It’s Wild The Number Of Posts I Come Across Where People Act Like Voting For Or Supporting Harris And

I'd love a little something Buffy/Faith with the prompt "you need me"

News about the reboot got me motivated to finish this little thing, which has been sitting in my drafts for forever. Thank you for the prompt!!! 💜💜💜

Season 7 (forgive me, pls) canon divergence. The crew doesn’t act like a bunch of clowns and vote Buffy out. Faith wrecks them for thinking about it.

-

Faith’s not a good person.

She’s trying. She’s really trying, actually, in the painful, cringe-inducing way—she did prison, did repentance, did the whole soul reclamation bit with Angel as her angsty guru, all mournful eyes and gelled hair and shirtless Tai Chi. Now she’s here, acting as B’s literal and metaphorical punching bag, trying to be a fucking mentor and saving her rage for the gym and the spiral notebook that’s sitting at the bottom of her duffel. She’s writing things out, being honest—what a fucking nightmare—and resisting the urge to burn the pages immediately so that no one in this fucking house can ever see.

So yeah, she’s trying to be a good person, to make amends, to really think before she acts. She’s trying to “be mindful,” as a pouty, brown-eyed vampire had put it as he meditated with her in his broody little hotel full of rejects and freaks including, somehow, Cordelia Chase who no question counts as both of those things these days. Jesus fucking Christ.

Okay, so. She’s trying.

But the trying, it takes time, that same cultish fuck she somehow counts as a friend told her, and she’s not there yet. She’s not there yet, so she’s not surprised at the feelings of satisfaction and vindication that bubble up in her stomach when B starts catching shit from the potentials and then from her own precious Scoobies. Her lips twitch a little, pulling against the skin, barely closed from Buffy’s fist in that alleyway, and yeah, this feels good.

The part of her that’s still seventeen, vengeful and ashamed and so fucking lonely, is basking in B’s confusion and anger. She knows what this is—the self-righteous Scoobies interrogating her after a hard decision, a mistake; Giles’s disappointed dad vibes; the scorn and judgment and isolation. It’s about fucking time.

Faith’s not a good person, and it feels like something she deserves when iron bursts bright on her tongue as she licks at her lip, fully split again from the smile she couldn’t quite suppress.

The guy next to her, Robin, who has been here for like fifteen minutes and somehow feels like he’s got a right to call shots, says, like he matters, “So we vote.”

There’s a flash of something in B’s eyes before she can tamp it down, and Faith’s suddenly back in her cot at the prison, tearing at her blanket and throwing her book to the ground as she falls out of a vision, hands and nails aching from clawing at velvet and wood and dirt, lungs screaming from deprivation. She remembers the stiffness and tingle of unused muscles, the panic and confusion and pain, her whole body like a raw nerve, consciousness yanked roughly back into the world and met with what she knows now was a closed coffin six feet under still.

She’s in front of B before she can really process what she’s doing, body coiled and voice steady and dangerous as she says, “Enough.”

She whirls at the hand on her bicep, snaps lowly at Buffy before she can get out whatever obnoxious bullshit she’s definitely going to throw at her, “I’m with you, B, so shut the fuck up for once, okay?”

Like a fucking miracle, she does, jaw snapping closed so tightly that Faith could’ve heard it even without her slayer senses and hand dropping back to her side. She shrinks a little, and Faith is reminded of how young she is, how young they both are. Not children, no, and Faith was never really a kid anyway, but still.

She turns back and eyes Giles, ever the Watcher, and lets her lip curl as he stares at her, opens the door she’s gotten real good at keeping closed in her murder rehab. She feels something in her stretch like a panther in one of the nature docs they showed at the prison–strong and hungry, lazy and confident, lying in wait. He flinches and the monster flashes its teeth in approval.

“Enough,” she says again, and lets her gaze cross the room. The Scoobies are unsurprised, which stings a bit, but this version of her, dangerous and defensive and slayer, even if nobody wants to admit it, is new for the potentials, and she clocks their reactions, which run the gamut from wide eyes and open staring to attempted nonchalance. She’s made it most of the way across the room, eyes lingering on Dawn and the little bit of hope in her eyes, the little bit of gratitude, when a voice sounds out beside her.

“Faith.”

This fucking guy. Her eyes narrow as she turns to Robin, and she knows she’s doing it right when he takes half a step back at her glare.

“Listen, Robin?” She says it like she isn’t sure, derisive and dismissive because his ego’s fucking outrageous, and she’s stretching muscles she hasn’t gotten to use in a long time. When he frowns, offended but clearly aware he can’t make a big deal of it, she bites back a smile. She doesn’t let it go further because she has a goal here, and she is trying, fucking still, can feel Buffy behind her waiting on shit to go sideways. Faith has no interest in proving her right.

Faith is not a good person, but right now, in a coincidence that works out super well for Buffy Summers, the not-so-good parts of her and her better Angels (gag) are leading her to the same result. She’d rather hurl herself through the front window of the house and do a coordinated dance routine with Drusilla’s bleach-blonde creep than feed Buffy’s superiority complex one more tiny morsel, which means she’s keeping her shit together.

