#very dark historical non-fiction

[florilegia-or-what-you-will]

The Book of Margery Kempe is reminding me I need to start reading Inconvenient People: Lunacy, Liberty and the Mad-Doctors in Victorian England by Sarah Wise again. It’s about the treatment of the ‘insane’ in Victorian England, and it goes through various specific people who were deemed insane, as well as reforms over the course of the century. I didn’t finish it because it’s a bit intense but the first man discussed experienced delusions and heard voices that remind me of Margery Kempe. He managed to cure himself in spite of the asylum he was placed in and was an eccentric and very driven reformer from that point on. Its been too long since I’ve read it for me to be very clever or in depth, but I am seeing parallels.

[yorsgirl]

Perhaps, in another realm

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: An elixir of life – you, destined solely for his consumption. Yet, in his pursuit, he forgot, he sipped away your essence, your breath of life.

Tropes: Dark romance, Historical fiction, Angst, fluff.

Warnings: implied nsfw, implied forced intimacy, forced marriage, baby-trapping, knife play, yandere themes, isolation, trauma, one-sided love implied, non-explicit violence, mild stockholm syndrome(to empathize with one's captor), misogyny, minor character death, healthily unhealthy relationship, Sukuna being a red-green flag, Sukuna has eyes for no one except his wife.

General Warnings: Heian Era, strict Japanese setting, usage of Japanese terms(glossary provided), True form!Sukuna, husband!Sukuna, wife!reader, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.

Word Count: 3.7k

Glossary || Pictures

Ryomen Sukuna beholds secrets which he musn't.

Each dawn's awakening, he notes the sun's radiant dance on your irises. Marking the gentle arc of your lips, a telltale sign of mirth's embrace. By the garden's edge, he watches as the winds tousle and play with your hair curls.

With each flicker of your essence, he can't help but feel a pang of frustration at his own inability to guard his heart against the allure of your presence. Each time your unpredictability unfolds before him, he curses his own vulnerability for the arising tenderness within him.

It vexes him deeply.

Gnawing at the recesses of his, once assumed, dormant heart. Yet, now brought to life by unknown sensations – fuzzy and irksome.

An elixir of life – you. Meant to be solely consumed by him.

Your intricate curls destined to be twirled in his fingers alone. Singularly, he'd stand as the privileged observer, captivated by your brilliant elegance. Your figure draped in the resplendent folds of an opulent kimono, delicately bestowed upon you by his hands.

Thus, he embarked on the sole course he could comprehend – take you.

Splitting you away from the familiarity of a family, hearth and hamlet; for in his eyes, your fragile essence demands his safeguarding against this wicked, cruel realm.

Persuading you, that a life enfolded in his embrace had no reason for trepidation. Your purity, too immaculate to endure the harshness of existence.

Yet, persuasion faltered; your resolute heart held no inclination to remain in his grasp. Mounting a relentless siege, to break free from him and his distorted path.

"You crave peril as I assume, so be it," He conceded. "But know this: I'll be the sole peril haunting your very being."

Pressed beneath the weight of his body upon the bed, your resistance proves to be futile against his strength. Leaving you ensnared in a struggle where defiance falters in presence of his immense power.

"Isn't this what you desired? Didn't you yearn for peril?" He questions, his forefinger trailed across the delicate curve of your neck, assessing the rhythmic beat of your pulse point.

"Fear not, I shall burn the world down to literal ashes until none poses a threat to you, save for me, of course."

For danger, befalling upon you while his eyes held the witness and hands were the forebearer of pain – he'd allow. After all, he embodied peril, haunting humanity for centuries.

"My dearest," He began, twirling a blade before your defiant gaze. "I've wielded this to afflict your kin but fear not, it shall yield pure ecstacy for you."

Said so, he thrusted the timber end of the blade within your slick, delicate folds. Your screams shunned out over his malevolent laughter, fingers twisted the cotton sheets as he glided the blade in-and-out of you.

Blood dripped down his wounded hand, staining the white to red, yet his countenance held no response to pain. Gaze fixated upon your shuddering form, underneath him.

He was no stranger to the acts committed in bed. Knowledgeable of all ministrations and threads he needed to ensnared in order to make it pleasurable. Yet, you found no pleasure in this undoing.

The act of intimacy, which you envisioned to be filled with love while your lover would pepper kisses on your skin much akin to the gentle touch of spring's warmth.

That dream left shattered like shards of glass when your chastity was cruelly left to ruins under his harsh caress.

The night stretched on, your anguish unending as he remained vigilant, subjecting you to his torment.

When it ceased, he gingerly held your fragility while tears streamed down your eyes. He cradled your head in his palm, enfolding your trembling form against his chest as he murmured endearments into your parched ears.

You feebly hit on his chest, for you were seeking comfort from your captor – a sickening act.

He brought you pain and despair, yet here he was, bringing you solace in his arms. A sickening man, indeed, he was.

And with him, you were to stay.

.

You kneeled before the shrine deity.

Decked in a white shiromuku with traces of pink pattern embellishing the fabric, haori lowered just above your lips – grateful to the one who dressed you. Moisture laden lashes would've been a sight for sore eyes.

Beside you, your husband knelt. A black montsukini hakama draped around your self-proclaimed fiance and soon to be husband. Perhaps, you'd have seized the moment to admire him in such a lavish attire if he didn't commit the acts he did.

Abduction and coercion reigned heavy on your mind, the priest's chanting muffled over your loud thoughts. Your fear of the impending, palpable.

Later, you stood by his side, bedecked in jewels, unknown to you. Countless villagers and curses bowed before you but you were a foreigner to such deference.

It was his decree. For he was the King of curses and you – his consort, his queen.

.

Sukuna witnessed you gazing at the pond situated in his garden.

You gazed upon the lotus blooming at the heart of the pond, longingly. Reaching out for it, the trailing end of your garment splashed in the water – a futile attempt, too distant to grasp.

He stifled a snort on the brink of his lips as he descended into the garden, tethering on the stoned pads placed in between soil – approaching you.

"You desire that flower, wife?"

You rose swiftly, clutching the dampened hem of your attire. Refusing to meet his gaze, you brushed off the fabric, clearing away the soil.

"Apologies," You murmured. "I was just curious."

"That doesn't answer my question." He stated, an arch of his eyebrow at your frame. "Do you yearn for it?"

Standing before him, a hush lingered in the air, mere seconds passing. Fingers fidgeting, you nibbled on your inner cheek.

"Perhaps," you admitted, finally locking eyes with his feet once he takes a step forward. Bracing for the inevitable, you tightly shut your eyes.

You shouldn't have considered it. Entertaining the thought of plucking it behind his back, hoping he wouldn't notice, all the while unaware of his presence. You should have realized. Defiance in the past had met harsh retribution. This would be no exception.

"I beg–"

"Enough," He interjected.

You gritted your teeth, fists clenched tightly. This was worse. A single mistake, and you're sealed to a worse fate.

Yet, the vision never bore life.

He took your right hand, delicately clasping it within his own. Slowly, he pried open each finger, tenderly placing something within. Curiosity overrides your apprehension, and you cautiously open your eyes – finding the lotus nestled in your palm.

Your lips parted in astonishment as you gaze up at him, wonderstruck.

"Apologies should not leave your lips for trying to claim what is rightfully yours." He asserted, a ghost of an arc perched upon his lips.

"You desire something, you speak up," He waited, letting the words sink down. "Its upon me, how I'll bring it to fruition."

.

"You are to accompany master to dinner tonight," Uraume conveyed, head and eyes lowered in a humble bow.

The fusuma slid shut, signaling their departure, leaving you to your solitude once again.

Lately, companionship has been ceased from your existence. Confined to your chambers by Sukuna's decree that none other than he should share a moment with you. Save for his devoted servant and few maids he deemed worthy, who prepared you for the day.

Upon your bed, you rested, gazing into a void. Softly humming a melody, reminiscent of a distant song, echoing from the depths of your memory; harkening down the familial embrace in your ancestral village.

The day commenced to dusk, the sky donning a cloak of darkness – welcoming the night's silhouette.

Attended by chosen handmaidens, you were draped in a lavish kimono of crimson and ivory. Crushed red cherry paste graced your lips, a stroke of kohl ran along your lashlines.

You beheld your reflection, lovely; yet the joy eluded you. Unable to savor your captivating visage amidst your plight.

You were escorted to the dining hall by Uraume. As the doors parted, your captor, your husband, awaited you; seated on the head of the table. You took your place across him, evading his malevolent stare, your attention fixed solely on the delicacies presented by the servants.

"Afraid to meet my gaze, wife?" He inquired, his smirk palpable in his tone.

Still, you didn't meet his gaze, eyes fixed on your folded hands resting neatly on your lap. "I fear, I am not deserving to meet your eyes, your highness."

His sight danced upon your figure, measuring you as though you were his quarry. A chuckle escaped him as he poured the sake in his ochoko, indulging in a sip.

"Amusing, how you speak so when you are moons away from birthing my offspring, wife."

Your frame grew rigid, lips drawn tight whilst you glanced at your burgeoning womb.

Restraints couldn't bond you to him forever, he comprehended that moons past. Thus, he had to resort to unruly stratagems. Seeding you with his progeny – rendering you incapable of fleeing him.

If only, you acquiesced and remained by his side, as he craved, he wouldn't have acted thus. But your resolve left him with no alternative.

Not a matter to ponder his head upon, he would've planted his seed in you eventually. A kinship with you, his aspiration.

"I wouldn't leave you famished in such a state, wife. Begin eating." He declared, slicing a strip of meat with his chopsticks.

Eating, as if it were possible in such a condition. The satisfaction of a hearty meal has long deserted you. You didn't suspect the flavors of dishes perched before you. Furthermore, you lacked appetite.

You partook in meals solely to survive.

With adjoined palms, you offered a silent prayer to the almighty reigning above you. And so, you began.

.

Blood bathed the tatami mats of your chambers.

A severed head of a, newly appointed, handmaiden, laid near your feet. Her corpse, probably resulted into hundreds– no thousands of strips, indistinguishable.

Your stance remained rigid and motionless. Terror evident on your countenance, fragile fingertips shaking with shock and apprehension.

"Ah wife," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. He approached you, stepping over the puddle of blood and sliced flesh.

"You weren't supposed to witness that– come," He gingerly caressed your skin, ushering you out of his chambers with a hand on your back.

"Uraume," He summoned his loyal servant, as on cue, they knelt before their master. "Have the maids tidy this mess."

With the subtle nod, Uraume pivoted around, carrying out their master's command alike a proclamation from thee almighty.

Snapping a life wasn't on his schedule today. He wished to spent it with you, hence summoning you back to your chambers.

Perhaps, a foolish handmaiden, attracted by his visage, made the decision to lure him with her appeal. Lowering her uniform to display her curve of of breast, singing praises of his brilliance to him.

Taken him to be resembling any ordinary man, giving into his desires by just any woman's revealed skin. Alas! He had no interest in any woman other than his wife.

An act of like that, only receives the treatment he'd bestow upon any mortal other than you.

Death.

.

"I must say, you look lovely, my queen." Twirling a strand of your hair, he pushed it behind your ear.

Upon the engawa of your husband's abode, you knelt, sight fixated on the swarm of fireflies illuminating the garden.

Sukuna held his stance beside you, lower two hands bearing his weight behind, the third perched upon his arched knee. He set the kiseru down with the fourth, his thumb and forefinger lifted your chin; coaxing your towards him.

"Intriguing, you are," He remarked, eyebrow arched.

"Such defiance you displayed upon our initial union, and now, you show indifference. Continuously subjecting me to such blank stares and compliance." A hint of exasperation lingered his tone.

"Isn't that what you wished for?" You retorted, a moment later.

Drawing you near, his lips brushed against yours, "Perhaps, I did do." He murmured, breath caressing your cheeks, prompting a flutter of your eyelids.

"But now, I yearn for something greater."

With that, he seized your lips in a fervent, fiery kiss. Only parting, a hair's breath away, to allow you to catch your breath.

He pivoted you gently, drawing you into his embrace. Two arms encircled your waist, one caressing your swollen belly. Third, Brushing aside your hair, you heard the tinkling of ornaments. Moments later, a chain adorned your neck, a crimson gemstone nestled between your collarbones.

"Ruby?"

"Rubies are ill-suited during pregnancy, its diamond" He corrected, whispering beside your ear, securing the clasp of the chain. "Unlike most, this one's tint sets it apart than rest."

"For what?" You questioned, assessing the gem like it were poison. Grasping it between your middle finger and thumb, the lantern lights reflected on its surface. Though small, you knew it amounted to more than your ancestral wealth.

"Do I need a reason to spoil my wife with jewels?"

A moment passed in silence, your gazed him through your peripheral vision, the next. "Perhaps not, its beautiul."

"Turn around," He commanded, you complied instinctively. Turning your body to face him.

His gaze met yours at first, second they drifted to the chain bedecked on your neck and on third, he glanced at both, at once.

The jewel's radiance evoked with you being it's wearer.

A grin cracked upon his lips, gingerly holding your cheek in his calloused hands in which you begrudgingly leaned in. With a mouth, summoned on his palm, he placed a chaste kiss on your skin.

"Just how Intriguing you are, wife."

.

Love for your son eluded you.

A splitting image of his father with the identical hair and carmine tinted eyes. You pondered if he'd grow up to be just like your husband.

At days, you couldn't muster the courage to cast your eyes upon him. His mere presence: a testament to your plight, evidence that you were no longer the woman you once were and evidence to your compliance to Sukuna's desires.

Even then, you never shied away from your duties as a mother.

Perhaps, some love existed, for he wielded your flesh and blood too.

You were rendered from ever escaping. Though half-heartedly, you didn't wish to leave your child with Sukuna even though you despised both of their existence.

In this era, nurturing a child as a sole woman was beyond grasp. For all held the thought, as a woman your sole duty was to remain by your husband's side and bear his offspring.

You couldn't return to your home either. Your father, though loved you, would never let you set foot in his abode ever again.

Reasons: You were abducted by a man, your chastity stripped off of you. You were no longer pure in any sense.

He wouldn't tarnish his family name and reputation for just a daughter.

Moreover, your matrimony with the wicked, king of curses had reached rivers far; binding you to his side forever.

Peril loomed at every turn, dangling your life by a single thread. Easily snapped by even the weakest of men. Sukuna's adversaries would leave no stone unturned to reach him, venturing as far to lay down the life of his innocent wife. Someone absolved of his transgressions.

Reluctantly, you accepted that remaining by his side was the wisest decision.

You cradled your son in your embrace, rocking him back and forth as you hummed a lullaby to put him to sleep.

Once his snores serenaded the room, you tenderly placed him upon his cot, adjacent to your own resting place. Gentle pats graced his chest, once you noted him stirring in the embrace of slumber.

"Come to bed," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. Compliance swiped in your being, a swift rotation of your heels after you had checked your son to be far from awakening. You parted the curtains and perched upon the bed – lying beside your husband.

His arms encircled around your waist, drawing you to his chest, he inhaled your scent.

Your body tensed when his lips brushed against your nape. You dreaded the inevitable.

Six moons had passed, since he last embraced you intimately. The last two, post your son's arrival, were a blur of exhaustion. From tending to your physical strain and catering to your son's ceaseless crave of attention.

