#craven rantings????

[nerdby]

Everyone who hates the 2010 Nightmare On Elm Street reboot, YOU ALL SUCK!!!!

I mean not really but.....

It is a damn good movie, and once you take the fucking nostalgia goggles off and stop comparing it to the original you'd realize that.

[kinsey3furry300]

Some of my very favorite works are deconstruction of thier respective generas (No Country for Old Men for western and noir, Blood Merdian for Western and the war story, Slaughterhouse 5 for Sci fi, Watchmen for superheros, Cowboy Bebop for 90s anime tropes, Dungeon Meshi fir 2020's anime and DnD tropes, the Owl House for post Harry Potter "Magical World" tropes), scream for slasher horror, but the whole point of a deconstruction is by taking a genre apart to its bits and examining them outside of thier normal context, you demonstrate your understanding of, love of, and critique of, the genre, and that is what seems to be all too lacking: a basic understanding of what it is they are deconstructing or why they are doing it.

[lola-writes]

A Dragon's Lullaby

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 7.1k

Synopsis: Aemond’s fury is a challenge to contain, but it withers beneath the touch of his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (MDNI), pov first person (reader), foul language, hotd s2 spoilers, s2x06 inspired, dark/soft Aemond, SMUT, titty sucking, angst, fingering, fluff, feet, p in v, bath sex, oral (fem receiving), orgasms, slight voyeurism

Song: Made of Gold - Ibeyi, Pa Salieu

a/n: Inspired by this. His expression in this scene is everythiiing

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Playlist

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ❤️

Enjoy the read!

[gif @hoosbandewan]

[divider @targaryen-dynasty]

The chamber doors slammed shut, jarring me from my needlework.

Aemond erupted into the room, his voice a venomous hiss that chilled me to the bone.

“Cravens. Lickspittles.” The words ripped from his throat with a guttural growl, filling the apartment with lethal fury, instilling a deep sense of unease in my gut, as he paced the room like a caged beast, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “A nest of fucking vipers.” His features were warped with hatred, his eye sparking rage and his scar appeared to burn hot red in his skin. 

I set my needlework aside, bracing myself for the inevitable storm. 

My husband had grown increasingly volatile of late. Temperamental. Volcanic, ever at the brink of eruption. Long convinced that his knowledge of history, swordsmanship, and his ancestral ties to Valyria of old – that was his dragon – destined him for the crown, he chafed under the regency. Yet, with the weight of governance upon him, I’d realized these qualities hardly made for a wise ruler. 

Aemond was tyrannical, impulsive, and possessed a relentless thirst for vengeance I’d thought long sated, but now burned fiercer than ever.

I’d learned to tread carefully, supporting him rather than opposing him. Questions were rare, acquiescence plentiful, regardless of my true feelings.

“The Lannisters,” he snarled, hurling a crumpled piece of parchment into the fire. “Balls deep in their lions and their gold that they believe they can command me.” His eye blazed with ire. “Me!” His voice was a startling growl, and I schooled my racing heart.

Adopting my role as the submissive, doting wife, I folded my hands in my lap and eased reverence into my gaze, “That was their first mistake,” I offered, feigning confidence, as though I had the briefest idea of what they had done.

Crossing Aemond was a path none would willingly tread, though the Lannisters were hardly known to be the brightest of the noble houses in the realm.

“They mock me,” he snapped. “My word is law.”

“And they’d be wise to abide by them,” I replied. 

“I tire of being compared with my father,” he spat. “The man was weak. Pliable.”

“You are his opposite, Your Grace.”

“Mother believes she can mind me like a puppet, as she did Aegon. She clings to what little power remains to her.” He stilled, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. “I sense her heart still lies with Rhaenyra.” All of his thoughts materialized into words like a surging flood. “I can no longer trust her counsel,” he said. “So, I dismissed her.”

A mistake, I feared. “I’m sure it was a wise decision, Your Grace.”

“Cole addles me,” Aemond proceeded. “The man, once so commanding and fierce, now carved out into a pitiful husk.” He started through the room again. “Aegon was a fool to name him Hand.”

“You are the Prince Regent, Your Grace,” I voiced softly. “You may name a new one as you wish.”

With his rant, his tempest began to subside. The honeyed tone I knew so well sank back into his voice and replaced his rage. His pacing ceased, and his anxious fingers relaxed at his sides, before he sank into his chair beside me.

“The Lannister coward wish me to fly out to the Tooth to secure their safe passage to Harrenhal,” he spat, his fingers twisting together, venom seeping back into his voice, “’With haste’, he says!”

I stood, my voice steady. “Your regency is green, Your Grace, and your subjects forgetful of their places.” 

Aemond’s hands gripped the arm rests, his whole body contracting beneath his leathers in readied ambush. 

“It is your duty to remind them,” I continued, rounding his chair, my hands settling on his shoulders. He was rigid beneath my touch, his muscles bulging with tension. 

He glanced over his shoulder, his eye a mix of softness and lethal intent. “You are correct,” he said, his fingers tightening around the hilt of Blackfyre. “A public execution would persuade them.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, and my grip on his shoulders tightened instinctively. 

“Perhaps a less bloodied approach, my love,” I suggested, coating my words in honey. “Escalating the mislike of the smallfolk would be unwise,” I said, willing my touch to send a calming current into his bones. “We cannot risk provoking the hungry masses.”

“I do not wish to be liked,” he hissed, his voice laced with malice. “I wish to be feared.”

Yet, when I leaned down over him, wrapping my arms over his chest, nuzzling my face into his cheek, he unraveled in my embrace, melting like wax exposed to flame. 

A deep exhale of relief escaped his lips, as though my touch pulled the string of tension from his muscles like cloth, a deep satisfied hum reverberating in his chest. All of his anger disintegrated into dust, and he leaned into me, closing his eye, his face pressing against mine, his delicious heat seeping into my skin.

I breathed in the scent of him. 

Musk and leather. 

I filled my senses with it, a heady intoxication.

“Husband…?” I whispered against his skin.

“Wife,” he sighed with rapture, his arm reaching up, his fingers tangling into my hair, pulling me closer. He buried his nose in my neck and inhaled. He sighed once more with entrance, his breath warm against my ear. “You smell divine,” he whispered.

His fury was a tempest, his tenderness a balm. Once crossed, he was a force to be reckoned with. 

But when he was soft… he was so very soft. 

“Thank you, husband,” I smiled. The matter of the Lannister’s defiance was as good as wind. “My maids put lavender and rose in my bath earlier.” 

“Hmm,” he hummed appreciatively. “I commend them.”

My heart swelled in my chest. In these moments, I felt a love that transcended fear. I could endure his tirades for hours if they always ended like this, with him so vulnerable, and soft, his fury crumbling under my touch, like a fortress breached. 

His complexity was a bottomless well, an endless enigma, each layer revealing a new facet of his being. A mystery I could not begin to fathom, only sit back and enjoy. I was utterly captivated, desperate to remain in his favor. His trust in me was profound, and I knew the weight of my words carried uncommon power. My devotion and loyalty were absolute. Anything he’d ask of me would be his, a fact he understood completely. 

My hair cascaded down his chest, mingling with his silver, a cosmic tapestry against the leather. I burrowed deeper into his skin, making him softer, my kisses trailing across his cheek until they met his lips, to which he groaned softly, deepening the union, his grip tightening around the back of my neck. 

The kiss was a consuming inferno, leaving me breathless and light-headed. 

“Hmm,” he hummed with delight. “Your lips alone could end this war.”

He possessed my whole heart in the palm of his hand. 

“They are your servants, Your Grace,” I whispered against his cheek. 

He chuckled low, a comforting melody, the muscles in his face plumping, his lips pursing to his contented smile. 

But the looming threat of Rhaenyra’s forces intruded on my thoughts. Despite my misgivings about the way the succession had been handled, my husband’s victory was paramount. Many believed him consumed by darkness, a prisoner of his own demons. His mother, among others, shared this bleak view. Yet, here in my arms, I held undeniable proof to the contrary. I knew in my heart that he did not need to be feared, when he was capable of such profound love. So much more than he probably knew himself. 

“Aemond,” I began, feeling his attention shift to me. “These weeks past I’ve been witnessing the plight of the smallfolk from our window-”

“You should not submit your eyes to such vile scenes,” he interrupted, snarling.

“Nevertheless,” I countered gently. “It has been impossible to turn a blind eye. Famine stalks the city. Sickness is surging. Blame is placed on those who rule over them.” His head rested heavier against me as he listened, his gaze flickering with thought. “Do not underestimate the influence of the common people,” I said.

His jaw clenched. 

“Their numbers far outstrip ours. Capable of turning the tide if discontented,” I pressed on.

A silence filled our chambers, and I sent a silent prayer to the Mother that he would be malleable enough to receive my words in the way they were intended. 

“What do you suggest?” he said finally.

I exhaled a silent breath. 

“Open the gates. Spare them imprisonment,” I replied.

“They will spread their slanders across the Crownlands,” he countered, his voice like liquid.

“But you cannot control them. A good King does not earn the love of his people through fear. Neither does he command loyalty. He must earn it. Fear breeds nothing but resentment.”

He seemed to consider my words, his expression unreadable. 

Then, he inhaled deeply, and took my hand, guiding me around his chair, pulling me into his lap.

“My wise counsellor,” he purred, his arms tightening around my waist. “You would make a formidable queen.” His lips brushed against my ear as his fingers began to trail a path down my neck, hooking into the laces of my dress, which he undid with expert grace, his arm pulling with long strokes as the laces fell out, and opened my bosom. A shiver ran down my spine and desire ignited in my blood. My breasts fell heavy, and he caught them in his hands, humming with delight. I shuddered beneath his touch, a pulse starting between my thighs. 

