#GS^^
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mkyrevenge · 2 months ago
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wake up babe new way brothers photo dropped
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z0mbiew00d · 7 months ago
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Welcome to The Gs
We’ve got:
Gaslight (Cleo)
Gatekeep (Scott)
Girlboss (Pearl)
Guilttrip (Martyn)
Girl dad (Impulse)
Good boy (Etho)
Guy/Ghoul (BigB)
Goons (Mumbo & Skizz)
And our newest member, Good dog (Ren)
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hirespokemon · 7 months ago
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For this anniversary let me share an exclusive behind the scenes for the Pokémon Gold and Silver covers :p
2000  ポケモン4コマ大百科 金・銀 "4Koma Encyclopedia" front and back covers by Takahiro Yamashita, spoofing the official Ken Sugimori cover art.
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evermorepeyton · 10 months ago
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my guy, what are you talking about, those are your legal names
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psycholesbians · 8 months ago
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"Is that you, Billy?"
"Of course it is, Stu."
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amascomet · 4 months ago
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You’re not even looking…🐢💭
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romanticrivalries · 29 days ago
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SINCARAZ x called you again: I don't know why I keep on thinking that we're friends
Inspired by this post by @pinkcaraz! I hope it's okay that I made this for you
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sevastiel · 4 months ago
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slams fists on table.
more of your drifter and stalker. and operator and umbra.
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Some drifter and stalker for now, operator and umbra later :)
I wonder how long its been since Sorren's presence was appreciated by someone who didn't demand something from him?
(Transcript below cut)
Drifter to stalker- "Thanks frrr... helpin' my sorry ass out... Lucky t' have ya..."
All of stalkers thought bubbles read "lucky to have you"
Ordis goes, "Getting blood all Over my codex table, he has a ROOM you know," Then, "If you weren't here to help..." then, "This is acceptable" as he's snuggled by a dozing drifter.
At the bottom, Hunhow says, "Shadow, what the hell took you so long?" And stalker responds, "Our drifter is an idiot."
Next panel, Hunhow goes, "So... its our drifter, now?" And stalker goes "DONT."
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nattanoora · 8 months ago
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16 OKTOBER, 2015 𓆩𓆪 FREDAG, 18:41
23 FÉVRIER, 2018 𓆩𓆪 VENDREDI, 20:58
20 APRIL, 2018 𓆩𓆪 FREITAG, 15:09
20 APRILE, 2018 𓆩𓆪 VENERDÌ, 20:27
22 SEPTIEMBRE, 2018 𓆩𓆪 SÁBADO, 20:29
11 MAY, 2018 𓆩𓆪 FRIDAY, 07:31PM
05 OKTOBER, 2018 𓆩𓆪 VRIJDAG, 20:25
26 OKTOBER, 2018 𓆩𓆪 VRIJDAG, 21:51
15 STUDENI, 2024 𓆩𓆪 PETAK, 21:29
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antwuzhere · 2 months ago
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I don’t normally post about fics. BUT GUYS. I binge read ‘ instructions for stealing stars ‘ the other night. AAAAAAAAAAAA I CANT even
I had to do a quick sketch just to get it out of my system rahhheishhehss
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I LITREALLY couldn’t focus yesterday because I was just thinking about them all day
Gaslight gatekeep girl boss. Heist. 1920s. Urban fantasy. INSPIRED BY SIX OF CROWS.
It genuinely might be one of my favourite fics I’ve ever read. I can’t even. The dynamics, all the characters. OUSGH.
The world building was actually gorgeous going feral going crazy
I barely even read long fics but I just couldn’t put it down. Like the writing itself was actually incredible. The plot was interesting and unpredictable. The way the characters are written don’t even get me started AAAAA
It’s so underrated @wyrmartie is a genius
IT WONT LET ME TAG THEM RAHHH
https://archiveofourown.org/works/46129507/chapters/116127205
Can’t get the link to work I’m gonna start tweaking
TUMBLR LET ME SPREAD THEIR WORD I BEG
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qaey · 2 years ago
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telemaine mispronouncing things is a very funny bit but like it NEEDED gorgug as a straight man. it was funny on its own but it got iconic with gorgug just like frustratedly trying to figure out the logistics behind what telemaine could and couldn’t pronounce
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ceratedfish24 · 7 months ago
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In Episode 6 of Wild Life, Scott was the first to promise Etho that the Gs don’t kick people out for “being a bad teammate”. Etho was insistent that he was going to be kicked out for being a terrible teammate and that he just needed to know what his punishment would be.
