#Jury Denialism

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Will Saletan at The Bulwark:

TO PROTECT DONALD TRUMP, the Republican party has turned against every institution that stood in his way: the press (“the enemy of the people”), the civil service (“the Deep State”), presidential elections (“rigged,” “stolen”), courts (for refusing to overturn the 2020 election), the House January 6th Committee (Democrats and “RINOs”), independent counsels (Robert Mueller, Robert Hur, Jack Smith), and law enforcement (for prosecuting the insurrectionists). Now another institution is trying to hold Trump accountable. Last week, a jury in Manhattan found him guilty of 34 felonies in his hush-money trial. So Republican elected officials are doing what allegiance to their leader requires: They’re attacking the jury. These attacks aren��t confined to the quirks of the case or the politics of Manhattan. Republicans are inventing reasons to reject any verdict against Trump. It’s an extension of what they’ve done since 2020: inventing reasons to reject any election Trump loses. Respecting juries, like respecting elections, is just another obsolete norm.

1. Trump did nothing wrong.

The best argument against the Manhattan case is that Trump committed misdemeanors—falsifying business records to hide his hush-money payments—but that those charges shouldn’t have been inflated into felonies by portraying the hush money, in the context of the 2016 election, as a secondary crime. That argument would be similar to what Democrats said about President Bill Clinton’s perjury to cover up a sexual affair in the 1990s: that he behaved immorally and misled a court, but his misconduct shouldn’t have been inflated into articles of impeachment. But that’s not what Trump and his party are saying about the Manhattan case. They’re denying that he committed any crimes or even that he had sex with Stormy Daniels. “Nothing ever happened,” Trump asserted at a press conference after the verdict. In a Fox News interview, he repeated: “I did absolutely nothing wrong. I mean, absolutely.” Congressional Republicans agreed. “He’s an innocent man who did nothing wrong,” Sen. Tom Cotton insisted on Meet the Press. “@realDonaldTrump did nothing wrong,” tweeted Sen. Marsha Blackburn. “The man did nothing wrong,” said Rep. Byron Donalds. “The only thing that Donald Trump is guilty of is being in the courtroom of a political sham trial,” said Sen. J.D. Vance. Anyone familiar with the evidence knows these denials are preposterous. Trump committed adultery with Daniels, paid for her silence to hide the tryst from voters, and—to cover up the coverup—disguised the payments in his business filings. Some of his conduct in the coverup implicated him in crimes. That’s why jurors, after hearing the evidence, convicted him. Republicans can’t accept that facts decided the case. So they’ve set out to discredit the jury.

[...]

2. All the jurors were Trump haters.

This is the GOP’s main line of attack. “Twelve New Yorkers decided they were Democrat partisans,” Sen. Ted Cruz scoffed on his podcast, trying to explain away the verdict. Rep. Jim Jordan called the jurors “12 partisans” and vowed that “the real verdict will be on Nov. 5, when 330 million Americans get to weigh in,” not “12 people from Manhattan.” On CNN, Sen. Tim Scott said the jurors couldn’t be trusted because “96 percent of Manhattan are Democrats.” Rep. Nick Langworthy argued that bias in the jury pool invalidated the verdict: “This is a place where Donald Trump got five percent of the vote. There was no jury of his peers. It was a jury of his adversaries.” Hogan Gidley, Trump’s former campaign press secretary, told Newsmax, “The jury’s from Manhattan. They all hate Trump.” Manhattan is liberal, but these depictions of the jury are bogus. Trump’s lawyers vetted prospective jurors, weeding out those whose social media posts exposed them as Trump haters. One of the seated jurors said he watched Fox News. Another said he followed Trump on Truth Social. A third said she liked religious podcasts. One said he disagreed with some of Trump’s policies but agreed with others. Another said she appreciated that “President Trump speaks his mind.” The most common pattern among the jurors was a lack of strong feelings about politics.

It’s true that in 2020, Trump won only 12.3 percent of the vote in Manhattan, while Biden won 86.7 percent. But even with those lopsided numbers, it’s hard to pluck twelve jurors from a random sample of Manhattanites without including a Trump voter. By the time you’ve picked your sixth juror, the odds that your jury doesn’t have a Trump supporter are down to 45 percent. By the time you’re on the twelfth juror, the odds are down to about 20 percent. The most likely outcome, based on random probability, is ten Biden voters and two Trump voters. That’s why the jury’s unanimity matters. The vote on each felony count wasn’t 10–2. It was 12–0. All the jurors, including any who sympathized with Trump, found him guilty. But Republican lawmakers don’t care. They’ve gone right on smearing the jury.

[...]

3. Only fools or haters could have found Trump guilty.

The GOP’s jury denialism, like its election denialism, is unfalsifiable. If one allegation of ballot fraud doesn’t pan out, Trump and his allies move on to another. And if one or two jurors in the hush-money trial turn out to have been Trump voters, no problem: Republicans have concocted lots of other reasons to dismiss the verdict.

[...]

4. Nobody who respects this jury can be a Republican in good standing.

The GOP has transformed itself into a cult by ostracizing members who put any principle above loyalty to Trump. That’s what happened to Reps. Liz Cheney and Adam Kinzinger, who served on the January 6th Committee. And now it’s happening to members who acknowledge, even with major caveats, that the verdict in Manhattan deserves respect. [...] Contempt for the Manhattan jury—and for any other jury that convicts Trump—is now a core commitment of the GOP. 

Will Saletan wrote in The Bulwark on how the MAGA Cult (which at this point may as well be a large portion of the GOP) are espousing jury denialism as part of their war on institutions and public trust to protect convicted felon Donald Trump from accountability, branching out from their election denialism.

[mightydyke]

Shiori Takatsuki is such a great character. She loves Juri but is in denial about it to the point that she wants to hurt Juri just to prove that Juri's feelings for her are so strong that she's able to hurt her. She claims she hates Juri, but it's actually a mixture of desire and jealousy that make her want to cause Juri pain, because it reminds Shiori of the power she has over her and how much Juri loves her

[inkskinned]

you're in the habit of denying yourself things.

if someone asked you directly, you would say that you love a little treat. you like iced coffee and getting the cookie. you drink juice out of a fancy cup sometimes, and often do use your candles until they gutter out helplessly.

but you hesitate about buying the 20 dollar hand mixer because, like. you could just use your arms. you weren't raised rich. you don't get to just spend the 20 dollars (remember when that could cover lunch?), at least - you don't spend that without agonizing over it first, trying to figure out the cost-benefits like you are defending yourself in front of a jury. yes, this rice cooker could seriously help you. but you do know how to make stovetop rice and it really isn't that hard. how many pies or brownies would you actually make, in order to make that hand mixer worthwhile?

what's wild is that if the money was for a friend, it would already be spent. you'd fork over 40 without blinking an eye, just to make them happy. the difference is that it's for you, so you need to justify it.

and it sneaks in. you ration yourself without meaning to - you don't finish the pint of ice cream, even though you want to. the next time you go to the store, you say ah, i really shouldn't, and then you walk away. you save little bits of your precious things - just in case. sometimes you even go so far as putting that one thing in your shopping cart. and then just leaving it there, because maybe-one-day, but not right now, there's other stuff going on.

you do self-care, of course. but you don't do it more than like, 3 days in a row. after that it just feels a little bit over-the-edge. like. you can't live in decadence, the economy is so bad right now, kid.

so you don't buy the rice cooker. you can-and-will spend the time over the stove. you can withstand the little sorrows. denial and discipline are practically synonyms. and you're not spoiled.

it's just - it's not always a rice cooker. sometimes it is a person or a job or a hug. sometimes it is asking for help. sometimes it is the summer and your college degree. sometimes it is looking down at scabbed knees and feeling a strange kind of falling, like you can't even recognize the girl you used to be. sometimes it is your handprint looking unsteady.

sometimes it is tuesday, and you didn't get fired, and you want to celebrate. but what is it you like, even? you search around your little heart and come up empty. you're so used to denying that all your desires draw a blank.

oh fuck. see, this is the perfect opportunity. if you had a mixer, you'd make a cake.

[nonbinary-red-supergiant]

THIS HAD ME DEAD.

[lady-lauren]

❥ ENJI TODOROKI X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 1.7k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: stuckage (aka you get stuck and fucked), major dub-con, some ass play, spitting (on your ass), degradation, creampie, Enji is dirty and mean and he's really not sorry for it

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

The sink of spandex between your thighs reminds him of why you are such a vexation. Fabric stretches across the mound of your cunt as you struggle, a perfect contour of what lies just out of reach.

“Finally found something you can’t escape, hm?” 

Enji hears your scoff echo across the panes of the air duct, elbows pinging the metal as you try to shift your weight. 

You won’t slip away. Not this time. 

“Pull me out,” your hips arch and shake with your demand. 

The hero claws inside his chest, your plea reaching his sensibilities. But the curve of your thick, open legs strokes a more sinister flame in the pit of his stomach.

