#assault tw //

[reidhalstead]

He should know nothing but the taste of blood in his mouth. Transfigured from satisfaction — the flesh against flesh, of bodies pressed close; sacrificing inhibitions, and life and death — to a bitter, vile thing that he's still spitting out of his mouth. Droplets of red decorated the carpet, his chin; his clothes. She wants the god of war, the newly crowned Kratos that has wrath and conquest imbued in his skin, painted the same shade of crimson. She's drawn his blood, with nails and bullets. Reid's still her canvas, but her inspiration is a shifting reckoning force.

What did you think would fucking happen? The fuck does he know? He hates himself plenty, and he doesn't need her knowing he's thinking of something as pitiful as I thought you saw something else; I believed you when you looked at me like I wasn't a monster. But he is, and it's his own fault that a shred of hope had convinced him that he might not always be. Towing the line of hope and loss, like it wouldn't crush him in the very end when self-loathing had a chokehold on him.

His head snaps to the side before he might formulate an answer, cheek blossoming warm for a second too long. The taste of metal is fresh in his mouth. He's slow to turn his gaze back to see the fury in mossy hues where only shortly ago, there had only been another kind of heat swirling within.

Reid doesn't want to fight, even if the shortfall of his condition says he should. Survival instincts whisper to him that she's vulnerable; bulletless, with a recklessness he knows too well. No. He can't. He won't — don't make me.

But he knows the brutality of Anika and her mutilated soul; she calls herself a hunter, to fill the gaping cavern of loss, and grief. Nothing alike. Nothing alike. Physical pain waterfalls right off the cliff edge, shrouding the cave that's behind; a hidden cove only those who brave the waters dare ever find.

She's banging her fists against the stone, shoving him as he flinches with each unpleasant crack of her own hand, his ribs, whatever weak, vulnerable part of his body she'd ripped open and stuck her fingers into. She's a feral coyote — hyena, screaming where laughter once was. There's a flash of colour, when her feet slam into his chest and have him losing balance completely. He hisses — he feels defeated, whether it's by her hand or his own surrendering. The monster desires to remind her, what she's provoking (and how quickly she's drained him of everything; a kicked animal bites back after so many beatings).

His hands snap up to catch hers when fists dare try to crash against his bare chest again; they're coated in his blood. "Stop pushing!" A snarl of a sound that crosses the threshold of pleading, but only enough so that he can tighten his hold on her wrists, to confirm the severity of his warning. Reid forgets how hard he shoves, when he forces her back, feeling the weakness threatening his muscles; the verbena stings where it's refusing to flush out of his system. A slow-acting poison that he's sure he'll succumb to soon enough so Anika can finish him off. He wonders if she'll give his family the news, or punish him even after his final end by telling them a lie. He doesn't know if he can stomach that.

Booker's flying back, smacking the rear of the sofa on her route. Reid's mouth opens instinctively when he realises his fangs have slipped and he's baring them at her. "Enough, Anika. Fucking, enough." It's too late to pretend he's anything but exactly what she sees him as. Bloodshot eyes have his vision darkening and he's looking at her whilst feeling every gruelling injury she's inflicted; from the bullets to numbness in his thigh, where a moth punished him once — the ghostly pressure at his throat, where another insect had fluttered against the flesh. He can't falter now, don't hurt her, he says to himself as he watches how easily she'd been sent backwards. Even with all those wounds he's contending with. Reckless. They both were. He follows after her, light steps of a killer wrought to the surface. Kill her. He winces when his movements become staggeringly fast. They're sloppy in his tattered form and there's no wall to act as a crutch, just the healing body of a vampire, facing a hunter scorned. No, don't. Some part of him just wants her to hurt a little when he wraps an arm back around a waist that doesn't want to be close, and a hand tightens a stiff claw beneath her chin, clasping the top of her throat, drawing her near. Monsters don't ask; he'd asked her all night the right things when he'd gained her permission to taste her skin the first time; that memory is lost to the void, a fever dream now; a delusion.

That self-loathing is spiralling right into the innate self-preservation that she's coaxed out with every violent press of a trigger.

