#Supplication of oppressed

[uma1ra]

Prayer of three people are always answered

Abu Huraira reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “The supplications of three are never turned back: a fasting person until he breaks his fast, a just leader, and the supplication of the oppressed is raised above the clouds by Allah, the gates of heaven open for it and the Lord says: By My might, I will surely help you in due time.”

Source: Sunan al-Tirmidhī 3598

Grade: Hasan (fair) according to Ibn Hajar

[theodysseyofhomer]

i just don't think you can genuinely make achilles out to be an oppressed soldier/worker in the iliad when he doesn't experience any disciplinary consequences for retaliating against agamemnon by leaving the battlefield. does achilles feel exploited? i'm sure he does. the iliad makes no bones about the fact that agamemnon abused his authority by taking briseis. but the power dynamic is such that achilles can still leave, and that's not considered disobedience or insubordination. in point of fact, there are lower classes on the battlefield: the common soldiers. there may even be a commoner who rebels against the kings: when thersites insults agamemnon, odysseus beats him and the narrative clowns on him happily. but when achilles insults agamemnon, the other kings supplicate him. (do you want gifts? do you want your sex slave? do you want even more women? do you want his daughter's hand in marriage? please please come back!) that is a privileged position. it isn't situated in a modern military or modern capitalism, and it doesn't make sense to act like that's how the achilles/agamemnon conflict operates.

[julaibib]

FRIDAY REMINDER

‣ Recite Surah al Kahf

‣ Send blessings upon the beloved Prophet ﷺ

‣ Perform Ghusl.

‣ Dress well and apply perfume.

‣ Proceed to the mosque early.

‣ Sit closer to the Imam. Listen attentively to the Friday sermon.

‣ Make du'a in the last hour (i.e., after Asr, remember the oppressed Ummah in your supplications)

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Marcie Jones at Wonkette:

How do Democrats get their mojo back? Definitely not by doing what California Governor Gavin Newsom done did! Which was to bring racist, antisemitic, oppressed-by-sign-language, short-pants wearing human Adobe pinch tool Charlie Kirk onto the first episode of his new podcast, and lap up Kirk’s advice to hop on the hateful, idiotic “banning transgender girls and women from sports” train with no pushback. And THEN inviting old three-shirts Steve Bannon on for a klatch about “populism” on his show, too, where they chatted it up in comrade-to-comrade tones, and Newsom politely did not push back as Bannon insisted Donald Trump won the 2020 election. Unshockingly, a follow-up poll after Newsom’s Charlie Kirk interview found that people really did not respond well to the supplication, and it sank Newsom’s favorability by a whopping 10 points. Surprise, surprise, the Republicans who already hated him him still hate him; Democrats were disgusted, and respondents from both parties wondered why he was podcasting at all instead of, like, doing his job as governor, a job he’s still supposed to be working at for another year until term limits kick him out.

Gavin Newsom is a Vichy sellout.

[somepsychopomp]

Alright monster fuckers, come get ur food

This is a rough draft of the first part of my Nosferatu AU, it's sort of like a prequel for what's to come. (Short summary: this is an AU where Poseidon is an undead eldritch being that's been pursuing Odysseus all his life, haunting him with nightmares and whatnot)

Mainly I would really appreciate some feedback about how fucked up crazy nasty ugly to make Poseidon. Like if he's an otherworldly being risen from the depths, should he be super ugly like Orlok or should I betray the original source material by making him sexy?

I'm mostly conflicted because this is an AU where he's still kind of the god of the seas, but is more of a Cthulhu-esque entity that was slumbering at the bottom of the ocean before being awoken by Odysseus' prayers.

The bedroom was dark and silent, save for the unsteady breathing of a nervous child. With trembling hands, he stood before his open window and struck two stones together until enough sparks flew to light the wick of his candle. 

The wind coming off the sea at this hour was frigid and biting, raising pebbles across the boy’s skin as he watched the candle’s flame rise high before setting and giving off a small circle of orange light. 

He wasn’t supposed to be awake at this hour. If anyone caught him, surely his mother and father would reprimand him in the morning. 

Odysseus knelt on a woven wool mat before the lit candle and raised his palms to the moon in supplication. Keeping his head bowed, he closed his eyes and prayed to the gods. 

“Please,” he whispered, his voice shaking from the cold of winter’s night. “Please, hear my prayers. My father grows old, my sister is too young. Please, send me a companion, a guardian. Someone to keep me warm at night and to play with during the day…a friend.”

The boy continued his prayers to the gods, ignoring his knees growing cold and stiff and his fingertips numb. Even so, he continued to pray. 

“Send me someone to fill my days and nights,” he asked the gods, unsure of how much time had passed since he began his prayers. 

Odysseus sniffled in the dark and the cold. Beyond his desire for companionship, he was assailed by shame. Was the love of his mother and father not enough for him? 

What of Ctimene and the way his younger sister loved to follow on his heels? 

His father’s hunting dogs, his old nursemaid? 

Odysseus did not understand why the company he had was not enough for him. He only wanted someone who knew him deeply, someone who knew him as if they were one. 

Without warning, a harsh gust of wind swept through his room. Odysseus gasped. Through his sealed eyelids, he found himself plunged into an oppressive darkness and knew his candle had gone out. 

Then… a new sound. It was similar to the wind’s groan, but not quite. 

This was deeper, raspier, more like a draft flowing through an underground cavern. It reminded him of the sound of stone grinding against stone. 

Odysseus opened his eyes and raised his head. 

A dark figure obscured the moon and stars, engulfing the boy in its shadow. 

Odysseus fell backward, a scream tearing from his throat.

The figure uttered only one word. 

“Hush.”

