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polysucks · 1 day ago

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why you think starks are brown. No hate, I just want to know reason 💓

No hate taken!!! I'm more than happy to give a little context.

I also talked a little and at length and then some about why I think the Starks are ndn or indigenous coded, therefore anecdotally "brown" if you want some more!

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The Starks Are Indigenous and You Can’t Change My Mind

Look, I’m just gonna say it: the Starks are giving "we’ve been here for 10,000 years and you just got off the Mayflower.” Fandom loves to frame them as cold (literally), brooding white dudes who talk to trees and wolvves and die tragically—but if you zoom out just a bit, what you’ll see is a whole culture that’s basically been staring the apocalyptic Chekov’s gun in the face while mumbling “this is fine” for millennia.

Let’s start at the beginning: the First Men walked to Westeros on foot twelve thousand years ago (according to legend. it's giving oral storytelling), chopped some trees, made some mistakes, and then struck a sacred pact with the Children of the Forest. Instead of wiping the Children out like the colonizers down south (cough Andals cough), they basically said, “Yeah u right let’s chill,” and started building their whole culture around respecting nature, living weirwoods, and the gods that inhabit them. Now fast forward six thousand years and the Andals show up like, “Hey, we’ve got gods who look like us and wear robes, and also we’re here to murder your trees bc they're just trees they mean nothing.” (SOUND FAMILIAR?) And the North said: “uhhhhh doubt but alright try me bitch.” The Andals conquered everywhere else in Westeros, but the North? Untouched. Still praying to SpOokY tReEs, burying people under roots, giving a fuck about their ancestors, still naming their kids things like Brandon and Benjen and not, like, Luthor Tyrell III.

So when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I mean it. They are the last major ruling house descended purely from the First Men, with customs, spirituality, and governance structures that date back over ten millennia. They didn’t import Andal feudalism or Southern chivalry—they rule by duty, community ties, and vibes. There’s no divine right here, just “I said I’d guard the North, so I’m gonna guard the North, even if I die horribly doing it.” Which... they usually do.

Physically, too, the Northerners are not your typical pale-and-pink Southron types. Descriptions from the books associate the First Men—and thus the Northmen—with brown hair, darker complexions, and gray eyes. They’re closer to earth tones than the golden-and-ivory palettes of the Reach and Crownlands.

Now, it’s all fun and games until Robb Stark starts stacking Lannister corpses like firewood and suddenly—boom—“savage skinchanger” propaganda. The second the North stops being cold and quiet and starts sending wolves downriver, the Southern rumor mill goes feral. The same lords who wear wolf pelts to look edgy start whispering, “Is he... using magic? Unnatural beasts? Isn’t that his direwolf out there eating men’s faces?”

We’re not even being subtle anymore. This is textbook colonizer panic: “Oh no, the brown people with strong spiritual ties to nature and weird customs have found a way to beat our superior steel and horses! They must be cheating!” And this is coming from a place where Melisandre literally births a shadow demon out of her woman's place and half the people involved just shrug and go, “Well, kings do be kinging and doin whatever it takes to be kinged.” But Robb winning battles with tactics and a big-ass dog? Witchcraft.

And let’s talk tone. The way Northerners are described when they show up in King’s Landing is... gross. Dirty. Sullen. Uncouth. They bring the smell of snow and smoke and old gods into the nice, civilized complacency of the South, and the court acts like they're watching a pack of feral dogs crash a garden party. Even the Dornish, who are also not white-coded in many ways and face plenty of racism, are still seen as exotic—dangerous, sure, but sexy-dangerous. The Northmen? They’re not fetishized. They're feared. Loathed. Dismissed as brutes and barbarians with ways that are so different that they should be feared.

And this is a classic move in imperialist narratives: you marginalize a people, rob them of power and culture, and the second they resist? You demonize them. Turn them into monsters. Say they commune with beasts and demons. (Sound familiar? Because it should.) Whether it’s North American Indigenous peoples being accused of “savagery” the moment they defend their land, or these colonized peoples being portrayed as superstitious and irrational for refusing assimilation and persisting with their culture—Westeros is playing that greatest hit on repeat.

So yes, when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I also mean that the way Westeros treats the North is textbook colonial anxiety. They’re tolerated when they stay quiet and frozen. But when they rise? When they win? Suddenly, they’re not just a threat—they’re unnatural. Inhuman. Monstrous.

And if that ain’t some real-world racial politics wrapped in an easy to swallow fictional narrative, idk what is.

Now let’s talk Boltons vs. Manderlys, the perfect case study in Indigenous vs. Settler-coded houses when it comes to the cultural conversation. The Boltons? Chaotic evil First Men energy. They used to flay people alive, possibly made cloaks out of skin (ok im sorry that’s so baller), and ruled from the Dreadfort for thousands of years as a rival to House Stark. They’re the North turned inward and twisted—a cautionary tale about what happens when colonization doesn’t get you, but intergenerational trauma does. Still, they’re part of the land, part of the same heritage. The Manderlys, on the other hand? Total transplants. They got kicked out of the Reach, showed up in the North all teary-eyed and humble, and the Starks were like, “Fine, you can live in this swamp by the sea.” And they did! Respectfully! But they never converted to the Old Gods. They still pray to the Seven, build stone cities, and have the audacity to name their castle White Harbor. That's like moving into someone’s house and renaming it “Good Christian Suburb.” (like. Like americ--*gets dragged off stage*) But they're chill. Because they never pretended to be something they're not. And they never tried to change the ways of the lands and the peoples who welcomed them when no one else would.

Even within the North, there's a whole spectrum of resistance vs. assimilation. You’ve got the Free Folk beyond the Wall—who are basically the “burn it all down, no kings, no lords” crowd—then the Starks, who are like, “Fine, I’ll wear a crown if it helps keep the peace,” and then the Manderlys, who are “we love it here please don’t send us back south.” It’s not unlike real-world Indigenous communities: some stayed in the woods, some ran into the mountains, some took settler names and built schools—but the throughline is survival. Resistance is survival.

And that, my fellow losers, is what the Starks are all about. They are the final boss of stubborn cultural preservation. They’re the people who would rather freeze than bend the knee to "gods" they don’t believe in. When Ned Stark says “Winter is Coming,” he’s not just talking about weather—he’s quoting a generational mantra. This, too, shall pass. And we will still be here. He's got seasonal depression and ancestral memory and PTSD, and he's still out here doing what is best for his people (well. not anymore, i guess.)

The North Remembers—and So Should You

When we say the Starks and the North are Indigenous-coded, we’re not just slapping a label on because it sounds cool and we’re desperate for representation. We’re talking about a culture that predates colonizers, resists assimilation, honors its dead, and survives against impossible violence. Whether it’s through sacred trees, communal leadership, or refusing to compromise on your ancestral values, the Starks represent the heartbeat of a people who never left their land—because the land never left them.

So yes. The Starks are “brown,” in the way that means something. Not necessarily in skin tone (though there’s canon support for that too), but in soul. In story. In surviving. And if you disagree, I’ll meet you in the godswood under the bleeding tree, and we can discuss it like Northerners—with our fuckin fists.

(this is a joke ur allowed other opinions)

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numinous-void · 2 days ago

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i agree with these so fucking hard it’s not even funny. never once in my life have i used AI to do anything for me, maybe besides translate things to be able to communicate on rednote- but besides that i fucking hate AI. maybe i’ve cheated on a few homework assignments! but never once have i cheated on tests or exams, because those are too important.

i think people are becoming too comfortable with relying on technology- there’s a reason why certain courses are competitive. structural systemic bias aside for a moment, there is real reason as to why it’s fucking hard to get into some fields. yes, everyone should have the means necessary in order to be able to achieve success in that field should they be oppressed or hindered by the system. but when ai is no longer just a “tool” and it does the work, you are contributing to the problem of employers choosing machine over people. you cannot be mad at employers if you, yourself, will not or cannot perform tasks you are required to do without aid.