In the finale of Wild Life, Etho, loyal to the Gs, took Scott’s last life while aiming for someone else.
Etho promised that he would be a bad teammate, and Scott said “that’s okay. You are still loved” and it was ultimately Scott’s fatal decision. Etho killed the man who was quickest to accept him for all his flaws.
Scott was one of the two main people negotiating the deal that got Etho to join the Gs.
Scott had trusted Etho about as much as you can trust someone in a death game.
It was an accident.
He had been aiming for Joel.
He had been trying to save Scott.
He was betraying his family for Scott, and he still got it wrong.
Despite all of the doubt everyone showed him and his loyalty to the Gs, despite all of the teams Etho had been on good terms with and could’ve picked from, Etho prioritized his promise to Scott, and he made a mistake that he couldn’t take back.
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w1f1n1ghtm4r3 · 20 hours ago
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alien bugs your gs
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arthemrys · 4 months ago
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QUEEN GUINEVERE and her purple gown ⚜
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clevercatchphrase · 1 month ago
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Page 365
John 15:13 and 1 John 3:16 (egregiously smashed together)
(Links coming in afternoon reblog!)
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ilium-ilia · 16 days ago
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As Your Skin Gives
ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist
Chapter Nine: savior
tw: non-con
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That night, you sleep in the kennel. 
It’s supposed to be Simon’s punishment for you—an unfortunate comeuppance for hurting his boy the way you did—denying you the warm bed he so benevolently gave you like any good owner would. Johnny’s blood still stains you. His swirling fingerprints burn into the dips of your hips as they dry a dull brown. This evidence of your transgression further taints you—as if the seed burrowing into your womb isn’t enough. As if you haven’t been ruined well past the point of fixing. 
Johnny and Simon hold one another like lovers. Watching them from between the bars of your kennel, you realize you don’t think you’ve ever heard either of them speak so softly. Wolves and rabid dogs are always so vicious to humans that you often forget just how soft they can be with members of their pack. Tangled limbs, lips smacking against skin, gentle whispers—they sleep soundly while you nurse scrapes and bruises. Licking your wounds, you wonder if you’ve also become more dog than human; if they’ve forced this transformation on you after giving you no other way to survive. Evolving just to better take their beatings.
In reality, the thin padding and stiff bars that make up your bed are more comforting than either of them have ever been, and you sleep as well as your body aches allow you to. Come morning, it hurts worse. Battered knees scraped from the hardwood floor, achy hips and lower back, a throbbing pain in the side of your face. Nothing beats the wound in the pit of you. The bleeding that taints the insides of your thighs. The screaming of your cervix. Johnny chewed you up from the inside out and slept like a log afterwards. 
Why wouldn’t he? He got what he wanted from you. 
Heavy feet hit the ground, stirring your eyes until they open, and you see Simon’s figure towering over you. Johnny lays behind him on the bed, toned and scarred back gently rising and falling with each of his sleeping breaths. Your vision becomes obscured as Simon kneels, fingers lazily undoing the lock on your kennel before swinging the door open. His lips pull into a bitter line as he stares at you, virulent eyes still unimpressed with your actions last night. 
“Up,” he orders bluntly. 
Disobeying him is not a choice, so you crawl. Fatigued arms push your body off the floor while your hands and knees shake as you pull yourself out from the bars that held you captive all night—he watches you squirm. Takes joy in the way you wince as you push yourself to your feet. He does not offer you help, nor does he bark at you to go faster, he is just there. Some malevolent being that gets off on the way you stand, doubled over with your hands resting on your stomach because maybe if you can hold the aching parts of you together, then you can prevent the throe from killing you. 
“Bathroom. Go on,” he says, pointing toward the door. 
Trudging out of the bedroom feels like a funeral procession with Simon looming behind you the way he does. Stalking. Pushing you around as if you’re some toy. A dog. Bonnie. Anything but yourself. Forever called by the wrong name instead of the one your parents gave you, the one your mother always whispered to you in the night when the nightmares came to haunt you. 
Simon runs the bath and motions for you to get in while it’s filling up. Frigid tile cools your feverish skin, and for a fleeting moment it feels emollient against your aches and bruises before it bites. Such little reprieve. It’s a fleeting sense of comfort that dissipates the moment he begins to clean you up, rough hands scrubbing away dried blood and sour sweat. You flinch when his fingers run between your thighs, cunt terribly swollen and throbbing with each beat of your heart. He huffs, annoyed with your pain—as if the events of last night shouldn’t have hurt you at all—and he continues despite it. 