And Odysseus fell silent. He did not climb to his feet so much as an invisible force lifted him from the floor. 

The thing in the window, whether it was man or beast, said nothing more as it turned away and vanished. Odysseus swayed on his feet, his mind lost to a dense fog. 

Slowly, his body began to move on its own. 

He found himself wandering through the halls of his parents’ home, seeing the world through half-lidded eyes as he undid the servant’s door leading to the courtyard. He stepped outside, barefoot and without a cloak. 

Odysseus thought he was dreaming as his feet carried him down the beaten path to the beach, where the ocean shone like obsidian. Dark clouds began to fill the sky, obscuring the moon and blinding Odysseus to the darkness. Even so, he continued walking. 

The sound of the lapping waves grew deafening as Odysseus stood at the very edge of the icy waters. The figure was waiting for him. It was impossible to determine if the being was submerged in the water or standing over it. They were large, so much bigger than Odysseus was. 

A voice said to him, “Do you swear to be mine ever-eternally?”

Odysseus’ lips parted, though he could not say if it was of his own volition. 

“I do.”

All the wind died at once as a monstrous wave swallowed the figure. It surged forward, looking to Odysseus’ young eyes as if it were large enough to take all of Ithaca with it. He did not even think to flee. 

The water fell upon him with such force that all the air was pressed out of his lungs. The relentless surf tumbled him, dragging his body across the coarse sand and pulling him into the ocean. 

Odysseus kicked and flailed, his body attempting to swim for the surface, but the current was too powerful. He felt no ground beneath his feet, was he already swept out far enough to drown?

Open your eyes.

A voice spoke within his mind as if it were his own, compelling him to do as it commanded. 

Odysseus found himself floating in the black water, his face inches from a set of glowing eyes. Unlike any creature he’d ever seen before, these eyes did not blink as they gazed upon him. They weighed Odysseus down with their piercing gaze, the pupils slitted like a snake’s. 

As Odysseus’ body began to relax, as he felt compelled to take a breath and allow the water into his lungs, he had only one thought. 

That the eyes upon him were such a beautiful shade of bright blue. 

Then two arms grabbed him around the torso and hauled him to the surface. A hand patted his back, forcing him to cough up the saltwater that’d gotten in his mouth. 

“Oh, my poor boy! My Odysseus!” 

It was his father. Laertes clutched Odysseus to his chest, floating on his back as he used his other arm and his legs to swim them back to shore. Odysseus clung to his father, fear flooding his heart as he shivered in the terrible cold. 

He had very nearly drowned. 

Laertes pulled him out of the water and hauled Odysseus high up the shore before stopping to check on him. A few guards were waiting for them, bearing torches to light the darkness. They huddled around Odysseus, one of them shedding his cloak to wrap it around the boy’s shoulders. Laertes took his son’s hands and rubbed them between his own, blowing hot breath onto them to get Odysseus’ fingers to stop trembling. 

One man lowered his torch and Laertes instructed Odysseus to hold his hands near the fire. The king moved onto his son’s feet, rubbing and squeezing them to encourage circulation. 

He said, “My son, what happened to you? Why in the world would you go wandering out in the dark like this?”

Laertes found cuts on the bottom of his child’s feet. He couldn’t tell if they were from the rough stone path or the beach. 

Odysseus tried to answer his father, he really did. But his lower lip wouldn’t stop trembling. He sucked in a breath, then another, and began to cry. 

“I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry…”

Laertes decided enough was enough. It was too cold for any of them to be outside at this hour, especially his soaking wet son. The king took Odysseus into his arms, and though he was also dripping sea water, Laertes hardly felt even a chill in the air as he carried his son home. 

Odysseus buried his face in his father’s shoulder. He was cold and embarrassed to be crying when he thought of himself as a big boy by now. 

He just had his seventh birthday. 

Open your eyes. 

The voice compelled Odysseus to look up. Far away, a strange and tall shape floated in the water, a black shadow that slowly sank below the surface. Odysseus squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t open them again until he was back inside, where his mother’s arms awaited him.

[sentientcave]

Heavy Weighs the Crown

Sometimes a Bearimy is many moons, and sometimes it's just a couple days! Do not expect this sort of pace to continue though this chapter was most of the way finished when I posted the first one.

Chapter 2 - Familiar and Forgotten

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Contains: Generic fantasy setting, Princess Reader, No Y/N, Some exposition, Reader's dad (deceased) was a real piece of work, Noncon kissing, Alcohol mentions, Smoking mention, Reader descriptions kept as neutral as possible but keep in mind that she is a character to me and does have a specific appearance so things might slip through.

~5.2k words

You don’t say much for the rest of the journey.

It’s not far, really, only an hour or two from the bridge in the woods, and your anxiety seizes you so completely that you can do little more than smile wanly at Kyle’s jokes and Johnny’s attempts to flirt with you. Ghost stays as quiet as you do, a comforting spectre of familiarity walking by your side.

The city is much like you remember it, but there’s life now, where a grim shadow hung over the people before. Windows are thrown open, laundry hangs on lines spanning between houses, brightly coloured clothes flapping in the breeze like flags. Children play in one of the alley’s you pass by, kicking a ball between them, although they stop to watch you pass, eyes growing big, collecting at the edge of the street so they can stare for longer. People begin to gather at the peripheries everywhere, the gentle roar of many hushed voices drowning out all else. It seems that the people here still recognize you, although you’re not sure if it’s by your face or the company that escorts you along.

The castle looms over the city, tall, imposing walls made a little friendlier with blue and silver banners hung from the parapets, the oppressive air lessened, but not entirely erased. You think that nothing could make the castle look truly welcoming— It never has been to you, not even when you did call it home.

