#the tagging thing makes me so angry though

[whoreforsexymen]

Strong Drinks & Broken Links 🍺⛓️‍💥 CH. 1

Gray Hair & The Absence of Care

(Gif creds: me <3)

Pairing(s): Vander x Reader

Pronouns: GN!Reader (for now— please see this post for details)

Rating: SFW, except for strong language and consumption of alcohol (drink responsibly, people). Reader is old enough to drink, despite what Vander thinks.

Word count: 4.7k (the rest are going to be far longer, so be prepared)

Tags: Slowburn, Reader is implied to be 21+ years old, Age Gap, Heavy Use Of Language/Alcohol, Reader might be a little too angsty (I’m sorry), Tense Situations, Vander being the caring mentor type he is but in a poorly thought out way.

Notes: I don't think I've ever posted a fic on this account. So, welcome to my only outlet for the brain rotting obsession I have for this man. ALSO I SWEAR TO GOD NO ONE MENTION ANYTHING ABOUT SEASON 2, OR I'LL FIGHT YOU.

((If any of you want to be added to a tag list for this fic, please lmk!! Ask box is also open for requests/suggestions/comments 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 🤍🤍))

It had been a terrible night so far.

Not only had you been shortchanged more than two-thirds of the agreed-upon pay for a job you’d completed—but that paltry sum had quickly slipped from your grasp entirely, taken by a gang of thugs.

You had to give the undercity credit—it had an uncanny ability to remain a perpetual cesspool. You’d managed to take down two of the muggers, but the third—the one who’d made off with your coin—had slipped away while you were dealing with the others. Just your luck. The payout had been pathetic to begin with, and now you were left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure. It looked like you’d be scraping the dregs of the city to find enough for your next meal, yet again. 

That is, unless you decide to drink your dinner. As well as your sorrows, in the process. The idea struck you as you neared the central bar of the undercity, still sulking as you were making your way back to the shack you called home. The Last Drop. A name that said it all. If there was any place where the undercitizens of Zaun gathered, it was here. No doubt the owner had to be the wealthiest man in the area, though that wasn’t exactly saying much in a place like this. 

You made your decision. A warm meal might be out of reach, but liquor could suffice—if you drank heavily enough, that is. Or at the very least, it might dull the sting of the night’s failures. 

The bar was an eyesore, a hulking building among the rundown structures of The Lanes. A garish neon sign blinked above the entrance, buzzing like an angry fly, casting sickly light on the grime-streaked pavement. Inside, the din of loud music and the clatter of drunken chatter spilled into the street. It was a haven for folks with any background, no matter if they sought business or pleasure within its walls. 

You pushed through the door, noting how no one even bothered to glance your way. That was how you liked it—under the radar, always out of sight, always out of the mind of untrustworthy beings. 

Then again, you didn’t trust anyone anyway.

You duck and weave through the crowd of rowdy patrons, eyes scanning the bar for a table or booth at which you could hunker down and nurse your drink in peace. Your frown deepens beneath the hood of your jacket when you come up empty-handed. Typical. No matter, though. You’d have to order at the bar anyway, regardless of where you sat.

It’s when your eyes settle in the direction of the bar that luck seems to briefly shine upon you—there’s an empty stool. Without hesitation, you make a beeline for it, not wanting some drunken fool to snag it before you could. You practically dive-bomb onto the seat, landing with a small grunt, air knocked from your lungs. After the night you’ve had, this stool feels like an oasis, despite the new absence of oxygen beneath your chest. You settle into it like it’s the only thing left in the world, clutching the seat as if someone might try to commandeer it if you let your guard down low enough.  

The realization dawns on you that, in order to get a drink, you’d have to interact with the bartender. You hold that fact in high regard with contempt. 

Chit-chat? Not tonight– or truthfully any night. You’ve never been crazy about casual conversation. The events of the evening have only soured your mood further, and the last thing you need is some eager bartender trying to make nice. Normally, you’d avoid sitting at the bar for that reason alone, yet here you are.

Thankfully, the bartender pays you no mind, his attention fully set on the patron he’s currently tending to. That is, until said patron leaves and the barman finally turns to you, his new source of focus. 

The sheer momentum with which you rolled your eyes almost knocked you out of your seat. 

“Welcome to The Last Drop. What’ll it be?” His voice is deep, and heavy, garnering a thick accent that clung to every word. 

He’s an older man, though exactly how old is hard for you to pin down. His hair’s gray, his eyes tired, the lines of age having etched themselves into his face long ago. However, there’s something youthful about him—something that makes it hard to tell whether he’s an old-looking thirty or a young-ish fifty. Frankly, you don’t care enough to continue your mental evaluation of him. Age shouldn’t matter when it comes to bartenders. They either know how to pour a decent drink, or they don’t.

