#white women tears are always weapons against black peoples

[cyarskaren52]

That's a HELL to the NO, we didn't forget she blamed black man. Plus she’s having sex with prison guards so she’s not the model prisoner either

Nah.

Fuck that!

[heyftinally]

Taylor only has one thing when it comes to the opressed olympic. It's the fact she is a woman. And swifties use that for any criticism against her.

" Oh you just hate succesful women."

She isn't black, She isn't gay trans etc.., She isn't disabled, She isn't poor, she isn't jewish, she isn't muslim, etc... etc...

Swifties also need to learn that a black man is not more privileged than a white woman. They seem to think that she is always more oppressed against any other man.

They could literally think that a homeless black man has more privilege than the billionaire white woman. All because he is a man.

🔔🔔🔔 Ding ding ding, we have a winner, folks! You hit the nail on the head.

Taylor Swift has weaponized her white woman tears and "oppression" to her own benefit, and this is exactly how.

None of her fans seems to ACTUALLY understand how oppression works, they just take the pretty little buzzwords that they think are synonymous with "I'm a good person who's right" and parrot them like a $2 children's toy (half the time while sending death threats and racist/homophobic slurs, which makes it even more ironic)

Taylor Swift is not oppressed. She's just not. Honestly, yes, even though she's a woman - and before any feral Swifties come at me, I AM a woman - she's not oppressed, and I'll tell you why.

"Billionare" overrides most (not all) other categories. As soon as you're a billionaire, nothing else matters, because you can buy your way into and out of anything. Combine that with the facade that the entire world worships her, and guess what? Nobody gives a shit that she's a woman. She's not oppressed because a few people she's never heard of make jokes about how much she sucks - she DOES suck, but those comments have zero impact on her life. She doesn't even know they exist. In Taylorland, everyone loves her no matter what she does - even if she's best friends with/dating bigots.

In order for someone to be oppressed, systematic situations have to negatively impact their life on a day to day basis. Disabled people can't get married without losing their disability income. LGBTQ+ people are still getting murdered in the street for just existing and having their right to healthcare taken away. People of a variety of ethnic minorities still get denied things like loans at a higher rate than white people. Women get denied promotions because they're not men.

None of these things will ever happen to Taylor Swift. She can quite literally pay to access a "perfect" world, because she gets to pay her way out of normal life.

If someone makes a sexist joke? She can have that person fired and hire someone else.

She can pay for as much private security as she wants, so being safe is literally never a concern.

She can pay for private travel (and kill the planet every ten minutes), she can pay for private staff to handle her every whim and worry.

Taylor Swift has effectively paid her way out of oppression, because she can simply use her power, her money, and her legion of feral fans to get whatever she wants.

Someone makes a joke she doesn't like? Clearly it's "oppression" and now that person is "canceled" at best, or getting doxxed and sent death threats at worst.

Taylor Swift isn't oppressed because she can pay to fix nearly any problem in her life, so her biggest "problem" is people not unquestioningly worshipping her 24/7, which is what she weaponizes.

And fans will still claim that she's more oppressed than a black disabled homeless man, because they don't understand oppression OR intersectionality - all the know is worship Taylor and harass.

[sapphicsvibes]

i dont think using afab to describe one universal experience is helpful....buut as a black genderfluid trans person, using afab to describe the unique oppression I have gone through at the hands of white afab people, cis and trans is something i should be doing.

which means, not calling myself afab, but when talking about racism in specific trans/queer groups - making sure we specify white and afab.

to be frank, i've been victims of white women, and i've been victims of white trans/nonbinary people who are afab for my whole life, and i've always been seen as the aggressor in these spaces to them. and i wanna be able to talk about how that type of white fragility and those white tears don't suddenly vanish when we aren't talking about c!s white women. white afab trans, nonbinary, etc., people weaponize their whiteness and their fragility and their privilege against trans poc and trans fems as well.

i dont think there is a universal afab gender experience, and acting as if afab is some type of gender has every time been extremely transmisogynstic, transphobic and exclusionary. but i do think there is a shared experience when it comes to racism, white privielge and white supremacy and how society protects, coddles, and victimizes afab people against black and brown people, trans women, etc., then that is worth talking about when we see a lot of transmisogyny, racism, lesbophobia, etc., from these spaces.

[binsofchaos]

Harry Belafonte | Marching in Selma and always towards freedom for all

How fortunate for me that the performing arts became the catalyst that fueled my desire for social change. In its pursuit I came upon fellow artists, like the great actor – and my hero – singer-humanist Paul Robeson, painter Charles White, dancer Katherine Dunham. Historian's superior academic mind, Dr. W.E.B. Du Bois. Social strategist and educator Eleanor Roosevelt. Writers Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou and James Baldwin. They all inspired me. They excited me. Deeply influenced me. And they were also my moral compass. It was Robeson who said, as you heard in the film earlier, "Artists are the gatekeepers of truth. They are civilization's radical voice." This Robeson-environment sounded like a desired place to be and given the opportunity to dwell there has never disappointed me.

https://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/07/opinion/campaign-stops/harry-belafonte-what-do-we-have-to-lose-everything.html

“O, yes,

I say it plain,

America never was America to me,

And yet I swear this oath —

America will be!”

— Langston Hughes, “Let America Be America Again”

What old men know is that everything can change. Langston Hughes wrote these lines when I was 8 years old, in the very different America of 1935.

It was an America where the life of a black person didn’t count for much. Where women were still second-class citizens, where Jews and other ethnic whites were looked on with suspicion, and immigrants were kept out almost completely unless they came from certain approved countries in Northern Europe. Where gay people dared not speak the name of their love, and where “passing” — as white, as a WASP, as heterosexual, as something, anything else that fit in with what America was supposed to be — was a commonplace, with all of the self-abasement and the shame that entailed.

It was an America still ruled, at its base, by violence. Where lynchings, and especially the threat of lynchings, were used to keep minorities away from the ballot box and in their place. Where companies amassed arsenals of weapons for goons to use against their own employees and recruited the police and National Guardsmen to help them if these private corporate armies proved insufficient. Where destitute veterans of World War I were driven from the streets of Washington with tear gas and bayonets, after they went to our nation’s capital to ask for the money they were owed.

Much of that was how America had always been. We changed it, many of us, through some of the proudest struggles of our history. It wasn’t easy, and sometimes it wasn’t pretty, but we did it, together. We won voting rights for all. We ended Jim Crow, and we pushed open the Golden Door again to welcome immigrants. We achieved full rights for women, and fought to let people of all genders and sexual orientations stand in the light. And if we have not yet created the America that Langston Hughes swore will be — “The land that never has been yet” — if there is still much to be done, at least we have advanced our standards of humanity, hope and decency to places where many people never thought we could reach.

What old men know, too, is that all that is gained can be lost. Lost just as the liberation that the Civil War and Emancipation brought was squandered after Reconstruction, by a white America grown morally weary, or bent on revenge. Lost as the gains of our labor unions have been for decades now, pushed back until so many of us stand alone in the workplace, before unfettered corporate power. Lost as the vote is being lost by legislative chicanery. Lost as so many powerful interests would have us lose the benefits of the social welfare state, privatize Social Security, and annihilate Obamacare altogether.

If he wins this Tuesday, Donald J. Trump would be, at 70, the oldest president ever elected. But there is much about Mr. Trump that is always young, and not in a good way. There is something permanently feckless and immature in the man. It can be seen in how he mangles virtually the same words that Langston Hughes used.

When Hughes writes, in the first two lines of his poem, “Let America be America again/ Let it be the dream it used to be,” he acknowledges that America is primarily a dream, a hope, an aspiration, that may never be fully attainable, but that spurs us to be better, to be larger. He follows this with the repeated counterpoint, “America never was America to me,” and through the rest of this remarkable poem he alternates between the oppressed and the wronged of America, and the great dreams that they have for their country, that can never be extinguished.

Mr. Trump, who is not a poet, either in his late-night tweets or on the speaker’s stump, sees American greatness as some heavy, dead thing that we must reacquire. Like a bar of gold, perhaps, or a bank vault, or one of the lifeless, anonymous buildings he loves to put up. It is a simplistic notion, reducing all the complexity of the American experience to a vague greatness, and his prescription for the future is just as undefined, a promise that we will return to “winning” without ever spelling out what we will win — save for the exclusion of “others,” the reduction of women to sexual tally points, the re-closeting of so many of us.

With his simple, mean, boy’s heart, Mr. Trump wants us to follow him blind into a restoration that is not possible and could not be endured if it were. Many of his followers acknowledge that (“He may get us all killed”) but want to have someone in the White House who will really “blow things up.”

What old men know is that things blown up — customs, folkways, social compacts, human bodies — cannot so easily be put right. What Langston Hughes so yearned for when he asked that America be America again was the realization of an age-old people’s struggle, not the vaporous fantasies of a petty tyrant. Mr. Trump asks us what we have to lose, and we must answer, only the dream, only everything.

OpEd | November 7, 2016

Harry Belafonte: What Do We Have to Lose? Everything

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/11/02/opinion/harry-belafonte-donald-trump.html

The polls suggest, we are told, that Mr. Trump has made some small inroads in our vote, that a higher percentage of young Black men will vote for him in 2020 than did in 2016. I have difficulty crediting this. But if it is so, I would urge my brothers to listen better. Not just to the false promises Mr. Trump makes to us, but also at what he says when he is “alone in the room” with his white supporters, promising them at his rallies that if he is re-elected, people of color will not invade their “beautiful suburbs” from our “disgusting cities.”

Mr. Trump is too late. We are everywhere in America. We are in the bone and the blood and the root of the country. We are not going anywhere, certainly not to some fantasy of a new “separate but equal” segregation, we in “our” cities, white people in “their” suburbs.

Perhaps the president is confused by how the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., in his greatest speech, referred to the words of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution as a “promissory note to which every American is to fall heir.” Perhaps that gave Mr. Trump the idea that this was all about money. Surely, money — the household stake, the money with which to buy a home, secure a good education, start a family — was a vital goal of the movement then, just as the need for Black people to be made whole, after all the years of slavery and Jim Crow, is still a pressing need today.

But I was there with Dr. King that day, over a half-century ago, in the shadow of Lincoln’s statue, and what he spoke of was “the riches of freedom and the security of justice.” He quoted the most fundamental promise of the Declaration, that all of us have “certain unalienable Rights” — among them “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

It seems strange that we must still agitate for these basic rights, or that Mr. Trump thinks he is being magnanimous when he offers them to us again as last-minute campaign promises — so long as we stay in our place. In the past, we have turned the wheel in great bursts of energy and faith, and in between, when we stood exhausted and bloodied, there was some sliding back. That is always how it is in a democracy and a people’s movement, but now is the time to move forward again.