Tonight, all you longed for was to surrender yourself to slumber, wrapped in embrace of gentle linens. Alas, it seemed that wish would remain unfulfilled.

You were keenly aware of his intentions tonight – for he was but a man. Thus, you braced yourself.

You waited in anticipation, for him to act on his desires. Yet, it did not come to pass.

You cracked your eyelids open, stealing a glance at him. His carmine eyes met yours in a resolute stare, holding it with unwavering poise.

"Retire to sleep," he finally remarked, tenderly brushing aside the tendrils from your weary visage.

A year prior, during the early nights of your newly forged union, you would have taken a moment to contemplate his actions, perhaps even staying awake the entire night to discern his intentions.

Now, whether out of trust or simply exhaustion from the demands of motherhood – you found yourself slipping into a dreamless slumber without further ado.

The haunting nightmare of humanity, he was; yet, you found solace in falling asleep in his embrace.

.

His son has taken just after you.

Verily, his offspring could be likened unto a veritable likeness of himself in countenance, yet in comportment and carriage, he bespoke tales of you.

Awaking to the crack of dawn, shedding tears should companionship elude him. Taking solace in the embrace of the verdant garden, to which you oft escorted him. Even directing reproachful glances towards him, his father, whilst cradled lovingly in his paternal arms.

Beneath your eyes lay heavy shadows, hollows etched upon your cheeks, and a perpetual frown graced your lips, save for moments spent conversing with your offspring.

Sukuna escorted his sobbing kin from their chambers, affording you the much-needed respite that has eluded you of late; his offspring casted a disdainful gaze upon him.

"What? Speak up if you wish to," He queried, a playful lilt adorning his speech.

He tenderly traced his son's tender cheek with his claw, wary of leaving any mark upon his cherubic visage. His son seized his finger in both tiny hands, elevating it as though clutching a covert weapon – scrutinizing the nail and the ridges with keen interest.

His little one beamed, a gesture akin to the gentle breeze of summer, bestowed upon him by the heavens above. A giggle swift past his lips – a laughter, he assumed angel's melody wouldn't sound better.

His smile was yours – Sukuna realized. Perhaps, he hadn't completely taken after him in physical features.

Rocking his form back and forth on his arms, a tender smile danced upon his lips.

"Lower the tone, child. Your mother rests inside."

.

Sukuna couldn't help but contemplate alternative scenarios.

He sipped his sake, his gaze fixed upon your figure, leaning against the amado – your eyes lingering on the cherry blossom trees outside, in the garden.

The fragrance of spring permeated the air, imbuing a soothing atmosphere, starkly contrasting with the terror he instilled upon the village beyond the river.

At moments such as these, he can't help but ponder on the possibility of attaining a kinship with you, without resorting to unruly methods.

His thoughts rewind to the clash conversation he shared with you, mere moments past.

In your gaze, defiance ablazed, aimed straight at him.

"What's your intent? To end my life? Proceed, now. Who held you back? Proceed. Perhaps, I'd choose that fate over spending another day with you."

"Make no mistake," You pressed on. "My sentiment for you isn't love, don't deceive yourself. What festers within me is pure, unadulterated hate."

How could he let slip from memory? A curse he was, brutal and unyielding. Unwelcomed, marked with shame – The disgraceful one. How could he fail to recall? Love's realm, forever beyond the reach of his reach.

He seized you, by means unorthodox yet deemed vital. Yet, he finds himself lost in contemplation.

What if he had treaded a different path?

Would a love aglow your heart if he had courted you in a proper manner? Would you accept him in your life – a husband, a companion, a lover? Would you had willingly become his? 

For your presence brought his heart back to life; in doing so, the life and light was lost from your eyes.

Scorned by the desire to claim you as his, the thought of your own desires, feelings was pushed to the desolate corners of his mind.

In another realm, he assumes– in another realm, he might have treated you properly from the very beginning.

In another realm, you wouldn't have to have a lingering threat struck on your mind. You wouldn't fear him.

In a realm beyond, you'd stand beside him by choice, not coercion. A realm where he'd navigate every step flawlessly. A realm where, instead of vowing to set the world ablaze for you, he'd pledge to journey with you until the world's end.

Perhaps, in another realm, you'd fall in love with him like he did for you in this.

A/N: uhm uhm uhm, just typed down an idea which I had for days + I used a new format of literal english (idk how it turned out, I am so sorry if it's cringe 😭) + I fucking don't know how to end stories so bear with me.

[jcollinswrites]

Weeping Gods (WIP)

This tale sweeps you up and drops you back 3500 years into the past, straight onto the banks of the Nile, at the dawn of the Egyptian New Kingdom. The Empire has only been liberated from a hundred year old occupation. The scars left by the war are still healing and yet, threats loom on the horizon again. Some powerful artifacts have been stolen and the king entrusts you with their recovery. Suddenly finding yourself out of your depth and all out of options, you have no choice but to agree to the dangerous mission. You don't know what awaits you on this journey but you know one thing for sure: if you don't catch the enemies of the empire, you will risk more than your own life.

Take your fate into your own hands, solve mysteries, meet new friends, fall in love, learn about magic, monsters, spirits, gods, and have fun in the ancient Egyptian Kingdom in this historical fantasy novel.

The story is a work of fiction and is not historically accurate.

Features

Choose from 4 different origin characters, each with unique stories and choices that will follow you through the rest of the game: - a priest in over their head with a caring and loyal mentor - a noble very much in over their head with a problematic family - the captain of the Theban Guard, who is way too tired for this - a thief from the slums of Thebes, desperate for survival

Play as male, female or non-binary; gay, straight or bi.

Build friendships, rivalries, or find love with a young prince, a mysterious spymaster, a brooding spirit, an elite warrior… or even the pharaoh himself.

Explore Egypt through a series of adventures with a ragtag team of characters

Solve mysteries, climb the Great Pyramid of Giza, deal with the sparks of revolution, and help secure the kingdom's future

Warnings: The story will contain heavy and dark themes, excessive swearing, mental health problems, and optional sexual content, so it is recommended for mature audiences only. The whole list of triggering content can be found in the beginning of the demo.

The Romances

Narmer - A kind and patient man with a golden heart, a fierce sense of duty, a bloody past, and way too little free time.

Qenna (m/f) - The living enigma. Fun and casual at first glance, but why is everyone warning you against spending time with them?

Zaia (m/f) - Spends most of their time brooding or hiding from people, but they can be surprisingly cheeky with those they feel comfortable with.

Tabiry - A dependable and loyal woman, she is the type of person you could trust to have your back in any situation.

Ahmose (m/f) - Young and impressionable, with a dazzling smile and too much hope for a better future.

The Demo

Chapter 1 completed

Chapter 2 completed

Chapter 3 completed (patreon only)

Public demo word count : 298 000 words Patreon demo word count: 371 000 words Average playthrough on any origin: around 55 000 words

Last public update: 29. Nov. 2024. Last patreon update: 04. Jan. 2025. (First published: 14. Aug. 2024.)

DEMO | Patreon | FAQ | ROs and NPCs | Discord | CoG Forum

[hadesoftheladies]

FEMALE MOVIE/TV RECS (PART 2 / HISTORICAL FICTION/NON-FICTION)

got inspired from a recommendation post so decided to make a list of movies and shows with female-centric stories/female protagonists. since i can't post all of the genres in one post, i'll split it into multiple posts and y'all can save or add to the list as you wish. (disclaimer: i have watched most of these, but i only know about the existence of others. not every movie/show on these lists will be my recommendation. my recommendations will be beneath the list with reasons. also some of these are way better than others in terms of storytelling/performance--which is why i'll list my faves separately):

Common Themes of Media in the List:

-Workplace/general sexist discrimination

-Husband being pieces of shit and whiners

-Strong emphasis on sisterhood

-Romance plays a large part (both hetero and homo)

-Female genius and triumph

-Scheming mothers (always scheming)

-Grief, loss, and growth

-Motherhood is difficult but we pull through TM

HAVEN'T WATCHED:

Mozart's Sister

Lessons in Chemistry

The Conductor

Lizzie

Radioactive

Cable Girls

The Great

The Queen's Gambit

Britannia

Harriet

Mary Queen of Scots

ONES I LOVEDDDD:

A League of Their Own (9/10) (a favorite!)

Hidden Figures (8/10)

The Woman King (8/10) (a favorite!)

Anne With An E (9/10) (a favorite!)

Dickinson (8.5/10)

The Marvellous Mrs. Maisel (9/10) (a favorite!)

Gentleman Jack (8/10)

The Gilded Age (7.5/10)

HONORABLE (NON-LISTED MENTIONS)

The English (an english woman teams up with a native american cowboy to take revenge on the men who hurt them)

The World to Come (two women isolated by the wilderness and their husbands fall in love)

The Pursuit of Love

Colette

PERSONAL NOTES:

The Buccaneers is pretty feminist and wholesome, although oftentimes childish and full of Netflix cliches (even though it's an Apple TV original). It tries very hard to be Dickinson and Little Women but is a far cry away from Dickinson's edge and fierceness and Little Women's maturity and realism. It's more interested in appealing to Bridgerton audiences and its worse for it. But it's still full of the nice stuff, like strong female friendships and sisterhoods. Ooh, and lesbians! It's adamantly female-centric.

As for Little Women, I prefer the 90s version with Winona Ryder, but Greta did more justice to the source material than Louisa May Alcott herself in the new version.

The Book Thief and The World to Come are also tragedies, so you know. Ammonite, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Summerland and The Favourite are lesbians and bisexuals in their full glory, although all of them have vastly different tones (The Favourite is a dark comedy, I believe).

Speaking of The Favourite, Mary & George is like that but it's men vying for the affections of the king. Don't get it twisted though, Mary, George's mom, is the protagonist and primary mover of the show. It starts and ends with her. Also, more lesbianism! (I don't get tired of pointing that out.)

Belle is one of the few autobiographical historical fictions of a black woman. My dad and I love it. It, however, does not surpass The Woman King. The Woman King is like . . . one of the best historical movies on African women I've ever watched! Or just in general! It gives so much agency to African people in the colonial age and tells the story with nuance and perspective--it is a decolonized view on the slave trade that places West African people at the center. It's pretty intense and gory, though. Like it's dark, but like the performances are insanely good, and so is the story. Real life Wakanda and all that!

[ianthe-is-a-bitch-and-i-love-her]

Sapphic vampire fiction mini reviews, ranked from least favorite to most:

House of Hunger: Bland characters, a story that barely scratches the surface of the implications of its premise, and a central relationship with nothing underpinning it make for an aimless story with a climax that hits like a limp noodle. If the dynamic between a vampire and her indentured maid appeals to you, try The Wicked and the Willing instead.

An Education in Malice: For a Carmilla retelling, the titular character really lacks bite. Laura at least has some interesting contradictions in her, and De Lafontaine could be quite compelling if we saw things through her eyes, but the central relationship isn't built on a lot, and Carmilla herself is really disappointingly bland. The prose comes off as overwrought and melodramatic in the first act, and the constant leaning on poetry feels gratuitous, but it picks up steam and becomes appropriately gripping by the one-third mark, and it carries the book enough that I had an enjoyable but rather shallow experience. I struggle to think of a reason to recommend this over In the Roses of Pieria, which plays with similar thematic and aesthetic elements much more adeptly. Also, it's a pet peeve of mine when a story makes a point to establish a specific historical era for its setting but has characters that feel utterly modern.

The Deathless Girls: This book does a much better job with its sense of time and place, and the characters and their motivations are quite strong. I only rate this one low on this list because the main characters don't actually deal with vampirism as a condition until the very end of the book. On its surface, the premise might seem quite similar to A Dowry of Blood, but there's actually very little thematic or narrative overlap.

Ex-Wives of Dracula: An excellent exploration of the queer teenage experience in conservative small town ~2015 USA along with some pretty novel twists on vampire and horror movie tropes. Strong, vibrant characters with a rich, messy, and compelling relationship carry a solid mystery plot and some pretty pointed critiques of its setting, but the actual climax and resolution don't quite hold up to the quality of the rest. Also I simply must warn anyone who didn't grow up in the time and place this book explores about the profound and casual bigotry and nastiness of that setting, which this book replicates to a T.

The Wicked and the Willing: A thrilling and compelling dark romantic drama centered on a British vampire in 1920s Singapore, her newly hired and desperate to escape poverty personal maid, and her majordomo who is struggling to keep her conscience under control after years of aiding and abetting her mistress's dark appetites. Extremely strong character writing pairs with deft exploration of themes of colonialism, entitlement, class divisions, sexism, and the ways in which certain types of status can and cannot afford one leeway to be nonconforming in other ways. Intermixes diagetic and non-diagetic BDSM very organically also, if that's your thing.

In the Roses of Pieria: Rich prose dripping with atmosphere follows an obscure academic as she digs into a series of ancient correspondences and discovers a millenia spanning love story between two vampires. The character writing is solid, if not quite as impressive as some other entries on this list, but the quality of the prose more than elevates it. The text makes elegant and powerful references to Sappho throughout, and the whole experience is heady and compelling in ways that I struggle to describe in greater detail. Funnily enough, the vampires are the least interesting part of the world building. This one has a sequel coming, and I can't wait.

A Dowry of Blood: A darkly enchanting epistolary novel that takes the form of letters written by the first of Dracula's wives to him as she attempts to make peace with killing him. She unpicks a delicious and horrifying knot of feeling and history as she revisits their millenia together, recounting and reckoning with the manipulations and abuses that defined the good times and the bad. The characters are evocative and rich, the narrative voice by turns sparse, longing, furious, contemplative, and mournful, and the story simply springs to life. It accomplishes an incredible amount in approximately 200 pages, and I absolutely cannot recommend this one enough.

[violet-moonstone]

Black Women and Girls in Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Media in General

Thinking about how much Mel Medarda (and characters like her) means to me and considering making a sideblog with posts about black women in science fiction, fantasy, and historical fiction -- because we are often not included, sidelined, or portrayed primarily as struggling.

And I want to focus on Black women who are portrayed as intelligent, kind, wise, graceful, cherished, etc because we are not expected to be these things (I've straight up been told to my face that someone was shocked that I was kind and intelligent because I'm Black...and they meant this as a compliment). I've also had friends make comments about not expecting a guy I liked to be interested in me because they just naturally assumed he's "not into Black girls" because that's the norm in our neighbourhood.

I've also been told that I'm not "really Black" or that I'm "whitewashed" or "an Oreo" because I don't fit the narrow idea of a Black woman many people have about Black women and Black people in general. I'm not loud, sexual, or aggressive enough. The way I speak isn't Black enough, and neither are my hobbies and interests). Seeing Black women and girls portrayed in a variety of ways is so freeing, because it allows all Black women to see themselves in media and art.

I think conversations about how women are portrayed in fiction can be difficult, because no, I don't think all women should be portrayed as traditionally feminine and/or as love interests. Yes, I think there should be women who are portrayed a strong and brave warriors...but as a Black woman, that's pretty much the expectation -- to be a warrior who needs no help. But this expectation does not come out of admiration.

We're expected to be strong and able to shoulder burdens on our own because very often, people don't want to help us so we have to help ourselves. We're not expected to be watched out for and certainly not serious, long-term love interests (unless we're biracial or have light skin) in fiction or even in real life. And then when you get intelligent, dark skinned Black girls/women as love interests who have any personal goals or opinions that don't 100% align with the male protagonist, prepare for her to be hated (See the Castlevania: Nocturne and Invincible fandoms for examples).

