#black women who were lynched

[jinjofitzo]

i fucking hate being black in america sometimes

[thechanelmuse]

Jackie Ormes, the first Black American woman cartoonist

When the 14-year-old Black American boy Emmett Till was lynched in 1955, one cartoonist responded in a single-panel comic. It showed one Black girl telling another: "I don't want to seem touchy on the subject... but that new little white tea-kettle just whistled at me!"

It may not seem radical today, but penning such a political cartoon was a bold and brave statement for its time — especially for the artist who was behind it. This cartoon was drawn by Jackie Ormes, the first syndicated Black American woman cartoonist to be published in a newspaper. Ormes, who grew up in Pittsburgh, got her first break as cartoonist as a teenager. She started working for the Pittsburgh Courier as a sports reporter, then editor, then cartoonist who penned her first comic, Torchy Brown in Dixie to Harlem, in 1937. It followed a Mississippi teen who becomes a famous singer at the famed Harlem jazz club, The Cotton Club.

In 1942, Ormes moved to Chicago, where she drew her most popular cartoon, Patty-Jo 'n' Ginger, which followed two sisters who made sharp political commentary on Black American life. 

In 1947, Ormes created the Patty-Jo doll, the first Black doll that wasn't a mammy doll or a Topsy-Turvy doll. In production for a decade, it was a role model for young black girls. "The doll was a fashionable, beautiful character," says Daniel Schulman, who curated one of the dolls into a recent Chicago exhibition. "It had an extraordinary presence and power — they're collected today and have important place in American doll-making in the U.S."

In 1950, Ormes drew her final strip, Torchy in Heartbeats, which followed an independent, stylish black woman on the quest for love — who commented on racism in the South. "Torchy was adventurous, we never saw that with an Black American female figure," says Beauchamp-Byrd. "And remember, this is the 1950s." Ormes was the first to portray black women as intellectual and socially-aware in a time when they were depicted in a derogatory way.

One common mistake that erased Ormes from history is mis-crediting Barbara Brandon-Croft as the first nationally syndicated Black American female cartoonist. "I'm just the first mainstream cartoonist, I'm not the first at all," says Brandon-Croft, who published her cartoons in the Detroit Free Press in the 1990s. "So much of Black history has been ignored, it's a reminder that Black history shouldn't just be celebrated in February."

Source

[antifathomable-shapeshifter]

look. the patriarchy isn't a kingdom. there's no king. men are not the knights of the patriarchy.

do some men utilize social power under the patriarchy against some women? Absolutely. No Question. This is a key part of the patriarchy. It wouldn't function/exist otherwise.

do ALL men have Privilege and Power over ALL women under ALL circumstances???

No!

That is the point of this post. Men are suffering under the patriarchy. Men are dying because of The Patriarchy.

My post is call for compassion. For understanding. To take a step back from one's biases and take a step forward past Feminism 101.

You, person in my notes, saw that, and decided to make a vague general statement and a dictionary definition. Listen to me. You are missing the point.

Men deserve better, because they are people, and people are worthy of better.

men are oppressed under the patriarchy actually. non-white men. queer men. disable men. poor men.

yes, even cishet able-bodied white men are oppressed under the patriarchy.

the only men who are not are at the VERY top. men who are all of the above AND rich. not middle class. Upper Class if we're being general, and Ultra-Rich if we're being honest. and at that point, it really doesn't matter how other systems affect you if you have money and/or power.

the patriarchy lies to and abuses men to perpetuate itself. anyone who goes around saying shit like "men are trash" and "kill all men" are doing its work for it. you think Jeff Bezos gives a shit if you hate men on tumblr?? you think calling Donald Trump's dick small is going to do anything?? all that will happen is the men around you will feel like they don't belong, and if they have no where else to turn, they'll get groomed by Alpha Male types and funneled into incel/fashy shit.

the only way to dismantle the patriarchy (and white supremacy and capitalism etc) is to unite together. listen to men, all kinds of men, just as you listen to all kinds of women. gender is one of the realest fakest things we have and we won't be able to fully free it until we understand how it is being used against us right now.

men deserve better. everyone deserves better.

[jadevoir]

TOUCH THE BELT - Rhea Ripley

AN: First Fic!! So exciting!! Not sure if it’s good or not, gimmie some feedback :))

— Based on when Rhea held the Women’s World Champion Belt! tried to keep it as close to the real wrestlemania match as I could but, creative liberties!

Sum: Rhea wins her title match against Becky, and there’s not a better celebration than with you.

TW: Smut, Foul Language, thats pretty much it

Word Count: 1.4k

Rhea Ripley x Reader

No matter how often you’d seen your partner in a solo match, you admired the way she moved and the fear she struck into her opponents. Her most recent match with ‘The Man’, otherwise known as Becky Lynch, was the one you anticipated the most.

With bated breath you watched as the match seemed to go every which way, Becky rolling out of riptide and slamming Rhea into the canvas, going for the pin before Rhea miraculously kicked out.

The amount of cheering and screaming made your head grow dizzy, even from backstage you could hear the excitement in the fans voices. The match's twists and turns were something you had seen coming, but nothing meant this much to Rhea, and she was going to keep it either way.

You held your breath as the announcer spoke, this moment almost felt surreal.

“Here is your winner…��� You almost begged the announcer to keep going, the suspense made your heart flutter “And still, your Women’s World Champion.. Rhea Ripley!”

You couldn’t help how your eyes were glued to the screen that revealed the main ring. The one and only, Rhea Ripley, was seen standing upon the top rope, her theme song blaring as she licked her teeth.

As if it was like clockwork, your body felt hot, inflamed by the look of your partner. You’d never admit to anyone how much you were attracted to her, raven hair falling onto her broad shoulders, muscles rippling underneath her skin as you silently wish it was you who she used those muscles on.

The adrenaline of her match sent her reeling backstage, congratulations ringing through the air as you finally caught her eye. The ravenette smirked, bidding her goodbyes and complaining of her need of rest before she approached you.

Her stare was sharp, you wondered how her opponents never seemed to crack underneath her gaze. Rhea’s head dipped down to yours, black lips teasing your ear as she whispered

“Meet me in my changing room in five, don’t be late for me..” The voice she used made your knees weak, the woman strolled away soon after, a smirk playing on her lips as she didn’t even look back at you.

When your hand reached for the knob of the door, your heart skipped a beat, had she seen you staring? Seen how your eyes traveled to more than just her face? Nonetheless, would that change your dynamic for the worse?

The questions all dissipated once you stepped foot through that door. A hum was heard from Rhea as she was seen sitting at her mirror, makeup gone and gear half off.

“Thought you’d flake on me sweetheart, you wouldn’t do that to me no?”

Your head shook before you spoke, aiming to please rather than tease the woman. “I wouldn’t dream of it Rhea, you should know that” You joked back to disguise the feeling in your body, need surging through your veins at how good she looked sitting in front of you.

Rhea pushed her chair back slightly, signaling you closer as you kept eye contact through the mirror.

“Though you’d stare at me when you think I'm not looking right?”

You stopped at the table, your mouth agape as you tried to defend yourself with some pitiful excuse. “That’s alright baby, i’d take that attention from you anytime,” Her hand rose up to rest on your outer thigh, you were sure that she could feel the heat radiating from your body.

“C’mere.” She hummed, arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you to the table in front of her. Your face was hot, legs spread on either side of her, hungry eyes trailing over your body as she resumed her touch on your thighs, hands riding higher and higher.

“You look so good tonight, all dressed up for my match, hm? Or is it that you’re all dressed up for me doll?” You stationed your hands behind you so you were steady, voice small as you answered her question.

“For you.. thought you’d like it” The two of you weren’t dating of course, but the way the tension rose in a room when you both were together was impalpable. Rhea knew you liked her, the way your eyes trailed across her body made her feel powerful, she loved the attention, but what she loved more was the thought of her having you all to herself in private.

“Love it so much, doll, but you know what I'd love to see you in..” She trailed off, turning her head to motion towards the championship belt resting on the table, hands leaving your thighs and taking the belt. Her eyes never left yours as she leaned forward to clip the belt on, lips almost touching yours. “Want you to wear this for me while I touch you, think you can handle that?”

Your eyes went wide as you seemingly lost your breath and words, relying on your body and nodding in agreement. Without hesitation, Rhea connected your lips, kissing you with what felt like hunger. Calloused hands traveled up and down your thighs once again, meeting the edge of your panties feverishly, she didn’t bother to pull away from the kiss as her teeth connected with your bottom lip, tugging only slightly with a smirk on her lips.

The snap of your panties made you jump and your suitor smirked, the wet spot developing would’ve made you embarrassed, but before you could even think about that, a trained finger pressed against the fabric. “Wanna feel me right here baby?” She teased, the slow circles her finger drew made your mind go blank and no clear answer left your lips.

Your partner scoffed, kissing down your jawline and neck, tapping your clit with her pointer finger to tease you further. “Can I take these off?” You almost laughed at her question, even in this scenario she was ever the same, polite woman. Without much thought, you nodded, wanting to feel her all over you at this moment.

In almost a blink, your panties were in her hand, trying to act slick as she tucked them away into her back pocket. Before you could object, her hand returned to your cunt, tracing light circles on your clit. You moaned out in relief, the feeling of her fingers could drive you insane. You were positive she was getting off on the position you were in, legs spread and belt resting on your hips and lap, the Women’s World Champion fucking her tag team partner.

The moans you let out were almost pornographic, Rhea had half the mind to pull her phone out, a keepsake of just how good she makes you feel.

“Oh,,, look at you sweet girl, all laid up with the women’s champion knuckle deep, bet you wanted this for a long time”

No matter how hard you tried to listen to her, your head never wrapped around the words, the feeling of her fingers bringing you to the fiery edge had you gripping onto the belt, a smirk arising on her lips as she watched you struggle to maintain your composure, teetering on the edge of cumming.

“Awh baby… keep going for me, you wanna be such a good girl for me right? You can keep going” The words connected straight to your cunt, knot looping in your stomach as she went impossibly faster, the look in her eye was intoxicated as your thighs shook beneath her. Moans grew louder and louder before she kissed you once more, shutting you up as she finally came on her fingers. The miniscule motions made your body faint, Rhea held you as best she could, pulling her hand away from your cunt and placing them on her tongue. She couldn’t help but make a show out of it, almost to drive you insane once more.

Her eyes scanned yours as she took a mental image, your body was up against her mirror, the glass fogged up around you to look as if there was an angelic aura. Your cum leaked out onto her table, while lo and behold, the championship belt rested on your hips.

Your chest heaved up and down as you tried to catch your breath. not noticing when Rhea searches the room for a cloth, cleaning you up little by little so as to not make you more sensitive.

“Look at you darling, so pretty for me..”

