#iron flag tattoo

[sheltiechicago]

Geometric Black Line Tattoo On My Back By Adrienne Habrel at Iron Flag Tattoo In Toms River, NJ

[rcksmith]

Sun and Water - Kaz Brekker

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader

Warnings: A LOT OF ANGUISH. Lots of mention of post-traumatic disorder. Curse words. Mention of death. Blood. Slave market. Mention of murder. VERY EMOTIONAL. VERY SWEET.

Word count: 4k

A/N: This one was very emotional for me. I cried writing with my playlist on full blast. I hope you love it as much as I do.

💕 English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

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Ketterdam smelled of trickery, poison, desecration and danger. It was a dark place by birth that housed even darker people. Its soil was stained with blood and despair; of both Grisha and ordinary people. Their hiding places were for tormented souls who had long lost their humanity.

If you walked the wrong streets at night with an arrogant attitude, you would definitely not return alive. But if you turned south, and had a little money in your pocket, your feet would take you close to the huge, shiny, flashy casinos run by Pekka Rollins. You would pass clubs where the smell of beer mixed with cheating, and the laughter of drunks drowned out the screams of convicts across the boat harbor. The colors of these establishments ranged between red, orange and yellow, a vibrant explosion that, in such a funereal place, became infinitely more macabre.

If you were more adventurous, and had a little more money, you would pass by pleasure houses. With pink and purple facades, provocative titles and women perched in the windows, waving at any gentleman who smelled a fair amount of kruger, their chants insinuating and seductive. The silk pieces of these places waved like a Land in Sight flag for the lost and tormented men in that sea of stone that was called Ketterdam.

To less experienced - and novice - eyes, those places were just grotesque pieces that were part of a strange scenario. Just a bad city, without many mysteries or secrets. But Kaz Brekker, whose mother's name was Ketterdam, knew that these establishments were more profane than they first appear. Its sins were part of a long list of money laundering, human and arms trafficking, drug exports, a meeting point for commissioned murders and, deep in the corrupt heart of that city, the headquarters of the black market. He knew that Ketterdam was not just a land of trickery, poison, desecration and danger. It was the place where anyone could have absolutely everything for the right price.

And that's how he found you.

Kaz didn't like to remember that day. But it was engraved on his skin like a tattoo, like a hot iron. A damned, cursed reminder that despite his Herculean efforts to be the monster everyone whispered about, Kaz was still a man of flesh and warm blood. With a heart that writhed.

Something about that day in the past wasn't right. It was like a mysterious whisper in the breeze, an omen in the unknown eyes of the wanderers, a mistake in a painting that made his nerves itch. And Kaz Brekker always hated mysteries that he didn't know how to solve.

His cane banging against the thick, crooked stone floor in that even darker part of Ketterdam, the hem of his black coat swinging from side to side in the cold wind. He had 2,000 kruger in his pocket - the Crow Club's only money to pay employees, bribes, drinks and bills. He used and abused Ketterdam to offer everything at the right price, and now he was going to pay his debts to men who provided information, to locals who spiked the beer with water and sold it for a cheaper price, and to women who seduced targets and facilitated robberies. It was the only money he had.

He didn't have to look to the left, there was nothing for him there. He didn't have to wonder why people seemed to crowd closer to the curve of the last street. But, in a way that Brekker could never explain even in confidential whispers to his own soul, he turned that corner.

With his cane tapping on the ground, money in his pocket and responsibilities to fulfill, he approached, against all odds. Step by step, the air grew thicker, the invisible ropes tightened unjustifiably on the pulse of his neck, the ghostly sensation of the icy water approaching like the waves of the dark sea.

Those sensations were getting more confusing with each pump of blood. The physical consequences of his soul being shipwrecked at sea never came lightly, and this was a warning. A warning that Kaz Brekker should have turned around and walked away. While he still could.

The men around were euphoric. The women looked sadistic. And the racket of voices was too loud for him to be able to focus on a single line of conversation. The hands of men and women were raised and clutched money notes tightly, waving in the wind as if it were a flag, their sadistic, depravity-hungry eyes staring forward like predators in hunting season.

Perhaps in a parallel reality, Kaz would have followed every sign Ketterdam gave him to turn his back and leave. There's nothing for you here, Dirty Hands. Ketterdam needed demons and monsters to stay stand, it fed on trauma and anger to perpetuate the ‘everything for the right price’ market. People's chaos and hell were what maintained the local economy. Any possibility of redemption, peace and, worst of all, love, were severely condemned.

Go away, Bastard of the Barrel. Maybe Kaz would have exerted the steely control over his veins more tightly, maybe he would have listened to the city's singing and paid more attention to the sea that swelled its tide, and then there would have been a life in which he wouldn't have widened his eyes at the scene.. Go away.

The sea roared, the waves broke, the putrefying hands of the bodies drowned in the depths of the ocean grabbed his ankles with more ferocity, preventing, restricting, screaming that his place would forever be there with them in the dirt of the sea. But it was already too late. He looked at the reason for all the commotion. The sun fell on that girl's hair and it was as if the rays had also penetrated the deepest waters of that vast oceanic darkness, exorcising all the claws that retreated with infernal screams, letting go of his ankles as if they were burning.

It was like a ship's anchor being pulled up with extreme brutality, splashing water everywhere, pushing the dying pieces into the depths of hell, scaring birds in the air, and finally, finally, bringing his soul out into the warm air.

Kaz Brekker felt his entire body shake as if he had just died and been reincarnated, it was like an explosion in the darkest depths of his chest that made his blood warm again, his heart show that it was beating and his soul breathe.

The scene in front of him shouldn't have caused any commotion in his spirit. Ketterdam was not a good place, and it was home to even less good people. That open-air slave market was nothing new. It was repulsive, disgusting and disgusting, but not new. And it wasn't something Kaz got involved in. Everyone had problems with him, and he didn't play anyone's hero. Never.

Until now.

One of the girls was sitting on that improvised wooden stage, eyes extremely scared and that damn sun shining on her hair that shone like the heat of release that made him breathe for the first time. She was young, small as a rabbit, and her fur didn't belong on those rusty chains on her wrist. You.

That was all an lapse. A powerful lapse not only in his judgment, but in his long-tormented soul. He blinded himself for the first time since Pekka.

The deprivation of air, the burning of the claws sunk to the bottom of the cruel ocean, the ice that shook his bones and the smell of dead flesh swollen with rotten water had finally given him a respite.

A truce so portentous and so overwhelming that, for two blissful, desperate seconds, Kaz fucking Bekker felt fucking normal. He was breathing, for the love of the Saints. He felt the heat of the sun, his muscles were light, his heart was swollen and the corners of the world were as colorful as when he was 8 years old.

He felt Kaz Rietveld.

All because that girl was in his sight. As if her sight was a miracle to his torment. As if she were a curse to Ketterdam. No good feelings have a place here.

But it was already too late. That lapse made Kaz approach as if he no longer controlled his feet. It made his heart beat with blood that wasn't his. It made him take out the only money in his pocket and hold it up high as the biggest proposal. None of that insanity was coming from Brekker. But from Rietveld.

“Her.’’ he said in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own.

Yes, Kaz didn't like to remember that day. Because it was confirmation that the boy he had tried so hard to keep dead and drowned in the sea was as alive as tangil. And that beating heart was his. Fucking hell. That lapse cost a lot; all the money the Crow Club made in that month. Kaz Brekker had countless dangerous people to pay and he had no idea what would do. But what irritated and infuriated Kaz the most was that, when he looked into the eyes of that girl as fragile as a rabbit, he didn't regret it.

Not at all. Not a bit. Even when he had every reason in the world to regret it.

He didn't regret taking you out of those horrible rags you wore and buying you a dress. He didn't regret bringing you to his quarters even when still had no fucking idea what he would do to you now.

