#at times more than between the women

[inkskinned]

okay is she being actually immature or is it just a woman over 30 expressing a human experience you find to be immature.

like yeah. at certain ages... let shit go. im not defending the real immature shit. im not defending the karen you're picturing. i worked in retail i hate those people too. (once somebody got mad at me because she didn't like how our winter window decor was a snowman smoking a pipe. i wish i was joking).

but men at 57 will write books about how 17 year old girls are soooo sexy. they will invent worlds where women have to be naked for "armor reasons." they will write songs that treat women as objects. people rush to defend them. meanwhile a woman at 35 will be like "heartbreak is hard, actually" or "i feel betrayed by a friend" or "i am struggling with something emotionally." immediately people will say stuff like this woman is 35 by the way. by the way this woman is SO OLD to be experiencing this. BY THE WAY.

im 31, almost 32. the other day a poet was blasted online because at her "big age", she had written a poem about feeling unloved. top comment was "this woman is 29 by the way." this woman is too old to still be useful, by the way. she has to behave better . maybe if she was a good wife and mother she could stop existing loudly, and the story could continue on without her. this woman has served her purpose, by the way. she's so cringe, by the way. at 29 - so old! - she still hasn't figured out that her existence should be one of shame.

[fawntastic]

Here, Gonad, you dropped this

[harocat]

Shoutout to Cdramas* written by women, we love you Cdramas written by women.

*And one Taiwanese drama.

What are your faves that aren't on here? Let me know so I can watch them. 👀

[uncanny-tranny]

Scientists ought to study the chemical link between Butches and trans men* and transmasc* people. Like, they say that the triple bond is one of the hardest to break, but I don't think they've looked at the bond between a trans guy and a Butch

[maryasmorevna]

can't believe a show based on a videogame (usually games adaptations are notoriously bad, which isn't the case here tho) gave me the beauty and the beast/twisted mirrors/enemies to traveling companions/ruthless antihero+optmistic but still badass heroine who takes none of his shit/age gap but make it sexy dynamic of my dreams. as much as i love maximus and i think he deserves the best writing ever because 1. he's a clever deconstruction of the aspiring Knight bro who's actually a bit of a loser and, as much as lucy, sees the world in black&white at first and then doesn't get what he thought he wanted but what he needs (or at least i hope he'll eventually get it), and 2. he's a cutie and i want an epic love story for him too, it's very funny how they tried to give us a puppy kind of romance and the tumblr girlies still fixated on the "toxic ~she bites his finger off and he cuts hers off and sews it on his hand in what we'll pretend it's a symbolic marriage rings exchange or whatever~ asshole who used to be a nice guy/good girl�� with a lot of spunk and hidden anger but unshakeable morals" kind of relationship.

[carefulfears]

how many of you would get mad at me if i said that mulder fucking another woman while wearing scully’s crucifix necklace is one of the most romantic things to ever happen….like, gothically and punitively so….it’s like….well, it’s like…it’s like “aw boohoo he has to get laid because he’s so sad his partner is gone” but like for a person who never allows themself any indulgence or respite or attention, who therefore only has sex as penance. only in blood. and it’s like…yes, it’s self-harm, in many ways, but in many ways it is also confession. crucifixion, as a laying down of sin. bless me father, for i can’t save them, and i miss them anyway. crucifixion as being watched over…when he asked maggie, “why did she wear this?” and maggie answered, “because i gave it to her.”

[thirddoctor]

"the War Chief is a renegade Time Lord with facial hair (not even a beard, just facial hair) who asks the Doctor to join him in his evil plot, he must be the Master!"

oh so is every military figure the Doctor has to work with to save the earth (while butting heads but ultimately respecting each other) just the Brigadier in disguise? is that what you're saying?

[multi-fandom-lunatic]

something something booktok has a BIG problem with white feminism

[ehlnofay]

my tes secret santa for @anotherclassicpretence! truth be told I've been having a tad bit of writer's block lately but some of your prompts were VERY interesting (I liked the idea of writing delphine before the main quest a lot... this more or less counts) so I hope I've done them justice. hope you're having a splendid holiday season!

...

“Steady on, Hilde,” Delphine says with a brusque, manufactured sort of calm. “You’ll do yourself a mischief.”

