#but I need to apply and be accepted to the other one first!!!

[inkskinned]

how odd, to watch the creative writing exercises of angry men in the comments of instagram. you noticed it first in the comments of conventionally attractive women - but then it started appearing everywhere else, too.

a young man talks about what lunch he's packing his wife. there is a little story under it, with 300 likes, fabricated from nothing. "this is pointless. if you treat her like this, she will take the lunch to her office and fuck her boss and divorce him and take all his money."

you scroll. a young woman talks about what lunch she's packing for her husband. it is always uglier when the subject of the video is a woman, you've noticed. "you sit on camera and you smile and you are cheating with the neighbor and then you're going to lie about being sexually assaulted by your husband and -"

you stop reading. it has 567 likes.

where did this even become a thing? people making up stories in their head, disgusting long-winded assumptions about intention and sexual disgrace. the evil twin of fanfiction.

like - it's just a lie. it's a lie that they are telling, baldfaced and assumptive. the undercurrent is of course misogyny, but the trouble is that they're so fucking certain. that's what makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. there is this pervasive, inventive desire for them to be right. that they must be right. all women are cheating, lying, gold-digging bitches. no exceptions.

in the reverse, when women say i'd rather meet a bear in the woods than a strange man - men funnel in from the sides. they defend each other with a vibrance and capacity for empathy you wish applied to like, the other half of the population. a man could be saying i absolutely did kill her and these creatures in the comments would rise up with king shit. she made it happen. they love each other to the point of this sick strange self-gaslighting, a fervent and unhinged cognitive distortion. all men are good, wonderful people. all women are terrible, conniving, seditious, annoying.

and when did it become okay to just, like... say that kind of a thing? at one point, you find yourself typing out a witty and snappy retort. why are you spending so much time fantasizing about other people babe. but as you stare at the screen, some part of you pictures this man in public, saying these things to your face. his soapbox, high and mighty. his mirrored sunglasses and his empty life: tired and lonely.

what a sad and horrible loop he's locked in. he is terrible to women, so women don't talk to him, which he uses as an excuse to act more terribly. he blames this "failure" on women, rather than on his behavior. it cannot be that he is the problem (that the solution is to just put his ego down and accept women as equals) - he begins to invent a sculpture to replace the flesh frame of each person he sees.

it isn't just a woman posing on the beach. it is now a slut with a desperate need for each person to crave her body. it isn't just a woman yelping with surprise during something upsetting. it is a hysterical, unhelpful cretin who will probably make things worse instead of better. it isn't a person.

someone's very sweet wedding vows get moderate attention on instagram. in the comments, a man says good fucking luck you'll waste your life providing while behind your back she's absolutely fucking the best man. this will be so cringe in 2 months when she walks out on you.

you think - is that what you need to be true? is that what you need to happen, for the world to make sense to you?

#writeblr #every time i see these little creative writing projects i see red lol #girl go write a novel or do ur homework or something. #if youre gonna lie on the internet at least stop badgering women. do it in the privacy #of your poor sad reddit boards

[spidybaby]

Dull Shine

Summary: The circumstances might have dulled the shine she had. Feeling empty even with his company.

Warnings: cursing.

"What do you think about this?"

You turn your head away from your phone, looking at him up and down. "I like it, but maybe the black and white Jordan's?"

He nods, walking back into the closet and changing his shoes. You look at him while he does that.

It's like a routine for him, going back from training, quick visit to his mom or dad, going home to shower, and getting ready to go out.

He's been trying to spend as much as he can with his friends, Hakimi, Dembele and the team. They like to hit the club in a vip area, the other invite girls who look like the typical hooker.

You didn't worry about it, Kylian is not a cheater. He barely even acknowledged the girls. He likes to go there to be with the team.

"What about now?" He poses, showing you the fit and pulling his leg up your nightstand. "Do I look good?"

"Like a million dollar baby," you smile. Watching him get all cocky at the praise. "I feel like I should be worried. You're going out looking like this." You joke.

You walk over to him, smacking his ass in a playful way. He turns to you, smiling, wrapping his hands around your body.

"You know you're my only one." He kiss your neck. "If you want, you can come with me." He smiles into your skin. "Think about it," He says, kissing your neck again and pulling away to walk into the bathroom.

You are thinking about it, but you can't help but think of how the other girls go to those places. Dressed in the most expensive things, the best type of jewels, Cartier, Van Cleef, their expensive Louboutin or YSL heels.

You don't have that. You worked a nine to five job that didn't allow you to get the designer things.

You moved to Paris to study, wanting to get a better future for yourself. You were still paying some debt from your college.

Kylian begged you to move in with him a year into your relationship. You accepted only with the condition of him letting you help with some bills.

He obviously didn't allowed that. Letting you believe that you were going to help but in reality he was taking care of the two of you.

You never accepted his money. You loved your little job. It was not much, but it was enough for you.

You look into your things, finding a pair of cargos, and a backless bodysuit. You liked the combo, and you know he would too.

You weren't so sure about the shoes, you usually wear the outfit with some Jordan's to match him.

"I like that look." He says as you enter the bathroom, you smile, grabbing your makeup and lightly applying some.

"You look like a billion dollar baby, now." He says, kissing your cheek. "And what better way to match your look than with this."

He hands you a black box with a golden bow. You already know that there's something extravagant inside the box.

"Amour, we talked about this." You say, applying gloss. "What did we say?"

He rolls his eyes. "No gifts without consulting first."

"And what did you do?" You smile a little.

"Getting you something that my heart told me you would love." He left the box in the bed, walking over to you. "It will go amazing with your outfit, mon amour, s'il te plaît."

You sigh, nodding your head. You walk over him, kissing his cheek and thanking him. "Let's see." You fake a smile.

What you can't help but feel bad is the way he smiles that he has. He loves giving you things.

You pull a black Saddle Bag from Dior. you love it, you were trying to save for this bag for some time, always having some sort of problem and needing to use the money.

"Come here." He pulls your arm, walking you to the tall mirror in the closet. He grabs the bag from your hands. Positioning it on your shoulder. "What do you think?"

You feel bad from how much you love the bag and the way it goes with your clothes. "Thank you." You smile, turning around to hug him and kiss him.

"Now what if you put your things inside and we go meet my friends?"

You nod, kissing him one last time. You grab your bag, moving your things. You look at yourself one last time before joining him in the living room.

You were his designated driver since he didn't have a license. He picked one of his less extravagant cars, not wanting to call the attention.

The first person you see is Achraf, he was talking with this pretty brunette. "Don't let him trick you, he's still married." Kylian jokes, knowing that will make Hakimi awkward.

"I'm not, don't believe him."

The girl only nods, laughing and kissing Kylian's cheek. "Bonjour to you too."

"Y/n, come here." Achraf stands up, hugging your figure. "This idiot finally convinced you to come, so amazing."

You smile, smelling the alcohol in his breath. "I finally left the crib." You laugh.

"Pamela, this is Y/n." He introduced the girl to you. "She's Kylian's girlfriend. She's so amazing, talk with her." He push your shoulder down, making you take a seat next to her.

You felt uncomfortable, the girl clearly didn't like that either. You turn to see kylian and Achraf talking with Marqhinhos and Vitinha.

One waiter gets close to them, Kylian turns to you. "Something you want to drink, bébé?" He kisses the top of your head.

"Whatever you're having." He nods, turning and leaving you again with the very judgy girl. "I like your nails." You say, trying to start some conversation.

She scuffed, turning to you. "Where's Emma?"

"Emma?" You ask confused. "As Kylian's ex-girlfriend Emma?"

She nods, looking you up and down. "Yeah, I miss her."

You didn't answer, getting up to go next to Kylian.

"Hey, you left my girl alone." Achraf says.

"Your girl's an asshole." You say to him, making Kylian laugh. "You really suck at picking, Haki."

The rest of the night was good. You didn't feel like leaving Kylian's side, and he didn't seem to mind.

Once you're home, you find yourself next to him in the bathroom, both preparing to sleep. "We should go out again. It was fun." You nod, finishing with washing your teeth.

You felt so out of place tonight. All these girls, all these drinks and other substances. You didn't feel like doing all that again.

You didn't belong to his world. You were used to parties back in college, but the type of being in your pj's and drink cheap alcohol from a cup.

You can't get used to the extremely overpriced drink he likes, the extremely overpriced restaurants, trips, clothes.

You turn to him. He was applying some cream, too concentrated to mind the way you're questioning yourself.

✨️✨️✨️

"You have to be joking," Celine says. "That can't be real."

"I can't make this up. That freaking girl asked me where his ex was." You laugh, passing her another dress.

"Look at the bright side. She's just a one night stand, and you're the girlfriend."

You two share a good laugh. Celine is your boss, you started working for her in your second year living in Paris.

You loved her, and she loved you. That's why even when Kylian offered to find you something closer to where he lived, you said no.

She trusted you even when you barely understood French. She helped you and taught you a lot.

She has her own brand. It was very successful. She dressed so many french models and football wags. Like Antonella and Bruna.

She's not the type of designer to order and sit around her company. She loves her stores and mostly hangs around with you on the one you work.

"Well, at least you had fun."

"I don't know." You say honestly. "I feel so weird when I'm at these places."

"I used to feel the same, but it's all in your head. You do belong there, with him." You nod, smiling at her. "Now go. I got a fitting, and I'll close the store." You nod, saying your goodbyes.

You walk for a while, trying to de-stress. You text Ethan, sending him a pic of the cinema poster that's outside a mall.

You missed hanging with him now that he's more involved with football and practicing. But you were proud because he and Kylian were playing together.

When you get to Kylians house, you see Brice there. He was doing something with your boyfriends head.

"Getting Cinderella ready for the dance?" You joke, taking a seat in the coach next to where he's seated.

They laugh, explaining that the little trim was because of the party the club does for their foundation. They have an auction in order to raise money to help the foundation.

"You have your dress ready? Maybe I can get a tie to match you." He asks, looking at you.

You freeze, you forgot to think about a dress, even tho he told you about this a while ago. You even wrote in your notes to look at some dresses.

"Wait, when did you say was the party?" You ask, trying not to show your worries.

"In two days, mon amour."

You nod, excusing yourself to go upstairs. You can't help but panic, you did forget about getting a dress.

You see into your dresses, nothing is up for the occasion, nothing says exclusive party with extremely rich people.

You chat with your friend, asking her if you can borrow a dress from her. Sadly for you, her dresses were all short ones. And the party attire is long formal.

You search online for dresses, but all of them were way too expensive for your budget. You didn't want to ask Kylian for money.

Also, you didn't want to admit that you forgot about the party and that you didn't have anything to wear.

"I feel so dumb." You say to Celine. "I forgot about the party, and now I'll have to admit that I don't have a dress."

"Why don't you take one of the dresses we have?" She asks, confused.

You look at her, ironing some dresses. "As much as I love your dresses. I can't afford them."

"Aren't you dating the footballer who earns the most in Europe?"

You hate that reaction, Kylian wins his own money, but that wasn't yours to waste or to use.

"You say it. He's the one earning that money." You go back to ironing. "I think I'll just skip this. It's no big deal." You shrug.

She nods, walking over to the back. You can hear her opening something and moving things around. When she's back, she's holding a gorgeous orange and yellow dress

"I made this for a French singer. She never got to wear it. I think I can let you borrow it." She smiles.

You looked at the dress, it was beautiful, a classic figure and the colors were subtle, nothing crazy just beautiful.

"Are you sure?"

"Just keep the tags. They are there for reference of the model and size." She hands it over to you. "I think it will fit."

You smile, hugging her tightly. "I can't thank you enough for all you do for me."

She shakes her head no. "You can thank me by taking a picture with him and having him tag me."

You nod, smiling like crazy because now you can wear something pretty to the party. "I'll make him post a solo picture of me just to thank you." You laugh, hugging her again.

When you got off work, you asked Kylian if his chauffeur could pick you up. You weren't going to take public transportation with a borrowed dress.

"Bonjour madame." Kylian smiles, pulling his window down. "You asked for a ride."

"Did I?" You acted confused. "Well, I asked my boyfriend to pick me up, but since he's not here, can you give me a ride?"

He opens the door to get off the car. Closing the door and opening it again. "Ladies first." He says, a very deep tone to look more serious. "Careful with the head."

He joins you in the back of the car. Kissing your cheek as he lays his head on your shoulder. "Thank you for picking me up." You grab his hand and kiss it.

k.mbappe

k.mbappe 👔👩🏽‍❤️‍👨🏽📸

Liked by ethanmbappe, celinedesigns and 3,950,647 others

psg 💙❤️✨️

ethanmbappe love is in the air 😩🤪

celinedesigns the outfits 😍✨️

achrafhakimi where's the picture we took? 😔

"Oh great, Achraf brought his side chick." Carol says, rolling her eyes at the sight of Pamela.

"So I'm not the only one who doesn't like her." Alessia laughs.

"No, this one right here also dislikes her." Caron elbow you, you scuff.

You turn your head to where Hakimi and Pamela are, they are chatting with Marquinhos and Donnarumma.

"She asked me if I could bring her some wine the other day at the barbecue Marcos organized. When I told her it was a self serve kinda thing, she told me nannies aren't supposed to bother the guests and just follow orders."

You and Alessia just laugh, that girl definitely had the nerve to think she was better than others.

"Talking about drinks, I'm going to get one more, you guys coming?" They shake their heads, lifting their half full drinks. "I'll be back."

You walk over to the bar, ordering a cocktail. You feel someone tap your shoulder.

"I like your dress." Pamela says, ordering a drink. You nod smiling. "So Haki and Kyky are friends."

You squint your eyes at the nicknames. "Yes, I noticed that." You sarcastically say. "Also, I think the whole city of France knows that."

"What I'm saying is, I'm here to stay." She gets closer. "And I don't want us fighting, our men's are friend. We can be too."

You turn your head at where Kylian is, even tho he's leaving the team. You know Achraf is a very important person in his life.

"I like your dress too."

"Thank you, it's Versace." She smiles. "Where's yours from?"

"Celine."

"Oh, I didn't knew they did discounts."

You choke on your drink. The audacity of her to say that with the biggest smile like it's nothing.

"They don't."

"Well, Haki told me you work in retail, very Georgina of you." She scuffed. "And let's be honest, unless Kylian bought that for you or they gifted you the dress, I don't think your nine to five allows you to get expensive brands, with the way you dress regularly."

You stare at her, wanting to wipe that stupid grind off her face with a slap.

"Emma used to buy that brand all the time, I get you want to he like her, just don't make it that obvious." She laughs.

You smile. You weren't going to make a scene there like she hoped for. "Well, if you care to know that much, Celine herself gave me this dress to wear tonight. She's a good friend."

"Yeah, sure." She turns back to the bar.

You grab your drink, not wanting to spend more time with her. Just before you left, you got closer to her.

"Talking about copycats, maybe look in the mirror because Hiba's whole wardrobe was Versace. But not from the rack like yours, she knew Donatella."

You don't even walk back with the other wags, you walk into the bathroom trying to calm your anger.

Why did she think that because you have a regular job you were less. Yes, you couldn't afford a dress like the one you're wearing and maybe you couldn't do all the things Kylian does for you. But you were happy with your job, you liked being down to earth.

You wipe the tears that your anger made you let out. Not wanting for all the girls or even her to look at you like that, you walk out, trying to get some air.

After some time of not seeing you, Kylian asked Alessa where you were. She answered with a shoulder shrug.

You walked back into the venue at the right time. He walks faster to you. "Amour, where were you?" He kiss your cheek.

"I was taking air, needed it." You half smile. "Maybe I'll ask the chauffeur to take me to your house. I'm tired."

If there's something he used to do, it was reading you like an open book. You missed that. The way he would tell something was wrong before you even did.

"I'll just wait a little more because of the club bosses." He kiss you quickly. "I'll ask my bodyguard to accompany you to the car."

You nod, walking quickly to the table to say goodbye to your friends. Saying the same excuse. You're tired, but not physically, you are tired mentally.

From all the pressure you put yourself into. Even when you want to try, you can't do it. You don't feel like you belong to his world.

You change into your pajamas, as you wash your face and do your routine. You can't help but feel anger at the words of Pamela.

You looked at the dress before turning the closet light off. She was right. You couldn't afford it. You were playing Cinderella with it.

✨️✨️✨️

"Are you sure you don't want me to pay for the dry cleaning?" You ask again. "It's the least I can do, just let me-"

"Honey, since you wore that dress, my lines are going crazy for the same style in different colors." She smiles, taking the dress from your hands. "Actually, when did you say was the ballon d'or?" She laughs

"Not until a few months." You laugh with her.

"I think it's enough time to design something just for you. But that would be me as a brand, this was me as a friend."

You thank her again, turns out wearing her dress made not only the signer but other models want the dress.

You felt special when she told you that, asking you to help her with the online orders, even when she had a team she trusted you with her life.

"I'll see you tomorrow. Coffee is on me, by the way."

"Hey. Take tomorrow off, I think you deserve it after how hard you work."

You nod, saying your goodbyes and leaving the store. You got to your favorite coffee shop, getting yourself a treat.

Kylian asked you to pick up his mother's birthday gift, giving you his card and telling you to go crazy if you wanted.

"I called the bank and told them Ma femme is going crazy with the plastic." he says before leaving to practice. "If it's something like a bag, she wants it in blue."

You tried to find something blue because that's what she asked. You know she likes jewelry too. Maybe both can be nice.

You text Kylian a picture of the options you have. He was in a meeting with Luis Enrique, and they were creating a plan for the UCL game.

You walk out of the store with the bag for Fayza, moving to Cartier to get her some jewelry, maybe a necklace.

You get a pair of earrings and a necklace to match. You know she will like it, you and her have similar taste in clothes, bags and jewelry.

Kylian texted you to get him a bucket hat from Louis Vuitton. He wanted one for a long time, and now that you're out and about.

You picked two for him, a black one and a white one. You text asking if that will be all or if he would like something else.

You check the store, finding a cute Alma Nano bag that in your eyes was so cute, You think about what he says, you can spend as much as you want on his mom gift and if you want something you can pick anything.

You text Kylian a picture asking if he likes the bag. You were questioning if you should or not.

"Madame, I'll go get the hat you requested. I'll be right back." the sales girl says to you. "You can wait on the couch, or you can keep looking around."

You nod, looking around the store for something else. Eyes going back to the bag.

"Oh God, you're here." You hear someone saying. "If you're filling applications, I need a maid." Pamela laughs.

Her hands were full of designer brands. You smirk when you see the Versace one. "Trying to fill Hibas side of the closet, I see."

She rolls her eyes. The knife digging hard on her with all the ex-wife jokes. You enjoy the way her face turns kinda red.

She was about to say something. The sales girl interrupts her. "Madame, I have the items upfront per your request."

"Merci, I'll be right there." You pass Pamela, ignoring her for the sake of your evening. "Can I add this bag to my bill, please."

You pay for the things, getting out of the store without paying mind to Pamela. You didn't need her to ruin your mood.

The chauffeur was waiting for you, Kylian texted you to go pick him up after picking you up.

"Hello, sunshine." You smile as he opens the door of his car. "Long time no see, Mister Mbappe."

"Like what?" He asks, following your joke. "It's been like five years, isn't it?"

"So long, Paris." You dramatically say. "I got you your hat, two actually."

He kiss you hello, seeing the bags in the front seat. "Perfect, I can look fancy at the beach."