What use would such a small, fragile and beautiful girl would have? You looked like a little rabbit. He made a fucking mistake, because now this little rabbit was looking at him with those big eyes full of emotions: fear, innocence, curiosity. Brekker hated it. But his soul was smiling.

''Don't worry. I won’t touch you’’ Kaz said that day. His words dripped with venom, disgust, and self-loathing. He constantly thought that his condition was a sarcastic and cruel joke from the Saints that Inej prayed so much to; doomed to never stand a touch, to always be a broken and pathetic bastard to the point of mortal weakness. This always aroused anger, hatred, and a thirst for revenge against Pekka.

But looking into your big eyes…he felt as if something very valuable had been brutally ripped from him long before Kaz understood what he wanted.

Inej was wrong. The Saints were not merciful. They were as fucking sadistic as the demons of Ketterdam.

--------

The days passed, and Kaz still had no idea what to do with you. Or how to pay his debt to so many people or how to replenish Crow Club drinks. He hid you from the rest of the dregs because he didn't want to and didn't know how to explain the situation. What would he say? Kaz Brekker never did anything without a plan. Everyone knew that. And your presence refuted ALL the certainties and theories that Kaz always had a motive.

Until one day, what he knew would happen happened; fate than those who do not pay powerful people. If he didn't have money, then he had to pay in blood. As it always would be in Ketterdam.

--------

The moon was paler than usual that autumn, sending icy golden rays across the dark city. The breeze smelled of sea air, smoke, sand and blood.

Kaz sat down in his writing chair, gasping as the thud made his broken ribs hurt. His teeth clenched tightly and dropped the broken cane to the floor, his blood on the silver raven combined with the dried blood around his face.

“Oh My God’’ the voice that Rietveld’s soul loved so much sounded, terrified and in panic.

You.

Kaz closed his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath that you had chosen to come in at that exact moment. It had been 2 weeks since you were here, with him, but your presence still made his hate the reactions and sensations he had.

Brekker couldn't have feelings. Ketterdam didn't accept that, it didn't tolerate that. And the proof of this was the bloody state he was in. Sentimentality is a weakness. He repeated to himself. But why then did his soul not regret anything when he saw you? Damn, he'd probably do it all over again.

“Get out of here’’ his voice was hoarser and lower than usual. And, when you did the opposite and took a step forward, Kaz looked at you warningly ‘’Now’’ Brekker could handle a beating, he'd had it his whole life. He could deal with broken ribs, with a bloody face, with a broken cane, with wounded pride. But he can't deal with the feeling that, when you looked at him, what hurt and tortured him more than anything else was the fact that he was robbed of your touch. He couldn't touch. And it never sparked anything but a fire of rage and revenge. Until now.

Kaz Brekker couldn't feel you. Not even if he fell to his knees on the floor and prayed to all the Saints. Not even if he sobbed asking for just one day of mercy. Just one day. Just a memory of how your skin felt beneath his hands. It had been more than a century since Brekker had touched another skin, warm skin. His was always cold, cadaverous, wet even when it was completely dry. And that was never a reason for despair. Until now.

He wanted to touch you more than he wanted to breathe. He wanted to slide his fingers across your cheek more than he wanted to slide his hands across money notes. But the sensation would send him back to the waters of Ketterdam. Back to the sickening feeling of rotten flesh and death surrounding him, making his chest tighten and his vision blacken as that traumatic memory would drag him back into.

The Saints were a fucking sadist. “Please…’’ your voice was broken and completely tearful. Please…

That single word - that single word alone had the power to bring his gaze up to you. Your pleading voice, your eyes filled with pain, not for your own, but for his, the way you whispered as if you was about to crumble.  You looked more scared than the day he took you from the slave market. Kaz fought down the tightening of his chest, his throat closing in. Please. Oh. He wanted to throw caution in the wind. Just once. Only for you. He wanted to put his gloves aside, just once. Just to hold your face. The desire to beg the Saints on one knee came back with more force. ''No" Kaz looked at you, staring into your eyes, as he saw you step closer. He watched the silk green dress flow, the fabric he bought for you, and for some reason it made him ache more. Damn dress.

He kept his eyes locked on that green silk for longer than expected. His body was completely bruised, but his thoughts were just feeling envious of that dress. That dress was on your skin. Feeling something he could never feel. Lucky dress.

Kaz heard your sobs get louder. "I beg you’’ You were about to fall apart “let me help…’’ He didn't know the extensions of his own injuries, but the look in your eyes said they were serious. Perhaps there was more blood than he expected.

Yes. his soul, Rietveld, screamed. Screaming so loud his bones shook. Yes. Touch me, make the cold go away again. Take me out of this ocean one more time. Help me. Touch me! Make the hands of the corpses leave my neck. Touch me. Saints, this is the most unbearable thing in the world. Kaz had no idea how long it had been since he had heard a person sob for him, but your voice broke something in him like nothing else. Kaz could get stabbed and beaten and shot, but this—this was the one thing he couldn't bear. "No'' Yes!

But you seemed in tune with his soul. As it has always been since he first saw you. You seemed to see beyond Brekker facade. Your footsteps reached him like desperate birds, your beautiful eyes growing wider every moment you saw the details of his injuries.

He didn't move from the chair, even when he should have, even when you fell to your knees between his feet, looking at him with so much fear and panic that he felt his heart skip a beat. Damn organ.

Yes. You looked beyond Brekker, You looked at Rietveld. And no one ever looked at Rietveld. “I promise to be quick. Just let me clean up the blood. Let me sterilize the knife cuts.’’ Your voice had so much pain that Kaz thought you were the one who suffered the beating. Which was impossible. Because Kaz Brekker would never let anyone touch you. but he can't touch you either. Yes, his fucking fate.

He wondered if you were so shaken because of guilt. Did you know that the 12 men he owed money got together to beat him? Did you know that he just hadn't paid because he used all the money to buy you? That's why you were so sentimental? Because the guilt. Out of pity. But it was impossible, Kaz never said anything about it. Maybe he was just looking for reasons to justify the magnitude of your concern with something other than feelings of the heart. “Please… I can't- I can't see you like this.” Your voice took him out of his thoughts, realizing that no matter how much he screamed inside, his expression remained as hard as a stone.

“I’m scared that something irreversible could happen.’’ you were honest, exposing your heart because you knew he wouldn’t expose his “Please, the thought of you dying makes me scared.’’ Yes, you were scared…like a cute rabbit. His body was hurting too much to know which stab wound was deeper, which were more superficial and which caused you so much panic.

Kaz swallowed around the lump in his throat, his heart beating wildly in his chest, but for a reason completely different from the wounds and bruising that plagued his body. Kaz wanted to put his guard up and push you away, but the sight of you kneeling before him, your eyes pleading for his consent as you raised your palm up to his battered and bloodied skin, that pleading tone - And that dress. The fucking dress he bought for you - was making him lose.

Kaz looked down at your face. His heart was burning. What am I doing? Your eyes, gazing up at him with tears rolling down your cheeks, you were breaking because of him, for him. And saints — he couldn't…Not when you looked that way. Not when every fiber of his being wanted you. Touch me. Make me come out of the sea. Make me breathe again Kaz closed his eyes, his breath sharp as he braced himself. A moment of hesitation before he finally speaks. "Quick."

It was another lapsus. The biggest mistake he could make. Ketterdam was again screaming in the background in the form of furious winds; that city did not allow pure emotions, redemptions and love.

You were so quick to get up and run to the bathroom, returning with a damp towel and a desperate but relieved look. Your knees dropped to the floor once again between his feet, and your breathing was faster than it had ever been before.

You were going to touch him

It was a mistake. An absurd error. A sin and a profanation of the worst kind.

