#bad death: whatever the fuck this was

[captainflinttheparrot]

this might be a controversial take, but i prefer character deaths that leave me devastated rather than ones that leave me vaguely confused about why it happened

[bacchuschucklefuck]

love thinking kipperlilly spends her afterlife looking for lucy in a familiar forest

[sprinklethetangerine]

Hey, I just watched Dead Poets Society for the first time ever! Now, if you guys don't mind, I'm gonna go sit in the corner of my room and scream!

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

I think we overlooked the fucked up polycule dynamic potential of team bolas x the dog that hunts them

they gave him a house. he paid rent. he hunted them, picked them off one by one, but when they sought to hunt him he ran. the tormented and the tormented. the hunters and the hunter. them huddling around a fire, burning themselves as he lurks in the dark to devour any that stray too far from the light. when they gather their rocks and throw them as one he flees, tail between his legs as he hunts for his own safety

is there not familiarity in that? is there not love in the violence? let me kill you, i will return your greatest treasure. let me kill you, you’ve already destroyed me and mine. there is loneliness to the dark and hate in the bloodshed. what is hate if not the other side of love. what if obsession if not love driven too far. all of them bathed in the blood of the others, baptized by sin after sin after sin. mothers carry their litters in their mouths- when do the teeth at your throat start to feel gentle? bad once said about cellbit, “it was like throwing a ball, and saying fetch.” that went wrong for him. cellbit once said about bad, “you’ve gone soft.” that went wrong for him, too.

do you remember the slime kills? slime was bad’s first blood, his first taste of oncoming violence. bad was slime’s last kill, an end to the desperation that was sparked with the first base raid. do you remember that first day? bad on the water, slime on the shore, calling him in like a siren. ‘look at me, look how killable i am’ says the bait, desperately trying to build a trap even as the prey fears the untied-noose wrapping around its throat. do you remember the tension? do you remember how the sun punished them both?

‘look at me, look how killable i am,’ says the poisoned frog to the wolf. the bird to the dog. do you remember the kindness? the killing and the killing and the killing, and the laughter. the killing the killing the killing, and the earnest offer to help? remember how jaiden fed herself to the dog. remember how the dog listened. ‘where is your stuff? i’ll take you to your body.’ thousands of blocks away. then more blood, no screaming, just laughter.

do you see? do you see? they built him a dog house, and he paid them rent. hunters snd hunters. he killed them to bring back their children and he failed and they brought back his instead. how can he ever repay that? their blood coats him. his blood coats them. all of them animals. all of them desperate. remember the familiarity of teeth and the taste of your own death. when its all said and done what will they miss the most- being the hunters? or being the hunted?

and then they all make out and take turns getting beaten to death by jaiden. shes part of the group murder but not the romance of death. instead she gets to go to the club (the Spawn Rave)

[iknowwhereyousnoozeatnight]

pardon my shaky hands

[gelarshiesprofruitboarder]

grown ass man

[giantkillerjack]

PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS

PUSSY.

BIG FLAPPY WET JESUS PUSSY.

JESUS' SOPPING WET PUSS-PUSS

[Edited months after posting to discourage catholics from replying to this post after finding that both the nice and much funnier not-nice responses to this were equally bad for my mental health. I didn't wanna delete it bc I was quite proud of some of my responses and it helps to have a visual reminder of why I left an abusive organization. Also, this means that any catholic who has reblogged this in an attempt to convert me, has now reblogged a post that, if clicked, links back to this. Use MY post for propaganda, will you!]

Thinking about how it was never made clear to me in Catholic school exactly WHY Jesus died for our sins. I just remembered that I was literally never clear on who the dying helped??

I've heard theories as an adult, but basically what I'm saying is pointless martyrdom seems a little pointless, and also with enough propaganda the big logical gaps in a belief system get really hard to see. Especially if questioning anything is blasphemy.

I would have gotten in so much trouble for insisting the teacher explain how Jesus helped us by being tortured to death by Romans even when God could have prevented it! God sent his only Son, they would have said! Be grateful, they'd say! Be guilty! Stop asking why he did that!!!

[edscuntyeyeshadow]

ed/stede - northern attitude

[tangledinink]

i've actually decided that anyone who's made any disaster twin fanwork that includes dialogue along the lines of, "i can't survive without my other half," or "i'm not a whole person without you," or "life isn't worth living without my twin," owes me $50.

