#land of the fucking free WHERE???

[koifishanonymous]

no because if ao3 does actually get taken down because of USAMERICAN laws, i will just start a revenge plot against the entire country

[wazzi2ya]

Arackniss: *Kicks open the door of the hotel* TONY, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING FIGHTIN' THE FUCKING ANGELS!

Angel Dust: Holy shit what is your problem Niss—

Lucifer, flying down from his tower at the noise: Hey! Who's slamming doors in here?!

Arackniss: Cazzo, il Diavolo! *pulls a spray bottle of holy water out of nowhere and sprays Lucifer*

Lucifer, face dripping water: ...Thanks for that.

[redvelvetwishtree]

Footage from this attack is horrifying to watch, please why are people still defending and trying to find hollow excuses for this unreal state of things.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

!!! FLASHING LIGHTS WARNING!!! [IM NOT FUCKIN AROUND!!]

REACHED THE CUSP OF 'THIS MAY NEVER BE ABSOLUTELY FINISHED N IF I DONT SHOW IT NOW, IT WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY.' SO HERE, A PROJECT IVE BEEN ORBITING AROUND UHH SINCE 2021 OR SO.

[sequencefairy]

Ya know, I was gonna be done. I spent hours yesterday talking friends off ledges when people were harassing them for being excited about the watcher announcement, or when their anxiety ballooned while watching the never-ending fucking tide of absolutely entitled morons kept piling on and on and on and spreading baseless bullshit every where.

But like, I cannot be done.

Because I am just so fucking disappointed. I'm so fucking sad to be sitting here watching people writhe with glee over the reactions to the announcement, and fill their little vengeful mugs in anticipation of watching the fall of a fledgling independent media company they are literally standing around lighting matches to throw onto the pyre.

Y'all make me sick.

You profess to love these guys, to want to see them succeed, to enjoy the stuff they make for you. You beg and demand and scream for more time with Ryan and Shane and bitch constantly during periods of the year when it's not Ghost Files or Puppet History time. You complain to anyone who will listen about how this is a betrayal, as if they're your fuckin' friends who you know personally.

News flash, they're not. They never were. You're parasocially attached to the plush puppet and the guy who sticks his hand up it in a way that is detrimental to your critical thinking skills and you know what? Fucking don't subscribe to the streamer. Who fucking wants you around anyway?

I would bet American cash money that none of you have EVER had to sit with your staff in a meeting and figure out how you were going to keep your company afloat. That none of you have ever had to decide to take a risk like this, in this kind of economic climate and be cautiously excited about what it might mean for you and then to have this absolute viciousness being the response.

I'm really sorry that for some people the price is just out of their reach. I completely understand wanting to join in on something and being unable to because of the money. The amount of times I've had to say no to doing something fun because I just didn't have the cash is not a small amount. It sucks. It really sucks.

But you know, the emotionally mature response to not being able to afford something is to be like, well is there a way that I can save up for this? Something else I can cut out? And if the answer is no, then, unfortunately, sometimes, you just have to be left out. This is a fact of life.

Do you people also get bitchy with artists who charge commission prices that mean they can afford to live?

The comparisons of Watcher to non-network television streamers are laughable. Like, Watcher is absolutely not on the same level of operating profitability as other streaming services. They are an independent production studio that gives a shit about making content that they like to make and taking care of their employees and the other people who are associated with them. And in order for them to continue to make the stuff we like (Ghost Files, Puppet History, et al), we're gonna have to buy-in.

Seeing people say with their full chests that they should just fire people? Are you fucking hearing yourselves? Who should they fire? Their queer employees? The people who write and do sound and edit? The people who make Ghost Files or Puppet History look the way it looks? The people who are the reason the shows work?

And, I'm sorry, but if you think that the solution here is that they should just ... make worse shows, I don't even know what to say to you at all. Sorry that Steven and Ryan and Shane wanna do more than lifeless unsolved copies for the rest of their lives. Go watch fucking unsolved if you want that, watcher has always wanted to do more, do better, make bigger things. And you know what? They are for sure allowed to do that.

