Reacting to you making/giving them a friendship bracelet Pt.3 Marine Edition (Issho, Koby, Smoker, and Garp)

AN- I've had so much fun making these! I hope you all enjoy

Characters- Fujitora, Koby, Smoker and Garp

(Find part one featuring Roger, Ace, Marco, Shanks and Doffy here)

(Find part two featuring Zoro, Luffy, Sanji, Bart, Sabo and Law here)

Warnings/Content- Some angst in Smokers, Garp's part is NSFW ;)

More under the cut :)

when you only have one braincell and it’s dedicated to charlotte katakuri

If you're looking for some great must read mlm books, this is the list for you!

Thanks to my friend @lostintrace for the art, each are characters from books on this list. If you want help picking out a book, hit my inbox!

Header: Red, White & Royal Blue (L) and Carry On (R)

Red: Jack of Hearts (and other parts)

Orange: Alan Cole Is Not a Coward

Yellow: Heartbreak Boys

Green: The Lightning-Struck Heart

Blue: Boy Meets Boy

Purple: Cemetery Boys

*feels attacked* This 1995 Lelouch adaptation of Les Misérables is pretty awesome though.

Dear Men Writers

Lesser known facts when writing women:

Feel free to add your own.

- Bras leave red marks on the skin under and around boobs and it is a magical experience when taken off.

- Make up can take anywhere from 5 to 25 minutes depending on how skilled you are.

- Taking hair out of a ponytail after wearing it for hours does not make it perfectly straight when it comes down.

- Hair when wet sticks to the skin it no longer flows, idiot.

-When women with long hair kiss, turn around, do anything, their hair falls in the way.

- Stockings are itchy and tear like wet paper bags.

- Pantyhose, tights, leggings, and stockings are each different. - Waxing hurts and leaves red skin for a while afterwards while shaving leaves stubble - Most can’t run in heels unless they have been VERY worn - Insecurity in appearance doesn’t mean “buy me a drink” - EVERYONE HAS DIFFERENT TASTES IN EVERYTHING

-Having large breasts sucks. It sucks beyond belief.  If a garment happens to fit your large chest, odds are it won’t fit the rest of you. Underboob sweat is real and terrible. Bending over for extended periods of time will tweak your back out. Running can be painful due to boob turbulence. Bras are hella expensive. Big breasts are not fun.

Putting a tampon in isnt a quick bend-poke-done kinda deal. It involves cubicle yoga, messy hands, numerous curse words as you realise it isnt in correctly and have to take it out and start again with a new one.

Yes to all of this.  But also:

If her hair is in an updo, one does not simply remove a hairpin to send her hair cascading down her back.  No.  If her hair is an updo, it will take at least an hour and an extra set of hands to remove the 137 bobby pins that are holding her hair in place.  Furthermore, there’s probably a can’s worth of hairspray in there, intended to withstand category 2 hurricane winds.  There’s no cascading happening here - the best you can hope for is a misshapen nest of hair to clump and poof unattractively in the back while it still remains flat against her scalp.

This is one of the funniest posts I’ve seen in a while (especially if you read all the comments), but also really depressing because at 42 I still judge myself as having failed for not matching up to all these mythical stereotypes despite knowing they’re impossible

^^^This though

The odds of a woman having smoothly shaved legs and armpits are directly proportional to the amount of skin her clothing bares and/or the amount of fucks she gives at that particular moment.

GLASSES ARE NOT COSMETIC.  If we whip them off, we do not become gorgeous fashion models.  We become squinty.

-most women wear bras. Yes, even when they are trying to dress sexy. Because bras make boobs look perkier and rounder, which is something men apparently find sexy, so being a seductress or femme fatale is not an automatic reason for a female character to not be wearing a bra.

-a good bra will hide headlights, or at the very least drastically reduce their noticeability. A women with enough pointy nipple issues will opt for a padded or molded bra to hide them.

-women’s nipples do not automatically become hard pyramids visible through any and all layers of clothing the second they become even slightly aroused. They are not the female equivalent of boners. And even if their nipples do get hard, the bras they are almost certainly wearing (because even a goddamn succubus with big, honkin’ knockers for seducing men is gonna have those painful puppies in some kind of boob sling) should keep those pointy nipples from being visible to every other character in the scene, JIM BUTCHER. YES, EVEN LARA RAITH WOULD WEAR A BRA ONCE IN A GODDAMN WHILE.

- Wearing a bra that doesn’t fit HURTS.  It’s not sexy to wear a bra that’s “two sizes too small”, it’d make your clothes hang oddly and you’d have a weird, uncomfortable “quad-boob” effect and your back would hurt, BEN AARONOVITCH.