“Where’s the fun in that? I’ve chased you for long enough.” He deserves a reward.

For a cat burglar, he expected you to be more clever. Yet here you are, stuck at the waist in the old factory’s ventilation, in a hole your thighs were never going to breach no matter how much you struggled.

Now he gets to be the judge and jury of your punishment. 

“Almost like you wanted to be caught,” he muses to himself as he finally gives in to the itch to sink his fingers into the fat of your ass. 

Your gasp sounds like the hiss of air down the duct, shrill and quick. You’re not a naive villain—you know what’s coming. 

Blunt nails scrape against your costume, black threads splitting with just a fraction of the force he can give. 

Your skin spreads into view like a ripe fruit being peeled. Sweet flesh is already dripping as he snaps away the spandex over your cunt, a thrill sparking in his cock at the sight of your pussy lips opening as you wiggle yourself in his hold.

“Oh you fucking pervert! Let me go!”

He could. He should. He won’t.

Intentions are made clear when his massive hand cups your cunt, thumb rubbing over your asshole as he grips your body, shoving you tighter into your trap.

You grunt and groan, shoulders thumping against metal. You seem to be testing your flexibility in a guise to rub yourself back against the palm of his hand. Your wetness smears against his skin, labia spreading against callouses. 

He presses his hand until he finds the swell of your clit. A muffled moan makes him rub hard, hard enough to have a muscle in your thigh clenching and shaking. 

Grinning, he spits a string of saliva to drip down onto your ass, moving his thumb just enough to catch the lubrication and smother it against your puckered hole. He dips his thick digit into your ass and delights at how you buck back against him.

“You’re a better whore than a thief.” 

There’s no denial, just short moans against metal at each thrust of his thumb into your ass. He twists the digit in your tight cavern, moving his fingers away from your cunt so he can watch your pussy clench in anticipation of more. 

You’re a prettier sight than he imagined, already messy, body begging for his touch. He’s had many frustrated nights fisting his dick to dreams of catching you.

Enji toys with you just long enough to get his cock fully hard and aching.

You whine as he pulls away, hips pushing back like you’re searching for him, desperate and needy. 

He keeps quiet as he unbuckles his suit, wrapping his cock in his hand and pumping, squeezing his fingers around the base of his cockhead. 

Taking advantage of you shouldn’t turn him on so much, yet his balls feel heavy as he watches you panic, unable to see the world behind you.

Your head clinks against the air duct, your trapped hands slapping against the bottom.

“En…Endeavor? Please. Please don’t leave me like this.”

He hates that he won’t be able to see the look in your eyes when he fucks you, but it’s too much of a risk to let you free. You’ll slip away like every time before.

You purr with comfort when he grips your ass, pulling at the fat until your pussy is spread to hungry, flaming eyes. 

He bursts your relief by prodding his cock into your wetness. Your cunt clenches at the feel of him and he can practically smell your fear. 

“I’m not going anywhere, little whore.”

It takes a few purposeful thrusts to get his thick cock to push inside you, your cunt stretching and burning at his intrusion. He doesn’t care to hurt you, mean hands wrapping around your thighs and using your weight to pull your pussy down his cock.

He doesn’t want you ready, he wants to feel your struggle, feel the tightness of your pussy as he punishes you. 

Whimpering as he finally gets his length inside you, you grind back against him. He can’t tell if you’re trying to push him out or pull him in. 

It doesn’t matter what you want; what matters is what you can give him. 

Your pussy starts to gush as he begins his pace—quick, deep, balls slapping against your clit. 

Enji’s fascinated by the sight of your wet flesh dragging along his length, sucking so securely it’s like you’re afraid he’s going to leave again. 

“I’ve got you,” he sneers in some twisted sense of heroism.

Your reply moan is bubbly, as if you’ve resigned yourself to take whatever you can get.

He pulls your hips up, squishing your body to the top of the air duct as he gets into the heat of his stride. He’s blinded by the pleasure of your warm, went cunt, lost to the primal urge to take, to use. 

It’s too easy to abuse you. So small, so exposed. You’re putty in his hands as he spreads you apart even wider, shreds of fabric shuddering against the bounce of your ass.

You sound like an animal trapped in the wall, yelping and cooing all the same as his fat cockhead bullies into your depths.

“You like being a cocksleeve,” he grunts, “your cunt’s so fucking wet.” 

Cream is building at his base, smearing into red curls. Your stomach flutters at his words and he realizes he can feel himself in your core. 

He could break you if he isn’t careful. 

Yet he doesn’t slow down, barely breaking a sweat as he pushes harder, faster, jaw clenching as he chases his high. 

He drops one of your thighs, pulling the other higher around his waist as he pounds a fist into the brick wall. The new leverage has your body slipping farther down the chute, trapping you more snugly.

“P-please,” you pant, nails scraping against the metal prison, “I c-can’t take it…”

“Don’t fucking care. You’re cunt’s mine.” 

Your ass ripples as his muscular thighs slap against yours, slick dripping into the rips of your costume.

“Such a stupid little girl. This is what happens when you, ah, run from me.” 

He can’t hear any response over the wet slap of skin against skin, the slurp of your greedy cunt.

Putting his hips flush to yours, he grinds into your cunt, so deep he knows it hurts. 

His hand scrapes up your thigh, big fingers searching for your clit. When his index finger swirls against your swollen bud, you scream, the sound reverberating like a confession in your trap. 

Enji presses his forehead to the wall, eyes closing as he feels hot pleasure starting to build in his balls, twitching in his cock. 

“Go on,” he pinches your clit between his fat fingers, “cum, cum little whore.”

Your body starts to shake as you whimper, thighs quivering as you lose control. He rubs two fingers against your clit as he pushes harder into you, motions getting sloppy.

Enji grunts, “I said cum, fucking cum.”

He slams into you so roughly that he hears the air duct creak from his pressure. He puts his focus into filling you, stretching you, letting you feel his cockhead spear against the abused, gummy spots inside your cunt. 

Your orgasm is rough, sputtering, slick gushing against where he invades the tight suck of your pussy. You thrash against his hold and whine like a bitch in heat, rolls and smashes of pleasure fissuring down every nerve, making your legs kick.

Against every lingering heroic instinct, Endeavor lets himself fill your guts with his cum. 

He feels like a volcanic eruption, spewing flames from his skin and molten cum from his balls. You keep him sucked tight as he unloads, cum spilling from the tight squeeze and down your thighs. 

His chest heaves with deep breaths, blue eyes opening to stare down at the havoc he’s wrecked. 

Your poor body is limp, lodged around his impaling cock. Sweat, cum, and slick drip down your thighs, his fingerprints bruised into your skin. Your costume has come apart even more, peeling down your legs like he’s ripped you apart. 

He wonders for a moment if you’ve suffocated; if he’s fucked you to death. 

After a few moments, you stir, one weak hand knocking against the air duct.

“For the love of god…” you choke. 

Heating the metal just enough to make it malleable, he bends the air duct away from your sweaty, shaking body. Then he tugs you without care, letting you fall onto the floor before his feet.

“Suck me clean.” 

A dumb girl would’ve run on shaky, messy legs. But like the smart girl you are, you get on your knees and pop his heavy cock between your lips. 

He smirks at the mess of makeup on your face as you look up at him, tongue flat as you lick his cum from underneath his shaft. 

Enji grips the hair on the back of your head, shoving your face down to his balls for you to suck the mess you’ve made. 

“Not gonna run again, are you?” 

“I might,” your moan vibrates against oversensitive skin, “if it means I get your cock again.”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Academic economists get big payouts when they help monopolists beat antitrust

After 40 years of rampant corporate crime, there's a new sheriff in town: Jonathan Kanter was appointed by Biden to run the DOJ Antitrust Divisoon, and he's overseen 170 "significant antitrust actions" in the past 2.5 years, culminating in a court case where Google was ruled to be an illegal monopolist:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/07/revealed-preferences/#extinguish-v-improve

Kanter's work is both extraordinary and par for the course. As Kanter said in a recent keynote for the Fordham Law Competition Law Institute’s 51st Annual Conference on International Antitrust Law and Policy, we're witnessing an epochal, global resurgence of antitrust:

https://www.justice.gov/opa/speech/assistant-attorney-general-jonathan-kanter-delivers-remarks-fordham-competition-law-0

Kanter's incredible enforcement track record isn't just part of a national trend – his colleagues in the FTC, CFPB and other agencies have also been pursuing an antitrust agenda not seen in generations – but also a worldwide trend. Antitrust enforcers in Canada, the UK, the EU, South Korea, Australia, Japan and even China are all taking aim at smashing corporate monopolies. Not only are they racking up impressive victories against these giant corporations, they're stealing the companies' swagger. After all, the point of enforcement isn't just to punish wrongdoing, but also to deter wrongdoing by others.

