#fashion revolution week

[nando161mando]

The French

[bbyviolent]

me tbh

[queerquaintrelle]

TURN Week 2024: Imagine an encounter with another time period

Well, that is easy, shoutout to that time I met his excellency General George Washington at Colonial Williamsburg.

Interview with George Washington.

Interview with George Washington (extended version).

[hatoyamoshimi]

2022: One Poster A Day Project by Mimo Poster # 023

Social Links       Art Account: @The Moody Mimo         Artist Account: @hatoyamoshimi​ 👁❤️       Shop posters: TheMoodyMimo.redbubble.com

[opencommunion]

"The Congo’s strategic location in the middle of Africa and its fabulous natural endowment of minerals and other resources have since 1884 ensured that it would serve as a theatre for the playing out of the economic and strategic interests of outsiders: the colonial powers during the scramble for Africa; the superpowers during the Cold War; and neighbouring African states in the post-Cold War era. To prevent a direct confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union, the Security Council deployed from 1960 to 1964 what was then the largest and most ambitious operation ever undertaken by the UN, with nearly 20,000 troops at its peak strength plus a large contingent of civilian personnel for nation-building tasks.

This latter aspect of the Opération des Nations unies au Congo (ONUC) was a function of the fragile political revolution ... The Congo won its independence from Belgium on 30 June 1960. Patrice Lumumba’s MNC-L and its coalition of radical nationalist parties had captured a majority of seats in the lower house of parliament in the pre-independence elections in May. Lumumba became prime minister and head of government, while the Abako leader Joseph Kasa-Vubu became the ceremonial head of state. The victory of a militantly nationalist leader with a strong national constituency was viewed as a major impediment to the Belgian neocolonialist strategy and a threat to the global interests of the Western alliance.

Within two weeks of the proclamation of independence, Prime Minister Lumumba was faced with both a nationwide mutiny by the army and a secessionist movement in the province of Katanga bankrolled by Western mining interests. Both revolts were instigated by the Belgians, who also intervened militarily on 10 July, a day before the Katanga secession was announced. In the hopes of obtaining the evacuation of Belgian troops and white mercenaries, and thus ending the Katanga secession, Lumumba made a successful appeal to the UN Security Council to send a UN peacekeeping force to the Congo. However, the UN secretary-general, Dag Hammarskjöld, interpreted the UN mandate in accordance with Western neocolonialist interests and the US Cold War imperative of preventing Soviet expansion in the Third World. This led to a bitter dispute between Lumumba and Hammarskjöld, which resulted in the US- and Belgian-led initiative to assassinate the first and democratically elected prime minister of the Congo.

... Brussels’ failure to prevent a radical nationalist such as Lumumba from becoming prime minister created a crisis for the imperialist countries, which were determined to have a decolonization favourable to their economic and strategic interests with the help of more conservative African leaders. With Belgium’s failure to transfer power in an orderly fashion to a well-groomed moderate leadership group that could be expected to advance Western interests in Central and Southern Africa, the crisis of decolonization in the Congo required US and UN interventions. Working hand in hand, Washington, New York and Brussels succeeded in eliminating Lumumba and his radical followers from the political scene."

Georges Nzongola-Ntalaja, The Congo from Leopold to Kabila: A People's History, 2002

[omegaverse-anthropologist]

bites

this post is inspired by @beta-adjacent’s post about bite marks. i got really emotional thinking about friends exchanging bites and wanted to say more about it lol

bonding bite facts

bite scars, like all other scars, vary in visibility and permanence from person to person. in historical practice, various substances (clay, ash, or ink, most commonly) were applied to a fresh bite to improve visibility and permanence. modern practice uses ‘bite powder’ or ‘bite ink’ for those who want a more permanent, easily detectable scar. this is the most common scarification practice, present in most cultures globally.

bites can be exchanged in various locations on the body. claiming or mating bites tend to be found at the scent glands on the neck, but can be left anywhere on the body. marking other locations are considered nontraditional—it would be akin to wearing a wedding ring on a finger other than the left ring finger (in cultures where that is the traditional location).

healthy bonding bites do not typically affect a person’s inherent scent. a person may release more detectable ‘happy pheromones’ after exchanging bites with a loved one, but these tend to fade after a few weeks. conversely, a person may release more detectable ‘distressed pheromones’ after receiving a bite under duress, and these tend to linger much longer.

biting someone who accepts under duress is no different from biting someone who has clearly rejected it. in the US, forcing a bite is considered felony assault and battery

mating bites may be administered in a variety of settings. a traditional practice between omegas and their alpha or beta mates is to exchange bites during their first heat after the pair has agreed to mate. some cultures practice ‘claiming ceremonies,’ where the mated pair exchanges bites in front of their families and friends, community leaders, and/or religious leaders.

bite types

mating or claiming bites - most commonly located on or around the scent glands at the nape. historically, alphas were not marked when mating with betas or omegas, but in current society bites tend to be exchanged between mates of any sex rather than used as a tool for alphas to stake a claim on someone of a so-called ‘lower sex.’

pack or bonding bites - most commonly located on or around the scent glands at the wrist. in some more traditional or long-established packs, either the pack alpha or chief omega administers pack bites to new members. popular culture treats this practice as old-fashioned, with some young people referring to it as a ‘boomer bite.’ in younger or more progressive packs, any member may extend the bite to an unmarked pack mate.

camaraderie bites, also called ‘bestie bites’ - may be located anywhere on the body. a more recent practice, only from the last 60 years or so, stemming from the free love movement and sexual revolution of the 1960s and 70s. these bites are exchanged between close friends, but are not typically an expectation. to share a camaraderie bite with a friend is a mark of profound intimacy. in many young adult novels, a life changing experience shared between friends is punctuated by the exchange of camaraderie bites. some groups have expressed displeasure with this trend, as they feel it cheapens the significance of the camaraderie bite.

bite perks

mated pairs report increased happiness in their relationship, though causality between the bite’s presence and relationship satisfaction is unclear.

bite-bonded packs demonstrate a similar phenomenon with similarly unclear causality

friends who exchange camaraderie bites tend to report a stronger sense of connection, satisfaction, and contentment in all of their friendships, not just the bite-bonded one.

individuals in healthy bite-bonded relationships of any type report a stronger sense of self and belonging, which is associated with positive health outcomes, job satisfaction, and overall happiness

bite-bonded married couples and unmarried couples with registered mating bites receive the same social and legal privileges

global acceptance for same sex (i.e. a-a and o-o) mates is increasing rapidly, with legal recognition for these mating arrangements in over 85% of countries

[dirtyzucchini]

Let me tell you something about Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father and, for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, remained, attached as liaison with the Canadian consulate.

