#so at least the statistics could be corrected for it

[gender-euphowrya]

spell of explode all transphobes Activate

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

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[auroralwriting]

the gun

spencer reid x genius!bau!reader

oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, they both reached for the gun, the gun, the gun…

"you just needed to prove to Spencer, once and for all, that you had all the skills to be the best agent, the best genius."

word count: 2.3k

warnings: cm violence, blood, enemies to lovers, kinda rushed im sorryyyy, fem reader slightly mentioned

a continuation of this story can be found here

Spencer and you always competed. He had an eidetic memory, you had a photographic.

The difference between you two was anything you ever saw, read, you held in long-term memory. Spencer’s, though, resided in short term. However, Spencer was also an autodidact, meaning he could teach himself anything. You also had a vast emotional intelligence. You had such strong empathy, you could detect any micro-detail anyone displayed, making you the perfect lie-detector one that even Hotch couldn’t evade.

Spencer was Jason Gideon’s special boy. Gideon helped Spencer make his way in the BAU. You were David Rossi’s special girl, him noticing your skills from a young age when he met you during a case. He guided you to make all the best choices, leading you to the BAU as well. It took a few years, timing and all, but you got there.

When Dave transferred to Quantico’s BAU, he requested your transfer as well. He thought you would mesh well with the team. More specifically, he assumed you and Spencer would become a genius duo; totally unstoppable.

Oh, how wrong he was. It was from the moment you’d corrected Spencer on some statistic he spewed, you both became enemies forced to co-exist on the same team. There was never a civil moment, always some fight. It was sad, too. You remembered the first time you saw him, you were struck by how cute he was. Too bad he decided to hate you before you got a chance.

Vividly, you remembered the most intense fight you both had.

“So someone with a medical degree,” Hotch muttered. “That’s got to be impossible.”

“It’s more likely that have a nursing degree.” Spencer replied. “We’d be looking at around one hundred eighty thousand people a year. If our unsub is a new graduate, that’s the numbers we’d be looking through.”

You shook your head, “It’s actually one hundred fifty seven thousand. Also, narrow it down to nursing degrees in New York, and you get around eight thousand. Eleven percent were men, so around six hundred. Lower it even more to those who don’t have any family members, most likely from group homes, you can get maybe seventy?”

oh, yes

Garcia clacked away at her keyboard, “My baby’s got it! Seventy two people. If we’re looking at NYU specifically, thirteen.”

Pride filled your system. It was fulfilling when you were able to get things right. Spencer, on the other hand, wasn’t too happy about that.

“You know, nobody asked your opinion.” He scoffed.

“It isn’t opinion, Reid. It’s purely fact, ones you should probably get right.” Your reply had Spencer clenching his fists.

How dare you insult his intelligence? His IQ was much larger than yours, you weren’t one to speak on that. “Maybe you should focus on the case instead of trying to be a people pleaser,” Spencer sneered your way.

His reply made you roll your eyes, “At least I can tell what people want. You’re oblivious, Reid.”

oh, yes

Slowly, the two of you began to go back and forth, your voices raising. Before the situation blew up, Hotch stepped in, trying to mediate. However, Spencer mumbled something under his breath, something you couldn’t just let go. It hurt, stung like a bee, and you weren’t going to let him walk away feeling victorious.

“At least my mentor didn’t up and leave me.” you snapped. “He’s still with me, he didn’t just vanish with a stupid little note as a dingy goodbye.”

Spencer had paused, face dropping. You read him like a book, you’d gone too far. He showed minuscule signs of distress, grief, sadness. The room was silent, no one quite knew what to say.

oh, yes

“Reid, I-”

“Save it.”

Spencer had walked away, leaving you to feel shameful of your words. Rossi just squeezed your shoulder. The man knew you didn’t mean it.

they both

Since then, it was like the two of you were on each other’s cases, constantly bickering and arguing. Now, you were almost subconsciously battling each other for the genius role of the team. Was there any need to? No, not at all, but your fights had become not a battle, but a war.

You stood outside the bank with your team. “They have hostages,” You identified, attempting to peer inside. “There’s no way we can go in. It’s a suicide-murder mission.”

oh, yes

“There’s gotta be a way,” JJ shook her head. “Maybe there’s another way in.”

“It doesn’t look like it,” Derek sighed.

After a few hours, Will made the decision to go inside. You had to help hold back JJ as he walked in. Hearing the bullets made you sick. You physically had to double over, holding back the tears. It suddenly hit you how dire the situation was. You went back to the van with the team. No one really knew what to say.

"Did you see where he was shot?" JJ asked. "Is he alive or dead, Garcia?"

Penelope's breath was shaky, "I don't know."

"He was wearing a vest." Emily reasoned. "He might be okay."

JJ gave a smile, but it was one of disbelief. "Might be," She muttered, shaking her head in reply.

It was then that the team decided to go in. You shoved your gun in your holster, "I'll take first point," You offered. "Check and see if Will's okay. I'll try and manipulate them into letting me go to him." Hotch nodded. With your knowledge of psychology and your emotional intelligence, Hotch knew you could do it.

they both

"L/n, it's too dangerous." You heard Spencer say over the phone. "Just wait for me to tell you where to go in."

You rolled your eyes, "Reid, I'm not stupid. I've handled multiple hostage situations."

Spencer didn't reply. You liked that. This was the first time you'd be able to prove yourself without Spencer's help. This was honestly just a way for you to prove you were the better of the two. Your actions were motivated by the desire to be the best; a classic narcissistic move. You weren't a narcissist, though. You just needed to prove to Spencer, once and for all, that you had all the skills to be the best agent, the best genius.

Oddly enough, hostages flooded out of the bank as you made your way back outside. Maybe Will was alive and managed to get them all out. Once none more came out, you and two other cops began to make your way inside stealthily.

Right as you got in the middle of the bank, you heard Rossi's panicked voice over your comms, "Abort, abort!"

oh, yes

There was no time to reply. It all happened so suddenly. You heard the explosion before you felt it. It was hard to breathe. You couldn't see, hear. It slowly registered that there was a bomb, and it went off.

they both reached for

You had no clue where you had been thrown to. Everything felt cold, really cold. A loud ringing filled your ears as you slowly sat up. You touched your head, pulling back to feel stickiness on your fingers. Your vision was blurry, but you knew it was blood. You had to get out of the building. You needed help, medics, your team. Was anyone else in your team inside yet?

they both reached for the gun

A grunt left your lips as you stood up. You felt your legs give out under you, and you went down again. The desire to live was stronger than your physical weakness, and you stood up again. It was so dusty and hazy that you couldn't see. You leaned on the nearest wall for support, slowly using it to try and find your way out of the building. All that you heard in your head was get out, survive, get out, survive.

After what felt like ages, you felt a breeze against your skin. You followed it, hoping it would lead out, and it did. The light was harsh on your eyes as you tried to scan the area. It was then you saw Spencer and Hotch-- what was Spencer doing here? He was still at the BAU last you'd checked. Maybe the blast knocked you out cold.

Trudging your way over, you weakly called out. "Aaron, Spencer,"

the gun

Spencer knew he heard his name. He looked up from the blueprints of the building to see you, blood covering different parts of your body, your skin covered in debris and dust. You had limp, and your eyes were blown out. "Oh my god," he muttered, running over to you.

the gun

The genius took your in his arms as you fell into him, "How'd you get here?" you asked. "What's for dinner?"

Spencer took notice of your confusion as he allowed you to lean on him. He took your face in his hands, "Y/n, look at me. Focus on me,"

the gun

You couldn't directly look at him. Your eyes darted all over the place. "Where's Rossi? Did he go in?"

"No, Rossi's okay." Spencer leaned over his shoulder, "We need a medic!" He yelled, quickly turning his attention back to you. "It's okay, you're okay."

oh, yes

"I can't feel anything," you breathed out, "That can't be normal. Is that normal? Spencer, am I dying?"

oh, yes

Spencer shook his head, "You're okay, it's okay."

"I can't die," You softly whimpered. "I'm sorry, Spencer. 'M so mean to you, I don't mean to be."

Deep down, Spencer knew you meant what you were saying. The fear of dying without getting your true feelings out always lead to admissions of the truth. "I know, I know," Spencer smoothed your hair. "I don't hate you, I don't. You're going to be okay." Spencer slowly became anxious as he noticed the amount of blood seeping from your head. "Look at me, please, keep talking to me."

"'M sorry," You muttered, feeling your eyes grow heavy. Spencer's face began to fade as you collapsed in his arms.

Spencer felt his breathing grow heavy as he held you tightly. "Medic! She's-- oh, god, Help!"

they both reached for the gun.

A steady beeping was the first thing you heard as you woke up. The light was a blinding white, and you let out a groan at it. Your body hurt like hell, and your head was pounding.

"Shh, shh. It's okay, here, let me just--"

The white lights went out and all that was left was the stream of daylight coming through the windows, along with a lamp that was a warmer light. It was much more comfortable that way. You quickly guessed you were in a hospital. The beeping, white lights, smell of rubbing alcohol that you just identified.

"How do you feel?"

Spencer. You turned your head to look at him. His face held deep concern. He was holding your hand. "I--" You paused, considering his question. "I feel like shit."

He let out a soft chuckle, "Yeah. You kind of got exploded." That's right, the bomb.

"Oh, Will, the team, are they okay?" You softly asked.

Spencer nodded, "Everyone's okay, we got the unsubs. It's all okay now."

You remembered Spencer's words. You should have waited to go in. If you had waited, maybe you wouldn't be in this situation right now. "I should've listened to you." You stated weakly. "You were right. I was being stupid."

"Hey, no," Spencer quickly interrupted. "You were doing your job."

"I wasn't," you shook your head. "I wanted to prove myself. I-I wanted.. to show that I didn't just do victimology and simple hostage relief situations. I wanted to prove myself like you have." You stopped, sucking in a pained breath. You felt your eyes become glassy. "I wanted to prove to everyone I was just as good as you."

Spencer felt his heart break at your words. You both knew overall, he was smarter. It never occurred to him that your constant bickering was to prove yourself, and not to prove him wrong. "You're better." Spencer decided to say. "I mean, I can't relate to our victims, hell, our unsubs the way you can."

"Spencer,"

"I'm serious." He continued. "You're so important to this team. You-you push us to be better." Spencer cleared his throat, "You push me to be better."

You stared at Spencer blankly for a moment, "I never told you that I like this haircut."

Spencer gave you a slightly surprised look. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," You hummed. "It makes you look, I don't know, less like Einstein and more like, uh, a really smart James Dean."

"James Dean," Spencer repeated, "I've never gotten that one before. Are those meds talking right now?"

You shook your head slowly, "Probably the clearest I've thought in a while." You replied, causing Spencer to smile. "Why did you stay with me?"

Spencer paused for a moment, "I wanted to make sure you were okay. I know we bicker a lot. Well, more than a lot. Probably several times a day, but I still care about you. I-I was.. really scared for you. I don't think I could forgive myself if I let you walk in there and you'd died."

"It wouldn't have been your fault," You tried. Spencer just shook his head.

"It would have been. I should've rationalized it with you. When I saw you, I just thought, 'What have I been doing this whole time? Have I really been wasting my breath arguing with you when we could've made the best team'? I remember when Rossi first introduced you, I was like, 'No way someone this pretty is doing this', when you should've been some model or something." Spencer rambled. He did that, paired with hand fidgeting, when he was nervous. He rambled as he played with your fingers.