“Robin,” she says again, with more certainty, her fit-for-public-consumption adult voice in place. “Gimme a minute here, okay? I think I deserve that.”

He nods, like it was really a question, and she lets him, because growth and not proving Buffy right and also helping Buffy. What a mindfuck. She imagines how good it will feel to let loose on the punching bag later.

Nobody has moved during their little exchange, and pretty much everyone is still avoiding eye contact. Faith can see Kennedy in the corner of her eye, her back and shoulders kept rigid with unearned confidence and entitlement, but Faith doesn’t take the bait. All she wants is attention. She can get it from Red.

Instead, Faith takes a second to think through how to do this, can feel Buffy’s anxiety rolling off her in waves. B hates the loss of control, but she’s not an idiot, never has been, and it seems like she has processed that Faith’s doing her a favor here.

“We don’t need a vote. B’s in charge.” She sees some shuffling among the potentials, Giles’s ever-present furrow getting deeper, Willow’s frown comically pronounced, Robin’s feet moving half an inch toward her. She breathes out, filling space like it’s hers, and it is. It always is, but she rarely reminds people of it, these days. And anyway, even when she wasn’t trying to be a good person, she didn’t love making the wrong people feel afraid.

Her shoulders roll back, her feet spread just shy of a fighting stance. A reminder. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“You broke out of prison.” It’s immediate. Faith hasn’t spent much time with Anya, but the literal answer, the deadpan delivery, both seem pretty on target with what she’s got so far. She fights an eye roll. Red doesn’t, and she feels a small, terrible burst of solidarity.

“Yeah,” she acknowledges.

“Where you were because you killed a man.” Anya’s voice has an edge to it now, and Faith’s patience is wearing thin.

“Right again,” she says, instead of telling her to go fuck herself, letting the potentials’ reactions to the exchange roll off of her. “But before that…” She catches Red’s hand grasping Anya’s forearm when it looks like she might speak again and the bite of gratitude is annoying as hell. Respecting her is one thing, but Faith’s nearly certain they’re going to be friends.

That’s for later. She focuses up. “You know the whole deal. Into every generation, a slayer is born, one girl in all the world, whatever whatever.”

Giles pulls some kind of face. She fights the urge to say something just to piss him off more, misquote the sacred misogynist texts or talk about the Council, maybe, while she stares him dead in the eye. I know who you are, you old fuck. I remember just as much as you do. She might call Angel after this, to brag on herself and her self-control.

“One girl. One slayer. Then she dies, usually pretty quickly, and another girl gets called.” Robin’s tense now, arms crossing, and ah. Maybe that’s it. Some slayer connection. Poor bastard. “That’s the drill. And we all know B’s the slayer. The one girl. But see, I’m a slayer, too. And I’ve never been great at school, but the math on that is easy enough.” She doesn’t look back as she asks, “How old were you when you died, B? The first time.”

“Sixteen,” Buffy answers, voice flat but clear.

“Sixteen,” Faith repeats. She eyes Dawn as carefully as she can, but small fry notices, because she’s no dummy. She’s got her jaw all clenched, looks so much like the little teenage shit she is, and the monster in Faith bristles in a mostly new way. Protective. She’s so angry, but not just for herself anymore. Dawn gives her a tiny little nod. “The Master drowned you, yeah? After taking a bite? Ugly fuck.”

The hum of affirmation isn’t loud enough to be heard by anyone but Faith but that one was rhetorical anyway.

“So one dead slayer means a new one gets called. But still not me. Not first, anyway.”

“Kendra,” Buffy says from behind her, loud enough to be heard by the rest of the room, but barely. Faith turns her head enough that Buffy can see her dip her chin in acknowledgement. She understands. Buffy needs to say her name. Faith does, too.

“Kendra. Kendra and Buffy, even though there’s only supposed to be one. But then Drusilla killed her.” William the Bloody’s been smoking cigarettes in the front yard, but she’s not sure that name will mean anything to them.

“Only some of them know,” Buffy says lowly, mind meld in full effect, and it makes her skin crawl as much as it feels like a warm blanket.

“A vampire with a special flavor of crazy,” Faith adds to the group.

“Do you have a point?” It’s Robin, arms crossed tighter and looking like Faith has personally kneed him in the balls, which she has spent serious time not doing, actually.

“Who even are you? You’ve been here for, like, five minutes.” It’s Dawn, lip raised in a look of disdain so purely Summers that Faith can’t help but smirk. Her split lip splits a little more, and she licks the blood away as she watches Robin try to figure out how to answer.

Buffy, uncharacteristically, remains silent, although Faith can practically feel her desire to rein Dawn in, can see in her mind the exact face B’s making, the pout of disapproval, eyebrows lowered in judgment.

“You know who I am,” Robin says, like small fry was being literal.

“Yeah, my principal. And that’s not what I meant, anyway.”

“What did you mean?” His tone is somewhere between genuine and careful, young lady, and yeah, a principal for sure. Gross.