There was never much of a chance that Benton Fraser would grow up to be what most people would casually call "a regular guy". From what little insight we get, no part of his childhood would have been standard. Looking at the anecdote Bob Fraser tells in Burning Down The House, we can assume that Benton grew up in a cabin his father built by hand, in a location remote enough and far enough North that living in an igloo during the construction of said cabin was a sensible thing for his parents to do. We see one picture of the family in Good For The Soul, and it is a puzzler:

Now, I wasn't around in the mid to late 1960's when that photo would have been taken, and I've never been to Canada's far North, but everything I could find anywhere tells me that that is not how (white!) people dressed then even up there, and no, I am not talking about trendy fashion. Everyday clothing looked pretty much like what we still wear today, but the people in that picture don't. They look like this guy - a European "explorer" whose picture was taken in 1889:

Side note: I am purposely only talking about white/western/mainstream society in this post because the Frasers are white.

I wonder what drove them to live like this, and so far away from other people? It can't have been money, Bob would have made enough to support them. I guess Fraser's parents weren't regular guys, either.

Anyway, we know that Bob wasn't around much while Fraser's mother was alive, and even less so after her death. He handed the boy off to his own parents instead, and Benton was raised by literal, real life Edwardians, people who were born before the invention of band-aids and bubblegum. Public radio broadcasts were cutting-edge technology when they were young. I'm glad they stepped up, and I'm sure they did their best, but they weren't exactly well-equipped to prepare a child for life in modern society. They were librarians who for some reason moved around a lot. When he was eight, they took Benton to a place called Alert - the northernmost continously inhabited place in the world. Unfortunately it's inhabited by soldiers and researchers who go there on six-months-tours, but it counts because the tours overlap. Fraser would have been the only child there, and, the times being what they were, his grandmother the only woman. What librarians would have done in Alert we can only speculate about, but between this and the fact that they helped build an English-speaking library in China before the revolution, we can safely assume that we are dealing with another generation of non-regular Frasers here. This idea is supported by the fact that they fed Fraser arctic tern for Christmas. Each bird weighs under 130 grams, and they would be hard to come by in northern Canada in December because they migrate to literally the other end of the world after breeding in the Arctic in the summer. I'm not entirely certain what this says about Fraser's grandparents, but it sure says something, doesn't it?

This bird may scream, but it does not scream Christmas to me.

Listen, I LOVE that Fraser's grandmother taught him how to box from a book.

Perhaps this one from 1922? In this book, the writer "not only describes the various moves of the game and traces the history of their development but deals comprehensively with all the factors of body and mind that make for success in the ring." Sounds like a good choice!

I do NOT love that she taught him that being in the hospital for three weeks after being shot in the back is "babying yourself". She also raised Bob Fraser to be the kind of man who tells his journal "The last time I saw Ben, he was barely tall enough to reach my belt. When I said good-bye he shook my hand. Never a tear or a complaint. Seven years old and he's already a stronger man than I'll ever be. Someday I'll tell him.", and friends, I DO NOT love that at all. That is NOT a healthy way to deal with emotions, and I think we can agree that growing up guided by these mindsets did Fraser no favors at all. Look at how he lives! His apartment is absolutely bare-bones, no personality, and after that he literally lives in his office - this is a man who gets REALLY uncomfortable when he's comfortable, is what I'm saying. Everything he does is quick and efficient to make sure he can devote a maximum amount of time to his work. I'd bet "Idle hands are the devil's workshop" was a very common saying in the Fraser household.

Look, our upbringing informs who we become, how we approach life, how we connect to those around us. Fraser's view of the world is completely different from how other people see it. Long before he's displaced geographically, he's displaced in time.

He grew up without TV, and while living with librarians gave him access to a large number of books, the libraries they worked at served remote communities and would not have been all too well funded. It stands to reason they would have had to make their books last as long as possible, and that new purchases would have been, shall we say, conservative? Copies of beloved classics, books with general appeal, books with educational/instructional value would have made up the bulk of purchases. Even if the librarians wanted to, there would have been little money to buy more controversial books - and it doesn't seem likely that Fraser's grandparents would have wanted to. Fraser probably grew up on adventure tales, detective stories and, as a teen and young adult, the classics from Austen to Shakespeare.

When he gets to Depot in Regina to become a Mountie he has nothing in common with the other recruits, and that continues throughout all his career. There's a reason he's still a Constable after all his years of service: he's severely lacking in social skills, and his upbringing is a big part of that problem*. He was raised by Edwardians on Victorian (and Romantic) mores and values, and bridging that gap to make connections with people from what's essentially a different world is very, very hard.

TL,DR: Fraser is both an alien and a time traveler, and we should remember that when we talk about him.

*Other parts of the problem are his queerness and neurodiversity, but those are topics for another essay. Please know that by problem I do NOT mean there's something wrong with him, I mean that there's something wrong with how society treats people like him.

Big thank you to @sammaggs and @sammeltassensammelsurium for excellent feedback!

[heywriters]

I'm definitely going to downsize the account with the intent of eventually deleting it—Pinterest has been a thorn in my side for years. However, I do have some big collections of quotes, creative ideas, character face claims, and other things there that I feel are useful.

First collections to go will be the external links & resources since many are dead or weren't good to begin with. I will keep those up until end of this poll (week) for anyone who wants to fave them.

