#That Ubiquitous Pink

[russenoire]

i don't think the background art in mob psycho 100's anime adaptation gets nearly enough love. it's full of mundane objects depicted in the most exquisite watercolors.

like this electrical pole here. with its giant soup can-like transformer and attendant power lines against a cloudy twilight sky, all shot through with vibrant pink and lilac and creamy butter yellow.

not only does this painting–and it is a painting–bring new meaning to the phrase 'golden hour', it's still one of the most glorious things i've ever laid eyes on. and you might pass one of these utility poles every day without a second glance. since seeing this image? i haven't been able to.

this is a single frame of animation. there are hundreds of thousands more in this series, maybe just as beautiful. i wanted to call your attention to this one. just because.

it reminds me to pay attention.

to notice, and keep noticing, the beauty in ordinary things (and beings!).

[brothersinablackcar]

DOOOOOOOOD *hearts and stars in my eyes*

initiation

(the natural progression of last week's ww)

[cowboy-heart]

'The Femme ABCs'

made for a beloved friend (inspired by 'The Alpha-Butch Song' by Lesléa Newman) :)

(ID in read more!)

[ID: an original poem titled 'The Femme ABCs':

aggressive femme, always vigilant, black femme, ever so radiant.

charismatic femme, knows how to make them swoon, dorky femme, who laughs like a baboon.

ego femme, who knows his worth, funtime femme, all about the girth.

greying femme, showing off dazzling greys, hard-eyed femme, tattooed and hard to phase.

idiosyncratic femme, wearing every colour and pattern that exists, juvenile femme, never been kissed.

knightly femme, chivalrous and full of heart, loverboy femme, them and their sweetheart never part.

mister femme, dapper in a suit and tie, nervous femme, too shy to say hi.

old-school femme, a lifeline revered by others, pillow princess femme, a home to their lovers.

queen femme, a top who knows how to please, really fat femme, has everyone on their knees.

sisterly femme, preferring to kiss femme dolls, trans femme, fills the place with love and soul.

ubiquitous femme, patching up the wounds and bringing the meals, valentine femme, always donning pink and heels.

witty femme, full of brain and remarks, x-ray femme, knows how to make a butch spark.

yearning femme, lipstick marks on every letter, zany femme, his silly nature makes everyone feel better.

now I know my ABCs, which femme will be friends with me?

Poem ends. at the bottom, it is signed by the poet as 'Ren H.' end ID]

[foldingfittedsheets]

I made my first pride flag set in 2017, the cute little dragons. At the time there wasn’t an agreed upon lesbian flag going around. The movement around the current one started gaining traction in 2018 (at least on tumblr), which is when the trouble started for me.

The first time I heard there was a lesbian flag I did get a little excited. But when I saw it I was immediately turned off. It was so… pink. That didn’t look how I felt. It felt like society’s cute idea of lesbian colors, still being forced into cute pink skirts like I had been all my life. I would later learn it was pioneered as the Lipstick Lesbian Flag. The rainbow felt more like me.

While I was still mulling how I felt about it, the doxxing started. Despite the flags youth it had some rather extreme proponents. I’d get tagged and harassed for not having a lesbian flag. Bigger blogs would deride me as being lesbophobic, pushing me further from the label I’d liked best. I didn’t want to be a lesbian if it meant being associated with those people.

Many of the blogs targeting me were TERFs, linking the pinkness to an exclusion of men. That’s when it really started to bother me. Trans folk all share the same flag, regardless of gender despite very different experiences. Every other sexuality shared! Why were lesbians booting gay men out the door? Why wasn’t the movement for a homo flag?

Then I started finding other creators talking about it. The harassment and rabid fury if they didn’t carry lesbian flag merch. The lesbian flags didn’t sell but woe betide anyone for not offering them. Gay men have never swarmed my inbox demanding a flag. Gay men don’t mind sharing a rainbow- and I don’t either.

For a long time the lesbian flag became a trigger. I’d scan my notes and my heart would start pounding when someone would mention it. I was on edge waiting for more harassment and attacks. I’d tense up seeing it on profile pics, wary of who was using it.

It’s become ubiquitous over the past several years. It will never be my flag, but I accept that it’s around. Regardless of meanings assigned arbitrarily to the colors later, it’s just not for me. I love the rainbow, I love sharing it with everyone. I’m pretty certain I’ll never offer a lesbian flag in my shop. But I’ll always have a rainbow.

[linkemon]

 Once upon a dream (Silver x Reader)

Friendly reminder that English is not my first language. You can check my Masterlists both in English and Polish here. Consider supporting me on Ko-fi. You can also check out my commissions if you’re interested.

Other oneshots can be found here. For my TW headcanons, check here.

ꜱɪʟᴠᴇʀ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ᴡᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ, ᴅʀɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀɪɴᴛ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴏɴᴛᴏ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ. ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ɪᴅʏʟʟɪᴄ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴏꜰ ʟɪꜰᴇ ɪɴ ʙʀɪᴀʀ ᴠᴀʟʟᴇʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ [ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ] ʙʏ ʜɪꜱ ꜱɪᴅᴇ, ꜱɪʟᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴛʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱᴄᴀᴘᴇ — ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴡᴏᴠᴇɴ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜰʀᴀɢᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ. ᴀꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴠɪꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ʙʟᴜʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜰᴀɴᴛᴀꜱʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ, ʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜰꜰɪᴄᴜʟᴛ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʜᴀᴘᴘɪɴᴇꜱꜱ. ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴡʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟ?

ᴀᴅᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ:

𝟣. ᴏɴᴇꜱʜᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴏᴏᴋ 𝟩 (ᴍᴀɪɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴɪɴɢ).

Silver had been exploring dreams for so long that he could tell when he was in one in a matter of seconds. That familiar rush of wind, stirring the treetops. The thrill of excitement crawling across his skin like a forest beetle. The feeling of being a stranger, like a chrysalis that hadn't yet become a butterfly. He was in the right place but not quite. His body didn't seem to fit.

Funny thing was, he knew he'd probably barely remember anything when he woke up. Silver was a knight. He had a shield and a sword. First the wooden ones his dad had given him, then the real ones, forged from steel in Briar Valley. But he couldn't fight it. No amount of swinging his sword would make him chase away the dream. He had no control over his drifting into nothingness. He always woke up with the feeling that he was dreaming. He rarely could recall who or what was haunting his mind.

