#there is a difference between a discussion and discourse

[randomnameless]

I feel like it's not even worth it to even attempt to discuss Three Houses with Edelstans any more. They're not even talking about Fire Emblem 16 any more but rather some combination of Treehouse's and their own fanfiction.

Well,

I'd say everything boils down to what you expect from a discussion, sometimes I don't reply because I'm lazy and everything's been said, and some other times, when an edelstan reblogs or sometimes comment on one of my post, I'm just considering what will be the probable outcome, and if I have enough time to waste with it.

Granted, I reconsidered Claude's actions in Sreng thanks to someone pointing it out, so I guess that counts as a positive interaction?

But whenever the discussion grows around "grooming" "State of Quo" "Crusts" I know it's usually a sign that whatever will follow isn't worth both time and effort. Then some other signs are the tone of the post, the aggressivity and whetever or not the person posting it has set as their goal to "convert" you to their side, or just to be agressive against what they perceive as "an enemy".

Like, seriously, it's fandom, go argue your headcanons with someone else by writing a fic, instead of sharing your salt with people who don't really need the sodium intake.

[celtrist]

It's okay to be emotional over a ship.

It's okay to be emotional over a ship. It's okay to be emotional over characters. It's okay to share grievances over a ship as much as it's okay to gush over a ship. It's okay to feel so overwhelmingly negatively over a ship just as much as it's okay to feel so overwhelmingly positive.

While it's always going to be better to focus on positives, it can also be just as good to let out any negatives you might have about something rather than bottling it in and, for some, feeling alone in your thoughts about it.

It is so, so, SO OKAY to be so heavy in emotions concerning a ship whether negative or positive because it means you're invested in the characters and their relationships. When spaces seem to allow only positivity when some people might have some negative thoughts on a ship, it really negates any conversations about it and even understanding sides of why someone may or may not ship something.

While understandable, there is a double standard between being negative and positive about ships (or portrayal of characters). If you feel overwhelmingly negative about something, "you need to go touch grass". If you feel overwhelmingly positive about something, "go at it queen". I would personally argue we all need to touch grass.

It is NOT okay to harass others. It is NOT okay to let your emotions dictate that you should attack somebody for LIKING a certain ship or DISLIKING a certain ship. Your emotions DO NOT dictate how OTHERS should feel.

It is okay to be negative about a character or ship as much as it's okay to be positive about them. Neither side of being for or against a ship is more virtuous than the other. It's okay to have some fucking emotions regardless if they're positive or not, because it means you CARE about the media and the characters in it.

No, you should not revolve your whole online experience in negativity. Find the positive in things you DO enjoy. But to brush off people who vehemently might dislike a character or ship as "losers with no lives" is to disregard a person's emotions on something. And if you do wanna think that mindset, congrats, people who obsessively love a character or ship are just the same by your logic. Obsession is obsession, regardless if it's negative or positive.

TL;DR, If it's okay to be overwhelmingly positive in liking something like a ship or character, it should be just as okay to be negative in disliking something like a ship or character. Just as long as it's not the ONLY thing you focus on and no one is actively being bullied, attacked, or harassed about it. And of course, either way, positive or negative, it is all fiction, and a real person should not be attacked or harassed for it. And if you don't want to indulge in negativity you might have, 100% valid. Both sides always need to take a step back into reality.

[swamp-world]

You should read Kimberlé Crenshaw. You should read Iris Marion Young. You should read bell hooks. You should read Kate Borenstein. You should read Angela Davis. You should read S. Bear Bergman. Ivan Coyote. Jack Halberstam. Leslie Feinberg. You should read Audre Lorde and Judith Butler. Miss Major and Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson. Yes it is a lot of work. No I have not read them all myself either. Yes it is essential. I see people naming them all the time on here only to terribly misunderstand or undercut or tokenize them. If we are going to talk about feminisms we have an obligation to read feminists. Listen to their speeches and interviews. People have spent decades before us laying groundwork definitions and concepts. We do not have to accept them as they are but to do that work to accept, reject, or modify these theories and definitions and ideas, but we do have to actually take the time to read them ourselves and not just commentary on them, or excerpts or simplified summaries, whether that's in books or online.

