#discourse cw major

[earthtooz]

no offense but are u guys like 7th grade, what kind of math is that 💀 i thought u were in college

no offence, but have u ever heard of different ages/school years 😭 art and i are college students, we were helping six who is younger than both of us… we’re not letting however long we spent suffering in high school and advanced classes to just let simultaneous equations leave us behind like that and not help out a friend (there was more to the question btw, the simultaneous equation set that i posted was just part of the answer. but more importantly, it was just a fun piece of evidence to prove that art, six, and i all did indeed sit in vc and begrudgingly, yet willingly, help solve some maths question. no harm no foul).

[melina-mellow]

"Tony knew Bucky was mind controlled but still tried to kill him" still the stupidest hill to die on.

Wow! Like watching your parents be murdered in front of you after decades of you thinking it was an accident doesn't fuck with your emotions and makes you act out irrationally, and to add insult to injury, imagine one of your best friends, the person who you trust with your life... already knowing about it and actively hiding it from you.

I wonder why Tony acted out and attacked Bucky.... Surely not because of the pain of losing his parents coupled with betrayal from someone you trusted.

It's almost like when humans experience high levels of distress it tends to make us a tad bit irrational and we don't tend to look at the facts because our dumb emotions get the better of us!

People were mad Tony acted like almost every other human being on the planet when exposed to extremely distressing situation.

[tacticalhimbo]

i dislike fandom-centric arguments but i'm watching some we happy few related stuff again and the narrative that sally cheated on arthur with his father will always be fucking wild to me.

ranting under the cut because i'm having feelings and seeing people talk shit makes me upset.

sally was a minor. arthur's father was an adult. he groomed her and raped her.

and the second she tried to come clean, the narrative was twisted, and she was painted to be some villainous whore. and she, years later, still apologizes for being raped. she apologizes to arthur when he starts screaming at her for it and recounting the event as "fucking my dad on my mother's bed"

before anyone comes at me with that "but she was 16" bullshit... would y'all say that about your sibling? your own child? that because they're almost an adult (and the technical age of consent in some areas), or because they happen to be a "troublemaker" (which it's hinted at through sally's own arc that she may have been a rebellious teen) that they deserved to be raped because they could have said no? because they may have had a conscious choice? because they might not obey all the rules, such as curfew or modest dress?

nobody deserves rape. plain and simple. no exceptions. if you disagree, go die i guess <3

also. not to mention the statutes around the age of consent (re: it being 16 in some places) only apply to small gaps and other minors, not someone who's probably in his 40s or 50s.

granted, we know jack shit about arthur's father and the dynamic that was had... but he was an adult. she was a minor, who was struggling with her own shit (e.g., mental illness, the whole narrative plot, the implementation of joy and drugs and withdrawal, watching her fucking family die)...

he fucking knew better. in any regard. you as an adult simply do not proposition a minor for illicit activities. that makes you, surprise, a bad fucking person. a disgusting fucking rapist!

but i just... hate that people are so quick to accept the game's narrative on this, especially since we see everything in that regard from arthur's perspective. and i think a lot of people forget that. we see what arthur wants us to, to an extent.

we never get that full context, until we take a step back and think for ourselves. but that's just too much to ask in regard to a female character, i guess.

tldr:

not that accepting a rapist's solicitation is a mistake, because it isn't, but the general vibe of this screenshotted post is so accurate and i hate y'all (nobody here, hopefully)

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

(cw: noncon)

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic. Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though. When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you admitted you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening the damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better aff jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een oot.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze. He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway. You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting his knuckles. He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit. You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any embarrassment from building in your gut. Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ an adult grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s. Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed. It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer. You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand. The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind. You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John just inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.” John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly the weather was tonight and hadn’t practically jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.” Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb. You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle. It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh. “Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much. Your sole scuffs against debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before. As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now. You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

He was smiling at you again. It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward. You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles. They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle. It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh? That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble. 

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over. You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits. At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right? But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it. Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek“—almost made us lose out.” he grumbled “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”. You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce.

Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[dotthings]

Here's a clip of more from Misha's panel and he confirmed Robert Berens intentionally wrote that confession to mean romantic love not love in a "love ya bro" kind of way, confirmed Berens was going to leave the show for the final season but stayed so he could see that storyline through, confirmed that there were "stages" to how Destiel was treated in the show, it started out with fandom viewpoints, and then some winks and nods done by the show, and then eventually the writers were working in hints in that direction, he confirmed that yes he and Jensen discussed it, confirmed at a certain point they started playing into it more deliberately (seemingly in pace with the writers and the story hints) and reiterated he was really stunned that they were able to give Cas an open love declaration like that.

This is confirmation of writer intent. Confirmation the actors talked about it and knew about it and played into it, following the writers. Confirmation of creative deliberation. No this was not just some headcanon or fandom delusion.

People at the show, who make the show, were for it, and since the network was never going to let that be full-open mutually confirmed they did their best to convey it however they good. Snuck it in the back door. And we've already been told there was a lot of careful chess-playing to get the confession to air and they were all worried the network might cut it.

No amount of screaming and hate and denial from spnstanbunchanumbers on twitter is going to undo it or make Destiel shippers "delusional" for noticing, make it less canon.

The creatives at spn were on your side. This was not a queerbait. If you want to accuse anything of that, please aim it at the cw network and it's cap on representation and its queer erasure, because broadcast TV networks are like this. They are still like this, things do seem to be changing a little, as Misha said, things are becoming a bit more inclusive and open, but it's not like the whole system reforms all at once.

Cas being gay and canonically in love with Dean got erased in show-connected PR, and for a time, stifled on CE con stages. That doesn't make it not canonical.

FYI for historical context, the reason "canon Destiel" even became the major discourse that it did was because of how the show started handling it differently. That shift happened in Carver era. And Carver hired Berens.

[scoobydoodean]

honestly it's really hard for me to not get stressed by online discourse, and i was wondering if you had any advice? obviously i should log off if im getting stressed by discourse im not involved in but.

On dealing with discourse directed at you/people being mad at you:

A big thing for me is respecting the sanctity of the blog space. Make original posts as wanky as you'd like, and interact with like-minded bloggers, but don't interact with posts or blogs you don't like. This will not prevent random weirdos from showing up to be rude and obtuse on your posts, but it will make their lack of tumblr etiquette/respect for tumblr as a blog space apparent and it will give you the upper hand with moderating.

Remember that you don't have to talk to anyone you don't want to and no one is owed a personal response just because they chose to disagree with you. You can block whoever you like for any reason you'd like. If you don't want to interact with someone but want to address something they said, you don't have to reply directly to them if you don't want to. You can address the gist of what was said without giving them an audience. Sometimes people don't deserve whatever attention they were trying to get—especially if they've been rude or it's obvious they are approaching the subject in bad faith.

Remember that it's okay not to be liked by everybody. A lot of the time, you will find the people who make it clear they don't like you aren't people you respect or like either.

Most of all: Find the humor in putting all of this in perspective. We are all on a social media site most of the internet seems to think is dead, blogging about a CW show from 2005.... and we are getting mad at each other over it. That's wild, right??? And the people most willing to come to you to start drama are often the funniest people. I have had callout posts written about me over fart jokes. I was once called a "sane, anti-bully saint" and accused of "unfandom" behavior for laughing at samgirls getting Sam kicked out of a christ figure bracket poll they told people to kill themselves on. Someone took a 50 question uquiz I wrote multiple times seething with rage trying to get a zero on it on purpose because they thought it would make me angry for whatever reason. All of this is FUNNY.

On dealing with discourse that has nothing to do with you... logging off is great. But tbh I don't think it's wrong to vent 100% of the time.

It's okay to stand up for your friends and support them.

It's okay to write bitchy posts on your own blog.

It's okay to show a friend the thing you saw that raised your blood pressure and tear it apart together in DMs.

Also again: You can often find the humor in the discourse. Take a step back, find the joke in the whole situation and tell it. Laughter is great medicine imo.

Also, put the fandom in perspective. It's a big space, and sometimes the worst groups become the loudest, but they aren't the majority.