You took a breath in, hoping for the best. "Hey, maybe we could, uh, go to one of those team based trivia nights at O'Keefe's?"

"Are-are you asking me out?" Spencer asked.

"Only if you're saying yes." You responded. "I, uh, maybe thought we could start over."

Spencer gave a chuckle, "Yeah, trivia night sounds good. I'd like a retry at this. Maybe we're, uh, meant to be more than just a team."

You smiled at him, knowing that a simple friendship wouldn't be highest point of your new relationship with the genius.

[inkskinned]

no, but really, we need to talk about the casual objectification that has become the fallback discourse of the internet: if you're pretty and dressed nicely, you're a slut. and if you're even vaguely outside of their body standard, you're fucking disgusting.

too-frequently, people position sex workers as being "the problem". they sneer you're addicted to pornography, you don't know what a real woman looks like. but real women are in pornography. the real bodies on display are not the issue here: the issue is that other people feel extremely confident when commenting on someone's physique.

2000's super-thin is slowly worming its way back into the public ideal. recently i saw someone get told to "go for a run", despite the fact she was on the thinner side of average. not that it would ever be appropriate to say that: but it's kind of like sticker shock when you see it. people think that is fat? holy shit. do they just have no idea about things?

but what are you going to do about it? that's the problem, right. because chances are - you're a normal person. we can say normalize carrying fat on your body, but we are not the billion-dollar diet industry. we are not the billion-dollar fashion industry. we are just, like. people. who are trying to make content on the internet, without being treated shittily.

as someone who has been on both sides of things: you are treated better when you are thin and pretty. this is statistically correct. i am not saying that you cannot be bullied for being thin; i'm saying there are objective institutional biases against certain bodytypes. there are videos of men and women who lost weight all saying: i now know for a fact exactly how much worse you're treated. in the comments, some asshole inevitably says something akin to you deserved to be dehumanized when you were fat.

which means that ... the easiest thing to do is be pretty and thin. it is the path of least resistance, because of course it is, because any time you post a picture of yourself without a thigh gap, someone immediately comments something like you need to try a diet.

the other half is also dehumanizing though, huh, just in a different way. when i put on makeup and nice clothes, i am told i slept my way to the top as a professional. do you know how many women in STEM have told me they purposefully dress to "unimpress" because they already struggle to be taken seriously and if they're ever considered pretty - it for some reason takes away from their authority.

so they make it seem like it's your fault. you, existing in a body - it's your fault! if you didn't want shitty comments, don't have a body. they position us against each other like chess pieces; vying for male attention we don't even need.

and i can be an authority on this unless you think i'm fat and unattractive. when i am pretty and thin, i'm an activist. when i am just a normal person who makes a good point: i am immediately dismissed. nobody fucking believes you if you're not seen as attractive. you literally lose value. you cease to exist.

but the whole time, it feels like - is anyone actually grounded the fuck in reality? the line of "pretty and thin" keeps shifting. nobody seems to understand what "a normal weight" even looks like, because it's not something that exists - you cannot tell a person's health by looking at their body. even if you think you could tell that, even if you're sure a person is dangerously overweight - people are not your dolls. they do not need to be dressed up or displayed properly to soothe your aesthetics. you aren't concerned for them, you're stealing their agency. you don't get to say if they're "allowed" to take pictures and post them on the internet - you don't get to tell them how to exist.

people hide behind "the obesity epidemic" without any actual qualifications. they crow things about "normalizing unhealthiness".

but it's bullshit. i have visible abs. there is a pair of parallel lines on my body, even when i'm relaxed; where my obliques meet my abdominal wall. i am proud of this because it means i'm strong, because i overcame an eating disorder only to be ripped as fuck. it is genetic and physical luck that i even get any definition, i'm pleased as punch.

but it does mean that my abdominal wall sticks out a little bit. the other day i posted a video of myself dancing, and, for a moment, my shirt slipped. you could see a little bit of my stomach. i was cartwheeling to the floor. moments before this, i'd had my foot over my head.

a guy slid into my DMs. a row of vomiting emojis prefaced: you should really lose some weight before you think about dancing.

i stared at it for a long time. there was a time when i would have been triggered by this, where it would have encouraged me to starve myself. i would have ignored the fact i'm flexible, agile, good at jumping: i would have lost the weight for a stranger's passing comment. i would have found myself and my body fucking disgusting.

and for what? to please what? because why? so that he can exist in this world without an unchallenged eyeball? what would my self-hatred even accomplish? usually i write paragraphs. obviously. on this particular occasion, in this body i've been at war with for ages: i just felt exhausted.

it shouldn't be even worth saying. it shouldn't be hard to explain. all of this emotional turmoil when he cannot even comprehend the most basic truth: i am not an object on display for him.

[marzipanandminutiae]

I have a question, where would gnc/trans people get their clotges in the days before the selling of premade clothes? I assume some was stealing from relatives, and that soem of them did know how to make clothes, but that doesn't seem at all likely to be the most common method

That is an amazing question!

Unfortunately for a lot of people, we don't really know- many trans folks flew under the radar and as such details of their lives are unclear. Legendary stagecoach driver Charley Parkhurst, for example, left no sort of record as to where he got his clothes (especially since he lived in a cabin in the middle of nowhere for many years of his life). And figures like Mary Jones, a Black trans sex worker from the early 19th century, flit into and out of the pages of history so quickly that there's barely enough info to get their vital statistics, let alone shopping habits.

However, my guesses would be as follows:

Secondhand shops. These have existed for a very long time, and if you already have at least one outfit that makes you read as the correct gender, nobody would question you going through that section of the store/market/whatever.

Sympathetic conventional tailors or dressmakers. This is almost certainly where middle- and upper-class GNC or trans people got their clothing- one can hardly imagine legendary writer George Sand buying her suits secondhand, after all. And since humans have always been human, and Let People Dress How They Please; They Aren't Hurting Anyone is a sentiment I've seen at least as far back as the 19th century, I suspect there were far more of these than many people might think.

Clothing workshops catering to the demimonde- that is, to theatrical companies for costumes, or to sex workers. Certainly this is where drag performers got their stage gear, and one imagines people for whom gender variance crossed the line from performance to identity- like Fanny Park and Stella Boulton -might have turned to their costumers for everyday attire, too. And catering to sex workers probably got all sorts of requests that were seen as outre for the time (in a roleplay capacity- most sex workers dressed conventionally while not actively Doing Sex), but their money was as good as anyone else's.

Friends and relatives. Some families knowingly supported their crossdressing or trans loved ones. Even partners who married the person in question as the binary opposite gender could fall into this category- Lili Elbe (though she lived after premade dresses began to rise in popularity) first experimented with feminine attire in dresses and jewelry loaned by her enthusiastically supportive wife Gerta Gottlieb. In fact, Gottlieb was bisexual, and their marriage was only annulled because Lili was a woman now and same-gender marriage was illegal in Denmark at the time.

Also yes stealing from your relatives was also an option, of course. if they were less than sympathetic

The king of France???? this is the wildcard, and my absolute favorite: the Chevaliere d'Eon, when she transitioned in the 1770s, got the king to not only formally state that she had been assigned female at birth (there had been speculation about her physical sex for years at this point) but to pay for her new wardrobe of gowns. Absolute Queen.

"but didn't her mantua-makers notice Some Physical Things?" she's believed to have had some form of gynecomastia, based on her autopsy, and they'd never have cause to see her in less than her calf-length chemise. if they did see anything, they kept their mouths shut, and rightly so.

[oval3000]

Chapter 1

Yandere Teacher Nanami x Student Reader

Warning: Abuse, (force) smut. Abduction, violence, rough play, toxic behavior, age gap, everything from all above. Mainly from his point of view...somewhat... modern au- ish idk. College teacher x student.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

-------------------------------------------------------

The bell ringing caused all the students to pack their bags and walk out of the classroom. The janitors, of the school, sweep the empty floors of the hallways. Teachers were gathering their paperwork, making copies, and saying goodbye to other fellow mentors.

Nanami picked up the black, felt, block and started to erase the chalk from the board. All the math equations of the new lectures become just white dust falling to the ground. He closed the math textbook, feeling his eyelids wanting to shut. Another day, another day lecture that half of his students will fail at.

He shoved all the homework sheets half of the class handed, into his black, leather, briefcase. He enjoyed his job. If he didn't he wouldn't continue to be here. He liked being a teacher. He liked math. He liked to teach those who wanted to learn. quote, "Those." He would love his job even more if all of his students would actually pay attention. He wouldn't be so tired if his students would come up and ask for help when they needed it. When he saw the grades of more than 50% of his students fail their latest test, he changed his teaching ways, however, the statistics never changed. They still failed to understand the mathematical procedures of each formula that would give them the correct answer. If only they pay attention and not stare at their phones all the time. If only they take it a little seriously then maybe they would actually walk out to get their diploma.

He offered to help them as much as he could as a teacher. He stayed after school for those who needed help to come in and ask, but no one came. He gave them all a little paper booklet with specific instructions for how to use each formula to each question, yet, he kept marking f's on their test. At least is not 100% of his students, or else he wouldn't even have a job.

He did notice a pattern of those who fail. The same ones that don't even show up for half of his classes. Those who show up high. Those who show up just to chat or use their phones the whole time.

He spends more time scolding them for not listening than to teach them all the things they need. Especially after he taught them how to deal with their taxes.

His one particular class that he always has issues with. He's a teacher, he shouldn't think badly about his students, but that one class he hates the most. His 10:00am class. When his students don't listen, they don't bother to take notes. They're too busy recovering from their hangover from the party they had last night. Nanami knows what goes on with a college student. He was once a college student. Granted that he was never a party animal, he mostly focused on his grades rather than getting hammered on a Thursday night. However, he saw and heard about the wild nights his classmates had. So, he's not shed out when it comes to his students who come in with their eyes red and their hands covering their heads, trying to control their headaches.

He would enjoy his job even more if the girls actually asked for help rather than pretend they wanted help just for them to flirt with him and show their bodies off.

He would instantly tell when they wanted to have sex with him. It's no secret that he's attractive and handsome. A lot of his students would flirt with him and that includes his co-workers. Girls would come up to him with a question by leaning in, seductively, close to him to show their cleavage and wiggle their asses to show more of their cunt. All Nanami could do is to roll his eyes and tell them to go back to their seats.

He found it lame and embarrassing how easily they would want to give in just to pass a simple math class or to just sleep with him. He knows his other male co-workers are the opposite of him. They would easily go at it and fuck their students if they seduce them like that. After all, he caught his fellow colleague fucking a student in his office. His colleague was afraid of Nanami telling so out of fear, he gave him his position, as the head of the math department. Nanami didn't care nor was he going to tell, but he enjoyed the little promotion. At least he's getting something out of it.

He was honestly disappointed that this was the outcome of his career. Teaching a bunch of students math that they swear they don't need. Dealing with dumb colleagues. Dealing with women who want to have sex with him. Dealing with endless useless grading was like a slap in the face to him.

That was until he received an email. An email saying that he's going to get a new student for his 10:00am class. He rolled his eyes and groaned in annoyance. Another student who won't bother trying to understand an equation.