Collections on the immediate chopping block are linked below!

Also, in part, I would like to remove as much art from my inactive accounts as possible. I know I can't stop Big AI from scraping Pinterest, but I can at least not leave a ton of unprotected (and often uncredited) stuff out in the open. It's simply a sentimental thing at this point.

Save whatever you want and support the artists if you can!

[raz-writes-the-thing]

A Very Bisexual Revelation (Supernatural One-Shot)

Dean Winchester x (cis) Masc!Reader / requests are open

Summary: Dean Winchester's never had trouble with the ladies, but this is brand new territory for him.

Fic type: fluff, super super smut-lite

A/N: this fic is inspired a lil by Welcome To Being a Girl by @negans-lucille-tblr - that fic did something to me for real it is so so so GOOD! Everyone should read it for sure

SPN: @wereallbrokenangels (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

Dean had always been confident with the ladies. Never had a problem getting them from the lockers to his and Sam’s motel room for that week, or from the bar to the backseat of the Impala. He’d never really been that worried about his sexuality because women saw his green eyes and charming smile and practically threw themselves at him.

But that wasn’t to say that he’d never been unappreciative of the male form either. No, he distinctly remembered looking a little too long at Kev Prentiss’ abs in high school, or thinking that John King’s hands were that pretty kind of veiny that girls kind of liked- and he liked it too, but he didn’t throw himself at men, and men didn’t throw themselves at him either.

Not to mention if Dean had stopped to think about his sexuality properly for more than twenty seconds he’d be fucking terrified of his father's reaction. So, he just went about his business, elbow-deep in pussy whenever he wanted. Honestly, knowing that he could go out and bed a happily consenting woman any time he wanted meant that he didn't really think about men all that much anyway.

And then he'd met you. Very manly, very masculine. Very obviously a guy with a guys', you know, equipment. The two of you had met on a hunt way back when and been each other's unofficial back-up rock ever since when either of you needed a hand.

You didn't see each other that often. Once a year if you were lucky (or unlucky- depending on how you looked at it). Twice if you were both hunting near each other and wanted a catch-up.

It had all started as an innocent friendship, but you weren't shy about your sexuality and interest in men (among other things sometimes) and it made Dean wonder. Particularly when he was drunk late at night crashing in a hotel while you snored in the bed next to his own, hand draped over the covers and so close to his own that if Dean really wanted to- he could reach out and touch you.

With every meeting, Dean wondered. At first, just about how you managed to make hunting look so good. It was no wonder monsters, women and other men threw themselves at you when you chucked a wink their way. Then, it was how gracefully you held a rifle, or swung an axe, or decapitated a nasty vampire.

Then it was how he liked the brush of his fingers over your stubble when you both roughed each other up playfully or the feel of your warm skin under his hands as he stitched you up, muscles tensing under the pinch and pull of his needle.

And finally, he realised, well- son of a fucking bitch, he was into you. Not, like, into the way you dressed or into the way you hunted. It finally clicked one Wednesday night after hearing your half-asleep voice on the phone ranting away about a hunt nearby that he was into you in a very I'd-like-to-get-handsy-with-you bisexual kind of way. It was a startling revolution for him, and, of course, he'd been with Sam and just blurted out the sentence- "son of a bitch- I wanna fuck him, don't I?" To which Sam had snorted half his beer down his front, slapped Dean in a comfortingly condescending way on the shoulder as if this wasn't news to him and left to find himself a clean shirt and give Dean some space to wrap that new little factoid around his brain.

It was another two months before Dean saw you again. You'd called him for backup while hunting a Wendigo in the forest a little ways from where Dean had been similarly hunting a good old-fashioned ghost. Six hours, a dead wendigo and eight beers in, Dean was finally tipsy enough to do it.

"So," he said, twirling his beer on the table. Watching the base of the glass tread condensation over the warping wood of the surface, Dean hesitated to make eye contact with you. "What's it like, huh? Being... with another dude."

Beer choked its way down your windpipe. You wiped your mouth and punted your chest a couple times to clear your throat. You told him it was good, no different from being with women, really, aside from the difference in anatomy and feel of it all.

Dean hadn't mentioned it after that. You'd both downed a couple more beers and stumbled back toward the motel room. You'd stumbled with the key for a moment, probably scratching up the lock a little more. Once you'd both stumbled through and Dean had discarded his coat over the back of the mysteriously stained chair by the rickety desk. Rubbing over his stubble, Dean decided he was not going to staying in anything less than a three-star joint from here on out.

"Can I, uh- can I try somethin'?" Dean asked awkwardly, and before you even had the agreement completely off your tongue, his lips were on yours. You jerked in surprise, having not expected this in the slightest, and then he was gone a second later, turned away from you and you could tell- ready to bolt for the door.

"Sorry, fuck-" Dean said, already reaching for his coat and taking a step for the door. You stopped him, had him turn around and face you.

"Do not apologise," you said forcefully, trying to get the words through the haze of panic you could see taking hold of his features. You brushed a hand over his cheek and encouraged him to make eye contact. "Wanna tell me what that was about, stud? Not that I'm complaining."

"Stud, heh," Dean chuckled nervously at the nickname you'd had for him for years now- noting the new more sultry tone the affectionate nickname had taken. "Listen, I- you know me. No bad luck with the ladies, but I've never, uh- you know."

You arched your brow, waiting for him to finish the sentence. It became pretty clear pretty quick that he was going to continue stumbling over his words unless you put him out of his misery.

"Kissed a dude?" You supplied. Dean's mouth opened and closed a few times, a very fine dusting of pink appearing on his cheeks before he nodded, averting his eyes. You eyed him carefully before adding- "Hmm. I know it was pretty short-lived, but- what did you think?"

"I mean- it was good. Yeah, great. No, good- good stuff," he sort of answered, that fine dusting growing just a shade darker.