Until recently, companies hurled themselves into illegal schemes (mergers, predatory pricing, tying, refusals to deal, etc) without fear or hesitation. Now, many of these habitual offenders are breaking the habit, giving up before they've even tried. Take Wiz, a startup that turned down Google's record-shattering $23b buyout offer, understanding that the attempt would draw more antitrust scrutiny than it was worth:

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/wiz-turns-down-23-billion-022926296.html

As welcome as this antitrust renaissance is, it prompts an important question: why didn't we enforce antitrust law for the 40 years between Reagan and Biden?

That's what Kanter addresses the majority of his remarks to. The short answer is: crooked academic economists took bribes from monopolists and would-be monopolists to falsify their research on the impacts of monopolists, and made millions (literally – one guy made over $100m at this) testifying that monopolies were good and efficient.

After all, governments aren't just there to enforce rules – they have to make the rules first, and do to that, they need to understand how the world works, so they can understand how to fix the places where it's broken. That's where experts come in, filling regulators' dockets and juries' ears with truthful, factual testimony about their research. Experts can still be wrong, of course, but when the system works well, they're only wrong by accident.

The system doesn't work well. Back in the 1950s, the tobacco industry was threatened by the growing scientific consensus that smoking caused cancer. Industry scientists confirmed this finding. In response, the industry paid statisticians, doctors and scientists to produce deceptive research reports and testimony about the tobacco/cancer link.

The point of this work wasn't necessarily to convince people that tobacco was safe – rather, it was to create the sense that the safety of tobacco was a fundamentally unanswerable question. "Experts disagree," and you're not qualified to figure out who's right and who's wrong, so just stop trying to figure it out and light up.

In other words, Big Tobacco's cancer denial playbook wasn't so much an attack on "the truth" as it was an attack on epistemology – the system by which we figure out what is true and what isn't. The tactic was devastatingly effective. Not only did it allow the tobacco giants to kill millions of people with impunity, it allowed them to reap billions of dollars by doing so.

Since then, epistemology has been under sustained assault. By the 1970s, Big Oil knew that its products would render the Earth unfit for human habitation, and they hired the same companies that had abetted Big Tobacco's mass murder to provide cover for their own slow-motion, planetary scale killing spree.

Time and again, big business has used assaults on epistemology to provide cover for unthinkable crimes. This has given rise to today's epistemological crisis, in which we don't merely disagree about what is true, but (far more importantly) disagree about how the truth can be known:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/25/black-boxes/#when-you-know-you-know

Ask a conspiratorialist why they believe in Qanon or Hatians in Springfield eating pets, and you'll get an extremely vibes-based answer – fundamentally, they believe it because it feels true. As the old saying goes, you can't reason someone out of a belief they didn't reason their way into.

This assault on reason itself is at the core of Kanter's critique. He starts off by listing three cases in which academic economists allowed themselves to be corrupted by the monopolies they studied:

George Mason University tricked an international antitrust enforcer into attending a training seminar that they believed to be affiliated with the US government. It was actually sponsored by the very companies that enforcer was scrutnizing, and featured a parade of "experts" who asserted that these companies were great, actually.

An academic from GMU – which receives substantial tech industry funding – signed an amicus brief opposing an enforcement action against their funders. The academic also presented a defense of these funders to the OECD, all while posing as a neutral academic and not disclosing their funding sources.

An ex-GMU economist, Joshua Wright, submitted a study defending Qualcomm against the FTC, without disclosing that he'd been paid to do so. Wright has elevated undisclosed conflicts of interest to an art form:

https://www.wsj.com/us-news/law/google-lawyer-secret-weapon-joshua-wright-c98d5a31

Kanter is at pains to point out that these three examples aren't exceptional. The economics profession – whose core tenet is "incentive matter" – has made it standard practice for individual researchers and their academic institutions to take massive sums from giant corporations. Incredibly, they insist that this has nothing to do with their support of monopolies as "efficient."

Academic centers often serve as money-laundries for monopolist funders; researchers can evade disclosure requirements when they publish in journals or testify in court, saying only that they work for some esteemed university, without noting that the university is utterly dependent on money from the companies they're defending.

Now, Kanter is a lawyer, not an academic, and that means that his job is to advocate for positions, and he's at pains to say that he's got nothing but respect for ideological advocacy. What he's objecting to is partisan advocacy dressed up as impartial expertise.

For Kanter, mixing advocacy with expertise doesn't create expert advocacy – it obliterates expertise, as least when it comes to making good policy. This mixing has created a "crisis of expertise…a pervasive breakdown in the distinction between expertise and advocacy in competition policy."

The point of an independent academia, enshrined in the American Association of University Professors' charter, is to "advance knowledge by the unrestricted research and unfettered discussion of impartial investigators." We need an independent academy, because "to be of use to the legislator or the administrator, [an academic] must enjoy their complete confidence in the disinterestedness of [his or her] conclusions."

It's hard to overstate just how much money economists can make by defending monopolies. Writing for The American Prospect, Robert Kuttner gives the rate at $1,000/hour. Monopoly's top defenders make unimaginable sums, like U Chicago's Dennis Carlton, who's brought in over $100m in consulting fees:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-09-24-economists-as-apologists/

The hidden cost of all of this is epistemological consensus. As Tim Harford writes in his 2021 book The Data Detective, the truth can be known through research and peer-review:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/04/how-to-truth/#harford

But when experts deliberately seek to undermine the idea of expertise, they cast laypeople into an epistemological void. We know these questions are important, but we can't trust our corrupted expert institutions. That leaves us with urgent questions – and no answers. That's a terrifying state to be in, and it makes you easy pickings for authoritarian grifters and conspiratorial swindlers.

Seen in this light, Kanter's antitrust work is even more important. In attacking corporate power itself, he is going after the machine that funds this nihilism-inducing corruption machine.

This week, Tor Books published SPILL, a new, free LITTLE BROTHER novella about oil pipelines and indigenous landback!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/25/epistemological-chaos/#incentives-matter

Image: Ron Cogswell (modified) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:George.Mason.University.Arlington.Campus.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[mikavlcs]

Not On My Mind

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Summary: You leave school for a trip, and Wednesday doesn’t miss you. Not even a little bit.

Warnings: soft/ooc!wednesday but she’s like...in denial about it, my writing

Word count: 2.8k

Notes: this is kinda messy, but cute. nothing else to add tbh. hope you guys enjoy<3

Masterlist

Wednesday Addams was not soft.

She simply wasn’t. She never had been, and she never would be, for as long as she drew breath. The word didn’t even exist in her vocabulary.

Because she, Wednesday Addams, was a singularity. Unlike any other lowly mortal, she was not born from a womb, but forged in the hottest, most ferocious flames of hell by Lucifer himself. She was pure menace and dread given a small, but formidable physical form.

A vile miscreant equipped with a smile that could make even the purest of angels scream in terror and a glare that could make the devil shed tears of despair. Judge, jury, and executioner—someone capable of horrors beyond even your worst nightmares.

(Well, not executioner since she was unfortunately not yet a murderer, but she would be someday. It was the only incomplete task on her bucket list.)

So, no, Wednesday Addams was not soft. Nor could she ever be capable of such abominable behavior.

And yet…here she was displaying signs of this weakness. Because of you.

You were going on a family vacation. An event which, to Wednesday, sounded like a particularly gruesome method of torture, but you were positively buzzing with excitement about the trip.

Either way, you were going away with your family for a week. An entire seven days without you constantly at her side, chattering in her ear between classes, and lounging around her room in the evenings.

This, in theory, should have been great news. Lucifer knew how much more writing she could get done without you dragging her out to Jericho after classes or trying to read over her shoulder despite her threats of bodily harm. But it wasn’t great news. In fact, the information brought forth an odd sort of discomfort. A dull ache in her chest she’d never experienced before.

It was disgusting, it was vile, and it would certainly stain her reputation if it ever got out.

She supposed her reputation had already been defiled by the fact that her roommate and self-appointed best friend was the human embodiment of a rainbow, but this? This was a new low.

Her shamefulness was all she could think about while she watched you pack from her place on your bed. Well, “pack” was a generous way to describe it. You were actually just frantically grabbing clothes and other various items from around your room and throwing them into your suitcase and duffel bag, much to the disapproval of the meticulously organized Addams.

You insisted that you had a system, a method to your madness. Wednesday disagreed but didn’t bother voicing it.

From the ground, your voice rose, sounding far too winded for someone doing so little exercise. “Can you hand me that box on the dresser, Wends?”

Wednesday exhaled sharply. She came here to see you off, not help you pack last minute. Still, she obeyed, not without sending you a scathing glare that you promptly ignored.

The box in question was easy to find, already open atop your dresser where you directed her. She took a passing glance inside to survey the contents within—a bunch of mismatched jewelry that sparked vague recognition but no interest.

Just as she was about to close it, something caught her eye. A ring, sitting in the corner of the box. It was a simple, visually unobtrusive black band with silver engravings wound throughout. She recognized it as one of your most frequently worn pieces of jewelry, but it had never captured her attention before now.

