#defence procurement | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moorishflower · 1 year ago

Text

Eating Out (Dream/trans!Hob Explicit)

i heard we were writing trans Dreamling and then I saw that one ask someone sent @gabessquishytum and I blacked out for a few hours and woke up with this on my desktop please enjoy

Contains: FtM Hob Gadling, public sex, oral sex, free use/multiple partners, voyeurism, multiple orgasms, scent kink, hair kink, little bit of eldritch Dream as a treat

The club is almost violently loud, and the instant that Dream materialises within it he wishes to leave.

He could. There is nothing holding him here. Not even his new agreement with Hob Gadling, that they meet twice a month, holds sway here – they have already held their pre-arranged meetings for December, have 'caught up' with each other, as Hob calls it, though Dream always feels as though he has nothing to contribute. He tells Hob about the unceasing tedium of ruling a kingdom, of settling disputes between his creations, of shoring up the defences of the Dreaming such that it will be prepared for any onslaught, and it is all the same, always the same things over and over again for aeons, but Hob leans towards him and listens with the most fascinated air. He asks questions. He is interested.

Dream would much rather hear about Hob's life. His many lives, in fact, within the last two centuries. It seems as though Hob is always doing something: viewing art with noted professors on the subject, or attending poetry readings, or assisting in the building of various installations of a political nature at protests, or organising a play put on by trans youth from local universities. In this century he is highly invested in matters regarding gender and sexuality – which Dream supposes makes sense. His own gender would have been considered at best a novelty in his own time, and at worst an affront to God. These days, however, he lives openly and freely as the man he has always known himself to be.

It is all of these things, and more, that are the reasons why he is here tonight. The Dreaming is stable at last – there are no pressing matters for him to attend to this eve – but he is shortly expected to meet with Lucifer in order to renegotiate their ancient treaty of tentative peace, and he is, as Hob would say, not looking forward to it. He is, in fact, dreading the experience. He is certain that Lucifer has neither forgotten nor forgiven his brief foray into Hell when he retrieved his helm, and the humiliation they were forced to endure at his hand. He will freely admit that he was. Not as gracious. As he could have been, upon his triumph.

He does not want to think about it. And so he is here, looking for Hob Gadling.

It occurs to him, however, as he watches the ebb and flow of people around him, that Hob may not wish to be found this night. He had assumed, when he'd reached for Hob's presence in the Waking and drew himself towards it, that he would appear in Hob's flat above the New Inn. That is where he is most often to be found, this time of night, unless he has prior engagements.

This club, though...it is of a distinctly sexual nature. Its patrons dressed in leather and latex, and some dressed in almost nothing at all. There are sheltered alcoves with faux-leather seats where two or three or more humans whisper quietly to each other, and kiss, and touch sensuously; there are other stations that Dream recognises, but only from dreams: a St. Andrew's Cross, a whipping post, a wooden bench over which a young man bends while a woman dressed entirely in white lace strikes him with a thin crop, raising fine red weals on the pale skin.

Perhaps he ought to leave. If Hob is here to procure a partner for the evening, then it is no business of Dream's.

Except.

Except the thought makes him. Unhappy.

He examines this realisation with detached interest, because he knows if he allows himself to become invested in the idea there will be no going back. Hob is his friend. They have known each other for over six-hundred years. He does not want to ruin their friendship, burgeoning as it currently is.

Neither does he wish for Hob to be here, seeking something that he believes Dream cannot provide for him.

Is that the crux of it? The source of his displeasure? Hob has come here, seeking fulfilment, instead of seeking out Dream? He would have no reason to approach Dream. Their friendship has never had a sexual component.

Although.

He remembers the way Hob had looked at him in 1589, so proud of the largess he had provided, eager for Dream's approval. He remembers the slow up and down glance of 1389 when he had approached Hob's table, when he had still been a beardless ruffian, binding his chest with scraps of wool. He remembers, in 1789, how Hob had looked at him, how he had tugged at his ear, how eagerly he had come to Dream's defence.

Perhaps he had simply not been in the best position to notice any interest. Hob's, or his own. Too prideful. Too convinced that Hob was just like every other human, grubbing about in the dirt for power and acclaim. Too assured of his own high status – one such as he, friends with one such as Hob?

He knows better now. Knows that Hob has lived rich and varied lives, which Dream has, for the past several months, taken succour in, experiencing them through Hob's tales, learning more and more about his friend. Liking what he has learned.

This, he decides, is a new aspect of that learning. And perhaps a new chapter in their friendship, if Hob is amenable. It has been long and long since he has laid with a human – he spares a moment to thank the memory of his sister for withholding her gift from Hob, for it means that Hob is not, strictly speaking, mortal – and perhaps it would be wise of him to observe Hob in this environment first. If Hob is here, he reasons, then necessarily he will be familiar with the etiquette of such a place.

And if Hob is otherwise occupied with a lover already...

He decides not to continue that thought.

A path forward decided, Dream wends his way through the crowds. The club is densely-packed with people, all ages, all nations and creeds and genders, and of them all he is the least-appropriately dressed in his coat and t-shirt and jeans. He does not bother to change, and no one approaches him – he is as a ghost, drifting between the revellers, a visitor to this holy house of Dionysus and Pan, following the faint trail of Hob that guides him like a ball of twine. Gentle prodding at daydreams reveals that Hob was here at the bar, that he, also, had been dressed-down for this occasion, in a white button-up and a pair of loose trousers. Still, others had looked upon him and had, in gauzy fantasies, wondered what he would look like dressed in less. Had wondered what his stubble would feel like against their cheeks. Had imagined his hands – broad, callused, peasant's hands – on their hips, their thighs, their genitals.

