#but can’t we just pretend

[eemoo1o]

An AU where Ron leaves the shadow world (work) and, while Reagan’s now fully promoted, is her stay at home housewife who just comes up behind her while she’s at her desk and rubs her shoulders and kisses her, and she actually smiles and kisses back, and promises that she’ll try to finish work early for him.

[doghart]

i’m catching up on tsv, i think something that eskew prod does extremely well is using horror absurdism to capture the absurd horror of capitalism. it’s clear in eskew too, but i think it’s especially fantastic in the silt verses. the casualness with which sacrifice is discussed. how red lobster has a god that has and continues to take human sacrifice, and so do cereal companies, cops, and the grueling start up that has a “fun room”. it captures EXTREMELY well how it feels to live under capitalism, that you’re constantly bombarded with horrible things, discussed cheerily in a nice tone. the way it’s simultaneously numbing, hysterical, and horrifying. i think i was especially fond of how in ep 39, protest against sacrifice was taken as radical, a propostorus, idealistic thing that’s just so SILLY it’s not even worth considering, something that feels very real to revolutionary organizing/protest irl. i also liked how despite the face, when everything gets down to it, when everything is about profit, all people come down to are bodies. all capitalism is a gaping maw, and it eats the poor and marginalized first, but doesn’t STOP eating just there. the very literalized version of this, where the profit wheel (and all that includes— war mongering, the prison industrial complex, wage labor, etc) is given a very real literal set of teeth, but the body count is the same. so the electric company has a god, and so it takes humans sacrifice. do real electric companies not have a very real human cost? overworked and underpaid labors looking to make rent, or well off comfortable employees no less likely to get the axe under profit margins, or the blood shed when colonizing in the first place, in clearing the space for the electric company to move in. is that not also a very real human sacrifice? the commercial aimed at elderly people talking about “back in my day, we would just talk about all this human sacrifice and find a compromise :)” is so bleakly hysterical, but is that not very accurate? that you can put a good face on it, but in the end what it comes down to is that you’re being sold the chance to be human fodder? that there is no glory or honor on a battlefield or in working yourself to death, just mud and shit and bodies to throw at problems. idk! i’m rambling but it’s a deeply engaging podcast.

[aeirithgainsborough]

YELLOWJACKETS: 101. Pilot ➙ 109. Doomcoming

[wormtime123]

thinking hard. about last life grian saying about etho “he has no loyalty to you, he’s just immediately teamed up with the next guy that’s come along. if he loved you why didn’t he give you a life" and secret life etho saying about grian “he had to move on with his life, what was he supposed to do, mourn the whole time?" both projecting their own reasonings for ‘abandoning’ certain alliances when they turned south. these two being teamed and staying loyal until the end. can anyone hear me

[laurrelise]

i’ve done another silly little doodle :3

[blueinkjpeg]

I don’t think we talk about the humor potential in having empath powers enough

[amethysttribble]

Father had personally asked Feanor to stand for this portrait, so he was. Father had quietly suggested that perhaps this could be a painless exercise, which did not actually mean ‘painless’ but rather ‘silent’ for Feanor, but he agreed. Father told him this painting did not symbolize anything but his own desire to have a record of all his available loved ones around him, and Feanor was trying to see it that way- for the sake of his own sanity.

Because his stomach was roiling, and there was a heaviness in his chest, a great emptiness which his heart was pounding against, echoing, echoing, echoing.

Father had one hand on Feanor’s shoulder and the other was upon Indis’s. She was sat in front of them, smiling beautifully, little golden-haired Arafinwe in her lap. Around them, her three dark-haired children were gathered. Findis on Father’s other side, Nolofinwe with her, and Lalwen in front of Feanor.

To the unaware eye, Feanor knew, they must all look like they matched. Like they went together correctly. Like a family.

When the portrait was complete and those dark haired children were gathered around the mother and father, who would guess that one child was out of place? Who might glance at all that paint representing their faces and think anything but-

You could almost be her son, Feanor thought, and then his mind replied, But you’re not.

He was so still and he dared not move, because if he did, he’d never get back in place. If Feanor flinched once, the sharp, jagged pieces of him that never fit right in this puzzle would scratch one of them. They’d be annoyed and that would be it: he’d combust in anger, he’d shatter across the floor, snapping and snarling at everyone unnecessarily until he ruined their perfect little scene. Father said this might be a painless exercise. No, no; this was to be a silent, still exercise.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

How good a painter was this person Father hired? How varied his faces? Would he capture that Feanor’s nose resembled that of none of the people here? Could he represent that his frame was already different from his father and little half-brother’s?

Would he lie and throw a pleased smile on Feanor’s face? Not even Father had asked him to smile.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s presence made them fit together so symmetrically, maybe that was pleasing enough to hide the wrongness of this scene. Maybe that’s why Father made him come here today, the pretty scene. Why he asked him to suffer, even as the longer he stood here, the more and more Feanor felt like he was about to be sick all over the floor.

A ghost, a ghost, there was a ghost looming over their shoulders ruining this perfectly symmetrical scene. Couldn’t they feel her breathing down their necks, icy chill against sweat? Didn’t their perfectly posed heads feel her long, clever fingers wrapped lovingly around their necks?

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s gaze slipped down to the back of Indis’s head. Her beautiful golden hair. She didn’t wear a crown, this was a family portrait, and that felt worse. So much worse.

