#this one's pretty damn insidious

[aliceundrground]

Yall this is some super sketchy shit

Most of the time if you click a drop down and see the actual email address its really obvious that an email is a scam, even if the contents look legit.

Scammers have been using eventbrite to make themselves appear as verified senders at a glance and I'm 100% sure this has tricked more than a handful of folks.

Highly encourage passing this on and maybe reminding less savvy friends and family to Never Click Links in Emails!

[monsterblogging]

"I know JK Rowing is a terrible person but her books are so good-"

You sure about that?

I mean, just for a start, have you taken a good look at her fantasy creatures lately? A whole bunch of them are straight-up based on malicious and dehumanizing stereotypes about actual people.

Remember the werewolves? And being a werewolf was made into a kind of metaphor for having AIDS?

And you know how AIDS was first associated with gay men? And how conservatives back in the day were claiming gay men were preying on children in order to convert them to gayness?

Remember how Fenrir Greyback preyed on children in particular? Yeah, she put that subtext in there. She was an adult in the 90's. She knew damn well what she was doing.

Remember the house elves? Remember how most of them loved to serve and needed to have a home and a master or else they just wouldn't know what to do with themselves?

Did you know that's literally what slavers in the American South said about the Black people they kept enslaved? Go look up the happy slave myth.

Do I even need to get into the goblins and the antisemitic tropes they're based on? No, folkloric goblins were not gold-hoarding bankers waiting for their chance to stab humanity in the back.

"But the characters are so good!"

Are you kidding me?

Most of her characters are pretty one-dimensional, including Harry. Her idea of making a morally complicated character is giving a tragic past to a bully. Numerous characters are little more than stereotypes. (Looking at Fleur right now.) Literally anybody, including you, can easily make dozens of characters just as good, if not better. (It doesn't exactly take a lot of character designing skill to go, "hey, actually, having a sad backstory doesn't make it okay to bully children" or "hey, maybe I should not base a character on the first stereotype that pops into my head.")

"But the rest of the worldbuilding!"

Sorry, but her worldbuilding is just as basic as her characters. Magical castles and secret passages are stock tropes. Magical people who keep their true nature secret from humanity is the premise of pretty much every White Wolf TTRPG. Most of her fantasy creatures are just common European fairy tale and folklore creatures with shitty stereotypes projected onto them.

I'm not saying "basic worldbuilding bad." I'm saying, you could do just as good, if not better, with minimal effort.

Also there's her magical bioessentialism, where only Harry's abusive blood relatives could provide him with supernatural protection from Voldemort. Rowling thus effectively declared that non-biological family isn't quite real family, and that abusive biofamily can give you some essential thing that a loving, supportive family that isn't related to you just can't.

The Hogwarts houses are one of the most insidious elements of her worldbuilding. The idea of being sorted gives you a little dopamine hit because wow now you have a li'l niche where you belong!

But the actual function of the houses and sorting system and the House Cup is teaching children to see each other as rivals, and ensure that the most toxic views of the upper class get passed on to every new batch of kids sorted into Slytherin.

Hogwarts effectively prepares children for a dystopia where magic serves to distract its citizens from how nightmarishly awful it is. Economic inequality is so bad that people like Arthur and Molly Weasley can barely afford to put their kids through school, casual sadism is just an accepted norm in everyday society, and non-humans are second class citizens. Rowling sorta acts like she thinks this is a bad thing with certain lines she gave to Dumbledore, but in the end, her special boy protagonist becomes an auror; IE, a defender of the status quo. So.

If you've never seen it, Lily Simpson's video goes into even more detail on how the worldbuilding of Harry Potter is actually incredibly fucked up, and how it betrays small-minded attitudes on Rowling's part. There's no separating the art from this artist, because Rowling's rotten values pour out of nearly every page.

Yes, there are many things in Harry Potter that evoke feelings and inspire people, but there's absolutely nothing in it that this series has a monopoly on. You can find those same experiences in much, much better media.

[tgcg]

happy day of egbert

CG: DON'T YOU JUST HAVE THE MANUAL SOMEWHERE?

TG: dude its the most overwhelmingly basic thing on the planet trust me i literally did all the other settings for you

TG: all you gotta do is point the thing at egbert

TG: half press to focus subject

TG: press down fully and bam done the shit is shot

CG: BUT --

TG: i know youre desperate for this to be rocket science but its genuinely like first grade biz i promise whatever pic you take is gonna be fine

===

EB: yeah, come on karkat!

EB: i am only going to be the birthday bad ass for like, 24 hours total you know.

EB: longest birthday of my LIIIIIIIIFE. haha.

EB: oh hey, from one birthday-dooms day guy to another…

EB: i am pretty sure you understand the magnitude of what i just said!

===

CG: OH HEY. FUCK YOU.

CG: I'M JUST ACCOUNTING FOR THE LITERAL FUCKING INEVITABILITY THAT WHEN I TAKE THIS PHOTO, SOME INSIDIOUS LITTLE KARMA GNOME WILL FROLIC ONTO THE SCENE IN AN UNBELIEVABLE STROKE OF LOATHSOME SERENDIPITY TO BURY ME IN 12 CUBIC METERS OF FOOL-GRADE FUCKING IDIOT POWDER.

CG: AT WHICH POINT ANOTHER HEFTY BOULDER WILL BE ADDED TO THE BULGING MACRO-BINDLE OF SHAME YOU PEOPLE HAVE FORCED ME INTO CARRYING MY WHOLE LIFE.

CG: SHIT, SOMEONE HAS GOTTA LOOK OUT FOR MY ASS.

TG: alright give us a sec

TG: huddle formation

EB: psssshhh, alright.

===

TG: youre not gonna fuck this up

TG: your ass is completely secure dude

TG: i got the double foam padded booster seat and you know that shit is strapped on this 5mph drive through quaint ol piss-easyville

EB: you know if it really is so bad you can just re-take it, right?

EB: it is really not worth aggravationing your sponge over.

TG: 'xactly

TG: knights honor that shit isnt hooked up to my ishades and will not instantly forward me a copy in crisp HD of whatever blunder youre cooking in your beautiful nugbone

===

CG: IT'S NOT JUST THAT.

CG: HAVEN'T I SHADOWED YOUR PHOTOGRAPHY SHENANIGANS LONG ENOUGH FOR YOU TO TOSS ME A GODDAM BONE?

CG: I MEAN. I FEEL LIKE I'M READY FOR THIS. I'VE BEEN PRIMED FOR THIS BULLSHIT FOR EQUINOXES AT THIS POINT, WATCHING YOU PRANCE AROUND WITH THIS FUCKING THING.

TG: woah wait youre legit into it?

CG: YES, I AM LEGIT FUCKING INTO IT.

CG: AND I KNOW IT HAS SETTINGS YOU'RE HIDING FROM ME. WHAT IF I WANT TO TAKE A BLACK AND WHITE SHOT, HUH? WHAT IF I WANT TO ADJUST THE "APERTURE" OR THE "EXPOSURE" OR SOMETHING.

TG: alright i dig the enthusiasm but maybe we can unwrap that shit when we dont have someone waiting for us

TG: i didnt know you were scoping photography man you shoulda said something!

CG: I WAS PLANNING TO! I DIDN'T ENVISION IT COMING UP SO FRIGGIN SUDDENLY MAN.

TG: i promise ill open the pandoras fuckin box of snap addicts anonymous afterwards alright

===

CG: OK, FINE. BUT I AM HOLDING YOU TO THA --

===

CG: HA HA EGBERT. VERY FUCKING FUNNY.

CG: FOR YOUR SAKE I SERIOUSLY HOPE THIS IS JUST AN EMBARRASSING NOSTALGIA-DRIVEN LAPSE IN HUMOR AND NOT A GENUINE ATTEMPT TO "PRANK" ME. I REALLY DO!

EB: huh? who is this "egbert" you speak of? i have never heard of such a character.

CG: OH, JUST THIS BULGECRUD-HUFFING IMBECILE THAT FALLS BACK ON SHITTY PRACTICAL JOKES SO PLAYED-OUT THAT THEY PHYSICALLY HURT TO BEAR WITNESS TO.

CG: MY LOWER JAW IS THREATENING TO REVERSE-DROP WITH ENOUGH VELOCITY TO BURROW DIRECTLY INTO MY THOUGHT SPONGE, KILLING ME INSTANTLY.

CG: SO EITHER GET SOME NEW MATERIAL OR GET ME TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM, YOUR PICK.

EB: damn, ok. that does sound like some pretty serious bullshit, but…

===

EB: whoever that weirdo next to you is kind of seems like he needs medical resistance more than you do!

CG: WHAT

[bunnwich]

Gifts (Leona Kingscholar)🧡

Leona muses on the gift you leave him for Valentine's Day. (Based on the official merch twst 2024 Valentine gift messages)

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Yuu/MC!Reader (Can be framed as platonic or romantic)

Words: 936 words, Leona's POV

Notes: Wanted to challenge myself to do something short and sweet in a few hours and was inspired to improve upon yet another dry official Leona gift message response.

--

Gifts.

They came easy over the years, like plucking an oversweet tart from a dessert tray. He was disliked, feared even, but lucky for him easy on the eyes — and still a prince to occasionally bow and scrape to. So many folks over the years were eager to oblige him and follow the traditions of the Sunset Savanna. Idolize the royals; the divine oligarchy. He was simply “lucky” enough to be born under that umbrella. That’s all.

Those gifts and attention fed him for a while, but if he was being honest, some part of him always remained hungry. 