“I meant,” Dawn says, words slow and deliberate and condescending, and Faith fights a snort as she watches Robin realize he’s miscalculated, “that I would rather hear from the actual slayers in the room. Faith’s talking. You should listen.”

She’s done with the conversation, which she signals by turning away from Robin and back to Faith. It’s impressive, given that she can’t actually turn fully away from him, but the vibes are there loud and clear. A big, teenage fuck off.

Dawn catches her grin and one corner of her mouth tilts up just a little and Faith can’t believe how much she likes Buffy’s only-still-kind-of-a-kid sister.

“My point,” Faith says with a measured look at Robin, “is that Buffy got called, alone, when she was fifteen years old. Then she died. She died saving all of you, even though none of you had any idea, because a group of old fucks decided she was expendable. That we all were.” She looks Giles dead in the eye because she’s never been very good at the passive part of passive-aggressive. He looks like he’s sucking a lemon. Good. “And then she got brought back, and she kept going. She got Kendra and lost her. She kept going. She got me and I was a massive fuckup who tried to kill her.”

B doesn’t interrupt her, but Faith senses the movement, slow and deliberate, and then there’s a small, warm hand on her back, a gentle press that stays there.

“And then she was alone again. And she kept going.”

“She wasn’t alone.”

Faith doesn’t want to fight with Xander. She doesn’t. But he’s wrong, and he needs to know it.

“She was, actually.” It’s Willow, looking at Xander with understanding and maybe pity, tone familiar and kind but not uncertain. “We loved her. We helped where we could. But neither of us is chosen. We could have walked away whenever we wanted. We still could.” Her face shifts and she’s looking at him almost the way she did when they were in high school, the way she probably has for all of their lives, if Faith’s got it right. It’s a kind of gentle that’s a little embarrassing to watch, even if it’s more complicated, more grown-up, than the half-love-struck thing it used to be. “It means something that we stay, but it’s a choice she will never be able to make. And the one time she tried to make it, we stole the choice away from her.”

It’s the last bit that does it, that keeps Xander’s mouth shut and makes Willow’s eyes tear, and sends Buffy’s body rocking just enough to let Faith know she wants to move—to go to Willow or to bolt or to punch something—but won’t. Willow can tell too, maybe, because she turns to Buffy over Faith’s shoulder and smiles at her, real and hard and unconcerned with anyone else and shit, yeah, they’re gonna be friends.

“She died again,” Faith says, carefully as she can. “Gave herself up for everyone again.” There’s a flash of pain at the memory of it, the burst of light from nowhere and the certainty that she was the lone slayer in the world, the certainty also that no one would be coming to tell her anything more. “How old were you that time, B?”

“Twenty.” Flat but clear.

“I don’t think dying repeatedly is a great argument for leadership.” It’s Anya again, and she sounds almost apologetic, but she can’t quite stop herself. Willow might murder her, if looks are anything to go by, eyes flashing dark and dangerous. Faith’s adding points to the Red column by the minute.

“She sacrificed herself.” Dawn’s voice is sharp, though not as sharp as it had been with Robin. “The point is, she chose to give up her life to save everyone, which she did, and then she was brought back against her will and is still fighting. It’s about why she died the second time. And what she did when she got brought back. Again.”

“What small fry said,” Faith offers with a nod, and Anya is quiet again. Faith gears up to give a speech that’s going to make her feel disgusting. “The point is that B is the only one who has been tested in the ways that this is going to test us, and she’s the only one who has made the choice to end her life for everyone else, and she’s the only one who has shown that she’s willing to do it again and again. I’m not saying we don’t need teamwork.” God this is so gross. She’s going to annihilate a bag later. “I’m just saying B is and always will be the leader of this team. At least as long as I’m on it.”

And there’s the threat. She can see them all process it, can feel Buffy behind her, palm flattening against her shoulder blade. Her body reacts the way it always has to affection from Buffy, but she doesn’t bother to lie to herself about what it means anymore. There are lots of things she wants and can’t have. She’s trying not to run toward mess these days, and anyway, this is bigger than that.

“We should keep a vote on the table.”

Her patience snaps, and her head turns slowly to Robin, arms easy at her sides, eyes running him over in a lazy calculation. “You still think we’re at the same fuckin’ table?”

His eyes widen, a little, but he looks like he might square up. In other circumstances, Faith might be impressed by the audacity. Now, though, she just lets her bleeding lip curl and tracks his eyes as they watch the red spread.

“Faith is right.” There’s not even a hint of disgust in Red’s voice, though Faith knows from personal experience how much that must have cost her. “Buffy’s the leader of any team I’m on.”

“Me too,” Dawn says, followed quickly by several potentials.

“We need a plan.” It’s Giles this time, and Faith watches relief flood Robin’s face, irritation making her skin crawl.

“We’ll make one.” Xander says, and then looks at Faith, past Faith, at the body that steps up beside her, close enough that their elbows are brushing. “Right, Buff?”

