#Vile vile bunch

[duncanor]

Terfs weaponizing sexual violence in prison has always been so desgusting to me because they genuinely don't fucking care.

The real question has always been how to prevent that violence from happening in any prison. But well, thats not about trans people so it's not that important. They even laugh about it if the victims are men.

It's desgusting.

[alaskan-wallflower]

hot take but maybe people should stop harassing/stalking the outsiders cast.

[witchkittymeow]

Hes looking at the pictures he took while pretending to be dead 💔💔💔

[goldiipond]

modded minecraft smps are so fun iwant to be in one so bad. i would kill anything to play the fun blocks game with a bunch of friends and get into strange situations together and if i end up getting emotionally invested well that is just a fun bonus

[pitohuimaki]

I'm that anon from a couple days ago that asked about Kirito, I'm also that clueless anon from like a week ago or something. I'd like to come off anon but my anxiety says no.

Anyways since anon kills my anxiety I think it's on theme to ask how many times Pito and LLENN have killed each other since they seem that deranged for each other

hi anon!! 🩷🩷 this is why i leave my anons open!! you don’t have to come off anon if you don’t want to, you do what makes you feel most comfortable — i still send anons to people ive been mutuals with for like six years because i’m shy lmao

it’s been four times if memory serves?? twice so far in the anime and another two times should be coming up from the novels (idk if that will be in this season or not though, i doubt it because it’s quite deep into the novels)

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

JoJo Siwa doesn’t deserve all the hate (and homophobia) she’s getting for her style and music; but she does deserve scrutiny for defending Colleen Ballinger and being both active and complicit in abuse that happened on her TV show. Like the girl has been under the public eye in unhealthy environments all her life; cut her some slack — not too much; she’s still a responsible adult — but if you’re going to dogpile her, then at least dogpile her for the right reasons. Jesus Fucking Christ.

[will80sbyers]

they way I dislike almost every single leaker, paparazzo and update account and yet I am forced to see their thoughts every day is brutal I can't wait for the filming to be over already

[happyvalkyrieofdoom]

tankies on here will act like they’re the most oppressed group on earth but the moment someone says that hey, maybe we shouldn’t worship stalin/lenin/mao etc. they literally start sending death threats to people istg

[wavebiders]

All these posts talking about how it's kinda gross that fans jumped to stanning the white supremacist society white boy from the episode, and are just assuming he wasn't racist just because he's nice are very based and correct

However, I do think the fact that this is even a discussion is partially a result of the way the episode frames all the racist characters as cartoonishly obnoxious people well before the racism is made explicit, and then kills off the only likable one before his racism even comes up at all

Which, in my opinion, is a far weaker storytelling choice than giving us characters that were actually likable if you failed to pick up on the micro agressions would have been

[winepresswrath]

He's fine you're fine I'm fine this is fine! Anything can be fine so long as you endure it.

[wolfmoonblues]

Uhhh okay cool wanted to write abt Lupa’s dad bc I hate him!! Tw for suicide and abuse mentioned, along with a v questionable age gap in a relationship

Román was a bad man, and he’d been a pathetic and sniveling youth with a very bad man for a father. He saw his brother’s snarled body broken over the ocean rocks first, and said nothing. His brother’s name was Ángel, twin to his older sister Paloma, and Ángel had killed himself because he didn’t understand the way anyone else around him lived.

Paloma and Ángel and Román. None of them ever quite fit in with each other. They were a deck of cards from different sets, bent at strange edges, stained. Paloma was reedy in voice and appearance, tall and nasally and often the one giving orders. When she saw Ángel second she choked on her first scream and hacked and gulped for air until she nearly died too, then screamed again in broken and hoarse cries for help. She knew he was dead and yet she cradled his face with a violence that she didn’t try to control. Clawed at the edges of his cheeks like it would get him to open his eyes again, pulled and pinched and cursed at him with an anger that Román also saw in his mother, when they were younger and often bad on purpose. Still, Román said nothing. He felt the way his own hair tickled at his ears—feathery, blown around by the salt-breeze of the ocean. He’d start balding before long, and he knew this already at 19. He’d resigned himself to it, knowing he’d never have the coarse or curly hair most of the islanders around him would, doomed by his distinctly European ancestry and the sourness that poisoned any growth inside of him

His brother was one of a kind in his family. When his father named him after something divine he did it cruelly, like he’d seen his son’s heart and wanted it cold before it stopped beating. Ángel. Like he’d knew he’d fall.

He was made of a fork-tender soul. He hugged his mom before school until she asked him to stop. He told Paloma and Román he’d love them after they left, inevitably. He cried every time he saw a wounded dog, or a palm tree sawed, and he told his father that he forgave him for everything, and cried when he got hit for it. He was made of wood sogged with the rot of everyone else around him. And so he was weak, and he died weak. Román thought of his mangled, semi-shifted body every day, and remembered how his canines poked out of his smile specifically. He died with a dog’s smile. His face was bruised with it.