Dream does not linger in these daydreams for long, but pursues his true quarry, slipping through the gathered throngs, enjoying, for the moment, the feeling of stalking his prey. It is only infrequently that he is allowed to feel this, the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit; he is, by necessity, a guardian of his dreamers, but he is dreams and nightmares both, and often he longs for an end to the mournful tedium of his duties. Longs for peaceful oblivion or, at the very least, something that he can sink his teeth into.

The club is much larger than he had initially thought, and Dream follows Hob's trail up stairs and down corridors, until he finds himself in a section of the venue that has been cordoned off; several security personnel stand stationed at pre-set points, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings within.

There are significantly fewer clothes in this part of the club, Dream realises. And what is worn is designed for easy access.

It is less crowded here, but no less quiet – the air is filled with the sounds of pleasure, moans and squeals and throaty whispers, creating a chorus of rising debauchery that drowns out the thumping music below them. He remains unseen, untouched, as he slides through the gaps in the crowd, around amorous couples, ignoring the slick sounds of bodies entangled and flesh entwined, until, at last, he reaches the end of the trail.

Hob Gadling has arranged himself in a secluded section of the upper floor, where dark curtains have been set up to give a modicum of privacy, though the acts happening just beyond are still within full view of the rest of the floor. He is seated in a chair, one of the low, slightly reclined ones that pepper the rest of the club, though this one has been considerately draped in plastic sheeting. The reasoning behind this is immediately obvious: Hob Gadling sits with his thighs spread, revealing the hole that has been cut in the groin of his loose trousers, and there is a woman kneeling before him, with her face buried between Hob's legs.

Dream does not care about the woman, though objectively he recognises that she is beautiful, and clearly quite happy with her current position. His eyes are fixed on Hob, who has his head thrown back, sweat dappling his forehead, mouth open as he gasps and pants. His neck is pulled taut, revealing the tempting line of his jugular, and his shirt has been unbuttoned to reveal the thick hair on his pectorals, almost completely hiding the scars beneath. The woman between his legs does something that must be particularly pleasing, because Hob's eyes slip shut, and his hips rut upwards, and even through the music and the noise and the crowd Dream can hear the sound of his moaning, reaching a fever pitch as he climbs towards climax. When he comes, all his muscles strain at once...and then he slumps, panting, while the woman leans back and licks her lips. The entire lower half of her face is soaked in fluid, and Hob's thighs glisten with the same. It is clear that he has been here for some time.

There is a small sign, Dream realises, that has been set up beside the chair, and a few people positioned around it, reading its words, watching with interest. Some of them watching with eagerness. Eat me out, the sign says. Accepting all comers. Face-sitting offered for best orgasm. Beneath this titillating invitation is a short list of the things that Hob is not interested in. No PiV, says one, and, No S/M.

He watches the woman climb to her feet and then lean down again, whispering something into Hob's ear. It makes him laugh, whatever she says, a full-throated, beautiful display, his head tossed back as he guffaws. Then the woman kisses his cheek, and Hob takes the opportunity to pull her in for a generous hug. Dream has been on the receiving end of such hugs before, but he has never considered that he might be gifted them under such. Specific circumstances.

Then the woman moves away, and he is treated to the sight of Hob on full display. And Dream stops. And looks. And breathes.

Hob had been beautiful, with the woman between his legs, but now that it is only him he is even moreso. With no one in the way Dream is able to see the thick trail of hair on his belly, leading down to the dark thatch of his pubic hair, curls wet with spit and slick. The lips of his sex are parted, red and swollen from the attentions of Dream knows not how many, and here, too, he is wet and open and wanting, with his cock jutting proudly upwards. The plastic sheeting beneath his seat is soaked in his own fluids, and even as Dream watches a newcomer approaches, speaks quietly to Hob and, at Hob's cheery nod and grin, kneels down and begins to lick the plastic clean.

He could remain here unseen, Dream realises. To interrupt Hob's revelry would surely lead to a foul mood later on, but. But.

He wants.

For all that he is neither flesh nor blood, he responds as the form he has taken bids him to, his trousers growing tighter as his erection fills, his stomach clenching with desire, his heart beating faster. His mouth floods with saliva at the sight of Hob's hairy thighs flexing, the dark, spit-damp and abundant curls of his sex, the thin trail of sexual fluids that drips from his fluttering opening and is caught on the tongue of the man kneeling in front of him. And he feels a flash of jealousy, when Hob reaches down and pets the man's hair, and says something softly to him. He recognises the look in the man's eyes, one of fervent adoration, and knows that, were he in the same position, his own expression would be much the same.

He does not wish to ruin their friendship, but. But.

He must make a decision. To remain here, unseen, a silent watcher, is a violation of Hob's trust in him. To reveal himself is to potentially face Hob's ire, but he might take pride in the knowledge that at least he tried.

Dream inhales, breathing in the sharp smell of lust and sex, and steps forward, allowing himself to be seen.

Hob does not notice him at first, still murmuring to the man between his legs. After several moments, though, he looks up, and Dream sees the exact second that Hob spots him: his eyes go wide, and his legs reflexively clamp shut, nearly trapping the man between them, and his muscles shift as if he plans to launch himself upwards before his expression turns resigned, and he relaxes back into his seat. A quick word is had with the kneeling man, who shrugs and then clambers to his feet; he gives Dream a lingering glance as he takes his leave, as do several others of the assembled patrons.

