Tumgir
#not once
manbartlett · 8 months ago
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pretty wild that horseshoe crabs have been on this planet for 445 MILLION years and have not ONCE started a world war
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defectivehero · 9 months ago
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”Hello, hello,” a voice said. “I’m looking for an obnoxious little hero that likes to ruin my plans. Is said hero home?” The hero groaned, swinging his door open to let the villain in. He had learned that protesting would do nothing to prevent the villain from breaking into his house. Plus, he just replaced the front door from the last meeting he had with the villain.
“Well, don’t you look nice.” The hero squinted at the villain’s remark, looking down at his clothes. He had just gotten out of the shower, and had only managed to put on flannel pajama pants before being rudely interrupted by the knocking at his door.
“I’m not even wearing a shirt,” the hero pointed out, suddenly feeling very self conscious. He crossed his arms over his chest awkwardly.  “Exactly,” the villain winked at him.  The hero rolled his eyes, pretending not to be affected by the villain’s flirty smile as he moved to sit down on his couch.
“What are you even doing here?” he asked, crossing his legs and relaxing back against their plush cushioning. “It’s midnight.”
“Now that I think about it...” the villain broke off, eyebrows furrowing. They moved to step into the doorway, turning on the entryway light with an ease that the hero was startled by. “I don’t remember, actually.” “You don’t remember?” the hero repeated in exasperation, looking up at the ceiling. He kind of felt like he was dreaming right now. Surely, the villain wasn’t standing in his entryway, late at night.  “Seriously?!” “Well, I’m sure I’ll remember at some point,” the villain gestured with a hand, before walking over to take a seat next to the hero. “Can I sit here?” “No,” the hero scowled, moving over to the edge of the sofa. The last thing he wanted was to be in close proximity with his enemy- especially when he was completely unarmed and not even fully clothed.
“Thanks,” the villain grinned, sitting down on the adjacent cushion anyways. The hero rotated so that he was facing the villain, his back against the arm of the couch. The villain just smirked that irritating smirk, looking down at the hero in amusement. The hero was blatantly reminded of their height difference- even while they were sitting on the couch, the villain still had several inches on him.
“So...” the hero broke off, not even sure what to say. In past encounters, the villain typically would fight them or threaten to steal something. This particular encounter left the hero feeling a bit puzzled. What possibly could the villain be there for? Surely it wasn’t for intel or information- the villain always cut to the chase with those kinds of things. 
The villain’s piercing gaze made him feel a bit lightheaded, and the hero reached behind him to grab the sweatshirt that was conveniently situated on his coffee table. He threw it over his head, slowly pulling his head through until he reached the hood. The villain was still staring at him, he noted with an equal mix of annoyance and satisfaction. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, sighing as small droplets fell onto his sweatshirt and the cushion he was sitting on. 
Still not hearing the villain say anything, the hero chanced a glance up at them. After all, it was unusual for the villain to be this quiet. Typically, they would rant on and on about their evil schemes, their plans to brutally murder him and then hide the body...
Sure enough, the villain was already staring at them. Their eyes flitted around their face. The hero just blinked at them, not quite sure what was happening.
“So you don’t remember what you’re here for?”
“Nope,” the villain squinted, eyes still locked onto them. The hero sighed loudly.  “I’d love to try to figure it out, but you look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Just tired, sorry,” the hero whispered, leaning his head against the cushion. He watched as the villain’s eyebrows furrowed. What were they thinking? The hero kind of wished he knew. 
“Don’t apologize, just go to sleep,” the villain murmured, so quietly that the hero had to lean closer to hear what they were saying. He raised an eyebrow at the villain, but the villain just continued to stare at them eerily. Shrugging, the hero closed his eyes. 
He was just about to be overtaken by sleep when he heard the villain stand up from the couch. The hero kept his eyes closed, despite his burning curiosity to see what the villain was doing. He didn’t hear anything, so the villain must have been just standing.
