#hunger games 2k17

[haikyuumutual-remade]

our winner!

@skywalkerofficial is our winner!!

[ignitesthestxrs]

katniss/haymitch - “I’m alive… I can tell because of the pain.”

cw: suicide mention and self loathing, from pretty much the first line on.

“Why didn’t you kill yourself?”

Haymitch pauses halfway through holding a bottle out to me. “Hello, Katniss.” He tips it to his mouth instead. “Shouldn’t you be playing in the dirt, fine morning like this?”

“It’s past lunch.”

“Same difference.”

“It’s raining.”

He gives me a once over, taking in my bedraggled appearance. Not that my appearance is anything but bedraggled these days, but I come with water today, dripping on his floor. Probably the cleanest it’s been in weeks.

“You came here in the rain to ask me why I haven’t killed l myself.”

Seemed better than actually doing it.

“I fed your geese,” I say instead, but the glint in Haymitch’s eye says that he isn’t as drunk as he smells. Not yet, anyway. He considers me for long enough that I consider just grabbing the bottle off him and getting stuck in, before finally jerking his head towards the chair nearby him.

The one I always sit in. I keep standing, arms wrapped around my chest, scowling. This isn’t a conversation I want to settle in on.

“I suppose it’d be more heroic of me to say something about living for the people who were murdered.”

I raise my eyebrows - or at least, what’s grown in of them. Someone had tried to approach me with a pair of tweezers in the early days. I’m pretty sure I’d just vomited all over them, which was their own fault.

Heroism has never been his thing.

“They would’ve swept it all under the rug,” he says abruptly. “The story’d be - You know what the story would be. Died saving a dozen children from a mining accident or something. Perfect Victor tragedy, neat and clean.”

“Nothing but the best.”

He bares his teeth and for a second I hear screams, hisses, Katniss, Katniss. I blink and it’s a smile, grim art the edges, knowing in the eyes.

“Biggest fuck you I could give them was me.” The bottle sloshes in his grasp as he holds or his arms. “And you, in the end.”

“You never had me,” I snap, but the truth is more complicated than that, because that’s the world I live in now. Almost enough to make a person miss the Games, kill or be killed. I’m so tired of gray.

The truth is that Haymitch’s fingerprints are on whatever’s left of me, the same as Coin and the Capitol and Peeta and Prim. I swallow around the urge to throw up and swing a leg over his instead, straddling his knees. He tenses, but that glint is in his eyes still, that hideous and knowing thing.

I take the bottle. I take a drink. It burns on the way down, and I think of all the ways a person can be on fire.

“What are you doing, Katniss.”

I drink some more, then let the bottle slip through my fingers. It thunks wetly to the ground, but neither of us make an effort to save it.

“And now?” I ask, ignoring him. He’s going to shove me off, or hit me, or start yelling if he’s had enough already, and the prospect of the ice in my veins cracking for something is a heady thing.

What I don’t expect is for him to answer.

“Why do you think I have the geese?”

We stare at each other.

“You only feed them when you want something.”

We’re both disgusting people. I haven’t showered in…a while, and he’s sour and scratchy when I kiss him and heat curls in me anyway because this is - something. He kisses me as well, and it’s something.

“Does anyone say no to you anymore, Katniss?”

I don’t ask for things. I’m not even sure I’m asking for this, his mouth against mine, his hands out to the side and so carefully not touching my body.

Are you? But I don’t say anything. I press both hands to his chest, feel his heart shuddering under one.

The other slides up higher, past the neck of his shirt, skin on skin. I rest my hand at the base of his throat, and he lets me.

[momowoah]

The streaming services' teen shows I watch and love keep getting cancelled after one season so I made a list of shows you should watch if you want to obsess over something that will never get renewed!!

Spin Out: Kaya Scodelario (who is part Brazilian, speaks Portuguese and was my top fancast for Thalia in 2k17) as the lead, the actress of Prim from Hunger Games as her sister, talks about mental health, got me watching like 497398 ice skating videos, lesbian polish mentor!!!

Teenage Bounty Hunters: catholic school twins who threaten rich men for money + amazing childhood friends to enemies to lovers lesbian couple. Was really relatable to me

Panic!: Amazing show with Olivia Welch (aka Fear Street Sam), based on a book, teens doing cool stupid shit while the police tries to stop said cool stupid shit bc people died, I was obsessed with NillHall, officially cancelled because "one season was enough", but really it looks like it got cancelled bc the wilds was renewed

The Society: fck that cliffhanger, I want to know wtf was going on, the show was cancelled so you can just tell us, also who killed [spoilers] bc I think it wasn't that person. Basically teens end up alone in the world and make a socialist society. Netflix strung along both actors and fans for like a year before cancelling.

Grand Army: There was writer drama but I loved all the characters (minus Joey friends, fck them), show about teens trying to find themselves, Dom was cute, loved Leila's drawings, Dom and Joey should be friends, and any show that has someone speaking a foreign language instantly earns my love so

I'm probably forgetting something, will add it later if I remember any other shows

++ Everything Sucks!!! I loved it so much! I loved all the characters so much, especially Emaline and Kate. The "popular" kids (aka the theater club lol) join forces with the AV club to make a movie, one of the protags is a lesbian, the teen characters are actually played by teenagers instead of 28 year-olds, it happens in the 80s/90s, I just love it.

[bostonbruiins]

it’s already getting too real 

[princessaluraa]

Ahaha guess who made a Hunger Games Plance AU! 

Based off of the Pidgance Month 2k17 prompt: Secrets.