"Dream," Hob says, raising his voice to be heard above the muffled music and the moans and screams emanating from other rooms on this floor. He is still sitting with his knees locked together. "What are you...I mean, far be it for me to judge what you do in your spare time, but what on God's green earth are you doing here?"

"Seeking you out," Dream says. He takes a step forward, and then another, until he has come to a stop almost directly in front of Hob. There is a pillow on the floor, he notices. He had not seen it before; it bears the indents of many previous lovers. He wonders how many have serviced Hob this evening.

He sinks down to his knees.

"Um," Hob says. His eyes are huge, the pupils so dilated that his irises appear as two drops of ink in white clouds. "Dream? What...?"

"I will leave if you wish me to," Dream says. He lifts his hands, letting them hover uncertainly over the heavy curve of Hob's thighs, but not yet daring to touch. He can feel the warmth emanating from Hob's body, more intoxicating than any wine or stimulant, and another wave of wanting crashes over him. Were he standing he thinks he would be staggered by it. "But. If you have no objections. I would very much like to stay."

"No objections," Hob says, voice rising to a squeak. His legs fall apart again, slowly at first, tentative, but widen with more generosity as Dream accepts the invitation, and lays his palms at last on Hob's thighs. They are just as muscled and warm as he had thought them to be, the hair on them coarse where it rubs between his fingers, against his fingertips, and there, at their centre, Hob's sex revealed to him once again. His cock still firm, jutting upwards, his labia still spread and glistening as Dream lowers his head to breathe in the scent of him.

"You smell ambrosial," Dream murmurs, and Hob barks a sudden laugh.

"I've come six times," he says. The tension is slowly leaving his body, allowing him to slump backwards as Dream strokes his thighs. "I smell like sweat and jizz, more like."

"As I said." And to drive home his point, Dream bends down and presses his nose to the sopping curls of Hob's cunt, inhaling deeply. Sweat, yes, and Hob's excitement, and the saliva of others, easily and summarily dismissed in favour of Hob's natural scent, and his friend's murmured, "Oh, oh fuck," as Dream lets his nose brush along the side of his prick. It strains towards him, twitching faintly with Hob's heartbeat. Impudent thing, Dream thinks, though not without a great deal of fondness, and he looks up at Hob through the wild fringe of his hair, blinking slowly.

"You know, I wasn't expecting this," Hob says. His hands clench at his sides. "I only come here maybe twice a year. I wasn't...You don't have to..."

"I wish to."

"...just because I'm. Here. What?"

"I am precisely where I wish to be," Dream says. "And if you truly have no objections. I wish to sample you."

"Jesus Christ," Hob says, and his head falls backwards, thumping against the cushions. "Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Do you know how long I've thought about this?"

"Since 1789," Dream says. He drags the tip of his nose along the length of Hob's cock, and then presses a soft kiss to the head of it, greatly enjoying the sound of Hob's muttered curses. The smell of him is growing denser, sharper, as fresh wetness drips from his cunt.

"Longer," Hob says. "Since the moment I saw you. Thought about bouncing on your cock later that night, even. I would've ridden you so fucking hard."

"Perhaps later," Dream murmurs, and then, for the first time, takes Hob into his mouth.

The effect is immediate, electrifying: Hob goes rigid, mouth opening in a soundless cry as his hips rut forwards, pressing his pubic bone against Dream's nose. His prick is thick, compact, perhaps three inches of trembling nerves that slide along Dream's tongue like silk. The taste of him here is not as strong as it would be directly from the source, but the musky salt of it delights Dream's senses, enraptures him. He lets Hob set the pace at first, trying to gauge how tired he is, how sore...though it quickly becomes apparent that six orgasms in an evening is not, apparently, his friend's limit. Hob does not cry off, nor beg for Dream to give him a moment, but sighs and moans and laughs as Dream sucks at him, first softly, and then with greater force, tracing the thin skin of Hob's prick with the tip of his tongue, then letting it fall free of his mouth so that he can instead lavish attention on the plump lips around it.

Here, he thinks. Here is where his mouth is intended to be, at the nadir of Hob's sex, where his labia are spread like flower petals and his cunt clenches and leaks. Dream hums to himself in delight as he laps a searing path from the root of Hob's prick down to his twitching, wet opening, kneading Hob's thighs with his fingertips as he does so. There is so much hair here that it is impossible to keep his face dry – nor would he want to, even if he could – and Dream leans in to taste, pushing his nose through Hob's pubic hair, committing the scent of him to memory as he licks and sucks at everything he can reach. His wild hunger makes him crude, inexpert, but when he glances upwards to gauge Hob's pleasure he finds his friend flush-faced and panting, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, one hand pushed back into his own hair. When he sees Dream looking he smiles.

"Do you know how gorgeous you are?" he asks. "Between my legs? I've imagined this for so long."

The encouragement is. Pleasing. More than he had thought it would be. Enough that it makes his own cock twitch as he basks in the pleasure of Hob's praise. "So beautiful," Hob says, and he lifts his hips slightly, demanding. Dream is eager to indulge him, and buries his face once more into Hob's sex, licking, now, at his cunt, pressing the tip of his tongue inside to where he is wettest and hottest, savouring the taste of him. The scent that has gathered in his hair, surrounding him now, filling Dream's nostrils, making him dizzy with lust. He cannot resist the temptation to bury his tongue deeper, and then deeper still, longer than any human Hob would ever have taken to bed. Muscles clamp down around him, and Hob makes a startled, thrilled little noise, and then begins laughing again, one hand at last stealing to Dream's hair. He does not clutch, but strokes, softly, like a favoured pet, and Dream purrs, mouth sealed around Hob's cunt, tongue buried in him until there is no more space for anything but Dream.

