of the day, the authentication stamp smudging the still-wet ink, mindlessly filed away in the wrong folder. Everything just deliberate enough to make it look indistinguishable from regular incompetence.

You hesitate to remember when your brain switched gears like this, always looking to find a loophole, always looking to find a way around other people and essentially exploit their behavior. In high school, you once cheated on a biology test by peeking at your deskmate’s test paper. It was an inconsequential pop quiz. The deskmate in question was your best friend Eva, who would later get into med school. But still. You barely slept for the rest of the week until you got your grade because you were so scared the teacher knew and was going to fail you publicly.

It feels strange. Foreign. Like that fear you felt so profoundly at 16 was only a pebble skipping in the pond. You mull over the hollow feeling as you start filling in identity cards with a neat looping script, where it feels like that same pebble has been sinking deeper and deeper into dark dread. Every time you think you might have found the bottom of your greatest fears, something inevitably happens that pulls out the rug from under you.

Like Rooster.

His very presence feels like another rug pull.

And to your growing annoyance, despite every problem he poses, instead of working on some sort of solution, your mind wanders to that warm skin, that crooked, cocky smile—and god, that broad chest, those powerful arms, how comfortably close he seems to get to you and how some part of your brain is itching for more.

Just as you finish up, leaning your elbows on the polished wood as you resolutely screw the cap back onto the fountain pen, almost as if you’re hoping to screw a top onto your wandering thoughts.

You hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps, that are too close for comfort. You were so lost in thought you didn’t notice. Shit.

As you shoot up from the chair, swiping the identity cards from the desk and stuffing them into the waistband of your skirt, you hastily straighten your apron. In a flurry of movements, swiping the forms off the desk and stuffing them in the back of the first open file drawer, you go to grab your dusting rag, but with that, knock the fancy fountain pen off the table.

As the black pen with the fancy gold trim clangs loudly against the marble floor, you see the cap pop off in an almost comical, slow-motion way. The black ink splatters out over your shoes and socks. You curse, wide-eyed, ducking behind the desk, desperately trying to mitigate some of the horrendous mess you just got yourself into. The ink is staining your fingers and palms as you try to hide the absolute massacre you just caused. Your blood is rushing in your ears so hard you cannot even hear the footsteps anymore, and you can only hope that they passed you by now, that they didn’t need to be where you are, and they didn’t see you in the first place.

“Is someone in here?”

You are pretty sure you can feel the blood physically drain from your face—the deafening rush is suddenly replaced by an uncomfortable silence. The security guard, who is usually halfway down a bottle of cheap liquor at this hour and somewhere off in dreamland, has decided tonight to actually do his job.

Slowly, you get up, clutching the pen between your ink-stained fingers. You want to look up and see how the guard reacts, but you force yourself to keep your gaze trained on the toes of your dirty shoes.

You are known as the slowest cleaner. Kind of clumsy. That’s why you’re typically the last to leave. You don’t discourage the rumor—even though it stings. Sometimes you lean into it. Every time you feel a little bit less like yourself.

“Miss Anna?” The guard doesn’t even seem surprised. His voice sounds like brittle paper—he is an old man, after all. Back bent and fingers almost pulled into claws from a lifetime of heavy labor, his uniform seems to hang off his wiry form. You don’t actually know his name—the rest of the staff just refers to him as the gamekeeper, after the brand of cheap herbal brandy he seems to favor to keep him company on the night shift.

“I’m sorry sir, I…” You trail off, jerking your hands slightly in a graceless motion, drawing attention to them. “I just wanted to take a look.”

“Oh, you unlucky girl,” The guard sighs, part empathetic, part exasperated. “Clean up, you are going to miss your last tram.”

You nod, hurriedly starting to clean the mess with your dust rag.

“Is your bucket in the hall?” The guard asks, not unkindly. “You can mop up the mess quicker.” Nodding, you start moving towards the door, where the guard is still standing. He looks up and down at you, clicking his tongue as his gaze lands on your splattered shoes. “Just a bit of vinegar when you get home, and blot it out carefully.” He offers, in an almost fatherly tone.

“Thank you, I didn’t know that,” You smile awkwardly. “I thought I just ruined these.”

Water and soap work just as well, you know, but it’s best just not to say.

“Run along now.” He dismisses you as he starts down the hall, the other way from you. “People might get suspicious if you hang around too long.” The gamekeeper croaks, not looking back at you.

Your luck is up for tonight.

***

Bradley is bored.

Never in his life has he been this bored. In school, in detention, church on Sunday, every endless ocean crossing, where there’s no land in sight, and he’s just surrounded by a wide expanse of nothing on the horizon. Because at least there are always people around.

In his plane, up in the sky, he is pretty much alone. But even there, he can see his fellow aviators whiz by, he can hear their chatter on the radio. Even up there, he is never truly alone.

He doesn’t like being alone.

He also doesn’t like being bored. But the small room under the roof has little in the way of entertainment for his lonely days. Finally, he has a place where he can recuperate in peace at least.

It’s been over a week now.

Recuperating means laying in bed mostly, starting at the ceiling. The pain is getting less, but his energy is falling too. Sometimes Bradley moves through the room, leaning out of the small window, smoking. There’s not much to see but other rooftops, a few church spires on the horizon, and the blue sky.

He tries to stretch his sore muscles carefully, almost scared he’ll lose every part of his health (and vainly, physique) if he stays idle too long. There’s nothing much he can do about his ribs, the dull ache gets a little less every day, but they take a long time to heal. He has time in spades, he thinks bitterly. Bradley’s ankle was a different story. It looked horrendous in the first days he got to the safe house: swollen, hot, blue-ish bruises forming under the skin.

As your cool fingers graze over his ankle, you tell him to keep it elevated. If it doesn’t get better in a few days, you’ll find someone to help. Bradley doesn’t want his ankle to be broken, but he likes your soft and kind touch. He craves more of your touch. It’s in such stark difference to your serious expression and earnest tone.

When he’s alone again, sometimes he thinks of home, allowing himself to finally dwell on some thoughts he buried a long time ago. It’s strange—Bradley traveled many places with the Navy, never feeling particularly homesick. Probably because deep down, he was always convinced he’d return. He had to, right? It’s bad luck to dwell on death, but it’s foolish not to fear it. But now… now he’s dwelling on it. The thought of never seeing his home again, never visiting his parent’s grave again leaves him feeling hollow.

And guilty.

He meant to visit the grave site before he shipped out to Britain, but a particular blonde and bourbon caught his eye and he decided to wallow in that, rather than his own grief. Now there is no blonde, no bourbon, just him.

And sometimes you.

You are like a breath of fresh air.

Sure, you still don’t smile much—not as much as Bradley would like any way, and he entertains himself by getting a reaction out of you. But he looks forward to the moment when he hears your footsteps coming up the stairs. It’s been only a week and something, but Bradley is pretty sure he could pick out you padding up the stairs—gracefully, determined—in his dreams.

You bring him books to pass the time. They are old, dog-eared copies, some passages highlighted with a pencil, little notes in the margins in neat script, sometimes long-winded, sometimes no more than an exclamation mark or little cross. Bradley spends almost as much time reading as half daydreaming about you sitting at a desk, or sprawled out on a sofa, tapping a pencil against your lips, mouthing the words on the page. There is nothing particularly scandalous about those daydreams, if anything they feel strangely homely. Comforting. You’ve spent hours with these books, and they’re keeping him company now. A little bit like some part of you is with him all day. He likes that.

