#and for that reason most paintings and sculptures depicted him with a helmet in an attempt to hide it

[attichoney4u]

Anyone else wondering how Pericles' head might look under his iconic helmet?

[themilky-way]

like water {din djarin}

gif credit: no-droids

pairing: the mandalorian/din djarin x fem!reader

summary: when the one person he cares about is threatened, he lets himself indulge in the aftermath of defending them. 

warnings: some violence in the beginning, choking (not in the fun way), depictions of scratches, punches, and minor abrasions; the reader is hurt basically. oh and mando’s gun bc yeah❤️umm that’s it i think? nothing too horrible tho but if this thing triggers you, please don’t read !!

author’s note: not to be conceited or anything (is that even the right word for it lol?) but im super proud of how this turned out! requests are open btw for anyone who wishes to submit anything (if unsure, just ask which fandoms)!

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cyar’ika-> darling, sweetheart

nothing in that exact moment had made much sense. one minute the most precious thing to ever exist to him was snatched away, and the next his hands were gripping the treasure beneath his holster. his knuckles were lily-white at this point, holding the gun as hard as his body would allow him to without crushing underneath him, and the urge to cock it made him visibly shake. he’d been given a command, and out of all the merciless men in the filthy galaxy, he needed to follow it, so his weapon of preference stayed where it needed to. 

the meager specks of emotion that still lived within him betrayed his prominent composure, the view in front of him blocked by the sudden glaze of his eyes. the small drops of saltwater puddled together in his now hazy orbs, holding on until it was nearly impossible to stay put and then rivered down his cheeks. the cause? well, you.

you were filling up the mandalorian’s line of vision, his eyes darting between you and the bounty that had gone wrong. an alienated hand was wrapped around your innocent throat, your feeble hands wrapped around its wrist in a dumb attempt to break free. the ground you were roaming on before appeared to be never ending, and in the same way, the darkened sky absorbed you whole. vertigo was now in full effect; any quick movement caused you to shut your eyes tightly and hope to the maker you’d get through it. it took a few seconds for you to regain your balance, a sharp pain pinging around your neck forcing you to find it. you half expected to be back on the mud again, to have the man you had spent the past year flying around with pulling you to safety. instead, you found din frozen in place, an instinctive action rooted in the steel handle of his pistol. he wasn’t moving, too scared to blink as if you’d disappear if he did. 

perhaps you were; someone like you seemed too good to be true. in all actuality, it may be that you were a fever dream, a celestial that had come down from the sanctity of your home to finally rescue him from his burdens. amidst his frantic glances, he reminisced every second he’d spent with you since your unforeseen arrival, and that somehow worked for him. the gears in his brain started to turn again, and with every ounce of his strength, he pounced on the quarry and did what he should’ve done the instant you were taken from him. anger took over his worry, the effects illustrating themselves in a collage of mitted fists and blood. the pistol residing on din’s waist was useless compared to his hits; the softened position of his jawbone was locked firmly as a result of his gritted teeth and he was going to need more than your delicate hand on his shoulders to ground his senses. 

the mandalorian never expected to succumb to anyone, nor to feel remotely joyful upon hearing someone’s laugh. the idea of kindling a relationship was ludicrous, utterly impossible if only he weren’t bound to the chains of his creed. oftentimes, he wondered if someone would one day traverse his path and make him question every moral he’d been taught. din had dismissed the thought, as any other member of his intricate society would have, but the wondrous insight depicting a different lifestyle always lingered faintly in his mind. 

today, the very same visions behind his recurrent insomnia framed themselves in a frail art piece. din’s focus laid directly ahead, the fingers navigating the center controls as tight as they’d been on his gun. his eyes deserved to rest, perhaps take in the splashes of color nature was offering him, but he landed them on the same lovely sculpture adorning his cockpit. 

you were seated in the chair adjacent from the pilot’s, with your knees closely tucked to your chest. one large scrape designed itself on your leg-a dull reminder of the ordeal you were involved in hours earlier-with flakes of arid blood protecting the wound. bouncing off the skin of your throat were shades of red and purple, now properly mixing into a deeper complexion that’d require you to hide it for some time. besides the scattered nicks living on your face, and the other couple dozen on your arms and legs, the outcome wasn’t as terrible as the one your attacker received. it was a rule of thumb to not mess with a mandalorian, much less with the pretty little lady clutching his arm as if it were second nature. the foolest of fools wouldn’t even have done such a foul thing, and this particular creature came to know the punishment for harming what wasn’t rightfully his. 

it truly amazed him; the way you seemed to be so unphased by a traumatic circumstance. the woman beside him-the same one who couldn’t sleep unless a window was open-had endured pain, and the marks on her skin proved themselves in jagged indications of it. through the darkened screen of his visor, din could make out your hands neatly intertwined around your folded knees, your chin simultaneously resting on top. you’d been as observant as you always were, hardly missing his actions as he navigated his newfound family to a safe stop. sure, you were unaware of the loving term he considered of you and the baby, but it didn’t hurt to keep it a secret, right?

