#it’s a statement showing that you want to live!!!

[pyrrhiccomedy]

"I hate mark s for what he did," "mark scout is evil" cups your face between my hands. do you understand that sometimes in life two people who are basically good and have no intention to do harm - indeed, two people who might be very, very, VERY much alike - can want things that are incompatible with their mutual success. do you understand that when that real, human, inevitable circumstance occurs, deciding to pursue your own happiness in favor of the happiness of someone you don't know is a tacit statement that, at least to you, you are more important than they are. And that is simply a fact about any time you decide to put your own well-being ahead of the desires of others, and that it isn't fundamentally wrong to do so, it's just a symptom of living in the world together. do you understand that living in the world with other people sometimes means there will be struggle and sorrow even if there are no bad actors, and that the failure on display here is not that one man wants a life with his wife and can't have it, and another man wants a life with his lover and can't have it, but that both men are failing to extend compassion and understanding to each other: the compassion and understanding that is the only thing that will save us in a world where pain is inevitable, despite Lumon's best efforts?

like. do you understand that this is what the show is about

[abrthephantomq]

Precisely this.

Anyone focusing solely on the ships are missing the point HUGELY when it comes to the Innies vs the Outies.

The Innies are their own people, with their own lives and wants and desires, and oMark totally dropped the ball on actually acknowledging iMark's actual humanity. That's why that whole bit of communication fell apart. Because oMark saw iMark as a means to an end, an extension of himself, and not a completely separate consciousness who just happens to share a body with them.

This happens within Systems all of the time. Especially Systems that are fresh in the System Discovery phase. Typically the usual Front person thinks they can just like. Figure out a way to control everyone or promise a life - their life, not anyone else's - just like oMark did. You will still have a life, it will just not be the life you would choose for yourself, etc.

Alters - Innies - deserve to be given agency in their own lives. They deserve to make decisions on what they feel is best for themselves. And iMark is going to spend whatever time he has left with Helly, the woman he loves, because at least when he is on the Severed Floor, he is in control.

oMark will get his life back with Gemma. It was just never iMark's life to begin with. MDR was.

Tbh I loved the ending of S2 so much. Because it's making a clear statement that iMark is going to take what agency he DOES have and live his life to the fullest, for however long he has left, and that's fucking beautiful.

Also, can we talk about how oDylan handled communication with iDylan through the resignation request? Talk about understanding that it actually isn't his choice to make and leaving it in iDylan's hands. Kudos, oDylan. You understood the assignment of having empathy towards your Innie and recognizing his agency and humanity. oDylan is the only Outie who seems to really get it, so far.

I love this show sfm.

the whole episode was spent establishing that mark s is his own person with his own life and that love does not, actually, transcend severance, and he knows that he’s gonna have to go upstairs eventually so he doesn’t have much time left and of course he’s going to want to spend it with the woman he loves, and people are still like “hehehe sorry gemma markhelly won” and I feel like I’m going insane. mark s/helly won. mark scout/gemma won. they just hammered it into us that innie and outie mark both have lives with the same value!!! this isn’t a ship war!!! Im gonna lose it!!! please go read frankenstein!!!

[humaling]

Between Your Hands and the World.

pairings: jealous!finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick isn't particularly fond of the gift you received from one of your sponsors.

warnings: allusion to finnick's prostitution, the usual hunger games

word count: 5.2k

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You repeat that mantra in your head, over and over again, as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection feels foreign, almost unrecognizable beneath the layers of Capitol perfection. The gown you’re wearing is nothing like the ones you wore before the Games; it’s heavier, louder, a statement crafted to draw eyes and hold them captive. Iridescent silk clings to your figure, shifting between shades of deep teal and midnight blue as the light catches it. The fabric cascades into a flowing train of sheer organza, cut to resemble twisting fins and seaweed, edged with tiny crystals that glint like salt spray. The bodice, sculpted from mother-of-pearl and opalescent glass, curves tightly around your torso. Silver thread traces delicate patterns across the surface, mirroring the movement of ocean currents, with scattered pearls embedded so precisely they almost seem to pulse with life.

Atop your head sits a crown of twisted silver and coral-shaped branches, thin chains of pearls and crystals dangling from its frame to brush against your cheeks. The weight of it is surprising, a quiet reminder of how much the Capitol loves to dress up its victors like dolls. Your makeup is haunting; smoky shades of deep blue and emerald sweep across your eyelids, blended so flawlessly they resemble the depths of the sea. Tiny pearls are glued to the corners of your eyes, and your lashes are tipped with iridescent beads that catch the light each time you blink. Your lips, painted in a bruised plum gloss, gleam with a wet sheen that makes them look just kissed—or just dangerous. Small pearls and crystals trace along your temples and collarbones, giving the eerie impression of salt and seawater drying against your skin.

Silver armlets twist around your biceps like seaweed caught on driftwood, the metal cool against your skin. Long, dangling earrings shimmer like jellyfish tendrils as they sway with each breath you take. Even your hands are decorated—rings with pearls and shells wrapped around your fingers like delicate sea creatures. You look less like a victor and more like a siren—designed to lure, to captivate, to destroy. And the Capitol expects you to play the part perfectly.

You don’t recognize yourself in the mirror. All you see is someone else. Someone who had to throw their morals and dignity out the window to survive the Games. Someone who tainted their hands with crimson liquid for the sake of survival. Someone who glorified the inhuman acts committed inside the arena because that’s what the Capitol demanded—a show, a spectacle. And you gave it to them.

It makes you shudder, knowing that someone is still you. A part of you. No matter how much you want to tear it away, to separate yourself from the choices you made, it clings to you like the salt in the air back home. It disgusts you to no end, makes your skin crawl beneath the delicate silk of the gown they dressed you in. How could you go from being a sweet, bubbly girl from District 4—someone who would sit on the docks weaving seashell bracelets with your younger siblings—to a cold-blooded murderer who learned how to kill before learning how to live?

The Capitol dressed you up to cover the damage. They wrapped you in pearls and mother-of-pearl, in iridescent fabric that glitters beneath the harsh lights, but no amount of beauty can hide the blood beneath your nails. You see it in your own eyes—the hollow sharpness that wasn't there before the arena. You might look like a siren now, but the Capitol knows the truth. They turned you into one.

“You look like you’ll puke any moment.”

Your head jerks to the side, snapping you out of your thoughts when the deep voice cuts through the thick silence. Your eyes go wide, your hand darting toward the nearest object—a silver hair comb—to use as a weapon. But when you see the familiar bronzed hair paired with sea-green eyes, you let out a breath, the tension seeping from your muscles as the comb slips from your hand and clatters against the marble floor. The sound echoes off the walls, sharp and jarring, but you barely hear it over the pounding in your chest.

Finnick watches you carefully, his gaze steady and unreadable as you stare back at him with a mix of relief and shame. You don’t know how to feel—relieved that he’s here, that he always seems to show up when you’re unraveling—or sick with despair, knowing that Finnick knows. He knows what you did to survive. He knows the blood on your hands, the weight you now carry. And yet, he stands there, calm and still, like he’s waiting for you to fall apart.

His eyes sweep over you, not with judgment but with quiet understanding. He sees it—the storm brewing beneath your surface, the haunted vacancy in your gaze that wasn’t there before the Games. Finnick knows this feeling better than anyone. He saw it in his own reflection after he got out of the arena, after his first night pleasing a Capitol client during his victory tour. He knows the weight of survival and how it corrodes you from the inside out. And he knows you weren’t built for this. You’re strong, but not for this kind of cruelty. He knew that from the moment your name was called out during the reaping.

Finnick blames himself. He swore he’d protect you, swore he’d keep you safe from this twisted life. But the odds are never in his favor. Snow’s grip is too tight, his reach too deep. And Finnick knows—sooner or later—Snow will push you too far, and you’ll break. He just hopes that when that day comes, there’ll still be enough of you left for him to save. Until then, all he can do is try to make this twisted version of victory a little less unbearable. And hope that his sweet girl—the one who used to make seashell bracelets by the shore—can hold on long enough to survive it.

“You snort, eyes flicking toward him. “What a keen observation you have, Sherlock.”

Finnick’s lips curl into a lazy smile. “Well, you’re not exactly subtle. You keep staring at yourself like it’s going to move and swallow you whole.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” you mutter, arms crossing over your chest.

Finnick’s gaze darkens, the teasing edge softening just a little. “I suppose it’s better than going back out there.”

You force a smile onto your lips, but it fails miserably. It fades almost immediately when you decide to meet Finnick’s eyes. His expression is unreadable—steady—but his eyes are soft, tracing over your face like he’s searching for something you don’t know how to give him.

