#surprise have some trauma

[lucreziasredwyne]

who: @arronlannister when and where: the princess meredyth lannister's birthing chamber, some long hours into the night; the atmosphere is busy, chaotic even, and lucrezia redwyne is one of the women attending to the princess in her hour of greatest need. both are aware of the severity of the situation, despite meredyth slipping in and out of consciousness.

there came a sound that was animalistic as it's very core, the sound of bloodcurdling scream one would only think to hear in myths and legends, the most far off stories from beyond the wall: or the common birthing bed, when the gods had decided one's time had come. regardless of how many times the lady of the arbor attempted to bring her to some form of consciousness, there was no denying the harrowing of her breaths and the increasing whiteness of her skin; the lingering shadow of death which had once again clasped her around the neck.

the screaming, the howling, seemed to only add to the heat in the room: and yet, one touch of meredyth was enough to send a feeling of ice to spread through lucrezia's being. for she felt the impending coldness in the limpness of her limbs, and the way in which warm orbs seemed to roll backward; the hours had blended into one, strenuous stretch of time. the people of the west wanted their second prince of fair isle.

lucrezia could see it in the way both maesters and midwives looked upon the situation, with a calculating look in their eye; as though this were some formula, some sum of a lump of gold.

they had paid for meredyth rowan, and they would get what they had paid for. a hand rested upon her closest friend's clammy face, quietly muttering words of endearment in the moments of consciousness, assurance that all would be well and it would be over soon. the babe would turn into the correct position, and could once again push - push to relieve herself of the bone crushing pressure which no doubt felt as though it would split open her pelvis.

but in those moments of no consciousness, when the eyes rolled back again and the body seemed to go into some state of limp, stiff, shock, lucrezia muttered prayers through eyes that were blind with tears, what small amounts of kohl she had worn earlier in the day running down her cheeks. her prayers were feverish, frantic, nothing akin to the steadiness she had uttered at her own mother's birthing bed: even when her voice shook. there came the quiet request for water to keep the princess cool - and the reminder that her husband had asked for her wellbeing.

and in that simple, small request laced with falsehood, lucrezia redwyne made the biggest mistake of her life. unclasping a clammy hand from mimi rowan's as she was being propped up, lucrezia assumed they would be trying to stir her awake by sitting her up - by trying another position, and allowing the natural position of a woman to take hold. she stepped out into the foyer, her mind blurred with the sounds of meredyth's screams and that of her own mother's over a decade ago; and as she walked, she did not realise the bowl of water she carried had spilled everywhere.

because there had been a scream. a different scream. and what she pushed her way back into, was a bloodbath. her gown pushed over her stomach, baring her before the maesters - lucrezia almost wanted to scream at them to look away, to force their heads back to crash against the candelabra again and again. but it was the open flesh of the stomach which she saw first, and a bloodied, screaming babe which was wrapped in a blanket.

why was she silent? why could she see the insides of her hycathith? why could see her mimi?

the bowl of water came crashing onto the ground and her hand moved to clasp over her hand, masking a gasp that was half shriek of shock, and half a mournful cry. like a wounded dog. she did not even feel the king's rage barge by her, suddenly becoming part of the furniture. a shadow on the wall - and yet, her hand remained clasped over her mouth the entire time, to the point she began to bite down on it as her breathing tightened. to stop from her own bloodcurdling sobbing from coming out of her chest.

and then the anarchy began.

[brain-wyrm]

The real struggle of being cishet on this site is I see a bunch of content that is not catered to me in some ways (e.g. my dash is full of so many lesbians and trans girls 24/7 LMAO). The next logical thought is "well why don't you just follow more blogs that DO cater to you?"

Except these blogs and mutuals are so vivacious and talented and funny and teach me so many things about the world and the human experience

I love them!!! I am standing in a corner with two thumbs up as you guys make out

[robotsafari]

i had a dream where something was off with riku’s shadow…

(this art is so sucks i made this when i was tired and less experienced which ended up making riku look so much skinnier than how i normally draw him post-kh2 can you stop engaging it with pretty pweeease)

[the-eclectic-wonderer]

WHAT IN THE MAG160 WAS THAT

[littlerosetrove]

Eddie being baffling this season so far when it comes to Marisol nolastname:

has used her as a babysitter multiple times, especially when he wants to hang out with Tommy or probably even Buck.

on a call said he was "taken at the moment", which is WILD considering maybe a couple weeks later he:

"goes with his gut" and asks his girlfriend of maybe 4 months to move in with him, and then:

3-ish days later says, wait. nevermind. we don't actually know all that much about each other huh? ok, move out please haha!