[lord-squiggletits]

Man, it doesn't matter what the medium or fandom is, truly the debate that ruins fandom discussions the fastest is when people try to decide which characters "deserve" what. Especially when it comes to them deciding which characters are evil, how evil they are, and how severe their punishment should be for their evil deeds.

It's really annoying/harmful on multiple levels. For one, morally speaking, the line between "evil, but can repent/compensate for their deeds" and "evil, cannot be redeemed, suffer and die forever" is harder to define than you think, and who has the authority to define it anyways?

But also, fictional stories (especially the better, more nuanced, more mature ones) are rarely ever about "deserving" and don't divide their characters neatly between the "good" and the "evil." Every time I see fans debate about "how evil" a Problematic Fave is, or if Fave 1 is better/worse than Fave 2, all I see is people ruining their own fun and stirring up bad blood between other fans. Why would you add this dichotomy of "deserving" to a FICTIONAL story and start real life beef with people over it? At that point you're getting more invested in your discourse over imagined good/evil binaries than you are invested in watching/reading/consuming the actual story itself.

[tennessoui]

new to the fandom and apparently theres anakins hair color discourse ??? this seems like an old fandom, so whats the general consensus there so far

hahahahaha let’s leave some stuff in 2021 it’s more fun that way to pretend there’s been growth here

[hairenya]

I HATE discourse about makeup and plastic surgery. Like yes you all have very real feminist concerns and whatever but it’s my face, not yours, and if I want permanent eyeliner I will get it.

[seonghwacore]

i open twt in peace just to find a new little inconvenience ateez had that twt atiny is "sick of" every single day. eat multivitamins, babygirl. drink warm water. put down your phone and bask yourself in the sunlight. laugh and smile at our little silly deeds and/or the boys' goofy act.

[flameraven]

I've definitely noticed this as an issue in published books as well as fic, and it's especially jarring in fantasy.

I read a great book a few months back, absolutely loved it overall. But there were a couple points at which the main character calls someone an enby, and uses the term allosexual, and it threw me out of the story entirely. Those terms feel intensely of our modern time and place, and not of the fantasy world. Also in this case the MC was a non-human creature that did not understand much of human culture, so even if the humans of the setting used those terms it felt intensely weird for her to use them.

Another fantasy book I read (but did not finish) had a whole system of signs to signal pronouns on introduction, and another character that went off on a rant about why it's weird to assume things about a stranger based on their genitals, in a way that was directly lifted from current internet discourse. The pronoun signs was an interesting concept, but the way it was presented felt very dissonant and not within the tone of the rest of the story.

By all means, have diverse characters and cultures that are more inclusive of queer sexualities in fiction. We need it now more than ever. But you do have to be careful to do it in a way that fits with your setting, because otherwise you risk breaking suspension of disbelief.

he would not fucking say that but it’s he would not fucking talk about his queer identity like he was reading out of a college campus lgbt center brochure

[randomnameless]

and of course the worse bit is that the leader of the religion is actually an Atheist cause God never answered his prayers.

If you played the game, that's not the worst Idore did lol

But bar the general implication that someone is using faith to push his own agenda that has totes none irl comparisons, there's the fact that Idore, in a way, manipulates his people and uses their trust to further his plans, getting rid of every Rozellian and ultimately seize control of Norzelia.

Then comes the game's "your religion is based on nothing!" very terrible take, and while the game doesn't spend a more seconds than necessary talking about post war Hyzante in the non Roland endings, how the fuck are we supposed to buy the "uh akshually they will be alright because Layla will develop medicine and they will continue on living!" nonsense?

To avoid dragging further irl events, I'd say this reminds me of the very emotional moment in FMA, when Bradley shits on Ishval's culture and beliefs, saying their God doesn't exist, since said God isn't striking him on the spot for leading an operation that basically consists or eradicating Ishvalians in Ishval.

Guess what happened after Bradley made Ishvalians realise their God "wasn't real" with the few survivors of this "war"?

