#i can tolerate getting stabbed in the neck a million times but i draw the line at my stabber being a boykisser

[mrmeepsmadmind]

' me?!? get SNUcK uP aWn?!?!? by a SPY???? you do realize what im capable of. Right. ( emo wolf with hetereophobia eyes glaring menacingly at the screen . holding guns ) i could teleport spies into the ding dang sun. don't push me . '

coming out of theaters from watching Spy's Disguise like a movie and shipping freakineer and fry. merry valentines

[fruitcoops]

could you write a coops getting a piercing or tattoo (one or both of them)?

Part 6 of the Coops wedding fics! Thank you to everyone who has read this series--it’s been so much fun writing these, and hearing everyone’s thoughts made the past week an absolute blast. Hope you enjoy!

Check out the rest of the series on the Series Masterlist!

If someone had told twenty-year-old Sirius that in a few years, he would be walking into a tattoo parlor, hand-in-hand with his husband as they prepared to get their wedding date permanently inked on his skin…well, he probably would have laughed in their face. He had never been a big fan of tattoos—they looked cool, sure, but he never understood the point of going through all that hullabaloo for something that would stretch and fade.

Now, though, he saw the point. Wedding rings were amazing, but they were easy to lose; tattoo ink, on the other hand, was a permanent reminder that he had scored the most wonderful person on the planet as his husband.

“Right this way,” Jaya, the young artist with bright blue hair said, smiling as they waved him and Remus into the back. “Congrats on the wedding, by the way. How long has it been?”

“Three weeks.” Remus squeezed his hand and Sirius smiled, running his thumb over the ring. God, he would never get tired of seeing it there.

“It went well, I assume?” Jaya asked as they began setting up.

“It was perfect.” Sirius felt a jolt of fear in his stomach when he saw the tattoo gun, but quickly quashed it down; they had done their research and worked on the design with Jaya even before the actual wedding. He wanted to do this.

“We talked about the process over the phone, but do you have any questions? I’ll go over aftercare again once we’re done.” Jaya paused for a moment, but neither of them spoke up. “Alright, then, which brave soul wants to go first?”

Best to get it over with, Sirius thought. “I can go,” he said, much quieter than intended. Remus raised his eyebrows and he kissed his forehead quickly in reassurance before settling into the chair. He let go of Remus’ hand for a second to pull his shirt over his head, then took it once again and tried to stop the fluttery nerves in his gut.

“Right in the center, yeah?” Jaya leaned down with a stencil, their silver-lined eyes flicking up to Sirius’ face.

“Yep.”

“Alright.” He swallowed hard at the cold feeling of the paper on his skin, just below the hollow of his throat. His neck felt bare without the necklace, but it would be back soon enough. Jaya held a mirror up to show the small numbers. “Look good?”

Sirius nodded. “Let’s do it.”

His heart hammered in his throat and he let out a shaky breath as Jaya cleaned the area and cleaned up their drawing, then picked up the tattoo gun. “Je t’ai,” Remus murmured as he closed his eyes in a last-ditch attempt at relaxing. “You’re alright.”

“Oh, fuck,” Sirius hissed when the needles touched his skin. He clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on Remus’ hand, breathing slowly as pain prickled all across his chest. It felt like a million bee stings, or the last week of his broken ribs healing.

“Do you need a break?” Jaya asked without looking up.

“Just keep going,” he managed, blinking rapidly at the ceiling. The buzzing sound wasn’t quite as frightening as the strange kind of pain, but it certainly didn’t settle his anxiety.

“You okay, baby?” Remus folded his other hand over Sirius’ and traced a pattern into his wrist.

“Mhmm.”

“Lily and James invited us to dinner next week. Harry’s been asking to see the new baby lions at the zoo with you specifically. He’s also learned the word ‘lame’ and won’t stop using it on James.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Lily says it was her fault, but she told James it was me who taught him to say it.” Remus rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“It’s karma. You taught him to actually swear, after all.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Remus complained. “The line is, ‘that’s so unfair, sweetheart, and we need to get revenge’.”

“Right, sor—ow.” Sirius blew out a harsh breath as the needle skimmed over a sensitive patch of skin and bit the inside of his lip.

