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high5nerd · 4 years

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Vorfreude

Aay, my first (at the time) Pitch x Reader one-shot!

Don’t fook your professors, folks.

“When understanding the root words of our modern day languages, it can be daunting to fully comprehend the detail such a language as English can be intertwined with a multitude of other languages long forgotten,”

Dr. Pitchiner was certainly entrancing when he spoke at the podium, flourishing a hand at the list of most common prefixes and suffixes used in today’s modern English, along with a surprise list of obscure ones you knew you had to take note on. Dr. Pitchiner wasn’t one to give easy exams, the last exam was so gruelling someone almost passed out from a panic attack at the multitude of pages.

Despite enjoying writing yourself, you weren’t as invested in English as he was, which was a given, hence the reason his PhD in English as well as a degree in Latin Translation. Many times he’s journeyed to Italy to help assist scholars in finding new information on the lost civilizations of Rome, Sicily, and Pompeii, and that credit alone was the sole reason he got the job at this state college. He should have been employed at universities like Harvard or Yale, or even Oxford or Princeton, but yet here he was, teaching at your simple state college with an acceptance rate of 93% and the highest transferring stat in all of your state.

Not a lot of students found him attractive like you did. Certainly there was more than a couple handfuls of girls, pockets of them, who’ve admired his lithe figure, his graceful movements and that firm ass that was way too snug in his black slacks. Most of them admired his physique from afar, some even daring others to get closer to flirt with him shamelessly, and usually that ended up with a bad memory for the attempted action, as well as the girl who tried to drop the class out of utter embarrassment at such a call out after class that could be heard around the hall.

Dr. Kozmotis Pitchiner took no bullshit from anyone, and that’s the main reason your heart fluttered at the thought and sight of him. This class wasn’t the first time you two had met face to face either, shockingly. Quite hilariously, the first time you two met, you didn’t even like him.

Three years ago, you were an itty bitty freshman just like the ones that recently arrived this semester, and to the best of your luck, you scored almost five hours of total free time on Mondays and Wednesdays before your Intro to Biology class and Intro to Psychology course after lunch.

Why not explore the gorgeous campus during those five hours? It would get you more acquainted with your surroundings and in small cases, make new friends! Grabbing a can of fruit juice and a danish from the dining hall, you munched as you explored the massive quad before discovering where the art gallery was, venturing towards the art and theatre buildings you’d be in the next year for your art perspective requirements. You found yourself meandering in the photograph-covered walled hallway of the English department, unknowingly headed towards the campus’s own local newspaper headquarters when a voice startled you from your entrancement with your journey.

“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?” a voice matching the texture of velvet came.

You turn around, frowning at the sudden startling noise. There just feet away from you, emerged from his office was a man dressed in what you would consider funeral appropriate attire, a smooth black suit with a basic black tie, and shiny black dress shoes that looked like they could reflect sunlight and somehow cause a car accident if he walked outside.

“I’m exploring. Where do you think you’re going?” you shot back, taking a long sip of your fruit juice.

You were mildly surprised to see a smirk cross his devious lips, his silver-gold eyes narrowing at your sass. He almost looked amused at your attitude, even enough so that his tensed shoulders relaxed, but his arms still remained folded over his chest.

“At the moment, I’m going wherever you think you’re headed, which should be in the opposite direction you’re headed.”

Ooh, he likes playing word games. You took another sip and then took a big bite of your danish, not caring about how childish you were coming off to him. You pointed towards the hallway, “Why can’t I go down there?”

He gestured his head in the same direction, “It’s merely copy rooms and computer labs meant for the Daily Mascot Oracle. Nothing worth checking out.”

“Oh. That’s a shit title.” you commented.

He barked out a heartwarming laugh. You grin at him, glad he finally was capable of taking that stick out of his ass and be a decent human being. Almost three times so far in just two days you got two people to really dislike your presence and your sassy attitude, someone named Bunnymund and another elfish looking kid named Jack who’s definition of fun didn’t match yours at all.

“I certainly didn’t agree to it either, but the editor in chief made sure my vote was outnumbered,” he hesitated, thinking quickly before glancing at you, “Are you a freshman?”