She was overcome with the sudden, overwhelming urge to take it. Wednesday very nearly stifled it, but she figured since you were subjecting her to these horrific feelings, she was entitled to a settlement of some kind.

Swiftly, she pocketed the ring and snapped the box shut, venturing back over to you, none the wiser as you messily stuffed clothing into your suitcase. She held the box out to you, eyes narrowing in condemnation at the messy state of your things below.

“Why are you taking the entire box?” Wednesday asked neutrally.

“Because these dorms are not the most secure,” you answered, taking the box from her hand with a smile and placing it on top of your clothes. “And I would hate for something to get stolen while I was gone.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched. “Yes, that would be unfortunate.”

Soon enough, you were finished packing and ready to go. Almost. For some reason, you were struggling to carry both your duffel bag and suitcase at the same time. It was quite humorous, watching you struggle, but she took pity on you knowing you were on a schedule.

“You’re weak,” she grumbled as she snatched the duffel bag from your hand, slung it over her shoulder, and stepped around you to open the door.

You followed closely behind, flashing her a grateful, slightly sheepish grin while closing the door behind you. “Thanks, Wends.”

She said nothing, just kept walking, finding amusement in the sound of you fumbling to catch up. When you found your footing, you took your usual place at her side, shoulders brushing while you easily fell into step with her.

The whole way down, you chattered on and on about what you were excited to do on the trip, but Wednesday wasn’t tuned in. Her attention was on the way her stomach fell further with every step closer to the waiting car outside and the pit she could feel forming for seemingly no reason at all.

She despised it, this ever-growing weakness you unwillingly made her develop.

Walking out, you found the car parked right by the curb outside, Principal Weems already leisurely resting against it while she waited for you to arrive.

The tall woman greeted the two of you with a smile, to which you offered a wave in return while Wednesday just stared. She came to collect your luggage and went to put it in the back of her car, leaving the two of you to say your goodbyes.

You turned to her, rocking back on your heels, clearly unsure of what to say. Wednesday, though she’d never admit it, was in a similar predicament, without the slightest clue of what to do now.

She didn’t know why, but she was tempted to pull you back into the school and drag her back to her dorm. The urge was utterly ridiculous, yet grew more powerful by the second, nagging at her as she watched your agonizingly slow internal debate.

“I guess I’ll see you in a week,” you finally said, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. “It’ll be over in a flash, and I’ll be back to talking your ear off before you know it.”

Wednesday gave you a firm nod in lieu of a verbal response. You sent a sideways glance to the principal’s car, clearly remembering you had a flight to catch.

“Bye, Wends,” you said, then added, “Please don’t kill anyone while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” she deadpanned, earning a laugh from you.

After another moment of indecision, you pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, feather-light and entirely too quick for her tastes. But she didn’t voice that embarrassing thought, just watched you walk off and enter the vehicle with her arms crossed.

As the car pulled off, you turned and waved to her out the back window, and she lifted her fingers from her forearm slightly in response. The smile you gave her got smaller and smaller with distance.

Wednesday stayed standing there until the car was out of sight, the unidentified pit in her stomach never abating.

—

The week that followed was…weird.

It was the same as any other week at Nevermore, yet entirely different.

She was indeed able to get much more writing done, but it wasn’t as triumphant as Wednesday imagined. The silence in her room was refreshing for all of twenty minutes before the tone of it shifted, and the quiet felt empty. It didn’t impede her workflow—if anything, it increased it—but it just felt wrong.

There were a number of notable happenings throughout the week as well.

Bianca suffered her 47th defeat at the hands of Wednesday during their weekly fencing practice (she was very excited to get to 50), Eugene somehow got six bees stuck in his hair and, in a show of true incompetence, Xavier managed to spill an entire can of paint on himself. Something he would never, ever live down as far as Wednesday was concerned.

In all of those instances, she found herself looking to her right to see if you were smiling or laughing. Until she was met with the empty space you would’ve occupied, and she remembered. You weren’t here. It made a certain hollowness settle in her chest, making her mood drop ever so slightly.

It was pathetic, honestly. It made her want to self-lobotomize herself to attempt to determine just how much damage you’d done, to see if it was reverible.

Still, she mentally cataloged the events to recount for you upon your arrival. Only so she wouldn’t have to deal with your whining about her not telling you anything once you inevitably heard it from Enid.

Throughout each day, your ring accompanied Wednesday everywhere she went. Slipping it on right before leaving her dorm and taking it off just before bed quickly became her new routine.

She had never fully understood the obsession that people had with rings as the only hand jewelry she ever enjoyed wearing was brass knuckles, but she was beginning to get it now. The light weight on her hand was somewhat soothing, especially in moments when your absence was particularly potent.

She hoped that no one would notice it. Most wouldn’t have even known it belonged to you, but your shared group of friends (acquaintances on Wednesday’s end) would likely recognize it since you wore it so frequently.

Knowing this, Wednesday did her best to take it off in group settings, slipping it into her blazer pocket to put back on after, but it was harder to remember during classes. This oversight ended up being her undoing.

It wound up taking three days for someone to notice the ring. And, of course, that someone was Enid.

They were in Botany, listening to Miss Thornhill drone on about some rare carnivorous plant. Enid was in the seat next to her to “fill in the void” you left behind in your absence with her peppy, prismatic presence.

Entirely unnecessary, but so were most things Enid did. Wednesday had long since learned not to question her anymore.

Wednesday, having already known everything there was to know about the plant, had finished taking her notes five minutes after class started, but Enid wasn’t even trying to take notes. She was instead doing seemingly everything in her power to irritate Wednesday. Incessantly doodling, clicking her pen, constantly fidgeting and shifting, drumming her fingers against the desk.

It was positively maddening. And not in a good way.

In an effort not to snap at her, Wednesday occupied herself with your ring. Tracing the engravings and twisting it around her finger. It was soothing. Enid, nosy as she was, glanced over at the movement and paused her pen clicking.

“Hey…” she started, and Wednesday immediately knew she would hate where this was going. Enid leaned over, making Wednesday lean back in turn. Her eyes narrowed then widened moments later with a soft gasp. “That ring, isn’t that—"

“None of your business? Absolutely,” she gritted out, sending her a scathing glare. “Now, perhaps you should actually pay attention. Maybe then you’ll have a chance of finally getting something higher than a 70 on the next test.”

Her roommate looked like she wanted to say more but eventually conceded with a disgustingly wide smile and a mumble that sounded awfully like that’s so cute of you, roomie.

Wednesday swore that if it were anybody else, she would’ve finally completed her bucket list that day.

—

After what seemed like an eternity and many more tests to Wednesday’s patience (almost exclusively from Enid), seven days passed and the time for you to return to Nevermore arrived.

It had actually been longer than seven days—170 hours and 17 minutes, to be exact—but who was counting? Certainly not Wednesday.

The principal’s car pulled in just as the sun began to set, and Wednesday was there, standing off to the side of the school’s entrance. Not because she was waiting for you, she simply had matters to attend to in the courtyard around that time.

You stepped out the car moments later and your eyes found hers instantly, expression brightening. Bags in hand, you ran over to her but stopped just short of her, excitement fading into uncertainty.

Wednesday stared at you, then, with an audible sigh, stepped forward. Your smile returned, increasing tenfold as you dropped your bags and wrapped your arms around her, careful not to squeeze her too hard. If you questioned the way she barely leaned into your embrace and turned her face just slightly into your neck, she would say it was entirely in your head.

“Did you miss me?” you asked once you pulled back, hands coming to rest on her shoulders.

“Not for a second,” she answered. “I was able to get twice as much writing done without your constant prattling and distractions.”

“Uh-huh.” The sly smile on your face told her that you definitely weren’t buying it, but you plowed on before she could confront you. “Y’know, you could have texted me if you had a phone,” you persuaded, fixing her with a look she’d become intimately familiar with since you’d started dating. “I could always get you one.”

Wednesday blinked, shot you a dubious look. “You’re broke.”

Your shoulders fell dramatically, but your tone remained light. “Damn, Wends, you didn’t have to say it like that.”

She didn’t dignify you with another response. Knowing you would need time to unpack before dinner, she slung one of your bags over your shoulder and took off in the direction of your dorm, leaving you to catch up.

It wasn’t long before you were by her side, matching her pace easily. And, of course, you had more to say.

“Do you wanna hear about my trip?”

“No,” she said. A beat. Then, “But you may tell me while you unpack. I know you like to run your mouth while completing tasks anyway. I have things to tell you as well.”

“Really? Thanks, Wends,” you grinned brightly. Wednesday shot you a glare, and if you noticed that it was softer than usual, you didn’t comment.

Unable to keep your mouth shut, you started ranting about the traffic you hit on the way back to the airport, or something related to that. Wednesday wasn’t quite listening. She was instead taking in the unfocused drawl of your voice in her ear, the strides perfectly matching hers, the light brush of your shoulder against hers—just appreciating the familiar presence at her side once more.

