the third army

MY DEDICATION TO KIM SEOKJIN:

I will be changing all of my stuff to Seokjin because I believe he deserves better.

Plain and simple. I will support and love Jin because I’m ARMY and that’s why I’m here.

I will reblog everything I see regarding the mistreatment of Jin. Please tag me in stuff you see. I don’t care if I’ve reblogged it before. I’ll do it again. And I’ll keep doing it until something changes and even after that.

I will also be reblogging every picture, gif, video, etc. Of him that I find. Because this is IMPORTANT.

Hobi may be my bias, but Seokjin is the Prince of my heart.

Jin is a goddamn angel, a blessing, and a gift to the world.

Thank you for your time and help.

Originally posted by bwiseoks

  • Me: //gets possessed by demon
  • Priest: i am here to help-
  • Demon possessing me: we don't want you
  • Priest:
  • Demon: we want Father Louis Williams Suga Adams the Third
You Can’t Kill Him

Originally posted by inthenameofodin


Ivar x reader


Warnings: dubcon, blood, ownership, Season 5 Ivar owns your ass, brief shitty father/daughter relationships for the sake of the shitty, non-existent plot oops, smut smut smut!!


Words: 1,869


Tagging: @inthenameofodin (just blame her for this shit), @synnersaint (season 5 dominant Ivar time girl) @ivars-heathen (you seemed to like that season 5 Ivar post, sister, so heeeere you go) @whenimaunicorn (this might be right up your alley ;)) 


Notes: don’t get your hopes up, this is a mess, a hot, sexually frustrated for three days straight I just need to write a fuck load of hot smut out to get over it and maybe get revenge in the process, kind of mess. Enjoy!



“… Ivar the Boneless; you can’t kill him!” Your father, the King, had exclaimed with a hearty yet cold chuckle. Ivar the Boneless had become a common topic, whispered about the court recently; he had landed in your kingdom and the heathen was slowly destroying every one of your father’s armies, one by one.


Your father had long given up hopes of ever defeating the mad man now; his advisors were urging other plans upon him but the King had made up his mind. He wanted peace. You were disgusted by his decision to bend to the heathen’s will. Yet, what a man Ivar the Boneless must be; you can’t kill him; you wondered if that was true; you longed to find out.


—-


Most of the fierce and repulsive warriors now sat in your father’s hall. Laughing, choking down as much food as they could get their filthy hands on and talking quite loudly over each other. They closely resembled wild animals. Ivar the Boneless though, had been seated next to you, for some ungodly reason and you sat frozen as he did nothing but let his threatening and hungry gaze continue to linger over your form.


You felt a hand roughly grab ahold of your thigh all of a sudden. You jumped and turned to face the heathen King that held up his goblet to toast you with an absolute, devilish smirk. He downed what was left in his cup and his hand began to move up your thigh and over your cunt. You instinctively grabbed the wandering hand to halt it entirely. His eyes grew dark; actually warning you to let him continue groping you. He leaned in close, his imposing figure looming over you now; you felt disgusted with yourself as your body greatly longed for him to continue touching you like this. Him, Ivar the Boneless, the famous, fearless and fear-mongering heathen and calculating commander. He also happened to be very pleasant to look upon. You released his hand then, wondering exactly how he had the audacity to feel up the King’s daughter right in front of him. You didn’t linger on the thought too much longer as you shamelessly sat back and basked in the pleasure Ivar was secretly and very inappropriately providing for you under the table. He continued to touch you, like he owned you, as well as the whole world.


You tried to conceal it, but you couldn’t halt your gasps and moans as he continued to expertly explore your cunt with his fingers. Your head was thrown back as he continued to take you to your absolute peak. Never taking his eyes off of you all the while. Many people of the court began to look your way as you caused a scene with your squirming and your small noises of pleasure. They would all know. Yet, you cared no longer. The only thing that mattered right now, was his fingers moving inside of you and his dark eyes never leaving you.


—-


You now sat, with your wrists bound and Ivar’s hands forcibly feeling up every inch of you behind the thin fabric of your dress while seated next to you on the sickening, rocking boat. Your father, the treacherous bastard, had sold you like a dog to the arrogant and sadistic heathen and in exchange, the Boneless had agreed to leave your kingdom once and for all, taking you with him.


Now on the boat, sailing away from your home; Ivar made it very clear to all the beastly men around him watching, who exactly you belonged to now. “You are my slave now. Squirm under my touch all you want, pet, I can freely explore every inch of you and there is no one here to stop it. You belong to Ivar the Boneless, now.” He moaned ever so slightly through his words at the thought and then chuckled darkly as he let his head lazily rest on your shoulder, very close to your neck. His hot breaths on the sensitive flesh, sending shivers down your spine.


