and gents i guess


When the Crew first met each other, they all sat at a bar and told stories of how they died. They laughed over drinks as Gavin told of his trip on the Nina, on the voyage across the sea to the new world and how he died when a broken beam fell on his head. Geoff told about how he died, the only casualty of the Boston Tea Party. He had gotten into a scuffle with another protester over an expensive bottle of whiskey they had found while grabbing boxes of tea. Jack talked about how the Spanish Inquisition had broken down her door, dubbing her a witch and burning her when in reality she was just someone who sheltered a young boy from the same group. Michael was the youngest, having died in the second World War due to mustard gas inhalation. Ryan acted smug when he spoke about dying in a Viking raid, taking an arrow to the chest as he broke down the door to a blacksmith’s house. They all blanched however when Ray set his glass down. He clasped his hands as he leaned forward onto the table.

“I want you to guess.” he smirked, looking them all in the eyes. “2002. Shopping cart accident.” Gavin laughed as Ray shook his head. “1972. Blazed too hard” Michael grinned. “Farther back.” Ray said as he sipped his drink. The Gents decided to jump centuries with their guesses. “I want to say 1800, that Earthquake in Missouri.” Jack guessed. Ray laughed at that. “Why the fuck would I be in Missouri in the 1800’s?” he said as Jack grinned. Ryan tapped his knuckles against the table, deep in thought. He looked Ray in the eye, trying to gauge him. Draining his drink, Geoff sighed. “Are you older than America?” he asked as he set the glass down. Ray nodded and called the waitress over for another bottle of water. Scowling, Geoff held his glass out too. “Older than Shakespeare?” Jack asked, shocked as he nodded in confirmation “Khan?” Ryan rumbled, eyes widening as Ray dipped his head again. “Dude, did you meet Jesus?” Michael leaned across the table, fingering his cross necklace. “Man, I’m older than Jesus. Older than the pyramids in Egypt.” He sat back smugly. “I’ve done it all”


p>They kept guessing throughout the night, Geoff guessing a few years before Jesus, smashing his glass when he was told he was incorrect. Ryan finally guessed the closest. “Mesopotamia.” he stared Ray down as he nodded. He was thousands of years older than the rest of them. “I’m one of the original BrownMen” he laughed.

| happy changhyun day! ♡

A short fic for a friend about a supernatural Fake AH Crew. 

Warning: Crude language, violence

Jeremy had never meant to join the Fakes like this.

He’d always been a B-Team; putting out their fires while dreaming of holding the match. Sure, occasionally Trevor would insult some other mob boss and they’d have to fight in an alley, or Matt and Lindsay would come up with a crazy hacking scheme. But they never had the notoriety, the immortality, of the Fakes. Jeremy had been fine with it.

It took four days for the Fakes to find them in the warehouse. The so-called ‘wolf pack’ had been encroaching on Fake territory for months, but the main crew had been in the midst of planning a major heist – the B-Team thought they could handle it.

Lindsay was the least injured – they found her struggling and tied to a pole, hands raw from trying to escape. When they took off her gag she told them what had happened, and showed them the blood under her nails with a wicked smile.

Trevor and Matt were together, bruised and broken but alive. The restraints on Trevor’s chair were cutting into his broken ribs, but he and Matt were still throwing sarcastic jibes as Geoff untangled them. Matt’s arm was shattered in two places – he told Geoff proudly that he never talked.

It was Jack who found Jeremy in the back. None of the crew was sure why they’d chosen him, except that he had been the loudest; cracking jokes and lightly veiled threats. “’The Fake’s will get you’” Lindsay recounted when they asked her later, “He said it with a grin that sent shivers down their spines.”

Dried blood caked the side of his face and neck, his breathing shallow. Jack tried to wake him, but the slash running down his side threatened to open every time it was jostled. Ugly puncture wounds ran down his arms, his throat – scars he would have for the rest of his life. The wolves had bitten him, the bastards; and yet Jeremy had managed to hold on for four days, dying in a small room.

They put him in Ray’s old apartment. Gavin thought it was an ironic twist of fate that the penthouse had an open bedroom right when they needed it most. The crew waited, nervous, as Geoff and Jack brought Jeremy back. Even with their supernatural help it took weeks. Enough time that when the moon came about, none of them were ready. Michael managed to seal the door, but when they entered in the morning Jeremy was bleeding again, the room torn to shreds.

Jeremy came into his new self slowly. It took a while for him to accept he wasn’t human any longer. As he healed, the rest of the Fakes slowly resumed heisting. Gavin and Michael even returned one night weeks later, bloody and grinning, to drop the sunglasses of the wolf pack leader at his feet. As Jeremy’s strength returned Geoff let him help on preparation, and then let him tag along for their next raid on a nearby gang. Jeremy ended up providing cover fire as the Fakes retreated, saving Ryan from a headshot by the gang’s kappa sniper.

Perhaps that was why Geoff assigned him to Ryan for a small mission in silencing an informant gone rouge. They sat for an hour on a rooftop, waiting for the target to show themselves. Jeremy was delighting in the wind, savoring the moment as Ryan stepped back from the scope and sighed.