The tide of the icy ocean within him changed course, beginning to churn its waters and threatening to drown Kaz Brekker once again. The sensation was as if his skin was swelling from the cold waves, like a corpse that had been discarded at sea for centuries. And that wouldn't be far from the truth. Kaz Rietveld was shipwrecked in that ocean along with Jordie. Along with all the other unfortunate people in that damned city.

So why did he also feel Rietveld now more than ever? when you were about to touch him.

Kaz's soul stirred, perhaps in desperation, perhaps begging for release. Maybe for both things. The emotions were so strong that he felt like vomiting the salty sea water stuck in his lungs. Then he focused on one point: the smooth skin of your neck.

You were so nervous and desperate that he could see your vein pulsing, a few errant droplets of sweat running from behind your ear to your slender neck, making their tempting way, mocking Kaz for not being able to follow the same path with his fingers.

Would he be able to fool his demons if he made that journey with his mouth? Could it be that his tongue also carried his traumas?

The wet towel went over one of his cuts, and Kaz swore so loudly that it scared you. His fingers locked for a second in the chair, but your fear of him changing his mind was greater than your fear of his reactions. You pressed the towel again, and again, and moved from one wound to the next. Your movements were in automatic mode to want to take advantage of his permission as much as possible, to help as much as possible in a time limit that you didn't know.

The invisible clock chimed like a premonition.

With one hand, you used your trembling fingers to move a piece of his cut shirt to the side. And your and his skins brushed

Holy Mother of Saints. Kaz grunted, letting his head fall back and pressing his fingers into the wood of the chair's arms even more. He closed his eyes tightly. The avalanche of emotions raised a tisunami in his sea and crashed over him with such brutality that Kaz felt he might die again. And revive.

Your fingers brushed against his skin once again, and this time his chest exploded on a different note; as if the heat of the sun was fighting to rescue him from the bottom of the sea. Making its way through the petrifying waters like a ray of heat. Like a chance. A hope. Or as an illusion.

Kaz Brekker never cried. He came out of that ocean swearing revenge, like a ghost, a monster, the murderer of Rietveld. Vowing to be a knight of the apocalypse. But he was none of those things. Kaz was a man of flesh and blood. With a heart that bled every day, with a soul neglected and so massacred that it bordered on unrecognizability: but not total annihilation.

Kaz Brekker never cried. But Kaz Rietveld did.

Being touched, after so many years without even human contact, made Brekker want to vomit, scream, cut his hands off, drown himself with Jordie, blow Pekker's brains out. But it made Rietveld want to cry, to cry out to the saints for salvation, to beg that he could have just one good thing in life. Please. his soul tore in prayers. Please…let me have this moment…for the love of God, have mercy on me just now. Somehow, he didn't vomit, and his skin on his became more like being caressed by the sun. He squeezed his eyes closed even more and imagined himself on the roof of the Crow Club, beneath the midday sun of the height of summer.

You were the sun. Just it.

Your hands pressed bandages into his deep cuts.

You were the sun. Just it.

Your breathing was heavy and your fingers pushed the rest of his bloody shirt away.

You were the sun. Just it.

Kaz repeated that like a mantra. A prayer. A choir. An exorcism. But his midday sun at the height of summer was beginning to be clouded, the sea on the horizon was beginning to swell, and Jordie's voice was beginning to rise from the dead in the air. The second he couldn't take it anymore, you pulled his hands away. Brekker breathed a sigh of relief. Rietveld screamed in despair.

‘’You’re going to be fine’’ your voice was as shaky as his emotions.

Kaz couldn't open his eyes yet. Not now. Not at this moment and… the absence of touch gave way to the feeling of extremely warm lips touching one of his bandages for a second.

This removed him from his disabilities. Stunned and perplexed, Kaz opened his eyes immediately and tilted his head towards you the same second his your moved away.

If your touches had been the sun, that micro kiss had been the entire fire.

“My mother one day said that kissing the wound makes it heal faster.” Maybe you were holding on tooth and nail to all the things that guaranteed you that Kaz Brekker would survive that moment.

Maybe a kiss heals wounds faster... indeed. Kaz Brekker thought before a curve of a smile painted his lips.

[dirtbagalien0]

autismo! ive seen a lot of ppl drawing the mercs in diff fashion styles so i tried my hand at it :-3 very proud of how this turned out

extra notes below the cut

band on heavy's shirt is iron maiden

snipers tattoo on his arm is called ta moko! its a type of maori tattoo :-D on that note, i also headcanon him as maori, which is the little black/red/white flag on his jacket. oh, and i headcanon him as a trans butch lesbian, which is why he has the trans and lesbian flag on his jacket. i have a lot of headcanons for him lol

also the band on snipers shirt is "bondage fairies", my fave punk band of all time. theyre hella underrated! the patches on his pants are "sex pistols" and "the ramones"

the band tee that scout is wearing is "bring me the horizon"

[neuvistar]

BIOHAZARDOUS ! signed: satoru gojo . wc 2.3k

— featuring ┊satoru gojo x fem!reader (bits of suguru)

— warnings / content warnings ┊all consensual! heated arguments (quite literally heated), mentions of cheating, toxic behaviours (don’t date red flags guys), car sex, vaginal fingering, titsucking, riding, he’s kinda mean here ngl . 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. | 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐎 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔’𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐄? (tbd soon.) tags. @yuutx

— a/n ┊ok guys ☝️🤓 so the whole point of this title is kinda ironic… yk how the definition of biozardous is like it’s toxic n shit n poses a threat 2 humans??? YEAH. it’s like how toxic n stupid people poses a threat 2 everyone bc of their toxicity n how it’s dangerous (don’t get into relationships w red flags guys 🙅‍♀️) this is also a make-up post for not posting my silly tattoo artist blade sooner but it’ll be posted at some point!! AND guys i love gojo i swear i don’t see him like this at all!!! this was jus created all bc of that one frat boy art i saw 😢

suguru crossed his arms over his broad chest, his hard stare drilling into one of the motorcycles he was inspecting. he chuffs out a gentle laugh, knowing exactly what was wrong with the bike before leaning down with his screwdriver, unscrewing a few screws here and there. his ears picked up the sound of footsteps, glancing to his side.. his eyes follow your every movement, a mixture of gentleness and curiosity in his gaze. he watches as you turn away from his direction, packing your bag thoroughly. he can't help but take in the view of your hair. you’ve.. always been beautiful to him, but his thoughts are quickly pushed aside as he clears his throat and calls out to you, “leaving already?” his gaze was soft, soft as they always were, the creaking of the metal echoed through the garage while you gathered everything.

“yeah, my boyfriend’s pissed. i didn’t tell him i was working for you here,”

“yeah? he’s that type of guy?” suguru cocked his brow at you, holding the screwdriver firmly against his palms, “y’know, sweetheart.. i’m not sure if you can handle satoru. listen, i’ve heard some things about him. i know i can’t be judging your new relationship but i don’t think he’s good for you.” you pause, eyes lingering momentarily on him, lips curving into a grin. “i’ll be fine, suguru. i know he’s far different from you, but i think i’m alright, thank you for checking up on me.”

suguru’s eyebrows furrow, the hint of concern marrying his otherwise stoic facade. he nods, walking over as his towering stature looms over you, offering a semblance of protection despite the bond that faded away between you and him. "alright, i believe that.” he waves a hand dismissively, shooing away any lingering doubts or fears, even as his own heart rate accelerates with the aspect of more challenges, he was worried about you. he watched you finish packing, holding the bag firmly against your side, “i’ll be off then. i’ll see you tomorrow.” just as you were about to exit, suguru immediately took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb against your skin, “wait.” he stared at you with a sense of worry, pressing your hand against his cheek. “.. if you ever want us to go back to how we used to be.. i would accept that in a heartbeat. you know that, right?”

“yes. yes i’m aware.”

“ … i’m glad.”

