#incontrovertible proof

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Maybe we’re getting a protagonist switch. Maybe Dazai will be Chuuya’s Oda

Hm well. They don't have that kind of dynamic (and Chuuya doesn't really need that kind of push that Odasaku gave Dazai) and Dazai isn't the protagonist... but it would be kind of interesting if injuring Dazai (if not outright killing him) would be the event that would kickstart more focus in the main manga on Chuuya and the whole "his will not be an easy path". I previously thought something would have to happen with Mori (I still kind of think that) but this might just be enough to get the ball rolling.

I actually theorized months ago that having Dazai "die" temporarily might be interesting from a story standpoint and for what it means for our characters. If Chuuya believed that he killed him? YIKES. I can't see him handling that well, though no doubt, he'll push his feelings down and soldier on. Perhaps this could set up some Atsushi and Chuuya interactions? Pretty please?

[queenlucythevaliant]

Some off-the-cuff thoughts on overspiritualizing patterns in science

I remember watching a talk in middle school youth group about laminin, the "molecule that holds your whole body together" which was supposedly shaped like a cross. The suggestion, basically, was that the cross's image was integral to our molecular makeup and that this was part of God's design in a very Significant way. I was a burgeoning STEM girl, so I taped a diagram of a laminin up next to my bed for a while.

(As I would later find out, the whole laminin thing had/has some reach among Christians. There are T-shirts and everything)

Fast forever to spring of my freshman year as a microbiology student. I take my first course in cell bio, and I learn that laminins are actually one of many families of ECM glycoproteins. They aren't really any more significant in "holding the body together" than collagens, elastins, or fibronectins. They're very important, yes, but ultimately just one type of adhesive protein among many. And! They also do a bunch of other stuff that's way cooler than just. Adhesive.

While some laminins do bear resemblance to a cross when diagramed, it's really only because they have three subchains. Some are t-shaped, but others are y-shaped, and those don't look anything like a cross. Also, when they're in situ rather than in a nice, neat diagram, they tend to be all floppy and then they look even less cross-like.

Source

And when I learned about this I was oddly relieved. It felt like I was right about something that I couldn't even put into words, and that somehow the field of what I could call glorious had grown wider.

Christians are called to see and marvel at the presence of God in creation. I love doing that! I see God left and right through my scientific studies. Yet I also know that the human brain is pattern-seeking and that we are prone to pareidolia. I honestly don't know that there's a substantive difference between seeing the cross in some laminins and seeing Jesus on a piece of toast. It's all just seeing patterns that arise from something else (in the case of laminins, being able to bind three different molecules at once) and attributing spiritual significance. God is sovereign and maybe in the grand scope of his vision for creation it means something, but in terms of seeing God's hand in science I just find it so... small?

You could spin so many four-chain or four-domain proteins or goodness knows how many other molecules into images of the cross if you pick the right diagram. You could take every pattern of three in nature (and there are many!) as an image of the Trinity. If you really, really wanted to, you could take every six in organic chemistry as a sign of the beast, which would be hilarious in its misguidedness. It just becomes so literalistic and dull so very fast.

Look! Wouldn't you rather talk about the fact that laminins begin to appear along the edge of a developing lung at just ten weeks of human embryonic development, suggesting that they play a role in alveolar morphogenesis? That they're present in the neural stem-cell niche, which makes them an attractive candidate for helping to treat degenerative neurological conditions? I want to go back to whoever gave that talk that I watched in youth group and shake him and say, "God did that, and you're still hung up on the fact that laminins have three subchains?"

[freakwiththeknifecollection]

It's kinda laughable to me when people bring up Meg telling Jo that Dean only saw her as a little sister as like, definitive proof that's how he felt. Like demons never lie just to fuck with people

[fideidefenswhore]

The earldom of Ormond passed through the general line rather than being limited to heirs male. Hunsdon's claim was, therefore, based on the assumption that the earldom should have passed from himself to his father by virtue of their descent from Thomas Boleyn's eldest daughter, Mary. [...] The earldom, therefore, consisted of a title only, to which Elizabeth had no claim because she was 'daughter and heir of Anne, youngest daughter of said Sir Thomas Bullen, late Earl of Ormond.' Hundson reiterated that, since his grandmother was the eldest daughter, his earldom ought to descend to him. [...] Such evidence is compelling. Had he been mistaken [...] Elizabeth [I] could easily have corrected him and claimed the earldom for herself to dispose of as she pleased.

Mary Boleyn: The True Story of Henry VIII's Favourite Mistress, Josephine Wilkinson

[submarinerwrites]

you will never convince me that walter skinner wasnt in hopeless doomed love with dana scully. bc he was.