You two chat about his day during the way home. Kylian was excited about the ucl game and you loved that for him.

You two walk with the bags, well, he did. You carry his toiletry bag. "So you want to make something for dinner together?" You ask, leaving his things at the entrance of the house.

He nods, searching for a tutorial on something he's been wanting to do for a long time. You collect the ingredients, helping him with the preparation.

"Tomorrow we are invited to Hakimi's sister birthday party." He says, opening the oven and leaving the food there. "It's going to be at Hakimi's."

You think about the whole Pamela situation. You know you want to tell Kylian about it, but you're not sure if you want to ruin his mood today or ruin the whole invitation thing.

You think about it while you finish with the salad. You hate confrontation and you hate creating an opportunity for her to bother you some more.

"Ready, bébé." He says, placing the dinner on the table. "Let's eat and I'll tell you about my day" He says, kissing your neck.

He serves you two. You bring some water for him and a soda for you. Needing some sugar to sweeten your day.

Kylian talks about his day training and how he will shoot a new commercial for Oakley, the glasses brand that he models for.

"And I asked them for a pair of glasses for you. So you'll be the first one to try the new collection."

"Woow." You laugh. "Since we have connections, we are getting free sun glasses."

You finish dinner between jokes and talking about what to buy for Hakimi's sister.

You have to talk to him. You tell yourself that again, and again, and again. You don't want to look like the bitter friend of the ex who doesn't approve the new girl.

You move to your room, fixing the washed clothes into their designated spot in the closet. He was in the bathroom, applying his night skincare like you taught him.

"Hey, can I talk to you about something?' You ask loudly.

"Oui, bébé." He shouts back.

You keep putting the clothes in the racks. "I know this might sound weird, but I don't like Pamela." You began. "She's just so mean and such a freaking brat around me. Thinking she can diminish me because of my job and shit. I don't feel like putting the nice act with her anymore."

You let everything out, feeling more relieved now that it was out and you didn't have to tip toe around her in front of kylian.

You wait for his response. Silence is taking over the room. You can hear a sound of voices in the background.

You move to the bathroom, finding him with his phone in his hand, watching a video about a show or something like that.

"Did you even pay attention to what I said?" You ask mad.

He looks at you, pausing the video. "Pardon, oursamme sent me this video. It's so funny. Here, watch it."

You shake your head no. Walking back into the closet. You're mad at how you can hear him talk about everything, but he can't even hear you for two minutes.

You finish what you are doing. Walking into the room and finding him still watching his video. You roll your eyes and walk into the bathroom to take a nice shower.

You can't help going to bed mad at him. You felt trapped, he didn't pay attention to you, and you only want to be able to say things that you feel.

The next day, you didn't even say goodbye to him when he left, he was too busy with his phone to notice, only saying a quick goodbye and patting your head.

You spend the rest of the day in a mood. Not really caring about anything but being angry at how much he diminish your feelings and focus on something dumb.

The night approaches, you want to send him alone to the party, but Hakimi's sister was always friendly with you. And she came to your birthday last year with a nice gift.

You dress simple, a one-piece full bodysuit you like, since it was chilly you picked a jacket and your black and white dunks.

You fixed your hair and did your makeup. Something natural since you knew everybody there and everybody knew you with and without makeup at this point.

Kylian was sitting on the couch, waiting for you to be done. He was now aware of your mood. When he came home you just rolled your eyes and refused to heard about his day.

"Ready?" He asks.

You nod, grabbing the gift you got and grabbing the house keys. "Which car?" You ask, very dryly.

Kylian hates when he knows he fucked up but doesn't know at the same time. He can't piece what he did to make you mad.

"The chauffeur is waiting for us." He says, low tone. His hand find the small of your back. You move, not wanting to have his hands on you.

The whole trip was like that. He's thankful Achraf's house is relatively close to his own. Because he can't stand the silent treatment you're pulling on him.

"Hello" You smile, hugging Hakimi's sister as you enter the home. "Happy birthday, you look so beautiful."

You make some small talk, Kylian watching you. His sight is burning your skin. You can tell he's observing, he's like a hawk watching his prey.

"Happy birthday." He says, hugging his friend's sister.

You stayed with her, walking into the home and saying a quick hello to the other people. The list of invitations was mostly known faces.

"Thank God you're here. I can't stand being alone with that woman any more." She whispers, head pointing towards Pamela.

You roll your eyes. "I can't stand her either, she's a narcissist with pretty hair." You joke to get some frustration out.

The subject changes, you were talking about life, about updates on different topics you discussed in the past.

"Excuse me just a moment, I'll go check if the food is ready." Hakimi's sister says, walking to the kitchen.

You take the opportunity to go to the bathroom. Going quickly and checking your makeup. You apply a little more lip balm and go out.

"Well, well, well. Cinderella's here."

You sigh, not wanting to engage in the conversation you pass over Pamela, who quickly grabbed your arm.

"Didn't your parents teach you that it was rude not answering when you're being talked to or taught you basic manners?"

You lift an eyebrow, asking back. "Didn't your parents teach you how to respect others?"

She wanted to answer, trying to dig the knife she's been planting on your chest, but you're quick.

"And didn't you know that even with that prude face you're just a stuck up little bitch who thinks is better than anyone else but in reality, you're just an insecure piece of crap?" You whisper close to her, looking her up and down. "Look at you, hiding under all that. Your parents must hate you, having such a hypocrite for a daughter. Being such an ugly person on the inside must feel bad. So don't worry, I get what you're doing. It's not about my job or my clothes. It's that you feel inferior even with all that gold on you."

You walk back to the living room, leaving her there alone. You feel nice. Letting all that out was refreshing.

You went on with your night, some of the wives came to the party, leaving you with a nice circle and not only the birthday girl and you.

"Why is Hakimi looking at you like that?" Alessia asks, making you turn your back to where they are.

Hakimi was looking at you in a weird way. Talking to Kylian while doing it. He turned his head to find you.

"Don't know, maybe his gold digger told him something about me." You shrug, not minding it.

The night was good for you. You walk into the house happy and relaxed. Kylian was silent. You thought it was because of the silent treatment and decided to stop it.

"Hey, what if we see that movie you told me about?" You were finishing your night routine. He enters the bathroom, his eyes fixed on your reflection. "You okay?"

He sighs, not feeling like fighting. "I know what happened with Pamela." He confess.

You lock eyes with him in the mirror, his rough energy making it obvious that he was mad about the situation that happened at his friends house.

"You do?" You ask, making him nod. "Well, about time. She's crazy if she thinks she can get close to me again. What a loser."

He chuckled, shaking his head no. "Are you serious?"

You turn to him, confused about what he knows and how he knows it. "What?"

"You insulted Pamela." He says, his tone is so serious you feel like your parents are scolding you.

"What?" You repeat. "Are you serious right now?"

"Look, I know you didn't like her the night Achraf introduced you to her, but leaving her alone is one thing and belittled her about how Hakimi is just using her to forget his ex and how she's just replaceable is wrong."

You stayed quiet, not believing his words. How is it that you two are discussing the interaction her and you had in so different ways?

"I never say that"

"Well, she left saying you say that."

"Oh, so you believe her over me?" You ask offended.

"Non, but why would she lie? She even left telling Hakimi that she needs to think about their relationship because of what his best friend girlfriend thinks."

You laugh. "Is this a joke?" You ask, turning again and closing your creams. "Because if it is, it's a good one. Stop playing."

He's not laughing, he's quiet as a tomb. "I'm not laughing, am I?"

"Kylian, that never happened. How convenient it is that you get to believe her when a night ago I told you how she belittled me in every way she can."

"You never say that."

You turn back at him, mad at him. "I did."

"You didn't."

"I did, but you, asshole, were paying attention to that stupid video Ousmane sent you." You threw your hand towel at him. "I told you how I felt, but you chose to ignore me, and here we are."

"I don't recall that."

"How convenient." You exit the bathroom, grabbing your pillow and blanket. "You prefer to call me a liar and believe that I would do something like that than talking to me and getting my side."

"Where are you going?" He asks, joining you in the bedroom. "Don't be ridiculous, leave that there."

"No, Kylian, you can sleep alone tonight. I have a feeling that maybe you don't want to sleep with someone who belittles people the way I do and who treats people the way I do. Because it's how I am, of course, even after years of dating, you would think that and take someone else's side."

You walk out of the room, pillow in one hand, and blanket in the other. You enter the guest room that was near your room.

"And don't bother trying to get my story, I'm sure with her side, you have enough to make your own mind." You yell at the door frame. He's stood in front of your bedroom door. "Oh, and I know for a fact Pamela is not going to be the only one thinking about her relationship because I certainly am too."

You slam the door as hard as you can. Locking it . Not even ten seconds later he's shaking the doorknob, asking you to open the door.

"I'm not going to open the door. You chose her, Kylian." You yell again. "You chose to believe her over me." You say lower, crying about the whole situation. "I'm your girlfriend, and you chose her."

The overwhelming feeling of anger and guilt is making you cry, you don't even know why you feel guilty about what you say.

Kylian gave up after twenty minutes. You weren't going to open the door. The way your cries can be heard from outside the door is killing him.

He thinks about what you say, but he can't remember if you told him or not about how Pamela was treating you.

He remembers that you ask him to talk about something, but his stupid self didn't pay attention to the things you told him.

He couldn't sleep. He can't even rest because every time he closes his eyes, he can hear your cries. Even when you're sleep in the bed.

He needed to apologize. He texts Achraf, explaining that Pamela has been bothering you and you just responded back to her.

Hakimi knew you. He had never seen you disrespect anyone. You're friendly and kind to everyone, so maybe you're not lying here.

You woke up extra early, and he had a deep sleep, so when you got to the room and took your clothes and basic things to get ready, he didn't even feel it.

Your eyes were swollen from all the crying. You tried your best to cover your exhaustion with concealer.

The sad eyes you have are impossible to cover. That's why people say the eyes are the windows to the heart. Because you can lie all you want, but your eyes will tell the words your mouth can't.

"Bad night?" Celine asks, handing you a coffee. "It's a double, thought you might need it."

You gave her a half smile. Not wanting to say anything about the topic. She understood, not wanting to push your boundaries.

"Any plans for this weekend?" She asks. Trying to get you to talk and not look like a sad puppy.

"Kylian has an important reunion with his new coach. He invited only five of them with a plus one." You say, remembering the reunion he told you about during dinner on the weekend. "But I'm not sure if I want to attend."

"Why?"

"First, because I'm mad at him." You began telling, making Celine surprised about the first point in your list. "Second, some of these players I don't even know about. I've seen them, but never even talk with them." You exhale, already uncomfortable.

"And third?"

"I don't have anything for the occasion, I feel like my closet is a second-hand craziness that makes stupid bratty models think I'm not enough to be in their presence." You throw the pencil in your hand on the counter.

Celine listen closely to your words. "You are more than welcome to take any of the clothes from the store, you know that."

"And I'm grateful for that. Thank you so much for offering me to take something from here on a loan." You say with honesty. "I just feel like I'm playing dress up with your charity." You feel your eyes tear up. "Celine, I can't afford any of the clothes you design, and somehow, I'm posting on social media about me wearing them, like if I'm not five euros away from breaking the bank."

You can't help the sobs, walking to the bathroom to hide. You feel embarrassed, with your boss, with your life and with your social status.

You were done with people diminish you because you were a retail worker. People calling you a gold digger because you date Kylian.

You're done with pretending to be someone you are not just to be able to fit with the people he's around.

He can afford hundreds of thousands of dollars in clothes, in shoes, in hats or watches. You can afford some pieces from boutiques at the mall when you got a bonus or when you have a special occasion.

You live in a house he paid with a month of working. House you could never afford in this lifetimes or the next five.

You were basically living out of him, and still not even close to making ends meet because the neighborhood stores were five times more expensive that the ones downtown, because just in transportation to where his house is you spend half your income.

You were leaving a life that was not for you. Everybody around him knew that. It was just about time for him to figure that you were just a bump on his way.

You gather composure, thankful for your waterproof mascara. You walk back upfront, meeting a very concerned Celine.

"I'm fine, I don't want to talk about it." You say. Helping her with some things at the store.

You remained quiet for the rest of the day, feeling embarrassed. You missed your family, you missed your friends.

You feel alone. That was an issue.

You have Kylian's family. You have the wags who were your friends. You have Celine. But at the same time, you didn't.

You can't go over to his family to talk about things he does or to get advice because that's not correct in your eyes.

You can take advice when it's asked, but you are not going to rant about your issues with him like you would with your best friend.

You won't rant about the problems of being in the public eye and how people like Pamela treat you with disrespect. But they know about it. Some of them got the same comments, maybe not directly to their faces but on social media every day.

You need your family and friends.

Moving out to a different country with no one to relate to, with no one to talk to about the struggles of barely know the language.

"I'm going home. Do you need me to help you with something else before I leave?"

"No, it's okay." She smiles. Kissing you cheek goodbye. You nod, grabbing your things, giving her the report of the day like always. "Hey, Y/n."

You turn back to her. "Yes, ma'am?"

She hands you a bag. "Open it at home. It's something I forgot to give you." She smiles.

You nod, saying your goodbyes to her and telling her that you will text her when you are home.

You feel a headache, entering home and walking to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You find Kylian eating and sitting on the counter.

You don't like not talking to him. You want to hug him and cry in his arms. You want him to tell you that everything will be fine and that you are okay and safe.

He has earbuds on, not noticing your presence. You open the fridge and grab the water. Passing next to him and touching his arm.

He jumps a little, quickly taking his earbuds off to pay all the attention to you. "You're home."

You nod, drinking a whole glass of water. "Yes, you're early." You say, serving a glass for him. "What you got there?"

He thanked you, sipping some water. "It's a sandwich. Want a piece?" He placed the sandwich back in the plate and slid it to you.

You took a bite out of the sandwich. It tasted weird from all the ingredients he put inside of it. "It's an interesting flavor. But I think I'm not that hungry."

He finished the sandwich. You took a seat next to him on the counter, a glass of water in hand. "How was your day?" He asks.

"Good, same as always."

He nods, not sure how to approach the situation. He feels horrible about everything. "Can I be honest with you?" He asks.

"Always." You smile, reassuring him.

"I don't know what got into me, I should have listened to you instead of watching that stupid video. And I'm mostly sorry for making you cry and feel like you are something that you are not."

You want to speak, but you let him finish his rambling apology. Knowing he's being honest, this was his way of saying sorry, rambling about the thing he's sorry for, and then getting to a point.

"I know Pamela is someone I know before we even met, but that doesn't mean she's allowed to tell you things or make you feel a certain way. And I won't tolerate that happening to you. I know you and your character. I'm sorry about last night and any other night in the past, I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like you don't matter, you do, to me you are the most important person."

You feel your eyes getting teary. You needed those words more than anything. You needed the reassure he's giving you. You needed him.

"Can I give you a hug?" He asks, getting down.

You open your arms, letting him get into your embrace. "Je t'aime." You kiss his neck.

The hug lasted for what felt like hours. That was what you both needed. Specially you.

"Want to go upstairs and take a well-deserved bath?" He asks, kissing your head. "I can even get some strawberries to eat with the chocolate you like." You nod, kissing his lips.

✨️✨️✨️

You didn't work on weekends, mostly because since you weren't just a regular worker at the store, you were upgraded to a little privilege of having you weekends off.

You spend the day organizing some papers you left unattended for a while now. You moved some books that you planned to donate to some students that needed them.

You still needed to find a dress for the activity that was taking place tonight. Ready to go back to Celine and see if she can help you pick something.

You promise her that you will always come to her for anything if you ever needed help. And as much as you feel like you're abusing your privilege, she will likely not let you pay for anything you pick even if you could.

You finish your organization and change into something more presentable to go out with. Asking Kylian's chauffeur to take you to the store.

"Bonjour, mon ange." Celine greets you when she seed you walk in. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good, I'm sorry about that scene. I was just not in a right place that day." You hug her hello.

"It's okay. We all have those days." She laughs. "I know I'm a little lost when it comes to dates and days, but I know for a fact that today you are not working." She hums.

"I'm not, but I have an event, and I want to get something pretty. Maybe you can help me?"

You bat your eyelashes at her. Making her laugh and hug you by the shoulders. "I have the perfect dress for you."

She showed you some dresses, most of them way too formal for the event. But then you see this beautiful short long sleeve black sequin dress.

"It's perfect." You say. "Can I try it on?"

She nods, "Show me how it fits."

You try it. It fits like a glove, it's the perfect length, the perfect material, everything. "What do you think?"

"Fits like a glove." She smiles, making a sign for you to spin. "Parfait" she happily says.

You change quickly. Wanting to run home and get ready for the night. You pass the dress to her as you finish putting your shoes back on.

"So, here's that dress for you." She hands you the brand bag.

"Will you let me ever pay you?"

"I dont think so. But I think I have an idea. If you want, you can return it on monday or keep it." She smiles.

"I'll bring it back, I promise you that one day I'll be able to pay you back everything you do for me."

She hugged you goodbye. Wishing you a great night. You went back straight to the house. Excited about getting ready.

You took your time, getting your hair and a very natural makeup. Kylian got back home in the middle of your routine.

He got ready with you. He was wearing something between formal and not so formal. Nothing too serious, but nothing casual.

"Can you zip me up?" You ask.

He looks at you up and down. Your back greeting him. He runs a finger down your spine, making you arch from the sensation.

"Amour, no." You chuckle.

He kisses your shoulder, moves to your neck, and finishes with your other shoulder. "I love how you look." He whispers in your ear as he zips the dress.

You turn, kissing him and thanking him. "Ready, Mister?"

"Ready, amour." He smiles.

You two arrive at the house of Luis Enrique, his wife and daughter were there with him. He invited Zaire-Emery, Zague, Lee Kang, Vitinha and Kylian.

They came with their plus one, some of them brought their girlfriends and some of them brought their agents.

Kylian sat next to you, on the other side of him was Lee and on the other side of you was Zague.

Lee was with his agent. "You are Kylian's agent?" He asks. His English sounded so adorable since he's not used to it yet.

"I-" You were going to answer, but kylian interrupted.

"She's my girlfriend, Y/n this is Lee, Lee this is Y/n."

"Oh, nice to meet you, you are so pretty. Kylian always talks about you." He shakes your hand.

"Thank yo-"

"Hey Lee, did you saw that we are going to change the training schedule?"

You decided to remain quiet, Kylian was nervous, and that shows, he's very talkative with everything.

They keep talking about different topics. Luis Enrique and his wife were making sure everyone was comfortable.

"Can you pass the salt?" Zague asks. "I'm Zague, by the way, sorry." He laughs.

"Here that salt." You laugh too. "And I'm Y/n. Kylian's girlfriend." You shake his hands the same way with Lee.

"Nice to meet you. This guy always talks about you." He smile. "Are you from Paris? You don't sound french."

"No, I'm actually from -"

"Zague, Lee wants to tell Luis about that day you fell into the pool." Kylian laughs.

"Do it." He chuckle. "Sorry, I didn't get to hear your answer."

You were interrupted again by Kylian. Feeling a little off about it. Zague notices your face falling from the cut in your words.

Not that you were complaining, but kylian interrupted every single interaction you had with everyone. You feel dumb, people asked you things, and you were cut off almost every time.

The dinner was good. You got to sit in front of Luis's daughter, Sira. She was a cute girl and very talkative too.

