#on being brought from africa to america

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Phillis Wheatley condemned slavery, but celebrated that it had taken her from what she described as her pagan culture in Africa. Her language is of its time:

On Being Brought from Africa to America

By Phillis Wheatley

'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,

Taught my benighted soul to understand

That there's a God, and there's a Saviour too:

Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.

Some view our sable race with scornful eye,

'Their colour is a diabolic die.'

Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,

May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.

"Normal Women: 900 Years of Making History" - Philippa Gregory

#book quotes #normal women #philippa gregory #nonfiction #phillis wheatley #condemnation #slavery #slave trade #celebration #pagan culture #africa #on being brought from africa to america #mercy #god #savior #redemption #christianity

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

The Invisible String Theory

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You didn't expect the man who gave you his coat to be the same one to bust down the door where you and the other women slept - sniper hood scaring everyone within an inch of their life. You didn't expect him to become so important to you, either. (Based on König's in-game backstory).

WORDCOUNT: 9.2k

WARNINGS: Human trafficking, mentions of unwanted touching, trauma, blood, gore, guns, bullets, protective!König, soft!König, nightmares, mentions of bullying, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

'DATE: 25, NOVEMBER, 2021

LOCATION: BERLIN, GERMANY

TIME OF EVENT: 0230

MISSION REPORT: PENDING….'

You don’t remember much from the day that could be called out of the ordinary. Ever since you’d been moved here with the other girls, everything was predictable down to the time the men would come over, to the point where the screams had to be muffled by pillows. 

Never in your life did you think you’d be part of the nearly fifty million people stuck in this situation, and neither did you think you’d be the one in one hundred who got out. But before you can think about November twenty-fifth and those pale gray eyes, you have to go back to the beginning. To Al-Qatala. 

You hadn’t been with this cell initially—you’d been moved around and bartered off more times than you could count; the initial founder of your predicament was long gone at this point. North and South America, Europe, Africa, Asia, and Oceania…you’d been practically everywhere and on every continent barring the obvious last. In Europe, you couldn’t name the countries, but you knew this for a fact: you’d never been to Germany before. 

They had you with five other women in a large SUV in the beginning, this international ring of human traffickers. You had watched from the window, face blank and eyes unblinking, at the men who met near the docks. They had brought you in through Hamburg, first—not only the largest seaport in Germany but the third largest in Europe; you think you read that on a flier at some point. One of those flimsy ones that you find in gas stations with bright lettering to attract the tourists with their interesting facts. 

You wished you were only a tourist. 

You’d watched the men shake hands, and that was when you knew your fate, as well as that of the five other women, was sealed. You were going to all be here for a long time. 

This Al-Qatala cell was ruthless, but you supposed with being around terrorists, ruthlessness was better than being executed. 

For days you’d be exploited with the false promises of moments of freedom, breaks, food, and water. For some of the women it was drugs or money, but when your stomach was empty and your eyes blurring from lack of sleep, even addictions seemed to pale for brief hours. But above it all was the threat of death at every corner. These men would kill you. 

It was only a matter of time unless you could give them what they wanted. 

You yourself had developed a system, and it was probably the only reason you were still alive. Pick one of the handlers, gain his favor, and pray that he treats you specially while you keep up the act of a mindless, weak, woman. 

Ivon was the man’s name this time around. Born and raised here in Berlin before the clutches of his fanatical ideations brought him to Al-Qatala. You hated him.

Hated his touch—hated his scent and how he talked; every bit of him was corrupted like a black dog at a crossroads, always leading people down the wrong path. Your only saving grace was that he was stupid. The other girls called you Cat—said you managed to nuzzle up to someone and soon after got them to give you what you wanted. Everything you wanted except freedom, that was.

You didn’t deny that Ivon did give you privileges, but that was the point. About a week into your stay in Berlin, he allowed you to go into public with him. Arm-candy.

A doll. 

The townhouse you’d been stuck in had disappeared into a spec behind the rearview mirror, the chilled air from outside making you shiver at the lack of heat and the thin shawl you’d been thrown. No jacket. 

The care of your health only extended to how well you were able to work—at the moment you were relatively healthy despite the bulge of bruises and constantly shell-shocked look behind your eyes.

But the trip—the trip. You supposed that was when it had fully started, and you didn’t even realize it before you saw those gray eyes again. 

“Come,” Ivon orders, holding tightly to your arm and dragging you along from the corner shop without making a scene. Your hands loosely brush the wrack of clothes, fabric soft under your fingertips as it sways. 

Fixing your shawl, you try to burrow your neck into it, gaining what little heat is available to you. It was cold out—you were shivering. People send looks, eyes tight as they shift up and down your form, but no one ever says anything. To be this bold, this cell had to have been at this for a long, long time. The realization didn’t make you feel any better. 

That was when you first saw him. 

You were standing outside a coffee shop, quivering like a newly hatched butterfly, Ivon making a call only a few feet away with fast motions of his arms. It was hard not to make a run for it right then and there; hard not to take those few seconds of open air and dash away—start screaming and yelling until the authorities came. 

It would save yourself, but what about the others? They wouldn’t be so fortunate, you’d be sentencing them to death. None of this was simple—it needed to be thought out. Two games of chess being played at the same time.

The irony of it was that König had been off-duty that day. It had been a shot in the dark. 

“Are you alright?” A thick Austrian accent makes you flinch as it appears beside your right ear, grating.

Your eyes snap to the side, moving one foot back as you blink wildly up at the blue-gray orbs that would become a staple. You liked to call it as everyone else did—the invisible string theory. A theory that stated that the universe connected people who were destined to meet one day. Through thick or thin waters, it was inevitable. He was inevitable. 

“Yes,” you say quickly, holding your hands tightly around you. The man ahead of you was tall, almost startlingly so, with muscles more bulky than a boulder and his buzz-cut head open to the chilled breeze. He wore a surgical mask over his lower visage, his hoodie under the thick material of a canvas jacket. “Yes,” you say again, hearing Ivon’s voice behind you still on the phone. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Gray eyes furrow slightly, gaze darting over your head. 

“Are you…sure, Ma’am?” 

“Thank you for your concern,” you fake laugh, eyes pained, backing up farther. That invisible string snaps into place, pulling tight at only those few simple words. 

His stature made you slightly nervous—large, intimidating; those hands could do quite the damage if given the chance. Your eyes had hit and bounced off the identity discs at his chest with little thought, too preoccupied to notice the fact that he was in the Service.

König’s eyes had narrowed softly, dark brows minutely moving in.

Ivon hangs up his phone. 

“Can I help you?” He asks, coming up and sliding a hand around your waist. The man had stared at him for a long minute, and you had felt Ivon tense slowly at the unblinking eye contact. 

This stranger had commented in German a long string of frim words, hands going to his jacket and grabbing at the arms—he slips out of it while still uttering. 

Before you can react, the large coat swallows you whole and you snatch at the heat that’s still inside instinctually, now only realizing how much you were shivering. Your body sags into the weight of the fabric, the scent of sweat and coffee. 

You don’t even pay attention to the growing tones, shocked. People look over to the two fast words being tossed.

Yet it could only last so long. 

Ivon’s hand latches onto the side of your arm, beginning to drag you back and away from this kind stranger like a lap dog while throwing curses behind him. Gray eyes meet yours as old shoes skid and stumble. 

König had taken a firm step towards you that day, his body tense and his hands clenched at his side—ready to do anything on a moment's notice should you ask for it. But all you do is stare, jaw loose, and the given coat still on your shoulders. You just couldn’t understand why he would do that. 

The stranger gets swallowed by the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone. 

That was all it had been; a moment—a few mere seconds in the large plot that was this almost impossible tale. You were glad it had been him, or else the events of the future could have been very different. 

Of course, they hadn’t let you keep the jacket, but the memory was enough to warm you for days even as old pains faded and new ones took their place. 

But those gray eyes would help you in the future, like a guardian; a protector in your dreams as you watched the snow fall from the sliver of outside light in your room with the others. Your mattress was on the floor like the rest, thin blankets and clouds of cold breath wafting up from sleeping forms. 

This was the time it happened, and you’d just woken up to find the curtains shifting as one of the women near it moved in her sleep. Shadows slip past, the light interrupted as it shifts over your tired face with broken fractures. 

You were always kept on the ground floor. 

'CLEARANCE: APPROVED 

TRANSLATING MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’…

STAND BY…

Operation Red Freedom took place on November twenty-fifth, 2021, at approximately 0230 in the neighborhood of [REDACTED], at the residence of [REDACTED], Berlin, Germany. A squad of ten highly trained [REDACTED] personnel covertly entered the residence in two teams of five. Fireteam One advanced from the back entrance while Fireteam Two entered the residence from the balcony at the top floor, accessed via ladder.

Squad Leader [REDACTED], part of Fireteam One, set foot in the residence of [REDACTED] at approximately 0238 and began sweeping the ground floor as Fireteam Two cleared three of twelve known individuals belonging to the terrorist organization, Al-Qatala, on the top floor….'

You shift and shiver, your body trying to warm itself as the world blurs at the sides of your vision. Fingers twitch as your hand goes to wrap your waist, curled into the fetal position, creaking emanates from above you. Blinking softly, you frown and take a quivering breath, head nuzzling the thin mattress. 

“Cold,” you say, the following low exhale of air out of your lips only making it all worse as everything seems to drop another degree. The darkness didn’t help either, only that one line of light trying desperately to fill the room like a bucket descending into a dry well. 

You’re only clothed in the dirty and tattered remains of a large shirt, your legs feeling like they don’t hold any blood in them as they quiver without your knowledge—shaking the blanket above you. A few of the girls had said it would be okay to share, but everyone was afraid of the lock on the door clicking open and the men coming back in and seeing them. In the end, you could only look after yourself.

A thump makes you startle, drooping eyes snapping back open as you gasp. 

Head shifting, you blink rapidly upward to the ceiling, confused as to whether that had been a part of a failing mind or if you’d really just heard a muffled bump upstairs. Brows furrowing, you lightly sit up, hands still around yourself and legs limply outward; spine hunched. 

Your fingers had lost feeling, just as your nose had gone numb, but moving helped a little. Your hands dig into your flesh and your ears twitch at every creak in the wood—every pass of silent feet that suddenly becomes all the clearer as the sheen of fatigue slowly leaves your brain. 

Walking? Small pains move along your body like needles, poking and prodding, but you ignore them as easily as you do the vile hands that had touched you. Survival had forced you into a constant state of self-preservation—pain couldn’t bother you, because if you stopped, you wouldn’t get back going again. 

Your head tilts so you can side-eye the door to the room, sleeping forms all around shifting, singular groaning of tired lungs. But there’s something inside of you that stiffens like a prey animal, and you don’t know why. Inside of your sockets, your eyes hone in, bones stiff and your chest stilling as the grain becomes the most interesting thing to you beyond breathing. 

There was someone….out there. 

Watching, the sides of your vision shadow over to focus harder, your muscles tight. Your mind goes to the thumps from upstairs, the moving feet that sounded far more careful and deliberate than the ones your jailors took care to walk with. 

Inside your ribs, your heart patters a bit faster, adrenal glands sending a certain flight or flight through the few veins you hold that aren’t chilled over.

Something was happening. Something wasn’t right.

Only when you move to shake the shoulder of one of the women sleeping beside you does it happen. 

A yell. 

A scream. 

The girls in the room all startle awake, sounds of concern and shock entering the air that you mirror; faces snapping to the ceiling and the door. The townhouse erupts into gunfire and the sound of slamming wood—a warzone that only is separated from all of you by the thin material of the four walls.

You feel yourself being grabbed and held in fear in the dark, as your open face holds the expression of a rabbit in an open field, looking along the long, hidden grass. 

The sounds persist, loud German shouts going up over the house and echoing with heated fever. This continues for minutes, added in with the sound of doors breaking off hinges, bouncing off the ground, and shaking the foundation so hard that you can feel it reverberate. The women go silent. Stone-still. 

But the gunfire—so much gunfire. The constant pop of assault weapons and a pound of multiple booted feet. 

What was going on? You can't make sense of it, so you only freeze and listen; trying to understand the longer the fight goes on, heart hammering; mouth slack-jawed. And then it’s like it never happened.

Silence. 

You share quick looks with the others, all gripping one another and heads angled to the door. The heavy feet start back up again, coming closer. Your mind slashes to the window across the room, but it’s hard to think beyond the sudden body that shakes the door that leads directly to you all—the women scream, some standing up and racing to the glass with the same idea as you. 

'…Squad Leader [REDACTED], and both Fireteams successfully eliminated all targets inside of the [REDACTED] residence, leaving the room occupied by known hostages last to prevent casualties and/or the usage of bargaining chips. Squad Leader [REDACTED] made contact with hostages at approximately 0244 after the final sweep of the townhouse had been completed and all personnel accounted for.

Local authorities had been contacted by neighbors due to noise but were dismissed.' 

The door busts off its hinges and the room devolves into panicked yells and hurled bits of mattress material. Loud pleas and curses stuck like gums to teeth as they were forced out in fear and bone-crushing terror. You remember pushing back into the wall, many others doing the same, as a beast of a man enters the room with his face covered with a loose fabric hood of some sort. 

Large—brutish. Like a demon walking with the color of black printed over his entire body; gear hangs from a combat vest, hands holding an assault rifle as a sidearm is strapped to his bulging thigh. Forearms the side of your head stays near his chest, and in order to not hit his head on the doorframe, the individual has to bend slightly. Over that hood, the lenses and head-gear of a night-vision rig sit heavily before it’s moved back with a firm hand that is nearly double the size of yours.

A monster.

Your entire being is tight with quivering tension, eyes blinking away tears at the smell of blood that rolls in from the hallway. The women at the window duck down, hands to their heads as if expecting a bullet to carve its way between their skulls. 

“Cat,” one of the ladies behind you mutters, voice quivering. You shush her on bitten lips and move her farther behind you. 

“Don’t speak,” you mutter. “Don’t move.”

You don’t know what you expect, but nothing about this is correct. 

The man raises his hands, the rifle slapping his chest as it hangs from a strap. He speaks in German, and the heavy and fast noise of it makes your already addled head spin. No one answers beyond the slide of their own feet over the hardwood floors.

“Ich heiße König,” his head swivels from one to another, “Sprichst du Deutsch? Irgendjemand?”

You stare blankly, panting. 

After a moment, and a slow step forward from the stranger, he speaks again, though this time, it’s in English. 

“My name is König.” His voice is familiar to you, and you blink in confusion quickly, hidden near the back of the shaking bodies. “I am with the German Military, yes? We have conducted a raid on this residence.” 

Military? Raid? 

“...I am not here to hurt you.” He nears one of the women, beginning to bend down slowly. She squeaks, balking back—making him tense and halt. It didn't matter what he said, König was the epitome of a man who was intimidating on body alone; the gear wasn’t helping. Neither was the hood. 

A soldier appears in the doorway, calling out to him in his native language as you flinch at the noise. 

König calls back calmly, trying to keep an air of gentle strength around him.

The second soldier comes inside, dressed similarly despite the lack of fabric over his visage which instantly puts many at ease again. He clears his throat as König steps back, gargantuan hands coming up to rest at his vest collar as his legs shift. He seems a bit put off at the fearful stares from everyone, rolling his shoulders for a moment as he turns his head to look out of the doorway. 

Your eyes don’t move from him, though. A nagging feeling in the back of your skull. 

“We have to leave this place,” the second soldier tells you all, kneeling and resting a hand over his knee. “We’ll get you medical attention. Food. Water. There’s no need to suffer here any longer, hm? We can see to it that all of you will get the best care that can be provided.” A pause. “We can get you back home.” 

That certainly got the attention that was needed. 

Meek questions started falling out, then louder ones before pandemonium was roused in that tiny room pushed to the very back of the townhouse. Home. It was a word that had almost lost all meaning but was still that constant shining light in the back of everyone’s mind. 

Home.

Did you even have one of those left? 

As the rest of your fellows all got to their feet, taking you with them, you had to think over that fact as the soldier guided them gently out of the room to join the others waiting—trying to answer their questions and get them away from the gore before they saw it. 

You stayed behind, feet shifting over the floor and your lips thin. As the silence settles in, you hold yourself a bit tighter and glance at the mattress all mashed together and stained—those thin blankets as you shiver. 

“Are you alright?” Your head snaps over. 

You’d forgotten about König.

He still stands there, still and with his hands at his collar; he clears his throat softly, speaking up from his low utterance. “Please…do not be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you say tinily, your voice cracking in the lie. 

You can’t see his eyes—not with the shadow from his hood or his head rig, but you can see the way his skull lightly tilts to the side, trying to see you better in the low light. 

“That is good,” he answers, not convinced. “I’m glad. I did not wish to scare anyone.” He moves back and motions with a hand to the door from where they hang. “Please. It is best not to linger, yes?”  

“Do I…” you hesitate, shivering. “Do I know you from somewhere?” 

König’s face isn’t visible, but you can still sense the feeling of confusion leaking out of him. The man takes a small step closer, and you gaze up at him until his eyes are visible. 

Blue-gray. 

You stare, mouth parting in shock.

König blinks twice, quickly making a noise in the back of his throat at the sight of your eyes gazing into his—the same woman outside of the coffee shop from days ago.

That little invisible string pulls you closer, small millimeter by small millimeter. 

“You?” You both say it at the same time, laced with surprise and shock. 

It’s a long moment of gazing into each other, a battered body and another more strong than an ox. All fear of the man dissipates. 

“You gave me your jacket,” you whisper, still torn up about it. 

König’s hood shifts as he glances back to the door, German speech over the radio strapped to his chest which he takes in and processes in the back of his skull. But he always looks back at you, eyes crinkled with concern and perhaps even a bit of misplaced guilt. 

A protective knife sides into his side.

“Come.” The man reaches out a hand, hovering it over your arm. You stare at the gloved limb for a moment before softly moving towards it with your breath caught in your throat, hesitant. König’s fingers delicately slide over the flesh, not closing around it until he feels your muscles loosen. “...Let’s get you warmer, Schatz, yes?” 

You blink.

“It’s cold here,” you mutter, letting him guide you along, his gray orbs always keeping you in the side of his vision. 

“Yes,” he agrees, nodding. “Very cold. Have you been to Germany during the winter before?”

Your head slightly shakes, bare feet padding along next to the pair of great boots—you lean closer unconsciously to the promise of warmth. König guides you away from the seeping blood on the floor and protects your eyes from the view of the bodies across the room with his own as a guard dog would. 

“No.” He notices your leaning and brings you nearer to him, letting you use him as a brace. The man knows the effects of shock, and you wear it as plainly as any other. “I’ve never been here before.” 

König hums and his free hand goes up to press into the radio, muttering in his native tongue. He releases the connection and asks as he blinks at you, “Do you require any immediate medical attention?” 

Again, you shake your head. 

“Where are the others?” You sink further into him, being guided to the front door, open to the soft snowfall and a chilled wind as your shoulder hunch. 

“Just outside,” König glances at the bodies across the room—the ones he’d riddled with bullets that still twitch even as the minutes draw longer. Gray eyes going from one to another, the house is heavy with the weight of dead men. Twelve in total and all getting colder just like the temperature outside. König didn’t feel bad about it, and when he’d finally busted open that door to find you and the women, he was satisfied with the blood on his hands. If hell were to be his home, he would walk there with a golden-fanged smile. 

But now wasn’t the time for that. 

“I will bring you to them,” the soldier speaks, snow blowing in from the entrance. “Slowly, now, Schatz, watch the steps. Allow me to help.”

You stop at the doorway, bringing a hand to your mouth to cover a haggard cough as König makes his way down the first concrete step ahead of you—large armored vehicles had pulled up from a ways away. The women huddle around one another, the rest of the soldiers sticking by them and opening the doors to the vehicles as the night gets only more cold and stormy.  

