#if that isn't violence then what is it

[areyoudoingthis]

it's so fucked up that people keep telling me that my parents love me and suggesting I shouldn't cut contact with them while I'm trying desperately to process and put into words all the ways in which my parents hurt me throughout my life, all the things i should see as violent instead of normalizing them and excusing them or pretending they don't exist

[thebrainrotsreal]

Drew this real quick because I fucking love these two so much ???? Especially Bee. I wish they interacted more so badly. PLEASE.

Also learning how to draw these guys.. slowly.

[benevolenterrancy]

("Always. Continuously. With increasing apprehension, and decreasing hope. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this." -- paraphrased from The Beatrice Letters, Lemony Snicket)

[nhyhu]

@hot-scarian-summer-2024 - Day 6 Let's Play a Game :) -In the Desert - Putting On a Show - Soul Bonds

A bond the colour of blood

[castillon02]

When Jason starts to prioritize cooperation as well as vengeance, Tim suspects Jason's self-control still isn't that great. Since he's Tim, well...

He conducts some tests.

Hood is about to murder someone that they need information from when Tim calls out, "Hey, Hood, has anyone ever told you that you're a Decepticon wannabe who probably fucks himself to the sound of his own robot voice?"

Hood stills.

The drug dealer who sold tenth-grader Benny Garcia fentanyl gapes in a way that shows off his recently-missing teeth.

Hood drops the dealer in a heap and turns his shitkicker combat boots in Tim's direction.

Tim bolts. Batman will swoop in to continue the dealer's interrogation; he and Hood have figured out a good-cop-bad-cop thing, though Batman still seems bemused about the chance to be 'good cop.'

Hood races after him.

---

Tim makes it to a safe house off of Robinson Park. He probably lost Hood about half an hour ago, but it never hurts to be careful. Especially when---oh, shit.

"This place is filthy," Jason says, sitting on the kitchen counter that Tim never uses and looking with disdain at Tim's collection of empty energy drink cans, takeout boxes, and crime yarn. Jason's not wearing his helmet or domino, and he taps his boot heels softly against the cabinet door like a little kid. Not exactly danger signals.

But for a moment, all Tim can look at is the boots. It's stupid; the knife at his neck was closer to fatal. But the kicking had hurt the worst.

"Since you apparently have time to run your mouth," Jason says, "and since someone stole my target, it seems like we both have time to clean up in here. I went out and got trash bags." He nudges a box on the counter next to him. The trash bags are the sturdy kind, not the flimsy cheap kind or the extra-strength hide-the-body-parts kind.

Tim has been meaning to get trash bags for this place for three weeks. It's just that he doesn't visit often, and when he does it's usually when he's injured or tired, and he could get things delivered but that's a paper trail he could avoid if he just made time to visit the bodega down the street... "You're a trash bag," he says, even though it doesn't make sense.

Jason rolls his eyes. "Just for that, we're mopping the floor too. Luckily, I came prepared." He hops down from the counter and opens the little mystery closet next to the fridge. Inside: a broom, a Swiffer, a bucket, a pack of scrub brushes still in their plastic, and a jug of bleach.

Ohhh, that's why the closet is so narrow. It's supposed to hold cleaning supplies. Right. Tim definitely knew that. Tim definitely doesn't just have a roll of paper towels...somewhere...that he sometimes puts dish soap on.

He squints at Jason. Still no green danger-eyes. "Darcy and Elizabeth would never let you be part of a throuple with them," he tries.

Jason pulls out a trash bag. "They've got issues anyway."

"Helen Keller would make up new words so she could sign how ugly your face is."

"She was a socialist," Jason says. He holds the bag and gestures at Tim's kitchen table. "So we'd probably just talk about organizing the working class. I don't think looks would come into it. Also, way to be a dick."

"You're so pathetic that Jane Eyre would give up on you like she didn't give up on Rochester," Tim says, figuring he did the research for this attack, so he might as well use it.

Jason actually laughs a little bit. "First of all, there's a lot of power exchange going on in that decision, so jot that down," he says. "Second of all." He looks Tim in the face. "If I start to lose my temper, I'll leave, okay? Or you can just ask me to."

