#sorry I’m just fucking around

[ismokechurros]

Nancy and Tristan are related.

[hysterotic]

Please make more of those twitter threads of the Toman characters 😭 my ass was HOLLERING at all of them ☠️

meowww here’s how it feels to have tkrv guys in ur tl

[pepperpixel]

SAID HE LIKES CRAZY GIRLS,

BUT HE HATES WHEN I ACT CRAZY,

IT TAKES TWO TO TOXIC!

FINALLY!!! Finished these pics of jinx I’ve been working on!!!!! HOLY SHIT, these took so long…. But finally… they’re done… pls enjoy this art of my beautiful princess w a disorder. Featuring alternate colors for the big pic and also a closeup! Cuz I rlly like how both the lines and coloring on her face turned out… like the pink gradients w her eye… her deer in headlights expression,, like uve just startled a raccoon digging thru ur trashcan and r two seconds away from getting mauled.. m proud of it!

[skidcd-megamix]

Slim shady concept model and brainrot shit on the side,,,,,umm fun fact: Slim Shady originally had a choker but I didn’t like it at all so I took it away he doesn’t have a choker anymore HE DOESNT HAVE JT!!!! DO YOU

[ratcorner]

[ID. A digital painting of the Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared protagonists falling into a convoluted spiral. In the center are the antagonists, intruding upon the scene. The canvas is crowded with images of the Teachers and the house. End ID.]

:•)

[dipperscavern]

@cdragons & i were having some thoughts about secondincommand!reader.. specifically how she’d react to robb breaking his oath with the freys. believe it or not, they’re in love with each other. i don’t make the rules (yes i do)

tags — (@ghostinvenus)

secondincommand!reader who is the glue that holds the war camp together & keeps it running smoothly

secondincommand!reader who isn’t the strongest person out there, but don’t let that fool you. you’re often seen dragging 6’0+, 200lb northmen by the ear — giving them a scolding that would make tywin lannister look like a kitten

most problems are laid at your feet, not that robb doesn’t do anything, but the chain of command makes them be brought to you first. you have a knack for fixing things, and sarcasm runs through your veins where blood should be. you has nothing, if not the audacity

tough as nails, and fears only the gods, all the northmen call you doe. they say you’re the long lost daughter of stannis baratheon, stubborn as a mule, you’ll break before you bend.

so one can imagine how happy you are when you find out the king in the north broke his oath and married a nurse.

you give robb the absolute cold shoulder when you hear the rumors are true. robb and talisa stroll through the camp on their horses, and when you see them, you just stand there. theon glances at your stiffness, before you turn around and just walk away.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

robb thought he was going crazy.

you had always been said to hold the camp & northmen together, and now, with you not on his side — he’s finding out how true that really is.

you haven’t spoken to him since he left & returned with talisa, abandoning his oath with the freys. if he asked you a question during a meeting, you’d answer the lord closest to you, as if he had asked you that, instead of robb. you had even resorted to speaking to him through theon, who found it hilarious.

“C’mon, Doe- you have to speak to me sooner or later.”

he’s this close to begging at this point. you merely turn to theon.

“Theon, do you hear that? It sounds like.. it sounds like a fucking idiot.”

theon nods. “Been a lot of those lately. Think it’s seasonal.”

robb runs his hands down his face as they both walk out, and eventually he confides in talisa about it. after all, she is his wife. she approaches you after a meeting, while you’re gathering her things to leave.

“I’m sorry if you’re unhappy with me, I’m only trying to do my best.”

you don’t miss a beat. “You’ve only put all our lives in jeopardy and half-way ensured we lose the war. Why should I be unhappy with you?”

she’s surprised by your boldness. talisa swallows thickly. “Feel how you will about me, Robb is your king. You should speak with him soon.”

you turn around, looking at her, brows pinched in faux empathy.

“I’m sorry- I don’t speak with southerners. Gives me the chills.”

“I’ve been in the North for many moons.”

“How interesting.” you finish gathering your stuff, walking out of the tent with lord karstark trailing beside you. he leans over to rub your shoulders.

“I can feel ya’ shiverin, child.” you both laugh, walking on.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

your silence was eventually replaced by nonsense, and robb considered letting the lannisters march in here and put him out of his misery.

you had taken to speaking the language of old valyria, for all robb could guess. and the men around him could be none the wiser, theon included.

“Karstark, you’ll lead the vanguard. And Doe, you’ll command the archers.”

“Mememememeh..” you said, rolling your eyes. theon nodded.

