#insidious banners

[savagebynaturecustoms]

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Autumn (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Unreliable narrator!!!! Mature language. Descriptions of grief.

A/N: I was not expecting the response my silly little idea has gotten. I am very thankful for all of you who decide to read it, and would love to hear what you think of this chapter. Series masterlist here.

YOU CRUMPLE THE letter in your fist, hearing the parchment wrinkle with a satisfying sound. Then, you throw it into the flames, watching as the fire grows slightly bigger, and the ball uncurls, alight for a second, before it is fully consumed.

It doesn’t soothe you as you thought it would. The odious parchment offering you an honor guard from your future husband might be gone, but you still have to journey North before a moon since Luke’s funeral has passed.

At the thought of your brother, a sharp, stabbing pain, manifests in your chest. You choke down a sob. You had not realized you had started to measure time like this. Before and After Luke’s death, as people did with Before and After the Conquest.

Your grief only serves to fuel your rage, though. How could he? How could he demand you be wed when you were still in mourning? When you were still thinking of your sweet brother, not of keeps, and lords, and men?

“You dare!” You screech, barging inside Jacaerys’ rooms. Whatever he is doing, hunched over his desk, is interrupted. “You cannot do this to me! Mother will not allow it.”

Jace sets down his quill. He turns to look at you, his expression calm. You would think him indifferent, were it not for the fact that there is the slightest furrow of his brows.

“We need men.” He states, simply, and when you are about to interrupt him to say there are many more in the realm, he keeps speaking. “We need his men. The North is the largest kingdom, you know this as well as I. And when a Stark calls the banners, they are the only ones who respond in full.”

Your hands ball into fists. You hate that he is acting so composed, so rational. After Luke died, you felt like a chained dragon, roaring your grief and wishing to be freed to set ablaze those that had wronged you. Once, you had been as gracious as him and mother, composed even in the height of emotion. But grief has made you into live lighting, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

Your emotions are out of control. You know this. You get angered at the barest hint of an insult, you cry as easily as a newborn babe. Knowing it doesn’t stop you from lashing out, though. It only makes you regret it later.

“Our mother promised I was to have my pick of suitors, not that I would be sold like a cow!” You point an accusing finger to his chest. Jace sighs and gets up, surrounding the desk.

“I understand you are upset.” He tries offering you a hug, but you jerk away. His face hardens slightly. “But this is war.”

As if you do not know. As if you haven’t lost a sibling, too. Your face crumbles, and Jace calls your name, but hearing his voice, how similar Luke and him sound, only makes you cry harder.

“Hey, hey, it’s not so bad.” He hugs you, pressing your face against his doublet. The material is soft against your skin, and you feel tempted to let go of your rage against him and sink into his arms. Jace is barely a man, too, just as you are barely a woman. He is doing as best as he can, spread too thin by the weight of responsibility that comes with being heir. “Cregan is a good man. I got to know him during the time…”

Yes, he was doing as best as he could. But it hadn’t been his own hand that he had bartered away, had it? The insidious voice in your head asks. It isn’t him who is making a sacrifice. And such a hollow one. He claims to need men, but he won’t be getting even the full northern army.

“You sold me for a few Greybeards! Not even a proper army! Good Gods, you are a fool.” You cry out.

“Lord Stark assures me…” Jace starts, with the tone of someone who has already had this same argument. Were you thinking clearly, you would pause and realize why. Instead...

“He has put a wife in the grave already.” It is the only thing you know about him. Not much is whispered about Cregan Stark, at least, nothing concerning. You would remember it. The only thing that you know, though, is that he is a Stark and his wife is dead.

“You make it sound as if he killed her himself with his bare hands.” Jace scoffs. “I assure you, he dearly loved Arra Norrey and would have never harmed her. You know the dangers of childbirth. Perhaps even better than I.”

Perfect. He hadn’t killed the damn woman, he was just still in love with her. By the Seven, Jace was a fool. You hated being second in anything. Here, at home, you were already second to Jace, and you resented it. Being a twin meant having to share everything, including the love of those around you.

When you married, you had hoped to be the only woman in your husband’s life, not to be compared to a ghost. You had seen exactly how that went. King Viserys had never forgotten his first wife, calling for her years after her death, even as Alicent was the one to nurse him during his illness.

“He is still a widower.” You repeat, stubbornly.

Jace pinches the bride of his nose, before letting out a deep exhale. His next words are spoken extremely slowly, as if talking to a child. It makes you bristle.

“You said you were afraid of childbirth, and he already has an heir. There is no better solution.”

It would be thoughtful, were it not for the fact that:

“His first wife died in childbirth!”

As Jace prepares a scathing comeback, face scrunched up in mirrored displeasure to your own, the voice of your mother startles you both.

“What is going on here?” She asks, mouth pursed in an expression identical to Jace. The Queen looks as regal as ever, and it only serves to make you feel a tad embarrassed. With wild hair and eyes, face flushed from rage, you are sure that next to her, you must look like a wilding. “Why can the whole castle hear your quarrel?”

“It’s his fault.” You accuse, pointing at Jace.

“My fault?!” He says, placing his hands on his hips. “Apologies, I think they didn’t hear your screeching about Lord Stark in Driftmark!”

“So you informed her?” Your mother asks, calmly. Too calmly for someone who has just found out. Had it been her plan all along?

“Did you knew all along?” You whisper.

Rhaenyra turns to look at you. As always, your mother has a smile ready for you, but as of late, they are laced with sadness. This one is no exception.

“I did. I think it is for the best. You will be safer next to Cregan Stark, in Winterfell, than you could ever be here.”

You examine her expression. Her eyes are swollen and red rimmed, grief clouding her regal face. There is a certain determination in her features, a calm acceptance in her eyes, that tells you that her mind is already made.

Her face is not one of a distraught mother who will soon give her daughter away. You know her too well to mistake it for that.

“You hoped for this.” You keep your voice dangerously low, your anger threatening to bubble up in your throat. “You did because I have no dragon. I bet you are scheming to send Rhaena away too!”

Your mother doesn’t answer.

Her silence is damming. You turn to look at Jace, disbelieving. Of course the two of them had been scheming behind your back. Your brother had always been the closest one to your mother.

“And neither of you could tell me to my face?” You ask, letting out a hysterical laugh. “I had to find out from a letter from fucking Cregan Stark. I am not leaving. You cannot make me. ”

Suddenly, your mother grabs you by the shoulders. Her face is frightening, like an avenging goddess of Old Valyria. Her lips are curled back, teeth bared, and her eyes are as wild as yours.

“Listen to me!” She says, shaking you hard. Tears begin to fall from her eyes, but she doesn’t seem to register them. “Listen to me! Luke is dead. He is dead, and you will obey me because I cannot bear to lose any more of my children. You are going North. Your Queen commands it.”

She turns on her heel and leaves, leaving you standing on still shaking legs.

CREGAN HAD BEEN lingering near the entrance of Winterfell ever since his men had spotted the Queen’s banner on the horizon. Back then, they had expected the party to arrive in half a day. He didn’t care if he appeared too eager, his usual stoicism was failing him in the face of his nerves.

The first time Cregan had married, he had known the bride for a long time. Arra had been his childhood companion, and they had spent many moons together, playing Come-into-my-castle and Bears-and-maids. Cregan had unfortunately been the maid many more times than he preferred.

He had not feared marriage then. Spending forever chained to another person wouldn’t be so bad if that person was Arra.

Now, he did. Cregan had been content on his own, and had no desire to remarry. Even if he had, a southron princess wouldn’t have been his first choice. Though Prince Jacaerys had been honorable and dutiful, he was still naive. They were nearly of an age, but when Cregan had stood next to him, he had felt as old as his Greybeards.

A naive little princess would never survive in the North. His lords would eat her alive. The Lady of Winterfell couldn’t be some frail little thing, she had to be strong. Strong enough to hold Winterfell in his absence if needed, were the threat from beyond the Wall come to pass.

Arra had been the only woman he had thought of marrying because she had been the only woman he had thought fit to the task. She had been of the North, as he was, and it had helped him envision a future together where they ruled over the very same land that had birthed both of them.

It was only adequate that the Lady of Winterfell was a woman of the North. Southron Princesses, especially those who had been groomed to marry inside the family, could be of little help running a keep. If he had to remarry and choose a southron, Cregan would have preferred a stronger one.

Yet if wishes were dragons, beggars would soar through the skies. Prince Jacaerys had seemed a bit insulted at his offer of Greybeards, but with winter coming, it was all Cregan could spare. He was no stranger to political games, though, and knew he had to smooth down the feathers his offer had ruffled.

Hence, the offer. To receive the toothless dragon in his home and keep it safe. A favor, from an older brother to another. The Gods knew if Sara was near war at all, Cregan would do everything in his power to send her somewhere safe. He would be forever indebted to the man who aided him to do so.

And Prince Jacaerys, showing himself to be the dutiful prince and brother he was, had understood the offer for what it was. A true alliance. A Pact of Ice and Fire, to bound their bloodlines and keep the beloved, but defenseless sister safe.

It had impressed Cregan. Jacaerys was a serious man, no matter his dubious parentage. He could picture himself following him. After all, his Targaryen blood and character were the important part. That was what made him a worthy King.

