tough room


a series of unlikely crossovers:

anonymous asked:

So I have never ever done this before cause I'm kind of shy, but I absolutely love your art. And I love MHA so when I saw you would like some MHA asks I decided to give it a try. So maybe Kaminari E3? I hope you have an awesome week! And good luck with your work!

Awww don’t be shy anon, I won’t bite! Here you go!

You asked so nicely, sorry it’s a bit messy ^^;;; I’m settling back into digital drawing after having to keep from doing it…more than a week? Thank you for the sweet words! My week is better now that I’m free from school =v= I hope you have a lovely week as well!

Sleepy ask meme (which is still open for MHA asks I guess)

No Other Men Like Me

Original imagine:  Imagine possessive!Dean when you’re flirting with the bartender to get info for a hunt written for @aprofoundbondwithdean. This is also #35 public sex/semi-public sex, (specifically semi-public) requested by an anonymous requester for my Follower Appreciation Day Drabbles from the 100 Kinks List.

Author: Dean’s Dirty Little Secret

Characters:  Dean Winchester x female reader

Word Count: 2586

Warnings: Explicit language, nsfw, explicit sexual content, smut, unprotected sex

Author’s Note: This has been sitting in my draft folder for a while. I wanted to write something for Kale, because she does so much for the authors in the fandom. This one is for you and all the things you do for us. xoxoxo

Tagging: @spnfanficpond  @jensennjared @mrswhozeewhatsis @the-mrs-deanwinchester @official-shipper @balthazars-muse @brooklyn-writes-flangst @climbthatmooselikeatree @mamapeterson @rizlow1 @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @winchesterenthusiast @salvachester @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @katnharper

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Trans boy Yurio is just really fucking important to me??

I mean. Fuck. Fuck. buckle up kids cause I’m going on a tangent here cause oh, my god am I gonna cling to this headcanon till you rip it from my cold dead trans fingers. Like. I just. UGH.

I’m 26 fucking years old and I feel like I arrived WAY LATE to the transgender game gdi. Sure sure we hear stories of folks in their forties, fifties, sixties coming out or transitioning, but y’all KNOW the narrative that gets told, the one that gets attention is the “i knew since I was born” story. The older folks transitioning is often framed around this, around knowing ones whole life but never doing anything about it, and sure, you get those nice positive posts on here about not knowing till your older and having no signs till your older, but that’s not the stories that get Huff post articles and trans documentaries. It doesn’t fit the marketable ideal. Also, for trans boys, there’s no running away from the narrative of the tomboy. You had to be into sports, you had to want short hair, never wear girls clothes, hunt, wrestle, be tough. There’s usually no room for femininity in the childhoods of trans boys and that is hurtful both for the community and on a personal level cause God I was never a tomboy. Yeah I chopped my hair off super short when I was 6, but it was 1996 and half the girls in my class had bowl cuts or mushroom cuts or pixie cuts; there was no masculine drive to it. I lived on a farm and loved playing outside, but I wanted to do it in dresses an wearing nail polish. It wasn’t till I was 11 (july 28 2001 to be exact, according to Wikipedias info on when Yue first aired in an American Cardcaptors dub episode) that Anything happened in my brain to look back on years later and go oh, that was A Trans Thing.

I don’t know if it’s because I was so late in the game, so femme, if my first inclines were correct and i’m not binary trans or what it is, but 4 years since i had my first thoughts of “could /I/ be trans?” and I still find it hard to actually call myself that. I still feel fake, I still feel like even if I’m trans i’m not the kind that COUNTS, I’m not what a trans person SHOULD be. Keep in mind I’m going on 2 months on hormones now, I’ve been binding for almost 2 years, I pack, I desire a more masculine body, but I still feel like ‘i don’t count’ and don’t even talk to me about writing/drawing/seeing prexisting characters as trans. All those blogs for headcanon trans characters and trans boys I’ve always been like, how? How can you do that? How could i look at a character and go ‘he’s like me’ without feeling like a selfish asshole stealing my friends favorite characters and forcing them into a mold just so they can be like me? I’m undesirable, i’m not pretty, it seems like such stupid 2005 era self-inset Mary Sues on shit to say a character is trans. Besides, to me, saying a character is like me has always been a number 1 way to feel like SHIT since those characters never end up being characters my friends like.