I'm not going to get into detail about the history of the "strong Black woman" trope and the effects of slavery on perceptions of Black women, but if you need an example of how this still affects society: Black women in countries like the US, Canada, and England are more likely to die in childbirth. This is partially because of how wealth disparities among racial groups affect access to healthcare, but it's also related to Black women's pain not being taken seriously and Black women not being seen as worth protecting in the same way (This also happens with Indigenous and Hispanic women btw).

There are still people in healthcare programs/people who work in healthcare who were taught that Black people have a higher pain tolerance than people of other races. Being a "strong Black woman" isn't exactly an empowering experience when your suffering is seen as trivial or non-existent.

Let's not forget that when Rue (who was explicitly described has having dark skin in THG) was cast as Black (and played by a very light actress btw) there were people in the fandom talking about how they automatically pictured her as being pale and blonde because that's their mental image of a sweet, innocent girl. (Also because these people were not very bright and couldn't imagine that Katniss thought Rue was similar to Prim in terms of personality, not literal appearance).

When Annabeth Chase was cast as Black, I saw someone talking about how it didn't make sense because as a white blonde in the books, she would have a reason to prove her intelligence and defy stereotypes...as if this isn't something Black girls go through in a much more intense way on a regular basis!

Anyway I wanted to mention all of that because it's important to keep in mind when I'm talking about appreciating characters like Mel. Appreciating femininity or being a primary love interest can be seen as frivolous and limiting because in general it's a box that a lot of female characters (especially White female characters) are put into, but it's important for Black women because we get it so rarely (although I think it's getting less and less rare these days, thankfully).

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

✼ 𝕗𝕒𝕟𝕗𝕚𝕔 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 ✼

♥ Larissa Weems �� (Wednesday, TV 2022)

on wednesdays we wear black (ongoing) -> a Morticia Addams/Larissa Weems Mean Girls!AU story that is currently on hiatus. needs to be reworked

little miss perfect -> a teenage Larissa Weems/Morticia Addams one-shot. dealing with internalised homophobia. angst with a happy ending.

push me gently (into love) (nsfw) -> two chapter Larissa x reader story in which the reader is a goth art teacher at Nevermore. fluffy, cozy, and sweet, featuring easily skippable smut. rom-com vibes. written for a lovely human being and i hope it continues to bring her joy.

particular (nsfw) -> Larissa Weems x (adult) Wednesday Addams, aka the fic that got me cancelled. rom-com with dark humour and some more mature themes, but still relatively light. sort of a coming-of-age story. author is considering making people take a reading comprehension test before being allowed to comment.

making do -> one-shot. angst, hurt/no comfort. past Larissa Weems/Morticia Addams. a character study of Larissa Weems. mentions sexual assault, deals with processing trauma.

pathetic (nsfw) -> part of kink!week. a short piece describing a toxic relationship. Larissa x reader, but nothing abut the reader is specified -- almost like their identity doesn't matter and they're just a plaything meant to pleasure their boss. featuring foot fetish. it's hotter than you think :)

inevitable (dead dove: do not eat) -> a very dark piece of fiction dealing with sexual assault and trauma. features horror elements. please, take the tags seriously, this isn't a light read.

marvellous girl (dead dove: do not eat) -> a dark Wednesday/Larissa fic exploring grooming. please take all tags and warnings seriously, but be aware that it is your job to curate your internet experience and i am not at fault if you find certain themes upsetting.

periwinkle dreams (nsfw) -> Morticia/Larissa smut. features very dubious consent and somnophilia. no real plot.

pretty girls, she wants to be them (nsfw)-> Morticia/Larissa. Larissa has complicated feelings about sexual shapeshifting. angst. body horror.

♥ Lucifer Morningstar ♥ (The Sandman, TV 2022)

violet soul (nsfw) -> two chapters. one of my most popular Lucifer fics. Lucifer x reader. deals with the topic of selling one's soul to the devil. dark. features very filthy smut.

my ruin tastes so sweet (almost as sweet as your lips) -> a choose-your-own-adventure story with three possible endings, that explores what it means for an angel to fall. Lucifer x angel!reader.

our little dance (nsfw) -> Lucifer/Mazikeen. character/unconventional relationship study. explores neurodivergency. very sensual smut in the 2nd chapter.

kiss my sorrow away -> tooth-rottingly fluffy Lucifer/Mazikeen one-shot. Lucifer is being the most extra of drama queens, and Mazikeen cheers them up.

call the devil's name (nsfw) -> Lucifer/Mazikeen one-shot. very romantic. hot and tender smut. depicts love as devotion/religious experience.

belong (nsfw) -> dark Lucifer x reader one-shot. non-explicit non-con. explores the concept of free will after one sells their soul to the devil.

the secret (nsfw) -> last part of kink!week with a surprising twist at the end. Lucifer x Mazikeen... and a curious voyeur?

♥ Jane Murdstone ♥ (The Personal History of David Copperfield, 2019)

when the last restraint is gone (ongoing) (nsfw) -> an intense victorian romance between Jane Murdstone and her lady's maid, Laura. sort of in the style of Sarah Waters's historical romance novels. heavily influenced by Vita and Virginia's love letters. featuring a lot of sensually read victorian poetry and dirty, delicious smut. currently being edited/rewritten.

one and a half sugars (ongoing) -> modern!AU. Jane is an insipid accountant with very specific opinions about coffee, and reader is the only person who knows how to make it for her. fluffy rom-com vibes. will feature smut in later chapters.

don't look away (as i bare my soul to you) (nsfw) -> part of kink!week. dominatrix!Jane x reader. how healing is it for someone to see the worst parts of you and never avert their eyes? the kink in question is watersports and it's much tamer and more sensual than it sounds.

♥ Captain Phasma ♥ (Star Wars, sequel trilogy)

danger level - one (nsfw) -> filthy smut featuring the good ol' sex pollen trope. Phasma x fem!stormtrooper!reader. hot and a bit silly. straightforward and simple porn lol.

chrome and lipstick (nsfw) -> technically a Wednesday fandom crossover, but honestly you can read it without knowing anything about Wednesday except the fact that Larissa Weems is a person that exists. filthy smut (sensing a theme for fics featuring our beloved captain here? lol). non-con/dub-con, so read at your own risk!

easy prey (nsfw) -> part of kink!week. tentacle erotica, non-con. features glittery pink tentacles and a very pretty alien oc, if that spark(le)s your fancy.

♥ Jan Stevens ♥ (Flux Gourmet, 2022)

hazy (nsfw) -> Jan x reader smut, featuring the infamous egg aka oviposition kink. give it a go, it's not as weird as you think it is :)

beautiful (nsfw) -> a gift for a lovely tumblr mutual. Jan x reader fic exploring love, devotion, and body image. very smutty. featuring eggs because it's Jan and it has to :)

fill me (with your love) (nsfw) -> part of kink!week. Jan x fem!reader. a very sensual piece with disturbing erotic imagery. featuring alvinolagnia, food play and bloating fetish.

♥ Brienne of Tarth ♥ (Game of Thrones, TV 2011-2019)

so very chivalrous (and so completely oblivious) -> Brienne x princess!reader. very fluffy. Brienne is very good with a sword, but a bit oblivious in the matters of love. featuring good ol' lesbian yearning.

sweet dreams (nsfw) -> part of kink!week. brienne is injured in a heroic pursuit, and a lovely lady takes care of her while her injuries heal. kink of choice is erotic lactation. very fluffy and sweet.

cup runneth over (nsfw) -> Brienne/Cersei. Brienne mourns Jaime and finds consolation in Cersei. fucked up. use of sex as self-harm. pure, unadulterated filth.

♥ Miranda Hilmarson ♥ (Top of the Lake, TV 2013-2017)

...but we could be (nsfw) -> part of kink!week. Miranda Hilmarson x Robin Griffin. Miranda starred in a lesbian gangbang porn video and she is very proud of it. Robin thinks Miranda that's absolutely nuts and she definitely doesn't want to see it, thank you very much... except somehow she finds herself in Miranda's apartment, watching it. why is Miranda's shirt see-through? and why is she so nice to Robin while Robin is actively trying to push everyone away?

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

♥ kink!week ♥ masterlist

♥ sapphtober prompts ♥ (in progress)

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✼ you can buy me a coffee if you want to support me! ✼

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

writing requests are currently closed!

[charlesoberonn]

You got any book recs? :)

I do!

The Ash and Sand trilogy by Richard Nell is a great and interesting dark fantasy series.

For fans of Sherlock Holmes and detective fiction in general I recommend some of James Lovegrove's Holmes books. Particularly The Stuff of Nightmares and The Thinking Engine.

Yahtzee Croshaw's (yes, that Yahtzee from Zero Punctuation) DEDA Files books are also great. Mystery/fantasy/comedy series about the world finding out about the existence of extradimensional deities and their effect on our world.

One of my favorite books of all time is a pretty old one, Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions by Edwin Abbott. It's about a 2-dimensional world of geometric shapes and it's got some of the best worldbuilding in any work of fiction.

The Conqueror's Saga by Kiersten White is a pretty unique romance/historical/family drama series about a female version of Vlad the Impaler.

The Bobiverse Trilogy by Dennis E. Taylor is also very fun (didn't like the fourth book tho). His Quantum Earth series is also good.

The Last Dance by Martin Shoemaker is a very engaging mystery/character exploration book about the captain of an Earth-Mars cycler ship (a ship that goes back and forth between the two planets).

The Chrysathamere Trilogy is a fantasy/military series about a pair of twins who go from being the children of a prostitute in a brothel to the top of an empire's political system.

The Wells of Sorcery series by Django Wexler is a fun series that reminds me a lot of Avatar in a good way, albeit much darker.

The Long Earth is a unique series about humanity discovering the existence of an infinite series of parallel universes and how they explore and settle these parallel Earths.

I also have a lot of non-fiction recommendations.

[miapcain]

I feel like you've probably read a lot of medieval history stuff. So have you, and if you have how do you think it impacts your work on vesna? p.s. I'm reading a Medieval Life by Judith Bennett and its an awesome read so far can't recommend it enough

Hello! Thank you for the ask!

I read a lot and have for a while. Vesna is the composite of a LOT of interests of mine, many of them specifically historic and regional. I've always been interested in the medieval period, and I loved Pillars of the Earth when I read it as a teen (still like it, the second book especially, though I take issue with some of Follett's character work). Name of the Rose too, naturally. Recently I've enjoyed Between Two Fires by Christopher Buehlman, and the game Pentiment. I like the ASOIAF books, which are obviously less interested in intricate medievalism than tone and complex political and personal interplay, but imo aren't any worse for it.

In terms of non-fiction, currently reading "Felix Austria" by Stephan Vajda on that front. I love The Once and Future Sex by Dr. Eleanor Janega too. A lot of my process for Vesna involves researching specific points, though- I was trying to find out how exactly rushes worked, and stumbled on a 19th c. text which documents rush-bearing in certain parts of england and goes into the history, for example. I try to read as much of this stuff as I can. The region Vesna is set in doesn't get much materialist history done to it. It's very hard to find out what sort of agriculture was practiced in the hills at the time, for example. Even Felix Austria, a pretty hefty book, mostly brushes over it and says "life was on the whole easier and fruits and crops more abundant than in other parts of europe at the time," which is a bit meagre.

Visually, it's influenced by whatever visual art I consumed recently. I read Dungeon Meshi and fell in love with Ryoko Kui's solid figure drawing and character designs. I read Berserk and fell in love with Miura's landscapes and shading. I played Dark Souls and fell in love with the intricate architecture and tranquil emptiness. I visit ruins and castles here in Austria whenever I can, ideally one a week, and forests and rivers even more. I already mentioned Pentiment, but I have a huge reference folder of 13th century art on my pc. My biggest artistic influence is probably Socar Myles, who does better hatching work and dark fantasy illustration than anyone I've ever seen.

For the character work I would have to point to my best friend Digital Poppy's work. I liked her games before I knew her, and actually getting to talk to her about them (and helping make them!) opened my eyes to what you can have characters do in a story.

I hope this answered your question! Sorry i don't have a specific text to point to!

bonus: Vesna appearing in one of Digital Poppy's games

[wordsandrobots]

IBO reference notes on . . . the lie of Agnika Kaieru

This is a post about McGillis Fareed.

Originally presented as an antagonist ala the Gundam franchise's 'Char clone' archetype (named after Char Aznable, an expy of the Red Baron by way of the Last of the Romanovs), McGillis turns out to be one of Iron-Blooded Orphans' key protagonists, his initial appearances reframed by an eventual alliance with Martian mercenary group Tekkadan, home to the more obvious lead characters. In large part, it is his story we watch unfold, as he attempts to secure control over Gjallarhorn, the repressive extra-national military in which he serves.

And it's hard to discuss that story without reference to Agnika Kaieru, the man credited with founding Gjallarhorn to counter AI-controlled 'mobile armours' three hundred years earlier. The apocalyptic conflict between humanity and the armours known as the Calamity War is the source of the current social order, not to mention the titular Gundam mecha. Agnika is responsible for leading Gjallarhorn to victory, an achievement for which McGillis idolises him. He is also a non-character, haunting events solely through McGillis' commentary, at once vitally important and entirely absent.

I thought it would be interesting to examine how that works. I ended up writing 7000 words about it. Spoilers for everything and content warnings for mentions of child sexual abuse.

The character who wasn't there

If we take McGillis at his word, his personal philosophy was defined by reading a biography of Gjallarhorn's founder at a young age. More specifically, at a young age, while being sexually abused by his adoptive father, Iznario Fareed, who had extricated him from working at a brothel, a situation he was previously forced into after being abducted while homeless on the streets. The Life of Agnika Kaieru was a light in this darkness, offering a path out of a situation that, though seemingly improved from his original impoverishment, continued to be highly coercive and harmful. McGillis was made heir to a powerful family, yet had to sneak out of his patron's bed in the middle of the night, naked, with visible bruises across his body. He was desperately in need of hope.

The abuse appears to have been baked into this plot-beat from the start, with hints to it provided at multiple points during Season 1. Iznario being accompanied by a blonde boy and blonde young man (echoing the excesses of Carta Issue, a character who surrounds herself with McGillis lookalikes owing to an unrequited crush), McGillis' reluctance to spend the night at the Fareed estate, and the questions of legitimacy surrounding his inheritance all take on darker significance when the truth is revealed in Season 2. We may safely assume he was always planned to be reacting to this form of exploitation.

I suspect Agnika was a later creation. Comparing the outline of the Calamity War provided at the very start of the show to the ways it later becomes relevant suggests a considerable amount of fleshing-out in the interim. There are few outright contradictions, or at least, few we cannot explained by assuming in-fiction ignorance. Nevertheless, the importance of Agnika as a historical figure, the myths surrounding his mobile suit, and the very existence of the mobile armours each enter without previous set-up. This is inelegant, in the manner of much of IBO's exposition: workmanlike additions to propel the plot along, extending exactly as far as required and no more. But we cannot discount their importance to the final result and since McGillis aspires, in a very real sense, to become his hero, it is instructive to consider what the show tells us about Agnika.