Without a dragon of your own, your journey had been perilous. He knew you had ridden without banners until you had safely arrived into northern territory, a feat that had taken you a whole moon. Cregan had offered to have his men meet you halfway, but his letter doing so had gone unanswered. It had only prompted new anxieties for him.

What if he failed to fulfill his promise because you were abducted or harmed in the journey? What if the people riding with Black banners weren’t truly your honor guard, but an ambush prepared by the enemy?

Cregan doubted he would be at ease until he saw you emerge out of your wheelhouse, whole and unscathed. Hence, his waiting by the door. He would not be nervous a moment longer than he needed to.

The first thing Cregan saw was that your honor guard was smaller than he expected. He had known you would travel with a sparse escort, as to not attract undue attention. It was a miracle you had made it here with only ten guards, though. The wheelhouse and the men carried so many packages that Cregan would have known you were a Princess even without expecting you. Anyone would have known.

In contrast, the woman who stepped out of the wheelhouse wasn’t miraculous nor was she what Cregan envisioned when thinking of a Princess.

You were… Pitiful. Cregan understood now why Prince Jacaerys was so desperate to protect you. You wouldn’t survive a winter in the North, hells, it looked like a strong breeze would blow you away.

Your hair and eyes were as dark as the ones of your brother. You wore a pretty wool dress, in mourning black. The lacings on the back were done too tightly, a lot of the ribbon hanging limply, and the dress was loose around your chest and hips. It was clear you had recently lost weight, probably during the journey because the gown hadn’t been altered to fit you.

There were dark circles under your eyes, which were also red rimmed. Your skin was pale, your dark hair braided back in a severe style. Grief didn’t suit you. You looked small and sad, despite having a pleasing figure.

It didn’t help that the dress you had chosen was one far too thin for a sensible northern woman to wear. The day wasn’t even that cold, but you were already shivering. It was barely snowing, for the Gods’s sake!

Cregan approached you and gave you a bow.

“Princess.” He extended his arm to you. You took it, shivering. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Pleasant enough.” At least your voice isn’t frail. The last thing Cregan needed was a soft-spoken southron lady. You even manage to smile at him, which makes you look considerably more attractive.

Cregan would admit one thing, and one thing only: Queen Rhaenyra made pretty children. Both you and Jacaerys had sinful mouths and bewitching dark eyes, though he found yours far more pleasing.

“I am sorry for your loss.” He says, as he escorts you inside Winterfell. Your trembling intensifies, instead of subsiding in the warmth of his hall. You say nothing.

When he risks a glance at your face, your eyes are suspiciously wet. You avoid meeting his eyes, even as he offers you the customary salt and bread.

“I remember when Arra got here.” Cregan offers, awkwardly. He isn’t quite sure of what to say to a grieving Princess, so he decides to share something about himself in hopes that you will open up too. He desperately needs to change the subject. Or to start a subject. He is not picky, anything that keeps you from crying will do. “She brought less of a procession than you did. And less luggage.”

“She was quite closer to home than I.” You reply, and your tone has regained strength. You no longer shake, body stiffer. Cregan decides to take it as a good sign. You are clearly struggling to get a hold of yourself, which is why you turn so tense, so he decides to keep speaking to give you some more time.

“She was. By far a more practical woman.” He smiles at you, teasingly. “But if the fuss makes you happy…”

You laugh. When he gets to know you better, Cregan will realize that your laughter wasn’t genuine.

He will also realize this had been the moment your heart iced over.

YOU PAGE THROUGH your book, in silence. Winterfell doesn’t have court musicians, and for that, you are thankful. Silence has always been your preferred companion right before bed. That, and a good book.

Your obsession with Valyrian history and traditions had been carefully nurtured by your stepfather, Daemon. Neither your mother nor siblings had much interest in your shared heritage, beyond the ability it gave them to ride dragons.

While Baela and Rhaena spoke fluid High Valyrian, the same could not be said for your brothers. As the only girl in the household, your lessons had been spent with the former and not the latter, forcing you to improve. Once you did, you had found reading the tales of old was a pleasant pastime.

You enjoyed laying in bed and imagining all the stories about magic, dragons, and empresses. When you had turned four and ten, Daemon had gifted you your very own book with Valyrian tales, a beautifully bound and illustrated edition that had followed you in your journey North.

“For you to read to your future children.” He had said, back then. You had barely flowered, so you had laughed. “I mean it, Princess. Out of my three girls, you are the only one I envision doing so.”

The day he had acknowledged you as one of his daughters, even if you didn’t share blood, was the happiest nameday you had had. He was right, too. As much as you loved the twins, you couldn’t picture them being motherly. Baela would have to have a son, to inherit after Jace, but you believed that it would be him who took charge of the more fatherly duties while she dedicated herself to statecraft. Rhaena, instead, had a thirst for adventure, to travel and know the world. Her ambition wasn’t conducive to motherhood either.

You, instead, had always dreamed of marrying a man who loved you and starting a family of your own. You envisioned yourself as the lady of a great keep, where you would rule fairly, and raise your children without wet nurses.

Those dreams had already been shattered. The man you had married didn’t love you. He had only done so to secure an alliance. And the man already had a child of his own, an heir. There was no need for you to be a mother anymore.

You turned another page of your book, watching the beautiful illustrations. You had dreamed of reading this to a little girl who looked like you, or perhaps a boy that would have looked like the man of your dreams. They would have learned High Valyrian, and spoke it as beautifully as your mother and stepfather did.

It would not come to pass. Not any longer.

A soft knock on your door makes you set down your book, closing it with great care. Then, you get up and put on your robe over your sleeping shift.

“You may enter.”

Your husband steps in, dressed for bed already. He is a handsome man, you think, biting your lower lip. Tall, dark and handsome, Cregan is the sort of man your childhood self would have pictured marrying.

He could have been the perfect man to fall in love with, were it not for the fact that he would never love you back. He already loved someone else, someone who you could never aspire to match. His first wife, Lady Arra.

As Alicent had learned, it was impossible to overshadow a ghost. Dead as she was, she could never make mistakes. He would forget all her imperfections.

She gave him a child, she was the wife he chose. The one he married for love, not duty. A practical, northern woman his bannermen had surely liked far more as a match to him than a soft southron princess who didn’t even have a dragon.

“I was wondering if you would welcome my company tonight, Princess.” Your husband says, voice emotionless. He is only here because of duty, it seems. “We could share the bed.”

“You said we could wait to consummate our union.” You keep your voice firm. It is not a task you anticipate eagerly, but you are not afraid of it either. You had seen enough of your mother and Daemon to know bedding someone can be pleasing. It is only the awkwardness of doing so with a stranger that puts you off.

“I was not referring to that.” Your husband says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “The nights are cold in Winterfell. Is it wrong for a man to seek closeness to his wife?”

You frown. His behavior is most puzzling. He intends to share your bed… To sleep? Your mother shared her bed with Daemon, but she also bedded him. It makes no sense to you that he wants to sleep next to you without touching you. Most marriages don’t do that. Much less if they are political matches.

“It is not a sin. But why would you..?” You question, but your Lord Husband is getting up already, huffing. He seems angered that you are unable to understand his message, whatever it might be. He storms off, leaving you confused over his behaviour.

That night, Cregan dreams of running. Of having a snout covered in blood, of jumping into the river, trying to trap a seahorse.

He never manages to. Wolves aren’t meant to hunt seahorses.

[glorfindel-of-imladris]

(tw: death, gore, horror)

I love how downright creepy Sauron is.

He's your neighbourhood psychopathic genius, a skilled sorcerer whose allegiance was realigned once (to his true alignment imo) and then never since waivered.

Unlike Morgoth, who was more straightforward in his execution, Sauron's style is insidious, and in a sense more horrific for how slow and personal his tactics can be. His temper is such that he can play the long game, even play at being weak in order to earn trust or make his enemies complacent, and then next thing you know he has an old friend's corpse up as a war banner, or he has sunk a once great island down the Sea.

He bred the Orcs. Tolkien played with different version of the origin of Orcs, but what I like best is the version where they were corrupted Men, maybe even Elves, and although they were Melkor's idea, it was Sauron who had the ability, patience and tenacity to make the idea come to fruition.

He built cults. Do you know what cults are like? How they draw people in, what they make people believe, what they get people to do? From an outsider looking in it must have looked truly bizarre, but Sauron was able to turn a powerful nation against the Valar and painted Morgoth as the true god. Eru Ilúvatar was denied as a false god, and the Valar made to be liars. There were blood sacrifices, human sacrifices—all for a religion Sauron invented, but was so successful that, once Númenor was gone, Sauron brought the cult with him to Middle-earth.

He was called The Necromancer. What made him garner the title? Who gave it to him, and what had they seen? Surely the Nazgûl were not the first of their kind, not when the Nine were already so well-made. What manner of experimentation had Sauron done in order to make them, and what did the "failures" look like? What knowledge did he use to corrupt and circumvent the Gift of Ilúvatar, which gave Men free will and death, allowing their spirits to transcend Arda? And yet the Nazgûl were unable to die, and as wraiths they also lost their free will, bound to Sauron and the call of the Ring.