That's why I love to think of future AUs in the Benedict ending, because it has all ingredients for darker gens - Gustadolf'n'Cornelia's kid notwithstanding, now you have Hyzantese who live in slums and are lower than trash being riled up by Idore out of all people, who also preaches to everyone left behind by Serenor/Benedict's joint rule, Roland is so going to be used as a rallying figure to gather all disatisfaction in the land by, maybe, Idore himself and give or less 15 years, the continent will be plunged in chaos, again.

a bit like eventual Jugdral 3rd gens AU

[sophie-baybey]

I think the invention of the term "traumadump" has done discussion of mental health a lot of harm. I keep seeing discourse vs whether or not it's okay to talk about heavy topics with your friends, and like... I feel like there is a very big and important difference between my definition of traumadumping (ie. Frequently and habitually diverting your conversations with others towards your own misery, often with the goal of focusing attention and sympathy towards yourself at the expense of those around you, and without recognizable effort to reciprocate your empathy towards those you are speaking to or to ensure their comfort) VS the mere act of having heavier conversations with those around you. I've seen a lot of backlash to the idea of traumadumping as a concept lately (they paywalled human connection etc etc) but I think it's worth recognizing there is absolutely a kind of behavior that can create a negative feedback loop with this stuff. Especially if you navigate a lot of spaces in social media, it's not uncommon to find people dropping really heavy stuff on complete strangers unprompted. Idk, I think there's a degree of nuance to be had that's maybe getting a bit lost due to everyone having different definitions of what it means to "trauma dump."

[livecrow]

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

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

cw: debatable self-deprecation, kidnapping, noncon

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

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic.

Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

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

Not you, though.

When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze.

He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway.

You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

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

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

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

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

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

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

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting as far as his knuckles.

He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

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

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

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit.

You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any anxiety from building in your gut.

Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

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

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

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

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

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

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

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

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

Tough customer.

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

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

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking noisily at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s.

Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed.

It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

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

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

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

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

…

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

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer.

You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

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

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

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand.

The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind.

You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

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

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

“Maybe.”

…

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

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

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

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

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

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

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.”

John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly it was for this time of year, and hadn't just jumpscared you.

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

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

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.”

Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

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

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb.

You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

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

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle.

It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

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

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh.

“Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

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

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

“Bit late for that now.”

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

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much.

Your sole scuffs against some debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

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

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

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

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

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

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before.

As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

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

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now.

You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

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

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

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

Then he was smiling at you again.

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

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward.

You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

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

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

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

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

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles.

They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle.

It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

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

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

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

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

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over.

You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was clearly restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits.

At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

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

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

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

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you.

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

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

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right?

But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it.

Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

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

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

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

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek, “—almost made us lose out,” he grumbled. “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”.

You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce. Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The car is moving.

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

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

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

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

You were so tired. 

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

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

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

[capacity-for-wonder]

“the language of socialisation and conditioning conjures up this idea of a non-agentive, immutable relationship to gender (one in which gender is not something we do but something that is done to us)”

been thinking about this exact thing so much lately and I find this discussion really interesting!!

do you not believe in gendered socialization? not trying to be a bad faith ask btw im a leftist and i generally agree w all ur takes but i do pretty firmly believe in gendered socialization being like a thing w material consequences so im interested in ur take if you’re willing to give it

no. "gendered socialisation" is about a stone's throw away from "sex-based oppression" if we're being real about it. in discourse terms, it gets pulled out to denote an ineluctable state of "womanhood"-subjectivity in those coercively assigned femaleness and ineluctable "manhood"-subjectivity to those coercively assigned maleness; in other words, it gets used as a cudgel for gender essentialism coming from "progressive" types by which the claim that trans women/otherwise TMA people have "male privilege" ("male socialisation") can be smuggled into the discourse; the experiences of cis women and trans men/otherwise transmasc people are privileged as a standardised form of 'female socialisation' that pits them not as agentive within social forms of gender (and as beneficiaries of transmisogyny) but as unilaterally 'oppressed' to the unilaterally 'oppressive' male-socialised. there is no one coherent form of "gendered socialisation"; how gender is coercively socially imposed varies along countless axes that cannot be accounted for under one sole framework. if you want to say that experiences and subjectivities are shaped by misogyny or patriarchy then simply name misogyny and patriarchy as deciding factors. it suffers from the same fundamental issue as many contemporary feminisms ie. that even in its most charitable form, it attempts to present a complete account of "womanhood" and account for transfemininity only after the fact via hamfisted exceptionalism, rather than beginning with transmisogyny as the lynchpin of gendering and developing itself from there.