"Horse riding? that's so cool." You smile at her.

"Yes, I love doing it."

"She's amazing. You should come to one of the competitions they do here in France. It's an experience." Luis says.

"She's afraid of horses." Kylian joined the conversation.

"I'm not." You laugh, thinking he's maybe joking. "I actually think horses are cute and powerful."

"Didn't you once fall off of one?" He asks.

Luis and Sira look at each other, confused about why kylian was bringing that up. "I've fallen a good amount of times. It's pretty normal."

"Yes, and believe me. At first, horses can be scary." Luis says. "Kylian, another glass of wine?"

"Yes, let me serve this one."

Kylian took the bottle, moving his arm a little faster and by mistake throwing your glass all over you.

You feel the cold drink hitting you, moving the chair back quickly, trying to save the parts where it didn't hit yet.

"Oh my God." Sira says, getting up and grabbing a napkin. "It's okay, I think my mom has a cleaning product."

"Let's not worry, your dress is black and I think it'll be safe." Kylian says, tapping his napkin on your legs where the wine hit.

You want to say something, but you are too mad at him to even say something. Being afraid that you will lash out in front of everybody.

"Wait, you have your tags on. Let me take those." Kylian tear off the tags. Making you let out an angry but small growl.

You close your eyes and inhale. "Luis, can I please use your bathroom?" You ask nicely, smiling to hide your emotions. "It's okay, it was an honest mistake. Please do take that glass of wine. I'm just going to dry myself, and we can keep talking."

Sira walked you to the bathroom. She even gave you some wipes and a towel to help with the situation.

"If you need anything else, I'll be over here at the rooms. Second door to the left." She smiles, leaving you alone at the bathroom.

You want to cry, you feel weird, you're dirty and sticky from all the wine you have on you. And kylian pulling the interrupting act was stressful.

You clean the wine off your legs and arms, and you fix your dress that was still wet, and you throw the used wipes and paper at the trash can.

Three knocks made you open the door. Kylian was standing there. "Hey, you okay?"

You roll your eyes, stepping outside. "Can we go home? I don't feel well, am sticky and uncomfortable." You whine.

"Yes, I'll go get your bag, wait for me outside." He says, hurrying to get your things.

He excuses you with everybody. Saying goodbye and thanking Luis for the dinner. They all understood and told him to tell you goodbye.

The drive home you were silent, trying to calm your anger at him. You don't want to yell. You don't want to fight. You just want a shower and a good night sleep.

You enter the house and take your shoes off. Leaving them by the door. You try to unzip your dress, but you can't reach the zipper.

You feel his cold hands, undoing your zipper. "I'm really sorry." He apologizes. Hands massaging your shoulders.

You put your hands in your chest to hold the dress. "Please don't touch me." You walk one step forward. "I'm taking a shower."

He sighs. "It's was an honest mistake, Y/n."

You stop your steps. Turning and walking down two steps. "Was you interrupting on everything I said also unintentional?" You ask, stern tone.

He shakes his head no. Moving upstairs to be at the same height as you. "I said I'm sorry, let's get ready for bed and call it a night."

"A tasteless sorry is supposed to make it up for me?" You walk the rest of the steps. He was already on the second floor. Walking towards the room. "I'm talking to you. Stop ignoring me."

He pulls the silent treatment card, going to the closet to change into his night clothes. You slam the bathroom door, angry at him.

You left the dress on the floor. Feeling nervous about ruining the dress Celine let you borrow.

You shower, taking that hideous feeling. Trying to calm down to be able to face what's outside the bathroom.

He's ignoring you. Under the covers with his phone. Back turned to you. You close the closet door. Not sure if you want him to address anything.

You try not to cry, you have been feeling ignored, you have been feeling bad bout different aspects of your life, and all because of him.

You let yourself get humiliated for the sake of not creating any drama that can get used against him.

You have been a good girlfriend. You're not a bad person. You won't categorize yourself as someone who deserves bad things because you never do bad things to others.

You grab your small suitcase. You pack some basics. You walk into the bathroom with a toiletry bag. Grabbing your most necessary products and things. You walk back into the closet. You finish packing.

You don't move the suitcase just yet. You get down to where your purse is. Walking back upstairs and locking yourself in.

You open the browser. Searching for a flight home, finding one in three hours. You book it.

Texting your friend and telling her that you will be home at the time the ticket says it's landing, she asks you if you are okay and you just say you'll talk once you are there.

You don't move for a few minutes, you tear about the fact that you will leave Kylian alone. That you will have to tell him that you will leave to be able to rest your mind.

You gather courage, order an Uber. Opening the door. He's now watching something on the tv. "Kylian, we need to talk."

"I don't want to fight. Let's talk tomorrow."

"I won't be here tomorrow." You say, your voice is shaking.

He turns, you're with tears rolling down your face, suitcase in hand. "Amour, what are you doing?" he throws the sheets quickly.

He walks over to you, trying to grab you. But you back off. Lifting your hand and making him stop.

"Kylian, I need time. I can't keep going with my days like this. It's not just about tonight. It's the whole Pamela situation. It's just too much." You cry.

"You don't need to leave. I'll go. But please stay here. Mon Amour, please."

"I have my ticket already booked. I'm going home. " You whisper. "I'm not breaking up with you. I just need time. I can't keep going like this."

"This is our home." he whines, not being able to get your reasoning.

"No, this is your house. Those are your friends, this is your country."

You walk past him. Feeling your heart break. You hurry to the strairs. The suitcase is not cooperating with you, wanting to go quickly.

He grabs the suitcase, making you turn to face him. "When are you coming back?" he asks, tears in his eyes. "Because you will be back, aren't you?"

You nod, sobbing. "I'll be back in two weeks"

He then gets your suitcase down the stairs. When you are at the bottom, you throw yourself on his arms.

"I'm sorry, Kylian." You cry. "But please understand that I need to do this. I need to get all this out of my head. I feel so unworthy. I feel so out of place that I don't fit in your world."

"Stop, you do. You are so worthy to me and to everyone around us who loves you and cares about you." he hugs you.

"I'll be back." You pull away. "My Uber is here." You say seeing the notification of the driver. "Je t’aime"

He kisses you. He dries your tears with his shirt. "Text me when you get there. You have the card I gave you? If you need anything please use it."

You nod, kissing his lips. You pull and walk outside. Once you are about to get into the car, you turn to see him standing there. You wave and close the car door.

#football #football fanfic #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian x reader #football angst #football x you #kylian mbappe x y/n #kylian mbappe x you #kylian mbappe angst #kylian mbappe fic #football fluff #football smut #football drabble #Mbappe fic #kylian mbappe imagine #kylian mbappe oneshot #kylian mbappe

[albedobeheading]

the thing is tho that I do know I would genuinely be doing better if I wasn’t still living at home and I’d be able to take the time to respond appropriately to uncomfortable feelings. but also sometimes people are dicks!!!

#I want to quit this job so bad!!! #but I need to apply and be accepted to the other one first!!! #ohhhh fuck I should probably do that tomorrow #god. I’m gonna have to be around my mom. #guys I want to kill myself but I don’t but I want to leave everyone behind which is just another way of killing myself and I also wouldn’t #survive that #I just don’t fuckin get it #I want to FIX what’s wrong with me but I need my mom in order to do that #and it doesn’t even matter all of these things that my mom has the capacity to buy for me #when she says she can’t and will take all of it away when IM the one having a bad day and just doesn’t want to talk about shit #like why can’t you see that!!!!!!! why can’t you meet me where I’m at and understand that!!!!! #I want to DIEEEEEE #and then the question is like. what feeling or expression am I going to have when I don’t actually want to die #but I’m feeling an equivalent bad feeling if I were out of this place?? #I just. I know that life could be so much better and I know that people love me but GOD dude it’s so fuckin hopeless now

[wolves-in-the-world]

y'know that classic, gorgeous scenario where eliot gets Some Sort Of Injury and can't easily shave/wash his hair/etc for a while, so hardison and parker convince him they can help and he melts into it and it's all very intricate rituals and intimacy and vulnerability?

#quinn hair is like eliot hair (soft; looks braidable) but FORBIDDEN #touch on pain of maiming etc [via @darkfinch, here]

thanks to these tags I'm now thinking of a quinn who gets The Nonspecific Hand And/Or Arm Injury and, upon figuring out how long it's going to take to heal and finding a suitable pause in the job, just nods to himself and asks eliot for help and both of them disappear into the bathroom, and the others figure eliot's just helping him get it clean—

—only they emerge half an hour later with eliot looking resigned and quinn with a buzzed head, funky scalp scars on display like it's not a big deal. sophie just stares at hardison like did you know they were going to do that? and hardison gives a helpless and slightly terrified shrug, and they carefully don't mention it. even if sophie has to stamp on nate's foot to keep him from commenting when he turns up.

#'cos it's different accepting eliot's help once compared to accepting it every time #gritting your teeth through one necessary session where the other person isn't anything but practical #compared to the inherent danger (vulnerability) of the 'I'll help you wash your hair. as often as needed.' scenario #quinn leverage #orig #like I LOVE the first scenario with eliot I absolutely adore it #I just tried to mentally apply it to quinn out of curiosity #and got this vivid image of him reaching for the clippers in protest #and frankly I really respect that. #accidentally showing a very different kind of vulnerability by tacitly admitting to the team #that he'd rather lose his hair and deal with that inconvenience than let anyone help him with it more than once. #parker I think understands the concept of Crisis Haircuts and also is less hung up on Having To Look Good than the others #so she Notices but she's not as weirded out and probably actually comments on it #and maybe next time they hang out together on the roof she just briefly asks him about it #and he can put her mind at rest that it's not a distress indicator.

[pepprs]

ok actually yeah. i really need to do dishes and go to bed and not stay up late mentalillnessposting a little too viscerally on tumblr the night before i facilitate a workshop in front of the literal president of the university and the vp of my division (LOL about that btw. actively shitting my pants.) but oh my GOD. so saying goodbye to lia was actually fine in the moment. neither of us cried and we talked about all the ways we’ll still be in each others lives and reasons we’ll have to interact in the near future. and she gave me an extremely heartfelt thoughtful gift and we left on a very hopeful note and i felt better and content bc there’s still the rest-of-life and we’ll see each other there. but like an hour before that as i mentioned i was HYSTERICALLY sobbing. in full view of people i know AND people i don’t. and i just sat there and sobbed while everything carried on around me. everything carried on around me!!! and i feel like im about to sob again thinking about it.

#purrs #delete later #idk. i typed a bunch here and then deleted it and now idk what to say. i just feel so lonely. i have had fucked up relationships with every #single older adult in my life and never had someone who could a) stay in my life b) be consistently present in my life c) meet my emotional #needs d) actually See me and accept me for who i am. Like not one person who can be all four of those things. and i have to be all four of t #those things for myself now because im 24 and i missed my chance. but how fucking shitty and painful is that? especially after a year like t #this. the way it’s literally ending the SAME way last year did. huge scary promotion (which i haven’t even talked about on here or to anyone #but lia today actually. but it might be huger and scarier than i thought. which is good but also HUGE -‘d scary. and not a bad thing of bc o #course but it’s so fucking… perilous? like it makes me feel profoundly imperiled because i have extremely good reason to feel that way. and #i have to endure the mortifying ordeal of applying for my own job AGAIN after the first time was so horrible. lol) and also losing a beloved #mentor figure who understood me in a way no one else did which mattered immensely even if they couldn’t do the whole presence thing or #whatever. and now i only have one older adult in my life left (aside from my therapist who doesn’t really count bc i only see her once a #week and we barely know each other still) who is like. here and helping me and i KNOW i am so sick in the head i KNOW and i should not be #writing it but every single day i am fucking terrified that i am being or will be separated from him emotionally or physically jsut like all #the others so. LOL!!!!! i am normal and well adjusted. but it’s like so fucking painful because im grasping at straws but again the reality #is im 24 and the only people on this earth who it is fair for me to expect all 4 from and who should’ve provided it to me are my parents. #and i missed my chance with them forever and now i have to do it myself. and that’s ok sometimes and i can handle it… except in the moments #where im sobbing hysterically and everything carries on. when i am in my darkest moments i want to run to an older adult and have them #comfort me but i truly cannot do that with any of the ones i still have left / regularly interact with for so many reasons. and it’s so #painful it makes me sick sometimes. and now i have to be the romy and the lia i wish to see in this world. but how can i do that when i #haven’t finished grieving over them leaving which feels like leaving ME — NOW — in this moment when i have never needed more support of that #kind more. how can isummon it within myself. im not ready yet. i need a long hug and a hand to hold that won’t (have to) let go. when im #crying i need someone to take me somewhere and comfort me and calm me down. and im 24 so i can’t ask for it. but oh my god i need it. and i #missed my chance. and lia left today and she only ever did that for me metaphorically but… tonight i feel more alone than ever. #and it’s like i don’t even have the emotional intelligence or whatever to ASK for that. bc im playing by ear and i don’t know how to read #the music of it. im self taught. that fucking sucks. that SUCKSSS. also that’s too strong a way to put it liek obviously my friends who are #closer to my age are INTEGRAL to me being able to function and i learn from them and cherish their support. but just like i can’t be a mom #to me my friends can’t either. so it’s like what the fuck do i do. get steamrolled by relentless grief and rage every day i guess. #also side note. everything carried on when i was in brighton too. i came home early ofc but it’s like nothing changed in my absence. and #that has fucked me up SUPREMELY. i think that might be a root of it. like hm… it seems my presence doesn’t have impacts. but idk

[jackredfieldwasmyjacob]

something fun happened

#so. a few weeks ago i sent an email to a previous professor of mine (who i'm very scared of) cause i needed a recommendation letter #he accepted and was very chill about it #but hasn't written the recommendation letter yet (it's for next thursday <3) #on tuesday i contacted him again cause i found this program in the university of galway that could fit into what i wanted #i contacted a professor and he said yes #he wanted me to send him a research proposal so i wrote one in half a day and also kickstarted the process to apply for funding #cause the application process closes tomorrow #i spedrun everything including emailing two professors to once again write recommendation letter #one of them was this professor #anyways yesterday the professor from galway that had said he wanted to be my thesis director said he couldn't do it after reading my thesis #proposal #he was very nice about it but yeah #by then one of the professors had already wrote and sent the first recommendation letter #i didn't have the heart to notice them that those recommendation letters didn't matter anymore #and right now the scary professor sent me an email telling me he had written it #the galway one. not the one i actually need #and now i'm stressing cause i don't want to write him again scolding him for not writing the other letter #but there's only one week left and i want to die actually #cause if i can't apply to that funding it's game over for me #so lol. #also you know what's fun? #if the galway professor hadn't pulled back right now i would be finishing my application form and applying for that funding #in galway #isn't that incredibly fun??

[peachdeluxe]

A lot of you on here feel waaay too comfortable admitting that you don't and refuse to listen to rap music, and I'm not loving the incredibly reductive takes on rap because the kendrick/drake beef has it on some of yall's radar for the first time in your life.

I'm not going to sugar coat it-- for americans especially, if you consider music a significant interest of yours but still feel the need to search for acceptable reasons to keep yourself ignorant of black music, or think of rap as a monolith of hate and violence and not equally as diverse as any other genre, or can only name nonblack rappers… you should be embarrassed of that. And your embarrassment should not keep you from being active about exposing yourself to unfamiliar art and broadening what you listen to.

'I don't understand what they're saying/they rap too quickly' I'm surprised by how much I keep seeing this-- speed is not a stylistic trademark of most rap music, & clearer diction as a performer is much more necessary in rap than other genres?? Statistically rap has a lower bpm (here's an example of one person's study) average than other genres. (of course these aren't all-encompassing, but you can look into this yourself using sites like bpmdatabase.com.) Do you really feel overwhelmed by speed listening to Kendrick or Biggie or Nas or 2Pac, or have you never actually listened to their songs?

'I have to look up the lyrics'-- so what? is it a bad thing to take an extra few seconds to engage with an artist's work? If you listen to lyrical music, do you care when it's the artists you listen to? Why does the thoughtful art consumption everyone talks about not also apply to black art?

'there is too much violence and misogyny and commercialism' this is not unique to rap, or true of all rap music. Artists exist that talk about other things, the way they exist in all genres. There is an entire wikipedia page listing alternative hip hop musicians and rappers if you consider seeking it out too much labor. Click one!

'i find it unrelatable'-- who cares? Being unable to engage with art you don't find wholly relatable is a deeply childish and self centered way to exist. You get on here reblogging feel good navel-gazey posts about the shared human experience and caring for one another, but a rapper talking about living with violence or poverty is stretching the limits of what you can imagine or empathize with too much for you to care about it? You don't find that embarrassing to admit to?

You don't have to love rap, you don't have to incorporate it into what you listen to every day, but a lot of you need to be aware you're parroting reagan era anti-rap (& antiblack) pearl-clutching talking points, and it's a very ugly look. It isn't racist if your favorite genre isn't rap, but you need to do some serious self reflection if you consider it inherently less artistic, intelligent or positive than 'whiter' genres when you don't actually listen to it. I am looking at you, people into other counterculture genres-- it's crazy how much I see this from self-professed punks and metalheads especially lmfao. If expression, counterculture art, anti-censorship in music and the right for raw and unfiltered music to exist matters to you as much as you say you do, you should care about rap's relationship to censorship & fight for its legitimacy just as much as what you listen to.

#i dont like personal posting on tumblr in general but i do not like the vibe on here lately #edited cause i did misread the way the second graph was presented #point about speed still stands

[heartshattering]

Me: idk, maybe I'm not stable enough for grad school, my life feels like too much of a mess and I know it's probably only for people who have their lives in order and know how to cope well enough to handle it...

Me after looking at "grad school memes" where everyone talks about using substances, never sleeping, and constantly feeling a sense of imposter syndrome: Oh wow, maybe I actually will fit in after all

#grad school #I'm not accepted yet or anything #I haven't even applied #I... probably *can't* go tbh (at least not yet) #because my mom still needs full-time help and can't be left alone #but I still come up with hypothetical situations in my mind #like “if I *could* go... would I make it or would I just freak out and make an embarrassment out of myself in the first week?” #and so on and so forth #plus at one point I actually was basically doing (unpaid) TA work for my university lol #and if I'm just going insane in my room anyway why not go insane while doing a degree so at least I get something out of it in the end? #idk #sometimes I like to think I'm not that bad but other times I feel like a failure who isn't going anywhere in life so who knows honestly

[avaantares]

Fanfiction Authors: HEADS UP

(Non-authors, please RB to signal boost to your author friends!)

An astute reader informed me this morning that one of my fics (Children of the Future Age) had been pirated and was being sold as a novel on Amazon:

(And they weren't even creative with their cover design. If you're going to pirate something that I spent a full year of my life writing, at least give me a pretty screenshot to brag about later. Seriously.)

I promptly filed a DMCA complaint to have it removed, but I checked out the company that put it up -- Plush Books -- and it looks like A LOT of their books are pirated fic. They are by no means the only ones doing this, either -- the fact that """publishers""" can download stories from AO3 in ebook format and then reupload them to Amazon in just a few clicks makes fic piracy a common problem. There are a whole host of reasons why letting this continue is bad -- including actual legal risk to fanfiction archives -- but basically:

IF YOU ARE A FANFIC AUTHOR WITH LONG AND/OR POPULAR WORKS, PLEASE CHECK AMAZON TO SEE IF YOUR STORIES HAVE BEEN PIRATED.