He corrupted kings. He corrupted his own kind. Curumo could not have been the only one, and we know Curumo was a powerful Maia in his own right, the leader of the Istari. Sauron played mind games with the best of people, and won. His ability to seduce even the most powerful beings and get them in his service was unparalleled.

Now imagine being a native of Mordor and witnessing the poisoning of the lands. And then an age later, imagine being from one of the villages around Rhovanion and experiencing the slow haunting of Amon Lanc. At least the Eldar could see Sauron and his agents; none of the Men can do so. What defense did the common Man have against such insidious evil? There must only have been odd sensations, a dread settling in, dreams that lure them in before turning into nightmares.

[ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey]

Hinny prompt: Harry dealing with Ginny’s new fan base.

Ginny is starting to get her first few fan letters. The harpies try and sort them but Harry spots a few on the creepier side OR at a game he overhears some fans obsessing over the fit new Chaser. Have fun with it.😉

This might not be what you meant by "fun," but right about now the most fun thing I could imagine writing was a situation in which horrible, misogynistic men get what they deserve. Can't imagine why... NSFW (language) - Please note, there's some offensive language in this one, included to illustrate how horrible these characters are; NOT meant to condone it. I hope that's clear in the tone.

It would be blasphemous to say it, but Harry strongly prefers attending Ginny’s away matches. 

The furor around the relationship between “The Chosen One” and the rising star Chaser of the Holyhead Harpies had reached dizzying heights. Fans of their relationship flock faithfully to Harpies matches in the hope they might witness Harry cheering for Ginny, or clapping for Ginny, or something equally mundane, made exciting and romantic only because he’s the one doing it. While bizarre and invasive to Harry, this parasocial fantasy is nothing short of a PR dream for the Quidditch Club. 

The Harpies administration had been thrilled to reap the benefits of this excitement, and consequently laid out Harry and Ginny’s relationship on a silver platter: whenever Harry attended a match in their home stadium, he was offered a private Top Box at a prime location, complementary Omnioculars, unlimited food and drink, and a large Weasley Banner adorning the wall behind. 

Ostensibly a generous gesture, but in reality a nuisance, because it meant every reporter in the stadium knew exactly where to direct their cameras every time Ginny so much as sniffed the Quaffle. They’d capture Harry’s reaction and then rush to print it in the paper the next day, with interpretations so loosely based in reality that Harry’s nearly impressed at the creativity.

Once, Harry had sneezed, and his pained expression in the leadup to it was painted as “trouble in paradise” for weeks because it had happened to coincide with Ginny scoring. 

On another occasion, Harry had spent much of a particularly chilly match with his hands in his pockets. Of course, the only explanation for such insane behavior was obviously to hide the nonexistent wedding ring on his finger, which clearly resulted from a secret weekend elopement in the aftermath of Ginny’s spectacular performance against Pride of Portree. 

“They’ve got a point,” Ginny had joked over their morning breakfast. “I did deserve a diamond after that match. What gives?”

“A bit late for that, haven’t you heard?” Harry had said through a bite of porridge. “We’re already getting divorced. I’m having another affair with Hermione at the weekend.”

“Damn,” Ginny sighed. “I wanted to have an affair with Hermione.”

Much more insidious, though, were the stories suggesting that Ginny’s signing and popularity was only because of her relationship with Harry. Ginny swore she didn’t give a flying fuck what the papers wrote about her, but Harry took to ripping every story that cast aspersions at her talent to shreds.

But, Harry had finally got one over on the press. He’d called an uncharacteristic press conference and made an announcement that, due to undefined “security risks” at away stadiums, he was unable to attend matches outside of Holyhead. 

The statement had been worth all of the ridiculous stories speculating about his lack of support for his girlfriend’s career, because it meant that he got to watch the Harpies vs Falcons match – donning a thick cap, sunglasses, and a scarf, in some cheap seat that no one would suspect Harry Potter of sitting in – utterly without audience. Sure, his view of the match leaves a bit to be desired, and he’s cramped next to a rowdy group of Falcons fans, but it’s wonderfully refreshing to swear angrily when Ginny is fouled without fear of a think-piece speculating about his repressed anger issues appearing in tomorrow’s Prophet. 

It’s one of his better lies, all told, and Harry’s inclined to celebrate his stroke of genius. 

It’s not until about ten minutes into the match that Harry is forced to concede he may have celebrated prematurely, as he reckons with the drawbacks to his little caper up close and personally. 

“HI! HO! FALMOUTH FALCONS! HI! HO! FALMOUTH FALCONS!”

The lads surrounding Harry are chanting with such an obnoxious, drunken fervor that Harry can hardly hear himself think, forget hearing the match commentary. They scream with such persistence for so long that they’ve nearly earned Harry’s begrudging respect, when the chant finally succumbs to raucous cheers as Falmouth is awarded a penalty.  

“Nice to have a bit of a doss match this week,” the bloke next to Harry remarks loudly after Falmouth scores their penalty. “Gives Wickford time to rest up before we play Puddlemere.”

Harry squints up at the speeding players above and confirms that Wickford, a thick-necked man and Falmouth’s star Chaser, is indeed speeding back defensively as the Harpies offensive formation takes shape, and not resting on the sidelines. Harry shoots a sidelong glance to his neighbors, perplexed. 

“Yeah, nice of the Harpies to carry on with an all-female squad,” another dark-haired lad chimes in. “I thought they were finally going to give it up after last season. What a joke.”

The first bloke, who Harry observes looks rather like Dudley, laughs ruefully. “Gwenog Jones won’t ever admit the problem, though, will she? They just don’t have the speed or the strength, everyone can see it–” 

Harry scowls. Pricks.  

“She clearly thinks the new recruit, Weasley or whatever, is going to make them competitive again, but–”

“Does she?” the Dudley-looking one snorts. “Or do they just want the Harry Potter fangirls to bring in the revenue? It’s a massive publicity stunt, honestly, just like the whole team.”

The three of them laugh, and Harry’s scowl deepens beneath his sunglasses. 

“I’m only hoping they bring back the swimsuit calendar this year,” the dark-haired one adds. “Weasley’s fit as fuck.”

The group murmurs their general agreement, and Harry takes stock of the hexes available to him. Might be time to dust off the toenail-growing one of Snape’s… But no. He can’t get hauled in front of Magical Law Enforcement again. Robards will sack him. 

“Yeah, the Harpies can fuck around with an all-women team, as long as they all look like that,” the Dudley-looking lad adds, pointing up at Ginny who is now flying overhead, and they all get a particularly good view of her from behind. The blond one jeers. “Wouldn’t mind seeing her strutting around on my calendar in a bikini.”

“I’d go so low as to call myself a Harpies fan for one of those,” the dark-haired jokes, and they all snigger. 

Sod hexing. Harry would quite like to kill them. He’s gripping the metal bars in front of him, knuckles white, imagining creative ways of doing it when Ginny - quite literally - takes matters into her own hands: all of their attention is pulled to the pitch as she feints, drawing Wickford into an ugly-looking lurch before she dodges and cannons a shot directly into the right goal. 

God, he loves her. 

“Damn,” the blond one whistles. “Fit and fair enough at Chasing, I suppose.”

“Potter’s a lucky bloke,” they joke. “I’d let her score on me all she wants.”

Yeah, Harry thinks darkly, today’s my lucky day.

Harry thinks he deserves a medal for the level of restraint he exercises, as the lads continue to offer lewd, sexist, and leering comments about Ginny for the entirety of the match. In fact, the only reason he manages not to strangle them is because Ginny, herself, is shutting them up far more effectively than he ever could. 

“Watch this, Robbins’ll catch her, look at the difference in wingspan–”

Ginny drops a beautiful pass to Gwenog who times her formation perfectly, and the Harpies score yet again. 

“Weasley’s tiny, once they let our Beaters loose on her she’ll be a goner–”

Ginny executes a perfect Sloth-Grip Roll to dodge an incoming bludger, and manages to whip a shot past the Falcons Keeper while dangling upside-down. 

“Knock her off her fucking broom!”

Wickford, clearly frustrated, fouls Ginny – hard. While the referee blows a shrill whistle, Harry lets out a stream of abuse, “Dirty fucking wanker–”

“Oi!” the Dudley-looking bloke next to Harry exclaims with glee. “Have we got ourselves a Harpies fan in our midst?”

Harry takes a measured, calming breath before answering, still staring up at the match above. “Yep.”

The group lets out a gleeful ooh. Harry knows it’s commonplace to give opposing fans a hard time at away matches, but these blokes haven’t got a clue how close Harry is to losing it. He’s about one more comment away from turning them into Aunt Marge. 

He claps when Ginny easily puts away the penalty shot, extending the Harpies already considerable lead. 

“Very progressive of you,” the blond one jokes. “Are they your girlfriend’s favorite team, or something?”

“Or something,” Harry answers through gritted teeth. 

They all jeer. “She’s got you whipped, eh? I hope the pussy’s worth rooting for a pussy-ass team like–”

“I’d watch my fucking mouth, if I were you,” Harry says, his voice low and dangerous. He realizes, dimly, that he must look far less intimidating than he’d like, with his ridiculous hat and sunglasses and scarf covering much of his face. Oh, well. Looks can be deceiving. He’s just finished up with seven weeks of an intensive dueling refresher course with the Aurors. He reckons he could incapacitate all three of them before they even had a chance to pull their wands. 

