#mason columns

[todayintentacles]

Contemporary Deck Portland

[ghostsinmyramen]

Contemporary Deck Portland

[blood-and-hugs]

Contemporary Deck Portland

Example of a large trendy backyard deck design with a roof extension

[thisisguinevere]

Contemporary Deck Portland A large, modern backyard deck with an added roof is an example.

[thegridler]

Contemporary Deck Portland

[sarahelisabethblais]

Contemporary Deck Portland

[duckandpenguin]

Contemporary Deck Portland

[photospin]

masonic temple in the rain.

polaroid i-type film (edwin land retinex frames).

adjusted in photoshop.

if you like what you see here, you can leave me a tip via my ko-fi. tips are appreciated but not expected.

[nothingunrealistic]

WENDY: You seem different. Lighter. Focused. Happy. WAGS: Yes, like Bruce Wayne after training at the monastery. TAYLOR: Steve Jobs after meditating in India. WAGS: Deadlier than ever. AXE: Okay. You guys are laying this on thicker than a Carol Kaye bassline.

—————

SENIOR: You’ve orchestrated this thing like Phil Spector did “River Deep.” CHUCK: Perhaps not who I’d have used to make the point, but, yes, we put together a wrecking crew and let them play, much as he did.

7x02 original sin // 7x12 admirals fund. carol kaye was a bass player and a member of the wrecking crew, a group of musicians who first came together as the session musicians for songs produced by phil spector and went on to play on hundreds of pop and rock records in the sixties and seventies. “wrecking crew” is a pretty good alternative name for team kill prince in my opinion.

[monkeyandelf]

A Masonic Prophecy from 1991 Is Unfolding Before Our Eyes: Signs in the Sky and the Coming Global Shift

On https://www.monkeyandelf.com/a-masonic-prophecy-from-1991-is-unfolding-before-our-eyes-signs-in-the-sky-and-the-coming-global-shift/

A Masonic Prophecy from 1991 Is Unfolding Before Our Eyes: Signs in the Sky and the Coming Global Shift

In the spring of 1991, a powerful book was quietly released into the public domain—a book that would ripple through underground communities for decades. That book was Behold a Pale Horse by former naval intelligence officer William Cooper. It was filled with unsettling revelations, many of which seemed too outrageous to believe at the time.

But more than 30 years later, a chilling realization is dawning: what Cooper described in 1991 is eerily consistent with what is happening today.

“They have plans to cause things like earthquakes, war, Messiah, alien landings, and economic collapse…” – Behold a Pale Horse, p. 177

As we witness a global convergence of bizarre atmospheric phenomena, political turmoil, technological acceleration, and public anxiety, it’s worth asking: Were we warned?

Unusual Skies: From Missouri to France, Something Strange Is Happening

The Double Halo Over Albany

On a seemingly ordinary day in Albany, Missouri, amateur skywatcher Dan Bush captured a photograph that quickly spread across the internet. It featured a stunning double halo around the Sun—an event he had never seen before.

Red sprites in France. 06/14/2025 The Return of the Son of Man There will be signs in the sun and moon and stars, and on the earth dismay among the nations, bewildered by the roaring of the sea and the surging of the waves. Men will faint from fear and anxiety over what is… pic.twitter.com/yHJjbMBTX5

— ZetaTalk Followers: Watch X, Planet X, aka Nibiru (@ZT_Followers) June 14, 2025

While scientists explained this away as a 22-degree halo caused by ice crystals, this particular phenomenon had an unusually tight 9-degree ring, something exceedingly rare. And Albany wasn’t alone.

France, Texas, and Liverpool: The Same Phenomena, Different Coordinates

Just days later, similar rings appeared over France and Texas.

Abilene – Texas Last week 📷 Paul M Smith photography pic.twitter.com/XsFA4DXfhi

— Catasach (@catasach369) June 14, 2025

Over Liverpool, a dramatic new twist emerged: moving light pillars captured on video by multiple observers. These weren’t lens flares or camera tricks—these were visibly shifting, rotating, and accelerating beams of light in the sky.

Liverpool docks – UK June 14/25 Slowmotion 🎥 Mike O'Hare pic.twitter.com/38Ruaisf95

— Catasach (@catasach369) June 14, 2025

What are they? Natural refraction? Or something else?

Fecha: 2025 Lugar: Estados Unidos Date: 2025 Location: United States #Ovnis #Ufos #UAP #ufosighting #ufotwitter ➡️ https://t.co/cwtBFWpeKK pic.twitter.com/17Ade9G3sG

— 𝐋𝐚 𝐋𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐀𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨 (@LlaveAlMisterio) June 11, 2025

Black Rings, Light Pillars, and Moving Sky Phenomena: TikTok and Elon Musk Join In

Across social media, videos of “sky anomalies” are now more common than ever. From black rings floating ominously above urban centers to fast-moving beams and shadowy structures in the clouds, the strange has become mainstream.

One clip from TikTok user Amanda shows a perfectly formed black ring—huge, silent, and accelerating through the sky with a speed and stability no smoke ring could achieve.

@sun_goddess91

What is this?????#ufo#aliens#aliensighting#ufosighting #fyp #foryoupage

♬ original sound – Amanda Trowbridge

A similar video reposted by Elon Musk added fuel to the fire. Initially dismissed as tricks from local fairs, these rings have now been documented globally.