“We’ll make one. I’m not…I’m not the best at asking for help but I know I…” Faith begins to tune out, exhausted, and the hero’s back, her job done, but the minute she tries to take a step back, Buffy’s fingers are around her wrist. It’s a hold she could break easily, which they both know, and Buffy’s still talking, not acknowledging the conversation her body is having with Faith’s, but her thumb and index finger squeeze gently, a request. “I’m sorry.” Faith has no idea whether the apology fits with whatever else Buffy had been saying. She stays.

Later, forearms pressed against the porch railing, Faith flinches briefly at the creak of the back door and then relaxes again, scooting slightly to the right to make space for the reedy arms that settle near hers.

“I’m afraid we’re going to be friends.”

Faith snorts. Sighs. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

Willow’s profile is as sharp as ever, but the curl of her lip is newly affectionate. The door creaks again a few minutes of quiet later, and Willow moves, body replaced by one Faith has never known quite what to do with.

“Thank you.” It’s real, makes Faith want to say something unserious and possibly offensive. She doesn’t, because growth, but she does let herself smirk, is rewarded with an eye roll. “And I’m sorry. About your lip.” Before Faith can figure out what to say to that, she adds, “About a lot of things.”

“Yeah,” Faith tries. “Me too.”

“You’re different.” It’s not a question. “I mean, I knew. But you’re…” Faith waits. She’s good at quiet now, when she needs to be. “I feel like I’m not as different as I should be. From the way I was then.”

“Yeah, well, I had a lot more room to grow. You weren’t out there staking humans.”

“That was an accident.”

Her immediate response, her certainty, is relief on a wound so constantly sore that it almost makes Faith gasp. “Thanks,” she says simply and without a struggle, “but what came after wasn’t.”

“No.” It’s a concession, not a dig, and Faith isn’t sure how much longer she can take this level of earnestness, this kind of honesty. “I can’t do this without you.”

Well, shit. But at least it’s a lie.

“Of course you can.”

“Okay.” Another concession. “But I don’t want to.”

“You saying you need me, B?”

She isn’t. What she’s saying is about a thousand times scarier. They both know it. Maybe a good person would reach for the truth. Maybe a good person wouldn’t run, wouldn’t hide behind a joke. Faith isn’t a good person.

“Maybe,” Buffy shrugs, pressing her forearm against Faith’s. It’s something, to know she isn’t the only one who needs a little distance from the full truth, good person or not.

She presses back into the contact and lets it lie.

the only grind I respect is girls grinding against each other or something. like whatever the mortar and pestle get up to

@lgbtqcreators creator bingo: lgbtq headcanon + team colors -> buffy & faith; bad romance because they're just really good "friends"

Caitlyn Siehl, from What We Buried; “In the kitchen”

greencough will kill the patient, the patient will need catmint to live

A cute guy likes me on a dating app. After chatting with them for weeks, we decide to go on a date. They are very flirtatious and forward over the app, but not when we meet in person. He admits he thought I was transmasc like him, we laugh about it because his mistake is funny and means I'm not passing but in a silly backwards way. I think his sudden awkwardness in person may be nervousness and flirt with him in ways less forward and aggressive than he'd been flirting with me earlier, and they become cold and distant for the rest of the date. By the time I get home they've blocked me on the app we met on. This case of being mistaken as a transmasc on a dating app will happen 3 more times, and in 2/3 times it results in a similar sudden lack of interest where once they were coming on to me. None of these people will be cis.

I am in a self defense class for queer people, learning hand to hand combat as a community. I have been here months. I notice I'm the only transfem in the classes but there are other trans people there so I don't think much of it. Today I have some stubble as I did not have time to shave before the early morning class. When discussing unrealistic action movie and anime fight scenes I describe on of my favorites, quoting the lines as I pantomime the goofy moves. They smile and laugh along until the word bitch leaves my lips in one quote, then the bisexual woman who only ever they/thems me glares at me like I've committed a grevious crime, and the rest of the class looks at me like a freak in awkward silence for a moment before moving on. I learn bitch is not a word a clocky bitch can "reclaim". I am quiet in classes now, and when I go I focus primarily on the training, when I see other trans women try it out they often give me a sad look and do not return for a second class. I get a sinking feeling that if I ever use this training to save my life one day I'd be branded a violent man instead of a strong woman.

I am texting with a good friend of years who was one of the people who helped me realize I was trans like them and even the one who helped pick out my name loves talking about our shared interests and sharing their favorite smut with me. We bond over favorite stories, artists, characters, and kinks as well as our trans experience. Yet they constantly tell me they could never date someone who's AMAB because of the trauma of being "female socialized" and their genital preferences for vulvas. Every compliment they have ever given me on my appearance or outfit is followed up by "but in a non-sexual way, I could never date you". Today I finally have the courage tell them they don't need to say that every time. They ignore this response. We keep talking for awhile, but they start taking months to respond to my messages and respond with a short sentence at most. They no longer share details about their life and shut me out when I ask or share details about mine, even the most mundane and chaste details. I stop talking to them. A birthday gift I bought them months before this falling out happened looms at me in my closet. I cannot use it as it doesn't fit me but can't bring myself to throw it away, just in case we reconcile one day. I feel pathetic for craving friendship with someone who sees me as "abuser-bodied", that so much of my early stages would've been impossible without their help. I feel a little more lost without them.

