#this is not even about the f custodes

[incorrect-primarchs-quotes]

By the way, about the female custodes drama - since I just answered anon this came to my mind-, the other day I saw something absolutely "funny".

Apparently most lore yt channels are fine with female custodes, especially those who are known to be lore human libraries.

People's reaction to them: ewww tourists >:c

Then:

Random person who clearly has only read the wiki once: *explain why they are against female custodes*

The same exact people: real man, you know so much omg 🥰

It was.. weird.

[ma1dmer]

Warhammer - Tyrith Shiva Kyrus NSFW

no this isn't lore accurate, no i don't care, fight with my left tit, i have paid my dues to the warhammer fandom, this is my turn to have fun, anyways all hot girlies write warhammer smut and ignore canon....

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex): before she shuts the doors to her quarters, she'll always tell a serf at around what time they should bring in food and water for you, it's always embarrassing because you get to hear for how long exactly she plans to ravage you for, she always gets you both to finish multiple times five minutes before the serfs come in. she is very precise with her time, she doesn't even need a clock to keep track of that.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s): as a custodian she is extremely proud of her body, crafted by the emperor's own flesh and blood. as such, a bit of body worship goes a long way for her, trail your lips gently down from her neck to the middle of her breasts to her abs and then down to her legs until you are kneeling in front of her with your forehead pressed to her feet, it's the fastest way to get her to fold you in half, it might be a bit heretical, but nobody would dare ask or question her as to what exactly happens behind closed doors.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically): she likes the mess, she doesn't care about getting it on herself, but she isn't shy about getting it everywhere else, letting any serfs, coming in to clean after you two are done, see your spent all over her sheets/floor, she might chastise you for making more work for the poor serfs but she is a bit too smug about it to truly make you feel bad.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs): she loves the size difference, she loves having her strap/toys match her size, of course she doesn't push you to take her right away and trust you WILL be taking her. this is why it's so convenient to have only one partner for a long time, so she can slowly mold you to her needs wreck you for anyone else, she starts off with her fingers and mouth and simply grinding herself against you, her cunt against yours/using your cock ,then bit by bit she starts bringing in bigger and bigger toys crafted for you specifically, until she finally brings the one that is proportionate to the rest of her body.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?): a few flings here and there throughout the millennia, but they never lasted long and they were always more of a sort of exploration, a learning opportunity rather than just fumbling to satisfy her baser urges.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying): she likes to keep you pressed down or against her, she takes full advantage of her strength and size to keep you pinned or held up, she doesn't like when you move around too much, it distracts her from her goal of getting you to cum as many times as possible before you pass out. she also loves mirrors, loves watching both of your reflections as she takes you apart.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.): just like with everything else she takes her duty very seriously, even something like this, she doesn't want you to feel intimidated by her, not when you let yourself be so vulnerable and place your trust on her like that, but she just can't help it, the way she stares at you, practically devouring you with her eyes makes you feel as if she might actually do it, it's extremely intimidating.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.): it's fine and fair and soft, she doesn't do anything to it. she ,like most of the emperor's creations, always carries a sort of artificial scent mixed in with her natural musk, unlike space marines, custodes represent the emperor directly so she doesn't neglect her hygiene. she always makes sure to come to you already washed up, especially after a battle.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect): romance isn't exactly in her code, but she is very passionate, she can make you feel as if you are the only person in the world just by the way she treats you, she'll open doors for you, she'll guide you by the small of your back, she'll gently unwrap you like a gift, she'll focus her entire attention on you rather than simply chase her own pleasure through your body. she is also very touchy, she holds you close, always pulling your hands or legs to wrap around her in some way.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon): she doesn't really feel the need for it, she doesn't get the point of it, it doesn't satisfy her, not like taking you does and she'll scoff at the idea of you giving her a show, she brings you to her bedroom to touch you, if she wanted to just watch something she'd watch a holodrama.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks): body worship, slight exhibitionism etc