He didn't have any high hopes or care. Especially in his 10:00am class that he hates.

He hates it.

He has to deal with another student.

Or so he thought.

When he heard your voice. your soft-spoken voice. He perked up and saw you. You stood there with your bag hanging on your shoulder and a piece of paper in your hand. "Are you Mr. Nanami?" He didn't reply, he just nodded. He was too busy studying you. your form, the way you spoke, everything. "Okay, I'm (Y/n). The new student." To stook out your hand as he shook it. Your soft, delicate hands. "Can I sit anywhere?" He nodded again. Never once has he been so starstruck by someone, a student.

He watched closely as you picked a seat, just a row behind the first one. Still close to the front. Still close to him.

Now the class he hated the most became the one he'll love the most.

[prettiestlovergirl]

hii! its tots fine if no but could you maybe do some fluff with basketball player luke and like him tryinh to teach you how to play?🙈

i read basketball & fluff and my one tree hill obsessed heart started singing. YES, ABSOLUTELY I CAN DO THIS <3333 have to preface this by saying that i know like nothing about basketball, though. i am a strictly baseball-hockey girl myself sdjfhskdjfh. my knowledge is limited but i will do my best, hehe. she's short and sweet. enjoy, my lovely! 𓆩♡𓆪

"you might be the worst player i have ever seen, and i once watched grover try to play." your boyfriend, luke castellan, chuckled unhelpfully from behind you.

you and luke had been going out for a couple of months now and honestly? you'd never been happier. he'd made you feel so welcome your first week of camp and every day since, he'd made you feel safe and cared for.

you were basically luke's dream girl. you were funny, caring, charming, and you had very quickly become his safe space. your one big flaw, however, was that you couldn't play basketball for shit.

the two of you had been playing horse on the camp court and you were failing... miserably. luke already had H-O-R-S and you... had no letters. yeah, you were that bad.

"in the words of annabeth: statistically speaking, you should have at least gotten one by now." he grinned, his smile only growing wider when you turned around to glare at him.

"oh, fuck off! not all of us are basketball superstars!" you huffed, but you couldn't help but laugh along with him. this was part of why you cared about him so much, he could always make you laugh despite yourself.

"if this is the best you can do, i don't think we can see each other anymore. makes me look bad." he laughed, quickly getting up from the bench he was on to avoid getting hit with the ball you tossed at him.

"i'm kidding, i'm kidding! c'mere." he laughed, beckoning you toward him with that easy smile you loved. "i can't do it, basketball is not one of my many skills! quit on me, castellan, i'll only slow you down." you sighed dramatically.

"alright, drama queen. you can, just trust me." luke stated, rolling his eyes at your dramatics. "square your shoulders, to the basket." he instructed, watching as you begrudgingly did as told, lips formed in a little pout.

"now, you gotta bring the ball up right past your nose like this, okay?" he instructed, demonstrating exactly what to do with his own arms, ball in hand as you went through the motion with him.

"bend your knees a little." he corrected, holding the ball out for you to grab before stepping behind you. "relax your hips..." he murmured, gently placing his hands on you and leaning down to your ear to make sure you could still hear him... and also to be a romantic sap.

"and... just shoot." he stated, eyes watching you while you eyed the hoop suspiciously. "that's it? just shoot?" you asked, voice a little breathy as you turned your head a bit to look at him. "just shoot." he repeated with a nod.

"well, here goes nothing." you sighed, bending your knees a little more before bending a little and letting the ball fly out of your hands and... right into the net.

"holy shit" you breathed, grin breaking out onto your face as you turned to look at your smiling, slightly cocky boyfriend. "told you so." he smirked, grunting a bit on impact as you flung your arms around him with a laugh.

"okay, maybe you can be right sometimes." you relented, sighing dramatically like it was the hardest thing you'd ever have to admit. "that's very big of you, babe." he chuckled, eyes shining with adoration as he looked at you.

"now, do it a few more times and maybe you'll catch up to me." luke hummed, jogging leisurely to go pick up the ball from it's spot by the bench.

"nuh uh, castellan. i'm going out on the high of making that one shot, i'm retired, 'm too good to keep going." you stated, shaking your head and turning on your heel to leave.

"quitter!" he called after you, grinning as you simply flipped him off and kept walking. "see you before dinner?"

"duh, you owe me a victory kiss."

ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵇʸ @ᵐᵘʳᵘᶠᶠⁱⁿ

[rallentando1011]

Valentine’s Day With Donnie

(rise Donnie x gn reader)

Saint Valentine’s Day: a fickle holiday that celebrates even more fickle emotions, a day that forces the formation of many a precarious bond that statistically would not last

At least, that’s how Donnie saw it for the entirety of his life

Until you came along

Now, don’t get him wrong, he still thinks it’s stupid, but maybe something could be stupid and enjoyable

He means, he enjoys his brothers’ company, right? (/j… maybe /hj)

Either way, for you, he doesn’t mind giving Valentine’s Day a genuine go

So, when you come over on the holiday, Donnie’s ready

“As you know, I think Valentine’s Day is an example of rampant consumerism devouring the meaning behind holidays and people’s wallets, but there is something special about a day in which one can express their admiration for each other.”

“Wait… you got me something?”

“Correction: I made you something.”

The man proceeds to hand you a new phone, the insignia on it implying it was made, or at least modified, by his hand

You’d been complaining mentioning that you needed one that actually works

You smile and thank him eagerly

“It’s fine if you don’t have anything, I wasn’t really expecting-”

“Au contraire, Don, I made you something too!”

He looks baffled for about 20 seconds as you hand him a small gift bag containing red velvet macarons, lavender tea bags, a small, smooth rose quartz, a miniature turtle plushie

“Well, me and Mikey made the macarons together. Gotta give credit where credit is due.”

He barely registers your comment, too absolutely enamored by your consideration of him

Donnie doesn’t know where his mind is at, but it definitely isn’t in this solar system, perhaps not even the surrounding stellar systems

Bottom line, bro’s ecstatic

The huge grin on his face and brightness in his eyes effectively gets his point across

Not only did he give a heartfelt gift, he received one?

Okay, maybe this Valentine’s Day had something to it

Watching rom-coms solely to trash on them is a mandatory tradition

Every other Valentine’s Day he’s spent by his lonesome has mostly consisted of hours of mercilessly ragging on romantic comedies

Yep, definitely just to criticize them

No sadness and/or yearning involved

But now, with your company?

He’s still criticizing the ever-loving heck out of those movies

If you genuinely enjoy rom-coms, be prepared for this little pessimist to rain on your parade, grumbling questions of the logic and flow of the film

However, if you, too, find them stupid, you’ve found yourself the perfect, cynical viewing buddy

“You can tell just from the cinematography of that one guy catching her that he’s the secondary love interest.”

“I swear on Galileo’s heliocentric model itself- how many love interests can one main character have?”

“I think that’s the challenge that was going on in the writer’s room - to see how many variations of a love triangle they could make.”

“The challenge in the writer’s room was that they had too many people slamming on keyboards, yet none of them wrote Shakespeare.”

“Was that an infinite monkey theorem allusion?”

“And a simultaneous dig on the foul writing - zing!”

Following the festivities of movie-binging and gift-giving, he turns to you with a rather uncharacteristic diffidence in his demeanor

Glance askance, slight perspiration on his forehead, fidgeting hands, stammering words

As you start to ask what’s wrong, Donnie quickly, almost unintelligibly so, asks if you want to dance

If you feel so inclined, you nod, take his hand, and offer a dance

If Sinatra is playing (Nancy or Frank or both), you know some slow dancing is going down

Bill Withers or Kitty Kallen, maybe even Dean Martin, something classic, whispering in the background, a hand or two on your hips, yours on his shoulders, chins tucked cozily on the crook of each other’s neck or crown of the head, just the two of you gently swaying together to the rhythm sounds perfect

Normally when he dances, it’s fast-paced boogie or groove (he didn’t get the name Bootyshaker9000 for nothing), but for today, for you, he’ll keep the dancing slow, smooth, sweet

Keeping you close and spending time with you has certainly made this his favorite Valentine’s Day thus far

The macarons you gave him also significantly improved his verdict

(Happy Valentine’s Day gang ‼️ HERE are some accompanying sketches with this!)

[mariacallous]

Between May 6 and May 8, the UN’s Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) revised its estimates of how many women and children had died in Gaza. The numbers appeared to drop drastically: first, it reported at least 24,000 dead women and children, and two days later, it reported exactly 12,756 “identified” dead women and children. One could be forgiven for wondering whether the UN had raised about 6,700 Gazan children and 4,500 Gazan women from the dead.

OCHA has provided a running body count since the beginning of the Gaza war, and it currently stands at 34,844. This figure was generated by Hamas and is apparently accepted, give or take a few thousand, by Israelis. On a podcast last week, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu estimated that Israel had killed roughly 14,000 combatants and said the country regretted the deaths of another 16,000 Palestinian civilians. The apparent downward revision was made without any accompanying statement to explain the change or sudden precision. Israel’s military did not make a big deal about it either, probably because there is no way to sound good when celebrating a reduction in the number of children you have killed.

Many noticed anyway. David Adesnik, a senior fellow at the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, gave the most detailed account of what had happened. For about two months, OCHA had been repeating numbers from Hamas’s Government Media Office, and on May 8 it switched back to Hamas’s Ministry of Health, its source at the beginning of the war. The Ministry of Health is acknowledged to be the more reliable of the two, and it is unclear why OCHA switched to the worse of the two sources, or switched back. A UN spokesperson, Farhan Haq, later explained that the Ministry of Health was “for whatever reason, given the conditions on the ground, unresponsive.” But the Ministry of Health kept publishing statistics in the interim. OCHA didn’t use them.

On Wednesday, Haq said that the UN had “difficulty” verifying Hamas’s numbers but was adamant that the number of total dead remained the same. There was, he said, a “reduction in the number of identified bodies.” To clarify, to the extent possible, Haq seems to be arguing that there are just as many dead Palestinians as before, but many have now lost their identity? Haq makes the discrepancy sound like a minor correction. But the UN so drastically reduced the count of identified women and children that it amounts to an admission that it had been spreading deficient numbers for months.

If you are finding this mystifying, you are not alone. As Adesnik explains, part of the confusion arises from the Ministry of Health’s shifting accounting labels. Its system has evolved, and it now tallies named and identified corpses that have passed through its morgues—as well as, in a separate category, “unidentified” dead, for whom it has neither a body nor a name, just a vaguely-defined “report” from outside the hospital system. If, for example, first responders bring in a body, and they say seven other bodies are probably still under the rubble, the body in the morgue would count as identified and the seven others as unidentified. The additional source of confusion is seriously aberrant numbers from the Government Media Office.

Neither Hamas source, Adesnik writes, has fully explained where it gets its estimate of the number of unaccounted-for dead: more than 10,000 people. During the war, hospitals have stopped functioning, and keeping people alive has taken higher priority than keeping defensible statistics. But these numbers matter—first, because of the dignity of those killed or still living, and second, because total deaths and the ratio of combatant to noncombatant deaths will have implications for judgments about alleged war crimes and genocide.

