Ppl have mentioned this but I just wanna say THANK YOU DISPATCH for including a character who speaks Pidgin. And not only does he talk pidgin, but they portray it respectfully and treat it as a creole lang (with different spelling and all), not as a "dumb" version of english. AND he himself is not a stereotype; he's incredibly smart, nerdy, and kind. Also he and robert should kiss. Xoxo thx
content notice: Open Marriage, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Yoruba, Pidgin, Akewi, Praise Kink, Praise, Body Worship, Hero Worship, Noxus (League of Legends), Praise Singing, Spoilers for Ambessa: Chosen of the Wolf - C.L. Clark, Book: Ambessa: Chosen of the Wolf - C.L. Clark, Younger Ambessa, Pre-Canon, Bittersweet Ending, african ass yuri, Bottom Ambessa Medarda, Top Reader, Reader is Heavily Implied to be Black, Sub Ambessa Medarda, Gentle Sex, Cunnilingus
The banquet hall buzzed as servants flitted to and fro, placing table runners, arranging cushions and mats, and lighting candles. The cooks laid out mountains of pounded yams, enormous pots of stew, and heaps of every kind of rice. The aroma of meats, fried and steamed, and grilled graced your nose, and the sweet scent of plantain and palm wine mingled with the floral blooms outside. In another corner, musicians tuned their instruments and singers harmonized their voices. The brief bursts of song carried throughout the vaulted space to your ears.
The hall's construction was styled after Noxus, with great open pillars and many openings that let the sun bathe it in its light. Lord Menelik had commissioned it shortly after his own rise to power, an attempt to solidify his house's new identity as an archetypal faction of the Noxian empire. You hadn't an eye for architecture, but you found yourself more drawn to the earthen constructions of the Medarda's ancestors, your own family hailing from the same region. The climate of Bel'zhun agreed with you in that way, the swaying palms and salty air calling to your homesickness.
From your post near the door, you swiped a cup of palm wine, knocking some back while you checked the strings that fastened your drum. In a test, you tapped the stretched cowhide, squeezing your arm as it sounded a high tone, then releasing slightly to let a low one grace your ears. You rehearsed a few more strings to check the tone, making sure it gracefully mimicked your voice.
"Kabiyesi Ambessa," you sang, squeezing the drum's strings too tight. Too pitchy. You cleared your throat and tried again, loosening your arm's grip on the drums. "Kabiyesi Ambessa, kiniun, ti o pari ogun pẹ- pélu? Pẹlù? For Kindred's sake."
You huffed in exasperation. Nothing sounded wrong, necessarily. Your voice and the drum carried over the tones fine. But it wasn't perfect like she deserved.
You'd rehearsed every day from dawn til dusk the second you'd heard the news. Having bested a Demacian incursion into newly secured territory, General Ambessa Medarda would be returning from battle months early. She would arrive home a victor of her house, yet again. And when she entered the banquet hall, you would stand at her side, regaling the entire audience with tales in her name.
Which would only happen once your stupid gangan finally cooperated.
Trying again, you closed your eyes and picked up your curved drumstick and carefully tapped the cowhide. You cleared your throat.
"Kabiyesi Ambessa, kiniun, ti o pari ogun pẹlu igbi ti ọwọ rẹ." Finally. It sounded right.
You allowed yourself some time to retire to a powder room and adjust your own attire. Many thick necklaces of eleke decorated your collarbones and rested atop your blouse. Your buba was a cream and red color, wide-sleeved, and patterned with spiraling flowers like most women from your town. It neatly tucked into the deep red and black iro that tied around your waist. You shook out your bangled wrists and drew your hands up to your head, checking how your own red and gold gele fastened. Sighing neverously, you carefully dabbed water over your face, not enough to disturb the red eyeshadow or the shades on your lips.
You were nervous for other reasons as well. The general's return wasn't just that of a hero, but of your beloved. Unlike the lands of the Medardas' origins, Noxus had less stringent protocol around the highborn fraternizing with those in their service. For that, both you and Ambessa were grateful. She and her husband had their own arrangements, fond of each other in their own ways. But you, a humble akewi, had sung for her the fateful day she'd brought back the drakehound carcass and presented it at Menelik's feet, and you'd continued to lend your voice and drum to her life for years afterwards.
