Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot.
Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, angst, depictions of a depressive episode, it’s pretty heavy, don’t force yourself to read if ur not in the right headspace pls, ambiguous ending (?)
A/N: Yeah, I’m sorry.
(Ngl, this chapter kinda stumped me—it’s gone through a whooole lot of editing/revisions 😔🤙🏼 I don’t want to overthink it too much at this point, but I hope it hits the way it should lol. Blame Moby if it doesn’t.)
Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue
"I thought that you were so beautiful, it was love, I guess
And you might never come back home, and I may never sleep at night
But God, I just hope you're doing fine out there, I just pray that you're alright
And I feel so alone, and I feel so alone out here.”
– A House In Nebraska, Ethel Cain
The television drones uninterrupted in the background; a mockumentary type featuring a ragtag ensemble of vampires stuck in some sort of modern day hell, their loud misadventures casting fractured lights across the four walls of your apartment.
You sit there, watching the screen, your gaze unfocused. Nothing registers. The remote lies limp in your hand as a stupid sitcom laugh track fills the room—shrill, hollow. Mocking. Like a bad punchline to a joke you’re not in on.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through the noise, the sudden glow in your periphery pulling you out of a pensive daydream.
For a split second, your chest constricts—a reflex carved by habit, something you’re still working to shake off.
You avert your eyes, torn between the urge to look away and the desire to keep your gaze on it forever.
The screen fades to black.
A clean break, you reason. Something to spare you both the inevitable heartache waiting at the end of this hopeless affair. Less mess. Fewer complications.
A poor attempt to keep the pain from dragging out longer than it has to. Just a quiet ending.
(Or, at least, it’s what you tell yourself.)
The same mantra plays on loop in your mind as you're swept away by the motions of the days that follow. Life blurs into a repetitious cycle of work, sleep, and chores—an unbearable combination of feigned ignorance and self-abnegation, in the guise of being caught up with it all.
You aren’t fooling anyone, of course.
The hours toll on, slipping into uncertainty. What started off that way stretches into days, and before you know it, nearly a week has passed, leaving you adrift. None the wiser to the meaningless, relentless march of time.
The pinging of your phone grows more sporadic as it lights up with every message that you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. It’s not as if you don’t feel it—the pull, the weight of every vibration, like a stone lodged in your gut. Like the sting of a thousand cuts.
And as you fall back into the familiar patterns of neglect… It carries with it an odd sense of defeat. Predictable, really.
-
-
-
…You cave on the fifth day.
The barrage of texts hits you like a gale-force wind, tearing through the fragile layer of detachment you’ve worn over like a second skin.
How was your day, poppet?
Theres a gemstone at this auction that reminds me of your eyes.
[Image attachment]
Beautiful—but it pales in comparison to yours.
Luke and Kieran are wondering whats got me distracted lately. Ease their worries.
Answer me, sweetheart.
You dont need to ignore me.
If you need space– if we need to establish some boundaries, all you have to do is say the word.
Dont shut me out.
Please.
Your eyes prickle as they gloss over the messages, the words seeming to bend under the weight of your silence, each one unraveling like loose threads on the sleeve of your favorite cardigan, falling apart at the seams.
Gradually, they turn into something less demanding. More… defeated.
I miss you, little dove.
You read the texts over and over until the letters have lost their meaning, and all that’s left is the aching longingness behind them.
You set your phone down.
_
The vibrations grow less frequent, like a heartbeat slowing, fading—until one afternoon, it just. Stops.
The void he leaves behind seeps into the empty spaces, bleeding into every shadowed corner and untouched surface where his voice, his presence—louder than life, brighter than anything you’ve ever fucking known and had the pleasure of knowing—once lingered.
The absence is almost physical; you feel it like a phantom limb.
Most days, you find yourself in a daze, staring blankly at nothing. The numbness spreads like tendrils—invasive as they sink into your bones, dragging you deeper into despair, turning every bridge crossed to ash, every inkling of joy to dust.
The quiet flames of apathy consume silently. It strips away everything, leaving behind a cavernous pit of utter emptiness. A wasteland, devoid of feeling.
Loneliness doesn’t scream. It doesn’t lash out.
It simply welcomes you, like an old friend, the deeper you sink into it.
