nevermoral - Tumblr blog

[nevermoral]

If somehow you haven’t seen by now, while the Super Bowl is being aired, Israel is striking Rafah.

The people of Palestine had been told to go there, they were promised it was safe.

And while this is happening, even though earlier several tags on Palestine were trending, only one or two are now.

I haven’t written any posts personally on Palestine myself. I didn’t feel I had anything to add here aside from reblogging and boosting whatever I can but please. We can’t forget Palestine or its people especially now.

This has gone on too long and gone much much too far MANY times and now is when we need to push harder.

Many of the heads of Western countries are either beating around the bush and wasting time, or outright denying the things the Palestinian people don’t have the privilege to ignore. They don’t have the choice to look away from their pain, or the pain of friends, family, neighbors, their country. And even through all of this they’re still trying their damn hardest just to live. And we all need to listen.

So now, especially if you live in a western country like I do, now we step it up a notch. Now is the time if you haven’t already to read up on Palestinian history. Listen to what the people of Palestine are saying. Hold firm on the boycott like never before. Any and every way you can donate, do it. eSIMs, aid, anything that will reach. Save as much evidence as you can. Videos, articles. Don’t let Zionists pretend all of this never happened.

Even if you think there’s nothing you can do, I’m telling you, keep going. Even if you feel you can only give a little, if we all give a little together it becomes much more.

Hit imperialism where it hurts. In the wallet. Follow the BDS instructions, find protests in your area if you can, boost as much information about Palestine as you can find, call your reps, and do not lose hope. The people of Palestine are not dead. They are holding on even through all this and we all owe it to them to do the same.

A Free Palestine will happen in our lifetimes. But it will be hard fought. So go out there and fight hard! The governments can’t hide from their own people forever. The companies can’t bleed cash forever. The people will win. So push until we do. Do not look away. Free Palestine

[nevermoral]

my mom got two baby birds and named them kimiko and frenchie i’m

[nevermoral]

I mean, sure, I’ll lose everything, but then… I’ll have nothing to lose.

THE BOYS | 3x03 - “Barbary Coast”

[nevermoral]

𝙼𝙸𝚃𝚂𝙺𝙸 𝙻𝚈𝚁𝙸𝙲 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 .     listen i did this 3 years ago and it was like twice as long this is an improved curation ok.  change pronouns / tenses / etc as you see fit live your best life love u

“ you’re growing tired of me. ”

“ you love me so hard but i still can’t sleep. ”

“ sorry i don’t want your touch. ”

“ it’s not that i don’t want you. ”

“ sorry i can’t take your touch. ”

“ it’s just that i fell in love with a war. ”

“ i will be the one you need. ”

“ i just can’t be without you. ”

“ it’s not real enough. ”

“ can you come to where i’m staying? ”

“ i need somebody to remember my name after all that i can do for them is done. ”

“ how many stars will i need to hang around me to call it heaven? ”

“ would you tell me if you want me? ”

“ i didn’t know i had a dream until i saw you. ”

“ my god, i’m so lonely. ”

“ i don’t want your pity. ”

“ i just want somebody near me. ”

“ i just need someone to kiss. ”

“ give me one good movie kiss. ”

“ i know no one will save me. ”

“ i hear my heart breaking tonight.  do you hear it too? ”

“ i could stare at your back all day. ”

“ i thought maybe we would kiss tonight. ”

“ baby, will you kiss me already? ”

“ i know who you pretend i am. ”

“ when you go, take this heart. ”

“ come inside and be with me. ”

“ one morning this sadness will fossilize. ”

“ i will forget how to cry. ”

“ you’re all i ever wanted, i think i’ll regret this. ”

“ you’re my baby, say it to me. ”

“ i always want you when i’m finally fine. ”

“ tell me no. ”

“ i’m not happy or sad, just up or down. ”

“ i’m tired of wanting more. ”

“ you have a way of promising things. ”

“ i’ll love some littler things. ”

“ i want a love that falls as fast as a body from the balcony. ”

“ i want to kiss like my heart is hitting the ground. ”

“ i don’t know what i’m waiting for. ”

“ so please hurry, leave me. ”

“ please don’t say you love me.”