…

yet to your dismay, your boyfriend saw and watched the entire thing while he was inside his car, seeing it all unfold right infront of his eyes. satoru bit the side of his mouth, clenching his jaw as frustration flowed through his veins. you had a lot of explaining to do.

you knew he saw, you knew that fact for sure. you were dreading every step you took to his car, but you couldn’t afford losing your composure now.. you had to act natural. once you opened the car door, you were met with a familiar silence that caved in between the both of you. three.. two.. one..“well, i hope you come bearing good news.” and.. there it was. you couldn’t help but glance towards his direction, a firm yet smug expression on his face. you sat there with your knuckles all white, from how tightly you were gripping your bag. “satoru.”

satoru groaned, rolling his eyes at your stern tone, knowing you were about to ramble him on how he shouldn’t be jealous because of something small like this. "you think i’m blind, huh? i’m practically a natural, baby," he retorted, attempting to lean against the window of his car beside him, "still not over him?" his grin was crooked as he tried to hide the smugness. "you think you found someone better than me?”

“toru, why are you always like this? every single damn time, it’s getting repetitive.” you turned away from him, staring off into the sunset, his voice ringing inside your ears. “i could say the same thing about you, [name]. you go crazy even at the sight of another girl being in my presence. so i think this is even.. am i right?”

“does that girl you hooked up with a few months ago count as even to me just speaking to someone i used to be acquainted with? you’re insane.”

"oh, come now," satoru drawled with a click of his tongue, rubbing his temple. you knew you were getting on his nerves, but that didn’t matter in a situation like this! "you don't seem to understand what i’m sayin’ at all. she was just a hook up. nothing more. it’s been months, baby. plus, weren’t we on a break?”

“nothing more? are you just disregarding the fact you practically cheated on me? even if we were on a damn break, that doesn’t mean you can go whoring around with another woman behind my back. are you fucking sick?”

despite the irritation twisting his face, satoru forced a smile. “and i suppose you're here to save poor, fragile me from my own recklessness? how cute." he chuckled softly, his eyes filled with mockery. "if you really cared, you wouldn't be working for your ex when i told you not to.” your body paused, frozen in place. amidst the silence, he could tell there was pure frustration radiating from your body. you glanced at him, raising a brow. “excuse me? why are you dragging suguru into this.. he hasn’t done anything!”

satoru raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on his lips as he noticed your reaction. "he has. he dated you.” he chuckled dryly, shifting uncomfortably on the car seat. "working for suguru?" he let out a low whistle, shaking his head. your boyfriend’s smirk widened, turning into an annoyingly charming grin. "or maybe you're just another pawn in his grand scheme, huh?" he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression challenging. "whatever. just do your job, babe. don’t bother fucking around with my business. tell suguru i said hi. and next time, bring some smelling salts for when he faints from surprise that we’re still together.”

unexpectedly, the sound of the seatbelt unbuckling rung through satoru’s ears. his breath hitched when he felt your hands pull on his shirt, tugging him towards you with a cold look in your eyes. “me working for someone i am not romantically linked with at all is nothing compared to you going out with someone you hooked up with months ago.” you leaned even closer.. “i’m not afraid to break up with you, right here right now..” satoru snorted at your words, barely suppressing a laugh as he took in your delicate display. hm. you were smaller than he was, that’s for sure. “your determination is almost impressive," satoru spoke, leaning forward slightly as his crystal gaze drifted downwards momentarily before locking with yours again. with a sardonic grin, satoru tilted his head at your words looking amused. "you need to separate us? sure thing, doll. just like you need to separate yourself from suguru’s puppet strings.”

you were tired of arguing. you knew one thing and one thing for sure, you were not gonna stay here with him. atleast not for long, until you have the last say in this. “then if you wanted to break up, you could’ve just told me straight up. don’t waste my damn time like this.”

"oh, believe me, i’ve considered it," satoru retorted, chuckling softly. "but then i’d lose all this fun, wouldn't i?” he gestured vaguely around his car, a smirk playing on his lips. "maybe i just like this sort of thing. it keeps things interesting. and besides, where would you be without me?” his gaze flickered to you, holding your stare for a moment. "i’m taking you home after this. i’ve got more important things to do than argue with my girlfriend who thinks she's got me figured out."

“i don’t want to figure you out.” you argued, the tone of your voice held such rage.. it was almost enough to break through him. “fuck you and your ego. you’ve done nothing but ruin every single relationship you’ve been in, yet you complain? you’re a fucking jerk.”

“whatever floats your boat then.” he muttered under his breath as he sank back onto the car seat, his body screaming at him to rest. but there was no peace to be found, not with his mind swirling with thoughts of the long heated argument you both just had.

… quite literally, heated.

now this.. you didn’t know how you even ended up like this.

“fuck, satoru…”

you were seated on his lap, breathing heavily with your shirt all ruffled up, your breasts in display for him like eye candy as satoru sucked on your delicate nipples. your skirt hiked up to your stomach as he held you gently. satoru groaned, his lips still wrapped around your nipple, fingers probing deeper into your warmth. he released your pert nipple with a pop, trailing kisses down your chest as he slowly slid a finger inside your heat, licking his lips at the damp feeling of your slickness coating his digit. “shit, you're so wet for me, baby," satoru whispered against your ear, his voice thick with amusement. your boyfriend then added another finger, stretching you out. with a slow, steady motion, satoru’s fingers pumped within you slowly inch by inch, allowing your body to adjust to his digits. satoru devoured your moans, he knew he wouldn't last long with you all pretty like this. he reached up and cupped your face, thumb brushing against your cheekbone in a gentle caress.

“satoru, you fucking jerk…” your breath hitched your breathing grew completely ragged and uneven, your skin flushed and your eyes fluttered shut. yet, satoru couldn't help but smirk as his fingers delved deeper inside you, drawing out your moans that were like perfect melodies to him. “you’re so tight, baby," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.. coated with lust. he wanted more of you. he could feel his cock twitch painfully against his briefs, desperate to free itself from its confines. “makes me want to bury myself inside you right here, right now." he paused, letting the words hang in the air between them, “right infront of your workplace. it’d be nice if suguru caught sight of this, wouldn’t it?”

your boyfriend’s cock throbbed the more he spoke, desperate to be inside you as soon as possible. satoru’s mouth was completely busy, his tongue lavishing attention on your sweet nipples as his fingers danced within your folds. he could feel your arousal building up through your aching body as you trembled with pleasure, and it only fuelled his own desire. he sucked harder on your nipple, slowly pushing another finger deeper inside your wetness, crooking it slightly to hit that sweet spot you loved so much. “you’re not really mad at me, aren’t you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "you like feeling me inside you, making my cock feel good like this. after all… that’s why we’re dating, right?” … this asshole. you could feel his other large hand cupping your breasts, thumb brushing against the nipple he was licking just a few minutes ago. "i could do this all night, y’know?" he murmured, his voice husky with desire, “keep your pretty little stubborn ass right here, right in my lap, and never let you go."

“you should let me go.”

“oh but i won’t.“ his eyes locked onto yours, with a slow, calculated motion, his fingers were now replaced by the head of his cock. true inch by agonizing inch, he pushed inside you, feeling your tightness enveloping him, and he knew he was lost. “you know why? this pussy is too good for me to give up to someone else.”

“satoru!” you gasped out loud as you felt his member slid inside your entrance, the uncomfortable space of the car taking a toll on you as your ass nearly pressed against the steering wheel.