"Even if I asked right now?" Tim asks.

"Even if you asked right now," Jason confirms, though he eyeballs Tim's mess.

Jason's still holding the trash bag. Hands out, open body language, seemingly not homicidal.

Tim had planned for a lot of things with this encounter, including a body bag. Trash bags weren't one of his considered variables. He starts picking up empty cans. "This one can be for recycling," he says, dumping the cans into Jason's bag. New things from old materials. Jason likes that symbolism shit, right?

(Though...new things. Old materials. If there's anyone who ought to be good at that, it's someone who got raised from the dead.

Tim smirks and keeps the thought to himself. Operation: Limitless has been a startling success; he doesn't need to verbalize all his inside thoughts now.)

("Kid, I can tell you're thinking about a zombie joke," Jason says anyway. "You can only tell me after we've brought this shit-heap back to life.")

[canisalbus]

The more I think about Machete's death the worse it sounds to me. He didn't even have time to think of anything - yk usually people talk about their life flashing before their eyes, but he didn't even get to reminisce on or remember anything, anyone. One second he was fine, an individual with memories, hopes, feelings and plans, next second his entire world narrowed down to the danger at hand, and then in another moment he was just a body. Going from a whole person to a biological ragdoll on autopilot in a matter of seconds is just a type of horror that I'll never get over

.

[cruelplatonic]

my personal headcanon is the vees were unremarkable nobodies when they were alive. i just love it as a thematic throughline for them. they love to let the public of hell speculate on them being famed and acclaimed since before death, but the the truth is they were a d-list failed influencer that got by on cheap controversey and scamming, a broke junkie who burned every shaky bridge he ever had, and a worn-out broadcast production assistant with more rejected auditions and tossed out script pitches than he could count. nobody missed them when they were gone, nobody cared who they were until they were dead.

[ruegarding]

the entire point of the blue food was that it was the only way sally could consistently rebel against gabe without getting her or percy punished. sally is not and never was submissive in the books. percy himself says sally has "a rebellious streak, like me." however, sally and percy were under threat of serious abuse from gabe and therefore had to pick their battles. blue food was sally's way of telling percy "i am here and fighting with you" and "there is hope in the world still."

[muzzlemouths]

Down the Rabbit Hole

Slasher!Sun x Slasher-in-training!Y/N CW: Blood, gore, injury, death, implied kidnapping and hostage situation, general serial killer antics, stockholm syndrome*

Disclaimer: This story is not considered canon to the DFtR au and in fact only bears resemblance in a couple of places, but you're still free to consider this an au of the au.

“Lower, still.”

His shadow stretches over your back, one hand placed between your shoulder-blades, the other laid over your hand, plated fingers leaning into your skin.

“The lateral quadrants of the abdomen are where you want to start. Too high and things get messy, what with all the vital organs that are hoarded up there,” Sun instructs. “The liver, spleen, and kidneys will put him down quick, but if you want to have a little fun, first…”

He patiently directs your aim where he wants it, positioning the knife in your grip to sit atop the skin that guards the victim’s intestines, just below the bellybutton. Cold metal against warm flesh.

“Ovaries and the like can complicate things, but that shouldn’t be an issue with our dear fellow. I picked him out special just for you!”

Your eyes remain locked on the man under your blade. His body slumped forward, deadweight against the ropes binding him to a steel chair. He reeks of sweat and hard won copper, shirt collar sticking against his skin the way crimson clots around his nose and temple, long since having dried. Old blood flaking like dandruff.

If you didn’t know any better, you might have assumed that Sun had brought you a poor sap with one foot already in the grave. It had felt demeaning. All these months spent training for the perfect kill and he brings you a body that’s practically on death’s door like you’re a kitten that can’t yet feed itself. But he had promised you a hunt, and a hunt you will get. The slurred mumbles of the hostage as he— it comes to are certain assurance of that.

“Well, it’s about time,” Sun hums beside your ear. “Might have been a bit too rough with him on the way over here, human skulls can be so brittle these days, but at least it gave you ample time to prepare yourself.” His head swivels on its axis to face you, smile faltering instantaneously. “Are you scared?”