SO THEN THIS MOTHERFUCKER BALLET-SPIN KICKS HIS WAY INTO MY LIFE. I’d already seen him on my dash and knew YUP, he’s gonna be my fav, but my GOD did I not understand how much. He just. He’s perfect and I adore the hell out of him, and after a couple eps I was like you know…He…kinda reminds me of me. I too am an angry little sonofabitch driven by spite and a need to destroy my competition, I also look at who beat me in a contest (im an artist) and find nothing but their flaws. I was raised by a grandparent in leiu of a mother. I just really clicked with this brat and so there was this tiny part of me that said hey, he doesn’t show his chest…he’s beautiful…everyone refers to him in feminne terms…so I thought ok maybe he’s trans. It could happen.

Then I log onto tumblr, and find a couple others with this idea…but then also a lot of people in the comments of posts being little assholes just trying to find flaws in the logic of people giving trans headcanons. Which is a douche move guys when someone wants to see a character as LGBT your job isn’t to prove them wrong fucking christ all that did was remind me oh yeah, that’s dumb and selfish>

But, then i drug my fiance into this, and my girlfriend, my fiance’s boyfriend, friend of mine in Scotland. So many people, several of whom agreed yeah, this could be a trans kid, and I thought again, ok maybe he could be. And then I got ballsy as fuck and thought, and maybe HE didn’t know from the fucking start. Maybe he was 9 or 10 or 11. Maybe that flashback where he looks 12, TOPS, was right after he started saying no, call me a boy, call me Yuri. Maybe he LIKES keeping his hair long and shaggy even if some of his rink mates or whoever still say ‘she doesn’t look like a boy’ for it. Maybe he has a drawer of cheetah print sports bras selected carefully for flatness factor and least amount of seams shown under his clothes. Maybe he doesn’t wanna be called a prima ballerina, but doesn’t mind the beauty and grace he’s learning through it. 

It’s always been hard for me to accept myself as a boy even though i /want/ to be one more than anything. i look at myself and say boys can’t have boobs and boys can’t have periods but here’s the thing; since I was 15, WAY before I knew what trans was or nonbinary or even intersex, I had OC’s who were third gender, who lived in a world with more than two reproductive sexes, who were feminine boys. THOSE were the characters I lived through, people who had vaginas and a uterus and wore dresses but were 100% seen as male by society, not a damn question asked. I never identified with or through women, but I was never hyper masculine either. THis is just the first time i’ve looked at someone ELSE’S character, a POPULAr character and said yeah, that boy has a vagina and wears bras and maybe i don’t gotta bind every day when it hurts. And it’s been a really great feeling, especially, to see that other folks think the same way. 

anonymous asked:

Prompt: Clarke introduces Lexa to Niylah

Clarke and Lexa had barely made it out of Polis alive. The Ice Nation had attacked at night and burned most of the city to ash. Lexa had come to Clarke’s room with two of her royal guards and a thick, dark cape so they could get out of the city and save the legacy of the Commander. Both guards had died protecting the two leaders as they escaped the city.

Lexa was devastated that she had to leave her people. But her priority now had to be keeping the flame out of the hands of Azgeda. Now that she knew they had a nightblood to become Heda, everything she had planned was thrown into the wind.

Clarke had her arms wrapped tightly around Lexa’s waist as they galloped through the heavy brush of the forest.

“Arkadia’s too far to get to before morning. They’ll track us easily in the light of day. We need to find shelter.” Lexa spoke loudly over the rush of wind that whistled around them.

Clarke thought and immediately knew where they could find help and a place to be safe from Azgeda during the day.

“I know where we can go.” Clarke yelled and pointed into an opening to their left. “Follow that trail for two miles and then make a right. There’s a trading post and I know…I know the family.” Clarke stopped herself from mentioning Niylah to Lexa.