“Aemond,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath.

“Hm?” he murmured absently, his fingers already slipping beneath the delicate fabric. 

“Did you hear what I said?” I uttered, trembling.

He leaned in, his eye dark with desire. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice husky, his tongue darting out to taste the peak of my breast, softly grazing across my nipple in a hot, wet motion. 

Fog infiltrated my mind faster than I dared to acknowledge. 

He retreated slightly, and watched as my peak hardened under his subtle provocation. With practiced ease, he repeated the torment on the other breast, his gaze appraising, his eye a dark blue.

“You suggest I please the smallfolk,” he said, his voice low and sultry, lifting my heavy breast in his hand. “Though I’d much rather please my wife,” he groaned, and a sharp intake of breath escaped my lips as he took my nipple into the delicious heat of his mouth, a fierce pleasure igniting within me. I gasped, my hands instinctively cradling his head as I arched into him, keeping him latched. He released me with a wet pop, his eye gleaming with satisfaction at the pink swelling. He captured the other nipple in his mouth. A feverish heat pulsed through me, an insatiable craving consuming me. 

This nightly ritual was a torment and a salvation. He could have his hands and mouth on me for hours, days, until I was raw and throbbing, and I would still yearn for his touch, his taste, his complete possession. 

He was a poison and a cure, a fire that consumed me entirely. An addictive draught, coursing through my veins, blurring my reason. 

His hands, the weapons of a killer, ravaged my body and tore at my dress, twisting it down until my torso was exposed to his predatory gaze. They delved beneath the fabric, their touch a fiery brand igniting my skin. Hungry fingers tore at me, exploring up my thighs, setting my nerves ablaze. With a swift movement, he claimed me, switching me in his lap until my back pressed against his hard chest, my legs propped up on the edge of his seat, cradled on either side of him. His hands swept the inner curve of my thighs, a path of fire, a delicate torment reaching higher, until they found the tender juncture. His face pressed against mine, ragged breaths fanning my face. A shiver coursed through me, a strange blend of warmth and dread from the volatile energy emanating from him. His hands remained right where they were, squeezing softly, tickling gently. My gown bunched around my hips, my exposed core throbbing for his touch, pulsing with eager longing, my body yearning for the release his touch promised. 

My mind was immersed in an impossible fog, and I clawed for clarity. “Will you do me this one favor?” I panted, my breath mingling with his. 

“What is this favor?” His growl was a low rumble as his tongue wet his fingers, a slow, erotic swipe as he held my gaze, a prelude to torment, setting my blood aflame. They found my clit, dampening it in a circular dance of fire. I whined and shuddered beneath his touch, and his eye sparked with gratification. My body bucked, a helpless rhythm to his masterful control.

Senses blurred. Words tangled. Yet, I clung to the fading remnants of reason, forcing myself while he was still open to receive counsel. 

“To open the gates,” I pleaded, my voice trembling. “If we cannot feed them, let them leave.”

“Hmm.” His throaty hum, a low, primal sound, vibrated through me, promising both ecstasy and torment. Goosebumps erupted down my skin. I gasped as his fingers slid downward, parting my slick lips, until they delved into me, the invasion equal agony and pleasure. I gasped, my head tilting back. 

He wrapped an arm around my chest, steadying me. “I’ll think on it,” he growled into the flesh of my neck, his teeth a fleeting brushfire on my skin. 

“Name a-,” my words dissolved as he curled his fingers up into my sweet spot. “-new Hand.” I gripped the armrests, desperately anchoring myself to reality amidst the tempest of his touch, his fingers pumping me slowly. “He was never suited,” I managed between ragged breaths.

“No more politics, my love,” he groaned, salacious noises of my pleasure filling the room. His focus, a burning intensity, was solely on me, on the spectacle of my pleasure.

And with a ragged, throaty breath, he uttered, “I want to watch you come.”

_

Water cascaded into the tub, steam licking across the water’s surface. The intoxicating blend of lavender and rose filled the apartment, a scent I’d commissioned for my husband’s return from the morning’s small council meeting. As I inhaled the sweet, warming air, my mind sought tranquility amidst the looming war. Yet, the illusion of peace shattered with the abrupt crash of heavy footsteps and a violent wrenching of the chamber door. 

Aemond stormed in, a frenzied tempest. 

“Fucking eunuch,” he hissed, raging past me, barely acknowledging my presence.  

The allure of the bath, once a soothing sanctuary, evaporated. 

Once more, his turmoil was a tempest I yearned to calm.

My mind raced as I strained to decipher the subject of his rage.

“That toad, Larys Strong,” he growled.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

“Did he truly believe I would bestow the title of Hand upon a Strong cripple such as himself?” he spat, his eye ablaze with malice. “I didn’t like the way he fucking looked at me. I’ll have his eyes out.”

“Come, Your Grace, join me,” I invited softly, swishing my hand through the water.

Aemond snarled, as if the water was poison. “I have no time for such indulgences,” he said, and with a dismissive gesture, turned to his books, his one eye scanning the pages with fierce concentration.

“It’s still warm,” I coaxed, but he paid me no mind, his focus remaining on the text.

I was not foolish enough to press his boundaries. Even though he was susceptible to my words and counsel, I understood when his wall had grown impenetrable. 

I left him to his studies, a certain comfort arising at the thought that perhaps this bath would be mine after all. I loosened my robe, letting it puddle at my feet before stepping into the inviting water. As I submerged myself, the heat seeped into my blood, tranquilizing my tense bones, and a soft sigh of pleasure escaped my lips. I tipped my head back and allowed the water to filter into my hair, prickling my scalp with its alluring fingers. As I straightened, coiling the water out of my hair, I stole a glance at Aemond, who devoured the pages with predatory intensity, my nakedness seeming to hold no allure at present.

I sat up, my breasts rising above the water’s surface. I grabbed the soapy sponge and began painting my body in foam. I moved slowly, the rich lather coating my arms, my collar bones, my neck, my chest, my breasts… They became slick with it, my nipples tightening under the stimulation. 

Aemond’s gaze flickered.

As I cradled one breast, kneading and pinching the soft flesh, his nostrils flared and his eye narrowed, a predatory glint darkening its depths as if though I was his next kill, watching my cleansing ritual. Yet, he continued to feign indifference, his fingers turning the pages absently. 

A surge of triumph coursed through me and nerves danced beneath my skin. I’d captured his attention, a prize hard won. 

“Do you find something of interest?” I asked coyly, nodding towards his books. 

His jaw ticked. “More than you can imagine,” he drawled, his gaze burning me, and I knew he was not referring to the histories.

I continued my provocative play, flicking my nipples, lathering them, until they ached with longing for his mouth. 

His fingers twitched, a silent confession of his growing need. “Are you in need of assistance, my lady?” His voice, low and husky, was an enticing promise.

“I believe so,” I purred.

He shut the book and sauntered over, his approach slow and deliberate, sending the anticipation boiling within me. Kneeling behind me, he claimed the sponge, his touch a masterful blend of tenderness and command as he assumed his duties of cleansing me. Water beaded on the cloth before he inched it towards me, a cascade of soapy liquid descending upon my breasts at the clench of his delicate fingers. His hand followed, a caress that ignited a wildfire within. 

A throaty sigh escaped him, which sent heat lower.

“What of your Hand?” I purred, my voice laced with invitation. “Who will assume the duties?”

“I need someone steadfast to advance my cause,” he murmured, his gaze dark and distant. “Someone unyielding in the face of dragonfire. Someone fiercely loyal,” he drawled, his voice drifting with shifted focus. His hand came up around my throat, squeezing gently, a playful threat that sent shivers prickling my spine. It descended then, down over my collarbones, tracing a fiery trail to my breasts, and a flick of his thumb over my hardened nipple sent me into orbit. A low whimper escaped my lips. His frame loomed over me, his scent, a heady mix of leather and desire, filled my senses, intoxicating me. 

“Perhaps the candidate of choice is closer than we think,” he continued, his voice a low rumble. 

I perked up through the fog. “Enlighten me,” I murmured, my voice barely a whisper. His lips came down to my ear, his hot breath setting my blood on fire. His hand slipped beneath the water until his leather sleeve was submerged above his elbow. 

“You, wife,” he breathed, his voice a charged current that ignited my every nerve, further elevated by the caress of his fingers over my core. 

I scoffed, the absurdity of the notion hitting me like a cold wave. 

“Why do you laugh?” he asked, his voice velvet and steel.

“A woman as Hand?” I ridiculed. “Unheard of.”

“You are no ordinary woman,” he countered, his words a molten caress. “You are my wife. And you guide me better than anyone.”

His words washed over me, dissolving my resistance in a tide of desire. 

“Perhaps in our chambers,” I said, a hint of amusement coloring my voice. “But around a council table? Holding the second most powerful position in the realm? It is laughable.”

A dangerous silence stretched between us as he considered my words. “Nothing about you is laughable,” he finally said, his voice low and intense.  

I turned to face him, the water rippling around me. I stacked my arms on the edge of the tub, my head tilting as I studied his sharp features. 

His fingers traced patterns along my jaw, his eye filling with shimmering emotion. I smiled, reveling in the raw intensity he displayed only around me. 

“Won’t you join me, husband?” I invited. 

A dangerous glint sparked in his eye, and without a word, he stood, unclasping his doublet from his center with slow, deliberate motions of his fingers. Heat rose within me with each layer that he shed. His body was a masterpiece of muscle and sinew.

