#monologue of all time

[funsizedshark]

I'm not the Devil. You were wrong about that. But I can give you Death.

[oldwitchsleep]

what rage you must feel as you choke on your sorrow the first time i laid eyes on you your beautiful face i saw that sorrow i did not know how it got there or why it was so voluminous i can take away that sorrow louis i can give you that death you begged your feeble blind degenerate nonexistent god for but i can do it joyfully i can swap this life of shame swap it out for a dark gift and a power you can't begin to imagine you just have to ask me for it you just have to nod your beautiful head and say yes i love you louis you are loved i send my love to you and you send it back round to me and this circle this home we've barely had a glimpse of know it frightens me as much as it does you be my companion louis be all the beautiful things you are and be them without apology for all eternity

[priestfrommidnightmass]

sooooooo basically we’re the first generation that gets to live twice. our existences are simultaneously experienced and curated. presented. packaged. polished for our own protection. digital fortresses made of bits, bytes, and pixels. walls made of zeroes and ones. grayson referred to these digital walls as masks, and he created the turd burglar to prove that behind them, we’re all full of shit. it would be easy to dismiss his messages as the ramblings of a mad man, if there wasn’t so much truth to them. we all do create versions of ourselves to appear to be the curators of our own stories. to appear to be in the drivers seat of our own lives. (we are the worst generation. we’re all full of shit. you all pretend to lead these perfect, happy lives when you know, you’re just as lonely as me. you’re fucking fake. you’re fucking plastic.) but pretending… doesn’t make us plastic. imagination is what makes us human. it allows us to be figure out which version of ourselves fits best. we’re not the worst generation. we’re just the most exposed. we’re living in a constant state of feedback and judgement. so maybe the masks are a tool to survive the time. maybe they provide a thin layer of protection. a place to grow, discover, reinvent. the important part is having people who know you without the mask. and being happy with who you are beneath it.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

hero/villain showdown but one of them has a spontaneous medical emergency and the battle gets put on hold while their archnemesis drives them to Urgent Care

[swedenis-h]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Historians Hate Him

(Bonus: Lost footage of WWX's death)

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[vahanians]

you know what? back in glottage we didn’t have to put up with this shit. DAY after DAY the vast majority of people GOTOWORK. they SAY their prayers. they get THROUGH the DAY intact. reality stays within the usual permitted confines! and OUT HERE in the…COUNTRYSIDE (derogatory), TOWNS flood. and dirt patches EAT you. and PEOPLE. turn into FUCKING SHRIMP! keep your gods on a LEASH. it shouldn’t be this hard should it?!

[joejhang]

tsc was such a cultural reset bc for so long all we had was neil's (unreliable) narration and some small snippets from the extra content for povs. neil's narrator bias is actually insane and as much as i love him i'm so fucking glad we have jean and jeremy's povs they were so fucking refreshing and not just EXY EXY EXY EXY andrew's eyes andrew's hair EXY EXY EXY EXY EXY EXY homoerotic monologue about kevin day EXY EXY EXY EXY andrew minyard EXY EXY EXY

[betaphannie]

[hardrockshrimp]

Top Bruce moment for me tbh

[rithion]

it started as a sword fighting observation sketch page then sanji

[demigods-posts]

me personally. i wouldn't have gone after all the olympians at once. you're biting off more than you can chew here. all you would need to do is take each olympian out one by one. and then convince demigods that once enough people stop believing in a diety, that diety ceases to exist. which is not a lie. and you could use the death of pan to back yourself up. sure, you'd be in it for the long haul. but chess isn't meant to be a quick game.

[bumfuzzled-bee]

Frens !!

[sonicallysos]

Jack was supposed to be alone on the roof. All he wanted was a minute alone with the sunrise and silence before handoff with Robby. But when he climbs the stairs (huffing slightly because his leg’s been digging into his skin for the past 3 hours) and finally gets to the roof, he finds you already there.

In his spot.

And panic shoots through him for a second because no one else ever goes past the railings. Not Robby, not the doordasher, certainly not you.

You don’t move an inch when he closes the door behind him, the lock clicking as he turns it. Robby can eat shit.

“I’ve thought about it too, y’know?”

He can just barely catch your eyes opening, gaze lowering to stare out at the orange-red horizon blooming over the city.

“‘bout what?”

You try to sound calm but there’s a slight unsteadiness to your voice. It’s barely noticeable but Jack catches it.

It’s you, of course he does.

“About what it would be like to let go. To forget about the injuries and the screams and the blood and just take a step or two forward. About how it’d feel to have free air replace the concrete under your feet and have the weight lifted off your chest for just a second. To find a moment of tranquility within the chaos.”

He sees your jaw clench, chest rise and fall as you take in a breath.

“Yeah,” you let out breathlessly and even with your back turned to him, he can picture the tired smile on your face. The one he thinks about a little too much to admit, “Sounds pretty damn nice, doesn’t it?”

He closes the gap between you, white-knuckled hands planted on the railing separating you from him.

His voice is low, quiet and gentle in a way you’ve come to associate with Jack Abbot, “But it won’t last as long as you hope. Never worth the disappointment of reality.”

The silence is thick, heavy. More deafening than the fireworks that make Jack flinch, a rare occurrence that melt his stone-cold facade. The same fireworks that made you cover his hand with yours one new year’s eve on the park bench. The half-drunk beer cans beside you lukewarm and long forgotten. He’s reminded of the way you squeezed his hand lightly and how he’s been chasing the warmth of your skin against his ever since.

A moment passes before you turn your head to face him, eyes finding the unyielding gaze already locked in to you.

“Your therapist teach you that?”

Then he’s back to Dr Abbot again, face flat and voice devoid of emotion.

“No. But yours should.”

Jack can’t tell if the noise you let out is a laugh or a scoff, “I don’t have therapist.”

He makes a similar sound.

“Fuckin’ figures.”

[aardvaark]

the leverage team would have had a games night… once. everyone cheated so much and in such increasingly extreme ways that all mentions of monopoly are banned in their headquarters (this makes talking about marks who monopolize the market very confusing)

[princess-self-shipping]

Game Over!