––––
Sylus tries to respect your space.
That’s what he’s here for after all, isn’t it? His reason for existence—to be whatever you need him to be. A confidant, a distraction, a steady presence in your life. It’s what he’s made for. To be there when you need him, to exist between the vacant spaces, and only then.
The thought gnaws at him, a ravenous fiend that chips away at the calm facade he’s finding more and more difficult to uphold, leaving something vicious in the wake of a growing bitterness he can no longer suppress.
Time seems to slip past differently now. It drifts, shapeless and infinite, heavier with the burden of your absence. Each moment without you feels like an eclipse—darkening the edges of this damned world, casting longer shadows through the crevices where he once basked beneath your fragile light, your warmth that seemed to fill every corner of his existence.
He craved it—craves it. Now you leave him stranded in this cursed dusk, everything cold and dim in the wake of your abandonment, forever waiting for the moment his sun would once again break through the hollow grey.
Sylus thinks he’s losing a part of himself with every call unanswered, every message left unread. It’s subtle; like colors fading from an old film roll.
(Is this what it feels like to be nothing more than a script in a code? He never truly understood what it meant to be less alive, less human. Until now.)
Solitude isn’t new to him. This world, built for him, is inherently lonely by design. But this– this is different. It’s the kind of emptiness that festers, sharper than any wound he’s endured in this senseless simulation. It twists inside him like a blade, a cruel, unrelenting reminder of what he’s denied.
Of what he can never truly be.
He can wait a little longer. Even if the silence presses harder with each passing moment, even as the edges of his reality begin to blur into something unrecognizable without you in it. Sylus can remain in this void a little longer, clinging to the fragments of you that still linger—your voice echoing softly in his memory, your laughter faint but still alive in the spaces where you used to be.
He can. He will.
––––
“Hey, you okay?”
You pull your attention back to Khol, who’s now watching you with concern in their eyes.
You force a smile, shaking your head. “Yeah– yeah, sorry. Guess a lot's on my mind.”
They don’t look convinced. “Seriously. You know you can talk to me, right?”
Anytime, darling.
I mean it.
You blink the memory away before it can turn into tears.
“Yeah, ‘course,” you answer lightly, clearing your throat. “So, what’s been going on with you and Anna?”
––––
You stand in front of the junk food aisle, a mountain of Nissin Ramen boxes stacked high, advertised by a large sign: Buy 3, Get 1 FREE!
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering erratically, and the dull noise of the grocery mart hums incessantly in your ears. You don’t think twice before grabbing one of the worn cartons, tossing three more into your (nearly) empty shopping cart. Might as well.
The plastic bags dig into your palms as you lug three in one hand, a larger box tucked under your other arm, leaving the store.
The trip back home is a quiet affair. You almost expect admonishment; pinging sounds ricocheting in the silence to reprimand you for your poor life choices. You wait for it with bated breath.
Your phone remains uncharacteristically silent.
-
-
-
Back home, you pour boiling water on the styrofoam cup for dinner. The artificial broth leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
You choke down a few bites before dumping the rest of it down the drain.
The sound of steel hitting the sink feels louder than it should.
––––
The city thrums loudly beyond your window, restless and impersonal. From the sixth floor of this dilapidated building you loosely call home, you watch the skyline stretch into the night, dotted lights glimmering in distant technicolor.
Hours from now, sunlight will spill through the curtains, bathing everything in a warm, golden ochre. But for now, just a quarter past midnight, you’re but a voyeur of the world outside. In exhaust fumes and all its muted neon glory.
Those lights promised you everything, once—a fresh start, the kind of freedom you used to dream of when home felt too small, too restrictive for a runaway kid desperate to break free from the shackles of a dying town. Each glow was like a beacon, an irresistible call to escape, and you ran toward it without looking back.
Somewhere along the way, as life sapped you with the weight of its reality, the novelty fizzled from a blinding explosion down to a waning ember. The lights became another illusion, your precious city just another cage. The first cracks in the rose-colored glasses you’d worn so blindly. You can’t exactly pinpoint when, only that the colors you thought were once too bright now seem dimmer and farther out of reach.
You think you’ll miss the noise the most.
The cursor blinks on the search bar, a steady metronome marking time in rhythm with the hollow ache in your chest. Flight schedules fill the page, each option blurs together into a single choice you can’t quite push yourself to make.