Gray eyes flicker for a moment down to your lack of proper protection, fingers twitching and tapping at his thigh as König remembers your expression the day he’d first met you. 

“Do you want me to carry you?” He says slowly, cautious in his approach. The man wasn’t stupid—he wouldn’t touch you unless you explicitly stated it was alright for him to do so. “I will be gentle, I promise. I do not wish for your feet to freeze, I...” He pauses as you blink, staring into his soul. “I…will not touch you if you do not tell me to do it. You have my word.” 

You continue to stand there for a moment, face unreadable before your head slowly turns to the vehicles in the street. 

The neighborhood was so normal it still caused you to wonder how no one had spoken up and seen something. Rows of connected houses now with their lights on—faces peeking from the windows like little children on Christmas morning; trying to get glimpses of Santa and the man’s reindeer. 

Finally, your gaze moves back to the hooded visage of König, able to see it better under the moonlight and the glare of falling snowflakes—a few of those frozen pieces sitting in the folds of the fabric.

“The hood scared them,” you utter about the others. König stiffens a bit, blinking at you but not looking away. “They’re used to people trying to hide their faces, but yours…with how large you are…”

“I understand.” König doesn't tear away his eyes. “...Did I scare you, Schatz?”

You don’t know why, but for what seems like the first time in years, the question makes you giggle. The beast of a man goes still with his feet on the ground, usually jittery and moving body captivated by the sound as it echoes over the night’s air—the puff of your breath as it moves around his hood; rustling it like leaves on a tree. 

Eyes widening only a sliver more, König’s breath is in his throat.

It was like listening to a bird’s song.

“Maybe only a little,” you whisper to him. “But it’s okay. I’m scared of most things.” 

He licks his lips, but you’re unable to see the slight quirk of them afterward. 

“Then I will make it up to you, yes?” He holds out a hand. “Let me? The car is warm and your friends are waiting for you. My men say they ask about your health.”

You softly nod, the shadow of the house trying to drag you back into it—its blackened arms reaching and latching onto old scars. When your hand connects with König's, the man takes his time putting one foot back to a step and scooping you up from behind your knees. With a tiny grunt, you settle at his chest, calming your heartbeat with the fact that you know he won’t hurt you. 

“I’ve got you,” he says. 

In his arms, your bare legs hang in the air, hand wrapping his neck, and with a slightly nervous look to you as your body hovers. König watches for a moment, hesitating before he begins walking to the same vehicle the other woman had been moved into out of the snowfall. 

“Can you tell me your name,” he asks to distract you from his hold, to get you more comfortable with him as his boots crunch through the packed powder on the ground—making sure to watch his step so as to not jostle you. 

“Everyone calls me Cat.” Gray eyes blink your way, visible skin painted black. König’s head tilts. You can’t help but find it endearing.

“Katze?” He hums, and you can imagine his lips moving slightly upwards from the innocent tone of his voice as if taken by the strange moniker. “That is…interesting.” 

You huff tinily, shivering again as your body moves to curl a little more. 

The soldier quickly reassures you. “Nearly there.” 

The vehicle is in front of you, and a nearby man opens the door for König as he carries you over. Nodding in thanks, the large individual eases you into one of the seats as the blast of warm air makes you sag—the other woman in there mulls closer, grabbing onto you and laughing through tears. 

Looking back at them, you smile and feel yourself get a bit teary-eyed as everything starts to slowly come into focus. 

Glancing outward, you stare at the snow that hits the dark hood of König, sticking and hanging off until the tiny white dots melt from the heat of his body. With his legs shifting he moves back a step and nods to you, eyes moving to stare at the ground for a moment. 

“We will take you to base. From there you will all be given dorms and fresh apparel to—”

“Thank you, König,” you interrupted him. He stares, lips parted with the half-tones of cut-off speech. “And please extend my thanks to your men as well.” 

“...Of course, Katze.” König stands straighter, always twitching fingers moving to the car door as engines start with a grinding roar. He nods again, the loose fabric swaying as the lenses of his rig stay firm at the movement. “There is no need to thank us. Relax. Sleep, if you wish to do it. The ride will be long.” The man’s gray eyes linger for a moment on your own, studying the bumps and small marks on your face. His hand tightens over the door as your gaze is stuck with his own; warmth blooming in his chest. He was glad he had found you. 

König slips out a soft, “There are blankets under the seats,” before he closes the door with a firm thump of metal. 

You can’t help but smile. 

'…Hostages were taken back to [REDACTED] and received minor medical attention on site. Housed in [REDACTED] and were admitted for needed treatments/medications - all details/names listed in File 3 Section 6 for future reference. DNA was placed into databases. 

Next of kin were informed of their family members’ position and/or state of being via phone call to the corresponding government official that then traveled through the appropriate channels once identified.'

You sit as a nurse hands you heating pads for your hands, which you take with a small thanks and clenched tightly, sucking every ounce of warmth from them to stop the shaking. Your body was heavy with the weight of new clothes and heated blankets, the room utterly normal in a way you’d not known for years. A corner table with books and a chess board—a connected bathroom stocked with amenities you may need; even a rug on the tile floor. You don’t know why that was shocking to you, but even the simplest thing was awe-inspiring. Your eyes had even slipped over a tiny nightlight near the door. 

It nearly made you cry. 

Your nurse moves back a bit, smiling down at you kindly. 

“Is there anything else you might need, Dear?” Her accent is prominent, though not as much as König’s had been. She waits for your answer diligently as the pitcher of water and a similar glass sit on your nightstand. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head. Your socked feet rub together like a grasshopper. “I think that’s all.” Your eyelids blink. “But…” you stop.

“What is it?” The lady asks gently, hands slack at her sides.

“The man—König,” you pause. “Is he here?” 

Blinking at you, the nurse tilts her head to the side in curiosity. “Not currently, no. At least, not in this specific building. He and his men are being debriefed across base. They will be there for a long while.” At your blank look, her brows slightly move up in accommodating comfort. “Would…you like me to tell him something for you?” 

Playing with the heating pads in your hands, your face gains a slightly embarrassed sheen. You liked the thought of being near König, truthfully. No one had made you feel safe like he did—him and his selfless action of a large coat given with no intention of getting anything in return. 

“Just,” you breathe softly. “Just that I’m sorry for losing his coat, and that I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

The nurse stares, very much confused but not about to question you. Her feet shift over the floor, and a light nod is sent your way. 

“Of course. I’ll tell him.” She motions to the bed with a hand and explains that whenever you wished to sleep, you were free to use the bed—and the TV was open to you as well, though you might not be able to understand the local stations. With that, she exited the room. 

Left alone, your head moves around the room slowly, taking it all in once more as the small bandages under your clothes pull at your flesh. The tears start slipping down your cheeks with no warning. 

Wrist coming up to your eyes, the limb presses in tightly, water staining the flesh as it dribbles down, and your lip quivers like a worm below it. You don’t know why you’re crying now and not when König had gotten you out of that townhouse. Why now, when there wasn’t anything prompting you to do so? 

But something was prompting you—the knowledge that you would never be going back to anyone who would mistreat you again. You had your own room. Good food. All the water that your stomach could drink down. A nightlight that pushes back the darkness even if you’re so used to living in it. 

Through your soft sniffles, chuckles move out, filling the space with a warm echo. You pull the blankets closer to you and collapse backward onto the mattress, smiling widely at the ceiling. 

That little invisible string dances as your heart pulls at it. 

—

König’s leg lightly jumps from under his table, signing off his name at the bottom of a report before he stands and rubs a hand over the top of his un-hooded head. He grabs the paper and slips it into a manila folder, hands pale with deep scars running the length of them like fissures in the earth. Deftly taking the item, he walks out of his office and begins moving down the length of the building, fingers tapping over the yellowish material with a small connection of flesh and thick envelope. 

Tap-tap, tappity-tap. 

His fingers were always fidgeting—moving, tensing, twitching. It was one of the reasons they never let him become a recon sniper; the more obvious being the blatant size of his body. Both of which had been the cause of much teasing throughout his childhood. 

But König’s mind was on something other than the report in his hands, and it was starting to become a very strong distraction. You. The women. Al-Qatala. 

He was angry he hadn’t acted outside of that coffee shop—angry he hadn't noticed the signs right in front of him even if he had been powerless to stop it then. The soldier’s jaw clenched, the strong muscles of his jaw roving. 

“Verdammt,” he hisses under his breath, glaring at the tile. “Should have done something.”

König gets to his commanding officer’s office and knocks, only staying long enough to hand him the folder with his finished report and leave once more. His mind wouldn’t stay silent tonight. There’s no doubt that he won’t be able to sleep unless he reassures himself that you and the others are okay. 

The man’s head shifts back to the email he had gotten from your assigned nurse, whom he’d taken it upon himself to know the name of when he carried you into the base’s hospital—Eva. 

‘...She says she wants to apologize for losing your coat…”

König’s heart had twisted at that—that was what you were concerned about? He had to tell you that it was alright, or else he would never know peace. Perhaps even ask how you’ve been treated so far, just to make sure that everything was comfortable for you. 

The man’s eyelids move slightly downward in thought, a pull at his heart to walk outside. He passes a few other soldiers in the hallway, nodding to them with a tiny greeting but unwilling to stop and talk. In only fatigues, König exits the main doors quickly, lightly moving into a jog as his body shivers at the sudden chill touching his arms under the black compression shirt. Under him the snow has grown deeper, the large lights illuminating the almost greenish reflections of the winter landscape of open roads and large buildings. 

Curfew was long past—this had to be quick. 

Just a check-in, König tells himself as he nears the hospital, his breath puffing in the air. Then I can wipe my hands of it. 

He slows as he nears the doors, huffing a breath as he pushes on the barrier, opening it with a squawk of hinges and metal. Entering, the front desk staff looked up at him in surprise, muttering his name in question.

“Katze?” He responds, pushing a hand over his head and feeling the melting snowflakes. His cheeks are a light shade of exposure-red, and inquisitive eyes shift over the two individuals slowly. “What room?”

The pair share a glance and tell him in the same breath. Room ten. 

It’s no sooner after that König finds himself there, hand hovering over the handle as the hallway clock ticks beside his right ear. His gray eyes blink at the door, feet shuffling from under him before he clears his throat under his breath, glancing away for a second in hesitation. 

Was this appropriate?

König didn’t have an answer, but the pull in his chest was tight and firm—he just needed to see you. A glimpse, nothing more. He raises his fist and raps his knuckles over the wood delicately, three tiny knocks that hit his ears like bullets from a gun; the bullets he’s put into pathetic Al-Qatala bodies and watched burst like sacks of fluid. 

He waits, hands going to grasp at his shirt collar, pushing out a low breath to calm himself. 

After a long moment, his foot taps the floor, blinking. Again he knocks—a bit louder. 

“She is sleeping, you evolutionsbremse,” he utters, accent low and grating. “Leave her alone.” But even if you are, his nerves peek their head over the brimstone wall of his brain. 

With his fingers caressing the handle, slowly moved to clutch it fully, swallowing the metal in his grip. König takes a deep breath into his lungs, letting it fill them up. Again, he tells himself, just a check-in. 

He twists the doorknob and sets his forearm on the wood, pushing the barrier open. 

König moves so that his body makes no noise, even with how large it is as he angles the side of his head through the opening. He finds a large mound of blankets atop the bed—stacked and layered so heavily that he has to blink in surprise at how you can breathe under them; because you were under them. 

Gray eyes make out the small sliver of skin peaking out from the side of the bed—fingers—and the top of your forehead near the pillows formed around your skull. Unconsciously, a soft smile works its way over König’s lips until he finds himself chuckling.

“Niedlich,” he mutters, scars over his face shifting as he speaks. 

Sighing lowly, König pulls back his head, beginning to close the door once more.

“König…?” Your tiny voice makes him halt like he had in the townhouse. 

Eyes wide and lips parted at being caught, the door remains open, only a sliver visible to your vision as your furrowed brows are stuck at the barrier. A red sheen moves across the soldier’s face in a slow sweep of embarrassment that goes bone deep.

With a lick of his lips, König re-opens the door slightly.

“I did not mean to wake you, Katze.” He finds your eyes and nods to you. “I apologize. Go back to sleep—you must be tired.” 

 “Wait,” you utter, moving your head fully out from under the blankets. König pauses, eyes staring as his other hand comes up to itch at the back of his neck. 

“What is it,” the man asks, opening the door fully and moving inside. “Do you need anything?” 

The question had hit you in your thin slumber, interrupted only partially by the opening of your door to the familiar pull of gray eyes and a strong build. A buzz-cut head. You take a slow breath to wake yourself up more, watching him from your bed. “...Did you know that I would be in that house?”

König tilts his head at the question, sighing slightly and glancing at the clock inside of the room on your nightstand. He frowns. 

“No,” he explains gently, coming closer. “No, I did not. I do not get told such things—only where to shoot and where not to.” The man tries a small smile, kneeling on one leg down by the bed and staring into your sleepy eyes. “But I am glad I found you again, yes? You had me worried.”

“You were worried?” You can’t quite grasp it.

“Ja,” he nods. “Your eyes—they have stuck with me, Schatz, you understand?” 

Your eyebrows pull up your face, blinking in shock. 

“...Yours, too,” you confess. König’s heart flutters, listening until your lips have fallen still. “They’re very nice, König.”

He goes sheepish, lips flicking up into a smile and his eyes daring away for a moment. “You can thank my mother for them, then.” He chuckles. “I have stolen the family's eyes, I was told.”

You chuckle with him, hand coming to rub at your cheek. A silence falls between the two of you.

“I don’t sleep well,” you tell him in the relative darkness, light from the hallway and your night light illuminating the dips and bone structure of his face. “I was awake when you opened the door.” 

He nods after a moment. “Ja.” A pause. “I don’t either…Nightmares?” 

You watch him before nodding tinily. 

“Ah,” he mutters. “They are not pleasant, I’m sorry that they have been plaguing you. Do you…” König wonders if he should leave—this was far more than he had anticipated. “Do you wish for me to stay?” 

 Why had he said that?

The string between the two of you tightens evermore, gaining another thread just as it would for the years to come until it became as unbreakable as steel.

“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” you begin but are quickly interrupted with a shake of a square head and a huff of a sharp nose.

“You are not. Do not call yourself such.” His accent deepens with emotion, eyes narrowing as the dark brows on his face pull in. “If you want me to stay, I will stay. Wake you if you become shaky, yes? Keep the bad dreams at bay.”

“But what about you?” Your voice moves around the room as König stands and goes to the table in the back, shifting one of the chairs so that it’s angled your way. You shift so you can watch him sit back, grunting as his legs move out in front of him, opening so he can be more comfortable. He needed a bigger chair, but he wasn’t going to complain about it. 

“I’m not tired, Schatz.” A lie. His muscles are heavy, and he longs for his bed in the barracks. He pushes out, “Please, go back to sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

You stare for a long while, studying him and how he fidgets in his seat of choice. A small laugh meets the man’s ears as he crosses his arms over his chest. König pauses, blinking over in confusion. His lips move upwards slowly. 

“What are you laughing at, then, hm?” 

“You look like you’re about to break it,” you mutter, head nuzzling the pillow under you as fatigue claws its way under your skin. 

König huffs, fingers twitching over the meat of his biceps as he slouches. He nods jokingly. “Perhaps,” he shrugs, the window behind him letting a slight tinge of cold air in from outside. “It would not be the first, I’m afraid, though it would be quite the embarrassment to do it in front of you, Katze.” He smirks. “But I’ll say, hitting my head on door frames hurts more than letting my arsch kiss the ground.” 

You laugh under your heap, your body jerking to the movement of your lungs. 

“I bet,” you say, fingers grasping one of your blankets and pulling it closer. “It’s a funny image.”

“You can laugh all you want,” König jokes, eyes soft as they gaze at you. “It does not bother me.” 

Your sweet sounds of amusement waft out from under the crack in the door, where a small group of curious nurses mull and listen with glances to one another. A doctor moves past the hallway where they stand, and all scatter on quick feet. 

'…Signed,

[REDACTED]

SUBMITTED: 0517, 25, November 2021

END OF MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’

RETURNING TO SELECTION MENU…

STAND BY…'

It’s only after most of the other women leave—sent home to awaiting families or loved ones—that you know your time is coming to a close here in Berlin, Germany. While you’re excited to put this behind you, you can’t help but feel a bit…lost. 

There’s something that keeps you here, on this base, until you’re the last out of all of them, waiting. And then you’re given the green light to go—go home—and suddenly you have a backpack full of necessities and you’re closing the door to your room with the little nightlight’s plastic body pushing against your spine. Yet, you stand in the hallway for a long minute, fingers interlocked. 

You take a long, deep, breath. 

Over the weeks of recovery, König had been a constant companion when he wasn’t needed. He had eased you back into a comfortable state, letting you somewhat lose the black-and-white view you had gained of the world. But there was only so much he could do, even if his soft eyes were still stuck in your dreams—the good ones, of course. 

You needed to go home, and, today, the C-17 was whirring on the tarmac, waiting for you to be transported to a military base far from here where you would be processed and, ultimately, let go. 

Let go. It was jarring to think about, all of that freedom. What would you do with it? Right now, you don’t have the faintest clue. It was the best feeling you can remember having.

Smiling, you take one last look at the room behind you and walk on. 

At the entrance, you say a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to the nurses and doctors in broken German, shaking their hands as Eva kisses your forehead and whispers how happy she is to have had you here for such little time—you know what she means and you chuckle with her at the double-edged sword. 

König waits by the door, holding it open with…you blink at the item in his hands as well as his sudden appearance. Canvas fabric. A coat.

The coat. 

“I had to have it processed,” he says, smiling as you gape at him. “Very long process. It was found in the closet in the townhouse.” 

“Then why are you handing it to me,” you ask, tilting your head and walking closer. 

“I gave it to you, did I not?” The man hums, head tilting as he motions with it again. “It’s a good coat, Katze. Winters get cold.” Gray eyes crinkle gently. “I would hate for you to shiver, wherever it is that you end up, yes?”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. But your hands don’t hesitate to grasp the item, König’s hold on it remains fast, though, and you blink at him as you both keep it gently clasped like it’s worth its weight in gold. 

König stares at you, the door still kept open behind him. He opens and closes his mouth for a moment as you tilt your head. 

“Keep it safe for me,” is what he ends with, but his expression tells you he’s not talking about the coat. 

It makes your arms tingle—your heart skips a beat. 

“I’ll be sure it never gets lost,” you smile warmly, eyes malleable as the make of their color glints. There is a connection to this man that transcends words, and it is tied to you just as heavily as it is to him; unexplainable, incomprehensible, non-describable. 

Enigmatic. 

König’s reverential face is soft with care. 

“Good,” he mutters, unable to look away. “Very good.”

Clearing his throat, his grays dart to the floor, shifting his feet to move backward. He pushes open the door wider for you, and you hold your backpack in one hand as you shift past him and slip into his coat. 

It was exactly how you remembered it, and you sank into the fabric with a thankful sigh and a fluttering of your lashes. You shift the bag back over your shoulders, letting the straps fall into the bulk of the extra material. 

The snow wasn’t falling today, and the ground was shoveled of any white powder too. On the air, you can hear the whir of the C-17. 

König comes up beside you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as he guides you along. For the most part, the walk to the tarmac is silent with the weight of the future. You had no phone. No socials. You didn’t even know if you wanted any, to be honest. Your mind had convinced you that a good bout of soul-searching was exactly what you needed. And you had to do that alone. 