Jaya made a sympathetic noise. “Just a couple more minutes in this area and then we’ll take a break.”

Sirius turned his head toward Remus and quirked an eyebrow. “Were you trying to distract me?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” He moved one hand up to brush the hair off his forehead; Sirius melted into the touch, channeling his attention into the tingly feeling of Remus’ fingers in his hair. “Almost done, love.”

“I’ve got most of it done,” Jaya said, sitting back at last. “Just cleanup work now, and that’ll only take a few minutes. You’re lucky with all the muscle on your chest. It would hurt like a bitch if it was closer to the bone.”

“It already hurts like a bitch,” Sirius laughed, grimacing as Jaya flexed their hand and leaned in again.

“When you two told me your placements at our first appointment, I was a bit surprised,” they murmured, back in the zone already. “Most first-timers don’t choose such sensitive spots.”

“The placement was the important part,” he said, wincing.

“With your necklace, right?”

“Yep.”

“I always like it when people have cute meanings.” Jaya swiped their cloth over the small tattoo before continuing. “I mean, I got most of my ink because I thought it looked cool, but hearing people’s stories is the best part of the job.”

“Would you say the wrist or the chest is more painful?” Remus asked.

Jaya bit their lip. “Depends on the person. The chest area has more bone, but wrists are notorious for hurting.”

Remus hummed, but Sirius heard the edge of tension and kissed the side of his hand. “You’ll be fine.”

“You’re one in the chair,” he laughed. “I’m supposed to be reassuring you right now.”

Jaya glanced up at him. “Count down from thirty for me?”

Sirius frowned in confusion, but obliged; as soon as he reached ‘zero’, Jaya set the tattoo gun down and stretched their back out. “Was that—is it done?”

“Yep. Congrats, you’ve got a tattoo!” Jaya grinned as he sat up, then handed him a mirror. There, in black ink covering a space the size of a quarter, laid a perfect ‘6/12’. The skin around it was bright, angry red, but Sirius was more focused on the familiar slant to the six and the curl of the two; he had seen it written on the PT room whiteboard countless times and, more recently, their mock-up wedding invitations. “Do you like it?”

Sirius cleared his throat as a lump tightened it. “It’s—I love it. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Jaya handed him his shirt as he stood. Remus took his place, looking a little pale as he rested his hand on the small table Jaya had set up next to the chair. “Still okay with the inside of your wrist?”

Remus hesitated, then set his jaw and nodded. “All good.”

“Are you sure.”

“A hundred percent,”

“Alright, let’s get that stencil on.” Jaya worked with clear intent and smooth ease—that had been one of the main reasons they decided on this shop above the others in the area. The cleaning was quick, Remus approved the stencil, and then they got to work.

“Holy fuck, you weren’t kidding about the wrist,” he half-laughed, gripping Sirius’ hand in a white-knuckled hold. “Now would be a good time to start talking, baby.”

“Oh! Um, we need to pick up eggs from the grocery store.” Jaya had to sit back as they both burst out laughing; Sirius put his face in his free hand to hide his blush. “Sorry, I panicked.”

“Why don’t you tell me about your day with Tremzy?” Remus suggested, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes as he settled back down.

“Yeah, okay,” Sirius said lamely. “Uh, I kicked his ass in Smash Bros.”

“You’ve got yourself a keeper,” Jaya said as they started working on Remus’ wrist again.

He smiled up at Sirius. “I know.”

The next fifty minutes passed much the same as they had while Sirius was getting his tattoo—he chatted almost nonstop, rambling about Logan’s terrible cooking and the standing invitation to bring Regulus along for a ‘we survived the Dumais house’ party. Remus scrunched his face up every few minutes, but Sirius kept their shoulders pressed together as he toyed with his free hand. Jaya gave him a thirty-second countdown as well before wiping away the last of the stray ink with a smile.

“How’s it look?”

Remus’ breath caught when he looked down, running his thumb along the lower edge. “That’s exactly what I wanted, thank you so much.”

“Any time, dude. Both of you have good pain tolerance.” They slid their cart to the side of the room again and stood, gathering some gauze and plastic wrap.

