#the violence of imperialism comes in all shapes

[mushroom-circles]

[heavyisthecrownif]

Intro

The Emperor is ill; the people of the capital whisper with varying degrees of concern or delight; he has completely fallen into the clutches of madness, as the most insidious tongues allege, the truth is, to their ignorance, considerably more urgent.

The Emperor, Airlar the Unifier, responsible for the greatest modifications to the constitution and State in the entire history of Ehyla, a living testimony to the existence of a civilization buried by the sands of time as well as oblivion, is irremediably, undeniably dying.

And so your life undergoes an absolute change overnight by nothing less than imperial decree. As the only one of your siblings of the right age, you are not only heading to a nest of conspiring vipers that you should never have dealt with, but every second, implicitly and explicitly, you are being judged and evaluated for a purpose that escapes your knowledge. Truth be told, at least it's not all bad; you have your very competent and loyal assistant at your side, and with your sister relatively close by, your experience shouldn't be so terrible...

Unless...

CW: This is a dark romance, and what this entails—things like possessiveness, stalking, manipulation, jealousy, and dependency will be seen in varying degrees in all routes. Sexism, transphobia, and homophobia will be briefly mentioned, as well as religious trauma, abuse of power, graphic violence, and optional explicit sexual scenes.

This list is subject to change as the game progresses.

HITC is only for an audience of +18.

Demo: Prologue: 10k last updated on 1/24/25

•Customize your Crown; personality, appearance, gender, pronouns, independent of the chosen gender, magic type, and where the foreign half of your bloodline comes from.

•Build friendships, romances and/or enmities with 5 diverse characters, all of selectable gender (with and ace options).

•Find out why you are in demand in the capital and why you should study at the "Saint Elizsea Academy for Illustrious Young People" side by side with the cream of the crop of Ehylian society.

•Have a familiar! With options, so far, to choose from a wolf, a ferret, a raven, a snake, a crocodile, a deer and several types of dogs and cats.

Choose wisely! They all possess consciousness and at least a degree of magical attributes and some are...sassy.

•Shape the narrative with your decisions, every choice matters.

Important note: Due to reasons directly related to my inexperience coding, the MC can only be AFAB for the moment, with options to be cis, transmac, or enby.

•The Crown: You! As the fourth child of a marriage between a former general promoted to king for his illustrious strategies against the rebellion against the fae and a foreign scholar, your outlook is, to say the least, peculiar. Not only are you the product of a marriage of love, with the confidence of genuinely and willingly counting on the support of your brothers and older sister again, but also, well known for their almost barbaric customs, your parents have the audacity to allow you to decide what to do with your own life, from coveting and collecting knowledge to learning the art of war or venturing into any of the five arts, you have a place nothing less than privileged, so far from being the firstborn and with an older brother more than capable and willing to take charge of the kingdom, your future is, to say the least, very promising, until an edict of the dying, and extremely capricious emperor demands that every young people of marriageable age who is not taking charge of the administration of their jurisdiction at the time, must go to be evaluated at The Academy in the heart of the capital, with your first brother discarded, your older sister engaged, your second brother in the borderlands doing pilgrim work and your younger siblings too young to attend that leaves you alone as an option.

•The one who left (RO): Asterion/Astrya Dellamort. With silky midnight waves and expressive eyes that evoke the memory of the moon in their hue and roundness, they possesses an astonishingly delicate and pretty face, for someone who has been classified with little variation as a rigid, cold, arrogant, difficult and even bitchy person throughout their young life, Azzy, the nickname with which you baptized their and, unbeknownst to you no soul is allowed to use without going through severe verbal reprimands and/or public humiliation, was, at least until the age of 13, your best friend, with their mother being a strong ally, and more importantly, a supporter of your parents, it is no wonder that you two were brought together to be playmates since before you could remember.

Truth be told, Azzy was never easy, despite knowing you all their life there is something about you that bothers they deeply, they can trust your reasons, your transparency, but they can't understand your affection, because as the only child of the Queen, Azzy they was much more exposed and at a much younger age to the cruel machinations of politics, so, with an almost supernatural ease they developed a capacity with words as bewitching as it is deadly, cruel if you will even, not that you have witnessed it first hand, of course, for many complaints, frowns and playful reluctance, you probably have the rare honor of knowing and living with the kindest version of Azzy, which in turn gives you the merit of being the person who knows they the most and the least, being a witness to they gentleness but mostly ignorant of their cruelty.

It's not until a tragic occasion, when your relationship breaks down, abruptly, suddenly, with the roughness of a wound that hasn't healed properly even five years later, that you wonder why Azzy decided to cut off all contact with you, but, unbeknownst to you, they despises and belittles anyone who tries to gain their favor by putting you down.

Tropes: Friends (with the possibility of a friendly rivalry...or not) to "rivals" to lovers/ Attachment issues, let's say Azzy is fine keeping their distance, (they're not) but if you come back into their life there's no turning back/ The ice king/queen's weak point/ Misunderstandings/ Forced proximity.

The one who takes care of you (RO): Kaihlan/Karonthe Agrapolli. Strictly speaking, Kai is your bodyguard, but over the years they has taken on far more than their fair share of responsibilities, and no matter how much you and your parents have asked them not to overexert themselves, the satisfied gleam in their amber eyes whenever they do something to make your life easier, along with their unbeatable stubbornness, means that you can count on Kai as your shadow more often than not.

As the eldest of your father's right-hand twins, Kai has been two things to you: a constant and a teacher. With their undeniable combat skills and their minds as quick as their feet, it is not only an honor to have them defend you, but also teach you.

Kai is loyal to you to the core; in order to ensure your happiness and safety, they is capable of acts that go against morality and even the laws of man and god.

Kai is probably the tallest person you've ever met, so tall that when you were younger and cheeky you asked them if they weren't part giant, they laughed but otherwise didn't answer the question. With sun-kissed skin glowing a shade reminiscent of honey almost as much as their eyes Kai is not only tall, they're broad and rough, with large scarred hands that extend all the way to they forearms you'd expect they to behave like a bull in a china shop, and they do in a way, but when you're around them, they seem incapable of anything but the most dedicated and delicate care. Both M!Kai and F!Kai have hair brushing their shoulders in a fluffy reddish-brown mess, with the back of their necks longer than the front and scattered freckles from spending so much time in the sun.

Tropes: Puppy love/They look like they could kill you and potentially will if you're not MC, but they're actually a cinnamon roll, long-term crush, himbo/bimbo, surface only, gentle giant, wolf in sheep's clothing.

The one who admires you (RO):???. You're not sure how, but you've somehow managed to get a hold of a stalker.

What you know so far is little and downright mediocre, they either have enough power or influence to bribe someone into getting their letters to you within the castle grounds, or more unlikely, they're stealthy enough to slip past Kai's ever-watchful eye, so all things considered, there's most likely magic involved, which brings you back to the first point, or they're rich enough to hire or own a wizard themselves or they're powerful enough to conjure their presence into your chambers without raising suspicion.

Tropes: Loved you from the moment they saw you/secret admirer/strangers to ???/would burn the world down for you.

The one who does not show up(RO): Secret route! You'll know when you meet them...maybe.

Tropes: Love-hate/they despise loving you/they want to live in your heart... literally/the love that was never meant to be/they are doomed. to love you? to exist without you? not even they know.

The one you impressed (RO): Elysse/Eylarion Kurayoi.

If there is one word to define Ely it is scandal, with their elastic golden curls bouncing with the sound of their thunderous laughter, they would not readily admit how much they love to impress, but the mischievous sparkle in their mahogany eyes says otherwise.

You know little to nothing about them other than the rumors that proclaim that they have no standards regarding who they share a bed with, but for some reason you intrigue them, if you were to ask them they would say little more than that they are curious that you are so different and little else.

They happens to be your roommate at the academy and as someone who for better or worse seems to be extremely transparent and understands how everyone who has an important name in the capital acts, it might be convenient to have them around, but be careful not to leave them too close to the warmth of your home because they might not want to leave.

Tropes: Master/Mistress of seduction until they flirt with someone they really like/ Bad reputation or justified prejudices?/ the capital's rebellious child/ The most beautiful at the ball/ The beauty and the beast

Feel free to ask me anything! And thanks for reading!

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

This post used to hold a poem inspired by the Rev. Munther Isaac's declaration that "God is under the rubble in Gaza."

After a few anons and a conversation with a Jewish friend, I've decided to take the poem down because, regardless of my own intentions with it, it risks feeding the long and extremely harmful history of blood libel, because I included imagery of the infant Jesus and his parents being killed by an Israeli soldier, as many Palestinians are being killed now.

Before talking with that friend, I wrote in this response to an anon about my intentions with the poem — but while I do believe that intentions do matter, they don't matter nearly as much as impact does.

My friend helped me come to the conclusion that while the poem I wrote could be interpreted as I intended by people who already have all the context I wrote it in (see below), it could also all too easily be interpreted much more harmfully by those who lack that context — or worse, who are looking for more fuel for their antisemitism. The poem is not worth that risk, not at all.

___

Ultimately, I hold two things I believe to be true in tension:

that Christians throughout the ages have found deep comfort and encouragement in understanding Jesus as suffering in and with them. I support all Christian Palestinians who, like Rev. Isaac, experience God-with-them in this way — in this horrific time, they deserve any ounce of comfort they can derive. And them personally seeking and finding the Divine presence with them is not antisemitic.

that for Christians like myself in the USA, who live in the beating heart of Empire and Christian Supremacy, it is vital to take care in how we talk about this theology in this current situation, where the oppressors are Jewish. Providing more fuel for Christian antisemitism is inexcusable, and I deeply apologize for writing and sharing a piece that can be used in that way.

Because modern-day Israel is a Jewish state, exploring that Divine solidarity in this context comes with a great risk of perpetuating the long, harmful history of antisemitic blood libel and accusations of deicide. How do we affirm God’s presence with those suffering in Palestine without (implicitly or explicitly) adding to the poisonous lie that “the Jews killed Jesus”?

In wrestling with this complexity, I tried to write this poem to uplift both Jesus’s Jewishness and his solidarity with Palestinians. Jesus was born into a Jewish family, his entire worldview was shaped by his Jewishness, and he shared in his people’s suffering under the Roman Empire. His solidarity with Palestinians of various faiths suffering today does not erase that Jewishness. Nor does it mean that Jewish persons don’t “belong” in the region — only that modern Israel’s occupation of Palestine is in no way necessary for Jews to live and thrive there, or anywhere else in the world.

I also aimed to point out that Israel is by no means acting alone in this attack on Gaza or their decades-long occupation of Palestine. There is a much larger Empire at work, with my own country, the United States, at the helm. Israel is entangled in that imperial mess, and directly backed and funded by those forces — not because of what politicians claim, that we have to back Israel or else we’re antisemitic, but because Israel is our strategic foothold in the so-called Middle East. How do we name our complicity as our tax dollars are funneled into violence across the world, and act to end that violence?

___

I'm sorry this post isn't as articulate as I want it to be. All of this to say: I deeply apologize for any hurt my poem caused. I understand how horrific Christianity's history of — and ongoing present — antisemitism is, and how it poisons and warps so much that could have been beautiful. I'll keep educating myself; I'll keep having hard conversations; I'll keep working to uproot antisemitism in myself and my communities.

___

I'll close with a list of resources for learning about Palestine's history and getting involved.

[lemon-russ]

I lived, bitch. jk I am back and feeling much better after being run over by the metaphorical train of my failing body lol.

The poll has time but Wolf Mother is winning, it was good I asked because I thought it was one that people weren't super into, but I'm glad for it! It was a nice change of pace writing Leman again ❤️

Thanks @squishyowl for dividers! Taglist: @sleepyfan-blog @scriberye @undeaddream

Wolf Mother (Ch. 3)

<Prev. | Next>

Ao3 || Taglist request ||

Leman Russ x Fem OC

CW: Trauma/ PTSD, Talk of missing limbs/ prosthetics/ bionics, General WH40k violence (playful fighting here), If I miss any let me know!!

Summary: Wren gets a tour of The Fang.

Word count: 2,932

Small note: previously I wrote Wren was in the Astra Millitarium. Obviously she can't be, we are in 30k. I corrected it in the first chapter to the Auxilia, which was my original intent, I just mixed up Imperial Guard and Imperial Army. Fixed now :)

Wren scrambles behind Leman as he makes his way through the tunnels of The Fang. ”So, Paper-thrall, what use will you be exactly?” Leman asks, inquisitive Space Wolves eyeing her as they pass.

Wren frowns a bit as she is leered at like a new chew toy, but the wolves seem to be curious and nothing more. “Well, for Lord Guilliman, I’ve been handling things like logistics paperwork, transfers, budget approval forms…” she says, trying to keep pace with his long strides.

Russ scoffs. “Busywork. Leave it to Roboute to have a form for every bolt round that changes hands.” He chuckles, leading her to a rickety lift. The platform never stops its slow movement, just suspended standing decks going up on one side and down on the other perpetually down a rock hewn shaft. She nervously hops on behind him and they are lowered down the dark hole down a few floors.

Russ disembarks the lift at one of the openings, and when he sees Wren not keeping up, he reaches back and picks her up by the scruff of her coat and plops her next to him. She blinks, a little confused, but just blushes as she returns to chasing after him.

“Having clear and concise forms and regulations keeps things moving,” she stammers as she catches up to him again. “Without it, how would we know when to order more supplies? Or who is where and who is available-”

“You just tell someone.” Russ chuckles. “My sons tell me we are almost out of rounds when they see we are low, and they tell me where they are going. All the paperwork causes is headaches for little thralls.” He says, smiling down at her in amusement.

Wren’s mouth twists down. “That sounds like anarchy.” She replies flatly.

“Hah!” The primarch barks a laugh, “Anarchy, or freedom from your tedium? We get things done just the same.” He gestures through an archway. “Come, I will show you around the main areas of the Aett. It is vast and complex for little baselines, so try not to get lost.”

Leman leads her through what feels like miles of caverns. Wren’s legs and lungs ache from having to jog after him. While she was a little out of shape since she’s been on desk duties, she still kept up on her fitness as any good ultramarine employee would. But Russ was tall, taller than Guilliman, his brisk walk and long legs outruns her jogging. He doesn’t slow for her, just expecting her to keep pace.

As he shows her various store rooms and barrack areas, she pulls out a notebook and starts noting things that she’ll need to start organizing. No inventory sign-outs in the storerooms, no regular counts on supplies, things tossed into mixed crates and shoved on shelves. She was going to need to commandeer a small army of serfs to get this place in working order. She stops and grimaces when they pass the bathing and laundry areas. Piles of dirty clothes lay haphazardly around washing pools where tired serfs scrub them by hand over stone with lye soaps. She notes to ask to import at least some rudimentary cleaning machines like wringers and wash tubs.

Everywhere they go she sees the same things, unorganized supplies with serfs working with incredibly low tech tools that make things take ages to finish. Which makes them not have time to organize and clean as much, so the mess piles and piles. Wren starts laying out the overhauls she would need to make to get things moving efficiently.

Leman peeks over her shoulder at her notes, making her jump with a start.

“Inventory lists? Washing Barrels? Rotating thrall schedules? Skíthof little paper-thrall, you worry about such minor things.” He chuckles, ruffling her hair.

She frowns and lets out a huff from her nose, pushing her hair back in place. “Minor things build up, My Lord. All the time wasted with having to search for supplies and wash clothes by hand make up hours and hours of wasted time, and more wasted time means more Serfs needed to run the place, which means more food and housing for them.” She says tiredly, closing her notebook with a snap.

He tilts his head, standing upright again. “So? We have plenty of food for the thralls, we are good hunters, and we have many miles of caves for them to live.” He shrugs. “Why not have many of them live here and not bother with the teeny details?”

Wren scrunched her brow and sighed. “Because it’s, well, inefficient. And messy…” But Russ was already walking ahead, ignoring her again.

He stops at a large archway, and she smells bread and meat wafting invitingly through the halls. Her stomach grumbles, she hasn’t eaten since getting on the thunderhawk this morning. Leman smirks at her, then nods at the archway. “Come, little paper-thrall. We don’t let let our pack go hungry.”

They head into the warm, bright hall, full of space wolves talking and laughing and eating. The sweet, acrid smell of Mjød mixes with the warm bread aroma, and a large crackling hearth serves as backdrop to an Astartes telling an animated story to a group of space wolves and baselines alike, who enthusiastically cheer and laugh at his tale.

Wren sighs and happily takes the seat next to Leman at a long table, her hand going to knead at her thigh above her bionic leg. Though her bionic moves it’s own weight, she still needed to use her real muscle to lift it. She hasn’t had to push it so much yet, and her quad thrums sorely.

Russ watches her hand massaging her leg thoughtfully, but is interrupted from whatever he was about to say when a couple of Space wolves sit across from them, grinning and giddily staring down Wren.

“See-” The blond one says and elbows his brother, “I told you, The Wolf King has a new pet.”