This is one of those moments when the fog of statistics could be dispersed with just a few sentences of straight talk, of the sort rarely uttered by spokespeople. The UN numbers changed because the UN has little idea how many children have been killed in Gaza, beyond “a lot.” It gets its statistics from Hamas. Where else would it get them? There are no independent epidemiologists in Gaza right now doing the survey work, house to bombed-out house, that would yield reliable numbers. So OCHA used unreliable ones. It never concealed its sources, but it distributed even the most questionable numbers under the UN name.

Operating a statistics laundromat for Hamas’s media wing is embarrassing. But the absence of alternatives is also concerning. Any indictment of OCHA’s numbers should propose better sources for numbers—and, in their absence, ask why there aren’t any. Some of the blame for this absence falls on Hamas, which (in addition to its other flaws) ran a totalitarian state where independent research and criticism were policed and punished. Collecting data that contradicted Hamas’s official figures would be hard or fatal, even in relative peacetime.

But Israel deserves reproach, too. Unlike Hamas, Israel purports to abide by the principles of the laws of war, including proportionality and distinction between combatants (who can be lawfully targeted) and civilians (who cannot). Hamas has fought with transparent disregard for these principles. Israel has conducted its war opaquely, in such a way that one must take its word that every bomb and every round is dropped or fired lawfully. Its media operations in this war will be remembered as a historic failure that allowed Hamas’s propaganda to be accepted and spread almost without rebuttal.

Much is expected of modern armies that accept, in theory, the burdens of morality and law. One expectation is that they fight in a way that can be examined by outsiders. In Iraq and Afghanistan, reporters routinely accompanied U.S. and other NATO units into battle. At the time, some questioned these embeds and argued that any reporter who depended on a U.S. infantry platoon for his food and safety would inevitably write positively about these soldiers and negatively about whoever was trying to kill them. But a competent reporter would factor those sympathies into her reporting. The main benefit of embeds was that a reporter could observe soldiers and Marines during moments of stress, when they were too busy to groom themselves and pose for PR purposes, and see what they really did and how they really fought. During moments of unguarded intimacy between engagements, they might speak frankly to a reporter. No one can maintain a pose forever. After a week of foot patrols in Fallujah or Kandahar, and a week of meals and billeting with soldiers, a reporter could say with some confidence whether her host unit was killing civilians indiscriminately, or wanted to.

Israel currently embeds zero journalists in Gaza. It isn’t legally obligated to let journalists join its frontline units. But it doesn’t let journalists into Gaza independently, either. “To allow journalists to report safely,” an Israeli military spokesperson told me, the Israel Defense Forces “accompany them when on the battlefield.” He would not say how many journalists had in fact been allowed to accompany IDF units—let alone accompany them on regular operations, rather than short press tours of battle sites after the action. When Hamas alleges that Israeli soldiers are shooting everyone in sight, and murdering families by flattening buildings devoid of military purpose, it can point to the dead children. Israel can deny the charge and hope that the world trusts it over an avowed terrorist group. The world seldom obliges.

To rebut Hamas’s allegations by letting journalists see the war up close would be a calculated risk. Even when conducted legally, war is ugly. It is possible to kill children legally, if for example one is being attacked by an enemy who hides behind them. But the sight of a legally killed child is no less disturbing than the sight of a murdered one. And Israel has discovered that shutting out the press carries its own risks. An infanticide that no one can see is also going to attract suspicion. Unsympathetic observers will think Israel is conducting its war in the manner of other countries whose counterinsurgent forces have preferred to work out of view of independent media. Russia did this in the Second Chechen War; Sri Lanka, in its civil war. Both countries’ militaries had much to hide.

None of this excuses OCHA, which jeopardized its credibility by repeating dubious numbers, long after the reasons for doubting them had been explained. That credibility is a precious resource. The IDF claims to have killed “at least 13,000” combatants—lower than Netanyahu’s estimate—but refused to comment yesterday when I asked if it had any idea how many civilians it had killed. The correct answer is, well, a lot. It would be nice if, before the war is over, some trusted third party could verify this macabre estimate with greater precision.

[girlactionfigure]

Ok, you want to know from a lawyer why the allegation that Israel is committing genocide is false? 

Fine. 

I prefer to focus on the absurdity of the allegation, especially since it is Hamas that expressly seeks Jewish & Israeli genocide; but it's clear people want this analysis.

Genocide is defined by the 1948 UN Convention on Prevention & Punishment of the Crime of Genocide as: (1) the coordinated; (2) planned; and (3) intentional destruction, in whole or in part, of a national, ethnical, racial or religious group.

Let's set aside for a minute the fact that the the #UN Convention regarding #genocide was adopted because of what the #Nazis had done to the #Jewsthereby making its invocation here not only absurdly false, but also unforgivably offensive.

That outrageousness aside, we can analyze the elements of the crime of genocide under the present situation in #Gaza.

The requisite mens rea to find a government guilty of genocide is the intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a particular group of people. 

This intent to commit genocide doesn't magically come into being just because people want to believe it exists. There must be actual proof of criminal intent to destroy a particular group of people.

#SouthAfrica cannot possibly carry its burden of showing Israel "intended or intends to commit genocide"; thus, the allegation fails.  

Just some of the obvious reasons intent to commit genocide could not possibly be shown follow:

- 10/7 & Hamas' words since 10/7 have proven the #terror group would, if it could, continue carrying out massacres until it killed every #Israeli & potentially every #Jew on Earth. Israel, like every other UN member state, has the inherent right to self-defense under Article 51 of the UN Charter. In this case, Israel's right to self-defense continues until it has done everything "necessary" to to ensure #Hamas can never attack Israeli civilians again because of: (1) the genocidal brutality of the #October7Massacre; (2) Hamas' 35+ years of genocidal warfare against Israel & Jews; & (3) Hamas' express & repeated commitment to repeat massacres like 10/7 "again and again." Therefore, Israel's right to self-defense includes both the right to eliminate the threat from Hamas to its civilians & to restore a sense of security to its civilians.

- The Hamas-run Gaza Health Ministry claims 22,000 #Palestinians have died. Even if that number was reliable (it is not), Hamas claims every one of the deaths was a civilian, not a #HamasTerrorist. That is obviously not the case. Israel claims to have killed ~9,000 Hamas terrorists. Even assuming the Hamas numbers were correct, that would mean about 1.45 civilians have been killed for every 1 "combatant" (Hamas terrorist). As horrible as the loss of any civilian life is, it is simply a fact that civilians suffer disproportionately in war & what Israel has done in protecting civilian lives is unprecedented in the history of urban warfare. In fact, according to the UN statistics of global conflict, the average civilian to combatant killed ratio is 9 civilians killed for every 1 combatant killed. This ratio in and of itself makes the allegation of "genocide" a complete absurdity.

- Even assuming the "worst case scenario" numbers above of ~9,000 terrorists killed & ~13,000 civilians killed still does not take into account the cause of those civilian deaths. We know that somewhere between 20%-35% of all Hamas & #Palestinian #Islamic #Jihad missiles misfire & land in Gaza (like the one that landed at a Gaza hospital that Israel was wrongly accused of bombing). So, how many Gaza civilians were killed by misfired rockets from Palestinian terror groups? Suddenly, that already incredible ratio of civilians:combatants in the annals of warfare is improving even further.

- There are at least dozens of videos of Hamas #terrorists firing at #IDF troops while wearing civilian clothing (which is itself a #WarCrime) to blend in with the civilian population. So, how many Gaza "civilians" who were killed were actually just Hamas terrorists wearing #civilian clothing? That civilian:combatant ratio is improving once again.

- We know from video, reconnaissance, audio, interrogations, & eye-witness accounts (including from #Gazans themselves) that Hamas uses both voluntary & involuntary human shields to protect Hamas terrorists & their weapons (each time they do it, that is also a war crime). So, how many Gaza "civilians" who were killed were voluntarily acting as human shields for Hamas? And while Israel has made significant efforts to limit civilians casualties, those involuntary human shields who die are legally dead at the hands of Hamas. Wow, that civilian:combatant ratio is looking beyond amazing now! 

- There is video, photo, interrogation, & eye-witness accounts that Hamas uses women & children under 18 in combat roles. Therefore, not every allegedly killed woman or child counts as a "civilian." 

- What kind of genocidal army would do what Israel has been doing in engaging in massive warning campaigns before it attacks via hundreds of thousands of phone calls, text messages, leaflets, & via roof knocking? Gazans are actually given so much warning & time to evacuate that the extreme majority of "civilians" who remain in a targeted area are there either because they support Hamas or because they were forced to stay & act as human shields by Hamas. Essentially, not only is Israel obviously not conducting a genocide, it has completely eliminated their own advantage of surprise that would have helped Israel eradicate Hamas much quicker by providing warnings that reach both civilians & Hamas terrorists.

- A large percentage of Palestinian deaths in Gaza have been due to their combined use by Hamas as human shields & by Hamas' refusal to permit Gaza civilians to either to use Hamas tunnels as bomb shelters or to flee via safe corridors provided by the 

@IDF

 (what kind of genocidal army provides safe corridors for civilians even knowing some Hamas terrorists will manage to escape by blending in with the crowd???). In other words, it is Hamas that is by far the most responsible party for putting #Gazan #civilians in harm's way; and the mere fact that civilians have died is in no way indicative of any deliberate intent on the part of Israel to kill Palestinian civilians - let alone intentionally "destroy" the population, as required to prove genocide.

- A country's intention to destroy a group in whole or in part is typically found in state policy (as it was with the Nazis & as it is with Hamas). However, no such policy in Israel has ever existed. Israel has made clear repeatedly (and its actions, with some examples stated above, show this is more than just words) that its goal is to "operate[] against Hamas & other terrorist groups in Gaza, not against the civilian population ... Israel wishes no harm to civilians & is committed to addressing the humanitarian needs of those suffering ..."

- Simply, the loss of lives in Gaza are reasonably explained by & attributable to Israel's necessary self-defense military goal of eradicating Hamas' ability to make war. The loss of lives in Gaza are not, however, reasonably explained by some claimed genocide on the part of Israel, as there is no actual evidence to support a finding of the type of criminal intent required to prove genocide.

- Israel is a straight-up parliamentary #democracy; thus, it has voices in the Knesset that can be extreme. Those voices, however, are not mainstream; and, more importantly, those voices are not the ones who are responsible for prosecuting the war against Hamas. Therefore, their words (indelicate as they may have been) are irrelevant to a finding of genocide on the part of the government of Israel. The Israeli war cabinet in charge of prosecuting the war to eradicate Hamas consists of only five people: PM Benjamin Netanyahu, Defense Minister Yoav Gallant, unity coalition member, former Deputy PM, & Minister of Defense Benny Gantz, former military Chief of Staff Gadi Eisenkot, & Minister of Strategic Affairs Ron Dermer. Attempting to attribute the words of anyone else, especially in the very fringes of Israel's eclectic democratic government, to try to show proof of government intent to commit genocide fails as a matter of both fact & law. Any comments by the five members of the war cabinet at which any dishonest person may wish to point to try to prove "intent to commit genocide," in reality can only be reasonably interpreted as statements referring to the destruction of the Hamas terrorist regime.

So, what is the takeaway? 

It is South Africa's burden to show Israel had/has the intent to carry out a "genocide" of the Palestinian people in Gaza. For the foregoing reasons (among many others - but this is long enough for X), South Africa cannot possibly prove intent to commit genocide. 