Checking over yourself once more, anklet jingling as you adjusted your sandals, you hurried back to the hall's entrance, drum under your arm and heart in your throat.
By the wicker chairs, Lord Kino and Lady Mel waited with their father, dressed to the nines with wide eyes and fat faces. You remembered having sung for their namings, a deep joy in your heart for the general and the life she'd brought to the house. For a family so marked by death, every birth was a blessing. It seemed the whole hall waited with bated breath, fretting last minute over decorations and seating. But finally, the procession emerged from the city's outskirts, horns blaring, drums pounding, and when you could spot her down the road, you finished your drink and stood, drum balanced between your arm and hip. It was time.
The streets of Bel'zhun were loud with trumpets and cheers as Ambessa rode down the central thoroughfare in a combination of her finest armor and a gele woven of gold and the finest fabrics on a black stallion. She had never shown up to a celebration without arraying herself in the apparel of war. It was a testament to not only her House, but also Ambessa herself. Forged in war's fires, born for battle, and destined for death in combat. Even peace itself would only ever be a prelude to further years of bloodshed and glory. A constant toil.
At least, you thought, she managed to make it look glamorous.
The flutes and trumpets of Noxus's guards sounded out as Ambessa entered the hall. The traditions of House Medardas' Shuriman roots had mixed with their adopted Noxian customs, creating something powerful and mesmerizing. Yet, even in ceremonies like these, attempting to extol the true Noxian status of the House, they returned to the traditions of old, with dishes, music, and songs from Shurima's westernmost coasts.
She dismounted from her steed, her iro sweeping around her magnificent legs, the fabric gathered in a way that showed off one of her thighs. Her long earrings dangled onto her shoulders, and her golden gele was wrapped high, fanning out behind her head like the sun. A long, red and black striped pele, shimmering with threads of gold, hung over one of her broad shoulders. Her buba cinched at the waist, secured by a golden noxian armor piece. The entire hall rose to their feet, House Medarda's many clans arrayed in the aso ebi commissioned for the event. Red, black, laced with gold, but not designed to upstage the woman of the hour. The gold bangles on her arm clattered as she held up her hand, commanding the crowd to silence. Then she turned her face to you, her painted lips curving in a genuine smile. You sank into a deep bow, head tipped in reverence towards the floor while your heart leapt into your throat. Then you sighed, readying your drumstick and carefully adjusting your grip on your gangan, fingers set to pluck the strings as needed.
"Kabiyesi Ambessa, kiniun, ti o pari ogun pẹlu igbi ti ọwọ rẹ. Igberaga ti idile Medarda ati Oluṣọ ti Rokrund. Pẹlu ibakcdun, o daabobo awọn ọmọ rẹ ati daabobo ọjọ iwaju wọn."
Hail Ambessa, the lioness, who finishes wars with one lash of her claws. The Pride of Clan Medarda and Guardian of Rokrund. With ferocity, she protects her cubs and safeguards their future.
You tapped out every melodic rise and fall of your voice, proclaiming Ambessa's return, her title, and her epithet in the tongue of her ancestors and yours. The drum intertwined as you closed your eyes and sang, years of practice and confidence manifesting in the hall's echoes.
"Awọn abẹfẹ rẹ pa iṣọtẹ, ati pe orukọ rẹ n ṣe iwuri fun ifọkansin: Kabiyesi Gbogbogbo Medarda, Kiniun ti Noxus."
Her blade quells rebellion, and her name inspires devotion: Hail General Medarda, the lioness of Noxus.
As usual, when you finished such praises, your head bowed deeper under the sheer magnitude of the histories and stories you recounted. With Ambessa's, though, it felt different. Your conviction didn't come simply from the mindless worship of a subject, but the adoration of a lover. And everyone knew it, including the woman you did it all for.
Breathing in, you readied your lungs and began a faster beat, your gangan echoing in the halls along with the larger drummers' rhythms.