Remus leaned his head on Sirius’ shoulder with a sigh. “You have the prettiest handwriting.”

“And you have no excuse for forgetting our anniversary,” he teased, kissing his cheek. “How’s it feel?”

“Like I just got stabbed by a bunch of needles.”

Jaya snorted as he held his arm out for the bandages. “This might shock you, but…”

The three of them broke down laughing and Sirius shook his head, fiddling with the edge of the tape that he could feel under his shirt. A dull ache had begun spreading warmth over his skin and he knew the itching would drive him half-crazy over the next two weeks, but it was an easy price to pay for having his husband’s handwriting on him for the rest of his life. A permanent ‘I love you’, he had said the night after they decided on the design. Sirius smiled to himself as Jaya outlined the aftercare procedures. Permanent. Permanent sounded good.

[whumpywhumper]

Home

Masterpost

Set sometime in the future

TW: graphic depiction of panic attack but mostly fluff

@misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia @fanastywhump @elisabethrosewrites @unsure-but-alive-752 @jeverest00 @texdoeshalo @fanmanga1357-blog

Special thanks to: @0idril0 @rosesareviolentlyread @walkingchemicalfire @quirkykayleetam

V***V 

Markus was walking down the street slowly. Trying for all he was worth to make it look like a stroll rather than a limping lurch.

It was hard with the way his hip and thigh were aching, but he’d been an okay actor in high school. His Hamlet was to die for, or so he’d been told. 

He huffed, hitching up his jeans as they tried to slide down his hips again. The thick denim was loose around his waist, the weight he’d lost while still with Lucien and in the hospital absent from his lean frame. He hadn’t had the time, or the inclination, to go shopping for more clothes, and Illyn had brought what she could fit into a duffle bag from his wardrobe in Salem. 

It had been weeks since he’d been dressed in anything other than sweats and loose basketball shorts, and he wasn’t going to let the pain in his leg interfere with going out with Ben and Kincaid. They’d invited him along, pulling him away from the files they’d reluctantly allowed him to have so that the could help with the case. Claimed that a stupid rom-com was just what he needed to gain some perspective. 

Markus wasn’t sure that was true, but he was happy to be out now. 

Kincaid bumped into his shoulder, and Markus looked up at the slightly taller man, Kinciad’s eyebrow raising as he cocked his head, a silent question in his hazel eyes. You okay? 

Of course, his answering smile said. Why wouldn’t I be? His shoulders asked. 

Kincaid didn’t look completely convinced, but he held the door open for Markus and Ben, entertaining Ben’s enthusiastic rant about an upcoming release of a new Marvel movie. Markus liked the classics, wasn’t a huge movie fan in the first place, but he couldn’t help but watch how Ben lit up as he discussed what he hoped the film included from the comics. His eyes sparkled behind his glasses, the shifting green/blue of his eyes dancing under the muted lights as he made sure to engage Markus and Kincaid equally, pulling indulgent smiles from Kincaid even as he held the conversation one-sided. It was, in a word, adorable. 

Markus followed Kincaid’s hand as he placed it on Ben’s back, guiding the distracted man through the crowd. They moved so well together, a decade of friendship and partnership that baffled Markus with its easy beauty. He shook his head, trying to keep abreast of them despite his hidden limp as they made their way toward the concessions. They’d purchased their tickets online, but a lively discussion about appropriate movie candy and fare had taken up the walk on the way over. 

Markus liked twizzlers. Kincaid and Ben both liked popcorn. But that’s where the agreement ended. 

Kincaid liked buttered popcorn, whereas Ben thought that was an abomination of fake chemicals that didn’t deserve the salt that was blessed upon it. He, instead, liked plain, salted popcorn mixed with M&M’s of all things. It was a bitter, contested, and well-loved argument that, apparently, Markus was going to be the deciding vote on. 

He was going to have to disappoint them both. 

He didn’t like popcorn at all. It got stuck in his teeth. Ruining that for them before they got to the theater, however, wasn’t even an option. Having both Ben and Kincaid eagerly explaining the merits of their preferred snack to him, including him, laughing and egging each other on. It let Markus feel like he was part of them, even if it was just a little part, and he couldn’t help but crave it.  

