#is not about having reading comprehension

[itsdappleagain]

For prev so you don't have to look through the notes these are my general reading comprehension questions!

CRITICAL THINKING QUESTIONS:

1. Do you think a post pointing out an issue with fandom racism and misogyny is an appropriate place to bring up your favorite white male character? Why or why not?

2. Did this post call you racist for relating to a white male character? If you thought or think so, consider why you got defensive.

3. Think about the disproportionate amount of art and writing about white male characters in fandom spaces. Do you think this is, across all boards, due to them being written better or more relatably than the POC protagonist?

a. If so, consider why you notice the writing of white male characters more often. Are white male characters written "better" than the POC protagonist, or do you have an internalized fear of relating to non-white characters that you need to work through?

b. If not, consider what ingrained biases might lead to this phenomenon in fandom spaces.

c. If you read a. and thought that white male characters literally just are usually or always written better than the POC and/or female protagonist, accept you are wrong and consider some self reflection.

4. Have you researched how to write and draw characters that are non-white and/or non-male? If not, does this limitation lead you to gravitate towards characters you feel "qualified" to make content about, therefore inflating the issue?

5. If people are telling you to reconsider your point of view in my replies section, did you stop to consider what they said apart from your human instinct to be defensive? Have you considered that arguing against those trying to educate you about fandom racism and misogyny, which can be difficult to see in yourself, in the notes of a post talking about fandom racism and misogyny, might be short-sighted and counterproductive?

6. If you are inclined to defend your favorite white male character, pause. Are all of your other favorite characters also majority white? Are they majority male? Are they either of these and NOT the main character of the show, movie, or game they originate from?

a. If not, this comic is not for you. Please move on and give it a reblog if you're feeling generous.

b. If so, consider this pattern. If you want to break it, ask someone for a reccomendation for characters or media similar to your favorites. Expand your horizons, and engage with your community rather than fighting against them.

If you comment something stupid and/or unnecessary on this I will reply with critical thinking questions.

[patricia-taxxon]

Crimsonender approached me to negotiate a public apology, where we're at is that he still disagrees on the matters of transandrophobia but admits that the grooming allegations were a card of smoke handed to him by opportunists & that he led a transmisogynistic hate campaign against me based on nothing more than an internet argument.

I made some pretty sweeping demands in DMs, including appending the callout doc so all links lead to the update, being forthright with his way more transmisogynist peers who joined in, and he seems to be obliging me so far which gives me a bit of hope.

you can read his initial statement here, he's told me he plans to make a bigger & more comprehensive statement on transmisogyny in trans spaces + a formal apology to me. I naturally disagree pretty strongly with parts but I'll take what I can get.

[ekingston]

Hi; I don't know if you're still following the word-stream stuff, but the app is back online on the app store as "booktok - books and podcasts". The reviews marking it as having AI scraped data are still on the page itself, even though the name has changed, and duckduckgo still directs to their page if you look up "word-stream audiobooks"-- although if I don't know how long that will last. The website is seemingly gone, but the app still presumably has access to all the stolen works in the database.

Best regards, -someone else whose fics were stolen

yup

word-stream is back

it just calls itself—in an obvious attempt to profit from the TikTok upheaval—BookTok, now. and it’s not just the app, either: the whole website is back online, same as it was just before Cliff Weitzman took it down.

(in case you missed it, here are the original story & the update.)

fortunately (so far) the fanfiction category hasn't been re-added, but if you go to the store page for the app you can see that it’s still using 'fan-created universes' as advertising.

Weitzman didn't register the app under his own name this time, but through something called 'Oak Prime Inc'. hilariously, however, the email address listed in BookTok's privacy policy still refers to word-stream.com, so if Cliff was trying to scrub the connection between Speechify and his BookTok app, he didn't do a very thorough job.

here's the thing (and i'm about to put this up in a separate, more easily digestible post): if you take a look at the terms & conditions of Cliff's other platform, Speechify, it claims a truly comprehensive license to use the works uploaded to that platform in any way Cliff sees fit, including publishing and monetizing it elsewhere. and i keep seeing posts on Reddit and Bluesky from both readers and writers, happily using the Speechify app to read fanfic, advanced reader copies and their own yet-to-be-published work to them.

this is a BAD IDEA. Cliff has already proven that he will take work authored by others without their permission and redistribute it wholesale if he thinks it might make him money.

Cliff is the financial beneficiary of both Speechify and word-stream/booktokapp. it seems pretty obvious to me that he's trying to claim, via Speechify's terms & conditions, that every work uploaded to Speechify is his to do with whatever he pleases, which naturally includes moving them to this other platform so he can charge people for two subscriptions instead of just the one.

thank you so much for keeping an eye on this, anon, and for reaching out!! like i said, another post will go up today about the above, but i'm going to ask you all to help ensure that my posts & my name aren't the only ones giving voice to this message. when i tried to approach people about this issue on social media, often the—completely justified!—response was 'why should I take your word for it?' and Wikipedia only allowed the mention of Weitzman's copyright infringement to remain on his page when 'The Endless Appetite for Fanfiction' was listed as a source.

it can't just be me. DON’T take my word for it. do your own research (i would love to be proven wrong about this!), talk to your friends, engage with posts on social media similar to the ones i mentioned above (those are just some examples, don’t pile on to the OPs!) and make sure people know what they're jeopardizing. help me protect authors from money-grubbing shitheads like this one.

[ilium-ilia]

a fox cries; never howls

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist

Part (1/3): marco's girl

a/n: this is an alternate universe to my story, In Limbo. you do not need to read In Limbo to understand this au, but if you are reading In Limbo, i recommend not reading this story until you've read chapter 14 due to some spoilers. please take care to read the warnings on each chapter, this is a very heavy fic.

tw: rape/non-con, pedophilia, human/sex trafficking, forced prostitution, abduction, suicide, self harm, whump, hurt/comfort, reader has long hair for plot reasons (can be natural, braided, etc)

Each time it happens, you tell yourself it’ll be different, but it never is. 

Broken promises lay in glistening shards around the heels strapped to your feet as you grit your teeth through the pain. No matter how much you beg and plead, it’s always the same. That visceral ache shooting through the core of your being still brings tears to your eyes the same it did the first time. It will continue to plague you. Haunting your cheeks in messy streaks as it drips onto the counter your hands so desperately palm at. Each tear that splatters by your fingers shimmer with black flakes. Running mascara. It stains everything it touches—especially you.

You’re prettier that way. Ruined. At least, that’s what you’ve been told. 

Always pretty on your knees; bent over; looking up; crying; pleading; beg; beg for it; and keep crying; yeah, just like that. 

Your skin is scarred, marked in the shape of greedy lips, and it stings like the wound is fresh. Words seep into the soft tissue where it continues to fester. Burrows its spindly roots until it can bear fruit. You can pull at the stem all you like, but you can’t escape the fact that it’s now a fundamental part of you. It’s the only thing keeping your bones from crumbling. This mantra. This throe. 

“Not tryna hide, are you?” 

Avaricious fingers dig into the firm cartilage of your throat as you’re yanked back and forced to look at yourself in the mirror. The ripples of your defilement echo throughout your body—and you’re forced to watch it. The bounce of your breasts and the smudged makeup dripping along your cheeks. In some odd way, you are a masterpiece. You’re sculpted of nothing but obloquy yet carved just like if you were made of stone. You would close your eyes if you thought you could get away with it.

But Marco likes when you watch. Savors the tremble of your lips as your eyes find him in the mirror. Pristine teeth glint in the pallid light. Perfectly white and straight. He always takes care of himself—of his appearance. It shows in the carefully carved muscles that flex in his abdomen as he pistons into you; in the well groomed locks of his dark hair. This is the sweetest liquor he could ever indulge in—enjoying not only destroying you, but of making a show of it. 

He must always be the performer and the audience; having his cake and eating it too. 

A fury of grunted whispers slice straight through your ear drums. It’s a hardly comprehensible slurring of English and Russian, and though your fuzzy brain can’t make sense of it, you know what it means. Marco teeters close to the edge, hands dragging your body back against him as he holds himself flush against the crux of your ass. Hot warmth spills into you, and despite the hand around your throat, you’re finally able to breathe. This impiety does not offer you comfort in your tainted skin, but it offers you the one commodity you rarely seem to come by: rest. 

That incessant ache lurks deep in the pit of your stomach, even as Marco pulls out, but it’s quiet. Doesn’t demand your attention. You feel the dull throb that harasses the raw tissue of your cunt, and you try not to wince as you feel his seed spill out. Chuckling, he releases your throat in favor of wrapping his fingers around your hair, bunching as much as he can into the palm of his hand. It’s overgrown. Messy and dead. But he refuses to allow you to cut it. 

Nothing about you gets to change without his permission—not even your appearance. 

“Look at you, my sweet little girl,” he coos. Sharp teeth nip at the side of your jaw and you wince. You’re surprised his mouth doesn’t unhinge; that he doesn’t shove you into his maw and swallow you whole. “So goddamn perfect. Can’t get enough of this pussy. Christ.” 

When Marco backs away, you swear your knees will give out. Without his puppeteering hands to hold you up and bend you to his desires, you’re nothing but mush. A disgusting mess of smeared eyeliner and dripping cum. You can hardly stomach the sight of your body in the mirror. Neck littered with faint teeth marks, body bare and on display—used and abused to his content. You’re abhorrent. A pathetic creature you can’t stand to behold. 

Marco’s belt clinks just as a knock rattles the door. Your heart thuds loud enough in your ears that it nearly drowns out the sound of his heavy footsteps crossing the glorified dressing room. You attempt to steady yourself as you back away from the mirror, but the straps of your heels dig into your toes. They’re the only article of clothing you’re allowed. Marco says he likes the way they make your legs look longer. Likes the angle it gives him when he bends you over to fuck you.

When you turn to face him, he’s already sitting on the loveseat shoved into the corner of the room. A fresh bottle of mead sits on the tray next to him, and he pours himself a generous amount before knocking it back for a sip. The soft amber liquid overflows and dribbles past his lips, soaking his bare chest. His verdant eyes find you as he collets the drink on the tips of his fingers, then sucks them clean one by one. 

“Didn’t you hear that knock? You have a guest,” he says, tilting his jaw toward the door. 

With each step you take, you feel Marco’s seed dribble down your legs. It makes a sticky mess between your thighs, and you know he wouldn’t have it any other way. This is how he marks you. How he makes sure everyone knows who you belong to before he lets them take a piece of you home. 