And yet, when he woke up in someone else's dreams, he knew what they were. Usually, he quickly learned whose dreams they were, although he could never choose himself. This time was no different. With one tiny difference. There was no dreaming person around him. He always felt it under his skin, like lazy streams of magic flowing through his fingers. The feeling had disappeared somewhere irretrievably and he felt uneasy.

— Slluuuurp — the little deer was running its tongue over his face.

Several birds tugged hard on his silver locks, forcing him to stand up. The blue-pink sky, speckled with cream-white clouds, changed into a forest landscape. The boy stood in a circle of speckled, red mushrooms, from which he was pushed by a family of hares.

He took a deep breath. The air smelled different than usual. It was clean. Cleaner than... What exactly? What did he want to compare it to? He tried to remember but the words refused to form in his head.

— Hoo-hoo! — the owl swooped over his head, missing the thick thorny bushes.

He carefully stepped under them and parted the branches of the trees. He should have guessed it when he saw the ubiquitous malachite green. Leaves like that only existed in Briar Valley. Only here did everything seem crystal clear and infused with magic.

A cottage appeared before his eyes. The same one he knew very well. Tucked between a rocky shelf and a huge oak tree. Whitewashed walls and a roof covered with golden straw. A water wheel, turning with a steady clatter, pouring cool water through itself. A tiny garden under green shutters. A winding, short path, on which he set foot out of habit. It was old and new at the same time. He couldn't shake the feeling that it should look a little older. After all, no one had visited it since... Since when? Why should it be neglected? After all, he lived in it. He shook his head. When he looked up, a familiar figure appeared on the threshold.

— Silver! — [Reader] waved her hand vigorously.

She seemed very happy to see him. He hesitantly returned the gesture.

He studied her figure. At the same time, so close to him and yet so... unfamiliar? She was rounder. Her face seemed a little older than he remembered. He blinked and the impression disappeared as quickly as he thought about it. She was wearing a white apron, speckled with what could have been sauce.

— You look somehow... different — the boy finished awkwardly.

— Not everyone can look perfect when they cook. Tomorrow's your turn. Let's see if you finish clean — the girl said. — Just don't cheat this time so we don't have to pick acorns out of the soup.

He grimaced at the memory. The squirrels weren't to blame. They were trying to help him. As a result, they ended up with plates full of floating treasures. They were hungry all evening but at least they could laugh about it.

— That's not what I meant. — Silver felt like the harder he tried, the harder it was to focus. — What I mean is... Where are we exactly? — It took a lot for him to get the question out.

— At home — the girl replied.

There was a look of incomprehension on her face.

— We're at my home in Briar Valley but why?

— We are in — the girl emphasized the word — our home. Silver, I know that there are various strange customs at court but leave such games to Sebek. Now help me prune the roses, please. — She handed him the pruning shears. — If Lilia finds out that we have neglected them, he will wring our heads the next time he visits.

Indeed. The boy didn't have much time. Ever since he was officially accepted as a knight of Malleus, he had been constantly busy. The ruler had done him a great favour by letting him return home after his duty hours. Usually, the honor guard was close by to respond to emergency calls if necessary. Fortunately, the king didn't mind, claiming that in times of peace it was unnecessary and Sebek made up for the zeal of two knights, so in the end, no one lost anything. His father would probably be happy to see him taking advantage of his free time and working around their beloved cottage.

Dad. His soothing smile, his funny jokes and his inedible food. He never tended roses. He didn’t have the time, the desire or the skill. He used a battle axe to cut down trees for firewood. He couldn’t care for flowers. Silver looked at the emerald roses twining in the yard. The thorns seemed to glow with a soft, greenish light. He wouldn’t grow something like that. He wouldn’t do it because…

— Father left. — He had the impression that this sentence changed something around him. As if for a moment the world stopped and the forest held its breath.

— Where to? — [Reader] asked, steadily trimming the stems.

Silver felt as if everything was getting mixed up. After all, he had seen him recently. He had only left on a diplomatic mission because the castle was boring in his opinion. So boring that he wanted to go...

— He went East.

— Oh yeah? He didn't mention it last time he was at dinner. What's got into his head at that age? Don't worry. You know Lilia. He'll be fine. He'll be back before you know it.

He won't. He for sure won't be back. It was going to be a very long trip. So long that it was worth throwing a farewell party for. In Diasomnia's dormitory. Smelling of sadness and regret. Casting a shadow in the pale green light cast by the candles burning above the huge fireplace.

— Why are we here? — Silver felt the question catch in his throat. For a split second, it seemed as if the rosebuds were staring accusingly at him.

— Silver, are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever? — [Reader] reached out and placed her hand on his forehead protectively but he firmly slapped it away.

— Answer me.

Resentment flashed across her face. He felt the urge to apologize for his behaviour and take back what he had said. They were the same eyes he loved so much, after all. He didn't want them to be sad because of him. Even if they radiated a strangely unusual glow. He had never seen greenish sparks dancing in them before.

— Fine. I don't know why you're asking such strange questions but okay. I'll answer you and then I'll get a medic from the city because I'm starting to think you hit your head — she sighed. — We're in Briar Valley, not far from the castle because your father gave us this cottage after the wedding. We figured it would be more convenient for you to work but at the same time we'd have some privacy, away from the court and...

— Marriage? — Silver swallowed hard. — We are married?

— Of course we are, silly. — She laughed nervously. — Oh? That was a real question? You're being serious — she said with horror. — Okay, let's do it like that. You sit at home and I'll get the doctor. Just don't get nervous, everything will be fine. — He wasn't sure who those words were aimed at more. Her or himself.

Of course they were married. After the NRC, they moved to Briar Valley. At first, they lived there separately as a couple. Then he proposed to her. The wedding was modest, surrounded only by their closest family. His forest friends assisted him. Dad agreed to lead [Reader]. She wore this funny, enchanted dress that they bought a few days before the ceremony. It was sometimes pink and sometimes blue. Everyone joked about what colour it actually was. He put a ring on her finger then. The same one he had had since he was a child. The last memento of his parents. It shone like an aurora's light . A light not seen anywhere else.

