#‘the black bastard of the wall��� supremacy

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

‘the black bastard of the wall’ moniker is the exact opposite of the ‘white wolf’ moniker and this perfectly highlights the irreconcilable differences between book Jon and show Jon

[spacelazarwolf]

preface: though i have a complicated relationship with whiteness, especially when it comes to structural power and the way my jewishness is used as a way to keep me out of places meant only for racially and culturally white people, i’m not a poc so my response will be filtered primarily through that lens, taking into account what i’ve learned from the people of color in my life.

my take is that even racial and ethnic minorities are not immune to upholding this hierarchy. there’s a lot more at stake for us, especially for black and brown people. rejecting this hierarchy will result in higher levels of violence to keep us in line than when racially and culturally white people reject the hierarchy. so a lot of people will either just take what they can get and try not to step on any toes, or try to prove their value to the system by becoming a tool of that system.

i see this a lot from white ashkenazi jews who want to assimilate into cultural whiteness and see jews who don’t want to assimilate as a threat to their conditional safety gained through assimilation. if those annoying jews are too loud about being jewish, someone might think i’m like them and turn on me, so i need to shut them up. imo that desperation to appeal to the hierarchy may have contributed.

as for the “white-aligned” thing, i have a theory but it’s gonna make me sound like that dude with all the red strings on the wall so stay with me. there’s another social phenomenon i’ve talked about in progressive spaces that juxtaposes systems of white supremacy into spaces that are supposed to be anti racist. i call it “lapdogs of white supremacy”, which is a metaphor that was used the first time i heard someone talk about this phenomenon. so the idea is that white (cis) men are the masters of white supremacy, and white (cis) women are the lapdogs. they get to eat in the house but they don’t get to sit at the table. their job is to keep everyone outside of the house in line. they report to the masters, the masters give them the rules, and they enforce the rules.

when white women who were conditioned to think like this enter anti racist spaces, they often take this mindset with them. they see that people of color are the ones whose voices are being prioritized (ideally, lord knows that’s not always how it is), and they go “oh cool, new masters.” they learn the “rules” of anti racism, focusing on what we're not supposed to do and what is Bad so if they see anyone "breaking a rule" they can immediately jump in to punish them. the problem with this is that they often get so focused on things like semantics and identity that they can learn quickly and start policing for asap, and they never learn like. actual anti racist theory.

if you've ever seen a swarm of white women descend on some poor bastard who didn't realize a word was insensitive to eat him alive in the comments section of a person of color talking about racism, only for the person of color trying to have the conversation to have to stop and get this group of rabid dogs to leave the poor guy alone please he's already dead, you have seen this in action. it's extremely performative, but often they genuinely think they're helping. they genuinely want to be anti racist. but they have not unpacked their previous job under white supremacy so they just end up replicating it. it's also how you get swarms of white women flocking to people of color who do not have the best opinions (homophobia, transphobia, antisemitism, conservatism, etc.) they want to be anti racist, but they still hold a lot of their own biases, so they see a person of color who holds that same bias and go "oh cool, new master." repeat ad nauseum. this phenomenon also isn't exclusive to women, but in general i notice that cis women are the ones who most often fall into this behavior.

i've noticed this is something that happens in the trans community as well. white people who were conditioned to play that role under white supremacy (most often i notice it from cis women and other trans people who were assigned female at birth, though not always) come into trans spaces, see that (most often white) trans women's voices are the ones being prioritized, and go "oh cool, new masters." they fall into the same patterns mentioned above, absorbing surface level "rules" without fully unpacking what trans liberation actually entails, jumping at the chance to punish someone they perceive to have broken a rule. this is something that probably also contributes to what i was originally talking about. the more i think about it, the more i really see how these two systems could work together. white trans men almost kind of play both the role of the policeman and the lapdog, while trans women play both the role of master and victim.

and also like, to be clear, the role of "master" is usually something that's projected onto people, not like. an intentional wielding of power over others. the problem isn't with the people being listened to, though in trans spaces since they are not explicitly focused on anti racism white trans voices often get shoehorned into this role and are definitely capable of taking advantage of that. the problem is with the white people playing the role of lapdog.

so if you somehow by the grace of god made it through all that, my theory about the whole "white-aligned" thing is that the people of color you're talking about appealed to the white people around them who see them as "masters" in hopes that if they painted the people of color they disagreed with as "white-aligned" and therefore not a "master", white people would do what white people do best, which is harass people online with absolutely zero background information on whether or not the random tumblr post they saw about a queer person being a scary pedophile is actually true or is a smear campaign against a trans person of color.

fin.

can't reblog this post because op has be blocked but

>"i just FIND IT INTERESTING that the people who say transmisandry is a unique and real and important to discuss form of oppression dont ever talk about, say, misandrynoir or society's hatred of disabled men or fat men or any other intersections being "misandry" and the experiences of other oppressed groups."

>"in order to complain about how there are more trans femme serial killers in movies than trans masc ones or whatever the hell you think youre being left out of."

oh yeah, you clearly are very knowledgeable about the discussion around transmisandry. definitely not just making shit up based on things you've heard & making ad hoc claims about "white victimization." what a scholar of truth and logic we have here

[army-of-mai-lovers]

really pisses me off that now white leftists are making entire careers talking about cancel culture when the concept of “canceling” originated in Black feminist communities on Twitter and was far more about speaking truth to power and holding people accountable than it was about ousting someone from a community because they said one wrong thing, but now that white people have bastardized it other white people want to talk about it as a symbol of the prison mindset, and they don’t even *know* where canceling started or what its true intentions were. 

and this isn’t just people on Twitter. my (white) gender studies professor last term, who quite literally studies the prison-industrial complex, talked about cancel culture as a manifestation of the Foucauldian concept of self-surveillance and had to be corrected by one of my (Black) classmates. 

obviously, white folks and nonBlack poc stealing culture from Black people and bastardizing it until it’s unrecognizable to us isn’t a new phenomenon. some of you may know this, but I’ve always been really interested in music history, specifically the racial aspects of music history. and when I think back to where that interest began, it was when I was in the kitchen with my grandmother, and she emphatically declared that she hated Elvis because he stole musical traditions created by Black people and passed them off as his own. and I remember feeling very small in that moment. there have been a couple of times in my life where I thought that life was fair--that the government treated people fairly, that the history books recorded our stories correctly--only for some piece of evidence to fall into my lap proving that categorically untrue. Elvis and the Beatles didn’t create rock music, Black people did (specifically, Sister Rosetta Tharpe is most often credited as the Mother of Rock n Roll, but so many other Black folks contributed to the legacy of early rock). Two summers ago, while I was staying with my grandma, she had me watch this video of Muddy Waters and the Rolling Stones performing together, and she said, “This is what the white musicians would do. They would go to these small, hole in the wall bars where Black musicians were playing, and they would watch them. And then, when they sold out Madison Square Garden, they would do what Black musicians did in those hole in the wall bars, and the white folks who paid hundreds of dollars to see them would be none the wiser.” And even if I didn’t believe her, I could see it play out on the video. Muddy saw the Stones in the crowd and invited them up. Muddy carried that show. But before that day, I hadn’t even known who Muddy Waters was. 

for some reason though, it feels different when I see white folks who are allegedly antiracist doing shit like this. it feels worse. and I should have learned by now that white folks will always be unlearning white supremacy, that white folks are more committed to the performance of antiracism more than the doing of antiracism. I should know better. I shouldn’t let this affect me. but it does affect me. it  affects me to see a white prof who I’ve looked up to completely mismanage her definition and assessment of cancel culture because she didn’t take Black voices into account until she couldn’t ignore them any longer. it affects me to see my Youtube recommended filled with white folks referring to cancel culture as “the mob”, knowing that they will never delve into the history of the term, that they will spout the concept of holding people accountable instead of ousting them from their own communities as if it’s a brand new idea that they came up with. it affects me to see people praise white artists for doing something “experimental” that Black artists have been doing for years with no recognition from mainstream audiences, to see my supposed “allies” turn on Black artists at the drop of a hat but defend their white faves when they do something racist. it’s disheartening to see the people with privilege, the people for whom the system works, who say they’re on your side consistently do everything but actually be on your side. it hurts. I shouldn’t have to deny that it hurts to protect anyone else’s feelings. and allies should do better. they should learn about where terms like “cancel” come from, where the cool things from their white fave’s music come from, where their “gen z” slang comes from. 

and they should hold themselves accountable.      

[fictionbyafangirl]

Tundric Heart

//Hi, all! After becoming absolutely *obsessed* with the new Mortal Kombat movie, as well as being a fan since the games began, and being a fan of JoTa since I saw The Raid: Redemption when it first came out and since then, I decided my flagship fic shall involve Bi-Han/Sub-Zero. This takes place prior to the film, having nine tournaments been fought. This is a POV-shifter and involves our favorite chilly boi with an original character. Naturally, I own no rights to the franchised character and only write out of my own fun.  I hope you enjoy!\\

Nothing phased him anymore. Bi-Han had lived many centuries, each reinforcing his growing lack of humanity toward the world, whether it be Earthrealm or Outworld. Due to his “gifts”, Bi-Han had become a favorite champion for Shang Tsung in the Mortal Kombat tournaments, successful in more than not and ultimately becoming an attack dog at the sorcerer's will. Despite Bi-Han wanting the Lin Keui to be free-agents once again, himself, primarily, he obliged, knowing he owed Shang Tsung his fealty for the many favors he performed for him in the past. The Lin Keui had been an elite group of assassins for those who could afford them. Either born into the organization or kidnapped as a youngling for the cause, its numbers were always plentiful. Bi-Han and his brother, Kuai Liang, had served the clan well, rising through the ranks. Bi-Han, though, had become the face of the group. The fierce fighter had gained notoriety for defeating the one and only Hanzo Hasashi, as well as the Shirai Ryu, a noble competitor clan in their world of crime. Over four hundred years had passed, yet a looming whisper of a threat still hung in the air from the very fatality that put Bi-Han on the map. Ever the paranoid ruler, Tsung tasked Bi-Han with finding the last remaining Hasashi blood heir and executing them. To the cryomancer, there was simply no point in doing so. He had ended the lineage himself many lifetimes ago. The Hasashi family fell to his hand, and he knew it, first-hand. Still, the soul-eater feared the prophecy of the uprising of Earthrealm defenders to thwart the imminent takeover, if the last tournament should be victoriously won by the mortals with an arcana gift. Nine circuits had been finished in the favor of Tsung, only needing two more to claim supremacy over the mortals. Begrudgingly, Bi-Han found himself in his home-realm on a reconnaissance mission to find out if the myth was true. One thing the warrior loathed was to be undermined, especially by Tsung. His employer had a knack for sending in the reinforcements if the smallest of setbacks occurred. Bi-Han was more than confident in his skill and ability to successfully fulfill his duties. To send in those that were inferior to him was simply a slap in the face. Not a day went by that the assassin didn’t think of a world where he no longer served Tsung.

The man was ageless as he sat across from a run-down diner, concealed in darkness. Darkness had always been his friend, even in the glory days of the Lin Kuei and the chaos they inflicted on their world. Darkness cloaked him in secrecy. Darkness gave him advantage against his opponents. Darkness felt almost as familiar and second nature to him as the cold. It had been a rainy evening, the spray of dingy gutter water spraying up from beneath the tires of those driving muddled the sidewalk. Bi-Han, looking not a single day older than he had when he terminated Hasashi, watched the neon sign that indicated that the diner was “open” flicker against the night. Dressed in black athletic jogger pants, a black zipped-up windbreaker jacket and a black hat with the bill curved and pulled down low to conceal his other-worldly eyes, the man watched from outside an abandoned building that sat adjacent to the diner. Arguably, the only physical trait that had changed about him was the hue of his eyes, shifting from a deep brown to a starkly bright  blue so pale that it nearly looked like ice had formed in his irises. These were the attributes of a cryomancer, and bastard Edenians, alike. Those of Edenian nature aged much slower than humans, living so long that tens of thousands of years was still considered to be in one’s youth. His hair remained raven in color though his skin did grow more pallid as though encrusted in frost, but not. The cryomancers had been banished from Edenia long before Bi-Han’s birth, but the genes that descended from the gods still carried on through himself and his brother, Kuai. Down the block, a group of young men were approaching the corner door of the diner, rowdy and raucous as they walked before ducking into the establishment. Taped hands rose from Bi-Han’s sides to bring the hood of his skim jacket up and over the top of his head, further obscuring his identity. He waited a few minutes to allow them to settle into their normal places to not rouse suspicion before crossing the slick city street. In all of the years of Bi-Han’s life, he had tuned his tracking abilities to be imperceptible.

His intel told him that a group of men, one that bore the mark of the dragon, frequented the very location nightly, as though a ritual amongst the friends. Bi-Han’s head never lifted as the bell on the handle of the door jingled to alert a new customer, and luckily, neither did theirs. His gaze remained to the lower-half of the room to not allow his face to be seen. The fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling in panels glared harshly in contrast against the natural darkness of the night he had waited in. Slipping into a corner table, the plastic-covered stuffing of the seat gave out a subtle hissed as it depressed beneath his weight. The group of men continued their merry occasion, joking and talking with elevated volume. The more attention they brought to themselves and detracted from himself, the better. It didn't take long for the waitress on shift to approach them, seemingly having a report with them as she used their names, engaging in banter with them as they shamelessly flirted with her. Her kind and clever rebuffs and deflection to their order inquiries showed that this was an occasional thing they did. She clearly wasn’t in the business of seeing any of them casually, yet they pushed the envelope with hope. Their nonchalance toward her left little disgust in Bi-Han’s mouth, but still, he surveyed. The fighter spared a moment to take in the new environment. The faded color scheme and furniture showed that the restaurant had not updated in some time, clearly struggling financially to keep afloat to bother with aesthetics. The tables were uneven as they stood and the seating creaked under pressure. The artwork that laid scarcely among the walls were drab and unappealing. Virtually everything that had been a polished metal before now rusted with weak infrastructure. The location was dying out, most likely kept in business by the nightly patronage of the subjects he followed in. 

Bi-Han focused all of his senses on the men, discreetly, as to not be noticed. He eavesdropped on their conversations, watched as they removed their outer-layers for any sign of the marking. He even committed bits of things they said to memory in the off-chance that it would aid him in his mission. His focus was solely on the group and everything they did. His gaze, though hidden beneath the bill of a hat, was fixated without any breaks, that is, until the image of an apron filled with pens and order tablets slid into his view. Bi-Han held his breath as the tell-tale spiel was about to be given to him. 

“Hi, there! I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. My name’s Jill and I’ll be your waitress on duty tonight. What can I get you?” No matter where you went, every restaurant had the same, generic greeting. 

Holding his breath for a moment to consider his response, Bi-Han decided to play it cool, not wanting to garner any awareness of his existence. The woman was polite enough for him to not care about the disruption. While she had been tending to the object of his assignment he had been able to get a good look over on her. She was attractive with cream-like skin and smoky hazel eyes and hair the color of maple that sat in delicate, loose curls that cascaded down the sides of her face. She dressed semi-comfortably in a baggy button-up flannel shirt that she tucked into the waistband of her tapered jeans that clung to her ankles and simple shoes with her apron and a name badge in place. She kept her makeup natural and modest, which was a pleasant thing to come across with women. With an errant hand, Bi-Han, without tipping his face at all, flipped the menu on the table over to quickly peruse the refreshments section. Quickly, his eyes settled on his selection before speaking it aloud to her, though in a low, hushed tone.

“Green tea. Iced.” His tone was short and cold, as per usual with him, and he offered no opportunity to continue the conversation. He was there for a reason, after all.

With a curt nod, Jill fished a dense book of ordering tickets from her apron and a pen to scribble down the table number and order to keep her tabs in-line. Bi-Han could hear the sound of the ball-point pen against the paper, attuning himself to his surrounding once more.

“Iced green tea, coming right up. What’s uh… a name I can put on this order?” The waitress inquired with an arched brow as her teeth found the corner of her lips, nibbling gently in a nervous gesture. Bi-Han took another moment to contemplate his response. His true, given name was something that was well-known. Instead, he improvised.

“Brian.” He was blunt again, cutting to the chase without any inflection to invite casual conversation.

“Right. Iced green tea for Brian, coming right up.” Jill relayed before bouncing away from the table to fulfill his request. She caught on to his tone quickly and read it loud and clear.

Naturally his order was the first one to be completed. Jill returned with his drink in-hand, along with a wrapped straw and a saucer of potential add-ins for the beverage. Bi-Han offered a small nod to thank her, fixating his senses back on the group of men across the room. Absently, he unwrapped the straw and slipped it within the glass, taking absent sips through it to not reveal his face. The preparation in the States certainly didn’t do the authentic drink justice as it did in his native China, but still he managed to swallow it down as he kept his eyes on them. Although the drink had ice in it, it didn’t suit him. His hand reached around the cylinder, his fingers releasing their icy powers to chill it even further, finally making it satisfactory to his liking. Bi-Han sat with his back pressed against the glass window that separated himself from the outside world. The rain continued to fall, pelting against the window pane. He could just as easily end the waiting and watching. He could turn every plunging bead of water into a lethal bullet to litter all of the men in holes, taking care of every lead. Still, he blended into the foreground, motionless and silent.  He wasn’t sure how long the men would lounge in the diner but he would be observing for as long as they would be. Someone was bound to slip and reveal themselves, reveal their arcana… something. If Bi-Han was anything, he was patient.