Ghost looks at you as you approach the dark stone walls, and puts a big hand on your thigh. “Olright?” he asks quietly.

You nod, swallowing thickly as Nox’s claws scrape over the wooden drawbridge. It feels like the palace means to devour you whole, the shade of the main courtyard matching your somber mood. It’s greener than you remember, a raised garden bed full of flowers and a few small trees sits in the center of things now, directing traffic coming in around in a circle rather than every which way. There are gardens on the flat roofs of some of the outbuildings too, where they can catch more light despite the looming walls.

Nox stops in front of the stairs up to the main door, and Ghost lifts you down easily. When you look up, you notice there are people gathering around the main courtyard too, a gentle susurrus rising up around you like the wind. A stable hand approaches to take Kyle's horse, stumbling over his feet, too busy staring at you to watch where he's going.

"Standin' around with their gobs open," Johnny grumbles. "S'like they've ne'er seen a princess before."

Kyle thanks the stable hand when he passes the reigns to him, and offers his arm to you. "Are you ready, sweetpea?" His smile strains at the corners when you look at him. Your own face must be grim indeed.

"I'll have to be," you say, curling your hand around his arm, gathering your skirts with your other hand. You feel small and plain as you ascend on Kyle's arm, dressed simply in clothes you sewed yourself, glad you were wearing your second best skirt at least. Why that bothers you now you couldn't say-- Its not as though you're concerned with making a good impression.

Kyle leads you into the hall of judgment, where your father used to take petitions and settle disputes. It's different here too-- There are benches for supplicants to sit while they wait, and a few desks set to one side of the ante chamber, where clerks speak to citizens in hushed voices, helping speed along the process. There aren't very many people there really, it's not the tired crush of hollow eyed people clamoring for attention from a disinterested king now. Its organized, efficient, fair-minded. You can't help but approve.

John Price sits on the dais, listening to the man in front of him, but his stone-faced attention breaks when he looks up and sees you. He stands and hops down the steps, touching the man's arm. "I will send a hunting party to deal with your manticore problem," he promises. "But if you'll excuse me…" his blue eyes lock onto you, sweeping down and back up to your face.

You feel pinned in place by the intensity of those eyes, Kyle's presence by your side not enough to melt the cracking ice that settles around you.

"Princess!" John greets you enthusiastically, arms wide as he strides across the hall, meeting you in the middle. "Welcome home. I trust your journey was a pleasant one? It's a nice day for a ride through the countryside." He looks good, although there's silver in his beard and glittering by his temples that was never there before, and a plain silver circlet on his brow. He dresses the same as you remember, for comfort and practicality rather than for fashion, and he still fills out his clothes in much the same way, his broad, powerful body unchanged despite his new vocation.

"A better day for tending to the garden," you say. "But Sir Garrick rather insisted on the ride."

John smiles at you warmly, and Kyle wordlessly pulls away from you, leaving you standing before John alone. You're pulled into an embrace before you know what's happening, oak-solid arms crushing you to his chest. He pulls back enough to look at you, but he doesn't let you go. The pleasant tobacco and warm spice scent of him engulfs you, caged in his arms while he studies your upturned face. "You're more beautiful than I remember," he says. "It's good to see you."

You open your mouth to respond, but he seizes the opportunity to kiss you. Not a chaste press of lips to your cheeks, which would have been an appropriate greeting between two people of your status, but a kiss, a real one, his mouth slotting over yours like you were reuniting lovers rather than near-perfect strangers.

He kisses you for a long moment, lips moving against yours possessively, long enough for the room to grow unbearably silent around you, shame twisting with a childish flame rekindled the instant he put his hands on you. You push against his chest, and he finally comes to his senses, not releasing you or giving you more space, but at least ending the kiss, letting you breathe and sort out your conflicted feelings.

“Why did you do that?” you ask him, voice low and breathless, even if you would prefer to shout it, or perhaps punctuate the question with a slap.

“Because I wanted to,” he says pleasantly, smiling in that infuriating, cheeky way he used to when he caught you watching the knights practising from the palace windows. “I think it was long overdue, don’t you?”

“No!” You don’t want to admit, considering your age, that he’s stolen your first kiss, like it was something owed to him instead of yours to give when you chose to, and you certainly don’t want to admit that you liked it. You don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the people still watching either, which is undoubtedly why he chose this as the place for your first meeting, where you would be cuffed by propriety, giving him advantage over you. Kings didn’t have to worry about propriety— Who was there to scold them for bad behaviour?

Had John ever worried about that sort of thing? Perhaps that was why your father had so militantly kept him away from you, not because of the threat to the crown, but the threat to your virtue. A man that would so casually waltz past all social convention would find no resistance from a sheltered, shy princess. Perhaps if you had been more bold— Perhaps if you were more bold now you would be able to tell him off.

“I don’t appreciate being plucked from my home and manhandled by you and your knights,” you hiss, plucking courage from thin air. You push against his chest again, and this time he lets you go, but it only makes you angrier, because you both know he only did so because he chose to. “What do you want, John? Let’s attend to business so I can leave as soon as possible.”

He glances behind you, at his knights, an eyebrow raised. “Well, you certainly aren’t going anywhere tonight, are you? We can chat properly over the evening meal.” He sweeps you along, a hand between your shoulders, where his thumb touches bare skin, toying with the edge of your shirt. “I’ll show you to your room, hm? You can wash up and change, if you’d like. Although I must say, this country mouse attire looks rather sweet on you.”

“I don’t think any of my old clothes will fit anymore,” you say tartly. You’re certainly not the weak, spindly thing you used to be, the sapling struggling to grow in your father’s shadow. Your time with Kate has done you good, made you stronger and filled out soft curves. Joy is expansive, and it takes up space that you never would have dared to occupy before.

