I may not be as impressive as the other wonderful women in this post, but I still have some muscle!
I reblogged this post yesterday or the day before thinking something along the lines of “wow these women are so gorgeous and ripped and I wish my muscles were that big but since then these pictures came into existence
and like maybe this post is EXACTLY where I belong.
Look at these strong ass women!
My poor gay heart can’t handle this. I am smol, throw me over your shoulder and carry me to Valhalla.
I’ve never seen women like me represented before!! This is me!
So I was rereading Harry Potter, when I came across this and thought- what if instead of Cedric Diggory, Cassius Warrington had been chosen to compete in the Triwizard Tournament?
Imagine Dumbledore calling out the name of the Hogwarts champion and it isn’t a Gryffindor, or a Ravenclaw, or even a Hufflepuff, but it’s a Slytherin. A student from a House most people hate.
Imagine Cassius Warrington getting up, and three out of four Houses are booing at him and shouting things like “NO!” or, “We can’t have a Slytherin champion!” or demanding a retry. But he’s a Slytherin- he’s been dealing with this shit since he got sorted, so he keeps his head high and joins the other champions.
Imagine Harry trying to catch Warrington alone because he doesn’t really want to associate with Slytherins (plus Malfoy has this tendency of being around the guy ALL THE TIME since he got chosen), but at the same time he’s also fair enough not to want him to walk into the first task unprepared.
Imagine Warrington walking over to Harry a few months later, and Ron and Hermione both jump into a protective stance, wands out, but instead of attacking Harry he just tells him to stick the egg underwater. (Because Slytherins don’t forget those who helped them out).
Imagine Warrington and Harry helping each other out in the labyrinth.
Imagine Harry being devastated when Peter kills Warrington- because Voldemort doesn’t care what house they’re form, a spare is a spare.
Imagine the uproar that causes among the Slytherins, because some of their parents really are Death Eaters and they know what really happened.
Imagine Slytherins fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts and shouting “This is for Cassius!”
Imagine Harry returning with Warrington’s body, and the crowd realizes what’s happened, but Warrington’s parents don’t show up. There’s no one to mourn him, to cradle him in their arms and cry for their son. The Slytherins know why. His parents were Death Eaters, too.
Imagine Slytherins reaching out, asking for help from classmates from other houses. They’re terrified, truly terrified because the being their parents claimed would never hurt them because they’re pureblood, they realize that he does not care.
Imagine Slytherins in the 5th book sneaking off to join Dumbledore’s Army, to learn more about who Voldemort is without their parents acting as a filter.
Imagine the shock when they’re told what he’s really done.
Imagine that a few talented Slytherins went with Harry and the others into the Ministry of Magic. The others are a bit wary but they prove themselves as friends.
Imagine them being confronted by Lucius Malfoy in the the Hall of Prophecy, and when the Death Eaters descend, they know that any one of them could be their parents.
Imagine the shocked gasp of a Death Eater as they realize their own child, a pureblood, is standing defiantly with Harry Potter. They choke back a cry. They can’t let their child know that they were about to duel to the death.
Imagine a DA Slytherin facing off against their own Death Eater parent. That they make the decision to let their child defeat them, because in that moment, they realize that they love their child more than they fear Voldemort. They go down, mask unveiled, and the Slytherin kid has to be dragged from the fight before he gets killed.
Imagine Book 6 Slytherins getting more friendly and cooperative with the other houses. Two years of Voldemort terrorizing the muggle and Wizarding world, two years where their parents just up and leave some days, cringing from the pain in their arm, two years after the death of the first Slytherin pureblood, Cassius Warrington, killed by Voldemort’s right-hand man, and they’re slowly hitting the breaking point.
Imagine Slytherin kids keeping tabs on their parents, sending the information to Harry, who shares it with the Order of the Phoenix, and hoping that their parents won’t be killed.
Imagine Book 7 Slytherins low-key rebelling against the new oppressive Hogwarts staff.
