#power of natural extracts

[extroilnaturalss]

https://extroilnaturals.com/the-remarkable-power-of-natural-extracts-unveiling-their-importance/

[fatehbaz]

Ecologies of Imperialism in Algeria, by Brock Cutler, begins with an account of food poisoning in nineteenth-century French Algeria. A deep rural crisis of drought and famine in the late 1860s had reduced the amount of fuelwood coming into the city of Algiers, leading one baker to use construction debris shipped to the colony from Paris to fire his bread oven in early 1869. The lead paint on that metropolitan rubble, product of Baron Haussmann’s transformation of the French capital, became a toxic element in the bread that sickened settlers in the colony. The author [...] treats this small episode as a microcosm of the divides, the unruly circulations, and the nonhuman actants and processes that characterized the early decades of colonial rule in Algeria, which the French invaded in 1830.

These divisions and circulations include those between metropole and colony, between modern and not modern, between person and environment, between human and nonhuman, and across the colonial frontier with Tunisia. [...]

---

The first [of three major narrative veins in Cutler's study involves] [...] bread [...], the consumption of wheat grown on the Mediterranean plains of Algeria [...]. The toxic bread affair of 1869, however, was a reminder that the distance between metropole and colony was not so great. [...] The second vein examines the production of new ecosystem relations [...]. [T]he violence of decades of uneven conquest and the confiscation, appropriation, and enclosure of land and its reorientation toward regional and international [European] markets between 1830 and 1870 thoroughly destabilized rural Algerian life. This fragility turned lethal in the final years of the 1860s, when a series of environmental crises - locust plagues and drought - caused widespread famine and ultimately the deaths of up to eight hundred thousand Algerians. [...] The emptied land and cheap labor that were outcomes of the environmental crises enabled [France] to complete the capitalist transformation of rural Algeria [...]. Another outcome of the environmental crisis was an increase in the number of rural Algerians migrating to cities, where they were perceived as both a threat to public order and a reservoir of potential labor energy. [...]

[D]ivisionary logics, including the line between city and countryside and the modern gendered subject, were being performed, produced, and reproduced in the context of environmental crisis.

---

[Another] major element [in Cutler's scholarship] [...] is an exploration of the complex politics of policing French Algeria’s eastern border with Tunisia, in the era before French colonial rule began in the latter polity in 1881. [...] [T]his border, officially demarcated in 1846, was only integrated into local ecosystem relations over the course of subsequent decades. Repeated performance of sovereignty through patrols and taxation of pastoral communities that lived and worked in the frontier commons instantiated the border, but the border region remained resistant to the forms of modern statecraft, such as standardization, bureaucratization, and written transactions, that French authorities preferred. [...] [Cutler] draws on intentionally “mundane” examples to show how they were critical to the steady reproduction of a modern imperial border (p. 47). [...] [A specific] episode of transborder [dispute] [...] in 1869 [...] became a referndum within the settler community on the virtues of military rule and a reminder for that [European] community of [supposed] indigenous incompatability with modernity. [...]

[T]he various divisions illuminated by the story - between modern and not, between inside and outside, and between European and Algerian - were performances staged at various times and places, not eternal features of the society or landscape. The repetition of “divisionary logics,” in the author’s telling, were at the heart of French colonial modernity (p. 149). [...]

---

[T]horough reading of the French colonial archive, from official sources as well as memoirs, newspapers, and periodicals [...], [t]he first two narrative threads, on bread and disaster, demonstrate the significance of moments of crisis [...] in actually changing the course of history [...] [and] longer-term [...] ecological transformations. The other thread, however, examines how the mundane performance of modern sovereign power and its divisionary logics, over time, made real or even naturalized the new imperial frontier between Algeria and Tunisia. Both [...] society-wide crises or the steady performance of the mundane logics of power [...].

---

All text above by: Jackson Perry. "Review of Cutler, Brock. Ecologies of Imperialism in Algeria". H-Environment, H-Net Reviews. April 2024. Published online at: h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=59842. [Text within brackets added by me for clarity. Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Solas

[bigskydreaming]

Also, does anyone else feel like this is all Locutus related? Everything weird about Jack, the Changelings’ mysterious benefactor, Picard’s original body....

I’m just saying, I feel like this is a Locutus thing but I don’t know how common that guess is.

[grimgrinnr]

Anyways. Unrelated but. I’m consumed by thoughts and ideas I’ve generated.

So uuuuuuuuh...

Never fucking let him near your muses or Hell. He will make everything worse. He will enjoy it. He will exploit it.

It’s horrible.

But I absolutely want to write it eventually-

[cactusgal22]

Mushrooms growing out of the road

[healthproduct95]

NeuroActiv6 Supplements - Health

[ane-doodles]

Make it turquoise!

Cult of the Lamb Narindersona and Lambsona :D

Special thanks to @linkerbell for motivating me to draw, name and finally share them

Below information extracted from a conversation on discord:

Aneerinder:

(Using he/him for this occasion)

I wanted to maintain both the theme of the felines and the god of death but with a bit of the Japanese aesthetic that I like and other details that I usually use in my drawings.

First, the species is still a serval (like my Narinder) but in white. The stripes and spots they have are painted by him himself, except for the ears and tail, which are natural.

Instead of just making him the god of death, I wanted to base him a little more on the idea of a prophet, who receives messages from the future and teaches them to others if you ask in the right way. He is considered the writer of destiny, even though as such it is outside his area, how someone lives or dies is outside his power, he only receives them and archives the stories of their life.

Based on this idea of a writer/illustrator, the idea was born that his hands would function as a writing instrument (similar to this character in the movie 9 who had pen(? fingers to write). Constantly gushing ichor from these using them as ink…

Jumping to the moment of imprisonment hehehe

He is partially blinded using a paper talisman behind his head. To prevent it from being able to write or create something with the ink/ichor, it is surrounded by water, so that the ink always runs.

He also ends up being immobilized with red ropes as an allegory to the "red thread of destiny", especially his right hand is especially tangled to prevent him from continuing to "write the destiny of the gods". To prevent the ropes from breaking there are also paper talismans hanging from them.

In short, prevent him from writing/drawing in any way in order to keep the destiny of the gods in his hands. He ends up becoming dependent on other senses, little talking, much listening.

He loves stories, after all his job as a god is also to record the lives of mortals.

Their followers could ask for glimpses of their futures, which were considered predictions.

When someone dies and reaches the other side, they are given a scroll with a copy of the record of their life.

I'm still thinking about how to draw him, but if I design a shape for him as a follower, I'll most likely end up wearing glasses to see.

