#no one is going to deny her that

[softquietsteadylove]

For the Thenamesh Doctor AU:

Thena looses unexpectedly a patient! And the only one who she needs is our beloved Gil

"No."

"Thena."

"No!" she snarls, fighting as Kingo tries to pull her to her feet--off the patient she's been trying to get back for nearly ten minutes. "He was fine!"

"T, come on," he says gently, reaching for her again.

"Dammit," she hisses, watching the colour of her patient's skin just get worse and worse. Some hair slips into her field of vision. "Check his eyes."

Ajak obeys, kneeling down and pulling his eyelids up. Completely bloodshot and nonresponsive--it's hemorrhagic shock, for sure. Ajak gives her a look, "Thena."

"Fuck!" she leans back, arms burning, lungs ice cold. She looks at her patient, to Ajak and Kingo and a few others gathered around. She looks at the clock, "time of death, 12:37."

The crowd parts for her, in no rush to try and get in the way of her temper. She snaps her gloves off and bins them as she storms through the hallways.

He was just a man in for a scare--a little murmur in his pacemaker that made his wife worry. He was nice; they talked about how he met his wife and how to make the best grilled cheese. He was a sweet man.

Thena walks into the on-call room and throws the door closed behind her. She runs her hands over her hair, pushing back the piece that's escaped. "Out."

The door never was able to close, stopped by a foot and letting in one other person who closed it gently. "Hey."

"Out, Gil," she repeats, but it has no real bite to it. She's not very good at snapping at him for real.

He already knows, whether it's from passing it in the hallway or just by looking at her. But he walks over to her, already poised to take her into his arms, "c'mere."

Thena just barely lets him pull her against him. She's stiff, at first, still trying to hold it in. She's not exactly done her shift, and they're going to come and get her any minute, she's sure.

"I've got you," Gil whispers as he encircles her in his arms and presses his cheek to the top of her head.

Thena turns her head, letting herself bury her face in his chest. He's so warm, and so soft, and he smells more like home than her apartment ever could.

Gil whispers sweet nothings as she breaks down in his arms, pressing her sobs into his chest. He rubs her back as she trembles against him. She's been doing this for a long time, she's no stranger to what this work is like. But if she's taking it this hard, then she actually liked the guy. Poor thing.

Thena turns her head against him, just enough to breathe. Her eyes sting and she can't see shit. Her breathing is erratic and she feels like she's freezing cold. Gil wraps his hoodie around her with his hands in the pockets. "It's not fair."

"It's not."

"He came in to be cautious," she snivels, wrapping her arms around the back of him and clutching at his shirt. He's so warm. "He came in so his wife wouldn't worry--it's not fair."

"I know."

She's done trying to reason it out. It's never going to get less unfair. She sighs, letting out whatever she has left in the tank.

Gil kisses the top of her head, swaying them faintly on their feet, "I'm sorry, Thena."

She closes her eyes, trying to let Gil's heartbeat drown out reality. "I have to call his wife."

"I know." That part is always the hardest. Harder than even losing them, trying to resuscitate their poor hearts. "Let me go with you."

"No," she practically whines as she pulls away from him. Back into the cold waters of reality she goes, wrapping her arms around herself. Gil is so warm, and the usually ambient hospital feels like the tundra to her now. "I should do it alone."

"You don't have to, though."

Thena lifts her head just enough to look at him. Neither of them is a stranger to hard days. He's also had his days when he wonders what they could have done differently--a single step they could have taken that would have kept someone alive.

"Hey," he whispers, leaning down and pressing a kiss at the corner of her lips. "I'm here if you need me."

She nods. She can't say anything now--talking requires thinking, and she needs all her autopilot skills to get through the rest of the next five hours.

Gil gives her shoulder one last squeeze before heading out into the hall. "Uh... "

The chill she was feeling sinks even deeper into her bones. Thena walks to his side, having already guessed what he was seeing.

The patient's wife is here, holding a sandwich and a bottle of water and weeping. This couldn't get worse. Thena squeezes past Gil and walks toward the poor woman, refusing to perceive the tears in her eyes. "Missus Langford?"

"Wh-Where's-"

"Why don't we sit down?"