L = Location (favorite places to do the do): preferably back in the imperial palace, in her personal quarters, where she can keep an eye out in case she is called for duty, her bedroom isn't the most luxurious place, she doesn't get to use it often enough to warrant having anything other than the bare necessities ,but the bed is big and comfortable enough and the serfs know to mind their business when she brings you around.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going): she definitely has a thing for you submitting to her, she gives orders and she expects you to follow them, be in her room in 30 minutes, wait for her on the bed ,leave your clothes on, wear that perfume/outfit etc etc, she is very satisfied when you fully follow her instructions, it makes her want to reward you for being so obedient. she is a woman used to always having her orders followed and that doesn't change in the bedroom.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs): she is a very stubborn woman, it is very often you get told no, it doesn't even have to be something specific, sometimes it might just be your tone that makes her shut you down.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.): she can spend hours between your legs coaxing orgasm after orgasm from you simply with her mouth, her tongue buried inside of you/taking you into her mouth ,she has amazing breath control and isn't shy about flipping you on your stomach to explore other parts of your body equally as thoroughly. she gets almost annoyed if you try to pull her away, she doesn't even need the favour returned simply lie back and let her do her thing.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.): she is like a machine, she doesn't falter , doesn't change her pace its almost overwhelming, she loves overstimulating you, you'll be gasping shaking beneath her and she'll tell you to just keep taking her, give her another one,she knows your body, she knows how much you can handle and she knows you haven't reached your limit just yet.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.): they just aren't practical, she doesn't like them, simply getting in and out of her armor and bodyglove is a whole process, she would much rather make a day of it rather than rush it like a fumbling teen, she wants to take you out for a walk, listen about your day and then take you to her bed, you can usually tell what she has planned from the fact she has forgone armouring up and told the serfs around what time they can come clean up the next day.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.): not really, again following up with what we said above she is very stubborn and knows what she is into, hearing no from her is more common than hearing her say yes, she does want you to come with your own ideas if anything just to learn more about you and she is willing to indulge the safer requests of the bunch, but she isn't sharing you, she isn't taking you outside her bedchamber, she isn't doing any weird roleplay for you etc etc

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?): she is not human, she does not tire like you do ,she is always aware of how much quicker you get tired than her and tends to push for you to keep going, never past what she knows are your true limits.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?): huge space strap, i think i hauev covid

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease): she is very blunt and straight forward, she doesn't like playing games like that, but she loves to hear you beg her for mercy, it gives her the same satisfaction as besting a foe in battle.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.): she grunts and groans and sounds almost angry whenever she cums.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character): she loves having her hair pulled, i feel like she usually simply shaves it for convenience, she only tends to grow it out a bit, like we saw in the episode, if she is seeing someone, just to give them something to grab onto. she also loves when you try leaving marks on her, they never last long enough to enjoy the sight of them on her body, but that's part of why she enjoys them, drag your nails down her shoulders or down her back or on her forearms and watch her stare at her reflection in the mirror as they heal up.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?): all such feelings are kept firmly under wrap, her duty comes first before everything else, that doesn't mean she doesn't let herself indulge every so often, she is fond of the way her mind drifts off to thoughts of you when she wanders the halls of the imperial palace or in between missions, you are a welcome distraction, another reminder as to what she has pledged her life to protect.

she knows its not feasible but in these cases she often thinks about how she wishes she could keep you in her quarters, waiting for her in the imperial palace, she knows you have your own life, your own duties and such. in another life she would perhaps love to be a provider for you, you her pretty little partner simply waiting for her to come back.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards): she is a light sleeper and can fall asleep at will, especially considering the fact she probably doesn't need a lot of it like normal humans do. at the start of your relationship she waits for you to fall asleep before she let's herself drift off, but as the two of you draw closer she learns to let go a bit, she starts pretending more and more that she doesn't feel you move around when you wake up, just to get an extra few minutes of just having you in her arms.

[kit-williams]

Goodmorning, Mrs.Kit-Williams.

Hopefully today is going well for you so far?

I have yet to create a visual of the Space Marine Husbandry and how to incorporate it into writing. I just keep getting idea after idea. One sounding better than the other. Music having me create some bad*ss scenarios in my head. So I'll just inquire with you for now.

I know the Adeptus Custodes are mostly strict on protecting the Emperor, and known for their… power/strengths? So it is kinda hard to imagine one within the Husbandry. Would you think they are some kind of wandering, highly intelligent loner? A hireable bodyguard? Or something else entirely?

Furthermore, is there an actual Emperor the Adeptus Custodes protect? Or is it the warp f*cking with their minds? (We will possibly never know.)

If there was an Emperor, acting as an Astartes (highly doubt it) within the Husbandry. What would that be like?

(Is this too much questioning?)

So lets answer these

For the Custodes it's why I'm still keeping them mostly out of the husbandry lore because they are hyper intelligent and even if they're being warp fuckeryed with they would figure it out. But it is hard to see them interact in the husbandry, but if they had to. They are probably closer to the intelligent loners and maybe something else entirely. Who knows the singular custodes wandering around might have been sent by the emperor to figure out what's going on.

I'm keeping the Emperor out of this so if there are custodes they don't have an emperor to protect. (But I mean they like to hang out with this guy who kinda looks like a model... see picture below)

BUT If there WAS an Emperor within the Husbandry setting. He would most certainly NOT act like how the Astartes are. He's probably very immune to any warp fuckery, he's probably also bitching about how Malcador isn't alive yet for him to bitch at. So if he was in my setting then he would be figuring out how to undo whatever has happened but also depending on if its 30k Big E or 40k Big E he's also trying to figure out about how fucked up everything is about this Horus Heresy he's heard about.