[pricegouge]

Last Rites

Soap gets stabbed, Ghost makes it worse. Also I gave that apostate some good old fashioned catholic guilt.

cw for gore, religious imagery, internalized homophobia, (apparent) unrequited feelings, abrupt ending, wound fingering and major character death. there is no necrophilia here and I left the dialogue vague enough to be read as concerned/platonic, or… not. I as the author can tell you I intended Ghost to be into it, but clearly losing interest as Soap actually dies. That being said, Soap is dying and brother, this ain't a handshake.

He can't feel it, is the strangest part. It hurts the flesh of the actual wound, sure, but there's a strange fascination that accompanies realizing there are parts of your body which are not intended to feel external stimuli. Can't. He's helpless but to prod, test. Simon grunts - a beloved little noise - and it's like it manually turns his auditory processing back on, reminding him there are noises beyond loud, clear conversation. Immediately obvious is the droning in his ears, blood rush and wind wash across scarred ear drums. Below that is their breathing, Ghost's fast but deep. Steady. His own is hard to recognize as breath at first, wet and uneven. It's alarming, but not quite as disconcerting as the squelching noises Soap's ministrations create. "'S'wha' good pussy sounds like, LT."

It's the warmth that clues him in first: a bloom of heat at his side like sunshine on your face, or piss down your leg. It's got no place here, in a frozen field so fucking lifeless and dull he'd forgotten the name of it the second they'd touched down and found their safehouse. He'd claimed a cot, called it his. Near as he got to caring about the label. It's not until he glances down almost absently to find the source of the heat that he realizes he can carry on not knowing the name of it, as 'site of his fucking death' would be sufficient.

"Shite," MacTavish hisses, taste of iron boiling up his throat. The foreign grip changes, goes to pull the bowie knife back out from under Soap's ribs. He grabs the wrist, tugs it to himself, feels his breath gurgle when he lodges it in deeper than it had been before. It hurts. Worse than anything he's ever felt - but years and years of combat training override instinct, tell him to keep the hilt flush with his skin as best he can until help comes. The assailant knows it too, redoubles their effort; notches the serrated base of the blade back and out, opens the wound further. 

"You fockin' -!" he stomps blindly on a foot, throws an elbow behind himself. Lands, if the deep grunt he hears behind him is anything to go by. It's a short lived victory. He'd lost leverage when he'd twisted, and the man pulls the knife clean, slicing Soap's palm along the way as he continues to try holding it in place.

It's almost freeing. The weight of keeping the blade in place lifts and Soap lunges, tumbling his aggressor to the ground and stripping the knife easily. He sinks it into the man's chest once, twice, again. He doesn't put up as much of a fight as Soap did; a blessing considering Soap can feel something soft and slick inside himself slip every time he extends his arm above his head.

The soldier's eyes go wide and unfocused, his breath burbles pathetically. Soap's chest heaves in exertion, flooding his mouth in a similar fashion. It's cold enough to crack a tooth here, the contrast making his own blood feel like magma in his mouth: roiling, ominous. Violent upheaval.

He slips off the other man, scrambles backward as if he can avoid the plague - as if he wasn't patient zero. He drops the knife some feet away, keeps dragging himself along until his very organs protest and he drops, limp and supine, into the forgiving blanket of snow. 

It stinks. Not like a ruptured bowel, thankfully, but like death all the same. It cuts through the crisp, winter air like a northern wind, rattles him. He doesn't move, tries to keep the wound as still as possible now he's relatively safe. His vision tunnels and with it his very consciousness narrows down to heat, and slick, and nobadwrongputitback. But then there are footsteps approaching, crunching through the snow. "Johnny?" Ghost calls and then, "Johnny!"

He's there, hands patting over the sergeant as though he's trying to determine if the blood is his, or the dead guy's. They both know he already knows the answer. His hands come away wet, white bones of his gloves stained red and steaming in the cold. Soap hadn't realized how stark the sky overhead was until the contrast of Ghost's mask overtakes it, eyes two wide, blank focal points as he leans over his mate, takes him in with muted horror. He tilts his head toward his comm, barks commands for a medevac. Soap laughs humorlessly - once - scalds his chin with his own blood in the process. It's nice, kinda. A good reprieve, at least.

"'S'no use, Ghost."