Imagine the final siege on Hogwarts, where Slytherins stand proudly by their fellow houses, knowing full-well they could be fighting their own parents. Some Slytherins know their parents were in the fighting. They hope to find them first and sneak them away. Their fellow students understand. Professor McGonagall allows 7th Year Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson, to duel a death eater in her stead; her father is under that veil. She knows it.
Imagine the aftermath of the battle; every house suffered loses. Slytherin students crying over the deaths of friends they made in every house.
Imagine
a Cassius Warrington statue made in his honor, the first Slytherin to fight and die nobly with Harry Potter, the boy who lived, in the face of ultimate evil. He was a true Slytherin, and it’s in his name that Slytherin children and their families have cut all ties with the Death Eaters, denounced Voldemort, and are finally living in peace.
Imagine a story in which Harry wasn’t in love with his fellow champion’s girlfriend, but after her boyfriend’s death just hugs her so long, so hard, and says “he wanted to win for you. You should know–you should know he won, he did it for you” and gives her the best hug and shoulder he knows how to be because her parents aren’t there either and she must know why.
Imagine Harry staring over her head at everyone else until Hermione steps up–it doesn’t take long, but it takes long enough that when she does all eyes are on her as a source of motion–and says “we’re never going to forget this. They’re not going to get away with it” and the girlfriend just latches onto Hermione and everyone is in wands-out stance convinced she’s about to attack the shit out of Hermione, and then the girlfriend stares into her eyes and says “do you promise me” and Hermione just gives her this super-firm nod and says “I promise” and the girlfriend just collapses on her, sobbing.
Imagine Dumbledore trying to give some flowery speech about inter-wizard solidarity while glossing over why, because Slytherins have always been a touchy subject, and Ron gets to his feet and says “Professor, I need to say something important” and Dumbledore is so surprised he just cedes the floor, and Ron–after that awkward moment when he realizes everyone is staring at him–says he didn’t know Warrington particularly, but he knows how Warrington and Harry played. That each was always cheering on the other. Both wanted to win, but neither was willing to undercut the other by underhanded means. He finishes up saying “I think–I think it’s important everyone should know he died being what a champion should be. Because he could have abandoned Harry and instead he stood up with him to play the game the honest way, and he died for it. And–and Slytherin House should be proud, and we should all be proud, because Warrington was a good bloke.” He sits back down all flustered because he didn’t actually stand up meaning to make a speech. And then Pansy Parkinson stands up before Dumbledore can take back control of the room and says “I want to tell Weasley thank you.” And all of Slytherin House raises a glass–to Warrington, to Weasley, to Potter–and the other houses follow suit. Many years later, Wizarding scholars will say that was the moment Voldemort truly lost.
Imagine later that summer. Harry gets several owls on his birthday, all unsigned. The birds are plump and pretentious and well-cared-for. He will never know which Slytherins sent him their treasures: parchments with hexes developed by the Death Eaters; a strange locket that will only open if he whispers a special spell but that always shows him the picture he most needs to see; a page torn from a potions book that, brewed properly, will allow him extra time to summon a Patronus by giving him a few crucial seconds not just of happiness but of bliss. It doesn’t matter. Harry knows these gifts not as birthday gifts but for what they really are, and he treasures the locket and copies out the potion to send to Hermione and Mrs. Weasley, and when first summoned by the Order of the Phoenix he marches straight up to Dumbledore with the hexes and says “I can’t tell you where I got these, Professor. But they’re in use by the Death Eaters and I think you should have them.” Months later, Sirius will recognize the spell Bellatrix shoots at him, and will dive out of the way just in the nick of time.
