#or even violence

[klaviergavinwiki]

just saw someone saying "hank is not a racist it's banter between him and his partner my dad is in law enforcement and that's a huge part of cop culture" like imagine thinking that's an own. Like don't get mad at the people who kill all the brown people for saying racial slurs because saying racial slurs is a big part of their culture.

[asteroidtroglodyte]

Move aside swagless boutta get a new Wizard’s Staff that comes loaded with spells like “open locked doors” and “dismantle car”

[lyss-butterscotch]

The art of violence

[zosanbrainrot]

part 2 of Zoro in WCI

01 02 03 04 05 06

I tried to write something to sum up my thoughts on this, but then it got longer and longer and tbh I'm itching to write a fic set in this AU djjdkf I think I could develop on their inner feelings more than in the comic form

Before posting the first part I didn't realize people had such strong opinions on how this would play out lmaooo

imo, of course Zoro wants to fight Sanji, not with actual intent to harm (they threaten each other on the daily, come on), but because that's how they are together, how they communicate. He respects Luffy's decisions and their goal here, which is to learn what's really going on with Sanji, but he's gonna be pissy about it all he wants. They both have so many intense and conflicted feelings about this and neither has any idea how to resolve them. So they fight.

ofc yall are free to headcanon this interaction any other way you want <333

[prokopetz]

Historically, the American animation industry has recognised only two types of cartoons aimed at adult audiences:

The animated sitcom

Martial arts action with tits and gore

I'm watching the Fionna and Cake miniseries right now, and I genuinely think we're witnessing the emergence of a third broadly accepted option: whimsical fantasy adventure in the mode of popular children's programming, except everyone is clinically depressed.

[kittykatninja321]

I am not terribly familiar with the JLI characters but this fucking killed me

[soup-mother]

this is probably a strange train of thought but A short history of transmisogyny talking about the way colonial police officer talked about arresting Hijra, stripping them, shaving their heads and forcing them into mens clothing is making me think again about the way that our society sees masculinity as a favour to people? like by forcing someone back into the role of "man" you're helping them and empowering them even if they don't want it.

just sorta vaguely in the direction of the whole thing of like "well you see being forced to wear womens clothes is seen as humiliation, being forced to wear mens clothes is seen as lifting you up in status".

idk quite how to describe it but yea like being forcibly detransitioned as a transfeminine person is seen as like....dragging you out of being weak and confused and pathetic back into "the real world" and the position society insists you must fulfil, no matter how miserable it makes you and no matter how much they hate you as a man too. like it's not even out of "kindness" it's obviously hateful, but it's justified almost as "putting a man in his place" in a way that makes cisgendered people feel powerful.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Who put these kids here?

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[frodo-a-gogo]

Let us be brutally honest with ourselves and with eachother for a moment. If he weren't obese you motherfuckers would be capable of percieving evrart claires sexy sexy moral ambiguity and complex charms

[bigchump1994]

You read about Ty Cobb and hear he was a total dickhead on the field and you're like "Alright, how much of that is him being a competitor and how much is just genuine assholishness." And then you see pictures like this

[spirk-trek]

really love that for the metron design they went with "androgynous angel dressed head to toe in glitter"

[bakedbeanchan]

AU where Zuko doesn't practice helmet safety

[valtsv]

as well as being incredibly misogynistic and demeaning, "catfight" just isn't an accurate term for what's being described most of the time. if you refer to two women fighting as a "catfight" i'd better see them growling at each other with blood under their nails and deep jagged scratches carved into their skin where they tried to disembowel each other with their bare hands. they'd better be tearing out chunks of each other's flesh with their bloodstained teeth and trying to gouge each other's eyes out. if you're going to be a sexist loser you can at least do us real sicknasty perverts the favour of not half-assing it.

[tojisun]

“ghost,” price’s voice rumbles in his ear, the faint static almost breaking through his focus. there’s a familiar cadence in his captain’s voice, one that drags against simon’s body in miasmic waves—it is, after all, nothing short of a warning. still, none of it matters, and simon continues to march on.

“the mission–”

“stopped being my priority,” simon replies, cutting him off.

there was nothing but a crackle. a quiet whirring. then, “you know this is not what they would want.”

he grunts. “good thing they’re not here then.”

simon slinks into the shadows, ducking underneath the balcony, his eyes frantic as he scans the parameters. it’s safe. quiet. too quiet, in fact.

“location?”

“south of the chapel,” gaz replies with no hesitation. simon hums to himself—price must’ve shifted his directives too, then.

“roger.”

he moves, his boots crunching against the gravel and filling up the dead passage way with just enough noise. there’s still a whole lot of suspicious inactivity, one that makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise up, but he doesn’t get to dwell on the thought anymore. not when a loud bang rips through the silence.

his breath stutters, mind racing—that sound came from the shed.

his legs tense, muscles rippling.