The villain moved closer, and the hero had to bite the inside of his cheek to remain still. He wasn't quite sure why he was still pretending to sleep... He was just curious about what the villain would do, he supposed.
The villain’s arm under their leg broke them out of their reverie. The hero’s eyebrows furrowed, and they barely managed to feign sleep as the villain brought them into their arms. 
“Why are you so light?” the villain whispered, shaking their head. The hero struggled to hide a smile, keeping their eyes firmly shut as the villain walked. Instead, they let the villain’s hushed whispers lead them into sleep. 
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willbyersapologist · 2 months ago
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st4 spoilers
“so you decided to be a douche to her [El] all day?”
“I wasn’t being a douche!”
“you were! you were rolling your eyes, you were moping, you were barely talking. you basically sabotaged the whole day!”
it was his birthday, Michael. it was Will’s birthday. he didn’t sabotage anything, he was being the painfully selfless person he’s always been and yet you still have the audacity to say he “sabotaged the whole day”? fuck you, Mike. seriously.
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eldritchcreatureofwords · 6 months ago
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I would just like to have a rant--and a thought experiment. Play along with me. Because not enough people realize just how badly Vi has been traumatized. I don't really know what to call this; it's not a 'fanfic', exactly. More like a...story-scussion.
Yes, what happened to Powder/Jinx was fucking horrific. It was the worst fucking thing, it was devastating, and my heart breaks for Powder. For Jinx. For her mental health, for the way she thinks of herself, for the horrible missteps that lead to a baby, bitty child thinking she had been abandoned and forgotten after she very accidentally did something unspeakable. But what I don't think gets enough notice is that Vi is still living in that day, six years ago, has never gotten to catch her fucking breath, and frankly, got the shittier end of the stick that entire night while Jinx got the chance to go to sleep-metaphorically.
What do I mean? Let's take a blow by blow here. First, let's put ourselves in Vi's shoes. Imagine with me for a minute- settle in. This is gonna get long. You are Vi.
You did something bad. Something reckless and stupid and despite the best attempts of both yourself and your guardian figure(s), it's not getting better. You slowly start to realize that, as a person in charge of others, you have the responsibility here, and that even though you are only fourteen/fifteen years old, you know what you have to do. You have to take ownership of the mess you made. Otherwise, people you're supposed to protect, people you love, will be hurt. So you make your peace. You say your good-byes because you don't know what will happen next. You could never see them again. You could see them in a week, a year, a month. You want them to remember you gently, lovingly, as you are right now. And then you leave. You send your confession to the right people, and you wait where you told them to meet you, and you have nothing to do but sit on this. Wondering- will they hurt me? Will they kill me? Where will they take me? What will happen? Will I ever get to go home? Will I ever see my family again? Your leg jitters with anxiety. You clench and unclench your fists. You can't breathe.
Your entire world is changing. And remember; you are a child. And then you hear it. Footsteps. You take a deep breath, stand up, ready to take your lumps, when in walks- -your father. Dad. He loves you, he's raised you, he's protected and cared for and fought for your and taught you to fight for yourself your entire life. And now he's here, and he's frantic. He's scared. You've never seen him scared before. He tells you he loves you. He tells you, in his way, that he's proud of you, that you have a good heart. And you know, in the back of your mind, that he's doing what you did, but you don't want to face it, even as he bodily backs you into another room, even as he slams the door in your face and locks it. And no matter how much you pound, and yell, and call out, you can't do anything. You can't stop anything, you can't change anything. You are trapped and forced to watch as the person you love takes your chains from you and wraps them around his own arms. And as if this wasn't bad enough, the world turns upside down when, inches from you, people start dying horrifically. The adults that you know, that you love, even people you don't care about but are supposed to be strong and in control, they start dropping like flies. And it's due to something you've never seen before, something you can't even understand. And you can do nothing. You can do nothing but watch as your father's friends die, as blood smears the walls and suddenly the man who has been untouchable, invulnerable, invincible your entire life weeps, and falls, and then drops. Dead or unconscious, you don't know. And you are trapped and