“Oooh, would you?” they jeer. “What, do you reckon if you cheer loud enough, Weasley will hear you and come over to thank you after the match?”

“Could she thank me too, you reckon?” the Dudley one adds. 

Harry can hear his own heartbeat angrily pounding in his ears. They’re all disgusting pricks, not worth a moment of his time or his energy, but he’s not stupid, either. He’d been, at first, when Ginny had originally signed with the club, and he’d just started paying more attention to the news about the team and the undermining, sexist undertones in all of it. He’d been shocked to see the nasty objectifying comments, the aspersions at their talent, the insinuation that the team was a feminist gimmick, not to be taken seriously. 

Hermione had humbled him with a sharp, “No,” when he’d asked her if she was surprised by it, too. 

He’s not as naive anymore. He realizes these blokes are watching their own team get shellacked by an all-female side, watching as Ginny plays elite Quidditch with their own eyes, and still they’ve got nothing but bullshit to say. 

Helpfully, Ginny chooses that moment to score yet another goal, her seventh. When Harry claps, they all join in mockingly. 

“Weasleyyyyy,” they call, with mocking, lovesick expressions. “Ditch the Chosen One and choose meee!”

Harry turns to them, and asks in a flat tone. “Is that the reason you’ve been rooting for such a shit team, then? You’re hoping Wickford will come and give you a cuddle after?”

“Oi!” the dark-haired one says. “Hang on–”

“That’s the only reason you’d be a fan of the fucking Falcons, isn’t it? If Wickford will take you home?”

“Nah mate, reckon all poofs are Harpies fans, aren’t you?”

The toenail hex seems woefully tame, all the sudden. “Are all Falcons fans pricks or is it just you lot?”

“Oi, relax mate,” the blond one jeers. “We’re just wondering how it all works. How many times have you got to wear a Harpies kit before they let you pull a leg over?”

“Dunno, how many times have you got to wear that Falcons kit for them to win a match?”

“Is that the new Harpies recruitment strategy?” the Dudley-looking one continues. “They only sign slags to the team, so they can shag together a fanbase?”

Harry pulls his wand so fast that they jump back, startled. “Say that again,” he growls, holding his wand in the man’s face. “Say it.”

“Watch yourself,” the blond one says, holding his hands up and pointing to his mate threateningly. “This one’s about to be an Auror, you’re about a second away from–”

What surely deadly threat Harry is a second away from, he’ll never learn, because just then, with a loud groan from the crowd, the Harpies Seeker pulls out of a spectacular dive with the snitch clasped in her fist, thereby ending the match at an embarrassing score of 260-10. 

“YES!” Harry yells, his wand dropping to his side as his eyes seek out Ginny in the air. 

He can’t remember ever finding a win so satisfying, and Ginny quite so attractive as she streaks across the pitch to hug Gwenog Jones in a midair heap, her red hair streaming behind her in the wind. When she lets go, she scans the section she knows Harry is sitting in. Looking for him, like she always does after a match, only this time she’s looking for an idiot in a shit disguise. 

He turns back to the blokes, fury and disgust with them still radiating in his bloodstream, and a reckless desire that he’ll surely regret later overtakes him. Fuck it, he thinks, and he begins to pull off his scarf. 

“What was it you were saying before?” he goads, pulling their attention back to him before they move with the rushing crowd out of the stands. “One of you arseholes is going to be an Auror?”

“I am, and I’ll curse you into next week, if you like,” the Dudley looking-one taunts. “Maybe then Weasley will give you a pity ride, if that’s what you’re hoping for–”

“Interesting offer, but I’ll pass,” Harry says, as he pulls off his sunglasses. A look of vague recognition sweeps across the blond one’s face, though the others merely look a combination of angry and befuddled. 

Harry replaces his regular specs and looks to the pitch just in time to lock eyes with Ginny - she’s found him in the crowd. 

She’s halfway across the pitch, but Harry can tell by the tilt of her head that she’s wondering why he’s gone and taken off half the disguise they’d laughed so hard about earlier. He waves, and despite their earlier agreement to forgo their usual public post-match celebration, she seems to get the message and begins flying toward him. 

He turns back to the blokes and finally removes his hat, revealing the still famously recognizable scar on his forehead. All three of their expressions transform into varying degrees of horror as they recall every horrible thing they’d said over the last hour, and connect just who they said it to. “What the fuck–” one of them mutters. “What the fucking shit– is that– Harry Potter–”

Harry stares directly at the aspiring Auror, memorizing his stupid features as he reddens. “I–” he stammers.

“I wouldn’t count on the Auror thing,” Harry spits. “If you’ll pardon me, though, I’ve got to congratulate my girlfriend. Maybe thank her later, for giving me so much to cheer for.”

He turns just as Ginny arrives to hover in front of him, windswept and flushed with victory and so ruddy gorgeous he can’t think. “You were so fucking brilliant,” he tells her. 

“I know,” she says with that cheeky grin he loves so much, and then she kisses him so soundly that he quite forgets the pricks openly gaping at them from behind. 

For a moment.

He pulls back from the kiss and turns to find them making a hasty retreat from the scene, but not before he hears the telling sound of a camera pop.

The ensuing stories plastered all over the papers the next day - Harry, pictured in his ridiculous disguise entering the stadium, their victorious kiss in the stands - ensure that Harry’s never able to sneak surreptitiously into the crowd of an away match ever again. 

A trade worth making, though, when Harry gives an exclusive interview detailing every disgusting thing the three men identified in the background of the photograph had said, and when Ginny writes a cutting op-ed for the Prophet highlighting the ways in which the press had created the very narrative those three pricks had parroted. 

Of course, it doesn’t solve the problem overnight, nor did they expect that it would. But, it moves the needle, just a bit. When Ginny reads an excellent article detailing the Harpies’ unique formations without once mentioning Harry or questioning whether they might be more effective by signing male players, she smiles. 

The rejection of Winston Winthrop’s Auror application is just the frosting on the cake.

[flowers-of-io]

Savathûn, Insidious, combs her fingers through the river of stars drifting across the ceiling of the freshly completed Dreadnaught. The chitin on the walls still smells of newness, and various servant Acolytes and minor courtiers scuttle around with hands full of relics and banners dragging behind them, hanging up lanterns, lifting statues onto pedestals. Oryx stands presiding over this whole commotion with his head held up proudly and hand resting on the Willbreaker’s hilt.

“Why have you called this place the Mausoleum?” she asks, chasing a constellation with her hand and watching it dissipate between her claws.

Oryx rolls his shoulders, all regal, and the stars look like a diadem around his temples now—small flickering things at the crown of his vastness.

“Because it is the tomb of all the worlds we have liberated from existence, enshrined here as a map of our celestial crusade.”

“Eight hundred thousand fifty-two planetary systems. I’m impressed you’re still keeping count.”

“If we don’t know where we came from, how will we know where to go?”

She snorts at his tone, scholarly and formal like he is reciting prayers during the Feast of Swords. There is pride on his face, watching her watch the stars glimmer above them like precious stones.

“Then I expect dear old Fundament is hanging as the centrepiece over your throne.”

Oryx looks at her with his eyes the colour of nebulas and gestures, almost carelessly, to a tiny bright dot in a cluster of identical bright dots suspended on a distant part of the ceiling, above the ravine. From her spot at the edge of the balcony Savathûn can barely make out the largest moons.

This is a conversation about what is a crown jewel and what is a pebble, and, from Oryx’s perspective, an older brother’s lesson for an obstinate sister. And maybe if she were younger, less hardened by power and hunger, she would have picked up this gauntlet thrown in her face and they would fight, splattering gore across the polished floors. But wisdom comes with age—or maybe she is just too weary or too unbothered, or doesn’t want to make a scene in front of the Court—and Savathûn only scoffs, and turns away to admire the carvings on a nearby column.

(She does not remember this conversation anyway, untold millennia and heresies later—only the outline of their silhouettes against the cosmic river, and the weight on her left shoulder where Oryx’s hand rested—and it is one of the first memories she tells Immaru about.)

—the negative spaces

[irenadel]

And if the devil... 1/10

Making a banner for this finally for the grand finale coming soon. Excuse to rb. Credit for the Aemond screencap goes to the wonderful Liv @barbieaemond Eventual smut, Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

“And if the devil was to ever see you, he’d kiss your eyes and repent.”

- Farouk Gouida

He’d had nothing but contempt for you the first time he’d seen you: a too tall, mannish girl mopping up baby vomit for Helaena with less tact and grace than a stable boy. He had seen the blotchy red and white of your hands and face and had thought you one of Aegon’s cruel jests for a sister-wife he did not deserve: a freakish chambermaid for a mad princess.

And far too familiar with a lady who was in every way your better.