He glanced at the girl standing before him. Sure enough. She had it on her finger. It twinkled brightly as she bustled about, quickly packing her things into her bag for the trip. But if she had it, what was that jangling weight around Silver's neck? He tugged reflexively at the thin chain. The ring was still stuck at the end.

— We’re not even dating…— he said quietly.

— Excuse me? — [Reader] stopped packing for a moment.

— We're not dating — Silver repeated, louder. — I haven't even told you I'm in love with you yet. I was going to but then...

— You really need a doctor. I'll be back soon.

— This is a dream, isn't it? This is Meet me in Dream. All my loved ones are here but I can see everything I want most, so this is my dream. — Silver felt a lump growing in his throat. — I never wanted Dad to leave. Neither did Malleus. So now we're all asleep and we can't wake up. We're all lying on the floor in Diasomnia and this is all a beautiful lie.

— What are you talking about? — [Reader] laughed nervously.

— I'm so sorry but you're not real and I have to wake up...

The boy had the impression that the emerald roses had begun to grow. As if their stems had suddenly become thicker, trying to drown out the flower buds. The ominous green loomed more and more intensely on the thorns. It no longer resembled a calm malachite, now it took on the colour of a grotesque neon.

[Reader] was still talking about the doctor and had rushed out the door of the cottage. He instinctively went after her. He reached out for her but didn't really register whether he had managed to grab the familiar hand. It all cameas if through a fog. Very thick. Milky. Like the oatmeal that had been in front of him every morning for so many years.

Silver could have sworn that laughter appeared in his head on its own. It pierced his mind as if only he could hear it. He knew that voice. Deep and low. It was mocking him. Silver was a knight but he couldn't protect anyone. Not his lord, nor his family, nor his friends. Now Malleus was laughing at him. The heir to the throne had been giving him orders for a long time. He always agreed with them. Now Malleus was giving only one, which he refused to obey:

— Sleep.

One such simple word. Filled with magic and power. And yet it contained everything. Above all, a promise. What had sounded like a curse a moment ago was starting to look like a blessing. Because now Silver could have everything he wanted. Live the life he had dreamed of. If it had appeared in his head, then it had to be. After all, Malleus wanted exactly the same thing as Silver — for Lilia not to go anywhere. Here, that problem disappeared. His father was still within reach. He could hug him whenever he felt like it. In this dream, he no longer had to study at the NRC. He had already achieved his goal. He was a good and respected knight with a position at court. He could continue to use that to repair the relationships between humans and fae. There was also [Reader]. He no longer had to gather his courage. She reciprocated everything he felt. In her familiar eyes, he saw layers of love. They could live a peaceful life in the company of their forest friends, in the cottage he loved so much. Including such mundane duties as tending to the roses. Those furiously green ones that looked like were on fire. Just like...

Silver stood up abruptly. He gasped for air. He felt as if he himself had been burning just a moment ago. In a terrifying neon fire. He pressed his hand to his temple, which was pulsating with a dull pain. His vision was blurry. He blinked a few times, trying to fix the image. It was getting darker and darker all around. Second by second, the world around him seemed to fall to pieces. Fragments of the forest were rotting. Animals were fading away in clouds of smoke. The cottage was collapsing stone by stone at an alarming rate. The boy tried to stand up. He sank ankle-deep in black goo. Stickiness was leaking from the ever-growing rose bushes. However, he could no longer see the buds. Now they were simply thick branches with thorns as sharp as spikes. He looked at his wounded hands, covered in blood. He didn't even see when he had cut himself with them.

— Wake up! — His voice was hoarse. As if he had been shouting for a long time. — Come on, wake up! You have to wake up! — Tears flowed unconsciously down his cheeks, blurring the world.

How was he supposed to wake himself up? Even in daily life, he had trouble doing so. No matter how many alarms he set or clocks he bought, he still fell asleep. No potions or knowledge from dusty books helped. Magic was hopeless. Neither Briar Valley nor Night Raven College had solutions to his problem.

The boy took a step forward. He stumbled and lost his balance. He looked down. It was [Reader]. Almost completely covered in black goo. For a moment he wanted to leave her. After all, he should worry about himself. And not about a dream that would probably disappear in a moment anyway. But the eyes stared at him with a silent plea. And he knew them so well. So he complied with their request and pushed his wounded hands into the mud.

— Silver — [Reader] croaked.

Tears were also streaming down her cheeks. She seemed terrified by something behind him.

The boy turned around. The black, misty silhouettes, rising from the goo, began to make disturbing sounds. They snorted, gnashed their teeth and scratched with their claws. They were whole at the same time but as if blurred. They filled with terror and smelled of fear. Everything that nightmares should be. Silver's ring flickered with the familiar glow of the aurora. The monsters took a few steps back. He looked down. [Reader] was still whole in his arms. She hid her head in his chest, desperately and tightly. She closed her eyes.

Why hadn't she fallen apart? Not before, along with the rest of the dream and not now? The moment he found the answer was the moment he felt the fog in his mind lift forever.

— [Reader], you need to wake up — he said firmly.

— But I'm so sleepy and it feels sooo good — the girl mumbled.

— It's not good at all. You keep telling yourself it's good because you really want it to be. — He put her on the ground and shook her gently. The black goo immediately approached their feet greedily. — I thought it was my dream but it wasn't. Meet Me in Dream never let me enter my own dream. We're in your dream. This is your dream reality.

— I just really want you to be happy, Silver — she replied sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

The black goo began to climb over the two of them at an alarming rate. [Reader] didn't seem to notice, though.

— I know — the boy swallowed the lump in his throat — and that's why I'm really grateful to you. I really thought that was what I wanted but it's not true. What is happiness if we don't choose it ourselves? Is it real then?

The girl lazily opened one eye. The black goo had already covered her entire neck. Silver couldn't move anymore. He couldn't feel his legs or arms. So all he could do was watch.

— Knights always have to fight for everything — [Reader] sighed quietly. — I guess that's just part of your charm...

— Let me become a true knight. Not just in your dreams. When I return, I will fight for all of us.

He didn't even have a sword with him but he knew he would do everything in his power to keep his word. All was not lost yet. If he tried hard enough, he might wake the others and together they could break the curse.

— You promise you’ll find me outside the dream? — [Reader] asked, her eyes wide. There was no longer any green glow in them. Now they only reflected the familiar blue-pink auroral light.

— I promise.