[aldieb]

sometimes i get sad that i didn’t try for a fulbright bc i was too sickcrazy. then i feel fine again bc it was 2020 so it would’ve sucked regardless. then i end on sad bc le guin met her husband when they were both on fulbright in france and that is both adorable and a cool flex

[musical-chick-13]

No one:

Me: THE "UNSEX ME HERE" LINE IS NOT LADY MACBETH ENGAGING IN GENDER FUCKERY OR SHATTERING THE GENDER BINARY, SHE IS EXPERIENCING INTERNALIZED MISOGYNY AND SAYING THAT SHE WANTS ALL OF HER """FEMININE""" QUALITIES TO BE SUPERNATURALLY REMOVED SO THAT SHE CAN COMMIT MURDER WITHOUT GUILT OR SHAME OR FEAR BECAUSE SHE ASSOCIATES THOSE EMOTIONS WITH BEING A WOMAN PLEASE JUST GO WATCH AS YOU LIKE IT OR TWELFTH NIGHT

[themaresnest-dumblr]

For those people interested in proofs for the theory of evolution, as you can see the above creature is a direct ancestor of Mallory from the Canadian TV show Heartland:

Hey, here's a guar dancing a little jig for whoever needs it.

[opencommunion]

someone in the tags on one of my posts about the ICJ case said "this is all a farce," and I agree that the ICJ is enmeshed with western imperialism and that the UN doesn't seem to be capable of much beyond political theater, but I think dismissing the entire case is incredibly disrespectful to South Africa's legal team, and to the Palestinians they're intervening on behalf of, who have a right to have their oppressors charged in every single court with jurisdiction, regardless of how we feel about those courts. the UN itself may be a joke but I didn't see anything farcical about the way South Africa's team presented their case. this trial is unprecedented in the history of the Palestinian liberation struggle and regardless of how the court rules, it's going to expose both the incontrovertible proof of genocide and the failure of western legal and governmental bodies to prevent it, and that will have repercussions

[someone-will-remember-us]

A leaden silence descended upon the courtroom as the videos began to play over three screens.

There was Gisèle Pelicot, the victim in the center of a rape trial that has rocked France, lying on a bed on her side, her arms limp before her, her mouth open. The sound of her snoring filled the courtroom. She appeared to be dead asleep.

In the videos, she did not respond to the touches of the men, who engaged with her body in sex acts.

Ms. Pelicot had fought hard for these videos to be shown publicly in the courtroom because, she said, they were incontrovertible evidence. While most rape victims have only their word and memory of events, Ms. Pelicot has a library of proof in the form of videos and photographs — taken by her own husband.

Showing them publicly was essential, her lawyer Antoine Camus told the courtroom, “to look rape straight in the eyes.”

It was another astounding moment in a trial that for the past month has gripped France as if by the throat and shaken it violently. The case has raised profound questions about relations between men and women, the prevalence of rape and conceptions of consent.

More than 50 men are on trial together. Almost all are accused of aggravated rape against Ms. Pelicot, a grandmother and retired manager at a big company, while she was in an unconscious state. Her former husband of 50 years, Dominique Pelicot, has pleaded guilty to mixing drugs into her food and drink and inviting others into their home, in a village in southern France where they had retired, to join him in raping her limp body.

While Ms. Pelicot, 71, had the right to request that the trial take place behind closed doors, she decided to make it public. She said that she did it not for her, but to protect other women. Shame, she said, must change sides — from the victims to the perpetrators.

The accused men appear to be a gallery of working-class and middle-class French society: truck drivers, carpenters and trade workers, a nurse, an I.T. expert, a local journalist. They range in age from 26 to 74. Many have children and are in relationships. Over four months, their cases are coming before the court in batches of six or seven a week.

All but 15 have contested the charge. Many have argued that they were tricked into coming into her bedroom by Mr. Pelicot, who had offered them a playful trio with his wife. Many say he led them to believe she was sleeping — or pretending to sleep — as part of the couple’s sexual fantasy. Mr. Pelicot manipulated them when they were vulnerable, some of them have said, and directed them in the acts like a stage manager. They said they had blindly followed his orders.

One said this week that he thought he was also drugged, and had no memory from the moment he entered the room until he returned to his car later. Another said he was so terrified by Mr. Pelicot, whom he regarded as a “predator” and a “psychopath,” that he interacted with Ms. Pelicot’s body calmly in order to “not show weakness, so he attacks me.”

“They took a precise line of defense,” Mr. Camus, one of the lawyers for Ms. Pelicot, told the court on Friday. Ms. Pelicot has said that while the men were perhaps tricked into coming into her bedroom, once they got there, she was so unconscious that it was clear that she could not have possibly given consent.

This is where the videos come in. Mr. Pelicot filmed most of the encounters, often with two cameras, and carefully edited and titled them. Over the course of their investigation, the police found more than 20,000 videos and photographs on his electronic devices, many of them in a digital folder titled “Abuse.”

After initially ruling the videos would not be viewed because of their “indecent and shocking” nature, the judges of the criminal court in Avignon changed their minds after a heated courtroom debate on Friday. Not all the videos would be shown, announced the head judge, Roger Arata — just those videos deemed “strictly necessary” for the “manifestation of the truth.”

A dozen videos and about 10 photos were shown over the courtroom’s three flat screens on Friday afternoon and projected into the overflow room for members of the public, who have continued to line up every day to watch the proceedings and support Ms. Pelicot.

The videos’ titles alone, packed with crude words and read out by the prosecutor, made many observers flinch. Judge Arata said at one point that he didn’t have any ���particular desire” to read them out loud any more.

