#like you are funneling money into people who hate you

[worlds-smallest-epsilon]

I literally do not understand queer fans of things like Harry Potter and FNAF

[stormz369]

☕💖 Can I Get Your Number? ☕💖 Ch 13

Jason Todd x (f)Chubby!Reader

written with a female reader in mind, first person pov, no use of Y/N, will probably get NSFW later, let me know if there's anything else I should tag this with!

warnings/labels: it's a pretty fluffy chapter today, but let me know if I missed anything!

wc: 1.9k

Chapter Selection

Stella did my hair and makeup, and lent me a little black clutch. She instructed that I wait until I had my dress on to put the earrings and hair pins in, but made sure I knew exactly where to put the pins, before letting Jason whisk me away to the manor. My dress and shoes were already there waiting for me with the other girls, and when we arrived I was quickly pulled into a large closet away from Jay. Stephanie grinned, sticking her tongue out at him as she declared; “no boys allowed!”

It struck me how Babs and Steph effortlessly brought me into the group; everything felt so natural, like we'd gotten ready for dozens of these events together.

“What is this one for again?” Stephanie frowned, picking between two pairs of earrings.

“It’s the JTCF fundraiser. Hence why Jason couldn't bow out this time.” Barbara chuckled.

“JTCF?” I tilted my head.

They looked a bit startled; “... The … Jason Todd Children's Foundation? … The charity Bruce started after Jay …”

“Died.” I finished the sentence for them, nodding. “Gotcha, … what does it do?”

“Mostly it funds after school activities and tutoring programs in Crime Alley.”

“That's nice. … How does the gala help?”

“It’s basically a thank you gala for the foundation’s biggest donors, but there's also a silent auction, and a limited number of tickets available to buy, if you have way too much money and didn't think to give enough through the year to warrant an invitation.” Stephanie rolled her eyes.

“Jason tries to get out of going every year, but it always somehow works out to be his turn.” Babs chuckled.

“Of course, he has to make an appearance at the party for the foundation that carries his name. Who else is going to be there?”

“From the family? Just us, Bruce, and Tim. And I think Tim’s bringing his boyfriend.”

“No Cass tonight?” I looked in the mirror, shaking my head a bit to make sure the garnet pins were secure.

Steph chuckled, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. “Nah, Cass doesn't do too many of these events; they drain her social battery. There has to be at least two Wayne's at every event, so they take turns, and the rest of us get roped in on a rotational basis to keep them sane through the night.”

“They dislike the galas that much?”

Babs shrugged. “It's just … a lot. People have very specific expectations, and it gets exhausting. Plus, there's always a better than average chance that some Gotham villain will get it in their head to harass the guests.” She adjusted her navy blue skirt over her legs, making sure it wouldn't get caught in her wheels.

“Yeah, is there a plan for that?” I frowned a bit.

“Follow Jason, he'll keep you safe. But if you get separated, if you're near the ballroom entrance follow the crowd. Security will funnel the guests to the panic room. If you're closer to the bar, get behind it. There's a button under the counter next to the sink, a panel in the floor will open and you can hide in the cellar.” Babs nodded, smiling a bit.

“... Well what about you? What if you're near the bar? Will you be able to get down there?”

“No, but being the commissioner's daughter I tend to be one of their ‘high profile targets’ anyway. I make an excellent distraction to buy other guests time to get to safety, and a Bat or two will show up before anything serious happens.”

I frowned deeply. “... The plan if someone attacks is for you to give yourself up and hope Batman shows up in time?”

“If I have to…. It's only happened a few times, hun, and they were specifically looking for me. Waiting it out is often the most practical option, and results in the fewest casualties.”

“I hate that.”

“Don’t worry, I can take care of myself. They always underestimate the girl in the wheelchair.” She smiled brightly, punching her hand for dramatic effect.

“... I guess.” I frowned more. Babs seemed perfectly ok with it, but the idea that she wasn't offered the same protections as the rest of us pissed me off.

Steph smiled softly and gently squeezed my shoulder. “Hey, don't worry about it, ok? Two-Face held up the last one, so we're due for a villain-free gala!”

I chuckled, nodding, and finished placing the last pin. “What do you think?”

“Stunning! Ready to show Jay?” I nodded, and the girls led me out to the main foyer. Tim was hugging a blond man who just arrived, and Jason was fiddling with his tie.

Stephanie cleared her throat; “Jaybird, I hope you're ready for this!”

He looked up at us, freezing when our eyes met. I giggled softly at the look on his face, spinning once on my way over. His eyes trailed down my dress and back up to my face.

“... Dear God~” He took my hand, kissing my knuckles delicately. “How did I get so lucky, huh?”

I giggled, beaming up at him; “Trust me, I'm the lucky one.”

Tim cleared his throat; “just making sure you remember; we are right here.”

Jason grunted at him, cupping my cheek. His fingers slid back a bit to touch my ear; “... These are beautiful, where'd you get them?”

“Jewelry store at the mall.” I smiled softly.

“Hm … they're perfect. … Who got them for you?” He raised an eyebrow.

I blinked a bit, slightly taken aback by his tone; “... Jay, are you jealous?”

He blushed a bit, frowning; “no! …”

“Then why does it matter?” I smiled gently.

He frowned, whining a bit. “... I guess it doesn't?”

I chuckled gently, pulling him into a chaste kiss. “Good. Cause there's no one else I want to be here with.”

He smiled shyly, kissing back; “… You're still missing one thing though.” I tilted my head, curious, and he slid his hand down my cheek to the side of my neck.

“... Jay?”

He chuckled softly, offering me a long velvet box. “Don't worry, I didn't spend any money.”

I slowly took the box. “... Did you break any laws?”

He laughed softly, kissing my forehead; “not this time~ open it already~”

I slowly slid the box open, revealing a gold necklace with teardrop shaped garnets adorning it like leaves. “Oh… Jay, it's beautiful~ … where did you get it?”

He chuckled, taking it out of the box, and slid it around my neck, carefully clasping it in place. “It was Grandma Wayne's.”

I blinked repeatedly, looking up at him and hissing softly; “Gr- … J- Jace, is this Martha Wayne's necklace???”

He chuckled and nodded. “Before you panic, Bruce gave his permission.”

My fingers came up to caress the cool metal on my collarbones. This one necklace was probably worth more than my entire life, and Bruce was ok with me wearing it??? Jason chuckled softly at the look on my face, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Princess?”

“I just … I'm in shock.” I leaned against him. “... Bruce really said it was ok?��

“Swear to god; he handed it to me himself.” Jay nodded, smiling softly.

“... Ok.”

“... Tim?” I frowned, looking out across the dance floor.

He looked over at me, clearly a bit annoyed that I was interrupting his whispered conversation with his boyfriend; “hm?”

“... Am I being a weird, possessive girlfriend, or does Jason look really uncomfortable?” I nodded toward him on the other side of the room. A woman had trapped him in conversation for the past several minutes on his way back from the bar. His face seemed tight, like he was forcing his polite smile to stay exactly where it was.

Tim inhaled in a hiss. “Oof, he's gonna snap…”

“That would be bad.”

Bernard nodded, frowning. “What's the play?”

I smiled a little; Tim had only introduced me to his boyfriend briefly, but I already liked him. “Hmm … can't pull him into a dance, he's carrying our drinks … The presumed heir to the company would probably be a more valuable social opportunity for her though….”

“... No.” Tim frowned.

“... You sure? … I wonder what Jay will say if I tell him you bought me jewelry…”

Tim made a face at me; “Wha- … that is so rude! ... Fuck… fine. But Bernard, you have to save me in five minutes.”

Bernard laughed softly and nodded. “Got it.”

Tim shook his head poutily, heading into the fray. Bernard turned to me, whispering; “you weren't actually going to tell Jason, were you?”

“I mean, I'm not gonna lie to him, but I also wasn't planning on making a big thing about it.”

Bernard laughed and after a moment I followed Tim around the dance floor. As I approached, I heard the woman tittering at something Tim said. I slid in next to Jay, resting my hand on his shoulder blade. He stiffened slightly under my touch before realizing it was me and relaxed. He offered me my drink and I took it, gesturing for him to follow me away, leaving Tim to distract the girl.

“What did you have to promise Tim to get him to take my place?”

“Nothing I wasn't planning on giving him in the first place.” I sipped my drink, smirking a bit.

Jason chuckled, resting a hand against the small of my back. “That's my girl~”

I smiled softly, leaning into him a bit. “You doing ok so far?”

“So far …” he sighed softly, his thumb stroking my back absentmindedly. “... I'd much rather be home with you though.”

“We can go as soon as your social obligation is fulfilled.”

A look of relief passed through his eyes; “you're sure?”

“Of course, I want you to be comfortable; I know you're not comfortable here, so I'm not going to draw this out any longer than necessary.”

“But it's your first gala…”

“So?”

He looked a bit bewildered; “... So, … don't you want the full experience?”

I shrugged, smiling softly; “is this going to be my last gala?”

“... No, probably not.”

“Then why would getting the ‘full experience’ matter more than your comfort?”

He blinked a bit, smiling softly. “... You're wonderful.”

“Oh sweetheart, … the bar is on the floor for you, isn't it?”

He grunted softly, pulling me closer to whisper in my ear; “let me guess, you'll fix that for me?”

“Inch by inch if that's what it takes.” I turned to kiss him gently, squeezing his hand.

A cleared throat nearby drew us apart, and Bruce raised his eyebrows at us. “Jason, you can't just cling to the walls all night.”

“I'm not clinging to the walls, Bruce. I'm standing with my girlfriend while she finishes her drink.” Jay gestured for me to take the last sip, and I did. He took the glass, setting it on a high table; “now, if you'll excuse us, I promised her a dance tonight.”

He took my hand, leading me onto the dance floor. I rested my hand on his shoulder as he took my waist. Nerves fluttered through my stomach and chest; we had practiced the steps a bit, in my living room, but it was very different with a gown on in front of a room full of people.

“Hey, there's only you and me here, ok?~” Jason smiled gently, holding me close. I nodded, gently squeezing his hand as he guided me to spin.

Everything felt so perfect and magical, like nothing could go wrong as long as I was in Jason's arms. The world fell away as I looked into his eyes, almost drowning in the adoration pouring from him. I was so enraptured by him, I almost didn't hear the windows shattering behind me…

Next ->

Divider by: @saradika-graphics

Taglist (open):

@jawdropforkpop @krys0210 @snowy-violet @superthoughts @wordsfromshona @mystic60 @iwannabealocalcryptid @morstuavitamea-a @frosty--giants @arisa191 @prized-jules @phoenix666stuff @dinonuggysandhuggus @anuttellaa

[qqueenofhades]

I love your essays; they are fascinating. Thank you for sharing your perspective! I have a follow up question, if you have the time or energy: in your last, you said, “It's a blueprint for a tiny group of extreme right-wing theocrats and fascists to get their way regardless of what the broader public says about it…”. Who ARE the tiny group of extreme right wing theocrats and fascists? Is it the politicians whom we see all over the news, like Vance and Boebert ands Haley and DeSantis? Or are they puppets whose strings are being pulled by donors behind the scenes, like…I don’t know, the Koch brothers and the Uleins (sp?)? I feel like whoever it is must have mind boggling amounts of money, to overcome the sheer number of people who don’t think like that, even people nominally republican who believe in traditional low taxes and small government, but are not completely bananapants. Or maybe that’s why they tagged trump, bc no one before him was willing to act like enough of an outright gangster to seriously move the needle…? How much more rich than disgustingly rich do they need to be?

Perhaps surprisingly, it's fairly easy to identify the Hall of Shame who are busily trying to end American democracy, not least because they have become increasingly open about it. Their motives are diverse but all terrible. The quick rundown is as follows:

First, the alt-right billionaires club such as Peter Thiel, Elon Musk, Harlan Crow, and Leonard Leo (the last two are some of the chief funnelers of dark money to SCOTUS; Crow is Clarence Thomas's sugar daddy). They have reasons ranging from grandiose delusions about "remaking" the world in their preferred image (not at all terrifying) to attaching themselves to fascist politics in order to defeat workers' rights and labor unions, who they view as a threat to their mega-wealth. Thiel is the primary sponsor of JD Vance and the alt-right cryptobros clubs that draw the young right-wing white men who also primarily form the membership of neo-Nazi and white nationalist groups. They want to end democracy in order to punish women, minorities, LGBTQ+ people, and anyone else who Nazis always hate. Crow and Leo have lavishly funded the corrupt SCOTUS in order to influence their preferred right-wing rulings, and there are undoubtedly more who we don't even know about. This is just the tip of the iceberg and I have no doubt that it's far, far worse than anything that has been publicly reported.

Next are the extremist right-wing interest groups that have cohered around and advocated for Project 2025, which is basically just the conservative-extremist wet dream put in one place and written down. They include the Heritage Foundation (the primary Project 2025 author) the Federalist Society and the John Birch Society of right-wing judges and policymakers, and Opus Dei, the secretive Catholic right-wing influence group who are straight out of a Dan Brown novel but are in fact some of the most consequential and powerful players in MAGA World. Their name means "work of God" in Latin, which is very much what they see themselves as doing, and their reach in DC is vast, particularly in the far-right evangelical and fundamentalist Christian groups that have attached themselves to Trump as a vehicle to push through their regressive-reactionary social and cultural politics, especially on abortion, women's rights, LGBTQ+ rights, and other things that they view as "unholy." These are the diehard true believers who really, truly think that it's better for the US to be a fascist theocracy espousing "Right and Moral" religious views than a flawed, pluralist, and secular democracy. Hard Yikes.

Thirdly we have the useful idiots, such as Vance, Ron DeSantis, Boebert, Greene, basically pick-a-Republican-politician-here, who are pursuing fascist politics out of careerism, opportunism, some amount of genuine belief, and exploiting the age-old fissures of American racism, nativism, xenophobia, and other original sins that have dogged the country since its founding. Of course, Trump himself is chief among these useful idiots, because he's completely willing to end American democracy and install himself as Dictator-for-Life if it exempts him from having to face the consequences for all the crimes he did last time (and frankly, his entire life, which is now catching up with him). I don't think Trump has an actual consistent or coherent policy bone in his body; witness how quickly he was willing to flip-flop on the Florida abortion issue depending on what he thought was useful (and then after the backlash he received from his base). He's a malignant narcissistic sociopath who is incapable of complex reasoning and long-term planning. His only and overriding interest is himself, he will do absolutely whatever he has to in order to save himself, and as long as he has his death grip on the GOP, everyone who wants to succeed in the party or even have a future in it has to slavishly kiss Don Corleone Trump's ring. That is why many lifelong Republicans have been breaking ranks to say they will vote for Harris, because "being a Republican's" one and only qualification is now "being utterly loyal to Trump." That's it.

