#Western competition

[faultfalha]

Rumors spread like wildfire among the diplomatic circles that South Africa's Foreign Minister had whispered something about the BRICS Bloc's possible expansion. Though no one could confirm what exactly it was, the suspicion that it involved a substantial number of new members was enough to get people buzzing. Of course, that was no surprise, as the BRICS alliance had been gaining momentum for years, ever since it was founded just a short decade ago. What could the foreign minister's statement mean? Speculation ran rampant, and the possibilities were endless. Was it the dawn of a new era, or an ominous sign of things to come? The details remain wrapped in mystery, and only time will tell as to what this sudden announcement could portend. It's only certain that those within the diplomatic circles must've sensed a shift in the winds, and the ripples of the turmoil are sure to spread far and wide. What the future holds is still unknown, and the truth may never be revealed. But as the speculation rages on, one thing is abundantly clear: the BRICS Bloc is about to become something entirely new.

[normal-person-i-promise]

public transport

arataka reigen x fem!reader

half of it is edited, at least. this has been sitting in my drafts, half done, since march. im sick of working on it, so you get this. sorgy

The sudden jerk of the train starting takes you by surprise, and you nearly fall down — had it not been for the fact that someone gripped your upper arms tightly before your face could connect with the cold, hard floor.

You look up quickly, your face heating when you realize who it is.

★ ★ ★

The familiar "whoosh" of the bus's old doors opening greets you warmly as you step inside, unsurprised to find almost all seats — save for one — vacant. Late nights are always lonely — it's always dark, empty, quiet — but today, there's another person on the bus with you.

He... Looks like the guy you saw on TV some time ago, though in a more... Tired state. Messy blonde hair, unbuttoned grey suit, loose pink tie — he's sitting in the back-most seat, his eyes, heavy with fatigue, transfixed on the window.

He didn't noice you come in.

You stand at the door for a little while, adjusting the bag on your shoulders before coming to a realization that sours your expression. That's your usual seat. He took it.

You scowl, making your way to the window seat a few meters away from him and sitting down with as much annoyance that you can muster.

You can hear the sound of the bus's wheels squeak every time they'd go over a bump, shaking the whole vehicle; smell the sour scent of sweat stained clothes from a long day of work; practically taste the citrus cleaning spray the cleaners use too much on the cloth seat covers.

The bus's doors creak closed. The vehicle abruptly jerks forward, a start, before its motion becomes steady. You settle into your seat, adjusting yourself until you're comfortable, feeling the worn fabric beneath your fingertips as you steady yourself.

As the bus picks up speed, you find your gaze drawn to the man.

His features are... Sharp, though not so much as to look intimidating; his eyes are half-moons as they stare longingly out the window, not taking in the view, more like just... Staring blankly; his breathing — visible from the rise and fall of his chest — is slow and steady, calm; and his nose is pointed, low, coming to a point just above those soft, kissable lips...

...

...Drat.

You clear your throat as if it'll clear your mind. Curse your tiredness, making your thoughts... Inappropriate.

You shift your bag in your lap, trying to distract yourself with the way the strap falls, the feeling of the stitching on the edges.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the man turn his head to face you. His eyes roam down your body before dragging themselves back up to your face, and, noticing your irate expression (due to the fact that he took YOUR seat), he raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side.

He looks at you curiously, scanning your features as the bus bounces up and down when the wheels go over the bumpy road.

He seems to pause, almost hesitate.

"Good to know I'm not the only one with late nights," he says, a grin playing on his lips.

God, his voice...!

"Same here," you mumble, keeping your eyes set on the window to avoid looking into his.

You both slip onto a comfortable silence again, all quiet except for the sound of the bus moving along the tar road, making those distinct noises you've almost memorized.

You can sort of ignore him now, focusing only on the view outside.

It's... Peaceful. At this time of night, there are little people on the streets — those who are still awake are the drunkards, stumbling back to their homes; and the office workers, their gaits slow and steady, tired from the long day of work.

The shops are all closed, and though shutters are pulled down, the colourful lights of their signs remain on; blues, reds, and whites paint the sidewalk a kaleidoscope of colours, one you've never noticed until now. Your eyes roam from the colourful concrete to the signs whizzing past the bus in a blur, your eyes struggling to read the letters.

"What's your name, by the way?"

You're brought out of your thoughts at his question. His voice is strangely soft, his tone understandably wary as you turn your head to face him.

You introduce yourself, and he nods. He tests your name out on his tongue, humming in delight — as though he just tasted something sweet.

"Arataka Reigen, greatest psychic of the 21st century!"

His introduction is over the top, his voice like a salesman's as he spins his hand — so fast that's it's all a blur — before he abruptly stops, bringing it up for you to shake. He flashes you a charming grin, one that makes your cheeks flush.

You take his hand, savouring the feeling of his worn fingers wrapping around yours as he shakes it.

And, leaning in close enough to smell the sharp cologne his wears and said in a low whisper, "But you can call me Arataka."

Arataka leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest in pride as he grins at your flushed cheeks.

"It's the first time I'm seeing another soul at this time of night," he remarks, tightening his tie absentmindedly, almost like an unconscious fidget of sorts. You nod in response. You watch as his fingers wrap around the pink fabric of his tie slowly, getting a better grip before pulling it close to his neck, adjusting it to make sure it's not too tight.

You clear your throat again, averting your gaze.

"I'm... Honestly surprised to find another person coming home from work this late," you parrot, gritting your teeth as you focus on the window. Stop staring, stop staring...

He hums in amusement before it's quiet once more, broken only by the sounds of the bus's engine working to keep the vehicle moving.

It stays like this for a while. Both your gazes are fixed on the window, staring at the buildings passing by in a watercolour blur.

The city is... Nicer? You can't tell whether it's because you have a handsome man sitting across from you, or because it really does look prettier, but all the lights seem... Dreamier than usual, all the tree's leaves a few shades greener.

You can't help but notice his eyes flicker to yours every few minutes, though you never manage to see it directly.

"The city's quite pretty tonight," You mumble to yourself, staring out the window as you adjust yourself in your seat.

Arataka's next words are barely audible, just above a whisper — and his voice is quiet enough for you to be sure that you weren't supposed to hear it, like he was just saying something to himself.

"Sort of like you."

Your heart skips a beat.

"What did you say?"

Your tone is curious as your gaze settles on him again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your eyes sparkling with the lights outside the window.

