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harry potter fans in 2025

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Fandom spaces have GOT to stop finding out about concept art & saying they were supposed to have x or y. That’s not how concept art works, there isn’t a secret better show they decided to hide from you for no reason

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I previously posted this on twitter but for all the smart people who don't have that hellish app, here's an entirely too long analysis on how Kleya and Dedra are mirrored characters and foils to one another

Both Kleya and Dedra are orphans. They had their families and innocence ripped away from them as children at the hands of the Empire, or, if we want to be more specific taking into consideration Dedra's age, at the ends of a government that rules via violence and repression.

Kleya's family and people are massacred and she is raised by one of the men responsible for said massacre. Dedra's parents are arrested and she is raised in a kinder block, an apparatus that works in tandem with the one that took her family away from her.

Dedra is 3 years old when she is taken away from her parents. At such a tender age, she has no recollection of her prior life, which means she completely interiorizes the Empire's values she's exposed to. Kleya is 11-12, old enough to remember exactly what was taken from her, to know it was an atrocity, and to hate who did it.

Dedra has no sense of self outside of the system that phagocytized her. She becomes the Empire. Its rules and structure are home to her. She finds affirmation in becoming the oppressive force that tears families apart, so she dedicates her life to enforcing that chokehold.

Kleya, too, was shaped by what was done to her, but she becomes the Cause. Her life is in service of freeing the galaxy from the Evil that took everything from her, of making sure no one else will ever have to experience what she did. Most importantly, it's her own choice.

The Empire wants the homogenization of its subjects, and Dedra embodies the Empire, but here is the hypocrisy and brilliance of her character: she is selfish. She is ambitious, ignores orders to seek personal glory. Dedra works in service to the system, cannot imagine anything outside it, but within the system she exists in, she wants to emerge as DEDRA.

Kleya fights for the freedom and individuality of every being in the galaxy but she has stripped herself of any individual hopes/desires. Her own self does not matter to her, to the point that in 211 she doesn't get why Cassian wants to save HER instead of just caring about the intel. 

Even the fact that Dedra dates Syril shows this Selfish/Selfless dichotomy. Having a partner is, broadly speaking, a self-indulgent choice. It's an exclusive bond between yourself as an individual and another person, and Dedra gets herself a boyfriend who is like a pet that will do everything she wants. Kleya instead sacrifices everything to the altar of the Cause. She deprives herself of love or friendship or meaningful connections, she doesn't even entertain the possibility of seeking something for herself. 

And speaking about that, both Kleya and Dedra are extremely controlled, contained, emotionally guarded characters. The rigidity in their physicality reflects the need they both have to maintain control at all times, because vulnerability scares them.

They both grew up without tenderness or affection. Dedra understands love only through a lens of control and power. Kleya wills herself not to feel love at all.

It's very boring to me when people interpret Dedra and Syril's relationship as "she never cared about him, she only ever manipulated him because she is EVIL". That is so two-dimensional and not at all accurate. Yes, she is evil, she is a fucking monster. But also, from her perspective, Dedra does love Syril. We see it in the way she steps up to Eedy to defend him, when his happiness after the meeting with Partagaz causes her happiness. But that's the beauty and tragedy of it, and why she is such an amazing villain. Her understanding of love is completely warped. To her, love is all about ownership and control. But love is the opposite of ownership. True love is selfless, and it is freeing, and Dedra is terrified of freedom. She is someone who wants to love, but never can. Not really. Because control isn't love.

On the other hand, Kleya is someone who very much does not want to love. She wants to be as cold and unfeeling as she can because that will make her free from any vulnerability and she will better serve the Cause. But underneath that armor, she loves immensely. Kleya wants to be heartless, but love spills out of her.

They both have nervous tics that manifest when the control they desperately need is slipping from them. By definition, a nervous tic is something that can't be controlled. This crack in their armor reveals itself literally through a betrayal by their bodies.

Dedra in particular literally needs the dark to be vulnerable. She needs Syril to turn out the lights to have sex. She lets herself sob in Narkina only after the lights go off. Everything that reminds her that she is human is something to hide, something to be ashamed of.

Both have a mentor in Luthen and Partagaz. Dedra spends years trying to impress Partagaz only for him to make no qualms about casting her aside after the Axis fiasco. Kleya wants to hate Luthen, she refuses to consider him a father, yet she cannot help but love him, and when the time comes, Luthen gives up his life to save her. One is a bond of opportunism, the other is a bond of love.