Immediately we run into the fact we know nothing at all about him as a person. The only 'canonical' description of his personality was provided by the series' director, who compared him to 'the hero in a shonen manga': a charismatic character who always saves his friends. Apart from reinforcing my belief any spin-off set during the Calamity War would be more typical fare than Iron-Blooded Orphans turned out to be, this tells us little. Within the story as it plays out, Agnika is blank space. Being three hundred years dead, it does not actually matter what he was like – itself a statement about how people can be forgotten even when their names reverberate through history. Indeed, the thematic parallel to the fates of a large chunk of the cast is a potent one. Time has rendered Agnika a cipher, subject to the judgement of distant strangers, his exact morals and intentions long-since stripped away.

What remains are his legacy and beliefs. That we must speak of these separately is telling. The Seven Stars, descendants of Agnika's fellow Gundam pilots and Gjallarhorn's present-day leadership, show little deference to the man who commanded their ancestors. There are no statues memorialising him and though Gundam Bael has its attendant ghost stories, of Agnika's spirit living on inside and how it will only awake for his true inheritor, it is shuttered away, a monument nobody ever goes to see. One gets the strong impression McGillis is the only person to pay him more than lips service in centuries.

Consequently, McGillis' personal interpretation of Agnika's philosophy is the only window we get on his beliefs, and the most thorough explanation of that interpretation is given to his eleven-year-old child-bride, Almiria Bauduin.

Fairy tales told by a pied piper

From what we see on screen, McGillis is never overtly abusive towards Almiria, to whom he becomes engaged as part of a political scheme. He is pushed into the arrangement by Iznario and in the side-story covering its commencement, he goes out of his way to provide Almiria with the choice he lacks – something that spurs Almiria to form a genuine attachment to him. However, the engagement also serves his personal ambitions extremely well and he unquestionably manipulates her over the course of it (hard to think of another term to describe comforting her on the loss of her brother Gaelio, for which McGillis is himself responsible). We could and probably should label his apparent concern for her emotional wellbeing and indulgence of her desire to be seen as a grown-up as an attempt at grooming her, not in the sexual sense, but to make her a more amenable chess-piece. On the other hand, McGillis prevents Almiria from killing herself when the truth comes out, at the cost of an injury that severely disadvantages him in battle shortly thereafter – a notable action when her political utility has just evaporated. On the other other hand, this incident prompts him to describe her, quite disdainfully, as 'troublesome'.

What I'm saying is, the question of whether McGillis sees Almiria as a tool or somebody he truly cares for is thorny, as it is for virtually every single character with whom he has a meaningful relationship. Nevertheless, I think we are meant to believe he is being honest when he talks to Almiria about The Life of Agnika Kaieru. What he says fits his actions elsewhere and there are no on-screen indications he isn't being truthful – at least from his perspective – when he credits Agnika's principles with 'saving him'.

McGillis states Agnika wanted a world where “humans could live as humans”; that is, where humans of all backgrounds could compete fairly to achieve their dreams. To a child of low-birth, abused behind closed doors, this is an enticing prospect. McGillis goes on to entice Almiria in turn with the promise of 'loving whomever you wish' and of neither of them being mocked for the age imbalance between them. He concludes the scene by saying it is time to “pry open the door to that world with my own two hands.”

A few episodes later, in an internal monologue, he refers to Agnika as the “greatest symbol of power the world had ever seen. Authority, vigour, might, capability, vitality, influence, as well as brute force.” Inspired by this man's life story, he is determined to usurp rule over Gjallarhorn and finally address the want of power that had defined his own life since birth.

Like everything to do with Agnika, what this tells us about his principles is somewhat vague. Quite literally the child-friendly version (sort of; McGillis openly tells Almiria he contemplated suicide prior to reading the book and is likely a poor judge of age-appropriateness). Still, the philosophy described combines individualism with egalitarianism. The stated goal is a level playing field, free of artificial advantages like wealth or social status, where everyone can pursue their dreams as far as they are each able. This is implied to be a natural state for humanity, such that achieving it would be a form of reclamation. Further, the kinds of power McGillis lists are personal – physical strength, intelligence, charisma – and he works obsessively to cultivate them. We don't get confirmation that self-improvement is another of Agnika's ideals, but it would fit from what is presented.

If you are anything like me, your brain will have turned to all sorts of weird capitalism fans and their buzzwords for justifying frantic competition between people at every level of society. Phrases like 'personal responsibility', 'rugged individualism', and 'rational self-interest', possibly with a side-helping of – gods help us – libertarianism. You may also be asking, if this is what Gjallarhorn's founder espoused, how did it end up enforcing disparities between different populations, oppressing workers and maintaining social hierarchies, at large and within its own walls?

To which I might reply, have you looked at what all those weird capitalism fans get up to, recently? This is an unsatisfying answer, though, and to properly examine how Agnika's legacy intersects with the dreaded c-word, we need to take a couple of side-steps, starting with why it should be a natural connection to make within the context of this show.

A digression into narratives about capitalism

Iron-Blooded Orphans is one of the few entries in the franchise to directly engage with capitalism as a major source of global problems. That probably sounds a little strange if you're aware of the the reputation Gundam has as a whole, so let me explain.

[Also, let me remind everyone the definition of capitalism is “an economic system based on the private ownership of the means of production and their operation for profit.” (Wikipedia; emphasis mine). It's worth being exact.]

When the concept of space colonies is introduced in 1979's Mobile Suit Gundam, they are framed as a response to global overpopulation and the consequent ecological decline of the Earth (pause to appreciate the massive fuck-off dog-whistle; we'll come back to that in a second). The war the show depicts is presented as a matter of sovereignty, whereby those offloaded into orbit rise up against rule by an indifferent terrestrial government. The colonies themselves are cities built within artificially landscaped environments inside O'Neil cylinders. They do not appear to serve any commercial purpose in and of themselves; when we see labour happening in space, it is in service to the colonies, rather than something they are for (the Zeon miners in sequel series ZZ; there is also the fuel-collecting Jupiter Fleet but they are a very odd entity and not fleshed out).

Contrast this to IBO where Mars' utility as a source of 'half-metal' is of paramount importance to its political and economic position, and the space colonies are explicitly shown to be factory complexes, company towns, resorts, and prisons. The middle arc of Season 1 is focused on a workers' revolt against the corporation running a particular group of colonies, the Dorts, while the impetus behind spin-off game Urdr Hunt is the lead character's desire to transform his home's fortunes by making it a popular tourist destination. There are also mentions of 'resource satellites' and glimpses of what appear to be colonies built to mine asteroids. And true, it isn't stated whether all the colonies originate as extractive operations and production centres. But those purposes are depicted the reason they are maintained to the present day, removing such dirty businesses far above the 'precious', 'unsullied' Earth (cue 'The Lightship', played with maximum irony).

[Side-note: the Dort Company runs its colonies as a 'public enterprise on behalf of the African Union', implying state ownership. However there are multiple references to 'rich factory owners from Earth', suggesting private control. Best I can figure, the colonies are state-owned while the production facilities inside them belong to private companies? Since everyone appears to work for Dort (every worker we see wears the same green jacket), I'm not certain how that functions. Perhaps the workforce is leased to private factories via the Company? That would be fittingly grim.]

Now to be clear, I am not claiming Gundam as a whole doesn't tackle problems caused or exacerbated by capitalism. The introduction of Anaheim Electronics into the original Gundam timeline marks clear interest in exploring the influence of corporate entities on warfare. We may also – from the outside – interrogate overpopulation concerns as deflecting blame from capital's destructive activities, going hand-in-hand with racism over migration, and obfuscating who exactly gets sent to 'colonise the unknown' (spoilers: it's the poor and vulnerable). I'm unconvinced the original run from Mobile Suit Gundam to Char's Counterattack is intended as commentary in this manner; equally, I don't think it's hard to get there (as Gundam Unicorn somewhat demonstrates).

What I'm trying to articulate is a distinction between 'being about a problem' and 'naming capitalism as the cause'. Most Gundam series tend to depict capital as part of an amorphous blob of 'Earth-sphere corruption' or 'greedy elites'. Even Anaheim acts as a third party in the Earth/space conflict, taking advantage of the war rather than shaping the fault-lines along which it occurs. Additionally, actual money very rarely tends to be a factor in the plot. Groups like Celestial Being from Gundam 00 appear to possess near-infinite budget; Gundam Wing's itinerant teenage terrorists have only erratic and arbitrary issues obtaining supplies (where are you getting the damn ammo, Trowa?!); and even in The Witch From Mercury, where you'd really expect expenditure to matter, it… doesn't. G-Witch toys with access to funds and the requirement to be profitable early on, but overall is more a courtly drama in business drag, unconcerned with why corporations work the way they do. Issues such as the exploitation of vulnerable populations for the sake of driving down costs are gestured to without becoming strictly plot-relevant.

Meanwhile over in IBO, the poverty of the Martian characters is an ever-present threat and come the denouement, whether they have any money left is of paramount importance. The show tells us bullets have a price-tag, using this to drive actions inside a world run for the sake of profit. It is mentioned that productivity in the African Union's colonies is expected to drop following the Dort labourers wining better working conditions, a boon to the competing economic blocs that leads to one of them sheltering Tekkadan in gratitude for helping bring this change about. The reason co-main character Orga Itsuka does not survive episode 48 is because arms-dealer Nobliss Gordon thinks it will be financially advantageous to have him killed. That fellow businessman McMurdo Barriston extends limited aid to Tekkadan after publicly cutting them loose for the sake of the Teiwaz conglomerate's reputation and revenue is highly relevant to his characterisation. And Teiwaz itself is run like a mafia, a riff on yakuza practices that erases the line between big business and organised crime – a hell of claim to make in a story where another of the leads' entire goal is uplifting Mars by playing the economic system.

Now, in my reading the major theme running through Iron-Blooded Orphans is exploitation. An acute depiction of how capitalist societies operate – the amorality of the profit motive, the colonial underpinnings, the sheer, monstrous cost – is a subset of this. I don't feel it's any surprise that an attempt to realistically depict child soldiers and other exploited groups should lead to a detailed rendering of the gears in which the world is currently caught. Equally, I don't think it fair to reduce IBO to being about capitalism, full-stop. Patriarchy, slavery and repressive class structures all have older roots and there is an argument to be made that where it touches those things, the show cares less about them as artefacts of modern economic arrangements than as evils in their own right.

It still manages to say stuff about the functioning of capitalism with more bluntness than most pieces of fiction I've encountered and, speaking as an Englishman, the thing that strikes me most is the decision to make the lynchpin of its world an aristocratically-led military force.

A further digression into aristocratic fables

Aristocracy means 'government by a hereditary elite'. It is sustained via wealth passed down through generations of a small group of families and was one of the key mechanisms by which the feudal system operated, prior to the slow capitalist revolution of the 16th to 18th Centuries. It is often treated as obsolete, having been superseded by more modern forms of 'being rich'. Certainly it seems quaint in these days of tech billionaires and oligarchs to talk of descendents of feudal lords who prize family trees traced back to William the Conqueror.

What you have to understand about the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (official name used with illustrative intent) is that this country never properly rid itself of its aristocracy. We are a monarchy. Our parliament includes a House of Lords. And while these are both vestiges of earlier systems, they are neither of them ceremonial. The Lords and the Crown possess actual power that can affect decisions made by the House of Commons, our democratically-elected governing body. The Lords (who are not elected and include those appointed for life alongside ninety-two hereditary positions [this was a compromise]) can review and send back certain types of bills passed in the Commons, delaying their introduction into law. Meanwhile the Crown technically still holds an absolute veto at the end of the legislative process, which only by convention do they not use (royal assent is required for any bill to become law; apparently the last time it was withheld was 1708, but the threat remains and the Crown continues to interfere in proposals affecting their interests).

As you might expect, there have been murmurings for years about replacing the Lords with elected officials and we all like to pretend the King just exists for show. Regardless, these institutions – hundreds of years old and holdovers from a completely different social and economic order – persist because the aristocracy remains a useful tool of the modern British state. The Royal Family can be said to be its advertising wing, not in the sense of attracting tourism but of going around shoring up foreign relations, to help keep Britain the fifth richest country in the world. These diplomatic efforts are a key reason why they are worth the maintenance costs (and the noxious scandals). However it goes deeper than that.

Kings and queens don't make sense without the idea of hereditary superiority, and even with its overt political power reduced by changing times, the British aristocracy continues to shape our upper classes. We have an entire parallel school system preparing the children of the wealthy for life running the country. Our public schools (fee-paying schools open to all who can afford them; we call the free ones 'state schools') have been educating the sons of the 'best families' for centuries. They were the source of the officers and administrators who maintained the British Empire and they continue to be where a massive proportion of our diplomats, politicians, journalists, civil servants, and military leadership receive their education.

This system, funnelling kids through schools like Eaton and Harrow to Oxford and Cambridge Universities, is a factory for class solidarity. It allows students to network and, just as importantly, instils in them the signifiers of being 'the proper kind of person'. Ways of speaking. Ways of dressing. An awareness of who they should defer to and who they can look down on, so that they can be recognised by other alumni as 'correct'. Trustworthy. Reliable.

Above all, it reinforces the notion they have both a right and a responsibility to lead.

Because that's the heart of the lie nobility tells: 'there is something about us that means we must rule over them.' If Britain no longer entirely subscribes to this quality being inborn, it can at least be taught to those of the right stock, bringing them a little closer to the true aristocracy. They can elevate themselves above the plebs, as diligent servants of the Crown, who remains the untouchable pinnacle of quality. [Translation note: 'the Crown' refers to both the reigning monarch and the state. They are functionally the same thing. That's what being a monarchy means.]

Thus, the Empire was able to send its younger, weirder sons out to plunder far-off lands, and produced many an honourable sort to lead thousands against machine guns in Europe, and, in a post-imperial age, Britain can still present an impeccably polite face to the world, to negotiate better deals. Diminished as it is, the aristocracy's shambling husk continues on, manufacturing not the capitalists per se (although the successors to the original land-lords are hardly above enriching themselves and plenty of our lifetime peers are people who've run successful businesses), but the supporting apparatus for capitalist operations. The grease on the wheels and a permanent roadblock along the road to meaningful social change.

You literally cannot have equality if there's a guy at the top who gets a stupid hat and ungodly amounts of influence just for who his parents were.

The wrong story, at the right time

It isn't hard to imagine about how it happened.

Gjallarhorn is the only significant military force left standing after a quarter of a solar-system-spanning human race has been exterminated. Faced with the task of reconstructing civilisation, it splits the world into four blocs for easier administration, abolishing the old national borders. At those blocs' request, it then applies the same reorganisation to Mars and Jupiter, the better to funnel resources towards restoring the Earth. Throughout, it maintains the position of a neutral arbiter; Gjallarhorn was formed to stop the War; now it must ensure there will never be another.

To this end, the tools that allowed it to triumph – the Alaya-Vijnana augmentation technology and the Gundam frames that meant flesh and blood could out-compete tireless machinery – are buried. Victory is instead attributed to the resilience of pure, unadulterated humanity. The pilots slew the monsters not thanks to their equipment but their innate ability. The greatest among them are heralded as champions and natural leaders.

It is a small step to decreeing that their children will inherit their positions. Innate qualities can be passed down and heirs, raised in the image of their parents. Maybe this is an extension of those traditions from which sprang duellists bearing red flags. Maybe it is merely a result of the new-born legends. What matters is, Gjallarhorn endures, guided by its seven stars.

