#he is severely fucked up and wants to die

[fdelopera]

Fuck these idiots for uplifting the queerphobic BIGOTS in Hamtramck just because they hate Jews.

The disgusting FUCK of a mayor in Hamtramck endorsed Trump, after the mayor BANNED THE PRIDE FLAG in Hamtramck because he is a disgusting queer-hating piece of human SHIT.

From the Detroit Free Press:

Former President Donald Trump made a short stop Friday afternoon in Hamtramck, where he called it an honor to have the endorsement of Mayor Amer Ghalib who, in turn, described the GOP nominee's visit to the city as historic. "As you know, President Trump keeps saying that our country is in decline, and the ship is sinking. So sometimes it's wise enough to sail against the wave so we can get to the shore safely under the leadership of President Trump and that's why I endorsed President Trump in this area in Wayne County," Ghalib said at an Oakland GOP outpost for Trump in the city home to the first all-Muslim city council in the U.S.

Here’s something I learned from growing up in the rural Midwest surrounded by Christian far-right extremists who were Neo-Nazis, white supremacists, and members of the KKK:

YOU DO NOT COALITION WITH FAR-RIGHT RELIGIOUS EXTREMISTS.

You idiot Hamasniks are too young to remember Matthew Shepard. You’re too young to remember when religiously motivated “gay bashings” were commonplace. You’re too young to remember when Reverend Jerry Falwell would go on National TV and say that AIDS was God’s punishment for gay people.

This was the result of religious extremism.

And now you IGNORANT queer morons are platforming Hamas, Hezbollah, the Houthis, and the Islamic Republic of Iran, which are a THOUSAND TIMES more extremist than Jerry Falwell could ever be.

The antisemitic betrayal by the Queer Community has been DEVASTATING – and even more so because of who they are coalitioning with.

We queers all know that we DO NOT COALITION WITH FAR-RIGHT RELIGIOUS EXTREMISTS. This is something that has been drummed into us for our safety and survival.

We do not coalition with the Westboro Baptist Church. We do not coalition with the likes of Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson. We do not coalition with ANY far-right Christian extremist or extremist group who celebrates our deaths and wants more queer people to die.

And yet, many goyishe queer people have shown that they are so filled with Jew-hate that they are willing to coalition with the far-right religious extremists in Hamas, who MURDER queer people by stoning them to death, shooting them in the head, or throwing them off buildings.

These queer Hamasniks are willing to coalition with the far-right religious extremists in the Houthis, who just CRUCIFIED several gay men for being gay.

They are willing to coalition with the far-right religious extremists in the ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN, who straight up MURDER queer people and MURDER women who show even a little bit of their hair in public.

Let me say this very clearly: These queer Hamasniks are not coalitioning with Hamas, the Houthis, or the Islamic Republic to support the Palestinian people. And many Palestinian activists have told them to STOP THIS. These Hamasniks are coalitioning with these far-right extremists because they hate Jews.

These idiotic queer people have shown that they are quite willing to empower the queer-hating enemy, to the detriment of queer people everywhere, just because that enemy also hates Jews.

Oh, and in case you think this is hyperbole, just look at what happened to the Queer Community in Hamtramck, Michigan when they helped elect a bunch of queer-hating, far-right religious extremists to the Hamtramck city government.

These far-right religious extremists immediately turned around, betrayed the queer people who had coalitioned with them, and started stripping queer people of their rights.

THIS SHIT is what you idiots who are IGNORANT of queer history have brought into the queer community. We DO NOT coalition with far-right religious extremists, and this is why:

And as bad as that is, it’s fucking worse.

Far-right Muslims in Michigan are now coalitioning with far-right Christians to harass and attack queer people.

And far-right Muslims in Michigan are also coalitioning with far-right Christians to ban queer books.

And far-right Muslim teenagers are getting caught harassing queer people and throwing eggs at the Pride Flag.

Oh, and I know you Hamasniks don’t give a shit about Jews, but you should also know that the Mayor of Hamtramck is appointing Jew-haters who say that “The Holocaust was God’s advance punishment of the ‘Chosen People’.”

You functionally illiterate IDIOTS who can’t be bothered to LEARN QUEER HISTORY are making dangerous bedfellows, and all because you hate Jews.

