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iselenris · 16 days ago

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Katniss got screwed over so fucking hard and unbelivable horrifically in her perception and the ripple effects that happened 'thanks' to her.She was a mixed native girl who was brownskinned with black hair and gray eyes,which is an actual feature on native americans,and lost her father to the fascist regimen she lived in at a young age and had to resort to parentifying herself to look after her younger sister since their mother turned into a deadbeat when he was killed and her treatment of her carries undertones implying it's a 'white mom is racist to her biracial daughter' situation and Katniss grew up awkward and socially inept and traumatized and angry and volatile and criminalized and insecure and isolated.Yet despite everything,she held tight to doing good and not allowing herself to slip into not caring and sitting by at the chances to help.'I volunteer!' is the denifer to Katniss' entire arc.That she tries and tries and never gives up,no matter the specifics.Katniss was an eldest daughter,an orphan with a living parent who didn't care about her,an older sister by instincts and a brown indigenous girl who's very existense hinges on the fact she's a brown indigenous girl

It runs so much deeper than 'they focused on the love triangle instead of Katniss' own plights and traits'.The movies casted a white girl to play Katniss.They had ONE job,to adapt the story of a native girl about how she's a native girl and they couldn't even do that.They literally ruined Katniss individually and the impact she was meant to give and robbed native american girls of seeing a girl like them,who LOOKS and ACTS and IS TREATED like them,as a heroine,unpalpable,humanized and desirable to people they thought they weren't good enough or rather white enough for.The books even included commentary on the cisheternormativity present in intraracial dating enforced by communities of color.A part of the Peeta or Gale love triangle is Katniss felt obliged to date Gale because they're both from The Seam(read:the same tribe)so it's expected of her but she actually wanted Peeta and that was frowned upon because Peeta is white,quite a common case for women of color and white partners historically and carries on today

Haymitch's own whitewashing effected Katniss' white feminization too.He's native/from The Seam too and the two of them grew into a father-daughter bond and it's absolutely a vital aspect of it they're a young girl of color who's dad was killed by a hate crime and an older man of the same heritage as both of them.Rue's District 11 status aka black descent is equally important to it,as a show of solidarity between people of color,most of all native american girls and african american girls.Katniss' righeous rage at the system was always there but what sparked it to ignite fully and unleashed itself was watching her friend who was a younger black girl be murdered by a white boy and it's followed up by a black boy who was friends with her too only liking Katniss after seeing how much she cared about her

Yet whenever people discuss Katniss Everdeen,they picture a white girl or dismiss the necessary layers her nonwhite heritage brings to her.Her name is literally KATNISS EVERDEEN,of COURSE she's native american.That is not a white girl name nor a a madeup nonsense name,it's referenced to a plant significant in north american indigenous cultures and Everdeen is basically a normal last name for a NA person if a bit fantastical.Would you want a white Miles Morales or a white Nyota Uhura or a white Ichigo Kurosaki or a white Juniper Lee?No,you wouldn't(unless you're a racist turd),since then they'd be completely different characters.Katniss' apperance,personality,relathionships and story are attributes of her as a native girl and she was also an activist and anarchist native girl to boot.The Hunger Games is known as a 'fighting the goverment' story but the part where the fighting was brought by a biracial girl living under anti-indigenous white supremacy standing up to a system that kills her people and other poc that she loves and wants to protect for their mere act of being poc and needing help is intentionally left out

That way,it was easy for white woman fragility and cartoonishly bigoted writing to sneak it's way as a wave of 'The Hunger Games/Katniss Everdeen ripoffs' and be dismissed as 'witchhunting towards women for enjoying dark fiction' as 'women' to this crowd means 'white cis women' and they don't see women of color(or trans women!!!!especially trans women of color!)as women.They think of us as a grotesque third gender and Katniss is given this treatment of racialized misogyny in-universe and she internalized it very clearly.THG 'ripoffs' are a longchain of woc erasure marketed towards white women who want an excuse to feel empowered over complying to the cisheteropatriarchy and white standards,extending to treating women of color badly.They think we're not women and they think it's sticking it to 'the man','the man' being women who aren't white and 'female fantasies' meaning chasing after men who act 'as men do' aka coddling men for abusing them and enabling the idea misogyny is a natural order and not an invented enforcement.Katniss Everdeen was never white or just a girl.Katniss Everdeen was always a punk girl of color and you colonizers took that away from her

#katniss deserved better #katniss is undeniably a hero hollywood was NEVER going to cast an indigenous girl #Katniss is sympathetic and just Good and she has a complexity to her that makes her human she feels so real to so many people for a reason #why the fuck would hollywood allow a character like that within the themes of rebellion and dismantling ‘order’ to be accurately portrayed #especially the chaos and violence Katniss ensues yeah them making her white is not surprising #it is infuriating #the hunger games #katniss everdeen #my personal ruminations

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iselenris · 16 days ago

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buzz inducing

Klonnie Weekend 2025: Fake Dating

It starts, as these things often do in her life, with a threat.