A blush dusted your features before you leaned forward. Hand finding its way to her gear belt, a silent way of asking about her turn. The woman chuckled, pulling your hand away before looking up at you.

“You meet me back at my hotel room and make it up to me, sweetheart. Promise it’ll be worth your while,” Her lips turned into a smug smile, kissing your cheek gently. “But for now, let’s get you all cleaned up”

[doberbutts]

It's astonishing to see people say "All fear of men is reasonable and okay, but you shouldn't be afraid of black people obviously" and you having to reply, "Hey, question? Aren't black men people?" Everyone clinging to their fear of men while never examining their actions which could harm men of color, in this case, black men who have historically been killed and lynched in great numbers by white women weaponizing this fear to end their lives. Read the Will to Change! bell hooks talks about this! She talks about how white people, especially white men, have distracted from their own patriarchal masculinity by portraying violent women-haters as aberrant and abnormal (So, clearly Black men are more likely to be dangerous because they're already aberrant and abnormal in our white supremacist society). PLEASE understand your fear isn't fucking value-neutral and can be inherently be trusted!!!

Also, on the topic of patriarchal masculinity, I think that term really encompasses what we're talking about when we say male privilege is highly conditional. It's also what makes this uncritical man-hating so devious. Like, bell hooks says, contemporary feminism has provided a place for some women to construct a sense of self outside of sexist expectations, but the same can't be said about men. So by distrusting trans men, telling them they should accept feeling unwelcome in queer spaces because "your identity as a man means you have to earn other's trust (even if you haven't done anything other than exist), you're conflating transmasculinity with patriarchal masculinity. Which is so fucking damaging? Not to mention how people love to destroy and hurt transmasc's emotional selves, the same rituals that bell hooks talks about which so severely damage cis men (who were the book's main topic), and we're doing this to a marginalized, queer group who face immense systemic oppression.

Just--I hate how we mutilate trans men's emotional selves, demonize them because we assume all men possess patriarchal masculinity. I hate how we can't talk about marginalized men because apparently, that means we believe in misandry, when in reality, we're trying to talk about how men of color are portrayed as the worst of masculinity to deflect from white men's violence.

Disclaimer: Sorry for this big ass ask. Just seeing you have to respond to people with a basic lack of understanding of intersectionality and who weren't subtle about their racism--gosh.

And the biggest issue is that I understand why the kneejerk reflex happens- there's a lot of men who have engaged in the most bad faith of bad faith discussions about men's issues and somehow have turned it all onto "so it's WOMEN'S fault things are like this" rather than "so how do we work together with everyone in society to break free", and so a lot of people have their guard up from the start and don't care to listen to the last bit because they think it's more of the same.

Unfortunately, all this will do is continue to make us spin our wheels. We are always stronger together.

[txttletale]

i got an anon ask saying i should kms bc i "reblog from antiblack racist txttletale" and i deleted it bc like. hello. but i am kind of curious if u even know what the basis for that accusation is or if they're just completely talking out of their ass 😭😭😭

a long while ago (well over a year at this point) i said some dumb and racist shit about #sayhername and was very needlessly snippy and glib to ppl, esp. Black women, trying to talk to me about it in good faith. i since apologized and obviously realized why i was wrong after some people explained it to me but i'm sure there's people still mad about that somewhere (and to be clear i don't blame them--this is just a blogging website and i don't think anyoine needs to like, be aware of my Vast Oceanic Soul on it, god knows there are tons of people here who to me are just usernames i associate with some horrendous take from forever ago).

that said i think most people saying that nowadays are either saying it because of that ridiculous 100-blog long blocklist that went around of any communist who pointed out that usamericans benefitted from imperialism, or from a circle of terf blogs who got really mad at me (correctly) pointing out that 'kill your local rapist' is lynch mob rhetoric. or from when people were just saying that about any trans woman who pointed out that mr. trances and his friends love harassing trans women. so idk i doubt that anyone anonymosuly sending that accusation around unsourced is doing so in good faith lol

[mithliya]

i’m getting spammed with anon hate and i honestly don’t think this place is redeemable so im probs not going to be posting for idk how long. radblr has given me less than nothing. since joining radblr, people have overwhelmingly been unbelievably cruel to me.

my first year on radblr, women 1-2 decades older than me viciously harassed me for asking questions as someone not familiar with certain beliefs held here. these women harassed me for months non-stop, posted my full legal name, posted homes neighbouring where i lived in bahrain, and essentially released my private information. i had to threaten them back just in hopes they would leave me alone, which they didn’t really do. they simply stopped posting my name bc they wanted to make me look like im bad for finding one of their names simply by googling her url (her full name was her twitter username). one of the people in that circle was radicaldumbass, who then came back as macroclit, and again came back as radicalstoner. i moved on but i haven’t forgotten.

then, black-diaspora repeated the same thing. she posted pictures of my mother and led people to finding my mom's facebook. to this day, i still get anons with my mother’s name and my sister’s name. my sister was about 13 when anons first started sending me her name in threatening anons. somehow, black-diaspora was rewritten as a victim of mine despite her being repeatedly racist & lesbophobic to me & posting my mom’s info.

i was being abused by my ex-gf and women on here literally picked my abuse apart and enabled TRAs like lostelvenqueen to make up lies that i was the one abusing my abuser. that vicious lie was reiterated for 4 years. while being abused, women on radblr were mocking me for needing money when my ex-girlfriend was actively stealing from me at the time. to this day people use against me the fact that i needed help in that time bc some mutuals helped finance 2 dinners & my medication, all of which i either paid them back for or drew art as payment.

then, again, another woman dug through an old blog i ran as a teenager and found some posts here and there to make it seem like i, as a 15 and 16 year old, definitely loved being totally controlled by someone and physically abused whenever i didn’t follow his exact commands. i spoke openly about this trauma years prior to this person “exposing” me & arguing that i actually wanted that abuse by pointing to random innocuous posts and forming a story out of it. i think every abuse victim can imagine how difficult it is to still face trauma from something and instead of being allowed to heal, having it brought up to you several days a week to taunt you and having “feminists” tell you that you actually wanted it and are lying when you say otherwise. to this day, i get daily anons mentioning my name because this woman also put my legal name out there.

women here have put me in physical danger, they have made up the vilest lies about me, they’ve called me racial slurs, they’ve been outright racist to me, they’ve speculated about my rape & abuse, they’ve joked about lynching me, they’ve questioned things as minuscule as what i had for dinner. and despite that, i haven’t returned that same treatment. i remained relatively consistent, i simply criticised what i thought was wrong and provided evidence to my statements.

i made some nice friends on here & i’ll keep talking to them. but i’m going to be reevaluating why i’m wasting my time in a space that has overwhelmingly caused me stress, a space where countless unbelievable lies have been spun about me and a place where people have said & done the vilest things and in the end, i was always framed as a bad person based on half-truths or outright lies. now, people falsely claim that women who unfollow me or block me risk having their private information exposed, when i have met at least a dozen women from radblr and run a server with hundreds of women from radblr, have seen hundreds of faces, and have never exposed such information even if we end up disliking each other. i could tolerate many ridiculous lies, but why should i? i’m pretty fed up of tolerating this.

enjoy spinning this however you want and lying about me further. idk when i’ll be back or if i’ll want to be back. it’s pretty clear to me that this space prioritises lesbophobes & racists (& sometimes even downright misogynists) over people who calmly criticise it. i joined this space initially bc i thought it was somewhere where i could freely be a lesbian without being hassled for it, but radblr doesn’t even offer that anymore.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

A.N.: Content Warning, violence, slave lynchings, blood, sex.

"Know that you are loved

Even if you don't love yourself

Know that you are loved

Even if you don't love yourself…"

Cleo Soul – "Know That You Are Loved"

Celeste washed away blood, tissue, and pieces of teeth from her hair that once belonged to three men she tried to help get home.

Sitting in her tub, she let the showerhead rain warm water down on her, creating steam that enveloped her in warmth. The last trickles of blood that soaked her locs ran down the drain in pink rivulets. She raised her knees to her chest and hugged her legs.

She couldn't stay in Marigny anymore.

Vampires, ghouls, and gargoyles knew where she stayed, and she felt like a lighthouse for supernatural entities to fuck up her life even more. She couldn't take a chance staying with her parents, grandparents, or older brothers and their families. Bringing danger to them had to be avoided at all costs.

She wiped her face of tears and let the shower water wash it away. Celeste needed to activate a new state of mind. One that moved in the world with intention.

Celeste scrubbed blood from the side of her car and used carpet cleaner to clear away the dark splashes that stained her passenger seat. Afterward she dropped her car off at a dealership to replace the busted window. She slept most of the day and returned to work at the chicken processing plant using an Uber. The news of the disappearance spread around fast, and she feigned shock at the news that Hector, Shorty, and Quentin disappeared with everyone else. Police detectives wandered about the facility interviewing workers that shared the same shift the previous day. She answered questions concisely and never gave up info that she was with them during their last hour. Celeste kept her head down and pushed through her work. She clocked out and used the turn of events as fodder to get a few days off from the elder care facility.

It was time to dig into Miss Irma's boxes.

Celeste fixed herself a turkey and bacon sandwich and hunkered down, opening every box she brought home. Miss Irma's meticulous organization of her private papers and photos helped her separate the records into neat piles. At the bottom of a box filled with several thick books on history, the occult, and supernatural symbolism, she found a small plastic case filled with flash drives loaded with archival images, more family photos, and copies of folders with Miss Irma's travel photography for over the last five decades. Personal correspondence, postcards, and holiday cards shared by her friends and former work colleagues were tucked inside clear plastic bags.

She spent half a day piecing together the story of Terrence Richmond Guidry, a former enslaved human and leader of a little known Black and Indigenous uprising in the swamps of Opelousas, Louisiana.

Celeste had to stop almost every twenty minutes to get up from her sewing room desk to absorb the incredible story of the man who knocked her up.

Terry had been descended from enslaved Creoles way back, the kind that negotiated plaçages and attended quadroon balls to link wealthy white men with femmes de couleur to create free-born octoroons like his mother. His family upheld the caste system and pretended to be white for years until Terry's birth threatened to expose them. Considered too dark, too curly-haired, and too full-featured to pass as white with his unwanted throwback genes, even with green eyes, his land-owning white-passing Black father didn't send him off to Paris to be educated like his fairer male siblings. His father sent him to New Orleans at fourteen to learn a respectable trade as a shipbuilder, but slave catchers captured and sold him to a sugarcane plantation. News reached Terry two years later that his own father sold him to pay off a gambling debt and to amend back taxes due on their plot of land. His mother died of grief over it. None of his older brothers tried to save him. They married white women and diluted the bloodline back to unsullied whiteness and never returned to America. Celeste closed her eyes and wept for him. Family betrayal cut the deepest.