His redheaded brother tilts his head curiously at her, then leans over the table and sniffs at her, making her shrink back with a frown.

“She smells odd.” He huffs.

Wren furrowed her brow at that, sniffing her own shirt. Leman laughs though, “She is not my pet, she is my paper-thrall.” He proclaims. ”Assistant.” She adds with a sigh. “I’m his assistant.”

The wolves tilt their head at her again, then smile wide. They are young enough to not have fangs yet, and playfully move to sit next to her, making her pull back into herself as she’s suddenly dwarfed by the massive marines.

“You smell odd.” The blond one says happily. The red haired one who sniffed her first does so again.

“Yes, you smell like Ultramarines.” He adds. He gently tugs on the sleeve of her poofy coat. “And you wear their inferior clothes. Do you not have furs?”

“My coat is fine-” she starts, but the red haired blood claw interrupts.

“Ah, has no one killed for you yet? Is that why you have to wear silly clothes?” ”My clothes are not si-” she squeaks out, trying to crowbar her words between them uselessly.

“She must not!” The blond replies, “Would you like me to kill a Great Bear for you?” He asks excitedly. Wren could almost see his metaphorical tail wagging.

“No no- I will get you a much nicer pelt than Thorarr would, let me.” The Redhead interjects, grinning ear to ear.

The blond, Thorarr, scowls at his brother. “Myrnir, I would slay a far greater bear than you. You only attack small, weak bears that are easy kills.” He gruffs as he crosses his arms.

Myrnir scowls back. “How would you know! You have not seen me hunt-” his brother rebuked.

“I have see the sad pelt you presented that thrall girl who polishes your armor, it is no wonder she rejected you.” He retorted.

Suddenly they are on their feet, growling and snapping words at each other, Wren forgotten. She blinks a few times, disoriented for a moment at the sudden shift. The blood claws argue and shove at each other, Russ, however just chuckles. “The youngest of my sons have less restraint.” He tells her as he reaches across the table to a wooden tray of breads, handing her a large roll. “Their attention is fleet and their tempers hot. They will outgrow it after a few decades of battle.”

The blood claws start grappling at each other, and an older wolf throws a large mug at them, conking the redhead in the back of the head. “Take it to the fight grounds before you break another table!” He scolds the pair. Myrnir grumbles, rubbing his skull where the tankard hit him, and they both stalk out of the hall.

Wren chuckles to herself, “They are certainly spirited.” She says, taking a bite of the roll. It’s grainy and hearty, and she wonders when the last time she had anything that tasted so much like real food was. It feels like it’d been a decade at least since her meals didn’t come from a package.

Leman rumbles a low chuckle in his chest. “That’s why they go first in battle. To get them trained, to let out their energy, and so they don’t clip anyone else on the way in.” He says with a smile. He glances back at her hand, still kneading her thigh. “I’m sure you were similar in your new years as a soldier?” He asks a bit softer.

She smiles and chuckles softly. “I suppose I was. I had a bad habit of going after much bigger opponents.” She says nostalgically. Her early days in the Auxilia were full of feats of glory and adrenaline. She sometimes thinks back and wonders how she managed to make it so long without ending up paste under an Orks boot, but her ferocity was what helped her climb the ranks so fast.

Russ grins and nods to her leg. “That how you lost it? Bit off more than you could chew?” He asks curiously.

Her smile falters a bit. “No.” She says quickly, turning back to the table and picking at her roll. The primarch deflates a little, huffing softly. He watches her nibble at her bread, then smiles again, perking up. “I have somewhere good to show you next.” He says happily.

He leads her up a few more terrifying lifts and through more dank tunnels before they get to a large complex of wide rooms. She could hear growling and barking and big padded feet stomping before they got there, and the distinct but not entirely unpleasant smell of wolves gave her an idea where they were before they actually entered the kennels.

Massive Fenrisian wolves play, sleep in piles, and gnaw on bones the size of Wren, spread out across what was mostly left as natural cave formation rooms. One was coming in from a large tunnel that seemed to climb upwards outside, shaking off snow from its stark black coat. Another two roll in a play fight together, their white fur making them look like an avalanche. Dozens of them lounge and play, drinking water from a small natural stream through the rocks and napping on beds of dirt.

As they get closer, Wren’s steps start to falter. These weren’t just wolves. The smallest was, as she could begin to see, the size of two men. The larger black ones, some were the size of artillery vehicles.

“By the throne…” She mumbles in awe, feet refusing to bring her closer to the massive predators. Leman looks over his shoulder at her standing, jaw agape, and laughs. “Come, little paper-thrall, they will not harm you. Not these ones at least. These are our pack members, they fight beside us and lend us their speed and strength.”

As he speaks, the two largest wolves, one black and one white, perk up and thunder over to them, paws thudding against stone enough to feel the vibrations through the ground where she stood. Wren recoils back a few steps, but the wolves stop at Leman, licking his face and pawing at him as he laughs cheerfully.

He turns back to her and motions her forward. “Come! These are my kin, my brothers, I was raised with them by the same wolf mother. This is Freki, and this Geri. They my companions.” He introduces, rubbing their ears as they wag their tails and lick at him.

The two beasts are massive, taller than any space marine, coming up to Leman’s chest at their head. Wren swallows hard. “Uhm- h-hello, Lord Russ’s… brothers…” she says warily.

The black wolf, Freki, radars his ears toward her voice, staring her down with eyes that almost glow with reflection from the dim torch lights of the halls. He pads over to her, and she cringes down a little as his massive nose sniffs at her face.

He tilts his head and pads around her in a circle as Geri comes over and gives her a snuffles at her too. She grimaces at their warm breath assaulting her face, before Freki licks the side of her head in a long motion, making her squeak in surprise. Geri wags his tail and licks her too, making giggle as shes suddenly attacked by their affections, tails wagging happily as she devolved into breathless laughing.

“O-okay-! please-!” She gasps through her giggles, and Leman, grinning and laughing softly calls them off of her.

“Enough of that, give her a second to breathe.” He tells the wolves as they happily trot to him and nuzzle him with their snouts. He grins at the disheveled, slobbered Wren as she tries to still her laughter. “See? My wolf-kin are friends.”

She tried to wipe her face with her hands, making a soft blehch at the slobber. “They certainly are personable, sir.” She chuckles. She uses the clean stream water to rinse her face off and returns to Leman’s side when he motions for her to.

“I want you to see some of our pack.” He says, softer now. She follows his gaze to two playing wolves. They growl and play bite at each other's legs, tumbling and snarfing and wagging their tails. But one of the wolves has the advantage- a shiny, metallic limb replaces his back leg.

Wren raises her brow, looking up at Russ. “You… You give the wolves Bionics?” She asks quietly, looking around and spotting a bionic eye, a front leg, a missing ear….

“Of course.” He says, smiling down at her with a gentler expression. “They are our pack, and we care for them the same we would any who suffer an injury.”

Her gaze falls back to the playing canines. The wolf without bionics is playing just as roughly with its kin as the others are playing, snapping teeth and body checks and leg bites. The bionic using wolf returns it in full, even using the leg to it’s advantage - its friend doesn’t like to bite the metal, so it uses that one to kick at the other wolf.

Across the cavern, she sees another wolf with a bionic front leg. This one limps slightly, and still has stitches and shaved areas from whatever injury it had. It flops down, licking and chewing at the place where the metal limb meets flesh.

Habitually, Wren’s hand went to that spot where her own leg met her thigh, massaging the muscles there.

She has to swallow back some emotion, watching the juxtaposition of the hobbling, recovering animal licking its sore phantom limb, and the lively, playing wolf who is well accustomed to his own.

Leman glances down at her, seeing her a little misty eyed, and frowns. Following her gaze, then watching her knead at her leg, he smiles understandingly.

“They bounce back.” He says as he kneels on one knee to be more level with her. She glances to him at her side before returning to watching the canines.

“They have a period of readjustment.” He continues, nodding to the limping wolf. “They need time to heal, and relearn their senses. And I think also, to grieve.” He says in a low, careful voice, watching her face as she bit her lip. “It is not an easy thing, losing something so life altering.”

He points at the happy, playing wolf. “But they do come back, with encouragement. That one has had about a year with his new body, and now you could hardly tell. Sometimes he itches at it, or favors the leg a tad. But he is him again.” Leman says softly. “And the survivors, they come back even more driven. I think getting that second chance pushes them.”

It takes a lot of effort to swallow down her emotions this time, eyes wetting threateningly. She grips the knee of her pants on her bionic side. The primarch gives a small smile down at her. “How long have you had yours, little paper-thrall?”

She takes a steadying breath. “About… About a year. Year and a half.” She rasps quietly.

Leman gives her a firm pat on her back, making her have to stumble and balance herself. She looks up at him in surprised, brow knit in confusion.

“About time you get back to it then, right, little paper-thrall?” He says with a warm, fanged smile.

[rotworld]

1: Growing Shadows

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

on your homeworld of decretum, the nights are growing inexplicably longer. an imperial scholar arrives to investigate and comes to the conclusion that you know more than you're letting on.

warhammer 40k; original mandrake character/reader. explicit; contains dubcon (coercive/transactional), graphic depictions of violence and gore, murder, gangbang, non-human genitalia, non-consensual exhibitionism, ambiguous fate for the reader.

Theron is waiting for you in the Emerald Markets. He pretends he isn't. Pretends, like always, that it's just a happy coincidence your paths have crossed again, slinking out from the shadows of a stone arch. 

“Shall we walk together?” he asks, as if he isn’t already following you. 

It’s easy to be charmed because he is effortlessly charming in his sleek black coat with a stiff collar and silken cravat, smiling, clean-shaven, short hair parted down the middle to frame his handsome features. He speaks the sharp, precisely enunciated Gothic they teach at academies in the heart of the Imperium but he’s far friendlier than the usual Administratum census-taker or bureaucrat who occasionally visits. His interest in you is obvious, wandering gazes and lingering touches that make you wish he wasn’t spending all of his time holed up in the library. 

He looks at you knowingly, a sly glance out of the corner of his eye when he catches you staring. You feel his hand settle lightly on your lower back. 

“It was a lovely day while it lasted,” he says, looking up at the sky in dismay. “Does it really not bother you? All this dark? A mere four hours of sunlight hardly seems conducive to one’s emotional wellbeing.”

You shrug. “I think we’re all just used to it. The sun is nice but so is the moon. And it’s really not all that dark.”

“No,” he says with a laugh. “Not here, anyway.”

Walking the crowded streets of the market is like plunging into an open kaleidoscope, all color and crystal. There is food, of course, smoked meats and fresh fruits, spices overflowing from burlap sacks. There are hand-woven baskets and ceramics arranged on tiered shelves, tassel-edged tapestries and embroidered scarves, but more than anything, there are lanterns. If an artisan has dared to dream of it, it can be found here: round and angular, pyramidal and teardrop-elongated, simple four-sided boxes and dizzying geometric masterpieces with dozens of glittering faces. Decorative brass frames cradle panes of painted glass, tendriled metal latticework slicing the light into patterns as intricate as lace. Everywhere you look, they stain the night with spills of finely dappled watercolor, the dark rainbows of an oil slick. 

“They really are something,” Theron marvels. “Did you know that Decretum’s lanterns are famous throughout the Imperium? My mentor has one in his office. Just a small one. Six-sided, with a rounded dome on top. Beautiful, but truly awful if you’re trying to read. I think it makes even more shadows than it chases away.”

You did know that. They’re your planet’s most profitable export. Nobles, governors, and wealthy socialites will pay a premium to get their hands on one. “You’re not really meant to use them for reading,” you tell him. “They soften the light, make it gentler. Much easier on the eyes.”

“A light that’s not meant to be bright,” he muses. “Curious.”

Movement catches your eye at the mouth of the alley. Three children huddle around a small orange lantern, giggling as they dart back and forth in front of the spotted light washing over the wall. They take turns holding their hands out, casting lopsided shapes with their splayed fingers and curling thumbs. A little boy holds up his fist, his other hand making a ‘V’ with two fingers that he wiggles back and forth. A girl, slightly older, presses her hands together, one splayed, the other limp. On the wall, the shadows of their outstretched hands look like the silhouettes of Decretum's wildlife; a snail and a spined, gaping lizard.

Theron slows his pace, watching the performance unfold. “What are they doing?” he asks. “Shadow puppets?” 

You nod, pausing beside him. “It��s a game. ‘Shadow Eater.’ We all played it as kids.” 

The girl curls her index fingers, making the lizard’s mouth gnash open and shut. She lunges forward, eclipsing the snail, and the boy makes a dramatic death wail, half-scream, half-gargle, leaping out of the lantern’s light. A different boy steps forward, this one far more ambitious with his movements. One hand first, downturned, index finger pointing—a branch. His other hand shapes a perching bird, a glaring eye formed in the space between an arching index and middle finger. “Ah, I see,” Theron says. “You have to keep thinking of something that can eat the last animal.” You think he’ll keep walking but he stays, hands in his pockets and head tilted, his curiosity unsated. The shadow bird suddenly takes flight, the branch vanishing as the boy loops this thumbs together to form a beak, both hands flapping. It descends on the lizard, mantles it with its jagged wings. The girl lets out a warbling death cry that makes the others laugh and scurries away.

“I was going through the planetary archives again today,” Theron tells you, keeping his voice low. “Decretum’s nights have grown incrementally longer over thousands of years. The increase, according to my calculations, is negligible. Fractions of a second. Hardly noticeable, until those fractions accrue into more easily measurable amounts. It’s not a normal, natural change. There are no local or astronomical phenomena that correlate with this particular trend, nothing about the atmosphere, the weather patterns or the nearest star. No other planet in the system has been affected the same way. It doesn’t make any sense.” 

The youngest boy returns and makes a fox. One hand shapes the grinning head, two fingertips raised into tiny ears, while the other bends into paws and a curved body. It sneaks forward, ears flicking, and then it pounces. The older boy playing the bird warbles theatrically as he wrenches his hands apart. A frigid wind whistles through the alley and you shudder, rubbing your arms through your long sleeves. Theron adjusts his coat. The children holler excitedly and their game starts to go faster, the girl rushing back to the spotlight to make a larger canine shape. Both hands form a head, a scowling mouth, a protruding ear. Her wolf seizes the fox by the throat with a triumphant howl.

“Stranger still, I’ve noticed a secondary pattern. There are years where the change is larger than normal, the usual fractional increase insufficient to explain just how much longer the night becomes. The difference is quite stark. Whole seconds, sometimes. I don’t know what to make of it. But what truly confounds me is how unbothered you are about this. All of you.” Theron’s gaze shifts subtly as he speaks, watching you from the corner of his eye. Looking, you think, for a particular reaction. 

You look back at him, trying to ignore the sick, anxious feeling in your chest. “We can’t control the sun. We can worry ourselves sick or we can keep living our lives.” You gesture at the children, laughing and shrieking playfully in their dance of predator and prey. “When I was their age, the nights were already long. Milliseconds or seconds, it doesn’t make much of a difference. It’s all we know.”

Theron studies your face in silence for a long, tense moment. There’s a wounded look in his eyes, something almost pleading. Guilt bubbles up in your chest. 

It’s the older boy’s turn again—the last turn, you suspect. Most games end with the animal he makes. He holds one hand sideways, the other rearing atop like antlers. Theron watches wordlessly as the shadow puppets scuffle, clumsily miming a battle of claw and hoof. The wolf howls weakly, silenced with one final stomp. The glow of the lantern flickers briefly and the children cheer. “Shadow eater! Shadow eater!” they cry, dancing in snakeskin dusklight. “He eats us all up!”

“I suppose you’re right,” Theron says finally, his tone lightening somewhat. He starts walking again and you let out the breath you were holding, resuming your ambling pace. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t vent my frustrations on you. I’m accustomed to a bit more urgency when studying the Imperium’s myriad anomalies.” 

“I’m sorry we’re not all more excited, or succumbing to mass panic,” you say, smiling when you manage to pull an amused huff out of him. “We’ve always been like this, I think. They say the earliest settlements on Decretum were plagued by all kinds of misfortune. Not much scares us. Definitely not the dark.”

“Everyone is afraid of the dark. It’s in our nature.” 

You shake your head. “That’s because you think it’s full of monsters.”

“Isn’t it?” Theron asks.

“I don’t think so.” 

You pass more lantern shops. More handicrafts. A livestock seller with scrappy blue chickens clucking in their wooden cages. Another group of children acting out another game of Shadow Eater, a squirrel fleeing the grasp of a screeching raptor. They wave when they see you, the light of their pale blue lantern bathing them in cold, wintry light. 

At the edge of the marketplace, the neat tile path becomes bumpy cobblestone. A waning moon shines weakly through a thick gauze of clouds. The crowd thins as you venture further from the business district to the quiet neighborhood where Theron is staying. The few people you encounter are little more than a shift in the shadows, silhouettes that bow their heads and mutter greetings. A few carry lanterns, dim like dying stars, but many don’t. Theron stumbles sometimes, his toe catching on uneven stones and his gait thrown off by unexpected dips in the path. You’re much steadier. You can’t see very well but you don’t need to. You know the churn of the shadows here, the sounds they make, the thickness of them in your lungs. 