“They’ll keep us safe.” Clarke finished and pulled herself closer to Lexa as she followed her directions.

The last time she had been with Niylah it was crawling out of her bed and sneaking away before the grounder woke. Clarke’s face burned as she thought about her night with Niylah. The same feeling of need built in the pit of her stomach. But this time with Lexa so close Clarke knew that was who she had wanted all along.

They got to the familiar hut and Clarke dismounted first. She wasn’t sure what sort of greeting she would get from Niylah or what she would say in front of Lexa.

The door opened just as Lexa dismounted and Clarke saw Niylah emerge from the house.

“Clarke?” Niylah looked confused and the slightest bit hurt when she saw Clarke standing in front of her. But her expression changed completely when her eyes moved to Lexa.

“Heda!” Niylah immediately dropped to her knee and bowed her head to Lexa. “My family is honored by your presence.”

“Thank you my friend.” Lexa answered kindly and walked over with an outstretched hand. “You honor me with your loyalty to the Commander.”

Niylah looked up and grasped Lexa’s forearm. “My family is loyal to the Commander of the blood. You have lead us well and conquered our greatest enemy.” Niylah’s eyes moved quickly to Clarke before returning to Lexa. “With Wanheda by your side.”

Lexa nodded slowly. “Wanheda and I have actually come seeking shelter. Azgeda has attacked Polis. They killed everyone within the walls who didn’t escape. They left none alive during their raid. Women, children, the elderly, perished.”

Niylah’s eyes grew glassy. “Have they come to take the throne, Heda?” She was clearly concerned about the news.

“They have. Would you grant us sanctuary inside your walls? I know we put your family in great danger.” Lexa spoke with a power but also a kindness. It amazed Clarke just how well she handled her people in even the most stressful of situations.

“We would be honored to have you.” Niylah reached over to take the reigns of the horse they had ridden. “We will hide him in the barn. Please go inside and rest.”

Niylah took the horse around the large building as Clarke and Lexa walked into the trading post.

“Have you known Niylah long?” Lexa tried to ask the question casually as she looked around at the items scattered throughout the room.

“When I lived in the woods I would come here to trade my kills for things I needed. Niylah was always kind.” Clarke answered slightly vague as she too nervously picked up small trinkets to examine.

“It was just…the way she looked at you. I thought maybe.” Lexa cleared her through and didn’t finished.

“It was one time. I just-I needed to feel something.” Clarke put down the sharp flint stones she had been playing with and turned to look at Lexa. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I tried. But you never left my mind.”

Lexa put down the twine she had been threading through her fingers and gave Clarke a sad smile. “I understand. Just know that you never left my heart. I searched for you hoping I’d get the chance to show you how sorry I was…for everything that had happened.” Lexa’s head dropped.

“You have done more than enough. Seeing you in Polis and how you lead your people I understand that tough decisions don’t leave room for what you want. It has to be what your people need.” Clarke moved forward and grasped Lexa’s hands with her own.

“Right now, this is what I want.” Clarke smiled and leaned in to kiss Lexa softly on the lips before pulling away. “Thank you for loving me enough to show me what more than surviving really means.”


jennamatan  asked:

So I don't really know much about any of the marxist thoughts. Trotskysim, Luxembourgism, Maoism. But people I'm aware of (you included) all favor one of the above over the others. Why is there such a divide and what are the differences between them? Whenever I read about them they all seem basically the same to me. But I'm naive about them, so that prolly explains it...

I mean fuck, I’m trying to figure it all out too lol. Like, even within trotskyism, theres like a dozen splits, about stuff like “was the USSR state capitalist? bureaucratic collectivist? Or a degenerated worker’s state?”