He presses between your labia, clearing out the stale blood and congealed cum. Each swipe leaves you cleaner, yet you’ve never felt more squalid. There’s a taint that runs bone deep inside of you—you’d have to destroy yourself to get rid of it. Lay your bones out to bleach in the sun and to be picked clean by the birds who mock you from the window; maybe then you’d finally be free from this filth. 
Next, it’s your hands. You recall his promise to you as he scrubs the grime off of your palms; how he would break every bone in your body if you ever hurt Johnny again. He’s thinking of it too—you’re certain of it. There’s too much time he spends languidly cleansing something that was hardly filthy to begin with. He wants to. He has to. Craves feeling the fracture of your fingers in the meat of his hand. You wonder if there will ever come a time where you’re no longer Johnny’s toy, but Simon’s punching bag. Something to bend and squeal for him when his scorn swells too large for him to hide and the poor mutt has grown too bored with you to care. 
“No more accidents,” he says. Dark eyes scan your face as he drops your hand, arm lifelessly falling into the water behind it. When you swallow, the collar around your throat only seems to grow tighter. 
“No more accidents,” you repeat. 
You hardly see much of Johnny once you’re finished with your bath. He stays hidden behind closed doors with Simon in the darkened bedroom well out of sight. Limp and lifeless, he lays on his stomach with a pack of ice resting on the back of his neck. The skin beneath it reddens into a dusty pink, skin freezing beneath its algid presence. It’s the last you’re allowed to view of him before you’re done dressing and Simon locks you out of the room. 
You look this manna in the face and take it, making sure to hold it close as you curl up on the old sofa in the living room. There is a stain on the floor that is not visible to the naked eye, but you feel its presence linger. It’s acrid. Seeps into your skin until it strangles you worse than your collar. Worse than a deadly pair of hands. You stare at that spot where you were defiled—where football announcers and crowds cheered, egging on your abusers as you were torn to shreds; devoured, blood and all. 
This is dead air. A rot that needs to be expunged. 
A creak accompanies the window as you open it, airing out the room and all its sins. A summer storm looms in the distance as caliginous clouds gather overhead, skirting so low they nearly brush against the towering treetops of the woods you’ve found yourself trapped in for these countless weeks. Wind tugs at the loose branches and thin leaves of the willow tree in the garden, and you notice your bouquet has wilted in its shade. Shriveled stems. Curled petals like flies rotting in a forgotten home. The beautiful flowers have been dead for quite some time. Would it have been better to bring them inside? To keep nourishing them?
You shake your head. 
No. It wouldn’t have been. 
Johnny does not join you for dinner—it is just you and Simon. Head lowered, you eat your meal quietly so as to not rouse the beast sitting across from you, but you already have. Each bite he shovels into his mouth is accompanied by an unwavering gaze, eyes like shadow boring through you, as if each chomp of his maw is meant for you and not his food. It is a miracle that he allows you to leave the dining room without a chunk of flesh missing. 
Rain begins just as the gloam settles and smothers the thick foliage of the forest in bitter penumbra. You watch as droplets tap against the window and as you focus on your reflection in the glass, you pretend as if the streams of water are the tears you cannot afford to sob. Simon calling your name—fake name, terrible name, wretched name—drowns out the pitter patter of drops like nails on a chalkboard, and your shoulders involuntarily hunch at the clamor. It’s firm. Cutting. You turn as his monstrous feet stomp down the hallway, and when he enters the room he stares through you. 
“Bed time, Bonnie,” he urges. 
Johnny’s hiding his face from the lamp on the nightstand. Nose nuzzling underneath his arm, face buried into his pillow—he looks like a corpse. Motionless. His body hardly shifts with his breaths and the smallest sense of pity flickers through you. There was so much blood last night. It covered you like a wool blanket. 
How badly did you hurt him? Why are you finding yourself caring? 
Laying next to him feels like lowering yourself into a grave. Blankets cover your form like tightly packed dirt holding your casket down, and you stay frozen well after Simon kills the light. But your heart doesn’t. It thrashes and squirms in your chest, attempting to break out of its confinement and run. To do the very thing you are not strong enough to do. 