“ wild women don’t get the blues. ”

“ i don’t know what to do without you. ”

“ i don’t think i could stand to be where you don’t see me. ”

“ i don’t smoke except for when i’m missing you. ”

“ if you need to be mean, be mean to me. ”

“ stay with me, hold my hand. ”

“ there’s no need to be brave. ”

“ i say your name in hopes you’ll hear it in the stars. ”

“ i always wanted to die clean & pretty. ”

[nevermoral]

dispatched​:

“he knows i can hold my liquor just fine.”

now, if schoonover caught them both talking like this to each other, it’d be a different story. luckily, the ornery asshole had managed to worm his way out of the party hours ago. the two of them definitely are not abiding by dress code but neither is anyone else. most of the celebration of life attendees have left, anyway, including most of the guys they know. 

after all, it ain’t their fault there’s an open bar, and that they haven’t had anything decent to drink in the months they’d spent deployed in baghdad. 

“i ain’t even drunk,” to emphasize that point, he takes a sip of his bourbon. it’s the good type of bourbon, the kind that goes down smooth despite the burn of alcohol, and it’s sweet with honey. kentucky bourbon. he licks some of it off his lips when he sets his glass back on the bar and shoves bill, again, with his shoulder. his face burns against the prickling of the cuts on his cheek that still haven’t healed from baghdad, but he’s not warm from injury or even the booze. “not yet, anyway. y’know what? i take it back. i never hear you calling me beautiful, you prick.”

billy knows good and well schoonover’s nowhere within earshot--not that he gives a shit, really, but he knows the difference between butting up against the line and crossing it. he’s already gained a reputation for himself--not an entirely favorable one, unlike frank, who’s everybody’s favorite--for his looks and his mouth as much as his skill.

it’s with some satisfaction he watches the guys they know trickle out of the bar one by one, leaving them close enough to alone that they can relax. they sure as hell deserve it, after baghdad, even if baghdad was the best time billy’s had in his nineteen years. 

“poor frankie.” billy scrunches up his nose as he takes another drink before reaching out to straighten frank’s collar. he’s right, he’s not drunk, but somehow he’s managed to get himself all rumpled and untucked--not that billy gives a shit, it’s just another excuse to touch him. “is that what you want?”

frank’s not beautiful, not in any traditional sense, but billy thinks he’s fucking perfect. not that he’s shitfaced enough to say it. it’s decidedly reluctant when he drops his hand from frank’s shirt, though he stays close enough to be in his space.

“--you want me to write you a poem, too, dumbass?” 

[nevermoral]

dispatched​:

the noise that escapes at the hand in his hair borders on pathetic. his scalp burns, everywhere hurts, and that’s enough to switch their positions easily enough. bill holding the reins with frank at his mercy. his spit is warm when it lands on his face and his neck aches from being forced to look up at him like this. 

the hand that tightens in bill’s cropped hair is a last-ditch effort to maintain some of the control of this situation. they must look stupid, comical - busy yanking each other’s hair and spitting in each other’s faces and sharing the same breath instead of doing what matters: planning for whenever gnucci would arrive with the rest of the wolves at the door. 

“i hate you,” is almost a whisper between them. inexplicably, frank thinks about kissing him as much as he does about headbutting him hard enough to make whatever head injury he’s sustained even worse. both would be satisfying enough, but frank does neither. 

“don’t - don’t blame this on me. you did this. we’re here because of you. but this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” there’s a tremble under the low rumble of his words as he breathes out a shaky exhale, hand finding bill’s elbow. “i wish you were there that day. you could’ve put me down yourself. instead, i get to live like a walking wound and-and i have since. but i don’t think you could’ve done it, could you?” 