You can visibly see him get nervous: he breaks out into a sweat, his shoulders stiffening as he brings up the sleeve of his jacket to dry the beads of perspiration trickling down his forehead, his tone rushed and panicked.

"A-ah, hahaa—! What? I didn't say anything!"

You can hear the nervous grin on his face as he avoids your gaze, clearing his throat loudly, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"You must've been hearing things! Those pesky spirits..."

Arataka clicks his tongue, scowling at the empty space above your shoulder for a moment before changing his expression to a neutral one again, bringing his eyes back to yours. The speed at which he gains and loses confidence is enough to give you whiplash — not that you mind, though.

"I can get rid of them for you," he says, with total confidence. He's grinning proudly, almost puffing his chest out a little.

It's... Endearing, if you can say that.

You pause, arching a brow at him in confusion.

"Get... Rid of...?"

Have you never heard of psychics before...?

He nods briskly, pointing a thumb at himself in pride. His mannerisms and movements are precise and swift, enough to get you to think he's done this kind of thing hundreds of times in the past.

"You're talking to a world renowned psychic, here."

...There's a beat of silence, save for the sound of the bus going over a bump.

"World... Renowned?" You parrot, your tone confused. You've... Never heard of this man in your life, this... Arataka Reigen.

He pauses for a moment, his jaw going slack and his hand falling a little before he quickly closes his mouth, his expression almost like he's laughing in disbelief.

"A-ah, yes, yes, world renowned! I'm known all across the globe! Surely you know my name?"

He sounds a little bit like he's in disbelief, though his voice remains prideful.

You raise your brow higher. He's egotistical, to put it lightly. Egotistical, but so, so handsome...

"I've... Never heard of you before," you say to him, watching in amusement as you wait for his reaction.

"Oh, come on!"

Arataka's voice is now definitely one of disbelief as he groans in exasperation, his voice and expression growing irate.

Surely you've seen his posters...? He told Mob to paste them on any empty surface.

"Never? Not even once?" He almost begs, nearly pleading, a note of desperation creeping into his words as he tries in vain to convince you of something you've already set your mind on.

...Which is to poke fun at him, of course.

You hum in thought, your gaze flickering to the window before bringing it back to meet his. There was one time — a rather embarrassing moment for him, in your opinion.

"...Well, there was this one time I saw him on TV..."

He's quick to cut you off.

"Oh, why— y-yes! Yes, no, no, you haven't heard of me, especially not on TV! No, nope! Never!"

His grin is too wide to be genuine; panicked, and his hands are all over the place — almost as though he's talking with them, too, as he gestures wildly. You can see the sweat droplets fly off his hands, in addition to seeing the light reflected off of them on his forehead.

You look on in amusement.

"I-I'm just your friendly neighbourhood psychic, providing exorcisms at competitive prices! Never been on TV, no sir-ee!"

He's sweating buckets now, his grin thin as he goes on and on and on. He just... Talks, and the only time he pauses in his speech is to take in a greedy mouthful of air before getting right back to his words, coming out of his mouth faster than you can understand them.

And though it is rather cute funny to see him act like this, you decide that it's about time you changed the topic and spare him the embarrassment.

...And it's at this moment exactly that the bus reaches your destination, and you need to get off.

You pause for a moment, double-checking the sign to be sure that it's your street. You're more than a little disappointed to be parting ways with this strange, handsome psychic, this Arataka Reigen.

"Uh... Bye, I guess," you say in mild disappointment. You give him a small smile as you sling your bag over your shoulders, sitting up from your seat.

You're leaving already...? He only just met you, though...

As you make your way to the door, you run your hands along the bus's seats, feeling the fabric beneath your fingertips. It's a sort of a... Habit, now, to touch the seats before you exit, like how you'd run your fingers over a bridge's railing. It delays you a few seconds.

...Wait. It's probably best to give you his card, y'know, for his number and the address of his office...

You're halfway to the bus's doors before Arataka stops you, calling your name, rifling through his suit's pockets and producing a sharp, white business card.

"My business card, for the exorcism I promised you."

He grins, jabbing the card in your face. Taking a moment to compute what he's doing, you quickly take it from him, thanking him. He nods in reply, bidding you 'bye-bye' in a quick, hasty voice once more as he waves you off the bus.

You stare at the card as you step out of the bus, making your way to the little flat you call home.

Arataka Reigen.

Your eyes trail down to the bottom, where you see a phone number.

His phone number.

Arataka's phone number.

★ ★ ★

All week, you stress. Should you call him? This... Mysterious, handsome psychic? What if he doesn't want to talk to you? What if he really did just give you his business card for business?

...The way his cheeks flushed when your hands brushed against each other tells a different story, though...

You're fidgeting with his card in your hands when you enter the train, finding that it's full with people coming home from work, as usual. It's just after sunset — the sun has only just dipped below the horizon, the last traces of its golden light fading as the pinks turn to blues, the blues turning to black.

You look back down to the card in your hands, still not having moved from far the train's doors, open wide.

Arataka Reigen.

Your fingers wrap around the frigid metal off the handle bar by the train's doors, though your grip isn't strong, still lost in your thoughts. You really, really wanna call him, but what if he really did give you his business card only for business? He didn't seem to really... Do anything special, nor did he say anything special. He just treated you like a normal client, it seems.

You're still thinking about how adorable his pink cheeks were, though...

The sudden jerk of the train starting takes you by surprise, and you nearly fall down — had it not been for the fact that someone gripped your upper arms tightly before your face could connect with the cold, hard floor.

You look up quickly, your face heating when you realize who it is.

Arataka.

He says your name in a disbelieving, breathless manner, his eyes wide and his expression awestruck for a moment before coming back to his senses. He startles, letting go of you in the blink of an eye as he lets out a yelp, his cheeks flushed a sweet pink as you feel yours heat in tandem.

He remembers your name.

Arataka remembers your name.

"We meet again," Arataka says awkwardly, the both of you standing in the middle of the train. It's a little hard to keep his voice steady and quiet, but he manages.

That well tailored grey suit of his is neat and ironed, his pink tie tightened and tied properly close to his neck. He looks... Good. Better than on the bus, at least.

You nod, trying to calm down your racing heart.

"...Arataka. This is a... Pleasant surprise."

...And just like that, it's awkward silence again.

At least it's not totally quiet though: there's the rumbling of the train car moving along on its metal rails, the rapid beating of your heart in your ears, your shallow breathing as you try to calm yourself down in vain...

