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[leires]

The Trump Family Invite You to a Celebration of Their Alpha Son by DC Joyrider

Chapter 1: "I think if this country gets any kinder or gentler, it's literally going to cease to exist." (Donald J. Trump to Playboy, March 1990), or

"Skibidi! Skibidi rizz the White House!"

Chapter 2: “I love the president, I just want to be clear about that.” (Elon Musk to Sean Hannity, February 2025), or

"I’m on Alpha Centauri, and you’re trapped in the betaverse."

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Diverging sharply from my usual fare, today I created a side pseudonym for AO3, DC Joyrider, so that I could post the first chapter of a GOP omegaverse story about the party planning skills of beta-presenting Alpha Melania Trump, and Alpha-presenting betas Donald J. Trump and Elon Musk. Here is chapter one of The Trump Family Invite You to a Celebration of Their Alpha Son. Happy Presidents' Day!

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Have a 100 word pre-movieverse drabble about Akio and Anthy. I wrote this in 2003 while mulling over art history classes about Picasso and Matisse.

The Color She's Painted

There was a man who painted his sister.

She was young for a very long time. She was beautiful for a very long time. She was called a witch.

The paintings were created at the peak of all their inhabitants' lives-- the model will always look youthful and attractive, the flowers are in full bloom, the fruit is perfectly ripe.

As long as there is an artist, Anthy does not need a mirror. The paintings echo, she in turn repeats their words.

There was a man who painted a witch. The subject is the painter. The painted is a diversion.

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Enjoy this short 400-word drabble, or work of short fiction, which I wrote about Anthy 14 years ago. It was originally published on Livejournal. 😊

Personality Crisis

(Originally published by user girlchild on Livejournal in the community utenadrabble, 25 February 2008.)

*

Today Anthy is a gardener, silent in a green heaven studded with blossoms like stars. She stands on her toes in the center of a glass house. There is a bronze watering can in her left hand, a pair of pruning shears in her right. She sprays pungent insect repellent and inhales deeply.

Today is Saturday, and she dreams of the color red. When she wakes up there's something brown underneath her fingernails. She licks her sour fingertips and gets dressed quickly, leaving without making a sound. The best children, sisters, witches, brides, and corpses are all inconspicuous.

Today, she is a new fiancée, with two soon-to-be step-children and a chain-metal grey engagement ring. A businessman woos her; an empty dress is her body. A dead diamond sparkles on her left hand; a telephone's receiver is cradled in her right. Her voice is modestly insinuating; she cultivates the bit players' emotions until they are necessary. She generates background noise. Then she acts.

Today, monitors beep like metronomes, and metronomes measure out her heartbeat. The music room is dimly lit; distant voices bounce against school walls. Shadows laugh and radio static fuzzes everything, but only until she puts her hands to the piano's keys, to make up the second half of a duet. Glossy leaves are a mosaic against the far wall. Here, there are no flowers to break up the round, edged lines.

Today, Anthy is a boy bride, placid and sweet with black petals and blue water brushing her fingertips, someone else's memories crowding her thoughts. There's slight pressure on her shoulder, but the touch is cold and seems to pass through her skin, like a shadow hand. Sounds turn hollow, words echo. To her left she sees a smudged chalkboard, logic and numbers reduced to a chalk smear; to her right, neatly lined rows of empty, blackened shoes are arranged. The world crackles and ignites.

Today, she is someone's sister, torn skirt and dirty face, ragged cropped curls and straw and mud on her bare feet, staring down a crowd of blank faces, punctuated with glinting, wicked metal. Her hands are empty. There's a red rose growing somewhere; she can see the smudge of color in her mind.

Today, like every day, is exactly the same. Today, she holds life and death in her hands and watches the world rotate around her body.

(Tomorrow she is a bird.)

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Participating in the Izzy Hands Festive Fix-It Fest, I contributed Whittling and Sunny Afternoon, two gen stories about Izzy's relationships with the crew of the Revenge.

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Hi! I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has participated in my polls from this morning and left comments and tags. I've been having so much fun reading your thoughts. It's really brightening a hard day for me.

Here is a little present for the Shiori enjoyers. It's a movieverse double drabble I wrote in 2004*.

•

Color Comparison

Purple roses are rarer and therefore better than red roses. At least that’s what Shiori tells herself.

It should be obvious how superior purple is to the common bawdiness of red. Purple is slick like the skin of a plum, rich and dark and sweeter than the juice running down your chin when your white, sharp teeth pierce that peel. Purple is nothing at all like an ordinary apple.

The propensity of purple is to be extraordinary-- it's the color of a crisp new dress worn only once and then enshrined and preserved in the sanctity of a closet, not an old, shabby best-beloved one.

Shiori imagines the Rose Bride's skin tastes old, stale with borrowed salt. She perfumes her own body, rubbing scented oil into her skin until it rasps red. The vivid, livid color fades, and its fickleness is a testament to violently violet bruises that linger for days and Shiori herself. This small success seems a great triumph to Shiori, and so she can ignore the fact that Anthy Himemiya is not only red but purple as well for another day.

•

* I was flattered by the inclusion of this work as a reference in Gaisce's tremendous meta essay on movieverse Shiori, "The Poison Vine."