"i don't care if they make their whole way though uni with chatgpt" i think you guys are so internetpilled that you have forgotten there are actual jobs out there that require people to know what they are doing in any way possible or else people die

#zell rambles #angry #angry rant #i fucking hate ai #fuck ai

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yamumsyadadd · 10 hours ago

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request: competitive jenni, prank wars, jump-scares turned into flirting/foreplay

strawberry milk

Jenni likes to think she’s the funniest person alive. And she was to an extent.

The pranks she threw were usually harmless. Stealing Marta’s socks, hiding one boot, scaring people in the hallway, and usually you only got scared at home.

She’d hide under the bed and grab your leg as you climbed in, or stood in the closet in the dark and would jump out as you walked past. But being pranked at training was strictly prohibited. It was a deal you both made after she and Leila jumped out at you when you were carrying your metal drink bottle.

The results? Bruises to their arms and stomach. It was their own fault really.

However, there seemed to be a miss communication between Leila, Patri and Jenni about who their next victim was. Jenni knew you weren’t in the mood to be pissed off anymore than you already were.

You had enough shit to deal with, the injury you were just coming back from, family stuff and Jenni’s move were enough on your plate.

When Jenni realised it was you walking through the locker room door and not Jana, her heart and stomach dropped. You were supposed to be at the Physio for the next half hour which is why they decided to do this now.

“Amor stop!” Jenni yelled out at you, but it was too late. The bucket of strawberry milk they had balanced on top of the door had already started to spill. The three of them were frozen in fear as it spilt on you.

“What the fuck.” Your voice was low, and that scared them more than anything.

“Am-“ Jenni started

“Don’t. Don’t talk.” You gritted out. “What the actual fuck is wrong with the three of you? You’re adults! ADULTS! Not children. Grow the fuck up seriously.”

The commotion had caught the attention of most the team, leading them to walk through and see the strawberry milk all over you and the floor. Leila and Patri were half hidden behind Jenni, ready to use her as a human shield.

You shoved Jenni off as she tried to come towards you. This was your final straw for the day, instead of showering, you simply grabbed your bag and left, telling Jenni to find her own way home after training.

As you drove home and took a hot shower, you thought of a plan to finally get Jenni back. Maybe make her suffer a little more than she made you.

Unfortunately for you, your sex life was no secret to the team. Jenni always discussed with Leila your new bedroom activities and they knew you were a bottom. Most of the time it didn’t really bother you, but it made planning your revenge even harder.

It started as soon as she got home. You let her grovel, and then she asked the important question:

“What can I do to make it up to you?”

You slowly walked over to her, standing in front of where she was sitting on the arm chair and straddled her lap. “I want to fuck you.”

Jenni’s eyes got comically larger, “but amor. I always fuck you!”

“Exactly, so you should let me have a turn.”

She took a minute to decide and you used that time to leave kisses on her neck, sucking slightly at her jaw, “okay.”

Her hands automatically tightened on your hips. Pulling you into her more. As the groping and kissing got more heated, you pulled away. Standing up and pulling Jenni with you.

Phase one was complete, now it was time for phase two. Which you knew would be harder.

You knew after the third orgasm she’d be more willing, so you kept going until she was there and as you kissed up her body, you asked.

“Can I use the bed straps on you Bebe?” Jenni mumbled something that sounded more like a moan than words. “Words my love.”

“Yes. God yes.”

As you tied the cuffs around her wrists and ankles, all you could think was phase two completed.

You got her to test them a couple of times to make sure they weren’t too tight, before kissing her a couple of times and getting off the bed.

“Where are you going?” She asked, slightly panicked.

“I’ll be right back. Just getting something.” Unbeknownst to Jenni, you had time to stew and put in a grocery order, then remake the bed with a waterproof protector so the mattress wouldn’t get ruined.

Not only did you grab the strawberry milk from the fridge but you also got redressed.

“Hurry up!” You heard Jenni yell out from the bedroom. So naturally, you did the opposite. Taking your time to wash your hands, have some water and quietly laugh to yourself.

Slowly you walked back into the bedroom, strawberry milk hidden behind your back.

“What?” Jenni frowned as she saw you, “why are you dressed?”

Instead of saying anything you pulled out the strawberry milk, sitting it on the dresser for her to see. “I asked you nicely, many times, not to prank me at training and you knew how stressful this week had been for me.” You started.

“But-“

“Ah ah ah. I’m not done. I thought about all the times you’ve had me relaxed, calm or half asleep and then bam! You pulled a prank on me so now, well now it’s my turn. I have you at my mercy.” You gave her a sweet smile before opening the first bottle.

“No wait! It was meant for Jana! You were supposed to be at the Physio, I swear! I promise on Andy’s life!” The realisation that you were serious settled into Jenni. You had never done anything back to her and now she was going to have to pay the price.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have scared me in the shower last night either. Or last weekend when you wore that stupid clown mask!”

Before you could pour anything on her, you remembered the pillows. The expensive pillows you loved so much. You could’ve been more gentle when pulling them out from under her but you were still annoyed.

You had no plan on how to do this, because in all honesty you didn’t think you’d get this far. Instead of slowly pouring it on her, you just dumped it. First on her hair and chest, then her legs and arms.

Jenni tried with all her strength to get out of the restraints as you poured and unfortunately for her, it only made the strawberry milk make a bigger mess. A mess you would make her clean up.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” She breathed out.

“Only if you promise no more messy pranks. On me, Jana or anyone!”

“Okay! I promise!”

“And you have to tell Patri and Leila too. And clean up this mess.”

“Yes yes okay. Whatever you want!”

You smiled to yourself as you got what you wanted. You let Jenni loose from the restraints and smiled at her as she huffed.

True to her word, she did clean up all the mess and also apologised again.

The next day when you walked into the locker room with Alexia, you caught the tail end of Jenni’s conversation with Patri and Leila.

“…she tied me up and poured strawberry milk all over me! I was naked and exposed.” They gasped and turned towards your voice. All you could do was smile sweetly at them as Alexia laughed next to you.

#woso fanfics #woso imagine #fcb femení #woso x reader #jenni hermoso #jenni hermoso x reader #barca femeni #woso community #woso

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teaboot · 1 day ago

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in WHAT universe is rising of the shield hero less of a dissapointment than spy x family? ppl glaze sxf a bit too much but theres few anime worse than Incel Isekai 20472.

anyway. if you want something actually good, frieren, odd taxi, and my roommate is a cat. havent watched ascendance of a bookworm yet but i hear incredible things.

Oh yeah no ROTSH felt like ABSOLUTE dogshit episodes 1-5ish, I have no idea why I kept watching cause the MC was so cringe but I’m enjoying it quite a lot now! (I was actually checking my inbox before catching the next ep, lol)

I’m actually really happy with how they showed the MC’s immaturity and flaws and all the stupid and confusing common isekai tropes in a realistic light- And I’m kinda sorry you didn’t keep watching too ‘cause it absolutely lays bare all that stupid “chosen one” crap about halfway through s1. You stop cringing at the awful stupid incel asshole shit E3 or so and start GENUINELY LIKING him, which is wild!

It’s not perfect media obviously- I kinda REALLY don’t like some of it- but it focuses a lot on personal responsibility and thoughtfulness and working within the context of your environment, learning to heal relationships, and the importance of diplomacy and communication.

What I REALLY like is the central theme that being a hero doesn’t mean everything you do is correct- but that people WANT TO BELIEVE everything you do is correct, so being a symbol isn’t so much a ritzy ride as it is a HUGE responsibility that one shouldn’t be eager for.

Also, I don’t want to give any spoilers, but I’m at a point now where they’re starting to touch on the idea that there’s a difference between fighting for an idea and fighting for PEOPLE, and I’ve never really seen that done well before so between that and the twist here that’s being foreshadowed I’m genuinely SUPER EXCITED to see where they’re going with it.