You’ve never told Theron. You know he wouldn’t understand. 

“That was a strange end to the game earlier,” he mentions. “That was a local species of cervid, wasn’t it? Surely they don’t eat wolves.” 

You laugh. “No, there are a few variations. The kids are always making up new ones. Sometimes it’s about which animal is the cleverest. Sometimes it’s about which one is the strongest.” 

There’s someone walking behind you. They’re some distance away, far enough that you’d have trouble spotting them if you turned around, but you can feel them, can feel how the dark shudders around their shape in displeasure. “Fascinating,” Theron says. “And what about the best at concealing things? The best liar, perhaps?” Someone steps into the path ahead. Several someones, their footsteps loud. You hear the creak of leather; the clink of metal. You freeze and Theron stops beside you, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “I didn’t want to do this. I have given you every opportunity to admit the truth and you’ve squandered them all.”

You tear out of his grasp and he lets you. There’s a hiss; a blade unsheathing. Then a crackling, a dull hum, a white hot glare searing your eyes. Theron holds a sword in his hand, the blade coursing with luminescent energy. It would sever your limb and cauterize the wound in the same swift stroke. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, your throat constricting with fear.

“Taking you into custody,” Theron says. Gone is the charm and the warmth and the kindly demeanor, replaced by sharp coldness. The light of his sword is nothing like a Decretum lantern. It is harsh and untempered. The shadows shrink back from it warily. “You weren’t responsive to gentle questioning, so I must resort to something more intensive.” 

“Questioning? For what? What did I do?” 

“Does the name Lyra ring a bell?” He cocks his head at your blank expression, his lips curling into a contemptuous scowl. “No? What about Petros? Asherin? Willem?” 

“Theron, I don’t—”

“Those were my colleagues. Lyra would have told you she was an artist studying Decretum lantern designs. Petros, a student of rural Imperial architecture. Asherin, a governor’s son on vacation. Only Willem openly declared his authority. He was always fond of the heavy-handed approach. Overconfident.” Theron unlatches the first few buttons of his coat, just enough to peel back his lapel and expose something glinting and metallic affixed to the inside. A crest, you realize. A symbol. A long line like a stake with a leering skull in the center—

Your pulse quickens. You didn’t recognize it at first because of the stylization, the curling scroll adornment, the wings atop the skull. That’s a Rosette, symbol of the Inquisition. 

Theron lied to you, too.

“Ah. Now you remember,” he says. “Once, perhaps, you could’ve gotten away with it and escaped without further scrutiny. The Imperium is vast and paperwork is excruciatingly slow. But twice? Four times? This backwater you call a civilization has made Inquisitors disappear, and each time, the planet’s nights grew longer. I know the taint of heresy when I see it.”

He steps forward and you bolt, ducking beneath the clumsy grasp of someone who tried to sneak up behind you. Theron shouts in anger and you hear a gunshot, feel the hiss of something whizzing past you. A roaring bloom of heat and light shakes the ground and steals your breath, sends you careening, rolling, shoving yourself back on your feet. You don’t know if you’re hit, can’t tell if the fire licked the skin off your ankles or shards of shattered stone lodged in your calves with adrenaline numbing everything but the fear.

There are more of them and they move with the coordination of a wolf pack, anticipating your movements and cutting off your escape. Another shot goes wide in the dark, a blink of sizzling dawn that turns burns dancing spots into your vision. Your shadow sprints at your side, stretched tall by lanterns perched on porch steps and warming darkened windows, stretched and contorted with each small explosion. Silhouettes stir behind drawn curtains, watching and waiting. Knowing you will do what must be done. 

You hold out your hands. A simple one to start: all fingers facing up, spread apart. Grass swaying in the wind. The shape is clumsy and jittering as you run but you hope it’ll be enough. “See me,” you whisper desperately. “See me and come to me.” You round a corner, stumble, throw yourself forward on scraped hands and knees. A lantern looms atop a fence post, throwing light across the ground. You see a rabbit, flat and shadow, cast by something that isn’t there. It darts between your feet, too precise and perfect to have been formed by hands. “See me,” you say. “See—”

Another shot, loud like thunder, and this time you know you’re hit. You’re warm. Burning. Your shoulder throbs. Slickness dribbles down your back, following the curve of your spine. The pain is distant but it’s gaining on you, an ache sprouting sharper edges. Theron is careful. He keeps his aim low, non-lethal but easily maiming. One wrong move and you’ll lose your legs. 

Your hand shakes when you hold it up, thumb tucked in, index and little fingers bent at the knuckles. You use your arm, the bulky material of your sleeve to make the body. A cat, ears perked, tail wiggling playfully. The answer flies on the wall beside you, sleek and avian. This one is nothing like the stiff, crooked lizard-eater the children made for their game. It’s a fearsome thing with a hooked beak and great talons, shedding ashy clumps of feather-shaped darkness in its wake. 

The night grows colder. Your breath trickles from your lips as pale smoke. 

Another flash illuminates the street too brightly, everything pale and overexposed. But there is shelter. Darkness. An open alley—a chance. A risk. You dart for it, fire and death at your heels. A pair of lanterns sit against one stone wall, one warm and dawn-colored, one cool like the deep sea. Theron’s followers appear at the other end, blocking your exit. Your hands are trembling, fingers tingling with warning nips of frostbite. Your shapes become rudimentary and crude. One-handed cave snake. Limp nose-fingered steppe camel. Drooping, hideous Decretum greater spider, your hands too stiff to articulate proper movement. 

But the game goes on, each movement conjuring a new, monstrous response from your unseen partner. The beasts grow larger, less familiar, more horrific with each passing turn: a dripping mirebeast. A segmented dross worm, as thick as your torso. A writhing, churning, too many mouthed nobody-maker, devourer of bones, souls and names. These are not animals found on Decretum. They are not found anywhere that has ever known the kiss of sunlight, however briefly.

And then a blast—an earth-shaking sound and sensation that knocks you off your feet and steals the breath from your lungs. Theron is close when he pulls the trigger. You see him briefly illuminated in the flash of fire, the burning golden-red of engulfing agony crackling like the glow of a bonfire against his face. You’re half-turned when the explosive round immolates everything below your knee. The pain turns your thoughts to hot wax, shapeless and leaking from the screaming terror in your mind. Is your leg still there? Is it gone? Melted into a bubbling slurry of liquified flesh and quivering tar puddles of what was once muscle? You don’t know, can’t tell, can’t feel it. Can’t feel anything through the pain boiling your blood, the rawness of scraped palms and wheezing, smoke-filled lungs. 

But the game. The calling. It’s not done. One more, you think. Just one more. There is one beast that trumps all others. One way that it always ends. You try to turn over onto knees that might be shattered. The ground is blackened. Uneven. Speckled with blood. Someone smashes the lanterns. Kicks them over and stomps on what’s left. The lights gutter out and shadows eagerly fill their space like swarming carrion birds to a corpse. 

“That was a warning,” Theron tells you. “I only need enough of you to answer my questions. I can keep you alive with far less than this if I have to.” The sword in his hand thrums softly with power. Its glow is unsightly. Powerful. It fills the alley. Everything caught in its spotlight glow casts a long, sharply defined shadow. Even as you’re surrounded on all sides by inquisitorial agents, it’s easy to find your hunched shape among their legs in your silhouette doubles along the wall. Your vision swims. Theron’s cold sneer turns blurry. You pitch forward at his feet in a deep bow, your forehead pressed to the ground before his boots. He inhales sharply. Almost a laugh. He thinks you’re groveling, about to beg for your life. 

But you’re not. You’re playing the game. Humans have bested the nobody-maker. Not always. Not without great sacrifice. Like the canopy moose of Decretum’s most treacherous forests trampling a wolf to save its young, this is not a battle one ever hopes to fight and it is never won without scars. 

“See me and come to me,” you say, your voice a hoarse, ruined whisper. You know you are heard. You know, when the darkness ripples like the surface of a lake, that you are answered. Theron takes a cautious step back. You’re too weak to lift your head and follow his gaze but you know this coldness. This darkness. This feeling, like the night is a beast come to roost.

There is a shadow on the wall. An extra. One that should not be there. Monstrously tall and spindly, the shapeless thing looks nearly human until it moves, predator-graceful and uncanny like a nightmare glimpsed in the twilight between waking and sleep. It slithers across the alley wall into the thicket of shadows caging you in. Theron cries out a warning but he’s too late. His voice dies to a strangled croak. 

Meaning spreads in your mind. Not sound but its aftermath, like the cosmic scream of a star long dead. Your mind makes it into words but some of them curve and fractal, shattering into multiple concepts all spoken at the same time. “Hello,” it says, but also, “Greetings misfortunes night eternal.” Its name, too, is like the color that pours from a prism lantern, a blur of ceaseless beauty. I Am The Darkness Ever-Growing, but Ever-Growing also means Changing in its language, also Covering, also Devouring. Once, you heard it speak its name and it sounded like I Am The Shadow Devouring, so that’s what you told the others. That’s still the name they know, however shortened, however calcified by human language. 

Shadow Eater comes closer, passing through the unmoving throng of Theron’s retinue. It doesn’t touch them; only their shadows. Each time it eclipses them, covers their featureless doubles in its own darkness, they start to shiver and bleed. 

“Dusk-speaker,” it addresses you. 

“Chosen,” it hisses. 

“Lover,” it sighs. 

“By the Throne,” Theron whispers. “A mandrake.” 

A torrent of blood spatters the ground beside you. One of Theron’s men clutches his throat and the gaping wound splitting it open, a red, glistening maw oozing over his scrabbling fingers. He’s choking. Something bulges under his skin, in his neck. You see darkness in the folds of the wound between slippery soft tissues. Clawed fingers the color of night, tearing him apart from the inside. 

“This land,” Shadow Eater says, “this world, planet, garden. Long have you defended it. Long have I aided you. Closed prying eyes. Lopped off thieving fingers.” It steps closer. Another man screams like an animal caught in a snare. Blood gushes from his eyes, his nose, between his teeth. It trickles from his ears and stains his clothes in heavy red shadows like sweat. “They do not understand. Outsiders. Sun-scourged. Light-drunk and drowning-in-day—”

“You made a deal with it?” Theron hisses.  “It’s an abomination. Do you understand what you’ve done? It’s devouring your world!”

You try to sit up. To raise your head, at least. Everything hurts too much. Sprawled on your side, you crane your neck to peer at the wall and find Shadow Eater gazing down at you. It bends down, crouching in front of your writhing, miserable shadow. When it reaches out, you swear you can feel the soothing cold of its palm on your sweat-soaked forehead. “To be eaten is to be sheltered,” you say. “To be embraced. Ever-growing.”

“Do you hear yourself? This is madness! You’ve doomed all of Decretum.” Theron clutches his sword in his shaking fist, jaw clenched in simmering rage but you see fear in his eyes. He hasn’t moved. He can’t. There’s the slightest quiver in his voice, easily missed if you hadn’t heard so many Inquisitors break before him. “If you kill me, the full force of the Inquisition will be at your door. Ordo Malleus is well aware of the strange occurrences on this planet and word will spread. My death will hasten your destruction.” 

Shadow Eater turns towards him slowly. Someone retches, heaves and vomits. Bile, blood and bits of intestine slosh across the ground. “Perhaps,” Shadow Eater says. In words this time. Out loud, so Theron can hear and understand it. “Perhaps it will. Your death could bring more death. Annihilation by wrathful brightness. Weapons of night-killing. My garden, turned to ash.”

You inhale shakily. Shadow Eater’s clawed hand caresses your shadow’s face and you feel it, firm, possessive, wanting. The steady touch of an old lover who knows you better than anyone. 

“Or,” it purrs, “perhaps they will come here and find nothing. Only darkness and echoes. Only the hungry maw of the void.”

They’re dying all around you. Collapsing to their knees, cupping the gruesome spill of entrails from open bellies. Bruises bloom beneath the skin and the bulging outline of some voracious thing presses against their flesh from the inside. Theron’s stony expression crumbles with every pained whimper and gurgling gasp. “Don’t do this,” he says solemnly. “Surely you know, deep down, that this is wrong. I don’t know how you came into the service of this beast or how many came before you, but you could be the last. You could save this world. The children of Decretum deserve lives bathed in the light of the Emperor, not this wretched darkness—” 

“The sun,” you correct him. Theron gapes at you, too stunned to reply. “It’s the sun that lights this planet four hours a day. The last time Decretum felt the light of the Emperor was ten thousand years ago. He brought war. He vaporized cities and killed millions. Decretum came into the Imperium through bloodshed.”

“And this is the answer? More bloodshed? The deaths of billions more?” 

You shake your head. “You’re afraid of the dark, Theron. We haven’t been for a very long time.” 

Shadow Eater laughs like a death rattle and the grating of metal. You see slopes of lean muscle in its arms, wisps of hair spilling over its shoulders, the pointed ends of unnaturally long ears. Unnatural light throbs in swirling patterns across its body and glitters in the shape of eyes narrowed in sadistic glee. The eerie green glow does not weaken the shadows but makes them darker, more solid somehow.

“You called. Summoned. Pleaded. Needed, and shall receive,” it says. “If you can pay the price.”

You hesitate to ask. “What’s the price?” 

Its hand moves. Lowers slowly. You watch it touch your shadow’s neck and feel its cold fingers on your throat, testing how hard it can push before you choke. “Everything,” it says. “All of you, love of mine. Body. Mind. Soul. For that, I keep my garden. For that, I save your world.” 

“Don’t!” Theron begs. 

“This is how it ends, isn’t it?” you ask. 

Shadow Eater laughs but more softly this time. It’s the creak of a door that has not been opened as long as anyone can remember. The whispers of ice underfoot before it breaks and cold water swallows you whole. “Yes,” it says, its palm over your heart. “This is how it ends.”

“In devouring?” 

“In shelter,” it promises. In remaking, it means, in wholeness and in eternity. It trails its claws up your arm and your sleeve comes apart like flesh beneath a scalpel, the fabric split cleanly all the way to your shoulder. Underneath, your skin is adorned with the same patterns marking its shadowflesh. In the dark, they glow the same lightless green.

“Shadow Eater,” you say, just as you have so many times before, “I will pay this price.” 

All across Decretum, night roils like a stormy sea. The darkness is a tangible, hungry thing that grows and deepens, seeping from every corner. Lanterns flicker, die and flare to life once again in the same haunting shade of green no matter the color of their glass. The clouds eat the moon piece by jagged piece. The dead and dying around you begin to bloat and contort, shadows spilling from their gashes and wounds thick like sludge. Claws crack open rib cages and scrape through flesh as mandrakes emerge from each broken body, not mere shadows but real and solid.

Their hair is silver like the missing moon and their faces are jack-o-lantern smiles, glowing green features carved from the darkness that change in blinks and flickers. Shadow Eater speaks words not meant for you, animal calls and echoes that make your head spin. The other mandrakes creep closer. One pushes you upright too quickly and you hiss, trying to shift your weight off your knees. Another trails its frigid fingers along the underside of your leg—still there, you only realize now, but badly burned and oozing. It collects your clotted blood and pus on its claws and brings the mixture to its mouth, a long, green tongue curling around the digit to taste your pain. 

They all speak at once, a cacophony of threats, sweet nothings, insults and seduction. You are beloved and you are despised, a treasure, a whore, a shadow at twilight. They call you dusk-speaker, sun-touched, most wondrous in moonlight, most coveted of consorts. One plasters itself against your back and shoves its hands into your clothes, caressing your skin with greedy hands. Another presses its mouth to yours, each teasing lick and nip leaving tingles of frostbite on your lips. Another slides its fingers between your legs and rubs too rough, too fast, making you whimper and squirm.

You lose count of how many there are—five? Six? They blur into one another, shift and meld and split apart. One spreads your legs, a claw on each of your knees holding them apart, while another eagerly fills the space between them. Your clothes turn to tatters, exposing all of your markings. They are vivid now, a deeper green than you remember, giving off the same lightless glow.

“Shadow Eater!” you cry. You’re afraid. You’ve always known the name of the dark, but suddenly it’s become a stranger.

“Yes, dusk-speaker?” it answers. Its voice comes from everywhere at once. Behind you. Beside you. In your own head, a whisper between your thoughts. The mandrake kneeling between your legs cups your cheek and its touch is firm. Familiar. It urges you to look at the flickering green flames of its eyes. Is it Shadow Eater? Are they all the same mandrake, the same shadow split seven ways? You don’t know. Maybe you never will. One of them bites your neck hard enough to draw blood and your pained whine excites it, makes it pant hungrily into your skin. Its tongue feels like the press of an ice cube, too cold and then soothing. 