A stranger with a thick neck stands at the door when you open it. His eyes are an odd shade of grey that sends a shiver down your spine as he looks you over, greedily drinking in the sight of your bare body. The chill of his gaze gets worse as the door closes behind him. He begins to crowd you and the sharp stench of vodka fills your nose. There’s something familiar about him. Every man in this club is familiar to you, in some way. Always hazy. Too fuzzy to place a name to. You think it’s your brain’s way of protecting itself. Of purging the bad things done to you as best as it can, lest you crumble in the palm of Marco’s hands. 

The sharp point of your heel catches on the plush rug that sprawls out in front of Marco’s feet, and you squeak as you nearly lose your footing. Both Marco and the stranger chuckle. The cacophonous tone grates against your eardrums, but you hide your discomfort as you stare at the ground. You wait. For the exchange. For the banter. They speak in Russian with one another through laughter as cash is passed to Marco. The air is still cold, and your thighs are still soiled, but the stranger looks at you like he would never dream of having any other meal than you. 

“Well, go on then,” Marco prompts. You look up at him with dull eyes. He swirls the mead in his cup as he tilts his head. “On your knees, babe. Wants to use your mouth tonight. Be a good girl, now.” 

Comply. Listen. It’s all you can do. So you sink to your knees like the well behaved girl you always are. Resting on your haunches, you look up at the man with a tight throat. He smiles, and your stomach drops. Roils and screams as he begins to unbuckle his belt. As he fishes himself from his trousers, you remind yourself all things are temporary. Especially pain. 

Nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will. 

When it’s all said and done—when you’re thoroughly used—Marco walks you to the door like a gentleman. Hastily adorned clothes hang from your body as you pull your jumper tight around your core. Your cervix still aches from the virulent abuse it had taken earlier, but you attempt to ignore it as he opens the exit. Your only reprieve from this nightmare is that he didn’t parade you throughout the club like this; looking like a whore for hire, advertising you to anyone else with fingers itching in greed. Tonight, he allows you to take the back exit far away from prying eyes. 

Cool night air cuts through your scanty clothes, and you stare out at the vast space of the car park before you. Weekdays bring little business and customers to Makarov’s club. Most of the strippers who work for him end up lazing around in back rooms and closets, getting drunk or high enough that they can forget all about their shitty night. 

You wish you had that luxury. 

“Hey,” Marco hums, grabbing your wrist. You turn to face him. Dim shadows from the flickering hallway lights cast his face in darkness, but the glint in his eyes is unmistakable. “See you tomorrow, babe.” 

He sends you off with a kiss. Sloppy and wet—he likes messes. Savors making one out of you. Sweet mead and mint seeps into your mouth as you kiss him back with a tight jaw. When his hands caress your cheeks, pulling you closer, you wonder if he can taste the brine and bitter cum that lurks in the back of your throat. If he relishes in feeling every single way in which you’re destroyed. 

“See you tomorrow,” you murmur. 

Breathing only comes easy the moment you’re locked in your car. The movement is fluid—that gentle expanding of your chest—but it’s still agonizing. Diaphragm seizing with the sobs you fight back, it’s another reminder that you’re alive. As long as you draw breath, you don’t belong to yourself. 

Hot tears sear down your cheeks as you turn the key in the ignition. A gentle rumble follows as the engine hums to life. It’s a smooth, quiet purr. A car that’s much more expensive than you deserve. A lovely gift from Marco. It’s not at all uncommon for him to give you things. Expensive things. A car; an apartment; clothes—you’ll pay it back eventually. The numbers just add up to the big debt that’s hung over your head since you were sixteen. It ebbs and flows but not enough to save you. Not enough for you to belong to yourself again. 

As you bring the heels of your hands up to wipe your eyes, a gentle glow catches your attention. It moves. Dances and swirls in the numbra of the car park. Blinking, you focus on it. Golden yellow embers flicker and fade as life is breathed into them. It’s faint, but it reminds you of the well adored fireflies in America. Squinting, you can make out the outline of a car. It sits patiently and silent, but the windows are cracked. Faint smoke swirls through the openings where it climbs into the dull night sky and dissipates. 

Someone sits inside of the car, puffing away in a nicotine haze, but when your eyes lock onto the fingers pinching a cigarette, they freeze. Glowing embers quickly smother and die somewhere inside of the vehicle, and you’re left with nothing. You stare into the darkness, and it stares back. You feel its gaze tingling along your spine. Sniffing, you look away from that void. Be it man, or be it monster, you know nothing ever happens to you without Marco’s permission. 

That sentiment is equally as terrifying as it is comforting. 

When you arrive home—to the apartment paid for with your own body—you shower. No amount of water and soap is enough. You can lather yourself in all of Marco’s favorite scents, but the mint on his tongue still follows you everywhere. It lingers like an old scar that refuses to fade. As you exit the bathroom, you leave feeling just as disgusting as when you entered. Nothing but some sordid creature that hardly knows how to take care of herself. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you feel sick. Golden glitter still stains your eyelids, and the teeth marks on the side of your throat have only grown more noticeable. Still, nothing is worse than the mark on the back of your neck. Though you can’t see it, you feel it. It makes your skin itch and crawl, and you find your fingernails tearing at it. As if you could rip it off like a bandaid. But it stays. Festers and embeds itself deep inside of you. 

Swallowing, you try to forget it as you continue to dry off. This is your brief moment of comfort, where you’re too far out of reach and well out of sight to be gawked at and abused. Your only reprieve before you spend another night rotting as a trophy of glitter and bone. 

Weekends are better, but only marginally so. Wide eyed men fill Makarov’s club to the brim with wads of cash and twitchy fingers. Lingering gazes and hands brush against the crux of your ass and the back of your neck as Marco parades you through the crowd by your wrist. With your strappy golden heels and matching exiguous outfit, you’re flashy merchandise. Something soft and sweet that he flaunts in an attempt to make a quick quid or two as a way to fund his means of pleasure and keeping control of you. While you’d normally spend most nights on your hands and knees, on busy nights, Marco allows you to earn your living in an honorable way—

—dancing. 

Sharp heels tap on soft mahogany as your hips and arms sway, practiced and repetitive, atop a round table. Dull music thrums and shakes the dust off your bones as the men on the crescent sofa surrounding you chat and laugh the night away. Marco’s in the mix of them all, cold glass resting on his knee as his foot taps against the floor. A hazy film covers the spring green of his irises as the liquor settles deep into his marrow. Each time you rotate his way, you watch his pupils dilate. A vast forest covered by the smokey darkness of that void, he licks at the alcohol on his lips as he stares at your clothed cunt. 

His fantasy fills your mind before his own can even make sense of it. Every spare glass and bottle that litters the table around your feet would be thrown on the floor in an instant just to put you on your back. To open your vulnerable stomach. To tear off the little clothing protecting your feeble dignity and truly put you to work. He’d spread your limbs and pin them like a specimen to a board, and he would cut and slice until you have nothing left to hide. Until there is nothing left of you at all. 

“Babe!” 

Marco’s voice cuts through the discordance of the crowd and pulls you out of a nightmare and back into the present. Your terrifying reality. Slowly, you turn to face him, and he looks up at you with a grin on his face and a card stuck between his fingers. That sly haze still obscures his vision as he offers you his hand. Numb to the feeling of his skin against your own, you take it and allow him to help you down from the table. He wastes no time in dipping his fingers into the strap of your lingerie where he secures the card beneath the band. 

“Looks like you’ve got work to do,” he teases. 

Warm hands settle on the curve of your hips as he guides you to turn around, faced away from him. Then, they wander up. Greedy fingers brush along the line of your spine before they find purchase in your hair, grabbing it as if he were trying to help you put it up. You hate how long it’s gotten. That he won’t let you cut it. He doesn’t care if it’s straight, curly, braided—anything. Marco wants it long. Uses it like a leash in which he keeps you bound to him with. 

“I know you’re a good girl, so I’m sure you won’t forget, but a little reminder never hurts,” he coos into your ear. Intoxicated breath fans across the side of your face as he leans closer to breathe you in. A shiver prickles across your skin as he kisses the back of your neck, and your throat involuntarily contracts at the sensation. It’s as if he’s marking you again. Branding you. “If this… patron wants more, I get to watch.”

Swallowing, you nod as best as you can with his fist gripping your hair. “I know.” 

Chuckling, he relinquishes his grip on you before stepping back. “Of course you do, smart thing you are. I’ll be waiting here for you.” 

You wait until you’re well away from Marco and his friends before you fish out the card he stuck beneath the strap along your hip. A pitched ringing plagues your ears as you enter the VIP section of the club. Things are quieter. Less crowded and the speakers don’t blare as loud. But the silence allows something malevolent to burrow inside of you. It festers as incessant tinnitus and broiling nervosity in your stomach. A wordless, desperate prayer breathes past your lips as you approach the room in which your patron awaits you. 

You pray he is kind. You pray that he wants nothing more than to hold you and vent his problems, like others have. 

When you open the door and step into the threshold that always makes your palms sweat, you think for a single fleeting moment that you are lucky. The room is abandoned. Dim lights illuminate the dull leather of the couch in front of you and yet there is no man sitting there for you to serve. Gentle music drones over the wireless speakers, giving the impression that there should be someone here with you. The attendants even set out the ice and whiskey for his drink. It now thaws on the tray, water nearly overspilling in its decay. 

Brows furrowing together, you look down at the card to ensure you haven’t misread it in your haze. The attendant’s handwriting is chicken scratch. He always manages to make a nine look like a zero, but you’re certain this is a six. The door clicks shut behind you as you sigh, too defeated and confused to make sense of this confusion. A pit forms in your stomach at the thought of slinking back to Marco with some saturnine cloud hanging over your head. 

If you can’t find work tonight, he’ll make some for you. 

That pit quickly becomes a gaping hole the moment a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth. Cardstock flutters out of your fingers like dainty butterfly wings, and hits the ground just as your back collides with an immovable chest. You don’t scream, but your heart nearly stops when you feel the cold press of metal against your throat. You are stuck in a vicious cycle. One of fear and sharp blades you’ll never wield yourself. 

“Not a fuckin’ word.” The voice that growls in your ear rattles your spine as the words erupt in his chest. Faint tobacco stains his fingers. Its earthy aroma seeps into your nose as your hands tremble against his tattooed forearm. “Don’t wanna hurt ya, so make this easy and listen to me, yeah?” 