South Africa's allegations are defamatory & are an attempt to hold the world's only Jewish State to a different standard than every other state in the history of humankind; and, perhaps worse, to try to turn the victims of a genocide into the alleged committers of a genocide. 

Were the #ICJ to find intent to commit "genocide" here, then no country on Earth would be permitted to act in self-defense in the event it is attacked - no matter how horrible the attack - if any civilians may be killed in the process. 

If that were the case, Hamas & other terrorist organizations would be given carte blanche to attack countries with impunity & then simply hide behind civilians to suddenly become entirely immune from justice. That obviously can never be the law.

Captain Allen

[bugs1nmybrain]

YESSSS PLSSSS l x reader smut 🙏 maybe they work together or smth and it gets a little frisky??

Admittedly, I don't know the logistics of being a detective outside of Death Note and crime documentaries, and I can't picture my self in that occupation. However, I like thinking of the idea of L and the reader sitting alongside in each other's company while he works on his cases via his computer, and the reader working on something else such as college homework. So I'll work with that ;).

Distraction

Minors Do Not Interact

Warnings: Heteronormative sex and relationship, L uses pet names like "my love" and "darling," desk sex, established relationship, reader is neurodivergent-coded, reader is a college student, reader is heavier than L, nipple/breast play, L uses clinical terms during sex, oral (fem-receiving), unprotected sex

L could not for the life of him keep his eyes off of you.

He was slightly confused, considering that today wasn't different from any other day. You sat next to him on your computer, doing work for your classes, and he worked on his cases, at least anything that wouldn't expose too much information around you.

Maybe it was that ridiculous wet dream he had of you last night. L doesn't sleep nearly as much as others. Not only did he see it as a wedge in his schedule, but his dreams sometimes distracted him because of his analytical perspective on everything. Sometimes he dreamt of his parents, sometimes about the cruelty of his job, and other times...you.

You weren't helping the situation. Of course you had to choose to wear a very form fitting outfit today. L almost had an issue with how revealing your outfit was, but he knew he shouldn't dictate things like that. But if anyone else looked at you the way he was right now, he wouldn't be happy.

Your shirt practically hugged your torso, giving L a perfect view of the shape of your breasts. Your shorts were also, indeed, short, showing off your gorgeous thighs and their beautiful complexion.

It wasn't only your body, though. L wasn't that shallow. It was also the cutest expression you made while you focused on your homework. How you'd scrunch your face when you didn't quite understand something. Your hair fell in your face and you'd tuck it behind to see your notes better, but then it would just fall back in your face. Even the way you sipped on your drink was turning him on. He felt animalistic.

L wasn't the type to get lost in temptation like this. Sure he indulged in any sweets he wished without the consideration of the toll it would take on his body. And yes, he'd take some almost impulsive, bold decisions when he was determined to take a step further in an investigation. Perhaps he was someone who was swayed by temptation, now that he thought about it.

"L?"

Oh god. Now your voice.

"What is it, love?"

The most insignificant terms of endearment always made you blush or giggle. And it was adorable to him.

"I..um..I'm having a bit of trouble with this part of my homework. Would it..? I don't mean to pry for answers, but-"

"No need to apologize. What is it you're confused about?"

L took this opportunity to move his rolling chair directly next to yours. He leaned over your shoulder, peaking at the laptop in front of you. Lucky for him, he now had a wonderful view of your breasts.

You perked up at his close proximity, and L could've sworn he saw you squirm a bit.

"I'm having trouble with using Excel for the Goodness-of-fit test (you were taking a Statistics class). I checked my data and it's all correct so I'm really confused why my answers aren't coming out right."

L took a look at your screen and in a matter of two seconds knew what was wrong, "You have to round up your expected values to the closest whole integer. It should come out right if you do that."

You smiled beamingly and returned with a, "thank you."

"Of course, darling." L leaned in to kiss your cheek, eliciting a bright smile and blush. You were avoiding eye contact with him, but he knew that was your signal of enjoying his affection. L noticed early on that you were easily charmed by displays of affection, whether that be words of endearment or physical affection. L was not one for touching anyone before you. He had begun to learn how touch-starved he also was when you two had begun your relationship.

The look on your face and your body language was enough to make him hard. Your reactions are what got him the most.

L brought his hand to stroke your hair around your neck gently, making you tingle under his touch.

"Do you have anything else planned for the day?"

"Not really. This is the last bit of homework I have for the day. I don't know what I want to do after that."

"Mm.." L leaned closer, and wrapped his arms around your waist (as much as he could manage with you being in a chair).

You laughed playfully yet again but leaned into his touch. L took it upon himself to make a move, having an inclination that you wanted him to be more affectionate with you. He gently kisses the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine, and a delightful hum from you.

"You're so beautiful, did you know that?" L teases.

You laugh and blush at his compliment, "You must be lying."

"Not at all. The truth is, you're gorgeous. I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes off of you today because of your beauty and charm."

"I noticed."

Of course you did. You were an observant person, which is something L admired about you. Though maybe it wasn't too hard to tell, for he hadn't necessarily been sneaky with his glances at you.

"Does it make you nervous when I look at you like this?" L probes.

"No. Well, I feel a little embarrassed, but I'm not uncomfortable by you."

"There's no need to be embarrassed, I'm merely admiring how adorable you are. I don't want you to feel self conscious."

But deep down, L found your shyness cute and he often took advantage of it. L begins trailing soft kisses along your neck as he held you.

"Mmfmm."

Your voice was going to drive him crazy. If you two weren't in separate chairs right now, you would be able to feel L's prominent erection through his pants. L moves his hands from your waist to the sides of your arms, touching them in a feather-like motion in an attempt to make you feel just as aroused as he is. You sigh desperately at his loving affection.

"You're distracting me from my homework..," you say playfully.

"Good. You've been distracting me all day," L retorts.

An instinctive breathy laugh comes out from you but quickly turns into a pleasured yearn. L takes this as an invitation to turn your chair around.

"Sit in my lap."

"Um..."

"I don't want to hear the excuse that you're too heavy. I insist."

L's look of lust and need makes it apparent that he's aching for this. You oblige his request and rest yourself on his lap, trying not to put your whole weight down. L places his hands on your hips, though, and pulls you down. You underestimated his strength sometimes, because of how light he is.

L initiates a deep, romantic, and passionate kiss. His lips embrace yours tenderly, yet full of yearning. You grind your hips along his crotch, feeling his very obvious boner, which causes a spike of arousal in your pussy.

The kisses between the two of you quickly become much more heated. L slips his tongue to search for an entrance, and you allow him to explore yours as he gropes your breasts, though not too rough. L was a very meticulous lover and not very aggressive. No one would've been able to tell that he's a very tender, sweet, and loving boy. He only let you see that side of him.

He tweaks your left nipple through your shirt, causing a surprisingly powerful response from you. Sounds of pleasure exit your mouth and you hold onto your boyfriend close for comfort. He continues to run his thumb along your sensitive bud, and makes sure to begin to give the other just as much attention.

"Aaahh~"

"Hmm..does this feel good, my love?"

"Y-yes.." you whine.

L continues his treatment as he kisses you. He then removes his hands, which makes you somewhat disappointed, but he proceeds to pull your shirt over your head. He looks at you unapologetically and is unable to help raising his pointer finger to his lip as he gandered at you. You were so beautiful, so perfect for him. Just for him.

His face was dusted a light pink, evident that he was aroused. Though, the continuously growing and grinding of his boner made that much more obvious. L continues to care for your tits, leaning in to suck on your right nipple as he played with your left with his finger. The reactions you gave him was enough to make him go absolutely mad.

You gasp and moan, a bit embarrassed by his fixation on your chest, though it wasn't exactly a bother. It felt very good, as you were quite sensitive there.

You tug at the back of L's shirt, attempting to pull it over his head. He removes his latch on your breasts and allows you to take it off. He shuddered a bit at the cold air against his bare skin, but when you press your own nude torso against his, he feels a sense of warmth and comfort.

The kisses continue, and you begin rocking your pussy on L's groin, causing a grunt to exhale from his mouth. Your crotch moves directly up his shaft from what you can tell through the fabric, and L's hold on you tightens. You lower your head to kiss the nape of his neck, teasing up to the most sensitive spot that you're aware of.

"Ah..Y/N...."

"Mmm," you hum against the kiss on his neck as you simultaneously tease his bulge.

"Y/N..it hurts.."

You look up, scared that you did something wrong.

"What does?"

"My..my penis. It aches, I want it out." L sounds entirely desperate at this point, as his words are becoming jumbled. It made you so horny that you were allowed the privilege of observing him in this manner.

You raise yourself from his lap, which draws out a whine from L, that indicates his need for you. You lower yourself down on your knees in front of him. You realize that the chair he is in is too tall for you to do anything, so you crank the setting so that the chair lowers. When it does you unbutton L's pants and drag them off of him. All that remained was his underwear, that had a wet spot forming along the tip of his cock. It looked so tight around his boxers that you were sure it was somehow painful.

Wrapping your fingers around the hem of his underwear, you pull them down and watch as his cock springs out. It was a little funny, but you held back the laugh in case it made him insecure. You take his pretty cock in your hands and begin stroking it.

"Aah..love.."

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes..but, please, I...I need you."

"Hm?"

"I know what you want to do to me but...I need you. To be inside of you. If you do that, I'll cum too fast and won't be able to penetrate you later."

"I thought I'd help you out with my mouth."

"I know, darling, but I can't wait."

You smile, flattered by his desire for you. You supposed a blowjob would have to wait for another time. Standing up, you leaned closer to kiss him again, and he practically pulled you into his embrace. While he cups your face with one hand, he finds his way to the button of your shorts with only his one hand. He was skilled like that. L pulls your shorts down your legs and is taken aback by how wet you were. He couldn't bare to not touch you.

His diligent fingers grazed your pussy, teasing it in a back-and-forth manner, causing you to whimper. He circled two fingers around your clit lightly, drawing the most pretty sounds from you. His cock was leaking from how seductive you were. Arching your back for him, pushing your pussy into his touch to encourage him to be rougher. He then stands up to place you on top of his desk, and he knelt before you.

L passionately places kisses along your inner thighs and proceeds to the outer labia of your pussy, neglecting your starving clitoris.

"L...please.."

"What's that, love?"

"Please..my.."

"Your what?"

URG. He was such a tease, and he most certainly did it on purpose.

"Please, my clit," you whine desperately.

"Of course, love. Who am I to deny you of that?"

Then, just as you had wanted, L wraps his tongue and lips around your clitoris and sucks it with eagerness. He was so perfect at what he did. L knew all of your sensitive spots, and how to touch you in such a way that makes you absolutely crazy. Your clit continues to be pulled by L's skilled lips, and he proceeds to flick his tongue up and down it.

"AaAH!"

"That's it baby, make all the sounds you need to."

L attacks your clit with his mouth some more, and his gentle demeanor dissolves as he doesn't hesitate to bring you to complete ecstasy. He was determined to make you cum all over his face. His sucks and licks become aggressive, almost overwhelmingly pleasurable. You weren't going to last much longer.

"L-I'm.."

"I know, love. You can do it for me, I know you can."