And this is where it shows why they're such perfect mirrors as villain and hero. Dedra spends her whole life in service of a system that rejects her and spits her out. Kleya is ready to be tossed aside, but is instead offered love and kindness, by people she oftentimes had a hand in hurting. She is reminded that her life matters.

This show is SO intentional when it comes to its transitions. In the final montage of the show, Dedra and Kleya's ends are shown back to back, and I don't think it's a coincidence at all. 

Dedra ends up in prison bc of a chain reaction that started with her inability to let go of Axis. She disregarded all protocol in her obsession to catch him. And once she found Luthen, her arrogance led her to face him. She didn't just want to neutralize a threat to the Empire. She NEEDED him to know that SHE beat him. Except, she didn't.

Because Luthen wasn't Axis. Or at the very least, it wasn't just him. Kleya is the Axis Dedra never found, the one she never even knew existed until it was too late. Back in season 1, she tortured Salman Paak and he revealed that a woman had approached him and convinced him to hide the fractal radio in his backyard. That woman was most definitely Kleya. But Dedra, so meticulous with every other bit of information, didn't focus much on it. Her obsession with Axis blinded her. In her hubris, she let the most important piece slip through her fingers. She destroyed her own life for nothing.

Look at their final scenes. Kleya steps into the sunrise, sees the community she doesn't quite feel part of but that she helped create, a community that welcomes her. And she smiles. Dedra, alone and forgotten in the dark, is consumed by misery and despair, in a place that values its prisoners less than droids.

They both essentially started out in a box. Kleya in the metal compartment on Luthen's ship, Dedra in the kinder block. Kleya ends her journey out in the open, surrounded by light and life. Dedra ends her journey back where she started - in a sterile, lifeless box.

Dedra's ultimate personal defeat wasn't the leak of the Death Star information. That's a defeat for the Empire. Dedra's goal was to win against Axis. And she doesn't. She loses. Because Kleya gets to live.

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Andor Underrated Character - Kleya

#star wars paintings  |  SW Paintings

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the life of mick rory as told through publicly available information in the arrowverse is so fucking funny. let's say you're a true crime girlie so you know about the serial arsonist who burned down his home as a kid and killed his parents. next you hear he's fighting the flash with a flamethrower. sure, why not. then he just disappears for several years before surprise revealing himself to be rebecca steel, noted author of trashy sci-fi romance novels. at a romance novel convention where he'd hired some british woman to pretend to be rebecca steel but she did kind of a shit job and couldn't answer any questions. later that year he's part of a viral video where a bunch of super heroes and magical creatures fight a dragon with the power of song at a newly opened theme park. they claim this is all real and they're actually a group of time travelling superheroes called the legends of tomorrow. they become huge celebrities and film one (1) episode of a documentary where they fight a resurrected immortal grigori rasputin, so they explode him and stuff the bits into jam jars. then they hold a panel and claim they faked it all with special effects. he disappears *again* and never resurfaces but one of his former team members writes a tell all biography of his adventures that tells everyone that mick left the team after he got brain m-pregged by a tentacle alien and decided to settle down with her to raise the kids.

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the friar from much ado about nothing after his faking a death scheme actually works: wow, I can't wait to tell my friend in verona about this one weird trick!

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Three words writing prompt, please?

"I'm here, honey" + Imodna

hi! i honestly loved this prompt so much I had at least three other idea for little fics, but ultimately went with this one to finally finish a draft that had been sitting for um. a while. so sorry I'm so incredibly late to answering this, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