You will never in your life get him to close the haori he usually wears.

Aniki:

Ok lamb, she/her this time

The lamb genocide occurs during an expedition trip. She coincidentally returns to her village the day it is destroyed. Easily resigned, once she finished digesting the idea that she was the last of her kind she had no choice but to move on.

She's not built for combat, she's even terribly bad at dodging (like me qwq) which is why she dies often.

[Here I have an inside joke in which the god tells her "I may be blind, but I clearly see a lot of death in your future" jsjsjs]

Their crusades mainly consist of collecting resources and trading with traders.

She is very good at managing the cult, to the point where in the first five years it was already self-sustaining. She is also usually quick to meet the demands of her followers and thereby increase the faith of the cult, avoiding at all costs giving sermons because she is too shy to do so. Despite this, in casual conversations with cultists he often talks about the god of death in a way that unconsciously raises their faith.

She never takes the cult on herself, because she couldn't be interested in the idea of taking that burden on herself, which is why all the cult's statues and decorations revolve around the cat.

Now, having a self-sustaining cult and a faith that is constantly growing, she ends up having too much free time, so she spends her time putting together a collection of objects she finds around, making decorations for the cult, playing and exploring.

When she dies she tells stories of common events that occur in the cult, and in return the god tells her stories of past lives that have reached his domain. They have a constant exchange of stories which is what allows them to get closer.

She changes over time (new design yipee) and the crown upon returning to the god grants her a blessing in which she becomes the "eyes of god"

The new design only has some minor changes from the original.

Since she never had the ambition to take power, divinity never affected her.

She only had small surges of devotion and power that made her possessed by the god and that way she was able to defeat the bishops (similar to what a writer would do with his characters)

[zoe-oneesama]

I finished "Kira Kira Pre Cure A La Mode" like a month ago, and I have brain rot that makes a Miraculous Ladybug AU out of anything with an animal theme so here we go. I would label this more as a crossover tbh and even thought of my own rules to make it coexist in the Miraculous Ladybug Universe.

Ko-fi | Patreon

To start, they break a few Miraculous Rules: the Miraculouses themselves have no resemblance to the animal they're imitating, and their powers are closer to their Pre Cure ones, which are baking/cooking based. And the reason I have for this is that these are technically not Miraculouses and technically not kwamis.

They aren't the "Miraculous of [x]" representing a concept, they're actually fairies who desire to be heroes. As such, they're actually at odds with Kwamis and there's a bit of a feud between them - the Kwamis have always worked alongside humans and see the Fairies as reckless and violating nature's laws, while the Fairies see the Kwamis as hording all the fun and not even trying to bridge the gap between them.

I imagine akumas would start showing up in Japan in Ichigozaka, bringing out the six PreCure Miraculouses, and they'd eventually follow them back to Paris to have a showdown with Hawkmoth AND the existing heroes. While the kwamis and fairies are having it out, the humans are meeting in the middle.

Ichika uses Whipp to become Crème Fouettée (Whipped Cream), a Bunny Hero with the ability "Batter Up", which captures the enemy in a giant cake. It has the side effect of being able to extract an akuma, but it can't purify it.

Himari uses Flann to become Swirl Caramel, a Squirrel Hero with modified clacker/rope darts as a weapon and the ability "Cherry Bomb", which is pretty self explanatory.

Aoi uses Aisuu to become Glace Bleue (Blue Ice), a Lion Hero with the ability "Gelato Shake", which encases her fist in a block of ice for even more painful punchs.

Yukari uses Cookie to become Kitty Macaron, a Cat Hero with a spiked yoyo and the ability "Cat Scratch" which inflates the size of the yoyo and increases their strength, making them able to scratch through anything.

Akira uses Chocco to Chien Rouge (Red Dog), a Dog Hero with the ability "Chocolate Armose" which creates a chocolate shield.

Ciel "uses" RinRin to become Blande Volante (Flying Bands), a Pegasus Hero with the ability "Kiracle Rainbow", which fully purifies the enemy and all of the damage caused during a fight. (If you know you know)

[gumywyrm]

Up first are the BeetleWings!

Some additional info below:

BeetleWings (as well as LeafWings) are native to Pantala; they did not come from Pyrrhia.

^ BeetleWings also naturally evolved into HiveWings and SilkWings on their own. There were already proto versions of them when Clearsight arrived.

Their extra set of legs gives them better dexterity and balance, especially for spinning silk.

There are two distinct types of BeetleWings, juggernauts and skimmers.

^ Juggernauts are the staple BeetleWing. They were known for their muscular build and powerful elytra.

^ Skimmers are more lithe BeetleWings that eventually evolved into HiveWings and SilkWings. They were better fliers, but much weaker.

Juggernaut BeetleWings have the strongest scales of any dragon, especially the elytra.

^ While seen as a morbid practice by some, elytra were very important family heirlooms in some communities. They were extracted by the healer of the family from the body and used as shields. It was a way for deceased dragons to continue protecting their family even in death.

BeetleWings go through metamorphosis, which was passed down to SilkWings but lost in the HiveWings.

In addition to flamesilk, BeetleWings had other fire-related abilities such as flamespit and mild fire resistance.

There are still BeetleWings in the modern day. They retreated to the northwestern mountains of Pantala, which have largely been untouched due to its instability (earthquakes, sinkholes, even volcanic activity). They strongly resemble juggernauts.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Since you're at the doctor's, medical headcanons. Who's afraid of needles, who's the biggest baby when sick, who insists that everyone just let them die, etc. etc.

Short answer before long one bc I have to drive but:

They're all deep, deep into the morass of the horrors and miracles of The Flesh.

---

The Karakura kids are weird because Ichigo's dad is an emergency trauma doctor and Ichigo's family loves above the clinic. Any time his friends come over there's a round of "so what wild shit happened in the ER since last time?"

(continued under the cut)

Uryuu's dad is also a surgeon, and the thing that gets him and Ichigo back on speaking terms again is more or less second-hand shop talk.

Orihime has been obsessed with emergency medicine since her brother died. She wanted to know what she should have done, and can do so it won't happen again.

Keigo has been carrying a first aid kit in his backpack since he became friends with Ichigo and Tatsuki in middle school. He's got an exceptional talent for patching someone up enough to get through English class without the teacher noticing the injuries after a lunchtime brawl.

Tatsuki started peeking over Orihime's shoulder at her notes on joint trauma and developed a talent for targeting her kicks and punches to deal maximum damage in karate tournaments.