“You know, if you’re trying to play hard to get, it’s not working,” he says, lips twitching into a smirk. “People will only want you more.”

You scoff. “Am I that transparent? I want you. I need you. Oh baby, oh baby,” you tease, voice dripping with sarcasm as you step toward him. Your gaze drops to his outfit, and damn—you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look good.

The Capitol dressed him like bait. His outfit mirrors yours in theme but with an edge designed to exploit him rather than elevate him. A shimmering, open-front jacket made of seafoam-green silk hangs loosely off his broad shoulders, the sleeves lined with silver embroidery resembling ocean waves. But it does nothing to conceal him—his chest is bare beneath it, smooth skin catching the light as if he’s been dipped in seawater. A thin chain of pearls drapes across his collarbone, leading down to his abdomen, where it disappears beneath the waistband of his low-slung pants—tight, dark blue, and threaded with silver in swirling patterns that mimic the pull of the tide. The Capitol didn’t dress him to look powerful—they dressed him to be devoured. He’s a prize on display, a body meant to be admired and claimed. And yet, even standing there with every inch of his beauty exposed to the world, the most dangerous thing about him is still his eyes—the quiet strength in them, the way they soften when they land on you.

Finnick smirks when he notices you staring. “See something you like?”

You roll your eyes and step past him, walking toward the black box placed on the table behind him. It’s wrapped in a silky pink bow, a small envelope resting neatly beside it. The Capitol’s idea of subtlety.

Finnick moves behind you, his front pressing lightly against your back, and you freeze. His breath fans over the nape of your neck, warm and steady, and it makes you shiver. He’s so close you can feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. The heat of his skin bleeds through the thin fabric of your gown, and your fingers tighten around the edge of the box.

“Who’s it from?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough in your ear. His lips brush dangerously close to your pulse point, and you swallow hard, trying to mask the way your heart hammers beneath your ribs.

You shrug, your hand reaching up to tug the ribbon loose. “No clue. One of the Avoxes handed it earlier when I was getting ready.”

The bow falls away, and you lift the lid. Inside, resting on a black cushion, is a delicate seashell-designed hair clip. The silver metal catches the light, glinting with an otherworldly shimmer. The center is studded with pearls—different sizes, some round and smooth, others irregularly shaped like drops of frozen seafoam. When your fingers graze over it, you realize with a start that the pearls are real. Heavy. Perfect.

“Wow…” you breathe out, awestruck.

“Wow,” Finnick echoes, but his voice is cold. Flat.

You’re too preoccupied with the gift to notice how tense he’s gone behind you. His jaw ticks, his smile gone, sea-green eyes darkening as they narrow on the clip in your hands. Who would give you something so personal—something tied so closely to District 4? And how would they even know to get you this? His hands curl into fists at his sides. Someone gave you this. Someone thought they had the right. Who?

“Isn’t it so pretty?” you chirp, holding the hair clip delicately in your hand as you turn toward him.

You don’t notice how close you’ve gotten—how his face is just inches from yours. You don’t care. Too absorbed by the pretty thing in your hand, you beam up at him, bright and careless. Finnick’s expression remains carefully neutral, but his eyes burn beneath it. Years of experience and training keep his smile intact, even as his body hums with jealousy.

“Not as pretty as you are,” he says smoothly, reaching out to take the clip from your hand. His fingers graze yours, but before he can place it back in the box, you stop him.

“Can you put it on me?” Your voice is soft, hesitant. Sweet. Like you’re almost too shy to make the request—but you know exactly what you’re doing.

Finnick’s lips part slightly. He wants to say no. There’s no way in hell he’s letting you wear something from a stranger—something that wasn’t from him. But then you flash that sweet smile of yours, your lashes fluttering just so, and he’s done for. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Sure,” he says, his voice strained.

Your eyes light up, and your smile widens. You tilt your head to the side, offering him the perfect spot. Finnick’s large hands lift to your hair, taking off the crown and smoothing out a few curls as he tries to figure out where to place the clip. His touch is gentle, reverent, his fingers threading through your hair with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

And you—you're too busy watching him to notice much else. From this close, you can see everything. The Capitol dressed him like a creature pulled from the sea—a weapon disguised as a gift. His skin gleams under the lights, faint mermaid-scale patterns dusting his neck and jawline, shimmering every time he shifts. His freckles—sun-kissed and soft—spread across his nose and cheeks, barely visible beneath the faint blush that tints the apples of his cheeks. His lips look fuller, glossed with something subtle that catches the light, making them look distractingly soft. His blonde lashes curl upward, framing those impossibly green eyes of his—the color of the ocean after a storm. Blue eyeshadow dusts his eyelids, dark at the edges and lighter toward the center, resembling the shifting hues of deep water. Small pearls are glued to the corners of his eyes, catching the light with every blink, like drops of seawater frozen in place.

You wonder if Finnick knows how beautiful he looks—how haunting he is. If he does, he doesn’t comment. His brows furrow slightly as he focuses on securing the clip into your hair, his fingers brushing over your ear as he adjusts it.

“There,” he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work. His eyes linger on you longer than necessary. His lips twitch into a half-smile. “Perfect.”

But his gaze flicks down to the clip again, and the tension in his jaw returns.

The Capitol spares no expense when it comes to a victory party. The grand hall is suffocating in excess—gleaming marble floors, ceilings strung with crystalline lights that mimic a starry night sky. Towering floral arrangements line the walls, spilling over with exotic flowers dyed in unnatural shades of violet and emerald green. Gold-accented columns frame the room, their surfaces etched with intricate patterns of sea creatures—tributes to your District. The theme is so on the nose it almost makes you laugh. They’ve turned your trauma into decor.

The people are worse. Capitol elites float through the space like they own it, draped in fabrics so heavy and layered that they might collapse under the weight if not for their sheer arrogance. Their faces are painted in unnatural hues—bright blues, shimmering golds, and jeweled embellishments—and their bodies are adorned with pearls and netted silk, a cheap imitation of the oceanic beauty they try to claim as their own. They laugh too loudly, clutching glasses of champagne and exotic cocktails with long, jeweled fingers. Every smile is too sharp. Every touch lingers too long.

You stand stiffly at the edge of the room, the satin of your gown cool against your skin. Your head is starting to buzz when your escort suddenly appears at your side, their hand pressing lightly against your arm.

“Come,” they say brightly, the falseness of their smile barely concealed beneath the layers of powder on their face. “There are some very important people who’d like to meet you.”

You’re pulled away before you can protest, guided through the throng of bodies until you’re standing before a group of Gamemakers. Their robes shimmer under the low light, gold and crimson and deep navy, each one embroidered with symbols of their status. They greet you with indulgent smiles, their eyes sharp despite the pleasant expressions they wear.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” one of them says, grasping your hand briefly. “We’ve been watching you closely. You showed such… promise.”

You smile stiffly, thanking them, while trying not to recoil from their touch. After a few more minutes of stilted conversation, your escort discreetly tugs at your elbow and whispers, “Why don’t you go enjoy yourself now?”

You don’t hesitate. You cut through the crowd toward the dessert table, drawn in by the delicate towers of candy and pastries shaped like coral and seashells. You pick up a pastel-colored macaron, bringing it to your mouth. One bite in, and your face immediately scrunches in disgust—it tastes like perfume. You swallow it down with effort, already regretting it, when you sense someone approaching from the side.

“Careful,” a voice says lightly. “The Capitol likes to make things look better than they taste.”

You turn, still chewing, and your eyes land on a tall figure with sleek dark hair and sharp, fox-like features. He smiles at you, eyes glittering beneath the glow of the lights. It takes you a second to place them—he was with the Gamemakers earlier.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he says smoothly, extending a hand. “I’m Lysander.”

You take it hesitantly. “I’m—”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” Lysander interrupts with a charming smile. His eyes drop to the hair clip nestled in your curls. “Ah, it looks even better than I imagined. I knew it would suit you perfectly.”

You blink. “You gave this to me?”

“I did.” His smile widens. “It reminded me of you. Strong, elegant… dangerous.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at the compliment, a soft flush creeping up your neck. Maybe—despite everything—you were still you, even if a Capitol man was the one making you feel this way.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, your hand drifting up to your hair. Your fingers graze the cool metal of the clip, tracing the curve of the delicate shells. “I really liked it.”

Lysander’s smile widens, his eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. He tilts his head slightly, a smug glint sharpening the edges of his expression—like he knew you would like it.

“I’m glad you did.”