You can search for your fics by title, or by text from the description (which is often just copied wholesale from AO3 as well). If you find that someone has stolen your work and is selling it as their own, you can lodge a DMCA complaint (Amazon.com/USA site; other countries have different systems). If you haven't done this before, it's easy! Here's a tutorial:

HOW TO FILE A COPYRIGHT COMPLAINT FOR STOLEN WORK ON AMAZON.COM:

First, go to this form. You'll need to be signed into your Amazon account.

Select the radio buttons/dropdown options (shown below) to indicate that you are the legal Rights Owner, you have a copyright concern, and it is about a pirated product.

Enter the name of your story in the Name of Brand field.

In the Link to the Copyrighted Work box, enter a link to the story on AO3 or whatever site your work is posted on.

In the Additional Information box, explain that you are the author of the work and it is being sold without your permission. That's all you really need. If you want, you can include additional information that might be helpful in establishing the validity of your claim, but you don't have to go into great detail. You can simply write something like this:

I am the author of this work, which is being sold by [publisher] without my permission. I originally published this story in [date/year] on [name of site], and have provided a link to the original above. On request, I can provide documentation proving that I am the owner of the account that originally posted this story.

In the ASIN/ISBN-10 field, copy and paste the ID number from the pirated copy's URL. You'll find this ten-digit number in the Amazon URL after the word "product," as in the screenshot below. (If the URL extends beyond this number, you can ignore everything from the question mark on.) Once this number has been added, Amazon will pull the product information automatically and add it to the complaint form, so you can check the listing title and make sure it's correct.

Finally, add your contact information to the relevant fields, check the "I have read and accept the statements" box, and then click Submit. You should receive an email confirmation that Amazon has received the form.

Please share this information with your writer friends, keep an eye out for/report pirated works, and help us keep fanfiction free and legally protected!

NOTE: All of the above also applies to Amazon products featuring stolen artwork, etc., so fan artists should check too!

#fanfiction #ao3 #piracy #dmca #pirated fanfic #please signal boost #i'm mad but also laughing that my dmc fanfic is now a 'number one best selling novel' lol #i'm also a traditionally-published author #so this is both hilarious and deeply insulting to me

[perlelune]

NDA | Coriolanus Snow

When you get hired as a nanny for President Snow and his wife's firstborn, you’re beyond thrilled and grateful. But quickly, the perfect facade melts, revealing the ugly truth of what actually goes on in the Snows' house.

Warnings: NON-CON, Capitol! Reader, Innocent Reader, Cheating, Coercion, Blackmail, Power Imbalance

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Your worried eyes track the frenzied glide of the woman’s quill over the notepad. You squint, hoping to discern some of the words she’s scrawling that way, but they are indiscernible…just like the stone-cold expression of the bespectacled woman on the other side of the desk.

She catches you trying to peek. Your heart jumps.

As her sharp green gaze zeroes in on you, you clear your throat and shift in your seat.

She puts her quill down and twines her fingers.

“So what do you think sets you apart  from the other applicants?”

You chew on your lip. When you arrived to offer your candidature this morning, you naively believed you’d be early. Instead, you were forced to join the tail end of the massive waiting line stretching far outside the Snows’ estate. It didn’t hit you before that moment, how prized the position is. Each of the women and girls you saw radiated excellent breeding and impeccable manners. Many probably attended the University and could double as a tutor if the need presents itself.

This isn’t your case. Your parents left you and your brother Laertes with nothing when they suddenly passed away in a rebel bombing. You couldn’t blame them. This wasn't the plan. Who plans on dying and leaving their two children to fend for themselves?

Still, you now have a list of bills the length of your arm coupled with a massive mortgage to pay every month. And as Laertes’ sole caretaker, you must ensure you can afford to send him to University once he completes his education in the Academy.

Circumstances denied you that chance. Despite being of university’s age, you couldn’t afford the cost of tuition and had to drop out as soon as you got accepted. You want better for your little brother.

So as soon as you heard the news that President Snow and First Lady Livia Cardew were in search of a nanny for their son Martius, you jumped on the opportunity to apply. You rose before the sun, rummaged through your mother’s closet to find her best dress, and hailed a car to come here.

It’s a long shot, of course. You’re not as polished and impressive as some of the other women. You’re also noticeably younger. But the wages promised alone compelled you to take a chance despite the odds being unfavorable.

Fiddling with your hands, you meet the woman’s impassive stare head-on.

“What sets me apart?” You mull over your answer. You could paint a false, august portrait of yourself, your skills and your accomplishments. Or try to at least.

But what would be the point of pretending to be someone you’re not only to be found out later on? So you elect to tread the path of honesty.

“Nothing,” you say. “But I’m a hard worker. A very hard worker. In fact, I already have three jobs, one at a bakery, another as a clerk in an antique shop and I assist Fabricia Whatnot at her boutique sometimes.” Panic quivers inside you as the woman quickly jots something down on her notepad. You swiftly specify, “...But I’ll quit all of them if I get the position, of course.” You lick your lips as knots tie your stomach. “I can learn everything there is to learn on the spot. I love children, and…” You trail off, gaze traveling to your lap as you muse if you should reveal more. Your fists clench as you add, “I have a little brother who’s a few years older than Martius, and I’m really hoping I get this opportunity so I can give him the life he deserves.”

An unnerving quiet occupies the air. The wait is agony, your nails digging painfully into your palms. The jagged drumming of your heart bleeds inside your ears as she studies you.

Eventually, she leans back in the velvet chair, her face betraying no thought or emotion.

“You’re dismissed,” she says.

Your heart plummets to your feet. You shakily rise, dispirited as you drag your heels towards the door. You steal a glance above your shoulder. The woman’s attention has already drifted away from you as she shouts for the next applicant.

You sourly exit the office. You try to swallow your dejection as you note how many women are still waiting in line, each of them likely more qualified and experienced. It’s obvious you tanked the interview. Shoulders slumping, you take resigned steps through the elegant, palatial hallways of the Snow’s mansion. You get lost in admiring the crystal and gold chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. There isn’t an inch of the house that doesn’t scream excessive, unattainable wealth.

You take your time soaking it in. Chances are you’ll never step foot in such a place in your lifetime ever again.

Distracted, you don’t notice the person in front of you before it’s too late. You bump straight into a hard, inflexible body. 

The sudden collision threatens your balance.

Fingers coil around your wrists as you stagger back, preventing your impending collapse onto the marbled floor.

As your attention drifts skywards, your jaw drops at who fills your vision.

“P-President Snow, my deepest apologies, s-sir,” you stammer, flames licking your cheeks.

As if you didn’t make yourself look dimwitted enough before, you now carelessly crashed into the leader of all of Panem. Just when you thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.

You take him in. It truly is him. Shock fills you. 

 Tall and dazzling in a crisp white shirt and crimson vest that hints at his lean physique beneath the clothes, his signature blond waves slicked away from his face, he looks every bit the important figure that he is.

The flickering TV screen you own at home doesn’t do him justice.

A gentle smirk unfurls on his lips.

“It’s quite alright. I’m not made of sugar,” he jests.

“No…you’re not, your highness…majesty...I mean sir.”

Your blunder expands his smile. His cerulean gaze drags over your frame.

“Are you here for the nursemaid position?”

“I am, sir.” You unleash a deep exhale, his inquiry tossing salt on the fresh wound. The interviewer clearly wasn’t impressed by your less than stellar performance. Maybe you should have tried to mimic the way the girls with whom you attended the Academy behave more. They carry themselves with such confidence, wading through the world with the certainty of their destinies being secure, bereft of hardships unlike district dwellers.

You envy how carefree they get to be. Everyday you wake up worried you’ll come up short on a bill and you and Laertes will be forced to leave your family home. No matter how diligent you are at work, there never seems to be enough money to sustain the two of you. Even with three jobs, you’re barely eking out a decent living for you and your little brother. Many times, you’ve gone to bed hungry just so Laertes would not.

You don’t even realize tears have filled your eyes to the brim until a handkerchief is daintily pressed into your cheeks.

Flabbergasted, you blink up at President Snow. 

“Thank you,” you exhale, stunned by his kind gesture.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

You search his eyes. Genuine interest lights up his pellucid blue orbs.

Without much thought, you confess, “I just don’t think I did very well with my interview.”

As he scrutinizes you in silence, cocking his head sideways, embarrassment rushes through you.

Words anxiously leave your lips in a tremulous string.

“God, I’m so sorry, spilling my problems to you as if you’re not an extremely busy man, sir.”

He shakes his head. “It’s quite alright. And do not count yourself defeated, sweetheart.” Your pulse stutters when he bends over you to whisper, “You may have left a stronger impression than you think.”

He nudges the pocket square between your hands. It’s still damp with your tears. You gape at it in awe. President Snow’s initials are elegantly etched in the left corner of the fabric.

“Here. Keep it. Though I’d much prefer it if you didn’t cry.” He pauses, studying you. “Girls as lovely as you never should.”

His words send your heart into a frenzy. For a while, you’re too stunned to move. You then shake yourself back to reality, noticing you’re now staring at the empty space where he used to stand. He’s gone. You look ahead. He’s already miles away from you, wrapped in conversation with who seems to be an assistant of his. 

Your thumbs press against the soft fabric of the pocket square. Cheeks ablaze, you hold it to your nose. It smells like roses, the same delicate scent that wafted from him a few minutes ago. Your back prickles. You pivot and are astonished to find the envious glares of some of the applicants still waiting in line zeroed in on you. Self-conscious, you rush to continue your exit, fleeing away from the hateful stares. 

As the outside gates come into sight, you can’t suppress an elated smile. It’s not everyday someone meets President Snow and receives such a gift from him. Shoving the handkerchief in your pocket, you vow to place it somewhere safe and always cherish it. 

When you return home, your brother’s already sitting in the living room, his tiny brows scrunched in concentration and his nose buried in his books. Your stomach sinks. Everything you did today was for him. You can’t help but feel you missed out on a huge opportunity, one that’d have changed the course of his life forever. You glance around at the apartment. The walls are crumbling. The wooden floors are creaking. The pipes in the kitchen have been leaking for weeks, a measly bucket you must empty every morning the only thing preventing a flood. And at night, the pitter-patter of rodents’ paws resonates from the ceiling.

Every inch of your family home is in dire need of repairs.

Unfortunately, every penny you earn goes into rent and food, meaning the house falls apart a bit more everyday. Perhaps one day, you and Laertes will awake beneath the rubble of what’s left of your childhood home. Nightmares of that sometimes keep you up at night.

“How was the Academy today?” you chime, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Worry twists your chest. There isn’t much left. You’ll need to make do with cabbage and whatever other veggies are left. Perhaps you could toss in some leftover dried meat and make a stew.

“My teacher signed me up for advanced trigonometry,” your brother announces.

You close the cabinet and beam at him.

“Oh, that sounds hard. I’m proud of you.” It doesn’t exactly surprise you. Laertes’ always been exceptionally smart. Even his teachers noticed how gifted he is from an early age. Unlike you, he breezed through middle school and now the Academy.

It’s why it’s crucial you make sure he can go to the University. A mind like his shouldn’t be wasted.

You brother shrugs, exuding nonchalance.

“It’s fine.”

You rush to him. You wrap your arm around him playfully and hug him in his chair, pulling his cheek like when he was little. You know he hates when you do that but you can’t help teasing him a bit. It’s your duty as a big sister after all.

“Don’t downplay it. My little brother’s a genius.”

He wriggles his way out of the hug, rolling his eyes. 

“Stop it.”

You head back to the kitchen and fire the stove.

“I’ll make you something,” you say, smiling at your brother.

His brows knit. “Make something for yourself first.”

You nibble your bottom lip. You truly hoped he wouldn’t notice, how much smaller than his your portions are. But he’s growing; he needs it. Much more than you. Besides, how can he focus at the Academy and be the brilliant boy he is supposed to be with a growling stomach? You won’t allow it.

“Laertes…”

He shakes his head, his expression firm.

“No. You always do this. This time, we split whatever is left.”

Heaving out a resigned exhale, you nod. You whirl to resume preparing dinner.

You gather a boiling pot from the overhead cabinet and place it on the stove. With the ease of practice, you begin chopping vegetables and tossing them into the pot. You add spices and water. The mouthwatering aroma quickly fills the kitchen. Pride swells in your chest. Your cooking skills have improved so much in the last year since your parents passed. You now manage to bring flavor to the blandest of meals. 

Once the stew’s ready, you pour a portion in each bowl, putting just a little more in your brother’s and praying he will not notice.

You place the steaming bowls on the table and take a seat opposite him.

“No books at the dining table,” you admonish, mimicking the exact tone your mother used with your brother. Admitting defeat, Laertes sighs and sets his homework aside. The tiny victory tugs your lips skyward.

He tells you about his day at the Academy while the two of you eat. You’re delighted to hear he’s making a lot of friends and he’s at the top of his class for most science subjects. He’s struggling a bit more with his poetry and ethics classes, but you encourage him by reminding him he can just ask the teacher for extra assignments to keep his grade up.

“I interviewed for a new job today,” you reveal, stirring the spoon in your bowl while waiting for your brother to eat more of his food.

“How did it go?”

“Well, it pays really well so I’m hopeful.”

The hope dancing in his eyes makes your chest ache. You don’t have the heart to tell him you made a fool of yourself today. You may not be gifted like your brother, but you want him to know he can rely on you at least.

Pursing his mouth, he looks down at his stew.

“That’s great. It’d be good if you didn’t have to work as much.”

Your smile falters. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

“Okay.”

His dour tone stirs your concern. You wish you were better at hiding things from him, making his childhood as normal as possible. But your brother’s twelve now, and that’s old enough to sense when things are wrong.

He rises from his seat. You frown as you note there’s still food left in his bowl.

“Finish your plate before going to your room.”

Annoyance pinches his features but he still picks up his bowl and hastily guzzles down the remainder of his stew.

“Happy now?” he says, wiping his mouth.

“Yes. Very,” you cheerfully respond.

He gathers his books and strides towards his room. 

Your voice rises.

“Don’t stay up too late to study, okay? I love you.”

“I…love you too,” he mumbles.

You bask in the moment as you clean the table. Thankfully Laertes is still at an age where he says it back. One day he might not. So you must cherish every instant. Every conversation, every hug, every ‘I love you’. Because it could all vanish in a second. You learned that the hard way a year ago.

The day of the interview recedes to the back of your mind as you keep living your life. Work is harrowing, as usual, but you tend to your tasks as best as you can. Your arms ache as you knead the dough in the back of the bakery. You give yourself a second to wipe the sweat off your forehead. It’s been a hectic afternoon. There’s a massive pastry order for some Capitol heiress’ birthday due tomorrow. So you’ve been racing between the front desk and the kitchen in the back. A baker called in sick today, leaving you with twice the workload.

You know it won’t take much to crash into your bed and fall asleep tonight.

To make matters worse, the day hits its nadir when you get your pay that day. You peer inside the envelope for the umpteenth time. An anxious chuckle peals out of your lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t want to complain, but…this doesn’t match the hours I put in.”

The owner scratches the back of his neck, a contrite expression etched on his face.

“I’m sorry too. With the new taxes imposed by the Capitol, I had to cut your salary.”

Slack-jawed by the news, no word leaves your mouth as you stare at him. He sighs.

“If it’s a problem, we can find someone else-”

“No, no,” you interrupt, blinking in panic. “Please, I need this job.”

He acquiesces and you’re forced to thank him despite feeling cheated. You actually scaled back your hours for your other part-times since this one paid more. What a waste. 

Dispirited, you return home. As you give the driver a bill for the fare, your insides wrench. Every bill counts. Perhaps you’ll need to walk back home from now on. The streets of the Capitol are notoriously dangerous but you can’t see any other way to save your dwindling wages. You already know you’ll need to request an extension for rent this month. How will you pay it, however?

You suppose you’ll have to figure it out. You always figure it out.

These are the somber thoughts swaying in your mind as you check the mailbox. 

Bills. Bills. And more bills. Your already sour mood plummets even more. But a slim, silver envelope sticking out from the pile corrals your focus. Curiosity surges inside you. It looks fancy and there’s a wax seal with the Capitol’s symbol keeping it shut. You rush to open it, heart fluttering in strange anticipation.

You unfold the neatly folded letter inside. As you read the words, you gasp, dropping the letter. Still trembling from shock and excitement, you bend to pick it up. 

You take a deep slow breath before reading it again. 

This time, a squeal escapes from your lips. 

You read it many more times to make sure your eyes aren’t just conjuring wild fantasies. 

After a while, you realize they aren’t. It’s true. 

Holding the letter to your chest, you toss yourself on your bed and kick your feet excitedly. 

You then place your palm on your forehead. In disbelief, you beam at the ceiling. 

Somehow…you’ve been hired to work for the Snows. You actually got the job. 

Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel.

You fidget before the iron gates, smoothing absent wrinkles on your skirt. It’s one of the best outfits you could find on short notice that wasn’t moth-eaten or visibly overworn. You pray it’s enough. You let your gaze wander. The Snows’ estate truly is majestic. The lush gardens. The beautiful architecture. You feel a little small as you admire the mansion.

Remembering yourself, you pivot to the man who drove you there. You fish inside your pocket for a bill and hand it to him. He stares at you blankly from the driver’s seat.

A weary sigh ripples behind you.

You turn, your eyes widening. It’s the woman who interviewed you that day. She wears the same stern expression.

“You don’t need to pay him,” she explains, dismissing the man with her hand. He nods and drives away. “He’s your assigned driver. He’ll pick you up each day and take you back home.”

“Oh.” You offer your hand. “Nice to meet you…again.”

She gives you a lengthy onceover, completely ignoring your gesture. Then she motions at you to follow her. You let your hand fall to your side. Heat blooms in your cheeks. Perhaps, you were too enthusiastic just then. Straightening your spine, you try your best to keep pace with her quick strides.

“I’m Pandora. I supervise most housekeeping duties for the president. I’ll show you around the estate. Then you’ll meet the young Master.”

She gives you a tour of the mansion. You’re even more amazed than last time though you try to suppress your awe and not stare excessively. She shows you the garden as well. The sea of snow-white roses makes your head spin. She specifies that the only part of the house that is off-limits is the west wing of the mansion, as these are the First Lady’s apartments and she must have rest and quiet.

She ends the visit by taking you to the nursery. A smile spontaneously finds its way onto your lips. A toddler plays with his toy train on the floor. With his blonde curls and bright blue eyes, he bears a striking resemblance to his father.

“That’s him? He’s so cute,” you whisper. Even the stern woman’s expression thaws a little as she looks at the child, softening ever-so-slightly. You send her a questioning glance. She gives you a nod of approval. 

You approach the boy and crouch in front of him.

“Hi. You’re Martius, right?”

He lifts his head and beams at you. You’re immediately endeared. Again, his smile reminds you of President Snow. You suppose one could probably take over the world with a smile like that. 

You turn to Pandora.

“Is his mother around? I should probably introduce myself.”

Her face pinches. “Mistress Livia has been unwell as of late. She is not to be disturbed today as she is quite tired.”

“Of course.” Your lips squeeze shut for a few seconds but curiosity gets the better of you. A question burns on your lips, one that nagged you ever since you got the job. It slips out before you can think it through. “Is this…Is this why the president and his wife require a nanny? The First Lady is sick?”