Your eyes trail to the window, watching as the train emerges from the dark tunnel, getting bathed in the lights of the city's night life. There's the faint smell of disinfectant and sweaty clothes in the air.

It's when you almost fall over again that you finally decide to take a seat. Arataka follows suit, taking the seat beside you, seeing as all the other seats are taken.

He's awkward as he settles down in his seat, his side pressed up against yours. He looks either... Embarrassed, or ecstatic, since you're that girl he saw on the bus the other day, the one who made his cheeks flush and his heart beat wildly in his chest. You're that girl he'd given his business card to, the one that he's been waiting so, so patiently for to call, even so little as text him.

After a while, the two of you get comfortable against each other; the warmth of his body brings some sense of comfort to you, and the same to him. You... Fit, there, right by his side. He likes that.

Your eyes are trained on the window; the buildings are whizzing past the train, the yellows and oranges of the city lights blending together to form a pretty little painting. It seems so... Fantastical, and so... Unreal. You've never really paid any attention to the scenery...

The little cars on the roads are but small strokes of a brush on a canvas, their blacks and greys mixing in with the dull colours of the asphalt. There's people on the streets, since it's not too late in the night yet; they're all smoking, partying, drinking, having a good time... Because, after all, it is a Friday night.

...And you're alone.

God, you're pathetic.

You scowl slightly, settling into your seat, your side shifting against Arataka.

Though you don't notice it, Arataka's eyes aren't on the view outside the glass. He's looking at you, studying you, watching as your eyes dart from person to person walking along on the pavement, watching as you shift your bag on your lap to get more comfortable. His eyes are fixed on you as he roams his gaze up and down your body, using his eyes to trace the outline of your comfortable clothing and sighing, almost dreamily so.

You're really pretty.

...It stays like this for a while. Neither of you say anything to eachother, though both your minds are plagued by the other.

You find yourself fidgeting with anything you can — the cloth straps of your bag, the thin strands of your hair, the knuckles of your fingers. It's hard to keep your thoughts from going haywire when Arataka's body is pressed against yours, especially when it's almost quiet enough for him to hear your racing heart.

He, too, is freaking out — his heart is threatening to burst from his chest, his mind reeling so much to the point where it's starting to hurt. The only difference is that he hides it well, and you're... Well, you're not as experienced. And he's definitely noticed.

As he stares at you, Arataka calls your name softly, absentmindedly, and his heart almost stops when your eyes connect with his.

They seem so... So sparkly, so big and wide, taking in everything. They reflect the environment; Arataka can see himself in them as he gathers his thoughts quickly, clearing his throat loudly.

It's hard to form words around you, especially words that aren't 'kiss me', you know that?

"So how've you been?" He asks smoothly, ending his question with your name.

You hum.

"...Good. You?"

Arataka nods, his posture relaxed in relation to yours. He shifts against you, almost leaning against you, and your heart skips a beat.

"Great, yeah."

He begins to gesture with his hands again, something that you've missed seeing a lot more than you'd think you would — especially considering the fact that the only time you've met him is on a bus, late at night, the both of you definitely not thinking straight under the influence of sleep deprivation.

"So how's that spirit of yours holding up? Gotten it rid of already?"

He gestures to your shoulder, his expression neutral as he analyses the empty air. He definitely notices that you haven't done anything about this supposed spirit haunting you.

So you stay quiet for a while, unsure of whether to lie and keep him in this emotional state or tell him the truth and make it worse.

"I, uh... Haven't done anything yet."

...

"You WHAT?!"

The passengers in the train all shush him in unison, and Arataka mumbles a quick 'sorry' before leaning in close to you, shielding his voice from the outside with a hand, almost like children telling each other secrets. It's just an excuse to get closer to you, to be completely honest.

You can barely focus on what he's saying, your cheeks a bright red as you feel his breath ghost over your skin.

"You HAVE to do something about it, I mean—"

He makes small gestures to the space above your shoulder, trying his best not to upset the people beside him. He fails, evident in the way they scowl at him and take a few steps away.

"This thing is dangerous!"

You sigh, leaning a little away from him as you feel the red in your cheeks fade.

"It hasn't done anything, though."

"Hasn't done anything YET," he cuts you off, hissing in a whisper. "You could've DIED!"

He gets shushed again. He sighs in annoyance, leaning away from you and talking in a calmer, quieter voice. He's smooth with it; his words come out naturally, almost instinctually — it doesn't sound like he's been desperate to say those words ever since he met you, and it doesn't sound like he's begging you to say yes.

"How 'bout this, hm? I'm heading to my office right now for a late night job. Why don't you come and I'll get rid of this—" he scowls, swatting the space above your shoulder again —"horrid spirit of yours?"

You pause. It's a... Very, very tempting offer. On one hand, you want to go back home and rest; while on the other, you want to follow this handsome, blonde psychic and see how he'll 'exorcise' this supposed spirit of yours.

You decide quickly, just as a light rain begins to patter on the glass windows.

"Sure, alright," you say, giving him a slight smile. Arataka nods in response, smiling at you, before his gaze trails to the windows where the rain gets heavier and heavier the closer you get to Arataka's office.

"SEE?!" Again, he's shushed.

"This is the work of the spirit!" He says, gesturing to the heavy rain that's now beating aggressively on the window in an unpredictable drumbeat. The people on the streets panic and try to get to shelter, whilst others bring out umbrellas.

You're quiet for a while.

"The... Rain?"

He nods briskly, seriously.

"Spirits can influence things, you see. They range from small events like how hot you heat up your bento, to this," he says grimly, gesturing to the thunder and lightning that has started to strike the ground in bright white flashes across cutting across the grey sky.

"The bigger the event, the more powerful the spirit. And," he says, leaning back more in his seat and crossing his arms, "this is a crazy powerful spirit. It's unwise to leave it alone for so long. It's reacting in this way because we mentioned its existence."

"Oh, okay, that... Right, that makes a lot of sense," you agree slowly, nodding in response to his words. Arataka knows a lot about spirits, it seems.

He grins in triumph, just as the train announces its location and its doors slide open. He gets up, gesturing for you to follow.

"It's just a 15 minute walk," he assures you.

When you get out of the train station, you find that it's still raining heavily. There's that smell of rain, which is nice, and you get lightly showered with the cold droplets as they bounce up and off the pavement and road.