If he let his eyes unfocus and his mind wander, he could try to lie to himself that her hair was much lighter and the faces of the children around them more closely resembled his own. The woman in front of him loved him, and she fussed over his hair before they sat for this portrait, and he’d let her do it.

The worst part was Feanor did know that Indis would help him with the ties of his robes, if only he let her.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

She’s not, she’s not, she’s not. It was a simple statement of fact. It was scandal enough that the father replaced the wife, when one at least chose a wife, but what freak replaced his own mother?

What would the people who saw this portrait think? Would they see Finwe’s happy family or would they see Feanor’s blaring, uncomfortable intrusion upon what gods and men declared to be a better order of things? Father wanted him to belong here, but he didn’t.

He just didn’t.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

A painless exercise. Painless, painless, painless, for them. Silent, still Feanor, a happy accessory to the triumphant union of Finwe and Indis, a grateful stray dog permitted to drink from the bowls provided by Indis’s family.

This exercise was just meant to capture the image of all Finwe loved, nothing more. Don’t think too hard about it, Feanor. You might make the children unhappy.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

You should pretend you are, though. That’ll make them like you.

Because they did so disdain him, most of the time. They disliked how he glared at their mother and started fights at family dinners and ignored them in the hallways. Why shouldn’t they? Feanor would hate a person who did those things to his family, too.

He just couldn’t stop, though. He wanted to, sometimes, when the exhaustion and loneliness caught up, and then he remembered that he wasn’t Indis’s son and never would be, and remembering that made him angry. Wouldn’t it just be so damn convenient for them all if he was almost her son?

But he wasn’t.

He was Miriel’s son. That was her name. He had no portrait with her. He loved her.

He loved Miriel, but it was Indis he posed with and-

When the session was done, Feanor jerked away from his father and shoved his way past Lalwen. As he went, Indis looked up at him, caught his eye, and he couldn’t help the sneer that crossed his face.

He hoped that was painless enough for her.

When he returned to his chamber, he went to the wash room and heaved in the pot there. The gagging and retching made wetness prick his eyes, and the sudden tightness of throat made him choke all the harder. The sickness and heaving stayed long past when there was anything in his stomach to lose.

No one came. Feanor hoped maybe Father would, but really, why would he? Feanor had been mostly good, just a little rudeness wasn’t worth either reprimand or comfort.

No, they were together. Maybe admiring their portrait, happy and pleased, or complaining about his behavior again. Really, why couldnt that Curufinwe just accept nice things?

I need to get out of here, Feanor thought, face and body wet with both sweat and tears. I need to leave this place.

He was a good son, and he could do anything else his father wanted but betray his mother further. No, Feanor couldn’t pose as Indis’s son even a second longer. He would destroy himself, if he had to think one more time-

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

[daddysroyalwhore]

“I am granting you more than the debt that I owe.”

Reblogging allowed

[tinithebini]

Two guys for the price of one! What a deal! (one of them is severely traumatized and burdened with the impossible weight of the apocalypse) ((actually they both are, very badly))

[vampire-nyx]

Honestly really disappointing and upsetting that just after I found the pills that make you green comics the creator turned out to very much extremely hate people like me

[noblemalone]

we all down bad for forklift certified Ferris ig 🥲

[blazingstar24]

The gods basically failed at the ye old Spiderman adage. Great power, great responsibility.

Because truly at the end of it all, they can’t be both humanized and gods. They have too much power. Yes, you can sympathize with them but they aren’t allowed the same allowances as just a regular person. If a superhero chose to save their family over the world, they failed. Because they have a duty, they have power higher than themselves, higher than personal bonds.

And that’s what the gods fail at. The Raven Queen putting on the emotionless mask and saying they were children in their mortal forms is indicative of this. She knows what it means to chose godhood and she is failing at being this objective persona of death and fate. They are all failing at this. Erathis realized this. When what they call a squabble means war and destruction for everyone else, you cannot play the “we’re just a family” card. The power they hold is beyond that and they have a responsibility to use it wisely, to uphold the duty they promised they would.

And the Divine Gate is them choosing. Choosing to be gods or to be humanized. Pelor lamenting the idea of not being able to walk amongst mortals, Melora refusing to leave because she found this world. But ultimately, yes. They cannot walk amongst their creations because they are separate, they are not the same. There is a sheer difference in power that cannot be reconciled unless they give it up. And they can’t. They all choose godhood. They choose to be on a different level than mortals.

They chose power and have to deal with the responsibility.

[enjoythesilentworld]

yr fandom takes on five sentence fics… aka yr fandom fails to only write five sentences for said fics

[thatmooncake]

Dislike how whenever you talk even a little about your own opinions and experiences on a topic where you’re in the minority (even if you address it in the most neutral possible way) you inevitably get backlash from people in the majority group (whose experiences and opinions you are exposed to all the time with zero complaints from you) who are offended at you for making them feel bad as though your identity or experiences or preferences are somehow an attack on them or some kind of diss or a call to action. Like, no, you do you, but please just let me do me too and don’t try to force me to be silent about it 24/7 when I’m totally cool with you doing your thing. Not everything is about you.

[sunmisbf]

me bc every group under the sun except wayv gets to have concerts n tours

[oh-my-bindery]

I realized that actually nothing stops me from accepting a fanfic as a new canon as it is better than actual canon. Like both are fiction. One was written by a terf and the other by a person with empathy, who is most likely queer, with much better writing skill, plot and letting the two boys destined to be together help each other out and learn from one another, be there for one another.

Why would I read a terf book when I can read a gay book and replace the “canon” with it.