Silver opened his eyes. He gripped the shimmering ring tightly. The boy knew the feeling. He still wasn't awake. But he was going to get there as soon as he could...

[rustbeltjessie]

All of her lovers all talk of her notes And the flowers that they never sent And wasn't she easy? Isn't she pretty in pink? The one who insists he was first in the line Is the last to remember her name He's walking around in this dress that she wore She is gone but the joke's the same

Pretty in pink, isn't she? Pretty in pink, isn't she?

A man in my shoes runs a light And all the papers lied tonight But falling over you Is the news of the day Angels fall like rain And love is all of heaven away Inside you the time moves

And she don't fade The ghost in you She don't fade Inside you the time moves And she don't fade

[llondonfog]

diasomnia month // prompt 09 — love language

Every morning, Lilia finds a vase of fresh flowers on their small dining table, their bright and cheery faces facing towards him as if in search of the sun.

The colors and variety are ubiquitous— sometimes a bouquet of yellow roses, perky against the cozy wooden enclosure of their home. Often, a spray of alstroemerias, blushing pink and purple as they sigh their sweet fragrance into the dawn light. He's run the pads of his fingertips over the fluffy buds of chrysanthemums, the broad faces of sunflowers, and the round heads of zinnias, bobbing up and down in the morning breeze.

Once upon a time, he might have shunned their ephemeral beauty, scoffed at the fragile way they were born into this world simply to reach for the unobtainable light above them, and perish in the mud.

But now— how even lovelier they have become, a faint smile on his face as Lilia admires the latest arrangement of vibrant daisies, to know that Silver must get up before his father to arrange such a gift that they can both delight in. He must have help from the little woodland creatures who were so fond of his son, and Lilia can picture it easily— how the blue birds, squirrels, and even deer deposit their floral bounty at Silver's windowsill, waiting patiently for their sleeping beauty to wake and reward them with praise for their thoughtful deeds.

Humming merrily and with a spring in his step that makes him feel centuries younger, Lilia rattles the dishes in their kitchen, rather inspired to share in this bright morning with a flavorful contribution of his own.

"Breakfast will be ready soon, dear!" He calls out, before disappearing into their pantry in search of ingredients with which to commit a small war crime.

In his bedroom, Silver coughs lightly into his palm, wiping away the slick, dainty petals as he swallows the bitter taste lingering on his tongue.

"I'll be there in just a moment, Father."

[violettduchess]

Ahh, could I request Matthias with “I grew up on a farm” or “Use me”? Or whatever you feel like! 🙏❤️

A/N: In honor of his birthday today, here is your request anon!

Making such a proper character into a country boy wasn't easy until I found a way to connect the prompt "I Grew Up on a Farm" with Matthias's pride in Achroite.

Modern Country AU, Matthias x Reader

Entry for @candied-boys Country Radio CC

WC: 1.2k

The high-rise buildings of your city glisten with the reflection of a thousand neon lights. They flaunt the reds and pinks and yellows like fashionistas on a runway. Far below, the cars drive, resembling little lightning bugs, their bright, white headlights guiding them along the road to their destinations. The sky above is a gray mass of clouds, blanched and ubiquitous. The night's starlight has no chance against the blinding glow of the city and when it is visible, the moon is only a pale shadow of herself, like a copy made too many times.

Matthias is standing on the balcony of your small apartment, leaning on the railing. His strong hands curl around the cool metal, broad shoulders slumped forward. Slipping his hoodie over your thin nightgown, you step outside and join him. The sounds of the city that never sleeps greets you, a familiar song that has accompanied your nights since you were young.

You wrap your arms around him from behind. Feeling you hug him brings a tenuous smile to his lips and he places his hands over yours, holding you there, a silent plea to not let go. Your head falls forward to rest against his broad back and you breathe in the scent of him, cool and crisp and clean. It reminds you of snow-capped mountains, of winter’s first kiss, of a lake frozen over, diamond-like and dazzling in the pale December sun.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

His exhale is heavy. It courses through his body, dragging the weight of his tangled emotions with it. They feel like chains around his heart, fetters that tighten with every beat.

“Hey....” 

Your voice sharpens with concern as you let go and move so that you can see him. His noble face, the one you tease him about and say looks like a fairy tale prince, is shadowed by something that dampens the soft gray of his eyes, pulls down the corners of his handsome mouth. “Matthias?”

He hesitates and your stomach twists. Something is definitely wrong.

He touches his forehead, frowning, as if willing the thoughts to find the way out of his mind. “This may sound silly. I’m not a child but...” His voice sounds tight, wound with the fear of what may happen when he gives his thoughts life. “I....I miss home.”

You step back, away from him.

His gaze is pleading, heartbreakingly sad. “I know I said I would try. For us. I know your life is here and I thought I would manage. But darling....” His voice breaks on the word and he has to take a moment to regain control. “Darling, I am not made for this place.” He gestures towards the city, now behind him. “I miss the mountains. And the Achroite ranch. The people.” He sinks down onto the chair in the corner of the balcony, his tall body folding like a demolitioned building. “And I’m selfish for it, I know. I promised you. And yet.....” He runs a hand through his short, blond hair. “I can’t....be truly happy here.” Anguished he looks up at you, expecting to see the betrayal written in your expression, hurt shining in your eyes. 

Instead what he sees is something softer, something gentle.

Carefully you cross the small balcony to where he is sitting on the plastic folding chair and reach for him, dropping down onto his lap, knowing from experience the little chair is mighty enough to hold you both. He watches you closely, brows knit in a frown, but he wraps his strong arms around you, almost hesitantly.

Reaching up, you cup his cheek. “I know.”

“You do?”

For a man so intelligent he could be so dense.

You nod, running your thumb over his chin, a gesture familiar and loving. “The minute we left the ranch it was like your glow was slowly fading, a little every day. And I wanted to believe I could be enough to keep it alight. I thought if I could do that, your decision to return with the crazy tourist from the big city who wanted a dude ranch experience and got so much more wouldn’t turn into the biggest regret of your life–”

He hugs you to him tightly, shaking his head as he buries his face in your shoulder. “No, not possible.”

Gently you lift his head so you can look into his eyes. “You love me. I know you do. But you don’t love it here. And so this, here,.....it won’t work.”

The storm breaks in the gray of his gaze. He closes his eyes, fighting back the flood that is breaking his heart and drowning its pieces.