[girlboss-molina]

good luck on finals!! flarrie + fireworks

thank you!!!! (also, she/they flynn supremacy)

send me a ship+prompt and i’ll write you a drabble!

-----

Flynn loved new year’s. They were finally expected to stay up late and drink way too much soda, wear blingy clothes for the hell of it, and blow things up without it being “an unorthodox activity for a teenager” and “reckless endangerment.” 

Every year since Flynn could remember, save the year they had their falling out with Carrie, she and Julie had gone to the Wilson’s new year’s parties. They’d recently made amends with her, though, and Flynn wouldn’t deny she was nervous for this year’s party. 

As she and Julie walked up to the open front door, the sound of pop music and the flashing of colorful lights hit them head on. The sunset across the lawn painted the sky with fiery streaks of pink and gold, casting them in a warm glow. She could already tell the sequins sewn into their golden dress were glittering. A sudden swell of confidence rushing through them, Flynn readjusted her distressed denim jacket, stepping through the doorway with Julie by their side. 

“Julie? Flynn?” A familiar voice appeared next to them, and Flynn would be lying if she said her heart didn’t flutter a little bit at the sight of Carrie Wilson, who was wearing a sparkly pink crop top and black leggings, with a scarlet leather jacket draped over her shoulder. Her hair was tied up into an elaborate knot, fastened with a small comb, and the faint blush she’d dusted over her cheeks made her look like she was wrapped in sunset. 

That was the main reason why Flynn was nervous. Since sixth grade, they’d been harboring some very annoying feelings for a certain Carrie Wilson. She wouldn’t admit it, of course; Julie had pestered her about it, and she’d always insisted that no, I don’t have a crush on Carrie. They would even try to convince themself that she didn’t, though that wasn’t happening. 

So, she stuck with pining endlessly. 

“Hi, Carrie,” Flynn finally said, cursing those bastards - ahem, butterflies - in their stomach. Carrie gave them a nervous smile. 

“I’m glad you could make it,” she said, wrapping Julie in a hug. She did the same to Flynn, who was internally panicking but somehow maintained her composure. 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Julie promised, and Flynn nodded. She still held a tiny grudge, but it was all but erased by then. Carrie gave them perfect smile, glancing at Flynn before leading them into the house.

Flynn grabbed a can of soda, letting the bubbles pop on their tongue as she stood on the deck, leaning on the smooth outer wall, tapping her foot to the music as they watched the sun retreat over the horizon, a few stars flickering into view. She glanced inside, seeing Julie dancing enthusiastically with Luke; ever since their performance at the Orpheum, and Julie setting them free, the ghosts had gained the ability to be both visible and physical when they chose to be, meaning they could touch and converse with lifers. 

Flynn smirked to herself, watching their lovestruck best friend twirl around him. 

“You okay?” asked Carrie from behind her. Flynn’s eyes darted to her. She was leaning on the railing of the porch about five feet away, her leather jacket zipped up rather than draped over her shoulder, Flynn nodded.

“Yeah, I’m great! You?”

“Me too,” Carrie said softly. Flynn caught her gaze, and her eyes were a spiraling mess of emotions; happiness, apprehension, pride, excitement, longing, and something else she couldn’t place. Flynn bit her lip and looked back at the sky, taking another sip of their soda. 

At some point, she and Carrie had ended up wandering their backyard and up to the hill behind the house, up a winding trail that had been beaten in from years of exploring the same areas. Flynn distinctly remembered building one of the little rock towers at the top when she was twelve. Their heart fluttered, realizing Carrie hadn’t taken it down. 

For hours, they talked about who knows what, fun memories from elementary school, awkward middle school stories, hopes for the future (both realistic and ambitious), and soon they were both out of breath from laughter, standing at the very top of the hill with a view of the entire house and further down to the beach and city. The lights glowed like stars, and Flynn almost tripped as she stared at them rather than watching where they were walking.

“Whoa-” she started, before realizing that Carrie had grabbed their hand and caught her.

“Sorry,” she finally said when she’d figured out how to speak. She cleared her throat nervously.

“It’s okay,” Carrie said with a small smile, not letting go of Flynn’s hand. Flynn stared at their clasped hands, before meeting Carrie’s eyes, their lips curling into a soft grin. Carrie lifted her arm and twirled her, and Flynn laughed.

“I don’t dance,” she said, ignoring the fact that they had actually twirled.

“I know you can,” Carrie pressed. Flynn shook her head, but the flushed grin on their face probably didn’t make their case very convincing.

“Not a chance.” Carrie snorted, and if Flynn wasn’t already fucked, she most definitely was now. The crinkle around her eyes as she laughed and the way her face lit up made Carrie look like an angel given human form, and Flynn couldn’t help staring. 

They hadn’t realized it, but she’d left behind her denials of dancing, and her hands made their way to Carrie’s waist, and Carrie’s to Flynn’s shoulders, clasping behind her neck. She smiled as they swayed to no music in particular; maybe the crashing waves barely audible from the beach, maybe the bass from the music back at her house, maybe their own heartbeats.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” Carrie teased. 

“Shut,” Flynn retorted, sure her face was on fire. But Carrie laughed again, and all of Flynn’s worries melted away (that, or she’d had too much soda, which was definitely a possibility). 

So, Flynn retaliated.

They smirked and reached up, gently unclipping the comb holding Carrie’s hair up, laughing when she let out an indignant gasp, even though it was backed by a smile. But then, because of course she did, Flynn lost any sort of coherency she might’ve had, because Carrie’s long, reddish hair was framing her face in soft waves, and she couldn’t help but gently tuck one part behind her ear. 

They weren’t sure if Carrie blushed; it was too dark to tell, even with the city lights behind them.

Flynn wasn’t sure how long they danced; she’d lost track of the swaying and however many times they’d twirled each other. But before they knew it, a loud bang from a firework announced midnight, followed by sparkling light in all sorts of colors, fading into the pitch black sky. 

“Happy new year,” Carrie said quietly, her lips in a small smile. Flynn met her eyes, which seemed to glisten with hope. 

She wasn’t sure who made the first move, but soon they were stepping closer, eyes locked until she could feel the warmth of Carrie’s skin against hers.

It was Carrie who closed the gap. 

Flynn kissed back almost immediately, and then they knew what all those cliché romance books meant when they talked about sparks flying; though that might’ve been the fireworks casting them into a merged silhouette atop the hill.

Carrie’s lips tasted like strawberry chapstick; the same kind she’d used since they’d met in second grade. Flynn’s arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer, Carrie’s hands on her shoulders. 

The crackle of another firework sounded when the finally pulled apart for air, foreheads together.

“I’ve wanted to do that forever,” Carrie confessed, and Flynn’s heart soared.

“Dork,” they said affectionately, kissing her again. Carrie smiled into it, a giggle tickling Flynn’s cheek.

They took it back; it wasn’t sparks she’d felt with Carrie.

It was fireworks. 

[becuzitisbitter]

All Cops Are Bad

The last of the essays i will be posting that I wrote for school, this one is an attempt at an approachable ACAB argument (my professor said that she was persuaded, at least)

    There is an old slogan with roots at least as far back as the 1920’s and is yet becoming more and more popular across the globe today: “All coppers are bastards.” Of course, most people just say “cops” these days.  The extensive history of the slogan might even make one stop to wonder why the police have been the object of such long-standing antagonism, if one isn’t the sort to grasp the slogan’s truth intuitively.  The reality is that all cops really are bastards, not in a literal sense, of course, but in the derogatory usage which communicates despicability.  The goal of this essay is to convince the reader that the police are bad and that policing should be done away with entirely.  After all, the police present themselves as the vanguard of the state’s repressive urges and as the guarantors of an order defined by deprivation and violence.

    Olivia B. Waxman, writing for Time Magazine, points to economic forces as dictating the development of the means and aims utilized by policing institutions in the U.S.  She writes that businesses had already been hiring private security to protect the transport and storage of their property, and that, “These merchants came up with a way to save money by transferring to the cost of maintaining a police force to citizens by arguing that it was for the “collective good.” (Waxman) In other words, America’s first publicly funded police force was simply picking up after the work of private businesses to protect their own property, but with the cost foisted upon those who were being kept out. She continues this economic argument as she traces the lineage of the modern police force back to its forerunners in the Southern runaway slave patrols. She writes, “the economics that drove the creation of police forces were centered not on the protection of shipping interests but on the preservation of the slavery system”. Thus, the primary policing institutions in the South were the slave patrols, the first of which was formally established in 1704. (Waxman)

    The police developed historically to enforce property rights rather than to ensure the wellbeing of the populace.  If it is understood that white supremacy encodes human skin with either privilege or dispossession, it should be understood that, as Mariame Kaba writes in an opinion piece published by the New York Times, “when you see a police officer pressing his knee into a black man’s neck until he dies, that’s the logical result of policing in America. When a police officer brutalizes a black person, he is doing what he sees as his job.” (Kaba) Kaba is an organizer against criminalization and a self-described police abolitionist because she believes that “a ‘safe�� world is not one in which the police keep black and other marginalized people in check through threats of arrest, incarceration, violence and death.” The police, then, are not focused on creating a safe world. They are interested in preserving the world as it is, which demands a tacit defense of misogynistic and white supremacist institutions.

    Regardless of personal attitudes or goals, the undeniable outcome of two hundred years of policing in America has been an uninterrupted avalanche of mostly arbitrary violence aimed at preserving the rule of law, that is, the sanctity of private property. In just the last year, the discourse about the role and place of police in our society has exploded with new questions and new ideas. What makes this conversation so powerful is that the police are considered so essential to the functioning of the modern world that the abolitionist movement must necessarily carry indictments on many other institutions and ways of relating that are bound-up with policing.

    Of course, many readers will be quick to react defensively.  Most disagreements with the argument presented here will take one of two forms: the claim that the argument over-generalizes police, and the claim that the police fill such an essential role that society couldn’t hope to provide an acceptable standard of life in their absence.  Both will be addressed below.

    The former argument comes in many varieties.  One might even say, “It is unfair to judge such a large group by the actions of a few bad apples,” without being aware that they were reversing the meaning of the idiom they are attempting to make use of, which actually originated as “A rotten apple quickly infects its neighbor,” according to Ben Zimmer, who is a linguist and language columnist for The Wall Street Journal. (Cunningham) Regardless of the backwardness of this idiom, many would maintain that it is wrong to generalize police or stereotype their actions based on our perceptions of a few bad actors.  Some police may abuse their power, or harbor prejudice, many readers would contend, but most police officers are decent people doing their best under difficult conditions.  The truth, however, is that literally all cops bring about harm simply by doing the jobs that they signed up for.  To go a step further, even if every police officer were to act in good faith, the task of maintaining a status quo defined by inequality would still force officers into the position of beating the cold, poor, and hungry back from the resources they need to live comfortably. This world of deprivation is not worth defending, and yet every cop has signed up to defend it.  Some readers might still say that to pain the police with such a broad brush, is to commit an act of prejudice on par with the attitudes the police are criticized for, but they are grasping at straws. No one becomes a police officer by accident.  By switching careers, they could avoid such judgement entirely.  One wonders if they would feel the same about criticizing other groups which are entirely opt-in, such as MS-13 or the Taliban.

    Could there ever be such a thing as a good cop? No.  Here is one example that I think demonstrates a larger principle: even if a given police officer is a dedicated and educated anti-racist, the logistical deployment of police departments across the US places more officers in poor neighborhoods and communities of color than in wealthy or majority-white areas. This means that even the most kind-hearted police would be more likely to detain or arrest poor people and people of color than affluent whites.  This is only one facet of a fundamentally unjust system.  The development of police departments as racist and anti-working-class institutions across History means that they are structurally and institutionally racist and anti-working-class in the here and now.  Police departments continue to defy reform because the problem is intentionally encoded into their purpose. They must be done away with entirely.

    When a protestor or graffiti artist echoes the old slogan that, “All cops are bastards,” it is an expression of a tautology.  Like the phrase “All triangles have three sides,” the slogan contains its own truth.  All triangles have three sides because it is part of the definition of triangles to have three sides.  We can’t even conceive of a triangle with four sides because by having four sides, it would cease to be a triangle.  Despicability is written into the definition of policing because the aims of policing are themselves despicable.  Any cop that ceased to work toward the aims of policing would cease to be deplorable, maybe, but he would also cease to be a cop as surely as a triangle with four sides would cease to be a triangle.

    The second primary counter argument to criticism of the police is that the police are a necessary evil, essential to protecting us from a rousseauian war of all against all.  This assumption that humanity could not get by without police seems silly, after all, the police are only a modern institution, hardly a blip in humanity’s story.  It has already been shown that the police were not created to protect the average person from harm, but to protect private property rights.  In any case, a counter argument from consequences is not the same as a refutation.  One need not know the correct answer to a problem to recognize a wrong one.  When asked, “What would you do with the psycho serial killers?” one should be unabashedly honest about not knowing the answer because there is no one answer.  The answer to each problem can only be located in the context in which the problem occurs.  This reflex to reach for a one-size-fits-all answer for all of life’s problems, along with its concomitant desire to preserve the tedious “peace” of the status quo, do a lot to explain the psychology of pro-police arguments.

    Neither the means nor ends of policing are acceptable.  The forces that shape and control our world, be they corporate or political, tower over us such that we only ever meet with their basest appendages.  The police are their piggy-toes, pun-intended.  Admittedly, the arguments presented here will be significantly weaker in the mind of anyone who really feels good about the state of the world which police maintain, however little is likely to be gained in dialogue with someone who could maintain a positive view of concentration camps, needless and ceaseless killings, the continuation of slave labor in the prison system, mass food-insecurity, etc.      

    It is incumbent upon each of us to improve the world around us.  The police are an impediment to a better, safer, freer world.  They are antithetical to equity, autonomy, and community; that is why all who fight too hard for a better life eventually find themselves faced with the police, one way or another. Nevertheless, while so much hangs in the balance, we can’t let the bastards get us down.

    Works Cited

Olivia B. Waxman. “How the U.S. Got Its Police Force” Time Magazine, https://time.com/4779112/police-history-origins/ Published: 5/18/2017, Date of Access: 12/2/2020

Mariame Kaba. “Yes, We Mean Literally Abolish the Police” The New York Times, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/12/opinion/sunday/floyd-abolish-defund-police.html Published: 6/12/2020, Date of Access: 12/2/2020

Malorie Cunningham. “'A few bad apples': Phrase describing rotten police officers used to have different meaning”

https://abcnews.go.com/US/bad-apples-phrase-describing-rotten-police-officers-meaning/story?id=71201096 Published: 6/14/2020, Date of Access: 12/2/2020

[spiltscribbles]

Hey love your blog!! Sorry you got no inspiration that always sucksssss. If you feel up to it #189 wolfstar prompts?? Love ya 💙💙

Notes: OMFG Nonny!!! This is such an angelic message!!! Thank you so fucking much! Also this is like 5400 words, which is disgusting and I’m sorry!!!  |  A Reblog is worth a thousand stars!!!!

.-

189  »  Stop pinning this on me! You started it!  |  Send Me A Prompt

.-

Odds On Us

Focus.

All Remus needs to do is focus. It’s not that hard. He’s a damn prefect for Morgana’s sake, in the top 3% of their entire year. Learning to focus amidst madness became as easy as slinking on his cloak before strolling through  the cool Scottish outdoors. For fuck’s sake, it  had to be a learned talent considering he was assigned to a dorm  with the chaotically brilliant duo that is James and Sirius. With Peter besides  who’s always crowing on about classes or the latest bird he’s fancying or the next prank he’d like to commit (which almost always included a stop by the kitchens). 

Focus, that’s all he needs to do. So what if the object of his affections since sodding third year is currently draped all over him— Sirius’s head bent so that he can brush his aristocratic nose against Remus’s temple, and one of his hands discretely rubbing up and down his thigh, inching closer and closer to where Remus’s jeans are beginning to tent. 

Fucking damn it Remus will not be distracted by the blue blooded wanker that is Sirius Black!

With a huff and very deliberate shuffle so that there’s some space between them, Remus returns to scanning the opened page of Withering Heights he’s got opened up, and he relaxes into The Beatles song crooning out  the record player he’s charmed from home to play within Hogwarts grounds, and pretends to care about James from across the room, swaying in his place with a half empty flask of fire-whiskey in hand and his pointer finger twirling in the air with seemingly great effort.

“Righto. Lads.” He declares with a hiccup  between thoughts. “’S our sixth year, nearly the crop of the cream.”

“Erm, think the saying’s cream of the crop,” Peter says, words slightly slurred as he collapses on the nearest bed, which just so happens to be Sirius’s.

Remus laughs, cuts a glance to an offended looking Sirius, “Think he’ll be sick on your 700 thread count sheets, love?”

Sirius glares, retaliates by kissing the corner of Remus’s mouth and trying to distract him all over again.

“Oi! Stop your canoodling you mutts! I’m trying to talk here!”

Sirius rolls his eyes and Remus snickers before ever so graciously returning his attention onto a red faced James who’s taking another pull of the whiskey they smuggled in from the Hog’s Head on their nip to the town after the welcoming feast. “Sounds like just blustering from here, mate.”

The fierceness from James’s glower is significantly lessened by the way his eyes can’t even focus on Remus for longer than a second at a time. “’S important marauder business we’re discussin’ here, Moony! Pranks to be had, redheads to be flattered!” The remaining three chorus a snort. “I’m serious damn it!”