His owner was a strict Catholic who took a liking to Terry. Allowed him to marry an enslaved woman named Delilah. They had three children. Two boys and a girl born in bondage. The daughter died of smallpox when she was three. The conditions on the sugar plantation were harsh, yet somehow Terry and his wife survived with their two sons.

Celeste jumped up from her seat and paced in her sewing room. He lied to her about having children because they came before he turned into a vampire. She drank tea and snacked on some fruit, letting her mind sit with the man's past as an abused slave. What other atrocities had he endured? She entertained the idea that it may have been a relief to become non-human in order to get away from the banality of white evil. There were more than a few times she stopped reading and cried for him.

After writing about smallpox passing through his plantation like a deadly wildfire killing one third of the enslaved population, Miss Irma's historical biography veered off the rails and entered the domain of what would be considered speculative fiction in the real world. Terry blended in with a group of newly arrived Haitian captives and saltwater Africans who had been illegally brought into the south to replace the lost human property. It was against the law to import slaves into the United States after 1808, and the influx of Black people from the Caribbean and the Western Coast of Africa secretly continued on Terry's plantation during his time there in the 1850s. Slaves were bred as Black gold for the small farmer and large plantations, often sold in lots to turn profits quickly as cotton became king of the southern economy. The devastating loss of so many able-bodied field hands made it impossible for wealthy planters to wait around twelve to fifteen years for a new crop of humans to be bred and physically capable of picking cotton. Illegal importations saved them with a fresh influx of free Black labor immediately without a long-term profit loss.

Terry learned Haitian Creole and taught his diaspora brethren the Franglais he grew up with mixed in with the Cajun dialect of the overseers who beat him constantly. Under Miss Irmas's pen, Celeste became intimate with the fierce mindset of Terry in the past.

Somehow Terry convinced the handful of Haitians, Chitimatcha Native people trapped on their own stolen land, and his own mixed African population of homegrown pre-Black Americans to rise up and kill the masters on their plantation and two others nearby. Seventy-five enslaved men and women used machetes, pickaxes, and shovels to bash in the brains and slice the bodies of white men, white women, and their white babies. Slaves who tried to snitch were slaughtered right beside their masters.

Miss Irma copied an archival photo of Terry's former plantation, and Celeste gasped at another startling photo of Terry among other unnamed slaves. The look in his fiery eyes showed how ready he was to kill if given the chance to take retribution.

On a final chapter of Terry's pre-vampire life, Miss Irma documented how Delilah and his sons were spirited away to safety by free Black abolitionists in another parish. The uprising ended when a militia used firearms, attack dogs, and horses to outrun and overpower the enslaved rebels on their defiant march toward another parish.

The militia caught Terry fleeing with five other slaves, two of them Native, who escaped capture toward the end. Days later, the militia surrounded them in a hot, mosquito-infested swamp, where they evaded gators and poisonous water moccasins that slithered on top of the brackish swamp water.

All six slaves were lynched from giant oak trees covered in drooping Spanish moss on a sweltering summer night. Celeste's eyes stayed riveted to the typewriter ink on yellowing sheets of paper. She cross-referenced the lynchings with a Google search and also looked it up in one of the old books Miss Irma kept on slave rebellions in the southeast. The event was known as the Opelousas Rebellion.

Celeste's fingers shook while reading.

The authorities buried five of the slaves' recovered bodies in a mass grave, and the lynch mob that cornered Terry and his cohorts met mysterious circumstances, resulting in their murder. Their bodies were found stacked neatly, showing ripped throats and shredded wrists. Every drop of blood in them drained. Only one witness escaped to alert others and he eventually went insane after sharing a chilling tale of night demons attacking them. Miss Irma's historical recollection of the official record switched over into what had to be Terry's personal statement as a firsthand witness and survivor.

A roaming pack of vampires came upon the lynching and slaughtered everyone they could find…except for Terry. He had been the last one hung from the tree, his body jerking in the throes of approaching death, dangling like strange fruit until a vampire turned him into one of their own, saving what insignificant life he had left.

Miss Irma had no further details other than Terry finding his way back to his family a year later and living through centuries, reinventing himself as a son, grandson, great-grandson, and so on with each generational loss. At the bottom of the last page, Miss Irma wrote a handwritten note to herself: Check on the background of T'ewati Kobebi, the Aksumite Empire, and look up biblical notes on why the mention of tattoos only occurs once in the bible from Jesus.

Scribbled below the word 'tattoos' was a hand-drawn depiction of Terry's tattoo with a complete circle. Miss Irma drew the bottom half in black ink and shaded the top half with pencil lead. Between the typed manuscript, she had inserted two folded sheets of white copy paper. Celeste unfolded the sheets to find over fifty mystical symbols of chakras, magic circles, and pentagrams. She recognized a rudimentary ankh symbol, and several Christian Coptic crosses. Most of the magic circle images were underlined or had an asterisk next to it. Several had some configuration of an eight-pointed star symbol in the center. One looked eerily similar to Terry's tattoo that she circled in red ink.

Celeste spent the rest of her time in bed looking at the gargoyle pictures from Miss Irma's various flash drives on her laptop. She smiled at how young Miss Irma was in the fifties and sixties, traveling around the world, snapping photos of ugly relics. Her looks back then reminded Celeste of Lena Horne with the silky hair and button nose. A tattered journal explained the differences in gargoyles based on their country of origin and mapped out their locations worldwide. There was a lot of biblical scholarship research on Satan and the Book of Revelations, angels, demons, and the decline of the American church. Miss Irma had a keen interest in proving that ancient myths and folklore were real. Celeste shivered in her bed. Miss Irma listed many fantastical creatures that existed alongside the few Celeste had encountered in person. It would take months, maybe even a year, to read and decipher all the written research from that brilliant mind.

With her eyes exhausted from reading and scrolling images, Celeste fell into a deep sleep. Nightmare visions of the vampire attack caused her to toss, turn, and shout in her sleep. Dark dreams of holding a brown baby with fangs woke her up with a pounding headache…and a pounding on her door. Her cell phone vibrated on her nightstand. She answered it.

"Hello?"

"Duchess, I'm outside your front door," Micah said.

His voice sounded stressed with worry. She climbed out of bed and let him inside her home.

"I've been calling you all day. Why aren't you answering your phone?" he asked.

Celeste plopped down on her sectional and covered her eyes with her hand. Micah sat next to her.

"My life is fucked up, Micah."

She glanced at her cousin. His handsome face openly conveyed how much he loved her and cared about her well-being.

"I'm pregnant. Terry is the father."

Micah squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together in a disappointed line.

"I told you not to—"

"Stop! Please! I don't need you making me feel worse than I do."

"How far along are you?"

"I'll be ten weeks in a couple of days."

"Okay…okay…what are you going to do? Are you keeping it?"

"I don't think I can because…."

Celeste looked at her cousin. She chewed on her bottom lip, stopping herself from saying the word vampire out loud.

"I'm thinking of going to California to have an abortion."

Her stomach muscles cramped, and she rubbed it, letting out a breath as the pain went away.

"I can go with you. My job owes me some extra off days for covering people."

She nodded.

"I haven't told anyone except you, and I don't want others to know."

"Will you tell him?"

"I don't know where he is. We haven't spoken in person or over the phone since he left here."

"Decisions like this are hard…especially a second time. I think you should go talk to Father Mbenga."

"Confession? Why would I tell Father Mbenga about this? He'd see it as a sin and talk me out of it."

"I didn't say do a confessional…I meant seek counsel from a spiritual advisor you trust. I can see in your eyes that this is painful, and spiritual counsel always helps you, Duchess. Your voice is saying get rid of it, but your eyes…bay-buh…your eyes are full of doubt. When we were teenagers, the thought of you having a baby so young hurt me, because I knew that nigga who did it to you was bad news. We rushed you through it because it was the right thing to do for you at that time."

"What about this time?"

"You're a grown woman who wants children…a family. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise."

"I never wanted to be a single mother, Micah."

"Well…if we find that green-eyed pussy bandit, maybe you won't have to be."

"I thought you were pissed about that man."

"I am, and he needs to face his responsibilities either way."

"There'd be no point telling him about it if I don't keep it."

"You want to keep it."

"I can't."

"Listen, we can go over to the church, and you can just talk about the stress you're under…nothing about being pregnant. God always has a way of showing the way when you really need it."

Celeste teared up and wiped at her eyes.

"I'll get dressed," she said.

Micah waited for Celeste outside of the church.

She walked inside, crossed herself in the vestibule and made her way toward the space worshippers were in while the church was still being worked on. She genuflected in front of a pew and then sat down. The stillness within the sanctuary humbled the anxiety in her chest. She folded her hands across her stomach and pondered her situation quietly. As a little girl, she often imagined herself having a baby to carry inside of St. Augustine's for a christening with all of her family around, celebrating her own little bundle of joy wrapped in a soft, white lace Christening gown.

Sadly, Celeste could only see herself carrying a baby that would probably sizzle in pain if Father Mbenga poured baptismal holy water over her head. It wouldn't be right to bring a child into the world that would only face the horrors of a lonely vampire existence like her father.

She stood up quickly.

"Sister Celeste?"

Father Mbenga approached her from the back of the pew.

"Did we have an appointment?" he asked.

"No, Father Mbenga, I just…"

Celeste's lip trembled, and she closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her face.

"Sit…sit…oh, what troubles you?" he asked.

Father Mbenga slipped in next to her on the pew and Celeste choked out her words.

"I find myself in a situation that was avoidable, but I think maybe I wanted it too, and I don't know how to move forward."

She wiped a dangling teardrop from her nose.

"I came to talk to you about it, but I don't think I'm ready to do that yet."

"God is with you, no matter the problem you face. When you are ready, come back. The church is your spiritual backbone for whatever storms you may have to weather."

"Thank you," she said.

He stood with her and walked her to the exit.

Outside, the bright sun and muggy heat greeted her. Micah jumped out of his car.

"You're done already?" he asked.

"No. I changed my mind. I'll come back another time when I feel stronger…braver. I want to walk around."

"I'll come with you."

They took a slow trip around memory lane and Micah pointed out spots where they played as children or snuck out to meet boys and girls for street fights, or smoke out sessions. Her cousin made her laugh and remember what it was like to be young and carefree. An hour later, they strolled to their grandparents' home so Celeste could urinate and hear the comforting sounds of Big Chief and Grand-mère enjoying their Saturday afternoon. They ate leftover beef stew with white rice and Big Chief showed them sketches for his new Indian suit.

She left her grandparents' house with a full belly and sprinkles of love cast over her.

"You look better," Micah said.

"I feel a little better. Still a lot to think about, though."

"I'll take you home. You can think some more and call me when you want to talk it out. I would hang with you longer, but I gotta get ready for work later."

She linked her arm around his.