“Which is why we have to leave ‘here’....and go....” Your palm rests against his heart. “Where this is.”

Tears shine like raindrops in the sun when he opens his eyes again, disbelieving.

“What?” It’s a whisper, a prayer in the wind.

“I could never be happy seeing you this way, so far from that place that is in every heartbeat, in every shadow of your thoughts.” You hold his gaze as you speak the words that have been written on your heart for some time now. “ I fell in love with the man with the wide smile who showed me the mountains at sunrise, who shows the same consideration to everyone, from the boy who mucks the stables to the mayor of the town. The one who took me for long rides through the hills and showed me the pond where he learned to swim, the tree he fell from and broke his arm.” You smile, stroking his cheek. “I want that Matthias back and I think the only way I can find him is to bring him back to the land he loves....and if he’ll have me, join him there.”

“Are you sure?” The words are tremulous, restrained. “I couldn’t ask you to leave the city if it would make you miserable. I couldn’t put you through-“

“Screw the city. It was never that great anyway.” Your forehead touches his, your hands cradle his face. “I didn’t grow up feeling like you did. Like this place is a piece of me. What I do know.....is wherever you go, that’s home. To the mountains, to the moon. I don’t care. All I need is you.”

His words are barely audible. “But we came back here because of your job....you didn’t want to give it up. I would never ask you to do that.”

“I know you wouldn’t. And that’s why I am doing it voluntarily.” You lean back and there is nothing but warmth in your heart. “A ranch like yours always needs some extra hands, right? And I’m sure you can teach me.”

“You’re sure?”

There is not a single spark of hesitation in your answer. “Yes.”

“Truly?”

“Matthias!”

Relief like a river rushes through him and he can only stare in awe at you, the brightest sun in his sky. “I love you.”

You don’t reply with words. Instead you lean forward and kiss him, an answer, a testament to a love as bright and endless as the Western sky.

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage

@tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia

@wendolrea @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody

@whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine

@mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network @sh0jun @queen-dahlia

@themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly

[redwinterroses]

I love the agreed-on design choices that have turned into shorthand for recognizing characters. Pink hair and a crown? Technoblade. Green stripes and wings? Philza. Blonde with a red sweater? ...well, you could be looking at one of two characters, but if the wings are purple or parrot it's Grian and if he's got white wings and cheek bandaids it's Tommy. Space-age armor = Xisuma. Fangs and suspenders = Rendog. Tall with a dark mustache = Mumbo Jumbo. Any sort of scarring = probably Scar. Red eyes = Tango. Indiana Jones in blue = Pixlriffs. Snakes for hair = Cleo. Any kind of black+white+neon green theming = almost certainly JoeHills.

I dunno, I just love that there are certain design choices, things that aren't always even represented by the player's minecraft skin, that are so ubiquitous. I can look at a design that looks nothing like anything I've seen before and have a good shot at recognizing the character immediately. It's just kinda cool.

[vandaliatraveler]

Walk with me: Visit to a high-elevation red spruce forest. The red spruce (Picea rubens) forest on top of Red Spruce Knob, the ninth highest peak in West Virginia, provides a bittersweet glimpse back in time to the primeval beauty and solitude of such places prior to the arrival of the logging companies in the mid-Nineteenth to early Twentieth centuries. The loggers stripped the mountains bare and set in motion the massive wildfires that burned away everything, including the soil itself, down to solid bedrock. Almost a century later, the forest is regenerating and in some places, such as Red Spruce Knob, has regained the richness and vitality of a healthy boreal ecosystem.

From top: a view of Red Spruce Knob, in the far distance, from the Highland Scenic Highway overlook; Canada mayflower (Maianthemum canadense), a ubiquitous understory component of the forest, along with mountain woodsorrel, yellow clintonia (a.k.a. blue-bead lily), hobblebush viburnum, Indian cucumber, green false hellebore, and various mosses and ferns; yellow clintonia (Clintonia borealis) in bloom; pink lady's slipper (Cypripedium acaule); green false hellebore (Veratrum viride) on eastern hay-scented fern (Dennstaedtia punctilobula); and mountain woodsorrel (Oxalis montana).

[thecottagecorebisexuals]

About your response, I agree with what you said except for a few things:

I believe Hamefura is based on late 18th century to 1800s Victorian era (and Sorcier is also based on France/Britain), based on the social climate, fashion style and even some of the technology like guns, cannons, fountain pens, modern lanterns etc. Plus it's much more socially and economically progressed compared to the middle ages or Renaissance eras.

But they do have lots of noble traditions from medieval times (also due to Japanese understanding of European history), and the world map/countries are much smaller than irl. So you could say its global population matches that of the medieval era, I'd say their world is about 200~300 million people in total.

Yeah, Hamefura's world is definitely more modern than "medieval", I used "medieval" as a reference because that's the word Catarina uses and because that's what it appears to be the stage of geography knowledge they're in. Also I used 1300's estimated world population.

With Hamefura anything goes, really, they have technology that indeed goes up to the Victorian era (I'm counting Larna's cellphone as an early phone), medieval to contemporary fashion. All the boys are using fashion that wouldn't look out of place in Victorian Era, with the long coats, vests, the pants:

None of the girls usually wear anything too Victorian:

The girls dresses are usually a mish mash, for example Sophia's green dress is a bit late Baroque with the inverted triangle on the dress and the sleeves? With a little cape planted on top.

And when she's in her hometown no one's doing the medieval peasant look like Maria:

She's really wearing the ubiquitous tunic here huh.

For this specific dress of Catarina the closest thing I can think of are contemporary gala dresses. Sweetheart necklines are relatively recent.

(Maria is wearing something Regency-like, right?)

Mary's resembles late 18th dresses, with a jacket instead of the dress having long sleeves:

Maria's usual outfit could be very late Victorian. Her shirt and the bow are reminiscent of Victorian working class women's outfits. The pink dress could maybe belong to a slightly higher economic class.

And with Catarina's usual dress I'm drawing a blank. Does anyone know what could've inspired it?

Socially and Economically, Sorcier is pretty advanced but it's the only country to achieve that european 20th century level type of progress in the Hamefura world, the rest are pretty medieval-modern era. Sorcier is the nicest kingdom we've seen so far, to a fantastical degree because I suppose that it'd be a major bummer to deal so much with the landscape of the Middle Ages or the Modern Era.