“Agreed.”

he thought someone would stop you eventually, but no, he failed to recognize these men adored you. their little doe, a spitfire who could demand their lives & they’d fall on their swords.

“Stew good, Doe?” he asked, walking by the campfire you sat at.

“Ehmemememeh..” you said, shaking your head. the men sat around you only nodded, murmurs of agreement to each other spilling from their lips.

and when you did start talking to robb again (in the common tongue), he almost wished for the silence to return. no he didn’t.

“Glad you’ve started speaking with me again.”

“Tell me, how much speaking will we be doing if Walder Frey decides to behead us?”

he opens his mouth to speak, but you raise a hand.

“If I die because His Grace, King Robb, saw a bit of arse & his cock forgot the oath he swore, I am going to kill you.”

he thought the northern lords were going to burst a blood vessel with how hard they tried to hold in their laughter. in the end, their efforts did not prevail.

[pookiepiastri]

James Vowles when Alex Albon inevitably crashes Sargent’s car in Turn 6 too

[mika-you-nerd]

Duality of man

Trust me I am super normal about this guy

[kinokoshoujoart]

romeo!! or rock….? idk he’s the ds guy. y’know

[kanemfdm]

redraw of this image because i cant stop thinking about it

[flowercrowngods]

shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides

part 1 / 7 | or: read on ao3

The fog rolls in like a heavy cloud that morning, leaving the city in eerie darkness as Steve hurries toward the heavy door to the steel manufactory, scarf wound tightly around his neck to keep out the cold so uncommon for late September.

“Thanks,” he mutters to the gruff, broad man who holds open the door for him. He sees him every morning but has never had the chance to ask about his name. The question is on the tip of his tongue when, with a nod and a touch to his sturdy-looking hat, the man walks down a different corridor than Steve.

Where outside the fog was so thick that all noise seemed dulled, like cotton in his ears, the manufactory is a cacophony of banging and clanging, hissing and whirring, and Steve needs a moment to breathe the polluted, heavy air that’s always just a tad too hot for his lungs.

He doesn’t mind the work, is good with his hands and enjoys the single-minded focus it provides on a good day, the deafening noise loud enough to drown out most of the comments the other workers throw his way; comments about his father, his upbringing, and his rather sudden downfall when Richard D. Harrington decided to disown his eldest son three years ago without rhyme or reason.

Steelwork, engineering, intricate cogs that work massive machinery — they fascinate him, they keep him busy fourteen hours a day, and they leave him dead to the world when the shift is over and graciously let him sleep through the dreams that have been haunting him ever since he can remember being haunted.

It’s always the same dream, in the fall more than in the spring. A lighthouse trapped in the sea, waves rolling and crashing, water rising so high that it might as well swallow the lighthouse whole. And through it all, a beacon. And through it all, a voice he cannot make out. And through it all, a ticking that echoes through his skull even long after he gasped awake with a lungful of water that Robin says might be Tuberculosis.

He blinks away the gloom that has laid over his heart like the fog over the city, shakes off the trancelike feeling that overtakes him every time he tries to think about the lighthouse when he is wide awake, and rubs away the headache that comes with sleep deprivation. It’s fall again, which means he spends his nights haunted by ghostly images of a lighthouse he’s not even sure exists, robbed of all chances at resting if he doesn’t work himself to the point of absolute exhaustion.

They are earlier this year, the night terrors. Everything is a little earlier this year.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder as Emerson arrives behind him, leading him to their station with idle chatter about the weather and the horrible, horrible fog that Steve has not the patience to partake in today — which is just as well for Emerson and his sunny disposition, he’ll simply talk enough for the both of them. Steve is fond enough of him to let him be as he falls into the routine of working steel and breathing overheated, coal-stained air.

They work in unison until noon, the headache dull enough as long as he keeps busy, but almost blinding when he stops for even a second. A booming voice makes him look up from his station, though, as he is being summoned to the office.

It’s never a good sign, and Steve can feel the blood draining from his face, pulling the ache with it as it travels down his spine and settles in his centre in a pit of nausea.

“Oh no,” Emerson murmurs under his breath, even managing to sound genuine about it. “What did you do?”

Images assault his mind. Prison, if he’s lucky. Asylum and electroshock therapy if he’s not; if his father changed his mind about making it public that his eldest son and heir deserves punishment, or treatment for moral insanity. Steve tries not to think of that too often, tries not to look at men like that anymore — tries not to look at anyone anymore until the public forgets about him.