Art by Ginias

[two-reflections]

After her unsuccessful run in the Blood Games, Custodian Calladayce Taurovalia Kesh is welcomed home by Shield-Captain Bayezara Aggonades.

[Rating: E, F/F, Oneshot. Tags: Bathing/Washing, Vaginal Fisting, Gentle Sex, Comfort No Hurt, Public Display of Affection, Hair Kink.]

When I heard that Custodes could be AFAB, I was over the moon. I rushed to read Kesh's story and thought she was just SO cool. When Bayezara was revealed a few days later, I was even more delighted.

I'm so glad the Rare Kink Prompt Meme incentivised me to write this story. I wanted the first F/F Custodes story on Ao3 not to be cruel or imply they only exist as a chaos ploy. (I understand the headcanon, I just didn't want it to be the first thing about them on there.) So here they are, being excellent to each other. ❤️

Sharing this story was also a big deal to me for other reasons. I do write F/F fic, my first Warhammer 40k ship back in 2017 was actually F/F, but my F/F stories have always felt too personal to share. Sharing this one was a big leap for me, and I'm ridiculously proud of myself for doing it.

Thanks to @squishyowl for the dividers!

[saventhhaven]

Between Timelines

Pairing: (Dean Winchester x Reader)

Tags: reader!death, mentions of death, angst, sad, bittersweet ending

Word Count: 2,146

(Gif not mine)

The boys watched Rowena tensely as she mixed the ingredients together in the bowl they had placed on the table. With one precise movement, she poured in a small amount of some sort of ground bone. Finally, she looked up, her expression unreadable.

"It's ready," she announced softly. "We just need one last thing." Dean rolled up one of his sleeves as he stepped forward.

"I know the drill." He held his hand out to Rowena, who kept it steady over the bowl. When she looked at him in question, Dean gave a firm nod. "Do it." At his words, she dragged a silver blade across his palm in one smooth motion, allowing the small rivulets of his blood to drip into the odd mixture. When it was done, he wrapped his hand with a piece of gauze.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Sam asked, keeping his gaze level.

"No," Dean replied honestly. He could tell Sam understood by the pained look in his eyes.

"Now, you have to remember," Rowena began, "you can't talk to her. And don't let her see you either. She'll think she's gone mad."

"Just do it." Rowena exchanged an uneasy look with Sam before giving a small sigh of defeat. It didn't take a mind-reader to know that she wasn't on-board with this plan.

"You have one hour before I bring you back. Not a second more." Dean readjusted his stance as if bracing for some sort of impact. "Custodes tempore hoc restitues perdiderunt invocaverimus.” Almost instantaneously, an unseen wind swept through the library. “Nunc denuo nos priores facere!”

"Have a good one." The cashier handed you your change, and you smiled warmly at her.

"You too." Grocery bag in hand, you headed back to the Impala. As usual, you were the one that had gone out for supplies. Beer, pie, green vegetables, the basics. As you stuck the keys into the lock of the driver's side door, the hair suddenly stood up on the back of your neck. Someone was watching you. You always knew what to do in situations like these. The protocol was to keep calm and not let your pursuer see that you were aware of their gaze. When you opened the car door, though, you caught a familiar reflection in the glass of the window. Putting the bag on the seat, you closed the door again and turned back around.

"Dean?" He didn't say anything. He only stood motionlessly, staring at you. You gave him a wry smile. "What, you couldn't wait for me to get back to the bunker or something?" Finally, he took a few steps toward you. His warm, calloused hand reached out to brush your cheek.

"You..." Tears welled up in his green eyes, and the smile melted off of your face. You gripped his biceps tightly as you searched his eyes; as if that would somehow give you more insight as to what was wrong. You were used to intense looks from him. But now, the way he watched you move... it was like he was trying to convince himself you were real.

"Hey." Your gaze flitted back and forth over his expression. "Baby, what is it?" Dean's hand reached up to smooth back your hair, and he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, staying there.

"You're here," he murmured into your skin. You pulled away slightly, looking up at him with worried eyes.

"Of course, I'm here," you replied. "You and Sam sent me to get stuff for dinner tonight." You honestly had no idea what was going on, or how Dean had even gotten here without the car, but that was the last thing on your mind. "What are you not telling me?" Dean glanced around nervously, deepening your confusion.

"We should go somewhere we can talk." You cocked your head to the side slightly.

"What, like the bunker?" Dean gave a shake of his head.