It had only been a week, yet it felt like a lifetime since she had last experienced this.

Without thinking, her hand drifted to fiddle with your ring, and your eyes caught the movement. You stopped suddenly, prompting Wednesday to come to a halt as well with a questioning look.

Gently, you grabbed her hand and brought it closer to your face to inspect the band around her finger.

“This is mine, isn’t it?” you asked, brows knitting together. “I’ve been wondering where it went, I swore I packed it...”

Wednesday snatched her hand away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about but grab my hand like that again and yours will be swiftly removed.”

“But—” you started to protest but stopped abruptly. She watched, curious, as your expression smoothed over into something even she couldn’t quite read. You nodded, smiled. “Yeah, I must be confused, sorry.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes but accepted the apology with a nod.

The rest of the walk was spent in silence. It was odd. Wednesday stole a few glances to see if you were upset, but you seem to be. If anything, the opposite.

Still, the silence stretched on even when you both arrived at your destination, and you were pulling the door to your dorm open for her. She strode inside, trying to find a way to broach the subject without sounding too concerned.

But there was no need.

Just after the door closed, you put a hand on her shoulder and leaned over into her space. She gave you a startled glare but didn’t move away, ignoring the way her ears burned at the sight of your soft smile and the equally soft whisper that followed.

“I missed you too, Wednesday.”

—

everyone @ wednesday while reading this:

anyways happy pride to my fellow loser gays 🥳🏳️‍🌈

[wlwkiryuu]

juri is simultaneously the coolest council member and the most pathetic. she effortlessly picks up literally any skill at prodigy-level. one of her closest friends is a twelve-year-old boy. she's so confident in her identity as a lesbian that she makes the girl characters question their sexualities by just existing. despite being good at literally everything her hobbies mostly consist of long, brooding showers and projecting her insecurities onto everyone around her through cryptic speeches and stories that are sometimes so cryptic that even characters WITHIN a show as weird as rgu don't know what the hell she's talking about. she is objectively incredibly awkward (Your Ball? My Ball) but given she's surrounded by a bunch of equally pretentious teenagers she just becomes much cooler by comparison. she sees through others' bullshit by accepting her own bullshit. girl is BUILT on a card house of lies that can blow away in the wind at any moment if her own stubbornness and denial were not singlehandedly tying it down. she's just as effortlessly a sopping wet cat as she is a Cool Girl™. need more people to understand this

[adultish-momma]

Therapy on a Time Crunch

The VDC is coming up, and not only is there a lot of vocal and dance prep to do, but some unpacking needs to be fit in to the already busy schedule.

Or: Yuu refuses to let Epel say sexist shit in their presence.

Warnings!: Inherently sexist comments. Epel in book 5 is honestly just a raging stereotypical small town misogynist, and that is itself a warning. Threat of future violence at the end.

A/N: Yuu is Gender Neutral in this story, but Epel’s specific brand of misogyny pisses me off, so Yuu responds as if they were personally targeted by his comments. That being said, they are never refered to as fem, nor do they state that they identify as fem.

“But all these girly twisting motions… I don’t want to do those.”

They couldn’t have heard that right.

Yuu sits at a table in an alcove of the Pomefiore dance hall, blinking in stunned disbelief at the purple-haired freshman. Grim, intimate with the knowledge of their henchhuman’s body language symbols by this point in the school year, inches further amongst the pages of their spread-out homework. He hangs his head over a worksheet, hoping to remain out of the line of fire but still be able to watch the show about to happen.

“Wait, wait, wait” the Prefect rises, shaking their hands and their head in denial of what they just heard. “Go back. Did you just say that Jazz… Hip Hop… is girly??”

Epel opens his mouth, but Yuu raises their hand in a dismissive, shushing gesture. Something in their eyes prompts him to quickly shut his mouth.

“I mean, correct me if I’m wrong here Vil, but as far as I recall, Jazz and Hip Hop are, historically and predominantly, male dominated dance styles. At least in my world, what about here?”

Vil raises an eyebrow, impressed with the otherworldly students' knowledge. He gives a small nod in response to their question.

“That’s what I thought. So tell me Epel, what exactly is so ‘girly’ about a dance style that was created by both genders, but has had the female influence of its origins mostly deliberately forgotten? What’s so ‘effeminate’ about a dance style that is incredibly hard for female dancers to establish credibility in because people cry ‘slut’?”

Again, Epel opens his mouth to flounder out an answer, desperately trying to string words into a sentence that will make the Ramshackle Housewarden stop looking at him like that. He feels pinned, backed into a corner, and hell Leona doesn’t even make him feel this much like prey. Like he’s only got one chance to present himself to the jury that is Yuu, and if he messes this up they will judge him worthy of execution.

“The whole idea of boys being ashamed of doing effeminate dance moves is so last century.” Vil steps in now, adding his own judgemental pressure to the freshman’s predicament. “Did you grow up a century ago? Have we a time traveler amongst us?”

“N-no, sir…”

At least with Vil it’s easy to figure out how to end a lecture quicker. Vil already softens at the submissive tone of his underclassman. Not much, just a fraction, but softens nonetheless. Vil is a wrath he’s incurred before, a wrath he knows how to navigate. His fellow first year on the other hand…

Even with Kalim stepping up, inserting his sunny disposition into the tense standoff, the Prefect does not yield. They continue to stare Epel down, jaw clenched and arms crossed like a disappointed parent. Vil softens even further at whatever advice the sophomore is spouting, but Epel can’t hear him over the roar in his ears, still transfixed by the way his body screams threat in response to the Prefect’s stare. There’s something taunting about it now, an angry predator that is daring him step closer. Epel has enough sense to not rise to the bait.

Yuu begins to smirk, and suddenly Epel has doubts about his survival rate.

“Just for curiosity's sake… ” they begin, demeanor changing on a dime. Their voice drops, likening itself to that of a husky purr. The harsh posture is dropped, hips curving and arms draping themselves in a manner that accentuates their body’s curves. Within seconds, they embody a lot of the attributes Vil tries to teach him in his private lessons. With an alluring smile (but still that predatory gaze), they gesture behind them towards the Scarbian Vice Housewarden.

“Would you consider Jamil ‘feminine’?”

“No, of-”

“No?" an innocent widening of the eyes, big and round and doe-like, exactly how Vil would want him to do. "Even when he’s breakdancing? You know, that Hip Hop dance style that he’s so fond of?”

“...no.”

“No,” smug satisfaction drips from Yuu’s frame like poison. “You wouldn’t.”

The Ramshackle student retreats across the practice room, returning to their belongings while maintaining that captivating air they adopted. They move in a way that draws the eyes, and Epel is able to watch from his place across the room as they do exactly that. They bend over the table to reach all their belongings, and they do so in just the right way, allowing Epel to catch at least three of the boys in the room check out their ass. (The fact that he only caught the looks of the others after he himself had to retch his gaze away will be ignored).

Epel bitterly (and begrudingly) thinks that maaaaaybe Vil might be onto to something about all his posturing crap.

Grim, who hadn’t completed a single problem on his worksheet, gleefully hopped down from the chair, sauntering towards the exit.

“Potato, where do you think you’re going?” 

“To get some air. This place reeks of archaic misogyny.” A snicker from their beastly companion can be heard from the hallway.

Yuu pauses in the doorway, fingers drumming on the doorframe in deliberation. Suddenly they turn around, relaxing against the wood so they could face the VDC crew. The predatory glint was back.

“If you want to complain because you don’t have an interest in dancing, by all means be my guest, you’re entitled to preferences. But I promise you, if I ever hear you spout that kind of sexist bullshit again, I’m going hit with the sparkliest, pinkest purse in existence and knock your sorry ass into next week.”

[starrycassi]

I think Andrew Minyard, eventually, becomes a legend on campus. He was one, already — warnings and whispered rumours, fear and twister wonder. He evolves.

It starts in his third year. There's a giggling girl, slumped down in the curb of the science building, and he's back from the computer lab (Because he's trying to care. To get better grades. To put in the work). He's smoking. There was (is?) a party going on, somewhere on campus. He doesn't care about it for anything else than knowing that Dan, Matt, Nicky and Reynolds are there. It's quite warm, they're just back from summer break, and he's slow when it's too warm. That's how he notices — the idiot who creeps up behind her. She's laughing at nothing, and the guy is clearly strong enough to carry her. He moves her head, positions her to be lifted, while she stammers incoherent denials, humor dying in her throat as horror creeps up. He puts a big, calloused hand over her tights, and she tries to back up. It's useless.

Maybe Andrew wouldn't intervene. Maybe he wouldn't, if the guy didn't look up at him. There's no shame. They make eye contact, and the man winks, pride written all over his face. He nods to Andrew, who nods back.

"We can take turns." He says, grinning under the moonlight, waving his hand at Andrew, inviting him closer. He resembles Drake, in a way. Andrew accepts.