You don’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Something strong.” You mutter, your voice mostly flat, but with a hint of irritation that danced along the edge.

The bartender scratches at his graying beard, his gaze thoughtful as he considers your request. You grit your teeth, hoping he won’t try to scam you by giving you something weak and overpriced, just to line his pockets with your hard-earned coin. You’d seen it happen to others, and you’d be a damned fool if you let it happen to you. 

The bartender studies your face, or at least what he can see of it beneath your hood, before his gaze shifts to the shelves beneath the counter. After a moment of deliberation, he selects a bottle with thoughtful ease, pulling the cork out with his teeth. With his free hand, he grabs a tin cup and pours in a copious amount, sliding it toward you with a swift flick of his wrist. You’d almost call it a generous decision on his part, considering the fact that you hadn’t even paid your dues first. His choice to serve you first goes a long way in easing your suspicion, at least for the moment.

You dig into your pocket, retrieving the few gold coins you’d managed to hold onto when dealing with the aforementioned thugs. They weren’t enough for one measly meal, but they were enough for a drink or two– or three, but who’s going to keep track? Certainly anyone but you. You’d only stop once your pitiful wealth ran out. Without a second thought, you toss them onto the bar top, making it unspokenly clear to the bartender that you were hoping for much more than just this one drink. You grab the cup, lifting it to your lips and downing the lot of it in one quick, greedy gulp. The warmth spreads through you almost immediately, and it feels like a small victory over the obnoxious turn your night has taken.

The bartender watches this with a faint chuckle before you slam the empty cup back down onto the counter. He takes it without a word, refills the tiny tin chalice, and begins passing it back. Without missing a beat, you grab the cup from him, draining the contents in a second gulp before he even has time to set the bottle back down. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” he remarks casually, his voice low and steady as he finally reunites the bottom of the bottle with the countertop. 

“I’ve seen a lot of things.” you mutter, your eyes fixed on anything but him. The words come out flat, though there’s a weight to them. It’s more than just a refusal to talk—it’s a refusal to let anyone look too closely. You avoid eye contact like the plague. Eyes, after all, are the windows to the soul. And letting someone peer through them is a risky gamble you’ve never been apt to take.

You were clearly beyond uninterested in the beginnings of this conversation. The lack of willingness to be friendly reigning clear as you shove the tin cup towards him yet again. He grabs the empty cup and refills it once more—your third drink in under five minutes. He seems reluctant to hand it back. He maintains a grip on it as he eyes you again, this time much more thoughtful.

“Care to chat about it? Might be healthier than drownin’ yourself at the bottom of a bottle,” he offers plainly.

You give him a sidelong glance, not even trying to mask the edge in your voice. 

“Doesn’t sound like a good business strategy, encouraging your paying customers to cut back.” You fire back quickly, the sharpness of your words outpacing even your annoyance at the unwanted conversation.

The bartender chuckles again, a spark of amusement flickering in his tired eyes. There’s a glimmer of understanding in his smile—maybe he’s seen more than a few like you in this dive. Or maybe, he knows in the same fashion as you, that sometimes it’s more palatable to fill the silence with alcohol than with words.

“Fair point, but I’d prefer to keep my patrons alive. Helps me sleep at night, y’know?” The bartender shoots back, his eyes fixed on you, all too curious about what’s hidden beneath your hood. The conversation quickly turns uncomfortable, a painful reminder of why you’ve never liked bartenders—they always talk too much and ask too many personal questions. As far as you’re concerned, they should stick to the charade for the sake of their regulars, and leave all unsuspecting customers alone. 

The momentum of yet another roll of your eyes causes your head to bob ever so slightly— your hood creeping back towards the line of your hair. The new, incredibly subtle, view of your face made the barman clench the cup in his hands with rigor. 

His eyes narrow slightly, the amusement fading from his voice. 

“Where’re your parents, kid?” He asks, his voice low and in demand of an answer. 

The question hits you like a slap, and for a brief second, you find yourself caught off guard. You’re not someone who’s usually thrown by imbecilic remarks from the residents of The Lanes, but this one? It’s different. Not just the audacity of asking such a personal question, but the clear assumption of your age being made so boldly. 

Your head snaps up, and before you can stop yourself, you push your hood back, breaking your own rule about eye contact. Why? Who knows. Today has already gone off the rails, and you’re too far gone to care. The liquor’s sudden grip on your senses began to cloud your judgment, and honestly, it was far from shocking. To be fair, you had asked for something strong… Not to mention having no substantial food in your belly to dilute the potency you sought after. All in all, there was no ignoring how the liquor was starting to pummel you like a brick to the face would. 

You meet his gaze, eyes scanning his face for any sign of what he’s gunning after by asking such a question. But there’s nothing obvious behind those gloomy eyes of his. No clear motive. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully trying to get under your skin or if he’s just another fool with a quick tongue. 