These are all actors based more or less in the US, but we also can't forget the fact that basically the entire Republican Party is in deep, deep hock to Vladimir Putin and other foreign autocrats (but most especially and dangerously Putin). We just had the DOJ indictment of MAGA influencers who were taking Russian black cash by the bucketload in order to spread damaging lies about Biden/Harris and pump for Trump, and this is consistent with Russia's pattern of extensive interference in American elections going back to at least 2016. It is hard to overstate how much Putin hankers to end American democracy for many reasons. He is a former KGB agent trained in the black-and-white us-and-them logic of the Cold War where the US was the USSR's archenemy, his constant mourning for the USSR's collapse has been well documented, and it would be the absolute defining and singular achievement of all of post-imperial Russian history for Putin to effectively end American democracy with a second Trump term.

This is for the simple reason that Trump is utterly in thrall to Putin and will do whatever he asks, whether it's cutting off aid to Ukraine and forcing them to accept annexation by Russia, pulling America out of NATO and letting Putin set his invasion sights on Poland and the Baltic states, and anything else. That is genuinely terrifying but very likely if Trump was re-elected, aside from the end of American democracy and the worldwide ramifications it would have to empower fascist authoritarians everywhere. Putin is trying to achieve this through a combination of good old-fashioned Soviet-style dezinformatsiya, paying off MAGA influencers, putting the entire resources of the Russian state into defaming Harris-Walz, and recruiting useful idiots like his asset Jill Stein, who has extensive Russian ties and only pops up every four years for idiot leftists to spoil their vote and ruin Democratic electoral prospects. So. Again. Hard yikes.

So that's the quick rundown of the people who are vested in Trump and Project 2025's success and why, and as you can see, while they're all different, they're all terrible. But yes: that really is a very, very small group of people, relatively speaking. And a vote for anyone except Kamala Harris and Tim Walz is a vote to empower them and also to ensure that you will never have the chance to vote again, due to living in an authoritarian fascist regime. Choose wisely.

[tonixe]

FAME

A/N: Ideas are blooming out of nowhere, low-key this is a lot to unpack, make sure to read the warning and if your uncomfortable, don't read it, I hope you guys having a blessed day today, xoxo, there might be a part two.

WARNING: p in the v, penetration, unprotected sex, coercion, abuse of power, cheating, objectification, misogyny, reader being a sex symbol, abuse drugs, mentions of alcohol/drinking, abuse, non-con to dub-con, drugging, usage of cigarettes, Viewer discretion is advised...

PAIRING: President!coriolanus x singer!reader

WORD COUNTER: 4.0k

Fame is a word that represents many things: dream coming true,, all-the-world luxury opening up, money funneling up, and all the reasons to climb up to the top of the food chain. Becoming the apex predator, a name..NOBODY can wipe off, you're initially written on a golden star, your name carved into history, your identity being remembered.

The recognition of your voice, your face, your personality being known to a single name, all of your greatness tied together into one body, one soul, something that doesn't grow on trees. It was fame you desired, that your heart yearned for putting all your time, and energy into a puzzle that fits into the right corner of your life. You wanted to live forever, you wanted to fly up join the ones who inspired and gave you the drive to work, you wanted to make it, make it to that heaven.

People looking at you, you wanted them to cry in desperation to get your attention, you wanted them to remember your name for history, into textbooks something that can never go away so easily, carved into people's brains...that what you dreamed of, lights flashing in your eyes, the glaring hurting you bit of bit, but this what you worked for to be recognize by the ones above, holding onto a golden trophy you won by yourself, you felt like you made it. On a stage, a platform, where the camera flashed you. Your image being printed on the news, your appearance being broadcasted to the media, fans screaming your name from the outside, important people looking at you, impressed. This was your moment, you learned how to fly, and you worked for it. Your identity being secured into history...they have to remember, but...why weren't you not happy, not secure.

Growing out of the district scum, becoming a household name, rising up to the Capitol, and earning identity there...now you sat at the vanity looking at the mirror before one of your shows, one of the makeup artists painting your lips in a rouge color, your e/c eyes looking into the mirror. You would always dream of this moment coming to life, your mother braiding your hair, humming one of your childhood songs. She, herself wanted to be a singer but couldn't because of her status and pregnancy, though living in the district..you had a wonderful home, one that wasn't broken, but one in a broken society, where people in the district were given the name of disgust by the highly 'elevated' individuals in the Capitol.

You wanted to leave, bring your family, and give them a home they deserved as much as you. You hated the district and hated you had an up-bringing there.

A flash of nostalgia ran through your mind being interrupted by a tech, "Y/N, 30 minutes before showtime" You listened to the announcement, flickering your eyes away from the staffer, and you raised your hands up, stopping the makeup artist from moving her brush. "Could you leave the room?" you said, listening to the footsteps receding away from you.

You took out a flask, screwed the lid open, and taking a swig of the bitter liquid, the burning and painful sensation coursing down your throat. Your chest heaving, putting your hands on the vanity table gripping the table, closing your eyes, biting down on your lip. Anxiety bubbling in your chest, looking up at yourself in the mirror, it felt like a million things running through your mind. You manage to slip away from the thought by the knocks on the door, turning your head at the sound, the door clicking open..."Y/N, 5 minutes to Showtime" One of the staffers said, giving yourself one last look, getting up from the vanity, fixing up your hair. The clicks of your heels on the porcelain tiles, tech staffers giving you a mic, and earpiece, as your makeup team fixes up your face and hair, finish up the last touches.

You were ridden with anxiety, butterflies flying in your stomach with every step you took, each leading you closer to the stage, where important people stood, you were going to sing to for celebration of the 15th hunger games, you took breaths in between your steps, fuck..you really need a cigarette.

Listening to your cue, smoothing your off-the-shoulder red velvet dress. "You're up," one of the techs said, tapping your shoulder, slipping you away from your head, as you nodded and cleared your throat. Walking onto the stage, you felt eyes on you..everywhere, setting yourself behind the microphone stand, closing your eyes, as the music started playing, the melody of the piano, the keys bringing in the familiar tune, as the band began to play following the notes of the leading piano.

Your hands on the microphone. Feeling the heat of the stage light hitting your form, making you wince.

Formation of words slipping from your lips as it became a symphony into the song, your voice dancing with the delicate notes of the piano.

The angelic voice coming from your lips, the words slipping out of your mouth, enchanting the audience. The feeling of anxiety leaving your system, as you pour your heart into the piece, every note you hit brings you relax, flickering your eyes open, glancing to the audience staring at your elevated form. The orchestra of people, filled with important and big shots in the Capitol, staring at you, enchanted with your voice, your eyes following up.

To the balcony, as you felt the end of the song, your eyes looking at the familiar figure on the balcony boxes, your eyes slightly widen as you made eye contact with the gentleman...Coriolanus Snow, the president of Panem. You felt your heart drop at the figure, feeling your vocal cords stretching as you hit a high note finishing the song, you maintained eye contact. as the band played the outro, with your voice leading off,

Finally notes ending it off, as you heard a rain of applause ringing to your ears, looking at the President of Panem raising his hands and clapping for you..you bowed down, your head turning up, giving a glance up at the President.

Walking off the stage backstage, "Fuck, give me a cigarette, now!" you exclaimed, as one of the assistants gave you a box, putting a stick on your lips, as she gives you a lighter, igniting up the end of the cigarette. Blowing a cloud of smoke through your nose, walking down to your stage room combing your hair, trying to relieve your stress, sitting down on the vanity chair. Placing the cancer stick between your lips, leaning in the seat..."You were breathtaking out there" You immediately turned your head to the voice, Coriolanus walked in, closing the door, his hands in his pockets.

"Mr. President" You stood up from the chair, pushing your dress, and smashing the burning cigarette in the ashtray. "You don't need to stand up," He stated, you felt butterflies in your stomach. You didn't want to sit back down since you were afraid to disrespect the leader of the nation. You heard his footsteps inching closer to you, "Where did you learn to sing like that?" He asked, circling around your figure. You would have never dreamt for this to happen to you, "My mother taught me" You answered shortly, your eyes lingering on your hand. "I bet your mother was a gorgeous singer as you" He responded, glancing at you, you giggled at the comment, "She was.." you responded,

He watches your facial expression saddened, "Looks like you and me have something in common...already" he lightly chuckles, walking to the bar cart, your eyes following him hesitantly, glancing at your hands. "Drink?" He offers, you nod. His fingers circled the opening of the cup, taking out two cups and placing in on the counter of the table, pouring the mahogany liquid into the cups. Taking the liquid-filled cups and offering the cup to you, as you took the glass.

The cool cup touched your palm, "Cheers" He said, lifting the cup towards you, gesturing a cheer. Lifting your glass slightly before taking a sip of the mahogany liquid.

Smiling to yourself as you drank, glancing up at the gentleman. "If I can ask..why are you visiting me, President" You held the cup slightly tighter, "I wanted to offer you something," He said, his body moving closer to you. He saw as your eyes lit up in excitement, making him chuckle at the sight, his hands lifting your chin up slightly, his fingers caressing your cheek, your lips parting looking up at his crystal blue eyes.

"I need you to use that pretty voice of yours at a ceremony I'm hosting" He tilts your head to the side, admiring your face your eyes to your nose and lips, "You'll be of course paid in full, and suitable one indeed..so you won't have to use that pretty head" he brushes a strand of hair over your ear, "So..what do you think?" He said, withdrawing his hands away from you. You felt your heart pumping, as you thought about it, not wanting to take too long, but you nodded at his words, "Good, I'll send letters and updates on it" He finishes, before he finishes the whiskey in his cup till it was gone, putting the glass down. Taking your hand and leaving a kiss on the back of your hand, "But for now..I'll have to take my leave" He said, you took your hand away from him. Your eyes followed him, you couldn't formulate any words to him but nodded as he gave you a final look goodbye. The click of the door leads you into reality.

Putting your hand on your heart, feeling it beating against your chest.

Time slipped by..days to months

You got the letters, reading them in your penthouse resigning in Capitol. Some of them weren't just business but Coriolanus writing to you. His words made you smile, though from the short time you met him, but you were grateful he came to you.

Under his influence made you thrive, your fame, and notoriety spreading...

Playing with your hair as you read every single word on the page. You did follow out with his words, performing once again at one of his parties.. fixing up your hair, puffing your hair up, and turning yourself in the mirror, at the red satin dress Coriolanus gifted you. Smoothing the fabric out near your stomach, looking at yourself in the mirror. Hearing footsteps coming into the room, as you turned, relaxing at the sight of Coriolanus.

He was wearing his signature suit, a bloody red suit with a white tucked-in shirt. In his hand was a bouquet of red roses, "For you" He gave you the bouquet of roses, holding them to your chest. "Thank you" you smiled at him, as you smelt the roses, glancing at him. A smirk painted on his lips, his hands lifting your head, "Make sure you use that pretty voice of yours, my dove..." He whispered as you felt his hands on your waist, making your cheeks flushed.

Though you never had the time to learn more about Coriolanus, your heart yearned for him, the more he talked and sent letters to you. You never really thought about how he was touchy with you, though you enjoyed it...you always felt anxious when your with him.

You hear your name being called, as you place the bouquet of roses in one of the staffer's arms, telling them to put them in a vase for you, glancing at Coriolanus form, as you smile at him. Your heels clicking onto the tile, walking down to the stage, your ears listening to the rain of applause as you walk to the mic. Your stomach was filled with butterflies but you looked to the side, and your eyes caught the sight of Coriolanus smiling at you. Your eyes flickered from him, as you smiled.

You opened your lips, familiar angelic notes coming out of your lips. Singing your emotion out as it sympathizes with the melody, holding the mic as your voice leads to the chorus. Your eyes sparkle in the spotlight, singing your heart out into a simple melody, enchanting as it was, given by the audience's eyes staring at you. Something that you made you sweat and have butterflies swirling in your stomach, anxious assume you bit by bit, but it was always washed away when you thought of the rewarding end you were going to get.

Word slipping from you, pouring your soul and heart out to the listening audience, as they watched you, leading into the interlude and to the climax, your voice projecting to the audience as you sang the last parts as the piano lead off with your voice. The rain of applauses, the sound of clapping made you smile as you bow down, the spotlight never leaving you. Your heart was still pounding but you smile through it. Walking from the stage to the backstage, being greeted by Coriolanus, "You were heavenly" He whispered to you, you relaxed, smiling at him. "Thank you" you felt your cheeks warming up at his praise.

His hands dancing on your waist, leaning towards you, "Let's get out of here" He whispers to you, taking your hand into his, "W-wait, don't you have to stay here, President.." You stuttered, "I have a more important thing to do" He whispered in your ear, hearing a smirk in his voice as he took your hand.

Leading you out of the theatre, feeling the wind through your hair, parting your lips at the night sky, the stars sparkling in the dark sky. As he led you to the chauffeur, opening the car door for as you enter, the door clicking besides you as he got onto the left side of the car. He said the chauffeur something that you couldn't decipher. You felt yourself sweating and your heart quicken the slight tension in the air, as you felt the car moving. You didn't know how to react or what to do, your eyes darting everywhere expect him, glancing at him, his eyes glance at you, you looked away from him. You felt his hand touching your thigh, feeling him slightly gripping it. "Are you scared?" You felt your throat getting dry, your eyes looking everywhere expect his, his fingers grazing underneath your upper thigh, your eyes darting to his hand, before him. "No.." you respond.

"If your aren't..why are you afraid of me?" He mutter, "I-i just never been in this situation before" You cleared your throat, a awkward giggles leaving your throat, putting your hand over his hand.