The rage you had for him was unbearable. The lust was even more mind dulling. He owned you now it was true, but you were going to put up a fight nevertheless.


—-


“Why don’t you crawl between my legs, on your hands and knees pet, and keep my cock nice and warm!” The Boneless had commanded his slave quite loudly then as his surrounding warriors laughed and cheered at your continued, public debasement. He had made you sit on the floor, at his feet during the feast, which had been humiliating enough. But, now he was really pushing it. You shook her head vigorously in response. He frowned. “You are no longer a Princess. You are nothing here. You are simply, Ivar the Boneless’s little fuck toy! Now behave as such!” He announced gleefully while lightly patting his hardening cock suggestively under the fabric of his pants. He had announced it loud enough so all of the surrounding animals could cheer in agreement; encouraging their wretched King.


“Don’t make me tire of you so quickly.” He warned then. You swallowed and threw away whatever small piece of dignity you had left as you began slowly crawling towards the bulge in his pants. He growled as his lust consumed him and he grabbed a tight hold of your hair as he undid himself. He forced his cock down your throat, making you gag while tears began to form in your eyes. “Well? Go ahead.” He urged you to begin sucking. You obeyed as your breaths grew heavy. He moaned and threw his head back, smiling sadistically. You felt another harsh tug in your hair as he forced your head up too look at him; his cock still filled your mouth. “Don’t forget to swallow, pet, it should be such an honor for a simple slave such as yourself to receive your King’s cum, to swallow down your pitiful throat!”


—-


He had made sure you had traveled with him back to England so he could fuck you senseless, like a wild animal after every battle. The opposing army had snuck up on his late one night. You sat, bound to a thin, wooden pole in his tent. Completely naked and longing for his return and touch once again. What had happened to you? You watched him from a distance, through the opening in the tent, as he dominated the makeshift battlefield completely, not far from his camp. As if it were all a simple game of chess that he excelled at greatly. No one could beat him; no one could kill him. He had screamed just as much to the opposing army as he recklessly raced around in the chariot. “Do you know who I am?! I am Ivar the Boneless! You can’t kill me!”


When he found you after the short battle; blood drenched and crazed looking once again, you began to shake in anticipation for what was about to happen.


He crawled towards you, growling like an animal; making inhuman noises. He reeked of death, blood and sweat. He unbounded you and forced you onto your stomach below him. His large body settled above you and held you down. His still bloodied hand grabbed ahold of your throat and he leant down to breathlessly whisper in your ear. “You will serve me now, bitch or I will happily gut you like I did all of your christian friends.” You didn’t doubt it for a second. The battle had worked the sick bastard up; the arousal and adrenaline from it  possessing him completely as he continued to posses you.


He undid his belt and pushed himself inside you rather quickly. He grunted and growled while the immense force of his thrusts drove you into the hard ground and made your eyes roll back into your head. You felt something cold at your neck all of a sudden making your eyes open back up. His favorite dagger was pressed up against your throat; covered in the blood of your countrymen. “You’re mine, slave. Say it.” He pressed the blade even more firmly against your throat then. “Say it!” You began to try and form words as he continued to fuck you. “I-I am yours!” He growled again before stopping abruptly, tossing the blade to the side and effortlessly flipping you over onto your back in one, quick motion. One hand restraining both of your wrists while the other grabbed ahold of your jaw, forcing your mouth open.


He actually spat into your open mouth then before placing his large hand over your lips. “Your King just honored you again, slave, swallow it down. Yet, you don’t fucking deserve it.” You shut your eyes tight as you obeyed and swallowed his saliva down. His words hurt; why did you not deserve it? Why did you care? Why weren’t you attempting to reach for his discarded dagger to drive it into his throat? He removed his palm from your lips to allow you to speak. “Say, ‘thank you, King Ivar.’” You echoed his words and he nodded slightly in approval. “Good girl.” You pathetically lit up at the praising words.


“Now, say it properly. Who do you belong to, bitch?” You opened your mouth to speak again. “King Ivar.” He roughly grabbed your jaw and suddenly spat into your mouth, once again. His eyes only becoming more wild. He placed his palm over your mouth and commanded: “Swallow it and then when you’re done, say it fucking properly!” He sounded more and more impatient and even more dangerous and threatening than usual. You obeyed. “I-I belong to King Ivar!” You stuttered out as you gazed up at his fiery and dominating eyes and his strong form holding you down.