Mizurio knows a suspicious amount about neurology and how pain works because his "uncles" keep telling him about techniques used by enforcers to extract payment or information.

Chad got heavily into Oxacan folk medicine because once he stopped getting in fights, he needed something else to occupy him, and his abuela decided to teach him how to cook. There is not a huge difference between good food and good medicine. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of chemoreactive plants and chemistry you can do on a stove.

Every single one of the Karakura kids has had something medical happen to them or a loved one, and every single one is now peering into the mysteries of the flesh about it.

---

The shinigami are worse.

Shinigami broadly have better physical resistance, esp because they're reaping the injury stabilizing benefits Senjumaru wove into the Shinigami Shushako.

But they live in a feudal society that has only SOME of the benefits of modern medicine, and the few instances of disease-mitigating infrastructure are far between. It's COMMON for the souls of the rukongai and Seireitei alike to have a sibling who died in infancy or a parent who died in child birth or of an infection.

Societally, they are still in the very earliest phases of the war against pestilence and it gives one a very warped perspective on all things medical. Especially if you happen to be in the immediate sphere of influence of soul society's greatest warrior against death:

Retsu Unohana.

I cannot overstate the impact this woman has had, and you don't do things like "decimate the nationwide infant mortality rate" or "pioneer organ transplant surgery" without being a bit mad, and she has lived so long and done so much that the madness has clarified into a single extremely dense point of determination and she warps the reality of those around her. Woe and Blessings alike to those within her event horizon.

---

The Arrancar are even worse.

Hollow resilience to injury allows them to body much, much worse injuries than the humans and it has an impact on etiquette. Biting off a hand because someone won't stop bothering you is a normal way to establish a boundary. Limb loss and regrowth is common, and disembowelment about as serious as a bad cold.

The food situation is even more dire. Smaller hollows, ones that used to be plants or animals or human-hollows who have a modicum of self control are weak, but lucky. They can survive off the ambient reiatsu in the atmosphere of Hueco Mundo, or the naturally cleaving fragments of soul that fall off the living.

Everyone else needs to hunt. And the more powerful a hollow becomes, the more it needs to consume, and the richer it's prey must be. The only really rich souls are other sapient beings. Any hollow at the level of Shrieker or Grand Fisher or higher is trapped in a hellish metabolic cycle of cannibalism, and the only way out is through.

The primary killer of hollows is other hollows. They know what they're doing. They're looking their fellow beings in the eye, the ones who understand them best, and deciding that their own life is worth their friend's. For all their ability to handle the slings and arrows of physical trauma, hollows are worse at handling the emotional consequences of this cycle. Monstrous Egotism is a best case scenario for them.

In practice, this means that while it's perfectly acceptable to bite someone's hand off for annoying you, it would be rude of you to spit it back at them. At least eat it!

I realize this last bit is not, strictly speaking, medical, but you can see how the ability to survive being turned into an anatomical Venus and having to live on a diet of the flesh of others would completely recontextualize how hollows think about Illness.

---

I will do the fun individual headcanons when I get home, but this is a good broader framework to consider for now.

[incognito-lionbeast]

Time travel fix-it fic, but past!SQQ & present!SQQ swap places in the timeline (inevitably causing the timeline to split, dw about it).

Present day, post-marriage Shen Qingqiu "wakes up" in his past SQQ-self's body right at the moment of he & Luo Binghe's reunion in Jin Lan. Naturally, he assumes that this must be another dream-world reenactment. After all, it wouldn't be the first time. Though this memory isn't exactly a fond one. So, he ignores the Huan Hua disciples. Even if this Binghe can't really see him, even if it's a dream, suppose... Shen Qingqiu does what he wishes he'd done then. He steps forward to reach out and hold his heartbroken disciple. Apologise.

Binghe is solid.

Which means that it's the real Luo Binghe. Or at least that's how it worked before. This doesn't keep him from his task, but he does wonder if this is some sort of... role-play? Historical revisionism? But he's going to get a good grade in role-playing, because surely this is still a dream. Time travel doesn't exist and it frankly hasn't occurred to him as an option yet.

It will. Eventually. But not until he's successfully coaxed Luo Binghe into ditching the post-sower-roundup meeting to run away with him back to Qing Jing. He's not interested in reliving that part of this memory, thanks. And without the guest of honour, accusations have to wait (OPM is furious).

It occurs to Shen Qingqiu because he doesn't wake up; he dreams within his "dream" and, happy as he seems to be, Luo Binghe never stops role-playing. Shen Qingqiu has been doing everything in his power to dote on his disciple, but Luo Binghe doesn't beg to sleep in the same bed. Or cry at him. Or cave in the face of his insatiable libido, soliciting sex from him when presented with any reasonably flat surface.

But if he's in the past, then what?? Would it be taking advantage of his disciple to reciprocate his feelings now??? Did that count as cheating???? But what if he can't return to the present? Was he supposed to keep a light on for some future version of his husband that might not exist anymore?! All the while, Shen Qingqiu discovers rather quickly how difficult it is to sleep on his own all the time...

Though ultimately present!SQQ's stay in the past is rather short-lived. Long enough to apologise, take Binghe home, angst over the possibility of erasing his own future, and accidentally call his disciple "husband" once or twice. A few months, maybe more. He leaves Luo Binghe with something to think about-- and rejoins his husband impoverished from the distinct lack of fooling around and canoodling the past had to offer him.

--

While his future self is in the past, past!SQQ... well, he wakes up laying next to Luo Binghe. The man he'd been so sure hated him with his entire being and wanted him dead. In fact, he rather doesn't remember falling asleep. Or being in a room that looks suspiciously like his own on Qing Jing. As he debates how to extract himself from this... situation... Luo Binghe wakes up, surprised to see that his Shizun managed to beat him to it.

--and he's positively radiant, soft and glowing with affection. Before Shen Qingqiu can move or make a sound, Luo Binghe pounces, pins him to the bed--this is how he dies, goodbye!--pecking kisses down his face like it's the most normal thing in the world. Shen Qingqiu is so thrown off by this that he nearly misses when Luo Binghe, fully enabled by a good night's sleep and [ahem] certain nightly activities, calls him his wife.

But a near miss is still a hit. He'd like to look down at his body to make sure he hasn't somehow transmigrated a second time into a lovely young maiden, but someone is heavy. And laying on him. And hard. How could he be hard this early in the day?! Of course Luo Binghe is a stallion protagonist with a dick capable of cleaving the heavens, but a creeping pain in his backside told Shen Qingqiu that they-- they... they'd already done that. At least once.