Thena looks up as Gil guides the woman towards the far corner of the waiting area. It's not ideal, but they don't want her on her feet when she gets the news. She should have known he wasn't going to let her do this alone.

"Is everything okay?" the poor woman looks between them desperately.

Thena tries to get it out--she really does. But the woman takes one look at her face and crumbles into tears. "I-I'm so sorry, Missus Langford. Y-Your husband...he suffered a blood clot. He-"

"No," the woman sobs, her face contorting as grief takes her in its arms. "No, please!"

Thena's throat clamps tight. The smell of the homemade grilled cheese reaches her nose and she wants to throw up.

Gil leans over from his seat on the other side of her, "I'm sorry, Missus Langford. We did all we could, but I'm afraid...your husband passed very quickly."

"No!"

Thena turns away as Gil rubs the poor woman's arm. He's the better person for the job, anyway. She's not that good at comforting people. He looks at her and she swipes her tears away. The families can never see you break--if you can get a single thing right, it's don't let them see you break. She sniffles, "he was a very sweet man, Missus Langford. He told me all about you."

"H-He did?"

Thena nods, blinking through more tears, letting them obscure her vision of the older woman. "I got to talk with him during his examination. He told me about how you met at the movies."

The woman just starts crying even harder. Thena flinches but when she looks at Gil he nods for her to keep going. She shakes her head abut he nods even harder. She sighs; he's the comforting expert.

"H-He, um, told me about using mayo for grilled cheeses," Thena mumbles, trying to ignore the wax wrapped sandwich in the woman's lap.

"They-" she sniffles and laughs all at once, "they were his favourite."

Thena manages a smile and nods at the woman.

"I, um," Missus Langford presses her palms to her eyes and collects her purse. "I-I have to call-"

"Take all the time you need," Gil assures the woman in one fell swoop, still holding her shoulder and placing his other hand on her wrist. "I can show you to him, and the hospital will help you make arrangements, okay?"

"O-Okay," she nods as Gil guides her gently to her feet. She holds up the sandwich and water, "um-"

"It's okay," Gil smiles, gently patting her hands to deposit them back in her purse. "You'll need your strength. You should hold onto them."

Thena walks behind them, happy to fall into the background of things. Her feet squeak and drag as they guide the woman to her husband. "Missus Langford, if you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask, okay?"

The sweet woman nods at her, fresh tears coming into her eyes. They rise in Thena's as well, but the woman shakes her head. "You go, dear. I know you did everything you could for him."

Thena really feels like she could throw up.

"Someone will come in to ask how you want to proceed, Missus Langford," Gil steps in again, with that soft voice of his. "No one will rush you."

She nods her thanks to them again before moving to her husband's side behind the curtain. It happened so suddenly they don't even have a private room for her to do her grieving.

Gil plants his hand on Thena's shoulder as they walk away. "Hey."

She nods, swiping at her tears yet again. She doesn't think she'll ever be able to eat a grilled cheese sandwich again. She looks up as Gil threads her arms through his hoodie. It's nice and warm, at least. "You'll need it."

"I'm warm enough." He certainly is. He zips it up and even rolls the sleeves up for her. It's not exactly professional, but no one is going to dare to tell her that. "This poor old thing--might be time for a new one."

Thena subconsciously clings to it at the thought.

Gil kisses her forehead. "This one's all yours, baby."

She sighs. They have work to do. Mister Langford is going to be one of many patients tonight. And it's her job to make sure there are no more Missus Langfords so long as she can help it. "Thanks."

He nuzzles her cheek and kisses her temple, "always."

"See you after?" she asks in a small voice, her hand trailing against his until their fingers are clinging to each other.

He gives her a smile that helps her fight the insufferable cold of the night, "I'll find you."

He always does.