After all, shiny trinkets were nothing like a dusty old book or the heady cedar smell of a well-used chess set. What was the value of pretty baubles to sit on shelves of his empty room or clothes that cost more than some folks' houses?

Pillars of sand.

Was it so damn pathetic and vapid to want something not given by his family's twisted obligations or plucked from the hands of a quivering servant?  No games. No more ulterior motives. 

Wishful thinking, maybe or a childish habit that he had dumped in the trash, like all those boxes of sweets that long went bitter on his tongue.

He reminded himself that others had suffered much worse than not being doted on in their preferred way. However, this reality failed to take away his distaste for each and every gift. Tch. How many times would he have to snuff out that damn sentimentality that he had been so “lucky” to inherit?

Leona’s eyes fell upon the small bottle vial in his palm and the wooden lion tag attached, tied carefully around the bottle. It had been nestled on the corner of his bed when he returned from Spelldrive practice this morning, all nice and wrapped in shiny paper.

His mouth crinkled and a small sound rumbled from his chest without his permission. Relief of some kind maybe. It had been one of the first gifts he received that was not for his birthday or from his family.

A friendly gesture or…somethin’ more insidious?

To think, someone who came to this world with nothin’ goin’ outta their way to get him somethin’...special.

But, “friends” weren’t something he kept. Instead, he had a collection of starry-eyed froshes, classmates, rivals, those few worthy of his respect. And then there was Ruggie of course but, would he be around if not for the understanding they had come to? Best not to dwell on it now.

Leona chuckled watching the amber liquid swish around the curved glass like liquid gold. How bold of them to choose a scent for him of all things. Beastfolk were sensitive to ‘em and he especially. But, they had been the brash and precocious type ever since they came to this school. Always skipping steps to pull off an advanced move.

Regardless of how big of a crowd he’d ever have cheerin’ at one of his games or how many brilliant trinkets he’d be gifted, nothing beat his chosen audience of one. Who, even after seeing firsthand all the grimy parts of him...still havin’ the audacity to stick around so long.

His eyes fell over to the chessboard at the corner of his desk. Brave little creature indeed, and brimming with Savanaclaw tenacity. A little pawn that made it to the other side of the board, ready to be crowned.

No way they knew the implication of such a small gesture, how important scents were to beastfolk, not that he was one for tradition, of course. Still, He brought the bottle to his nose for the umpteenth time as he leaned forward on his elbows. In an odd way, it reminded him of the gardens back at home when it rained, all those lonely hours pouring over books and chess games. 

Alone but…if he concreted enough, he was able to catch a whiff of the oil where their fingers touched the glass. Yes, in their note they had mentioned that this scent reminded them of him, but to his nose it was missing something. A key complementing note. A missing piece. 

The scent of a little herbivore turned into a formidable beast that he couldn’t get out of his head.

His brow furrowed as he glanced over at the small pile of notes, discarded by his boots. Then he tried again this time with more wit.

"Hey– Allow me to thank you for your generous gift. Heh. I can’t believe you actually picked out a halfway-decent fragrance. I might actually keep this. I thought about sending you something in return if the mood struck me, but this thank you note should do the job just fine, right?"

Leona kept it short and sweet. He knew they two were past formalities, but it was amusing to still play the game a little. He had been waiting for them to approach him in such a bold way, and finally, he had been rewarded for his saintly patience. Still, he wasn’t ready to show his hand yet, well-

He allowed sentimentality to win this time and flipped over the note, scrawling a little something extra for their eyes only. 

“P.S. If you were gonna treat your lion so nice…the least ya could do is make good on such bold intentions and show him some proper attention.”

He chuckled again as he let the paper slip from his fingers, finally satisfied with what he had come up with. Honestly, it didn't matter much what he wrote. Maybe he was becoming sentimental in his “old” age but he knew...that they would always find each other in the middle.

It was their move again.

Besides, it was only fair that he repay them properly. Etiquette and all that.

[alicerosejensen]

Something about sin. Pt.1

Synopsis: Leon is ready to rip all these damn feelings out of himself and tell himself over and over again that he needs a good fuck. You're too young and too cute for him. Leon knows that he shouldn't even touch you, but then why are you tearing all the sinful essence out of him?

Warning: no erotica but it is mentioned; Older!Leon; Innocent Reader; Fem/reader; age difference; Leon is tormented by his conscience; Old man/young girl; Mentions of sex; in fact (in this chapter) the reader does not view Leon as a love/sexual interest; The reader is the daughter of another DSO agent.

A/N: I apologize for any mistakes. I really like the idea of dark Leon, but I don’t want to make him look like a bastard).

Feedback is welcome. If you want to point out mistakes or scold me, please do so in a gentle manner.

Part 2

This was wrong...

But 'Wrong' is not the word that could describe how he feels every time he sees you. One slightest appearance and Leon immediately feels like Humbert from Nabokov’s novel “Lolita,” who ruined the life of a little girl, well, the only difference is that you seem to be 19-20 years old, and not 14. Actually, it’s already wrong to want you, given that huge fact that you...don’t give him any reason.

You don't wag your pretty ass in front of him, you don't wear revealing clothes, and damn you're a victim of his sinful thoughts! When the fuck did this start?

The day he saw you might have been the right answer. This was the day when his colleague, the only one in the DSO besides Hannigan and Helena, sympathized with him and believed that what was standing in front of him was not a cold-blooded killer of the president, but the same Leon who would rather take a bullet and give his life than kill the one he was supposed to protect. The clarification of all the circumstances and the justification of his innocence dragged on for a long time, maybe that’s why your father then simply wanted to show an act of friendship and support by inviting him to a family dinner? Returning back, Leon thinks that it would be better if he went through hell again.

Leon immediately realized that the dinner was arranged primarily for him. Fried chicken with sides, a light salad, your mom made appetizers and even made a casserole. One is too many for him. The icing on the cake was when your father opened an expensive bottle of wine. He immediately felt awkward about this, after all, who was he to be bothered with so much, but you...

"Mr. Kennedy, what do you want? Maybe a salad? The thin sound of your voice almost made him feel weak. Your beautiful hands held the salad bowl, and almost as if on cue, you were ready to fill his plate with whatever he wanted. And those doe eyes looked at him so sweetly.

Leon could have sworn that at that moment some kind of blessing...or curse came down to him. He doesn't even remember what you were wearing. Some kind of brown blouse with jeans? He didn’t even pay attention to it, his eyes were completely focused on your pretty face. It was rubbish. You yourself were old enough to be his daughter and, as was said earlier, you didn’t even give him a hint to think that you were not indifferent to him. Actually, at dinner, when you were sitting between your parents opposite him, Leon saw how uncomfortable you were. You ate almost nothing and didn’t say anything, and an hour later you ran upstairs to your room, citing the fact that you hadn’t finished some task yet.

And your father quickly let you go, so you quickly jumped up the stairs like a rabbit, running away from his insidious gaze.

Maybe he just needed to let off some steam, he decided. In fact, it is not very often that there are women in his house who can spend at least a night with him. Last time it was Ada, and sex with her was too rough and fast. He cum almost as soon as she found herself in his arms, and for some reason Leon at that moment was not thinking about her, but about how it would anger Simmons, who believed that Kennedy was not worthy of her. However, it was true.

It seems like it's starting to become a habit, wanting women he doesn't deserve. At least Ada herself comes to him and Leon knows that she will not demand anything from him, they have never even had dinner together, and what did they do together besides sex, battles and flirting? That's right, nothing. But he has even less interaction with you.

Ada's black hair is too short, unlike yours, which could fall all over him if you were sleeping on his chest in this bed right now. But Ada never laid her head on his chest and always left unnoticed, leaving behind a barely perceptible trail of perfume. You wouldn't have left, Leon thinks, looking at the ceiling, ignoring the brown gaze of the woman he's been crazy about for so many years. Why is he comparing you and Ada at all? Two women who don't look like each other at all, which makes damn sense. You don't have to be like this! Your father would rather put his neck under the axe than allow his daughter to serve in the DSO or any other service, but in any case, you do not aspire there.

As a result, a woman will always understand when someone else settles in her man's head and Ada just smiles slyly moving closer to him, but all Leon hears is the rustle of a blanket.

"Well, who is she?"

As always, there was no hint of jealousy. Ada is the epitome of calm and composure, but Leon really doesn't know what to answer her.

After all, you are nobody and at the same time you have planted strong roots in his head.

"She?"

He pretends not to understand her, but Ada has long figured him out. For her, he will always remain a rookie cop.

"Yes." She still smiles, resting her head on her hand while lying on her side, "Who is this 'Jolene' What took my puppy away from me?"

Leon grins, but at the same time he feels an unpleasant ache in his chest from her words. Puppy... of course, he remained that way, and Ada was good at getting to the bottom of it, and yet she did not say that he was her lover, because there is no love between them as such.

"There is no 'Jolene' in my life and it is unlikely that there will be," he said wearily, reaching out to hug her, but contrary to expectation, he did not feel the desired warmth, and the itch inside grew like a wild beast intending to get only one thing - you.

In the morning, Ada disappeared as usual, and Leon was not even surprised. But instead of a paper airplane with a lipstick imprint on the kitchen table, he found a small note, folded in half, where only one thing was written: “I think you really need a family. You should think about it."

Maybe Ada really was right, but if she knew your age, she would obviously look at him with bewilderment, thinking that somewhere on the mission he was hit hard on the head. On the other hand, maybe she would have sarcastically joked that the older a man gets, the more he wants to have a young girlfriend instead of the old one, although he wouldn’t dare call Ada old.