He told himself it was not jealousy that burnt in the pit of his stomach, brighter and wilder than Vhagar’s fire. No. It was distaste and a healthy amount of distrust, he’d felt when he’d come to visit Helaena and found you rocking her gently in your arms. You’d been in drab servant red, hair escaping your work bonnet, so strangely pale that it had made Aemond squint in immediate suspicion. Whatever it was, you were no noble companion or even one of the prettier handmaidens, just a scullery girl, dress still stained from floor scrubbing, holding a Targaryen princess and gently brushing her hair out of the way.

He’d had to control the urge to snatch her from your arms and snarl at you to leave if you wanted to keep your head… It would not have been becoming. Helaena would no doubt have found it distressing. But most of all, he feared what he would do to you the moment he’d had your pale, sickly hand in his grip. Because you had robbed him of a thing which he had not known belonged to him. His right to his sister’s pain, always so far and yet so close, because he feared the things he could say if his affection were ever to escape him. And here you were, like a thief in the night, snatching his chance before he’d even known it existed.

You’d had the common sense to leave quickly with your bucket of slops, and your eyes fixed determinedly on the floor. As if you’d known your transgression.

Helaena was not half as wise as you. Her tears had been all but gone, not there for a brother to wipe away or avenge. No forthcoming confession about Aegon that he could use as an excuse to stalk his brother’s steps and pick a fight. Just her tongue loosened by the joy of Aemond’s sudden gentleness, brought on by unwarranted competition.

You’d been recently assigned to her quarters, she’d told him and you were very good at putting the children to sleep. You weren’t squeamish like the ladies of the court, would look at Helaena’s insects without problem and think nothing of her muttering under her breath, however strange her words might be. When the children were quiet, when Helaena herself hadn’t known what else to say, you had talked to her about the great locusts of the plains of Essos, told her stories of swarms of them, climbing atop the little babes, eating the grass so thoroughly no horse or cattle could survive on what was left.

But more so, you were kind and strong and willing to put the princess to bed when her head hurt so bad she could barely think. You stayed up with her when her dreams were more a punishment than reprieve from her reality, asleep in her bed besides her or waking up for her to tend to the babies. Not a wet nurse, but you had a good head on your shoulders for fussing and crying. She had come to depend on you really. 

He had not liked it at all.

He’d blamed himself for being too engrossed in weapons training and Vhagar to have noticed your creeping, insidious influence on his sister. He’d questioned his mother and had found only her relief that at least Aegon left you alone, probably less out of kindness than out of distaste. You may have been coarse and rude and perhaps unfit to deal with anything but the lower floors of a castle, but the queen had had enough problems to deal with and at least you had a strong back and a mean glare that kept even princes away.

Not Aemond though.

He’d kept his good eye on you, and a new man-at-arms he trusted always at his sister’s side. Had even thought to corner you and put the fear of the gods in you lest you had thought Helaena alone and vulnerable. Had not even considered replacing your presence with his own, uneasy with how much the prospect thrilled him. 

You’d looked up only once: a lightning quick glare for the One-Eyed Prince before the subservient mask was firmly back in place. And Aemond had been struck strangely silent by your odd red eyes and let you scurry away. Your coarse yellow hair had been escaping its thin bonnet and he’d known immediately.

Not Valyrian blood, not a misplaced bastard, not some political trick as he had suspected…

Albino.

Oh but Helaena did have quite a fondness for broken, repellent things.

He’d been less wary then, but no less watchful. He’d stopped to stare when he saw you carrying the princess’s tray or even one of her children up and down a corridor, infallible technique for getting them to sleep at last. He’d haunted his sister’s rooms, lurking in doorways, listening in to your accent (not Flea Bottom, but not court either, no one had taught you how to speak to your betters or even how to speak well at all, it seemed…) as you told Princess Helaena about having eleven cousins and wrestling them all into bed, about taking in laundry because you couldn’t take in sewing, about a crotchety old uncle who had broken his hip out at sea and needed minding now. An uncle who resented the minding and the niece and wife that kept him and his children fed. An uncle who sounded to Aemond’s hungry, savage loneliness a lot like a father and a king.

He does not hear the other talk, even if allowed to be present for it he would not consider it. He would have dismissed it as women talk, gossip, having seldom let himself dwell on kindness instead of grievance, succor instead of retaliation. He does not hear a beloved sister tell you to stay one step ahead of the dragon, as far away as you can manage, because dragons bring nothing but fire even if they love you, warm enough until it becomes death. She should know.

It does nothing to keep Aemond from following behind you. When you took the children and their mother down to the kitchens for hot milk with honey. When any of them were achy or colicky or cranky and you would put a shawl over them, babies or mother. When you insisted the princess and her children could do with a stroll and some sun, and Aemond found his heart aching with hideous envy because he could hear his sister laughing at your snappish kitchen talk, speaking softly and intimately to you, as hungry to give the attention as to receive it. (Even as his sorry, wicked heart screams out, it was mine, all this was meant for me, how dare you, how dare you take what I didn’t know I needed!) When you sang Helaena’s babies or Helaena herself to sleep and Aemond found he had to cover his  ears against your strange, foreign crooning, that didn’t sound like King’s Landing but sounded treacherously like home. He’d had to flee to the training grounds and take out this all-consuming anger on something, drown out your husky, kind voice with the din of his sword against a shield. Hitting the wood over and over again until he tore it to splinters and Ser Criston had to hold him into stillness, knowing there was no comforting a dragon without getting burned.

“My prince.”

You would say when you fled a staircase he cornered you into.

“My prince.”

When you’d courtesy, clumsily, still too sour-faced and suspicious to do it gracefully, when he managed to catch you on your way out of Helaena’s room.

“My prince.”

The day he had decided that yes, your prince, was exactly what he’d be to you, what you’d say to him, in whatever way he’d manage to tear it from your throat, in spite of Aegon’s taunting and the visceral fear at his own woeful lack of knowledge in matters of the flesh.

Because he had decided if you had no problem taking from him, he would have no problem taking from you.

Because you’d said it to him on your way out of the washing court, bonnet gone and coarse yellow hair sticking out of your pinned braid like a frightful halo, a bright purple bruise already forming on your cheekbone, as you’d glared directly at him, challenge in your head held high, and the water splashed all across your linen apron, sticking to your skin so closely that Aemond should have had you right then and there.

Because you’d said it with a curt nod, like Ser Criston when he approved of a particularly good move Aemond had just learned in the training yard, like a general to a soldier, “My prince.”

Because he’d just seen you swing a chamber pot directly into a stable boy’s face after hearing him call Princess Helaena “daft,” bringing it swinging back to the other side of his face, contents and all, just to take a step back to bring a fist into the stable boy’s friend. Aemond had been too transfixed by the sight of your heaving chest and the splotchy red of your cheeks to intervene after you’d taken a half-hearted punch to the face, returned it in kind and thrown the now empty chamber pot at the whimpering serving boys at your feet.

“And clean up your bloody mess!” You’d said before washing your hands in the fountain and strolling out of the courtyard, about as triumphant and vicious as Prince Aemond himself had ever felt when defeating knight after knight, telling himself he was better, stronger, a more fit ruler than any of them would ever be.

“My prince,” you’d said with your curt, martial nod, with your ruby-red eyes and the split knuckles of your hand, wounds taken in the defense of Aemond’s sister, wounds that should have by right belonged to him.

He’d taken your wrist in his hand, grip monstrously strong, and watched you realize the mistake you had made in the proud tilt of your head. You had forgotten for a second that pride wasn’t for your class of people, less so when confronted by a prince of the realm. He’d watched you realize your danger and how you didn’t care, that if there was a price to pay for pride you might as well pay it… and had realized himself that he didn’t care much either. Because Aemond had decided in that moment that he liked the defiance and stubborn anger in your ruby-red gaze, just as much as he had liked the ringing din of the chamber pot breaking something in that stable boy’s face. The prince had smiled at you then, his hunting cat smile, the one men all over the Seven Kingdoms would learn to fear, as he let you pass. Your prince, you would call him again, he decided as he let you go. Your prince, he would hear you call him, on your knees, on your back and beneath him, anyway he could get you. Because he wanted it. Because he had known himself to be spoiling for a fight and would be spoiling for a fight his whole life, the moment he had gone looking for Vhagar, the largest living dragon in the world, and won her. As he would win you. On your knees, your back or beneath him, as you called him your prince, because you wanted to, not ripped out of you by fear and hope for profit but because you wanted him. He would teach you that. That there were none like him, Targaryen or otherwise. That he was your prince and more than. He would teach you this, just as he had begun to teach the world.

[fuckyeahmarxismleninism]

By Allison Chapman

State Republicans across the nation are pushing bills commonly titled the “Women’s Bill of Rights.” You’ll be shocked to learn that contrary to the title, however, Republicans haven’t suddenly started to care about women’s equality or agency—they just want to use that banner as cover for stripping away our rights as LGBTQ+ individuals.

The branding might seem ridiculous given the party’s recent history with actual women’s bodily autonomy, but make no mistake: The push has already had alarming success, with six states having enacted these laws and policies in 2023.