In many, Ms. Pelicot appeared naked, but in some, she wore a garter belt, underwear and white socks. In one, she had a blindfold over her eyes. Her husband told the police he often dressed her up after she was unconscious, and then at the end of the night, he cleaned her and returned her to her nightclothes.

The accused were seen stroking her sides and intimate parts with their hands and mouths. Five were captured putting their penises in her slack mouth. The camera sometimes zoomed in for close-ups. While Ms. Pelicot could be seen moving slightly in some, in none was she seen responding to the touches. She often snored loudly.

The videos played on uncomfortably long. One defendant lowered his face. Many lawyers and journalists stopped looking at the screens.

Thierry Postat, a 61-year-old refrigeration technician who is among those on trial, told the court that he had been involved in swinging and couple sharing since he was 30. He said that in at least three other cases, he had been invited into bedrooms by husbands to have sex with their sleeping wives — only one of whom woke up.

“I trusted Mr. Pelicot,” because most of the time among swingers, Mr. Postat told the court, “it’s the man who organizes things"

But he was pressed by Ms. Pelicot’s lawyer, Mr. Camus: “You really thought you were practicing couple swapping? You see a couple there?” Mr. Camus asked Mr. Postat, referring to the video that had just been shown.

“Yes,” Mr. Postat responded. “The way I remember it.”

Another video captured Simone Mekenese penetrating Ms. Pelicot, while she was lying on her side sleeping.

“You weren’t aware she was unconscious?” asked Stéphane Babonneau, a second lawyer for Ms. Pelicot.

“No,” responded Mr. Mekenese, 43, a driver on a construction site who was a neighbor of the couple’s at the time. “I thought she would participate soon.”

An argument heard repeatedly in court this week was that while they might not have gotten direct consent from Ms. Pelicot, the accused men did not go to the Pelicots’ home with an intention to rape her.

The day before, Mr. Postat had told the court that they might be rapists because they had not received consent, “but we aren’t rapists in our souls.”

After two hours of viewing videos, the court session ended abruptly. People drifted out of the courtroom, and the overflow room, stunned.

“We are in shock,” said Anne-Marie Galvan, 58, a nursing assistant at the local hospital. Her husband, Serge Galvan, stood nearby, tears swelling in his eyes.

“I’m almost ashamed to be a man,” he said. “You could see she was sleeping. It was obvious she was unconscious.”

The couple, and the rest of the crowd, clapped thunderously when Ms. Pelicot passed by, making her way with her lawyers to the court exit. She stopped, looked at the group, and put her hand to her heart.

“We are here for her. We must not let this lady down. We must give her as much strength as possible. It’s important for women,” said Mr. Galvan.

“This,” he added, thinking back to the scenes on the screen, “has to stop.”

[definitelymaybeahuman]

One really frustrating thing about SNW's bio-essentialist approach to Vulcans is that it's something the series has explored with far more nuance in the past.

Vulcans have been established as having stronger emotions than humans. The use of logic is a coping mechanism. Even TOS had Surak's reaction to Spock showing emotion be "It's fine, I get it, nothing to worry about" and everything since has shown Vulcan's losing control of their emotions as more like a psychological break than a sudden mutation.

It's still a Planet of Hats, which has bio-essentialism all but baked into it. But there's plenty of room for nuance, with the idea that there's no universal baseline and different cultures form around norms relative to where they formed. Both humans and vulcans admire those who suppress their worst tendencies.

Which is where you could actually do something interesting with Spock turning human. He still has all those Vulcan values, but not the biological tendencies. Explore him getting to "relax" as he now finds his emotions easier to control. Contrast it with him now struggling as he no longer feels passionate about anything. Show his in-laws still criticising him for perceived outbursts, as any minor transgression is still incontrovertible proof of their worst biases.

The Original Series showed Spock struggling more with melancholy than rage for a reason. He's someone getting tugged in two directions at once. If he shows emotion then he's vindicating anyone who dismissed him as half-human. If he doesn't, he gets dismissed like he didn't have to subdue a maelstrom just to speak. That should be what SNW is exploring, not the same shallow interpretation that let Into Darkness down.

[hassibah]

"A police report and an interview with a former Zionist operative form the basis of Avi Shlaim's claim that he has uncovered "undeniable proof" of Israeli involvement in bombings which drove Jews out of Iraq in the early 1950s, the British-Israeli historian told Middle East Eye.

Shlaim's autobiography Three Worlds: Memoirs of an Arab-Jew, published earlier this month, details his childhood as an Iraqi Jew and subsequent exile to Israel.

It also includes research about a number of bombings in Iraq which prompted a mass exodus of Jews from the country between 1950 and 1951, most of whom, like he and his family, ended up in Israel.

On Sunday, Shlaim told Middle East Eye that he had uncovered "incontrovertible evidence of Zionist underground involvement in the bombs". 