Four years ago, faced with the prospect of a Trump presidency, I wrote that what old men know is how quickly things can change. Well, I am still old but I am also still here, at 93, and for all the bitter lessons we have learned from Mr. Trump’s term in office, I can tell you that the wheel is turning again. That we have never had so many white allies, willing to stand together for freedom, for honor, for a justice that will free us all in the end, even those who are now most fearful and seething with denial.

[bobcorrigan]

A little world-building from Meribel

She sloshed through the melting snow drifts to the coffee place on the corner and found a table wedged between a young Asian woman tapping away at a laptop and a bearded hipster reading the Racing News. Inside the first thick black envelope was a blank sheet of flimsy, off-white tissue paper. Before it could dissolve she tore it into tiny pieces and stirred them into her coffee, where it was instantly transformed into a milky, viscous sludge that clung to her spoon. The movement of the sludge sounded like whispers, and Violet hunched over the cup to hear it over the steady wash of conversation around her. The single voice became three, each silken, woman’s voice slightly out of phase. 

Under a sky of painted stars

the tears of the Goddess will appear

Let none who live consume their light

Lest a brother’s sword unsheathed draw near

A silver teardrop formed on the surface of the sludge, followed quickly by three silvery spirals arranged in a triangle. Violet pushed the cup away and sat back, gulping deep breaths to steady herself. The Morrigan’s voice, three women speaking as one, was as unmistakable as it was unwelcome.

Tears of Danu? The Tears of Danu were a myth! No one believed there was a potion that would allow one of her people to travel from anywhere in creation to Danu’s throne. It was ridiculous. Why would the Morrigan bother to get the King to assign the Guards to investigate a garbage prophecy? 

But what if it was real? Or worse, what if Meribel got to it first? If Meribel got the Tears and a weapon strong enough to raise against her uncle Lugh, she could unify the exiles trapped here and her father’s loyalists back home. Or more likely, she’d just murder Lugh and dance over his body out of spite – once a pirate, always a pirate. It was enough of a pleasant mental image to calm her, and she smiled as she stirred her coffee again. Danu’s symbol vanished, and soon the viscous sludge dissolved too, leaving only a bad cup of coffee clouded with clumps of paper.

Knowing how the Morrigan liked to get Lugh worked up, this was probably a false alarm. If she could prove the Tears were a myth the case would close itself. It was like the Guard told her – all she had to do was settle this bit of business cleanly, and the Captain would punch her one-way ticket home. She left the coffee shop feeling better about life than she had in ages.

[qweerhet]

i bitch a lot about disabled men's and male children's oppression in lefty spaces because, like it or not, abled (cis, white) women have had systemic power in america for decades now, and are the primary personal enactors of oppression on those two groups.

like... we are well past the point where "being a woman" on its own is enough to bar an entire class of people from access to systemic power, and "empowerment" through power in the capitalistic machine and the State is an extremely normal perception of women's rights in this country. like--misogyny exists, but it's so heavily targeted towards women of color, trans women, and disabled women, that abled cis white women often benefit from american brands of misogyny in many ways (i.e. "white women's tears" is a real phenomenon here, where white women are seen as delicate and worth of protection, and weaponize this as a class to enact violence on black people, particularly black men).

and women have been the primary enactors of oppression as mothers and caretakers for even longer than women have had access as a class to the systems of power in our country. even before women had access to systemic power, they had power over these two specific groups, within the home--and, a bit later, when nursing and in-home assistance became a women's profession--and, as a class, have always had vested interest in maintaining this power.

i bitch about this in lefty spaces specifically because lefty spaces are violently ableist and adultist, and weaponize the women's rights movement against disabled people and children to a massive extent, and it's extremely common for women to weaponize feminist language to enact oppression and abuse on the disabled men and children they have power over. like, lefty spaces have a huge tendency to listen to women's accusations of abuse and sexual violence towards the disabled men and children they have literal legal ownership of. they have a pattern of marginalizing disabled men and children who speak up about their abuse and/or oppression by arguing that it's for their own good, whipping up rumor mills and whisper campaigns about them, denying them access to community resources, and even actively participating in DARVOing victims on the explicit basis of their gender.

and i exclude other spaces from this bitching because lefty spaces should know better. spaces focused on social justice should be better than this. they should not be vested in a #girlboss capitalism analysis of misogyny, nor should they so gleefully engage in ableism and adultism if they're vested in liberation. liberation is not possible if the dynamic is such that you dismiss two entire fields of oppression as only applying to women (and thats even if they'll acknowledge female children are oppressed by their mothers--usually the idea is that children are not oppressed at all, and mothers are blameless pillars of virtue for taking care of them, an incredibly obvious internalized piece of societal bigotry that so far goes mostly unpacked).

anyway, the above is all incredibly UScentric. misogyny and the patriarchy function differently in other cultures, and there are plenty of places worldwide where women don't have access to systemic power, even women who would be privileged here. this shouldn't be used to get your hate boner on for women if you're an antifeminist somewhere overseas or some shit, and in general if you argue that misogyny isn't real anymore even in america you're Just Objectively Wrong, but i'm also not going to stop talking about oppression dynamics where i live, because they're active and currently hurting people and i lived them myself.

[pink02]

Just for You

Carlos Madrigal x Reader

Genre: Angst/ Hurt with no comfort, Modern AU

Summary: From all of the people around the city, why did you even picked him in the first place? What was your reason to seek validation from a person who doesn't even bats an eye to anyone, especially to you. Why?

Trigger warning: Toxic relationship, desperation, possession of weapons, one sided feelings, betrayal.

A/n: Highly inspired by 2016 suicide squad. Harley and Joker's relationship specifically, its toxic I know... characters aged up.

Not gonna do a part 2 of this since its already messed up.

♡♡ Masterlist ♡♡

Men despised him, women fear him, some even tried to coax or associate with him, but most of them thought that he had been a villain. He was said he could manipulate you with with his illusions and lies. The great deceiver, the mischievous, mysterious trickster that would make you easily fall into his dark maroon gloved hand.

Carlos Madrigal

He was said he's the devil in broad daylight, he could blend into the everyday folks without even knowing, he could turn into someone or something so swiftly that you could never know who is real and what is not. He could impersonate anyone he wants just to get away, he could trick you into thinking that he was a provident soul though his words would just waver out like rubbing salt on an open wound.

Many knew his name, some only got the gits to see what he actually looks like, and little to no one knows who he truly are.

Everything around him is fake and you knew it. Your dream of having a loving and peaceful life was already near impossible due to the fact that everything was beyond reality. You kept the charades going even though you couldn't get a nick from him, not even once pity or affection. Not a bit of care or mercy towards your well being or feelings, even for the times you needed him the most. Though why would you even count on him when he doesn't even counts on anyone?

You were in love with the maroon illusionist, the black sheep of Encanto. Everyone had already warned you multiple times to not associate with the man what so ever yet you didn't listen.

Why didn't you listen? Is it the fact that your vision was that everyone is worthy in loving? Or is it the fact that you thought you could change and rebuilt the empty part of his heart? Or that you have already drowned yourself into the pretense of his flowery and sugar coated words?

You clenched your knuckles over his chest tights as angry tears trickle down your dirt and grime stained cheeks. He hadn't yet moved nor pushed you away to which you were somewhat glad. There he stood in his pristine white collared shirt underneath a neat velvet vest, paired with his black dress pants. He always dress for a show, a presentation, and it be damned to why.

"I did everything you said... I turned my friends against me, i betrayed my own family, I took all the blame, i gave you all what I have, Carlos... What more do you want me to take just to prove you I love you?!" You scream at the top of your lungs as your vocal cords break. Eyes staring at cold emotionless heterogeneous ones, void and vex, full of hatred and ignorance. A sinister smirked raked up his facial feature as sobs escapes from your chapped lips, quivering and tremble. This man— no, devil had not an ounce of pity within his body. He could even stare down into your soul even when your heart is getting crushed, stabbed by a million knives or break into a thousand pieces.

"Was I not enough for you?! Am I not worthy for your love?!"

"Corazon..." He spoke lowly as he held your hands with his gloved ones. That pet name used to be so sweet and endearing though you realized that he only calls you that out of satire and pillory. "I... am not someone who is... loved." He steps away gently as taps from his leather dress shoes were heard. Letting your hands go slowly, his smirk never left his face. "I am an idea~."

"State of mind~." He fades into the darkness as cold breeze hits the back of your neck, raising the strands of your hair into a chilly and disdainful feeling coarse down to your spine.

You, in his territory, where everything could be real or fake. He could shift everything and anything surrounding you to which you couldn't escape. Nothing could escape from him, you're already bounded within his web, a prey that couldn't get away.

"Carlos, talk to me!" Feeling the harsh hicks of your sobs, you swallowed thickly as you pull yourself together.

"I excecute my will acording to my plan..." You circled around you trying to move cautiously as to he could be anywhere or nowhere at all. His voice lingered to your ear like he was just close, just behind you. He is the master of manipulation, he could muster every approach just to caught you off guard.

"And you [Name], are not part of it." In an instance, you pulled out your gun from your holster pointing it out right at his forehead as your turned around. He paused by the sight of the gun and raised his arms up mockingly. "Woah, hey! Don't shoot me~ I could be your friend!" He chuckles with a grin.

Your grip onto the handle tightened, brows scrunched up in perplex. He still had the nerve to laugh at a serious situation, though who could blame him? He never takes anything seriously. "Bold move you have, to actually aim that thing at me, corazon." His fingers taps on the weapon as his eyes stared at you intently. "Would you even dare to pull the trigger?" With that, your hands shakes in hesitation. Your eyes brim with tears once more knowing that you couldn't, you wouldn't, it's too cruel for you.

"Do it." You shook your head letting out a sob just as you heard his command. "My heart scares you and a gun doesn't?" You asked in disbelief. "Carlos, what happened to you?" Silence enveloped around you, his smile faded and hardened his expression, eyes blaze fierceness and vain.

"What happened to me?" He repeated. "Corazon, this is what I am since the beginning."

"N-no..." you sobbed.

"No? What do you mean no?" He hovered his hands over yours still holding up the gun.

"T-this isn't you, Carlos... THIS isn't the Carlos I knew, the Carlos that I love, the Carlos who was funny and sarcastic, who loves his mother, who gets well with his cousins and siblings, the Carlos who tried to save-"

"THAT CARLOS WAS GONE." You flinched at the sudden rise of his voice. Your mouth clenched, tears flowing down like a waterfall. "He's still there and I know it!"

"Then I guess you're wrong there..." you let him lower the weapon. Your feet planted on your spot as his thumb wiped off your cheek. "Such a pity, isn't it? You love the man who never knew who he truly was."

"But I... I already know what I want to be, who I wanted to be, be what I thrived to be." He grinned as he held your chin making you face him. "Corazon, you don't really knew me."