The first hint of unease started bubbling in Markus’s gut as they stood in the back of the line. His eyes darted around, taking in the people, the families and little kids screaming and running around to the arcade. The bright posters heralding blockbusters that he hadn’t been around to see advertised. The screens overhead flashing with even more advertisements and commercials. It was a little. . . overwhelming. 

Markus stiffened when a hand brushed against his back, snapping his head around from where he’d been scrutinizing a couple of girls getting drinks from the in theater bar, meeting Ben’s concerned, questioning gaze with an automatic smile. “Sorry, I think I missed that?”  

Ben smiled back, but the worry didn’t completely go away. “I asked if you were alright?” 

Markus made his smile even brighter and consciously unclenched his hands from around his biceps, uncertain of when he’d even crossed his arms. “Of course, yeah,” he laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as forced as it felt, “just wondering if my alcohol tolerance has gone down. I used to be able to drink Clint under the table, ya know?” 

Ben and Kincaid both chuckled at that, shaking their heads. Kincaid slung an arm around Ben’s shoulders, gesturing for them both to move up in line. “I’m sure that he tells a different story.” 

“Well yeah,” Markus answered, relieved that they seemed to be accepting his distraction, “he’s got to keep the big, bad werewolf reputation intact.” 

“Thaaat’s the reason, sure,” Ben snorted, pointing at the different drink options. 

Markus blinked as Ben’s attention wavered, eyes flitting to the people that sidled up in the line next to them, watching how they interacted, their laughter or phone calls washing over him in a wave of sound. He swallowed, throat feeling tight, not recognizing that his arms were crossing back over his chest again. He knew that there was anxiety building, but he couldn’t accept that that’s what was happening. Not over something so simple as a trip to the movie theater. 

He shook himself, blinking hard, mind scrambling to make sense of what was going on in his own head, and he forcibly settled his shoulders as he realized it was the first time he’d been around so many people since he’d gotten away from Lucien. It was supposed to help, recognizing the trigger, right? 

“Hey, Markus?” 

Jumping a little at Kincaid’s voice, Markus forced an automatic, quizzical expression, like he hadn’t been a million miles away, and met the other man’s gaze. “Hmmm?” 

Kincaid’s mouth tilted in a knowing smile. “Can you go grab some straws?” he asked, eyebrows lifting meaningfully at the darker section of the atrium where the napkins, straws, and fake, powdered cheese lived. 

Markus nodded, smiling back, concealing his gratefulness and moved away from the crowded concession lines. 

But the further he got from Ben and Kincaid, the more his fear seemed to build. He stumbled as a little girl with two huge pig tails tripped in front of him, catching himself hard on his bad leg, barely hearing her high pitched apology as his heartbeat roared in his ears—the memory of being thrown, of being held down and stabbed—flashing in front of his eyes. He gasped raggedly, stumbling into the corner, eyes lowered to avoid the gaze of the other people there. Fuck, he thought, gasping tightly in the back of his throat, fuck. 

Markus’s heart was a rustling bird in his chest, thumping away at his breastbone in an effort to escape. The roar of air in his ears was deafening, the farther he plummeted downward, the harder the desperate flapping of the trapped bird became, his lungs expanding like fluttering wings, unable to collect enough air to keep him from crashing. Fuck, fuck, I can’t breathe. He grabbed ahold of the counter. Trying to keep from going to his knees in the middle of a goddamn movie theater. 

He was in a movie theater, right? His blinked, eyelids fluttering, gaze roving across the room, not quite seeing the garish posters, the advertisements for next year’s blockbusters. The milling crowd and arcade games turned into a bright blur, arching across his vision with a kaleidoscope of color. Like he was high, his pupils unfocused and dilated with the overhead lights. 

“Hey, are you okay?”  

Markus jerked, sucking in a short gasp as his muscles clamped down, not letting him move. Freezing him in place. He ducked his head, his shoulders drawing up around his ears, protecting the sides of his neck. 