Este anillos negro fue captado en los EEUU¿Que opinas? ¿Humo o algo más? #ufo #ovni #uap pic.twitter.com/wUw0q3uqEf

— Mario Silva (@MisterioDescono) June 14, 2025

Are these experimental technologies? Atmospheric anomalies? Or harbingers of something more esoteric?

The Ancient Blueprint: Illuminati, Masonic Prophecy, and Manufactured Chaos

William Cooper, in Behold a Pale Horse, warned of a systematic plan by secret elites to engineer chaos—predictive programming on a massive scale.

“They will do whatever is necessary for success.”

He claimed that to usher in a New World Order, staged crises would be used to collapse society’s foundations and make way for their “Masonic Christ”—a false messiah. Among the listed scenarios:

A 9.0 earthquake in Los Angeles

A nuclear attack on New York City

Middle East war escalation

Global financial meltdown

Extraterrestrial disclosure

Food shortages

Mass disappearances

A supernatural global figure claiming to be the Messiah

Startlingly, nearly every one of these scenarios has either occurred, is unfolding, or is being actively discussed in mainstream channels.

The New Eschatology: End Times Forecaster and the Rise of Modern Prophets

Today, modern eschatologists like The End Times Forecaster are connecting the dots between historical prophecy and present-day events. With wars intensifying in the Middle East, governments openly discussing UFOs (now rebranded as UAPs), and economic systems increasingly unstable, many believe we’re at the threshold of a global paradigm shift.

Whether you view these signs as spiritual, technological, extraterrestrial, or psychological, one thing is certain: humanity is on edge—and we’re all searching for answers.

Is This the Great Distraction? Or the Great Awakening?

Some believe these celestial events and crises are mere distractions—a form of controlled chaos designed to keep the public in fear. Others argue that we’re witnessing the beginning of a great spiritual awakening, where hidden truths are emerging after centuries of deception.

Consider the recent visibility of Nibiru-like objects, strange cloud formations, and solar flares. Are these natural cycles, or orchestrated events? Or perhaps, are we tuning into dimensions we were never meant to perceive?

The Thin Veil Between Prophecy and Reality

More than three decades after it was published, Behold a Pale Horse reads less like conspiracy and more like a strategic playbook. Its uncanny predictions now echo in our daily headlines. While skeptics remain, the growing frequency and intensity of sky phenomena cannot be easily ignored.

As ancient warnings, new-age revelations, and modern media converge, we are left with a single pressing question: What comes next?

[klinefelterrible]

IN WHAT ORDER

Tom Gauld - Personajes epicos

[septembergold]

Archway

[beggamoth]

The First Supper

Contains gooning material

summary | your boyfriend introduces you to his dysfunctional family on the holiday dinner. and later fucks you in his childhood bed.

pairing | aegon II targaryen x fem!reader

tags | modern au!westeros. TEAM GREEN CENTERED!!! TW! mentions of substance use and alcohol. p in v sex, tiddy sukkin, breeding kink (like 2 sentences), body worship, not proofread. very chopped english. contains one (1) succession reference.

wordcount | 5k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

Aegon Targaryen had learned many forms of dread: waking up on some stranger’s yacht with a black eye and no pants, the trembling hours after an Instagram DM slide turned into a PR disaster, the slow realization he’d lost his phone in Flea Bottom again.

But nothing compared to this: bringing you home.

His girlfriend, the apple of his eye, the loveliest but probably the dumbest person he’s ever met – because about a year ago you stayed for breakfast against all better judgement, now sat beside him on the backseat of his overpriced, over-compensatory car. He wore sunglasses despite the sun long having set, chewing a toothpick like it would protect him from the chaos of his lineage. Aegon loved his family, truly, irrevocably, in this desperate way that he would not admit when he’s sober and not actively dying. However, it never saved him from secondhand embarrassment in front of other people. In front of you. Fear that you’ll see the root of his fuckedup-ness and run away before mom showed you his baby photos or Aemond quoted mistakes from his college application letters while balancing dagger on his finger or something equally menacing.

“You can still run,” he whispered, voice low, eyes sparkling with that Aegon Targaryen deflectionary charm, one foot twitching like he might join her. “They’ll just assume you were imaginary. Like the others.”

You smiled. Didn’t say anything. Just touched his hand, grounding. Which was horrifying. No one grounded Aegon. He was a helium balloon with a coke problem.

The house looked like a mausoleum that had discovered central air. Columns. Gargoyles. A fire pit for some reason. The dinner table was long and cold and ancient, with enough chairs for dead ancestors.

Alicent Hightower—matriarch, corporate priestess, human dagger—greeted you at the door. She kissed Aegon’s cheeks and murmured, disapprovingly:

“You’re late,”

“Hello to you, mother. I am alive and that’s what matters most,” he returned, deadpan.

Helaena sat already in her chair, bent over a plate of untouched salad, murmuring something to a beetle in a decorated mason jar filled with leaves and earth she’d brought inside her oversized knit bag. Aemond stood by the wine bar, pouring himself a generous glass of red like it was blood and he needed it to survive. His eyepatch was a matte black strip, thick like the band of a designer watch.

