offers rock hard fruitcake
gratefully takes it and burns it for fuel
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#extradirty

@theartofmadeline

Origami Around
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
ojovivo

if i look back, i am lost
$LAYYYTER
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

JVL
Sade Olutola
đŞź
Stranger Things
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Acquired Stardust


oozey mess

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@e4g1e
offers rock hard fruitcake
gratefully takes it and burns it for fuel

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Camps in his hoodie. No questions asked. Just casually camps in. his. hoodie.
[ WELL, it's not like he's going to argue if Neiriah's already pulled it tight around her, but his constitution's rapidly approaching a case of hypothermia under sub-zero temperatures while he freezes his ass off outside, so he just kind of just â walks away and back into the loft to snag another one of his million-and-one white sweatshirts to wear. Where does he even keep these. No one knows. No one asks. Damned if he actually knows the secret to scouring blood off white clothing. ]
[ SLINGSHOTS A MOLDY PIECE OF PIZZA FROM THE DEPTHS OF DESMOND'S APARTMENT RIGHT AT THE BACK OF HIS HEAD ]
[ GOD, HE COULD GENUINELY MURDER HIM.
HE COULD ASPYXIATE HIM IN COLD BLOOD AND TEAR STRAIGHT THROUGH THAT MESS OF QUASI-GUTS AND WHATEVER THE FUCK ELSE EQUIVOCATED TO MUSCLES AND TENDONS AND INTERNAL ORGANS IN A VIRUS IMPERSONATING A (FRANKLY SHITTY EXCUSE-SLASH-RENDITION OF A) HUMAN BEING, BUT DESMOND'S a nice guy. Sure is fun being pals with a train wreck in perpetual motion, huh.
So he turns. Mouth thinned, brows quirked, all mild levelheadedness as he literally throttles that piece of pizza to an untimely demise and sends it hurtling dead-center at Alex's stupid face. ]
Like I was just telling the police: I don't know an Alex Mercer. Hell, I don't know why he broke in here. But I mean â you'll have loads of fun explaining that shit to the cops, right? You know, for trespassing on private property and wrecking the landlord's window.
[ Breaks into his apartment in the middle of the night and DUMPS ICE WATER ON HIM WHILE HE SLEEPS FUCK YOU YOU STUPID AMERICAN ]
WHERE'S YOUR PATRIOTIC SPIRIT, ASSHAT???
fIRES A POP ROCKET AT
/DITCHES THIS POPSICLE STAND????????

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I have a box of cherry bombs.
"Thank God some people are patriotic around here."
Bloc Party - The Prayer
⢠e4g1e
"What are those markings on your arm? Do they mean something?â
Considering tribal tattoos were the tramp stamp of every Californian guppy and freeloading wino for miles and miles around, well.
"Short answer: nah. It was a personal choice. ... They're tattoos, by the way. Just thought they looked cool."
Weâve all been there. Apparatus - Processor [x]
Every now and then, Daniel would turn off the cameras in Clayâs cell and share a pack of smokes.
In his own way, Daniel felt he was helping Clay keep his focus and in control of the bleeding effectâs visions. An apology for all those under Animus influence. Atonement for his guilt from capturing them in the first place.
/dumb headcanon