“Have you always known it would end this way?” it asks. “Have you longed for it?” 

They devour you every way they can. Your pain and your pleasure, your thoughts and your senses, your body and mind. Pressed between them, you become nothing more than a vessel for mindless sensation. Your hands tangle in snow-white hair. Your legs lock around straining, pistoning hips, meeting frenzied thrusts.

Shadowflesh is not the same as a human body. The things they conjure between their legs to fuck you could be any shape and any size, changing whenever they see fit. You take something long and flexible, thighs quivering as it wriggles deeper than you expected, deeper than should be physically possible. You kiss a cold, greedy mouth with two tongues. More hands than you can count hold you, cushion you, reposition you. Time loses meaning. There’s only the dark, and the green, and the ecstasy that only a shadow can give you.

And Theron. 

You jolt in sudden realization. He’s right there. He’s staring right at you. Still frozen, still clutching his useless sword, the pulsating glint of its energy sheath starting to fizzle and dim. Shadow Eater stands beside him. Towers over him. Large, monstrous claws frame his face, never letting him look away from your body in the grip of countless mandrakes. It makes him watch as you are taken again, and again, and again.

“One final kindness. A gift you do not deserve,” it hisses in his ear. “I am in you, seeker of forbidden answers. In your darkness. Your hidden places. I know what you desperately try to conceal, and here it is. What you desired and what you never could have had. Never. Do you understand? They were mine before you even learned their name.” 

Defiant to the end, Theron says nothing. He hides behind the wall that every Inquisitor builds all around their minds and hearts, stone cages of distance and misery. His lip twitches just once, just slightly. A cry stifled. He swallows hard. He doesn’t even try to look away. A twinge of sadness and pity makes your chest feel tight but the mandrakes don’t let it linger. One catches your chin between its claws and you are kissed by the night that eats Decretum one imperceptibly small bite at a time, dying the same little deaths. The darkness deepens and the shadows grow until there is nothing else.

Theron’s sword blinks and flickers and finally dies. It is the last light that will ever shine on Decretum. There will be searchlights someday, the whirling lighthouse beacons of voidfaring vessels in search of a planet that is supposed to be there, but they will never find anything. Sometimes, when the crew cycles shifts and an officer returns to their quarters for rest, they will receive a transmission that has no discernable source. Nonsensical, mostly. Just interference. Indistinct hisses of static. 

But somewhere in there, they’ll think, it almost sounds like the voices of children playing a game.

[lumpyspaceprincess05]

The world is my oyster

Pairing: Jayden Shiba x gn!reader

Word Count: 3,553

Warning(s): depictions of violence, no use of yn

Summary: A new ranger has made an appearance catching everyone completely off guard, and the awful thing? They're working with the nighlock.

Author note: I started watching power rangers samurai again and i rediscovered a first love. Sadly, there's not enough fanfictions out there for Jayden, so i decided to just write one myself. I don't know if the fandom is still alive, but if you are, enjoy!!

Reblogs are highly appreciated!

Masterlist || Series masterlist || gifs

Part 1 | Part 2

Octoroo leaned his head over the side of the boat, his gaze concentrated on the calm seas below him. His head hung low as the image of Master Xandred's outburst flashed through his mind, the anger they would endure if he found out that the water levels in the sanzu river were slowly declining.

He hurriedly turned on his heels and treaded back into the interior space of the very large ship. Shifting his gaze to his Master's door, he breathed a sigh of relief when he discovered that it was still closed, light snoring penetrating through the door.

"This is not good. This is not good at all. If Master Xandred sees the river, there's no telling what he would do." He began pacing back and forth, his teeth gnawing at the tough skin on his nails.

With her back still turned toward the nighlok, she continued to stroke her musical instrument, her ears conjuring all the possible melodies she could play, but ultimately decided against it because of the sleeping Master. It had been some what peaceful without his presence, but peace was a luxurious commodity on this boat.

"Octoroo, can you please do that more quietly. With your loud footsteps, you're just begging for him to wake up."

He stopped at once, not wanting her words to manifest into reality.

The octopus stood still, in complete silence for a moment as he remembered all the plans he had conjured up and hidden away in his arsenal throughout all his years. He raised his pointer finger, a large smirk forming on his face. Yes. This plan would definitely work.

"I have one final trick up my sleeve, one for sure to get the river rising before Master Xandred wakes."

Walking to the other end of the boat, he grabbed his staff which he had left propped up against the wall before he had gone out to inspect the river.

"Oh, do share with the rest of us. I'm curious how you're going to mess this one up." She finally turned to face him

"I have–" He walked closer to her, and after looking around for any prying eyes and ears, he cupped his hand beside his mouth and whispered in her ear. "A ranger."

She snickered. Whatever he had told her, she wasn't buying into it. "What? Which ranger?"

"Orange."

She rolled her eyes as she turned her back on him once again, losing all interest in his plan. As far as she knew, no such color existed.

"Orange? Now I know you're lying. There's no orange ranger."

"It's true. It's true. The orange ranger lies dormant, and when they wake, I will use them to fill the sanzu river. Ooh ah ooh! It's the perfect plan!"

"Does Master Xandred know that you have a ranger captive?"

"Oh no no no. He can never find out. Hiding a ranger from him all these years? There's no telling what he would do to me then. You too, because you know about it now."

"Then I'm coming with you. This is something I need to see with my very own eyes."

"Me too! Me too! Don't forget about me!" A nighlok chanted as he hauled himself into the ship. This nighlok was just like all the others, except that the exterior of his body was covered in arrows. The shaft was a dark shade of black while the points were hearts tinted a shade of dark imperial blue with a slight gap that divided the hearts into two parts.

His head mimicked the shape of clouds in the sky with another one of his arrows piercing through it, the end coming out the other side.

"Puppet master? Ooh ah ooh!" Octoroo's eyes darkened and the corners of his mouth lifted. "Just the right nighlok to get the job done." His plan was coming together just nicely.

⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ♡

Screams filled the streets as people ran off to avoid the wrath of the moogers. They tripped, stumbled, and clumsily picked themselves up to run far away to safety.

The figure jumped before the monsters, creating a barrier between them and the civilians. That had been enough to stop them from advancing forward. Their reign of terror on the innocent was over, and all you needed to do was take them all out, and then everything would go back to normal.

When people saw the hero, they stopped and sighed in relief that their savior had arrived. They cheered and hollered having peace of mind in knowing that the evil monsters would be defeated. Some even took out their phones to take pictures and videos to share later.

The moogers stopped and looked at each other in confusion. They hadn't seen this color before. After a short moment of contemplation, they came to a mutual agreement that you were dressed like the enemy, therefore, you were just like the other pesky rangers.

You assumed your fighting stance. Your samurai sword had long been drawn, aimed at the disgruntled moogers.

They engaged their defensive stance and charged to the ranger. The ranger tightened the grip on the hilt of their sword and ran towards the enemy, swinging their weapon every which way. Sparks flew as each swing landed blow after blow with great precision, bringing them to their knees, and defeating them.

An explosion went off in the background as you assumed your final stance.

Victory was yours!

Dayu and Octoroo watched the scene from the comfort of a nearby rooftop, the female nighlok shaking her head at the disappointing performance.

"What was the point of this battle? I don't understand how killing off our own will help with this plan of yours."

"Oh, just...wait for it." The octopus responded in a sing-songy way, delighted that his plan was coming along nicely. Dayu frowned, frustrated that he refused to tell her his plan in its entirety, however, she continued watching the figure dressed in orange intently.

With your sword still clutched in your hand, you made your way to the area where the civilians had found refuge, and when they saw you, they scrambled out of their hiding places and cheered as you walked toward them.

CLINK!

The crowd gasped as their attention turned to where your sword struck. With his phone now shattered on the floor, and a hand placed over his racing heart, he turned his head slightly to the right where he saw the weapon punctured into the wall, narrowly missing his head.

It was quiet for a time, the people wondering if what happened was truly a mistake or purely intentional, but that didn't matter when a young girl ran off screaming which created a domino effect and everyone just ran away from you for safety.

Octoroo cackled, knowing that the sanzu river had risen quite a lot, and what was to come would only raise even further.

You strolled casually to where your sword remained, and shimmied it out from the wall. After assessing it for any damages and being satisfied that there were none, you sheathed it and got ready to leave to your hideout.

The samurai ranger team finally appeared, donned head to toe in their respective color attire. They had their weapons ready to slash any nighlock, but as they arrived at the location, it was empty. There hadn't been any people or nighlok running about.

"Where are all the nighlok?" Mike was the first to speak up, breaking the eerily quiet atmosphere.

"Keep looking. The sensors definitely picked something up from around here. It can't be too far." Jayden spoke up, scanning the area for any trouble.

"Sounds good!" Emily folded her hand into a fist, before her and Mia wandered off to another area.

"I'll go this way." Kevin quickly ran off in the opposite direction with Mike running after him, yelling that he would go with him.

Jayden was now standing all alone in the same spot as he arrived. There were a million scenarios going through his head about the foe they would face. Was the monster invisible? Was teleportation the reason why they're no longer here? Did they trip this sensor only to commit their nefarious deeds somewhere else?

No. No. Mentor would have let him know if that was the case.

With his sword tightly gripped in his hands, he slowly advanced forward, looking every which way to catch the threat before it made a move on him.

Maybe the sensor just malfunctioned today. That was just way too many possibilities and not enough to give him the answers he desperately needed.

The other rangers scanned the area, and upon discovering nothing amiss, they decided to return back to where they had left Jayden.

They could sense that something was wrong, but what?

"Did you guys find anything?" Mia responded to Kevin by shaking her head in disappointment.

"No. You?" Emily moved closer.

"Nothing."

"What about Jayden?"

"Well, let's go and find out."

They quickly rushed back to their leader.

⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ♡

You peeked your head around the corner, and there he was. The red ranger, completely by his lonesome. Now was the perfect time to attack.

You stepped out from your hiding place to the middle of the road, your sword still tucked away in its holder. Jayden quickly turned around, his own directed toward you.

His breath hitched as he took in your attire.

"Ooh ah ooh! This is getting very interesting." Octoroo muttered to himself, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.

His eyes widened underneath his mask, his breath caught in his throat. "This...this can't be–"

You drew your weapon, aiming it in his direction. Without giving him a second to catch his breath, you attacked him with full force, pushing him back with each slash of your sword.

His brain was running a million miles a minute. With that and the added pressure he was enduring, he found it more and more difficult to concentrate. You were making it more difficult to concentrate, that is, if it was really you.

Where had you been all these years? Why were you even fighting with him? Just what on earth was going on?

You were going at him hard, constantly pushing him back with each attack. He grunted as he finally put some distance in between the both of you, his hand clutched his side as he took a moment to catch his breath.

"Jayden!" Emily shouted out as they ran to his side, helping pick him back up.

Mike turned toward the assailant, frowing when he saw the ranger attire in an entirely new color, one they had never seen before. "Who is that?"

"There's an orange ranger?" Mia's voice hitched in suprise.

"Now that's new." The yellow ranger's voice trailed off.

After skulking for a while, both Dayu and Octoroo decided to intervene, jumping in between you and the rest of the rangers. The rangers immediately assumed their fighting position, shielding Jayden from the enemy.

Jayden grunted as he picked himself up. He was weak, but he had enough strength to fight alongside his teammates.

"This was fun for a little while, but now it's getting boring." Dayu placed a hand over her mouth to cover her fake yawn, while the octopus nodded in agreement.

"We'll just claim what's ours and be out of your hair." He turned to face you and beckoned you with his hand. "Come." You walked over, put your hand in his, and as fast as you appeared, you were gone.

"What...just happened?" Kevin's voice trailed off as they stared in the direction where you had been.

⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ♡

The battle was over and the rangers joined each other in the living room, ready to discuss the events that took place earlier. Too shaken up, the rangers sat down on the sofa, afraid that their legs might give way if they remained standing. The silence was broken only by the faint sounds of a bokken colliding with the training dummy outside.

As soon as they returned to the Shiba house, Jayden wasted no time and sped of his room to change into his training garb.

He had been quiet on the journey back. The others were hesitant to talk about the incident, noticing how his eyebrows were furrowed, his jaw clenched and his fingers curled up tightly.

This was a whole other side to their leader that they didn't even know existed. Sure, he had been upset only a handful of times, but the air usually did not feel this heavy. Why was he so upset? Considering that the others were just a little worried about one of them working with the enemy, but maybe there was a different reason...

Either way, it was not the right time to coax the answers from him. But, not only had Jayden been acting strange, but the older man as well. As soon as they reported their findings back to him, his face dropped before he lost his baalnce and landed on the couch.

For the first time since they had begun living in the Shiba house, they hadn't seen Mentor this lost for words. He sat in silence, twiddling his thumbs while his gaze avoided everyone else's.

"There's an orange ranger? How is this possible?" Emily broke the silence before looking in Kevin's direction.

He sighed, folding his arms across his chest. "There isn't any information about the orange ranger in the archives. Otherwise, I would've known about it."

"How could they be working with the nighlok? It goes against everything we're fighting for." Mike clenched his fist tightly.

"Can we even still call them a samurai ranger?"

"Well, whatever's going on, we need answers."

"Mentor?" Mia turned to the man. "You've been awfully quiet. Is everything okay?"

Mike rose to his feet. "You know something...don't you?"

Ji's finally gained the courage to look at each of his pupils faces. Sooner or later, they would have known about you. He just didnt expect that the day would come so soon.

"There's a reason why the orange ranger isn't mentioned in the archives," he finally gained enough courage to meet his students' eyes.

"When the first rangers acquired the powers of the samurai ranger, they all joined each other in battle. It was a really difficult time for all of them, especially considering that they were thrust into war with no formal training. All the rangers understood that they had to use their powers to defeat the nighlok, but the orange ranger did not want that responsibility–"

⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ♡

Beads of sweat trailed down his face as he swung at the dummy over and over again, without an end in sight. His grip on the hilt was slowly loosening, but he fought even harder to keep it secured.

For the first time in a long time, Jayden had no idea how he was going to handle this situation. His team was inside the house trying to come up with their next course of action, but he simply could not bring himself to sit there and relive his past.

The memories he had of you were still fresh in his mind. The day you two met, all the days the both of you spent on your training...the day you disappeared.

The guilt was eating him up alive. What if he hadn't left you that day? What if he caught you as you snuck out? Would you have returned along with him? Would the both of you have continued training together like nothing happened? Would you have loved meeting the other rangers? Would the both of you continued to be as happy together before everything had happened?

The day you disappeared was the hardest for him, and for months after that, he couldn't eat, sleep or train like he used to. It just...didn't feel the same without you.

⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ♡

3 YEARS AGO - The night of your disappearance

You stood in the foyer with your arms folded across your chest, foot rhythmically tapping on the wooden floors. What were they discussing that was taking them so long? An innocent life was at risk so surely whatever was keeping them could wait until later.

Noticing your distressed demeanor, Jayden walked closer to you and gently unfolded your arms, sliding his hand into yours and giving it a tight squeeze. That was his way of telling you that everything would be okay. They would bring her back safely.

Hushed whispers could be heard at the other end of the room as Mentor and your older brother engaged in a heated discussion. You could hear bits and pieces, but not enough to gauge the entire story.

All you had known at that moment was that a few hours ago, a horde of moogers had broken into your home, and kidnapped your mother. Your father had been home at the time as well, but due to the injury he had sustained the last time he fought them, they easily overpowered him. He quickly called the Shiba house soon after and that's where you were.

Your brother quickly walked past Mentor, his hand reaching for the morpher in his pocket. The man quickly followed after him.

"Wait! You can't just go after them. We have to come up with a plan–"

Your brother stopped in his tracks, and turned to face him. "And how long do you think that will take, Mentor? Every single minute we spend not doing anything, they could be doing something horrible to her. She could be dead, Ji."

He moved around Ji and broke out into jog to the front door. You and Jayden turned to look at each other, worry plastered all over your faces.

"Cyan? Where are you going?" You ran up to him, your heart pounding in your chest.

"To do what's right." Your older brother turned to you one last time and gave you a sad smile. He dashed out of the door and as he ran, he transformed into his samurai suit.

You turned to Jayden, tears brimming in your eyes. "What are we going to do? We can't just let him go alone."

"We have no choice. The blue, yellow, pink and green rangers are close, but, I don't think they'll make it to him in time."

You stormed off to your room, Jayden following closely behind.

"I don't know why we can't do anything. We've been training for this." Your voice wavered as you buried your face in your pillow. Jayden sat on the other side of your bed, rubbing circles on your back.

"I'm frustrated too, but we have to trust that your brother will bring her back." You moved to sit upright crossing one legs over the other. Aggressively, you tried wiping away the tears, but the more you wiped them, the more fell.

"It's not that I don't trust him, it's just...he's not been training like he used to. He doesn't want to be a samurai ranger anymore. He wants to go to college and live the life he couldn't because of all this." He cupped your cheeks, wiping away whatever streaks of water he could.