"Thank you for supporting me…as always," she said.

They ambled back around to his car and he drove toward her house. Her phone chirped and the auto dealership mechanic left a text stating that they had to order a new window for her and the Charger wouldn't be ready until Monday or Tuesday at the latest. Celeste sighed and didn't worry too much. She had time off from work and hadn't planned on working Sunday either. Her little fetish side hustle videos covered the elder care facility income for the Lord's day.

"Well, I'll be damned," Micah stated loudly.

Celeste's heart swelled in her chest and she gripped the door handle of Micah's sporty Lexus coupe.

Seated at the top step of her stoop was Terry. Clothed in a simple orange T-shirt and comfortable tan cargo pants, he raised his head and stood immediately the moment he noticed Celeste.

"You want me to stay?" Micah asked.

"No, I need to talk to him alone."

"Call me if it goes south, okay?"

"I will," she said.

She stepped out of the Lexus and Micah watched the both of them without leaving, making sure she was truly okay.

"Hey," Terry said.

"Hi."

"It's been a while, and I wanted to see you. Sorry for not giving you a heads up that I was coming back down."

"You stopped communicating with me. I thought maybe���maybe it was for the best since we're living in two different places."

In the sunlight, his eyes held the color of balmy Caribbean waters. No blinking meant his gaze pierced into the deepest part of her. All she could think of standing there in front of her house was that his Black father had sold him into slavery. Terrible white men strung him up in a tree…all because he wanted to free his people. Did it matter if a strange vampire pack saved his life so he could watch over his loved ones for centuries? He didn't act like a feral beast. The man loved his family. Loved her.

Her chest shuddered. Tears sprang out too fast to cover up her emotions. Terry wrapped his muscular arms around her.

"I'm sorry I had to leave. It's been difficult being away from you, Duchess."

She buried her face in his shoulder, unable to express openly everything she'd experienced since his absence. It made no sense to be terrified of him and in love equally. She pushed back from him and averted eye contact.

In the daylight, they were safe. However, she didn't think it was wise for him to know that she was aware of his lineage. She had to play it close to the vest.

"How long are you here for?"

"A couple of days and then I have to get back. I got a room at a hotel…I just needed to see you again. Baby, I miss you."

Celeste's stomach flip-flopped and she climbed the steps to her front door. Glancing around, she noticed Micah still parked in front of her place. She nodded her head for him to leave and he made a 'call me' hand motion before he pulled away from the curb.

Terry followed her inside the house.

"I'll make us some tea," she said, needing an excuse not to look at him directly.

In the kitchen she fumbled with the tea-making, spilling sugar cubes everywhere and nearly breaking a saucer for the cups. She focused on keeping her hands steady as she carried the cups and saucers out into the living room.

They sipped together in silence, the tension between them thick like the roux in her grandmother's cooking pot.

"This place still feels cozy," he said.

He put his drink down and reached for her hand. She pulled back, keeping a polite distance.

"You have every right to be mad at me for not keeping in touch, or at least telling you I couldn't see you again right away."

"Things happen. We had fun. I was upset for a minute, but I'm over it."

So many questions ran races around in her brain. What did he do while he was gone? Did he hunt people and just stay low key, hiding in trees or stalking victims near clubs? Were there others like him? Daywalkers who other vampires depended on? The Deacon said Terry was an apex predator, and yet she never picked up on anything violent about him except for when he punched those white men two months ago on her behalf.

The Deacon and his pack wanted Terry. Once the night time came, they would probably know he was there with her. What if they pretended to be nice to her just to lure him back for nefarious reasons?

Celeste didn't know what to do.

"Duchess? Why won't you look at me?"

She played it off.

"I'm still upset with you, so I don't even want to look at you. I think you should leave. What we had is over, and it's best if we both move on."

The words sounded corny and cliché flowing out of her mouth, but it was the best she could come up with. She didn't know for sure if she was protecting him or herself. Maybe both.

"If you want me to go, I will. But I want you to look me in my eyes and say it…so I'll know it's real."

Don'tdoitDon'tdoitDon'tdoit…don't…

She squeezed her eyes shut and refused to look at him.

"Be mad, but please…don't shut me out. You're all I have left," he pleaded.

Celeste rocked forward in her seat and fell apart. The pain of being alone wafted off of him and she couldn't resist touching him again. She threw her arms around him and he rested his chin on top of her head. His body trembled against her and she was so close to spilling her secret and his. She clamped her mouth shut.

He cradled her chin with his hand, and she still refused to look at him. Celeste didn't want him to read her mind or do any of the things vampires could do to break her will.

"Why won't you look at me?"

"I can't…I don't wanna fall for you again."

He pressed his forehead against hers.

"I still love you," he said. "Being away hasn't changed my feelings. Tell me you don't love me anymore and I'll go away…never to bother you again. Je t'aime tellement, j'ai besoin de toi dans ma vie. Je veux être avec toi… all your life, Duchess."

Celeste gasped. He loved and needed her in his life. Wanted to be with her for as long as she lived. She glanced at the clock on her living room wall. They had a little over five hours before the sun went down.

Celeste looked directly into Terry's eyes. If he was brazen enough to read her thoughts in the past, would he do it now?

He only sighed in relief and kissed her lips gently once.

"Your eyes tell me you still feel the same about me," he said.

She balked for a second. He didn't invade her thoughts. Terry lifted her right hand and kissed her palm.

"I want to take you somewhere special to me."

"Where?"

"Mémé's house. You can think of it as a vacation."

"Why didn't you take me there before?" she asked.

"I thought it might've been too soon, especially after her death. Time away from here has given me a chance to think."

"I've done a lot of thinking too…and we need to talk…about a bunch of things. My life is different now—"

He kissed her.

His lips covered her mouth completely, and she gave in to the passion he conveyed for her.

She loved him.

Felt sorry for him.

Feared him.

Every emotion within her became tossed about, muddying the waters of discernment. Clarity. Down…down…down she went, drowning in his kisses and his tongue sliding in her mouth. She gave back hungry kisses, too. No human could understand what it felt like to be kissed and touched by a vampire. The man knew every spot on her body to break her down further, from licking the side of her neck to plunging his tongue in her ear.

He groaned her name into her skin. She folded like a losing poker hand.

She wanted him. He wanted her. Was that so wrong? A human and a vampire feeling desire for one another? Miss Irma said he loved her, and would a ghost lie?

Terry made her feel things that she'd never experienced with a human man before. Cherished and protected. Love overflowed from him and poured into her and she was willing to be damned by it if it meant she could have that feeling forever in his arms.

He lifted her from the sectional and carried her into the bedroom. She let him undress her. It didn't take long to unbutton her summer blouse and pull down her skirt. She kicked off her sandals and watched him take off his clothes, his eyes never leaving hers.

He kissed every part of her and took his time fondling her breasts. Her nipples were sensitive and a simple flick of his fingers had them stiff. He sucked on them far longer than she expected, and she gazed at the ceiling. The light of day looked even more magical with him in her arms. His fingers slid across her locs and he played with them like they were just as sexy as her breasts. The full arousal of his dick slapped against her legs and she ignored it, knowing it would have her laid out soon enough. Once Terry put that hammer on her, wasn't no sane reason on earth to try and keep a rational mind.

He rested on his side, hugging her close to his naked warmth. His thick fingers stroked her cheek. She luxuriated in the shivers running across her skin.

"I want us to stay like this for days and days on end," he said.

She traced an index finger around his right nipple, and it hardened. Puckering her lips, she forced him to lower his head to kiss her again. He shifted his position even lower and kissed her vulva, paying close attention to the arc above her clit. She felt the thumping under her clitoral hood and moaned his name when he licked all over her inner labia. After a time, he rose with shiny, wet lips. Celeste made minimum effort to respond in kind. She remained a pillow princess and let him put forth all the effort in lovemaking. Her goal was to remain alert and experience his affections without losing herself to the lust.

He gave more effort to engage her, going so far as to place her hand on his erection, forcing her to please him. She slid her hand up and down with his hand covering hers, helping her keep on task, never going further than the thick ridge under his tip. Pre-cum spilled out, and he reached for a bottle of lube on the side table. He squeezed the dark blue plastic bottle and the odor of vanilla became strong to her nose as the sticky lubricant coated his dick, helping her hand slide with a slick pressure on his length. Rubbing some around her opening, he stared at her face, drinking in the intoxicating way he made her feel with his lovemaking prowess. Love shined in his eyes and glowed all around his face. Her heart wanted to confess about the pregnancy, but her mind fought back to keep that hidden from him. She still wasn't sure what to do, and telling him wouldn't help her. It would just add more pressure and cloud her judgement.

Terry repositioned Celeste on her side. He lifted her leg and pushed the tip of his dick against her opening.

"Terry," she murmured.

He kissed her and penetrated in two places, her mouth with his tongue, and her pussy with his dick at the same time. She gripped the sheet on her bed and braced her back against his chest. Terry made that dick move in her pussy. He dug deep in her walls and the lube had her pussy slippery to accommodate his size. She stretched around him well enough, but her lips twisted up, letting out little yelps and squeals, unable to process how good it felt to have that dick back where it belonged.

He squeezed and played with her tits, enjoying the way they bounced on the bed as he rocked into her with a steady pounding. A minute later, he lifted her right leg and kept it suspended in the air, using it to balance the thrusts he gave.

"Goddamn, this shit stays so tight around me," he moaned. "You missed me, huh?" he teased.

She smiled and reached back to touch his hair.

"Pussy gonna have me making a mess all in it…keep squeezing this dick like that and you'll have a problem on your hands."

She laughed, and he kissed her, still pumping that thick dick into her depths. Her passive energy excited him more, perhaps making him feel like he had to prove himself to her again. He grunted, kept her leg up, and complimented her sugary walls with each slap of his balls on her ass. Between thrusts, he stroked her clit, edging her so good she started getting blurry vision.

He fucked in the same way that got her pregnant and that excited Celeste, causing her pussy to spasm before she was ready, her orgasm rippling all across that heavy dick.

"Cum on my dick…keep cumming on my…dick…yessss…just like that…taking this dick like the good girl you are…ooh shit, you're still cumming…you want me to nut, don't you? Make a big mess all in this pussy…that's what you want…I can feel it…look how you're doing all this dick…all this dick…fuck all this dick…"

His mouth slammed down on her neck, and this time, Celeste was aware of everything, the initial pain, the deep sucking to snatch away her blood, the pressure of teeth that became unnatural inside her throat. She could even feel her heartbeat thrum in time to his sucking—

Terry froze.

His thrusts abruptly stopped. He dropped her leg onto the bed. His tongue and lips no longer stole her lifeblood.

Slowly…ever so slowly…he pulled his teeth out of her neck. His dick pulsed inside her pussy and she had no control over the final contractions of her orgasm. He pushed her chin, making her look at him.