A strong hand encircling his bicep made him choke down a whimper, and his gaze jerked to the person touching him, his breath completely stopping in his chest. Blond hair. Tall. Pale. 

No. Nononofuck. 

He tried to back away, shaking legs threatening to buckle as he tried to put more weight on his aching leg. Markus stumbled again, thudding into the counter, and his hand left its white knuckled grip on the counter to grab at the hot fury in his hip. 

“No need to be so jumpy there,” the other man laughed, his hand tightening as he steadied Markus. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost? Did you see that new Annabelle movie or something?” 

Markus shook his head, numb to what his expression was, eyes wide as he tried to pull himself from the panic. “N-no,” his mouth wouldn’t cooperate, lungs starving for oxygen even as he prepared himself to beg, “pl-ease.” 

Suddenly, Ben was there, shoving the other man’s hand away, pushing the blond back. “Back off.” The words were hollow, pounding drum notes, the echo wrong in Markus’s ears as his brain tried to keep up with the wild thud of his heartbeat. 

Ben, Ben don’t— He tried to reach for him, his hand leaving his hip with a flutter as he tried to get it to move past the electric, flashing pain in the joint. The fear Markus felt at the other human facing the Elder was instinctive, terrifying. He wouldn’t have a chance. Ben would die. Ben, please, not Ben. 

But then Kincaid was there too, his broad shoulders crowding in front of him, blocking his view, enveloping Markus in his warmth. “Easy, Markus, shhhh,” he ducked his head, honey hazel eyes meeting Markus’s, weaving to keep in Markus’s eye line as he tried to see Ben. “No, sweet guy, c’mon, look at me.” That tell-tale tingle of magic travelled down his spine when Kincaid’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck, his thumb brushing through the short hairs at his nape. 

Markus shuddered, gasping, ribs starting to ache with weight of his shaking breaths. There were angry murmurs, and Ben’s raised voice. Ben shouldn’t be confronting Lucien, no. “I-I c-can’t—Ben, can’t—“ he still couldn’t breathe, “Lucien—“ 

“No, Markus, shhhh,” Kincaid’s other hand cupped his cheek, forcing his gaze to stay on him, “Lucien isn’t here, okay? Ben’s fine. Look at me, breathe with me, c’mon.” He started taking a slow breath through his nose, letting it out through his pursed lips, demonstrating for Markus, trying to calm him down. 

He heaved in a heavy breath, not hearing the unsteady, short moan humming through his throat. “Kin—“ he panted, “Kin’, please, I—“ 

“Alright, no, I know,” Kincaid released the hold he had on his cheek, pulling Markus’s hand from the counter and to his chest. “You’re alright, grab hold, just like we practiced.” Markus felt the dangling charms of his grahm brushing against his fingers, and latched onto it, his fumbling grasp tightening as much as he could. “Breathe in,” Kincaid murmured softly, “One, two, three, four, hold—“ 

Kincaid took him all the way through the breathing exercise, murmuring softly to him the whole time, keeping their eyes locked together. His thumb didn’t stop its slow caress, brushing back and forth, back and forth, through his hair. “Good job,” he whispered, once Markus’s breath started to actually match his own, “good job, sweet guy, shhhh.” He brought their foreheads together, and Markus swayed into him, releasing the death grip on his hip to clutch at Kincaid’s t-shirt, clinging to him as the panic left him empty and aching. They were breathing the same air, and Markus could smell the popcorn and Coke on the other man’s breath. 

Markus’s eyelashes fluttered closed, and he let out another shaking breath. “—Kin’,” he whispered, not sure what he was wanting to say. 

“I’m right here, baby, shhhh,” Kincaid wound his free hand around Markus’s back, trapping Markus’s grahm and his hand between them, pulling him as tightly into his embrace as he could. Surrounding him, protecting him. His frantic heartbeat slowed, settling in his chest, letting Markus take a full, deep breath. 

When they pulled apart, Markus felt punch drunk. He staggered slightly, still in the circle of Kincaid’s arms, eyelids heavy and half-lidded. Kincaid took some of his weight, palm bracing his lower back, face still so very close to Markus’s. 

