Why can't my brain pick if it finds doms or subs hotter? Like, on the one hand, I want to call them a good little girl. On the other hand, I want to be owned and not have a single thought
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life has been lifein’ haven’t been posting for a while but hopefully i’ll have stuff to post soon.
without getting into the full rollercoaster of misery, health problems abound in my loved ones and every year for the last 3 years we’ve lost at least one family member. my gramma Rosezina died on July 1st after 83 years of being A Problem. her funeral was on the 8th during a day so hot that we couldn’t be at the graveside for more than a few minutes, fitting weather for a woman nicknamed Hot for her good looks and spicy temper. i loved her very much, i love her very much, and the emotional strain of everything that came after the Big Stroke fucked me up a little bit.
here’s one of my favorite stories about her, stop me if you’ve heard this one:
my gramma was schizophrenic, a fact i didn’t figure out until i was told by a family member at some time during my preteen or early teen years because the way schizophrenia was depicted on tv or movies was so different from what she was. she was an amazing quilter, gardener, cook, baker (i’ll never have a caramel cake that rivals hers), and general gold star deep country grandmother who was always sweet to me, her first born granddaughter, even when she stopped remembering who i was exactly in her later years.
also, she never liked being told what to do.
also, also, she hung out with the devil for a while.
she said he’d just show up sometimes, the most beautiful, angelic, enchanting man you ever did see. he’d come to her when she was feeling overwhelmed, upset, or lonely, and offered words of comfort and a gentle listening ear. she had a hard life, and that comfort was very valuable to her even if it was coming from the devil, so over time he became her friend and she trusted him right up until the day he told her to kill her kids and free herself from all the problems constantly weighing her down.
need i remind you, she did. not. like. being told what to do. (especially when the thing she’s being told to do is murdering her own children)
so of course, she told all her kids to walk up the road to my great gramma’s house, and when they were gone Hot dragged the couch the devil was sitting on outside into the front yard and set it on fire with him sitting on it.
from what i was told he seemed very irritated but didn’t get up as she stared him down and watched him burn.
afterwards some other family members put the fire out and she returned to her chores like nothing happened. as far as i know the devil never talked to her again.
and that’s why i grew up knowing that the, ‘the devil made me do it’ defense is some bullshit. if the devil is real he can’t make you do shit. he flounces off if told no (and set on fire) once.
weak bitch.
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“jaime did it mostly for self preservation” “he did it bc he was ordered to kill his father” are not only blatantly incorrect and borderline illiterate reads of what is in the text but idk why people find it unfathomable that someone like jaime would want to prevent thousands of people from violently burning alive. like it is not actually a difficult moral equation which is why it is at the center of jaime’s arc and his relationship to his society because he realizes that the ethical constructs of westeros seem to be in opposition to this very obvious moral choice as seen by how the situation could even escalate to the point that it does through the enablement of the tyrant by the respected institution of the kingsguard and the uncritical upholding of the honor system over an actual coherent moral code. same with the scorn he receives for killing what everybody acknowledges as an objectively horrid tyrant who harmed innocents and violated law that knights are also sworn to protect and uphold and actually contradict by not acting against.
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I love the trope where men can't control their strength. Like you ask könig to open a jar for you, he takes the jar with one hand so excited to be useful and show off his strength, and he breaks it. Jar shatters in hand before he gets the chance to open it, glass digging in hand as it bleeds. You just stare up at him in confusion, pickle jucie all over the floor. He's happy, though, cause you patch him up later
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