"You're a marvel," Hob says; Dream flicks the tip of his tongue against the opening to his cervix, soft, soft, and Hob's whole body goes as taut as a bow. "A fuh-hucking marvel oh God, oh fuck, Dream!"

A crowd has begun to form, Dream notes, though it is distant and unimportant information, useful only as much as these people may now see that Hob has chosen him, that Hob favours him. He is too focused on the task at hand to feel anything but the faintest hint of possessiveness – why should he, when he already has what he desires? – and he sets to it with relish, pumping his tongue in leisurely strokes, deep enough that Hob will feel him later, like a sweet bruise. Above him, Hob swears a blue streak, his neglected cock pulsing, prompting a sharp outcry of pleasure every time that Dream bumps the base of it with his nose. Eat me out, the sign had said, and Dream intends to follow it to the letter – there will be time enough, he hopes, to worship every other part of Hob later.

"Dream," Hob says, "Dream, I'm, I'm close, I'm–"

Dream does not wish to be warned. He wishes to be covered in the smell of Hob, drenched in him, and so he presses his tongue sharply up at the same time as he moves his hand to stroke Hob's prick with his thumb, humming in satisfaction as above him Hob shouts, thighs clamping hard around Dream's ears, a gush of fluid oozing around Dream's tongue as he works Hob through first one panting, keening peak, and then a second one just after, smaller, Hob squeezing rhythmically with his thighs, his cries of completion turning to whimpers and then to silence, just the sound of his breathing, like thunder, and murmured noises of appreciation from the gathered crowd. Dream slowly pulls back, and looks with satisfaction as Hob's gaping cunt, at the trickle of spit and come that drips from him, smoothing the curls there flat and sleek.

"Oh," Hob says. His voice is shaky, but inexpressibly fond as he reaches forward and cups Dream's cheeks with his palms. "Oh, I've made a complete mess of you."

He does not need a mirror to know that Hob's words are true. Dream can feel the warm air of the club brushing cold against the wetness on his cheeks, his chin, where it drips in thin lines down his neck. Hob smiles at him, his thumb stroking Dream's bottom lip.

"I think I might have one more in me for tonight, if you're interested," he says, and then with his foot he stretches out and tips over the little sign he had set up beside his chair. "But maybe somewhere where it's...just us? If there's no objections?"

His voice is hesitant. Searching. Dream gazes up at him, dazed, as he had known he would be, with how much he wants, and not only with how much he wants Hob's body, but his laughter as well, and his joy, and his time and his company. No, there are no objections.

"It would be my pleasure," he says, and Hob, still smiling, leans down and kisses the damp tip of his nose, and then the corner of his mouth, and then Hob's lips cover his own, gentle, and around them the club continues on in its revels but, for the moment, it is only them, and it is perfect.

#dreamling #dream/hob #dream of the endless/hob gadling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my fic #the sandman #the sandman fanfiction #trans hob gadling

217 notes · View notes

apas-95 · 9 months ago

Text

Defence contractors still trying to sell their laser air defence systems in hopes that no procurement official is so bribe-deficient as to compehend the thermal environment of a hypersonic glide vehicle are inspiring me to try to start taking orders for my notional 'fire-retardant fuel' prototype

111 notes · View notes

zuppizup · 9 months ago

Text

Angsty Rayllum baby centric fic ahead. Read the tags, my lovelies

———

Rest

Rayla hates being pregnant. Not for the typical reasons people joke about to her, though she is frustrated with how ill she feels, and how delicately everyone treats her.

No, she hates how anxious it makes her. How every moment feels filled with thoughts of the baby, if she is comfortable, if she is growing…

If she is alive.

After all this time, she finds she cannot relax.

From her swollen belly it is clear that the baby will be born any day now, but she finds her worry only grows with each passing day. She doesn’t think it will abate until she finally holds her baby in her arms, until she can truly see she’s real and well and… alive.

They’ve been through this too many times before. Her heart cannot take one more break.

Not this particular one, at least.

It’s been broken many times before, she thinks, but this type of loss is something different. Mourning for what might have been is so different from mourning people that were, that others knew.

It feels silly and pointless. Why be sad for what never was? Why look upon an empty crib and think of the baby that might have been but over and over never was.

This one seemed to stick.

It came to a point where her frame could no longer hide and the rumours were growing and growing and eventually it seemed ridiculous to try and dismiss the obvious.

She hated all the well wishing though. All the congratulations and the excitement.

The hidden losses robbed her off her innocence, she thinks.

Everyone seems to see this as a time of joy, of celebration.

It feels wrong for her to dampen others spirits with her constant concerns.

And so, even now, as people seem more and more excited and happy and confident, she wants nothing more than to shy away, to be alone. Just her and Callum.

She does not want to mourn with an audience.

Callum is supportive, as he always is. Patience and understanding. Always willing to listen.

She cannot explain the ache though. The fear. The anxiety.

She doesn’t want to breathe life into it.

He doesn’t believe in fate, has defied it more than once in his defence, but she cannot help but worry… what if she’s bringing this upon them? What if her endless running thoughts are the reason why they never stay.

She’s gazing at the full moon when the first ache hits her. Dull at first, but persistent. Callum is snoring behind her, and she elects not to wake him because who wants to be woken for bad news?

She’s felt this ache before.

Eventually the pain becomes too much though. She cries out, despite her best efforts and Callum wakes suddenly.