[porterdavis]

We have one hope left

The carnage on American streets, in its schools, malls, parking lots, and places of worship is getting worse, not better. Gun manufacturers are rolling out new weapons that are more powerful, capable of piercing body armour, than the killing machines which are already ubiquitous. Politicians have been unable to muster the courage and will to end the carnage for decades now.

We have one last, best hope, and I hesitate to call upon it, since this cohort is busy fighting already against attacks on their freedoms and autonomy on other fronts; nonetheless, our last, best hope for ending the carnage is for the women of America to call an end to it.

Yes, I know they're already fighting off attempts to limit their personal freedom in reproductive rights and their fight for economic equality has had mixed results at best despite the law and their best efforts.

But as mothers and wives and the sustainers of the American family I hope they can take up the cause of gun safety before the entire country becomes a free-fire zone. When enough women see enough pictures of enough babies turned to pink mist by mushrooming munitions I hope the cry of 'enough' will ring full-throated from their core. Women have the power. Men have abdicated it.

Women are experts at multi-tasking. We need that now. Please.

[slippinmickeys]

Thank you for the Proof of Life prompt this morning! You've mentioned a wedding band and a wedding (I think??) in one of today's prompts. Um...Could you maybe write the wedding? Please?? I get if its too fluffy an ask, but I'm on my kneeeees I love this universe so much I want to live in it

1. She sits against the pillows of the bed, lounging like a limp doll, totally sapped of strength.

“How come all our assignments are to places that are hot?” she asks.

Mulder, at the end of the bed, his lap half covered in only a sheet, has his hands around her foot, which he raises to his face. He gives her toes a sniff and then presses them to his lips. “Are you lodging a complaint?” he mumbles through them.

There’s a sheen of sweat across her brow and tiny beads along the bridge of her nose.

“Perhaps” she says. “I’m experiencing a fair amount of thermal fatigue.”

Mulder looks out the window of the small bungalow and into the green beyond it. He has been in India for four months. Scully has been here for one.

“Maybe we should go somewhere colder,” he says.

2. He has been working with a journalist for the Washington Post on a story about an elephant sanctuary on the fringe of the remote Manas National Park. He has been staying on property for the last week and Scully arrived that morning to finally join him. Matthas, the journalist writing the piece, left the night before, and Mulder’s work for the article is done, though Scully doesn’t know this. He has arranged a rare day off for her, and the mahouts who live at the sanctuary are eager to show her a good time.

She has taken to dressing in brighter colors since her arrival here, and today wears a gauzy pink blouse over a bright green sarong, her hair a frizzy muzz on the top of her head. It is hard to look away from her.

Mulder, his camera in its ubiquitous place around his neck, is talking to Anand, one of the mahouts.

“Scully,” he calls out.

She is standing atop grass of virulent green reading one of the signs they have up for visitors, explaining the need for the camp in Assam.

She waves and he gives her a “come here,” gesture. She moves toward him.

“I don’t want to get in the way,” she says demurely, hanging back a bit.

“It’s fine,” he smiles at her. “I have a surprise for you.”

On a nod from Anand, he takes her hand and walks her over to the river, where another mahout, Davanesh, stands next to one of the sanctuary’s stars, Tara, who sways on soft feet, keeping a rhythm known only to her kind.

“Come and meet her,” Mulder says. He had met Tara upon his arrival and knows the beast to be kind-hearted and affectionate. He picked her specifically for this.

The river next to them is a purling brown, with the grass-cutter area beyond it. In the woods behind the river, one of the sanctuary elephants calls out and Tara answers with a short, happy trumpet.

Scully smiles at him nervously. “Is it safe?”

He shrugs and grins back. “Safe enough.”

The elephant turns her attention to the newcomer and lifts her trunk when Scully approaches, reaching out to touch her lightly on the shoulder, on her ponytail. Scully is delighted by the attention, if a little timid. Tara begins gently nosing Scully’s face. The elephant’s trunk is gray on top, the bottom the same delicate pink as Scully’s shirt. Her long eyelashes are soft and feather-like, gentle fans around intelligent eyes.

The mahout says something and Mulder interprets.

“You breathe into their trunk so they can get to know your scent,” he explains.

Scully, still a little skittish, does as prompted and then Tara takes a step back, swinging her trunk back and forth a few times before swinging it over to Davanesh, who smiles at Mulder and nods.

“Now hold out your hand,” Mulder says, butterflies set to wing in his stomach.

Tara takes a step forward and swings her trunk back at Scully, dropping something gently in her outstretched hand, her trunk as nimble as human fingers.

“What is…?” Scully says, and looks at her palm. There is a small turquoise satin bag sitting on it.

“Open it,” Mulder says softly, stepping up behind her.

She opens the bag and shakes out a delicate silver ring into her other palm. She gives a small gasp.

Mulder lowers himself to one knee beside her and Davanesh smiles widely, his teeth bright white against his dark skin.

“Mulder, you don’t have to-”

“It feels like the thing to do,” he smiles up at her. “Will you?”

He doesn’t actually say the words, and Scully doesn’t actually say yes, but she nods happily, a look crossing her face that Mulder interprets as the urge to laugh and cry at the same time. Before he can reach up to put the ring on her finger, Tara starts bumping him in the head with her trunk, unused to not being the center of attention. Scully lets out a sharp peel of laughter and Mulder finally stands, a thought occurring to him.

“Shit!” he says, someone indecorously. “I forgot to take a picture!”

3. “I’ll give you this,” Scully says as they walk past the building of the Consulate General, a ritual they do on their first day in any foreign country. “It’s certainly not too hot here.”

They are just down from the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, still on Princes Street. It’s early April in Scotland, and, Mulder has to admit, butt-fucking cold.

The American flag snaps and flaps in the cold breeze at the top of the building they stand in front of, and they nod at the Marine behind the gate before turning on their heel and heading back toward the castle. They are unlikely to need the services of the Consulate here, but have had the occasion, on no less than three separate instances, to yell “I’m an American!” while running full bore at embassy and consulate gates in other parts of the world, and every time, the young Marine (it’s always a young Marine) stationed there has snapped to attention and saved their hides.

Here, they’re more in danger of tripping over a cobblestone while walking to the closest coffee shop, but Scully said she was sick of the heat, and Mulder has an idea.