Marco has taught you plenty well enough that the word no should be expunged from your vocabulary, so you nod. 

“Good.” 

You’re as stiff as a board when this stranger releases you. No amount of curiosity can get you to turn around and face the violent truth, not even as a thick jacket is tossed over your shoulders. The fabric is warm. Freshly removed off of the man behind you and placed on you as if it were a blanket. He presses his hand on your lower back and despite his caution, you still jump. 

“We’re going for a quick drive. Easy now. You’ll be home before sun up. C’mon,” he mutters. 

There is no such thing as saying no. There is no such thing as fighting. 

The knife vanishes from your sight but it’s all you can think about as this stranger leads you through the haze of the club. Everything blurs around you as you’re escorted to the nearest exit through quiet hallways that reek of cheap perfume. The only thing you can focus on is your feet. The glittery heels that match perfectly with your pedicure. You want to trip. To fall forward and hit the ground. Cry out and demand attention. The hand on the small of your back is all too grounding for you to make any mistakes. 

You approach and exit through an emergency fire door and the alarm doesn’t trip. Night air hits your skin like razor blades as you’re escorted across the car park. He shoves you into the back of a black car, and you only squeal a little when he slams the door behind you. When he situates himself in the driver's seat, the car hums to life and quiet lights flicker on just enough to scarcely illuminate his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark. The darkest you’ve ever seen. 

“There’s a blindfold in the seat next to you. Put it on,” he orders. Stuck on autopilot, you do as he says. It’s a thick scrap of cloth, something you hastily tie around your eyes and knot at the back of your head with trembling fingers. It only touches your skin for a fleeting moment before it’s soaked in briney tears. “Don’t even think ‘bout takin’ it off.” 

Not even your morbid curiosity can convince you to peek from between the threads. The word no is not in your vocabulary. Neither is disobeyment. 

Each turn the man takes as he brings you to some unknown destination has you swaying in your seat. Every pule that leaves your lips is smothered behind the palm of your hand as you wipe snot along the ridges of your knuckles. You do well to keep the aftermath of your fear to yourself. Even though this man has abducted you—something that was all too easy for him to do as you fawned, and you’ll surely pay for this when Marco finds you again—you do not want to ruin the coat around your shoulders with spit. 

Of course you think of escape. You always do. It’s a self soothing daydream that florescences in the neurons of your brain. Unlock the door. Open the handle. Jump out. It’ll hurt. It always does. And it’ll hurt when you’re caught, but it always does. 

You don’t move. Freedom is just a dream.

Despite the knife he greeted you with, this man is surprisingly gentle. His touch is soft when he eventually parks the car, and his fingers do not dig too terribly into your skin as he helps free you from the back seat of his car. You do not trust his softness as he leads you into a room that smells like alcohol and cigarettes. Nicotine burns your nose as you’re settled into a plush seat, and for a fleeting moment you think you were only driven around the block before being thrown right back into Marco’s maw. 

That theory is proven terribly wrong when your blindfold is ripped from your eyes. 

A man with impressive tepidity sits across from you at an antique wooden desk. Rich red walls close in on you. Crushing. Looming. Smoke blurs the space between the two of you as he puffs away at a thick cigar, blue eyes scanning a single piece of paper. He’s dressed nicer than you anticipated. A dark button up shirt, neatly combed hair and groomed beard—he hums to himself as his eyes scan the page in front of him before they land on you. You look away as if his gaze has burnt you. Instead, you focus on your nails and the manicure Marco made you get last week. Baby pink gel; his favorite color on you. 

“It’ll take more than crocodile tears to tug on my heartstrings, love,” he hums. 

The climate in your mouth suddenly becomes sere. All the snot and saliva that had built up before seems to vanish at his words. He’s nonchalant; terrifyingly so. 

“I don’t… uhm,” you attempt. 

“No need to explain yourself,” he interjects. “I understand. We all need to make a living.” Pausing, his eyes flicker back to the paper in his hands. “You’re Marco’s girl, aren’t you?” 

Thick obloquy heats the pit of your stomach as your fingers twitch. That term—that title. It fills you with more shame than you can name. You attempt to swallow down the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as your hand paws at the back of your neck. Expertly manicured nails scratch at the skin, and you wish nothing more than to peel back the layers of your epidermis and toss them aside to rot. 

Stiff, you nod. 

“John Price,” he introduces. 

He drops the name like it bears weight. As if it should crush you with each heavy letter that it carries, yet it doesn’t add on to the anxiety raging in your stomach. Your hand falls back into your lap as you dare to look at him once more. His eyes are sharp, as if he’s using his gaze alone to cut back your layers, but there is nothing to show for it. No secret except for a sour ignominy that you’ve carried for so long it imprints in your very skin. 

“Has Marco not told you about me?” he asks. He’s not upset; or if he is, he hides it well behind curious eyes. 

“No,” you answer truthfully. 

John chuckles. “Thought the man would’ve at least told his benefactor about me.” 

You blink. “...Benefactor?” 

“No need to play dumb. Like I said, it takes a lot more than faux tears to get me to feel sorry for you.” 

Your fear and confusion grips you so relentlessly that you don’t even feel it anymore. It’s wound so tightly around you, restricting blood flow to your body, that everything tingles if it is not numb. This man—John Price—gives you no chance to rest or fix your muddled thoughts. He tosses the paper in his hands across the wooden top of the desk, and your eyes nearly cross at the numbers printed on the pristine sheet and the amount of commas between them. There’s math. Addition and subtraction. Transactions of a bank account with a name at the top: 

Marco Anatolijus Kanas

Funny. You’ve never seen his full name before. He’s only ever been Marco.

You’ve only ever been his girl. 

While you stare at the numbers, John throws question after question at you, none of which you know how to answer. He asks about transactions. He asks about what they’re for. Each and every time he’s met with the same answer. You are just as clueless as him. Marco does not concern you with his real work. The work that gets him enough money to have a bank account as padded as the one you’re looking at currently. 

His finances make the sparse contents of your stomach curdle. The amount of money you owe him for your unfortunate existence is trivial compared to what he already has. So miniscule it would hardly budge his savings. Marco has been making you work half your life away for something akin to a mere couple quid to him, and it stings just as bad as it always does. Seeing it at face value just how trapped you are—how Marco owns you and always will. 

“Don’t get coy with me.” John’s getting frustrated. Each question he presents you with is met with the same carking response of I don’t know. It’s nothing but the truth, but he seems to be informed otherwise. You’re significantly less important than he believes you to be, but the man looming behind you doesn’t help in settling your nerves enough to explain your situation properly. “Word on the street is Marco’s girl supplies him with his spending money. You’re tellin’ me I heard wrong? Or are you too daft to ask him what he’s using his finances on?” 

You swallow. What a polite way to put it—the things Marco does to you. 

“He… He makes money off of me but I… I don’t know how much or what he uses it for,” you choke out. “Well, I… I know a little bit but it’s not, it’s not like, whatever you’re asking, it’s just… it’s stupid things, it’s like, my housing or… it’s not… important.” 

There’s a quiet beat that settles between you and John, and you feel whatever vexation he harbored for you previously quickly evaporate in the air. He’s silent for so long that you force yourself to look up at him. You’re expecting curiosity, even the most morbid of iterations. John Price is not curious. You can tell by the way his jaw unclenches and eyes soften that he finally understands what you’ve been too inept to say. 

“How long have you been workin’ for him?” he questions, softer this time. 

“Since… I was sixteen,” you reply. 

“Sixteen?” He’s appalled. Repeats the word like it’s the worst taste he’s ever had on his tongue. “What’s he making you do for work? Dance?” 

Shame sears the back of your neck, leaving nothing but wounded, marked skin in its wake. You palm at the burn. Try to will it away with desperate fingers, and the movement causes the coat resting limply around your body to slip off your shoulder. This is the first time you’ve considered lying to John. Omitting the truth just to save the small shred of dignity you still have left, no matter how imaginary it might be. 

“Yeah. I… dance on stage but he… has me do private sessions too but he… sometimes he-” 

A hand brushes against the side of your arm and you flinch so hard your teeth nearly pierce through your tongue. Weathered wood squeaks beneath your weight as you freeze after nearly jumping out of your skin. This well meaning hand that startled you so terribly is well meaning. It pauses in its endeavor to cover your body once again with this stranger's coat, and instead lets it fall. You had almost forgotten all about him—the strange man who stole away Marco’s favorite toy from right under his nose. 

John and the stranger share a look as you retreat back into yourself. Hands folded over your bare lap, you didn’t feel naked until they finally understood who you are—what you are. Pristine nails dig into your palms as you swallow back the bilious vomit that threatens to spew free. 

“If we take you home, will you be safe there?” His eyes land back on you, but you can’t bring yourself to give him the same courtesy. 

You shake your head. “He’s going to be so mad. He… he pays for my apartment. I don’t have any money of my own. I don’t have a phone. I… There’s nothing. I have nothing. Marco’s provided everything for me and I never… he never gave me the chance to…” 

“I understand,” John interjects, carefully quelling your rambling. He waits for a moment before leaning back in his chair, retracting every bit of malice he exuded while interrogating you. “I’m sorry, love. Should’ve done our research better.” 

“It’s okay… Marco didn’t leave much of me to find.” 

John’s eyes darken in a way that would leave most men with their tail tucked between their legs. You’re too busy making yourself small to notice. “We’ll fix that.” 

In the next few hours, your life changes drastically. It’s sudden and feels just as violent as everything always does, yet it is intimidatingly soft. The gazes that are cast your way scream pity instead of lust, and you are handled with so much care you’re convinced you’ve become nothing more than a tchotchke. At least these men treat you with fragility rather than flippancy. 

You learn the man who took you from Makarov’s club is named Riley. You’re able to get a better look at him without the blindfold and terror willing your vision elsewhere. He’s intimidating. Arms drenched in ink, it’s almost enough to smother the scars that map the story around his body. It can’t shroud the ones on his face. The thin line that dissects his eyebrow, or the one on his nose which only makes the curve of the bridge more dramatic. His eyes are darker than anything you’ve ever seen before—so empty and yet full at the same time; nothing but a contradiction as he watches you pull his coat tighter around your shoulders. 

It is decided that—for your safety—you are to live with Riley until it is determined you are out of Marco’s reach. 

Despite your apprehension, you can’t say no. 