Harvey Milk, a gay Jewish man and one of the leaders of the queer rights movement, did not DIE at the hands of a far-right religious extremist so that you Jew-hating BIGOTS could turn around and coalition with other far-right religious extremists.

How DARE you let these religious extremists into queer spaces, you fucking TRAITORS!

The city of Hamtramck, on the outskirts of Detroit, Michigan, passed a Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions (BDS) resolution on Tuesday, becoming the first US city to fully support a boycott campaign in support of Palestinian rights. The resolution says that Hamtramck "shall make all best efforts to refrain from purchasing goods and services from any vendor that is the target of a BDS campaign", as well as refrain from investment in the Israeli state as well as "Israeli companies that sustain Israeli apartheid".   It further encourages residents to participate in the boycott and supports student activism on college campuses, and emphasises that support for BDS is not antisemitic since many prominent BDS proponents are Jewish themselves. 

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[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 7

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

WARNING: TW/ the topic of suicide.

First - Prev - Next

CH.7

“You really need to tidy this place up, Stanford. I know you live by yourself, but that’s no excuse to have papers and books scattered around like a dust devil came through.”

“It’s organized chaos, Fiddleford. I know where everything is.”

“And this pile of unwashed laundry?”

“I’ll get to it. Washing clothes is a waste of time, and I’m a busy man.”

“Uh huh, and this pile of unopened letters on your counter? What are all of these, Stanford?”

“Several of our colleagues started sending me letters en masse.”

“And you didn’t open or read them?”

“I received so many at once, it must have been an invitation for a convention. I wasn't interested in attending one at the time. I’ll get to them eventually.”

“These are dated over a year-.”

“Eventually.”

“You’re stubborn as a mule. At least wash your dishes. You’ve been categorizing your notes for the past hour - what are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to find the definitive event.”

“For Stan?”

“Yes. You said that something extremely traumatic caused the memory loss; if I can identify what event exactly caused this, maybe I can fix this. The problem is, however…”

“Is that you’ve handled the situation in the most extreme way you could think of?”

“No. That isn’t it- and that isn’t true.”

“Mhmmm.”

“The problem is there’s too much.”

“Too much?”

“Trauma. He’s offhandedly mentioned terrible things- even when I met him in town, he had three stab wounds and acted like it was no big deal. And the more we ask, the more we prod, there’s more. The ones we heard were just the ones he was comfortable enough to mention, there has to be worse things he will not or can not speak of. And that thought… scares me, Fiddleford. I knew he wasn’t doing fantastic, but it wasn’t… It wasn’t supposed to be this bad.”

“That’s not your fault Stanford - didn’t you say he left home? It is sad he was too stubborn to ask you or anyone else in your family for help, but I suppose you two have that in common yeah?”

“...”

“I’ll admit that might have been tactless of me- Stanford? What’s- Hey! Hey now, it’s okay! It’s okay- I’m here for you.”

“...Five.”

“What’re you whimpering into your hands, now?”

“Five times. He wrote me a list of people who have tried to kill him in the past. There were thirty names.”

“That’s terrible, but not entirely surprising from what he’s-.”

“He listed himself five times.”

(...)

“How could you be so selfish?”

“I’m a selfish guy, I dunno what you want me to say.”

“Why do you only ever think of yourself?”

“Can’t afford not to. It’s dog eat dog out there, you know.”

“Will you take this seriously?”

“Will you tell me what you’re upset about this time? I can’t read minds, and I’ve known you for four days! Throw me a bone here, PhD.”

“You tried to- to take your own life?”

“Yeah. A couple times. Never succeeded, but that’s the story of my life.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you try something like-”

“Okay I’ve had enough of your judgemental bullshit. I’ve been playing along with your ‘missing twin’ narrative, the least you could do is not fucking go there. I’m a homeless criminal on the run all the time. You tell me why you think I’d want to die sometimes.

Use that big fucking brain of yours for two seconds and think statistics - homeless people kill themselves more than ‘regular’ people, so do prisoners and convicts. You’re both? Oooh boy you’re in for a time. You have to fight to survive all of the time, and sometimes… sometimes you just get so tired, you want to stop fighting you… you just want a break from it all. You want it to just end.”

“Stanley…”

“...”

“...Talk to me. Please. I’m not trying to judge you, I just want to understand.”

"...Let's say I am this mystery twin-"

"You are."

"I'm being hypothetical here, listen. Let's say I am this mystery twin of yours. Specs was saying he didn't even know you had a twin."