"MMfmH! Aaa~" and in a matter of 3 seconds, you clit spasms and slick fluid gushes out of your pussy, drenching L's face in your cum. Both of your breaths are heavy, and L briefly observes your pussy twitching. He reaches over to his pants and wipes your arousal off of his face.

L hovers above you, looking you in the eyes, to which you avert your gaze. It isn't that you didn't love looking at him, you were just bad with eye contact. He gently tilts your face to look at him, not so much as to force you to look at him, but because he wanted to see your facial expressions.

"I want you, Y/N..I want to fuck you so bad."

"You can. I want you to.."

He kisses the side of your neck and grabs your thighs to lift your legs, giving him full access to your pussy. He lines himself up to your entrance and sinks himself inside. The both of you are immediately struck with pleasure at the contact.

L thrusts at a moderate pace, making sure he figures out the perfect angle to hit your g-spot. It doesn't take him long at all, as you are moaning in complete pleasure, causing him to become entirely engrossed in arousal. L can't help but to quicken his pace, fucking you passionately as he kisses you. He watches your face intently, discerning what makes you quiver the most, but also just for his own personal amusement.

Seeing you like this. Completely cocksick for him and needy. Your warm, wet, soft, and tight walls drive him beyond enjoyment. Your face as he thrusts in you perfectly, the way you furrow your eyebrows and part your lips is so alluring and beautiful. It makes him addicted to you.

"I love you.." L mumbles.

You grip your arms around his shoulders and allow him to thrust deeper. "I love you too."

L holds you tight, fucking you carnally. Right now, he needs to cum inside of you, to claim you as his own lover. No one else but him can feel how gooey you are and see how vulnerable you become from his attention.

Your tight walls clench and he knows that he's not going to last much longer. He can feel the initiation of an orgasm coming, and he buries his face into your neck.

"Y/N...I'm going to cum.."

"Cum in me.."

You didn't have to tell him twice. With a few more fast thrusts, L finishes by bucking inside of you and cumming deep in you. Surely his seed was entering your womb. It's a good thing you're on birth control.

"Awh..darling, you're.."L's breath is heavy, "you're perfect. I love you so much."

"I love you..I love you more than I could ever tell you."

"Is that so?" L teases.

"Yes," you giggle.

"Hm..well, perhaps we should clean up. I'm sure Watari isn't going to want to take care of all of this."

"Yea, haha. You're right."

L kisses your forehead tenderly, and you both get dressed and clean up the mess you two made.

Lucky for L, he got just what he wanted.

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

What R# Means: The ABC's of Fear.

The grading system used by the OIAR is one of TMAGP's more central mysteries. The show is rife with administrative work that's obfuscated even to the employees that assign each case's rating.

I have my own theory about DPHW that I think is proving more and more likely each episode, but as of yet I don't think a comprehensive theory on CAT# or R# has been given. CAT# is still proving a hard to crack but I now think I can take a strong stab at the meaning behind R#.

Spoilers for TMAGP 1-7 below the cut.

For the people who aren't keeping close track of this I'll break down how those terms are used. Each incident the OIAR assesses is assigned a case number in the following format CAT#R#DPHW. CAT, short for Category, is assigned a value of 1, 2, 3, or any combination of those three digits (12, 13, etc.). R, short for Rank, are graded C, BC, B, AB, A, or S (potentially AS but it's not come up). For DPHW each letter is a category itself and replaced with a digit from 0-9 for its grading. So there are 6 separate statistics that the OIAR uses to assess each incident.

If I'm correct about DPHW it's a ranking based on the qualities the incident presents. That's obviously very valuable information. Because of how CAT# is formatted we know it's likely three non-mutually exclusive facets. I had some idea about what it could be but it's proving quite tricky to nail down.

However it's R# that is the topic of today's post and it's something I've had a few ideas on before. We know can assume from its formatting it's a linear scale. C is the "worst/weakest/etc." while S is the "best/strongest/etc.". Initially, I thought that R# was simply a straight forward ranking of potency or threat. Higher the rank, spookier the incident. Very early on that seemed like a strong idea. It was quickly disproven but I then had the idea that Rank was instead the scale of the effect. Higher the rank, wider the incident. Also quickly disproven.

Now I'm thinking it's graded on how hard it is to deny an incident's supernatural nature. Simply put, an outside observer can more readily find a believable rational explanation for an incident of lower rank than of higher rank. Either via their own conviction to believe the supernatural isn't real, or based on the story the OIAR cooks up to explain it.

For that to make sense it needs to tick two boxes. It needs to be able to be pre-assigned to an incident as all CAT#R#DPHW's seem to be, and it needs to be useful information to track. As they're operating under the assumption that CAT#R#DPHW's can be pre-assigned then they're operating under the assumption that each type of incident is relatively stable. Meaning that the likelihood that it can be rationally explained is also relatively stable. Tick 1. There is also a really strong reason for the OIAR to use this as a grade. They're the Office of Incident Assessment and Response, the Response Department might be dead but it was a part of the initial plan. Grading each incident on how likely they are to cause concern should the details go public is very useful for deciding how to approach any given case. Tick 2.

It being useful is all well and good but it does also need to have some evidence so let's look at our highest ranked incident to this point: CAT23RAB2155 - Transformation (Eye) -/- Trespass. A man grew eyes over his body. That's pretty tricky to explain away as a medical mystery. On the other end of the scale we've got CAT2RC1157 - Dolls (Watching), or CAT2RC3338 -Agglomeration (Miscellany) -/- Congregation†. Just a creepy doll and some crappy antiques. I think of all the incidents the one that's the least immediate fit is CAT3C7494 - Collection (Blood) -/- Musical. Most of that incident is very easy to slot in here. "It's just a violin that has sharp strings, so what?". But it's also a violin that made some people eat some other people. However, mass hysteria events do get reported every so often IRL and do have a very long history. So in the grand scheme of things I don't think the details of the event are necessarily all that outlandish. It's really in the realms of urban legend and witch hunts than it is definitive proof of the supernatural.

With all that out the way this is the broad strokes of how I could see this breaking down. C ranks are things you can entirely write off as urban legends, freak accidents, and stress. Potentially things that might not need any covering up at all. I think the majority of events people could entirely say didn't happen will end up in C. "Of course the doll wasn't watching you, dolls aren't alive". B ranks are things that are harder to entirely discount as things that happened but are themselves still relatively easy to excuse as mundane. "Sure, the circumstances of that blogger's disappearance are strange but people go missing all the time, doesn't mean a monster did it". We don't have any A ranks but given the AB rank we do have I'd say A's are things in which no rational explanation can account for it, and as such require more extensive covering up, if it indeed happened. "Okay, maybe the supernatural is real because people don't just grow eyes like that".

As I mentioned early, an S rank does exist. We've not seen this attributed to anything in the show yet and so it might prove to be a special case. However on Klaus' sheet‡ from the ARG it's attributed to an interesting incident. A CAT1RS[No DPHW] with the note Mr. B. And, well, if you know, you know.

From Klaus' sheet we also know that the higher ranked incidents happen less often than lower ones and that idea generally tracks with what we know of TMP and TMA. The supernatural tends to be something you can explain away. It often is explained away. Incredibly overt manifestations are a rarity.

This one will be a slow burn to see if it bears out. Much like with DPHW's it's only really interesting when things go against the theory. I'm not as certain on this one as I am the DPHW theory but I do think it's got legs with our current data.

† This did also feature people who seemed to erase their physical features from your memory after you interacted with them. This isn't something I mention in the theory because it's not taken into account by the header and case number. A major flaw in the OIAR's methodology here is that all incidents are only ever one thing. So the case number is based solely on the presence of lots of miscellaneous objects, rather than the mind-wiping people carrying them.

‡I have made an incident master doc here, containing all the current cases, their CAT#'s, R#'s, DPHW's, etc. It has about as much information on each as I think is reasonable, including who narrates it, a link to its episode, and any other relevant notes, as well as headers for incidents we didn't hear. Additionally it also contains the Klaus sheet (German and English) and links to it when an incident matches. It will be updated each episode after the episode is publicly available.

[tamamita]

The audacity of calling france the most islamophobic country in europe. At least do some research before spreading hate based on prejudice. (source : https://www.pewresearch.org/global/2019/10/14/minority-groups/)

You seriously made a side account just so you could lazily throw a Pew statistic without any sense of statistical analysis and critical thinking?

Don't tell this loser about how Muslims are discriminated against on institutional levels and how there is a ban on religious symbols, especially the demonisation of Hijabs and various other Muslim clothing. But wait, just this very recent, why was a cop rewarded a million dollars after murdering a Muslim boy? Don't tell them either about how they constantly silence Palestinian voices when they direct their criticism towards the illegal settler state.

You never addressed the rise of antisemitism and racism in your country either, btw.

Remember, it is always morally correct to despise the French.

[godsfavdarling]

01 new beginnings

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!oc

summary: After nearly two decades with the FBI, Dr. Spencer Reid makes a career shift to teaching at Georgetown University. There, he shares an office with Dr. Brittany Reed, a sociologist.

list of chapters, also available on wattpad and Ao3, my masterlist

warnings: none for this chapter

words: 3,9k

Spencer stood amidst the scattered boxes in the office, meticulously arranging his belongings on his new desk. The scent of fresh paint mingled with the faint aroma of coffee, signaling the start of a new chapter in his life. His gaze wandered to the other desk in the room, its pristine surface a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding him.

The desk was neatly organized, adorned with a half-finished iced latte, stacks of glossy women's magazines, and an array of black pens. A closed laptop sat at the center, flanked by notebooks and a sleek black purse resting nearby. Spencer couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity as he surveyed the items, each one offering a glimpse into the personality of his mysterious officemate.

Lost in thought, Spencer was startled by the sound of the door opening. He turned to see a woman entering the room, her presence commanding attention. She was tall and elegant, with long black hair cascading over her shoulders and piercing gray eyes framed by black-rimmed glasses. Dressed in a chic black blouse and wide-legged suit pants, she exuded confidence and poise.

The soft lighting of the office accentuated the delicate features of her face—the slight curve of her lips, the subtle arch of her eyebrows, and the gentle contours of her cheeks. Her long black hair framed her face like a cascading waterfall, adding to her allure.

"Dr. Brittany Reed, I presume?" Spencer said, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

The woman flashed him a warm smile as she approached. "That's me. And you must be Dr. Spencer Reid," she replied, extending her hand.

Spencer shook her hand, feeling a surge of awkwardness at the physical contact. "Yes, that's correct. It's nice to meet you, Dr. Reed."

Brittany chuckled, her laughter filling the room. "Call me Brittany. And isn't it funny how our last names sound so similar? Reed and Reid!"

Spencer couldn't help but smile at the coincidence, though his mind was still racing with thoughts and observations. He watched as Brittany settled into her desk, effortlessly navigating the space with a grace he could only admire from afar.

"I hope you don't mind my mess," Brittany said. "They're doing some renovations in the department, so we'll have to make do with sharing for now."

"No problem at all," Spencer replied as he sat down, trying to sound more relaxed than he felt. He couldn't help but observe Brittany. She had an easy going demeanor, and her laughter filled the room as they kept talking.

"So, Spencer, what made you decide to leave the FBI and join us here at Georgetown?"