She worries he’s going to yell at her, annoyed that she kept another thing from him, but instead he rushes to the guards, insists they call for the midwife and that’s when it truly hits her.

The baby is coming.

The midwife is too far away and Rayla has no idea what she is doing. She was too afraid of tempting fate. The books Callum procured for her untouched on her bedside table.

True to form, Callum has been reading and he coaches her through it.

She thinks she can’t do it, it’s all too much, too painful, too terrifying but then there’s a pain worse than anything she could ever imagine, followed by a tiny, strangled cry and Callum is laughing and crying and looking between her and a pink sticky bundle in his arms and she realises, the baby is real, screaming and grasping... and alive.

And a boy.

Tiny and pink and screaming and perfect and real.

She cries too as she holds him, strokes his tiny squished cheek and finally feels herself relax.

He’s here.

He’s real.

He’s alive.

He has Callum’s eyes and her nose and perhaps both of their lungs because he is clearly furious about the bright or the cold or something but Callum swaddles him in a blanket and pushes the hair back from her sweaty brow and he’s crying and she is too, and they have a baby, a real baby, a tiny little son.

Even now, days later, it all seems so surreal. He’s got over his abrupt and sudden entry to this world (as babies do) snuggled against her breast and sleeping soundly. Callum is sleeping too, drooling on her shoulder, his arm lazily lying across both of them.

She smiles at him, still amazed by how much their son looks like him… by how much love and adoration she feels for both of them. How warm and happy and content she feels.

She looks at her beautiful, healthy, amazing son and the man that helped her bring him into this world and feels she can finally relax.

She assumes people would scoff to hear it, new baby and all, but she feels she can finally rest.

#rayllum #rayllum fanfic #angst with a happy ending #tw: pregnancy #tw: pregnancy loss #just like… angst and concerned Rayla people #the dragon prince #tdp #rayla #callum #my brain be going places #zup tumblr ficlets

98 notes · View notes

nanshe-of-nina · 11 months ago

Text

Favorite History Books || Sybil, Queen of Jerusalem, 1186–1190 by Helen J. Nicholson ★★★★☆

As a child, Sybil’s future prospects appeared excellent: as the eldest child of King Amaury of Jerusalem and as a member of the dynasty that claimed descent from Godfrey de Bouillon and the other heroes of the First Crusade, we might expect that she would have been an attractive marriage prospect. Yet European noblemen did not queue up to seek her hand. One reason for this might have been that commanding the defence of the kingdom of Jerusalem in the face of aggressive Muslim expansionism was a daunting prospect for any warrior, no matter how ambitious. Moreover, as her brother Baldwin’s illness became generally known in Europe, Sybil’s potential husbands may have wondered whether she and her children would be similarly afflicted. In addition, as her brother Baldwin and his council made clear to Philip of Alsace in autumn 1177, outside aid was unwelcome in the kingdom except on the terms they dictated. Robert VI of Béthune, Philip of Alsace’s candidate for Sybil’s hand, might have made a more effective count of Jaffa and Ascalon, regent of the kingdom and king consort than Guy de Lusignan, but Baldwin – aged only sixteen at the time of Count Philip’s crusade – preferred to marry his sister to a man he knew. If King Baldwin IV had supported his elder sister as the heir who – given that Baldwin V was very young and in uncertain health – would almost certainly inherit the kingdom, it might have been possible for Sybil to unite the nobles of the kingdom behind her as her brother had done. But his contradictory and changing policies left her rights of inheritance unclear and the nobles of the kingdom divided. He married her to one of his household knights, then attempted to divorce them; he appointed her husband as procurator, then shortly afterwards deposed him and appointed her son as his co- ruler, and then appointed another procurator, then finally appointed two regents, one to care for the young king Baldwin V and the other to govern. If he made further arrangements for the succession after Baldwin V they were unworkable. By marrying his younger half-sister to a leading noble of the kingdom but forcing the bridegroom to surrender his inherited estates in return, King Baldwin IV ensured that both his sisters and their husbands and supporters had grievances against him. While his measures reduced any threat that he would be overthrown during his lifetime, they boded badly for the kingdom after the death of his immediate heir. Given the rivalries between the leading nobles of the kingdom and Saladin’s need to win a decisive victory over the Franks, no one could have prevented Saladin from taking Jerusalem and conquering most of Sybil’s kingdom; Sybil was doomed to failure as queen. Not only did she lose Jerusalem, but she also failed in the most fundamental function of a noblewoman: she failed to provide an heir for herself, as both her son Baldwin and her daughters died in childhood. On the other hand, in the face of disaster she did not abandon her kingdom and flee to Europe, nor did she retire to a religious house. Instead, she stayed in the crusader states and did all she could to oppose the invader. She tried to defend Ascalon, she remained in Jerusalem until it was surrendered to Saladin, she obtained her husband’s release from Saladin’s prison, and by accompanying him in the months that followed she gave him the authority to continue as king of Jerusalem. As husband of the eldest daughter of King Amaury of Jerusalem and as a crowned king, Guy had a stronger claim to royal authority than Conrad of Montferrat: crusaders from Europe rallied to him and the representatives of the Italian maritime cities supported him so that he could begin the fightback against Saladin which was continued by the Third Crusade and enabled the kingdom of Jerusalem to continue to exist until 1291. When Sybil died, Guy’s authority died with her; but she had ensured that her kingdom would not die, at least for another century.

#historyedit #litedit #sibylla of jerusalem #french history #medieval #asian history #european history #women's history #history #house of anjou #history books

69 notes · View notes

scotianostra · 4 months ago

Text

On September 20th 1972 Paul McCartney was arrested for possession of marijuana at his farm in the Mull of Kintyre.