"Ọmọ Ānibesa!" You called out, voice measured, and the tone and pitch matched that of your drum.
"O ti bori!" The crowd responded, already shuffling side to side in time with the song.
"Ọmọ Aja Igbo!"
"O ti bori!"
"Ọmọ Kiniun," you called, leading a procession as the crowd parted in two. Ambessa danced a good ten paces behind you as you footworked your way down the path, your drumstick sounding out the tones of your voice perfectly. The crowd called back again. Child of the lion, child of the wolf. She had won. You collected yourself for the next section; the beat was more complex. You adjusted your grip on the gangan and began, breath control tight.
"Awọn yàn ti Aja Igbo!"
"Tani yio ba nyin jà?" The crowd answered in unison, their claps joining your beats. Your dance intensified as you exited the path created by the crowd and shuffled off to the side. Ambessa pulled up the hem of her iro as Lord Azizi helped her up the dais to the pair of woven wicker chairs.
"Awọn yàn ti Aja Igbo!"
"Ko si eni ti yoo lu ọ!"
Chosen of the wolf, none would beat her.
Smiling, you bowed before her, chest heaving with exhilaration. You lifted your head to meet her gaze, and the look in her pale brown eyes, framed by deep Noxian reds and golds, swam with mirth. A smile of her own reached her eyes, and charmed, she nodded down at you in approval. You ducked your head again and found your place among the other musicians.
The night continued, the fires of the great hall roaring as music in both styles echoed throughout its corridors. Drums, goje, and agidigbo played as the hall danced through the night. You'd been dragged onto the dance floor more than once, giggling your way through footwork and waist wining. Eventually, your feet tired and you retired to your cushions by the other musicians, not too far off from the wicker chairs and table where only Ambessa and Lord Azizi resided. The young heirs had already been shooed off to bed, though not without sneaking extra plates of funkaso and alewa. You didn't try to draw too much attention to yourself, pinching pounded yams from the large plate in front of you and scooping some soup up with it. The spices and seafood danced on your tongue as you swallowed them down. Across from you, a gojeplayer ranted about her cousin's wedding and how insufferable they were being about ensuring everyone bought the right cloth. You laughed, but kept to yourself until a shadow alighted in your corner. Instantly, you all rose and turned to bow deeply in the general's presence.
Of course, her eyes only remained trained on you. She called your name, and you lifted your head.
"Yes, General?"
"Join me for a walk? Fresh air may do us both some good."
You nodded, carefully smoothing out your iro and rising to your feet before rinsing your hand in the water bowl at your side. Ambessa held out her hand, large even in comparison to most other Noxians. Your face heated, but you shyly thanked her and followed in her stride towards the gardens outside the halls.
The night air in Bel'zhun was balmy and warm, settling snugly over your skin. The grand steps trailed off into a paved but dusty path that wound through the lush, cultivated greenery, imported from the emerald coasts of Shurima. You and Ambessa walked a respectable distance apart until the light of the hall diminished behind you both, casting a dimming orange glow on your backs. You turned first down a secret path shrouded by palm fronds and removed your sandals. Then you plucked a bloom of mussaenda just as Ambessa came up behind you to wind her own hands around your waist. Despite the callouses she'd gained from war, her touch was still gentle and her hands well taken care of. Her nails were painted and glossy, and her face still youthful, though war had begun to harden her features.
You turned in her grasp and cradled her face, slipping the flower into her ear just underneath her gele. It fit her so well, the shock of red a pretty contrast to her warm skin and golden headwrap. She hummed in appreciation as she hugged you closer, and you laughed at her forwardness. "So this is the fresh air you go collect me for?"
"Wetin be this insolence?" Ambessa kissed her teeth, rolling her eyes as she drew you closer. "Me, I cannot call my own akewi into the garden for a stroll?"
Your face heated again as your eyelids slid lower and lower. Your gaze dropped to Ambessa's lips, thick and beautiful, graced with blood red paint that begged to be smudged. Your breath hitched, but you reminded yourself to form words. "Mo ti padanu re." You'd missed her.