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âşÂ E 4 G 1 E has followed you --
"Nice scar yâgot there. Who gave it to you?"
Trophy scar from a cage fight. [ It's not even half-decent subterfuge at this point, just a point-blank lie. ] Â You got an, uh ... interesting look yourself, though. What's with the contacts?
"Desmoon-moon'd"
"What's up, Neriah?"
letâs spend this 4th of july to recognise and commend the brave historical figure who gave our fair america her freedom. connor kenway. god bless and amen.
Independence Day, when we celebrate that fateful day way back in 1996 when Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum saved us from the alien invasion
Zombie apocalypse or not, Ellis keeps himself bound to his morals â so itâs not a surprise when the comment combining 'murdering survivors' and 'being right' gets nothing but a scrutinizing glare out of him. âWhat they shouldâa done was nip it all in thâ bud âfore things got too outta hand in thâ first place.â An understatement would be to say that government agencies like CEDA and the military havenât really had the best track record with him as of late. Abandoned safehouses and evac centers laying in waste left and right in his travels across the states, the fact that he and his friends had trudged through the city of New Orleans while it was being peppered in napalm. The fabled place which the group had set their sights on ever since they banded together way back in Savannah â in the end, chalk it up to nothing but yet another crushed pipe dream. That being said, his bitterness towards those who promised a solution to this epidemic is justified⌠at least a little bit.
Ego stroking aside and with a bashful grin reflecting from his face to match, the Georgian shakes his head in denial. âTruth is, I probâly wouldnâtâa made it this far without âem. Yâ see what happens tâ folks who get caught off all by âemselves.â Itâs a simple wolf and sheep puzzle â if an instance comes forth that puts the wolves in the majority, then the rest of the sheep are devoured mercilessly. âBâsides, sâeasy killinâ them things. You donât seem tâ be havinâ a hard time with it, neither.â Needless to say, wherever his people have found themselves now, he has faith that they can very well handle whatever the worldâs decided to throw at them.
At least theyâre walking this time, and not hastily taking the roundabout on rusty metal stairs or leaping across buildings. In Ellisâs condition itâs more like shuffling â but against the other things heâs had to do within the last half hour or so, there wonât be a peep of complaint out of him. Angering Witch or not, moving foward steadily on both his legs puts much less of a strain on his critical wound than everything else done today. Yet heâs fine⌠theyâre both fine. Save for the inevitable growls muffled by a set of claws veiling glowing red eyes and a sorrowful face, the pair step and stride straight out her sight without a single hitch. Only when the warning snarls at the top of the stairs return to woeful sobs does he release the breath heâd held without thinking.
Allowing Desmond a moment to pick up whatâs left of his dignity and swallow it back down, they pause on the floor below. Out of sight but definitely not out of mind; the Witchâs despaired cries continue to echo over their breathing loud and clear. He sneaks a glance over a few times to ensure sheâs not heading over their way before his attention directs towards the new set of apartments laid out for them.
"Wouldnât hurt tâ try âem, would it?" Speaking softly when heâs able to be heard â it could hurt a lot to try anything. At this point though, heâs running out of blood just as much as he is options, and itâs the thought alone that has his mind swirling â psychologically generated headache as he closes his eyes and leans against the railing for support. A second later, he pushes one machete-wielding hand off of the beam and uses the momentum to proceed straight towards the closest room in their view.
"Reckon itâd be better if we split up ânâ looked arounâ?" He does. Because it would speed things up that way, and he assumes he can go a few minutes without killing himself. Probably.
Manic-depressive didn't even cut it. Hysterics were one clean break short from going off the deep end, and his snickers might tilt toward feverish laughter, he wasn't dejected (in the barest sense of the word). That particular emotion implied a sense of hope, nostalgia a star-crossed lover to peace, and Desmond pulled the stakes on any notion of returning home a long time ago.The de facto leaders in post-apocalyptic cinema flicks usually had intuition and social tact, but he had neither. Miles wasn't all that great with collaborative effort, much less holding any ragtag band of misfits and killers together by the mawkish promise of better days. The politics of survivors dealt with animalistic impulse and paranoia and always, always waking terror, with the integrity of self leaping off the balcony for forays of homicide under a misnomer. The infected were still alive, after all. Fear rippled in the same manner as paranoia. The loss of volition was just the same as smearing the line behind inhumanity and wholeness, with whatever contrived form for being self-conscious, thinking, alive exchanged in alchemical equivalence for personal autonomy from societal norms.
Through that lens, the social sphere of the hereafter left much to be desired (less small talk, more murder).
"Might as well. It's FUBAR either way, but it wouldn't hurt to try." he answers distantly, blinking up at the termite-bitten wood and wrapping one palm over the steeled railing, internally debating how long it'd take to vault over the stairs in case of a rampage. With silence is as thick as blood, out past the witch with her inflamed, godawful wailing padded behind another door, Desmond opts to blink up at the swaying form of Ellis, who is probably good as dead if they continue twiddling their fingers. At any rate, it wouldn't hurt to look. Sitting on their asses wouldn't solve anything (besides buying enough time for the horde below to break through whatever paltry defenses the entryway below offered in terms of extending their mortality, dwindling as it was). After a second or two of deliberation, Miles hesitantly nods, raising one hand to indicate the doors nestled into every high-tier floor like a bait-and-switch at saving graces. "I'll check the lower ones, you check the upper ones. Just, uh. Let me know if you find anything."
Biting his tongue over the foolhardy assumption of whistling (sure, with a potential onslaught of zombies cloistered near the bottom and probable Witches stalking the halls, they could legitimately just sign their own death warrants and get on with it). Unsurprisingly, the first three doors yield absolutely bupkis. Locked or welded or door knobs snapped off to reveal plastered wood, Desmond doesn't waste a second attempting to lock-pick his way through to spent the rest of eternity with the faint scrabbling of human fingers and keening sobs. Evidently, it'd been a good idea to enforce a no-shouting policy. The fourth door opens to a supply closet swiped clean, save for a puddled mess of detergent at the far left. Further down, he concedes to sticking his head like a friggin' idiot through the seventh door and finds â office space.
It was inconceivably weird, that secular glimpse at the trappings of domesticity preserved under dust like a time capsule, sans the suburban service workers to fill the cubicles. The fluorescent lighting won't flip on a switch, but it's only a matter of allowing his eyes to adjust to the looming darkness before proceeding. Stacks and stacks of foldable boxes and Styrofoam peanuts, but â a shimmer of glinting metal at the far periphery of his vision leads to investigate a bit more thoroughly, and Miles nabs a slightly sticky semi-automatic handgun from between the fax machine and the bulking printer. And back out in the open air of the floor, he unloads the firearm, a full clip on-the-ready. The blood gunking up the entire external barrel is nothing he hasn't already dealt with, and he placidly wipes it off on his jacket before a signaled retreat upwards. No use trying to break defense through the hoard with a puny collection of knives and one pistol. Maybe Ellis had better luck.