Also- even WITH all the “pretty girls love the hero” trope- if you watch long enough you’ll notice how they PLAY with the trope without investing in it. There’s genuine respect between the characters, and several times the MC makes it clear he sees some of them as family, that he’s not into kids and it’s creepy when others are, and there’s no fanservice panty shots or surprise “oops I’m naked” shit. It really does show by example how a REAL good-hearted protagonist should- or would hopefully- realistically act in the circumstances of an unrealistic isekai type series. There’s been pretty much zero actual romance or any interest in romance shown by the character after episode 1-2. (At least as of s2e1)

And I love that! It’s incredibly character-driven. It feels like the MC genuinely might fuck up, that there are real stakes, that the correct path is unclear, and I want to see if what I’m hoping for will happen. The MC is selfish and closed-off and heartless sometimes and TOTALLY has a cruel and pragmatic streak, and the narrative takes full advantage of that to force him to confront those issues. Some of his vices are even advantageous, as they would be in real life!

Spy X Family didn’t do anything for me. It appeared to be what it said on the tin. I never got any real sense of stakes or depth or personal development, or of reoccurring thematic elements or symbolism or overlying message, or any kind of statement that was poignant or meaningful. It came off as a fun story, but not anything exceptional or different.

I couldn’t bring myself to care much because it was pretty clear that the good guys were right and they were gonna pull something off and have a happy ending and live a cute little family life with a mom and a dad and a daughter and a dog. It was never surprising or curious and I never felt emotionally intrigued or invested or attached.

They’re both enjoyable, but I like Rise of the Shield Hero more because it’s been proving me wrong in exciting ways and making me think about why I feel the way I do, and I like that in a series.

Spy X Family is fine, I don’t think it’s BAD, it just didn’t scratch the itch for me personally.

If you watched like 15 eps and hated it the whole time that’s fair but if you stopped at e2 I’d super recommend giving it another shot!

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occamstfs · 7 hours ago

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Community Service

Barreling into town with a trunk full of documents he's supposed to destroy, Dawson's blackmailed into cleaning up the mess he makes. Though with every breath of fresh air this rural homestead starts to feel more like home.

Figured it's been a while since I had some gay cowboys, so here's a longer, romantic cowboy TF! Quite like this to hairy, muscular and musky men and hope you do too! -Occam

It didn’t matter why Dawson was traveling so quickly through the Texas countryside. It was of no business to the people he sped past what substances he may or may not have been under the influence of. Indeed, had he just stayed in his lane nothing none would have been the wiser his this midnight drive through nowheresville. Unfortunately for the man who sees consequence as beneath him, there was a sharp turn in the road he simply missed. Most people would’ve seen the sign, but who can blame him, it’s not like he usually drives himself anyway.

Unfortunately, the man’s speeding car plows straight through a pristine fence and leaves the earth sundered beneath the company car as he soars a few dozen yards into a field. Air bags deploy and before he even realizes what happens he’s out and concussed.

Really, Dawson’s lucky to have just lost his car and consciousness. Come morning the suit awakes to find himself surrounded by locals of this shithole paging through some confidential papers that have escaped his wrecked car. He plasters on a smile in the chance that this isn’t a dream and snatches any documents he can reach telling himself this is all fine. Who hasn’t had a wild night. His bosses will understand, these yokels probably can’t even read!

When one of their ilk stands firm in the face of the smarmy businessman, he hedges his bets assuming he’s collected or destroyed anything actually important and prepares to beat a hasty retreat and make a few phone calls. His bosses will be too sympathetic about his accident to even care about the surely destroyed paperwork anyway.

Unfortunately for him, the young man who continues standing in his way pulls out a cellphone and turns it to the joyrider so he may see that it is too late to flee. Dawson sees evidence, an image of himself sitting next to more than a few open containers, some decidedly suspicious substance powdered in the passenger seat, and a half smoked cigarette that is clearly not tobacco.

Even still this could be easily wiped away. Even the detailed video evidence of the destruction left in the wake of his company car. Money in the right hands would make it as if Dawson never stumbled through. But then the mystery cowboy flips over to scans of the illicit deals and corporate espionage that Dawson was explicitly told to hide from prying eyes and summarily destroy. Looking around at the crew of men around him, Dawson feels the world begin to close in on himself. He proceeds to throw up.

Coming to once more, the corporate shill finds himself in a bed he knows not to be his own, far too cramped. He blearily looks around the shabby suite. There he finds the ringleader of what must be his captors once more, nosily paging through some of his company’s dirty dealings. The mystery man looks up with disinterest as Dawson groans at his misfortune, “Uggghh- Kay, sure. Just let me know how much you want and I’ll be on my way.”

The man adjusts his hat and sets the documents down, “Sure do a lotta shady business dontcha Mr. Davis?” Dawson rolls his eyes, not too pleased at how much this nobody seems to know about himself and his company. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he ignores the man’s comment and continues to try and buy his way out of here, “Yeah yeah sure, business is business. A number. Go crazy, no one even has to know- check cash card, I’ll give you money enough to this shith-”

Before Dawson has a chance to understand the hole he has continued to talk himself into, he’s interrupted as his captor slams his hand against the side of his chair. The massive man stands and stares down at Dawson with an intensity he only thought one of his superiors could produce, it’s enough to stun the glib asshole into silence. Then the cowboy speaks, “I’m Wayne. Since yew didn't have the wherewithal t’ ask yerself. Course, I already know yer Dawson Davis and yew have cash to make all my dreams come true.”

After rolling his eyes a few times waiting out the man’s slow drawl, Dawson prepares some surely asinine retort but is silenced by a single raised finger from Wayne as he continues. “Don’t want that. I want yew put in yer place. Damage yew did, coulda killed someone Dawson. I ain’t gonna let you pay yer way outta this mess.”

Wayne stands and turns to head out of the room, revealing Dawson’s work laptop sitting at a desk opposite him. Mind glimmering with the escape he’ll make as soon as this dullard leaves the room, his fingers almost twitching with the anticipation of ordering a car to his location. He imagines the open air, the weight of this rural hellhole not even a memory. But , he can’t.

He can’t go back without ensuring Wayne deletes those docs. His ego more bruised than his face from the accident, Wayne’s reminded that he’s truly trapped. “We’re gonna have yew repair the damages done and then some. Unless of course, you want those images leaked.”

His heart sinks as he imagines being blackballed for something so stupid- no, by having his life ruined by someone so provincial. His expression twitches into a frown. Judging by the silence, Wayne knows his words have sunk in and he departs, “Yew just send whatever messages to let yer bosses know yer still kickin’ and all. I’ll have a plate set fer yew at dinner. Havin’ pulled pork so hope yew don’t mind gettin’ a little messy.”

The local has to hold back laughter as he turns to wink at the destitute man. He did genuinely want to help Dawson be a better man, it’s not his fault that forcing a rich asshole to get his hands dirty. Left to his thoughts and devices Dawson struggles to find any path forward that doesn’t lead to him listening to these simple-minded yokels.

Soon enough, with a heavy sigh, he gives in. His slightly shaky hands type out an email that he’ll be out of work sick for a few days. That’s all it will all be. Just a few days in hell. A minor setback and he’ll be back in the city, his vehicular-fuckup not even a blip on the horizon.

Smelling what must be dinner wafting through the air, Dawson shuts his laptop before he can see his reflection in the dark screen. The email was some of the best work he’s done in some time, alluding that while he’s away he’ll still be hard at work. Getting the job done.

Following his nose downstairs through this mystery house, he’s surprised at how roomy it is. Passing some old framed photos of Wayne, he wonders why there’s no ring on that finger. Gaydar going off he then starts to see a new angle presenting itself, perhaps if money won’t do the trick, he’ll simply need to pull out some of that old Davis charm.

Plan hatched to get out on ‘good behavior’ rather than bribery, the man still clad in the suit he wrecked his car in offers to help with dinner. Wayne waves him off as he finishes up stirring something in a slow cooker, though suggests Dawson go and set the table. The corpo pats himself on the back for avoiding a snide remark at doing the menial task and sets to it, grabbing plates and silverware and leaving them haphazardly at a small table just before Wayne makes his way over with a sandwich-laden tray.

He hadn’t 100% known what the sandwich was when Wayne mentioned it, but seeing this strangely red pork sloppily spill out onto his plate he can’t help but grimace. Already eating his own messy sandwich and knowing he too may as well try and bridge the gap between them, Wayne starts to chat in between bites, “So Mr. Bigshot what is ‘bout my neck of the woods that gets yew all riled up? Ain’t that bad is it?”

