#yikes ...

[angstandhappiness]

FUCKING HELL

Like I know we flee here from the smouldering ruin of our civilisation at the moment but I as a mid-40s year old need you guys to know

Netanyahu has been saying Iran is close to nuclear weapons for 30 years

He has wanted a war with Iran that whole time

The "they have nuclear weapons" was the reason the allied west invaded and flattened Iraq in 2003 and it also turned out to be a lie

Tulsi Gubbard who is the head of US Intelligence signed a statement less than two weeks ago confirming it is America's belief that Iran is not currently pursuing nuclear weapons

Talks between the US and Irani delegation were expected to take place on Sunday, and the Irani lead negotiator was interviewed as saying he felt positively about the possibility of a new deal

Netanyahu bombed Iran and killed that exact negotiator on Friday.

There is heaps of footage of Netanyahu claiming Iraq had WMD/nukes, he was a lead proponent of the war on Iraq.

History is fucking repeating and it is MADDENING. I was at protests against the Iraqi invasion in 2002/2003. We all knew there were no nukes. US and Israel wanted regime change in Iraq anyway so they could install puppets and that's exactly what they're doing in Iran.

People will study this period in history and go, "WHY DID NO ONE STOP NETANYAHU AND ISRAEL IN GAZA, IRAN AND THE WIDER MIDDLE EAST? WHY DID THE MEDIA NOT COMMENT ON THE FACT ISRAEL HAS NUKES AND HASN'T SIGNED A TREATY BUT IS CLAIMING TO BE UPSET ABOUT A FICTIONAL SITUATION WHERE OTHER COUNTRIES ARE APPARENTLY DOING THE SAME?"

[vrepit-salt]

[thegoodavocado]

Frank, is that you?

@frank-castle-official

@frankc-astle

[honeydewbaby08]

[mustbelestappen]

Haven't seen him so mad since Hungary 2024

[thetoyboxs]

That time of the decade where I throw a bunch of old drawings together and post em. Here's an LU doodle dump/character study/ animation test. Some of these are actually quite old, others pretty recent. Anyways! Enjoy the look into my mind (Not much in there TBH)

[shitapril]

saw that the f1 drivers and team principals got a private screening of the new movie and all I can think of is how incredibly awkward I would feel if I was bunched up with all my coworkers in assigned seating, with all of of our bosses in the row behind us, forced to watch a movie that revolves around a dramatised version of my job and even has glimpses of me, while seated dead centre in the theatre. does not sound like fun.

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

working on 3 part YIKES

okay so there's someone commissioning me to do three separate designs for the word "YIKES" and i got two so far:

(yes im aware the second one looks more like dikes/dykes)

ANYWAYS

here's the first glimpse at the final one! this one's going more hours than kells

Once all three pieces are complete they're gonna be set up as prints!

They'll be released as soon as I can, just in case Canada Post DOES actually plan to resume the strike in May

[sulfr]

If they have to ignore and disregard his backstory to like him, I don’t think they understand characterisation and shouldn’t be in a fandom like this that NEEDS you to view that characters in a raw and realistic way.

Also? Just because YOU haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.

I’m aware a lot of outlasts fandom is teens, and they need to realise and educate themselves on media literacy and analysis of a character rather than “be into shit like that” and just because other villains exist doesn’t mean the complete mischaracterisation and surge in those who are not only grossly harassing others over, but largely making Coyle out to be some misunderstood angry closeted homosexual man instead of who he ACTUALLY is, doesn’t matter.

I’m aware liking a villain ≠ condone everything they do, but I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about those who mischaracterise him to make him more likeable or harass others for not liking him when you’re not SUPPOSED to like him.

I’m gonna hold the outlast trials fandom’s hand when I say this but you’re supposed to hate Coyle. Seeing too many people worship him blindly.

So much shaming others for hating Coyle going on. Let’s not woobify the racist white police officer with a subscription to the triple K (of which so many of his blind stans are unaware of somehow. Uh huh.) I see a lot of whining on Twitter that ‘he isn’t getting trials but Franco is :(((((((“ and believe it or not, red barrels probably doesn’t want you foaming at the mouth online like this either. He’s meant to be hated and despised, not made some leather daddy sex god.

Seriously the behaviour of a chunk of this fandom is revolting.

