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#AND WE'RE BACK BABY
clubglee · 1 year
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EVERY EPISODE OF OUTER BANKS ↳ 1.06, Parcel 9
When people get close to me, I feel trapped. And I bail and I blame them for it.
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shermangepherd · 11 months
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hey we saw you from across the bar and we hate your vibe
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donniegetsshredded · 2 years
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Donnie Gets Shredded
Chapter 3: A Series of Heated Gamer Moments!
Raph only has a few goals right now.
1. Stay calm. 2. Stay alive. 3. Get back to Donnie and tell him he did great and Raph is proud of him and give him a big pat on the back–-not literally.
Odds are looking maybe 50/50 for him at the moment.
Read on AO3 -->
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flecks-of-stardust · 1 year
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Dreamless: Chapter One — A Call to Struggle
Chapter one of my Hollow Knight AU, Dreamless. Spoilers inbound.
Learn more about this AU: a link to the Dreamless masterlist.
Chapter summary: Ghost sails to Hallownest and is grouchy about it the whole time. They run into a few unpleasant realizations on their way in, and confront Elderbug at the entrance to Dirtmouth. They then bed down to prepare for the journey ahead. 
Content warning for violent anger.
Read this chapter on AO3.
Before we get into the heat of things, some clarifications and warnings. This will be a long note, but bear with me. It's important.
Dreamless is a very personal story that draws a lot from my own experiences. Many sequences in this fic are based directly on things I am working through, and some indirectly or directly parallel certain real world events. I have no interest in attempting to hide this fact. I just ask that you be respectful when reading this story. There will be war, there will be genocide, there will be colonization, there will be death. None of this is going to be glossed over. If you can't handle that, I understand. But if you choose to read this fic, please keep in mind that half the time, this is what Dreamless is exploring.
In the previous iteration of this fic, I put this warning on Chapter 4, which is where this fact first rears its head, but now I recognize it should be a disclaimer at the very start of the fic. So here it is. Dead dove do not eat, please proceed with caution.
The rest of this note is addressed to, in this order, screenreader users, readers from the previous version of the fic, and anyone who needs content warnings. If you aren't any of these, you may skip the rest of the note. I hope you enjoy the first chapter.
For screenreader users, hello! I am a sighted writer, but I've tried my best to make this fic as screenreader accessible as I can with what I know. It seems that not all screenreaders distinguish between plain, bolded, and italicized text, so I've added extra notation for clarity. Bolded text will be bounded by asterisks (*), and italicized text will be bounded by underscores (_). In future chapters, there will be dialogue where this is relevant, so I hope introducing this notation now helps familiarize you with it. If there's anything else I can change for extra clarity, feel free to let me know! I truly hope you can enjoy this fic just as much as a sighted reader can.
For anyone who is here from the old iteration of this fic, thank you so much for sticking around all this time. These 9 months have been fruitful, and I hope to have a somewhat regular posting schedule now that I've ironed out a lot of kinks in the world. That being said, I will be deleting the old version off of AO3 at some future point in time. It's riddled with inaccuracies, and I'd rather direct people to the new version. If you for some reason still wish to access the old version of this fic, they are still accessible here on Tumblr.
Finally, there will be content warnings in the notes of each chapter after a brief summary of the chapter. On Tumblr, these are above the read more cut. Normally it will just be the summary and the content warnings. I will try to tag as many warnings as I can think of and as I think is appropriate, and within reason, you may request for more warnings, but in general I ask that you read at your own discretion. This is not intended to be a light, cheery fic. Some sequences are intentionally written to cause discomfort. I am a full time college student writing this fic in my spare time, so please protect your own mental health if necessary by clicking out of my fic, whether for a breather or permanently.
Without further ado, let’s get into the fic.
—(Line breaker)—
The wastelands do not have much variety in terms of scenery, offering only mountains of sand everywhere they look. They pace around the deck of their sand glider again, blinking as the howling wind blasts rough sand directly into their eyes, and they grumble. They ran out of things to entertain themself with cycles ago. They should be used to the tedium by now, but the process of traveling never becomes more appealing.
Completing another loop around the deck, sliding their nail in and out of its sheath as they walk, they stop by the mast and fuss at the ropes. It’s tempting to simply turn their glider around. Not that they particularly enjoyed chasing after cochineals, but at least it was something to do instead of pacing around endlessly on their sand glider. They’ve been sailing straight for so long with no chance in scenery they have to question whether they’re actually heading anywhere.