Aegon cleared his throat. “Everybody, this is…” He trailed off, not saying her name, because he liked the sacredness of keeping her outside them for just a minute longer. “My—uh, actual girlfriend. As in, not part of a monthly rotation.”

Aemond’s lip curled in an approximation of a smile. “Brave girl.”

Helaena looked up, dreamy-eyed. “You’re not a cricket, but you’re nice. I think that’s better.”

You blinked. “Thank you?”

“Please sit,” Alicent said, motioning like a museum docent pointing toward an uncomfortable mid-century chair. “I made roast duck.”

“She means she hired someone to make roast duck,” Aegon whispered across the table, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “Last time she cooked, the smoke alarm wept.”

“You lit the oven with a match, Aegon,” Alicent replied, cutting her duck with surgical precision. “It was an electric oven.”

“And yet the house remains,” he said, lifting his glass in toast. “To sacred days and improbable survival.”

The conversation was a seesaw from the start. Alicent asked poised questions — “What are your views on career longevity?” and “Do you find monogamy restrictive or grounding?” — while maintaining direct eye contact like she was mining for weaknesses. You answered sweetly, self-assured, and that only made Alicent’s fork movements more deliberate.

“So,” Aemond said, swirling his wine, with a tone of a resting anime villain. “What exactly is your angle here?”

“Excuse me?” you asked.

“Dating my brother. There must be a reason. He’s… entertaining, sure. But like a street performer. You don’t usually take them home.”

“Aemond,” Alicent said in her best controlled warning voice.

“No, no, let him speak,” Aegon said, grinning like a wolf who’d spotted a fresh kill. “Go on, brother, tell us how you really feel.”

Aemond turned to their guest again. “Just trying to understand the strategic advantage.”

“She’s not a treaty, you sociopath,” Aegon snapped. “She’s a human.”

“She’s someone you brought into this,” Aemond replied, voice cool. “She’s now part of the chessboard.”

Helaena clapped softly. “I like chess. But the pieces scream if you listen too close.”

There was a pause.

“Right,” Aegon muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Family dinner’s going great, by the way. No notes.”

The duck was overcooked, but nobody mentioned it.

Midway through, the Dornish wine loosened things. Alicent began reminiscing about the children's baptisms. “Aegon fell into the fountain during his own. Completely naked, waving his arms like Neptune risen.”

“Big dick energy,” Aegon muttered.

“Aegon!” Alicent hissed.

“You walked in on me doing coke off a Dorne-themed map once, mother. I think we’re past the point of clutching pearls.”

Aemond chuckled darkly. “That was a good party, though.”

“That was your graduation dinner,” Alicent snapped.

“Ah, right,” Aemond said, smiling thinly.

You had stopped eating, watching them all like you’d just stumbled into a live taping of a psychological experiment. Aegon leaned toward you, hand sliding to rest on your thigh beneath the table, fingers warm and tense.

“See?” he murmured. “You thought I was exaggerating.”

You smiled faintly, leaned back, and squeezed his hand under the cloth. “You didn’t say enough.”

The fire crackled like an old secret refusing to die, its orange light spilling across the rug in soft, uneven pulses. The rest of the house had finally fallen quiet—Aemond had vanished upstairs, Helaena had wandered off with her insects and half a plate of cookies, and Aegon had gone outside for a cigarette that had already turned into twenty minutes of pacing on the patio. That left you alone in the parlor with Alicent, who had sat down with you like it was a business meeting and then, somewhere around her third glass of Dornish red, had begun to unravel with the delicate slowness of a tapestry snagged on a nail.

“-he was a colicky baby, actually,” she was saying now, staring into the fire. “Cried for hours. Nights without sleep, days feeling like one. I remember pacing the nursery barefoot, praying to the Mother to take pity and just let him rest. Let me rest.”

You were perched on the edge of the settee, warm but rigid, hands wrapped around your glass as if etiquette were the only thing keeping you upright.

“And yet, he had the most beautiful eyes, even then. Wide and accusing, as though he knew I was bluffing.” Her voice shifted, softening, but not quite tender. “He wouldn’t be soothed unless I rocked him for hours in certain way. He was peculiar even as an infant. Difficult, obstinate. Desperate to be seen, and terrified of what it meant.”

A silence fell, not awkward but immense. She poured another inch of wine into her glass but didn’t drink from it. Her fingers tightened around the stem.

“Aemond was quieter,” she continued, tone almost academic again. “He watched more than he spoke. Methodical, intense. I put on a cassette with war documentaries; it was the only thing that made him sleep through the night. Conquest was his favorite.”

Another pause.

“And Helaena,” she said, almost to herself, “was my little oracle. Always murmuring things I didn’t quite understand. I thought perhaps I’d broken her somehow. That I’d missed the right formula—too little affection, too much structure. But she would hold my hand without warning. Press her forehead to mine and say, ‘You’re trying so hard, Mother. I see you.’”

The wineglass trembled. She set it down with perfect precision, but her voice faltered.

“I see them, you know,” she whispered, almost in awe. “Even now. Children in grown bodies, staggering under all this inheritance—expectation, silence, disappointment. My legacy is restraint. I gave them rules where they needed sanctuary.”