Pandora glowers at you. You flinch as she steps further inside the room, her searing tone like a whip.

“You are here to do your job, and nothing else. Mistress Livia’s health is no concern of yours. Do you hear me?”

You rise on shaky feet. You forgot yourself.

“I-I understand. I’m sorry I asked.”

“This reminds me. You have to sign this,” she says, handing you a pen and clipboard. A thin stack of papers are attached to the clipboard. The front page spells ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ in bold letters at the very top. You scowl as you flip through the pages.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a contract, one signed by every one of the President’s employees.”

“I don’t understand most of what’s written here…”

A frustrated exhale peals from her lips.

“I’ll make it simple for you then. For the duration of your employment here, nothing you see or hear must ever leave this house. You are here to care for the young master, that is all. Nothing else should concern you. Is that clear enough?”

You swallow thickly. It doesn’t sound hard at all. Discretion is essential in every job, isn’t it? But the way Pandora makes it sound, you’d assume there are bodies buried beneath the Snows’ estate. You’d laugh if her death stare weren’t so disquieting.

You peruse the contract, perplexed by most of the legal mumbo jumbo filling the pages. None of it rings any bell. You understand the gist of it however. You must preserve the president and his wife’s privacy. While you don’t know the specifics of the first lady’s condition, her public appearances have been few and far between in the last few years.

She used to be the envy of every woman in the Capitol. Beautiful, young and married to the dashing President Snow.

She was a fairytale princess come to life.

Then their son Martius was born. And when they held him up from the balcony of their mansion for all of Panem to gaze upon, they truly seemed like the perfect family.

Until one day, Livia Cardew simply…vanished.

She was noticeably absent from all the events of the season, some she even hosted herself. Tongues wagged of course, rumors and wild theories spreading like wildfire. 

But no one knew the truth of what had happened to her.

The matter seems delicate. You promise yourself not to bring it up again.

You click the pen and scribble your name at the bottom of the very last page.

“I’ve…never signed a contract like that before starting a job.”

Pandora lets out a wry chuckle.

“Well, you’ve never worked for President Snow.”

As promised, you quit your two other jobs to focus solely on Martius. You’re hesitant at first. Your departed parents taught you never to put all your eggs in one basket. And it’s exactly what you’d be doing by trusting the Snows. But when you receive your first paycheck, long before the end of the week, every qualm you had fades. It’s more money than you’ve ever had, more money than you expected. Rent isn’t an issue anymore. Neither is food.

Besides, gifts keep coming from the estate. Clothes mostly, for both you and Laertes, but also jewelry, perfume and other fancy things you don’t need. Overwhelmed by President Snow’s generosity, you try to send some of it back, but you don’t have the heart to return everything when you see your brother’s happy face when he opens his wardrobe one day.

You’ve caught the self-conscious glimpses he casts at his classmates sometimes, when not wearing the Academy uniform. Their clothes are always brand new and custom, perfectly tailored while his are stitched back together by your clumsy hands whenever they fray at the seams. You’re not a seamstress but you’ve always done your best. But you know your best doesn’t compare to the access and privilege those kids have.

Other than those blessings, your time with Martius has been a breeze. Only hazy memories of your brother as a toddler linger in your mind, but you don’t recall him ever being as sweet and calm as the little boy is.

It hardly feels like work, caring for the small child. You spend the day playing along with his games, reading stories to him and, as the day nears its end, the two of you feed the ducks in the massive pond behind the mansion. He even gives them names and gets upset when they fight with each other. 

“Lily doesn’t like James anymore,” he whispers to you one day, a sullen pout scrunching his tiny features. 

“And why is that?”

“I think she’s angry that he steals her food.”

You chuckle and ruffle his golden locks. The little boy always has a story for everything he sees. At all times, his world must make sense. So if he cannot find a reason to explain what fills his gaze, he’ll weave a tale that matches it. His stories are each more wild than the other and he sometimes utters words you’ve never heard a four year old use.

But you surmise it is expected from the son of the president. When he isn’t with you, the little boy is often with his private tutor. Even at his tender age, the importance of manners and eloquence is impressed upon him.

Martius tugs at your skirt when you make your way to the door. You look down. His blue eyes are pleading. 

“You’re leaving again?”

You heave out a long exhale. The little boy wasn’t so clingy before but with your bond growing, he’s been expressing more sadness from watching you go at the end of every day. 

You hunker down to his level.

“My little brother’s expecting me.”

His forehead puckers. “Stay…”

“I told you before, Martius. I have a brother. He’ll miss me if I’m not here.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, giving a begrudging nod. Tears already swim in his eyes though. Panic flows through you. You didn’t want to upset him. You pick him up and bounce with him in your arms to try to soothe him.

“Oh, no. Don’t cry, sweetie.” He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nearly squeezing you to death when he wraps his arms around your neck. His loud, tearful sobs swell in the room. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow like always, okay? So I need you to be brave for me.” His grip on you loosens as he sniffles. You put him down and the two of you pinky promise that you’ll return. Your heart twists at the sight of his tear-stained little face. 

You give his hair one last affectionate pat before rushing outside. If you stay, he might throw another tantrum. No matter what, you can never get mad at Martius. He’s just a child. In the absence of his mother, he’s bound to grow attached to any woman filling a role adjacent to hers. You loathe that you’re taking those moments from the first lady. Though it pleases you to have a steady job and spend time with the sweet boy, it feels wrong that she isn’t there. She should get to see her baby grow up. She should hear his inane ramblings and eccentric stories.

As time wears on, you’re dying to meet her and tell her about Martius. Is she truly so sick that she can’t even see him for a mere few minutes? You’re itching to break the rules and visit the west wing of the mansion. Sometimes you hear blood-curdling  screams and wailing coming from the dark halls but you never dared venture through them. You know that if you did, Pandora would crucify you.

Laertes’ well-being matters more than your curiosity.

Humming absently, you halt in your tracks in the middle of a hallway. Confusion has you blinking. A peculiar noise bounces faintly against the walls. Your gaze drifts sideways, where the noise seems to come from. You’re clocking out. Whatever’s going on in the house isn’t any of your business at this hour.

But what if someone needs help? What if it’s something bad? You’d feel awful if you learnt something happened the next day and you pretended to ignore it. So you gingerly approach the wall. Your fingers graze the tapestry covering it. 

Your eyes widen when the wall moves, a tiny crack forming in it.

Your eyes bulge. It’s an ajar door, you realize. A secret door one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t aware it was there. Light spills from the slight opening.

Confining your breath, you bend over the crack in the wall to get a glimpse of what’s behind it. 

The vision crowding your sight makes the blood in your veins freeze. 

President Snow rutting into a maid with his pants down to his ankles. His usually neat blonde locks are tousled, a few damp curls kissing his forehead. His massive cock glistens with the girl’s essence, disappearing into the girl’s spread lips over and over again. Her body is bent over the railing of the bed and her maid outfit is bunched around her hips, exposing her ass, the flesh trembling with each of the president’s harsh, pointed thrust.

Each time he snaps his hips he draws a broken moan from her. One of his hands is around the back of her throat while the other’s on the small of her back. He grunts low in his throat as she clenches around him, thrusting into her even faster than before. 

The obscene sound of their coupling rises, coalescing with the feral grunts spilling from the president’s mouth. In that moment, he’s not the poised gentleman you’re used to seeing, he is an animal in rut chasing his high.

A shocked exhale escapes your lips. Your hand flies to cover your mouth. President Snow’s head snaps up, his gaze landing straight on you.

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

You jump back from the door and push the secret door closed. You dart across the hallway, determined to find the exit as quickly as you can. You don’t glance back, your steps hasty and panicked. 

Pandora was right. It’s best not not to hear or see anything, to become a tomb in which secrets are buried.

You can only hope he didn’t recognize you through the tiny crack in the door. 

Though you’re shaken to your core, you continue your work as a nanny. You still need money. You may have set aside everything you made thus far, but it will only sustain you and your brother for a month or two. Besides, you’ve already handed in your resignation for your other jobs.  The positions have likely been filled. You can’t exactly show up out of the blue and ask for your former job back. 

No. So you convince yourself that it’s alright. You have a good thing going anyway. You’re making more than you hoped. The child is happy. You’re happy. All is well. Or it would be at least.

…If you could conjure the memory of President Snow railing into the maid far away from your mind. 

You want to forget it, bury the moment so deep in the abyss of your thoughts, it can never be unearthed.

But it isn’t so easy. Because every time your mind wanders even a little, you see him again. Skin glistening with sweat and blue eyes alight with lust. The image is tattooed into your brain. 

You wonder if the first lady knows. Perhaps it’s why she’s hiding away. The weight of her husband’s indiscretions may have grown too heavy to carry. It sours your heart. President Snow seemed so kind, good and noble. He was nice to you. You still have the breast pocket he gave you tucked away in a drawer. You loathe to think he’d do that to his wife. No woman deserves this.

You lift your head when your name is uttered. You get to your feet. Adrift in your thoughts, you didn’t realize Pandora was in the nursery. 

“Yes?”

“The president wants to see you in his office.”

Dread wrenches your gut. It’s exactly what you feared. Does he know? Did he see you? Your pulse picks up. What other reason would there be? He never summoned you before.

“Really, why?”

“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming it’s to congratulate you.”

Befuddlement wrinkles your forehead. “Congratulate me?”

Pandora heaves out a weary sigh. “Well, you’ve done much better than we thought,” she begrudgingly admits. “The young master smiles all the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Even if we must deal with his tantrums when you leave.”

A sliver of pride flutters through you with her admission. Pandora made her doubts about your capabilities plain and obvious from the beginning. It gladdens you that you may have changed her mind a little. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” She turns to him, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s a small price to pay for his happiness.”

Your smile vanishes as she adds, “Now let me escort you to the president’s office. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you trail behind her. The entire trek to the president’s office, your stomach’s in knots. You keep wondering if it’s the day you’ll lose your job for being too nosy. You should have walked past the noise. You shouldn’t have peeked. 

You inhale a lungful of nerve as Pandora opens the door to his office and frees room for you to enter. Your clammy hands wrench in your lap. He’s sitting behind his desk. You stagger further inside the room as he motions for you to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. He looks the same as the first time you stumbled into him, disarmingly handsome in an impeccable shirt and pants that flatter his long legs.

A sharp contrast to the version of him that has plagued your thoughts lately. 

His sky gaze follows you as you take a trembling seat.

“Are you settling in well?” he asks.

“Hm, yes,” you stammer, anxiously twining your fingers. “It’s pretty much the perfect job. I get to be around a cute child all day.”

“I hear my son is very fond of you.”

You bashfully dip your head. “He’s very easy to like. He’s such a good boy, sweet, kind, and curious. You and your wife are raising him well, sir.”

He hums in thought. “I can’t take much credit for that. I’ve tried my best to carve out time for Martius…but work’s kept me busy. As for Livia...” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Well she isn’t quite herself these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He places one hand under his chin, scrutinizing you. You try not to twitch beneath his stare, your insides tight with dread.

“Hm, it’s strange,” he states after a minute that goes by like an eternity.

Your head rises. “What’s strange?”

“A girl like you.” His lips drag upward. “Sweet, nurturing, beautiful. Shouldn’t you be married already?”

Your lips part in astonishment. This isn’t the line of questioning you expected. “I-I’m not.”

“No fiancé?”

“No, sir.”

“A lover then?”

Warmth rushes to your face.

“No…”

He laughs, mirth dancing in his cobalt orbs.

“You must pardon me for being so forward but I simply find it astonishing. No suitors? It’s hard to believe since you’re so lovely, sweetheart.” He tilts his head. You shift in discomfort, his attention making you feel see-through. “I mean, a husband would have made your life easier than it’s been thus far, wouldn’t he, dove?”

A long exhale flows from your lips. “I’ve had offers, after I graduated from the Academy. There was even this boy, he was so kind to me.” The memory draws a small smile from you. “He proposed. I’m sure he’d make a great husband, but…”

“But…”

Your mouth dries.

“I know it’s probably naive and unrealistic but I want to marry for love, that great, life-changing love, like in those romance novels my mom used to love, not money or status.”

His eyes twinkle. “Or financial stability?”

Shame gathers in your chest. You know it sounds silly when uttered aloud. 

“I know, I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. It’s sweet that you still believe in love.” He appears lost in a faraway memory, his gaze hazing over with remembrance. “I used to believe in it too. I used to think, ‘Who needs wealth and success and power when love conquers all?’”

He chuckles but it’s bereft of amusement. 

“Really? What happened then?”

His gaze locks with yours. 

“I grew up.”

Confused, you frown. 

“But aren’t you and the first lady in love?”

Another laugh bursts from his chest.

“God, you’re sweet.” His tone lowers to a dulcet whisper. “It’s like none of the world’s ugliness has gotten to you yet.” He reveals matter-of-factly, “My wife and I hate each other.” His smile widens at your flabbergasted expression. “Always did. It’s best that way, more…efficient. Of course, there was a time, when we had…passion.” He licks his lips, something you can’t pinpoint flickering in his gaze. “But not anymore. She’s far too gone for that.”

He rises from his chair. You stiffen as he circles the desk, making slow steps towards you. 

“Which is why I must…satiate my needs wherever I can,” he mumbles, fingers lurking under your chin, forcing your eyes to fall upon him. “Do you understand my meaning, dove?”

“I…yes.”

Discomfort flares within you. Tension hangs in the air, so heavy it clogs your airways. 

He cocks his head, lips slanting crookedly.

“Do you really? With that innocent look in your eyes, it’s hard to tell.” His thumb sweeps over your shuddering bottom lip. “Men have needs. And am I not a man, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes you are, sir.”

He bends over you to whisper in your ear. “You saw everything that day, didn’t you?” Your heart stops.

Flames lick your face as you bow your head. “I-I didn’t see anything.”

His warm breath ghosts over your earshell.

“Liar,” he mumbles.

Your pulse quickens.

He leans back and nudges your chin upward.

“Since my wife fell sick, I’ve been very lonely. And sometimes…” He looms over you, crowding your space as you peer up at him, fingers squeezing the arms of the chair. “I need something soft and warm to forget that feeling.”

President Snow slowly falls to his knees in front of you. His fingers find your thigh, starting to creep under your skirt. A devilish glint sparkles in his cobalt gaze. He finds your center, pressing the sheer fabric into your folds. You gasp. He chuckles at your reaction. He starts teasing you through your panties, tracing your slit and dragging over your tender bud. Your breath hitches as the air around you grows hotter. You grow slick beneath his finger, your thighs shaking as tingles bloom on your flesh.

“Sir…” you whimper, tears welling up in your eyes.

He pushes further inside you, adding another finger, and you unleash an audible breath. You try to close your thighs. He places his other hand on your knee to keep you open for him.

The air in your lungs grows thinner as he rubs your core through your soaked panties. The friction is a delicious torture. Pleasure pools in your belly causing your face to burn with shame. You’re getting embarrassingly wet with President Snow’s attention.

“I just want a little taste,” he murmurs, his deep timbre bleeding lust. “Just one time and it’ll never happen again,” he promises fervently as his lips graze your ankle. You find some relief when his fingers disappear from your drenched center. But your respite is ephemeral. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs at your panties.

Panic widens your eyes. Cheeks ablaze, you pull at the material between your legs with both hands. But he’s stronger than you and effortlessly drags the fabric along your legs. A wicked smile plays on his lips as tears glisten in your eyes. It’s soon down to your ankles. You squeal when the president yanks the panties off your foot, tossing them aside. Cool air sneaks beneath your skirt, swirling over your bare folds.

Hands over your knees to keep you spread, his wolfish gaze sweeps over your glossy folds. 

Your skin heats, embarrassment gathering in your chest. You’ve never been this vulnerable and exposed in front of anybody before.

“Please, President Snow, s-stop…” 

“But you’re dripping, sweetheart,” he states smugly, sinking a finger inside your weeping core, as if to make a point. Your breath hitches. He takes his finger out sluggishly. You clench when he grazes one of your sensitive spots. “Just as sweet as I expected,” he hums, obscenely licking your essence off his long digit.

Without a warning, he buries his head between your thighs. A sharp exhale leaps from your mouth. His cool tongue traces a wet trail over your folds. President Snow traces maddening patterns over your swollen bud causing your eyes to roll back.

You card your fingers through his silken platinum locks, hoping to push his head away. But the delightful sensations grow too overwhelming. You unravel beneath his sinful ministrations, your limbs twitching as the thread of your thoughts comes loose.

Your grip on his hair weakens. Your belly tightens, your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

You jolt as his tongue flickers over your tender heap of nerves. 

“P-President…” 

He purrs against your folds and the vibrations rock through your core. You squirm in the chair. Your thighs quake. Your vision dims, your mind blank as waves of pleasure swaddle you in their tide. Protests scatter on your tongue, replaced by wanton whimpers and moans.

Electricity ripples through your spine as you cry out.

Bliss engulfs you and your legs turn liquid. Shame swirls in your gut as your juices coat his tongue. He drinks your nectar, elation rumbling in his chest. 

When he lifts his head, you hardly recognize him. The feral glow in his gaze chills your blood.

There is no time to collect yourself, realize what just occurred, as the blonde gathers your limp frame from the chair and places you on his desk. Documents and papers are flung to the ground as he grabs your thighs and presses his throbbing hard-on against your cunt. 

He hastily unbuttons his pants, freeing his hard length. He fists his cock and guides it through your wet entrance. Your back arches, the sudden intrusion robbing you of air. He reaches the hilt of you in a few seconds, giving you no time to accommodate his thick girth. You collapse over the desk, weak whimpers leaving you as your walls are stretched to their limit. He drags out of you, his pupils flaring as they trace the motion of his length in and out of you. Coriolanus leans over you. He snaps his pelvis into your hips, each of his thrusts tearing tearful moans from your throat.

When you turn your head, hot tears flowing down your cheeks, he grabs your chin so you’re forced to meet his lustful stare. Bracing himself on the desk, he reaches between your bodies to pinch your swollen clit. He plucks at your soft bud until you shatter around him with a sob. His throat bobs, a look of sheer bliss flitting across his face when you clench around him.

“I’ve been dying to fuck you the minute I saw you,” he confesses, trailing soft pecks over your collarbone. A sinister chuckle peals from his lips. “The way you looked at me with those sweet, innocent eyes…it made me rock-hard.” He tilts your chin towards him, his thumb skimming over your parted lips.

Satisfaction glimmers in his eyes as they flick over your prone form.

“You should thank me. Those boys at the Academy wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you…” His cock twitches inside you. Sticky warmth spills from him, painting your walls and dripping past your hole. Drops of his seed leak onto the desk. A throaty sigh pours from President Snow’s throat as your cunt flutters around him.

His teeth nip the skin of your neck.

“...But I do.”

After what occurs in his office, you hope to avoid President Snow. Those hopes are swiftly dashed however. President Snow lied to you. It doesn’t happen once. In fact, you begin to lose count of the actual number.

Every time the president finds a little spare time, he summons you.

Sometimes you end up bent over the desk in his office as he pours the frustrations of the day into your warm hole. Sometimes he prefers you sprawled on your back in one of the multitude of luxurious beds in the mansion while he devours you as if you were his very last meal. And at times, he grows even more impatient and simply shoves you against a wall before ravaging you.

More than once, a maid or footman has walked in on the two of you, and you’ve had to swallow your shame and embarrassment.