He was all smooth lines and clean edges, that anything remotely carnal felt so much more unchaste with him.

His muscles rippled beneath taut skin, a living sculpture of power. Every part of him was so incredibly hard and defined, shadows playing around each tissue.

He sank into the water opposite me, his silver hair melting in the water like liquid moonlight. 

I walked my feet up his taut stomach, up his chest, and wiggled my toes in his face playfully. He retaliated with mock ferocity, snapping at them with his teeth, his predatory gaze fixed on me, his eye alight with rare mischief. I giggled and retreated, but he captured one foot, his lips trailing soft kisses up my sole to my toes, sending a strangely pleasurable feeling through my core.

I scrunched my nose at him. “You’re filthy,” I complained with feigned revolt. 

“Indeed,” he drawled, his fingers kneading tension from my foot. A wave of pleasure washed over me, and I leaned back, sighing in contentment. His gaze was intense, his eye a fathomless blue. He knew, as always, how to soothe my soul. 

“If I asked it of you,” he began, and my breath grew shallow. “Would you take on the responsibility?”

The responsibility as Hand? 

A wave of incredulity washed over me and I wanted to laugh again, though his features were etched with such seriousness that I felt as though I would be lynched if I as much as quirked the corners of my mouth.

Anything he’d ask of me, I would do with pleasure, though a sudden reservation coiled in my gut this time. 

He had meant it in earnest. Dread sought its way around my throat.

I swallowed; my mind unable to even contemplate the weight of this looming task. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words formed.

He hummed with understanding, his eye softening and his mouth drawing up into a tender smile. “You needn’t give an answer now,” he said, placing a kiss to the bottom of my toe. “Consider it.” 

Then, he tugged on me until I straddled his lap, the water splashing onto the floors from our shifting bodies. I steadied myself on his firm chest as his hand snaked around my back, the other around my neck, pulling me into him. His desire, already throbbing and insistent, was pressing eagerly against my opening. 

“Imagining you,” he whispered against my lips. “Around the council table… At my side.” A shiver ran through me as I felt his dick pulse beneath me, and his breath shuddered on my skin. “It’s making me hard at the mere thought.” His grip tightened around the back of my neck, his fingers delving into my wet hair before he claimed my mouth, forcing my lips onto his in a clash of teeth and mess. I whimpered at the sudden collide, at the urgency of it, my body molding to his, while a heavy blend of lavender, rose, and dragon consumed my senses.

His hands came down and grabbed two handfuls of my ass and guided me onto his length. The water resisted our movements, making the intrusion slow and straining, and I sawed my bottom lip between my teeth. He filled me slowly, a throaty groan rumbling in his chest as I sank onto him, his eye locked onto the union, his lips parted in admiration. 

He seized my hips, setting a relentless pace. His muscles rippled with exertion in the most attractive way imaginable, as he forced me to fuck him, the water spraying around us. The apartment echoed with the sounds of our passion, a lascivious ambiance of violent splashes, our breathless moans, and the primal growl in his throat. 

_ 

The small council had convened hours hence when I was called upon from my chambers by the King’s Guard, my breakfast still steaming on the table. 

“The Prince Regent requests an audience, my lady,” they announced.

The lords sat huddled around the council table upon my entry, engrossed in earnest discussion. My gaze flickered briefly over Alicent’s and Cole’s empty seats. 

Aemond occupied the head of the table, his gaze distant and hostile, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“You called on me, Your Grace?” I inquired.

 “Be seated,” he commanded, his voice carrying an unfamiliar chill that sent unease coursing through me.

I moved towards the table’s end with the intention to seat myself opposite him, but halted at his disapproving hum. 

“Closer,” he insisted. 

I hesitated, confusion washing through me and the rest of the council. A tense air descended, and I swallowed, before smoothing my dress and circumnavigated the table, the empty seats beside Aemond my only two options. His eye fixed me with a venomous intensity, as though I were a mere adversary, and not his good wife whom he was buried deep inside only last night. 

Reluctantly, I claimed his mother’s old seat. 

His displeasure was palpable, but unvoiced. 

A tense silence filled the room before he broke it. “Lord Larys,” he began, with a challenging tilt to his head as his gaze ripped from me and pinned the crippled man at my side. “What has come of the summons of my grandsire back to court?”

Larys Strong shifted uneasily in his chair, the action of a man on the verge of delivering some bad tidings, and I noted that his eyes remained in their sockets. 

“My messages have been to no avail, Your Grace,” he mumbled. “Ser Otto seems preoccupied in Old Town for the time being.”

A low, contemplative “hmm,” reverberated in Aemond’s chest. “Well then,” he mused. “It seems I must consider…” His visage softened into a strangely content expression, “…other candidates.” He leaned back, propping his foot up on the edge of his chair, idly turning the king’s marble between his fingers. His gaze flickered to me, carrying a weight of unspoken intent.

“Do you have someone in mind, Your Grace?” Jasper Wylde inquired, his voice laced with curiosity.

A slow, predatory smile crept across Aemond’s features. “As it happens, I do,” he lulled as he observed me. 

Dread pulsed through me, and I shook my head at him; a silent plea for him to abandon this reckless idea died unspoken on my lips. Instead, a spark ignited in his eye, a dangerous glint promising a storm, his head nodding gently. 

“There is only one here whose counsel I trust implicitly,” he declared, his voice carrying a conviction that both warmed and terrified me in equal measure.

Lord Larys, ever the opportunist, perked up beside me. “And who might that be, Your Grace?” 

A flicker of annoyance crossed Aemond’s face. He sat up straight in his chair and pinned Lord Larys with such venom that the cripple must have abandoned all hope before Aemond even spoke. “My wife,” he pronounced, his tone final. 

A stunned silence descended upon the council as the weight of his words sunk in, and an ominous shudder coiled up my spine.

“Go on,” Aemond urged, ice in his voice. “Voice your disputes.” He dared them, his fingers resting adroitly atop the hilt of the catspaw dagger at his waist.

“Your Grace is free to choose his Hand as he sees fit,” Maester Orwyle offered, his voice carefully neutral.

“There has never been a female Hand,” Lord Larys ventured, his tone hesitant and laced with poison.

“Then it’s high time there was one,” Aemond countered, leaning closer, his voice a velvet threat.

“In these times of war and turmoil, you need a strong Hand at your side, Your Grace.”

A venomous glint sparked in Aemond’s eye. “Like you?” he sneered. “Lord Strong.”

Larys recoiled. “I would never presume, Your Grace,” he stammered. “But if duty called, I would serve you without question.”

“Lady Y/N,” Aemond’s voice, cold and deliberate, jolted me from my thoughts, sending a gnawing chill up my spine. “Should I make Lord Strong my Hand in your stead?” 

The question was a seismic shift, leaving me teetering on the precipice of disaster. 

To deny Larys was to accept the mantle of Hand myself, a role I was woefully unprepared for to be sure. To elevate Larys was to gamble the stability of the realm on a man whose loyalty was as fickle as the tide. 

The latter choice was a chasm of peril. 

I straightened in the chair, meeting my husband’s gaze. “Lord Larys is a man of expedient measures, his loyalty as fleeting as the wind,” I declared, my eyes locking with cripple’s next to me. “To name him Hand would be to plunge the realm deeper into chaos.” 

Larys returned my gaze with a venomous glare, and I understood the depth of Aemond’s earlier words. 

The way he looked upon you when crossed demanded his eyes out.

A pleased smile curved Aemond’s lips. “Then it is decided,” he said, rising from his seat. He crossed the chamber to a central plinth and selected one of the smooth marbles. Returning to me, he placed it reverently in the hollow before me, his air lingering briefly. When he sat back down, he fixed Lord Larys with an unwavering glare, his eye narrowing and his nostrils flaring with contempt. 

“You heard her, Lord Strong,” he hissed. “Off you limp.”

The cripple offered no further protest, rising with evident reluctance despite the provocation. He leaned heavily on his cane and hobbled from the room, as commanded.

“Now,” said Aemond, splaying his hands on top of the table. “Where were we?”

Remaining to Aemond’s small council were now Jasper Wylde, Maester Orwyle, and myself. This apparent oversight did not seem to trouble my husband. If given the choice, he would likely rule alone, with me as his sole companion, a prospect I would swiftly dispute. 

Lord Wylde reported that Ser Criston had finally departed for Harrenhal with the Hightower army. Intelligence suggested Daemon’s position at Harrenhal appeared weakened, presenting a prime opportunity to strike. Moreover, Daeron, along with his dragon, was expected to join the fighting soon, and the Lannister fleet was closing in. 

“King Aegon makes slow but steady progress, Your Grace,” Maester Orwyle reported. “He grows stronger each day. He even managed to stand up for a shirt time this morn’.”

Aemond hummed thoughtfully. “A long recovery lies ahead, Grand Maester.”

Maester Orwyle dipped his head in agreement. 

“If there is nothing further, we will reconvene on the morrow, my Lords,” Aemond declared. “You are dismissed.”

We rose from our seats.

“Not you,” he said, halting me, knowing he was addressing me without having to look at him. Maester Orwyle and Lord Wylde placed their marbles back onto the platform before filing out, the heavy doors closing behind them.

I turned to him, his air exuding incontrovertible autocracy. There was something so unfamiliar about this man. He wasn’t my husband, but someone else entirely. A stranger inhabited his body, a man of iron will and cold fury. Someone that would let the world burn beneath the rage of his dragon and find it a triviality. 

I wished to pacify him. To quell the fire and take my soft husband from the ashes. If this man in black leather and silver edges would deign to let me near him.