She pressed her thumb to her lip, as if trying to hold back something spilling from within. Her eyes were glassy now, faraway and full. She didn’t blink.

“Aegon,” she said at last, like dropping a stone in still water, “was always so loud. Laughing when he should’ve listened. Mocking what he feared. He’d drink from the decanter in my office and pretend I hadn’t noticed. Pretend I wasn’t watching him become a man too quickly and in the wrong direction. And I-I told myself he’d grow out of it. That indulgence was just adolescence.”

The firelight licked the edge of her profile, catching on a tear she didn’t brush away.

“I don’t know when I started praying for him to just… stop.” Her voice cracked. “To pause. To be still, or sober, or steady, or anything at all. I thought I was asking for peace. But what I wanted—what I want—is for him to be whole.”

She turned fully toward you then, tear-streaked and composed in the most terrifying way, like a statue discovering it could bleed.

“And I see that, now,” she said softly. “With you.”

Your throat was too tight to respond.

“I know what it is to be needed in all the wrong ways,” she said. “Don’t mistake your influence for obligation. He’s exhausting. They all are. If he makes you feel small — leave. If he forgets to love you properly, remember him once, and then go. He deserves more than that. So do you.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“But,” she added, with the smallest laugh, “should you choose to stay... then know that you have done what I could not. And for that-” Her mouth trembled. “For that, I thank you.”

She wept then, silently, the way people do when they’ve forgotten how to ask for help and yet still need to. No wracking sobs, no theatrical moan — just tears, like a cathedral window cracking under centuries of sun.

You reached across the small distance between you and took her hand.

She didn’t flinch.

The hallway outside his old bedroom smelled faintly of dust and lavender polish. The door was ajar, light leaking out across the carpet like a secret trying not to be noticed. You nudged it open.

Aegon was sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg jiggling, a cigarette smoldering in the saucer of a decorative plate that probably once held communion wafers or mints.

He looked up when you stepped in and immediately smiled. Too wide, too bright.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite hostage,” he said, spreading his arms. “Survived the dinner. You're basically family now. We’ll get your blood tested and your name embroidered on a handkerchief.”

You said nothing, just moved to him. He opened his arms wider and pulled you in like gravity had claimed him.

“God,” he breathed against your temple, swaying you side to side in a lazy, slow-rocking motion that wasn’t dancing and wasn’t stillness either. “You’ve got no idea. You’ve really got no fucking idea.”

You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to.

His arms stayed tight around your waist, like he thought you might float into the walls like one of the ghosts haunting the Red Keep. He kissed the side of your head and held it there for a beat too long, breath warm, uneven.

“I don’t deserve this,” he said, quieter now, like confessing to a priest he didn’t believe in. “You. The way you looked at me across that table like I was worth something. That’s not—”

He laughed suddenly, sharp and empty. “Shit, this is where I’d normally spiral and drink myself into a blackout, but I left the minibar behind.”

You curled your fingers into the back of his shirt, and he sighed against you, breathing you in like oxygen had gone extinct everywhere else.

“God, you’re good,” he whispered. “You’re so good it makes me want to fuck you stupid just so I feel like we’re on the same playing field again.”

You leaned back just slightly, caught his smirk creeping in again — cracked at the edges but real, boyish and obscene in the same breath.

“I mean,” he said, tilting his head toward the pillow behind him, “technically speaking, I did just introduce you to the best half of my disfunctional dynasty, and I think it’s only fair you now get fucked in the same bed where my psyche was molded.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He grinned wider, biting his lip, hand sliding down to your hip. “C’mon. It squeaks like hell and the headboard is definitely haunted by my teenage shame. Makes it more fun.”

He laid you back on the mattress without waiting for the verbal approval — soft and too old, springs squeaking in protest under your weight, the sheets smelling like dust and nostalgia. His room preserved adolescent riot in the perfect order: same posters peeling on the wall, same scratch in the headboard from where he’d thrown a tantrum and cracked it with a metal lighter. He crawled over you with all the grace of a boy who knew how to fuck but never quite learned how to feel safe doing it.

“God, you on this bed,” he murmured, sinking down onto his elbows above you, eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing a crime scene. “This bed’s seen everything. My whole goddamn life.”

You looked up at him, blinking slow, lips parted.

“I mean it. I cried here. Bled here once. Smoked my first cigarette under the blanket with the window cracked like an idiot. Jerked off so much the sheets got crusty.” He laughed under his breath, nose brushing yours, so close his breath hit your lips.

He kissed your cheek. Then your other. Then the tip of your nose.

“Nothing’s ever felt like this though. Like... like this is it. This is the way the circle closes.”

You blinked up at him again, breath caught halfway in your chest.

He kissed your forehead, thumb tracing along your jaw. “Perfect,” he whispered. “You’re just... perfect. Pretty little thing in my arms like some gift the gods decided I didn’t deserve but gave me anyway because they were bored.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, dragging it up slow, lips skimming your collarbone. When he got to your breasts, he made a sound like prayer, open-mouthed, hungry, tongue tracing a slow wet arc around your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth with a low, appreciative groan.

You slapped him lightly on the shoulder with a laugh, half breathless. “You’re a fucking menace.”