"Shut up Johnny, you're makin' it worse."

"'S'alotta blood, LT." He grins, imagines the sight it must make, especially when Ghost applies pressure and Soap grimaces, feels more magma spewing from between his teeth with his rough exhale. 

"I said shut up." There's a pleading quality to the officer's voice, and Soap is almost thankful he can't string two thoughts together, else he'd spend his final minutes deluded into thinking this stoic man might miss him.

That they could've…

"Ah go' him."

Ghost looks around himself, spots the other soldier as if for the first time. "Yeah, Johnny. You got 'im. Shoulda left the knife in, though."

"Weren' me who took i' ou'." He's not sure if Ghost can even fully understand him, accent thick and slurred. It doesn't really matter even if he didn't, though, he supposes. It's all irrelevant now. 

Ghost nods anyway. "Gonna get you out of this gear, Johnny. Gotta take a look."

Soap grunts, helps as best he can. When he sits up, more warmth spills across his lap. He's embarrassed, thinks he's wet himself, until he catches a glimpse of the red which stains his arctic gear, settling into the negative spaces of the pattern like watercolor. He's stained everything. Himself, Ghost's gloves. The very earth itself. The snow collapses under the weight and heat of his blood, a basin carved into the pure white field by the very essence of him. Early mountain runoff, denoting the areas springtime veins of melt will soon carve out. 

It would be the least he could do, for this country he never even bothered to learn the name of - give his very lifeblood for an early, bountiful spring.

When Ghost opens his coat, Soap can't help but hold the wound himself. Raw instinct, a dog crawling away to die of its injuries. Ghost sighs but doesn't stop him, simply places his own hands over Johnny's, presses down with his considerable weight. It's not Soap's fault when his finger presses in, the first time. Coarse nylon glove on ragged, torn skin. Soft, nerveless tissue below.

He whimpers and Ghost retreats enough Soap can get his hand out, removes his thick glove with his teeth. His mouth is so coated, he can't even taste the blood soaked into the fabric. Ghost nods once - in approval or acceptance it doesn't matter - and they return to their original position, Soap's bare hand sandwiched between Ghost's homemade gloves and his own innards.

It's silent for a moment, fine. Soap thinks about how many times he's wanted Ghost to hold his hand like this. He considers begging for Ghost to nix the gloves under the guise of discomfort. He might agree. Might not. Soap can't handle rejection here of all places. 

He sinks further into himself, lets his vision tunnel some more. His breaths are shallow, wheezing. Coughs build and sputter out, his diaphragm too battered to do its part. The blood that pools on his skin and gear cools, tacky and clotted. It saps his warmth like sweat's bastard brother. More joules transferred to the frozen ground beneath him.

This time, when his fingers sink into the hot, open gash at his side, it's intentional.

Once, when he was a kid, his sister had taken him to a used record store. She'd perused cassettes for nigh on hours while Johnny ran amok, bored of his arse after only ten minutes.The shelving of the store was made of cheap, laminated particle board. He was short enough, then, to see the ugly unfinished underside of the units, and unworldly enough to be fascinated by the odd, rough texture. He'd never seen anything like it at the time, his family lucky enough to have inherited most of their furniture from older family members. Solid oaks and cherries weathered smooth from generations of use. One exploratory touch led to another, led to him running around the store with his fingers gripped tight around the shelving. It only hurt when he stopped, so he didn't. Ran round and round and let his fingers be shredded, desperate for relief, or stimulation, or both. Blair had been beside herself when she'd noticed - concerned until she'd been grounded for negligence, and then a right cunt about the whole ordeal for weeks. He can't say he blames her, in retrospect. It had been quite stupid - although he still only had partial fingerprints on that hand, which was kind of cool.

For decades he hadn't known why he'd done it; but now, those same fingers sank deep within his own heat, he thinks he remembers.

"You're making it worse."

He'd laugh, if his stomach could contract. "Can't get much worse, LT."

"Johnny…"

"'S'warm. Jus'wanna be warm."

"Put your glove back on, then."

"Glove's wet."

"Just, fuckin'. Watcher, where the hell is that medevac?" He shifts, bears down more. Soap's fingers sink deeper. "You'll be warm in a minute, Johnny, just hold on."