As part of the evidence, the historian cited an extensive interview he carried out with Yaakov Karkoukli, a former member of the Zionist underground in Baghdad in the 1950s. "

[defectivevillain]

born into blood

pairing: Ghostface/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: Christina Carpenter wasn’t the only woman to have an affair with Billy Loomis… Your mother did too. You’re Billy’s child, just like Sam Carpenter. But you saw what happened to Sam—so you keep silent. Your father’s real identity is a secret you will take to your grave. At least, that’s what you think. Then, one day, Ghostface comes calling…

word count: 2.2k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical violence, character death; attempted murder, strangulation, blood, hallucinations; scream (2022) spoilers.

notes: I wrote Ghostface with he/him pronouns, but he remains nameless—so feel free to imagine whichever killer you want.

thank you @palefaceswhore for the beta! 🖤 any remaining mistakes are mine.

You don’t usually answer phone calls from unidentified numbers. But you had a job interview a few days ago, and you still haven’t gotten a response from the company, so you accept the call and bring your phone up to your ear with hope brewing in your chest. You thought you did a decent job in the interview, and you hope the recruiters thought the same. 

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of breath on the other line. Dread begins to prickle across your skin. Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth. Just as you summon the courage to speak, the other person speaks.  “What’s your favorite scary movie?”  

A shiver runs down your spine at the familiar voice. You immediately hang up and slam your phone face-down on the table. With quick breaths, you pick up your phone and shakily open your phone app again, blocking the contact. It’s not the first time you’ve gotten a prank call mimicking Ghostface, unfortunately—since the Stab movies first came out, unruly teenagers have started doing it rather frequently. But your particular situation is a bit different than that of the average person. After all, Billy Loomis is your father. 

For the longest time, you had no idea. But once you turned sixteen, your mother sat you down and told you the truth: she had an affair during her marriage, and that affair resulted in your birth. Safe to say, you were sick to your stomach. That revelation only proved to be much worse, however, when she revealed exactly who she slept with: Billy Loomis, one of the original Ghostface killers. A murderer. 

It took you a long time for you to begin trusting your mother again. And a small part of you knows that you’ll never look at her the same again—both because of what she did and because of the years she spent keeping it a secret from you. When you finally moved out from her house, you were mostly relieved. Leaving that house meant leaving it all behind. You didn’t have to meet your mother’s eyes and see a killer’s malice reflected in them any longer. 

Time passed and you slowly moved on. Ultimately, you decided that it would be ridiculously dangerous for you to tell anyone. You’ve kept that promise to yourself since your mother first confessed the identity of your father to you. You can only hope the secret dies a swift death, never seeing the light of day. After all, Billy Loomis is dead. You can take comfort in that… right? 

Then you hear about Sam Carpenter, and everything comes rushing back. The world had slowly moved on from Billy Loomis, as the Ghostface mask was passed from killer to killer. But once Sam Carpenter was unwittingly thrust into the public eye, you saw your quiet life slowly crumbling before you. You didn’t need to know Sam personally to know how she must’ve been treated for her parentage. The public villainized her—even with incontrovertible proof that she wasn’t the killer. Ghostface is everywhere now. You can’t avoid him, no matter how hard you try. All you can do… is hope that no one else discovers the identity of your father—otherwise you’ll be pursued with vengeance, just as Sam and her friends were. 

A ringing sound draws you from your thoughts. You frown and walk through your living room, attempting to discern the source of the noise. Once you walk into the kitchen, you realize that it’s your landline—the one that was supposedly disconnected. You’ve never given out that number to anyone. Hell, the phone hasn’t been used in years. It rings again and you flinch, before shaking your head in disbelief.  You should just ignore the call, obviously. But that’s against the rules, a voice in your head whispers. In the movies, if you don’t answer, he’ll just come out and stab you in the back. At least this way, maybe he’ll give you a chance at life. You know this isn’t a Stab movie… but your hand moves of its own accord, grabbing the phone and bringing it to your ear. 

“That wasn’t very nice.” That warped, deepened voice sends chills down your spine.  “Don’t try that again.” 

You’re starting to think that maybe, just maybe, it isn’t a prank call. And on the small chance that this is really happening—that Ghostface himself is calling you—hanging up would be a death sentence. You swallow hard and remain on the line, despite everything in your head screaming at you to hang up and run away as fast as you can. You try to take slow, measured breaths as you look around the room for signs of his presence. You don’t see anything. 

“Good,” Ghostface says patronizingly. You try to take a deep breath. It isn’t your father. But that doesn’t quite matter—that deepened, warped voice still reminds you of him. “Now, let’s try that again. What’s your favorite scary movie?”

You rack your brain and try to think of something to say. “… Saw .” You eventually respond. Admittedly, it’s hard to focus on the conversation. All you can think about is the high probability that Ghostface is outside of your home—or, hell, even in it—already. 

“Really?” Ghostface hums interestedly. “Not Stab ?”

“No,” you respond, your heart jumping in your throat. The mere mention of the movie franchise is enough to make you nervous, as you remember your father. Something stews in your chest and your fingers tighten around the phone as you hold it to your ear. 

“Why not?” Ghostface asks innocently. His voice is mocking. “It’s about your father, after all.”

You’re silent, entirely frozen as a victorious cackle sounds through your phone. 