"So...your a virgin?" He said, you are frozen in your seat, words unable to leave your lips, hesitantly nodding at him, giggling at his comment. "So, you still have your thorns...untouched, innocent, unripe " His body inching closer to you, "Funny how Panem sex symbol, is a virgin isn't it?" He chuckled, and you reluctantly laughed with him, naive as you were, you did know what would happen if you followed him. Needless to say, your heart was thumping, feeling the car stopping as the chauffeur said something. "We're here" He muttered, you felt thankful for that moment in time, his hands withdrawing from you, as you both got out of the car.

Your eyes looked at the new environment you were in, the manor was huge, something that only existed with old money, and it was beautiful with the pillar adoring the house. He chuckled with your eyes exploring the house, "Follow" He ordered, as you obeyed, following him inside. The Peacekeepers guarding the manor opened the big door and you both walked into a more beautiful interior.

"It's gorgeous" Your looked up at the chandelier glittering in the lights, "I'm glad you like it" He smiled at you, his footsteps receding from you, as you followed him further into the manor, everything was captivating, something you would only find at the capitol. You were taken from your thought by his words, as he spoke out to you...you realized where he took you, the parlor. You immediately sat on the sofa, it was comfortable and soft, "Drink?" he offered, his luxurious leather shoes on the delicate tile, "Sure" you nodded, your eyes lingering on your hands in your lap, "What type?" He asked, "Anything" You quickly answered, and you deep inhaled and exhaled through your nose. "Have you tried Bourbon?" He asked you heard the glass on the wooden counter.

"No, never bourbon..I'm more of a Jack Daniels girl" You awkwardly giggled, and he poured the caramel liquid into the short glasses, your eyes dawdling on your hands. Before you heard his footstep coming closer to you, offering you a glass, you took it. "Thank you" you smiled, the cool caramel liquid swishing in the glass, looking at him, gesturing a 'cheers', you nodded, looking at the liquid before consuming the liquid till nothing was in the glass. The liquid was sweet, and bitter due the its alcoholic nature but was satisfying. "It's really good" You put your hand on your lip, smiling, a smirk on his lips, "I told you," He said, as he sipped the liquid.

"It's sweet, like vanilla" You beamed, he nodded at your words, your angelic voice dripping from your lips, feeling a buzzing noise in your ear, everything moving slowly around you. Your vision blurring, "Y-yeah" your words slurred, your eyes getting heavy. Blinking, before closing your eyes as you felt everything go black,

Your eyes fluttered open, your body was frozen.. you couldn't feel your legs, fingers, or moving your head. You felt cold, bare...lewd sounds engulfing your ears. Your eyes darted to the ceiling, parting your lips, you heard grunts coming near you.

Your irises slowly look forth, you felt cold, ice cold... your heart dropping at the scene. A half-naked Coriolanus on you, his hands groping every part of exposed skin. Your dress was ripped, the one he gifted you. Your boob spilled out, displayed for him, his dick dragging into you. You were frozen still.

You wanted to scream, cry, but only hoarse noises escaping your throat, tears escaping your eyes slipping away staining your cheek. Your awakening wasn't unnoticed by Coriolanus, "You awake" Your eyes stared at his form, forcing himself inside of you. Sweat dripped off his forehead as his hands touched your skin, it felt like stabs everywhere. Betrayal settled in, it was quite naive of you, letting a man you never had the chance for yourself to know, allowing the intimate touches on your body.

You got the hint, but you ignored them purposely, maybe it was a warning for him to stop or continue..you didn't know what to think. The act of being vulnerable in front of him was a mistake, his moans and groans snapping you out of thought. You felt bile rising in your throat, you wanted to vomit, throw up, cry...but you could merely just listen and stare at the atrocities being committed. It hurt everywhere hurts, "Fuck, you feel so good around me" he groans, a sickening smirk on his lips..." please" you manage to force out from your throat, you felt tears pricking up on your waterline.

He laughed at your simple words, "please what?" he sneered, "stop" You had some type of hope in you... your lack of formulating sentence made him laugh pitifully, "Sorry my dove, it's just an exchange, company policy" his fingers caressing your cheek, as you stared in disbelief at his words. Whether you were angry, shocked, or sad, you didn't know what to believe or to know or to do. You just laid there taking the bit of pain, of his assault. "Why... I-I never asked for anything,, Corio" you sniffled, you purposely let the nickname slip, hoping it made him have a little humanity still left inside of him to stop, his hands gripping onto your waist, making you groan in pain, "I gave you everything, without my influence, your just be a lowly singer in Capitol born to be overshadowed by other more talented people, more younger, more pretty.., better than that lowly voice you from with..." He reduced you to tears, the more he talked, wet tears dripping from your eyes, he laughed.

He was mocking you.

"Did you just think, people just liked your voice... I thought you knew better than that...your looks pays off for your lack of personality" He kept on talking, and you hoped he would just stop and shut up, but the little words coming from him, made you cry.

"Besides...just be a good girl, and take it, will you..." He murmured.

His haunting groans and moans left his lips, staring into blankness. You wanted to hate the assault, but the agonizing pain turns into pleasure due to your discontent. The blooming sensation made you moan, and you arched your back in bliss, "I told you...you would bend into my touch" he whispered, nestling his head in the curve of your neck, his lips marking kisses from your neck to your collarbone, "Your take me so well" He smirks...

Time drifted away from you, you wanted to forget what happened between you and Coriolanus, but he wouldn't allow it, he still sent letters and gifts to your home... every time you looked at the address you felt like vomiting, crying, screaming. You still performed, you couldn't allow some fling to prevent you from maintaining what is important to you, your career. But months passed, and you stared at yourself in the mirror, you were visibly getting bigger, around your abdomen area. When Coriolanus demanded your presence you would obey and go, and it would always lead to intimacy...but now you are in his bed once again, stripped bare. His hands danced around your collarbone as you sat in his lap, his fingers playing with your hair, leaving kisses against your skin.

You felt like you were caged, with only yourself to talk to, though you already knew, beforehand. But you never felt so alone when your accompanied by Coriolanus, you debated on telling him the news, or keeping it to yourself but he was bound to know. He has eyes and ears around the Capitol, the districts, and all over Panem, you had no safe opinion left.

"Coriolanus.." He stopped mid-way, his eyes staring at you, yours forward. "I'm pregnant" the words slipped out of your throat, "It's yours" you finished, finally looking him in the eye...he didn't move or react, it made you scared, before he smiled, marking a kiss on your shoulder. "You would be a good mother" His hands shifted from your collarbone to your stomach, rubbing it gently. You didn't know how to feel, part of you didn't want any of it, forced by the pregnancy and burden of having a child you didn't want.

You were scared of confessing to him, leaning to his touch, you felt yourself being vulnerable around him, "Will, we marry?" Your eyes flickered to his, before he took your hand into his palm, rubbing your ring finger, "What would you prefer, a ruby or diamond" He said playfully, "Whatever you think is perfect for me" You replied, your eyes shifting from him to the color stained window, it was snowing. You felt his lips on your neck, nuzzling his head in the crevice of your neck.

TIME

It passed, the ring on your finger...your eyes hazy, looking at yourself in the mirror, you felt humiliated in yourself. White dust stained on your nose, feeling the light of your feet, pleased with the drug taking its effect. You were wearing your wedding dress, it was white, lacy, and poofy. Dried tears smudging your cheeks, you really hated yourself, a white veil hiding from the mirror...you desired to drink yourself away in alcohol, the only thing you could do, but due to Coriolanus surveillance he wouldn't allow it, not the mother of his child to harm herself or the baby, he made sure to hide everything that could possibly harm you or the child. Sending you away in your shared chambers, where you sulked and waited for him.

Your legs moving under your weight, a random man who was supposed to be your father, holding your arm. Leading down the aisle, superficial people around you, examining you, staring... judgment on their faces.

You're used to it, as the gentleman left you before your future husband, Coriolanus. You strolled up the stairs, your eyes locking with Coriolanus, who gave you a smile. His hands taking yours, your eyes lifted to his, before the priest said some words that you blurred out, staring at Coriolanus. The only one that stuck with you was, "You may kiss the bride" He said, Coriolanus flipping the veil, revealing your face, as he kissed you, you closed your eyes.

Hearing applause from the audience withdraws from his lips. "You'll be a wonderful wife" He fixed your veil, rubbing your hands.

You just nodded and smiled, knowingly signing yourself to him, throwing the key, and selling yourself, your soul, your rights, and your body to him alone..you wished to just rewind time and never lock eyes with him in the theatre.

The mere thought made you tear up, as tears managed to escape..and Coriolanus came to your rescue and wiped them away.

© 2023 tonixe, do not repost, copy, translate, or sell my work.

[harrypottermovieproblems]

On Paapa Essiedu as Severus Snape (HBO Harry Potter)

As HBO's Harry Potter series rolls into pre-production - a sentence that, ten years ago, would have undoubtedly brought me extreme joy but in 2024 simply makes me regret the money that will be flowing into anti-trans politicians' bank accounts because of it - casting rumors have started to leak out.

The first of these is that I May Destroy You's Paapa Essiedu is being courted for a role as Severus Snape. As a former ardent Harry Potter enjoyer, I have several things I would like to say about this, and will do so in the form of a likely incohesive yet numbered list.

I've never personally seen Essiedu's work, but I hear that he is an exceptionally talented and charismatic actor, and I wish him well.

Unfortunately, I will likely be judgmental of any actor who decides to condone JKR's bigotry and ongoing wealth by signing on to this project.

I'm enthusiastic (or would be, if I could be enthusiastic about HBO HP to begin with) about the idea of introducing more actors of color to play Harry Potter characters. I was a long-standing proponent of a WoC Hermione, including the casting of Noma Dumezweni in the unfortunately atrocious Cursed Child, and also of a mixed-race Harry.

I find it interesting that production thinks it is a good idea to cast a handsome Man of Color as a canonically unattractive, prejudiced, perpetually antagonistic, former hate group member who essentially joined the Wizarding version of the KKK and who is mainly remembered as an incel who regularly bullied children, including the child of the (presumably white, though this casting is yet to be seen) woman who was the object of his unwanted affections and for whose murder he was partially responsible.

Severus Snape, of course, is a complex character who deserves (if any of these characters 'deserve' anything when HBO HP will, again, be funneling money into the pockets of the anti-trans movement in the UK) to have his story told in a nuanced way.

He is still a character who signed up to be a Death Eater, which has always been Harry Potter's allegory for a violent white supremacist hate group.

Time will tell whether this casting will be representative of the series as a whole; that is to say, whether there will be enough actors of color within the show in general so as to make casting a Black actor in this specific role no longer problematic.

Time will also tell whether James Potter and company will be cast as actors of color, or whether the bullying flashback in OotP is about to take on a wholly new implication despite, and I cannot reiterate this enough, Severus Snape being the one who eventually joined the genocidal hate group.

We have yet to see whether the remaining Harry Potter fandom at large reacts to this casting decision with any more grace than racist Lord of the Rings fans did on release of the Rings of Power TV series or Star Wars fans did at any point within the last decade. I hope for Essiedu's sake that the mistakes of the past are not repeated, and wish him peace and protection in the face of the potential onslaught to come.

With the creation of this show obviously already stirring controversy from LGBT advocates, I can't help but wonder if this news has been dropped as a distraction, or even a sacrificial tidbit, so that the ensuing backlash from awful fucking people will allow production to decry any criticism of the new show without having to re-address JKR's ongoing opposition to both science and basic human rights.

Once again, I hope that this is not the case, because Essiedu specifically and indeed all actors from marginalized groups generally deserve much, much better.

xoxo

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 7)

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

“What’d you think? Should we climb it?” Tyson asks his district partner, teasingly.

She is two years his junior, still not an idiot. The giant pile of sand funneling in from the top of the arena is no hiking expedition. “No, we should save our strength, like Haymitch said.”

“Did you know the tallest mountain in the world was called Mount Everest? Before the founding of our great nation?” He presses on, largely ignoring Y/N’s sage advice.

“What do they call it now?” She wonders.

“Trick question; tallest mountain in the world was actually Mauna Kea.”

“Now’s a bad time for trivia.” Y/N decides, a hand at her brow to shield the blazing sun.

“It’s the only time we’ve got.”

Y/N startles awake, as she always does from dreams of him. Dreams of a stranger, who in under two weeks became her best friend. The games are funny that way, time moves differently there. People who standby you in the arena become closer than people you’ve known for years. The ones that haunt you forever.

She thinks of him often. Though Y/N never had a brother, she decided a long time ago, that is where Tyson fit. How he taunted and teased her, protected and loved her, all at the same time. And when she named her son Everest, sealing the tiniest drop of Tyson in her blood, Y/N found some peace with it. Giving new life to the boy who died so that she might live.

When she hears Peeta recounting the day he fell in love with Katniss, her heart sinks. The gamemakers won’t let them both win. They can’t. President Snow simply won’t allow it. And if what they’re saying now is true, even if one of them survives…

“There’s backstory,” Haymitch muses.

Maybe he believes Seneca would do it, two victors. Or maybe he just wants her to believe that he believes. One thing about Haymitch is that he will lie, either straight up or simply omit key details to shield Y/N. Protect her at any cost, as if she were some fragile thing.

She used to hate it, until she understood. Not fragile; precious. Something more valuable than money, or secrets, even booze. If anything happened to Y/N, his world would simply stop turning. The sun would set and never rise. She is a precious commodity of extremely limited supply. She could never be replaced.

“You need medicine for that leg.” Katniss changes the topic of conversation.

“I don’t get many parachutes.” Peeta admits, though he doesn’t tell her why.

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Like what?”

“Something.” Katniss huffs, into the dimly lit cave.

“I think that was the green light on the meds for Peeta.” It’s go time. Haymitch rises from the bench, offering his hand.

This particular offering will not come cheap, it’s time for the original lovers of district twelve to do what they do best. Work an angle.

————————————————————————

“What do you mean we can’t send medicine? We’ve always been able to send medicine.”

“Not my rules, Mrs. Abernathy.” The woman behind the counter says.

“Of course not, you just work here.” Haymitch smiles.

The Capitol employee returns the gesture.

“We’ve been raising this money all day and Y/N is obviously upset that we can’t go through with sending the medicine, but we understand. Is there any information you could give us to help put our minds at ease about the condition of our tribute?”