"How did-."

"You pressed the mute button, not deafen; I could still hear you. Anyways, your best friend didn't know you had a twin. So to your own best friend you never mentioned 'me' over what, at least 4 years or however long it took you to get a degree? Or in the years that followed? Not even once?

If I'm your twin, I can't have been that important for you to do all of this. I screwed something up, and you don't want me in your life."

"..."

"I don’t know what you're trying to prove here- if you’re going through some guilt or pity or whatever. I'm just some drifter! I don’t have anything, and I don’t have anyone. You shouldn't be wasting your time like this. I'm not worth any of the time or effort you’ve put into this. Even if I was who you think I am. Because that guy? That guy fucked up so badly you didn't think about him for ten years. And I'm just as big of a fuck up."

"Is that... is that what you think about yourself?"

"Stanford, that's all that I know about myself."

*Ford abruptly opens the barred door and walks through the forcefield into the cell*

"Woah woah, I'm not looking for a fight-."

*Ford hugs him, Stan just stands there*

"I wish you called, reached out to me, I-. I wish I reached out."

“...He probably wishes he reached out, too.”

To be continued...

[y-rhywbeth2]

Incidentally, if you've ever wanted your Durge to fight like Bhaal for some reason - or would like to have Bhaal hunt them down in person if they resisted him - Bhaal's usual in-person tactics are wandering the area in stealth assassinating a bunch of guards (usually sowing panic, sometimes allowing them to scream leaving the bodies on display or even giving them a slow death so their comrades can watch them die) and then entering open combat with what little is left and then just really casually killing them all.

Knives is good, but killing people with your bare hands is best. Never be ashamed to just fucking punch people.

Bhaal also flat out doesn't care about healing, as you may have seen in the feral ending, and will keep fighting until the physical body collapses. Also gets more aggressive when an opponent manages to land a hit: he kills you, not the other way around.

Furthermore: be unkillable. Just fucking refuse to die no matter how many killing blows your opponents give you until they're literally yelling 'why won't you die??' at you. So ultimately all hitting Bhaal back does is make him murder you harder.

For textual illustrations, I collected some sections of Bhaal's fight/assassin scenes because I could. Also Cyric and his beloved pony:

"There's something beyond the outer curtain," he said, trying to gain Cyric's interest. He removed his scabbard and placed it upon the dusty banquet table. "Or so the watch says." Cyric had little concern for what lurked outside the walls to frighten his men. He decided to change the subject and asked, "How is my pony? That fellow carried me well, considering how hard I rode." "With rest it'll recover - provided someone doesn't kill it first," Dalzhel said, returning to the fireplace. "There are those who grumble that it has eaten better than the men." "It's proven more use!" Cyric snapped. The pony had carried him nearly one hundred and fifty miles over the last three days. A war-horse could not have done better. He considered threatening death to anyone who touched the pony, but rejected the idea. The order would breed resentment, and someone might take up the challenge.

You hear that, Cyric. 'Someone.'

I like to imagine Mask is laughing her head off in this scene, considering she's almost definitely aware of Bhaal lurking in the shadows spying for Myrkul and murdering two guys and listening to this conversation, and she knows exactly what he's going to do having heard that.

Sometimes Bhaal doesn't even kill them. Immediately.

Two of the men were pointedly looking away from the well. Since it still provided water, it was the one item the castle's periodic inhabitants kept in good repair. A moan, low-pitched and feral, issued from the well's depths. Tied to the blood-smeared crossbar was a gray cord that descended into the dark pit. Dalzhel stepped forward and grabbed the cord. Without speaking, he began to pull. An anguished scream rang out deep down the well. Dalzhel allowed the cry tocontinue for several seconds before dropping the cord. "What was that?" Cyric asked, peering into the black depths. "Edan, we think," Dalzhel reported. "He's still alive," Fane added informatively. "Every time we try to pull him up, he screams." Though he had seen many slow deaths, and had caused one or two himself, Cyric's stomach turned as he tried to imagine what had happened at the other end of the rope.

Cyric peered inside. Alrik faced the corner, kneeling in a pool of his own blood. He held his hands cupped in front of his stomach. A barbed, wooden tip protruded from his lower back, suggesting that a stake had been driven through his body. Because of the barbs, the stake could not be removed without dragging Alrik's intestines out with it.