Besides, you were supposed to remain only in his head and Leon could only hope that one day he would simply forget about you. For example, fucking with a random girl from a bar, but bad luck, against his own will, closing his eyes, Leon still wanted you. As if you were the one clinging to his back with your nails, leaving bloody streaks marking him and screaming his name. Complete crap.

You live your quiet life, not knowing what a zombie is, in complete material wealth and parental love. When your second meeting with Leon happens, he sees that you are dressed in some kind of wide sundress and are trying to drag something heavy alone, although dad strictly ordered you not to do this, but you, as a caring daughter, did not listen to him because wanted your father to do something other than hard work instead of carrying those heavy boxes out of the barn. The fact that you yourself were barely coping, not very successfully, was ignored by you.

Leon couldn't look at it calmly. He himself told you twice to leave the boxes, but you just snorted offended at him.

"Spoiled girl"

You want to prove something to someone, although this will most likely harm your health and force your father to fork out for doctors and medicine, so Leon, not paying attention to your snorting face, took the load from you and carried it into the house, leaving you with only light boxes.

In fact, no matter how hard Leon tries to convince himself that he just needs a break, your game keeps cutting him like a knife. If he were 21 years old again and he could get to know you before Raccoon, you could hum beautiful lyrical poems about how a boy fell in love with a girl and the whole world around him changed. As if you could be those two stupid lovers who burn alive in their love until finally they become disgusted with each other, although more and more often Leon realizes that in his loyalty and devotion only he would disgust you, not you from him. He would be your devoted puppy, as he has always been for Ada.

You would be everything to him.

Or already?

Is it right to look at a young girl like that when he is almost an old man himself? Why don't you have some annoying boyfriend with whom you can constantly text and chat on the phone thinking that this is the love of your life? And why can't he just throw you out of his head?!

"Mr. Kennedy" the way his last name comes off your tongue makes him almost rush to you and take you somewhere far away where no one would find you. However, Leon is disgusted by the idea that he will be the cause of fear and tears of an innocent girl who is completely innocent of what is happening in his unhealthy head. To tell the truth, it's not even lust… No, of course he feels physically attracted, but first there is some kind of dog instinct maturing inside to protect you from EVERYTHING and EVERYONE.

Then you started awkwardly calling his name and he just became Leon, always smiling when you ask him for something or just out of politeness ask how he is, whereas in fact you don't really care what's going on in his life. At least that's what he thinks, not really knowing what thoughts are going through your head.

Leon can't possibly know that you want someone older. Just a little colder so that you can become someone's secret, because even though you're young, you're of age. And yet you're watching these weird love movies that Leon thinks are sweeter than the cheapest chocolate and probably the books on the shelves have similar plots. A love to fight for. Disgusting rubbish, really.

But your smile is getting softer and Leon feels like he's giving up.

But Ada really understands that she is finished. Your beauty is incomparable, and even though she smiles in Leon's face, her heart also breaks apart when he says another woman's name in a dream. Huh, women…girls. How easily were you able to get hold of someone she's been involved with for so long.

In fact, it's a shame and Ada also understands that the years of youth are merciful to you, unlike her, and in fact you grabbed Leon's leash and there's no point in begging to find another man. Besides, Leon himself has always been eager for normality, for what he can build with an ordinary civilian girl. You will be a faithful girl to him, and he will be yours.

Someone else always comes. Younger and more beautiful. In Leon's case, meeting someone like you was also a well-deserved reward, so their nights are becoming increasingly rare and have long lost their passion. The only thing Ada doesn't understand is why you won't pull the leash on yourself. However, this question quickly disappears when she finds out that Leon stubbornly drowns his feelings in whiskey, in her and other women, who, though few, still have them. And then, like a faithful dog, he runs up to you just to wag his tail at the sight of you.

In the end, Ada doesn't even back down, but just waits for Leon to draw a line between them that can no longer be crossed. And waiting for you to lie on these soft pillows instead of her, like his beloved princess, or climb onto his lap and his lips will leave kisses on your neck. Leon deserves you. He deserves his share of happiness in a world where the government has turned him into a perfect weapon against bioterrorism.

Leon's touch is becoming more and more relaxed and you are not afraid of his wide chest, given your size difference. He could have easily swatted you, but for God's sake, Leon S Kennedy would rather put a bullet in their brains than hurt you. You hug him, listening to the pounding in your chest when he gives you an obscenely expensive Christmas present and drinks hot chocolate with you. No, Leon likes sweets, but in moderation. All those bright ribbons, the Christmas tree… not for him, but if you were in his house now, he would decorate his apartment for you and then hug you for several hours, nuzzling your head hoping that his phone would remain quiet.

Leon wants to put you in his bed, he's even ready to be your sugar daddy and get punched in the face by your dad knowing that you're going to grab onto him, but he just wants you. Like a stupid old dog who wants to be petted by a new owner. And Leon is sure that he will die of longing if you don't do it. The fact that you still don't have a boyfriend is just comforting, but anxiety grows when your father tells him that he's worried that his beloved daughter isn't interested in boys her own age.

"Anyone older?" your father says rhetorically while helping Leon fix his bike, "Buddy, I don't want an old man like you or me to become my son-in-law."

"But this way you'll have something to talk about," Leon grins, feeling that he has everything to step on the gas.

And he will take the risk again, even if it means a broken nose.

[hazbinshusk]

18 or 29 with blitz please🤍

prompt #29: a kiss to the back of the hand.

“How d’ya know ya won’t like it if ya don’t try it?” Blitzø insists, scurrying along at your heels. You sigh; he’s been bugging you for the last forty – you glance at the watch on your wrist – seven minutes about trying out his latest kink-of-the-week, and while his eagerness is kind of endearing, he’s starting to get on your nerves. Just a little bit.

“Satan, Blitz,” you roll your eyes, blowing past the others and making your way into the conference room. While Blitzø had absolutely no qualms about having these conversations in front of your co-workers and his daughter, you like to at least pretend you have some semblance of privacy in the workplace. “Would you let it go? At least while we’re at work?”

“Noooope!” he shakes his head. “If I do that, you’re gonna distract me and I’ll never get an answer.

“Damn,” you deadpan, flouncing into your usual seat. “You’ve seen through my insidious plan.”

Blitzø sniggers, rounding the table and wrapping the end of his tail around the arm of the chair. He tugs it, turning the chair towards him.

“C’mon…” he taunts, leaning over you, caging you in with a hand on each arm of the chair. “You know you can’t say ‘no’ to me.”

You scoff, pushing him away, and you try and fail not to smile when he laughs again. He wiggles his eyebrows at you teasingly and his smile widens when you do laugh despite yourself. You lean forward in your seat, hooking your finger under his chin and drawing him into a kiss. He melts into it, his tail waving happily behind him. You let the kiss linger for a few wonderful moments, your tongue sliding against his, before sitting back again.

Blitzø blinks, the punch-drunk smile on his face shifting into something more devilish. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

You roll your eyes again, exhaling an exasperated breath. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“Well…” he draws out the word with a snicker, raising an eyebrow snidely. “There’s something you can do about that, isn’t there?”

You scoff, shoving at his shoulder before he grabs your arm and pulls you into another kiss. He pushes up against you, forcing your knees apart with his hips, cupping your face in his hands. You nip at his bottom lip, and he hisses as he pulls away.

“Bitch.”

You smirk at the lack of venom, the hint of affection, in his voice. “Ass.”

“You fuckin’ love it.”

“Do I?”

He smirks, pinching your thigh. “And I bet your ass that you’d get all giddy and cum hungry over this, too, you little tease.”

“Oh, for fuck… I never said I wouldn’t like it.” you say with a sigh. “I just… you could romance me a little, y’know? Instead of just blurting out your horny-ass ideas in the middle of Hellbucks at eight-thirty in the morning.”

“Ohhhh…” he drags out, raising an eyebrow in a way that makes you pretty sure that he’s entirely missed your point. “Why didn’t you say so…”

“Blitz, what—?” you ask as he lowers himself onto one knee in front of you, taking one of your hands in his. His eyebrow is still arched devilishly, and you feel yourself flush at the tableau he’s created between the two of you. You glance hastily over your shoulder towards the door. “Would you get up before someone walks—”

“Shh…” he hushes you, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. He lets it linger for a moment, his eyes holding yours. He smiles when you blush. “I’m doin’ a romance here, you sappy bitch.”

You choke on a laugh.

“Now,” he clears his throat, putting his free hand on his chest, the picture of a gentleman. “Will you, please, do me the honor…”

“Blitz.”

“Do me the honor,” he repeats pointedly. “Of wearing a fucking strap and fucking me in my ass?”

send me a prompt and either husk or blitzø

[sky-kiss]

Hi love!

Okay so we all know I love your writing, especially for Raphael.

How about a scenario where Tav is in mortal peril and Korilla is NOT around/able to bail them out. Raphael has to do it himself. Well, he doesn't "have" to, but he will.

_________

A/N: MY QUEEN. I will do my best. Think this is the first time I've done a Tav who is DOWN BAD (in more ways than one).

_________

Korilla never failed him. 

It made it all the more shocking when the dwarf appeared at his side, stinking of sweat and brimstone. Her robe, ever flattering, was torn at the shoulder, and the slightly sweet, slightly sick, stink of burnt flesh filled the Devil’s Den. He reached out a hand on instinct, stabilizing her swaying form. The deal he’d been brokering fell by the wayside. A sinking feeling settled in his chest, all too familiar. His carefully laid plans might come apart at the seams. He felt invisible hands pulling at his stitches. 

“What is the meaning of this?” 