forced to watch. And then they're gone. They're gone, and for God knows how long you're stuck in there, trapped in there, sobbing, wailing, screaming because how could you let this happen, how did you get found out, how could you be so stupid, if you had just listened, if you had been better, been stronger, been faster, been smarter, maybe this wouldn't have happened. You are fifteen. And you sit on this. For minutes, or hours. You can't scream anymore. You don't have the energy. You weep into your knees and you wonder if you're just going to be trapped here, forever. But no. Of course not. Because one of the people who died out there, your friend, your father's friend, was a father, too. And his son is here, and his son is sobbing, and now you must push aside your guilt, your fear, your sorrow and pain because they need you. They need you. You have to be strong for them. So you slam down on it. You swallow the tears, you don't let him see because if he sees you crying it's just going to be worse for him. And then he tells you he saw it happen. He's ten, maybe eleven, and he saw all of that happen. It breaks your heart, and also it's a heavy weight, because he's yours now too, and you'll have to take care of him, keep him safe, and there's already three people you have to do that for. (Oh, yeah, and you have to tell them that their friends are dead, how the hell are you going to do that, let alone that Dad is dead, that they're on their own now, that you're all alone except for each other? ) But then he tells you that your dad might not be dead. That, in fact, he's probably alive, he's been taken somewhere. And he knows where.
And now you really don't have time to mourn. You are fifteen. You don't know anyone else to turn to. Everyone who could help you is dead. You have to be the leader. You have to make a plan. You have to keep them safe and get your dad back and keep them calm. So you shove it down harder. You push it away and you start thinking, start taking charge, getting events in motion.
And the entire time you are telling your friends what happened, the entire time you're planning and thinking, all you can remember is that last time you were in charge things literally blew up. (You don't know what the words 'recursive function' mean but if you did you'd probably laugh or cry.) And you can't break down. You can't cry, you can't curl into a ball and sob, you don't have a chest you can collapse on and weep for the people you lost. You can't take a minute to breathe, to process. You have to think about your gang, your kids, who are insisting on helping.
You have to think about how you're going to get your dad back, and keep them alive, and keep something from going horribly wrong, and what to do if something goes horribly wrong anyway. You have to think about your little sister, who wants to come, wants to help. But she's the last person you have. Your baby sister, the person you have to protect, and take care of and keep safe. You have to tell her she can't, she has to stay here, to stay safe. Your little sister, who you've been working with and working with the make her stronger, braver, to teach her to trust herself and trust you and she got so close to it and she's so ready to throw herself into the fire for you, for your dad, she's so brave and so scared and you have to crush that. After working for it for so long, you have to tell her she's not ready. You have to treat her like a child again and you can see how much it destroys her but this is the choice you have to make. Do you let her come with you, knowing you'll be distracted with fear and worry, knowing she's half the age of everyone else in your group and prone to bad choices? Or do you break down all you've worked for, strike a blow in her confidence and hope that if this goes well, if you do good, that you can build her back up again later? Hope that you can find a way to let her have been a part of this so that she doesn't think she is useless, worthless, a jinx? You are a child. And you have to make these choices, these calls, because no one else can. So now she is heartbroken, and you can hear her sobbing as you leave the place you've called home for so long with your family behind you, looking up to you, trusting you, respecting you and ready to do whatever you tell them. Whatever happens next is on your shoulders. You get to carry that thought the entire way to your father. You get to think if they die it's on me. If they get hurt it's on me. If this goes wrong, it's on me. You get to imagine scenarios over and over in your head- worst case, best case. You get to wonder if he's already dead. You get to jump at shadows, expecting someone to attack you at any moment. Expecting that thing to be roaming the streets, stalking them, looking for it's next victim.
And the whole time you have to pretend you're not scared shitless. Now you get there. You get your people in. Everything goes perfectly. Flawlessly. Too perfectly. You've been trapped. So now, while desperately worried about your father, who is alive but trapped and beaten, weak and hurting, you have to stay in control. You have to stay calm.