A lot of people gravitate to certain tendencies based less on their history or their ideas and moreso on personal associations with them, aka “i went to this one group’s meeting at my campus and it sucked so now I hate all MLs.” I try to reject this thinking, but we are all subjective human beings and all vulnerable to it :p

Basically, if I had to characterize the three you mentioned, which are all basically different replies to ML orthodoxy:

Maoism - likes to think of itself as synthesizing the best of anarchism and leninism, bc balances commitment to serving the people and direct action (people’s war) with support for the establishment of a revolutionary state. Big on tumblr bc 1) anarchism is big here, so anarchic leninism is big too lol and 2) it let’s you talk tough about solidarity with ongoing revolutionary struggles like those of the naxalites, without actually having to do anything yourself because no solid maoist groups exist in the us

Luxemburgism - also popular for being amenable to anarchist ideas, bc its all about “we need a state except like…non hierarchical and stuff.” So it doesn’t have the baggage of being pro-prison (which narkies on here will fucking savage you over), but it gives a lot less room for tough guy posturing, since Luxemburgism and council communism/left communism as a whole have done fuck all historically in terms of successful revolutionary movements. 

Trotskyism is the closest to ML orthodoxy. In fact, it claims to be the actual orthodox approach to Leninism, mainstream ML is just “Stalinism” and thus, bullshit. Trots want a strong workers’ state, hierarchically organized but with at least a bit more openness to dissent and democracy than in traditional ML. Trots like to talk theory too, but tend to be more old school and, from my experience, constantly harp on about being “Bolsheviks.” Also have a rep for being pseudo-socdems. 

And since I talked about them: MLs tend to be like Maoists in that they are desperate to seem tough and will constantly posture about like, “all of my heroes have blood on their hands” like whoa there Rambo, pretty tough talk for someone who only hits books. Thing is Maoists will at least throw out some theoretical discussion, MLs will just extort people to stand by various examples of ‘actually existing socialism,’ so expect a lot of talk about “support revolutionary Cuba! Support the bravery of FARC! Honor the immortal legacy of daddy i mean commandante Castro! Deng Xiaopeng did nothing wrong!“

john and sherlock attempt to declutter the flat

  • sherlock doesn’t want to because this is his space and these are his things but he asks john for help because he can’t find the things he needs anymore and he trusts john not to pressure him to throw stuff away
  • john understanding how much it is costing sherlock to even consider throwing away some things and talking about it with him for a long time before agreeing to help
  • they throw away some old evidence piles and some old newspapers before they find a stack of papers from their bachelor days, and they spend an hour going through them and snogging while cheekily calling each other “husband” at every other turn
  • “sherlock, what is this?” “um” “okay, what did this used to be?” “um…” “did this used to be alive?” “i think we can probably throw that away actually”
  • john finding seven printers around the sitting room. why are there so many printers. what is sherlock printing. sherlock can’t even remember and he gleefully tosses them out the window into mrs. hudson’s bins 
  • “you can’t just drop things out the window, sherlock.” “really?” *thud* “look at that, gravity says i can”
  • sherlock’s fingers lingering over a few old binders. “what are those, hm?” john asks, and sherlock gives him a shy little smile and takes them out. they’re copies of his first violin compositions, written with a scratchy fourteen year old hand, and he plays for john until he’s too embarrassed to keep going, and john puts the binders back on the shelf and kisses him soundly
  • stacking up books to take down to the charity shop and fighting about whether anyone will actually want to read a 1972 treatise on the effect of lsd on mind control powers (results were inconclusive)
  • but then sherlock starts to back up a little and john notices that his hands are shaky and he remembers that he’s supposed to be helping sherlock and taking care of sherlock and he puts the book in the stack and takes sherlock over to the sofa and helps him count out his breathes for a while
  • “they’re just things john. they don’t mean anything. why is this so hard? what’s wrong with me?” “there isn’t anything wrong with you sherlock. they’re not just things, they’re the things that make up your space, and it’s okay if it’s hard to disrupt your space. we got a whole bookshelf sorted so let’s be done for the day, yeah? what do you say we stack up these piles over to the side and go get some pasta, hm?” and sherlock slumping into john a little because of course, of course john understands
  • john rubbing sherlock’s back as they slide the piles to the side. sherlock taking a deep breath when they stand back up and pulling john to him, cradling john’s face in his hands as he kisses john, “thank you. thank you. thank you.” and john has to sniff a little and blink hard when he pulls back because all he wants, all he ever wants, is for sherlock to be happy and whole and comfortable and at peace, and that anyone could have ever made him feel less than those things over something as little and inconsequential as stuff is just too much to even think about
  • they go to angelo’s for dinner because it’s familiar and sherlock holds john’s hand over the table and they both eat too much and by the end of the night they are laughing with each other and bumping into each other on their walk home and stopping just out of the reach of the street lamps to kiss in london’s evening fog, and john thinks even the hard days are going to be beautiful as long as they’re together, and isn’t that something to find in another human being
  • isn’t. that. something.