She nearly screamed.

His eyes glowed with the inhuman reflection that he shared with The Deacon. His canine teeth and premolars were long, sharp, and dripping with her blood. Even with the feral gleam in his eye and the vicious, sharp teeth exposed, Terry's beauty became enhanced in his full vampire glory.

How dumb and blind she had been!

This was his true self.

"You can't be," he whispered under his breath.

He licked her blood from his teeth and around his dripping lips.

"Impossible!" he yelled.

He pulled his dick out and they both could see how close he was to cumming. His pre-cum still spilled out.

Celeste shrank into herself and stayed in a tight ball on a corner of the bed, pulling the sheet over her breasts.

"A girl…" he whispered, his eyes staring off into space.

Celeste nodded and he jumped off the bed as if she had the plague.

"Vampires can't breed with humans."

There.

He said it out loud. Naming what he was to her face.

"I know what you are," she said. "But you got me pregnant."

His eyes watered, and he bared his teeth at her threateningly.

"He called her a dhampir. Told me she was priceless," she said, rising to her knees on the bed.

"He?" Terry said, his eyes narrowing.

"The Deacon—"

Terry had her by the throat and pinned against the wall above the headboard before she could finish another word. She tried prying his hand away from her throat.

"I can't breathe…Terry…"

"When did you see him?!"

His harsh tone scared her. She burst into tears.

He dropped her back on the bed and stepped away from her, staring down at her like she was a cursed thing. She rubbed her throat and left the room. Padding into her sewing room, she grabbed a manilla folder. She returned to the bedroom and tossed Miss Irma's biography about him on the bed.

"I know all about you, Terry. How you became a slave. Your lynching. Your re-birth as a vampire."

Terry touched Miss Irma's tome and shut his eyes. He opened them back up and looked at her naked body.

"When did you see Abai?"

"Abai?"

"That's his real name. The Deacon is just something I used to call him as a joke between us."

Terry's voice sounded tired. Celeste folded her arms across her breasts.

"He came here looking for you with four other female vampires a week ago. They saved my life the other day. Another group of vampires attacked my co-workers when I helped change their tire. Abai, he knew I was pregnant. He cut my hand and tasted my blood, told me I was having a girl."

"You let him feed from you?"

Terry's nostrils flared, and his sharp teeth looked more menacing.

"I didn't let him…it happened during the attack, and I was…protecting myself…protecting what's inside me. Miss Irma…Mémé…she came to me as a ghost while I was at work and told me I was pregnant first. She knew it was a girl…she told me to look in her papers to know your story."

"Dhampirs are not real. None have ever existed. It's a myth. Humans and vampires are two different species incapable of reproducing anything."

"Nigga, I didn't think you were real either, but I've seen two different types of vampires and a ghost. Go fucking figure!"

She stomped out of the bedroom and locked herself in the bathroom. Angry and full of tears, Celeste ran the shower and cleaned herself off. She pulled on her bathrobe from the hook on the bathroom door.

"You don't have to worry about me keeping this mythical fetus. I'm going to fly out-of-state to get it taken out of me!" she shouted.

A fiery pain burned in her chest. This was the outcome she expected from him finding out. Denial. Negative behavior. The typical lame male response of not wanting to take responsibility for his part in the mess. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her face looked wet and her eyes were red and puffy from crying in the shower.

"You can leave, Terry. I'll take care of everything. Let's just act like we never met. No one would believe me about vampires anyway, so don't trip about your secret."

She flung open the bathroom door, and he was right there, bigger than life, waiting for her to come out.

"I don't want you to take care of anything," he said.

"What?"

His eyes were wet with tears and full of longing.

"Maybe…maybe this is a miracle for us, Duchess…maybe this was meant to be. I have endured the loss of so much for so long. Do you think the god you love so much took pity on me?"

"What are you saying?"

"I want to have this baby with you.

Chapter 13 HERE.

Masterlist

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[buttacake80]

📣 And this muthafucka 📣

That is what Kamala wanted to say, but she's a Black woman, and the expectations of decorum and professionalism are much higher for her than Trump.

Numerous instances during the debate, Trump spoke over the muted microphone 🎤. And the moderators allowed him multiple times to address the question he PREFERRED to address rather than the question posed him.

They did not extend that same privilege to Kamala.

Women are expected to concede space to men. To center their grievances over our own. And, for Black women, there is an even bigger expectation that we are subservient to everyone else.

Any Black professional woman of a certain age knew and felt that moment when Kamala adjusted her strategy.

📣 She couldn't cut up in front of the white folk. 📣

She quieted & allowed the moderators to do their job because if she had broken character, like Trump was permitted to, she would have become the Angry Black Woman.

I know that feeling so very well.

Plenty of times, I have been the smartest and most competent person in the room, yet all the white folk deferred to the loud, boisterous white man with the Ivy League degrees. They'd blame "facial expressions" or "defensiveness" as reasons why I couldn't lead. No substantial criticism of my work; just that I was "difficult" to work with because I made them uncomfortable with my competency.

A white man can be assertive. A white man can look you in the eye. A white man can grasp your hand firmly in a handshake. A white man can command a room. A white man can claim the seat at the head of the table.

But, a Black woman who exhibits such behavior is difficult to work with because she refuses to play into white gender roles.

Did anyone else catch when Trump even said, "quiet woman" or something like that?

I love that moment when white men reveal their fear. Their vulnerability and insecurity.

The reason white men hate Black women so much is that they know the stereotype they created for us is actually the archetype of the *men* they aspire to be.

Not only could Kamala meet his energy, she would have done it in a far more entertaining way, but she chose not to. And that was purposeful.

I think it’s something unique to Black Gen X women.

Our parents were the kids of the Jim Crow Era. Our parents attended segregated schools. Our parents sat at the back of the bus.

Our grandparents survived race riots. They survived lynchings and ethnic cleansing of entire Black communities.

So, we carry their scars. Like they were fresh to us.

But, we were going to school in the 70s/80s/90s when schools are desegregated, but there were still policies and laws that discriminated against women & girls.

So, we grew up punching little boys just so we could play on the tetherball, too.

And as a little Black girl, I punched a whole helluva lot of white boys who got in my way of the tetherball.

[mopopshop]

Don’t take this as hate, take it as constructive criticism but Caitlin not addressing the millions of people (her fans) who use her name to spew and spread misinformation, negativity, and racism is disgusting. Honestly.

She has the privilege and the platform to acknowledge these things and stand up for her teammates and for the many many black women in the league who have been bashed just for existing near CC.

It’s just becoming annoying at this point, the thousands of times interviewers have asked her to say something and she blatantly refuses.

“I’m just here to play basketball” isn’t going to cut it anymore, the black women in this league who’re being harassed just wanna play basketball as well but they don’t get the opportunity to just move on and ignore the things that are happening when it’s literally threatening their safety.

Caitlin said nothing when her “fans” showed up at the Chicago Sky’s hotel after the game to physically harass Chennedy Carter, she especially didn’t say anything when people were threatening to lynch Angel Reese and her family.

Her ignorance has become complacency and something needs to change immediately.

Argue with me if you’d like, we can talk about it all you want but I’m not changing my stance on this.

[longliveblackness]

The Horrors of Lynching: Photographs and Postcards

Note to readers: This post contains graphic and disturbing images.

During the late 19th and early 20th century, thousands of photographs and postcards of Black Americans killed by white mobs in racist terror lynchings were collected, traded and sent through the U.S. postal service.

The postcards and photographs, depicting gruesome images of the bodies of Black men, women and children who had been tied to trees, mutilated, tortured, shot and burned alive by white mobs, were often distributed as souvenirs and saved as mementos in family albums and stored away in attics for safekeeping.

The lynching photographs often captured the bodies of the murdered Black Americans and the hundreds of white people — including children — who gathered to witness the public spectacle of lynchings. According to historians, in more than half of these photos and postcards, white people were shown smiling and celebrating the spectacles.

WHITE PEOPLE MONETIZED THE MURDER OF BLACK PEOPLE

Lynching photographs and postcards were shrewdly distributed — ​​often for profit — across communities by hand and through the U.S. mail. They were often sold for as little as a quarter, which would be worth about $3.46 today.

Source: wordinblack.com

Translated by Long Live Blackness by Shaneyra Thompson

•••

Los horrores de los linchamientos: fotografías y postales

Nota para los lectores: Esta publicación contiene imágenes gráficas e inquietantes.

Descripción de primera imagen: [Cinco afroamericanos fueron colgados de un cornejo en el condado de Sabine, Texas, en 1908 como "una advertencia para todos los negros".]

Traducción de la postal:

Esta es sólo la rama de un árbol de Cornejo;

Un emblema de la SUPREMACIA BLANCA.

Una lección que una vez se enseñó en la escuela de los Pioneros:

que esta es una tierra de GOBIERNO DEL HOMBRE BLANCO.

Una vez, temprano en la mañana, los blancos le dijeron al Hombre Rojo que enmendara su camino.

El negro, ahora, por gracia eterna, debe aprender a permanecer en el lugar del negro.

En el Soleado Sur, la Tierra de los Libres, que la SUPREMACÍA BLANCA sea para siempre.

Que esto sea una advertencia para todos los negros, o sufrirán el destino del árbol de Cornejo.

A finales del siglo XIX y principios del siglo XX, se recopilaron, comercializaron y enviaron a través del servicio postal de Estados Unidos miles de fotografías y postales de estadounidenses negros asesinados por turbas blancas en linchamientos terroristas racistas.

Las postales y fotografías, que mostraban imágenes espantosas de los cuerpos de hombres, mujeres y niños negros que habían sido atados a árboles, mutilados, torturados, fusilados y quemados vivos por turbas blancas, a menudo se distribuían como souvenirs y se guardaban como recuerdos en álbumes familiares.

Las fotografías de los linchamientos a menudo capturaban los cuerpos de los estadounidenses negros asesinados y los cientos de personas blancas (incluyendo niños) que se reunían para presenciar el espectáculo público de los linchamientos. Según los historiadores, en más de la mitad de estas fotografías y postales, se mostraba a personas blancas sonriendo y celebrando los espectáculos.

LOS BLANCOS MONETIZARON EL ASESINATO DE LOS NEGROS

Se distribuyeron astutamente fotografías y postales de linchamientos (a menudo con fines de lucro) entre las comunidades, en mano y por correo postal. A menudo se vendían por tan solo veinticinco centavos, lo que hoy valdría unos 3.46 dólares.

Descripción de segunda imagen: [Una postal de un linchamiento en Duluth. 15 de Junio, 1920.]

Fuente: wordinblack.com

Traducido por Long Live Blackness by Shaneyra Thompson

[spider-gem]

Alright, you know what time it is: THEORY TIME!