“Rotting in their graves,” you mutter, voice sharp and, in addition, spiteful. 

“Which I’m sure you’ve got one foot in, yourself, Gramps.” You make a mockery of the decades that are clearly stacked against you, hoping to push him back into his corner.

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he practically snorts, running a hand over his silvery beard as he crosses his arms; resting them across his stomach with the casual authority of someone who’s seen it all. He’s not rattled by your quips—no, not in the slightest. 

“How old are you, kid?” His voice is flat now, a hint of something more serious creeping in, though you can’t figure out why. You’re even more unsure now about his intentions. Constantly expecting the worst from people was your lot in life. 

“Too young for you.” You snap back, pushing forward with your usual sharpness, trying to regain some control over this ridiculous conversation. You reach for the cup he had refilled for you, but before you can even graze it, he snatches it away, clicking his tongue like a disappointed parent.

“Tsk, tsk,” he tuts at you, as if you’ve done something wrong.

“I asked how old you were.” he repeats, his voice now devoid of any amusement. 

He watches you carefully, his gaze inspecting your face as if he’s trying to peel back layers you didn’t even know were there.

You roll your eyes, irritation growing, and narrow them at him, unwilling to back down. You can’t tell if he’s probing for something deeper, or if he’s just getting off on making you uncomfortable. Either way, you’re done playing his game.

“Why are you so curious, huh?” you scoff, leaning in and making a bold decision to double down on your irritation. “I’m just another patron here to drown in my sorrows and drink them away. Not to mention, I’m paying for the privilege.” Your words are bold, and with that same boldness, you reach across the bar and rip the cup from his grasp.

You try to bring the drink to your lips, intent on finishing it off. But just as the cup nears your mouth, the bartender’s large, rough hand slips over the opening of the cup like a solar eclipse. 

He glares down at you, his eyes narrowing as he sizes you up with a look that could strip paint. In that moment, something clicks in his mind. The defiance in your voice, the way you’re carrying yourself—it all reinforces his suspicion. You’re not old enough to be here. When you walked in, your hood had obscured most of your face. But now that it’s gone, he can see it clearly: you’re just a kid, trying to score some alcohol. The only thing that kept him from throwing you out on your ass, was your cadence. You looked young, and spoke carelessly, but you sounded grown. If you were in fact grown, he’d ease up. 

However, with the way you look—bloodied and bruised, no less—he’s convinced you’re in some kind of trouble. The kind of trouble he doesn’t want being drug through his bar. He doesn’t know where you’ve been, who you’ve pissed off, or what kind of people you run with. But this? This is his bar, and he’s fought too hard to maintain the fragile peace that reigns here. He won’t let you ruin that for him and his loyal patrons by dragging your poor choices in with you. 

“Seems I’ve struck a nerve,” he says, his voice no longer playful but flat and serious. “Either tell me your age, or you’re cut off.”

The room seems to hush around you. The muffled chatter of patrons behind you fades as the bartender’s tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. It’s a quiet threat now, the kind that lets you know exactly how much leverage you have—and how little he’s willing to tolerate.

“You didn’t strike shit,” You hiss. “and I don’t need to answer to shit.” You add. 

The bartender bends over the counter, his face inches from yours. The bitter scent of smoke hangs thick on his breath, hot and rancid, and it presses against your skin like a physical weight. The damp air in the bar swirls around you, brushing your cheeks with an uncomfortable warmth that feels suffocating, as if the room itself is closing in.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll have no problem lettin’ my loyal patrons cut your tongue out for us to hang above the bar.” He says fiercely. 

You glance over your shoulder, catching the eyes of the dozens of patrons who have fallen silent, their conversations and business abruptly halted. It’s clear—they’re waiting for a signal, ready to back up their beloved bartender if things escalate.

“You can call off the cavalry, Gramps. I was just leaving,” you retorted, swiping one of your coins from the counter, as if to refund yourself for the drink you’ve yet to have. You release your grip on the cup, almost slingshotting it backwards from the sheer force you two had each been bestowing upon it. 

“Sit down.” the bartender commands, his voice low and final, as you attempt to abscond. 

You don’t reply, instead moving to shoulder through the row of patrons who are standing like silent sentinels, waiting for the slightest nod from their bar’s gatekeeper. It’s not like you expected them to part, but the way not a single person dares budge makes your blood boil. The crowd might as well be a wall of stone. 

“Sit. Down.” the bartender demands again, his tone sharper this time, a razor edge cutting through the haze of the bar.

You grind your teeth, your patience wearing thin.

“I’ll take my patronage elsewhere—”

You don’t even finish your sentence before a hand, seemingly out of nowhere, pushes you roughly back. You stumble, barely managing to stop yourself from falling flat on your ass. The sudden movement sends a rush of heat to your head, the anger spiking through your veins like fire.