It started with listless boredom, as these things tend to, laid out in a tent near the equator, reading whatever English-language book that happened to be left behind by a colleague or visitor. In this case it was a Regency romance novel that Scully had burned through the weekend before and Mulder picked up on the working theory that you could actually die of boredom. At the time, all he thought was: needs must.

In the story, a young daughter of a marquess – madly in love with the blacksmith who’d heroically fixed the axle on her wayward carriage, eloped with her muscle-bound beau to Gretna Green and married only minutes before her viscous older brother arrived on scene with the cavalry of the ton at his back. The young couple slipped away and consummated the marriage (with many a heaving bosom) beneath a willow in the village square and what’s done was done and they lived happily ever after.

Mulder prefers the bed in their rented flat to the wet sod of a village green and they had consummated their relationship hundreds of times over at this point, but Gretna Green: now there was an idea.

He grabs her mittened hand, the ring around her finger a hard nub under his hand, and feels a swell of something like pride. That this incredible woman would choose him.

As they begin the walk up the Royal Mile, they pass coffee shops, gelato shops, store fronts hocking kitschy souvenirs. Mulder pulls up in front of one of probably twenty with a mannequin in the window wearing a kilt. It’s fitted out in the whole nine yards (literally—where the saying came from) of formal wear; hose with flashes, a sporran, Prince Charlie jacket. There’s even a sheathed dirk tucked into the waistband.

“So, I had a thought,” he says.

Scully turns her attention from the window to him.

“I was thinking we could elope.” She raises her eyebrows at this. “Here,” he goes on to explain.

A small smile creeps up her cheek.

“Do you remember that novel in Laos, the one that made the rounds through camp? The blacksmith and the wanton wallflower, something…” he trails off.

“I remember an outbreak of the clap not long after…”

Mulder stifles the urge to laugh.

“That’s the one.”

It takes Scully a moment to catch up. “You want to elope to Gretna Green?” Her eyebrows are sky high.

“Bad idea?” he says a little self-consciously.

“No, I-“ she turns back to the store window. “I kind of love it, actually.”

“We ran off to Gretna Green would make a great story,” he says.

She squeezes his hand. “I don’t think anything could top our meet-cute.”

He smiles at her, looks to the window himself.

“Would you wear a kilt?” she asks.

“Would you want me to?”

She half-turns her head to him, a sly little smile on her face.

4. Click.

He takes one picture before handing his camera over to the volunteer witness, who immediately turns the lens back on Mulder, an odd, curious feeling.

One he forgets the instant he turns to Scully.

She is in a simple white dress, her long hair brushed to a high shine and curled over one shoulder. She carries no flowers and is wearing only simple silver jewelry, and her hands are warm and dry and fit just right into his. She never once looks away.

They opted for a ceremony in the original marriage room of the old smithy, partly for the kitsch of it and partly as an inside joke, but Mulder doesn’t feel like laughing as they stand over the old anvil. There is an ethereal earthiness to the room, with its whitewashed stone walls and rough hewn low ceiling battened with old horseshoes.

As the officiant speaks of love being forged in an unbreakable bond, Mulder thinks of 1055, of their stringy hair and unwashed bodies, of the boot-steps of the men always lurking outside their door.

Love isn’t just forged in peace and bliss, he thinks, but in trial and turmoil too.

They hold hands and exchange rings and when the officiant pronounces them wed, he leans in to press his lips to hers and it’s all sun-dried linen and eucalyptus and that room on the 10th floor. Flowers come from dirt. Good things can come from bad. Love can come from anywhere if only you have the courage to hang onto it.

Click.

[thesoftboiledegg]

I'm still mourning the loss of Rue 21. I thought it was just my area, but nope--the whole company is going out of business. They had the cutest Rick and Morty merchandise, especially around Christmas.

Charlotte Russe has similar apparel, but they don't carry as much as Rue 21 did. I did find this shirt a couple of weeks ago:

Looks like Morty's breaking in a new pair of shoes!

That same weekend, I found the usual Toxic Rick energy drink in Spencer's, but with an update: the label now reads "Cherry Wasteland Energy Drink."

Is the "cherry" part supposed to make it more appetizing? I guess energy drinks aren't known for their taste, but I wouldn't have chosen Toxic Rick as the mascot. He makes me imagine drinks made from toxic sludge.

A few days later, I visited one of the local head shops. It's not a real head shop until you're stocking pipes with that Rick and Morty/IT crossover on them!

How about some vibrantly patterned lighters?

The following weekend, I spotted a rack of Rick and Morty T-shirts in a thrift shop. They looked bland until you turned them around, revealing a family portrait!

Next, I went to Five Below. I wasn't having much luck until I spotted a lone Pickle Rick shirt grinning at me.

Five Below also had what the box described as "wild earbuds." Rick's smirk invites you to watch another "Rick in a suit and tie" video compilation.

The next day, I visited the bigger mall to find a new bootleg canvas:

Spencer's had a new pair of pajama pants. I love the color scheme. Unfortunately, I don't wear pajama pants because I have matching jammies sets like a dweeb.

Today, I visited a craft fair. I wasn't surprised to find the ubiquitous booth stocked with bootleg-art tumblers, but AI Rick and Morty art is an...unusual choice.

What about the rest of the tumblers with stolen art? This Lawyer Morty, who I found at the smaller mall yesterday, is on the case!

That same day, I went into Box Lunch because it's part of my routine. I didn't expect to find anything--I've only ever seen one Rick and Morty shirt, and they don't stock it anymore--but the snack/accessory counter surprised me with the funniest merchandise that I've seen in a while.

Pickle Rick as an actual pickle! How is this the first time that I'm seeing this?

AND I had gold nails to match. If you review the images in this post, you'll see the transition from plain to dark pink to glittery gold. ✨

Anyway, I usually think that edible merchandise is pointless because you eat it and toss the packaging, but Rick DID turn himself into a pickle. It's one of the series' most famous gags. Why not chow down on the world's most famous cucumber?

Keep him away from your pet rats, though. 🐀

[crosbyism]

Next Generation’s Best | Five

An essay on generational talents, gender, and the NHL in six parts.