Off the grid for the first time in years, looking at what is to his eyes a knock-off sloppy joe, knowing it is Wayne’s way or the highway, Dawson relents. With a sigh, he levels with the brutish man blackmailing him, “Sure- Wayne, is it? Does looking at me not suffice? It’s simply a matter of phenotype, of class.”

Across the table Wayne grabs for a second sandwich and waits for him to go on, “Ah- Let me restate. I am, quite literally, not made for this world. This is probably the longest I’ve gone in years without being on my phone, and it’s only been about five minutes. But again look at me! I mean really, I’m not sure I can even do what you’ve asked of me or why you demand I do so. Your arms may as well be the size of my waist and mine likely have as much strength as your index finger.”

Dawson crosses his thin arms and looks away, uncomfortable at how overtly he praised the man even if it was simply stating the obvious. Doing so he misses the blush that prickles behind the cowboy’s bearded face as he clears his throat, “‘S fair,’s fair. Still I do think yew could learn to like it out here. Think all yew city folk could stand to be more at one with nature y’know? Spend some time with a community less obsessed with status and getting ahead. Do somethin’ that ain’t movin’ number ‘round on spreadsheets.”

The pair let Wayne’s words sit for a few moments, Dawson goes for his first bite and is less than pleased with the presumably pork detritus that falls abc to the plate as he does so. Sauce staining his face he pleadingly looks to Wayne for a napkin. The man laughs and wonders why he’s suddenly so charmed by a man that was so negligent as to drive not only recklessly but blackout drunk. He pushes that down as he helps the man anyway, “Was yer job to grab those y’know,” he offers with a wink before returning with his dirty plate to the kitchen proper.

“Want a beer boss?” Dawson would prefer stronger spirits but figures any hair of the dog he can get would help his still panging head. He doesn’t realize the mistake he’s soon to make as he lifts the cold bottle to his lips, as soon as the hoppy swill touches his tongue he realizes just how unprepared he was for a drink that cost less than he’d pay for water.

Foamy beer shoots out his nose as he tries to get the stuff away from his taste buds with expediency. Wayne almost does so himself as he laughs at the man’s hysterics. When he sees the man sputtering though he can’t help but feel a strange pang of an emotion that he again refuses to interrogate as he makes his way over with a towel once more.

Soaked in spit-up beer, Dawson stumbles to his feet and apologizes for the mess. Now standing he sees the world in front of him begin to go topsy-turvy, almost falling before Wayne rushes to grab him. “Woah! Okay there partner, guess yer still recovering from the accident. Here, lemmme- Hup!” Wayne hoists the still dripping man up onto his back, for a moment he’s surprised. He carried him with ease earlier, and still does of course, but he does seem slightly heavier.

This falls by the wayside anyway as the man’s sticky breath on the back of his neck begins to produce another problem. Feeling Dawson’s dainty hands gripping his pecs for dear life, hearing the quiet groans of a man he despised moments ago. The man’s pathetic, absolutely a dick, but Dawson can scarcely ignore the strange sensations rising within him more with each heavy step.

When he feels his cock begin to stir he hastens and less than carefully dumps Dawson on his guest bed before racing back out of the room. “Well yew sleep well now y’hear?” Dawson shoots a lazy thumbs up and Wayne pats the door frame a few times, possessed with a desire to stay and stare at the man, “tomorrow we’ll uhh work on sodding the land yew scuffed up so, uhh- get some rest.”

Wayne beats a hasty retreat to his own bedroom, readjusting his pants as he does so. He tries to force himself to remember his disdain, how spiteful Dawson was at their first encounter. Something weird is going on. Though when he too quickly drifts to sleep his subconscious is more than happy to follow his strange, unbecoming desires for the obnoxious man.

In fact both men dream of the other. It’s no wonder Dawson does so, after acknowledging the man’s physique and putting forth effort to find any upside towards his blackmail induced community service that his dreamself finds itself fixating on the hairy hands and burly arms of his blackmailer. To not acknowledge the man as hot would be a lie. In the waking world Dawson’s sticky hands paw at his crotch, struggling under his waistband to play with the throbbing cock. There they struggle against a burgeoning bush of pubes. He grumbles aimlessly, some part of him wondering when the last time he shaved, but it’s of no matter.

Down the hall, Wayne’s dreams are decidedly stranger. It’s like the last twenty four hours are being rewritten. He finds Dawson in the field, asleep at the wheel. He hears him offer to pay for the damages just as he did, but then he offers a helping hand. The man who’d scarcely lift a finger to do any labor besides pushing paper offers to take part in cleaning up the mess he wrought. Dream Wayne starts to inspect the car wondering if the man was even being black mailed anymore, but then he sees the man’s hands and steps back in shock.

Gone are the thin pale fingers, the porcelain hand that has never lifted an object heavier than a stapler. At the end of Dawson’s arms are hands with palms rough enough to not need a glove, hairy wrists that he knows the suit would Nair away in an instant. Realizing this is a dream Wayne begins to turn away to hopefully awaken, just before doing so however, he sneaks a peak of the man’s face. Wayne blinks and in less than a moment the man’s visage changes absolutely. His jawline sharpens and bulges before it’s hidden by a thick, musky beard.

Wayne tries to close his eyes to not see the man transforming through nothing but the power of his own imagination. This only makes the cracking of bones and stretching sounds of muscle growing all the more vivid. The sound of his posh voice deepening with every grunt drives Wayne wild as he humps his bed from the dream of ecstatic transformation. Separated by a few doors both men lose control at the same time. And then the rooster crows.

Awakening face down and feeling his crotch damp, Wayne pushes down everything and prepares for the day ahead. No need to think about the strange nightmare, wet dream, whatever- if he doesn’t give himself time to think at all. Grabbing some old, sure to be too large, clothes for Dawson to wear, he tosses them into the guest room without looking and runs to prepare the equipment for their work today.

With his hand down his pants, Dawson is grateful that his host seems disinterested in checking up on him. He hears the man shout, “get rinsed up and ready for some hard work D- Coffee’s goin’ in the pot.” Dawson does just that, not wondering how he knows his way to the bathroom upstairs.

Left to his own devices for just this moment however, Dawson takes a look in the mirror and his eyes blur. He knows what he looks like, knows what he should look like. And yet, the man now reflected back at him is not that. Though, with each moment lost to the confusion that begins to change. His life up to this point begins to unravel and stitch back together.

Memories of eating barely enough to sustain a human body are washed away and replaced by the life of a man who takes care of himself, for vanity if nothing else. He feels his shoulders strain from holding arms far heavier than the twigs he should have had, before they too widen and burst larger with new strength. Ribs that have always been exposed through his pale skin are suddenly obscured by muscle he never imagined he’d grow or care enough to maintain.

Were he still wearing a shirt, its buttons would surely pop off as his thin chest is suddenly decorated with two delectable pecs that must have taken countless hours in the gym to produce. At the same time, across his form his pale skin begins to glow with a tan. The life spent more under phosphorescents and LEDs than the sun begins to feel unfamiliar as his upper body burns a healthy bronze. As his changes begin to wane, his hair shifting darker and messier as a treasure trail begins to make its way up his waist.

He recalls his conversation last night with Wayne, over a beer he thinks? He remembers eyeing the man’s form with jealousy? No something else. Dawson flexes in the mirror and tries to imagine himself being more like Wayne, being more of a man. His chest quivers as his face burns red from the effort of flexing and before he can even take a shower he’s summoned by Wayne from outside, “Eyup! Ready to get to ‘er D!?”

Briefly smelling his pits to see how much he actually needs a shower he almost laughs as he can barely make out any b.o. underneath the hefty deodorant and cologne he had put on previously. Throwing on Wayne’s hand me downs, Dawson finally departs and takes in the homestead with sober eyes for the first time. Sighing wistfully he can’t help but appreciate the sunrise through the thick tree cover. Then he smells the outdoors and grimaces, he much prefers city stink to whatever that odor is.

Hopping in Wayne’s pickup, already loaded with sod and some tools, Dawson realizes he has no idea what became of his company car. Pit opening in his stomach he promptly discards his growing appreciation of the country to inquire about the car, “Good morning Wayne~ You wouldn’t happen to know if my truck was still in working condition, or uh, what you guys did with it?”