[zxmbi-png]

"You attract what you fear"

Ahhh oh no!! Helpless devotion!!! Ahhh yan4yan relationship!!! AHH NO GOD PLEASE NOT MUTUAL OBSESSION!!!!

[wolfsong-the-bloody-beast]

Navigating a Fade manifestation of Lucanis' PTSD as the underwater prison he was held and tortured in, to help him start dismantling his fears, begin healing and also accepting Spite, to help them both stop fighting for control, is certainly not on the list of things I expected from this game, but I'm so in love with it.

Even before that, you just know that Lucanis is not alright. He can't possibly be. He doesn't talk about it much, but who would be after the experiences he's had? And there are signs all over the place. I mean, he keeps hiding in the closed space of the pantry like a feral cat under a couch, and likely not just because of Spite, for example. But he keeps it all in, just like he keeps Spite in. Or out, even, in this case. But you also know that he can't go on like that forever.

And now, Lucanis has finally hit the wall. Thankfully, Spite knows what to do. So, he briefly takes the steering wheel. "Help us." ("He'll listen! He always listens to you!" I feel totally normal about knowing this, thanks, Spite.)

Just... the doors of Lucanis' mental prison opening for Rook by themselves as they gently talk down each manifestation of Lucanis' fears and doubts as a metaphor for Lucanis letting Rook in and letting himself be vulnerable with them is just 👌 Delightful. We don't break a single lock. He opens himself up to us.

And it doesn't magically solve all his problems and restore his mental health, of course, but it's a promising start. I like how the game acknowledges this. Rook is there for him, easing some of the worst thoughts, lending him perspective that he lacks because his mental downwards spiral is so thoroughly suffocating at that point. They're helping him start somewhere. Of course, helping Lucanis reach an understanding with Spite, thus helping him end the constant and surely stressful and exhausting battle over his own body there and then, showing him that Rook accepts and cares about him the way he is, so he can start accepting himself that way, goes a long way. It doesn't fix everything, but it's an important breakthrough.

The way Lucanis looks at Rook afterwards, when Teia asks them if they're alright? Also great. 👌

Though I think Rook should be able to hold Lucanis for at least like 300 hours afterwards, because that's approximately the amount of time I need to cry about it - the whole thing, Lucanis' dynamic with Rook, and Spite's trust for Rook and his willingness to play nice despite having been ignored and pushed away for so long.

Actually, poor Spite doesn't get enough credit for all that. He really goes, "Fuck, if he's not going let me in or go to Rook for help, I'm going to pull them into the deepest crevices of his psyche, so they can see the mess for themselves," and improves the situation for himself, Lucanis, and his budding relationship. Good job, Spite!

[slfcare]

after it has been new, scary and uncomfortable, it’s going to be okay. isn’t that what we’re doing it for?

[kiss4tell]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐄, simon riley.

summary: you, a therapist devoted to mending fractured minds, finds yourself drawn to simon, a man who refuses to be saved. cw: slight psychological themes, inaccurate portrayal of therapy, dom!simon, unprotected and penetrative sex (wrap it before you tap it), porn with slight plot. wc: 1.2k

The first time Simon Riley steps into your office, you know you won’t be able to fix him.

Not because he’s too far gone, though the weight in his shoulders tells you he might be. Not because his trauma is impenetrable, though you suspect he believes that it is. But because he does not want to be saved.

He sits stiff in your chair, his broad frame swallowed by shadow. The balaclava remains on. He watches you in silence, his presence a force rather than a shape. You’ve had difficult patients before, men and women unraveled by things they could never speak aloud. But Simon—he’s different. He doesn’t unravel. He resists.

You take your notes. You ask your questions. He answers in clipped, calculated words, giving you only what he deems necessary. There’s no attempt at healing. No trust extended. His jaw ticks when you probe too deeply, and though his voice is quiet, you can hear the warning in it.

But you’re patient.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The days pass in small, careful increments.

At first, Simon barely speaks, his replies brief and methodical, his posture rigid in the leather chair opposite your desk. But then, as the weeks wear on, the silences between his answers grow shorter. He begins to linger after sessions, his eyes sweeping over the bookshelves, the worn rug, the city skyline just beyond your window. He studies you, too, his gaze lingering a little too long, his presence stretching just beyond the professional.

It begins in small moments.

The first time your fingers graze his wrist as you pass him a glass of water, he stills beneath your touch. The first time you say his name without the weight of professionalism, his head tilts ever so slightly. The first time you hold his gaze and refuse to look away, his breath comes just a fraction sharper.

