#must be a day that ends in y

[stereopticons]

do you ever think about how Patrick went into his Cabaret audition looking to play the role of the Cliff who is so much like just-arrived-in-SC Patrick, who is, depending on your interpretation of the play, gay or bi or least queer on some level but is largely in the closet and still coming to terms with it himself? do you ever think about how instead, he got to play the emcee who is nearly always queer-coded and open about it and dresses in drag and is just so different than season three Patrick? do you ever think about how Moira saw that in him even as he was auditioning for Cliff? He just had such a character growth from “I’ve never done that before...with a guy” to performing in that role and it just makes me so emotional.

#i'm having cabaret feelings again #must be a day that ends in y #i don't want an sc movie #just give me the cast doing the full production of cabaret

[hellkitepriest]

something something prostate reset button. idk ive just woken up

#robot posting #at thjs hour? #must be a day that ends in y

[nomsfaultau]

Fault!SBI Love languages

Tommy: Physical contact. Not even a question. He’s just so incredibly touch-starved. Given the smallest excuse, he’ll sling an arm around Phil’s shoulders or lounge in The Blade’s lap. It makes for a bad combination with his anomalous properties, and he has a habit of unconsciously reaching for people and then jerking away. When talking to people he instinctively leans forward, and more often than not he’s accidentally smack dab in someone’s personal bubble. Tubbo (carefully) headbutts him, but any further level of contact and he gets stressed about contamination. He also tends to puff up when given compliments. 

The Blade: Quality Time. In particular, training. The first friends he ever made were through group projects at college w/ Averil, and it carried over to when he demanded Philza become his mentor. When The Blade accidentally acquired a Tommy, the way they became friends was through sparring that was admittedly far gentler than emerald duo matches. Part of him and Tubbo finally bonding is working on projects together, like quilting or making their prosthetics. Not much of a touchy-feely guy, and compliments sometimes make him feel awkward. 

The Blood God: Words of Affirmation baby! He loves the crowd roaring his name! Phil gives him compliments mid-battle and it’s such a rush. Once, he praised Tommy by calling him ‘not entirely useless’

Wilbur: Gifts. He grew up owning basically nothing, fighting for everything he had. The idea of just being given something was earth-shattering for him. But after the Foundation exploited that in a way that stripped him of coping mechanisms and exacerbated his preexisting trust issues, gifts became a trigger for him. While he despises receiving them, that doesn’t stop him from giving. Wilbur is the main resource gatherer of the group both for strategic reasons and because he wants to provide for his family. He’ll give even if it means he goes without, be it a jacket or food or a little toy he thought Tommy would like. Half his love language is also chewing someone out while tending to their needs. 

Philza: Acts of Service. Whether it’s cooking for his Collected or creating a pyre of bodies in their name, Philza is all about the acts of service. His M.O. is basically attaching himself to a neat mortal he finds and doing whatever he can to help them. If one of his Collected wants something done, Philza will move heaven and hell to do it. Also great for life advice, though his frame of reference for what's normal is pretty wack given the immortality. Additionally, he tries to specifically pay attention to his Collected and try out a variety of love languages to see what they like. So, ruffling Tommy’s hair (and fixing it afterward), sparring with The Blade, getting little presents for Wilbur, practicing active listening with Anderson. He’s still trying to figure out Tubbo, which is hard since they hate him. 

Tubbo: ??? Hard to pin down, but I guess Quality Time, as that’s how clingy duo really bonded in Fault. A lot of Tubbos’ displays of affection are paying attention to someone’s needs, such as being there if Tommy has a nightmare or Wilbur isn’t sleeping enough. They tend to recognize pretty quickly if someone is feeling down because of the 24/7 Bug Brother surveillance system buzzing around. Tubbos’ big on just hanging out with people, and even if they aren’t physically present, Tubbo will leave a swarm to be on hand with someone in case they want to talk or need something. Quality Time also feels symmetrical given The Blade is Tubbos’ foil. There's a little bit of Gift sprinkled in, such as Rhodes domesticating baby feral Tubbo via sweets and toys. Also, some Acts of Service, because what makes Tubbo start to trust Philza and The Blade is seeing how hard they worked to take care of everyone.