Yet, how thin Shen Qingqiu's face must be that a murmured "Shizun?" brings him back to reality instantly. The reality that he isn't some fair damsel who's given her up her virtue; he's no Liu Mingyan. He's not even Ning Yingying. He's still himself.

And that's a lot to take in at once.

Whatever happened, however he got here (though he's determined to find out)... he is Luo Binghe's favoured wife. Seemingly. What is he supposed to do?! Play along? With someone who may or may not just be toying with him? But what else can he do? Gazing into the face of his "husband" all Shen Qingqiu can readily make out is love and concern, and though fear twists a knife in his stomach--

The only thing he can know for sure is how much he doesn't know, he decides. It would be rash to make any sudden judgments.... and he can't stand--he really can't!--how Luo Binghe deflates and wheedles and cries when he tries to push him off or hide.

It's through careful inquiry over the course of his stay that the Shen Qingqiu of the past realises where he is. Or, perhaps better-put, when he is. Though like his contemporary, he is returned to his own time within a matter of months--a time now splintered off from the version of the future he'd been sent to. Interfering with the past tends to do that.

And now he has to deal with the knowledge that Luo Binghe was-- is? Always will be. Totally in love with him. Not to mention everything else that has yet to transpire.

[elbiotipo]

There is also a thing to be said about how oceans are not empty things, they're not impassable geographical barriers. Oceans are full of life, and not only wildlife, people work and live there (if you're a sailor, so much of your time is spent in the ocean that it becomes your home). Trade travels through the ocean. Natural resources are managed and mismanaged in the oceans. They have historical and cultural value. Like any other natural environment, the seas have been shaped and managed by human activity

When we talk about the Malvinas, we talk about islands, but we are also talking about a British (military, colonial) presence in the seas of Argentina and wider South America. They use it to project their power, their claims over Antarctica, their extraction and use of resources, just mere kilometres from the Argentine coast. It might as well be a British base in the middle of La Pampa or Río Negro (and there are actually some of them, compounds owned by British billionaries who don't let anyone in). Those islands are the most physical projection of British power over a continent they have long tried to subdue to their interests.

It's the same tactic the British use in their colonial possessions in the Indian Ocean (look up the history of the Chagos islanders), or the French and US in the Pacific (ever wondered where the word Bikini came from? Look it up.) People think islands are... Isolated. That they're just a tiny piece of land that cannot be connected to other things. Owning an island means owning the sea around it, and owning the sea never is a neutral thing, the fact that there are no cities on them does not mean it's empty space.

Think about this next time someone tries to tell you "it's just a couple islands with sheep, who cares"

[vulpes115]

Narcissa, specifically the Marauder’s fandom take on her, makes me want to sob and I need her to be appreciated more. Just, imagine you are the third daughter of parents that only wanted sons. A flower in a sky full of stars. A flower, an object only meant to be looked upon and be pretty. You know your parents never loved you, will never love you, you who is not the long awaited son they asked for. But even still, you can’t help pushing yourself to fulfill the mold they expect from you, beautiful and perfect. But even still you receive love from your family, just in the form of your older sisters. Your eldest who tries so fiercely to protect you and your sister but is clearly starting to slip into insanity. The middle starting to slip away, finding comfort in a man who’s kind you were poisoned to hate. Still, you love them. No matter what you love them, you have so little else. The only other one you have is your baby cousin, made in the same mold as you, who you try so desperately to protect.

At Hogwarts you are expected to be a good mark on your family, prefect, ace student and quidditch player. Willing to drop it all as soon as graduation to be a wife and mother. You only let yourself break the rules once, for her, the one decision you made that goes against your family wishes, the girl whose kisses taste like powdered sugar, whose natural kindness and beauty shines like a candle in your otherwise dark life. For years you let yourself indulge it. For years you pretend. But you know it must end.

The end comes quicker than thought. Your middle sister comes to you, she’s going to elope with her own secret love, she’s going to escape the family and the rot it contains. She asks if you want to come with. You want so badly to say yes. But you have been the perfect daughter for so long, being anything else scares you. So you say no. So you close the door. So you marry the fiancée that sister left behind. So you accept it when your lover breaks up with you, unwilling to be just a mistress. So you tell yourself you’re better without her, all the while knowing you will never find love like her again. Never stop loving her. You say as much when your cousin asks you if it ever gets better, heartbroken over his own Gryffindor. But still you made your choices and well, your fiancée is…fine, as pure-blood men go. He loves you but you don’t love him, can’t ever love him but you’re ok playing your part, even if it’s never him you picture when you play it, not even on your wedding night.

Before you know it, war is at your doorstep. Your eldest, no, only sister and your husband both pledge allegiance to the Dark Lord. So does your youngest, no, only cousin. Your cousin, so young, so naive. He dies, you never find the body, he was only eighteen and you couldn’t do anything to protect him. And the only person you ever loved? Well when you first realized she was going to be fighting on the opposing side you figured she’d be ok. Her and her new husband were powerful, well respected aurors, true Gryffindors, if anybody was going to be ok it was them. You were wrong, oh so wrong. Death would have been kinder with the fate they suffered. A fate brought on by your sister. The only one you ever loved as much as the love of your life. A love now only matched by hate.

You watch as your sister is dragged off in shackles, trying to hide any expression behind an icy mask. You watch as your lover looks back at you with distant lifeless eyes, eyes that don’t recognize you. You visit as often as you can but it’s hard to get away from your duty as mother and wife, even harder to see your lover permanently near death like this. You don’t mean to, but you stop visiting as often.

You only have one thing left to hold on to now, your son. Your darling boy. As a second war fast approaches you fear for him. You saw what happened to your cousin, you fear history is doomed to repeat itself. You do everything you can, extract whatever vows are needed, you do not believe you can survive if he too is taken from you. Then the pivotal moment comes. You have no idea if your son is alive or dead, but the chosen one is lying on the ground and he tells you he’s alive. In that moment you make a choice, you lie, you lie to the most powerful man alive, you lie to a mind reader, you lie to save your son, and you never admit it to yourself but you lie to avenge your lover he stole the sanity of, your cousin he stole the life from, and your sister he stole the soul of.