As if in response, a burst of pain shoots through their right eye. They hiss, clutching their face as the pain runs its course, slowly fizzling back into the dull ache they’ve begrudgingly grown used to. It continues gnawing on their eye, an insistent irritation that lingers somewhere in the back of their eyeball.
Keeping their hand over their eye, they bang their head against the mast. They don’t have a choice. The Call—often a dull ache, sometimes a sharp, searing pain—makes sure of that. One cycle they’d gone to sleep fine, and the next they woke screaming in pain as their eye burned. Some cycles, the Call rages so intensely they can’t do anything but curl up on the ground, clutching their head as their eye threatens to evict itself from its socket.
Most cycles, however, go like this. They bang their head against the mast again, dropping their hands and crossing their arms, sulking. They don’t want to be here, but they’d rather their eye remain intact. 
If it had just been a simple pain, though, they’d likely have ignored it. But the Call… calls. Some cycles, they can feel it beckoning them, pleading for them to come. Sometimes it cries out for them in their dreams. They can’t be rid of it until they figure out what’s making them come here.
So here they are, sailing into nothingness. They bang their head against the mast a third time. The moment they figure this all out, they are leaving.
With a sigh, they busy themself with digging their map out of their pack. Slouching over it to shield it from the wind as they unfurl the delicate paper, they glare down at it, halfheartedly tracing their path so far with a finger. Though the Call is persistent, it’s not very specific, leaving them only a vague impression of which direction to go in. The last eight kingdoms they’d stopped in had not yielded any relief to the Call, and the only thing ahead now is, of course, Hallownest. Or rather, the Wyrm’s Jaws, but the other kingdoms in this area evidently were never relevant or people would endlessly chatter and whisper about them too. 
They cram their map back into their pack and cross their arms again, looking ahead to their approximate destination with a huff. Of course it had to be Hallownest. It couldn’t be some current, living kingdom they could enter, deal with the issue, and leave. _Obviously_ they had to go explore the entombed husk of a kingdom that also conveniently has horror stories about people never leaving its depths. That one. The one kingdom they’d hoped it wouldn’t be. 
They fiddle with the boom irritably, tightening the rigging, then set off on another lap around the deck, blinking hard as they face the wind again. They don’t particularly care for those stories, but it’s hard not to pay some heed to them. Years back, Hallownest had been a popular topic in treasure hunter circles. But all that talk about finding the lost riches and wisdom that Hallownest offered in its prime amounted to nothing, as one by one, the treasure hunters dropped off the map, never to be seen again after setting out for the lost kingdom. Now all they hear are the fearful whispers of their friends and family about Hallownest swallowing those who dare enter its depths, warning any aspiring explorers against journeying there.
Unsheathing their nail, they swing it idly as they switch to pacing back and forth along the rear end of the deck. They can handle anything Hallownest throws at them. They’ve dealt with worse. But it couldn’t hurt to be cautious about it; they’d be more eager to dismiss it if they hadn’t watched several envoys of treasure hunters setting off and never returning. 
The whole prospect of it all is ridiculous. Why go sticking your head into places it doesn’t belong? The vigor to find Hallownest’s riches only grew stronger after the first few groups of people went missing. Anyone still willing to go then was an idiot and got what they deserved.
They huff, swinging their nail in a wide arc and posing, holding their nail at the ready, at a nonexistent enemy. What a hypocrite they are, to be searching for the same thing the treasure hunters were seeking. But what’s the point of trying to scavenge through dead kingdoms? Kingdoms rise and fall constantly, so if they want something of worth, they should just loot their own kingdom and wait for it to die. 
After a few dozen more loops around the deck with them swinging their nail around the whole time, a hint of gray breaks out over the dull tan of the sands. “Sheer stone cresting the cowering cradles of sand,” they were told by the one vendor who had insisted on pestering them on why they were trading for fuel cores. It is at least an apt description; the dark stone rises rapidly, a looming presence even from this distance. They blink, the transparent film of their eyelids clearing sand out of their eyes. Contrasted against the dim sky, the Wyrm’s Jaws almost seem to be swallowing the landscape around them. 