Arataka scowls, groaning under his breath as he takes out a pocket umbrella, clicking it open.

"We'll have to share. It's small because it's meant for one person."

He gestures for you to get under the umbrella. It's... Close. You're very close to him, just like in the train, though, this time, your bodies are only almost touching. The two of you have to shuffle on the ground a little to walk.

As you begin walking, you find yourself walking closer and closer until you're touching sides. Arataka doesn't seem to argue; in fact, he wordlessly slides a tentative hand around your waist, holding you tight to him as the crystal droplets of rain pitter-patter loudly against the tiny clear plastic umbrella he holds. His grip grows more confident and firm the longer his hand is there.

It's quiet when the both of you stop at a crossing, waiting for the cars to clear and the light to turn to the little man, indicating you can walk.

Then a particularly fast car comes along. It's definitely speeding, and when it nears the large puddle of water near the sidewalk, Arataka smoothly pushes you back, bringing the umbrella up to shield you, and only you, from the dirty water.

The dirty rain water splashes at his pants and the droplets from the sky pelt him, causing him to wince slightly. It makes his golden hair to stick to his forehead, makes his expensive grey suit soaked at the shoulders, makes his sleeves dripping wet.

Before you know it, he brings the umbrella up again, and begins walking again without a word. His hand finds itself back to it's position, holding you securely around your waist.

"Thanks," you say. He pauses, turning to look at you.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?! THE RAIN'S TOO LOUD!"

You mutter a quick apology before repeating your thanks, this time shouting. His bewildered expression disappears, smiling cutely as he nods, before he continues walking.

The both of you continue in a comfortable silence for another minute or so before you reach the office. He leads you inside, shaking off the umbrella. The office smells... Really salty, coupled with the expensive scents of some kinds of incense you can't make out.

"Here we are!" He exclaims proudly. "Ah, oh, right. This is my apprentice, Mob."

Arataka places a firm hand on the shoulder of what looks to be a middle schooler with a bowl cut. He waves at you politely, smiling slightly, and you nod in response, waving back.

Arataka unbuttons his jacket and hangs it on the wall, and you have to clench your fists tightly to stop yourself from staring.

"Now," Arataka says smoothly, taking a seat in his chair and looking so, so attractive, "what package shall you take?"

He pulls out a piece of paper, with three courses labelled.

"Option A, the trial course, gets you 20% spirit reduction; option B, the serious course, which gets you 50% spi—"

Mob leans in to whisper something into his ear, and Arataka seems to be taken aback for a moment. He scoffs, hissing in a whisper, "Of COURSE there's a spirit, you just can't see it," which Mob seems to be placated by, going back to his spot reading manga.

Arataka clears his throat, opening his mouth to speak again.

"As I was saying," he glares at Mob, "Option A, the trial course, gets you 20% spirit reduction; option B, the serious course, which gets you 50% spirit reduction; and option C, the all-out course, gets you 99% spirit reduction." He gestures for you to take the seat in front of the desk.

"Of course," he says, grinning just like the hideous poster on the wall, "if it comes back, I'll get rid of it — for 20% off."

Sitting down, you bring the paper close to you...

...And find that every course is above your budget.

You smile nervously, pushing the paper back to him and getting up from your chair. This has clearly been a complete waste of time, especially since it all seems so sketchy, and you've only fallen for it because he's handsome...

"S... Sorry, Arataka," you apologise, bowing slightly once you've gotten up from your chair. "I can't really afford anything."

You move to the door, and it's only a moment later that you hear Arataka scrambling to get out of that fancy office chair, his brow slick with sweat and his words rushing out of his mouth.

"Woah, woah, woah, hey, my success rates are 99.9%! All my clients leave happy!" He cries, a note of desperation in his voice.

You shake your head, smiling politely. "No thanks."

He panics again as you reach for the doorknob. Your movements are slow — so, so slow, and it's definitely apparent that you're just stalling, as if waiting to see if he'll do anything.

He takes advantage of that.

Half stumbling and half sliding in front of you and using his body to block the door, he stands, gathering himself for a moment before—

"H-hey, hey, wait—!"

Arataka grips your shoulders tightly, beginning to massage. You pause, silent, a little taken aback.

"Feels good, right?" He says quietly as you almost melt at his touch. He's standing directly in front of you, staring at— no, studying your face as he moves his fingers in firm, soothing circles. "Like it?"

Your shoulders are absolutely screwed up.

You hum, rolling your joints a little bit. Arataka feels a surge of pride when a chorus of the cracking of your messed up bones fill the air, though he still presses gentle, relieving circles and dots into your skin, pressing enough for you to feel it firmly below the clothing you wear.

His touch, though soft and caring, is... Firm. Very, very firm, very unyielding. It's clear that he knows what he's doing, and it's clear that he's confident that this will work. His fingers are round dots of alleviation as they press softly into your skin, and their movements and placements are careful and calculative.

He grips your shoulders, dragging you slowly, slowly, slowly to the chair in the middle of the room and sitting you down on it.

Now that you're seated, Arataka feels your neck and shoulders a little. He goes round and round your little chair, pressing at this spot and that spot — he's looking for something, it's clear; he's looking for tightness or rigidity beneath your skin, places to apply pressure, places to soothe and fix.

You barely notice how his hands seem to almost lovingly caress you.

"Here?"

He bends down and shifts his hand a little closer to your neck, near that place that always aches when you look down — the base of the movement and the base of the neck itself. You sigh in delight, leaning into his touch — sending waves of butterflies and pride swelling in Arataka. His heart nearly bursts out of his chest as he sees you get more and more relaxed, enjoying his touch. His cheeks flush and a dopey grin adorns his face.

He hums, pressing more firmly and confidently.

It's about a minute later when Arataka retracts his hands almost reluctantly, his fingers lingering on you. You roll your neck and shoulders, sitting up and off the chair.

"I must say, Arataka," you say, shoving him slightly as a sort of playful gesture. His cheeks flush at the contact, a cute little grin on his face.

"That was a great massage."

His grin grows prideful, jabbing a thumb at himself proudly.

"You're talking to the greatest psychic of the 21st century, here!"

You sigh, almost dreamily so, as Arataka begins to go on and on and on about all his achievements, his accomplishments, his goals...

...

You pause. You have to pay — you can't just get caught up in his silly little endearing antics again.

"Um, Arataka?"

You interrupt him as he's talking proudly about himself, and he stares at you, a little confused and a little annoyed. He doesn't really care if it's you, though.