It’s small comforts until he hears your footsteps come up the stairs—sometimes you come around dusk, other times you keep him company in the morning.

You never tell him anything about what you do, or where anything comes from, dismissively waving your hand in reply, face unreadable. Food appears at his door every day like clockwork, but you stay mum on how it gets there.

When Bradley looks over your ink-stained fingers one late morning, catching them as you wave them through the air in that practiced nonchalant manner, he runs the pad of his thumb over the faded ink and red skin—you’ve clearly tried to scrub it off unsuccessfully—a beat of silence passes between you.

You can feel it in your bones.

Bradley notices how your palm flexes under his touch like you want to touch him back. You’re looking at him, lips parted ever slightly, breathing shallow.

“What did you do?” He asks softly, inadvertently breaking the spell. Bradley tries to ignore the sting as you immediately drop your hand from his, averting your gaze. Every time he thinks he might have found a way in with you, like he just about manages to catch a glimpse of what you are like underneath all the bits of untruth, diversion, and armor you seem to have wrapped around you, you seem to pull up your walls even higher.

The next few times you come to visit, you keep your distance from him. You ask about his ankle, but your hands stay put.

“It’s getting better.” He looks at you pointedly, sitting up in the bed. You don’t move from the chair at the small table on the other side of the room. “The swelling is as good as gone, and it doesn’t hurt when I walk.”

“That’s good.” You sound at least a little bit relieved. But you still don’t move from your spot.

That’s okay, Bradley tells himself. The why has him conflicted. Is it okay because you are his handler, and more interested in staying alive than him? He respects that, even if he’d still like to tease you a bit anyway.

A darker side chimes in: it’s okay. He can wait—snug on his perch. He’s a patient man.

And they always come to him in the end.

You will come to him.

Guilty, he shakes off the thought as soon as it rises. That’s not fair. It’s not a drunken tryst in a bar where he doesn’t have to think about what makes you tick, what makes him tick, and it’s mutually understood that that moment will be all it’ll ever be.

This is different. He depends on you. He can’t get a grip on you.

And quite frankly?

It scares the everloving shit out of him.

It exhilarates him.

“You look pretty nimble on your feet now.” You comment as you come into his small room one early evening. It’s sometime in late February, meaning Bradley has been missing in action for a month.

“Yeah, I think I’m ready to dance again.” He smirks, playfully extending his hand to you. Of course, you skillfully parry his gesture. There’s a playful glint in your eye as you shoot him a stern look. Undeterred, Bradley tucks his hand back into his pocket casually, as he watches you move around the small room.

“I got you something, Rooster.” You start, a little hesitantly. That catches Bradley’s attention. You are rarely hesitant when you speak to him—if you don’t want to answer or talk, you usually just don’t. “A few somethings, really.”

Somewhat bashfully, you hand him a large can of peaches. Fruits in winter wartime are somewhat of a rare treat, and typically when you happen upon some you use them for trading. It’s good to be in people’s good graces, or even better, have them owe you a favor. But this time, you figured Bradley might appreciate them. And you kind of want some yourself.

That’s the reason you kept the peaches. Right? You kind of want them, but you’d feel bad not sharing. And Bradley is the one cooped up in a safe house for weeks now. You’d be going stir-crazy in his position. Even though he appears as annoyingly positive as ever when you see him.

“Nice, where’d you get these?” He weighs the large can in his hand, his eyes keenly following your fingers as you unbutton your coat and unpin your hat, gently putting them away on the neatly made bed. You meet his gaze, before you force yourself to look away again.

“I brought two forks.” You reply instead. “You have a can opener here, right?”

“Yeah, it’s on the table.” As he puts the can down, he frowns for a moment. “Do you ever get tired of deflecting every other question?”

It comes out a bit sharper than Bradley wanted it to, and judging from the surprised look on your face, it cut a bit deeper than he had wanted it to. Your eyebrows raised, mouth open like you’re about to say something, but you seem to have frozen in the moment.

Tired? You think. Try utterly exhausted. Not one version of your life is authentic or complete—the handler, the roommate, the cleaner, the neighbor, the coworker, the friend, the daughter—you keep secrets from everyone everywhere, tell so many lies that it’s like you’re living all these different lives, and by god, you so desperately want to talk to someone about everything. But you can’t. You can’t even bring yourself to answer the most basic questions anymore without going down a list in your head if it’s safe to share that information or if it’s just easier to let a lie roll down your tongue instead.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you actually rendered speechless,” Bradley jokes lightly, breaking the too-long silence, trying to inject some levity back into the situation, almost nervously looking away from you and focussing on opening the can. You blink slowly and lick your lips. You want to tell Bradley about everything, what you really think, what you really feel, so there’s one person on this goddamn earth who will actually know you. But you bite your tongue and shrug instead.

“I would have actually answered you this time.” You reply, trying to match his joking tone. Bradley grins at you, as he places the opened can in the middle of the small table, and pulls out one of the chairs, gesturing you to sit down. Unable to keep a smile from tugging on your lips, you sit down, and Bradley pushes your chair in.

You shake your head, ignoring the flutter in your stomach.

Sitting across from each other, fishing slices of peach out of the opened tin, Bradley can’t help but study you. You look relaxed—chin resting on your palm, foot tucked under your leg on the chair, taking a small bite from the peach slice on your fork. Bradley is leaning on his elbow, bent slightly forwards, toward you as he casually lifts another slice out of the can. He is dressed so casually, his white shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. He seems perfectly unbothered to sit around with his undershirt on display—you can’t even complain. You’re just glad he isn’t going around shirtless. Right?

It’s one of those strangely intimate moments, that if it weren’t for the reality of the situation, could be… almost romantic. At a table together, sharing a dessert (of sorts), and talking about the books Bradley has been reading. You try not to have your mind addled by the notion that this is the closest thing to a date you’ve been on in almost two years. You try not to let the flutter in your stomach grow every time he says your name in that deep, velvety voice. You try to keep your heart from jumping in your throat every time he catches your eye with that lopsided grin on his face to see if his joke landed.

“There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about,” Best to get back to business. “Now that you’ve healed enough to walk again-” “And dance again.” Bradley interjects playfully, leaning just that little bit closer to you over the small table.

“...and dance again.” You deadpan, the soft look in your eyes taking the sting out of your words. You sigh lightly before you continue. “You need to learn your way about the city. Where to go, where the escape routes are, and look like you belong when you walk around. We might get into a situation where there’s no one to take you, so you need to be able to do this by yourself.”

Bradley frowns. “What do you mean, if there’s no one to take me? Aren’t you supposed to be my handler until…”

He trails off, seeing the pained look on your face. You don’t say anything, and Bradley is actually grateful for that right now. After a moment of silence, you clear your throat a bit awkwardly.

“So, uhm -” You shift in your chair, sitting up a bit straighter. “I brought you some things. A map—wait, let me get it.” You get up, feeling strangely anxious. You grab your purse off the bed and take it back with you to the table. “So, here’s the map. It has the most important things, like the train stations and major roads marked.” “Thanks.” Bradley nods as he takes the map from you. He recognizes your neat script on the map, marking several landmarks. “Anything I should pay special attention to?”

You feel relieved Bradley is not joking right now.