"Do you..." He stopped himself, slightly biting the inside of his cheek. "Do you wish you had a normal life too?"

You nodded your head.

"I do..." Jayden didn't let it show, but your words made his heart hurt, but you knew better. You placed a hand on top of his hand, guiding him to look back at you.

"That's how I felt when I first came here." You paused.

"Jayden, my father gave me a choice and I can't imagine doing anything else–being anywhere else. I'm happy with the life I'm living right now. Training with you, cleaning up after breakfast–everything. All of this will be worth it when we defeat Master Xandred. As long as we do it together, right?"

He nodded contently.

"I'll bring the tissue box." He smiled widely before walking out of the room.

You shrunk into yourself, your head propped up against your knees.

Will he be okay fighting all alone?

The thoughts consumed you as all the scenarios you conjured up didn't have a happy ending. What if the other rangers don't make it in time? What if...he doesn't come back home?

The possibilities were weighing down on you. What was the point of training if you were just going to stand on the sidelines and let other people fight your battles?

You made a beeline for the window, quietly unlocking it before stepping through. Turning to the house one last time, you could see Jayden walking into the hallway from the kitchen with a couple of boxes in hand. He always went overboard when he tried to help you.

The corners of your lips tugged up, but the smile didn't quite reach your eyes. It was comforting to imagine all the ways he would scold you for defying the Mentor's orders, only because you ended up making your way back home again. Safe, maybe a few scratches here and there...but you would be home.

"I'm sorry, Jay." You mumbled under your breath, before sprinting out through the gates. It was up to you now to make sure your mom and brother got home safely, no matter what happens.

Part 2

Copyright © 2025 lumpyspaceprincess05. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

[lokischocolatefountain]

Salvation

Series Masterlist

Kind of a sequel to Say No to Me, but can be read as a standalone fic

Fandom: Narcos

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Rating: 18+ (warnings: mild choking, name calling, Papi kink, Mami kink, handcuffs, crying, spanking, fingering, mild cuckolding kink. Justification of violence and American imperialism?? Idek you guys)

Word count: 5.8k words

Summary: Shaken to his core by witnessing Colonel Carillo shoot a kid, Javier comes home guilty and questioning the role he plays in the war against drugs.

A/N: Say No to Me did soooo well, so I wrote a little more about about Javi and his wife. Hope people like this too 🥺🥺🥺. Warning: The characters’ views on violence and geopolitics are not my own.

“I don’t see the difference.”

“What do you mean you don’t see the difference? Those assholes poison this country, poison the US. We’re trying to stop them.”

It was their first argument. Leave it to him to bring work home and argue about it with the pretty professor he’d been dating. His job was always a point of contention for them. She didn’t care that he flaked out on dates, forgot to turn up for dinner with friends and slinked into bed late at night with no explanation as to where he’d been. No. What she worried about was the fact that he was a man with a gun.

The first time he met her outside the restaurant the both of them frequented, he was on a raid where her friend happened to live. He’d opened a door, gun in hand, just like he opened many other doors in Columbia in his quest for men associated with the Medellin cartel. He’d surveyed the rest of the place like he always did. Behind the woman was her. The beautiful woman he’d been buying buñuelos for at the restaurant like he’d buy a drink for a woman at a bar. The woman who’d smiled at him in a silent thanks each time the waitress brought her the buñuelos he ordered for her. The one who reciprocated by sending him coffee.

She never saw him the same again. She stopped meeting his eyes when before, she’d always looked around for him shyly. She stopped eating at the restaurant, opting instead for takeaways he found her eating in her car. He’d confronted her, sweet-talked her and gotten her to take his buñuelos again. Talked her into having coffee with him every morning and took her back to his place to fuck.

They always wondered out loud to each other what life would be like had he not done that.

“I wouldn’t be picking up dirty socks from all over the apartment.”

“And I wouldn’t find hair clogging the drain. But I would also be perpetually single.”

“And that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Bad thing. No wife to come home to. No one to wake me up with a warm wet mouth around my cock.”

“Jodón!”

“Te amo, Cariño. Eres mi corazón, mi conciencia.”

If he weren’t a married man, he would have driven to the brothel he used to frequent before he decided he would go on a date with her. He’d take the first willing woman he saw and fuck his pain, his frustrations, his failures into her. She’d be nothing but a warm wet thing in which to bury everything for a bit of cash.

Doing that with his wife didn’t take away the pain or the frustration. It produced guilt. Finding hand-shaped bruises and bite marks on her body made her hide her face in his chest to keep her sweet shy smile away from him. But it just made him feel undeserving of her, like he was tainting the one truly good thing in his life with his violence and brutality.

Her black and white perspective on his job changed eventually. Marriage wouldn’t have been possible without it. For the first time, he felt a pang of guilt for deceiving her into marrying him. When it was just coffee and sex, she insisted that he keep his gun and badge away from her sight. They scared her. He felt offended that she wouldn’t accept him whole.

Eventually he stopped hiding work from her. She grew comfortable with his gun on their bedside table along with her pretty night lamp, books, personal diary, jewelry, and framed picture of their wedding at the embassy. She no longer flinched when she wrapped her loving arms around him and found his gun tucked in the back of his jeans.

He changed her, turned her into someone who could casually listen to him vent about the day to day violences of his job. Turned her into a woman who shared a bed with the kind of man who stood by as his colleague put a gun to a kid’s head and pulled the trigger. He wanted to drive off to the closest bar and drink himself to death, but as though on autopilot, he’d already driven himself home. He parked the jeep in the garage, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

What should he have done to stop Carillo? Could he have stopped him at all? It wasn’t as though he knew what the man would do… Or maybe he did. He couldn’t plead innocence over Carillo’s actions when he was the one celebrating his return, knowing fully about his cruel tactics. He sensed something was off when Carillo made those kids kneel on the ground, hands on their heads. Some of them still had baby fat in their cheeks. The Colonel knew what he was going to do. It was why he left Steve behind.

Steve was given immunity from these cruelties. While he’d been a bachelor when he first met Carillo, Steve was always the family man with a pretty wife to go home to. And now a baby. Now, he was also a family man with someone awaiting his return. Did Carillo not know that? Did he not see the glimmering gold band around his finger? Or did Carillo see something in him that indicated he was prepared to witness such horror? Something that said he lacked a heart unlike Steve. How did Carillo manage to go home to his wife and kids? How did he hold them in his bloodied hands?

“Javi?”

She’d opened the jeep door and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was truly out of it.

He whispered her name as she cupped his cheek, taking all the comforts that her touch afforded. He closed his eyes and swallowed as the guilt set in. The kid’s parents would need comfort tonight, not him. He didn’t deserve this. He should pry her hand off of him, reject her gentle touch. Stop her from tainting herself further.

She leaned close to him and he hummed gratefully for the proximity that allowed him to breathe in the fresh scent of her citrusy soap and her coconut shampoo.

He said her name again, like a prayer, like she was his god and he, a devotee who sought her for salvation. “It’s going to be okay, mi amor. Whatever it is…It’s going to be okay.”

“I need you,” he said as he nuzzled into her neck.

“You have me, Javi. I’m right here, whatever you need. Okay?” She swept her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp, already taking care of him.

He hopped out of the car with a renewed energy now that he had her permission. “Need you right here, baby,” he muttered hurriedly and curled an arm around her waist, picking her up and placing her on the hood of the jeep. He tugged at the satin tie holding the robe together, untying it to reveal her in her purest form. No underclothes, no jewelry except her rings, just her. He palmed her shoulders and pushed the garment off of her, holding himself back from ripping it off when she took a few seconds too long to free her arms from the sleeves.

He spread her legs apart, mumbling, “Need to see you, querida. Need to see your pretty pussy.”

He placed a hand on her belly and pushed, forcing her to lie back down on the hood. It had to be uncomfortable, but he couldn’t think beyond getting his dick wet. She said whatever he needed, so he was going to take whatever he needed. He was going to take everything he could out of her, leave her spent and unable to offer him anything more.

He pushed her legs wider, spreading her out obscenely for his eyes. Her body held marks of their passion. Her knees were bruised from kneeling at his feet and bringing him pleasure with her lips. Bruises of various colors were scattered all over her, tainting the pure smooth skin she brought into their relationship.

She left her marks too. If he looked in the mirror, he would see the crescent shaped scars she’d left behind, some still healing from spilling blood for her. He would find that her name was etched on every scratch and bite she left behind, claiming him as hers and contrasting between the scars he did not ask for, scars he earned chasing sicarios on rooftops.

Javier was marked by all the successes and failures of this perpetual chase of the bad guy. He’d tripped, fallen, jumped from balconies, been shoved into walls, pistol whipped and grazed by bullets.

She’d asked him for one thing only when he was on one knee in front of her— Give me all of you, Javi. So he did. He came home every evening, touched her with hands covered in the blood of the innocent collateral damage in this war.

He bent over her and pressed his chapped lips on her plush ones as his hand found her breasts. She tasted sweet as she always did. There was something beyond the sweet treats she was so fond of. It was just her, just the sweetness of her heart and the kindness of the words uttered by those lips. Once upon a time, she did not like his taste. Their first kiss had her pull away, face scrunched and the lips that’d rejected him complaining about the taste of cigarettes. He used to keep a pack of gum on him at all times- in his pocket, in the glove compartment, on his bedside table, in the living room just to rid himself of the vile taste of his terrible days so he could drink her sweet moans from her lips.

She no longer complained. She’d gotten used to it, had grown to like it even. They didn’t want to waste time washing away the day’s traces before getting lost in each other. They took each other as they were, accepted the ugly and the gruesome, the sweat and the weariness, the mistakes and the guilt.

He released her from the kiss and nudged her chin up by his nose. She whimpered quietly and returned her hand to his shoulders to push his leather jacket off. He helped her out, shrugging the garment off and letting her hands run over his chest with only the thin gray shirt separating them. He nibbled on her chin, reining himself back so as to not bite too hard. She had to be a few orgasms in to enjoy such roughness. He fondled a breast in his hand, pinching his index and middle fingers together to tug at her nipple.

The vibrations of her moan as he kissed down her throat went straight down to his cock. He marked her all the way in his journey from her neck to her cunt. Kiss, bite, suck, nip. Kiss, bite, suck, nip. Kiss, bite, bite, bite—

Mine, mine, mine.

Fingers found her cunt faster than his lips that were busy marking her as his. He rubbed her with his tainted hand and she raised herself off the hood of his jeep to meet his hand. He pushed her back down and placed a firm hand on her belly, pressing down to send a message.

Stay down. Obey.

She stayed put, taking only what he gave. Slick coated the tip of his finger as he pushed between her pussy lips. “Were you touching yourself before I came home, querida?”

“Yeah,” she managed to voice.

“Couldn’t wait for me?” He asked as he pushed a finger in, roughly and with no mercy. She gasped silently as she squirmed on the metal surface.

“Sorry,” she whined as he found the spot inside her that drove her wild, one that her dainty fingers couldn’t reach. “Papi, ‘m sorr—” she shrieked as he pinched her clit.

“What did I tell you about touching what’s mine?” He asked, getting irrationally angry about her pleasuring herself. Useless. Useless on the job, useless at home. An absent and neglectful husband whose wife had to resort to touching herself.

“That everything that’s yours is mine too.” He could hear the smile in her voice as she recalled the sweet beginnings of their marriage even when spread out in the most vulgar way for him.

“Everything. Except this,” he said, palming her cunt. “Let me just have this. All for myself.”

“So you’ll be a good boy and share everything else? Lend my ass to some other guy, it’ll be f—” she gasped mid-sentence as he grabbed her throat and pulled her up to meet him face-to-face.

“You letting other guys in when I’m not looking, baby?” He asked, applying the slightest pressure around her neck. He knew she would do nothing of that sort. He wouldn’t either. For all his faults as a husband, he was loyal. But they liked pretending sometimes. It played into his insecurities a little, into his fears of being so inadequate for her that she had to look elsewhere. It wasn’t a fear for him sexually. Yet. But it angered him when she asked a colleague to do so much as put up a shelf in their living room. That was his job as her husband.

“Hmm, sorry Papi… He was right there and I really missed you,” she played along as she thumbed his lips.

“Told you you were all mine, baby…” he said, pinching her clit just hard enough to bring her the pain she craved from her. She jumped and wrapped her legs around him, the heels of her feet digging into his back.

“You just told me that just now! How was I supposed to know before this?”

“Put a ring on it, didn’t I?” He said before he took her left hand and thumbed her rings. “I put three on it, in fact. What else is a man supposed to do, hmm? Put a collar on you?”

Her breath hitched, letting him know that she very much liked the image he put in her head. He took it as his cue to continue, “Would you like that? Hmm? I’ll finally make you look like the bitch in heat that you are.” She tightened around his finger and dug her feet into his back harder as though she wanted to pull him closer.

“Hnnngg please!” She whined as she began fucking herself on his middle finger. He added his ring finger, making her fuck herself on the finger that showed the world who he belonged to. Showed the world that he belonged. Showed him he wasn’t a lone man, that there was someone home who gave a fuck. He pressed the pad of his thumb on her clit, circling it gently, barely touching as she used his fingers for his pleasure.

“Javiii!” She cried his name, her voice grabbing at his heart. He belonged. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled her flush against his chest, needing to feel her skin against his.

“Yeah, baby. ‘M here, I’m yours,” he whispered into her neck and sucked on that spot that was bruised from all the times he’d wrapped his lips around it because he knew it made her melt in his arms.

She moaned his name over and over— Javi, Javi, Javiii— and he drank in all of it as he fucked her with his fingers. It grounded him, her moans. Told him she was real, this life they had was real and pushed away the horrors he’d participated in. He was just Javi, her husband Javi who just came home from work and made her scream his name. Not Agent Peña.

“Come for me, Cariño,” he encouraged when he felt her nearing her peak. He continued doing what he was doing, kept up the pace, kissed her neck and squeezed her tits, taking turns between each one when she finally collapsed in his arms, dropping her entire weight on him as she gasped for breaths.

“Want more,” she whined, her voice raspy from screaming his name. She palmed him through his jeans, making him hiss before she moved up to his belt buckle and tugged impatiently. “Want your cock, Papi.”

“Greedy little thing,” he scolded before kissing down her neck. “I just made you come, didn’t I? You’re still shaking but you already want more?”

“Pleeeeease!” She cried, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and letting her hands roam his chest. “I missed you.”

“Missed me? I fucked you silly in the morning before you went to work. Did you forget?”

“Missed you all day. I thought about it the whole time, thought about your cock.” She said, palming him through his jeans. He managed a smirk, trying his best to not let her know how much her touch affected him already.

“Thought you were more professional than that, bebita. Did you rub one out in the restroom thinking of me? Take a break from teaching to touch this wet little cunt for me, Mami?” He asked as he touched her gently, knowing she was still sensitive from how he played her with his fingers.

She shook her head and nuzzled into his neck, her bashful smile catching his attention before she could hide it away from him. “Can’t disappoint my darling wife, now can I?” He teased, quickly unbuckling his belt and undoing the button and zipper of his jeans to free himself. She reached behind him and squeezed his ass before she grabbed his gun and set it aside on the hood.

The cavalierness of her action struck him. The woman who was frightened by the mere sight of his gun was now handling it casually. If he had noticed it any other day, he would’ve been proud. But not anymore… He had changed from the ambitious fool he used to be in Laredo. And he had changed her.

“Hmm yeah, don’t want your wife letting other men in her ass,” she teased as her hands roved over his torso, the pointed tips of her nails making the hairs on his arm stand up. She reached his dick and wrapped her hand around it when he decided enough was enough. He slapped her hand away, pulled her off the hood and turned her around before pushing her back down face-first. It happened so quickly that she didn’t seem to realize what had happened.

Usually, he felt guilty only after taking his frustrations out on her. Now, he felt the guilt had already begun to surround him, thickening the air he breathed until he felt it was choking him.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, holding her down as he reached into his pocket for his handcuffs. He snapped the cold metal around her wrists and leaned over to whisper into her ear, “I’m gonna take you rough, cariño. Can you handle it?” When she nodded, he asked her again, “Will you let me fuck you hard? That’s okay tonight? I need to hear a yes. A clear yes.” The nodding wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t feel right in the head and he needed her to be clear.

“Yes, Javi,” she said, turning a little, her cheek pressed on the hood as she met his eyes. “I want it. I’ll tell you to stop if it gets too much.”

“Okay,” he breathed out as he pulled his leather belt off through the loops of his jeans. As the leather cracked in the air, he noticed her ass clench. He grabbed a handful of her behind and let go before swatting the flesh. Mesmerized by the jiggling of her behind, he let her find reprieve for a few second before he repeated the motion for the other cheek. He reduced the gaps between each slap to her ass, enjoying her screams and cries, unbothered about whether they were waking the entire damn neighborhood.