I am also utterly enraged by the racism. I cannot even imagine what it's like to be any Watcher employee of colour today, watching the hate and the cruelty roll in. Y'all are just fucking mean, and gross, and I hope you all walk on legos in the dark in bare feet.

Everyone who is acting like this is some fucking personal betrayal needs to go smoke a bowl or do a bong rip and chill the fuck out.

[gxlden-angels]

I cannot express the anger I experience being unable to do anything about anything while Christians salivate over the idea of the Israel-Hamas conflict being a sign of the Rapture

[strangenewwords]

okay so, beta readers.

i'm new to this place - as in fanfiction. okay, I've been fuckin' around in it for like four months but still.

how the hell do you find one? is this someone you scream at about your plots with? isn't it terrifying to have someone read your shit and like correct it?

that's a lot of questions, but ... someone out there explain this to me.

[anxietyfrappuccino]

i want to scream. i can not stand the idea of israel with the united states having complete control over the holy lands. that's fucked up. not one nation or religion should have complete control of that. three major religions stem from there, and they should all get equal opportunity to be a part of it. such a large area of sacred land should be protected by multiple nations and religions. not just one.

[rurinnfane]

Apparently twitter is changing how blocking works and soon people you've blocked will be able to see your posts again, they just can't interact with them.

Not directly, that is.

I went off private for my local Pokémon Go group but... guess we're going back on private permanently now! Yay... 😞

[anidiotwithfanfiction]

Dawning on me as I write for Nathan for the first time but the most unrealistic thing about his character to me is that he, as a floridian, never says "Y'all".

I say this, as a Floridian. It's not like we have much of a country accent or anything but yall specifically is so ingrained in me and many of my fellow florida born pals that I'm kinda surprised.

[vampiresuns]

having a tav that's a Lloth-sworn life domain cleric of a noble background who before getting yeeted into the nautiloid was a sacrificial priestess (gn) during one of the cycles of Drow society and had their own altar and temple under their care, means Solune would have the most insane however many minutes they spent interacting with Minthara and I am obsessed about it. As far as I'm conceptualising it, I'm thinking of Lloth as extremely Ungoliant-like. Goddess of hunger, goddess of wanting and consumption, goddess of excess and exuberance, goddess who unmasked the hypocritical gods of starvation, guilt and purity into a society that cherishes a certain kind of clarity about the double standard they impose. For Drow are evil for their wars and their wanting and their taking, but those other people with their other gods kill, warmonger and enslave with no regard and no self-awareness, calling the indignation about receiving scraps from a bunch of silent, unrepentant gods, "guilt and shame". There is violence in denial and her Children will not suffer it.

In the season of Life, they do not sacrifice the unwilling. It is taboo. The only sacrifice that matters is the desire to be devoured and destroyed by the things you love the most.

And Solune sees Minthara and is like fucking finally, someone rational enough to get what I'm going through, that they're losing their mind that their life was taken from them and if they become this other thing, if they transform, if they do not remain Luxe Solune Mizzmyrra, Life Knife of Lloth, they're never going to be able to be reintegrated into that life. They will die away from home, from their temple, from their (first) spouse, from their mother and their siblings and there won't be the day when they too succumb to the knife, when it is time, when the day they no longer feel hunger comes.

And then the parasite gives them an in into Minthara thinking she was raised from the darkness into a FALSE GOD? One thing you do not do is steal from Lady Lloth, and oh my god, there could've been a time, a chance that existed only in ignorance, of Solune lending a hand to Minthara but this to them is unforgivable because Solune is genuinely a good friend to their friends, but if you keep peeking into whatever mindset nobility and religious authority has given them it's like realising your friend is a cesspool of "what the actual and everliving fuck", and when the knife of the morningstar priestess comes down on Minthara it won't be with love but with absolute rage, grief and disgust and I will be thinking about this for evermore. Thanks, I'm not well

[penwrythe]

Getting extremely restless about what's happening in the world with so much violence against BIPOC. I hate this war, this destruction of so many Palestinian lives. I hate the machine of colonization and oppression ruthlessly destroying lives.