"Emi yoo pada wa si ọdọ rẹ," Ambessa smiled fondly, wrapping her hands over your own. "A thousand warriors will never halt my return."
You nodded, touching your forehead to hers. The scent of her perfume and the oils that graced her thick hair under her gele flooded your nose. You would never say it, despite the songs you sang for the crowds, but you much preferred Ambessa as she was now with you. Not a woman with an empire to fight for or enemies to cut down, but a woman in love and at rest in your arms. You had seen where other Medardas with something to prove had ended up. Death favored this house, and you knew Kindred's wolf would come to take your beloved from you one of these days.
"You promise me this, yet next month. When war go call you, you dey answer." You tried not to sound hurt about it, but this you had in common with her husband. It wasn't other lovers you competed with for her attention, but battle after battle demanding a pound of Ambessa's flesh and attention. Such was the price of loving a Medarda.
"Don't dull yourself. You know well well, this is the burden I dey shoulder as a member of this house."
Your blood ran cold at that, but you bit your tongue. Her whole family, from her grandfather to her cousins, had made her this way. You wouldn't undo years of Medarda upbringing and legacy in one moonlit night surrounded by fancy flowers and pretty palms. So you exhaled the argument you'd wanted to have with her for the umpteenth time and continued down the path, finding a bench the two of you favored. You eased your body down onto the stone seat and gazed up at the moon above.
"Oya, come and sit. That palm wine don tire me."
"I take it you be the reason shayo don finish?" she chuckled.
"Please, it is better than the Noxian grapes you are so fond of," you laughed, shoving playfully into her side. "Besides, is Femi's fault. Her cousin has made her miserable beyond belief, so the whole banquet must pay."
Ambessa slid onto the bench beside you, her thick thighs pressing against the side of yours, as you divulged the drama of the house's lower clans. She was radiant, the gold of her earrings and necklace catching the moon's light in a different way than her deep skin. The deep lines of her scars looked like fine cracks in the most expensive pottery. Ambessa was proud of them, and though your heart winced at the memory of close to death each one brought her, you'd grown to love them too.
"You've praised me well tonight," the warlord said, after a small while. "As you have every night."
Your heart swelled at the praise she offered you in turn. The general's own approval was as precious as the gold in your ears, just as weighty and gleaming. Eventually, you noticed how she stifled a yawn of her own. "Aht aht! Sleep go catch you? My apologies for boring my lady."
"Don vex me, o," she huffed, rolling her eyes. You lay your head on her shoulder, an easy smile curling your lips. "Me, I'm not so tired I go deny more time with you."
Ambessa drew her arm around to your side, and you did the same, as if your own arms could keep her safe from all that sought to bring her down. A gentle breeze blew through the gardens as you sighed. You'd hold onto this night as you did every memory like it; deep in your heart, a cherished and sacred thing. Eventually, though, Ambessa noticed the way you pressed into her for more warmth and hummed in amusement. She removed her pele and wrapped it around your shoulders.
"Somebody dey freeze."
"Hey, you are talking nonsense."
"You no go dull me as you do yourself," Ambessa laughed. She rose to her feet and slipped her sandals back on. "Come, come. I know exactly how to warm you."
You shivered again, this time at the mischievous turn her voice took, and followed her further down the secret garden path the two of you shared to a small earthen lodging with a thatched roof. It was a well-kept secret when Ambessa felt like being discreet, a word that rarely suited her. Two small torches were fastened to the doorframe, illuminating the blue paint of the exterior and Ambessa's warm smile. She entered first, smoothing her hand over the walls before pressing open the dark wooden door. You followed her inside and removed your sandals again, setting them by the stool. A small candle sat on a side table's edge, and Ambessa lit it while you felt for the edges of your own gele. When she snuffed out the match and placed the candle back down, Ambessa sat on the bed's edge to undo her own sandals.
"Do you remember the first time you took me here?"
You smiled, pulling the wrap from your head and undoing your own earrings. "How could I forget? Your hands wouldn't stop shaking until I'd tasted you."