“yeah. yeah, i bet you do.” frank’s breath is hot on his face, fingers tight in his hair, and billy thinks wildly about basra, about kandahar, about the carousel that night, catches himself wondering if he’s haunted frank the way frank’s haunted him ever since. “feeling’s mutual, frankie. you took everything from me.”

he’s expecting frank to hit him, headbutt him--hell, even bite him--but he’s not expecting the hand on his arm. billy can see his reflection in frank’s eyes, the bad side of his face more distorted even than usual and the good side looking somehow even worse than that, lost and scared. that or his head’s playing tricks on him again, and that’s all frank’s fault too. 

because apparently everything, in the end, comes down to them. 

“i didn’t want to.” his fingers tighten in frank’s hair until his knuckles turn white, but he leaves the question unanswered. “i never wanted any of this.”

somehow the grip in frank’s hair eases up, moves to cup the back of his neck and bump their foreheads together. the familiarity of it makes his breath catch in his chest, and if he were someone else he could lose himself in it, pretend that nothing’s changed and nobody else in the world has ever existed. but he’s not. 

“enough of this maudlin shit,” he snaps, a tremor under the once-easy control of his voice. “you’re stuck with me. so what the fuck do you want to do about it?” 

[nevermoral]

dispatched​:

a pathetic sound that teeters close to a whimper is ripped from his throat when bill’s arms find their way around him. his eyes prick with tears as the sensation of the embrace scalds him like an iron and, belatedly, rests his cheek on bill’s shoulder. 

despite that, tension stiffens his back, as if he’s ready to coil and strike if he has to. 

he’d known this shit would happen. that bill would be strung along with him, because he could never help himself when it came to bill. if he wills it, he’s sure he could make this feel like it once did, like they’re back-to-back in basra again instead of his shithole tenement in hell’s kitchen. 

he stiffens completely at mention of the day in the park, at the verbalization of the fears and disgust that he’s internalized and avoided, compartmentalized for later. it’d been one of the things he’d never unpack, ever.

slowly, frank pulls himself back, pointedly avoids bill’s gaze with his sad killer eyes, if just for a moment. no goddamn use acting coy about it. 

‘ no. no, i don’t. ’ his gaze flicks to bill as he squints, fingers clenching and unclenching as his other hand wipes at his own tears. he stands at his full height to cross to the other side of the small kitchenette, hands braced on the edge of the counter to get himself out of bill’s space. what feels like bile burns his throat as he swallows it back and softly, relents, ‘ it’d be a coincidence if i was a civilian. if i was innocent. we both know i’m neither of those things. ’

frank resting his head on billy’s shoulder feels decidedly more self-indulgent than any of his fancy suits, any model he’s fucked or any senator he’s rubbed shoulders with. it hits him like a gut punch that if not for dumb luck--or bad luck, depending on who you ask--all of this would have been gone forever. it’s almost like nothing’s changed, like they’re back on their first tour dragging each other into crazy bullshit situations nobody but them could survive, except frank is tense and vibrating like a goddamn powder keg and billy can’t afford to be that reckless, not when he has everything to lose. 

and everything to gain, if they make it out of this one. 

“you didn’t do this, frankie.” he’s never been one for that sentimental shit, because words do fuck-all to fix things, but the look in frank’s wounded dog eyes stabs him right in the stomach. “it was war. nobody gives a damn what happened over there, unless it stands to make them look bad.” 

his phone buzzes, and then buzzes again. billy ignores it, drumming his long fingers on the countertop as if in thought. 

“it was all over the news. not you, of course, but--mexicans, irish, bikers. it would take some serious clout to set up a job like that. serious clout to cover it up, too.”

[nevermoral]

@dispatched​ / you have never not been beautiful

“—you’re a trip, you know that?” billy tells himself it’s the booze bringing a flush to his cheeks and his nose and the tops of his ears—he’s three martinis in, because that’s what the officers are all drinking, at least the ones who aren’t drinking scotch—

he shoves frank in the chest with his free hand and almost sloshes vodka all over them both. it’s playful, not even hard enough to knock him off balance, half to make him stop talking and half just as an excuse to put his hands on him. frankie’s solid muscle under all his dress blues, compact and immovable in a way that billy isn’t. he’s not sure why he’s thinking about that now. must be the goddamn martinis.

he’ll take shit from frank castle he’d never take from anyone else—pretty’s always made his blood boil, and he’s heard it enough for a fucking lifetime—but frank’s not even giving him shit, not right now. now his eyes are full of an alarming sincerity, one that even cuts through the haze of liquor.