#if we counted 'I will murder for you <3' as an act of service #wilbur and the blade would also be there #But declarations like that are a dime a dozen #tubbo was so hard to figure out tho #fault au #sbi scp au #sbi #sleepy bois inc #tommyinnit #technoblade #wilbur soot #philza #tubbo #sbi au #love langauges #oh no whats that #im overly analysing my own fic? #must be a day that ends in y #sbi family dynamic #something to nom on

[scarrfaze]

the girls are fighting again

#must be a day that ends in y #place your bets on which wolfwood will win #me sitting here reading people's threads

[talesofmetalandmagic]

BadThingsHappenBingo – Episode I

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: League of Legends (Shurima)

Characters: Emperor Omah Azir, Xerath (+ extras)

Prompt: forcibly stripped

Synopsis: Azir is kidnapped and taken to the same sandstone cave where Xerath’s father was killed during his servitude. Xerath makes it clear once and for all that Azir isn’t worthy of being called a god by removing the visual symbol of his power: his golden armor. 

Take that helmet of his, thief girl, and run as fast as you can. When I'm done with him… there will be nothing left but that. Azir clings to the last words he's heard as if to a raft. He feels like he's truly submerged in the stormy sea – he can't see anything, with that fucking hood on his head – and at every curve of the dunes he walks on he sinks on a breakwater higher than the others. Up and down, without respite. If Xerath hadn't sealed his beak he would have vomited all over himself three days ago. The changing temperature is the only way to recognize the passage of time. During the day the sun weighs on him like a leaden cloak, and he has so much sweat on his feathers that when he ruffles it off he finds even more sweat on him just from the gesture. At night a chill falls to lose his mind, and Azir is almost grateful to have to walk again, and again, and again: the constant movement helps to keep warm. Perhaps this is the punishment Xerath has in mind. Dragging him in a procession of shame around his native territory, turning his golden armor into a humiliating cilice. No way, though. He is Omah Azir, emperor by right of that same land on which he sheds blood and sweat, and Shurima itself will take her revenge as soon as he's free from that torc. May he torment him, subjugate him, have fun playing tyrant: he shall have the last word, and he'll wear that armor with the pride of his house. The days of sweat pass, and so do the nights of trembling: and finally, while Azir's bleeding paws settle on a stony and dusty ground, two hands tear the hood from his head and a sun knife burns his eyes up to the nape of his neck .

Sivir isn't there, is the first thought that crosses his mind. She must have escaped, yes. Any alternative would hurt too much, and it is not possible that his descendant is naive. May Xerath face him: he's an adversary on his level. The same man holding his hood in his hand, a burly middle-aged fellow with ashen-white eyes, rips the clamps from his beak. Azir stands firm, he will not moan in pain for that worm Xerath. He won't admit that he would give anything for a glass of water, a bite of banana and honey, just to be able to sit down. That beautiful Ascended body is not born for humiliation. And Xerath is there, lifted into the air like a comet, the chains on his formless body quivering like endless lightning. He's so close that if he were untied he could slap him. -How are you feeling, Imperial Majesty?- He seems to taste the contempt dripping from her lipless face. He can't even hate him on the same level, not Xerath: he's made up his mind that he's in charge, that he's in a position of superiority over him. Azir would spit on his face if they were on the same level. "Fine," he replies. -Better than you will be when I reach you.- -Talk, always talk. I'd shut your mouth again if it weren't more right to teach you to shut up.- -You can't silence an emperor.- Xerath throbs, the chains tremble. He can't figure out what he's thinking, without a face to look at. Xerath had beautiful eyes once. They were so black, from pupil to iris, that they seemed to be getting bigger all the time. -I'll think about it when I have an emperor in front of me. Now take off his armor. Show me the feathers.- The hand of the man with the ashen eyes moves towards the buckles of his breastplate. Azir snaps: he reaches him under the chin, with both fists, and the bones of his chin crumble under the skin against his knuckles. The man falls on his back, stiff as a boulder. A pool of blood slides down his chin, and his white eyes remain open, empty, without light. -Don't touch me!- Azir widens his eyes, bares his teeth under his beak. They're all going to end up like that: may they try, may they try to despoil the Emperor of the Sands. -No one dare touch me!- Two other men grab his arms, tug at his cloak and the flaps of feathers at his wrists. Hands go up against his legs, squeeze his thighs until they tear the skin. They don't see me, they don't realize. Azir pecks the neck of the man to his right, but his hands are gripping the fabric. He feels the grip of the cloak loosening, the armor lightning. -LET ME GO!- Two slender hands cling to her wrist, tight like the coils of a snake: then a clink resounds against the sand, and a young woman with short hair kicks her gold cuff, making it disappear in the sand. Azir lunges, claws without seeing them, pecks left and right. -I will have you all crucified, leave me!- -Oh, Azir. You still don't get it.- Xerath towers over him like an obelisk, his eyes of light curling into a smile of pure joy. -You lost.- A moment later lightning strikes: Azir has time to close his eyes before squealing.