+ in general i try not to overrely on the language of "socialisation" and "conditioning" to describe behaviours and relationships -- unlike "coercion," which i think identifies the discourses of power + antagonism present in these modes of subject-creation, the language of socialisation and conditioning conjures up this idea of a non-agentive, immutable relationship to gender (one in which gender is not something we do but something that is done to us) which stands fundamentally at odds with what transness should articulate. i guess another way of putting it is that i don't really believe in appeals to what people do or do not "experience" [x does or does not "experience" misogyny etc] as a cogent way of developing an actual theory of oppression + liberation.

[puc-puggy]

the transandrophobia discourse is poisoned by separatist feminist theory that terfs and radfems have been maliciously injecting into feminist conversations, so here's The Will To Change excerpts by bell hooks again.

libratory feminism sees no difference between men and women except those manufactured by patriarchy. misogyny is a symptom of patriarchy the system, not a structure by which to interpret patriarchy the system. replacing "sexism" with "misogyny" does not change the nature of the analysis, which is a weak one. patriarchy the system can induce the symptom of misogyny in any person subjected to that system. using sexism/misogyny/male chauvinism is not a useful lens of analysis when looking at patriarchy because women are misogynists too. let's not move backward on that. women are misogynists too and men are allies.

the recent "trans men are misogynists" allegations I've seen lodged against trans men are:

unprepared to be treated like a predator, may cry about it

asked that only trans men attend a trans mens' support group

discussed male loneliness instead of talking about violence against women

all of these are actually feminist discussions. so the backlash seems like angry feminist reactions to Men Having Feelings, which is not a new thing. in fact, hooks addresses it directly.

i see men being mocked for having their feelings hurt, men being mocked for wanting to discuss their feelings, and men being mocked because they're thinking about men and manhood in new and complex ways. exactly what the doctor ordered.

i am not seeing challenges to patriarchy here. I am seeing reinforcement of patriarchal expectations of masculinity on trans men who do not want to perform those expectations. i am seeing separatist radfem bullshit in the assumption that trans men have lost or never had a valuable perspective on misogyny or gender or sexism and cannot tell when the shape of discrimination they're facing has changed. i am seeing toxic separatist radfem bullshit shut down liberatory feminist discussion because one of the speakers is trans in the wrong direction.

[aingeal98]

Headcanon that Tim introduces Cass to reddit and helps her make an account. But she mostly uses it to ask questions and user batgirlfan99 accidentally becomes a meme and an urban legend. Half her posts are AITA situations listing either horrible trauma done to her which she doesn't acknowledge as trauma or moments where she was most definitely the asshole but seems massively confused as to why. To make things more baffling the other half of her posts are questions to various subreddits like "Why does food have out of date labels when it tastes fine?" or "How many bones can I break when I'm fighting someone before it becomes cruel and not OK?" and "How can I get a real passport if I don't technically exist?"

She's so completely serious about all of this people aren't sure if it's an elaborate bit, shitposts like dril, or if someone should call a hospital and get her help. Tim's having too much fun watching it all happen so he strikes a deal with Babs to make sure Bruce never finds out and shuts it down. Babs agrees because it's nice to see Cass interacting with civilians even if it's anonymous and online.

Unfortunately Cass goes a little too locally viral on a discussion thread about Gotham water, insisting that she drank it for two years both during and after No Man's Land and she's fine, so people are clearly exaggerating about the chemicals. Bruce gets wind of it and starts making plans in case the account is run by a new Gotham joker variant but the more he looks at it the more these questions seem familiar...

The next time they're having a family dinner he mutters to Cass: "I still don't think I was the asshole during the Soul fight. You didn't give the full context ."

After this reveal, the rest of the dinner is spent with both of them arguing their case and everyone voting on if Bruce was NTA. Dick, Tim, Duke and Damian vote YTA. Cass and Bruce vote NTA. Dick says Cass was also the asshole for punching him in the face which sets off a whole new round of discourse.

batgirlfan99 deletes her account the following morning, leading to widespread mourning across her frequent subreddits. Cass still thinks it was worth it. She knows the difference between laundry detergent, fabric softener, and fabric conditioner now.