“I understand now the burdens you carry,” I said cautiously, making my careful approach. “Surrounded as you are by a council of deceitful lords with a reluctance to serve you fully.”

His jaw ticked, a tempest of emotions raging within his eye, fury and vulnerability warring with each other. 

His father was dead, his mother ridden with guilt and misplaced allegiances, his brother burnt and broken, and his sister consumed by grief. 

He was a Targaryen, left to face the horrors of this war alone. A most terrible fate. The weight of his house rested solely on his shoulders, and violence had become his banner.

“I have it under control,” he growled, though his dancing fingers upon the stone betrayed his words. The burden upon him was a festering wound, threatening to consume him. 

“I’m sure you do,” I replied, looming over him. “But that does not mean you must stand alone.”

His eye pinned me with pure venom, sending a sharp chill coursing through my veins. But I willed myself to touch him, as I had so many times before to quiet his rage. My hand instinctively came up to his cheek, my thumb tracing the familiar scar on his cheek, and as I’d thought – this time were no different. He surrendered to my touch like a storm subsiding, his eye a deep pool, welling with the shimmer of unspoken emotion. 

“I’m always at your side,” I promised, and his hand came up to cup mine, squeezing lightly with subtle desperation, a silent acceptance of my solace. “Whatever happens,” I assured him. 

He averted his gaze, as if holding mine would cause the pool to flood.

“Sometimes,” he began, pursing his lips to the side, considering his next words for a moment. “It feels like you’re the only one who is.”

“I don’t believe that’s true,” I said.

“Even so,” he said. “It would be enough for me.”

A smile crept up the corners of my lips 

My sweet Aemond.

I straddled him in his chair, and he took me into his arms, burying his chin in the crook of my neck. Once weapons of war, his hands now cradled me with a desperate tenderness. That’s how we remained for a while, his hands splaying across my back, gripping me with a possessive ferocity, as if he’d never known touch. 

He yearned to be seen, accepted, loved, flaws and all.

I returned his embrace with equal fervor, our bodies igniting in a conflagration of warmth and desire. I held him so tightly that my arms began to ache, and the heat radiating from our fusion made me perspire. 

But it was more than his body which heated me. A potent warmth radiated from him, igniting a fire deep within me. The desperation in his embrace had softened into something gentler. His hands rubbed me tenderly, his breath grew shallower, and his lips began to place soft kisses along my neck, which sent want pulsing through me.

He had solidified beneath me, his arousal pressing against my groin, demanding adjustment. Meeting his gaze, his features were no longer etched with heartbreaking peril, but had instead darkened with lust. 

I pressed myself against his erection, and he let out a rough breath, watching me with languid appreciation as my hands roamed his chest, ran up his neck, into his thick hair, and then delved into the rich fabric of his doublet. I was infatuated with every inch of him. A heady warmth emanated from him, and I was utterly consumed.

A slick heat pooled between my thighs. The insistent pressure of his arousal against my dampened undergarment, a wave of lust blurring my vision. I couldn’t resist the urge to grind against him. Our eyes met, hazy, heavy-lidded, urgent. His thumb traced my lower lip, and I didn’t hesitate to press my mouth to his. I surrendered to him, his kiss, sweet and lazy at first, then deepened into a demanding exploration of my mouth. His hand searched beneath the pool of my dress. It fisted the fabric of my undergarment and I gasped as he tore it from my hip, revealing my wetness. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he deepened the kiss, his tongue plundering my mouth. 

My palm caressed his arousal, a reckless abandon consumed me as I stroked him. He drew in a sharp breath, his gaze fixed on my ministrations as I moved my hand up and down his length. His body throbbed beneath my hand, his breathing growing shallow and ragged.

“Perhaps we should retire to our chambers?” I whispered, a shiver of apprehension running through me as the precariousness of our position struck me with a chilling clarity.  

I was sitting astride him in the council chambers where anyone could enter. 

“What for?” he demanded, his voice a rough growl. His hands claimed my body, swiping up my abdomen, kneading and bruising with a primal force. They squeezed my breasts, his eye admiring them nearly bulging out of my dress. His mouth devoured the valley between them, his tongue and teeth an exhilarating assault. 

My breath shuddered as I watched him devour my skin with hungry kisses. Words suddenly failed me, and I was unable to articulate a reason. 

“I am the prince regent,” he growled, his words muffled against my skin. “I will fuck my wife wherever I please.” With that, he rose, sweeping his hands beneath my thighs to place me on top of the council table. 

“Spread your legs,” he commanded, his tone icy and menacing.

Lust constricted my breath as I obeyed.

His palms caressed my legs upward, his thumbs pressing into my inner thighs with a brutal intensity that unraveled me. As my legs parted, a cold draft swept across my core, and I became acutely aware of my dampness. His gaze lingered there, a mix of heat and corruption that electrified me.

He yanked me closer, his grip on the back of my neck forcing my breasts against his chest as his lips grazed my ear. 

“The Hand is dripping all over the council table,” he growled and nipped my neck. 

The sharp pain lanced my neck as his teeth grazed it. I gasped, but the discomfort transformed into a moan when his thumb found my clit. His hold tightened in my hair, pulling my head back as he lowered my dress, exposing my breasts. His mouth closed over my nipple, sucking on it, igniting a wildfire of desire that consumed me. 

His thumb traced delicate patterns over my clit, a cadent dance that sent shivers through me. His grip on my hair tightened. A deep groan reverberated in his chest and his attention shifted to my other breast, his tongue and teeth teasing and tormenting me. 

I leaned back on my hands and arched into his touch, my hips involuntarily bucking under the dance of his fingers. His mouth was a fiery brand on my skin, and I felt as though I were drowning in sensation. 

When his hands left me, I was left aching for their return. 

His gaze, dark and intense, held me captive as he grabbed my hips and jerked me to the edge of the table. My legs parted instinctively, and I was lost in a world of heightened senses. His eye followed the curve of my body, falling between my thighs, my core completely exposed to him, and he shook his head in disbelief, running his hands down my calves. 

“Fuck,” the single word, uttered with raw desire, escaped his lips. His strong arms cradled my thighs, before his mouth descended between them. 

The first hot, wet swipe of his tongue sent a violent shiver through me. A storm of sensation erupted within me as his tongue explored every inch of my damp folds. I was consumed by a primal urge, a reckless abandon that clouded my judgement. A rush of pleasure flooded me, the waves rolling stronger and stronger at every slow lap of his tongue.

My fingers tangled in his thick hair as he licked me from entrance to clit. “Oh, Gods,” I moaned, digging my hands into his silver, my blunt nails tugging at his scalp. 

My gaze skittered toward the chamber doors and my mind surged with anxiety at the prospect of someone coming through them, but I found the thought slipping from my mind when Aemond swirled his tongue over my clit before sucking gently. My eyes rolled back in my head and my hips wound beneath his mouth.

The introduction of his fingers was a spark that ignited a conflagration, a feeling of fullness descending a hazy veil over my mind and body, oil torching through my bloodstream. 

A tremor convulsed and a shuddering gasp escaped me as his tongue flicked my clit, a cadenced dance foregrounded by the insistent thrust of his fingers. Each of his strokes were a calculated torment, deep, guttural noises of satisfaction escaping him as the sweet nectar of my pleasure ran down his chin. He teased the precipice, slowing when the pressure built, igniting a desperate plea within me. 

“Please,” I breathed desperately. His fingers deepened their invasion, intensifying the fire within me. When he slowed again, panic seized me, and I clawed at his hair. Words failed me, reduced to a desperate repetition of a single syllable. “Please, please, please,” I begged. 

Finally, he answered my silent demands. His digits quickened and curled, his laps ran steady and drenched my core, until a relentless, hot pressure built. 

His gaze locked onto mine, his blue eye transformed into a storm-laden ocean. As the world narrowed to a blinding white, I cried out my final plea, his name, obscenities; before the tempest of release engulfed me, my whole body clenching and shuddering beneath him. 

In its aftermath, a languorous warmth spread through me. I trembled against the table, a puppet on invisible strings as his fingers continued their soothing rhythm. 

My body, spent and quivering, collapsed onto the cold table, my chest heaving, my eyes closing as the last waves of ecstasy rolled through me.

As the fog began to lift, I opened my eyes to find Aemond reclined in his chair, his face flushed, his lips parted from exertion, his chin glistening from my slick desire. 

He was a sight, to be sure.

His gaze, dark and rapacious, held me captive. A flicker of hunger danced in his eye, as though he was ready to eat me whole. 

“Welcome to the small council, my love,” he smirked. 

Tag list: @plovas69 @quinquinwuincy @lumerstar

[ofherpinkways]

Hyper Fixation

Cod characters x horror fan reader (GN bf/gf :) )

Summary : they ask one small question horror movie sending you into a complete hyper fixation and happy rant about all your favorite scary movies

(A/N: tbh this is mainly for myself so I can finally spill out my bottled up horror movie rants,plus this is based off interaction I just had with a friend on Snap. Our babies will be referred to as "they/them" since i wanna include everyone 🤍🩰🧸 might do a pt2)

You loved horror movies and let it be known to all. Everyone at the base knew it and it was what you were known for even to those who didn't know you fully . Often referred to as the "Horrorjunkie"

Your dorm was filled with horror movie posters,props from iconic classics and of course you had a bunch of those mini polaroid posters of all your favorite horror movies. Your body is covered in horror movie themed tattoos of all the well known villains and other scary themed things. Your left hand was covered in one giant tattoo that made it look like you were a skeleton. All of your causal/civilian clothes were the Steven Rhodes t-shirts and hoodies.