So even though you are scared out of your mind, you shove it down, you pull on your dad's gauntlets, and you turn to face down the man who caused all this to happen. And you start fighting, while your friends are trying to free your father. You are painfully aware you're on display as you take on all comers- desperately trying to stall, to keep them at bay, to protect your brothers, your father, but you are getting tired. You're fifteen. You have been running on adrenaline and fear for several hours now. Silco isn't kind or fair and you have been tackled, cut, held and hit, fought one on one, two on one, three on one for what feels like hours now even if it's only been minutes. You're in pain, you're exhausted, you're getting sloppy. The gauntlets are heavy. Getting up is harder every time. And the man who ordered your friend's father killed, who kidnapped your dad, is watching you with an infuriating smirk. And then, as you finally, finally beat down the last of the bodies he has to throw at you, and stand, heaving, panting, victorious, you hear the screaming, and you know with terrible, disheartened certainty that it was all for nothing. And not only that, but you finally see what it is that ripped apart your father's friends; and it's something that used to be human. Used to be a boy, only a year or two older then you. Used to be someone you knew, if only a little. He's a monster now. He's screaming, disfigured, his muscles and bones moving in ways muscles and bones aren't supposed to move, drooling and dripping purple, veined in purple, and getting bigger. And bigger. And bigger. He used to be human. You are exhausted. You're fighting to stay on your feet, you're fighting for air. But you have to keep going. So you do. But you don't stand a chance, and despite your best attempt, despite throwing everything into an attack on this thing, he catches you by the neck like you are a fly to be swatted. You black out for a minute from the force of it, and when you come to again, you can't breathe. You can't breathe, and you know, in one horrifying moment, that if this thing decides to it can kill you without trying. You are fifteen, and you are staring death directly in the face. There is nothing you can do. There is no way you can free yourself. You are going to die here. But you don't. Not because of anything you do, but because for some reason it lets you go- it toys with you, stalks you like an animal playing with prey, lets you crawl away desperately because it knows you can not get away from it. You are so scared. You are so scared but you're not allowed to be. You have to think. You have to plan. You manage to get back to your family and lock the monster outside of the room, and you know it won't hold for long but maybe, maybe, you have bought them some time. Your dad is halfway free. Your brother has nearly found a second exit. Maybe you'll be ok. "You did good." Your father says, and for a moment, just an instant, you can breathe. He sounds calmer. Better. Things will be ok. You just have to hold. This. Door. He's up. The doorframe shakes. It cracks. The monster is breaking the doorframe loose. One, maybe two more blows and it's going to go. You're fifteen. You're a child. You do not have the strength or size to stop him. But still, you push back, with all your strength, all your will. Hold. This. Door. He's up. Your brother has gotten another exit secured. He is free. You've done it. You did it!
And then the world explodes in heat and fire. When you come around, there is nothing but pain, pain, pain. You are trapped. You can't move, you can barely breathe, and the agony washes through you in waves. You can feel intense heat on your face, and everything blazes with pain and you can hear, from a million miles away, a fight. You open your eyes to see your father standing between you and the monster. Your father, defending you against monsters. He is a big man dwarfed by the beast in front of him but he's not scared. He attacks, viciously, and for a moment he looks like he might run the monster off. But then the monster throws him around like a child. As your vision comes back, you can see everything more clearly and you wish, oh how you wish you didn't. You can see your brother's arm, sticking out from under the ruble of the roof. You strain, not wanting to see but needing to see. They are completely crushed by the roof. Unmoving. Limp. They're dead. They're dead.
Your brothers, alive and well just moments ago, victorious and proud just moments ago, are dead.
They'd given you smiles.
They'd beamed with pride.