You follow his gaze with slow recognition, watching dumbly as your hand trembles around the knife, its handle made sticky with the sweat coating your clammy palm.

“It’s excitement,” you assure him, desperate to subvert the subtle glimpse of disappointment in his gaze.

“It’s okay to be scared.” He sees right through you regardless. The dissatisfaction in his voice empties into an amused snicker, and his smile returns tenfold, teeth glistening in the moonlight that streams through old factory windows. Broken glass clinks underfoot as he turns you to face him, hands bracing on either side of your shoulders so he can take in the sight of you, hopeful pride in every inch of his grin. “You’re going to do wonderfully, bunny.”

Sun fondly adjusts the lop-ears attached to your cap. A rabbit beanie made of stolen yarn that he’d drawn up a pattern for the day you first fell under his wing. He had presented it to you just outside the entrance to this long abandoned building, all wrapped up in ribbons and bows. A reward for making it this far.

You can’t afford to fail him now.

A final steeling breath pours from your lungs. “I’m ready,” you tell him.

Sun nods towards his— your victim’s rousing shifts as the sorry bastard finally works up the strength to heft his chin from his chest. He is allowed little more time than this to gather his bearings before Sun takes center stage, not oblivious to, but willfully ignorant of the man’s inevitable panic.

“Goooood morning, friend!” He sings. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your schedule so early in the day, goodness knows wall street keeps you busy, busy, busy! It’s just, well, my dearest rabbit here, it’s their very first time doing this sort of thing on their own, see, and I needed someone who would put up just the right amount of fight. We don’t want to make things too easy for them. Where’s the fun in that? And– now, now, struggling isn’t part of the rules, silly! Where was I…oh, yes, on to the matter at hand.”

He comes around to the man’s back, deftly ignoring their attempts at reasoning with him – cries of desperation muffled behind duct tape – and undoes the ropes keeping him there with an easy swipe of hidden claws.

His sigh is nothing if not exasperated as the two of you watch the man test out his newfound freedom by immediately colliding with the floor. 

“Predictable as always,” Sun tuts. He crouches at the man’s side, arms resting casually on his knees, and shares his disappointment with a shake of his head and a quiet click, click, click of his tongue. “They never expect to also be tied at the ankles.” 

He captures a fistful of the man’s hair and idly rams his cheek against the concrete, halting all further attempts at escape then and there. “How positively dull. None of these maggots have a lick of intelligence between their eyes, they’re all boneless writhing and empty promises. Pitiful.” His eyes blink your way. “Not like you, bunny. No, not like you at all.”

Your grip vices around the knife as if it’ll protect you from the questions burning on your tongue.

“Is that why—”

“No.” He silences the notion before it even has room to breathe. “You are where you stand today, alive, for a great many reasons. The fact that you managed to impress me with clever ruses has little to do with it. That said, if you continue to question my motives I will see to it that I find someone quieter to play with. Or have you already forgotten that you aren’t the only soft-furred creature in the burrow?”

His answer arrives as a swift shake of the head, crocheted ears flopping side to side with bitter irony. “I haven’t forgotten,” you promise him. “Is — is that why you’re teaching me to hunt for myself. That’s what I’d intended to say.”

“Oh.” His shoulders fall, joints easing up all at once like a dog relaxing its haunches. He licks his teeth and sheathes his claws for another day. “Yes, bunny, that is why I’ve brought you out here. It’s high time we see the fruits of your labour, hm?”

It is rare that you lie to him, and rarer, still, that he believes you. As such, your answer is a swift nod and a flash of the puppy-dog eyes that got you into this mess to begin with. You aren’t going to push your luck on this one — not when he’s finally starting to trust you.

“Marvelous,” hums Sun. His nails scrape ruthlessly against the scalp as he winds the victim’s head back to see his face, grin widening. “What do you think, bunny — five seconds head start?”

“Make it ten.”

He catches your eye. This — like everything else — is a test, and the flicker of static in his voicebox implies a level of surprise. His gaze rakes over you with the emotionless cadence of someone already expecting to be disappointed. 

“Feeling confident, bunny?”