The guy tries to press charges for his broken bones. Neil's uncle wipes out one of his fancy lawyers and the camera footage. Andrew is forgiven and (in a bizarre change of routine) praised by the jury.

Turns out the girl is one of those horrid Vixens. Katelyn thanks him and he pretends to be deaf. The whole team takes to cheering even harder whenever he blocks a goal, in the next games. The one from that night flies and twirls in the air, even going as far as calling out his name and a platitude of generic chants. Someone asks Andrew if she's his girlfriend. He genuinely considers murder.

It dies down. Selena (the annoying Vixen) keeps on her enthusiasm, making Neil tease him about his first die-hard fan and how jealous he is, of his now growing career. Andrew shuts him up with a kiss.

Then, he's with Kevin and Neil. Or, well, him and Neil are trailing behind Kevin, who's jogging to the Library to print a last-minute change on his cover page (forgot that his last name is now legally Wymack, the idiot) because Kevin is still too scared to be completely alone, sometimes.

There's a muffled sound. Then,

"Com'on, pretty girl. You're too cute for that gay shit. I'll make you feel goood."

"Fuck no. Kevin, run."

Neil is fast. Everyone knows that. People tend to forget just how fast he is. He's out of Andrew's side in a blink, then, Kevin's following. Kevin is an egocentric idiot, but he's been getting better, at this whole "caring about others" thing. At least ever since Jean and him had a screaming match over the phone.

Andrew doesn't hurry — Neil can stand his ground. Kevin is not completely useless. The cries he can hear are of strange voices. When he arrives, there's two guys on the floor. Neil has a knife shoved against one of their necks (right next to an artery) and Kevin is putting those hours of weight lifting to work, pinning the body to the floor.

The girl runs to Andrew's side, clinging to his arm. He shoves her, immediately. With fearful eyes, she seems to take a second to recognize him. When she does, she goes to stand behind his back.

As if Andrew can bring safety to someone. To an unknown someone, at that.

She accompanies them to the library, sticking to Kevin's side, hanging onto his arm. To his credit, Kevin only talks about Sexy for half the walk, and it seems to soothe her. When they're there, she offers her printing credits to the idiot.

Neil is seething. He calls his uncle, who sends his fancy hired muscle. If some people get a very strange and unfortunate mugging accident that same week, well, Andrew has a very strong alibi.

It becomes ridiculous, however, in the last days of the semester. Farewell is being celebrated. He asked Neil (because he's trying to care about things) if he wanted to go.

They were, clearly, not going.

They do go out. They take the Maserati and eat in a shitty restaurant, silent in a way that they can only be with each other.

It's when they're coming back when they spot the group. Four girls, heels in hands and wobbly knees. They're in the middle of the road. It's not a very concurred road. Two of them are carrying one, while the other leads the group. In their time together, Andrew has learned that Neil likes women more than men. There's also that deeply ingrained sense of guilt over his mother, that makes him favour them. It's Neil who says,

"Slow down. Make sure you don't run them over."

It's Andrew's mind that provides him with the detail. He recognizes that ponytail.

Carla, it tells him. From Experimental Psychology. She doesn't drink. She cried after the Little Albert chapter. She chastised her seatmate when she tried to touch Andrew's hair.

She doesn't drink. First night out? Could be. A lightweight with no tolerance and no frame of reference. Would that explain why she's on pajamas? Too inexperienced — or uncaring — in what to wear in a night out?

There's silence in the car. He slows down. Neil, who seems to be able to read Andrew in a way that not even Andrew can, asks him if they should give them a ride. Andrew agrees.

Neil is the one who tells them to get in. Carla is the almost-passed-out one. They all hurry inside after a few seconds of whispered shouting between each other. They're almost a mile away from campus, as is. Andrew isn't even quite sure how they ended up here.

He asks them.

"We were on the bus — yes. The bus? For the party." Greens dress says. "It left from the main gate. At, like, ten, I think. What time is it? Who cares. Yeah. No. On the bus."

"And he said- he was... On the bus, with us. He was bragging, y'know? 'Bout getting laid. We didn't care. He's an idiot — all the guys on the football team are."

"Ronnie was not." Pink dress tells Blue dress. "But yeah — he's. And then, at the party — we'r drinkin', yeah? We're the powerpul- powerpuff girls, see? I'm Bubbles. Wait, no, Am not. Blossom, yeah?."

"POINT IS, at the party, we see Carla. You know her? We do. She's in that chess club. They play chess. My roomie's in it. Chess club girls don't drink, I tell you. So, I go. And I ask her why she's here. Poor girl couldn't speak, see? "

"She was on the sofa, right?"

"You're telling it wrong. She was in the bathroom, puking up. Had her phone on the floor, 'member?"

"Ah, yes! And we ask her — we ask her who she's with, and she says, she says that she doesn't remember. And she tells me... Tell me, hey, isn't this a McDonald's? And I laughed, and she said 'no, he said we're going to McDonald's' and I stopped laughing because she puked again."

"No, no. She was on the sofa, and you made her puke, imbecile. You said she was roofied, 'member?"

"Yeah, that's it! I know. They did it to... To Reynolds, yeah? She made us learn the signs 'n all, after."

"We get out of there, and a guy says- says he'll take us to the hospital, you know? We noticed we weren't going to any fucking 'spital and made him leave us where you found us. Should've known to never trust a man, yeah?"

They keep on bickering. Neil and Andrew share a look, before Neil takes out his cellphone to call Renee. The Powerpuff girls and Carla are hauled up to Fox Tower after a quick "chat" with the RA. Andrew refuses to touch them. Dan, Reynolds, Renee and Matt do all the hard work.

One week later, there's a knock on the door and someone calling his name. When he leaves his room and opens, a tray of what smells like freshly baked cookies sits neatly on the floor.

He pretends not to see Carla's face peeking around the hallway.

[morbidology]

In March 1944, 14-year-old George Stinney was accused of the brutal murder of two white girls, 11-year-old Betty June Binnicker and 7-year-old Mary Emma Thames. The girls had been found dead in a ditch near their homes in Alcolu, South Carolina, and Stinney was quickly apprehended and charged. The accusations against him were heavily influenced by the racially charged atmosphere of the time.

Stinney’s trial, which was held on April 24, 1944, was infamously swift. He was tried in a court that lasted less than three hours, and the jury took just ten minutes to convict him. The proceedings were marred by a lack of proper legal representation, as Stinney’s defence was minimal and inadequate. The legal system failed him comprehensively, and the trial was conducted with a glaring disregard for due process and fair trial standards.

George Stinney was sentenced to death, and his execution by electrocution took place on June 16, 1944. At just 14 years old, Stinney was one of the youngest individuals ever executed in the U.S. His execution was carried out despite widespread calls for clemency and the absence of substantial evidence linking him to the crime. He was too short to properly fit in the electric chair, and a bible was used as a booster.

For decades, the case of George Stinney remained a tragic footnote in American history. It wasn't until 2014, more than 70 years after his execution, that his conviction was posthumously overturned. The South Carolina Circuit Judge Carmen Mullen declared that Stinney’s trial was fundamentally flawed, marked by procedural errors, racial bias, and a denial of fair legal representation.

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2024: Last Place

37. ISRAEL Eden Golan - "Hurricane" 5th place

Decade Ranking: 150/153 [Above Noa Kirel, below Roxen]

Where do we start?

Let's begin, perhaps by stating the obvious. Israel's participation in this year ruined the contest. You encounter an entrant or two that completely warp the meta around them at every contest, but never to an extent this cataclysmic. Every sour note of this contest, and there were plenty, sprouted from the decision to allow Israel into the year. That was the tipping point. I believe that makes "Hurricane" the worst entry of all times in terms of the sheer negative impact its presence had on the edition it parttook in.

The ESC discourse -on asocial media- completely revolved around the conflict in Palestine either to denounce the war crimes perpetrated by the Israeli goverment and the subsequent silencing of critical voices calling it out, or to make a stand against the Poor Young Girl who was unfairly maligned by radicalized leftists for a conflict she had no hand in.

So was it any surprise that Israel won every Western televote? Be honest. I know that the Twitter manchildren claim Israel cheated, but they are in denial. The televote was genuine. The scalpel slices both ways, sadly. For every heckler booing Eden or protesting for Palestine or announcing a Eurovision boycot or lecturing the general public to not vote for Israel, a sympathy vote for her arises because "Aw She Doesn't Deserve So Much Negativity, Poor Thing". That she willingly chose to rep israel at THIS time with THAT song is blissfully ignored. Eden Golan is not a child. She's fully accountable for the effects that her participation caused, and is perfectly a-OK with it.