When the war is over, your action lets your family escape consequences. For the first time since the war began, you find the courage to come and visit your old lover. You apologize for not visiting more, and tell her about your sons, how her son had finished what she started, how your son had done what you never could. It takes several years longer until you make a visit to a different ghost of your past, knock cautiously on the door, a door opened by your sister, a woman you haven’t seen in almost thirty years. Things are awkward at first, of course they are, she is resistant, she’s lost so much to this war and she is slow to trust again, but eventually you two are having a heart to heart over tea, apologizing to each other about old wrongs. It’s not much, but it’s a start. As for your boy, he finds comfort in, of all people, the chosen one, the boy your whole family was supposed to hate, the boy who you helped save the life of. You are glad he is happy, you saw how miserable he was during the war. But a small part of you can’t help but feel envious, that this is a happiness that you could’ve experienced, that your cousin could’ve experienced, if you had made different choices, better choices, found your voice earlier, instead of being left with just an empty shell. Still, you made those choices, had made your bed, and now you must lie in it. But, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, if you get to see your son smile, if you get to hold your grandchildren, if you get to see your sister for monthly tea, if you get to hold your old lover’s hand once in awhile and pretend for just a minute that everything turned out ok between you two.

That’s something your parents didn’t know when they named you after a daffodil, that even after a harsh cold winter, they can make a comeback.

[mesetacadre]

Does socialist theory have any use for classes based on wealth/income? (rich/poor as opposed to bourgeoisie/proletariat)

Short answer: kinda but not really

Long answer: Classes in marxist theory are exclusively defined by the objective relationship of the subject to the property of the means of production and to the organization of labor, in capitalism it being mostly salary work. From these objective and economic relationships spring the classes of the proletariat, the bourgeoisie, the petit-bourgeoisie, the lumpen-proletariat, artisans...

Income, while highly correlated with one's position in class society, is not the defining trait of the subject, but the consequence's of the individual's conditions and specific relationship to their own work. Income itself is just the remuneration for a part of the labor-power that one exerts, or for the value created by others' labor-power that you exploit by virtue of having private ownership of the means of production. In neither of these cases is income the cause of one's class, but a consequence of it.

What a "class" analysis based on income gets you is the inability to actually strike at the core of what organizes class society. For example, the income-based analysis most radical liberals and social-democrats prefer to use (while still choosing to appropriate marxist terminology like "owning class") does not allow them to properly identify the exploitative nature of small businesses, thus, you'll see them rallying against Big Capital while their beloved family-owned small business commits labor law violations on the daily with 11 hour workdays for minimum wage. The income of the petit-bourgeoise is not that great, it's still higher than an average salary worker, but small enough that recessions or the mere existence of concentrated capital is enough to render the small property owner into a worker, a process known as proletariatization. See this really good explanation of what that dynamic means for the political implications of this economic fact.

An income-based analysis would place the small business owner and their 3 employees on the same side with, supposedly, the same interests, because they don't get a lot of money. I don't need to harp on any more to explain why that is nonsense, I hope.

Furthermore, within the working class, there are contrasts in income. There are workers who have a lavish salary, and there are workers who don't even make enough to support their basic needs. The objective fact of their exploitation is the same: they generate value with their labor-power, and sell it to a capitalist for a fraction of what they generate. Exploitation in the marxist sense is not a moral judgement. This is not about whether it's morally wrong or not to extract value from workers. Exploitation creates alienation and a class antagonism that can only ever be resolved one way, which is through the overthrow of the exploiter class by the exploited, history shows that this antagonism is what has propelled it forwards.

It is another question, and one that concerns us less, whether the salary, the price with which a capitalist buys a fraction of the worker's labor-power, is enough for the worker to lead a relatively accommodated life or not. If this was the question, which it is for, say, social-democrats, then the mere reform of capitalism (which, to be clear, is not possible to enact for all workers and all countries) to ensure a decent livelihood under the system of salary work would be enough.

With a lavish income, some might argue, a worker ceases to share the same interests with the rest of the working class who can't afford the first's lifestyle. But what this is omitting is that, in the cases of some workers with a really high salary, it becomes possible for the worker to join the ranks of the bourgeoisie by acquiring capital. Here, top-rated actors and athletes comes to mind. Actors and athletes are paid a salary in exchange for their labor-power, but the highest rated ones generate so much value that the capitalists pay them a really high salary, and then, most of the time, these highly-paid workers acquire some property and become a part of the bourgeoisie. In the US, for example, a bunch of high-rated workers of the entertainment industry such as Oprah, with more than 2,000 acres, have become large landlords in Hawai'i, taking advantage of the colonization of the island chain.

The break in common interests between highly-paid workers and the rest of their class comes from the change in economic class that their income allows for, not the income itself.

There is one instance when income becomes more relevant, and that is in the case of the labor aristocracy. Because of the international division of labor created by and protected by imperialism, the workers of the imperial core, as much as they are still exploited by capitalists and have revolutionary interests, benefit directly or indirectly from the even greater exploitation placed on the workers of the imperial periphery and global south, allowing for a generalized improvement in the quality of life for the imperial core workers.

Two conclusions can be made from this fact:

First, that the social-democratic welfare state depends on the exploitation of vast swaths of the world, and thus, it is not an applicable system in the majority of the world. Second, that the working class of the imperial core can, by the objective fact of the improvement of their material conditions by the spoils of imperialism, can act in the interests of the imperialist bourgeoisie. Take as an example the SAG-AFTRA union, which decidedly supported the imperialist project of Israel after al-Aqsa Flood. This does mean that a greater effort is needed for most workers in the imperial core, the labor aristocracy, to achieve revolutionary-political consciousness. The spontaneous class consciousness that some people insist is enough to be revolutionary, is born of the daily class antagonisms one experiences, and also of the material conditions underlying one's existence, therefore, as we have seen a lot this past year, spontaneous consciousness can include attitudes that favor the bourgeoisie.

And still, even if the labor aristocracy is broadly defined by a higher income, it is still dependent on the relationship to the organization of labor. Even the most desperate and destitute homeless citizen of the imperial core benefits in a lot of ways from the system of imperialism. For example, they don't need to worry about the political instability most imperialized countries suffer, and to put a cruder example, they are never going to get shot by a 22-year-old USamerican soldier doing target practice.

[cauliflowercounty]

Knives Dance (Part I)

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader

After years of writing *literally nothing,* I never expected bald Austin Butler to inspire me again :)

Life does wonderful things sometimes.  Feyd Rautha is a fucking snack. And whoops it looks like I invented a planet and a culture :/

Summary: You're the daughter of the Duke of the House of Ronen, and your father and Vladimir Harkonnen have arranged a marriage between you and Feyd-Rautha to join your two houses.  When the House of Harkonnen pays a visit to your planet, Feyd discovers something unforeseen within himself during an assassination attempt…

Reader: she/her pronouns 

Warnings: innuendo/suggestive content, attempted assassination, blood, violence, multiple murders

Word Count: 4.2k

Part I | Part II | Part III

--

The hydraulics whirr as the black metal ramp of the Harkonnen vessel opens downward onto the stone landing pad on planet Youra and hits the ground with a low thunk. Feyd follows his uncle as he floats out of the vessel toward the doors of the Youran citadel, which is nestled in the center of a towering mountain covered in dense forest. Through the canopy, he sees the flickering lights from within the treehouses that adorn the forest cover. 