But every time he is reminded that he exists is another time of fear. Fear of being found out.

“I… have no idea,” Steve says after a while, looking up to where the door to the office looms above all of them, leaving them to feel like prisoners in a panopticon.

“Better not keep ‘em waiting, then. Probably too late to run, eh?”

“Probably,” Steve says, dazed, not really listening to Emerson as he kicks into motion and walks briskly up the stairs, pretending not to feel everyone’s eyes on his back.

It is out of a nervous habit that he pulls the watch from his pocket, its silver chain linked to his vest. It springs open in his hands as he takes the steps one by one, providing comfort for no reason other than it’s his. It doesn’t show the time, never has, but after losing everything at his father’s whim, the pocket watch stayed with him.

“Keep it,” Richard had sneered. “The blasted thing isn’t worth a penny!”

The fingers only ever moved incrementally over the years, and backwards, but still there is something about the watch that makes him keep it close at all times. Collecting himself, he closes his hand around the light metal and filigree ornaments and mentally counts to three before putting it back in his pocket and knocking on the door.

“Ah, Harrington,” the superior manager says, his voice sounding like gravel as per usual. The man has a habit of competing with the steel manufactory’s chimneys, only he smokes cigars instead of coal dust like his workers. Steve remembers the smell of fine cigars, and this office smells like the best among them.

It only helps to strengthen his disdain for the man.

Still he nods and aims for a pleasant smile. “You asked for me, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” the man says, leaning back in his thick leather chair and motioning for Steve to take a seat at the sturdy, delicately engraved mahogany desk. “Sit down, sit down, time is money and I give you more of that than you deserve anyway. I have a proposition for you and you are in no position to decline, yes?”

“Yes?” Steve says dumbly, taking his time to sit down just to spite him.

The man, however, is not as easily perturbed. “That’s what I want to hear, I have to admire your morale, Harrington. Here,” he turns and reaches for a cabinet, rummaging around for a minute before—

The blood in Steve’s veins freezes, leaving him cold and too hot all at once.

Underneath the beefy hand, he makes out a photograph — or possibly a postcard — showing a stark white lighthouse trapped in the sea, gigantic waves crashing into it, threatening to tear it down and carry it along to wherever the tides lead. The beacon of light is steadfast and stubborn, guiding and pointing at something that’s out of the frame, but what Steve can only assume is absolute nothingness out in the open sea.

He slides it over the table to lie in front of Steve, and he fights every urge to recoil, only gripping the arm rest far too tightly.

“See, we got a telegram earlier today that they’re having problems with the lighthouse up north. They say it’s something with the generator, not fit enough to last in the cold, where the air is made of saltwater more than oxygen.”

Steve nods, though he is only halfway listening, his heart hammering in his chest at the picture of the lighthouse, etched onto the paper like it has no idea it is also etched on the very forefront of Steve’s mind — has been, for almost three decades now.

“And since you’re the only one here traditionally educated in reading and writing,” the man continues, either unaware of Steve’s dizziness or delighting in it, “and you know your way around a machine or two, fixing the generator and handling the light shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even an offer.

Steve wonders if maybe he fell down the stairs and hit his head, if maybe the sleep deprivation is finally leading to hallucinations like Robin keeps warning him.

“You want me to fix the lighthouse?”

“That is precisely what I want, yes. Stay there a while, find out what seems to be the problem.”

He’s getting up, walking over to a cabinet, pulling out a half-empty bottle of what Steve can only assume is whisky. A biting, earthy smell floats through the room, thick enough to cling to his clothes if he stays here much longer.

“You’ll find yourself familiar with the equipment, as it is us who supply them. In fact, you have built generators and fixtures and engines like that. You’re a bright spark, Harrington, I can admit that. You’re the best fit. And I’m not asking.”

His jaw clicks shut, his hands clenched into fists beneath the table as he meets those dark eyes head-on.

“When do I leave?”

An ugly grin spreads the man’s face, gaining too much joy from other people’s powerlessness down the food chain.

“Tomorrow. If I remember correctly, and I usually do, you do not have much business to attend to, and even fewer things to pack. I trust you will find your place at the train station at five tomorrow morning. Emerson will know to fill your shoes in your absence.”

How long will I be gone? he wants to ask, but is too afraid that the answer will only be another cruel smirk and a sip of whisky.

He gets up, certain that he is being dismissed, and getting no sign that he’s wrong.