When he felt she was adequately prepared, he folded his belt in two, holding the metal buckle tight in his hand and wrapping the excess leather around his fist to make sure he didn’t accidentally hit her with it. They liked leaving marks on each other, but none that would be as painful and permanent as the damage metal would cause. He reached between her legs and found her pussy, wet from her cum, making her let out the soft sounds he would lock up in the depths of his mind to look back on whenever he missed her.

“Love the pretty sounds you make for me, bebita,” he praised, pleased with himself as he caught her dazed smile. As much as he liked seeing her in the throes of pleasure, he liked it more when he could bring out her sweet smiles. It made him proud, knowing he could do that to her.

“Think you forgot the belt, Papi…” she said softly, her tone contradicting the depraved thing she was requesting.

“So eager,” he mumbled, his words buried by her scream when his belt made contact with her ass. “Quiet, querida. You don’t want to wake our neighbors. Don’t want them to run over here to check on you now, do we? They might accuse me of being an abusive husband and I will be forced to explain that my little pain-slut of a wife begs for this shit.”

She trembled underneath him, holding her hand up to seek comfort. He took her hand glady, entwining their fingers and giving it a kiss before he dropped it back down. She huffed in disappointment, making him feel just a little guilty for taking her comfort away from her. Promising himself that he would give her all the love and affection she needed after this, he slipped his ring finger inside her. He was met with no resistance and he enjoyed how she took him in, enjoyed how she dripped down his finger and coated the gold band with her deliciousness.

“You would like that, won’t you? My little exhibitionist. I knew you were one when you made me finger you in my jeep before I could take you home for a proper fuck,” he reminded her of their first time together, delighted in himself as she tightened around him. He gave her a few quick pumps before withdrawing abruptly to make her taste himself on his fingers. He tightened his grip around the belt and landed another one, the black leather kissing her skin. His hand effectively muffled her scream, but she bit down on him hard, making him hiss.

He fucked her mouth like he fucked her pussy, aloowing himself to be satisfied with how her tongue swirled around his fingers. Forgetting himself, he pressed himself against her ass, grinding to relieve himself just a little. She pushed back at him and he took a step back, realizing what he’d done.

“Mierda!” He cursed. This was not the right time to rub the rough denim of his jeans on her sensitive behind.

“Lo siento, mi amor…” he apologised, bending down to kiss her temple. “Just… can’t wait to have you.”

“Just a— just few more, Javi baby…then— and you can have me,” she breathed out between pants.

“How many more? How many can you take?”

“Four. Each. No breaks, just go. Alternate it.”

“Sí, Mami,” he nodded, taking her command. He crumbled up the soft tie of her robe and pushed it into her mouth before he stood back and took quick aims, raining her with one hit after another.

Her cries and screams were muffled by the cloth he’d shoved in her mouth, but he was certain she would be heard if someone happened to walk by the garage door. While this was a safe neighborhood thanks to it being embassy staff quarters, late night screams were unfortunately not a rare thing for the city. At other times, it chilled him to the bone and made him want to send an armed bodyguard with his precious girl wherever she went. Now, he contented himself with the fact that nobody would come knocking to check on the poor screaming woman.

He pushed his jeans down to his knees and lined himself up with her tight, wet heat before forcing himself in.

“Feel. So. Fucking. Good.” He grunted, alternating each word with a thrust into her pussy. She gripped him so tight, so good, so fucking good.

“Dios mío, Mami. Tan perfecto,” he spewed praises, grabbing her hair with his fingers and giving her a painful tug to force her to show him one half of her face. She was utterly debauched, freshly washed hair all tangled up in his hand, eyes glazed over with everything he gave her, lips bruised and swollen and cheeks covered in her tears. He was sick in the head, he knew that and God, she knew that too. He was a sick fuck, making her cry for him, getting himself harder in her cunt as he watched her spill more tears from his thrusts.

“Lo siento,” he mumbled, still giving her what brought on the tears in the first place. He knew she wanted it, she’d told him so several times, reassured him as she cradled him in her loving arms. She understood him, sometimes more than he did. She knew the depths of his wretched would and found herself a place in it rather than running away screaming.

But that didn’t make him stop apologizing, “Lo siento, Lo siento, por favor… Mi amor, perdóname, por favor—” his words caught in his throat and he let out a sob around her name. He let his tears fall, bent over her and slipped an arm around her shaking body to pull her close to himself. He buried his cries into her neck as his thrusts slipped out of rhythm.

She spat out the cloth that he’d stuffed her mouth. “Javi? Are you okay, baby?”

He shook his head, unable to hide himself from her any longer. “No te merezco,” he whispered.

“Uncuff me. Wanna— need to touch you,” she begged. He snapped her cuffs open, having left it unlocked for her safety. Her hand was on her immediately, comforting him with her touch.

“Javi…I got you, honey. I got you,” she reassured him, taking his hand in hers and giving him a squeeze. He peeked out a little like a frightened yet curious child and caught the gleaming silvery metal of his pistol on the hood. It simply sat there, too close to his wife, not inspiring the fear it should in her. He’d ruined her so much that she could simply have it in her line of vision when she took him.

“Lo sien—”

“Javi, Javi, it’s okay. Everything’s okay, mi amor… It’s alright.”

“Dime que me quieres,” he begged. He needed to know, needed to hear that she still loved him even though he doubted she would if she knew Agent Peña as much as she knew her husband Javi.

“Te quiero, te amo, Javi. Mi amor, mi corazón, mi—” she whined as he unknowingly hit a spot. All these years knowing her and he somehow didn’t know that this did it for her. He repeated the motion, thrusting in the exact same angle with the same vigor that made her cry so sweetly.

The world turned hazy around him and for just that moment, he was just Javi, just her Javi. He belonged to her and the pleasures she brought him, belonged right in her sweet pussy that made his lips moan her name over and over and— He let out sounds he didn’t recognize to be from his throat as she gripped him like a vice and he struggled with the in and out motions, needing to just bury himself in her for eternity and never leave. As though she’d heard his plea, she granted him the high he’d come home craving, pushing him over the edge yet holding onto him, keeping him safe, keeping him hers.

He stayed put even after he’d spilled inside her, needing the closeness, needing to surround himself in all her goodness whether he deserved it or not.

“Javi…What happened, baby?” She asked, caressing his hand with a tenderness that warmed his heart. “What were you apologizing for? What happened?”

He removed himself from her and turned her around to face him. He kept his eyes on the ground as he retrieved the robe that had fallen to the floor. He draped the fabric around her and she stumbled as she took a step ahead. He pulled his jeans up and zipped up before he surveyed her form. She couldn’t walk without limping. Fuck! He was the piece of fucking shit.

He picked her up and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him on his chin and then on his cheek, keeping her eyes on his as he carried her through the corridors. It was thankfully too late for anyone to be wandering outside.

He laid her out on the couch when they got home, opting to sit on the floor at her feet rather than next to her. She let him place his head on her lap and even massaged his scalp with her caring hand. He shut his eyes and let himself get lost in the feeling, needing the comfort despite being undeserving.

“You were right,” he spoke quietly into the night.

“About what, mi amor?” Another time, he was sure she would have laughed and said she always was.

“When you said you didn’t see a difference. Our first fight. You said you didn’t see the difference between them and us. ‘S bad no matter who does it, the violence. Guns.”

“That was a long— why are we talking about this now? Is that what’s got you so worried? Javi, I didn’t know what I know now. It was a very…reductive way of thinking about it. I told you that much later.”

He felt he’d manipulated her somehow, put the perspective of the bright-eyed young Javier who’d come to Columbia to be ‘the good guy’ who put bad guys in jail and saved the world or whatever the fuck he thought he was going to do. He had done good, sure, but the bad… Oh god the bad.

“Carillo is back.”

“Yeah, you told me…”

“Whenever we go on a fucking operation, the guys we’re trying to nab are always a step ahead of us. Escobar’s got informants everywhere. Kids. Some the size of your nieces. Couple teenagers. Bad situation at home, either they don’t have a choice, or they don’t yet understand what the hell they’re doing… I thought we were just going to scare them. We rounded them up, Carillo was doing the talking. This kid got too mouthy, you know that kind of teenager with the ‘fuck the police’ attitude and enough blind courage fuelled by his newfound independence… It just felt off, baby. I should’ve done something, but— This is how it’s going to go from now on and everyone will turn a blind eye because we’re just that desperate.”

“Javi… Tell me what happened.”

“He shot him,” he managed to say. “Carillo shot the kid. To make a fucking point.”

Her hand stilled in his hair and her eyes widened. “I want to think there’s a difference, but it’s getting harder and harder everyday to see it. Escobar’s using these kids to save his own ass and we’re killing them to send him a fuckin’ message.”

“You didn’t pull the trigger.”

It was a statement, but he replied as though it was a question. “I didn’t pull the trigger.” He was a piece of shit, but he needed her to know that he hadn’t gotten that bad.

“You can’t carry others’ sins on your back, Javi.”

“I was there when—”

“So were the others. And Carillo pulled the trigger. You think he’s at home apologizing to his wife?”

Yeah but you didn’t marry Carillo.

He shook his head and she took his face in her hand, cradling his cheek like he was something precious. “You do what you can, Javi. Your hands are as clean as can be for a DEA Agent. You can’t bear other men’s sins. And you can’t change how entire governments operate.”

“You wouldn’t have said that before.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have. Back then, I didn’t have to stay up all night waiting to hear my husband’s car arrive so that I could run to him and see for myself if he’d come home to me in one piece. I was on the outside before but now I’m in the heart of it, with you. I know you try to shield me from the worst of it. I see how you and Steve whisper about work instead of talking out loud. But I’m not naïve. I know you’re in danger most days and there are some things that you just have to do.”

“I have blood on my hands. I’m not the same man you married. And you’re not the same, I changed you. I made you believe in something I don’t believe in anymore, pulled you into my mess and—”

“It’s okay,” she declared with a quiet smile. “As long as it’s not your heart. As long as you’re not bleeding out on the streets. If you need to get blood on your hands to keep yourself alive out there, I won’t stand in your way. I don’t want you thinking about whether I would approve of the morals of what you did. I don’t care if I change. Change me, get the blood on your hands on mine and I’ll clean you up before I have to send you back out there. I don’t care who has to bleed for you to see another day. I’ll always take the man you are when you come home, no matter how much you have changed. I know in my heart that you’ll never do what Carillo did. I know who I married and it’s not a Carillo.”

She pushed his errant curls out of his face, bent down and placed a kiss on his forehead. “You are the same man I married. You have heart. And you want to do the right thing. Unfortunately,” she said, taking a deep breath. “There are just some things you can’t control and you just have to let go of it to face the next day. You can’t do that with others’ sins on your shoulders. You know you have enough of your own to lug around.”

She allowed him her comforts, her words and her touch and the warmth of her lap as he put his head down. He wasn’t wholly convinced by her words, but closed his eyes knowing she would be there when he came home. She would have him, broken down and full of guilt. He would come home to her for the rest of time and find salvation in her arms and that would be enough.

.

.

.

Series Masterlist

Read my other fics here

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #50 – The Gold Eaters by Ronald Wright

This was the rare book I had literally never heard of before opening it - a birthday gift from a friend, and the rare one not resulting from some sort of conversation about what books we’ve been meaning to read. It’s the first historical fiction I’ve read in year and years, so I can’t really say how it stands in terms of the rest of the genre. Reading it for myself, I had a great time – though the book did seem confused about which part of ‘historical fiction’ it actually cared about.

The book (primarily) follows Waman, an adolescent boy just coming of age in a nowhere coastal village on the edge of the ascendant and seemingly world-spanning Inca Empire, the demands and products of which are the only outside intrusions upon his life. Feeling stifled at home after his father returns from a period of conscription building roads and bridges in the highlands, he runs away to have some adventures and become a man on a trading ship. And in a stroke of truly cosmic misfortune, on his first voyage they run into a scouting expedition run by one Francisco Pizarro, investigating rumours of a strange land called Peru and its cities of gold.

Waman is abducted and conscripted into service as the Spaniards guide and interpreter. He spends the next decades of his life with an unwilling front-row seat to History unfolding, making and losing friends and endlessly searching for his family and childhood love as the whole world is overthrown again and again around him.

The great strength of the book, I think, is how it manages to portray the civilizations of the past as both familiar and awe-inspiring. The Spanish and Inca Empires are both portrayed almost like fictional kingdoms in a fantasy novel, simultaneously defamilirized and made new and strange, and presented from the point of view of someone whose ideas of normal are at least as strange to us as any of the peoples he meets. More than that, it never stops feeling like a world where people actually lived and worked, one that made sense on a human scale where all its inhabitants could find a place for themselves (or else be forced into one). It was never exactly confusing either -even if it does feel a bit like cheating to jump between points of view to ensure there’s a wide-eyed foreigner needing things explained to them wherever it’s required.

Wright is apparently a historian by trade, and has mostly previously written nonfiction. Given the sheer cornucopia of details about both daily life and the exact sequences of events that led to Spanish dominion, I entirely believe it.

As history, the two things that I most took away from the reading experience were the portrayal of the Inca at their peak as a really vital, world-shaping imperial society on the one hand, and just how drawn out and contingent the process of conquest was, on the other. The book does a great job getting across just how incredible the road- and bridge-building projects and the great imperial cities were, and how rich and organized a society it was (without ever entirely falling into portraying the Inca as some prelapsarian utopia, either, which is how a great many works in the general space seem to screw this up). It then also does an excellent job getting across just how apocalyptic the smallpox epidemic that swept through the empire was, and how ruinous the wars of succession that followed. Pizarro triumphed because he was facing an empire that was a death-choked ruin at war with itself, manipulating and extorting an emperor with many enemies and not much way in the way of skills or legitimacy except that everyone ahead of him was dead.

The other thing that did strike me is that – the historical narrative as I have always received it is that the Spanish conquered their American empire in one single, cataclysmic moment of contact, disease and violence and simple shock leaving them ruling the better part of a continent before anyone even realized what was happening. Which I’d intellectually known was false, but the book really does an amazing job dramatizing the fact that the building of the Spanish empire was a multi-decade – multi-generational, really – affair, and far more a matter of politics and logistics than initial shock an awe.

My main complaint with the book is the matter of genre – it spent the entire back half continuously changing its mind about what it wanted to be. Is this Waman’s story, a man coming of age and scrambling to form a life for himself as the tides of history destroy and remake his world around him and buffet him hither and yon? Or is he just a convenient POV to what’s essentially a rationalized history of (the initial chapters of) the fall of the Inca, improbably standing at the side of and sharing drinks with one famous personage after another to hear their thoughts and see their pivotal deeds? The book never quite settles on an answer, and so Waman’s own arc and personal concerns shift from feeling like thin connective tissue to the emotional core of the story and back several times. The issue gets worse in the latter parts of the book, where it just outright shifts into omniscient exposition of historical events at times.

Also on goodreads this is tagged as a romance and – okay so there is a romance in this book. But it’s the third or fourth most important relationship at most. For the vast majority of the page count it’s just a childhood crush Waman nurses as motivation to get home. If you come in expecting this is mostly be a love story you are going to have a bad time.

But yeah! I should read more historical fiction.

[betterbemeta]

TotK is really ramping up Hyrule's past as pure imperial myth type propaganda.

(criticism beneath the cut)

I really really am not enjoying the explicit text that various civilizations of people in tears of the kingdom exist in the way they do in order to preserve super powers that Link will come to collect. On behalf of his nation's first king.

sure, they frame it as like 'now I can fight by your side whenever, how convenient!' but I can't forget that this first king Rauru gave the original sages their secret stones, and this is a return on that investment. Regardless of what compelling character arcs any of these people have over the course of the game, we are accumulating the agency of entire nations, prepared for us as a proxy of the ruler who defined Hyrule's legitimacy.

Legend of Zelda has leaned in the past few installments into equating 'saving Hyrule' with 'palengenesis of an ancient nation.' I don't have to explain again why this has one foot on either side of line dividing 'imperial throne myth' and 'fascist myth' and TotK so far is only adding more detail to these ideas- positioning the surrounding peoples of Hyrule (Zora, Gorons, Gerudo, Rito) not as 'allies' but as part of its dominion from the beginning.

I've completed the wind and water temples so far and because you can do them in any order, the ancient sages seem to all say basically the same thing to Link in case it's the first time: the destiny of their entire people came to exist for Link, literally King Rauru's right hand man.

Ganondorf may be a very 'fantasy evil' dude but in terms of real-life genre of evil, Hyrule engages in colonialism, imperialism. We're told the story from a point of view that thinks it's good to shape the destiny of other peoples under your dominion-- that it's rightful to assume this sort of power by

giving priceless gifts (to be harvested later), or

sources of prosperity (that can only be fixed by themselves or their agents), or

some kind of unification mythology (spiritual subservience),

as if those are not forms of violence. Empires love giving 'gifts' like religion, government, industries, and trains.