BUT ALSO during the 3-ish days Marisol was barely moved in, --> Eddie's gut instinct to part of that mess (him not knowing how to set boundaries and say "hey, i don't want to have sex") was to break up with her. he may have been joking, but there was legit truth in it. alas. --> Bobby delicately tells Eddie he didn't think Eddie was so invested in Marisol that he'd ask her to move in already (which implies Eddie doesn't really even talk about her that much, let alone is serious about her). Bobby says you don't have commitment issues with some things. --> you can see on Eddie's face he really does think he should break up with Marisol, or at the very least has Definite Doubts about her, but pushes those correct feelings away to. double down with Marisol (stay with her anyway)... for some reason.

Marisol was MIA from either wedding, the big one and the one at the hospital. (Abuela was at the hospital wedding for some reason. no idea why, but it is funny that she's Eddie's plus one.)

In conclusion: Eddie and this whole nothing burger of a relationship is perplexing. I know Marisol is just a catalyst for Eddie's Catholic guilt apparently, but GD.

Also, Eddie I love you, but you're kind of a terrible boyfriend. Marisol like Ana also seems to have zero friends to tell her to leave already.

[caluupin]

Finished TGAAC around 2 1/2 weeks ago but only finished the doodles today. but still, here ya go!

[doodlingwren]

If only the original Saint Seiya anime was a 2014-2018 anime series instead of being aired in the 80s-90s, I can only imagine the sheer amount of animation memes that could have been done. Some of the characters are just so perfect for those, like, if this was a more animation-oriented fandom this would totally be a thing.

[crazy-fangirl2524]

Seeing people reacting to tsc and them getting shock over things I thought was obvious and I was getting annoyed until I realised maybe not everyone reread aftg like a million times and have read most of the analytical posts and yeah maybe I am the problem instead

[jyminie]

Just finished the trials of Apollo and I NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT

These books were so different to me because they directly revolved around a topic Rick clearly wanted to touch - abuse. Specifically, familial abuse. Personally I think he’d done it gracefully in a way that really sinks in for me now, but I’m not a victim of abuse and don’t pretend to understand the subject.

Regardless, I think the way Rick wrote Apollo, Lester, was absolute perfection. There’s an art to writing a literal god in first person perspective, and have him be one of the most human characters in the entire franchise.

Lester STRUGGLES. And he’s not perfect at all, he doesn’t even begin to understand everything at the start - not the world, not consequences, not the stakes and not the people around him. But fuck he learns, he learns the hard way, the only way, by doing. And it’s not a linear journey either - between book 1 and his more or less lucid identity in book 5, he goes back and forth between learning, and relapsing to his old ways, and learning again, and trusting and understand and rising victorious in all the confusion. He doesn’t shy away from his emotions - he cries a lot, and gets frustrated, and laughs. He learns to feel for other people. But he also learns to heal himself. And he does it by helping others heal, too.

To me, this red thread tying the books together by a common serious subject, made the reading somehow more whole. I can’t explain it, but Apollo slowly verbalising (well, thinking), realising there are similarities between his relationship with Zeus to Meg’s relationship with Nero, was so satisfying. Although I feel like “satisfying” might be a bit of a harsh word. Mostly I felt proud of him. I /felt/ for him, so very much, for so long. He’s likeable because he’s so human, and that includes both his silly and tragic sides, because these coexist within all of us. And I think he as a character encompassed that beautifully.

Reading that last book, expecting a showdown of sorts between Apollo and his father, and receiving a short conversation, an understanding, instead, was amazing. Because that’s Rick’s way of showing us what’s important. No use trying to fix what we can’t, what isn’t our responsibility to fix, what makes us miserable. Humans have this natural ability to rise from their own disasters and forge out of them their own paths in life. And Apollo did just that. It took him time, but that’s how it goes for all of us. And instead of fighting Zeus, he chose happiness. He chose focusing on what’s important, his old hobbies, his friends.