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I wrote this drabble inspired by the above picture of Utena and Anthy at the beach around 2005! It's entitled Oceanic Lullaby.

•

She is always washing in and out of Anthy's dreams. The tides tangle tiny golden shells and foam like liquid pearls in her curls. Her limbs are washed-white and taste of ancient brine.

Anthy thinks about the shade of her eyes in terms of the ocean breakers- pale blue in the morning and indigo by night, but always reliably sparkling and clear.

By day Anthy navigates the pavement perimeter of sea cities. She doesn't mind the seedy motels or grit in her flip-flops any more.

At night, along each identical boardwalk, the tourists stop and admire her ornate sand castles. She smiles vaguely at their praise, and patiently smoothes the wet sand into spires.

Anthy knows one day that girl will emerge from the nets of her dreams, and she will never need castles again.

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Skeleton City, Yohji haunted by Asuka -> Neu, 840 words. I wrote this in roughly 2007 or 2008 and it has not been edited since, nor will it be. Content warning for edgy canon typical material. 💐😿

*

The details are like mica, soft and flaking, sometimes just a chip, sometimes an entire sparkling layer peeling away. Those are the days where he knows he's forgotten her a little bit more; those days where he can circle the memory but not quite clinch it.

Yohji hates those days the worst. That's when every girl he sees is her: lovely and prickly and dead. Their features all blur. They lick their lips collectively, like lines of robot dolls, and when he looks again, he sees beauty marks on every face, like dots of chocolate at the edge of their red lips. Schoolgirls outside the shop with their books transform, their eyes squinting at tiny print, their hands not bothering to cover their mouths when they yawn in the fading day, their mouths round and glossy-fat when they coo over Omi, their lipgloss leaving marks on their Styrofoam coffee cups. All of the details that are inelegant, unladylike, beautiful Asuka.

Those days. On the job, focused and geared up, listening to the snick of Ken unsheathing his blades; waiting for Omi's voice, intimate in his earpiece, to cut through the static of a crowded party; following the swath of a path that Aya carves out; waiting for the moment to pull on the chain of his garrote until bones audibly snap and feet stop kicking. Then Yohji turns his head, and there's a trio of Asukas clustered on the corner; prostitutes in torn skirts with knockoff designer sunglasses covering their glitter makeup and black eyes. Asuka is the pretty barmaid who refills his glass without being asked; Asuka the girl who slaps his face in the same bar later that night. Asuka is the girl in the lobby of a hotel scowling at her cell phone, toying with the charms hanging from it; Asuka is a young mother, passing in the street, her legs lean and white behind a stroller.

Even Manx wears the wrong face on those lean, loathsome days, her hairsprayed red curls wilting into her sleek, practical style. It's just from the greenhouse humidity of the flower shop's back room. He looks again, and Manx fixes her most severe stare on him until she sees the expression on his face, the hollow purple half-haloes under his eyes. Those days, nobody bitches when Yohji walks out on a debriefing, says, "Not this time," pulls away from the curb with a sharp screech they can all hear from the basement.

Every woman has the potential to be Asuka. Yohji's getting more and more used to disappointment every time a pretty woman smiles at him and he knows it's starting all over again. He knows it's just a control issue.

He impresses the unique details of Asuka on himself one day, one particularly bad day, zoning out while he's misting the African violets. He thinks of things he hasn't tried to remember in years: the inconsistent cherry of her mouth, redder than lipstick, from where she bit her lip again and again, leaving permanent marks. Her fluffy, white bathrobe that she stole from a maid's cart at a motel, one Christmas, and the way she slept naked underneath it after a hot shower, like a child. Two pairs of cheap sunglasses from a department store, instant noodles from a coffee mug in the morning with one spoon because they haven't done the dishes in a week and a half. Smoking the cheapest two-for-one brand of menthols because they hadn't had a job in a month.

Stakeout together, the low, ironic sound of her laughter broken up by the snap of the camera; the way Yohji could almost forget the numbness of his body cramped into one position for hours when he saw the slight twitch at the corner of Asuka's mouth, her almost-smile. The way she moved her hands when she chastised him, the way he'd lose arguments for watching her long, dexterous fingers, or watching the shadows they cast. The way she never wanted to let him undress her; always batting his hands away, always stripping efficiently and quickly and then turning to the buttons of Yohji's shirt, the zip of his pants.

Omi looks up from his pruning and says, "Yohji-kun?", and it breaks him out of one of the few moments of clarity he's had in years. Then Yohji notices the mister is empty and he's been convulsively pulling the trigger for god knows how long, a plastic empty sound in the steamy air.

Yohji idly once wished his bed had posts, so that he could mark a line for every fuck, just like the stereotype. Except it would be just one scratch, repeat-deep, over and over and over, Asuka Asuka Asuka.

Yohji isn't really surprised the day Asuka is the enemy-- just thinks to himself, finally-- and through the girl's visor, Yohji imagines Asuka's eyes, brittle and accusatory, sockets cold and white, bone jagged, pupils glittering and soft, flaking away another few layers, grating away at Yohji's spite-lust-remorse, this sharp hollow skeleton he calls his body.