“Mostly these two train stations and the surrounding areas. Either of these will most likely be part of your escape route.” You bend a bit further over the table, finger tracing the two marked points on the paper. Bradley feels like he should move back a bit, as he already knows that if he looks up now, your face will be close to his. He isn’t sure you are all that aware, focus on the map between you. He should really be a gentleman about this, but he’s also enjoying your proximity to him, and he’d like to enjoy it a little bit longer.

In the end, you make the decision for him, leaning back again.

“How quickly do you need me to have this memorized?” Bradley asks, looking up at you. You avoid his gaze. “We’ll start with the first route to the main train station tomorrow, so the sooner, the better.” You reply, still not looking at him, but rather at your own hands as you fidget. It’s strange to see you nervous, and Bradley wonders what is making you so anxious right now.

“I also got you new papers.” You push a small booklet toward him.

“Oh, you got me like a fake identity and everything?” Bradley curiously leafs through the booklet.

“Yeah, it’s legit as far as most police will be willing to look.”

“So what’s my cover story?” He asks curiously, a smile playing over his face again.

“It’s nothing special, so don’t read too much into it,” You shrug, trying to stop yourself from talking too fast. “It’s best to stay close to the truth anyway. When we go out, you still can’t talk, so I got you veteran status. We should be able to chalk it up to shell shock or something if we get stopped.”

You pause as Bradley nods.

“Also we’re married now.” You blurt out. Bradley’s head shoots up, eyes wide. “I - I mean our fake identities are married.” You amend, lamely.

You cringe, it seemed like such a good idea when you forged the identification cards, but now you’ve said it out loud, it almost feels like an admission of… something. To your mortification, Bradley just starts laughing. Of course. It’s preposterous, after all. He only likes to tease you, and you deluded yourself into thinking he might actually have any feelings for you. This means you must admit that you’ve developed feelings of your own.

Preposterous, indeed.

“Well, I suppose I could do a lot worse than you, sweetheart.” He is still laughing. You have difficulty wiping the hurt frown off your face, so you just look away. There’s absolutely no reason you should be taking this so personally, but you are embarrassed that Bradley laughing actually… hurts. It feels like you’re being rejected.

“I do have one question.” He adds, as he stops laughing, voice a lot more serious. You scrape together the courage to look at him, mouth set in a hard line. Bradley has a completely serious look on his face. “Why, pray tell, are we married, Anya?”

You take a breath, trying really hard to keep the hurt and embarrassment from creeping into your voice. “Because it looks weird for a man and woman to walk together without talking. No one will buy we’re friends—let alone dating—if we walk around mutely.”

“Fair,” Bradley admits. “But we have a bad marriage, then?”

“What?”

Bradley is momentarily taken aback by your sharp reaction, but grins at you anyway. It seems like this whole situation has you a little off-kilter, and he wants to rock your boat just a little more to bring the spitfire out. You look so offended, lip curled up in disgust, that the suggestion that your marriage must be bad. It’s adorable.

“We don’t talk, so our marriage must be bad, right?” He questions, doing his best to be serious.

“You think not constantly talking equates to a bad marriage, Rooster?” You question him back, a cutting edge to your words. Bradley loves how riled up you suddenly are.

“I think communication is important, Anya.” He replies smirking, leaning forward again. He’s pretty sure he just saw your eyebrow twitch.

“I agree, but being comfortable in silence together doesn’t mean there’s bad communication.” You retort in a low voice. You have no idea how you got to discussing what entails a good marriage instead of exit routes, but it has your stomach in twists. Bradley seems all too comfortable. Ass.

“Of course, and there are plenty of other ways to communicate.” If at all possible, Bradley’s smirk grows. The implication of his words hangs heavily between you. You should pull back now and end this conversation. This is probably what he always does, you think bitterly. There’s just no one else to focus his attention on. But you also don’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting to you like that.

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough how compatible we are, Rooster.” The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret it. You close your eyes for a moment to stave off the crushing embarrassment, before resolutely getting up, smoothing down your skirt, absolutely not wanting to sit here while Bradley laughs at you again.

There’s no use in editing your words, backpedaling that that was really not what you meant—it will only make it worse, and you will inevitably dig yourself into a deeper hole with him. Bradley gets up from the table at the same time, grabbing you by the elbow as you move past him. You inhale sharply as his large warm hand wraps around your arm.

You tug your arm sharply, but you don’t really stand a chance against Bradley’s grip. He’s not even holding onto you that tightly.

“Let me go, please.” Your voice is flat, words measured carefully. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Rooster. But I’d like to go home now.”

Bradley’s heart sinks a little bit. There it is again, your walls pulled up higher than ever before.

“It was just a bit of fun, Anya.” He tells you softly.

“Of course.” There’s a forced airiness to your tone. You jerk your elbow again, and he lets you go this time. You move past him, grabbing your coat and hat off the bed, before turning on your heel and going straight for the door. You snatch your purse off the table as you try to keep yourself from sprinting to the door.

Hand on the doorknob, you stop for a moment. Letting out a deep sigh, you turn around. You are overreacting.

“Sleep well, Rooster.” You tell him genuinely. He’s still standing in the middle of the room, face concerned. When your eyes meet, his lips quirk back up into a smile. A nice smile this time. You feel your own lips pull into a smile in response as you turn away again.

Everything about him is so magnetic, it’s pulling you out of orbit. You know it’s because you’re allowing yourself to become too comfortable around him. But he makes it so easy.

“Sleep well, Anya.” He tells you in that same deep voice that makes your insides quake as you slip out of the door.

note | It's been a while~ sorry <3 more will be coming soon.

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick #rooster fanfic #rooster top gun #rooster x oc #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader #top gun fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x oc #rooster bradshaw x oc

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danse--macabre · 11 months ago

Text

At First Sight

Read on AO3

In which Tirazel di Fiore met Astarion twenty years before the Nautiloid crash. Neither of them remember the occasion. Or: meet-cute where you watch him devour a rat in a kitchen storeroom and don't say a single word. Yummy.

Astarion/f!Tav. Second Person POV. Character Study. 1.5k words.

Trigger warnings:

voluntary starvation, vomiting, disordered eating

fantasies of self-harm/suicide

emotionally abusive and controlling family

violence/gore expected of an organised crime syndicate

-----

“Cazador Szarr,” Astarion had told you.

You knew that name. You had met Cazador Szarr before, of course. It was at your father’s newly purchased country estate, where it was rumoured that the vineyards flourished for all the blood he let run through the soil (half-right: it was actually your half-brother Iaxes who used it as his favoured dumping ground). In its seclusion, your father preferred to conduct particularly sensitive and murderous matters of business. The sort that would make a delicate stomach turn.

Of Cazador, you remember little. Certainly not what the matter of business was – that would have been far too useful for your pretty little pointy ears. Better that you attend to your frighteningly busy social calendar, pretending you didn’t want to know the slightest thing about forbidden spellbooks, or corpse preparation, or how to most effectively manage a cohort of undead thralls. No, what you recalled were only clutches: dark velvet, watchful eyes, your father’s fingertips pressed lightly into your shoulder. You, a girl of darling nineteen, were expected to let the Lord Szarr kiss your hand.

(Cold enough to draw a shiver.)

But Astarion?

You could picture him in the milieu well enough. Strung along as quite the dashing attendant in matching attire, no less than one hundred and sixty years behind the times. Would he have been wearing his telltale smirk? Or would it be a mask of blank misery? A piece of pretty window dressing? You couldn’t possibly say. You have no idea if he had actually been there.