The woman looks to Y/N now. District twelve tributes rarely make it this far and everyone is quite taken with the young lovers. Against her better judgment, she motions for Y/N to lean down toward her. “There will be an opportunity for your tribute to receive medicine tomorrow.”

“Is there anything we can send today?” Y/N asks.

“You can send soup.”

“Soup.” Haymitch repeats, with false enthusiasm. “We’ll send them soup.”

————————————————————————

“Attention tributes, commencing at dawn, there will be a feast of sorts, at the cornucopia. Each of you need something desperately and we plan to be…generous hosts.”

“And that is why we couldn’t send medicine,” Haymitch laughs, staring down at the contents of his cup.

They’re trying to wrap this up, everyone’s off in different directions. Bring them back together for one hell of a show before curtain fall.

“Five needs food. Thresh just got bread so…maybe weapons? Two needs…armor? I don’t-” Y/N presses a finger against her temple, desperate for answers.

“You feeling ok?” Haymitch’s brow furrows.

“Yes,” Y/N bites out.

Her husband reels back. It is not uncommon for Y/N to mourn tributes, even ones that aren’t theirs. It is unlike her to take it out on him.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Y/N apologizes, immediately. Taking one of his hands in hers.

Haymitch turns his gaze to their twined fingers, she’s shaking, “when’s the last time you ate something?”

“Not hungry.”

“You need to eat,” he decides.

“Nothing tastes right.”

“Listen angel, if they’re gonna poison you, it won’t be here.”

“I must be coming down with something.” Or the stress. Despite all of this, she’s never faired well under duress.

“Probably why you puked in that lady’s ice bucket.” Haymitch notes.

“You know what does sound halfway decent?”

“Hmm?”

“Those little cream puffs with powdered sugar on top.”

Haymitch grins, “I’ll bring a plate.”

He hovers after that. Y/N can’t stand hovering, but she tolerates it. Understanding that it comes from a place of love. She didn’t mean to worry him.

Haymitch can’t sleep. Even after Y/N is out cold.

“I love you so much, Haymitch.”

She who brushes wayward hair from his eyes and runs her nose along the length of his, after the sweetest of kisses. She who believes in him and shows him each day there is a reason his life did not end in the arena. She is the best person he has ever known and he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to deserve her. To deserve that selfless, all consuming, love that she gives so freely.

“I love you forever.” Maybe even longer.

In that, at least he knows there is no cause for concern. Their marriage will not crumble, come hell or high water. Haymitch knows how badly she misses home, their children. In another life he’d ask for ten, as many as Y/N would give him.

The tiny garden, around the back of their house in victor’s village; where Everest plants carrots and other vegetables. Where Arista steals them to feed the wandering geese. The most taciturn, temperamental, creatures she can find are naturally the ones she chooses to care for.

Y/N’s syringes come like clockwork from the Capitol, every three months. Squandering any hope of tiny baby feet. Though she is the best mother, one who plays with her daughter and son, down in the dirt. A mother who loves her children more than anything.

Their lives there are a safe haven, one that exists only in their minds. There is no room for a place like that here. No safety for the children they’ve given life to. Only false hope and broken promises.

And if by some misfortune or Capitol ‘miracle’ a child should slip through, Haymitch would love them. Somehow, someway they’d all make it through. But he hopes, more than anything, that it is not now.

————————————————————————

There is no rush to the viewing room the next morning, everything the tributes need will be at the cornucopia. Katniss gets close to the bag marked ‘12’ and the girl from two is on her. Knocking her back with those damn knives.

They grapple around for a while, before landing with Clove on top. Leaving Katniss no room for escape as she holds the blade to her throat. Haymitch is seated on the bed, watching Y/N pace along the large screen in their bedroom.

Thankfully the boy from eleven takes out one of the two remaining careers. Overhearing her taunt Katniss and brag about killing his district partner.

“Just this time, twelve.” Thresh tells her, gathering his bag from the table. “For Rue.”

With that they’re off; Thresh back to solitude and Katniss to Peeta.

He’s still asleep when she arrives, waking only to the sound of her voice. “I got it. I got your medicine.”

“What happened to you?” Peeta’s eyes focus on the gash across her forehead, courtesy of Clove.

“I’m fine.” Katniss busies herself with opening the canister.

“No you’re not,” Peeta reaches up, “what happened?”

“The girl from two, she threw a knife.”

“You shouldn’t have gone, you said you weren’t gonna go.”

“You got worse.” She replies, simply. Spreading the salve over the length of his wound.

Peeta allows a small cry to pass his lips, grabbing at her wrist. “You need some of that too.”

“I’m ok.” Katniss is more worried about him.

“That feels so much better.” He sighs. “Now you need some too.”

“I’m ok.”

“No, come on. You need it too.”

“Alright.” Katniss finally agrees. Watching Peeta’s tender expression as he thumbs the cream over her injury.

When they wake to the computer generated sunrise and find their cuts have healed, the star crossed lovers set off in search of food.

Peeta to the left, foraging berries while Katniss goes to hunt. Though the separation is not ideal, his heavy footsteps would send any potential prey running. The archer is ready to score them some breakfast when the cannon sounds.

It’s for the girl from five. But Katniss doesn’t know that, so she sets off in search of Peeta.

This time, Y/N and Haymitch are down in the viewing room, overhearing the chatter around them.

“Those berries must be poisonous.”

“I hope Katniss finds him in time.”

Katniss calls out for Peeta again, colliding into him a moment later as Peeta rushes toward the sound of her voice. His fist still closed around a handful of blue berries.

“What happened? Are you ok?” Peeta wonders, holding her tightly as she trembles.

“I heard the cannon. I thought you were dead.”

The boy rests his chin against her shoulder, “I’m right here.”

Katniss pulls back to scold him, smacking the berries from his hand. “That’s nightlock, Peeta. You’d be dead in a minute!”

“I didn’t know,” he stammers.

“Scared me half to death, damn you.” Then she is hugging him again. She can’t explain it, the need to feel him close, know that he is safe.

“I’m sorry.” Peeta breathes, soothing her with a gentle hand, down the length of her back. “I’m sorry.”

When they have settled enough to keep moving, they make the discovery of the red head’s body. Her mouth stained magenta and a few berries still in hand, eyes wide and open.

“I never even knew she was following me.”

“She’s clever.” Katniss always thought so.

“Too clever.”

Katniss leans down, collecting the berries from her hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Maybe Cato likes berries too.”

It’s only half past noon when the sun sets, quickly and without warning.

“Must be in a hurry to end it.” Katniss reasons.

Y/N’s leg is bouncing faster now, vibrating almost.

Haymitch reaches out a hand, resting it atop her thigh to still it.

They wait there, in uncomfortable silence, until the sound of mutts causes Y/N to jump. Even Haymitch flinches when the animals appear, like something out of a nightmare, bits of the fallen tributes mixed in.

They take Thresh, tearing him to pieces and Y/N doesn’t fight when Haymitch wraps her up in his arms. Making a place for herself in his lap, legs dangling over the side of his, not caring if she is heavy. He of course, doesn’t mind, pressing a kiss to the underside her jaw.

Cato is waiting at the top of the cornucopia. When Peeta and Katniss inevitably end up there, the three of them have it out. With Cato’s arm around Peeta’s neck, Katniss is left with no good choices. If she shoots the career’s hand where Peeta is pointing and she misses… But if she doesn’t shoot, he’ll kill Peeta anyway. She takes a deep breath and lets the arrow fly.

Cato’s death is a quick one, a mercy he may not have shown with roles reversed. But it is over, leaving just the tributes from district twelve. Gone is the shadow of night, the sun returning to illuminate the finale.

“Attention, tributes, attention, there’s been a slight rule change.”

Katniss draws her bow, fearing that they are somehow not alone.

Haymitch shifts, bracing himself.

“The previous revision allowing two victors from the same district has been…revoked. Only one may be crowned. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Katniss and Peeta turn back to one another.

“Go ahead.” Peeta insists, “one of us should go home. One of us has to die, they have to have their victor.”

“No,” Katniss tosses her weapon down, stepping over it to close the space between them. “They don’t. Why should they?” She pulls the nightlock from her pocket.

“No,” Peeta covers her hand with his own.

“Trust me.” Katniss whispers, “trust me.”

And Peeta does, accepting the berries into his palm.

Haymitch lets out a breath, patting the outside of Y/N’s thigh, affectionately. “You did it.” He murmurs, “there’s your victors.” Even though it isn’t fair, even though there will be nothing to show for it. They won.

Y/N leans farther into his embrace. Wishing more than anything for the chance to tell Peeta that she is proud and to tell Katniss…

“Together?” The boys asks.

“Together,” Katniss repeats.

“Ok. One.” Peeta runs his fingertips down the length of her braid.

“Two.”

“Three.”

Together they raise the poison toward their lips.

“Stop.” A voice rings through the arena, “stop! Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winners of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games.”

For this, the four of them will surely be punished.

Part 8

Series Taglist: @praline357 @flowercrowns-goodvibes @justheretoparty420 @avocadotoastwithegg @officialjellydoughnut @whoreforfictionalpeople @treehouse-mouse @emo-markie @spilled-mi1k @magical-spit @greaser9902 @jessicamellarky @yourebuckingkiddingme @smuha2004

[swampthingking]

regulus black’s guide to face painting and falling in love

halloween au <3

struggling artist reg - dad james - baby harry

tw: regulus briefly reflecting on his childhood (u know how it be) and reg inquiring about harry’s scar

The thing about being a freelance artist is this; you take work where you can find it.

Unfortunately for Regulus, that means he’s found himself occupying the Halloween Fair from 12 to 5PM as the face painter.

Regulus didn’t understand people’s obsession around fairs.

Well, he understood them. The hazardous rides that are operated by people who are either half asleep, or recently graduated from high school. The funnel cakes and apple cider. The apple flavored everything. The pumpkin flavored everything (which Regulus can’t find it in himself to hate, despite his best efforts. He sips his pumpkin spiced latte and glowers.) The pumpkin carving, corn maze, haunted house, haunted hayride, haunted arcade.

And of course, the children.

Just because Regulus understands the appeal around fall festivals doesn’t mean he likes them. He likes autumn, of course. It’s his favorite season.

That doesn’t mean he wants to sit outside, under the flimsy protection of a questionable tent, painting the faces of squirming, sugar-addled children.

Regulus doesn’t dislike children. He just doesn’t quite know how to… interact with them. He tries, because in all honesty, kids are funny. But they don’t always like him. Regulus is grumpy; stoic. He tries to joke, but kids don’t love dry humor, sarcasm, or straight faced deliveries.

Would he like to share his life with a husband and a child or two? Of course. But he doesn’t want to raise a child just for them to despise him. He doesn’t want to marry someone just for him to be disappointed in the father Regulus might be.

But Regulus also knows he doesn’t have great parental examples to go off of. And he knows what not to do. Knows what made him feel small. He still feels the things said and done that stick with him; the scars he bears.

He’s spent hours painting pumpkins, bugs, princess masks, Spider-Man, those motherfuckers from Paw Patrol. More characters from the provided booklet he can’t remember, on so many faces he can’t remember either. But it’s money, and money keeps him paying his share of the lease with Sirius.

Regulus checks his watch. 4:53PM.

The fair wasn’t as busy as it was earlier this afternoon. The clouds were dark and scowling, but were far too cowardly to start actually crying. He stood from the cheap stool, stretching his back, reaching for the paintbrushes to start packing up.

The brushes had been provided by whoever hired him, but he still had an intrinsic need to clean them properly. He can’t stand the thought of paint cemented into the hairs of a brush. And these brushes are perfectly good still. Regulus wonders if anyone would notice if he stuck them in his bag—

“Do you have time for one more?” A deep voice asked from behind him.

Regulus turned to see a beaming child in the arms of a man, wearing the same smiles. The same dimples. The same curly, brown hair. Even the same glasses.

Regulus was absolutely freezing, and he was sure if he touched this kid’s face, he would start to cry because if it. He desperately wanted to beat the rain before it started pissing down, but the boy was grinning, and Regulus’ heart squeezed at the thought of taking that from him if he declined.

So he nodded and said, “Yeah, of course,” and rolled the table of supplies in between the chairs they’ll sit in.

The man set his son down, thanking Regulus while the boy hurtled himself into the rickety chair, climbing into it like he was scaling a mountain. One muddy, red Converse kicked up onto the seat to haul himself into it, his knee slipping as he planted himself on the cushion.

“This is Harry,” the man gestures to his son, who was busy inspecting Regulus’ paints, his nose almost touching the pallet.

Now that there was no line and the fair seemed predominantly empty, Regulus could relax. Could handle small talk. He paused gathering the brushes he’d been in the process of purloining to give Harry a closed lipped, but genuine smile.

“Hi, little love. I’m Regulus.”

The man slid some cash in the tip jar before sitting in the chair beside Harry, knees spread, elbows resting on his legs. “And I’m James.”

He reached out to shake Regulus’ hand, not seeming to care that it was covered in paint. It was warm and firm, long fingers nearly encasing Regulus’ whole hand.

Harry smiled up at Regulus as he took a seat in front of him, his knees bracketing the boy’s tiny legs as he kicked the air. He had a small gap between his front teeth, and after he clawed the hair out of his eyes in that aggressive way that children do—like they have a vendetta—Regulus saw a webbed scar on his forehead.

“Cool scar,” Regulus acknowledged.

No, Halloween Fair face painters aren’t mandated reporters, but he was dubious anyway. Regulus had been a child with marks. With secrets. Children Harry’s age love to talk about anything and everything. It was part of their development. Regulus wanted to see where Harry took him, or didn’t.

But Harry’s smile only grew, like he was eager to tell the story. An abused child probably wouldn’t do that.

“I was running through the forest, and allullasudden, I just knew—” Harry’s eyes were wide, demanding Regulus not look away. “I was around, surround—” he looked up frustratingly at James for help, and James only started to whisper the word before Harry cut him off, the word coming to him. “—sur-rounded by these guys! They were in these black coats. And I was running super fast because I was ini-vib-sible, and then I tripped. There was this tree. I fell. My head hit the ground so hard, and I fought them off and escaped and the guy really wanted my ring, and he was really weird looking. And then, I have a scar.”