today I offer you 2.2k of canon divergent post-shard c3e78. tomorrow? who knows.

~~~

She ran.

The tunnels of Whitestone welcomed her home with the stench of revolt and rust. The air is stagnant, heavy with the moisture of centuries gone by. It seeps into her skin and dampens her eyelashes.

The roots of the Sun Tree pierce the walls and snag her sleeves. She takes no notice. The echo of leather soles pounding against slick stone floors is harsh against her ears. Water trickles from an unseen source, and she follows it. 

The tunnel narrows as she swerves left down an offshoot, toe snagging on a patch of moss. She stumbles, catching herself hard on her hand and sending a lance of pain up her shoulder.

Her vision is clouded, darkness tinging the edges as a mourning veil tangles itself in her hair. 

She can’t kill him. She wants to kill them. Her palm presses against her forehead, and she snarls, a raw sound that tears from her throat. 

Congealed ink pools in her palm, where the stone has torn a gash through delicate skin. Broken crates line this tunnel, their contents long scavenged. Cobwebs spin from jagged edges as she staggers past. 

There is a throbbing behind her eyes and an ache in her chest that threatens to overwhelm her. A fury, a grief, a hunger so strong the force of it nearly sends her to the floor in a wave of dizziness. 

She moves on, veering right this time. She wants to kill them. Her tongue itches to feel the hum of his power in her veins. The burn of their flesh against her skin. Delilah seethes within her, demanding, insisting. Bile rises in Laudna’s throat. She screams into the emptiness. 

Home.

Down here, deep below the city, she is free to prowl her domain. Free, save those who would chase her out. 

The memory stings with the ache of loss. Of having found refuge in the depths with her collection of scavenged oddities. A discarded novel, a chipped crystal vial that still held a wisp of rose perfume. An empty sack of wheat that smelled of her family’s storage cellar. When she closed her eyes, she could see the kind eyes of her father, blood leaking at the corners.

She peels left again, stopping short at a familiar door half-buried in rubble. Lengthened limbs navigate the pile of stone with ease, slipping through the narrow space between the heavy door and the wall. The room beyond is tossed. Broken chairs lay on their sides next to tables with missing legs. Empty feed bags are stacked in the corner, any grain having been consumed by rodents or denizens of the tunnels. A discarded guard’s uniform, stained and moth-bitten, is draped between two overturned tables. Laudna’s wrists weigh heavy with the shackles of betrayal. 

Purple flickers behind her eyes. 

She keeps moving. 

~~

The Parchwood is covered in a layer of frost. 

Laudna cannot recall how she got here. 

She had wanted to go home, she thinks distantly. 

She wants to be warm. She has always wanted to be warm. 

Ashton was warm. Scalding, even. 

She stalks between skeletal white trees, their barren branches arching skyward. The chill seeps in. 

She prowls a familiar path, the rooftops of a changed Whitestone cresting behind her. 

Just like old times.

The shadows grow longer. 

The hovel is demolished, burned to ash, and its structure is left only partially standing. Light snowfall coats the blackened wood as Laudna tentatively crosses the threshold. 

When she wakes, she is cold.

Something tickles her neck, and she grabs for it. Her fingertips come away wet. Residual coxa sticks to her skin. She wipes it on her hair. Her neck aches.

Her hand smells of rot and charcoal. Her nails are embedded with the stuff. Her bed is hard beneath her, and she is sore where her illum pressed against rough wood. She has dried leaves in her hair. They are wet with snowfall. Flurries that drifted through the open window crown her in constellations. A bare shoulder pimples with gooseflesh, and a shiver sets her chest rattling.

She ought to forage. Her supplies are dwindling. Parchwood seasons are harsh, and the frost is settling over the underbrush. She shakes the torpor from her muscles and dusts off her bones.

The bushes have been picked over by man and animal. Bare branches bear no fruit; only withered shells and stems indicate anything was borne at all. Shriveled leaves crunch underfoot. She draws her arms around herself. A stray gust ruffles her skirt and dances between her ankles. Roots catch the gauzy hem.

Travel-weary soles wander deer trails and forgotten paths. Numb toes carve weak grooves into icy mud, and as the sun rises, she ambles, humming, between ancient boughs, filling pockets and pouches with acorns, dried seeds, and pebbles of interesting proportion. The dawn breaks, and a mourning dove coos a lonely vigil. Sun-bright snowmelt glitters in the hollows of the tree roots. The faintest trace of a woodfire drifts past her nose but is lost to the forest. The animals still slumber in their tunnels and burrows, the ground vibrating with the slow life of them. 

She wanders, wanders, through the twisting, turning tracks, stopping, starting. She hums old songs, tuneless melodies plucked from memories tucked away to be forgotten in the recesses of a mind burned. They slip from her lips like feathers, soft and drifting on the air, for her to catch with charcoal-and-ash fingers as she walks, weary and aimless, palms pressing against tree trunks. 