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   [ Well, he doesnât normally make it a habit to scream in Desmondâs face, butâ      Oh.     Wait.   No, yeah, he does. Maybe if Miles would stop being such an annoying asshole all the time he would reconsider. He wonders, briefly, in the midst of Desmondâs yelling, if he has any neighbors. ]
   Oh, thatâs real convincingâ        YOUâRE THE ONE WHO DUMPED GARBAGE ON ME, IDIOT.              THATâS H A R A S S M E N T.
   [ Which is a real funny accusation coming from him, in all honesty. Doesnât mean he isnât going to kick glass in Desmondâs general reaction instead of picking it up like the nice guy heâs supposed to be. Instead of doing anything remotely helpful, Alex lashes out with a whipfist and SLAMS ONE EDGE OF THE TABLE (sending the moldy pizza careening in the air in the process) LIKE A RAMPAGING BARBARIAN. ]Â
[ Desmond might ascribe to the whole "true neutral" schtick the Assassins tote as their ideology, give or take a few chaotic tendencies (nothing's true, everything's permitted, so stick a knife in a dictator and watch them choke), but he won't martyr himself to that dogma alone, either.Â
      ... Lucy's going to be royally pissed when she returns, that's for sure.
  More importantly, though: ]
       YOU'RE HARASSMENT.           I WAS DUMPING IT WHERE IT BELONGS: WITH THE T R A S H.
[ He emphasizes the latter statement by WRENCHING UPRIGHT AND IRRITABLY JABBING A FINGER AT THE (FIGURATIVE AND LITERAL) PARASITE.       Fuming with a repertoire of crass jokes, the moldy pizza flying up and away doesnt bother Miles as much as the splotch it leaves on the carpet. THANKS, ALEX. IT'LL NEVER COME OUT NOW. Face contorted in a piss-ugly scowl, he points to the gross monstrosity staining the ground. ]Â
        What the hell did you just â   ISN'T MOLD YOUR COUSIN OR SOMETHING???
Excuses, Excuses - Lacrosse