"No!" A high screech followed. It did not fade, even after the man's throat should have gone hoarse. Cyric turned toward the gatehouse, unsure of what he would find. Few humans were capable of the efficient brutality with which Alrik and Edan had been tortured. Still, the thief moved at his best pace. If he appeared frightened of the murderer, his men would no longer be afraid of him - and that was an invitation for mutiny - Dalzhel and Fane followed close behind. By the time they reached the gatehouse, the scream was no longer audible. A dozen men had gathered in the stairwell, standing in a line running up to the second floor. Their torches cast a flickering yellow light on the walls. The men did not even notice Cyric when he arrived, so Fane bellowed, "Out of the way! Stand aside!" When the onlookers made no move to obey, Fane muscled a path up the stairway. Cyric and Dalzhel followed, eventually reaching a doorway. Five men stood inside, staring at a crumpled form in the center of the room. A dark pool was spreading about their feet, and the barest whisper of a croak came from the shape on the floor.

-

Cyric and his lieutenant were thinking along the same lines. During his life, Cyric had known many evil men. Not one was capable of what he had seen tonight. "Have the men gather in groups of six," the thief ordered. "One group in the great hall-" A terrified whinny sounded from outside, interrupting the instructions. "The stable," Dalzhel observed. The men mumbled, but stood still and waited for their orders. Again, the pony whinnied, this time sending chills down Cyric's spine. "We'd better have a look," he said, cringing at the thought of what they would find. The men on the stairs reluctantly started to ward the stable, Cyric and Dalzhel close behind. By the time the hawk-nosed man reached the ground floor, the pony was quiet. As Cyric stepped into the courtyard, a ghostly wail whistled through the castle. Outside the stable, ten men stood with their swords drawn, peering inside and clearly reluctant to enter. Cyric slopped his way across the ward and pushed them aside. Grabbing a torch, he entered the stable, his sword arm aching with the desire to lash out at something. The pony lay dead in its stall, a withered and puckered hole over its heart. The lips of its muzzle were twisted back in horror, and one eye stared directly at Cyric. Dalzhel approached and stood next to his commander. For a moment, he observed in silence, wondering whether or not Cyric was mourning the beast's death. Then he noticed something on the beam over the stall. "Look!" A circle of drops had been drawn in blood. Cyric had little trouble recognizing the Circle of Tears.

This is exactly how I play BG3 from the perspective of areas full of not-yet-hostile enemies:

"Milord, Captain Beresford bids me inform you that two guards are absent from the outer curtain." Deverell frowned then asked, "Is it still raining?" The page nodded. "Aye. The drops are as red as blood and as cold as ice." The boy could not keep his fear from showing itself in his voice. Deverell stopped whispering. "Then tell Beresford to worry no more, and we'll discipline the derelicts come morning. I've no doubt the guards are hiding from the strange weather." [...] The page entered again and approached Lord Deverell. In the room's silence, it was impossible not to hear his whisper. "Milord, Captain Beresford orders me report the absence of three sentries from the inner curtain." "The inner curtain?" Deverell exclaimed. "There, too?"

-

The halfling had no idea what it was that the guards were fighting, but he knew that it had torn through them with frightening speed. [...] The guards knew little more about their opponent than Sneakabout. Orrel had seen something crawl down a dark corner of the inner wall. A moment later, a timid-looking man had stepped out of the shadows and walked nonchalantly to the keep's entrance. Orrel and another guard had stepped out of the foyer to challenge him. He had knocked their halberds aside, then slipped a dagger out of his sleeve and killed them both with a single, long slash. A third guard had yelled an alarm, which had also proven fatal. The stranger had thrown a dagger through the guard's throat, silencing him in midscream. Fitch, the sergeant, had ordered the survivors to retreat inside. He felt foolish for running from a lone attacker, but the smooth efficiency with which the man killed left no doubt that he was no ordinary assassin. Because their assignment was to protect the keep tower, Fitch thought it wisest to retreat and bar the door, then send a man to call for help. His strategy didn't work. The doors were thick and heavy, designed for strength instead of manoeuvrability. As the sergeant and a guard pushed them into place, the stranger stepped out of the foyer. The guard died an instant later, the attacker's fingers wrapped around his larynx. Brandishing his sword, Sergeant Fitch yelled his last order to the men on the stairs. "In Azoun's name, keep him downstairs!"