In Hazbin Hotel, everyone’s name correlates to their character (such as Angeldust, Vox, Sir Pentious, etc). As a writer and reader, I firmly believe that names are important and can give us a deeper look into characters. Alastor, despite keeping his real name from life, is not an exception.

In a series where names reflect their characters, I would bet that Alastor’s gives us a hint into who he was before he died. This, along multiple other reasons, leads me to believe that Alastor only targeted guilty or corrupt people in power.

Hear me out:

We don’t know much about Alastor’s past, as nothing has been confirmed in the show. So for now, let’s analyze the lore we’ve gotten from Vivziepop over the years and the context clues in the show. Let’s look at the hazbin wiki:

Now, that “weird moral code” could be directed at anyone, but here’s my reasons for believing he went after corrupt people with power:

1. I’ve never seen the show, but I know that Dexter was about a vigilante serial killer that targeted criminals that haven’t been punished by the justice system due to corruption. So I would say, seeing Alastor is being compared to Dexter, Alastor likely went after the same type of people.

2. He grew up and lived in New Orleans, Louisiana in the early 1900’s as a mixed man. If you don’t know much about American history, just remember that this during a period of segregation and heavy discrimination against Black Americans, and Louisiana was one of the most racist states at the time. I’m not going to go through a whole history lesson right now, but note that lynchings reached their height by the late 1800’s to early 1900’s as a way to enforce white supremacy and intimidate minorities. Some cases, if not most, were not regarded as homicides by police and the overwhelming majority of lynching perpetrators never faced justice. Even if they were tried, all white juries ensured that they wouldn’t be convicted. Seems like a good target for a Creole serial killer, right?

3. In the series, so far, we’ve seen that Alastor’s closest connections are with female characters, such as Rosie, Mimzy, and Nifty. He’s also been described as a “momma’s boy” before, so it’s safe to say he has high respect for women. During the period of his life span, women had little rights. Sure, they gained the right to vote in 1920, but that was about it. It wasn’t even until a few years after Alastor died before women had the right to divorce their husbands, and were often stuck in abusive households. For this reason, I could see Alastor going after domestic abusers as well.

4. He probably killed bigots that attempted to tear down his radio show as well. I don’t really have much evidence for this claim, but note that Alastor was a famous radio star. He’s also Creole. While some Creole people were considered as “white-passing”, interracial marriage was prohibited in Louisiana during this period. Alastor very likely had to struggle to succeed, and there’s no doubt that certain people in power attempted to tear him down because of his heritage.

5. Let’s look at his life in hell now. Who has he been rumored to have targeted ? That’s right, powerful overlords. Even in hell, Alastor still went after people in power. Sure, this was arguably to gain power, but the point that he only went after corrupt powerful figures still stands. Anyone else we see him kill, such as the loan sharks or the angels, threatened him and the hotel first.

To conclude, there’s no saying what sent Alastor on his path as a serial killer. I personally favor the popular fan theory that his first kill that sent him on this path was his father, likely after his father harmed/killed his mother, but anyone’s theory is as valid as that one at the moment. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.

It could just be the social justice warrior in me saying, “Oh yeah, Alastor TOTALLY killed corrupt cops and domestic abusers”. However, I do believe that my theory on Alastor’s moral code is true based on my observations.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

October 26, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Oct 27, 2024

Beginning in 1943, the War Department published a series of pamphlets for U.S. Army personnel in the European theater of World War II. Titled Army Talks, the series was designed “to help [the personnel] become better-informed men and women and therefore better soldiers.”

On March 24, 1945, the topic for the week was “FASCISM!” 

“You are away from home, separated from your families, no longer at a civilian job or at school and many of you are risking your very lives,” the pamphlet explained, “because of a thing called fascism.” But, the publication asked, what is fascism? “Fascism is not the easiest thing to identify and analyze,” it said, “nor, once in power, is it easy to destroy. It is important for our future and that of the world that as many of us as possible understand the causes and practices of fascism, in order to combat it.”

Fascism, the U.S. government document explained, “is government by the few and for the few. The objective is seizure and control of the economic, political, social, and cultural life of the state.” “The people run democratic governments, but fascist governments run the people.” 

“The basic principles of democracy stand in the way of their desires; hence—democracy must go! Anyone who is not a member of their inner gang has to do what he’s told. They permit no civil liberties, no equality before the law.” “Fascism treats women as mere breeders. ‘Children, kitchen, and the church,’ was the Nazi slogan for women,” the pamphlet said. 

Fascists “make their own rules and change them when they choose…. They maintain themselves in power by use of force combined with propaganda based on primitive ideas of ‘blood’ and ‘race,’ by skillful manipulation of fear and hate, and by false promise of security. The propaganda glorifies war and insists it is smart and ‘realistic’ to be pitiless and violent.” 

Fascists understood that “the fundamental principle of democracy—faith in the common sense of the common people—was the direct opposite of the fascist principle of rule by the elite few,” it explained, “[s]o they fought democracy…. They played political, religious, social, and economic groups against each other and seized power while these groups struggled.”  

Americans should not be fooled into thinking that fascism could not come to America, the pamphlet warned; after all, “[w]e once laughed Hitler off as a harmless little clown with a funny mustache.” And indeed, the U.S. had experienced “sorry instances of mob sadism, lynchings, vigilantism, terror, and suppression of civil liberties. We have had our hooded gangs, Black Legions, Silver Shirts, and racial and religious bigots. All of them, in the name of Americanism, have used undemocratic methods and doctrines which…can be properly identified as ‘fascist.’”

The War Department thought it was important for Americans to understand the tactics fascists would use to take power in the United States. They would try to gain power “under the guise of ‘super-patriotism’ and ‘super-Americanism.’” And they would use three techniques: 

First, they would pit religious, racial, and economic groups against one another to break down national unity. Part of that effort to divide and conquer would be a “well-planned ‘hate campaign’ against minority races, religions, and other groups.”

Second, they would deny any need for international cooperation, because that would fly in the face of their insistence that their supporters were better than everyone else. “In place of international cooperation, the fascists seek to substitute a perverted sort of ultra-nationalism which tells their people that they are the only people in the world who count. With this goes hatred and suspicion toward the people of all other nations.” 

Third, fascists would insist that “the world has but two choices—either fascism or communism, and they label as ‘communists’ everyone who refuses to support them.”

It is “vitally important” to learn to spot native fascists, the government said, “even though they adopt names and slogans with popular appeal, drape themselves with the American flag, and attempt to carry out their program in the name of the democracy they are trying to destroy.” 

The only way to stop the rise of fascism in the United States, the document said, “is by making our democracy work and by actively cooperating to preserve world peace and security.” In the midst of the insecurity of the modern world, the hatred at the root of fascism “fulfills a triple mission.” By dividing people, it weakens democracy. “By getting men to hate rather than to think,” it prevents them “from seeking the real cause and a democratic solution to the problem.” By falsely promising prosperity, it lures people to embrace its security.

 “Fascism thrives on indifference and ignorance,” it warned. Freedom requires “being alert and on guard against the infringement not only of our own freedom but the freedom of every American. If we permit discrimination, prejudice, or hate to rob anyone of his democratic rights, our own freedom and all democracy is threatened.” 

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

+

Steve

I am profoundly appreciative of your work Professor Richardson – thank you.

It’s all coming into view this week isn’t it – the fascist playbook? Polls so close that no matter whether Harris wins by a small or large margin the GOP will cry foul ; local election boards that are corrupted ; a whole range of legal teams the GOP has lined up to challenge the election’s legality ; a stacked Supreme Court ; threats of violence against election officials ; the odious Elon Musk putting his thumb heavily on the scale ; the collusion with Putin and the compromising of our national security as Trump and Musk connive with a murderous dictator ; the desire of that same dictator for revenge, which is nothing less than the destruction of the US.

What will the US do without access to health care for women ? What will it do once the Right imposes its perverse view of history and education on our schools and universities, when the Florida model of repression goes national ? What will families do with no social security ? What misery will be visited on them when tariffs cause untold stress on already tight household budgets ? What environmental damage will come from a know-nothing attitude towards climate change, and the gutting if not outright elimination of NOAA and the early warning system for hurricanes ?

What will happen if they succeed in building their camps, and deport millions ? How will they try to hide the likely humanitarian catastrophe that will ensue ? What will happen to basic rights when police departments are further militarized and given a green light to arbitrarily treat citizens as they please ? What will happen as a lawless president pardons January 6th rioters ? Will he also pardon militia members who intimidate or even shoot peaceful protesters ? How long will people endure armed repression coupled with economic misery, before they themselves organize against it ?

What will the economy look like as the US exits NATO and leaves Europe to Putin ? What will happen to the US as the EU, an entity that helps sustain a robust US economy, is plunged into war as Putin gobbles up the Ukraine, the Baltics, and makes a play for Poland ? What will the nuclear powers of France and Britain do as remaining fellow NATO members are invaded ?

But the most important questions I have are more philosophical and humanistic : How can so many well-educated people be so cruel and reckless as to entrust these monsters – a Trump, a Musk, and at this late date, a Putin – with their futures ? How can the historic memory of Boomers be so short and insouciant as to forget the lessons of the 1930s and 1940s ? How can people be filled with such blind hate that they will die on the hill of a Trump, rather than on the hill that will expand rights, economic opportunity, and keep the planet livable ?

If you think this is hyperventilating, that is merely because I have taught about this sort of thing my entire life. Authoritarians will lie about everything – their racism, their sexism are based on lies, their patriotism and their piety utterly false. But the cruelty they tell you they intend to inflict ? That is almost always the only truth they tell.

[doberbutts]

One of the things that really confuses me (I'm a cis woman of color) is this doubling down on the idea that Black men aren't oppressed because they're men, they're oppressed because they're Black, gay men aren't oppressed because they're men, they're oppressed because they're gay, trans men aren't oppressed because they're men, they're oppressed because they're trans, etc. It feels like people are being intentionally obtuse. You can't separate my identity as a POC from my identity as a woman. I am treated the way I'm treated because I'm a woman of color, those two things work together. That's where discussions of intersectionality originated. So to say you can separate a privileged identity from an oppressed one is just.... not how anything works?

I constantly see "masculinity isn't criminalized/demonized, Blackness, queerness, transness are" and it's like.... no, that's not how this happens. Marginalized men face specific oppression based on the intersection of their identities. It seems like lately people are willing to understand that for women but not willing to for men and I just don't know how we make any progress if radfem rhetoric has become so pervasive that people are refusing to see lived realities rather than some abstract hypothetical they've come up with.