You seethed at the touch, the anger burning hot in your chest, every muscle in your body coiled with frustration. But you knew better than to keep pushing your luck. Not today. Not in a situation like this, with dozens of hungry eyes watching, their hands twitching near their weapons of choice, waiting for the slightest excuse to make a move.

Biting back a torrent of curses, you forced yourself to swallow your pride, choosing to stay quiet—at least for now. It wasn’t worth the fight. You could practically feel the heat of their glares digging into your back as you turned on your heel, eyes locking once more with the bartender’s. You reclaimed your seat at the bar with deliberate flair, each movement oozing a sense of defiance and attitude. It was a performance, one you were used to. To you, it felt like you were playing the part of someone tough. But you knew, deep down, that to anyone else—especially the bartender—you probably looked like nothing more than a naive, immature idiot who didn’t know when to shut up. It wasn’t a great look, but at least it kept people from getting too close.

“I’m sat,” you muttered, voice brimming with the remnants of your irritation.

The bartender shook his head slightly, a hint of amusement creeping back into his expression. You could feel the tension in the room dissipate, the energy shifting as the crowd behind you resumed their rowdy conversations. The noise began to swell again, and for a moment, it almost felt like the bar was returning to some semblance of normalcy.

He grabbed a dirty glass from the counter, handling it with practiced ease, and pulled a rag from beneath the bar. As he began polishing the glass, he didn’t so much as glance your way. His focus was on the glass, and for a few moments, it felt like you were nothing more than a background detail to him. You could feel your impatience growing with each passing second. If he had something to say, you wished he’d just say it already. At least that way, you could get out of here—and maybe keep some of your pride intact.

The bartender continued his slow, methodical motions, running the rag around the rim of the glass with an almost exaggerated calmness. He didn’t bother to look up, yet you could feel the weight of his gaze on you through the silence.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” he said, his tone neutral, almost too much. “How old are you?”

You weighed your options. If you didn’t answer, you had no idea what would happen next. If you did answer, you still had no clue. It was a gamble either way.

“(Insert age here),” you muttered, the words slipping out begrudgingly, each one like a weight lifting off your chest.

The bartender scoffed lightly, a soft laugh escaping him that made your skin crawl. Your fingers began tapping impatiently on the bar’s edge, the rhythm a soft counterpoint to the growing tension between you.

“____ years old and still so naive… You really are just a kid, eh?” His words hung in the air, his eyes still locked on the glass in front of him, but you could see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“There are worse things I could be,” you shot back, your voice laced with a mix of defensiveness and defiance.

“S’pose that’s true,” he replied, finishing up his polishing with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. He set the glass down next to the others—clean, polished, and waiting to be used. With a fluid motion, he slung the rag over his shoulder, then placed one hand on his hip and the other on the edge of the counter. He shifted his weight, leaning just slightly into the bar, his posture relaxed yet somehow still imposing.

“But on the other hand,” he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone, “what you already are ain’t too good either.”

It wasn’t a threat—more of an observation, one that hung heavily in the air, like the smoke in the room. You felt the weight of it, but you couldn’t quite tell if it was a warning or just another way to mess with you. Either way, you could tell this conversation wasn’t over.

You could feel the first few bubbles of anger rising in your chest, the heat creeping up your neck as your blood threatened to boil. You’d always been quick to anger—an unfortunate side effect of your temper and stubborn streak. They were the crosses you’d carried for as long as you could remember.

You scoffed again, the sound sharp and biting, as if it were the only defense you had left. You had already rolled your eyes a dozen times tonight, but it felt like you were on the verge of an explosion.

“What’s your goal here, Gramps?” you spat, your voice dripping with sass, every word a little jab. You didn’t care to hide your bitterness. You liked to fight with words just as much as you did with your fists, and the bartender was starting to see that loud and clear.

“You got the answer you were looking for. Whether you believe me or not, you’ve already served me twice. If my age was such a concern to you, you would’ve kicked me out long before I even sat down.” Your words hung in the air once more, and you could see the gears turning behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak.

He just let out a quiet laugh, as if your logic amused him. And he didn’t bother to answer, not even in the slightest.

The silence stretched, thick and tense, and it was clear he wasn’t going to explain himself. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of an explanation. He simply leaned back, eyes flicking over to the rowdy crowd behind you.

It was infuriating.

You stayed silent for a beat, but only because you knew you’d have more to say. And damn right, you did.

“Do you do this with every new customer?” You snapped, your voice rising now, the frustration boiling over. “’Cause if you ask me, I’m not sure how this shithole’s still in business. You discourage your customers from drinking, even though this is a fucking bar, and that’s all people come here to do. You make it impossible to drink peacefully, just like you make it impossible to drink at all!”

