#bad ass ladies

[bigfatbreak]

BLACKOUT : destroys all light

so have you all been keeping up with Scarlet Lady 👀

[kankuroplease]

He tried to kill her granddaddy, so what’s a few million Ryō?

[splendidfemalelegs]

Wow 😍😻💋

[lovewilltellamillionstories]

Lord and Lady Whistledown

Release this cowards

[oblivionsdream]

Thrilled to share this artwork I created for the endpapers of a new German edition of Vampire Academy! This series holds such a nostalgic place in my heart and I still love my bad ass girl Rose. 😊

[itsabouttimex2]

Not sure if you have covered this, but I’ll ask. How would you have gone about Macaque’s redemption arc…if it’s possible with how he was written before season four? No hate or debate, just curious. I like alternate takes on characters :3

Hmm okay I thought on this for a little bit, and the crux of my problem with Macaque’s arc is that he’s established late Season Three to be “not a bad person” when-

1. He enjoys hurting people

2. He goes out of his way to hurt people

3. He hurts many people

4. He expresses no regret or remorse for hurting people

5. He faces no consequences for hurting innocent people aside from his intended victims winning their fights against him

6. His victims are reduced to a hivemind of non-autonomous set dressings who have no feelings on his presence or past crimes

And he promptly just becomes a person that everyone is okay with despite everything. So, if we have to keep the “one good action is enough to redeem you for betrayal, deceit, slandering, multiple counts of assault and attempted murder”, then we need to shift some things.

So I think the best thing to do if we want the actual “redemption arc” to hit the way it’s supposed to in canon is-

1. Thin his list of victims

2. Thin his list of crimes to the point that one good deed is actually a reasonable atonement for all of them

3. Play up his victimhood at the hands of the Mayor

4. Establish his inability to escape from the Lady Bone Demon much sooner

If the crux of his arc is just being forgiven by ONE of his many victims and then becoming a good person, then we just need to sharply reduce the amount of victims he has to make the immediate and all-encompassing forgiveness feel more realistic.

When he’s “sieging” the city in Macaque, the Smoke Demon ignores everyone who isn’t MK and deals no structural damage, creating no victims aside from the Monkie Kid.

When he’s performing in Shadowplay, Macaque portals MK away to fight him alone, leaving everyone else unharmed, creating no victims aside from the kid.

Then, when he’s stolen away by the Mayor, either:

1. Lady Bone Demon implants him with her powers right away, preventing him from running away and immediately establishing him as desperate, or, what I’d argue for-

2. Send the Mayor with him.

When he receives the compass and is released, Macaque pulls a Bone Key-

and throws it away, trying to shadow portal away, only to be greeted by

The Mayor, who proceeds to outright accompany Macaque on this journey, thereby serving as a foil to Tang Sanzang.

Where Sun Wukong was taken under the wing of someone who genuinely cared for him and wanted to see him improve, Macaque is forcibly dragged along by an outright malicious figure who wants to see him rot.

(Fuck, have Lady Bone Demon give Macaque an ice circlet to seal the “foil” deal! Have him be forced into these actions in outright agony! It would help Sun Wukong sympathize with him, expediting the “forgiveness” that a redemption arc needs!)

In fact, every time Macaque tries to leave, or steps out of line or even just fails? You hear an offscreen thud and yelping and then when we get to see him next, there’s new bruises on his body, new tears in his clothes. His fur becomes messy. His eyes grow haunted.

Play up his victimhood to coax the audience into sympathizing with him.

Macaque tries to run. The Mayor hurts him. He tries to stall. The Mayor hurts him. He tries to argue. The Mayor hurts him. He tries to fight back. The Mayor beats him back into subservience.

Establish that Macaque has utterly exhausted all avenues of “escape” before he resorts to attacking the Monkie Kids, and even then, have him try to avoid the majority of them in favor of MK, only to be forced by the Mayor into actually fighting Mei, Tang, Sandy, and Pigsy.

So now every character understands why he’s doing this- and don’t have a reason to hold it against him or expect any further atonement because none of his worst actions (like sieging the Dragon Palace) actually need to be addressed- they aren’t his fault.

That basically solves all the problems I have with the “arc” as it stands, honestly.

[warwickroyals]

Valentine’s Day public release for Christmas CC are you fucking insane?

[peculiardiction]

No one is allowed to tell me how late this is I FORGOT TO POST IT IN JUNE!! 😭

No writing under the cut cause ik someone’s gonna prefer that 🫶

[booplesnotts-art]

Babygirl

It’s kinda hard to be normal after growing up under Avalon

This was supposed to be a quick little practice thing but I ended up liking it a lot

[pepperpixel]

I haven’t posted art in forever, (I am currently working on art tho!! It’s just taking me a bit cuz.. job..) but! But… what about if instead of the art u guys came here for. I instead posted pictures of the cool lil outfits I’ve been wearing recently that im rlly proud of… what about that???