[azaracyy]

to the next stage of our adventure! digimon survive week 2024 day 7: post-game / future personal thoughts under the cut - less about the artwork and more about shuuji and lopmon themselves. a long rambling containing major spoilers and heavy topics. will cause whiplash. proceed with caution.

other than the fact this may be boring and long-winded, cw and tw: there will be mentions of self-harm and suicide. if these topics make you uncomfortable, please step back. if you're sure, then alright. i'm aware this is a weird place to ramble about shuuji and lopmon considering the notorious highlight of their story would match the themes of day 5 (villains) and day 6 (dark & loss) better. unfortunately (ironically?) i never planned to feature them for those days, so... pretty sure i'm not the only one feeling this, but when i discovered that a good part of the fandom seems to loathe shuuji with utmost passion, even after they claimed to have completed the game, i was confused. the way his death happened and (understanding) the cause made me uncomfortable for a while, but never drove me to the point of hate... once i recovered from the initial shock, what i felt towards him was more pity, then respect (on truthful route). i feel shuuji should have been one of the most appreciated characters in survive. yet it was the opposite that happened. (between you and me though, knowing there was this discourse with the fact digimon survive is a visual novel, i'm not that surprised it turned out this way...) from my point of view, lopmon evolving into wendimon then killing shuuji symbolizes suicide, the act of taking one's own life. it was the climax of shuuji's mental breakdown, leading him to basically self-destruct, causing damage to everyone around him and ultimately himself. lopmon evolved, just like he hoped. but failed to do it like other kemonogami partners (maintaining control of themselves and fending off enemies). the next and final outcome was death, through his own partner actually eating him alive too. it reminds me how when someone thought they have prepared well for something important yet it failed spectacularly, the devastation and frustration would eat them in the same way from inside. and they probably would for one second think, "i'm better off dead". the more i pondered about it, the more it hit home, so of course, the last thing i could do is hate him, when his struggles sound similar to my own - having to rely on consistent achievements to prove your value, to feel you are worth living and not a waste of resources. the part where shuuji went all abusive on lopmon felt like the equivalent of pushing yourself to the extreme to reach your goal, to the point of neglecting your own needs. it's like a student so absorbed in their study, sacrificing food and sleep, until their body eventually snaps and shuts down for good (...this in fact happened to one of the students at my previous workplace. she was in her last year of high school. life was just about to truly start for her when her classmate informed us of her sudden death). even in truthful route where shuuji and lopmon survive that point, things aren't immediately nice and easy for him. you can see that he still has self-doubts, and what i think is impostor's syndrome. he could be making a great contribution to the team and still put himself down for having done "nothing". i have found it interesting that artists and writers tend to be especially fond of shuuji. so perhaps it's not just the matter of one's upbringing - whether you were raised in a harsh, competitive environment and/or with family with (unreasonably) high standards so you can relate more easily to him - but also whether one can see just what every struggle shuuji and lopmon went through symbolizes shuuji's mental state. out of all survive characters, i think shuuji and lopmon pulled off this thing called "surviving" the hardest, no joke. which is why i almost always gravitate to drawing them happy because that's what they deserve :') after all this, what i also would like to say is, it's okay if a character makes you uncomfortable. it's okay if you hate a character. but never, ever bring down the character to people who like them or even consider them their favorite or comfort character. if you must, do it in your own space and only with like-minded people.

[oscillating-fan-whore5]

Hi!

My name is Elliot, the depressed teen (and Co.) who runs this blog :3

Yap blog and Fandom posts ☆ trans he/they

(Flash warning⚠️ Under cut I have a blinkie wall that has many flashes. Flashless intro can be found here. )

☆Important Details!☆

•I'm a minor, for privacy and paranoia reasons I will not disclose my exact age

•I struggle with my mental health alot so if that bleeds over into this blog i apologize but you get what you get. Sometimes I have sort of episodes other times I just scream into the void, I do have a vent blog tho

•I have EDS (waiting for genetic testing in February, so I don't know what type yet). I also have suspected autism but no diagnosis (I am peer review by autistic friends/hj) so if my social skills fucking suck I apologize.