As you’ve come to learn, the entire staff is aware of Coriolanus Snow’s insatiable appetite and none of them seems to care.

You feel sick, desperate, trapped in something twisted and awful you never signed up for.

But how does one say no to President Coriolanus Snow? The entire Capitol yields to his every whim. And you are the same. Here to bow and smile and lie back whenever he demands it.

You long to focus on your job, to care for Martius and nothing else. Whenever the boy looks up at you with those innocent blue eyes, eerily similar to his father’s, your stomach wrenches. You pray he never comes to learn what kind of man his father is. You wish he’d stay just as kind and sweet as he is now.

Those are the thoughts drifting through your mind as you watch Martius play with his toy trains. Your eyes wander towards the window. Outside, orange and purple hues are bleeding into the sky, the afternoon nearing its end. Your stomach coils. It’s during times like these that President Snow often seeks you out. You’ve tried to run away from him but it’s all a game to Coriolanus, and he always delights in chasing you through the hallways.

Your brows crumple as you note that Martius has stopped playing. He drops his toy and rushes to your side. Confounded by his behavior, you’re on the cusp of asking him what’s wrong…but your gaze follows what caught his attention on the other side of the room.

You fall silent, your eyes rounding in shock.

“Martius. Come here, my love,” says the blonde woman in a white robe and nightgown, her arms wide open.

Time stands still for a few seconds. It takes you a while to realize who stands before the door. She looks so different, more ghost than woman, her glassy blue eyes hollow and sunken. But her likeness is unmistakable. Even with her graying, limp tresses and ashen complexion, you recognize Livia Cardew. The president’s wife.

You bolt to your feet. Arms still open, Livia takes slow steps towards Martius.

“I’m your mom, sweetie. Don’t you remember me?”

The little boy’s fists clutch your skirt as he hides his face against your leg.

“You’re not my mom.”

A stricken look twists Livia’s features as she shrinks. As if her own son just drove a knife through her heart. Your chest twinges. While her abrupt appearance is a shock, you can’t imagine how she must feel. You place a hand on Martius’ back and try to nudge him forward.

“Martius. It’s the First Lady, your mother. Go on, hug her,” you urge softly.

He shakes his head, tears filling his eyes as he hides behind you even more.

You’re stunned. Has it truly been that long?

“Martius-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, Livia lunging at you, her eyes wild with fury.

“You! This is all your fault,” she hisses. She points at you and scoffs, “You’re his new whore, aren’t you?” Her mouth wobbles as she grips her head. “First you take my husband, now my son.”

Martius begins to sob. His loud cries overlap with his mother’s frantic yelling. You cover his eyes, tossing Livia an apologetic look.

“First Lady, I never meant-”

Before you can explain yourself, she grabs a nearby vase and smashes it. White roses scatter on the floor. Stomping all over the petals and broken glass, she collects one of the shards and races towards you. Terror numbs you. You freeze as Livia aims the shard at you, scarlet droplets dripping on her nightgown as she squeezes her fist around the glass.

Your eyes shut as you wait for the inevitable strike.

You shiver, waiting still.

But it doesn’t come.

“Livia, darling, that’s enough. It’s time for you to sleep and take your medicine.”

The familiar sound of Coriolanus’ voice causes your eyes to snap open. 

You watch him restrain a struggling Livia. She curses at him, fighting him with all her might. It’s a painful spectacle. 

“No, don’t touch me!” Other staff members rush into the room. It takes several people to hold Livia down, colorful expletives pouring from her mouth as she punches and kicks whoever comes close. “You’re killing me! You bastard! Give me my son back! Martius! Martius!”

The child trembles against your skirt, his tear-filled gaze stuck to the floor.

Eventually someone manages to stick a needle into Livia’s neck. She instantly goes limp, arm still reaching for her son in her last conscious second.

“Take her away,” Coriolanus instructs.

The first lady’s flaccid form is dragged out of the room. Still shaken by what you just witnessed, you don’t move a muscle. President Snow approaches you, worry swimming in his blue orbs. 

“Are you alright, dove?” He cups your cheeks, his brows crumpling as his gaze settles on your neck. “I’ll have Doctor Gaul look at you. She has an ointment for that.” He caresses your cheeks, smiling. You gape at him. How can he smile at a time like that? “It won’t even scar. I promise.”

You graze your neck. Your fingers come away bloody. Oh. Livia nicked you with the shard but you didn’t even feel it. Perhaps adrenaline numbed you to the pain.

“Dada,” Martius chimes, lifting his chubby arms.

Coriolanus’ face warms as he picks up his son. He tosses him in the air and catches him. Martius giggles through his tears.

“My sweet boy. That was very scary, wasn’t it?” he says, balancing his son on his hip. Martius nods and wipes his nose. Coriolanus flicks his cheek, beaming at him. “Don’t worry, son. The scary lady won’t bother you anymore in a few months.”

A wave of ice blows through your veins. You wonder why the president uttered those words with such certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Almost as if he knows exactly when the grim reaper will come knock on his wife’s door.

The next day, you hand over your resignation to Pandora. Her expression is skeptical as she gauges the manila folder you give her.

“This is for the president,” you announce.

She unleashes a deep exhale. “You should reconsider, sleep on it.”

You almost laugh. Sleep on it? You can hardly find rest, the picture of a disheveled Livia Cardew crying out for her son haunting your nights. Whatever befell upon the poor woman, you wouldn’t be surprised if her husband somehow had a hand in it. It broke your heart, seeing her like that, her own son unable to recognize her. You also despise the role Coriolanus forced you to play in erasing her memory.

All of it feels wrong. 

And most of all, you don’t want President Snow to use you to satisfy his lewd desires anymore. He took all your firsts, all the moments that should have been beautiful, and made them a nightmare you have to relive every time he touches you.

You respected him; you admired him. Now you can’t be in his presence without dread whispering through you. What will he make you do this time? How will he make you small and powerless again?

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore. He can hire someone else to care for him.”

Pandora purses her lips and shakes her head.

“It’s really not that simple. The president has developed…a fondness for you.”

You bristle. “I have to go back home. Laertes is expecting me.”

“You won’t like what comes next, trust me.” Her gaze narrows. “No one leaves the president.”

Ignoring the shudder elicited by her daunting words, you pivot and make a beeline towards the exit. Pandora’s voice echoes down the hallways.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Depleted, you glumly make your way to the gates. You enter the car that takes you back home everyday. Your thoughts wander as the Snow’s house grows smaller through the car window. You were thrilled when you got this job. It felt like kismet after the year you and your brother had. A rainbow after the rain. A slice of hope.

How it all went to hell so quickly. You’re still reeling from it. You’ve no idea what you’ll do next. The only thing you know for certain is that you will not step foot into the Snows’ estate ever again.

The car suddenly halts. You bump your head into the passenger’s seat. Wincing, you grip the sides of your head. As you retrieve your senses, you look around. You stopped.

You toss a questioning look at the driver.

But before he can respond, the car door opens and you’re yanked outside. Two pairs of strong arms drag you away from the car.

You take in the blue uniforms of the men. Terror pulses through your blood.

Peacekeepers.

Noting the guns at their sides, you stop trying to resist. There’s no fighting against them, ever. They are the Capitol’s fist and carry the President’s will. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you likely never did. You slump in their grip, despair thrumming inside you.

They escort you to a black car with tinted windows. Your pulse soars. You’ve only ever seen one individual step out of this car.

The peacekeepers toss you inside and slam the door shut.

Your fearful gaze rises to him.

He casually sits in front of you, his eyes narrowed.

“You disappoint me, dove.” He lets out a weary sigh. “After everything I’ve done for you…you try to leave me. I thought you were smarter than that.”

You twine your hands, sputtering, “I-I’m not the right person for this job, sir.”

He slides his fingers under your chin, tilting it upward.

“Oh but you’re perfect. My son loves you. You’re sweet, dutiful and most importantly…” He smirks. “You are mine. Mine to hold, spoil and fuck whenever I please for however long I please.”

The prospect fills you with dread. He wants you to be his toy again, submissive, available whenever he pleases.

“Sir…”

His jaw ticks, his hold on your jaw tightening.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your brother could attend the University, free of charge? A bright young mind such as his, I believe he deserves it.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Instead of, let’s say…end up in a District, his name chosen as a tribute in the next Hunger Games.” Your heart sinks to your feet. “That’d be awful, wouldn’t it? So cruel…” he mumbles, stroking your trembling bottom lip.

“No, please,” you beseech, tears swelling in your eyes. Your brother’s all you have left in the world. Nothing can happen to him. 

Coriolanus fondles your cheek, the tender gesture a sharp contrast to the wicked words rolling off his tongue.

“It’s all up to you, then, dove. As long as you behave, I’ll give you the world. But if you act like a little brat again…” A threat lurks in his soft tone, a glint of madness swaying in his cobalt orbs. “I really don’t know what I might do.”

Chills dance over your spine.

“I promise to never do it again,” you blurt out.

He pulls out a square from his breast pocket. It’s identical to the one he used the first time.

But a lifetime seems to have passed since that moment, the world now so different from what you imagined, and the man before you…even more so.

“Good girl,” he lauds while swiping away your tears. 

He shoves the pocket square back in its place. Coriolanus then beams at you as he starts unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his pants.

“Now, I’ve had a long, exhausting day. So how about you get on your knees for me and make it better with that sweet mouth of yours, dove?”

#dark!coriolanus snow #tbosas fanfiction #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow #hunger games #coriolanus snow x reader #dark!coriolanus snow x reader

[ashfae]

The thing about romance is, it makes a good story.

As soon as Neil described season 2 as "quiet, gentle, romantic" I figured we'd be in for it, because as he's the first to point out, writers are liars. And the best way to deceive is with truth.

Season 2 is romantic. The trappings of romance are everywhere. Crowley tries to set up Nina and Maggie by trapping them under an awning during a rainstorm, a classic cinematic bonding technique. Aziraphale's chosen method comes from his beloved books: the ball, the dancing, appearing as a pair in public, hands held as you twirl gracefully with your heart thrilled and racing. If they can set up a sensational kiss that will unlock the happy ever after. They've lived on earth, they've studied the tropes, they know how romance works.

The problem is a story is only a story.

Nina and Maggie had the classic romantic setup completely by accident before Aziraphale and Crowley ever began trying to interfere with them. They get locked in Nina's coffeeshop. They can't escape or communicate with anyone else, they end up talking by candlelight because there's no electricity, Nina offers wine. Maggie mentions how she'd hoped for a chance to talk to Nina, and now here they are. It's every bit as much a standard as what Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to arrange. Blanket scenarios galore exist because of that starting point. We love that story. And there's nothing wrong with that.

But it's still only a story, it's not enough. Because once that moment of connection is over, however lovely it was, all the rest of the world comes flooding back in in the form of dozens of angry text messages. Nina's messy entrapping relationship hasn't magically gone away just because she and Maggie shared a romantic encounter.

And it's so tempting think oh well, that's easy. We'll just give them more romantic encounters and eventually those will overwhelm the rest of the baggage. Must do, because it'll make them fall in love, and once they realize they're in love that trumps all other considerations, right? So it'll be fine. Love Conquers All.

Neil also mentioned Pride and Prejudice.

Darcy knows he's in love early on and makes a disasterous proposal that shows that he has no understanding of Elizabeth's perspective, possibly hasn't even thought about it. They've been meeting in forest lanes for walks, conversing, had tete-a-tetes in the sitting room, danced at a ball. And while his turn of phrase isn't as flattering as he thinks, he's still offering her everything he thinks she wants and needs: affection, security, his good name, wealth, an escape from the embarrassments of her situation, the world. How can there be anything to object to? Why would anyone ever refuse so much of value?

Elizabeth quite rightly cuts him to pieces. He lashes back with a few hard truths of his own and they separate. During that separation, he thinks and he learns. He takes to heart the criticisms she offered, re-examines his assumptions, opens his eyes. Thinks about her perspective and how sometimes the only difference between pride and arrogance is where you're standing. He does the work. When they meet again he tries to demonstrate that he's learned--not in order to court her again (yet), but because the only real apology he can offer, the only one that would have weight, is to show that he's grown, he listened to her. He changed.

Elizabeth of course has her own journey, accepting that many of her own conclusions about Darcy were erroneous because they were formed without her having the full picture to hand, and once she's done that she has to apply it to her own situation as well. She loves her family, but they do place her at a disadvantage on a number of levels, leading eventually to full-out disaster as her younger sister carelessly ruins all of their reputations. It's hard to admit, it's mortifying, but Darcy was offering her a great deal she needs. His offer did have worth for all that she dismissed it as an insult. And as she learns to value his own character more highly, and then as she sees that he did listen to her even though she insulted him so thoroughly...well, she grows too. And when they do eventually come together it's not because of courting and balls. There's a big romantic gesture in his rescue of her sister but even that isn't why they'll get their happy ever after. It was just the catalyst for the conversation. They win because they've learned how to understand each other and how to communicate for the future. How they can strengthen and support each other, how to balance their strengths and weaknesses. The films leave them at the wedding, but the book shows a bit of their marriage too, and during it they keep learning from each other. Their relationship is held up as a superior love story for good reasons.

The end of season one was romantic too. Crowley stopped time rather than face a world where Aziraphale would never speak to him again, Aziraphale walked into hell to protect Crowley, they dined at the Ritz and toasted the world. But then they stopped. Sure they spent time together, talked, enjoyed each other's company. But if they were talking about important things would Crowley still be living in his car? They had a bit of respite but all that real world baggage that exists outside of the romantic moment hasn't been faced, none of it. Four or five years sounds like a long while but for beings who are quite literally older than the earth? That's just an intermission.

Nina's relationship ends, leaving her with a tangled mess; Maggie realises the sweet dream of love she's been longing for isn't as important as the real Nina. They talk. They plan. Nina will sort through her life, get closure, figure out what went wrong with Lindsay and what she wants from a relationship, learn how to ask for respect instead of just bending under her partner's demands. Maggie will support Nina the way Nina needs, which sometimes means helping her get oat milk for the shop and sometimes means giving her processing space. They're on the same page; they're going to do the work. That's why most likely they'll succeed. To quote one of my favourite fanfics: it's not happily ever after, but it's a chance. It's all going to be okay. (The Profane Comedy by Mussimm, who absolutely nailed this theme)

The romance is nice, it's lovely. We need it to keep ourselves going. To give ourselves the dreams that help us get through the days and nights. But it's not the relationship. It's not enough on its own. The wedding can be the grandest most beautiful ceremony ever with doves flying and sweeping music and bells ringing, but that doesn't guarantee the marriage will last.

Crowley and Aziraphale have had their romantic gestures, oodles of them. One wing raised to protect the other from falling stars, another from rain. Shared ground, shared interests, hands offered in friendship and held on a bus. They've tried to get to the same page, they really have. They just aren't there yet. The biggest most important things still haven't been talked about, and season 2 showed there are even more of those big important things than we'd realised.

The show paints Maggie as Aziraphale's foil and Nina as Crowley's, even to the point of Nina casually calling Maggie 'angel'. But Aziraphale's baggage is Nina's. The toxic relationship has to be processed and understood and closed, and it hasn't been, despite season one. Lindsay never really liked Nina very much, for all that they tried to keep her trapped; Heaven never really liked Aziraphale very much for all that he believed in it. They both let themselves be used. But Lindsay left Nina and went to their sister's, whereas now the head of Heaven has reached out to Aziraphale and said here, we can fix this, you can fix this, don't you want to fix this? Others are already writing about that and maybe I'll add to it later, not sure. And Crowley, like Maggie, has had a sweet dream that he has to set aside. Maybe he'll be able to pick it up again eventually, maybe not. But sometimes you offer support by buying oat milk or rescuing your beloved from the legions of hell, and sometimes you do it by standing back while they sort through their shit.

Quiet, gentle, romantic. It was.

But that's only part of the story. Now they have to do the work. They thought they had, but they were wrong, because there's so much they just hadn't touched yet and tried to cover over with relief and sleight of hand and alcohol and forgiveness. The apology dance doesn't mean much without showing that you listened and learned. They've faced so much trauma already and that should have been enough, we wanted it to be enough and so did they and it's such a blow for it to turn out that there's still more to do, that the baggage hasn't just gone away and can't be hidden under blankets or soothed with cocoa. The texts are still coming in and demanding answers.

But it'll be okay. It will. It's still a chance. And one that in the long run makes them better, builds something real that lasts.

The best stories, the ones that last longest and become classics, are the ones that don't end with the kiss under the awning or the blanket scenario or the wedding. They're the ones that heal us while the characters heal themselves. It's hard to accept that there's still more to do. Harder to imagine how it can possibly work out. And yes, bloody frustrating to wait and see.

And we'll get through that interim by telling even more stories. Because the story is never just a story. It's how we get through the work, it's what we tell ourselves so we can do the damn work. Stories are what we cling to and how we remind ourselves we're human and connect. A book is a person you can carry with you. We're not alone, none of us, stories connect us because we love them and see ourselves in them, which means we see each other.

Aziraphale's back up in Heaven to deal with his unfinished baggage; Crowley left his behind long ago and it's clearly going to come back and bite him in the arse however much he tries to go his own way. And they can't help each other with that. Not yet.

But they'll get there. So will we.

#good omens #good omens season 2 #gos2 spoilers #good omens season 2 spoilers #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #nina #maggie #nina and maggie #stories #romance #relationships #am I projecting here #of course I am isn't that the whole point? #pride and prejudice #elizabeth and darcy #quiet gentle romantic #good omens meta

[bibluebutterfly]

Hoo boy. Now I've made it known multiple times on my blog that I LOATHE the whoobiefication of Vox, but lets get into why/how Vox is NOT a good person nor a baby that needs protecting and why he's all the better for it. Buckle up ladies and gentlemen, this will be long.

Now, why isn't Vox a good person? Easy. Because he (along with the other Vees) is supposed to be the bad guy of the story. Shocking, I know. Vox was NEVER intended to be a good person, and some of y'all just need to accept that.

Now for the long part: HOW is he not a good person?

Well, first of all, his literal introduction is an ad selling drones HE DESIGNED specifically for stalking,"peeping on the neighbors has never been more stylish"

Right off the bat, this tells us he doesn't care about people unless he can profit off them.

Which is also backed up by the point that he ADVERTISES Val and Vels "love potions" which are basically just roofies.

Again. This man ONLY cares about profit first and foremost, screw the people who can get hurt/SA'd by his products.

Next, he has a power of hypnosis which he is NOT hesitant to use. He can take away someones free will at a glance and uses that to his full advantage.

He's also very willing to give Val his lowest earners to shoot. Notice that he does so with no hesitance and no regret.

Also, (and most significantly) he's a huge, HUGE enabler. This guy has cameras EVERYWHERE, ESPECIALLY when Valentino is involved. He's got cameras in Val's room, Angels old room, at Vals corner of the club (which moves when Val does), there's NO WAY he DOESN'T know that Val is a r@pist.

And DESPITE that, he still sleeps with the man, is very likely in love with him, and oh yeah, FUNDS HIS WHOLE DEAL. The cameras Val uses are Voxtech cameras.

Val may be the one who does the dirty work but Vox willingly and knowingly makes a profit off of that. He doesn’t just know and do nothing, he actively HELPS Val out and obviously has no second thoughts nor regrets about it.

This is not a look of disgust or discontent, this is fondness. Genuine fondness. For Valentino. As a PERSON. Let that sink in.