Finnick’s eyes narrow as he watches you laugh at whatever the hell this Lysander is saying to you. His jaw clenches so tightly he swears he feels his teeth grinding. Across the table, one of the Careers—Gloss—follows his line of sight and smirks.

“Careful, Odair,” Gloss drawls, swirling the deep red wine in his glass. “You might break that pretty smile of yours.”

“I’m fine,” Finnick mutters, eyes still glued to you. Lysander’s hand drifts just a little too close to your arm, and Finnick’s grip on his glass tightens.

“Oh, you’re not fine,” Gloss chuckles, leaning back lazily. “I’ve seen you pissed before. This is worse.”

Cashmere leans in, chin propped on her hand. “I don’t know,” she says, amused. “I think it’s cute. Finnick’s jealous.”

Finnick shoots her a glare. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re practically vibrating,” Gloss snickers. He leans in close, his breath brushing Finnick’s ear. “Y’know, if you don’t make a move right now, he might steal her away from you.”

That’s it.

Finnick shoves his wine glass into Gloss’s chest without a word and strides toward you, cutting through the crowd with dangerous precision.

You’re laughing at something Lysander says when an arm slides smoothly around your waist. Warm fingers press lightly against your side, and the scent of salt and citrus washes over you a second before Finnick’s voice hums beside your ear.

“Well, isn’t she a beaut?” he says smoothly, his smile bright and dangerous. “I’m the one who chose the outfit.”

You freeze, eyes widening as Finnick’s hand slides up to graze the shell of your ear, his thumb brushing over the edge of the hair clip. Lysander’s expression shifts, polite but guarded, as Finnick’s gaze flickers toward him.

“But,” Finnick murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that coils through the air like smoke, “you’re more breathtaking without it.”

The glint in his sea-green eyes is sharp, predatory as he tilts his head toward Lysander. He winks—slow, deliberate—and the effect is immediate. Lysander’s smile falters at the edges, thinning like a blade. An awkward chuckle slips from his lips, but the gleam in his eyes remains calculating as he shifts effortlessly back into the conversation.

“You see, Finnick also has quite a few admirers,” Lysander says, swirling the golden liquid in his glass with lazy precision. The amber reflects the glow of the chandeliers above, casting rippling patterns on his hand. “They’re very… passionate. You might find yourself with a few of your own soon.”

A crease threatens to form between your brows as your lips pull downward. What did he mean by that? You glance toward Finnick, searching his face for answers. His smile remains fixed, charming as ever—but the tick in his jaw betrays him. The muscle flexes, tension carving sharp lines into his perfect features.

Lysander’s gaze flicks toward Finnick, his smirk sharpening. He lifts his glass in a lazy toast—toward Finnick first, then toward you—his brow quirking upward in a silent challenge.

“Careful, Finnick,” Lysander drawls, voice silk-smooth but laced with poison. “You know how possessive the Capitol can be.”

Finnick lets out a low, hearty chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest as his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. His fingers splay across your hip possessively, as if to remind both you and Lysander exactly where you belong.

“I’m sure we can handle ourselves just fine,” Finnick says smoothly, though his smile hardens at the edges. His knuckles turn white where they grip your waist, and his eyes glint dangerously beneath the flicker of candlelight.

Lysander’s smile widens. He sets his glass down on a passing tray and steps toward you, invading the space Finnick has carefully claimed. Finnick’s grip tightens, but Lysander only smiles. His hand finds yours, his touch light but deliberate as he lifts it toward his lips.

His eyes never leave yours as he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, lingering just long enough to make Finnick’s hand twitch at your waist.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N).”

Lysander’s eyes flick toward Finnick—just a flash of triumph beneath his lashes—before he slips effortlessly into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of Capitol excess.

Finnick’s arm remains locked around you, his hand still pressed against your hip. His smile doesn’t return. His eyes remain dark, fixed on the spot where Lysander disappeared.

“What?” he says at your questioning look, his voice low and edged with something sharp. “Couldn’t let him have you all to himself.”

The music swells, a slow, haunting melody carried by the soft hum of strings and the delicate trill of a harp. Golden light from the chandeliers above reflects off the marble floors, casting flickering shadows across the velvet-draped walls. The Capitol’s elite swirl around you in a blur of silk and sequins, their laughter mixing with the music like a distorted symphony.

Finnick’s hand slides down to yours. His touch is steady, warm, grounding—but there’s an edge to it. His thumb brushes across the back of your hand as he steps toward you, his sea-green eyes dark under the soft glow of the lights. He doesn’t speak. He just waits.

You hesitate. Your pulse thrums beneath your skin, too loud, too fast. Lysander’s words echo in your head like a ghostly whisper:

"You might find yourself with a few of your own soon."

What did he mean by that? You’ve had admirers before, of course—you’re a victor now, and victors are Capitol property whether they like it or not—but Lysander’s tone was different. Knowing. Almost… possessive. Like he knew something you didn’t.

Or maybe he just wanted you to feel that way.

A sharp tug brings you back to the present. Finnick’s eyes search yours, his brow pulling into a subtle crease. His hand is still waiting, open, patient—but there’s something tight around the corners of his mouth, like he’s not sure you’ll take it.

You slip your hand into his. His fingers curl around yours instantly, and without a word, he leads you toward the dance floor.

The crowd parts around you as Finnick turns, his other hand sliding to your waist with practiced ease. His palm presses into the small of your back, pulling you closer. Your breath catches as his chest brushes against yours, and the warmth of his skin seeps through the thin silk of your gown.

Finnick’s eyes flick to your mouth before meeting your gaze. “Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “I don’t bite.”

You let out a shaky breath as he guides you into the first step. His movements are fluid, effortless, like he’s done this a thousand times before—which, of course, he has. Finnick Odair, the Capitol’s golden boy. The heartthrob of Panem. The victor who could seduce a room with nothing more than a glance.

But right now, the sharpness in his gaze isn’t meant for the crowd—it’s meant for you.

Your hands settle on his shoulders as he steers you through the room. You can feel the strength beneath his skin, the tension humming through his muscles. Finnick’s jaw tightens every time another pair of eyes lands on you—hungry, possessive eyes. The Capitol’s gaze feels like a thousand knives pressing into your back.

And yet, Finnick keeps you steady. His hand on your waist, his thumb tracing slow circles through the silk of your gown. His lips hover dangerously close to your ear as he leans in.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he whispers, his breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Whatever Lysander said—don’t let it get to you.”

Your hands tighten on his shoulders. “How do you know that?”

Finnick’s mouth curves into a small, knowing smile. His hand slides further around your waist, drawing you so close that the thin barrier of your clothing feels nonexistent. His voice drops, low and rough:

“Because I know you.”

Your chest tightens painfully. You want to believe that—that Finnick knows you, that someone understands you—but Lysander’s words are still coiled in the back of your mind like thorns. What if Lysander was right? What if you were already losing yourself to the Capitol?

Finnick’s hand at your back presses more firmly. His green eyes glint under the light as he tilts his head toward you. “What else did he say to you?”

You hesitate. You think about how Lysander also mentioned how the Capitol likes to show off sometimes. You didn’t think of it at all at first but when he started referencing how the victors of the hunger games are some sort of objects, to be praised, and show off as trophies; it had you navigating the conversation to another topic. Too scared to dwell on a sensitive topic like that. Not wanting to know what’s lying ahead for you in the future.

The music shifts to something softer, the strings slowing into a lilting cadence that urges you closer.

“He said… How he would like to show me off like they do to others.”

Finnick’s grip on you tightens almost imperceptibly. His mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Of course they do,” he says, his voice losing some of its softness. “You’re beautiful. That’s the whole point.”

Your heart twists painfully. The whole point. To be admired, desired, paraded like a doll in silk and pearls. That’s what the Capitol does to victors—it makes them beautiful so it can break them more easily.

“Finnick,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of music. “What if that’s all they ever see?”

His eyes flash. His hand at your waist tightens, dragging you flush against him. Your breath stutters as his mouth lowers to your ear, his voice hard and sharp and dangerous.

“Then they don’t deserve to look at you.”

Your breath hitches. For a moment, the world blurs—just you and Finnick and the heat of his body pressed against yours. But then, movement from the edge of the room catches your eye. Lysander, standing at the edge of the dance floor with a fresh drink in hand, his eyes gleaming beneath the crystal light. His gaze locks with yours—and he smiles.

Finnick notices it too. His hand slides from your waist to the curve of your hip, his palm pressing possessively against your side. You feel his breath stutter as his mouth ghosts against your ear.