"Dean, darling," you said, voice dropping an octave in your very best attempt at flirting. "Do you want to do it again? Hmm? Do you want to kiss me, pretty boy?"

Dean's breath hitched, his perpetually creased brows smoothing out in shock. Oh, he's been flirted with, sure. But not like this. Once you realised this, it was as if you'd been struck down with divine motivation. You stepped towards him, crowding him with your very masculine and very intentional energy.

"Yes," Dean whispered, plush lips parting to let bated breath through. "God, yes."

That was all you needed to hear, your hand twisting around to hold the back of his neck and bring him closer. He put up no fight as you pressed your lips to his, nibbling at the soft skin. If you didn't know better, it almost sounded like Dean whimpered in response to it before he kissed back, surging forward.

You stepped back, allowing him to crowd you against the end of the bed. Your ass hit the mattress and Dean was crawling on top of you faster than you could blink, fingers trailing over your tee and following the curve of your body up and over your chest, up your neck to cup at your jaw.

It was your turn now to be speechless, hands curling around Dean's hips and giving a soft squeeze. Dean grunted into your mouth, barely breaking away long enough to take a breath before he was back on you.

Dean kissed you like his life depended on it. Years of repressed sexuality all coming out in one kiss. You didn't mind that he'd taken control. In fact, you'd kind of expected it. Dean didn't like to take anything lying down. Especially not something he was nervous about. This was a whole new world for him. It made sense he'd want to keep control over that.

His lips moved over yours, nipping at your own and trailing over your cheeks, neck and back up to your mouth once again. He licked at your lip, requesting access which you granted greedily, tongue playing with his. Dean moaned into your mouth, hips rolling over your own.

You pulled away to catch your breath and Dean leaned above you with a smile that mixed cockiness and vulnerability in such a way that you'd never seen it before, but you wanted to see it again. God, you'd love to see Dean fucked out and boneless. You wanted to really see him let go.

"Been wanting to kiss you for a long time, stud," you said, squeezing Dean's hips. The man in question, puffy-lipped and red-cheeked, chuckled.

"Yeah, me too, handsome," he said, voice low with desire. Then, he added, more to himself than you, "shit- maybe I am gayer than I thought... Huh... who knew?"

[determinate-negation]

“I had known Sigmund Freud, that great and austere spirit who, more than any other in our time, deepened and broadened our knowledge of the soul of man. When in Vienna, he was still appraised and opposed as an obstinate and difficult intellectual hermit. A fanatic for truth while yet fully cognizant of the limits of all truths, (once he said to me, "Absolute truth is as impossible as to obtain as absolute zero temperature,") he had estranged himself from the University and its academic scruples by his imperturbable venturing into heretofore unexplored and timidly avoided zones of the upper-nether realm of instincts, the very sphere on which the epoch had set a solemn taboo.

Unconsciously the optimistic-liberal world sensed that the well-spring psychology of this uncompromising mind utterly undermined its thesis of gradual suppression of the instincts by "reason" and "progress," that he menaced its method of ignoring whatever was uncomfortable by his relentless technique of disclosure. However, it was not merely the University nor the clique of old-school neurologists who resisted this inconvenient "outsider." It was the whole old world, the mind of another day, the "proprieties," it was the entire epoch that feared the unveiler in him. A medical boycott against him slowly took form and his practice dwindled; but as his theses and even the boldest of his theories were scientifically irrefutable they tried, Viennese fashion, to dispose of his theory of dreams by means of irony or by lightly distorting it to a humorous parlor game. Once a week a faithful group visited the solitary man and at those evening discussions the new science of psychoanalysis was molded into form. Long before I grasped the implications of the intellectual revolution which slowly shaped itself from Freud's first fundamental labors, I had yielded to the moral strength and steadfastness of this extaordinary man. Here, at last, was a man of science, the exemplar of a young man's dreams, prudent of statement until he had positive proof, but unshakable against the opposition of the world once he was satisfied that his hypothesis had become a valid certainty.

Here was a man of the most modest personal demands but ready to battle for every tenet of his teaching and faithful unto death to the immanent truth of the theories which he vindicated. A more intellectually intrepid person could not be imagined; Freud always dared to express what he thought even if he knew that his straight, positive declaration might disturb and distress; he never sought an easy way out by making even perfunctory concessions.”

Stefan Zweig, The World of Yesterday

[enjoythesilentworld]

SIMON'S MONTH

(intothelight // @enjoythesilentworld)

Day 1: Pencil Case (G, 1.2k)

Maybe it’s payback for that one time, but Wille is getting tired of Simon stealing all his goddamn pencils.

Day 2: Food (T, 2.3k)

Alone in a foreign country, Simon must find a stranger to join him on the romantic couples food tour he’s accidentally booked.

Day 3: Dodgeball (T, 1.5k)

Simon is determined to win the neighborhood dodgeball game. Mostly so he can rub it in Wille’s face.

Day 4: Beach (M, 1.3k)

Simon loves the beach. And you know what the best treat is at the beach on a hot, summer day? A popsicle.

Day 5: (Beyblade) Towel (G, 900)

Oh, the places you’ll go. Or, Memories of Simon’s life through the perspective of his Beyblade towel

Day 6: Sara (T, 900)

Simon just wants to stand up for his sister. 

Day 7: Purple (Rain) (T, 1.2k)

Through the power of Prince, Simon tries to pull a prince. Well, an ex-prince. 

Day 8: Discrimination (T, 1.8k)

Simon tries to buy some flowers for a wedding. Wille still has some things to learn.

Day 9: Anime (Backpack) (G, 800)

Simon and his new backpack take on a new school. 

Day 10: Travel (M, 2.5k)

Simon and Wille take on a new city, and a new tour, and Simon neglects to read the fine print (again). Or, FoodTour!Wilmon return

Day 11: Revolution (G, 900)

The Space AU no one asked for.

Day 12: Music (Room) (T, 2.9k)

Simon ran into Ex-Crown Prince Wilhelm in a campus music room in New York City, and they have started a tentative friendship.