“hey.” it came out more hoarse than he intended it to, but the emotion behind it flowed out nonetheless. “you okay?”

not really. i don’t feel good. it was easy to say exactly that, to speak the truth, but it was even easier to lie. for the sake of his own worry, at most. your eyes were still glued to his armor, taking in the rough outline of where you imagined his skin would be underneath, or moreso the abstract idea of feeling it with your hands. reflections of your yearning came and went like the mandalorian’s missions, almost impulsively at times, and the curious, teasing tilts his helmet would bid you only encouraged that craving. much like now; the black “T” of his expressionless face leaned to the side, asking you to earnestly respond. “mm, yeah. ‘m kinda tired, though,” you mumbled.

you threw him a lie and he caught it. “don’t lie to me.” din swiveled his chair to accordingly match the peripheral of yours, his elbows coming to rest on top of his beskar-clad legs. “can you look at me?” he inquired softly. then, his intent fell on the slow shift of your head and how it turned to face him, your cheek settling on your unscathed knee. a breath fell from his lips at the doting admiration swimming in your stare. “there she is,” he confirmed with an upward curl of his lips. “is there anything i can do?” it was sincere; a genuine concern to accompany his question. you hummed in response, fearful to accidentally voice the confessions you hid from him. you blinked once, twice, until his question became a plea. “please, cyar’ika.”

reasonably, you were too busy exploring the shape of his helmet, permitting your creative imagination to paint images of the man next to you; so when your ears perceived his sudden name of endearment, there was nothing amongst the stars that you could’ve possibly denied him from. “you’ve never called me that before,” you smiled, all big and brilliant. 

“i’ve wanted to,” the man replied. what resembled ages of pent up stress released with a few curated words. his muscles relaxed, something he never believed to be attainable given his vigorous profession. “god, i’ve wanted to.” 

he followed it with a humble laugh. a sound so familiar and warm, so genuine that it empowered your grin to spread higher. “by all means, keep saying it.” now it was your turn to nervously giggle, and him who embraced the noise with everything he could. a mutual infatuation, so wonderfully obvious, yet it was refused acknowledgment. “i think there is something you can do, though.” silence advised you to continue, “can i sleep with you tonight?” 

the misguided pieces of your minds’, maybe even your souls’, reattached themselves that very same night. as the both of you slept, hands, calloused and smooth, intimately merged against the cushions of the warrior’s bed. tender kisses planted to your forehead left electricity in their wake, and the dark ambiance of his dwelling favored the entanglement of your tired bodies. 

“i wish i could see you, din,” you sighed. the manner in which it was expressed, full of sleep and everything akin, urged him to lift your weightless wrist to his lips. 

“you’ll get to one day, cyar’ika. for now just let me hold you, yeah?”

[ablogcalledrevenge]

Potential (A General Hux x Reader Insert Multi-Chapter Fic)

This chapter is rated M due to graphic depictions of violence.

Chapter Five

Dinner is absolutely delicious, you begrudgingly give them that. After months of being on a starship with limited supplies, it’s so nice to get real, extravagant food again. The wine is light and crisp, the meat juicy and tender, even the bread is perfect and flakey. You briefly contemplate sneaking some back to your room for later, or perhaps home to Hux. But it would be stale by the time it gets to him and the rich herb butter would probably send his taste buds into overdrive. As if reading your thoughts, the lady of the estate; Colonel Paru’s wife, asks about your husband.

“Oh he’s just fine Karin. I spoke to him early today. He’s hard at work as ever and apologizes again for having to miss this. But I’m sure there will be more times in the future. Goodness knows I’d come back for the food alone. I’m tempted to steal your chefs right from under you.” You tease with a pleasant smile. You note absently that this is the first time she’s asked about you. You’ve been at the estate two days already and this is the first time she’s talked about anything other than herself. That was very rude. It’s clear that while these more decorated officers may wish they were royalty, they certainly are not.

Everyone at the table has a good laugh and the talk turns to business. Admiral Ersawit spears a piece of meat, pointing it at you.

“I imagine your husband is hard at work setting up the new base. He doesn’t have time to lounge around like us old banthas.” He says with a rueful chuckle.

“Oh nonsense, you’re quite spry Admiral. Why, I could see you dancing about at 200 years old!” You grin, perhaps too sharply for response, before flushing from the joke. Colonel Paru laughs as well and drains his glass.

“Just remind your husband, when he reaches our age, to focus on the finer things in life. A man feels no stress when he’s surrounded by good food and good art.” He adds, gesturing to the beautiful paintings that surround you in the dining room. He wasn’t wrong, the art was good, but the rest of the estate’s decor left something to be desired. It seemed that Colonel Paru and his wife thought that having money meant you had to buy the most expensive things available and show them off in every way. So they had beautiful art and sculptures lining their hallways, but they had too many. The wallpaper was loud and garish and the molding was gilded, and caused glares if you walked past when sunlight came through the open windows. Each trip from room to room caused a headache and you were surprised to realize how much you missed the simple gray and black of the Finalizer. 

“You do have some stunning pieces Colonel. It’s quite the collection. I’m amazed at some of the rarer paintings you have.” You agree, adjusting the napkin on your lap. Your dress was mostly white and you’d hate to stain it.

“Thank you my Lady. It takes years to acquire this kind of collection but it’s well worth it, in the end. As for the rarer pieces”, here his voice dropped and everyone subconsciously leaned in, “if you know who to talk to, you can skip some of the lengthier processes. You’d be surprised what a few extra credits will get you.”

You wag your finger and tsk playfully at him, while his wife hits his forearm with little force and a tittering laugh. You were no expert on art but you knew Old Republic Nabooian folk paintings when you saw them. The cost of an original was worth far more than a Colonel made, even one that had been a Colonel for as long as he had. Not to mention, Naboo had made a conscious effort after the destruction of the Empire to get all their art back and placed in a historical museum. This proved your husband’s claim that certain members of the Council were skimming off the top. That’s the only way he could afford such singular pieces while avoiding any legal troubles. Stealing art may not have been corrupt but preventing the people of Naboo from having a fair chance to recieve their own work was just contemptible.