When Azir opens his eyes, his mouth full of bile, he is floating somewhere above the men of Xerath, a foot away from the scorching sun. He opens his beak to breathe: pain pops in his ribs, neck, up and down his arms and legs. Let me go: he moves his lips, but his voice does not come out; his throat burns as if he's been screaming for a whole day. He coughs, blinks, turns his head this way and that as if he were hooded again. Ten, twenty, a hundred hands hold him up as if to carry it in triumph. His dewclaws are swollen with flesh, a drop of blood runs down his neck. He cannot see him anymore: but he's watching him, he knows it, he wants it. A gust of wind caresses Azir's face and chest, moving the feathers. The feathers… no, no. The hands that hold him slip away from under his back: Azir tenses in anticipation of the blow. His back scrapes against the sand, his head tilts back. When he touches his forehead she realizes that one wrist is bare and one cuff is undone. -How dare you…- The sand seems to slip away from under him. He gets on all fours, pulls himself to his feet without resting his knees on the ground. When he stands, claws planted so as not to fall again – an emperor on his knees, that would be all that's missing – he sees the men who dared to touch him, a perfect circle on all sides, some bleeding from their bellies, some from their limbs, a woman even from the mouth. Only the first to touch him, the one with the white eyes, lies motionless in the pool of his blood. Azir, as bad as it is, draws relief. I can still fight. Then the two before him move away from each other, and Azir sees behind them the heap of gold beside Xerath, and on its top the spread wings of his breastplate. And under the shin guards and leg loops, two hanging rags that had once been his cloak. To preserve him from nudity remain the purple under-tunic, now smeared with a disgusting paste of sweat and damp sand, and the only cuff. Azir clenches the fist he's attached to. He will fight to the last jewel, and if he loses it will be a hard-earned defeat. If they didn't have that traitor's magic on their side, he would have killed them all already, and without breaking a sweat. -I am Emperor Omah Azir, and I will fight to the last for my dignity.- -You will give that to me instead, Azir. Even that. You no longer deserve any jewels.- The wretches step aside as Xerath passes, as if he were already the emperor. Come come. You will see what awaits you. Xerath is all armor, but there is a core in the middle of the chains. He's not as smart as he thinks if he's got a weak point left. Azir hides the cuff behind his back and raises his bare hand into a dry punch. And something clicks inside Xerath.