Your lips are thin as your legs take you closer to the plane, König’s scent stuck into the stitches of the coat and covered your senses. 

At the ramp, he stops as your feet take you onto the metal. Closing your eyes for a moment, you turn and lock gazes with him—gray hiding away what other, more human, emotions to be found. It was a slate of carefully crafted acceptance, and your own followed soon after. 

It had to be this. The string wouldn’t break, no, but it had to be stretched to such a point to come back stronger.

“Thank—”

“Don’t,” he says, not blinking, looking up at you. 

You smile. “What do you want me to say, then?” 

“You don’t have to say anything to me.” You hadn't known it then, but the both of you had truly thought that this would be the last of your meetings. It produced a pulse in both of your hearts that would never be told aloud. “....Live well,” König utters. “Heal, Mein Schatz.” 

The soldier wasn't one to give his chances to hope. 

Your eyes follow as he backs up, moving away as you stare. In his head, König pleads with you to stop and give him a reprieve from the hypnosis of your gaze, the addictive movement of your head as it tilts to the side. 

Live well. 

You send him a smile, a delicate thing, and then you back up a step and turn, disappearing into the darkness. 

The string follows, and it continues to do so even as your hands slip into your pockets hours later, bumping into the small form of a black flip phone. The note hidden inside of it. 

 ‘For whenever you find what you’re looking for.’

'REQUEST FOR ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE

REQUESTED BY: [REDACTED]

ENTERED: DECEMBER 15, 2021

TIME: 1422

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED….

RETURNING TO FILE SELECT MENU…

FILE SELECTED….

TRANSLATING…

STAND BY…

REQUEST OF HONORABLE ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE OF [REDACTED] APPROVED ON JANUARY 2, 2022

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED…

SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN'

You sit in a coffee shop in Berlin, Germany, by the window. It wasn’t just any coffee shop, but you try not to think about all of that. It was all in the past—three years, now. You like to think you’d learned something in that time.

“Danke schön,” you say to the woman who brings you your drink, nodding kindly. You take a small sip, humming and winking at her teasingly. “Perfekt.” 

She chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron. “Möchten Sie noch etwas anderes dazu?”

“Nein, nein,” you shake your head, waving a hand that soft bumps the flip phone on the table. “Danke.” 

The lady walks away, and you take another sip of the hot beverage, never put off by the heat. 

It was winter again, and your eyes followed the flakes as they fell from a cloudy sky, finding the beauty in it easily as you sat inside. The scarf around your neck is loose—your gifted coat open. You smile to yourself and hum, watching people walk past outside, thinking about their lives and how they live them. 

A large form travels out from a shop across the street, a plastic bag in his loose grip. He was not small, no, this man was a beast of height and strength alike. The loping, canid-like, walk was accented by the twitch of his fingers over his quarry. 

Your wide eyes stay stuck to him for a long moment as he moves to the crosswalk, people shifting out of his way as he ignores them. Familiarity strikes like lighting—a buzz down your spine that leaves you straightening.

After a long moment, a breathless laugh sneaks out of you.

There were just some things that people were never meant to understand.

Your hand places your cup back on the table, picking up the old flip phone and pushing it open. Your thumb runs the keypad, moving to the only contact that had ever been entered into the device. 

Pressing, you move it to your ear as you watch with a soft expression, heart pattering. 

Across the way, the man tenses, hand patting his leg before the other hand moves inside his pocket and shifts the item out. People walk away, moving to the other side of the crosswalk as he stares at the contact. 

A minute passes, and all the while you hold your breath.

He presses and moves the phone to his ear, staying as still as stone. As still as a man afraid his hood might scare a group of terrified women. 

His voice graces your ear.

“...Katze?” You beam, trapped in the warmth of the coat around your shoulders.

“How do you feel about coffee, König?” 

Blue-gray eyes had never been more beautiful than when they snapped up to meet yours.

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#cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #x female reader #call of duty x you #cod mw22 #mw2 #mw2 2022 #cod konig #konig #konig mw2 #konig x reader #konig cod #konig call of duty #konig modern warfare #konig x you #call of duty x reader #cod mw x reader #mw x reader #mw ii #mw fics #modern warfare x reader #modern warfare x you #cod x female reader #x fem!reader #female reader

[what-even-is-thiss]

People who get mad about poc being included in medieval fiction and fantasy are not only racist but they also have a deep misunderstanding about how their own ideas of race and culture work.

Perhaps, yes. Most people living in Europe in the time period we call the Middle Ages would’ve been what we now consider to be white. But that doesn’t mean poc wouldn’t have been there at all and it doesn’t mean they understood identity in the same way we do.

“Outsiders” could be from within the same city or from a world away. A lot of peoples loyalties and who they saw as being from the same group as them had to do with religious conflicts, politics, and combinations of the two. Maybe just based on what neighborhood or village they lived in.

Historically before the era of colonialism Catholic countries like Portugal have sometimes given aid in various forms to Ethiopia because they’re both christian countries. People in the area we now call Italy would’ve killed neighbors less than a 20 minute walk away over papal politics.

People also traded frequently with people from other continents. Married people from other continents. Early into the so-called age of exploration Portuguese and Spanish explorers were known to sometimes marry women traders from west Africa for their wealth and trade connections. People from all over the Muslim world have also often been traders, enemies, allies, and mercenaries all over Europe and vice versa with Christian and Jewish traders, scholars, mercenaries, traders, crusaders, etc. traveling and living within the Muslim world as well.

Vikings got around. To Eastern Europe, the Mediterranean, North America. Many stayed where they went or made deals with the locals. Many brought prisoners, slaves, illegitimate children, and new wives back home.

Not only did the concept of whiteness and any other modern understanding of race not exist yet, people intermingled, intermarried, moved around, converted religions, traded across continents. Sometimes people made it all the way to North America even if that route and the colonies that came out of it faded out of memory eventually. The world was still interconnected even if it did move much slower.

Also when talking about fantasy and not historical fiction, it’s fantasy. There’s dragon. And wizard. Why are you worried about your racist ideas about “realism”? Besides the racism I mean.

#roman said a thing #rambling

[talonabraxas]

Blue Lotus: Flower of Intuitive Ascension

Blue Lotus (Nymphaea caerulea) is a beautiful, water-dwelling flower with mild psychoactive properties. Sacred to the Ancient Egyptians, depictions of Blue Lotus flower are ubiquitous in Egyptian art. Though alluring to our modern imaginations and worth further investigation, Blue Lotus is rarely used in Western herbalism as it is not currently a well-understood plant, nor is it native to or abundant in North America.

Etymology & Botany Blue Lotus is a tropical, aquatic plant in the Water Lily family that features day-blooming, light blue flowers which sit on the water’s surface. Long petioles connect the visible leaves with the deep, underwater rhizomes. The star-shaped flowers typically bloom for 3-5 days, moving with the sun and closing at night; Ancient Egyptians noticed this solar attunement and believed the flower’s golden center to be where the sun god, Ra, emerged from. All parts of the Blue Lotus plant (flowers, leaves, rhizomes, petioles) can be used medicinally.

Traditional Uses Once naturally abundant and extensively cultivated in temple lakes and along the Nile River, Blue Lotus was a highly revered and sought after crop. It was exported throughout the Mediterranean, Greece, the Middle East, Tibet, and as far as the Alexandrian empire extended.

Origin While it’s rare to find this flower growing along the Nile now, it is native to northern and central Africa. Ancient Egytian temples and monuments are a testament to how well loved this emblematic flower was to their culture; Blue Lotus can be seen embossed on everything from thrones to calcite drinking chalices to papyrus. The herb was used ceremonially but was also made into cosmetics and perfumes; imbibed as a tea or elixir; and simply inhaled for its relaxing, intoxicating fragrance. The flowers and buds were often used recreationally as well, for their narcotic and aphrodisiac effects.

Spiritual History In addition to being the birthplace of the sun god, Ra, this herb came to be associated with the afterlife and rebirth in Egyptian culture, specifically the Osiris myth. Brought back to life by the assistance of his sister and wife, Isis, Osiris became a symbol of life after death and rebirth through the legacy of Egyptian royalty. Thus, this herb was also considered to be the symbol of royalty and rulers, and indeed many royal accoutrement featured depictions of the flower; King Tutankhamun’s mummy was found covered with dried Blue Lotus flowers when exhumed hundreds of years later.

Herbal Indications for Blue Lotus Blue Lotus is bitter, aromatic, and warm energetically. In modern, Western herbalism, it is considered a sedative, febrifuge, aphrodisiac, antidepressant, antioxidant, anti-convulsant, and anti-inflammatory herb. It has been successfully used to purify the blood, treat tuberculosis, expel worms and parasites, relieve edema, enhance libido and treat erectile dysfunction, improve lactation, alleviate anxiety and depression, staunch internal bleeding, and balance blood sugar levels. Blue Lotus has a particular affinity for the kidneys, heart, and nervous system.

[accord-vn]

Major Players in the War Against the Firmament

The Republic of Stauros

The Republic of Stauros is a global superpower that controls the Americas and much of eastern and southern Africa, its imperialist agenda funded by the exploitation of abundant natural resources. This influx of resources means that they have been able to rapidly advance technology, particularly in bio-science, engineering, and materials science fields, and their advanced technology in turn makes for political capital with which they can bully nations into being subsumed by the Republic.

Stauros is a meritocratic oligarchy with republican structures, and presents itself as being a place where the best can rise to the top. It is centrally governed in its capital of Etorios, by a council of (what were originally) six departments that oversee facets of government such as treasury, military, agriculture, etc. These department heads are chosen from among a democratically elected parliament that makes up the upper levels of each department by the previous council. In short, the system rejects change very stubbornly as those who are eligible to lead have been entrenched in the system for a very long time. This entrenchment means that the Republic, while founded on progressive ideals, has now fully embraced the authoritarian streak that has haunted it since its inception.

Most prominent in Stauros's war against the Firmament is the ExoCorps, the executive arm of the Department of the Exterior. The Dept of the Exterior was created in order to protect Stauros's offplanet interests, however in the decades since they have come to rival the power of the Dept of Military, even surpassing it in many instances. The most notable example of this power imbalance is in the ExoCorps' development of Synaptic Transfer technology and the resulting Janissary program.

The Sophic Church

The Sophic Church originated as part of the Third Awakening, a reactionary revival in religiosity coupled with anti-Christian sentiment and strong undercurrents of paranoia brought about by a sharp rise in conspiratorial thought. What were several grassroots Gnostic revival movements came together to form a single ecclesiastical society, united in their desire to dismantle current institutions and build something new. These movements, originally different sects, syncretized their beliefs, though after several decades of transformation, their doctrine has evolved into a largely ahistorical conflation of Valentinianism and Sethianism alongside some entirely new ideas.

The Sophic Church played a key role in the formation of the Republic and rose alongside it, shaping it in the process, and as a result, within Stauros there is a strong presumption that most residents of the Republic are a part of the church.

Naturally, due to this relationship the Church has amassed a large amount of wealth and influence, and has invested this wealth into a number of corporate assets. The most prominent among these is Ascension, a corporation with child companies for mining, manufacturing, logistics, pharmaceuticals, and many other industries.

As a result, the Sophic Church has control over a substantial amount of the economy not just of Stauros, but the rest of the world as well.

The Stereomatos

In 2068, Olympia, Stauros's first permanent Martian research base, collapsed due to mismanagement. Due to the nature of the Stauros Dept of Research's control over the research base, while researchers lived permanent lives on base and even raised families there, leadership was not only appointed from a bureaucracy located on Earth, but also frequently rotated. As a result, most Directors of Operations viewed the position only as a temporary station, and ultimately failed to carry out their duties.

This culminated in 2067, when a failure in the water system caused dozens of people to become ill and 14 deaths. Civil unrest had already started to stir, but now was in full swing.

A nearby ExoCorps detachment was then stationed inside the colony to dissuade uprising, but the additional strain on resources that they caused served only to exacerbate discontentment. Before any violence broke out, the base was declared no longer fit for human habitation and disbanded, its residents either returned to earth or stationed in other colonies. The base was leveled shortly thereafter.

A mere two years later, Synesia was founded on Olympia's ruins. Synesia was intended to serve as a colony and an experiment in autonomous government, as well as a center for Stauros' civic operations offplanet. This quickly expanded into a semi-autonomous satellite state, granted nominal independence by Stauros in return for serving as the governing body for bases and offplanet stations too large and too distant from Earth in order to be effectively managed by a planetary bureaucracy.

In practice, the Stereomatos is a puppet state. Most of its leadership is either beholden or sympathetic to Stauros, and lives under constant threat of dismantlement. Stauros maintains exclusive trading rights with the Stereomatos, and uses the leverage of their monopoly on space infrastructure as means of controlling the nation.

The Firmament

The Firmament is a revolutionary movement across the Stereomatos with the ultimate goal of eliminating Stauros control over space.

The movement is comprised of several cells across both inner sphere and outer sphere colonies and stations, which frequently work together to improve the living conditions of Stereomatos citizens, smuggle goods and resources across planetary boundaries, and wage asymmetric warfare against Stauros.

The Firmament's immediate strategy is to hold Stauros at resource-point through piracy and targeted attacks on military installations so that they'll agree to several key conditions:

The right to self-govern independent of Stauros control, including reforming the government from a parliamentary republic into a syndical state.

Better access to tertiary industry, including the means to utilize synaptic transfer tech

Access to Stauros trade networks in order to carry out trade with other nations with minimal interference

The Stereomatos as a whole may be generally divided in their opinion on the Firmament's methods, however it is an unspoken rule to side with them whenever possible, because the Firmament represents hope for a freer future and an end to overcrowding and military police actions. Even those ideologically opposed tend to avoid speaking out, because the members of the Firmament are ultimately members of their community. A number of Stereomatos politicians have direct connections to Firmament leadership, and work to achieve the movement's aims through diplomatic means.

On Earth, however, the opinion is generally much more divided. Typically the details of their actions are largely reduced to the effect that they've had on Stauros, and are branded terrorists due to civilian casualties from their attacks. Within Stauros, media is sufficiently skewed that those who are aware of them despise them. Outside of Stauros, the Stereomatos is shown more sympathy, and even those who skew more conservative are open to the idea of free trade with the Stereomatos.

Federated Oceania

As climate change ravaged the global south, Aotearoa (formerly New Zealand) successfully pushed back the encroaching ocean with a sea wall, reclaiming additional land in the process. Having secured their new position as a safe haven for climate refugees, they pushed Australia into adopting a similar strategy. As a means of allowing displaced people to retain their sovereignty as well as protect against the threat of a subjugation-hungry Stauros on the horizon, the bloc of Federated Oceania was formed.

With a vested interest in environmental sciences and sustainable energy, Oceania rose to prominence by implementing the first viable fusion reactor and selling off excess energy from successive plants. This paved the way to further successes until it became the non-Stauros leader in technology on a global stage, and served as the first country to challenge Stauros's self-proclaimed "monopoly on space".

As a staunch rival of Stauros, Oceania is one of the few terrestrial nations to openly provide support the Firmament.

The Archon Program

The disappearance of the Caesarea is a mainstay of conspiracy circles system-wide. From independent blogs hosted on the clearnet to chatrooms on planetside LITEs to forums and message boards maintained on Firmnet servers in the belt, no hushed whisper passes through the internet's lips without mentioning its name, and the Caesarea is rarely mentioned without the words "Archon program" in its wake.

However, there is little consensus on what those words mean.  

They say that Archon Program is run by the Dept of the Exterior— no, by the Sophic Church— no, it's the secret Dept of Suppression— as a psyop— actually, it's in order to crush unions (the IPU has NEVER been able to touch Ascension)— no, to serve as a counter to the Firmament's dark matter bomb— and eventually, to dominate the world— utilizing heinous machines that are larger than any Cataphract, that bleed, that drive their enemies and pilots to madness.

When asked for proof, however, the stories converge. A would-be whistleblower from Ascension Aerospace, killed when lightning struck her complex as she was uploading the leak, severing the connection and her life at once. All that was uploaded was the first gigabyte of a single file, titled Archon Program, completely blank except for the image of an A with an ouroboros divided into seven pieces.

Nothing more is known by the public.

#accord #visual novel #worldbuilding

[kemetic-dreams]

Onesimus (late 1600s–1700s) was an African man who was instrumental in the mitigation of the impact of a smallpox outbreak in Boston, Massachusetts. His birth name is unknown. He was enslaved and, in 1706, was given to the New England Puritan minister Cotton Mather, who renamed him. Onesimus introduced Mather to the principle and procedure of the variolation method of inoculation to prevent the disease, which laid the foundation for the development of vaccines. After a smallpox outbreak began in Boston in 1721, Mather used this knowledge to advocate for inoculation in the population. This practice eventually spread to other colonies. In a 2016 Boston magazine survey, Onesimus was declared one of the "Best Bostonians of All Time"

Onesimus's name at birth and place of birth are unknown with certainty. He was first documented as living in the colonies in 1706, having been brought to North America as an enslaved person. In December of that year, he was given as a gift by a church congregation to Cotton Mather, their Puritan minister of North Church, as well as a prominent figure in the Salem Witch Trials. Mather renamed him after a first-century AD enslaved person mentioned in the Bible.The name, "Onesimus" means "useful, helpful, or profitable".

Mather referred to the ethnicity of Onesimus as "Guaramantee", which may refer to the Coromantee (also known as Akan people of modern Ghana). 

Mather saw Onesimus as highly intelligent and educated him in reading and writing with the Mather family (for context, according to biographer Kathryn Koo, at that time, literacy was primarily associated with religious instruction, and writing as means of note-taking and conducting business)

In 1716 or shortly before, Onesimus had described to Mather the process of inoculation that had been performed on him and others in his society in Africa (as Mather reported in a letter): "People take Juice of Small-Pox; and Cut the Skin, and put in a drop." In the book, African Medical Knowledge, the Plain Style, and Satire in the 1721 Boston Inoculation Controversy, Kelly Wisecup wrote that Onesimus is believed to have been inoculated at some point before being sold into slavery or during the slave trade, as he most likely traveled from the West Indies to Boston.

The variolation method of inoculation was long practiced in Africa among African people.

The practice was widespread among enslaved colonial people from many regions of Africa and, throughout the slave trade in the Americas, slave communities continued the practice of inoculation despite regional origin.

Mather followed Onesimus's medicinal advice because, as Margot Minardi writes, "inferiority had not yet been indelibly written onto the bodies of Africans."

#african #afrakan #kemetic dreams #africans #brownskin #brown skin #afrakans #african culture #afrakan spirituality #smallpox #vodun #obeah #margot minardi #ghana #akan #Salem Witch Trials #smallpox outbreak in Boston #Massachusetts. #Coromantee #puritans

[youthnighttarot]

What if you were a Celebrity? (Pick-a-card) 🏆🎭🎬🎤🩰🎹

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Pile 1

Tarot Cards: 3oWrv, 8oCrv, QoS, Strength, High Priestessrv, 10oWrv, 2oCrv, 4oPrv

Fans: Your fans would be tough critics on you. You may leave your fans disappointed in you and, the outcome for your career. Or they may be disappointed with where you are in your career. You and your fans may be into luxury items.

Celebrity Friends: They will be a bit judgmental of others or of you. They may view you as lacking confidence/having low self worth. They see you as not being truly happy just being yourself. You may feel used…like you can’t say no. Or you’re having a hard time adjusting to fame.

Career Path: Artist/Painter…something where you use your intuition and problem solve. -> Architect, Lawyer, Public Speaker, Judge, Therapist, Comedian, Tech Industry (mogul), Journalist

How GP Views you: The GP sees you as having a quiet inner strength. They see you as brave and an unwavering truth teller/exposer. They see you as having overcome a variety of obstacles.