[shipburner]

The Final Testament of Dr. Mortimer Beale

I was really glad that luck worked out that I would leave for the North on my birthday; it didn’t feel right for this event to be without mythic significance. Part of me wants to wax lyrical about it being a rebirthday – my first birthday since I came out as trans, the day I picked a name, the day I kill off the last male self-insert OC I ever really made, lots of straws out there for the grasping – but to be honest, Fallen London wasn’t really part of Genderquest 2k17: Battle for Gendikar. The community I’ve found through FL has been endlessly supportive of that quest, but Dr. Beale wasn’t related to that.

Dr. Beale was just a man who wanted to explore the secrets of the Neath, and got suckered into Seeking because it was the biggest secret of them all. The fandom commitment to not revealing what lies beyond the High Gate truly makes me proud, and I feel honored to join the ranks of those who have gone North. This, I think, is why I’m trapping Dr. Beale in the North forever – the secrets. Fallen London is a universe full of endlessly inventive mythology, full of surprises and secrets around every corner. The initial weirdness of daily life in a subterranean realm was what drew me into the Neath, but the secrets were what kept me there, and why I persisted with Dr. Beale’s quest. I have seen what is beyond the High Gate, and it is – well. It is beautiful. I can tell you that much. Beyond that? Let there be some mysteries yet in the world.

So, without further ado, I present the final testament of Dr. Mortimer Beale, presenting not only some of the information about him I never really got to display in the game, but also his thoughts on Seeking the Name.

Today, the 5th of August, 1895, I, Dr. Mortimer Beale, do set out my final testament, to be borne back to London in the handicles of my beloved Ooth-Nargai. It did not always understand me, towards the end, but its love for me was always constant, and mine for it. What we shared was real, but all too brief. It has informed me, on our voyage, that I am to have something like a child, as such things are reckoned among the Axiles. It has chosen the name Celephaïs for the child, but it will append “Beale” to it, out of devotion, out of memory. Its habitual reticence was, I think, a blessing this time. It hurts. Lord in Heaven, does it hurt. But had I known ere now, I might have dithered. I might have tried to fool myself that I could have stopped, turned back – but it was always too late. And what kind of a father would I be to them? What child could grow up happy with a father who saved his life and then threw it away a second time? Oh, I would be present temporally, yes, but not in spirit. Half my flesh, half my mind, half my immortal soul (if such a thing is real) is gone … I have been ink’d and wick’d, made a candle of myself entire. I wear my own severed head as a hat. Better a dead man for a father than a monstrosity. Ooth-Nargai will remember me well to little Celephaïs, and read my books to them, and more than that, I do not ask, in truth. So, let the news be the spark of hope I bring with me to the King of Ways, the spark I bring with me beyond the Avid Horizon, rather than cause for suffering.

As I write this, in the warm captain’s cabin of my magnificent pleasure-yacht, I look out over the cold black zee – North, past the Pale Wastes, past Whither. I might have come here earlier, with the Dilmun Club; now, I come mad with strange hunger. My crew (if they were ever really here) wish to turn back now ­– they are the sensible ones. The lights of London are a distant memory. It is strange, to know what one will never see again. It is strange, to still be surrounded by so much comfort as one goes to meet one’s doom. It is quiet. Lacre falls softly around me. Christmastide in August. Serene. Ooth-Nargai dozes by my side. We enjoyed a pleasant supper – our last together. Fresh fish and fresh bread and fresh greens and fresh water, and, now, hot cocoa, as we nestle beneath the blankets. This may be the last time I am ever comfortable, with food and fire and family, typewriter on my lap. I relish it. I have given up much, but this I will not. Not for a few more hours, while life remains to me.

Let me speak of that life I now end.

I was born – on this very day, in fact – in the year 1866 in Liverpool, back on the Surface, where the sun still shines. My father, Ramon Quejana y Panindagat, was a sailor from the Spanish East Indies, who brought his bride Margarita Karunungan y Enriquez to England and settled there to raise a family. I was christened Manolo Maria, a name I have not used in the Neath, which deception has caused me a curious amount of guilt – but there are no deceptions in the North, so let my Christian name be known. Ramon managed before both my parents’ unfortunate death in 1888 to produce an inheritance large enough for me to drink away but too small for me to actually use, which is precisely what I did. I spent a dissolute six years thereafter, and arrived, at the age of twenty-eight, to the point of having no future foreseeable, no past worth thinking about, and the brink before me. It was at this point that I had a thought:

“Wasn’t there … that thing. The … the thingy. With … the bats. And … the city. The … the London. I’m … why the … why the b____r not. Can’t be worse’n this. Who … who needs the sun, anyways. Y-yeah. Never did nothin’ fer me, th’ b_____d. I’ll … I’ll ----ing do it. ---- the sun.”

I used the last of my meagre savings to buy a ticket on the Travertine Spiral, and my drunken stupour bore me into a fight, which bore me directly into the arms of the constabulary. I was no stranger to the gaol-house, but here in the Neath, made for some odd reason to wear a mask, in a prison hanging from the roof, filled with far more hardened criminals than I, stern-faced guards who ate candles when they thought no-one was looking, and a disturbing subclass of people who shoveled horrible things into their mouths, carved burning sigils into the walls, and yelled about “The Number” and “The Name”, I gathered all of my courage and upon the spot vowed never to touch the bottle again. My vow was tested, but never broken; water is of a more salubrious aspect down here, and my inclination to share my small beer allotment with the other prisoners won me a few friends.

I intended to serve my time peaceably, but as it soon transpired that my one month’s hard labor for drunk and disorderly had been confused with my neighbor’s twenty years incarcerated, I decided that one more small crime could not hurt. I purloined a chisel from the works and loosened a bar at my window, and leaped out onto a passing dirigible.