“Of course not,” he says. “I’ve had new things made for you. Gaz’s sister reached out to Kate for your measurements.”

“Why would she— You had no right to ask for such a thing!” you say hotly. Now that you’re alone in the hallways, you feel more at ease speaking your mind.

He’s unperturbed by your anger, still smiling. “Perhaps not. But I thought it important to stand ready, should you ever decide to come home.”

“This is not my home any longer.”

John hums, his hand sliding down to your hip, tugging you closer to his side. “This will always be your home, princess,” he says matter-of-factly, like there’s no room for argument, the way he sees it.

He tries to follow you into your room, but you quickly shut the door in his face, nearly hitting him. He manages to jump clear, and you can hear his laughter on the other side. You’re getting a bit tired of these men thinking that it’s funny when you hold your ground against them, but you’re not yet sure how to get them to listen when they (and especially John) are so used to getting exactly what they want. It strikes you that you’ll probably have plenty of time to figure it out, since you don’t think you’ll be going home as soon as you'd like.

Kyle and Johnny seem like your most likely allies. And perhaps Ghost, since he told you more than he was supposed to already. Anyone else would be too worried about drawing the king’s ire and getting in trouble or losing their jobs, but those three aren’t just his knights. They’re his friends too.

And as far as you’re concerned, friends don’t let friends keep women imprisoned for indeterminate amounts of time.

You wash up, and parse through the closet for something to wear, frowning slightly at your options. There’s nothing wrong with any of the dresses you find— Everything is beautiful, elegant, well-made, in colours that suit your complexion, made of gorgeous, rustling silk. But they also all have closures at the back, long rows of delicate buttons that will be a nightmare to do up yourself. After so many years living independently, you resent the idea of someone having to help dress you. Perhaps that was why John tried to follow you, so he could be there to offer a hand.

How altruistic of him.

You fantasize about kicking him hard in the shins with the work boots that you sadly left at home, and choose a dress in a deep plum colour, getting as dressed as you can. You consider waiting to ask whoever comes to collect you for dinner, but you suspect that that might be John. You’re just about to wander out into the hallway to see if you can find a member of the castle staff to aid you, when you hear a shout outside, and laughter.

You press one hand to you chest to keep the dress from falling away from your skin inappropriately, and peer over the edge of the balcony. Johnny, Kyle and Ghost are in the courtyard below, Ghost and Kyle sitting on the fountain edge, and Johnny doing a dance that seems to be entirely hopping and kicking, while balancing a knife’s point on the tip of his finger.

“Excuse me,” you call down, smiling as prettily as you can muster. Johnny stops dancing and drops his knife entirely, but blessedly doesn’t try to catch it. “Could one of you give me a quick hand? This dress has so many buttons.”

They look at each other for a moment, and volunteer as one, Kyle and Ghost immediately falling into bickering over who should help you. Johnny looks at the ground and up to you a few times rather than fight with the others, and takes a running leap, fingers catching on the balcony floor. He swings a few times before popping up, catching the railing and clambering over with surprising grace. “I would be happy to help ye, sweetpea. An’ Ah’m sorry abou’, er, lickin’ yer wrist earlier. Was a wolf awl mornin’, cannae always shake the compulsion straight after a shift.”

“Apology accepted,” you say, reaching up with both hands and scratching the stubble under his chin gently. He leans into your palms with a groan, letting you guide him down to your level so you can kiss the tip of his nose. “I know you’re a good boy, Johnny. You were just excited.”

“I was,” he admits, cheeks turning a little pink. “They awl met ye before, and they talk about ye sometimes, ye ken? An’ yer even nicer an’ bonnier up close. Ah’m glad I didna try to lick yer face. Ye didnae look very happy with Price doin’ it.”

“He was very forward. It’s not the sort of thing I appreciate. I don’t intend to let him walk all over me just because he’s the king now.” You release Johnny’s jaw and turn so he can get to work on the buttons, pulling your braids out of the way over your shoulder. “It seems like he’s a little too used to getting his way.”

“Ah, weel, he’s stubborn as awl hell, sweetpea. No’ really his fault, he’s just righ’ more of’en than no’, ye ken? An’ when yer never wrong, ye never learn ta compromise.”

“Surely he’s not always right,” you say. “No one’s infallible.”

He laughs, fingers stalling against your back. “Yer righ’ of course. But Ah’m never the one to catch the old man bein’ wrong. So I dinnae ken if he admits it. I would be surprised.”

“Do you know what he wants from me?” you ask. “It seems odd that he let me live in peace all these years, only to drag me back now.”

“I dinnae ken awl the details, princess. Figure it’s sommat ta do with yer cousin raisin’ an army over across the western border, aye? Probably wants ye to scold the wee rascal for him.” He continues buttoning, and then stalls again. “Aw shite. Missed one.” You feel him begin to undo the buttons he was just working on.

You press your fingers to your mouth to stifle a giggle. “Sorry, I’m distracting you. Shouldn’t be asking so many questions.”

“Aw no, I dinnae mind none. S’nice ta talk ta ye. Always thought princesses’d be all stuck up and snooty. But yer no’ at awl. Ahve been ta yer story hour at the market once or twice too. Think it’s nice ye take pity on us buggers that cannae read well. An ye choose good stories.”

“I’ve never seen you there,” you say.

“Usually go in on four legs. No one minds another mangy dog, so long as I don’t get too close or growl at the bairns. Can hear better tha’ way too, aye? Blacksmith always let me lay down beside his shop.” He marches two fingers across your shoulder playfully. “Awl done.”