The light burns like fire against Azir's face. He sees sky, sand, sky and sand again; and even the sand burns, scrapes against the flesh like the sharpest of knives, while he rolls against the dune and lies back with his face immersed in the dust. Get up. You can fight. Pull yourself up. The sun beats down on the feathers, but Azir feels chilled. Xerath is upon him, his chains creak, the energy where his heart used to be keeps popping in that same way. It can not be. Get up, pusillanimous wretch. Azir raises his feathered head, shakes the dust from his feathers and eyes, rubs his face with his hands – two bare hands, feathers and feathers and nothing else. It's over. The white-eyed men and women arrive shortly after, like a swarm of ants. Two of them take his limp hands like rags and lock them behind his back with heavy iron handcuffs. Others gird his ankles with a chain an arm's length, to the end of which is attached a stone the size of a watermelon. Azir drags himself into a sitting position and yanks, to the last drop. He can only tilt his head and see the tear in the undertunic, from which a few feathers dangle. My armour. He had never looked at his body without it. He looks like a hawk, but he doesn't feel like a bird of prey: he's thin, small, ragged. Wrong. -Xerath, you..- -Shh, shh. Let me look at you… - It almost seems to him that those engraved eyes widen, joyful, scrutinizing his sanded and tattered feathers as if there was nothing more beautiful in the world. -Humiliated, dirty, clad in rags. I could make statue of this, to look at you for eternity.- -That armor belongs to me.- he hates how the sand runs through his feathers, rough as a curry comb. He feels like scratching himself, but he'll hold back. He's not a flea-ridden mutt, he's an emperor. -That body doesn't even belong to you. But we've only just begun, Azir. You will have to suffer much more than a striptease in the sunlight.- Azir drags himself to his feet again. He broke a spur nail, leaning his foot on it hurts, his right arm pulls the cuff against him, and the sprout of a lump is growing at the back of his neck, but he stands upright like a worthy Emperor of Shurima and looks up at that shapeless face with all the hatred of his nakedness. -You will pay for it, Xerath. Look me in the face. I am the glory of Shurima, don't mess with me. You will pay dearly.- -I've been paying all my life, Azir. Now stop.- Xerath glows like a nova, but Azir doesn't look away. This is the last time he humiliates him like this.

#lol #league of legends #shurima #azir #omah azir #emperor azir #xerath #whump #bad things bingo #forcibly stripped #azir's new groove #azir says it's the last time but he's wrooooong #oh azir being wrong #must be a day that ends in y

[fall-and-shadows]

There's so much blatant misinformation on this site. I know it's everywhere, but the confidence it's posted with here truly is something

#another post about medicine in the usa is wrong #must be a day that ends in y

[piece-of-mined]

There’s literally zero reason for me to stay alive. I wish I had the courage to kill my self. I hate myself for not even being able to go through with it. I’m a fucking coward. I’m so tired.

#dumb #rant #personal #oh look a cry for attention #must be a day that ends in Y #suicide ideation #suicide

[spellczyker]

#Trump getting arraigned? #Must be a day that ends in Y #Merriam-Webster takes no prisoners

[sirmedicknight]

Rerise update. Issac is gone and I miss him. He spent his his screen time dissing on kanon last chapter

#crying about magical anime boys #oh complaining about issac again #must be a day that ends in y

[andy-clutterbuck]

9x01 | requested by Anonymous

#here ya go! 💕 #Rick Grimes #Michonne #Richonne #* #rg #S9 #why is rick washing his face my favorite? #the world may never know #Papa Bear 🐻💖 #💕 fuzzy daddy 💕 #still want to rub his head like it's a crystal ball and i'm a cheap ass fortune teller at a county fair #H A N D S #also his arm hair but i'm not gonna be that weird right now #that face is the actual iron throne #me loving the domestic normal stuff must be a day that ends in y

[aroaceleovaldez]

once again thinking about the worldbuilding in the riordanverse of "names are power" / "belief is power."

The Tri were only able to become immortal through convincing enough people to worship them that it became true. Monsters and immortals only exist through continued belief, and if enough people believe that they're dead or gone then it becomes true, like Pan. Their varied forms exist and manifest as they're believed in and called upon. Names call attention and epithets summon aspects. They're acknowledgement. Belief. Putting a name to a concept creates it as an individual.