So, wake the fuck up. The sympathizing nutcases were OPENLY mobilizing to vote for Israel without even watching a second of the contest, to prove a point against you know, "insane leftist wokery" or whatever they call it. "You can't make me think what you want or do what you want, TAKE THAT". It's the same principle that led to Brexit and Trump beating Clinton. Similarly, they attempted to hijack the results like a particularly nasty species of asian hornet because their 'Freedom of Speech' is more important to them than fair results in an entertainment show, or a potential genocide. Or maybe they were just indoctrinated. A smaller sample size due to boycots + 20 votes per crazed zionist, it's honestly a miracle Croatia STILL beat them in the TV overall.

In other words, pretty much every opinion about Eden revolved around the politics that accompanied the flag she flew under.

And I'm sorry, but Eurovision is not supposed to be about Israel. Why should THAT country get more attention, or even preferential treatment in this otherwise excellent line-up? That's not what it should be about.

It is THEM who it should be about:

None of these artists asked to be a part of this shambolic display. So in that sense, let's do something many have FAILED. Let's do what we're supposed to dp: Discuss the SONG, outside of context.

Frankly, there's remarkably little to say. Even without the context, "Hurricane" would have been bottom of the barrel for me regardless? It's a mediocre sappy ballad aimed to Make People Cry. We see such ballads pop up all the time in NFs (most recently Krick in Luxembourg and Noble in Portugal), where -more often than not- their sucktitude catches up with them and manifests a loss.

I've seen people be outraged that Norway's jury gave it points but I mean, look at any recent scandi NF and tell me a Hurricane wouldn't fit within its ranks. It's Undo, What if, A Monster Like Me, all the tacky soulless ballads with poor narratives preying on the soft-hearted and the guillible with cheap emotional manip. "Hurricane"was cut from the same dementor-esque, sympathy-craving cloth. Call me old fashioned, but I was taught that sympathy requires a modicum of respect, which needs to be earned, not begged for like a dog's dinner. (I hope the Europapa fans are reading this because this also applies to him, and that ghastly outro). If your song was written with the idea in mind of pinkwashing the deaths of a few thousand children, then perhaps you may have not fully earned the benefit of the doubt, jussaying.~

In terms of performance, Eden was vocally good, at least. It's her voice that carries it although i don't find her particularly likeable as a lead. Then again, she is a Russian nepo brat whose family emigrated to Israel after the Ukrainian war so that her daddy to secure his financial assets and the Golans could continue their lavish, privileged lifestyle in a safer country. It was always a challenge, so to say, to consider Eden Golan a likeable individual.

Also what is UP with the choreography? Why do the dancers look like they are loading air rifles? A Choice, to say the least.

So all in all, a pretty weak entry that always would have been in my bottom 3 for any country, but that probably had a ceiling of lower top 10 in a normal, generic year of ESC.

However, this was NOT a generic ESC. There's NO imagining "Hurricane" without its context which makes it so, SO much worse. It was specifically written in support of the Israeli victims in the war (why go through that trouble and not simply withdraw and spend the participation fee on providing for the families of the hostages? Isn't that more effective charity? But hey, what do I know.) There is no "depoliticizing", no matter how often you retcon the lyrics into gibberish. Hurricane's intentions are present in its rhythm, its instrumentation, the keys in which it is sung. The notion that you can separate it from its context is absurd.

And yet, that is precisely what the EBU were hoping for when they allowed it in, and it exploded into their face like a firework. I can't say they didn't deserve it. Ultimately, the full blame for all of this rests with them. If a certain entity threatens the integrity of your being, you get rid of the threat. You don't passively sit back crossing your fingers they leave at their own volition. The Israeli's would understand the reasons for exclusion, surely, as they've been applying the exact same principles to the Gaza Strip since mid October.

The EBU allowed them in, officially to prove Eurovision wasn't political and United By Music (in reality because they're cowards and didn't want to be the first organization to ban Israel from an international event, and be branded antisemites as a result). The result was the most politically charged and divisive contest of all time, rife with incidents that were as avoidable as they were outrageous. It couldn't have been further away from "apolitical unity" if it tried.

Hurricane was NEVER worth the price of admission. All the controversy, the security risks, the boycots, the antisemitism and xenophobia, the censorship, the harrassment of other delegations (which the Israeli delegation EAGERLY participated in) and of course the Israeli embassies in participating countries OPENLY advocating to vote for Israel as "a signal". Even the tensions that led to Joost's dubious DQ which I doubt would have happened at any other contest. This could all have been foreseen and avoided by excluding the country that clearly would have brought the contest into disrepute. Eurovision is now on life support. Congratulations EBU. You KILLED your own contest.

It briefly looked like Israel could win (leave to RAI to be woefully incompetent and blasé), which would have been the final nail in Eurovision's coffin but then they magically lost the televote (thank you SO much Eastern Europe, you are SO real for this) and stranded themselves in 5th place. Instead of being the Worst Winner of All Time, Israel are merely a mediocre also-ran, which I can live with. It makes "Hurricane"' marginally less appalling than "Unicorn" and "I.M" for me. Let their fifth place serve as a grim reminder for future editions that Hatred Breeds Hatred, and also, thankfully, that Love Can indeed Prevail.

THE RANKING

[cygnusdoesthings]

Case File 081: The Unmasking of the Aussie Anon

(Catalogue by Det. C. DoesThings)

Case Description:

On July 12th, 2024, 0108 (AEST), CygnusDoesThings received a message from an anonymous asker, claiming that they were Australian. CygnusDoesThings then proceeded to try to figure out the identity of this Australian Anon- often shortened to Aussie Anon.

From there, multiple people have joined the case as we have investigated.

This is a long post. You have been warned. It may be a little overwhelming. I will reblog this post with status updates.

Investigators:

@cygnusdoesthings (Codename: Cyg or Cygnus) as Lead Detective

@igotthisaccountunderduress (Codename: Iggy or Rosie) as Assistant Detective

@quotidian-oblivion (Codename: Quo or Quotidian) as Lead Investigator, Organizer, and Catering

Involved Suspects and Identities being Interrogated;

@brb-on-a-quest (Codename: Birb) as scribe,

@walkthruthewords (Codename unknown) as Birb's Mutual (Adjacent Role: Lawyer)

@gracefulchristiangirl (Codename: Gracie) as informant.

Jury Members (If you wish to not be involved, feel free to message me and let me know!)

@auroraofthesun1 (Codename: Aurora)

@book-girl4eva (Codename: Bea)

@thomasstaples (Codename: Thomas)

@myfairkatiecat (Codename: Katie)

Suspects Ruled Out (or not): (unless proven guilty)

Katadastical (Australian, Cyg's Mutual) (i think i got a message from her or smth, not her)

dsabian (They/Them). Has been following along most posts. Just I think likes observing (tags).

MispeltNostoglia (Australian, Cyg's Mutual) (Lack of Activity)

Iggy (Being Canadian) (And this)

foursixtwonineoh-pieces-of-lego (Evie) (Fitting Criteria)

ah0yh0y (Fitting Criteria) (Denial)

ko1e (Mutual, Australian) (Hasn't done Anything on Tumblr. Like. At All)

its-stairs-time (Stairs) (Aussie Quo Mutual) (Unlikely)

the-echos-error (Echo) (Aussie Quo Mutual) (Unlikely)

foineswoine (Pigeon) (Aussie Quo Mutual) (Unlikely)

godsenther (hasn't responded lmao)

brb-on-a-quest (Birb) (Still a Major Player) (but unlikely to be culprit)

gracefulchristiangirl (Gracie) (Still a major player)

periwinkle-the-11th (Codename: Peri). Has been following along, and has been online at the exact times of the anon asks. I have not yet pulled her into this investigation, but it is worth keeping an eye on her. (American.)

Assistants: N/A.

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Anon Asks so Far

Original. The catalyst. If you want to see how this all happened, this is a good place to start.

Unrelated (Anon 2). Thank you for the well-wishes.

Mysterious Anon Maybe That I'm Just Realising Probably Was The Red Herring. Birb sent a reblog that outlined that we missed a red herring. My theory is that we missed this.

Anon Mentioning The Involvement of Gracie. This is... Incredibly suspicious. Gracie has inserted herself into this case (btw i totally do not mind, we have fun here), and has brought to our attention.. several other suspects.

Gracie In Disguise (Evidence: here)

Matching Fish Posting: Birb, Quo, Cyg, Walking. Fishy Anon is not innocent; but also not necessarily Aussie Anon. We need to find out who they are. (I'm pretty sure it's Gracie.)

Informant, possible code anon. Focusing on the capital letters. Code yet to be deciphered.

(right in front of you) (Binary Anon)

Series of asks, from an unknown (presumably) The Original Aussie.

Series of asks from the original Aussie Anon. Focusing on the capital letters. Code yet to be deciphered. Knows my status on discord. Possible leak.

1 (Do people lie on the internet?)

2 (A Fan of Fans)

3 (Well-Wishes from An Anon)

4 (Akabura Western Hats)

5 (Straight Shootin’)

6 (Are Hints the Norm?)

7 (a swing and a miss.)

15th July, 2024 asks:

1 (Along the Way)

2 (Still Figuring it Out?)