Bonnie is on her way home from her first actual date she’s been on since Jeremy kissed a ghost. Probably her first actual date, period, she considers with a twinge. Nothing special, just burgers and fries at the Grill—but she’s feeling kind of good. Lip gloss still intact. Curls still bouncing. And then—

“Witch.”

She freezes, one hand tightening around the strap of her purse. There’s mace inside, but she knows that won’t do any good. The night air had been warm against her skin, scented with honeysuckle and the last ghost of spring rain, but now she feels a shiver run up her spine.

“Witch,” he repeats like she hadn’t heard him the first time. Like her fight or flight hadn’t just kicked into overdrive and he can’t hear the frantic tattoo of her heart. She takes a breath, turning slowly.

And, yup, there he is.

Klaus ‘kill everyone you’ve ever loved’ Mikaelson standing beneath the shadows of a broken street-lamp, calm and terrible and annoyingly unruffled for midnight.

“Hybrid,” she greets in return, because why not.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

For a moment, he says nothing more. Just lets his gaze sweep her from head to foot in an indolent appraisal that has her spine snapping tight and magic humming beneath her skin.

That twitch becomes a smirk. “Relax, little witch. I’m not here to fight.”

“Then what are you here for?” She asks.

“I need your assistance,” he says, like it was a favor, like he hadn’t attempted to murder her best friend less than a year ago and threatened to dismember her in at least three different ways.

She folds her arms. “Why would I help you?”

Klaus opens his mouth—almost certainly to offer some graphic promise of death or dismemberment—but she cuts him off. “You know what, don’t. I get it. Carnage, pain, everyone I love in pieces. Classic. What is it this time? Linking spell? Did you lock Elijah in a coffin and lose the key?”

She has no idea where this sass is coming from and the survival instinct in her brain is screaming at her to ‘shut up’ but every time she quips, that mouth twitches and she can see the faintest hint of…dimples?

“Nothing so terrible,” he replies, tone light. “A bit of your witchy blood, a small incantation, and then—poof—you’re free to resume whatever terribly dull life you’re leading.” He holds an arm out as if to usher her along.

She blinks. “What? Now?”

”No time like the present.”

Bonnie grumbles, under her breath, just the teeniest bit defiant, because damn it, she’s tired, and she wants a good night’s sleep, and really was it so much to ask that date night not be a bust—when Klaus’s next words stop her mid-ramble.

“You smell like grease.”

She looks at him, eyes narrowing. “I smell like Daisy.”

“Yes, your floral perfume is there, as is your usual, inviting earthy scent. But you do smell like grease and burgers.”

She had an earthy scene? It was ‘inviting’? Nevermind that. “I was at the Grill.” Why is she explaining herself to him?

”The Grill.” His lip curls. “For a date?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He pauses again, looks at the empty street, then back to her. Then, disdainful: “And where is this date of yours?”

”Trevor has practi—“

”Trevor?” Klaus seems positively revolted by the name. “Trevor?” Klaus repeats, like the word itself is offensive. “You let a boy named Trevor take you on a date?”

Bonnie crosses her arms tighter. “It’s not that serious.”

“Clearly,” he mutters. “He abandoned you at the curb and didn’t even walk you to your door.”

Bonnie scowls. “Like I was saying—he has practice in the morning.”

Klaus’s eyes narrow. “So he left you alone. At night. After burgers. In Mystic Falls. Where half the population seems to be supernatural and the other half perpetually under threat.”

She blinks. “…Are you lecturing me right now?”

“No,” he says, too quickly. “But if I were, it would be well deserved.”

“Oh my god.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is not happening.”

Klaus takes a deliberate step closer, hands clasped behind his back like some academic lecturer about to give a lesson. “Dating as a concept emerged in the early 20th century, particularly in the 1920s. This shift was influenced by factors like women's increased participation in society, and their involvement in selecting partners without familial obligations.”