“Nah mate, I’m Sirius,” the aforementioned blue blooded wanker preens, narrowly dodging the pillow Peter unceremoniously hurls his way, thumping on the wall instead. “Besides,” he continues leisurely, practically lying half on top of Remus now. “’S not my fault that Moony here can’t keep his hands off of me, such a exhibitionist. A little wildcat if I’m being at all honest.”

Remus makes a strangled noise in his throat like a very affronted hyena, “Fucking plonker.”

This time Sirius is too slow to avoid the elbow to his side, but the positively devious grin he’s sporting doesn’t let up in the slightest. “I’m telling you boys, it’s the quiet ones indeed.”

Peter and James seem to find this hilarious, but Remus is suddenly plotting out a very elaborate and very mutinous murder using only his pillow and targeting Sirius’s stupidly gorgeous face.

Revenge will be sweet.

“You’re the one smothering me if you’ve forgotten tosser.” He fumes, which makes Sirius positively incandescent with glee. 

“Well I can’t jilt you dearest Moonbeam,” he says with a ridiculously exasperated flapping to his lashes— pinching his cheek just for good measure. And Remus would really like to bite his finger right off but is 60% certain that Sirius’ll take it as something sexual. 

“I hate you.”

“You love me and my washboard abs.”

Remus’s eyes flicker down to Sirius’s sadly clothed torso and wishes Sirius didn’t know how to read him so well. “You’re a bastard.”

“And you’re a beautiful little cabbage,” he replies, leaning forwards for a proper kiss, and frowning when Remus resolutely does not meet him for it. 

“Oh no, I will not be felt up as if you didn’t just slander me.” He sniffs, goes back to his reading; ignoring the way James and Peter have moved on to their own conversation about James’s chances to land a date with Lily this term— From what Remus picks up on a good deal of it is dependent on Gryffindor winning the quidditch cup this year. 

“Oh you wanna play it this way Moons,” Sirius says in that tone of voice that is ordinarily saved for when they’re entirely alone— ensconced behind the curtains of his four-poster or an empty broom cupboard between classes— A very low, slightly gruff, and entirely alluring baritone that still makes Remus’s toes curl while they’re sitting in plane view of their two, beyond sloshed, best friends.

“Don’t know what you mean Pads,” Remus says measuredly, hopes that his voice comes out as unaffected as possible instead of the haggard, frayed at the edges way he thinks it does.

“We’ll make it a bet then,” Sirius says, rolling over so that he’s crowding Remus against the headboard, noses touching and Sirius practically straddling his hips. “First one to cave for a kiss is the loser?”

Oh God, Remus should’ve expected this, truly. Of course Sirius wants to make everything into a bloody competition. And Remus should probably say no, considering that the full is in two weeks and they’re only just starting their NEWT level course work, and he’s got prefect rounds practically every other night. But he also knows it in his bones that he can hardly deny Sirius anything, and he’s always loved competitions himself, especially winning them. Especially if it’s his far too smug, far too self assured boyfriend who he’s taking down a peg or two.

“Mmm, fine. Winner gets?”

Sirius’s pale eyes glint wickedly in the dim light of their room for only a moment, before he says, “Head.”

God Remus should’ve just kept on focussing on his reading.

.-

The general bustle of the Great Hall seems to be especially graining this morning, but Remus refuses to blame it on anything to do with the bet, or the fact it was the first night in nearly a month that he hasn’t shared a bed with Sirius— after Remus had spent part of the summer in the Potter estate in Devon before Sirius returned to spend the final week with him in Wales in his small coastal town with his small but loud mother with her musical supremacy  and sly jokes that told them they would never pull one over on her in a thousand years and all together outrageous amounts of vivacity.

Keep Reading

[hylialeia]

Thinking about how Jon, Tyrion, and Daenerys all defy the "you are your family" arguments in their own ways... Tyrion thinks "It all goes back and back to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance in our steads" and it's such a sad quote, this sense of inevitability and almost dread that you can never break free of family history, but we see through each of these characters that it's not true.

Jon's family history (unbeknownst to him) is blood feuding and violence and war and tragedy, but that isn't him. He tries over and over again to make peace at the Wall, to understand the Wildlings that everyone says should be his enemies, to grow past his preconceived view of the world. He honors Ned not because he's his father but because he was good and he taught Jon what it meant to be good. He's not the son or the heir, he's the bastard, the Snow, and he's the one that gets to decide what that means.

Daenerys' family history is madness and abuse, black vs. white with no room for error, the whole "the gods toss a coin" nonsense, but that isn't her. She acts to prevent bloodshed and to protect everyday people, not just her family or those that will benefit her, but general smallfolkand innocents. She makes rational decisions and takes both her successes and her failures in stride, and most importantly she tries when it would be easier not to. She protects the way she wants to be protected, and she wants a home more than she's ever wanted a throne.

And Tyrion, whose family history has always been based in pride and Lannister-supremacy, in the unquestioning "we're-the-best" attitude... he never got that privilege. In a long line of supposed perfection, he was the exception, the only one of his family who knew how to swallow his pride even when he didn't like it, who the world and his own family refused to see as beautiful or powerful or perfect or worth anything. He's clever even when the odds are stacked against him, he's adaptable and bitter and struggling, both hating his legacy and longing for it, and yet he choses others over himself. He married a crofter's daughter because he loved her and she loved him, because it felt right. He saved Catelyn after she took him hostage because it felt right. Tyrion struggles and tries and fails, defying his picture-perfect family with every breath, and that's beautiful.

I think that's the point of the three heads of the dragon--a creature that's notable for being so distinct from all the others. It's not their families or their blood that make them special or heroic, even if those histories hold influence for them. Their real triumphs are in being individuals who choose to help others, to do what feels right regardless of what their parents or ancestors might say. It leaves the way open for them to become one another's family, a family of outcasts and equals.

[the-moon-prince]

The Last Of us~Kurapika x Reader ~Chapter XI

AN: Hi my lovely fellows!

I’m sorry for the delay! Thank you so much for your patience and support! I’m here with another chapter! I put some uncany descriptions and a tiny fight scene in this chapter. I hope it will dynamic and intresting enough. If you have any feedback, I would be more than glad to recive it! I have some work this week, however I’ll do my best to upload the next chapter as quickly as possible! Thank you, have a great day and I hope you will enjoy the new chapter!

I wish you a pleasant read, and I hope you’ll enjoy the new chapter of my story.  (Chapter I) (Chapter II) (Chapter III) (Chapter IV ) (Chapter V) (Chapter VI) (Chapter VII)(Chapter VIII)(Chapter IX)(Chapter X) (Chapter XII coming soon!)

Paring: Kurapika Kurta x GN! Reader

Word count: 2 317

TW: Blood // Morbid Descriptions  // Violence (? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I don't bother. I want to make sure that I'm not selling one of my prized items to anyone."-The black-haired man dictated.

(Y/n) cleared their throat-"Understandable. Your collection is impeccable. I can clearly see the devotion put into it."-they agreed with their smile. sitting down on one of the bar benches. Kurapika mimicked the action.

Human and animal parts were too part of the person's collection.

Just another one of those sick scums for Kurapika. He loathed this guy. Referring to (Y/n)'s family as an article in his collection. Still making the reclaim difficult with an air of false supremacy and narcissism.

"I'm glad you recognize it."-the man seemed pleased with the adulation.-"Especially because I'm going to confer you one of my favorite pieces."

(Y/n) nodded-"If I were giving one of my pieces, I would as well be concerned about who was receiving it."-they added with their smile.

"Speaking of, tell me about your collection."-the man challenged. 

He pulled up a crystal bottle filled with a dark drink. At the moment of uncovering it, an intensive scent of alcohol came off. He proceeded to pour a generous amount of liquor in a spacious glass with ice

(Y/n) had no collection. Kurapika started to bug. What are they deemed to say to persuade him? 

"I have a peculiar appreciation for bodily oddities."-they tilted their head-"I own a hand with polydactyly, another one with syndactyly. A fetus with 15pp tetrasomy, a specimen of dipygus, a pair of lungs with tracheal agenesis, the list can go on."

The man lifted his chin at the answer. Kurapika relaxed. Using his medical knowledge to give examples of abnormalities was skillful. 

"That is in the human realm. My favorites are the animal eccentricities. Aren't beasts beautiful?"-they advertised, directing their gate to a taxidermized Golden Pheasant displayed on the shelf behind the man.

By this point, both (Y / n) and Kurapika were certain they had convinced the man sufficiently for him to finally sell them what they were seeking.

"Are they, right?"-the man bragged with his gruff voice-"Your interest shows, kid, that's good."-he nodded, drinking his liquor and refilling the glass-"But do you know what is special about my Fuse?"

Fuse? Didn't that mean beastman or dogman? Kurapika was perplexed. By what right did he refer to them like this...

"It would be the least! The Fuses, aren't they intriguing? Wonderful beasts."-(Y/n) praised, trying to widen their smile.  Kurapika could only imagine the pain they felt having to fake that excitement.

The man finished his drink in one gulp and served more.

"Even more for the few that remained. A true rarity! I had a good time studying them."-he shouted. It inflated his ego to be able to show off his collection.-"Imposing! Some tremble with fear when they see them. The demons robed, mated, and killed men, women, and children alike to eat their souls. Since they were disguising themselves as humans, they hid for a while. But they smelled like animals, you know? Beasts in body and soul."-he voiced and made motions of greatness with his hands. Letting out a pant that stank of alcohol.

All of this disgusted Kurapika. The man was putting on a deplorable show: spitting pest and bile out of his filthy mouth. All the collectors were rotten to the core. Would it also own scarlet eyes? What would the miserable bastard state about the Kurta? They were dull and reckless forms who were better off in vases on shelves? His blood was boiling.

(Y/n) didn't took their eyes off the dark-haired for a moment.

"It must be outstanding to hold one! I've been seeking a chance like this for a prolonged time now."-they exclaimed, putting their hands together in triumph. Kurapika felt sorry for them. 

"But beasts after all."-the man continued, finishing his drink and serving one plus anew. He was presumably drunk.-"Poor fools, they didn't stand a chance against us."-he started to laugh.-"But enough is enough, I'll go for what you want, kid."

The man finished his 3rth drink, got up, and left his bar counter to climb a wide staircase. Kurapika, who had stayed muted the whole exhibit and was staring at the glass of alcohol, let out a groan once he was assured the bastard was gone. Fuse, it even sounded awful. He turned to see (Y/n). They were looking at the things on the back furniture, their head resting on their hand. 

The man went back inside, and they both followed him with their eyes from the entry to his seat. He placed a head on the bar table on a polished wood plank. The head was of a dog. Its fur was light in color, and it had a longer, darker coat on the top of its head from which its ears poked out. His muzzle was somewhat elongated with a slightly recurved blackish nose A dog with human-like traits, resembling (Y/n). Only that he was a child and his grimace was a mixture of surprise and terror. His eyes had been replaced by doll-like ones, cold and lifeless. However, it wasn't him.

They degraded a child to wall decor.

"Look at it!"-the drunk man blurted, elevating the head by the ears to the level of his head.-"A real treasure! Even more, being from a predator, they were the most unusual among the Fuse!"

A twisted and degrading spectacle.

(Y/n) has a face of admiration, and started to clap.-"Wonderful!"

The man laid the head back on the table and sat.

"It is, it is. But it's a pity that it is dead. It would be even more impressive to have it as a pet."-He interjected with a grin, showing his open hand, waiting.

(Y/n) took an envelope out of their bag and handed it to him. The man took money out of it and began to count it. At that, Kurapika took the head and pulled it towards him. On its own, it was quite heavy, and the wooden base didn't help. The fur was soft and covered the moderately battered neck. When viewed up close it was worse. 

"Okay, take good care of my Fuse."-he teased displaying his hand to them. They watched it for a moment before pulling their own out and shaking it.

"I will. So you don't have to trouble about that."-they responded smiling.-"We will with-"

"Fuse."-The black-haired interrupted them.

(Y/n) inclined their head, and Kurapika looked up at him. How drunk was this bastard?

"You are a Fuse kid: you have claws. When you shook my hand I saw them, even if you put black nail polish. Your aura is not human either, although you mirror it well. But specialize in hunting beasts, you can't trick me."-the man condemned, with a severe look.

Kurapika felt his blood run cold for a second. (Y/n)'s smile got substituted by a sober expression.

"Why don't you kill me, kid?"-his face changed into an expression of repugnance.

Kurapika was already preparing to attack.

"There is no use in such an act. We will withdraw now."- they calmly declared standing up. They held the head with both hands, and the two directed to the exit. 

The man looked down at his now hollow glass, it did not seem that he was going to launch an attack. Nevertheless, Kurapika didn't let his guard down all the walk to the exit. The man didn't seem to move from his chair.

Still, the walk from the bar counter to the door felt heavy. Neither of them would show fear, they couldn't permit it. They would not indulge the wretch.

As soon as they were out the front door, they heard another scream from the man.

"Fuse!"-he shouted that name again. The smell of strong alcohol reached up to them.

 Kurapika and (Y/n) stopped, standing on the small path between the porch and the gate. Kurapika turned to see him. This man was nothing to him but a wretch. And he was already on the last nerve of him. 

(Y/n) continue to turn their back to the drunk.

"I'll tell you why you don't kill me!"-he shouted-"You don't kill me because you know it won't change anything. You will never get anything back. Because your kind never had anything."-he raged. He seemed almost offended.

(Y/n) tilted their head and remained silent for a couple of seconds. Kurapika was ready to deliver a punch to the man right into his face. At any circumstance, in his current shape, he wasn't going to be capable of much.

"No."-(Y/n) alleged, without turning to see him-"I already reclaimed what was robbed from us."-their tone was not the same as before. This one was more pressing. 

Kurapika hadn't heard that tone of theirs before. While they weren't screaming, it radiated indignity.

"They only robbed our bodies."-they maintained-"They will never be able to take away our pride, dignity, nor greatness. And that reality pains you."

The man rushed towards (Y/n), he was fast. In a fit of rage and giddy with alcohol, he concentrated his nen in his right fist and delivered a punch into their head. This action pushed (Y/n)'s head to the floor and their entire body hit the concrete, releasing the puppy's head from their grasp. Which fell to the ground, slightly staining its fur.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Kurapika's eyes glowed scarlet. It could be subtly perceived under the contacts he wore. The man had made the mistake of revealing his type of nen. He was an Enhancer, practicing hand-to-hand combat. That puts him at a disadvantage against Kurapika's ranged techniques. 

Kurapika conjured his chains. He dashed towards the man and unleashed his fury in a blow that struck the man in the side, targeting the kidney. The hit was potent enough not only to beat the man off but also to thrust him a few feet away from the two of them.

He was writhing in the grass, panting.

Seeing that (Y/n) didn't get up, Kurapika went to his side and helped him to their feet. Their legs were shaking. They had hit their noses on the pavement. It was bleeding heavily, and their eyes were watery. They also had their left cheek bruised. Neither of them noticed the blow coming. 

Once steady on their feet, (Y/n) stepped to the head and lifted it. Whipping the dust and dirt off the pup's face.

"Let me see your other form. Transform yourself."-the man whimpered between gasps, still in the ground.

"Sir, you are drunk."-(Y/n) finished. 

In other conditions, Kurapika would keep pounding the bastard. However, the blow (Y/n) received was considerably strong and had a great deal of concentrated aura. Above, they had little physical resistance against direct attacks; their physical fragility could not be ignored. His priority was to get them out of the place. The man did not move and did not say anything again.

Kurapika put a hand on (Y/n) 's back to help them advance to the car.

Getting to the safety of the truck, (Y/n) sat down after putting the puppy in the back. So far it had been a disastrous night. They had to put up with a drunken narcissistic idiot and (Y/n) got beaten, insulted, and denigrated.

When they put their weight on the seat, their frame inclined forward, still shaking. They put their trembling hands together and supported them on their legs meanwhile they puffed.

Kurapika was troubled for their well-being. He moved closer to them to get a better glimpse at the wound. They would have a mark on their cheek and their nose continued to bleed.

"(Y/n), how do you feel?"- he pleaded, a hand in their back.

They sniffed and pulled out a tissue to clean their face. 

"I feel better. It is not grave, I'll be fine. Thank you, my love"-they affirmed, turning to see him and offering him a smile.

Kurapika didn't understand. He knew how affable his darling was, except this was exceedingly much. A narcissistic and vulgar man had insulted, not only them but their entire deceased family. Not having respect for the gone is the limit of acceptable decency.

 He referred to them as demons, assassins, and other barbarities. He had even demoted them to pets. Yet with all that, he was the one who attacked. He was the one who was boiling in pure anger, not making the smallest attempt to be polite with the bastard. Not (Y/n).

They could have attacked at any time. However, they didn't even conjure their ribbons. They didn't shout at him, they didn't insult him. They remained terribly calm. Even now, when they were alone in the car. It seemed as if they had forgotten everything. They even smiled.

As someone dares to speak like that of the Kurta clan, Kurapika would grind them with his chains and fists.

But this was an enigma to him. Was (Y/n) even vexed? Whatever it is, they had enormous self-control, even excessive...

Kurapika would reflect on this entire experience several times in the future. Despite the fact, there were diverse imports one particular thing adhered with him like glue: the response (Y/n) gave the man screeched they would never recover what was lost. 