The words spilled out like fire, each one more forceful than the last. Your temper was no longer something you were trying to hold back—it was running rampant, and it felt good to let it out, even if it was in the form of a scream. You weren’t about to let this bartender—this stubborn old man—have the upper hand. Not when it felt like he was deliberately pushing your buttons.

“So if it’s alright with you, Gramps, you got your answer, and I don’t owe you shit. I’m leaving.” You actually raise your voice purposefully this time, slamming your hands down onto the counter as you push yourself off of the stool once more. 

The bartender wasn’t fazed by your outburst. In fact, he’d dealt with feistier, louder, and much more difficult people than you—people who could out-shout you or out-punch you if they had to. He wasn’t bothered by your temper. He had raised four kids on his own, after all. He’d learned a thing or two about handling stubborn personalities, whether they were kids or grown adults who carried themselves like children. And you, in his eyes, were just another brat testing his patience.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was steady, calm, and authoritative, with an edge of finality that cut through the noise of the bar.

Before you could react, his hand shot out faster than you expected, grabbing your shoulder with an unexpected gentleness. He tugged you back into the seat with a kind of effortless force that made your breath catch in your throat.

You shot up from the bar stool in a flash, but his hold was stronger than you anticipated.

Instinct kicked in, and your own hand shot out like a snake, grabbing his wrist with a quick, almost violent motion. You shoved it off your shoulder, irritation flaring up like wildfire.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, your chest heaving as you glared up at him, the heat of the moment burning in your eyes.

You huffed, your fists clenching at your sides, teeth grinding. The room seemed to close in around you, but you weren’t backing down—not now, not after all of this. The tension between you and the bartender was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. You could feel the weight of the crowd’s silent attention being drawn to you once more as they waited for your next move, but you weren’t afraid. You didn’t have time to be.

The man let out a heavy sigh, the sound thick with disappointment. 

“Look, kid—”

“By the fucking god’s, I’m not a kid!” you snapped, your eyes flashing a level of ferocity that sliced straight through him.

He pressed his lips into a thin, hard line, his gaze cemented on you still as he took a long, steadying breath. Patience was his virtue, and he was willing to endure this sparring match for as long as it took. 

“It’s clear you’re in some kind of trouble,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Maybe, just maybe, instead of lashing out, you could let someone help—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your words an unpleasant interruption.

“Help? You want to help? Surely that’s the wrong word. Surely, I heard you wrong, cause, from the way I see it, you’ve done nothing except cage me in here, threaten me, and withhold what I paid for. So if it’s with any consolation, take your ‘help’ and fuck off.” 

Enough was enough. Without another word, you climbed atop the stool, bracing yourself for what came next. You steadied your balance, then launched yourself toward the crowd with calculated precision. The dismount was quick—intentional, forceful. You tucked your legs in, soaring over their heads in a perfect flip, and extended them just before hitting the ground behind them. Without pausing, you bolted for the door, heart pounding in your chest.

To your surprise, you made it—flying through the door and slamming it shut behind you with a satisfying crash. Finally, you were free, never to be seen within a hundred yards of this bar ever again. 

The patrons had made a half-hearted attempt to grab at you as you rushed past, but a sharp, deafening whistle from the bartender stopped them in their strides. He shook his head softly, a silent message that it wasn’t worth the chase. That it was better to let you go. If you were in trouble, it would catch up with you soon enough.

Deep down, the bartender hated seeing someone so young seal their own fate in such a way. But, in the end, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t save them all—no matter how badly he wished he could.

He couldn’t help but wonder— if maybe, just maybe, he’d been a little too assertive, or downright impetuous with you after all.

But it didn’t matter now. You were gone. All he could do was hope you’d survive out on those streets. 

taglist: @blogforhoes

[gornackeaterofworlds]

🍄🧩🦴

HI MIGHTY

🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

I don't really have any..? Ships aren't my thing, not canon ones. I don't really consume any medias where I even think ab the ships within it except for the ones I hate and what's wrong with them

🧩 ⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?

THESE ARE MY PERSONAL PREFERENCES!! Not indicative of a writer's craft!!!! There's not a lot that makes me not read something, especially content wise

1. But misspelling a word consistently, no paragraph breaks, grammar things like that

2. Injuries not being treated properly, and by treated I don't mean healed. I mean some Blue Eye Samurai kind of stuff, where she gets rebar through the foot and just, keeps walking. Bullets barely making a limp, knocking someone out with a weapon and them having a mild concussion at best. No stretching or PT or creams for scarring, especially burn scarring. I can understand why that might not all be included but I enjoy a lot of realism for that kind of thing