So, the entire plot of the Lord of the Rings, with a personal spin.

Regulus liked him.

“Tripped and fell into a table,” James mouths, exaggerating his words so Regulus could read his lips. His hands cupped around his mouth so Harry wouldn’t notice him spoiling his story.

“Hmm,” Regulus ponders, draping a paint-stained rag over his thigh to distract himself from a smile. “I think I’ve heard about that. That was you?”

“Yes,” Harry says with conviction. James is looking at his son with such adoration that it makes Regulus’ stomach hurt. He has to turn away.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting in front of the boy who saved the world.” Regulus mock bows to him just because he knows it’ll make him laugh. “Thank you for allowing me the honor to paint your face. Unfortunately, little love,” Regulus puts on a sulk. “the glasses will have to come off.”

Harry ripped them off one handed, throwing his arm out to James who was already reaching to take them. He folded the temples, tucking it into his shirt and letting them hang off the collar.

Regulus’ eyes may have lingered on the tan skin, and James may have seen him. The corner of his mouth was quirked when Regulus glanced back up at his face.

Oh, God. He was hot.

Regulus looked away, hoping the chilled, autumn air disguised the heat in his face. He turned to Harry, even as he felt James looking at him still.

“What are we painting?”

“Sméagol,” Harry says without a beat.

Regulus purses his lips. He would not laugh at this child. He would not laugh.

He sucks his lips into his mouth, his cheekbones aching.

“Really into Lord of the Rings right now, as you’ve probably guessed,” James offers, looking equally as affected as Regulus.

Regulus nods, turning away from them in attempt to turn his laugh into a cough. He fails.

He takes his phone out instead and pulls up a reference picture of the creature, then sets his phone on the tray off to his side. Harry glances down at it and smiles excitedly, legs pumping.

“Sméagol it is,” Regulus declares, mixing a grayish-tan into the pallet. “Ready?”

Harry flinches at the first few swipes of paint, but sits fairly still after he gets used to the temperature. He kicks incessantly, but they don’t land on Regulus, so he doesn’t mind. At one point, James asks permission to take a video to send to Harry’s mum.

Regulus hadn’t really let himself hope, but he was still a bit disappointed. He would get over it, he knew, but—

“Her wife is the one who’s been reading the books to him. She’s gonna be beside herself when she sees what he’s done.”

Oh.

Well, that changes things.

“Hm,” Regulus says, trying to keep his focus on Harry, and making him into the best Sméagol there could possibly be. But when he turns to look at the reference photo, he glances at James, who’s looking at him. James smiles softly, head cocked. Wondering.

Jesus Christ.

By the time Regulus finished, the sun was setting. He checked his watch. 5:26PM.

He wasn’t upset he’d stayed late.

Harry was the spitting image of Sméagol. Regulus has painted his entire face a warm grey, his nose a rosy pink, then added the wrinkles in darker grays and black, shading his face to take on the shape of Sméagol’s. He’d gently splattered brown freckles onto his face to look like sun spots. He even painted thin black tendrils of hair down Harry’s neck.

He was magnificent. Regulus’ favorite piece yet, truly.

James took more pictures, and Harry’s penchant for theatrics came to fruition as he crouched, feet and hands on the grass, crawling towards James like Sméagol does in the movies.

Regulus offered to take some photos of Harry and James together. James excitedly handed Regulus his phone, then scooped Harry up and propped him on a hip. Harry grabbed James’ hand, which was sporting many rings, and pretended to bite his fingers. It was futile, but James attempted to look terrified. He ended up cracking and breaking into a heart-stuttering smile, eyes squinting and cheeks giving way to dimples.

The pictures were adorable, naturally.

Harry broke character suddenly, gasping, a hand slapping on the top of his head. Regulus saw a raindrop sliding down from his hairline and wiped it away, just before it could drip onto his face and smear the paint.

“My paint!” Harry yelled, face contorting. Regulus had to look away from this glassy-eyed child with the grotesque face of Sméagol. The last thing Regulus wanted them to think was that he would laugh at a child’s sorrow.

To Regulus’ relief, James was also stifling his laughter as he set Harry on the ground, removing his own jacket to implement it as a shield above his son. The rain was picking up now into a light sprinkle. “Forgot an umbrella, babe. We’re gonna have to run super fast.”

“Daddy.” Sméagol-Harry looked up to James, sounding close to tears. “My paint,” he said, dejected.

Regulus absolutely didn’t think this through before he did it, but he said, “We won’t let your paint get ruined, love.”

He walked to his bag and rummaged around for his umbrella. He opened it and handed it to Harry, whose chubby hand wrapped around the handle, but wasn’t strong enough to hold it up against the breeze.

James and Regulus grabbed it at the same time, all three of their hands piled on top of each other. James’ was over Regulus’, so he couldn’t just pull away without ripping the umbrella from Harry, and he was absolutely not doing that.

James removed his hand with the barest hint of pink on his cheeks. He put his jacket back on now that his son was protected from the rain, thanking Regulus for holding the umbrella.

“Do you have another umbrella?” James asked once his jacket was zipped.

“Uh— no. But I can find one. I’ll ask someone. I’m alright.” He attempted to wave it off, despite knowing that he is anemic, and his fingers are already freezing.

“Okay, take this back, please. I can’t have you walking back in the pouring rain.”

“I’ll be fine. You guys take it.”

“Let us walk you to your car.”

Regulus cringed. “I… took the bus.”

James’ eyes widen. “You were going to walk to the bus stop, and then all the way home with no umbrella?”

“Yyyes?”

James raises a brow at him. He really hadn’t thought it through.

“Take your umbrella.” James goes to hand it back, then had to stop because of Harry’s death grip around the neck of it. James starts to, presumably, ask him to let go.

“What umbrella?” Regulus turns to pack up his supplies, avoiding looking at James. He knows playing this card probably won’t work but hopefully if he’s annoying enough, it will convince James to just take it. “I didn’t give you that umbrella. You came with it.”

James deadpans. “Okay, if you’re going to do that, we’ll just have to give you a ride home.”

Regulus spasms. “What? No, that’s— you don’t have to do that.”

“I didn’t do anything. You asked me for a ride.”

Regulus gasps, but he’s smiling. Damn it. “Oh, you’re good.”

Regulus lives fairly close, about 10 minutes away. The ride is almost silent. The radio is low, and Harry talks all about their day, sparing no details. What they saw, what they did, what he ate, who he talked to, what he thought about the corn maze (“Why can’t I eat the corn? Why is it there then?” to which James responded, “It’s not for us to eat.” to which Harry responded, “Why?” to which James responded, “I don’t know, babe. I just know they asked us to not eat it.” to which Harry responded, “Why?”).

His little thoughts bounced around the car until they abruptly stopped. Regulus peeked into the backseat to see him sound asleep, his mouth open, head lulled to the side. The blue eyes Regulus had painted on his eyelids stared back at him, and Regulus began to regret his artistic choice.

As they drove, Regulus couldn’t help but sneak glances over at James. He almost doesn’t want to look at him, but he can’t seem to stop. He’s stuck between wanting to remember him and not wanting to look at him so he can forget his face easier. At one point, James glances back, the gold frames of his glasses glinting from the streetlights.

Regulus’s house is dark, the porch light Sirius left on for him flickering, when they pull up to the curb. Sirius has gone into a Halloween frenzy, and it looks like a Spirit Halloween vomited all over the front porch and yard. Jack-o’-lanterns line each step, the carvings depicting various faces. Waterproof fairy lights in the shape of ghosts hang from the oak tree, twinkling like the flames of a candle.

“Thank you for—”

“Maybe I could see you again?” James says quickly, like he’d been thinking of saying it for a awhile, but hadn’t had the nerve to.

Regulus looks over at him, wide eyed. James ran a hand through his mussed hair, looking endearingly nervous.

Regulus grins, all teeth, and James returns it. “I would love that.”

[strawberryamanita]

Y'all I'm sorry but this is making me freak the fuck out

I know this is gonna probably cause people to call me a terrible person, but I'm just gonna risk it anyhow because this is getting really scary.

If you are a USAmerican,

Please vote for Biden this year.

I am 1000% aware that the genocide in Gaza is being perpetuated by Biden's administration. It's not good at all. I don't like the guy either, and like every President the US has ever had, he will burn in Hell, guaranteed.

But if we don't vote, then Trump is gonna win. This sounds rhetorical, but I ask genuinely: do you think Trump is gonna stop the genocide?

Has Trump ever shown that he cares about a single human being besides himself? The level of misanthropy that idiot is on is remarkable. I personally cannot see him slowing the flow of genocide in any direction; if anything, he might redouble the effort.

I think it was Warren who is tryna warn people that if Trump gets elected again, he'll never leave. I think back to a time during his first term where he said there might one day be a "forever President", and that makes me sick to my fucking stomach. That's not a presidency, that's a monarchy or a dictatorship. That would be the de-facto end of having a say in who's in control until he finally fucking dies -- and not even then, because then the mantle will be passed down to one of his children.

I know the US shouldn't exist in the first place. I am 100% aware of that. They say that empires fall after 250 years, and the US is gonna be 248 years old in July. But unfortunately, it exists right now, and it's full of people who will not survive another four years of Trump.

Again -- I will say it as many times as I need to -- I don't like Biden. I don't like him. He's done some beneficial things, but using his executive powers to speed up a genocide tips the scale completely over back towards hating him.

But Biden will step down when his term is done. I know the bar is in the fucking Mariana Trench, but for the love of God I do not wanna be under Trump for even a minute more. I hate Biden, but I hate Trump more, and that is fueling me, personally, to show up to vote.

At the end of the day, the problem is systemic. Every single authority over the US, since even before Washington, has only cared about hurting people of color and churning up the earth to make money. Our taxes could help improve the lives of US civilians, but instead they are funneled into the trillion-dollar War Machine aimed in every direction, including the US itself. The US commonwealth doesn't matter to the US government. We are human livestock who generate revenue; no matter how many changes of hands our money makes for hopes of a better cause inside the US, every last penny will find its way back into the War Machine or under the dirty ass of a billionaire who should be tarred and feathered in oil and their own paper money.

With all that said. There are US citizens who are enthusiastically pro-Biden right now, and siding with them might just keep us from living in Trump Hell all over again. The bigots have gotten too proud around here, and it makes my blood run cold. My mother doesn't show enthusiasm for ANYTHING the way she shows it for her freedom to hate people loudly and proudly. It makes her come ALIVE. And I know I'm not the only one who's been subjected to this kind of horror show for the last 9 years. Every state of mind curated by the US is a cult, and there is no escape outside of moving away.

Please. Vote. For Biden.

[phoenixyfriend]

This was on a reblog of a fic concept someone added one of my posts but I decided it was risking backlash against the person, and also it ended up half vent post, so just tucking it into its own little post here instead.

I'm glad you're enjoying this, but... Okay, actually, I'm really sorry but this goes against what I was thinking with this post in a lot of ways. I know you didn't intend any malice, but I just. I cannot not talk about this right now. I need people to know to just... not do this to my posts. Because it keeps happening.

I do know which "the younger person should be the sugar daddy, like they made an app or something" post you're thinking about, and i'ts a good post, but that is 100% an Obikin plot. Cody is not a guy to make a super successful app. That is an Anakin thing. In that respect, this is an Obikin fic in Cod*Wan clothing. I mean, I've talked about wanting people to do more Obikin plots in Cod*Wan, but that's about exploring the age difference and power dynamics, not Cody Is A Tech Whiz.

A billion is too much. The only, only ethical ways to get to billionaire status are 'lottery' and 'relative I never heard of just died and left me everything.' In both cases, the only ethical way to proceed is to invest enough to live off of comfortably, and donate the rest. If an app makes that much money? The app is screwing someone over.

I also cannot imagine Obi-Wan in the financial industries sector unless he absolutely loathes his job or is an auditor who delights in making Rich People's Lives Miserable. Better option would be that Obi-Wan is the president of a charity that Cody partners with, like the CEO of a Free Housing For The Homeless initiative or a big name lawyer in an activist lobby for environmentalism or something. This might just be my "I am a business major who hates the business major norms" and look at financial services industry types with uhhhh distaste. If he's a financial advisor, it is for a nonprofit. At most, he is part of a company that specializes in helping rich people funnel their money into charitable ventures.

This also just doesn't fight my envisioning of either Obi-Wan or Cody.

I do need to throw in that my first thought reading this was my Codakin version where Cody wins the lottery and Anakin is the sugar baby. It's not that similar, but the vibes were there (for me).

Finally, it's just... the point of this post is that I find it frustrating when people make Cody the same age because I find it disingenuous to flatten the power dynamic. Some people do it fine, are multi-shippers who are as honest about Cod*Wan as they are with something like Obikin. If they have one fic where Cod*Wan are the same age with no power diff, and another where the power dynamic is flipped, and a third where the power dynamic is as in canon and just explored as necessary, that's fine.

But with the number of Cod*wan (and Barr*ssoka, which is full on NOTP for me as a direct result of this behavior, despite having a canon age diff of 4yrs) folk that have talked shit to and about me and mine for doing something similar with ships like Rexsoka or Obikin... The amount of shit I've had to deal with for shipping Rexsoka for adjusting ages in a modern AU, coming from people who do the same thing with Cod*Wan, is the driving force of this post. It's basically this: If I don't get to change the ages a bit to make things palatable, then neither does anyone else.

This is not just about the age difference. It's about looking at canon and going 'if you guys are going to give me shit for my ship, then play it straight on your end. What does it look like when you're honest about the power dynamic?

There is a reason my first suggestion is Cody having a crush on his boss.

The intent was always that Obi-Wan is the sugar daddy, because Obi-Wan is the General. Because Obi-Wan is the one with power. Because Obi-Wan is the one with control.

Because this post was about "if I don't get to change my ships to make them less problematic, then neither does anyone else."

Also because I just find a lot of Cod*Wan fics to be OOC, and not in the fun way.

[wooahaes]

sharpshot

pairing: non-idol!mingyu x gn!reader

genre: fluff.

word count: 0.8k~

warnings: food mentions. reader and mingyu being flirty idiots. mentions of wonwoo getting the flu in the bg but he's not present.

daisy's notes: i hate him (said w heart eyes) !! imagine seeing his cute ass working at a darts booth. id die!