You nodded, knowing what he would ask next, “Majoring in psychology with hopefully a minor in alternative medicine and therapy.”

He looked genuinely impressed, “I must say, it’s quite refreshing to have a new student under that field. Not a lot of freshmen choose that whilst entering for their first year. What makes you like that field of study so much?”

You shrugged with a smile, “I like the whole concept of the human mind and how it functions on an emotional state. It’s interesting how certain actions and emotions can create feelings inside us, and I especially love the study of dreams and fears and hopes. I want to do a project on dream therapy for my senior thesis when it comes time to that, but I doubt they’ll let me. Professor Oren didn’t like hearing me say that at orientation.”

Dr. Pitchiner nodded, “Oren doesn’t really believe in the science behind dreams, and certainly not the spirituality behind it if you believe in that sort of thing. I certainly do.”

“You do?” you were genuinely surprised, literally taken aback. You wouldn’t have considered such an eloquent, smooth and finely dressed man to believe in a spirituality. He reeked of realist to you, you certainly weren’t expecting that.

He nodded again, “Of course. It’s only natural for the human psyche to become understandable to a certain degree, and it’s been proven through many other cultures that such things exist, like the sixth sense or empathy or precognition. Why not in dream analyzation? It’s fascinating, I’m glad you’re interested in it. If I wasn’t an English professor I would immediately return to college to take advantage of that.”

That’s when you realized how gold his eyes were, how they sparkled like the richest coins ever discovered in the vastness of the sunken world of ships at the bottom of the ocean. His eyes gave away intense wisdom, feeling and intellect that you felt the need to learn from. You needed to unlock every part of him to see beyond that gaze he gave you with that strange upturn at the corner of his devilish mouth.

Sure enough, you eventually found yourself in his class a couple years later for your required English Analysis course, and the both of you took advantage of that. You found yourself wandering back to his office between classes and office hours, knowing full well no one visited him nor had the courage to due to his harshness in class and strict code he sticks to in not forming attachments to the student body. For you, somehow you were able to break that barrier and see a different kind of man than what people upfront knew him as.

Your friend Katherine is your first and only senior friend at the university, and from her story when you signed up for his course at the beginning of the year, he was known to be callous and strict, such a polar opposite to leniency that even if you were sick with proof of illness, he wouldn’t accept that as an excused absence unless you flourished a medical note from a doctor to him. Everyone feared him, but admired him from afar since he’s the only professor to actually cut down on the bullshitters and slackers in class, and is one of the most respected professors there because of his adventures in Italy as a historian as well as a translator.

You, however, knew him as a sarcastic, good humored intellect with an avid thirst for learning the unknown, and unlocking skills he’s never attempted. From the times you would visit his office or bump into each other in the hallways and have small talk, you learned that at one point in his life he was just as brash, brazen and impulsive as you are now. Before he considered becoming a professor, he was eager to study what you were studying in now, especially the study of phobias and humans’ reactions to certain fear-triggering events or objects. You were the only one that’s ever heard him snort at a god-awful joke you would attempt at, and the only one that’s ever seen him grin at you in such a way it made your stomach flip and flutter.

Perhaps you exposed yourself too much to him, or perhaps he was just so relatable you felt like you sometimes felt like you were talking to a part of yourself you’ve never discovered before. It slightly scared you how much he knew about you and it wasn’t even the end of the fall semester, but you trusted him in ways you’ve never trusted another before. He always promised you absolute confidentiality with your confessions to him, most out of pure merriment and in the goal of a strengthened friendship, like when you told him when you were fourteen you tried blending into the popular clique but still found yourself drawn to the nerds and theater kids once more. He once gave you such a dubious smirk at the notion of you once being the stereotypical geek, with what you claimed to be the unattractive flat hair, braces and awkward gait.

“I can hardly believe that of you.” he chuckled.

“Why? You can kinda tell, don’t lie.” you winked teasingly.

He tilted his head in his hand at you, looking your figure up and down so slowly and languidly that it made your face heat up with a sudden thrill you haven’t felt in a long time.

“Whoever you were before has grew into a fine young woman, that’s most of what I can see.” he looked at you seriously, his eyes hard with truth.