You look down at your lap to avoid giving away your anger. Your fists clench in the cloth napkin while your eyes switch back and forth from one side of your gown to the other. You hadn’t questioned why you chose the dress you did, but now it felt serendipitous. Your gown was mostly white and cream with simple long sleeves and little adornment. But there was one side that was pitch black, a dark splash normally unseen on you. It wasn’t that you disliked black but you often found yourself straying away from darker colors. For some reason, you felt like they didn’t belong to you yet. Considering what you were planning to do tonight, maybe it was fate to have chosen a dress like this. 

The sound of clinking glassware brings you back to the moment as droids bring out dessert. The cake was rich and chocolatey with a fine layer of cream and fruit. Oh, you were definitely finding their chef and bringing them to your home when this was all over. 

“I’m glad you’ve taken such an interest in the art we have here, Lady Hux. It’s so refreshing to speak to someone cultured. Present company included,” Karin says and the other women give smug chuckles, “Perhaps if you’re good, I’ll send you a piece for your anniversary to the General. Though I can’t imagine where you’d put fine art on a starship. They’re all so dull and grey. You have my pity being surrounded by such coldness.”

“Not at all Karin, I find the aesthetics of a starship to be quite striking in their simpleness. True, most things are various shades of silver or black, but it all looks so streamlined and impressive that way. The fact that I stand out beautifully while wearing my more colorful gowns is just a coincidence.” You mention with a casual air that the other women see through quickly, as you intended. 

“Well of course! Your wardrobe is known throughout the galaxy. You have such exquisite pieces.” A dark skinned woman says, her hair braiding into an odd series of loops on top of her head. She gave you her name, as did the other men and women at the table, but they were not important so you forgot them. You cover your cheeks with your hands in a fake display of bashful modesty and the conversation spins again.

When droids finally clear away all the plates, Colonel Paru stands and announces to the various other people at the table that he has after-dinner drinks prepared in his study.  Your small party follows him there, chatting about the newest designers to hit Coruscant and some Captain who did remarkably well during a training exercise. As you walk you take note of any outward signs of security; cameras in the corners, panels on the walls, unusual patches of paint or suspiciously placed statues. Overall, it seems that the estate is moderately protected. There is, and will be, footage of you walking to and from your room, but that’s what you want.

The study is a circular room with high ceilings and ornate wooden bookshelves that go all the way to the top. They are filled with ancient texts and newer manuals, interspersed with knick-knacks and anthropological finds. You let your fingers dance across the spines, curving over a skull and pushing away dust from a plaque. A droid starts to prepare cocktails while the Colonel gives the other men cigars. Soon the room was full of smoke and good humor, though you desperately wish the grand fireplace was a window, as it was getting ridiculously stuffy. Still, you produce a cigarra from your purse and join everyone in smoking and drinking.

“Just a splash, I’m not as young as I used to be and I’d like to make it to my room before I fall asleep.” Admiral Ersawit says to the droid while the other men toss him knowing glances and laughter. He sips his cordial with a wink and he quickly sends a message on his data pad. You give a look of confusion to Karin but she doesn’t answer.

A minute or so pass as the group debates something trivial. Your mind is wandering so you aren’t sure. You’re thinking about your plan, going over it in your mind. It’s a good thing Kylo Ren is not here or you’d surely be caught. But as far as you know, he and his knights are the only Force users on your side of the war. You let your mind wander around Kylo Ren and his height and breadth, wonder about what his face looks like. Then it swims to your husband, stark and divine, and you imagine them on the bridge together; they must make an intimidating pair and you wish desperately to see it someday.

Then the door to the study opens and you startle back to the present. A helmeted guard enters with a truly shocking gift. Walking into the room, he leads a naked woman on a leash towards the Admiral. The old man smiles down at her and pets her head, as if she’s a simple dog. Then he lifts his feet and she shuffles on her knees to become his footrest. You are sure your face is one of horror. This is not only a show of extreme wealth but also one of power.

“I don’t blame you for wanting just a bit, what a beautiful specimen.” One of the other officers says, eyeing the kneeling woman like a luscious piece of fruit. Ersawit preens and fists the leash, accidentally choking his slave momentarily. She makes a strange gurgling noise and but otherwise says nothing. Then you notice the long scar across her neck and your meal threatens to come back up. Schooling your face, you take a long drag of your cigarra.

“Admiral, I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance, but how is it that you own a pleasure slave? The Empire dismantled most of the Hutt markets years ago. The First Order doesn’t align itself with that practice.” You say, keeping your voice unsure and confused, as opposed to righteously angry. All of the men, and a few of the women, give you pitying looks.

“Quite right Lady Hux, the Empire and Order has banned slavery throughout the galaxy. Not completely removed it, just banned it. The Hutt markets still exist if one knows where to look. I’ve served a very long time in this military and I figure I deserve a nice reward for all my hard work. Laws and morals be damned.” He explains without a hint of remorse. You tilt your head as if in concession.

“My, how clever you are. Quite right too! Why shouldn’t you enjoy all the pleasures of the galaxy? You’ve been such a monumental figure within the Empire and First Order, you deserve a sweet little thing to take care of you at night.” You say, raising your glass in a toast. Everyone joins you with hearty agreement and your hate for them makes the brandy in your hand taste sour. After a few more minutes of this you down your drink and stand, announcing you’re tired and leaving the study. All you want to do is talk to your husband and go to sleep.