Wayne eyes him wryly as he starts driving the few blocks towards his crash site, “Yer truck?” It takes a few moments of Dawson looking him up and down before he realizes why that’s even strange, when he does he stammers embarrassed. Obviously he meant car, obviously. He can’t even imagine himself behind the wheel of something so large, so obnoxious.

Distracted, he pouts to himself and quietly opts to watch the driver rather than the countryside. He looks at the man’s hairy arms with envy, tracing his veiny biceps and wondering how long he’d need to spend in the company gym to get as shredded as him. Biting his lip, his wandering mind can’t help but flicker back to his dream last night as his gaze trails down to the man’s crotch for the first time.

His mouth almost begins watering as he sees the package barely obscured by the rough and tumble man’s stained jeans. He can’t help but let his mind wander out of his control. Soon enough one of his hands begins to reach to the driver’s meaty thighs.

“Woah there!?” Before it can even get close the hand is snatched by Wayne whose mouth squirms into an uncomfortable grimace. Dawson looks to the man’s face, leaving him unaware as even this contact is enough to force Wayne’s cock to twitch.

He clears his throat to cover his embarrassment and the sound of his pants straining before quickly hard braking the truck. “Well, here we are, lemme uhh, go get set up then. Yew ever gardened before there Dawson?” The clerk lets his silence speak for him as he too hops out of the raised truck. When his feet hit the hard packed earth he flexes his toes and realizes how the pair of Wayne’s work shoes he was swimming in suddenly seem to fit better. Much better.

Sneaking up behind his driver, Dawson watches as Wayne stretches to prepare for some heavy lifting. He almost feels possessed as he stares at the man’s bulging form being stretched to its extremes. Hungrily staring at every bulging muscle on the man, Dawson feels himself start to get riled up in more ways than one.

Every inch of his own body begins to burn, itch and grow. Seeing Wayne bend down, Dawson feels his ass and thighs twitch larger as with every movement of the country boy leaves his outfit fitting better on Dawson. Torn between mimicking the man and pawing at his cock pumping larger, Dawson figures after being caught staring once at the country boy today he might as well try to not let his cock completely control him.

Doing his best to shadow tha man, Dawson grunts and groans from the effort expended by stretching his new form. His arms lengthen, giving biceps new room to grow as they fill the suddenly tight tee Wayne lent him. Now struggling to cross his arms in front of him as pecs continue to bulk and bulge larger, Dawson smirks and closes his eyes as he imagines his meaty arms starting to rival those of Wayne.

Seeing the man pull his calves and extend his thighs Dawson struggles to not take the opportunity to stare at the bulge made all the more obvious. Instead he simply continues stretching as if he’s done it every day of his own life. Biting his lip, Dawson feels his borrowed jeans begin to fill with thighs thicker than he can even imagine. Feeling the prickle of hairs rubbing against the rough garment as from cock to toes he begins to feel the itch of new dense growth.

In no time at all, and before they’ve even truly begun to work, Dawson’s clothes are completely soaked through with sweat. His thicker neck glistens under the morning sun as disparate dark patches on his hairy thighs begin to show on the denim. The man once wholly concerned with the rat race grunts from the exertion of growing muscle he would’ve sworn his thin frame couldn’t support. Overheating, he grunts as he tries to remove Wayne’s shirt, now stuck to him from the intense sweat.

Doing so, Dawson doesn’t notice as his voice sounds deeper and rougher than the smooth corporate tone he usually maintains. The same cannot be said for Wayne, who falls to the floor from shock as he hears the man’s deepening voice. Flashing back to the moment just before he woke up, he scrambles away as he sees what has become of the businessman that should be standing before him.

Dawson tilts his head in surprise as Wayne looks at him with what can only be described as fear. “What’s up Wayne? Gotta cramp or something?” He smirks, still unaware of his changing timbre or the simplification of his performatively haughty syntax, “Or are you just jealous of how big I’m getting hah!” Now escaped from his shirt, Dawson makes his way over to help the man up. Gulping as Dawson approaches him, Wayne tries to reconcile and understand what’s happening. His mind racing as he holds two realities in his head at once.

His eyes flicker across Dawson’s clearly changed form, seeing his toes poking at the front of his own tennis shoes that should be sizes too large and a wide Adam's apple bugling out of his neck. He sees thick pecs being held back by overall suspenders that he would’ve sworn hung halfway down the man’s waist minutes ago. When Dawson reaches down to help him up, there is no recourse but to take it. And then he feels the rough hand he knows he dreamt about.

Hoisted up, face to face with a man that absolutely should be shorter than himself, he feels his mind wiped. Something has changed, this is not the man who barrelled into his life with a trunk full of corporate fraud and secrets. Lost in a haze he shakes it off to focus on what they’re here for, pushing down on his rising erection to get to work. And work they do.

Though it takes much of the day, together the pair make light work of the mess Dawson made. With each bit of grass laid, the motions and rigors of manual labor feel more and more familiar to Dawson’s hands. Soon enough the idea that he’d be sending emails and disparaging underlings right about now begins to feel anathema to the still growing man.

In between every labored breath and peaceful exhalation, the pair steal looks of each other. Looks of hunger, of need, of familiarity. It’s strange how malleable they seem in each other’s mind. Dawson clearly remembers he didn’t want to do this, he knows Wayne had to convince him somehow. But for the life of him he can’t remember why he’d need to be harangued to clean up his own mess. At the same time Wayne struggles to remember his muscular helper as anything but, starting to see him more as a new transplant to the community than anything untoward.

This instinct is not helped as in nearing up their hard work for the day, Dawson wipes his sweaty brow with the discarded shirt and whines, “Yo- did you bring any of those beers out here Wayne?” Nodding, he goes to his cabin and grabs one from an ice chest. Tossing it over he watches as Dawson takes a contented swig before sighing in ecstasy, “oooh yeah~ No better way to follow up a job well done eh?” Stubble prickles on the man’s once clean shaven face as droplets sneak past his wanting lips.

Wayne’s eye twitches as he can clearly recall Dawson doing such a poor job stomaching the stuff that he almost passed out from coughing it up. Staring at the man happily drinking the stuff as his tanned skin glistens in the sun, his desires begin to cloud his memory once more. Lust decidedly distracting him from the way the world should be. He’s not about to act on it however, instead getting in his car and calling for Dawson to do the same. “Finish that up, before hoppin’ in now-”

Tossing the can into the bed, Dawson rolls his eyes, “Ah come now, talkin’ about me like I’m irresponsible.” Wayne’s brow furrows as he turns the key and starts driving before his passenger’s even buckled up. Locked in the cabin with him, the driver is relentlessly distracted by the smell of his sweat. His mouth waters as he imagines the man’s sweaty pits and musky pubes. He doesn’t know how he makes it home without his cock bursting through his pants.

Just about doing so, he leaves the key in the ignition and sprints into his home. Dawson cries after Wayne, shocked at the bizarre haste of his flight. Barely making it into the bathroom before the friction of his needy cock rubbing against his jeans causes him to lose control, he ruts against the tight pants and falls to the floor as his mind is filled with innumerable images of Dawson as he is now. Each one adamantly suggesting that the idea of him being any different is ludicrous.

Still at the truck Dawson’s mind begins to change likewise. Walking over he takes the keys to the truck, to the house before turning to the equipment left in the bed. And then he begins to unload. Scratching his chest, a few curls begin to prickle out of his sweaty skin as he single handedly begins to load tools and machinery back into a workshop he has never been in before.

The few new curls in his pits expand with haste, dripping with sweat as the bush extends halfway down his biceps. His treasure trail expands to encompass the whole of his stomach as every trip back and forth from truck to shed leaves him more of a man than before. Thick dark hairs launch over his clavicle as a peak of heady curls race to coat the center of his chest, creating singular coverage from his pubes to his burgeoning beard.

By the time he’s finished getting everything in its proper place Dawson can scarcely imagine a different life. Forcing his nose into his own hairy pits he smirks as he delights in how musky he’s left after an honest day's work. He scratches at his sweaty pubes and wonders what Wayne’s up to inside. All the while the few strands of stubble left on his jaw begin to expand and thicken. Sideburns shoot down his rougher cheeks as a mustache begins to decorate his upper lip.