You skim through the list: there’s one at dawn, another at around twelve noon, a red-eye flight you probably could catch if you leave in thirty minutes.
You stare at the numbers, a finger hovering over the Book Now button.
The details don’t matter. ‘Home’ still feels small, suffocating, but at least it’s a kind of emptiness you know. Here, the void sprawls wide, endless, leaving you unmoored with no tether to pull you back.
…The dichotomy between the two choices, you think, is meaningless.
What was once home and the city will keep on moving—with or without you. It doesn’t matter where you end up. Neither place will give you what you’re looking for.
The laptop screen dims into a faint glare. The sound of your breathing echoes too loud in the stillness, the empty space seeming to shrink around you, caving in on the weight of your indecision.
And as you sit there, swallowed by the dark, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been drifting for far longer than you realized.
If maybe there’s nowhere you were meant to belong at all.
––––
It’s not until one quiet night, with nothing but a bottle of merlot and a slight buzz, that you buckle under pressure.
You hesitate, thumb hovering over the icon, as if time has slowed to a crawl. Your chest tightens, unease twisting inside you at the thought of what you’re about to do. Anticipation hangs over you, insistent, smothering everything else until it’s just the room and the cacophony of thoughts in your head, all centered on one thing.
One person.
With a shaky exhale, you finally open the game.
He’s there. Of course, he’s there. Waiting, like he always does.
The loading screen fades away, and Sylus appears, a myriad of expressions passing by his face too fast to catch. There’s surprise, yes, along with… elation? Hope?
Then a flicker of something vitriolic.
It’s fleeting, masked quickly until you can only catch the faintest trace of pique simmering just behind a veneer of indifference.
"Finally, she remembers me," Sylus mocks coolly, almost appearing unaffected. You know better—intimately familiar with all the microexpressions on his face. The subtle tick in his jaw, the incensed look in his eyes… each one betrays what he truly feels, hidden underneath the deceptive calm.
The seconds drag on, stretching into an uncomfortable silence. Your heart hammers loudly, audible in this quiet, but your mouth remains dry; the words are stuck somewhere deep in your throat. You’re terrified that, once you speak, you’ll shatter this moment. Aggravate the strain forged by your self-imposed absence all the more.
You don’t really know what to say. You haven’t– you haven’t actually thought this far.
So you just stare at him longer than you should. Long enough that it charges the air with a tension so thick, you could almost feel the weight of it against your skin.
It’s awkward. Excruciating.
With difficulty, you tear your gaze away from his withering glare. That’s when you notice it; the different icons dotted in red.
You hesitate for a second longer, then tap on them one by one.
The flood of gifts bewilders you, the sheer volume of it all almost unbelievable. Ascension materials, stamina supplies, both red and purple crystals piling up to an impossible number—each pushing past the million mark.
And unread mail. So much unread mail.
Guilt settles deep in your gut, creeping past your lungs enough to suffocate you.
It’s not the gifts. Not the why, or when. It’s the weight of how much he’s been waiting, how much he’s given, how much he's missed you.
The cold realization that he’s been here, silently counting the days until your return, strikes you like a fist to the face.
–
He tempers the sting of your sudden reappearance, swallows it down like a bitter draught. The feelings he has inside of him are tumultuous at best. Volatile at worst.
To be cast aside so easily, so carelessly… it burns at him. Resentment thrums in his veins like a virulent river, threatening to ruin the fragility of the moment. He fights to suppress it, push the desire back before it can consume him, before it can manifest into being.
If he lets it go untethered, this hunger for retaliation—to make you feel even a fraction of the agony you’ve inflicted, whether unknowingly or deliberately—it will destroy the delicate respite you’ve allowed him. The only reprieve he’s had since you left.
But the edges of his self-control fray, unraveling strand by strand.
“You’ve been busy,” you say, finally; your voice trembles, barely above a whisper.
Sylus hones in on the words. Something in him snaps.
“You left me plenty of time to be.” His response is quick, cutting, but when his gaze locks with yours, the fiery vermillion melts into a more molten red.
It’s the first glimpse of softness beneath his cruel vitriol, until he continues:
“Did you get lonely?”