In a way, I’m bittersweet- I wish he didn’t have to stay at Olympus. I wish he could spend as much time as he’d like on earth. But the thing is, a god is what he /is/. But now, he understands for the first time that he gets to pick what kind of god he should be.

And he chose the human kind.

[moonlightdancer26]

Me when I remember that Snape would’ve not only been much happier in life but would have so many less tiring debates about him if he had just remained a loyal Death Eater instead of defecting and sacrificing himself for a world that hated him while getting nothing in return:

[maxblonda]

swirls - maxlie

the older man groans in annoyance once he throws off the last layer of his stained costume, and it's then and there when charlie sees it: a ghastly pair of scars that adorn his sides like an ornate little joke the universe played on him. scars on a part of the body he can't even look at properly. it's like nothing she's ever seen before: a pair of large, atrophic scars that lightly kiss each other against the spine that rounds outwards at her when the magician bends down once more to reach for something else to wear.

such peculiar scars. marks that are simultaneously alluring and hard to look at. there's an inky black at their core that she can't tell is a consequence of the dim lighting or if these were strange aesthetic choice. a tattoo cover up job gone wrong... or something.

she wants to ask maxwell what happened to him that earned him those dark sunken marks, but something tells her that after fumbling the last performance and getting ink all over his nice suit that maxwell would not be inclined to answer. it doesn't even seem like something he'd want to answer had the performance gone perfectly and charlie had exceeded his expectations. even a great mood and a nice meal would not guarantee maxwell would share much about himself.

she sits at the vanity, staring down at the lines in the wood to keep from looking where she shouldn't have been in the first place. it seems like she has a knack for that kind of thing: poking around in places she shouldn't be and being given a reason to regret ever sticking her neck out. she can hear her sister nagging her in her mind, telling her how she should have been more careful and how sometimes its better to say nothing at all about a person's appearance if what you're going to say isn't something someone can fix in five seconds.

there's also the fact that there's no way maxwell would have ever exposed any part of his body beyond the wrist if it wasn't for the urgency required to keep the ink from soaking through more than just the first layer of his clothes, and there's no way charlie would have been there to see it if it wasn't for her insistance on following him as he left the stage to apologize profusely. those suits don't come cheap.

it's quiet in the dressing room. usually she fills the air with whatever words she can, turning around occasionally as she puts her makeup on to check if the silence means maxwell is thinking or laughing quietly. but this time around, she knows not to say anything. staring at the wood grain until the darker lines begin to swirl into the lighter ones. and to think about it, she could have sworn the longer she looked at his scars, the darkness within them had began to swirl too.

[yuckydraws]

(Click for better quality)

Healing & Growth

(gif made by my friend @robanilla-arts is below - slight warning for flashing! Thanks again, Rob!)

[ccherrybloom]

Ashtrays & Antihistamines Pt. 2

oc, m, hayfever + cigarette smoke, wc: 2.6k

Part 1

CW: foul language, hints of religious trauma, crappy/absent parents, smoking

~~

a.n. + summary: …i have no excuse. i busted this bad boy out fast as hell. this chapter includes the men hitting up a local pub, shooting the shit around some drinks, memories of a crappy childhood, and Peter sneezing himself silly. i originally also intended to include Peter’s first night trying to sleep in the motel room and keep quiet, but i felt the pub shenanigans ended in a good spot, so i’ll just include that at the beginning of the next chapter instead. anyway, hopefully you guys get some enjoyment out of this! my boys are stupid, lol.

~~

The four men trudged their way down the cobblestone streets of Cork, hands shoved deep into their pockets as a light misting of rain left small droplets splayed across their clothing and blurred the frames of Peter’s glasses. By the third time the guitarist had to pull them off to wipe them clean, he was more than fed up, instead choosing to take them off fully and hook them to the front of his shirt. He’d deal with the stupid things when they reached the pub.

Unfortunately for Peter, the fresh rain was doing more than just dirtying his glasses. The spring shower seemed to only enhance the earthy smells around them, doing nothing to help the persistent allergy-induced tickle lingering in the back of his nose. The damp air clung to everything, amplifying the scent of wet stone, fresh-cut grass, and budding flowers – all of which seemed to be conspiring against his sinuses. He could feel the beginnings of the stupid itch growing deep within his nose, constantly teasing him with the threat of a sneeze.