He just grinned around your skin, pulled back with a wet pop and looked up at you, flushed and amused and too in love for his own good.

“We should get married,” he said, like he was suggesting pizza for dinner.

You snorted, brushing hair from his eyes. “Right now? After dinner with your terrifying family?”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding like it all made perfect sense. “It would be the equivalent of the thing where I abduct you and force you to live with me, except you’d say yes and I wouldn’t get arrested.”

You stilled beneath him, caught on the word. “That’s not an equivalent.”

He grinned wider, not moving, not apologizing. “Semantics.”

His hands found your hips and pulled you closer, grinding against you just enough to make the air thin between your lungs.

“I’m not saying now,” he said, kissing down your stomach. “I’m just saying. Think about it. We’d make headlines. Or history.”

“Or orphans,” you muttered.

He laughed against your skin, kissed lower, bit at the waistband of your jeans. “Depends how the kids turn out. You know, destructively perfect like us. Full set of teeth and all the wrong ideas.”

“You are not breeding me,” you said flatly.

“We’ll negotiate,” he replied, tugging your pants down with both hands and pressing a kiss just above your hipbone, smug and entirely too fond.

Your shirt was somewhere on the floor, or maybe it had never existed at all — lost to the ether the second Aegon got his hands under it, mouth hungry and reverent. His palms squeezed your breasts as if testing fruit from the market for ripeness, for bruised sides - and finding none. His hair fell in messy strands over his forehead, and he didn’t even try to push it away — he was too focused, too transfixed.

“By the Seven,” he muttered, voice thick with awe, “I could write epics about these.”

You laughed, arching your back slightly as he licked a slow line from the underside of your left breast up to your nipple. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yes, but I meant it with less grandeur then,” he replied, nuzzling the soft curve of flesh with his nose. “These—these are not mere tits. Nay. These are alabaster domes fit for the kings.”

You snorted. “Aegon—”

“Silence, wench,” he cut in, mouth already moving to your other breast. “Let me sing praises unto thy silken orbs.”

“Silken what?”

He lifted his head, eyes fever-bright, solemn like a knight swearing fealty. “Twin orbs of fortune! Bountiful ye stand—lo! Like the hills of Valyria, yet untouched by fire or Doom.”

You giggled, breathless now, one hand in his hair. “You’re such a perv.”

“And proud!” he declared, before latching onto your nipple again, sucking it into his mouth with a wet, obscene moan that vibrated through your ribcage. “Mmmf, fuck. I’d suck these till dawn if you let me. Maybe longer. Like a cursed sailor with the sirens’ song trapped in his throat.”

“Do sirens have tits?”

“I dunno, but yours are better anyways,” he said immediately, one hand now palming your breast, thumb circling slow and firm, the other pinching lightly at the sensitive skin underneath. “Gods, these are too good for me. You're right. I'm a perv. A wretched man.”

You laughed again, helpless, as he bit down just slightly, then soothed the sting with a warm, open-mouthed kiss.

“D’you think they feel it?” he asked suddenly, pulling back just an inch. “The gods. When I do this?”

“When you suck at my tits?”

He nodded solemnly. “I imagine the Stranger flinches. The Crone turns away. But the Mother…” He winked. “The Mother approves.”

“You’re disgusting,” you murmured, pulling him back up by the collar of his wrinkled shirt, kissing him hard, teeth clashing, tongues lazy and warm.

“I am,” he agreed, mouth still half on yours. “And these…” his hands squeezed your breasts again, reverently, “…these are the holy texts.”

He wasn’t seducing you. Aegon moved like a creature crawling back into the dark warmth of its den, needy and desperate. His body covered yours without elegance, hips flush to yours, breath hot and impatient, grunts leaving his throat. This wasn’t about performance, not for him. He didn’t care if it was pretty. He didn’t care about lighting or timing or the way the bed creaked with every push of his knee.

He needed.

His fingers were already between your legs, not gentle, not rough—just there, desperate, sliding through folds still damp with arousal and lazy warmth. It had been a long day. You hadn’t showered. The room smelled like sweat, a little like wine and dust from the heavy old duvet that had seen too many years folded under the weight of his adolescence. But none of it stopped him. If anything, it pulled him deeper.

“Mmm, fuck,” he murmured into your throat, one finger sinking inside you with a slick, gluttonous sound, followed by a second almost immediately after. He didn’t tease, didn’t ask. He just pressed in deeper, jaw clenching, like he could bury himself whole if he pushed far enough. “Warm. Fuck, you’re so warm.”

His hips rolled against the side of your thigh, mindlessly, cock stiff in his boxers and grinding into your skin as if by accident. His face was half-buried in your neck, one cheek pressed against your collarbone while his free hand cupped your breast again like it grounded him. He moaned, like he felt it all in his chest.

He moved down your body, dragging his face against your skin like a dog burrowing under a blanket. No buildup, no foreplay, no clever lines. Just need. By the time he got between your legs, he wasn’t saying anything at all. He spread you with both hands, fingers slick from what he’d already taken, and looked at you with glassy, wild eyes.

And then he dove in.