[librarycards]

Dionne Brand: What are those building blocks of narrative and how are they sedimented in the ways we write and therefore the ways we think? What is in attendance presently is a revanchism of imperialism, of raw, ugly racism that is boldly at the surface of European- and American-driven politics. The incredibly robust and violent resurgence of this narrative seemed to say something about the aliveness of that narrative, that it can still summon young, middle-aged, and old people of European descent. That, to me, was a sign that those ideas had not been destroyed entirely or had not been thrown completely into the cesspit of history. Within the elaborations of governing and living, they’ve been allowed to survive. So many scholars—including, as you’ve noted, Said and Spivak—have thrown an incredible amount of energy against them. But liberal democracy maintained their viability, even in the very ways in which we attack them. Which is to say that, to some degree, we still accepted them as credible, as aesthetically pleasing. These texts remain as part of the beautiful when they are, in fact, not beautiful at all. They are full of slavery, full of exploitation. Slavery and exploitation are on the bare skin of them.

The argument is often made that we are not in these texts—but we are in the texts. We are not excluded. In Salvage, I’m not talking about being excluded, I’m really concerned with how I’m included. The ways in which we were included are very much on the surface of the page. In William Makepeace Thackeray’s Vanity Fair, the person who opens the novel is a black man named Sambo, but we do not get the chance to look at him except through how he is located abjectly in that society as a joke. In Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, how does Mansfield Park come about? How does it exist? There’s this reglorification of those texts in a lot of Netflix shows, in new variations of nineteenth century texts with black people in them as main characters. Well, black people were always in Mansfield Park as slaves in Antigua. What if we were to begin there, rather than some call for inclusion?

I’m rereading these texts with the hope of abandoning them as aesthetic objects. When these texts were written, they were done so self-consciously as colonial objects. If they were being made as aesthetic objects, they were for the European bourgeoisie. In fact, these texts were created and encouraged because they told readers about the wonderful life that slave-owning, the eradication of Indigenous peoples, and violence allowed.

Saidiya Hartman: I really like that formulation: to reread these texts with the hope of abandoning them as aesthetic objects. Salvage clearly articulates the ways in which a colonial project, a settler project, even when it does not announce itself explicitly and politically, finds refuge in the categories of the aesthetic and the beautiful. Here the role of the novel is critical. You also look at the regimes of cognition and perception, taste and sensibility that produce the subject and fashion the human. You build on Sylvia Wynter’s essay “Novel and History, Plot and Plantation” and Simon Gikandi’s Slavery and the Culture of Taste, which brilliantly articulate the connective tissue between slavery’s regime of production and the cultivation of subjectivity and discernment. What does it mean that the taxonomy of values that undergirded racial slavery provides the compass for many of the texts upheld as great literary achievements?

DB: These texts are followed. They existed then and exist now as examples of what to do. They are instructional. Whatever writer is writing in this moment, that’s the genealogy they follow for how to produce a novel—what shape to put them in, how to produce character, what a character might be—and often without paying any attention to the ideas they are reproducing. This isn’t without consequence, because the material conditions we live in are also being reproduced through literary texts. The type of being illustrated in a literary text is a reflection of the type of being that exists in the material world. That production is very much tied up and interested in the relations we live in.

Dionne Brand and Saidiya Hartman in BOMB (2024)

[sankofaspirit]

Solving Knife Crime in the Black Community in the UK: A Garveyite Perspective

Introduction: Context and Crisis

Knife crime in the UK has become a major social issue, disproportionately affecting Black communities. While external factors like systemic racism, economic deprivation, and a colonial legacy play a significant role, a Garveyite perspective teaches us that true empowerment begins with accountability, self-determination, and community-driven solutions. As Marcus Garvey famously said, “The ends you serve that are selfish will take you no further than yourself, but the ends you serve that are for all, in common, will take you into eternity.”

To address knife crime, Black communities must simultaneously challenge systemic oppression and take accountability for internal changes. This blog combines Garvey’s principles of unity, economic empowerment, cultural reclamation, and accountability to provide a comprehensive roadmap for addressing the crisis.

1. Understanding the Roots: Historical and Systemic Inequalities

Colonial Legacy and Structural Racism

The root causes of knife crime can not be separated from the legacy of colonialism and systemic racism. Black communities in the UK face entrenched socioeconomic disadvantages—poor housing, underfunded schools, and over-policing. These inequalities, rooted in the history of the transatlantic slave trade and imperialism, create conditions where violence can thrive.

From a Garveyite perspective, tackling these structural barriers requires reclaiming cultural pride and autonomy. As Garvey said, “A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.” Restoring identity and pride is essential to addressing the despair and alienation that fuel violence.

Alienation and Identity Crisis

Many young Black people feel disconnected from their cultural roots, leaving them vulnerable to adopting destructive identities shaped by societal stereotypes or toxic urban subcultures. Knife crime often becomes a misguided way to assert power and respect in the absence of meaningful purpose.

2. The Role of Accountability in Solving Knife Crime

Internalizing the Need for Change

While systemic oppression creates challenges, accountability is the foundation of self-determination. A Garveyite approach demands that individuals and communities confront their roles in perpetuating knife crime. This involves:

Rejecting Excuses: Acknowledging that external challenges do not absolve individuals from striving for change.

Challenging Toxic Norms: Addressing behaviours that glorify violence or perpetuate “road culture.”

Taking Ownership: Recognizing that solutions must come from within, not solely from government intervention.

3. Strengthening the Family as the Foundation

Parental Responsibility

The family is the bedrock of any community. Parents play a critical role in shaping their children’s values and behaviour. A Garveyite approach to parenting includes:

Active Involvement: Parents must monitor their children’s friendships, address behavioural issues, and provide guidance.

Strong Male Role Models: Black men must step up to mentor and guide younger generations, countering the absence of positive father figures.

Cultural Grounding: Teaching children about their heritage to install pride and purpose.

Healing Intergenerational Trauma

Many families struggle with the lasting effects of intergenerational trauma. Breaking these cycles requires:

Therapy and Counselling: Seeking professional support to heal emotional wounds.

Open Communication: Encouraging honest discussions about challenges within the family.

4. Rebuilding Community Accountability

Collective Responsibility

Marcus Garvey emphasized that progress requires a strong and united community. Black communities must reclaim collective responsibility by:

Challenging Negative Influences: Confronting individuals or groups that perpetuate violence, such as gang leaders or those glorifying crime in music and media.

Creating Safe Spaces: Establishing youth centres, neighbourhood watches, and conflict mediation programs.

Promoting Role Models: Uplifting individuals who embody positive values and success.

Youth Accountability

Young people must be empowered to take responsibility for their actions. Programs that foster self-reflection, mentorship, and leadership development are essential. This includes:

Peer Accountability: Encouraging older youth to mentor younger ones.

Rites of Passage Programs: Ceremonies that teach responsibility and cultural values.

Alternatives to Crime: Providing opportunities in sports, arts, and entrepreneurship.

5. Economic Empowerment as Prevention

Self-Reliance Through Black-Owned Businesses

Economic deprivation is a root cause of knife crime. A Garveyite approach emphasizes building Black-owned businesses and cooperative ventures to create jobs and wealth within the community.

Community Investment Funds: Pooling resources to support local businesses.

Youth Entrepreneurship Programs: Teaching young people how to build sustainable businesses.

Financial Literacy: Promoting skills to manage money and create generational wealth.

Work Ethic and Discipline

Breaking cycles of poverty requires a cultural shift toward long-term planning and hard work. Communities must reject the culture of instant gratification and embrace Garvey’s philosophy of discipline and self-reliance.

6. Reclaiming Identity Through Education and Media

Pan-African Education

Education is key to restoring cultural pride and purpose. Schools and community programs must teach young people their history and values while equipping them with tools for success.

Cultural Workshops: Teaching African history, literature, and philosophy.

Mentorship Programs: Pairing youth with professionals and elders who can guide them.

Teaching Responsibility: Incorporating lessons on accountability, critical thinking, and conflict resolution.

Controlling the Narrative

Media plays a significant role in shaping perceptions. Black creators must take control of their narratives to challenge stereotypes and inspire the community. This includes:

Producing Positive Content: Highlighting stories of resilience and success.

Challenging Harmful Media: Rejecting content that glorifies violence or perpetuates stereotypes.

7. The Role of Leadership and Pan-African Solidarity

Holding Leaders Accountable

Community leaders, influencers, and institutions must lead by example, actively working to address knife crime. True leadership involves:

Transparency and Engagement: Involving the community in discussions and solutions.

Walking the Talk: Setting an example through action, not just rhetoric.

Challenging Hypocrisy: Holding leaders accountable when they fail to act in the community’s best interest.

Pan-African Solidarity

Marcus Garvey’s vision extended beyond borders. Black communities in the UK can draw strength from collaborating with the African diaspora to address common challenges. This includes:

Sharing Resources and Strategies: Partnering with diaspora organizations to tackle youth violence.

Hosting Forums: Creating international dialogues to share solutions.

Encouraging Investment: Supporting initiatives that benefit Black communities globally.

8. Conclusion: A Call to Action

From a Garveyite perspective, solving knife crime in Black communities requires a holistic approach rooted in accountability, cultural reclamation, and collective action. While systemic racism must be addressed, true liberation begins with self-determination.

As Marcus Garvey said, “Up, you mighty race, accomplish what you will!” By taking ownership of their future, strengthening family structures, empowering youth, and building economic self-reliance, Black communities in the UK can break the cycle of violence and create a brighter future for generations to come. Accountability is not a burden—it is the key to liberation.

[adversitybloomed]

FULL NAME. Hua Mulan | 花木蘭 NICKNAME. none really, though her sister calls her MuMu ALIASES. Hua Jun (male disguise), Feng Lian (Feng means ‘Maple, phoenix’ & Lian means, lotus). PRONOUNS. She | Her | Hers. SIZE. 5'1" (154.94cm) AGE. 18+ ZODIAC. Taurus SPOKEN LANGUAGES. Chinese (primarily Mandarin, does know Cantonese), Japanese, Korean & English. she is currently learning more, but is self teaching.

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 ― HAIR. Long thick straight jet black hair that goes past her lower waist in modern, but in the past goes past her bottom in all other eras. FACIAL HAIR. None. EYES. Appears to be black, but is actually dark brown. SKIN TONE. She has fair skin, that leans more towards the pale side. BODY TYPE. Endomorph, is lean & petite in nature, but more on the thin side. She has a small curvy figure to her. There is zero fat on her, however as she has more muscle mass because of her strict training routine.  106 lb (lean muscles). This weight is only when she is eating healthy, she has a hard time gaining weight to this point. VOICE. she has a very soft voice, that rarely grows loud unless its is absolutely necessary. for the most part, she is very polite in her speech and mannerisms, however, there are occasions where she does not hold back and can come across as rude, but only to those who deserve it. (ex: ❀ + ❀ + ❀ + ❀) DOMINANT HAND. Ambidextrous, primary though is right. POSTURE. for the most part, she stands straight with proper posture. but around those she is comfortable with, she will slack a bit and lean against things, or bend her body to be more comfortable. SCARS. Upon her lower left hip, within the pelvic inlet region close to where her ovary is, is a scar that has healed very poorly do the the lack of proper treatment. (headcanon here), in some verses, she does have a star shaped scar on her left shoulder due to poorly treated arrow wound. BIRTHMARKS. a beauty mark on the left side of her nose. MOST NOTABLE FEATURES. refined facial features, a slender physique, and a prominent waistline. along side with her long hair that is mostly found loose.

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃 ― PLACE OF BIRTH. Lanzhou, China. HOMETOWN. a small village close to the forest. SIBLINGS. Hua Daiyu (elder sister, estranged), Hua Xiu (younger half sister, close) PARENTS. Hua Zhao (father, alive), Hua Hsien (bio mom, deceased), Hua Li (stepmother)

𝐀𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ― OCCUPATION.. farm girl, soldier of the Imperial army Imperial, War General & agent to the Emperor. in modern era she is a student studying computer science. CURRENT RESIDENCE. verse dependent. FINANCIAL STATUS. poor background, however, she works hard for her money to send some home to her family, so middle class towards ? DRIVER'S LICENSE. at first no, but she does get one later on in the modern era. CRIMINAL RECORD. technically she has done crimes, but she might not have a record until modern era... but she was arrested only because she was defending someone from violence and was later dropped as it was self defense. VICES. doesn't have any vices.

𝐒𝐄𝐗 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ― SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Demisexual. PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE. She is a good mix of submissive and dominant. just depends on the situation. She wants to protect those she loves. PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE. Submissive, as she does not really enjoy taking charge as it makes her nervous. TURN OFFS. insulting, yelling without a reason, cruelty, bullies. she really hates when she sees someone lash out to better build themselves up. she also can't stand when someone acts superior to another person. dishonesty is really unattractive to her, but she does understand sometimes it is necessary to lie, this is mostly for the people who make a long term habit out of it. she also really dislikes disloyalty. TURN ON'S. kindness, intelligence, protective and caring towards their friends and family. someone who is honorable and trust worthy. she is really into someone who is willing to the right thing. also she finds it really attractive when that person knows she can fight and values her for it, but still willing to protect her because they love her. someone who often times encouraging her to train with them. LOVE LANGUAGE. Mulan is very big on Acts of Service, she likes to give gifts and receive them, but to her that is not what is important. its the thought behind it that counts. she is also very big on Quality time, and gets very happy when the time is made to spend with her. she also does enjoy Physical touch. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES. it is very hard to get Mulan to be willing to be in a relationship, not because she doesnt want to, but because she only drawn by an emotional connection. but, in a relationship, Mulan is fully committed to a relationship. she will be attentive & mold herself to fit within her SO's life style. she is also very emotionally invested & will want to be there to provide both emotional, physical & mental support as needed.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 ― CHARACTER'S THEME TUNE. a hero who's song is sung in ballads throughout the ages. born of the phoenix flame, 隐心 (Hidden Heart) - 赵露思 (Zhao Lusi). HOBBIES TO PASS THE TIME. Martial arts (training), horseback riding, going out to eat, baking, traveling, drawing, dancing, playing the Flute or Guzheng & singing. LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED. Right-Brained, with some Left-Brained tendancies. SELF-CONFIDENCE LEVEL. low to medium.

tagged by: @luckhissoul (ty!) tagging: @battleguqin + @caracarnn + @sparesovereign + @ka-go-me + @cuckoo-among-beasts & check tags for more.

[dolphin1812]

They’re here at last!!!

I love all of Les Amis, but their introductory paragraphs have also been pretty thoroughly analyzed - @everyonewasabird and @fremedon have pretty comprehensive posts on them from previous Brickclubs. Rather than go through them individually, then, I’ll try to point out some general trends that would be relevant to Marius (given that we meet them as soon as he’s kicked out of his house, we can assume there’s a connection):

The first major issue is the legacy of the French Revolution (1789) and the Terror (1793). All of the characters we meet here (with the exception of Grantaire) are attached to the legacy of the former, but they’re divided over the latter. Enjolras, for instance, is compared to Saint-Just – a more radical figure from that time period – and with his “warlike nature” and link to the “revolutionary apocalypse,” he’s definitely more in the tradition of ‘93 than ‘89, even if he’s attached to both. Combeferre, on the other hand, fears that kind of violence, only finding it acceptable if the only alternative is for things to stay the same. Like Marius’ newfound Bonapartism, all of their ideas come out of the clash and evolution of thought after the Revolution and the French Empire under Napoleon, placing each Ami in a similar position to him as they work out their ideas. All of them, though, came to a different conclusion than Marius, prioritizing the Republic over the Empire. At the same time, they’re all distinct from each other, too, revealing the diversity in French republican thought. With his limited exposure to political ideas outside of royalism (and now, idolization of Napoleon), the myriad veins of republicanism that the Amis offer broaden up the political sphere of the novel significantly.

On top of that, they’re a group; they can learn from each other in a way that Marius hasn’t had a chance to. Even Grantaire, who claims to not believe in anything, has friends, and while he distances himself from specific ideologies, his jokes illustrate that he’s familiar with them (for example: “He sneered at all devotion in all parties, the father as well as the brother, Robespierre junior as well as Loizerolles”). Marius doesn’t have friends or people to really work through ideas with. Oddly enough, the most similar structure to this that we’ve seen so far is the royalist salon. The key difference (aside from the obvious) is the chance to learn from different perspectives, whether that’s based on variations in republicanism, in priorities (conflict vs education, the local vs the international), or both. They’re not even all defined by their politics. Courfeyrac (who easily has the most insulting character introduction in the book) is defined by his character and personality first, with his political ideas mainly being a given from his participation in this group. These variations in emphasis, then, not only show us the diversity of their views, but the varying intensities with which they hold them (as in, you could talk to Courfeyrac about something that isn’t political, but you couldn’t do that with Enjolras) and how they’re kept together in spite of their disagreements (a common goal – a Republic – and many fun and socially savvy members). All of these factors serve to give a sense of liveliness as well, contrasting sharply with the “phantoms” of the royalist salon.