You need to prove your worth to him. Prove that his investment in your sustained life isn’t a gamble he will live to regret.

“I won’t disappoint you,” is what you end up saying. It’s the answer he wants to hear, regardless.

The ropes at your victim’s ankles are sliced through cleanly and without another word, though it’s obvious by the way he lingers that Sun considers marring the skin with his claws before letting you at him. It’s like an appetizer, he once told you. The game grows boring once they’re dead, and they die too fast if you aren’t careful. You must learn to pace yourself.

But this isn’t your average game. This is a test. This is a hunt.

You won’t leave this building until the knife is drenched in red.

“Oh!” Sun twitches with surprise as the man scrambles to his feet, up and out of Sun’s grip, and takes off around the corner. “Careful, bunny, he’s a slippery one.” He taps the space beside his eye, winking. “Don’t worry, I’ve already started your time. Ready?”

You swallow the remains of your doubt and bolster your grip with phoney pride. “Ready.”

Wordlessly his palm raises, five fingers brandished. Then four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Your shoes snap against concrete. Into a run, then a walk, then an amble. Six months of instruction swells your head, Sun’s voice in your ear: if you’re too hasty, you’ll give yourself away. Slow down. Breathe. The warehouse is only so big, and all exits, save for the one Sun guards, have been preemptively blocked off. You have all the time in the world to get the job done.

A hiss. Just ahead and to the right, muffled abruptly. Behind the pillar. Your neck whirs in its direction, and you tut.

Amateur.

The thing about duct tape is that, try as you might, it is impossible to peel away without a sound.

You press on, happy as a clam with this turn of events. Your anxiety may have been kinder had you known that your first victim was going to hand himself over to you on a silver platter.

The dim atmosphere of the abandoned warehouse aids your every step. Sunlight pierces through the darkness in streams of hazy gold through old, broken windows risen towards the sky. Too high to offer hope of escaping through them, too small to provide anything more than the sparse break in looming shadow.

His silhouette ducks behind a pile of debris and comes around to the other side, hastened footsteps, his gait clumsy and uncertain. Your prey is terrified.

He should be.

You raise onto your toes to muffle the path forward, back hunching close to the ground in a way that bares eerie resemblance to the second and more withdrawn of your two teachers. It’s a short matter of soundless breaths later that you find yourself tucking into the shadow between a pillar and broken furniture, a firm plan already in mind and ready to be acted out by the time you find a suitable piece of debris.

The shard of glass bites at your fingers. You’re careful with it, delicately turning the item in your palm until you’re sure of its weight, then you let it fly. It lands to the right of his silhouette with a hushed ting as though you had kicked it with the toe of your boot and, predictably, the man decides to scurry left.

It’s almost laughable; the way he runs himself into your awaiting knife.

The sound that spills from his throat is gutteral and moist, each pitiful attempt at words hindered by the blood that coats his throat as he coughs into your shoulder. Were this a mercy kill he would already be on the ground, but as it stands, you have some things to prove.

Your knife splits flesh as its sharply withdrawn from his gut in one smooth motion, and he howls, spitting vitriol between blood stained teeth. He stumbles a few paces away and into a delirious, uneven run — though it’s more of an hobble.

It makes no difference to you. Sun’s gaze hovers, expectant, from a few yards away. That’s all it takes to propel you forward.

You’re clumsy, coming up on him too fast, too reckless, and it gives the man room to dodge your first swing. But not your second. This one drives into his shoulder, clawing at muscle and nerves alike. The limb is made useless in an instant. 

Blood pours from the wound like wet confetti, signalling the damage to a vascular vein. That gives you two minutes, if you’re lucky, to finish him off yourself before he’s bled dry.

Red paints your forearm as your knife makes contact for a third time, and his stomach unwraps against the mouth of your dagger like a present. Your wrist trembles with the force applied behind each upward thrust of the blade until your victim falls, and you fall with him, collapsing into a straddle over his already-still chest as you tear your weapon from the body and incessantly plunge it somewhere new. Intestine. Pancreas. Liver. Flesh. Body. Prey.

“Bunny.”

Sun’s voice is a warm ray of light in an otherwise stormy sky. 