[thebaldursmouthgazette]

I’m sure Dumat being defeated the same year andraste was born means nothing

I’m sure this has nothing to do with the fact that andrastes mother was part of a tribe who helped the grey wardens fight and defeat dumat the same year she was born, meaning that she could have been a fetus affected by the taint in the proximity of a dying arch demon

And the fact that nobody knows which grey warden killed dumat, as seven wardens died from injuries from his death throes, and therefore we cannot actually identify a warden who absorbed his soul, means nothing

And I’m sure it is a complete coincidence that andraste had dreams and visions of the being later referred to as the maker her whole life, and behaved strangely, talking about hearing lost voices and seeing strange auras. That absolutely doesn’t sound like anyone else we know

[bleakbluejay]

you motherfuckers have no concept of what "land back" or "decolonize" even mean. you're too busy demonizing entire groups of people, terrified, shitting yourselves, that they'll do even half of the horrors to you that you've done to them for decades or centuries. this shit comes off as hella racist for real. you hate arabs so much. you hate first nations people so much. you hate black people so much. even if you sympathize with them, you can't fucking bear the idea of them gaining freedom, independence, autonomy, safety, because you're so, so scared they'll hurt you back and cause chaos in the streets. these same people who just want to rebuild. who just want to go home. who just want to see their families again. who just want food. who just want medical care. who just want dry, warm shelter. you're so focused on the ideas of colonization, of "us vs. them", of one people displacing the other for a state to exist, that you cannot comprehend coexistence, and your only idea of peace is if an entire group of people were just gone and dead.

grow the fuck up. for the love of GOD, grow the fuck up.

[nataliescatorccio]

#annabeth confronting the deep-rooted fear of disappointing her mother by asking her for help for percy's sake

[faeriekit]

The Foster Mother

Now on ao3 and VHS release

There was, supposedly, someone waiting for him in the green sitting room.

“…Why?” Tim asked. Most of the usual suspects had already come by to give their “condolences”—former Drakes Industries investors, curious about the newly orphaned heir; fellow socialites, once again flocking in to give and receive sympathies for their “close friends, the Drakes”; gawkers come to see what they could scavenge off of a dead family’s home, never mind that their child was alive.

“She claims to know you, Master Tim,” Alfred offered, kettle in his hand. He spent a moment deciding between different two canisters of tea; a sign of possibly difficult future conversation. “Her interest in your father's estate seemed quite…minimal.”

…Alright.

Tim was still in his formalwear. Dissolving Drake Industries would take at least another year, and plenty of future hours cementing the future home of certain resources in their dissolution, but the outfit probably was more appropriate for whatever oncoming conversation that was about to ensue than his planned change into Dick’s old hoodie and board shorts.

Okay. Tim steeled himself. The self-determination…mostly worked. Whatever. He trudged up into the green sitting room from the kitchen with his usual introduction ready on his tongue.

And then Tim walked into the room.

And then Jazzy was there.

*

Tim had been three, and Miss Jasmine had been his had been his third nanny. He’d outgrown the wetnurse early on, and his second nanny had been dismissed, so although Miss Jasmine was the third nanny, she was first nanny Tim could consciously remember.

She’d had red hair. She’d been very gentle with him.

She got him up in the morning and put him to bed at night; for the first time, there had been someone who sat with him until he was asleep, reading all sorts of books his parents had left to engage him with as an early genius. Then, when those were over and done as promised to his parents, they got unauthorized books from the library: silly books with made-up words, dinosaur books, books about teddy bears and adventures around the world.

Tim hadn’t been allowed to travel the world. Tim hadn’t been allowed a teddy bear. His parents had thought it would encourage undue attachment.

(It had been the same reason he’d never been given a pacifier.)

Miss Jazz had given him a knitted bunny. She’d said her dad had made it especially for him.

The toy’s name was Bunny and Tim remembered him being very soft.

She didn’t smile all the time, but smiles were rewards that were easy to earn. He finished his meal and she smiled. He finished an educational puzzle and she smiled. He was quiet all through her phone call and she smiled, and answered all his questions once she was done.

Jazzy had been the first person in his life who was there all the time. She’d kissed his forehead after the bath and kissed his scraped knees; she’d carried him in his arms when he was tired and sometimes even when he wasn’t. His parents had wanted him to be independent, proactive, and not clingy, but Jazzy had been someone who he could run to from his bed when he’d had nightmares and someone he could cuddle on her lap with when he’d cried.

She was gone when he was seven. He didn’t remember why. His parents had probably never told him, but still; he'd assumed he'd have found out why eventually.