“Thank you, Johnny.” You turn to look at him again, regarding him thoughtfully. It doesn’t take much to turn him from a large, dangerous man to an eager to please puppy. Something to tuck into your pocket for later.

“Ye can call me Soap, if ye like. The lads do, most of the time. An’ the boss man. But Johnny is good too. Like hearin’ it from ye.” He looks a bit bashful, twisting his fingers together absently now that he has nothing else to fuss with, bright blue eyes cast down and half hidden by his long, dark lashes. “Ah ken it’s no’ what yer hopin’ for, but I hope ye stay a while. S’nice. Feels like there’s an empty space around here, and ye’d fill it an’ then some.”

“I’ll think about it,” you say. “I’m sure it mostly depends on how angry your, um, boss man makes me.”

“He’s no’ a bad sort.” Johnny instantly leaps to John’s defense, a touch of anxiety colouring his voice. He wears every emotion on his sleeve, another useful something to know. “Been good ta me, when lot’s of folk think I’m no’ much more’n a monster.”

“I’ve never heard of a werewolf that can shift at will like you do,” you muse. “You must have remarkable self control.”

Something dark flits across his face, but he does his best to hide it behind his crooked grin. “Naw, no’ really. S’a story, but no’ one I want ta tell righ’ now.”

“That’s alright,” you tell him gently, placing your hand on top of his. His knuckles are rough, scarred from a lifetime of hitting things hard. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I’ll listen, if you do want to talk.”

“Yer goan ta turn me intae a big softie at this rate,” he says, waving off your words with a laugh. “Come oan, Sweetpea. I’ll walk ye ta dinner. Figure ye know the way, but Ah’m told it’s polite to escort a lady.”

“Very polite,” you assure him, placing your hand on his offered arm. “Thank you, Johnny.”

His grin is infectious, and he puffs up his chest slightly, pleased as punch to receive your approval. You descend the stairs, picking up your skirts with your other hand so they don’t drag, and John appears at the bottom of the steps, his expression turning carefully, diplomatically blank when he sees you on Johnny’s arm.

“Perfect timing,” he says. “I was just about to come get you. Thank you, Soap, I can take her from here.”

“How very kind!” you return, gripping a little tighter to Johnny’s arm so he doesn’t run off just yet. “Johnny was nice enough to help me with my dress. All these buttons— I had no idea that button closures were the style these days.”

John’s eyes narrow just the slightest bit, like he’s not sure if you’re being earnest or not. “Nor did I,” he says evenly. Liar.

“It can be so hard to keep track of these things.” You send Johnny another bright smile. “Will you be joining us?” you ask sweetly.

Johnny looks at John uneasily. “Oh, n-no, I dinnae think—”

You curl into him slightly, placing your hand on his chest, drawing his attention back to you and away from the disapproving frown that’s beginning to form on John’s face. “Oh, nonsense. In fact, would you mind fetching Kyle and Ghost as well? We all had such a pleasant afternoon, and I feel like we’ve only just begun catching up.”

Johnny’s fingers catch on the lace hemming your trailing sleeve, his cheeks pink and eyes focused on your face. “Oh, aye, anything ye like, princess.”

“Thank you so much Johnny. You have been so helpful today. I really appreciate it.” You release him, and he dashes off without a second thought or glance to John for approval. “What a sweet boy he is,” you say to John as you flit to his side, all innocence, well aware that Johnny can still hear you. “Shall we?”

John gives you a searching look, still not certain if you’ve disrupted his plans on purpose or just by being far too sweet. “I had intended for dinner to be just the two of us.”

“Now John, that would hardly be appropriate,” you lightly scold. “The two of us, alone without a chaperone? What would people say? If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to put me in a compromising position.”

His lips twitch under his moustache, the ghost of a smile appearing in his eyes. “Perish the thought. Didn’t think of the implication, is all.” He opens the door to what had once been your father’s private dining room, but hesitates in the doorway. “Perhaps we should wait for the lads,” he says thoughtfully. “Since you’re concerned with the optics of being alone with me.”

You raise your eyebrows. “They’ll be along in a moment, no? I’m not sure what you think could happen in a few minutes, but I’m sure you’re capable of behaving yourself for that long.” You sweep past him, unconcerned, and he follows, letting the door fall shut behind him, the latch clicking shut loudly in the otherwise silent room. You cast about for a conversation that you can fling up between the two of you like a flimsy shield, your tongue suddenly heavy again. John has a way of sucking up all the air in a room, and he feels nearly as large and imposing as Ghost in a confined space like this. You don’t feel safe like you would with Ghost. You feel like a wobbly-legged fawn caged in with a blue-eyed wolf.

And you would feel less like that if you were in here with the man who really is a blue-eyed wolf. You don’t think the man standing before you will melt with a few kind words or a soft touch. He’ll only take it as permission to push you further.

“Your inexperience is showing,” John says conversationally, taking a step toward you.

You take a hasty step back. “How so?”

He takes another step forward. You take another back. The pattern repeats until he has you backed up against the mantle. “A lot can happen in just a few minutes, sweetpea.” His thick fingers curl around your jaw, forcing you to face him when all you want to do is sink into the floor or vanish entirely. “Could do anything I liked to you, alone like this. You’re right to be cautious.” His hand slides lower, callouses brushing your skin, raising goosebumps along the back of your neck and prickling all the way down your spine. His palm rests on your throat, so he can measure the nervous flutter of your pulse. You swallow nervously, and you know he can feel it.

Still, he doesn’t squeeze, and there’s no threat in his eyes. Worse, there’s a promise, and heat that could spark into a blaze with the slightest provocation.