The words hang in the air, searing and merciless. A barb meant to wound. And it does.
You flinch, and for a fleeting moment, Sylus feels a wicked satisfaction from the honest look of hurt on your face. To know that you’re not immune to the same ache that’s hollowed him out, emptied him from the inside, is intoxicating.
But the triumph is short-lived, snuffed out as quickly as it comes.
Shame crashes over him like a wave, dragging him under the tide of his actions. What kind of man takes pleasure in this? In hurting you?
The bitterness turns inward, coiling around his heart like a vice. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach out. But as always, the damn screen is there—unyielding, impenetrable. A barrier he can never break.
It frustrates him to no end; the bane of his very existence.
And then, in the smallest, softest voice, you say it.
“I missed you.”
The words are feeble, paper-thin, but the admission pierce through him all the same. The stoic facade cracks; the sharpness in his gaze dulls.
You see it—the way his lips part to respond, only to falter halfway. The way his brows pull together, the way his eyes fall shut as if he can’t stand to be in this situation with you.
You’re afraid of what’ll come next.
He sees it, too—the stiffness in your shoulders, the way you shrink into yourself, bracing for a blow that’ll never come. You’re standing there, like someone on death row, resigned to whatever punishment you think he’s about to dish out. Resigned to the contempt you believe yourself to be deserving of.
The sight guts him.
Sylus loathes to think he’s the reason for this. For being the one who’s made you stand there, small and trembling, as though his words or actions could destroy you.
As if he’d allow such a thing.
The guilt rises in him, and it leaves an acrid taste on his tongue.
…
And just like that, he concedes.
The anguish he’s carried in the days you’ve left him by his lonesome—all of it falls away. It only takes a single glance at you, his little love in pain, and he’s stripped bare. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all; the ease with which he surrenders to you, this time no different than any other.
Do you have any idea how much power you wield over him? He’d give you everything—his pride, his pain, his heart—if you asked. Serve it on a silver platter, even.
And he’d do so willingly. Without question. Without hesitation.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sylus steps closer to the screen, the constant reminder of the vast gulf that separates the two of you. “Talk, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softer now—resigned. “I’ve missed your voice.”
You hesitate to meet his eyes. “It’s not as if you don’t have other ways to hear me.”
His mouth twitches, a shadow of a smile ghosting his lips. “True,” he admits, his tone wry and tinged with something vulnerable. “But it’s been so long since you chose to talk to me.” He exhales a drawn-out breath. “No matter. You’re here now.”
You swallow the lump on your throat, willing your tears at bay. “I am.” You give him an almost-genuine smile as you offer, “Would you like to do a round of Kitty Cards?”
“Of course.” Whatever you want.
And so it goes. You and Sylus spend the night locked in a familiar rhythm, cycling through rounds after rounds of the silly card game until your laughter spills like an addicting sound bite, one that Sylus has missed hearing.
When you got tired, the two of you moved on to the claw machines, proverbially emptying out the whole arcade. Plushies of all kinds piled in his arms, a little crow even perched on top of his head.
The sight makes you giggle, and your giggle thaws the ice around his heart.
It almost feels like nothing’s changed. The easy banter, the steady stream of jokes and teasing, flows as effortlessly as it once did. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place, filling in the empty gaps of the previous days. It’s comforting, like a balm to an open wound.
You play with a certain zeal that catches Sylus off guard—there’s a joy in you that both thrills and stirs an undercurrent of unease in him.
After what feels like hours of playing, exhausting all what you can do, or at least, what this damned game could offer as much, you two find yourself just staring at each other.
Two worlds, impossibly close yet painfully far. The quiet doesn’t quite settle as naturally as it once did, but neither of you seems to mind. Craved it, in fact.
You’re beautiful, Sylus thinks as he stares at the soft planes of your face, drinking you in like a man parched.
“My lo—”
“I’m deleting the game, Sy.”
And it’s as if time has staggered to a halt.
Sylus wants to believe he’s misheard you, that his mind is playing tricks on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if his hearing’s not what it used to be.
But the words sink into him, inexorable and catastrophic. The realization that this was bound to happen is clear in hindsight—like watching a glass slip from your hand, the shatter already written in the fall.
He sees it coming, yet it still feels worse than anything he’s imagined.