God forbid anyone lets you pick the movie during movie night . It was gonna be scary obviously. This night you picked Sinister (2012) forcing everyone in the common room. It only got worse when few of your teammates confessed they've never seen it. There you sat grinning wildly knowing the whole movie play by play. Having the ability to mentally time each up in coming jumpscare in your head laughing and smiling to yourself prepared for each scare ,glancing up at them wanting to see their reaction. The infamous lawn mower scene had just happened causing everyone but you to jump and yelp a little , instead you laughed and smiled happily at their reactions finding the whole thing amusing.

Fast forward weeks later,you were sitting on the couch scrolling your phone with " " (This is where you insert whoever you want lol). You both got bored after a while, you move and lay your head onto their lap "wanna watch a movie?" you ask looking up at them "I'll pick" you sang dragging the words smiling . They laughed smiling back "and what horror movie has the honors of your picking today mmph?" they remarked . You sat up and playfully huffed with fake offended expression on your face , putting your hand to your chest "Now who said it was gonna be a horror movie ?" you replied holding back a giggle

"you get called "horrorjunkie" for a reason " they said with a chuckle. You crossed your arms smirking "Touche", you grab the remote and start looking through the horror movie collection on Netflix " How about The Strangers ?" you ask looking at your partner . "Again ? we've watched like ten times already,why do you like it so much?"

you gasped "how could I not love it? its's such a classic !, and the timing of its release ! It was something never done before ! it scared the shitout everyone making them fear being in their own homes,making them worry when answering their door and the simple fact it was based off a true event?!?! absolutely sickening" you explained in a fast and excited manner.

And that's how you both spent the rest of your night and ranting about each of your beloved scary movies along with the cast,the directors ,the lore,the meaning and messages behind them, the remakes and sequels all of it

Going on about Scream 1996 flapped over and changed horror forever

Going on about Radio Silence was doing a great job on honoring Wes Craven on his creation of the Scream movies , as they keep the franchise

Why the Evil Dead franchise was so loved

Breaking down and explaining all of Jordan Peele movies, explaining the meaning,how their connected in way,why Jordan writes the way he does, why it's better to show and not tell

Giving off examples of movies that were clearly inspired of Peele's work

Talking about Ethan Hawke is perfect for horror movies

How his performance in The Black Phone shocked and scared everyone

Even though they may not get horror movies the way you do. They love the way your eyes lit up,love hearing the excitement in you voice, loving how animated you became when talking about horror movies. They enjoyed how happy the movies made you so they sat smiling up at you the whole time as you talked for what seemed like forever but they didn't care

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Walter Einenkel at Daily Kos:

Donald Trump's conviction on 34 counts of falsifying business records has been met with resounding cheers and the expected right-wing jeers. But no group is more craven than Trump’s desperate cohort of vice presidential wannabes, all of whom made sure to react loudly to the verdict and rush to the felon’s defense.  Some responded on social media, some did interviews, and some did both, but all of them sounded a lot like one of Trump’s trademark unhinged Truth Social rants.  Saying the trial was a “sham” and the verdict was an “injustice,” these bootlickers made sure to wrap their responses in a shroud of conspiracy theories while adding a little something to distinguish themselves.

Potential Trump VP candidates such as Vivek Ramaswamy, J.D. Vance, Elise Stefanik, and Tim Scott, are all lining up to lick Donald Trump’s boots by attacking the 34 business records falsification charges against Trump.

[rreskk]

TREVOR PHILIPS EXTENDED ANALYSIS

Trevor Philips…

Drug dealer, “international CEO”, son, brother, friend.

TW: -Self harm -Implied drug use -Childhood abuse

I’ve made a longer analysis of Trevor as a character (THIS ISN’T A FANFICTION). 

ENJOY!

Growing up in the Canadian region border of America, it has been portrayed that he has a complicated history surrounding family and mental illness. While it isn’t exactly proven (unless Trevor stated himself), his childhood had been the possible causes of his later behaviour and long-term issues. As for now, we see it as psychopathy, or as wiki would say “Intermittent Explosive Disorder” (impulsive behaviour and explosive temper that could lead to physical aggression). Others would argue that he suffers from borderline personality disorder, considering his struggle to contain stable relationships and is seen experiencing the main symptoms of what a person of BPD can have.

His childhood consisted of instability, financial stress, emotional damage, and physical abuse. Trevor mentioned his mothers constant absence to Lamar and Franklin during a friendly hangout. -“She came back, she left again, came back, left again…” The repeated cycle of his mother leaving, whether this was earlier or later in his teens, it would show the great affect it had on him, personally. Trevor made it clear about his abandonment issues during the storyline and dialogue. His whole idea of finding Michael was to fulfil the years of being abandoned and alone. Having experienced this instability for his childhood had took a toll on his emotional availability. The cravenness of reassurance, respect, presence, or just staying with him. However, his anger issues would make it harder for him to keep people around.

Trevor has also stated his anger management being poor since the beginning of his time. After having a conversation with Jimmy De Santa, he was asked when he knew what he wanted in life. It’s safe to say he had this psychotic mindset since birth, theoretically the result of his mother’s drug addict and poor lifestyle. -“I was pulling the legs off spiders, and I wanted more. I wanted to kill all the way up to the food chain until I hit top, the human being.” However, when being antagonised about this behaviour, he swiftly blames it on his childhood as Amanda would say: -“God, he is such a turd! That wounded childhood bullshit – we all had had shitty childhoods, you balding lump!” This same coping mechanism from Trevor is seen when being asked about his mother. We all know he has been through some verbal/emotional abuse as for his fear of talking about her. Trevor has never said anything negative about his mother despite complaining about his childhood… If someone dares speak her name, he’ll throw a fit, a rageful rant about respecting his mother, almost protecting the fact that she may be the reason for his tormented soul. The “Mrs Philips” mission towards the end of the game, we can see the emotional abuse he receives without doing anything wrong to deserve her bitterness. The constant insults and belittlement, Betty even demands Trevor to seek her medication and would not let him inside the trailer until it was finished. If this is bad enough during his adulthood, we can’t even imagine the mess he had to deal with during childhood. Nevertheless, his mother issues has inserted a particular taste in women throughout the years. -“Old women are to be cherished!” He'd say during a strangers and freaks mission. His calm behaviour towards Patricia and any lady in general would suggest his utter respect (or secret fear). He craves female attention and a maternal dependence. If we look at this closely, we may understand how the lack of maternal attachment between the first few years of his life (0-5 years) would influence his later decision to grow attachments to the wrong people, and the wrong things. (This is called attachment theory- psychological theory). Trevor’s mother may have missed most of his early childhood for financial gain (her stripping, prostitution, etc), and therefore left Trevor with whoever she had at home, his brother and some of his step-dads. Occasionally he was left alone.

Moving on to his difficult relationship with fathers in general, we can understand that the physical abuse he gets from the men in his past would influence his behaviour to men in the future and present. Trevor had grew up being physically abused and dominated, almost tricking his mind into exacting himself into the repeated cycle, turning into the abuse he got and aims the intensions to weaker men (Ron, Floyd, Wade) to fill in that insecurities he got from his biological and step-fathers. Although a father figure isn’t as important to a maternal figure, it did affect his perspectives and made his anger issues worse, especially (I can’t exactly remember the source) when Trevor’s biological father abandoned him in a shopping mall (that he later burnt down in retaliation). Being let down by many older figures had made him dependent on people in the future, people who have a stand in power with Trevor, someone who is able to balance and handle his anger (Michael and Franklin).

It has also been stated that his brother, Ryan, had died of unnatural causes. Elements of Trevor’s words would convince us that he had something to do with it considering they hadn’t of gotten along well enough… To live. However, there is not much information surrounding his brother during this time.

His education is flawed (dropping out before graduating) and being expelled due to the aggressive nature. Trevor had moved all over Canada and had been switched between care homes, trailers, schools, prisons all throughout growing up. However, he has surprising gains in mathematics and can workout sums within a second, and with full accuracy. Trevor is able to process mathematical problems fast, as Wade would say: -“He’s very good with numbers.” Furthermore, the lack of grammar and overall English makes him improvise during speeches and messages. Trevor always speaks metaphorically, he hyperbolises a lot, uses imaginative scenarios to engage the people around him. (Sometimes manipulating – extremely, to get his point across… even if it doesn’t make sense).

“I was a drifter up by the border, wandering from truck stop to truck stop, recently out of the military… Huffing gas, fucking people over, killing, eating, whatever.” Trevor’s discharge from the military was caused by the detached and restrained relationship with his mother. Psychologically, maternal dependence and relationships determines someone’s emotional strengths and depth… Trevor mentioned during an online heist that the therapist who was determining his worth would constantly try and talk about his mother, resulting in an episode which… Eventually led to his discharge (thanks to his anger issues). His dreams to fly planes would crush and Trevor would be left drifting around the Midwest, utterly defused and emotionally damaged. That’s until he meets Michael, and then Brad.

2004, the prologue. We can consider Trevor’s experience to be titled as “survivors guilt”. His loyalty and partnership with both Michael and Brad was cut off after they both unexpectedly got shot. Trevor lived with the guilt of seeing his best friends die, thinking he could of done something… But Michael had obviously told him to save himself, resulting in the 9 years of isolation and depression. He was unknown of Michael’s plan to escape the criminal aspects, feasting the money for himself, the money Trevor couldn’t access as his identity was blown. Imagining that Trevor had to shave his hair and beard just to pass the radar of his North Yankton wanted posters, he had to skip towns without money, and impressively invested a meth business, earning a good load to make him… Well, wealthy. His mother had been absent for years after being imprisoned (as it was mentioned through story-mode), leaving Trevor to be living in Sandy Shores with a successful rising drug business, but with the shame of his past abandonment and lawful struggles to keep his morality clean… Obviously his modesty being destroyed by the abuse of drugs and alcohol (his damaging coping mechanisms).