“You want to know why Lysander gave you that clip?” Finnick’s voice darkens, his eyes fixed on Lysander’s smirking figure. “It’s not because you’re beautiful. It’s because he thinks he can own you.”

Your heart hammers painfully in your chest.

Finnick’s hand finds your chin, gently tilting your face toward his. His green eyes burn through you, fierce and protective and something deeper, something raw beneath the surface.

“But he’s wrong,” Finnick murmurs, his mouth a breath away from yours. “Because you only belong to yourself.”

The music swells. You don’t know if it’s the heat of the room or the weight of Finnick’s gaze, but suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

Finnick’s lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. “Shall we give them something to talk about?”

Before you can answer, Finnick spins you effortlessly beneath his arm, his hand catching yours just as the music shifts into a faster rhythm. His laugh—a low, rumbling sound—brushes against your skin as he pulls you close once again.

From the corner of his eyez he sees Lysander’s smile fades at the edges.

Finnick’s smile widens, slow and knowing, before his gaze flickers back to you. His hand rises to your hair, fingers brushing delicately against the strands as he works at the clip. His touch is so gentle, so precise, that it sends a shiver racing down your spine. Despite the distraction, neither of you miss a beat—your steps remain perfectly in sync with the lilting rhythm of the music.

You lead him across the floor, your hands resting against his shoulders as he follows your movements effortlessly. Finnick’s other hand lingers in your hair, carefully undoing the clasp. His knuckles graze the nape of your neck as the clip loosens, making your breath hitch.

When the cool weight of the clip leaves your hair, Finnick’s arm shifts. He twirls you beneath his raised hand, the silk of your gown swirling around your legs as you spin in the center of the dance floor. Your laugh bubbles out unbidden, mixing with the soft strains of the strings.

As he pulls you back toward him, his eyes glint mischievously. An avox passes by, head lowered as they weave through the dancers. Finnick’s hand moves so smoothly you almost miss it—a single swift motion as he slips the hair clip into the avox’s pocket without breaking stride. His arm snakes back around your waist, his hand splaying wide across the small of your back as he draws you flush against him once more.

“There,” Finnick murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Much better.”

Your hair, now loose and tousled from his handiwork, spills over your shoulders in soft waves. Finnick’s eyes flick over you, satisfaction curling at the edges of his mouth. His hand shifts, his thumb skimming the bare skin of your back where your gown dips dangerously low.

You raise a brow at him. “Did you just—”

“Return it to its rightful place?” Finnick interrupts smoothly, his smile turning dangerous. “Let’s just say Lysander might have a hard time finding it again.”

Your chest tightens as Finnick’s hand presses more firmly against your back, leading you deeper into the dance. His eyes darken as they flick toward the edge of the room—where Lysander stands, his smile thin and cold as he watches you both. Finnick’s mouth curves into a knowing smirk.

“Now,” Finnick purrs, his hand gliding from your waist to the small of your back, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

“Would you like to see the garden?

[schemmentisimpasours]

Daddy? Daughter Dance

*Get ya head out the gutters y'all. Not the daddy you thinking just some cute Mom Melissa Fluff*

Original Request:Hi, I have a Mel x reader prompt:Reader has a daughter (her and Mel can be or not in a relationship) and Mel shows up in the daughter’s dance class, and in a parents night. Then the reader realizes Melissa is the one

Summary:You are terrified for the upcoming Daddy Daughter dance until Melissa offers to step in and you realize your love may run deeper than you thought

Next Chapter-WIP

Masterlist

-

You dreaded the day you picked your daughter up from dance practice and a little pink slip was clutched tightly in her hand. It was that time of year Daddy Daughter Dance. Last year your daughter had begged to sign up with her dad and he promised that he would. Yet a week before practices began, he canceled citing something to do with his girlfriend and suddenly you were out $80 and had a heartbroken five-year-old who only wanted her Daddy. This year the dance studio opened it to more than just dads trying to make it more inclusive to the families that had two moms, single moms, and some non-binary parents. Your heart had overjoyed at this new inclusion that made your daughter a little more relaxed about having two women figure in her life caring for her but you also knew you couldn’t do it. 

Working overnight was exhausting but it was the only thing that paid you enough to support Amari in dance, have a decent house with a small backyard, and keep your older beater Subaru running. You were able to get your daughter to dance and back barely in time to sign onto your computer. There was no way you could commit to even more practices at a later start time. It would break your heart to tell Amari that yet another parent dance would pass her by until she climbed in the car and said the most unexpected thing.

“Can I ask Melissa to dance with me Mommy?” She asked before buckling her seat belt. 

You and Melissa had been dating for over six months having met at Kindergarten round-up when you had started making jokes about the other parents under hushed breaths. Melissa had heard you and had immediately taken to your sarcasm and wit. It was quick and easy with the red head like falling in love with someone you had known your whole life. Amari had been overjoyed to have the “weally nice Ms. Schemmi” that her teacher Ms. Howard talked so highly of over at her house every day. 

Melissa had taken to your daughter easily, as you expected she would. Reading her bedtime stories when work got out of hand for you. Making easy heat-up meals to add some variety to her diet of chicken nuggets and ramen noodles that she had been addicted to since she was four. Playing Barbie dolls with her and allowing Amari to practice her very very subpar makeup skills on her. Melissa loved your daughter like her own it was clear but Amari had always been hard to read. One moment she was so excited the be living with you and other days she was screaming to go to her dad who maybe called her once a month. She had never taken to any of your other partners in the past claiming that “you two timing Daddy” when in all actuality it was your ex who did the two timing during your time together. 

As you regained your composure from her question you stared at her through the rearview mirror, “You really want Melissa to dance with you, honey?”

“Yeah, she is my Mamma,” Your heart melted at your daughter's words, “You still Mommy though. Can't get rid of you.”

You laughed because you couldn't tell if the last statement was a disappointment to her or a compliment and in that moment Amari reminded you so much of Melissa. You promised your daughter you would ask her in the morning when they got to school. You had practiced what you were going to say all night. However, the plan went right out the window when Amari ran right up to Melissa pink paper in hand.

“Mama! Mama!” Amari yelled running right to the redhead.

At the sound of her voice, Melissa turned looking for you and Amari. However, she froze when she realized Amari was calling her Mama. She was pulled from her daze tears etching the corner of her eyes as Amari explained what was happening. 

“Will you do the Daddy-Daughter dance with me, Mama? They are letting Moms do it this year and I think we should do it. Pleaseeee.”

“Of course my lil cannoli. Anything for you. Hand me the paper and I'll sign us up at lunch,” Melissa smiled pushing a beaded braid behind Amari’s ear.

“I love you Mama!” Amari said giving her a tight squeeze before coming to kiss you goodbye.

She slipped into Ms. Howard's classroom as you stepped up to Melissa. A single tear was rolling down her cheek. You wiped it away with your thumb.

“Mel if you don't want to…”

“No I want to do it. I absolutely want to do it,” Melissa said looking at the space Amari had just vacated, “Just never thought I would get the chance to be a Mama.”

“Well you are one now,” You smiled kissing her cheek, “I think she might be putting a hit out on me so you can be her only mom. Still can’t tell.”

“That is my girl. I totally have a guy for that too,” she said and you both laughed.

Melissa kept her word signing up for the dance on her lunch break. She pulled out her calendar scrawling all the dates for practice and rehearsal down. One the first day of practice you were pacing in the living room your nerves getting the best of you. Melissa had never once let you down on her promises but your ex had lied so much when it came to Amari that you had learned to expect the worse. But Melissa pulled up to the door with plenty of time to spare. 

You smiled at her pulled up into a high bun with a Philadelphia Eagles shirt on paired with simple black leggings. She kissed your cheek as you studied her outfit.

“Had to buy new damn leggings for this dance class. Didn’t want the little cannoli commenting on how shabby my other ones are,” Melissa said holding you in her arms as you both waited for Amari.

“She thinks that all of clothes are shabby,” You laughed, “Be safe my love.”

“Always,” She responded before Amari launched into her legs. 

Melissa took Amari to every dance practice from then on out allowing for you to have some calm moments to get ready for work. They came home every day smiling and full of laughter. You knew that you loved Melissa but every time she walked through the door holding Amari’s hand you fell a little bit more. 

Weeks went by till it was finally time for the dance. Melissa had already taken Amari out to get her outfit for the dance however all of it had been kept secret from you. As you sat in the second row of the auditorium you fidgeting nervously waiting for your two girls to come out. You swore your heart stopped as they came onto the stage with the other families. 