Riley’s house feels like a den. Well guarded but comfortable, the plush cushions that cradle you on the couch feel false. Fake. Everything does, but it’s mostly you. Your hair. Your clothes. Your skin. Nothing about you is tangible, not even to yourself. 

You’re still swaddled in Riley’s coat by the time he tells you that your room is ready. Really, it’s his room. You want to tell him you’d rather sleep on the couch than in some stranger’s bed, but you can hardly bring yourself to speak a single word to him. He scares you, but not in the way people usually do. It’s not the fear of pain that he riles within you, but rather something light. Something that flickers and sputters, waiting to grow. You smother it as he hands you proper clothes to change into. You don’t know where he got them from or why they fit so well, and you don’t care to ask. 

His room is… what you expected of a man like him. Plain walls, sturdy wardrobe and bed. A wristwatch ticks on the nightstand. It laments quietly, so much so that you only notice it when you sink into the mattress. He’s changed the sheets and pillowcases for you, but it’s not enough to snuff out the faint scent of tobacco. You like it, you decide. Or rather, you don’t mind it. Grounding earthy notes are much better than the synthetic chemicals Marco soaks himself in. 

Sleep comes about as easy as you expect it to. A TV drones on quietly in the living room as you toss and turn among unfamiliar sheets. Dull anxiety claws within the cage of your chest, but it holds itself at bay better than you anticipated. Or rather, you are just too numb to fully appreciate the pain. You should be afraid. You know it, and it’s lurking there even if you can’t fully feel it yet. 

It manifests suddenly as you feel the ghost of Marco’s hands on you. His teeth digging into your skin, demanding flesh. He wets his maw with your blood just as he wets his cock with your cunt. It sears. Rips through you in the brutal way it always does. Raw. Sinew on bone. And you don’t cry because it’s what he wants. He wants that brine and that sapor and he’ll claim it with claws and a smile. 

His mantra pants. It sweats and drips. It’s wet on your ear. 

There’s no escaping him.

You wake just after the sun does, and it is only then that you cry. 

Grief is the quintessence of escape. You’ve crossed the threshold—you were dragged beyond it—and now there’s no way back to the way things were. Your life wasn’t good, and it was far from comfortable, but it was familiar. You only know how to navigate things when bound. Chained to an unforgiving master. How are you supposed to live with free hands? 

What happens when Marco yanks your leash and finds no tension? 

What becomes of his favorite toy—Marco’s girl—then? 

By the time you finally gather the courage to leave the room, you find Riley in the kitchen. It’s what drew you out of your hiding spot originally; that scent of freshly cooked food. Sizzling meat and steaming eggs. He works at the stove with his back turned to you, arms dancing above the heat as he fries up a breakfast that should make your mouth water, yet it fails to do so. 

“Morning.” He hears you before he sees you, but he pauses with a spatula in hand to look at you from over his shoulder. He gestures to the island in front of you—something you suspect was only built to compensate for the lack of counter space on either side of the stove—then hums to himself as he turns his attention back to his work. “Breakfast’ll be finished soon, if ya wanna grab a seat.” 

There’s a stiffness that plagues your limbs as you sit on the high top chair Riley pointed to. It rolls off you in waves. Taints the air; souring it with your presence. You are not comfortable in this place—with this man. His palm haunts the chapped skin of your lips the same way his chest haunts your back and you can’t help but wonder what he and John would have done to you had they deemed you guilty. If they had looked at Marco’s girl and saw an opportunity rather than a pitiful creature, would you be sitting here now? 

Breakfast is a quiet affair of scraping plates and muffled chewing. Riley doesn’t sit next to you. Rather, he stands on the other side of the counter with a bowed head as he shovels egg and bacon into his mouth as if he’ll starve if not. He tries to rest his elbows on the counter, but it’s too low. It curves his spine uncomfortably, and he shifts as if standing on hot coals. 

Hunger does not pull at your stomach. Nervosity fills you to the brim—too full to consume something other than the ache. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout last night.” Riley’s nearly finished with his food by the time he speaks, prompting you to look up at him for the first time since you sat down. All you’ve managed to do for the last few minutes is drag the tip of your fork around your scrambled eggs. “Boys really thought you were dangerous. That you were workin’ with Makarov and Marco. Shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” 

Dull teeth dig into the wet flesh inside your cheeks. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not okay,” Riley argues adamantly. “But I am sorry.” 

It’s difficult to discern the purpose of his apology. Is it to make himself feel better for what he did? For dragging you out of that club and into John Price’s office? To interrogate you until your innocence was proven? Does he say sorry to comfort himself, or you? To prove he’s not as monstrous as he looks with dark eyes and tight lips. He is, after all, awfully kind for a monster. You have yet to meet a beast that knows how to apologize without digging their teeth into you afterwards. 

Perhaps his apology is truly for you. To settle fried nerves. To make you feel safe. 

You know better than that. 

You were safer in the clutches of Marco’s jaw than you are now. 

“Riley, can… can I ask something?” 

A cheeky remark bubbles along his tongue. You just did. He takes one look at you and decides to bite it back. “Course.” 

A noisome lurch pulls at your stomach, embittering the sparse bites of food you were able to force down your throat. Thunder roars in your chest as your heart attempts to break free—leave your body behind to rot while it escapes. 

“Would I… Could I get the pill?” you ask. 

“The pill?” he repeats. 

“Yeah, like… the… the morning after pill?” 

His silence doesn’t surprise you, but it stretches long enough to be concerning. Looking up from your cold food, you’re met with soft eyes. They’re the softest ones that have looked at you for what feels like ages. Gentle. They don’t greedily rake over your body to soak in every twitch of your skin—rather, he reads you. Between the lines and and in the margins, he devours every word. 

For the first time in your life he makes you feel more like a victim than a toy, and you’re not sure if that feels any better. 

“Will you be alright by yourself if I go buy it for you?” he asks. There’s no judgment; only pity. 

You nod. 

Riley mulls it over as his tongue swipes along the back of his teeth. When he straightens, he brings his plate with him as he steps back and hums. Your attention is quickly brought back to your hands as he sets the dish in the sink to be cleaned later. 

“Alright.” You try not to choke as he motions to your plate. “Should eat. I’ll be back soon, yeah?” 

Once again, you nod. “Okay.” 

Not a single morsel has been consumed off of your plate by the time Riley returns home, and you are not in your seat. Disappointment buzzes at the base of his skull, but he’s not surprised. He knows what it’s like to be too full to eat—to be plagued with something not even hunger can triumph. He sets aside the pill box to clean up after you. Food in the bin. Plate in the sink to be washed later. 

It’s quiet. It’s never this quiet. Not even when he’s home by himself, which he usually is. Riley stands in the kitchen with furrowed brows as he looks around the room like he’s misplaced something. His keys. His lighter. 

God, he could use a smoke. 

Heavy feet cause old wood to creak as he pokes his head into the bedroom. An imprint of your body still dips into the mattress from this morning, but it’s gone cold. He was going to stay politely stationed in the doorway until the thought flickers across his mind that you’ve left. Got too scared of the brute whose home you’re trapped in and ran off. Away. Hiding from the world—from Marco. 

There’s little reprieve to be found when he notices the light shining through the crack of the bathroom door, but it’s smothered the moment he hears you crying. They’re pathetic, stifled pules. Ones you attempt to desperately hide, yet they bleed out of you anyway. He wants to leave you alone, to let your emotions wash over you, but he can’t. 

Even with your crying, the house is too quiet. 

��Everythin’ alright?” 

Both his voice and knock startle you, and your sobbing swells. Breathing out of control, he can hear you choke on the snot flowing through your sinuses. You’re panicked, and he realizes that this is more than grief. More than anxiety. More than fear. 

You’re terrified. 

You’re standing in the bathtub like a scared cat when Riley opens the door. Tears stream down your face. Relentless. They nearly glisten as bright as the kitchen knife in your hand. 

You told yourself it would be easier for him to clean up the mess of your corpse if you killed yourself in the bathtub. Blood festers and rots in the smallest of crevices, but there’s none of that to be found in the ceramic that surrounds you. However, you’re having trouble getting any blood to flow at all. You’re not sure if it’s you or the knife, but you’re hardly able to break the skin on your wrists. The crimson blood that flows through your minor cuts feels trivial. There needs to be more. 

It’s not enough. You’re scared that you might have to stab yourself. Spill your guts in the tub. Witness your offals for yourself before you fade away. Something. You want to die, but you don’t want it to hurt. 

You don’t want it to hurt, but you need to leave. 

“Hey. Hey, easy now.” Riley feels as if he’s talking to an animal. Some feral cat poised to bite and scratch if he’s not cautious. He approaches you with his palms faced out in surrender, and the walls around you seem to close in. “You don’t wanna do this sweetheart. Give me the knife.” 

“You don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t do this. You-You don’t know what he’ll do to me. Marco he... It’s- I- fuck, I can’t. I can’t do this, please just let me do this.” 

Each word is muffled. So far from your ears that it hardly reaches you. Still, they spew along with your cries. It doesn’t deter Riley from closing in on you. Swallowing the spit building on your tongue, you hold the knife with both hands. A simple kitchen blade, now brandished like a weapon. It’s nearly laughable. You couldn’t even kill yourself. How can you expect to hurt him? 

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s gonna be okay. We’ll make it okay, but I can’t do that if you’re not here.” His words feel stupid in his mouth, but he knows he has to try something. “Please. Give me the knife. I don’t wanna hurt you. Hey, give- fuck!” 

There’s a lunge. Grabbing. Blade on skin. Blood on tile. 

Riley meant it when he said he didn’t want to hurt you, but you still cry out as he yanks you out of the tub. Once again, your back is against his chest. You are enveloped by him as the two of you sink onto the bathroom floor, held down by his weight, and it is then that you truly can no longer hold yourself together. Vision darkening, chest ceasing; you panic. It rips through you with shaking hands and writhing legs, causing your feet to kick at the dull kitchen knife at your feet. 

For a moment, you are lost. Consumed by overwhelming grief and fear, and still Riley holds you through it all. You feel his heart beating against your spine, feel the exhale of his lungs dance on the top of your head. It’s a flicker in the darkness. In the primal fear of knowing you are still somehow chained to the man who has abused you for countless years. 

Dread transcends physical space. Marco planted it inside of you the first time his lips found the quiver in your throat. 

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got ya.” 