“shots fired!” he reports before he leaps, devouring the vast space between himself and the sounds of scuffling. prayers form on the tip of his tongue, racing down his throat like scalding water.

he’s not even a religious man, but dear gods–

simon passes around the chapel, eyes cataloguing the lit rooms inside what he was told to be a desolate building, before tearing through the wooded shed. he knows he should’ve searched the area for any threat, should’ve probably waited for backup, but simon’s been running on overdrive, his emotions piling. spilling.

he tears the door open, guns poised for easy aim. only–

simon’s body buckles, throat constricting with the words he wishes he can say. but there is nothing else to be said. nothing but thank you’s.

because there, standing in the middle of the chaos, bloody and wounded and banged up to hell, is you. you weren’t even taken for that long but look how much they did to you. they hurt you.

your feet are soaked with blood, your boots and socks having been stripped off of you as though a part of their attempts at making you incapable of leaving. your face is swollen. marked up. cuts trace from the angle of your jaw to the side of your temple, leaving blood to trickle down to your neck, staining your tee. the gash doesn’t look deep, but maybe that’s all the blood covering the actual extents.

simon forces himself to breathe. to stay still.

(everyone has their own triggers, that’s what they were first told when laswell brought you to them.

“remember theirs and be careful,” she said before a pleased smile tugged at her lips. “mommy’s bringing home a new littermate. aren’t you all glad?”

the meeting ended there, just as johnny opened his mouth to complain. price passed around your file and simon memorized every line that night—your tell, your preferred gun, your morning beat.

somehow, he thinks that maybe that night was when his devotion to you started.)

simon watches—he’s always been watching you since the day that you arrived—as you compose yourself. the m9 is still gripped so tightly in your trembling fist, the metal quietly creaking at the pressure. it fills up the space in tandem with your ragged breaths, and he knows you’re still there, trapped in the depths of your mind.

alone. angry. scared.

“status?” price asks.

simon licks his lips. “unstable.”

he hears the faint crackle of johnny cursing from the other end of the line, and simon gets him. he really does. but he thinks they also just don’t understand.

you’re here. alone. alive.

your spiral is just proof of that. proof that even in your loneliness, amidst the pain, you clawed your way to survival.

simon hopes you two were back home—the barracks have been home for years now—so he can reward you. sweetly. fully. you deserve all that and more. deserve to be devoted on. to be adored. to be revered.

you were always beautiful, of course, but there is something sacred in seeing you like this: bloodied, angered, victorious.

he prays that your wounds will turn to scars, if only to give him a map of where to press his kisses from now on.

“ghost?” you finally mutter, and it tears simon from his thoughts. your voice is a weak rasp, like you’ve been parched for eons, and despite that, it spills the tension from simon’s body, his muscles loosening up at finally seeing you return to the topside.

he wants to say your name. he wants to sound it out—aren’t names made to be chanted like prayers, anyway?—but he reels himself in and mutters your callsign instead. the name tumbles from his mouth with the desperation and the worry smothered under the guise of grace.

your lips twitch up in an attempt at a smile. they don’t really get to make it much because of the gash running down the corner of your mouth. still, it makes simon stumble over his feet until he is rushing past corpses and sliding into your space.

“can i–”

he doesn’t even get to finish asking before you’re falling into his arms, tucking in your bruised face carefully on the crook of his neck. he takes your bulk in his embrace, folding you to himself, before he rests his chin on the top of your head.

you fist at his vest, your other hand still tight on the m9, and simon can’t really blame you. even he still feels exposed to any danger from in and out of this shed even when you’ve taken out all of the enemies. so he holds you close and holds you tight, knowing every second is sacred.

he breathes you in, taking in the scent of the leather, gun powder, and iron. it all feels familiar to him; it all smells like you.

simon nuzzles the smooth part of his mask over your temple. then, “let’s go home?”

you shift until you’re peering up at him, and simon takes this as the chance to catalogue the extent of your wounds. his lips purse at finally seeing the gash; you would probably need stitches.

“okay,” you finally reply. your eyes wrinkle as you attempt to smile. “thanks for comin’ back f’r me.”

“always,” simon murmurs, feeling choked up as his exhaustion finally catches up on him. “y’know that, right?”

you hum, nodding, and that was that.

[bardicbird]

a little siffrin comic about touch, violence, and oranges

[eve-was-framed]

rest in eternal peace to 9 yr old Alice Aguiar, 6 yr old Bebe King, and 7 yr old Elsie Dot Stancombe.

these are the three little girls who were killed in the mass stabbing in Southport perpetrated by a 17 year old male who targeted a Taylor Swift themed dance class for children.