"Carlos, please... I'll do anything just for you to accept me... to come back... please"

"Anything~? For me?" His grin widened.

"Just for you." You breathed.

Your surroundings suddenly altered into a different setting. By the top of a waterfall you both located, your foot stood by the edge. You tried to keep yourself calm as you stared back at the red man. You wouldn't know his plans but you already know its starting to get more serious. You tried to look down but his hand still held your chin up. "Question..." your eyes darted up back at his face.

"Would you die for me?" He spoke as he neared your face. "Yes." You spoke with no hesitation.

"That's too easy!" He turned around and crossed his hands behind him. The raging waters could be heard just below, the fast turning flows and sharp edges rocks, its like how it describe his very soul. So unwary, so cold, so livid and wild, it may never turn back into the soft and peaceful stream that it once was to be.

"Will you..... would you live for me?" His head turned to the side as he glanced back at you.

"... yes."

"Careful now... I don't want to make mistakes again~." He turns back at you and held your hand up to his lips. "Would you live for me?" He repeats the question again.

"For you, I would." He smiled.

"Then I hope you'll survive... corazon." You gasped as he lets go of your hand. The floor beneath you suddenly vanished making fall off from the edge. You were too stunned to scream yet you just only stared at the man who's smile faded.

Time felt so slow as you fall to the water. Wetness seeped into your clothes, the impact stinging your skin. You grasped for a last breath of air icy-cold water flooded in, throat burned as if a thousand needles had been plunged into it. You wanted to cry out for help, but you couldn’t bring enough air into your lungs. Who would you even call? Who would even save you now? You know no one.

Your arms and legs were numb from the ceaseless movement. You saw the shimmer of sunlight rippling on the water above, teasing you, mocking how vulnerable you were. The last bit of air escaped from your lips just as your body went limp. You didn't have the enough energy to move now that everything feels like nothing. You couldn't feel anything just as your body sank to the deepest part. Dark, cold and void. That is how cruel he would be.

You gasped bolting up from the bed you just laid, beads of cold sweat running down your forehead. Your hands clench into the fabrics of your blanket whilst your breath ragged into a pant. You could breathe, you could actually breathe. What? How? How did this happened? Where are you?

Everything around you was so unfamiliar, shelves with books and hourglasses, rats would scatter around squeaking. Lights and jade tablets glow hauntingly green. Floorboards and wooden walls are full of holes and cracks, everything was in a mess. You didn't know where you are or who brought you, but all you want to know is what happened.

"Oh, your awake." A voice beside you spoke making your head dart towards it.

"W-wha..." you froze as a man in the dark green trenchcoat walks towards you with a stoic face. The man was obviously years older than you seeing the white hair streaks that marveled over his dark ash grey curls. Dark baggy eyes and dark green irises, his aura is not menacing yet it wasn't welcoming either. He stops just a foot away from your bed with his hands buried withing his pockets. His eyes never leaves your face as his mouth drop onto a small frown.

"So child, tell me..."

"How was your trip to the future?"

Taglist: @eventideschildinthetardis @belladonna271 @sunnth @dai-tsukki-desu @ale-creates-worlds @camilos-mivida @bxbykayla join my taglist here!

A/n: Read reverse dipper pines years ago and thought that it would be fitting for Carlos' personality in this fic lol... so yeah also inspired by Reverse Falls.

I got sick since 2 days ago so I haven't uploaded it. Was about to finish it but my parents confiscated my gadgets so that I would rest well so yeah.

[transkingbee]

Every. Single. Person. Alive. Experiences. Misogyny. Get that through your head. Every single person. Trans men, cis men, gay men, straight men. Just because they’re men doesn’t mean misogyny doesn’t effect them. The patriarchy exists to enforce misogyny. This obviously means systemic oppression against women. All women. But the way that patriarchy demands that men behave and treat each other in ways that are completely void of any “feminine” traits (emotion, friendship, anything that can be perceived as effeminate or gay) stems from MISOGYNY.

That doesn’t mean men are systemically oppressed, they still have greater social power than women, but it is an effect of misogyny and it does harm men.

Now obviously if we’re taking intersectionality into account there are men who have social power over other men. There are women who have social power over other women. And there are WOMEN who have social power over MEN. Look me in the eyes right now and tell me white women don’t have social power over black men. You can’t. Or you’d be denying centuries of black men killed for looking the “wrong way” at white women, having the cops called on them because white women weaponized their whiteness and their tears to hurt them.

Now we can talk about transness. Homophobia and transphobia both stem from misogyny. The transmisogyny that trans women face comes from the same place homophobia comes from. Because the bigots will never see you as a woman. They see you as a man in a dress. To them you are no different than a drag queen. Most of them don’t even know the difference. The misogyny they are attempting to enforce against you with their hatred is that of forcing “a man” back into masculinity because how dare you be effeminate when they can’t be. How dare you be feminine happily and confidently instead of masculine and miserable like men are supposed to be. These are the kinds of people who cannot extricate their manhood from toxic masculinity. These are the kinds of people whose womanhood is still defined in relation to manhood. So trans women are now experiencing misogyny in the same way cis women do, and ALSO in the same way cis gay men do, and ALSO transphobia because people just hate us for existing and for daring not to exist within their boxes.

Trans men are in the same boat. We are experiencing 1. Transphobia for daring to exist outside of our assigned box. 2. Misogyny because the world still views us as women, 3. Misogyny and homophobia in the way lesbians experience it because they think we’re just masculine women. But we’re ALSO experiencing the loneliness and isolation that comes with manhood because misogyny has conditioned men into silent suffering and lack of camaraderie. And of course we’re looking for that in each other and in the larger queer community because that’s what the queer community has always been for us on our gender journey but now we’re men and we’re being treated like we’re automatically the oppressor without any thought or regard for the intersections that make up our identity or the fact that we still get treated like women anyway.

Don’t even get me started on the nonbinary experience of misogyny and transphobia which is either “silly girl who doesn’t know what she’s talking about and trying to get attention” or “evil man trying to invade afab spaces”.

If you can’t eradicate the radfem ideology that man automatically equals evil then you can’t participate in this conversation. You’re not working toward equality with that kind of mindset. You’re not working toward freedom of gender and expression for EVERYONE. You’re working toward revenge. And you’re scapegoating trans men as if we haven’t suffered right alongside you this entire time. And your views on sex and gender aren’t only bioessentialist but incredibly colonized and white.

Everyone experiences misogyny. Even if we all experience it differently. And acting like any group is “tme” isn’t helping anything or contributing to any sort freedom from patriarchal constraints.

transmisogyny = intersection of transphobia and misogyny.

transphobia towards trans men assuming they're women = transphobia. the misogyny is due to transphobia. it is just transphobia. you want to be oppressed so bad

This makes absolutely no sense lmao. If transphobia towards trans men is also the intersection of transphobia and misogyny than transphobia towards trans men would be transmisogyny but it’s not, because transmisogyny refers to transphobia and misogyny aimed at trans women. Hence why transphobia + misogyny towards trans men is called Transandrophobia. The misogyny isn’t “due to transphobia”, the misogyny is entwined with the transphobia. They are tied together.

“You want to be oppressed so bad”…. Anon… do you think transmasc people are not oppressed? Do you think trans men are not oppressed? What??????

[sems-diarie]

im sorry but the person who sent that ask, sounds like a white woman trying to set up and pit other women of color against black women & i, for one, am tired of that shit. white supremacy has pit people of color against black people for the longest, the history shows how white people purposely divide our communities. it literally all stems back to white people and white supremacy.

i read this book, it’s called “White Tears Brown Scars: How White Feminism Betrays Women of Colour” by Ruby Hamad. It goes into detail about how white women are entitled and use their femininity as a weapon due to the fact that white men will always hold more power then them. They still find a way to abuse black women and other woc, just by being white women and being “the beauty standard” (ex, European beauty standards, etc)

God forbid black women create safe spaces for themselves, right? I cant imagine the exhausting fucking battle black women face every single day. Y’all deserve the world and fucking more. It genuinely bothered me that they just HAD to include other races of women because I’m tired of being put against black women, that shit was so unprovoked. Half the time people don’t care about our issues anyways, they only bring up other women of color when y’all want to argue with black women. Stop using Asian women, latina women, native women to try and argue against black women, cause at the end of the day, I’m going to defend Black women. That shit genuinely pissed me off because I’m a long time reader of your work. How many times have black women and other woc just sat back and had to read shit with “her pale skin, light blue eyes and blonde straight hair”?? like??? we create these spaces for ourselves because we are tired of white women being the beauty standard.

to the anon: don’t ever come on sems page complaining about the fact that she’s a black woman, who writes for black women and said a fucking anime character should be with a black woman. cause news flash:

izuku should be with a black woman.

- from a woman of color who’s tired of white people using us in unprovoked arguments and complaints against black women. black women are fucking beautiful beings that have blessed this world, be fucking grateful.

[cyarskaren52]

This sketch of the “kidnapper” of her children is giving racial profiling and stereotyping and it pisses me off

I wasn’t born in nor grew up in 1994 but As soon as I saw that sketch, even I knew it was bullshit

Could’ve been a modern-day Emmitt Till incident, throwing blame like that.

If ever there was a stereotypical sketch, it’s that one. She was willing to let an innocent man go to jail for her evil actions.

Whew! It's been 30 yrs. since Susan Smith gave police this description after killing her two little boys. Not clear how many lives she ruined before her story fell apart. Innocent black men were given the side eye and endangered because of her lies and her ex husband had to live with the fact that his former wife was locked up for a long time for two murders and he can’t comfort his sons because the reason why his ex wife is in prison is because she killed them for the affection for another man and tried to pin it on a black man

Now, she's petitioning the court to get out of jail, as if nothing happened. #NeverForget

She needs to be denied parole!

I remember hearing about this.

They were stopping every Black man.

I didn’t even live in the state. 😡It didn’t matter if Black people matched the description or not.

Then to find out she killed her own kids. 😡

For a man who didn’t want children

To you it’s history and conversation.

To us black folks it’s our lives.

She deserves to rot.

She murdered her own children, because a guy she was dating didn’t want kids.

Then claimed a black guy stole her car, and made a sob story campaign about it for a week.

Before it was ultimately revealed that she drowned those kids.

Imagine choosing a man over your own kids

Then imagine killing your children for that man

Then imagine covering up your crime by saying a black man kidnapped your children knowing that you killed them

I’m not a hew biiiiitch like Susan smith so I can’t relate and I’m good with that

[lewdbabies]

~Undercover~ Part 1 💗 Gojo satoru fluff/smut

warning: MDNI, 18+, Smut, Language, sexual situations, gore, Dom spy Gojo etc

“Y/N” warm breath brushes against your earlobe.