Kurapika embraced (Y/n) and drew circles on their back, attempting to comfort them. They rested their head on his chest, he could feel them quivering.

"(Y/n)."-he called softly-"It's over, dear, let's go home."

They shook their head.-"Not yet."

[blondeblackwidow]

Could you write a fic about the Resistance meeting a Kenobi!reader who used to be Snokes old apprentice, and over time Poe begins to fall for her? I love your writing and if you do choose to write this request, the fluffier the better❤️

M e t a n o i a ( Poe Dameron x Reader )

prompt:  Could you write a fic about the Resistance meeting a Kenobi!reader who used to be Snokes old apprentice, and over time Poe begins to fall for her? I love your writing and if you do choose to write this request, the fluffier the better❤️ +  I’m the anon that sent the Kenobi!reader ask in, I forgot to say that the reader wasn’t Snokes apprentice willingly and she was taken as a child.

a/n; holy fuck i feel like i just poured my soul into this. this was something i played with a while on my own and i can’t get over how proud of it i am. thank you for this request, anon! i would zone out for hours just writing, and that hasn’t happen since like eighth grade. title is a greek word for a journey of self discovery.

song: the archer - taylor swift

t/w: slight mentions of child abduction and manipulation, very minor though.

w/c: 3150 ( omg )

-

D’Qar was loud, and the air was thick as it hit your skin. The sun hidden behind clouds, it was still considerably warmer than the Supremacy. You stepped off the transport, black boots hitting the pavement, the rest of you covered by the oversized brown robe. 

You’d never seen Leia Organa before. But you knew her son, and the minute you saw her eyes, you knew who she was.

You lowered your hood. “General.” You breathed with a smile. She greeted you with a handshake, and the most comforting of smiles. She radiated a motherly energy you had never known, not in this life at least. 

“Welcome, I’m so happy you got here safely, and you took me up on my offer.” 

“It seems our families can never live without each other.” You responded, and Leia gestured you further into the base. 

“Let’s talk in my office, and I’ll see about getting you something with some color.” She guided you amongst crowds. Her office was small by most standards, but felt comfortable and homely. She took a seat and you followed suit.

The air was tense, full of unanswered questions. 

“He’s alright, doing well, all things considered.” You offered, and her shoulders seemed to relax.

“You didn’t have to..” She started, and you waved your hand.

“It’s nothing, I know you must hold your breath everyday when it comes to him.” You spoke softly, as if people were listening. “He talked about you a few times, it was always brief, but he did.” 

“Thank you.” Leia reached out and squeezed your hand. The door opened behind you two and you saw a man, standing in the doorway, holding a wad of clothing.

“Ma’am Pava sent me in here with these.” He held up what looked like a shirt and pants. “She said you asked if she had spare uniforms?” 

“Well yes because she’s always in her pajamas or her flight suit.” Leia reached her hand out and he gave them to her, sparing you a cautionary glance. “All of black squadron seems to operate that way.” 

He opened his mouth to object, but she kept talking. “This is Poe Dameron, one of my top commanders and pilots.”

“THE top pilot, ma’am.” He turned to fully look at you, and you introduced yourself.

“She and I have family history.” Leia answered before Poe could ask. He didn’t take his eyes off you though.

“Have I met you before?” You swallowed thickly, clamming up to find a lie. You remembered him as soon as he started talking. 

“The Resistance will not be intimidated by you.” He struggled out to breathe.

“We’ll see.” Kylo said from in front of you, not yet aware that you had entered the room. The man you now know as Poe starts to scream.

“Ren, you’re needed by the supreme leader.” Most of your face covered by a hood, you avoid the curious gaze from the chair in front of you both.

“It’s in a droid, a BB unit.” He barked on his way out. You take one glance at the man before you leave, hesitating.

“No, I don’t believe we have.” You forced a smile. “It’s been a pleasure though.” You turned your gaze back to Leia, who cleared her throat.

“You’re excused, Commander.” He took a breath to object, but it died on his tongue. He offered a small smile and excused himself.

“I was there, when Ren…” You trailed off, staring at the now closed door. “How am I supposed to….”

“He may look tough, but he’s got his mother’s heart.” She sighed, standing and collecting a few more things. “He’ll understand, probably more than most.”

“I hope so.” Leia smiled and gestured toward the door. 

The quarters she gave you were smaller than yours on the Supremacy, but far less daunting. Glossy black walls had been replaced with cracked stone, this whole base a work in progress.The uniforms were more relaxed, and people smiled as you walked past, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that they saw right through you. Cracked foundations were held together by hope, maybe here, you thought, you could start to heal what Snoke shattered. 

You were going to go out and explore. You grabbed an old brown satchel, and went to place your saber inside. It was silver with a gold band around the emitter, black striping down the sides bleeding into the solid black band around the hilt, gold circles breaking up the darkness. Kylo thought little of it, said it looked too much like a Kenobi’s lightsaber. For once in your life though, you were happy you had something to remind you of the light that coursed through your veins. It would need a new crystal, the old one corrupted by the dark side, but that was a question for Leia at a later time.

The walk to the airfield was peaceful, on the ship, all you had was recycled air. But there was something about the breeze and the smell of wildflowers and trees. And if you were honest, the smell of the engines burning fuel was better than the nothingness that you had become accustomed to. 

Your eyes quickly set sight on the obnoxious X Wing that sat front and center. Black with an orange stripe, while it was Hux’s responsibility to know the specs of the Resistance, you knew that it was the ship that always meant trouble. You walked up to it and ran a hand down the side. The side panels were rough against your hand, but you liked it here, the perfection of the First Order became suffocating after a while.

“Can I help you?” A voice behind you asked. You turned to see the man from earlier, Poe, you think his name was. 

“Oh no, I’ve just never seen an X Wing in person before.” You laughed. “They’re just so legendary in my mind.”

“You a pilot?” He asked, walking closer. His black hair was messy, and there was grease on his orange flight suit.

You shook your head. “Oh no, my grandpa flew A Wings during the Clone Wars but other than that we’re a pretty ground bound family.” 

“Was your grandpa a clone?” Poe asked, and you furrowed your brows. 

“No?”

“Well because droids were used by the separatists and clones by the republic.” He laughed. “So unless your grandfather was a clone, that doesn’t work.” 

“There were civilians in the Republic.” You rolled your eyes. 

“I guess.” He shrugged his shoulders, you knew he didn’t buy it. But you were okay with it, it was something to talk about at another time. A reason to talk to him again.

“You have pilots in your family?” You asked, leaning against the warm metal of the body of the ship.

“Uh yeah, my mom.” He cleared his throat. “She flew A Wings.” He raised his finger to note the similarity. “But for the Rebels against the Empire.” 

“Sounds like a kickass woman.” You smiled. He shifted his weight and looked at his boots.

“Yeah, she was.” He smiled. You could sense the discomfort, and the loss. 

“So how long have you been with the Resistance?” 

“I’ve never met such a bold new recruit you know.” He laughed.

“Blame it on the family connection.” You laughed in return.

“What is the mysterious connection?” He asked, taking a step closer.

“Can’t give up all my secrets on the first day here.” You smirked. But how were you supposed to explain it all? Your father was a hidden bastard child from the days of Mandalore, your mother died before you could walk, you’re competition in training was the General’s son who was named after your grandfather who the General called to before Alderaan’s Doom – and that was just the surface level of it all.

“I’ll have to come bug you another time then.” You tried to hide the rising heat in your cheeks. 

“It’s a small base, you can come find me.” You smiled and pushed off the ship. “I’ll see you around.” 

“See you around, newbie.” You rolled your eyes, and kept walking.

You and Poe spent days on and off together, chatting, laughing, unknowingly being watched by Leia with a motherly smile. He radiated an energy unlike you had ever known, it was warm, and bright, and full of love. It was the light, the light that you were ordered to swear off for the rest of your days since you were a child. 

Leia felt like the mother you had never known. The both of you aching for something taken so long ago. You spent a lot of time with her, causing a lot of questions. 

Poe jumped to your defense everytime. Causing even more questions.

“Do you know where I can get a Kyber Crystal?” You piped up, reading in Leia’s private office while she worked.

“Why?” She just glanced up. You sighed.

“Mine won’t heal itself, no amount of meditation will ever make it change, not even to white. My blade still glows red.” You closed your book and turned to face her. A devilish grin grew on her face. “What?” 

“After Luke lost the temple, he gave his remaining crystals to someone he trusted for safekeeping against the rising order.” The grin grew more. 

“Where are they?”

“Yavin IV.” She smiled.

“Okay I’ll go to Yavin–”

“At Kes Dameron’s home.” Your jaw hit the floor. You felt like you had known Poe all your life, and maybe in another life you would have, but you really only knew him for a month or so. 

So now you had to ask to meet his dad, when you hadn’t even admitted to yourself you liked him. 

“I’m gonna have to ask him to go with me.” You breathed out, slightly nervous all of a sudden. 

“Relax, Poe needs to go home anyways, it’ll get Kes off my back.” You snorted. 

“And how do I approach that?” You started. Unaware of the door opening behind you. “Poe I need you to take me to your childhood home so I can get a crystal from your father because I secretly have a lightsaber and come from the lineage of a Jedi Master in the Old Republic, who trained both Vader and Luke?” You inhaled, unaware of how fast you were just talking. “I’m sure that’s a very easy question to ask.” 

“The answers’ yes, I just have a few questions first.” 

You thought you were gonna die right then and there.

The flight to Yavin wasn’t very long, but felt like years. The transport was small, Leia was unwilling to give up her large ships for the two of you. 

“So how long have you been a Jedi?” He asked, shifting the controls and turning to face you.

“I’m not a jedi.” You mumbled.

“Well you have a lightsaber. That’s a very jedi thing to have.” Of course in your oblivious confession, you didn’t include how you acquired the weapon.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You got up from the copilots seat now that you were in Hyperspace, wanting to be anywhere but under his gaze. He grabbed your forearm to stop you, and your skin burned at the touch.

“I have met you before.” He whispered. “You were on that ship.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Your voice was broken full of shame. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Why were you there?” His eyes were locked on yours.

“I was a child, my father was on the run after Mandalore’s downfall. They caught us after a few years.” You sighed. “My father was killed, but Snoke knew of my lineage, said that because my grandfather created Vader, I had a capacity for greatness.” You shifted your weight and sat back into the chair. “I didn’t know the difference, I was so young, with this weird energy flowing through me that I couldn’t control.” 

“It’s okay.” He relaxed his hand and brought it back to his lap, you tried to hide your disappointment at the lack of touch. “You’re safe now.”

“Thank you.” You whispered, and you both sat in safe, comfortable silence before the ship made its entrance to the Yavin system.

Yavin IV, you’d come to realize, was a lot like D’Qar, luscious green trees and warm summer breeze. The Dameron home was a black and white contrast to anything you had known. Poe, on the other hand, doesn’t welcome the energy, instead tenses, as if he is in fear of what lies ahead.

“I’ll do the talking, if you want?” You offer, and Poe shakes his head.

“It’s alright.” He sighs. “How do you tell someone that the ideals they spent their life fighting are growing stronger everyday?”

“You tell them that there’s hope.” You smile softly. “Hope is the only thing you have that they don’t.” The weight of your blood red lightsaber seams to double, and none of this seems doable.

He starts to walk toward the house and you are left with no choice but to follow. He opens the door to find an older man with the same tone of skin, and same curly hair, faded now to a silver, working on something at the table. 

“Hey dad.” You want to hide behind Poe’s shadow.

How do you tell someone that the ideals they spent their life fighting are standing in front of them in their dining room?

“Poe!” He exclaimed with a smile, and gave his son a large hug. “Leia warned me you were coming. Who’s this?” He asked, returning to the neutral position.

“Oh this is Captain…” He trailed, remembering he’d never learned your last name.

“Kenobi.” You smiled, your chest swelling with pride at the surname you discarded so long ago. Recognition and surprise flashed among both men’s faces.

“I would assume you’re here for the crystals.” He winked.

“How did you…”

“A feeling, I guess.” He shrugged and began to search through a container, and Poe just mouthed your surname back to you with shock and wonder. You waved your hand to dismiss him. “Poe can you run this down to the lady down the road, the one who always gave you sweets after Shara said no?” He gestured to the project he was working on, and Poe opened his mouth to protest. 

But just like with Leia, it died long before he could manage words. He scooped it up and gave you an apologetic glance before leaving.

“Can I see it?” was the first thing Kes asked after his son’s departure.

“Y-Yeah.” You stumbled and pulled out the saber from your bag, handing it to him. He placed a small brown bag on the table with a quiet clink, and began to smile. 

“It resembles Luke’s second saber..” He looked at you. “Made with pieces of Ben Kenobis.” You couldn’t help but return the smile.

“It’s the same style, according to old texts.” You said. “Not exactly the same I’m afraid.” 

“What’s the need for a new crystal?” He handed it back.

“I..” You hesitated. Poe forgives so easily, but Leia said that was his mother, not Kes. “I was taken in by Snoke when I was young, trained..” You swallowed, staring at the saber in your hands. “I want to make things right, I can’t do that with red blades, the crystal is too broken to heal, I need to start anew.” Kes’ shoulders relaxed and he leaned against the table.

“I am sorry.” 

“For?”

“Had we done it right the first time, there never would have been a Snoke to corrupt your gift.” He smiled sadly, you reached for his hand and gave it a light squeeze.

“Had you done it the first time, I would have never met him.” You smiled. “And there will always be those who want destruction, but as long as there is more hope, then we’ll always have peace.” Tears welled up in your eyes, you were talking more to yourself, but he pulled you into a hug, and you cried, for the first time in years.

“I know a place where you can install that.” He said, releasing the hug, and you followed him to a large tree in the field. It hummed with energy. Not evil or good, not light or dark, just balanced force.

You sat on your knees in front, placing a crystal next to your saber, Kes walking away to give you a moment. You closed your eyes and pictured it all, the darkness, the mistakes, being swept away by light, and forgiveness. You opened them to reveal your reassembled saber, and the cracked crystal next to it. You decided to bury it with the tree, putting to rest your conflict, your guilt, and anger.

And Igniting your forgiveness, certainty, and compassion in a deep blue light. 

“A True Kenobi.” Kes said from afar, Poe just watching in awe as the sun set behind the mountains. You disabled the saber and wore it proudly on your belt.

“Thank you.” Was all you could manage, walking back toward the older of the two rebels.

“Don’t even worry about it.” He squeezed your shoulder, and walked back toward the house. 

“Bonfire?” Poe asked, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes.”

The night fell rather quickly after the sun set, and the summer breeze gave a chill while you and Poe sat on a log and exchanged dumb jokes and he filled you in on all the need to know information. A silence fell over you soon enough and he just stared at you over his shoulder.

“Kenobi, huh?” He laughed. “My grandpa flew A-Wings.” He mocked

“You’re an ass.” You rolled your eyes.”He did!” You defended. 

“He was a kriffing Jedi that is the least interesting thing you could have said!” 

“Sorry my life story isn’t entertaining.” You punched his arm and he acted fake hurt.

“Oh it definitely is.” He poked. “They’ll write myths about you.”

“Hopefully about the good to come, not the bad that’s passed.” You half smiled. 

“I hope it’s all of it, more inspiring that way.” He locked eyes with yours.

“Me being a trained sith apprentice doesn’t scare you?” He shook his head. 

“No. Sith, Jedi, call it what you want but I just see a beautiful woman who is strong enough to know right from wrong.” He tucked a hair behind your ear. “And that means more than making things float.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips and your heart forgot how to keep a rhythm. 

You were sure Obi Wan was up there cursing about the Old Jedi Code and falling in love, or whatever. The best part was, you didn’t love Poe.

but you know you could, given time. 

And for once in your life you weren’t scared.

[fandomshatepeopleofcolor]

Y'know, obviously it's unlikely that I'd be invited or that it'd be ok if I accepted, but if anyone ever asked me to give a speech at a rally for blm or other race issues in america, and I wasn't taking opportunities away from poc who would be much better speakers, I would talk about how fucking mad I am at white supremacists for bastardizing my culture and the history of my people. I'm 3rd gen Irish American immigrant and that I can't be proud of or interested in my people bc of their bs? 1/2

It drives me up the fucking wall. "Irish people were mistreated in america too!" yeah! You're right! Y'know why? Because we weren't considered white enough! Y'know how we managed to assimilate? By becoming the firefighters and the cops and joining the system instead of fighting alongside our brothers of color like we should have! Y'know where most of our oppression occurred? In Ireland, by England! We have only just recently settled and gained our rights in our home country! 2/3 (sorry)

But no, you can't bear to acknowledge that our struggles are better compared to the plight of indigenous people (and even then we fucked our way into everyone's bloodlines instead of ending up the smallest racial minority in our homeland) than black people! Our ancestors fucked up when they joined the system, and it's disgusting that you don't even bother to think about that as you tout this narrative. Fuck you for making me unable to be proud. Fuck white supremacy for hurting everything. 3/3 

_________

[syrossa]

REVOLUTION | vkook

[Jungkook x cyborg!Taehyung]

— wordcount: 3.8k

— genre: sci-fi/ action/ oneshot/ angst

— summary: Jungkook is on the side of the Resistance, but his heart belongs to the wicked Emperor's right hand. In a world of war, he'll have to choose between saving his people or the cyborg he's fallen so tragically in love with.

— notes: previously posted on army amino as "trust me not"

Space year 3043.