Ever since that you realized that the idea of him being closer than what you two already were was something else you wanted. You thirsted for it, like an obsession. Unhealthy, you weren’t sure, but you were careful not to give yourself away to him, in fear that it would destroy that friendship you two already had. Without anyone’s knowledge but his, you both called each other by your first names. You called him Koz, and he called you by the nickname you wanted him to call you.

Even just watching him write on the board, hearing his voice wrap you lovingly in it’s deep musical tones made your legs tighten in excitement. You furrowed your brows, trying to ignore the incoming thoughts of his voice saying your name like a mantra as you wrote down everything being scribbled on the board.

The guy next to you noticed your discomfort, and nudged his elbow with yours. You looked at him, affronted, “What?”

“You look pissed. You okay?” he looked suspicious.

“Shut up, I’m fine.”

“(y/n).”

Your blood froze, looking up at him in pure fear at being called out in front of class. His hands were folded behind his back, his eyes lingering on you and only you. The class stared at you, nearly a thousand eyes focused on your nervous leg bouncing and the pen in your hand being crushed by the amount of attention drawn onto you.

“I see you have already started to discuss with Stephen,” you could swear to the moon above he smirked ruefully, “Would you like to tell us what the definition of vorfreude is?”

You gulped quickly before looking down at your paper, noticing that the last couple notes were not even notes, they were sinful descriptions of what you wanted him to do to your mouth and in between your thighs. Your face grew incredibly red to the point it prickled your skin as you stood up. You never broke eye contact with him. You can’t be weak now.

“Vorfreude is a German word to define a type of intense anticipation of imagining future pleasures.”

He nodded, his smirk subsiding to something even darker at the moment you uttered the word ‘future’, “Excellent. Glad to see you’re still paying attention despite your distractions.”

Some people snickered at your red face deepening in color as you plopped back down in your seat. By now Koz was shuffling the exams collected last week, freshly graded and corrections that could leave someone in tears if not taken lightly.

As he passed around the graded exams going over the class’s weak points and what to look forward to for the next midterm, you doodled a bit more in your notebook and wrote more lines of absolute sin into a poetic verse, something E. E. Cummings would be absolutely proud of.

You read over your lines, admiring the visual rhymes as well as the absolute clear imagery of being locked into him, his arms like a vice as he would pull your hair and bite at the sensitive parts of your neck, and even now you squirmed at the daydream of such a carnal act going on in his office. More than anything, more than just impressing him with your knowledge and sharp tongue would be for him to pin you to the desk and make you cry out his name in ecstasy as your legs would quiver with release. You bit your lip as you tightened your grip on your sweatshirt, trying your damn hardest not to accidentally make a noise.

That’s when you noticed the shadow lurking over you.

You froze. Your entire body became still with horror and your blood turned cold as Koz read over your carnal poem and observed your lewd doodles with a casual eye as he handed you your exam. You reached out for it with a shaking hand and slowly placed it over the notebook page, knowing it was too late to hide the damage.

“Please see me after class about your note-taking.”

You nodded, trying to fight tears from the utter embarrassment as he finished handing out the exams. You close your notebook in disgust with yourself. Koz continues the class until 5:45, the usual time it ends when everyone wastes no time in dilly dallying and immediately leaving, most if not all heading to the dining hall for dinner. You, planning to indulge in just a minor dinner consisting of cereal or soup out of embarrassment and sadness, packed up slowly.

“(y/n), a word please.” he beckoned from his podium.

You refused to look at him as you stepped down from the lecture hall stairs to the podium, your backpack slung over your shoulder and your confidence crumbling even further as you waited with baited breath as he finished shutting off the projector and computer.

“You have quite a knack for poetry for someone who says English isn’t their forte, as well as for a psychology major.” he calmly noted, hardly glancing at you.

You couldn’t help it, you couldn’t hold it in anymore and let it burst from your chest, all your thoughts jumbled into a single rambling mess, “I swear I didn’t intend for you to see it, I just-I just-I don’t know why I did that and I know I messed up our friendship, it’s all my fault and I’m really really sorry, I seriously wasn’t thinking and I just can’t help but feel these things and it just makes it worse when I think about you, I don’t know what to do about it-”

A hand crept around the back of your neck and forced your head up, and without even a single warning you felt warm, wet lips enveloping yours, biting sweetly as well as fervently. You couldn’t help but make a noise of startlement at the sudden action, but before you could even have time to melt into the kiss, he pulled away, a smirk on his face.