I landed on my feet in Ladybones Road, pawned the jewel I had kept secret for emergencies, and charmed a soft-hearted widow into giving me an attic room. I was asked to provide a name and invented the name “Dr. Mortimer Beale” on the spot, for no reason other than that it sounded marginally respectable and that it was not a name at all similar to Prisoner Manolo Quejana y Karunungan. A sordid rag was willing to take me on as an enquirer, and I set to exploring the mysteries of the Neath, of both moral and natural philosophy.

To chronicle my deeds in their entirety would be tedious. I was a person of some importance; nay, an extraordinary mind! The name Dr. Mortimer Beale was immortal in Horizon Glyphs, written into hearts and minds, feared, and steeped in shadow. I was a singular character; my philosophy, my artistry, my skill at arms, my underworld faction were all my own. I was touched by fingerwork (clay and mirrors and laughing serpents), walked the fallen cities (Erech, Amarna, Hopelchén, and Karakorum), approached the gates of the Garden (of Eden? Of Stone, the Mountain of Light? Are they the same?), and saw through the eyes of Icarus (Icarus returning/longs for the deep places). I dreamt, in honey and in sleep, of the burial of the dead, of a game of chess, of the fire sermon, of death by water, of what the thunder said, of someone there (perhaps), and other things besides – beautiful vistas represented fumblingly in my writing.

Long have I loved lists, and I allow that this “testament” is mostly composed thereof, but I cannot help but list the things that affected me, that stood out to me – the beauty and wonder of my Neathly home, even though I dwelt here little beyond a year. I still remember first coming to the Echo Bazaar, to Merrigans Exchange, and marvelling at something so simple as a shard of glim or a nodule of deep amber.

I was ambitious, once: I sought out my heart’s desire, toiling tirelessly to play the Marvellous, a card game in which I could wager it all – learning the intrigues of the Church and of Hell, of two star-crossed lovers older than I had ever imagined, and, most poignantly, of one Tristram Bagley, a mad musician who tried to write with the Correspondence, the language of stars. I have talked with a priest who trades in faces and a prince of devils hanging in a bottle. I bought a hotel suite from Gilgamesh and saw the face of Enkidu in the street every day. I can state in truth that I performed Bagley’s opera, the Bell and the Candle, for Her Enduring Majesty herself, and it was extremely glorious and surpassingly erotic. (I miss when I could muster such bombast.) A Master of the Bazaar itself gave me a hat.

I have – no, I had – friends in every corner of Fallen London. The criminal underworld, the Rubbery Men, and libertine men and scarlet women were dearest to my heart, but most knew and loved me – and two people loved me on Her Enduring Majesty’s throne itself! I was a Young Stag, and, I think, I helped some wastrels put their wealth to positive good – and a member of the Dilmun Club as well, and sought for immortality as far as I could. I progressed from journalism, to authorship, to the study of the Correspondence – the hot breath of stars, that is their language. I toyed with the Red Science – it has faded from my flesh, but it allowed me to meet my beloved Ooth-Nargai, for which I am eternally grateful. I pursued cruel and unusual zoology with a Bishop and a Wings-of-Thunder Bat; I discovered the Cave of the Nadir with a Firebrand and a Missionary, where all the laws are broken. I followed a spymistress’ cruel missions, and found her repentance; I governed Port Carnelian for two terms. My salon, Dr. Beale’s House of Arguing, was a haven of learned and respectful discourse, as was my newspaper, the House of Arguing Weekly Newsletter. I started my own Department of the Correspondence at the University, and embarked on expeditions of scientific discovery.

Yet one discovery escaped me, that I had heard about throughout my entire tenure in the Neath – Mr. Eaten’s Name. I had heard of it, but did not know what it signified. (I know now – a Master of the Bazaar was betrayed for tarrying with Amarna, taken to its end by its former ally. It was stabbed, and eaten, and drowned, and given to the lacre. It fades, faster each year, but it still is not forgotten. Not yet. A reckoning will not be postponed indefinitely.)

And thus, I started on the Seeking Road. I heard a voice, echoing from the well each night. In the still hours before dawn, in the wicker of a candle-flame, there is a voice. I did what it says. I do not regret it.

I flirted with disaster, slipping into horror, and learnt of the alphabet of scars. Beneath a strange sign I set out on the road, and as I slurped down the secrets, drowning in wine, boiling with hunger and breathing darkness, I approached the brink. I learned the Number at Christmastide – on the ninth day, Mr. Sacks stopped at my window, clad in salt and fox-fur; I took a memory of lost Axile, but heard an echo in so doing, and with it a trace of sadness, like the frost which silvers the night. The light on the edge of sleep was his. He was Mr. Candles. He will not be again. And, in a dream of dark waters, acquired the first of my weeping scars, off to go dancing with damnation. Candle-eyed, I watched the road unfold before me; knife-hearted, I steeled myself for what needed doing; edge-pledged, the road narrowed for me; corpse-given, I set my path for grief; marsh-mired, I trembled as the first step began to open; north-looking, I learnt of the body and the Number. Charred and mourned I became, drinking the thick corn beer of the Third City, stabbing out my life with knives of black glass, twice scoring the flesh and twice stabbing straight to the heart, and once drowning myself in the obsidian-lined well. And thus I learnt of the mind and the Number, and seven times I prepared betrayals, New Newgate becoming a comforting embrace.

The path to this place was not hard – I used the hollowness of cats to carve out a hollow in my belly to be filled. (Cats are friendly; I leave cats and catkind behind. That is another loss.) The ace of hungers was but raw meat and roast chestnuts drove the engine. I used the couriers’ notes, two of bats, to lessen the menace, folding ever in two. Then I moved to the worse – three of roses – the scrawl of the Correspondence in the bloody-ivy, tearing and eating, the thorns biting my mouth, a tango like that of the Musical Mathematician. I studiously avoided the four of eyes, still valuing myself too highly to be thought of as a monster. The five of lights filled me with wax and fire, but tallow is fat, and I thought the shock and pain worth it.