"No," he answered quickly, causing you to frown. "We can't go back to the bunker." To say you were worried would be putting it lightly, but still, you trusted Dean had a good reason for all this.

"Okay," you agreed slowly, readjusting the keys in your hand. "Let's just go for a drive or something, then." Looking relieved, Dean nodded. "Here." You held out the keys to him, but he shook his head.

"How 'bout you do the drivin'?" he asked. "I like watching my baby drive my baby." The way he was acting gave you pause. He hadn't been this way when you had left the bunker an hour earlier.

"Okay," you said again.

Once the two of you were out on the open road, you didn't miss how Dean sat a little closer to you than he usually did. Or the way he reached out to touch your shoulder every so often. After about ten minutes later, per Dean's request, you pulled over on one of the many back roads that led to the bunker, where you wouldn't be disturbed. When the car was in park, you gave your full, undivided attention to Dean.

"Now can you please tell me what's going on?"

"I will," Dean promised. "But first can I..." Wordlessly, he pulled you into his arms, holding you close to him as he leaned down to press his lips against yours. A hand came up to cup your face, and the calloused pad of his thumb traced over the apple of your cheek. His touch left you breathless, although kissing Dean always felt like this. But something was different this time. The nature of his kiss had an almost desperate feel to it, and you didn't understand why. When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath fanning over your lips.

"This is gonna sound crazy," he whispered to you. You chuckled softly, reaching up to place your hand over his.

"Crazy is kind of our thing." Dean absent-mindedly ran his fingers through your hair, earning a soft hum from you. He knew you always loved when he did that.

"What's happening right now," Dean began cautiously, "for me, this is all in the past." You felt your eyebrows knit together as you looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"All of this?" He waved his hand vaguely through the air, like that would somehow help you to understand. "This day happened for me almost a year ago." You stared at him for a moment before it finally clicked.

"So, what, you're telling me you're a modern-day Marty McFly or something?" His lips quirked upwards in a small smile.

"Something like that." The familiarity of the leather seat against your back gave you some comfort as you let the new information wash over you.

"How is this even possible?

"Rowena," Dean answered. "She found a spell to put me back in time." Suddenly, a thought occurred to you. You reached over to take his hand.

"Dean," you began quietly, "why are you here?"

"I-" You watched carefully as his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Whatever he was trying to get out was getting stuck on his lips. You were going to have to fill the blanks. And you were pretty sure you already knew the answer to your own question.

"Something happens, doesn't it? To me." Dean's eyes grew wet again, and he nodded.

"I just..." He swallowed hard as his voice broke. "I just wanted to see you one last time." You pulled him into a tight embrace, blinking away tears of your own. Out of all the things that could have happened to you today, this was the one scenario you wouldn't ever have expected. "Sam and I tried to get to you in time," Dean explained. "It was a damn ghoul in Nevada, and-" You held up a hand urgently to cut him off.

"Don't tell me," you said firmly. "You'll mess up the future if I know too much." You let out a dry chuckle. "Hell, I probably know too much already."

"Y/N," Dean whispered, a tear tracing down his cheek. "I miss you so damn much. Every day."

"I know," you comforted, even though you really didn't. Imagining yourself dead a year from now wasn't exactly a cake-walk. You had always known that this life would be the end of your story. You just hadn't expected it to be so soon. But at least you got to spend the rest of your life with the Winchesters, Cas, and Jack. Dean's watch beeped, and a pained expression came onto his face. "It's time. For Rowena to pull me back." He brushed his thumb across your knuckles as he took your hand, clasping it in a manner that you could only describe as despaired. "I don't want to leave you." You looked down at your hand in his, where your mother's old wedding ring gleamed on your ring finger.

"Then take part of me with you." Sliding the ring from your finger, you opened Dean's hand, placing the band in his palm. "I want you to have this. So every time you look at it, you'll know how appreciative I am that you came to see me today. And so you never forget how much I love you." Dean's hand closed around the ring.

"She's bringing me back," he informed you. "I can feel it." You tried to give him your most convincing smile.

"Then you'd better take one more kiss for the road, handsome." In reply to your words, Dean leaned in and kissed you for what you knew would be his last time. Tears began to spill from your eyes, mixing with his as your heart tightened with both grief and love. And when the kiss was over, he gave you his signature half-smile and wink as he wiped the wetness from your cheeks. "Be strong, Dean," you told him. "Keep fighting. And don't ever forget how much I love you." He grasped your hand with his free one.

"I love you too, Y/N. With everything I've got." You closed your eyes as he planted a final kiss on your forehead. And as the sensation faded away, you opened your eyes, and so had he.

It took a moment for Dean's surroundings to come into focus again. The white light that had flooded his vision finally cleared, leaving him blinking. Then Sam was there, clasping his shoulder.