Stars, but you hate them all, hate their arrogance and greed. Hate their condescension and hubris. They thought they were above everyone, above you, above your husband. They were foolish and lazy. They couldn’t see the true brilliance Hux had, the passion you had for his success. They all had so much power and they just lounged around in their ugly houses with their expensive art and mistreated servants, wasting it. You detest waste and it was about time that you clean up.

You nod at your Stormtrooper guards as you come up to your room. You enter the little antechamber; the pleasant smile you wore all through dinner dropping. Kicking off your heels, you collapse onto the luxurious bed in your gown. While you didn’t like much in this ridiculous house, the mattress under you was amazing. The mattress you had on the Finalizer was a standard one, perfectly average in every way. But your husband often complained of his back hurting, so maybe it was time you coaxed him into something new. He was the General of the fleet, he deserved a better night’s sleep.

It’s then that your datapad beeps, your husband calling you. Speak of the devil, indeed. Sitting up against a large pillow, you smooth down your hair and open the holo call, Hux’s face suddenly in front of you. The last vestige of nervous tension leaves you at the sight of his tired, but beautiful face. He’s sitting in what appears to be his office chair and based on the time difference, you’re both unsurprised and angry that he is still working.

“Hello darling. How are you?” You ask, taking in his bitten lips and dark circles. He looks annoyed and exhausted, which is pretty much his normal state of being, but you still worry.

“I’m alright my dear. Work is stressful as ever, but getting everything in place for the new base is proving more of a headache than I thought. I don’t remember Starkiller having this much red tape. Then again, I spent that time running on too much caf and stims, so perhaps there was. I also didn’t have to deal with Kylo Ren breathing down my neck the last time. He was on a mission during most of Starkiller’s construction but for some reason he’s taken to contributing now. It would be almost endearing if he weren’t so annoying. I haven’t been sleeping well either but that’s nothing to do with you.” He says, rubbing at his eyes in a rare show of weakness. It’s very touching.

“Are you sure? Are you sure it’s not because I’m not that to kiss you goodnight?” You tease, feeling your heart pound in an unusual way. You’re teasing him for his neediness while ignoring the line of pillows you’ve set up against your side to mimic his body. You don’t acknowledge the hypocrisy or the underlying affection. You and Hux may have come to a pleasant understanding but you still enjoyed spending time apart more than spending time together. That was the story you were sticking with.

Hux gives you a weak glare before a sound catches his attention and he looks away from you. He leans out of frame and returns holding Millie. Her flat face looks at you in interest, her fluffy tail swishing in front of your husband’s nose.

“Hello sweetheart. I miss you. Have you been behaving while I’m gone?” You ask your tooka, completely unapologetic in your excitement. Hux pets at a spot behind her ear and the purring is very audible. Despite Millie being a gift from him, you had been worried they wouldn’t get along. You’re relieved to see that in your absence they’ve become fast friends.

“She’s doing just well. I think she misses you too. Instead of sleeping on the couch or at the foot of the bed like she always does, she’s taken to sleeping on your side. As for her behavior; I had to send Messy in for repairs. She chased him into a wall the other day.” He explains with chagrin. As much as you feel bad for your mouse droid, you can’t help but laugh at the image that represents.

“Hopefully you punished her and she learns her lesson,” You say seriously, your lips fighting back a smile, “Try not to let Lord Ren bother you darling, I think it’s a good thing that he wants to be involved. I’m sure he has some valuable insight, in some capacity. I know you scoff at the Force, but you can’t deny that he wields power. Plus if you’re relaxed, I doubt you’ll be as annoyed by him.” Your husband nods and Millie jumps off his lap. You stretch out the kinks in your neck while he gives you a calculating stare. The mood changes and a shiver goes down your spine. 

“It’s late (Y/N), you should get ready for bed. Why don’t you tell me your evening plans?” He murmurs, leaning back in his chair and resting his fingers against his lips. Your husband’s gaze has always been intense and tonight is no different. It lights a fire within you and you quietly breathe out in anticipation.

“Yes, it is late. I should probably get into my sleep clothes.” You say slowly, carefully getting off the bed and placing the datapad upright to face you. The line between you was private and encrypted but you might as well insure that anyone who could possibly be watching will turn the feed off out of modesty.

You take off your jewelry with careful hands, placing it in a dish on the vanity. His eyes track your movement and you feel a rush of heady power. Your hands reach for your silver belt and you finally speak; the poison of your plans infecting the air around you. As you remove each item of clothing, you explain your thoughts to your husband so far away. Normally you’d undress perfunctorily, but right now, for him, you put on a show. Each layer discarded is another layer of your cruelty and by the end you are naked and he is palming himself through his trousers.

You’re about to get back on the bed and join him, when a knock sounds at the outer door. You curse and grab a large towel, your husband continuing his movements lazily. You glide out of your bedroom into the small anteroom and open the door to your hostess.

“Karin, hello! You caught me just as I was about to get into the shower.” You say breathlessly, your face probably still pink. She smiles and shakes her head.

“No worries, I just wanted to say goodnight and make sure you had everything you needed before turning in. I’ll be getting into bed soon too. Jhon is still entertaining in his study but he always comes to bed after me. Don’t be alarmed if you hear rowdiness later, that’s probably him and the others.” She says with an exasperated grin. You smile in return but your eyes are bright with interest. How thoughtful of Colonel Paru to provide the perfect spot for his demise.