McCartney appeared at Campbeltown Sheriff Court in March 1973, where a £100 fine was imposed on him. He had pleaded guilty to knowingly cultivating five cannabis plants in a greenhouse on his 500-acre High Park Farm, a few miles from the town.

The former Beatle told waiting reporters that he was pleased with the outcome and that it could have been worse. “I was planning on writing a few songs in jail,” he conceded. “It would have been all right as long as I had a guitar.”

During the twenty-five minute hearing, his defence counsel said that he had “an immense interest in horticulture.” McCartney said later: “I have grown quite a few kinds of pot plants in the greenhouse. One gets quite a few gifts of all kinds from fans. These seeds arrived by post, so I planted them in five pots.” He added: “I feel that there should be legislation on the use of cannabis. Drink is a much worse drug to my mind than cannabis.”

The procurator fiscal told the court that the plants were found by police making a routine crime prevention visit to McCartney’s hilltop farm near Campbeltown. John McCluskey, QC, for McCartney, said: “The plants were growing absolutely openly. There was no attempt to conceal them and I feel this is a technical offence.”

Fining him £100, Sheriff D.J. McDairmaid said he took into account that cannabis seeds had been given to McCartney in a gift.

McCartney’s counsel, Mr. John McCluskey, said that as a result of the conviction McCartney would be refused admission to the United States, possibly for two or three years, which would have a serious effect on his business interests.

#scotland #scottish #history #cannabis #weed #the beatles #paul mccartney #busted

25 notes · View notes

exhaled-spirals · 3 months ago

Text

« [T]he Schoolmen ... aiming at glory and esteem, ... found this a good expedient to cover their ignorance, with a curious and inexplicable web of perplexed words, and [to] procure to themselves the admiration of others, by unintelligible terms ...: whilst it appears in all history, that these profound doctors ... brought but small advantage to human life, or the societies, wherein they lived; unless the coining of new words, where they produced no new things to apply them to, or the perplexing or obscuring the signification of old ones, and so bringing all things into question and dispute, were a thing profitable to the life of man, or worthy of commendation and reward.

... Nevertheless, this artificial ignorance, and learned gibberish, prevailed mightily in these last ages, by the interest and artifice of those, who found no easier way to that pitch of authority and dominion they have attained, than by ... employing the ingenious and idle in intricate disputes, about unintelligible terms, and holding them perpetually entangled in that endless labyrinth.

Besides, the best way to defend strange and absurd doctrines is to guard them with legions of obscure, doubtful, and undefined words. Yet that makes these retreats more like dens of robbers or holes of foxes than like fortresses manned by sturdy warriors, [as] what makes it hard to get them out of their retreat isn’t their strength but rather the dark tangle of briars and thorns they are surrounded with. Because untruth is unacceptable to the mind of man, the only defence left for absurdity is obscurity.

... [T]hough unlearned men well enough understood the words white and black, etc. and had constant notions of the ideas signified by those words; yet there were philosophers found, who had learning and subtlety enough to prove, that snow was black; i.e. to prove, that white was black. Whereby they had the advantage to destroy the instruments and means of discourse, conversation, instruction, and society; whilst with great art and subtlety they did no more but perplex and confound the signification of words, and thereby render language less useful ... »

— John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690)

#quote #john locke #philosophy #language #postmodernism #judith butler #english

15 notes · View notes

allthecanadianpolitics · 1 year ago

Text

Defence Minister Bill Blair says he is committed to pushing for increased investment in the Canadian Armed Forces (CAF) after two top commanders sounded the alarm recently on operational readiness. “Colleagues and shipmates, the [Royal Canadian Navy] (RCN) faces some very serious challenges right now that could mean we fail to meet our force posture readiness commitments in 2024 and beyond,” Vice-Adm. Angus Topshee, commander of the navy, said in a YouTube video posted earlier this week. Last week, Chief of the Defence Staff Gen. Wayne Eyre said military resources are strained amid increased calls for assistance in natural disasters and recruiting challenges.

Tagging @politicsofcanada

#cdnpoli #canada #canadian politics #canadian news #military spending #militarism

77 notes · View notes

fatfables · 10 months ago

Text

Adam and Evan - New Weight Gain Story

In 19th century England two young aristocratic brothers share the same shameful secret; their desire for an unusually large boy in their service...

“I don’t understand how a servant boy can get so fat,” said the Father, who was sitting at the head of the long mahogany table.

“That’s very impolite. He only has this second left the room. He might hear you,” rebuked the Lady of the House.

“I don’t care if he does. I’m not paying servants to overindulge themselves. Who does he think I am?”

“I’m sure you pay him exactly the same as all the rest, father,” said the eldest son in defence of the boy.”

“And not a penny more! But that’s my point. In all my years I’ve never seen or heard of a fat servant boy before. I really don’t understand how he does it?”

“He’s really not that large,” said the younger son, also in defence of the boy.

“Not that large? He’s a dumpling of the largest proportions, a real jelly belly if ever I saw one.”

“Sshh now husband, I can hear him returning. It is unsightly to speak of one behind one’s back, even a servant boy.”

Johnny re-entered the room pushing a dessert cart. He was a little disconcerted by the sudden silence, as he had opened the door, but knew that it was not his place to comment on it. He placed the trifle, sponge cake, and rhubarb pie in the centre of the table along with a large silver jug of warm custard. He stood up straight, nodded at the head of the table, and took three steps backwards before retreating to his place by the door, where he stood, legs a few feet apart with his hands behind his back, looking at the wall opposite.