Jazzy looked the same right now as she looked in Tim’s memories, although she was likely no longer a college student at a nannying gig. Her red hair was pulled into a high bun, her dress modest and conservative from her neck to her ankles. There was a backpack beside her foot. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, on the high-backed loveseat in the green sitting room.

She looked up when he came in.

Tim. Stopped in his tracks.

It didn’t matter. Jazzy—Miss Jasmine stood up as soon as she saw him, eyes alight with worry. Foggy memories were swimming to the forefront of Tim’s brain. He couldn’t move.

“Tim?” Ja—Miss Jasmine asked, teal eyes raking over his frame. Tim froze where he was. He didn’t move, wide-eyed and terrified for no reason at all when Miss Jasmine got closer to him, at a distance that was more appropriate for a conversation.

She stood there. Watching him. It felt like his mother had just come home from her trips with Dad, and a ghost of old terror wafted through him as he waited for her to decide he’d done something wrong. Her voice got softer. Her eyes got softer. Why was Tim feeling so wrong-footed?? It was only a former staff person!

“Tim?” her voice was so gentle. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—“

“M’s Jazz,” Tim croaked. Which. Wasn’t the level of formality he’d been going for, but better than Jazzy. He wasn’t a toddler anymore.

Miss Jasmine was so tall—honestly, was she taller than Bruce? She’d seemed insurmountable as a child; he hadn’t expected her height to truly be so statuesque as an adult.

(Or. Well. Almost an adult.)

She didn’t quite kneel down, but she did stoop lower, as if Tim was small and he needed to be on equal footing in order to have a serious conversation.

He could see all her freckles. Tim swallowed. It was too familiar. Everything about her was too familiar.

“You’re so big now,” Jazzy whispered, looking at his hair, his suit, his polished shoes. He didn’t feel it. “Oh, you’ve grown up so well.”

Thanks, Tim almost said. Something stopped him—something thick in his throat, to impassable to break through.

“I—“ he tried. He coughed. “Why…you… You’re here?”

Jazzy threw him an incredulous look, and then an incredibly wry one. “Well,” she drawled a little too primly, in the way that Alfred occasionally made obvious statements, “I’d think it obvious that when one’s parents have passed away, that those who care about you might come to check and see if you’re alright.”

Which. That didn’t make sense. Jazzy hadn’t come back for any other reason; she hadn’t come back for his mother’s funeral, nor when his father was injured publicly by a villain. Why start now?

“And,” Jazz added, seeing his visual confusion and distrust, “Your parents can’t exactly threaten me with a kidnapping charge for visiting you when they’re dead.” Pause. “Which I am sorry about. My condolences.”

Which. Whiplash. What a statement.

“Uh,” said Tim, who was rapidly losing control over the situation.

Jazzy stood again, and went back to her seat; she didn’t set herself down, though, as she only stooped to grab her backpack. “I am sorry for being unable to visit, although I really wanted to; you were at a very vulnerable age and had already moved into a class a year above you, and your parents should have been less hasty about replacing your main caretaker. The assassination attempts were unwarranted, but they did drive the point home that attempting contact was perhaps discouraged.”

“What,” said Tim. “Assassin what.”

“They were ninjas,” Jazzy offered, as if that was an answer. “Except the last one, which was a former marine. The point is that I do care about you, and wanted to ask if you had any idea where you’re going now that your parents are no longer…available guardians.”

Tim’s mouth opened. It closed.

Jazzy waited patiently.

“…How have you been?” Tim tried, resorting to a part of the script they hadn’t gone through yet.

Jazzy’s laugh was tired, but no less real. It was nothing like listening to his parents titter politely; he didn’t think Jazzy would even know how to fake a laugh. “Well, my brother told me that my former bosses had died, which was somewhat stressful. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy: I live with my brother and worked with him for the last few years. I was going to pursue medicine, but…well. The assassination attempts made it hard to interview for scholarships. I suppose that I could return to that now,” Jazzy mused, attention now elsewhere. She pulled the backpack off the floor and up into her grip. She opened it, and flipped through its contents. “How are you doing? I know that Wayne Manor fosters, but your parents were always rather…hands off. I thought the difference in levels of attention might be overwhelming.”