Oh. Shit. It is a lecture.

“A date should be a celebration of that choice,” he continued. “Something more than meat and mediocrity. A date, when done right, is the art of showing appreciation. Of anticipation.” He let his gaze wander over her face, lingering on her lips before back to her eyes. “The beginning of seduction.”

She ignores the way heat creeps up her neck, into her cheeks. the way her pulse is still racing, but not from fear…more like the anticipation he’s told her about. And she absolutely ignores the way her mouth feels heavy under his gaze, lips wanting to part.

“No wonder we couldn’t tell you apart from Alaric,” she comments, taking a step back. “Giving lectures nobody asked for.” She turns toward her front door. “Look, it’s late. Some of us aren’t nocturnal, so if it’s not life or death, I’m going to bed. You’ll get your blood and your spell tomorrow.”

He doesn’t grab her arm. Doesn’t halt her, so she takes that as permission. She barely makes it up the step before his voice halts her again, lower now, silk-wrapped iron: “Let me show you.”

She holds the key in the knob, but doesn’t turn. “Show me what?”

“What it should be. A date. Not a sloppy imitation done by the likes of boys named Trevor.”

Bonnie glances at him over her shoulder, trying to decide if he’s actually serious. He is. Of course he is. His expression is maddeningly sincere, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that feels a little too close to temptation.

“You want to take me on a date?”

“Not a real one,” he clarifies. “A demonstration. A model. One you can hold up against future offers and reject them accordingly.”

She sighs, turning the key. Honestly, she doesn’t have the energy for this. “You’re doing this to mock me.”

“I’m doing this,” Klaus says smoothly, “because it is offensive to the very concept of courtship that someone like you doesn’t know what it should feel like.”

“Goodnight, Klaus.” She steps through, closing the door behind her. She locks it for good measure.

He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t press. Which, in hindsight, should’ve been the first clue.

The next evening, Bonnie lights a candle on her nightstand, just like Grams taught her. Mugwort and bay for clarity, lavender to soothe. She’s in an oversized Metallica T-shirt, hair twisted up, just beginning to cue up an old episode of Criminal Minds when she feels it—the subtle flex of power against her magic.

There’s a knock.

Polite, for once. Which is exactly why it unnerves her.

She debates on ignoring it.

She’s already sent him her blood, cast the spell—a simple binding on a grimoire—preventing anyone but him (and oddly, herself) from opening it.

He knocks again. Three short, evenly spaced raps.

Bonnie sighs, blowing a curl from her eyes and opens the door. She’s tempted to tell him that she’s going to start charging by the hour. He can afford it. But all of her snark dies in her throat the moment she sees him.

Klaus stands on her porch in tailored dark clothes—not quite a suit, but deliberate. Dark slacks, a crisp open collar, sleeves rolled to the forearm. In his hands: a lush bouquet of dusky red peonies and soft white jasmine. They smell like twilight and stolen things.

“I said no,” Bonnie says automatically, though it lacks any heat.

He tilts his head. “Odd. I didn’t hear ‘no’. I heard: ‘Goodnight, Klaus.’”

He’s technically correct, which is her least favorite kind of correct. She’s about to tell him no, in no uncertain terms, when he continues.

“I’m already here, love. Terrible form to deny me now.” He holds the flowers toward her.

They are gorgeous, full, flawless blooms and rich heady scent. It’s the first time anyone has ever gotten her any.

She should toss them into the bin.

Instead, she takes them with a muttered, “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. “Still not a no.”

”You’re not going to let this go are you?”

He doesn’t respond, but it’s on his face.

Bonnie shakes her head. “Fine. Wait here.” She’s not about to invite him in.

When she returns, it’s in a cream-colored blouse edged in lace, tucked into a flowy patterned skirt that swirls when she walks. Her hair is down, loose, natural, around her shoulders. She doesn’t bother with make-up or jewelry.

This isn’t really a date.

It’s a lesson.

She’ll treat it as such.

Which turns out to be harder than it sounds.

Because when Klaus sees her—his expression shifts. Not his usual appraising calculation—something quieter. A little softer. Like the sight of her in moonlight and lace might actually be beautiful.

“Ready?” he asks, voice dipped low.

Bonnie inhales and exhales a deep breath. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He offers his arm.

She doesn’t take it—not at first—but then he cocks his head, eyebrow raised in challenge.