Melissa was one of the only females in this group but she stood out for different reasons. Her red curls pooled around her three-piece emerald green suit. The pants clung to her every curve giving away a black vest that showed off just enough cleavage to barely past children dancing appropriately. On top of the vest was a matching emerald green suit jacket that hung open and loose around her.Amari stood next her smiling the biggest smile you had ever seen. Bun pulled up into the requirement for the dance recital Melissa had bought her a black bow with silver sparks to go with it. The emerald green dress your daughter wore had silver jewels across the top with a big princess tool skirt that you knew Amari was dying over. 

You cried during the whole performance as you watched Melissa twirl, spin, and lift your daughter high in the air. They looked so happy together and in that moment you knew that you were going to love Melissa forever. When the dance was over Melissa placed a kiss on your daughter’s head and after their bow Amari rushed of for her next performance. A couple of moments later Melissa joined you among the crowd wrapping her suit jacket over your shoulders. 

As soon as she leaned in to kiss your lips you blurted, “Marry me.”

“Finally,” Melissa smiled cupping your face gently, “I thought you would never ask.”

[alexanderlightweight]

I'm glad you're doing better and I hope it continues! If you're still up for a prompt, something in Elysium's Tears or anything in the story (can't remember the name of it) where the Circle members' children are forced/arranged marriage to downworlders and Alec marries Magnus but then helps him with the antidote to a poison one of his fellow arranged marriage shadowhunters took.

thank you! i had a pretty painful procedure yesterday and slept a lot to recover and am now cackling at my bf's chromebook because I love plotting this fic and poor Magnus is having a Time with his shadowhunters spouse.

the verse you're talking about with the arranged marriage is the bitter trap of truth and is a fairly intense universe because Shadowhunters/nephilim marry downworlders in accordance to a treaty but really for the sole purpose of sowing discord and killing themselves and Alec is just like.... 'uhm no one said my spouse would be a husband? and that he would be this magical so i'm disrespectfully resigning from the clave and can no longer complete my mission to die. i need to live so I can be the best lair-husband ever.'

in the meantime, Magnus is keeping his gorgeous, shadowhunter husband if he has to fight the clave, death and etc to do it. he also (very understandably) has a hard time trusting Alec, his actions and motivations because what if this is an elaborate plot. Magnus would be devastated and while he'll keep Alec either way he also just doesn't want to do anything that will put him in a position of Alec betraying him.

i hope you enjoy <3

Lumine

-

tw suicide/murder mentions/idealation (specifically in service to the clave)

the bitter trap of truth

“Magnus, I can just stay here. I don’t actually need to go with you.”

Alexander’s voice breaks through the dark turn Magnus thoughts have taken and he looks over to see his husband lounging on the window seat. The book he is reading lies lax, threatening to slip from his fingertips as his attention focuses on Magnus.

The weight of Alexander’s gaze is nearly as delicious as the thrum of Magnus’ blood claiming Alexander from within. It flows through his body with a possessive fervor that often leaves Magnus greedily reaching to caress the imprint of Alexander’s being upon his senses.

Alexander continues to break every possible expectation Magnus dares to have of him, even in matters like this.  Alexander should want to go, he should be pleading and cajoling and manipulating Magnus into taking him as this evening will be one of the rare places he’ll be around and allowed to interact with other nephilim.  Magnus has heard horror stories of just the kind of arguments and cold wars refusing to bring a nephil spouse to these banquets can incur.

Yet, since the invitation first arrived in a flare of fire Alexander has been downright docile about the topic. The first moment Magnus showed hesitancy in taking him, he’d seemed more pleased than upset, more interested in finding a new book to read than finding out who he could connect with.

“If it were that simple, we’d both stay here.” Magnus sighs and reaches out to feel the pulse of his own blood in Alexander’s veins. “And yet the Elder’s have requested I bring you,” he explains as he studies Alexander. “I think they expect me to make you something of a statement or a possible moral booster.”

It goes without saying that Alexander is the highest ranking shadowhunter who married out and is still alive.

Alexander is quiet, soft amusement in his eyes as he follows Magnus’ every movement.

“Despite how often you like to dress me up, you rarely have me meet anyone besides those closest to you.” It’s not a question but Magnus hums in agreement, it would be ridiculous and disappointing if Alec pretended he wasn’t aware. “You can tease that it’s because of how much you want to hide me away, but we both know the target I’ve had on my back since we married.  Events like these are almost always when a nephilim dies. By their own hand or the so-called mercy of another nephilim. I know why you’re worried, Magnus.”

Every time Alexander speaks so openly, Magnus is stunned all over again, his heart racing with freshly piqued interest even as the thought of death claiming Alexander from him chills his blood. 

“You think I’ll let you die?” Magnus asks, voice low and harsh with the surge of anger that overtakes the fear filling him at the thought. He closes the space between them and reaches out, cupping Alexander’s jaw and tilting his head up to meet his eyes. “Do you think, Alexander, that you are allowed to die without my permission?”

“No.” And Alexander turns into his grip, lips pressing in a soft, reverent kiss to his palm. “But I think it’s what everyone else expects and something that you have a right to be concerned about. Regardless of my own wishes, it wouldn’t be surprising for an attending nephilim to try and offer me mercy. Either by orders of the Clave or their own misguided sense of kinship.”

Alexander is both soothing Magnus’ ire while simultaneously fanning the flames of his rage.  

“If I have to go, then you should do whatever you need to do to feel confident and secure in my safety. In the fact that I won’t leave your side or willingly place myself in danger. That I won’t go anywhere you can’t follow or watch over me.” 

“Oh? Whatever I want?” Magnus asks, curving his tongue around the delicacy of the offer, the knowledge that Alexander will simply let Magnus do as he wishes.

“Anything, Magnus. Whatever will help, I’m already yours aren’t I? Do you think I mind that being proven to the world? That I’ll mind the entirety of the Shadowworld understanding where I stand? My position in this relationship was made clear the moment I survived both our wedding night and the month that followed.  The Clave has figured out by now now that I want to survive, that I want to live as long as it’s with you.”

-

alec: more than happy to stay home and read up on how to clean a magical lair and feed your incredibly handsome warlock husband

magnus: one: I don't want to leave you alone for longer than ten minutes and two: i'm supposed to show you off. the problem is showing you off while letting everyone know 'do not approach, do not look at, don't talk to, don't breathe near etc...'

alec: sounds more than reasonable. so why don't you just do whatever you need to feel better about my safety

magnus: .... whatever?

alec: yeah, anything that you'd like

magnus: ... no take backs!

[onstoryladders]

i get having trust issues or not wanting to believe that they're going the buddie route. i get it. but what's crazy to me is people saying that the bucktommy scene and maddie/buck convo were meant to shut down buddie, because if that was the goal they would've gone way differently about it. and it would've been extremely simple to do too

they just had to tweak a few things in fact. 1) cut that whole freudian slip "i dont have to wanna sleep with anyone i have feelings for" and replace it with something normal 2) change maddie's "are you? it wouldn't be so crazy" with, again, something normal like "but you aren't" so it's a statement instead of a question (and ask jlh not to act like she's about to slam her head against the table in frustration) 3) make buck have other excuses that don't involve eddie being straight (my aro heart would've loved some amatonormativity bashing like "what's everyone's obsession with romance! i can love someone in other ways too!") 4) make buck describe eddie as his brother or something. like instead of saying "eddies straight and a renter (lmfao btw) and i get that tommy would be threatened by what we have" he could've just said "i know im taking it harder than everyone thought i would but he's been my partner for years, he's like my family!" or whatever 5) make buck actually call tommy in the end. he could've even helped him unpack maybe

and this is just about 8x11 but of course this whole thing has ROOTS all the way to 7x04, a ton of small decision that amount to the bucktommy relationship being HAUNTED by eddie diaz in every way a relationship can be haunted + 7 new ways specifically created by evan buckley himself

like. choices keep being made on this fucking show. and i get having trust issues, i do too, and i don't trust this kind of television writing because there's always outside stuff that can get in the way, like budget issues, actors availability, higher ups axing a storyline and god knows what else. but if we lived in a world where none of that mattered and queer storylines weren't a hundred times more likely to be discarded than straight ones, no one would have doubts about what's going on here

[zmbiebrain]

Wayne and Kathy Harris

Wayne Nelson Harris was born in 1948, making him 77 years old in 2025, 51 years old in 1999, and 33 years old in 1981, when Eric was born.

He worked in the U.S Air Force in aircraft maintenance. Eric wrote about his family moving often, because of his father's job. They lived in Kansas, New York, Michigan, and Ohio before settling in Colorado in July of 1993. After he retired, he worked in civil aviation as a transport pilot for private companies.