[whiteladyofithilien]

I think my main reason for shipping Caranthir and Haleth is because we need at least one inter-race Tolkien couple where the human is a woman. Like all three canon human-elven pairings it's always the fabulous fae elven beauty and the heroic dude and I'm like... What about a mighty elf-lord and his badass human lady? Hmm? I need this to be a thing and Haleth/Caranthir is the only ship I know of that has that dynamic going for it plus of the middle three sons of Feanor Caranthir is the only one NOT part of the attacks on Luthien... therefore he's the best of those 3

[velvet-red-void]

Did you know that cranes can symbolize good luck?

[wikitpowers]

and at that moment i knew i was fucked

[trappedinafantasy37]

Gods, Agatha is such a diabolical cunt. Never did I think I'd ever love someone more than Wanda, but she's now my new favorite bitch of the MCU. Kathryn Hahn really knocked it out of the park with this one! Her line delivery is just impeccable, and she is marvelous at playing out the bloodthirsty sociopath that you can't help but sympathize with. Like, she knows what she's about and she's not ashamed of it.

I'mma talk about Agatha All Along real quick cause it's late at night and I just finished the show in a sleepy haze and I need to get all these thoughts out while I battle another insomnia episode. So SPOILERS!

I was shooketh to find out that the witches road never even existed and was never real. The original ballad was based on a song her and her son made up while traveling, and it twisted into the ballad of the Witches Road over time. But other young witches believed the ballad to be a real tale, so they came to Agatha and wanted her to guide them down the road. So, she turned the ballad into a bait to lure other witches into a trap and steal their powers. This is how Agatha became a legend as the "only known survivor of the Witches Road". Of course she's the only survivor of the road! She made it the fuck up and then murdered everyone!

Agatha was bitching to Rio about her tormenting her the entire time and making her life a living hell. I was so confused on why Agatha would say this or why Rio would be sticking so closely to Agatha this entire time since her son's death. But that's because Rio has been following Agatha for centuries down the "Witches Road" because Agatha was dropping bodies left and right. And Agatha hated this because she sees Rio as responsible for taking her son, but Rio was just doing her job. Hells, Rio even did Agatha a massive favor by allowing Nicholas to live at all and giving Agatha at least some time with her son. And the little moment Agatha and Rio have where Rio says "as long as I get my bodies" is because there has always been bodies during the "Witches Road" and it is what Rio is expecting of Agatha. Rio only gets directly involved with this one because Billy "broke the rules" and cheated death and she is here to collect him specifically.

It's of no wonder why Agatha seems so erratic and winging it during all of the trials because there has never been trials. The Witches Road has never been real. She gets so frustrated at the beginning trial and yells at the witches to blast her because that is how it has always played out, until it didn't and the road actually revealed itself. She clocked Billy really early on because she realized that he used his mother's powers, induced unnecessary suffering, and killed people to get what he wanted (even if he didn't know that was what he was doing).

The Witches Road only became real because Billy made it real using his reality bending powers. He made the same mistake Wanda did and conjured it into existence because he wanted it to be real so bad. He wanted answers and to find out how to get Tommy back. That is what he expected at the end of the road and it's what he got. And like Wanda, Agatha helped him figure out how to get Tommy and get him what he has wanted. And Billy unintentionally got 3 people killed in the process. But he also helped Jen unbind herself and get her powers back.

And also, Lady Death is now in the MCU!!!! She's literally one of the most, if not the most powerful entity in the entire Marvel creation. She cannot die, cannot be killed, and cannot be injured. And Aubrey Plaza is just *chef's kiss*. She managed to leave such a massive impact by doing very little. I could not have imagined any one better and I'm actually surprised it took so long for her to make her way into the MCU. I would be severely disappointed if this was the last time we ever saw Aubrey Plaza as Lady Death. I know we're gonna see Billy, hopefully we see Tommy, but I need Rio Vidal.

I initially thought Disney was gonna pull the rug out from us and this show was just gonna be another queerbait. But the evil lesbian witches actually kissed, even if it was the kiss of death.

[seleneprince]

I think that what makes Beron an asshole is not that he's sexist, but that he's a huge classist and egocentric jerk. He hates everyone equally regardless of their gender, but specially if they're low borns. His repulsive aura has nothing to do with women or how he views them, because to him, people are only two things: Useful tools or insects beneath him. He's gonna treat you like shit no matter what you have between your legs. Which sucks anyway, but hey, at least he agrees that men and women are the same.