The fortress itself is bathed in a warm, yellow glow from the round floating lanterns that surround it.  As they hover, they seem to spiral upwards in a concentric spiral and extend their reach up into the night sky. A line of Youran soldiers flank the walkway, dressed in ceremonial garb of earthy, brown leathers with teal accents and intricate geometric patterns.  As the Harkonnens pass, the soldiers bow their heads to them, allowing the carved silver helmets to shine in the evening light. 

The environment here could not be further from that of Giedi Prime with its cold, industrial landscape devoid of color and the stench of sulfur and gas.  The jungle air here is saccharine and floral on Feyd’s tongue.  He feels the brush of the evening breeze flowing past him out toward the sea from the surrounding jungle. As he breathes in, he notices the richness of the air, imbued with the essence of all the flora that have made Youra a treasure trove for natural resources and experimental medicines, reminding him why he and his uncle have arrived on this planet.

The endeavor to secure spice on Arrakis had not gone as smoothly as the Harkonnens had hoped, especially with constant Fremen attacks sabotaging their forces and Rabban’s pitiful attempt at countermeasures. The current state of their operation and the number of soldiers they were losing daily called for acquiring a new tactical advantage.  As much as they hated to admit it, they would have been foolish not to seek one out. 

The advantage lay on Youra, the planet of island rainforests and the home of the minor House of Ronen, where an uncountable number of plant and animal species flourished, supplying the population with life-saving natural compounds the renowned scientists had been extracting from nature and developing for centuries.  Through this arranged marriage, the wealth of chemical knowledge and access to the raw materials would become House Harkonnen’s. Feyd could begin to taste his ascension to power. This was simply the next step necessary to turn the tides of this conflict on Arrakis, which would inevitably end in him assuming the title of Baron if not Emperor. 

With a low rumble, the double doors in front of Feyd open to reveal your father and yourself.  Laying eyes on you for the first time, Feyd stops in place, his heavy black boots almost stuck on the ground.  When the conversation of an arranged marriage came up with his uncle, he was beyond apathetic, knowing that this would be a political move in which he had no obligation to have any investment. The woman would become his wife only by title.  To his astonishment, he is entranced by your beauty, to the point of speechlessness. He almost completely ignores your father’s greeting and speech about the union of your two houses. You are radiant with your skin that glows in the light, unlike that of the Harkonnen women he is used to seeing. You look into his eyes, and he feels almost locked in, the rest of the world fading until all he sees is you. 

“Welcome to our home, na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen,” you say to him, not breaking eye contact from underneath your headdress. Your striking eyes bore deep into his soul. It’s almost as if they’re calling to him.  What’s most interesting to Feyd is that they don’t seem to contain a hint of fear or apprehension. He is used to making those around him crumple under the weight of their own terror with his mere presence so he can exploit those emotions and manipulate them as his own personal playthings.  In defiance of his reputation, you seem undeterred by him staring straight at you. As your eyes glimmer in the lamplight, he feels his breath almost catch as they taunt him, draw him. Snapping himself out of the trance, a smirk forms on his lips, remembering how his uncle taught him to behave. He forces himself to relish the thought of toying with your apparent resolve. 

As he looks down, he eyes your lavish, floor-length regalia. The same deep brown and teal that your father and the soldiers wear decorates the patterns on your cloak. He notices lines of gold thread woven into your hair, an appropriate show of the natural resources of your planet. 

Strange, he thinks. The cloak is rather large and heavy. Despite matching the designs of the other Youran garb, it seems out of place to be a traditional outfit for the aristocracy of a rainforest civilization where the warm and humid conditions should prove inhospitable for cloaks of this nature. 

The delicate, meek flower he was expecting to relish picking apart with ease you are not. He’s figured out you're a woman with something you’re intent on hiding from him.  You’ve put on this front either bravely or stupidly, and Feyd-Rautha will peel back every layer one calculated move at a time until you are finally entirely his.  

He steps forward and reaches down to take your hand in his. “My betrothed…” he whispers to you, his voice low and gravelly. “We finally meet, Little One. I must say you look exquisite. I expected nothing less.” He brings your fingers up to his lips and brushes his lips across them before pressing firm a kiss on the back of your hand  His uncle seems most disgusted by Feyd’s tenderness, but Feyd keeps his gaze on you through hooded eyes, knowing that the first move in any game is imperative to the success of his endeavor.  He sees yours flicker for a moment as your body tenses listening to his praise. He’s got you right where he wants you. 

–

Dinner is filled with monotonous diplomacy, tiresome pleasantries, and planning of the wedding to take place on Giedi Prime, but Feyd hasn’t let his attention break from you. It’s as if the kiss he planted on your hand was the catalyst for the first crack in the wall you’ve put up, and now he’s waiting for the perfect moment to make his next move.

All of dinner he’s watched as you attentively listened to his uncle and your father exchange words and eat your dinner. He hasn’t failed to notice how your eyes dart over to look at him through your lashes. With every gesture you make and every word you say, he feels unequivocally enraptured. As much as he’s tried to suppress his emotions and stay faithful to his uncle’s teachings, grounded in violence and viciousness, his mind starts to wander.

He wonders what must it be like to have your touch flutter across his chest when he watches you delicately grasp your water goblet.  When you fold your lips around your cup to drink, he imagines what they must feel like on his skin if you were to drag them down his neck tantalizingly slow. What if you were close enough to him to have your breath fan out across his skin as your lips caressed his? What must it be like to hold your softness in his hands? The very idea makes his breath hitch. 

Of the many thoughts he has as he watches you, many of them becoming increasingly lewd as dinner continues, one remains in his head: if he is this captured by just your face and gaze, basking in the light of what you’re concealing under your cloak, must be heaven adjacent. 

His desire to use you and leverage your own will against you is being chipped away little by little. Feyd’s hardened persona that his uncle helped construct is withering with every second he spends in your presence. The notion is nearly frightening to Feyd, but with every single glance and gesture, his heart, which may have turned to stone long ago, is beginning to accept it.  