"This, is what you want, isn't it?" He squeezes below the sharp of her jaw; he doesn't need a trigger to take the wind out of her. She wants it all to feel like she's hunted him down and it's an execution, right? Reid's given her all the opportunities to dust him and spit on his ashes. He's simply stood there and taken it. Broken and hateful. But he's done with this. If she needs an excuse to feel whatever trivial peace, he'll convince himself he owes her that. Regret is a burning pyre set alight between the points of his ribcage. He'll form the half-lie in his hunger; blinded by the beast, because she has all that he needs in her veins to numb it all. It's her that's got them here, as much as it's him. Sourly, in his gravelly harshness, he tells her, whilst the sun teases his periphery again, "It's on you, that you didn't notice the signs." A tch weaves past his teeth, "That's what is truly pathetic. But I think you know that, princess." It's why she's coming at him so hard, without a final strike.

Loss and lost remain to be the crashing waterfall they're drowning beneath, there's no hope of finding the hidden caves in the rocks behind when they're so familiar with the cool, aching familiarity of what it feels like to be adrift in the deep.

Finish him. It wasn't her voice, but another, in the forefront of her mind. Whispers that turned into screams in her ears. The familiar echo of a sound she knew too well; a familiar ring to each scream, chanting to end his life. And a promise, she swore to keep. Her hands twitched and shook, when the last bullet found his skin and then the floor leaving bloody evidence of a barrel all lost on a beast she couldn't kill. A promise. she swore to keep, but couldn't. Not because she didn't want to, but because her hands did not feel like her own, and her face — numb and pale, did not feel like her own, and her heart slamming uncontrollably against a fragile cage, did not feel like her own. She'd never felt her body more alive; every nerve set on fire, skin hot to the touch. Before him, her heart was as fucked up as his was; black and motionless.

Anika couldn't remember the last time she let a beast walk away from her. The last time she granted somebody her mercy. Pity wasn't something she felt — not for someone like him, not for anybody.

Every man she'd ever met had been nothing but cruel. When was the last time someone pitied the woman who had to kill parts of herself to survive? When was the last time a beast showed her mercy?

Because it was monsters like him that had taken everything from her. And yet, her eyes were filled with sorrow for the dead man on the floor, squirming in agony, twitching violently, gasping for air. She only stood over him, with a gun long empty. The sharp blade of her self-hatred glided across her throat, threatening to rip at the skin with every moment passed that allowed him time to heal.

All those bullets meant nothing, when not one of them punctured his heart. Not one of them rid her of him. He was still alive, in the most monstrous way. Dragging himself upwards, struggling to keep his body straight, to become once again a worthy opponent, a punching bag for her to use and then dispose of. She was supposed to dispose of him, not the other way around. I regret you. No, no — not the way this was supposed to be. His fault. This was his fault. His fault, for giving an abandoned hound like her attention, because now she wanted nothing but.

She hissed through gritted teeth: "Good." What a terrible time to be given something she didn't want to lose. What a terrible time to be given something that would completely shatter her to watch turn to ash. What a cruel fuckin thing to give her, when she had decided a decade ago, that she would rid herself of wants and needs, and stupid things like finding comfort under someone else's covers, the only person she'd trusted enough to fall asleep next to, wake up next to — their own little fucked up, domesticated, mundane universe, in which she was blind and foolish, and he was alive and warm. And they were both free — of self-hatred, and pain.

She watched that world disintegrate, while it spat them out into the vast cosmos. And back so quickly, into a world familiar and dark, deadly and completely ravenous where he was a monster and she was his executioner. Only she couldn't swing the axe high enough to slice his head clean off, instead uncertain, trembling hands got the weapon stuck half-way — not letting him die, but not letting him live either. "That's your fucking problem now, isn't it? At least I didn't fucking know, but you did. And still — what did you hope for here, huh? What did you think would fucking happen?" bitter tongue spun cruel words into existence, fabricated them from lies to truths.

Cruel, and despicable things were her lies. Cruel and despicable like putting him on her path and expecting her not to fall for the touch against her spine that whispered safety, the brush against her arm that grounded her — offered her trust, the kind that urged her heaviest burdens, and her heaviest losses to spill out of her. The ones that twisted her, and bent her out of shape, that made her less mortal man and more his kind of beast. The kind of tenderness she hasn't known for years, and had to give up after only a moment. She couldn't mourn the loss, not when she could do something better, something familiar, that was very much her, the version of her that she'd built for years, only for him to turn into dust over a couple of months. It was him holding the stake over her, buried deep into a hollow chest. That sorry excuse of a heart that only he— Don't be fucking ridiculous, Anika.

She wanted his fury, and his hatred. Let's see how far that regret go.