O but what of that place – the sky, the sky, the deepless blooming black – I began to stain my immortal soul. I had regained it from the devils, and now – I was confirmed a Catholic, back on the surface, and it hurt, the pain not physical, not mental, but spiritual. I was told the soul was immortal. (In the Neath, I learnt that may not have been the case.) In my dissolution, I had not attended a Mass or confessed my sins in so long a time. But still, it hurt. One seeks the Lord in hardship, does one not? (I attended services at a chapel in the North, yes, but I also attended a good and Godly mass, ere I departed, in the hopes that it would lave whatever I had left of my soul before I departed. Let this narrative be my confession. I hope it works. I doubt it will.) With brilliant souls I lured the cat. It stalked through my dreams – I turned to the bottle, sipped laudanum, breaking my solemn vow. Only the poppy juice would give my dreams the necessary dullness. More and more did I require it. Once with the cat alone, six times with a spirifer friend.

Now things began to hurt. The six of pearls – my great-grandfather was a dentist – I ate the teeth of others, crunching like corn, and I ate my own teeth, to gnaw ceaselessly. The seven of words that I answered, and made of myself of a pie – the Curve and the Lost Light – no more – flense-gifted I was, and the scales fell from my eyes. Seven was the number, seven false saints, seven scars of wax. I found five poor souls to listen to me, and two sleek black cats who’d seen the bloody-ivy in the Palace. The stench of betrayal filled my nostrils. Secrets burned. I lit a candle for the scar and the smirch, The Smirch; I tore the bombazine for the hook and the bait, The Hook; I took a ring for the scent and the turn, The Impetus; I took permission for the stone and the eyes, The Compass of Souls; I smashed a lens for the ink and the ink, The Ember; I whispered to the night for the web, o the web, The Webs; I made a bonfire of souls for the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, The Sun and the Saint. I had the wax, and the wick, and the flint, and the tinder, and the season.

And I had St. Arthur’s candle, the first of seven. Knife-known I was, and the knave of regrets, calling “Restitution!” for the Drowned Man. Crossroads-bound I became, and pearls beyond price were the price, and my sanity, and memories of light. Among masques and mysteries and midnights, I gave up my fate, engaged in crypticisms, and was asked why. I said I must. I realize, now, that that was a lie. I told it to myself, hiding from the truth – that I chose to do this. I do not know now why I did not revel in this truth: that it was always an option, as was all my love of secrets. This was something I chose to do, for love. “In matters of the Bazaar,” they say, “look to love.” It is not love of Mr. Eaten, or not entirely – it is love for the Seeking Road. Love for secrets, love for the stories of betrayal and revenge, love with the concept of my own self-destruction in pursuit of secrets. It is odd, this new awareness: I doubt I would have pursued it were it less horrible.

It was worth it. St. Beau’s candle, the crossroads-candle, I now owned, and crossroads-cursed, I sought for restitution further, that I could grieve. With the knight of feasts, I set a place for Mr. Eaten, red as wounds, red as riots … and my hunger was settled, or went deeper. I sought a well, in the Forgotten Quarter, and gave up a work of genius, telling my stories to the well. St. Cerise’s candle I had, and I was as proud of myself as hoped. At the brink of the lower mysteries, I researched my incunabula, and, initiate, with Gods’ Editors, sought out the lower archives of the College of St. Cyriac.

From the book of Matthew (if that was even his name) slightly revised, chapter 25, verse 42 – “For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, for I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink.” It was Mr. Eaten’s Calling Card, and the Isle awaited. I grew hungrier, hungrier, until the grief came upon me, until at long last I could light a candle in his memory, to ask ­what is forgotten?

And then I paused. I took a breath. I learnt that I could not take much with me, and so I devoted myself not to wasting the chiefest of my treasures, but to ensconce myself in the heights of the Bazaar itself, ensuring housing, if not for myself, then for those I left behind. Once again I had to inveigle myself into the tales of the Bazaar, to grow more Notable in its eyes, that I might blaze bright enough in defiance. And in that time new stories broke upon the shore – subtle shifts in the airs of London, promising greater change. I enjoyed the company of friends. Another Election was held, and I campaigned for an Implacable Detective. She lost to a boor called Antonio Feducci, whose libertarian ways mock the mechanisms of state, and who I am glad to leave behind. That ate my time. But I was still resolved, and, finally, when I had accomplished what was needful, I sold most of my worldly goods, and slept with the calling card crumpled in my fist, and took to the oars.

On Winking Isle, I prepared. I set aside jewels and riches, gave up my intrigues, rejected wine and song. No map knew the place I went; I had no more sweet memories, no more bitter. I knew nothing of Stone’s light. My chiefest treasures were gone. I told the wind my stories, forgot Axile, unpicked the warp, unpicked the weft, let the messages fall by the road’s edge. No more secrets. I saw the Sun beneath the Sea?. I paced the well. Isle-walker, tower-watcher, light-eater, well-weeper, libation-giver, shatter-fated, star-seared, I became.

I left the Isle – if I was ever really there – and rested briefly in London, until a little man knocked on my door, and I ate my exceptional entry, entire. It was a freedom to no longer strive to burn. I gained no candle – I gained St. Destin’s Candle, which does not yet exist. I asked a new question – Who is Salt? – and bent again to the oars. I walked the Isle again, knowing its two dozen paces intimately. I was red as sunsets, as desire, as betrayal, as the waters, as remembrance, as roses, as science – and then became black, black as paper, as ink, as time, as knives.