[axolotsofluv]

❝𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐥❞ [𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐬 𝐫. 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

a/n: My fixation on this man is no joke. I think I might organize my blog in the future, tinker with my previous posts a bit. Just so that it'll be clean and consistent. Here are more crumbs for the ratio nation. Please excuse any writing errors. Enjoy (^._.^)ﾉ☆

synopsis — the curiosity of Ratio's fellow colleagues are piqued when they see him greeting the arrival of a woman in the rain.

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

❥ pairing: veritas ratio x reader

❥ tags: humor, romance, fluff, domesticity, rain, acts of service, established relationship, ratio x reader

❥ song inspo: this will be (an everlasting love) by natalie cole

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

The first crackle of thunder dawns onto the gray sky. A canvas once splashed in a vibrant blue hue now benighted by the overcast clouds that heralded a promise of howling winds, torrential rainfall, deafening thunderclap and a potential power outage that would forcibly reel people out of their plane of escapism to face the true horrors of reality.

Ratio finds himself immersed in conversation with a couple of his colleagues. The topic doesn't deviate much from their field of specialty, an idiosyncrasy that clings to them like a second skin—the insatiable ache to always engage in academic discourse no matter the time or place. As much as the doctor often laments about the influx of idiots in his workplace, there are a few moments in between the mediocrity when an idle conversation is shown to have yet blossom into a fruitful exchange.

Researchers and staff members trickle in and out of the establishment, carrying with them an air of haste untouched by the turbulent gloom of the weather. Everyone resume their activities as usual, paying no mind to the rain rapidly pelting the pavement nor did they bat an eye when a burst of light emerge in stripes from above.      

Ratio makes himself comfortable in the couch stationed near the receptionist while his colleagues follow suit, occupying the seats across from him. Terminologies and technical terms flow from their lips in surges, pooling into a fountain that will no doubt confound any passersby. As engrossed as Ratio looks with the conversation at hand, the two men with him can still pick up on the discreet glances he throws at the entrance, as though awaiting for a particular arrival.

"Doctor, forgive me for prying, but is something on your mind?"

Ratio shakes his head, remorse adorned in the lines of his frown and furrowed brows. "Not at all. Apologies, gentlemen. It is not my intention to appear absentminded."

The easygoing one out of the crowd raises a hand in dismissal. "Oh, no. We're not upset, doctor. We were just wondering if you're waiting for something. A letter, perhaps? You seem to receive them often."

Again, Ratio shakes his head again, schooling his expression into his default mien of refined composure. "It's nothing. Let's continue our discussion, shall we? You were just about to elaborate on the mechanisms behind one of your recent projects."

"I would be more than happy to indulge in your curiosity, but should we move elsewhere? The break room, perhaps. It might provide for a more conducive environment than here in the lobby," another suggests and is swiftly met with a chorus of agreement. Except it isn't unanimous, as noted in Ratio's pointed stare at the automatic sliding doors.

The chatters turn abysmal at his distracted state. The stretch of silence dispels his deep rumination, and with a dignified cough, Ratio redirects his attention back to his entourage. "Please, you may go ahead. I'm still... waiting for someone."

If Ratio isn't as abstinent as he is towards public emotional outbursts, he would have burst into laughter at the expressions on his colleagues' faces that all embodied different forms of surprise.

"Waiting for... someone?" One of them parrots back with a bewilderment reminiscent of their early days as a naive, clueless student before becoming a renowned expert in their field.

To this, the erudite doctor hums affirmatively.

The group of colleagues share a look with one another, engaging in a telepathic dispute regarding who would be chosen—or in other words, sacrificed—to ask for elaboration with the high chance of being castigated for their nosy tendencies.

Eventually, the easygoing one concedes. "A-And... Who is this someon—"

Divine intervention befalls onto this willing volunteer as Ratio disregards him entirely, standing up with an unusual disconcerted demeanor. The group devotes their undivided attention to the scurrying figure of Veritas Ratio as he passes the front entrance and grasps the shoulders of someone clad in a raincoat. The umbrella in their hand is extricated, cast aside like a pesky gnat swatted away. Ratio's hands lower the hood, and the sight of a woman nearly sends one of the older ones in the group into cardiac arrest. 

As if the sight of Ratio within close proximity to a woman isn't mind boggling enough, the group takes notice of the woman's appearance, her bare feet, a plastic containing a pair of clean shoes in one hand, and a gray insulated lunch bag in the other. The bits and pieces of information they procured via observation is solid enough to conclude that whoever this mysterious woman is, she weathered the dreadful conditions, risked getting herself sick and struck by lightning, all to deliver someone's lunch. 