Complementing the dreary landscape, the wind abruptly starts dying down; their sails go flaccid in the shifting breeze. They sheathe their nail with a grumble, stalking over to the mast and firmly readjusting their rigging to tighten the sails. The wood creaks as the fabric fills again, the headsail flapping as it struggles to catch the wind. Tugging on the halyard until it fills out, they tie the ropes back down as quickly as they can, yanking on the ends to secure them. They are not walking all the way to the Wyrm’s Jaws. They will row if they have to. 
The wind, spluttering and wavering, carries their glider to the entrance of the Wyrm’s Jaws before expiring completely. Their glider gently slides to a halt, listing lightly to one side. They sigh. This will have to do. Briskly dusting themself off, they vault over the side of their glider, landing in a slight crouch in the sand below. 
The sand is cool, uncharacteristically so, as it pools around their feet. Puzzled, they kneel to scoop up a handful of sand. It is the same temperature as if it had been sylark here for at least a harvest. Dumping the sand out of their hand, they dig their portable clock out of their pack and peer closely at the small contraption. It is syligh, says the clock, in the brightest part of the cycle.
Stowing the clock, they stand, staring up at the sky. It is almost as dark as sylark is in other kingdoms. Some kingdoms are naturally dimmer than others, but…
They push back the unease tunneling its way through their chest. They need somewhere to moor their glider, and their current location is too exposed to a wild gust of wind. There should be somewhere within the Wyrm’s Jaws where they can tie their glider down. Unfurling the bow ropes and tying them firmly around their waist, they begin trekking into the Wyrm’s Jaws proper.
Without the wind, only an eerie quiet accompanies them and their muted footfalls. They unsheathe their nail as they press onward, blinking every so often to keep their vision clear. They haven’t seen any living creatures around these parts since the last kingdom they stopped in, but it won’t hurt to be prepared. They wouldn’t mind having something to actually swing their nail at though.
The ground slopes gently downwards as they progress, and little pillars of stone begin rising out of the sand. They inspect one briefly, running their hand over it. It’s some sort of fossilized mouth segment—a tooth, if they recall the terminology correctly. The tip is smooth, blunted from the constant weathering, but from the way it bends they can tell it used to be sharp. The stone barely reaches the tips of their tibias, but as they continue wading through the sand, they grow taller and taller until the fossils loom over them.
The deeper they go, the dimmer it gets, the area becoming increasingly shaded. They blink again, straining to see the path ahead of them. There is some sort of structure up ahead, the outline of which is only barely visible in the shade. Hand clenching tighter around the hilt of their nail, they warily creep closer, lifting their feet higher to tread as little sand as they can manage.
Nothing greets them but splintered wood, which they discover when their foot lands on a stray scrap, and they fling their nail away from them at the sudden pain. Cursing and hopping backwards, they clutch at their throbbing foot, nearly falling on their tail as the sand shifts underneath them. They yank the splinters out with a few more expletives, then glare up at the culprit: an old, abandoned glider. It’s larger than their own, designed for a small crew, but is otherwise structured similarly.
The decay of the wood reveals its age, however, as well as the torn sails and the half buried deck. Some of the planks have fallen off too; they put their foot down and grope around in the sand, unearthing the loose piece of wood they stepped on for a closer look. Even in the dim lighting, the rot on the wood is evident, and the parts not buried under the sand show marked weathering not dissimilar to that of the stone tooth. Whoever this sand glider belonged to has not returned for it in a long time. 
They toss the plank back at the glider and retrieve their nail, sheathing it and dusting their hands as unease ripples inside of them again. Did this glider belong to one of those envoys they had watched set off? No one in their right mind would abandon their glider; they’ve seen people fight over them. 
They have also seen people deconstruct old gliders, prying off floorboards and fuel inserts and absconding to trade them someplace else. They can’t check the internal engine of the glider without more lighting, but from what they can see, this glider has simply been left here to rot, untampered by petty thieves hoping for an easy trade. Judging by the height of the mast and the tattered sails hanging from it, this used to be one of the fancier models too. So if no one has attempted to scavenge it…  
Shaking their head, they quickly step away from the broken glider and push onward, kicking up sprays of sand in their haste. It doesn’t matter. They’re only going to be here for a short while, probably less than a harvest. Worse comes to worst, they themself can scavenge from the wreckage for emergency supplies. 