Your recollection of that whole time was haze. You were a darling nineteen. Circling from candlelit soirées in the Upper City to back alley black markets and lurid corners of the Blushing Mermaid like a Neverwinter waltz – but you’d been born in the better half, you wouldn’t know a thing about those pits of vice and despair, would you? Oh, it wasn’t as if you hadn’t tried to behave. You had followed your father’s teachings oh so very well, why, weren’t you just the most vicious little thing? You still kept the severed hand of the first unworthy boy who had asked to take yours, scented in rosemary, still fresh from the day your uncle Andus had sliced it off him in front of you, in a rosewood box. Was it so strange, really, that you tore out the heart of every noble suitor your father lined up your way as well? Your watchful tutors ceased their lessons on magic, politics, or history in favour of the etiquette and dancing you were sorely lacking, and had already begun to compose elegies about your ‘great potential’ and ‘corrupting bloodline’ that had led to your illicit after-class cavorting; your father had neatly torn up their reports and cradled your cheek, and told you he would never reject you for who you were. He would simply have to take care of you until you could learn to control your urges. You were to remain at home until you married.

Little, you remembered so little, that year. Stuck in your father’s house, in your father’s carnival of never-ending canapés and finest selection of patriars’ third-sons and third-cousins, circling you like meat wrapped in satin. You danced so well. Didn’t the Bloomridge gossips like to say you ate each chamber of Edmund Jannath's heart like a four-course dinner? Why were they looking at you like they were the ones who could split you open?

(You had wanted to idly fantasise about sticking your hand down your throat and emptying your insides out onto the polished marble. A feast.)

No, you remember almost nothing of that time. You don't recall the hunger. You don't recall the gnawing that ripped through your body. You don't even recall the shape of his eyes, nor the colour.

(Blood red, of course. Like a rose garden.)

Wouldn’t it have been simply perfect for a creature like him to lead you astray? To bring you from brilliant ballroom to the depths of night with a handsome smile that tore into your flesh until all you could do was bleed?

But this was not how you first encountered Astarion. No, when your eyes first met his, you were delirious, sick, and had not eaten in three days.

The circumstances were as such, though you could not remember the particulars: you were on a self-proclaimed hunger strike on the week of the di Fiore summer ball. Not for some devilishly clever reason – oh no, you had long run out of those, would that your mother's infernally cursed heritage be so useful. You had exhausted every scheme to avoid the inevitable betrothal: you had bribed your father's syndicate thugs who had been ordered to 'watch' you, had pressed half-brothers Iaxes and Thelikos for every bloody family favour you could bear, had asked your brother Dharrimos to have the Zhentarim smuggle you out, had stolen your tutor's address book and written to Blackstaff in hope of late tuition – you had even drafted a plea, in infernal, to your wretched mother, in Avernus. You had blackmailed patriars and sold their messy business to the press under a pseudonym your father scolded for being 'too obvious'. Your plans got more desperate. Debutante days had already begun to fade, four seasons of being sick to your stomach from gilded oysters and too much dancing, and at this juncture, you were six months away from running off with a common-born warlock with a liar’s smile – so much for the precocious child. You did not starve yourself for any intelligent reason. No, you did it because you wanted to spite your father. So you had announced at dinner your intentions to waste it, tipped your plate on the floor like the child you were, and then refused to leave your room for three days. You hadn’t even wanted to go to this damned ball, and it had taken three servants and one half-brother to drag you screaming into a ball gown: your very first, still pristine from when you were fifteen, as you had torn the rest of your wardrobe apart with your own claws.

Three days of starving passed. This left you, this ball’s former belle, in near-delirium, but beautiful, in your baby blue bustle dress with most of your cleavage threatening to spill out. Your whole body broke into sweats, your feet ached, your calves trembled after just three dances and your stomach. Your stomach. Oh, it wanted to just carve its way out of your body. Rake up your flesh, lash through your skin and swallow you all in. You were hungry, you were starving, you were ravenous in a way you, the upper city born sibling, had never known. Your legs were about to collapse beneath you when your brother Dharri sidled up and told you, tipped you off with his warning smile, that your father had composed a list of taverns you had been seen frequenting and a list of the disreputable boys and girls that you had been seen accompanying, in such establishments.

Your father did not make idle threats.

Your heart almost stopped. And then, you tore yourself away in such a rage that you did not care whether you ended up in a dark alley or a ditch. As it happened, you did not get as far as either of those highly questionable locales, and instead only ended up as far as the back kitchen storeroom, where you had once caught your chambermaid Charlotte feeling up the gardener. You threw the door behind you, bolted it shut, balled up your fists as you slunk down amongst the sacks of lumpy potatoes, and prepared to howl –

And it was here, at this point in time, you realised you were not alone.

You don’t remember him. Hunched over, on his knees. You don’t remember his pale skin nor his handsome curls nor his bloodied fingers, gripping tightly around a live, quivering rat he had snatched off the floor. How he tore straight through its flesh with his bare teeth. Gnawed through its fur until the bones crunched. How he began to shudder. Like it was riveting. Like it was nauseating. Like–

Your breath hitched–

And your eyes met–

Twenty years later, when you know that his name is Astarion and that he is lying about being a magistrate from Baldur’s Gate, he will stumble over to you in a rather pathetic attempt to suck your blood dry while camping on the Chionthar and you will see his heart stop again. That look of blank shock. The way he completely froze. As still as he had been twenty years ago: then, on his knees, in the dirt, in your father’s kitchen storeroom, as he held a fat, dripping rat carcass in his mouth.

Blood had trickled down his lips. He wasn’t even breathing.

It would strike you only after you begin to recall this memory, at least three weeks of highly ill-advised and rather heavy-handed flirtation into a charade that would probably end in heartbreak, exactly how terrified he looked in that moment. He had been so frightened of you. You: a miserable nineteen year old girl in an ill-fitting gown who was tired of dancing and wanted nothing more than to devour herself. He had looked at you with wide, trembling eyes, like you could snap him in half.

(Could you? You weren’t sure.)

He gave the rat one last squeeze. A bit of extra juice.

“I–” you had begun to vocalise.

– but he had already disappeared. Returned to the shadows before you could even warn him that your father would find you both here and nail his corpse to the wall while you had to watch. At least, that is what you would have told him, were you a sensible girl. You knew how to be a sensible girl, didn’t you?

(Why didn’t he take you? Why couldn’t he take you?)

But your questions were unspoken in an empty room. You were left alone, in the dirt, with a bloodied rat corpse on the floor in front of you. And you were still hungry.

You leaned forward over the desiccated carcass, and reached out with the with the tip of your tongue –

(What would it taste like? This forbidden fruit?)

A shudder quaked down your spine.

Revolting.

How revolting.

You would recollect snatches of this moment, in time: the blood smeared on a hungry face, the fingers clawed in the flesh, the first sight of a quivering thing being devoured. They would come back as you danced around each other. But you would forget this feeling. The hunger. The sheer revulsion. It would gradually crumble to dust.

You were still mortal, after all.

#bg3 #astarion #tav #astarion/oc #please be nice i haven't written f/m in about 5 years. lol.#anyway. hunger as a mode of dysfunctional desire and suicidal ideation. the fic.