Over the following centuries, the system embeds. The ethos of human purity takes hold, measured by distance from the homeworld. Unfortunates born to space or on distant, dusty worlds posses utility for digging up half-metal or labouring in orbital factories but have no place inside Earth's atmosphere. They would make the place untidy, now the scars of the War are scrubbed away. Those who seek to upset this situation are dissuaded. Those subjected to augmentation, dismissed as subhuman. The peace is kept.

Sadly, new generations of the ennobled families lack the moral fibre of their forebears, accepting bribes, pushing the boundaries of Gjallarhorn's neutrality. There are rules and those tasked with enforcing the rules and yet still the rot spreads. These younger generations lack the moral fibre of their vaunted forebears. A sad decline.

Or perhaps that is bullshit and they are exactly the same: people come into power, who will justify anything for the sake of never giving it up and ensuring that all things flow towards the centre.

Gjallarhorn is the armed wing of the Earth super-state, operating for the benefit of the whole despite competition between the individual blocs. That is to say, it is the army of a capitalist state writ large, in the usual manner of sci-fi magnifying things across time and space. Broadly, a state's purpose under capitalism is to facilitate the smooth running of private enterprise by maintaining infrastructure, providing a workforce, and destroying anything that gets in the way of expansion. Tradition, upper-class solidarity and ideological frameworks all help hold the arrangement together. It is useful, after all, to train people to believe they're supporting a grand cause when they are in fact facilitating exploitation and theft for the benefit of someone else.

And it is here we must turn our attention back to The Life of Agnika Kaieru. Above, I glibly compared the things McGillis says Agnika stood for to capitalistic propaganda. What I mean is that it reads as the ideology surrounding free-market capitalism, where companies are released from all restraint and allowed to compete irrespective of consequence. This is often said to fuel innovation and create a healthy market that will – somehow – benefit everyone, despite observably driving owners to increase profits at the expense of large numbers of people, including their customers.

In that context, claiming you want to ensure everyone competes 'fairly' is disingenuous, since it entails the removal of both limitations and safety nets. No artificial advantages and reliance solely on personal strengths means those who are old, disabled, or otherwise lacking Agnika's stated virtues will automatically be left behind. This is not hypothetical; I see it around me everyday, as a result of policies predicated on exactly this basis, just as we see it represented in IBO by a wide-scale absence of social support and characters too vulnerable to survive a free-for-all (Atra, Builth, the Turbines, in flashback). But the ideological statement elides such problems.

Given the title of the biography, I assume it dates from after Agnika died. Any impression derived from it must therefore be suspected of being what Gjallarhorn required him to have believed. Historically, both aristocracy and capitalism alike have benefited from this kind of distortion, so it would be no great surprise if the book turned out to be more PR than honest report. While Agnika's principles are incompatible with the hereditary advantages enjoyed by the Seven Stars, there are ways to read them as being aligned with the wider social and economic arrangements. As such, it is entirely plausible the way he is remembered was designed to support those arrangements.

The right story, at the wrong time

The rhetoric of McGillis' attempted coup centres Gjallarhorn's failure to adhere to its original values, citing unwarranted attacks against civilians and inference in Earth politics. The Seven Stars must be replaced with sincere believers to correct a drift away from what Agnika intended. McGillis outright proclaims his 'revolutionaries' have the truth of Gjallarhorn on their side.

Even if this is a calculated stance designed to rile younger officers into being the army he requires, McGillis' internal monologues reveal a commitment to the ideal of the individual seizing their dreams through sheer personal strength. He seeks not only to prove this is possible, but also to inspire those who cower because “they don't know how to use their fangs” into following his example. From what we see, he has taken Agnika's words – as they were relayed to him – as gospel.

Is his interpretation correct? And if it is, was it what Agnika believed, or simply what it was useful for him to say? McGillis is manipulative, spinning tales to make others do what he wants. Was his idol the same, pre-empting biographical distortions by espousing a finely-tuned message that would reassure the masses while he built a system geared toward curtailing the power of all but a few?

Trick question. There's no answer in the text. As I said, Agnika isn't a character; what he really intended is irrelevant and therefore not present. Yet a distinction must be drawn between what is said publicly and what is said behind the scenes. This is a layering IBO captures via Rustal Elion, McGillis' rival for control of Gjallarhorn, who out-manoeuvres and defeats him. Rustal is a pragmatist unencumbered by quasi-mystic belief in Agnika or some 'true purpose' to Gjallarhorn. He does whatever it takes to best McGillis, casually breaking centuries-old weaponry restrictions and even provoking a fresh war to undermine his opponent's plans – all while presenting as a bastion of lawful rule. Privately, he admits to being 'shady', willing to deal with whomsoever furthers his goals (e.g. Nobliss Gordon, who starts violent uprisings to spur sales of his merchandise). It is this capacity for realpolitik that means Rustal comes out on top.

The narrative does gesture at motivations beyond self-interest. When Rustal reforms Gjallarhorn in the wake of the Seven Stars decimation at McGillis' hand, he abolishes the aristocratic council (of which he is also a member) and replaces it with a more democratic form of governance. That he is immediately elected to the role of supreme commander gives us some reason to doubt his sincerity. Offsetting this, he is also shown to be working towards the abolishment of slavery in his society.

Regardless of his exact degree of progressiveness, however, Rustal appears entirely uninterested in changing what Gjallarhorn is for. See, institutions and social structures have specific purposes, which need not be the ones they claim, via statements or appearances. A capitalist business may claim to exist to provide a product or service, but its actual purpose is the generation of profit. The police may claim to be an institution of citizen protection, but their purpose is the enforcement of the law, which can be detrimental to some or all of those selfsame citizens.

Gjallarhorn's purpose is to control the colonial holdings of the Earth and maintain the current division of the world. They administrate the extraction of resources, quash attempts at social change, and crush resistance to exploitative business practices. Moreover, Rustal is certainly well-aware this is what his job entails. It is his fleet that carries out a calculated massacre of the Dort workers' unions when they push for better conditions and he personally orders an orbital strike on defeated child-soldiers as an exercise in image management. His reforms thus smack more than a little of an army or a weapons manufacturer improving its hiring policies: sure, they now employ women and members of minority groups; they still exist to kill people.

For these kinds of entities, purpose is all-important. You can dress them up however you want, so long as their function continues to be carried out. I bet, when I described my country's persisting aristocratic elements, you immediately went, “that sounds like [mechanics of regional upper class and attendant justifications for social division].” Yes. Precisely. We don't have feudal system holdovers at the centre of our society because they're the most efficient or only means of fulfilling those roles. They're simply the ones that make the most sense at this point in our history. A different environment would necessitate a different form, but the function would remain.

[I am glossing over the mutability of function here – the power of the king has reduced greatly via political and economic shifts, so he's no longer performing quite the same role as his ancestors – but hopefully you get what I mean.]

Rustal's reforms are an illustration of purpose superseding form. At the end of the show, the narration informs us trust in Gjallarhorn has been restored, indicating an end to meaningful opposition to what we have seen it do. Similarly, when Rustal states that the organisation's history matters more than its mythology, he is saying it has largely been operating correctly and should continue to do so in the future. The public claims can be altered, the set-dressing reworked. The function remains.

Poor delusions

Like the British state and its equivalents, Gjallarhorn is draped in heroic, mythological imagery. From uniforms to equipment naming conventions, it presents as grand and noble, even possessing heraldry, as if originating in a gathering of brave knights. We, the audience, know that this is a veneer plastered atop the material reality. Scenes of its foundation are comparatively mundane: sober men wearing drab suits, shaping the future with the stroke of a pen. The dress-up played since is pure embellishment.

McGillis, however, takes the imagery seriously.

His plan hinges on 'awakening' Gundam Bael and being 'accepted' as its new pilot, fulfilling an old rule/tradition whereby whoever possesses this particular mobile suit is the undisputed leader of Gjallarhorn. By taking a disgraced Iznario's place among the Seven Stars, augmenting himself with an Alaya-Vijnana system, and capturing the facility containing Bael, McGillis intends to anoint himself the new Agnika. At a stroke, he believes he will gain the loyalty of all Gjallarhorn forces on Earth and thus the military strength necessary to defeat Rustal's Moon-based Arianrhod Fleet.

For reasons I'll detail another time, I don't think his strategy is necessarily ridiculous. But it doesn't work. The other Seven Stars do not automatically bow down to Bael's new pilot, instead adopting a neutral position awaiting the outcome of the impending battle, and there is no mass uprising among the ranks below them. Since Rustal otherwise commands an overwhelming number of troops, this turns the conclusion into a foregone one. The few who do join McGillis' cause are annihilated and he is forced to retreat, eventually dying in a one-man attack on the Arianrhod flagship.

It must be stressed that McGillis isn't stupid. He is a canny political operator who correctly identifies the biggest obstacles to success, and while his analysis of Gjallarhorn's corruption is deployed principally as a rhetorical tool, he's not wrong. The leadership are complicit in a lot of extremely shady activity, including experimentation with Alaya-Vijnana technology, contravening the taboo against augmentation their ancestors propagated. They do act against their publicly-stated values, to the detriment of ordinary people and in the interests of those who benefit from a hideously exploitative system.

His mistake is to treat this as a bug, rather than the feature we might more correctly diagnose it to be. Within The Life of Agnika Kaieru, McGillis believes he has discovered the hidden truth about Gjallarhorn. He imagines by setting Agnika aside, the Seven Stars obfuscated mechanisms to curtail their authority and an ethos more welcoming to people like him. (There is a lot we could discuss about the ways McGillis is immunised against some forms of bigotry by his station, despite his illegitimate status, and how he exploits more disadvantaged soldiers like Ein Dalton and Isurugi Camice for his own ends. It's just, that'd be another two thousand words and I really need to wrap this up.)

Yet if we follow Rustal's advice and heed history, the timeline shown in Season 1 has Gjallarhorn dolling out sections of Mars to the blocs a mere three years after the Calamity War ended. Among the many things we don't know about Agnika is if he survived the War, but whether he did or not, his organisation pretty instantly became a tool of social division and exploitation. The most we may allow is that its original purpose was truly noble. Its actions once the apocalypse had been averted speak for themselves.

This has been long walk, I suppose, for the fairly succinct summary of McGillis as a character who rejects private truth in favour of embracing a public, propagandising lie. I am compelled by the idea even so. Capitalism is far from the only system to have claimed universal virtue while benefitting merely a select few, but it has gone uniquely hard on the idea 'you can make it too'. Given IBO's uncluttered depictions of a world run for profit (with the complicity of ostensibly non-capitalistic institutions), taking a cynical read on Agnika's supposed ideology is trivial. Human triumphalism and Gjallarhorn conceptualised as the arbiter of fair competition dovetail into the show's unjust present in a manner too neat to discount. More than anything else, the choice McGillis makes is a common one in real life.

Sometimes, that's a positive thing, pushing people to insist on making promises come true to the detriment of the swindler proffering them. Others, it is a source of profound disorientation, leading in very dark directions as blame for the dissonance is attributed to anything but the root cause.

[This seems is as good a juncture as any to remark that McGillis is not a proponent of anything we can easily label fascistic. He focuses on individual freedom irrespective of national identity; he is attacking people genuinely perpetuating his world's ills; and he definitely doesn't bother courting a disaffected public by playing to middle-class anxieties. He doesn't need to. His plan is to enact a coup from high up inside a military hierarchy, while promising to lessen the force exerted against society. Though there are links to be traced between his ideology and fascist rhetoric, it isn't the avenue his circumstances compel him to go down.]

[I am 100% certain he would've gone in that direction if they had, but that's a counterfactual, not what the show actually presents.]

How McGillis got to where he did is another of IBO's many examples of adaptations to extremis that look utterly bonkers when seen at a remove. An outsider, thrust into the realm of a vicious upper class, he accurately declared the whole thing a nest of lies and hypocrisy. He could never buy the pretences it sold, to others and to itself. His very existence was damning disproof. Then, at his lowest ebb, he found a story about what it should be and that – that he bought, hook, line and sinker.

Already primed to consider power the be-all and end-all of life, he took Agnika's story as a guide to gaining the upper-hand, going so far as to tell Rustal (then a young adult) that the only thing he now desired was Bael. Though it seems he lapsed into a wait-and-see approach between prepubescence and his mid-twenties, witnessing children from Mars fighting using Gundams makes him believe destiny is taking a hand in events and the time has come to act. He betrays Carta and Gaelio, his two closest friends, both heirs to other Seven Star families, for the sake of clearing his path forwards. These were the first people to treat him like a normal child and he admits with his dying breath that he reciprocated their affection. This was part of why he killed/attempted to kill them: in their company, he started losing the will to pursue his dream, put off guard by finally having something positive in his life. So he chose to violently reject them, unable to give up on what he'd started.

That could easily be McGillis' epitaph. He is characterised by an overwhelming commitment to seeing through his power-grab, even if it means fighting an entire fleet to go personally kill Rustal. This is very far from a sane response and we might say likewise about everything he does prior. From his gleeful divinations at the sight of ancient relics, to his rapturous exultation on activating a machine he knows just required the appropriate brain/computer interface, the personality lurking beneath his habitually polite mask is little short of unhinged.

Which is of a piece with a group of teenage orphans clinging tight to the idea a good life lies just beyond the next battle, having internalised that proving their strength is the only way to survive. McGillis has to think taking on Agnika's mantle will bring him what he wishes, because otherwise his actions have been for nought, nothing can be changed, and the misery he endured is inescapable. It's the same self-reinforcing spiral, turned up to eleven.

(Re)imagining the world

In the final outcome, Iron-Blooded Orphans refutes McGillis' individualism, albeit not without caveat. Destabilising the Seven Stars creates space for incremental change and self-interestedly assisting independence activists lays the groundwork for Mars' eventual freedom from Earth. McGillis does create a “storm in this stagnant world,” with lasting consequences regardless of how swiftly it subsides. Nonetheless, his death is a futile one compared to the other causalities during the finale, who all manage to make their last acts count for something. Where Tekkadan share a mutually-supporting community – they are a 'pack of wolves' – he stands alone and saves nothing of what mattered to him.

As I said above, I don't want to treat IBO as a story solely and absolutely about capitalism. In a similar vein, I'm not trying to position an interpretation of Agnika as a vector for capitalist propaganda as the intended one. There are multiple moving parts here, spinning out from that serious consideration of child-soldiers as more than just a trope in fiction aimed at teenagers. My read on those parts is contextualised by my cultural background (I do now want to look into how Japan's own aristocracy mutated with their forced induction into global capitalism).

At the same time, McGillis indisputably misapprehends how a structure within a capitalist environment works because he wants to believe a version of what says about itself. And The Life of Agnika Kaieru is an artefact of that environment. Even without knowing more about its authorship, publication or veracity, and setting aside what McGillis brings to the table (his desire for power was set years before he'd heard of Agnika), the fact he finds it in Iznario's library speaks volumes. Biographies are not neutral objects. As alluded to above, the act of public remembrance shapes culture and hence society. I think it both reasonable and interesting to look at McGillis' arc with the assumption the book is ultimately commensurate with everything he was reacting against.

What would have happened had McGillis won is another moot question when the narrative hinges specifically on his failure. But a land of competition, overseen by the supreme authority of Gjallarhorn, where the only moral law derives from the dreams of the strong?