It's a relief, she thinks, that the day Hilde has elected to barge in with world-upending news is a convenient one; it isn’t as though Riverwood is the kind of place to attract crowds, most of the time (part of the reason she chose to live here at all) but the inn is unusually quiet now. Orgnar is nominally organising something in the cellar, which means that he’s spending an hour swapping two bottles around and calling it a day, and the dining hall is warmed to a swelter with the ever-going hearthfire, and utterly empty. No-one’s come in for lunch yet. No rooms rented out last night, either, so it’s all silent on that front; it’s just Delphine and her wet cotton cloth, wiping down the stained tables till they shine, and Hilde with her hair wrapped and her string of beads tangling round narrow, hard-knuckled fingers. She’s sat herself on the chair with the wobbly leg; it needs fixing soon. Ordinarily, Delphine would herd her onto another, but right now she doesn’t think there’s anything in the world that would get Hilde to listen.

“Hark at her!” she complains to the bead-string - all marbled glass dyed blue and red and yellow, clinking together on their leather cord. “Do a mischief - do a mischief - it’s as if she can’t bloody hear me -”

Delphine swipes the cloth over the chip in the corner of the table. “I hear you,” she replies (does she ever hear her). Hilde’s hands are white where the necklace bites into her skin; her lips are pinched into a puckered line. Her eyes are red-rimmed and fierce. “Hilde. I’m going to get you a drink to calm your nerves, and then we’ll talk it over properly, all right?”

“Talk it over,” Hilde repeats, high and scornful, and then her face screws up quite suddenly as if all the fight has fled it - the wrinkles in her cheeks deepening to uneasy valleys, knuckles pressed to the thin slat of her mouth, beads digging hard into her cheek. “Nine have mercy… thank you, Delphine.”

The inner corner of Delphine’s lip snags, near imperceptibly, between the blunt ends of her canines. She nods once, and she ducks behind the bar, folding the cloth with damp precision as she goes. The cask of ale is near empty, the mugs lined up on their shelf, sparkling clean, cutlery rattling around in its tin. It's not fancy - Riverwood is a small, old town, built on the bones of an older one, and no matter how well-run the inn has been since she bought it it's not exactly a prime destination, but it's a good sort of a place. And innkeeping is decent work. Keeps you busy. Keeps your ear to the ground. Gives you something to focus on, in the meantime -

When Delphine grabs a tankard, she notes with some incredulity that her hand is trembling. She stills it. She pours the ale until the cup rim is flecked with froth.

(Gives you something to focus on in the meantime, in between real work, while you're waiting -)

(There is a feeling rising in her body, foaming like the ale; a sour, stomach-turning excitement, as if she's in her twenties again and wet behind her ears, biting back all the intrigue. Like she has an unlined face and fresh armour and is standing again in line for her induction ceremony. Like she's staring something in the face and thinking, finally.)

Delphine caps the cask. She is not in her twenties, and she is not staring anything down; bar Hilde, a seventy year old woman with tannin-stained hands and the latest in a line of tall stories. Delphine didn't get this far (how far?) (still alive, isn’t she) through credulity. She's a pragmatist through and through - won't believe anything she hasn't seen evidence of with her own eyes; and yet.

And yet.

She sets the mug down on the table; a pale and lukewarm drop slides down the pewter, just next to the handle. She'll need to wipe it all down again, after this.

Hilde takes it, absent-minded; the beads slither from where they’re strung around her hands to rest in a smooth curve over her chest. Her hands are shaking - she doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t stop them. There is a look about her, all of a sudden, that seems dreadfully, fixedly haunted, like a woman looking down the barrel of a cannon, some rapid-rigged explosive, something to level the town. Like she’s caught the apocalypse’s eye. Delphine reaches out, perfunctory, and pats the back of her hand; Hilde grimaces and downs half her tankard in one long, desperate swig.

Light’s coming in through the window-slats up by the rafters, dull and gold, dust motes in the shafts of it. It makes the white wimple of cloth swaddled hastily around Hilde’s head shine in places.

“Big as the mountain,” she mumbles into the lip of the tankard, fingers wrapped tight around its handle, “black as night - flew right over the barrow like something fit to block out the sun.”

Delphine’s teeth scrape over that spot at the corner of her lip. She can’t help but say, “Are you sure -”

“I know what I saw,” Hilde snaps. Her knuckles and lips are blanched and colourless. Liquid sloshes over the edge of her cup with her sharp, abortive gestures. “I saw a dragon.”

Delphine is very careful not to let her face do anything at all, there.