He can't feel it, is the strangest part. It hurts the flesh of the actual wound, sure, but there's a strange fascination that accompanies realizing there are parts of your body which are not intended to feel external stimuli. Can't. He's helpless but to prod, test. Simon grunts - a beloved little noise - and it's like it manually turns his auditory processing back on, reminding him there are noises beyond loud, clear conversation. Immediately obvious is the droning in his ears, blood rush and wind wash across scarred ear drums. Below that is their breathing, Ghost's fast but deep. Steady. His own is hard to recognize as breath at first, wet and uneven. It's alarming, but not quite as disconcerting as the squelching noises Soap's ministrations create.

"'S'wha' good pussy sounds like, LT." It's enough to startle a laugh out of Ghost and Soap feels himself go impossibly more lax at the sound. 

"Sure is, Johnny. Warm like one too, huh?"

Soap grins, nightmare display. "And slick. Wanna feel?"

Ghost's eyes are two bullseyes in the target his vision has become. Black static, white sky, black mask, skull. He stares down at Johnny apprehensively, pushes down hard enough on Johnny's wound that he thinks he feels his ribs shift. Johnny shudders, spit and blood coating his chin.

The mask flexes around Ghost's teeth when he uses them to remove his glove. It dangles from his mouth for a moment before being unceremoniously spit off to the side. Soap takes in the tattooed hand that hovers ominously over him. Color inversion of the glove: white skin, black design. He doesn't bother moving Johnny's hand. 

His fingers trace the rim of the wound first, feel the flesh shiver and tighten like a horse flicking away a fly when Soap's breath gets flighty. He keeps the flat of his hand against Soap's flesh as he sinks in. The intrusion pushes Soap's own hand against the other edge and he shakes, kicks his feet. He tries to remove his own digits, but Ghost uses his free hand to keep him in place.

"You're losing circulation, Johnny. Best stay where it's warm."

Soap nods, can't help but stare down at where they've got his very flesh spread around themselves, swallows thickly.

Johnny's always been a bad catholic. He'd had a designated seat in the detention room. Front row, all the way to the left. There was a painting on the wall there - dead ahead, unavoidable - of Saint Thomas inspecting Christ's wounds. It had been placed there as some bleedin' prompt to all the young'uns to question their lack of faith or some such shite.

He'd just spent the better part of four years wondering if Sister Margaret had him figured.

"Lot of blood, Johnny." 

He's misreading tones again, hearing appraisal where there's surely only concern. Soap nods, lets his head fall back to the snow with a solid thunk. Somehow he knows that'll have been the last time he raised his head.

If he's gonna go to hell, it's not a bad parting image.

Ghost shifts slightly, pulls away. Johnny whimpers with the movement and Ghost misinterprets. When he sinks back in, blood wells between Soap's fingers, coats his palm.

"Fock, Si. Again."

"No."

"Please. It feels… it feels…"

"You can still feel that?" Ghost's head blots out the sky again. Johnny wants to reach out and touch him. Doesn't want to ruin the moment.

"Yeah."

Ghost keeps staring down at him as he repeats the motion, watches raptly as Johnny shakes and shakes. 

"Am I still warm, Si?" It's an actual question. He honestly can't even tell anymore.

"Yeah, Johnny. Still warm." His fingers move again, sink deeper as if searching for some warmer depth. Soap hopes he finds it, wants to spend his last few minutes on earth being useful in at least this small way.

"Gonna stay warm, yeah?"

"Yes sir," he tries to laugh, only managing to jostle the appendages lodged inside of himself.

"Fuck, Johnny."

"Hmm?" He doesn't know when he closed his eyes. It's nice though, lets him focus on the feeling of his LT moving inside himself. It makes guilt well up within him, but it just mixes with everything else pooling in his chest.

"You 'avin' a laugh, mate? Do it again. Lemmie 'ear ya." Ghost's fingers move quicker, squelch within him. It hurts; only thing he can feel, but he needs it to counterbalance the sick pleasure he's deriving from this whole ordeal. He can make it worse and follow orders, both.

This time when he laughs, it's strong enough to hiss through his teeth, gets his stomach clenching violently. 

"Yeah, thassit. Need ta fuckin' 'ear ya, Johnny."

Soap does it again and Ghost sighs, fingers threading with Johnny's. Slick, still moving. Soap can't grip him back. "Again, Soap. Deep breath -."

Johnny tries, chokes on blood. "Cold," he warbles, and Simon groans. 