Feyd rips his attention away from you as your father stands to thank the Harkonnens once again for coming. “I shall have my servants show you where you shall be staying,” your father announces as he rises from his seat. “I have arranged for our head researchers to show you what progress we have had in our synthetic undertakings as of late. I guarantee you will be very interested in what they have to offer.” 

As you stand, he notices how your hands pull together the front seam of your cloak, preventing it from opening. Curious.

You bid him goodnight and turn away to head to your quarters as a Youran servant beckons him to the guest wing.  That night, Feyd cannot rest as he lays awake in bed in the opulent guest suite, images of you running through his head, and he almost smiles thinking about when you say his name so sweetly.

 “Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.”

–

The next day, Feyd sees little of you.  In the morning, he makes his way to your quarters only to be informed by a servant at your door that you have already departed for the day.  When he asks where you have gone, the servant provides a murky response about your duties as Lady of the House and wedding preparations, which he as her betrothed would “surely understand.” Just as he decides he will find you himself, he is seized by his uncle as to meet the Youran ministers of culture, science, and development to learn about their acquisition.

Feyd cannot deny that your homeworld is impressive.  It’s steeped in centuries of exploration and inquiry with unmatched record-keeping of not only science but tradition, too. The ceilings are vaulted and adorned with gold. The walls of the citadel are covered in elaborate murals painted on with vibrant colors or carved into the surfaces. Some depict traditional folktales, gods, and ceremonies while those opposite them describe the evolutionary lines of species, a true testament to Youra’s modernity and dedication to preserving your peoples’ history in living memory.  If only he knew which mural decorates the wall concealing you. 

As the picture of your world’s history becomes clearer, the air of mystery surrounding you only grows. Not once has he heard talk of you after his interaction with that servant, but throughout the day he has sensed hushed whispers that are almost certainly about him instead. As he passes soldiers, some of them almost seem to leer at his presence.

 A few times, he thinks he can almost see the hem of your cape disappear around corners, but when he goes to investigate, there is nobody there.  The anger he expected to have inside him due to your avoidance is nowhere to be seen, and only a burning intrigue remains. 

“What a little enigma my wife is,” he thinks to himself when he enters the banquet hall for dinner as the last ray of sunlight fades from the windows as the sun dips below the horizon. 

Almost on cue, the doors to the hall open again and to his gratification, it is you.  He stands up from his seat and walks over to you. He cannot deny his own inclination when you smile at him softly, putting him at ease.  

“Good evening, Na-Baron,” you greet as he stops in front of you. Your dulcet tones go straight to his heart, causing it to skip a beat. “I hope I’ve not kept you waiting long.”

“Not at all.”  He takes your hands in his once again, running his thumb along the back of them and savoring the feeling of your soft skin. This time when his heart swells, he lets it happen, surrendering himself to your charm. “I would wait an eternity for you,” he says, realizing you enjoy it when he romances you.  

“You don’t strike me as a man who likes to be kept waiting,” you reply, looking up into his eyes. “I am surprised you are not frustrated with me.”

“I make exceptions,” he replies, noticing how your lips curl into a small smile. “… for when it truly matters.  Since you’ve been absent all day, tell me, Little One, what have you been doing while you were hiding from me all day?”

You let out a gentle exhale. “I assumed you might be curious about that,” you say to him, as you clasp his hands in yours, beginning to tug him backwards to the doors.  “Would you join me outside before we eat, Na-Baron?  I have something I want to show you that I’ve been working on in preparation for our marriage.”  

Allowing you to lead him, he follows you as you pull him through the halls of the fortress.  He senses the answers to the questions he’s been asking himself are within his grasp.  You both head outdoors and descend a grand staircase toward a courtyard nestled in the center of the fortress that overlooks the ocean that is now a murky midnight blue. 

The nighttime lanterns light the way once again, and you both continue into the courtyard which is unlike anything he’s ever seen before. The ground seems to be a single sheet of rust colored stone that is marbled with shards shimmery metals.  The slab has massive circles cut into it spaced in a perfect grid.  Inside the circle is a golden pool of luminescent water.  Tall, half moon shaped walls cradle each pool with glyphs and carvings etched into them. 

“What is this place?” he asks you, basking in the light emanating from all of the pools that surround the both of you as you continue down the center aisle.

“This is my favorite place in the castle,” you explain.  “It’s where we keep one of every species our researchers are currently studying. The rock wall above the pools describes each evolutionary line and the discoveries about it we’ve made. There’s one I want to show you if you would allow me.”

He nods as you bring him to a pool whose accompanying slab remains blank. Looking down into the water, he spots a single indigo fish with long, delicate fins that trail behind it in the water. He watches as it circles the pool. It slows and shudders momentarily. A single incandescent scale breaks off and floats to the bottom of the pool. You kneel to gather the scale from the bottom, holding it so that he can see how the light flickers off its surface.

“Does it intrigue you?” he hears you ask, and he nods in return as something he thought he lost long ago begins to emerge inside of him: his sense of wonder.

“I have never seen such a creature. Would you tell me about it?”

 “It would be my pleasure,” you grin. “This fish was discovered on an archipelago on the other side of the planet. I’ve been studying this fish with our most expert researchers. The pools it lives in almost disappear during the dry season, but we’ve found that they survive to the wet season because of their scales somehow.  My father doesn’t know any of this. He still thinks we know nothing of this creature.”

“It’s marvelous,” he whispers to you, eyeing the small bubbles floating to the top of the water from the fish’s gills. 

“I wanted to show you this fish because this is at the heart of our culture on Youra.  Our people are on a constant mission to learn and discover, so we can help and care for those we hold dearest.  With our marriage, the House of Harkonnen will be a part of that endeavor. I’m showing you this fish because when the fish shed their scales at the beginning of the wet season, they contain a high concentration of a novel compound that allows living things to retain water.”

He sees you fidget with your own hands as you explain. You’re nervous, he realizes. 

“We have been able to extract it from the scales they drop,” you say with a slight waiver in your voice. Here you are bearing your hard work and dedication, your soul to him. Your vulnerability is evident.  Before you were so confident with your gaze and now your eyes never stay on him for more than a fraction of a moment. If you were anyone else, he would have taken full advantage the opportunity to leverage your weakness, but he cannot bring himself to do so.  “This knowledge is my gift to you na-Baron. I have been aware of your endeavors on Arrakis. I realize you may not be as invested in this arrangement as we are, but I wanted to give you this to mark the beginning of what is to come… I don’t expect you to do anything in return. Only wanted to communicate my intentions.”