To Adon's left, the stairs descended in a gentle, clockwise spiral. Five feet down, another torch hung in a sconce, casting its dingy light upon the cold stone steps. Where the stairwell curved out of sight, the shadows of four Cormyrians were retreating up the stairs. Each silhouette held a polearm. Judging from the shadows, it appeared a single man was pursuing them. One of the Cormyrian silhouettes lunged. A flurry of activity followed then a weak chuckle rolled up the stairs. An instant later, a man screamed in agony. The other three guards retreated another step. Their chain-mailed backs were visible to Adon now, but the attacker remained unseen. Adon could not believe a single man pressed so fiercely, but the shadow appeared to be nothing more. [...] A clamor arose outside the tower as word spread that the keep was under attack. The tattoo-headed man turned to listen for an instant then calmly returned his gaze to the two guards in front of him. The stranger stepped forward, slapping their halberds aside as if the weapons were no more than sticks.

He also has stupidly high AC:

The remaining live soldier shifted to the other side of the landing, then raised his sword. The guard was deliberately giving the god an opening so Adon could attack. Heedless of the trap, Bhaal stepped forward, and Adon swung his mace at the avatar's head. The god easily ducked the blow. Before the Cormyrian could slash, however, the Lord of Murder punched him in the abdomen. The man barely retained his balance and stumbled back on the landing [...] The Cormyrian obliged with a vicious overhead slash. Bhaal sidestepped it easily, moving backward toward Midnight's chamber. The magic-user's door flew open. Midnight stood in the entrance to her room, dagger in hand. She had been watching the battle in silence, cursing the loss of her spellbook and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Finally, it had come. She thrust the blade into the avatar's back. Bhaal's eyes widened in surprise. He started to turn, and Adon seized the chance for an easy attack, smashing his mace into the avatar's ribs. The god's knees buckled and he tumbled down the stairs, roaring in a rage. The avatar came to rest six steps down, Midnight's dagger still planted in his back. "Is he dead?" Midnight asked. Bhaal rose and glared at the magic-user, cursing in a language no human could duplicate. Without paying any attention to his wounds, the Lord of Murder jumped for the landing. The Cormyrian yelled and leaped to meet the avatar, blade flashing. Bhaal met the guard in midair, blocking the soldier's swordarm with a bone-crunching blow and simultaneously driving his fingers into the man's throat. The avatar reached the landing with the guard's gasping body in his hands, then dropped the corpse down the stairs without a second thought.

Bhaal lifted a hand and felt the wound. His fingers came away bloody. Without so much as turning around, he kicked backward, catching the cleric in the ribs. Adon flew into his chamber, crashed into his bed, then crumpled to the floor gasping for breath and wondering how he would ever pick himself up.

If you don't have a knife at hand, stabbing them with your own broken wrist bone is fine:

Without warning, Bhaal stopped and spun on his pursuer, jabbing at Cyric with the sharp bone protruding from his severed wrist. The fallen god followed the jab with an open-handed strike from his other hand. [...] Cyric was at Bhaal's back. The thief attacked with a vicious slash he hoped would cleave the avatar down to the breast bone. But Bhaal heard him coming and, easily breaking free of Dalzhel's hold, pivoted out of the way. The God of Assassins caught Cyric's arm, then used the thief's own momentum to throw him ten feet into the brush. As Cyric sailed past, Dalzhel snatched his sword off the ground then plunged the blade into the avatar's rib cage. Bhaal snarled and kicked the Zhentish soldier in the stomach.Dalzhel fell backward and landed with a crash. The Lord of Murder casually plucked Dalzhel's sword from between his ribs and tossed it aside. Then he leaped onto his opponent's prone form, thrusting the splintered stump of his wrist into Dalzhel's throat. Dalzhel screamed once then fell quiet.

Just wholesale beating the living daylights out of an opponent is also good, and I think this might be one of Bhaal's favourite memories (and fyi Cyric did not win the fight between them. Mask did):

Cyric slashed. Bhaal easily dodged, slapping the thief's sword hand aside. Cyric kicked, hoping to keep his attacker away. The avatar blocked the foot, then stepped in close and clipped his opponent's jaw with a fist as hard as stone. Cyric's ears rang and his head swam. He tried to swing his sword, but Bhaal hit him once more. The thief felt his body going limp. The Lord of Murder struck his jaw again, then his stomach, then continued pummeling Cyric until he dropped his weapon and flopped to the ground in a half-conscious heap. While Bhaal battered Cyric, Adon and Kelemvor rushed toward Midnight.