Back in the topic of North and York making spongebob references, what if Delta picked up on them? Like York is complaing about something and North is like “you god damn weenie” and York protests but then Delta shows up and is like
*Delta voice* my sensors indicate that you are, indeed, a weenie

bellamy-ffxiv  asked:

5. Were they overprotected as a child? Sheltered?

Growing up in a tribe involves a lot of communal effort. Before the tragedy that separated him and his mother from their birth tribe, Ganbataar was raised by proud hands that gave him room to grow but never let him stray too far. He was neither overprotected or sheltered, the life of a xeala in his tribe is a tough one and he learned quickly, like all children his age, how to navigate that lifestyle.

After his tribe fell and Ganbataar and his mother joined a Kahkol tribe, he was raised a little more cautiously. His mother kept a close eye on him and taught him how to fight and take care of himself a little more sternly.

Overall his upbringing wasn’t all that unusual, his parents did their best and he’s grateful to them. 

In which Gabriel is king of flirting

For @casandsip because fluff.

Gabriel was the king of flirting. Everyone knew it. He told them so all the time.

He was charming. He was witty. He was reasonably good-looking and knew how to persuade people he was more than that. He could flatter his way into anybody’s good books.

But he still couldn’t get that gorgeous, adorable, floppy-haired art student to notice that he was hitting on him.

Every weekday morning at eight he’d shuffle into the coffee shop where Gabriel worked, rubbing his eyes and mussed-up and yawning hugely behind his hands, rubbing them together in their patched brown woollen gloves to chase away the late-winter cold. Every day he’d order the same boring boring black coffee in a take-away cup just in case he had to run away early (which he never did), and he’d smile the same sleepy distracted adorable diffident smile when he thanked Gabriel for making it. Then he’d curl up at one of their corner tables with his books and pencils (or charcoal, or pastels, or whatever it was that day), and go to work.

Gabriel had considered the question at great length over the last month or so—usually out loud, to Balthazar or Charlie or Anna or Castiel, until Balthazar draped a towel over his head to shut him up—and had come to the conclusion that there was absolutely nothing in the world so attractive as the expression of concentration on the face of a gorgeous genius as he made gorgeous works of genius. Unless it was the way he sometimes nibbled on his thumb when he was thinking. Or lowered his glasses on his nose to squint over the top of them for a different view. Or the way he filled his worn old shirts. Or—

Or the way he completely failed to notice every time Gabriel winked and flattered and tried to draw him into cheerfully suggestive conversation, because apparently his brain travelled straight from sleep to art without bothering to notice mundane details like the cutest of baristas in front of him.

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This Is Why I Have Trust Issues (Pietro x Reader) Part 2

Summary: After not having seen the inhabitants of the tower for a while, Y/N reluctantly agrees to go to a party there on the basis that her ex, Pietro, is going out of town on a mission. Unfortunately, things don’t go exactly as planned.

Chapter List


Part Two

You stood outside his room, just as you had done so many times before. Maybe it would be easier if you were the one to blame; at least you would have something to talk about. You could apologise. But that was one thing that you sure as hell weren’t gonna do. Unless he did it first. Because, let’s face it, it was his fault. Well, no. No. It was both of you. It just… It was easier for you to blame it on him. Made you feel better about yourself. You decided to get it over and done with.

You took a deep breath before knocking tree times on the door. It took him a while to answer, but when he saw you, his face dropped into a scowl once more. You mirrored his facial expression, trying to let him know that you weren’t crawling back to him.