“don’t let schoonover catch you talking like that, castle.” billy takes another drink, his smile sharp and private and his eyes heavy beneath long lashes. “he might think his protege can’t hold his liquor.”

[nevermoral]

dispatched​:

that’s when frank laughs - more of a vicious sort of bark than anything, and for a moment he sounds like the rabid dog rawlins had once sought to put down. 

bill’s a blur through the hot tears in his eyes, marred features utterly unrecognizable. now that he’s started, he can’t stop, and he doesn’t even try to wipe them away. 

he presses himself in closer, kneeing into his stomach harder. anymore pressure and he knows he’d be damaging something.

“i needed you, you asshole.” he admits, finally, voice trembling, “and you - you ruined all of it, for the both of us. all so you could be rawlins’ bitch, so he could feed you fucking scraps under the table.”

it’s selfish, the confession; entirely selfish, nothing about maria or the kids, or even who - what - frank has become. he knows better than to try to justify any of it now or even think about what he could be, in a world where bill hadn’t seen opportunity the moment he pulled him off rawlins that night in that tent. he’d been marked since then. 

but that doesn’t make this hurt any less. 

“i see you, now. better than ever before.”

“what do you want, frank?” the knee in his stomach knocks the wind out of him, making his voice come breathless and hoarse. “you want me to be sorry? i told you i’d take it back. it doesn’t change a thing.” he could almost laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, both of them bruised and scarred and still all wrapped up in each other when things will never be the same again, and he is sorry, at least until he hears scraps under the table, and he shoves frank in the chest, hard, with both hands. 

“you didn’t give a shit if i needed you when you were off getting married, building your perfect little life.” he hadn’t, but frank had left him first, left the ball in his court. if billy doesn’t think about kandahar—frank’s skin and stubble and beaten-dog eyes, stupid kid promises he almost bought all over again—it’s easy enough to believe it.

for all he knows, ma gnucci’s guys are thirty seconds from mowing down the door, guns blazing, about to catch them both with their goddamn pants around their ankles. even with his gut throbbing and his eyes burning, billy knows he should diffuse the situation, or at least try, but everything’s blurring together and racing around his head: rawlins’ smug smile and the smell of his cologne, sand in his mouth and staccato gunfire in his ears, the sounds of shattering glass and carousel music and frank’s voice, as if from far away, you had us, bill—

that sound he wants to stop most of all. he yanks frank’s head back by his hair—long enough now to gather in his fingers—forcing him to meet his eyes.

“yeah, and you still can’t do shit about it, can you? look at yourself.”

[nevermoral]

dispatched​:

bloodied hands grasp futilely at the fabric of bill’s jacket, half to balance himself to prevent being quite literally swept off his feet. in the time they’ve spent apart, it’s easy to forget bill’s height and his strength that doesn’t quite match with how thin he is.  

the grip he’s got on bill’s arms is hard enough to bruise. that’s enough, anyway. 

“you had a chance to fucking warn me, you piece of shit,” he spits, nose nearly pressed against bill’s as he shoves him back against the nearest flat surface and presses a knee into his stomach, hard enough to hurt, “if you were in deep with rawlins, you could’ve asked me to help you. i would’ve done anything for you. but instead, you tried to put me down like a goddamn dog. even after - kandahar -” 

he hasn’t quite let himself think about it, what they’d done together, what they’d agreed to. 

“i would’ve preferred if you’d stabbed me in the front instead of in the back, instead of trying to wipe your goddamn hands of me like i was nothing.” 

he leans in closer. if that’s even possible which - clearly, it is, somehow. fingers twist in cropped hair. billy would have to extract him like a tick to get him off.