Day 13: Hoodie(s) (T, 800)

Simon has a different hoodie for every mood. Here are a few. 

Day 14: Senses (M, 1.8k)

Simon receives some gifts. Five gifts, to be exact.

Day 15: Secrets (T, 1.6k)

Simon is trying to figure out why Wille is acting so damn weird lately, confessing random, rather inconsequential secrets.

Day 16: Venezuela (M, 1.9k)

Simon finally gets to take Wille to Venezuela. Or, more Married!Wilmon on Caribbean Beach vacation.

Day 17: (Just if a little more than a) Friendship (T, 2.3k)

Simon is someone Wille regularly breaks rules for. (A just if for a minute flashback.)

Day 18: Pride (T, 2.3k)

Simon invites his best friend and ~ultimate ally~ Wille to join him at Pride. Or, S1 “I’m not like that” Wilhelm meets S2 petty Simon.

Day 19: (Cat)Fish (T, 500)

Simon tries to convince a man on a dating app that, yes, that is his actual face in those pictures.

Day 20: Nightmare (T, 1k)

Three nightmares. A twin bed, an empty house, a warm embrace.

Day 21: Red Light (T, 1.2k)

A tense car ride home.

Day 22: Labor Day (M, 2k)

Simon plans to take down RK Solutions from the inside. He also just so happens to be sleeping with the CEO's son.

Day 23: Parent (Pick-up) (G, 1.5k)

Wherein music teacher Simon has a crush on the hot new teacher who he only ever sees at parent pick-up.

Day 24: Winter (Fashion Week) (M, 3k)

Oscar-nominated musician and composer Simon Eriksson attends Winter Fashion Week with his new beau, Ex-Crown Prince Wilhelm of Sweden. Or, The Met Gala AU. Again.

Day 25: Soulmates (T, 600)

Simon, curled up and heartbroken in the backseat of Sara’s car, realizes some things. Or, Simon sees his and Wille’s lives laid out across the universe.

Day 26: Dancing (On The Ceiling) (T, 1.4k)

Simon managed to pull an (ex-)prince with Prince. This second performance is just for fun.

Day 27: Physical Touch (T, 2k)

“Can I touch you? Just to be sure you’re real.” or, Catfish!Wilmon return

Day 28: Birthday (Suit) (M, 2.1k)

Three times Simon sees his friend Wille naked, and the one time he actually gets to do something about it.

Day 29: (Under the) Stars (G, 600)

Simon and Wille have a chat while star-gazing.

Day 30: Home (Improvement) (T, 1.3k)

Simon owns a home renovation business with his sister. Wille has recently purchased a fixer-upper.

Day 31: Photos (G, 900)

Photographs of Simon over the years, and those by his side. 

[miraculousfanworks]

Writing Prompt: Fashion Revolution

Adrien: "I actually like girls wearing (insert niche subculture fashion)"

Paris's fashion scene the following week was nearly unrecognizable.

Prompt by: divineballad

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Don Moynihan at Can We Still Govern?:

Robespierre, a central architect of the French revolution, may seem like an unlikely reference point for modern American politics, and Donald Trump in particular. But in one way he articulated a theory of governing that Trump is enacting today:

"If the basis of popular government in peacetime is virtue, the basis of popular government during a revolution is both virtue and terror; virtue, without which terror is baneful; terror, without which virtue is powerless. Terror is nothing more than speedy, severe and inflexible justice; it is thus an emanation of virtue; it is less a principle in itself, than a consequence of the general principle of democracy, applied to the most pressing needs of the patrie [homeland, fatherland]"

Trump won’t use the word terror in such a way. But when he labels his opponents to be enemies of the people, fulminates against the deep state, and declares “I am your retribution” the ethos is the same. Set aside how much the retribution is driven by his interests, versus those of his supporters. The key point is that Trump has normalized retribution as a proper scope of presidential action and the use of political power. Terror becomes the perverted populist funhouse mirror of patriotism. Far more than his first and second campaigns, Trump has made vengeance the central theme of his re-election platform, even reposting an wordcloud analysis of his campaign speeches that highlighted this theme.

Trumpism hastened a new version of right-wing politics, one that is not conservative nor libertarian in a meaningful sense, but one that urges the embrace of state power to go after their movement’s perceived enemies. Terror is chiefly directed towards public officials who stand in the way of Trump’s goals and interests. These include other politicians, educators, public health officials, election officials, judges, and other parts of law enforcement.

[...]

Lesson 1: Terror is Used to Subvert Legal Accountability

When Senate Republicans refused to indict Trump for encouraging a mob to storm the Capitol in a bid to intimidate public officials into overturning the election, they promised that the legal system would hold him accountable. The problem is that the legal system is deeply wary of Trump’s ability to intimidate public officials.

The FBI petitioned a judge to stop Trump from lying that its employees were ready to use lethal force against him. This is not an unreasonable concern on the part the FBI. After the Mar-A-Lago raid, a Trump supporter wrote on Trump’s social media platform wrote “Violence is not (all) terrorism. Kill the F.B.I. on sight” before attempting to do precisely that at a FBI field office. Right-wing media then printed the names of the FBI agents. Within the space of a couple of weeks, three officials who challenged Trump in some fashion in court were victims of swatting: the Maine Secretary of State who sought to remove him from the state ballot, the judge presiding over his election interference case (who was placed under 24-hour protection), and special counsel Jack Smith. In Colorado, state supreme court justices that ruled that Trump should not appear on the state ballot faced four “swatting” attempts. Another judge in a different Trump case faced a bomb threat. The family of Michael Cohen, a key witness against Trump, was doxxed. [...]

Lesson 2: Terror Provides a Means of Control Over Officials Trump Has No Authority Over

Terror provides a basis of control over individuals that Trump has no direct authority over using tools such as intimidation or outright threats. Just as Robespierre and other authoritarians could call upon “the people” and assume that militant supporters would act, Trumpism out-of-office has looked to non-democratic tools to reshape politics and regain power. Many of his targets are state or local officials (such as judges and election officials). An analysis by NBC News shows that Trump strategically times his social media attacks on judges or agencies when they seek to hold him accountable for wrongdoing. [...]