Spencer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mind racing to find the right words. "Well, it's... it's a long story. I suppose I just needed a change of pace, a new challenge."

Brittany nodded understandingly, her gaze curious but non-intrusive. "I can imagine. It must be quite a transition."

"Yeah, it definitely is," Spencer admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I'm still trying to find my footing, to be honest."

She chuckled and said, "Well, at least you won't have to worry about any serial killers lurking in the halls. Just your typical college students—though some of them could probably use a session or two with a therapist!"

"Actually, statistically speaking, there's quite a bit to consider regarding the prevalence of certain behaviors among college-aged individuals," Spencer began, his tone becoming more animated as he delved into his area of expertise. "For instance, did you know that approximately 10% of college students admit to engaging in some form of criminal activity?"

Brittany's eyebrows raised in interest, encouraging Spencer to continue.

"And when we look at specific types of crimes, the numbers are even more alarming," Spencer continued, his words picking up speed as he delved into his analysis. "According to recent studies, nearly 20% of college students report having committed acts of vandalism, while over 30% admit to underage drinking, and approximately 20% acknowledge using illicit substances."

He paused, taking a moment to gauge Brittany's reaction. To his surprise, she was listening intently, her eyes fixed on him with genuine curiosity.

"But it's not just about the crimes themselves," Spencer continued, his voice gaining momentum. "We also have to consider the underlying factors that contribute to this behavior. Academic stress, peer pressure, and socioeconomic disparities all play a significant role in shaping the choices students make."

As Spencer delved deeper into his analysis, he couldn't help but notice Brittany's attentive demeanor. She didn't interrupt him or try to redirect the conversation—instead, she seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say.

"And when you factor in the influence of social media and online communities," Spencer added, his mind racing with data and statistics, "the potential for criminal behavior among college students becomes even more complex. It's a multifaceted issue that requires a comprehensive understanding of human behavior and societal trends... But you probably know about that because you are an expert in how technology influences society..."

He stared at her in awe, struck by her patience and genuine interest in his ramblings.

"Sorry, I started rambling," Spencer said, his voice filled awkwradness.

Brittany smiled warmly, her gray eyes meeting his with understanding. "No need to apologize, Spencer. I found what you had to say incredibly insightful!"

"Thank you," Spencer said, his voice carrying a hint of gratitude as he turned his gaze away from her. Despite his efforts to maintain composure, he couldn't shake the sheepish feeling that crept over him.

"Have there been any studies on the prevalence of criminal behavior among professors?" she asked him, as she walked over to his desk and sat on the edge, her thigh now partially resting on the wood.

Spencer couldn't help but notice the change in perspective, her presence suddenly more pronounced. From this angle, she looked even more captivating, and Spencer found himself momentarily distracted by her proximity.

"Um, well, criminal tendencies among professors are... um..." Spencer's words trailed off as he struggled to maintain his train of thought, his gaze inadvertently drawn to Brittany's intent expression. He could feel her eyes on him, watching him closely as he stumbled over his words.

"Sorry, I, uh..." Spencer felt a flush of embarrassment color his cheeks. He cleared his throat and continued.

"To answer your question, there have been studies that suggest... um, criminal tendencies within academia have been the subject of numerous studies over the years. While it's true that the vast majority of professors uphold the highest ethical standards, there have been instances where individuals within the academic community have been implicated in criminal activities."

He paused briefly, glancing at Brittany before continuing, captivated by her attentive gaze.

"But it's mostly cases of academic fraud, research misconduct, and even instances of embezzlement within universities," Spencer explained, his words flowing effortlessly as he delved into the nuances of the topic. "The pressures of academia, combined with the temptation of personal gain, can sometimes lead individuals down a dangerous path."

As he spoke, Spencer couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration for Brittany's genuine interest in the subject. Her unwavering attention fueled his confidence, allowing him to articulate his thoughts with clarity and precision.

"And while these cases are relatively rare, they serve as a reminder that no profession is immune to the influence of criminal behavior," he reiterated, his voice filled with conviction. "It's a complex issue that warrants further examination, both from a societal and institutional perspective."

He paused, his eyes lingering on Brittany for a moment longer before a playful glint sparked in them. "But not many serial killers," he added with a hint of amusement, a small smile playing on his lips.

Brittany chuckled softly, her own smile mirroring Spencer's. "Thankfully, we don't have to worry about that here," she replied, her tone light and teasing.

She gracefully turned and walked back to her desk. Spencer couldn't tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the effortless sway of her hips with each step she took. He found himself captivated by the fluidity of her movements, the subtle elegance that seemed to exude from every gesture.

Unconsciously, Spencer leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracing the contours of Brittany's figure as she moved across the room. He felt a rush of warmth flood his cheeks, his pulse quickening at the sight before him.

Once Brittany settled back into her chair, Spencer quickly averted his gaze, focusing intently on the papers scattered across his desk. He could feel the heat still lingering in his cheeks from his earlier observation, and he silently chastised himself for allowing his thoughts to wander.

Her effortless confidence and poise were a stark contrast to Spencer's own awkwardness, and in her presence, he felt acutely aware of his own shortcomings. Her warmth and charisma seemed to draw him in, yet at the same time, they left him feeling vulnerable and exposed.

He busied himself with arranging the papers on his desk, his movements slightly fumbled as he tried to regain his composure.

Despite his best efforts to mask his unease, he couldn't shake the feeling of being out of his depth. It was as if her mere presence had a way of unraveling the carefully constructed walls he had built around himself.

But even as he struggled to find his footing, Spencer couldn't deny the strange allure of Brittany's presence. There was something captivating about her confidence and poise, something that drew him in despite his own insecurities.

As Spencer busied himself with organizing his desk, he felt the weight of Brittany's gaze upon him. Every so often, he would steal a glance in her direction, only to find her looking back at him with a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

It was as if she could see right through him, could sense the flutter of nerves in his chest and the slight flush that colored his cheeks whenever she glanced his way. Despite his attempts to appear composed, Brittany's perceptive gaze seemed to unravel him with ease.

Spencer couldn't help but feel a mixture of embarrassment and intrigue at the way Brittany seemed to effortlessly read him like an open book.

After a while of engrossed work, a knock on the door interrupted their quiet concentration. Spencer and Brittany exchanged glances before Brittany rose to answer it.

Opening the door, Brittany greeted the woman with a warm smile. "Maya! Come in," she exclaimed, gesturing for the red-haired woman to enter.

Maya stepped into the office with a bright grin. "Hey, Brittany! How's your first day going?" she asked cheerfully, glancing around the room.

Brittany motioned towards Spencer. "Maya, this is Dr. Spencer Reid. He's our new colleague here at our department. And this is Dr. Maya Cooper, her office's next to ours and she's my friend!" she introduced.

Spencer offered a polite smile, feeling a bit self-conscious "Nice to meet you, Dr. Cooper," he greeted.

"Hello Dr. Reid. That's funny you guys share an office... You know... with the names..."

Maya's gaze shifted between Spencer and Brittany before she turned back to Brittany with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Hey, so I was thinking... Since it's the start of the academic year and all, how about we all go out for drinks later? A little professor integration, if you will," she suggested, a hint of excitement in her voice.

Brittany's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "That sounds like a fantastic idea! What do you say, Spencer? Would you like to join us?" she asked, her gaze lingering on him with a hopeful smile.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, feeling the familiar tug of apprehension in his chest. The idea of going out for drinks with his new colleagues made him feel slightly uneasy. But as he glanced at Brittany, her warm smile and genuine invitation softened his resolve.

"Um, sure, I... I'd be up for it," Spencer replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

The girls' faces lit up with delight at his acceptance, and Maya clapped her hands together excitedly. "Great! It's settled then. Adam and Carly are also coming! Oh, and Brittany, don't forget to ask Lawrence to come along. The more, the merrier!" she exclaimed before turning to leave.

Spencer fidgeted with a pen on his desk, his mind swirling with thoughts about the upcoming gathering.

"Do you and Lawrence know Maya well?" Spencer ventured cautiously, his tone tinged with uncertainty.

"Yeah, we've known each other for a while," Brittany replied with a smile, sensing Spencer's apprehension.

"It's nice that you include him and spend time with both him and your work colleagues," Spencer remarked, hoping to steer the conversation in a casual direction.

Brittany chuckled softly at Spencer's assumption, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Oh my god? Do you think that Lawrence is my boyfriend?" she replied, amusement evident in her voice.

Spencer's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he realized his mistake. "Oh, I, uh... I see, I'm sorry. I just thought..." he stammered, feeling relieved yet still unsure of himself.

Brittany's laughter filled the air, her amusement contagious. "Don't worry, Spencer. It's okay. Also Lawrence is very much unavailable... in that way, at least," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Spencer's confusion deepened at Brittany's cryptic remark, but before he could inquire further, she offered a reassuring smile. "He's gay, Spencer. Very gay! And he's my neighbor and my best friend!" she clarified with a playful wink.

Understanding dawned on Spencer, and he couldn't help but join in Brittany's laughter. "Got it," he replied, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Brittany asked teasingly, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"What? No, of course not. Why would I..." Spencer started to reply, his voice trailing off as he realized Brittany was joking.

She laughed, the sound light and playful. "I'm joking!" she exclaimed, shaking her head at Spencer's earnest response.

Brittany continued to laugh, finding the idea of Lawrence being her boyfriend utterly hilarious. Spencer couldn't help but laugh along with her, grateful for her easy going nature.

After their classes concluded, Brittany and Spencer made their way to the metro station together, sharing casual conversation along the journey. The excitment of the evening's gathering filled the air as they rode the train to the bar where their colleagues were waiting.

As they arrived at the bar, Spencer took in the ambiance of the place. It was a cozy establishment with dim lighting, exposed brick walls adorned with vintage posters, and a lively atmosphere. The sound of laughter and chatter filled the air, mingling with the soft melody of background music.

Brittany and Spencer found their colleagues gathered around a table in the corner of the bar. Maya and Lawrence were already seated, engaged in animated conversation. Two other individuals, Adam and Carly, joined them, completing the group.

Brittany intoduced Spencer with a warm smile as they approached the table, gesturing for him to take a seat beside her. Lawrence, a tall black man dressed in a bright dress shirt and colorful pants, flashed a friendly grin as they sat down.

"Spencer, this is Lawrence," Brittany introduced, her tone light and playful. "Lawrence, meet Spencer. He thought you were my boyfriend!"

Lawrence's eyes widened in mock horror, and he feigned a dramatic gasp. "Oh no, not another one!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I might just have to throw up if I hear that again."

Spencer chuckled nervously, feeling a pang of embarrassment at Lawrence's jest. He glanced at Brittany, who was smiling mischievously, clearly enjoying the exchange.

As Brittany turned to Spencer, her voice laced with amusement, she asked, "So, what'll it be? I'm heading to the bar."

Spencer quickly rose from his seat, a determined look in his eyes as he replied, "I'll order for us."

Brittany raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by Spencer's sudden assertiveness. "Oh, really?" she quipped, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Quit the gentleman act, Spencer. I'm perfectly capable of buying drinks. You can buy me coffee some day. Now, what are you having?"

Spencer hesitated for a moment, then replied simply, "Water."

Brittany's eyes widened in surprise, a hint of incredulity in her voice as she repeated, "Water?"