“you know what the sad thing is? i loved you, i thought i could’ve saved you. but i was as delusional as you are. all you did was use me.” which is when the tears really start to fall - hot and traitorous, goddamnit. all of this, everything, all of this is frank’s fault, and what makes it worse is that he doesn’t even really mean it when he says, “i wish i’d never fucking met you.”

billy blinks once, twice, tears gathering in his long lashes that have nothing to do with the bruising grip on his arms or the knee digging into his stomach. some of his memory is still fucked up, the pieces put together out of order, but kandahar he remembers like yesterday. regret is for the weak or the stupid—and it ain’t like frank wants an apology anyway, or that it could fix a goddamn thing—but there’s an awful hollow feeling in his chest, the closest thing he’s ever felt to sorrow, worse even than frank trying to meet his eyes as rawlins beat him.

“you think i needed saving, is that what you think?” billy’s lips pull back from his teeth, the regret replaced by a hot, helpless rage. “i’d do it all again before i’d ask you to save me.”

he doesn’t even mean it, because when it’s all said and done he’d take it back if he could, but it’s better this way. better he’s every inch the asshole monster piece of shit frank thinks he is than something fragile and delicate, some dumb kid in over his head. he always used to fight his way out, against any odds, before he’d call for an extraction, and he’ll be damned if that changes now.

“i’ve never begged for a goddamn thing,” he spits, softer when he adds, almost as an afterthought, “i never needed anybody.”

billy turns his head away, feigning disinterest, because frank’s crying now and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, doesn’t know how to put away all this hate and hurt and confusion like he used to, everything clean and in its place. part of him wishes he’d let his guys put frank down after all, or that he’d done it himself, or that frank had had it in him to pull the trigger after all, or that he’d let frank kill rawlins in that tent, years ago, and everyone else could have gone to hell—

“yeah, welcome to the club, frankie.” his voice is almost steady. “wishing never did shit.”

[nevermoral]

rule of wolves, pt. 1.

dialogue prompts from rule of wolves by leigh bardugo. (some quotes paraphrased for accessibility.)

men who see too much have a way of losing their eyes.

don’t go too far.

you’re starting to snore.

may your night be short and your cup always full.

a good con is about the spectacle.

don’t get cocky.

tell me i’m not seeing what i think i’m seeing.

something terrible has happened here.

i don’t ‘smarm’.

you have more charm than sense.

we only have one chance to get this right.

you need to stop reading novels.

maybe i’m losing my mind.

i want to know the true you.

there is no secret self. i’m not going to reveal another me to you. i’m not going to be tamed by you.

be careful whispers don’t become talk. it’s a good way to lose a tongue.

i have a surplus of bad ideas. i have to spend them somewhere.

i was hopeful. that’s not the same as unsure.

do you miss home?

you have never not been beautiful.

i heard someone tried to kill you.

i’m not going anywhere.

don’t go. what can i say to make you stay?

don’t you ever think what life you might have led?

i don’t believe a word that leaves your mouth.

i trust ___ with my life. i have to.

we have no secrets from one another.

i’ve had more than my share of pity.

it’s alright to laugh.

you’re shameless.

i’ll be back before you know it.

the monster is me, and i am the monster.

i may need another drink.

we’re all monsters now.

war can make it hard to remember who you are.

let’s not forget the human parts of ourselves.

what are you scowling at?

[nevermoral]

dispatched​:

‘ little carried away, huh? ’

that’s when frank chuckles. the pain in his chest is worse - he swears his broken ribs stab at his lungs as laughter quickly devolves into painful wheezing sounds. 

tears prick at his vision from his laughter and he’s not sure why. 

pushing himself off the bed, he’s surprised he’s able to stand on such steady footing considering the stabbing pain that feels like it’s hitting him everywhere, now that most of the action has passed. 

ambling toward bill, he reaches out for the bourbon in bill’s hand to take a swig from the bottle, proper drinking etiquette be damned. that makes it even weirder, which frank only realizes belatedly. especially considering the way bill’s words make him run cold.