The final battle. Everyone is there. Sirius somehow ends up herding a group of Slytherins. They all stare at him and he at them, across a centuries-old divide Voldemort has only succeeded in deepening. Then he remembers the hexes. Harry’s locket, now tucked under Sirius’ shirt because Harry’s friends are with him in this battle but most of Sirius’ are dead. The moment that happiness potion saved Remus’ life, his very soul. Snape’s final words to Harry, finally seen not as mockery but real true advice. What Harry said Voldemort said–his first words in his new form. They are kids, and they are sharing the same kind of hurt he once wouldn’t admit to, watching his mother burn his name off the family tree. “When we go in there, it’s going to be hell,” he tells the Slytherins. “Some of you are probably going to die. I might go down too, and if I do I want your best curser in the front. But I want you all to remember one thing. There are no spares.” Later retellings of the battle never fail to mention the moment a group of angry, screaming teens burst into the Great Hall, wearing their green and silver as the badge of honor it should be, shouting NO SPARES, NO SPARES at the tops of their voices in between hexes and curses and the occasional physical punch. When Hermione is present, she always interrupts the storyteller to be sure everyone knows about the moment Blaise Zabini shoved her to the floor, dropped on top of her, fired off three curses in rapid succession and said “stay alive, Granger, we need you” before jumping back to his feet and vanishing into the melee–how, for all anyone knows, those may have been his last words, and she will not let his sacrifice go unnoted.
The aftermath. Malfoy holds out a hand to Sirius, badly injured on the floor. Sirius asks how Malfoy is willing to trust him. Malfoy nods at his chest. “You’ve got my godfather’s locket,” he says, and when Sirius and Harry finally speak after the battle Harry gives his full agreement to the very first thing out of Sirius’ mouth. They give the locket to Malfoy. Sirius grits his teeth and closes his eyes and opens them and says “He probably saved my life, giving Harry that.” He doesn’t say thank you. Malfoy hears it anyway.
The school reopens under a single banner: the four Houses united. The House rivalry is reduced to just that–a competition in fun–with those deep divides slowly healing to scars, and eventually away to nothing at all.
Imagine it.
When we stand, we stand united as one
And then there would be no hope for any uprising of evil, no users of the dark arts would dare to attack. There would be no neglected Slytherins turning to a darker cause. The unity Cassius Warrington’s death caused would come to save the world, time and time again, as would-be-Voldemorts find no followers. No children will ever have to fight their parents, or family. There would always be peace.
oh christ somebody added to it and now i’m a soggy emotional wreck
You’re comparing highly polished mainstream examples of iconic Japanese media to low budget, indie, and amateur american works. If you wanted to be fair the second image should look more like this:
The cultural exchange between American and Japanese art, particularly in animation, is hardly a one way streak.
Here we have Panty and Stocking, which boasts an artistic style that draws heavily upon modern western animation with it’s hard outlines and comical proportions. Shows like Dexter’s Laboratory barrow dynamic posses, dramatic framing, and highly expressive faces form anime and manga. Early anime and manga developed it’s distinct big eyes and childlike features by taking cues from western animation of the 20′s and 30′s
Betty Boop, in particular, was immensely popular in Japan. Her creators even made this short in appreciation of her Japanese fan-base.
WAIT I CAN ADD TO THIS ALREADY OBSCENELY LONG POST.
The entire Magical Girl genre is a big example of Western (primarily U.S.) and Japanese cultural exchange!
BeWitched (which was inspired by the 1940′s American movie “I Married a Witch”) was incredibly popular with young girls! This prompted the creation of the first popular Magical Girl Sally the Witch.
When the “Little Witch” Subgenre was big in the 70s the U.S. countered with animated Sabrina (from the Archie comics) which followed the same formula albeit with an older girl.
The 80s we start seeing more “flash of light” henshins/transformations being utilized along with the rise of the “Magical Idol” sub-genre in Japan it gave birth to shows like Creamy Mami and Magical Emi, in the U.S. it made way for Jem and the Holograms and She-Re Princess of Power (not a magical idol but still uses “flash of light” transformations). Jem was even a collab with U.S. doing the writing and Japan doing the animation!
The “Magical Warrior” sub-genre emerges in the 90s (even tho it has roots in the 70s with shows like Cutie Honey). This doesn’t catch on in America until the early 00′s with Atomic Betty (Canadian creation) and The Life and Times of Juniper Lee but we did see the start of it with the Canadian/Argentinian collab called Cyber Six. We also get W.I.T.C.H. and WINXClub in the early 00s from Italy which are both probably the most heavily influenced from Japan’s then current MG show structure.