Unsuspecting Michael being alive, it was a total shock for him to see the news, a potential copycat… Yet Trevor knew. Trevor’s intuition was strong, always have been strong. Throughout the gameplay, Trevor has odd intelligence and senses. He can tell when something doesn’t fit and he’ll suddenly click. He can understand situations faster than most people. He caught eyes with Davey and he knew him. He first saw Michael after 9 years and knew he was lying. After some convincing… Michael’s denials had led Trevor to realise that Brad’s imprisonment was also a lie. It seems that although Trevor takes on the worse from his experiences, he also earns himself the skill to predict and understand unfolding events. He can attack and approach situations, while impulsively, but effectively.

Further notes: Trevor’s coping mechanisms would include niche drugs, alcohol, sex, pornography, aggression, self-harm, and isolation. He finds himself deeply attached to women in general, often exploiting himself by seeing many prostitutes and masturbating to pornography daily. This would be the result of his mother’s absence and abuse… Nevertheless, he engulfs in self-harm (hitting his head, biting, scratching, etc) as a way to defuse his self-hatred (as he always saw himself as the problem… Thanks to his childhood again). His suicidal tendencies is pretty obvious throughout the gameplay.

[tomorrowusa]

Trump lies constantly and so do his craven lickspittles.

The very first lies of the Trump administration involved inflating crowd size at his 20 January 2017 inauguration.

Kellyanne Conway continues the Trump tradition of inflationary crowd numbers.

Kellyanne Conway tried to draw some distinction between Donald Trump and Joe Biden during an appearance on Maria Bartiromo’s Sunday Morning Futures, noting that Trump was making outreaches to Black voters. “You got Donald Trump in Detroit talking to 8,000 people at a Black church,” she told Bartiromo. However, what Conway failed to note was that Trump did not speak to 8,000 people nor was the majority of the crowd Black when Trump spoke at 180 Church in Detroit on Saturday.

I went to Google Maps and and looked up 13660 Stansbury Avenue in Detroit - the address of the church. Using satellite view and Google's instrument for measuring distance, I measured the exterior of the building which was roughly 160' X 93' or 14,880 square feet. For comparison, a college basketball court is 94' X 50' or 4,700 square feet.

Here's the front of the 180 Church. It's no megachurch., perhaps 8 car lengths wide.

Kellyanne Conway is asking us to believe that 8,000 people were squeezed into an area the size of 3 basketball courts. Keep in mind that my calculation of 14,800 sq. ft. covers the whole building, not just the church sanctuary where Trump ranted. There are offices, presumably classrooms for Sunday school, a foyer, hallways, storage areas, and bathrooms.

Of course, being an attendee at a Trump event at a "Black church" does not necessarily make you Black.

A Reuters report noted that the crowd was a diverse mixture of white and Black attendees and “numbered in the hundreds, not thousands, and some attendees said they had just happened upon the scene by chance.” The report also said that the event was not at capacity once it started.

The MAGA zombies are impervious to factual reality, so they'll believe that there were 15,000,000 people there if told that by the Trump Mendacity-Industrial Complex. But calling out bullshit by Trumpsters can have a cumulative effect on people who aren't hardcore Trump cultists.

Somebody who has more time than me should devote a blog to actual crowd sizes at Trump events.

[bookish-bogwitch]

Thanks @thewholelemon, @facewithoutheart, @ileadacharmedlife, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @aristocratic-otter, @nightimedreamersworld, @ionlydrinkhotwater for the tags the past couple weeks. Here are six a lot of sentences I cut from Basil Pitch's Diary, which for now is just one baby chapter but the rest of which is coming soon eventually to a browser near you.

This bit's inspired by the fact that there was a Parliament election in 2015. I cut it because it felt kind of clumsy--sticking jokes in the character's mouths that weren't necessarily in-character--and also had the small issue of being completely, utterly irrelevant to the plot. (At least that makes it spoiler-free 😅.)

Excerpt and tags below the cut:

FRIDAY 6 MARCH Blood units 4, body temp 25, hair ducal, civic engagement meh, political parties at least 3. 11 a.m. Politickal Science. Professor Kates had us debate tomorrow’s Normal Parliament election, presumably because he didn’t plan a real lesson. Had never paid much attention to Normal politics before reaching voting age. Unlike Bunce. “…And that’s why I’m voting Lib Dem,” she concluded after talking for eight solid minutes. “You’re sixteen,” objected Wellbelove.  “Not a problem,” said Bunce, flapping her ring hand.  From the back of the classroom, the pixie chimed in. “What about the Green Pa—” Bunce made a rude noise.  “What about you, Simon?” asked the professor. “How would you vote?”  Of course the Mage’s Heir gets a platform for his inane views. What a blow when he finds out there’s no Butter Union party. “Um,” orated Snow. “I … I dunno. Labour, probably.” Snow turned to Bunce. “Like, some of them are nutters, yeah, but they’d fund stuff. Like,” he reddened, “schools and, like, social programs.” “Those are already funded,” said Bunce. “Not enough.”  “You expect the government to solve all your problems,” I quoted my father automatically.  Snow gave me one of my own You’re an idiot looks. “I really don’t.”  Shit. How many times had he been asked to solve the World of Mages’s problems single-handed? Bunce was still fired up. “Simon, you can’t just dismiss Labor’s xenophobic—”  I thought about what Snow meant and missed the rest of Bunce’s rant about something something intersectionality. As if she would willingly intersect with a Normal. 4 p.m. Am torn. Pitches always vote Tory, just like we’ll always vote against the Mage once we get back the franchise. (Fiona has a plan to steal it.) A liberal government would drain our coffers even drier.  But in our borough voting Tory means re-electing a man who opposed same-sex marriage two years ago. The craven claimed he wasn’t homophobic, he just had homophobic constituents. Do not see why the straight unwashed should control my freedom to marry.  Even worse is the Tory ghoul from Aldershot who stumped about “the aggressive homosexual community” using marriage as “a stepping stone.” As if I wouldn’t pay double VAT to be stepped on by an aggressive homosexual. Still. Am not simpleton single-issue voter; marriage equality is a fait accompli. And anyway, I’d only ever want to gay-marry Snow, straight and unwashed though he is.  Felt weirdly proud of him today for disagreeing with Bunce, especially when I realized the professor had singled him out not as Mage’s Heir but as spokesnormal. And that “social programs” meant his entire childhood.  Hmm. SATURDAY 7 MARCH 10 p.m. Resolved politico-moral quandary by forgetting to vote.

Look, it wasn't my idea for Baz to be a Tory. That was all Rainbow. I also do think Penny has a centrist streak inherited from Mitali but I have no idea real how this would translate into the Normal world.

Thanks @facewithoutheart for gently pointing out that this was a complete tangent. And sorry and thank you @captain-aralias for the content beta. It's not your fault I asked you to explain UK politics and then didn't listen.

Tagging @cutestkilla, @fatalfangirl, @moodandmist, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @artsyunderstudy, @im-gettingby, and @petedavidsonscock.

[sophiamcdougall]

So I just saw a post ranting about "all those vote blue no matter who" posts, or something to that effect. I don't know I blocked the person. Hi, you know what's not a helpful response to American complicity in genocide? Plunging the world into fascism! I don't know if the idea is that you can just plunge your own country into fascism as some kind of penance, maybe? But it's generally not a great idea even if it worked that way, which unfortunately it really doesn't. And if you would like not to plunge the world into fascism, if you would not like to abandon Ukraine (which is still also undergoing genocide, remember?) and other chunks of Europe to Putin, and if you are at all interested in us not destroying the planet, yes, you do in fact have to vote for Biden. I know! I wouldn't like it either! Where I currently live in London, I have the luxury of not voting for my useless drip of a Labour MP for the exact reasons you don't want to vote for Biden! Plus several others because Labour's current position on our every problem is "so sad oh well what if we didn't do anything." I spend a fair amount of time hoping he comes round canvassing and rehearsing various little speeches to tell him exactly why he lost my vote and how utterly craven I think he is, and the various reasons why I hope he has trouble sleeping at night. However, I can do that because the conservatives have never managed to get so much a a toenail into the seat where I live. The outcome is basically Labour or Labour. But I can hope that just maybe I can help the Green party do better than expected: just maybe a victorious Labour party will be like "Hmm, the vote share says we're losing people on the left, maybe we should do something about that." It's not much of a hope! I wish we had a better voting system so I could vote for outcomes I actually wanted and have it mean something! But we don't, and if I lived in a Labour/Tory swing seat, I would obviously vote Labour and miserably encourage my neighbours to vote Labour, because I am not insane. And Sunak and the rest of them don't have the power to as much damage on an international level as Trump would. This guy is certainly under the impression that a Trump victory would help his pals to commit genocide in Gaza even more effectively, so if your goal is not to be complicit in what's happening there, maybe don't deliver the outcome he wants!

[queeranotkira]

Near goes on a longwinded rant insulting your intellect

(My fave copypasta)

"You smarmy lager lout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock. You grotty wanking oink artless base-court apple-john. You clouted boggish foot-licking twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You gormless crook-pated tosser. You churlish boil-brained clotpole ponce. You cockered bum-bailey poofter. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill."