[mescalpascal]

Title: With You (Dieter Bravo x f!Reader*)

Rating: A hard T, or a soft M.

Word count: 724

Warnings: Drugs; depression; self-hatred; suicidal ideation. Nothing is acted on, but it is all discussed.

*This is fully self-serving, so while I’ve chosen to list the Reader character as female and depict her as such on the header, there is no use of gendered pronouns or descriptors within the fic; Dieter calls Reader “babe/baby”.

Notes: This is unasked for, unwanted, unbetaed. I just needed to get some feelings out, and apparently the only pathetic way I could do that was to use Dieter.

(header by me; feather divider by @saradika-graphics)

“Babe?”

You don’t answer. You’re not even sure you would be able to if you wanted.

Instead, you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring down at the bottles in front of you.

It would be so easy…

You’re studying a bottle of Lexapro, wondering idly just how much would be enough, when you hear the faint sound of his footsteps outside the door. You try to quickly cover your tracks, tossing the blankets over your stash…

…but you aren’t fast enough.

“What the fuck?”

You meet Dieter’s eyes, dark and wide, like he’s seen a ghost. You open your mouth to try and say something, to explain yourself, but it isn’t fast enough. He’s sitting beside you quicker than you think is possible, his big hands digging under your blankets and coming up with the pill containers.

“What are you doing?” There’s a loud rattle as he tosses the bottles haphazardly onto the nightstand and fills the new emptiness in his palms with your cheeks. “Baby, no. Please talk to me. What were you going to do?”

“Nothing,” you breathe after several moments of silence. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to do anything. I just…” A long sigh, from the deepest parts of your body and soul. “I just realized how easy it would be if I wanted to.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes, and they’re wet and soft, and it breaks your heart in a thousand pieces to realize your stupid selfish moment of weakness is making him cry. You raise your hands to wrap around his wrists, closing your eyes against his soft thumbs pressing into your face.

“Baby, you’re scaring me,” he says; repeats it a few times. “Can I take you to the hospital? Can we get help?” He pulls your upper half closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I need you here. I can’t lose you. Please don’t go.”

“I wasn’t going to, Dieter,” you say again. “I— I don’t want to die. It just struck me that I could, if it got bad enough, if…”

You feel the sob that wracks him before you hear it pass his lips. “You can’t die before me,” he murmurs. Normally, this would be a joke, a way he teases you when you’re complaining about pain or frustration. Now, it’s pure fear. “This world needs you. I need you.”

Something breaks inside you, cracking the dull, near-numb ache you’ve been feeling, and you start to cry. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” you whisper.

He pulls you closer, so close you’re all but kneeling on his thigh, and he wraps you in the tightest hug you’ve ever felt. You close your eyes and breathe him in — the scent of weed, of patchouli, of wood and musk — and you wish that instead of not existing you could instead exist just right here for the rest of your life.

“You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, babe.” He draws long, soothing lines along your spine with his fingers, but doesn’t release you. “But one thing I’ve learned in my eleventy billion hours of therapy is that strong doesn’t negate hurt.”

“Am I a coward for even considering the easy way out?”

That makes him release you, but only so far as to meet your gaze again. “Don’t you ever call yourself a coward.” Still crying, his expression is dark now, almost angry, but with a kind of softness behind it. “Would you think that if our roles were reversed right now? If you’d been with me any time I considered fucking offing myself in the past?”

“No…”

“So don’t you say that about yourself. You are not a coward.” He runs his fingers under your eyes, wiping away your tears. “I need you to understand that you’re not wrong for feeling this way, okay? I know it. I know it far too well. And I’m here with you.”

You sit that way for a bit, silent, but his hands resting still on your cheeks, yours on his shoulders. It should be awkward, but it feels…comforting. Grounding.

“Dee?”

“Yeah?”

You exhale heavily. “I think I need to talk to someone. Someone professional. And I want you there.”

He smiles, brushes your face with his thumbs, leans in and offers the lightest of kisses.

“I’ve got you, baby. I’m with you.”