Today we have Steven Universe, Bee and Puppycat, Star vs. the Forces of Evil, Lolirock, The Miraculous Ladybug, and if it gets picked up Twelve Forever which are all great Western MG shows that are influenced by Japan!
I could go on, I haven’t even scraped the ice berg on this! I have a whole hour panel I run on this subject called “Magical Girls from Around The World”
The point is the Magical Girl genre- and tbh animation in general- has been Japan and America (with some other Western countries thrown in) talking back and forth since the 60s. I leave you with probably the most direct influence:
can I add to this that Osamu Tezuka aka “the God of modern Manga”
was inspired by Bambi
into deciding to give big eyes to his drawings so that they would look more expresive. He also remained a big fan of a certain Jewish American animator until his death, oh yeah this guy
Walt Disney himself was also intrested in Tezuka’s work, with Astroboy being one of his favorites. A similar case exists now between John Lasseter (Pixar and Disney fame) and Hayao Miyasaki (Studio Ghibli) who are big fans of each other’s work.
Japan and America are less of a competition to those who work on it and more of an inspiration, it is very often the fans and not the creators who create rivalries between people that would be friends in real life.
SWEET JESUS HALLELUJAH THIS SITE CAN PRODUCE SOME GOOD I LOVE POSTS LIKE THESE.
catch of breath, choke, gulp, heave, inhale, pant, puff, snort, wheeze, huff, rasp, sharp intake of air, short of breath, struggle for breath, swallow, winded
“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there,” and another one appears. And dodges the downward sweep of claws, darting to the side, bouncing off the pentagram’s barriers, and tripping over the demon’s tail. “In the Vatican!” she cries out as she moves, using the State Farm Agent summoning charm to modify the situation as she was taught, and mentally thanking her trainer for expecting her to be fast enough to do it on the first incantation.
Most State Farm agents, when they run into trouble, have to get the customer to do the jingle a second time. That guy with the buffalo was lucky.
The magic takes hold, and she materializes in the aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, still holding the demon by the tail, in the middle of Sunday morning Mass. The music clatters unprofessionally to a halt as laypeople, deacons, priests, monks, nuns, and the Pope all turn their attention to the surprised demon whose fifth course of dinner has turned, unaccountably, into a visit to one of his least favorite places on Earth.
There is chanting in Latin, and vaguely cross-shaped gestures, and clouds of incense, and the demon vanishes in a puff of smoke, whether from the efforts of the clergy or of his own volition no one can say. The Agent doesn’t wait, fleeing towards the doors and escaping in the confusion.
She gains the exit and walks, purposefully, toward Rome proper; there, she ducks into the nearest alley. A burner cell phone comes out of one of the less-used pockets of her purse, and she dials a number from memory.
“Allstate,” says a smooth masculine voice after three rings.
“State Farm,” she answers. “I’m calling in a favor.”
“Yeah?” Interest. “What sort?”
As she talks she’s pulling out her smartphone, keying an app that was activated by the summoning, and pulling up the policyholder data that enabled the incantation to work.
“Insurance fraud,” she said, and can almost hear teeth sharpening on the other end of the line. She gives him the name, the address, the policy number. “Someone needs some mayhem.”
“That’s my name,” the man says.
She smiles. “Someone needs all the mayhem.”
He chuckles. Slow. Evil. Even with the echoes of demonic laughter ringing in her ears, she’s impressed. “Don’t worry,” he says, almost purring.
“You’re in good hands.”
OH MY FUCKING GOD I just read insurance commercial fan fiction and it was so good, bless you, I’m going to remember this day forever.
