[Please read rules and about!] A Selective, Semi-Active Hetalia RP blog for Adult!Sealand, who's stumbling through shit as he tries to figure it all out.
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I mean... he did lose his fingers...
--and that's why I'm being sued for emotional distress. Honestly, I didn't even know we did that in Scandinavia.
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Yeah, I do. Tarsha hooked me up with one like immediately when I got the papers. But it's such a hassle, I think I just want to pay whatever he's asking for and be done with it.
--and that's why I'm being sued for emotional distress. Honestly, I didn't even know we did that in Scandinavia.
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// Don't mind me, just posting a silly song verse I had written for no real reason beside to be annoying.
(In case the hyperlink doesn't work: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62113858)
#the lion king#mufasa the lion king#lin manuel miranda#disney#ao3#archive of our own#taka the lion king
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--and that's why I'm being sued for emotional distress. Honestly, I didn't even know we did that in Scandinavia.
#ic#open starter#open rp#// idk how many people if any would reply to this#but if it's more than one person idk whether to use the same story or make up different ones for different muses
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What is Ethel Cain right about?
"That we live in an age of brain rot. That any form of art a creator makes and pours their soul into, worked day and night to impart a message into for their audience, turns into a joke or a meme because 'it's not that deep, bro!' Like, I enjoy some brainless ass-shaking party music, too, but it's... disappointing that an audience can't handle or appreciate the occasional act of sincerity, and would rather chase clout by dunking or joking and it makes you wonder 'when the fuck did I cultivate a fanbase of fucking morons?'
"Take Tyler the Creator, for example! Dude had written a beautiful string quartet album that explored the hurt and heartbreak behind his intrusive thoughts, and motherfuckers still saw him as the funny, wacky Loiter Squad dude. This is why I hate people sometimes, man."
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They're mostly solitary creatures, but there had been cases of them socializing and forming groups, especially to collaborate on complex hunting strategies. They also share some of the same genes for intelligence as humans, so it would not be out of the realm of possibility for them to develop a sense of culture and then tribalism.
But I kinda hope they don't, because tribalism has work oh, so well before... [Gestures around them at the state of the world.]
Apparently, scientists are speculating that once humans go extinct, the next species to dominate the earth will be octopuses. I wonder what that would look like? Would the old nation avatars die and a species of Cthulu gods take over?
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That's if the new Octopoda overlords would even revive the old human cultures after evolution. Would you guys survive that long for the octopi to evolve then develop cultures?
Apparently, scientists are speculating that once humans go extinct, the next species to dominate the earth will be octopuses. I wonder what that would look like? Would the old nation avatars die and a species of Cthulu gods take over?
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Apparently, scientists are speculating that once humans go extinct, the next species to dominate the earth will be octopuses. I wonder what that would look like? Would the old nation avatars die and a species of Cthulu gods take over?
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"Eh, I might keep her as is. She has some... Character." Although, now that he was holding her, she was a little stinky. It was as he started picking off the fabric pills that he truly noticed the tone in the woman's voice. "Wait..." He held in a snort. "You're not... scared of Bethany, are you?" Oh, god, he done named the doll.
"Believe me, I've seen worse," Peter replied. He stepped closer to the doll, the subconcious part of him that still held on to all of those horror movies he watched when he was younger bracing him for the doll lunging at him and gouging out his eyes. "Much worse." He bent to look the doll in the face and unfolded his arms to toy with it, lifting up her arm and plucking at her hair, feeling the hem of her little dress between her finger. It truly was nineties, in a way that made Peter ache with nostalgia for simpler and innocent bygone times.
"She's kinda cute, actually!" He grinned over his shoulder. "Think we can use her for Saturday's show? I can do a quick rework on my choreography to incorporate her."
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I just learned a new marine biology fact! :D
Tom Cruise fucks fish!
Well, he is a Scientologist, so it checks out.
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@nezumivc103221
Nezumi halts with his lips slightly parted; both his eyebrows lift in a display of sincere surprise. Whatever he has wanted to say remains hung in his throat. Words unsaid like a cassette on pause, voice suspended mid-air. Slowly, he turns his face towards Peter and lets out a breath of the softest disbelief. His expression shifts into a somewhat neutral smile. "I'm fine; thank you for the offer, though," Nezumi says politely and amiably, unsure whether he should dub Peter's proposal to be a kind gesture or if he should be worried that he has come across as incompetent to his client. The life of a private investigator often requires the opposite to happen — Nezumi is the one who approaches strangers and represents his clients. It's his thing. He has handled nosy journalists, drunk patrons, entitled elite, ignorant police. He has had it all — or at least most, but he likes to think he can handle anything life throws at him. Nezumi doesn't remember the last time someone has offered to speak on his behalf — a guardian, a friend or a partner — he supposed that he doesn't exactly give the impression he ought to be cared for or that he cannot speak for himself, and he understands it. He has always been the independent one, the carer — and that is as it should be. That is who he wants to be. "I won't be long," Nezumi reassures; he turns to leave, but just before grabbing the doorhandle, he gives Peter a conniving look and attempts at a joke: "But if you hear me scream for help, feel free to rush to my rescue."