“Oh, you thought no one knew?” He continues. “Billy Loomis was a player, and that’s no secret.” 

“What do you want from me?” You choke out. You’ve spent more than twenty years outrunning your father’s reputation—doing everything in your power to ensure that no one ever knew your connection to him. And now it’s all slipping away from you. All your hard work is slipping down the drain, falling through your fingers like granules of sand. 

As if sensing your unease and distress, Ghostface’s voice has a triumphant lilt to it. “What I want…” He breaks off, “is for you to give in. ” You stare ahead in shocked silence. The taste of bile settles on your tongue. “It’s time for you to carry on your father’s legacy.” 

The call abruptly ends. Immediately, you whip around and brace yourself against the kitchen counter, dread churning in your chest. You’ve seen the Stab movies—once Ghostface hangs up, he reveals himself to his victim. You grit your teeth and frantically search your drawers for a knife. When your hand closes around the knife, you turn around to find Ghostface standing right in front of you. The knife in his hand glitters at you mockingly. 

“Come on,” he says, his voice still distorted and deep. You squint at him, surprised that you don’t see him holding a voice changer in his hand. There must be something fixed to the inside of his mask. Unfortunately, you’re not given the luxury to muse on that thought, as he steps even closer and forces you to back up against the counter, before standing still. You can sense his eyes boring into you through the mask. “I’ll give you a free shot. It’s your birthright.” Ghostface reaches out with his free hand, taking your hand in his and tilting your knife up until it points at his shoulder. 

You swallow hard, your heart thundering in your chest as you try to grasp the reality of the situation you find yourself in. You’re standing before a killer and he’s willingly giving you a chance to weaken him. Despite knowing that you should take the shot he’s giving you, all it takes is a flicker of your father’s visage in your mind’s eye for you to shake your head stubbornly. Making the first move is far more difficult in reality than you expect it to be. Besides, while he’s certainly antagonized you, Ghostface hasn’t actually harmed you yet. Stabbing him without being provoked isn’t something you can get yourself to do, no matter how hard you try to tell yourself that you need this advantage he’s giving you. 

Silence stretches on, settling in the air between you. Ghostface is standing far too close for you to be comfortable, and his grip on your arm is extremely tight. Eventually, he exhales. “I gave you a chance,” the killer shrugs. Despite that statement, he’s still grasping your hand. “Now, I’m afraid your cameo has come to an end… The killer’s child becomes the victim. It’s poetic justice!” 

You don’t get a chance to pick apart that statement before Ghostface is lodging his knife into your left side and pulling it back out forcefully. You scream, quickly pressing a hand to the wound in a rather futile attempt to stop the bleeding. As you fall to your knees, you return the blow and sink your knife into his thigh. He hisses and falls to the side, giving you time to sweep his feet out from under him and clumsily get to your feet. Through your pain-hazed vision, you manage to navigate through your kitchen and into the living room. Remembering your phone in your pocket, you take it out and attempt to call emergency services, only for Ghostface to slam into you and tackle you to the floor. You try to throw him off, but he looms over you and tries to stab you again. You manage to roll to the side, letting out an uncomfortable hiss as the movement sends pain flaring up your side. His knife lodges into the floor beneath you with a solid thunk. 

“That’s it,” he spits, grabbing your shirt collar. “Bastard.” The insult is punctuated by a harsh thud, which you realize moments later to be the sound of your head hitting the ground. Your vision is spiraling and blurring as his hands move to your throat. You immediately try to push him off.

Suddenly a bright light flashes before your eyes, and your father is staring down at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes fall to something near your side and you follow his gaze, remembering the knife that is still lodged into the ground. In his enraged fervor, the killer hasn’t seemed to notice it. It’s nearly right in front of him—you’ll have to be very quick to grab it. Your vision is practically pulsing at this point, but even through the blurriness, you can see Billy Loomis’ twisted grin.

Ghostface brutally tightens his grip on your throat and rips the air from your lungs. You’re writhing and thrashing against him, but his hold is strong and unflinching. You don’t have much time, so you make a grab for the knife and manage to free it from the floorboards. It clatters to the ground and suddenly, both you and Ghostface are reaching for the weapon. With a stretch that sends bolts of pain down your forearm, you manage to clasp the knife first—and you don’t hesitate to bury it into Ghostface’s neck. His hands fall from your neck and you frantically inhale, coughing and choking as you push yourself to your knees. Saliva falls from your lips and you wipe at it with your free hand, before focusing your attention on Ghostface once more. He’s sprawled on the ground before you, clasping at his neck in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. But blood is positively oozing out of him, and his form promptly slackens. 

You’re still not convinced. Doesn’t the killer always miraculously lurch forward at the last moment, when the victim thinks they’re dead? You decide you’d rather not test that theory, and settle for yanking the knife back out of his neck. The blood loss will kill him, if he isn’t already dead. 

After a few more moments staring down at Ghostface and contemplating your next move, you grab at his wrist and feel for a pulse. There’s nothing—a notion further punctuated by the way his arm promptly crashes to the floor when you release it. Your attacker is dead. 