he sets down the bottle and closes the paper, finds himself in bill’s space with liquor and blood on his breath. despite their height difference, and the fact that his head is fucking spinning, it doesn’t seem to affect him. all of his emotion feels like it’s rearing its ugly head and he resents himself for not being able to control it, resents himself for the fact that yes, he is sentimental and he has been all of these months. ruining bill hadn’t been enough - he’s never hesitated to kill anyone ever before but he couldn’t stomach the idea of bill not existing anymore. what the fuck was that? what the fuck is he?

he hears his own voice rising, vision fully blurred from tears of anger, of frustration. his nose has started to bleed again, metal filling his mouth.

‘ don’t make me fucking laugh, alright? i’d have given you anything, and what the fuck did you give me? i died. i watched my wife die, i held my baby while her brains came out in my hands - all so you could, what? have a taste of status, of money? ’ that’s when frank shoves at his chest, hard enough for himself to falter until he needs to lean on the desk for support.

voice rough when he adds, spitting, ’ no - no. i don’t - i don’t use people, not like you. i would have never hurt you like you did to me, not for anything, or anyone. you threw me out and left me to die like yesterday’s fucking trash! you - you broke my heart! ’

“stop being dramatic.” billy ignores the way frank’s words stab him in the stomach, worse than a knife or a shard of glass ever could. he can take it, he can take anything and nothing can ever hurt him, but this—you broke my heart—this comes close. it’s gotta be his head, still fucked up from the carousel, or maybe his broken nose making his eyes sting. 

“you did have me. once.” it hurts to say, but still (or maybe because of it) it’s nastier than it should be, everything they ever said to each other in kandahar twisted into something ugly and thrown in frank’s face. “thought we both outgrew that shit when we were kids.”

frank reaches out and shoves him, and even fucked up as he is it’s enough to make billy stumble. he thinks about fighting back, but somehow only ends up with his hands fisted in the cheap material of frank’s shirt, labored breath hot between them.

“that shit at the carousel, with you and your family—i never wanted it, but it would have happened with or without me and you know it. you punched your own ticket with rawlins. why the hell should i let them take me down too?”

especially when for the first time in his life he’d had an advantage, something that could get him ahead. no, it had been frank’s own pigheadedness that had gotten him fucked with rawlins, and nothing billy could have said would have dissuaded him, because fuck it, he’d tried—

“so you’d have died for me, so what? then we’d both be dead.” he’s in frank’s face now, sneering, all but daring him to throw a punch. “what’s all that loyalty got you, huh? you’re alone, frankie, you’re alone just like me.”

[nevermoral]

dispatched​:

‘ used to like a lot of things about you, y’know. as it turns out, it was all a goddamn lie. ’

he’s almost tempted to ask - was anything between them true? was any of it real? or was bill using him, too, just as a means to an end? he doesn’t like it, the way the idea of that burrows under his skin. it makes kandahar smart and fester even more than it already has. 

his entire life, maria, his family - he’d been ready to give it all up. 

and for what? that’s why he doesn’t ask and doesn’t want to. anger wells up within him like a surging tide that he barely bites back, the cords of his jaw tensing as he pushes himself to sit half-way up. for a moment, he wheezes a breath that feels like inhaling broken glass before the pain subsides. 

all of this feels - too regular, too mundane. 

from this side, bill even looks like he used to, too, which further convinces frank that this is one of the fucked up things his head’s conjured up for him. 

‘ knock yourself out. there uh - there should be some bourbon by my work bench - bring it here, when you’re done. i guarantee i feel worse than i look. ’ his eyes flick to the neat line of guns and firearms, the turned off police scanner on the wall. a newspaper article about bill’s clemency is still laid out there, too.

his mouth twists. ‘ your boys did a number on me. and here i thought i got my closure by putting down the rest of your anvil guys. or were those just some shitbags you strung along like you’ve always managed to do? ’

“yeah, they got a little carried away with that.” it’s nonchalant, billy’s back to frank as he rifles around for the bourbon. some of them were hopped up on pills and booze, and all of them had been desperate to impress. and maybe he’d been looking for something with them at first, some way to feel the power he felt at anvil or the camaraderie of the marines, but in the end all they did was piss him off. piss him off and get themselves killed. the only thing that managed to impress him was frank, because frank always does. the thought of frank ripping men’s throats out with his teeth brings a stab of heat to his stomach, and that pisses him off too.