Les Amis aren’t very diverse class-wise, but they’re still better than the salon. Bahorel and Feuilly, at least, aren’t bourgeois or aristocrats.

Feuilly also brings us to the international level, far beyond Marius’ early attempts at imagining himself as part of a country. Focusing on the partition of Poland in particular, Feuilly advocates for national self-determination in all lands under imperial rule. The idea that a people should govern themselves was key to republican thought more broadly in that time (nationalism really took shape in the 18th-19th centuries), but to Feuilly, this isn’t just an issue of nationalism, but of tyranny:

“There has not been a despot, nor a traitor for nearly a century back, who has not signed, approved, counter-signed, and copied, ne variatur, the partition of Poland.”

The word “despot” ties this back to France in a way, with his rejection of despotism as it affects Poland possibly implying a similar anger at the same phenomenon in France. The Bourbons at the Congress of Vienna in 1815 were, after all, the same Bourbons who ruled during the Restoration. A quick note on Lesgle: I didn’t get the joke around “Bossuet” the first time I read this book. Then, I had to take a class on the French monarchy, and I was assigned a text by Bossuet of Meaux, court preacher to Louis XIV and fierce proponent of absolutism. His name seemed familiar, but it took me a while to think to check Les Mis? And now I think calling Lesgle Bossuet because he’s Lesgle (like l’aigle=eagle) of Meaux is one of the funniest jokes in this book.

[thebreakfastgenie]

Hawkeye for the character ask game please ❤️

How I feel about this character

"Character of all time" is perhaps played out, but... I love this character. He's complex and interesting and shaped like that. He's one of my favorite characters ever. He's from Maine! He has one of the best character names of all time.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

Margaret

Frank

Trapper

Charles

Bigelow

Carlye (not endgame)

Inga

I'm also a big fan of Hawkeye/OC, especially Female OC but Male OC too

My non-romantic OTP for this character

Hawkeye and Trapper probably takes the cake, but I also love his dynamics with Radar, Klinger, and Sidney.

My unpopular opinion about this character

This is tricky because there's a lot of fanon that I agree with the broad strokes of but disagree with the details, or feel it's taken too far. I'm a fan of exploring his trauma; I think he has PTSD and he's still going to have an adjustment, but I don't think he's a broken bird.

I don't think he's overly political. I don't think he's read theory, I don't think he throws around words like imperialism. He certainly has political opinions but I don't think they're ovelry sophisticated. I think he's much more of a mainstream liberal than a leftist and he's definitely not a communist (though people like Flagg would call him one). I think his strong anti-war feelings come from a more basic moral place of hating death and violence and his anti-bigotry views come from a similar place. I think that's an important part of his character, because the show is trying to say that the horror of war should transcend politics, that everyone should be as horrified by it as Hawkeye is.

I don't think he's especially feminine, I think he has a lot of masculine traits and he's a man who's very comfortable in his masculinity which makes him willing to explore more feminine traits too, because he's not afraid of being "less" of a man. I think most of his gender-nonconformity is about about rebelling against authority much more than gender expression. Even his more feminine traits feel like more of a statement of what a man is allowed to be.

I don't think he's a bottom and I hate the bratty bottom characterization (he's vers; I can buy bottom-leaning but he definitely enjoys topping).

The last thing he would ever do is sit around pining for someone who wasn't available. I don't think fandom consciously characterizes him as a pining love martyr, but a lot of ship fic/fanon relies on that characterization, so it's very popular.

I don't think he was wrong in Fallen Idol, Commander Pierce, or Bottle Fatigue, but I don't think he's a saint who's never wrong.

I think a lot of his friends treat him badly in the later seasons, especially 8-11, and he doesn't deserve it.

I'm not sure what the popular view on this is these days but I feel very strongly that Hawkeye was raised culturally New England protestant but agnostic.

I think he wants to get married and have kids someday, just not yet, and he probably does eventually.

Of course, my least popular opinion is that he has no romantic feelings for BJ whatsoever.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

I wish he'd gotten a medal! You could get a great storyline out of his attempts to avoid it. Unlike BJ's bronze star storyline, it wouldn't be out of guilt, it would be purely because he doesn't want to be honored by the military.

[aronarchy]

…

In 2007, Israel placed Gaza under a suffocating blockade, after imposing restrictions on movement and goods in Gaza since the 1990s. Dov Weissglas, who was the advisor to the israeli prime minister at that time, noted a year prior that the purpose of the blockade was to “put the Palestinians on a diet, but not to make them die of hunger.” Under this blockade, the israeli government has prohibited foods labeled as “junk” or “luxuries”—like chocolate and potato chips—from being imported, and has prohibited or restricted other essentials like water. It has been reported that the israeli government calculates the minimum amount of calories every age and gender group in Gaza needs to determine the amount of food permitted in Gaza each day. Deterred by settler death threats, fishermen and farmers are prohibited from utilizing parts of their farms to catch or grow more food. For all intents and purposes, Gazans have been starved—in many cases, to death, over time with long-suffering and intensified since October 7, 2023.

Despite the genocidal violence Gazans and other Palestinians in the region have been forced to endure, The Jerusalem Post—one of the oldest, largest, and most-read English papers in israel—published an article on Nov. 5 of last year titled “How to use the stress from the Israel-Hamas war to lose weight.”

The Jerusalem Post’s article calling for israelis to use the “ongoing stress and anxiety” to aid them in “shedding a few pounds” is about preparing israelis for the war they intend to continue waging on Gaza (and Palestinians in both the West Bank and East Jerusalem) for the sake of Western interests. In this way, israel is modeled after the u.s. and takes a page from its imperial playbook. Take, for example, Michelle Obama’s “fight against childhood obesity” campaign—which largely targeted black children and kids of color who are disproportionately affected by poverty—wherein she cites her imperialist interests as the basis for this push against “childhood obesity.” In 2011, the First Lady spoke at the National League of Cities conference to “make the economic case for communities to address childhood obesity.” She argued that “childhood obesity is not just a health or family issue alone. It is an economic issue that impacts workforces, job growth, and local budgets across the country.”

She plainly states,

“… And you aren’t the only ones whose priorities have started to shift because of the impact of childhood obesity. Just take the military, for example. Now, when you think about the issues that are keeping four-star generals up at night, childhood obesity is probably not one that comes to mind, right? But from the day we launched ‘Let’s Move’—and that’s our nationwide campaign to tackle this issue—high-ranking military leaders have been some of our strongest supporters.

And that’s because right now, today, nearly 27 percent of 17- to 24-year-olds are too overweight to serve in our military. And for many who make the cut, years of inactivity and poor nutrition mean that they often are still overweight, and out of shape, and they’re far more likely to injure themselves in basic training.

So military leaders realized way before many of us that obesity was affecting their core mission. They realized that it was driving up their costs. And then they decided to do something about it.”

There is an explicit connection here between israel encouraging their citizens to “use the war” as a means to “lose weight” and Michelle Obama’s campaign against fat children to prepare them for the u.s. military (which also means preparing them for war against Palestinian people).

But I want to be clear: these tactics are not new. War preparedness has been coupled with exercise-as-act-of-patriotism since at least the 1930s. It is, in many ways, central to military strategy and recruitment; it’s necessary to maintain an “effective” ethnostate. 

This kind of campaign to prepare citizens in the West, or those whose countries are backed by the West, for war, helps to foster, generate, or sustain specific attitudes about food. As a result, food, or rather certain types of food, becomes directly associated with certain types of bodies (or flesh). This helps to reify the supposed need for state-sanctioned food apartheid, food deserts, and food insecurity. It is this that creates or maintains the position for food to be moralized. When we call some foods “junk” or “unhealthy,” we moralize that food, and in doing so, (im)moralize some bodies/flesh. This is what sets the black fat subject apart—a black, fat (or blackened and fattened) subject-position is always already understood as immoral as foods often associated with our being are understood as “unhealthy” or “bad.” It is not by chance that foods that are “moral,” “better,” “good,” or “healthy” are foods most often associated with (and afforded to) white, thin, affluent people.

When food is moralized—when we teach people that food is something that must be earned, worked for, monitored, and sometimes withheld—we are indoctrinated into a belief that food is not used for nourishment but rather for punishment and as a weapon; we teach ourselves and others that we must abuse our bodies or flesh for the sake of “earning” nourishment; we reify the notion that “unhealthy” relationships to food and size is foundational to being in right relationship with our bodies and others. What’s more, it reinforces, or perhaps confirms, the concept that certain bodies are superior to certain flesh, and that to obtain power one must be thin or muscular.

This violence and these structures create the conditions for thin and otherwise “healthy” people to believe they have moral superiority over fat folks, that their bodies—and the food associated with their bodies—are innately “better”; that fat folks are inept, and therefore are people who just “couldn’t become thin.” These attitudes spill over into our social movements, our collective politics, and our cultural identity.

It’s important that fat politics, fat activism, and all movement spaces actively work against these ideas; that the work we do clarifies the multilayered experience of existing under these circumstances. Food deserts, food apartheid, and food insecurity are the result of the black fat being understood as immoral. 

If you care about any of the aforementioned issues, including food deserts and genocide, you must also care about anti-fatness. To not care about the latter is to make null your care for the former.

.

[throughtrialbyfire]

WIP Wednesday lets goooooooo

man, i'm glad it's wednesday!! it's been a tough one on my end, but it's the best day of the week, and i've been having a blast reading through/looking at everyone's wips today!!

thank you to the phenomenally skilled and talented @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @umbracirrus and @thequeenofthewinter for tagging me!! i love seeing what you're all up to this week, expect unhinged tags on your works soon!! <3333

i'm passing the beacon to @gilgamish @orfeoarte @caliblorn @aphocryphas @totally-not-deacon @wispstalk @your-talos-is-problematic and anyone who'd like to hop in!!

this is from chapter 25 of "Cycle of the Serpent" and fresh off the presses! this is shaping up to be the longest chapter since chapter 10 at 3,132 words as of right now, and this snippet contains most of it. of course it's going to go through the editing ringer before it gets posted, but i'm pretty satisfied with how it's turned out!

the dragonborn trio is tackling fort hraagstad in hopes of acquiring an imperial pardon, and things take a bit of a turn…

have fun. ;3

quick content warning for canon-typical violence

The first to fall. The first to bleed. Wyndrelis watched the arrow make its mark squarely in the jugular of the nearest bandit. Clean. Quick. A hunter's trained kill. He watched another fall, this time an arrow to the chest. This time, not so quick, and another did them in. Emeros slid forward in the snow and up the incline, finding the path and his footing along it. Wyndrelis followed, Athenath rushing behind, swinging their blade at the first bandit to get near enough to him to try an attack. One. Two. Three, now. Wyndrelis kept count. The sick crack of a skull against his summoned mace added four to the tally. Another cadaver. He slipped along the mud and felt Athenath wrench a fist into the back of his armor, the same armor they'd snagged off the bandits in Bleak Falls Barrow. Jarl Balgruuf's gift was very kind, the armor of Whiterun, but they were in Haafingar, and they were no guards. So, his gifted armor lay in a chest in the Winking Skeever, finally off their backs, along with any items they wished to spare the hell of battle. As soon as he was on his feet properly again, he felt the brunt of a shield crash into him. Wyndrelis barely had enough time to get his wits about him when he flopped over onto his back, the bandit above him about to crash one enormous boot into his chest when Emeros drew his dagger, the ivory handle stark white against the dull grey forts stone, driving it hard into the neck of their foe. He clasped Wyndrelis' hand and pulled him from the mud before he continued, firing arrows into the bandits scrambling along the high walls of the fort. Five. He hissed in pain and ran a Restoration spell through his shoulder, the muscles unclenching, the tension melting away, magicka running down his veins like High Rock chocolates under a hot sun, the kind he'd shared long ago with someone whose name he refused to speak aloud. He shut the memory off as quickly as he could, looking up, watching Athenath walk backwards along the higher pathway of Fort Hraagstad, a bandit inching closer and closer. "Come on, little elf," called the bandit, "you're good as gutted now." Athenath narrowed his gaze, stray curls forcing themselves into his vision. He did not reply, breaths coming out in shaky, harrowing gasps. Wyndrelis watched. His chest tightened. Something was deeply wrong.

Emeros noticed before he did, as the moment the Dunmer spun to communicate this, Emeros had flown halfway across the courtyard and up the walkway, curling his fist into the bandit's cheekbone. Athenath shoved himself forward and drove his sword deep into the armored stomach of the bandit, and once he could sense no life in them, he pulled it off, boot to their hipbone. "Gods," Athenath spat, Emeros' attention drawn to their surroundings. Six. Wyndrelis waited. He listened to the hiss and whistle of the winds, the waving of the pines in the breeze, the snow tufting off the surface of the stone and powdering his figure in the muddy courtyard. He didn't want to think of what the mud contained now. He dismissed his spectral mace. Holding up his hand, he cast Detect Life. Emeros and Athenath glowed. He looked around, scrutinizing every corner of the courtyard and hoping for no signs, and when none came, he breathed a shaking sigh of relief. "Come down, let me treat your wounds before we go further." "What further?" Athenath shot back, throat creaking slightly, "I thought we were done." Wyndrelis shook his head, gesturing with his thumb to the doorway that no doubt led further into the fort. "This way. Now, come down."

Wounds treated, the trio gave a long, hesitant look to the door leading down into the fort. Wyndrelis, reaching for his corporeal mace, furrowed his brow. It wasn't ideal, he couldn't funnel his magicka into it to make it stronger, to ensure it lasted, but it was better than using up his magicka in the event they ran into any more bandits. Which, of course, he was sure that they would. Athenath leaned against the door. "We ready?" He whispered. Wyndrelis looked to Emeros, who nocked another arrow. "Open the door slowly, I think we need to take some precautions." He watched as the Altmer shuffled to the side, kneeling down, and slowly pressing their hand to the door. Wyndrelis stood to the side of the stone, heart hammering in his chest. He'd never been a fighter. He was a mage, a scholar, moreso. This was in complete opposition to how he liked to handle his problems, but it was all in the name of being able to traverse Skyrim safely. So, he would fight. As soon as the door parted, Emeros spotted the figure of another bandit, and his arrow found purchase in the man's skull. He motioned for the others to follow him, which they did, creeping low to the ground and carefully in the stone dark. Another fell, up the stairs. And the moment a third bandit became alerted to the commotion, Emeros took them down, Wyndrelis clutching his mace. The dark encroached on them, summoning all the anxiety in the mage's body, nothing capable of shielding him from the emerging fears that boiled in his heart. He kept his form steady, his breath even, but the chill from the outside could not be eliminated by the burning hearth on the lower level. All it took for his fears to be validated was the door swinging open beneath them, and someone spotting the bodies. The call for more bandits, more of their kin, to come running and to search every crevice for the trio.

In an instant, chaos erupted, the three elves hopping from the lower level and sprinting out the door, deer in flight from a lion, the cold shattering against them as they flung themselves down the stairs of the other door, a prison of sorts, and through it's winding depths. The twisting, the turning, the thunder of feet against stairs, the shouts of people calling for their intruders to meet the end here, to fall into Aetherius here, here of all places- Wyndrelis sprinted behind his friends, Emeros looking back- for what? Keep running, Wyndrelis mentally hissed as he followed. The churning the rolling the dark shadows meant to cloak them doing nothing, nothing, gods damn it all, they had been cornered. Gods damn it all, he wanted to do something, anything, petrified, the stench of rot coming to him through the prison's iron bars, his spine now to one cell containing the half-rotten remains of some poor soul he was soon to join. Dead end. Dead end. It was a gods damned dead end. He felt his spine against cold metal through his armor. Athenath to one side. Emeros to another. Outnumbered, how could they take down this many and expect to survive? The steps, slow and readied, down the stairs echoed in the room. The bandits knew that they had their prey in their clutches. No need to rush things. What could three little elves do? What good were they in this fight? Wyndrelis inhaled deeply. He exhaled. His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes cast sharp, terrified glances around the room. He met Athenath's round, panicked eyes. Emeros' own, stone-cold, dread in his stomach as he tried to figure out just how much time they had until the group was either eliminated or would face one of their hardest battles yet. The courtyard had offered open space. Better odds. This offered nothing but a grave. A grave. Wyndrelis tightened a fist so hard his nails dug into his palm. If only he had that book, if only it hadn't been taken from him the moment he became a prisoner, but he didn't and he wasn't able to get it back yet, he didn't even know where it was, if he did he might be able to get them out of this mess, but no. No, no, he knew there were other options. And as much as he didn't like it, he knew what he had to do. He gave Athenath one last look. Emeros, too. Calm settled over the Dunmer's features. He pushed magicka into his palm. The fist glowered a purple, the scowl of a work that he'd too-long left dormant. The College of Whispers had given him much. His fondness for the group and their cynosures did not outweigh his experiences, but it had given him something that no one, not the law, not the gods, and not his terror could take from him.