A pillow sailed in your direction, and you dodged it just in time. With a giggle, you plucked it up off the floor and sauntered over to Ambessa, your painted lips split in a cheeky smile. You crawled onto the bed's edge, the thick red comforter cushioning your knees as you cupped Ambessa's face.
"I no go tease you for nothing, my love," you purred, smoothing your hand over her hip, smoothing the luxurious fabric of her iro under your palms. "Only to remind you that even in your fear, your hesitation, you dey worth my adoration."
Ambessa's eyes drifted to your lips as you spoke, the soft candlelight from the table and moonlight from the window catching the brown of both your skin. Your hand migrated from her cheek, slipping up to her gele and undoing it, letting her long red locs fall to her back and shoulders. She slipped her hand to the back of your neck and brought you into a gentle kiss.
Your breath caught as you smiled against her lips, and you tangled your hair in her locs to pull her closer. The sweet oils she used in her hair and the lingering scent of the mussaenda graced your nose. You relished in the sweetness that only those who loved the general found her capable of. The soft press of her mouth against yours, the way her hands wound around your buba, eager but not rough. Even the little sighs she breathed upon your own lips, thin and tinged with whines as the two of you smudged the paint on your lips, were the most pleasant sound you'd ever known.
And for that, you had to praise her.
Pulling back a little and giggling at the heated look in her golden-brown eyes, you let your hands wander around to unfasten her buba, tugging it around her shoulders, but not off her breasts just yet. You drew your palms lower, unfastening the thick leather and metal war belt cinching her waist. Gently, you pulled it from her and set it upon the bedside table. Then you returned to her, seating yourself back in her lap, grasping her chin, and grinning.
"Idunnu si awọn oju," you began, your voice following an ancient cadence, practiced and clear. Your eyes flicked over her, delighting in all they found: the pale scars, the wide, sharp nose, the almond shape of her eyes, her high cheeks. Every single feature demanded your equal worship, pleasing to your sight. Ambessa's breath hitched as your words caressed her ears, though her full lips remained curled in a confident smirk. "Lile si ifọwọkan, dun lori ahọn."
You curled your fingers into the collar of her buba and pulled it down, and over her breasts, and though mostly muscle and lessened from nursing two children, the two mounds were still plump enough to fit in your hands. You cupped them, running your thumbs over the paler stretch marks. Your fingers came to rest, curled around her dark nipples, already pebbling under your words and gaze. One of your hands abandoned her breast to brush over planes of muscle, feeling her abs twitch under your fingers. Even where Ambessa was hard to the touch, she couldn't help but tremble under yours. You leaned back in, pressing kisses over her lips, darting your tongue out to taste the leftover Palm and Noxian wine on her tongue. The taste made your own head dizzy, enthralled by how the general's mouth mixed the two flavors, that of empire and that of home, creating something pleasing. You couldn't get enough, a woman born of two worlds and fighting for her respect in one. But here, with nothing to prove, it didn't turn bitter in her mouth. It was sweet on the tongue.
"O yẹ ki o pe Àdùnní; Ìròyìn ìbí rẹ jẹ́ ayọ̀ fún ìyá rẹ," you murmured when both of your lips parted again, a smile on your face. You'd heard stories of the day she was born, her house eager and excited for Lady Adepeju to bring yet another life into the Medarda clan. How the day was tinged with sadness as the Lady had fallen deathly ill not long after. How servants whispered that the infant would bring to ruin all that surrounded her. Still, Lady Adepeju had survived long enough to be taken by a different and decidedly un-Ambessa-related cause. When she'd held her daughter, healthy and strong, her cries echoing out into the hall when the midwife removed her from Adepeju's womb, it had sounded like a lion cub's. And so was she named. Ambessa, the lioness of House Medarda. It was a pity, you'd supposed. Because while you'd been on the receiving end of her leonine tendencies, you would've named her Àdùnní, for the news of her birth was a joy to her mother.