“I’m fine Karin, the room is lovely and as of right now, there’s nothing I need. I’ll see you in the morning. If breakfast is as delicious as dinner, I know I’ll be up early.” You joke, before Karin waves goodbye and you shut the door. Returning back to your bedroom, Hux sits poised and ready on the other side of his screen. You give him a wicked grin and get on the bed to finish what you started. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time passes in the liquid way it always does after an orgasm and it’s only when the chronometer chimes that you get out of bed.

You grab the special garment bag from your suitcase and quickly get dressed. The black jumpsuit and boots are slightly too big but that will only aid in your story. The suit has an attached hip pack and you make sure the blaster inside is charged before zipping it up. You put your hair up and grab the small black helmet. Then you turn on the shower in the refresher, steam quickly filling the small room. Heading over the windows, you open them slowly, careful not to make a sound. You can’t hear much over the shower since you left the door open, but better safe than sorry.

It had rained earlier in the day and there was a patch of mud under your window. There was also an old fashioned trellis covered in vines. Holding your breath and praying that the thin wood could hold your weight, you descend down the side. It is dark all around you, no lights or cameras pointing towards your window.

You step down into the mud, making sure your feet are facing the right way. You need this to look like someone approached your window. Then with a sigh, you climb back up the trellis, making sure to scrape mud on a few of the gaps you stick your feet into. As you climb, you think of your husband and all the work he does. All the slights he faces and the disapproval that follows him. He could be great, he could change the galaxy for the better, and you were going to make that happen.

You climb back in and carefully walk out of your room and into the antechamber. The Troopers outside your door are quiet and you feel a little bad for what you’re going to do. But part of their duty was to give their life in service of the First Order. You were just taking it more literal as you remove the blaster from your hip pack and flick the safety off. It’s heavy in your hand as you open the door out into the hallway. The troopers turn to face you, clearly expecting to see their Lady in a nightgown. What they see is a figure in black, face obscured. You shoot them both in quick succession, one of them managing to get a shot out but it hits the wall next to you. You were a hypocrite for wasting good soldiers like this, but if you can get away with this, they will not have died in vain.

Keeping your blaster up, you sneak down the hallway as quickly and quietly as you can. You pass no droids or guards but you don’t relax, you can’t relax. More shots will be taken tonight but they can’t be at you.

There is a light spilling out from under the Colonel’s study door and you smile at the small crack left open by someone. The Colonel’s study is close to other bedrooms so you holster your blaster. You still have more to do after this and you can’t alert anyone to your presence. The open door could be seen as a sign of favor but you still hold your breath as you squeeze through the space. The colonel is in a lowbacked armchair, facing towards the fireplace and away from you. It seems he hasn’t moved since you left the study earlier. Out of your hip pack, you pull out a thick coil of rope. Colonel Paru continues to drink his wine.

You approach him slowly, your heartbeat steady and loud in your ears. For him, for me, for us, for him, for me, for us, the beats seem to say. The colonel takes another sip and lowers his drink, his other hand resting on the armrest of the chair. Quick as a viper, you loop the rope over his head and pull it tight against his neck. The effect is instantaneous. His hands come to grab at the rope and claw at your arms but you hold tight. Using your elbow, you hit a button on the side of your helmet to raise the blast shield hiding your face. It won’t make much difference but you want him to know who his murderer is.

“Just relax Colonel, this will be over soon. Your time ruling the galaxy is done. I think we’ve had enough of your lies and corruption. You will be remembered, but not for your victories. No, you will be recorded in history for your follies and inaction but don’t fret, the First Order will rise from your ashes. General Hux sends his regards.” You whisper into his ear. With the recognition of who his attacker was, he struggles anew but it does little for him. The weathered skin of his face is turning purple and he’s making gurgling, panicked noises, his grip against your wrists getting weaker and weaker. While he’s stronger than you, your position and height over him is your advantage.

He slumps finally and you hold tight a few more moments to make sure he isn’t faking. You slowly take the rope away, shaking out your fingers. Your grip had been so tight, they were shaking and sore from the exerted energy. Briefly contemplating cutting his throat to make sure he’s dead, you decide against it. The harsh red line on his neck is proof enough. His glass has fallen to the ground, cracking into pieces and spilling scotch on the carpet below.

Giving yourself a second to collect yourself, you glance around the study. Now that it was quiet, you’d love to really explore the room but you can’t dawdle. Still, a sliver of moonlight catches on an unopened bottle of Dantooine rum. It was a very old vintage; a rare and coveted bottle that was worth quite a few credits.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking this. My darling would love it and I doubt you’ll be drinking it anytime soon. Thank you Colonel, for your service.” You remark to his still body, putting the bottle into your hip pack, before switching out the rope for your blaster and exiting the room.

You’re running on adrenaline now and you can’t stop to pause. If you do, you’ll be forced to think about the blood you’re spilling in your quest for power. While you think you’re justified in your actions, the haunting sound of Colonel Paru’s last breath is better left for a different time. Or to be more specific, the lack of feeling his dying breaths gave you.

You sneak around the estate, searching for Admiral Ersawit’s room. You’re afraid you’re going to pass right by or spend the whole night wandering when you hear a groan on the left. It’s followed by a higher pitched squeaking and you grimace behind your helmet. A few more grunts and sighs, and the people inside the room finish whatever it is they were doing. You try not to picture it. Leaning up carefully against the door, you can make out the sound of the admiral’s voice. There’s the sound of shuffling sheets and the swish of something closing. Probably the refresher if his room is anything like yours.