Personally I think this is due to (white) people seeing and liking black theory that they personally agree with or that makes sense to be applied to their own lives, and then cut out all the parts that are inconvenient for them to have to reconcile. Much like how many, many, many black feminists who are cis women have said "hey, white feminists, stop it with the all men are rapists thing, it actively contributes to black men getting lynched for crimes they didn't commit because it gets weaponized unfairly against our brothers" and white feminists collectively forgot how to read and abandoned their listening skills while still praising other parts of black feminism that talk about domestic violence and sexual assault and oversexualization and reproductive rights and rightly taking black men to task for their continued complacency in this.

The phrase "intersectionality" originated in black feminist theory. I do not trust any white person to fully understand black feminism when they use it as a bludgeon to make the inconvenient bits be quiet. Much of what is on this blog is black feminism. It is inconvenient for white people to have to consider how their words and actions may harm people of color while still lifting themselves up.

As you have said, you cannot separate the "of color" from the "woman" parts of your identity. You are a woman of color. That changes how both sexism and racism works against you in a system that is both sexist and racist. I, in the same manner, cannot separate the "trans" from the "man"- if I were not a man, I would be a woman. I am AFAB, if I am a woman, I am not trans. There is no "you experience this because you are transgender, not because you are a man". In order to be a man, in my body, I have to be transgender*. Just like there is no "you experience this because you are black, not because you are a man". I am a black man. The black experience is inherently, often forcibly, gendered. I can tell you exactly how people treating me changed in a "before" and "after". I can tell you that yes, some of it absolutely stems from the "man" part, they treat me this way because I am a black man.

But people often misunderstand intersectionality to be, exclusively, axis of oppression. And so they say, well learn intersectionality, men aren't oppressed and thus it's not an axis of oppression to combine. But that ignores that some men are oppressed, marginalized men are oppressed and often with a very gendered slant. And it ignores that, like how you cannot separate the "woman" from the "of color", neither can you do that with men.

Men are not the default. They are slightly less than half the population, same as women.

*re: in order to be a man in my body I must be transgender; yes, I am intersex. However I have been out as transgender for 17 years, and discovered I am intersex 6 months ago. So for me, that is very much the case. For other intersex people who were assigned female at birth, that may not be the case. This is something that works on an individual level but cannot be broadbrushed as there are many different opinions among intersex people regarding our cisgender vs transgender status.

[disgruntledexplainer]

“Anti-Catholic racism was never a thing!”

My brother in christ, there was once a holiday in the 13 colonies called “Pope’s Day” which equated the Pope to the Anti-Christ.

also prior to the civil war there were roughly 200 books published in america by protestant authors, some of them rather famous, advocating for violence against catholics as a result of the British Catholic Emancipation Act giving irishmen civil rights. many of these involved replacement theory and depicted nuns as sex slaves, because of course horny men can’t help projecting their desires on saintly women. it got so out of hand that they started to be considered a form of pulp fiction.

And in the 1890s 11 italian catholic were lynched at the same time in lousiana for a crime they didn’t commit.

and in the early 20th century one of the primary targets of the ku klux klan were Catholics (along with Jews, Blacks, and Asians), resulting in vandalism and boycotts of business that merely employed even a single catholic employee. their newspapers regularly published articles claiming that the catholics and jews were plotting together to take over the us government.

and when JFK was elected president, a man who could only barely be considered culturally catholic, mainstream american society threw a fit claiming that the Pope was about to take control of the government. which of course he didn’t because that’s not how the government works.

and prejudice against mexican catholics persists to this day. not to mention rumors of the US government sterilizing mexican women crossing the boarder.

in 2020 alone, 172 cases of vandalism against Catholic Churches throughout the US were reported, including at least one stolen tabernacle and a desecrated host. over a protest that WASN’T EVEN REMOTELY RELATED TO THE CHURCH.

and now you yourself are freaking out because the supreme court has catholics in it.

dang brian, both historically illiterate AND racist. and i thought you were “woke”.

[droopycoquette]

Leave Your Mark || Izogie x black!reader

Summary: After witnessing you and the Europeans together, Izogie feels she needs to make her claim on you more known. 

Warnings: established relationship, smut, oral(r!receiving), possessive!izogie, fluff, black!reader, fem!reader, top!Izogie, soft!dom!Izogie

Word count: 3.5k

A/n: Ya’ll I found asmr that sounds exactly like Lashana Lynch (๑>ᴗ<๑) Link

|*|

Your breathing was steady as you stood behind the king’s throne, greeting his guests. Your eyes contained a small glow, the only hint of your emotions. Excitement to see the trial of the young Agojie trainees tickled your skin as your face stayed in an inviting yet regal look. 

“Your Portuguese is perfect, my king,” the man in front of you gleamed, the look of a snake in his eyes. 

“Yes, well,” Ghezo started, motioning to you. “This lovely woman has been of great use to me, her Portuguese is perfect and she is an excellent teacher.”

At that, you bowed your head to him, your heart warmed at his words. As your head rose back up Ghezo nodded his head, a sign he was dismissing you. Your chest thumped at the event that was to take place in a couple of minutes. Your desire to see your love entering your bloodstream through your veins. You rushed to where Ghezo’s wives were sitting, your skirts rustling under you as you sat next to Shante. Quickly, the wives began to talk to you, asking what the King and the two European men were talking about, giggling at the newest palace gossip. 

“Did you know that Kiri, that maid I was telling you about,” Shante began. “Well, she and one of the infantrymen were caught together in the kitchen, and he’s married.”

You gasped, leaning in as she did. 

“And that’s not all, turns out she was also sleeping with the man’s wife,” she giggled. 

You began to giggle at that as well, the rest of the women laughing at Shante’s story, throwing in bits of extra information. Your worry for the trial spiked when you looked at the course they would be running, shivering as you gazed at the long thorns. You cringed at the thought of them and how deep they would puncture the skin. The heat would not help the trainees either. 

“Let us begin,” Ghezo commanded, silencing everyone. 

Your lips stayed still as the great doors opened, dust flying as the Agojie entered. You fought a small smile as you watched Izogie lead the trainees, a battle that you lost quickly as a small grin kissed your lips at the sheen of gloss covering her skin, her ankles wrapped in shells and leather, her face stern and unbending. The same pieces of leather jewelry could be found on her biceps as well, fighting against the muscles as she moved. 

“I’m beginning to think you like her more than you let on,” Shante smirked, her gaze fixed on the trainees. 

“What? Who,” you asked, your interest peaked. 

“Izogie.”

At that your face dropped into a glare, eyebrows furrowing and lips piercing. You kissed your teeth as your point of focus shifted to the trainees. 

“You’re just looking for drama,” you stated, eyes rolling before falling on the commander encouraging the young girls.

The beautiful, muscular woman moved towards you, making you scrunch your skirts up in anticipation. Her thighs flexed as she moved towards you, her bare feet kicking up dust and small pebbles. Her beauty never ceased to amaze you.

“Sure,” Shante muttered. 

You paid her no mind as Izogie turned around and stood at attention, giving you a full view of her back muscles. Her arm could be found in the small of her back while her other one grasped the handle of her blade. As the gun sounded, her arms flexed in reaction, clenching her sword. 

Your attention was broken as the girls screamed in pain, blood seeping through their white tunics. You cringed at their suffering. Watching as some broke free, you felt Shante grab onto you and you gripped back, gritting your teeth at the thorns in the young trainees’ foot. The trial was over in minutes, Nawi claiming victory. As the girl clamored over to the King, Shante shook you in delight at the victory making you giggle. As you looked at the victor, you felt someone’s gaze on you.

Izogie couldn’t help but stare. You’re beauty sparking bursts of joy in her chest. Your garments hugged your body and your jewelry framed your face perfectly. Izogie didn’t know much about dressing, but she did know that you were good at it. Your outfit was proof. She sucked in a breath as your smile came into view, your hair catching the breeze as a couple of strands hit your face. Izogie’s thumb brushed your initials on the handle of her blade, remembering when you smiled as you gave the sword to her. 

“Now, I’ll always be with you when you go into battle,” you had smiled, your muscles straining to hold the heavy object.

Izogie wished to smile as the memory entered her head, but all she could do was bite her tongue and wait till you both were alone. 

|*|

You sighed as the back of your head hit the ledge of the communal bath, your hair tied up in a bun so as not to get wet. The water kissed your skin sweetly, washing away the sweat and dirt the day had brought you. The temperature of the water contrasted with the heat of the day so perfectly causing you to close your eyes and let your mind go blank. The world behind your eyelids went black as you breathed in through your nose and out through your mouth.

Suddenly, footsteps could be heard right by your head, making you snap your eyes open. 

“Someone’s comfortable,” Izogie smirked, standing right over you. 

“My love,” you giggled, turning around to face her. 

Your eyes never left her as she sat on the ledge, her feet dangling in the water. Her white attire for the ceremony had changed to loose garments, one of a citizen of Dahomey. She looked relaxed. A sight very rare, even for you. 

“Come,” she smiled softly, her raspy voice caressing your ear. “Lay your head.”

You quickly complied, your back facing her and your head resting on her perfectly, pillowy thighs. Feeling the skin dip at the weight of your head and the smooth texture on your cheek. She smelled of incense and palm oil. You found comfort in her scent and began turning your nose closer to her thigh, nuzzling the muscly flesh. 

Her hands worked to undo your bun, her fingers expertly navigating your curls. 

“Are you enjoying your time with the two white men,” Izogie asked, her fingers finding your scalp. 

“Malik is mmh,” you moaned, making Izogie chuckle. “Malik is half white. His mother was Dahomey. And it’s-”

Your voice faded out and your eyes close again as you felt her nails digging into your spots, Iogie knew your body so well, she could navigate every inch with her eyes closed.

“You’re amazing,” you breathed. “Have I ever told you I love your nails?”

She began to lightly pull on your hair, tugging only enough to give a nice sensation, not to hurt. 

“Only 3 times a day,” she smiled down at you. 

Your eyes opened and watched as the warrior concentrated on your head massage. Her eyebrows furrowed and her tongue poked out of her mouth slightly, glossing over her top lip. Your attention drifted to her shoulder, where you patched up a stab wound caused by a competition. She smiled proudly that day. 

“When it heals,” she began. “It will be another scar you can kiss.”

“What are you smiling at,” Izogie whispered. 

“You,” you whispered back, your eyes gazing into hers dreamily. 

Izogie stopped breathing, her lips parting slightly and her eyes wide in shock. 

“You didn’t finish what you were saying earlier,” she coughed in an attempt to divert attention from herself. 

“About the white men you mean,” you giggled. 

She let out a small ‘mmhm,’ but refused to look at you. 

“It’s going fine,” you breathed, allowing her to calm down. “Speaking Portuguese has made me a great asset to the king.”

“I can see that,” she agreed, chuckling.

You both were silent after, enjoying the feeling of love and contentment as they swirled around your figures. Your hands came up underneath the commander’s calves as you caressed them, feeling them tighten up at your touch before relaxing. The sound of the water drops dripping from your hand filled your ears. 