How will you become famous: You determination alone will be the main reason. The vitriol you have for lack of truth. You will become famous for airing out someone who wronged you and/or you fell out with. You will speak about how you doubted yourself because of them. This may be a family member, friend, lover, business partner, etc…someone close, you thought you could trust withholding secrets, lies, and money. This being why you fight for honesty and truth.

Love Life: There will be many, many, many ups and downs as well as turmoil in your relationships. Due to public perception I heard. You will find yourself with many suitors who you’re incompatible with. There may even be a divorce or break up that happens in the public. You may have suffered abuse.

Where you will be famous: Santa Domingo, Places often known for the damp dryness. Places where the people have suffered many betrayals. South Africa, London(UK), Angola, U.S.A, Gambia, Central South America

Awards/Achievements: Many of the Awards you receive center around your giving nature…helping out people financially….humanitarian awards ( This was a mistake my bad 🤧)

How you feel: You will fell stable and grounded financially. You will wish for more tact and diplomacy within your profession…especially when it comes to authority. You will be reclaiming the power stolen from you.

Pile 2

Tarot Cards: The Foolrv, KnoPrv, 3oP, The Emperor, 5oP, 8oC, AoCrv, 4oP, 9oP

Fans: Your fans may viewed as reckless and careless where it concerns you. Especially when you or them comes under attack. They’re viewed as irrational. Your fans may view you as having distractions in your life. They view you as hopeful.

Celebrity Friends: A lot of your celebrity friends will be financially well off, stable, rich, or wealthy. They will help you in your career. They are quite generous; They have power/control but use it for good. They see that you love what you do and, they look forward to working with you.

Career Path: Doctor(Obstetricia), you may deal with negligence with other people in your chosen path…Model Agency, Actor, Performer, Singer, Dancer. You may deal with unskilled people who you out-perform yet play second fiddle to. Try not to overwork yourself when you don’t have to. Fashion Industry(Designer) & Police officer. Which ever it is you WILL SUCCEED!!

How GP views you: They feel like your aggravating but, they don’t really know you. This is just how you come off. They may see you as aggravated all the time. They see you as independent and extremely wealthy. You may have a pregnancy(To those who can) or the birth of a business which has brought you great success. They see you as having a high standing within your industry as well. You could be everywhere Billboards, commercials, TV, movies. That may be where the annoyance is coming from.

How will you become Famous: Through apprenticeship, or studying under someone, or at an institution. Your hard work and skill will be notice by someone important in your industry or by and agency. Your level of commitment shows within you work and your ability to show up. You may team up or collab with a group of people and that project will shoot you to stardom. Immediately!! You’re extremely determine but will have the help of others.

Love Life: There may be minor hiccups with some relationships you have. A lot of your partners may be un-empathetic to you and your life. They could view you like forbidden fruit, 1 bite and there done for. For a time many suitors may be invested with you only for sex or your body. They may be selfish only interested in what they can get out of you or from you. Some may see you as an unattainable beauty they want to conquer. However pile 2 you will meet the one for you and you will feel worshipped and adored by them. You may have to call off a few (oop) engagements before you find your one. (This may happen publicly) You could be constantly in the media for your relationships. You will be forced to look deep within yourself and find love son you may be loved. (This was way too long 😭)

Where will you be famous: places that have had many financial losses but used this to cultivate art. Where beauty and femininity are the focal point. (For masculines your masculinity) Places where people felt left in the cold. U.S.A, Brazil, Columbia, Senegal, Korea, Japan, Europe, Scotland, Montreal, Canada, Baltic States, Bolivia

How you will feel: You may feel this is a blank slate to start over. You will feel you need to work through past traumas and hurt. You will want to forgive and move on from your past in light of your new future.

Pile 3

Tarot Cards: The Hermitrv, AoP, PoW, Temperancerv, 9oSrv, Strengthrv

Fans: Their gonna be rooting for you success for sure. They will be pretty chill and laidback. A lot of them will be attractive? ✨💋 Or they will find you attractive. They feel like you heart in no longer in it or you feel discontent with your work…or within your field. They see you as stagnant. Their rooting for you to make a comeback.

Celebrity Friends: They see you as being the master manifestor. They could use you for your clout or recognition. They see you as stable within you career/finances…to the point where they feel you can take bold chances and not be held back. They may feel like your constantly trying to reinvent yourself. Some may steal your swag or ideas from you but fail to replicate. (You cannot compete where you don’t compare) Most will be fake towards…you will see this and cut them off ASAP! You will have few celebrity friends because of this. Those that are real friends of yours will actually help you even financially if you need it. They may want to invest in you. For some of you…you may even have an affair with one of them.

Career Path: Your career path will be a part of your destiny. For some of you, this is how you meet your soulmate. Aesthetician, Fashion Blogger, Beauty Guru, MUA, Stylist, Museum Curator, Art Auctioneer, Agent, Manager, Business Owner, Model, Actress (Feminines), YouTuber,Magazine Editor. A place where your allowed to be a free thinker, playful and confident. You may be the youngest there for some of you.

How GP Views you: They see you as a hard worker, the kinda “pull yourself up by the boot strap” mentality. They believe you worked for everything you own. They see you as a role model for kids and adults alike. They feel at times you a bit immature because of your playful nature…like you don’t take things seriously often. They see you as lacking balance, you often get into arguments because of your one-sided beliefs or because your beliefs are so out of the ordinary. Some of your actions are seen as reckless and stupid. They feel you should do better because of you being viewed as a role model.

How you become famous: Viral Video…overnight success. By being vulnerable about self doubt you’ve experienced. This may be after a huge scandal that shot you to fame. But you used it as a stepping stool. (Some of you may resonate with pile 2) This was at a time where you were letting go and beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Love Life: “Through the darkness I saw you”. You will go through a lot of nostalgic connections. Where you are the center of your suitor’s attention. A lot of your relationships you’ll want to keep low key (For obvious reasons) but that never ends up happening. A lot of ur lover’s emotions run deep with you. Some may not be able to handle the spotlight or you having the spotlight. Your like a dream for many of them…gone as soon as you came. You may cook or they may cook for you. There is a lot of empathy for your feelings and passions.

Where will you be famous: Norwegian, Iceland, New York, Bronx, Chicago, Mexico, Russia, Yugoslavia, Prussia, New Zealand, Newfoundland, Australia, Phoenix, California, Gambia, Mozambique, Madagascar, France. A lot of colder areas or places with higher levels of heat.

How will you feel: You may feel like everyone’s always trying to find out/know tea about you. Due to this you’re careful about who you give your energy to. You are quick to energetically block someone. You don’t change for others you just walk away from them

Call me beep me if you wanna reach me…💃🏾🎤🎹📱📞☎️🤳🏾

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New PAC posted for night fairies check it out

#free tarot #divine #pac #pick a card #pick a pile #spiritual vibrations #spiritualawareness #pick a picture #actors #clarity #synergy #free readings free pick a card free tarot 18+ tarot tarot tarot reading tarot deck tarotblr tarottribe taroteverydamnday #pick an image #pick a photo #tarotoftheday #tarot tumblr #tarot reading #tarotcommunity #tarottribe #tarot #balance #celbrities #understanding #spiritualpath #free spirit #spirit #spiritualism #besties #powerful

[magnetothemagnificent]

I don't know if you're the right person to be asking, but I was hoping you could help me out with a question. Just saw an article on a Spanish town that was named "Fort Kill the Jews" and how a Jewish family moving in was "greeted" with bigoted graffiti. It brought to mind some old comments I had heard from some Jewish people on here (I think), which is that Spain has a very long history of antisemitism. Like, such a bad history with the Jewish people that antisemitism is baked into their actual culture (the tons and tons of pork dishes was one of the examples I got when I asked.)

I was wanting to know if you could provide any background to that, or confirm if there is any truth to it. Obviously, there is antisemitism there, considering a town with that name not only exists, but was allowed to stand with that name for 400 years. But as for the sheer volume and history of Spain's antisemitism, I haven't been able to find anything that provides a clear answer when I've Googled it. Mostly, it just pulls up articles of this current event and nothing else.

TLDR: my question is, I guess, is Spain as steeped in cultural antisemitism as I've been told?

Yes.

Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

Spain has a long, long history of antisemitism, spanning not just from Christian rule but to even Muslim rule.

You may or may not have heard of the term "Sephardi Jews". Sephardi Jews are Jews who are descendents of those whose ancestors once made a home in the Iberian peninsula after the Jews were expelled from the land of Israel. "Sephardi" literally means "Spanish". Now, most Sephardi Jews today live in North Africa, West Asia, South West Asia, France, England, Israel, and the US. You may notice that Spain is not on the list. Why?

Well let me tell you about the Spanish Inquisition.

The Spanish Inquisition hit it's height in 1492, when the Alhambra Decree was enacted expelling all Jews and Muslims from Spain under the threat of death. Before that, Jews had slowly been being put in ghettos and restricted from public life across Spain.

But things didn't end once the Jews were purged in 1492. No, for the next few centuries, crypto-Jews, Jews who converted to Christianity but maintained their Jewish heritage, were persecuted and killed by the Spanish Inquisition. Many fled to the Americas and established communities in the Caribbean, South America, and Central America. But they still weren't safe from the Inquisition, because the Inquisition had control over the colonies as well. Many Jews died.

But there was antisemitism in Spain even before Christians took over. Jewish culture thrived in Al Andalus, but that doesn't mean antisemitism wasn't still a threat. Jewish people were at the mercy of whoever ruled at the time. Sometimes, they were friendly to the Jews. Sometimes, they weren't. And Jews were always subject to dhimmi laws which placed them as second-class citizens. Many people have heard of Samuel Ibn Naghrillah, the Jewish vizier and general to to King Badis Ibn Habus during the 10th century. He was regarded as one of the most influential Jews in Muslim Spain. But while he may have been able to attain great status despite his Dhimmitude, and was able to strengthen Jewish morale, there was still a lot of intense antisemitism within the people. When Samuel's son Joseph succeeded him, people let out their pent-up antisemitism. They were incensed that a Jew could hold such a high office. They crucified him on the city gates of Grenada, and massacred most of the Jewish population in the city.

But let's jump back to more recent times. During the Holocaust, Francisco Franco was the fascist ruler of Spain. While he may not have formally joined the Axis, he was a fascist and was sympathetic towards the Nazi movement. Under Franco, Jews were required to be registered to the government, and faced both governmental and social antisemitism.

And on a cultural level.....did you know that the reason Spanish food has so much pork and shellfish is because the Spanish would use it as a way to "sniff out" secret Jews and Muslims? Yeah. Let that sink in. It's that pervasive.

So yes, Spain is steeped in cultural and historic antisemitism.

Sources:

https://forward.com/news/9216/in-spain-inquisitors-tracked-conversos-by-their-fo/

https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/2430792/jewish/The-Spanish-Inquisition.htm

https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/the-inquisition

https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/samuel-ha-rsquo-nagid

#antisemitism #history #Spanish antisemitism #jewish history #spanish inquisition #spain #genocide

[theramseyloft]

hello, a friend was asking me about actual sources pertaining to the claims that pigeons benefit from living with humans. is it ethical to just scoop one off the street? i personally believe it is, but i also think it's totally fair to want a credible source and not just "i read it on twitter". the work you're doing is great, by the way!

That's honestly a really complex question.

Feral Pigeons (Columba livia) in North America, South America, and Australia are the descendants of birds brought from Europe that had already been fully domesticated for thousands of years at the time.

The Rock Dove from which the domestic birds descend is native to Asia, Europe, and parts of Africa, and on those continents, there are still wild populations that can mix with the domestic ones, and the type of habitat to which pigeons are adapted for feral or semi feral pigeons to return to and live out their lives.

Feral pigeons in these locations may be treated as wildlife.

But feral pigeons in North America, South America, and Australia do not have the wild Rock Doves to interbreed with or access to natural habitat that would allow them even the most remote chance of 'reverting' to something like the wild baseline.

Domestication is achieved by breeding wild traits out.

However many generations any number of dog breeds may be allowed to mix, no litter will ever result in wolf pups, unless full wolves are reintroduced to the breeding population.

The same logic applies to feral pigeons.

You are never going to get wild Rock Dove out of a feral clutch.

So, I honestly apply the same morals in regards to feral pigeons that I do to feral and stray dogs.

They are so human dependent that they can't survive anywhere that we aren't.

Concrete buildings, bridges, signs, and barns are the closest thing to natural nesting habitat available to feral pigeons, who are cliff side crevice nesters.

Food they would be able to forage for in the wild isn't really available to ferals.

In places where feeding them is banned, populations die out because they starve to death.

Feral pigeons eat garbage out of desperation, not because they can actually digest any of it.

So the question to whether or not they benefit from human care is a resounding "Yes!!".

They genuinely do need us, and do suffer if we just ignore them, unlike actual wildlife, which thrives when left alone by humans.

I could die happy if street pigeons were taken in like stray dogs are in the US.

But with out enough shelters or homes, the moral issue of whether or not to bring any given pigeon in off the street comes down to answering: "What will do the most good and the least harm?"

Taking a healthy adult off the street is usually stranding a mate and offspring regardless of the time of year.

Pigeon babies eat SO much that both of their parents can lose a LOT of body mass!! The adults tend to end up weighing significantly less than their offspring, even in a situation where food is always abundant.

So removing one healthy parent is extremely likely to cause the starvation of one or both offspring and severe malnutrition to the other parent, directly causing more harm than good over all.

An adult caught in something or tangled in string with no serious injuries probably still has a mate and young. The best thing for them is to be detangled and released.

A severely injured or sick adult cannot take care of partner or young, and in the time it takes to heal a serious wound or treat a severe illness, chances are that their mate will have taken them for dead and found a replacement.

I keep birds that came in this condition, though they are not likely to ever like me or any other human.

No harm is being done to other pigeons in the flock of origin, and that individual will live a longer, healthier life in an outdoor loft with a constant supply of food and access to medical care when needed.

I would consider it more cruel to release disabled adult pigeons or young in any condition than to keep them as pets.

Remember, they are already domesticated, and physically adapted to human care. Young birds and disabled adults adjust very well to human households.

So, my advice to some one wanting to rescue and adopt a pigeon off the street is to check local laws and make friends with a local flock in a place where there are no regulations against feeding them.

Lost performance breeds can often be recovered from the outer edge of a feral flock, and birds who know you as a food source will be more willing to approach or desperate to eat if they have an injury or illness that makes keeping up with the rest of the flock difficult.

It puts you in the prime position to rescue a bird who definitely needs your help.

Anyone looking to take on the responsibility of rescuing a pigeon directly off the street needs to expect there to be vet bills!

Make sure you have access to a vet who will see pigeons, and specify that the bird is your pet, not a drop off you plan to just leave with them.

If you want to rescue, but do not think you can afford immediate trips to the vet, take a step back and reach out to a rescue organization.

The birds they have available will already have been treated for what ever injuries or illness got them there.

Great Lakes Pigeon Rescue is pretty solid, and you don't have to live in the Great Lakes region to adopt from them.

EDITS:

I previously butt heads with Palomacy on two serious issues, but the facts remain that the birds there need homes, food, and medical care, and having allowed that to prevent me from pointing Californians looking to adopt a pigeon in their direction was frankly petty of me.

@shayvaalski States in the comments: "Palomancy states very clearly that "Pigeons were the first domesticated bird" and "They are domestic and unable to live in the wild." While they also say that they don't think birds should have been domesticated, they also uh, understand that they were and talk about street birds as feral. They do not recommend parrot feed. They say "Pigeons eat seeds and grains and you can buy pre-mixed blends called pigeon feed"."

Both of these are changes since my last interactions with the organization, so I appreciate the correction.

EDIT CONCLUDED.

For further reading, Rosemary Mosco (who writes the adorable Bird and Moon comic) wrote a fantastic book detailing our history with pigeons.

Hope that helps. ^v^

[onesettleronebullet]

Okay so let's start here shall we.

The idea that Black Americans get 0 benefits from imperialism is never something I wanted to put across because generally, entire people groups don't tend to solely suffer outside of genocide. And crudely strawmanning my position as being me thinking one has an "imperialist" aura is priming the audience to believe that those putting forth this argument are simplistic and manichaean which is untrue.

What I am putting forth is that the benefits from imperialism such as "The Banana" are so insignificant that those trickle-down benefits should not really be brought up in any serious discussion on the subject. It's in the same vein that yeah "the British brought roads and industry into their colonies" but those benefits have materialist reasons for their existence and aren't because of the British Empires altruistic need to give it's colonised citizens better lives but rather are a result of forms of wealth extraction.

Of course, "The Banana" can not exploit the autochthonous people's of the USA, but rather, its presence in those communities says nothing about the actual health of those communities at large. In South Africa, we have lots of Bananas too which are exported from the Front Line Nations such as Mozambique, which SA exploits through White Monopoly Capital based corporations, and yet no one would dare say that Black South Africans and Coloureds as a whole benefit from White South African settlerism despite the fact that they do by that metric. Furthermore, the majority of the people having this argument are Latines, who, through the metric of having access to "The Banana" also benefit from imperialism in some sense.

These parts are interesting because it's very much a reframing of the whole conversation, especially without context which those reading this will not have.

Within the context of the original conversation, beneficiary and perpetrator were indeed used as synonyms. When the main arguments were "black Americans go into the global south to gentrify the land" and "black American soldiers rape Korean women" and one of the root statements that caused this whole issue was "I think all Americans, including minorities should burn" (for being imperialist) then you can not then turn around and say beneficiary and perpetrator are not one and the same. I'd also add the original context made a distinction between Black Americans and Native Americans, with the latter not benefitting from imperialism in the same way the former does. If benefit is simply about having access to "The Banana" then why would the Native American not benefit where the Black American does?

In a different context, perhaps but not this one.

The whole response is a little disappointing in two ways:

a) this could have been the original conversation the whole time, and this post shows they had the capability of this conversation without the need to specifically target black people in order to shut them up about anti-black racism from other imperialised peoples.

b) the whole critique is based on being overly banal with definitions without taking in not only the original context which was simple anti-black incendiary rhetoric as well as the broader context of subjects of imperialism being told that they should be grateful for America because they reap the benefits of America's existence. This latter bit will absolutely be taken out of context or hyperfocused on but who cares, the average tumblr Marxist has a very ineffective pedagogy and needs to get a better framework outside of being smug and dunking the libs.

#newpad.txt

[spearsndragons]

i hate it when asoiaf fans try to deny the racism against dornish people in canon.

“race is a social construct!” YES! “race doesn’t exist in the asoiaf world like it does in reality…” uhhh say that to alleras when leo tyrell described his mom as “a monkey from the summer isles.” how people stereotype dornishmen as small and dark with beady eyes. how tyrion complained of how dornish smelled. it’s been established canonically how most westerosi characters viewed non-white people and foreigners.

sure, some of dornish are white and white-passing, but that doesn’t erase the fact that they are mostly brown and black people??? just like how africa, middle east, asia, latin america and many oppressed regions are? GRRM has written MANY, MANY times how much the rest of westeros “other”s them. we’ve seen them reduce dorne as a land of sex and hedonism, which parallels to how the western world viewed (and many still view) asia and the middle east. they see them as “less civilized.”

when myriah martell became daeron’s wife, the kingdoms were quick to shit on her because she brought dornish people to her court. when elia married rhaegar, people thought she was unworthy to marry the beloved, handsome, white prince because of her health and her dornishness.

don’t get me started on the whole “elia would have been okay being cheated on! dornish are okay with extramarital affairs and bastards!” like do you guys not hear yourself??? this hyper-sexualization is literally a classic racist trope.

and i’m certain grrm intended to write it this way to show that racism, in fact, exists in westerosi life and dominates in their politics, just as in real life. he’s even said before he considered giving targaryens dark skin: “I’d had dark-skinned dragonlords invade and conquer and dominate a largely white Westeros.” so him making dorne, a largely non-white population, being the only one to resist conquest and the only kingdom to join westeros on their own terms, is very much intended.

too many fucking fans reduce our arguments to us “pulling the race card.” well guess what? BECAUSE IT MATTERS. just as racism is embedded in our society, everything about how this fandom and characters view dorne go back to race and racism. just because you can’t admit to yourself that you’re upholding white supremacy ideals doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

YOU CANNOT DENY THAT RACE AND CULTURE ARE IMPORTANT ELEMENTS IN ASOIAF.