Thankfully the pub they were heading to was only a few blocks from their motel, meaning he wouldn’t have to deal with the overpowering outdoor scents for much longer. He sniffled quietly to himself as they rounded a corner, the pub coming into view despite his blurred vision.

“‘Bout damn time.” Peter grumbled mostly to himself. Realistically, they hadn’t been outside for long at all, but the light spring rain and the setting sun were leaving all four men a bit chillier than any of them had anticipated. It felt as though the cold was seeping into Peter’s bones, and he shivered involuntarily. Maybe heading to the pub had been the wrong idea after all, he thought, as his already annoyed mood worsened when another sharp itch prickled tauntingly within his nose.

Peter was the first to reach the pub’s door, pulling it open and gesturing for the others to file in one by one. The warm light spilling out from inside coupled with the familiar chatter of an Irish pub was a welcome contract to the chilly evening. As the others moved their way past him, the guitarist felt his nose twitch, the persisting itch travelling from the base of his nostrils up into his sinuses like an electric shock.

He turned his face away from the door slightly and scrunched his nose, bringing his free hand up to scrub a knuckle into it uselessly. He could feel his breath beginning to hitch and his eyelids start to flutter as he tried his best to keep the oncoming sneeze at bay. Just as the last of the men passed into the pub, Peter felt his control begin to slip.

Acting fast, the guitarist twisted his head away and into his shoulder as he attempted to stifle the itchy sneeze, only being half successful as it forced its way out of him.

“hH’nXGt’Shhiue!” The sneeze was sharp and wet, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake that he recognized as a sign that there would surely be more to come. He shook his head pathetically, trying to will away the lingering itch.

When he raised his head, he was surprised to see Maurice, who had been the last to enter, staring back at him with an unhappy look on his face. The blonde’s hazel eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he had something he wanted to say but couldn’t. Peter just rolled his eyes and trudged inside, giving Maurice a shove to keep moving before giving his glasses a thorough wipe and slipping them back on.

The inside of the small pub was cosy and inviting, a welcome change from the chilly spring shower. The place was lively but not overcrowded, the atmosphere filled with the sounds of drunken conversation, occasional boisterous laughter, the clinking of glasses, and a light beat of Celtic music. Although Peter had never visited Cork previously, the inherent Irish-ness of all the sights and sounds surrounding him left the musician with a warm sense of belonging deep within his chest. Although Maurice wasn’t Irish himself, Peter still wondered if the singer might also feel the same way as he did, considering the Frenchman had practically grown up in Dublin.

The four men quickly made their way to the bar to order their drinks before finding an unoccupied booth towards the back and sliding in side-by-side. Once seated, Peter wasted no time taking a long sip of his stout beer, relishing in the bitterness as it bubbled down his throat. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, enjoying the smalltalk of his bandmates and the way the alcohol warmed his body and made his head swim. But the momentary break was short lived. The dampness clinging to his clothing combined with the indoor air, slightly musty from the age of the pub, was starting to coax out that all-too familiar tingle in his nose.

The guitarist did his best to ignore it, instead attempting to turn his focus towards Chris who was telling some animated story about a fight he got into a few months back. Unfortunately, Peter could barely concentrate – the itch in his nose was back with a vengeance, causing his nose to involuntarily twitch. He tried taking another sip of his drink, hoping he could simply will away the feeling, but it was getting considerably harder to ignore.

Just as Chris was reaching the climax of his story, Peter’s breath quietly hitched, and he rubbed his nose as subtly as he could, desperate to try and stave off the inevitable. Maurice, who was seated beside him, glanced in his direction, immediately clueing into the other’s struggle. Peter caught his eye in return and gave his head a discreet shake, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but soon realised it was no use as he sucked in a wavering breath.

“HINg’Gsch!” Peter whipped himself away from Maurice and stifled hard into the back of his hand, trying his best to muffle the sound as his breath abruptly caught again. “hH’RRSHhiue!” The second one burst out of him unstifled as he attempted to twist himself away further, crushing his nose harder still, feeling the cold metal of his nose rings dig into the skin of his hand.