“Oh, and Harrington.” He stops with his hand on the door already. “Perhaps this is a good time to mention that the lighthouse is without a keeper. I have offered your services for the time being, seeing as you will already be there. The salary, of course, will be thrice as much as your usual.”

The daze is back, smelling of saltwater air and whisky, rushing in his ears like waves bursting on the cliffs.

“What happened to the old keepers?” he dares to ask.

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“Yes, it does. What happened to the old keepers?”

“I think you shall find out soon enough.” A beat of silence — horrible, tidal silence. Then, “You’re dismissed.”

***

The train ride is blessedly pleasant, the first class ticket providing the luxury of comfortable seating and relative silence, the wheels occasionally clicking along the railway loud enough to drown out the near-deafening rushing of the ocean in his ears — or perhaps it’s not the ocean, perhaps it is his own blood, pumped with fear and apprehension.

The only upside to all of this is the telegram he’s been gripping tightly all morning so as not to lose it, not to forget about it, not to think it was a dream. A childish, hopeless dream, a longing for company to battle the fear of the dark.

I’ll meet you there. 3 days.

Signed: Robin Buckley. She never took his name, said she did not want to be associated with Richard and the Harrington wealth that came with the Napoleonic wars — never mind that they happened almost a century ago.

Blood money isn’t wealth, Steven, she’d said to him on many occasions, and he loved her for it all the more.

Maybe it will be fine if Robin is there with him. Maybe they won’t end up succumbing to madness like people are wont to do, subjected to the endless loneliness of lighthouse keeping. Confronted with a darkness so deep it needs human invention to remain habitable. Maybe, he wonders idly and with shortness of breath, the world will end if all its lights are gone. Maybe all that will remain is nothingness and the ruthless sea — maybe, until the sun rises again and the light returns. But up north, the sun doesn’t stay all that long. Up north, they say the darkness is different. They say it’s sentient. They say—

A servant offers him some tea or coffee if he pleases, ripping hit out of his obsessive spiral of apprehension and fear.

“Yes, thank you,” he breathes, miming quiet politeness to cover up the lack of air in his lungs. The servant nods, not at all perturbed by Steve’s rather horrific disposition, and moves along.

The tea helps a little. It’s hard to think horrible thoughts when there is a steaming cup in your hands smelling comfortingly of herbs and just a hint at something spicy. It feels almost primal, his fear of the lighthouse — but just as primal is the comfort he finds in the warmth spreading from his hands all the way through his body. The shaking stops after a minute, and breath has returned to his lungs in a way that doesn’t leave him scared to let it out.

It will be fine. The sea will lose its terror, and so will darkness. He will read, and fix what needs to be fixed, and laugh at it all with Robin by his side, who will teach him about birds they will never see, about authors that don’t live anymore, and about the stars they get to watch.

It will be fine. He will be fine. Always, with Robin.

***

He arrives at the seaside town just before nightfall, and the first thing he notices is not the rushing of the ocean, but the crispness of the air that feels vastly different in his lungs to the grey and brown, polluted city air. It’s like he’s a babe taking his first breath in this world; and just like a babe, he is overcome with the urge to cry. He doesn’t, only pinches the bridge of his nose and grabs his bags — two of them, filled only with clothes and books to pass the time.

The walk to the next inn is a long one, and by the time he arrives there — guttural laughter coming even through closed doors and windows — he is frozen to his bones. If he’d thought that fall was quick to arrive in the city, he might as well have entered an arctic winter up here. The half suspects, though, that the cold comes from his empty stomach and the bitterness that replaced the fear just as well as the actual, biting cold.

And to think it’s only just early September.

He pushes the door open and finds it blissfully warm, a large fire roaring in the fireplace and in the hearth, leaving the food steaming on the plates. Silence settles almost immediately, and Steve freezes on the spot. Being perceived in a situation he has no control over has never been his strong suit, and he wonders just what these people have heard about him. If they heard anything at all.

“Come in or get out, but leave the cold out there,” a large lady says from behind the bar, an apron wrapped around her skirt and a towel in her hand as she eyes him with wary but not unkind eyes.

“Forgive me,” Steve says, stepping further into the inn and letting the heavy door fall shut behind him.

“Ahh,” someone says from where he’s sitting on a round table with six other, quite burly men. Fishermen, Steve assumes, or harbour workers, if their sun-tanned skin and general muscular build are any indication. He places his jug of beer on the table and eyes Steve rather closely. “You’re the boy they sent. Who will fix the lighthouse, aye?”

