#flag anon

[daisyswift3]

WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE IS RISK FROM OUR (GAYLORS’) PERSPECTIVE????? IT JUST CLICKED FOR ME “YOU CAN JUST TALK AND I’LL STARE AT YOUR MOUTH.” THE “YOU” IS GRACIE. AND WE’RE THE ONES STARING AT HER MOUTH SLDKJDJDJ

THE WHOLE SONG IS ABT US WAITING W BATED BREATH WATCHING THIS WHOLE STORY UNFOLD. WE’RE THE ONES WHO ARE INVESTED AND CLOWNING FOR STH WE’RE NOT EVEN SURE WILL HAPPEN. “GOD I’M ACTUALLY INVESTED, HAVEN’T EVEN MET HIM” // “YOU HAVEN’T MET THE NEW ME YET” // “MEET ME AT MIDNIGHT” // “WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE WE’LL MEET OURSELVES.” THE MASS COMING OUT IS REAL AND IT’S HAPPENING

THIS LINES UP PERFECTLY W SO MANY OF THE ANON MESSAGES WE’VE BEEN GETTING ABT HOW WE JUST NEED TO HOLD ONTO OUR BLIND FAITH A LITTLE LONGER BC EVENTUALLY ALL THE PIECES WILL FALL INTO PLACE. I THINK WE’RE A PART OF THIS STORY

[chosetherose]

[ts-kk-blog]

📢 karlie finally unfollowed scooter there world is changing.... 🙏

Remember Karlie ig story.. Golden hour

Golden hour = the last before sunset... 👀

Sunset clause

And 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 flag anon post... Sunset

[spade-riddles]

🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

[guinevereslancelot]

Lol nothing gets to boomers like a flag redesign. My state recently adopted a new flag bc the old one (which was just our seal on a blue background, the seal was also changed) was incredibly racist, and suddenly you’d think that old flag personally raised these people from infancy with the amount of emotional attachment they claim to have for it. I guarantee that if you asked them two years ago what our flag looked like, none of them would have been able to tell you.

it's sooo silly fr 😂 i even kept the seal bc there was nothing wrong w it but it was one of those boring seal on blue background ones. you cant even tell those apart from a distance which is like. the point of a flag. none of the people cared abt or had one of these flags before someone suggested changing it bc its boring and nobody is proud of it. that's why i liked the idea of redesigning it, i even kept the seal to respect the history and changed the background to a beloved local landmark so i figured even the boomers would approve. i forgot they're afraid of all change even if its completely not political or important 🤦‍♀️

[daisyswift3]

Interesting…The US notebook is def a reference to the story of us and is a representation of the manuscript so it undoubtedly has much more significance than just hinting at a feature in her friend’s album. This feels like yet another red herring. I wouldn’t be surprised if Taylor and Gracie collaborated on that song bc it’s abt her (and maybe Gracie’s too) coming out story. I mean Gracie’s album is literally called “The Secret of Us” which seems like a nod to the story of us and “secret” might refer to how she’s had to keep her queerness a secret like Taylor has. Maybe she’s also a tortured poet.

There’s been a lot of talk in the gaylor community abt a mass coming out so this might be a hint at that. I mean it’s called The Tortured Poets Department and Taylor’s chairman of it which makes it sound like there is a whole group of closeted queer artists that are getting ready to take down the industry and she’s leading the charge.

I think it’s also interesting that 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 anon’s last message, sent on Nov 13, mentions the “crypt of notoriety and prominence” and the 5th 🎃 message mentions “a team of chefs” working on an exclusive never-before-seen menu. All these things make it sound like there are many celebs, some of which are high profile, working together as a team on this project.

WE-

[samuelroukin]

TAIKA WAITITI as Blackbeard & CON O'NEILL as Izzy Hands in OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH (2022— ) Episode 2.02 Red Flags

[becca-e-barnes]

all i can think about is bucky literally BEGGING to eat your pussy. just on his knees, calling himself a needy slut, just looking up at you with puppy dog eyes while he just begs for your pussy on his mouth. ugh.