I wish I could do more. But at least with memory that I remember those who spoke about their struggles, their fight, and their hope. I stand with Palestine. May one day you all be free.

[shiroikabocha]

it’s like they designed JFK airport’s international arrivals hall to make me ask myself, Why did I come back

[hella1975]

why pay for a gym membership when you can go back to the countryside and move bags of concrete for FREE 😍

[healingheartdogs]

I love being in America where I have to decide if the pain of something clearly going wrong inside my body is urgent enough to risk getting COVID at an ER from sick people and doctors who are no longer masking and having to deal with a grossly inflated medical bill that I already know I can't pay because I have no insurance or income currently.

[dxppercxdxver]

yeehaw!! (more of that collaboration with @chiropteracupola!!)

deep within, your hunger burns

The grandfather clock in the corner of Filomena’s study clicked steadily toward sunrise, keeping in lockstep with her sluggish, pounding heart. Reams and reams of paper sat as yet untouched upon her desk. Her night’s work was young, despite the hour, and the stacks of blank parchment spoke to the effort still the come, the anxiety wracking her body like an unseasonable winter’s chill. Looping scrawl disintegrating by the minute blurred before her eyes; her hand was beginning to cramp from the duration of her encryption, and yet, Filomena had far to go before she could rest.

While her task would be Sisyphean to anyone, the threat of discovery loomed heavy over her shoulder, sending icy chills down her neck. It would hardly do for one of her newfound teammates, or enemies, or friends, or whatever they would become to her, to find her here. Sighing, she drew her shawl tight round her shoulders, fingers worrying at the fraying tassels.

She would need to replace her candle soon.

There was a gentle tap at her door, the familiar sound of silver-bound fingers against an oaken jamb. Without looking up, Filomena already knew who was waiting for her.

“Lady Helen,” she said, never staying her duty, not even for a moment. Long ago, Filomena had mastered the art of continually writing, no matter the distraction, and Helen valued her for it. It made her efficient. Helen did not abide idleness.

“Miss Pauling.” Despite her age, Helen’s voice was slick as oil, sturdy and cutting as any blade. Only the hour demanded the hushed tone in which she spoke, but her words still carried a weight Filomena had come to dread. “May I come in?”

“Certainly.”

Filomena placed her pen back in its inkwell, grateful for the moment to stretch her arms and listen to the joints pop in quick succession, before turning to where Helen stood, regal in her rich purple gown. Her bony fingers clacked against each other under the weight of her jewelry, hands clasped at her stomach tense as the sharp line of her mouth. Eyes narrowed, flashing gold in the firelight, she did not look pleased.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” It was rare to hear from Helen nowadays. The war occupied much of her time, and the air of mystery she had worked so hard to cultivate around their hired band of mercenaries would hardly do to be shattered by too many sightings of her goings about the house, so when Filomena chanced to see her, it was always a relief and a warning in equal measure. The maddening quiet was over, but the news it brought was often a knife to Filomena’s stomach.

Helen laughed without humor. “I should hope you would be glad to see me no matter the cause.”

“Well, of course I am, my Lady,” under the force of her gaze, Filomena always felt herself floundering, a little girl scolded for staining the carpet again, “but given the circumstances, I would presume something is on your mind.”

“Hm. You presume correctly.” Eyeing the scattered papers, Helen raised a sharp brow. Filomena smiled, hesitant and apologetic. Taking a whistling breath through her nose, Helen inspected a long fingernail, flicking at it with her thumb. “Are they getting along?”

“You mean our houseguests?”

“You’re a smart girl, Miss Pauling,” Helen said. “What do you think?”