I groaned, and stretched, and left the Isle again – if I was ever really there – and sought her out, in the place where hearts go. I made a decision, after long deliberation, with a woman sloughed-off like a snakeskin – I wiped free my skin-bound memories, and profession, and acclaim, and destiny, and ability to have any of those things again. Perhaps I lie still in the Cave of the Nadir, flesh falling from my bones and bones growing over my eyes, and walk the Neath in a dream, writing this for no-one as I moulder in a sad fantasy. If that is true, what must Ooth-Nargai think? Does it wait for the return of a husband? Of a fellow-parent? Of a sad man who forgot his name and life to find out those of another? – but no, I cannot dwell on this. I will merely state that while I gave up power and wealth and fame and future light as air, I let fate bend itself around me ere I give up friends or home. I do not miss what I gave up to gain St. Erzulie’s Candle, where I became black as stars.

Again, the Isle. Welcome, welcome was I ere I left, and climbed into a yacht instead of a rowboat to sail over a real sea. I (we, we must I say, for a lady comes with me) went north, to where light and colour leached from the Zee, and I attended services at the Chapel of Lights. I learnt of the descents and ascents and betrayals, and gained St. Forthigan’s Candle. Then so long did I pace the well, cleansed, cleansed was I, and then I left the Isle behind for good. I forged secrets as in earlier days to find the rarest books to trade for the lady’s Hollow Heart, and I steamed South. I rowed, I rowed, I rowed (or did we?). I met with Nicator in that hollow stair, refused soup, asked my question, and woke. I attended in service of St. Gawain. And there, in the Chapel of Lights, was I damned. I offered myself – removed my head – made of myself a candle, entire. I gathered strange supplies for one last journey – prepared – embarked.

You may be horrified, dear reader, of what this journey has contained. I know I am. You may wish – I know I do – that my story had been a longer and a better one. There are so many stories I left unfinished, friendships I failed to forge, things I could have yet done.

But my story led me here, to this frozen gate. I will not turn back now. I will knock, and ask my question – and who knows, what then.

Yet lest you think I have acted entirely selfishly – which would be a fair assessment – lest you think that all my study of natural philosophy, no matter how outlandish, neither produced nor will produce any good – which would, so far, seem to be the case – lest you think that I chased dreams until I was devoured by a nightmare – which would be wholly true – I offer this last, feeble act.

I closed Dr. Beale’s House of Arguing, my salon.

In its place I have erected an orphanage, the Quejana Home for Parentally Deficient Youths. I entrust Ooth-Nargai with its management; I have every confidence that it will be a loving home. Even if my scholarship is wrong, or unremembered, or of no use, I will at least have given children a home.

That’s enough, right?

There were times when I wanted to rule. There were times when I wanted to better the lot of all thinking creatures. There were times when I wanted simply to teach.

We do not always get what we want.

We can still try, right?

There are so many ways I could end this. I will not cheapen it by trying to add a justification, nor an exhortation to keep one’s chin up. I will only offer a jumble of misremembered sentiments, and let you choose the one you think most fitting.

That’s fair, right?

Cry no more, shapeling, cry no more / Men were deceivers ever / One foot on sea, one foot on shore / To good things constant never. /

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

A reckoning shall not be postponed indefinitely.

What is Mr. Eaten’s name? That’s the best ----ing question, anybody ever asked.

Kiss your dad, square on the lips.

Good night, Fallen London, good night.

Ooth-Nargai. Celephaïs. I love you.

     – Manolo Maria Quejana y Karunungan, the erstwhile Dr. Mortimer Beale

[jodiwalker]

A Bachelorette Recap: Rachel Is the Queen and We Are the Sorry People

"Let me tell you something. I'm not here to be played. I'm not here to be made a joke of … So I'm really going to need you to get the fuck out." – Rachel Lindsay of the House Bachelorette, First of Her Name, the Un-to-be-trifled-with, Queen of the Fuckbois, Ruler of the Mansion that Venereal Diseases Built, Breaker of Bullshit, and Mother of Reads

Can you all hear Rachel's perfect Texas drawl in your head as keenly as I can while reading the quote of the century? Has any Bachelorette ever held. that. shit. down. as deftly as this one? No. Because this isn't any Bachelorette. This is the Rachelorette 2K17 and if you are not a man who is ready to hold it down just as tight…than she is going to need you to get the fuck out.

I did not expect myself to be very interested in this DeMario storyline. I liked DeMario and his hollering out of wedding plus-ones in the premiere; so I wasn't rooting for him to be the creep [ed. note: hey, stay tuned on that creep front, 'cuz it's a big ol' YIKES] with a girlfriend. Plus, his girlfriend seemed a little too eager to be delivering her gotcha-moment on national television, and a little too unabashed about wearing a stone-cold waffle-weave scrunchie on her wrist while doing it...

But who cares about DeMario and how many man-rompers he left over at Lexi's house — this storyline is all about Rachel and how she managed to take the drama-covered receipts from Lexi, the slimy "new phone, who dis" excuses from DeMario, run them through her logic-o-meter (a brain, as it's called outside of this franchise), and calmly inform these people that she has 25 boyfriends, a dog who can currently only use three of his legs for unknown reasons, and a rented house in what appears to be an upper middle class retirement community to take care of...so she doesn't really have time to be running on some bullshit. 

As Rachel has stated multiple times throughout her three-episode tenure, she keeps it 100. And if any of these knuckleheads keeps it any less than 100, then they better have a background in computer sciences to make their own sub-100 emoji, and some fresh New Balances to — let’s haveRachel reiterate this one last time — GTFO of here.

