You Know I Think Ive Come To The Conclusion That The Answer To But What If A Cis Woman Is Traumatized

you know i think i’ve come to the conclusion that the answer to “but what if a cis woman is traumatized by men/male presenting people/whatever?” irt safe spaces is this: if you can’t be in the same room with someone you assume to be male or a man without feeling triggered, it probably means you have a lot more solo therapy and healing to do before relying on group therapy or other communal healing.

because how do you decide who gets to stay and who gets kicked out based on a cis woman’s trauma response? is it based on appearance? should intersex women with facial hair not be allowed because beards are triggering? should butches and studs not be allowed because masculinity is triggering? should talk broad shouldered trans women who don’t want to voice train not be allowed because low voices are triggering? is it based on identity? should a pre transition trans man who came out two days ago not be allowed because he’s a man? is a nonbinary person with a full beard and deep voice allowed because they are not a man?

because if you base your entire set of rules for who’s not allowed in the safe space on what makes cis women uncomfortable or triggers them, you’ve just made that space unsafe for trans people. and you need to decide if you’re ready to own that.

"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink," is usually a reminder that you can't control anyone else's behavior, only your own. Sometimes, you have to know when to move on from a situation that is out of your hands.

In other situations, it can be helpful to consider if the horse is you this time.

For example, you can get as many encouraging comments and kudos as your fanfic has readers, but at the end of the day only you can choose whether or not you write more.

"There is no such thing as black and white, good vs. evil situations in real life! Real life is always nuanced, and there's always some gray area to every situation."

"This is why I believe it is strictly immoral to write good vs. evil narratives, as these type of stories are all objectively harmful, promote black and white thinking, and lack any redeeming qualities."

Turns out maybe the one who lacked nuance was the one writing the blog about nuance in stories the whole time.

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Full short film now available at Youtube/MarioLanzas.

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Just here after rereading the latest chapter of Maneater yet again, to say that I am Very Excited about that Oliver PoV chapter coming next! No pressure re writing time (writing takes as long as it takes, and anyway it would be terribly hypocritical of my slow ass to demand anyone else write faster!), just already commented on the chapter and wanted to come flail a bit more in your direction about how much I love your Felix and Oliver, and how feral I am gonna be over the next chapter <3

xD I am finally getting around to responding to comments today and Can Confirm that Felix will continue to lose gay chicken for...the rest of the fic basically. And be massive losers together. Tis their natural state.

I do have the next 6-7 chaps written from when I was speeding through writing, it's more the stalling out beyond that and *then* needing to edit before posting that slows me down lol, but I still love them. Waaay too much (wearing Oliver's watch while I write this lol).

I'm glad you like how I write them! They've definitely fallen into a specific interpretation that built up a lot as I wrote the fic (going in with a clear vision, who??), and Oliver especially only felt more 'solid' once I went into his POV, and even that's in a funny mood for him since he's very...peaceful yet predatory?

Here's a lil snippet!

Felix. Oh, Felix.

Even now, he can surprise Oliver more than anyone alive.

He wants to laugh. He’s already cried plenty. Felix is- He defies explanation, defies logic, emotional and reckless to the very end, and incapable of slamming the brakes on his own careening car. Felix can’t see himself as being able to crash, confident he could swerve out of the way the very last second - and quietly soothed by the certainty someone else will provide the cushioning if necessary, even if he doesn’t like to consciously think of it.

Oliver isn’t a cushion. He’s a cement blockade covered in fucking spikes, and he imagines pressing his cigarette on the soft, vulnerable skin at the back of Felix’s neck. Just for the smell of him when he burns.

He’d sooner stub it out on his own eye than hurt Felix. Grind it in, to form a better reminder.

Greedy, disgusting thing. A thing wanted by Felix Catton. The contradiction could drive a man to madness, and he already made his camp there years ago. The nature of what he is demands it.

How much more will I get?

It’s a question he’s been asking since he first decided to talk to Felix, rather than kill him like he felt he had to, the second Felix sent him a distracted smile through the window.