[jadegretz]

Red Monika: The Rogue Who Hunts by Jade Gretz

The Crimson Labyrinth:

In the chaotic landscape of warring mercenary factions, the world seemed to fester with a palpable tension, a distortion where every shadow held the possibility of treachery. Among the vibrant chaos, Red Monika emerged as a tempest—her beauty shining fiercely amidst the turmoil, but her heart firmly encased in armor forged by betrayal and bloodshed. The scarlet-clad femme fatale danced like a flame upon the battlegrounds, captivating allies and cursing foes, yet a suffocating dread narrated her every step.

As the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks of the Spendgorge Mountains, the ominous shadows lengthened, swallowing the last vestiges of warmth. Monika stood on a high cliff, her wild crimson hair fluttering like a whispering banner in the chilling wind. Below her, the mercenary camp of the Iron Fangs sprawled—a chaotic collection of tents, flickering fires, and the hushed murmurs of men and women sharpening blades and loading crossbows. They were the vanguard, the best of the worst, called to defend their claim over the waning territories that dotted this forsaken land.

Tonight, the Dark Pact—a nefarious alliance of rival warlords—planned to enact their insidious designs. She had learned of their gathering from the vaporous tongues of traitors and mercenary gossip, a gnarled thread of whispers that slithered through the shadows. They sought to summon an ancient, cursed relic that lay buried beneath the ruins of the Citadel of Sorrows. This object, a grotesque idol said to harbor the souls of lost warriors, promised immeasurable power to whoever claimed it. Icons of war leaders long dead had begun to echo through the minds of wayward souls, calling them towards resurrection.

Monika's emerald eyes flickered with the light of determination as she weighed her options. Power was seductive; it lured the weak and the ambitious alike into the maw of despair. Little did her foes know, the same force would spell doom for them if she could outwit them. In the heart of conflict, where camaraderie flickered as fleetingly as the flames around them, she understood the necess …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[tamamita]

I struggled with a bad gatcha addiction for the last couple of years and I only recently became clean earlier this year. The worst of it was the night I blew a grand on single banner, before getting my target.

FGO wasn't my game of choice, but I feel like if my game of choice did a collab with McDonald's it would have made me hard quit and go clean sooner, even if I was unaware of their funding of genocide.

Idk, there's just something about a collab like that that feels insidious and gross.

Hey Anon. I'm glad you came out clean from your addiction. I understand the hardship of getting out of it and many of my friends had to struggle. So I just wanna let you know how happy I am for you. You're a brave soul and I'm hoping you're in a much better state!

FGO have done so many other offenses in the past which resulted in many people quitting the game, but I feel like at this point, there's no excuse to let it slide. People here are aware of the genocide that's going on in Palestine and the fact that Mcdonalds are actively feeding the very people that are carrying out the genocide of the Palestinians should leave a bad taste for every fgo player who spend money on it. I don't care how judgmental it might sound, it's inexcusable.

[savagebynaturecustoms]

[mariacallous]

This story originally appeared on High Country News and is part of the Climate Desk collaboration.

The more researchers learn about wildfire smoke, the more worrisome the picture gets. Smoke contains microscopic particles known as PM 2.5 because the PM (particulate matter) measures 2.5 microns or less—small enough to easily wiggle its way into our lungs and then into our bloodstreams. Researchers have already connected the particulate matter in wildfire smoke to a higher risk of strokes, heart disease, respiratory disease, lung cancer, and other serious conditions.

And the harmful effects don’t stop there. 2024 was a banner year for research on wildfire smoke and its impact on health, from brain functioning to fertility. While there’s still a lot more to learn, wildfire smoke is thought to be especially insidious compared to other sources of air pollution; its smaller particle size, intermittent spikes, and higher concentration of inflammatory compounds make it more dangerous.

This year’s new findings are disturbing. But the more we learn about smoke, the better we can protect ourselves from it, whether we live hundreds of miles away from a fire or confront it directly the way wildland firefighters do. Research underscores the need for some changes, including better indoor air filtration systems in our homes, hospitals, schools, and nursing homes, and clean air centers for people with nowhere else to breathe healthy air. Meanwhile, respirators for wildland firefighters are currently being tested by the federal government. We also need to reduce smoke pollution at the source by taking measures to reduce wildfire risk and intensity, like prescribed burns.

Here are some of the biggest advancements in scientists’ understanding of wildfire smoke in 2024:

New Estimates Predict 125 Million Americans Will Face Unhealthy Air from Wildfires by 2054

Wildfire smoke has erased improvements in air quality in recent years, a trend that is expected to continue. Millions more people will be exposed to unhealthy air in the coming years, according to models released by the First Street Foundation in February. It’s estimated that by 2054, over 125 million Americans each year will be exposed to “red” air quality, considered an unhealthy level by the Environmental Protection Agency—a 50 percent increase from 2024. California’s Central Valley will see the worst of it, with Fresno and Tulare County likely facing three months a year of unhealthy air, according to the study.

Smoke Can Hamper Fertility Treatments

The fires that started over Labor Day weekend in 2020 blanketed Oregon with some of the worst air quality in the world at the time. Those 10 or so days of smoky air affected everyone, especially patients undergoing in vitro fertilization treatments, or IVF. Researchers at Oregon Health & Science University studied 69 patients who received ovarian stimulation and IVF treatment in the six weeks following the wildfires. Their study, published in the journal Fertility and Sterility in May, found that patients exposed to wildfire smoke produced fewer blastocysts—clusters of cells that can develop into embryos—than those who weren’t exposed. Most of the patients still got pregnant, but the study’s lead author said she is worried about how smoke may affect fertility treatments. She told the Idaho Capital Sun that, as an extra precaution, fertility providers may want to delay IVF or embryo transfer for higher-risk patients during times of poor air quality.

Wildfire Smoke Is Prematurely Killing People

Thousands more have died due to wildfire smoke than previously realized, according to a study from the University of California, Los Angeles. New research published in the journal Science Advances in June found that the fine particulate matter in smoke resulted in from 52,500 to 55,700 premature deaths from 2008 to 2018 in California. According to its authors, this is the first long-term study to assess deaths caused by years of increasing exposure to wildfire smoke in a state that, like other Western states, is seeing more frequent and more severe wildfires.

Smoke Exposure Is Bad for Adolescent Mental Health

Researchers at the University of Colorado Boulder found that wildfire smoke increases the risk of mental health challenges in adolescents. The study, published in the journal Environmental Health Perspectives in September, analyzed data from 10,000 preteens who participated in the largest long-term study of brain development and child health in the United States, according to the university. Each additional day that the children were exposed to “unsafe” air quality readings in 2016 boosted the likelihood that they would experience symptoms of depression and anxiety—even up to one year later.

Years of Firefighting Could Lead to Neurodegenerative Diseases

Lab rats aren’t people, of course. But in a controlled setting, they can offer useful insight into human health consequences. Researchers who exposed mice to an amount of smoke equivalent to what a wildland firefighter would breathe over a 15- to 30-year career found that they were more likely to develop brain disease than mice that weren’t exposed. The profiles of the animals’ genes fit a pattern that suggests long-term damage akin to the effects of Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, Huntington’s, and other neurodegenerative diseases. While researchers can’t prove that smoke is the direct cause of the heightened disease risk, lead author Adam Schuller told Boise State Public Radio that wildland firefighters need to be aware of the impact a long career in firefighting can have on the human brain.

Wildfire Smoke Is Linked to Dementia

Breathing in the particulate matter in air pollution has already been linked to an increased risk of dementia. Now, researchers say, wildfire smoke may pose an even greater risk than other pollution sources. Analysis of more than 1.2 million people in Southern California found that exposure to wildfire smoke over a long period—three years, in this study—was associated with a higher risk of a dementia diagnosis. According to the study, published in the journal JAMA Neurology, the odds of a dementia diagnosis rose by 18 percent for every microgram per cubic meter increase in wildfire pollution over three years, a relatively small amount. For comparison, the average PM 2.5 exposure for a census tract near the 2018 Camp Fire in California was 1.2 micrograms per cubic meter between 2006 and 2020, spiking to an exposure of 310 micrograms per cubic meter during the actual fire.

[disneytva]

Gargoyles Live Action Reboot Gets New Co-Production House As Blumhouse And Atomic Monster End Merger

More than a year after stating their intentions to combine their companies, horror maestros Jason Blum and James Wan have made it official. Wan’s banner Atomic Monster and Blum’s Blumhouse have closed a deal to merge, Jason Blum announced on X on Tuesday with a video showcasing titles such as  "Five Nights At Freddy's", The Conjuring, M3GAN and Get Out.

The two banners have worked together previously, and have the feature Night Swim in theaters Friday from Blumhouse’s longtime home Universal, where his and Wan’s combined company has a first-look deal. The pair also were behind the 2023 hit "M3GAN" and first partnered on the Insidious franchise in 2010.

One of the many projects joining the Blumhouse home for upcoming productions is a Gargoyles live-action series for Disney+ which got announced to be on development in October 2023. The live-action reboot series will have Gary Dauberman (Warner Bros "It" Franchise and "Anabelle" franchise),  acting as showrunner with James Wan and Michael Clear (Universal Pictures "M3GAN"), joining the executive producing ranks with Atomic Monster as production label with Disney Television Studios and Disney Branded Television. As of December 2023 there hasn't been any information if original series creator Greg Weisman will be involved.