“Why are you here?” he growled, and you crossed your arms.

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Pitch… stop… NOW.

…And we all know what happened in the end. The Antartica scene… dammit Pitch, you were so close, but then you just had to lose your shit.

God I hate this dork. Also, if you claim Pitch did not find Jack the least attractive in the movie, you’re wrong. Naww, just kidding… (The looks Pitch gives Jack throughout the the movie tough, srsly… GET A ROOM.)

It pays off to be bad

Mark Fischbach had long ago learned how to fire a gun. He had worked his whole life to become a police officer. He had spent years working towards it, and it payed off. He quickly moved up the ranks, he had become a Detective. It had been a dream come true to finally have the job he worked so hard to get. However, Mark could tell you the exact moment he abandoned it. In his heart he stopped being an officer of the law the day he meet Sean McLaughlin. The Irish male had been dragged into the precinct for graffiti and minor violence. He was dressed in dark cloths and had a sneer on his face when Mark spoke to him. Something inside Mark had snapped when those blue eyes settled on him. He didn’t mistake it for love, but he knew it was just as strong. He wanted to be next to this brat the rest of his life. However after that day, Mark didn’t see hid-nor-hair of him for the next two years.


He had been injured on a beat. A bullet tearing into him. He had survived thanks to the quick work of a fellow officer, but his commander had seen Marks lack of passion the last two years. So now Mark was at home, drinking to much coffee as he re-read the paper. He was lied off. He crumpled the paper up. He had worked so hard just to get bored with it. He sucked in a breathe as he pulled out his phone. He had recently dyed his hair a bright pink and now brushed it out of his face. He scrolled through the news app, until he saw a shock of green hair in a pixelated picture of a dark parking garage.

“New Assassin at large.” He read aloud. “The infamous Septiceye has moved his agenda to America.” Mark leaned forward, interred as he read the article. That boy had grown to be a little more than a graffiti artist. Mark smiled, he was still quick on his feet, still had connections. He could find this guy.


It took a whole month to find a lead. He followed it with passion. A young tattoo artist who was self employed. She had a soft look about her, flawless winged eyeliner, bright blonde hair, and the voice of heaven.

“Signe?” He asked the young woman. She looked up from wiping down the counter, smiling.

“Yes?” She asked. Mark dug in his pocket for his wallet and pulled it out.

“I was wondering if you knew someone I am looking for.” He spoke, causally. He pulled out the mug shot he had kept tucked away for two years. He held it up for her to see. Her already marble skin paled.

“Nope, never seen him.” She lied, reaching for something. Mark grabbed her arm and pulled her half across the counter.

“I don’t want to hurt you honey. I am not here to arrest him or anything. I want to join him.” Mark whispered into the trembling girls ear. She simply made a whining noise.

“He is upstairs in one of the rental rooms. 2A I think.” She whimpered. Mark pulled away and nodded, smiling.

“Thank you.” He bowed his head and jogged for the stairs.


Jack poked at his arm. He had gotten another tattoo. This one of a smirking skeleton in a blue hoodie. He already had an assortment, but he really liked this one. He rubbed his temples as a headache began to disappear. He had been on the run and hadn’t had much to drink, or smoke for that matter. He huffed at Signe’s no smoking in rental rooms rule. Just as Jack was about to light a cigarette a knock sounded. He glared at the door as he reached for the knife on the table next to him. He slowly went to the door, looking through the peak hole. Pink assaulted his vision. He furrowed his brow as he cracked open the door.

“Who are ya?” He hissed. The person smiled at him.

“Mark Fischbach.” He answered. Jacks eyes widened. He remembered the detective that had taken the time to lecture him, then zoned out for a good three minutes, just staring at him. Jack didn’t forget him.

“You an t’ cops ‘ere fer me?” Jack asked, wary. Mark shook his head.

“Heard you where in town. Wanted to know if you wanted a travel buddy?” Mark asked, eye pleading to be let in. Jack didn’t comply.

“Why should I trust you?” Jack demanded. Mark pulled out his wallet and let it fall open, showing Jacks mug shot from two years ago.