He jumped when someone else touched him, head sluggishly snapping toward toward the newcomer. It was Ben, and Markus’s breath left him again with both a sense of relief that the other man was okay and with fear, realizing just how close he was to Ben’s partner, the way that they were curled into each other. “Ben . . . “ he breathed, voice faint. 

The answering smile he received didn’t hold any of the anger that he’d expected, none of the territorial hostility that should have been there with Markus ensconced in an intimate embrace with the love of Ben’s life. Ben’s hand pressed against his shoulder blades, fingers spread wide and possessive, encouraging Markus to stay right were he was in Kincaid’s arms. “It’s okay, Bambi,”  he said softly, warmly, “It’s okay.” Ben had foregone his glasses, and his dusky, blue eyes were were sparkling, lines evident as his lips stretched into a welcoming smile. “Let’s go home, yeah?” 

Markus swallowed, still feeling dazed as he turned toward Ben, not capable of leaving the warmth that surrounded Kincaid. “But. . . the movie?” he asked, words slightly slurred with the oncoming fatigue. Nothing sounded better than going ho—going to Ben and Kincaid’s—and falling into an early sleep, but he didn’t want to ruin their night out. He could make it through a movie. 

Kincaid shook a head, his nose brushing Markus’s temple. “It doesn’t matter, Markus,” the hand still on the back of Markus’s neck swept up to cradle the back of his head, Kincaid’s thick, calloused fingers woven through his hair, “do you want to go home?” 

He let the weight of Kincaid’s hand pull him forward, so that he was pressed into the crook of the bigger man’s neck, hiding his face from the curious gazes he could see in the periphery of his vision. He nodded, curling his shoulders in, making himself smaller. 

“Okay, then let’s go home,” Kincaid whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. 

Ben sidled up to his other side, free hand under Markus’s elbow, and between them, they took some of Markus’s weight so that he could follow their lead through the crowd, not letting himself acknowledge the people they passed. If his limp was more prominent now, it didn’t matter. 

He was going home. 

[nevernevadahq]

Everyone suspects ISAIAH NASIR of at least one of the cardinal sins, but in Nevada, the worst sins are bound by blood and this is HIS: THE BROTHERS OF ICHOR’S ROAD CAPTAIN. HE rolled the dice FIVE YEARS AGO ago as a RIDER. Under the desert sun, he claims the act of TATTOO ARTIST. He’s often mistaken for RIZ AHMED before those crimson colored glasses slide down his nose. IZZY better get busy living, or he’ll get busy dying by the ripe age of THIRTY-FIVE. There are no second acts in a marked life, and it’s measured out by the melody of WHEREVER I MAY ROAM BY METALLICA.

DATE OF BIRTH: November 11th, 1987

GENDER AND PRONOUNS: Cis Man, He/Him

HOMETOWN: Brooklyn, NY

MARK: Jacket

CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY [TW: DEATH]

Isaiah Nasir was raised in a three-story townhouse in Brooklyn, New York alongside other children not unlike him — other children who, for a variety of reasons, could not stay with their birth families. Some children had been given up, others had been taken away, others had been left behind. Some children were prone to outbursts, some were withdrawn, some were people-pleasing, some were rebellious. Isaiah was a little bit of everything. He was cordial and cooperative with those smaller or meeker than him, but those who were bigger or meaner were not so lucky. If a fellow child chose to belittle, ostracize, torment, or undermine an undeserving party, they had their head slammed into a desk, hand stabbed with a sharpened pencil, or skin marred by crooked teeth marks. Few staff members would admit it, but these actions were often deserved — and even more troubling, they regularly achieved their goals. Torment eased, balance was restored; and though he had to endure the consequences, Isaiah felt his actions were worthwhile.

However, the staff’s sympathy for Isaiah’s sense of justice faded along with his youth — a rambunctious child was one thing, a disorderly teenager was another (and in the eyes of the legal system, too). The staff knew they were likely powerless against Isaiah’s need to smoke cigarettes and tag blank walls with krink markers, but what they hoped to do was at least prevent him from “landing any real jail time”. Teenage Isaiah had scoffed at the idea of it, but once he realized “art therapy” meant “one hour a day dedicated to drawing WITHOUT anyone breathing down my neck or asking ‘can you draw me’ six thousand-fourty million times”, he was all for it. It was a mutually beneficial agreement, and calmed the tensions between Isaiah and the home staff. After all, the hours Isaiah spent at the home drawing were hours he was not spending in a holding cell.