Riley’s voice fades in like radio static. Disconnected and muffled, yet growing evermore clear. Then, it hits all at once. The slight sting of your wrists and the ache in your leg. Did you trip? You feel the growing bruise pulse and throb on your shin, and another one in your hip. It’s hardly bearable, but neither of them are as uncomfortable as the warm, sticky mess seeping into your shirt. 

It takes several seconds for you to realize it’s blood. 

“There, good. It’s alright,” Riley whispers. His voice is thick—heavy enough to make your stomach sink. 

“Am- Am I bleeding?” you stutter. 

“No, you’re alright. Don’t worry ‘bout the blood.” 

But you do. You worry about it because you don’t want it to hurt, you don’t even think you want to die anymore—you just want it gone. For it to dissolve around you, or for you to waste away into dust. Your chin rests against your chest as you look for the source, scouring your own body for the wound. Your wrists, your arms your legs—

—the wound is on Riley. 

Blood gushes through a gash on the top of his forearm, obscuring your view of the damage. It’s just as steady as every stream you ever used to jump over as a child. It slices through the meticulously crafted ink that graces his skin, and you feel as if you’ve cut through the canvas of a painting. Ruined something good. Something more useful than yourself. More than that, you hurt him. 

“Oh my god, your arm,” you gasp. 

“It’s nothing,” Riley attempts to assure. 

“There’s so much blood, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s nothing,” he reiterates. “Just a cat scratch, sweetheart.” 

His cat scratch takes twenty minutes to patch up. You count the time on the ticking of his wristwatch as you lay in his bed. Body too weak and afflicted with malaise to make something of yourself, you stare at the ceiling as you listen to him hiss and grunt. It’s the blood, you’re sure. Despite the flow, he manages to smother it to nothing more than a scab beneath pristine dressings. 

It takes him another ten minutes to clean you up. He assesses the wounds you left on yourself—shallow horizontal cuts along the delicate skin of your wrists. You stare at them as he cleans and bandages them, and you tell yourself the sting from the antiseptic is what makes your eyes water. 

You’ve created a mess for nothing, and Riley is the one paying for it. 

“There.” He secures the last piece of tape on the gauze. It feels unnecessary. Band-aids would have sufficed, and you tried to tell him as much only for him to mutter something about infections. “Not too tight?” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” 

Content, he hums as he steps away from the bed, gathering up items off of the nightstand. You watch as his fingers swallow rolls of tape, forearm flexing beneath his own dressings. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, your heart lurches, as the guilt pierces through you like a blade. You’re not sure why it lurks. Is it because you hurt him? Because you tried to leave a corpse for him to come home to? 

“I’ll get you some water. Ought to take that pill sooner rather than later,” Riley says, turning to leave the room. 

He only makes it a few steps before you stop him. “I lied.” 

Pausing, his eyes find you with more confusion than you expected. “Yeah?” 

“I lied about… needing the pill. I just said it so you would leave,” you admit. You push yourself up from the bed, legs swinging over the side of the mattress to sit and properly look at him. “When… I first… Marco used to make me take birth control. Like, the actual pills. I got pregnant anyway. Made me get the IUD after that. It’s more effective, so I don’t think I’ll really need it. I mean, I’ve never needed it before, so…” 

Listening, Riley nods as you bare the raw parts of yourself. It’s impossible to share without that warble in your tone—that pain that always leaks into your voice—but in some strange way, it feels good. Refreshing. You’re airing out an old, festering wound that hasn’t ever seen the light of day. 

“You got a kid to take care of? If they’re with Marco-” 

“No,” you interrupt. Riley’s words die on his tongue. “No, he… he made me get an abortion, too. It’s for the best, really. Kids shouldn’t be around that monster anyway.” 

Again, he nods. The house feels loud. Every inch of the four walls around you seems to buzz with an energy you’re not privy to. 

“Well, some water wouldn’t hurt. Food wouldn’t either, since you never finished breakfast,” he continues as he turns. “Want anything specific?” 

He’s so… casual. Nonchalant despite the trauma you subjected him to. He should be angry with you. Furious at having made a mess; at having hurt him. His entire life was turned upside down the very same moment yours was—he should hate you for it, but he doesn’t. 

“Whatever’s easiest.” The floorboards are loose by the door. They squeak as he crosses the threshold, and you feel your stomach lurch. “Riley?” 

Pausing, he turns on his heel as his head pokes back into the room. “Yeah?” 

So calm. So patient. 

“Thank you. For everything. I just… Thank you, Riley,” you choke. 

For the first time since he caught you in that club, he smiles; small and kind. 

“Just Simon to you, yeah?”

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[aialsposts]

Absolutely LOVING the use of Mabel’s slang and Ford’s slight hesitation but willingness to adapt because like. Those kids talked like old timers in the show (likely just from being around one for a while)

so you KNOW they came back when in high school with Dipper saying stuff like “I’m about to absolutely crash out on Robbie this time. MABELLL?? WHERE’S YOUR GRAPPLING HOOK-“

And Mabel saying stuff like

“Slay the house down mama!!” And “you better WALK that DUCK” and even Dipper is like,,

“So from what I gather this is… a way of her saying essentially you’re doing really well and your outfit is so good it could…kill her??? I think??”

And it’s also a lot of Ford finally caving and begging for a presentation from Dipper about their generation’s Slang. Mabel has to be Dipper’s project partner; while he initially didn’t want to drag her into this, unfortunately he hit a wall in his research where he fully couldn’t see the connection, and Mabel was completely overexcited to oblige.

First half of the presentation:

Very well put together slides, including graphics here and there introducing a timeline for when said slang started taking off, Dipper’s theories as to *why* certain slang rose more popularly/had longer “staying power”, and even some older slang from Ford’s generation that roughly translates to something modern. “I’m gonna crash out on ___” roughly equals “you’re cruising for a bruising, pal”

While the other half was essentially:

*disorganized bright colors and really hard to read print over graphics that don’t really technically go with what’s being talked about?? From what Ford can gather??*

The first presentation is an absolute disaster, but after finally setting aside their differences to create a better, much more comprehensive presentation, it ends up with Dipper learning a lot more lingo, too (for better or worse, you decide lmao), and having Mabel do more of the sort of explaining to Dipper (he did the graphics and visuals this time, it hurt his SOUL to see his sister’s side of the presentation BDJSVDJ) and Mabel helped Dipper grapple with the connotations of lingo a little more. For some reason the worse it sounds it seems to mean?? Something better?? It confuses him just as much as it does Ford, and Ford really starts to see ‘tism signs in Dipper as he slowly realizes how much Dipper is just like him growing up (like. Dude’s REALLY trying to understand “slay” “yass” “queen” and he gets that down and Mabel’s like “alright, beginner level over, now, what does, “slay the house down boots mama!” Mean?”

Even adding her extravagant gestures to the slang, which, to his credit, surprised Dipper because normally body language helps but like. Mabel body language and “what the culture’s feeling” aren’t exactly the same thing. He couldn’t, for the LIFE of him, figure out whether or not the gestures were actually included— as in, used by anyone other than just Mabel— and he was in fact wrong because it turns out the gestures ARE important, but there’s also varying LEVELS of importance.

Like the more emphasis (more ‘cartoony’/fluid/exaggerated the movement, the more the person REALLY fucking means it, no matter how little or how much emphasis they put into their voice (kinda going against his autism’s way of learning because like. Tones are?? So important I thought??? Why does this not apply here??)

Genuinely once they’ve presented all the information, and Ford gets a better idea of it, they’re all ready to just end this information exchange,,, until Stan walks in and overhears Dipper say to Mabel, “I think we slayed this presentation”

To which the twins simultaneously face palm as they realize they have to do the presentation again,

and Ford gets The BIGGEST grin, because, you see, Ford’s ability to process information is largely dependent on setting, generally, the mystery shack is… not a place he’s overjoyed about being at, but with others around it can sort of quell that sick feeling he gets and such.

So while he *mostly* understood the presentation, he didn’t want to have the twins repeat themselves (especially after learning what “unc status” means) so when his brother, Stanley, has to endure the same chaos but WITHOUT the prior understanding Ford’s now working with, all he can do is pull the twins aside and whisper, “how about we add something to your presentation, I think it might help Stanley understand this one term better-“

After a few slides where Stanley hardly seems to be paying any attention, Mabel clears her throat, Dipper stifling his laughter as Mabel announces loud and clear that a “new term” “just dropped”. She points the clicker super professionally, and as the slides turn, it’s the most abhorrent neon slide to ever disgrace the earth. Glitter. Fairies. Graphics that actually DO work this time though, she made sure to give more accurate visuals.

Introducing: GRUNK STATUS!

“It’s like Unc status but even more archaic!” Mabel enthusiastically declares.

Dipper is giggling so hard he’s having a full out asthma attack on the floor, and Ford finally can’t contain his laughter either. Mabel starts to laugh along and Stanley looks absolutely miserable for a moment.

“Aw, c’mon they’re just kids,” Ford laughs.

“You put them up to this. I don’t know how to prove it but I KNOW you did this. That stupid fucking Pun has YOUR NAME written ALL OVER IT-“

*cough/mumbles something about it being Stanley’s name, legally, last he checked which IMMEDIATELY Started a fight, until Mabel slams her fist down.*

“Ahem. Gentlemen. The presentation isn’t OVER. Sheesh, talk about Crashing out,” Mabel says, SO calmly that both grunkles sink back in their seats a bit like kids in trouble for causing a ruckus at school. (Mabel and Dipper do a lil thumbs up bc hey, that was a great way to give an example of a Term, Mabel! Good job!)

“Ohh… I get it, Crashing Out means you’re cruising for a bruising!” Stanley declares (sort of under his breath). To which Ford replies, voice equally lowered, “wasn’t that a few slides back? They already said that,” as if he hadn’t had the EXACT same epiphany earlier on, and was merely able to contain it before sounding “even more unc” (he tries, but the grammar with the slang is slightly off sometimes).

This essentially causes another argument.

This third run of their presentation took them 2 hours to get through due to Stanley and Stanford’s arguing.

Their first two runs with only Ford took maybe 45 minutes max (not including their needing to fix said presentation).

The twins put up with Stan and Ford’s fighting because they realized it’s probably essentially exactly how they looked when they were bumping into each other the first time they were trying to create this presentation.

Some things never change.

Sibling Rivalry? Absolutely timeless.

I was thinking about how he did not have to include this photo of himself in TBOB and how it really looks like it had to be taken by someone else.

