When you were explaining the plot of dsmp you never told me how c!ranboo & c!tubbo MET let alone became a duo and it's my business now bc you used my name in a post abt them. So here are my theories:
- Tubbo went on craigslist to try and find a token tall friend so they could make a token Short Person Long Person comedic duo and accidentally found ranboo who was lonely enough to go for it
- Tubbo found him standing ominously half-in and half-out of a dark alleyway by a white building, camouflaged, and thought "well shit j cant NOT be friends"
- Ranboo tripped over him by accident walking down the street one day and in that moment they became besties completely by accident
- Their coffee orders got mixed up at Minecraft Starbucks & when they went to swap them Ranboo misunderstood & drank both & Tubbo started following him around to get the starbucks order debt repaid. Ranboo doesnt know this but they're friends now
- They met whilst trying to commit the same war crime at the same time idk whp the fuck these ppl are anyways i just know you stan ranboob v hard & everyone's a war criminal
Realistically these are all wrong but bestie your hyperfixation is fucking insane so these might as well have happened. Who the fuck is tubbo anyways, goat boy?
Reading this was a fucking spiritual experience. I feel like a changed man. I gave you close to absolutely no information on both of them, yet you managed to somehow capture their energy perfectly with every single one of these. If I didn't know, I would totally believe any of these to be the truth. How do you do it. You magic man.
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teeth dripping lead & lips bleeding red & lashes curled for war.
or: the first and latest kill.
Guns and bullets are just another language Kashvi Singh speaks perfectly. Having learned how to curl finger around trigger from a young age, being able to tell faulty bullets with eyes closed and being an expert when it comes to the mechanics of firearms, she feels perfectly at ease with a recently fired weapon in hand. The glock is like extension of her being, another limb that she can wield. The smell of gunpowder smells like legacy, like inheritance, like birthright.
Really, the recoil of a gun in her hand and the sound of bullet casing clattering on floor is hardly a new sensation.
A body dropping seconds later, however, is.
With a bullet lodged in brain the man Kashvi has been assigned to kill keels over, blood seeping out of newly-acquired wound. She looks, stares, continues to feel the little shock of movement in her hand over and over. Something about the kickback of firearm felt, for the first time, very definitive. This had not been a warning shot: this had been an executioner’s sword swinging and she had wielded it.
She finds herself running cold for the first time in a long time. The only thought to be found in her head is a calm oh, so that is how it feels. Something resigned, something eerily calm. Kashvi looks, actively boring eyes in the results of her actions. She does not look away. She twirls her gun in her hand, flicking the safety back on with sharply manicured nails and storing it in custom-made holster.
She is twenty four years old and Angel still. The demand for murder had come relatively early for Kashvi, a price to be paid for her father’s reluctance to get his hands dirty when he had been an Angel himself. A clear message: the Singhs may be family friends and business partners, but still pawns in the Wardens greater games. They will fall in line. And Kashvi, as only daughter and heiress, will proof to be perfect pawn.
Because Kashvi sinks her teeth in every order handed to her. Ambition does not make her blind, but it gives her tunnel vision, allows her to focus on her end goal and nothing else. What is a body, dead at her hands, if it brings her closer to promotion? He was dead anyway, whether she pulled the trigger or not: by being the one to do so, she gains something.
Eyes are torn away and Kashvi looks at her Virtue, wondering what they expect from her now. Tears? A shiver? A loss of humanity, leaving her body raw and childlike? Kashvi simply looks, and quirks a corner of her lips up. “Was that it?”
onyx armour for my eyes, tongue waxing lyrical of both beauty and battle cries.
She is thirty five and Virtue now, and gloved hands are curled around an AK-47 as if it is a lover. Kashvi Singh does everything with feeling: even when it is unloading rounds of bullets onto a club. The gunfire like fireworks, the smell of gunpowder familiar, like legacy, inheritance, birthright.
Her aim has always been weak, but her ability to pull a trigger or reload bullets has always been strong as iron. Tonight, her aim need not be good anyway: the intent is to send glass and brick flying, to create a few dead bodies that will draw the authorities to PEST and make future patrons think twice about going to London’s supposed hottest club.
Perhaps it ought to startle her more, the murder of innocent people. This certainly is the first time that Kashvi is aiming her gun at people who are not wrapped up in the criminal underworld that has become her home. She however, hardly flinches as her bullets fly into the bodies of scrambling clubgoers, donned in party outfits and somewhat inebriated. The screams overpowered by the sound of gunfire.
She does not flinch, because why should she? She may not have pulled the trigger on innocent civilians before, but the money her family has earned over the years is stained with the blood of innocent lives claimed by their bullets. This is simply part of business, another exchange, another price to pay for the promise of success and victory.
Magazine empties and as Kashvi reloads ( without having to look, the movements imprinted on her muscle memory, like a studied dance ) she allows her gaze to fall on her crew. It’s on Solomon that her eyes linger. She is no sadist, not someone who murders out of pleasure, but rather someone who sees the ending of another life as a necessary move in a game of chess.
But as she watches him unleash hell on PEST nightclub, she thinks that maybe death can be beautiful when delivered by him.
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