She tosses him a look, but links her elbow through his, annoyed at how natural it feels. The scent of his cologne is faint—spiced woods and something wilder. She breathes it in before she can stop herself.

She expects a car, chandeliers, a compelled maître d’. Something grotesquely extravagant, probably featuring a string quartet and gold utensils. Something that shows how unlimited his influence actually is. A show of arrogance.

So she’s surprised when Klaus walks her two blocks down the street, cutting across a small wooden bridge near the edge of town. He leads her through a narrow, pebbled trail behind the old library. When the path opens up, her breath catches.

It’s a clearing tucked beneath a canopy of weeping willows, their branches sweeping low and silver in the moonlight. It smells like crushed herbs, clean earth, and something sweet—berries, maybe. Or honey.

The grass is soft and wild, the ground scattered with dandelions and moss. In the center is a picnic blanket—thick, deep red, clean despite the earth—and set atop it are small lanterns glowing like fireflies.

On the blanket: fresh bread, a jar of dark jam, cold chicken sliced and wrapped neatly in wax paper. Cheese. Tiny peaches. A bottle of wine, no label, no cork—sealed with wax.

Bonnie stops short.

Klaus watches her reaction the way a painter watches a canvas take color. “The Grill is beneath you,” is all he says.

She really doesn’t know what to say to that so she keeps her silence.

He holds her hand as she lowers herself to the blanket—keeping her steady. After that it’s a handful of small things that ripple through the night.

He pours the wine for her. Offers a cloth napkin. Cuts the peach with the knife she was eyeing but didn’t want to reach for.

“This,” Klaus murmurs, handing her the fruit, “is only one form of appreciation.”

“Food as appreciation? I can see that,” she says, biting into a slice.

He hums. “Most people don’t.”

She hates that she kind of agrees with him. Most people overlook the little gestures.

They eat slowly. The chicken is seasoned with something fragrant—rosemary or maybe thyme. The bread is soft. The cheese, sharp. Bonnie lets herself enjoy it, a little. She hasn’t had a meal that hadn’t involved a microwave in longer than she can remember.

When they talk, it’s not about the usual things. No magic. No threats. No blood.

Klaus tells her about Florence in the 1500s and how Italian peaches used to be bitter until witches started grafting sweetness into the skin. She listens in spite of herself. Finds his occasional biting commentary both snobbish and amusing.

She thinks, briefly, he looks almost human like this.

So when he asks, “What do you think about?”

She answers.

Maybe because it’s not real.

There’s no pressure to perform. No masks to wear. No expectations to meet.

She doesn’t have to be the strong one for him. The one who doesn’t ask—who gives.

She tells him about Grams. About how quiet the kitchen feels now and how sometimes, the smell of jasmine makes her cry without knowing why. She tells him that she used to dream of traveling the world, but now she just dreams of finding a small place in it.

He listens. Like she’s the only thing that matters.

And that, more than anything, is what undoes her.

Not the wine. Not the food. Not even the way the moonlight threads silver through his lashes.

It’s that he sees her. And seems to like what he sees.

She doesn’t trust it.

But, for tonight, for this moment, she lets herself have it.

By the time he walks her back into town, the moon is low and the shadows are long. The wine has left her warm. Drowsy.

He doesn’t leave her at the curb. He walks her all the way to her porch.

“Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “Thanks for the fake date.”

Klaus arches a brow. “Fake?”

“I mean—model. Example? Lesson.” She settles on.

His eyes gleam. “The night’s not over,” he tells her, stepping forward, just close enough for her to feel the heat of him. “And for clarification—this part,” he says, voice velvet-dark, “is very real.”

He leans in, slow and deliberate. And he kisses her.

Not a demand. Not a possession. Just a touch—warm, slow, reverent.

Like she’s something precious.

Like he’s tasting the possibility of something he hasn’t dared name.

And Bonnie…Bonnie lets him.

For a second too long, maybe. Or maybe just long enough.

He tastes like peaches and wine.

When she finally pulls back, it’s not with a slap or a spell or even a warning.

It’s with a soft exhale. A breath they both feel.

She opens her eyes, and he’s still watching her—closely. Carefully.

His expression isn’t smug. It isn’t triumphant. It’s something… else. Almost hesitant. Like he was expecting the slap or the spell.

A heartbeat passes, then another, and finally he whispers, “Goodnight, Bonnie,” quiet and sure.