[2-dsimp]

Off topic, when I read about Neinov the Toon, my first thoughts came to a game called Amanda the Adventurer. Idk why 😭

Anyway, are your plans would be Neinov coming to the real world, or Neinov dragging mc back to his world? 🤔

•:•.•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•

Yandere! Toon x Reader

•:•.•:•.••:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:

Synopsis: your past mistake from your old childhood days has come back to haunt you.

Cw: attempted kidnapping, obsessive, controlling possessive behavior, mentions of stalking, Neinov being delusional, non-consensual,

•:•.•:•.••:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:

“My partner! It’s you? Is it really you?”

A warbled voice addressed you, from beyond the fragile veil of where your reality clashed with the imaginary world of Cartoonz. A realm that was too warped beyond real life’s comprehension.

What the fuck was going on? All you did was turn on the damned tv to watch some classic cartoons. The one time your father left the remote out in plain sight.

You took a chance to sift through some channels, you were grown damnit! And yet he was still being such a helicopter parent. All because of an stupid accident you couldn’t remember for the life of you, that happened when you were a child.

“P-partner? What the hell? What is this? Who are you?!”

“Hey hey heyyy aren’t you being too cold? I’m Neinov your partner in crime, for life or death~ We used no—we are the best of buddies and more hehe!”

Your blood ran cold at the chipper response coming straight from the entity before you. Fingers desperately fiddling with the remote to turn off the malfunctioning tv.

As multiple gloved comical hands began pushing at the frame, trying merge out of the screen. Making the stand rock from the force of whatever thing was trying to come out. Suddenly, you heard your phone ringing, the set of rapid texts coming from your stern father.

≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒

★《You stupid child! What have you done?!》

≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒

≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒

★《I said you were forbidden from watching the TV! Quickly, pull the plug!》

≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒

≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒

★《Don’t let it crossover— it can’t—Die》

≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒ ≒≒

The phone, sputtered its battery suddenly drained to 0% shutting down completely.

“Ugh that vile monster, I mean your pops is still so persistent after all these years! Its unfortunate to leave him be for now, but savin you comes first!”

Neinov whistled flippantly, his gloved hands breached through the screen. But His face was still smushed against it. Rabid eyes wide with glee staring at you obsessively. His jagged teeth grinning widely at you. That motherfucker even threw a cheesy wink your way. As if this home invasion was a normal thing.

“Saving me? What are you even talking about?! This can’t be real it’s gotta be a prank!”

You’d sputter, trying to make yourself feel good with a white lie. but you knew better, those goosebumps upon your arm told you that you weren’t dreaming.

This felt to real to be a dream. So you scrambled to do something—anything. But did you want to risk getting snatched up by the now free roaming hands. Coming from the tv just to pull the plug? Or maybe breaking the screen would be better? The question is how? You didn’t have a damned hammer or brick on hand.

You didn’t take your father seriously when he warned you to stay away from tv screens. Especially during certain times at night.

You always thought it was some kind of boogeyman type scare tactic so you’d focus on school rather than goofing off online. But now you were at a loss, you were home alone, with a thing calling you its partner in crime.

All this overthinking wasn’t good for your anxiety. You weren’t the type to do well under pressure anyways so the best option that your body decided upon was to flee.

But in hindsight, you did recognize the Toon’s voice it sounded so familiar yet so distant from time. It carried a heavy twang like in those old 90s cartoons. However, seeing you try to escape the voice turned deranged.

“Ah aha oh You silly goose! Where the f*#% do you think you’re going? And my gosh how is this stupid censor not removed yet?!”

The toon’s colorful curses were censored with a bleeps and dolphin noises, as you were rendered immobile.

“I found you… All these years I’ve spent searching for you like a pin inna haystack. And now you’re right in front of me!”

Struggling, You desperately pulled and pulled only to remain where you once were.

“Hey I’m saving you right now, so you should be happy! And jump into my arms greetin me with a big ole a hug and a smooch! Cuz I’m your hero baby!”

Looking down that same gloved hand big enough to encompass your waist. Had a vice grip on your ankle, it tightened and with a sharp yank, you collapsed to the ground.

“Oh I get it you wanna get all glammed up for ya boy. But Yknow you don’t need any makeup, I like ya just the way you are babycakes!”

You started getting rug burn from being dragged across the carpet. By his noodle arms that acted like a sticky hand rope.

“So there’s no need to be shy! After all I’m bringing you back home! Where you belong.”

You were scratching, clawing with all your might to stay tethered to the floor. Neinov, merely found you to be playing hard to get. As he laughed in a bubbly manner, licking his lips as he finally pushed his head through the screen’s threshold. To be in the same space as his precious partner.

“Listen I know we’ve been separated for far too long huh? But Don’t worry! I’ll make you remember all the fun times we spent together just like the good ole days!”

———————————————————————-

A/n: nothing like some good cartoonish love 🤧

[gloomygloworm]

I open Dragon Age: The Veilguard

I play the game, and I think to myself ‘weird I thought this was a choices and politics game ft metaphors from real history like slavery’ 

My friends go “you’re right that’s what it’s supposed to be but this game is lacking those things”

I go “oh bummer that sucks, I like moral quandaries.”

I see a post that publicly wonders why people are upset that one of the main metaphors (slavery) is missing from the game.

I respond saying yeah its weird that people are complaining that a Big Metaphor is missing from the Big Metaphor Game

I get asked what part of the game matches the Main Metaphor, and I respond with “well, the elves are second class citizens.” I am doing research specifically on the elves. I read in the wiki, with sources, that yeah, no, I’m right, the Church said “if you kiss an elf that’s basically the same thing as kissing a dog.” Elves don’t have rights in most of the countries that the other games are in. One of these places in the North is the Big Metaphor Place where they looooove the Big Metaphor and using the Big Metaphor, but I get called weird for wondering why it’s mostly absent from the game.

I open my blinds and find out that National Holocaust Remembrance Day is no longer a federal holiday. I also find out that my government is trying to "deport" the native citizens of said country. I go back online and find a thread from 2009 where one of the writers explicitly states “Yeah the Dalish started as a metaphor for the Roma but evolved into more like the Native Americans, and the Andrastean Elves are like the Jewish during Nazi Occupied Germany.”

I say “oh okay so Tevinter is like Nazi Occupied Germany. Yeah it’s weird that they’ve kind of sanitized this place and I can’t find the evidence of this anywhere.”

Someone calls me weird again and tells me to read the Codex. Someone else mentions the very beginning of the game, where you see shackles on the ground and there is mention of an elf who is freeing slaves, none of which I witness. I wonder if the slaves are in the room with me. 

Someone else mentions that this is the first time we see Tevinter without any biases, mentioning two characters, Dorian and Fenris.

My friends, horrified, tell me Fenris is an ex-slave (who can be given BACK to his slave owner) and Dorian’s family are Slave Owners. I think to myself huh that’s kind of a weird thing to say considering the biases are “I was a slave” and “Yeah my family owns slaves but that’s kinda bad huh” cause that’s the same exact concept. 

I say “well elves don’t have rights, that sucks, but I wish we got to see more of their day to day. I hear about these alienages that in other games we’ve been able to see, it’s weird there isn’t one in the very poor part of the Capital of the Big Metaphor Place, where there would be a high number of these people.”

Someone says “why do you want to see them suffering? That’s weird.”

I say “yeah but there’s beauty in adversity and I didn’t write the game, I want to see this big tree the alienages supposedly have as a sort of last hope for the city elves to cling to their lost culture.” 

Someone calls me weird.

I open my blinds and politicians and big public figures are giving Nazi salutes in public rallies. 

I boot up Veilguard.

I boot up Origins and get called a slur within the first five minutes of the game. 

I picked a circle elven mage, but I use youtube to look up the city elf origin and go “oh holy fuck wow they just put it right out there huh? That’s the world state, now I know.”

Someone tells me that I should play the game because I would enjoy being sexually assaulted and violated.

I literally don’t have a response to that in any comprehensive way because that is a wild thing to say to a stranger. It is, in fact, two subjects I have intimate knowledge of as a victim of both domestic abuse and sexual assault. 

Someone tells me to just read the Codex.

Someone tells me to just read the Diary of Anne Frank.

I buy the art book for Veilguard and see that some of the major players they nixed were ex-slaves. I look at Reva and I say “oh hey cool concept” 

Someone calls me an idiot online and I laugh while closing my blinds, because purity culture is once more making a comeback and if I licked a single rock in Arlathan all I’d taste was bleach.

[flightyalrighty]

Flighty I'm sorry to say but you've picked the worst social to post a nuanced and openly violent comic. Tumblr users do not understand horror or themes or anything beyond what's been shown to them on the page. Reading comprehension is at an all time low and all the low gathers here to complain that something bad or nuanced happened in a story and then demand that the artist and writer personally explain or change aspects of the story for their sake or because it " makes them feel bad "

Also should take the time to remind everyone that not everything is cattered directly to you abd that's not a bad thing or a moral failing on the writers part. Good lord.

I'm sure that not everyone on this website is Like That. Tumblr's made up of a LOT of people after all! Trust me when I say, in my experience, of the four platforms I've posted this comic on (Tumblr, Comicfury, Twitter [though not anymore] & Bluesky), Tumblr folks have actually been the MOST thoughtful (and patient) out of all of them.

Now, that said, yeah, on occasion I've gotten a few stinkers in my inbox. That's okay. The fellas that have made me smile on here have far outweighed the entitled weirdos.

I trust that, despite this comic not being for everyone, and how a few loud people are gonna get mad about it, overall Infested will be enjoyed plenty. I'm just happy this comic got any readers at all. I used to get no readers whatsoever. THAT was the true hell of being a comic creator on Tumblr.

[rizzoreads88]

You know what I love? Azriel didn’t have to go and save Gwyn from the blood Rite because he knew she could take care of herself. He trained her so he knew. He saved Elain because she was weak and defenseless and a damsel and sat in a tent and waited for someone to save her. And guess what Gwyn did in the Blood rite? Actually made an effort and helped and even stayed up in the tree. That was her SPYING!!!!!!! Who’s to say Azriel didn’t give her any tips during the time he went over dagger handling? Gave her tips on how to spy? It’s great foreshadowing from S.J.M!!