You gesture to the paper on the desk, the one with all the courses and prices. Your tone is regretful; you shouldn't have fallen so easily for such a blatant scam, c'mon, you're smarter than this...

"I can't pay. I didn't bring enough money."

Arataka pauses. Gears seem to turn in his head for a moment before his eyes light up, another one of those adorable horrible grins settling on his face again.

"Tell you what."

He tries to lean on the wall, finds that it's too far, and stumbles instead. He clears his throat, his cheeks red with embarrassment.

"Instead of paying, how about you..."

His grin widens as he pauses for dramatic effect. You wait patiently.

He's not actually pausing for dramatic effect, though; he's trying to get time to prepare what his tone will be, how his body language will look, how loud and confident his voice is...

It's a really, really long pause.

"...Go on a date with me?"

A date? With him? Mob's just sitting on the little couch in the corner of the room when he looks up from his manga, intrigued by the word 'date'.

Great. Now you've got a 14-year-old's pressure on your back.

You hum for a moment, thinking, as though your answer will be anything but a resounding yes. Your cheeks are flushed, but so are his once he hears what you say in response.

"Yes, please."

His grin widens in absolute joy, and he puts his hands harshly, securely in his pockets to prevent himself from grabbing you by the collar and sloppily kissing you right now.

He opens and closes his mouth to speak multiple times before he decides on what to say. He looks so, so happy — his eyes are wide and full of wonder, his grin is big and silly, and his cheeks are that same sweet pink as on the bus.

"Saturday? Saturday, 8:00 PM?"

You nod.

And waving goodbye as you open the door to leave, "I'll see you on Saturday."

[its-a-me-mango]

happy one year western spaghetti, how does it feel to know you invented cinema 🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠

[jorvik-fashion]

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Gustav Vigeland (Norwegian, 1869-1943) Monolith Of People, ca.1924 Vigeland Park, Oslo, Norway

[yohankang]

so many dramas that should be my favorites this year and yet. nothing hits

[asilosmagdalena]

Actually quite terrifying that ymk has a handful of shows available on US Netflix because that means there is a non zero probability that I might meet someone irl who knows who he is. Americans never watch j-dramas but the fact is I can mention him in passing and they could easily learn who he is. That's not okay

[medicinemane]

I don't know... horrible things happen all around the world and it's not a competition

Atrocities are committed against multiple groups in multiple parts of the world at the exact same moment, and none of them erase each other. They all matter, all the people in this world who are being brutalized matter. There shouldn't be any line you draw where one group doesn't actually matter as much as another

You're welcome to prioritize your energy towards helping one group or another, but what's not ok is invalidating or dismissing people who are actively being harmed

Same goes for trying to figure out which social group has things worst (and lets be honest, always using a US lens)

Like... maybe the important thing is to prop each other up and help everyone get on their own feet rather than trying to... pick fights about if physical disabilities or mental illness are less respected (I'm trying to pick a more absurd example but sadly I've seen exactly that argument happen before). Maybe it doesn't really matter and what matters is helping who we can when we can

I'm tired of it, I'm just fucking tired of it. Support people, champion them when the world is just brutalizing them, but you don't need to throw a single other person under the bus to do that

Which seems to be an absolutely impossible lesson for people to learn

[supernutcollectionuniverse]

Just got the 4 books I ordered like exactly a week ago and I’m looking at them like “damn 300 pages is so readable.” But I know it’s a trap my brain likes to do. Just because I’m capable of reading all these books in one day doesn’t mean I should.

I need someone to remind me that I tend to get burned out if I read something too quickly.

[faultfalha]

The Minister's statement was cryptic, but it was clear that something was afoot. He hinted that South Africa was considering joining the BRICS bloc as a full member, with three new countries. What could this mean for the future of the bloc? There was much speculation in the press about what the Minister could have meant. Some said that he was alluding to a new alliance that would rival the G7. Others speculated that the new members would be countries that were in the process of gaining independence from European colonial powers. No one knew for sure what was going on, but it was clear that the Minister's statement had sent shockwaves through the world of international politics.

[postcard-from-the-past]

Sand castle competition on the beach of Soulac-Sur-Mer, Gascony region of western France

French vintage postcard

[jorvik-fashion]

🤠Camp Western Outfit Contest🤠

Results are in! Congratulations to the winners!

Third place goes to: 🥉@mysterysoulrider🥉

Second place goes to: 🥈@sirigreenhaven🥈

First place for best Camp Western outfit 2024 goes to: 🥇@charlierainfordsso🥇

Thanks to everyone for participating and showing support to this contest!

[estrogenism]

i'm sorry that your people are going through what they are but please keep in mind that other occupied nations are enduring a lot worse right now, so there might not be as much focus on yours /gen

i'm deleting this fucking app. /srs

[czigonas]

Saw this image of Soap and Ghost enjoying the spoils of a carnival/fair and my brain immediately went instead to Actually They Are Both Carnies AU.

(I am going to preface this by saying I am much more familiar with American traveling carnie lifestyles rather than the UK [do they... even do those over there?] or anywhere else, so that's what I'm basing this on. This is set vaguely late 80s-early 90s in my mind.)

Ghost has been working as a carnie for a very long time. He basically grew up on the fair circuit, helping his dad as soon as he was old enough to carry things and count out change (and do a little pick-pocketing on the side).

Old Man Riley runs a ring toss booth, though not well. He's constantly on the bad side of the man that owns the ring toss trailer but they keep him on the job because, when he's sober, he's charming enough to pull people in and keep them playing. Problem is, he's increasingly not sober. Simon's tall for his age though, so, as soon as they can pass him off as 14 (he's about 9 or 10), the lead has a few of the other barkers teach him how to draw people in. Look charming, smile wide, get them to see you as a friend, play the part and get paid. Simon hates it, but he does what he's told because it keeps his mom and Tommy housed and fed.

(Lead's wife is pretty good about keeping odd jobs set aside for Simon's mom at any time of day she needs to escape. Lead's wife can't interfere every time, but she and a couple of the other carnies do try to minimize the abuse by offering legitimate ways to get away for a short time.)

As Simon and Tommy grow, Old Man Riley steps back more and more. He's almost never sober anymore and rarely seen anywhere near the booth-fronts. He's a terror in the back lots, and burns through a lot of the goodwill the rest of the family manages to generate among their fellows. Tommy starts being trained up taking tickets at a fun house, and he's good at it. He's not as conventionally pretty as Simon, but he's flirtier, more attuned to crowd moods, and much more willing to bark, so he does well pulling.