•I suspect I'm an OSDD system, I don't have any sort of diagnosis but there are multiple of us so yea 73% of the time they aren't a problem on here but if you see posts referring to me in the 3rd person that's why

•I get super passionate abt topics I like and if you engage in them with me I will talk ur ear off

•I struggle to respond to DMs (hardly ever will, please don't take offense) and other notifs. Please remind me if it takes too long, I have most likely forgotten about it :')

☆Don't do this on my blog- Queer discourse, queer infighting, drama, trigger my paranoia, bigots be an asshole, zionists, basic dni. ☆

☆CW// Slight mentions of mental health issues (nothing major dw), Mentions of cannibalism, slight autocannibalism mentions, blood mentions, me being a stupid idiot.☆

☆Interests☆

•NBC Hannibal ♡

•Baking

•Crows, ravens, and other corvids ♡

•Socially intelligent animals (like corvids, orcas, dogs, etc)

•Dead Boy Detectives

•The Umbrella Academy

•Psychology (specifically social behaviors)

•Percy Jackson (not much anymore but if someone likes it I'll yap with them)

•Music (I am a musician btw! Not professional but I play things)

☆Links☆

Credits ☆ tags ☆ Vent blog (TW TW TW)

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

But do you really think that he can be voted head of Commonwealth ? I remember how Gabon was mad after their docuseries implied that CW was the Empire 2.0 saying that they willingly came in but not to be insulted or something. And it seemed to me that this scheme about Harry, Meghan and the CW was dead because their tours in the CW were disastrous and because their discourse with the CW was too much Empire/decolonisation centred (during the pandemic ?) and the CW didn't like that.

Some people are also suggesting that Harry is going for an african coutry because Earthshot is going to South Africa this year (like his visit in NYC when it was in Boston or his visit in Singapore last year). So now I'm wondering, do you think he tried with South Africa but was said no ?

It's possible Harry could be voted the head of the Commonwealth but it's very unlikely. While there doesn't seem to an officially-documented process or a formal rule for who is eligible to be head of Commonwealth, I did find this:

a) the head of the Commonwealth is not hereditary and there are no term limits.

b) Charles is the third monarch to be head of the Commonwealth (following King George and Queen Elizabeth).

c) selection of the head of the Commonwealth requires a majority vote from the Commonwealth heads of government (so all the prime ministers) and

d) "Head of Commonwealth" is part of the sovereign's title in the Commonwealth realms:

our Sovereign Lord, Charles III, now, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of His other Realms and Territories King, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith, and Sovereign of the Most Noble Order of the Garter

So it's an uphill battle for Harry (or Meghan) to be Head of Commonwealth because

It requires changing the King's titles and I don't think anyone wants to bother with that kind of administration. (Also I don't think anyone knows what kind of administration or paperwork is needed to do so in the first place.)

If William's poll numbers stay the same and he remains as popular as he is, it will be stupid AF for the Commonwealth to choose someone else as their head. They're not going to vote against King William, who's likely to be as popular and as beloved as Queen Elizabeth. And even if something happened and William was as controversial a choice as Charles was back in 2018, "better the devil you know than the devil you don't" comes to mind.

There's been a bit of leaking that Harry definitely approached South Africa after William and Earthshot announced Cape Town as their 2024 host. With the pattern anon pointed out, it definitely makes sense that Harry would try to get South Africa for something.

Which is really...ironic, I suppose, if you think about it. That even though he quit the royal family, he left the country, he made his own separate life for himself and his family, he's still demanding equal treatment to William. The entitlement just reeks.

[antiradqueer]

This is an info blog aswell as a blog just for bashing rq and transid twats

This blogs ran by Mew (he/him), since im the only mod left, assume every post thats untagged is Mew

Ask box is open to anti/ex rqs/transids or rqs/transids trying to leave that "community" and anon is always on, feel free to send an ask because your voices are important. its fine to tag this blog in stuff you want reblogged, ask to add tags and TWs, and so on. we also wont entertain radqs who are being annoying on or off anon we will just make fun of you, but of course rqs/transids looking for help getting out of those spaces are welcome to send asks.

Dont bring any syscourse, kin discourse, or gender n sexuality discourse here, this isnt the place for it and i am not giving my stance on any of it on this blog. That means dont bring it in our notes, in our ask box or in posts you tag us in. This blog is also supports recovery, mogai, transpecies, fluffy paras, and is anti proshit.

transmeds, truscum, terfs/tirfs, radfems, "gender critical" fuck off too.

FAQ links (incomplete):

'PRAT' meaning (link) , Fluffy Para meaning (link), Old incomplete dump of Anti PRAT flags (link)

PSA and info links, Major CW for links listed below:

Radpara PSA (link) , Kandiqueer PSA (link) , Xenosatanist PSA (link) , Xenosatanist Flags (link)

Other important posts from other blogs:

RQ is a Cult (link) , RQ and stochastic terrorism (link) , Step By Step : Report a RQ for Inciting Violence (link), Huge archive of alot of info (link)

Rules for proshit followers, (I wont block you on the spot unless you break these) (ps. these rules go for anyone really):

1) Dont be a dick, if you complain about this blog being anti-proshit thats a surefire way to get blocked.

2) If any mods catch you being disgusting or promoting illegal shit or abuse in our notes or out in the wild thats also a block.

Theres literally 2 rules its not that hard...

flash warning under the cut

blinkie by @the-radio-host-is-a-kookaburra

[ardentpoop]

this show truly did something special by casting jensen “my dad always said there’s no manly way to drink out of a straw” ankles as dean and jared “because it’s okay for men to cry, jensen!!!!” padalecki as sam

disclaimer: this is commentary on cishet masculinity don’t start spnblring in the tags (AI overview: “spnblring” is a pejorative phrase used to refer to the unproductive and dishonest discourse cycles perpetuated by the majority of tumblr users supposedly invested in the cw’s supernatural and its central characters. example sentences: “you’re doing some spnblr shit to my girl rn.” “that was a mass hallucination the likes of which only spnblr could concoct.” “imagine how well the intellectual titans of spnblr could flatten this gorgeously layered character.”)

[sorrowandpride]

Not gonna engage in discourse, but Sirona was the name of a goddess worshipped mainly in East Central Gaul, most notably by the Treveri, during antiquity. She was also worshipped along the Danubian limes (with evidence of worship reaching as far as Budapest), as well as in Aquitaine, Brittany, and Italy. The name Sirona, therefore, most likely stems from Gaulish.

honest question: why are people mad about that trans hogwarts legacy character named sirona ryan? sirona is a dope celtic name, which makes sense at a british wizard school

[robylovi]

cw: some biphobic comments

Ok is there like some biphobic indoctrination group going around with younger lesbians? Maybe I’ve just been living under a rock but like, I swear discourse did not use to be this bad?

The other day I saw a comment going “That’s why all of us lesbians find bi women gross” to which I promptly replied “no we don’t ‼️ that biphobic statement belongs to you as an individual” to this they replied I was being a “bootlicker” towards my “oppressors” so for my sanity, I have to assume they were, like, a preteen

But yk I figured, bigots appear every once in a while. But then, on a post abt lesbian characters, I see a comment going “Isn’t she bi? I thought we hated the bi’s” UM NO?? WHO’S WE WHO IS MAKING U THINK THIS???

Cause that’s what I find so weird, why are both these people so sure this kind of thinking is the majority?? I’ve never seen someone say “that’s why ALL of us straights hate the gays” because it’s a weird generalization even if you personally believe it to be true.

has this always been a thing am I going insane

[theriverbeyond]

just finished blue eye samurai, my extensive thoughts below the cut but tl;dr IM OBSESSED, it was really good, I highly recommend this show. it is gory and beautiful and so fucking good.

spoiler free thoughts first, then will label where I start discussing spoilers.

Ok so first off my thoughts about the title & character design:

i saw a fair amount of discourse before it even dropped about how it was Bad for giving an asian character blue eyes, which like, on a surface level fair! I get it!! it does Shit to the body image for all the Cool Asian People to have light colored eyes. i get being a persom of color and wishing badly for white features instead of my very much nonwhite ones

But the actual story smacked me in the face with like. Mizu is a mixed race person with physical traits that clock them immedietly as mixed race, in a context where they must hide those traits to "pass" or else face discrimination or death. this is revealed in... the first 5 minutes maybe??? and the fact that it is their white features that mark them as "other" "demon" "monster" is because the story takes place IN JAPAN where the ethnic majority is JAPANESE. and that's. like. that's a STORY!!! that's WAY DIFFERENT from "asian character has light eyes bc it looks cool". and Mizu does look cool, that is undeniable. but it's part of the story. idk!!! i just feel those critiques were pushed out way too fast with no understanding of what the show is about and while i think in a vacum we should have more positive, "looks cool" representation of nonwhite features, a story about a mixed race person is maybe not the one to criticize about this specific topic. to me.

NOT SPOILERS REALLY IF YOU READ THE EPISODE SUMMARIES BUT IT WAS A JUMPSCARE TO ME AS SOMEONE WHO WENT IN BLIND re: mizu's gender:

I went in blind and due to the way the story is structured and how it addresses Mizu's gender, I read it as an intentionally transmasc story and was absolutely jumpscared the first time I opened the episode menu and saw it refering to Mizu with she/her pronouns. and then after watching I went on ao3 (as one does) and people also seem to use she/her on there??

and obviously. this is fine. canon, really, considering the netflix episode descriptions. and probably it was way too optimistic of me to even ASSUME that someone would be able to create an intentionally transgender samurai action animation series on Netflix. but i just REALLY see them as either a gay trans man or he/they nonbinary and am just having an Experience reconciling what i got from the show directly vs how I am seeing other people talk about the character/the show.

I would write fic to fix this but my knowledge of edo peripd japan is so slim I feel I would make unforgivable and offensive mistakes... idk... like obviously the show itself refers to Mizu with she/her so I have no leg to stand on wrt feeling upset about seeing it but I sure was surprised.

THEMES OF THE SHOW specifically about race (some spoilers maybe, but not specific late show ones): cw for discussions of historical and canon sexual violence

I am deeply, deeply intrigued and invested in the story, and am specifically fascinated with how it is dealing with like, white imperial violence. Mizu is hated because they are mixed race, specifically mixed Japanese and white. It is shown in the show that white people and whiteness is hated because of the violence that white men have brought to japan; opium, human trafficking, slaughter, and multiple other abuses. Mizu, as well as other theoretical mixed race children exist almost solely due to the rape of Japanese women by white men. They are hated and hunted by both their white fathers and everyone else in Japan (because of their proximity to white imperial violence, even when the children themselves are a product of that violence).

Mizu is on a revenge quest against their white father specifically, who is presumably one of the four known white men in Japan. Mizu faced discrimination and abuse from everyone, but it is their *father*, who they have never met (vs the multiple abuses they faced from Japanese kids, their mother, etc etc etc), that they are hunting. not anyone else. because their father must have raped and abused their mother. their mother who to their knowledge betrayed!!!! them. This is just such an INTERESTING and COMPLICATED and FASCINATING dynamic like. I'm eating it with a fucking spoon my brain is on fire (positive). Probably more to say and I hope/wish I am saying it in a reasonable enough way but. im eating this. I really love this.

MORE THOUGHTS likely spoilers ahead. you have been warned

im chewing the bars of my cage... taigen and mizu need to kiss sloppy style. WHEN MIZU SAW THE TWO MEN KISSING IN THE BROTHEN AND THOUGHT ABT FIGHTING TAIGEN???? this too can be yaoi

when they cut together Mizu GETTING NAKED TO FORGE STEEL and akemi having sex??? CINEMA

there are cocks in this show. i had to DM multiple friends about the cock jumpscare. also there was sex which was frankly awesome. fuck yeah for adult animation that is serious storytelling with beautiful art. the nudity in this show was like less explicit than many HBO shows but it was a similar vibe/energy in a way that felt really cool and normal. it didn't feel gratuitous it felt like "this show is for adults and features sex and ful frontal". more of this in adult animation please

too many occasions of Mizu being wildly hot hot for me to count... they are SO whumpable and also when they fought in the makeup that ran so it looked like they were crying blood??? when they killed all those guys? when they killed all those OTHER guys????? Mizu are you free tuesday. are you free tonight.

THEYRE GOING TO LONDON??? I'm going to die if this doesn't get a season 2 but I'm also so scared like it is so good... what if they RUIN it in season 2. what if all the complicated interesting bits get sanitized. what if they stop letting Mizu kill people. what if they make Mizu have a girl power woman moment. anyway i need this to be renewed SO BAD I need to know what happens. I need Mizu to get bloody revenge on the 4 white men who have brought such pain to the country. MIZU IS GOING ON THIS QUEST FOR REVENGE AND DIGGING 4 GRAVES‼️‼️‼️‼️

Fucking loved the tropes like. Yes they are going to face off 200 armed warriors and kill them all. of course they are.

Akemi was there. ok ok ok actually I really liked her coming into her own and trying to make her own power.... was really sad when that immedietly got fucked up for her. Really interested in her developing in future season(s) into her own person, I hope she doesnt go back to taigan bc i think she can do better and also her story is more interesting when she is trying to Make It And Be Someone vs running after him.

I feel like this show is Saying a lot of things but in a way where it is up to the reader to pick them up and think about them vs sending a soecific message. Which rocks honestly.

Animation, gorgeous. It was 3D it looks like and some tiny bits are less than stellar but OVERALL. fucking beautiful. hot. etc.

Really liked the story. this was really good and I already want to rewatch it. clawing my walls. i could go on but will stop for now

[balefulbasal]

Why I Believe Miguel O’Hara (Spiderman 2099) Is an Autistic Coded Character

NOTE: I’m broke, so I have not actually seen the movie. I read spoiler articles, watched the limited clips available on the internet, and engaged in discourse online from casual fans all the way up to storyboard writers for Miguel O’Hara. Therefore, I understand that my perception of this has the potential to be incomplete and limited.

DISCLAIMER: IF YOU DON’T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT AUTISM, DNI!

TW: Autism, Neurodivergent, Neurotypical, term “Othered” used once, Depression, Mention of Psychiatric Conditions, Pattern Recognition, Misperceptions, Sensory Processing Disorder, Hyper Focuses, Special Interest(s).

QUICK NOTE: ND is an abbreviation for Neurodivergent. NT is an abbreviation for Neurotypical.

CW: I describe autism from my viewpoint because I am autistic. I DO NOT speak for all autistic people. While many of us autistic people have had nearly identical experiences, I choose to relate to Miguel from my own experience. I directly acknowledge specific aspects of my autism in this post in order to include those of us who do the same thing. We are all individuals, but that sense of community and understanding is very important to me, so I want to share that feeling. This was horrific for me to compile, but horrific in a way that has greatly helped me to face aspects of my own autism, despite how scary it felt writing this.

LET US COMMENCE!

Miguel O’Hara does not have Spidey sense: a “normal” aspect of all Spider persons. Miguel is a Spider person but is lacking a HUGE qualifier. Spider persons with Spidey sense can be likened to Neurotypical people, who are the majority of humans. Autistic (a type of Neurodivergence) people are known to “miss” many seemingly every day or normal things that Neurotypicals don’t have to think about. But NTs and NDs are both humans. But just like Miguel, NDs are a small minority of humans. Because of all the things we “miss” or “don’t sense”, we are “othered”.

MANY Autistic people are incorrectly diagnosed with psychiatric conditions, such as: OCD, ODD, and Generalized Depression. The deep sadness and desire for control in order to maintain inner peace is OFTEN confused with said psychiatric conditions. Miguel created the Spider Society to maintain control of what it is that he understands about how things work, so that he can rationalize the mistake he made that messed up the Spiderverse, while helping other people to not make the same mistake and mess things up even more. Miguel is operating within a trait common to autistic people called Pattern Recognition. I’ll explain it this way: If something has happened the same way MANY times over, and this thing began and ended the same way, no matter who the thing involved, then once I see Step 1 of the issue occur, I can warn/outline to people EXACTLY how all steps will carry out if they don’t do EXACTLY as I say to protect themselves. Miguel’s intense desire to HELP has been MISPERCEIVED as: aggression, control freak, irritability, and crazed obsession. No one is seeing things the way he is (NT and ND perception disconnect), but he still wants to help them at the expense of being PERCEIVED negatively.

In ATSV, we witness what happens when an autistic person (Miguel O’Hara) is trying to maintain control over a situation THEY KNOW will go south if they don’t DO SOMETHING TO STOP IT. The first step in a long list of detrimental events was Miles being an anomaly Miguel couldn’t prevent, and every step afterward is escalating towards the last pieces of the destruction that Miguel already anticipated and he is seeing that its beyond him now. NO ONE LISTENED BECAUSE NO ONE COULD SEE THE SITUATION THE WAY HE DID. When an autistic person loses their tight grip on the control they have consciously and intentionally curated for YEARS, they burn out. And while that is a figurative death for us autistic people, most NTs take this as an “overreaction as a result of overthinking”.

Miguel has sensory processing disorder (another trait common with autism): His suit is digital/holographic. Many of us with sensory processing disorder hate the way MOST clothes FEEL on us and we must choose between a long list of “evils” in order to figure out what we will be comfortable wearing. If I could have digital/holographic clothes, that would help me so much. He is sensitive to light. Bright lights overstimulate most people with sensory processing disorder. We love being in the dark, wrapped in a fabric comfortable to us, or not wearing anything at all!

Most autistic people have hyper focuses where we curate our special interests, and we LOVE to talk about them. It is usually seen as “overbearing”, “too much”, “CHILDISH”, “TAKES TOO LONG TO EXPLAIN”. Miguel can go into the most scientific and thorough explanation of something that he’ll express directly and with the right amount of nuance for the given topic but is cut short because he “doesn’t look” like he “should” be saying, acting like, doing, and behaving in the way that he is. I’m a societally attractive Black woman who is an introvert with an extrovert’s personality. Being autistic, a few of my many special interests are: Spiders (Jumping Spiders to be exact. Miguel O’Hara is my favorite jumping spider of all) small containers, all aspects of human behavior (even though NTs still baffle me), and sex. I can overabundantly relate to Miguel in that he and I are considered good looking, but no one seems to “get” why we are “acting this way”.

Miguel created Lyla. She is a fun, bubbly, silly, little character. Seemingly opposite from him. Raise your hand if when you were a little autistic kid, you had that one imaginary friend who you called to mind any time you were overstimulated and needed to cope, survive, force yourself to think, etc. and they were the version of yourself you wish you were emotionally safe enough to be. I feel that Lyla is who Miguel is on the inside, but if he showed that, he’d be taken advantage of. (Masking our true selves for self-preservation reasons, anyone?) Lego Spiderman is technically a toy. Most autistic children have THAT ONE TOY (or any object!) we DO NOT let go of, even into adulthood. It’s a comforting, safe, and easy to hold object that we use to calm ourselves down. I had a small stuffed puppy that I protected with my life. No one could pick it up or even look at it without my consent. Her name was Emmy. (The Phantom of the Opera introduced me to Emmy Rossum, and I thought she was so cool.) Miguel has fused his inner self representation of an AI assistant (Lyla), and his emotional support/comfort object (Lego Spiderman) into this small mix of what he feels he has left, because he lost anything else that would have brought him comfort.

This list could go on. But I’ll stop here. All these aspects of Miguel feel so specifically Neurodivergent/Autistic. I don’t know if that was intentional, but if it was, I would like to say a BIG THANK YOU to the ATSV writers for this. And I am thanking all of you who took time out of you day to read this.

Thank you so much!

[oscillating-fan-whore5]

Hi! (Flashless intro)

My name is Elliot, the depressed teen (and Co.) who runs this blog :3

Yap blog and Fandom posts ☆ trans he/they

(Flash free :3)

☆Important Details!☆

•I'm a minor, for privacy and paranoia reasons I will not disclose my exact age

•I struggle with my mental health alot so if that bleeds over into this blog i apologize but you get what you get. Sometimes I have sort of episodes other times I just scream into the void, I do have a vent blog tho

•I have EDS (waiting for genetic testing in February, so I don't know what type yet). I also have suspected autism but no diagnosis (I am peer review by autistic friends/hj) so if my social skills fucking suck I apologize.

•I suspect I'm an OSDD system, I don't have any sort of diagnosis but there are multiple of us so yea 73% of the time they aren't a problem on here but if you see posts referring to me in the 3rd person that's why

•I get super passionate abt topics I like and if you engage in them with me I will talk ur ear off

•I struggle to respond to DMs (hardly ever will, please don't take offense) and other notifs. Please remind me if it takes too long, I have most likely forgotten about it :')

☆Don't do this on my blog- Queer discourse, queer infighting, drama, trigger my paranoia, bigots be an asshole, zionists, basic dni. ☆

☆CW// Slight mentions of mental health issues (nothing major dw), Mentions of cannibalism, slight autocannibalism mentions, blood mentions, me being a stupid idiot.☆

☆Interests☆

•NBC Hannibal ♡

•Baking

•Crows, ravens, and other corvids ♡

•Socially intelligent animals (like corvids, orcas, dogs, etc)

•Psychology (specifically social behaviors)

•Dead Boy Detectives

•The Umbrella Academy

•Percy Jackson (not much anymore but if someone likes it I'll yap with them)

•Music (I am a musician btw! Not professional but I play things)

☆Links☆

Credits ☆ Tags ☆ Vent blog (TWTWTW)

(Under construction pls be patient :3)