“Aye,” Steve says stupidly, internally cringing at himself. Then, turning towards the woman, “Have you a room to spare?”

“Have you money to spare?” she retorts, clearly mocking him for his odd choice of words — it’s hard, laying down his aristocratic upbringing, especially in a town auch as this.

“Of course,” he says. “For food, drink, and someone to bring me to the lighthouse in three days.”

Another man of the group snorts loudly, shaking his head and studying his ale like it would tell him the future.

“No way, boy. Ain’t no one gettin’ close to that thing.”

“She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close. ‘S what lighthouses are for, eh? No getting too close. You get too close, you die. Simple as that.”

Steve takes it in, the pale faces of the men all nodding along, the thousand yard stares they all have in common — and his fear is back. But greater than his fear is his annoyance with men who insist on calling him boy and decide to speak in riddles instead of making sense.

“Haunted?” he asks, taking one of two spare seats at the table, nodding at the woman in thanks as she brings him an ale that only barely smells like piss. “How?”

“Haven’t you heard?” a fourth man, the oldest of them, speaks up. “There’s a curse on the lighthouse. No one gets out alive. We only ever bring her new stock, like cattle to the slaughterhouse. She takes. She takes and takes, boy.”

“So you do bring them,” Steve points out, far too tired and irritated to listen to a ghost story before he’s even had a proper, warm dinner.

The men still, and Steve places a tower of money in the centre of the table.

“It’s yours,” he says, looking at each of them, one after the other, “if you take us there in three days. Four, if the weather decides to play.”

“Us?”

“My wife,” Steve says.

“Fine,” one of them, the one who first spoke to him, grumbles, reaching for the money. “Now go. This table is for grownups, boy.”

With an eye-roll and an air of arrogance, Steve gets up and finds a seat at another table closer to the fireplace. Soon after, fresh stew is placed before him and he dives in.

***

The lighthouse towers on top of the cliffs and Steve watches, mesmerised, as he makes out its shape even in the pitch black darkness. It’s eerie, the power it emanates, the myths and legends that weave around it and its kind. Legends that would be fascinating learning about them in the safety of one’s bed, but which are horrifying to remember days before the nameless fates could be one’s own.

The darkness of the night really is endless here without the lights of the city, and he can only imagine how the lighthouse would help, how it would bring back hope and security, a promise of safe passage. It’s brings him a sort of peace; a purpose, imagining this town in the lighthouse’s beacon. Safe for the night, safe until the sun comes back.

Still it doesn’t ease his night terrors, filled with whispers as they are, growing in urgency and almost clear enough to make out.

Three days pass. Four. Five. There is no sign of Robin. Anxiety grows within him, because Steve knows Robin was going to take the seaside route from the Cunningham estate — well, one of them, at least.

She has a mind of her own. She takes and takes, boy. She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close.

What if…

No. No, there is simply no way. Haunted lighthouses taking lives. There’s no— no way. He won’t fall for their ghost stories.

Unfortunately, however, they don’t fall for his charm either, and on the seventh day, when the sea is calm and the sun steady above them, the man who took they money — Old John, apparently — approaches him.

“We’re leaving now,” he says, shoving Steve ahead of him, deaf to his protest that they have to wait, they have to wait. “Your sweetheart ain’t coming, kid. Don’t think she’ll be coming anywhere ever again if she really took the ship. They talk of a ship that got lost in the storm, burst on the cliffs because there was no light. I’m sorry, kid, but I won’t risk waiting any longer.”

A ship lost in the storm?

But… No. No!

“No,” he whispers, letting himself be shoved onto a tiny boat and rocked this way and that, feeling nauseous for more reasons than one.

He’s wrong, Steve knows; feels it in his very soul. Robin is not dead. She’ll come.

She… She will come. She won’t leave him alone, all alone, in this place that has been haunting him for years and years.

She’ll come.

The lighthouse towers above them, perched on top of cliffs that make Steve understand why nobody wanted take him here. There’s no safe way of getting close, let alone climbing up the stairs carved into the cliffs, leading up to the door with no railing, no rope to hold onto. One large wave crashing into him, and he’d belong to the ocean.

He wants to cry again. Wants to curl in on himself and weep as the reality of everything begins to settle in the deepest, darkest places of his heart.

If he leaves the boat, he’ll be trapped with no way of getting out, no way of contacting the land they’ve left far, far behind. Supplies are said to last several months, he knows, he studied the file he got. Several months without human interaction unless Robin magically, wonderfully appears in a few days after all.