3 (Blind)

Binary Anon and Binary Anon Poem

Jury Anon

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

Suspects:

Birb. Sent by someone to give us a red herring. Who sent (i dont know what your pronouns are) Birb? They at least have possibly connections to whoever sent the message, and we would love to know who did, under what circumstances, and, most of all, how to contact them.

Update: Birb is the Red Herring Anon, and the Sending Information anon, but not the Aussie Anon. Evidence.

walkthruthewords. A mootal lawyer. Is kept in the loop, but seems.. suspicious. Met with cooperation, but passed the blame to Gracie.

Update: Involvement as an mooterny only.

Gracie. Possible ally. Will need to interrogate further regarding fishy anon asks and the ask about who she tagged. But.. very suspicious. Multiple people involved with the Innocence Ask have pointed to her, as well as the Fish Ask itself.

@godsenther. Has not yet responded. Aussie. Recently made a personal Tumblr account. Is in the server I posted updates to. Knows me on Discord. Can be cryptic as hell.

And one other.

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

Current Process of Investigation (outlined by Quotidian):

interrogating birb about the details of the red herring

investigating the mutuals who are most likely to find cyg's post

Go through the notes of each of the unmasking posts and see who interacted and interrogate them

Try and lure kindly convince the anon to send another ask to one of us

Beg the Aussie anon to give us a hint

Drop to our knees and surrender ourselves to the nimbleness and cleverness of the Aussie anon

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

Interrogation and Progresses

> Detective Thread 1: Process

> Detective Thread 2: Decoding

> Detective Thread 3: Anons and Identities

> Interrogation Room 1: Birb (With Walking as a mootual lawyer)

> Interrogation Room 2:

\The Final Confrontation:

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

Anon Identities

Aussie Anon

Red Herring (And Fishy#3) Anon - @brb-on-a-quest

Advice Anon @mayamohini

Fishy Anon- @gracefulchristiangirl

Fishy Anon #2 (Possibly also the Jury Anon) -

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

Last Updated: 15th of July, 2024, 6:55pm AEST, by Det. C. DoesThings.

(Thanks for joining the fun. If you want to clarify things, I'm CygnusDoesThings on most platforms, but Discord is the easiest way to reach me.)

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CLASSIFIED ADDENDUM FOR CYGNUS ‘ONLY’

> One: Suspicions of my Teammates. (~1pm, July 14th, 2024 AEST)

> Two: Clear of Suspicions & A New Suspect. (~5pm, July 14th, 2024 AEST)

> Three: Thought Process and Private Journal (6:40pm, July 15th, 2024 AEST)

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Rachel Leingang at The Guardian:

An Arizona grand jury has charged 18 people involved in the scheme to create a slate of false electors for Donald Trump, including 11 people who served as those fake electors and seven Trump allies who aided the scheme. Kris Mayes, Arizona’s Democratic attorney general, announced the charges on Wednesday, and said the 11 fake electors had been charged with felonies for fraud, forgery and conspiracy. Beyond the fake electors themselves, high-profile Trump affiliates have been charged with aiding in the scheme: Mark Meadows, John Eastman, Boris Epshteyn, Rudy Giuliani, Jenna Ellis, Christina Bobb and Mike Roman.

Those charged over their roles as false electors include two sitting lawmakers, state senators Jake Hoffman and Anthony Kern. The former Arizona Republican party chair Kelli Ward and her husband, Michael Ward, have been charged, as has Tyler Bowyer, a Republican national committeeman and Turning Point USA executive, and Jim Lamon, who ran for US Senate in 2022. The others charged in the fake electors scheme are Nancy Cottle, Robert Montgomery, Samuel Moorhead, Lorraine Pellegrino and Gregory Safsten. The indictment says: “In Arizona, and the United States, the people elected Joseph Biden as president on November 3 2020. Unwilling to accept this fact, defendants and unindicted co-conspirators schemed to prevent the lawful transfer of the presidency to keep unindicted co-conspirator 1 in office against the will of Arizona’s voters. This scheme would have deprived Arizona voters of their right to vote and have their votes counted.”

Biden won Arizona by more than 10,000 votes, a close margin in the typically red state that immediately prompted allegations of voter fraud that persist to this day. The state has remained a hotbed of election denialism, despite losses for Republicans who embraced election-fraud lies at the state level. Trump has not been charged in the Arizona case. The indictment refers to Trump himself as “unindicted co-conspirator 1” throughout, noting how the former president schemed to keep himself in office, and how those around him, even those who believed he lost, aided this effort. Some involved have claimed they signed on as an alternate slate of electors in case court decisions came down in Trump’s favor, so they would have a backup group that could be certified by Congress should Trump prevail.

An Arizona grand jury handed down 18 indictments to those involved in the scheme to award 11 fake electors to give Donald Trump the state of Arizona in 2020, despite the fact that Joe Biden flipped the state in his narrow win. Donald Trump has been named unindicted co-conspirator #1.

The persons indicted for aiding and abetting efforts to help the fake electors: Jenna Ellis, Kenneth Chesebro, Christina Bobb, Rudy Giuliani, John Eastman, and Boris Epshteyn.

Some of the notable fake electors charged include: former AZGOP chair Kelli Ward, TPUSA employee Tyler Bowyer, and 2022 GOP US Senate candidate Jim Lamon.

[hyperfanfictions]

Yet another royalteeth fic

The au this time is the wonderland au by @obamerzslop! Let's have a look into how these goobers met.

Fic is under the cut!

Chattering filled the halls of the court. Kinger, in his red robe adorned with fluff, sat on an elevated stool high above the floor and the jury's seats. The current case today was about a burglary in the royal bakery, and it was to be settled if the current suspect was guilty or not. The jury had a feeling the latter would be chosen, considering the king's decisions in previous cases.

But something caught his royal eye: A witness to the event.

A magician was escorted into the court and to his pedestal where he would state his views of the event, but he was soaking wet. The rain outside the castle was especially pouring this particular night. Kinger couldn't help but feel something for the stranger. This only intensified when the stranger took off his coat.

After a grueling 10 minutes of chatter, the suspect was brought into the court and the jury fell silent. The King banged his hammer.

"State your name and age, suspect." He demanded, setting down his wooden hammer. The suspect stammered, "M-My name is Ruby Vilos, I'm 24 years old."

"Are you aware of why you are here in the royal court, Ruby?"

"N-No, not really. The guards told me about a robbery of some sort..."

The King clenched his fists in frustration. "You were accused of robbing the royal bakery behind the castle, Ruby Vilos." The suspect gasped and leaned forward in denial. "Your highness, I would never do such a thing!" She was pulled back by a guard.

Kinger looked at the witness, turning to him sharply. "You. State your name and age, stranger." The witnesses shoulders jumped, but relaxed immediately after. With a bow, he introduced himself. "My name is Caine Dante, and I'm 43!" The King felt honored by the polite gesture.

"You are aware you are a witness, correct?"

"Yes sirree, your highness! Though I don't think it was her in particular."

Kinger tilted his head curiously. "And why do you think that?" Caine examined Ruby closely from his pedestal. "Well, I remember the burglar wearing a striped pink and purple suit, and his ears were very long and strange."

Kinger sighed in disappointment, lifting his hammer. "That's all I need, really. Case dismissed." He banged the hammer. Ruby was set free of her shackles and escorted out of the castle, and Kinger commanded the guards to find the robber, who he named as "Cheshire Jax".

Caine approached the King, though hesitantly. "Could I ask who this cheshire is, your majesty?" The King jumped at the sudden question, but relaxed. "Oh, just a trickster. He pulls these so-called 'pranks' all of the time and it's pissing me off."

"Oh! Could I cheer you up with a trick, your majesty?"

"Sure, whatever."

Caine then proceeded to pull off his hat, flip it over, and reach his hand inside, rummaging for something. Kinger stared curiously. Caine grinned widely and pulled out a small white rabbit from the hat, surprising the King. He then handed him the rabbit.

"Wha... How?" Kinger stared at the rabbit in his arms. Caine giggled. "A magician never shares his secrets!" He began to walk away with the grin still present, but was suddenly pulled back and pinned to the wall by Kingers strong grip. His heart fluttered.

"If you are not to become my jester, I will have you beheaded." Kinger crouched to the magician's height. Despite his stern expression, he was panicking on the inside. Caine hummed nervously, attempting to wriggle his arm from his grip. When that failed, however, he accepted the offer. "Alright, I'll be your jester! When do I start?" Caines arm was freed, and Kinger began to dust off his coat. "Next week, Monday. I hope to see you there."

"Don't hope, my leige! I'll be there, guaranteed!" Caine ran from the court. Kinger lifted the rabbit from his feet, which he had placed to confront Caine. He began to pet it. "Little rabbit, what is this feeling? My heart is flying like a butterfly." The rabbit stared at him, twitching it's nose.

The King sighed, and left the court, his chest warmer than before.