Her hand swung at him, backwards with the sharp metal of the gun slamming into his cheek. Stop fucking talking. His head almost unscrewed itself right off. Burning eyes, like a forest on fire, screamed at him — to be seen, to be acknowledged for the raging disaster it was, "Fight back!" spat out, as if an order. Then she banged small, but mightily fists into him; across his chest, and over his face. Pushing him into the corner of the room, right against his door. "Fight back—" louder, like a beast. She wanted to take every broken whisper, every trusted word, every shared weakness and shove them down his throat. She wanted to fuck him over, like he had. Those kicks to the gut came quicker and harder. "I said— fight the fuck back." Anika would relish in his hate. He was right. It was better, easier— than to mourn the loss of his love.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I didn’t know that outside of music SA usually stands for assault and not soprano/alto. I posted to my choir’s Facebook group to announce that we’re doing a treble-only group this year and it read “The whole choir just got SA’d!!” I then got interrogated by Rivers Cuomo after that, who then beat me to death.

[genderkoolaid]

Though I have a UTMB prescription for my hormone treatment, I am still at war within TDCJ with trying to obtain my T injections, boxer shorts, hygiene products, razors, and basic pronoun respect. These past five years have been a nonstop battle against the horrors of prolonged solitary confinement. I've been a victim of numerous assaults during my time here. I've been punched, stomped, kicked, and spit on by officers. I've been purposely placed in a rec cage by transphobic officers where I was assaulted by four inmates. I've been denied gender-affirming clothing. I've endured broken bones, bruises, and wounds that were left to heal without medical attention because I've been denied medical treatment. It’s the luck of the draw weekly on whether or not I receive my T injections week to week, depending on medical supply, availability of staff, and the mood or personal opinion of the selected officer chosen to escort me to the infirmary. One officer doesn’t like the fact that I’m trans and refuses to take me to medical. My transition sometimes stagnates due to the inconsistency of my T injections. My body suffers silently from the weeks when I have to miss a dose of my hormonal therapy. I’ve been denied razors to shave, and when I am given razors they’re dull, causing me to get razor burn. Out of sheer malice, I am given women’s hygiene products such as deodorant, body wash, and shampoo, causing my pH balance to be off-kilter and creating irritation and inflammation. With no resources or outside support, there’s no coalition or aegis for protection or help for me to live as a trans man in prison safely.

[hazbinned]

Angel Dust's accusatory words cut through Vox's train of thought like a paring knife. He snapped his head around to glare at him, but the look on his touch-screen face was not sufficiently laced with poison. What it lacked in animosity, it made up for in discomfiture; red eyes flicked to and fro across the battered visage of Angel's person, cyan teeth gritting together as if to stop Vox from saying something callous.

Then it clicked. Angel thought Vox knew.

The television Overlord veered back, humiliation seeping in.

"What?! You- You seriously think I was watching that?" he gawked. "I have a life outside of you. I do!"

He hastily reached for the rag and doused it in a fair amount of rubbing alcohol, clambering around (and halfway onto) the sink so he could dab at the worst of the arachnid's incisions.

"I'm... and I don't... I didn't see it. I was tuned into a different station."

Vox was telling the truth— but as he sat there, straining to mend the cuts in Angel's back, he wondered if the spider would believe him.

"I could go play it back," the media mogul continued, "But I haven't. While I was getting ready for Val to come home, I was on the phone with Velvette. Doing..." He reached for the tweezers, pulled the fur aside and pried the first sliver of glass out of the porn star's body. "Hands-on, real-world things. I was hoping for a date night with Val."

Hence the food. And the greeting. And his huff-and-puff tantrum.

Vox plunked the shard into the trash bin near their feet.

"I'm hard-pressed to find anything to celebrate," he admitted.

He repeated the extraction process a few more times, until most of the glass was out and white fluff was scrubbed of red.

Angel did not have to believe him. Angel didn't owe him anything. Vox had, one too many times, reveled in the spider's distress. He'd delighted in watching the poor arachnid be 'put in his place' by Val— the pleading, the punishments, even the intimacy. It had felt like revenge, somehow. Revenge for stealing the moth away from him. It had been enticing. Rewarding.

Addicting.

Vox was an addict, and Angel Dust was his favorite drug.

He didn't understand why he was feeling as sickened by it all as he was, but it felt to him now that the very thing that had brought him ecstasy for so many years had suddenly turned sour and curdled.

Age-old milk upon his tongue.

He was offended that the spider had even accused him. But why?

Did he care about Angel all of a sudden? Was that moment in the hallway some kind of turning point for the two of them?

Vox had apologized to Angel then, but it was going to take more than a 'sorry' to fix his gory trail of misdeeds.