“It’s a good thing you’re a man of honour, then.” You mean it as a challenge, a reminder of the rules of engagement. You came prepared for a game of chess, and he’s knocked all the pieces onto the floor and lunged at you across the board. Your words come out whisper soft, plaintive instead of confident.

“A good thing indeed.” He takes a step back, and then another, his hand falling away, leaving you standing by the mantle, clinging to it for support.

It was a good thing the fireplace is cold, this time of year, or you might be tempted to throw yourself in just to save yourself the embarrassment of being so completely set off balance.

“Here.” John returns to your side, this time leaving enough space for you to breathe, and offers you a glass of wine. White wine, like he remembers your preferences somehow. Your fingers brush his when you take the glass, and you try not to shake from the force of whatever it is that he stirs up in you.

It’s too vast to identify, and threatens to engulf you, swallow you whole. It’s an ocean, as deep and blue as his eyes, and you’re already struggling to stay afloat. You feel like the only things keeping you from drowning are your righteous anger and sense of self-preservation. But recognizing the danger he poses to you, to your freedom, if not your life, doesn’t pluck you from the water or save you from the circling shark. You don’t know how to do that. You’re not sure if you want to.

“I should apologize,” he says gently. “For greeting you the way I did earlier. I’d dreamt of our reunion so many times that it felt like the most natural thing in the world, kissing you like that. I should have better kept myself in check.”

You sip your wine. It’s sharp and not too sweet, just the sort of thing you used to like, and many times better than what you’ve had for years now. But the taste only reminds you of things best left forgotten, sour remnants of a life you wished to leave behind. Even this room, redecorated to another man’s preferences, feels as oppressive as your father’s presence in life.

Maybe it’s the weight of the crown, that bends and twists even the most upright men, because you already see the makings of a tyrant in John. So used to getting his way already, he expects you to fall into line, do as your told, take your rightful place at his side, on his arm.

In his bed.

“Are you going to?” you ask.

He’s confused by that, a frown settling between his brows. “Going to what, sweetpea?”

“Apologize. Saying you should apologize is not the same as actually being sorry.”

He’s entirely taken aback by that, rendered speechless. It’s probably been years since anyone checked him like that, and it sends a bit of a thrill through you to be the one to do so. He has the advantage in this battle you’ve waged against him— He’s larger and stronger, he claims authority that you’ve rejected, he has allies where you have none— but you’ve still managed to strike a blow, with honesty as your only weapon.

The other three men finally join you, snapping the tension in the room, clearing it away like cobwebs.

Well, most of the tension, anyway. You sit between John and Ghost, rather than take the chair opposite John. You have no desire to be forced to bear that heavy stare for the entire meal. Kyle and Johnny sit opposite you, and you maintain light conversation with the two of them. Ghost sits to your right, his mask tipped up enough for him to eat, his scarred mouth and jaw visible to you for the first time. His gloves are off too, revealing broad, powerful hands littered with fine scars, and a few deep ones too. Most of them are obviously blade wounds, but there’s a particularly deep one, a chunk of missing flesh between his thumb and forefinger on his left hand that keeps drawing your eyes back.

“Me’n Nox ‘ad a misunderstandin’ when we first met,” he says, unprompted, noticing your glances. “She took a chunk outta me. Was a good thing she was still small, or I’d’ve lost my whole ‘and.”

“Small!” Johnny says with a snort. “The wee beastie was bigger than me!”

“You were a runt,” Ghost chuckles, “but I s’pose she was still plenty big. Got ‘er talons sunk pretty deep in my thigh too. Got ‘er to listen to reason in the end though. She din’t know I was tryin’ to ‘elp.”

You see that same darkness in Johnny’s eyes as earlier, so you change the subject, asking about a burn on Ghost’s wrist. He starts in on a tale of hunting an outlaw mage, with plenty of interjections from Kyle, and then Johnny as well, until he gives up trying to tell it, and lets the younger men take over.

You feel his attention on you for a while after that, like he knew what you did and why.

John is pensive, still ruminating on what you said, quiet over the meal. It must not be that great a change from usual, because it doesn’t seem to bother the other three in the least. He insists on walking you to your room once the hour grows later, however, and leans against your door frame.

“You’re right,” he says, catching your hand so you can’t go inside and shut the door in his face for a second time that day. “I didn’t apologize. And I’m not sorry. I know I should be, and I won’t do it again, but I can’t say I feel all that badly about it.”

It’s something, at least. A concession, if not an apology. “Thank you, John.” He doesn’t let go of your hand, and his thumb is rubbing distracting circles over your knuckles. “Is there something else?”

“We never talked business.”

“No. But I know what you want, John, and the answer is no. I want to go home, I have a life to return to, and I don’t belong here any longer.” The disappointment is clear on his face, but he only nods. You continue, encouraged by his silence. “I will, however, make a public statement of support, in whatever way you need. I imagine my cousin will wish to send a witness, to ensure I’m not being coerced. I will stay until then, and then you will allow me to go home. Is that sufficient?”

He thinks about it for a moment, his thumb tapping against your hand now. “I suppose it will have to be.”

“Then it’s settled. Goodnight, John.” You try to pull your hand free, but he tightens his grip just enough to keep you anchored to him.

“Wait.” He tugs you a step closer. “May I kiss you?”

You roll his request around in your mind for a moment. He’s willing to accept that you won’t marry him, without so much as a fight. You can’t deny that you want to say yes either, and you have just enough wine in you to make you bold, but not reckless. “One kiss,” you reply. “No more than that. And then I am going to bed.”