Ambessa brought a scarred hand up to your cheek, the calluses of her thumb rubbing over the skin of your face. You pulled her hand from the side of your head and pressed a kiss to each knuckle. You wouldn't rush this. Like every other time you'd welcomed Ambessa home, you would sing her praises as she fell to pieces underneath you, pleased and spoiled as she'd deserved. She'd never been a coddled child; you'd grown up with enough whispers around her grandfather's treatment of her in the clan. She'd never been allowed to come apart or show a moment of weakness as she did with her lovers. Her wounds were not kissed better, only deepened until she grit her teeth through the pain. Her tears were not wiped away; Lord Abayomi and Lady Adepeju had long since passed. Her fears were only ever buried once validated, a patch of paranoia giving fruit to rashness. That was the "burden of a Medarda," where your affections would always bow to the demands of legacy and conquest. It was no wonder, then, that was all you wanted to give her when she returned to you alive, because, to you, she deserved it.
"Awọn ọta rẹ ti ji ayọ rẹ, Mo ti fipamọ diẹ ninu rẹ ninu ọkan mi."
Your hand, busy with her breast, slowed and came to the left side of her chest. Ambessa grasped it too, and you pulled both your hands to your own heart. It beat strong and sure, quick with desire as it rose and fell. Still, you were the picture of calm. Your own appetite could wait, for you yearned to worship this woman. Your song was finished, but you were not. You shifted your weight on her hips and released both her hands to push her back onto the red cushions. For all her strength, Ambessa yielded under your touch, as she had since the first time you brought her here. Her powerful shoulders slackened as they hit the soft bedding, her eyes low and adoring. She was a vision, red locks fanning out around her.
You bowed over her, your hands dancing along powerful muscle to clasp around her wrists. She raised an eyebrow, her mouth falling open to probably mock your attempt at dominance. But you didn't give her the chance. As usual, she would tease and give you plenty of mouth until you wrapped yours around her clit. You shivered with the thought when your lips pressed against each other again. You slipped your tongue into her red-painted mouth and moaned at the taste of wine on hers. Your moan was deeper, speaking to the hunger that had settled within you, begging you to lift her high as you brought her low. Your eyes fluttered shut, your eyelids a dim orange with the candle's glow as you softly bit her lower lip. The flesh was soft between your teeth. If you wanted to, you could tear into it, causing her to bleed. But you wouldn't. She trusted you not to. Steeling yourself, you gently sucked on it, relishing in the soft cry she let out. Groaning in response, you broke the kiss, lips wet and breath heavy. You trailed your lips along her jaw, tracing its strong shape with your teeth. The thick column of her neck quivered around a swallow as you mouthed alongside it, sucking lovebites into her brown skin as reminders. Her breath came quickly, a small whine bleeding into every exhale, and you smiled against her throat. For all her hard edges, though, the woman was the fresh clay under your touch. You relinquished her hands.
You still had a job to do, however, and kissed your way from her throat to the dip between her breasts. Briefly, your lips brushed against the sides of either peak, and you softly licked along the pillow softness. Her hand came up to grip the back of your head, clutching almost for dear life. It would be so easy to tease her, make her wait until her hips squirmed underneath yours. But you'd made her wait long enough, hadn't you? So with an understanding sigh, you trailed down to her abdomen, hard and firm with work and war. But along her hips, which both your hands grazed, the cushion of fat was striped from stretching rapidly and twice over. Your mouth watered, for the shape of this woman was pure insanity. Sculpted by the older gods from the family's first lands and shaped by her own. You squeezed, just a bit, and laved your tongue down to the soft and wiry bed of curls beneath. Your hands brushed down to her thighs, and Ambessa preened underneath your affection, legs splaying out underneath you with a breathy giggle.
"Ah-ah, I'm right here," you chastised, and the woman underneath you had the nerve to pout. "At your big age?"
"Can you blame me? You are moving like snail, o."
You rolled your eyes and squeezed the marvelous muscle of her thighs before nosing through her curls. The scent was rich and thick, notes of shea and black soap along with her own arousal, causing your eyes to cross. You groaned, despite yourself, and finally spread her long inner lips on your tongue. You knew the contours of your lover intimately without having to open your eyes. How her outer lips, full and thick, cushioned the longer folds inside. How, when your tongue traveled up between them, her clit wouldn't greet you, throbbing and hard on your tongue, but nestled deep inside her hood, enticing you to warm it where it remained. How the tickle of her curled hairs under your nose made the entire experience all the better. You huffed in her scent, your mind completely given over to the sacred task of praising her, offering your highest form of worship to the woman most deserving.