Korilla shook her head. “Your project…your mouse.” She winced. “Got in over her pretty head.” His warlock squeezed his wrist, “Raphael, I couldn’t…” She’d failed to protect his asset. “I kept them off her, but…”

The weight, curling, twisting; fate was determined to spite him again. And beneath that, more insidious, a second thought. Rage. Something had dared to touch her; something had maimed his pet. 

The cambion bowed to his guests, lips pursed. “My associate here, lovely as she is, shall have to entertain you for a moment. Beg pardon, my dears.” 

Raphael snapped his fingers. 

_________

Pain blossomed through her side. Tav staggered back a step, bringing her weapon up to intercept the blow. The blade doesn’t break the skin; she managed to stop that much. The impact…she’s less fortunate. Her muscles screamed, something tearing in her shoulder. 

She’d been stupid. Stupid and shortsighted…

All she’d wanted was a moment's peace. Tav had slipped from the party’s shared room at the Elfsong, determined to watch the sunset in silence. As dearly as she loved her friends, they could be loud and opinionated. After months on the road, with no privacy or distance, she figured she’d earned that much. 

Bhaal’s cultists were waiting. If it’d only been a handful, she could have handled herself. It’d been more, so many more. An inane thought chased through her head as she danced out of the way of another strike: how many changelings were left in Baldur’s Gate? How many Bhaal cultists did Orin have? It seemed excessive. 

Dozens. There were dozens of the damned creatures. For every cultist she killed, another three seemed to arise, like some hellish parody of the hydra. Tav was tired. One of them moved behind her, knife flashing in the dying light. Fresh pain as the blade tore through the muscles in her calf. She screamed. No, no, no, she had to keep moving. They couldn’t hobble her; she couldn’t…

“How dare you.” 

She barely recognized the voice. She was aware of his heat before anything else; the cambion appeared beside her in a wash of flame, catching her attacker by the throat. Panic flashed across the changeling’s face, the briefest hint of emotion before Raphael’s claws tightened their hold. A warm spray of blood coated her face as he tore its throat free, leaving it choking through the ruin of flesh. 

“Insolent creatures! You would touch what is mine?”

They tripped back, almost as one. Tav stared up at her savior, confused, vision swimming. The cambion, red, so red, fire and blood, his right-wing curled around her shoulders. Cherries and sulfur fill her nostrils, too sweet for the night air. Too soft in the face of his fury. Raphael snapped his fingers, and the air around them seemingly combusted. Hellfire consumed her would-be killers. Tendrils of shadow and flame consumed every ounce of flesh and bone, leaving nothing but a black mark on the streets. 

She blinked, staring up at him. Raphael’s eyes continued to blaze, his jaw set. He dusted a nonexistent speck of dust from his sleeve, lips curling in a sneer. “Strange, I expected the god of murder to employ hardier thralls.” 

Tav swallowed. Her throat burned. “Stealthy.” 

“Hmm?” 

She tried again, struggling to her feet. Raphael caught her elbow. Tav tried to ignore the press of his claws, itching, so full of potential, and the heat of his skin. It had to be the blood loss. His eyes glowed in the half-light. “Orin isn’t looking for hardy. They just need to be quick enough, quiet enough, to catch their victims off guard.” She frowned. “Tonight, they were.” 

“Yes.” The lowness of his voice chased along her nerves like a caress. “Are you bold or stupid, pet? The city wants you dead, and here you are.” He motioned to the darkness surrounding them, the alley nearly bereft of light. "A little mouse, alone in the dark."

She scoffed. “I needed…I wanted a moment to myself. Is that too much to ask?” His gaze flicked to the scorched flagstones, brow arched. Tav shook her head. “Regardless, thank you. It…” she chewed the inside of her cheek. “Thank you. For saving me.” 

“I sold myself as such, did I not? A friend and savior?” 

Tav smiled. “Truth be told, I didn’t believe you.” 

“And you’re more clever for it, sweetling.” 

Color flared in her cheeks. He was too close for this. Too close, too sweet-smelling, too handsome, and too much. The air in her lungs felt overheated and stagnant by comparison. The blood loss, undoubtedly. Tav chewed her lower lip. “Did you…Raphael, before the…did you call me yours?”  

His eyes narrowed. “Careful, pet.” It’s an answer in itself. Raphael extended his free hand to her. “Come. The devil shall return his erstwhile heroine to her companions.”

“I can make it back on my own.”

The severity of his expression left no room for argument. “No, you’ve lost the benefit of the doubt. I shall leave you safely in your bed. Not before.” 

She hated the flare of heat in her belly. Raphael's hand settled at the small of her back, wings curling more closely as he whispered the incantation to return them to her room. Weak as it may be, she wrapped her arms around him. 

The devil said nothing. But he bent, pressed nearer. Solid and strong, smelling of cherries and fire. Some part of her wondered what he would do if she kissed him.

Tav was saved from any potential embarrassment. Raphael left her at her bedside, bowing, smirking as if he’d followed the line of her thoughts. The damned creature took her left hand and kissed her knuckles. 

And then he was gone in a swirl of fire and ash. 

[huramuna]

even in undeath - chapter 1.

lich king aemond x reader a 'world of warcraft' AU. prev | next

The Lich King is the master and lord of the Scourge. Consisting of thousands of walking corpses, disembodied spirits, beasts of the north, and damned mortal men, the Scourge is a terrifying and insidious enemy.

word count: 2.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, DUBCON, smut, heavy heavy angst, graphic depictions of violence, allusions to cannibalism, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, suicidal thoughts and ideation, mutilation of corpses, obsessive aemond, dark aemond, a happy ending is not in our future. PLEASE MIND THE TAGS! This story will be pretty dark.

story playlist

It was dark and cold. There was a faint dripping of water somewhere off to the side, but you couldn’t quite see where. The echoes of whimpers ricocheted off of the craggy walls, stinging your eardrums. 

This was the descent into madness, wasn’t it?

You weren’t sure how long you’d been chained up for— how long had it been since your village burned to the ground? Since you watched the ghouls rip apart the cow farmer from down the road. Since you watched hellhounds crunching on little Mary Jay’s bones. Since you had watched your mother and stepfather plead and beg for their lives, for forgiveness, for mercy, for absolution of their supposed sins before the death knight’s sword lopped their heads off. 

How long has it been? 

Shifting slightly, the chain tied to your throat clinked against the wall. There was no light, no passage of time to be had in the dank, pitch black cave they stowed you and a few select others in. You only had on a ragged potato sack as a dress, the sensation of dirt and grime caked on your hair and under your nails making you feel less than human. 

But— you were still human. For now. The Scourge had ravaged the Eastern Kingdoms without mercy, swiping through the North and South like a fast traveling plague, curdling and damning everything it touched. Hordes of undead zombies, ghouls and hellhounds were the first to raze the cities, driving out the people like mice from the walls. Then the banshees came, along with the necromancers to raise the dead, adding them to a forever amounting army.

Not even Quel’thalas had been able to resist it, an ancient elven city hewn in magic.

What chance did you have? 

More than most, evidently. Your mind wrought itself over and over as to why— why were you alive? Why were you still human and not merely a risen thrall? 

The clinking of armor scared you as it ascended the hallway. You pressed close to the wall and closed your eyes. 

Please don’t stop here, please don’t stop here. 

Clink, clink, clink… closer… closer… 

Then it passed, descending further away. You let out a breath, your blood still pumping in your ears. 

Clink, clink, clink. They were coming back. Clink… silence. You felt bile rise in your throat as you shook, the chains rattling noisily. You knew they were standing there, you knew they were here for you. 

A harsh tug upon your chain, your head hitting the floor— some words were mumbled, the voice sounding far away and broken. Your eardrums rang with the ferocity of your fall, drowning out any semblance of what your jailer was saying to you. Then, you were tugged upward, the cool metal of the collar biting into your skin as you were dragged like a petulant child away from your cell… 

You didn’t want to open your eyes. You couldn’t face the horror you knew was around you— corpses, living ones and dead, the clatter of bones, the heavy breathing of gargantuan abominations, bodies and faces of countless people stitched together into a new body, hewn with thread and necrotic magic until it gave way to something else entirely. Something unnatural, something made of nightmares. The dermis of those who were used to make the monsters would still twitch, reach out on its own, and if it had a mouth, it would be twisted into a scream. You swore that you heard them whispering as you were dragged by. 

The monstrosities were one of many abhorrent creatures at the Scourge’s disposal. Hellhounds, ghouls, gargoyles, wraiths, crypt lords, geists, banshees, and other things of horrific nature were only some of the power wielded by the Scourge. It felt like it was all pulled out of a child’s fairytale, changed and twisted and defiled into what it was now. 

It all felt like a very bad dream. 

Your eyes opened on their own and you took in the image of death knights, former paladins who served a higher power, the Light— now are nothing but undead heretics, glowing eyes and gaunt stares that bored through you. 

Some of the monsters chittered as you were dragged past them, leering and looking hungry. 

‘Scrawny that one. Perhaps she will suffice for hellhounds to pick their teeth.’

‘Speak for yourself, her skin will do beautifully on a new abomination.’ 

‘She won’t be knighted. Merely a maid’s bastard, I’ve heard.’

You forced your eyes to close once more, the sudden light stinging them. You forced yourself into another time, a better memory than what you were experiencing. 

They were right, you were a maid’s bastard. Your mother had served in the royal keep for years, with you under her feet. You didn’t know who your true father was, nor did you care.

You became attached to the second son of the King— Aemond Targaryen. He was a sprightly boy with near white hair and luminous violet eyes. The two of you were attached at the hip. 