He rolled those same eyes before grabbing ahold of your jaw and repeating the process. You gagged now as he spat into your mouth for a third time. “Say it like you actually mean it, slave!” You forced his spit down again and spoke. “I belong to King Ivar! I belong to you! I belong to Ivar the Boneless!” He smiled sardonically in approval before moving to palm your dripping cunt that was still penetrated by his cock. He slowly continued to move inside of you. “Mhm, this cunt belongs to me. This cunt belongs to Ivar the Boneless!” He leant down and took your mouth in a rough kiss as he began pick up the pace and fuck you into the ground again.


—-


You sat at his feet, by his great throne after yet another victory and hard fucking. He rested his hand atop your head, reminding you who you belonged to. Always longing to remind you. No one could kill him. No one could set you free. You belonged to Ivar the Boneless. All hope of escaping and reclaiming your title as Princess had gone out the window as you continued to watch the mad man conquer everything. Yet, you felt overly relieved not to be Ivar’s enemy. You maybe even almost felt a little proud now, that you were stuck as his special, little fuck toy. His pet. His slave. His.

Patton’s Speech to the Third Army, June 5th, 1944

Gentlemen, be seated,

Men, all this stuff you hear about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of bullshit. Americans love to fight. All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle. When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, the big-league ball players and the toughest boxers. Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser. Americans play to win all the time. That’s why Americans have never lost and will never lose a war. The very thought of losing is hateful to Americans. Battle is the most significant competition in which a man can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all that is base.

You are not all going to die. Only two percent of you right here today would be killed in a major battle. Every man is scared in his first action. If he says he’s not, he’s a goddamn liar. But the real hero is the man who fights even though he’s scared. Some men will get over their fright in a minute under fire, some take an hour, and for some it takes days. But the real man never lets his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and his innate manhood.

All through your army career you men have bitched about what you call ‘this chicken-shit drilling.’ That is all for a purpose—to ensure instant obedience to orders and to create constant alertness. This must be bred into every soldier. I don’t give a fuck for a man who is not always on his toes. But the drilling has made veterans of all you men. You are ready! A man has to be alert all the time if he expects to keep on breathing. If not, some German son-of-a-bitch will sneak up behind him and beat him to death with a sock full of shit. There are four hundred neatly marked graves in Sicily, all because one man went to sleep on the job—but they are German graves, because we caught the bastard asleep before his officer did.

An army is a team. It lives, eats, sleeps, and fights as a team. This individual hero stuff is bullshit. The bilious bastards who write that stuff for the Saturday Evening Post don’t know any more about real battle than they do about fucking. And we have the best team—we have the finest food and equipment, the best spirit and the best men in the world. Why, by God, I actually pity these poor bastards we’re going up against.

All the real heroes are not storybook combat fighters. Every single man in the army plays a vital role. So don’t ever let up. Don’t ever think that your job is unimportant. What if every truck driver decided that he didn’t like the whine of the shells and turned yellow and jumped headlong into a ditch? That cowardly bastard could say to himself, 'Hell, they won’t miss me, just one man in thousands.’ What if every man said that? Where in the hell would we be then? No, thank God, Americans don’t say that. Every man does his job. Every man is important. The ordnance men are needed to supply the guns, the quartermaster is needed to bring up the food and clothes for us because where we are going there isn’t a hell of a lot to steal. Every last damn man in the mess hall, even the one who boils the water to keep us from getting the GI shits, has a job to do.

Each man must think not only of himself, but think of his buddy fighting alongside him. We don’t want yellow cowards in the army. They should be killed off like flies. If not, they will go back home after the war, goddamn cowards, and breed more cowards. The brave men will breed more brave men. Kill off the goddamn cowards and we’ll have a nation of brave men.

One of the bravest men I saw in the African campaign was on a telegraph pole in the midst of furious fire while we were moving toward Tunis. I stopped and asked him what the hell he was doing up there. He answered, 'Fixing the wire, sir.’ 'Isn’t it a little unhealthy up there right now?’ I asked. 'Yes sir, but this goddamn wire has got to be fixed.’ I asked, 'Don’t those planes strafing the road bother you?’ And he answered, 'No sir, but you sure as hell do.’ Now, there was a real soldier. A real man. A man who devoted all he had to his duty, no matter how great the odds, no matter how seemingly insignificant his duty appeared at the time.

And you should have seen the trucks on the road to Gabès. Those drivers were magnificent. All day and all night they crawled along those son-of-a-bitch roads, never stopping, never deviating from their course with shells bursting all around them. Many of the men drove over 40 consecutive hours. We got through on good old American guts. These were not combat men. But they were soldiers with a job to do. They were part of a team. Without them the fight would have been lost.