At the first stroke of your tongue, Ambessa sighed out into the tiny room, the sound an entirely different kind of music than the notes that trailed from the banquet hall. You had to hear more, pressing firmer over the hooded nub at the top. She let out a moan, still airy, but thicker. You let a hand travel underneath the small of her back, stroking your thumb over it with reverence. Your other hand clutched her inner thigh even tighter. The open and lavish kisses you graced her with slowly turned ravenous, dipping back between her lips to taste her inside. Her most tender flesh cushioned your face, wet as it rubbed against your cheeks, the slide warm and messy. You couldn't help the whines you loosed into her, each the contented utterance of a lover where they belonged.
Between her increasing cries, Ambessa remembered her worshipper long enough to bring her hand to your head yet again, pressing you firmer into her. Her own hips began to writhe up into your mouth. She was never capable of lying still for her pleasure for long. You giggled at the thought, and the hand on her thigh traveled to its outer side to pull her closer. You weren't sure how much closer she could get to you, but you were sure it would never be enough.
You were lucky you'd moved your arms and her thighs out of the way enough to hear each melodic mewl and groan that fell from her lips, each a testimony to your own devotion. The volume swelled as you drove her closer to the edge. You knew what would do the trick for her, what would make her bloom underneath you every time. Your hand, trapped between the heat of her back and the covers, slid out to press on her mons. You dragged your tongue back to her hood and lavished it under your attentions. The rooms echoed as you gently suckled on her, and she whimpered. A sound she would've never let loose anywhere else, a sound of weakness. And only here? Beneath you? She was praised for it.
Her arrival was as glorious as her earlier one in the hall. A body carved from the finest stone in all of Runeterra quivered under your touch. Ambessa shivered and quaked with each gasp and whine, something the general never did. What the most fearsome and tireless foe could not accomplish, you achieved with ease. With reverence befitting of a god. You let her body roll and shake underneath you, gently lapping at her need until she finally slowed and shoved softly at your head.
You obliged her and lifted your head, wiping your mouth and crawling back over her. Ambessa looked glorious, even in her ecstasy. Her locs haloed her blissed-out face, her usually stern brows eased, and her hard eyes sparkled. Her lips parted around soft exhales, still painted and begging you to kiss them yet again. So you did, leaning down slowly and stealing away more and more of her breath. Ambessa sighed happily, bringing both her great arms around your back, clutching gently at your shoulder blades, still clothed. When you parted, you cupped her cheek, smoothing over the lines of one scar.
"Mo nife e," you sighed, eyes pleading. You needed her to know, as you'd tirelessly shown her, countless times, she was safe here with you. Safe to say and feel whatever she wanted as much as she wanted. She could have it. Ambessa's lower lip quivered, but she sighed and smiled. When she spoke, her voice was thick.
"Emi naa ni ife si e."
When the sun rose, you lay in her arms, your own clothes tossed carelessly by the nightstand, and nose to nose with the slumbering general. Her life could not be like this all the time, no matter how much you wished it could. But that would make each night of worship all the more sweet.
Thank you to everyone who's waited for this since September. This work is a three-parter and will explore Ambessa at three key portions of her life. It does end sadly, but she will be cherished each time TRUST. Ambessa, as she appears here, is in her early thirties. As always, here are translations for the Yorùba used, in addition to the oríkì the reader sings to her (composed by yours truly).
Song Two:
Call: Ọmọ Ānibesa
Response: O ti bori
Call: Ọmọ Aja Igbo
Response: O ti bori
Call: Ọmọ Kiniun
Response: O ti bori
Call: Ọmọ Aja Igbo
Response: O ti bori
Call: Awọn yàn ti Aja Igbo
Response: tani yio ba nyin jà?