IT COMES BACK TO ME! *preens*
Part 2:
It’s not too long later—State Farm will occasionally loan out their teleportation trick, though Heaven help anyone who tries to use it to compete with them—and the man they call Mayhem is squatting next to a demonic circle with tacky half-dried blood under the leather soles of his shoes. Whoever dispelled the circle didn’t do a good job of it; the ring is still faintly smoldering and Mayhem has already singed his fingers on the air above it. He’s in the basement of a house with a State Farm homeowner’s policy, waiting for his partner in, erm, crime, to show up.
“Oh, good heavens.” He smiles at the sound of someone hopping delicately back, then carefully tiptoeing through the mess. Demons are messy eaters, and Flo’s wearing all white.
She steps gingerly over what might be most of a femur, looks from circle to Mayhem to—is that half a skull on the floor? “Freaky. Whaddaya need?”
“Tech,” he says. “State Farm knows the homeowner summoned them, but the Agent reported at least five people present. Maybe six. She isn’t sure, what with being busy evading a demon inside a very small space with zappy walls.”
Flo’s already got a—where does she get those from anyway? a cardboard box in her hands. Mayhem watches as she unfolds it, refolds it, and ends up with something significantly bigger, shaped like a satellite dish. He tries to watch how she does it; they may be working together, but they’re still rivals and his own higher-ups will be very interested in the latest whatever-it-does that Progressive has come up with.
A blue glow lights up the concave side. Mayhem is pretty sure cardboard doesn’t work that way. Flo makes a pleased sound, and starts rattling off names, addresses, policy numbers.
Impressed, Mayhem asks, “How the fuck?” If Progressive is developing some sort of superspy technology, well, that’s kind of ominous.
Flo grins and looks embarrassed. “I, ah, have occasional dealings with a couple guys from That Other Insurance Company. One of them knows someone who knows someone who works in quality control for the Infernal Realms, and it turns out Hell monitors all their summoned manifestations for safety purposes. His contact got me the list of who was there.”
Mayhem nods. He’s had occasional encounters That Other Insurance Company himself. Bland, grey-suited, timid men who are even worse spies than they are insurance agents. “Wait, Hell has a quality control department?”
“And all other forms of administration,” Flo says. “I understand it’s to generate maximum paperwork. It is a place of punishment, after all.”
Mayhem actually winces. “That’s definitely hellish. All right. The Agent who called me in is flying back from Italy and should meet us in a few hours. Should give us plenty of time to plan an attack. Are they all State Farm customers?”
“Just the one,” Flo replies, folding her toy up, and Mayhem watches with vague envy as it becomes a giant sword. “One Allstate, one Progressive, one Geico, two Farmers. We gonna invite anyone else to the party?” She hopes so. Mayhem’s precision strikes on any sort of insurance fraud perpetrators are the stuff of legend, and the Farmers guys would bring in enough absurdity to make it a work of art.
Mayhem’s grin is something that ought to haunt her nightmares. Instead, she finds herself matching it. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s.”
Part 3:
The sun is just a
suggestion behind the horizon, but the morning traffic jam is already
clogging up the freeways by the time Mayhem and Flo leave the scene
of the crime. Flo is driving, weaving her motorcycle expertly through
the sea of zombie commuters, and already some jackass in a
twenty-year-old Honda has rolled down his window to sneer at Mayhem
for riding behind a woman and in the process taken his eyes off the
road long enough to rear-end a state trooper.
By the time the sun
is peeking over the edge of the world, the freeway has been exchanged
for fast-food restaurants and traffic lights, and Mayhem is
contemplating commercials. “I’m another motorist doing something
you disapprove of” is warring with “I’m a state trooper,”
and Mayhem is leaning toward the latter because it might give him an
excuse to put on the uniform, when Flo erupts in giggles, jerking her
head subtly to the right. Mayhem finds what she’s looking at and
nearly pisses himself.