It was. Tim should be surprised how clearly she sees through him—

—But Jazzy used to watch him stim for almost a full hour after school, twisting Bunny’s arms back and forth until he could calm down. Seeing other people all day had been too much for him. Coming home from his parents’ parties had been similarly stressful.

She’d never been mad at him for it. She held him while he talked and stimmed and talked and talked and talked, and brushed his hair sometimes, or if it was very late and he was very young, helped him brush his teeth through all the medieval execution facts he could name.

“It is a lot to get used to,” Tim agreed quietly. He didn’t want to be ungrateful. He didn’t want to let on anyone about his plan to leave.

He had an out. The papers had already been filed; there was an actor waiting to play his uncle for a custody battle, ready for the fight.

Tim was ready to up and go. It was no hardship to leave all the good things here; anything beat making Bruce stick his fingers into Tim any deeper than they already were, compromising the dynamic they’d already established.

It was for the best.

“I can imagine,” Jazzy sympathized easily. “And I wanted to offer—well. I know there’s probably a lot of choices available to you, but my brother and I recently moved back to Gotham proper for the time being. He’s teaching astronomy courses at the university and I’m filing paperwork for Arkham patients. It’s not so privileged a home, but it’s quieter, and more central in town.”

…Tim’s heart skipped.

He. He couldn’t stop staring. Jazzy stared back at him, quiet and sure. Sure of what, Tim had no idea, but…

Why? Why would she want Tim? There was no way she would be able to get to his trust fund without his help, and he for sure knew better than to enable her ability to leech from him. The last time she’d known him, Tim had been a snot-nosed kid who cried all the time and couldn’t be normal for twenty consecutive minutes. His parents couldn’t even stand to be on the same hemisphere as him as a child. What appeal did this have for her?? What could having a teenager with severe baggage living in her house do for her?

And it’s not like there was any chance she knew he was Robin!

“Oh,” Jazzy suddenly interrupted. “I brought these for you, by the way. Your parents had tossed them out at various points; I’ve washed them since, of course.”

She handed him the backpack by the handle.

…Tim peeked inside.

On top was Bunny, still a washed-out faded sort of pink. He looked as fresh as he had the day when Tim’s parents had ”cleaned out” Tim’s nursery—in other words, a faded, a little gray, and slightly discolored from an old spaghetti stain. His button eyes were big and blue.

And beneath him were books that hadn’t passed his father’s muster as appropriately masculine reading material: The Velveteen Rabbit, with the cover a little scarred from a fierce attack of wet wipes. There’s A Monster at the End of This Book, with a goofy-looking Muppet on the cover, gold spine beat up beyond belief. Art Tim’s teacher at the time must have laminated and sent home; Tim’s dorky, crayon cat proved he would never make it as an artist, but attached to it was a photograph of a grinning boy with a bowl cut and a missing tooth.

Tim stared. There’d been purple marker on his hands and face. His grin looked…really bad, actually, like as if he was baring his teeth because he didn’t know how to smile. There was no formal grace there. Nothing to show the neighbors, nothing worth framing to put into the line of sight of the investors in the office.

Jazzy had kept it and brought it home with her. Jazzy had fished it out of the trash, and brought it with her to give back to him in Gotham.

It was crinkled like it’d been folded, over and over again. Further down in the bag was a crumpled certificate dedicated to “Timmy Drake, for: knowing a lot about octopi”, and a baby blanket Tim didn’t even remember. It had rocket ships on it. It looked as if someone had cut into it with scissors, although it had been obviously and brightly mended with red embroidery floss later on.

Jazzy had only been his nanny until Tim was seven. She had simply been gone one night, and Mom and Dad had been home for ten nights after without help before giving in and hiring Mrs. McIlvane and Mrs. Edith. Ms. Edith had never been so…permissive…with Tim as Jazzy had been.

Tim swallowed. He carefully put everything back into the backpack, unsure if he even wanted to keep it or not. It wasn’t like he could leave it here; he’d be gone, ideally, before the week was out. There was no point in taking it with him if he only planned to live with a stranger until he was eighteen.