Men who are this into eating pussy have a special place reserved for them in Heaven. Hearing someone beg to go down on you is life changing when they know what they're doing 🙈

But you're so right, Bucky would be so willing to degrade himself like that just to be allowed to go down on you. He'd be on his knees, trying to ignore how full his balls feel, begging for you.

"P-please." His voice is so quiet you almost start to question if he said it intentionally. "I need to taste you. I can't think about anything else."

His cock twitches despite how heavy it looks, flushed and angry against the pale skin of his thighs.

"Really?" You tease, tilting his chin up with two fingers so he's looking at your face, rather than your body. "Tell me exactly what you're thinking. Describe it to me"

He doesn't miss a beat. "I'm thinking about how soft you are, how warm and silky your cunt feels under my tongue. I'm thinking about burying my tongue as deep inside you as I can reach and still wishing I could get deeper. I want to feel how wet you are but more than anything, I want to taste how wet you are. I want to dream about it for the rest of the week. Every time I stroke my cock I want to be able to remember how you taste."

Precum drips from his tip and you're not sure you can deny him much longer. Not when he's making it sound so appealing.

"Do you even hear yourself?" You do your very best to act like you don't love the sound of every word that has just come out of his mouth.

"I do. I sound like a shameless, filthy, desperate slut. The type of slut who wants to kiss and lick and worship your sweet pussy until you're so sensitive you have to force me to stop." His hand wanders between his own legs, tugging his stiff length to the mere thought.

He's not above begging and you know that. He'll draw this out as long as he needs to until he gets his way but there's very little sense in that when you want this just as much as he does.

"Lie on the bed." You give him time to make his way over before following, lining yourself up just above his face.

You take a second to smooth his hair, enjoying the feeling of his freshly shaved face against the sensitive insides of your thighs.

He's looking up at you, your eyes meeting his. "Thank you." The relief in his voice is clear right before he grasps your hips and pulls you down onto his mouth.

Fuck, he's incredible. This is the mouth you dream about when you're alone. His tongue massages your clit, stroking back and forth before dipping into your fluttering entrance. You swear he must feel what he's doing to you. You feel your cunt clenching and rippling, your muscles contracting in response to the pleasure and for a second you wonder if he can tell.

He's hungry for this; he has been for hours. He's moaning and slurping obscenely, his tongue buried in your cunt. You don't even need to look over your shoulder to know that he's alternating between fucking his own fist and gripping the base of his shaft tight enough to stop him from spilling his release all over himself too soon.

It's very hard to tell which of you enjoys this more.

[valverii]

the flags cafe be so good until chuuya’s brother makes it go bankrupt (guys they all live prommy)

[oifaaa]

People just be saying a woman's extensive crime list, all im hearing are her green flags

[daisyswift3]

“READ INTO THIS WHAT YOU WILL”???? LIKE 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 ANON??? IS SHE GONNA START QUOTING THE ANON RIDDLES AND MESSAGES WE’VE BEEN GETTING??? CASSANDRA BEING CURSED TO NEVER BE LISTENED TO DESPITE HAVING THE GIFT OF PROPHECY WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT US KAYLORS HAVE BEEN GOING THROUGH DECIPHERING THESE RIDDLES AND MESSAGES. AND THE MESSAGE SHE’S QUOTING WAS SENT ON 5/5 AND WE’RE IN MIDNIGHTS MAYHEM RN. AND THAT MESSAGE SEEMS TO BE HINTING AT A TELL-ALL MEMOIR EYE— 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[ts-kk-blog]

This is so loud 📢

A fresh page, a new chapter 🇬🇧 flag anon 👀

Catch and release date is April 28.. 🤯

[spade-riddles]

Preparations leading up to the revelation, a divine source of knowledge. With pride all will be crystal clear.

🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

[bizarrelittlemew]

Our Flag Means Death 1x10 | 2x2 ⇉ Ed tidying up and talking to his first mate (for anon)

[m1d-45]

bloodletting

summary: a budding god needs a place to test their new powers, and childe was always a little too eager to lose a fight... a match made in heaven!

word count: 1.7k

-> warnings : minor AQ spoilers ? just like, general gi plot.. fairly graphic depiction of blood + other injuries (might be classed as body horror???). generally obsessive tendencies (childe <--> you). i cannot stress this enough, reader is 110% a sadist.