After seizing the throne of Nypso 773T , its android emperor has decided to exterminate all individuals human - the last bearers of free will still standing. To execute his commands, the order of the New Inquisition has been launched. Its wicked ways continue to terrorize the planet, and many humans have gone rogue to avoid death in Nypso's compression pits. Jeon Jungkook - the latest recruit of the Resistance, has been extracted from an Inquisition's camp after a month of captivity. During his stay there, an unexpected fascination with the order's leader has emerged. Now they're torn between duty and attraction, survival and the dire need of love in the robotic arms of Nypso 773T.

Pulling on his hood, Jungkook walked into the subway station where the mass of the automated proletariat was finally retreating to its charging points. The route of line 248 resonated in a pre-recorded audio in several transgalactic languages; the outdated robots and refugees here couldn't afford infixed translation. The next train was in seven minutes. Working machines were being produced without a sense of smell, so the coolants and liquids of the entire quadrant could drain freely, channelled through the platform. Supreme androids and cyborgs could almost tell the difference between fume-saturated air and waste matter. Humans, however, were bound to sense it.

Jungkook travelled with the scraps of a filtering mask over his nose and mouth.

A heavy overcoat protected him from curious eyes. Down its lackluster length, a multitude of pockets were sewn with the purpose of convenience, but the inner one by his right hip weighed with the wired device of a hologram transmitter. The message encrypted on it was intended for the eyes of the Resistance only, and its safe transportation had been entrusted to him. Was it the shortage of confidants or Jungkook's short, yet exceptional devotion to the cause that had brought him here, he couldn't tell. One thing was certain — danger stalked him somewhere in this crowd and it moved with a bullet's speed, disguised in coy metal. All solitude amongst machines was extirpated.

He wasn't alone.

But the field of his vision allowed him to suspect and nothing more. Between the industrial smog and the firearm fume, the human eye was unable to discern too much. Few instruction panels hung low over the heads of the departees, providing the dimmest of illumination in venom-tinted yellow where the light of all other signs failed to stretch out to. Propaganda scrolled through interconnected displays in the skyscraping height.

As the train arrived in virid smoke, drunkenly quivering atop the rusted rails, the mob prepared for departure, loud and on the verge of an electric collapse. In the midst of it Jungkook joined the aggressive momentum and it hauled him to the doors. The informants from Quadrant-3 had warned him about identification scanners — each entrance had been installed two of those, in addition to a memory-extracting mechanism, so that all workers could be wiped clean of cache; Nypso liked its slaves productive.

Blazingly red, the scanning rays licked the identification numbers off all mechanic forearms. Each number consisted of uniquely stringed digits and Nypsoian letters, irreplicable and theft-proof, unless, of course, forcefully extracted. Yet such force was hardly ever applied reversibly.

So when Jungkook lifted his sleeve, baring the tattooed numerals on vulnerable display, he knew he had engraved himself with the ink and blood of another.

Collateral damage, they'd call it — the dismantled, maimed anthropomorphic remains of those who had been sacrificed for the camouflage of the Resistance. Through the scanners and the all-seeing surveillance apparatus Jungkook slithered like a ghost, a phantom of matter but never of face. He seated himself in the vacancy of a secluded section at the back of the train, and watched as the vehicle resurfaced overground.

The halved star of Nypso 337T had begun to roll out of sight. Space wind evaded the thin synthetic atmospheric layers, bringing forth what the code specifics referred to as frostnip. Nights here began with euphoria, beauty amid the blistered flesh of the universe, but escalated just as abruptly. Thousands of beings fell victims to the unforgiving cold. The corpses would be disposed of in the vast abyss of the Omicron Galaxy and left to the mercy of the antigravity and destructive cyclones. Sometimes parts of them would fall back on Nypso with the acid torrents.

The cadaverous rains.

Upon crossing the interquadrant border, the train entered a zone of electric anomaly, causing all working robots to cease operating. Jungkook rose from his uncomfortable seat immediately. He was quick on his feet; he headed to the emergency exit in the back. Moving across a high-up, scaffold-like railway with speed disproportionate to its poor technicity, the vehicle was to reach a rail intersection in a matter of minutes — the only window he'd be provided for a secure escape. The man clutched the transmitter through the fabric of the overcoat. A flicker of utter fright glistened in his eyes, the one a madman's irises would produce before he jumps off to death.

A madman, yes, but not alone in his madness.

Because when he threw himself forth in the open air, he knew he would land in the hands of his allies, the members of the Resistance. With a thump and several Nypsoian curses, Jungkook was caught by an aircraft of the forces from Quadrant-4. The second he regained balance, the pressure in his lungs and brain dispersed to free space for relief. General Kim dismissed the crew to greet him.

He grinned. "Lucky to see you here today. We barely managed to get the plane off the ground with the low temperatures."

"Thank you, sir. Captain Jung wasn't lying 'bout your piloting."

"Don't thank me. Min over there conducted the maneuvers today, the lucky bastard." And Jungkook glanced at the back of the pilot's disheveled head, hair chopped and jet black. "Do you have it?"

Derivative of the devices from before the last technological purge, the hologram transmitter was an antique of its own, coded in a long-lost language. It was technically unhackable. The greatest legacy of its predecessors, though, was the function of restricted access, touch-activated to be precise. When the device came into contact with General Kim's palm, trillions of holographic particles erected the glowing, mapped structure of a hollow sphere.

"The core powerhouse!" Jungkook gasped.

"A precise, high-resolution map of the planet's life source. After all these years of gathering data and risking the wellbeing of our entire kind, it's finally complete. We have the key to taking the emperor down, kid." The corner of the General's mouth quirked up. "We have it."

As if prompted by the glimpse of hope, the graspable salvation of mankind, intermittent flashes of red spread like rashes on the titanium insides of the plane while alarms were triggered in the cockpit. Jungkook tripped as the aircraft went into a sudden dive.

The co-pilot cried out, "Enemy crafts, sir. Attempters FM-14, annihilation mode engaged."

"Min, can you make it to the headquarters?" Kim shouted, tying himself to a seat by the plane wall.

Jungkook was still upright, shifting his weight as if hoverboarding. His eyes followed the attackers as the unmanned Attempters deployed their missiles. With a target on its silver hull, the plane of the Resistance forces looped and spiralled between the Quadrant-4 blockscape similarly to a turbulent projectile. But before even managing to be vocal about the pilot's nonpareil skills, he glimpsed the violent gush of blood from Min's shoulder.

Jungkook yelled, "Captain, you're fucking bleeding!"

"I am?," Min shrugged, reducing the throttle from the plane's inversion, motions still as steady as a surgeon's. "About time I showed these can-openers I can beat them single-handedly."

"The Resistance has evaded all attacks again, commander. I must say the human persistence is exhausting me already."

Left arm spasming from damage, Taehyung replied tremulously, "I dispatched two of our best Attempters their way. They must've anticipated an onrush."

Next to the mechanical grandness, the soul-breaking presence of the emperor, Taehyung appeared like a solitary speck of steel; a cyborg utterly defenseless against his superior. He was second to his leader; the right hand of the radically unique conqueror of Nypso 337T and scion of the mighty Omicron race — undoers of time and space. To support his position and survival, he had been recruited as commander of the New Inquisition.

Over the metal of his palms, there was overmuch human blood. The emperor, however, was still unsatisfied with its amount.

"Their defense cannot withstand our supremacy much longer. Can you perhaps figure out why, commander? Why is humankind bound to die out?"

Some deeply buried piece of Taehyung shattered, knowing that the battle he'd deliberately spared the humans was nothing but a hurdle in the long run of their eradication. All his efforts to decelerate the inevitable — governed not by the remains of his anthropoid body but by those of his human mind — were, ultimately, futile. He'd reset the coordinates of the Attempters, encrypted the outdated frequencies of the Resistance, screened the infiltration of their informant, but at what cost? He hadn't given them advantage but mere false hope.

"Because of its will, of course. The free will of humans will lead them to their ultimate end. But first, it will lead them to me." The android's speech was toneless through the holographic projection, yet his virtual presence diminished all strength of the commander's. "Our high-rank infiltrator in the Resistance has information that an assault on the powerhouse is being plotted. I want all units in position tomorrow. The rebellion must be eliminated instantly."

"Through a strengthened line of defense?"

"A lethal one. There must be no survivors. Obey your system, commander, and your emperor."

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty."

Bowing to the conquerer of worlds might have felt elevating once; it may have propelled pride, safety and life, yet it only sparked misery in the metal now. Once the hologram had dispersed, Taehyung collapsed in a stroke of electric current. The fine components of his bionic system had experienced pressure unfit for his outdated build, which happened often when machines failed a designated mission. The scheme with the Attempters would cost him pain unlike any other. Pain of both flesh and robotics.

It took him twelve full minutes to regain consciousness. When he finally did, the back of his brain was burnt to charcoal black, as if he could only recall the excruciation of being electrocuted and nothing before it. He was a high-ranking Nypsoian soldier, a breed of hominid warrior blood and light steel tempered in the titanium core of the star of Adastreia, and he remembered his own pain only. Little by little, bits of data deteriorated within him and memories faded away like flashes of a time long-gone.

He was slowly being erased.

Everything he'd done to protect the man he loved on the other side of law backfired right at him. Instead of saving humanity, he slowly ceased to be human.

He needed to hear his voice more than ever.

Even if he couldn't quite retrieve the sound of it.

The jittery projection of Jungkook's face illuminated the entirety of the bunker, and his eyes bore into Taehyung's, expectant, laden with horror. Each of their rare conversations would begin with shared silence. Life was a variable — both had to be prepared for it to assume its last value at any given moment. The signal was horridly damaged as both sides had dialed from their underground hideaways, one right beneath the emperor's throne room, and the other from the fortified catacombs of Quadrant-4.

"I'm sorry I couldn't call earlier, I--"

Jungkook forced a lopsided smile, enough to hurt but not to discourage. "It's okay. You called."

"Are you alright? The Attempters went close and by the time I seized remote control, they'd fired at one of yours. The pilot."

"Min. He's fine. I guess he'd seen worse than your machine guns," The man chuckled softly. "Man, he even fired back, one hand on the panel, and the other holding a BL-544 out the perforated windshield."

Then Jungkook burst into laughter, lighthearted and paranormally unfit in the midst of the misery of all else. His eyes translated into blueish pixels, so Taehyung could barely visualize the mottle of dark-brown and grey they were in the light, or the dual glint of gravely seriousness and daredevilry inside them. At times like this, it was the eyes that made him feel entirely human. His eyes.

Elated for a brief second, Taehyung said, "I wish I could see you. I think my memory is being messed up with, and I'm starting to forget you."

"That's why we call, right? So we don't forget who the real enemy is."

Who was the real enemy?

"They're planning an attack on the core. The arsenal should be distributed by tomorrow at noon, but it'll be no surprise if you already knew that," said Jungkook, voice suddenly thicker. "What's been ordered to the defense forces?"

"A direct confrontation, fast and brutal. He wants all units charged and ready to dispatch anyone at sight. I'll try to talk him out of the melee but I don't know how much I can do about it."

"You've done more than enough already. Just...stay safe. Whole, preferably."

"Okay, I told you, what happened in Apus was an accident. It was a one-time thing. One. Time!"

Jungkook chortled, having Taehyung join him shortly after, both high on the feeling of detachment from everything and everyone. It was the two of them in this conversation, in this little world of theirs, free from barriers and pain and tyranny.

"You too," Taehyung said. "Stay safe."

"Will do. I'll see you at the end of the world, right?"

"See you then. Hey, Jungkook, I just wanted to tell yo--"

But the signal was cut off and the picture turned grainy with empty pixels all of a sudden. The muffled aggression of bangs and kicks brought down the door of Taehyung's secluded bunker and a horde of his own inquisitors rushed in, driven by electricity, bloodthirst and imperial will. The cyborg was taken hold of.

His heavy body writhed in the intruders' grip, but to no avail. In the distance he overheard his former inferiors repeat the protocol of his detainment. Only one kind of seizure required the full unrelenting force of the Inquisition androids.

The one coming directly from the emperor.

As the Resistance soldiers advanced farther into the outer Core, the grip on their assault rifles weakened, wet from the heat accumulated, bewildered by the void of the empty powerhouse. The pulsating, current-pumping heart of Nypso operated under a dome of steam and titanium systems. In its veins surged the lifeblood of an entire civilization, the supreme vigor of the Nypsoian predatory machine and the technology behind its expansive aggression.

Today its heartbeat would flatline once and for all.

Jungkook carried a Proxima L-90 — a relevantly ugly, simple ray weapon meant to inflict moderate damage — with the back of it braced against his underarm, holding the shadows at gunpoint. His face burned under a filtering mask, yet the odds of being violently poisoned were too great to succumb to convenience. Fire in his ribs and steel in his brain, he moved forward.

The promised confrontation of the emperor's forces never happened. General Kim signalled for all units to stand down.

"The motion sensors show movement in our perimeter. 100 meters ahead, 50 sources," he whispered. "Charge your weapons."

But in Jungkook that sparked suspicion so bothersome it twisted his insides, made him want to vomit. Fifty defenders appointed at the most significant structure on the planet — something didn't seem — didn't feel — right. Yet his trust in Taehyung lay unquestioned. He'd spoken to him about a frontal attack and a frontal attack was to be. Nothing but those words could force him forward.

Nothing but the belief that today could change the universe forever.

A swarm of androids emerged from the depths of the powerhouse, wearing imperial armour. They imitated human forms, carried themselves in a human manner, but didn't hesitate in their stride, unlike the Resistance whose fear pierced it through. These were machines without faces, painted in the colors of war and destruction, forged with no soul and no purpose but murder; the inquisitors. And when they charged onwards, every being of flesh shivered in frail mortality. The androids opened immediate fire.

However, the fifty of them were not alone. More crawled out of the corners, the corridors, and every spot dark became a black portal spitting inquisitors. In seconds the Resistance forces were severely outnumbered.

Back against General Kim's, Jungkook tore apart enemies with ray projectiles with insufficient speed. Like demons from neon and metal, like nightmares flooding the innocent mind, the androids burst forth and immobilized the formation of the rebellion. Soon enough, the man was fighting machines with electrocuting blades and bare hands.

"I'm almost out of ammo. We need to get to the main generator and place the bomb," the General shouted as he shot an inquisitor's head through, thus releasing Jungkook from his grip.

"We gotta make our way through."

"I'll help with that!" With one arm immobilized and the other on the trigger of a close-range blaster, Min approached the two. His stubbornness had earned him a spot in the field forces today, but his injury must've weighed him down.

The captain, though, was a survivor.

"Run!" Min cried. "I'll blast whatever follows you."

Jungkook and the General sprinted forward that instant, too overwhelmed with gunfire and smoke and adrenaline to take in the sight of the captain relentlessly throwing himself into the crossfire. As they cleaved the imperial horde, as they fired and slashed their way through — fruits of the flesh in the unhomogenous battle broth — he held back their pursuers for as long as he could. The shrill vox of Min's blaster quietened while they ran, and so did the remainder of the fight, distant but heavy on the brain.

At some point, Jungkook found himself utterly lost in the hypnosis of metal and screams.

Kim snapped him out when they reached a dead end at a corridor intersection. The map led to a hatch in the floor, then to an underground space where the generator was located. When Jungkook pulled the horizontal door open, the General jumped onto the grated platform it revealed. Nightmarish shivers creeped under the former's skin as if on the brim of something horrible and irreversible. Something of monumental grandness, yet something hellbound had been released with their appearance in the Core. Unaware of its specifics, Jungkook descended shortly after, shaken by the feeling of death pricking on his bare nape.

"We have to be quick," General Kim whispered. "The bomb will create an electromagnetic pulse that will disarm all electric systems on the planet. It must be as close to the core as we can get it, so be prepared to do whatever it takes for this to work. Promise me that, Jungkook."

The man wanted to stutter, to assure his comrade that the Resistance is once again in luck and prevailing. But empty promises had no place in his head anymore. Rather, they belonged in the ashes of the man he used to be once; of the world he once used to live in. His answer came pure of all boyish naiveness.

"I promise, sir."

"Good. This way."

Monochrome light, combat boots against the platform. They travelled in silence and dark anticipation. The generator came in sight several meters after, oblivious in its lifeless shell of titanium and wire. The two men entered the holy premises of the inner Core like only heartsick worshippers would — with their heads craving redemption above all.

The bomb was wrapped in cloth — a hastily packaged weapon of mass destruction. The General stripped it bare. His face twitched in untimely satisfaction as he carried it to the top of the generator, whose size extended kilometers under the ground, highest point peaking through a cavity in the grates.

But as the General was activating the mechanism, a splashed, abstract pattern of his blood printed itself onto Jungkook, who remained paralyzed steps away. The laser projectile went right through Kim, exiting his torso clean of guilt and hesitation.

The younger pointed his gun at the distance, at the wide, half-human frame of the attacker, tears in his eyes as he came in the luminescent light.

"Jungkook, put the gun down, please--"

Buy everything within him screamed. "Stand back! I'm warning you! Stand back or I'll fucking shoot you."

Jungkook glanced at the sprawled body of General, eyes then set on Taehyung again. He went feral, wild with betrayal and shock that his mortal stomach could feast on for days. They held each other at gunpoint, lovers in the grip of a war unfought.

"Sir, stay with me. Just hold on."

"Jungkook, listen to me. Put your gun down. Now!"