I am at a queer/trans/enby kink dance party with some friends. I am scantily clad and wearing a skirt and high heeled boots. I do not pass well so this space is one of the few places I feel safe and free dressing like this. It is packed with queer and trans people just like me engaged in delightful debauchery and wearing very little. The music hurts my ears but I'm happy to be here, I feel overstimulated but alive and authentic. I am approached by a beautiful stranger from across the dance floor, she is graceful and stylish, like some modern Galadriel clad in leather, white lace, and industrial piercings with impeccable voice training. She compliments my outfit, I compliment hers. She tells me I need to shave my armpits if I want to look like a real woman. My two friends stand up for me and yell at her. They assure me she was just being an asshole, that women were supposed to be hairy, but I can't help but notice how both of them have hairy armpits and yet the "advice" targeted me. The wide range of bodies that people here tonight find desirable on cis women don't seem to apply to the women like me. I am the only one of us that doesn't go home with a hookup at the end of the night. I realize now she likely spoke from experience. I am still hurt by her words, but realizing the kinds of experiences she must have had herself to feel her words were kind advice hurts far worse.

A local queer photographer who's work I follow is looking for women & non-binary models for a photoshoot. I have become comfortable with getting photos taken of me for the first time in my life since my egg cracked, and had a few small time modeling gigs under my belt. With something like this I could actually have the beginnings of a portfolio. I reach and am told that they are not looking for trans women models, "only women and AFABs". Getting the same line I get from agencies from an independent queer photographer repackaged in "woke" terminology stings. I see many queer and nonbinary models I looked up to take part in the shoot. I have to wonder if they knew that the photographer's definition of woman didn't include trans women, or if like me in my martial arts class they noticed no transfems were there but didn't think much of it because there were other trans people there.

It is years ago and I am still an egg. I am with my partner of 4 years. I am exhausted after a long day. She asks me for sex in the voice that I know means saying no will hurt her. I learned from her long ago men have high and insatiable sex drives, therefore saying no meant I wanted to have sex, just not with her. So I say yes. The sex is painful and unsatisfying, and I simply do my best to thrust through the discomfort until she cums. I feel numb and hurt. She enjoys herself but seems sad I did not cum. I assure her I love her. When we hold eachother after my obligation has been met and I finally feel comfortable and safe. We begin talking. She talks about the trashy women she saw on the street today, describing their cringe outfits and ugly styles and bad hair. All the styles and clothes and hair I yearn to try myself in my deepest and most repressed desires. I change the subject and ask her about work and family. She asks if I'd still love her if she were a man and I say yes. She says she would still love me if I were a woman. Something in that statement feels like a lie. It is months later when we break up and I move out. Now that I am a woman I look back and know from our years together that if I were a woman then she'd hate the kind of woman I'd become. That if I were a woman she'd still have the same expectations of me as a man, that her refusal of sex equated an impersonal not being in the mood but my refusal of sex equated a cruel refusal of love.

A lesbian group begins organizing a queer woman's strip night event. A safe place for amateur performers to shine and women to perform and enjoy sexuality away from the male gaze. I see no transfems in the promotional material or leadership team, and I've learned not to think nothing of it just because there are other trans people there. I do not go.

I am talking with my therapist. They are trans too and an amazing therapist, often providing insights and advice only someone else with the lived experience of being trans can. I express distress and suicidal ideation at the fact I feel like I need to pass before I can dress the way I want. That until I get expensive hair removal procedures and FFS I can never feel safe and welcome presenting authentically. I lament how these things are expensive and may never be accessible to me. They tell me I need to deal with my "internalized transphobia", as if these feelings aren't a result of constant rejection and othering by external forces even within queer spaces. As if the scrap of womanhood others sometimes acknowledge in me does not rely on their perceptions of me.

There is a publication accepting works from trans people of all stripes to document trans experiences. It gets flamed for not having a single transfem as a contributor. The people behind it apologize profusely, they say didn't notice no transfems had sent work in and would do a sequel publication that was transfem-centric. I wonder if anyone had noticed there were no transfems but didn't think much of it because there were other trans people there. I think about the kinds of spaces I've seen like that, and the implications it has about how they treat transfems, and I am unsurprised no transfems submitted.