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

power was not something that came easy. it was fought over, stolen, defended with teeth and claw, tides of blood shed just so one could have power over another. social, physical, financial; no matter the leverage it provided, power was hard won. to give someone power was to admit defeat, a certain death that tartaglia had learned and taught more than his fair share of times. nobody undeserving of power ever held onto it for long; it was an acknowledgement that you were better, that you deserved it, that you’d won. power was a fickle resource that childe would kill to keep, only ever laying down his blade for a precious few.

the tsaritsa, of course. his fellow harbingers, skilled both on and off-field, who themselves could rival the archons. his family, for whom he’d happily give the world.

and naturally, who would be more worthy to hold power than you?

you, not just a god but the, the highest authority across all of teyvat. you bore a hundred names and a thousand monikers, your worship the one thing the world could agree on. granted, nobody could quite agree on how, but that was fine. childe did not need external powers to tell him what to do. he knew, in his deepest heart, that he had gotten it right.

he knew—and, on occasion, flaunted—that he was your favorite. of all the vessels you had chosen, you returned to him time and time again, wishing on his stars until his vision gleamed. his bow shone with power, even his weakest weapon more than enough to push his strength to new heights. part of him wondered what he could do if you’d granted him swords, or a claymore… but that was speculation for another time. didn’t it say something that you had still chosen him at his weakest?

the thought always made him smile. thick in the heat of puppeteered battle, before the sun to after dark, your presence was a constant in his life. at every altar, with every offering, when his hands stung from the rash of leather and his blade was covered in rust, your name a prayer behind blood-soaked teeth. he could not remember a time when his pocket was not weighted with a charm.

his devotion was no secret. he wore your bow with pride, entirely phasing out his other weapons. it didn’t matter that he was technically more controlled with them, for you had chosen this path for him. your word was his guide, a polar star through bitter nights.

he did not doubt when your presence ebbed or flowed. who was he to dictate when or where you spent your attention? no, his faith did not waver. it had no reason to. he waited patiently, going about his regular duties, lingering in snezhnaya for no other reason that he just felt like he had to.

who was he to question to buzzing in the back of his head? who was he to decline when he felt an instinct to leave, to go for a trip far past the city gates? who was he to think himself better than the guiding light that had never led him astray?

for you, he was whatever you needed. and so he went, armed with a thick coat and snowboots, hands shoved deep in the pockets to hide the slight shake. down the main road, an arbitrary turn into an alley and down an abandoned path, into a part of the city he’d never traveled. but a golden thread had tied itself around his heart, pulling without hesitation. he easily hopped over the fence gate, not bothering with hauling it open through the snow. the path beyond was covered in a thick layer of powder, his foot crunching through a foot of it before hitting solid ground. still, he continued.

snezhnayan winters were not warm. they bit and dug into every gap in your clothes, stealing away the precious warmth within. and yet, with his half-done coat and incomplete guard, he was not cold. or, rather, he couldn’t feel it. his hands were pink with frost, stiff at the knuckles, but he couldn’t feel the resistance. his body was not important, not now.

the snow began to thin. it fell from his knees to his shins to his ankles to his toes, until he was face to face with a thick wall of bramble, impossibly overgrown. he was beginning to overheat in his jacket. twin blades made quick work of the wall, and the sight behind it easily dispelled any breath left in his lungs.

the air that washed out of the bubble was thick and heavy, like a humid spring instead of snezhnayan woods. his breath came in short gasps, a shameful wheeze that he hoped was missed beneath the howling snow. he didn’t want you to see him as weak, as someone so easily tired by a short trip to a falling star; he didn’t want you to think of him as anything other than his best.

but you didn’t push him away. you helped him up—his head was buzzing with delusion, he could hardly see, when had he fallen to his knees?—and brushed the snow off his hair, not pushing him away when he leaned into your touch. he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could barely collect himself enough to recognize that he needed to get you inside, away from the wilds.

that was power. to so effortlessly take over every thought in his head, to hold his mind in your hands and pull it into your liking, that was the power he adored you for. gods were figureheads of power, a physical incarnation of their dominion. a god of the entire world would only naturally have power to manipulate that world to their liking. how blessed was he, that he could be the first you made yours.