There’s also the implications that Vox is jealous of the attention Angel gets from Val. Angel gets abused constantly by Val, Vox KNOWS, and still hates Angel because of the sheer fact that he takes up so much of Vals attention.

Not to mention the HEAVY implications that he gets off on watching people suffer.

“Well Vox can still do better than Val!!”

While I’m at it, I guess I should bring up the fact that BOTH Vox and Val are MASSIVE red flags.

With Val, aside from the obvious, he’s also a huge attention whore for Vox and isn’t afraid to break Vox’s property if Vox doesn’t pay attention to him. Yeah Vox gets frustrated with him, who wouldn’t be when their lover is throwing temper tantrums every other day?

With Vox, again, aside from the obvious, isn’t afraid to handle Val roughly when he’s mad, and literally screams about how watching his arch nemesis/obsession get the crap beat out of him is better than sex. Right in front of Val by the way. In regular circumstances, 9.98/10 that’s gonna get your ass dumped in a second.

Not to mention the mutual condescension ation towards each other.

And as much as fans (including myself admittedly) like to shit on Val for being a man child, Vox is literally no better.

Plus the explosive tempers.

Seriously. Vox LITERALLY cannot do better than Val. Vox is the only one who can put up with Vals BS and vice versa.

OH YEAH and lets not forget one last thing: VOX ALSO ABUSES HIS OWN EMPLOYEES.

This dude is scared of him, and it’s NOT because he’s worried about getting fired.

So yes. Vox is not nor HAS EVER been a good person.

And for me personally, I love that. I love that he’s entertaining yet awful. I love his dynamic with Alastor, and I love his relationship with Val even more.

If you’re wondering why I personally love Staticmoth, it’s because basic couple rules do not apply to them. They’re both toxic narcissistic red flags and therefore they can be as awful as they want to each other, and the other will simply shake it off. Yet there’s still heavy trust between the two (never being scared of each other) and they still have little moments together where they’re genuinely happy. It’s unique, and something I’ve never seen in media before.

Basically, if you liked Vox better when you thought he was a poor little baby being abused by Val, read a fan fiction. There’s a lot of them out there.

But people really just need to accept the fact that he’s an awful person. Always has been. He’s not better than Val by ANY means. He and Val are both evil pricks who deserve each other.

And guess what? LIKING AN EVIL CHARACTER DOES NOT MEAN YOU SUPPORT THEIR CHOICES. IT’S OKAY TO LIKE VOX EVEN IF HE IS EVIL.

But don’t go on saying that Vox was “ruined” as a character when all signs have always pointed to him being terrible.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin #hazbin vox #vox hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vox #vox x valentino #valentino hazbin hotel #hazbin valentino #hazbin hotel valentino #valentino #voxval #staticmoth #character analysis #long post

[rjalker]

Dear people who aren't physically disabled who plan to write fantasy settings:

[ID: Several images taken from the Geordi La Forge yes and no meme format, with Geordi holding out a hand disapprovingly for the no section, then pointing in approval for the yes section.

The first image is the meme:

No: "Saying the existance of magic in your setting means there are no disabled people (this literally just means disabled people are killed. AKA eugenics)"

Yes: "Having disabled people who use magical mobility aids and other assistive devices. Realizing that someone is still disabled even if their prosthetic arm is made of magic instead of plastic."

This is followed by four more panels of yes section:

"Geordi la Forge is still literally disabled. His visor helping him does not erase his disability and make him magically abled."

"Toph from Avatar: The Last Airbender is still literally disabled even though her Earthbending helps her. It does not make her disability ~magically~ go away."

"Having your disability be accomodated does not mean the disability goes away. Having a prosthetic hand, even one that's made of magic, does not mean you're not disabled."

"Magical mobility aids do not mean disabled people don't exist. It just means they use magical mobility aids instead of plastic or metal ones. A limb made of magic is still a prosthetic even if it's made of the soul of the universe instead of plastic and metal."

Then another no panel: "'There's no disabled people beacuse magic'".

Then one last yes panel: "'Magic helps disabled people in a variety of ways'".

End ID.]

This also applies to science fiction; just because Luke Skywalker's prosthetic hand is super advanced doesn't mean it's no longer a prosthetic, or that he's not disabled. Same with Darth Vader - just because he has a suit that lets him breathe and walk around doesn't mean he's not disabled. (And Star Wars' propensity for making the villains visibly disabled while the heroes disabilities get covered up by super advanced prosthetics is a topic that deserves its own post, especially with how ableist some of the authors of the books are. Troy Denning is especially ableist)

Edit:

Because people keep being fucking obnoxious and ableist in the tags, yes,,, motherfuckers, if you refuse to have disabled people in your setting, that does make you fucking ableist. If you say that the magic is used to cure all disabled people and that's why they don't exist, that's fucking eugenics.

You cannot ""cure"", more like remove all disabilities without fucking eugenics. Magically automatically destroying disabled fetuses (a very fucking popular trope!) is eugenics.

The only way to fucking "cure" autism is to fucking kill all autistic people, also known as eugenics!

What about people with PTSD? Do you just fucking brainwash them so they aren't traumatized anymore?

Do you force all Deaf people to be able to hear? Do you force all blind people to be able to see? Do you force all anosmics to be able to smell?

Do you magically force everyone with a speech impediment to speak to your standards?

Do you force everyone born with bodily or facial differences to live up to your fucking standard of beauty?

You cannot fucking say "disablities don't exist in this universe because magic cures everything" without inherently saying that eugenics exists in your fucking universe.

Not all fucking disabilities need a cure. If you ""cured"" my autism I'd just be fucking dead. You'd literally just be changing me into what you think is fucking acceptable.

Stop fucking arguing in defence of ableists on my fucking post so you can pretend that eugenics has never been written about in magical settings when it is extremely fucking prevalent.

And while we're fucking at it, let your gods damned characters become disabled over the course of their story, and call them disabled within the fucking story. I don't care if they're a robot. I don't care if they have magic. Not all fucking damage can be fixed. Curses exist. Hardware can go out of fucking date and no longer be manufactured anywhere.

Let your characters become disabled and do not magically fucking cure them back to brand new every single time they get hurt. The only thing you accomplish by doing that is destroying any chance of ever having stakes.

No, "magical healing leaves scars on the mind from the memory of the injuries though!!!!" is not fucking good enough. Let your characters have scars. Let them become disabled. Stop being fucking ableist cowards.

Edit number fucking 2:

No, motherfuckers, you do not get to comment "if the disability was caused by magic it's not ableist to cure it with magic". You are the ableist this post is about. Shut the absolute fuck up, stop treating being disabled as the worst possible outcome, and just admit you're a fucking ableist. If you don't want your characters to become disabled, then don't fucking make them disabled.

[ID: The Garfield "you are not immune to propaganda" meme, now edited to read:

"If your first thought upon reading this post is, 'Oh, but it's okay to magically cure disabilities caused by magic!' Congrats…you are the exact sort of ableist jackass this post is about."

End ID.]

Edit number fucking 3:

Autistic people exist! People who are born with disabilities exist! You cannot create a setting where disabled people do not exist because we're all "cured" or "fixed" and not inherently say that you are killing disabled people as soon as they're born, or fucking aborting us as soon as you figure out we'd be born disabled! That's fucking eugenics!

There is no way to "cure" autism without eugenics! There is no way to "cure" people with body differences without eugenics! There is no way to make disabled people nonexistant in your setting without eugenics! Thinking you can and should "cure" and "fix" all disabilities IS EUGENICS!

Also:

[ID: A character shouting at the camera, now edited to read: "Shut up about Dungeons and Dragons! Shut up about Dungeons and Dragons! If the rules of Dungeons and Dragons are ableist, then fucking change them! It is your fucking personal responsability to be a better person than your bigoted society wants you to be!". End ID.]

[ID: White text on a dark brown background with white and black borders around the edges, that reads:

"I don't fucking know or care about Dungeons and Dragons.

This post is not about Dungeons and Dragons.

Do not fucking throw the rulebook of Dungeons and Dragons at me like it's some sort of 'Gotcha!'.

You will literally just be blocked like the rest of the ableist assholes who've already tried it.

If you play dungeons and dragons, it's your responsability to make your games not be ableist, even if it means breaking the rules.".

End ID.]

I do not fucking care what the ableist rules are in Dungeons of Dragons. Do not fucking throw ableist rules for a game I have never and will never play at me on a post I made so that people could learn how to make their settings less ableist. If the rules in Dungeons and Dragons are ableist, then fucking change them. If you don't want to change them, then stop fucking playing an ableist game.

Disabled people deserve to see ourselves represented in fiction just like everyone else, without any fucking requirements that we be "cured" or "fixed" before the story ends.

How the fuck would you feel if a trans and gay character's whole story revolved around going on a quest to become straight and cis, did so, and only then was allowed to live happily ever after?

Why do you fucking think suggesting people write stories about disabled people going on a quest to be cured because it's the only way they'll ever be happy is any less fucking offensive?

Also:

This post is NOT a place for you to talk about how disabled people in fiction should have the option of curing their disabilities. It's just not. That's the fucking default for this society. That is not a revolutionary concept. It's not novel. We fucking know this society wants us gone. A post about how disabled people deserve representation is not the place to talk about how "Well, actually, in fiction disabled people should be cured!" Like that's not the fucking universal default???????????

Edit #4:

Everyone needs to stop tagging this singing praise for Fullmetal Alchemist. A story that uses disability as a punishment and the characters are on a quest to cure their disabilities is not the amazing representation you're all claiming it is just because the character who is only disabled because of DIVINE PUNISHMENT uses prosthetics.

Read this post, and this one. Fullmetal Alchemist is a hell of a lot more ableist than you people are letting on.

guess what you can now find a PDF version of this post on the web archive.

Edit #5! August 23rd, 2023!

A) Everyone. Disabilities that can only exist in the magical setting are still disabilities.

Trying to cure the younger brother's magical disability of being a soul floating around in a magical suit of armour is, in fact, going on a quest to heal a disability!

It doesn't matter if the older brother doesn't want to get his limbs back when they're going on a quest to heal the younger brother's disability! Especially when they BOTH get magically healed at the end!

Magical disabilities that can only exist in that setting, but not real life, are still disabilities, and it's not okay to magically heal them either! What part of the Garfield meme on this post did you all choose to ignore?!

B) When you leave tags on a post you are reblogging, the original poster can see them! When you leave tags on this post, I can see them!

If you think this post is ""too aggressive"" then simply do not reblog it! Don't fucking tone police me on a post I've had to edit five times now due to the constant ableism people have been commenting since I made it!

I have been called the R slur by multiple people in response to this post! People have literally reblogged this post to defend eugenics abortions! You can't see these comments or replies anymore because I blocked the poster!

If you think minorities are being too aggressive by responding appropriately to bigotry, you're a bigot! And you should either not reblog the post at all, or at the very least, shut the fuck up and not tone police us!

Do not fucking put tags on this post complaining I'm being too aggressive! That's called tone policing and you're a bigot if you do it! Don't fucking do it on anyone else's posts either! They can see your tags too!

C) When I fucking say Harry Potter fans are banned from this post, yes, this means YOU!

Either stop supporting a billionaire who's literally using the profits from her bigoted shittily written books to fund REAL FUCKING GENOCIDE, or fuck off!

By continuing to support the Harry Potter series, you are literally giving JK Rowling free fucking advertising! You are encouraging more people to read the series and watch the movies, spending more money and giving her more fucking money with which to LITERALLY SHAPE A COUNTRY'S LAWS TO COMMIT GENOCIDE. She is literally fucking fighting to make being trans illegal! She is literally fucking fighting to have even more of autistic people's rights taken away!

You cannot fucking be a fan of the Harry Potter series in 2023 and call yourself an ally to all the minorities harmed by JK Rowling and the bigotry baked into her shitty series!

Read another book! The Web Archive has tons you can read for free! Literally every single book on gutenberg.org/ is free! Including audiobooks for some of them!

If you write Harry Potter fanfiction, simply fucking get rid of the names and identifiable features and start writing original fiction instead! It's literally free!

Not supporting a literal fucking genocidal billionaire costs LITERALLY NOTHING! And if you refuse to fucking stop supporting JK Rowling, which is what you are doing when you support the Harry Potter series and squeal over her OCs, you are not an ally to any fucking minority! No! Not even if you're trans yourself!

= = =

Edit again Nobember 28th 2023 because this comment is just. such a perfect example for all of you that think this doesn't happen.

butter-whore2 said, two hours before this edit:

kind of a fan of tumblr's slightly more algorithmically elements for reminding me of the hell's other people construct for themselves but this one hits like five of the boxes. How do people do this to themselves? it's such a bizarre way to act over media I genuinely do not believe is capable of stirring an emotional response the metaphysics of disability here are unintentionally really funny but disability is not a coherent ontological framework, it's a vague descriptor for literally thousands of different things none of which lend themselves to categorizing Moralizing over fiction is incredibly lame.

Liking harry potter is also incredibly lame, it's not morally wrong nor transphobic and you do not get to decide that lol. people literally do get "cured" of their disabilities all the time, many of them have a positive experience in doing so. this is not what eugenics is.

the anti abortion stuff lol

Literally how do you live like this? you guys don't even read real books I don't get it.

Archived version of the comment for posterity.

So yeah, lofl, block this fucker.

#long post #described images #fantasy #writing #writing tips #writing advice #fantasy writing #writing fantasy #scifi #science fiction #also applies to scifi #Luke Skywalker's not magically abled because his prosthetic hands advanced #disability #disabled #physically disabled #neurodivergent #<- so more people see it #and beacuse a lot of just neurodivergent people are really fucking ableist towards physically disabled people #especially people who only have ADHD or are just Autistic #and if me saying that pissess you off guess what? You're probably the exact sort of person I'm talking about. #Newsflash: I'm autistic. I have ADHD. I'm also physically disabled. #And I constantly see people wiht ADHD and autistics being ableist as shit #to both physically disabled people and other neurodviergent people. #You are not immune to being ableist just because you're also disabled.

[rboooks]

Child Support Part 2

Tim watched the other young heroes as they tried to look around the watch tower without seeming like they were. He's been here plenty of times, but the rest of the Teen Titans and a few of the Young Justice hasn't.

Much was due to the older heroes leaving the younger ones alone. Some not taking them seriously enough to welcome them at the big HQ as much as that made his blood boil.

They were taking the same risks. They were fighting the same good fights. Why was their age the main reason they weren't treated equally?

Some teenage heroes weren't part of a team per see, but they always answered when a call was sent. For example, Cass and Steph were present, speaking softly to Static Shock. Damian was standing next to Jon and his little friend Colin who was just getting into the swing of the hero business.

Bruce almost bit through his tongue when Damian told him Abuse would be joining Robin on parol, and he could do nothing to stop them. (Tim felt like he was watching Damian tell Bruce a paraphrased version of "But Daddy, I love him!" and it kept him smiling for weeks)

It was wild to see almost every young hero in one place. He doesn't think this happened since the last time Justice Leauge got mind controlled and almost destroyed the whole world.

"Any idea why we're here?" Kon asks to his right, lowering his shade to stare at the Outlaws. Jason's team stood to the side chatting iddly while cleaning over thier weapons.

Kon's always like their punk point of view, and he knows his best friend wants to go over there to talk to them. If it wasn't for the issue of the clone still being mad about what Jason did at the Teen Titans tower. Almost murder was hard to forgive for people outside the Bats.

"None. All I know is that John Constantine sent out a message to every teenage superhero group calling for a meet-up," Tim responds.

Bart whistles with a grimace on his right. "Must be bad if that guy is asking."

"I heard Hawkwoman tell Superman that she was worried and wasn't sure she wanted anyone of us mixed up in Constantine's mistakes." Cassie chimes in from where she leans on the couch. The three turn to her as she lowers her voice, attempting to keep the others from hearing. "Batman told her off for it."

"Batman did?" Tim asks, surprised.

Cassie shrugs, throwing a bit of her blond hair over her shoulder. "As much Batman can emote anyway."

Yeah, that sounded about right. Though it must have been something Bruce found disrespectful. His dad usually never reprimanded strangers unless they were saying something or doing something that sounded far too much like bigotry to him.

But to apply that to Constantine? Someone, Bruce generally disliked communicating with because the man tended to backstab his contacts? Yes, Constantine wasn't evil, but he wasn't pleasant either.

If Bruce had magical issues, he tended to contact Zatanna first.

Just then, the watch tower's zeta beams activate. Everyone who gathered turns to the teleporting pads where Constantine appears looking, for lack of a better word, absolutely exhausted. Even Tim knows that his eye bags aren't that bad, and he's usually going hours without sleep.

"Oh good, you all made it," Constantine says, sipping from a mug and wearing nothing but sweatpants and what looks like a nightgown. His signature trench coat was nowhere in sight. "I'm going to be quick about this. I need a team of young heroes willing to accept my son into their fold."

The room is dead silent. Constantine sighs. "Look, I've tried everything, but it's like Danny is allergic to laying low. He fought with a demon the other day over a child's doll- which you all know happens. People get haunted! But Danny refused to do it the right way, and now I had to beat off the demon's marriage proposal at least ten times. Not to mention his lack of social skills! No matter which one I stick him in, he can't seem to make friends in school. He got shoved into a locker on his first day! I thought that was an American exaggeration of the telly!"

Constantine pauses and takes a large gulp of whatever he's drinking before continuing his rant. A hand runs through his already messy hair, leaving it in bigger disarray as he speaks. "He's behind in terms of trends and technology cause his other father raised him outside of the typical timelines, so sometimes it's like talking to someone from the early two thousand, and other times it's like he's a modern Victorian era lad. His powers are also all over the place because the ectoplasm in our world is thicker, so when he breathes it in, he losses his control. Just the other day he accidentally made himself fly through our ceiling and almost reach the atmosphere before I was able to bring him back down."

A few of the fliers in the room wince. Jon nods and whispers under his breath, though his voice carries in the silence. "Yeah, been there before. Flying can be scary if you don't know how to come down."

Johns glances around at all the young people, eyes showing a tad bit of desperation. "He's sad all the time now, and I don't know how to help. If working with you could help him make friends, I would be grateful. He's a great kid. He just needs to adjust."

Tim had no idea what to do with this information; how do you respond to arguably one of the strongest Justice League Darks' heroes asking for a play date for his son?

"How old is the child?" Damian's voice rings out. Colin's hand is attached to his sleeve, a slightly nervous smile on the boy's face as he attempts to hide from the staring heroes behind his brother. Tim bets that if he wasn't wearing the domino mask, they would be able to see slight tears in Colin's eyes.

Damian's other hand goes across his body to cover Colin's hand, and Tim fights a shit-eating grin. His eyes lock with Jason, and the two send each other knowing grins. Looks like Bruce did have to worry about Damian having a secret boyfriend.

He can't wait to tease Damian later.

"He's fourteen....or well, physically?" Constantine answers eagerly.

"What does that mean?" Kon asks this time.

"Okay, so he's half human, half ecto-being. He sired him with his other father, Clockwork, which was only four years ago in this dimension, but since he was raised in the Infinite Relemas, times move differently there? " The British man says, and Raven goes rigid.

"Clockwork, as in the most powerful Ancient?" She asks, looking horror-struck when Constantine nods.