You are a good person. At least, that’s what you’ve been told. A kind smile and a heart of gold—maybe that’s why you’re in this mess. Too polite to call out the creep lurking in the corner at the pub, that hunter tracking down fresh meat just by scent alone. He’s ripped out that heart and smelted the metal down into the chains that bind you to the mutt that rests next to you. 
If you were a bad person, perhaps you’d still be living. 
In the morning, after Simon has gone to work and the sun has risen just high enough to dance across his skin, Johnny wakes. It comes slow like a gentle drip from a faucet. Trickling. His eyes flutter open where they’re met with the view of your face. Slightly chapped lips and a light abrasion on your cheek etch and scratch out the kinder features of your skin. 
His touch is light but your sleep is lighter; a fragile thing that easily shatters at a mere glance. Bleary vision slowly fills with his face as he thumbs over your cheek. You try not to flinch at the sting. He whispers a good morning to you, but you stay silent as you study him. Bloodshot eyes contrast dramatically against his crystalline irises, but there is no mark on his nose. Not a hint of discoloration or scratch—no memory of your transgression except for in your own skin. 
“I’m not mad at you,” Johnny whispers. “For hitting me. I know it was an accident.” 
You swallow. It’s not surprising that Johnny isn’t mad. He never seemed mad or upset at anything since you’ve known him, and you don’t think he’s capable of it. Always kind despite his bite. Always looking at you with soft eyes and pouting lips. You are glad. Rage is better suited for Simon, the monster who can’t seem to stand being near you. 
“I was worried about you,” you whisper back. It’s only half a lie. Curious is perhaps a better replacement for worried. Confused as to why he had spent the entire day rotting away. 
“No need to worry. Just had a migraine. I get them sometimes. It wasn’t because of you, I promise. I’ve been hit harder than that,” he chuckles. 
A gentle simper pulls at your lips, but it hurts. Achy, unused muscles contort the raw skin of your cheek, and it vanishes just as soon as it appears. You study him, scrutinize every detail of his face until you land back on that small keloid by his temple. It’s magnetic, the way it pulls you in. Fingers gracing against the puffy scar, you trace it as if you can read the story in the damaged cells. 
“I guess you have.” It’s supposed to be humorous, but it falls flatly out of your mouth. 
His eyes widen. Dilate until that oceanic blue is swallowed up by the void of his pupils. He leans into your touch, trying to soak up all the affection that isn’t there, and he moves closer. Hot breath fans across your face and you find yourself stiffening—a prey being stalked by a predator. 
“I wasn’t hit here,” he admits. “I was shot.” 
“Shot?” you repeat. 
He nods, face nuzzling closer to yours. His admittance puts a pit in your stomach. Something with twisting roots that don’t care that they’ve run out of space in your stomach. They travel up—burrowing deep into your esophagus until you’re choking on your words. 
“Who did that?” you question cautiously. 
Johnny’s throat bobs underneath his collar as he stares at you. Eyelids flutter as his gaze darts around your face like he’s watching a movie. A scene by scene replay of something he can’t look away from. His thumb drops from your cheek and instead clasps over your hand, pressing your fingers into him. 
“A bad man. A very bad man,” he whispers. “But don’t worry. Simon saved me.”
Closing his eyes, Johnny sighs long and deep, relishing your softness against the abrasive scar you caress. It’s only a microdose of what he truly desires. More. Always more. This insatiable being. His hand falls from yours, palm resting flat on the mattress as the two of you lay in silence. 
Quiet trepidation bubbles in your stomach as you continue to trace over that scar. This entry wound. You think of Simon’s rifle and your stomach turns so violently your vision begins to darken. No, Simon wouldn’t hurt him. Couldn’t. It would ruin him to hurt his obedient pet in such a way. Look at what he did to you over a bloody nose. Surely he wouldn’t stand for a fractured skull. 
Surely.
Your hand retracts from his skin as if the very thought alone ignites your DNA. Burns your neurons and nerves until you’re nothing but a body filled with soot and ash. A pyre waiting to be lit. 
Johnny mourns the loss of your touch, and his dull eyes open once again. He stares into nothing. Into some forgotten space behind you as if you’re cellophane. His fingers begin to wander, and for the first time, it’s not toward you. Nails scrape against soft bedding as he touches the leather clasped around his throat. Muscles tense and freeze, pulse throbbing to the point you can see it jut out of his skin. He thumbs over his nametag like it’s the first time he’s ever felt it. 
“This is home. Simon saved me. Just like he saved you.” 
A reminder, you realize—but to you, or to him?
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