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scrollsfromarebornrealm · 1 year ago

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Prompt #8: Shed

It was rare, but an Eikon could shed--leaving pieces of themselves behind. Normally such items would eventually dissolve into aether, but sometimes they were able to hold their form. Such treasures were extremely valuable in the magical reagent market, and were of even higher value to Eikon-hunters. Having a piece of an Eikon--especially if it was unbound--meant that with enough power, with the proper rite and ritual--you could bind the Eikon to you. To force the Dominant to Prime and fight at your command.

How Sevestre Albright had gotten one of Riven's feathers, Emma DeGlass did not want to know. Could not bear thinking about. Didn't want to think about. If she thought about it, she would start screaming and never stop. She couldn't think about it. She would think about it when she found her daughter, when she could fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness or judgement.

Her darling girl, who despite her age was still Emma's baby. It was her charge to love her, support her--from the moment she'd felt that first flutter in her womb, from the moment Riven drew her first breath in the world to utter her first raging cry.

And Emma had failed her. She'd listened to Astrid. She'd listened to Roderick. She'd listened to that son of a whore Sevestre. She'd watched as Riven was dragged away, kicking and screaming, howling for help.

It was for the best, she'd been told. A little bit of time, and Riven would be freed--without the stranglehold of the Eikon on her body and soul. She had to stand strong. Stand firm. Harden her heart. It was all for Riven's greater good. A brief time of pain--for a once-again normal life afterwards.

She'd been lied to.

Her baby had been beaten. Tortured. Starved. Subjected to horrid experiments. Sevestre had been hell-bent on breaking her will. Astrid had tried to hide the investigators' reports, but Emma had found them. Read them. Memorized them. Her sin written on fine parchment and in ink of blackest night.

She had failed her daughter. Thrown Riven to the wolves. And now her child was an outlaw from her home, fleeing to Eorzea--where fresh war was about to break out.

She didn't know if she'd killed Albright or not. And Emma found that she didn't care. She hoped that she had. She'd left him bleeding out all over his fine marble floor, Riven's feather clutched to her breast. Once she found her daughter and made sure she was safe, she'd return to Sharlayan to stand trial. Emma was sure no jury would convict her.

Secured in a glass vial tucked into her breasts was the feather. It hummed and pulsed with life and vitality, much like her daughter. And on the ferry to Limsa, Emma took out foolscap and a pencil. She needed to create a finding spell, and the feather would empower it. She would scour Aldenard, every scrap of it--even the Empire-- to find her baby.

#ffxiv #ffxiv write 2023 #ffxiv-ffxvi au (the other one)#hell hath no fury a mother's wrath

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meowww-ffxiv · 6 months ago

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Meowdred's various secrets in his house:

- life-size tuna plush on his bed/on the couch in his room; clearly he carried it back and forth between the two locations. It's quite worn. Might have some drool spots.

- stacks of fantasy and romance books on his shelf, despite being known as someone who only reads scholarly essays, dissertations, and market trends reports -- it seems Meowdred read things he didn't necessarily like so he could talk to someone about it. Who else but Theodore, who loves these kinds of stories?

- a variety of toys and plushes, some half-finished. Meowdred makes prototypes of them or alters designs while at home.

- a small marble fountain decorated on either sides with Nald and Thal, and there is water inside. A few gils have been tossed in there. Meowdred's little good luck shrine and also altar.

- 10 different decorations, all of them featuring Drippy

- sets of metallic, multicolored dice on display in a locked glass cabinet

- instead of pinned insect displays, Meowdred has pinned fabric square displays. It's from fabrics used in the highest difficulty crafting recipes in each expansion.

Theodore glanced into that room and felt a wave of relief. Meowdred's house in Ul'dah that he guarded like a dark wizard's abode actually had none of his personality, but here in this space -- in Theodore's ancestral house that Meowdred had since moved in -- these quarters had become an actual home to him.

And while Meowdred said these were "secrets" in his room or whatever... Theodore had the key, the servants had the key, G'raha Krile and Tataru had the key. It was a secret place that welcomed people he loved.

#meowdred surana #theodore pentaghast

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iarcresearch · 9 months ago

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Cast Polymers Market size is estimated to reach US$20.7 billion by 2027, after growing at a CAGR of 5.7% during 2022-2027. Cast polymers are manufactured using natural marble or granite, resins or tints and are available in various types such as solid surface, engineered stone and cultured marble. These are widely used in the residential and commercial sectors. For instance, according to the U.S Department of Commerce, the U.S construction spending was estimated at a seasonally adjusted annual rate of US$1,779.8 billion during May 2022 and is 9.7% above the May 2021 estimate of US$1,621.9 billion.

#polymer clay #polymerart #polymercreations

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unbelievablekittygrim · 1 year ago

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in my dreams I butcher boys

All my life a dog has followed me. Report cards, passive aggressive playground remarks, psych evals - studded with notes of teeth bare and gritting, nails digging and thrashing and screaming and Anger Issues!!!! with several red underlines. I was BORN angry. As the doctor held my shriveled purple infant self I cried at his audacity to cut my mother open, just so he could have his high holy days. Yom Kippur baby, eldest daughter, atonement and forgiveness were thrust upon my body from the start. But I was born holding a grudge. I was born disoriented and violated by men who get paid to look at vaginas and gods who want me to forgive them. I was born bloody and barking.

Men are like lantern flies. Parasitic, invasive, itching to be popped like a particularly satisfying pimple. I LOVE popping a good lantern fly. Human beings, of course, are a bit more difficult, but I manage. In senior year a guy in my writing class read a story he’d written about a man who saw women gathering as a meat market. He spoke in detail about the different cuts, filets and flanks, their limbs hanging on chains in crowded stalls and displayed in freezers being sold by the pound. I didn’t hear what he said. I couldn’t. My blood was doing donuts in my ears and my focus was preoccupied by my attempts at activating hidden telekinetic powers. Like Matilda… or more aptly, like Carrie. I wanted to see him pop. I wanted to carve him like his women, peel layers of thick fat back and revealing the marbled cuts of wagyu and fatty bacon. I wanted him skewered and on tea sandwiches, crusts cut off. I wanted him dead. When he finished reading his head was still intact and I was too hungry to care. The dog that follows tore his leg off and ate it.

In my dreams I butcher boys. It suits my anger well, relentless violence I fund with furious cackles and well-earned schadenfreude. I don’t mind the smell or the buckets of blood. I don’t mind their slobbery screams begging for forgiveness, either., iIn fact, that’s HONESTLY the best part of the job. Yom Kippur baby holds a grudge like they hold a knife: constantly. My dream carcasses are only men who’ve truly wronged me - so most guys I know have fallen under my cleaver at some point. The crunch of their bones as I pry apart the joints and tendons, separating torso and arm, thigh and calf, carving out the hearts and livers to feed the dog that follows. She eats well in my dreams. We eat well in my dreams.

I eat to control. I slaughter to maintain a make believe standard of equity native only to my nights tossing and turning atop a stained pillowcase. I know its wrong - not morally, of course, but factually, literally, I am not what I wish I was. I am not dripping with the blood of freshly drained livestock, but instead engulfed in fear and shame and a deafening rage that hides under my tongue and between my teeth. I need them to know, though. When they read me, not as a girl but as a dog, when they see the whites of my eyes and my teeth in my smile and my ears pointed back, when they look at my knuckles clenched in a fist that holds a cleaver, I need them to know. I need them to know I dream of slaughter and itch for their blood. I need them to know I butcher boys.