No ceremony. No teasing. Just his tongue pushing against your folds, mouth dragging open kisses that were all spit and breath, his nose nudging into the mess as if the smell didn’t just not bother him — it wrecked him. He moaned against your cunt like he was the one being touched, face grinding into you, licking with a fast, needy rhythm that bordered on frantic.

You shifted beneath him, trying to catch your breath, but he didn’t slow. He grunted against your pussy, muffled and sloppy, wet sounds filling the room along with the creaking of the bed as he adjusted himself, rutting his cock into the mattress.

You carded your fingers into his hair and tugged—not harsh, just enough to make him pause and look up. His mouth and chin were slick, red, nose shiny, eyes hazy.

He looked dazed. Grateful.

And then he was crawling back up, yanking his boxers down to his knees, not even bothering to fully strip. His cock slapped against your thigh, hot and hard and leaking, and he lined it up with one hand, the other braced by your head as he panted.

“I… fuck, I’m not gonna last. I just-” he groaned, sliding in, slow but deep, teeth bared, eyes fluttering shut. “Just wanna be inside. Just wanna feel you.”

The bed moaned beneath you both, the smell of dust and sweat and old cotton rising with every sharp thrust, but you didn’t care. He was fucking into you like it was the only place he’d ever felt safe. Like your cunt was a mouth swallowing his past, his shame, the echo of every mistake he never fixed.

His rhythm was fast, greedy. Not cruel. Just desperate. Like he was afraid you’d vanish if he stopped.

“You feel so — fuck — you’re real,” he gasped, hips stuttering, face buried against your shoulder again. “You’re fucking real. I’m gonna—god, I can’t-”

You dug your nails into his back, and he came with a choked-off moan, cock pulsing inside you, his whole body tense like a drawn bowstring. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just held you close, panting, face buried against your skin, breath shaking like something had cracked open inside him.

He wasn’t seductive.

He was starving.

He started humping like he couldn’t help himself—his body moving in lazy, dragging thrusts, not fully withdrawn, just rocking into you again and again with the heavy pressure of someone not trying to impress, only trying to get as deep as his hips would let him. His cock wasn’t long. But it was thick, undeniably so — meaty and blunt and sheathed in soft skin that caught just a little when he shifted, every push nudging against sensitive walls with a wet, sloshing noise that was growing louder by the second.

It wasn't even rhythm, not really. More like instinct. Animal persistence.

And you could feel all of him — his weight settling harder with every grind, lean now, but not built for delicacy. His back was tight, sinewy under your palms, but his hips already carried the heaviness of future stock. You could tell. One day, he’d be broad in a way that left no room for fragility. Not like Aemond, who was build like a twink, for the lack of better wording. Aegon would always be warm, solid, heavy, with his own center of gravity.

His cock dragged slow inside you again, thick enough that your cunt squelched, loud and obscene, and that made him pause—just a second. His eyes lit up.

“Oh my fucking gods,” he breathed, blinking down at the place where you were joined. Another slick, sucking noise followed as he shifted his hips and sank deeper, groaning. “You hear that?”

You rolled your eyes and tried to breathe through the pressure.

But he grinned, still moving, just a little, the rhythm getting messier. “She’s talking,” he said, breathless, high on it. “Your pretty cunt’s got opinions. Listen to her—”

And then, in the dumbest, shrillest falsetto he could manage, he imitated the noise:

“Y-yes daddy,” he squeaked, barely moving his lips as if the sound were coming straight from your pussy. “Yes daddy your dumpy little cock makes me feel so gooooood—!”

You burst out laughing so hard it broke the tension in your spine. He didn’t stop humping. In fact, your laughter just made it worse—made him grin harder, eyes bright and fucked-out, sweat beading on his brow.

“Wait wait—wait listen, she’s got more to say,” he gasped between thrusts, voice still in that high, quivering pitch as he shoved in again, the noise even wetter now.

“Ohh ohhh mister Targaryen sirrrr, put a fucking ring on me so I can be your officially betrothed cum dumpster—”

You hit his shoulder, laughing too hard to breathe. “Stop it, you absolute degenerate.”

He didn’t. His hips kept grinding in little circles, his cock pulsing hard inside you with every lewd squelch. “She’s a talker,” he whispered, face buried in your neck now. “Gods, I love her.”

Another thrust. Another sound.

“You’re both so fucking loud,” he muttered, biting your ear with a grin. “I’m gonna end up worshipping you till my dick falls off.”

And then, against your throat, voice low again, amused and exhausted and real:

“But seriously. You make the best noises.”

He came with a grunt muffled into your neck, a low, clenching sound that pulsed straight through his stomach into yours. His cock went soft and limp inside you as he spilled, hips grinding through it with short, greedy thrusts like he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from your body, not even for the second it would take to slip out. It was raw and slow and so fucking messy—your cunt wet and aching, stuffed full of him, every twitch of his cock inside sending another slick aftershock sliding down your thighs and onto the dust-worn sheets beneath.

He didn’t move for a long moment.

Just collapsed, half on you, half beside you, breathing hard, face flushed and damp with sweat, nose smushed against your collarbone. You could feel the stickiness between your legs spreading, cooling slowly in the heat of the room, and neither of you said anything about it. There was no point. He wasn’t going to apologize. You weren’t going to ask him to.