Flicking the last few glass-fragments into the garbage, the sinner shifted a little bit on his knees and then pressed the cloth harder against the wounds to soak up any residual bleeding.

"... You don't have to tell me," he conceded after a while. Quieter than before. "I'll delete it."

Vox pulled the rag away and ran it under the sink.

"You can watch."

Then, he turned to him.

"Where else does it hurt?"

Aside from the obvious, he thought as he blinked at him, the 'obvious' here being Angel Dust's hands. Hypnosis might have undone the emotional scarring left by the shattered cup, but it certainly hadn't left any effect on the physical.

Were there any remnants stuck in Angel's chest? Legs? Lower back? He knew he had to get to the ones in the exposed flesh near his collarbone, but he figured he'd get the rough of it out of the way first.

"I mean, you'll have to pull the top part of the dress off if you want me to bandage it," Vox added. "But that... is... uh, your call."

Vox's efforts to coax Angel from his frantic frenzy went entirely unnoticed, a pinprick amid the punctures as the glass slashed his hands. He could fix this. Shards shredded the stained carpet and sliced the spider's flesh as he gathered the splattered fragments, a harsh and impossible jigsaw puzzle that resisted it's own solving. He could fix this. He could put it back together. He-

The glass spilt from Angel's hands as he was abruptly guided into facing his unlikely saviour, the task forgotten even before the next crucial step to his taming was initiated. The spider's eyes thinned to screwed-up slits as a sea of blue light flooded his vision, blotting out everything that wasn't its source as a sharp fingertip drew him closer. Even if Angel hadn't been disoriented from the alcohol-enhanced dissociation, the split second of realisation before the wave of hypnosis washed over him was nowhere near long enough to put up a fight.

Red light bled into blue as the television's all-seeing eye expanded, rings swimming and swirling within them like ripples in slow-moving water. Angel slumped to his knees, his face tilted further upward by the Overlord's metallic claw as the rest of his body fell like dead weight. Had he been in a fitter state of mind, the actor might have tried fruitlessly to fight the loss of control he was experiencing, screeching and flailing within the padded cell of his own mind until he inevitably succumbed to it's influence.

But, for the first time this awful night, Angel felt relaxed. This was what he had been looking for at the bottom of the bottle, in his agreement to let Val drug him. Loosened and numb, the pain and torment had been dulled to a barely-perceptible tingling from somewhere so far away that it could no longer be reached, somewhere no longer real. All that existed was that tranquil blue light with its scarlet centre, drawing Angel in, in, in...

Angel didn't break the glass. Vox did.

That must have been what happened. That's what it felt like as Angel's limbs softened like rubber, all but melting into the carpet.

I broke it, Angel. You saw it happen.

Yes, he did. He saw Vox break the glass. He saw it happen.

You don't want to clean up my mess...

It didn't even hurt, the glass splinters now embedded in his hands as well as his back. He might as well have been holding cotton wool. Val might as well have thrown him into a soft, comfortable bed of plush pillows and blankets.

...So stop touching it.

By the time the trance had started to wear off, Angel was being escorted away from the scene of the crime, leaning against the other as he stumbled alongside him. He must have zoned out, he realised, wobbling slightly as he was released onto the stool. Blinking blearily under the synthetic light, he watched dumbly as Vox rummaged through the bathroom cabinet. What was he doing? Before the arachnid had the chance to question him, the Media Overlord met Angel with a question of his own.

Did the dress show everything? Well, no, was Angel's initial thought: he had to leave something to the imagination, or else-

Oh. He meant the glass.

A shrug of one shoulder was all the spider gave in response. How should he know? Val had given him a strict time limit to get ready - all he cared about was squeezing into something tight-fitting and provocative. He wasn't accounting for exactly how many of his newly acquired wounds were on show. He didn't want to think about it.

Why did Vox even care?

The answer to this was hinted at as a damp wash cloth was pressed to Angel's forehead, the television demon posturing him like a doll so that one of his many hands was holding the cloth in place. Was this... Was Vox taking care of him?

In all the times that Val had taken Angel back to the Penthouse in a similar sorry state, Vox had never so much as batted an eye. In fact, other than the poorly concealed jealousy, the Overlord's reaction was most often a sick, smug gloating that oozed from that slimy grin of his when he realised that Angel was hurt. That Valentino had hurt him. That even if Val took Angel to bed that night, he wasn't going to enjoy it.