“J…” Tim tried. He cut himself off before he could get too informal without prompting. “Miss Jasmine—“

“Just Jazz,” Jazzy corrected politely.

“—Why are you here?” Tim asked, ignoring how she’d technically already answered. He didn’t believe her. “What made my parents fire you?”

Jazzy’s expression turned…soft. Tim couldn’t look at her. Something horrible was welling with it, and he didn’t know how to cope.

“I’m here because I care about you,” Jazz repeated, and knelt beside him. She looked up into his face, and took his hand. Tim didn’t know why. He was practically an adult—he didn’t need this!

“And I was fired because your Mother overheard you calling me ‘Mommy’ on accident when you were tired. I suppose she was insulted, although I’d never know why; it’s not like she was ever home to bond with you in the first place.”

Tim’s throat closed. He missed his mom. He missed waiting up for his parents’ flight home, seeing their headlights outside the window, and knowing they’d bring home gifts from overseas. He missed using Mom’s perfume, and knowing he’d used more of the bottle sitting on her dressed than she ever had, but that it still smelled like her. He missed hearing his Dad telling all sorts of adventure stories and promises through the phone to be home for the holidays, even if Tim knew there was every chance he’d find some other way to spend the time back in Gotham.

And there was some small child in him who missed Jazzy, who hugged him and walked him to the library and made him soup from a can instead of fancy dinners and, who’d never needed to be waited for in the first place.

Tim looked at Jazzy’s round, freckled face.

He swallowed.

Tim moved out before the end of the week, as expected.

[turtleblogatlast]

Big Mama must have lost some serious standing in the yokai underworld because it’s gotten apparent that she keeps being beaten by a small group of teenagers and the occasional rat man, and when it’s not them then she’s taking L’s from her own schemes working against her.

And in the ensuing power vacuum, the Hamatos accidentally become the most feared crime family known to all the big bads of the Hidden City.

After all, they’ve publicly outplayed Big Mama multiple times, a couple of them have taken out the heads of two of the most well known criminal organizations, one took out Heinous Green, two are responsible for the destruction of Witch Town, they have ties to both the infamous Baron Draxum and Captain Piel, they won the Doom Dome death race, they’re Battle Nexus Champions, they’ve displayed insane feats of power and defeated impossibly strong enemies, most of them have been to jail, and they regularly mingle with humans.

You can just imagine the notoriety they’d accumulate from word of mouth alone.

[erin-gilberts]

I have a firm belief that the only way Yellowjackets can end is with the death of each of the remaining survivors and [redacted] was just the first (second, really) of what will be all of them in time. "The wilderness" will reclaim them one by one because they weren't supposed to leave. But also they will be swallowed up by their own darkness in their refusal to acknowledge it and that will be the great tragedy of it. All of their deaths will be preventable, but inevitable in light of the cycles they keep on repeating.

[yashley]

Say something true!

[jadewritesficshere]

Steddie x female!reader thought 18+ only

Eddie blinks his eyes a couple of times to make sure he is actually seeing what he is seeing. He must be living in a nightmare.

You're laying back on one of the pool loungers. One leg dangling over the edge keeping your foot on the warm cement ground, the other spread over Steve's lap as he absently rubs his hand up and down it while he bitches to you about something from work. Your hand rubs up and down Steve's back in comfort. But that isn't the nightmare.

Your bright red bikini bottoms covering enough, but with your legs spread a bit more skin is shown then intended. Spread in such a way that makes Eddie want to just dive in. Get on his knees and worship you, rub his face over your mound as he licks and nips and sucks. Moan as the curly thatch of hair brushes against his face.

Except the curls of hair he is expecting to see peeking around your bikini are gone. Just smooth bare skin. And that isn't the only nightmare. Steve's chest is smooth like when he was in school on the swim team. Not a speck of that beautiful chest hair Eddie would curl into after getting hot and heavy. Not a single curl of the "love rug" he jokingly called it.

Eddie wants to weep. To throw himself down like a little kid and thrash his arms and legs around. Yeah, it's your body and you can do what you want, but he still is sad its gone. Eddie doesn't like change, and suddenly walking in to see both of his partners change something without any warning? Uncomfortable. It makes Eddie feel itchy.