And then, without a word, he rolled off you, rummaged blindly through the drawer beside the bed—half hanging open, crammed with old cigarette packs, broken lighters, a sticky bottle of lube, and two AA batteries—and pulled out a knife. Just a small one, but sharp. Old. The tip was stained from when he used it to cut open a can of peaches at age sixteen because he was too high to find the can opener.

You watched, still sprawled half-naked on your back, lazy and glowing, legs spread just slightly where his cum still leaked from you.

He knelt up on the mattress, took a moment to push the headboard curtain aside, and began to carve.

Slow and deliberate, like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t the first time his name was gouged into the furniture of this house.

“What are you doing?” you asked finally, voice thick and soft and lazy.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even glance back.

“Making it official.”

You squinted. The headboard was ridiculously massive, a slab of carved oak that probably weighed more than both of you did and had stood through decades of moaning, crying, and solo existential crises. He carved your initials with care, a little heart, and then—beneath it, with exaggerated flare—wrote out in rough, slashing strokes:

Aegon II ❤️ [your name]

All the letters uneven. The heart skewed slightly to the left.

You raised a brow. “You could’ve just put A.T.”

He scoffed without turning. “There’s at least three fuckers in this cursed family whose names start with A.”

He finished the heart with a jab of the tip, tossed the knife onto the nightstand like he was done with all tasks for the day, then rolled back toward you with a smirk.

“You’re not getting confused and accidentally fucking Aemond in here someday. This-” he thumped the headboard with his palm, “-this says it was me.”

You laughed. “You really think Aemond would carve a heart?”

“Exactly,” he said, tugging you back toward him with that lazy, pervy grin, already burying his face in your shoulder again like he was winding down for round two or a nap. “He’d burn the whole bed before leaving a trace. I leave receipts.”

His cum was still dripping between your legs.

His name was now in the wood behind your head.

And he was already half-asleep, grinning into your skin like the animal he was, one arm heavy across your stomach, breathing all content and possessive.

“Aegon, second of his name,” you murmured.

He nuzzled you.

“Mhmm. That’s right.”

[joluvsfinnick]

ok but. im still obsessed with the smau thing. like imagine this-

you’re a rising Capitol journalist known for your dry wit and unfiltered takes on high society, especially finnick odair, golden boy model, heartthrob, and the Capitol’s favorite poster child. your running column “kiss, marry, exile.” a Capitol-famous rating game you made popular, but it turns into a fan-favorite when you consistently exile finnick in every entry when you rank the top 3 looks from Capitol that week.

✨ weekly column: kiss, marry, exile

by @yourusername

“in this week’s edition, i regret to inform you that finnick odair has once again been exiled—this time for pairing leather pants with pearl accessories and pretending it’s a political statement. he’s a fashion icon, yes, but sometimes icons need to be revoked.”

kiss: johanna mason. for wearing a full velvet suit and punching a reporter in the same night. the range.

marry: peeta mellark. wore a soft brown turtleneck and offered me bread. obvious choice.

exile: odair. for reasons stated above. and because he called me “sweetheart” on live television. jail.

the comments explode.

the people love it. he HATESSS it.

he’s used to compliments, thirst tweets, fake love. but you? you call out his overuse of seafoam green. you say he looks like a rich man’s pool boy in his latest swimwear ad. you imply he has the personality of a scented candle. and somehow… it gets under his skin.

but he brushes it off—until one night at 2:39 a.m., finnick finds himself accidentally liking a tweet about her as he stalks twitter.

“she pretends to hate him but we all know she’s obsessed. classic enemies to lovers bait.”

the internet explodes. your phone breaks. his PR team starts crying.

IDKK SHOULD I DO IT😭😭🙏🙏

[pmamtraveller]

ENTRANCE TO THE CRYPT, ROSSLYN CHAPEL /1843/ by DAVID ROBERTS

The painting clearly illustrates an entrance to the crypt of Roslin Chapel, located near Edinburgh in Scotland. The chapel itself is very well known for its intricate carvings and historical mystique. The place is somehow associated with the Knights Templar and Masonic lore

William St Clair founded the chapel in 1446 to be used for prayer and meditation. The chapel inculcates its role in the spiritual life of the community, capturing in this painting a moment of reverence at the entrance to the crypt containing the remains of the St Clair family. Roberts ties together the relation of the chapel and that of Scotland's heritage.

The painting depicts the pointed arches characteristic of Gothic architecture that hold up the framework but also add to the space with their greatness. One of the conspicuous features of this painting is the twisted "Prentice Pillar," central to the legend of the crypt. This column exemplifies the skill of medieval craftsmen and adds a narrative element to the architectural detail.

The soft, diffused lighting elevates the scene's peaceful mood. Hence, the viewer can reflect on the spirituality of the space and its history. Roberts seeks to retain the estimability of the era's medieval structures and the mysteries surrounding them, drawing out the cultural heritage of Scotland by a detailed, atmospheric representation of the crypt.

[allisluv]

MASC JOHANNA MASC JOHANNA MASC JOHANNA MASC JOHANNA AOFMSČCKSČGJOAJFIXBFIX

i'm totally normal about her

Basically a request for a masc (in case it wasn't clear) Johanna smut post rebellion when she's with reader back in District 7 (or 4 helping Annie with the baby, I would be opposed to it) and she's got that short hair that is still hanging but just above her shoulders so that she can't tie it up or anything and she just gets back from cutting up an oak or something like that idk whatever is is that lumberjack lesbians do and reader sees her still sweaty from the workout and idk how request smut but yk what happens then.