“Cheers to that,” Geoff teased as he raised up his glass and clinked it gently against Peter’s. “Alright there, Pete?”

“Fuck, -snf-, shit. Yeah, I’m fine.” He affirmed with a nod, his hand still pressed tightly against his nose. Despite his attempts at reassurance, the annoyed expression plastered on his face told his bandmates otherwise.

“Let’s order some shots.” Suggested Chris with a playful smirk as he tilted his drink towards Peter’s. “Maybe gettin’ pissed will cure you.”

Peter snorted, but it quickly morphed into a sniffle. “Wouldn’t that be lovely.” He grumbled before grabbing his beer and taking a large gulp.

“Maybe ya should get some fresh air, instead.” Offered Maurice, his tone more serious.

“You jokin’, Murry?” Peter scoffed, shooting the singer an unamused look. “Damn ‘fresh air’ is what got me into this mess.”

“Then maybe ya should swing by the chemist and pick up some antihistamines or somethin’.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but another sharp tickle in his nose cut him off, his breath immediately catching in his throat. Maurice just rolled his eyes.

“HAT’SHhhiuew!” Peter sneezed hard into his elbow, letting out a loud, irritated groan immediately following. With a frustrated shake of his head the guitarist took a final swig of his drink before slamming the empty glass down and gesturing aggressively for Maurice to stand up, kicking at his feet slightly from under the table. “Move yer arse, I need a damn smoke!”

Maurice huffed, defeated, and slid out of the booth so the other could stand — he wasn’t in the mood for another argument. Practically leaping from his seat, Peter muttered something under his breath before skulking his way towards the exit.

As soon as he pushed open the door he was immediately hit with the cool, damp air which brought instant relief to the allergic and embarrassed flush that had begun to dance across his cheeks. His nose was still annoyingly itchy, but being back outside made him feel much less on display, which he was grateful for.

He pulled a beat up pack of Marlboro out of his jacket pocket and fished a cigarette out quickly, sticking it between his lips and lighting it with an expert crack of his old, worn Zippo.

The first drag was heaven, and he savoured the way the smoke filled his lungs, the hit of nicotine immediately taking the edge off of his frustration and easing the slight tremor in his hand. He hadn’t realised how desperately he’d needed this.

As he allowed the smoke to drift lazily out of his mouth into the damp evening air, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to his early childhood in Belfast, back to a time when his hayfever was much, much worse. The memories flooded his mind, as vivid as if he were standing back in his childhood bedroom staring out the window at the vast fields of overgrown grass and wildflowers that surrounded their run-down countryside home.

He recalled the suffocating, ever-present itch that would take root in his sinuses from spring through to summer, turning his life into a mess of incessant watering and itching. It had always been worse in the mornings, when the dew still clung to every blade of grass, and the pollen seemed at its most potent. He’d lie in bed for as long as his mother allowed it, dreading the moment he’d have to step outside and walk to school, knowing full well that he’d be fucked by the time he got there.

Of course Saoirse, his mother, never offered him much sympathy. In fact she seemed much more inclined to view his suffering as just another one of his many shortcomings; another thing about her son that she resented. Peter could still hear her cold, nagging voice in his head.

“Stop yer whinin’, Peter. God only gives us what we can handle. If this is His plan for you then you’ll just have to deal with it.”

And so he did. The guitarist learned quickly not to expect help, not from Saoirse, not from anyone. When his eyes were on fire he’d scratch them, when his nose ran incessantly he’d wipe it, and when he’d sneeze his way through a Sunday sermon he’d deal with his mother’s reprimanding with a stoicism much too well-practised for an eight-year-old. There was just no point in complaining — it wouldn’t change anything. Saoirse would just turn up her nose and tell him to toughen up, or throw a half-hearted prayer his way if he would be so lucky. The worst part was easily how little she even seemed to care. It made him tougher in some ways, though he often wondered what his life would’ve been like if he’d had a mother who offered him more than just indifference and disdain. Perhaps things would’ve been different had his father stuck around, whoever that man may be.

Peter took another drag of his cigarette, the nicotine pulling him back to the present as the tickle in his nose flared back up. The combined scents of wet earth and pungent tobacco were like a one-two punch straight to his irritated sinuses. He leaned himself against the pub’s stone wall, his cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers as he slowly felt the sensation begin to build. Initially, he tried to fight it, breathing slowly through his mouth before taking another drag. The itch, however, was relentless, and crawled deeper into his sinuses with every passing second. Before long his eyelids had begun to flutter and his breath hitched in anticipation.