A van, the type that
practically screams “covert surveillance,” is parked in the
entrance to a Starbucks. Two men in bland gray suits and the sort of
ties that give insult to all intelligent life are sitting in the
front seat, coffee cups in hand. Mayhem sees the moment they set eyes
on Flo—they both jerk upwards in their seats as if jabbed with a
cattle prod—and then the moment where they realize who her
passenger is. The one in the driver’s seat boggles and reflexively
inhales half his coffee; the passenger reaches over to slap him on
the back, sees Mayhem, and spills his own beverage all over the
dashboard.
When Flo passes the
driveway she gives a little wave to the men, and they both dive for
cover. Mayhem would be surprised at the level of ineptitude That
Other Insurance Company lets their agents display, but he’s seen one
of them try to hide behind a stop sign. Surprise has long since left
the station, leaving amusement and a hint of second-hand
embarrassment which Mayhem relishes rather than winces at.
He’s jarred from his
thoughts as Flo hits the brakes, neatly avoiding the SUV that has
just moved into their lane without signaling on her way to the
upcoming right-turn lane. The driver diverts attention from her cell
phone long enough glare at Flo and stick a manicured middle finger in
their general direction, and turns to the road just in time to watch
as her car veers off the shoulder and makes intimate congress with a
speed limit sign. And then the flashing lights come on from somewhere
behind them and Mayhem’s faith in humanity is restored.
He revises. “I’m
a middle-management commuter on a cell phone.”
Flo pulls over to
let the cop car pass, and Mayhem sneaks a look back at the van. God
have mercy, the one in the passenger seat has binoculars.
“Shall
we lose them or let them follow us?” Flo’s voice interrupts
his giggle-fit.
No
question. Not like they’re a threat. “Let’s
keep ‘em. They’re entertaining.”
Flo
merges back into traffic and
signals a move to the left
lane. Since the lady in the
SUV is still in view, glaring up at them as the police officer steps
up to her window,
Mayhem is extra gratified that she waits five whole blinks before
merging into the next lane. It’s doubtless for the benefit of their
pursuers, who otherwise might manage to keep with them if Mayhem
draws a map and passes it to them at a stoplight, but his black
and petty heart rejoices anyway.
It
takes them awhile to get to the suburban park where Mayhem has
arranged to meet the State Farm agent who called him in. Or rather,
it takes them awhile to get there without losing their inept
pursuers; twice, Flo has to double back and be found again, and once
the van gets stuck behind a railroad crossing and Flo and Mayhem have
to stop and pick up a box of
donuts in order to still be
there when the train finishes blocking the road.
The park is a lovely little
spot complete with playground equipment and a little waterfall, as
completely removed from this business with demons and human sacrifice
as a person could want. There’s one car in the lot already, a rental,
and a figure in red shirt and khaki skirt standing beside it.
“Is
that the Agent?” Flo asks, and Mayhem nods. The woman is short,
dark, curvy—very pretty—and the two guys from That Other are in
serious danger of twisting their heads off their shoulders as they
drive past. Whether it’s for
that reason, or because there’s now three insurance companies having
a little meeting in a city park like some exceedingly bad spy
thriller, Mayhem isn’t sure.
Flo
parks the motorcycle and goes up to introduce herself; Mayhem stays
put and watches the van make an awkward U-turn in the middle of the
road and come back. The State
Farm agent walks up to Mayhem and offers a hand, and he is distracted
from the spectacle by a warm-toned “A pleasure to meet you” and a
gaze and smile as predatory as a shark’s. It’s
enough to distract his attention well and properly. This
is the person to whom he’s promised vengeance, and this is the face
of a person who has fought and outsmarted a demon.
Damn,
he’s glad he picked up the phone.
“Pleasure’s
all mine,” is what he
says, and then Flo lets out a mirthful squeak. Mayhem and the Agent
both follow her gaze, just in time to see the surveillance van leave
the road, bouncing over the curb and smashing
into a tree.
The
Agent is staring, her lips curving
into an amused smirk, and Mayhem
composes another commercial. “I’m stupid, and I come in
pairs.”
I’m so glad this has been updated. I love this story.
<3<3<3
Mayhem is perfect! I love him composing commercials in his head. And the Other Insurance Company was just adorable.
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