DORNE BEST KINGDOM! MARTELL BEST HOUSE! IDC IDC! WHO ELSE IN WESTEROS SAID FUCK YOU TO THEIR COLONIZERS AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE?

(i can say more on the matter but i will just get more heated and end up writing a 10 page essay. when i tell you the law student in me comes alive when i have to defend dorne-)

#spearsndragons #what happens when a law student has real world case studies to do? #she makes a case study on fictional worlds instead #dorne #house martell #rhoynar

[argyrocratie]

"The largest, quickest, and most devastating pandemic in all of human history was the influenza epidemic whose first of three waves began in Kansas in March 1918, and recurred in ever widening and more mortal forms in the autumn and the winter. Yet, this epidemic is distinguished from others by a second reason, the historical amnesia - a virtual blackout of memory - that has greeted it in subsequent generations. Its historian summarizes: "Nothing else - no infection, no war, no famine - has ever killed so many in as short a period. And yet it has never inspired awe."

Between 22 and 30 million people were killed in a year. Half a million of these were in the United States whose troop-ships carrying young men to the Western Front of Europe during World War I, in conditions that were floating test tubes of the virus, brought the 'flu to France, then Germany, England, and Russia, and from the European continent the virus was transmitted along the sea-lanes of European imperialism to Latin America, to West Africa, to India (where 12 million died), to China, Japan, and the Pacific islands. More were killed by the epidemic than were killed by the Civil War or World War I Which Robert Graves called "the Sausage Machine, because it was fed with men, churned out corpses, and remained firmly screwed in place."

The age specific mortality curve of the epidemic was shaped more like a 'W' than a 'U' which is to say that those in the strong middle years of life were as affected, and more so, than the very young or very old. This characteristic deeply worried the official macroparasitic institutions which relied on those in their middle years to produce, to reproduce, and to fight. To them, not so much life, as production and reproduction was the worry. Henry Cabot Lodge was concerned about the productivity of munitions plants. In March 1,000 workers at the Ford Motor Company fell sick. The number of rivets driven per day at the Philadelphia shipyards fell at a rate that alarmed the war producers. The equivalent of two combat divisions of the AEF, or the American Expeditionary Force ("Ass End First"), were incapacitated in France. 40% of U.S. Navy personnel were affected. 37 life insurance companies omitted or reduced their annual stock dividends. The macroparasites and the microparasite were thus in mortal competition for the bodies of the healthy ones in middle life, and that for another reason too. As an air-borne infection, "the rich died as readily as the poor."

(...)

500 were arrested in New York on "Spitless Sunday." Large gatherings were prohibited. Telephone booths were padlocked. Public water fountains were closed. In San Francisco face masks were required to be worn. Cash tellers were equipped with finger bowls. A municipal ordinance of Prescott, Arizona, adopted a suggestion from an obscure newspaper by the Fascist, Benito Mussolini, making it a crime to shake hands. The Army Surgeon General reported that "civilization could easily disappear from the earth."

The middle point of the 'W' grew and as a result the famous 'Lost Generation' of despairing American writers came into being, and yet with the exception of Katherine Anne Porter none wrote about the 'flu epidemic. Was this massive, social, denial? Was this male chauvinism? Was this a sequela of the disease's "profound systemic depression"? They are important, unanswered questions.

Katherine Anne Porter synthesized the times, the creation of the 'new man,' and the 'new woman.' As Prohibition loomed guys started sporting hip flasks, and the new woman took up the cigarette - alcohol and nicotine, traditional responses, since the 1790s, towards epidemics. The government-issue wristwatch became the emblem of the urban individual; it became essential to the urban-and-factory planning of the Twenties. The government drive for money (War Bonds) was the only occasion of permitted gathering, and that under the slogan "Give 'till it Hurts." Indeed, "Sacrifice" was the watchword for the soldier and the 'new' woman alike: give money, give your time, give your labor, give you life."

-Peter Linebaugh, "Lizard Talk: Or, Ten Plagues and Another - An Historical Reprise in Celebration of the Anniversary of Boston ACT UP" (1989)

#peter linebaugh #influenza epidemic

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"King Killmonger: The Golden Jaguar" Chapter 1

Author's Note: You must have read the "Black Boys Bloom Thorns First" series before trying to dip into this new book!

"I will be one of the greatest That is a vow, yeah, that is a promise Always wanted to be famous Just being real, yeah, just being honest

My haters gon' always be nameless Give them no cloud, I give them no power

Creators built different, they ancient Sooner than later, all will be ours…"

Iniko—"The King's Affirmation"

King N'Jadaka Udaku of the Panther Tribe from the kingdom of Wakanda sat at the head table for the Congressional Black Caucus's newly minted Pan-African symposium/dinner. Housed inside of the National Museum of African American History and Culture, the event brought together Black leaders from all over the world that wanted to shape their future with the influence of Black American politicians after the great disaster of the Infinity War.

The king sipped from a glass of lemon water with his young Executive Assistant Mpilo by his side, very much aware of the eyes dragging across his intimidating figure in the midst of seventy-five world politicians of African descent with their various entourages. Women and men allowed to participate in the momentous occasion chanced glancing his way to assess what kind of man he was on this rare occasion that N'Jadaka visited Washington, D.C.

He grew accustomed to the staring. King N'Jadaka became the legend made flesh among them, the rare Black man of real power surrounded by other Black leaders that tried to balance governing in the face of American neo-imperialism. The people in that room would've given up their firstborn child just to be in his presence, especially the representatives from Sudan and Ethiopia. Thanos's ridiculous plan to snap problems away only created more dire ones on earth and Africa suffered as a result. The rise of new warloads and the loss of faith in democracy sprouted far and wide. Slavery, coups, and genocide had ramped up. Troubled nations in the motherland looked to Wakanda and not the U.S. for leadership, and that made N'Jadaka's stay in his former homeland dangerous. The C.I.A. had a bench warrant of death on his head. Western powers wanted the king of Wakanda eliminated.

The Golden Jaguar sighed and pressed his hands on his thighs and flexed his fingers to offset the ribbons of tension coursing through him. Despite it being an all Black affair, there were enemy ops in the conference hall among them. The Dora Milaje and his Onyx Squad remained visible and dispersed throughout the perimeter, their smart-looking uniforms marking them as superior protection among the American security hired to keep unwelcome outsiders from trying to sneak an audience with the Wakandan king.

This attempt at a heavily-publicized gathering of Black international elites became a way for powerless Black politicians in the U.S. to rival and possibly supplant N'Jadaka's influential UDC creation that made waves in under a year. No matter what power-to-the-people slogans were used to get them in office, Black American politicians were still…politicians. No different than their white counterparts that only worried about getting re-elected and stuffing their pockets with money, connections, and a fat board member assignment or consultation position on some corporations dime after retirement. No matter the pithy declarations about supporting the Black community he heard all evening, there were wolves in the room seeking access to more power. The white American power structure lit a fire under the CBC's ass to put together something that would convince diaspora Africans to join with them instead of the Wakandans. N'Jadaka knew what it was and decided to participate anyway. Just to let the CBC know he was watching them closely and feigning diplomacy. America was a weak and decaying order. The bored king found solace knowing he would be its demise.

N'Jadaka tapped his hand on the fancy table cloth. Mpilo took note of his mood and quickly checked his comm tab for the expected time of arrival for Yani and the children. The trip abroad had lasted over two weeks, most of it spent at the United Nations in Geneva, and meetings in New York, London, and South Africa. N'Jadaka cancelled a trip to Saudi Arabia when one of the crown princes of an oil billionaire insulted him on a viral vid. He made an example of them by snubbing a much-anticipated visit there. Any form of anti-Blackness anywhere was swiftly aired out. Mexico, Argentina, Spain, France, Italy, and the Dominican Republic were already smarting from his public call-out of their treatment of Black people due to an increase of racialized violence targeting poor Black citizens in their nations. With Yani's urging and Ramonda's powerful voice as an ambassador, there was a rallying call against global femcide in the wake of the disappearance of so many people.

The U.S. didn't let the great loss of citizens stop their continuing encroachment of resources and they took advantage of pumping predatory capitalism along. What could've been a moment of self-reflection, a shift in priorities, and a new way of being for the country as a whole was simply an opportunity to prey on weaker nations even harder. Their only hindrance in achieving more power was the rise of Wakanda under N'Jadaka's leadership. He instilled fear in every nation that wanted life to go on the same way, and he also gave hope to those parts that saw a chance at progressive changes aligning with Wakanda. The western powers still gasped at his U.N. speech criticizing colonial apartheid in Palestine and Gaza. The gasp turned into full-fledged choking when he charged genocide co-signed and funded by the Americans. Once he pontificated on the historical similarities between Gaza, South Africa, and the Black American segregation of his own people, his War Dogs got wind of Mossad operations trying to penetrate Wakandan intelligence through the C.I.A.

Back home, the continent was split.

African nations that had long been ignored and left to suffer on their own benefitted from supporting Wakanda. N'Jadaka flooded their lands with tech support, agricultural advances, doctors, and a quick rebuilding of infrastructures with his Wakandan Humanitarian Corps that embarrassed the U.S.. At N'Jadaka's urging, Azania and Caanan had stopped selling uranium, colbalt, and platinum to anyone outside of Africa in exchange for advanced agricultural expansion. Mining had ruined and polluted their lands with run-off depleting usable soil and water. Rapid climate change didn't help them either and the neighboring nations were on the verge of famine. Wakanda helped clean their water, soil, and air for free, allowing farmers to produce a bumper crop that saved millions from starvation and prevented them from becoming refugees in other nations. Those who had been malnourished received the best medical treatment, and once snatched from the brink of disaster, Azania and Caanan were staunch allies for good.

Niganda and Mohannda were a different story, currying favor from the CBC leaders and complaining to the U.S. president that Wakanda was a global threat to sovereignty. The other African nations galvanized by the freely given help, threw all of their allegiance to the Wakandans, thus leading other unaligned African nations to fear him creating a United States of Wakanda to rule them all.

It wasn't a bad idea.

He never acknowledged those types of concerns and just let the rumors grow to keep his enemies on their toes. His own father N'Jobu had flirted with visions of a united continent under Wakandan rule in his journals. Currently, N'Jadaka scrambled to replace War Dogs lost to the blip in order to keep his finger on the pulse of other nations.

"Princess Yani will arrive within the next two hours. They have crossed onto the Atlantic," Mpilo said.

N'Jadaka nodded. He gave Mpilo a full-time job as his personal assistant since the loss of his father in the snap. The king had no idea the young man suffered that loss until months after the memorial honoring the lost ones. Mpilo continued to do his work professionally until Yani brought the news to the king's attention. She recognized Mpilo's family name from one of the palace attendants sending personal condolences to their staff on her behalf. When N'Jadaka questioned him, Mpilo broke down in tears in the king's office. His father and two oldest brothers had vanished leaving behind his mother and baby sister. Barely an adult, Mpilo now had the responsibility of looking out for his immediate family. N'Jadaka terminated his fellowship and gave him a permanent job title as his executive assistant.

The king let out a sigh of relief.

He needed to be with his family again. Normally Yani would be with him, but she was on her own global tour promoting her book, "The Wakandan Way of Birth". Their children traveled with her and he caught interview segments of her in three countries. The world was enamored with the exotic princess. It was her first appearance outside of Wakanda representing the nation. N'Jadaka grinned thinking about the reaction of the Caribbean. The entire region went nuts finding out officially that an island girl had snagged the most powerful man in the world.

She promoted the book in St. Thomas first, and he hated not being there with her. She traveled to Jamaica next to visit the land of her father and paid her respects to their relatives there. In the midst of the new global normal, Yani's book became a smashing success. All proceeds went to funding her midwifery scholarships to further the number of Black and Native midwives and doulas learning at the Wakandan birthing centers. The money allowed women to focus fulltime on their craft without monetary constraints. She planned to give more once she became queen because the palace allotted a salary for Queen Consorts that she planned to use for more income-based scholarships. Wherever there were Black and Indigenous women in need, Yani made sure they took priority over anyone else.

Everyone wanted their hands on the book. A Wakandan publishing company mass marketed the coffee-table sized manauscript, and they looked exquisite. The cover was created by a Birnin S'Yan artisan who made a vibranium-tinged dye that was threaded into a gorgeous royal purple and silver cloth overlay. The book had fifty full-page color photos that Yani spent months agonizing over from a total of 200. The cover photo itself deserved to hang in a museum. It showed a young woman holding her newborn daughter and they were both dressed in the vibrant colors of the River Tribe.

When the pre-release online sales skyrocketed, Yani made the decision to only provide non-online sales out of Wakanada through global Black bookstores. The international brick and mortar stores made bank with the flood of non-Black customers wanting their hands on something from Wakanda. Even people who weren't even interested in childbirth or culture clamored to snatch up a copy just to get a glimpse of what Wakanda looked like from the inside. The first print sold out in one week.

The talks finally ended and the affair moved into a spacious outdoor dining area where a small jazz trio played music in a corner. The balmy weather made it comfortable to be outside and he took in a deep inhale of D.C. air.

Okoye and Ayo kept the pre-dinner rush to talk to the king at a distance, giving N'Jadaka time to snag a moment of peace. After ten minutes he shook hands and greeted caucus leaders, trying not to look annoyed at their requests for selfies with him. He obliged to be polite and to give an air of camaraderie. Everyone wanted everyone else to think they had connections to him by how loud they talked or laughed with him. He knew the drill.

The hosts ushered his entourage to their dining seats near the front of another podium. No one pretended to be sly about sneaking candids of him with their smartphones.

"King N'Jadaka, your son is here to see you right away," Ayo whispered in his ear.

N'Jadaka looked around and spotted Riki walking out from the museum with his personal Dora, Quamba. All the diners stopped to watch the prince of Wakanda walk through with his hands behind his back and his eyes searching for his Baba. Some people tried to snap photos of Riki, but all of N'Jadaka's children wore necklaces that thwarted any cameras from getting clear pictures of them by jamming up electronics and flash photography cameras.

Riki looked too clean.

Yani braided his hair in the spiral style of his Wakandan ancestors, threaded with shells and beads that bounced around his shoulders. This week, Riki wore jade and black fingernail polish decorated with mini panther claws in bright gold which was the rage of young children in Birnin Zana who loved their local team that played a popular sport called ukudlala ngomlenze…leg play. It was a game that required balance, and intense leg flexibility as two teams battled each other on a low swinging wooden bridge that moved across a deep body of water. One member of each team took turns standing in the center of the swinging bridge as the other team members of the challenging team split up on either side to rock the opponent off their feet, without any of their own teammates falling over too. The narrow bridge swung higher and higher, pushing athletes to go against gravity, their exhausted limbs put to the test for long durations. N'Jadaka had promised Riki a trip to the national competition in the River Tribe territory once they returned home.

Riki's black royal sash rested snug across his chest with the family crest emblazoned on it. The boy was seven-years old and sprouting a bit of height. He was almost as tall as Sydette and would probably surpass her by the time he was eight. The freckles on his red-brown skin were more pronounced, covering his nose and cheeks. Riki's eyes lit up when he spotted N'Jadaka.

"Baba!"

The boy ran past chuckling adults who admired the tailored royal suit and polished shoes. N'Jadaka held his arms out and his son jumped onto his lap and kissed his cheek. The happy king wrapped his child up in love.

"I've missed your busy behind," N'Jadaka said. "Where's your Mama and the girls?"

"Changing clothes. I couldn't wait to see you," Riki said, squeezing his arms around N'Jadaka's neck.

"Good trip, Dumplin?"

"Yes. People went crazy for Mama and her book. I'm ready to go home though. I don't like this country…the people here are so fake. They only like you if you're rich or famous."

"Hungry?"

Riki nodded and scanned the tables for the evening's selection. He scrunched up his nose at the servers placing rolls and butter on the tables.

"Can we eat this food, Baba?" Riki asked.

"We have people watching the chef in the kitchen."

The Udaku children had been taught to reject outside food unless their parents permitted them to partake. N'Jadaka had become cautious with poisoning and normally had his own personal chef make all of their food, but he opted to watch the American cooks this time around instead of turning down a plate. The head chef for the evening was a famous Black American from New Orleans who read that N'Jadaka liked food from that region and wanted to create a menu to impress the powerful king.

"Sit next to me," N'Jadaka said, pulling out a chair for Riki.

Mpilo took a seat across from them at the circular table that seated twelve. Members of the CBC organizing committee greeted him then took their seats at other tables. The jazz music grew softer as guests took their seats all throughout the guarded space. A congresswoman from Philly took to the podium near N'Jadaka's area and announced the arrival of Yani and Ramonda. Eager applause broke out and N'Jadaka stood up from his seat. He helped Riki stand in his chair so he could see his mother and aunt enter.

N'Jadaka's Uncle Bakari escorted Yani and Ramonda together as Sydette and Joba walked in front of them wearing matching purple dresses with their hair twisted and pulled back with amethyst panther-shaped hair clips. Yani mesmerized the crowd in a shimmery emerald green dress that revealed all her rounded curves. She styled her hair with extensions in an upswept fancy roll that denoted her status as queen-to-be. Ramonda had the crowd transfixed with her tall purple isicholo and deep purple gown. Uncle Bakari appeared dapper in his black tux. N'Jadaka's grandfather Dante escorted Bakari's wife Shavonne and they all made their way toward the front where their Dora Milaje escorts brought them to the king's table.

Sydette and Joba dashed to him first and he picked up both girls and smothered their faces with kisses amidst their squeals of delight for being with him again. He put them down the moment Yani reached him and he couldn't hide from the world his love for her.

He wrapped eager arms around her tight and pressed his forehead against her brow. The tense energy in his body drained down into the floor and he exhaled a long breath. Yani rested her arms around his massive shoulders, her perfume drowning him in memories of their shared bed and the last time they had been alone without the world watching their every move.

"Baby, I missed you so much."

"I know. I couldn't wait to get here and hold you."

"You know these niggas is starin' so we better play it cool for Ramonda's sake."

Yani giggled and pulled away from him. He kissed her hand and turned to Ramonda, giving his auntie double kisses on both cheeks. He hugged his grandpop next and finally showed love to his American aunt and uncle who raised him after his parents died. They all took their seats at the dining table. Yani sat at his right, and Riki, Joba, and Sydette took over his left side.

As the first courses of salads, soups, and finger foods were brought out, announcements were made. The head chef was brought out and recognized. N'Jadaka allowed the nervous man to take a picture with him holding up a plate of sausage gumbo with rice. There was special recognition given to Yani, along with a surprise plaque presented to Ramonda for her role as an ambassador fostering goodwill between America and Wakanda.

N'Jadaka caught up with his aunt and uncle and the family chatter reminded him of being home except they were being watched like fish in a fishbowl. When dessert and coffee were brought out at the end of the meal, Ramonda switched seats with Riki and leaned in toward the king.

"President Mubiri would like to have a nightcap with you during the mixer inside the museum," Ramonda said.

"Why?"

Ramonda's sharp eyes observed the guests.