[mesillusionssousecstasy]

House of the Dragon 2x06: Quotes

"- My uncle is a challenge I welcome... if he dares face me. (Aemond) - I caution you, Aemond, boldness is one thing but overconfidence... (Alicent) - Remind me of your place on the small council. (Aemond) - You know very well I represented your father during the last years of his life, and I have been a councilor to Aegon. (Alicent) - Capably so. My father's dead and Aegon is... You served the realm well... at a time of need. That need is ended. You are no longer obliged. (Aemond) - It's not a matter of obligation. This council has need of a tempering voice. (Alicent) - We have more than enough of those, if you ask me. (Aemond) - You have the impetuousness of youth... and its arrogance, neither of which is to be desired in a king. (Alicent) - I release you of your seat, such as it was. I'm sure you'll be much pleased to return to more... domestic pursuits. (Aemond) - Have the indignities of your childhood not yet sufficiently been avenged? (Alicent) - You have the gratitude of the crown." (Aemond)

"- I am but a man. The dragons are gods. Your Grace honors me beyond what I deserve." (Ser Steffon Darklyn)

"- There's something wrong with me. Someone poisoned me. The food, the wine. Or else it's this swamp air, or.... (Daemon) - The ghost of Harren the Black moaning his curses from Kingspyre Tower. (Alys) - Drivel! All of it! The ghosts, the curses, the blasted weirwood bed! I'm done with it! (Daemon) - Ah, yes. It is your way, is it not? When something does not please you, you run. Dragonstone, the Stepstones, Pentos, Harrenhal. (Alys) - I awake and I do not know where I've been. (Daemon) - There are older things in this world than you or I or living memory. You are not the player, but a piece on the board. As am I, for that matter. (Alys) - I'm not like you. (Caraxes screeches) (Daemon) - In some ways, no. You struggle to see there's an anger that blinds you. She never ever wanted it. The crown. She spared it no thought. Well, that's perhaps why your brother gave the crown to her. Perhaps those who strive for it are the least suited to wear it. (Alys) - Don't lecture me! (Daemon) - Viserys never wanted it himself, if you recall. It came to him and he did his best. It's not a prize to be won, but a burden to bear. (Wind blowing). (Alys) - If you have any counsel for dealing with the Riverlords, I'd be glad of it. (Daemon) - Daemon Targaryen asking for help? (Alys) - Counsel. (Daemon) - House Tully is not the largest house in the Riverlands, nor it is the richest, but it is the most stable. The Tully's wisdom has kept the river houses in line for centuries. They would kill each other to the last man if it were not for their liege lord. (Alys) - That dotard is no use to us. (Daemon) - But Grover Tully is their Lord Paramount. Without him, they will never raise their banners as one. (Alys) - Rivermen are made of mud. (Daemon) - They would rather die stuck in it than yield one inch to one another. (Alys) - Then I can do nothing. (Daemon) - You... no. (Alys) - I need help, Alys. (Daemon) - Do nothing now. In three days' time, the winds will shift." (Ayls)

"- It is my fault, I thin, that you have forgotten to fear me." (Rhaenyra)

"- There is good news to be had. The smallfolk of King's Landing are listening. They were ready enough to hear. The usupers have abandoned them. They are hungry, and they need someone to blame. (Mysaria) - Will it be enough. (Rhaenyra) - We have laid the kindling only. Tonight we will light it, and watch it begin to flare. (Mysaria) - And when it does, Aemond will put it down with force. (Rhaenyra) - That will make it rise the hotter. He cannot destroy his own city. Neither can they overthrow him. Maybe not, but it is harder to wage war abroad when you must also keep peace at home." (Mysaria)

"- The enemy without may be fought with swords. The enemy within is more insidious. (Larys) - Why is this anger directed at us? It is Rhaenyra the Pretender who ordered the Gullet closed and left them all to starve. (Aemond) - They still look to you to ensure their well-being. That is the burden of authority. But you should not go it alone. It does occur to me that Your Grace has not to name a Hand, but you need one who may advance to your cause... with shrewdness and subtlety. (Larys) - Do you take me for a fool? (Aemond) - On the contrary, my prince. (Larys) - I've little patience for the self-important, Lord Larys, and even less for flatterers and lickspittles. But you are, as it happens, correct. Every king needs a Hand. I'll make it your responsibility. (Aemond) - My prince, it is an honor I'd never considered for myself. (Larys) - No, not to serve as Hand, you toad. To fetch him. Send word to Otto Hightower. My grandsire may be overcautious, but his devotion to his family has never been in doubt. (Aemond) - Mm, you'll see it done." (Larys)

"- Not all of us, I suppose, are called to great deeds. Some of us must serve in small ways... even if they are not what we would choose for ourselves. Meaning no offense, hm? None of this is your fault." (Rhaena)

"- Stop wasting your life waiting for something that'll never come." (Addam)

"- He's lucky I did not have his tongue. (Rhaenyra) - And what did he say that was so deserving? (Jace) - And the symbols of authority are not jewels and gowns, but the shield and the sword. (Rhaenyra) - My ruler is my mother. And I do not wish it otherwise. Will you lead us to war yourself? (Jace) - Well, for a certainty I cannot remain here, pacing the floors, waiting for defeat and despair to visit me. (Rhaenyra) - Oh, don't be ridiculous. (Jace) - I'm doing all I can. I have directed Lord Mooton to march on Rook's Rest, ... (Rhaenyra) - We need Daemon and his dragon. (Jace) - May I be free for even one hour of the constant refrain of Daemon, Daemon, Daemon, (Rhaenyra) - My queen our gift is sent. (Mysaria) - What gift? (Jace) - Let us hope for clouds over the Blackwater tonight. (Wind blowing)" (Rhaenyra)

"- But it is my sincere hope that His Grace will be spared. (Grand Maester Orwyle) - And what will he be if he lives ? (Alicent) - There is war in the Reach now, Your Grace. House Beesbury has raised arms against the Hightower host. Retribution for their lord's demise." (Grand Maester Orwyle)

"- If he wrote letters, it would be to you. You were always his favorite. (Ser Gwayne Hightower) - Strange there has been no word. (Alicent) - Otto hightower is ever-resourceful. He will send news when there is news to send. You get on with it, don't you? When there isn't any choice. (Ser Gwayne Hightower) - My son, Daeron.... what's he like? (Alicent) - Does he not write to you? (Ser Gwayne Hightower) - Less and less these days. Ten-and-six now. (Alicent) - Letters, perhaps, hold less of his interest. He's stalwart. Clever. As adept with his lute as he is with his sword. And a feature in the fancies of many a young lady, I'll wager. He's kind. (Ser Gwayne Hightower) - That's good. Kindness is a quality I've found lacking in his brothers. (Alicent) - You did well to send him to ward. Yes, it seems the Red Keep, for all its privileges, may, in fact, be a less than salubrious environment for the forming of young men. (Ser Gwayne Hightower) - Was it the court or was it their mother? (Alicent) - I'm sure you did your best." (Ser Gwayne Hightower)

"- This one stopped singing. Isn't that strange? (Helaena) - I thought we might light a candle. For Aegon....and all our lost souls." (Alicent)

"- The drink takes the pain away, but it dulls your mind. (Larys) - Aegon grunting - Oh, take heart, Your Grace, you've already written yourself into legend. You survived dragonfire. Your mind... is all that remains to you. I do not say that gladly. And they will stare... at you, at you, ... or turn away. And they will underestimate you. And this will be your advantage. Your brother rules in your place now, which means that your life is in danger. But I think you know that. (Larys) - Help me." (Larys)

"- What was the manner of Lord Grove's passing? (Daemon) - Well, he's been ill, of course. (Ser Simon Strong) - Mm-hmm. (Daemon) - Riverrun's maesters... have been at their wits' end. Our own healer, Alys Rivers, volunteered her renowned skills. She plied her craft, but... there was naught more to be done." (Ser Simon Strong)

"- It is, as we hoped, a warning to the usurpers that you have strength beyond what they accredited. (Mysaria) - My own son questions my capabilities. He thinks I need Daemon at my side. And Daemon himself. He has ever done what suits Daemon. He was everything I wanted to be. Carefree. And dangerous. A man. And I was what he wanted. Cherished by my father, and made my father's heir. We were halves of a whole. He's never been at peace. He wished to possess me, but not to be possessed and to see me take hold, finally, of what he always believed to be his. I fear what he may now do. I fear he may have turned against me. It is more his way to disappear. In either case, I have lost him... and Caraxes with him. Rhaenys and her dragon are dead. I have Syrax and two young beasts. We cannot take on Vhagar alone. (Rhaenyra) - This world is cold and cruel, and there are few in it who are steadfast. You have seen me as worthy, as an equal, even. Because of that, I will serve you. I believe you are meant to be queen." (Mysaria)