His hand lands gently on your shoulder. The other, wound around your wrist where it hangs in the air, halted mid-strike, is almost painfully firm. Decisive. His fingers squeeze until you’re forced to give up the knife. 

You watch it fall to the ground with a clatter, followed by silence.

You look up.

His faceplate tilts with an audible shrill, rusty metal whispering together. “Well?” He mutters, expectant. “How was it?”

Stars dance in your vision, cheering with little voices of praise and pride. “It was…” Your lips part in quick succession, gaping, gulping, gasping around all the words that crowd your mouth yet none of them fall. “It…it was…” 

Terrifying? Your could have died yourself had things gone south.

Horrifying? There is still blood on your hands from a fresh kill.

Disturbing? Addicting? The thrill of the haunt plays on a loop between your ears. You lost yourself somewhere between the chase and the floor. Sticky scarlet coats the underside of your fingernails and soaks into your sleeves. Your hair stands on end and your breath runs ragged, muscles twitching with excitement, not fear.

“Exhilarating,” Sun answers for you. His face splits into a too-wide grin.

You’ve passed the test.

He releases your wrist and comes around to your front, rolling the body of your success out of his way with a shameless nudge of his shoe. Once stood before you he offers his hand, palm up and spotless in comparison to yours, and fits you with an encouraging nod. “You did well, bunny, but this is only a taste,” he promises. “Are you ready to have some real fun?”

Sun allows no room for hesitation. He follows your hand — tiny where it settles against his own — with a fiery gaze that bores into you like that of his namesake. And you shake on it.

“Lead the way,” says the rabbit, in too deep to back out now.

“Good choice,” answers the wolf.

He knows the decision was already made for you from the start.

[currentlyonstandbi]

[starflungwaddledee]

💘 happy valentine's day! 💘

[rin-solo]

These are all just really rough concept sketches but... My point is if I ever make a 600 Strike animatic, it will be so freaking unhinged

Ever since I wrote that essay about the vulnerability in this scene, I've been so normal about this scene, I swear (I say like a liar who lies very lyingly)

[coockie8]

ngl More than anything I'm just shocked tumblr's actually able to handle the sheer size of this bad boy, though to be fair, I did crop out a fair bit of negative space lol

Anyway, here's the Samhain piece of Vlad and Plasmius I've been talking about.

This is a picture of Plasmius' first physical manifestation while Vlad was in the hospital with the Ecto-acne, occurring about a week or so before his release. The panic caused by his doctor attacking him was what ultimately caused Plasmius to take form to protect him.

I hope you like it, 'cause it took literal years off my lifespan lol

[archiveofliterature]

every day i become more convinced letty fetishised ramy bc tell me why i just found out that the royal pavilion is in brighton which is WHERE LETTY'S FROM

btw the royal pavilion looks like THIS

rf kuang really chose her details right bc letty could've been from anywhere in england but no she was like let me pick brighton where a prominent example of orientalism architecture was built

[worstloki]

there is a difference between being born to a throne, maliciously vying for a throne, stealing a throne, and having a throne thrust upon you when you are already in the midst of an identity crisis. And I fear Loki's place in the line of succession has people unable to differentiate between any of these

[brionysea]

I'm trying really hard not to just be The Complainer because that's an energy I don't want to bring here when I love (present tense; I rewatch it like 5 times a day) arcane season 1 so much but does anyone remember when powder was taken in by silco and being raised by this very utilitarian merciless 'the ends justify the means' type character made jinx turn out violent and merciless as well. and vi was horrified by her and the lanes were terrified of her and piltover was falling over itself trying to scapegoat her as the one bad apple of the undercity to kid themselves into believing that everyone else was perfectly fine with being treated as less than. and that contrasts vi after vander etc. died because she was raised by him and internalised the idea that no one wins in war and fighting back against systemic oppression isn't worth the damage it causes to your own community which is why she ended up working with cait and the council like vander worked with grayson. the people who raised them shaped them into who they are today but then in season 2 jinx has a daughter and she's suddenly completely normal and well adjusted and her attachment style isn't digging her nails in until she draws blood at all. like What. what happened. didn't things used to mean something