"He believes D.C. is neutral ground and he would like to discuss rumors of you inciting a coup in his nation."

"Sounds like C.I.A. bullshit."

"Even so, it wouldn't hurt to appear cordial. Get some photos taken that shows two rival nations talking together. Yani is your icebreaker. Madame Mubiri is here, too. A nice photo-op of beautiful African women mingling will make the CBC very happy."

N'Jadaka glanced at Yani's fingers. She had on her deadly finger armor. Hopefully she wouldn't threaten the man again.

He signaled for Quamba and several Onyx Squad security to take his children and grandfather back to their penthouse suite at the hotel they were lodged in for the weekend. He hugged and kissed the children promising to read a bedtime story to them later. People moved out of the way and stared at his heirs. All three children walked like royalty, heads held high, backs kept straight.

The after dinner mixer started inside the lobby of the museum where a giant abstract art installation above their heads looked like the unfurling of giant bronze ribbons. N'Jadka read the description of the sculpture that was supposed to represent the swinging motions like a band of angels coming down to carry Black Americans back home like the old spiritual "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot". The artist, Richard Hunt, used suspended cables to anchor the work, and the swooping arcs of the bronze bands reminded N'Jadaka of his mother's arms around his body when he was small.

Several servers traipsed the lobby carrying drinks and savory finger foods. A D.J. played contemporary R&B and the guests relaxed into full-blown partying mode. Bakari and Shavonne headed toward a display of Harriet Tubman's shawl further inside the museum and Mpilo escorted Ramonda to meet some caucus members who were dying to be seen with her.

N'Jadaka held out his arm and Yani rested her hand on it. She walked with a majestic stride that matched his and they mingled for a bit. Yani's charm was her greatest weapon and they spent a considerable amount of time discussing her book and tour. Her radiance overwhelmed a few people who couldn't stop admiring her even as they moved on to other guests. The allure of power was a true aphrodisiac, and Yani wielded it well. All of her Wakandan training and years of experience dealing with all sorts of people paid off in spades as she delighted American dignitaries. He couldn't stop staring at her himself. Her voice lit up his face and he smiled at everything she said. Yani's youth also surprised people. She would be entering her late twenties soon enough, but carried a greater maturity and self-awareness in the last year representing Wakanda internationally.

They worked the first three corners of the lobby before the mixer branched out to the rest of the museum, and they headed toward President Mubiri and Madame Mubiri who lingered near a replica of a slave quarter. The Mohanndan president stood with a glass of liquor in his hand entertaining cronies as his wife watched her husband's dour animated face with his uppercase gums spilling over his lowercase teeth. Her eyes sparked up when Yani approached holding out her hands toward the woman.

"Madame Habiba Mubiri, I finally get to see you again in a less formal setting," Yani enthused.

Yani ignored Mubiri and immediately pulled Habiba away from her husband, touching her hand in informal friendship.

"Mubiri," N'Jadaka said, offering his hand. Mubiri shook it.

"King N'Jadaka."

Yani reached for a glass of wine from a server that had been freshly poured from the bar. She presented it to N'Jadaka using the ancient submissive stance of queens in Wakanda, holding the glass up to him with her right hand, while her other hand cradled the elbow of the serving arm. N'Jadaka caught the lust in Mubiri's eyes again for his fiancé. He took the glass from Yani and kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, baby," he said.

"May I please borrow Madame Mubiri? I would love to introduce her to the head organizer," Yani asked Mubiri.

It was clear that Mubiri didn't want his wife to do anything, but Yani's seductive voice couldn't be denied. She played on the man's need to control women by asking his permission. Her earlier exaggerated submissive act toward N'Jadaka fed into the man's cultural ego. Yani upped the ante by touching his arm and squeezing it. Her touch ignited something in the president and he lifted his wife's arm and practically threw her at Yani.

"I'm sure you two have some important things to discuss without us present," she added.

"Enjoy yourselves," Mubiri said, his gaze plastered all over Yani's figure as the two women strolled further into the heart of the museum.

N'Jadka pretended to drink his wine while being focused on something else until Yani was gone.

"I thank you for the personal invitation to your wedding King N'Jadaka. I didn't think you would extend us any welcome to your country again."

"It's a time of celebration, not political intrigue. Yani wanted your wife there. They have been corresponding for a time getting to know each other. You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"And miss the nuptials of that delightful woman you parade around like a trophy? Never. We will attend and enjoy the splendor."

They both drank in silence.

"Did you like the tour of the museum earlier?" N'Jadaka asked.

"An intriguing history lesson. You must be proud of your heritage here."

"I am."

"Rebels at heart. I see why the Americans want to control you."

"I know you don't want to stand here and shoot the shit about my lineage. You want to know if I'm plotting to throw you out of office."

Mubiri choked on his drink as N'Jadaka stared at his face. The Mohanndan's cronies flicked their eyes away in embarrassment, not expecting the king to be that blunt.

"What would I gain from having you taken out, Mubiri? There would only be another leader who thinks the same as you, so nothing would change. Pinning your hopes on the Americans holding me in check has not paid off in a year. I offer nothing but hope and a chance at directing Africa's vast internal wealth and ancient wisdom back to where it belongs…on all of our people."

"Our people? You Wakandans are stand-offish and think only of yourselves. These little excursions into other African nations giving them little trinkets of your resources reeks of a ploy to rule over us all. At least your uncle acted like a benevolent father-figure in the west."

"My uncle was not the man you all think he was. I am telling you now, to your face Barasa Mubiri…I have no plans for a coup, an assassination, nor war with your country. Did you not read my fiancé's book? Wakandans value peaceful living, enhancements to prolong life, and self-actualization that benefits the whole and not just the individual. We kept to ourselves for centuries even when we had the means to colonize the world and bend it to our will. But we didn't."

"I still think that is an option in your arsenal, King N'Jadaka."

"I am from the school of 'don't start none, won't be none'. My goal is transformative liberation for whomever wants it."

"So-called liberators often transform into something sinister, if given the chance."

The king moved closer to the east African president, closing the small gap between them.

"I only plan to bring hell to those who mean us harm. Do you plan to cause problems for us with this U.S. administration?" N'Jadaka asked.

Mubiri shook his head and smiled.

"I want peace and prosperity for our people too."

"Good. You have heard directly from my mouth what I want. Let's spend the rest of the evening showing the world that Africans can co-exist on the continent without people confirming their biases about us being warlords and despots. We can be civil with our disagreements. Everything doesn't have to be bloodshed, or rumors of hostile take-overs."

N'Jadaka excused himself with Okoye by his side.

"You were very civil, kumkani," Okoye said.

"I promised Umama that I would control my hostile tendencies here."

"She would be very pleased. Princess Yani is speaking to a delegation from the Sudan. Ambassador Udaku is with the Press Secretary for the American President."

N'Jadaka peeked at his kimoyos. He wanted to leave as soon as possible without making it glaringly obvious that he was ready to dip. His declining of the White House meeting with the President didn't sit well among the ruling Republican party.

"Kumkani!"

Mpilo rushed to him breathing heavily.

"You must come immediately," Mpilo said.

N'Jadaka quickened his steps with Okoye at his side. Mpilo led them through a throng of people and Yani rushed forward, clasping his hand in hers.

"What is it?" he said.

He squeezed a protective hand around hers and she pulled him toward another room. His family stood with other guests admiring a wall display. Ramonda stood with Dante and his uncle Bakari had taken off his glasses. Shavonne held an arm over Bakari's shoulder and they made room for N'Jadaka to move in front of them. Yani linked her arm with his.

"We didn't know this was here," Yani said.

N'Jadaka looked at a series of life-sized color photos of his mother Califia leading a Berkley BSU meeting. Her young face looked on fire like her hair as she held up a fist, her brows knitted together, and her mouth open spitting fire. A second photo connected to the first in a collage-styled presentation showed her carrying N'Jadaka on her hip. He was four years old wearing intricate cornrows and they both looked directly at whoever took the picture for a public event in Oakland. A deep inhale filled his lungs. The third image brought the handsome beauty of his father N'Jobu to life. He wore the dark ceremonial royal robes of Wakanda looking noble and fly as fuck. A fourth photo made N'Jadaka blink trying to figure out where it came from. He sported an MIT sweatshirt and his grin looked so innocent long ago. It came back to him. Chocolate City. A school paper had done an article about him and his dorm mates The final photo was a formal publicity photo of himself as the king of Wakanda. The entire collage mural threaded his Black American roots to his Wakandan roots, forming a romanticized link of the diaspora back to the motherland.

He appreciated his family becoming a historical footnote in the museum. Dante wiped his eyes and Yani wrapped an arm around him, helping the older man to reconcile the pain they felt in not having Califia and N'Jobu there with them.

The museum director approached N'Jadaka with a timid smile, her pale brown eyes dazzled by how close she stood next to him and his entourage. She down casted her gaze quickly when he stared directly at her.

"We hope you like this new installation King N'Jadaka. Unfortunately, the artist has been ill, or else he would've been here," the director said.

"Very impressive," he said.

His eyes lingered on his mother's image holding him while Ramonda gazed at N'Jobu's image. He wondered what thoughts went through her mind. Was there regret? Any remains of sadness that he had chosen someone else over her?

"Every time I see your parents, I see our children," Yani said. "You look so much like Riki in this one."

Yani reached out and let her fingers hover under the chin of his childhood image. He wanted to go home. Back to Wakanda. He whispered in Ramonda's ear and she slid next to the director to heap praises on the installation. Clasping Yani's hand, he guided his relatives toward the nearest exit. The Dora snapped to attention flanking them while the Onyx squad scanned for any problems.

Five dark SUVs pulled up to the side of the museum with Kingsguard drivers. Their entire party was whisked away to a luxury hotel in the heart of the capital and they disembarked in an underground parking garage to avoid paparazzi.

N'Jadaka entered his suite with Yani, and their children tackled him onto the floor wearing their pajamas. Dante watched them from a couch for a few minutes before standing up.

"I'm heading to bed, JaJa. What time do you need me to be ready for Joba's grandma?" Dante asked.

"She's arriving with the rest of Disa's family in the half cruiser around noon. We'll pick up some family in St. Thomas and Jamaica too before we travel back to Wakanda. The wedding rehearsal happens on Wednesday instead of Thursday."

"Yani's still doing the Today show interview?"

"Yes," Yani said, pulling Sydette from on top of N'Jadaka's head, "It's the only place I'm promoting the book."

Dante looked surprised.

N'Jadka gave Yani a look to take the children to their shared junior suite. Dante watched the family leave and he moved closer to his grandson.

"What's going on?" Dante asked.

"I don't want Yani in this country any longer than she has to be. We have some credible threats here in the states, and we're doing some culling of problems."

"Culling? You mean killing right?"

N'Jadaka glanced over his shoulder. Yani's voice gently scolded the children from being so hyper and loud before bed.

"Grandpop, things are escalating. Neutralizing threats will become more common for me."

"I don't have any issues with that."

N'Jadaka nodded.

"I'm turning in. See ya in the morning."

"I'm sleeping in."

"That doesn't surprise me."

He squeezed his grandfather's shoulder and watched the older man shuffle off to the adjoining door that led to another private suite. A Dora on night duty greeted Dante and closed the suite door behind him.

N'Jadaka stepped into the bedroom with his children frolicking across two queen beds. Sydette bounced on hers and played with her kimoyo beads while Riki and Joba tried to sidestep Yani's attempts to get them under the covers. N'Jadaka clapped his hands and all three children stopped goofing around and centered their attention on him. Yani placed hands on her hips, her long extensions fallen over one shoulder.

"Hey, what's going on in here? Mama said it's time for bed. Stop playing around."

"You promised us a story," Joba said.

He sighed and tread softly to the younger children's bed and plopped down on it. Pulling Joba onto his lap, he nuzzled his chin on top of her head. She touched his cheek.

"Are you too tired Baba? We can wait for another time," Joba said.

Her soft voice and soft hands brought forth all the mental exhaustion of the day.

"Thank you, Sunshine," he said.

He kissed Joba's cheek and she scrambled under the covers next to her brother. Riki patted his hand and he stroked the boy's braids.

"Night, Baba," Sydette said.

His oldest climbed under thick blankets and blew him a kiss. He pretended to catch it and place it lovingly on his cheek.

"Tomorrow you will go with Grandpop to have breakfast with Uncle Bakari and Aunt Shavonne, then Grandma Theresa will arrive and we'll all meet up for lunch," Yani said.

"When are we leaving this place?" Riki asked.

"Soon," N'Jadaka said. "Get some sleep."

All the children looked relieved. He slipped his hand over Yani's and pulled her out of the room, turning off the lights and closing the bedroom door. Yani threw her arms around his waist and they hugged each other, allowing their mutual warmth and affection to flow through one another. He had his family back.

N'Jadaka's sleep was interrupted not by a sound, but by the missing softness removed from his side. Opening his eyes, he spread his hand out feeling for Yani. A toilet flushed from the bathroom outside of the hotel bedroom and she padded in quietly, closing the door before re-joining him. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand he was surprised to see it was only three in the morning. His body felt like it had slept later than that. He spooned back around Yani's lush form and they threaded the fingers of their right hands together, tucking them under her breasts.

The TV they watched before nodding off played a twenty-four hour news channel. Broadcasts of his visit stayed on loop most of the night, but the current images flashing onscreen highlighted the weather and celebrity gossip.

"At the end of this week we will be married," he whispered into Yani's ear.

She giggled and pushed her rump against his crotch.

"Queen Yani and King N'Jadaka," he said. "Nervous?"

"A little. Our counseling sessions with Elder Efetebo gave me a lot to think about. Umama and Ramonda have helped me too. Feels like I'm a part of something bigger than anything I have ever known in Wakanda…and yet…"

N'Jadaka reached over and turned on a lamp. He turned her face toward him.

"What is it?"

Yani's eyes watered and she blinked quickly. Two small tears trekked a lonely trail down her round cheeks. He kissed them away and cuddled her in his body heat and strength. She continued speaking in a low voice.

"At times…I know many still see us as outsiders on the noble court. They don't come for mi like they used to in the beginning, but I see it in their eyes. I know they want you take a Wakandan concubine. As modern and visionary as our country is, they hold on to these old timey ways to discredit our reign. I can see if they don't want Sweet Pea to have claim to the throne, but Riki and Joba have the bloodline in them. That should be enough. They want you to have a legally sanctioned child with a second wife to make the new line more legitimate…more Wakandan than diaspora. Everyone is scared to say this to your face, so that is the only thing that keeps them in line."

"Zola and Ilana tell you this?"

"They tell me everything. They love us."

"I've been on the elders' asses about that shit."

"There's only so much they can do. They can't stop other people from talking what they feel to be true in their hearts. A segment of the population will always see us diluting the bloodline."

"I will have Zola and Ilana tell me who the gossipmongers are and I will cast them out on their asses."

Yani sighed and burrowed into his arms.

"That will only make them feel justified and maybe cause more trouble for me in the palace. I will deal with it in mi own way."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. Right now I'm a weak piece on the chess board. But once that royal isicholo is on my head, I will have more power to play a different position. I won't need to run to you all the time complaining."

"You don't run to me."

She rubbed his bicep and kissed the skin there on his arm.

"I can stand on my own. I have to in order to survive the politics as queen. The more time I spend in the throne room with you, I see why you wanted me there so much."

"Does it overwhelm you?"

"Sometimes. The Council of Elders are so particular…so strict. Like I said, we have the most modern country and I can't get over how backwards they can be with a willful adherence to tradition without even considering the impact of our population being made up of so many young citizens. Nearly half of our citizens are under the age of twenty. Even before the Infinity War. These young people are hungry for change. They want to create new traditions. Look at Zola and Ilana, my staunchest supporters…their desire for new things spills over into every conversation we have together. So much goes on back home and yet, we both have to deal with the rest of the world's problems too. I tell myself I'm up to the challenge, that I can multitask and handle every little fire that breaks out in the Court of Nobles, but it can look daunting at times."

"We have each other. We have our family. There's nothing we can't get through together. I put us all in hell and we climbed back out… you and me. I plan on protecting you Yani, and providing you with anything you need for yourself or our children. The nation will know your power and influence for generations to come. I mean…look at your book tour. The world knows who you are…"

Yani's eyes drifted away from N'Jadaka's face. She reached for the tv remote on the nightstand and turned up the volume on a previously broadcasted segment. Onscreen a male news anchor out of D.C. spoke over a background image of N'Jadaka back in his Killmonger days. Mercenary fatigues covered his body and his short locs had barely curled over his forehead.

"They outed you," Yani said.

N'Jadaka listened to the anchor list his accomplishments at MIT and the Navy before cutting to alleged covert missions for various off-the-grid companies and ghost units. He sat up on the bed as a female political analyst sat in front of an image of the Pentagon. She shared a clip of N'Jadaka's speech to the U.N. and inferred that the Wakandan king's connection to the C.I.A. and mercenary past would prove to be a detriment to African nations seeking true democracy. The overall segment painted N'Jadaka in an unsavory light.

"…King N'Jadaka has stated publicly at the latest U.N. gathering in Geneva that he will continue to interfere with African nations that are in turmoil. Our government can't afford to have Wakanda becoming the world police if the U.N. can't rally around the support of ending genocide in the Congo or demanding that Rwanda and Uganda stop their pillaging of coltan in that region. His calling out of multinationals is dangerous to the progress America is making to help the DRC put an end to the loss of life there. We've sat on the sidelines long enough waiting to see what direction Wakanda will move in since the mysterious ousting of King T'Challa, and now that we know the full background of the rebel king…this by the way is what he is known as in Mohannda and Niganda. Those two nations also have large deposits of colbalt, coltan, and uranium, and their leaders have hinted King N'Jadaka may wage war to secure those resources just like he hoards vibranium from the rest of the world."

"Janice, are you suggesting that King N'Jadaka's background as a C.I.A. operative may provoke a World War Three scenario in the future? He is in our country right now, in this city exactly with other African leaders and Black politicians from around the world. You really believe he will bring us to the brink of another global disaster after we've gone through so much?"

"He is a threat to our national security and the security of other African countries who desire peace and free-trade without violence. It is our duty to protect those people, and to protect the leadership who want to sell resources that benefit all. We are all witnessing the emergence of a secretive superpower under the leadership of a man we trained in black ops and who has no allegiance to anyone. I find this disconcerting and frankly, Bill, I'm shocked at how casual the leadership in this country is taking this troubling revelation."

"Excluding his recent U.N. speech, King N'Jadaka has only spoken out publicly against the on-going genocidal war in the DRC. As far as we know, he hasn't done anything outright on the continent of Africa that should warrant the type of forceful caution you are suggesting. Why are you so adamant about this discourse in the capital?"

"Wakanda is an unknown factor in global conflicts to date. U.S. officials and the Pentagon would like to see it stay that way, but King N'Jadaka appears to be rattling his saber. His training and access to the most powerful weaponry on earth scares me. It should scare everyone, especially with his negative views toward the United States…the land of his birth."

"Genius…decorated solder…Navy SEAL…C.I.A. operative…mercenary…king…you've given us a lot to think about with your upcoming book about Wakanda's place in geopolitics."

"Here's something else to think about. King N'Jadaka —Erik Stevens when he was an American—used to have Tony Stark as a mentor."

"Iron Man?"

"Yes."

"Are you implicating the billionaire superhero in anything to do with King N'Jadaka's spectacular political trajectory?"

"I'm only pointing out how entrenched the Wakandan king is within bleeding edge technology in the military arms race and his close proximity to someone many found problematic years ago as an industrialist. Who knows if these two men are still in contact with one another? Tony Stark should be called to Washington to answer pertinent questions about his past with this king."