And that's so fascinating when you start applying it to demigods. How much of their abilities are based on belief in themselves, in expectations of each other, in their parents' expectations of them? We've seen mortal figures who became immortal in some form or another because they were remembered. Even the lares - ancestral house gods, who persist because they're remembered. They have a legacy.

At what point does a demigod achieve that status? Rumors and whispers about them so persistent that they slowly become true. "I heard that Jason Grace is the son of two gods, does that make him a god?" "I heard Percy Jackson defeated a titan single-handedly. That he can create hurricanes without breaking a sweat. That he can control blood." After awhile, after enough rumors, does it become impossible to tell where they end and the legends begin? Isn't that what being a demigod is; half-legend?

#pjo #riordanverse #analysis #i went a little prose-y there at the end but i am THINKING THOUGHTS #imagine being a demigod and knowing your EXISTENCE is slowing becoming warped because of others' perceptions of you! #Jason living on a pedestal his entire life and worrying so much that one day he's going to bleed ichor and his fate will be sealed #Percy recognizing that his powers are growing beyond his previous limits in ways that don't seem natural. don't seem right. #and he realizes what's happening and just has to hope the whispering quiets down and the rumors are forgotten so he can live a normal life #also the potential for demigod existential horror #becoming aware that You as a concept is slowly shifting. twisting. to match the perception others have of you #how TERRIFYING is that? like obviously it'd probably only go to an extent for most demigods cause half-mortal #but their powers? etc? SCARY #Percy being aware that his powers are becoming warped and trying to dissuade gossip about himself so it returns to normal #Nico who the more he's welcomed into the camps the more he finds himself being essentially declawed #his rough edges slowly worn away. his powers weakening and becoming less frightening. is it worth it? #and how difficult must that inherently make it for him to allow himself to be known? #and again. shaking Jason petrified that CJ is going to accidentally believe him into immortality. his worst nightmare.

[so-very-small]

was going to make a poetic post about older tinies and giants but then i got caught up in thinking about giants with salt and pepper beards and now i can’t think of anything else

#spaci’s sexualizing old giants. it must be a day that ends in y

[angeliteonfridgeduty]

something something cube content

#internecion cube #art #silly #yeah that's right my brain told me to watch internecion cube like a few days ago and i listened #i am now definitely totally very normal about it #i also discovered that Y is accidentally unintentionally very similar to kirie in terms of many things #literally second member of the c262 trio that turned out to be stupidly similar to an already existing character by pure accident lmao #whats next. who is L gonna end up being stupidly similar to. #aaanyway uh yeah um cube stuff uhhh umm #I.C-0n #i know its literally impossible to tell but yeah uh it's her i swear to you #soup jar. that's it. that's all i'm willing to say #fun fact im putting the darn cubes into FT. you cannot stop me. must add internecion cube into silly anomaly-filled fandom mash au.

[chuthulhu-reads]

[ID: Three panels from Trigun Maximum. The first has the silhouettes of Christian-style cross-shaped graves int he foreground. Behind them, Vash is standing with his hands pressed together in front of him and bent at the waist, in the Japanese style of prayer, with Wolfwood standing behind him. The second panel is a closer up look at Wolfwood, showing that he's wearing his sunglasses and holding a crucifix necklace as he says, "Yer bowin' with yer palms together? Wrong religion, pal. Look, those are crosses." The third panel is a close-up of Vash's face, wearing a sad smile as he continues to bow and says, "I can put more feeling into it this way. Is that so wrong?" End ID.]

Nightow says that everyone in Trigun is actually speaking English, and we see a LOT of Christianity on Gunsmoke, but it's nice to know that other faiths survived the Great Fall. Other languages evidently did too, even if English wound up dominating as the lingua franca. I'm taking Vash feeling more emotionally connected to Shinto-style prayer as fuel for my "Rem was Japanese" headcanons though, and also crying about him not just going through the motions bu putting such earnest respect towards two people who did nothing but try to kill him

#Trigun #me crying about Vash the Stampede's tremendous heart? #must be a day ending in Y

[eluminium]

more insane thoughts about life seires skizzleman coming up

okay so as I continue to sit in this basement and every wall is nothing but thumbtacks and red string, I am slowly losing even more of my marbles. As in, I have a lot of scattered thoughts about Limited Life and I'm about to share these slightly insane ideas with all of you. Please enjoy, as I'm starting to run out of red string and I might die if I do.