Perhaps the most damning thing to be said of McGillis' principles – of Agnika's principles – is that they would produce a world functionally identical to the one we started with.

———

Postscript:

For the sake of absolute clarity, I do not believe whether a story is about capitalism or not has any bearing on its quality. My discussion of the other Gundam shows is intended purely to highlight what I see as a fundamental difference between what they are doing and what IBO is. I don't think it is a problem that G-Witch is a personal/courtly drama, or that Wing is focused on fighting in a more philosophical than material sense, or that the franchise has overall tended towards addressing conflict per se, without any serious interrogation from an economic angle.

Stories can only fail at what they attempt, not at what they don't.

I nevertheless stand by what I said. A piece of fiction concerned merely with some generalised notion of 'human greed' is not about capitalism in any meaningful sense, and I fear that's where most Gundam shows land, one way or another, when they touch on corporate interests.

[Index of other writing]

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In My Blood | Part Four

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

You and Curt find a lot more than shelter for the night in Langon, but as your affection for one another only grows, you cannot help but start thinking about the fact that you are also nearing the end of your journey.

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Weapons, Spy Craft, Fear, Alcohol Consumption, Smoking, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Fingering, Multiple Orgasms] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5974

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The rumble of a car engine brought your feet skidding to a halt, the scattering of gravel atop cobblestones carrying you further into the open than you intended. Curt’s hand wrapped around your wrist, hauling you back between the buildings for cover. You had been so very close, just two streets away from ‘Victoire’s’ home in Langon after creeping your way into town through ditches and alleyways. The sharp beam of a flashlight cut through the dark, ruining your night sight, making you blink furiously as you and Curt retreated further from its threatening glare.

As he pulled you around the back of the squat, brick building, pressing against you protectively, your breath hitched in your throat at the mortifyingly intense reaction his closeness evoked from your body. A shiver cascaded from the crown of your head down to the tips of your toes, leaving stiffened nipples and clenched thighs in its wake. Welding your lips shut, you forced slow, measured inhales and exhales through your nose, waiting for the sound of the car and its probing searchlight to recede, only risking a careful glance back toward the road after a good two minutes of silence. Even then, after extracting yourself from Curt’s distracting albeit shielding stance, you insisted on backtracking slightly before attempting a different approach to Victoire’s house.

Mercifully, you managed to reach her back garden with its now-empty planting beds and small shed without further encounters, knocking at the door loud enough to be heard inside but not arouse the suspicion of her neighbours. The curtain covering the small square of glass in the wooden door fluttered slightly in the darkness before the faint scraping of a chain lock being released was followed by the ‘click’ of a deadbolt. The door swung inward slowly as Victoire, a young woman not much older than yourself, appeared, swaddled in her house coat with something clenched in her hand.

As she began to step outside, forcing the pair of you to shuffle backwards out of the way, you and Curt shared a look of confusion before quickly following her in the direction of the shed. Gingerly manipulating the padlock, she carefully opened the latch and then the door for you.

“I am sorry, but the house is fully occupied.” She whispered and you nodded, clasping her hand in gratitude for any shelter she could offer, no matter how humble, before slipping into the drafty building full of empty pots and smelling of damp soil.

Taking a moment to get your bearings, you chose to slide to your suitcase beneath the potting bench before carefully moving several larger pots and gardening implements to open up enough floor space for yourself and Curt to rest for the night. The sound of the door sliding home, followed by the ‘snick’ of the padlock, made you glance back over your shoulder. The sight of Curt pulling the generous wool coat from his suitcase, the garment that you had acquired at great cost back in Beverst, barely discernable in the dark shed, made your lips curl fondly. At least he would be warm tonight. Settling onto the rough wooden floor, propped up against the wall, you swallowed your hiss at the sharp cold against your bare legs.

“Here.” Curt whispered once his suitcase was stowed next to yours, shuffling down to sit beside you, hip and shoulder pressed against yours in the limited space as he draped the coat across the pair of you.

Your eyes snapped from the dark navy fabric up to his face, inhaling sharply to find him so close, nose almost brushing his. “Curt…” You murmured softly in gratitude.

A grin of satisfaction unfurled on his features as he huddled closer to ensure you were both properly protected from the elements. There was a palpable tension between you, an electricity shimmering across your skin that made your lips part in an attempt to take in more oxygen and quell the swimming sensation in your head. Curt’s expression grew more serious, his eyes tracing along your face towards your lips, a motion like a caress that gnawed insistently at your self-control until you felt yourself lunging forward to crash your mouth against his.

A noise of surprise escaped him, only to be muffled by your lips before you felt the warmth of the coat fall away from your shoulders as his hand fought its way free to cup your cheek and pull you closer. Your lips parted with a sigh of relief, a motion which Curt quickly took advantage of, tongue swiping teasingly at the gap but never properly sliding into your mouth. Not until an indignant whimper sounded in the back of your throat, only to be rewarded by a thorough kiss that had you clinging to his shoulders until you needed to pull back to gasp for air.

You could feel the curl of his smile as he trailed his lips across your cheek to whisper, “can’t kiss a girl and not even know her first name.”

The feeling of his damp lips brushing against the curve of your ear made you shudder yet again, affection and want thrumming through your body with each beat of your racing heart. Shifting to press your lips against his ear in turn, you barely breathed your true name, a lance of fear as well as the thrill of being known rocketing through your gut. He repeated it with a soft sigh, sending your teeth sinking into your lower lip before you kissed him once more, a fierceness at hearing it tainting your actions as your hands delved into his hair, ruining the hold of the pomade he had put into it hours ago.

The heat of Curt’s palm slid down your neck across the front of your sweater to caress the swell of your breast and you hummed, arching eagerly into his touch while simultaneously growing frustrated with the awkward positions your found yourselves in. Shifting carefully, you swung your leg over his to straddle his thighs, the coat falling behind you, completely forgotten. His hands squeezed your hips warmly as you pressed a soft kiss to his lips only to pull back and begin painting kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Mapping the raised scars you could feel but not see in the darkness. After an initial huff, Curt hummed contentedly, tilting his head to offer more flesh to you as he resumed kneading your tender flesh with both hands.

Feeling your hips buck in response as you pressed a moan against his neck, he dropped one hand to your lower back, pulling your hips flush with his. The press of his hardening cock against the apex of your thighs sent your lips colliding with his once more, rocking experimentally, to your mutual pleasure – a melding of moans against your tongue. You were addicted to the way he made you feel, a woman fully alive, under your own name. Not ‘Marie,’ the fragile shell who internalized every secret and nurtured every wound.

And even though the friction of his length through his trousers against the thin barrier of your underwear made your eyes clench shut and breath shorten to harsh pants, still you wanted more. Hands sliding between your bodies, you began to work at the fly of his trousers, feeling his tongue flick at his lips, desperately trying to wet them.

“You sure?” He rasped and you eyed his silhouette a moment, swallowing roughly.

The reality of your situation was bleak, and while this was most definitely outside the bounds of propriety, the truth of it was you were either going to die or, by some miracle, make it back to England. To a world of strangers who did not, and never could, understand the truth of what you had faced. What you had endured. None of them would ever be like the man before you, would have shared the same dangers and trials. So the answer was rather easy.

“Yes.” You breathed emphatically and made quick work of freeing his cock, sealing your mouth against his neck as his blunt fingers pulled aside your underwear to slide through your slick folds.

Working together, you shifted up onto your knees to guide him into your warmth, your shaky breaths pouring into his gaping mouth as he stared up at you, brows furrowed in pleasure. Hips settling snuggly atop his, your teeth clacked against his in your desperation to smother your moan at the feeling of him seated fully inside you. Curt’s arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you rocked forward before you tensed your thighs to begin working your hips up and down his length, his head falling back against the tongue and groove wall, jaw slack.

Heavy sighs of your name tumbled from his lips, tone reverent and dream-like as he watched you with half-lidded eyes. Despite the fact that you remained fully clothed, to be called thus left you feeling practically laid bare before him. A pang of longing struck you, wishing you could see him better, see the flush on his cheeks. For now, the warmth of his skin beneath your hands would suffice. Was proving more than sufficient in combination with his prayerful use of your name and the fact that he was lasting far longer than the last man you had been intimate with – some pretty popinjay outside Sarah Spencer-Churchill’s debut ball who had cum within a few moments of being allowed up your gown. All told, it was a heady mixture that was making your thighs shake with the effort to drive the pair of you towards climax.

The sudden shift brought on by the bend of his knees made you gasp, planting your hands on his shoulders to avoid smacking your chin against his. You had barely stabilized yourself before his fingers curled into your hips and he began to thrust up into you insistently. A cry of sheer delight flew from lips, unfortunately only half smothered by his solicitous mouth, but thankfully it did not interrupt his exquisite rhythm, nor seem to arouse suspicion outside. Toes curling in your shoes as your nails dug into the leather of his jacket, it was not long before you were hurtling over the precipice into orgasm, clenching around him ruthlessly.

The feel of his sticky, hot release drew aftershocks of pleasure from you as you slumped against his chest, utterly spent, entire body rising and falling as his chest heaved beneath you. Curt tender kisses feathering along your temple and cheek pulled soft giggles from you, making you lift your head to press your lips against his warmly. As the flush of the afterglow slowly ebbed from your skin, the wind whistling through the gaps in the shed’s construction began to steal the warmth from your body, making you shiver yet again.

“Hold on, gorgeous, let’s get you warm.” Curt murmured softly, breathing returning to normal as he helped you rearrange your underwear before re-assembling his trousers.

Tucking you close into his chest, he gathered the coat once more, bundling the pair of you beneath it, making you hum in comfort as you burrowed your head beneath his chin. Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he murmured, “sleep” and you found no desire to argue with him.

The next sensation you were aware of was the sound of the padlock rattling outside, a sure sign that Victoire had returned to summon the pair of you – hopefully for breakfast. Shafts of weak light filtered through the numerous gaps in the shed walls as you forced yourself awake, reluctantly but quickly emerging from the warm cocoon of Curt’s arms. Rain was gently but steadily pattering against the roof as you managed to settle onto the floor at his side, the pair of you presenting a quite proper sight to your host as she popped her head in.

“Come inside, there is food, and you can clean up.”

“Thank you, Victoire.” You smiled sleepily as Curt stirred beside you.

Collecting your luggage, you both followed her through the icy drizzle into her warm home that seemed devoid of all guests, only young son playing with some toys on a blanket in the kitchen where she had set out a breakfast hash of canned corned beef and potatoes.

“You spoil us.” You murmured as Curt dug in with a bright if clumsily pronounced ‘Merci,’ making you struggle against the urge to smile fondly.

“You received the worst accommodations last night, therefore you get the best breakfast.” She insisted, pouring two cups of hot coffee substitute which was bitter but warm. “Things seem busy as of late, am I right, Marie?”

Nodding as you swallowed your mouthful, you pointed down the hall as you saw Curt’s plate was empty. “Bathroom is first door on the right, you go ahead.” Turning back to Victoire you sighed heavily. “Incredibly busy, and more dangerous.” You replied in French.

She hummed thoughtfully, taking a sip from her own stained and chipped mug. “I hope you are being safe out there.”

“As much as I can.”

Her son let out a squeal of delight as he crashed one wooden car into another, drawing an exhausted smile from his mother. “At least he will never know.” She murmured, standing to ruffle his hair warmly before cleaning up from breakfast.

Curt returned from the bathroom, clothes changed and freshly shaved.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmured and took your suitcase to do the same, stripping bare to take a bath in the sink with a borrowed washcloth.

Changing the bandage on your nearly healed arm with supplies from your luggage, you then slid into a fresh outfit. Retrieving a silk scarf from the depths of your suitcase, you secured it atop your hair, both as protection against the persistent rain, and to make yourself less recognizable to anyone who might be looking for you. You certainly hoped they were still searching in Bordeaux but were not about to be unnecessarily cavalier about it. You also retrieved the last of your cash reserves from the envelope secured in the zippered portion of your suitcase, transferring it to your handbag. Things really must be coming to an end if this was all you had left.

Stepping back into the kitchen, you felt Curt’s eyes on you, assessing for a moment before he stood from where he had been entertaining Victoire’s son on his blanket. Watching curiously as he shrugged from his leather jacket, that fond smile from earlier stole its way across your face as he pulled on the wool coat – the length of it stretching to his knees and the cuffs covering his hands – before he flipped up the collar, obscuring a great deal of his face but legitimately appearing to be simply warding off the elements. In countless ways he had proven himself to be the easiest of your charges, practically a natural at sneaking his way across occupied Europe, despite your initial sense of his inability to shut his mouth. You were going to miss him.

Doing your best to ignore the way that made your stomach plummet, breath snagging on your emotions as you tried to inhale, you turned to Victoire to wish her farewell.

“Thank you again for the shelter and incredible meal.”

“My pleasure, as always, Marie. Best of luck to you both.”

“You and yours, also.” You nodded firmly, collecting your things.

Curt, as soon as he finished rolling up the overly long sleeves of his coat, did the same, nodding to your host before the pair of you headed out into the rain, shoulders hunching as a natural barrier against the wind. It was a fifteen-minute walk from Victoire’s house to Langon Station – a long building of pink brick and white stone, much more understated than the rest of the stations you had visited thus far on your journey. Damp and tired, you were unspeakably grateful that the Nazi officer on duty barely glanced at your papers, waving you onto the ticket counter where you were relieved to learn that trains were indeed running to Toulouse today.

Once again, the train in service was small, with no private compartments available. Wedging yourself side-by-side with Curt, you pinched the inside of your cheek between your teeth, doing your utmost to ignore the way it felt utterly different to have his body pressed against yours. Rather than sleeping, a glance over at him revealed that Curt was leaning against the window to watch you quietly, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. Bowing your head under that love-struck gaze, you swallowed roughly, trying your very best to remain focused on the final leg of your journey for which you were responsible. With numerous stoppages, some on sidings to allow freight trains to pass, some for absolutely no clear purpose, as well as one transfer at Agen, it took nearly the entire day to reach Toulouse.

While it gave the pair of you the opportunity to thoroughly dry out, it also left each of you feeling remarkably hungry by the time you reached ‘Françoise’s’ apartment. As the door swung open, the sight of her cloud of snow-white hair, barely contained in a semblance of a style despite numerous pins, with her shadowy black cat Charbon weaving himself around her ankles, was nearly enough to make you collapse with exhaustion and relief.

“Ah, come in.” She whispered and ushered you both inside quickly, casting a glance around the hallway behind you before firmly shutting the world out with an extensive number of deadbolts and chains. “Marie, welcome. Who is your friend?”

“Curt.” He smiled, setting down his suitcase to offer his hand, which Françoise eyed a moment before shaking with an unusually strong grip for a woman in her sixties.

“You both look ready to fall asleep, go rest and I will find something to feed you.”

“Bless you, Françoise.” You murmured, leading Curt down a short hallway to point out the washroom and showing him into his room. “You can sleep here, keep the curtains closed and your voice down.”

He nodded, eyeing you a moment, but a persistent meow interrupted anything he may have been about to say.

“Yes, Charbon, you can come have a nap with me.” You smirked. “Rest well, Curt.” You turned, the cat trotting happily in your wake into the room next door, hopping up onto the bed expectantly.