#writing #girlhood #dog imagery #feral #cannibalism #religion #piece for class

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k1nky-fool · 1 year ago

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The Ace Of Swords

Book I: The Devil in the Details

Chapter I: Climbing The Tower

Nadia Satrinava x OC, Callisto

Synopsis: Vesuvia is being devastated by The Red Plague, and the Master Magician, Callisto has found a trail that mysteriously leads into the Palace Court while she searches The Arcana for a cure for the plague. Meanwhile Nadia begins to have hope that Vesuvia isn't as lost as it seems, if she can just fix this city.

Warnings: Sexual tension, future NSFW, but not in this chapter. Mentions of plague victims, and general suffering.

Masterlist

The streets of Vesuvia were barely busy. It might have been unfair to say that with a couple hundred people buzzing about the market, but the truth was that nothing was busy for Callisto until she stepped onto palace grounds. The baker had her stuffed pumpkin bun ready for her before she ever got to his storefront. She’d love to stay and chat, but he knows that she has to ride the lightning on Saturday mornings on her way to The Palace. He also knows now not to make her bun again until Tuesday.

Callisto stops on the steps leading up to the palace gate to finish her breakfast and take a long breath. She knows she won’t get the chance to once her boot steps onto palace grounds.

The guards open the gates as soon as they recognize her. As she passes, her heart hurts with a glance at the guard’s eye. His right scaleria has turned red, he’s passed into the second phase of the plague. It’s undetermined how long this phase will last, but he will slowly begin losing grip of reality until the plague passes to the third phase. Callisto’s intuition tells her that this guard will be on the boat to The Lazaret within the month.

As soon as her boot lands on the marble path, her mentor is tailing her.

“You’re late, Magician.” Julian jabs as they walk through the front garden.

“A Magician arrives precisely when she means to. What did I miss?”

Julian placed a bound stack of papers into her waiting hand, she skimmed through the reports as they walked. “The last boat to Lazaret went out Friday morning, so the dungeons are a little quiet today. Some bedridden patients offered to stay for more experimentation, so those are the only few down there at the moment.”

“I’m sure Quaestor Valdemar will take up feeding any bodies to the beetles.” Callisto shivered.

“I’d rather them do it than have to go near the vat.” Julian admitted.

“Any updates on timetables?” Callisto asked.

“There is limited evidence to suggest that twin patients succumb to the plague within one day of each other.” Julian noted. “Which could support my hypothesis that it’s a blood infection.”

“Or it’s genetic.” Callisto suggested.

Julian gave a wry smile. “Bloodlines! Even better.”

Callisto and Julian round the palace halls to get to the library. “You search the blood, I’ll look into the patients of the same family and compare infection progress reports.”

“Sounds good to me.” Julian was off to the bookshelf with the secret lever hidden in a combination of books to pull.

Callisto went to the record room and began searching through alphabetically categorized patient reports. When she was finally happy with her stack, she took it over to her favorite spot on the floor. It was still well supplied with her favorite pillows and blankets where she could comfortably pour over records to find answers and her cards could offer helpful guidance on what to search for.

As Julian had said, families with one or more sets of twins usually held on in the second and third phases the longest. With twins always perishing within a day of each other. But there was another pattern somewhere in there, and Callisto knew the cards would be pulled to it like a magnet.

Callisto pulled a card from the deck revealing the Six of Cups.

The strongest bonds keep them attached to this world, but the plague rusts all chains.

The closer the families are?

It seemed that families from the more ruined parts of town, perhaps closer quarters? Being able to rely on your family might make it possible for these patients to live longer. Callisto pulled another card, pulling the Queen of Swords reversed.

The plague is inflicted by cruelty, but can be resisted. Who can fight the longest?

Is it something individual? People with better relationships might be more devoted to battling the plague.

Callisto knew the plague had a habit of dipping back into her magical expertise. As much as Julian chases the physical aspects of the illness, the cards always suggest there is something ancient, evil, and malicious behind it. Once again Callisto was brought to the mystic tomes and diaries that lined the top of the library. Books on baneful magic, chaos magic, and even malevolent deity worship.

Taking them back to her nest and continuing to pour over the scrawled notes and ancient catalogs of magic spells and guides for mystic journeys.

It was driving her insane. This was what she liked to study on a daily basis, but knowing it was in pursuit of an answer that hid in every crevice of magic, it felt more futile the more books she read through. A scuffle in the corner of the library was mostly ignored by her until a familiar creature came scampering up to her, and she wasn’t alone.

“Clio, you made a friend.” Callisto noted. Clio was a genet with ashy gray fur with black spots. She had brought the most beautiful owl Callisto had ever seen. The owl eyed Callisto carefully, and she figured its trust was not won without some effort.

Callisto reached into her bag and found the lunch she packed for her day, knowing she likely wouldn’t get to the kitchens as she continued her work. She took out a piece of stripped chicken from her sandwich and offered it to the owl.

She stared at it for a moment before seeing Clio watch the snack like she would take it if she took too long. So the bird hopped forward and took the treat from Callisto’s hand. She kept her hand in place as she finished the snack. Callisto was rewarded with being allowed to pet her. “It’s right for you to demand respect. I just know you’re a clever bird.”

“Careful, you’ll give her an ego with compliments like that.” A new, warm voice joined her spot in the library. When Callisto looked up, she fought the urge to jump up to have some respect for this woman, but the owl hopped up onto her knee, and she thought better of pushing it off.

“Lady Satrinava. I take it you’re a friend of this enchanted owl?”

“Her name is Chandra.” The Countess introduced. “She and I are old friends.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Chandra. My name is Callisto.” She introduced in return, and Chandra happily hopped off her knee. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Countess. Right there is my friend, Clio.”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen a creature like her before.” Lady Satrinava knelt down offering her hand to Clio.

“She’s a genet. They live in the forests and fields outside of Vesuvia.” Callisto explained. “I was hunting for mushrooms with my aunt when I was a child. Clio came up to me and led me right to a bunch of truffles and a few puffball mushrooms. She hasn’t left my side since.”

“She doesn’t look like the kind of animal to eat mushrooms.” Nadia noted.

Callisto shrugged. “She doesn’t. I think she just knew what we were looking for, and remembered where some were. She still does that sometimes. She’ll still bring home truffles she finds because she knows I like them.”

“Clever girl.” Nadia pets Clio affectionately. Her familiar rolling over in trust and giving Nadia’s hand playful licks. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around the Palace much.”

“I’m technically apprenticing under Dr. Devorak.” Callisto explained. “I’m only here from Saturdays to Mondays. The rest of the week, I’m working at my shop in the city. Trying to help with boots on the ground.”

Nadia fully sits down in front of Callisto, and she’s more than happy to entertain this beautiful distraction. She doesn’t seem to have any qualms about just sitting on a pillow on the library floor. She finds her own nest very comfortable, but she wasn’t under any impression that even normal people liked it, let alone a princess, and countess. But then again, the distraction was absolutely captivating.

This is the Count’s wife! Am I trying to get banished or executed?

“What wares does your shop sell?” Nadia asks. She doesn’t hesitate to make herself comfortable, and doesn’t give a second thought to settling herself on the floor, let alone with a random plague researcher.