The adrenaline that kept you alive begins to fade, leaving you with a bone-deep ache and a stinging sensation in your side. The knife slips from your grasp and falls to the floor with a deafening clatter. Ghostface’s blood is pooling beneath him, and your hands are painted crimson with it. You’re shaking extremely hard, your chest burning from your near suffocation only moments prior. Your equilibrium is all off, and you’re forced to watch from an outsider’s perspective as the world sways and tilts to the side as you fall back down to the ground. Shadows are crawling across the room; when you blink, you see black boots on the ground next to you. Your father crouches down and stares at you, his expression unreadable through your foggy vision. He almost looks to be resisting the urge to reach out to you. A tear crawls down your cheek as you hear sirens in the distance. 

“Well done.” Billy Loomis says, his voice reverberating through your ears. He crouches down even more, until he’s sitting next to you. With ghosts for company and pain stitching your body together, your vision quickly fades to black. 

thanks for reading! <3

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[esmes]

put me inside flesh that is dying a ghost that wanders without rest buried by desires and weakness i understand please, don't take your love away from me aka incontrovertible proof that they are HAVING SEX, courtesy of @theriddletrades

[my-deer-friend]

Words fail us almost immediately when we try to discuss any kind of human behaviour, especially when those words are trying to create artificial categories or oppositions. Still, we need terminology, however imperfect, to create a common basis for explaining what we're talking about. This is an especially tricky problem in "queer history", because both what has historically been considered sexually and romantically non-normative and how those things were named and understood has varied so much – even, as you say, within the last fifty years.

'Queer' is one of those modern words that is both useful and hazardous to apply to the past – useful because it's a good shorthand umbrella term for a range of non-normative sexual and romantic acts or desires, hazardous because it's vague and anachronistic and requires us to have a good understanding of the historical context before we can begin to apply it. It's not a word I think I would use in formal academic writing, but it serves me here as a contrast to "normative", and allows me to sidestep the problem we have both mentioned of rigidly structured social categories.

In the same breath, we can end up getting so tangled in nuances and definitons and ahistoricity that we devote all our time to trying to define exactly what we mean (trying, also, not to offend anyone - impossible) and leave less space and time to focus on the actual human behaviours we came here to examine.

At some point, we just have to choose a word so that we can move to the next step, and 'queer' is the imperfect word I've chosen (at least, for the purposes of this Tumblr post).

I really should have defined this earlier, though. I'm using "queer" to mean "same-sex romantic or sexual desire that fell outside the normative bounds of social acceptability in the 18th century". That's not the only kind of queerness that existed (obviously), but that's my specific focus. The most common other words for this are "gay" (which comes with its own package of contemporary characteristics that I find unhelpful to understanding, and masks bisexuality) or homosexual (which privileges the "sex" part and thus doesn't help my core argument).

Now, as for what I meant about inherent queerness versus homosexuality above...

Two soldiers sharing a bunk and engaging in mutual masturbation, or sailors taking part in consensual sodomy aboard ship, are performing a homosexual act without necessarily feeling any particular same-sex attraction or desire (just like your closeted gay man having sex with his wife is not evidence of his heterosexual desire). The act itself might be transgressive, or illegal, and thus one might say it's "queer" on that basis – but equally we could argue that some degree of homosexual activity in these contexts was tolerated, so long as it stayed within acceptable and understood bounds. There are many great analyses out there on, e.g., sodomy among sailors that could make this point much better than I can.

On the other end of the spectrum we have people like Thomas Gray, Johann Wilhelm Ludwig Gleim and Johannes von Müller, who cultivated wide homosocial networks, and formed male-male friendships that they expounded on effusively, in deeply romantic language. There's no evidence of them engaging in homosexual acts, but their written works and behaviours signal their yearning for same-sex relationships (sexual or otherwise) that bordered on the socially transgressive – even if they themselves never transgressed those bounds. Contrast, also, the letters between George Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette on one hand, and Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens on the other. Both sets contain expressions of romantic affection, but the former is generally understood to take the style of a typical, normative romantic friendship, while the latter is increasingly accepted to be indicative of more transgressive – queer – same-sex desire.

And of course, all of these examples contain a degree of speculation and invite exceptions. There were certainly many homosexual men who joined the navy because it provided an outlet for their sexual desires, and homoromantic people who hid one-sided or mutual romantic love within the conventions of "regular" friendship.

Since we can't ever know exactly what any of these people really meant or felt, this is the point at which historians must shift to interpretation and analysis. Interpretations are not all equally valid, can and should evolve over time, and are always a function of our own biases, knowledge and access to evidence.

I don't think it's perpetuating harmful or oppressive structures to study queerness in historical context, inelegant though our language sometimes is. What does seem harmful and dated to me is requiring at least a suggestion of sexual desire (homoerotic) if not proof of sexual consummation (homosexual) before a relationship is considered "genuinely queer".

I have now rambled at length, and I'm not even sure I've properly addressed your question! But thanks nevertheless for the impetus to frame my thinking in more detail.

Homosocial – homoromantic – homoerotic – homosexual

A lot of people who talk about 18th century queerness treat these concepts as existing on a linear scale of "straight" to "gay", or as a progression of increasing queerness.