You took a few moments to remove most of your clothing before slipping beneath the blankets and fell deeply asleep to the sound of an enthusiastically purring cat. Waking to a stew of beans accompanied with thick slices of a coarse bread, you and Curt devoured all that Françoise could set before you, chatting briefly over cups of tea before you all turned in for the first solid of night of sleep you had enjoyed in weeks. Charbon, of course, spent the night with Françoise who slept with her door open to give him free run of the apartment. Enjoying showers and a filling breakfast the next day, you turned to Françoise to begin planning the last and most physically demanding portion of your journey.

“I will make contact with the Ponzáns, would you be able to acquire two rucksacks for us? We will have suitcases to leave in return.”

Her black eyebrows, hand drawn with a makeup pencil, jumped nearly to her hairline. “Two.” She echoed flatly before retrieving a cigarette from a tarnished silver case. The scent of bitter German tobacco filled the air, a vivid reminder of why you had given up the habit. “Marie, you are leaving.”

It was not a question, but you nodded in answer all the same.

Her mouth twisted in displeasure, the scarlet of her lipstick interrupted by the cracks of age. MI9 liked to call her eccentric, you simply viewed her as a woman who had lived a full life and refused to let the expectations of age dictate how she ought to continue to live now.

“A great loss.” She sighed with an exhale of smoke through her nostrils, tapping the ash into a crystal ashtray, one of many that lived on every surface in her apartment. “Well, it will do no good dwelling, you and I must get to work. I am sure they will ask for a great price to ferry you, however.”

You grunted in agreement, all too certain that Pablo’s eyes would light up in an hour or so. “Hopefully it is not be the crown jewels.” You sighed and a rattling laugh burst forth from her throat.

“Might very well be, Marie.” Her hand with its dry, paper-thin skin patted at the back of yours before she leveraged herself to her feet. “Now, Curt, have you ever washed a dish?”

“No, ma’am, but I am not above trying.” He replied, wrenching his eyes from you and following the woman to the kitchen.

Collecting the dishes from the table, you set them on the counter in the small kitchen before heading to your room to collect your handbag, ensuring your knife and gun were both readily available within. Pausing in the doorway, you took a moment to enjoy the sight of Curt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands in the dishpan as Françoise provided stern guidance at his side.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” You said gently, nodding as both of them turned back to you quickly.

“See you soon, dear.” Françoise nodded.

“Be safe.” Curt said firmly, eyeing you intensely, surely in a bid to communicate his desire for you to return without injury, covered in blood, or having shot someone else.

“That is the plan.” You replied reassuringly before slipping back out, pleased to find the rain had ceased.

The walk to the bookstore was remarkably pleasant, though the crisp autumn air drove your hands into your pockets to keep warm. Stepping inside, the bell chiming overhead, you nodded with a friendly smile to the man behind the counter. You did not know his name, nor he yours, but he was a friend of the Resistance. A conduit for the Françoise Line to reach the Ponzán Group to guide downed airmen across the Pyrenees. And now, hopefully not at too great a price, yourself as well.

Perusing the shelves for a time, reading the synopses of a few books before putting them back, you walked up to the counter once you were certain the store was empty.

“Good afternoon. I was wondering if you had any books on Saint Christopher?”

As you spoke, the rack of comic books on display at his elbow caught your eye, the illustration of a boxer prominent on the cover. Momentarily distracted by the thought that you should purchase a copy for Curt, you huffed inwardly at your schoolgirlish distraction, looking to the shopkeeper as he replied.

“That’s a good question. I might have a few options in the back, one moment.” He slipped out from behind the counter to lock the front door before leading you into the back room and down a set of stairs narrowed by stacks of boxes, knocking on the door before it swung inward to reveal Pablo himself.

“Well, well, if it isn’t you.” He nodded dismissively to the shopkeeper before turning back inside the rather well-appointed secret office. Shutting the door behind you, you settled into the seat opposite him as he tilted his head. “What can we do for you and your English friends, Marie?”

“Passage for two across the mountains with proper winter clothing for one and accessories for the other.” You replied cooly, showing that you were unaffected by his attempts to intimidate you.

“Boots too? What sizes are we talking about?” He tilted his head probingly.

Exhaling slowly. “I am not interested in playing games, Pablo. I need the winter clothing. The airman needs just the accessories. I believe he wears an American size 8 or 9 for his boots?”

His eyes glittered hard in the light of the candle on his desk, gaze narrowing greedily. “Run into a spot of trouble with the Vichy, Marie?” He taunted, putting on an infuriatingly poor impression of your upper-class English accent, the one you spoke with thanks to your mother’s tutelage. “Or was it the big bad Gestapo?” He sneered a little before grabbing a piece of paper, writing out a terrific sum of francs and a list of weapons before referring briefly to a leather notebook in his breast pocket before adding a set of coordinates. “Payment and drop location. We will confirm once we have been in receipt.”

“Right.” You replied tersely, tucking the slip of paper into your bag before standing. “Give Francisco my regards.”

“Oh I will, Marie.” Pablo grinned darkly, tenting his fingers as he watched you exit his office.

Climbing back up the stairs, you paused at the counter to purchase a newspaper, grabbing the comic book just as shopkeeper was about to give you the total and passed over the requisite number of francs for both. Taking a moment in the corner of the shop to slide the rather offensive list of demands into the paper, you tucked your purchases under your arm and headed next to a café where you would be able to pass along the Ponzán group’s order to a runner for the wireless operator in the area. Glancing at your watch, you confirmed it was just before noon, and tried not to smile as the young girl was seated in the back corner at her usual table.

Snagging a seat by the window, you ordered a black coffee and perused the comic book, pleased to see that it was most definitely the story of a boxer. Coffee finished, you deposited your payment on the table and made your way towards the bathroom, casually setting the folded newspaper on the girl’s table as you passed by before stepping into the single-stalled washroom. After flushing, you took a moment to tidy your appearance, taking a few breaths before opening the door and retrieving the empty and turned newspaper from the corner of her table, no other patron or staff person even glancing in your direction.

It was a tense walk back to the safety of Françoise’s apartment, being sure to take a circuitous route and triple-check that you were not being followed, before making your way up the stairs just as the woman herself was returning with the two requested packs. Drawing her keys from the pocket of her worn fur coat, she unlocked the numerous deadbolts before ushering you inside. As she locked up behind you, you bent to scoop up Charbon, going to Curt’s door to knock quietly.

“We are back.” You spoke softly through the wood.

It slowly creaked open, and he smiled in relief as he laid eyes on you. “Success?” He murmured and you nodded.

“It is arranged, we shall see if the price is a pill that can be swallowed.”

“For your luggage.” Françoise’s arm thrusted a rucksack between the pair of you, startling Curt before he took it with a nod of thanks. “You two probably need to do laundry now?”

“As always, you are correctly.” You set the cat down, ignoring his meow of protest as you took the other bag. “I can do that. This,” You held the comic out to Curt, “is for you.”

He took it with his other hand and smirked slowly. “Boxing…you remembered.”

Françoise shook her head and trundled down the hall to the bathroom to retrieve the laundry supplies, giving you no chance to discuss your gift to him as you gathered dirty clothes from both suitcases and worked with your host to scrub and rinse and wring for the rest for the day. Once the apartment was sufficiently strung with clothing hung to dry, intimates mercifully relegated to your respective rooms, there was dinner, and then a hushed game of poker at which Françoise mopped the floor with both of you.

The pattern continued thus for several days, Françoise keeping the pair of you busy with chores as you awaited news of a successful drop. Every evening, she would outdrink and outwit the both of you at cards, making you grateful you were only gambling with tokens and not real money. All communication with Curt was forced to be bland, sanitized, safe to be overheard by the English-speaking and ever-present woman whose apartment you were sheltering in. Only brief moments of intense eye contact across the round dining table, covered with its mended lace tablecloth, or a brushing of hands as you worked together in the kitchen to wash and dry the dishes, revealed there was something much more to the pair of you than simple traveling companions.

Retiring to your room after your third night of defeat at cards, you were feeling restless, thoroughly empathizing with animals held in cages against their will. Normally you would be out, walking the streets of Toulouse, scavenging, acquiring, making connections. But now, as a wanted and known person yourself, you too had to stay indoors as much as possible. You had always tried to be patient with your charges but had never truly understood how it felt to be in their shoes until now.

Turning your unsettled energy to more useful pursuits, you set the rucksack on your bed and carefully began to transfer the remnants of your suitcase into it, pausing as you came across the small tin of gun oil, cloth, and bore brush bundled inside a set of thick woollen socks. Setting it on the desk to your right, you finished your task, setting the empty suitcase by the door to turn over to Françoise before changing into your nightgown, a light summer affair without sleeves. Sliding a cardigan overtop of your bare and finally bandage-free, you retrieved your pistol and knife from your handbag settling in to clean your weapons.

Ejecting the clip from the pistol, you stripped it down before working with the bore brush to clean the barrel before applying a few drops to lubricant it. Turning, then, to the action, you ensured it too was cleaned and lubricated before you reassembled the weapon before moving onto your knife. You were nearly finished polishing the blade with a few drops of gun oil when your door suddenly swung open, making you jump to your feet.

“Easy, gorgeous.” Curt whispered, quietly closing the door behind him before turning the handle to let the latch slide home. “Just me.” He stood there clad only in his boxer shorts and an undershirt.

Releasing your knife onto the desk with an exhale of relief, you tilted your head in silent question, watching as he quickly closed the distance between you.

“Can’t stop thinking about you.” He sighed, sliding his arm around your back to pull you close as he kissed you deeply.

Your hands quickly rose to cup his cheeks warmly as you returned his kiss, hoping you convey you were suffering the same, despite your inability to speak at the moment. Guiding you backwards one step at a time, you were saved an uncomfortable collision with the wall as his free hand leaned up against it, ensuring your comfort as his mouth devoured yours. Hands sliding to cup the back of his head, you bit your lip as he began to nip and suck his way down your neck, humming against the expanse of skin exposed by your nightgown. As he encountered the set of buttons trailing down the front of your sleepwear, his fingers began to work at opening them, one by one, hand delving beneath the thin cotton to cup your right breast.

Sighing heavily in delight, you writhed against him, gnawing on your lip savagely as he circled his tongue around your nipple before sealing his mouth around the hardened bud. Curt seemed to be on some kind of personal mission to test your ability to remain quiet, well aware of that open door just down the hall, of neighbours through the adjoining walls, as he fought with the hem of your nightgown to trail his fingers up the outside of your thigh. Eyes meeting yours with lust-blown pupils as he found no underwear blocking his target, he cupped your mound as his mouth shifted to torture your left breast, forcing you to clamp a hand over your mouth as he parted your folds to apply mind-numbing pleasure to your clit.

The hand still clinging to his hair gripped hard as his middle finger slowly slid deep inside you, a sharp ‘merde’ escaping against your palm as you bucked, and he hummed happily against your sensitive flesh. The feeling of his ring finger joining the insistent thrusting, his thumb continuing its circling pressure, had your head rolling back and forth against the wall, desperately trying to swallow your sobs of pleasure or at the very least smother them against your hand.

“C’mon gorgeous, let me feel you.” He panted against your sternum, pleading once more with the addition of your name before pressing his lips against your skin hotly.

Hips bucking sharply against him, you were helpless not to oblige, clenching rhythmically around his fingers in release. Working you through it until he felt your body slacken against his, Curt then pulled his digits from you carefully, only to make a show of slowly licking them clean, your thighs pressing together quickly as your heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. The instant his mouth was free, you grasped his jaw and pulled him in for a hungry kiss. Pressing closer, he began to slide the hem of your nightgown high above your hips. Sensing his intentions, you quickly reached out to push down the waistband of his boxers, lifting one leg to wrap about his hips.

Pulling back from your lips, his eyes bore into yours as he rocked forward, driving his length home into your warmth. Eyes rolling back into your head, you clung to his shoulders but gasped as he suddenly hiked your second leg to wrap around him, pinning you against the wall with a cocky smirk before beginning to thrust in earnest. Drowning your moans in frantic kisses against his lips, you clutched and pulled at the straps of his undershirt, heels digging into cheeks of his ass. Body already sensitive, and his pelvis grinding so enthusiastically against your clit, it did not take long for you to climax once more.

A squeak flew from your lips as he quickly pulled from your body, sliding down the wall slightly as he deprived you of the sensation of his orgasm, his cum spraying across your lower abdomen instead. Though you supposed it was for the best in the end. Lowering one trembling leg and then another, you reached up to grab a clean handkerchief from its position on the drying line nearby, lips twitching fondly as he insisted on taking it from you to gently wipe your skin clean.

“Woulda come sooner…” he smirked briefly but soldiered on, “but that damn cat kept gettin’ in my way.” He finished with a huff.

“Charbon?” You giggled breathlessly, reaching up to smooth his hair which you had put into such disarray. “He is harmless…”

“What does that name mean, anyway?” He asked, crumpling the handkerchief into his fist.

“Charcoal.” You replied quietly, fingertips tracing along his cheekbones affectionately.

“I’ll turn him into charcoal if he tries to keep me away from you again…” He muttered gruffly, lips pressing against the pads of your fingers as they strayed too close to his mouth.

Your eyes widened at the threat against the cat’s life. “Curt!” You admonished half-heartedly before you pressed your face against his chest to smother your resulting laughter.

-------------------------

Read Part Five

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

[racefortheironthrone]

In A Guildsman Goes Forth to War, what can you tell us about fae society? I'm assuming they're monarchies, feudal or absolute? Do they bear any resemblance to Celtic society? Do they practice slavery? What of their gender dynamics? Etc

Great question!

So there's a lot that I'm not going to share with you, because the fae/Fair Folk/etc. are supposed to be a mysterious people who live in their own realm that connects to the human world via thin places in the forests and underhill and deep in the mountains or underground rivers, and humanity doesn't particularly understand them very well despite centuries of intermarriage, as the fae are both very cryptic and contradictory in the information they've shared with their Gentry kin.

Government

As far as humans have been able to glean, the Fae do organize themselves into Courts that seem close enough to European feudal systems that the leading families of Europe can do business with them when it comes to dynastic marriage alliances and diplomatic relations.

That being said, status and power in Faerie society don't seem to be based in land as they are among humans. (In the interests of full disclosure, I'm borrowing some ideas here from the Feywild in D&D.) As far as people have been able to glean from correspondence and diplomatic and cultural interactions, titles are based on elements of nature (the Duke of Hoarfrost, the Viscount of Watermeadows) or from emotions (the Lady of Wistful Rememberance, the Prince of Sorrow), or from ideas and beliefs (the Duchess of the Dark Side of the Moon claims to have once been a handmaiden to the goddess Selene).

Quite a few scholars of geography and history from the leading universities have theories and taxonomies about how Faerie society is organized, but they're all second-hand and can offer only partial explanations and there's absolutely no consensus about what's going on. It does not help that the rare diplomatic missions or marriage parties that go to Faerie from the human world rather than in the other direction tend to report memory issues, such that much of what is recorded owes more to dream logic than accurate observation. Needless to say, this has been a rich vein of material for poets, playwrights, and painters only, and intensely frustrating for academics and statesmen.

Culture

Faerie culture is highly localized in accordance with regional folklore and mythology, although scholars disagree whether human folklore is a record of pre-historical encounters with Faerie, or whether the Fae pattern themselves after the human cultures they interact with.