Skizz being The Dove/A manifestation of peace or something insane like that idk man I'm punching the wall:

Okay, hear me out on this. In my previous post about Limited Life (The Skizz and Number 3 one yes this is a link), I talked about how technically, Skizzleman could be considered a Dove. Y'know, a symbol of peace. The last warning before everything truly goes to shit. Skizz very much prefers negotiation and deals over violence and all that, man chooses to be kind. Not out of naivete, but out of a pure will and want. 

He has ONLY killed with justification he's never just...killed. And every time he's tried to kill without reason he has failed spectacularly and probably also died. Like, take Jimmy and Cleo from 3rd Life. Skizz killed Jimmy because he was an active threat to The Red Army and because the Red Desert had been antagonizing Dogwarts for a while. It wasn't something against Jimmy, it was more against the Red Desert itself. He later spares Scar by changing the bargain to "Give us the banner and we'll leave you alone" instead of just straight-up murder. Because he had already taught the Desert enough, there was no need to spill more blood. Cleo is even easier to understand. Cleo attacked Ren, Skizz's king and the guy Skizz was THE most loyal to during 3rd Life. Of course, Skizz acted in defense of his king and took Cleo out. And he also spared someone this time too. Bdubs. He let Bdubs take Cleo's stuff back. There wasn't a need to spill more blood. 

Then we have the latest of his kills, his Bdubs kill in Limited Life. An honor duel. Skizz had been wronged, knew that it was going to get in the way of future alliances, and was looking for revenge, but he still made sure it was going to be clean with no resentful feelings afterward. Then after killing Bdubs he made sure to make it up to the man with not only a very sweet compliment but a golden apple as well. By doing this, by cleanly ending his feud with Bdubs, TIES were able to complete a very promising-looking alliance between them and The Clockers. 

Skizz only sheds blood when he has no other option. When it's better.

And then there are the times he's tried to kill without reason but he's just, failed. Horribly. He died in 3rd Life by mindlessly charging into the Crastle, failing to kill anybody. He got no kills in Last Life because when he turned Red, he was just running around trying to kill people once again, mindlessly. Or in service to another, in one instance. And he died in Last Life almost the exact same way as in 3rd Life. Charging an enemy like a wild beast and being put down. Skizz just can't get a kill when it's out of pure bloodlust and a wish for revenge.

And that's what makes Skizz a Dove. He only kills in instances when it is needed. He's not a symbol of peace because he's a perfect little pacifist who never wants to hurt anyone, no. He's a symbol of peace because he unintentionally and intentionally acts as one of the biggest forces of it. Not only choosing mercy for enemies who pragmatically should have been taken out but also killing those that push for war and conflict whether intentionally or unintentionally. And when the Dove tries to strike like an eagle, the Dove dies. And with it, peace dies. After Skizz died in 3rd Life there were no other forces for even a negative peace between Dogwarts and the Desert Alliance. The rest of it was all just a bloody war. After Skizz died in Last Life, the Wither was summoned, forcing the remaining players into groups. Red names and Non-red names. They fought bloodily too until both groups rotted away slowly. 

And do you wanna know something even crazier? The ones who were present while the Dove was put down, would go on to be 2nd and 1st in survival rankings. Grian killed Skizz in 3rd Life while Scar was there for backup. Grian won and Scar was second. Ren killed Skizz in Last Life with Scott as a backup. Ren came second and Scott came first. And it makes sense, doesn't it? Of course, the two who witnessed the death of peace would, in the end, turn on each other. It makes sense. IT MAKES SENSE.

BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE.