Deeper and deeper they go, their sand glider gently creaking as they forge their way through the dark. They keep their nail drawn, both hands clasped around the hilt as they walk. Normally, silence doesn’t bother them, but something about how the lack of sound settles in this area makes their chitin itch. The Call doesn’t help; with each step, it pulses. They shake their head again in a futile attempt to rid themself of the pain.
Something scrapes loudly just as they do so, and they jump, whirling around to point their nail at the source. They only find their glider pressed up against a second, extremely dilapidated glider, groaning as it strains against the rotted wood. The rotted glider is barely holding itself together, parts of the below deck storage rooms bared to the world. They carefully maneuver around the contents of the storage rooms and an array of shattered planks as they make their way over to free their glider, stepping delicately to avoid gaining another splinter. There are crates, ones that likely used to contain food… They avoid looking at the ground as they lean on their glider and begin to push.
With a bit of exertion, their glider slides free, and they tug it away from the broken glider. They retie the bow ropes around them, huffing. They should pay more attention to where they’re going. This far out, they can’t easily fix their glider if something happens.
As they turn to continue, swinging their foot forward, their claws clank against something metal, and they freeze. Staring down at the ground for a few moments as their insides twist, they slowly bend down to unearth the object. With a gentle tug, they pull out an old fuel insert, the creaking of its hinges the only thing to cut through the heavy silence. 
They knew people had stopped coming here. For what it’s worth, they all eventually stopped trying. But this, of all things, should be easy pickings. 
And yet, here they are, with an old, unwanted, abandoned fuel insert. It’s old and battered enough that it’s now useless.
They stare down at it for a few moments, then fling it at the old glider, hot rage searing through them as the fuel insert crashes through several rotten planks. Why are they here? Why are _they_ here? If other people have come before them then why are _they_ the one who the Call targeted?
They kick one of the stray planks back at the glider and snarl as their foot throbs from the impact, and they crouch down to hold it, shaking in fury. They had to come all this way out into the middle of nowhere just to deal with this stupid Call that they can’t even get to shut up and there are _corpses_, remnants of people long gone and why are they _here_? All the travelers who came here for treasure and none of them could fix this issue? Why do they have to do this? Why are they the one that has to deal with this mess when it could be anyone else? 
They slam a fist against their own glider, then flinch as the wood creaks from the impact. They need to get out of here. The sooner they get this done the sooner they can leave and they won’t have to deal with it anymore. 
Hauling themself to their feet, they drag their glider with them into the dark, stumbling in their eagerness to move on. They’ll get it done quick. Get in, deal with whatever needs dealing with, get out. It’ll only be a few cycles. 
They trip when the ground underfoot abruptly becomes stone, their feet sliding on the remnants of sand. Throwing their hands out to catch themself, they fall against a pile of rubble, a few pebbles clattering to the floor as they steady themself. They crane their neck to search for the top of the pile; it stretches off into the gaping darkness above them. At a rough glance, the stone walls to either side are relatively unblemished. The ceiling or ceiling elements must have collapsed at some point in the past.
They have to leave their glider behind. They clench their hands into their cloak to stop themself from punching the nearest available object, and instead glance around for somewhere decent to park their glider. They’ll be back for it soon regardless, but they didn’t work two seasons for their glider just to dump it in the middle of nowhere. 
There is a tarp stretched over one of the corners made by the pile of rubble and the walls; they pull their glider with them to take a closer look. The attachments are smooth and relatively sand free, implying that it was a recent addition to this area. It is also positioned in a way to shield against the wind, with enough room behind it to easily fit their glider. It will do for a temporary parking.
They shove the tarp back and are greeted with the sight of not one, but two sand gliders parked underneath. Both are in good condition, though one is somewhat covered in sand. They kick sand at the nearest one with a hiss. They better not run into any of these idiots while they’re dealing with the Call.
Their glider just barely fits into the remaining space under the tarp, and when they’re done shoving it in, the tip of the bow still barely pokes out from underneath it. They halfheartedly push on it again, then give up, letting the tarp fall back into place. It’ll be fine. They’ll be back soon, and this deep into the Wyrm’s Jaws there isn’t a lot of wind. At worst they’ll be gone for just a harvest. 