[brisquad-unit-4402]

okay lots of post-minotaur thoughts. i really should’ve liveblogged but Whatever, these are very disorganized because i’m hopping in-between different parts of the movie as well as the 3d celebration zatsu

i think a lot of folks have picked this up: this is the vtuber bo burnham inside

the entire time i watched this i was like “man how come i can’t have an expansive mind palace to roam within”

bc uhhh. idk if this is the same for you or anyone else out there. but when i think about myself doing something it’s in first person, never actually my imagination conjuring up a Unit 4402 doing the something

and that sidetracked me so hard during how to get away with murder bc MAN i wish whenever i had mental breakdowns over my character i could imagine myself as a quirked up unit 4402 with a little bit of swag busting it down sexual style while i have 4 clones of myself goated with the sauce

i’ve never seen the joker but i’m pretty sure the how to get away with murder dance is vtuber joker dance

it is so awkward watching the post 3d zatsu rn and seeing people in chat miss the point

especially bc i think the thing that most got to me and affected me was the classroom scene. such a relatable foundation, especially for people like us, the nightmare of Being Wrong in front of everyone else and an authority who are in the loop and you’re the only one out

like. that’s actually insidious. incredibly effective way to deliver the ugly parts of the job: who doesn’t want to know everything about what they love even if parasocial. i’m sure we can all recognize the boundaries of how to interact with streamers and i do hope if you’re on my blog it’s with respect to the streamers, but the intrusiveness, lack of privacy, goddamn. the conditioning of vox sitting at the desk as soon as he can

i really do think the horse is the most british thing i’ve ever seen

i… am trying very hard not to be pretentious about the horse, and i am trying very hard not to be praising a vtuber because the initial reaction is to praise them innately, but i really do think that is peak surrealism and i could make a full post on this scene alone. like, on a metatextual level. times new roman 12pt double spaced d-o-n-t t-e-s-t m-e

ok update i’ve been informed about the peter the horse is here meme. i stand by my words

i’m going to be real i’m replaying the first scene a lot just because i… really cannot understand this without subtitles

i know we’re all laughing along with every cowboy luca line but we need to recognize the understated champion: shu “naw”

WAIT IM SKIPPING THROUGH SOME SCENES TO CATCH THINGS IVE MISSED. THE FUCK YOU MEAN THE TAKEOUT BOX IN HIS FRIDGE IS CHICKEN DICKNOCKERS

also oooooh. i get it now. “sometimes i wonder what it would be like if i didn’t care all that much” is a driving line for the film. everything that unfolds is a consequence OF caring too much and just enough. the fact that the bed’s been made and he has to lie in it. by the end this line doesn’t matter because he’s learned to accept his nature. and if you wanted to get paradoxical he’s learned to not care about that line

i wish i understood the words in lyrics the first time i hear them. someone give me a transcript, i’ll be unstoppable then

the second i saw the text for Inside A Demon’s Soul (Whenever Vox Akuma Devours A Human Soul, This Is Where They Go) i paused. sat there. and laughed so hard because that is maybe the easiest meme format i’ve ever seen in the the same way as everything everywhere all at once rock scene. put a white shape over the text, write down the time stamp. now you have a banger man standing that follows the standard top text bottom text base formula

when he stood up in the forest at the beginning of the labyrinth i really did see a minecraft Vox_Akuma joined the game banner in my mind’s eye

vox please drop the ost as soon as possible i need he who waits eternity and how to get away with motherfucking murder in my playlists asap

also how to get away with murder reminds me a little introvert by little simz. hard to describe, i think it’s because they both sound so spacious and be these long, introspective songs that never really Feel like they’re dragging on because of all the beat changes and stuff, you know? vox’s rap isn’t helping

i cannot end this post without talking about

THE INDOMITABLE FULGUR OVID BABYYYYYY

the way i furrowed my brow the SECOND i saw that hand

the way i yelled the second i saw his face

hehe. despite everything i am dearly a comfydant. i can’t think of anyone better than fuuchan for the beach scene, i’m so grateful he’s here

i mentioned “sometimes i wonder what it would be like if i didn’t care care all that much.” i now raise you “of course it matters, it matters to you… brother the only thing that would make you a bad person is letting that stop you from doing any good things”

and of course the hug

idk what to say about the hug. it’s very needed. and from fuu of all people who understands integrating lore and streaming, understands the divide, pretended to beef with vox only to become one of his close friends, i really can’t imagine it with anyone else

do you guys think box tenshi is Apathy. i think i’ll need to sit on it for a bit but i’m seeing some threads about how tenshi is what happens when that takes over and vox chooses not to care about the people he’s hurt for his own comfort. after all his character is entirely on balancing the little delights and missteps of humanity, and the nature of a predator demon. i’m sure i could elaborate later on

should i, like, be critical…? because i do have things that i’m critical about, but this was a very delightful watch and it’s changed me fundamentally

i like vtubers because of the balance between fantasy and real and this movie very much does cater from that. all media requires the suspension of disbelief but with the way minotaur is delivered it kind of toys with Suspension of Disbelief as in-verse environment, too. fandom, anti, and collective opinion are their own characters in this movie and that just cannot be captured in a medium like fictional, scripted entertainment, you know… it’s very bo burnham inside. but the difference is that inside is everyday people would assume these expectations. as vtuber watchers we’ve full-on experienced the good and bad ourselves. i mean… how many times have you said your opinion on vox online. seems someone act weird in chat. i write fanfiction, i contribute to expectation too because i participate in fandom. that’s just the natural effect of being an internet personality, so the least we can do is be respectful of it and be critical of ourselves so we can maintain that respect to each other and the streamer

but i guess that’s preachy of me vox illustrated the point on his own wonderfully

i could do cornell notes on this movie

[lakecountylibrary]

Howdy! I live the area and want to know how to best support your library right now amidst all the book bannings and political suppression of library resources nationwide. Other than checking out books and stuff, how best can people support their libraries?

What a lovely question. Thank you for asking.

Of course using the library as you mention is important! But other than that I'm happy to say it's pretty simple. Here are our four top suggestions:

1: Tell your friends how great the library is. It can be as simple as posting your book haul to your blog, wearing a pro-library pin, pestering helping all of your friends and family get library cards, or using the swag we hand out at Farmer's Markets: just little day to day things that spread the word about why libraries are great.

We call this advocating for the library and what it does is build up a strong wall of positive feelings about the library in peoples' minds that can stand up to whatever insidious lies book banners come up with.

If you want to get really extra about it you could write to your local politicians (especially the ones who appoint library board members) or newspapers just singing the library's praises - it's rare for politicians in particular to hear about us unless there's a problem and getting in with some positivity while things are quiet could influence them when things get loud.

2: Pay attention to your library. You, my wonderful anon, have obviously already got this one down, but for the folks in the back - when the beacons are lit and the library calls for aid, we need everyone to answer.

Find out how your local library communicates and tune in. That may mean subscribing to their email newsletter or following them on social media - wherever they're talking, go there and listen. What you've heard about happening in other states can easily happen in yours and this is how you'll know exactly what your library needs when the time comes.

3: Vote in your local elections! Library boards are appointed by elected officials (for example, ours is appointed by various school boards, the Lake County Commissioners, and the Lake County Council). If you want a board that will defend readers against book bans, vote accordingly when the time comes.

4: Say nice things to your librarians, in writing if possible. Are there comment cards at your local library? Fill one out. Is there an online form? (Ours is called Ask a Librarian but it's for comments too!) Submit one telling us about something we're doing right.

Tell us how much you love the last event you went to, or how thrilled you were to find a certain book on our shelves, or how much you liked that Pride Month display. I don't care how small it is, if it made you happy we want to hear it.

These kinds of things are lovely to receive and a huge morale booster - and they are also direct, quantifiable evidence that we WILL print out and stack up in front of the board of trustees, politicians, the local news, the pope and/or Dolly Parton. As needed.

Those are our top tips! They seem suspiciously easy, right? Don't underestimate how helpful they are - and how helpful YOU are.

[marlutterianae]

The Conquering Chimera, Samiginus Samigila, Devil Tyrant of DISMALIA.

Even within the safety of the shielding citadel of Phobos, the Dismal Frontier witnessed unwillingly the carnage circus of the chimeric Demons. Out of sight yet invading all other senses. The harrowing cackling chorus of Hell Hyenas, the beastly bellowing of the Behemoths, the drumming hoofbeats of Centaurs dancing to the beat of the doom of mankind, the mellow mourning of Minotaurs, the rancorous roaring of writhing reptiles; all swearing the bestial sacrament to their Bringer of Conquest, Apocalyptic Chimera of the Sanguine Sea that brings forth a flood of blighted blood. These monstrosities were all united under the Mystic brain-banner of the Devil that through tyrannical force taught them to ride each other into battle for gruesome glory and gorge with the gore of their foes. An Insidious Idol of Incandescent Eyes within layers of impenetrable muscle. That which commanded the spell storms and blights of the Dismal Lands, Samiginus Samigila! The Doom of the Waking Century! Intoxicated with volcanic fumes, invigorated by the callous chanting of its brood, the tyrant recites relaxingly an oath to itself and to the Nightmare Above; with all Exiles in their fortress as witnesses to its ascension into an abominable apotheosis. “One more hill left to climb and die on, my Demons. We ride and we hunt the hunters now. Once we feast on their flesh... WE SHALL TRANSCEND THE HUNT, THROUGH CONQUEST ALONE! We shall devour the stars and the sun, the blood of the earth will be our feast!".

ART by Eliz Bee: https://bsky.app/profile/elizbee.bsky.social