Fuck, why was the guy running the darts booth so handsome?

You had come here yesterday with a group of friends who had never gone to this particular festival before. To be honest, you had a pretty nice time! You won one of them a little stuffed frog since Minghao was rarely in the area for long and you wanted him to have a gift. You split a funnel cake with Soonyoung, who cheekily wiped away the caramel and powdered sugar from the corner of your mouth with a teasing comment about how you’d been distracted by ‘him’ again. Chan had gone on several rides with you when the others didn’t feel like going, happy to take one for the team and keep you company. Other times, Jun had been the one to sit out with you, enjoying a snack with you because you never gave up the chance to have festival foods. 

And now… You had dragged along your two roommates with you. Seungkwan, who read you like a goddamn book after Chan told him what was up, and Seokmin, who knew the fucker. 

“Oh him? That’s Mingyu!” Seokmin had said after Seungkwan pointed him out. “We went to college together. I can introduce you, if you want.”

Technically, Mingyu kind of knew you. He recognized you immediately as ‘the person from yesterday’ and asked about your boyfriend.

“Minghao isn’t my boyfriend,” you said with a little too much force. Fuck. Rewind. Backtrack—

“Oh, he isn’t?” Mingyu leaned against the counter. “Is he?” He nodded toward Seokmin. 

“Roommate,” Seokmin had raised a hand, chuckling. “So is he,” he nodded over toward where Seungkwan was pouting a distance away. You had promised him hot chocolate first, and now you were ‘probably going to chat up Mingyu.’ “They’re single.”

Before you could say anything else, Mingyu chuckled. “Good.” 

Oh, you knew a sign when it was practically neon lights flashing in front of you. You opened your wallet, shoving money into Seokmin’s hand and saying something about getting you a hot chocolate… and to take his time coming back (spoken under your breath where Mingyu hopefully didn’t hear). Seokmin merely chuckled and wished you luck, going back to Seungkwan and walking off with him. Which meant it was you, Mingyu, and whatever unfortunate soul came over to try their luck at the game.

Which, weirdly enough, didn’t work out too badly. 

“My friend usually runs this,” Mingyu told you. “Wonwoo ended up with the flu this week, and since he already had the spot paid for and everything set up… I told him I could do it.” 

Handsome and caring? “That’s sweet of you,” you hummed.

“He said I could keep half of what we have leftover,” he admitted after a moment. “But I would have done it anyway.” 

You leaned against the counter, resting your arms on the metal as you gazed up at him in the trailer. “Why?”

He, too, leaned against it to gaze at you. If he wanted to, he could quite literally kiss you if he just leaned down. “You get to see people happy sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes they’re only getting small prizes,.. But they’re still cute. Like the frog you won yesterday.” 

You hid a bashful smile behind your hand, Right. You chose it because Minghao liked it, but you’d found it cute, too—even though it was one of the smaller prizes. “Can I try again?”

His eyes lit up a little. “Oh?” He stood up. “Sure.”

You slid over the money, and he handed you the five darts before stepping out of the way. “Is it five to win one of the big ones?”

“Only four of the red balloons,” Mingyu said, pointing them out. “It’s supposed to be five, but I like giving them out. Three, if you’re a kid.” 

All you had to do was pop four of the red balloons to get a big one. Gold ones would net you anything smaller, but there were far more of those than there were red ones. You weren’t horrible at darts, to be fair—yesterday you were more distracted by Mingyu than anything else. Today, you had a new goal. Pop! One red balloon burst as your first dart pierced it. Pop! A second…

“Are you some kind of expert?” Mingyu chuckled.

You shrugged. “My friend has a bar. I reign supreme at darts.” 

Another chuckle, warmer than before. Endeared to you. You threw another dart through the air, popping yet another red balloon. And then another, before you looked at Mingyu.

“How many for you to say yes to a date?”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the trailer wall. “Five.” You could see it in his eyes that he was lying. I’d say yes if you asked me outright, though. 

With another pop of a red balloon, Mingyu had already written something down and slid it across to you. “I close up at nine,” he said. “And I haven’t eaten since lunch, so if you want…”

You’d treat him to whatever he wanted as long as you got to see his cute face again after this.

taglist: @twancingyunhao @wonuziex @staranghae @synthetickitsune @weird-bookworm

[samwisethewitch]

I know this isn't the theme of my blog but as 1.) a genderqueer person, who 2.) has a media studies degree, I want to talk real quick about JK Rowling, the idea of separating art from the artist, and why you literally cannot consume media created by JKR without contributing to real harm against real people.

First let's talk about Death of the Author, because I see a lot of people misusing it online. Death of the Author is a theory from postmodern literary criticism that basically says that an author's intentions and personal beliefs shouldn't impact how readers interpret their work. Basically, this means that the author's own interpretation of the work is just as valid as any reader's interpretation, and vice versa.

Critics who subscribe to Death of the Author believe a work should only be judged by what actually appears in the text, not by what the author later claims it "really meant." So if, for example, an author becomes radicalized after publishing her books and later claims that her racist, pseudo-fascist villains were secretly a metaphor for trans people, Death of the Author would tell you that interpretation is utter bullshit and doesn't magically become canon just because the author said it.

I see a lot of people online equate Death of the Author with the concept of "separating art from the artist," but these are separate concepts. Death of the Author just means that the author's own interpretation of their work isn't any more valid than the audience's. Separating art from artist means we as an audience can appreciate a person's artistic achievements without condoning all of their actions and beliefs. So, for example, I can appreciate that HP Lovecraft revolutionized horror fiction while also acknowledging that he was horrifically racist -- and me condemning his racism doesn't change how influential his work was.

Setting aside that there's a huge debate over whether it's even possible to separate art from artist, the main difference between HP Lovecraft and JKR is that Lovecraft is dead and has in fact been dead for so long that his work is in the public domain. That means no matter how many times I read his work, watch films based on his stories, or talk about his role in the history of modern horror fiction, he doesn't make a penny. Whether I engage with his work or not does not change the fact that Lovecraft is dead and is not getting any money from me.

JKR very much is making money off people engaging with her work, and she's openly using that money to hurt people. (See here, here, here) As long as she's raking in Harry Potter dollars, she is going to keep turning around and funneling them into hate.

I don't want this post to get too long, so here's a quick rundown of some of the defenses I've seen and why they don't work:

"I only watch the movies on streaming services! I've already paid for the subscription, so it doesn't matter what I watch with it." That's not how streaming services work. Streaming services track views to determine what content is worth throwing more money at. This is why "hate watching" makes no sense. Streaming services don't care if you like what you watch. They only care about how many viewers it brings in, and if something gets a lot of watchers, they're going to renew contracts, greenlight sequels and spinoffs, and give more royalties to the creator.

"I only watch the movies when they run on cable." Again, not how this works. Like streaming services, cable networks track views to determine what programs are bringing in the most viewers. The reason these networks run the HP movies so often is because they know people will tune in to watch, which makes them more money. They're going to keep paying for rights to run these movies until they stop bringing in viewers.

"I checked out the books from my library! I thought we were supposed to support our local libraries!" In general, yes, libraries are great, but they also operate on supply and demand. That means if books are consistently checked out and have a long wait list, the library is much more likely to order new copies to meet the demand.

"I grew up on Harry Potter."/"It's my favorite book series."/Other appeals to nostalgia. Thankfully, the HP books genuinely don't actually do anything that hadn't already been done well, if not better, by other authors. If you're craving fictional wizard schools, allow me to recommend Equal Rites by Terry Pratchett and A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin.

Last but not least, I want to remind everyone that JKR also publishes adult fiction under the pen name Robert Galbraith. Don't buy, rent, or borrow Galbraith books either.

[sidewalkscienceguy]

do you think Trump getting shot will win him the election? there's a lot of people suddenly saying that it did, or it'll at least help him in the polls, but I can't imagine anyone who wasn't already voting for him becoming convinced by this; I think if anything this will just make his base more violent and turn ppl against him... I do worry it could drown out talk about Project 2025 and the Epstein files though

I believe everything you just said is pretty much how things will more or less go down. Winning? Who knows. I doubt this will convert so many people to him that it tips the election. And Biden isn't tied to this so it doesn't play unfavorably toward him.

It will polarize the masses, obviously. You have people like TX Gov Greg Abbott who is saying "THEY tried to kill him" which is harmful on a greater stage. There will absolutely be unrest; I'd be shocked if we don't see retaliation from this. A line was just crossed and there isn't a single person at any level in our government who has the ability to quell things.

Trump shouted "Fight!" when he pumped his fist as he stood up. Someone will take that and run with it. Too many loud Repubs spew their hate for Biden. Too many loud Dems spew their hate Trump. We're trapped in this spot where our only two options are both incredibly polarizing to the "other side". We need 4, 5, 6 viable candidates on the ballot, not two.

I don't see how we move forward from this in this moment. The option, in my eyes, doesn't exist. Maintaining civility will come down purely to people on all sides not reacting, and also not antagonizing. This cycle of reactionary politics the past three general elections has funneled us into this lesser of two evils over and over and over. We need a rebound that involves legislation and political infrastructure and regulations that limit campaign financing and donations, that put 3, 4, 5+ parties on debate stages and the ballot. Lower Congressional and Senate term limits. Cap presidential age. Eliminate donors from organizations; all donations must be small, and under, say, $1000. (idk I just tossed out a number)

And in my opinion? All federal legislative work should be voluntary. No pay. I've said this a lot in the past. Volunteering in the government will inherently attract better people to the roles. It removes money, and it removes power. So many people would never think of touching the federal government for those reasons alone.

Just my immediate thoughts.

[archtroop]

No, Israeli kids are innocent of any crimes. The same as Palestinian kids. The problem is the crazy people like you. It's funny to think that your people suffered from a Genocide once and you're now the Nazis committing Genocide. You can say to yourself whatever you want to sleep at night but the truth is what it is: it's not a war, it's not suicide (what a fucking ridiculous notion). It's genocide. Shame you're so brainwashed you can't see what's in front of you.

And yet again, no.

The only Nazis in this equation are HAMAS and their infrastructure.

Anon, you have no leg to stand on this.

Attacking a well armed state, massacring 1200+ people in one day and, what? What do you call this? What you expect to happen next?

Here is the thing. You want the big picture, I'll give you the big picture.

The Islamic Republic of Iran wants to control the Middle East. They fund proxies to ankle-bite those who threaten their supremacy in the region. Like SaudiArabia, Israel and so on by employing: HAMAS, Hezbollah, Houthies etc. They settle roots in places of discord and disarray (Lebanon, Syria...Yemen. West Bank and Gaza. Places with no functional government).

They use Israel as a scapegoat to unite under (Fascism 1.01). They call upon "The Zionist Regime" rhetoric whenever shit hits the fan and they need to blame someone with something. Oldest trick in the book.

The Abraham Accorda are designed so that USA could finally leave the Middle East. UAE and others, had already signed the accords with Isrsel to manifest a solid treaty that would hold the Jihad at bay and will eventually stabilize the region (against threats like IRI and ISIS) by means of finance, strategy and military. Two weeks or so prior to Saudi Arabia signing the accords, Iran gives a nod of approval to HAMAS. The attack on the 7th was premeditated. It was planned for years. The idea is simple: make Israel look bad so that Saudi Arabia won't be happy to sign an agreement with a "weak" country (Israel is the security part in the agreement. SA enjoyed up till recently the security US provided. With deglobalization, this deal is off), and then drag Isrsel into a bloody war in urban terrain in Gaza to make Israel look very bad so Saudi Arabia won't sign with Israel in defense of the Palestinian Cause.

Yes, it was a premeditated suicide. And all of this is a geopolitical known knowledge. Nothing in what I wrote above is new or groundbreaking.

It was never about Palestinians. Or Palestine. It was all just an excuse. All of this, we all are just pawns.

On the world scale, Gaza doesn't matter. That's the sad truth. They were used and thrown away by their leaders. Israel is holding talks with both Egypt and Saudis over how to extract the civilians from this death trap, believe it or not. Both HATE HAMAS and watch all of this unfold and waiting for Israel to declare HAMAS IS NO MORE. Egypt hates HAMAS, a tie in to the Muslim Brotherhood, that has the power to topple the Egyptian secular government (funny how the most affected by Houthies attacks are Egypt, but no one gives a crap).

Gaza is a funnel for aid money. It produces nothing, it exports nothing. They are meaningless on the world map. That's the sad truth. By making Gaza absolutely dependent on UN aid (that never actually used for aid, but to cushion up HAMAS leaders), you have a society that cannot support itself in any way. They don't even have political allies. They are pawns.

Hate HAMAS. Hate IRI.

Or you can hate Israel, the only place where Palestinians from West Bank and Gaza could actually work and get paid. Now they don't have even that.

You know what's the cruelest joke? The accords are on talks and are progressing. There is a route of merchandise that goes right through Saudi Arabia and to Israel and Egypt, by trucks.

All of this. Was for nothing.

It's called Terrorism for a reason.

So, I guess whatever makes you sleep better. Jews did not survive the Holocaust to lie down and take it when another one is knocking on the door.

After the 7th, my emphaty dulled by a huge margin. That you cannot take back. Even symphaty has an expiration date.

There is no Genocide in Gaza. There is a Suicide on a national scale, and that's the harsh truth. And it didn't even make a lick of difference.

The only hope people in Gaza have, is to wake up without HAMAS. And it WILL happen.

Whether you like it or not.

[klavierpanda]

One of my least favourite Tumblr things is seeing USAmericans talking about JKR as if she is just a troll who you shouldn't support cause she has shitty opinions. Yeah you shouldn't support people like that but it's more than that. The money she makes is funnelled into campaigns against trans people in the UK. And it's working.

Her effect isn't just some hypothetical thing you can debate about online for fun. There are people who are directly affected by this shit. Trans people are being banned from accessing puberty blockers here now. But you lot will just talk about how HP was such a big thing and a lot of casual enjoyers probably just don't know and you can blame them. Yes the fuck I can, I can absolutely be made at them for funding the hate campaign against my trans siblings.