“Because I never forgot you. Sean.” Mark answered. Jack closed the door, only to unlock it and swing it open all the way.

“Well I will be a tough room mate.” Jack smirked. Mark shrugged.

“I would be disappointed any other way.” Mark joked as he walked in. Jack let the door close and locked it.


Mark had changed his hair again, choosing a dark blue this time. Jack refused to change his. He did get different shades of green, but mostly because he couldn’t find the exact same dye every time. They traveled the world. They made a name for themselves. People feared them. Jack took the calls, accepted the jobs, and Mark followed him as they set out for the kill. Jack rarely mentioned Mark worked with him, people didn’t need to know. Mark sometimes got his own jobs, which he performed with speed and persician. He went by the name 'Wilford Warstache’ on all his credit cards and anything that needed a name. Jack went by 'Jack Septeye’ on all his. They were a team in the strangest of ways.


Mark slammed himself into a metal door, cracking it off it’s rusted hinges. Jack was already on the roof. Mark ducked his head as gunshots rang out. Skidding behind one of the vents he looked about for Jack. The Irish male was holding a Swat officer in front of him, with a gun to the mans head. Mark growled, why hadn’t he thought of that. He looked around again and saw the two people who had screwed this up for them. A Swedish man and a French woman. The two where starting up their Helicopter. Mark caught Jacks eye and pointed to the aircraft. Jack nodded and the two dashed toward the chopper. They jumped into the air vehicle just as it was about to get out of reach. The woman swore and tried to shot them, but Jack just grabbed her wrist and snapped it, flicking a blade out of a hidden pocket and held it to her throat.

“Jus get us outta here.” Jack hissed. The Swedish man glared just nodded from the front.


Felix and Marzia turned out to be con-artists and art thieves. They had been trying to sell a two dollar painting for a couple million. The owner of the art gallery was about to buy it when Mark had shot him. On instinct Felix had pulled his gun and shot the guards, then aimed for Mark. Jack he dashed from his hiding spot and kicked the gun from Felix’s hand. Marzia had tried to knife him, and the two had fought. It had escalated and police had shown up at some point. They had abandoned their fight for escape. When the group had landed the Chopper and abandoned it they had stuck together out of pure need. They quickly joined forces. They moved quicker and with more income. They grew to be friends. Then one day they found the perfect job that would set them up for life.

A huge amount of gold was getting moved. It would bed going through mountains and many rural areas. It would be easy, if they had a team.

As it turned out a large number of people thought the same thing. The first to join them was a man named Ken. He was huge, almost as intimidating as Mark. Then a quite man had somehow joined them in their plan. He was the brains, he could hack into any computer in any way. Cry was mysterious and only Felix was aloud to see his face. Then Mark meet two old friends. Matt and Ryan had done the same thing Mark had. Left the police force to start a life of crime. They eagerly joined.


Jack had given the signal about three minutes ago. That meant the truck had to be close. Matt and Ryan had set up the road spikes as Mark and Ken stood, hidden in the forest on either side of the road. Felix and Marzia had been riding motor bikes next to the van ever since it the signal had been given.

When the truck came into view the group became ready to pounce. The spikes went up, the tires popped, and both Mark and Ken aimed their sniper rifles at the windows. The glass was thick, but they had hand picked these bad boys just for this job. The glass toke three shots, but it broke. The drivers where dead within seconds. Matt and Ryan began to move forward as Felix and Marzia skidded around to a stop. They all moved around it, covering all angles. Jack screeched to a stop on his motor bike and sauntered up to the door. He knocked it a child like tune.

“Hello~ Anyone home?” He sing songed. He crossed his arm and tapped his foot as he waited for a reply. When none came Jack pulled out a grenade. He shoved it into the handle and pulled the pin, jogging backwards. The door blew, popping open. Three armored men began firing at them, but Felix and Matt took them out quickly. Ryan dashed off into the woods to pull up the truck. They all wore masks so the armored car’s cameras couldn’t identify them.

“Alarm was triggered in the police station in the next town.” Cry’s voice warned.