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

Many moons had passed as the God stayed silent in mourning for his friend. The fields blackened and muddy, the trees cracked and burnt, leaves and stones strewn about once well kept fields. A chill nipped at the air. The God lifted his sad head and spread frost like a fine silk across the fields. He breathed deep, letting the cold settle into his spirit.

“I’m sorry, my friend.”

More moons passed as the snow buried the temple and Arepo’s bones. Winter crept across the land like a fox stalking prey. As soon as it came, it was gone. Snow gave way to warm soft ground. Once darkened and cracked trees now birthed green sprouts and fine pink flowers. The God looked around. Worms pulsated through the ground, churning the soil from its burned mess into far more fertile soil than Arepo ever saw. Apples began to sprout from the old burned trees, stubborn old bent beings determined to fruit. Deer and squirrels began to litter the edge of the woods between Arepo’s field and the neighboring woods.

The death and destruction of War became a fading scar on the land. The God smiled, Arepo’s energy and optimism surrounding him. His words echoed in The God’s head.

“We’ll be fine. The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild.” And suddenly the God realized he was not the god of a dozen different nothings, but of Rebirth. The ground that Arepo once sowed was now populated with grass thanks to the dutiful worms turning in the soil. The trees spiteful and determined, turned forth a plentiful crop. A few fallen leaves still surrounded the bones of his friend, cluttered the small shrine. A small rustle piqued the God’s interest and he leaned closer. A field mouse had set up in his friend’s skeleton. The small rodent carefully laid nuts and pieces of wheat at the base of the shrine as it’s previous inhabitant had. She created a small nest in the stone structure of fallen leaves and grass blades. Not much time had to pass before she had given birth to a nest full of children. And as her previous tenant had, she dutifully gathered wheat and offerings for the God and her children.

“Everything comes full circle.” The God thought aloud. He looked out over the fields as they returned to the splendor his friend once knew.

Humans need gods to guide them, but gods need humans to give them purpose.

Perhaps, though, this is also the god of in between, the god of potential, the god of not quite-here-but-not-exactly there yet—he is the god of stories. 

At the edge of the forest, we stand right on the brink of knowing—what is there? As the frost falls over the field, we wonder what will come after winter? 

As we watch the flowers bloom and transform into seed, we feel it as a metaphor for our own lives and wonder how will our legacies be re-born? 

We tell ourselves stories about what we have survived, and about what could be. We weave that potential through with our fears, so we can face them, we thread them with our hopes so we can move forward even as we face famine and war. 

He is both the most useless and the most useful of gods, giving us nothing but the power to invest our lives with meaning.

Today’s aesthetic: describing the Schism of 1054 as “fandom drama”.

(Bonus aesthetic: referring to the Ninety-five Theses as a “callout post”.)

If you think the Holy Spirit emanated from both the Father and the Son, unfollow me. 

uh yeah i’m a pretty big history buff *picks up rock* this has probably been here for a long time. *touches ground* old people once stood on this ground. maybe even dinosaurs

one thing I find hilarious is when Shakespeare quotes are used out of context

like, people are always saying “some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them” as if it’s all deep and meaningful when actually it comes from a prank letter in Twelfth Night

and “This above all: to thine own self be true” comes from Polonius in Hamlet wherein the joke is that he’s an old pompous dude giving a long and rambling speech full of contradictory pointless advice to his son

“Brevity is the soul of wit” is another joke, because again, it’s made by Polonius who will just not shut up

it’s “we are such stuff as dreams are made on” not “of “, as in, “such stuff as dreams are built on”

“wherefore art thou, Romeo” doesn’t mean “where are you, Romeo” it means “why the fuck are you called Romeo, shit, I wanted to bang you but I can’t because you’re a goddamn Montague”

all these lines have acquired a kind of dignity in text that they never had in performance or are constantly misinterpreted

It’s not necessarily bad but it is kind of funny, sometimes.

#GREATNESS THRUST UPON THEM WAS A SEX JOKE#THE GREATNESS#WAS HIS PENIS#HIS FUCKING PENIS#STOP USING IT SERIOUSLY IT WAS A DICK JOKE#IM B E G G I N G YOU (x)

You know you’re a historian when: 

I’m just very passionate about history… is that the same?

Narcissa

Something I have been overthinking of late is the dynamic between the Malfoy family and Severus Snape.  And what I keep coming back to is Narcissa’s plea in HBP to Severus, which is absolutely fascinating.

It’s reasonable to hand wave the saving of Draco as being a side product of Dumbledore’s request - which, of course, it is - but at the same time, it’s important to look at it from other perspectives; ignore Severus and Dumbledore for a moment, and look at the Malfoys and their perspective.