He was five feet and six inches tall, with a thick head of black hair combed over from the left hand side. He wore smart dinner dress as was the custom for waiting staff in such houses. His suit was ill-fitting even though it had only just been handed down to him from one of the older boys. It was at least three inches too long in the trouser leg. This fact he had tried to hide by rolling the bottom of each leg up on the inside of each trouser. This effort was now half undone and he’d had to be careful not to trip by standing on the fabric when he entered.

By contrast his shirt was too small for him as a larger one had yet to be procured. It strained in the middle under the force of his protruding stomach and he was always desperately trying to tuck it back into the waist of his trousers whenever he thought that no one was looking, only for it to always pop straight back out every time. His jacket, also passed down from the elder boy fitted him well around the waist and shoulders but was far too long in the sleeve, in a similar manner to his trousers. Rolling one’s sleeves up in good company was unheard of so it just had to hang loose, his cufflinks two inches lower than his wrists. At least now no one could notice or comment on how limp they were.

“This rhubarb pie is delectable,” the Lady of the House commented, “Johnny, please pass my compliments on to your mother, she has once more outdone herself.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, I will, Ma’am.”

“Maybe Johnny would like some himself? If it really is so good?” His wife stared at her Lord. Johnny’s eyes opened wide at the suggestion but then he quickly remembered where he was and composed himself.

“Father, that is unkind, you know very well that the service are not allowed to indulge in food for the house.” It was the elder brother once more coming to Johnny’s defence.

“Yes Father, Adam is correct, leave the poor boy be. He’s probably not even had his own dinner yet.”

“Is this true, Little Johnny? Have you not been sustained yet this evening? You look like a boy who has had his ample fill to me?”

“I will eat after service with the rest of the staff, as usual, Sir.”

“His Lordship is well aware of how his own house is run. I recommend, Johnny, that you don’t speak from now on, even when spoken to. His Lordship is in a very funny mood and I fear that you won’t be able to say right through fear of saying wrong.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you Ma’am.” Johnny was relieved to be dismissed from the conversation. The Lady was very kind to him.

“The question remains as to how he did ever get so fat?”

“Sir Geoffrey Bloomington! Whatever has happened to your prudence? The boy is standing right there.” The Lady motioned her eyes towards Johnny without looking at him.

“According to my Lady it is rude to talk behind one’s back and also rude to talk to one’s face. Is there anything that I may be allowed to discuss in my own house with regards to my own service?”

“You act as if it is a financial matter. Personal comments are not for the dining table.”

“Financial comments are certainly not for the dinner table either Mother,” said the younger son, though no one payed him any heed.

“I believe it to be a financial matter dear wife, for who do you believe is paying for that stomach much more ample in size than my own? I have never seen such a belly on a boy his age before, not in all the houses in England.”

“You are repeating yourself now, Father,” said the elder son.

“Yes, you are repeating yourself,” said the younger son without any recognition of the irony.

“My own sons, so young and athletic around the waist. How quickly you do both rush to protect this slovenly boy. Are you happy for him to take advantage of your Father so?”

“Father you know not that he doth take advantage so. Maybe it is just a natural effect of his disposition?” Adam proposed.

“Has he always been so disposed?”

“Truly not. But he is a good boy who has been in our service for many a year. Do you not remember when Evan and I were young and allowed to attend school and play with the children in our service. This boy was a good friend to us both. On these grounds I beseech you to leave him be.”

“If he was not always so disposed then it cannot be in his disposition to appear so. If you consider yourself to be on good terms with this particular boy then I beseech you to take it up with him in person.”

��That I will do, Sir. For I agree with Mother that this is not an appropriate time to be discussing such things.”

The family fell into silence. Johnny, who had been standing as still as a Royal Guard throughout this discussion moved towards the table upon the slight beckoning of the Ladies hand. He carefully cleared away the untouched trifle, half eaten sponge cake, and remaining four slices of rhubarb pie, placed them on his cart, and wheeled it out of the dining room.

He made his way down the main corridor, turned left into the great hall with the portraits of previous Lords and exited into the servants quarters through a small door at the end of that great room. He paused at the top of the stairs that led down to the kitchen, next to the dumbwaiter. He removed a large serving spoon from his trouser pocket and proceeded to demolish the entire trifle with his Lord’s words ringing in his ears, “never seen such a belly on a boy his age before, not in all the houses in England.” He smiled broadly as he swallowed another huge spoonful down.

The trifle was rich and sweet and fruity, containing no less than three oranges, two apricots, and a quarter bottle of rum. He licked the cream from his lips and he dug the huge spoon into the first slice of rhubarb pie. He sliced the still warm pie open and the thick filling dripped out. He savoured the smell and took a large bite that warmed that back of his throat. Picking up the jug he took an unceremoniously large slug of custard straight from the silverware before pouring the rest of its contents on top of the remaining pie. This he devoured in just a few minutes. He had to be quick, Mother was waiting for him.

His belly was now straining overfull, it felt warm and luxuriant, beyond his station. His greedy hands grabbed at the sponge cake, he tore off a large piece and proceeded to stuff it into his wide open mouth. He chewed as fast as he could, considering his discomfort, and continued to pull the cake apart.

By the time he was finished his mouth was parched with thirst and his belly hugely distended. He tried to pull at the tails of his shirt in order to tuck it in and make himself presentable once more but it was a useless task. He loaded the empty dishes into the dumbwaiter and rang the bell before awkwardly making his way down the stairs.