[ants-personal]

ranting to myself in my room like im making a youtube video about how i could fix anoes 2010 and make a sequal to it good enough that the wes craven estate will release anoes from purgatory

[usyrps]

A CORONATION IS ABLUTION, BESTOWED THE REALM IN THE EYES OF THE SEVEN. his mother's faith weighs on him as her presence does, and her voice comes instead of his own when he deems to speak. in soothe, he had not spoken much since the crown had been placed 'pon his brow, and the days had come and gone swiftly, lost in heeding his council members — when he opens his mouth, he wishes it were sunfyre's golden flame that would seep from betwixt his maw and burn down the keep, the city, the world. all that comes are the hoarse ramblings of a drunken king.

in the ill half-light of dying candles, amidst the king and queens chambers, this eve of blackest hue turns shades of red, deeper than the wine swirling in his cup. ❛ do they ever tire of their ambitions? ❜ the king rants into the air, more to himself than his wife, who surely has no shortage of her own desires. her house had waved his half-sister's banner in oath, yet she wears his ring. he does not begrudge her this, in his apathy, but his grandsire does. that, too, had been addressed at the meeting.

QUEEN BIANCA SAID, THE ODD THING ABOUT AMBITION IS THIS: YOU CAN ACQUIRE IT LIKE A FEVER, BUT IT IS NOT SO EASY TO SHED.

@zeitkeist speaks to him across the room, the shadow of her swaying on the wall and blurring with his own. THIS IS THE QUEEN IN CHAGRIN, IN CONTEMPLATION. she admonishes him. he knows, but does not care. for the better half of their marriage, he had not endured much of her company, nor she his own. when they had been privy to each other, it had been with their skins worn like armour, the formalities cold. gaze turns to his wife's irked figure, a brow arched in what might be gnarled amusement, wrought of frustration.

❛ i am not prone to sickness, ❜ aegon scoffs, throwing one leg over the other as he leans into the plush of the settee, ❛ even as a babe, fever never came for me. ❜ even as a child, his heart had been hollow, with none of his sister's whims nor his brother's vocation, only his own craven appetites. his council sees this, as does his hand, as does his wife. he cannot appease them with his silence, nor sway them with his words, and so he is bound to displease them all.

that his words keep spiralling is a testament to the fine constitution of the wine. that he manages to stand and stumble forth is testament only to his own tragedy. ❛ the blood of the dragon does not burn. ( arm wraps 'round the high frame of the bed, before he loses balance and clutches the edge of it to sit, ) are we not gods, above the caprice of men? ambition seems trifling now, that they've already crowned me, us. what have we left to do? ❜ he laughs, droplets of wine spilling upon the myrish rug, ❛ does the realm envisage me a god, i wonder— ❜

BIANCA GRIPS HIS JAW TO MAKE HIM LOOK HER IN THE EYE.

HER CLAWS SINK INTO HIS JAW WITH MORE KINDNESS THAN HE IS DUE. for a moment, in the haze, he imagines his mother's hand upon his cheek, and all he can feel is the sting of it. this is different. bianca demands of him his gaze, not his dignity. aegon think to snap at her, grasp her wrist, breathe his own fire — alas, she has right to seethe, for his frivolity. throat works to swallow, unshed tears sparkling with the violet of his eyes, ❛ i'm— i'm sorry. ❜ she knows this yet he confesses all the same, as though she might grant him penance. she wouldn't, and she does not. ❛ it evades me, the purpose of this. i've no wish to pursue their ambitions... ❜

[shinobicyrus]

In a craven, pathetic, cynical, and transparently desperate ploy to energize his torpid 2024 campaign and match his rival Desantis, Twice-Impeached Ex-President Trump has shuffled out of his Florida tanning tank to join the gibbering chorus of Far-Right trans-panic by releasing a video on Truth Social. The full statement amounts to a hate-ridden, incendiary rant that proposes nationwide federal action that would threaten the health and well-being of trans people, in particular trans children, and will use the law to enforce a rigid, hetero-normative, cisgender social order.

You can watch the full video here on Forbes  if you choose to. I advise against it, personally. The years since his removal from public office and most social media seems to have had atrophied my tolerance. It’s probably why I was somehow shocked at how a video less than four minutes long can cram so much ignorance, falsehoods, hateful invective, and unhinged demagoguery in such a short period of time.

Pages of ink could be spilled breaking down every ranting tangent, from threats to prosecute doctors and hospitals providing gender affirming care, the distasteful novelty of calling trans children mutants,  inventing a conspiracy of pharmaceutical companies selling unsafe hormones and puberty blockers to children, and proposes using the federal government to “promote” aka enforce “positive education of the nuclear family” and the “role of mothers and fathers,” sprinkled with some good old fashioned sex-based bio-essentialism.

The crescendo, the real red meat dripping with bloody doctrine, is at the end:

“I will ask congress to pass a bill establishing that the only genders recognized by the United States Government are male and female and they are assigned at birth.”

“The Bill will also make clear that Title 9 prohibits men from participating in womens’ sports and we will protect the rights of parents from being forced to allow their minor child to assume a gender which is new and an identity without the parents’ consent. The identity will not be new and it will not be without parental consent.”

“No serious country should be telling its children that they were born with the wrong gender, a concept that was never heard of in all of human history - nobody’s ever heard of this, what’s happening today - it was all when the radical left invented it just a few years ago.”

He ends it all with a chilling conclusion. “Under my leadership, this madness will end.”

I’ve done my best since his departure from office to avoid talking about this sad orange failure puttering around his private golf course while lawsuits and legal investigations pile around him. But I’ve heard little mainstream discussion of this announcement; how Far-Right transphobic rhetoric is being elevated to the level of presidential politics.

While Trump was never friendly to the LGBTQ community, he was also prone to mocking the likes of Pence for his desire of wanting to “hang the gays.” Did his Administration do harm to the queer community? Yes, undeniably so. But to me it felt obligatory, with little energy or drive behind it, as Trump ultimately didn’t care. The callous apathy of an incurious narcissist.

Now, whether he believes the nonsense he’s spewing or not, Trump sees that the Republican base has been driven to a mad fervor over the existence of trans folks. So, like the cynical, amoral opportunist he is, he will regurgitate the vile hateful garbage his speechwriters feed him for political and financial gain.

Whether he gets the nomination or not, this announcement will set the tone for the entire Republican presidential primary of 2024.

[sleepersinger860]

Craven boys,headcanon #1

Why I think Freddy,Billy,and Stu would get alone(@theslutwhoreslasher and @xxeverlastinghatexx,this for yall)

-They're parentless.(Freddy had no parents,Underwood wasn't one so that counts.Billy did have his father,but I dont think he'd consider him as one and y'know his mom left.Stu's parents were unspecified,and most likely was neglected.)

-They're all psychos.They'd get along well.

-Stu and Freddy most likely met after death(my personal headcanon) and they're humors are weird,and they vibe off that.Billy and Freddy became friends due to their gruesome ways of murder.

-They hate on the finall girls fr

-"I always come back" gang.

-Freddy calls himself the "older brother".(Technically he is,since he was created first than Billy n Stu.)

-If Freddy was sad,Stu would cheer him up with jokes.Or having a bad day in general.

-Craven boys frfr

-They'd bully the shit out of Jason,but Billy probs go to Jason for mother rants.

-No Childhood gang?

-Freddy would teach them different torture methods.Because yes.

-Billy cant sleep for shit.So they pull an all nighter and kill some teens.

-Freddy and Stu make pun wars.Billy doesn't care but just shrugs.

[hellomynameisghostface]

Unpopular opinion that will probably make me the most hated person in the fandom: Kirby is overrated and she should have stayed dead. Now, I don't hate Kirby or Hayden (the actress who plays her.) In fact, I can appreciate the character a lot more now that I'm older and Hayden plays her well. Before that though, I didn't really have much of opinion of her when "Scream 4" was first released. Here's why I think she should have stayed dead though. In "Scream 4" we see her get stabbed and while the camera's panning away she's not technically dead because we see her moving. This is allegedly because the director, Wes Craven, wanted to leave the possibility open that she was still alive so he could bring her back for his next movie. The original plan was to start a new trilogy and continue the story of "Scream 4" in "Scream 5." Apparently, this didn't take off because the fourth movie didn't perform well at the box office.

This all would have been fine if at the end of the movie someone mentioned Kirby was alive but in critical condition but Sidney is the only one they mentioned. Jill states "Trevor and Charlie, they tried to kill me and I head they killed my mom and...and Robbie and Kirby too" to which Dewey does not reply. That led me to believe she was dead. Fast forward to "Scream V" and "Scream VI," the new directors, Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett, wanted to bring Kirby back because Wes teased she could be alive. In my honest opinion, Kirby should have officially died with Wes (rest in peace to his beautiful soul.) She really had no reason to return and no relevancy other than being a fan favorite. She was Jill's Tatum and what happened to Tatum? She died. I love Tatum, Jennifer, Amber and Anika but they all died when they needed to and I'm content with that. These are horror films. People die, stop crying over it especially when they're as deposable as Kirby is. If Mark hasn't even made a return yet what makes Kirby so special that she needed to come back? I doubt she kept in touch with Sidney, Dewey or Gale. I will say, they did handle her return fairly well with the "I almost died after I was stabbed. Technically, I did die...for four minutes" line. It explained why Dewey didn't mention her being alive at the end of the fourth movie. However, her coming back still doesn't sit right with me. There was such a big gap between the fourth and fifth movies that she became irrelevant and with no survivors from "Scream 4" (outside of the three legacy characters, which she had no real connection with) it makes her super irrelevant. No matter how hard I try, it just feels so forced. Again, nothing against the character or actress. Hayden still does amazing in "Scream VI" and Kirby's still a great character but I just don't think we needed her to be alive. With the two legacy characters, Mark from "Scream 3" and now The Core Four plus Danny the last thing we need is another survivor. Tatum did not get her head smash in a garage door and Anika did not get gutted then thrown off a ladder just for you guys to cry about your favorite character dying until she's resurrected. Sorry if you're pro Kirby being alive but it's not for me. My opinion isn't going to change the fact that she is alive and back in the franchise. This is just a little rant I want to get off my chest and see if there's anyone out there who feels the same.