"Did you get to see her?" he asked. Dean nodded, unable to speak. "How did it go?" When his brother asked the question, he was miles away as several different realizations hit him. Months ago, he had noticed one day that you hadn't been wearing your mother's wedding ring, something you always did. When he asked about it, you had merely told him that you must have lost it. Dean remembered being a little surprised that the ring being gone didn't seem to upset you much. Now he finally understood why. And then, what you said to him the last time he saw you before you died. The memory of your words knocked the wind out of him as they echoed in his mind. He still heard them clear as day. You had hugged him much tighter and a little longer than usual, gotten up on your tiptoes, and kissed him. Remember what I told you, Dean. Stay strong. Keep fighting. And don’t ever forget how much I love you.Of course, he had been confused at the time. As far as he could remember, you had never said that to him before. But now it all made sense. Because of him, you had known that those would be your final words to him. Dean felt his eyes grow hot, and he blinked away the tears vigorously.

"Dean?" Sam asked, concerned. Rowena eyed him suspiciously.

"You didn't talk to her, did you?" Dean shook his head.

"No," he finally responded, working past the lump in his throat. "No, I didn't." 

Dean wasn't sure if telling you about your own death was the smartest move. But the fact that everything was normal in his present-time meant that you had come to terms with it, and accepted your end in true hunter fashion. He clutched the ring tightly in his hand as emotions rose in his throat. As the years passed, he always kept his little piece of you with him, hanging from a chain near his heart. He kept it tucked beneath his shirt, hidden from the rest of the world. As for Sam and Rowena, Dean never told him of the events that took place that day - how he was able to get a bit of closure. No, that one last blissful moment he got to spend with you was between the timelines now. Written into fate. And it was just for you and him.

[askthecustodes]

Protecting a Clutch

This is set in @ask-tribune-ra​ and I’s ‘Failed Heresy’ AU, the basic premise being that the Isstvan campaign was not a decided chaos victory, and the surviving primarchs, Legions, and mortal crew were brought to Terra for trial, and in many cases, execution.

Weeks of planning and coordinating the remaining traitor forces had proven to be a test of Abaddon’s abilities as a leader and de facto Warmaster of his Primarch’s armies. His Mournival brother at his side helped calm some of the more bitter tempers, including his own. Their new blessings had proven to help smooth the Legion divide, at least enough to listen to the idea of recovering their Primarchs.

Abaddon and Aximand stepped out of the webway gate and into the throne room. Their brothers flooded in past them, but the two just took in the sight with relish. Abaddon looked to his brother and they clasped gauntlets.

“Happy hunting.” Aximand smirked.

Abaddon laughed. “Tell our father hello for me.”

Constantin looked away, his attention suddenly distracted by the VOX buzzing in his ear. Arturia looked up at him, her brows furrowing. His building tension was palpable.

“... I will bring the secondary brood parents. Yes. Sequester the Absolvo. We’re on our way.” Arturia waited expectantly, her expression inquisitive. He pulled out of her arms and headed over to their armor lockers. “Tell the other broods to armor up. The Traitors have infiltrated the Palace.”

Arturia jumped to her feet and ducked out of their nest to alert the other brood parents. By the time she had returned, he was arrayed in gold. Her concern was clear in her expression. “Two of the broods are out of the nest- Lilith and Alexanderia are at the Northern Observatory, and Nephi and Ba’al are on rotation at the lab.”

“The Emperor will be with them, then. Orders will be sent to hunker in place to Lilith and Alex. You will remain with the primaries.” Arturia nodded. He took a step closer to her, leaning down to put a kiss on her forehead.

“Return to our clutch when you are done.” She breathed.

“Our Lord’s will be done.” He murmured before putting on his helm and stepping out.

Arturia looked to their napping clutch with pursed lips. Something gave her a sinking feeling that did not pass even after the donning of her golden auramite armor.

The Warmaster roared with laughter, pleased to see his sons on the other side of his cell door. His jailers lay shattered on the rockcrete floor, unable to overcome the onslaught of chaos-fueled Astartes. Many had fallen to their Guardian Spears before they were crushed, but all the same their blood pooled.

Horus clasped his chosen son on the shoulder. “You have done well, my son.”

He answered with a wicked grin. “It is good to see you again, father. But we cannot wait long. The Legio will realize Abaddon is a distraction soon enough.”

“I have one stop on our way out. A present to my father.” Aximand’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t ask.

“Be advised, Traitor forces spotted traveling southeasterly past the Andromeda junction.”