"Yes," Spencer confirmed, nodding firmly.

"You'll have water?" Brittany pressed, unable to hide her amusement.

"Yes," Spencer repeated, his tone unwavering.

"Okay," Brittany said, shaking her head with a laugh. "One water for Spencer."

As she made her way to the bar, Spencer couldn't help but smile at Brittany's playful teasing.

They sat at the table, enjoying their drinks and conversation and Brittany sipped on her second beer, the lively atmosphere of the bar enveloping them.

Spencer couldn't help but notice the way Brittany's hand wrapped around the cold glass of beer, her long coffin-shaped nails painted in a subtle beige hue. The soft clinking of her gold rings against the glass created a gentle melody that resonated in the air

Suddenly, one of the bartenders approached, placing a colorful drink before Brittany and pointing to a guy at the bar, indicating that it was from him.

Brittany looked at the drink with a mixture of surprise and mild disgust, then glanced over at the guy at the bar. "Oh my god," she exclaimed, her expression incredulous.

Maya and Lawrence burst into laughter at Brittany's reaction. "Why would he even buy me a drink? I'm drinking beer. Is he blind?" Brittany wondered aloud, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Well, it's not very ladylike of you. He knew better what you'd like!" Lawrence teased, a playful smirk on his lips.

"Yeah, how could you know what you should drink? He's here to tell you!" Carly added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Spencer watched the whole interaction unfold, intrigued by the dynamics of Brittany's friendship group. Brittany continued to stare at the drink, seemingly at a loss for what to do with it.

"What am I supposed to do with that?" she mused aloud, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Go to him and say thank you. He's not that bad looking," Lawrence suggested with a mischievous grin, eliciting laughter from the group.

"I'll take it!" Maya declared enthusiastically, already enjoying a similar drink of her own. Brittany pushed the glass towards her friend with a grateful smile, relieved to be rid of the unexpected gesture.

As they left the bar, Brittany lit up a cigarette, the glow casting a warm light on her face as they continued their conversation. They debated which way to go home, their voices mingling with the sounds of the city streets.

Suddenly, the guy from the bar approached Brittany, catching her attention. "Hey..." he started, but Brittany turned to him with a polite smile, saying hi.

"So, I was thinking..." he began, but Brittany swiftly interrupted him, her hand reaching out to grasp Spencer's arm as she came up with a quick solution to rid themselves of the unwanted attention.

"Sorry," she interjected, her tone firm but friendly. "I'm here with my boyfriend."

As Brittany's hand gently closed around Spencer's arm, a rush of warmth spread through him, unexpected but not unwelcome. Her touch, though brief, sent a jolt of electricity coursing through his veins, stirring something deep within him. 

And when she casually referred to him as her boyfriend, a small thrill ran down his spine, igniting a flicker of excitement in his chest. Though he didn't say anything in response, the subtle shift in his demeanor didn't go unnoticed.

The guy's expression shifted, his eyes widening in realization. "Oh, right! Sorry, man! I didn't know. Have a great night!" he exclaimed, before quickly turning and disappearing into the night.

"Okay, we have to go. Bye guys," Carly said quickly, her voice cutting through the chatter as she and Maya and Adam hurriedly hailed a taxi that had just arrived.

Lawrence also chimed in, "I gotta go the other way... I might... have a date..." With a wave, he disappeared into the bustling city streets.

Suddenly, Spencer and Brittany found themselves alone, the noise of the city enveloping them once more. Brittany turned to Spencer, her expression apologetic. "I'm sorry for what I said back there... I didn't mean to imply..."

Spencer nodded understandingly, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's okay, Brittany. I understand," he reassured her, grateful for her quick thinking in diffusing the situation.

Brittany sighed, her shoulders relaxing as she visibly eased into the conversation. "You know, sometimes guys just let go easier when there's a threat of a boyfriend," she explained, a hint of frustration in her voice. "It's like they can't take no for an answer unless they think you're taken."

Spencer nodded in agreement, glanced at her ciggarete and remarked, "6 minutes."

Brittany furrowed her brow in confusion. "What?" she asked

"That's what I used to tell my mom when she'd light a cigarette," Spencer explained, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "A cigarette takes 6 minutes of your life, so every time she smoked one, I'd tell her that it's 6 minutes less I get to spend with her."

"That's sweet... I'm still gonna smoke. I only smoke when I drink. I don't know why..." Brittany trailed off, her voice carrying a hint of resignation.

Spencer interrupted her gently, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Actually, there's a psychological explanation for that," he began, his tone measured as he launched into an explanation.

"You see, smoking and drinking often go hand in hand because they both activate the brain's reward system. When you drink alcohol, it increases the levels of dopamine in your brain, which makes you feel good. Smoking can have a similar effect, releasing dopamine and other neurotransmitters that produce feelings of pleasure and relaxation."

Brittany listened intently as Spencer continued to explain, his words weaving a fascinating narrative about the intricate workings of the brain and its response to certain stimuli.

"Additionally, there's also the social aspect to consider," Spencer added. "Smoking is often associated with socializing and relaxation, so when you're out with friends and having a few drinks, the urge to smoke can be especially strong."

Brittany nodded thoughtfully, absorbing Spencer's words with interest. "That makes sense," she mused, a newfound understanding dawning in her eyes.

"Yeah, it's all about the brain's response to different stimuli and the associations we make with certain behaviors," he concluded, his voice warm with enthusiasm.

He smiled as Brittany hummed in response, the sound of her exhaling smoke mingling with the cool evening air. He watched her for a moment, noticing the way her features softened in contemplation, her gray eyes reflecting the glow of the streetlights.

As they continued walking, the realization slowly dawned on them that they were both heading in the same direction. Spencer cleared his throat, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them.

"So, uh, which way are you headed?" he asked, his tone casual but tinged with curiosity.

Brittany glanced at him, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Funny enough, I live just a few blocks from here," she replied, her voice warm with surprise.

Spencer's eyes widened in realization. "Really? Me too," he exclaimed, a sense of serendipity settling over him.

Brittany chuckled softly, a twinkle in her eye. "Looks like we're neighbors then," she remarked, her tone light and playful.

"Yeah, it seems that way," he replied.

[whumptober]

The Results Are In!

Hi all, remember the trope vote we did in July? Well, now the event is coming to a close, we wanted to share some of the statistics!

So out of the 1526 responses to the 223 tropes:

The TOP 10 most voted for tropes were:

Collapsing/Fainting/Passing Out: 974 votes [Day One]

“I'm Fine”: 951 votes [Day Fifteen]

Hidden Illness/Injury/Scars: 920 votes [Day Fifteen/Twenty-Seven]

Ignoring An Injury/Illness: 887 votes [Day Fifteen/Twenty-Four]

Bleeding Through Bandages: 875 votes [Day Twelve/Fifteen]

Not Realizing They’re Injured: 863 votes [Day Fifteen]

Passing Out From Pain: 860 votes [Day One/Twenty-Six]

Touch Starved/Touch Aversion: 855 votes [Day Seventeen]

Emotional Angst: 818 votes [Day Nineteen/Twenty-Four]

Fatigue/Exhaustion: 807 votes [Day Twelve/Twenty-Six]

And the LEAST 3 voted for were:

Rejection: 205 votes

Cardiac Arrest: 156 votes [Day Sixteen]

Sunburn AND Reluctant Whumper: 146 votes [Alternatives List]

How the prompts list came to be:

From the trope vote, we took from the very top of the list so that we could include the most popular tropes. We also took some of the least voted for tropes to challenge participants outside of their comfort zone, which included the trope Reluctant Whumper, which was our least voted for trope along with Sunburn.

We chose the rest of the tropes from across the list, and also included some suggestions that were submitted by participants. Some of the names of tropes were altered to create more of a provoking prompt for creators to work with, and also to avoid too many duplicates from previous prompt lists. For example, 'Passing Out' became 'Swooning' on day one for a light-hearted start to the event. We also wanted to add a couple of unconventional items to help inspire out of the box thinking. While scented candles, journals and bouquets are traditionally 'comfort' items, it has been truly interesting to see how people have taken the comfort and twisted it to their own whumpy desires.

After the tropes were picked, we assigned them lyrics which would become the days 'theme', and then applied a line of dialogue and an object to it. It took some consideration to fit the right lyrics to the correct tropes, whereas adding dialogue to the tropes was arguably the easiest.

We are very proud with how the prompts list has turned out, and we have been blown away with the positivity and warm welcome we have received - thank you all very much. It has been amazing to see what everyone has been making this month based on our prompt list!

We have more to come, so stay tuned!

Mods Yenn, Kitty, Vanne and Surro

[d3nt4l-d4m4g3]

This is a morbid question, but after going through your medical malpractice tags, I can't help but to wonder how many women have died from T? And also, does every TIF who does stay on T for long periods of time develop some sort of chronic pain/illness that you've read or seen?

It seems like its rare to hear from TIFs on T after 6+ years. It seems like they almost all quit or lower their dose substantially.

it's probably impossible to estimate how many women have died from taking T. Legally, many of these women are male and are registered in medical systems as male. From looking at a piece of paper, it's impossible to separate these women on testosterone from men on testosterone.

I don't know every trans person so I can't say with certainty that every single trans identified woman develops chronic pain or illness on T. That said, the sheer number of systems that testosterone touches—bones, heart, reproductive organs to name a few—means that the likelihood of developing at least one chronic illness/source of pain is extremely high. And it can happen over a short or prolonged period of time. You might never have the symptoms of vaginal atrophy, but your cortisol and blood pressure could be climbing every year. You might not have a heart attack, but you could develop psoriasis. Maybe your bones are dense enough but your pancreas is fried. Maybe your pancreas is fine, but you have shooting pains every time you orgasm.

if you think about it, it's like a box of chocolates.

I don't want to accuse all TIFs who profess perfect health after 10+ years of taking testosterone of being liars. Statistically, that's not true.

However, I think that there is a lot of pressure to uphold the narrative that cross-sex hormones are healthcare, and not a lot of incentive to admit those exact hormones can ruin health.

There isn't this same reservation when you're talking about chemotherapy, for example—would you tell a cancer patient that she might not puke during treatment? That she might not lose her hair? That her fertility may not be compromised? All of those maybes are technically correct. That patient may not suffer all of these things, or possibly any of them. But as a medical professional, as a friend, as a family member, as a patient, is it not responsible to say that what the medication does, is designed to do, "might not" happen.

Of course, chemo is temporary. It is a poison given to sick people to kill the bad hopefully before it kills too much good. Giving testosterone unnecessarily to healthy women, and indefinitely to boot, can only worsen health.

Even if there was a percentage of women who take large doses of testosterone with no pain or chronic illness over years—a percentage I doubt is significant—would you put diesel in a gas car? Would you drive on the highway like that? Would you be able to live with yourself knowing your family and loved ones are holding their breaths every night, waiting for a phone call that you have crashed? objectively, it's highly selfish to pretend the benefits outweigh the potential cost, the cost being one's life.

Going back to your point about the 6+ year mark—yeah, I do think by that time a lot of women detransition, live miserably as trans, or die quietly, away from the spotlight. Like an old dog not wanting to bring vultures to her body. There's no longer any thrill from being trans, but rebuilding your life, community, and body is terrifying and has real social consequences, so many stay in that limbo.