He cups your face and stoops to meet you, pressing his lips to yours tenderly, without any of the brash possessiveness of earlier. Just sweet and slow, coaxing you to open up for him. You relax into his touch, parting your lips, a soft little whine escaping your throat, pulling an answering groan from him as he licks into your mouth. You have to grip his wrists just to stay upright, the sound turns your knees and resolve to jelly, the taste of good whiskey and smoke from his after dinner cigar lingering on your tongue as he pulls away.

His eyes are fever-bright, and his breathing ragged as you release each other. “Goodnight, sweetpea,” he says softly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You slip into your room and lean against the door, knees still weak, desire simmering inside you. The kiss had been a bad idea, because all you can think of now is asking for another, and another, and another.

***

Image credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - Divider by CafeKitsune

[fluffy-appa]

The Fasting Person's Dua

From Abu Hurairah [رضي الله عنه] who said that the Messenger of Allaah [ﷺ] said:

‎«ثلاث دعوات مستجابات: دعوة الصائم، ودعوة المظلوم، ودعوة المسافر.»

❝There are three types of people whose supplication is answered: the fasting person's Dua, the oppressed one's Dua and the Dua of the traveller.❞

[Collected In Saheeh Al-Jama By Albaani, (No. 3030)]

[kaffarnabikum]

ahlul sunnah in iraq continue to face oppression and even death for holding onto the truth. their struggle is not new, yet it is often overlooked. they are in need of our duas, that Allah protects them, grants them victory, and eases their suffering. likewise, all oppressed muslims across the world deserve our sincere prayers. our brothers and sisters in palestine, syria, yemen, afghanistan, sudan, morocco, somalia, kashmir, libya, mali, lebanon and everywhere they are facing oppression. the prophet ﷺ said, “the supplication of a muslim for his brother in his absence will certainly be answered.” we should not be heedless of their plight nor of the suffering of any muslim facing injustice

make sincere dua, with full certainty that Allah hears and responds. may he grant ease to the prisoners, free them from their shackles, and reunite them with their families. may he aid the oppressed and grant them patience and victory. may he unite the ummah upon the truth and protect ahlul sunnah wherever they are

and we must also remember our scholars who have been imprisoned, especially in saudi arabia, where many scholars and students of knowledge have been silenced, detained, or sentenced to death simply for speaking the truth. these are the inheritors of the prophets, the ones who guide the ummah with knowledge and their imprisonment is a great loss for the muslims. we ask Allah to free them, protect them, and grant them patience and steadfastness

and most importantly, make dua for the muj wherever they are, that Allah strengthens them, grants them victory, keeps their hearts firm, and protects them from the plots of the enemies. may Allah accept their sacrifices, guide them, and make them a means for the honor and success of this ummah

and do not forget to make dua against the kuffar and the enemies of islam, those who fight against the muslims, oppress them, and spread corruption. ask Allah to humiliate them, destroy their plans, scatter their ranks, and make them suffer the consequences of their crimes. may Allah not give them power over the believers

[tamamita]

I love that you have derogatory supplications, reminds me of hearing my mom say Andrew Jackson may he burn in hell

One of the foundations of belief (Furu al deen) in Twelver Shi'ism is Tabarrah, which roughly translates to dissociation. But the gist of it is that is it incumbent upon a Shi'a Muslim to dissociate from (and even curse) a person who is shown to be tyrannical, oppressive and an enemy of the Prophet (sawas), his household (a) and the Shi'as. Interestingly enough, the concept of dissociation was mainly attributed to Muslims who opposed Imam Ali (a) and his household, but can also be applicable to non-Muslims.

[umtxqwa]

السلام عليكم و رحمة الله و بركاته

أخواني وأخواتي الأعزاء!

Please remain consistent in supplicating for the oppressed ummah. Perhaps among us, there is someone who holds a special place in the sight of Allāh ﷻ. Make sure to aid and support your brothers and sisters in Palestine to the best of your ability and boycott the products of companies owned by those who support the Zionists.

بارك الله فيكم

[reverthelp]

The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “Beware of the supplication of the oppressed, even if he is an unbeliever, for there is nothing to block it.”

Musnad Aḥmad 12549

[snoopygirlsblog]

Promise fulfilled

Warnings: Levi Yandere, leg breaking (not explicit).

Levi's fury had been an frozen torrent, every word a shear edge. Your challenge to his authority, your insistence on fighting with others, had unleashed the possessive beast that lay latent under its control. His love, twisted by the fear of losing you, had manifested himself in an act of cold and calculated brutality.

"You are mine, [name]!" He had been, his gray eyes darkened by terrifying intensity. "Only I can protect you from this unclean world."

Your refusal, your desperate supplication for freedom, had only fed their obsession. In an instant, the promise of breaking your legs had materialized in sudden and devastating violence.

The crunch of your bones when giving in its strength had resonated in the room as the prelude to your confinement. The pain had been a white fire that had consumed you, taking you to an abyss of unconsciousness.

You woke up in the fetid darkness of the cell, the body bathed in a cold sweat, each breath an agony rack. The pain in your legs was now a constant and sharp reminder of Levi's brutality.

You tried to move, but the lower extremities responded with a silent cry of shattered nerves. You were useless, broken.

The iron door squeezed, slowly opening to reveal the imposing figure of Levi, its silhouette trimmed against the faint light of an adjacent corridor. His face was a cold mask determination, his eyes shining with a sickly possessivity.

"My little bird has awakened," said his voice a whisper loaded with an unnatural sweetness. He approached slowly, his boots echoing downs in the stone floor.

Terror invaded you, more intense than physical pain. This was not the man you admired, the captain who had protected you. This was a jailer, a monster consumed by a dark obsession.

"Levi ... please ..." you implored, your voice a trembling thread. "Let me go. This is not love."

He knelt by your side, ignoring your pleas. His cold hand stroked your cheek, a touch that stirred your stomach.