Narcissa doesn’t know that Dumbledore is a factor in Severus’ decision and clearly believes enough of her family’s connection with Severus to trust that he would sidestep Voldemort to help her and her son out - and that he would be willing to “help” by murdering one of the most powerful wizards alive.

Either the arrogance of Narcissa is astonishing - to think that Severus would do such a thing solely because Draco liked him as a teacher, or Lucius had once been acquainted with him at school - or there’s a lot more going on behind the scenes than the reader is ever explicitly told.

And she knows her way through the maze of streets to his house without having to think about it.

There is absolutely a lot more going on behind the scenes, I think that is made clear in the books. It is heavely hinted at that Severus had a significant relationship with the Malfoys. I think most likely Lucius was the closest thing to a friend for him, besides Lily and Dumbledore.

I was just going back to that scene in the Goblet of Fire:

Isn’t it interesting that he shows reaction for a second at the mention of Lucius’ name? What is going here? What reflex did he manage to hide at the last second in this scene? Was he surprised Lucius went back? Was he worried that his name was being revealed to Fudge? Did he felt like defending him? Whatever it was, it’s strong enough to make the man who fooled the best Legilimens of the world for years falter for a moment.

YES.

Also:

“Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days? I expect he’s delighted his lapdog’s working at Hogwarts, isn’t he?” “Speaking of dogs,” said Snape softly, “did you know that Lucius Malfoy recognised you last time you risked a little jaunt outside?”

Exhibit A:  SIRIUS:  Harry, you should be aware that Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape were known as close acquaintances before I went to Azkaban.

Exhibit B:  SEVERUS:  We still are, mofo.

Ugh, yes, I just love how it’s like he couldn’t care less about being called Lucius’ “lapdog”.

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.

SIRIUS:  Oh, look it’s Lucius’ lapdog.

SEVERUS:  

And Lucius had reported seeing Sirius’ animagus form, which he would have learnt of from Severus, to Severus, but not to the MLE, the Aurors, the Prophet, or Dumbledore. Also, Severus apparently had told someone of that animagus form, even if he had not publicized it widely.

Sirius’ animagus form is another fascinating aspect - Sirius tells Harry that Peter will have told Voldemort all about his form, but he has no first hand proof of this claim.  However, Severus is reporting back to Dumbledore - so it is logical to assume that it’s an informed decision; Severus tells Dumbledore that Voldemort knows about Sirius’ animagus form, Dumbledore tells Sirius he can’t leave Grimmauld Place.

But that’s a nice tight ball of questions without any answers:

Did Severus tell the other Death Eaters / Lucius / Voldemort of Sirius’ animagi form?  After all, it would be a neat way to gain favour and prove inside knowledge upon his immediate return.  If so, did he tell Dumbledore that he was the instigator and Dumbledore decided to tell Sirius it was Peter / let Sirius assume it was Peter to focus Sirius’ rage on a traitor as opposed to another member of the Order?  Or did Severus tell Dumbledore that it was Peter?  Or was it genuinely Peter, and Severus reports back, as would be expected of him?  

If Peter was the one to spill the facts, why did Severus report it back?  Was it because Sirius was itching to be amongst the number guarding Harry during the summer, and Severus knew it wasn’t safe - and protecting Harry was his primary concern?  Or was he desperate to prove that he was able to gain information from the inner circle - that he was doing his job correctly, and that piece of information was quickly and easily available?

And then you loop around into Dumbledore’s reaction of keeping Sirius indoors - Severus goads him over this, but is there some misplaced envy from Severus’ side?  Is there a part of him which is angry that Dumbledore sees fit to imprison Sirius for his own protection whilst simultaneously sending Severus deep into the lion’s den?

Finally, as you say, yes - the fact that Lucius talks to Severus about it is really intriguing; does he offer it up as news amongst the inner circle?  Or is it solely for Severus’ ears, over a glass of whisky - a, “Say old chap, you’re in the Order - tell me, what’s Dumbledore’s end game letting a known fugitive wander around the platform?”

musical wordplay

Where are these from?? I Need Them omg *__*

I wish dates didn’t have such strong romantic attachment to them.

Like, I wish I could go up to a friend of mine and be like, “Hey I want to take you to a nice restaurant. Let’s get dressed up fancy and go.”

We’d go have a fancyass dinner, but there’d be no romantic involvement.

I wish platonic dates were a common thing.

I would take each and every one of you on platonic dates.

does nobody on tumblr have friends

For real tho can anybody explain the difference between romantic and platonic friendship, for someone who has neither,

in a romantic relationships you speak latin and your empire falls, and in platonic relationships you speak greek and think about caves