His heart quivers as his mind darts back to the countless times his uncle has “gifted” things to him as rewards for doing his bidding.  The concubines, armor, and weapons all fall to the wayside; now they’re all tainted in Feyd's mind by his uncle's conniving ways.  They were never gifts in earnest, always being transactional or part of another of his uncle’s Machiavellian schemes. Never in his life had he been given something so thoughtful, something intended to truly protect him. The previous notions he had before of possessing you are bitter on his tongue. Now, he could never and the shame he feels for maybe the first time in years begins to burn into his psyche. 

“Na-Baron,” you plead, bringing him out of his own thoughts.  “Say something, please.”

“Thank you,” he finally says, taking your hands in his and giving them a squeeze. “I am grateful for your generosity, my little flower.”

Your eyes well up with tears and you let out a relieved sigh before your emotions bubble out of you.  “You cannot fathom how happy I am to hear you say those words,” you say, bringing your hands to his again. “I was so worried about showing you this!”

Right when he opens his mouth to respond, his instincts as a warrior kick in as he hears the soft whistle of something flying through the air towards the both of you. In a flash, he’s grabbed you by your shoulder to force you to your knees as you let out a bewildered yelp.  The sound lights his veins on fire and fills him with rage.

Against the blank stone slab of the fish’s pool he sees it: a green splatter of a sinister substance that drips down the stone in long tendrils. Below, the shattered remains of a poisoned dart sinking into the water.  You’ve seen it, too. He swivels himself around in the direction the arrow came from. A hooded figure is emerging from behind another one of the stone walls, a serrated dagger in hand, poised to strike you down.  Feyd reprimands himself for leaving his weapons behind in his room in the name of diplomacy, but he’s prepared to fight empty handed to protect you and punish your assailant.

Before he realizes, you’ve shed your cloak, allowing it to drop to the floor behind you and Feyd can finally see what you’ve been hiding. You’re wearing a sage green dress with a bodice plated in iron that’s been secured to in place with intricate leather straps and golden loops that wrap deliciously around your figure. The symmetric slits in your dress that extend almost to your hips reveal your garters where two silver daggers that curve into formidable hooks are secured to your outer thighs.

As soon as he realizes you’re armed, you’ve already grasped the leather wrapped handles of your weapons and drawn them from your thighs with a flourish, launching yourself at your attacker. The ground reverberates with your power, and your blades ring out as they clash with your opponent’s. The man grunts upon impact and with a vigorous push, you knock his weapon upwards and away from you as you swipe at his face with the other hand. When he stumbles backwards, his face covering is swept to the side. 

“Ozran!” you growl as the man regains his composure. “What is the meaning of this? Traitor!”

“I could say the same for you, Lady Ronen, revealing our secrets to that Harkonnen!” Ozran snarls at you, his eyes wild as he begins swiping sloppily at your head, which you dodge with ease. Feyd knows the man is getting desperate. Ozran is quickly realizing running away would have been the best option after his poisoned arrow missed.

Ozran attempts to shake off his regret by hurling himself at you, trying to recover the situation now that he’s committed to one-on-one combat with you. “I will not stand by and have the rewards of our peoples’ work reaped by them.  Without a daughter to marry off, our intelligence will remain ours, and I will protect it to the end, even if that means killing you.”

Feyd hears you tisk at his pitiful attempt at your life as your heel makes contact with his nose.  Blood gushes from his nostrils and drips down his chin in thick droplets.  He staggers back and loses his footing as you drive your blades into him, your footsteps smearing his blood on the floor as you move.  Ozran’s hope drains from his eyes, and he coughs as you pull your knives back, his blood spilling onto the stone floor from the gaping hole in his body. He drops his weapon and it clatters on the ground beside him.

“Too bad you couldn’t get close enough to actually do any damage,” you say sweetly to him as he wheezes. “You were never a man worthy of battle. I’m surprised you even worked up the courage to merely attempt to kill me.”

“D-don’t worry, dear Lady,” he sneers as his knees hit the floor.  “There are more of us who don’t appreciate our leaders betraying our ideals. They will avenge me, and you will join me in death.”  With that, his body crumples in the pool of his own blood. Drawing his last breath, Feyd sees Ozran’s consciousness fade.  From the shadows and behind the other stone walls, he senses more figures lurking.

“Na-Baron!” you call, as you throw Feyd your second knife, which he catches with a flick of his wrist as you pick up Ozran’s weapon.  Your dagger is robust and extraordinarily crafted, truly a weapon worthy of your status Feyd thinks. With that, he joins you in battle when Ozran’s allies pounce, eager to avenge their fallen comrade. One by one, he cuts the treasonous soldiers down with you by his side, slashing their throats, stabbing them in their backs, hearing their bones break, and tendons tear.  It’s exhilarating, fighting not just for you, but with you in perfect synchronization.  

When the last one falls, their mangled bodies are piled around you.  He looks at you with complete admiration in his eyes.  Without a second thought, he pulls you close with desperation. Cradling your face in his free hand, he kisses you roughly and swipes his tongue across your bottom lip, tasting the familiar tang of iron. As you kiss him back with a fervor that makes his senses sing, he uses his other arm to pull you close, if he’s worried that you will join the souls of the dead around you and leave this world, something he can’t bear to think of now.   

Reluctantly, you both break away from the kiss, resting your foreheads against one another.  Your breaths are thick and heaving.  You look down at his dominant hand, which still holds your second dagger.

“Are you going to kill me now, Na-Baron?” you ask as you look up at him, and he instinctively throws the knife away, letting it clatter on the floor. He shakes his head.

“I never anticipated my betrothed to have such prowess in battle,” he whispers lowly, returning his hand to your body.  He drags his fingers across the places where the straps of your dress make indentations in your skin, making you shiver at his touch. His grip on your waist tightens when he palms your supple skin. You hum a sigh of satisfaction that is almost music to Feyd’s ears, and he could listen to it all day.  “Watching you cut down each of them… What a lovely surprise it was… You are truly an unexpected paragon, my dear.”

“Unexpected…” you chuckle, blushing at his flattery. “May I ask another question of you?”

“Of course,” he replies, peering down at you with an ardent stare.

“Before coming here, were you aware there are many dangerous things in the rainforest, Na-Baron?” He nods. “Then why would you assume I am not one of them?”

“Clever girl,” he grins, pressing another kiss on your forehead. 

“From now on, my blades will fight for you, Feyd-Rautha.”

“And mine for you, my love,” he replies as he dips his lips back down to yours.  What a fool he was before, anticipating so little from his future wife. Now he knows better.  He realizes who you really are, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough.

--

Thank you for reading!

Knives Dance Part II OUT NOW!

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