"wow, look at you," satoru soothed, his voice low and cocky as he held you close against his body. “taking it so well like always," he whispered as his lips brushed against your ear. his hips rocked gently as he pumped his cock deeper into your warmth, the car creaked and groaned around the both of you. satoru savoured the feel of your body wrapped around his, swallowing your moans and gasps of pleasure. “shit.” his fingers dug gently into your hips, holding you firmly in place. the sounds of your passion mingled with the rustling of your clothes and his.. the soft moans that escaped your lips were enough to hypnotize him, he’d always been obsessed with them. satoru’s hands roamed against your body, tracing your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. his lips pressed against yours deeply, his tongue dancing with yours as he picked up the pace of his thrusts, cock thrusting deeper into you with each pass. you hated how your body responded to him, your own hips meeting his, and especially how your pussy was squeezing him tight as you came messily all over his cock, your sweet moans muffled against his lips.

satoru’s own orgasm washed over him, his body tensing as he emptied himself into you, the feeling of you enveloping him like a velvet glove drove him to the edge, making him want to ruin you once more a second time.. but he can wait. the taller male’s breath came in ragged gasps.. holding you close against him, heart pounding in his chest. “such a sweet girl like you shouldn’t be with me, babe. i almost feel bad for you,”

…

“you know i’m trouble, don’t you?”

[sideblogfornothing]

Y'all, I cant XD sometimes you run Into super horrifying stuff about how evil Israel is, and other times, you run into a serious video that's so weird you can't help laugh.

So I just ran into a video about how evil Zionists are, and the video goes like this:

A friendly man with a chanukiya tattoo on his back is walking through like a hallway locker room thing, he's being friendly, nodding his head/saying hello to all the dudes in the hallway, everyone is happy saying hi to the friendly man, until their eyes shift downward, in the direction of his crotch (I'm sorry but that's what it looked like) and their faces darken.

This guy continues to his locker, to which he pulls out a white jacket with an Israeli flag on it. He looks up and sees all the dudes he was friendly with cracking their knuckles, and looking like they wanna fight. They all approach him, circling him as they run their hands over his jacket, smearing a red paste looking thing all over it, one by one they coat his jacket In red, than they leave.

The guy looks down at his"bloodied" hands and jacket, and we see droplets of blood on the floor by his feet.

Here's a lil screenshot

This video was obviously, trying to say that all Zionists are evil murderers, but ironically, I feel it delivers the opposite message.

Maybe it's just to me, but there's something so familiar at this point about being a nice person, but getting shat on for being Israeli.

This guy was shown to be a lovely person, but just because of his nationality, or his support of Israel he's automatically labeled as a murderer, even though his only sin was his ethnicity. And also the fact the the first thing we see is the chanukiya tattoo on his neck.

This video is blantently antisemitic, it's not even trying to hide it.

This video showcases how no matter how much people would like you, no matter how good you are, no matter how nice, everyone will hate you simply for being a Jew.

[girlkisser13]

ares cabin headcanons

children of ares

• it’s more difficult to break a weapon in a child of war’s hand (with the exception being if someone was a child of the big three).

• they can pull of any shade of red.

• camo EVERYTHING. they just have a weird obsession with camo.

• a lot of them obsessively collect sneakers.

• they have nicknames/call signs for all their members, they don't choose one when they join, it'll be given to them sooner or later.

• leather jackets, military boots, aviators, chains, chokers and metal rings are the norm.

• there's always that one kid that likes to show off their butterfly knife tricks. (i’m sorry if that’s you.)

• every one of them has a scar somewhere, usually they got it even before they came to camp. they treat scars like tattoos—the bigger and more obvious they are, the more badass they are.

• all the armies on the loosing side are forced to serve them and their father so they can summon them at a time of battle and increase their power by invoking their father’s powers.

• they’re the best fighters in camp, but that doesn't mean all they have is physical strength.

• they have the strength to stand their ground and defend a point that is so strongly that many of them become outstanding politicians.

• they don't just teach people how to fight monsters, but they also basic self-defence for anyone who feels unsafe in the city.

• the tradition of capture the flag initially started as a dispute between the ares and athena cabin, with the other camps joining one of the two.

• it has always been a ceremony for the two cabins to always be against each other.

• they all have excellent posture because they’re always training, so they’re always wearing breastplates. (i’m assume breastplates improve your posture the same way corsets do).

• rumor has it there's an underground fight club that's invite-only (but you didn't hear that from me).

•those who have a taken a vow of nonviolence run an anger management group for their siblings who want to gain a little more control.

cabin exterior

• the cabin has a rugged, fortress-like appearance, with sturdy stone walls that seem built to withstand a siege. the front door is made of reinforced steel, adorned with battle scars and dents.

• it also has heavy punk rock aesthetics, which is ironic considering how much discipline is enforced within its members.

• various weapons, such as swords, spears, and shields, are displayed prominently on the walls, either as decoration or trophies from past battles. some are enchanted to glow faintly, adding an aura of intimidation.

• the cabin is adorned with tattered banners and flags, each representing a different battle or conquest. the ares symbol, a wild boar or a spear, is prominently displayed.

• the walls are covered in graffiti and markings made by the cabin members, depicting their victories, names, and personal symbols. these give the cabin a rough, lived-in look.

• the cabin itself might show signs of past conflicts, with scorch marks, cracks, and patched-up sections that hint at the intensity of the cabin's training sessions and disputes.

• at the entrance, there are statues of ares himself, standing guard and setting the tone for those who enter.

• the stuffed boar head at the front of the cabin acts as a surveillance system, it’s enchanted to squeal when there are intruders.

cabin interior

• the cabin has a minimalist, utilitarian design, with few decorations and a focus on functionality. the beds are simple, sturdy cots, and personal belongings are kept to a minimum.

• the bunks are arranged in a regimented, military style, with each camper's area neatly organized. personal spaces include a footlocker for storing gear and a small, sturdy nightstand.

• ac/dc is constantly playing in the background?

• every available wall space is utilized for weapon racks and shelves, holding an array of swords, spears, axes, and shields.

• the cabin has an area dedicated to training, with punching bags, weights, and practice dummies. there is even be a small sparring ring in one corner for indoor practice.

• various trophies from past battles and quests are displayed inside the cabin, including weapons, monster teeth, claws, and other memorabilia. these serve as a testament to the cabin's prowess in combat.

• large maps detailing various battlefields and strategic locations are pinned to the walls. they have markers and notes, reflecting ongoing planning and strategies.

• the interior features rough, durable materials like stone and wood, designed to withstand heavy use and combat-related activities. the floors are covered in animal skins and thick, worn rugs.

cabin traditions

• for every child of war that has died in battle, a spear bearing their name is placed on the roof of the cabin.

• they have a ritual where members show off their battle scars and share stories of how they got them, celebrating their bravery and toughness.

• they have regular evenings dedicated to cleaning, sharpening, and maintaining their weapons and armor, often accompanied by storytelling or strategizing.

• they have CONSTANT meetings where they plan strategies for capture the flag and other camp activities, often held in a militaristic fashion with a focus on tactics and leadership.

• they have regular sparring sessions where they challenge each other to friendly duels to improve their skills and rank within the cabin.