"Would you mind telling me why on earth you're walking in the middle of the rain?" The volume of Ratio's voice put even the heavy downpour to shame. 

"I promised you I'd bring you lunch," the woman responds with a nervous chuckle, raising the bag for emphasis—or perhaps to shield herself. 

Not even she is immune to the doctor's scathing personality. 

"I can see that." He guides her to one of the few remaining chairs that were unscathed from the ferocious attack of the torrential rain, his hand pilfering the insulated bag from hers as he makes sure she is properly seated before finally resuming his reproachful tirade. "But that does not explain why you travelled all the way here without a vehicle."

She opens her mouth, but the doctor is quick to interject. 

"No, don't think that a cheeky response will ameliorate this scenario nor will it distract me from the issue at hand. Yes, I brought the car with me, but last I checked, you can order a ride with your phone." 

Left without ammunition, the woman slumps in her seat. 

The weather does little to assuage the tension, merely serving to heighten the severity of Ratio's ire as lightning strikes the sky with impeccable timing. It's as if the heaven above is attuned to this genius' emotions and decides to enact the simmering aggravation at the sight of her having to brave the storm for no good reason. 

"So?" He prods with crossed arms. 

"The price tends to spike up in rainy weathers," she murmurs. "Not to mention, the demands for cars become high as well so either I have to wait a long time to get someone to accept my order or I have to raise the price to have my order prioritized."

Ratio's eyes narrow into slits. "That doesn't answer my question. Why didn't you do it? If you're required to spend more money than usual, then just do so."

"But the money—"

"—is something I have enough of." His glare intensifies exponentially at the flimsy rebuttal of a resource that he deems is far from scarce. It is only when the woman glances down sheepishly does he let the scorching embers of his previous annoyance gradually flicker into oblivion. "Listen... I appreciate your sensibility and aversion to excessive spending, but this is unreasonable. In a bid to maintain your frugal stance, you would risk travelling by foot with nothing but your raincoat and a single umbrella to combat the weather and temperature."

"I took a bus here. I didn't walk from home completely," she mumbles out. The retaliation flees her lips like a frail defense of a cornered debater. What is she even thinking? Actively engaging in a dispute with the man who religiously participates in educational discourse with numerous individuals who share his perspicacity.

Sure enough, those sharp amber hues narrow in disapproval, and if his raised shoulders denote anything, then it's definitely a sign that he's ready to tear her argument apart.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "And yet here you are. Drenched. Trembling like kitten dumped in cold water."

A diminutive noise resembling an apology flutters from her downturned lips. 

As the last traces of anger dissipate, Ratio finally regards her with clemency. "You act as if I don't provide for you." Crimson-gold irises scrutinize the stray droplet cascading down her cheek, the sight compelling him to brush it away instantly with a gentle swipe of his thumb. He lowers himself to meet her eyes, his body assuming a kneeling position.

Ratio's colleagues, who are still very much eavesdropping on the conversation, tune out the interaction that follows. The drastic shift in his attitude fries their brains to the point of causing static noise to fill in their heads—a medium utilized to conjure theories, conflate ideas, and bring said ideas to fruition now pushed to disarray when they see the notorious sharp-tongued scholar acting so... tender. The woman's expression contorts into one of bewilderment, and despite not being able to make out much of her words, they're able to use context clues to surmise that she must be fussing over Ratio dirtying his slacks.

The brief intimate moment fizzles out quickly though, as any traces of tenderness on Ratio's face evaporates.

"Now, take out your phone and order a cab." His tone reverts to the default strident tone he often uses, and he can be seen tapping away on the phone in her clutch. "There. Confirm it. No, I will not accept your protests this time. I have the money; use it."

"O-Okay..." Her finger hovers above the screen, but it doesn't match the speed in which he expects her to move. 

"Don't you dare stall, [name]. Confirm the order. Now."

"I am, I am! Here! Look, it's confirmed!"

A colleague snickers at the spectacle before him, watching the woman frantically fidgeting with the phone while Ratio supervises her from behind. "Now, why does this look like a hostage situation?" He takes a slow sip of his coffee.