“that’s what people do. don’t pretend you’re too stupid to get it, and don’t pretend you’re any better.” it’s ugly, the sort of thing in his old life he’d always leave unsaid. “so yeah, i used them, because they didn’t matter. because none of them mattered. only you.” 

and he could fucking kick himself, because he didn’t mean to say that, or for it to come out like that, but there’s no way to walk it back now. all of this is frank’s fault too, because he never would have let anything slip when he was the infallible billy russo instead of—whatever the fuck he is now. jigsaw is the stupidest goddamn name he’s ever heard.

he knows the truth is written by the victors, but for the first time billy feels like he’s playing a game no one can win. he wants to crush something, hurt something, maybe as bad as he ever has in his life, but instead he takes a long swig from the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. he’s about to toss the bottle to frank when his eyes catch on his own face—his old face, smooth skin and sharp features staring back at him from the article on frank’s desk. any number of reasons frank could have kept it, and all of them stab him clean in the gut. 

he jerks his head toward the paper, a hard little smile twisting his mouth. “sentimental as always, huh?”

[nevermoral]

jude law in wilde (1997) dir. brian gilbert

[nevermoral]

detransition, baby: pt. 2.

dialogue prompts from detransition, baby by torrey peters. (some have been paraphrased for accessibility.)

we might as well talk about it.

everything about being a parent feels like a secret test.

that was a thoughtless thing to blurt out.

can i ask you something directly?

you and i just come from very different places.

maybe i wasn’t that kind to you.

what is it? can’t you tell me now?

i don’t want to get my hopes up.

i want to be a milf, but a subtle milf, you know?

it’s okay to have doubts.

i don’t have doubts. i know what i want.

that sounds very dramatic. very romantic.

signs are meant to be read — be careful what you put on them.

listening to that dickbag is a form of self-harm.

all pain merits care.

depends on whether or not you can find a place for yourself.

i want to figure out how to be something to you. with you.

maybe try recognizing the chances you have.

jealousy’s like a hangover: when you’re in the midst of it you wanna die, but nobody feels sorry for you.

put the phone away. don’t look at it.

don’t go. please.

you’re the one who wasn’t here.

stop debating the philosophy of family and get to work making one.

i’d be glad if you told me everything.

i’m so happy to be here with you.

that much giggling was totally purifying.

i was a little worried how you’d take it.

it’s a dumb affair. people have them.

do you think you could give me some space for a few minutes?

don’t panic. don’t rush to fix everything.

just use a little goddamn discretion and it will be fine.

i’ll change when it’s worth it for me to change.

i can’t say i get you emotionally, but i’m trying to understand intellectually.

sometimes your body knows what your mind doesn’t.

just sleep over, okay?

i drove here. i can give you a ride.

this is humiliating, but i’m glad to see you.

will you please give me a hug?

i wanted the good parts without the hard parts.

i’ve been so afraid to call.

you can always find the politics to justify what you want.

i remember my own bullshit, thank you very much.

i’m much more culturally relevant and funny than you.

[nevermoral]

Send my character a ★ and I’ll bold everything they feel toward your character.

I like you // I love you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’d kill you if I got the chance // I want you to like me // I’m scared of you // I would adopt you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I pity you // I respect you // I trust you // I feel protective of you // I’d invite you with me to parties // I’d lend you my money // I’d borrow your money // You’re good-looking // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re fun // You’re boring // I’m upset with you // You’re nice // You’re mean // I’m envious of you // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I look up to you // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better

[nevermoral]

AMERICAN PSYCHO (2000) DIR MARY HARRON