• before major events like capture the flag, they paint their faces and arms with war paint as a symbol of their readiness for battle and to intimidate their opponents.

divider by @sunkupng

[outlawruben]

RIP Van Der Linde gang 😔 you would’ve loved:

Abigail Marston - Marriage counseling, Stanley Cups, The Barbie Movie

Arthur Morgan - Slim Jim’s, Bass Pro Shops pyramid, Levi’s wooly Jean Jackets

Bill Williamson - Grindr, Shitty Gas Stations, “Don’t Tread On Me” flags

Charles Smith - Mitski, microwaved popcorn and movie nights, Bison as a protected species

Dutch Van Der Linde - Backseat Driving, Political Debate Podcasts, fruit flavored vapes

Hosea Matthews - Keurig Coffee Machines, chiropractors , Candy Crush

Jack Marston (depending on age) - Warrior Cats, Percy Jackson, Disney +

Javier Escuella - Electric Guitars, Cards Against Humanity, The Oscars/Grammys/Golden Globes

John Marston - 3 in one soap, Ford Truck Of the Month, band T-shirts

Josiah Trelawney - Magician Kits, Amazon, America’s Got Talent

Karen Jones - White Claws, Dolly Parton, Brittany Broski

Kieran Duffy - Star Stables Online, NASA space pictures, JellyCat Plushies

Lenny Summers - Kindle tablets, Soundproof headphones, Barnes and Noble

Leopold Strauss - Cashapp/Venmo, Facebook, Wikipedia

Mary-Beth Gaskill - thrift shopping, fanfiction websites, Taylor Swift’s Eras tour

Micah Bell - Ben Shapiro, Alpha Males, Playing Devil’s Advocate

Molly O’Shea - Steel Magnolias, Weighted Blankets, Themed Calendars

Rev, Orville Swanson - Bible study, AA meetings, Sacramental Wine

Sadie Adler - WLW music, Matching tattoos, Gym Membership

Sean MacGuire - Totino’s pizza rolls, Good Mythical Morning, Sugary Cereal (Lucky Charms /j)

Simon Pearson - Hell’s Kitchen, Panini press/waffle iron, Walmart Superstore

Susan Grimshaw -Life 360, Boxed Wine, Cats

Tilly Jackson - Mani-Pedis, Shea Butter Scrubs, Micellar Water

Uncle - Wheel Of Fortune, Recliners, Car seat heaters

[xxdemonicheartxx]

Flight Rising flights but as art mediums:

There are some overlaps in mediums since dragons are so tight knit and far spread

Earth: tile work/mosaics, jewelry work, ceramics, stone sculpture, chalk, clay work, plaster, leather work, rain chains

Water: plaster work, woven tapestries, shell jewelry and chimes, pearl inlays, decorative sails and flags, basket weaving, sandstone carving, watercolors, mirrors and glass sculptures

Shadow: optical illusions, black and white photography, puzzle boxes, uranium glass work, maybe iron work, mycology arrangements, shadow boxes, gouache, anything that involves glowing in the dark

Light: stone carving and gold foiled painting, sometimes tapestry weaving to depict an image or scene, impressionism, oil paint, tempera, portraiture, clothing and attire, mirrors, pigment making

Plague: hyper realism, and taxidermy, ceramics, bone carvings, tattoos, ink block prints, collage art, murals, leather work, totems and large outdoor installations

Nature: floral arrangements, dye work, wood work, candle making, hot wax painting, landscaping, rain chains, wind chimes, tapestries, needle felting, carpentry, animal cosmetics (haircuts, animal safe dye, nail and claw painting, etc), apparel/clothing, pigment making

Ice: needle felting, wood carving, quilting, ice carving and sculpture, snow sculptures, knitting, the art of tea blends, dried plant arrangements, carpentry, fabric weaving, tapestries, crochet, wood burning, blanket weaving, candle making, dye work, wood turning

Fire: welding, decorative weapon smithing, glass blowing, wood burning, wrought iron, stained glass, latticed metal, terracotta, ceramics, obsidian and basalt carving, graphite, slate, charcoal

Wind: paper mache, ribbon mediums, basket weaving, sonorous sculptures, wind chimes, feathered attire, really tall and thin structures/sculptures, jade carving, blanket weaving

Arcane: resin, stained glass, welding, intricate silver work, collaborative neon work with shadow (they need that special eye for glow in the dark), crystal carving, zen gardens, bonsai art, screen printing, photography, illuminated manuscripts, clothing and apparel, gold foil work, abstract art

Lightning: bronze cast sculptures, sand sculptures (when lightning strikes the sand and turns it to stone) aluminum casts poured into ant colonies/hills, pop art, up-cycled art, photography, art that is still capable of being utilized and interacted with because people and dragons are part of the medium, assemblage art, banners and flags

[femaleboysblog]

why is it almost always "I joined the dedsec cause anarchy = chaos and I love smashing random shit ┐(´∀｀)┌ " for wrench (non ironically) even though he's literally an anarchist hacktivist like. that man has the anarchy symbol tattooed on his neck, always wearing that battle jacket with the antifa flag on the back. yall think he's not about that life?

[mugman64]

Percy Jackson Headcanons Pt.2

(Some of these tie into the first part)

-Powers

The gods adapt to modern day but only partially, they reflect the way their domains were in ancient Greece or Rome more than how they are now. Their children on the other hand have adapted. Poseidon remains the god of the old sea, the unexplored, the terrifying depths that few would dare to enter.

Percy is the son of a much newer sea, one that has been home to all manners of beings. Millenia of people coexisting and traveling the ocean has given it some newer powers. When Percy needs help and does not have the energy to raise a storm he can sing, the songs of pirates, of sailors, he can funnel the lives of all those who lived and died by the sea into magic. A magic that belongs to the sea, that has become one with the sea. Some even rumor that the Princess Andromeda was pursued by the ghost ship herself, The Flying Dutchman, the seas wrath wrought upon it by Percy’s hand.

Clarisse has a similar power. The Spartans her father swears by never did get much into things outside battle. But as times changed so did war. During capture the flag when all seems lost its been said that the songs of marches seems to emanate from the children of war, empowering their allies. When they are beat down and tired, they die with their backs strong, a distant chant of "a Hell of a way to die" blowing in the wind. And when Silena Beauregard perished the battlefield fell silent as a memorial for a fallen friend rang through the air.

-Appearance

Most demigods use the mist to hide their blemishes. Percy is no different, he hides his scars, some from monsters, some from accidents, and some from Gabe. But the biggest thing he hides is his skin. Percy has fought many gods, titans, immortals, you name it. They have left their mark on him. When Percy defeated Hyperion the golden ichor that fell from his wounds never washed away, when he fought more titans in the pit it added to it. His body has always been an amalgamation of scars and tattoos, now it has splashes of the golden blood of immortals and the green blood of the more powerful monsters he killed thrown in the mix.

Him and Annabeth have theorized why it only happens to him and struggled to find an answer. It was only after Thanatos informs them that he understands. The fates wanted to remind the gods that they aren’t infallible. How better to do it than to mark their savior, the most pertinent demigod of all, with the blood of the immortals he’s beaten on the quest to save them. After all it isn’t only titans whom Percy has made bleed

-Vendetta

Percy frequently had to fend off fights from gods before the war. Every other week it’s either Ares or Athena wanting a fight. At least Artemis stopped after he hit her with his car and Dionysius after he broke his knees with a brick thrown at Mach 1. But these two are so persistent it doesn’t matter if it’s knives, swords, spears, fists. He even beat Athena with a waffle iron once. They just never seem to give up. It doesn’t help that Phobos,Deimos,and Enyo seem insistent on fighting him too.

-Trauma

(t/w: suicidal thoughts, Substance Abuse, and Self Harm mentioned )

After the second Titan War Percy and Clarisse where fast on the track to self-destruction. It all came to a head when they encountered each other in their old bunker, hidden deep in the woods. It was a place where they would hang out and have fun with Beckendorf, Silena, and Lee. All of them gone. Percy saw Clarrise holding a bottle of malt liquor, he himself had just felt a bullet break against the impenetrable skin of his temple, the only way to feel. They saw each other and made a pact to keep each other alive, to confide in each other and help each other until eventually they got past self inflicted wounds and survivors guilt. Both of them were supposed to be generals, supposed to be strong. So they were weak as friends, in private, until they became strong. Many think that only Annabeth or Chris could help them through an episode, but when it’s really bad it’s Percy or Clarrise coming to help the other.

-Parenting/Family

Annabeth is the full blown mama bear in the mortal world, she's at every parent teacher conference, every open school night, holiday parties, EVERYTHING. Gods help the school that tries to shun her kid for having ADHD and dyslexia, she will rain hell on them. She makes sure to listen to her kids side of the story before making up her mind.

Percy on the other hand is pretty laid back, until the Greek side of the family gets involved then all hell breaks loose. No child of his is going a quest before they're fourteen, thank you very much. Aphrodite needs to find her hairbrush for the 12th time this decade? She can go hook up with some actor and make a kid to do it for her, his child won't be risking their life for a fucking hairbrush.