And I cant wait for Azriel to gift Gwyn a dagger so she can name it Silver Majesty. S.J.M gave us that for a reason. At least she’ll accep it. Unlike Elain who gave back TruthTelller. Gwyn sees Azriel’s love for daggers and it is seen in the bonus. “A comfort for every growing child.” I can’t wait for them to have a child (this was foreshadowed with the above line) and they can have bad ass warrior parents.

The next book is taking forever because S.J.M got bored writing Elain’s book so she has changed it to Gwynriel. I can’t wait for their endgame and for the rest of the Elriels to finally leave our space. Gwynriels have been here longer. It’s time for others to go now who can’t accept Gwynriel is endgame.

I don’t like people pinning Gwyn and Elain against each other but since you wanted to come in my anons doing so let’s go through all your points from canon. Both Gwyn and Elain are great characters and are strong in different ways. But now that I’ve read your fanon theories let me respond with some canon.

whether Azriel believes in Gwyns abilities or not that man cared more about his enemy Eris than when she was drugged and kidnapped by multiple men…. Is that how mates act? not according to Ruhn!

Ruhn glared at her as Hunt continued to glow and menace. It means that he’s going ballistic in the way that only mates can when the other is threatened. It’s what happened then, and what’s happening now.

Azriel may not have been able to go to the blood rite but that wouldn’t have stopped him from showing emotion around his friends if he actually cared anough to. In acowar we see azriel is full of rage and is the first to notice Elain was taken. So he will show emotion like that over Elain but not his supposed mate? lol …...it’s funny you guys try to talk around azriel not really reacting to gwyn being kidnapped to the blood right by saying “it’s bc he knew she could handle herself!” Yet cassian was there and knew Nesta could handle herself and he was still freaking out. Cassian still showed concern over Emerie and Gwyn too.

“Gwyn was spying”. So I guess everyone in the blood rite are spys now?! It’s funny Emerie and Nesta watched their enemies at times too but no one credits them to being a spy. You guys can try and claim Gwyn is a spy blahhhh but SJM doesn’t compare Gwyn to any spy tactics at all in the books. But ya know who she does? Elain. You know who they wonder if azriel is training w spy techniques? Elain lol

She scanned Elain from head to toe, wondering if she’d been taking lessons in stealth either from Azriel or the two half-wraiths she called friends.”

“Elain was again at my side. I hadn’t heard her steps. Hadn’t heard any sound for moments.”

“Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him”

“Elain was the only one who guessed. She caught me vomiting two mornings in a row.” She nodded toward Azriel. “I think she’s got you beat for secret-keeping.”

You know who’s good at keeping secrets like a spy does… Elain. You know who’s not? Gwyn lol Nesta tells Gwyn how they are looking for the trove and not tell anyone at all and what does Gwyn do? Tells Merrill

“At least gwyn would keep the dagger” In Acowar Azriel never gave Elain his dagger to keep. He lent it to her. For a side that screams Elriels have no reading comprehension I would think you’de understand this by now… the I won’t be using it today line means she can use it FOR THE DAY not keep it. So of course she gives it back after she’s done w it.

“This is Truth-Teller,” he told her softly. “I won’t be using it today—so I want you to.”

The emphasis SJM puts on the truth teller scene is that Azriel has never let anyone else touch it ever and he still lends it to Elain.

Cassian gawked at Azriel, and I wondered how often Azriel had lent out that blade— Never, Rhys said from where he finished buckling on his own weapons against the side of the wagon. I have never once seen Azriel let another person touch that knife.

It’s pretty telling how Azriel has been training Gwyn(and the other ladies) for months w daggers, has even had at least 1 private dagger lesson with Gwyn but hasn’t let her even touch truth teller ….. but sureeeee she’ll get silver majesty or gray bullet or whatever other name yall want to make for truth teller other than it’s actual name in the books.

“Elains weak Gwyn is stronger!!” First of all both ladies are bad ass. Yes Gwyn did some really cool things in the blood rite and helped fight to stay alive alongside Nesta and Emerie, but Elain killed a evil king.Fought Hybern beasts w her bare feet, and this is without any actual training. Elain has badass powers and has put them on to finding Vassa, the suriel during the war, and looking into Koschei. And let’s see what Azriel thinks of Elain.

Elain’s brows twitched toward each other. “The queen—with the feathers of flame.” The shadowsinger angled his head. Lucien murmured to me, eye still fixed on Elain, “Should we—does she need …?” “She doesn’t need anything,” Azriel answered without so much as looking at Lucien. Elain was staring at the spymaster now—unblinkingly. “We’re the ones who need …” Azriel trailed off. “A seer,” he said, more to himself than us. “The Cauldron made you a seer.”

When everyone else thought there was something wrong with her and she was going crazy… Azriel was the one who knew she didn’t need anything. Azriel was the one to figure out she was a seer. Azriel was the one who realized they needed her.

I have no idea what your going on about in that last paragraph. I’m going to read whatever SJM writes because it’s not that serious. In fact most elriels say regardless of who ends up together they will continue reading the books. It’s a lot of the gwynr/els who post about how they won’t read a Elriel book blah blah blah. But trying to say Gwynriels have been around longer? You’re funny w that one. Seeing how gwyn is only in 1 book yet elriel has been being foreshadowed since acomaf. There’s been elriels around since then.

[problematic-polls]

which of these controversial statements do you agree with the MOST

in case you dont have any reading comprehension, these are not MY takes, just things ive seen out and about. drunk anon btw

-12 angry men is actually a little bit racist

-most musicals are pretty toxic because of how common fat jokes are

-latinx is a slur

-its okay to misgender someone behind their back as long as they dont hear it

-required arts/music credits in school is stupid

-the majority of people failing in highschool are lazy/stupid and likely dont have any mental issues such as depression or learning disabilities

-anyone disabled enough to need an aid should not be required to go to any kind of schooling

-ADHD is overdiagnosed

[unicornbeck]

I grew up pretty liberal, but even so, there wasn't language for a lot of things back then. There are so many of us in my and my mom's generations who knew we were different but didn't have the language or nuanced understanding of ourselves on a spectrum, that would have facilitated articulating who and how and what we were.

My children have had access to the best, most comprehensive, science-based education I could find for them, and they have taught me so much about myself. My kids gave me language to express distinctions, taught me structures and names, articulated questions I'd never known how to put into words, how to ask.

Because of my ace enby kid, I've become aware of my own grey-ace-demi-ish tendencies, but also aware of the fact that right now I still don't have adequate language to express exactly what color of the rainbow I fall under. But for the first time, I feel a sense of tentative belonging, like maybe there is a place in the tent for me after all. I've considered myself a staunch and zealous ally for so long, always felt more at home and comfortable among queer people. Turns out, that might be because I'm one of them after all. I still don't feel at ease claiming space there, because I've always been okay presenting as the gender I appear to be, and I've only ever had straight-presenting relationships, romantically. But I know in my bones I'm not what I appear. I'm not aro, and I don't mean to hijack this beautiful post about people who have long gone un-validated, unaccepted, misunderstood.

I'm just so thankful when I read about people who have been so long separated from an understanding of themselves, finally being given the language and tools to express and understand themselves.

I relate to that experience so hard.

I want old aros so badly. I want a history. I want a future. I want tales of lives that I understand. I want to see myself in a future where I’m happy and comfortable.

But I don’t have that, so I’ll have to build it.

[cuephrase]

have you even fucking read tim’s comics or are y’all just bitching about the cliffsnotes version of him you’ve osmosed through reductive posts, out of context panels, and/or ooc fic. the reading comprehension skills cannot be this bad.

and before you get pissy- no, you don’t have to like tim. hate him all you want. but could you at least hate tim drake and not this strawman caricature y’all have slapped his name on? or at least have the decency not to act like you’re giving out the Real True Facts about who he is, the things the rest of us have our heads too far up his ass to see clearly, unlike your free-thinking selves?

anyways, so sorry that bruce and dick and cass and steph love his annoying little ass. and that he and damian have been getting along. and that jason’s not trying to kill him anymore. i’d be pressed too if i had to deal with the fact that my blorbo doesn’t also hate that obnoxious loser tim drake who’s living rent free in my head because i’ve got such a hate boner for him <3

(and also, fwiw, you don’t have to read tim’s comics either. just maybe idk keep your mouth shut if you don’t know what you’re talking about. isn’t that what you hate about non-comics reading fans anyways?)

(also also, if you don’t read comics at all, this is not about you, regardless of whether or not you hate tim. cool? cool.)

[brutally-loving]

PROFESSIONAL FICTIONAL MAN ENJOYER, HERE

Hey!! Welcome to my selfship sideblog. My name is Krueger (he/they), and I am a plague on this community! I talk about men a lot. I really like fictional men. I interact from @esotericdivinity, and have an art blog called @tenacious-brute. If you need anything, you can always DM me! I do have asks open, I just. Don't really answer them. Whoops... I am ALWAYS DOWN TO MAKE MORE FRIENDS AND HAVE MORE MUTUALS!!! I am 18, so interact however you're most comfortable. Comprehensive F/O list and DNI below!

I am... A mainly sharing selfshipper- I do not share my mains, whomever that may be at the time, but once I am NOT being feral about them, I don't mind at all!! Similarly, if we are friends, I legitimately do not mind if we share f/os and will even avoid discussion of them around you if it would make you more comfortable. You just have to ask!! Okay, now let's get to that list.

Who's Got The Crown Now? (Main F/Os)

Currently, CAPITANO (Genshin) seems to have my heart wholly.

Others who I am a bit fixated on are: WRIOTHESLEY (Genshin) and ANTON (ZZZ, who I do, in fact, not mind sharing)

Who Am I Always A Little Crazy About? (F/Os I don't share lmfao)

CHOSO (JJK)

AOI TODO (JJK)

GRANOLAH (DBS)

CLAVICUS VILE (TES)

RAYLEIGH SILVERS (One Piece)

My Other Lovelies (F/Os I do share!!)

CAESAR ZEPPELI (JJBA)

JOSEPH JOESTAR (JJBA)

ESIDISI (JJBA)

TROY CALYPSO (Borderlands 3)

CORAZON (One Piece)

SAMPO (HSR)

DAISUKE JIGEN (Lupin III)

DEGESU (DB Daima)

Quick Tag Overview!!: "Krue's Canon Boyfriend" tag is the one that indicates if they're a main/nonsharing or not. Also, I will make personal tags for each character and those will be listed after their names. "Krue's f/o talk" is general f/o stuff, "yapper is yapping again smfh" is my general talking tag.