As soon as Simon's 18, he joins the Army. He's always liked the travel aspect of carnie life, but he hates that it's seasonal work and the months and months of downtime. He never grew to enjoy having to put on the charming mask to draw in customers. Instead, he leaves with the lead's grudging blessing and a promise to his mom and Tommy to catch them up at whatever stop they're at whenever he has leave.

The Army is... nice. It's not necessarily a life he wants to live forever, but for now it's different and yet still enough like what he left behind to satisfy. He ends up having to take an extended leave right after basic to sort Tommy out, though. Drugs have always been passed around pretty openly around the booths and caravans, the the Riley boys had never partaken. His mum had sent a letter that Tommy had been getting into them and not handling it well. She doesn't say it outright, but Simon blames the old man.

He finds an unexpected ally in Beth, the daughter of the man widely acknowledged to be taking over as lead when the current one finally retires. It's not exactly an advantageous match for Beth's family, but she's stubborn and has made up her mind. She wants Tommy and she's going to have him so long as he wants her back. Together they get him clean and Simon gives the pair of them his blessing and a good chunk of the money he's saved over the years.

(Tommy uses it to buy his own caravan so he and Beth aren't imposing on their parents. They both agree Mrs Riley can stay whenever she needs. The old man has been getting worse the more he sinks into the drugs and drink. He'll need to be left behind soon, but no one can agree on where. There are a lot of jokes about ditches and empty fields. [A good number of them aren't jokes.])

Simon heads back to the Army with a lighter heart, ready to do his duty knowing his family is once again as safe and happy as he can make them. They exchange postcards and letters when they can, e-mails when they manage to find somewhere to send one from. Simon doesn't make it home in time for Joseph's birth, but he sees him as often as the leave schedule allows. Everything is good for a few years.

Then. Roba.

Ghost crawls out of his desert grave and, while the Army welcomes him back, they simply do not have a place in their ranks for a dead man. They want to forget the betrayal by one of their own and the loss of a whole unit of promising soldiers; sweep it under a rug and never speak of the shame again. Ghost gets an honorable discharge and several discreet leads to a few PMCs and even the CIA if he wants to stay fighting near the front lines. He doesn't.

Instead, he goes home. He takes what's left of his belongings, the rest of his pay, the survivor benefits in the name of Simon Riley's next of kin, and the hush money check thinly disguised as a pension and goes to find his family. He finds them happy, safe, and sound. Joseph is thriving under the attentions of both Mama Riley and Beth's parents. Tommy's in charge of a handful of booths now, and Beth is running their section of the back lots as well as any sergeant Ghost's ever known.

He gets himself a little trailer to sleep in so he's not imposing and slides back into the crew so easily it's almost as though he never left. Except now he has a mask he won't remove for anyone. The lead sets him up doing mostly setup/tear down, but supplements his time with stalking the fun houses and dark rides to make sure no one's slipped off into a corner trying to get frisky or burn the place down.

Sparks and Washington, when they show up, don't make it far into their convoluted revenge/enticement plot against Ghost. Tommy ends up losing an eye and an unlucky witness gets Sparks' knife to the ribs, but at least they'll both live. The same can't be said for the two ex-Army men.

The carnies close ranks when the authorities show up. They blame the injuries on an after hours party trick that got a little out of hand and accept medical treatment, but offer no information that would lead to any charges being filed against anyone. When they move on to the next show, they leave behind two unmarked graves that will lay undiscovered on those grounds for decades to come.

(The road out of town ends up with one of its own, and Old Man Riley is guaranteed not to bother anyone any further. The crew doesn't take lightly to rats.)

Life slowly crumbles its way back to a semblance of normal. A few stops later, they pick up a few new additions. One of them happens to be a brash Scottish man who comes highly recommended by the head of another crew named Price. Johnny "call me Soap" MacTavish immediately gets on Beth's good side (and Ghost's annoyed one, much to his chagrin).

Still, this Soap guy is kinda growing on him. Just a little.

[mithliya]

https://www.tumblr.com/competentwoman/714142792908193792

thoughts?

leave it to TRAs to spew the most ice cold, ignorant takes without actually reading into what they criticise (beyond the header, of course)...

So for this cisgender woman with naturally high testosterone (and/or an intersex condition, I do not know her specific condition and it's honestly none of my business)

it takes one quick search to find out that yes, christine mboma is intersex. it also takes a quick search to find out that not every intersex athlete is impacted by these rules. the ones impacted are intersex women with XY chromosomes and testosterone levels above 3 nmol/L, and a list of specific intersex conditions.

has to be be forced to take the same testosterone suppressing medications that these same competitive regulatory committee said wasn't good enough to suppress trans women's testosterone to allow them to compete in women's sports.

its ironic the same people who pretend to care for intersex people are the same ones making false equivalences rooted in intersexism. yes, a literal male who decided to transition is not the same as an intersex woman with XY chromosomes. intersex conditions affecting those that are genetically male but assigned female affects the way their body reacts to testosterone. someone who had a normal male puberty vs an intersex woman whose body does not process testosterone normally and thus did not have a normal male puberty are obviously completely different things. these intersex women have female bodies and genitalia, their bodies developed this way because their body did not undergo the puberty that non-intersex males like trans women have.

If she has naturally high testosterone, similar to that that trans women experience in their lives pre-transition then wouldn't she have the same advantages that a trans woman supposedly inherently has and can not be corrected with said testosterone suppression?

no, because trans women did not simply have 'naturally high testosterone', they had testosterone within the male range, experienced male puberty, have male biology, and their bodies process testosterone the way any average male body would. intersex women can have high testosterone that still isnt within the male range, have female biology, and their body does not process testosterone the way any average male bodies would. for this reason, a male that transitioned after puberty and an intersex woman who simply has higher testosterone and XY chromosomes are not the same category. the intersexism in this post is off the charts

Like, no one should have to undergo forced medical treatment to be able to compete or to make it "fair" for their competition. Other athletes have all kinds of natural advantages, like Michael Phelps having an abnormal wingspan and larger lungs and heart. In fact, every high level athlete has some kind of physical advantage, that's how they're such high level athletes. You think the people they beat out for their spots just, what, didn't work as hard? Didn't grab those bootstraps tight enough? Fuck no.