Childhood friendship blossomed into more as you grew into teenagers and young adults— you shared your first kiss together, you held hands and shared sweet nothings. As he trained by day to become a paladin of the Light, he held you close by night, vowing to never let you go. You were both terribly in love and so terribly, terribly naive. He was your first in everything– your first friend, your first kiss, your first lover. You promised yourself that he would stay your first and only.

‘You can never marry a maid’s bastard, Aemond! You’re a prince of the realm-‘

‘I don’t care! I want her, father. I’ve always wanted her!’

Your mother quit her job at the castle— moreso, threatened into quitting by some of the King’s advisors. She was given a considerable amount of coin and told to take you far, far away and to not contact the prince again. 

Heartbroken, you left him your sapphire ring, the only thing of value you ever had, which had been passed down through your mother’s family for generations. 

It was left on his desk with a note of few words but much feeling. 

‘I love you. I’m sorry.’ 

That was over ten years ago. You hadn’t seen him since, but you missed him horribly. Especially now. You wondered if he was still alive, fighting against the Scourge like his knightly vows dictated. 

Maybe he was married and moved across the sea to Kalimdor where it was safer. 

Or maybe he was dead. Dead like almost everyone else you knew. 

You heard a rumor, fleeting and without much more information, that his father had died– no, that his father had been murdered. The fall of the king, Viserys, is what started the Scourge war. Did Aemond know, wherever he was? 

You imagined him holding his arms around you, kissing your neck and fanning his breath over your skin. He liked to encompass you completely with his body when you laid together— you never could emulate the feeling with heavy blankets and pillows, as much as you tried. Putting yourself back into that memory, you wrapped your arms around yourself, willing warmth into your body. 

But you didn’t feel any warmth. All you felt was cold, cold down to your bones. They felt brittle, like ice, splintering into shards as you were thrown on the floor again in a different room. Pain bloomed in your arm as it cracked at an awkward angle. Broken. 

Your ears rang again as your mouth opened into a scream, tears of pure anguish squeezing from your eyes. But you didn’t hear a thing besides the rush of blood dampening your senses— and the sickening crunch of your broken bones. 

‘What have you done to it, Lady Deathwhisper? It looks broken.’ 

‘It’s human bones are so brittle, it was merely a slip of the hand. I cannot help that their living constitution is so weak.’ 

‘His grace will not be pleased if it is broken beyond repair.’ 

‘Worry not, Lady Alys. Most things can be mended— and if not, it can always be raised.’ 

‘Physical defects aren’t the only issue. What of its mind?’

You feel an acute sensation over your skull, reaching into the depths of your cranium. Its cold, but not stinging— like a soft caress upon your brain as your mind is rifled through like a tome. You can feel your memories being perused, all of the most intimate moments of your life flashing in your head like playwright’s prose. The physicality of your mind being invaded wasn’t painful, but the act of your memories being ripped from you was damning. Tears fell down your face on their own, your mouth opened into a silent scream.

‘She is the one— I saw it. You are lucky that you did not break her mind completely, Lady Deathwhisper.’ 

‘As are you. You do not have a deft hand when it comes to memory perusal, Lady Alys. I am surprised that it still has a brain in its skull.’ 

‘Shut up and bring her to him. He will be pleased she is still alive. Barely.’ 

You felt yourself being moved again, still reeling from the invasion of your mind. You tried to put yourself back into the safe haven of memories, but they were… locked. Locked behind an iron door with no keyhole. They were lost to you. 

What were you trying to remember? 

Flashes of white hair and violet eyes flitted behind your eyelids, soft caresses and kisses, heavy breathing and love filled promises, the sensation of skin to skin… 

Your eyes opened, vision bleary. A helmed woman followed behind you, wings outstretched. You could see the glint of green eyes under her helm. Val’kyr. The woman behind you was a Val’kyr, a spirit guide who defected to the side of the Scourge. They could move between the realm of living and dead as simply as taking a breath. 

“The little human is awake,” she mused. “Your mind isn’t broken after all? I do see a glint of intelligence behind those eyes. Keep them on me, you shan’t wish to look upon Lady Deathwhisper.” 

You didn’t want to speak, words caught in your throat like food stuck in your craw. A val’kyr was basically an angel of death and talking to one must mean you are dead. 

You wish you were. 

The chains scraped against the floor, which was no longer stone like before, but rather, hardened ice. You were ascending upward, it seemed. The architecture of the building was nothing like you’d ever seen— dark metal was plated upon the walls, inscribed with glowing runes. The runes looked… familiar to you, somehow. But the memory that contained them was locked away, or mayhaps stolen by the Val’kyr, Alys. 

The temperature was cold, you were being lofted upon ice, of course, but you didn’t wholly feel it. You were partially numb, heat radiating from your broken arm. You knew you should be feeling pain— but you were just… numb. 

Your escorts stopped in front of two large doors, inscribed with the same glowing runes. Against Alys’ advice, you glanced at ‘Lady Deathwhisper’. She was skeletal, floating upon the ground with no legs to speak of. Her robes were purple fabric, molded around an incorporeal body. She spoke in a language you didn’t understand, the scratchy voice of hers coming out of a bone skull, but the mouth wasn’t moving, maw open as the words came out. 

You should have listened to Alys. 

The door opened with a rumble, opened by ancient magic, likely imbued by the runes, as they flickered and flitted above your head as it opened. The room beyond was open and bereft of almost anything, except for a throne. A throne forged of ice and swords. 

Someone was sitting upon it in a lazed position, one plated gloved finger tapping on the arm of the throne.

“We’ve brought her, your grace,” Lady Deathwhisper growled, shoving you forward. You skidded across the floor, which felt slick like grazing atop an ice-capped lake. “Alys confirmed it is her.”

The clinking of armor caught your attention, the sound of metal grazing against ice. It was irritating and made you grind your teeth. As whoever was on the throne got closer, the force was oppressive. Whimpers and tiny cries were ripped from you as they walked towards you, the aura exuding from them causing you to fall flat to the ground, feeling as if someone was sitting atop of your chest and not letting up.

The steel plated boot was in front of you now and your hair was grabbed rather harshly, pulling you up. 

Don’t look, don’t look. You cannot look.

“Look. At. Me.” the voice growled. It was quiet but commanding at the same time, rattling in your bones and making a home amongst the marrow. It felt familiar… so… 

You lifted your bloodshot eyes, not out of your own volition, but from the authority of the voice.

“Hello, little dove.” he mused.

It was him. It was… it… Aemond. You knew him so well, even with ten years gone. His chiseled jawline and chin and the dimple of the tip of his nose… 

But his eye was missing, a jagged scar bisecting it. In its place was a sapphire. The sapphire from your ring, grown into something to make home in the socket.

You felt everything and nothing all at once, your stomach flipped and flopped like a fish hoisted from the sea, sputtering for air. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t–

Your best friend, your lover, the one you vowed to never forget, to never forsake.

Aemond Targaryen. 

Aemond Targaryen was the Lich King. A defiler, a mass murderer, an unholy being in his own right.

“Now you won’t be able to leave again, will you?” Aemond murmured, his violet eye roving you. It was glowing slightly– his skin was a pale gray pallor, cheeks sunken slightly. He was undead.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, vision going black.

[iwaasfairy]

HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

bachira nii who is just the best and sweetest big bro!!! he's always so attentive and so clingy to you! there's not a single moment that you go without having him touch your tits or kiss/lick your neck, he might even just feel up your pussy to make sure you're wet!!

he loves his lil sis so much, he cant help but fuck you as if you're his personal fleshlight. expect him to breed u like a bunny and dont stop until you're overflowing with cum ♡♡♡ oh and dont worry about holding back your moans! he loves to hear them and he loves when you cry out his name! mommy yuu wont mind that her two children r keeping it in the family :)

i heARD AND I RAN okay i spent the wHOLE DAY thinking about this yesterday hhhhgftdsguyfdisgi

tw incest, dubcon, codependency

He likes the shape of your mouth. He likes it so much. Enjoys kissing it, watching it, puffy lips and raw, likes hearing the little sounds that come from you when he claims that mouth. He even likes the way you say his name, his name that’s been called a thousand different times in a thousand different ways. But you say it differently still, cherish it on the tip of your tongue as he pulls your face closer in the evening glow and stares. “Meguru nii,” you say it all pouty and knowing, chest puffed with it. You say it like you know what comes next— and it only feeds the thirst that trickles down his muscles and aching heart.

When he doesn’t answer it, and he doesn’t, can’t, you grow restless and fidgety, and he gets to hear his name in a wholly different way, one reserved for only you. It pushes your lips to the brim with how cute and pouty they can be, without being kissed to shreds by him. “Ru nii~” you beg.

And he answers it by pushing you down onto his bed and pulling the covers a little further over you, until the world is almost completely shut out from the both of you. He lies down on top of you this way, caging your body under him— how he likes it. How the monster says it’s meant to be. And the heat that plays over your cheeks is nothing but further encouragement, because you look so damn pretty when the lowest light catches the glittering of your teary eyes.

“I’m supposed to be in bed. I’ve got an early cl-mhm!”

He kisses you square on the mouth, or teeth, no matter, because when his hands slide along your sides and start fondling your soft tits, tugging at sweet, puffy nipples— it’s all too easy to get you to play along. “I just wanna play with my little sister a little,” he breathes into your mouth, and you hum. You always hum so softly, like his word is truth, or gospel. “Just a little bit more, m’kay? Then you can go to bed.” The assurance calls for another drag of his name, that filthy mockery of the word ‘niichan’ that you have long mastered. It draws all the blood from his conscious thought to his hard cock as he grinds it against your pussy.