Even as Isaiah and the members of his home aged and got their heads shrunk, chaos abounded. The values were simple — respect, responsibility, honesty, and caring — so why was it so difficult to abide by them? Years would pass, and Isaiah would come to understand it this way: each child (each person) was as complex as the circumstances which created them. Just because something worked for him didn’t mean it worked for everyone else — but even so, didn’t everything run smoother when people tried to agree? When people cooperated? When no one tried to assert themselves over the other? Isaiah learned that this attitude, while virtuous and not incorrect, would get him fucked up in a moment’s notice if taken onto the streets. Shit was tough — he had to be tougher.

“Peaceful methods only work on people who care about peace. People who conduct themselves violently, who do wrath for wrath’s sake, cannot understand and won’t be swayed by peace. Tolerance can only go so far.” Is what Miriam told him. Miriam was the head bartender and co-owner of Vig’s Bar, a dimly-lit dive where Isaiah got his first real job. For the three years prior, Isaiah had been making petty cash off drawing logos, show posters, and merchandise for the local heavy metal bands that played at Vig’s — but bar-backing there was the first steady situation he’d ever had. And he was 18 now, so he could not, under any circumstances, fuck it up. Miriam understood this — about a decade earlier, her girlfriend (a tall brunette named Claire who Isaiah had terrible a crush on, likely because she was so extremely unavailable) had been in a similar situation — so she took Isaiah under her strong, heavily-tattooed wing. Soon, Isaiah was living in Miriam and Claire’s spare room, riding and repairing motorcycles with Claire’s brother on the weekends, and learning to tattoo from Miriam’s go-to artist.

Isaiah loved Miriam for her kindness as well as her strength. Isaiah wanted to be like that. He wanted to be tough, fair, caring, generous, intelligent, and loyal. He wanted to do for others what Miriam had done for him. A handful of years after they’d met, he spoke these words at her funeral, crying as Claire held his hand.

Claire tried to hold Vig’s down, but she couldn’t make it work. Rent was rising. Bands were moving out west. Clientele dwindled. Vig’s closed. Claire moved to Oregon, leaving Isaiah with an apartment he could barely pay for. The veil of grief was thick and heavy — Isaiah wallowed for about two weeks before he began to hear Miriam’s gruff voice in his head, telling him to get his ass up and get to work. For her was the mantra. He’d do it for her.

Six years after Miriam’s death and 28 after his birth, Isaiah decided it was time to get out of New York City. He’d never been anywhere west of Massachusetts, and he was antsy (or as Miriam would have said, shpilkes).So why Nevada? Well, why not? He knew the bike ride out there would be phenomenal, and he knew he could make money tattooing there. He had fuck-all to lose, and a lot to gain — because, y’know, he’d say to anyone who asked, the venn diagram of people who like motorcycles and people who like tattoos is practically a circle.

Isaiah’s interest in motorcycles, tattoos, and leather led him (naturally) to the Styx. It was his sense of justice, order, and politics that led him to The Brothers of Ichor. He spent five years riding with them before being promoted to Road Captain. He strives to be a dynamic, honorable Road Captain; and faithful guide to his Brothers. He is tough, fair, caring, generous, intelligent, and loyal. He enjoys heavy metal, horror films, whiskey, and spending time with his black cat named Obituary.

Isaiah Nasir believes in the collective. Paramount to him now is the concept of family. Family is a moving, breathing thing. It is a group of people, willfully chosen or otherwise, who pledge adherence to shared values. Family is a group of people existing in intermittent states of vulnerability, strength, compassion, and firmness. This is the way to truth, to life. Self-reliance leads only to isolation, stagnation, destitution; without others, there is nothing. Family — the collective, the group, the whole, the unit of many —is everything.

ISAIAH NASIR IS WRITTEN BY OZZY.