“It’d be inappropriate for me to do such things, but more inappropriate for you to act on it as well. Yet, I know you are wise enough to not pursue it like you want to.” he stated, his eyes resembling molten gold.

Your gaze flattened, “Koz, what the fuck was that if you say you’re not ‘pursuing it’.”

He grinned, “Your confirmation of your feelings, as well as a promise of patience.”

“Patience?”

He smirked again, tilting his head and embracing the feel of superiority again, “You have nearly one more year left. I wonder if you have the patience to stick it out-”

That pissed you off. You grabbed his black tie and pulled him down, startling him as you kissed him hard. You pulled away just as quickly, enjoying the look of surprise on his face as well as slight bewilderment at being cut off from gloating.

You smiled innocently, smoothing down his tie as well as the front of his jacket, “Nice to know I’m not the only one enjoying the feeling of vorfreude from now on. Have a good day, Professor.”

Without a second backwards glance, you confidently strode out of the lecture hall, leaving Koz impressed as well as out of breath at your grand exit. He didn’t realize he’d be aching for you just as much as you ached for him.

It’s only a year, right? Not too long…

Boy were you two wrong.

#pitch black #pitch black x reader #reader insert #fanfiction #fanfics #fanfic commissions #fanfiction commissions #rise of the guardians #rise of the guardian fanfics #university au

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fatphobiabusters · 6 years

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I would like to ask something of you. Please stop using the word 'phobia' it doesn't mean what you think it means. Phobias are when someone is so terrified of something they would literally anything to avoid it. You are addressing people who prejudiced against +size people, not people who are terrified of +sized people. Please consider what words mean because when I go to the doctor and tell I'm emetophobic and harm myself they laugh at me and say its a stupid teenager thing. (1/2)

I end up not getting the help I need because of some social stigma. You're devaluing a word without realising it. I know for a fact you have trouble with doctors. You walk in the door and say you get chronic migraines and they say its because of your weight, come back when you loose some weight, when it has nothing to do with it, you're actually perfectly healthy. You being curvy doesn't mean anything just as my age has nothing to do with my mental health. (2/3)

I get that you may realise this but at the end of the day referring to bigotted people as phobics is just incorrect and it robs the word phobia of its meaning. I have a horrible anxiety disorder as well as my lovely phobia. People don't see it as a big deal, 'oh just throw up and it will go away', they don't see it as the thing it actually is. I've had people try to give me food poisoning before because they think it will get rid of it, it just doesn't and its really harmful. (3/4)

I can't live my life. I can't do anything because fear claws away at me. Eating is difficult, sleeping is difficult, going outside is an ordeal. This would get better if I got the help I need but I don't. Just as when you go to the doctor and they say that your dress size is causing your migraine and loosing weight will fix it is similar to when the doctor tells me that the year I was born in is the problem and that it will just go away if I grow up and stop being an 'oversensitive millennial'.

Both answers are unacceptable and are completely ridiculous. But its not just one doctor that's saying it, its every single one of them and you know it. The fact that its mostly girls that have this problem doesn't really help either. Language is such a powerful thing, words have so much power and meaning. I hate seeing people suffering, its awful. But I think if people adopted the suffix of 'ism' rather than 'phobic' then I think it would help in our fight to end oppression.

Okay, first, I am just going to post a link to a post on my personal blog because I don’t think you realize to whom you have sent this. And I think it is fair to say that making assumptions about the people to whom you have sent this, about whom you know so little, is not okay. And you should have been more careful with your words.

Second, I would like to say that I am sorry that you have experienced this. Really, I am. I mean that. Whether you believe that or not, I do care, and I don’t think anyone deserves to have gone through what you have.

Third, I would like to remind you that we have a rule that says we would appreciate if long messages like this one could be put in the submissions instead of asks, so please follow that rule next time.