I've been reading the books and sure, he's obviously an awful husband and father, but there's nothing on his behaviour that implies he's a sexist pig (unlike some other characters who make it obvious because misogyny is their whole personality). He was the first High Lord to give a piece of his power to Feyre UTM to bring her back, and it was after him that the other Lords did it too. He had no problem with his wife living with her sisters, away from him, until Hybern killed and so she was forced to return. They had a somewhat decent relationship at first, until he found out about her affair with Helion. It's after that when Beron begins to treat his wife like absolute shit and despise Lucien, knowing very well he's not the father. He doesn't do that because she's a woman and that automatically pushes him to abuse her, but because he wants to punish her for being unfaithful. It's not justified and, considering they had an arranged marriage, i think they should've just touched the topic of lovers and mistresses at some point instead on inmediately jumping into the torture train.

There's also an scene when the High Lady of Autumn remembers her sisters and her grief shows, and Beron places a hand on her shoulder in a gesture that's described as "comforting". It doesn't make up for all the damage he's inflicted on her, but it was weird to me because, everyone knows what kind of man he is and he's not asshamed. He doesn't need to play a role in public, so why try to comfort your wife, the very same one you've tortured to the point she has becomed a shell of herself? There's also the fact that he knows Lucien is not his, why not get rid of him? He allowed him to be educated just like his brothers and referred to him as another one of his sons.

In my head, Beron is more than just a secondary villain with bigoted beliefs that appears conveniently to show how much of a piece of shit he is. He's a terrible father, but he still considers Lucien his own. He makes his wife's life a living hell, but also cares for her enough to notice her grief and try to comfort her. He doesn't give a fuck wether his subjects are happy or not, but he still puts the court first and has no problem considering an alliance with another dictator to keep his land out of harm. Him stating he wouldn't hesitate to join Hybern if he won the war was morally unforgivable and disgusting, but as a ruler, is a somewhat understable move. He's thinking of what's best for him and his court, and not about what's "right".

Conclusion: Beron Vanserra is a bigoted, classist jerk that only cares about what's his and thinks hurting his family is for "their own good". He's twisted, narcissistic, manipulative and selfish, and also capable of love in his own fucked up way. And I enjoy him for that.

[sapphicrow]

His Better.

(A lil Lady D drabble looking at her past)

———————————

Dear Diary,

Today is the anniversary of his death. Of his complete and total departure from my world. Those who remember him perhaps view this day as a day of mourning, though I must confess I feel no such grief. A buzz of vibrant elation hums in my chest. His portrait sits in the main hall once more for today, but if not for Mother Miranda’s command for it to be in such an honorable place it would be fueling the hearth that warms my feet as I indulge in sapphic erotica, plentiful goblets of wine, maybe even a maiden or four on their knees begging for an opportunity to breathe the same air as I. He would call me a heathen and a whore. I shall call him, with phony tears in my eyes, a victim of times of political unrest. Patricide may be the more precise term, but alas, I shan’t spoil my lovely day with scandal. Mother does not wish for the truth to be spoken. I suppose it is a fair wish. I may not speak it, but I find myself needing to release this memory from my head, lest it rot in there and I begin to feel sorry for the bitch.

My father was not a good man. He was barely a man. He was a nincompoop who took advantage of his station, and his staff, and his abundant liquor collection. He was not kind. It is not for this reason I resent him, for I can hardly claim to be kind either. I resent him for his failure as a count, and his confidence in his incompetence. I remember watching his fat, clumsy fingers struggle to button his lavishly crafted waist coat with contempt. I knew from a young age that I was a far better leader than he. That my own hands, nimble and steady from years of the pointless needlework noble girls were expected to do, were suited for the control he fumbled about with so terribly. For holding the throne. I remember being fifteen years of age, watching him bumble about his office in a suit lined with silk he did not deserve the softness of. The war had threatened to touch his territory. Even then I knew that securing assets would be a vital defense for the empire he wished to construct. He did no such thing. He simply ran around like a chicken with its head severed and defiled more maids in his stress. The only measure he took was of how many drinks he could fit in his bulbous stomach. I couldn’t fathom being so irresponsible. If his land in the Carpathian Mountains was threatened, was it not clear as day that he should be worried about finding other means to protect his legacy? I recall creeping into his office in the dead of night to look over the correspondences surrounding the war and his rule and the financials that were spread carelessly about the big oak desk, my heist backed by the erratic growl of his snores. I felt as if I had forged his signature hundreds of times, even if it was my very first act of blatant treachery. It still felt so natural to use his name for my own game. It wasn’t as if he was using it for anything useful. That night he wrote a very fine letter to the duchies nearby asking for an alliance through these trying times, though the recipients would question the flair to his cursive, as well as the fact that there seemed to be a scribbled out A before his signature. I would not let this incompetent fool ruin my holdings. I would have the power that was my birthright.