3. Improper tagging. Should be given, I think. But a year ago, there I was. Maybe ten chapters into a smut fic. And bam there's guro and necrophilia in the latest one, not a tag or warning about it to be seen. Only when I come back days later bc of another update is it finally tagged, AFTER the chapter had went up. I understand going with the flow for things, but you should have a general idea of the events that will transpire. I know Butterfly Effect will have death, injuries, mutilation, torture, etc before I even wrote those plot points, bc thats the writer I am and bc I know how dark ill let it go. If there's something new, like recently I had to add the limb loss tag(we'd already wrote it I'd just forgot to add the tw) I update it immediately, even though I know it won't show up for many chapters

4. Stupid readers. NO braincells. Either too fuckin dumb to realize what other characters are lying about and thus start a miscommunication trope, or they keep trying to run/escape from, say, yan or villain characters. That is how you die, and I can't put myself into the mind of a dumbass, I'm sorry I can't

🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?

Oh god. So much. I'm afraid I'm not as creative as some people think. CAS, all TMNT, atla, Fire-Us, adventure time, and so many more. I specifically want to mention Fire-Us, though. A book series no one's read but me apparently, but there's just. So much. My love for drama, for scenic composition, large dynamic groups, family angst, killing off characters, leaving endings and deaths up to interpretation. Not showing every little action bc what the reader can imagine can often be so much better

[makiswirl]

can i just say. and this is probably a niche hill to die on. that i am so gobsmacked every time someone vaguely hints at the idea that jotaro doesn't care meaningfully for the other crusaders, usually particularly kakyoin and joseph, when those two actually tend to be the ones he reacts to being hurt the hardest

like he cares for his loved ones!!!! that literally plays into his character motives in every single part he shows up in!!! stop lying to me!!!!!!!

[fisherrprince]

oh so alisaie’s exaggerated bully behavior is 80% fanon. saying this she casually picks up a large rock

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

THE BEST OF SHENKO 1/?

The end of the world has a way of reminding you of all the things you forgot to say do. Mass Effect: Legendary Edition (2021)

[sollucets]

rowan's "my ride" episode 1 experience: have you seen this man

(in the style of / insp @sparklyeyedhimbo)

[thebigqueer]

2 years ago i fucked up a friendship w a girl (that im pretty sure i was in love with). to this day i think of her and sometimes when i see her on the street i just wanna cry. i understand your plight very much.

yeahhh man im sorry to hear that!!! it genuinely fucking sucks and i would never wish this upon anyone. cuz like it makes you fully think about all the what ifs and i genuilnely dont think ill ever find someone like her again

[poolboyservice]

what I think would happen to Tumblr if users would stop going "you have to reblog this, you have no choice" or "if you don't reblog this you are clearly a horrible person/I will find you"

just a thought, you don't have to. could ygs stop that? please, with a cherry on top?? I'd really appreciate it, thank you !!!

[shinakazami1]

Today I'll finish a comm and I'm thinking,,, I might return to the tsp Bucket thing again. I have to finally finish my drafts I've been withholding for months but I want to do too much at the same time 😭 same with the asks, I am thankful to folks who did send them, I am just so slow JHSHSHSHS

[yourbestdream]

I generally assume that the phrase "blood boiling" to describe anger is just metaphor and all that but then I get really genuinely angry about something and I remember that it is not.

[bardkin]

feeling like you're "not disabled enough" to quit your job or at least ask for accommodations fuckin' sucks

[gentil-minou]

hi^^ I am very new to experiencing hyperfixations on a show and like. I got into this one show which ended like YEARS ago and I was so happy and giggly about it for a whole week (my prev and first hyper fixation is ongoing and I dropped it because I was frustrated with the way the sorry went) but then. I guess I kiinda came across very conflicting opinions on it in here (I mean it WAS. A pretty popular show so one side of people were very very happy with it and one side had been like 'the show is trash!!!1!') and I. Can't stop thinking about all of them. this was fine for a while, but now it's really interrupting my rl responsibilities and I just think I want to move on to a new show (since this show is over and has ended years ago and it's okay)?? And I am unable to do so because a part of me is scared of letting go of these characters and the impact they made in me ig? I am very sad about the fact that I might forget them(?) I just want to move on peacefully but also regain that positive impact I had when I first watched the show, which has just felt like it has disappeared since I read all of those negative comments (on surface level I can accept that not everyone needs to like a show! But it also just. upsets me to some extent, I'll admit. And it's just the fact that this show ended like. what 5-6 years ago and so I don't even need to be upset about comments made THAT ago but) I was wondering if this is just a common thing to go through when one gets into previously-ended-ages-ago shows or just a me thing

Anon, this might be a bit of tough love, but this, truly, is just the nature of fandoms.

Some fandoms never die, even though it's been years since it ended. I got into Buffy the Vampire Slayer over two decades after it ended, and that show had a lot of problems that I can acknowledge, but I searched for fandom spaces I felt safe in with plenty of content to tide me over.