"No yer not. So fuckin' -. Johnny?"

[yuiyuuji]

After so many years... I still miss Erwin :')

[alluralater]

hey everyone, i won’t be as active for a while. got home last night super late after being on the road for 20 some odd hours. dealing with some family things and as an older sister, my priority of taking care of my siblings comes first before anything else. being on here is amazing for me but i don’t think i’ll have much time for it. reminder to please treat those in your life who are battling addiction with patience and care. i lost my older brother (sweetest person i’ve ever known and he remained that way up until his last night) to suicide and alcoholism, trauma and ptsd, depression and his feelings of hopelessness. talk with the people you care about. another of my siblings is dealing with the same and i refuse to let it escalate to such a terrifying end twice in less than a fucking year. remind the people you care about that there are beautiful things to live for. show them kindness and love. there is all kinds of misinformation out there but know this, you can make a difference for someone. don’t let them suffer in silence.

[scarycranegame]

saw an anti posting about how (quote)"proshippers who "borrow" posts from antis give james somerton vibes... the "p" in proshipper stands for plagiarism i guess"(/quote)

like. buddy i think theres at least a LITTLE bit of a difference between "stealing someone's writing about important and sensitive subject(s) and profiting off of it in their stead" vs "copying and pasting someone's tumblr post in order to remove the borderline hate speech at the bottom of it in order to make others feel more welcome in their community"

[anachronistic-falsehood]

yk at least hollywood undead's over the top party songs have some kind of sense to most of the lyrics yk. and with their older stuff they were young and new to music so whatevs quality wasn't exactly expected yk. but deuce has been writing music for fifteen years and you're telling me he only got WORSE??? this is hilarious i need to listen to his entire new album at some point this is AWFUL

[rosetowers]

"Hamas are using their own kids as human shields! Hamas are using hostages as human shields! Hamas are using aid workers as human shields!"

STOP TRYING TO USE THIS ARGUMENT

IF IT WAS TRUE THEN WHY THE FUCK HAS IT LITERALLY. NEVER. WORKED.

I'M SO FUCKING SICK OF SEEING THIS ON ANY POST ABOUT THE GENOCIDE. ZIONISTS ARE LITERALLY SO FUCKING STUPID. AND EVIL.

ISRAEL HAS NEVER HESITATED TO SHOOT AND BOMB PALESTINIAN CHILDREN.

EVEN IF HAMAS WAS ANYWHERE NEAR AS EVIL AS ZIONISTS MAKE THEM OUT TO BE, EVEN IF THEY ENJOYED WATCHING THEIR OWN CHILDREN DIE HORRIBLY, WHY THE FUCK WOULD THEY WANT TO DECIMATE THEIR OWN POPULATION.

NO MATTER HOW YOU JUSTIFY IT WE ALL KNOW YOU THINK EVERY PALESTINIAN IS JUST A TERRORIST, YOU THINK IT'S FUCKING GENETIC.

TO ANY ZIONISTS I HAVEN'T ALREADY BLOCKED: COME AT ME MOTHERFUCKERS! GIVE ME A FREE BLOCKLIST. JUST STOP TRYING TO USE THIS ARGUMENT IT'S FUCKING RIDICULOUS!

[nerosdayinanime]

fuckign obsessed with sabigiyu... sabito's tough and snarky and brash when hes around people but then see him with giyuu and hes the biggest fucking puppy... constantly touching and being affectionate whenever he can, harshly stopping/snapping at anyone who tries to badmouth giyuu or even looks at him wrong, always glancing back when hes talking looking for giyuu's attention and recognition- he so freely displays his love and its just so sickeningly sweet to anyone around as witness

giyuu's a youngest child too, you know he'd eat that shit up. he fucking loves how much sabito spoils him- the occasional time sabito tries to be stern or ignores him all he has to do is bat his eyes and raise the corners of his mouth and sabito near immediately caves to whatever he wants. anything to see giyuu's full smile, and giyuu never hesitates with him

they know exactly what the other wants at a given moment, know when to be soft and sweet or when to be rough and wild- quietly sitting together close enough for their thighs to touch and enjoying the warmth of eachother's presence to playfully pushing buttons until the other snaps and gives their full attention to grappling the other to the ground. they'd both stop at the drop of a dime for the other for whatever reason needed, lovingly teasing and calling the other an idiot the whole way out