Shrinking against her mother, Filomena twiddled with her glasses. “Well, I would hardly call them friends, to be sure, but they are settling into their roles quite nicely.”

“Really.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Fishing through her files, Filomena selected two sheets of paper from her personal records, detailing her observations. She passed them to Helen, who skimmed them with a scowl, while she continued, “Monsieur Laurent and Mister Thornton have been more troublesome than most, but not nearly so much as we suspected. Their antisocial tendencies and… exuberance, respectively, have been rather tempered by the contract work and the company we keep. Extraordinarily hard workers, the lot of them. It is… commendable.”

Helen nodded, humming approvingly, before returning Filomena’s notes. “This is good news, indeed.”

“I should say so.”

When it became clear Helen had said her piece, Filomena slowly returned to her work, ears pricked for any further remarks. None came, and for a moment, she felt herself frozen in time, hours before sunrise, with nothing but hollow breathing for company. The scratching of her pen eased her back into a familiar rhythm. She had done alright for herself, she mused, and if Helen’s drawn conclusion was any indication, her mother thought so too.

“Do you think they suspect?”

The question reverberated around the study with all the deafening, omnipresent clamor of a church bell, batting Filomena about the head until it rang in harmony. Without the unequivocal reminders of the true nature of her job, she could almost pretend away the secret mission, the turning of knives in hands and the arrangements of the decks of cards; the forgeries, the lies, the killing. It stood to reason Helen would not allow her to forget.

Knot twisting in her stomach, Filomena’s hand froze.

“I sincerely doubt it,” she said, and found it to be an honest observation. The mercenaries taking up residence in the manor that had stood as her second mother since she was but a girl were too friendly, too naive, too stupid to know the purpose of their mission, and she was damn good at what she did. Her web was around them, and they would be none the wiser.

If they were, she would be dead. They were good at what they did, too.

This was how she knew.

“Excellent. Ensure that it remains that way.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Clicking her tongue, Helen about faced and headed for the door, heels tapping staccato against the clock’s pendulum. It took Filomena longer than she would have liked to notice the off-beats of the cork abruptly ceasing.

“A word of advice, Miss Pauling?” Helen’s expression was stern, gray streak defiant against the inky black of her hair. Shadows played off the bones in her face, rendering it skeletal. When she spoke, her message crawled down Filomena’s spine and into her ribs, clutching at her heart with blackened claws. “Don’t get involved.”

Memories of joviality flitted forth, unbidden, as if reminding Filomena of her secret shame; wine around the dinner table, target practice on the expansive lawn, and games of cards in the library, among many other little pleasures she had allowed herself in the company of their guests. Their guests, who had been nothing but kind to her, even if she suspected a fair few of them never actually meant it. Their guests, who trusted her, who wanted her, who seemed to like her. A lump was fast growing in her throat, threatening to choke her.

“I won’t.” Filomena tapped the side of her nose. “Promise.”

With a conspiratorial wink, Helen said, “Good work, Filomena,” and disappeared into the hall, letting the heavy wooden door slam closed behind her.

“... Thanks.” All that answered was the empty, and the whistling of the wind outside. Beside her, the candle burned ever lower. The wax was beginning to pool atop her paperwork, and she pulled it aside with a huff, scraping it off as delicately as she could.

Damn this, she thought to no one in particular. Casting around the study, replacement candles were not to be found, and only then did Filomena remember she had run out the night before. While others could more than likely be sourced from elsewhere in the house, her legs ached, and her eyelids were threaded through with exhaustion heavy as lead.

“Damn this,” Filomena said again, as the candle winked out, leaving her in the darkness. Instinctually, she reached for the chain wended about her wrist, a token of appreciation from her mercenaries, more than likely stolen from the house of some New Jersey noblewoman. Her thumb quickly and comfortably found the etching in the bronze cross.

She was cut loose, swimming in the warmth of the metal in her palm, the euphoria of Helen’s admiration, and the grandfather clock simply continued its steady ticking march.