“Well, I’m a magician, I’m lending my studies of the mystical arts to the palace. I sell spells, ingredients, charms, potions, and I give tarot readings.” She explained. “Most of my free time is spent looking through more books, scrolls and records for more information on the plague.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen cards like those before. Are they your instrument?”

Callisto was becoming more and more curious about why Nadia was so interested in her craft. “An instrument of sorts. I use the cards to listen for the voices of the spirits beyond this world. They are the keepers of secrets, and they have an answer for every question you could ever ask. It might not always be clear though. They give hints most of the time, rather than full information. I use them to guide my research on the plague.”

“Could I ask a question?”

“Are you sure?” Callisto asked. “When I do this reading, I will know your heart. If there is anything you don’t want me to know, I might compromise that with a reading.”

Nadia gave a curious expression. “You know I am a person of influence, and yet you chose to warn me instead of betraying my trust by keeping me uninformed. That alone is enough for me to know you have my best interest at heart.”

“As you wish, milady.” Callisto shuffled the cards together, and counted them out into three piles. “Choose a stack.”

Nadia leaned over and grabbed the one closest to Callisto, making a brief moment of eye contact that made her blush. Callisto quickly discarded the other two piles. She took the one from Nadia and spread the cards out in a wheel pattern around a center card.

“Choose three cards and I’ll read them.” Nadia chose the center card and one from the top and bottom.

She handed the cards to Callisto, and she flipped over the first card. “The Ace of Swords.”

“What does the Ace have to say to me?”

It’s a Minor Arcana, so the voice is quieter, and usually more abstract. “The Ace of Swords signifies that you have recently acquired power. But beware that this power has an equal potential to harm as it does to help anyone at its end.” Callisto explains.

“Perhaps I am more in control of my circumstances than I initially presumed.” Nadia mused.

The next card turned and was placed next to the other. “The Five of Cups signifies a major loss. Despair and destruction are foretold, but not all hope is lost. There will be a foundation left to rebuild, and you will have the tools and help you need to heal.”

Nadia doesn’t panic, or even show any external signs of worry. “I see. I suppose I will need to remain diligent.”

“An optimistic attitude is a good companion for difficult times.” Callisto says, turning the last card. “The High Priestess.”

For a moment Nadia is perplexed by the card that faces her. As if she recognizes the figure, but the voice of The High Priestess comes louder and clearer than the others.

“She says she will not lead you astray. Your wisdom and intuition will guide you.” Callisto says.

“Well, then I suppose I am in good company.” Nadia said, seemingly satisfied with the reading she received. “Has my heart been revealed to you?”

Callisto looked down at the full spread, and took in everything again. “It has, but I am curious.”

“You’ve entertained my whim, the least I can do is be honest.”

“What brought you here?” Callisto asked. “There are plenty of people for you to approach in this library, even more in the palace. Why me?”

Nadia smiled as if she expected such a question, but even still, Callisto felt somewhat vulnerable asking it.

“Intuition.” She answers, looking to Chandra for a moment.

Callisto can sense a secret beneath her response, but she is being honest. “Have I proven myself?”

“Your skills have met my high standards. And your intentions have impressed Chandra. I would say the impression you have left is a good one.” Nadia said.

“I should be thanking you. The cards were rather cryptic before you asked your question.” She chuckled, shuffling the spread back into the deck.

“Perhaps they were simply tired of the subject at hand.” Nadia suggests.

“In any case, they seemed to think there was something special about you.” Callisto explained. “I think whatever you choose to do will have a great impact on Vesuvia.”

“And how do you take that, Callisto?”

Callisto pondered the question for a moment. Wherever The Countess’s path led, and wherever it crossed with her own, she was unsure. However, there wasn’t any darkness surrounding the Countess here. She seemed driven to do something, but intentions leave an ashy residue on conversations. At least with the magic that Callisto practiced, she could feel it like a physical presence.

“I think you’re going in the right direction. I see a determination in you that is growing into an obsession.” She explained, her mystic senses filling her reading of Nadia’s spirit. “If you are not careful, obsessions can imprison you, Countess. Keep your intuition sharp. Your aura is one of prey.”

“And who is doing the hunting?” Nadia asks.

Callisto shrugs and pulls a card in response.

The Devil.

There are no words that come to Callisto now, only the sound of distant, venomous laughter, echoing across the realms. “An obsession.”

Nadia gets an understanding look on her face. “I will heed your warning well, Callisto.” She bowed and bid her farewell, Chandra flew to perch on her shoulder as she walked away.

“Some friends you made, Clio.”

She chirped and rolled over into Callisto’s lap. “Friends!”

The dungeon door opened and Julian finally emerged from the depths. “Have you found anything on the genetics side?”

“I’m not entirely sure it’s genetic, it looks to be more that plague victims with family have people to rely on to take care of them.” Callisto said. “My hypothesis on this lead is that there will be more deaths in these families as they have less people to rely on.”

“Ah.” Julian said with all the enthusiasm drained from his voice. “I hate it when I’m right.”

While that might have felt like a personal insult at any other time, that phrase had become a mantra of Julian’s pessimism.

“I think I might have found a thread.” Callisto mentioned. “It’s more in my world than yours, so I hope your leeches are coming up with something.”

“Oh no, is this another one of those prophecies?” Julian groaned.

“Something like that.” Callisto grabbed her bag and got ready to head out.

“You know these never bring up anything good.” He argued.

“It’s not like you even need me. Just keep wrangling leeches.” She dodged, heading back out the library door. There was something awry in the palace, and it has something to do with the plague.

The best she could do was start by looking into the previsions the palace is taking to help plague victims in the city. Valdemar was handling the research end of it, but the Consul Valerius would be in charge of the city planning, and aid work being sent out to the streets. Though, approaching the Consul of Count Lucio directly might not go over well if she did it alone. Thankfully, Callisto knew who to go to.

“Lyra!” She called out, finding her heading to the studio.

“Callisto, whatever do I owe the pleasure.”

“Remember how you owe me a favor?” Callisto winced, knowing this was a fairly big ask of Lyra.

“I do.” She said cautiously.

“I promise, this won’t involve you beyond this favor.” She swore to her.

“Alright, shoot.”

“Can you get me a small meeting with Consul Valerius?” She asked.

“Are you sure I can trust you to be nice? Remember what happened with Pontifex Vulgora?” Lyra accused.

“That was a genuine misunderstanding! They were violently shaking, I thought they might have been having a seizure or something, I didn’t think they’d take it so personally.”

Lyra eyed her skeptically.

“Please, Lyra.”

“On condition.” She compromised.

“Anything.”

“You have to pass a test of your manners.” She said.

Callisto was left surprised. “What exactly does that mean?”

A mischievous smile spread across her face. “I’m on my way to the studio to work on a high profile portrait. I want you to sit in with me, and you have to mind your manners for the entire duration. Treat him like your job is on the line.”

Lyra knew this would be difficult for her no matter who this high profile client was. “You’re trying to burn me out before I ever even see the Consul, huh?”

“Believe me, if you can handle him, then Valerius will be easy to get along with.” She assured, but it did little to help ease Callisto's anxiety.

As soon as the studio door opened, she immediately realized why Lyra had warned her to treat him like her job depended on it.

“Count Lucio, thank you for your patience. My sincerest apologies, but I required some extra help to ensure this portrait is one to remember on account of the poor weather today.” Lyra explained herself.

“I suppose if it’s to capture my image correctly, I don’t mind waiting a little.” Lucio puffed out his chest. “What do you do?” He addressed Callisto quite harshly, making her flinch.