Eddie can barely speak as he walks over and sits next to Steve. He doesn't respond to Steve's warm greeting. Doesn't respond to you asking how the day is. Just stares with big wet eyes at the sight in front of him. A pout on his lips.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, gently squeezing. Steve's brow furrowed in concern, your wide eyes blinking at him.

"Shaved?" Eddie asks in a quiet voice, eyes darting to Steve's chest and then your clothed pussy. Steve lets out a huff of laughter, "Fuck, thought something was wrong man." Eddie glares," It is."

[lagosbratzdoll]

This is a very very unfinished thought but I've been thinking a lot as I reread the books about how the women of House of the Dragon don't really get catharsis and how that'll likely be worse in S2. Say what you want about asoiaf but a number of named women there experience catharsis.

They kill their abusers (Lysa, Cersei, Dany). They regain some agency after a violation (Lysa, Cersei, Lady Stoneheart, Dany), and they refuse to forgive the people complicit in their subjugation (Lysa, Cersei, Dany, Lady Stoneheart, Jeyne Westerling).

Obviously, three or four isn't enough in such an expansive cast of characters but the point remains that they claw back their autonomy however they have to. They're allowed to be angry, bitter, unforgiving and cruel to their abusers in a way women in House of the Dragon just aren't allowed. They're allowed grief, grief that is violent and destructive.

The women of House of the Dragon don't get angry. They stand around and stare plaintively at the camera, they cry prettily, and they plead for peace and non-violence. They suffer and suffer and suffer and there's no relief.

[caitlynmeow]

Honestly the way I look at it all three daughters think they are Alcina’s favorite.

Bela: She’s the eldest and her mom’s helper. Alcina trusts her with big tasks and praises her a lot for it. She’s the only one who can do these things and the fact her mom trusts her and only her solidifies this believe.

Cassandra: Alcina spends A LOT of time with her. She knows all what’s happening with her, knows about her hobbies and interests and indulges her. Her mom trusts her abilities to the point where she lets her do things she normally doesn’t allow. But she only allows her to do it because she trusts her like that.

Daniela: To Alcina, Daniela never does anything wrong. Ever. She is her little angel who minds her own business, often staying in the library reading her books and not bothering anyone. She is harmless, and Alcina always tells her that she is special and to continue being herself. That one day she will grow as strong and capable as her sisters but for now she can continue doing what she loves.

It’s because of this that each one thinks she’s Alcina’s favorite. While in reality, Alcina loves them all the same. Each daughter has her merits and she focuses on that.

Oh, and one way to get Alcina livid is to mention ‘middle child syndrome’ and watch her explode in anger because her middle daughter is not neglected or overlooked. On the contrary, she pays more attention to her so that she doesn’t feel left out and it might have resulted in said daughter getting used to the excess attention thus feeding her dramatic streak.

[mrkanman]

the beast in slay the princess is beautiful and terrible but a completely different kind of beautiful than the other princesses. shes barely clinging to her humanity, her shape twisted and deformed into gnashing teeth and fearsome eyes. eyes that reflect light back at you in the dark. youre barely able to keep her from slaughtering you. the air is hot and humid, like youre trapped in the jungle. your voice changed from the original demo. no longer the Obsessed, the hunter seeking out his prized quarry, the knifes edge gleaming the same sheen as if it were the barrel of a gun. but now, you are the prey, the Hunted little bird keeping his ears pricked and eyes open, ready to flee from the oppressive queen of the jungle from bearing down on you.

slay the princess continues to be good.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

love thinking kipperlilly spends her afterlife looking for lucy in a familiar forest

[shayminlucario07]

It absolutely means EVERYTHING that the battle theme is named after one of Susie's abilities

[rolandkaros]

forever hilarious to me that tennis is promoted as this prestigious highbrow big-brain sport when most tennis fans these days are like. yeah this is my favorite player. yeah i don't know why they're like that. yes they are stupid. no i will not choose somebody else.

[puppyeared]

i feel like. theres designing a character with certain themes and motifs in mind, and then theres making a gijinka for the water bottle on my nightstand