But that kind of framing isn't accurate. There's no line that we can draw here beyond which things become definitively queer. There were homosexual acts that had very little queerness to them, and homoromantic relationships that were fundamentally queer without ever (to our knowledge) straying beyond the emotional.

[missvelvetsstuff]

The Situation Room

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: After a mission almost gone wrong, Tony brings back Bucky's former assistant, who is also Bucky's ex. Can they work together without hurting each other? Will the whole truth about their break up finally come out?

Avengers AU where Thanos never happened.

Chapter 2

Warnings: swearing, angst

Radar woke from a troubled sleep when her alarm went off at 5pm. She groaned and rolled out of bed, stood and ran through some yoga stretches to get her blood moving. Once she felt more alive she shuffled into the bathroom for a hot shower. By 6pm she was dressed and had her gear ready to go.

She looked in her mirror, took a deep breath and squared her shoulders before heading to the kitchen and the smell of food. Wait, was that.....

"Paprikash!" She exclaimed as she entered the kitchen to see Wanda standing over a large pot.

Wanda turned and grinned "I had to make your favorite, sestra, to welcome you home." She handed Radar a full plate "Here, bread and butter are on the table."

Radar kissed Wanda's cheek "You're my very favoritest witch, Maximoff. Thank you!"

She went to sit at the table and started to eat.

A few minutes later she heard his voice "You made my favorite, Wanda. Thank you."

Bucky came in, grabbed a plate and went to sit down, making a face when he saw Radar there. He sat without a word and started eating.

Radar chatted with Sam when he came in to eat, catching up on life since they last spoke a few months ago.

Sam shook his head "Why haven't you been able to catch up with Sharon yet?"

Radar shrugged "She's smart and knows people. I'm pretty sure she has some high ranking US officials that she's dealing with. CIA, FBI, NSA at least a couple of people in one or more of those agencies. Military too. Maybe the White House.

She's the one who bankrolled Karli Morgantheau and her Flagsmashers. Karli might have cared about the people who were being left behind by capitalism but Sharon and whoever is backing her are only interested in creating chaos. Those people who are suffering were happy to help with that.

I have some strong leads that some of my team are following. I actually have a pretty good idea who's behind Sharon but they are very high up in the pecking order so I can't talk about who or move until we have incontrovertible proof. Whoever it is, knows that I'm catching up with them so I have to watch my back."

Bucky scoffed "Must be a change of pace for you to be concerned with backstabbers since that's your move."

Radar shook her head "Please. If you actually knew the truth you'd really hate yourself, even worse than usual but not to worry, I'm sure you'll never know. That would require some intellectual curiosity instead of blindly trusting a pretty face."

Bucky looked at her, confused "What the fuck are you going on about? What truth?"

Radar got up and put her dishes in the dishwasher "None of your concern, Barnes. Way too late. See you at 9."

Bucky looked at Wanda "What was she talking about? I know that you know."

Wanda shook her head "Sorry Bucky, that's not my story to tell. If you want to know, you'll have to figure out how to get her to trust you enough to tell you. If you even can, which I seriously doubt. Good luck on your mission."

Bucky turned to Sam who was sitting back, smirking, "Of course you know, don't you?"

Sam nodded, still smiling, and wordlessly headed to his room to suit up, then to the hangar.

Bucky put his dishes away and went to the armory to pick up his bag but it was missing. He tore the room apart and when he couldn't find it he stormed to the hangar and onto the waiting quinjet where Radar and Sam were prepping to take off "Where's my kit?"

Sam laughed at Bucky's disheveled state, hair mussed, face red, breathing heavily. That laugh only enraged him "Where's my fucking kit?"

Radar rolled her eyes "Where it belongs, dumbass. I know having a competent assistant is a change of pace for you Barnes but I know my job."

Bucky went to the storage bin in the front of the cabin and pulled out his bag. He went through every pocket, every single hiding place and wasn't surprised to find everything was there. Knives cleaned and sharpened and the bag was loaded with plenty of extra ammo. He scoffed, angry that he had nothing to be angry about and no excuse bitch about her.

Bucky looked at her and Sam, both with a mischievous gleam in their eyes, before stomping to the furthest seat from the pilot and sat heavily. He strapped himself in and crossed his arms, looking anywhere but at the pair laughing at him.

He was relieved when they finally calmed down and turned their attention to taking off and setting their course in.

Radar flew the jet for the entire 6 hour flight, softly chatting with Sam for most of the trip.

Bucky stayed in his seat, arms still crossed, jaw clenched and staring at the opposite wall in a concerted attempt to avoid looking at her. His mind racing to understand what she meant by her cryptic words and growing more and more angry that she was keeping some big secret from him. Something she should have told him before now.

By the time they landed and loaded up the SUV that was waiting for them at their destination, Bucky was ready to explode and fighting to hold it back. He wouldn't start a fight as they headed into a mission but he was damn sure determined to find out what everyone else seemed to already know.

While Radar waited in the quinjet for Bucky and Sam to reach the base, she set up her surveillance gear, connected to Starks satellite and found them and synchronized them with the GPS.