Simon’s not a man who yields. But you see it—the way his hands curl into fists, the way his body tenses when you come too close, as if torn between pulling away and holding you there.

And then, one night, he stays too long.

The office is dim, the lamplight flickering against the mahogany desk. He stands at the threshold, his body a looming silhouette against the doorframe. You don’t ask him why he hasn’t left. Instead, you rise from your chair, your steps slow, deliberate.

“Simon,” you murmur, just his name, letting it settle in the thick silence between you.

He exhales sharply. “I don’t want to be saved.”

You reach him then. Lift your hand, press your palm to his chest, feel the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. His breath catches, his body rigid beneath your touch. But he doesn’t stop you.

“Then let me ruin you instead,” you whisper.

Something in him breaks.

His hand comes up, grips your jaw—not gentle, not hesitant. His fingers press into your skin, tilting your face up as he looms over you. The heat between you is unbearable, thick with something dark, something hungry.

And when he lifts his balaclava over his nose and kisses you, it is not sweet. It is not soft. It is raw, desperate, filled with the ghosts he never speaks of.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Simon has you pressed against the edge of your desk, his fingers gripping your waist with a possessive intensity. His body is solid, unwavering, and when he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, there’s something unreadable in his gaze.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice low, strained.

You don’t. Instead, your hands find his belt, your fingers unbuckling the leather with measured intent. “I won’t.”

A low sound rumbles from his chest, something between a growl and a sigh. God, the things you do to him without even trying. 

He undresses you with an aching slowness, peeling away each layer as if memorizing the sight of you—every curve, every breath, every shiver beneath his touch. By the time you’re left in nothing but your black lace lingerie, the very set you’d worn with a thought buried too deep to admit, his fingers are already mapping the softness of your skin, rough palms tracing reverent paths along your body.

His mouth follows the path of his hands, teeth grazing your pulse, lips pressing against the sensitive skin of your collarbone. He takes his time, drinking in every sound you make, every shift of your body beneath him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick, fingers ghosting over your thighs before he shoves his jeans and boxers just low enough. His cock springs free, heavy and hard, slapping against his stomach. You barely have time to take in the sight of him—thick, flushed, slick with pearlescent pre—before your breath catches, tongue flicking out instinctively as your lips part.

His hands find the backs of your thighs, and in one swift movement, he lifts you onto the edge of your desk like you weigh nothing, the wood groaning under the shift. You gasp, reaching for purchase, but before you can form his name, his palm presses firm over your mouth. The look in his eyes is all the command you need. No words necessary. Your body melts into his, pliant, yielding.

His hand lingers for a moment before sliding down, fingertips teasing the band of your panties before slipping beneath, dragging them down your legs with deliberate patience. When they hit the floor and his hands part your thighs, a quiet sound rumbles from his chest—a dark, hungry thing that settles deep in your core.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours as he takes himself in hand, guiding his swollen tip through the slick heat of your folds. The drag is slow, torturous, catching at your entrance with every pass. A soft whimper spills from you, need curling tight in your belly. Hardly any foreplay, and you’re already trembling, already half undone.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he mutters, dragging his lips over your jaw, his grip tightening on your thighs. “Y’gonna take me like a good girl, yeah?”

Your breath hitches, a moan slipping past your lips when he finally sinks into you. He moves slowly at first, savoring the way you arch against him, the way your fingers dig into his back. But when you whisper his name—a plea, a prayer—his restraint unravels.

He fucks you deep, hard, like he needs this more than air. His breath is ragged, his grip bruising, his body pressing you into the desk as if trying to brand himself into you. Every thrust drives you further into bliss, each snap of his hips forcing moans from your lips that he greedily swallows with every stolen kiss.

When you come, it’s with his name spilling from your lips, your body tightening around him, pulling him deeper. And when he follows, it’s with a low, broken groan, his body tensing as he buries himself in you, his weight pressing you against the polished wood.

For a long moment, neither of you move. His breath is hot against your skin, his chest rising and falling heavily.

And when he finally speaks, it is not a confession. Not an apology. Just a quiet, desperate truth.

“Don’t fix me.”

[silcosilcooo]

Just let me be in his lap and I'll be okayyyy

[albaricomics]

She figured it out, u guys...