Picking at the bow of your panties, at your tits through your shirt- you curl under him and under his tongue, his hands, his twitching, leaking cock and balls like his own personal little toy. No, play-date. You always used to be his play-date growing up, and though the word has taken on -slightly more insidious- interpretations, it still fits you so well. Peeling your panties halfway down your legs to push the head of his cock into that dripping little slit is all too easy when you’re going “Ru nii, Meguru nii~” over and over so obliviously, unapologetically needy.

“You love your big brother?” He asks, and you nod, and it sends a spike of heat through his heart and makes him bottom out inside his own little sister with a groan. “I definitely love you. The most, love you- t-the most.” The covers won’t drown out the way you’re whining as he uses all his weight to fuck deep into you, your knees pressed to your ears and your tongue wrapped around his fingers. It doesn’t shield the squeaking of the bed and the rhythmic ‘pap, pap, pap’ of his balls hitting your ass each time he bottoms out. It doesn’t even cover the way he breathes your name back like he should, like he knows will get you there again and again.

But it’s not a lie when he leans down for a few seconds to pull your mouth back to his, tangle wet tongues and take what he needs from that pretty mouth of yours, and says, “You’re fine, just cum. Just cum on niichan's cock, you'll feel good. It’s okay. Mom wants her two babies to get along.”

[syndrossi]

resonant ch29 dvd commentary

Very belated, but since ch30 is right around the corner (aka tomorrow), I figured I should get this written!

Favorite line(s):

It's a tossup between:

“Your uncle has not wronged me. Please spare him your wroth.”

Because angry/fierce/protective eight-year-olds summoning the king to answer for his perceived crimes was the very first thing I imagined when writing this chapter, even if we didn't actually get to see it!

And then:

Daemon’s hands clenched around fistfuls of blanket as his heart stuttered again in his chest, light and hollow, a chill emanating from it that left him trembling for what felt like minutes, eyes fixed on his sword, which had been propped against the bed table. There is only death here.

Because one of the more fun (for me, not Daemon) things to write recently has been all the ways the candle has fucked up and continues to fuck with Daemon. It's so sneaky and insidious, I love it, even if I seem to be mostly alone in that. 😅

Favorite detail(s):

Again, all the ways that Daemon is not okay in this chapter, and even under siege, in ways that he can't even fight against. The way the candle's words seamlessly meld into his own thoughts/fears. My main goal in 29-30 has been to introduce a subtle sense of unease to every Daemon POV.

But I also had a ton of fun writing the Caraxes + hatchlings bit, especially their family lamb roast and Jon learning that sometimes your dragon having a snack makes you hungry.

Favorite dynamic:

The twins navigating Daemon's fragile state. Jon starts off very bull-in-a-china-shop, much to Rhaegar's dismay, but they effectively defuse the worst of it.

Also Rhaegar saving Allard's life by lying and claiming that Crayne threatened Lady Lynda.

Quick hitters:

Wondering if readers are less into the current direction of the fic or finally getting fatigued by the slow pace. The comment totals have been pretty consistent per chapter after the expected drop-off once HOTD S2 finished airing, but ch29 had two-thirds the normal response. (It feels like very first-world writer problems, since I'm fortunate to have so many people commenting to begin with, but I definitely notice when there's a seeming "off" chapter!)

I'm hoping it's the latter, because I was so pleased with the 28-30 stretch!

The biggest struggle this chapter was writing the damned City Watch scene. I went into it all excited because hey, Jon getting to maybe do Little Lord Commander shenanigans, but it's a lot harder in practice/execution than theory, especially when the stakes are this high. The conversation itself was written/rewritten probably a half-dozen times before I was reasonably happy with it.

Daemon finally learning about Ser Thoren was originally written to happen in the Watch barracks, but the setting wasn't right for it, so I cut it entirely. When they returned to the apartments, I realized that it made for a much more natural place for Daemon to have a breakdown.

Daemon's breakdown toward the end is triggered by a combination of hearing about the boys being in peril, helpless, and the Trident vibes of Rhaegar being dragged to the stream banks by Crayne.

It seems like a useful thing that Caraxes's behavior can confirm that there's something wrong with Daemon, but that has disturbing implications of its own.

I just love writing about the hatchlings. Full stop. I will never be afraid to interrupt the angst for some hatchling shenanigans.

Sometimes, someone worries about precisely the right thing in a comment and it's so satisfying.

We are so close to being able to advance the clock a bit and I'm ready for it. Y'all, Larys is almost here! With Ser Kelwyn maybe a week behind him.

[xappetites]

jouissance (4)

Phillip Graves x Reader | political marriage, Graves finds himself in trouble, Vance makes a house visit and reader loses her mind a little bit | word count: 1,778

Phil’s bleeding, he’s pretty sure. Currently he’s unclear on the whereabouts of the actual wound —and the severity of it— but both of those can wait. There’s heat radiating out of one corner of the room, a fire he feels more than sees crawling up the building.

That leaves only one way out, and if these assholes are smart, shooters are bound to stalk the rooftops, hidden among the racket of rain and wind outside.

He has to move the Shadows and he has to move them now, if any of them want a chance to tell the tale. So Phillip’s on his feet on instinct, with a second to spare for gratitude when no bones seem to be broken.

He wonders offhandedly who on Earth would be reckless enough to try mortar fire in the middle of a city, however mangy the cluster of buildings might be, before the second round hits and the floor slips right from under him.

…

Your husband’s an insidious one. It’s in the way he folds his clothes and shines his shoes. In how he gently coils his belts to rest between your row of everyday handbags and the gun safe. Little things that speak of a marriage and make sure his presence is always here, in this house he bought you. All charm and a wicked mind. So you have to look at these things of his and think about his accent, the glint in his eyes when you misbehave, his mouth on yours.

Phillip Graves is more than you ever dared wish for. Yours in a way that sparks holy terror in your gut. Against your better judgment and against your will, he sneaks into the routine and makes the bed feel empty without the expanse of his back to curl into.

You crave him, wherever in the world he is at the moment, risking his hide as a way of life. Because of course, you had to find him in the line of fire. 

You’re not made for easy, you’re made for finding the perfect husband and being in constant danger of losing him. He has the scars to prove it too, so close to that sharp brain of his. And he wears them with the kind of balls that your friends back in Hudson Yards try to match with distressed jeans and design pre-scuffed boots. Worse is the joy he finds in the work: obvious, magnetic. Such an intrinsic part of him that you couldn’t even wish to stop him.

Worst is that when Vance shows up in the middle of the afternoon, after Phil’s been gone for weeks, you don’t even flinch.

“Mrs. Graves,” he says. Standing on your porch with the straightest back you’ve ever seen, looking for all the world like he’s carrying the metaphorical neatly folded flag.

The thought slides sluggish into your awareness. You don’t know if that still happens, Phillip being  a contractor, saving the ‘real’ military’s asses by doing their fucking dirty work. And it’s so inconsequential that it takes over —the question—, for another second of staring blankly. 

“Ma’am,” Vance tries again, gently herding you into the house by the elbow.

He’s not wearing gloves, you notice, and he seems to be trying to keep a hand on you, even if it feels like he’s not used to this kind of constant touching. It’s something you’ve seen Phil doing more than once, so it stops you dead, makes you stumble into the stupid decorative side table your in-laws insisted on gifting you.

“What happened?” It’s breathy, punched out of you. Two half words in a long exhale. 

“We lost contact with Commander Graves’ team at around o’ five hundred this morning—“

“It’s damn near six pm.”

“We have protocols—“

Of course they do, Phil is adamant about doing things right or not doing them at all. So it’s been twelve hours, plus the drive, of no one knowing where your husband is. And it’s not even that fact that makes Vance hesitate. It’s the next few words out of his mouth that turn this into a scenario that warrants the face he’s making.

“And— satellite images show signs of a fairly large explosion, close to their last known location.”

The shit table catches your weight once again, rattling up a storm. You lean on it, simply because, unlike Vance, it doesn’t look at you like you’re on the verge of exploding.

You might be, actually. Your head feels like a lit fuse, building pressure under your tongue. Anger simmers under the shock, an impulse to bite, to leave claw marks on what’s yours.

“We still have no concrete information,” Vance’s palm finds your elbow for the second time. 

Maybe he expects your knees to buckle, but he stays close. Phil close. So you take a couple steps back. 

“A team was dispatched for search and rescue, we should have news by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

Vance looks at you like you’re supposed to respond to that, fulfill the social contract in some way you can’t fathom right now. Are you meant to thank him for the bad news? This can’t be the first widow-to-be visit he makes, but it is yours, which makes the etiquette unclear. 

He moves, in the end; does that universal half turn, half vague gesture towards the door one does when trying to excuse themselves from something. Your body moves with him, follows on instinct.

You’ve never been one to wait— call it being a spoilt brat, but you need something to focus on if you’re going to simply hold out for any amount of time; your phone, a book, even people watching. But all your mind goes to at the moment is blood and fire and Phillip and every single black dress you own.

The rage in the pit of your stomach strains at the leash. At Vance, at the Shadows, at Phil. And you’re bound to demolish the house, if you’re left alone in it for more than the five minutes of this interaction. Might end up cutting into ribbons all your funeral-appropriate clothes.

“I’m coming back to base with you,” it comes out flat. Not begging, not a demand. Because it isn’t, it’s a statement of fact, a certainty that throws this Shadow off his game. Makes him sputter like an old chainsaw for an excuse he thinks you’ll take.

“I’m supposed to go right back, I— there’s no time to pack for the night…”

You hand Vance your phone, leave him there palm outstretched while you shove laptop, chargers and wallet into a bag. A process that takes all of five minutes, in which you’ve correctly assumed he won’t dare fuck off without you. Not before you pluck the device back from his very light grip, keys jingling as you unlock the truck in the driveway.