“Smile baby, They are watching “ you say through your teeth smiling and nodding at passerby’s. He scoffs, picking up his scotch on the rocks. He scans the perimeter sizing up the crowd, His crystal blue eyes Dart at the speed of light. You watch him, drinking in how dashing he looks tonight. He stood there long legged clad in a all black vintage Versace suit. His golden cuff links danced in under the light of the chandeliers above. His white hair was slick back exposing his sharp jawline and gorgeous glossy features. He leaned against the bar sipping on a glass you wished could be you. You didn’t particularly enjoy these missions but you and Gojo satoru were the best of the best.

The mission was simple, infiltrate the Gala and dispose of the target. Despite your everyday lack of people skills when it came time for a mission you always knew how to turn the charm up. Your presence had the power to make a whole room go silent, All eyes on you.

All the men loved you and all the women wanted to be you, A true blessing and curse. Gojo held the exact same power if not more, he was stunning the embodiment of envy. Headquarters decided to pair up their two secret weapons which is how you became partnered with the famous sorcerer.

You two put that power on full display as you weave through the crowd hand in hand. Conversations go silent as they gawk at you passing by, Gojo squeezes your hand tighter. You spot your target at the top of the grand stair case walking into what seemed like a private VIP room. You and Gojo’s eyes meet in a telepathic agreement as you push your way to the staircase. The crowd quiets down as they watch you and Gojo climb the stairs, the air fills with mumbles and girly giggles.

“I guess I truly am the main attraction “ He coos, shooting you a cocky wink.

“Hardly, It’s clear I’m the sexy one in this partnership” You joke.

“Damn right” his thumb traces the back of your hand. You look down slightly flustered, He was a playboy so you never paid his flirtation much mind . You shake your head composing yourself for what might happen next. ‘This isn’t the time for distractions’ you think to yourself releasing his hand once you reach the top.

“How exactly do you plan to get in there” he questions.

“Leave it to me” you take off swiftly down the hall heels clicking against the marble floor , Gojo follows after you.

You stop in front of a door reading ‘storage’ he gives you a curious look.

“Ugh fuck it’s locked “ you say, yanking at the handle.

“Leave it to me” He shoves you gently against the door, you stare into his icy orbs as he leans in cupping the back of your head. His hands work into your hair, your eyes begin to flutter as he draws nearer, your heart is pounding.

He tilts your head back massaging your scalp with the pads of his fingers. He pulls away suddenly your hair falls to your shoulders in a wave. He holds up his hand your ruby hair clip is perched between his slender fingers.

“Keep watch Doll” He crouches down working quickly on the lock, you turn away flustered to watch the surrounding area.

After a while Two men with ear pieces walk past, you slap Gojos Shoulder mumbling “Someone’s coming!” He mutters a curse twisting at the lock faster.

Click.

The door swings open, he grabs your wrist dragging you inside.

“Ouch!” Your foot hits a mop bucket.

“Oh yeah laugh it up asshole” you sneer watching him double over in quiet laughter.

He stands wiping the tears from his eyes “ So step one is out the way, what’s next boss” he leans against the metal shelf arms folded. You turn your back to him lifting your hair exposing the back of your red gown.

“Unzip me” you order.

“ Wow in the middle of a mission huh, Alright but it has to be a quickie “ he grabs your waist pulling you back your ass slams against his bulge. You stomp your heel down crashing into his leather loafer.

His grip tightens in pain his fingers dig into your hips “Ah-“ you moan pushing away from him.

“No you idiot! Just unzip the dress!” He mumbles curses as he pulls down the zipper revealing a black leather body suit.

Your dress falls and he takes a closer look at you, your thighs are covered by lacy black thigh high stockings. Your breast sit perched on your chest cleavage nearly bursting free. You reach into your hand bag pulling out a pair of elbow length black gloves.

“Hold this” you shove your bag into his hands, you grab the base of your wig pulling it off in one motion revealing your natural hair underneath. Gojo bites his lip shamelessly scanning you from head to toe.

“Like what you see?” You tease.

He runs his hand through his frosty locs.

“Love it” he says.

You stuff your gown behind the chemical shelf, “Here put this on” you hand him a solid gold chain, he raises an eyebrow.

He slides the chain around his neck nodding in approval.

“The target is hosting a private auction, He’s been trading curse infected humans on the underground market...women specifically, a true fucking sicko. The theme of tonight’s room is pussy to put it plainly. We’re going in undercover as a stripper and body guard. Tonight my name is Elektra, got it?” You state.

“ So tonight I’m your pimp?...” he chuckles you slap his chest playfully.

“Shut u-“ Your head snaps to the door, Gojo gives you an apologetic nod before wrapping his hand around your throat pulling you into a fierce kiss. His hand slides down the length of your back hovering on your ass, his grip settling on the curve where you thigh meets your cheek pulling you deeper into his heated lips. His fingers trail further between your thighs pressing against your quivering cunt.

“Uhn- Ah” you moan into the kiss throwing your arms around his neck.

The door flies open, the men you’d seen just minutes ago stand there in full combat mode.

“Can’t a guy get alittle privacy “ Gojo chuckles slapping your ass.

“Ah I feel so embarrassed “ you nuzzle into his jacket playing coy.

The men look you up and down in suspicion hands reaching for their pockets.

“I’d say you could stay and watch but that would cost you...” He smirks stealing your lips for another kiss ramming his tongue down your throat.

The men look away uncomfortably, the Man to the left reaches up pressing his ear piece. “False alarm” he calls over the radio.

“Get the fuck out of here if I catch you sneaking around again.... your dead” he warns.

Gojo giggles blowing the men a kiss as they slam the door shut.

You realize how close you two are, how his fingers are pressing gently into your core. You jump pushing him into the shelf behind.

“L-let’s go we have a job to finish” you say sternly sliding on your trench coat.

His tongue slides over his reddened lips giving you a cunning smile.

“After you princess”

~part 2 coming soon Stay tuned it gets spicy~ 🌶 🥵

Comment,share, and Leave a suggestion who I should write next 💕gojo

[city-of-ladies]

Nanye’hi “Nancy” Ward - Beloved woman of the Cherokee

Nanye’hi (1738-1822) was a woman the Cherokee nation. In the early 1750s she married a man named Kingfisher. In 1755, she went with him on a military expedition against the neighboring Creeks. Women went with war parties to draw water, gather firewood and cook since male warriors weren’t supposed to perform these tasks due to the separation of gender roles.

During a battle, Nanye’hi hid behind a log, but her husband was shot and killed. She took his gun and fought on, leading the Cherokee to victory. Though war was technically a male domain, there were still instances of Cherokee women taking arms. During the American Revolution, a Cherokee woman “painted and stripped like a warrior and armed with bows and arrows” was found dead on the battlefield. During the same period, another woman slew her husband’s killer on the battlefield and was allowed to join the warriors in the war dance carrying her gun and tomahawk.

In the early 19th century, missionary John Gambold met an old woman named Chicouhla who had “gone to war against hostile Indians and suffered several wounds”. A woman named Cuhtahlatah rallied the warriors after her husband was killed in defending the village. She took his tomahawk, shouted “Kill, kill!” and lead her people to victory. In the 1880s a Cherokee woman whose name meant” “Sharp Warrior” was active.

Nanye’hi was rewarded for her heroism and granted the title of Agigaue, which translates as “Beloved Woman” or “War Woman”. There was, for instance, a “War Woman’s creek”, commemorating the stratagem of a woman who had led her people to victory and was after rewarded with a chiefly position. 

Women like Nanye’hi were indeed influential and powerful. Their words were listened to and they were the head of the Women’s Council, involving representatives from each clan. Nanye’hi could also seat at the council of Chiefs. Agigaue also participated in martial dances and prepared the “Black Drink” that was given to the warriors who were about to go on the warpath. She had a right to spare prisoners who had been sentenced to death and in 1776  saved a white woman named Mrs. Bean. In 1781, she and other women helped five traders to escape to safety. 

In the late 1750′s, Nanye’hi married white traded Bryant Ward and anglicized her name as Nancy. They had a daughter together named Elizabeth. Before 1760, he returned to live with his other family and Elizabeth remained with her mother. Nanye’hi didn’t, however, completely sever ties with him and sometimes visited him.

During the American Revolution, Nanye’hi sided with the new United States, a rare position among the Cherokee. In 1776, she warned settlers of an impending Cherokee attack. It seems that her decisions came from pragmatism, as she was aware of the superiority of the settler’s superiority in numbers and weapons. In October 1776 Colonel William Christian led a devastating raid on Cherokee territory, but spared Nanye’hi’s town of Chote out of respect for her. Chote was nonetheless destroyed in 1781, Nanye’hi was taken into custody, but was later allowed to leave to rebuild the town.

In 1781, Nanye’hi appeared at her a treaty conference with United States commissioners held on the Long Island. There had been cases before her of Cherokee women serving as ambassadors. She said:

“You know that women are always looked upon as nothing; but we are our mothers and you are our sons. Our cry is all for peace; let it continue. This peace must last forever. Let your women's sons be ours; our sons be yours. Let your women hear our words.”

Her plight was heard. The original demands were revised and the Cherokee only had to give their land north of the Nolichucky River instead of giving all their lands north of the Little Tennessee River. She called for peace again in 1785, but this time the Cherokee had to cede more lands.

In the 19th century, the Cherokee government system was changing and there was less and less place for a woman like the aging Nanye’hi. United States agents who tried to “civilize” the Cherokee by imposing their values and the statues of women in the nation began to decline. In 1819, her town was ceded and she had to leave with her retinue for the Ocoee River near the present town of Benton, where she ran a sort of inn for travelers. She died in 1822. She thus didn’t live to see her people’s exile on the Trail of Tears following the Indian Removal Act in 1830.

Bibliography:

Harris McClary Ben, “Nancy Ward: The Last Beloved Woman of the Cherokees”

Perdue Theda, “Nancy Ward”, in: Glinton Catherine G. (ed.), Portraits of American Women from Settlement to the Present

[muffindaddystyles]

Tell me you love me, before I go.

A/N: A very short smutty writing I had in my swirling whole night, which unapologetically I ended up writing in the wee hours of dark.

Summary: Harry and Y/N are rivals -- very passive aggressive enemies. When on a mission Y/N breaks into his room he had no choice but to punish her.

AU: Rivals to lovers, dark sci-fi, angry rough sex, spanking and spitting, reassurance kink and unrequited love.

A war between two groups. Left one with nothing but a tech base and other with almost everything. So the Arsonists raid the Phantoms' buildings to steal food items and necessary fuels for their people since they're mostly unarmed due to lack of weapons they try to use their brain as much as possible. 

Y/N works in one of the tech bases of Arsonists and right now she's standing with her five more mates trying to figure out how to break through these large gates of the villain's building, one of his most strong headquarters. 