Before anyone asked what that meant, the zeta tubes activated again without permission. Someone had hacked into their systems which were ten levels bad. Everyone naturally fell into a fighting stance, only to blink when a teenage boy stepped out with a loud excited screech.

"We're in space!" The teenager runs to one of the windows, pressing his hands and face up against the glass. "This is amazing!"

Tim only relaxes his muscles once Constantine clears his throat. "Chum...what are you doing here?"

"Oh. One of your curse rocks things started proposing to me again, so I ran out of the House of Mysteries. Thought I see what you were up to." The teenager says, turning around with a smile and utterly freezing at the sight of the gathered heroes.

He had dark hair, wide blue eyes, and the most adorable face Tim had ever seen. Not as sexy as Bernard, of course, but darn close. Judging by the looks of anyone attractive to males, most heroes thought the same.

"Um...hi?" He says, offering the Godsmack teenagers a helpless little shrug. "I'm Danny Constantine."

"It is a pleasure, Constantine." Damian marches over to him with all his little twelve-year-old authority. He barely reaches Danny's chest. "I shall look forward to working with you. Are you formally trained in combat or strictly magic?"

"Um...oh, I can throw a punch or two? I'm mostly self taught. I rely on my powers a lot?" Danny fumbles to answer throwing a desperate look at his presumed father.

"No matter. I shall have you begin training. My Beloved also needs to work on his form. There is no shame in this" Damian nods, and Constantine lets out a large sigh of relief. He jogs over to place a hand on his son's shoulder, giving him a one-sided hug

"Yes, Danny, you will join Robin, Superboy, and Abuse on missions. They agree to help you settle and get used to your ghost powers." Constantine smiles. "I'll give me time to discourage all those idiots from trying to trick you into marriage."

"Oh...okay. It's nice to meet you all. Please call me Phantom on the field. Um, are you the team leader?" He asks Damian as the three youngest boys lead him further into the watch tower.

Constantine watches them go with the brightest smile he's ever seen on the man's face. He looks back to the group, who were barely starting to pick their jaws off the floor and makes a shooing motion with his hand. "You lot are dismissed."

Then the man vanishes in a green portal.

There is a ringing silence until Barts blurts out. "I'm pretty sure this is where the Phantom Fan Club first formed. A historical moment."

Tim wants to take a nap.

( Part 1 )

#dcxdp crossover #dc x dp crossover #Child Support #Part 2 #John is trying his best #He's fighting off suitors from his son #Despite being very pretty Danny has a hard time making friends #He's the oldest in Damian's new team #I found the ship Damian/Colin the other day and I love it

[writingbyshiloh]

Third Time's the Charm

Request: Hii,if your request are still open can i request something for Gen V?Can you write something where Jordan and fem reader are childhood best friends and Jordan had always been in love with her but they feel insecure because they don’t know if reader will like them in both forms romantically?So when,in ep 3,Jordan dad goes like “Y/n and Jordan will be husband and wife” reader goes “Maybe we will be wife and wife”because she loves Jordan just like they are?

AN: Reader wants to be the first supe president (just to explain why they’re at the gala), I changed the timeline of the ep a tiny bit. I have another request about meeting Jordan's parents but that one might be more angsty.

CW: fem!reader, kissing, no beta, Jordan's parents are just their warning. The start is all flashbacks so I may have slipped on the tense a few times, no beta

WC: 2.0K

Jordan Li was your first kiss. Twice. The first time was in kindergarten, when they tried to kiss you and you smacked them with your Queen Mauve lunch box. Your second first kiss (the one you consider your actual first kiss) was done by you while playing truth or dare at 14. After picking a dare, you were asked to kiss the best-looking guy in the group. You shrugged and picked your best friend - Jordan. 

At age six, they were there when you broke your ankle trying to see if you could fly (you couldn’t). When you did get powers, they were the first person you told.

When Jordan came out to you as bigender, you did an internet deep-dive, trying to understand as much as possible.

Jordan listened to every interaction you had with your high school crush while quietly dying inside, wanting you to be happy. When your high school boyfriend cheated on you and then dumped you for the girl he cheated with, Jordan was there, ready to sink hours into their Xbox to keep you distracted.

The worst week of your life was when you didn't speak to Jordan for 9 whole days. You got into a petty argument where you called them self-absorbed and they called you clingy. The fight snowballed into yelling arguments and ended with you receiving a cold shoulder from Jordan. 

When Jordan got their wisdom teeth removed, you camped out in their room, snuggled under their duvet with them to watch Property Brothers for two days straight. You even made sure they took their painkillers on time and used ice packs.

Every fight with their parents, you were outside in your car ready to pick up Jordan to stay with you. Once you showed up at their house at 6:03 am, eyes blurry with sleep and still in pyjamas. Jordan was crying, bob haircut looked messy from sleep. You drove them to Vought-A-Burger, still half asleep and ate greasy breakfast sandwiches in your car until Jordan stopped crying. 

Jordan was even your date to prom, taking photos with you in their masculine form to get their parents off their back. Once their parents were happy, you snuck them back to yours, where you stashed their prom dress. 

You both even applied to God U together. Too nervous to check your acceptance, Jordan checked yours and you checked theirs. Sitting across from each other on your bed you both log in before giving the laptops to each other.

“Okay, three, two, one…” you counted down, opening Jordan’s laptop. Your eyes scanned for any promising words like congratulations, or welcome. "Accepted" was the first word your eyes caught but you need to fuck with them.

“Jord… I’m so sorry.” You start. Their face falls, and you feel like a dick for doing this. But the opportunity is too good to pass up. “That you believed me! Because you got in!”

They lunged across your bed to see what the screen says. You saw Jordan's eyes scan the same letter you just read, picking out the same words. 

“You’re such an asshole!” they told you, rolling their eyes, gently hitting your arm with the back of their hand

You’ve never been shy about showering Jordan with compliments. Saved in screenshots never to see the light of day, Jordan has kept some of them. 

You: OMG!!! Jordan you’re so pretty. I’m so lucky to call you my friend. 

You: You’re so handsome!!! I love your hair slicked back! If she doesn’t agree you need to drop her. 

You: ur a solid 9/10. Lost a point for not giving me a sip of your drink yesterday lol

Jordan Li has been in love with you since age 16. Probably earlier, if they want to admit that to themselves. You’ve only ever expressed interest in men so they kept their feelings to themselves, not wanting to make you uncomfortable, figuring it was better to have you as a friend only than not at all. 

In your first year, you were even roommates. While Jordan flourished in crim, you bounced between majors before settling into politics.

Every time you brought some frat guy to your shared dorm, Jordan died inside. Trying to get over their long-standing crush, Jordan did the same.

When Jordan made number 2 on the top five, you celebrate with them. Maybe a bit too hard that night.

You were there when their ranking dropped after the death of Brink. A man you only met twice, but you would do anything for Jordan. Especially given how hard you fell for both versions of them last year.

“I’m going to try to tag team with your dad, get some points for you and keep him engaged, yeah?” You ask over your shocker. Jordan is behind you, ready to help with zipper duty for your dress.

“You don’t have to.”

You let out a small scoff. “Dude. I’m doing poli supe. Schmoozing with rich people is like half our courses. Zip me up please.”

“How long have you known Jordan? You seem to be a good couple.” The man you and Jordan's dad suckered into a conversation asks. He's sitting beside Jordan's parents, while you and Jordan are on the edge of some fancy pit or table. 

“Well, these two have known each other pretty well over the years. Jordan tried to kiss her when they were kids, and she hit him with her Black Noir lunch box.”

“It was a Queen Mauve lunch box, actually.” You say with a laugh.

“And she called him ‘Jojo’ for probably the next two years out of spite.” Kayla laughs. It's a special embarrassment when your parents tell stories about your childhood. All the stories are about you but it's been so long ago you can’t remember any of it. Jordan looks worse off, slouchy posture against the banister, while you sit next to him. Part of you wants to tell him to sit up straight, but you figure you can play the grief angle better this way. 

“Oh, and remember when Jordan got his wisdom teeth out? You guys were inseparable. I think I still have the photo of you two passed out watching TV!” Kayla gushes, reaching for her phone to find the photo.

“We all thought you two would be president and First Gentleman.” Dad insists. Your smile is fake and tight, knowing if Paul pulls out prom photos, you would have to quietly fling yourself out of a window. 

Maybe you drank a bit too much liquid courage. Maybe the tension between them and their parents was getting to you. To give Jordan some space, you took their parents for a tour of your classes, knowing they’ll be talking to your family when they go back to Rochester.

Jordan shifting doesn’t even cause you to raise an eyebrow, the subtle sound just blurs into the background.

“Or president and First Lady.” You blurt out, four pairs of eyes darting towards you. “First supes in the Whitehouse? It would be political dynamite.”

“You like this version of Jordan?” Dad asks with bewilderment.

“Of course. I like Jordan because of how smart and driven they are. I like Jordan because of their weird sense of humour. It doesn’t matter what they look like.” you say, trying to prove it to their parents, but also to them. You’ve picked up on their crush many times, too kind to say something that would embarrass them or hurt them. It’s only recently how much you found yourself staring at fem Jordan and wanting to kiss her too. 

“I’m going to go and mingle some more.” says the man, Brad or Rob maybe. You forgot his name right after you met him. His words are like a bucket of cold water was dumped over you. You don’t confess your feelings to Jordan just to Jordan, but in front of their judgy parents, and a possible donner. You need to go. 

You stand and straighten out your dress. 

“I’m going to go too. Other donors to talk to. Go Jordan!" You finish with an awkward laugh and even more cringy go team! gesture by yourself. 

You didn't lie to Jordan and their parents. You did go and talk to other donors but it twists your stomach every time you bring up how amazing their grades are, or how skillful they are at fighting. After donor number three gives you an answer that technically was “we’ll see” but heavily implied to be "yes for Jordan” you went to hide in the bathroom. You have enough battery left on your V-phone to keep it going for most of the night. Tomorrow you can talk to Jordan and hope you don’t fuck it all up. 

You barely look up when the door opens, already have done too much for the day to care who it is. 

‘Hey, can we talk?” You snap to attention at the voice. Of course, you know that voice. It's Jordan, still feminine presenting. 

“Fuck, Jord, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have spring that on you. I promise I’ll just go back and try to get you some votes, you’re going through a lot.” You say, in a rush to get the words out, desperate not to fuck up you’re friendship. The rim of the sink is hard against your back but you can’t help but shrink into it. 

“Did you mean it?” They ask, still keeping a distance from you.

“Yeah, of course, I don’t want to ruin this friendship.”

“No, what you said in front of my parents.” 

Oh right. Your confession. Fuck. It's already out there, might as well keep it going. 

“I may, uh-” you curse yourself for leaving your drink outside the bathroom, wanting something in your hands to stall. “-have a crush. On you. My best friend.” You twist your hands together, wishing Jordan didn’t look so pretty. If your heart beats any faster you may go into cardiac arrest. 

It's Jordan that indicates your third first kiss. It's gentle, and fast, like the second one. She pulls back quickly, but you run your fingers through her hair and pull her closer. The intensity from the first first kiss is still there, only this time you both share it. Her hand smooths up to your face, thumb stroking your cheek in a silent invitation to open your mouth. You comply, and tilt your head into her palm. Her tongue sweeps into your mouth and you can taste the champagne they were drinking. 

The sound of the door opening makes you both jump.

“Stall?” You ask, voice low and hushed. You squirm out from where she has you between the sink and her. You push the door open to the nicest-looking stall, desperate to keep kissing Jordan. They follow your lead eagerly, one hand wrapped around your shoulder to keep you near. 

Dipping their head, they softly kiss your jaw before moving onto your neck. You silently thank the other two women arguing in the bathroom so that your gasp goes unnoticed. Giving Jordan's hair a small tug, you pull them back up to you. The shit-eating grin they flash you makes you want to almost get caught again. 

Your free hand moves to their waist, trying to get as close to them as physically possible. 

You pull back slightly, wanting so desperately to get lost in the moment, but the commotion in the other stall is distracting. Plus you’re nosey.

Jordan frowns when you pull away, eyes scanning your face for something they did wrong. You shake your head and tip it over to the stall.

“The fuck?” They mouth to you, hand still around your shoulder.

You gently push Jordan against the door to give yourself space to squat down. You see two pairs of feet in the stall across the wall. You hear the voices quiet down, before the sound of someone peeing. You frown slightly, weird fetish to do at a memorial gala but you hear rumours about students into more fucked up shit. 

“We should get outta here.” You whisper to Jordan. 

“Weird place for our third first kiss.” Jordan whispers back. You reach around them to unlock the stall door. Third first kiss. You replay the words in your head, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. 

You gently push them out of the stall, trying to keep your laughs quiet as you both scurry past the other couple in the stall. 

#I read it once for spelling and flow then released it to the world #jordan li x reader #jordan li x y/n #jordan li imagine #gen v x reader #gen v x y/n #gen v imagine #whew this got out of hand #time to talk about jordan

[celaenaeiln]

I want to talk about Dick Grayson's beauty, sex symbol status, and how it all connects for a moment.

This is a prelude to an upcoming post but I needed to include this separately because the other was getting too big.

First of all Dick Grayson is a beautiful man.

And you're probably thinking "well, no duh. Everyone knows that." but what I mean is Dick Grayson was intentionally made to be beautiful.

For a little historical context, around the late 1950s the culture in the US was changing. It was around this time, that people began exploring and accepting what they called a "feminine man".

This was really taking place in cinema and stuff where they began to show softer versions of men doing "typically female roles" as heroes.

One example is the movie "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance", a 1962 Hollywood film. In summary, it takes place in the midwest and is centered about Cowboys, gunslingers, the shebang. But the point is, there are two male leads in the movie - Ranse Stoddard (played by Jimmy Stewart) and Tom Donophon (played by John Wayne). Ranse and Tom are both the heroes in the film but with a key difference. Tom is like the sheriff of the town, loved by all and focusing his time on practicing his gun skills. The savior of women and normal people, he's the typical masculine hero. His face is rough and handsome. Ranse however was the new wave. He doesn't care about carrying the gun, he thinks it's uncouth and focuses much of his attention on sending the evil guy (Liberty Valance) to jail through laws. He doesn't want to kill and he takes a more advocative approach. He is also loved by everyone despite not being super masculine. Ranse's face is clean and almost dainty in comparison to Tom and Liberty Valance's.

Despite the complete opposites they are, both men are considered heroes. On one hand, you have the very male typical hero but on the other hand, you have the feminine male hero. At one point the evil guy laughs when Ranse walks in wearing an apron because serving tables is a "woman's job", but Ranse doesn't let it bother him.

How does this connect to Dick Grayson?

Dick Grayson is the feminine hero of DC. DC jumped on the pretty boy hero train.

That's also why in the Teen Titans (1966) comics, Dick keeps being referred to by endearingly feminine pet names by the titans which they seem to only use on him.

Standard gender roles: Men were expected to be strong, aggressive, and bold while women were expected to be polite, accommodating, and nurturing. Sound familiar about a certain duo?

But Dick? He plays both male and female gender roles in a time period where it wasn't socially acceptable to do so.

So my point is, Dick was created to blur the lines between gender and the way his character has progressed - he's meant to be the definition of a man opposite to male toxicity.

He can cook and do laundry whereas Bruce, the image of male dominance cannot.

This also falls into another role of Bruce and Dick's but it applies here as well in hindsight.

One thing people need to understand is that Dick was created to be the antithesis of Bruce Wayne. For all the gloominess that Bruce is Dick was meant to be the joy. He is the light to Bruce's darkness.

Which is why Dick often acts as the loving mother to the batfamily while Bruce acts as the stern father. Because Dick was created for the female role.

Part of the reason why I love Dick and Kory is because they do this at a time where girlbossing and malewifing wasn't a thing. Kori is consistently the dominant one when it comes to love in their relationship while Dick plays a softer, more "wife like" role. The way Kori is taller than Dick and buffer than him ✨

He is quite literally a queen consort - that is the role that Kori begs him to take after she is forced to marry someone her father picks out for her. But Dick refuses in tears because his morality cannot bear becoming a mistress and ruining someone else's marriage.

I know this is a long tangent but here's where the sex symbol comes in. Dick was created to be the most beautiful figure in DC but him being beautiful is not supposed to be confused with him being objectified.

Being beautiful is just something he was born as. What people do as a result has nothing to with DC

Take this for instance

He's literally just showering and comes out of the shower to find a random little girl singing about his and batman's identities. Creepy? Yes. Very much so. So he chases after her and finds her gone. Well there's nothing he can do now, he needs to go back and analyze what's going on and contact the other titans-

Crap.

Look at all the women that are ogling him, and even the ginger looks as if he doesn't know if he's jealous or wants to join - but there's nothing Dick did to make them do that. He's literally minding his own business and got caught outside. Did he hit on the women? Did he seduce them? Did he purposefully show off and make a loud commotion because he wanted the attention? No!

Arguing that Dick Grayson shouldn't be a sex symbol just seems wrong to me considering that it's not a fault of his.

It's like telling Kori not to have large breasts and telling Dinah not to wear fishnets.

People still ogle them regardless of how they dress because they're just that attractive. You can't tell someone to look a different way because you don't like the attention they're receiving...that's literally the opposite of everything people should be fighting for

Arguing that Dick Grayson being a sex symbol is a problem because he's too beautiful and blaming the actions of other characters for thinking so is just...

it's wrong.

He was created to be beautiful to fight male toxic masculinity. He's woman coded for a reason.

We should be embracing him. He represents everything male freedom should be about. He constantly placed in a female role, in female positions-

In queer positions-

He's acrobatic, slender, and sensual. He's gentle, loving, and beautiful.

When has the beauty of a person ever been a reflection of their character? The way fandom is going, it's implying that because female characters make sexualized comments about Dick's body, it's somehow Dick's fault for looking that way. We're blaming him for his "womanizing" ways as if he hasn't put his heart and soul into every relationship he's had. And while we're busy calling him a womanizer, we conveniently forget that the women he's in relationships with have significant personalities of their own. We inadvertently reduce their beings to plastic bags, ignoring that they have broken up with each other because of being unable to resolve conflicting beliefs, different career paths, different lifestyles, and more. It's not a one way road with our treatment of Dick. It's a two way street because we're harming both Dick and strong women like Kori, Barbara, Bea, Shawn, and Helena by pretending what they believe in and live for is unimportant in love.

Instead we should be exploring how the objectification might have an impact on Dick's mental health rather than blaming DC for using characters to describe how hot Dick is.

All the beautiful traits of Dick Grayson - his ambiguous sexuality, his overwhelming love for people, his affection for his friends, the way he cries and feels for others - all of it is beautiful, is it not?

From his very creation Dick was meant to be someone who breaks gender roles. The constant attraction he receives from both men and women in all of DC's media is evidence of that. The Grayson comics push the boundaries of his sexuality as much as DC will allow. To be queer without coming out with it. He is the feminine hero.

Everyone seems to hate that he's being called a sex symbol but why does that bother you? Dick Grayson IS the pretty girl of the comic universe. He IS the babygirl of DC.

DC has created the perfect view of what it's like to be a woman through Dick Grayson and we're spitting on the most accurate representation of a female that comics have ever created by blaming them for expressing what it's like to live as a woman.

#dick grayson #nightwing #I would love to hear people's thoughts on this bc I genuinely don't get the problem with him being portrayed as hot #bruce wayne #batman #dickkori #my thoughts on the sex symbol thing #prelude to my next post #koriand'r