“I’ll follow you.”

…

It occurs to you, quite late, that the correct reaction to this would be to cry. Not that you can focus on it, with the strange bureaucracy of security checks and Vance’s unrelenting escort into the Shadows’ facility, but maybe you should.

You could probably try, in the same way that social deception usually comes to you. Second nature, beaten into your body by private schooling and parents that mostly think of you as an asset in whatever scheme they happen to be cooking up at the time. Whether that’s looking pretty at a charity ball or securing the Graves’ deep pockets for future political endeavors. 

Crying for the stony faced, hurried soldiers you pass by on your way to Phil’s office would be easy, all things considered; it just feels wrong under your skin. You’re not fucking here for them, you’re here for the husband that is definitely coming back. Because he made a promise to keep you and, despite the things your world has thought you about promises, you fucking trust him.

Nausea, on the other hand, comes a lot more naturally. Bile climbing up your throat like an awful tide you have to pause to fight every couple steps. It burns in your throat and threatens to make you tear up out of nothing but physical discomfort, but it just doesn’t have the same flare, doesn’t get the same reaction.

“The bathroom next to Phil’s office is private, right?” Vance levels you with a look so strange that you feel the need to add the truth at the end, amend your question, “—I’m gonna be sick.”

Even now it’s unbearable to be assumed as a fragile little greenhouse flower that can’t cope with a shared toilet. Especially when he already looks at you out like you’re an alien learning how to act human and not quite hitting the mark.

“Commander Graves has his entire private quarters back there, not just the bathroom,” Vance doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down his pace, but this is the most surprised you’ve seen him. “He used to spend a lot more time here, before he met you. You’ve bumped up time off for all of us.”

Your expression must be a sight, with the chuckle it gets out of him. It loosens his stance some, makes him look at you like you’re a person and not a grenade he has to jump for the first time today. The silence suddenly not so fucking tense between you, until he punches in the code to your husband’s office and he stands there a foot away, starting and stopping a sentence for a couple times.

“He always comes back, Commander Graves,” Vance settles for in the end; not empty assurances, just what he knows from experience.

You can appreciate it, can take the hand he settles on your shoulder amicably. Though he’s not Phillip and hasn’t earned the privilege to comfort you.

He leaves you, promising an update on first light, no matter how much you insist on ‘as soon as you have one’. You’re not gonna sleep anyway.

Even after you shower and rummage around drawers for one of Phil’s spare shirts, you settle on the office chair with your laptop to try and pretend to work. Your husband’s desk is clean, sparsely furnished with a pen holder, a couple stacks of post it’s and presiding over all, a framed copy of your wedding photo.

The tightness in your chest comes on so suddenly that it knocks the breath right out of you. And it forces out the most embarrassing, raw sound you’ve ever heard yourself make. It’s an animal sort of cry, growl and sob and the clarity that losing Phillip Graves will unmake you in ways you don’t want to imagine.

[bonefall]

Obviously nobody should be talking poorly about any of Bumble's competitors but it's insane how people voting for Alex are going 'its a CAT'. Like, okay and? Alex Dewitt is ink on paper and we rightfully take issue with her writing to the point of making it a term, so why is it any different when a fictional cat has misogynistic writing? And these are cats with a society, laws, religion, and understanding of (herbal) medicine. They are on par with people. And, it's a YA series. Shouldn't people take the message "fat, abused women dying isn't a problem because they can't contribute ackshually, and if we acknowledge it is how can the goodboy main character stop licking his brother's kitty boots if he's a bad person :(" as a red flag in any series? Let alone one for kids? Like, did everyone outside of the fandom miss the Ashfur defense? Because I was there for it and it was pretty clear a LOT of impressionable children genuinely believed the "he only loved too much" excuse hook line and sinker, and blamed Squirrelflight for everything. There were so many fans genuinely believing that I literally remember seeing hate art and fanfics portraying Squirrelflight as a horrible person just for asking to stay friends. That alone was a testament to how harmful Warriors can be, all because of that one scene of Ashfur being spotted in StarClan.

And with that fiasco in mind, how can anyone trivialize it to Bumble being 'just a cat'? Especially when kids are reading this, and could really take the harmful message Gray Wing the """Wise""" has for them that if you have nothing to contribute to the people you desperately need help from, you are stupid for trying to ask for it. I was lucky to not take any of the really harmful portrayals relationships in Warriors to heart, but not everyone will be. People should support Alex all they want, she deserves it! But downplaying what happened to Bumble because she's a cat is harmful :(

Alex DeWitt's story is so shocking and straightforward that you're able to sum it up with a single word; "Fridging." It's become the touchstone for a wider discussion about misogyny in media because it is so evocative and so easy to explain as an example.

That IS important. That IS a legacy.

But somehow, if you try to explain how EARLY misogyny in media starts, and how pervasive it is even in "less respectable" mediums like YA xenofiction, they lose their fucking minds. People who refuse to read anything at all going, "what could possibly have happened to a cat?"

You know what, though? I'm GLAD Bumble is winning, and I'm proud of this fandom and our campaigning. I think we actually deserve to be a little smug about this after all the damn "justa cat" comments. Bumble doesn't HAVE a legacy. The book doesn't VALUE HER LIFE AT ALL! "It's so sad Clear Sky is going to have his reputation ruined for killing this useless woman. I never liked Bumble anyway, what matters about this is my poor brother :("

The runner of the Canon Misogyny Tournament mentioned in passing how they kinda take issue with the idea of quantifying misogyny based on suffering because of how it oversimplifies the insidious ways it can express in a narrative, and I've thought a lot about that a lot. They're right.

And Alex is THE posterchild of this because her death is ghoulish. We needed what happened to her as a simple, evocative term, to advance the conversation around media misogyny and get it through people's skulls. But, she has become the conclusion of a sentiment that the more gruesome the death is, the more misogynist that makes it.

but. The fridge was not the misogynistic part of what happened to Alex. THE FACT SHE WAS ONLY INVENTED TO DIE FOR THE PAIN OF A MAN IS. THAT is what the term "fridging" is supposed to point out; The absolute LACK of interest in her as a 3-dimensional character, in women as people, to the point where the writer chose to send Alex out in a gorey, disrespectful way solely as a motivator for her boyfriend. THAT is the bad part.

But instead people have latched onto the fridge half. More violent = more misogyny.

There's a lot of ways for a narrative to be misogynist, though. To downplay the lives, emotions, or contributions of women characters, and to reinforce real-world bigotry.

Warrior Cats does a LOT of this, blaming bad mothers who didn't shut up and accept their 'purpose in life' for Brokenstar's tyranny, making it a TRAGIC thing that Clear Sky is being held accountable for murdering women because his man pain makes it ok, and even blaming Squirrelflight for rejecting Ashfur's advances which caused him to go "crazy" and attempt to murder her children (until, of course, the welcomed retcon of TBC).

Bumble's death, because she is a fat woman, is treated as unavoidable. It's not a terrible thing she died, Gray Wing never really liked her anyway, what REALLY "matters" is that now no one likes her murderer.

She was stupid and selfish to even ask for help, because she is so fat and weak. To be upset at all that her only friend watched her get dragged back to her abuser. Even as she bleeds out, she gets to listen to Turtle Tail making up excuses and wishing she "could have found happiness."

All while Tom the Wifebeater, the fat man who physically assaulted two women, gets a big cutesy redemption death and honored and beloved by everyone and even gets to "lose weight and that's so good :)". Because the books value the lives of men more than the lives of women, plain and simple.

Bumble wasn't just fridged. It's worse than that. Her life doesn't even have enough value to get Clear Sky held accountable for murdering her, because beloved writer favorite Gray Wing hated her for being friends with his wife and doesn't want anyone to hate his poor, innocent big brother :(

Like you said, you can ask anyone in this fandom and they'll tell you about the impressionable kid they were, or have MET, who was badly influenced by the constant misogyny of these books. People who defend Bramblestar tooth and nail as he abuses his wife, the screeds against both Leafpool and Nightcloud for making Crowfeather sad, and the absolutely radioactive Ashfur Defenders who have thankfully died down since TBC's welcome retcons.

It doesn't just end with annoying internet comments. Those kids carry that kind of message with them. It reinforces existing biases and causes them to downplay abused women and toxic men in their real lives.

But sure, "just a cat." Cool way to downplay the 20-year-old bestselling YA fantasy series that is still ongoing but ok. 50000 Bumblesweeps upon ye.

(though i do also have to say, since I started speaking more about it today, I'm seeing more non-wc fans push back against the 'just a cat' comments. Sincerely, thanks guys. It's not every DC fan or Alex voter, just a very vocal section of sore losers willing to downplay misogyny because they're angry.)

[greenerteacups]

Hi GT, I have a confession to make: I read all of the Harry Potter books and didn't like them, to the point that I cannot remember anything from canon. But reading your fic feels like I am getting to experience the magic everyone else felt when they read the OG series, so thank you for that!

I wanted to say that I especially appreciate your treatment of the female characters. Obviously you are getting rid of the weird misogyny and competitiveness of the books in regard to Hermione, Fleur, Molly, etc (I especially love your Molly, and the respect she gets from the other Order members is delightful) but I really appreciate it when it comes to the "reminiscing" parts of the story. It always bothered the hell out of me that Lily seems to have nobody who really remembers her? Like she was clever and pretty and nice and yet all anybody talks about is how cool James is and he has all these bros who would die for him while Lily had ... No friends? Apparently? Anyway sorry this is so long but I really really really appreciated that Molly, Lupin, Sirius, etc. don't just forget about her in your version, and talk her up to Harry as much as they do his dad.