Never could I have imagined what it would be like to have a Bachelorette so fully in command of her own experience. Rachel doesn’t accept excuses from anyone, including herself. She seems completely aware of the Hellmouth she has willingly entered herself into, and the only way to make that Hellmouth work for her is to take it seriously and flush out one of these vampires to marry. [Ed. note: Is this metaphor falling apart? Who's Angel? Who's Spike?! Obviously Dean is Willow and, yes, he will develop a complex and moving witchcraft/lesbian storyline in season 4.] And speaking of the dumb-dumbs Rachel is dating, I want to take it all the way back to the premiere for a minute when there were 30 contesticles still hoping to woo Rachel. 

It seemed like all anyone could say about Rachel—and the character that the editors seemed to be carving out for her—was that she was so beautiful and smart. Indeed, they had never a woman like her. I quickly ran through a list of all of the women that I know well and couldn't think of a single one who I would not describe as smart and beautiful. Which is fantastic for me and concerning for these donuts. 

So, I'd now like to turn it over to my girl Hailee Steinfeld — who is quietly an Academy Award nominee, a budding pop princes, and definitive queen of the teenage eyebrow Hunger Games — and her song of the summer:

Yes, Princess Hailee. Most girls are smart and strong and beautiful. If these dudes don't know any other women that they deem to be both smart and beautiful, then they are not good enough for Rachel. Also, heads up — these dudes aren't good enough for Rachel! 

Rachel's only flaw seems to be that she’s not aware when a dude isn’t good enough for her. Rachel can be as smart and funny, and hand as many asses to as many duplicitous dummies as many times as she wants to, but the fact of the matter is, we have this wonderful Bachelorette…because she once truly wanted to be engaged to Nick Viall.

And that is as good of a reality check as any to remind us that this is still the Bachelorette, and two bros will still play a game of homoerotic "I'm not touching you" in the driveway when they get kicked out. Because a peacock cannot change its feathers (which would be a much better reference if this came on NBC!). Yes, of course, I wish that Rachel, Queen of the Fuckbois, Ruler of STD Mansion, Breaker of Bullshit, and Mother of Reads could be a little more like Hailee Steinfeld's breakout song of summer 2015, “Love Myself.” That’s right, the one where she boldly declares that she maybe, definitely screams her own name while she masturbates. I'm not talking about that declaration, though; I’m talking about the other, less intriguing, but altogether more important: Gonna love myself, no I don’t need anybody else (Hey!).

Alas, us women of a certain age weren't raised with the raging independence of the SnapChat generation. We must marry, and we must do it quickly — before our wombs rot and there are no Tickle Monsters or sociopathic amateur drummers left for us. We can scream our own name during orgasm, sure. But society and ABC contracts dictate that it would be much better if there were a Peter or Kenny beside us while we do it. Let’s get to know them, shall we...

DeMario's Return

Y'all. After being told to "get the fuck out," this dude thinks it's a good idea to Uber back over to the mansion for a little more screen time. But all it really does is give Rachel another chance to show off her PhD in rhetoric. I mean—the woman can talk, and I think anyone who watched Farmer Chris or Des with Bangs' season could reiterate the importance of that one simple skill to you.

However, there's nothing simple about the way Rachel pummels what's left of DeMario into the ground. DeMario tries to tell Rachel that Lexi assassinated his character and he was just caught off guard. Rachel kindly responds that all that can be true (in a tone that says it's very much not true), "But I need a man, that when confronted with a difficult situation, does not lie about it." Similarly, I need a Rachel that will speak for me every time I'm confronted with a difficult man. DeMario says that he had a little chat with his Uber driver on the way over, and that Uber driver — who was, without a doubt, a male— encouraged him to not take no for an answer. Bad advice, brother! Always, always, ALWAYS take no for an answer.

Once DeMario starts spouting "in order to experience joy, you need pain" quotes to Rachel (who literally has 20 other guys waiting inside for her, 18 of them hotter than DeMario) she's had it. "I'm glad you realized that you need to move forward," says Rachel, gearing up for something good. "But what I need you to understand is that forward isn't that way toward the mansion. Forward is outside of it." Do you understand that, DeMario? Do you smell what the Rachel is cooking? The other bros shuffle their feet behind her hoping they can somehow spin her hate of another man into a love for them. They ask if DeMario is coming back. "Fuck no," says Rachel. 

The Frontrunners

Going back a few episodes, it must be noted that a few frontrunners have already emerged. And they are tall, strapping, brunette white men, because Rachel has a type.  

Bryan is a 37-year-old chiropractor who doesn’t look like his name is really Bryan, like he's really a chiropractor, or like he's really 37-years-old. All of that is a compliment. 

I really liked Bryan because Bryan is hot and speaks Spanish; I could even get past his Dementor-like kissing style…right up until some of the fellas went on a group date to Ellen and it was revealed during a game of Never Have I Ever—always a cool thing to play with eight guys, one gal, and a live studio audience—that half of the guys on the group date had already kissed Rachel. To the half that had not kissed her, this comes as a surprise. Because, I guess, they've never met a human woman and cannot imagine how Rachel might meet 30 dudes, which probably adds up to, like, 150 different abdominal muscles, and want to kiss some of them. To Bryan, this serves as an opportunity for him to showcase that he was the first guy to kiss her, which he unfortunately does by saying to another fella, "You got my sloppy seconds." It is proof that Rachel likes Bryan that she did not whip off her lace-front and cut him with words right there.

The other guy that had already gotten his kiss? Peter, who got the first one-on-one: a romantic day with Copper the Dog. I don’t care if Peter is boring. I would climb that man like a tree—and I would ask him to keep all of his fashionable suits on while I did it.

Of note: Anthony, who Rachel goes on a one-on-one with, riding horses down Rodeo Drive (not a thing, girl, no matter how many times you say it's a thing), might actually be good enough for Rachel…but he seems far too mentally and emotionally intelligent to be long for this world.

Do We Have To?