One of my closest friends for years is very supportive of me when I first begin crossdressing and experimenting with they/them pronouns. She gives me suggestions on cute clothes to wear and takes me shopping as well as asks for pictures. We had helped eachother discover we were both queer as young teens, come to terms with it, and navigate it in a hostile environment, so I have complete trust. We are close enough we are frequently asking eachother advice on serious life choices & relationships, sending nudes for critique + tips before sending them to our partners, and sharing our most secret and vulnerable moments. She often asks me for tips on getting her straight boyfriends into pegging and crossdressing that make me slightly uncomfortable but I don't mind, she is a loyal friend I would endure a great many discomforts for. I host a lunch for us one day, and come out to her as a trans woman. I tell her my new name, say I no longer use he/him pronouns, and thank her for her support on my journey thus far. She launches into a monologue about how by changing my name I am throwing away all our memories together and spitting in the face of my family. Taken aback by her sudden heel turn after being so supportive of me being nonbinary and GNC, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom to get a break and give her some time to process. When I am in the bathroom trying not to cry, she is on the phone. I overhear her misgendering me as she is talking about me being bisexual in a frightened voice. She sounds truly afraid that I intend to be sexually violent towards her. When I leave the bathroom and sit back down I pretend not to have heard. She gets off the phone, saying she was just chatting with her boyfriend. We talk a bit longer, she explains how "the surgery" is dangerous and experimental and she hopes I won't get it. I assure her I won't and do my best to change the subject and hope she comes around after some time to process things, hurt and shocked that what I saw as a natural shift in the path I was already on marked me as frightening in her eyes after knowing eachother for over a decade. That a fellow bisexual suddenly saw my bisexuality as dangerous now that I was asserting myself as a trans woman. I say goodbye to her, and she says goodbye to me using my deadname, I do not risk an argument to correct her. It is months after the meeting we have not seen eachother since and she has not responded to any messages I sent. After reflecting on her reaction further I decide that I don't really want to spend time with someone who thinks these things about me for my own safety and mental health, regardless of our history. A friend of 14 years who supported my queerness and transness gone the instant I crossed an intangible woman-shaped line that marked me as a predator and invader in her eyes.

I log online and day after day see trans women getting banned and harassed. Seeing baseless callout posts calling them groomers and abusers getting taken seriously by other queer and trans people. Seeing proof that deep down so many people I consider kindred spirits see me and people like me as worthy of intense scrutiny and policing to keep "the queer community" safe and united. The blocklist grows but everything stays the same. I treasure the people in my life who don't take part in this and would do anything for them, but it seems they get fewer each time.

I'm not making this post to seek sympathy, I am used to this kind of shit and far worse has happened to myself and others. I just make this to illustrate transmisogyny is not some "online-only" issue like people claim. Even if online issues weren't "real" (as healed is fond of saying, "online is real") this has tangible effects in the way trans women are treated offline as well. By communities, friends, partners, colleagues, systems, etc. That's why we talk about it.

So much of the discussions people have paint transmisogyny as some online oppression olympics maliciously trying to divide the community, smear transmascs, and "reinvent bioessentialism". That is not what it is about. Discussions about transmisogyny is about how we are treated for being what we are, and while related to transphobia and misogyny it is seperate because it often represents doors other trans people and women can walk through that transfems cannot. It has affected me in my most intimate moments when I was with other trans and queer people I felt safe around, and taught me that I need to carefully manage my persona and presentation at all times lest my authenticity be branded "male socialization". I am even terrified to express attraction to people who express attraction towards me because I'm so used to being treated like a predator upon reciprocating or being used and abandoned by people I trusted. I am terrified to be too excited about shared interests with friends lest I be too loud or talkative about it and branded with aggressive male socialization. So I make myself quiet and small, and shrink from the community and people I care about, and become more and more isolated.

Anyways, stop platforming anons who spread lies about trans women, stop hopping on TERF harassment campaigns because the trans gal they're smearing "gave you bad vibes", and maybe consider carefully if in your own life where you draw the line for a transfem's behavior is any different from where you'd draw the line for anyone who's not one.

SO HERE IS THE WHOLE STORY (SO FAR).

I am on my knees begging you to reblog this post and to stop reblogging the original ones I sent out yesterday. This is the complete account with all the most recent info; the other one is just sending people on senselessly panicked avenues that no longer lead anywhere.

IN SHORT

Cliff Weitzman, CEO of Speechify and (aspiring?) voice actor, used AI to scrape thousands of popular, finished works off AO3 to list them on his own for-profit website and in his attached app. He did this without getting any kind of permission from the authors of said work or informing AO3. Obviously.

When fandom at large was made aware of his theft and started pushing back, Weitzman issued a non-apology on the original social media posts—using 

his dyslexia; 

his intent to implement a tip-system for the plagiarized authors; and 

a sudden willingness to take down the work of every author who saw my original social media posts and emailed him individually with a ‘valid’ claim,

as reasons we should allow him to continue monetizing fanwork for his own financial gain.

When we less-than-kindly refused, he took down his ‘apologies’ as well as his website (allegedly—it’s possible that our complaints to his web host, the deluge of emails he received or the unanticipated traffic brought it down, since there wasn’t any sort of official statement made about it), and when it came back up several hours later, all of the work formerly listed in the fan fiction category was no longer listed. 

THE TAKEAWAYS

1. Cliff Weitzman (aka Ofek Weitzman) is a scumbag with no qualms about taking fanwork without permission, feeding it to AI and monetizing it for his own financial gain; 

2. Fandom can really get things done when it wants to, and 

3. Our fanworks appear to be hidden, but they’re NOT DELETED from Weitzman’s servers, and independently published, original works are still listed without the authors' permission. We need to hold this man responsible for his theft, keep an eye on both his current and future endeavors, and take action immediately when he crosses the line again. 