N'Jadaka flicked the off button for the tv. Yani placed it back on the nightstand.

"They've been sitting on this shit for a year. Been wondering when the C.I.A. would drop it in the court of public opinion. Of course that bitch pushes her upcoming book during the last leg of your international book tour. I bet all of your book sales that Everett Ross had a hand in being a ghostwriter for it."

"Will they connect me with your mercenary past? Klaue?"

"No. Klaue used aliases on St. Thomas."

"What if they ask you about how we met?"

N'Jadaka lifted a long braid from Yani's face and tucked it behind her ear.

"I was on vacation in paradise and met you…a beautiful island girl. We fell in love and that's all there is to it."

Yani kissed his lips gently and rolled back on her side. He curled around her and they snuggled for a bit. He whispered in her ear.

"I don't want you to worry about anything that woman said. They've been looking to smear me every chance they get. It doesn't take away from those who support and believe in us."

She nodded into his arm and he kissed her temple.

"These people can only speculate from afar. We'll always be ahead of them. The only thing I want you thinking about is how you'll look in that wedding dress when I see you walking down the aisle," he said.

"That woman on tv tried to make you look like a monster, but all of your achievements only made you look like a man they should praise."

"I came up out the mud and took my talents to the last place they expected. They're starting to see what Africa could become once I get these wars abolished. Africa has always been the center of the world. Once we get the rest of these colonial shackles off her feet, I'll make her flex."

"You sound like you want to be king of the motherland."

"Don't tempt me."

Yani glanced back at him.

"Would you do something like that?"

"No more talk about the world. The sun hasn't come up yet and the children are still asleep."

N'Jadaka smashed his lips against hers and hurriedly slipped his tongue in her mouth to hush more inquiries. Her watery mouth tasted of 7-Up that she must've snuck a sip of from the suite's mini-fridge. His mind slowed down the way it always did when he kissed her. The heartbeat thumps in his chest matched the speed of hers. His long locs fanned out around her face and his Golden Jaguar necklace claws grazed her throat. Yani hummed into his mouth while sucking his tongue and he gasped at the initial thickening of his dick.

Pulling away, he stared down at her face, taking in the wide round eyes with curling lashes that fluttered whispery kisses against his neck as he kissed her forehead.

"I hate when we're apart," he said.

"I know."

"I love being with you like this when the children are in the next room asleep and safe…when no one from the outside bothers us. I can have you all to myself…oohhh…."

Yani slid her hands down his chest and squeezed the growing bulge in his pajama bottoms. He leaked a growing spot of precum and she toyed with it through the silk barrier. Her fingers became sticky and slick. He groaned and murmured her name into her hair, lifting his body higher so he could watch her hand do wonders teasing his erection.

Resting against her, he slid his fingers across her chest, fondling her breasts through her gauzy nightgown top. He pulled down on it until her titties spilled out, the plump nipples feeling like fat grapes on his fingertips. Pinching and plucking at them gently, he played with her breasts until he was ready for more. He climbed above her and pushed his groin into her mound, the friction swelling his dick until it poked out of the waist band on its own. He tugged his pajama pants down and gripped the thick erection in his eager hand. Yani lifted off her gown and he pushed the covers back so he could see the blessed globes jiggle.

"Oh shit," he groaned.

He pressed the tip of his dick against her pierced clit and a glistening long thread of precum shined up her labia. Swiping the bulbous head back and forth, he smeared the clear fluid on her fat vulva like icing on a chocolate cake. Yani shifted her big thighs and her ass cheeks jiggled. He smacked the underside hard and the recoil from that position forced a heavy moan from his lips. She had gained weight. He knew her trip back to St. Thomas and Jamaica meant eating good childhood food, and his woman didn't miss nary a meal. It was a gift to him no doubt.

Kicking off his pajama bottoms all the way, N'Jadaka played with Yani's breasts and labia until he was ready to penetrate the pretty pink opening flashing at him. Yani turned on her side and he parted her labia with one fluid motion of his dick sinking deep into her. She whimpered at the stretching of her walls after a long absence.

"I won't go crazy, baby…I promise. Too many people close around," he huffed.

Her pussy accommodated his girth with a tight wetness he was accustomed to having mold like a second skin around his dick. All he could think of was President Mubiri ogling Yani's body, especially her ass. It looked so round and ripe in her dress. He thrust forward knowing that man would never know pussy as sweet and juicy as the one sheathing his exceptional length. Only kings deserved the clenching his dick received at that moment.

"Yani….dassit…baby…damn…"

He grit his teeth trying to keep from shouting. Lowering his head, he dropped his face into the back of her neck and muffled his vocal straining. In and out…her perfect gushy cavern squelched and he dug in deeper, wanting to hear the sounds of his balls smacking her ass.

"Fuck…girl…"

She arched her back and he smothered his body over hers, preventing her from taking control and making him nut too quick. His dick needed to marinate in her pussy. He held Yani's back against his chest and reveled in the snug pussy cradling his dick. Keeping still, he played with her clit without thrusting, making her indulge in the pressure off all that meat stuffed inside of her. She huffed into her pillow and wiggled her hips, but he kept her anchored against him without mercy.

"You miss Daddy's dick?" he asked.

"Yes."

She whimpered pitiful sounds and clawed the sheets, eventually wilting in his arms. His dick could stay hard for hours, the gift from the heart-shaped herb's power flowing through his blood. He rested in her walls for an hour, teasing her clit and whispering nasty things in her ear. She started crying from the delicate teasing of his fingers all over her jewel-pierced vulva for such a long time without release.

"You betta not cum until I tell you…okay?"

"Okay…okay…I can't take much more…"

She bit into his arm and the heat from her mouth made him chuckle. Yani sat on the edge of her orgasm. Her legs shook from the anticipation. He needed the slow revving from her to keep himself in check.

They shared a sex routine they always adhered to on their reunions since their year of living together in the palace. It was a way to protect her pussy from his veracity. He was never allowed to cum in her pussy first when they joined. It took too much out of her to handle him regularly, so he learned to control his first release and saved it for her submission to him on her knees. The king's affirmation was always a facial for his beautiful queen.

If Yani orgasmed too quickly first, he would head straight to pound town, spurting too much semen that always released the beast in him. Uniting their bodies in slow methodical build ups kept him manageable for her. As he resumed stroking her walls after the long delay of cockwarming, he kept tabs on his arousal levels. When it was time to shift the pace before he wore her down, he pulled his dick from her precious pink sanctuary. Yani scrambled off the bed to submit to his need for dominance.

He moved his legs over the bed and spread his thighs wider, giving Yani room to position her knees on the floor properly in front of him. She offered him her tits, smacking them together playfully, and he fondled a nipple, fisting his dick, and watching her big beautiful brown eyes stare up at him.

"I love you like this…looking up at me…yeah baby…open that mouth…stick out your tongue…yeah, just like that. You gon' let me fuck that pussy some more after this?"

She nodded, looking innocent and expectant.

"Sexy ass…" he hissed.

He bent down and kissed her and she sucked on his lower lip, tugging on the skin with her teeth. Pulling back he shoved his dick down her throat, the girth hallowing out her cheeks on both sides as she sucked and worked her neck. She smacked her lips against his tip, releasing it with a loud pop and a sliding of her tongue across her top lip.

"Suck dick so good…suck it some more…right there…let me stretch that mouth. Stop playing with it Yani, take that shit the right way…"

He reached out and softly slapped the side of her mouth and she gave him a sly grin and licked the underside of his thick ridge. He grabbed her hair then, yanking on the braids to remind her of her place. She hit that itchy sensitive part of his dick with the friction of her scandalous tongue. The thinnest part of the dermis seemed to rest there in that spot that gave her tongue-tip the secret combination to start making his dick leak with clear fluid again. His erection was like a rigid pole vault in her mouth and he was so ready to dismount with a fat nut. Yani hummed, and slowly licked along the sides of his dick. His breathing quickened to a pace that alarmed him. She was beginning to control him, making him react like a desperate man under her spell, and that was being disobedient. Her bratty behavior couldn't be corrected in the heat of her deep throating him. That would require major spanking and loud cursing. The last thing he wanted was for their children and security team to hear him curse a blue streak while spanking Yani's ass. She wanted him to hurry up and ejaculate so she could ride his dick and cum.

A surge of semen rose up through his balls. He slapped Yani again for putting a super charged gwak-gwak 3000 on him too soon. She became obedient again and squeezed his fat sack, staving off his release. He thought about letting her milk him and cumming in her mouth, but the decadent and demanding king wanted to paint her face with hot semen when he was ready. It was his way…he craved the ritual of it between them, and also because he knew a little secret about her.

He grinned slyly thinking about it.

Yani had been sneakily watching old videos of him with past lovers. Months earlier he had scanned old computers that he planned on destroying until his spyware cam detected unusual activity in secret files. The spycam revealed Yani's viewrship and he chuckled at the thought of her using him for her personal porn collection. He said nothing, and left the old computers where they stayed in their home, pretending to ignore them as old artifacts from his past life. The most viewed images were his cum shots on women's faces, and he clocked the intense looks of pleasure on her face when he did it to her. She loved submitting to him that way and it was a great help to their energetic sex life. Lovemaking wasn't as frequent as it used to be because their lives were so busy, but the intensity increased because of it.

Yani continued the arousing slow sucking. He watched her glossy plump lips slide back and forth across the top half of his dick. Her fawning eyes stayed locked on his, riling up his body because she made the act of dick sucking look so illicit. So pornographic.

Every now and then she would stop sucking and rubbed her lips back and forth across the mushroom cap creating a delicious tickling. His balls throbbed. She twisted her fingers around the head to give him new sensations, never once breaking eye contact. Yani knew how to chip away his defenses by giving off innocent vibes. She'd stay on her knees looking up at him with her big titties all out, nipples perky and offered to him like delectable appetizers. That look took him back to St. Thomas and the first time he ever touched her. His dick felt heavy between his legs. Thoughts of her back then being a little spitfire towards him ratcheted up his emotions for her in the present. In six days he would wed the most beautiful, cunning, and loving woman he had ever had to call his own. She latched onto him like a ride or die and he never wanted her to be that way ever again. She deserved better…she deserved more from him. His best. No, he would be a ride or die for her. Always.

He palmed her breasts and squeezed them. Lifted them up and down. Thumbing her nipples with wide circles, he listened to her breathy pants of pleasure. She stroked his dick. Yani would soon be the composed queen of a mighty nation in public, but at night, she would always be his nasty little slut…on her knees begging for Daddy dick to be stuffed in all of her orifices. That turned him on as he pushed her tits together. Her eyes were glassy. Lips pouted. She reached down and peeled back the wings of her inner labia giving him peek-a-boo glimpses of her wet pink. She needed his dick and slapped her pussy lips to ignite a wild fire in him.

"Taste mi," she purred.

Yani held up her wet fingers scented with her love and he licked them, opening his mouth wider so she could stuff three digits inside to paint his tongue with the dew. He swallowed her offering and she traced the shape of his lips with her own until the swollen skin on his lips itched for more.

"Killmonger."

Her moist lips pushed out the air to say that name. It ended him. He jumped to his feet and leveled the deep slit of his dick toward her cheek.

"Yani! Fuck! Fuck!"

Hollering out more expletives, a rush of thick hot cum splashed all over the side of her face. It dripped down to her neck in a sticky white deluge. He gulped for air and groaned to the ceiling.

Cumming on her face soothed the raging libido in N'Jadaka long enough for him to gather Yani in his arms and put her back on the bed. She leaned on her side again. Curling around her ass, he lifted her heavy thigh and pushed back inside her pussy.

"…fucking this pussy…."

He groaned and pumped, letting his lust take over, grateful he ejaculated on her face first because he would've broke her back if he hadn't. She took the pounding like a graceful queen, fully aware that he was lost in the pussy, her pleasure forgotten because her loving blotted out all of his senses. He took advantage of his selfishness because once she became queen, their sex life would switch over to ancient protocols that dictated that the queen had to cum first with her pussy being eaten before the king could even put his dick inside of her. Yani looked forward to that, and he plowed into her knowing that he had a week left to be a bedroom bully.

He smacked her ass cheek harder, talked his shit in her ear and knew his dick tugged on her labia long enough. The king pushed her onto her back and mounted her with one purpose: to hear her scream his name in his ear.

"Cum all over this big dick. Show me how much you love me."

Rocking into her, he held onto her bouncing tits and they both watched him pump long strokes into quivering walls. Her mouth fell open and he crushed her with his full weight. Her lips brushed against his ear and he waited to her that old name of his called out.

It didn't take long.

"Killmonger…Killmonger…fuck me…fuck me Killmonger…."

The silky muscular walls of her pussy squeezed around his dick in a constant flow of contractions that only added to his pleasure listening to her cry out for more. The ecstasy of her voice spiraled him out of his soul.

Hunched over her, N'Jadaka pressed his face into her pillow and roared into the cotton. His dick swelled inside of her and the intense throbbing rippled all the way to his anus and down the back of his ankles. He gasped like he was dying, mashing Yani's breasts into his sweaty chest and enjoying the rooted sensation of his balls throbbing and pushing out semen.

"Goddammit," he sputtered into her hair.

His eyes rolled back into watery sockets that blurred his vision. He rolled over and she climbed on top of him, breasts swinging in his face. Yani bounced on his dick and he thrust up to meet her passionate energy. He settled into sucking on her nipples and areola, letting her rock the bed with her own efforts. She gave him nurturing with the fucking, cooing to him and rubbing his locs.

"My man works so hard…you like your queen taking care of the royal dick, Daddy?"

He nodded, groaning at her soft accent and the way her pussy yanked on his dick with perfect timing. She went at his stiffness at the speed and depth that was comfortable for her and he submitted to whatever she wanted to give him. He watched the up and down movements and admired how shiny she made his dick. Her sticky wetness overflowed and made his lap slippery. The sounds of a fat ass smacking on his balls pleased his ears.

Yani leaned forward and her breasts covered his face entirely, smothering him in buttery softness like a fleshy curtain hiding him from the world. Grateful to be hidden inside her warmth, he relaxed into letting go of all of stresses, all of his problems, all of his worries. He let his queen carry him away to physical delights that poured life back into him. That's what she had always been for him. A life giver. A true goddess the way Tahir had called her.

He started hollering and Yani slammed her hand over his mouth. His heels pressed down into the mattress and his toes curled. Yani panted above him, her voice going up an octave as her second release ascended its peak.

"I'm cumming! I'm cumming on your dick, Killmonger!"

She whipped her head back and forth. Arching her back, her nails clawed his chest.

"Oh, God….oh god! Killmonger…!"

He grabbed her arms and pressed her against his chest. Thrusting his hips upward, he forced Yani to take all the dick as her pussy contracted and milked every drop of cum he shot into her. Their cries of lust co-mingled into an ancient primordial release.

N'Jadaka's voice became hoarse and Yani cradled his face and kissed him, uniting all of their parts together. Her slow languid kisses centered him once more. He hugged her tight, his face mashed into her breasts, and she rubbed his head. They both could feel his stiff dick still throbbing inside of her.

"Can you take more?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Go to the restroom and come on back," he said.

He smacked her ass cheek and she climbed off of him.

Waiting for her to urinate and put special lubricants on her vulva and inside her vagina, N'Jadaka stretched his body. His dick fell back onto his stomach, the head pulsing and dribbling semen above his belly button.

"Fuck, I miss this shit," he said to himself.

Yani returned and they kissed. He licked a trail down to her pussy and pampered her with plenty of earned licks and kisses. The sweet odor of the lubricant she used to protect her womanly parts excited him. He blew a soft breath on her clit and the lubricant warmed up on her vulva adding more pleasure to their adult play time. The pale lighting of the sky heralded the new morning. Yani came in his mouth with her thighs covering his head.

Before the children arose to greet them, Yani rode his dick reverse cowgirl so he could watch the new weight of her backside gleam from the sunlight. Each time she rose up, he watched how tight her pussy gripped his dick. He kept quiet, swallowing his groans, nearly crying himself looking at how big her ass had gotten. N'Jadaka knew the weight gain wasn't from pregnancy. They had been apart since her last period, but he imagined how she would look with pregnancy weight. He liked her chunky and round like a butterball. Her weight had fluctuated over the last year, but it had settled down in the last two months until she did her book tour.

He watched the massive orbs of jiggly ass cheeks bounce on him. It was insane to have a body like that. But it was all his. Her voluptuous gifts belonged to him.

A new thought floated in his mind.

Part of the royal protocols meant that Yani wouldn't be permitted to take birth control during their wedding and honeymoon. Any child conceived during the first month of marriage to a royal couple was a sign of a prosperous future. The world was missing billions of people. Wakanda needed to repopulate. That meant she couldn't be on the contraceptive shots Wakandans used. She would already be weaned off of it to match the timing of their wedding.

He could get her pregnant right then and there.

Yani arched her back and wiggled her backside. She studied his face over her shoulder as she made love to him in the best way for him to admire her body. His dick seemed to get harder thinking about impregnating her before the wedding.

"Do that shit, Ma. Shake that ass."

Yani giggled and tossed her braids over her one side of her head and continued watching him watch her move.

"Look at all this ass…."

She reached back and lifted her ass cheeks for him, her light pink manicured nails looking lovely splayed out to tease him by digging into the ripeness of that bubble. He smacked her butt hard. They'd been fucking for three hours after the troubling news broadcast. He gripped the sheets admiring the dimpling in her backside. If she grew bigger back there during a new pregnancy, she would probably get stretch marks. Titties would get bigger too. He remembered what they looked like filled with milk and he rubbed his large hands all across both ass cheeks, sinking his fingers into the weight.

Sweat dripped down her body and pooled around the indentations on her lower back. She wound her waist teasing the tip of his dick before sliding back down, clapping her own cheeks for him. The woman knew how to keep him satisfied. He gripped her waist and kept her bounce steady. His balls ached to release. He already knew she was fatigued but kept going because she missed him so much and wanted to show off for him longer.

"Such a good girl, Yani. You took good care of this dick. I can't wait to put some more babies in this pussy."

His loose talk brought a glance back at him. Her pussy squeezed his dick with his baby talk. He laughed.

"You heard me girl. Might get you pregnant right now if you keep playing with me like this…shit. Get down for me…just like that. Arch that back. Yeah baby, givin' me that right triangle action…yeah, there it go…head all the way down…big ass up…"

N'Jadaka wistfully stared at Yani in the doggy position, her head to the side so he could watch her face while he smashed. He held onto her waist and pushed in. They had to hurry or else there'd be a pounding on the door with three sets of feet jumping up and down to get their attention.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

Loud. So loud.

Perspiration dropped down from his face onto her spine. His kimoyo beads lit up bright yellow. Okoye was notifying him of incoming reports from Wakanda. He had an hour before the general came to him.

He groaned once Yani hit that spot on his dick with her pussy that felt like lips and tongue suction. The queen had skills that were mindblowing. She started cumming before he did so he rode her wave of pleasure, encouraging her to squirt all over him and fuck up the covers even more with all their fluids on the blanket. He pulled out and palmed her ass, holding the tip of his dick close to her entrance where he shot ribbons of heat all over her labia. Sitting back on his haunches, he admired the way her tight pink opening throbbed and glistened with his cum covering it. She moaned softly at his gentle fingering of the pretty mess he made.

He rubbed her booty and then helped her get under the covers. Kissing her forehead he wasn't surprised to see her drift away quickly from exhaustion. She knew more than anyone it would be some time before they could be like that again until their wedding night. Once back in Wakanda there would be a whirlwind of duties and ceremonial events for their betrothal march.

His dick finally went limp.