Lesson 3: Terror Will Be a Feature of American Public Life Regardless of The Election Outcome, But Worse if Trump wins.

Trump has primed his supporters and much of the Republican Party to refuse to accept that any electoral loss is legitimate. Searching for alternative explanations involves conspiracies, which requires vilification of election officials, judges or other parts of the “deep state.” While Trump losing will feed conspiracy mongering and intimidation, it is, I believe a lesser threat than Trump winning, which will marry informal terror and state power. Trump has repeatedly shown a willingness to use state power to punish his perceived enemies, and has primed a second administration of lackeys willing to do so. For example, Trump allies have prioritized using federal law to prosecute Alvin Bragg, for prosecuting Trump. Even if such as case does not end up imprisoning Bragg, the point is to create a sense of fear to discourage any officials from pursuing Trump. Trumpism has normalized abuses of state power by treating efforts to hold Trump accountable as outrageous.  [...]

Lesson 8: Most of Us Will Not Resist Terror

The fearful hypocrite becomes a more prominent character in political life under terror. Members of the Republican Party, right wing media, and business interests who once denounced Trump now embrace him or remain silent. Some privately express concerns they will not attach their names to when talking to reporters. It is easy to be disgusted by such hypocrisy. But this is not just opportunism. It is partly fear. These officials generally can’t afford to spend the hundreds of thousands of dollars that Mitt Romney spent on security. They are aware of Trump’s comfort with using public power to engage in retribution. [...] Faced with such harassment many will choose to withdraw, or more carefully manage their statements and actions. They will prioritize physical and psychological safety over doing what they believe to be the right thing. Such a decision may be understandable from an individual perspective, but it is a disaster from a collective point of view, since it implies that public officials will be too scared to tell the public the truth.

Don Moynihan wrote a solid piece in his Substack that the Trumpist MAGA cult seeks to rule via intimidation and threats towards its opponents to entrench their rule unchallenged.

[peachyomega]

Askew 💕

Summary: STRICKPAGE (Taking place 2 weeks after Revolution)

This is a follow up to my other fic Love Me Not, but you don't have to read that one to enjoy this one.

Rating: NC-17

Characters: Hangman Adam Page X Swerve Strickland

Warnings: Bondage, Desperate Longing, Slight Dom/Sub, Mirror Play, Tragic Bfs, Sad Boy Hours

Words: 2228

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Swerve stood before the costume racks and sighed bitterly. Someone had come in during the show to “tidy up”. They had taken all of the clothing Swerve had left strewn across the locker room floor, and hung it all up. “Great. So fucking helpful.” he grumbled.

Deciding there was nothing else for it, Swerve began sorting his things from what was on the racks and removing them from the hangers to toss into his bag. He must have been doing this a little too aggressively since he heard a stitch pop at the shoulder of one of his newer sweaters as he pulled it down. He cursed under his breath and threw the thing roughly into his duffel.

He had brought out more things than he usually did because he could not decide on an outfit for his run-in that night. He and Prince Nana spent nearly an hour before his cue trying on different combinations of clothes, with Swerve snapping at Nana more than once. Swerve wanted to look as tough and intimidating as possible while also showing an edge of sex appeal. He had ultimately decided on his big, black, fur lined coat (oiled, bare chest underneath) and paired it with some distressed boot cut jeans that looked straight out of 2003. The y2k era’s aesthetics were returning to the fashion world, and he thought he resembled a character from a Blade or Underworld movie in his getup, which suited him just fine. 

He had watched his entrance on the monitors afterward and felt he had nailed the vibe he was going for well enough, but even so he didn’t feel very pleased with himself, or with anything really. Something dark that he was failing to suppress was itching away at the back of his mind, casting a gloom over his mood, and causing him to have a bubbling, frustrated anger toward practically everything else. Even Nana had left the venue early without him, likely aware that would have been the best bet for him tonight.

Swerve had no one he could talk to about what was bothering him, which made the situation feel all the more looming and hopeless, coupled with the fact that he was pissed at himself for even feeling this way… About him…

It had been two weeks since they’d last seen each other. Two weeks since their post-show tryst in the hallway. Two weeks, and yet Swerve could still remember exactly how his rival’s lips had tasted. He found himself having involuntary flashbacks of that night almost constantly. It was to the point that he was spending his days in an unfocused, frustrated haze, and his nights in a writhing mess in his sheets. He was unable to escape his fixation on the cowboy, even in his dreams.

Swerve’s eyes landed on his gold and silver arm warmers lying amongst the mess of clothing on the floor, and he stooped to pick them up. He ran his fingers along the smooth, stretchy fabric and watched how it shimmered in the locker room lights. He recalled random memories of the last time he’d worn them, including an image of his fingers grasping soft, golden curls…

“Fuck!” Swerve shouted in frustration, tossing the gear away from him. Did his every thought have to be so consumed with Hangman? He didn’t even know when he’d see him again, and he missed him this much already? A part of him felt so lost. His and Adam’s feud had dominated the better part of the last 6 months of his life, and to be completely cut off from it all now seemed cruel. Swerve felt like he was infected by his heartache. Like he was actually sick with a disease he had no idea how to cure. As his misery threatened to boil over he heard a soft shuffling behind him.

Before he could react, he felt warm palms spread across his upper back and linger for a moment before they pushed him forward roughly. Swerve’s chest collided with the wide, wooden locker door in front of him, and his breath came out in a whoosh. He tried to turn himself around, but his wrist was grabbed and his arm was twisted and pushed into his lower back, pinning him in place. Swerve cried out in pain and protest before he felt another hand wrap around his locs and pull, forcing his head back.

It only took a moment for Swerve’s surprise to turn into fury, and he began struggling forcefully to free himself until he felt lips against his ear, and breath on his neck. “Swerve…” his assailant whispered.

