Loony Lovegood, they called her
- Dated: 19th century
- Culture: Nepalese or North Indian
- Medium: steel
- Measurements: 26 1/2” overall with a 21” blade that is 4 1/2” wide at the tip and 3/8” thick at the back edge
This is a large and heavy Kora sword from Nepal or Northern India. These unusual weapons were used both in battle and for animal sacrifice ceremonies. The finely forged blade is sharp on the concave side and comes to a thick and massive tip for a very powerful cut. The fullered blade has a very thick back edge and the “eye” has slight red fill in the background. The handle is made of steel.
Source: Copyright © 2014 Erik’s Edge
Oh—you wouldn’t date a girl who’s ever been a stripper?
In that case, I wouldn’t date a guy who’s ever been to a strip club.
Oh—you wouldn’t date a girl who’s ever done porn?
In that case, I wouldn’t date a guy who’s ever watched porn.
You’re the reason we exist.
You’re the demand to our supply.
If you disdain sex workers, don’t you dare consume our labor.
As they say in the industry, “People jack off with the left hand and point with the right.”
Atheists realize that very few wars are actually dogmatically fought for a religion, right? If any at all. Most “religious wars” are actually power struggles or imperialist ventures where religion is used by a state, movement, or actor as a vessel, tool for social mobilization, or political opportunity to wage a war.
they don’t atually know that. Because they are hawkins’ fundamentalists
Went outside to enjoy the glorious sun, now my feet hurt and i amt ired and I don’t want to cook but I have to :(
Thought I’d try Officer Stilinski since I did Officer Hale last time…
oh god I really think Stiles should arrest Derek while he’s peacefully protesting for werewolf civil rights and be incredibly gentle when closing the handcuffs around Derek’s wrists, even though the crowd is against him, shouting, roaring, spitting in his face, and the cop’s face is impassive, but he cups his hand protectively over Derek’s head as he folds him into the back of the squad car, and when he catches his eye in the rearview mirror, he grins, and says,
"Well, I think they liked me."
Derek looks out the window; he knows all about this part. Cops pretend to be your friend so you’ll admit to something incriminating, and they’re all really fucking assholes underneath.
Derek was trespassing, it’s true, he violated his probation (probably for graffiti-ing a giant wolf paw on a highway barrier when he was sixteen, he got of with six months of community service and probation). The cop doesn’t say anything else, but at the station he books Derek through quickly, points him down the hall to the phone while he’s signing the paperwork with a ballpoint pen. Derek shrugs. He doesn’t have anyone to call.
"You—then you’ll have to spend the weekend here," the cop says, mouth tucking down into a frown. Derek shrugs again. Officer—Stilinski, he can see now, on the nametag, clicks the pen a few times, and then says, "Okay," and puts him in a cell.
The public defender shows up at 4:53, a young guy in a dark suit who smiles at him on the police station steps and tucks a card into his hand—a card for the most expensive law firm in town.
"I can’t, um, afford," Derek says, and the guy—McCall—waves it off.
"Pro bono," he says. "Favor for a friend."
Derek hesitates; that sounds like there are strings attached. The sun is setting, crimson and purple, and McCall’s eyes glint, reflect, flash red.
"I have a—vested interest, you could say," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, ruining the line of his suit.