Some fandoms last a long time, particularly depending on what kind of fans are drawn to it. I think older fans tend to hold on to fandoms longer so there tends to be more content, like my current mdzs fandom technically ended a couple years ago but since it's got a more mature fanbase the fanworks tend to reflect that.

Regarding your issue with getting upset about people disliking something you like, I mean this in the nicest way I can, but that's always going to happen. People are always going to dislike something you like, and that's fine. It doesn't mean anything about you or your tastes or your love for the media, it's just the nature of humanity.

You're responsible for the fandom spaces you enter. If you don't like seeing negative comments about something, then don't look. It might seem hard to do that, but once you accept that not everyone's taste is going to match yours the better it gets. I certainly like a lot of things I know others would hate and might even judge me for, but the only opinions who matter to me are my own.

If you're current fandom is quiet or dead, then my suggestion is either look for the older content like on ao3 or even other sites or, even better, make your own content. I promise there will be people who come out of the woodwork to look at your stuff and talk about the fandoms you're in. Some fandoms are smaller, and that's fine too. Again, it's just the nature of these spaces.

But at the end of the day, I promise you will enjoy fandom spaces more when you learn how to ignore the spaces that make you uncomfortable. If you can't handle criticism for something, then either ignore it or look away and practice brushing it off. It will take time to get used to doing that, but it's all about practice and catering your fandom spaces to your needs. That's the only way to truly survive being in fandoms in general; learning what your limits are and sticking to the spaces you feel best in, while ignoring the places you dont like

[sourdoughbf]

I got in a bus accident today

we were parked at a bus stop and a bin lorry came by at speed and plowed right through us, it ripped off one side of the bus completely, the side I was sat on. I think if it was just 30cm further over I could've lost an arm, maybe died??? only one person was injured, he'd kneeled over in instinct and he had shards of glass embedded in his back, he's okay though

[vlindervin7]

for some reason this comment sent me in such a rage this morning and that is not an easy thing to do. girlie?? GIRLIE?? (a man wrote this btw) this is so fucking patronising omg and i did look it up, a conlang is literally just an artificial language used in fiction or for linguistic exercise or whatever like do you think i’m stupid??? that is not the gotcha you think it is, obvs i was talking abt languages that are actually used in real life why would i care abt made up languages that literally defeats my entire point abt how languages are beautiful BECAUSE they are so incredibly integral to the human experience shut uppppp

[zinabug]

Uhhh regency clothes percy that’s it that’s the post.

[ID: three digital sketches of Percy De Rolo, a thin man with curly hair, stubble, round glasses and a couple of small scars on his face, drawn in regency style clothes. In the first, he is in profile with his layers of collars and cravat visible. The second is a half-body drawing where he is wearing a long overcoat with a layered shoulder cape over a double-breasted tailcoat. In the third, he is in his shirtsleeves, a high collared waistcoat and very decorative cravat.]

[chimaeraonwards]

I want to ask you, Tumblr user @against-forms-recognizable if it's okay if my neighbourhood is bombed because I live in a homophobic country?

Would me saying that I'm also a queer help or make your decision harder?

I think I speak English pretty well, but I do have a lot of grammar errors and speak with an accent since English isn't my native tongue. I'm not sure if that would help you make your decision.

I love Kirby and I think he’s the cutest character Nintendo has made. I’ve read the Percy Jackson series since I was 12. I like to hang out with my friends, and we play D&D together. I like to watch sad movies and my sister will laugh and roll her eyes when I cry.

Is this enough proof of my humanity for you to say something if I get carpet-bombed?  

Surely, committing genocide in my country and on my people is okay because the authority figures here would go insane if I kissed (let alone marry) another girl.

Clearly, I should leave my country! How dare I continue living here where my culture is. I don’t have the money or resources to leave this country, but I must because I, as a queer, should not be living in this country. I shouldn’t try to stay here and fix the issues like queer activists throughout European and USA history.

Surely, I should go to somewhere in Europe, where they clearly welcome me, a person from the global south, with open arms. Maybe I should lighten my skin? (Someone with skin-lightening tips please drop recs below 🙏 I heard bleaching is all the rage.)

I would add the USA to the list of countries I could go to but “a record number of anti-LGBT bills have been introduced this year” so I guess that doesn't fit your criteria either.

 Source: CNN

But yes, clearly let’s allow Israel to bomb Palestine and that’s okay with you because Palestine is homophobic right?

(ppsssttttt Israel isn’t a great place for queers too.)

Source: i24news

Source: The Guardian

Source: Times of Israel

So by your logic, isn't the violence enacted by Hamas a good thing?

Maybe, just maybe, there isn’t a single country that is free from homophobic rhetoric. Does that mean it’s okay to commit genocide? Eh, I’ll let you answer that for yourself.