I got this idea from your Johanna x movie editor reader mood board and I LOVE the mb and I would love this fic FOR SURE

- 🫐 anon

damn those flannel shirts.

pairing: johanna mason x fem!reader

content warnings: established relationship, set post-rebellion, nsfw, poorly written lesbian smut, fingering, oral, praise kink, dom!johanna, sub!reader, not edited.

word count: 1k

You're halfway through cooking pasta for dinner when you hear the front door slam shut, followed by the sound of your girlfriend’s Doc Martens hitting the wooden floorboards as she treks towards the kitchen. You chance a glance up when you hear her stop walking and your mind just about short-circuits when you set eyes on her.

Johanna's leaning against the doorframe, her arms folded across her chest as she smirks at you. Her hair hangs just above her shoulders, a sight that you still can't get enough of, even now. Beads of sweat are trickling down the junction between her neck and shoulder, and in a matter of seconds, you've abandoned your post at the stove and are climbing her like a tree.

Johanna's noise of surprise gets caught in the back of her throat as you press your lips firmly against her own. She wastes absolutely no time in responding, and she slips her tongue into your mouth. You tug at the bottom of her flannel shirt eagerly and she obliges by pulling it over her head and tossing it into the hallway behind her. "What about dinner?" She mutters in between kisses.

"Fuck the dinner."

Damn those flannel shirts.

You nip at the soft skin of her neck. She gives your hair a sharp tug in retaliation, a quiet reminder that you’re not the one in control here. You ignore her warning and use your tongue to trace a path up the column of her throat.

Johanna positions her hands underneath your thighs and gives a squeeze, silently directing you to wrap your legs around her waist. You waste no time in following her instructions, and as soon as she has a solid grip on you, she carries you toward the bedroom, kicking the door shut with her foot. 

You giggle as she tosses you down onto the bed like a rag doll, carefully enough that you wont get hurt but roughly enough to send a thrill up your spine for what’s going to come. 

She hovers over your body, face set in a line of concentration as she undoes the buttons on your blouse. Once the constricted piece of fabric falls from your body, she throws it haphazardly to one side and toys with the lace of your bra. “Can I take this off?” She asks, voice thick with lust. You nod and that’s all the confirmation she needs. With one hand and years of expertise, she unclasps your bra and groans when the cool air helps your nipples harden.

Flattening out her tongue, she takes one of your nipples into her mouth and suckles, using her hand to palm at your other breast. Your head falls back in bliss as you roll your hips into hers. Her hand moves from your breast and you whine, only to be shut down with a look that tells you to quit complaining. 

She chuckles under her breath when you jut your bottom lip out into a pout. “Such a greedy girl,” she chastises gently, hooking her fingers through the waistband of your lacy underwear and navy sweatpants, and pulling the two of them down at once until they pool around your ankles. “So needy.” She works her way down your body, trailing open mouthed kisses to exposed skin as she goes. 

She stops when she's eye-level with your wet core, and runs a finger through your slick. Clicking her tongue, she asks, "All of this for me?" You whimper in response and she withdraws from you. "Ah, ah, ah. Is that an answer? It doesn't sound like one to me."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes; knowing Johanna, she would just leave you writhing for hours in response to your cheeky behaviour.

Instead, you take a route that you know will work; begging.

"All for you, Jo. Just for you," You say, wriggling your hips.

She lets out a hum of approval and licks a long stripe up your core as her fingers ease you open. "Good girl," She praises, pressing a gentle kiss to your clit before suctioning her lips around it and sucking.

Your head falls back against the pillow and your hips buck into her as a moan slips past your lips.

Johanna uses her free hand to push your hips into the bed and eases another finger into you. You whine at the intrusion, and she's quick to soothe you with another kiss to your clit. The tenderness doesn't last long, because she's quick to suck your clit back into her mouth.

Sex with Johanna is rarely slow-- unless she is trying to teach you a lesson, that is-- and you find yourself hurdling towards the edge so quickly that it makes your head spin. Her movements are consistent and precise as she fingers you open and the added pressure from her mouth as she sucks as your clit is enough to have your thighs closing around her head.

She moans into your core but makes no move to stop you. (You knew she wouldn't, anyway; it gets her off too much). You push yourself up onto your elbows and, just as you expected, you see Johanna rutting her hips into the edge of the bed. A whine is pulled from your throat, and your fingers instinctively find a home in her short strands of hair.

You give a tug to pull her impossibly closer to where you need her the most, and she goes willingly, because, despite being the dominant in the bedroom, she's also fucking whipped.

Her fingers hit that spongey spot that has you seeing stars and your moans grow higher in pitch. Johanna makes a mental note of it and seems to pick up her pace, curling her fingers to elicit that whine that drives her crazy.

She pulls away from your clit to speak, chin dripping with your juices. "You close, baby?"

You nod eagerly, voice coming out as a needy whimper. "Yeah. Christ, yeah, keep going."

"Yes, ma'am." She grins.