Just seconds ago you'd been about to make a smart ass comment to them, you'd been thinking how proud you were, and now your little brothers are both dead. In seconds. And you could do nothing. The sorrow breaks out of you without your permission. You want to wail, to howl with it, but even that is denied you because you can't get a full breath. Because it hurts too badly to cry. But you can't stop the tears, either. You want your dad. You want to go home. You want to go back and undo all of this. You want to die. And what's worse is your eyes land on something so familiar. So painfully familiar. Your little sister's weapon, laying inches from you. Her explosive weapon. You don't have time to process it, because even as you watch, your father picks himself up again, starts the fight again. Protecting you. Defending you. Standing between you and the danger. Fighting for you. He roars defiance, and then- -and then the man who brought you all here steps up, and stabs him. First in the back, then in the stomach. And your father falls. Dead. And you can't do anything. You can't stop it. All you can do is struggle. All you can do is desperately try to free yourself before the monster comes for you.
You are in agony, you are exhausted, and you are trapped. But you can't stay down. Your sister needs you. Your father might, somehow, still be alive. So you try. You try to pull yourself free, you strain with your 'free' arm to push yourself out, to get leverage, to do anything, but God, it hurts, and God, you are so tired. But you have to. You have to. She needs you. So you try again. And again, harder each time. But even trying your hardest, your strength has long since failed, and you make no progress, And as you work up the strength and the will to keep struggling, as you feel yourself getting the energy to keep trying, you hear the worst noise you could ever hear. Footsteps. The monster finds you. And for the second time in one night, you are totally at the mercy of someone- something- else. You have no more strength. You have no more energy. You look up into his face, and you see, for a moment, the boy only a year or two older then you. You make eye contact. You see him, and he sees you. Please, you think, please. And for a moment, he looks almost sad. Almost like he hears you. But then he snarls and the boy slips away again behind the monster. He advances. You are going to die. But you don't.
You don't, because the monster that is your father charges in and grabs him, rips him away from you, slams him up against the wall. It is not your father. It is deformed, twice as big as the first monster, twice as hideous, roaring and screaming and you listen as the two fight, like huge, ancient animals. The first monster doesn't stand a chance, though. Your father, the monster, snaps it's neck. Your father- your gentle, kind father who hated violence and never lifted a hand in anger and had a warm laugh and soft hands and big, smothering bear hugs- snaps the neck of a monster that used to be a boy. One handed.
It's not your father any more. And then he comes for you. You loved this man. You trusted this man. You adored him, and loved him. But this isn't him. This isn't your father. And the sorrow and pain in his eyes when he sees the fear and disgust in yours is palpable. He turns from you, making noises like a wounded animal, and while he's distracted going after the men outside you take the opening to try and scramble away. You can hear the thing that used to be your father roaring a name. You can feel the heat of the fire, the creak of the building.
But you can't make it to your feet. You have nothing left. You're on the edge of giving up when he comes back, the thing that used to be your father; but when you look up, all you see is your father, and you reach for him, needy, exhausted. Dad. And he scoops you up, and he flings both of you out the window- as the Goddamn building explodes. If your brothers were still alive, there is no way they are now. You hit the ground. When you come back around, a second time in less then an hour, you find your father already almost dead. He rasps out a last message, and it is nothing like the warm, loving words from before-what feels like years ago but was only hours, only this afternoon. He tells you to take care of your sister- and then he dies. No words of love. No words of affirmation. He leaves you with the responsibility you already knew you had and then he dies, there, under your hands. Now you howl. But even then, it is short, and broken, and weak compared to what you want. You're in too much pain. You're too tired. Everyone is dead. You came to save him and everyone is dead. You are alone. Your father is dead, your brothers are dead, your uncle...the only people you have left in this whole world is a little boy and your sister. You'll have to care for them. Protect them. Raise them. All alone. All by yourself. For the second time in your life, you are surrounded by destruction and fire and sobbing over the body of a dead parent. Well. At least now you have a minute, finally, finally you have a minute to breathe, to grieve. You can mourn them. You can let yourself feel the pain, work through it, rest and gather your strength. Think of what to do, what to say. Except- you don't. Because here comes your little sister.