Glider now situated, they confront the rubble pile again, testing their weight on it. Besides the top layer of smaller rocks, a few of which scatter as they hoist themself up and scrabble for footholds, it seems relatively sturdy. As long as they’re quick about it, they should be able to get to the top just fine. 
They scramble up the side of the pile, feet slipping out underneath them several times, but they otherwise make it to the top without too much issue. Still in a crouch, they crawl closer to the other edge of the stone pile and peer down below. It’s dark. They flick a pebble off the edge, listening for when it hits the ground. A good few ticks, more than they’re comfortable with, pass before they hear the muffled clatter. It’s a longer way down than up. 
They nudge another pebble off, trying to track how far down it travels. The darkness swallows it up almost instantly. They huff, tapping their foot. They don’t have another way of gauging how far down the ground may be.
At worst though, it’s probably only several times their height. Better to just get it over with. Bunching their muscles, they keep a hand on their nail to stop it from sliding out of its sheath as they leap into the dark.
The ground meets them sooner than they expect, leaving them no time to brace for the sharp stones that dig into their feet. Caught off guard by the sudden pain, they fall forward onto their hands, then jerk back with a hiss as the stones stab into their palms. Something like this always happens wherever they go and nothing can ever be simple and straightforward. Why do they even bother?
Dislodging the stones from their feet with a brisk scratch under each foot, they quickly weave their way through the field of stones to smoother ground. Their feet smart with each step they take, and they flex their hands as they walk, tail flicking in irritation. The Call is still here, pulling them forward still, and it’s stronger now. They must be getting close. They just have to—
Footsteps. Their nail is drawn in an instant, and they point it at the approaching speck of light. It hesitates, but resumes after a few ticks at a slower pace, bringing into view an old beetle. Their antennae quiver as they glance between them and the point of their nail, hands clenched tightly around their lantern. “Hello, traveler,” they rasp out, their voice low and measured. “What brings you here?”
“None of your business,” they sign back with one hand, their hand motions sharp and rough. They grip their nail tighter, gauging the beetle. They don’t look to be the owner of one of the two gliders they found, nor do they seem to be in any state to fight. Where did they come from, then? What sort of trick is this going to be? 
The beetle hesitates again, antennae whirling. “I… I apologize, traveler. Is that Trade Sign? I’m not too familiar with it. It’s been many years since I’ve had the opportunity to practice.”
They take a step closer, holding their nail up closer to the beetle, who backs away nervously. They’re not familiar with Trade Sign? What’s their ploy? If they’re this close to the entrance of the Wyrm’s Jaws they must have learned at least basic Trade Sign and they’re just lying about it.
Clutching the lantern closer to their chest, the beetle stammers out, “Most—most other travelers here prefer to speak, and I haven’t had the chance to really—to use Trade Sign since everyone else in the village left. They’ve all headed down below.” Their antennae droop. “There’s only me here now.”
They stare at the beetle, something deep inside them curdling. “You live here?” they sign slowly, spelling it out and emphasizing each letter.
“... yes.” The beetle slumps into themself, their palps quivering gently. “It’s not an unfair assumption, I suppose, to think that the Wyrm’s Jaws are gone. But I hatched here after its fall. There used to be more people living here, but…”
They stare at the beetle some more. Either this beetle is lying out their ass, or somehow, everyone was wrong. The Wyrm’s Jaws are not dead. Hallownest is not dead. 
Then what, or _who_, is calling them here? 
The beetle sighs. “You seem like you’ve traveled a long way. There is lots of room here, if you wish to rest a while.” They pause, palps flicking. “I’d enjoy the company,” they add quietly. 
They hesitate briefly, then sheathe their nail. For all their impatience, this beetle appears to be telling the truth. Their tail wags as unease pools inside of them; trying to stop their tail from moving only makes it congeal into a hard, cold lump that threatens to drag them to the ground.
“I’ll stay for a cycle,” they say, keeping their signs curt. “No more than that.” In spite of the twisting, scratching feeling inside of them, the idea of rushing in is giving them pause. 
The beetle’s antennae shoot up in clear delight. “Of course,” they say, their voice contrastively even. “Come this way.” Turning around in a shuffling walk, the beetle ambles into the darkness.