—

Román met Marisol nine years later, when the 70s where just settling into themselves. On the plane ride to the jungles of Paraguay, he’d rewind and replay the conversation he’d had with his father until it smoothed like dulce around the insides of his brain.

Don César Bendigo Carnecielo. A stately man. A man with the scent and feel of caged beast to him. Sinister not for his words, which were never really intelligent, or his brute strength, though there was much of it—but for the way he carried himself. His body moved in the stilted, furtive way that very dangerous people move. He was always gripping something within reach; it was as if he wasn’t holding onto a corner, or ledge, he’d lunge. His nerves were made of barbed wire and frayed steel.

“Voy a ser misionero, papá.” He called him dad to denote the bitterness. “En una semana estaré in Sudamérica y no sé cuándo volveré.”

His dad chewed at half a flank of a not-quite-raw animal. Cow, hopefully. Don César glared at him with a special kind of despising mirth, one he reserved for his sons only. “Un hombre virtuoso de Dios. Claro. Siempre buscando que alguien te salve. ¿Así te crié, no?” He spits out a thin piece of bone, and the severity of it makes Román almost flinch.

“Desgraciado.” He smacks out the word from red-stained lips and a tongue thick with saliva. He sucks at his fingers, loudly, and wipes them one by one on the tablecloth before continuing to eat.

Román stares at him, and feels his eyes turn to stone with anger. “No me importa si me apoye.”

“Sos cobarde, Román. No sobrevivirás solo.”

He stretches apart the steak with his knife and fork, scrapes across the plate, a terrible, violating whistle to the ear.

“Ángel murió de parte de tus palabras. Le mataste.”

This makes the gears turn in César’s head, but he grunts about it as if the thought’s already visited and left him, like he’s comfortable with it. “No tenía destino aparte del acantilado. Y se que eso ya tú sabías, mucho antes qué pasó. No jodes, Román, aquí, ¡en la casa de Dios!” He busts at the seams laughing, and this makes Román want to rip his throat out with wolf teeth until his mouth is soaked and full with blood. Instead he finds little fight in himself—what little there is black and crushed—and decides to leave the next day instead.

—

Marisol had seen the sun every day of her life. Every part of her gleamed with it. You wouldn’t have guessed she was lobison until you caught the wicked cunning in her black eyes and sharp grin. Wolf-smart and precise. A little prideful, too.

Román had met her after one of his first big sermons. He’d preached about something he himself wasn’t so convinced about yet—something about submission, and fear of the father, and forgiveness. She’d brought her much younger siblings—her children, he thought, until he saw the way she snuck off mid-sermon to smoke tobacco outside, and left them giggling and yelping under the pews.

The two young ones were running outside when he walked up to their sister. They ran around on all fours, clumsy, and growled playfully at each other in a mix of wolf and Guaraní. They were completely unshifted but barely clothed, and when he pointed it out Marisol seemed to find it hilarious. “Sundays don’t matter to the moon, or the heat.” She snarked, and Román felt from that sentence that he had to take the clay she was and mold it with rough hands, his alone.

She was nineteen and knew nothing of the world outside Misiones, though she liked to pretend she did. Román promised her he’d show her what she didn’t know, but in equal parts promised it wouldn’t be much.

(I gave up writing here lmfao I’m tired)

-over the year he visits her family often, provides them food/water/medicine; somewhat stalks/‘courts’ Marisol, proselytizing to her family and teaching her biblical things. He scares away a young man interested in her and says that only he can show her what she’s missing from the world outside, that he’ll show her God everywhere, because he doesn’t exist here in this jungle with the monsters, that together theirs is the holy world. La vida santa. He tries to resist his own wild pull to her and fails, and she’s three months pregnant by the time they’re married. They leave for the states when she is 21 and he is 30, with Vicente and Julio newborns, as Román’s mother is dying in a hospital in California. Román becomes obsessed with ending their family curse.

And not long after his mother dies, Lupa is born.

[hypokeimena]

"squishmallow funds canary misison" is like a bad joke someone would tell or something. like jesus christ.

[lucabyte]

uploading stuff to tonic water's toyhouse page and I saw my stupid creepypasta photoshops in his gallery again. i for sure never posted these here and thats a crime. so im rectifying that now

[dejwritesarchived]

i need my fellow black people to just ignore the shaderoom for this full month (hell we need to ignore them forever). i am begging on my knees at this point.

[tevatron]

i'm so glad i won't be working with my pi after this month. i think i've reached my limit. i just can't deal with her anymore

[vile-wizard]

I hate it when I say some dumb british bullshit like "Brilliant" when I should be saying the proper American "Amazeballs"