When the ache in her legs grows too much to bear, she sits in the hole left behind by an uprooted tree with sprawling branches, and she sleeps, warmed, even in the late autumn chill, by sunlight trickling through the canopy and a gentle hand combing through scraggly tresses. 

She wakes to the sharp crunch of a branch underfoot, and she freezes. Her body is small, concealed by layers of skirt and dangling roots, and she huddles against the base of the tree, prey quivering. Then:

Something is upon her in a blur. It immobilizes her legs, and she writhes in the damp soil, fear rising like lightning in her throat. 

“Wait– ow, just– hold on!” A deep voice grumbles into her skirt. A well-placed kick to the shoulder earns Laudna a grunt of displeasure. “Would you just– Imogen’s gonna fuckin’ kill us if you run off again!” 

Pounding footsteps come to a halt beside her, and Laudna stills. A shadow blots the sun. It crouches. Imogen stands over her, breathing hard. Her lips are pursed in a thin line, but her eyes soften when she notices Laudna’s rigidity.

“Let off her, Chet,” she bites.

“Fuckin’– fine,” he grunts, dusting himself off. “Stronger than she looks.” He moves a few paces away. 

Laudna? Imogen’s chest heaves. Relief floods off of her in waves. 

Laudna’s mind sings, bubbling a discordant note laced with animalistic fear. She shrinks further into the soil at her back, feeling the bite of embedded rocks through her bodice. Sharp nails dig furrows into papery skin, pinpricks of grounding pain, almost pleasant in its predictability. 

“Hi, darlin’.” A cocked head and a slight smile that promises sweet nothings. A creased brow and wavering voice betray the weight of concern. “We’ve been lookin’ for you,” Imogen says, “Can you come out?”

It arrives warm, coaxing, like hope brought about by a few days of false spring in Dualahei. It grazes the rough edges of her like lace over a bramble patch. Pieces left fluttering in the breeze or pinned like beetles to a specimen case. 

Get me the shard.

No. Laudna thinks resolutely from the safe gloom of her little den amidst the grubs and earthworms. She inches back further and is rewarded with a small shower of dirt. Footsteps shuffle closer, brittle leaves crackling. Her gaze flickers from Imogen to the rest of their friends approaching from the treeline. She lands on the figure in the rear, who creeps closer with hesitant steps. 

“How did you find me?” Laudna husks.

“Old Man Bloodhound over here caught your scent.” 

Chetney pipes something indistinguishable, and Imogen falls silent a moment before refocusing. She takes in the trembling, mud-dusted form hunched in the dark and frowns. “Let’s get you out of here, huh?” She extends a leather-gloved hand. 

Laudna stares at it. A tremor runs through her, and Imogen kneels, warm and steadfast.

“I’m here, honey,” Imogen murmurs, “You’re safe. I promise.”

Laudna, darling, you’re so close. Let me hold it, and I’ll take care of the rest. For us. 

“It’s not me,” Laudna husks, “I– she wants me to kill them. I can’t–”

Imogen barks a demand that Laudna doesn’t hear. The veil flickers across her vision, narrowing her focus to Ashton’s cracked face. The thrumming in her chest grows louder.

Laudna warns, “Imogen…”

Imogen snaps again, and Ashton stops, giving a small nod. He reverses his path. The rest of their friends pause, waiting.

Laudna feels Imogen’s inhale, and her fingers come up to grip Imogen’s wrist with lengthened fingertips. Her body shifts, bones fighting for control. 

“You’re not her.” “I know.”

“You’re not.” Imogen searches Laudna’s face. “You can control her.” 

For us. Just as it has always been. 

“I…” Laudna swallows. She tucks her head into her shoulder, pinching her eyes shut. “She’s… she’s hungry.” 

“Hold on to my hand, sweetheart,” Imogen insists softly, “Focus on me. I’m here.” 

Laudna does, cracking an eye. She takes in the rosiness of Imogen’s cheeks, the chapped skin of her lips where she’s been worrying at them. The rise and fall of the chiffon draped over her clavicle, the gentle curves of her waist. Her hair falls over one shoulder, and her breath clouds in little puffs. She watches Laudna intensely.

“I don’t want to hurt them.” Her voice comes layered in whispers.

“I know.”

Laudna inhales shakily, wind rattling brittle branches. Her bones settle, and her gums cease their throbbing. She falls into Imogen, whose free hand instinctively moves to cup Laudna’s head against her shoulder. She smells of mildew and earth. The tunnels, Laudna realizes faintly. Blunt fingernails gently scratch her scalp, and she shudders. Imogen holds her all the while, murmuring into her hair. 

“That’s it. You’re alright,” Imogen whispers. “We were worried about you. Gave me a scare when you didn’t come back last night.”

Ice grips Laudna’s chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t– I didn’t mean to make you worry.” She nibbles her bottom lip. Imogen tightens her embrace, soft susurations embedding themselves into Laudna’s skin.

“She’s strong here, huh? Hungry, you said?”