Left hand resting on their nail, they follow, keeping their gaze trained on the beetle’s back. While this beetle may be telling the truth, it’s hard to fully accept their words. Hallownest, still alive? If the kingdom is still running, let alone the whole kingdom cluster, it’s been over sixty-four years since it had imports. That just seems impossible. 
Silence trails them as the beetle leads them to a small hut, broken only by the rattling of the keys the beetle fumbles through. They clack softly as the beetle finds the right one and unlocks the door. Brushing past the beetle, they push the door open and glance around as they enter. The hut is spotless, almost unnervingly so. 
“Let me know if you need anything,” the beetle says softly from the entrance to the hut. “Food, healing salves, or other supplies.”
They make a halfhearted gesture over their shoulder as they walk towards the bedroom, shoving the door open with their foot and closing it in the same manner. As the door closes, all remaining composure slithers out of them, and they barely make it over to the bed before slumping unceremoniously onto it. Hallownest, _alive_? Why are they here? Them, of all people? How is it still alive? 
What mess have they been tasked to fix? Why Hallownest, of all possible messes to get stuck in? Why them? 
_Why them?_
They bury their face in the bed, squeezing it between their arms. It doesn’t matter. They’ll deal with it and go. If they have to fight someone, they’ll gut them as quickly as they can. It won’t be long. It won’t be that bad. It’s just another job. Just another thing to deal with and they can leave and never think about it again. It’ll be fine.
The Call thuds through their head as if in protest, and they push their face in even deeper. They don’t want to think about this. Come the next syligh, they’ll deal with this once and for all.
Though they aren’t tired, they stay glued to the bed, refusing to lift their head to face the world. Drowsiness blankets them before long, a welcoming change to the sharp wakefulness demanded by the Call’s stabbing pain. They allow themself to sink into it, slipping gently into sleep. 
Vaguely, through the haze of slumber, the Call continues, pulsing.
Next chapter: A Cry from the Dark
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doodleswithangie · 3 months
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under the umbrella
[Image Description: Fanart of teenage Luca, Alberto, and Giulia from "Luca," based off Kenna Jean Harris's fanart. Alt text is provided and copied below the cut. End ID]
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Image one: Luca and Alberto stand in the rain, looking happily into each other's eyes. Alberto holds an umbrella over the two of them, and Luca pulls Alberto close by his suspenders.
Image two: Giulia, soaking wet from the rain and carrying a suitcase, comes up behind them, saying, "Hey lovebirds! I'm home, too!" The umbrella tilts a bit, and the rain partially transforms the boys as they turn to Giulia, laughing.
End Copied Alt Text
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triona-tribblescore · 6 months
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FASHION BABY~
(Yo-Ho-Ho) A Ninjas Life For Me
First: / Previous: / Next:
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2aceofspades · 8 days
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~🔥 Their Power 🔥~
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~extra lil doodle~
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(:
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suntails · 7 months
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do you deserve to be loved?
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leenfiend · 1 month
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what’s ur type first < prev next > full comic
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egophiliac · 29 days
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GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY, THE NEXT BOOK 7 UPDATE FOR THE JP SERVER IS SET FOR MARCH 1ST.
HOW WE FEELIN LADS!?!?!
AHHHHHHHH NOOO I'M NOT READY, I thought we'd be getting the fourth anniversary first and then Sebek's birthday and then maybe some more episode 7, I didn't -- I didn't think it'd be Friday --
oh god and they're rerunning the story cards, they didn't say this was the final part but it feels like...maybe the penultimate chapter? could the end of episode 7 finally be looming in the distance?! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO
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expelliarmus · 5 months
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wigglesdtuff · 7 months
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Superstars!!!
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jacobglaser · 7 months
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It's a new day. No more booze, no more drugs, and more importantly, no more Stede.
Edward "Blackbeard" Teach - Our Flag Means Death Season 2 Trailer
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melancholywally · 7 months
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Week 2 and Day 6 of 18 of the Pokémon/Vocaloid collaboration Project Voltage - "What if Hatsune Miku was a ___-type Pokémon Trainer?" This set of images depict Hatsune Miku as a Normal-type 🌈 Pokémon Trainer with her partner Pokémon, Chatot! (art by Megumi Mizutani)
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sojutrait · 25 days
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happy bday boys!!!
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oddthesungod · 1 year
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sick, dude! 🤘✨
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