Arturia exchanged glances with her brothers and sisters; the report on the VOX indicated they intended to pass through the nests. Additional reports indicated their encroachment, until the unmistakable sounds of combat echoed down the passages into the series of flight halls. Each flight hall featured a communal space and a dozen or more nests along the walls. Their clutches had been gathered in the nests furthest from the entry, and the rest were closed as if they still contained their precious clutches. The Custodes stood ready to repel the traitors as the doors burst open.

Astartes poured in behind the towering figure of Horus Lupercal. Blood and the scars of Guardian spears already marked their armor. Arturia could smell the gene-hanced tang of it. A growl came over the vox from one of the brood-fathers.

“They have killed our brothers and our children.”

She tightened her grip on the haft of her spear. 

Horus glanced about the room with a look of mild disinterest. “Kill them all.”

“Warmaster, a Aquilon Terminator Sodality approaches. We must move on.”

Horus kicked the corpse of a Custodian at his feet. They had managed blow out one of the three nests containing the Ligo Aetos of this Hall, but still four Custodians stood between them. Over two dozen of his sons lay amongst the Legio dead despite the gifts they had been bestowed by the Dark Gods. “Very well. Retreat.”

The cursed astartes pulled back from the surviving Custodians, though it cost them more blood before Horus and his Legionaries were able to escape. The brood-parents continued their assault on the invaders, fighting tooth and nail. Arturia cut a swath toward the Warmaster, the screaming of the Ligo Aetos still ringing in her ears.

Horus wheeled on her, his Maul knocking her spear wide. His lightning claw followed close behind, slicing through her armor. The embedded bolters fired in tandem, throwing the Custodian back into her comrades.

Constantin looked to his Master. His gaze was distant, his normally serene expression contorted in anger and pain. “Constantin.” His voice was a throaty growl.

“My Lord?”

“We must head for the Nests.”

His hearts clenched; the reports from the Flight Halls had stopped coming, but other concerns had consumed his focus. “At your leave.”

They soon were on the path where Horus had cut his devastation. Bodies lined the halls, many of the Sons of Horus, but mixed in were loyal servants and staff, and even his beloved Custodians. Each one had taken many with him, a tribute to each warrior’s incredible skill, but still the Emperor paused a moment for each death. 

The Flight Halls were deathly silent. They entered Delta Hall first. Six dead Custodians, and twenty seven dead children. Blood spattered the walls. Pieces of bodies where they had been cut off or blown up were scattered everywhere. Golden armor was near unrecognizable. Bile rose in Constantin’s throat. The Ligo Aetos died sometimes, the process of creating a Custodes incredibly difficult and extraordinarily taxing. But never so many at once. And never, ever like this. He looked to his Lord.

The Master of Mankind’s fury ran cold, and deep. He had named each of them, had raised them in their tubes, had seen each of them born, had personally seen to the beginnings of their augmentation. He grieved for his fallen Custodians, but the Ligo Aetos... The aura about him was the promise of death.

No words were spoken as they found the same scene in the Gamma and Beta Halls. Tears threatened to blur Constantin’s vision as they approached Alpha Hall. He wasn’t sure he was ready to see his children and their brood mother as he had seen friends, comrades, brothers, and their children.The Emperor pushed open the broken doors. A spark of hope bloomed in Constantin’s chest- they had been clearly blown in, but they had been put back. Like the previous scenes, the bodies of brood parents were surrounded by dead Traitor Astartes, each having taken many before succumbing to a myriad of wounds. At the far end, one of the nest doors had been blown in and their occupants killed. Four Custodians stood or sat beside two untouched nest doors. They were open and several children surrounded each brood parent, who, prior to the Flight doors opening, were whispering to them.

The sound startled the children and several screamed or burst into tears again. They all made for the nests as they had been instructed, testifying to the obedience and love the children had for their parents.

At the realization of who had come unto them, Neith and Ares dropped to one knee before their king. Arturia and Orcus, both more gravely wounded, were much slower in bending the knee. The Emperor strode forward, beaconing them to rise. Neith and Ares did so, then turned to help Arturia and Orcus to their feet. Neither seemed able to stand on their own. All bore wounds, their armor marred with blood and viscera. Orcus’ legs were shattered and part of his chest was caved in. Arturia had deep gouges that ran from one hip to the opposite shoulder, nearly taking an arm off. One of the claws had crossed her face. Another ran over her nose where it had been broken. The bolters had punched through her abdomen, and though her body was furiously trying to close the gaping wounds, it was failing.

Constantin followed in close step behind his Lord, his eyes locked on Arturia. She was the only one without a helm, the red plumed thing a ruined mess after Horus’ claw, and her good eye seemed to struggle to focus.