Katherine "Kathy" Ann Harris (neé Poole) was born in 1950, making her 75 years old in 2025, 49 years old in 1999, and 31 years old in 1981, when Eric was born.

She worked as a homemaker for much of Eric's childhood, though in later years she worked in a food and catering service. She was described as social, organized and involved in her son's schooling.

Eric's older brother, Kevin Harris, was born in 1978, making him 47 years old in 2025, 21 years old in 1999, and 3 years old in 1981, when Eric was born.

Unlike Dylan's older brother, Byron Klebold, Kevin has never made public statements regarding Columbine. There are no known accounts or interviews from people who knew him personally.

The Harris family seems to have been structured and partly strict, likely influenced by Wayne's background. Wayne seemed to have been involved in the upbringing of his sons, spending time with them often. His mother was seen as relaxed, more emotional than his father.

In elementary school, his parents would show for parent-teacher conferences, and Kathy would help the class with events.

Kris Otten, a childhood friend of Eric's, would sleep over at their house, saying, "It was a real comforting house. Everything was neat and organized."

In April of 1993, while living in Plattsburgh, Eric was drafted for a little league team, and his coach thought he was talented. Wayne and Kathy would attend both games and practices.

Wayne was aware of Eric's troubled behaviour, having kept notes on him, most likely regarding his rebellious behaviour. Eric went to Ken Caryl Middle School, where he would later meet Dylan Klebold in the 7th grade.

During his early adolescence, he was prescribed a mood stabilizer called Luvox. He may have taken this for better management of thoughts and emotions. Before he was prescribed Luvox, he took Zoloft for a brief time period. Eric's medical records indicate, "possible depression, minimal depressive symptoms."

Luvox and Zoloft (Fluvoxamine and Sertraline) are both SSRI, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. After his first prescription in April 1998, it was upped just a month later, and upped again a month after that, in early July of the same year.

He stated in one of the tapes, "When I don't take my medication, it makes me angry. It's working."

Eric's entry on 4/21/98:

"My doctor wants to put me on medication to stop thinking about so many things and to stop getting angry. well, I think that anyone who doesn't think like me is just bullshitting themselves. try it sometime if you think you are worthy, which you probably will you little shits, drop all your beliefs and views and ideas that have been burned into your head and try to think about why your here. but I bet most of you fuckers cant even think that deep, so that is why you must die. how dare you think that I and you are part of the same species when we are sooooooo different. you aren't human you are a Robot. you don't take advantage of your capabilities given to you at birth. you just drop them and hop onto the boat and head down the stream of life with all the other fuckers of your type. well god damnit I wont be a part of it! I have thought to much, realized to much, found out to much, and I am to self aware to just stop what am thinking and go back to society because what I do and think isn't "right" or "morally accepted" NO, NO, NO, God Fucking damnit NO! I will sooner die than betray my own thoughts. but before I leave this worthless place, I will kill who ever I deem unfit."

Kathy Harris made a 9-1-1 call on the day of the shooting, the call is sealed and has never been released. Wayne and Kathy were sued by multiple families of the victims, but settled in 2003 under confidential terms.

[the-most-humble-blog]

🚨 I’ve Discovered the Block Button🚨

A Revolutionary Tool in the Art of Telling People to Shut the Fck Up—Permanently*

Welcome to the Golden Age of Digital Darwinism

Ladies, gentlemen, and intellectual warlords of the internet, today marks a revolutionary discovery in my already lethal arsenal of online dominance.

I, a humble yet undeniable force of nature, have discovered the Block Button. And with it, I have achieved inner peace, unparalleled power, and the ability to instantly euthanize weak arguments with a single click.

📌 THE ERA OF SUFFERING IN THE DM TRENCHES IS OVER

Once upon a time, I graciously tolerated the digital equivalent of a flatulent toddler having a tantrum in my inbox.

Every day, the same weak-wristed goons would show up: ❌ The angry reply guy who just got his worldview suplexed into the dirt. ❌ The professional victim crying about "tone" because facts hurt their feelings. ❌ The self-righteous dissertation writer who demands "a debate" but gets winded halfway through a sentence. ❌ The desperate white knight who thinks he’s earning feminist coochie coupons by crying “misogyny” at me in the hopes that someone, somewhere, will touch his limp, trembling hand.

🚨 For too long, I suffered in silence. 🚨 For too long, I watched these emotionally unstable disasters fling their word vomit into my DMs.

But no more.

Because I have discovered the single greatest tool in digital history.

🚀 The Block Button. 🚀

📌 THE BLOCK BUTTON: A MASTERPIECE OF HUMAN INNOVATION

This divine gift of modern technology allows me to evaporate weaklings into the void with the same ease as flicking lint off my sleeve.

With a single ruthless, efficient, and merciful action: 📌 Their cries are silenced. 📌 Their fragile egos are left screaming into the abyss. 📌 Their Twitter dissertations and unreadable copypasta essays become meaningless dust in the wind.

👉 Gone. Just like that. 👉 No arguments. No discussions. No prolonged suffering.

💀 They cease to exist in my digital kingdom. 💀

And the best part?

📢 They can still see me. 📢 They can still rage. 📢 But they can no longer interact.

I exist in their minds like a ghost they can never exorcise. I live in their subconscious like an unpaid bill they forgot about. I haunt them like the existential dread of knowing they will never, ever win.

📌 COMMON TYPES OF BLOCKED WASTES OF DATA

Now that I have ascended into a realm of peace and power, I have classified the most common creatures that get yeeted into the ether via THE BLOCK.

1️⃣ The Keyboard Warrior Who Writes Essays But Can’t Read a Room

This one needs you to read his 14-paragraph, Oxford comma-abusing manifesto.

His entire argument hinges on misinterpreting what you said and replacing it with strawman nonsense.

Block. Now his dissertation has no audience.

He will read it to himself in the dark, alone, like an unpaid Shakespearean actor screaming into his mirror.

2️⃣ The Pretentious Intellectual Who Overuses Words They Don't Understand

If I had a dollar for every time a “debate bro” misused "fallacious" in a sentence, I'd have fuck-you money.

Block. No more free lessons in literacy.

3️⃣ The “I’m Just Asking Questions” Gaslighter

He doesn't want answers.

He wants to drag you into an infinite black hole of pointless back-and-forths because he thrives on wasting time.

Block. Let him “ask questions” into the void.

4️⃣ The Clown Who Can't Let Sh*t Go

3 weeks later, he’s still mad.

5 months later, he’s still writing Tumblr posts about it.

A year later, he mentions it in therapy.

Block. End the saga.

5️⃣ The “Just Take the L” Guy Who Won’t Shut Up

My guy, I already won. You’re still replying.

Block. Your letters are returned to sender.

📌 THE DIGITAL LAWS OF BLOCKING: WHEN, WHY, AND HOW TO YEET WITHOUT MERCY

🚀 WHEN TO BLOCK: ✔ When their brain cells collapse under the weight of a factual statement. ✔ When their response reads like a meth-fueled fever dream. ✔ When they’re so desperate for your attention, they’ll reply to their own replies. ✔ When they’re an adult acting like a caffeinated 12-year-old on Xbox Live chat.

🚀 WHY TO BLOCK: 📌 Because your mental real estate is worth more than the trailer park in their brain. 📌 Because your time is finite, and their nonsense is infinite. 📌 Because sometimes, hitting "mute" isn't enough—they need to be THROWN INTO THE VOID.

🚀 HOW TO BLOCK WITH STYLE: ✔ No announcement. No preamble. Just click. ✔ Don’t tell them you’re blocking—it’s more fun when they realize it too late. ✔ Bonus points if you let them waste their best insults first.

They will think about it for WEEKS.

📌 THE AFTERMATH: WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU BLOCK A TROLL?

❌ They spiral. ❌ They cope. ❌ They stalk your page for weeks, hoping to find a sign that you regret it.

📢 Spoiler: You don’t.

💀 They are now digital ghosts, condemned to wander in rage and irrelevance.

📌 FINAL VERDICT: THE BLOCK BUTTON IS GOD’S WORK

I used to think I had to fight every fool who wandered into my DMs. I used to believe I owed explanations, counterarguments, and endless patience to people who didn’t deserve my time.

🚨 I was WRONG. 🚨

📢 The Block Button is a revolution in digital warfare. 📢 The Block Button is the nuclear option that ends stupidity in one click. 📢 The Block Button is the greatest invention of the 21st century, and I will use it without hesitation.