He showered and changed into a saffron yellow lounging tunic and slacks. Kora arrived on time to get the children up and ready for breakfast with the rest of the family. He kissed them goodbye and welcomed Okoye and Ayo into the suite.

"Sit," he said.

He poured himself fresh orange juice and nibbled at some breakfast pastries his personal chef sent down from the half cruiser floating invisibly above the hotel roof. Getting comfortable in a side chair, he watched the two Doras on the couch.

Okoye tapped her beads and ten pictures of African men floated above her wrist. She flicked the images above the hotel coffee table and N'Jadaka peered at each one with stern eyes. Each man came from various nations on the continent in service of genocide and predatory exploitation. Okoye tapped each image as she spoke.

"Angola, Congo, Rwanda, Uganda, Sudan, Nigeria, Central African Republic, South Sudan, Somalia, and Ethiopia. Each man neutralized as requested," Okoye said.

She gave him time to inspect the stats on each man's file report before swiping them away and bringing up targets in Eastern and Western Europe.

"Ukraine. Russia. England. France. Germany. Spain. Turkey. Italy. Norway. Sweden," Okoye said.

She went through all twelve countries in South America and ended with combined targets in the U.S. and Canada.

"Any blowback yet? Suspicions?"

Ayo spoke up.

"None kumkani. Each target was studied for months before our War Dogs acted. If there were pre-existing medical conditions, we exacerbated the problem. Others were set up with accidents or placed in precarious positions through threats of exposure. Several committed self-harm when faced with public humiliation," Ayo said.

The women led him through detailed intelligence. Yani eventually woke up and padded past a narrow hall in a long ivory robe to shower and dress. Okoye and Ayo didn't notice her.

"Kumkani, there is one more target," Okoye said.

She tapped her beads and Agent Everett Ross's image popped up along with his ex-wife, C.I.A. Director Valentina Fontaine.

N'Jadaka tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair.

"Since Nick Fury has been gone, Ross is our only reliable plant. I can't take any chances trying to turn anyone around from the inside. None of them can be trusted. Not even the Black ones," he said.

"We are on standby to neutralize them as soon as you give us word," Okoye said.

"I want Ross dead, but not until I've used him up. As long as he thinks he's cool with us, I'll string him along. We can use him to get intel on Fontaine. She's making waves in the intelligence community and they're still somewhat close from what we've gathered so far."

"He wants to meet with you before you leave," Okoye said.

"Nah. I have no desire to talk with him. Just tell him I'm busy with my nuptials and will be unavailable for a month. I'm honeymooning with Yani in Umbono Cove on the houseboat. I don't want to be bothered with anything. Ramonda will oversee everything in my absence. Understood?"

They nodded.

A knock at the entrance door brought them all into guarded attention. Ayo answered. N'Jadaka spotted an Onyx Squad captain standing next to Mpilo.

"Kumkani, sorry to disturb your meeting. I have a private message from the President of the United States," Mpilo said.

N'Jadaka waved the young man over to him. Mpilo handed him a thick beige envelope with the Presidential seal on it. He read the short message inside.

"The President would like a private meeting with me too before we leave," N'Jadaka said.

"Your schedule is under tight security. We would need adequate time to set up additional protective measures inside the White House," Okoye said.

"They don't want to meet at the White House."

"Where then?"

"Camp David."

"The American Department of Defense already has additional surveillance on us since our arrival in this country. Nothing we can't handle if they try something there," Ayo said.

N'Jadaka thrummed his fingers again on the armchair.

"They've set the meeting a day after Yani's television interview."

"Will you go?" Yani interjected from behind them.

Everyone lowered their heads to Yani. She stepped into the living room area dressed in a long cozy pocket dress with vivid colors that reminded him of Black Creek in Wakanda, the place where his parents were entombed. Her hair was elaborately wrapped in a matching headwrap. She took a seat at the small dinette table by the window where their morning meal was set up. Pouring herself fruit juice, she sipped and stared at him. N'Jadaka tossed the invitation on the coffee table.

"I don't want to be bothered," he said.

"I think you should go. At least see what he wants. You won't come here again for awhile and it's time that he gets to see you in an informal place. Maybe you'll catch him off guard without all the eyes here in D.C.," Yani said.

He considered it.

"Leave us," he said.

Mpilo, the Doras , and the Onyx Squad guard removed themselves from the suite. He joined Yani at the table and they fixed themselves plates of food and ate together.

"You really want me to go?" he asked.

Yani stuffed a small Wakandan red berry pastry in her mouth.

"I think President Matthew Ellis needs to see the man that frightens him so much. Think of it as a flex if you want," Yani said.

N'Jadaka grinned.

"And people out here think you're just some sweet faced beauty on my arm," he said. "That means I won't be able to travel back home with you and the kids."

She shrugged and sipped on more juice brought from their new homeland.

"It just means I get to miss you again and we can have another reunion in our bedroom back in Birnin Zana."

He widened his legs and patted his thigh. Yani left her seat and sat on his lap. He rubbed on her booty again and rested his head on her breasts.

"I want to be on a houseboat with you…naked. Making long slow love under the moon and stars."

"We will do that soon enough."

"A whole month, you and me…partially alone."

"Don't remind me. Riki has already complained that they don't get to join us until two weeks into our honeymoon."

"Man, two weeks off with just you and me. Yeah, you definitely getting pregnant Yani."

She slapped his arm.

"Stop putting that out in the universe. We said we'd wait two more years before trying…and trying is the operative word, sir. I'm not taking the man-made contraceptive shots as tradition dictates, but I am taking precautions."

She held up the bluish drink she sipped on.

"This was given to me by Umama. Two glasses a day and it inhibits any eggs from fertilizing. You can shoot up the club and I won't be penalized for forsaking tradition…technically."

"Alright then…practice getting pregnant is good enough for me."

"Aren't three children enough for you already for the time being?"

"Nah. I'm making a whole new tribe with you."

"Easy for you to say, I'm the one who has to carry your big babies."

"I'll be right by your side spoiling you every step of the way. You make pretty babies, Yani, and my family's genes are strong. They all gonna look like me."

He kissed her neck and let his full lips linger there.

"Tell me you love me, Yani."

She cupped his chin and raised it.

"I love you."

"Say it again."

He nuzzled against her breasts and she stroked his lengthy locs.

"I love you. I love you. I love you," she said above his head.

Closing his eyes, N'Jadaka listened to Yani's heartbeat and rested in her bosom of peace.

Chapter 2 HERE.

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[makethatelevenrings]

I mean this with ZERO disrespect, I'm simply trying to educate myself on this matter because it impacts us all.

All I can find about the Israel-Palestine conflicts is the fighting. What I want to know is why.

Whats the backstory? Why are they fighting? Why is everyone persecuting one another and who in the government is responsible?

I heard Hamas bombed Gaza and has taken hostages. What brought on this violence? Do all the Palestinians agree with this?

(More personal opinion questions, you don't need to answer these)

Do you agree with Hamas? Do you think that violence was a last resort to free Palestine? Do you think it's justified?

One thing I do hate is people saying "I hate *this group of people*, they are bad." They can't all be bad. So I don't like the titles of Anti-Israel/Anti-Palestine because you're assuming everyone there is on the same side.

In conclusion, people are stupid. The government is messed up. Citizens and families want to live so why won't the government let them?

I’m genuinely grateful that you’re asking because educating ourselves is one of the greatest tools we have. I’ll break it up into sections.

1. What’s the backstory?

In 1918, the Ottoman Empire conceded land they controlled to Britain (this is still an ongoing problem regarding many, many things because the Ottoman Empire controlled many nations that weren’t theirs to control if you catch my drift. Look up the Elgin marbles for a fun wormhole of WTF Britain). The Arab Revolt was backed by France and Britain with the promise that if the Arab fighters could force the Ottomans out of the area of the Levant, they would be granted independence (McMahon-Hussein Correspondence) but, plot twist, France and the UK instead split the region (Sykes-Picot Agreement). The Balfour Declaration of 1917 expressed Britain’s support of the creation of Israel. After they gained control of the region, they established Israel and systematically began to take the land of Palestinians.

Note: Zionism began as a belief in the mid-18th century. Many, MANY Jewish people do not subscribe, encourage, or promote the idea of a Jewish state. I do not view Israel = Jewish because it is antisemitic to imply that the Jewish diaspora all exist under the state of Israel. Especially when many Jewish people disagree with Israel.

Note note: Zionism was created as a response to the numerous pogroms and other antisemitic hate crimes affecting Jewish people. the Holocaust was fucking awful. No ifs ands or buts. Genocide doesn’t justify genocide, however.

Continuing on. So, clearly, the Palestinians are pissed. They were promised independence and instead now have their land taken by a global superpower who has historically fucked over hundreds of countries (another wormhole for you: India under British rule, Ireland and literally all of its history with England, the transatlantic slave trade under Britain, Africa under British rule, Australia and the treatment of Aboriginals under British rule, America and the British, it goes on). Palestinians revolted from 1936-1939 because, again, their home and promise of independence was being stolen. They lost against the British army but then 1939 was a bit of an important year for everyone and they world was sucked into another world war.

With WWII saw the birth of the United Nations, an organization that might sound important but has the moral backbone with the equivalence of a chocolate eclair. The UN said “hey, why don’t we split Palestine and Israel into two different states so maybe they’ll stop fighting” (United Nations Partition Plan for Palestine) and, as a result, the 1948 Palestine-Israel war began. Hundreds died. 700k+ people were forced from Palestine and spread across the world in what is called the Nakba. Israeli colonizers quite literally moved into homes that had been occupied by Palestinians only days before. In 1918, the Jewish population of the region was 8.1%. In 1948, when Israel was recognized as a nation by the UN, the Jewish population of the region was 82.1%.

2. There’s plenty of infographics and videos explaining the next few decades but I’m already writing an essay basically so the gist is: Palestinians keep losing their homes and Israel keeps taking them. Israel forces the Palestinians into smaller and smaller parcels of land until the control virtually everything but a small strip of land (Gaza) and the West Bank. That brings us to 2006.

Hamas was elected in 2006 over rivaling Fatah, gaining majority amount of seats in the Palestinian Legislative Council under the promise that they would help end the corruption many Palestinians were frustrated with. Instead they took military control over Gaza and established an autocratic state over millions of people who were already suffering under barbaric policies and practices from Israel. Politicians.

This is where things get a little…messy morally. Do I agree with Hamas? Fuck no. I couldn’t care less about Hamas because they don’t care about Palestinians. Do all Palestinians agree with Hamas? Firstly, you will rarely find a group of people where all agree with some. Secondly, I don’t think they appreciate being bombed by Israel while Hamas leaders chill somewhere else. The people of Palestine are the victims of Hamas and Israel.

Did some Palestinians celebrate Hamas’ actions? Yes. Do I think violence is a last resort? Yes and no. Do I think it’s justified? Yes and no.

Lemme expand on those last two points. I want to be an international human rights attorney someday. The loss of innocent life is always a fucking tragedy that I hope to help prevent or to bring justice for them. I understand violence. I understand why people are so angry. I understand the rage and grief Palestinians feel. 75 years of having their rights stripped away, their homes quite literally occupied, their land and culture chipped away piece by piece, and their children bombed and shot at.

“But how on earth can you think violence is justified if people get hurt!” The American Revolution was an act of violence that got numerous people killed yet you will rarely find someone who won’t justify it. Ukraine defending themselves against Russia wanting their land with no regard to how many Ukrainians they kill is considered justified.

People just seem to focus on the “violence is bad” aspect of things once POC are involved. Yeah, I said it. Americans tired of taxation, of British rule, and of not having their independence causes property damage, argues with soldiers in the streets, and starts a war is okay but when Palestinians do it, it’s a problem? When Black Americans ask to stop being brutalized by the police, it’s a problem? When Black South Africans ask to end an apartheid state, it’s a problem? When Central Americans ask for western nations to stop causing coups that destabilizes their nations, it’s a problem? I could go on.

Yeah, violence is bad. Violence is also the way that a lot of countries are where they are today. Violence is sometimes the only reason why things changed. Violence is enacted on the oppressed everyday yet people only seem to really care once the oppressed fight back.

3. I’m anti-Israel because I don’t agree with the government and the state of Israel. I don’t agree with their 75 years of violent oppression of Palestinians. I don’t agree with their current or past actions. I’m anti-Hamas. I think they’re a vacuous organization that is more focused on getting what they want than considering the consequences of innocent Palestinians.

I’m also really fucking furious at Joe Biden’s insistence that we send aid to Israel. We have given Israel $260 BILLION since 1948. BILLION. And yet we have people dying because they can’t afford healthcare. Students leaving school because they can’t afford tuition. We have 8 year olds in debt because they can’t afford school lunches. The unhoused population is growing rapidly due to the housing crisis. I can sense the unemployment rate creeping higher. I know many people who have lost their jobs this past month alone. We’re days away from another government shutdown and they can’t vote on a speaker.

American politicians would rather send Israel billions more to bomb innocent people than to feed their own citizens. That, in my opinion, is a sort of violence that can never be justified.

#honey.txt #sorry for the essay #but really not sorry #I took a whole class on the global south during the Cold War and it really opened my eyes #granted my specialization is Central America but plot twist #America has been at the center of fucking stuff up there too

[frithwontdie]

that slave kidnappers home meme is not even accurate its literally all lies.

How is it literally all lies, exactly? If you're gonna tell me a meme I posted is not true, then you should explain what's inaccurate about it, instead of saying it's just lies and leave it at that.

The meme points out how some pro-blacks say they were kidnapped by the white man from the homeland in Africa. But yet their slave ancestors took up the surnames of slave owners the "so called" kidnappers and refuse to leave. Where's the lie?

First of all, blacks were kidnapped by others black africans. Sold to Arabs merchants and jews. Which in turn sold to the whites in the new world (also to Amerindians, free blacks and jews in the new world).

Second: Most enslaved blacks did not have surnames. Only given to slaves. Some freed blacks never change their surnames. Some after being freed some had to pick one on the spot, when joining the military. Choosing the surname of a former slave owner appears to have been a common practice. Though not a universal practice, but still a common practice.

p. 68:

Despite historians' tendency to point toward the opposite, many former slaves assumed the surname of their last master. The WPA narratives are full of examples like that of Clayton Holbert, who explained: “We didn’t have a name. The slaves were always known by the master’s last name, and after we were, freed we just took the last name of our masters and used it."

P. 59:

Some freed people took the name of an original owner or an owner from their distant past to recognize ties to family members also owned by them.

Another example from Voices of Emancipation: Excerpt from the Deposition of William Ballinger, Oct. 10, 1901 "When I was first brought here as a boy my first master was Jesse Ballinger and I took the name of Ballinger then and have never changed it."

Third: when the ACS (American Colonized Society) tried to relocate free blacks to Liberia. Between 1820 - 1864 only 11,000 Blacks emigrated from America to Liberia. Which out of a population of 4,441,830 free and recently emancipated slaves. That would be 0.24% of blacks relocated.

So basically, America was such an unbearable hell for black people at that time. That literally 99.76% of blacks literally refused to leave it and go to a country all to themselves. Hmmm...

[vanilla-cigarillos]

Voodoo and Hoodoo: What’s the Difference?

If you live in America, you have undoubtedly come across the terms of voodoo and hoodoo. What is the difference between the two, and how does African (umbrella term) culture play a role in each?

Voodoo

(A.K.A. Vodou, Voudou, Vodun) Voodoo is a religion that originated within Africa amidst the Atlantic slave trade. Its structure comes from a mix of traditional religions of West and Central enslaved Africans (Yoruba, Kongo, and Fon). Once brought to the Hispaniola island, Voodoo saw influences of the culture of the French colonialists who controlled the colony of Saint-Domingue (Freemasonry). 

Many Haitians who practice Voodoo also practice Roman Catholicism, not seeing a contradiction between the two systems existing simultaneously. Characterized as Haiti’s “national religion”, Voodoo is one of the most misunderstood religions in the world. Voodoo is monotheistic, giving the teachings of a single supreme God. Believed to have created the universe, this entity is called Bondye or Bonié. For Vodouists, Bondye is seen as the ultimate source of power. This perception of God is also seen as remote, not involving itself in human affairs. While Vodouists often equate Bondye with the Christian God, Vodou does not incorporate belief in a powerful antagonist that opposes the supreme being akin to the Christian notion of Satan. 

Vodou also holds the belief of many beings known as Iwa, a term that varies in its translation from “spirits” to “gods”. These beings can in many ways be equated to Christian angels in many of its cosmology. The lwa can offer help, protection, and counsel to humans, in return for ritual service. Each lwa has its own personality and individual correspondences. They can be either loyal or capricious in their dealings with their devotees, with many believing that the lwa are easily offended. When angered, the lwa are believed to remove their protection from their devotees, or to inflict harm. 

Vodou also teaches a perspective of the human soul, which is believed to be divided into two parts (both of which exist within the head of a person). One of these is the ti bonnanj ("little good angel"), and it is understood as the conscience that allows an individual to engage in self-reflection and self-criticism. The other part is the gwo bonnanj ("big good angel") and this constitutes the psyche, source of memory, intelligence, and personhood. Vodouists believe that every individual is intrinsically connected to a specific lwa. This lwa is their mèt tèt (master of the head). They believe that this lwa influences the individual's personality. At bodily death, the gwo bonnanj join the Ginen, or ancestral spirits, while the ti bonnanj proceeds to the afterlife to face judgement before Bondye.

Vodou does not promote a dualistic belief in a division between good and evil. It offers no prescriptive code of ethics. Rather than being rule-based, Vodou morality is deemed contextual to the situation.

It is very important to respect Vodou as the closed practice that it is. While misunderstood through various contextualizations, it is a religion felt deeply by a group of people who use it to guide their lives. Those outside do not have the right to infringe upon said spaces. 

Hoodoo

It is important to understand that Hoodoo does not describe a religion. Rather, Hoodoo is a set of mystical beliefs hailing from along the Mississippi River with influences from Indigenous herbalism, African spiritualities, and Christian influences. Practitioners of Hoodoo are called rootworkers, conjure doctors, conjure man or conjure woman, root doctors, Hoodoo doctors, and swampers.

Many Hoodoo traditions specifically draw from the beliefs of the Bakongo people of Central Africa during the Atlantic slave trade. After their contact with European slave traders and missionaries, some Africans converted to Christianity willingly, while other enslaved Africans were forced to become Christian which resulted in a syncretization of African spiritual practices and beliefs with the Christian faith. Enslaved and free Africans learned regional indigenous botanical knowledge after they arrived to the United States, including another influence to what would become known as Hoodoo. 

During the transatlantic slave trade a variety of African plants were brought from Africa to the United States for cultivation (okra, sorghum, yam, benneseed, watermelon, black-eyed peas, etc.). African Americans had their own herbal knowledge that was brought from West and Central Africa to the United States. When it came to the medicinal use of herbs, African Americans learned some medicinal knowledge of herbs from Indigenous peoples. However, the spiritual use of herbs and the practice of Hoodoo remained African in origin as enslaved African-Americans incorporated African religious rituals in the preparation of North American herbs and roots.

Hoodoo was also a key part in black revolution in the United States. Enslaved women would use their knowledge of herbs to induce miscarriages so white owners wouldn’t be able to take their children. There were also examples of hoodoo being used to poison and kill white slave owners. The Bible itself, in conjunction with Hoodoo, was used in slave liberation. Free and enslaved people could read the stories of the Hebrews in the Bible, and found them similar to their situation in the United States as slaves. The Hebrews in the Old Testament were freed from slavery in Egypt under the leadership of Moses (held to be a conjurer in the beliefs of many who practice Hoodoo).

Hoodoo is also a closed practice, requiring initiation for practitioners. 

#hoodoo #voodoo #african culture #religion #history #spiritualism