The timeline, the details, the screenshots (behind the cut)

Sunday night, December 22nd 2024, I noticed an influx in visitors to my fic You & Me & Holiday Wine. When I searched the title online, hoping to find out where they came from, a new listing popped up (third one down, no less):

This listing is still up today, by the way, though now when you follow the link to word-stream, it just brings you to the main site. (Also, to be clear, this was not the cause for the influx of traffic to my fic; word-stream did not link back to the original work anywhere.)

I followed the link to word-stream, where to my horror Y&M&HW was listed in its entirety—though, beyond the first half of the first chapter, behind a paywall—along with a link promising to take me—through an app downloadable on the Apple Store—to an AI-narrated audiobook version. When I searched word-stream itself for my ao3 handle I found both of my multi-chapter fics were listed this way:

Because the tags on my fics (which included genres* and characters, but never the original IPs**) weren’t working, I put ‘Kara Danvers’ into the search bar and discovered that many more supercorp fics (Supergirl TV fandom, Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor pairing) were listed.

I went looking online for any mention of word-stream and AI plagiarism (the covers—as well as the ridiculously inflated number of reviews and ratings—made it immediately obvious that AI fuckery was involved), but found almost nothing: only one single Reddit post had been made, and it received (at that time) only a handful of upvotes and no advice. 

I decided to make a tumblr post to bring the supercorp fandom up to speed about the theft. I draw as well as write for fandom and I’ve only ever had to deal with art theft—which has a clear set of steps to take depending on where said art was reposted—and I was at a loss regarding where to start in this situation.

After my post went up I remembered Project Copy Knight, which is worth commending for the work they’ve done to get fic stolen from AO3 taken down from monetized AI 'audiobook’ YouTube accounts. I reached out to @echoekhi, asking if they’d heard of this site and whether they could advise me on how to get our works taken down.

While waiting for a reply I looked into Copy Knight’s methods and decided to contact OTW’s legal department:

And then I went to bed.

By morning, tumblr friends @makicarn and @fazedlight as well as a very helpful tumblr anon had seen my post and done some very productive sleuthing:

@echoekhi had also gotten back to me, advising me, as expected, to contact the OTW. So I decided to sit tight until I got a response from them.

That response came only an hour or so later: 

Which was 100% understandable, but still disappointing—I doubted a handful of individual takedown requests would accomplish much, and I wasn’t eager to share my given name and personal information with Cliff Weitzman himself, which is unavoidable if you want to file a DMCA.

I decided to take it to Reddit, hoping it would gain traction in the wider fanfic community, considering so many fandoms were affected. My Reddit posts (with the updates at the bottom as they were emerging) can be found here and here.

A helpful Reddit user posted a guide on how users could go about filing a DMCA against word-stream here (to wobbly-at-best results)

A different helpful Reddit user signed up to access insight into word-streams pricing. Comment is here.

Smells unbelievably scammy, right? In addition to those audacious prices—though in all fairness any amount of money would be audacious considering every work listed is accessible elsewhere for free—my dyscalculia is screaming silently at the sight of that completely unnecessary amount of intentionally obscured numbers.

Speaking of which! As soon as the post on r/AO3—and, as a result, my original tumblr post—began taking off properly, sometime around 1 pm, jumpscare! A notification that a tumblr account named @cliffweitzman had commented on my post, and I got a bit mad about the gist of his message :

Fortunately he caught plenty of flack in the comments from other users (truly you should check out the comment section, it is extremely gratifying and people are making tremendously good points), in response to which, of course, he first tried to both reiterate and renegotiate his point in a second, longer comment (which I didn’t screenshot in time so I’m sorry for the crappy notification email formatting):

which he then proceeded to also post to Reddit (this is another Reddit user’s screenshot, I didn’t see it at all, the notifications were moving too fast for me to follow by then)

... where he got a roughly equal amount of righteously furious replies. (Check downthread, they're still there, all the way at the bottom.)

After which Cliff went ahead & deleted his messages altogether. 

It’s not entirely clear whether his account was suspended by Reddit soon after or whether he deleted it himself, but considering his tumblr account is still intact, I assume it’s the former. He made a handful of sock puppet accounts to play around with for a while, both on Reddit and Tumblr, only one of which I have a screenshot of, but since they all say roughly the same thing, you’re not missing much:

And then word-stream started throwing a DNS error.

That lasted for a good number of hours, which was unfortunately right around the time that a lot of authors first heard about the situation and started asking me individually how to find out whether their work was stolen too. I do not have that information and I am unclear on the perimeters Weitzman set for his AI scraper, so this is all conjecture: it LOOKS like the fics that were lifted had three things in common:

They were completed works;

They had over several thousand kudos on AO3; and

They were written by authors who had actively posted or updated work over the past year.

If anyone knows more about these perimeters or has info that counters my observation, please let me know!

I finally thought to check/alert evil Twitter during this time, and found out that the news was doing the rounds there already. I made a quick thread summarizing everything that had happened just in case. You can find it here.