They've to collect some data before another truck of fuel arrives for Phantoms next Wednesday so they could have access to it without doing much effort. 

Once sneaking in successfully because the two guards were too muddled in gossiping their arsess about their maiden. The building's nothing too extravagant, sleek and able to live, dimmed to an unpleasant light indicating everyone inside it is sleeping. 

She barges into the villain's room easily and almost had all the information in her hands from his drawers when the door to the room banged close, startling her at spot and the frames of her glasses fell on the carpeted floor. 

"Shit." 

"D'ya think cursing would take ye' out of here? if so you're down bad" Her heart sinks in when his cold insensate voice booms within the walls — a heavy boot comes crushing her glasses, again and again mercilessly. 

Her blood boils. Because, what the fuck. Doesn't he have any manners? 

"Do you think I need my glasses to punch the shit out of you, you prick!!" She pounced at him, almost breaking his nose into a splitted eiffel tower but he dodged it, twisting her wrists at her back and snatching the files from her sneering menacingly —- letting her painful grunts fly over his head without any remorse. 

"Well, well." She yelps when he tightens his grip angrily, "Look what cat dragged in come little mousey we're going to have some fun." She didn't know until now that someone could be this strong as he puts her in a chair like a rag doll binding her with no escape out. 

She tries to squirm and wriggle her butt out but he just tuts standing tall and evil in front of her, she rakes her gaze slowly up to his tanned biceps and clavicles popping from underneath his flimsy shirt, matted curls grazing his shoulders. 

"Oh no, trust me sweetheart, you're going to want to stay strapped in here. We're going to find out how many times an Arsonist can break –- and for the fact my people will kill you on the spot if you step out of my room." Shiver runs down her body from fear and he chuckles, flopping onto the edge of his bed, man spreading, leaning onto the heels of his palms behind him. 

"You're pathetic!" She spits out. Full of venom. 

"Pfft, a thief telling me that 'm pathetic." He shakes his head and she's despising his audacity as if he rules the world. She could kick him square in his sexy face but the thing's she's bound to this damn uncomfy chair. 

"Atleast, I don't go on killing people." She grumps and it's like she pushed a button when his irises turn pitch dark. Her eyes widen in astonishment, reeking with fear when he leaves his spot in a thunder striding towards her furiously and drags the chair closer to him, almost lifting it inches above floor. 

The next thing she knows that a gun is resting against her temple ready to be fired, "Ye' really that desperate fo' me to prove it to you, huh?" He growls, hooded gaze following the gun that's sliding down her cheek and the way her breath wavers —- lips trembles, nose twitches he knows he's fucked. 

"Will it hurt?" If she's going to die it better be an easy way. 

His eyes soften at that. Taking in the rosy features of her, the plushiness and squishiness of her skin that his fingers feels like dipping into cream. The women of Phantom aren't like this; they're built differently to fight and kill who wrongs them -- they're almost heartless at this point. 

"Dunno, You'll get to know after taking one." He shrugs like it's not a biggie tipping her chin with the gun's pointer and her eyelids slip shuts. She couldn't cry. Even her dead body wouldn't forgive her if she would cry infront of her worst enemy for the last time. 

"I hate you, Harry. I'd never ever forgive you for kidnapping my cat when we were small." There she said it. If she's gonna die soon she better let it off her chest. Before it could hit him right in the wound he builds a shield fast arguing back with a stoic chuckle. 

"Guilt tripping wouldn't help, darling." He tuts patting her cheek with the gun's barrel —- funny case it's empty of bullets. He just shooted all of them whilst doing target practice. 

"Fuck you." She yells. 

"It'd take much more action than just undressing me naked with your bare eyes." He squeaks dramatically. Stepping away and pouts when she huffs trying to kick her feet in his direction. 

"Not my fault that you're a perv." 

He pouts feigning fake disappointment putting a hand on his chest, "You're such a grudge holder." 

"Think about 10 ways to fuck me until then 'm heading to make amends for you -- see what they offer in return of their precious nerd." He smirks, it's sad such a gorgeous face could be such evil she thinks. 

// 

When he comes back she's fallen asleep from getting tired and exhausted being trapped in the same spot for hours, "Sorry, peaches but they don't want you back –- even told me to kill you if that what it ta —- oooh" He halts in his tracks closing the door behind him quietly not to wake her up and pads softly towards her, putting her dangling head back gently in a comfortable position and tucks a strand of her hair that's tickling her nose behind her ear. 

You're not supposed to act that way with your enemy, you FUCKER. 

His brain screams but his heart says otherwise. 

She has changed. She never cries anymore. Everytime they kidnapped her or she ended up being caught from his henchmen —- she'd always need company to make her feel less frightened from the hollowness of their buildings, would cry when they'd lock her up in dark rooms. 

It's awfully hurtful how once bestfriends turns into rivals just because of a conflict that ruined their and their families lives. 

She has been doing all of this for people who doesn't even care about her. They're using her and many others like her to build a nuclear power plant so they could become intimidating. 

He retires to sleep. Debating in his sleep whether he should just free her and tell her to sleep in one of the rooms of the buildings but soon the possibilities died when he was high in his slumber. 

// 

He groans, knuckling the sleepiness away from his eyes. He woke up from loud the thumping and found Y/N trying to break the door knob, he winces covering his ears when she screams watching him lunge towards her in rush. 

His chocolate curls bouncing atop his head. His emerald eyes speaking with morning's gold and lips ripe like cherry. His brows kinked in annoyance and expression pinched in rage. 

"You're confident." He rasps out in his morning husk and slams his hands on either side of her head trapping, cornering her between him and the wall.

"Did you really think it was going to be this easy." He nothing but purres, pushing her against the door. She gasps abruptly aware of their height differences moreso the radiation of power he daunts that she ignored her whole life. 

"Hmm." He hummed. Eyes black with intimidation burning her under the intensity of it, he keeps his focus on her, smirking. "It suits you. This trying to fight me, desperation is a beautiful look on you." 

"Fuck you." 

"I mean if, ask nicely." His smile is sweetly honey and lethal if you ask me. 

She glares at him with blazing daggers, "This isn't the way you make people love you." Her chest heaving with his heat close to her and his scent enveloping her. 

"Love?" He laughs fondly even, crinkled forming by his eyes and he breathes out when she hovers her dry lips over his's, "Sweet thing this isn't about love — if ye ask me far from that." He's lying. He's full of bullshit. 

"And yet you don't touch me or hurt me." She squints her eyes up at him wrecking her brain how to slip away from his hold, "If you beg so." He simpers awfully lewd for her. Sure as rock for what he said with his whole chest. 

"Come get me then!" She trips him aside and rushes for the door when he pushes her into it tightening his hand around her throat, it's aching him to tell her the truth but he wants to let her know her worth. He rests his forehead against her's muttering a rumble deep within his chest, "They don't want you Y/N." Her windpipes squeezes painfully. The statement punching her lungs. Tears springing in her eyes. 

"You're lying!!" She looks up at him shattered and desperate. 

He caresses his knuckles against her tear stained cheek, "Shh, shh baby I'll always want you even if they don't — " He jerks back when she blows hit at his brawny chest yelling at him. 

"It's because of you!! You, you, you." He sighs. Grabbing her wrists and pining them above her head, "Shut up, please." His chillness irks her more and she nips at him feastly. 

"Make me." So he does. When her eyes drift up at his determined ones it takes her breath away and she knew it was over for her. 

His lips catches her's in a hard kiss, driving them apart with the force of it. Nothing gentle mind mushing about it rather pricking needles into her skin with the severeness of it. She feels the door rattling against her back when he shifts, pushing her against it with his hips, every thought of her exploding into white noise of want and lust. The dark curl of desire twisting in her stomach and pearling sweat on her neck. With the last thread of restraint in herself she tries to pull away. 

"No." He says bringing her lips back to his's. Cupping her cheeks to deepen the kiss and it's ardent as before not loosing it's spark, she slips her hands under his shirt — pulling him closer and the low groan at the back of his throat, a small pleading noise of want sets her skin on fire. 

"Fuck me."  She mewls. Trying to latch on his body like a kitten with it's dainty paws. 

He glides his clammy palms down her bum and grabs her thighs wrapping them around his waist. Not breaking the kiss but tasting ever dulcet corners of her mouth and creating heavenly noises. 

The next thing they know she's crawling back with the help of her bum to settle in the nest of pillows and he's fumbling with his belt buckle quite aggressively, she tugs the hem of his shirt down not satiated enough from having his lips on her and meanders her fingers in his hair to pull at them roughly in order to flush her chest up against his's.

"Never thought your sheets would have smelled other than sex." Because, genuinely. They smell that of fresh mint and roses. 

"So, you think of me doing dirty on this bed you're laying at the moment?" He asks mock and degradation evident in his tone, "D'ya get wet dreamin' 'bout me railin' ye' to death?" He grazes his teeth along her jaw and sucks at her earlobe counting in her silence. 

"Shut up." She gasps, probably from the abrupt press of his bulge against the inside of her thigh. 

"Make me then." He growls. Fisting the hem of her hoodie and pulls it over her head throwing it among his skinny jeans. Her head falls back and lips tremble from the effect of slap he landed at her outer thigh —-- she knows she can't shut him.

Though he knows that her single command and he'd be at his knees for her. 

When she clings to him for dear life and whimpers in his ear softly, his eyes widen in realization and he leans away to watch her expressions diffuse into manifold emotions. His nose scrunches up and he holds back his cooes for her. 

She's a subby. A cute one. 

Her eyes blink open to the sight of him out of his boxers and it waters her mouth —- her mind manipulating her to lunge forward and take his heavy member in her palm to give a good suck to his shiny crimson head. 

Down her throat. Nestle her nose against the trim patch of hair under his balls. 

"Like what y'see, doll?" He highers his chin quite smug about her staring and she hates him for that, "Pretty cocky for someone who likes staring at his enemy's tits." Her voice groggy. She wheezes a squeak through her nose when Harry pulls his shirt over his head revealing toned pecs and abs -- skin sewn with tats. 

Unfortunately, she doesn't get to stare at it for longer when that shirt comes wrapping around her eyes blocking her sight. 

He can never let her have nice things would he?

"Wanted to gag your mouth with it … but I'd rather love hearing you moan fo' daddy." He nips at her collarbones -- sucking it harshly to leave a prominent mark. His calloused hand rubs over her tummy smiling against her skin when she jolts and lets a little squeal slip. 

His cock drips precome at her tummy and her breath shudders into heavy pants when the tip of his cock dipped in her belly button nudging it. 

"Ha —- " He glides his sticky head down her happy trail and slips his large palm into her panties cupping her with his middle finger teasing her entrance, "Couldn't hear you!" He ducks down to put his ear near her lips and drums the pads of his digits against her cheek. 

She huffs and squirms for a second then moans breathily when he spanks the side of her hip leaving a sting, "Oh my god, daddy." His grin victorious and he lowers down to smudge his lips against her parted ones -- kissing her tongue and humming around it. 

She's somewhere it's hard to configure out, in between paradise and wonderland. 

"Tell me princess, what d'I do with you in your filthy dreams?" He grabs her jaw patching gentle pecks against her lips and he slops his finger into her throbbing pussy, "Fuckin' drippin' down ye' bum fo' me." She cries out trying to hook her thigh around him but he hisses slapping her cunt hardly -- turning her into a thrashing mess. She's trying hard to suppress the bitter-sweet sensation of her own body getting out of control and her glistening pussy lips flutter erratically creating sloppy noises. 

She squirts drenching the sheets underneath them and her panties. 

He slides his arm under her arching back pushing her up against his chest with a jerk, "Daddy's askin' you somethin'." He grits, propping his knee in between her thighs to rub it against her soaking centre. 

She gulps, licking her dry lips, "You–your rings … ah!" Her whimpers are muffled against his chest and he twists his thumb in tight circles to smear her wetness from her slit to clitoris, "What 'bout them, doll?" 

How does she tell him she liked what he did earlier. 

"Daddy, please … " She whines blindly searching for his face but he grips her wrists in his one hand and groans, "How's daddy gonna make you feel good when you don't tell him, pet?" He takes a kitten lick of her perky nipple. Teasing her areola with the tip of his cold tongue against her warm sweaty body —- he laps at it hungrily then creates a suckling noises, the noises, his slobbery tongue on her body, his fingers curled inside her pussy and the thick humidity is too overwhelming, she feels like fainting. 

She wants him, inside her needy pussy. 

She can't take the teasing anymore. 

"Spanking! I – I liked it when you did it, please." He kisses her nipple for the last time before smashing his mouth against her's in a fervent sinfulness and parts away with a smooching noise to sit back on his heels, "It wasn't that hard was it? Just a word and I could give you my whole world." The sincerity in his voice makes her want to hug him and kiss him for lifetime but for now he has other plans as he rips her panties away moaning obscenely gruff at the sight of her pussy weeping for him to pound his cock inside her, so ready and full of dripping honeyed wetness  for him. 

"Your safe word is clouds." He whispers in her ear. He knows her limits and her resistance but by any chance he'd cross it he'd never forgive himself, "What's it?" He asks and she says in wavering, "Clouds." 

"Atta girl." He pets her cheek. 

Her nail scratches the side of his hands that are pinning her down when he spits on her already damp cunt, a loud noise resonates along with her needy cries when his free hand adorned in jewels came spanking her pussy and her pelvis remains lifted in air bathing in the sting of metal and the throb rattling in her whole core. 

"This's what you wanted?" He kisses his teeth slapping her slick clit again and again, "To be roughed up by daddy, hmm." She bobs her head squirming and wriggling. Her words struck in her throat. 

"To be manhandled." He hums a growlish moan tasting his own fingers coated in her juices, "I'll show you what being manhandled really feels like." He promises her. She gasps a sweet yelp when he flips her over and throws her bum up.

His cock rubbing against her thigh and her heartbeat fastens, anticipating something, crimping the sheets in her fists and mewls into the mattress when he spanks her ass loving the way it jiggles stroking it afterwards to subside the burn down before landing another brutal one. 

She bolts her eyes shut throwing back her hips at him and he lays all the way over her back pushing her down on the bed, her cum trickling down the inside of her thigh, "Want daddy's cock?" He asks. Slicking the head of his prick up and down her asshole and slit. 

When she nods vigorously he bumps it in furious circles against her swollen bundle of nerves, "Then beg fo' it," He says intimidatingly and she doesn't waste a second before blabbering shamelessly. 

"Daddy … please I want your massive cock inside me, all of it." In her entire lifetime -- she never once uttered these kind of words. 

His heart mushes into a puddle seeing her a babbling mess and grabby hands for him, he kisses her gently speaking to her with foremost affectionate, "shh, shh moppet. You could have it anytime you want it, daddy's g'na fill you to rim with his cum and make you keep it there for hours with his prick still snug inside your little pussy, just made for him, c'mere...yeah just like that." He lays her back gently that her front is facing him now and wraps his hand around her calve raising it and pushing it against her chest firmly.

A series of pornographic moans and whimpers echoes in his bedroom when he seathes inside her slowly stretching her out in by inch leaving a burn behind her pulsating walls, their breath laboured breaths mingling, "Fuck you're so warm baby —-- hugging daddy's cock so good." He whines looking down where they're connected and knotted. His stomach twists and turns, his hips stiffens and he resists from pushing inside her when she's not ready but her milking him with her wetness isn't doing him any mercy too. 

She gropes his ass, nudging him to move and their teeths clanks, temples falls against eachother and lips whisper prayers of their unrequited love when he pulls all the way back to pound back inside her roughly. 

"You're daddy's good girl, making him feel so good. I want to keep you to myself. all of you and cherish you, make love to you, w'na mark you however I want." He groans eyes rolling back under his closed lids grinding his hips against her's in rhythmic pleasuring motions to give her clit stimulations and she cries out feeling another bursting orgasm bubbling in her tummy. 

"'M gonna cum, daddy!" She tugs at his roots and he drives more maniacly inside her, "Squirt around daddy's cock pet, so your pussy could swallow it deeper inside you." The headboard of bed hits against the wall vigorously and she digs her heels deeper into the dimples at his back moaning at the top of her lungs when she gushes all over his dick making more squelching, soapy, dirty noises of him raming inside her. 

She desires for more. 

She has become one little insatiable thing. 

His balls smacks against her bum and his thursts turn faster to chase his high, "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He curses nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck and keeps his hand around his throat with the slight pressure of claimation. 

"Come fo' me again." He spanks her ass and she clamps shut down at him pushing him to the edge of ecstasy, "Squeezing me so tight -- gimme more, I know you can princess." Her legs tremble around his waist when she crampies around him and his cock's head strokes against her sweet spot doing wonders to just topple her off real quick. 

"Daddy!" She feels floaty and foggy head coming on his cock for the many times she has forgotten. Her mind blocking out even the weak shuddering whimpers and beaten moans of Harry as he reaches his orgasm unloading inside her -- his cum sticking thickly to her walls and some of it oozing outside of her pussy hole but he pumps it back with lazy strokes. 

He lifts his smushed face from the dip of her neck, his own curls sweaty against the nape of his neck and he smoothes his palms down her sides to calm her, his lips brushing featherly against the corner of her mouth as she keeps on blabbering something. 

When he tries to pull out gently she cries out pawing at his shoulders, "Daddy no!" He caresses her sweaty hair back and gets rid of her blindfold, pecking her nose sweetly. 

He wants to take care of her. He yearned to have her like this for years. He has to bring her back from her sub-space before it's too late. 

"It's no daddy anymore, petal. I'll crush you in this position — " Carefully he tries to retreat but stop when she says in a very dejected feeble voice, bottom lip wobbling and tears springing at the corners of her eyes, "You don't want me too?" OH NO. This's what Harry was afraid about. A breakdown. He saw the storm coming but didn't know it could be this worst right when she's in her sub-space. 

His face pales at that. His state in frenzy and panic. 

"No bubba. I want you my precious girl -- s'just you're gonna get tired like this, hmm. 'N I have so much to show you and make you meet new people -- couldn't have me baby walkin' on her wobbly legs for whole day could I?" He cups her cheeks tenderly and smiles down at her warmly smothering her in devoted kisses. 

"Promise, daddy?" She sniffles staring up at him with doe innocent eyes and he shakes his head, "Harry sweet angel, come back to me moppet." He keeps his gaze locked with her's, gliding his thumb delicately against her cheeks and seals his promise with a kiss. 

"Promise." 

She lets him pull out and he shushes her wrecked whimpers with his lips. Falling to side with a large puff of breather and embraces her with his arm slinged around her shoulders protectively and she hides her face in his chest, mumbling incoherent things and he tries to stay with her emotionally and physically much as possible -- assuring her and soothing her with his sweet nothings. 

"Harry." She whispers softly and his ears perks up at that looking down at her with most loving eyes, "Hi baby." He giggles quietly kissing the tip of her nose and she sniffs cuddling into him. 

"Sorry —- " He shakes his head pinching her chin to make her look up. 

"You don't have to darling -- s'okay, everything's alright." After, making sure she's okay and giving her million re-assurances because he loves to he cleaned her with a damp wash rag. 

"Such a pretty babe." He makes her blush treating her as if she's a china glass doll who'd break at his slightest poke and showers her in praises and kisses because dunno who got her self-esteem and confidence like that but that person sure needs to get punched in their face. 

"Did I hurt you?" He asks tenderly applying a thin layer of cream on her red imprints. She shakes her intervining her fingers into his's one by one and kisses his knuckle, "No." 

"Good." He chuckles as if he was holding his breath. 

"How bout you take a lil nap and I see if I could bring us some brekkie, hmm?" He's gonna break his own rule. Taking food from mess area to your rooms and taking long showers was never allowed, having lights on after 12 because of the risk of attacks. 

"'M not hungry, please stay." Her eyes half open and her face buried into his scented pillow, "Dunno. But to me you look like y'could faint any time soon." He says sternly pulling a snugly clean duvet over her body. 

"Okie but come back quick." 

"Don't worry. In a snap I'll be infront of you." 

//

It's her fourth day here. She came out of his room to socialize just a day before and she realized from the nasty glowers thrown her way that not a single person likes her. 

But it felt like spending a lifespan with Harry. To fill the emptiness of all those moments of their childhood together they lost once after the war. 

She got to know he's the best cuddler and likes to be a small spoon, she loves to jetpack him. He seems rather scary and is scary when he's commanding people off -- they wouldn't dare but to speak a word over him but he's this big softie Y/N likes to squish in their privacy. 

He got her glasses fixed and put them over her nose with a mishevious kiss, she was unable to not to grin when he murmered against her lips, "Now you could punch me with your glasses on." 

"Seems like I don't have to do that anymore." She shrugged squealing afterwards when he threw her over his shoulder tickling her till all she coul see was him and stars. 

It was all going on track until now when she was passing through the lobby to go to Harry who's practicing out in field, "What are you doing here Alex?" She asks angrily grabbing his arm and he tells her feeling relieved she's okay, "I'm here to take you back." 

"But they don't want me back." She grits, he catches her wrist pleading her sadly, "We want you back -- Nia waits for you daily." Nia is his five years daughter. 

"I know that … but — " How she's gonna tell him she's in love with one person they despise with their whole hearts. 

"But what — "

"Alex!!" He was in the midst when she sees a bullet approaching his way from the side of his shoulder and screeches loudly pushing him aside, the bullet makes it's home in her chest. 

It was fired from Harry's gun with his own hands that were loving on her an hour ago. Life drains out of his body and he feels sickness approaching to split his throat, knees turning weak as he stares his shaking hand in horror. 

Before, he could do anything another bullet hits Y/N in shoulder knocking her to floor and this time it was one of his people, the shot was fired on instinct. 

"Put your gun down!!" He shouts at him shoving him away with a single forceful push and strides towards where the love of his life's laying in a pool of blood. 

He pulls his hair maniacly, falling to his knees and pulls her up in his lap cradling her head gently to press his lips against her forehead, "No,no,no,no baby." He sobs wiping his tears away harshly to see her properly. 

"Ouch. It actually hurts." She gives him a frail smile raising her shaky hand to cup his cheek. 

Will it hurt? 

You'll get to know after taking one. 

He wishes he could takes his words back. 

"You'll be fine, you're okay, 'm so so sorry moppet. Didn't-- didn't know y'were standing behind him, bu –-- but s'...s'okay yeah —-- call the doctor!! Why nobody has called him yet!!!" His scream thunders aggressively as everyone watches  their commander this defenceless and vulnerable infront of them for the first time in shock. 

"It's not your fault, okay?" She manages to speak groaning and eyes rolling back from pain residing in her bones torturesly, he cries out like a wounded puppy patting her cheek to keep her awake, "Please stay with me baby, please." Her chest tightens. His chest tightens from the fear of loosing her and he stands up carrying her bridal style tumbling his way on wobbly legs towards the medical ward in the building. 

His tears shiny droplets on her skin and she nuzzles into his fragrance for the last time. 

"There was no happy ending to this," She murmurs. Any, sign of life fading from inside her and replacing her eyes with stoness.

He brings her closer to himself, "hey, hey now none of that -- you're not leaving. 'M not letting you leave." He kicks open the door and lays her limp body on the stretcher. Snapping his head outrageously in every direction to find any doctor but none and drags his palms down his teary face.

He couldn't stop crying.

He's loosing the sunlight of his bleak life he must protect her at all costs.

But, life's prize is something that would have him selling all of what he had worked for and still he'd be unable to even bring her back from cold dark earth.

"Shit. Shit ---– I'll patch you up myself. I know how to take a bullet out — " He creates a ruckus around to collect stuff, "Harry! Harry! listen to me." but her hollow anguish calls for him breaks him at last. 

"How about you spend these last few minutes with me because 'm really 'bout to die commander." She tries to keep her anxious voice cheery but fails drastically coughing blood, "Don't say that baby -- I just got you, don't leave me, don't make me hate myself again." Sad tears trickles down her cheeks and he feels like fainting imagining the pain, agony and fear she's suffering from. 

She's hating to leave him.

"Maybe in afterlife, we could have a nice homely house, long warm baths and two smol kittens —- and oh I forgive you for kidnapping my cat." She admires him for the last time wiping his tears away and tries to lift his head that's lowered into shame. 

She's so fond of him at the moment.

She gulps, trying to gasp for oxygen feeling her heartbeat drop to zero, pleading him, "Tell me you love me before I go." His bloodshot eyes snap to her's and his chest heaves ruggedly with heartbreaking sobs -- his words full of sorrow tasting the bitterness of goodbye on her lips streaking away the blood on her mouth. 

"I love you so much, baby. Never stopped. Never will." She cries at last kissing him back with all the blood she has left pumping to her heart and tries to exchange the words but it was too late before she lost it all -- cold in his loving embrace. 

"Stay…." He begs praying like he did never before. 

"Y/N!!" He screams trying to shake her alive and hugs his angel to himself with mournful wails. 

Everyone standing outside the room knows that they'll never see this Harry again. 

[thoughtsfromnyc]

Suck it Up: The Problem With White Woman Tears

“She said you insulted her. You made her cry. Don’t you feel ashamed? Is this how we raised you?” 

— Were my aunt’s words, after a distant relative told her that I called her overweight, and suggested she lose a couple pounds so people wouldn’t ask if she was pregnant. 

Of course, I hadn’t said any of those things. I was confused as to why my aunt thought I did. But when I tried explaining what I had actually said and how our relative had blown things entirely out of proportion, she told me (in less kind words) to shut up. She spoke over me and wouldn’t let me defend myself. I was in trouble for the rest of the day, most of which I spent crying because I felt so guilty. I didn’t want our relative to think I thought she was ugly and needed to change, and I didn’t want people in our family to think so lowly of me.

I was, like, nine. I didn’t know what the feeling was, but I can identify it now; I felt silenced. My voice, as small and insecure as it was, felt like it wasn’t being heard. Events like this one would keep happening, until eventually I just stopped talking to my family. If we barely had any conversations, they couldn't get offended, right? And I wouldn't get in trouble for things I didn’t say. I knew what was and wasn’t a safe space, and quickly identified that my family wasn’t one. I couldn't speak up about things that bothered me without someone pointing me out as the bad guy, and I couldn't call out their problematic behavior because no one would listen. It was easier to remain silent than deal with the aftermath of speaking up. 

Though this specific incident happened within my family, the weaponization of tears/emotions (specifically by white women) is an issue prevalent in our society. Its capable of causing disasters such as the murder + brutal torture of Emmett Till, who was only 14 when he became a catalyst for the civil rights movement. They’re the reason 35 city blocks were burned down in the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921. White people have called the police on black people for waiting in a Starbucks, for selling bottled water, for using the private pool in the gated community that they live in. This weaponization of fear + helplessness is particularly effective on POC due to their villainification in the media. Studies have shown that when people see a black man they perceive him as larger, more aggressive, and potentially more harmful than a white person. Because POC are always the one causing conflict, their voices are silenced and any explanations they could come up with are brushed aside. 

More often than not, this is caused by white women. White women have the unfortunate tendency to believe that because they’re part of an oppressed group, they can’t be the oppressor too. But let’s not forget that 53% of white women voted for Trumplethinskin in 2016! White women are experts at making themselves the victims, at silencing the voices of POC who did all of the labor and get none of the reward. White men often get blamed for everything, and while that is completely warranted, white women are the ones who support them. They’re the ones hiding behind white men and whispering malicious things in their ears. They’re the ones supporting racists and then turning around and demanding that WOC band together with them. White women hold more power than they’re willing to admit. They are women, yes, but they are still white. And their tears are notoriously dangerous for POC. All white women need to do is bring out the tears, and every man in the vicinity will feel obligated to “protect” this poor, fragile woman. There’s no doubt that she’s telling the truth. There’s no chance to be heard when you’re going up against a white woman's accusations. No matter how we conduct ourselves, we are seen as the aggressors. 

I’ve told you how harmful that kind of environment is. I don’t even feel safe around my own family. Society has set the precedent that white women are to always be believed, which in turn creates a dangerous environment where POC can’t even speak up for themselves, because the white woman might feel targeted and get emotional. POC run the risk of getting fired, being ostracized, and possibly being forced to apologize, because they’re the one who hurt her feelings. Part of this stems from how society views the white female. They are the symbol of femininity, or as New York Times best-selling author and speaker Luvvie Ajayi Jones phrases it, the prototype of womanhood. WOC are never seen as fragile/delicate, so they can never be the one in need of help. They’re never the damsel in distress, which allows white women to use this trope to their advantage as much as they want. The moment a white woman gets emotional all attention is turned to her and WOC are shoved aside in favor of accommodating and pampering the white woman. Eventually, WOC will get tired. They won’t bother speaking up when they were wronged. It's an effective way to rob POC of their voices while voiding white women of any accountability. 

But yeah, go sisterhood, or whatever. 

I don’t believe in giving white women the benefit of the doubt. 

The problem won't go away until white women start holding themselves accountable. Call out each other's bullshit. Call out your own bullshit. Do the research, work on bettering yourself and the people around you, don’t expect WOC to do the labor for you. And stop crying when WOC call you out. Take the advice and fix it. It is not the responsibility of WOC to police their tones so white women can feel comfortable. 

It’s certainly not an easy fix. But it starts with white women making a conscious effort to change.

[drwcn]

CQL!AU: Everyone is an orphan except Wei Wuxian, and the Twin Jades are dark practitioners. Needless to say, that changes things. (canon what canon) 

Master Post

~

[1-3]

[1] Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan were the ones who died early. Wei Changze returned to Lotus Pier to become the guardian and regent of his best friend’s son and heir. 

Lotus Pier was black and white. Lifeless. 

That was the first thought that crossed Cangse Sanren’s mind when she and Wei Changze docked at the port, swords in hand, and their little son in toll. 

The people mourned. Posts were temporarily closed, the market suspended. Windows and doors of their bustling riverside town were firmly shut, with white and black drapes hanging from its sills and fluttering in the wind. 

Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan were dead. Two young cultivators, parents, taken from this world too young, gone before their time. 

“A-Ying, come child,” Cangse extended a hand to the boy who glanced around at the unfamiliar place with timid curiosity. 

“A-niang, what’s going on?” 

“No questions. You must behave yourself today.” Cangse brought her son closer to her, watching her husband’s usually smiling, gentle face pull taut into a mask that betrayed none of the grief he felt underneath. He held himself taller today, shoulders pulled back, spine rod-straight and jaws clenched. She’d forgotten, after all these wonderful years of travelling the world with their family, that this place was once his home. 

“Er’shixiong,” a man greeted them at the pier, flanked by a party of younger Jiang disciples, all appropriately garbed with white sashes around their waist. “Cangse-daozhang.” 

They had spoken in depth about returning. Cangse knew there was nothing she could do to stop him; Changze’s devotion to Jiang Fengmian ran deeper than she understood. It was never herself that Yu Ziyuan should’ve resented; though however misplaced Madam Yu’s jealousy had been, it was a moot point now.  

Chang’ge, I will not ask you to choose between your love for him and your promise to me. If Lotus Pier is where you wish to go, I will go with you. I cannot promise however that I will always stay. That — is not my nature. 

Thank you, Wumei*. I understand. 

They found Jiang Wanyin, the little lord, and his sister Jiang Yanli, in their mourning robes, kneeling and crying before their parents’ funeral altar.  

Wei Changze sunk to his knees beside them, and folded his body until his forehead hit the ground. “Shixiong,” he spoke to the spirits. “I’ve come back.” 

“Who are you?!” The boy Jiang Cheng, five-years-old and hurting, blurted out rudely through his tears. His sister held him from behind and gave a trembling nod of deference to the older man. 

“Wei-shishu.”  

Beside her, clinging to her skirt, Wei Ying looked up and asked quietly, “A-niang, are we going to stay?” 

Cangse Sanren, the favoured fifth pupil of Baoshan Sanren herself, smiled down quietly at her only child and smoothed back his hair. “Yes, A-Ying we will. Lotus Pier is home now.” 