His stomach rumbles as he crosses the threshold into their- er, into Wayne’s home. Scratching his hairy, muscular gut with equally furry thick fingers he figures he might as well start dinner for the both of them. Going for the fridge he finds a few containers of leftover pulled pork and his mouth begins to water. That’ll do nicely. Grabbing a cast iron and starting the gas stove, Dawson cries out, “Honey I’m home~”

Unaware that he lost consciousness during his release, Wayne hears the man’s voice carry through the air, rugged and melodic. He can’t stop his response as he meekly responds, “Duke-” His pupils dilate as the life he knows, begins to change into something new, unfamiliar but true.

Stumbling out of the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist, Wayne sees Duke in a similar state of undress, overalls hanging down, exposing his jungle of pubes as he stirs at the pan. Dawson Duke turns to smile at his uh, his? Neither man is quite sure what exactly their relationship is. Wayne watches as the final changes begin to occur to Duke’s body. Muscles hardening with age as the few inches of exposed skin not decorated with his pelt are swiftly decorated with new dark curls.

Veins criss-cross down the man’s arms as he puts on a little show for his partner, calling out to him in his rough new baritone, “Hey there Wayney- Know we just finished up out there but I’m feelin’ like I’m good fer another round ‘f yew know what I mean.” Not exactly one for subtlety, or at least not anymore. Wayne feels butterflies he hasn’t felt in years as he stands in the presence of his partner

Watching Duke scratch his pubes and beard with the same hand while cooking, he kicks himself for always falling for such fixer-uppers. Nevertheless his cock begins to stir once more. Walking over to the man who eyes him like a puppy dog, Wayne purses his lips just to see what the newly-burly man will do. Duke stops his little arms show and just watches, trying to make heads or tails of what his partner is doing.

Wayne leans in close before pulling the sweaty man into an embrace. Feeling Duke vibrate with excitement as his cock instantly grows rockhard, he sees the pan on the stove behind him and instead whispers into the brute’s ear, “Left dinner runnin’ there Duke.” Having forgotten everything in the world as soon as his eyes fall on Wayne, as he often does. Duke curses before returning to his task, lest he ruin their dinner and be playfully mocked by Wayne, “Shit!”

Looking around their shared homestead, Wayne feels a weight he didn’t even know he was carrying lifted. Some unknown peace comforting him more than he can know. This is right, how it should be. Preparing the table before wandering back behind Duke with a damp towel to wipe his hairy shoulders clean, Wayne continues teasing, “‘Sides yew know we ain’t gonna fuck ‘til we clean up your mess in Ant n’ Jonah’s field.”

Duke groans as his cock pushes against the overalls. Not like he was joyriding or anything. He had to swerve or he’d hit that deer, uhh he thinks. Never been the sharpest tool in the shed but he’s pretty sure that’s what happened. Whatever, he’s not worried. Sides, he can’t wait to use their new post digger! Almost gets him as excited as getting off with Wayne, heh!

And so the pair go on, neither quite remembering the finer details of their lives before now, though without a doubt knowing there is no better world out there for either. Ratrace behind him the kinder but duller Duke does real good in the world. Helping out their community and finding real bliss in doing what he can, as well as of course in the arms of his lover, his husband, Wayne.

For his part, Wayne didn’t even realize how lonely he was. Forcing himself to be the masc civil leader of their little hamlet left him little time for anything but the sweat of his brow. Now with a friendly face to return home to rather than a large empty house, Wayne finally allows himself time to relax. All in all, with the new southern lovebirds, their community has never flourished more.

#male tf #mental change #hair growth #reality change #dumber #cowboy tf #personality change #musk tf #muscle tf

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charm-in-spades · 1 day ago

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Kinda pissed, won't lie. The Librarian of Congress would have been Carla Hayden, the first woman AND black American to run the library. She's been a librarian her whole career, has been a huge road block to Trump and his administration gaining unauthorized access (he needs Congressional approval) to library records (he's been attempting to destroy historical records and information through museums and libraries, and DOGE wants to train AI with the libraries contents. Additionally, the Library of Congress is also in charge of the copyright process, so we should probably be pretty concerned over that,) and was integral in getting the Library of Congress digitally archived so that more people could actually see what was there.

This is a woman who started her work in Chicago telling stories to kids with autism, and who spent a lot of her early career making sure kids and libraries had resources. She's done a lot for basically every position she's worked as, which includes Library Services Coordinator for Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry, Deputy Commissioner and Chief Librarian of Chicago Public Library (and the entire cities library system), Head of Enoch Pratt Free Library, President of the American Library Association, and expanded Baltimore's digital resources.

She kept the libraries open during protests and riots (kinda important since colleges and libraries can act as staging grounds for protests and riots). When Obama appointed her in 2016, she was confirmed in a vote of 74-18 attributed to the fact that even Republicans respected her for raising hell over the PATRIOT Act, as she was vocal about its infringements on American citizen's rights to privacy and a right to freedom from government control and oversight on what people read or learn about.

She's been a Librarian her whole career, which is notable because past librarians have generally been historians and scholars. The first librarian by profession since the 70s. She's dedicated her whole life to information activism. The ideas of Equity of Access she's discussed have long been centered towards -rural- communities and the visually impaired. On the Library of Congress web page, there's actually a video featured right now titled 'Celebrating Public Service: Resources for the Blind'.

She's talked about Equity of Access a lot over the years and as far back as 2004 described it as, "When all people have access to all library services and all types of library materials, no matter their age, ethnicity, physical ability, income, language, geographic location or type of library.”

As an activist, she's been incredibly vocal about people's right to access -free- information and has been a staunch advocate for libraries not just as hubs for learning but as lifelines and resources to communities in need. Places where the under-served can actually be helped. She has strongly fought to retain libraries as safe havens for everybody. You can read about her career down below in some of these sources but please understand what a loss this actually is.

source - Brittanica

source - library.illinois.edu

source - (to read this one, before it loads the paywall click the page reader and you should be able to see all of it. A trick that works for most paywall articles. )

Additional sources on Trump's targeting of the Legislative Branch and the LOC overall.

article

Here's an interview she did recently as well on 'Accessing Reliable Information'. I think everyone should hear and learn about her and role in information activism as a whole.

interview

Also want to give everyone an idea of the topics people are interested in via what's trending on the Library of Congress website today as of 5/18/2025.

Top Searches:

World War II

Newspapers

Veterans

Civil War

Slavery

Civil Rights

...I wonder why?

No children are allowed in the Library of Congress.

It's not that kind of library.

In other words...

You are being lied to

again

#screaming into the fucking void #i hate it here man #out of cards #librarians #Carla Hayden #Librarian of Congress

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transfemme-shelterdog · 2 days ago

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honestly at this point I might seriously consider never transitioning. sure it would help my depression and actually make be able to live the life I want to live but I just. I don't know. I think at this point the trans community likes cis women more than trans men. I don't want to be seen as a rapist by not only the people trying to strip away my rights but also the people who are supposed to be supporting me. I'll always be a woman because that's what the doctors decided I was. And being a woman is a good thing. It's the better thing. It's the morally correct thing. In this day and age that's so rife with misogyny I feel like I have a duty to not be some sort of gender traitor. Half the time I feel like it would just be easier to be some cis MRA. I don't care if I'm wrong anymore it just hurts too much. Sorry if this is a bit much lol. I'm okay just frustrated

I think you should transition based on what you want for yourself. Society's views on things change, feelings come and go with time, but you always need to live with yourself.

So, if it would help you to feel better about yourself, and help your depression, it's important that you do what's best for you. Not what's gonna be best for society. Society won't remember you in a day or two, people on the street won't remember you. So why should you care about conforming to what society feels is "safest"?

Every gender has its upsides and downsides. So wouldn't it be best to do what makes you happiest, and not what you feel is gonna make random ass strangers who don't even know you exist happiest?

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thetinyblossom · 16 hours ago

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Hello,

I don’t often do this kinds of posts (actually this might be one of the first and last times I do this) but this is an important topic for me.