Call: Awọn yàn ti Aja Igbo
Response: ko si eni ti yoo lu ọ
Translation:
The child of the lion, you have won; the child of the wolf, you have won. The child of the lion, you have won; the child of the wolf, you have won. The chosen of the wolf, who will fight you? The chosen of the wolf, none will beat you.
Song Three: Jẹ́ n taste ẹ wò
Idunnu si awọn oju, lile si ifọwọkan, dun lori ahọn. O yẹ ki o pe Àdùnní; Ìròyìn ìbí rẹ jẹ́ ayọ̀ fún ìyá rẹ. Awọn ọta rẹ ti ji ayọ rẹ, Mo ti fipamọ diẹ ninu rẹ ninu ọkan mi.
Pleasing to the eyes, hard to the touch, sweet on the tongue. You should have been named Àdùnní; the news of your birth was a joy to your mother. Your enemies have stolen the sweetness from your heart, but I keep what they missed in mine.
Emi yoo pada wa si ọdọ rẹ => I will always come back to you
“ Nel Menone Platone racconta come Socrate riesca ad aiutare uno schiavo privo di cultura a comprendere il teorema di Pitagora. Secondo Platone, questa è la prova che c’è un mondo, quello delle idee, di cui le cose sensibili sono solo copie. E se il nostro ambiente stimola la mente in maniera corretta, la struttura intrinseca delle cose non può che essere riconosciuta.
L’aspetto dirompente del pensiero di Chomsky riguarda il modo di intendere il linguaggio. Il linguista americano ha mostrato che tutti i cervelli del mondo hanno una dotazione linguistica isomorfa e che ogni lingua è facile o difficile allo stesso modo. Quando crediamo che imparare l’inglese sia piú semplice che imparare il giapponese sbagliamo. L’inglese appartiene a un ceppo linguistico piú vicino alla nostra lingua madre, ma la difficoltà sintattica è identica, perché le strutture sintattiche stimolate sono le medesime.
Il linguista anarchico Derek Bickerton, oggi professore emerito a Manoa presso l’Università delle Hawaii, ha proposto una visione compatibile ma non del tutto sovrapponibile con il modello teorizzato da Chomsky. Anche per Bickerton il linguaggio è innato, ma non è vero che ogni lingua è semplice allo stesso modo ai fini dell'apprendimento. Fate attenzione, perché questa differenza suggerisce che Homo Sapiens conserva le tracce di una sorta di lingua di Babele innata e dimenticata. Secondo Bickerton queste tracce sono i cosiddetti linguaggi Pidgin (linguaggi semplificati che si sviluppano dal contatto di gruppi che non condividono un linguaggio comune) e le loro spontanee evoluzioni in lingue Creole (presunti sviluppi spontanei dai linguaggi Pidgin a lingue piú evolute). “
Leonardo Caffo, La vita di ogni giorno. Cinque lezioni di filosofia per imparare a stare al mondo, Einaudi (collana Super ET - Opera Viva); 2016. [ Libro elettronico ]
ill sound so fkn insane rn but i am writing a dispatch fic and i wanted to make more accurate hopefully less cringe royd dialogue
so here i am listening to a clip of a hawaiian documentary while scrolling through some kind of tourist hawaiian pidgin slang website and actually no joke crying over this cultural melting pot that has created a beautiful language born out of the inherent not just need but desire to understand each other. a language thats actually taking the context of the word from where it came from and integrates it so fondly into this new context/culture. its like if cultural appreciation was a language.
hanabata days and halala are probs my favorites. for context, i am filipino born and raised and seeing a part of my language/culture imbedded into another in a way that isn't looked down upon but is adapted with such obvious acceptance and with such little condescension like fuck idk wtf am i even talking abt
idk man its so fascinating and endearing how the language is new enough that you can easily trace where a word came from but is lived-in enough for you to see the environment it grew in since.
and yesyes ik im yapping abt something not exclusive to hawaiian pidgin but cant a girl just bask in the beauty of it all first??
[cries from a failing anthropology student who has known of a language for only 30 minutes she might be wrong abt sum stuff, 2025]