[genocat]

this one iterator OC i never post because his trauma is too fucking severe for anyone to even be able to comprehend in one sitting

[lokh]

every day im reminded that though my parents may have wanted a dog they clearly did not want to take care of a dog

[winepresswrath]

Armand's simpering little "and I never have" has taken on new dimensions for me. Technicality king and also I think very in keeping with his whole malign fairy creature deal. You can tell him not to hurt the bae, but you should really specify what "hurt" entails. Is chopping someone's hands off really hurting them? If they have annoyed you very much I mean.

-questions Armand might pose to Lestat that inspire him to leave the country

[bitternace]

WHY ARE YOU SO EVIL!!! /POS. ATTACKING YOU.

Xemnas and Xigbar for 37 if that number hasn't been done? If it has, how about 74?

no puedo pedirle lo eterno a un simple mortal // ay, todo lo que he hecho por ti.

[ID: a mostly black and white drawing with a purple overlay of xigbar and xemnas shown from the hip up on the left side of the image. the background is black and has some diagonal lines with a bit of transparency on the right side. the shadows are harsh, with only a bit of light falling on their faces.

they stand before each other turned to the audience. xigbar, holds the handle and the middle of No Name before him, head tilted down as he looks to the audience. xemnas stands a full head taller behind xigbar, his left hand held some distance below the bladed tip of No Name, his left eye is covered by his fringe.

xemnas visible eye is painted ochre with a white pupil, while xigbar's eye is white and gold. The eyes on no name's handle and the gazing eye on the blade are a vibrant cyan. the caption reads the spanish lyrics "i can't ask a simple mortal for a forever" and "oh, everything i've done for you." /End ID.]

close-up under keep reading.

[hecksupremechips]

God every day I think about Akane’s breakdown in door 3 because there really is no correct way to interpret that and every possibility makes me crazy. Like she sees this fucked up corpse whom Junpei (and the player, depending on how they play) believes is their friend Snake, but she knows that it’s Guy X. It’s a man she very intentionally put in the game for this very purpose, so that he could die horrifically and be displayed for everyone to see. And she has a full mental breakdown over being trapped in this room with the corpse, being trapped by Junpei, to the point where she rips out her hair and starts bleeding from how much she bangs on the door screaming to get out. And fuck, there’s so many possibilities like

Akane could be feeling genuine terror over the sight of the body, and with that remorse. She made this happen, she wanted this to happen, and now she’s forced to quite literally watch the damage she’s caused unfold. She can detach herself from his murder easily in other timelines where she doesn’t have to look at it, and she can sleep easy knowing that her hands are technically clean because she didn’t do the literal killing. But she can’t do that here, and she has to face the fact that not only did she happily cause this death, she failed her mission. She isn’t going to survive, and now this man is dead for nothing and everything is her fault

On the other hand, her entire breakdown could be completely fabricated in order to keep playing the role of the damsel in distress who is so innocent that the very sight of blood drives her to insanity. The interesting part about this is that if she could fake such a horrific breakdown, just how much of her personality a facade? We know she wants revenge, for everyone from Cradle to feel even an ounce of the pain she and so many others went through, but we don’t get to see the extent of how much she feels this way. We never hear directly from Akane about her feelings on any of the original organizers, just her note about her desire to punish them. She hates them, but does she see their deaths as a necessary evil, or does she feel joy and satisfaction at watching them go? It’s absolutely horrifying not knowing, not being able to see her true feelings, not knowing just how real or fake she is, the extent of her madness. Perhaps she doesn’t even know that herself

IN OTHER WORDS, it’s fucked

[raisinushigher]

most horrific image in the entire world

[toxooz]

been having wisdom tooth pain since saturday thats only getting worse and u kno what i understand him now i dont condone his actions but man,,,,i get it 💀

[southern--downpour]

having upsetting thoughts about the “live” ending

[philsmeatylegss]

Every time one of y’all say Phil is Autistic, I lose another five years of my life.

[helpimstuckinafandom]

JUSTICE FOR DAVINA CLAIRE I'M SO FUCKING SERIOUS FUCK OFF OH MY FUCKING GOD

[ninjacreature]

recently ive been rewatching voltron and i decided to go through the tag for keith’s mom and

oh my god it’s misako all over again is this just something that happens everywhere

[itz-pandora]

Huh. If my life was a quote, it'd be "one of those sad ones with a deceptively happy tune"