Honestly, if it weren't for the one incredible conversation regarding a banana during the saga of Lukas and Blake, I wouldn't even get into this because these two are The Worst. Lukas is the guy who nearly gives himself an aneurysm every 10 minutes trying to be funny. His idea of humor is just to scream a word: Whaboom. My idea of humor is listening to all of the other men genuinely not be able to remember what the stupid word he keeps saying is: Whabam? Kabloom? Ska-douche? Who cares!

Blake is the guy who talked about his dick for a full five minutes in his intro package, but thinks Lukas is in this for the wrong reasons. These two somehow know each other from the outside world, because Lukas used to date Blake's roommate, who Blake says is now being evicted from his apartment for calling him a maniac…ladies, try to keep your panties on, okay?

This all comes to a boil when Rachel tells Lukas that Blake has been questioning his reasons for being on the show, and Lukas responds calmly and not at all like a drunken, unhinged person, saying that he recently caught Blake standing over his bed eating a banana while he was sleeping. Blake's response to the claim of a moron: "Heh, impossible. I don't even eat carbs." Blake, you fucking tool.

Let's Detox with a Little…

The Pretty Boy Pitbull, Kenny King. If you had told me my favorite man in this group would be a pro-wrestler who goes by the name of the Pretty Boy Pitbull Kenny King, I would have said…Yeah, Jodi, that sounds exactly like you—nothing has ever sounded more like you. 

But still, I did not expect Kenny, the pro-wrestler with a 10-year-old daughter to be quite so cuddly. He has endeared himself to me if for this quote alone: "Being a wrestler, I know all about white dudes acting crazy. And these white dudes are buggin'." These white dudes are buggin', Kenny, and you are not. Please stay this pure, and continue not to bug. Also, at some point you have to stop leading every conversation with your adorable love for your daughter. Because I don't know if Rachel is ready to be the step-mother to a teen. Mentioning that you used to be a Chippendales dancer, however, is a good start.

Lee Is a Sociopath Who Must Be Stopped and Since I Just Saw Wonder Woman, I Wouldn't Mind If Rachel Donned Leather Armor and Lasso-of-Truth'd His Ass

Ugh, another annoying storyline, but a complex one, at least. Actually…it's not that complex. 

Eric is a young man with Steve Buscemi eyes who has clearly never seen this show, otherwise he would know that if you speak a word about the Bachelor(ette) that sounds like anything less than the complimentary rantings of a stalker, you will be taken to task by some dude named Iggy. See, Eric really likes Rachel, and he's getting frustrated that he can't tell if Rachel likes him back. He wonders aloud to a few friends if Rachel might be keeping her emotions in check since she's dating so many men at once.

And men quite literally come out of the woodwork to tell Eric that he is the devil and he'll never know love.

Listen, I don't really even like Eric that much. He doesn’t seem particularly interesting, and definitely isn't mature enough for Rachel, who could legitimately be the President of the United States right now. But there is no doubt that Lee's sociopathic behavior toward him is fueled by the fact that he thinks Eric is inferior to him. This is obvious because since this season has aired, sleuths have uncovered many a racist tweet from Lee, but also because Lee is a walking microagression with cold, dead shark eyes.

 After Eric naively tries to float the idea that Rachel might be playing this gameshow like a game, some dude named Iggy that you don't need to retain to memory comes out of nowhere to confront him about it. Eric raises his voice because Iggy was out of line, and because sometimes people raise their voices when they're upset and consisting on a diet of protein powder and Belvita breakfast bars.

Lee latches onto the fact that he heard Eric yelling and will not let it go. He tells Rachel that Eric’s aggression made him “uncomfortable” (you code, bro?) and he does’t think Eric is right for her. Rachel asks Eric about it and Eric explains that he just wants some validation; Rachel validates him with the group date rose; Lee demeans and condescends to Eric by repeatedly saying creepy shit like he thinks he's "an amazing person" and he “loves him to death,” but he heard him get "aggressive," and that scared him. Then to the cameras: "I don't care if Eric disrespects me, okay? He means nothing … this is one kid with a bad issue."

Hey Lee, real quick: Fuck. You. You are transparent, and you are dangerous, and this season pretty much rides or dies on how soon Rachel gets rid of you. No pressure, Rach. 

Just kidding, there is a ton of pressure on Rachel for this season to work out okay, and it's very unfair to her. Happy reality TV, everyone! See you back here, hopefully sooner rather than later. My only thoughts on Bachelor in Paradise for now: Sad, sad, sad. Bad, bad, bad.

[ofunderworldisms]

RULES: answer these and tag 20 followers you’d like to know more ! TAGGED BY:  @inherited-vanity TAGGING: whoever wants to fill this out that hasnt already :3

NAME: Sia NICKNAME: Sia SIGN: Cancer. Scorpio at heart. HEIGHT: 5′2 NATIONALITY:  British ORIENTATION:  Pansexual FAVOURITE  FRUIT: hard one. um, peaches. plums, pomegranates. FAVOURITE  SEASON: Fall.  FAVOURITE  FLOWER:  h y a c i n t h  obviously. but no, really, blue orchids. FAVOURITE  SCENT: Axe anarchy for girls tbh or hot topic perfumes FAVOURITE  BOOK:  we are not playing the hunger games, ok? too hard of a question. i m literally belle with my own personal library.  FAVOURITE  COLOUR: Black and blue. bc im hardcore FAVOURITE  ANIMAL: does a niffler count? no? ok. cats, then. COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE:  HOT TEA ( @littlexsiren ) AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: hahaha HA HA that’s funny. CATS OR DOGS:  cats. NUMBER OF BLANKETS YOU SLEEP WITH: i always sleep with my ceiling fan on, 4 or five blankets layered over me and just. yes. DREAM  TRIP:   Canada - toronto, ontario to be specific. . loads of my mates live there.  BLOG  CREATED: aug 2015 originally. revamped june 2k17. NUMBER  OF  FOLLOWERS:  167 on here currently. had over 900 on my original blog @ofunderworld before it glitched out.

[ao3feed-voltronlegendarydefender]

No One Can Hear You Scream

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2qQo2ic

by Tortellini

Voltron Appreciation/Redemption Month, Day 2 (June 2): Crossover

(Hunger Games AU) " [...] In the Cornucopia there weren't any weapons. Lance's stomach flopped. Sure, there were rocks and shit around them, but they didn't actually...they didn't expect them to kill each other like...? Beat kids until their skulls caved in like cracked eggs, and send them home to their folks--no. No, he couldn't dwell on that. "

Oneshot

Words: 892, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of Voltron Appreciate/Redemption Month 2k17

Fandoms: Voltron: Legendary Defender, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Keith (Voltron), Lance (Voltron), Coran (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt, Matt Holt, Nyma (Voltron), Rolo (Voltron), Hunk (Voltron), Shay (Voltron), Allura (Voltron)

Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron), Keith & Lance (Voltron), Coran & Lance (Voltron), Hunk & Lance (Voltron), Nyma & Rolo (Voltron), Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Hunk & Shay (Voltron), Lance & Shay (Voltron), Allura/Shiro (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Matt Holt & Pidge | Katie Holt

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Hunger Games, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Refenced Violence, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Male Friendship, Enemies, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Angst, Light Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Feels, Comfort/Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Comfort, Survival, Survival Horror, Survivor Guilt, Wilderness Survival, Alternate Universe - Space, Outer Space, IN SPACE!, Latino Lance (Voltron), Homesick Lance (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) Angst, Korean Keith (Voltron), Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Prompt Fic, Voltron Appreciation Month, Voltron Redemption Month, VLD Appreciation Month, Wordcount: 500-1.000

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2qQo2ic

[haikyuumutual-remade]

the,,, feast

percy that is the least anticlimactic way to die, in this entire game

[larrythelovers]

@ all the people boycotting Harry’s album--- K, boo. 1 less person I have to compete with to get a concert ticket in the 2k17 hunger games

[datcnshii-blog]

Shitty ex hunger games 2k17, may the odds ever be against their favor!!

[bostonbruiins]

well nico hischier (of district 12) dies of hypothermia and nolan patrick (also district 12) wins the hunger games

that’s so sad wtf they’re in the same district!!! let them be together u capitalist pigs!!!

[spacejamcoolguy]

Fursony hunger games 2k17 by Ink-aroo on @DeviantArt

[ao3feed-captainswan]

Once Upon a Hunger Games: The Lion flower

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2xMlA17

by Rouhn

Killian Jones - the newest Game Maker was sitting next to the President of Panem, Rumpelstiltskin Gold, waiting for the Harvest to begin. He was only twenty-six years old what made him the youngest Game Maker ever.

It was the 26th Annual Hunger Games, another year of finding twenty-four Tributes, of letting them fight until death. He never wanted the job in first place, but he had to do it. Gold held his life in his hands. The Harvest began. Killian didn't know why, but he leaned forward, staring at the screen. Petunia Trickles, the escort of the District 9 Tributes, picked a name and stepped forward - Emma Swan.

Killian inhaled deeply - he was attracted to the girl, and there was something in her appearance that drew him in. He knew without any doubts: no matter what, he had to keep her save.

Words: 6937, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Once Upon a Time (TV), Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The Hunger Games (Movies)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Emma Swan, Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan

Additional Tags: Captain Swan AU Week 2017, CS AU week 2k17, Captain Swan AU Week, CS AU, cs au ff, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, District 9 (Hunger Games), Hunger Games, Inspired by The Hunger Games, Hunger Games Tributes, 26th Hunger Games, Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold Being an Asshole, President Rumplestiltskin Gold, Game Maker, Game Maker Killian Jones, Killians POV only, Killians POV, saving life, Fear, Minor Character Death, Forbidden Love

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2xMlA17

[ao3-shallura2]

No One Can Hear You Scream

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2qQo2ic

by Tortellini

Voltron Appreciation/Redemption Month, Day 2 (June 2): Crossover

(Hunger Games AU) " [...] In the Cornucopia there weren't any weapons. Lance's stomach flopped. Sure, there were rocks and shit around them, but they didn't actually...they didn't expect them to kill each other like...? Beat kids until their skulls caved in like cracked eggs, and send them home to their folks--no. No, he couldn't dwell on that. "

Oneshot

Words: 892, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of Voltron Appreciate/Redemption Month 2k17

Fandoms: Voltron: Legendary Defender, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Keith (Voltron), Lance (Voltron), Coran (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt, Matt Holt, Nyma (Voltron), Rolo (Voltron), Hunk (Voltron), Shay (Voltron), Allura (Voltron)

Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron), Keith & Lance (Voltron), Coran & Lance (Voltron), Hunk & Lance (Voltron), Nyma & Rolo (Voltron), Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Hunk & Shay (Voltron), Lance & Shay (Voltron), Allura/Shiro (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Matt Holt & Pidge | Katie Holt

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Hunger Games, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Refenced Violence, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Male Friendship, Enemies, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Angst, Light Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Feels, Comfort/Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Comfort, Survival, Survival Horror, Survivor Guilt, Wilderness Survival, Alternate Universe - Space, Outer Space, IN SPACE!, Latino Lance (Voltron), Homesick Lance (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) Angst, Korean Keith (Voltron), Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Prompt Fic, Voltron Appreciation Month, Voltron Redemption Month, VLD Appreciation Month, Wordcount: 500-1.000

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2qQo2ic