📌 FINAL CALL TO ACTION: BLOCK FREELY, BLOCK MERCILESSLY, BLOCK FOR PEACE

🔥 If you have ever blocked an idiot and felt instant relief, REBLOG. 🔥 If you love that a troll can still SEE YOU but can’t TOUCH YOU, FOLLOW [The Most Humble Blog]. 🔥 If you have ever laughed at a blocked person desperately trying to get your attention, COMMENT with your best "blocked and forgotten" story.

💀 You either learn to block, or you spend your life arguing with the doomed.

🚀 Choose wisely. 🚀

[sinful-karateka]

I'll bite and talk about something that doesn't get enough spotlight in general, which are Demetri's and Eli's family life. So obviously several fic authors have their own twists and flavors to this, but if I may sell you something for a sec.

So far into the series, what we've got are these facts:

Demetri's Mom is the only family member to be mentioned in the show.

Eli's parents were mentioned a couple of times.

That should be enough context to deduce two things:

Demetri could be an only child to a single mother, and;

Eli's parents involve themselves in the stuff that he does — including karate, who knows — though they tend to be tone deaf with his actual needs.

There's strong evidence to why the boys act the way they act (brain functions notwithstanding, but this isn't the post for that), which is why I think these deductions make sense. How their hypothetical upbringing is part and parcel to how characters behave in this series. Of course societal influence comes in second because obviously you've got a show that encourages learning karate as defense against bullies, but this show is also about generational chains and traumas! So why wouldn't their home life inform the way it informs the LaRusso's, Lawrence's, and Nichols'? But I digress.

In the span of the entire series, I've held onto this headcanon that Demetri's neuroticism and ability to anticipate his actions carefully stem from a household that needs these systems in place, much more for someone who likes to be on top of things. Since he's just a student, the only authoritative figure who can make executive decisions... is his mom. Add to the fact that she may be a working mom, so when Demetri tells Daniel about certain restrictions in learning karate, what could have made her decide to just write a letter instead vs. taking the time out to go with his son herself? I know I know it's narrative writing but like do you seeeee where I'm at here

Eli's family life is by far gave us early indications of his dynamic with his mother — but not so a father — in earlier seasons. It's possible that his mom is a stay-at-home one, but if I were to push the bounds of this box even further, I'd even speculate that she's retired early if it meant that Eli's dad is the one making most of the living. Like of course they'd get mad at Hawk for getting a tattoo at his age, I think any parent would! But the way he tells Aisha to exclude him from her stories tells us that there's not a lot that his parents know about the life he lives as Hawk. At this point we all know the kind of effort it takes to successfully carry it out because he has to go home every night. It's either he a) puts in a lot of effort into concealing this identity once he gets home, or b) his parents are rarely ever home, which again, feeds into another assumption that maybe Mrs. Moskowitz works certain hours.

All we know is they're never around a whole lot for these boys, which is sad! and also again, very Indicative of their classification as awkward nerds pre- and early karate. When I read along certain fics that consider and include how the rest of their characters besides the found families they've formed, it gives much more depth and potency to writing them, their flaws, and how they think.

For all we know, Mrs. Alexopoulos could be a lesbian making fun of her son for not slinging pussy like she does being rizzless unlike her, but don't let me explain that when we have @demetriandelibinaryboyfriends!

[standingstart]

BRO AKSHDGAH WHAT

I legit thought this was satire until I opened the note and saw OP was serious and not just mocking the anti maxxers. Like can you be anymore daft?

"He doesn't care while Seb can name every WDC in order" ok and? Max can name them until like 1978, which is better than everyone on the grid beside Seb. Or did you conveniently forget that? Was Lewis even doing that game? And Kimi purposely messed up his own championship year to stop playing. So what's your point bestie?

"He looks bored while Lewis cried recieving Senna's helmet" Wow different people show emotions differently what a concept. It's almost like Max wasn't molded from infancy into a machine. And also, emotions doesn't mean tears necessarily. Watch how his eyes sparkle when he's proud of his team and how he hugs his friends or how he embraces Horner like his life depends on it at every race. That's also emotion fyi.

"He says well done while Pierre broke his voice for p3" again, ok and? Was Lewis breaking his voice everytime he won a race from 2014 to 2021? Don't think so. He expected it. As he should have back then. Because he was the best. And it's fine.

"He talks about returning to his cat while Jenson wants to party" Explain the relevance here. BREAKING NEWS: Local Man Wants to Relax Instead of Doing Coke on a Yatch. Where is the World Going? lmao. lol. touch grass xx

[dxxtruction]

VENT - I feel like if there was better education around abuse and violence, and abuse and violence prevention, we'd be able to interrogate more how it is so much a community, cultural, and systemic problem, and arguably less of an individual one. This does not dissuade any fault individuals have in creating violence and perpetrating abuse, just so no one's confused here. We have to see that violence and abuse perpetrators do take the responsibility for their actions. Obviously. But to open this up to wider responsibility would lead to far better discussions about wtf was going on at the anti-black lynch trail wrt Armand's complicity and level of fault in it.

Far too many people are unwilling to see that he was not the one to orchestrate or plan this, because they'd rather pin violence and abuse all onto a single individual. (Which is dehumanizing btw, to us even because it implies we've accepted these terms for ourselves as well).

This is an expectation I'm aware just isn't possible though, and Interview!Fandom certainly is not ready to confront this. Not everyone was when it came to the abuse Lestat perpetrated in S1 (those who watched an entirely different show apparently and deny how race played a role in the violence and abuse, throughout just everything not just Lestat). So it's just gonna be me and the handful of others IG. Shout out.

(more to this in OP tags)

[scorpiosbite]

when drew watched actress!reader’s sex scene for the first time

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 ────୨ৎ──── drew’s been binging game of thrones ever since that fateful day madelyn forced him to watch the show, what was meant to be a normal binge session turns into him being the horniest he’s ever been. making the anticipation of meeting you even heavier.

𝜗𝜚 pairing: actress!reader x drew starkey

author’s note: this takes place during the filming of obx 4, before madelyn informed the obx cast that they were going to meet you when you came to LA.

drew could not tear his eyes away from the screen of the tv in his moroccan hotel room. he thought that after watching game of thrones consistently, now nearing the end of the first season he would become accustomed to see you in costume, but every time you came onto the screen his breath was taken away. seeing you in that the sliver waist length wig that looked like it was your real hair, the sheer fabric floor length dresses with the daring cuts that exposed more and more of your soft skin, and the intricate dornish jewellery with the subtle targaryen detailing made him feel like a teenager once again with how quickly his pants tightened. and it wasn’t only how you looked, it was also your performance. you were an astonishing actress, he would forget that you weren’t actually visenya in real life, that this world didn’t actually exist and that you were just acting. he was so captivated by you.

“the last dragon, that’s who you are visenya, the last targaryen left in the world, perhaps if you favoured your mother in looks, you would escape the pressures of the targaryen name, but you do not, you look just like rhaegar only with the tanned skin of elia.” you rolled your eyes and drew felt his heart jump. surrounded by the hanging gardens of sunspear in dorne, you paced with aggression, your sliver hair swishing behind you, your dress billowing as you stared down your costar. “have you come to lecture me of my responsibilities as the last targaryen, jaime? all while your bastard son sits my throne? and your sister puppets him from behind.”

“we are only married because your father knew that once i take back my throne i will come after the lannisters for your family’s hand in my mother and brother’s murders. he thought that if we were married that i would not harm you and your name would live on through my womb. but i am no fool, targaryen women have been known to kill their husbands, who is to say my coin wasn’t flipped on the side of madness. that is the saying is it not? when a targaryen is born the gods flip a coin, greatness or madness.” you now stood face to face with the man, staring him down with a smug expression and drew was once again struck with your talent as an actress, your body displayed the anger and frustration that your character felt despite the facade of arrogance on your face. then suddenly your lips connected with his, the actor who played jaime slid his hand around your waist, the cuts of your dress allowing him to touch your bare skin, your hands went to his hair and drew had never felt so jealous of another man.

jaime picked you up with ease, walking backwards to a chair sitting down with you spread on his lap, and drew thought that he would do anything to have you like that. the camera filmed you from the back, jaime’s hand caressing your exposed back down to your ass, and drew squeezed the covers of his bed in response. the camera cut to a mid shot of both of you from the side, you broke the kiss your face still so close to his, lips brushing together as you spoke in a hushed tone. “i want you to fuck me, jaime.” drew groaned at the lust in your voice, and wondered if that was what you sounded like in real life. jaime’s actor groaned in response to your statement and drew felt sympathy for the man, because he knew that if he was in that position instead of him he would be unable to stop himself from cumming in his pants, professionalism be fucked.