"I'm pretty sure this is how the doctor normally acts." Another shakes their head in commiseration for the frazzled woman who is now being on the receiving end of what appears to be an on-brand tongue-lashing from the Veritas Ratio. 

A snort is all they got in response, accompanied by another slow sip.

"Does this mean you're not going to accept my lunch?" Ratio tears away his gaze from his blatantly eavesdropping colleagues to spare her a glimpse, catching the dejection that floods her face.

He shakes his head. "Don't be ridiculous. I might not be keen on your method of delivering this meal, but that doesn't mean I will waste perfectly good food."

Hearing that, the woman gives him a slow nod. His palm that lays on her knee acts as a thawing agent to the frigid surface of her skin. With a smile now adorning her visage, she tucks her fingers under his hesitant ones, silently urging him to set aside his inhibitions. Their gazes meet briefly, and oddly enough, Ratio is the first one to shy away with a visible gulp.

Before the moment can blossom any further than that, a vehicle pulls up to the front of the lobby, and Ratio takes it as his cue to escort the woman to the door. His colleagues decide that there is enough surprise for the day, when they happen to catch her waving at Ratio without signs of stopping even after the car has moved. She's already out of sight before anyone can articulate the confusion her very presence evokes. 

Ratio returns to the assembly of wide-eyed spectators, the lunch box in hand, with a countenance that seems lax enough to be labelled as "bliss".

"We have dawdled long enough. I don't have anymore business here, so let's move to the break room at once, shall we?"

"Uh..." One of them reclaims their composure before they can even formulate anything coherent. "Dr. Ratio... Forgive me for being forward, but who was that?"

This august genius, undeterred by the opinions of common people and unswayed by the menial desires of men, ever so austere yet ever so snide, turns to the one who voiced that query. 

"My wife." Then, he strides away. 

No one left with a cardiac arrest that day, but someone did leave with hot coffee sprayed on their face. 

[botanical-garden-system]

Did yall know that there are several researchers actively trying to prove DID is not a real thing? Did yall know that there are several articles in the multitude of databases I have accessed through my school that ACTIVELY try to find and prove how DID isn’t fucking real???

When people tell me, “research disagrees with ___,” I hope yall realize that many researchers dont even think we exist. They dont think you can experience multiple identities. And yes, these research articles are within the past 5 years.

There are clinical psychologists with entire practices of therapeutic professionals that treat people with a focus in trauma and dissociative disorders as “untrained” and “stupid.” Not even researchers agrees on our existence, and this is NOT something you typically see within the peer reviewed articles of any popularly discussed disorder.

Many are legitimately PEER REVIEWED ARTICLES. Just keep this in fucking mind when you start saying shit like, “But research disproves your identity.” Many researchers actively try to disprove we exist in GENERAL.

Also I have yet to find a research document stating anything yall have claimed against plurality and I have easily 50-60 hours worth of digging and researching multiple databases (APA psycINFO, APA psycTESTS, Proquest psychology collection, Sage Journals, Google Scholar through a college institution, NIH, etc.). In fact, I actually have/had a few articles discussing how we need to start re-addressing DID and approaching it as psychologists.

I can probably list off several medical journals that talk about DID, provide you with at least 30-50 different peer reviewed scholarly journals, case studies, and collections, and I can confidently say that we are STILL trying to connect dissociation and trauma research.

At most, we can say that there is a HIGH CONNECTION BETWEEN cPTSD (yes, specifically cPTSD) and DID, but people are still figuring out whether you can see examples of DID in the brain through neuroimaging (which we have figured this out some, it’s super cool) and what other disorders DID is comorbid with.

We can’t be claiming SHIT about what is or isn’t right now. I am not at all a discourse account, and I most likely will not interact with syscourse outside of this, but I AM a researcher who has spent countless hours trying to better understand DID so that I can help myself and others around me. If yall were genuinely digging, yall would realize how fucking abysmal the understanding of psychology really is, let alone disorders that are stigmatized.

I WILL engage in discussing research that I have found with peer revision because I believe this education should be free and readily available to everyone. I am NOT engaging in debates on whether you believe plurality exists outside of DID. That has not been researched or discussed enough to make any sort of claim. The real point behind research is so we can better understand our world, our brains, and our society. The best we can do right now is LISTEN to the experiences people have and MAKE research to better understand their experiences.