The Emperor’s fixation however, were the nests. He blew by his Custodians, and knelt just within the line of sight of both doors. The children, easily more than two dozen of them, tentatively eased out of their rooms. Fearful glances swept what had served as their home for the entirety of their waking lives. A few flocked to his legs, furtive happiness for his appearance or wailing grief for their fallen parents. The Custodians with broods in this Hall moved forward to comfort their children and grieve with them.

Constantin rushed to his own clutch and broodmother. He relieved Neith of her and sank down with her to dry their tears. Pelor and Helen seemed ready to climb him and hide in his shoulders, while Apollo, Archimedes and Baldur pawed at their mother.

“You made... it back...” Arturia managed a smile at him, her voice tapering out. She rested her weight against him.

“Arturia?” Constantin called softly, and then again louder, as she slipped in and out of consciousness. Her blood still dripped freely from her wounds. Their children stepped back as he laid her down. “My Lord-!”

The Emperor broke from his reverie to look at his fallen Custodes. His expression had softened, for a moment moved to tender compassion. He stepped to her, casting a brief glance at the Captain General. Constantin watched with bated breath, his children crowding around him. The Emperor  crouched beside her and set a hand to her cheek. Her eyes fluttered, a small smile forming on her lips. Light began to emanate where his hand met her skin. After several slow agonizing seconds while her soul guttered and threatened to snuff out in the face of his torrential spirit, her wounds began to close. The light faded as he pulled away from her. She moaned softly, fighting the pull of sleep. He had stabilized her, but it would take some time before she was whole again.

The Emperor rose and looked to his Captain General. The fury in his expression gave Constantin pause.

“Constantin. Find him. And kill him. There will be no mercy, no prisoners.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

[pebblesandjamjam]

Critical Jam #12: An Unflinching Look

Welcome to the final Critical Jam, J.A. Micheline’s monthly column on criticism.

This series began by positing itself as “an attempt to take an unflinching look at what we do,” so it is only fitting that it ends with an unflinching look at what I have done with it across the last year.

As an artist--and really, as a thinker--I have generally been interested in art as a method of self-discovery. My fictional work and my criticism, at their best, have both invariably revealed fears, joys, concerns, and beliefs that I was hiding from myself. Criticism is partially enthralling as it seeks to unearth truths and solve mysteries: What does this text mean? Why does it mean this? How did it mean this even if that wasn’t its intent? I use these questions to understand the world, myself, and texts in similar fashions. So it follows that occasionally it becomes necessary to turn my sights on my own criticism and learn.

Though I appear firm and certain on this particular angle in the column’s inception,  “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”, the implication of criticism as its own artistic endeavor that runs through the text is not a belief I realized I had until the piece itself was written. This is perhaps most evident in the fact that I never actually say so. I get as far as the idea of criticism as existing its own end, but I don’t take this all the way to its obvious conclusion: that I view this work as art, with its own aesthetics and performances. It’s not a massive loss, but at the same time, the piece would have been stronger if I’d known exactly where I was arguing from. I wasn’t quite sharp enough to see what I was doing at that point. I couldn’t See that in myself, just yet.

The thread continues in the fourth installment, “On True Criticism,” in which I very uncharacteristically hedge about the notion of criticism as art--a tepid ‘could’ instead of strong ‘is’--but it wasn’t until two months ago, in the tenth piece “We Must Be Better,” that I was able to stand firm about this idea. Amazingly, it happens so quickly, in a piece that focuses more on the political responsibilities of criticism than the nature of criticism itself, that if you blink may miss it:  “[...] as much as criticism is art,” I say, “–often some mystifying combination of eloquence, delicacy, and brutality–it is also, as you know, work.” It took nine months (and nine pieces!) for the strength of my rhetoric to evolve from subtextual premise to frank statement.

I’m particularly satisfied that this formal declaration snuck its way into “We Must Be Better,” as one of my main critiques of the column is the seemingly wide gulf between my discussions of the form as art versus as a political tool. If criticism is art and art is politics and criticism is politics, then my attempts at bringing these elements together as a critic of criticism especially could have been more rigorous. A third of the pieces address criticism as an interrogation of systemic injustice--but they seem more externally responsive than cohesive to the larger body of work. That is, it is evident to me that I have written them in response to particular emotions or events rather than, as I have done in the other set of pieces, simply exploring an idea that is interesting to me. There’s a sense of urgency or despair that is fitting to the material, but not quite fitting with the other eight texts.