jaime’s hands trailed to the back of your neck and the camera cut to back to the shot of your back, closing up on his hands as his hands pulled at the strings holding your flimsy dress together the camera seemed like it was handheld making the shot feel all the more intimate, the material fell and jaime tugged the dress off of you leaving you completely bare but drew could only see your back and up, but then, the camera cut to a wide shot, and drew gasped as your entire body from the back was exposed. jaime’s hand coming down to squeeze the supple flesh of your ass and drew felt his cock harden at the sight. the camera cut to an over the shoulder shot from jaime and your bare chest came into view, this time drew couldn’t stop the moan that escaped him, your hands tugged at the strings of jaime’s pants although the camera kept on you, your hands out of the shot.

you sank down on jaime’s cock and a whine-like moan escaped you, drew felt like he was going insane, he couldn’t stop himself as he tugged his boxers down, his hard cock springing up to slap against his stomach. his hand wrapping around the thick length, squeezing, pearly beads of pre cum leaking out. drew flicked his eyes back up to the screen and you had your head thrown back as you bounced on jaime’s cock, drew knew that the pleasure on your scrunched up face was fake, that the melodious moans that were escaping your pretty lips that were hung open were fake, but the way your tits were bouncing was real and drew couldn’t stop himself from tugging his cock in time with the movements of your hips, your head tilted back down to gaze down at jaime your eyes so fucked out and drew wished that it was him you were looking at. that it was him that could run his hands all over you.

you spoke breathlessly “targaryens used to feed their enemies to their dragons, i don’t have a dragon yet, perhaps i shall just eat you myself, husband.” jaime groaned in response, connecting your lips back together and drew sped up his movements his hand stroking with fervour, the squelching sounds echoing through the room, his other hand coming down to squeeze at his balls, his eyes still glued to you on the tv. drew was close he could feel it and as your body shuddered and you collapsed into jaime’s lap, drew came with a deep groan. cumming all over his chest and stomach. drew threw his head back against his headboard, he felt just a little bit pathetic, that he didn’t have the courage to message you but he could jack off to you doing your job, but god what he would give to have you like that.

TAGLIST: @sunnybunnyy2 @percysley @wearemadeofstardust0 @idgasb @pinkpantheris @emmaaas-posts @grace-sully @chimmysoftpaws

you guys are not believe the fucking writers block i suffered while writing this for it just to turn out so shit but nevertheless I hope you enjoyed!

[frostbite-the-bat]

Holy fuck I'm for real gonna need to like make a ramble vid of me talking about clash lore and my current issues because I'm currently going insane I'm over here making fucking essays in my mind again

[fursasaida]

This article is from 2022, but it came up in the context of Palestine:

Here are some striking passages, relevant to all colonial aftermaths but certainly also to the forms we see Zionist reaction taking at the moment:

Over the decade I lived in South Africa, I became fascinated by this white minority [i.e. the whole white population post-apartheid as a minority in the country], particularly its members who considered themselves progressive. They reminded me of my liberal peers in America, who had an apparently self-assured enthusiasm about the coming of a so-called majority-minority nation. As with white South Africans who had celebrated the end of apartheid, their enthusiasm often belied, just beneath the surface, a striking degree of fear, bewilderment, disillusionment, and dread.

[...]

Yet these progressives’ response to the end of apartheid was ambivalent. Contemplating South Africa after apartheid, an Economist correspondent observed that “the lives of many whites exude sadness.” The phenomenon perplexed him. In so many ways, white life remained more or less untouched, or had even improved. Despite apartheid’s horrors—and the regime’s violence against those who worked to dismantle it—the ANC encouraged an attitude of forgiveness. It left statues of Afrikaner heroes standing and helped institute the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which granted amnesty to some perpetrators of apartheid-era political crimes.

But as time wore on, even wealthy white South Africans began to radiate a degree of fear and frustration that did not match any simple economic analysis of their situation. A startling number of formerly anti-apartheid white people began to voice bitter criticisms of post-apartheid society. An Afrikaner poet who did prison time under apartheid for aiding the Black-liberation cause wrote an essay denouncing the new Black-led country as “a sewer of betrayed expectations and thievery, fear and unbridled greed.”

What accounted for this disillusionment? Many white South Africans told me that Black forgiveness felt like a slap on the face. By not acting toward you as you acted toward us, we’re showing you up, white South Africans seemed to hear. You’ll owe us a debt of gratitude forever.

The article goes on to discuss:

"Mau Mau anxiety," or the fear among whites of violent repercussions, and how this shows up in reported vs confirmed crime stats - possibly to the point of false memories of home invasion

A sense of irrelevance and alienation among this white population, leading to another anxiety: "do we still belong here?"

The sublimation of this anxiety into self-identification as a marginalized minority group, featuring such incredible statements as "I wanted to fight for Afrikaners, but I came to think of myself as a ‘liberal internationalist,’ not a white racist...I found such inspiration from the struggles of the Catalonians and the Basques. Even Tibet" and "[Martin Luther] King [Jr.] also fought for a people without much political representation … That’s why I consider him one of my most important forebears and heroes,” from a self-declared liberal environmentalist who also thinks Afrikaaners should take back government control because they are "naturally good" at governance

Some discussion of the dynamics underlying these reactions, particularly the fact that "admitting past sins seem[ed] to become harder even as they receded into history," and US parallels

And finally, in closing:

The Afrikaner journalist Rian Malan, who opposed apartheid, has written that, by most measures, its aftermath went better than almost any white person could have imagined. But, as with most white progressives, his experience of post-1994 South Africa has been complicated. [...]

He just couldn’t forgive Black people for forgiving him. Paradoxically, being left undisturbed served as an ever-present reminder of his guilt, of how wrongly he had treated his maid and other Black people under apartheid. “The Bible was right about a thing or two,” he wrote. “It is infinitely worse to receive than to give, especially if … the gift is mercy.”

[xcziel]

.

[unexpectederawhilesubmitting]

WARNING: DOCTOR WHO SPOILERS EXPLAINING REGENERATION SHENANIGANS

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

okay so I was kind of not on board with the concept of bi-regeneration, mainly because of how it seemed like all of the Sad and the Trauma that the Doctor had undergone got kind of handwaved away? i'm all for ncuti's Doctor being sort of a fresh start/jumping on point for new viewers, but i didn't get how that could work if like, literally 40 minutes ago he was David Tennant being a sad wet puppy dog of a man

however, after rewatching it, i've realized what i think happened there, and it goes all the way back to something introduced with the 4th doctor's regeneration that was never explained: the Watcher

^this spooky guy

so, for those that don't know (or haven't seen every episode of a show that is over half a century old), the Fourth Doctor regenerates at the end of a story called Logopolis (he falls off a satellite dish, but that's not important right now). all throughout the episode, this weird figure, The Watcher, stands off in the distance, and even intervenes slightly by saving the Fourth Doctor's companion. there's not much given in the way of an explanation until the Fourth Doctor regenerates, saying "it's the end. but the moment has been prepared for..."

the watcher walks up, and gets absorbed in a super rad 1980's digital effect (never change doctor who), while his companion just gives us the not-super-helpful-for-lore statement "He was the Doctor all the time!"

then, in a crossfade, the Doctor goes from Four to weird-powder-man to Five

canonically, the Watcher is explained as a future version of the doctor that comes about in sort of a weird overlapping thing with the doctor's timeline, it's very wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey.

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

SO what does this have to do with biregeneration and satisfying character arcs/moving on from trauma?

Well, remember, Fifteen said this, about Time Lords doing rehab out of order:

so, here's the thing: Fifteen is the Doctor AFTER Fourteen (duh, I know?) But to be clear...Fourteen lives out an entire lifetime with Donna and family, gets to a ripe old age, and then, when his lifetime of healing is over, he gets yeeted back through his own timestream just to zoot himself out of David Tennant's chest.

Remember, his first words to Fourteen (after popping out of his chest) are "So good to see you! So good!", not the RTD classic "what?". He greets himself like he's almost expecting this, he then says "does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?" which only makes sense if he's coming from a different point in his own timestream (remember, when two doctors interact, memory gets really weird, 10 and the War Doctor don't remember the events of Day of the Doctor until they live through them as 11).

SO TO BE CLEAR: Ncuti Gatwa is playing the Doctor AFTER he has spent years healing from his traumas. His Doctor is fine because Fourteen takes the time to rest and work on himself.

tl;dr: I didn't like biregeneration at first because I thought it looked like this:

In actuality, it looks more like this: