#femicide mention

[lokiinmediasideblog]

Things I need Loki Series Antis to Stop Doing

Joking about Femicide isn't Cute

If I see another "joke" about how Sylvie should get killed by Loki or Mobius so they can get with Mobius or whatever, I will go apeshit. I am from a country that has a VERY HIGH femicide rate, joking about this isn't funny. And as someone that grew up surrounded by news of constant graphic and hyper-violent news of women's deaths, it's a bit triggering. Hell, I even find fridging in comics a bit triggering and try to avoid it, and it's the trope I loathe most. You are myopic, disgusting, and privileged to consider this funny.

On "Larry"

I need you all to tone down the borderline ableist comments when talking about how Loki is now a "foolish" character named "Larry" and that you want "Larry" dead so the "real" Loki can come back. Or that the Loki from the movies would kill "Larry." Loki or "Larry" as you all like to refer to, shows some pretty overt ND traits in the series. In the movies, they're more ambiguous and more "masked" and thus more palatable (Loki also has less screentime). In Thor 1, I'd have considered Loki "ND-coded (especially in my heart, always) but not explicitly so", whereas in the series, it's more in your face (not confirmed by Word-of-God, but I do similar shit and went like "He's just like me!").

I think it's fine to say that you think the characterization was inconsistent with those from the movies and to not like the writing of the series, but tone it down with the insults. How do you think it looks like when people say a character that acts a bit like you is now "foolish" or "stupid" and that you'd rather Larry be dead because he's overtly expressive and "exaggerated"...

Subjecting Loki and Sylvie to the Aloy Treatment "from fans"

So, I didn't want to say it on my post about how people are too harsh on Loki and Sylvie's wardrobes on the series and are putting more importance on aesthetics rather than storytelling, but you all are sounding like the "fans" that redesigned Aloy, from a post-apocalyptic setting, with a full face of makeup. I find it interesting it's a primarily male-presenting queer character also getting this treatment. Here's my post:

[skypalacearchitect]

#asian people--especially asian women-- being perceived as more sexually deviant for no reason... is ... yknow....

this is like an 1800s orientalist guy to say. The Easterners They Have Just Too Strange Customs Because Of Their Foreign Culture... We Cannot Hope To Understand Their Minds Or Communicate With Them

[gacha-incels]

[theantichristpluviophile]

I feel sick.

Some of the things happening at far right "protests" in the UK:

Setting fire to hotels housing asylum seekers WHILE THEY'RE INSIDE and blocking exits, acid attacks on Hijabis, defacing Muslim gravestones and using parts of them as projectiles, ripping off hijabs, doing Nazi salutes, using Swastikas and Triskele's (white supremecist symbol), setting vehicles alight, machete mobs, graffiti-ing racist slogans and 'get out of England', smashing in windows of cars and houses, stabbing people of ethic minorities, attacking and beating people of ethic minorities, raiding shops, police attacked and soldiers stabbed etc.

This is what happens when you take a severely uneducated population, subject them to 14 years of austerity, the lowest living standard on record, and combine this with far right misinformation and propaganda (surrounding the Southport femicide) and the constant scapegoating of minorities by politicians promoted by the media. This is the result you get.

It's disheartening to see these disgusting incidents being labeled as mere "far-right protests" by the media, while peaceful pro-Palestinian demonstrations are often referred to as "hate marches" or "riots" when none of the above is taking place. The stark contrast in the way these events are reported really highlights the bias and double standards that exist in our society.

If you are from an ethnic minority group, please take necessary precautions to stay safe. Hijabi women, your hijab is a visual identifier for these individuals, and an invitation to harm you. While ultimately common sense, it is crucial to be aware of your surroundings and to exercise caution when in public spaces. Stay safe.

What have we come to.

Attend anti-fascist marches, give your support to people affected, help clean up and donate to fundraisers/gofundmes/charities if you can!

[ciderjacks]

it’s odd how with every other kind of bigotry, when a famous person is called out its usually over like. a few shitty tweets from 2014. But when it comes to misogyny/sexism it’s always like “yeah uh so he sex trafficked multiple underage women, killed his girlfriend, and raped his elderly mother. He’s been openly saying he hates women for years now and his whole platform is about hating women, but we sort of thought it was funny so we didn’t pay attention to it. Oops! He is still sort of funny though haha” And the guy still gets more sympathy than an otherwise harmless celeb who made a homophobic joke on Twitter at age 12.

[ladyimaginarium]

Hey y'all, just figured I'd let y'all know about something that's been going on in "Canada" lately.

The RCMP is planning on disposing the evidence of the victims of Robert Pickton, one of Canada's most notorious serial killers, with most of them being indigenous women and/or sex workers and/or addicts; there were also a few Black women that have gone missing and/or murdered, as well.

For more information on the victims, here's a list of a few of them. Just be warned it's very graphic & tragic. This is important because today, on December 17th annually, is The International Day To End Violence Against Sex Workers.

Advocates, academics, indigenous women's groups & lawyers have repeatedly said that this is a violation of human rights and it's extremely telling that the RCMP is trying to borderline cover this up and dispose of evidence when it's not even just Pickton who did this, he's stated that there were others involved and people who knew about what happened and nothing's being done about it. It's genuinely horrific that this is even being considered, and the victims and the families of the victims deserve better, especially the lives of indigenous, black and/or sex workers, because the fact that this is even being considered is basically telling them that their lives — these women's lives, but also the lives of Native women, Black women, addicts and sex workers — don't matter. It's fucking disgusting, especially as a reconnecting two spirited person.

Please keep the victims & their families in mind!!

[sasukeless]

listening to this woman in one of my classes whom is a cop talk how women victimize themselves. don’t you love the people in the justice system 🥴

[stars-and-soda]

Made a post about men vs bear on tiktok and now my comments are filled with men telling me that women deserve femicide and I don't know what I expected.

[unhingedfemmecontent]

domestic violence isn't funny

not only was that Matt Riffe joke insanely unfunny it is just also horrifying. i know i am super late to talking about this but i wasn't posting on tublr when it happened

Watching the eyes of the person you thought you where going to spend the rest of your life with go cold as they choke you is an experience i wish on not a single person.

As someone who has gone trough multiple forms of abuse and SA domestic violence crushes your soul in a completely different way (not comparing by how bad they are just how different it is).

20 PEOPLE PER MINUTE ARE PHYSICALLY ABUSED BY AN INTIMATE PARTNER IN THE UNITED STATES

72% OF ALL MURDER SUICIDES INVOLVE AN INTIMATE PARTNER 94% OF THOSE VICTIMS ARE WOMEN

WOMEN MAKE UP 82% OF PEOPLE MURDERED BY AN EX PARTNER

i don't care if you think i'm soft i don't care if you think i can't take a joke ( i joke about my own trauma all the time)

it is not a funny joke and it was most certainly not a funny joke coming from who it came from

[houseofpurplestars]

Oluwatoyin "Toyin" Salau, a brilliant 19-year old community activist. Toyin survived a life of trauma and began to forge community in "tallahassee", escaping an abusive living situation and staying temporarily at a church. In June of 2020 she was forced to rely on a stranger who then assaulted her, and she escaped from his house with nothing. "Tallahassee" police maliciously bungled her missing persons report.

Toyin was found assassinated along with another activist, Victoria Sims. Their assassin was sentenced to life in prison, however the structural injustice of lack of housing persists.

[senso1954]

James Ellroy as a boy, photo taken moments after learning about his mother Jean's murder.

I cut my mother down to sound-bite size and packaged her wholesale. I determined the cause of my ruthlessness years later. She owned me. Her claim rankled. I wanted to portray myself as a man above all Oedipal constraints. I had created a fictional Elizabeth Short to usurp my mother’s claim and upstage her. It worked in the novel. It sold a great many books. It left Jean Hilliker still dead on that roadside, unblessed with love.

James Ellroy, "My Mother and the Dahlia" Afterword to The Black Dahlia

[magz]

the news about the 17yo guy killing the 15yo girl in london, u.k.

reminding of some. similar. off top head.

reminding of the boy that attacked a girl at a bus for similar reasons, at same "middle school" magz was in at time. hospitalized real bad. they were both about 13yo or younger (?)

also the time a husband that was attend magz's family party (here in dominican republic), killed his wife after going home. was about 4 years ago ? so she was extended family of magz, of that side.

hmmm.

[amissingbrick]

Going into teaching I was ready for many things, but having kids police my gender was definitely not one of them.

Look, I’m a cis woman with long natural colored hair, and the way I dress doesn’t matter bc I have to wear an uniform anyway. I don’t have any piercings or tattoos. I thought I looked just like any other cishet coworker of mine.

But these 5yo find scandalous that I don’t wear earrings, or that I have short nails with no nail polish, or -shock!- that I have body hair. And not on any parts that people usually feel necessary to shave, like legs or armpits (these are covered by the uniform) or the mustache (still wearing a mask): it’s my arms.

It worries me a lot because I work in a preppy preschool. These are the children of the high middle class and up. In a country that can’t go 4 decades without a fascist dictatorship. In the country that kills the most trans women. And in this capitalist society, kids learning these kinds of prejudices -when I thought we were dismantling it all- will be the ones with the upper hand.

[ladyimaginarium]

HAPPY I.NDIGENOUS H.ISTORY M.ONTH !

Anyway, I need y'all to honor, mourn & remember his victims, whom he claimed was 49 in all. Before he died, the RCMP was planning on disposing the evidence of the victims of Robert Pickton, one of Canada's most notorious serial killers, with more than half of them being indigenous women and/or sex workers and/or addicts; there were also a few Black women & white women that had gone missing and/or murdered, as well. What's even worse was that he wanted to murder more woman to "even the score". He then fed the corpses to his unsuspecting friends. It's fucking sickening.

For more information on the victims, here's a list of a few of them. Just be warned it's very graphic & tragic. This is important because today, on June 2nd annually by the time I'm posting this, is The International Sex Workers Day.

Advocates, academics, indigenous women's groups & lawyers had repeatedly said that this was a violation of human rights & it's extremely telling that the RCMP was trying to borderline cover this up & dispose of evidence when it's not even just Pickton who did this, he's stated that there were others involved & people who knew about what happened & nothing's being done about it. It's genuinely horrific that this was even being considered, & the victims and the families of the victims deserve better, especially the lives of indigenous, black and/or sex workers, because the fact that this was even being considered is basically telling them that their lives — these women's lives, but also the lives of Native women, Black women, addicts & sex workers — don't matter. It's fucking disgusting, especially as a two spirited person. But at the very least I hope this brought at least some semblance of relief & hopefully get the rest of the people who were involved in this & bring the families some closure.

Please keep the victims & their families & friends in mind!!

[shrubco-inc]

(screenshotted because i didn't want to reblog from a terf, sorry that it uses male pronouns for these people but honestly they deserve it)

We do actually need to be talking about this. We need to speak out against these people and not just sweep them under the rug. Trans women do in fact commit rape, murder, and even femicide far more often than we'd like to believe.

[luveline]

Craving a postprison!Spencer x stripper!reader fic, please ma’am.

Maybe she gets a daytime job at a coffee shop or a bookstore - to “supplement her income”/ not have to dance as often (not that she’s ashamed!!) and Spencer is just so proud of her for trying and can’t quit kissing her and praising her because I know in other fics you’ve mentioned she didn’t think anyone would hire her because of her profession/self esteem, plus after prison she didn’t want to dance because she wanted to be with Spencer. 🥺

Or really just anything with a proud Spencer x stripper!reader doing anything.

Your work is fantastic and I’m in love with everything you do!! 💕 thank you and it’s totally okay if you think this request is lame or don’t wanna write it!

thank you angel! —you find a new job while making decisions about your old one after Spencer returns from prison, and Spencer would praise you for breathing, so he’s extremely proud. fem, 1.8k

Statistics differ, but estimates suggest that there are around twenty thousand strippers in Las Vegas. With a population of seven hundred thousand people (estimated up), that means that one in thirty five people living in Las Vegas dances for a living. 

It’s more than you’d think. Spencer knew of plenty of women who worked as strippers, exotic dancers, or private entertainers when he was still living at home. And while the numbers are much smaller in Washington DC where he lives now, it’s far from zero. More surprising for the average person to be one, perhaps, but not for Spencer. 

It used to make him blush like a steam train, sure, but it never did any of the things you were scared of. He’s never looked down on you for it, never been jealous (well, never acted like a jerk because of it), never positioned it as anything other than work. His only complaints are in your concern. You don’t like the club, most of the time. You feel unsafe often. The risk of femicide is yards higher for you as a sex worker than it would be otherwise, but who is Spencer to talk about danger? He still has stitches in his leg. 

Your job used to feel more urgent, a red flashing light above your head, because you’d come around with bruises or cut knees, tear stained cheeks, and you couldn’t make ends meet for all your efforts, but things have changed. You’re reluctant to depend on him, but you’ll accept the help when you need it. Nothing keeps you there if you don’t want to be there, and when you do you’re a marvel. You are beautiful, in Spencer’s eyes. Your dancing when you’re having a good night is one of the prettiest things he’s ever seen —more than pretty, sometimes. A hot coal in his stomach. 

But the fact of the matter is that Spencer’s home, and you don’t want to dance. You haven’t been to the club for weeks as far as he’s aware, and he’d consider himself well informed. You spent all your savings and started spending his instead and he couldn’t care less, what’s his is yours, whatever keeps you aloft while you make whatever decision it is you’re working toward. Not that it presented itself that way. 

I’ll have to go back.

Spencer on his back, you sitting with your head turned from the TV and toward him, your hand on his hip, just resting. Where?

To work. I have enough money for the next two weeks, and then I’m all out. 

Spencer wouldn’t do something as unkind as rolling his eyes, but the point of you moving in was to cement that he’d look after you no matter what. He’d turned his head to you on his pillow and reached for your elbow. You’re still resting. 

You’ve been home for two months, Spencer. I’ve rested enough. I… I only managed this long because you haven’t asked me for anything and that’s not fair, we both live here. 

I earn more than you, so I pay more, he’d said, confused. It’s not as though it hurt him to continue paying for an apartment he’s been living in for years. 

I won’t be your leech. 

You’re not my leech, don’t say that.

I can’t just not have money. 

Well… he’d said. He’d never discussed it with you so openly before, always stopped at the first suggestion, but there’s a first time for everything. You know you can have whatever you want from me. Anything you want, you don’t have to ask. 

Spencer… you’re my boyfriend. 

Exactly. 

No, you’re my boyfriend. You don’t have to keep me. I don’t want that. 

He understood the ‘want’ most heavily. What do you want, angel? he’d asked, dragging your hand up his naked chest to rest over his diaphragm, your arm moving up and down in time with his breathing. 

You’d seemed stricken, but not upset. Like the question surprised you in having no answer. Not sure… you’d said eventually. Mostly you. 

A week passed, two. A third and you’d asked him to borrow money, just for a little while, and with the vehement promise you’d pay him back. 

He’s not expecting it. So soon, either. But here you are standing in front of him with a beaming smile and little book in your hands, unzipping one of the book's inner pockets to count out the money you’d ’borrowed’. “Here you go, my angel, there’s everything.” 

Spencer just looks at it. “What is it?” 

“The money I owe you.” 

He presses his hands to his stomach to stop you from forcing the notes into them. “You don’t owe me anything.” 

“No, seriously, please take it.” 

He shakes his head. “Seriously. I don’t want anything from you, I love you. That money was for you to do what you wanted, or needed. It was yours as soon as I gave it to you.” 

You try regardless to put it in his hands. Your hair was done freshly a week ago, your nails manicured but unpainted, your face adorned with some new makeup he’d seen on his (your) vanity a few days ago. It honestly hadn’t crossed his mind why you’d suddenly given yourself a refresh, and he had no suspicions. You would’ve told him if you went to the club, even just via text, because it’s important he knows you’ve had access to your phone or that you’re coming home. (Plus, he’d notice you leaving at night. You’ve spent the last few evenings laying across his lap.)

“Where did you get this?” he asks, smiling softly, wondering if he’s come to the right conclusion. 

You drop the money on his thigh and take a couple of steps back. 

“I,” you say, holding your little book to your stomach, “got a job as a barista. They gave me my first paycheck today, a direct deposit. So I took out what I owe you and the rest of it is in here.” 

“You what?” he asks. 

“I’m working at the coffeehouse by the library,” you say, nodding, parts proud of yourself and parts shy. 

“For how long? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

You bite your lip. “Just this week. And honestly, I didn’t want you to know if I couldn’t do it.” 

Spencer stands up but doesn’t cross the room to you. He could reach out and catch your hand. “How could you work somewhere new all week without me noticing?” 

“You weren’t here on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday morning, and they gave me Thursday off, so I just told you a very small lie this morning about going to the store. I knew you’d get distracted by your Persian poetry again.” 

He did get distracted, very much so. You’ve been and worked a whole shift without his worrying, which is a bit awful in itself (he really does love you, and he’d like to know where you are), but is also, frankly, a great thing. You should be able to work without worry. You should do anything you want to do. 

Still, a whole week at a brand new job without any support, and to stand there with your paycheck as unmistakable waves of satisfaction melt off of you unkissed is insanity. Spencer’s laughing as he ushers you into his arms, as he hugs your shoulders tightly, “Oh my god!” he says, “Wow, congratulations!” He pulls back just a touch to see your face. “Please don’t lie to me about where you’re going, that’s so dangerous. I love you!” 

He takes your face into both hands with your arms hanging loosely behind his back and begins a reckoning of kisses. The slope of your cheek, the skin between your nose and lips, Spencer couldn’t care less where the kisses land, he just wants them all over you. You laugh softly as he goes, almost stickily, a sound that comes deep from your chest. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, pressing a quick, mildly rougher kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“I might still strip,” you say. 

“Whatever you want,” he says, squeezing your face between his palms. “What’s it like? Do you like it? Is it hard?” He kisses you again. “I wish you’d told me,” he says against your lips. 

You’re quieter than he expected, and warm. He pulls away more sternly to see what’s gone wrong. He could’ve asked the wrong questions. Maybe he’s embarrassed you. 

“I just wanted to make sure I could do it. I didn’t want to fail and… and have you know. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be, I get it.” God knows he’s failed a hundred times for you to see it. He wishes he would have hidden a lot of that from you, spared you some heartache, but he also knows how lucky he is to have you near. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? We should be together when stuff goes wrong.” He beams. “But it didn’t go wrong.” 

“I think I’m pretty good at it.” 

“Yeah?” 

You hold his wrist. “And I get tips, did you know that? Not as many as before,” —you laugh to yourself loudly— “but still. It’s really cool. They pay me even if nobody wants coffee, and when people want coffee I get extra.” 

Spencer kisses the corner of your eye. He kisses up to your eyebrow and down again, all over your cheek before turning your face to the other side to kiss circles into the other. “I,” —kiss— “can’t,” —kiss— “believe it.” Kiss. “Actually, I can, but I still can’t.” 

“It’s just a part time job.” 

“That you didn’t think you could do,” he says. “But you can do anything, I knew you could. I’m amazed by you.” 

He grins and throws his arms over your shoulders. 

You squeeze him right back, the two of you swaying, almost falling over. He can feel how proud you are of yourself. You deserve to feel this way no matter what. 

“I like dancing,” you say, “I do, I just wish I could do it in a different… world? Is that stupid?” 

“No. You’re never stupid.” He smiles as your hand weaves into his hair, fingertips scratching along his scalp, his curls caught between your fingers. 

“Do you think you could come on Monday? I can make you a cup of coffee. It’s not as hard as it looks.” 

“Please, I’d love for you to make me a cup of coffee.” His smile presses to your shoulder, where he breathes you in briefly, before remembering something very important. “Hey, do you wear an apron?” 

“Of course I do.”

Oh my god, he thinks. There are more than half a million baristas in the United States, and Spencer will bet his monthly paycheck that you’re the cutest one to ever exist. You look cute right now in your jeans and your button up shirt, but put an apron on top of that? To see you standing behind a bar mixing drinks and pouring latte art? Monday can’t come quick enough.