This is a really incredible compliment. Thank you! It makes me incredibly happy to hear you're having that experience. It was one of the foundational moments of my childhood, and to share it with someone else is a magical privilege.

Lily is so dear to me, even though the source gives us rather little about her. I think it's a great shame that Harry in canon grows up mostly around his father's former friends, who happened to survive the war, whereas Lily's friends (we imagine probably the Gryffindor girls, so... Marlene, Dorcas, etc.?) are all dead or missing when the story starts. There's something grotesquely tragic about that, upon reflection: Harry is robbed of knowledge of his mother because of how the war destroyed her living memory. It's such an insidious remark on what death takes away — not just one life, but the memories and love that the life represented.

I was endlessly inspired by that one throwaway remark Lupin makes about being friends with Lily. It's really odd, in the context of Lupin's setup as a Marauder, that when he finally gets a one-on-one with Harry about his parents, his first move isn't to talk about James, but Lily. (Of course, this is on the heels of a comment about Lily's eyes, but like — Harry is said by many people to look like James, and if Lupin was James's friend first, shouldn't that have been the thing that struck him? Wouldn't it be "you so resemble your father, one of my dearest friends on this earth"?) And what was that kindness Lily showed to Remus? Especially since James literally altered his own biochemistry and risked his life in order to support him on full moons? I'm not saying Lily wasn't a true friend to Remus, but like — that's kind of a hard gesture to top, Lils!!

Between that and the goldfish story with Slughorn, Lily gets a phantom characterization as this intensely selfless, giving person. Problem being: that's not a personality, that's a character value. And we don't talk about people we miss that way! We don't go "damn, I'm missing my friend Lily, a noble heart capable of great kindness," we go "oh damn, Lily would have loved that joke," or "those were her favorite kind of pickles," or "I bet she'd have hated that guy." It's the ephemera of knowing someone that we use to feed their memory, and it's that ephemera Harry will never get.

[tomahawthorne]

Gotta love the energy around rw//by fans. "What do you mean?! Valid criticism is totally allowed!" and then another comes and drops ad hominems like fucking atom bombs at the most mild fucking opinions. The irony of seeing a username and IMMEDIATELY jumping to conclusions about that person's opinions and calling them media illiterate... that's the cherry on top. Actually, scratch that. The real irony is going "Ironwood's arc was one of the best in the series!" as if that contradicts the ableism, and then talking about media literacy. Ignoring the fact that the quality of his arc is subjective (I liked most of it and still think they absolutely fumbled several parts, and I'm talking before he went all Saturday morning cartoon villain), in-universe reasoning or internal consistency doesn't automatically make something not fucking bigoted. Half the time I don't think the writers even think through the implications of their work—I doubt they intended to make Qrow sound ableist for calling him the Tin Man as an insult—but unintentional bigotry is still fucking bigotry and it doesn't matter that it's playing into the lore or allusions or whatever. (As an aside, maybe it's a hot take that I find the use of Tin Man as an insult at least a little ableist, but I feel justified in that belief considering the rest of the show's awfulness about disability.)

The whipped cream under the cherry is ignoring all the black voices that spoke about the Faunus/Adam's arc to make the most obtuse reading of both, and as a black man who's gotten shouted down whenever I bring up the many ways the writers and their biases ruined it, I'm fucking tired. Because too many of these piss-poor attempts at """"exploring"""" the "harm racist attitudes do" boil down to surface level white comfort bullshit, and rw//by is a prime example. The heroes are more preoccupied fighting the villainized minorities struggling for their rights than they are with the actual structure of racism. The so-called cautionary tale of "don't be racist or terrorism will happen!" is fucking insidious because 1) it implies that you should only care about racism when it could bite you in the ass personally, 2) the primary focus of the arc is almost always the terrorism and not the structure of racism that fucking drove them to it, and 3), my biggest issue, it pushes the blame onto the minority, for having the audacity to protest too loudly, for being hurt and reflecting the fact that you were hurt.

The harm of the so-called cautionary tale is two-fold, because while it's telling majority viewers the oh-so thought-provoking message of "don't do a racism," it's quietly reinforcing to its minority viewers that the only "good" way to protest for your rights is by playing nice, not threatening the structure, carrying yourself like a damn saint just so your abuser might treat you with a shred of humanity. I could write a damn essay on this, and how much this show and its fandom plays into white fragility, but that would require going back and rewatching for research and this show as it is doesn't deserve that level of effort. To put it simply, the Faunus arc (and yes, its handling of Adam) are both pretty damn racist because in its middle school furry fanfic-tier retelling of the Civil Rights movement, it perpetuates ideas that harm real fucking people (friendly reminder many of the sentiments the fndm shares about the White Fang "taking it too far" parrot white moderate/outright racist opinions about BLM and the Civil Rights movement :D) while convincing its viewers that "no, you totally don't need to examine racism as an institution and the ways you contribute to it. Look! Ex-heiress and totally-reformed racist Weiss threw a guy in the dumpster because the actual civil rights activist was suddenly incapable of defending herself".

This shit isn't a uniquely rw//by problem, but the difference is that I don't get 16-year-olds calling me some kind of slur or -phobe when I criticize the writing/fan opinions of the Flag Smashers or Killmonger. Imagine having a more insufferable fandom than the MCU.

[rabbiaharon]

How’s life?

Baruch hashem! Life is life. Truth be told though, it's been a little rough. Antisemitism on the right really spiked during the Trump Administration, especially surrounding COVID, so I got used to keeping my guard up around people on the political right in this country. Because the political right tends to be armed, and I’d had things like “when I’m done with you, if you’re still alive, you’ll be running back to your own damn country”, around 2020 I started carrying… what I needed for self defense, should the need arise. I forgot that anti-Semitism on the left can be just as bad and even more Insidious because people disguise it neatly as being against the government of a country halfway across the world, rather than against the Jews they interact with on a daily basis. I found a lot more friendly behavior among people on the left, and unless I was mamash a Trump supporter (I'm not) it didn't matter whether I disagreed with them on a majority of issues. until about half a year ago I was working for a couple of years as a driver for Uber and Lyft. I got a new car, and got a license plate "Talmud" and set my name in the app as "Rabbi", so that antisemites would see my name and plate and decide they didn't want to ride and cancel their ride with me. Mostly, my shifts were uneventful, and when I picked people up, even from places that had reputations of being not-so-safe, people were mostly surprised about being picked up by an orthodox rabbi, and inquisitive about the differences between our cultures.

And then October 7th happened. Jews are a relatively tight-knit group; usually we pretty much know someone who knows someone, so many of us were personally affected by the attack on innocent jews in Israel. There was anger that so many of our own people were killed while just trying to enjoy themselves, or living in their home. Our friends or family, or friends of friends, or family of family, who were being held hostage by a savage terrorist organization known for indiscriminate violence and the use of human shields — we wanted them back. Most of all, those of us plugged in were asking why Israel, which has a fantastic intelligence gathering operation, was blindsided, and why there was such delay in their response. We wanted accountability from liars like Netanyahu and his cronies, we wanted to know why Israel seemingly let it happen. In the midst of our mourning, most of the non-jews who seemed like they were somewhat supportive and open to us suddenly lost their minds. They showed up to protest at our holiday celebrations (which more often than not have nothing to do with Israel) screaming "from the river to the sea, Palestine must be free" over our prayers. They harass jews on the streets who are minding their own business and threatening Jewish kids on their way to school. This is only the tip of the iceberg, and this is not the place or time to delve into it in all the gruesome detail. All the people who I picked up who I hadn’t had to worry about before were hostile to me, often asking me to justify the Israeli government’s actions as soon as they got in the car, and when I answered that the issue is a nuanced one, and one I have personal connections to (through friends and family who live there, and friends of friends being held hostage by Hamas) I was often assaulted with insults about how I condone genocide and how dare I not side unequivocally with people who want to kill me, and how maybe they’re correct and should be allowed to kill as many jews as they want.

I finally was able to quit driving and rededicate myself to teaching and learning, which was a massive improvement, despite antisemitic goyim coming to protest outside our shuls and schools. Hated by the right, betrayed by the left. In short, I no longer have any trust for goyim. If I see a goy on the street, I regard them with suspicion, as they represent a potential threat to me. That said, working for jews the way I am now, I’m more financially stable, and I get to learn Torah as my primary income, which is amazing, and this is Hashem’s world, after all.

[ruelpsen]

I've been trying to chill these past few evenings by watching some lighthearted TV before bed and tbh it's not helping me much, largely because of certain ads that make my blood boil. As if the inescapable political ads weren't bad enough, there's this one fucking drug commercial that I stg they show 2-3 times every half hour that's honestly so damn mean. It's an ad for a weight-loss drug, which is irritating enough on its own especially given how much of a fad they are rn. But it gets worse! The song they chose to use is "This is Me" from The Greatest Showman. Yes, really, they chose to use a song ABOUT ACCEPTING AND BEING PROUD OF YOURSELF AS YOU ARE in an ad for a weight-loss drug. Did the people who made this ad fail to realize what the song's actually about??? Do they think fatness should in no way be a part of someone's true, ideal self that they can be proud of? (Pretty clearly the case, unfortunately.) It's so poorly thought out and tone deaf that it seems like a joke. But it's not funny seeing how this kind of messaging twists an anthem of self-acceptance into something that's meant to distort people's self image. It feels like something that should be a parody meant to highlight how insidious and pervasive fatphobia is in our society, but the fact that it's real and 100% serious in its message is really fucked up!