this is such a false equivalence. yes, atheltes are already all outliers. in fact the regulations created already consider outliers bc the testosterone levels expected are way higher than that of the average woman. we can sit here debating all day over how actually athleticism in itself is unfair but at the end of the day, theres a reason the women's sports category was created and it was to include women who naturally are disadvantaged in terms of speed & strength when compared to men. arguing that there's no kind of unfairness and no one should have to undergo any kind of criteria to be able to compete is beyond ridiculous, as well as ignorant.

that said, i dont know if the regulations for intersex athletes have undergone thorough enough research and investigation and i think that world athletics needs to look deeper into that and see if making blanket categorical exclusions of intersex athletes isn't the wisest due to heterogeneity within those intersex conditions.

this person is clearly ignorant and doesn't know what they're talking about, at all, and they admitted to this from the beginning. and yet people blindly agreed w it lmao

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Paula Wright

Published: Feb 19, 2023

If any man could draw up a comprehensive, infallible guide to navigating this treacherous territory, we would certainly erect a statue to his everlasting memory. There is a Twitter account dedicated to exploring and enumerating precisely the distinctions and differences between the acceptably erotic and the intolerably sexist. It’s called @SexyIsntSexist. It is, of course, under the control of a woman.” Neil Lyndon. Do men really understand what sexism is? The Telegraph 20/5/14

I created Darwinian Gender Studies (DGS) in 2008 as a cross-disciplinary area of study and research which utilises insights across the evolutionary behavioural sciences, including but not limited to, evolutionary psychology, biology, anthropology, ethology, palaeoanthropology and cultural evolution.    It represents the consilience of the natural and social sciences, as envisioned by E. O. Wilson.

Back then, my planned PhD thesis was to be in developing an evolutionary, bio-cultural model of ‘patriarchy’ which challenged the premises of the feminist conception of patriarchy. Even in 2008, the project foresaw that political correctness, social justice and toxic feminism were taking us deep down the postmodern rabbit hole. My goal was to build bridges of understanding between the sexes not walls of fear and mistrust, which is what feminism does today. To learn about humans and humanity; what we are, and what we are not.

Two things we are, which we cannot cease to be and remain human, are a sexually reproducing, moderately sexually dimorphic, pair-bonded species. These are basic facts of our human nature which cannot be erased by social engineering.

Within DGS, I interrogate orthodox feminist concepts, such as patriarchy theory, objectification theory, gender, power, mating strategies, and sex differences and similarities, using humour and evolutionary explanatory models such as natural and sexual selection, parental investment theory, female choice, signalling theory, life history theory, intersexual competition and intrasexual competition.

History has demonstrated many times, that whenever our species attempts to take control of biology and bend it out of shape to ideological goals, human tragedy always follows. It’s a lesson we still don’t seem to have learned, as in spite of overwhelming evidence, many people still hold fast to the idea of an endlessly flexible human nature, and indeed, human nature is flexible, but a blank slate it is not. Neither however is it a crude caricature of immutable deterministic drives and instincts as often painted within the straw man of biological determinism. Human nature is very much mutable, but not infinitely or arbitrarily so, and here lies the nub: Within what may seem like infinite variations of human action and reaction to what life throws at us, our predispositions on an average scale are actually predictable. There are enough constants within this calculus to recognise the existence of an unmistakably human nature. This nature will vary and recalibrate between individuals and ecologies (variation is one of the engines of evolution) but these variations dance around a constant, evolutionary fire.

“Those who journey from political correctness to truth often risk public disapprobation, but it is notable that most never lose their tolerance or humanity. They may question the politics of race, but not that racism is bad; they may question campaigns about women’s pay, but not that women and men deserve equality of treatment.” Browne, A. (2006) The Retreat of Reason: Political correctness and the corruption of political debate in modern Britain. Civitas

I was, and am, standing on the shoulders of many female evolutionary scientists and philosophers who came before me such as Barbara Smuts, Sarah Blaffer Hrdy, Anne Campbell, Helena Cronin, Griet Vandermassen, Catherine Salmon, Maryanne Fisher, Bobby Low, Helen Fisher, and many more. Over the last 50 years, their scholarship has revealed that, far from feminist fears to the contrary, evolved sex differences do not equate to inferiority.  Via evolution, we in fact see true equality expressed in discrete and fascinating ways.

These women (and many men) have illuminated the role females play as potent agents of evolution via the phenomenon of female choice. This is sadly still an unsung revolution – unsung by feminism, not evolutionists –  as it shattered the male perspective biases that once dominated biology and Darwinism. These women did this, not with rhetorical declarations of war against ‘patriarchy’ but with logic and critical thinking.

When it comes to the principles of natural selection – the struggle to survive – men and women differ very little. Rather, it is in the principles of sexual selection – the struggle not just to survive but thrive enough to have offspring and allow them to thrive also – that the main differences start to become manifest. It is a categorical fact that none of these differences equates to any moral inferiority. No genuine evolutionary scholar would ever make such a claim.

Feminists have long claimed that logic is an exclusively male trait. So much so that to counter the “male” scientific method they felt the need to create “female” method – social constructionism - which ironically invokes every negative female stereotype they claim to want to refute. They did this not because social constructivism was a better tool – it is untested – but because it was the binary opposite of the scientific method.

Women, in fact, have nothing to fear from logic. Yet feminists do fear it, as philosopher Janet Radciffe Richards notes in her book The Sceptical Feminist, 

“…in spite of girls doing better at school than boys, feminists are still woeful at rationality…feminism has some tendency to get stuck in the quagmire of unreason from time to time [but] it cannot be denied that adopting an anti-rational stance has its uses; it can be turned into an all-purpose escape route from tricky corners”  

They also fear it because it falsifies the very premises feminism rests on – especially female inferiority.

This is a description of all feminisms today: radical, intersectional and all other tribes battling for dominance in the victim narrative – including ideological men’s rights, MGTOW and “red pill” groups. All feminisms eschew logic and reason for dogma and ideology and all are in thrall to the flying patriarchal spaghetti monster in the sky. Ask a question about female oppression, you already know the answer: it’s the patriarchy, stupid. And ideological men’s groups have their own version of patriarchy, known as gynocentrism. Both concepts are intellectually myopic.

I created DGS all those years ago because I wanted the opportunity to have a role, however small, in helping us better understand ourselves as a species.