Fourth, I want to point out that we have literally had this conversation on our blog before. We have discussed this before.

In fact, I regularly see people making rude remarks about how ridiculous and oversensitive people are for wanting to drop the phobia ending and I am often the one sharing this article to explain why the change is important. You are not telling me anything I don’t know, or with which I disagree.

However, I find the aggression in your tone unnecessary.

We did not coin “fatphobia” as a word. Speaking to us as if we did is not fair to us. Whoever coined it I am assuming followed the pattern of words like “transphobia,” “homophobia,” etc.

Aside from talking about the bigotry against fat people that exists, however, the word also refers to the fear of being fat that fuels that bigotry.

As we have said in the past (myself especially), we would love to move to an alternative word, but there hasn’t really been one proposed that captures the true hatred that bigotry encompasses. Fat antagonism, fat bias, fat discrimination, I mean, there really hasn’t been a good alternative proposed.

The only one I have heard recently involved a suffix that, up until someone suggested it on a recent post of ours, I had literally never heard it before, and I highly doubt anyone would recognize it at first glance. So using it as an alternative might be difficult because we would be some of the only people using it. No one would know what it meant, and we would constantly have to be explaining it to people.

People utilize blacklist options. People who find fat based discrimination triggering are going to have the word “fatphobia” blacklisted. Changing now might expose people who go through other tags to their trigger and I can imagine you understand how painful it is to be exposed to a trigger unexpectedly.

I want to switch to new words. I am with you. I am not your enemy here.

I am just not confident that it is possible at this time.

And the aggression you are displaying for us specifically is very upsetting. Do you tell every blog that uses words like “homophobia” this? Because this comes off like you are specifically blaming us for this problem.

I want to help. I do. This issue is important to me too.

I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to help you right now.

-Mod Bella

#Bella Blogs #Aggression TW #Phobias #Fears #Ableism #Ask #Asked and Answered

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sinessinessines · 6 years

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STRAW MEN, STRAW WOMEN, STRAW GENDER-FLUID BODIES, OR STRAW MEN COLONISING FEMALE SPACE BY HAVING THEIR DICKS CUT OFF AND WEARING A DRESS.

I have read a fair bit about feminism and it’s many currents and debates, and I am currently updating myself on these issues, thanks mainly to Susan Watkins’ lengthy and fascinating article on the current state of feminism(s) across the world in the current issue of the New Left Review (109 Jan Feb 2018, pp. 5-80).

Possibly as an expression of a certain male self-loathing common to the besieged, post-ideological working class liberal of the period, I used to describe myself as a feminist sympathiser, rather than as a feminist. This was because I quite fervently believed at the time (some ten years ago) that male feminism was an attempt to breach ontological terrain that was impossible to breach without accumulating a certain amount of bad faith. One could empathise and understand as much as it was possible to empathise and understand, but a male being, born and brought up as male, could never “be” female.

The problem, one that I didn’t identify at the time, was the absence of any male equivalent to this. Men, the generalised enemy, particularly white, male, working class, heterosexual men, put me firmly in the firing line for all types of abuse, misandry and the militarisation of such abuses to underscore bourgeois bigotries.

Having recently declared myself communist, in hindsight it does seem like a peculiar injustice - the injustice of being pilloried for controlling the patriarchal means of production by a millionairess. One person who explains this process, and who was seriously fucked up by this process, was the Austrialian poet Les Murray.

Les Murray was from a piss poor working class peasant background. In the poem Burning Want, from his landmark Subhuman Redneck Poems (Carcanet U.K.), he describes the experience of being forced to inhabit the same school as middle-class Australian women, who would mercilessly attack and bully him as a child. What is being expressed here is a twisted class warfare, expressed by Murray as “erocide”. Unable to articulate that, or to organise his thoughts along those lines, the poet later collapsed into a depression that nearly destroyed him. He believed that nobody could love him - that it was impossible to love a man who had been interpolated as abhorrent in every imaginable way:

all my names were fat-names, at my new town school. Between classes, kids did erocide: destruction of sexual morale. Mass refusal of unasked love; that works. Boys cheered as seventeen- year-old girls came on to me, then ran back whinnying ridicule.