Swerve froze. He tried to turn his head, his eyes bending back as far as they could to try to catch a glimpse of who was behind him, but he didn’t need to see him to know. “Adam?” He asked breathlessly.

Adam didn’t respond, but drove his knee between Swerve’s legs from behind, and bent down to retrieve something from the floor. As he straightened up, he pressed a kiss to Swerve’s bare shoulder. “Give me your other arm.” He said.

Swerve hesitated. His mind was still trying to comprehend the situation he was in, but it seemed his body wasn’t struggling to understand at all. The small contact of Adam’s warm mouth against his bare skin was enough to make his cock begin to stiffen with excitement, and he decided to give in to what Adam had asked of him. 

He let his right arm go slack and Adam immediately snatched it up and began wrapping something around both of his wrists, binding them. “What are you…?” Swerve began to ask, before Adam shushed him. Once Swerve was properly bound, Adam leaned in to press his body against him. He ground his hips against Swerve’s ass, and Swerve felt Adam’s cock growing hard against him before his hands began roaming over his body.

Keeping Swerve pinned between himself and the door, Adam groped him all over. First his chest, then his sides, his stomach, and his hips. He squeezed him hard there and thrust his own hips against him roughly. His hands wandered hungrily back up to Swerve’s chest and he began rubbing and flicking his nipples until Swerve whimpered so softly Adam barely heard it. 

“I think you can do better than that…” Adam murmured against Swerve’s ear. “I want you to moan for me.”

Adam reached down and smoothed his hand over Swerve’s growing erection, causing him to gasp. Swerve closed his eyes and let his head fall back against Adam’s shoulder as he rubbed his cock through his jeans.

Suddenly Adam yanked on Swerve’s bound wrists and spun him away from the wall. He walked him over to stand in front of the locker room mirror, staying behind him. 

As he took in their reflection, Swerve’s eyes found Adam’s and he wanted so badly in that moment to turn around and kiss the cowboy. Two weeks had been far too long to go without seeing him after all they had been through, and Swerve didn’t look away from Adam as he undid Swerve’s pants with one hand, peeling them away from his hard cock.

Once it was free, Adam took it in hand and squeezed, which caused Swerve to cry out a low moan. Adam’s eyes fluttered shut at the sound “Good…” he praised.

Adam began slowly working his hand up and down Swerve’s shaft, watching Swerve closely in the mirror. His other hand wrenched down on Swerve’s wrists again, forcing his back to arch.

A pleased half smile played on Adam’s lips as he watched his captive’s body strain and bend in the mirror’s reflection. He picked up his pace on Swerve’s cock as he said “You look so good tonight, Swerve. So fucking good.”

Swerve could do little more than pant in response. Adam was showing zero restraint in the attention he was giving his cock, which was now leaking warm precum. His hands slid slick and quick over Swerve’s cock over and over, faster and faster, almost like he was trying to overstimulate him on purpose.

As the sensations were starting to become too much, Swerve cried out again, much louder than the before, and thrashed against Adam’s hold.

Adam bore down on Swerve’s wrists again to make him go still, but he finally stopped touching him. They both watched as Swerve’s wet, swollen cock bounced and throbbed in response to its sudden release. Adam chuckled darkly. “Did you miss me?” He asked, turning his face toward Swerve’s and planting a biting kiss against his neck.

Swerve worked to catch his breath for a moment before responding. “Yes… Why are you back?”

Adam met Swerve’s eyes again in the mirror. “It’s been hard for me to stay away, suspended or not. I missed you, too.” 

With that, he moved in closer and guided Swerve’s face to his. He kissed him, long and deep.

Swerve met Adam’s lips eagerly. Kissing Adam like this felt like the first sip of water after a long drought, like the first gasping breath after almost drowning. 

He lost himself in Adam’s mouth, his tongue writhing out from between his lips to caress his lover’s. Adam responded by forcing his tongue into Swerve’s mouth, licking anything inside of him that he could reach. They went on like this with increasing intensity until Adam’s hand resumed its hold of Swerve’s cock. Swerve moaned into the cowboy’s mouth as he went, and this time it wasn’t long until Swerve felt like he was about to cum. He tried to keep kissing him, but Adam broke away and returned his eyes to the mirror. “Watch yourself as you cum, baby.” He said.

Swerve watched Adam’s face in the mirror before his gaze drifted lower, taking in the sight of Adam’s hand pumping away at him.  Adam watched, too, as Swerve’s hips seemed to shudder and a series of massive cum jets burst out of his cock, falling sloppily to the floor and soaking Adam’s hand. Swerve moaned and spasmed through each one, but kept his eyes on himself just as Adam had instructed.

When he was done, Adam released him, and he sank to his knees on the floor, panting. Swerve lifted his head to look over at Adam, but was surprised to be met with his hard cock being shoved into his face instead. Adam guided the tip past Swerve’s lips and into his panting mouth.

Swerve coughed at first, shocked at the abrupt invasion, but he quickly recovered after hearing the noises Adam made in response to feeling his tongue. He pushed his tongue out of his mouth to lick along Adam’s full length. Adam pushed himself deeper into the mouth his tongue had just explored so thoroughly moments before.

Swerve caught sight of himself in the mirror. Hands still bound behind his back, pants falling down his hips, his used cock still glistening with cum while his lover thrust himself into his mouth, all the while kneeling in his own mess. He felt desired, sexy, and slutty in the kind of way that only passionate, dirty fucking could make him feel, and he loved it. 

He rolled his eyes up to watch Adam’s face, let his jaw go slack and his tongue hang out, opening his throat up to take Adam deeper.

Adam panted and whimpered as he thrust into Swerve’s lewd, drooling mouth. He tried to keep his strokes short, but Swerve seemed to want to take him as deep as he possibly could, and Adam couldn’t hold on for long.

Swerve gagged a little as Adam came down the back of his throat, hot cum filling him up to the point that he couldn’t draw breath. Adam lingered inside him a little too long once he was spent, and Swerve had to pitch forward, coughing and spitting onto the floor as he tried to catch his breath.