“I’m a Magician, Count- sir.” Callisto choked. “Lyra explained she needed some extra light because the clouds are blocking out the natural sunlight.”

“I must ensure your portrait is as radiant as you are.” Lyra supplied. “Now Count, I have a selection of skulls as you requested. I have a deer, a horse, and a goat, do any of these suit your preference?”

Count Lucio walked over to the table and immediately went for the horse. Like he was drawn to the biggest one.

“A powerful choice, sir.” Lyra approved. “How would you like this portrait to make the viewer feel?”

“Inferior.” He answered, holding the skull up to the candle light.

Lyra nodded. “I’m thinking, the red jacket with the fur cape, gold arm on display, and of course a sword.” She rattles off, collecting the materials from the rack of impressive clothes. “I want all the fixings, gold, gems- Oh this is a nice cloak clasp- and, I’m getting lots of gold.”

She seems to understand Lucio’s tastes, and chooses many things she knows will impress him. Her whimsical nature brought with her artistic talent strokes his ego. He takes his costume and goes into the dressing room to change.

“So far so good.” Lyra whispers.

“My plan is to stay quiet and do whatever he says.” She whispered back.

“That may be easier said than done.” She warns.

Lucio emerges in the impressive getup, brushing the fur on his shoulders.

“Despite the horrid lighting, the weather has inspired me.” Lyra says. “Callisto, can you give a light like the sun peeking out of stormy clouds onto our magnificent hero.”

Believe it or not, her abstract descriptions are just perfect for concentrating her magic. She closes her eyes and focuses on that feeling. When the air is cold from the rain, and the first rays of sunlight are cutting through the storm, giving assurance that the storm has passed.

An orb of light floats up from her hand until it reaches the ceiling. Lyra pulls back the blinds to let the gray light into the room to assist the lighting. Lucio strikes a pose with his hand on the sword, and his boot, pressing the horse skull into the floor. “You look stunning, Count.”

She begins sketching out his form, in a long tedious process. “So you’re a magician, Callisto.”

Callisto was lucky she was sitting behind him, and out of his peripheral, because she flinched when he said her name again.

“Yes sir.” She answered.

“You wouldn’t happen to know that other magician boy, Asra, right?”

Her jaw tightened as soon as he said that name. “May I speak freely about him?”

“Oh this ought to be good.” He laughed. “Go right ahead.”

Lyra gave her a look of warning, but let her make her own decision.

“Asra doesn’t know how to mind his own business.” She spat. “I knew them once, but we’re no longer on speaking terms.”

“Ha! I know, right?” He couldn’t get enough. “Tell me, how did you meet my portrait artist?”

Callisto looks to Lyra to see if she’s alright with him knowing. She gives a relaxed nod. Apparently the Count knows about her and Valerius. “She came to my shop in the city asking for a tarot reading for the future of her romantic life.”

“Oooh, did Lyra have a crush?” Lucio teased, getting a bashful, knowing smile from Lyra.

“The cards told her that her best love life was waiting for her in the Palace.” Callisto recalled. “I remember running into her at the market the next afternoon, and Lyra told me that she’d immediately sent her portfolio to the Palace.”

“So I have you to thank for my artist?”

“I just gave her the message. Lyra’s choice to take her chance was entirely her own.” She figured modesty would be the right choice in front of Lucio. “You’ll have to thank her own diligent practice and eye for greatness. I think her paintings are certainly more memorable because she paints a truly memorable man.”

“You’re quite the flatterer, Callisto.” Lucio accuses, but she can tell he isn’t upset about it at all.

“It’s polite to be honest, is it not?” She chuckled. “Besides, I wouldn’t see a point in serving the Palace if I didn’t believe the Count was a worthy and great leader. You’ve made working here efficient and easy.”

All she could think about was the people hobbling down the street in lines to the boats that would take them to the Lazaret. She was keeping a cork on her rage, and offering only the best of what she could pick out from her experiences here.

“Have you attended any of my Masquerades or parties?” Lucio asked.

“Yes! I live in the city, but the parties are magnificent. Unfortunately my busy schedule made it difficult to attend any since the last Masquerade.” Callisto admitted.

“What work could you possibly be doing to keep you from my parties?” Lucio accused.

And just when she thought he couldn't ask a worse question. Lyra sent her a glare, and Callisto knew she had to think fast. “Count Lucio, forgive me, but I think the subject of Plague research is very tiring, and it shouldn’t invade your portrait at all.”

“What do you do when you’re not working at the Palace, Callisto?” Lucio pried.

“I work at my shop in the city. I give tarot readings and sell various magic wares.” She explained.

Lucio all but jumped. “Oooh! Read me!” He demanded as Lyra took her hand off the canvas to wait for him to stop moving.

Callisto figured she didn’t have much of a choice. Unfortunately, she knew to be more scared of what the Arcana may tell her about Lucio rather than what she may have to say to him.

She shuffled the cards as she walked around Lyra to face Lucio. She pulled three cards and held them out face down to him. “Which one do you choose, sir?”

“The middle one!” He said, nearly shaking with excitement.

She discarded the other two and turned the card face up. Death Reversed.

The stagnation of one is the stagnation of all. Malicious forces fester in the open wound.

“What does it say?”

“Death Reversed means a refusal to change. You have no desire to change your circumstances, nor desire to stop what you are doing.” Callisto says.

At the very least Lucio doesn’t seem offended. “Of course I don’t want to change!” He laughs. “I’m at the top of the world, I don’t need to change anything.”

Callisto just nodded, putting the cards away. She knew if she didn’t keep him occupied, then he’d keep asking questions that could get more and more dicey for her to answer. So she’d need a better strategy. “You know, Count. I hear many stories of your conquests from the south all the way to Vesuvia. I think it would be more educational to hear them from the source.”

Lucio immediately perked up. “I’d thought you’d never ask-”

He prattled on for the rest of the session. Occasionally when he’d reached the inevitable end of his tall tale, Callisto would guide him into starting another.

“Count Lucio, sir, I’ve reached the stopping point for this session.” Lyra notified.

“Of course, of course.” Lucio waved off, finally shaking out the tension he built up from staying still for so long. He went to the dressing room and emerged not long after back in his gaudy clothes. “I hope to see you next session, Callisto.” Lucio bid her farewell as Lyra packed her stuff up.

Callisto finally relaxed, pinching the bridge of her nose in an attempt to calm herself down. Everything Lucio had said, everything he had cared about, it was all pointless. That man didn’t have a goddamn problem in the world, and his city is in ruins. And she had to call him a ‘worthy and great leader.’ All that man was worthy of is the fucking plague. But no, he hides in his lavish palace, having portraits done wearing enough gold to buy her a ship to get the fuck out of Vesuvia, he’s throwing parties in his palace that could be used to care for plague victims, and he doesn’t have a care in the fucking world.

“I told you, Valerius will be a breeze.” Lyra jokes.

She didn’t even have time to think as her rage burst out and she punched the nearest object as the light flashed bright before every light in the room went out. The clattering hatstand and bright flash made Lyra jump, and Callisto took a deep breath. “Sorry, that was out of line.”

A sad smile crossed Lyra’s face, illuminated only by the cloudy gray light. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you have dinner with me and Valerius tonight? I know he can be a little crass, but I can usually calm him down.”

“Thank you, Lyra.”

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