[mariacallous]

Donald Trump is running again for President in 2024, as he announced from Mar-a-Lago last night, but some Republicans who were his biggest supporters are all but rejecting him this time around. In particular, platforms like Fox News and the New York Post, which once buttressed Trump and his false claims, have made a nearly hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. “Election denial, as the midterm results have just shown, is not a political winner,” Susan B. Glasser writes, and, since last week’s elections, “the Murdoch media empire has embarked on a remarkable we-told-you-so campaign hitting Trump.” But a divided Republican Party is exactly what brought Trump to power—should we assume this time will be different? As Glasser asks, “Is losing really a bigger sin for Republicans than harassing women, blackmailing foreign leaders, or seeking to remain in power by calling forth an angry mob to attack Congress?” It’s a chilling question.

Almost exactly a year ago, on November 18, 2021, I went to interview Donald Trump in Mar-a-Lago. In the second of two conversations, which totalled more than three and a half hours, for a book about his White House years that I wrote with my husband, Peter Baker, the former President had little to say about his agenda, past or future, and a lot of grievance to share. Regardless of the question, Trump often turned it back to a rant about the “rigged election” and the faithless betrayal of Republicans, such as Mitch McConnell, a “disloyal son of a bitch,” “schmuck,” “stupid person,” and “stiff” with “no personality.”

That same week, Trump had been publicly criticized by the Fox News chairman, Rupert Murdoch, for his backward-looking obsession with 2020—a political loser, Murdoch warned. When we pointed out Murdoch’s comments to Trump, the ex-President snapped back. “I disagree with him one hundred per cent,” Trump said. “I don’t speak to him.” When we noted that Trump did, in fact, bring up that election a lot, he was defiant. “I always will,” he said.

Murdoch, as it turned out, was prophetic. Election denial, as the midterm results have just shown, is not a political winner. It’s hard to think of a time in American politics when looking to past grievances rather than the future ever has been. But Trump, on this at least, has also been true to his word. Unrepentant and determined to stay his course, results be damned, Trump has repeated his lies about 2020 over and over again. It’s likely that, as he promised, he always will.

On Tuesday, just after 9 p.m., Trump surprised no one by announcing that he was running for President again, in a long ramble of a speech from the Mar-a-Lago ballroom that leaned heavily on anger, grievance, lies, and the grandiose braggadocio that is his trademark. Most of the speech could have been cut and pasted from one of Trump’s 2016 campaign rallies: the evil migrants storming over the border, the craven foreign countries ripping us off, the epidemic of drugs and crime on “the blood-soaked streets of our once-great cities.” His own reign, so unfairly cut short, had been the greatest of eras. Look at what a hellscape America under Joe Biden has become.

Given the recent unpleasantness of the midterm elections, Trump was a bit lighter than might have been expected on rants about the 2020 election that he lost. In fact, he never even mentioned his defeat, referring only to “the Pause,” as if his time out of the White House were a little vacation, a short respite at Mar-a-Lago. He did, however, manage to float a whole new conspiracy theory about the Chinese and how they might have done something to hurt him in the 2020 race. “Just sayin’,” the ex-President offered by way of explanation. And he promised to “bring back honesty and trust in our elections.” The reference was oblique, but so what—his audience knew what he meant, and cheered.

The real surprise of the evening came forty minutes in, when even the former President had started to seem a bit bored by the clichés spilling forth from his teleprompter, and Murdoch’s Fox had had enough. After Trump started asking his audience, “Remember Angela Merkel?,” the plug was pulled. No more live, uninterrupted propaganda for Trump from the network that, more than any other, had fuelled his political rise and shaped his Presidency. Sean Hannity and his guests would talk about the speech rather than actually show it.

Trump should have been braced for this unkindest cut of all. And, indeed, for the past week, ever since Republicans’ unexpectedly poor showing in the midterm elections, the Murdoch media empire has embarked on a remarkable we-told-you-so campaign hitting Trump. The New York Post, Murdoch’s tabloid and formerly one of Trump’s biggest boosters, savaged the ex-President with a cover depicting him as “Trumpty Dumpty.” In Murdoch’s flagship Wall Street Journal, the editorial board asserted flatly, “Trump Is the Republican Party’s Biggest Loser.” On Fox, Republican guests blamed him for defeats in key races, and the network captioned their appearances with cutting chyrons like “Democrats See Trump as Easiest to Beat,” which ran hours before Trump’s Presidential announcement.

The pile-on was not, of course, confined to Murdoch and his employees. Earlier on Tuesday, Trump’s former adviser and confidant Chris Christie was reportedly cheered by Republican governors when, at their annual meeting, he gave a rousing speech that trashed Trump for dragging down the Party in three consecutive elections. Mike Pence, who went through personal and ideological contortions that are the stuff of political legend in order not to break with Trump, spent the day hawking his new memoir. The book tour has forced him to admit, however reluctantly, that even he had to break with Trump over the matter of the pro-Trump mob trying to kill him on January 6th.

It was a rare convergence of bipartisanship in American politics. How unusual, after all, is it in these divided times to see Republicans agreeing with Bernie Sanders, the democratic socialist from Vermont who said the other day, “As an American, the idea of another Trump campaign and all of his lies and divisiveness and his efforts to undermine American democracy is an absolute horror show. . . . On the other hand, I got to say that as a politician who wants to see that no Republican is elected to the White House in 2024, from that perspective, his candidacy is probably a good thing.”

Forgive me, though, if I’m not persuaded yet. Throughout the Trump years, there have been so many moments when dumping the Don seemed entirely possible, until it didn’t: the “Access Hollywood” tape, the Helsinki press conference with Vladimir Putin, the “perfect” phone call to Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelensky that resulted in Trump’s first impeachment, the crazy mishandling of the COVID-19 pandemic, the January 6, 2021, insurrection at the Capitol and Trump’s second impeachment. Why, it’s fair to ask, should this time be any different? Is losing really a bigger sin for Republicans than harassing women, blackmailing foreign leaders, or seeking to remain in power by calling forth an angry mob to attack Congress?

The week since the midterm elections has underscored an important but often overlooked fact about Trump: it was the Republican Party that made him President and it will be only the Republican Party that can kill him off politically. General-election voters—that is, Democrats and independents—have made clear over multiple elections what they think of Trump. They don’t like him. Never have, never will. He’s lost the popular vote twice, by millions. He’s dragged down candidates in the 2018 midterms, the 2020 general election, and now in the 2022 midterms. It’s the G.O.P. that has continued to support and enable him. In primaries this year, Republican voters repeatedly chose Trump-anointed, election-denying extremists in competitive primaries as their nominees—flawed candidates such as Mehmet Oz, in Pennsylvania, and Herschel Walker, in Georgia, who came up short where their more conventional Republican opponents might not have. And Republican officials, including Trump skeptics like Mitch McConnell, then went ahead and endorsed those Trumpian nominees anyway, and spent millions of dollars promoting their candidacies. Trump led Republicans down the path of electoral folly; they didn’t have to follow.

Sure, there are some reassuring signs that self-preservation, if nothing else, might finally cause Republicans to forgo the chance at another four years of Trump. But a divided Republican Party is actually very much in Trump’s interest right now. It’s exactly how he came to power in the first place, beating out a field of seventeen other G.O.P. candidates in the 2016 primaries. They did not unite behind a single rival to defeat Trump then, nor are they likely to do so now. Florida Governor Ron DeSantis—already anointed “Ron DeSanctimonious” by Trump—is being set up as Trump’s logical successor, a sort of Trump without the baggage. Polls since the midterms suggest DeSantis has gained ground with Republican primary voters beyond his home state. But Trump remains the clear leader in national surveys—including a new Politico/Morning Consult poll out on Tuesday, which had Trump leading DeSantis, forty-seven per cent to his thirty-three per cent. And there will be plenty of other Republicans who run, once again setting up a situation in which the anti-Trump vote is splintered. Pence, in book-tour mode, gave every appearance of running. Even Mike Pompeo, the former Secretary of State who was Pence’s rival in Trump-era obsequiousness, said on Tuesday that he would not step aside just because Trump is officially in the race.

“We’re going to bring people together. We’re going to unify people,” Trump said at one point in his speech Tuesday evening. It might have been his biggest whopper of the night. Still, there has been a surprisingly bipartisan consensus this week about the advisability of Trump running again: Democrats and an increasing number of Republicans now seem to agree they’d prefer that he not do so. Sixty-five per cent of Republicans in that Politico/Morning Consult poll, in fact, said they didn’t really want Trump to run again in 2024. But so what? He is running, and their lack of enthusiasm for Trump never stopped them from voting for him before.

Donald Trump does not care if they don’t like him. He does not care if you call him a liar, a cheat, a fraud, and a huckster. But, as the past two years have shown, he is willing to do anything, including blow up the foundations of American democracy, if you declare him a loser. ♦