For years, I would conduct similar such maneuvers. It became a performance of sorts. The key ring would leap from his belt loop to my gloved hand, landing with a graceful turn into the lock of his office. My slippered feet would dance through the slimmest crack of the door so as not to let light from the open curtains spill into the other room. My night gown would sway with me, it became synonymous with the robes of a queen in my mind. I’d Chassé from the doorway to his desk, all too eager to begin my work. The moon and I became partners in this secretive dance, for she was the subtle light I remained loyal to, granting me sight of the papers I now held under my midnight authority. And so began the unofficial, unnoticed rule of the new Dimitrescu, though the old one was oblivious to how he’d been replaced. Thankfully the old fool was a drunkard and simply believed he had managed to make all of these lucrative decisions in his intoxicated stupor.

As if.

Looking back, I cannot help but laugh heartily at how bold I was. I am much too good. But a large amount of my amusement is pointed at the pure egocentrism of the man who named himself my father. How humorous the thought of a drunk man taking the time to send out the decrees I painstakingly assembler was. There was a time when this did not entertain me, however. It was no laughing matter when my father took all the credit for my success. I had heard so much praise on the account of his wise conduct of the county. Barons and dukes and alike bowed to him, preening in his presence as if he exuded some holy power.

I grew bitter.

I was the one making these decisions! I was the one keeping him together! I had created this man’s legacy in the dead of night and neither he nor his adoring fans knew this. It infuriated me. Dear Diary, I am ashamed to admit that even now I’ve cracked the stem of my glass reminiscing upon it. For lack of a more eloquent response to this situation, it just wasn’t fair! Surely if they knew the raven haired girl with his nose and ten times his wit trailing behind him was the one truly in charge, they wouldn’t grovel to him the same way. He would be forgotten like the sorry bastard he was while everyone kissed the ground I walked upon. But they didn’t know. And so I was just his daughter. A material object he constantly strove to rid himself of. It was infuriating, I tell you, infuriating! I could only feed off of second hand acknowledgement for so long.

And so, a plot came to be. Or rather, a hastily conceived idea. I did not spend fortnights planning his death. I did not weave a technical tale of coverups and falsehoods. There was no subtlety. I was sick of hiding. You call it a risk, I called it a need. A need for his blood coating my hands as soon as possible. It was the eve of a grand event- which one it was escapes my memory for there was simply no end to the monotonous parties I was dragged along to - but all I knew was that I couldn’t stand to see him grin so smugly with the acclaim he hadn’t truly earned even one more time.

This night was not a ballet. I did not dance on light feet through the halls. I near slammed the door of my chambers as I tore through the corridors. The moon could not illumine me tonight. She would take no pleasure in seeing him torn to pieces, though I certainly would. I was near frothing at the mouth. One could paint my likeness as the lycans that now hunger in the shadows of the village.

I opened his door and closed it behind me without an ounce of gentleness. Let them hear. My nightgown billowed around me like the dark cloaks death was usually depicted wearing. The old man could not hear me over his snores. I clutched the previously ornamental dagger in my hand and snarled at the sight of his peaceful sleep. I was not going to allow him to slumber through this. In my rage I punched through the glass of his window (I dimly acknowledged it would be a good alibi for the later accusation of assassins, but mostly I just yearned for his terror) to the sound of which he shot up. He looked around frantically and saw the face of his daughter as the blade plunged into him without the courtesy of a warning. It was a wet, nasty slide of flesh around the metal of my blade. It was the sickest form of penetration. It was my finest act of political assistance to his county. I grin now at the memory of his shock. His greedy mouth parted in disbelief. He croaked my name into the night and I twisted the blade deeper. I only remember the sound from me being something between a growl and a triumphant laugh. He tried to cry out and I pulled the dagger from his side and forced it down his throat the same way I knew he had forced his foul chode down the throats of unwilling maidens. His lips curved around it and I looked down at him as his fat body flailed in agony. He deserved this, I had thought as I shoved my hand past his teeth and drug the blade along the walls of his esophagus, he deserves to die. I am greater at thirty than he ever was at fifty. I am not his daughter, I am his better. That was my mantra as I pulled horrific noises from this man. It was the most pleasurable thing I’d ever done. I had expected at least some remorse, but seeing him bloodied and dying brought me nothing but glee. I watched death tear him from his hideous form and I did not relent. I stabbed again and again until I felt calm. I had three decades of pent up anger to get out, so he was long dead before then. He looked like an oversized meatball when I was done, limp in the bed he spent most of his lazy fucking life in.

My white slip was dyed red with vengeance. This was my coronation long before I ever received the crown. I still keep that gown as a momento, though it is now far too small.

Today I contemplate that garment with all its dried blood and crusted on innards. Perhaps I have a wardrobe filled with fine dresses, but none is as fine as that one.

Can a normal dress be stained with the moment you gained independence? Can it tell the story of the rise of House Dimitrescu? Since that day we have done nothing but prosper. Even a century later I do not regret it.

Dear Diary, I am Alcina Dimitrescu. I am a cruel woman. I am power. I am not his daughter. I am forever his better.