Thalia, Piper, and Reyna are all in equal competition for the cool aunt title. It’s a much less intense competition than the vine riddled flaming skeletal mess that is Grover, Nico, and Leo’s competition to be the favorite uncle. (In reality Frank and Hazel have already claimed the titles)

Grandma Sally is a favorite of all the kids, and both Annabeth and Percy find family dinner where Athena glares at Poseidon from across the table very amusing.

-Protectiveness

Percy has always had a “me and mine” mentality. That is to say he’s fiercely protective of his friends and himself. That is why he fought in the wars. That is why he mouths off to the Olympians. Everything he does is to protect his friends and family, not the gods who sit and watch, but his siblings who fight next to him, who he protects with each battle.

His rage during the Battle of Manhattan was equally about his sorrow for losing members of his family as it was about protecting Annabeth. Even to this day demigod veterans remember his anger when he found that the enemy rolled a Panzer tank through HIS PEOPLE into HIS CITY. -Safehouse

Sally has an open door policy to all demigods. If you’re on a quest and you need a safe place to sleep or a meal you’re welcome to stay. Even the Hunters have taken advantage of such a boon. Not once had there ever been a monster attack on the apartment.

A couple people have theorized on how this works and the best answer is Percy is so terrifying to the monsters that know to stay away from his mother. And they’d be partially right, but Sally Jackson knows better. Because she’s the one who put the shotgun with celestial bronze ammo next to the door. Percy got his protectiveness from somewhere, and it wasn’t the God of the Seas.

[thebrickinbrick]

The Heroes, Part Three

The façade of Corinthe, half demolished, was hideous. The window, tattooed with grape-shot, had lost glass and frame and was nothing now but a shapeless hole, tumultuously blocked with paving-stones.

Bossuet was killed;

Feuilly was killed;

Courfeyrac was killed;

Joly was killed;

Combeferre, transfixed by three blows from a bayonet in the breast at the moment when he was lifting up a wounded soldier, had only time to cast a glance to heaven when he expired.

Marius, still fighting, was so riddled with wounds, particularly in the head, that his countenance disappeared beneath the blood, and one would have said that his face was covered with a red kerchief.

Enjolras alone was not struck. When he had no longer any weapon, he reached out his hands to right and left and an insurgent thrust some arm or other into his fist. All he had left was the stumps of four swords; one more than François I. at Marignan.

Homer says: “Diomedes cuts the throat of Axylus, son of Teuthranis, who dwelt in happy Arisba; Euryalus, son of Mecistæus, exterminates Dresos and Opheltios, Esepius, and that Pedasus whom the naiad Abarbarea bore to the blameless Bucolion; Ulysses overthrows Pidytes of Percosius; Antilochus, Ablerus; Polypætes, Astyalus; Polydamas, Otos, of Cyllene; and Teucer, Aretaon. Meganthios dies under the blows of Euripylus’ pike. Agamemnon, king of the heroes, flings to earth Elatos, born in the rocky city which is laved by the sounding river Satnoïs.” In our old poems of exploits, Esplandian attacks the giant marquis Swantibore with a cobbler’s shoulder-stick of fire, and the latter defends himself by stoning the hero with towers which he plucks up by the roots. Our ancient mural frescoes show us the two Dukes of Bretagne and Bourbon, armed, emblazoned and crested in war-like guise, on horseback and approaching each other, their battle-axes in hand, masked with iron, gloved with iron, booted with iron, the one caparisoned in ermine, the other draped in azure: Bretagne with his lion between the two horns of his crown, Bourbon helmeted with a monster fleur de lys on his visor. But, in order to be superb, it is not necessary to wear, like Yvon, the ducal morion, to have in the fist, like Esplandian, a living flame, or, like Phyles, father of Polydamas, to have brought back from Ephyra a good suit of mail, a present from the king of men, Euphetes; it suffices to give one’s life for a conviction or a loyalty. This ingenuous little soldier, yesterday a peasant of Bauce or Limousin, who prowls with his clasp-knife by his side, around the children’s nurses in the Luxembourg garden, this pale young student bent over a piece of anatomy or a book, a blond youth who shaves his beard with scissors,—take both of them, breathe upon them with a breath of duty, place them face to face in the Carrefour Boucherat or in the blind alley Planche-Mibray, and let the one fight for his flag, and the other for his ideal, and let both of them imagine that they are fighting for their country; the struggle will be colossal; and the shadow which this raw recruit and this sawbones in conflict will produce in that grand epic field where humanity is striving, will equal the shadow cast by Megaryon, King of Lycia, tiger-filled, crushing in his embrace the immense body of Ajax, equal to the gods.

[moonsquaremars]

what in the actual fuck.

i thought i had met the one. no, for real this time. i say that every time i meet a guy. i swear.

my chart

his

he was chubby, just my type, and we did the same drugs. grew up in the same part of town. he had a house and a job. bingo.

i ask if he knows his moon sign, he responds that he doesn’t know what it’s currently in. i had to ask him to repeat himself because of how disbelief i was in. i coulda melted there on the floor.

later he shows me his printed out natal chart and i examine it on his bed.

unfortunately i do our synastry chart and he only had one key aspect. most of my exes usually have more than one. first red flag, i ignore.

keep telling myself maybe he only has one because he’s the one key for me. even though the key aspect was a bad one.

he’s a cancer sun like me. my lilith is also in cancer and supposedly that means you attract the darker aspects of that sign. that would line up. his moon is in gemini, mine is in virgo. kinda at odds there. he constantly wanted to argue. like to the point where it didn’t make sense. like pulling arguments out of thin air and kept running out of ideas.

all his personal planets are in cancer. mine are in gemini. his moon is in libra 7th house, my uranus is in 7th house. i have a tattoo of uranus glyph on my ring finger because it’s my favorite planet for what it represents in astrology. supposedly moon in 7th makes needy for like constant social interaction and having people around. also adds up. he has a lot of friends, and he’d use that to hurt me.

he had pluto in 11th house. i have mars, mercury, and venus there. i really feel like he livened me up. helped me see a light and grow comfortable in my skin and environment. pluto is power and i definitely felt empowered.

my sun is in 12th house, his was in 8th. compatible houses. we talked about spirits and the occult. he told me he had seen a demon one time. it made me fall for him harder. i have a vacant 8th house so it really piqued my interest. i thought it was cute, sexy. an 8th house sun.

he had outer planets in the 12th house, and a bunch in his 1st and 2nd. i have a vacant 1st house. not my favorite house to be honest. could explain why he’s such a dick and ok with hurting others. i feel like first house is a self centered house.

2nd house, i have my moon there. another placement that makes sense. i thought i could make a home with him. i loved his home. i wanted to learn everything about him and spend years with him. i looked at him and saw a husband.

but it got so sour so fast. he wouldn’t let up. it makes me think he was sabotaging it, us. for reasons unknown. maybe he’s just a bpd narcissist and there’s no sense to make. maybe it’s cuz his ex died and his mother is also deceased. i have no clue. maybe it’s just because he’s a big ol bottom.

but i really thought he was the one. i hate that so much of his chart made sense, but i’ve felt like this before about someone. it really hurts having to constantly let go.

we also had north node and chiron conjunct. i thought that was interesting because not a lot of people have that placement ? or maybe they do ? but his were located in gemini in the 7th house. mine are located in libra in the 3rd house. isn’t that so ironic? it’s like it’s mirrored.

he was also born in 1984 which was so sexy to me because george orwell. but he is kinda small minded and i feel diminished my shine in some ways. im just so upset. this doesn’t make any sense to me.

if you’ve read this and have any observations or insight, i’d love to hear it.