So for example, the Fae of Éire, Alba, Anglia, and northern Gallia seem to correspond to Gaelic and Brythonic literature, Arthuriana, and the Matters of Britain and France. In the Sacrum Imperium and the Danelaw, however, the dominant Fae cultures are distinctively Germanic and Scandinavian - whether that's the Rheintöchter of the Rhineland and Palatinate, or the dvergr who predominate in Bavaria and the Hapsburg lands or the trollkind and various álfar in the land of the Northmen. In much of southern Europe around the Mediterranean, one is much more likely to encounter Faerie peoples recognizable to students of Greek and Roman mythology: many Gentry from the Lega or the western half of the Rhōmaîoi-Rashidun Federation claim descent from oreads, naiads, nereids, satyrs and other bloodlines.

Human scholars are particularly confused by the fact that all of these different peoples all call one another "cousin," no matter whether they belong to the more humanoid elfkind or the distinctly non-human trollfolk or even the potentially fictional or extinct dragons.

Class and Slavery

As already suggested, Faerie society seems to have some sort of a hierarchy, but it does not seem to be one based in the inheritance of land passed down from generation to generation. Rather, as far as humans can tell, status seems to be associated with proximity to or control of or possession of or identification with magical power from various sources.

What does seem to be the case is that those with more power can command those with less, and Faerie embassies ubiquitously feature both vips with titles and what appear to their servants, but there is no consistency on which kinds of fae serve and which rule. Human visitors and diplomats are very unsure whether this consistutes a caste system or clientilism, because the Fae themselves speak in rather vague terms about "obligations" and "debts" and "true names."

Gender

Again, humans have a rather hard time understanding Faerie gender norms - and are rather unsure whether various Fae kinds have genders and how many they have. What is known is that, among what passes for royalty and nobility in Faerieland, there is a tendency for the female to be announced first - correspondence often arrives in the form of "Queen Titania and King Oberon" or "The Baroness and Baron"- which suggests a slight tendency to the matriarchal, but that is mere supposition. Human cultural conservatives both within and without the Church do grumble about the "immodest" and "amazonian" habits of Faerie women when they comport themselves in their visits to human society or in their Gentry marriages, but they make sure to do so under their breath.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Hi

I need some book recommendations

I want to get back into reading but I’m finding it hard since my dyspraxia and ADD diagnoses

I want to read more fiction as I usually read non fiction

So first, I read a lot of thriller books. Adventure thriller, murder thriller, legal thriller. I'm not really into women's fiction as much as I used to be, but I do read them from time to time. (I hope some people will jump in the comments with recommendations for that genre since I'm not very current.) I do like a good historical fiction or a dystopian/alternative reality book.

I'll do series first, in case that's your speed, and then individual recommendations.

Series/Authors

Dan Brown, Lee Child, James Patterson - I'm specifically suggesting these because they have short chapters. A friend of mine with ADHD (which I know is different from ADD) swears by authors with short chapters or short stories because it's easier to find a natural stopping point when her ADHD acts up and she can't stay focused. (I also like them too; Dan Brown more than the others. Digital Fortress and Deception Point are my favorites; the Robert Langston series is ok but I've never picked up those books again. I reread Digital Fortress and Deception Point almost every year.)

Marcia Clark has two series, one about a prosecutor and one about a defense attorney. Both are enjoyable, and one of them (I can't remember the title but it's part of the prosecutor series) is essentially a retelling of the OJ case. (Marcia is one of the prosecutors from the OJ trial.)

Stacey Abrams is a compelling legal fiction writer (she doesn't get into politics in her fiction books) and I like her Avery Keene series (I can't vouch for the books she wrote under her pen name).

Meg Cabot for more lighthearted reads. She has two series that are my go-tos whenever I need something light and quick.

Heather Wells. Heather is a former pop star (think Britney) who is a dorm advisor in NYC and her landlord is a private investigator that she has the hots for...who also happens to be the older brother of her ex-boyfriend, who is also a pop star. It's rom com + mystery.

The Boy series - these are epistolary novels, where everything is happening in emails, text messages, voicemails, newspaper articles.

Recently I've been reading Alex Michaelides and Eric La Salle. Both are thrillers/adventure-type books. I will warn you now; Eric's series deals with the Catholic Church abuse scandal, which I know is touchy for a lot of people for many different reasons. (Though that said, there is a twist in Eric's Laws of Depravity that I did not see coming at all, and usually I can suss these out.)

Always a good read is the Maggie Hope series, by Susan Elia MacNeal. She's a WW2 spy and gets into shenanigans. There are some dark parts of the series but overall, it's fun.

Individual Books

Thirteen by Steve Cavanaugh blew my mind. A serial killer sits on a jury, and that's all I'm going to tell you.

Gameboard of the Gods by Richelle Mead. I've recommended it a few times here on tumblr. It's about a utopian society that regulates religion. It's part of an incomplete trilogy (the publisher cancelled the series for poor sales). The first book (this one) is better than the second.

Murdle. It's like Wordle or Quordle but with mysteries. It's a puzzle book but each puzzle is like a short story.

The Rose Code by Kate Quinn. WW2 spy novel that takes place at Bletchley Park. Kate's grandmother makes an appearance. :)

Several People are Typing by Calvin Kasulke. An epistolary novel that takes place over IM/DM. It's a little weird but a bit silly. A very light and easy read.

The Paradox Hotel by Rob Hart. Part sci-fi, part crime thriller. The Paradox Hotel sits at the "end of earth" next to a port for time travel. January is an employee at the hotel who must make sure that the time travellers don't bring anything back they're not supposed to. It's like The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel + the Loki series + Doctor Who.

The Company of the Dead by David Kowalsky. Time travelers save the Titanic and the ripple effect through history. It's some heady shit, but it's a really interesting theory about what today would be like if the Titanic (and its shipload of rich people - that's important to remember) never sank.

If anyone else wants to add to these book recommendations, please do! Submit in the comments or asks. I'll use the tag #reading list for all of these.

[wolfstarlibrarian]

9 books to read in 2025 (sweet + spicy)

Thank you SO much to @eyra for tagging me! I love an excuse to talk about books.

I had SO much fun reading these books I'm excited to share them, so pretty please let me know if you read any of them? I might put anon asks back on because I'm so eager to discuss them. Also, all of these books have HEAs.

Also, I'm working on related marauders lists for almost all of these, so stay tuned!

🌶️ = the more peppers the spicier it is

🍭 = the more lollipops the sweeter it is

Captive Prince: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

This series is one that ifykyk. It's a dark, dramatic, sexy mlm series set in a pseudo historic age and WOW. If it was a fic it'd come with tons of warnings and tags, but there's also an underlying softness between the main characters. Lots of angst and drama and characters you can't help root for. DEFINITELY an 18+ rec so please proceed accordingly.

Johann: Vampire Mates: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ 🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭

I already rec'd one of the books in this series here, but this one is tied for my favorite. A modern soulmate/vampire au that's got humor, the CUTEST cinnamon roll who's inexperienced (and hundreds of years old), a russian mobster, and just enough angst to make me you ache.

Boystown Heartbreakers: 🌶️🌶️ 🍭🍭🍭

If you're a wolfstar fan, then you'll absolutely adore this friends-to-lovers modern story about a hairstylist who is so worried about dating his DROP DEAD GORGEOUS best friend. All the internal turmoil paired with a book boyfriend you'll absolutely love, and lines that actually had me laughing out loud makes this one of my top reads for the year.

The Charm Offensive: 🌶️🌶️ 🍭🍭🍭

This one totally surprised me with how well it dealth with mental health issues in the middle of a VERY charming story about falling in love with someone (when it's literally your job to help them fall in love with someone else). A bi-awakening and oblivious pining gem. If you want more fics that feature a reality show check out this rec list.

Myles Below Freezing: 🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭

Okay can someone alert the Hazelnoot server? Because this one feels like a cross between Solntse and Sweater Weather. Myles (a cinnamon roll, nerdy Remus IMO) has to solve a murder mystery at the South Pole while trying not to fall for the sweetheart Russian Alexei. The banter is incredible and honestly my friends and I need a second book about the lesbians in it. Forced proximity, oblivious DATING, anxiety rep, action and chase scenes, cuddling, and locked-in together all in one.

Sapphire Sunset: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ 🍭🍭🍭

If you don't know Chris Rice, he's the gay son of Anne Rice (author of Interview With A Vampire) and thank god he's followed in her footsteps because his romance books are SO good and intense and yet fluffy? It's a ton of drama about an ex-marine and a hotel heir and a family scandal for the books. Feels delightfully like an age-gap modern Drarry book.

Lightning Born: 🌶️ 🍭

A friend recommended me this Frankenstein mlm retelling, and I was like "ew, no". However, I was completely surprised by how much heart it had, and how much it reminded me of R/S. Amnesia (due to ya know, dying), forbidden love, some serious angst, and thankfully a HEA that includes lesbians getting to live out in the tropics.

Honey Girl: 🌶️🌶️ 🍭🍭🍭

This is the only book on the list with wlw as the main pairing and by god, it's beautiful. The writing style gripped me on the first page and I've been recommending it to everyone since I've read it. Imagine waking up in a hotel room in Vegas, by yourself, with a wedding band on your finger and a note. The whole book feels like an intimate love letter and it should absolutely be on your TBR.

On Writing

No spice or sweetness in this non-fiction book, because it's a book by Stephen King on writing. Whenever I talk to anyone who's struggling with their craft I always recommend this book. It's short, to the point, and will leave you feeling much more confident in your abilities while helping you improve your writing. 10/10.

⭐

Okay well I hope you enjoy these recs! I've turned on anon asks so please share your thoughts or your own recs as I'm always looking for new books and fics to read. (We'll just ignore how long the TBR list is already...)

Tagging: @thedrarrylibrarian @wolfstarwarehouse @wolfstarmicrofic @pancakehouse @imsiriuslyreading @lavenderhaze @rainbowrowell @gayliketheancients @brandileigh2003 @mrtellmeafckingsecret @imjusthereforwolfstar And ANYONE ELSE who also love books

[lycankeyy]

Funkycule Worldbuilding: Demons, Cambions, and Changelings

So it's probably pretty obvious, but demons are pretty important to the world of Friday Night Funkin and therefore pretty important to Funkycule. We don't know a lot about FNF's interpretation of demons yet, which leaves them very up to headcanons in terms of powers, appearances, how they fit into the world, etc. I'm way to prone to fleshing out fictional species based on breadcrumbs, so here's some info about the species and related ones in my personal AU!

Demons:

Despite their common name, Homo magicae are simply a sub-species of human. That being said, their exact origins are unknown, with evidence of their existence dating as far back to before even the earliest recordings of human history. Their numbers are dwarfed by Homo sapiens and they appear to live in hiding from them, though usually in plain sight; from witches to fae to yokai, if there is a myth of mischievous people harnessing magic, it's probably based on an encounter with a demon.

The base form of a demon contains numerous differences from humans. Their skin tone tends to range from faint purple to dark blue. Their eyes tend to be red, with instead the color of their sclera varying; typically black or white, but sometimes yellow or blue. They have keratin horns that can vary in color, bat-like wings, and thin tails that end in a spade-like shape. Many have fangs and claws, but these are sometimes filed down. Their bones are noticeably bright red. Despite all these things, demons are perfectly capable of cloaking, which allows them to look like an ordinary human.

The thing that sets them most apart, obviously, is their use of dark magic. Demons have a wide arrange of powers at their disposal, though each demon tends to have a specialty. For example, Girlfriend's is summoning and teleportation - an advanced form of telekinesis. Her parents', on the other hand, is coercion and brainwashing. However, all demons can theoretically perform any type of magic, though they tend to have a few they focus on honing.

Demons have different needs than humans; they need less sleep, but they need to eat more frequently, as magic usage is physically demanding. They have a natural healing factor and live to be, on average, about 150 years old - they will not show physical signs of old age until weeks before their death, after their healing factor suddenly breaks down. While naturally not prone to injury, demons, especially young ones, can be rather sickly, prone to headaches and fainting spells due to overexpending their magic.

Demons are historically mischievous and disdainful towards humans, though it's unknown how much of this is innate and how much of it is a self-fulfilling prophecy on behalf of the humans who feared and shunned them for so long. In modern times, demons usually want their children to fit in with human society as much as possible, teaching them to cloak early and trying to let them live normal human lives. After all, even with their troubled history, there have been occasions of demons and humans getting along.

Cambions:

(Sprite from Pico's Funky School; also I do not believe that Alucard is or ever was intended to be non-human but this is my au let me have fun LMAO)

Cambions are the hybrid offspring of a human and a demon. They may have some demonic features, such as purple or blue skin, red eyes, discolored bones, and horns. More rarely, they may have wings and tails, but it's far more common for them to simply have skeletal deformities where these appendages would be. A majority of cambions are incapable of cloaking; if they are, it's usually the only magic they are capable of.

Cambions are traditionally associated with demonic trickery or "deals with the devil". In modern times, they commonly come from completely consensual unions, or more rarely as a form of religious devotion or vicarious desire by a human for their child to be magical or otherwise "special". In these cases, the child will likely never meet their demonic parent, who typically acts as a surrogate in exchange for worship or some other boon.

These hybrids' magical powers pale in comparison to a full-blooded demon's. A cambion is typically only capable of one type of magic that they specialize in, and it requires lots of training, with many cambions raised by a loving human parent never learning the extent of their potential power at all. Cambions typically have advanced healing, but an average human lifespan.

Changelings:

Changelings are normal humans who gain the ability to use dark magic through the consumption or injection of demon or cambion blood. Demon blood is typically black, but it can be filtered and diluted into a thin, bright red liquid that's essentially what gives them their magical ability. When exposed to the human bloodstream, it can temporarily give them the ability to enact dark magic - though continued use requires more, and typically increasingly higher, doses.

This practice is ancient and typically considered cult activity, thought as human and demon cultures become more integrated, the practice resurfaced as something similar to drug dealing - on top of the magic, changelings typically report boosted confidence and a sort of "buzz". However, too much repeated exposure or too high a dose can easily kill a human, with even low repeated doses resulting in physical abnormalities. It's worth noting that cambion blood is slightly more compatible for the purposes of this practice.

And that's my Ted talk like comment and subscribe 👍

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

I hope this comes across as a compliment, but your writing style has ruined other books for me. I love how you leave each 'reader' vague. It really lets me focus on what's happening instead of morphing the image in my head. I've tried to read other authors on Kindle and stuff, but they seem to focus on their main character's appearance so much that it eats up the other things we should be focusing on. One of the first lines on a story I'm trying to read describes the mc friend's coffin nails grabbing her wrist, and now I'm thinking too much on the coffin nails instead of the feeling of nail in the mc's wrist which either catches her attention or makes her hiss in pain, ya know? Haunting Adeline was praised on BookTok but it felt light and not nearly as immersive compared to some of your works.

Do you have any recommendations on books that helped shape you as an author or that you've just really enjoyed?

Have you ever thought about publishing any dark works or anything like that? I could tell you now I would pre-order it.

I have an anthology of dark stories done but I'm struggling with the kindle process tbh. But it doesn't really matter.

Thanks! This is a really nice ask. Um what I read doesn't align with what I write unfortunately. That probably makes no sense lol. I read historical fiction and non-fiction mostly so it's like not dark per se and it's often not very romantic neither, not that I really think I write romance, just you know, kinks.

I can let you know some historical fictions I've read.