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gorgeous-demon · 3 days ago
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you know he’s absolutely definitely not interested when you tell him you post nudes online and he doesn’t want to see
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gothteddies · 7 days ago
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a cute girl said my bike riding is attractive guys this is a red alert this is an emergency I need to go out and get more recent pictures of me doing jumps and tricks and wheelies right now this is not a drill I repeat this is not a drill it’s actually happening
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sunflowersinheaven · 10 months ago
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pagetorn · a month ago
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Yeah, I’m in tears so I’ll be off probably for the remainder of the day. 
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liesandnights · 2 months ago
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Do you think you weren't loved enough?
Somewhere between 'not enough' and 'not at all'. I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it - to be fed so much love I couldn't take any more. Just once. But they never gave that to me. Never, not once.
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iriswester · 2 months ago
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Writer: Olivia is jealous of Spencer’s success
Okay so are the scenes in S4 showing jealousy towards his success in the room with us right now?
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sluttyhenley · 8 months ago
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like a river flows surely to the sea darling so it goes some things were meant to be
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miraculouslycool · 7 months ago
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I want to feel that feeling I felt when I went back to canon and found more instances of ladynoir laughing with (not at) each other and enjoying each other's presence unlike a lot of fanon that was trying SO HARD to convince you that he is a liability that she can't wait to get rid of once again
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xcatxgirlx · 7 months ago
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I think the things that people point fingers at Ben for are very funny. This is the same guy who can't do something slightly morally incorrect like tell a lie without having a visual reaction that gives him away (his eye twitching when he lies). His literal job aside, that should tell you all you need to know about how he approaches doing something "bad."
Ben gets angry over a video game? The appropriate response is to cut off all contact with him and get a new man because this is unforgivable behaviour. It definitely would not have been more reasonable to just laugh at the situation and move on.
Kai displays several signs of blatant abuse at worst and bullying at best? Oh no, it can't be that bad. You're reading too far into it if you're actually pointing out what was shown on screen. He can handle that because he's been through worse. She's actually the best match for him. Besides, it's funny if it's at Ben's expense. It's all a joke.
Do you see the problem here?
One tiny mistake and he's deserving of the worst.
Several instances of mistreatment done on purpose and it's all glossed over.
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perachel-heretic · 4 months ago
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It's actually fucked up that we never got a single instance where everyone had to get dressed up and go to a fancy event that was possibly also a heist
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imgoingonanadventurebrb · 3 months ago
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I’m sorry can we
Can we talk about the fact that the two British officers that were held as hostages by Stede’s crew - one of whom was stabbed straight through the hand by Jim, while the other was paraded through the Pirate’s Republic with a rope around their neck - who know FULL well that the crew of the revenge are pirates Just....never bring that up when the crew is captured in Ep9?? They are there THE WHOLE TIME. They are ON THE SHIP while the crew is being interrogated in pairs or one by one. They never bother to point out that Black Pete shot a crew member with a tiny pistol, never mention that Stede planned to ransom them, never bring up that Stede threw Badminton’s body on the deck and claimed to have murdered him - like what???  I presume this is just another element of the show’s muppetry (which I love) but I also lowkey enjoy the idea that these guys were like “you know what we might be colonizers but we sure as shit aren’t snitches”. 
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jekyllnahyena · 3 months ago
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the beast aka Jackal snaps and i’m pretty sure they ate the senate
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii think im sorry? i draw Jackal as sorta happy and a soft a lot, i just wanted to draw them go on a rampage. (caused by Lockup’s death or maybe the loss of their battalion) and it turned into this absolute blood thing and it’s so so edgy. 16 old me is screaming i think. idk, sometimes violence is the answer? (i just need to yeet this out before I’M snapping i swear-)
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I wish we had more time. I wish I had the courage to talk. I‘m writing and writing and writing. Some have already heard a about you a thousand times. I’ve already thought about you a thousand times. You, however, have never heard about you. I‘ve never talked with you about you. And me. Not once.
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