Recently I have seen one post in particular who did not credit the art used. I commented who the artist was and that crediting was important.

I was not only ignored but the comments got limited and (from what I understand) I got blocked (since the “error: can’t reblog this” appears).

This is not me trying to harass or bully someone, quite the contrary, if I could solve this via DM’s or comments I wouldn’t be here, but it really frustrates me how much artwork is reposted without credits on the agere community.

Specially seeing this post has now around 400 notes.

I remember making a post about similar issues before (here) but it looks like people (still) really don’t care and it breaks my heart as a regressor and as someone that draws to see a community that preaches so much about love and compassion having NO compassion for those who work doing the media/art they consume.

I call that hypocrisy.

I’m not saying I never made similar mistakes before, I myself have made stimboards without properly crediting the gif makers, because i wasn’t aware of how important it was to credit them. Once I learned that info I didn’t hide away from my mistakes, I changed my ways, and now all my stimboards are properly sourced and credited.

Out of respect I won’t be sharing the accounts name, but I will link here the OG artist Instagram (@/brightbat), Kylie sells prints, pins, stickers, plushies and other cute things on her Etsy store if you look into supporting her.

Over all, please do not attack this person, I do not intent on this being a post to drag someone but more of a overall warning to those who post stuff without credits: If the art moves you, makes you smile, makes you feel, why don’t give the artist the minimum respect of crediting them?

In addition: If you are the person that blocked me, we are both adults, 20 yro’s, so please, if you wanna resolve this let’s have a respectful chat like the adults we are via DM’s.

#blossom babbles #tags for reach srry >#agere blog #agere #age regression #sfw agere #agere sfw #sfw agereg #age regressor #agere community #agere fandom #fandom agere #agere art

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communistkenobi · 2 days ago

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Not annoying at all! I appreciate the response, because I think your examples do in fact speak to the point I’m trying to make, which is: my problem with ‘groupthink’ as a term is that it locates the mechanism of social coercion at the level ‘the group’. To use groupthink as an explanation argues that people’s opinions are swayed and disagreement is discouraged because they are in a group setting. It is the group ‘doing’ the coercion. And I think this has pretty limited explanatory power, because “group” is being treated like a coherent category. Human beings are social, we have lived in “groups” for many many centuries, but what those groups looks like, how they are arranged, how these groups form, the boundaries of how those groups are negotiated and understood, the internal dynamics of those groups, the external pressures on those groups, how they relate to other groups, and the types of power individuals can accrue within those groups has been so variable across time and space that “group” quickly becomes an unusably vague container of explanatory value. “Group” does not reference an actual social arrangement of people in the real world, it is an abstract and imprecise stand-in that gestures at a large variety of social arrangements, and as a result of this abstraction, it leads people to what I think are deeply anti-scientific conclusions about how coercion, social influence, and power operate in social spaces.

The Challenger example is fantastic for this, in fact, because using “groupthink” to explain the reasons for the explosion forecloses any broader historical or political explanations, such as the monumental pressures of the Cold War as the United States competed with the USSR for technological dominance which compelled rushed launches, the failure of scientists and engineers to effectively communicate the severity of the problem to politicians (being an effective public scientific educator, even to high-ranking politicians, is a social and political process - it relates to mass public education curricula, it relates to how the academy relates to the profession of teaching, it relates to who has access to this knowledge, etc etc), or the massive sweep of governmental deregulations happening under the Reagan administration at the time that produces less checks and balances. “Groupthink” as an explanatory framework tells us nothing about the wider social and political conditions of what is an incredibly political event.

Now why does this matter? Maybe that explanation is unimportant for your purposes. Maybe you (generic you, not you specifically) don’t need to account for those things if what you’re describing is a very local level of social pressure. But if that is the scale at which you want to describe social phenomenon (ie, the abstract category of “the group”) then you run into trouble pretty quickly if you want to make generalisations about social coercion in general, group dynamics in general (such as The Challenger explosion). And that’s what I’m describing in the above post (in a very cheeky, cavalier way, ofc) - if you wanna talk about like, why your friends all agreed to watch a movie nobody actually wants to watch, then that’s fine, maybe groupthink is a good term to use. But it is methodologically ill-equipped (in my view) for anything more substantial than that. I disagree with it because it produces bad and unhelpful epistemic assumptions when attempting to scale up its explanatory use.

It's not meant to be a fun or fancy or word or do anything, it's like, oh what if we came up with a name for this?

And I would push back on this point you made specifically because to name a phenomenon is to argue that it is important to identify; groupthink places a conceptual boundary around “the problem” (social coercion) in an attempt to articulate its effects in the world and explain why it occurs. All terms have value because their existence arises from the assumption that the phenomena they describe are worth consideration in the first place. And “groupthink” is not just a casual term, it comes out of American psychology, an academic discipline with immense social and political power (the power to pathologise people; the power to imprison; the power to deny rights to those deemed “unfit” for society; the power to define the conditions under which groups are allowed to exist in society, such as transgender people or disabled people; the power to deny or grant insurance coverage for medications via diagnoses; and so on). “Groupthink” as a concept actually has very important stakes because it was produced out of a position of power, and it should be treated with the seriousness it deserves, which is what I’m attempting to do in this reply and others I’ve given on this post

groupthink is such a nothing phrase. oh your thoughts are socially influenced and mediated? unlike me, who forms all my opinions in complete isolation. enlightenment philosophers who spent their lives inventing phrenology and writing racism textbooks beat you to the punch like four hundred years ago you’re gonna need to come up with something more original. sounds like you’re engaging in groupthink honestly

#book club #<- not really just theory posting #Anyway not mad at all I appreciate the discussion ! Genuinely it does make me think about my position in more precise terms

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white-hole-station · 13 hours ago

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I headcanon that Hearthians don't sleep based on Timber Hearth's actual day/night cycle (because that's too short), but their level of activity does fluctuate with it, both individually and culturally. When it's light, there's more movement and louder talking and laughing around the village, and more physical tasks are done - building, fishing, repairs, exploration. When it's dark, the town is more quiet, and people do downtime activities or more restful/indoor chores like sewing to go along with their bodies and brains' natural slowing of the pace. It's considered kind of rude to start an important conversation or demand decision-making when it's dark, and regularly pushing yourself to keep doing light-time tasks though the dark part of the rotation instead of taking a break (like I'm sure Slate and Hornfels do) is a sign of determination or a sign of chronic overwork, depending on the circumstances.

When a Hearthian goes to space, the fluctuation in energy still lingers on the Timber Hearth schedule for a couple days, but it fades fast. Either the travelers get a new circadian rhythm from the planet they're on, or, more often, they get caught in a troublesome in-between on a scale of either too revved up to be sustainable, or too low energy to be very useful. In a place like Giant's Deep, with its heavy cloud cover, it's not hard to imagine why Gabbro would wind up even more nappish than usual, being slightly sleepy most of the time even with enough rest. In exposed places like Ember Twin, the constant bright light would leave a Hearthian feeling keyed up for longer than their bodies and brains are really layed out to handle, which can easily lead to burnout (...and definitely didn't help with poor Chert's late-loop breakdown). The effect isn't extreme, but it's definitely inconvenient, and an experienced traveler will have to learn to compensate for it in different ways in the places where they make camp often.

When it comes to actually sleeping, I think each individual sort of ends up on their own natural schedule, going to bed when it's dark and they feel tired enough and being down for a few rotations before waking up again. Very new hatchlings often wake every time it's light, making them a bit high maintenance to care for.

The reality of going to bed and sleeping while others might be still be up and in the middle of their day means a Hearthian is used to drifting off with the noise of community around them...which makes going to sleep in space especially disconcerting and isolating. A lot of new travelers will leave their signalscope on, the staticy music and shifting signals filling the silence until they can get more accustomed to sleeping alone. Hornfels has spent many a first night out on the radio from mission control with the new traveler in question, just talking quietly or puttering around the museum, so that the radio picks up the noise in the background and lulls the astronaut to sleep. None of them ever planned to call so soon after launch, but they almost always do. It's okay. Hornfels doesn't mind. Even from the museum, they can hear the sounds of Timber Hearth from out the windows, and they have a hard time imagining sometimes how lonely it would be to hear nothing but the stars.