“hH’NGSCHh!” Peter stifled hard into his shoulder again, the residual smoke held in his mouth shooting out of his nostrils with the sharp expulsion. This, of course, sent the tickle in his nose into overdrive and he immediately sucked in another breath through clenched teeth with a newfound urgency.

“hiH’ISHHhiuew! ‘ISSHhhiue! ‘ISHhhu! ‘tIsh!” The sneezes toppled over each other as they forced their way out of him, leaving no room for breath in between, each one forcing him to curl deeper into himself before his head rose back up with a sharp gasp of air. “hHeHh! HET’DSHhhHiuEw!” The final sneeze shook his lean frame and caused his cigarette to slip from his fingers, landing onto the ground with a wet fizzle.

“Fer the love of Christ,” Peter cursed, trying to catch his breath as he picked back up his cigarette, flicked the ashes, and took another sharp drag, more out of stubbornness than anything.

“That was quite the spectacle.”

Peter couldn’t help but jolt in surprise as he turned his head to find Geoff standing in the pub doorway, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Jaysus Geoffrey don’t go sneakin’ up on a man like that.” Peter scoffed, taking one final drag of his cigarette before dropping the butt to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot. “Nearly shit meself.”

Geoff laughed at this and stepped over to his bandmate, leaning against the wall next to him.

“You alright?” He asked. “I mean, really.”

He nodded, blowing out the last of the smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, grand. Was just tryin’ to have a smoke without sneezin’ me fuckin’ head off.”

“And how’d that fair for you?”

“Go fuck yerself.”

As Geoff threw his head back to laugh, it dawned on Peter how much the bassist looked like his mother. The same fiery red hair, the same bright blue eyes, the same freckled face. Hell, the man was pure-blood English but somehow looked more Irish than he did. His mother had always told him that he was the spitting image of his father, just another reason for her to dislike him, his black hair and green eyes always misplaced amongst her side of the family. But as Geoff’s laughter fizzled, Peter couldn’t help but wonder if his mother would’ve liked him better had he came out looking more like Geoff.

“Anyway,” Geoff started, wiping away a tear. “I just came out to see what was taking you so long. You know Maurice. He’s all in a tizzy.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“He just worries.” Geoff added with a grin, slapping a hand onto Peter’s shoulder as he took a breath of the cool evening air. “But he might be onto something about picking up antihistamines, mate.”

“Don’t you start with that shite too.” Peter shot back, though it was clear his initial resilience was beginning to peeter out. He shoved Geoff’s hand off of his shoulder. “Besides, it’s not like I can pop into the chemist at this hour.”

Geoff pulled up his sleeve and glanced down at his watch, humming in agreement.

“But if it means gettin’ you two eejits off me back, then I’ll go in the mornin’.” The guitarist added, shooting the other an annoyed look. “Alright?”

“Alright.” Geoff echoed with a small smile as he patted Peter on the back. “The pub’s closing soon. Let’s head back in before the others think we’ve run off.”

Peter nodded, giving his nose a quick scrub before stuffing his hands back into his pockets. As much as he hated to admit it, the idea of picking up some allergy meds was starting to sound pretty damn good. Perhaps after one more drink they’d head back, and he could worry about it again when the sun rose.

[waterfall-ambience]

nghm okay my take on the neuvillette 'ships' is that they're...all kinda boring? theres a lot of interesting dynamics to explore dont get me wrong but for all of them romance is the least interesting option lol. first is because i dont think he's romantically-inclined by nature (aroace king) but also he intentionally tries to keep people at arms length because of his position as iudex (so even if he has friendly connections i cant see anything 'more' than that actually working out) .

however the most interesting juxtaposition for his character imo is being so filled with love for the world and the people around him and simulataneously not experiencing 'love' in the way a lot of people traditionally understand it. he loves people so deeply no he does not want to pursue any of them romantically. it doesnt even have anything to do with him being a dragon, he's just like that.

[inloveanddepth]

so soul fighter looks fun

[lbhslefttiddie]

then and now