I went to Bluesky too, where fandom was doing all the heavy lifting for me already, so I just reskeeted, as you do, and carried on.

Sometime in the very early evening, word-stream went back up—but the fan fiction category was nowhere to be seen. Tentative joy and celebration!***

That’s when several users—the ones who had signed up for accounts to gain intel and had accessed their own fics that way—reported that their work could still be accessed through their history. Relevant Reddit post here.

Sooo—

We’re obviously not done. The fanwork that was stolen by Weitzman may be inaccessible through his website right now, but they aren’t actually gone. And the fact that Weitzman wasn’t willing to get rid of them altogether means he still has plans for them. 

This was my final edit on my Reddit post before turning off notifications, and it's pretty much where my head will be at for at least the foreseeable future:

Please feel free to add info in the comments, make your own posts, take whatever action you want to take to protect your work. I only beg you—seriously, I’m on my knees here—to not give up like I saw a handful of people express the urge to do. Keep sharing your creative work and remain vigilant and stay active to make sure we can continue to do so freely. Visit your favorite fics, and the ones you’ve kept in your ‘marked for later’ lists but never made time to read, and leave kudos, leave comments, support your fandom creatives, celebrate podficcers and support AO3. We created this place and it’s our responsibility to keep it alive and thriving for as long as we possibly can.

Also FUCK generative AI. It has NO place in fandom spaces.

THE 'SMALL' PRINT (some of it in all caps):

*Weitzman knew what he was doing and can NOT claim ignorance. One, it’s pretty basic kindergarten stuff that you don’t steal some other kid’s art project and present it as your own only to act surprised when they protest and then tell the victim that they should have told you sooner that they didn’t want their project stolen. And two, he was very careful never to list the IPs these fanworks were based on, so it’s clear he was at least familiar enough with the legalities to not get himself in hot water with corporate lawyers. Fucking over fans, though, he figured he could get away with that. 

**A note about the AI that Weitzman used to steal our work: it’s even greasier than it looks at first glance. It’s not just the method he used to lift works off AO3 and then regurgitate onto his own website and app. Looking beyond the untold horrors of his AI-generated cover ‘art’, in many cases these covers attempt to depict something from the fics in question that can’t be gleaned from their summaries alone. In addition, my fics (and I assume the others, as well) were listed with generated genres; tags that did not appear anywhere in or on my fic on AO3 and were sometimes scarily accurate and sometimes way off the mark. I remember You & Me & Holiday Wine had ‘found family’ (100% correct, but not tagged by me as such) and I believe The Shape of Soup was listed as, among others, ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ and ‘love triangle’ (both wildly inaccurate). Even worse, not all the fic listed (as authors on Reddit pointed out) came with their original summaries at all. Often the entire summary was AI-generated. All of these things make it very clear that it was an all-encompassing scrape—not only were our fics stolen, they were also fed word-for-word into the AI Weitzman used and then analyzed to suit Weitzman’s needs. This means our work was literally fed to this AI to basically do with whatever its other users want, including (one assumes) text generation. 

***Fan fiction appears to have been made (largely) inaccessible on word-stream at this time, but I’m hearing from several authors that their original, independently published work, which is listed at places like Kindle Unlimited, DOES still appear in word-stream’s search engine. This obviously hurts writers, especially independent ones, who depend on these works for income and, as a rule, don’t have a huge budget or a legal team with oceans of time to fight these battles for them. If you consider yourself an author in the broader sense, beyond merely existing online as a fandom author, beyond concerns that your own work is immediately at risk, DO NOT STOP MAKING NOISE ABOUT THIS.

Again, please, please PLEASE reblog this post instead of the one I sent originally. All the information is here, and it's driving me nuts to see the old ones are still passed around, sending people on wild goose chases.

Thank you all so much.

Nikita Gill, from Your Heart is the Sea: Poems; "The Difference Between Alone and Lonely,"

but in "one breath" when mulder gives scully her necklace back

what if it had still been around his neck. what if he had been wearing it. what if he had been standing there before her, tugging it out from under his sweater where it had been resting against his chest, unclasping it and handing it to her, his fingertips gently brushing the skin of her palm.

and she's holding it, feeling it still warm from the heat of his body, and she understands he's been carrying it close to his heart the entire time, carrying her with him everywhere he went. she meets his eyes and sees the relief that still holds the traces of his broken heart, of so much fear and despair it takes her breath away.

he knows she can see it and he doesn't care because she's back, and nothing else matters. the world ended and then pulsed back into life, and they can go back to pretending later; he knows they will, because this is too big. he won't lose her again, so they'll return to where it's safe. but he knows she knows now, knows that she's become a part of him, and maybe that's okay.

she puts the cross back around her own neck, and he's a part of her too now. the lingering warmth of his skin is seeping into her own, that small metal cross as the conduit between them, and it's an affirmation of something she isn't ready to admit either. but it's there. it will always be there now. humming just underneath the surface. and for now, that's enough.

Maggie Smith, "The Hum", Goldenrod