"No, you listen to me! What have you done?! We've been fighting for this for so long and now that we have a chance to change everything, you turn against your own. We are on the same side, you fool! Help me save him!"

"I'm afraid I can't," Taehyung replied, voice stern like never before. "I can't help you anymore. I've done so much for humans and I've never been one, never will be. I am who I am and I've picked a side already. I picked the one I belong to."

"I thought we belonged together."

The bomb lay semi activated next to Kim. All that stood between it and Jungkook was his unwavering machine of a lover, the leader of the Inquisition with only half flesh, half heart. And neither of the two were willing to surrender now.

Not when the love of each was at stake.

"We can't both leave this room, Jungkook. One of us will have to shoot. It's either me or you on the count of three."

"I would've died and killed for you!"

"One."

"I wanted a future with you, Taehyung!"

"Two."

"I loved you!"

"Three. I still do."

And Jungkook collapsed, trapped between the corpses of his friend and lover, finger on the trigger that had failed to protect the former and ended the latter. Tears welled in his black eyes as he enabled the electromagnetic explosive.

The faith of the universe rested in his unsteady hands. His whole world, however, had fallen cold in his feet.

In the very last seconds of Nypso, he wished to have never set foot on the goddamned planet of death and destruction.

[thetorturerwrites]

Puer Deus: Reputation

This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @faestae-writes​. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

***

Captured / Hurricane / Sustenance / Liar / Scars / Proof / Strings

Summary:  All manner of trouble

A/N:  18+ only.  Physical violence; sadism; references to abuse; smut

Word Count: 4.5k

Day Eight

You were back in Ren’s room for all of five minutes when the cycle shifted from day to night.  You’d lost an entire day to his diabolical plans, and you were exhausted to the bone. Hux had chided you about your nearly-crawling pace, and you’d contemplated stabbing him right there in the hall; but finally, you slumped across the threshold into what your heart kicked up as “home.”

Tension and disgust kept you from crawling into the bed. You knew your brain would loop this day, searing the way he’d looked at you into the gray matter until you wore a constant mask of mottled need.  You sunk down in the very center of the room, huddled in on yourself, and stared at the imbrued floor. You were beyond pain and tears, mired in this quagmire of hate and hunger.

He had humiliated you, wholly stripped you of all humanity and personhood.  And you had all but begged him for more. 

Under his sheer dehumanization, your body had been charged, technicolor and dynamic.  Ren had systematically consumed every part of you, continuously conjuring up new ways to crucify you to feed his black need.  And at every turn, you had given him the anguish he craved; you had yet to deny him exactly what he wanted.

Would you ever be able to deny him?

Pressing the heels of your hands into weary eye sockets, you leaned forward over crossed legs, bent in half from the burden of your inner war. You weren’t sure you could live with the creature he was unearthing, but you weren’t sure you could live without the feelings he evoked, without him.

Moments later, Ren stepped through the door, flushed red and heaving.  His eyes were furious and frantic, and you scrambled away, putting distance between you and the raving lunatic he looked to be.  

“Supreme Leader,” Hux’s voice crackled through the commlink. “The rebels have launched an attack, Sir.  The Supremacy has been compromised. We have lost the starboard side entirely.”

Ren’s gaze settled upon you and darkened immeasurably.  Teeth gnashing and erupting with a snarl, he crossed the room in three strides and hauled you into his arms. The warmth that had been building in your heart evaporated, escaping through your lungs on stuttered breath. 

You cried out and turned your gaze to the floor, the heat of his breath scorching your red cheek. You knew there was no placating him like this.  This was the Kylo Ren who would beat you for insolence, batter your body for daring to patronize him with any hint of gentle persuasion.

“Get command to the Steadfast,” he replied through his commlink. “I will be at the Night Buzzard and will rendez-vous with you there.”

Angry digits dug into your upper arms so fiercely you could feel your pulse hammering in your fingertips.  He had you lifted so high your toes barely scraped the dirty floor, and you clung to his shoulders, trying not to hang like a limp doll.

You could feel it, the accusation rolling off of him like steam, causing the very air around you to fluctuate and waver.  When had you come to know the different shades of his rage? You shook your head wildly because whatever he was about to say, you certainly hadn’t been able to do it.

“Yes, you fucking did.”

He was nose-to-nose, and his absolute disdain for you was crushing.  After everything you’d suffered at his hands, everything you’d endured for him, he still hated you, still regarded you as an object to be used and crushed, and it sucked the light from your soul.

“I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

He passed his quaking hand over your face, stretched his great power into your cerebellum, and forced you into the inky void.

You dreamed of vast, blue skies and the sunlight on your face.  It was bright and crisp and vibrant. You turned into the wind and inhaled the deep, clean, briskness of it, feeling the wispy tendrils curl around your neck and shoulders.  You stretched up into the warmth, feeling the ache in your bones and joints ease, the tightness in your neck and back loosen, and the constriction of your ribs and lungs lessen under the blissful perfection of nature.

You lifted your face into a smattering of afternoon clouds, feeling free and weightless. No more walls. No more silent vacuum of space.  No more blinding, false light. This was life without Santcha, without your Master, without Ren. It was open and lustrous and beautiful.

And it wasn’t real.

As your senses came back into alignment, you smelled rust-tinged air mixing with the heavy remnants of oil and grease.  Instead of balmy sunlight, you felt only cold, recycled, stagnant output regulating the temperature. Curling fingers into the rough sheets where you’d dreamed freedom had been, you buried your face into the pillow and wept.

You weren’t free.  The universe had simply wrenched you from one sphere of suffering and delivered you to another. The only difference was that Ren made you respond in ways you never thought possible.  He was unique in his ability to make you want to suffer. But you were still his captive, his property, and he would never let you go.

“Quiet now,” the dulcet tone of his voice drew you further awake. “Sit up.”

You didn’t want to open your eyes upon this palpable, metal hell, but you complied, shifting so that you were facing him as he crouched at the foot of the dismal bed. You recognized the pattern playing out and didn’t object when he pushed a warm cup into your hands.  

He’d brutalized you yesterday; today, he would put you back together, mend the madness he'd rained upon you. 

“Your weapon,” he urged, turning his palm up to your lips.

Silent, you reached down to your thigh and the last swatch of surgical tape on your body.  Peeling the corner away, you uncovered the little scalpel blade hidden snug against the puckered skin.  You weren’t stupid enough to sleep with it in your mouth, but you hadn’t had any time to actually sleep before he burst in.

Ren huffed on an entertained smirk and tossed the blade away, reaching down to peel off that last strip of tape.  Over the last 2 days, you’d been discarding remnants as they frayed, but he’d been too busy dismantling you to notice.  

Your mostly-healed scars still looked fresh and bright, and he slid his fingers over the largest tracks, eyes lingering on the raised edges.

Ignoring the way he studied you and the gooseflesh his grazes produced, you sniffed the warm liquid questioningly.  You knew better than to object and swallowed down the soup, your upper lip curling at the stale, bland taste. When you finished one, he pushed a second into your hands, followed by a large cup of water. You hadn’t had solid food in two days, and he seemed to recall the doctor’s order that you not have it for at least 24 hours.

He didn’t speak, and the distorted closeness felt awkward, wrong.  He was doting on you like a partner, but you recalled the utter hatred he leveled at you earlier and the deep well of longing in your heart for the sunlight in your dreams.  Brow furrowed, you pushed his hands away and leaned out of his reach, preferring to brood alone.

Having never cared for what you wanted, Ren ignored the pained look on your face, discarded his light trousers, and sunk into the small mattress.  You were immediately crowded by his commanding frame and, unnerved, moved to escape his purview.

Too near his imposing incandescence, you would certainly burst aflame and beg for his touch.

You weren’t quick enough, however; and he slid a rigid arm around your middle, tugged you up into his lap, and mouthed at your jaw.  Fortified and fed, you tensed and worked to twist out of his control.

If he wanted to hate you, you wouldn’t argue, but you wouldn’t pretend to be his docile, doting slave.

“Time to be useful, puppet.”

His hold tightened at your curse and subsequent squirming, and you scratched at his arm, trying to contort your body into some strange shape that would jar his grip loose so you could crawl away.  You’d never felt so worthless in his captivity as being reduced to “useful.”

Ren pulled you back into the hard pillar of his chest, biting into your shoulder until you yelped and stopped fighting.  He was solid and strong, uncompromising and exacting, and you wondered when his unhinged demands started to feel safe. He brushed his nose into your hair, lips right at the shell of your ear, and he melted your resolve with that sensual inflection.

“You can sit; or, you can swallow, but I’m going to be inside you.”

His vulgar words set your core to clenching, and the idea of him burying himself into your body again socked you in the gut.  You yearned for that version of him, vibrant with the pleasure he found in you, and the satisfaction you’d seen in his features for just a moment. You ached for that feeling when you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began, when pain and pleasure bled together.

You told yourself that you didn’t want to be that person, that whore, for him.  You wanted your autonomy, to make your own decisions and to live a free life away from ruthless men.  

He held you, stroking your stomach and dipping his finger into your belly button, while he waited, listening as your struggle unfolded.

You sagged against him, eyes closing in resignation.  Your body and your brain wanted very different things.

Forcing your jaw to relax, you shifted onto your knees and turned to face the demanding deity who now invaded your every waking moment.  You let your eyes roam his perfect arms, abs, hips, thighs, cock, trying to decide which part of yourself to sacrifice. 

If you gave him your face, maybe he’d blow out the bastard vocoder, and you’d drift back into blessed silence.  But if you gave him your pussy, he would definitely demolish any resistance lingering in your brain.

He reached for you, intent upon ending the debate, but you brushed his hand away and moved to kneel between his legs. You forced yourself to meet his dark, eager eyes, blatantly ignoring his standing, straining, far-too-pretty cock.

Raising an eyebrow, you nudged his knees apart wider by spreading your own and relished the quick intake of his breath.  You told yourself it was because you needed the balance, he needed to know how it fucking felt, and you needed him to not kick you or asphyxiate you with his thighs.

A satisfied rumble descended from on high as you bent forward, pressing your nose and lips into his bruised thigh, and you knew that the curve of your ass was the highest point of your body in this position.  

You inhaled the musky aroma of his skin and hummed against the fuzzy patch of hair.  Your eyes danced behind closed lids as you remembered the soft, colored flesh in your mouth and the way he’d looked down at you, ravenous himself and pleased with your hunger. Your hips loosened and your pussy warmed, readying to accept him.

Something started to tingle inside your belly, and you angrily shook it away. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go. 

You were waiting for him to thread demanding fingers into your hair, to lift your face and force you down onto his weeping dick, to take away your complicity in this act.  If he took it from you, as he had been doing for days, you could pretend that you didn’t want this.

But none of those things happened. He was silent and still, and you glanced up at him, irritated and troubled and uncertain.

“You’ve caused all manner of trouble, puppet." 

His voice was smooth, and he tapped your lower lip on every single word.  

“Show me you’re sorry.”

You snorted, anger suffusing your nose, ears, cheeks.  Shot up onto your knees, you completely abandoned what he’d instructed you to do because you had done no such fucking thing.  You’d spent mere moments in his room on the Supremacy; and, then, you’d been in this hole, right here, unconscious for what was likely hours. 

“When, exactly, did I have time to cause trouble?”

You practically shouted it, and the smug grin that played at the corners of his mouth only enraged you further.  He didn’t move to quash your tirade, though, and you jabbed a finger at him, losing your composure entirely at his amusement. 

You knew his condescension stemmed from the sound of your voice, modulated, just the right pitch, and fully on display.

“I’ve been here, blacked out by your own fucking hand.  Before that, I was pinned down to a surgical table while you had your blasted doctor force things into my body.”  

You jumped off the bed entirely, standing alongside his crooked, relaxed knee and positively fuming at the calm, arrogant look on his beautiful, infuriating face.

“And before that, I was unconscious because you slit me open from chin to toes.  So, Commander,” you spit the word out as though it was poison, “when have I made all of this trouble? Or would you like me to go back farther than the last three fucking days?”

Ren sat up slowly, and the absolute animosity in his eyes pushed you a step back, your ire faltering.  He slid from the bed, unfurling like a great, storied behemoth, and stalked forward at you. You held out a hand, but you didn’t know if it was to stop him or to touch him.

Unclothed, he looked even more deadly as there was no fabric, no weapon to draw away your stare, and every rippling, taut muscle was an exhibit in transcendence.  

He was what men aspired to be, godlike and mesmerizing.

If he killed you now, it would be the pinnacle of intimacy with nothing between his raw aggression and your abject fear. He would press his naked form against you and surely end your life by sucking the very marrow from your bones.

He was every inch the infernal predator, and you were the prey that just pissed him off. 

“Yesterday,” he sneered, “You threatened to murder Supreme Leader Snoke.”

Your mouth dried out completely, snapping shut with a clatter because you couldn’t argue.  In your rage and fright, you had absolutely threatened to murder Snoke and everyone on board the ship, and it was clear from Ren’s response that Snoke had heard you.  

Terror flooded your veins, pushed out all the blood that was supposed to be there and replaced it with adrenaline.  Your mind screamed at you to run, now, get away, but your body could only slink further back into the room, sweating and twitching.

“Before that,” he reached out, wrapped his giant hand around your throat, and drew you in close, tightening his ritual noose until you gulped and wheezed, “You wounded me in battle.”

You could feel the delicate bones bowing to his snapping grip, and you clawed at his arm.  Surely, Ren’s patience had run out. You had done all of those things and more.  

Just today, you had denied him the feel of your mouth, your body, and you shouted at him, challenged him, in front of the Knights of Ren, his troupe.  Animosity had so clouded your judgment that you’d shucked off every bit of common sense and self-preservation.

You could not possibly be more stupid.

“Shall I go back farther than the last three fucking days, puppet?”

You paled, remembering that he’d caught you trying to escape the day before that, and shook your head in defeat.  His fingernails cut into the tender flesh of your neck, and you whimpered, standing onto your toes in a vain attempt to lessen his grip.  Your lips drew into a tight line, and you closed your eyes, surrendering to whatever punishment he would inflict.

Maybe you did deserve it.

Ren shoved you away, and you collapsed into a pitiable heap on the dirty floor.  Tears sprang to your eyes because the internal conflict was never going to end. You were flooded with shame that he was disappointed in you and fuming that you fucking cared to begin with.  This contention inside your own body was becoming unbearable, and you were so incredibly tired. 

It was all too much.

Snoke surely wanted your head, and Ren would have no choice but to deliver you to the slaughter.  Just days ago, you had been ready to die, but that had been for Ren, not Snoke. Your lips would hardly work, the emotion bubbling over and shunting your idiotic bravery.

Kylo, I can’t do this anymore….

He looked down at you, eyes dark and haunted; and even though you knew he was incapable of feeling or compassion, you lifted pleading eyes to his.  There truly was no going back, and the way forward had just been shut to you. Snoke would hunt you. He would send the Knights of Ren, and their Master, to hunt you.

You only needed a day's headstart.  Just long enough to find a tall cliff or a blaster.

Could you convince him? 

“Please, Kylo,” your voice quaked, “Please, let me go.  Or make all of this go away.”

But what you were begging for was for him to make you go away.  To end this seemingly ceaseless back-and-forth between acceptance and survival. Your torso punched low to the ground, and you erupted into broken, wretched sobs.

“I just can’t.”  You whispered as he crouched down silently and lifted your face.  You shook your head from his touch. 

“This isn’t me,” you rallied and shouted, “You’ve taken everything! There isn’t anything else. Just let me go. Let me go or kill me.”

There was something else, another possibility dancing just beyond your trepidation.  You knew that he saw it, but you still weren’t ready to take that leap, to let the beast out of the mirror and allow her to consume you, to burn away the parts of you that weren’t his.  

Ren’s strong arms gathered you up, caging your shuddering sorrow and caressing your neck while you cried.  He smoothed down your hair and rubbed the length of your back, murmuring into your pulse that you needed to take a breath and then another and then one more.

His very demeanor was disarming, and you felt the fight ebbing out of every single pore. Resenting the ease with which he placated you, you clenched your fists again and batted at his chest, shifting and pulling away.  Lifting puffy, red eyes, you glared at him, willing there to be more malice in your gaze than there was in your heart.

“No,” your voice was all harsh edges and angst.  “You don’t get to be nice now.” 

You twisted in his arms, kicking at his shins, but he only held you tighter, his arms a vice around your middle.  You sniffled and sobbed and tried to not let your anger die away. You needed it now more than you needed to breathe.  It was the only thing that was yours, the only thing you had left.

“You’re not capable of being nice.  You’re a monster.”

Ren dipped his face to yours and traced the curve of your chin with his lips. When you abandoned your bitter tirade, he slid long fingers up the column of your throat and squeezed, the way you’d asked him to yesterday.  He turned your face so you had to look up at him with your shining, crestfallen eyes.

“Dammit, Kylo,” your lips trembled, the false voice he'd given you cracking with feeling, “I need you to be a monster.”

“Stop,” Ren shushed you, lifting his hand to your mouth and sliding his thumb in to hook at your teeth.  

The gesture, unique to you and he in all the Galaxy, silenced you, and he held tight to your throat as though to punctuate the notion that, in this moment, there was only you and him. 

You sniffled and pushed against his broad shoulders, but he didn’t chastise you further. He tugged you in by the jaw and nudged his nose through your tears.

“The Supreme Leader isn’t coming for you,” he crooned against your temple, "I killed him for daring to take what is mine." 

