The Header is pretty self Explainatory,(They/She) Nsfw Accounts DNI
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That is actually diabolical. Grian confirmed funniest man alive
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AND FROOOOM THE RUUUBBLEEE THEEEEREEE EEEEMERGEEED LMAAAAAAANBEEEEERG
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i think there's like a tumour somewhere in my chest when i look at this
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i was not fucking prepared for october-november 2024 to be the source of so many NEW dsmp related emotions i had accepted that thang was put to rest since april 2023 (sure the finale we dont speak of was 2022 but it was PUT TO REST april 23) and the rest was all on us. i have quite simply lost the emotional resilience to be processing new dsmp information let alone that fucking bitterduo finale let alone a potential cq finale let alone WALKING ON THE FUCKING PRIME PATH ON MY LAPTOP. this is fucking crazy. they could've have fucking warned us i'm going to need 9 months of resting by the sea like those sickly victorian ladies after this. by the sea. you know who else was by the sea. god
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You know Dream wasn't a real dsmp stan cuz if he was he would've released this map on the 16th
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you know what i just realised is that exactly 2 years ago we were all in shock and despair cause of the nuke ending. and its been as long since the nuke finale (november 22) as the time between 16th november 2020 and said nuke finale. this is kindof crazy bollocks
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red life Pearlescentmoon with Techno's wolves?
I really like this one
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secret confession block floating in the sky at 252 / 253 / -814
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Dsmp my beloved
Thank you @cquackity for the world download and cords!!
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i love how every other month the inniters rally together to beat the shit out of what is left of dream
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As long as I need.
a continuation of this sketch
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something about the idea that c!tommy, at the end of things, dyes his hair pink. He lets it grow out, braids it back once it gets to the point where just throwing a hat on won’t fix it anymore, and one day he looks in the mirror and sees Techno staring back at him. Just for a split second, he’s there in the glass, and it’s like a bolt of lightning, Tommy scrambling through his chests looking for pink dye or flowers or something. The first dye job is atrocious but he keeps trying, keeps mixing red and white and blush pink until he gets that exact damn shade, the one he used to wonder why Techno kept at all. It was a liability, he thought, a bright, recognizable color even in darkness. Now, every two weeks, he sits on a stool in his bathroom and paints his roots and smiles at his brother in the mirror. He wears sweaters, now, too, big baggy ones under great leather overcoats to keep out the rain. And if he pulls that one thread on the cuff of every coat that was always loose on Wilbur’s jackets because he’d scrape his guitar calluses against the hem, then that’s nobody’s business but his own. He keeps a brimmed hat for when he goes into town, something kind and green, to shade his eyes and hide the fact that he hasn’t washed his hair in a few days and the roots are starting to grow out white and gold. He feeds the crows and they whirl and tumble around him like leaves in the wind, though he can’t understand what they chatter to him. He walks with a cane, he sings as he works, he carries the Ax of Peace.
At the end of it, he is the last and best of them all. He is every good part of them, held like a passed torch after they’ve gone away. He is not quite happy yet, but he is getting there. And honestly? He’s the spitting image of Technoblade.
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