Adam leaned down next to him “Are you alright?” he asked. He moved to untie Swerve’s hands. He had used one of Swerve’s gold and silver arm warmers to bind him. He took the thing and tossed it back across the room. 

Swerve rubbed his wrists, which he now realized were sore. Adam reached out and took them instead, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into Swerve’s skin.

He gave Swerve a small smile.

All at once Swerve became overwhelmed. He felt tears begin to prickle behind his eyes, and he lunged forward to wrap Adam up in his arms. Adam was startled for a moment, but wrapped his arms around Swerve, too. They sat in their embrace for several moments while Swerve’s tears silently stained Adam’s black T shirt. “What’s wrong?” Adam finally asked. “I’m sorry I was so rough with you, I just wanted–”

Swerve cut him off. “It’s fine. That’s not it. I’m sorry, I just– I’m so happy to see you. Too happy. Adam… I know it was only two fucking weeks, but… Don’t leave me alone for that long again, okay?” He gave Adam a weak smile, the overhead lights making the tears on his lashes sparkle.

Adam’s smile was wide, and he chuckled low in his chest. “Okay, I promise. Fuck a suspension! My bitter rival needs to see me on a regular basis, and who am I to deny him?.” 

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Thanks for reading 🥰

[black-rabbit-razumikhin]

Raz Reads Les Mis (X)

Cosette - The Ship Orion

So Valjean is in prison

Again

How many escape attempts has it been now? At some point you need to start admitting that your current strategy is not working

Hugo tells us that his identification has gone from 24601 to 9430, except I don't remember him ever being mentioned as 24601 in the text

Anyway, Valjean is an evil, terrible, horrible criminal and even though he was a mayor for eight years and nothing but good happened, he has not been reformed

He tricked us! He lied to us!

Oh no now he's gone and the town suddenly isn't doing as well

(For those in the back, please read that sarcastically; me personally, I think I like Valjean)

If Valjean needs a new escape tactic, the people of France need to accept that reformation is possible

Especially when bishop Charlie has anything to do with it

We take a quick sidebar to talk about an old legend

If you see a man in the woods at night, it's the devil burying his treasure

Run up to him? Die in a week

Dig up his treasure? Die in a month

Run away? Die in a year

It's high-stakes 'curiosity killed the cat'

So this man called Boulatruelle is our little curious cat

And the man getting the story out of him is none other than foster father Thenardier

Except Boulatruelle did not see the literal devil, but a convict he had been at the galleys with

And both just ignore looking at each other. "Touching display of feeling in two old companions unexpectedly meeting!"

The sarcasm does not mean you're forgiven, Hugo

But this convict has buried something in the fashion of the devil in the story, and nobody can find it

The final part of this is about another Valjean escape attempt, but first it gets very poetic about conflict

That any war that France is in after 1792 is an insult to the French Revolution

That the strength of armies is built on the weakness (willingness to obey authority) of its soldiers

That the building of a ship is beautiful, that she has a soul, that she has indescribable strength

That some guy trying to sort out the topsail got himself over balanced by his head and has fallen over into the ropes

And who happens to be one of the prisoners helping unmoor the ship but Jean 'failed escape attempts are my love language' Valjean

He far too easily breaks the chain attached to his ankle - with prior permission - and shimmies up the ship to rescue the sailor

Gasp, shock, horror! The convict has fallen into the ocean!

Oh no the search party can't find him!

RIP bro, drowned and body unrecovered

Valjean, if you get caught again, you have nobody to blame but yourself. But at the same time, the fact that France refuses to forgive him infuriates me. He's obviously not a danger to society, and hasn't been for nearly a decade, what is the goal for having him in prison? Is he guilty for his crimes? Yes. Was it extended years in the penal system that made a change to anything? No. So what's the point?

[empirearchives]

Maximum price laws under Napoleon

Price maximums are laws that place a ceiling on the price that goods can be charged so that they are affordable to the public. Napoleon applied these regulations to bread, meat, and water (which was made free).

The Prefect of the Eure had included a moving piece of evidence in his monthly report: a sample of miserable bread, “only crudely fashioned wheat husks,” the most his department’s people could afford. In Paris, rumors had flown for months that the city was nearing starvation and emergency measures were imminent. Dreading what might follow, Napoleon determined that only direct intervention would stave off greater disorder. By the morning of May 4, he had drawn up his master plan, and by the end of the week, one might have concluded that the Jacobins had returned to the Convention. Two Imperial decrees, the first on May 4 and a second on May 8, were issued from his chambers. The former once again restricted all sales of grain to public marketplaces, and the latter imposed price maximums on all cereals.

— Judith A. Miller, Mastering the Market: The State and the Grain Trade in Northern France, 1700-1860, p. 198-199

Though he tried to reconcile the war-imposed need for regulation with the liberalism of the bourgeoisie, he was not the laissez-faire economist the Revolutionaries were. His was rather the outlook and role of an enlightened despot, doing his best to promote, according to his own lights, the welfare of his people.

This is why he turned from the Revolutionary, physiocratic idea of unregulated trade to the fixing of prices on meat and bakery items. His natural inclination was to regulate trade by means of corporations, but bankers, industrialists, and the Council of State so generally opposed the idea that freedom of work remained the rule. There were, however, numerous exceptions, particularly in the liberal professions. Bonaparte ordered the prefect of police in Paris to establish trade bodies for baking and butchery; this corporative regime spread to several provincial cities.

“I fear insurrections based on a lack of bread: I should fear less a battle of 200,000 men.” His early popularity, particularly in Paris, rested on his providing food, at low prices, and work.

— Robert B. Holtman, The Napoleonic Revolution, p. 105-106

Napoleon wrote to his stepson in 1810 about this subject:

“The question of wheat is the most important and the most delicate for sovereigns. The owners never agree with the people. The first duty of the sovereign is to lean towards the people, without listening to the sophisms of the owners.”

— Source: Europeana