Honestly USAmericans should just shut up and listen to people who this actually affects

[aparticularbandit]

What Makes You Different (Makes You Beautiful)

Summary: Kyoko has never thought school dances were an appropriate use of time.

It does not matter that Junko asked her to go to one. She will simply refuse to go.

...except that Junko is oddly persistent.

For DR Rarepair Week 2024 Day Two: Summer Outing/School Dance, hosted by @dr-rarepair-week-blog.

Rating: T.

AO3

Kyoko doesn’t do school events.

She’s never thought much of them, likely because she wasn’t raised in a school environment.  Her grandfather taught her everything she needed to know while carting her around the world on one case after another; festivals and school dances and talent shows are things she read about in books, saw on television shows, and – on occasion – investigated the after-effects for suspects in light of one (or more) murders.  They’re things that happen in the real world, but they don’t happen in her world.

Not until White Day and Valentine’s Day the first year she was in middle school, when her grandfather decided against all probability to send her to a Catholic school back in Japan; not until Christmas mass that she skipped with Yui to peer down on the lights and people from above, snow blanketing the world as the bright colors filtered through stained glass (right before being interrupted by one of the worst detectives she has ever met (in terms not of ability, but of something else that Yui, not her grandfather, instilled in her); not until taking time out to notice and buy exactly the cake that Yui wanted, until being gifted ribbons to hold her braids in place after—

When Kyoko ties the only ribbon she has left from that short time with Yui into her hair, she does so like a promise, like a shield, like a stronger reminder than her gloves could ever be.  (Those only remind her of her own mistakes; this reminds her of Yui’s sacrifice.  Both a failure of sorts.  Both at a cost.)

Kyoko doesn’t do school events because they are frivolous and useless and a waste of time and money that the school could funnel into a thousand and one other things that aren’t this.  It doesn’t matter that it’s assumed necessary to help her classmates relieve stress or to bolster friendships between them or what have you.  In a few years’ time, who will honestly care about any of this?

“You just hate them because no one ever invited you,” Junko says into Kyoko’s thoughts as though she can hear them (and sometimes, Kyoko’s certain that she can, more than Sayaka ever could).  She stands in front of Kyoko, who sits still at her desk long after the other students have left for the day with a mystery novel in her hand, but leans against the back of her own chair, arms crossed.  “You just hate them because you’ve never been.”

Kyoko flips a page in her book like she isn’t paying attention.  (She already has the mystery figured out; it’s easier with narratives than it is with real life.  Narratives have to make sense.  Real life doesn’t.)  “I’ve been to plenty of—”

“Don’t lie to me, Kyokyo!”  Junko makes a tsking noise, striking her tongue against her teeth.  She’s the only one bold enough to try and talk to Kyoko while she’s reading.  It should be infuriating.  (It isn’t.)  “You’ve never been to a dance a single solitary day in your life!  And you absolutely cannot know what it’s like until you’ve been to one!”

“They sound boring.”

Junko scoffs.  Rolls her eyes. “Everything’s boring if you look hard enough.  That’s no reason to be a party pooper.”

“I’m not a party pooper if I don’t go.”  Kyoko flips another page.  She’s skimming the book at this point.  It’s not even good.  If she put her own experiences to paper, it would be better than this trash.  Why would Toko recommend it to her in the first place?  Just because it’s a mystery novel?  And she’s a detective?

Sometimes she thinks no one will ever think of her as anything other than her ability.

(Which is fine.  Her whole identity is wrapped up in being a detective, just as it always has been.  The only one who ever thought that was bad was—)

“Sure you are.”  Junko pushes herself straight and walks over to the windows just next to them.  She stares out at nothing – at something, maybe, although Kyoko fights the instinct to turn and look – and then says, “Hey, why don’t you go to the dance with me?  I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

Kyoko sighs and sets the book on her desk.  “I don’t dance.”

Junko rolls her eyes.  “No one our age dances.  Except for Sayaka, but I don’t think that even really counts.”  She considers for a moment and then taps her chin with one long, skeletal finger.  “Or Saioniji-senpai, but that’s a different kind of dancing, and she’s not going to even be there because she’s got, like, a prior engagement or something like that.”  Then she gives a shake of her head, her characteristic twintails flapping back and forth so fast they might as well hit her in the face.  “Not that it matters!  Dances are about having fun, Kyoko, and half the time you act like you’ve got a stick up your ass, and you should have some fun once in a while!”

Finally, Kyoko glances up, only to catch Junko grinning down at her.  “If no one dances, then what’s the point of calling it a dance?  They could call it something else and be much more accurate.”

“And have no one show up.”  All of a sudden, Junko gets on one knee next to Kyoko’s seat, takes one of Kyoko’s gloved hands in her own, and stares at that hand as she says, “Kyoko Kirigiri, you would make me the happiest girl in the world, if you would—”

“Stop that.”  Kyoko flicks Junko’s forehead.

Junko flings her head back like Kyoko’s actually hurt her, like she’s some sort of super-powered ninja assassin from some secret village in the whatever, she hasn’t even seen this show, she’s just seen the image a billion times since Hifumi got distracted with it and Mukuro started binging it with him.  Junko flings her head back, and she covers her forehead with both hands as she settles again, and she pouts as she glances up at Kyoko with the biggest puppy dog eyes that might actually have a bigger effect if she weren’t half covering them by reaching up to cover her forehead.  “What did you do that for?”  She sniffles as though she might cry.  “I was just trying to be nice.  You didn’t have to hit me!”

“I didn’t hit you that—”  Kyoko cuts herself off and sighs.  “If I agree to go with you, will you stop this—”  She gestures with one hand at all of Junko.  “—whatever this is?”

“And one dance.”

Kyoko stares, blank-faced at Junko, who doesn’t quite meet her eyes.  “No.”

Junko’s pout deepens, and her hands drop from her forehead, where a very red mark appears bright against her pale skin.  She wraps her arms around herself.  “Bu-bu-but…if you’re my date and you don’t dance with me—”

“I didn’t say it was a date—”

“Kyoko Kirigiri, you think a girl like me would ask you to a dance and not give you the full experience?”  Junko’s feigned sadness disappears, replaced by shock, her mouth dropping open, eyes wide.

“I—”

“Honestly, you think so little of me.”  Junko sniffles again.  “It’s not like you’re ever going to go to another dance ever again, since you think they’re all boring and bad and a waste of time and whatever, so yes, this is a date, and yes, you are going to dance two dances with me—”

“You said one—”

“—price goes up the longer this goes, Kyokyo, you should know that, and besides, you can’t have the full experience if you don’t do a line dance and a slow dance and just a, you know, normal dance, so yes, you are going to dance at least three dances with me—”

Kyoko covers Junko’s mouth with one gloved hand.  “One dance,” she says, meeting Junko’s eyes and holding up a finger with her other hand.  “I will dance one dance with you.  And you will stop this ridiculous…bartering.  You understand?”  She presses her lips together and then states, “And it’s not a date.  Don’t call it that.  We’re not….  We’re not.”  Then she waits.

After a few minutes where Kyoko is absolutely certain that Junko is licking the palm of her glove, Junko finally scowls (or as much as she can with her mouth covered), crosses her arms, and gives a nod.  Then, when Kyoko removes her hand, Junko grabs her fingers.  “Two dances,” she says, “and you have to dress up.  Date or no date, you have to dress up.  That’s part of the experience.”

“One dance,” Kyoko insists.  Then she sighs, “And I let you dress me up.”

“Great!”  Junko gives Kyoko’s hand a shake and then leans forward.  “Only I can’t be the person who dresses you up.  I can’t see you until I come to get you.  Then I get to be wowed by how you look.”  She reaches out and gently tucks strands of Kyoko’s hair out of her face.  Then she stands, brushes her hands on her legs, and says, “I’ll send Sayaka to take care of you.”

Kyoko blinks again.  “Wait.  No.  You won’t send anyone to—”

Junko just waves behind her.  “Gotta go see the school nurse for this awful blemish.  See you in a few hours!”

The door clicks shut.  Kyoko stares at Junko’s form until she disappears from the classroom door.  Then she picks up her mystery novel, groans, and shoves it under her arm.

Fine.

Fine.

It’s not like she has any choice.

Apparently.

~

The dance starts at 7:00pm exactly, which means that Junko should arrive to Kyoko’s dorm to get her at no later than 6:45pm if they want to be on time, but Kyoko notes when the clock not only hits that but passes it, when it hits 7:00pm and passes that, when it continues even further.  She fiddles with her phone, debating whether she should text Junko or not and eventually deciding against it; it’s not like she really wanted to go to the stupid dance anyway, so if Junko never shows up, then so much the better.  Maybe this is what Junko meant by the full experience: not going but being stood up.  That’s part of the school dance experience for a lot of people – it’s certainly part of the dating experience (although she insists, even if it’s just to herself, that this is absolutely not a date) – so why shouldn’t this be part of what Junko has planned?  Why wouldn’t it be all of what Junko has planned?

Then the knock comes on her door at precisely 7:37pm.

Kyoko debates even answering.  By now, she’s already started removing the far too much jewelry Sayaka let her borrow and setting it on her desk to return to her later, and she’s just starting to unzip the outrageous dress she’s dressed in. It’s not a bad dress by any means; Sayaka certainly did her best in terms of trying to find something that not only fit Kyoko but went with her personality.  It’s not overly frivolous, it’s not covered in ruffles or bows, it’s not extremely low cut.  She just….

She doesn’t feel like her.

The knock comes again, and Kyoko sighs.  “You’re late,” she calls out as she walks over to the door.

“Duh.”  Junko is rolling her eyes.  That tone of voice means that she is rolling her eyes.  Kyoko can see it even before she opens the door.  “I’m the Ultimate Fashionista, Kyokyo.  I have to be fashionably late.  It’s, like, my whole thing.”  Of course, all of that is muffled, coming through the door as it is, only the last bit clear as Kyoko opens the door.  Then Junko pushes past her, one hand – gloved, Junko is wearing gloves – held aloft before she spins and settles on Kyoko’s mattress, hands pressed down on either side of her.  “Let me look at you!”

Kyoko blinks.

There are no words – but, for once when it comes to Junko, there are no words in a good, nearly appreciative way.

Mostly.

A long, expertly tailored dress hugs Junko’s form, the fabric a deep shade of midnight blue but threaded through with a purple so light it might as well be white, mimicking the color of Kyoko’s hair.  Thin strips like ribbon in that same purple linger off the shoulder, tight around her bicep (Junko has muscles; she didn’t know that Junko had muscles – which sounds idiotic; everyone has muscles – but Junko has defined muscles, which doesn’t make sense given how skeletal she is – not rippling like Sakura’s, but lean and…and Kyoko doesn’t care, why does she care); that same light purple ribbon carries in a straight line across the curve of her chest.  Along her torso, the midnight blue fabric is tied together like a corset with more ribbon, tight enough that Kyoko doesn’t understand how Junko can breathe, and there’s barely any fabric between that and the extremely long slit in the fabric through which most of, if not all, of Junko’s leg can be seen.  Embroidered flowers dance up the edge of the slit as though trying to draw attention to it (which is absolutely not fair, in Kyoko’s opinion, but honestly, what did she expect from Ultimate Fashionista Junko (the answer is she expected something flashy and loud and attention-seeking in an entirely different way, not this elegance)), and those same embroidered flowers dance up the length of her silk gloves.

Junko is, unexpectedly, beautiful.

…other than the twin buns her hair is tied into with midnight blue fabric, which gives her a childish look, like she’s cosplaying some anime character that Kyoko doesn’t know but, again, has seen pictures of here and there.

And in spite of everything else going on with Junko’s appearance, that is what Kyoko comments on: “Your hair looks stupid.”

Junko’s face falls.  “Really?  You really think so?”  She sucks her lower lip between her teeth, averting her gaze.  “I thought it was cute.”

“It doesn’t fit.”  Kyoko’s eyes roam along Junko again, examining her.  “Your entire look is one thing, but your hair is something entirely other.”  She doesn’t know how to put it into better words than that.  Fashion isn’t her thing.  So she just says it again, hopelessly, “It doesn’t fit.”

“You saying you know fashion better than the Ultimate Fashionista?”

“No, I—”

“Man, it’s a good thing I didn’t mean to leave these in, then, huh?”  Junko flashes her a grin.  Then she pats the mattress next to her.  “Wanna help me take them out?”

Kyoko doesn’t understand.  “We’re already late.  Don’t we need to—”

Junko waves a hand dismissively.  “It’s fine, it’s fine.  The dance will be going for hours, so it’s fine if we take a little longer.”  She gestures for Kyoko to sit with her.  “C’mon, c’mon.  You’re going to love how my hair looks when it’s out of these things!  It gets all wavy and, well, not curly, exactly, but it’s really, really pretty.”  As Kyoko sits next to her, she continues, “Almost as pretty as you, but not. quite.”

A flush spreads hot across Kyoko’s cheeks.  What does someone even say to that sort of thing?  Does she counter it?  Deny it?  What good would that do?  Does she redirect it and turn it into a compliment?  Junko gets enough of those; hearing a pat one from Kyoko just to avoid the one she’s been given doesn’t feel like it’s a great idea.  Should she just ignore it?  That seems rude.  Of course, Junko probably doesn’t even mean it.  She’s probably just—

“It’s not nice to joke about that sort of thing,” Kyoko replies.  “You might hurt someone’s feelings.”

“Yours?”

Kyoko shakes her head as she reaches up and gently unties the ribbon from the hair bun closest to her.  “No,” she murmurs, despite the flush still scarleting her cheeks.  “I don’t care about that.  Besides, I know you’re joking.”

At her words, Junko turns, eyes wide.  “But I wasn’t joking, Kyokyo.  I was being completely honest with you!”  She pouts, fluttering her eyelashes.  “It really hurts when you don’t believe me.”

“Then maybe quit joking around all of the time, and I’ll take you at your word.”

Junko considers that for a moment.  She runs her fingers gentle through her hair as she carefully unwinds it, unpins it, from the opposite bun.  “You do look good,” she murmurs, turned away from her.  “Especially in that outfit.  What do you think?  I had it specially made for you.”  Just as Kyoko opens her mouth to answer, she says, “And by specially made, I mean I made it, so if you’re going to tear that dress to shreds, you better consider my fragile sensibilities and try again, got it?”