Laudna nods, face still buried in Imogen’s dress. They sit that way, mud chilling Imogen’s knees and worms tickling Laudna’s calves until, at last, Imogen pulls them to their feet. 

“C’mon,” she says, tugging gently on their linked hands, “You ready to head back?”

Laudna casts a longing glance toward the thicker part of the woods, back in the direction of the hovel’s crumbling exterior. She thinks of stone castles and vaulted hallways and ghosts that live in woven tapestries. She thinks of pebbles and acorns and blue-tinged toes and a piny breeze that sneaks through the threadbare sleeves of her blouse. She thinks of soft voices like thorns and reassurances and claw-tipped nails in her hair. 

Laudna nods minutely. They stand in silence. The pad of Laudna’s thumb worries at her knobby knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” they both blurt, and Laudna ducks her head. 

“I’m sorry,” Imogen repeats, “I shouldn’t’ve let you go off on your own. Here, of all places. I should’ve known better.”

The little part of Laudna that still yearns for the aimless, unaccountable roaming of her early decades stings. The greater part of her, the yawning ache of isolation, suns itself in the knowledge that she’s wanted. 

“It’s not your responsibility to keep me in check,” Laudna husks, tongue burning.

Imogen tilts her head, considering her words carefully. Laudna rolls an acorn between her fingers, hidden in the folds of her skirt. “No, it isn’t,” Imogen says evenly, and Laudna instinctively braces for the flagellating tail, “but it doesn’t mean you’re on your own.” She plucks a stray twig from Laudna’s hair and tosses it aside.

Laudna’s lips press together. The field of freckles across the bridge of Imogen’s nose creases like wrinkled parchment. 

Laudna allows herself to be led into the middle of their group, avoiding their concerned surveillance. Orym offers a reassuring pat on her thigh, Fearne loops an arm through hers, and FCG’s eyes flash brighter when they see her. Ashton has gone ahead. A problem for a later time. Imogen’s arm loops through hers, keeping Laudna pressed against her side. A flicker of shame runs through her, feeling very much like a disobedient child who slipped between the fenceposts. 

She waits for the biting comment, the whip-crack remark that will sink her stomach below the layer of plant litter, whispered scathingly from within or sneered sharply from without. But it does not come. 

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wow. them.

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a bonus meme for everyone based on me looking at dedra:

(you ever have a silly idea that won't leave your head and realize you have just enough skill to make it happen?)

i would walk a hundred miles on my knees if it meant i could hold your despair - Chapter 2

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Andor (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Cinta Kaz/Vel Sartha, Cinta Kaz & Kleya Marki Characters: Cinta Kaz, Vel Sartha, Kleya Marki, Cassian Andor, Luthen Rael, Dedra Meero Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Angst Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Honeypot Vel Sartha, Stone Butch Vel Sartha

“Kleya told you,” Luthen greets her with. His coat fits him like a glove, the tails flapping from the updraft in the shadowy alcove he favors, and she leans opposite him against a grimy wall. In a different galaxy, Cinta would tackle him and demand answers. In this one, she simply stands with her arms crossed and waits like she hadn’t spent that last two days in unexplainable agony, wondering, waiting, hoping for another drop. Confirmation that Vel really is okay.

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i would walk a hundred miles on my knees if it meant i could hold your despair - Chapter 2

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Andor (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Cinta Kaz/Vel Sartha, Cinta Kaz & Kleya Marki Characters: Cinta Kaz, Vel Sartha, Kleya Marki, Cassian Andor, Luthen Rael, Dedra Meero Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Angst Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Honeypot Vel Sartha, Stone Butch Vel Sartha

“Kleya told you,” Luthen greets her with. His coat fits him like a glove, the tails flapping from the updraft in the shadowy alcove he favors, and she leans opposite him against a grimy wall. In a different galaxy, Cinta would tackle him and demand answers. In this one, she simply stands with her arms crossed and waits like she hadn’t spent that last two days in unexplainable agony, wondering, waiting, hoping for another drop. Confirmation that Vel really is okay.

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had to get this out before we collectively move on from coldplay ceo

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Call me Samm the way I'm sobbing uncontrollably

"you're taking her everywhere with you for the rest of your useless life" and i am!

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ANDOR 2.06 | What a Festive Evening

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“I serve the weak. I serve the forgotten. I serve the dirt beneath our feet. If you tell me that that's not enough for you. Fine! I will fight on my own.”