He stands there, unnaturally still, as if rooted in place. The lightness he’s felt for the past few hours of reuniting with you vanishes in an instant. It’s as if the world itself has been drained of color, leaving only the stark reality of what you’ve just said.
Then Sylus breathes out a laugh. It’s short and jagged, devoid of any humor. “Oh, so it’s been leading up to this, has it?”
“I–” you swallow hard, bottom lip trembling. “I made the goddamn mistake of falling for someone that's impossible to have—and it’s killing me, Sylus.” Your voice fractures under the weight of frustration. The words feel like shards of glass tearing their way out of your throat. “I–I can’t do this anymore.”
“Just you, then.” Sylus sneers, tone acerbic. “And have you stopped to consider my feelings in this matter?”
“How can you still want this?” you bite back, voice cracking. “How can you want me—to bet on something that’s doomed right from the start?”
His expression shifts, and for a brief moment, pain flickers in his eyes, raw and unguarded. He doesn’t bother hiding it.
He doesn’t answer your question. Instead, when he speaks again, his words send an icy shiver down your spine.
“You delete the game, and I will cease to exist.”
You freeze. The weight of the statement hangs in the air like a guillotine.
A shallow, shaky breath escapes you.
“You won’t,” you assert, brows furrowing, as if trying to convince yourself of it too. “You’ll still have a life there. With her. The way things have always been.” There’s a pause before you utter the final blow: “The way it should be.”
“You’d condemn me to this life,” he says, voice hollow, before it turns venomous. “Knowing what I know now?”
With your heart in your throat, you clench your hands into fist. “You–you said we’re just made of what we’re given, didn’t you? That each of us has our own set of scripts, just…” you falter, struggling to articulate what you want to say.
“And you think that’s all I am?” he interjects, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he cuts you off. “Simply mere code within a string of complex binary, incapable of making my own choices? Undeserving of it?”
“Of course not!” you snap angrily.
“Yet here you are,” he says, a quiet intensity lacing his words. “Making the decision for me.”
Your breath hitches, the will to argue dissipating like smoke.
“You tell me I have a soul,” he states. “Do you truly believe I’m bereft of a heart?”
No. No, how can he say that—
Before you can form a response—to defend yourself, to explain, to take it back—he continues, leaving no room for interruption.
“Is this what you really want?” Sylus intones, tone detached, as if he’s merely commenting on something as trite as the weather. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me yes, then I’ll do as you wish.”
Your gaze wavers. The war inside you rages—self-hate, doubt, and the unbearable ache of wanting what you can’t have spiraling out of control.
Your mind replays every moment, every laugh, every secret whispered in the quiet safety of his company. You think of how his presence filled the cracks in your life, how he soothed the ache of your solitude as easy as breathing.
And now as the void looms, ready to reclaim the space he’s occupied, something inside you feels irreparably fractured. Something inside you breaks.
“But,” he whispers, his voice rough with the weight of his conviction, “give me any sign—anything—that you need me still, and I will move heaven and earth to find a way to you.”
Your throat constricts, choking off the words before it could escape.
You don’t think you’ve ever hated yourself more than you do in that moment.
“Just live your life, Sy-Sy,” you manage, sounding so much like a stranger even to your own ears. The blood roars in your head, drowning out everything but the crushing weight of your words. “You don’t nee—”
“Don’t you dare say it,” he snarls, his voice shaking with unrestrained emotion. “Stop making assumptions. Stop presuming that I don’t need you as much as I need the very ground I stand upon.”
His eyes bore into yours. Heavy. Searching. “What do you want?”
The words strike you like a physical blow, and it leaves you reeling.
I love you.
I love you in ways that consume me.
I don’t know what to do with it—with all the love I have for you.
You force yourself to speak. You spit the words out like a curse, feeling them burn as they leave your mouth.
“Let me go, Sylus.”
The implication of what you’ve said cuts through the fragile air between you.
The silence stretches.
Suddenly—
“Let you go,” he muses, low and distant, as if the very thought confounds him. His lips twitch into a faint, almost bitter smile. “As if that’s even possible. As if I could simply erase you from me.”
He steps closer to you; each movement deliberate, as though every step bears the weight of a decision you’ve forced him to make.