"Y'sure?" Peter asked, even as he was watching Nezumi leaving and, even more, was trying to hide the relief in his voice.
There was no nice way to put it: the case was a total bomb. And though Peter was sure that Nezumi was a fine investigator, thorough and top of the line (as far as Peter's knowledge of this type of work went), a man can only get his hopes up with false leads and dud information before he wants to call it quits, demand his money back, and let come what bloody, gorey, and torturous may. Peter still held that thought even when someone had rang him up and dangled just one more bit of hope in front of him: information.
Peter folded his arms on the desk and glanced past Nezumi to the door, the other side of which the informant was presumably still waiting. The guy looked every bit the devil-worshipping metalhead every blue-blooded Christian and his suburban housewife feared during the Satanic Panic, from how the guy was nothing but a block of muscle, to the runic tattoos all over his arms and one side of his face, to every face piercing imaginable. Peter knew he sounded very much like one of the pearl-clutching surburban Christians, but that guy was setting off a few alarms in Peter. Which was exactly why Peter knew that it was better if he, himself went back out there: Nezumi could extract the right information, sure, but if shit went south and the metalhead informant went on a slaughtering spree, Peter could resurrect.
Since Peter knew that carnage was possible, he really wished he hadn't picked his theatre to meet up. He knew he should stop imagining every which wrong way this meeting could turn, at least one of them had to take this seriously, because... was that a joke? Peter raised his eyebrows; dang, he didn't know Nezumi was capable of such a thing! He tried not to smile, himself, lifting a hand to rest his chin in his. "Ha ha, sure thing, buddy," he snarked. "Although, I think you look a little too gymratty to be a damsel in distress."
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I could've written a Locked Tomb fanfic for Christmas, but I think this is better.
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The tree was far from ideal, far from Peter's normal standards. This thing that Peter hastily picked out of the tree farm to rush home after the interview. Sure, he could have paid someone to pick out the tree, and set it up, and decorate it, and the whole house while they were at it, but this was for Sadaf. More than his responsibility, that tidbit made the tree decoration another way for Peter to connect with Sadaf.
Truthfully, Peter wished he had went with paying someone to do the work. The tree barely stood halfway up the wall, not close to brushing the ceiling as Peter liked. It had to be sick, the way it kept shedding needles when Peter strung the lights and hung the ornaments on its branches. Looking at it, it reminded Peter so much of -- oh, God -- of the sad little things he used to struggled to keep alive long enough on his fort, when his handlers kept him tucked away out of the eye of the rest of the Commonwealth. Sure, the ones he decorated on the fort looked like bare twigs compared to this one, but he hated this one like those others.
Call him overdramatic, but he wanted to burn this one down. He would have tossed it to the curb if his daughter hadn't loved it so much.
He looked down at Sadaf sat up safely in his crossed legs, resting against his arm, the string lights dancing in her large eyes as she gazed upon it and suckled excitedly on her chubby fist. She prodded Peter's mind, and when he connected to her, he chuckled at the thoughts she fed him, "pointing" at the tree as if to say, See, Daddy? See? Do you see this? What filled Sadaf was something beyond wonder and magic, and that was the tree's saving grace.
Peter lifted Sadaf higher and kissed the top of her top. "Merry Christmas, sweetie," he whispered into her hair. He carefully leaned toward the tree and reached for the gifts. "How about we open some gifts, huh? Oh! Look at this big one from Uncle Mikoula! Or should we open this one with pretty paper from Uncle Tommy?"
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I dare ya Kristallnacht fuckers to get some
Think a faggot with a big pistol can't handle a gun?
Think a pretty princess can't bite if it ain't for fun?
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"Believe me, I've seen worse," Peter replied. He stepped closer to the doll, the subconcious part of him that still held on to all of those horror movies he watched when he was younger bracing him for the doll lunging at him and gouging out his eyes. "Much worse." He bent to look the doll in the face and unfolded his arms to toy with it, lifting up her arm and plucking at her hair, feeling the hem of her little dress between her finger. It truly was nineties, in a way that made Peter ache with nostalgia for simpler and innocent bygone times.
"She's kinda cute, actually!" He grinned over his shoulder. "Think we can use her for Saturday's show? I can do a quick rework on my choreography to incorporate her."
@bates--boy asked Leah King. (Also, #3)
assault & batteries - ice nine kills.
“I have no idea where that thing came from,” Leah said, her hands on her hips as she looked at the two foot tall doll with bright red hair that was currently sitting on her desk in the main office of the camp. She had serious doubts that any of the women in the last batch of campers that would have one of those things. Very nineties, and in surprisingly better condition than she would have expected. “Truly sorry that you’re the one that came across it though.”
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// Yeah, this burn out is fucking relentless. I'm just going to work on starters I owe and hope for the best.
#nothin' but static ( ooc )#if I don't receive my degree by the end of the month I will eat a pregnant deer
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