Snapped back into reality by Vox's piercing whistle, Angel looked up wearily. The collection of supplies that Vox had gathered looked medical - was he about to play nurse for him? Pick the glass shards from his flesh that he had presumably watched his partner crush him into with rapturous glee?

Was this what it had come to?

A swift moment's judgement told Angel that dragging the stool across the room would be a poor decision in his compromised state, so he opted for the sink. Pushing himself up onto the porcelain stung his hands - he must have cut them on the glass that Val shoved him into.

"What, it ain't enough ta watch it on the cameras? Ya need the commentary, too?" Angel replied scornfully. Vox just couldn't resist, could he? "Look, can I at least save the play by play account a' bein choked an' slammed inta broken glass 'til I'm less, ya know. Full a' glass?"

What the hell was this? Some roundabout way for Vox to get his kicks? Or was this him trying to actually help him, unable to restrain himself from prodding at the wound before stitching it up?

"Why're ya helpin' me?" Angel sighed, slurred from the combination of booze and exhaustion. "Ain't punchin' the air in celebration more yer style?"

[lecoindecachou]

In a conversation on Reddit about a Jewish grandmother being assaulted in France for wearing a Star of David, someone kept asking me whether what's been happening everywhere really counted as a rise in antisemitism or if this could be seen as a 'reward' of Israel's actions, like. Wtf are you talking about. I mean, I know what they were talking about, they were saying all this antisemitism wouldn't be happening rn if Israel just... disappeared from the map I guess, but also WTF ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. Do you also think random American Muslims deserved to be assaulted after 9/11 or do you reserve that line of thinking for Jewish folks?

[mysterycitrus]

very tempted to whinge at length about nightwing #93 and the consequential fallout in fandom again because like. dick grayson’s two long term romantic relationships being with women who were both a) assaulted and traumatised through loss of agency to varying degrees and b) reclaimed that agency and used their power to help others would perhaps impact his worldview on this issue. dick loves korys passion despite her pain and loves babs’s perseverance through adversity. regardless of personal gripes w babs or korys characterisation in comics i think there’s a way to include them in his recovery without them just shaming him for being assaulted. idk man.

[sharkgirldick]

I don't have time to forcefem you in whatever dumbass cutesy way you were hoping for. Put on the maid dress and take the tablets or I'm beating the shit out of you.

[mintmatcha]

alright gang can I have a serious discussion. is it took dark to discuss readers assault

[applesdotexe]

my mom is letting my abuser -- my brother -- back into the house because he has nowhere to go and she misses her son and wants to give him another chance

mind you she has bailed him out of jail multiple times to free him of charges of assault, domestic assault, armed criminal action, property damage, theft, etc that he caused to my family. namely me and my sister, but also to my mom, so i'm really confused as to why she is granting him the ability to even visit

like he's choked me and he's thrown my sister into doors before stomping on her stomach. he's threatened to kill any children she may have and has told me (AFAB) and my sister that "women are only good for being raped". my sister has a 4 month old daughter now so we are very scared

anyways when i filed a restraining order today my mom tried keeping me away from doing so because "it's not necessary" and "he doesn't deserve that". she prevented me from reporting my assaults multiple times in years prior so i wouldn't ruin his reputation or chances at having a job

am i in the wrong here. i've been in therapy for over a decade due to his actions

[newsfromstolenland]

Three men were injured after trying to subdue a man armed with a knife during afternoon prayers at a Montreal-area mosque Friday afternoon.

The incident happened at around 1:40 p.m. at the Centre Culturel Musulman in Châteauguay, an off-island suburb of Montreal.

Châteauguay police got a 911 call reporting that a man had entered the building on Saint Jean Baptiste Boulevard with a knife and then got into an altercation with people who were inside, said police spokesperson Nadia Grondin.

The three men are in their 50s and their injuries are not considered life-threatening. One of them was sent to hospital.

Police arrested the suspect, a 24-year-old man, who is set to be questioned by investigators.

[...]

In a statement on social media, the National Council of Canadian Muslims (NCCM) said it was "greatly concerned" by the incident.

"We are in touch with the local centre and will provide more information as it becomes available. However, we do not have information at this point to make a suggestion as to the motivation behind the incident, and we encourage our community not to speculate as the investigation continues," the NCCM wrote on X.

Full article

Tagging: @allthecanadianpolitics

[verdantwyrm]

Flaming hot take incoming

mouthwashing fans should stop acting like it's automatically pro-life to explore the possibilities of Anya keeping the baby

You're right, but it goes a lot deeper.