It may be that this is just the reality of criticism involving systemic injustice. These are matters of life and death, so their writings will inevitably be fraught with emotion. But I remain generally dissatisfied by how lacklustre some of this work feels, rhetorically speaking. “All Rhetoric Matters,” does not feel particularly moving because it is basic. The first portion--All Lives Matter and Not All Men as a critical unit--is passingly interesting as I don’t think I have seen it elsewhere, but on the whole, the piece didn’t bring me anywhere new. Instead, it just saw me repeating the same things I’ve said on Twitter in a more cohesive fashion. It is nice that I have written this all together in one place, but it is more akin to an FAQ response than robust criticism that I feel truly proud of. This is in part because I am constantly having to repeat myself on this score and am therefore bored. This is also in part because the discourse surrounding marginalized issues is so low that it’s impossible to get into, say, the deeper possible emotional significance of a numerical value. But some of it must also be my own shortcomings.

Looking over many of these pieces, they feel necessary but neither inspiring nor critically fascinating. There’s no swagger. I didn’t stunt. I didn’t dance. I can push myself harder, even if what surrounds continues to try to drag me to their level. I could have done so. I should have.

There are angles available to me that I could have taken more time to parse, angles that touch upon art, injustice, and criticism all at once. For example, I mention “sovereignty” in what is likely the best of my pieces on injustice within this series, “It’s About Ethics in Marginalized Criticism.” Here, at least, I have done well to meticulously walk down several of the ethical quandaries of criticism involving a fellow marginalized person and, not unlike this piece, to criticize my own criticism. But sovereignty is an idea that crops up in the work somewhat unexpectedly. It’s an idea I remember floating at the time of writing, but never really digging into. A quick Command-F reveals that the notion of sovereignty within marginalized politics and issues appears five times within the essay. But at no point do I actually draw out the idea of sovereignty, what associations that word has, and how it has functioned politically. Instead of making the same old furious and basic motions, I could have completed a critical assessment of sovereignty and marginalized people/critics as nations living within nation-states. I have to demand more of myself. I read most of these overtly political selections and feel not just exhaustion but also regret about my performance as an artist. I can barely look at “A Right to be Hostile in 2016.” Despite their being the most important pieces, they also feel the weakest. It’s disappointing that, with the stakes as high as they are, I did not also have it in me to make something beautiful. It’s disappointing--but I suppose it also does make sense.

By now it is quite evident that I spend a lot of time asking for higher performance from myself--so the discovery of calm and optimism as a theme in this column has been pleasant. Much of the work comes from a place of warmth, an attempt to tell my peers that they’re working very hard, that they’re doing just fine where they are. Of course, I can See now that I was only telling myself. I view myself as a pessimist/realist, but this column seems to land me firmly on the optimist/idealist spectrum, which is very peculiar. After defining criticism as art, I go on to defend 10/10 reviews, welcome anyone and everyone into the critical field, celebrate critical positivity in the face of pressures to be negative, and present conflicts of interest as a weak challenge to our prowess. It’s a very unexpectedly “believe in me who believes in you” line of criticism and not too different, actually, from a line of criticism that treats the work as sacred, and therefore critics (artists!) as such.

My favorite piece, both in this vein and overall, must be “Psalm for the Newly Anointed.” In truth, it  feels like the natural conclusion for the column. My writing on scanlations, which follows it, was interesting and asked a great many questions--but I did not feel that it truly belonged with the rest of the work, much in the same way that the more political pieces felt discordant. Perhaps because there were too many questions and not enough confidence. Or maybe simply because the subject was manga, rather than Western comics. As a whole, this column seems to suffer on the fronts of tone and pacing. But the psalm!

I cannot deny feeling that the psalm is almost perfect. I regret, perhaps, linking to some old writing about postmodernism that I now think could have stood to be more rigorous and precise, but otherwise the piece seems quite strong. What I like most is that it pulls on themes of previous pieces as well as itself--criticism as a grassroots endeavor, Seeing, the creation of a critical canon by citation of a peer. But it takes all of that and shapes them into a narrative that first, is consideration of capitalist and postmodernist hierarchies, and then evolves into one of the spirit, commenting even on the function of the spirit itself. The language is good, the frameworks are good, but what is really good is that this, more than anything, is representative of how I think and feel about criticism. There’s an element of spirit and holiness that comes into the work--evidenced by the evocation of religious language in the piece, certainly, but also scattered in the language I have chosen to use here.

The connection between the coldness of the work and the warmth of its love, even in anguish, is the key to everything that I do. I show affection to myself and to others by criticizing. I see better for myself, better for us all. I expect more. I insist, truly, on being my own god.

A year on, I can largely look on these works without despair. This may change in two years or three, but for now, the work still feels good. I’d hoped, I think, to spark conversation among my peers and was only successful once or twice--but still, what little I’ve done here has been an interesting experiment and largely worth it, if only for creating one piece that I love deeply. Critical Jam ends here, but the need for self-improvement and self-examination from myself and my peers and my field does not.

Thanks for coming.

I appreciated all of you and all of this.

I’m sure I’ll see you again very soon.

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