#outer wilds #original posts #it's so late i don't know if anyone will see this one but I'm not normal about it so i have to post #started as a biology and culture headcanon turned into an outer wilds ventures one #man. travelers #the way it must feel; to be interconnected like that and then suddenly still interconnected but now by a very long tether #and hornfels making it their duty to be keeping an ear on them all

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twopoppies · 2 days ago

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Iremember when I left the fandom back in 2015, my entire dashboard was pretty much larry content. The fandom felt like a real community back then — sure, there was some hate here and there, but it never overshadowed how much I enjoyed being part of it, learning, interacting, and just having fun.

When I decided to come back last year and got back into my old Tumblr account, it honestly felt like I was stepping into a completely different fandom. I tried to catch up by visiting some of the blogs I used to follow, and wow, was I in for a surprise. I saw masterposts that are like “10 Reasons Why Harry is (insert random negative adjective here),” “Evidence That Harry Sabotaged Louis’ Career,” or “Proof That Louis is Actually a Dad,” and so on.

The more I dig in, the more I realized how insanely fragmented the fandom had become. There seemed to be way more hate and extreme takes that lacked any kind of critical thinking, and that made me really sad. This space used to be a source of comfort for me — a little escape from the real world — but now it feels like a reflection of it, with all the same toxicity, of course with exceptions.

I don’t mind when people call out Louis or Harry when they say or do something problematic — accountability is important. But sometimes it feels like certain people exist solely to hate them, to prove they're awful human beings, and it all comes off so exaggerated and cartoonish. Others have expectations so impossibly high, no one could ever meet them.

And then you add misinformation, the fact that you can’t have a different opinion without being insulted, the endless subgroups… it’s just exhausting sometimes.

You’ve summed it up perfectly.

#fandom history #it’s become such a toxic place

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niamhthefae · 13 hours ago

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just reread season 2 up to 120 and i have so many thougts (that people have probably already had but oh well).

just warning you: this will be a long post

willtressor: i feel so sorry for Will, not the him that kissed Monty but the other him. because the Will that died finally got the answer to the question he was too afraid to ask. He died having finally had the realization about everything he'd felt his entire life and why he was the way he was, and just the "that's 3 times. I've never seen you stick your neck out for anyone else" this is the bravest, the most confident, the most WILL we've seen him. He wasn't groveling, he was challenging Monty, he took charge of the situation. For the duration of the kiss, he reversed their roles. I am so proud of him. But this other Will didn't get that. this other Will has to continue on, being scared and thinking he's so inferior to everyone else. in life he was just one of fourteen kids and in death he still doesn't see himself as any more noticeable or important. This Will never got the resolution he needed and now he's going to probably be so confused and continue to feel forgotten and useless for a while (unless Monty does something)

speaking of Monty- oh my fucking god. i still don't like him, i never have and i will never excuse some of the things he said and did, but from the flashbacks and the past few chapters it's very evident that this is a severely traumatized man. he's fucked up. and we see that he really cares about Will. he can’t admit it or show it in any way that would be recognizable to anyone else but again, i quote "that's 3 times now, I've never seen you stick your neck out for anyone else" i think what we have to remember about him is that he is a deeply fucked up individual and he has probably had to learn how to defend himself mentally, emotionally and physically. this whole thing he does, i think it's because if he makes everyone hate him on purpose then the rejection is easer and he doesn't have to deal with anybody trying to get close, which is maybe why ada and will piss him off so much: no matter how hard he tries to get rid of them they kept coming back and clinging onto him and acting like he hung the fucking moon and stars (or at least Will does). I think the events of episode 120 will make him do one of two things: become better and treat will properly while being a little haunted. or become worse,more scared and build more (metaphorical) walls and only become meaner. (and i'm starting to think it will be the latter. he'll be scared and haunted and all for a few chapters and then he'll start being crueler to cover up his sexuality panic.

prospero -

Prospero- i'm gonna put away my biases for this one (i think he's really fit). First of all, i called the whole plague thing + OCD tendancies (my best friend has really bad ocd and she suspects i have very very mild ocd ESPECIALLY around germs and mould and bacteria so i know what it looks like) anyway onto the serious talking. Seing prospero get slurred and the way he interracts with his family tells us so much. I'm pretty sure we're in the eighteen tens here and many italian and spanish immigrants were not treated the best, especially because of the mass sickness at the time, which i imagine only worsened Prospero's problems with germs and being unclean. People calling him names and treating him as inferior and some people blaming the plague on the immigrants would probably have made him spiral a little. I am so annoyed at his cousin because they've presumably known each other for a while. We know that because this guy knows exactly how to mess with Prospero, so surely he knows that this has been a thing for a long time? Feeling the way that prospero does about cleanliness doesn't happen overnight and while we don't know about anything before this, we can assume that people in the community would know about it, especially if they are family. I also feel so bad for him because people don't seem to understand. They think he's digusted by them or that he wants to distance himself from them or that he doesn't love them, when in actual fact he just has something going on with him that makes it difficult for him to get close to anyone. Weather he's aroace or just can't get close to anyone or express his love because of whatever is going on with him, we don't know. Red and Flynn could take it in very interesting directions either way, or if there's some secret third thing i'm sure it will be fantastic.

[also, in another universe, prospero could have worked with carlise cullen while he was alive. Someone write the fic.]

Quickfire round (don't have as much rambling or analysis for these)

Duke- duke is hiding behind who he is on stage, he's the fearless fortunato and that means that he will keep being reckless and disregarding the safety of himself and others until he exhausts himself and girlbosses to close to the sun. Only then will he learn. I love him, don't get me wrong. I love this silly little french man, but he needs to stop being so cocky and showing off when they are literally about to die for a second time.

Ada- i feel so sorry for ada. For the majority of this fic i didn't like her, but all she ever really wanted in life and in death was to be loved, and damn can i relate to that. She deserved better. She was annoying and bitchy and kind of a pick me but she deserved better. She was like that because she had to be. Do you think she saw the nurse's outfit and was hit with a strande deja vu? Because it was so similar to her maid's uniform. Ada clings onto anyone she can because all she wants is to be loved, but she'll never get the love she craves. She wants to be cinderella, but she won't marry a prince, she didn't even make it out of the cellar.

Pluto: this guy is really just the human embodiment of a cat isn't he? As a manchester girly i love the lancashire representation with this guy, i've been to blackpool like 10 times for various occasions throughout my life. I think it's a tie between him and Will for my favorite character. (also i can't decide if he is just really gender or really fit)

Unrelated but does anybody know the age range? Like are they adults or teenagers? Because with some of them like pluto and morella and maybe Will and eulalie it seems like they're at least 17 but no older than 19. but with some of the others they're very clearly in their early 20s, like Montressor,duke, prospero and Ada are all deffo above the age of 20, as are our main ladies. That's just my perspective though

Anyway's theres a whole recap of my current Nevermore thoughts. So far in order of obsession my ships are Willtressor Lenore and anabell (idk ship name) And i'm gonna be honest i don’t really ship plukalie but i can't remember any other ships.

Quick theory time: what if the reason Lenore hasn't manifested yet isn't the curse or something. The deans said they would manifest when they felt what they felt when they died. What if when she died, for that split second, lenore felt loved, or content. What if the reason why it hasn't happened is because in order for her to manifest she would need to be happy and feel safe. I don't think she's really properly felt any of those things for more than a short while durning her time at nevermore. Never long enough or completely enough anyway, because for either of those things to be fulfilled she would need annabel, and there is no other way for her to feel what she felt when she died.

(btw please bear in mind i started writing this whole post at 11:35 last night and i have exams so my brain is not braining i should be REVISING not thinking about GAY PEOPLE god damn it)

#this webcomic is taking over my life #nevermore #nevermore webtoon #nevermore webcomic #nevermore pluto #nevermore will #nevermore duke #ada nevermore #willtressor #montresor nevermore #lenore nevermore #annabel lee nevermore #prospero nevermore #Lennabel

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