It's a double-edged sword simply because of how the baby came to be. You're not just arguing pro-life vs pro-choice, you also need to consider how victims will interpret that conversation as well. If you say "Anya should keep the baby" Victims do and will look at that and feel hurt that's even a consideration for something like that because it is a genuinely awful experience to deal with, and a lot of them don't even get a chance to argue or contest it. Some victims will argue that all rape/assault babies should always be aborted simply because of how they came to be, other victims will argue otherwise, it's a wide variety of people with an even wider variety of opinions on a very real, very intrusive topic that you cannot be careless with.

Because Pro-lifers directly target and harass rape victims of a staggering percentage of people that seek out abortions. They're the ones being argued about the most, even going as far as to say that they should have the baby because obviously it was "meant to be" and that rape happens for a "reason"

Anya keeping the baby is not pro-life, you're right about this, but unfortunately a lot of people who are arguing this are in fact pro-life and more importantly, pro-rape in the discussions of Anya even being pregnant.

I have seen a staggering amount of people say this, believe this and parrot pro-life rhetoric possibly without even realising how much it affects the people around them and the people that view these opinions. The truth is, we never know what someone's life is like on the other end of a screen, and someone who has legitimately experienced pregnancy from being assaulted may see those conversations and how shallow-minded people spread the same nonsensical rhetoric because they can't comprehend that abortion, and why it's a right and not a privilege, it's a multifaceted thing that is a very wide spectrum of why we even have it and why we need it as a choice for everyone and it's not as black and white as they want it to be.

It's 1000 times easier to hate things when it is black and white when there's no spectrum of reason or why because they view it as a "good" and "bad" thing. This sentiment can be applied to a lot of things but we're getting off track.

You are right, Anon, Anya deciding to keep the baby in whatever situation is provided is NOT pro-life, but it is still an extremely touchy and sensitive subject that needs to be taken carefully, otherwise, it sends a very horrible and very offensive message. And a good percentage of the time when people do talk about this possibility, they're not talking about it with the best faith in mind, which Is an unfortunate truth, as this isn't the first time I've seen this exact argument about a fictional rape baby being a possibility and it had the exact same people parroting the exact same opinions from the exact same sources.

[genderqueerdykes]

"Prison cells are disproportionately stacked with poor, disabled, Black, and Brown people; Black trans women, who are often at the intersection of all of these identities, are the most overrepresented group inside prison walls. A study by the National Center for Transgender Rights and the National LGBTQ Task Force found that almost half of Black trans women in the United States have been incarcerated. Once inside, their abuse rates are extreme. The abolitionist group Black & Pink surveyed 1,100 queer and trans people in lockup, and one out of three described being assaulted by prison staff. Groups like Black & Pink and the Transgender, Gender Variant, and Intersex Justice Project (TGIJP) have made themselves known to the system, so the system must employ ever more devious ways to cloak the abuses."

Toshio Meronek, January 2023. Excerpt from the introduction of the book Miss Major Speaks: Conversations with a Black Trans Revolutionary, authored by Toshio Meronek and Miss Major.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

[genderkoolaid]

A Swiss trans man, Morgan Zuli Bahon, was beaten by a group of men after his ID outed him as trans. They dragged him out of the bar he was in and into the street. He is recovering with a fractured nose, a concussion, a damaged retina, a sprained ankle, and the attack triggered his multiple sclerosis and has led to migraines. Unsurprisingly, the comments of that article are full of victim-blaming "it wasn't a hate crime, you're too masc!" shit.

If you speak French, you can watch the video where he explains what happens on his Instagram.

[mysterycitrus]

this is just stream of consciousness wrt to an ask i got

i don’t read much dc fic but a primary point of avoidance for me is the fallout of nightwing #93 because to address the situation with nuance u would have to disentangle devin grayson’s particular brand of sexualised racism (both by rewriting tarantula to be latina and her interpretation of rromani characters generally) and understand the context for dick grayson’s character prior to that point, and how it’s affected modern interpretation for his character.

i say this as someone who is attempting to include this in a fic, because it is hard to emphasise exactly how damaging it’s been for his character long term. part of it is fundamentally misunderstanding what constitutes assault on the part of the comic writers, sure, but i would also encourage people to just…. consider the context. why are u writing other people enacting revenge on tarantula on a survivor’s behalf? why are u uncritically engaging with devin grayson’s racism? why are u writing characters violently slut-shaming a survivor of assault when they would never ever react that way (roy harper, donna troy)?

and why is jason todd always there, for some reason