One comes first...the other comes second. Those are the only numbers above three. three. T H R E E. NO. NO THERE'S MORE BLOODY EVIDENCE FOR THE STUPID CONNECTION BETWEEN SKIZZ AND THE NUMBER 3. I. I WANT TO CRY. WHY. WHY AM I STUCK IN THIS DUMBASS BASEMENT JUST MAKING MORE AND MORE AND MORE CONNECTIONS FOREVER???

AND I'M NOT EVEN DONE.

Because if you buy into the "Skizz as a symbol of peace or whatever" concept...it makes Limited Life make even more sense. Y'know how some people have been saying "Oh Skizz is inheriting the Canary Curse from Jimmy!!!". While this is valid, I think my utter insanity has, at least in a little way, proven that Skizz himself is cursed in some way. Or blessed even, I don't know at this point. But instead of taking Jimmy's curse, it could be that his curse as a peace guy who's doomed to be the server's final warning is just showing up earlier. Because it could be that this time, peace dies quicker than the coalmine can kill the canary...because if you know you have limited time... what's the point in keeping the peace? Nothing is gonna matter anyways, your time is so obvious that it's unavoidable. That ticking in your brain isn't just a vague feeling you sometimes acknowledge. It's loud. It's unavoidable. You can't close your eyes, the digits are inscribed inside your eyelids. You can't cover your ears, the ticking keeps on like the beating of your heart. With such limited time, why waste it on trying to maintain order and peace? Why put so much energy into compromise when everyone is gonna die soon? In the other series, you don't know how much time you have, so you try your best to buy as much of it as possible by maintaining some semblance of peace. In Limited Life, what's the point? The consequences don't matter, because you KNOW your time is limited. It's all around you.

And so Skizz, the man possibly most aware of their limited time, the man who's trying to use that time to be nice, to not make enemies, to be as peaceful as a man in this series can be, is the one who's on track to die first. The Dove, the peace, the will and want to choose kindness and care when cruelty and selfishness are so much easier to justify, is up for slaughter.

Once again, Skizz is not a peace symbol because he's a perfect little guy. He's not a peace symbol because he's always nice, or innocent, or a pacifist. He's a peace symbol because he has only spilled blood when he had no other option and made as many amends as he could to minimize the pain afterward, he's a Dove that only pecks you if you burn the olive branch in its beak. He's a peace symbol because he actively chooses to push for it, to truly believe in the good of others even when that has gotten him killed or exploited many times, not because he's stupid or naive, but because that's what he does. He's a peace symbol because, without him, the series enters its final and most bloody crescendo. 

Y'know, I know Skizz started to be drawn as an angel because he's best friends with Impulse, and Demon/Angel best friends are a killer thing. But maybe we accidentally hit some pure gold there by mistake. It fits too well, doesn't it?

Or maybe I am just actually losing all my marbles and I'm never getting out of the red thread basement.

You be the judge and jury on that, dear reader.

#I KNOW WHAT THIS SOUNDS LIKE #oh tumblr user el eluminium is ranting and raving about skizzleman again? must be a day ending in y #BUT LOOK I MIGHT HAVE JUST STRAIGHT UP EXPLODED #BIG BOOM #I DON'T CARE IF I SOUND LIKE I BELONG IN AN OLD SCHOOL MENTAL HOSPITAL ANYMORE #THE WORLD NEEDS TO KNOW!!! #dose of skizz #skizzleman #limited life #limited life smp #3rd life #3rd life smp #last life #last life smp #limited life spoilers #life series spoilers #trafficblr #life series #my writing #author is going insane and also crazy #shoutout to milkpulse gang for dealing with my nonsense

[ingravinoveritas]

So, @invisibleicewands​ helpfully pointed out that The White Curl used this Zoom screenshot on their auction page, and well...

#michael sheen #welsh seduction machine #david tennant #soft scottish hipster gigolo #davina #rab c. nesbitt #the white curl project #why does this seem so plausible though #the third pic is my favorite #because it's like 'Michael's on Zoom watching David in the shower. Must be a day that ends in 'Y'' #and nobody blinks an eye #lolz #good times #ineffable lovers #photo editing