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

ok so dream smp au where c!tommy ends up leaving the server after c!wilbur does to try and find him and he ends up becoming a sort of travelling merchant going from server to server selling things he made (like clothes and potions) and doing odd jobs before moving on. and when he finds c!wilbur it’s been a few months and he decides that he’s happier doing this than he was petrified on the server so he decides to continue travelling and selling his wares.

things aren’t perfect, obviously. he’s still severely traumatised and physically and mentally disabled from his experiences. he’s still basically a living corpse- stuck in the body he had when c!dream beat him to death and never physically growing up. his paranoia never goes away. but he matures and he heals. he’s still chaotic but he’s less of a prick. he learns to accept himself more even if he’s not the stereotypical big man he feels he has to be. he learns how to be creative and quick witted and charismatic, but he only scams the people who deserve it and tries to make a positive contribution everywhere he goes.

he buys a van like wilbur’s old one and hangs a L’Manburg flag in the back along with pictures of his friends. he dyes the tips of his hair and gets tattoos and piercings and starts wearing soft pastels and flowing clothes instead of the same hoodie and cargo pants he always used to wear. he makes friends everywhere he goes and comes back to visit. his favourite thing is to babysit because he’s really good with kids. he finds a stray kitten in his engine once and calls her tubbo. he’s too scared to go back to the dream smp but he visits wilbur often. he forgets how to fight and buries his swords in the ground and strangely he doesn’t mind it.

you can stop reading here and pretend it’s wholesome. if you read on its on you.

it’s a decade on when things go wrong.

he tastes something bitter in his food, and before he can react he drifts into unconsciousness. when he wakes up he thinks he’s having a nightmare- back in the prison cell, with the masked man he’d tried his best to forget ranting to him again like the bad old days. a quick trip to limbo shatters that illusion.

in the time tommy was gone, dream went through with his plans to make the server a big happy family, in the worst way possible. he’s forced everyone into a stagnant role of when he was happiest with them, under the belief that’ll somehow make them happy. he’s forced people to become caricatures of themselves, unable to grow or change, unable to even age. he genuinely believes due to the smiles and laughter of his brothers and sisters they’re happy, but they are afraid of doing anything else.

and this new tommy? dream does not like him one bit.

unable to recognise that tommy is no longer the teenager he once was, but a man nearly in his thirties who’s trying to move on, he sees everything about him as heretical. his appearance is marred, too subdued, too mature. he’s not impulsive or loud enough, he’s not abrasive and insecure like he’s supposed to be. he’s been tainted, dream decides, from the outside world, and he needs to be brought back to the perfect tommy he once was.

but tommy is not a lonely child anymore. there are people looking for him. he’s sharp as a whip and convincing with his words. none of which will stop him from being abused, of course- but tommy is tommy, determined and iron willed, and he plans. he can’t fight anymore, but there’s people on the server who can. there’s far more of them than there are of him, and tommy knows there are people who love him, out there. he has a life. he has something to lose, for once- and everything to gain.

[thegreenmeridian]

My family’s stories about who we are and where we came from are a mess but a vague awareness of us being Jewish(ish) has always been there. I don’t know if I count as halachically Jewish - my family history on both sides is vague and muddled and there’s Jewishness smattered throughout, but from what I can tell the matrilineal line only goes back so far. London-Irish great grandma married a Jewish man. I think. Records on people from my socioeconomic background are vague and muddled too.

But I’ve always felt a connection to Judaism, always wanted to convert (or be affirmed, if it turns out conversion isn’t necessary). I’ve never done it. Either I’ve not lived near a Jewish community or I’ve not had the right frame of mind or whatever else. I’ve enquired. I think I was 17 when I first emailed a rabbi. But I’ve never done it.

And now, well, I live pretty much as far from a Jewish community as it’s possible to be. In a hippy town in rural Iceland where… well, there’s a lot of Palestinian flags around and enough dog whistles alongside them that I think being openly Jewish or believing the provable fact of Jewish indignity to the Levant or even just being anything less than rabidly anti Israel would be a major issue. My landlord’s daughter was talking about how my supermarket shouldn’t sell Lays crisps because they’re “linked with Israel”.

Iceland has a rabbi, a Chabad guy. Nice bloke, I’ve spoken to him a few times, on my last foray into maybe converting (but obviously, Chabad rabbis are maybe not the best choice for a transgender bloke covered in tattoos). And I spent my Christmas, ironically, with an Israeli Jew and his Icelandic husband. So there are Jews here, albeit barely enough for a Minyan. But still, not a community and definitely not a community here.

But… I’ve found Darshan Yeshiva. They’re an online community, an online conversion program, working with rabbis and cantors from a variety of denominations, and specifically targeted at people who don’t have proper access to a Jewish community. And when I’m done with my AS exams and I have a bit more spare cash, I’m doing it. I know online conversion is controversial, I do. But this is the route for me. And with the services and seminars held by the Chabad rabbi in Reykjavik, I won’t be entirely cut off from an offline community.

I’ve picked the worst possible time to commit to converting, I know. But I think part of why I’ve chosen now to finally do it, is that it’s such a bad time for it.

[we-are-inevitable]

warm up???

little frog lad

a different kind of bloom

we think of rot as a solitary thing, i think lying in the fetal position on an unmade bed hugging a pillow to your chest, praying that it’s spared when the skin slides off your bones and the house caves in on you alone but have we not all rotted before? will we not all rot again? scrolling for miles, addicted, thousands of censored words tattooed on our corneas the coroner will say the cause of death  is the social rot we all hold close to our heart- the sign of being teens when the world stopped but were we not rotting together? did the  rot not spread? our parents will weep for children lost to fairy lights and little frog lads to mushroom earrings and eyeliner on lips to pronouns and pride flags and the beginning of being forever fifteen, forever realizing that the rot clears away the exterior and the bone underneath  is something unifying, a reminder that we are alive beneath the skin we wear when there are no expectations, when there is no social norm to conform to, when the rot seeps through the perfect child and exposes the rest- the messy, the sad, the lonely- to the world. will  we ever recover? will we ever find ourselves again? will we ever need to?

a commentary on the rise of alternative individualism (and the fall to yet another form of social commodification). ironically, this will be posted to tiktok.

[thebisexualdogdad]

So if you still write for Moon from Cobra Kai, you think you could do Moon x gn reader that's a 70's/80's punk rocker that carries a butterfly knife. They adore each other but no one understands how they work together.

Moon x GN!reader

● on the outside people don't understand how you and Moon work but really you share a lot of the same ideologies about peace, acceptance and being anti government

● the biggest difference really is while Moon and her hippy friends believe in happy sing a long kind of protests you and your punk friends go for a more vocal rebellion kind of approach 

● and thanks to you two the hippies and the punks end up doing a lot of protests together now for causes you both believe in

● Moon irons on patches onto your denim vests and jackets for you

● hanging out in your room listening to vinyl and just chilling 

● showing her bands she never heard of before, anti flag, minor threat, dead Kennedys, descendents etc

● you took Moon to her first punk show and she had a lot more fun than she expected 

● but you made sure to keep her far away from the mosh pit 

● Moon is obviously against weapons but she is fine with your butterfly knife because she knows it is more of an accessory piece than something to be used to hurt people 

● every once in a while you agree to do a spa day with Moon 

● "any chance instead of 'ocean waves' these sound pods could play some Black Flag?" 

● and you always have the nail tech paint your nails black 

● doing yoga with her and Moon making fun of you for doing it in ripped jeans 

● you have a couple of small tattoos that she loves to trace her fingers on 

● she has some of your band t shirts that she sleeps in 

● for Halloween she surprised you by showing up dressed like you 

● it made you laugh so hard

● Moon always reads you your horoscope 

● you do your best to follow along when she starts talking about astrology stuff 

● and she buys you crystals for the good energy which you may not necessarily believe in but you still hold on to every single one of them because it makes her happy