“Where ‘av ye bin?” His mother’s tongue lashed him.

“In the dining room.”

“All dis time?”

“Yes Mother, the dessert went down very well. Everyone had several servings. The Lady asked me to commend you for the pie.”

“She did, did she?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“Look,” he said, going over to take the dishes from the dumbwaiter, “All empty, every last one of them!”

“Well I neva! ‘Ow about dat! I’s neva known it before, at ‘em finish all four courses. Not a morsel left!”

“Not a morsel, Mother,” he said with a wicked smile on his greedy young face.

“Well, give ‘em dishes ta Mary ta take care ov, an’ I’ll get ya supper on. Ye must be starvin’ be now?”

“I am, Mother!” He smiled and patted his swollen round belly. “What is for super this fine eve?”

“Well, for da liddle gentleman we ‘as a starter of potato soup, followed be roast beef, an’ dunny tell no one, but I’s saved ye some av ‘at rhubarb pie.”

“Oh, thank you, Mother!” He beamed, before sitting down at the kitchen table for his second large meal of the night.

He was just undressing for bed when there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me Adam, may I come in?”

“Of course, enter!”

The elder son stepped cautiously through the door. Normally sure of himself the tall handsome young man was unused to being in the servants quarters and was certainly not used to being in a servants private room. Johnny normally visited him.

The young heir of the estate looked around the small room and took in the sparse simple furniture. There was a small wooden chair, surely unsuitable for an ample boy like Johnny, and the single bed looked uncomfortable. He felt unsteady in this environment until his gaze fell upon Johnny who was sitting topless on the bed adorned by just his pantaloons.

Johnny’s paunch was splayed out on top of his thighs. His abdomen wider than any young Lord’s in England. The lower half of his gut lay soft and flat, creased in the middle under its own weight. The top half was thick and round and protruded out further than the lower half hung. Atop his belly were the soft and delicate breasts of a young woman fallen slightly to each side with no brazier to carriage them.

“My dear Johnny, you look as delectable as your Mother’s rhubarb pie,” The young charmer said.

“That may well be, dear Sir, because I have rather a large amount of it stirring inside me.” Johnny liked to tease his Master.

“Interesting indeed! For a servant boy may not feast on the food for the house. This matter in fact is the reason why I am acquainting myself with your boudoir. I am here, as bad by my Father, to talk to you so as to ascertain the source of that monstrous mountain of flesh that you carry so ably forth. To inspect which I would have asked you to lift your shirt only you are not wearing any, therefore all of the evidence is already plain to see.” Adam also liked to tease the servant boy.

“If you are so keen as to discover the source of this rotund stomach muscle,” Johnny paused to lift up his overhanging belly fat, “then I suggest to you, my good and kindly Master, to look no further than the young gentleman that I am currently looking at, for I believe that he is as much to blame as anyone else in the matter.”

Adam turned around to look to see if anyone was standing behind him and then feigned surprise when he discovered that there wasn’t.

“Dost thou mean my good self?”

“Of whom else could I be talking? Who else gave me explicit permission to eat the food for the house? And as much of it as I please? Who else gave me an extra purse for private contributions? Who else calls me to his chambers at night to service him with food when indeed all he pleases is to service myself?”

“I am aghast that you, a mere servant boy of portly manner, would dare to speak to your Master in such an accusatory tone!”

“If you do not like the tone of which I use to speak then I suggest that my Master either fills my mouth to silence with some form of nourishment or if none is forthcoming that he fastens it closed with his own lips.”

With this last comment Johnny let go of his expansive soft belly fat causing it to bounce and jiggle as it had only the forces of gravity to contend with. Adam, unable to resist any longer, stepped forward and knelt down next to Johnny on the bed planting a big long kiss on his aforementioned lips. They shared a shameful and passionate embrace as his Master’s hands explored every inch and fold of his servant’s body.

“Fear not, my dear,” Adam said, “I shall proceed tomorrow to ensure that you continue to receive your ample purse and portion, despite of what my Father says.”

“But, my Master, will the Lord not surely notice if I doth continue to grow? He made it aptly clear that he already believes me to be too large for my station. If I continue to expand then I will surely meet his ire and be expelled from the house?”

“Fret not my sweet jar of jam, I do firmly believe that the Lord only noticed your magnitude due to the proximity of your clothing to your stoutly frame. That shirt, which I can see you sensibly no longer adorn, is at least three sizes too small for you. Any adolescent boy who continues to wear the clothes of his childhood will appear oversized due to the poor correlation between himself and his garments.”

“From where shall I acquire new garments? I would require both a dinner suit and more general clothing for my other tasks. The extra purse with which you have furnished me is indeed generous but not so generous as to afford a poor servant boy a new dinner suit?”

“Worry not, for also tomorrow you shall with me to the town, whereupon we will visit a tailor, a good friend of mine. I shall instruct him to befit you with an oversized suit, one that so hangs off your portly frame that it will give the appearance of much exercise and improved diet.”

“But will your Father, our Lord, fall for such a simple trick?”

“He is long in years and poor in sight. Not so poor as to fail to notice your pervasively peachlike paunch in the first place, but poor enough to be fooled by its disappearance under baggy cloth. I am indeed so sure of this plan that I have no doubt that you can in total disregard of his Lordship’s wishes continue to expand triumphantly and continue to win my faltering heart.”

With this the two young men once more became embroiled in a shameful embrace of gentle kisses and caresses. Some of them in places unfit to mention in a gentleman’s tale.

Continue to read the full story for free at: https://www.fatfables.com/adam-and-evan

26 notes · View notes