he was with you when you first stepped into zapolyarny palace, looking around at the chandeliers and fine tile. he opened the door for you to her majesty’s throne room, sucking in a sharp breath as you brushed by. he was by your side when the tsaritsa swore you her fealty, delicately placing the gnoses in your hands.

and oh, how he’d fallen to the floor right then and there, dizzy from the wash of power that rolled off you in waves, an ocean that he willingly dove into. the floor was cool beneath his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin as sweat quickly began to bead. he didn’t bother pushing himself up on his hands, teeth sinking deep into his lip again to control his panting breath. copper bloomed over his tongue, filling his mouth and clogging what remained of his senses.

dimly, he was aware that he was being pathetic, that this would surely change your mind about him. he heard your voice, faint through the fog of his mind, your wisdom lost to his own inadequacy. and yet, despite his weakness, every part of him was tuned into you. he knew it was your hand whispering across his shoulders, he knew it was your influence that stole the breath from his lungs. he knew it was you, because it was always you. you were all he could think of, and now you were finally able to leverage your full power over his self.

he’d woken up in a hospital bed. saline dripped into his arm and the lights pierced his eyes, his head full of snow and iced over. and yet, the moment he was cleared for release, he found himself desperate to be back to your side, racing through the tiled halls of the palace and following the urgent burn in his chest. you would have been right to turn him away, to deem him too weak to stay by your side, but you didn’t. you smiled when he lost his breath and laughed when he wavered, brushing off his concern. you invited him with you—his lungs burned with the need for oxygen—as you twirled the gnoses between your fingers, as if they were toys or paperweights rather than objects of divine power.

divine to him. child’s play to you. a courtyard of snow was cleared in an instant, ripples of pyro melting permafrost while keeping the flora beneath intact, a lazy show of power that pulled little more than a slight hum from you in response.

he wasn’t so much a fool as to think he could teach you everything, or even something, about being divine. and yet he clung to your side like a sailor in a storm, watching as you grew familiar with the elements. he watched, stubborn and weak, as you stopped hesitating.

flowers bloomed as you walked by, crumbling to ash with the slightest look. electro jumped from your skin to his, a painful spark that drew his mind from his head, finally seeing your amused eyes instead of just mindlessly staring. you could—should—have just left him behind, but you didn’t. you instead asked for his help, taking his hand in yours and leading him to a quieter hallway of the palace. you didn’t comment on his thundering pulse despite the fact that you could certainly feel it, tracing a finger along the crease of his palm.

“i wonder…”

a claw of geo cut across his skin, a sharp sting that quickly welled with blood. he barely felt it, watching with detached awe as it filled up his hand, sliding over the edge and dripping to the floor. you didn’t show any emotion, just… watching. his heart beat in his hands, a pool collecting on the floor, and still, you just watched. your other hand moved over the surface, barely an inch away, the blood collecting in a bubble beneath it. with a hum, your fist tightened, pain lighting up his arm. a strained grunt slipped between his teeth, hand flinching closed, brushing against the ball of his blood you had pulled from his veins. his hand was stained red, shaking in your grasp, minutes stretched into hours.

all at once, it dropped, forced back into his body as forcefully as it was removed. with a snap, the skin stitched itself shut, and you were again dragging him along like a child did their favorite toy.

you did that a lot. pull him aside and experiment with whatever new reaction you had discovered that month, week, day, hour, watching his reactions with unabashed delight. and he let you. every time, without fail, he eagerly followed, knowing full well he’d end up rigid with lightning or with ice crystals studding his throat. it was worth it, though. you always fixed him up, squeezing his hand with a whispered ‘good job’ that never failed to make him dizzy.

it didn’t matter what you did to him. it never did. even when his mind was hazy with pain and he couldn’t quite stand on his own, he never regretted it. unconsciousness licked at the edges of his vision, burning black stains that lingered even after you stopped, but he never once hesitated.

if you asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. if you felt like holding him underwater, he’d cherish every bruise. to be kept as a toy was still to be kept.

[hansoeii]

the steard is making a return!