Her voice is chipper.  That means that’s probably a joke.  Probably.

Kyoko considers her own outfit and on doing so realizes that it’s nearly the opposite of Junko’s.  They’re a matching set.  (How long did Junko plan this?  She couldn’t have known Kyoko would give in.  But these must have taken months to make.  So how—)  Unlike Junko’s midnight blue with lavender accents, Kyoko’s is lavender with midnight blue accents.  But it’s softer, not as form-fitting as Junko’s is: lavender ribbon straps instead of off the shoulder; a longer, thinner silhouette with a thin slit; the midnight blue accents only seen in the embroidered flowers just at her left hip bone, the lace just beneath the slit, and the edges of the ribbons used to construct her gloves.  Unlike Junko’s gloves, which are one long piece with embroidered flowers along them, Kyoko’s gloves have the outward appearance of medical bandages wrapped completely around her hands and up to her elbow, only the bandages are ribbons with that midnight blue thread along their edges; beneath that appearance, there’s only soft midnight blue velvet, with the exception of the compression aspects she needed for her burns—

Junko was paying so much more attention than Kyoko ever thought she would.

And yet.

“Sayaka gave me a lot of jewelry, but I took most of it off.”

“Yeah, she tends to over accessorize.  You were right to take it off.”  Junko turns just enough to meet her eyes.  “But the dress, Kyokyo.  The gloves!  What do you think?”

Kyoko swallows.  “I like the dress,” she says, and she pauses, gaze flicking to the not bandages wrapped around her hands.  This time, she doesn’t flinch.  Barely.

(Every time she sees them, she remembers waking in the hospital alone.  Every time she sees them, it hurts.  Every time she sees them, she thinks of Yui, which….)

“Why bandages?” Kyoko asks instead, letting her gaze flick to Junko’s face as much as she can, pretending she doesn’t.  “Do I seem that frail to you?’

“No, no!  Not at all!”  Junko takes Kyoko’s gloved hands in her own.  She rubs her thumb along one as though she could soothe her (and it does help, the slightest bit).  “I thought it made you look stronger.  Like how Sakura wraps her hands all the time!”  Her face flushes, and she turns away.  “I mean, I know she doesn’t wrap her hands at all, but you need that, right?  Because of your, um.”  She hesitates, but says it anyway, her voice softening, “Your injuries?”

Kyoko presses her lips together.

After a few seconds of silence, Junko places a hand on Kyoko’s.  “Will you let me fix them?  It won’t take long – not for me – and like you said, we’re already late.”  She smiles gentle.  “I’ll even close my eyes while you change them.  I know you don’t want anyone to see.”

It takes another moment before Kyoko nods.

~

“I’m sorry,” Kyoko murmurs as she strips the gloves off.

Junko’s head tilts to one side.  “What for?”

“For ruining the image you had in mind.”

Junko giggles.  “You didn’t ruin anything,” she says.  “I was worried something like this could happen.  I mean, you probably had to wear stuff like this for ages while your hands were healing, so it can’t have felt good to suddenly have bandages all over again.  I thought about it, but, like.”  She laughs again, darker, lower.  “Guess this is why Celeste is the Ultimate Gambler and not me.  Whenever I take a risk, I lose, you know?  Not that this is losing, or anything.  This is just….”  Her voice trails off.

Kyoko sets the gloves gently in Junko’s lap.  She hesitates before brushing strands of Junko’s hair back out of her face.  “Can I do something with your hair?” she asks.  “It isn’t bad like this, but I….”  She hesitates again.  “I’d like to braid it, if you don’t mind.”

“Like yours?”

Kyoko’s hair hasn’t been touched.

Well, it has, but she wouldn’t let Sayaka change her normal, standard way of wearing it.  The best she’d let her do was tuck all of it back into a low ponytail, that singular braid struck through on its side.  It’s different, but it’s not special.

“No,” Kyoko says, “not like mine.  Something befitting your elegance.”

Junko cracks an eye open.  “You think I look elegant?”

Kyoko very nearly smiles.  “I think you look beautiful.”

~

They turn heads when they finally arrive.

Kyoko is described as ethereal – it’s the pale of her skin and the pale of her hair and dress (sure, there’s the light sheen of purple to it, but not much) that makes the midnight blue stand out so starkly against everything else – the twin ribbons woven through the braids in her hair, one on either side, tucked back into a singular braid in the back; the gloves still that same velvet around her hands but stripped of the ribbons like bandages, now fading into lace from her wrists up, a corsage in mixed lavender and midnight blue around her left wrist.

Junko’s described as many things, but the one that makes her laugh the most is angelic.  Without the ribbons, her hair shouldn’t draw as many eyes to it as Kyoko’s does, but Junko’s entire appearance (even the boutonniere pinned to the ribbon at her chest) forces people to look up, to look at her, to look at the soft pink of her hair and the stormy blue-grey of her eyes.  That is where the sparkle is, the excitement and energy captivated in her grin, in her laugh.

Junko is angelic because she plays with the people; Kyoko is ethereal because she stands off to the side away from the rest of them.

In fact, Kyoko would spend most of the dance by the punch bowl if someone hadn’t spiked it (none of the upperclassmen are here, but she knows Mioda-senpai gave them the booze, knows Saioniji-senpai would laugh at the half of them who couldn’t hold their liquor).  Hiro drinks probably half the bowl before he vomits next to the stage, barely hiding himself behind the curtains, while Celeste laughs at him.  Makoto walks him off.

But before that, Junko leaves the dance floor breathing heavy.  She grabs Kyoko’s hands in hers with a grin as the music softens and says, “Okay.  First dance.  You have to dance with me now.”

“You want my first dance to be a slow dance?” Kyoko asks, one brow raising.

Junko tugs her forward, and Kyoko nearly stumbles against her.  “Slow dances are easier than the others,” she whispers.  “You just put your hands in the right place and sway and pretend that you’re not looking at each other.”  She chuckles.  “Or you look into each other’s eyes the whole time if you’re, like, hopelessly in love with each other.  Not that I’ve ever done that.”  She backs onto the dance floor, and Kyoko follows helplessly.  Then she nods to one of the couples near them.  “Like Togami and Celeste.  They’re probably going to run the world someday.  Won’t that suck?”

Kyoko barely glances over to them before turning back to Junko.  “You have to tell me what to do.  I’ve never done this before.”

“Okay, okay.”  Junko takes Kyoko’s hands and tucks them around her own neck.  “Keep your arms here,” she murmurs before placing her hands on Kyoko’s hips.  “Then just lean into my hands, and you’re fine.”

But Kyoko barely even hears the end of that sentence, too caught up in the sensation of Junko’s hands on her waist.  Her face blushes a bright red again, and she’s glad that it’s dark, that no one else can see it.  As Junko sways with her, she stumbles over her words.  “This is…this is it?”  She averts her eyes – pretend that you’re not looking at each other indeed – and continues, “You don’t…you don’t find this boring?”

Junko shrugs.  “It’s alright.  Sometimes I like how it ends.”

“How it....”  Kyoko clears her throat.  “How it ends?”

Junko just shrugs again.  “Yeah.  Sometimes it’s pretty cool, if things go well.”  Her face falls.  “Sometimes…sometimes it’s not so great.”  Then her face lights up.  “You should lean your head on my chest!”

“Wh-what?”

“It’s part of the whole experience!” Junko says animatedly with a grin.  “Here, c’mon—”

When Junko tugs Kyoko forward, Kyoko suddenly doesn’t know what to do with her hands, her face is an even brighter red (because actually Junko is really soft and she should not be thinking about this), and she doesn’t know what to do until Junko gently guides Kyoko’s hands to her waist and leaves them there.  Then she takes a deep breath in and forces herself to settle, rearranges herself, and then….

Then, well.  That’s okay, isn’t it?  To just…lean against Junko and…sway?  Like Junko told her to?  That makes it okay, right?

And then the song’s over, and Junko’s running a hand through her hair, and she’s saying, “See?  That wasn’t so bad, right?”  She steps back and gives Kyoko a bright grin.  “You did really good!  The next time there’s a slow song, you should do it again!  That’ll make it easier in the future.”

Kyoko doesn’t know what to say.  She doesn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable as she thought she would.  If anything, she feels…okay.  Uncertain, but okay.  And when she finds herself nodding, she’s surprised at herself.

(Back at the punch bowl, Kyoko rethinks this.  She shouldn’t have agreed to more slow dancing.  That’s really not fair, Junko.)

~

Nearer the end of the dance, after Hiro’s thrown up and Makoto’s carefully walked him outside for some water and maybe back to the dorm, after Makoto’s returned to his own date with Sayaka, a song starts that Kyoko knows full well, so when Junko comes running out to her, her arms are already crossed, her face already firm.  “No.”

“Kyokyo,” Junko whines.  “It’s my favorite song, and you’re my date, so you have to dance with me!”

Kyoko glares at her.  “No one else knows this song.  You put it on the playlist, and you waited on it to start so that you could drag me out for it.”  She frowns.  “You asked me to be your date.  You could have picked anyone else.  Anyone else would have loved to dance to this song with you.”

“But I didn’t ask anyone else,” Junko whispers.  “I asked you.”

For a breath, Kyoko glances out on the rest of the dancers, laughing, excited, waiting for the exact moment.  More than a few of them are staring at Junko, as though wondering what’s taking her so long.  Then she sighs.  “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“No,” Kyoko says as she starts out to the dance floor, tugging Junko with her, “I’m pretty sure I hate you.”

Junko kisses her cheek.  “If you hated me, you wouldn’t do the Time Warp.”

“Shut up.”

~

Afterward, when Junko walks Kyoko back to her dorm, there’s an air of tension between them.  Kyoko can feel it, but she doesn’t know what it is or why it’s there.  Then she remembers the conversation earlier, about how things end, and realizes that maybe Junko didn’t actually mean the dance itself but what comes after it.

Then, suddenly, Kyoko grows afraid.

Then, just as suddenly, Kyoko relaxes.

But when they make it back to her dorm, Junko just pats her on her shoulder.  “Alright, thanks for the good time!  I’ll see you tomorrow!”  Then she turns as though to walk off.

“W-wait!” Kyoko finds herself saying, panicking, face flushing as Junko turns back to her, head tilted to one side, curious expression on her face.  “You….”  Her gaze drops.  She shakes her head.  “Never mind.”

Junko’s eyes light up. “Oh.”

“I said never mind.”

“You want the full experience, huh.”

“No, I don’t.  I just thought—”

“Well, I figured I wouldn’t make you do something you didn’t want to do, and I didn’t want to make you super uncomfortable, so I figured you’d rather me leave so you can get out of all the fancy stuff, but.”  Junko comes back, reaches out, and then hesitates, searching Kyoko’s eyes.  “I wouldn’t say no.”  A soft, gentle smile crosses her lips.  “You really are beautiful, Kyoko.”

Kyoko doesn’t look up.  “I thought you said I was pretty.”

“Changed my mind.”

Kyoko doesn’t say anything more.  She’s confused.  Probably this is exactly what Junko wants.

After a few seconds, Junko’s fingers trace Kyoko’s jaw, and she slowly lifts her chin.  “Do you want me to kiss you?  It wouldn’t be taking advantage or anything.  I mean.”  She hesitates, tugs her lip between her teeth again, and then says, “I’d like to kiss you.  If you wouldn’t mind.  I just figured, you know, that you’d mind.”

Kyoko’s breath catches.  She hesitates, looks everywhere else, and then finally meets Junko’s eyes.  Her heart beats once, hard, in her chest.  “I wouldn’t.”  A pause, then, “You can.  If you…if that’s what you want.  I…I’d like that.”

Junko grins.  “And you said this wasn’t a date.”

Immediately, Kyoko’s brow furrows.  “That’s because it’s not a—”

Before she can finish the sentence, Junko kisses her.  The grin is still there – Kyoko can feel it against her lips – until it isn’t, until she’s not really thinking about that.  All she’s thinking is that Junko is gentle.  She leans into the kiss, shivers as Junko’s hands find her hips the way they did during the slow dance, and panics, stops, steps back.

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”  Kyoko reaches up to brush her hair back.

Junko stops her, does so herself.  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”  She smiles kindly.

It isn’t fair – it isn’t right for Junko to be so kind with her.

“Will you….”  Kyoko hesitates.  “Do you want to come inside?”

Junko’s eyes widen.  “Kyoko, I love you, but I’m not here for that sort of—”

“No, no, no, not that.”  Kyoko’s face flushes a bright red.  “I don’t know all of the stuff Sayaka did to get this dress to stay on, and I don’t think I can get it off without help.”  She glances up and then away again.  “That’s all I want.  Help.”

“Oh.”  Junko’s smile returns, then.  “Of course.  That’s all I ever want to do for you, Kyoko.  Help.”

Kyoko nods.  “Okay then.”  She opens the door and gestures with one hand.  “Please.”

~

The thing is that Junko also needs help getting out of her dress.  Kyoko would’ve thought the Ultimate Fashionista would have better designs than this, ones that let you get in and out of a dress on your own, but no.  Fashion, as always, requires an extra hand.  Then Junko doesn’t want to walk back to her dorm with her clothes as they are – that’s asking for a scandal, Kyokyo!

So Junko borrows clothes, and Kyoko pulls out a mystery novel and reads it aloud until Junko dozes off resting against her.

This is normal.

Kyoko’s certain that this is normal.

Maybe not for anyone else, but….

But….

[trisockatops]

I can generally just scroll past all the JK/HP bullshit because I've generally cultivated a sphere of people who also hate her and can no longer use "death of the author" (SHE ISN'T DEAD, SHE'S VERY ALIVE AND ACTIVELY DOING HARM) to excuse her violence towards vulnerable groups. But I'm getting that it still has too many aspec fans when I'm having to regularly block HP posts in the tag. Y'all, really?

JK is openly transphobic, racist, and antisemitic and funnels her money to causes that directly harm the people she hates and brags (and laughs!!!) about doing so. At least keep your HP bullshit out of the asexual and aromantic tags. Come up with a code word so I don't have to come across your lack of allyhood when searching for aro/ace posts. Tons of us aspecs are trans/BIPOC/Jewish, and we see you shoving us out. We matter. Please act like it.