You’re suddenly faced with a conundrum as you step back from the door. It’s locked and the control panel is coded to fingerprints. You bite back a curse and look wildly around the hallway for something to do. You can’t just stand here; a droid or Karin may find the Troopers or her husband. Turning quickly in a circle, you try not to panic at what to do next. What would Hux do? Hux would probably do something clever, or not have to deal with this at all, the jerk. You look at the panel again. You could try to hack it, but you have no tools to unscrew the panel and you don’t have the knowledge to breach the security system. You could end up setting off an alarm.

Taking a breath, you shrug and shoot at the panel, forcing it to break and open the door amid a shower of sparks. You walk through the smoke to see Admiral Ersawit lying in his bed, looking utterly surprised and reaching for the night table. He just manages to get his hand on the blaster there when you shoot twice, getting him in the head and chest. Blood is spattered against the headboard and it looks almost artistic in the pattern it takes. How anticlimactic though; he could have at least put up a fight. Silence follows and you turn towards the refresher door which is still closed. 

“Come out honey, he’s dead. You’ve got nothing to fear. I won’t hurt you.” You announce through the distortion of the helmet. A moment of hesitation and then she opens the door, looking terrified. You smile at her through the helmet though she doesn’t see it. Then you shoot her too, her emaciated frame collapsing onto the floor. The more horrible you make your actions now, the more it will serve you. Besides, what kind of life could she have led, half starved and traumatized with her vocal cords ripped out? You were doing her a kindness and that’s what you were sticking to.

The sounds the door made when you forced it open were louder than you anticipated and you know that the shots of the blaster weren’t quiet. You shove the gun back into the hip pack and race back to your room, almost leaping with the speed you’re reaching. Thankfully you don’t get lost on your way back. You skid in front of your room, barely taking the time to breathe.

The Stormtroopers are still dead on the ground outside your room and you stop yourself right before you slam the door behind you. Closing it with a near silent click, you head towards the open window. You go down the trellis again, making sure to snag your suit on the edge before placing your boots in the mud the opposite way. Then you groan and climb back up. Next time you murdered someone, Hux could do the set up.

Entering the room, you carefully remove the boots before stepping down. The shower is still running and you tug your suitcase from the closet to hide the boots, helmet, and suit. You’ll bring them back to the Finalizer to be destroyed since they can’t be left here. You can put them in the incinerator and hope the fibers under the Colonel’s nails will be enough to help identify the killer.

Then you step into the refresher and jump under the spray, cleaning yourself efficiently. Your hair gets damp but not soaking which will hopefully match the time you started the shower if anyone comes to your room now. You climb into bed, body vibrating from the stress of what you just did.

You do feel bad, guilty about the necessary but innocent lives you had to take for your plan, but the feeling doesn’t linger as much as it should. Perhaps you should be more concerned that you barely feel any remorse for what you’ve done, but the universe was in chaos and sacrifices had to be made. You want to call Hux, tell him of your triumph but you hold back. It can wait until you’re alone with him in the privacy of your rooms. 

The last thing you do before you fall into a pleasant and deep sleep is laugh.

Chapter Six Coming Soon...

Tagging: @babbushka, @livy1391, @renaissance-mama, @girl-next-door-writes​, @peqchynero​, @niniita-ah, @the-temple-pythoness​, @cupofmoonlighttea​, @sincerely-cronch​, @potato-ren​, @brujademente​, @ah-callie​, @rosirinoa​, @lwtficrecs​, @theold-ultraviolence​, @mad-hatters-teapot​, @firstordermariposa

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[mozgoderina]

Yue Minjun and the Symbolic Smile (The New York Times)

Our first reaction upon meeting Yue Minjun might be, yes, it is indeed he! The face with the enigmatic, jaw-breaking grin, perhaps the most recognizable image in contemporary Chinese painting, is a self-portrait.

“Yes, it’s me,” Mr. Yue said in a recent interview, and he smiled, though in a gentler, less face-splitting fashion than the man in his paintings — the one who drifts Zelig-like past various familiar backgrounds making a sardonic, or perhaps ironically despairing, comment on the passing scene.

Mr. Yue, 45, was in New York in October for the opening of an exhibition of his paintings and sculptures that continues through Jan. 6 at the Queens Museum of Art. The show, “Yue Minjun and the Symbolic Smile,” is the first American museum exhibition of Mr. Yue’s work and further evidence of his remarkable rise in the superheated field of Chinese contemporary art.

A few years ago, Mr. Yue was eking out a precarious existence in one of Beijing’s artist colonies, trying to figure out a way to weave China’s tumultuous experience into his works. Now, largely on the strength of that signature grin, he has achieved stardom internationally.

Most conspicuously, one of his paintings, “Execution” (1995), a satirical Pop Art-like version of Manet’s “Execution of Maximilian” that was inspired by the 1989 crackdown in Tiananmen Square, sold for $5.9 million last month at an auction at Sotheby’s in London. It was a record sum for a contemporary Chinese painting. For Mr. Yue, the huge sums suddenly commanded by his works — “The Pope” (1997), depicting him as a prelate, went for $4.3 million in June — have involved a readjustment.

“I never thought about this in the past,” he said. “What was important to me was the creation part of painting. But it seems that something has changed. Maybe it’s the way money is becoming more important in society.”

He is not always comfortable with how his work is analyzed. The mesmerizing enigma of that reddish face painted over and over again, with the wide laugh and the eyes tightly shut from the hilarious strain, is subject to a multitude of interpretations. One Chinese art critic has identified the artist as a member of what he calls the school of “cynical realism,” though Mr. Yue doesn’t feel that he belongs to a school or movement and he doesn’t think he’s cynical.

“I’m actually trying to make sense of the world,” he said. “There’s nothing cynical or absurd in what I do.”

Mr. Yue was born in 1962 in the far northern Heilongjiang Province of China and as a child moved to Beijing with his parents. He studied oil painting at the Hebei Normal University and graduated in 1989, when China was rocked by student-led demonstrations and their suppression on Tiananmen Square in June of that year.

“My mood changed at that time,” he said. “I was very down. I realized the gap between reality and the ideal, and I wanted to create my own artistic definition, whereby there could be a meeting with social life and the social environment.”

“The first step,” he added, “was to create a style to express my feelings accurately, starting with something that I knew really well —myself.” That was the first step toward forging what has become the image that has now made him famous. The second step was to devise the laugh, which, he said, was inspired by a painting he saw by another Chinese artist, Geng Jianyi, in which a smile is deformed to mean the opposite of what it normally means.

“So I developed this painting where you see someone laughing,” he said. “At first you think he’s happy, but when you look more carefully, there’s something else there.”

“A smile,” Mr. Yue said, “doesn’t necessarily mean happiness; it could be something else.”

The smile has been variously interpreted as a sort of joke at the absurdity of it all, or the illusion of happiness in lives inevitably heading toward extinction.

Karen Smith, a Beijing expert on Chinese art, suggests that Mr. Yue’s grin is a mask for real feelings of helplessness.

“In China there’s a long history of the smile,” Mr. Yue said. “There is the Maitreya Buddha who can tell the future and whose facial expression is a laugh. Normally there’s an inscription saying that you should be optimistic and laugh in the face of reality.”

“There were also paintings during the Cultural Revolution period, those Soviet-style posters showing happy people laughing,” he continued. “But what’s interesting is that normally what you see in those posters is the opposite of reality.”

Mr. Yue said his smile was in a way a parody of those posters. But, since it’s a self-portrait, it’s also necessarily a parody of himself, he added.

“I’m not laughing at anybody else, because once you laugh at others, you’ll run into trouble, and can create obstacles,” he said. “This is the way to do it if you want to make a parody of the things that are behind the image.”

The real reason he paints himself is that it gives him a greater margin for freedom of expression, he explained.

The work at the Queens Museum ranges from a grouping of 20 life-size terra cotta soldiers, grinning versions of the famous statues unearthed years ago at the tomb of China’s first emperor, to a painting of a laughing version of himself holding another self-image aloft in front of the Statue of Liberty.

There is also a series called “Hats,” in which Mr. Yue has painted himself in all sorts of headgear, from an American football helmet to a peaked cap of a soldier in the Chinese People’s Liberation Army, with that unvarying laugh on his face.

“It’s not a denial of reality but a questioning of it,” Mr. Yue said of his work in general. “And that laugh — anybody who’s gone through Chinese recent experience would understand it.”

  Source: The New York Times / Richard Bernstein. Published: November 13, 2007. Link: Yue Minjun and the Symbolic Smile Illustration: Yue Minjun [China] (b 1962). 'Memory-I', 2000. Oil on canvas (140 x 108 cm). Moderator: ART HuNTER.

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: A History of Science Fiction’s Future Visions

Installation view of Into the Unknown at the Barbican in London (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

LONDON — The 1982 film Blade Runner imagined 2019 Los Angeles as a dystopia of noirish neon and replicants, robots sent to do hard labor on off-world colonies. It’s a future in which engineered beings are so close to humans as to make the characters question the very nature of life. We’re now just a couple of years from this movie’s timeline, and although our robots are still far from mirroring humanity, our science fiction continues to envision giant leaps in technology that are often rooted in contemporary concerns of where our innovations are taking us.

Patrick Gyger, curator of Into the Unknown: A Journey through Science Fiction at the Barbican Centre, told Hyperallergic that, for him, science fiction “allows creators to look beyond the horizon of knowledge and play with concepts and situations.” The exhibition is a sprawling examination of the genre of science fiction going back to the 19th century, with over 800 works. These include film memorabilia, vintage books, original art, and even a kinetic sculpture in a lower-level space by Conrad Shawcross. “In Light of The Machine” has a huge, robotic arm twisting within a henge-like circle of perforated walls, so visitors can only glimpse its strange dance at first, before moving to the center and seeing that it holds one bright light at the end of its body.

Film still from 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) (courtesy the Roger Grant Archive)

Most of Into the Unknown is concentrated in the Barbican’s Curve space, a winding gallery with a high ceiling that permits objects to be stacked to the ceiling. They range from spacesuits worn in Star Trek and Moon (2009), to the robot TARS from Interstellar (2014) and Ava from Ex Machina (2015), to drawings by H. R. Giger for the Alien series and paintings by James Gurney for his Dinotopia books. The post-war architecture of the Barbican is a fitting setting for Into the Unknown, with its concrete angles and utopian spirit. In conjunction with the show, Penguin Classics released a series of limited-edition science fiction books with Barbican architecture on their covers. The brutalist conservatory graces H. G. Well’s The Island of Doctor Moreau, and two of the triangular towers appear on George Orwell’s 1984.

Throughout the exhibition, niche and popular culture are juxtaposed, chronicling how science fiction emerged as a cultural force in the 20th century. Manuscripts by Jules Vernes hold incredible insights into how much research the author put into works such as Around the World in Eighty Days (1872), and an adjacent display of dinosaur models sculpted by Ray Harryhausen for 1960s stop-motion shows how, by the mid-20th century, films were using recent scientific knowledge for entertainment. Artwork like Dino De Laurentiis’s storyboard drawings for the Sandworm battle in the 1984 Dune (and some nearby concept art by Giger for Alejandro Jodorowsky’s unrealized version), testify to artists’ presence in shaping science fiction. An array of aerospace industry advertisements from the 1950s and ’60s feature fantastic space crafts similar to those in Soviet postcards illustrated by Andrey Sokolov and Aleksey Leonov (a cosmonaut who created the first artwork in space).