“Good luck, kid,” is the last thing he’ll ever hear of Old John as he pulls himself onto the cliffs, reaching for his bags from the old man’s hands. The sea is deafening here as waves crash and burst relentlessly, and he can’t hear what else Old John is saying, but he thanks him and salutes, which the seaman returns with an air of melancholy.

Steve climbs the stairs, soaked to the bones by the splashing water, but somehow — miraculously — malign his way up. As he turns around, fog is starting to gather above the water, but he can make out the tiny silhouette of the boat.

He watches, and it’s meant as a last goodbye, one last glance at his one way out. But terror fills him as he watches, helplessly, powerlessly, as Old John’s boat keels over and disappears. He keeps his eyes fixed to the spot, not daring to look away until there’s proof of life. But Old John doesn’t break the surface again.

And Steve is left filled with horror and the absolute certainty that he might not make it out if he sets foot inside the lighthouse.

Behind him, the door opens with a horrible, terrifying creak, and the beating of his heart is too loud for any other noise to exist in Steve’s world right now.

🌊 part 2 (coming 26 October)

tagging (trading tags for kindness): @klausinamarink @vampeddie @steviesummer @sharpbutsoft @auroraplume

[hitracks]

thoughts on schlattburity/heartbreak trio?

hmmm… I don’t have any strong opinions about them all together but I have a LOT of feelings on all these duos separately. Like I feel in my brain they have no business interacting sometimes despite how intertwined they all are.

I loooove past sweaterduo a lot so so so much though. I like their conniving young man dynamic from whenever they were on SMPLive ( which I consider lore for sir schlattface . He doesn’t have a choice. Therefore everyone else who was there is also included. ) I think the fact the reason they got along in the first place also being their downfall is SIIIICKENING!!!! SWEATERDUO CAN AND WILL BE NARRATIVE FOILS TO THOSE WHO ARE STRONG ENOUGH! The way they think and act and feel about the world is soooo very similar but they execute it and such terribly different ways that it literally blows up back into their face no matter what they do. They’re like the Fox & the Hound to me … if you even care or understand …

tntduo on the other hand. Um. Opinion alert: I KIND OF HATE THESE TWO …? Not from a literary standpoint. Their dynamic and storyline and personalities line up for what they are trying to do with it…? I guess…? Even then it all just sort of reads like JD from heathers trying to cheese his way into Q’s life to me. Who hates him and wants him gone but doesn’t know what to do about it because everything he loves, no matter how tender, digs their sharp claws into his spine to puppet him. Literally everything Quackity has ever done was never for himself and Wilbur just …!!!! PERPETUALLY MAKES THIS CYCLE WORSE! Others are not free from this blame as well I just think it is very commonplace to gloss over that for these two. tldr don’t like tntduo not cause they’re bad technically, they just piss me off. I feel evil thinking about them…

to the original topic. Really it depends what era of them we are talking about. cause as the timeline goes on they sort of branch out like a lemon tree before it dies trying to give you all its fruit. Beginning era of these guys are stupid funny sillybeasts. Much love. After that it’s just the horrors . Yeah. I didn’t mean to type this much. OH WELL! Hope this answers you Anon. Blows you a kiss

[takaispog]

FUCK PEOPLE THAT TREAT JACK LIKE HE HAS NO FLAWS.

FUCK PEOPLE FOR MISCHARACTERIZING STEVEN JUST FOR THE SAKE OF MAKING SURE HE FIT THE GAY STEREOTYPE.

FUCK PEOPLE THAT VILLAINIZE PETER AND MORPH HIS CHARACTER INTO A BAD GUY DESPITE ACTUAL BAD CHARACTERS BEING RIGHT THERE.

FUCK PEOPLE THAT SEXUALIZE THE SHIT DAVE DID DESPITE IT ALL BEING FUCKED UP AND WRONG.

AND FUCK PEOPLE FOR SHOVING DEE TO THE SIDE DUE TO HER BEING A FEMALE CHARACTER.

[threeawfulfruits]

My brain, stirring all my interests around like peeps in a chili pot:

[palin-tropos]

Harry having the apricots-Dora-peaches of immortality-Dolores Dei visceral trauma response to the cover of the inframaterialism book (even though we have also pointed out it’s abstract kimharry with the green and orange and he doesn’t react to Kim’s orangeness or apricot empire in Suzerainty)

is one of the few scraps of evidence for my fanon birth name for the apocalyptic shrike: Nils Ingerlund

[camgoloud]

he still has his tonsils. by the way if you even care