tattoo crew

a small family of criminals in their early days before their demolition man, golden boy, or jack of all trades

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@crankgameplays Ever since I was young I’ve struggled with feeling like I mattered. Whether it be with my friends or my family, I’ve struggled believing that people care pretty much forever. I knew who Ethan was for while and just knew him as the cute guy Mark was friends with, then in the past 2 months i started properly watching his videos. In December I made the blueforethan instagram acc. It wasn’t meant to be a fan acc, it was meant to be a way to share the love i wanted to share to Ethan. Making that account was the best thing i ever did. My 18th birthday was a disaster and it left me hurt and depressed and things only got worse from there, Ethan and his positive energy gave me strength to pick myself back up, and having the blueforethan account got me back into drawing and it gave me a reason to want to get up in the morning. This tattoo was not just for Ethan, it was for myself. There are many reasons I want him to see it so bad one of which is so he’d know how positively he’s affected me. Ethan and the followers of my blueforethan account mean the world to me, and i emotionally made that clear in last nights live stream by crying and saying over and over again. This tattoo is to remind me there will always be at least one person who cares, and that I’ll never not matter. So please, if you see this, please reblog and tag Ethan, help me show him something that means the absolute world to me. @crankgameplays @markiplier @therealjacksepticeye @ogchanyt

Alright but those matching LADS/GENTS tattoos - they totally got those when there were just six of them, pre-Jeremy. And its not like it’s the crew symbol, some initiation all members go through; It was something of an in-joke, the product of years of camaraderie, of absurd stories and silly team names, of family. Not the kind of thing you just fob off on whatever new guy comes along and joins the crew. So for the longest time Jeremy’s knuckles stay bare.

Even when it becomes clear that he is one of the Lads, accepted into the group, brought along on all extracurricular adventures, the whole nine yards, it doesn’t come up. Time passes, bonding happens, and eventually they can barely remember what is was like before Jeremy was with them; but now that it might be appropriate it seems like kind of a weird thing for them to offer. A strange uncomfortable conversation no one wants to have, so no one does.

And it’s not like it’s something Jeremy is sitting around waiting for, not something he thinks of as a stepping stone he will eventually earn; it’s not exactly something he can just ask about, really, and at the end of the day they’re just tattoos. Its just, its hard not to think about it sometimes. When the other Lad’s knock together matching letters in victorious fist-bumps, or Ryan pointedly drums his fingers when Gavin’s trying to boss him about or some observant asshole flat-out sneers at Jeremy’s bare knuckles. Not important, exactly, but still something. A point of separation he’s totally unbothered by except for the darker moments when he’s not.

So when a particularly nasty job finds Jeremy waking up in Caleb’s make-shift hospital, familiar cotton-brained fog of painkillers blurring his mind, he doesn’t take any more notice of the unusual way his knuckles are burning than he does any of his other aches and pains. Honestly barely registers the dull throb underneath the sharper notes promising breaks and burns and what is quite possibly a bullet wound. It’s not until he lifts his hand, the only wrapped part of his otherwise uninjured arm, that an inkling of disbelief edges into his clearing thoughts. An unbelievable thought Jeremy almost instantly confirms when slowly peeling back the edge of the wrap reveals that familiar lettering, unmistakable after all the time he’s spent trying not to stare at them.

And god, isn’t that horrifying. A complete trespass on his person, unnecessarily invasive and nothing if not a chilling reminder of just what kind of people he’s thrown his lot in with. Lacking even a fundamental understanding of boundaries, unhealthily possessive and darkly loyal, a twisted kind of affectionate Jeremy really shouldn’t be comfortable with.  

He’s clearly been out for a solid stretch of time; if the new ink wasn’t obvious enough the state of the darkened room, scattered with various pieces of familiar debris would have tipped him off. The wastepaper basket is overflowing with cans of energy drinks and diet coke, a variety of clothing odds and ends have been discarded on every flat surface and there’s an abandoned glass half filled with what looks like whisky sitting next to Ryan’s rubber skull and the tatters of what was once a Hawaiian shirt. Even the torn sign prohibiting weaponry in hospital rooms, written in Caleb’s slanting scrawl, has been sloppily defaced and skewered to the noticeboard with a hot-pink butterfly knife.

It shouldn’t be as comforting as it is, these unintentional marks of stress and impatience, the clear signs of exactly who has been around, evidence of even those who are no longer here. Because they haven’t left Jeremy to wake up all alone, oh no, that’s just not the FAHC way.  

The only somewhat comfortable looking chair in the room, a small love-seat that’s been dragged over to the bed, is pulling double duty; two sets of legs dangling over one arm, a shock of blonde hair mashed carelessly against brown leather, Michael’s arms, locked tight even in sleep, the only thing keeping Gavin from tumbling to the floor. Not to be out done, there’s a lump curled up on the bottom shelf of one of the cabinets, doors propped open and medical paraphernalia shoved carelessly on to the ground to make room, Ray’s identity distinguishable only by process of elimination and the bright purple hoodie currently serving as a make-shift blanket. Uncomfortably contorted, dead to the world and doing a piss-poor job of keeping watch; here lie the three likely culprits of Jeremy’s unsolicited new ink.

Maybe it’s the drugs talking but as he flexes his hand just to feel the skin stretch the only thing Jeremy finds himself resenting is his own inability to grab his phone and take some cheeky blackmail photos. Already imagining the world of teasing he sees in his future Jeremy closes his eyes, involuntary grin pulling at his lips as he lets the sound of three idiots breathing lull him back to sleep.

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finally finished those Crow Crew tattoos ˂⁽ˈ₍ ⁾˲₎₌

oh and ~~

~ Whitebeard Crew Week : Day 6 : Jolly Roger ~

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