(JC 5 yro; WWX 5 yro; JYL 8 yro)

[2] When Qingheng-jun’s respected mentor died - murdered - he made a very different choice. He turned his back on his clan and his responsibilities, and escaped into the wild with the woman he loved. They were just an ordinary family, living away from the chaos in a paradise of their own. But even Eden eventually falls, and nothing gold ever stays... 

Take A-Huan and A-Zhan and go! Do not stop until you are safe. Do not turn around. Do not come back. 

Shijie! You’re injured! Let me help you - 

Zhao Ming! Zhao Zhuliu, you listen to me: their names, Lan Xichen for the older, and Lan Wangji for the younger. It’s what their father and I wanted for them. 

Shijie - jiejie - 

Now go! Go! 

A-Niang, come with us! A-Niang, don’t go!! A-Niang!!! 

The forest burned like the autumn sun at dusk descending from the sky, red and golden and glorious. A single figure stood amongst the flames, corpses littered at her feet. Bichen fell from her grip, barely making a sound as it landed against dampened earth, soaked with Lan blood.  Those who fought her were dead, but she feared that she did not have long either.

“Rong-gege,” Qiu Baiti collapsed onto her hands and dragged her body towards the man who lay still amongst the carnage, arrows piercing his front, his sword Shuoyue still clutched tight in his left hand. 

Lifeless eyes remained open, as though he could not rest. 

“Rong-gege,” Baiti called helplessly, crawling to him and laying her head down against his chest. There used to be a heartbeat there, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost hear it again. “Wait, don’t go without me...” 

She was so tired and bled from so many places. It was not until a sharp cry and a familiar face descended from the sky that Qiu Baiti realized the inferno which surrounded her was not yet hell. 

"Qiu-jiejie!" Cangse rushed forth, almost tripping over the corpse of a dead Lan disciple in her haste. “Lan-da’ge, he -” A horrified gasp drowned the rest of her words. 

“Cangse...you’re here...” 

Cangse gathered her bosom sister into her arms and immediately drew upon a torrent of spiritual energy from her core, channeling them into her fingertips to heal her friend. She could tell that whatever combat Qiu Baiti had been through, it had already taken the little life inside her, and now hers was following it to the other side.   

“Hold on, I can save you - hold on -”

“Cangse - Cang - stop, it’s too late.” Qiu Baiti lay limp there.  

Death, it drew near, but she was ready. She closed her eyes as a slip of tear escaped beneath her lashes. "I did this to him, to all of them... if I hadn't...it’s all my fault. I was the one they wanted; he was just trying to protect me. A-Huan, A-Zhan...."

Trembling and in near hysterics, Cangse sobbed, “No, don’t say that! Where are the boys?” 

“Safe. A-Ming has them...you mustn’t tell anyone. Not anyone, promise me. Not even Lan Qiren. Especially Lan Qiren... Rong-gege trusts his brother, but I - I - promise me - promise -” Qiu Baiti gasped for breath, gurgling blood in her throat with each laboured attempt. 

“Qiu-jiejie, please - don’t - I - I promise.” 

“Good...Cangse...” Qiu Baiti clutched her hand and smiled, a crimson wound cutting across her pale, beautiful face. “Good.” 

And then she died, with the red of the forest flames still in her eyes. 

Cangse held her friend - dear, damned, dead - and allowed a scream to tear through herself. From the depth of her grief, she released a pulse of unrestrained spiritual energy that rippled through the dense woods as though the storm of her anguish could not be contained. And like a measly candle-light assaulted by the winter wind, the forest fire was extinguished in an instant. 

The sun was gone, and the night was dark.  All was quiet, but there was no peace to be found. 

 Cangse buried Lan Cenrong and Qiu Baiti in two unmarked graves side by side beneath a tall oak tree. She sifted through the bodies and the grime and collected the spiritual weapons they left behind — Shuoyue, Bichen, Liebing (cracked in two places) and the strings of Qiu Baiti’s shattered guqin — and stored them away in her qiankun pouch. She hoped one day that she would find Zhao Zhuliu and the sons Lan Cenrong and Qiu Baiti had left behind, and return these items to their rightful owners. 

It was not until three years later, not too far from her shifu Baoshan’s sacred temple nestled in the snowy mountain peak, where Jiang Yanli had been brought to strengthen her health and train as Cangse’s direct disciple, that Cangse perchance came across Zhao Ming again. 

He was accompanied by two youngsters, two beautiful jade-like children who called him jiufu. Cangse was not surprised in the least to find that both of them have learned the technique for which their mother and jiujiu were hunted: the core-melting hand. 

(LXC 9, LWJ 6 -> LXC 12, LWJ 9 ) 

[3] They called her “The Little Queen”. Wen Qing never wanted to be Sect Master, or Deputy Sect Master, or Regent Sect Master. She just wanted to live quietly with A-Ning and Wen-popo and study the art of healing that her parents practiced. But alas, life had other plans. 

Wen Qing was a month short of her tenth birthday when her life changed forever. 

Wen Ruohan, her father’s older cousin, who’d always been close with her family, had come to visit Dafan. Wen-bobo didn’t have siblings, and her father Wen Ruotian was as close as a brother to him, more than any other Wen descendent of their time. 

Wen Qing liked Wen Ruohan well. He was doting and found her intelligent. Her parents chose the simple village life, but they often spent New Years and holy days at Nevernight at Sect Master Wen’s behest and invitation.  

When Wen Ruohan came to Dafan and told her folks that there was a piece of the Yin Iron inside the Stone Fairy, her father had been eager to help, though weary he was of those powers he could not understand. 

He’d been right to be afraid. 

The extraction had gone horribly wrong, and the rebound of dark energy had eviscerated all those near by, her mother, her father, and Wen Ruohan himself. It was by the skin of her teeth that Wen Qing managed to yank her baby brother Wen Ning out of the way. Then, without thinking, she caught the vile, wretched thing as it sailed through the air. It landed in the palm of her hands, and there she stood, regarded with fear and bewonderment from all those in witness as the cursed item, which burned the life out of cultivators much older and seasoned than her, quieted in her small hands. 

The Elders said she had...a nature affinity. For what, they could not say. 

Wen Qing was brought back to Nevernight and given the name Yuefan: to exceed mortality. Within days, the heavy crown of Sect Master of Qishan Wen was placed on her head. 

It was then that she learned that her Wen-bobo, with no inclination to marry and bind himself to another, did not leave behind a legitimate heir. His young sons, 4-year old Wen Xu and 2 year-old Wen Chao were born to him by women of ill repute.  They were kind, good boys, but they were infantile and illegitimate. Wen Qing felt for them, but she could not change their fate. So for the time being, she accepted what she had to. 

The adults did what they could for her, but there was no one in the cold, vast palace of Nevernight to mind her or nurture her. She stood alone upon the towers where the eternal flames, fuelled by Qishan Wen’s combined spiritual energy, burned in their iron brazier, and watched over the lush volcanic mountain range that was hers to govern and protect. Those beneath her - servants, disciples - feared her and her unknown powers. Those advising her - Elders, mentors - had their own agendas. In any case, they stopped seeing her as a child the minute she held the Yin Iron in her hands and lived to tell the tale. 

It was a secret, they told her. She must guard it well. 

The Chief Cultivator Jin Guangshan sent his ambassadors to congratulate her succession. Gusu’s Lan Qiren and Qinghe’s Nie Heqiu both arrived consecutively to pay their respects to their ten-year-old colleague and fellow Sect Master. 

There was a momentary rumble amongst the Wen Elders about whether Nie Heqiu’s older son Nie Mingjue would be a good match for her someday, but as he too was set to inherit, the idea was put aside as quickly as it was brought up. 

Then came Yunmeng’s regent Wei Changze, bringing along an entourage of Jiang disciples and a boy one year her junior, the son he conceived with the revered Cangse Sanren. 

Wei Wuxian. 

Wen Qing liked him enough. He was spontaneous, agreeable, and clever, and he found her aloofness fun to provoke. They would’ve both been satisfied with the arrangement had she not met Yunmeng Jiang’s young Jiang-zongzhu some years later, and had he not crossed paths with the vengeful and infamous Lan Wangji. 

But life, as the gods have planned it, must have its mysteries. 

(WQ 10, WWX 9) 

TBH?  

Note: 

Wumei - fifth sister, Wei Changze’s nickname for Cangse. 

Details of Cangse and Wei Changze’s name as well as Qingheng-jun and Madam Lan’s name can be found here .

jiufu 舅父 - maternal uncle, formal.  

[darkshrimpemotions]

I don't know who needs to hear this but you HAVE to deal with your trauma. It isn't your fault it happened but it IS your responsibility not to lash out and cause pain and harm to others because you're hurting and you haven't dealt with it. And you WILL do that if you don't deal with it.

This goes double, triple, quadruple for white cis women specifically, because white cis women are uniquely positioned to weaponize their pain and their tears against people of color and trans women. White men have always used your (our, because despite not being cis I do know I'm often perceived that way) tears as justification for heinous acts of violence, and still do today, and you KNOW THIS. You cannot claim you don't know this. And yet the number of times I've seen cis white women, in my own life and just in general, project their trauma in a way that contributes to dehumanization and violence toward men of color and trans women is frankly fucking ridiculous.

It happens every time a conversation about police brutality gets derailed with an anecdote about an encounter with a predatory Black man. It happens when TERFs lobby for laws that harm trans people in the interest of "protecting women." It happened not long ago on tiktok when a white woman used her tears and her platform to imply an Indigenous man was guilty of assault for not giving her the kind of relationship she wanted. And yeah, it's happening right now as people rush to concern troll about how Will Smith's single punch thrown at a man using his platform to mock Jada Pinkett Smith's chronic illness to millions is somehow an indicator that he might currently be or eventually become abusive toward his wife and kids.

Quite aside from the fact that this take completely misunderstands how abuse and abusers work, it contributes to racist narratives about Black men that I KNOW y'all are aware of. And contrary to what you may think, citing your own trauma as a source is not support for your argument. It's you projecting your trauma onto a Black man and his family in ways that literally get Black men killed. Stop it. Especially in this case if you are a white woman, STOP IT.

You don't get a free pass on the harm you do when you lash out indiscriminately, no matter how much pain you're in. You are not blameless for the way you contribute to violence and narratives that justify violence against marginalized people. Your whiteness and your cisness give you power and privilege whether you want to recognize it or not, and when you wield that power from a place of pain and fear you quite literally cost men of color and trans women their lives.

You live in a society that tells you that your comfort and feelings of safety are paramount. I'm here to tell you that your comfort is not as important as someone else's life. You are not entitled to feeling safe if it costs someone else's actual safety. If you can't feel safe in the presence of men of color and trans women, that's a YOU problem that YOU need to get therapy for. Full stop.

You have to deal with your pain or you WILL be the cause of someone else's.