Then she tapped on her key "Captain. Sargent. You have coms? Anyone?" She sighed and fiddled with her laptop "Cap? Sarge? Can you hear me now? Bueller?"

Sam laughed in her ear, making Radar smile "I hear you Angel"

Bucky scoffed "She's not your Angel, Tweety. She's mine." Hearing Radars voice in his ear gave Bucky a chill and a flash of a memory of being tangled together naked, her whispering sweet and dirty nothing's into his ear. He tried to shake it off.

Sam laughed "I'm sorry Terminator. I didn't realize you wanted her all to yourself but you're gonna have to share for now. I'll give her back good as new."

Bucky sputtered "Dammit Wilson you know that's-"

Radar interrupted him "Shush! Someone's up ahead. 2 bodies in front of the door you're headed to, then another 4 people 15 yards down the hall to the left."

She worked on her laptop "Door's unlocked and the alarm is off."

As Radar guided them through the building, the lack of resistance concerned her. She moved the satellite around and gasped when she saw a nest of heat signatures on the other side of the next door in their path "fuckfuckfuck" she tried not to panic "STOP! There's a whole platoon in the next room. Get the fuck out of there. I'll get the jet re-"

Sam and Bucky looked at each other and turned to sprint, both trying to connect with her.

"Radar, come on babygirl we need your help finding our way out of here." Sam pleaded.

Bucky felt his heart drop when she didn't respond at all "RADAR! Dammit doll, answer me please. You have to be ok honey, please!" He begged.

Sam was falling behind him, unable to keep up with the super soldier. Bucky turned to see a group of men behind them and gaining. He fired a slew of shots in their direction then picked Sam up in a firemans carry and ran down the hall with Sam shooting behind his back.

They barely made it to the doors they originally came in through, Sam held them shut while Bucky used his vibranium hand to rip the control panel out of the wall so it wouldn't open without an rpg or a couple of pounds of plastique.

Bucky looked to Sam who nodded his ok before Bucky bolted to the quinjet, Sam jogging slowly behind him.

Bucky raced up to the jet, frowning because the cloak wasn't up so it was easy to see but he stopped cold a few yards back, when he realized the ramp was up as well.

Something was wrong. Radar was good with weapons but her hand to hand skills were greatly diminished by a back injury during a mission when she was with the CIA. That's how she ended up taken out of field work and became his Angel.

Bucky was sure she had her own weapons but if not there were plenty stocked and some hidden aboard the quinjet.

He stood behind a tree, texting Friday and watching the jet for any signs of activity, until Sam caught up. Bucky held his hand up and Sam stopped next to him. They had a heated, whisper discussion about what to do next.

According to Friday, Radar was still in the jet with one other person, who was standing too close to her for Bucky's comfort. She was showing signs of distress with elevated heart rate and blood pressure.

Bucky knew something had to be done so he asked Friday to lower the ramp. When it was halfway down, a mans voice yelled from inside. "I've got your little friend Soldat. Don't come after me or I'll have to hurt her." The man laughed "Well, if I'm being honest I am gonna hurt her irregardless but I'll probably have to kill her if you get too close."

Radar screamed in pain as the man twisted her to face the ramp "Now stop, I barely touched you. Your girl seems pretty sensitive."

"She's not my girl!" Bucky yelled and Sam scowled at him

"Is that really necessary Barnes? Just figure out how to get him away from her."

The man laughed "Sure she isn't Soldat. Just let us go and I'll drop her off somewhere safe."

Bucky was ready to kill the owner of that voice but knew that would get Radar hurt so tried to negotiate. "Fine, I put my gun down. Come on out."

Bucky clenched his jaw when he saw the man holding Radar's arms behind her back while he held a knife at her throat. Once they were at the bottom of the ramp, Bucky threw one of his knives, scraping Radar's ear and landing between the mans eyes.

Radar looked at him with wide eyes after she saw the blood on her hand from where it had touched her ear "Are you fucking crazy Barnes? You could have killed or seriously hurt me. Look at this shit, you cut my ear. I know you hate me but this is not ok. You know, I should-"

Bucky interrupted her rant by grabbing her face with both hands and looking her over very carefully for any injuries besides her ear. When he found nothing his hands pulled away like she burned him

"You're fine, it's barely a scratch. Wheels up in 5, there might be more of them coming."

Then he strode into the jet and started preparing to take off.

Radar turned and watched him walk away, her mouth open, before shaking herself off and looking to Sam as he came up the ramp. He shrugged, grabbed a first aid kit and sat, pulling her down with him so he could check her ear.

Sam cleaned the scratch and put a bandaid on it. "Just a nick, you'll live." He smiled at her. "Did you hear what he said when you didn't reply?"

Radar shook her head "No. That guy took my headset first. Why? What did he say?"

Sam shook his head "You two need to talk. I'm not gonna get in the middle of this mess."

The jet was in the air, destination set and Bucky sighed when he heard Sam say that. He had panicked for a minute but didn't want to reopen that wound. Whatever Radar's truth was, it didn't matter.

Like she said it was too late.

@unaxv @calwitch @buckitostan

Chapter 3