Gyger noted that the fact that the genre “has been so impactful” cannot be separated from the link to “its context of production and to the mass market that makes it flourish.” Over the years, this has involved pulp magazines, trading cards, comics, and paperbacks, often aimed at young audiences, or presented as a cheap thrills.

Certainly science fiction is incredibly popular at the moment — see the success of Westworld, The Handmaid’s Tale, and Black Mirror (which is featured in the exhibition through a six-foot video installation based on the unnerving virtual world in the episode “Fifteen Million Merits“). While these series explore serious issues in our reality, there’s still a tendency to overlook them as serious art (unless you count The Lord of the Rings, no science fiction film has won the “Best Picture” Oscar, for instance). Into the Unknown might not sway anyone without a curiosity for science fiction, being that you’re immediately immersed in a constellation of spaceships, dinosaurs, alien monsters, and robots. But for those with an interest, it demonstrates how these themes developed from “low to “high” art.

Postcard of “On the first Lunar cosmodrome” (1968), by Andrey Sokolov and Aleksey Leonov (courtesy Moscow Design Museum)

Andrey Sokolov and Aleksey Leonov, postcard series from the set “A man in space” (1965), offset printing on paper, full-color (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

The exhibition shows, but does not dwell on, who has been left out of a history mostly shaped by white men (there are rare exceptions on view, like the “Astro Black” video installation by Soda_Jerk that muses on Sun Ra’s theories of Afrofuturism). It would be worthwhile to spend more time on figures who broke through these barriers, such as author Octavia Butler. As discussed on a recent podcast from Imaginary Worlds, her black characters were sometimes portrayed as white on her book covers to make them more appealing to science fiction readers. The exhibition could also have a deeper context for why certain veins of science fiction are prominent in particular eras, and perhaps question why we don’t have a lot of science fiction narratives on current crises like climate change. For instance, the much smaller 2016 exhibition Fantastic Worlds: Science and Fiction 1780–1910 from the Smithsonian Libraries compared milestones like Mary Shelley’s 1818 Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus with physician Luigi Galvani’s “animal electricity” experiments on animating dead frog legs, and highlighted how Jules Verne channeled the doomed Franklin expedition in his 1864 book The Adventures of Captain Hatteras.

Nevertheless, having an exhibition like Into the Unknown at a mainstream space like the Barbican is significant, showing the art world appreciates science fiction beyond kitsch. And science fiction continues to be one of our important portals for thinking about the ramifications of our technological choices, and where they might take us. There’s a reason that 1984 is now having a popular Broadway production in a year of “alternative facts,” and why Black Mirror episodes such as “Nosedive,” where a person’s worth is judged by their social media “likes,” resonate so deeply.

“It is the genre of ‘what if,’ shedding light on our hopes and fears for a future closely linked to our present and our environment,” Gyger said. “In doing so it inspires and warns us, while entertaining us, creating a plethora of iconography, and leaving a deep mark on culture.”

Dinosaurs designed for films in the 1950s and ’60s by Ray Harryhausen (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Installation view of Into the Unknown at the Barbican in London (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Glass plates for magic lantern depicting scenes from Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (Paris, 1885), lithographic transfer on glass (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Albert Badoureau, “Le Titan Moderne: Notes et observations remises à Jules Verne pour la rédaction de son roman sans dessus dessous” (“The Modern Titan: Notes and observations presented to Jules Verne for the writing of his novel The Purchase of the North Pole or Topsy-Turvy,” 1888), manuscript page (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

“L’an 2000” (“The year 2000,” 1901), print on cardboard; a collection of uncut sheets for confectionery cards showing life imagined in the future (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Amazing Stories #1 (July 1933), Agence Martienne (courtesy Maison d’Ailleurs/Agence Martienne)

8mm film reel boxes (1949–67) (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

George Pal Productions, Luna spaceship miniature from the film Destination Moon (1950), mixed media (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Installation view of Into the Unknown at the Barbican in London (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Martian models by Ray Harryhausen for War of the Worlds (1949) and First Men in the Moon (1964) (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Anubis and Horus helmets by Patrick Tatopoulos for Stargate (1994), fiberglass with metallic surface (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Art by H. R. Giger for Alien III (1992) (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

The Original Science Fiction Stories #1 (November 1958), Agence Martienne (courtesy Maison d’Ailleurs/Agence Martienne)

Dino De Laurentiis, series of three Sandworm battle storyboards for the film Dune (1984), pencil on vellum adhered to board (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Magazine cover, Amazing Stories #1 (April 1926), Agence Martienne (courtesy Maison d’Ailleurs/Agence Martienne)

Theta space station miniature from the TV series Buck Rogers in the 25th Century(1979–81); Kane (John Hurt) space suit from the film Alien (1979) (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Trevor Paglen, “Orbital Reflector (Diamond Variation)” (2017), freestanding model for inflatable spacecraft; aluminum, stainless steel, acrylic (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Conrad Shawcross,” In Light of The Machine,” kinetic installation (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Into the Unknown: A Journey through Science Fiction continues through September 1 at the Barbican Centre (Silk Street, London, UK).

The post A History of Science Fiction’s Future Visions appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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