“Make 'em think it’s a fluke.” Felix ordered. Cry huffed but obeyed. They loaded up the semi and within twenty minutes they were gone.

When the police got there the only recording on the camera was of a red haired male and a green haired male sticking their middle fingers into the lens.


Jack scratched the back of his neck. He had gotten a sun burn.

“I told you Hawaii was hot.” Mark mumbled into his virgin margarita. Jack huffed.

“I know volcano boy.” Jack hissed. Felix trotted up behind them and slapped Jack on the back.

“You guys having a good time?” The Swedish asked. Jack nodded and smiled.

“Yep, where er’ t’ others?” Jack asked, looking for Ken, Matt, and Ryan.

“Ken is with Mary. Matt and Ryan took off to go check out some shops. You guys wanna join me and Marzia when we go scuba diving?” Felix offered, sipping his beet. Jack shook his head.

“Naw, imma save meh money fer a big arse house.” Jack laughed. Mark nodded.

“Yeah, me too. Besides I was born here, so I know the place pretty well already.” Mark shrugged. Felix huffed and marched away. Jack just stuck his tongue out at him.

“So, ya gonna become a business dude?” Jack asked. Mark scrunched up his face.

“No man. Imma blow it on a nice house and video games.” Mark scoffed.

“Heh, me too man. Me too.” Jack laughed as he took a drink from his beer can. “Can’t wait.”



  • The description of Hendrix’s childhood could be blatantly detailed as hectic, chaotic and belligerent. Hendrix was the oldest of a household with a head full of children to the parents of a constant relapsing crackhead of a mother and an abusive drug dealer of a father that he had no desire in even attempting to establish some type of healthy relationship with the male. With the day to day struggles of trying to keep his head on his shoulders and fighting off the fists of the man whom he’d called his dad, Hendrix grew tough after every living room or kitchen brawl the two partook in which left him attending his high school with cuts, bruises and blackened eyes after every altercation but he made sure to leave his father with identical marks of pain. Growing numb to the anger and the aggression that he became so accustomed to, Hendrix began his not so perfect journey in throwing blows at every nigga that happened to have come sideways at him which made his tough interior/exterior skyrocket. Nine times out of ten, violence was how he solved his problems. Surprisingly though, Hendrix knew how to treat a woman even with the absence of his mother in his own life, he never laid a finger on one that he genuinely cared about but was nothing but vulgar to a female who thought they could cross him offensively. Though he held respectful women on a high pedestal, he ran through them nonchalantly with no worry or care because he was young and living his life. He didn’t give a fuck about settling down quite frankly. The hustle that began as a way to kill time with his artistic works turned to a career as he aimed his focuses at becoming a tattoo artist and before he knew it he was one of the top rated freelance tattoo artists in Missouri City. 
  • Prior to making moves to Louisiana to further his popularity as a tattoo artist, Hendrix had made ties with Murda Mafia to ensure that his stay was secured for the simple fact that he’d had some beef with some niggas on social media from New Orleans whom he’d already had a bloody altercation with. Hendrix needed no one to defend him but his main purpose of moving here wasn’t for him to fight every damn day or participate in shoot outs but his mind already fucked up from past situations made his adrenaline rush greatly when he was involved with a fight or anything pertaining to violence of any kind.


  • mocityhendrix –– @lilyachty has just followed you!
  • hendrixaintshit –– @ayanacharm sent you a video. 
  • ghostfacehendrix –– esstatiana is typing…


  • TBA

anonymous asked:

Can we see photos of your digital and traditional workspace or school?

Sure! I moved into a new apartment almost a YEAR ago and my space is still so empty D’: I just got a new bulletin board though so hopefully I’ll find lots of lil things to pin up and help fill the space. 

It’s gonna be hard to outdo my old room! Tough competition!

Locked Away: part 1

I had to do a fanfic based of off these three posts by @thesnadger, @pinesinthewoods, @logicalbookthief and @impishnature.

So here we go, a story about where Stan’s past catches up with him. And also protective!Ford, because I like seeing the Stan twins save each over.

Part 2

Keep reading