“I miss you watching me during sparring sessions,” Izogie sulked. 

“I miss watching you,” you chuckled lovingly, eyes closing.

Izogie reached down to the top of your arm and guided it out of the water, her finger trailing to your hands, before bringing it to her lips. Causing a jolt of electricity to erupt from your abdomen

“And what should we do about that, my princess,” she rasped. 

“Ah, essa mulher,” you moaned, enjoying the pillowy feeling of her lips. Ah, this woman. 

“Oh,” Izogie smirked. “I think I have a couple ideas now.”

You felt her lean down as her breath kissed the cusps of your ear. 

“Portuguese, my love, really? You know what that language does to my body.”

You turned around and placed your crossed arms on her lap, before gazing at her through your eyelashes. 

“That was the idea,” you teased, an innocent look in your eye. 

“Leave.”

Both your heads snapped to the source of the sound coming from the entrance. Nanisca. 

“We just were Meganon,” Izogie sighed quickly standing before lending you a hand. 

“Hello Nanisca,” you greeted as you felt Izogie’s arms around you, helping you out of the pool.

The general only gave you a small head nod, the look of exhaustion telling you that that was the extent of her socialization capabilities. 

“Come on, my love,” Izogie whispered to you. 

You walked out of the bath as quickly as possible, the crisp night air hitting your wet skin, causing you to erupt in goosebumps. Izogie quickly wrapped her arms around you from behind, kissing your shoulder before placing her head on it. 

“Someone’s comfortable,” you mocked. 

“Hush,” she groaned, causing you to laugh. 

You enjoyed the feeling of her weight on you, leaning your head on hers. 

“You know,” Izogie began softly. “I watched you today, with Shante.”

“You were,” you responded, a light air of shock in your voice. 

Izogie’s arms adjusted as she tightened her grip on your waist. 

“I was. And you looked beautiful. All I could think about was the fact that you’re mine. Everyone couldn’t stop staring at you,” she breathed, placing light kisses on the side of your neck. “ I wanted to take you right there, in front of everyone,” 

At her words the electricity came back, jumping between your abdomen and your inner thighs. Izogie noted the change in your breath and how your hands came to cover hers.

“Especially in front of those Europeans. I bet they couldn’t dream of a woman’s lips on another’s,” Izogie allowed one of her hands to wander up to your breasts and the other down to your heat. “Couldn’t imagine a woman’s tongue deep inside the juices of her lover.” 

Her teeth sank into your nape, forcing a small gasp to leave your lips. 

“Izogie plea-” you began before a shriek took over. 

You often forgot how fast Izogie could be, in a matter of seconds she had you thrown over her shoulder, a sharp snap resounding in the air as her hand came into contact with your backside. Her shoulder’s flexed at the new weight but paid no mind as she kept her quick pace, casually walking back to your shared room. Truly it was your room, but somehow Izogie managed to convince the king that you need overnight protection, allowing her to stay with you. 

Izogie smirked as you unknowingly wiggled your hips, searching for the pleasure only she could give you. She gave you another hit, this one a little more painful than the last. 

“Izogie,” you shrieked at the contact. 

The warrior stayed silent as she entered your quarters hidden behind a curtain of silks and linen. Setting you onto the floor and stripping you in no time at all. 

“Wouldn’t want your bed to get wet, now would we,” she breathed, before forcefully kissing you. 

One of her hands caressed your face, her thumb brushing the apple of your cheek while the other, slipped to your hip, forcing you closer. Her tongue lapped at your lips before twirling around yours, saliva and breath mixing. 

“You’re mine,” she groaned. “Yes?”

“Yes,” you gasped, gaze flitting from her lips to her eyes. “Always.”

“Go lay down, princess.”

You moved to obey her immediately, laying down on your padded mat, leaning against your pillows, and spreading your legs. You shivered as your hands came under your knees and held them open, putting yourself on display. Izogie unwrapped her clothes as she kept eye contact with you, walking towards you slowly. Your hooded eyes never failed to make her tingle. 

“I’ve thought about these all day,” she sighed, kneeling down and brushing her fingers against your thighs. 

Your skin buzzed at her touch, the feeling of her burns tickling your skin making you lean into her. 

“Thought about this all day,” she moaned as she dragged two fingers through your slit. “You want me. Don’t you?”

“More than anything. Please,” you begged, your eyes glossing over. 

Izogie cooed at that, she could never say no to you. No matter how harsh she seemed, she belonged to you. She was wrapped around your finger and you were wrapped around hers. Her eyes stayed on you as she moved down to your core, cooing at the way your body rolled against her. 

“Stay still, my love,” Izogie chastised. 

You whined at her command but obeyed nonetheless, wanting nothing more than to feel her lips on you. Izogie continued to tease you, the sharp of her nail softly running up and down your inner thigh, tickling and arousing you at the same time. 

“Please, Izogie,” you whimpered. “Please.”

Her nose nuzzled at your thighs, enjoying their softness, the way they would jiggle when she slapped them. 

“You want my tongue,” she rasped, her hand coming up to flick your nipple. 

“Yes,” you gasped at the stimulation. “Yes, please.”

Izogie dragged the sharp of her nail down your torso, watching as you arched your back into her. A smile graced her face as you gasped when she nibbled at your inner thigh, the soft skin of her arm rubbed against your thigh while she held them close, arms flexing to keep you in place. 

Small whines left your lips as Izogie kissed anywhere but where you wanted her, your calves, your stomach, right above your clit, but never your heat. 

“Come on pretty girl,” she smirked. “Make some noise for me.”

Her tongue felt heavenly as it finally grazed your sensitive nub, the ridges of her tastebuds making your thighs clench and your stomach shake. Your juices licked at her chin as her tongue entered you, lapping at your heat. Her eyes closed as her senses were filled with you, the love she had for you overflowing. The room began to get humid as your bodies rolled against each other. The candles flickering around you, mirroring the feeling in your core. 

Her name left your lips repeatedly causing her to smile against you, her ego being stroked by your every sound and move. Your eyes drifted down to her, her head buried in your core, her back rippling as she flexed and relaxed, keeping you in place as you writhed against her. The sight of her muscles heightened your pleasure, the knowledge of her strength and her ability to break you making you high. 

“So sweet,” she whispered. “Have you thought about this too? Wanting me to taste you and pleasure you.”

You answered with gasps and whines, the desire to kiss her overriding your system. 

“Izogie, please,” you babbled. “Kiss m- ahh!”

“Can’t even string together a sentence,” she teased. “Want do you want princess? Hmm?”

Your look of desperation made her moan into you, her body rolling against the mat. Her eyes were set on you, your eyes rolled back and your mouth permanently open. It was enough to make her cum right there. 

“Kiss me,” you whimpered, looking at her through dazed eyes. 

She couldn’t deny you even if she wanted to. Her body covered yours, her fingers staying between your legs. Your veins were flooded with ice and fire, your stomach quivering at the feeling. The pads of her fingers pressed deeply onto your clit, careful not to scratch you with her nails. Her lips made contact with your skin first, starting at where your shoulders connected with your neck. The softness of her lips strengthening your desire to kiss her. 

“Izogie, I want your lips,” you shuttered. “Don’t you think you’ve teased me eno-ahh.”

A shock wave rolled through you, not as powerful as an orgasm but still strong. 

“Ooh,” Izogie notices. “You feel that? Is my princess close? Gonna give me your cum, yeah?”

Izogie hovered over your face, centimeters away from your lips. You watched as Izogie's lips broke into a soft smile, looking at you with awe. 

“I’m so glad you’re mine,” she whispers, fingers still on your clit.

She kissed you deeply, finally granting your desire. She was heaven incarnate. Everything you’ve ever wished for. Her tongue stroked yours and as oxygen left your lungs, your brain overheated and froze at the same time, toes curling, and thighs clenching around her. Your fingertips dripped euphoria and your tongue tasted of Izogie. 

“That’s it, my love. It’s okay,” she praised. “I want to taste your cum. Will you let me?”

The crescendo of your moans were answer enough for her. She quickly brought her mouth back to her heat, the urgency in her movement contrasting with the smirk on her face. Her tongue rolled around on your clit and her arms began to flex against your thighs.

Like a slow tide, your orgasm continued to cover you, spreading slowly from your core to your chest and out through your limbs. Izogie’s face pressed against you forcefully, her arms bulging with a need to keep you close. The taste of you driving her to want you even more. Her grunts and whimpers caused your fingers to twitch as you came down from the potent high, stomach quivering and eyes shut. 

“How I’ve missed you so,” she whispered as she finally allowed herself to breathe. Her eyes filled with stars while her lips glistened with your essence. 

A thin sheen of sweat had covered both of you giving your skin a glossed look. The candlelight reflected off Izogie’s skin beautifully as she rose up from her stomach and onto her knees. 

“You should stay with me,” you began. “Instead of leaving to these battles.”

“My love, not right now. Let’s enjoy this,” she begged. 

You relented and relaxed into the pillows, your tired eyes gazing at Izogie’s perfect frame as if sculpted by Liza herself. The scars she wore proudly cast shadows on her dark skin and you itched to touch them. You reached for her hands and clasped them together, the texture of your palms bringing a smile to Izogie’s face. Your eyes watched as her gaze trailed down your body before falling on your thighs, her face morphing to one of worry.

“What? What’s wrong, my sweet,” you rasped a sleepy sheen continuing to cloud your eyes. 

“Look.”

You dropped your gaze from her to your thighs and saw what she was worried about. Her nails had left scratches, some deep enough to bleed. You knew that there would be scars later, your heart even jumped at the thought. 

“I’m so sorry my love,” she whispered, leaning back down to kiss the wounds. 

“Izogie, my dear warrior, please look at me.”

She didn’t. Her eyes still on your thighs as she kissed them, switching between the right and the left with no pattern. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Your ears were filled with apologies while your fingers itched with the desire to bring her face back up to you. However, you knew that once Izogie started something it was best not to get in her way, it was a fight you would lose. So you let her kiss you until she was satisfied. 

“I like them,” you stated as she continued to kiss your thighs. “I think they’re beautiful.”

“Stop trying to make me feel better.”

“It’s true. I’ve never lied to you.”

Izogie paused, her dark eyes softening but still looking at you with worry. 

“I’m more hurt by the fact that you haven’t kissed me yet," you quipped.

A light chuckle left Izogie’s lips as her worried face turned to one of disbelief. You smiled back at her lazily, your arms coming up behind you to stretch. 

“I suppose now you have scars that I can kiss,” Izogie commented, a smile on her face as she lightly traced over the new marks. 

“I also have lips you can kiss,” you huffed, pulling on her arm. 

Izogie’s lips quirked into a smirk as she covered your body with her own. You brought your arms up to wrap around her neck. 

“Kiss me, warrior.”

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