Of course, my assumptions, about the ontological impossibility of male feminism, depended upon certain assumptions about what feminism was. It also depended upon my own desire to ghettoise feminism. It was women’s stuff, and that stuff didn’t impact men. Men and women were categorically different. This seemed uncontroversial.

The white working class male, inhabiting Margaret Thatcher’s newly “classless” society, is faced with a double bind that makes such a subject particularly vulnerable to acts of self-destruction. Alcohol and drug addiction is the symptom of losing trust in humanity. To women the white male subject is a symbol of patriarchal oppression. To middle class men, the white male working class subject is seen as a “loser” for failing to compete in a rigged game where social mobility is stagnant, and where most “tests” are not about aptitude, but about “instinct”. The resultant rejection is thereby levied onto the victim himself, forced to shoulder an unbearable shame, a suicidal depression and a contradictory, shattered identity, split into two mutually contradictory states. On the one hand, the white heterosexual working class male is a symbol of power, whereas, on the other hand, he is a symbol of failure. This stigmatisation is compounded yet further when the temporary relief of such a state involves a bottle of vodka or a needle in the vein.

There is, of course, nobody out there to recognise you - the white, male, heterosexual abhorrence - as a victim. Indeed, the very act of “playing the victim” is, in itself, seen as an abhorrent act. As well as being “responsible” for, and guilty of somehow constructing a patriarchal order that subjugates all women, the white, male, working class subject is also guilty of his own failure to live up to the expectations of that patriarchy. In other words, the subject in question is rendered abject from the very beginning, by not only facing stigmatisation based on a class system that no longer exists, but by being burdened by assuming an “othered” role in a patriarchy where he is seen as the chief instigator for historical crimes against the female.

Since then, the argument has taken a postmodern turn. My viewpoint about female essence has been marginalised by people who argue that gender, and even biological difference, is nothing more than a social construction. A “performative” difference, as Judith Butler argues in her largely incomprehensible book Gender Trouble.

Generally speaking, this flapping around with gender and sex is articulated as “postmodernism gone mad” by people who dislike postmodernism. It is generally seen as the work of “feminazis” by people with a bee in their bonnet about feminism. And, of course, pointing out the presence of essential biological differences that cannot be surgically added or subtracted from the human body, such as possessing a womb and, consequently, having menstrual cycles is seen as “transphobic”. More problematically still, having any uniquely female experience is seen as an expression of “transphobia”.

To take one example, I, along with Richard Seymour, author of this material on the issue, which explores the issue in far more depth and with a far greater sensitivity to the issue than I could ever be bothered to write, were both labelled “transphobic” on a Facebook group by a number of people after I decided to post the article to shed some light on the issue on a so-called “Leftbook” site.

This debate, like so many debates that involve the use of passive-aggressive, and slightly infuriating suffixes such as “-phobia” to describe anybody who contests or even expresses curiosity about the nuances of what is a phenomenally complex philosophical debate about who and what we actually are, has a general capacity to degenerate into an “us” versus “them” contest, where all who think that men and women possess certain, essential biological differences are labelled “transphobic” and are part of a generalised enemy against transgender people. The straw men, and straw women constructed in this argument, ironically enough, are also the very same people who argue vociferously against “non-binary” designations of gender and biological sex.

Perhaps one of the most shameful articulations of this plebiscite, social media generated, mob justice cod-philosophy was expressed in the backlash against the lifelong feminist campaigner Germaine Greer for her perfectly sensible, if rather brash comment about biological sex and essential difference:

“Just because you lop off your dick and then wear a dress doesn’t make you a fucking woman.”

The troubling aspect of this is that the university response to Germaine Greer’s argument - that being a women is more than merely being a castrated male with a dress on - was to zero platform her, therefore putting her in the same category as the far-right fascists and religious bigots who probably want transgender people murdered for being crimes against God and nature.

This, to me, is an expression of precisely what is wrong with the terms of the debate itself. If the choice is between blind acceptance, or being pilloried and labelled “transphobic” for wishing to explore the nuances of this debate, then there is something seriously wrong with the way the debate is being argued.

#feminism #article #transphobia #trans #postmodernism #les murray #addiction #erocide

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