If you’re a true ally for queer people worldwide, then I highly suggest you look up the term “pinkwashing”. Here is an excerpt from the Wikipedia entry:

I also want to address a concern that you brought up here:

“All of which is easier said than done. But if I was in Palestine, what choice would I, as a gay man who seeks my own liberation, have but to oppose Hamas or flee? There is no solidarity with people who desire your death.”

If you were in Palestine, you would be dead because the Israeli government is carpet bombing people. I'm sorry to let you know that they probably don’t check to see if you’re holding a pride flag before bombing.  

Moving on to my next point:

Your impression of advocacy work is faulty at best and harmful at worst.

Advocacy should not be transactional, it’s a moral obligation.

If BLM does not stand with women’s rights movements, does that mean that non-POC women should not stand up for police brutality against POCs?

If advocacy was transactional, where were you when queer people in Southeast Asia were being prosecuted? When Southeast Asian queers were arrested? When we were sent to conversion camps?

The people of Palestine have stood for many issues including BLM. I'm sure you will able to find other global social causes they have supported online (but let's be real I'm already spoon-feeding you so many sources I'm sure you can find some on your own.)

You seem to be under the impression that queers living under homophobic rule should, in your words, "flee" if we are under homophobic rule. Where should we go? How should we go? Will your country welcome all of us?   

Who is speaking up for the Palestinian queers? Yes, queer Palestinians exist. These are the same queers who post on Queering the Map which you can also find screenshots in this article but let me share 2 of them which shred my heart to pieces.  

Let's break down what you said here:

Sabotage, theft, infiltration, deception, propaganda, attacks on infrastructure, assassination. Anything to remove the useful idiots in power that Israel placed there so they wouldn't be forced to continue bargaining with more sympathetic and reasonable Palestinian leadership.

“Sabotage, theft, infiltration, deception, propaganda, attacks on infrastructure, assassination” all sound like things that the US government has done to rid of Osama bin Laden, an operation that took 40 minutes.

Do you think that the USA should have committed genocide and broken more international laws instead of sending in special ops teams? Maybe the Israeli government should take a page out of the tactics you mentioned to remove “terrorist organisations” instead of carpet-bombing people.

Also, about 50% of the population in Gaza are children and Hamas was voted in 2006, so do with that information what you will.   

What Hamas did on October 7th is a tragedy. The Israeli government enacting genocide on the Palestinian civilians is also a tragedy.

Both things can be true at the same time.

But one side is continuing to carpet bomb civilians, not allowing humanitarian aid, and treating a list of war crimes like a to-do list.

Now I want to address this line from the initial post:

"if you're there - what other choice do you have?"

You’re under the impression that there are other things that could have been done right?

To fully understand this, let's get some context and look at SOME of the crimes that the Israeli government were knowingly committing against the Palestinian people.

Israel skinbanks and organ harvesting – a non-consensual organ harvesting committed by the Israeli Forensics Institute against mostly Palestinians. You can find excerpts of the journal article below in this tumblr post I made.

Israeli settlers stealing the homes of Palestinians and justifying it by saying, "if I don’t steal your home, someone else will steal it"

All the abuses that Palestinians face in Israeli custody. In that same linked article, it says that there are currently more than 10,000 Palestinians in Israeli custody.

Activists and human rights groups have been calling Israel an apartheid state for years just cause how they treat Palestine

This is just a small small list of the atrocities that Israel has committed against the Palestinian people for decades.

The Palestinians have gone the peaceful route. They were greeted with gunfire from the Israeli Defence Forces.

Source: Amnesty International

October 7 did not happen in a vacuum. If an abused person attacks their abuser, would that be unprovoked violence too?  

I leave you with this final thought:

If Israel has the right to self-defence through violent methods, then why is that same right not granted to Palestinians? Why are the victims of decades of oppression and colonisation held to higher standards than their oppressors?

What do you do when the peaceful methods have time and time again not worked?

I highly suggest you read history of Korea, South Africa, Haiti, and Ireland to understand the brutality of colonialism and how people are driven to desperation. Read the history as written by the people from those places, not some “cleaned” version by their colonisers. Please reaccess your biases and reevaluate why you might have them.

I do hope that you made those comments due to a lack of information and context rather than a lack of empathy – one of those problems is easier to solve than the other.

In conclusion, pinkwashing is not allyship, there is more context for the October 7 attacks, nothing excuses genocide, John Cusack's best role (in my opinion) is still Dimitri from Anastasia (1997), and as always, Free Palestine 🇵🇸.

xoxo,

done with this bullshit

John Cusack, the voice actor for Dimitri in Anatasia (1997), shared his statement on Palestine 🇵🇸 🇵🇸 🇵🇸 🇵🇸

P.S. He has been a Palestinian supporter for years