Your whole body went rigid at his admission, and you blinked, too shocked to speak. He stroked your hip soothingly, but you felt strung too tight. This knowledge should have eased you, but something was settling in your mind that you hadn’t considered before.  

Kylo Ren would never let you go.

Because he couldn’t.

“I will not make this go away,” he cupped your cheek and dipped his face down to press a kiss to the thumping heartbeat under his thumb. “You were made to suffer for me."

You sucked in a pained breath, caught between a gasp and a sob.  The kernel of realization was spreading, growing by the second, and you were drowning, keening, lost to the implications of it. It raised your panic and your longing at the same time and shot through your body like lightning. 

"You want me to break you, puppet."

He clutched at your back, obscuring all the world around him and folding you into his darkness. 

"Almost as much as I want to break you." 

There it was.

Ren came alive when he was hurting you. He spread out into the universe like it was meant for him, just waiting for him to conquer the very stars.  But only when you were bleeding and crying at his feet.  

This was not the same man you first met a week ago. Gone was the unconquerable rage and tantrum, the explosion of too much turmoil. Gone, too, was the leash that held Ren's potential in check.

The man before you was calculatingly cruel with clear intent. His viciousness was purposeful, and he existed without boundaries, without limitations. He had entirely cast off all inhibition and conscience.

Kylo Ren was now the most skilled, destructive, horrible weapon in the Galaxy. 

And you were his whetstone. 

“The next time I hurt you,” he licked at your earlobe and whispered, “It will be because you begged me for it."

The gavel crashed down, and all you could hear was the rushing of your blood.  He’d cemented it, practically carved it into your skin.  

He would chase you into oblivion because you were the only thing that made him feel alive. This whirlwind of terror and feeling you existed in together was the only thing that ignited fire in him.

And you would let him.

You would worship your Child God in any and every bloody way he wanted because he was the only thing that made you feel alive.

It was only a matter of time.

You dissolved into tears all over again, collapsing against all of his unyielding and letting him wrap you up into that otherworldly embrace.  He tucked you against his heart, rocking you from side to side and soothing you with his steady pulse. He pressed his lips into your temple and murmured there that you were so pretty when you cried.

You couldn’t stop the sobbing now for anything, so complete was your heartbreak. 

You mourned blue and purple skies, pink-tinted sunrises, and twinkling sunsets; rushing, clean water and a rainbow of flowers; the frenetic disarray of the workshop and the tools you had been collecting for years that you would never see again. You lamented that you would likely never again be able to set yourself to a task, to fixing a broken thing, and see it finished and made whole.

You would only ever be the broken thing.

Most of all, you grieved for yourself. Because you knew that you would relent.  You would give him what he wanted because the part of you straining to belong to him was expanding by the hour.  Soon, she would be strong enough, and your freedom would be gone. You would let him defile you day after day.

“You will ask me,” he instructed, tipping your face up to taste your tears on a kiss, “and I will drown you in the clearest water I can find.”

You whimpered against his mouth and curled fingers into his dark tresses. He chased the sound away with a nip to your lower lip, licking at the quiver. He purred at you like a lover, and you wondered if this was pillowtalk for a man whose base language was violence.

“I will make you bleed on forest floors, and I will listen to your screams echo off of mountains.”

His warm breath mingled with yours, lips barely touching, as he coaxed the tip of your tongue up to touch his before canting your head to one side and kissing you so deep you forgot to breathe. He licked at your teeth and sucked on your tongue.

“And I will fuck you so hard the only name you remember is mine,” his voice was lower, all gravel and demand and lust. 

“You just have to ask me, puppet.”

Teeming with uneasy arousal, your body flushed in response to his words, to the conviction with which he said them. You lifted onto your toes to better receive his kisses, and he hummed in satisfaction against your mouth.  

It was as though he had promised you moonlight, paradise, babies, and your heart responded to each threat as though they were professions of love. He knew your fears and was trying to assuage them, to paint you a pretty picture so you would give in to him. 

You knew this wasn’t love.  Neither of you were capable of such a fanciful notion.  This was obsession, and it would likely be just as fleeting. But it would be absolute.

“Stop crying,” he said into your neck, molding the length of your body to his.

Ren slid your limbs around his body in that familiar way, and you squeezed at his sides when he lifted you. You buried your face into his neck, shaking silently and trying to obey, to get yourself collected.  

The war inside of you wasn’t over, and you hadn’t gained any ground today.  But you understood the battlefield better than you ever had before.

Crawling into the little bed with you, he shifted you so that you were lying beside him, your tight, anxious back pressed into his calm, steady torso. He slid an arm around your rib cage, tucked his hot hand in at your breast, and snuggled his erection between your buttocks.

You clutched at his arm, sniffling and fighting adrenaline tremors. 

Ren nuzzled the back of your neck, and you marveled at how today was so much different than yesterday.  You’d just begged this man, this monster, to end your life, to rise up to his reputation. Instead, he had weaponized kindness and thrown you entirely off kilter, to the point where you were entertaining his offers to persecute you throughout the Galaxy.

“Sleep,” he commanded, his voice almost gentle. “We’ll be there by morning.”

[starlightsearches]

Office Romance: Ch. 7 Empress

General Hux and Kylo Ren have found themselves competing for the affection of a lieutenant aboard the Finalizer.

Series Warnings: Language, some violence, near-death experiences.

Masterlist

AN: I've been nervous about posting this chapter for the last few weeks! Let me know what you think :)

Stepping out of the ship and into the hangar of the Supremacy was like stepping into another world. The room was full of lights and people, all well-dressed and haughty, somehow looking both effortlessly glamorous and extraordinarily ruthless as they made their way to the party’s entrance. You and Hux stood on the loading dock of your ship towards the back of the hangar, waiting for a moment to enter the throng. The room was impossibly large and still seemed packed wall-to-wall with bodies, and your pulse hammered through your veins, your heart beating erratically at the walls of your ribcage. You felt ill suddenly at the sight of it, light-headed, and for a moment you worried that you might faint in front of everyone. You were briefly distracted from your terror, though, as the general moved his hand to yours, releasing your death grip on his arm, and grabbing you gently by the shoulders, turning you to face him.

“You’re alright,” he said, his tone calm and his voice soft. His thumb rubbed slow circles on your right shoulder, and you were close enough that you could feel his breath brush against your cheeks.

“You can do this,” he continued, “and I’ll be right here.”

“What if I say the wrong thing? Or forget protocol?” you whispered, too quiet for the noisy room, ‘What if they don’t like me?”

“Lieutenant,” Hux said with an earnest intensity, so different from the reserved demeanor you were used to, “you deserve to be here. You’re a damn fine soldier. You’ve earned your place one hundred times over, and none of these people can take that away from you.” You had never heard him speak to you like this before, so candid, had never felt the bare skin of his hands on your shoulders, and the combination almost made you as light-headed as the crowd did. Renewed and a little dumbfounded by his praise, you took in one last shuddering breath and then straightened your posture, determined. Hux removed his hands from your shoulders, and you missed the pressure almost immediately. He offered you his arm once again and you took it, the two of you making your way into the churning crowd.

Apparently your nerves had been unwarranted, because as soon as you stepped into the smaller and cozier social area set aside for the women, someone sitting at one of the low tables with a few others waved you over. You walked over tentatively, taking the last open seat at their table, and accepting another glass of champagne from a nearby waiter. Each of the women at the table was varied and distinct in their appearance, but all of them were breathtakingly gorgeous.

“You’re new here,” the first woman stated. She was older than you, you could tell, but whether it was ten or twenty or thirty years you couldn’t be exactly sure. She had high cheekbones and dark skin, luminous, golden even in the muted light. Her hair was long and straight and black, streaked with silver, parted down the middle and flowing gently over her shoulders, and her gaze was intense, but kind. The other two women were equally stunning: one a fresh-faced girl with pale skin and shockingly red hair, and the other a woman about your age with a head full of wild curls and stunning green eyes, lined in black.

“It’s so nice to see a new face around here; there’s rarely any variety in the guest list anymore and I’m so bored with all these other women,” the red-haired girl spoke emphatically, reaching across the table to hold your hands in hers, “Tell us, what’s your name?”

You introduced yourself, and then shook hands with each of them as they shared their names in turn.

“What brings you to the gala, dear girl?” Nyaketh, the older woman, asked.

“I’m a lieutenant aboard the Finalizer, working under the direction of Captain Phasma and General Hux.”

“You’re here with General Hux?” asked the red-head, Laria, with a mischievous grin on her face, “he’s very handsome.” She and the other girl, Raybri, fell into a fit of giggles, and a blush rose to your cheeks.

“He’s my commanding officer,” you said, hoping that they couldn’t see the redness in your face. You did think the general was handsome, but you didn’t want anyone to know that. Your thoughts drifted back to the moment on the loading dock, his hands so steady as he held you, and then on the ship, before you landed. The look he had in his eyes, you could have sworn . . .

“The general is quite popular at these events,” Nyaketh commented, a knowing smile on her face.

“My father wants me to pursue him,” Raybri said, “because he thinks the general’s approval will gain him back the respect of the Directorate.”

“Well my father thinks that a match with the general would bring more of the First Order’s business to our ship-breaking facilities,” said Laria, in response, before the two broke into tittered laughter again.

“I had no idea that General Hux was so . . . admired,” you said, wishing for the conversation to be over. You should have realized that many people would be vying for the general’s attention, especially at an event like this, but for some reason you had not considered it. Thinking about it now put a peculiar feeling in your stomach, for reasons you could not quite understand.

“Don’t worry, darling,” said Nyaketh as she put a reassuring hand over yours, “the general is a loyal man; I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” You paused, unable to respond as you puzzled over her words. She looked into your eyes pointedly, and her meaning suddenly hit you.

“The general and I aren’t together,” you said, blanching at the suggestion. Did they also think you were pursuing the general to increase your status, like Allecull had suggested? Did General Hux feel the same way? You could feel the palms of your hands grow warm and clammy at the thought, but his voice broke through, diminishing your worries, a damn fine soldier.

“Well, that might change soon,” Raybri responded, her words interrupting your train of thought, as she leaned in with a conspiratorial wink, “now that he’s seen you in that dress.” You tried to defend yourself, tried to defend the general, but no words came out. Before you could form a proper sentence, the other three stood from the table, walking to the far side of the room. It was time for the women to make their entrance. You rose to follow, their remarks about you and Hux still floating around in your head.

General Hux stood on the edge of the spacious ballroom, a strange mixture of boredom and anticipation sitting in his chest. After leaving you in the hallway, he had suffered through the drinking and socializing and the Officer’s Entrance, and was now waiting for the moment when you would appear again.

“Armitage,” called a man a little ways away, standing in a group with a few others, “don’t be so unsociable, come join us!” Hux fought the urge to roll his eyes, but walked over anyways, joining the other men. He had known Vice-Admiral Cordo Beck since the Academy, and had hated him for as long as he could remember.

“Evening, Beck,” the general said begrudgingly, as Beck thumped his back in greeting—an annoying display of dominance. Hux shook hands with the other men in the group, but the gesture was mostly pointless, he already knew all of them by name.

“Where’s your shiny, metal friend?” Beck asked, a hum of laughter on his lips. A few others chuckled in response, and Hux took a deep breath, trying to find some patience.

“The captain couldn’t attend this evening.”

“Here all by yourself? Who will keep all those starving girls away from you now?” Beck spoke humorously, but Hux noticed the bite of jealousy in his words. It would have been satisfying, if he had any interest in any the women there. Or at least, any of the women besides you. The other men in the group laughed lewdly, and Hux’s jaw tightened as he attempted to hold his tongue. It didn’t work.

“Actually, I’m not here alone. A lieutenant from the Finalizer will be joining me this evening.” He relished the look of shock on the other mens’ faces, trying to ignore the guilt pressing at the back of his mind. Insinuating that you were his companion for the event could complicate things, but when an opportunity to make Beck look like an idiot came up, it was hard to resist.

“A date? Really, general! You’re full of surprises,” Beck examined the general deftly as he spoke, and then, since he was unable to go more than thirty seconds without being an absolute bastard, said, “Let’s all hope that she’s a step up from the captain.” The men laughed again at Phasma’s expense, and this time Hux forced himself to take a drink to avoid saying anything reckless.

“Stars, look at the time, we better get our places; the meat market is starting,” Beck said then, slapping the general on the back again. The men began to make their way to the base of the stairs from which all of the women in attendance would enter. Finally. Hux resented the term used by the other officers when referring to what was officially known as the Grand Entrance, but his excitement to see you again momentarily overpowered his disdain. The men crowded around the stairs, and Hux tried to find a place to stand away from Beck, but the wretched man wormed his way next to the general as the event started.

With each name announced, Hux grew more nervous, anticipating the moment when you would appear, and all the possibilities that the night still held. Drinking, dining, dancing, and, in his most undisciplined imaginations, a quiet corridor away from the party, one hand at the base of your neck, the other at your hip, pressing you against a wall, your lips at his ear—his neck. Something illicit for the two of you two share before returning to the structure and expectations of the Finalizer.

The procession began, and the female officers were announced first, by order of rank, but there were not many in attendance. All of them were familiar faces, and they made their way into the crowd, some finding companions waiting for them at the base of the stairs and others unaccompanied. Yours was the 7th name announced, and hearing it, Hux held his breath. A few others in the crowd paused their murmured conversations as well, curious at the sound of an unfamiliar name, and the chance to meet a new guest.

“Let’s see this mystery date, then, General,” Hux heard Beck say as they stated your rank and position, but he brushed it off, too eager to risk missing your entrance. And when you appeared at the top of the stairs, the world stopped.

Hux couldn’t believe it, but despite the effort he had put into memorizing every detail of your appearance, he had somehow forgotten exactly how stunning you were. The stars that adorned your hair looked like a crown made from the night sky itself, and your dress caught the light as you stood at the top of the steps. Hux found no self-doubt in your expression now, and instead you surveyed the guests below as if you had been the one they all were waiting for, regal in every sense of the word. You looked like a queen, Hux thought to himself, still breathless at the sight of you, like an empress.

“Stars, Armitage,” Beck whispered beside him, “where in the galaxy did you find her?” Hux didn’t respond, only made his way to the front of the crowd, and held out his hand as you took the last few steps. You smiled when you saw him, a genuine smile, and Hux felt himself grinning in response, although he tried to restrain himself. At the bottom of the stairs, you bowed to the members of the Directorate in attendance, and then you and the general took your place in the crowd.

After the Grand Entrance finished, you and General Hux found yourselves bombarded with enthusiastic attention from many of the guests, eager to meet you. You were charming in your introductions: humble, kind, funny, and Hux felt a swell of pride in his chest having you by his side. The dinner was more of the same, and he could see it in the faces of the other officers—everyone was enamored with you.

When the dancing began, Hux begrudgingly listened as many men asked him for permission to accompany you on the dance floor. He agreed of course, against his own will and better judgement. You moved beautifully, there was no denying it, but Hux could not ignore the hot flashes of anger at watching those fools put their hands on you, pushing you around the ball room with little grace or skill.

Another dance ended, and you found him once again on the edge of the room, where he was dutifully ignoring the small group of women inching closer, hoping to catch his eye. Your face was flushed from all the excitement, or all the wine, and your smile was lively as you joined him at his side.

“You’re not dancing,” you said to him as the conductor announced another song, gently nudging him with your elbow. Hux had not bothered to ask anyone to dance, and was instead trying to gain the courage to ask you, but so far he had been unsuccessful, overcome with nerves at the thought of it. Still, there was no time like the present, as the night was close to its end, the ballroom slowly emptying as the guests took their leave. Hux opened his mouth, about to extend the invitation, when the two of you were interrupted.

“Excuse me, General, but I was hoping that your lovely companion here would favor me with a dance,” Vice Admiral Beck addressed the general, but leered at you as he spoke, expectantly. Hux’s initial reaction was to tell Beck to go fuck himself, but before he could, you spoke instead.

“I’m terribly sorry, Admiral Beck, but the general just asked me to dance,” you said to Hux’s surprise, taking him by the hand and leading him onto the dance floor. Hux followed you clumsily, shocked by this turn of events, but still managed to turn back and see the incredibly satisfying look of frustration on Beck’s face.

You took your places on the dance floor with the other couples, and Hux tried to stop his hands from shaking as he reached for your waist. The music started, and he relied on instinct as the two of you moved, completely forgetting the steps he had once known so well.

“What an odious man,” you said, your eyes on Cordo Beck as you twirled around the space.

“You know him?” Hux did not expect you to be familiar with someone like the vice-admiral, who moved in circles well above the rank of a lieutenant.

“Not personally, but my father has worked closely with him in the past, and I’ve heard him complain about Beck often.”

Hux paused for a moment in thought, suddenly curious. He had never considered your parentage before, despite the fact that, as an officer in the organization, your parents were probably people he had worked with closely. Your surname was not one he recognized, though, which made this newfound mystery all the more intriguing. Apparently, you recognized the confusion on his face, because you moved in to him, closer than was probably proper in a ballroom full of people, pressing yourself against him gently, so that you could speak into his ear.

“My father,” you began, your breath grazing the side of his face and your voice low, “is Allegiant General Enric Pryde.” Hux stumbled, dumbfounded, before regaining his footing and continuing the dance.