Shows you a collection of pictures of my men.

DNI:

Those who share my non-sharing f/os, proshippers (specifically those who condone pedophilia, incest, beastiality, rape, etc etc), anti-LGBTQ, racist, sexist, literally anyone who's sorta harass-y. Please do not interact! I appreciate it, it'll keep us from clashing. If you have an issue with me, please address me personally.

Anyway, I also take commissions! I have ko-fi, and take things on personal request! If you're interested, please hit me up. Thanks for reading, and I am excited to talk to you all more!!

[irrumobo-vos]

I recently discovered the Mal hate train, and this is the best take I have read concerning him. I am SICK AND TIRED of the hate. Mal is not abusive, and their relationship is NOT INCESTUOUS LIKE ONE BLOG TALKED ABOUT. I am not quick to anger, but I am truly enraged by the lack of reading comprehension I am seeing. You are entitled to your opinions, but please, I can't take much more.

If there are 1 million Mal defenders, I'm one of them. If there is one Mal defender, that is me. If there are no Mal defenders, I have died a horrible death.

on malyen oretsev as a character and a love interest

this might be slightly rambly and incoherent but i need to say it. malyen oretsev has been the underdog in this fandom for as long as i can remember. a little while ago it was the “malaria” jokes (very classy, folks), and then waves upon waves of mal antis and darkling stans/apologists, and even now a decent majority of the fandom is convinced he’s just boring or an asshole. and fair enough on that last account, if you genuinely don’t like him as a character, that’s fine. but there are a lot of accusations people throw mal’s way that i am really sick and tired of hearing, and hopefully this will help put a stop to them.

mal is not boring. mal is witty and charismatic and an easy friend, and he is also incredibly brave. when he thought alina was being tortured and brutalised by the darkling, he volunteered for a suicide mission to track the stag—which he didn’t even know existed—into fjerda because it was the only way he thought he could help her. that mission killed two of his best friends. people say mal is an asshole because of the way he treated alina when he saw her (months after she’d been dragged away from him against her will) happy and healthy in amongst the people who had looked down on the both of them their whole lives, after having just lost his best friends for her. i say his being upset was pretty understandable. and yes, he was a bit of asshole in siege & storm, but he’s a teenage boy and you cannot hold him to all these ridiculously high moral and behavioural standards (especially when you don’t hold other characters like nikolai or the darkling to those standards). everyone has their asshole moments. nikolai’s is ongoing. holding mal’s against him just because he’s not all-powerful like the darkling or royal like nikolai is bullshit, plain and simple.

as for malina, i have a lot to say on that front. a lot of people say that mal was only interested in alina after she got her powers, but that is blatantly untrue. the quote, “just you and me. it’s always just you and me, alina” literally happens in the first chapter of shadow & bone. mal himself said that he always loved alina, and her being taken away was the wakeup call he needed. if anything, alina’s powers only complicated their relationship—mal didn’t know how to deal with her becoming the very thing they’d both grown to resent after being treated like shit in the first army while the grisha were treated like royalty, which explains a lot of the tension in their relationship surrounding alina’s abilities.

people tend to say that mal didn’t like it when alina became powerful and less dependent on him, but that’s not right. mal never wanted alina to be less. he was afraid of what would happen to her if she became more. from his point of view, all that alina’s powers brought them was trouble; the darkling’s grooming of alina and his subsequent manhunt for them, nikolai’s proposal to alina (when he was an adult and alina was a minor), the apparat’s cult and imprisonment of them, the death of the only mother figure they’d ever known. in his mind, alina’s powers only ever brought them misery, and mal was scared of losing her to that misery. we saw how they were torn apart throughout the books, because mal was otkazat’sya, and he was not the only one who felt that that might never be good enough for alina. neither of them ever wanted the power that alina was given. that’s why it was so hard for mal to accept that alina wanted to keep it—he was scared it would corrupt her the way it had the darkling. he was scared of losing her.

the argument that really frustrates me is when people call malina abusive. say it with me, folks: malina is not an abusive ship. mal and alina loved each other unconditionally. even if he wasn’t happy about alina’s powers, he knew that it was important to alina that she use them to save ravka, and so he helped her. he owed ravka nothing. this was the country whose monarchy had essentially taken his life from him to force him into being little more than a foot soldier in their army; the country his friends had died for thanks to the darkling being placed in such a position of power; the country whose king let the people starve whilst he sat in his golden palace and wasted more money. mal helped alina save ravka not because he loved his country, but because he loved her. hell, he literally died for her.

whilst we’re on the subject, let’s talk about that quote that people like to say is abusive: “i love you, alina, even the part of you that loved him.” do you understand how monumental that quote is? mal found out that the darkling is the same darkling who made the shadow fold, the shadow fold that had taken numerous lives and that had gotten them into this mess in the first place. he was beginning to realise the extent of the manipulation alina had undergone at the hands of the darkling, the grooming and abuse. they both knew the atrocities that the darkling had committed, and yet mal has it in himself to tell alina that not only does he not care that alina ever thought she loved the darkling, he loves her all the same anyway? how is that abusive?

lastly, i want to talk about his most infamous quote: “i am become a blade.” this is one of my favourite quotes in the entire grishaverse, and i’m going to explain why. a lot of people think that it’s grammatically incorrect, but as your local grammar nerd, i’m here to tell you that it’s not! as alina notices, the actual tattoo is written in ancient ravkan: e’ya sta rezku. because of that, the quote translates with slightly strange phrasing, but that phrasing still makes grammatical sense. it’s sort of like how shakespearean english is still english, it just sounds different.

now, grammar aside, i want to talk about why the quote is so beautiful (to me, anyway). mal has been used all his life. when they were at keramzin, he tracked and hunted animals for them to eat. in the first army, he was used as a foot soldier and a tracker, and the darkling (and nikolai, to an extent) used him to track the amplifiers. he’d always had his agency taken away from him by those with more power, and he’d been used and mistreated almost every time. then he turns around and offers himself and his agency up to alina without a second thought. because he loves and trusts her that much. at this point, it doesn’t seem to him as though there’s any chance of him and alina ever being together or getting a happy ending. he’s not doing it for that. he’s doing it because alina wants to save ravka, and he loves alina, so he wants to help her do that. in all of his indecision about his life and what he is and who he is for alina, he is able to decide that to live in service of her, to live for her, is exactly what he needs to do. he is essentially saying, “i recognise your power and though i am afraid for you, i won’t hold it against you now. instead i’ll help you wield it and fulfil your destiny, even if that isn’t what i want/what i want for you and even if it gets me killed.”

mal is a teenage boy who had to mature very quickly under terrible circumstances. of course he’s not perfect and he makes mistakes, but i cannot for the life of me understand why he is hated on such a large scale. he was an asshole to alina at some points, yes, but alina was usually an asshole right back, and it was only because they were both pining and angry at their situation. if you still don’t like him, fine, but for the love of god, stop calling him abusive/toxic. he’s a good character and a healthy love interest (a rare sight in ya) and malina is a healthy romance. it’s that simple.

[travelingthief]

Hermaphroditus Offerings/Devotional Acts

* Hermaphroditus is an intersex god, but please keep this post out of the intersex tag - it is not the proper place for it. Please remember that Hermaphroditus's name is the origin of an outdated term now considered a slur by the community. Intersex is the proper term. 

*Intersexness, transness, drag, and cross-dressing are all mentioned here, but they are all separate identities and experiences. Sometimes they overlap, but I am by no means conflating any of them. 

Offerings

Intersex pride flags/merch

Trans pride flags/merch

Any queer pride flags/merch

Books about intersex experiences

Books about gender

Male/female symbols

Hormone prescriptions

Used testosterone vials

Menstrual products

Makeup

Binders

Packers

Breast forms

Tucking tape

Binding tape

Birth control

Perfume

Cologne

Phalluses

Breast imagery

Vulva imagery

Temperance tarot card

Water from ponds/springs/rivers/oceans 

Flowers/flower petals

Rose quartz

Rose water

Feathers

Wedding rings

Wedding souvenirs/photos

Childhood photos

Mirrors

Depictions of satyrs

Protest signs

Drag gear

Crossdressing gear

Gender-affirming surgery recovery supplies

Erote imagery

Devotional Acts

Write about your experience as an intersex person. Are there things you need to come to terms with? What have you learned? Etc.

Write about your experience as a transgender person. Are there things you need to come to terms with? What have you learned? Etc.

Reflect on your relationship with gender

Reflect on your relationship with biological sex

Take your hormones

Learn about intersex variations

Explore your gender identity

Perform in drag

Crossdress

Donate to organizations that advocate for intersex peoples’ rights (interACT)

Advocate for “corrective” surgeries on intersex children to stop 

Educate yourself on intersex issues ESPECIALLY if you are a perisex worshipper. Worshipping Hermaphroditus without an understanding of intersex issues (and including them in your activism) is a disservice to intersex people, yourself, and Hermaphroditus.

Practice self-love

Stand in front of a mirror and say aloud all the things you love about your body

Do things that affirm your gender

Understand that intersex and trans-femme people are some of the most marginalized people in the Queer community. Challenge any beliefs you hold and listen to their experiences and concerns

Go to your doctor’s appointments

Help people recovering from gender-affirming surgery 

Journal about intersex/trans childhood experiences

Learn about different gender identities

Learn about different pronouns

Work to desexualize intersex bodies in society

Learn intersex history

Learn transgender history

Learn drag history

Donate to organizations that advocate for trans rights

Stop infighting

Learn about issues that impact intersex people

Learn about issues that impact trans people

Take a self care bath

Learn about queer mythology 

Disclaimer: I am a perisex trans person who worships Hermaphroditus. I have read and sought out resources about intersex people’s experiences, but I am not an expert. If any intersex person wants to correct or add something to this (non-comprehensive) list, please reach out! The same goes for trans-femme and non-binary people.

[damnfandomproblems]

Fandom Problem #7767:

Sometimes in the realm of both fanfics and fanart, the creator will deal with all sorts of issues from people who don’t know the meaning of “don’t like don’t look” and/or have bad reading comprehension skills or bad critical thinking skills.

A work will have a shit ton of warnings and there will still be a comment that will be like, “ew, I don’t like this, why would you make this?!” Like, literally the warnings were right there! HOW do you miss all of that? (And no, this is NOT about works not being properly tagged, that is not the issue here, so don’t comment “well there are people that don’t properly tag their stuff.”)