"It's love, [your name]," he corrected, his soft but inflexible voice. "A love that will keep you safe. There is only suffering, danger. Here ... here you are protected. You are mine."

"I am a human being, not a possession!" You shouted, despair by giving you a momentary force. You tried to depart from your touch, but pain in your legs immobilized you.

His eyes darkened with a contained fury. "You don't understand my sacrifice. I did this for you. So that nothing and no one snatches you from my side."

"But you have taken my freedom!" You sob, the tears burning your eyes. "I prefer to die fighting than living locked up like an animal."

Levi shook his head, a dark sadness clouding his face for a moment. "You don't know what you say. You'll get used to. You'll learn that this is your place. With me."

He took you in his arms with a delicious delicacy, ignoring your weak protests and the pain you should feel. He took you to an impromptu bed in the corner of the cell, depositing you carefully.

"Rest," he ordered, his voice now firm and authoritarian. "You need to recover. You will soon be strong again ... for me."

He observed you with a chilling intensity, his gaze traveling every inmobilized body. His love was a cage, his arms, invisible chains. You were trapped in his personal hell, your wings shattered by the brutality of his possession. The outside world, with its titans and its cruelty, paled before the terrifying confinement in the strength of its already love. Your only company would be the echo of your own sobs and the oppressive presence of your obsessed jailer. Freedom was a distant memory, a shattered dream with your legs.

Remember the episode where Levi told him he'd break Erwin's legs? Well...he kept his promise.

[lilgreeneyes71]

There is an internal peace that only God can give

John 14:27 Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

Psalm 29:11 The LORD will give strength unto his people; the LORD will bless his people with peace.

2 Thessalonians 3:16 Now the Lord of peace himself give you peace always by all means. The Lord be with you all.

keep your mind on Christ and his promises

Isaiah 26:3 Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.

Psalm 119:165 Great peace have they which love thy law: and nothing shall offend them.

If you get stressed for any reason

1 Peter 5:7 Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.

Troubled with burdens or oppressed

Matthew 11:28 Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.11:29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.11:30 For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Philippians 4:6 Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.4:7 And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Romans 15:13 Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost.

Isaiah 26:12 LORD, thou wilt ordain peace for us: for thou also hast wrought all our works in us.

[wrappedinamysteryy]

From the supplication of Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ):

« اللَّهُمَّ نَجِّ الْمُسْتَضْعَفِينَ مِنَ الْمُؤْمِنِينَ »

(Allahumma najji-l mustadhafeena mina-l mumineen)

O Allah! Save the weak and oppressed ones among the believers.

📚: Sahih Bukhari 4598 & Sahih Muslim 675

[laughter-of-the-rose]

The coming of Laylat al-Qadr

It has been a blessing for me that this is the first year since the birth of my son that I have been able to attend taraweeh at the mosque. Alhamdulillah, moving back into my family home rather than attempting to stubbornly survive on my own has been a massive boon to my religious productivity. It just so happens that by the time I get home from the mosque and have a small snack there are only three hours between then and sehri. So I figured it won't be much of an inconvenience at all to stay up those few hours in worship.

This said, three hours can go very quickly and/or feel very difficult if I don't prepare beforehand exactly what ibadah I intend to achieve. So I started making a list and it occurred to me that perhaps I should share it with others to, inshallah, inspire them also.

So here goes:

Give something in charity

Read the 14 supplications of prostration

Salat al-tawbah

Personal duas

Istighfar

Recite any/all known surahs

Surah ikhlas x10

And I think that should likely take up about three hours give or take.

I'd like to also expand on the reasoning for some of these that may be lesser known.

Supplications of prostration This is also known as Sajdat al-Tilawa and is an obligatory sujud when specific verses of the Qur'an are heard or recited. The specifics vary by school of thought but in Hanafi jurisprudence there are 14. In the book the Ascent to Felicity by Abu 'l-Ikhlas al-Shurunbulali he goes further to state that

"Imam Nasafi and others have stated, "If one recites all fourteen verses of prostration in one sitting, and performs a separate prostration for each verse, then Allah Most High will take care of all his worries [in both this life and the next]."

Salat al-tawbah The prayer of forgiveness is one that is agreed across all scholars and is two rakats nafl that can be prayed at any time. However, considering the following hadith:

The Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) said: “Whoever repents before the sun rises from the west, Allah will accept his repentance.” (Narrated by Muslim, 2703)

and the significance of Laylat al-Qadr I think this becomes a pretty good time to read it!

Surah Ikhlas x10

Abu Huraira reported: The Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “Whoever recites ten times, ‘Say: He is Allah, the One,’ a palace will be built for him in Paradise. Whoever recites it twenty times, two palaces will be built for him. Whoever recites it thirty times, three palaces will be built for him.”

So that's a nice one to add between other ibadah of the night to give some variety.

May Allah grant all of the prayers of all who have read this and of the entire muslim ummah on these next ten days. May Allah ease the hardship of the people of Palestine and anywhere else that oppression of any kind, at a large scale or a small scale, is taking place.

If I've said anything good then alhamdulillah, it is from His swt wisdom and if I've said anything incorrect do tell me so I can correct as necessary. And if you've found anything useful in this post please remember me in your duas, jazakallah.

[fluffy-appa]

FRIDAY REMINDER ♡

‣ Recite Surah al Kahf

‣ Send blessings upon the beloved Prophet ﷺ

‣ Perform Ghusl.

‣ Dress well and apply perfume.

‣ Proceed to the mosque early.

‣ Sit closer to the Imam. Listen attentively to the Friday sermon.

‣ Make du'a in the last hour (i.e., after Asr, remember the oppressed Ummah in your supplications)