Enric Pryde. Just the sound of his name filled Hux with unbridled loathing. Pryde was one of the most powerful men in the First Order and General Hux knew him well. A cruel man, and a friend of his father, Hux had always hated the Allegiant General since he was a child. That man was your father. He tried to process this information, and found it unworkable, a million questions whirling through his mind.

“I didn’t know that the general had any children,” Hux said in response, hoping you couldn’t hear the hatred in his voice.

“He’s not my real father,” you explained, voice still low, “but I was taken in by Pryde at a young age, after my parents died. Pryde and his wife, they never had children, but wanted them badly. When they . . . found me, they treated me as their own, but others in the Order—on our planet Alsakan—they questioned my legitimacy as his heir. I was not . . . treated well by many of the people there, and so they sheltered me from all of this. The Prydes never planned to send me to the Academy, but when I told them that I wanted to go, the general made sure I was admitted.”

When you leaned away from Hux again, he noticed tears in your eyes, threatening to spill over onto your face. He had never seen you so solemn, and he felt the urge to rest his hand on your cheek in comfort.

“When I entered the Academy, I kept my original surname. I didn’t want anyone to think that I hadn’t earned my place here, or that I was receiving special treatment. General Pryde worries for my safety; he doesn’t want me to become a target, from threats inside or out of the Order, so we’ve kept our connection a secret.” The song had ended, but you made no move to leave the dance floor, instead taking both of Hux’s hands in yours and bringing them close to your chest, pleading.

“If the others aboard the Finalizer knew the truth, I’d never be taken seriously. Please, General, don’t tell anyone.”

Emboldened by your request and your honesty, Hux placed one hand under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his own. He needed you to feel his sincerity, to see it in his face that he, more than anyone, understood what you were going through, and what you were trying to avoid.

“I’ll keep your secret, Lieutenant. I promise.”

[3aris]

“nothing will work unless you do” - Maya Angelou

BLACK LIVES MATTER

WE KNOW ALL LIVES MATTER

BUT RIGHT NOW BLACK LIVES ARE THE ONES IN DANGER!

RACISM:

a complex system of beliefs and institutions that elevates whites at the expense of non-whites.

we all exist in and benefit from this system, whether we notice it or not.

WHITE PEOPLE CANNOT EXPERIENCE RACISM!

- discrimination is not racism

- our society prioritizes and caters to the experiences and benefits of white people. 

- white people hold the power in society. the ones in power cannot be the victims

* IT’S A PRIVILEGE TO EDUCATE YOURSELF ON RACISM INSTEAD OF EXPERIENCING IT *

HOW THE F*CK DOES RACISM STILL EXIST? [@cicelyblaincolsulting]

1. Racism Is Upheld By:

- Systems (media, education, law, healthcare...)

- History (our society is informed by centuries-old habit, biases, & disparities)

- Privilege (difficult to notice, address, and sacrifice. as long as one group benefits from the oppression of another, racism will still exist)

- Micro-Aggressions (everyday slights, comments, & actions uphold racist power structures)

2.The Formation Of Anti-Blackness

- Capitalism (Black bodies have been used as the means of production (worker labor, tools, machinery) to create wealth for Europeans.)

- Slavery (Black people were stripped of autonomy, citizenship, rights, and treated as objects for over 300 years)

- Colonialism (the land we occupy was stolen from indigineous peoples and continues to be pillaged for raw material, natural resources, and human capital for white gain first and foremost.

3. EVEN THE SMALLEST ACTS OF RACISM UPHOLD DOMINANT POWER STRUCTURES

4. Racism Is An Iceberg

- Tip / Visible Part (KKK, neo-nazis, police brutality, racial slurs, hate crimes)

- Majority / Hidden Part (all lives matter, your English is so good, you’re so pretty for a Black girl, what about Black on Black crime, can I touch your hair, where are you really from?)

ANTI-RACISM:

the active process of identifying and eliminating racism by changing systems, policies, practices, and attitudes in order to redistribute and share power. [NAC International Perspectives: Women and Global Solidarity]

WHITE PRIVILEGE:

white privilege doesn’t mean your life hasn’t been hard, it means that the color of your skin isn’t one of the things making it harder

WHAT’S WRONG WITH POLICE [@leftnortheast]

1. Origins of Police in America

- slave patrols of armed white men to enforce slavery & chase down runaway slaves

- after slavery, these same patrols continued to enforce segregation & reinforce violence against Black ppl perpetrated by the KKK

- during the 19th century, the ultra-rich business owners relied on police to stop workers and immigrants from organizing labor unions

- LA’s “thin blue line” enforced segregation in the 1950s. look up “Black Wall Street”

- HISTORICALLY THE MAIN FUNCTION OF THE POLICE IS TO PROTECT WEALTH & ASSETS BY PRESERVING INSTITUTIONAL RACISM

2. Police Today

- when police commit crimes, the investigations are performed by the police themselves (union officials & internal affairs departments)

- only 33% of investigations end in police being convicted, compared to 68% in general pop.

- at least 40% of police families have experienced domestic violence, compared to 10% in the general population

3. ACAB: What It Means

- all cops are bastards

- it does NOT mean that individual cops are incapable of doing good things, but that the institution of policing is harmful and beyond saving

- the laws that “good” cops enforce work to uphold a harmful status quo that keeps working class and POC socially disadvantaged. therefore, there are no “good” cops

- EX: the three other officers who stood and watched Derek Chauvin kill George Floyd. they may be “good” because they didn’t kill Floyd, but they did nothing to prevent Chauvin from doing so.

THINGS TO DO INSTEAD OF CALLING THE COPS [@freedomtothrive]

1. Don’t Feel Obligated To Defend Property

- is someone being actively hurt or endangered by property “theft” or damage?

- if “no,” let it be

2. If Something Of Yours Is Stolen...

- consider going to the police station instead of bringing cops into your community, you may be inadvertently putting someone art risk by calling the cops

3. If You See Someone Exhibiting “Odd” Behavior...

- don’t assume they are intoxicated

- ask if they are ok, if they have a medical condition, and if they need help

4. If You See Someone Pulled Over With Car Trouble...

- stop & ask if they need help or if you can call a tow truck for them

- calling police may result in unnecessary ticketing, target undocumented ppl, etc.

5. Keep A Contact List Of Community Resources

- EX: suicide hotlines, mental health assistance, etc.

- ppl with mental illnesses are 16x more likely to be killed by police

6. Check Your Impulse To Call The Police On “Suspicious” People

- is their race, gender, ethnicity, class, or housing situation influencing your action?

- calling the cops on such people can be death sentences (EX: Trayvon Martin)

HOW WILL WE STAY SAFE WITHOUT POLICE? [@mpd_150] [@wretched_flowers_]

1. Community Members

- mental health service providers, social workers, victim/survivor advocates, religious leaders, neighbors & friends need to look out for one another

- not armed strangers with guns who likely don’t live in the communities they patrol (police)

- society expects police to do too much: violent crimes, traffic stops, chasing loose dogs, etc.

2. What About Violence?

- crime isn’t random, it happens because ppl are unable to meet their needs  EX: money, food, rent, etc.

- this problem can be solved with an emphasis on jobs, education, community centers, mental health resources.

- cops don’t prevent violence, they invite it through constant violent disruption of our communities

3. It’s Not Impossible

- look at the abolition of slavery, the 40hr work week, etc. those were accomplished through gradual progress

- redirect funds away from the police department toward those community-based alternatives listed above. LOOK UP HOW MUCH YOUR CITY / STATE SPENDS ON POLICING.

14 WAYS WHITE PPL CAN MAKE LIFE LESS FRUSTRATING FOR p.o.c. [@privtoprog]

1. trust / listen to POC assessment of a situation

2. don’t assume all POC have same views

3. don’t guess / assume ppl’s race

4. read & share articles relating to daily POC experiences

5. just because you have a POC friend / relative / partner doesn’t mean you can’t be racist. if anything, it means you should be more critical of your actions / words & how they affect those around you

6. don’t play devil’s advocate on race conversations. JUST. LISTEN.

7. understand that America has what it has because it stole land from indigenous people and stole people from Africa to build America

8. care about race on the other 364 days that aren’t MLK Day

9. don’t assume you know what it’s like to experience racism. you don’t & can’t. that’s the point.

10. nothing in your life has been untouched by your whiteness. everything you have would have been harder to come by if you had not been born white.

11. don’t get defensive when someone calls you out on racism, be grateful. it’s a learning moment.

12. move past white guilt. guilt it’s unproductive. just BE BETTER.

13. fighting racism isn’t about you. it’s about liberating POC from a racist world / system.

14. being an ALLY is a verb, not a noun. you can’t be an ally just because you say you are. actions are louder than words.

WHAT WHITE PPL CAN DO OVER TIME [@prettydecent]

1. Research & Learn In Public

- identify, name, & challenge the norms, patterns, traditions, structures,and institutions that keep racism & white supremacy in place

- TALK TO & EDUCATE OTHER WHITE PEOPLE. it’s YOUR job, not POC, to teach white ppl how to fight racism

- let people you care about know this is something you care about

2. Open Your Eyes To Anti-Blackness

- there are no race-neutral spaces, “colorblindness” does not exist.

- Anti-Blackness is the way in which Black ppl have been targeted & stripped of their humanity

- pay attention to CODED LANGUAGE. what do we mean by “good” neighborhoods & “good” schools?

- who starts trends? who gets credit for them? EX: rock & roll

3. Pay Attention To Your White Experience

- we will never full understand Black ppl’s experiences

- look at how your whiteness has impacted your life: encounters with police, airport security? job interviews?

- what are you “good at” and how might your race have affected that?

- white experiences are the social “default,” EX: “Is The Country Ready For Its First White President?”

4. Speak Up & Argue With White People

- silence is a privilege & acts in directly upholding the system of white supremacy

- look at how movies, TV, and other media treats Black and POC, and call it out when you see it.

- hold other white ppl accountable, THERE IS NO GROWTH WITHOUT DISCOMFORT. we make mistakes but that does not mean we can’t learn & grow from them.

HOW TO TALK TO YOUR FAMILY ABOUT RACISM [@jenerous]

1. Intent & Impact

- white ppl say that we don’t INTEND to be racist.

- intent doesn’t matter if the IMPACT of our actions harms someone and/or upholds a racist system

2. Watch Your Tone

- we don’t get to tell Black ppl how to talk about their own oppression (“tone policing”)

- when we talk to other white ppl about race, we need to speak in a way that best conveys the information, feelings aside

3. Tell Stories Of Your Own Privilege

- tell your family members a specific way your white privilege has protected you

- this is also a great opportunity for you to reflect on & better understand your own privilege

- WE LEARN BY TEACHING

4. Share Some Of Your Own F*ck Ups

- admitting you’ve been wrong before helps normalize personal growth

- makes it easier for your family to reflect on their own failures & move on

- vulnerability is strength

5. Make It Okay To Ask Questions

- ask your family if they have questions about racism

- this may bring up stuff you don’t know either, a great opportunity to learn together!

6. Keep Asking “Why Do You Think That Is?”

- find a race-related statistic that you both agree on (EX: “Black ppl are jailed for weed more than white ppl are”)

- ask your family member why they think that statistic is true until there’s no answer that makes sense besides “racism”

7. Plant A Seed Of Doubt

- unlearning a racist system means flipping everything we know on its head.

- that requires small steps, such as getting your family members to question their existing logic around ONE topic (Black hair, cultural appropriation, affirmative action, etc.)

- when they say “hmm... i never thought about that,” you’re making progress!

8. Commit To The Idea That It Is Possible To Change Someone’s Mind

- your own anti-racism journey is proof!

QUESTIONS TO ASK YOURSELF [@is_siigii]

1. Who taught you about race & culture?

2. What can you do to support POC in your community?

3. What are you committed to doing outside of social media to fight racism?

4. How do you behave when you are confronted with racist behavior?

5. What do you want to learn more about?

6. What information could you teach people?

7. In what ways have you ignored this behavior in the past?

8. Why is it important for everyone to work toward ending this injustice?

9. How can you use anti-racist knowledge to change & progress?

10. Do you owe anyone an apology?

11. How do you handle conflicts?

[fierypen37]

Throne of Lies

Here’s a Dark! ficlet that wouldn’t go away. Set decades after the GoT ending. Evil!Bran and my tinfoil theories.

Throne of Lies

 The city hadn’t improved much since he’d last seen it. All evidence of the Burning of King’s Landing had been washed away, but the city shrunk into itself. Haggard and creaking, like an old man. Much like Jon himself. The decades had not been kind. No peace could find him. Not in the wilds beyond the Wall, not among the black brothers of the Watch. Days haunted by guilt and nights spent sleepless with uneasy ghosts. I killed the woman I loved.

Brandon the Broken, First of His Name did not rule a peaceful realm. Soon after his crowning, Dorne and the Iron Islands rose in rebellion, and won free after a long and bloody war. Edmure Tully was killed in battle, and the other kingdoms gobbled up his lands. Robin Arryn fell from his horse and died, and the Vale was consumed by civil war as the noble families fought for supremacy. Famine ravaged the North in the heart of winter and the now independent kingdom could not rely on the Reach’s fertile land for aid, despite Queen Sansa’s pleading. Plague and lawlessness followed. Rule of law held by the barest threads. All this Jon learned from monthly letters from Grandmaester Samwell, who often detailed his struggles in his new position. There was an irritating subtext that Jon could aid his brother the king in service instead of rotting on the Wall.

Jon reined up his garron at the gate the Red Keep. Rotting at the Wall is all I deserve. Queenslayer and kinslayer. Oathbreaker and evil bastard. The guards there bore the device of a weirwood tree with gaping red eyes on their breasts.

“Welcome to King’s Landing, ser,” one said, no older than thirty. The wary awe in the guard’s eyes irked him. Jon’s bones ached down to the marrow, from the long ride and the deeper burden that plagued him always. He felt so very old and weary.

“My mother and brother died in the Burning, ser. Thank you for what you did. You saved us from the Mad Queen.”

The words winded him like a blow. Gods, Daenerys. That one moment destroyed everything you built. Now they know you as the Mad Queen. Not the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. Jon stared at the boy, hoping his cold loathing was plain on his face. There was none he hated more than himself.

“The king?” Jon croaked at last, peeling off his gloves and tucking them through his belt. Best face his brother at once. Neither sleep nor food would tempt him away. Not after the urgency of the summons.

“Of course, this way,” the other said, ushering him in.

The Red Keep fared little better than the rest of the city. Wind creaked through barren, dusty halls. The only ornamentation was the weirwood banners and raven sigils. The melted Iron Throne had been replaced with a plain square chair of polished iron wood, carved with the strange spiral designs of the Children. Seated upon it was the king, serene and unblinking as always. His head bowed, as if in prayer, his long black hair threaded with silver. He looks old. The thought was rueful. Near fifty, Jon felt stooped and wasted. His gut rebelled at being here of all places. Gods, just there she had kissed him, held his face even as the knife--

“Bran?” Jon said softly. Bran lifted his head, his lean cheeks clean-shaven.

“Jon, thank you for coming.” That same colorless voice, flat and even.

“I was summoned,” Jon said, not bothering to temper the heat in his tone, “you could have killed Tormund, warging into him like you did. He was insensate for a week.” A fugitive amusement lit those bottomless eyes. Hadn’t they once been blue? Now they looked as dark as Asshai’i black amethysts.

“I needed to be sure you received my message,” he said. Jon exhaled a sharp breath through his nostrils. What use was he to anyone?

“I did. And now I’m here. What do you want?”

“I need your help with something.”

“And no other man in the Seve—Six Kingdoms can aid their king in this but me? What need have you of me? I’m an old man now.” Jon scaled the three steps to the throne, looking Bran eye to eye. Old, broken, half-mad. I still talk to the woman I loved. The woman I killed in this very room. Each one of his scars ached as if stabbed anew. Stabbed like he stabbed her oh gods, he knew what it was to be stabbed and killed . . .

King Bran ignored his words, instead studying his face with his usual abstraction.

“I’ve watched you through the trees, through the ravens. Even beyond the Wall you were never happy. Never bedded a woman, never close with anyone but Ghost.”

“A sworn brother of the Night’s Watch can take no wife.” Jon hid the chill that went through him at the thought of Bran spying on him for years. An enigmatic, all-seeing eye. Bran steepled his long fingers.

“You still love her?”

“Yes.” The word fell from his lips with barely a thought. Tears burned in his eyes.

“Good. That’s good.” A deep, aching fury flared to life, the aged wheeze of an old dragon. How was it good? How did a single moment of his godsforsaken life have meaning?

“She fought it, you know. From the start.” Jon blinked, trying not to tremble at the cold in those words. Nothing burned like the cold.

“What?” he said.

“Daenerys. She fought my grip for quite a long time. Targaryen blood runs a bit hotter than I’m used to.” With sickening clarity, Jon felt the world shatter beneath his feet.

“You---you . . . how . . .” he stuttered, tears welling and falling from unblinking eyes. A knife-thin smile touched Bran’s lips. His eyes, oh gods, he knew that unholy blue glow.

“It took some work, but she finally broke.”

“She wasn’t mad. You broke her,” Jon said.

“You burned our forests. Slew us by the thousands. It was what you deserved. All of you.” It wasn’t Bran’s voice but a multitude, old and dry, young and sweet. The dagger was in his hand.

This time, it felt right.

It felt good.

Parting flesh and bone to pierce that black, empty heart. Bran gasped, jerking in his chair. The bloody smile chilled Jon to his marrow.

“Thank you, Jon.”