Sure, we all want to go home. We want to get this war over with. But you can’t win a war lying down. The quickest way to get it over with is to get the bastards who started it. We want to get the hell over there and clean the goddamn thing up, and then get at those purple-pissing Japs. The quicker they are whipped, the quicker we go home. The shortest way home is through Berlin and Tokyo. So keep moving. And when we get to Berlin, I am personally going to shoot that paper-hanging son-of-a-bitch Hitler.

When a man is lying in a shell hole, if he just stays there all day, a Boche will get him eventually. The hell with that. My men don’t dig foxholes. Foxholes only slow up an offensive. Keep moving. We’ll win this war, but we’ll win it only by fighting and showing the Germans that we’ve got more guts than they have or ever will have. We’re not just going to shoot the bastards, we’re going to rip out their living goddamned guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We’re going to murder those lousy Hun cocksuckers by the bushel-fucking-basket.

Some of you men are wondering whether or not you’ll chicken out under fire. Don’t worry about it. I can assure you that you’ll all do your duty. War is a bloody business, a killing business. The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them, spill their blood or they will spill yours. Shoot them in the guts. Rip open their belly. When shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt from your face and you realize that it’s not dirt, it’s the blood and gut of what was once your best friend, you’ll know what to do.

I don’t want any messages saying 'I’m holding my position.’ We’re not holding a goddamned thing. We’re advancing constantly and we’re not interested in holding anything except the enemy’s balls. We’re going to hold him by his balls and we’re going to kick him in the ass; twist his balls and kick the living shit out of him all the time. Our plan of operation is to advance and keep on advancing. We’re going to go through the enemy like shit through a tinhorn.

There will be some complaints that we’re pushing our people too hard. I don’t give a damn about such complaints. I believe that an ounce of sweat will save a gallon of blood. The harder we push, the more Germans we kill. The more Germans we kill, the fewer of our men will be killed. Pushing harder means fewer casualties. I want you all to remember that. My men don’t surrender. I don’t want to hear of any soldier under my command being captured unless he is hit. Even if you are hit, you can still fight. That’s not just bullshit either. I want men like the lieutenant in Libya who, with a Luger against his chest, swept aside the gun with his hand, jerked his helmet off with the other and busted the hell out of the Boche with the helmet. Then he picked up the gun and he killed another German. All this time the man had a bullet through his lung. That’s a man for you!

Don’t forget, you don’t know I’m here at all. No word of that fact is to be mentioned in any letters. The world is not supposed to know what the hell they did with me. I’m not supposed to be commanding this army. I’m not even supposed to be in England. Let the first bastards to find out be the goddamned Germans. Some day, I want them to rise up on their piss-soaked hind legs and howl 'Ach! It’s the goddamned Third Army and that son-of-a-bitch Patton again!’

Then there’s one thing you men will be able to say when this war is over and you get back home. Thirty years from now when you’re sitting by your fireside with your grandson on your knee and he asks, 'What did you do in the great World War Two?’ You won’t have to cough and say, 'Well, your granddaddy shoveled shit in Louisiana.’ No sir, you can look him straight in the eye and say 'Son, your granddaddy rode with the great Third Army and a son-of-a-goddamned-bitch named George Patton!’

All right, you sons of bitches. You know how I feel. I’ll be proud to lead you wonderful guys in battle anytime, anywhere. That’s all.

(N.S.F.W.) Not Safe For Wizards...

To celebrate reaching 3,000 Followers on Our Blog.

We decided to do Creativerogues… After Dark…

If you get what we’re saying…

(Just Read The Title… You get what we’re saying…)

So, we present to you, the waiting members of the Internet…

SEXY SPELLS!

Of course I expect these spells to be used as frequently as possible by all Bards of the Lands…

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A Quick Warning…

WARNING!

This is for the More Mature Readers Only.

This humorous little Post has Content of a Sexual Nature and if you are easily offended by such Material, We recommend that you walk away (or scroll away) now and go read something else.

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After meeting our ARMYs, I’m very thankful because I’m smiling a lot more and have become a more positive person. - Kim Seokjin
Bangtan is nothing without our ARMYs. - Min Yoongi
Teamwork makes the dream work - Jung Hoseok
We made a promise to each other that we would protect each other. We thanked and hugged each other while crying.- Kim Namjoon
Let’s keep trying till we can’t do it anymore - Park Jimin
Let’s life coolly to the maximum. Since the life happens only once, waking up at ease in the morning and working doing your best. -Kim Taehyung
Living without passion is like being dead. - Jeon Jungkook