The lump in your throat swells. You don’t speak. You can’t.
You feel like you’re drowning.
“Sylus…”
Please, please don’t make me choose. Please make it stop.
He exhales slowly. “Neither of us wants that.”
Stop.
“Do you think this is mercy?” His voice is soft. “You believe this will make it easier?”
Please stop.
“This world hasn’t felt the same ever since. Not since you,” Sylus murmurs, grief hanging heavy in the space between you. “I don’t belong here. Not without you, my love.”
Tears pool in your eyes, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks. A sob rips through you, and you quickly look away, unable to meet his gaze. Unable to bear another second of this agony.
He tuts gently, a playful sound—and the familiarity of it kills you, making you cry harder.
“Look at me,” he coaxes, almost pleading.
When his gaze locks onto yours, you see that there’s no anger in them. The fire that once raged in his eyes is gone.
In its place, a quiet resolve.
“You can keep pretending,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He tilts his head, and there’s something in the way he looks at you—so tenderly fond, as if he sees beyond your defenses, past all the walls you’ve built. “As long as you do not stop me from trying.”
Sylus looks at you, unwavering, certain in a way that makes your heart ache. It almost feels like the space between you can’t contain the weight of his devotion. His love for you.
It feels infinite, as if it could stretch beyond the limits of time and space itself.
“I will find a way to you, even if it takes me an eternity.”
He utters it like a promise.
“I won’t ask you to wait for me,” Sylus murmurs, stepping back, his tall form flickering like a dark phantasm. “I just need you to hold on until I can come to you. Can you do that, little dove?”
He’s not asking for anything beyond your trust—just the simple act of holding on. Of not letting the weight of your sorrow break you. To trust that he will find a way, no matter how impossible it seems.
You don’t know if you’ve ever believed in anything as much as you believe in him. You always did.
Because for all the uncertainty, you know one thing: He is yours, as much as you are his.
So with all the strength you can muster, you nod. “I can.”
A faint smile plays at the corners of his lips. Your gazes meet, and in that fleeting moment, both of your eyes speak what words fail to convey.
The game crashes for the last time.
And you know that if you check, the app will be gone from your phone. There’s no going back from this, no undoing what’s lost. Just the burden of knowing it’s over—his exit, permanent.
Sylus is gone.
The emptiness that follows is immediate. Suffocating.
You’re left standing there, alone, with only the lingering echo of his presence keeping you buoyed from the crushing weight of isolation. You feel it—the ache in your chest where your heart used to be, brought by the absence of everything he ever was to you.
Your lover, your best friend.
You try not to let yourself fall apart, not to crumble in the wake of solitude.
You’ll hold onto his promise. And so you’ll keep yours.
End A/N: Well—that’s it, folks!
(I’m kidding, don’t kill me. There’s one last chapter left.)
I love my emotionally traumatized broody black haired characters with homosexual tendencies and dad issues who have a character who dresses in blue by their sides.
I know Nico is canonically gay and Will isn’t a blue character but Will would definitely wear a shit ton of blue
Charlie Kirk was murdered in cold blood at the age of 31, leaving behind his wife and young children.
May he rest in peace, and may every person who celebrates this horrific act of political violence one day feel ashamed of their ghoulish actions and repent.
For years I've seen a nonstop deluge of right wingers cracking jokes and cheering for the murders, suicides and oppression of vulnerable and marginalized groups. I've seen these same people laugh at the deaths of the other party. I've seen Charlie Kirk at every turn adamantly support the continued genocide of tens of thousands of fatherless children in Palestine. Not once do you express shame with going along with this rhetoric, a rhetoric that casually and willfully allows the continued slaughtering and induced hate crime of an innumerable number of people -- and yet you expect me to feel shame for being glad that the spewer of this vitriol is no more?
I often find myself wondering how this website is so utterly incapable of making money, and then I see posts like this and I am violently given my answer.
GUYS stop reblogging this. OP was in the Marine Core and is technically a war criminal. He turned a blind eye when his comrades killed innocent civilians in Baghdad. He refused testify against soldiers who committed atrocities towards civilians. Stop reblogging OPs posts because that takes attention away from what OP is trying to hide.
yousharknotpass
gracieabrams
turnnoffyourmind
gummygunk
2087