It is true that as a woman I am perhaps more interested in the unique selection pressures women face due directly to their sex. As an evolutionist and a realist, however, this bias does not make me blind to the fact that men face their own unique selection pressures due explicitly to their sex.

The truth is, one sex cannot be understood except in the light of the other. Men and women have co-evolved, each shaping the other both physically and psychologically via sexual selection. Men desire power and resources because women desire men who have power and resources. And female conflict, well that doesn’t look like male conflict, and so often goes unseen, especially by feminists.

From an evolutionary perspective, feminism can be categorised as the study of the conflict between the sexes – intersexual conflict – aka the “battle of the sexes” with a particular interest in proximate, conscious mechanisms of how men can oppress women and how this oppression can be countered. But this is only half the story. Evolutionists posit that to really understand intersexual conflict one must also analyse intrasexual conflict. We do this because we observe across species that competition within a sex is always far more intense than between the sexes. An evolutionary lens also broadens the enquiry to include an analysis of ultimate, unconscious mechanisms of not just how, but why, men pursue the goal of power and resource control. What do men want to do with power? To create strong alliances, subdue rivals, protect against enemies and attract mates.  

Much is known about male intrasexual competition. We have had 2000 years to work it out – its role in shaping cultures and empires – for better or worse. Far less is known about conflict - and conflict resolution - between women; female intrasexual competition (FIC). It is the pink elephant in the feminist room. Do we have the same amount of time to understand female intrasexual competition? For better or worse? I don’t think we do. The epidemic of female-on-female bullying in nursing has long been acknowledged in academia, yet nothing is done about it. In the UK it costs the NHS billions of pounds in workplace attrition, sick leave and low efficiency. It can also cost lives, as a “culture of bullying” was highlighted in the official reports on two scandals in UK maternity wards where both infants and mothers lost their lives.

In another example observe the rise of intragender conflict in the West. Third-gender people exist in many cultures, but only in the West are males who identify with the female gender trying to use it as leverage to get access to sex-based rights and privileges. Then we have feminism itself a battleground fraught with female intrasexual competition, which is often mistakenly called “internalised misogyny”.  Women too, it seems, want to create alliances, subdue rivals and attract the best mates.

Using FIC as a lens to look anew at hot feminist topics such as the beauty industry, cosmetic surgery, anorexia, and the endless wars of attrition between the many tribes of feminisms brings fascinating new insights, as all these phenomena seem to be expressions of female competition not male oppression.

Nonetheless, there is still a comfortable consensus among all feminists that the beauty ‘ideal’ is a tyranny perpetrated upon women by the patriarchy. “Feminists down the ages have argued that the oppression of women is played out on their bodies, their clothes, their style of adornment. To politicise dress has been one of the enduring projects of the women’s movement.” (Walter, N. 1999) Naomi Wolf tackled this concept in her seminal book The Beauty Myth: How Images of Beauty Are Used Against Women. It suggested that this patriarchal strategy is one of ‘divide and rule’ as it “creates a climate of competitiveness among women that divides them from each other.”

Competitiveness is the keyword here. Perhaps the idea of sanctioning the idea, nay the fact, of female intrasexual competition seems frightening for feminists because on the surface of it, it threatens the very notion of a ‘sisterhood’. Yet we know that men are murderously competitive with one another, as homicide rates attest, and this does not seem to threaten their notion of ‘the patriarchy’.

The evidence actually shows that the beauty myth may not be a tyranny perpetuated on women by men, but on one other - if it is a tyranny at all! And it reveals a much more complex and fascinating picture of female agency which goes far to liberate women from the doctrine of passive femininity.

The fact is, women are fiercely competitive with one another, but as the existence of feminism attests, this does not stop women at least trying to cooperate to face challenges, though, as feminism also shows, its own willful ignorance of human nature means feminists cannot agree on anything for long. This explains the many tribes within feminism, and the fiercely defended hierarchies that exist within feminism itself.

I do not deny that these revelations are tricky for feminists to negotiate, but that is no reason for not taking them on. That female intrasexual competition exists is not in doubt. The degree of it however will vary from culture to culture. We know dominance hierarchies exist in many species and all apes. Humans add to the mix competence hierarchies which allow for the utilisation of innate talents and the division of labour which has allowed our species to become far more than the sum of its biologically determined parts.

We also know females have a large role in the construction and maintenance of such hierarchies, for better and worse. Women are individuals and as such are often not united in their interests. An individual’s environment is crucial to how they calibrate their own needs. Yet, ironically, the collective structure of feminism, suppresses the evolutionary mechanism of individual female choice. The epithet “choice feminism” is regarded with contempt by most feminists today.

 “If we do not know what we are capable of…then we do not know what to watch out for, which human propensities to encourage, and which to guard against.” Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors.

Further reading: Griet Vandermassen Sexual Selection: A Tale of Male Bias and Feminist Denial ; Griet Vandermassen: Who’s Afraid of Charles Darwin: Debating Feminism and Evolutionary Theory; Anne Campbell: A Mind of Her Own: The Evolutionary Psychology of Women ; Sarah Blaffer Hrdy: Mothers and Others: The Evolutionary Origins of Mutual Understanding ; Sarah Blaffer Hrdy: Mothernature ; Susan Pinker: The Sexual Paradox: Men, Women and the Real Gender Gap ; Christina Hoff Sommers: Who Stole Feminism? ; Cindy Metson & David Buss: Why Women Have Sex; Women reveal the truth about their sex lives, from adventure to revenge (and everything in between) ; E.O. Wilson: Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge ; Jerome H.Barklow (ed): Missing the Revolution: Darwinism for Social Scientists

==

We recognize that the evolution of peafowl, bees, seahorses, angler fishes and marsupial mice has resulted in males and females whose physiology and behavior development has influenced and responded to each other. Yet somehow, that female and male humans behave as they do as a result of the other is somehow unreasonable or even "sexist." Like creationist Xians, this is a denial of evolution and of humans as members of the animal kingdom.

It seems like the "god did it" dragon of "tHe PaTrIaRcHy," then, was conjured to fill the gap in the combination of denial of biological sex-based differences (directly responsible for the formulation of gender ideology; and itself a denial of evolution), and denial of intrasexual competition between women ("On Twitter, women are more misogynistic than men") in order to obscure female agency.

If "gender studies" had been based on science instead of Marxian psychosis and postmodern fantasy, it might well have been harder for the Queer Theorists to find a solid ideological foothold and enthusiastic collaborators.