<Previous | Masterpost

Part Five: Curtain Call

Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming out to see our show tonight! Before the final act, let's get all our lovely generational talents so far up onto the stage. For your entertainment, here they are: the seductive Spanish Russian, the meek princess, the hard-working hot fat-lipped nerd, the Diva, the gold-digger, the slut, and last but certainly not least: the virgin! Flanked by our wonderful dashing gentlemen Mr. Hockey and Le Magnifique, they are your: National Hussy League!

—

Okay, so I’ll spell it out: skill is soft. Not fighting is soft. Being short and slight is soft. Being a foreigner is soft. Not growing a beard is soft. Soft means whatever slur-du-jour you want it to mean, but in the end it mostly means: like a girl, where like a girl means: bad. Worse. Lacking. Weak. 

This all started because I kept seeing the phrase: "the first male hockey player to suffer from misogyny". But trying to figure out which man’s had misogyny wielded against them—and making a competition out of it— is pointless. Truly, there's almost no man that hasn't. Misogyny is ubiquitous in society, and even all-male sports leagues aren't exempt from that. It might be the virgin-whore dichotomy, it might be putting them up on a pedestal, it might be an objectifying kind of sexualisation.

It’s all forcefully stamped pink. In the way pink means: "ew, it’s pink".

2015

Connor McDavid’s biggest crime wasn’t going to the Oilers. It was going there about 35 years after Gretzky.

35 years is the exact span of time for no one to be left who really, properly remembers. That Wayne was small and slow and slight. That he looked like a girl. There’s only statues and banners left now, and even Zdeno Chara looks small next to those. Wayne Gretzky does, too.

Connor McDavid is the fastest player in the league. He’s tall. He started being able to grow a full beard before he hit 25. He's the physical ideal. Everyone in the league’s afraid of playing him. For some reason, he just can’t win a Cup or make it out of Gretzky’s shadow.

I wonder if he’s met Eric Lindros.

—

Auston Matthews isn’t just tall, he’s big. Wears a mustache and has the type of receding masculine hairline that makes reporters leave out words like soft or elegant.

They use words they used for Alex Ovechkin, instead. Big, flashy, loud. Times have trucked along, so he’s barely not getting slut-shamed. But they really, really want to call him Papi for some reason.

—

Everyone keeps wanting Nathan MacKinnon to be someone else. He just isn’t, so they can’t figure out what to do with him. He’s not small, he’s not frail, he’s got a remarkably broken nose, he’s fast, he’s skilled. He’s truly an all-rounder. He had a sophomore slump, and that was his second biggest crime; being a normal young adult man, by which I mean: a failure.

The biggest was making himself eligible for a Lady Byng in 2017. Why would they hand out the Hart to anyone who can’t rack up a respectable amount of penalty minutes like a real man?

—

Some days it seems like Leon Draisaitl went to the Evgeni Malkin school for alternate captains. A little more blunt, owed either to his inherent Germanness or the fact that it’s easier to afford to be, these days. Their professional personalities are mostly where the similarities end. They’re still the two NHL players most likely to be called “bitchy”.

—

Funnily enough, I don’t think it’s ever occurred to Mitch Marner how much he has in common with Sidney Crosby. I wonder if it’s occurred to Sid to commiserate.

To be fair, it’s been a long time since either of them were rookies getting crushed under the vicious, jealous pressure of older, bigger men in positions of authority. I suppose being the focus of derogatory media frenzies is still up for grabs as a topic of conversation.

Then again, I’d wager they’d probably both prefer to use the opportunity to talk about dogs instead.

2024

The Olympics, by their original definitions in ancient Greece, only allowed men to compete in sporting events. Women have been allowed to participate since the second iteration of the modern Olympics in 1900. For years, very few disciplines were offered, and few women participated. 

In 2020, women were allowed to bear their countries' flags along with men for the first time. This year, 2024, was the first year there was almost full gender parity, meaning almost every discipline was offered in the same format for both men and women, and there was almost an equal amount of athletes in both genders participating. 

—

The Battle of the Sexes was the title given to a significant sporting event in the mid-twentieth century in tennis that broke the barrier for tennis to develop a mixed-gender discipline. 

There was a huge movement around that time and afterwards to end gender segregation and allow women in men's leagues. The idea was to create true best-on-best tournaments and also to give women access to better pay and worker's rights in those leagues. Somehow, tennis is the only sport where it really stuck. 

Chess is still a gender-segregated sport.

—

The inaugural season of a professional women’s ice hockey league has happened at least four times. The most recent was last season's inaugural PWHL season. 

The season openers for their second season are this Saturday. I recommend giving them a watch; the world's best ice hockey player plays for the Montréal Victoire. Her name is Marie-Philip Poulin.

<Previous | Masterpost

[olderthannetfic]

So I have a question. I saw a thing you wrote about Sarah z and the shipping discourse video, and I really don’t see how the use of the pink triangle was not at least slightly insensitive in the context of pro shipper stuff. Like the pink triangle is a very distinctly horrific image, and the nazi’s weren’t marching in the street saying “no more fictional stories where problematic things happen” and an actual nazi movement would likely kill both sides of this debate equally as much.

I feel like even with the broadness of the pro ship thing, the fact that this symbol is about defending fanfiction ships and invokes the holocaust is kind of overly dramatic. It’s definitely not a choice I would have made if I’d designed it.

To be clear I think Sarah z was seriously misunderstanding the situation, framing proship as “a stance you take in internet arguments” when it’s actually a whole discourse about the nature of fictional media and the morality of media creation, and also shipping kind of still exists outside in the real world, and conversations of shipping can and have happened in meatspace.

Also the framing of proship as something you are in petty internet debates is objectively wrong because you’re not just pro or anti ship when you argue about stuff, you’re pro or anti ship in the way you talk about and interpret fictional media as a whole.

--

The pink triangle is a major symbol adopted by the queer community. It was ubiquitous in queer US spaces in the 90s when I was coming out. It was so ubiquitous that we get things like this mainstream pop song:

What you are saying is the equivalent of saying that queer nerds aren't allowed to put rainbows on things.

Where the fuck do you think we got the 'biangles', one of the only bi symbols from?

You're gatekeeping someone having a pin that says "I am both a proshipper and queer".

There are people who personally dislike the reclaiming of the pink triangle, but no one who knows literally anything about offline queer communities in places like North America where Sarah is from would say what she said.

Ignorant children who don't care about the community's history have no place in the community.