(It’s adrenaline, she knows; the pointed, muscle-coiled readiness to move - to act - to make a plan in service of a solid end and carry it off perfectly; the comfort of seeing possibility roll out before her like a long many-doored hallway, like a road she might be able to walk instead of these four walls she’s circled for too many years. Innkeeping is decent work - keeps her ear to the ground - keeps her busy in the interim, but it’s not what Delphine does, not what she’s been trained to do; not a purpose, not something to strive for, and oh, Divines -)

(None of this is substantiated. Delphine is not a rash and green youth, not anymore and not again, and she will not start running away with silly fantasies before she’s checked anything at all; she has had her fill of disappointment, and should know better than to invite it - should know better than to start spinning grand plans, before she’s even sent out some missives to the pale cobweb of contacts she has left - over the barrow; west, then - is there a significance, to the barrow? Does she have anything about it in her side room? Nine, it’s times like this she misses the old library and the mad old codger that kept it, and, no. No.)

(Yes.)

“It’ll come back,” Hilde’s saying with fearful certainty; lips flecked with spittle and beer-foam, hands still shaking. “It’ll come back, and it’ll kill us all, and then you’ll believe me -”

“I believe you,” Delphine tells her, and it is inexplicably, regrettably true. (She’s thinking about the library. She’s thinking about the dragonlore. She’s thinking that if dragons are back, someone will have to do something about it - and oh Divines how she has missed being the one to do something about it.)

Her hands are still, but only through some effort.

She feels like she’s been dozing for twenty years and only now has been shocked awake.

Hilde looks at her, white-mouthed and white-scarved; she frowns, a tense, sour thing, and she says doubtfully, “You look like you need a drink.”

Delphine laughs. It’s a short, gruff bark of sound. Her hands are flat on the tabletop; her hair is coming loose in thin wisps from the tight knot at the base of her skull. Sunlight trickles through the windows, golden-fresh. “No,” she says. “No, thank you, Hilde, I'm good."

[deus-ex-mona]

god forbid a woman has hobbies

[hazelcephalopod]

Considering Fjord’s just barely “I guess my last name is Stone. That’s the shit name they gave me at my shit orphanage” attitude. I propose that when they marry we break with tradition and just let him be Admiral/Captain-Mr Fjord Lavorre.

[nobodysdaydreams]

Giving a complicated tragic childhood backstory to your favorite character is all fun and games, until you realize you need to account for how old all the other adult characters would have been at the time and realize that scenes that would work perfectly if one character was twenty three and the other was fourteen stop working when you need other characters who are played by adult actors clearly younger than they are to be in college at the same time so your story beats line up thematically.

[vampvelvet]

i think the most important thing to realize as a trans man when it comes to misogyny is that instead of thinking/saying/acting like "misogyny directed towards me sucks because im not even a woman!" you should instead be looking at it like "misogyny directed at me sucks, nobody should have to endure that. the fact that im not a woman doesnt matter to these people. people of all genders can be impacted by misogyny, and its not right for any of them"

its a subtle change and although it is just a matter of words, i think its an important distinction so that your defense of your gender doesnt get in the way of recognizing the root of the problem. obviously transphobia is another issue in its own right but both things do exist and need to be confronted

[mishkakagehishka]

I really feel like we need to normalise the "it's not about the iranian yoghurt" phrase outside of reddit circles bc i'll be so real i don't think it's playing videogames that's unattractive, it's how men who spend a majority of their free time playing videogames behave that's unattractive.

[banyanas]

there is something entertaining abt figuring out how the fuck to make the v/doll corner of the toxic yuri robopolycule work.

[bruciemilf]

I'm so sorry

But in the alternate timeline where Bruce dies in the alley, Martha becomes the joker and Thomas becomes Batman... what if the joker-ication process of Martha is a slow thing. They all mourn the loss of Bruce in their own ways while blaming themselves. Alfred blaming himself for not being there to fight the dude off before anything happens to anyone. Thomas blaming himself for taking Bruce to the theatre. Martha blaming herself for suggesting a nice walk home.

Overtime Martha gets more confrontational towards the two, "THIS IS YOUR FAULT FOR TAKING US TO THE STUPID SHOW! YOU LAZED ABOUT WHILE MY BABY WAS DYING!"

The words getting more harsh until Alfred confronts her in the kitchen saying it's no one's fault and they should work on comforting each other instead of tearing each other apart.

Martha laughs and slowly the laugh gets more psychotic before she takes the knife she was using and stabs him with it.

Thomas finds Martha laughing over Alfred's body, his blood smeared over her face in the shape of a bloody smile and he screams.

They're both broken.

Hi!! Thank you for the ask, first of all. Sadly, everything that has to do with the joker in a story-focused way (aka where I have to put a lot of energy into) Is a bore hazard for me.