“You’d think a criminal mastermind who have the decency to show up on time”. The mask muffled his voice, but Jeremy could still hear the annoyance about his target’s punctuality.

“Why do you wear that thing?” Jeremy nodded towards the dark skull covering most of Ryan’s face.

He shrugged. “Why do you wear that thing?” he retorted, waving towards Jeremy’s cowboy hat and brightly colored clothing. Jeremy looked down at himself, confused.

“Because it’s cool as hell?”

Ryan snorted, turning back to the scope on the roof. “Little ostentatious, don’t you think?”

“Said the man in the skull mask and clown makeup.” Jeremy muttered under his breath. “And you didn’t answer me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Jeremy huffed and sat down on the edge of the building, looking out over Los Santos. The day was extraordinarily clear. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. That was one thing he was certainly taking advantage of – his sense of smell was eons beyond his human nose. He could catch the exhaust from the cars below, and the barbecue shop two blocks down. If he really concentrated, he could almost locate the underlying scent of blood from the safe house ahead of them.

“Enjoying yourself, wolf?” Ryan’s voice snapped him back to the present, where the man was giving him a curious side eye.

Jeremy shrugged. “Bored, mostly. Also, please don’t.”

“What? It’s what you are.”

“Yeah, but I don’t call you ‘human’ when I want to get your attention.”

Ryan turned around, but Jeremy could feel the smirk on his face. “What? Did I guess wrong?”

“You really don’t know?” Ryan asked. He sounded slightly surprised. “I thought our attributes would be common knowledge of the B-Team.”

Jeremy shook his head. “We’ve got some guesses, but you guys are surprisingly hard to pin down.”

Ryan was still watching the building, thoughtful. “Such as?”

“Well we’re pretty sure you’re all effectively immortal, given the amount of explosions you’ve survived.” Jeremy started. Ryan chuckled, but denied nothing. Jeremy plowed ahead with slightly more confidence. “Matt and I thought Gavin was a drake for a while there, ‘cause he’s obsessed with gold. But Lindsay insists he’s some sort of fae. Says he’s too flighty for a dragon, and it explains the… well, everything.“

Ryan chuckled. “Yeah, he’s flighty alright. You should see his elytra.”

“He’s got wings?” Jeremy asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. Pretty well kept secret – you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Next you’re going to tell me Michael’s really some sort of fire spirit.” Jeremy grumbled, glancing towards the building. “Trevor insisted he turned to dust once, but we’ve only seen him use flames when he fights.”

When he looked back, he could almost feel the grin below Ryan’s face mask. “Seriously!?”

“You’re close; he’s a jinn.” Ryan was now leaning on the side of the building, only half paying attention to the scene below. “He’s got a great grandparent or something that passed it along to him. Pretty neat stuff.”

“That explains why he and Lindsay get along so well.” Jeremy said. “Or, well, the general love of chaos.”

He kept guessing, trying to pin down the rest of the crew. With each guess, Ryan seemed to grow more and more amused. Jack was not a mage, or a dryad, or a kappa. Geoff wasn’t even close to a kelpie, and it had the Ryan almost in tears, laughing. And then there was Ryan himself….

Finally, Jeremy leaned back; frustrated. “Can’t you just tell me?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ryan smirked, sitting comfortably against the roof’s edge. “You haven’t even guessed any of the Gents yet.”

“Can I have a hint?”

Ryan seemed considered. “Well, Jack mostly works with earth and magic dampening.” He looked at Jeremy like it was supposed to be obvious. “Also, very hard to kill.”

Jeremy opened his mouth to begin guessing again, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

“Ryan!” he hissed.

A car was pulling into the drive of the abandoned safe house. Ryan started to his feet and rushed to the sniper set-up, trying to compose himself as he looked through the scope. But he hadn’t been paying attention - there wasn’t a clear shot as a woman walked straight into the high-rise.

“Damn it!”

He quickly began to disassemble the weapon, kicking over his duffel to Jeremy. “We can’t let her leave the building.” Ryan said in a low voice, snatching a small pistol out of it before turning back to his work.

Jeremy opened the bag to find an absurd number of weapons and explosives. He smiled to himself and took a share, strapping whatever he needed to himself.

They eventually cornered her at the top floor, a line of unbroken windows looking over the Los Santos skyline. Unfortunately, she had been ready for them. Rough hands restrained Jeremy and knocked his sunglasses to the floor with a crack. Ryan did not struggle as another thug held his wrists.

“You Fake’s think you’re so smart.” The informant hissed, pulling out a pistol. She got up into Ryan’s face, detailing plans Jeremy had never heard of. He, meanwhile, continued to squirm, trying to find purchase on his captor. He only stopped, horrified, as the woman leveled a gun at Ryan’s head and calmly pulled the trigger.

Jeremy didn’t remember if he cried out as his crew member stumbled backwards, but he did remember gasping as Ryan slowly stood back up, putting his hand to his forehead to feel the wound. He remembered the woman’s terrified face as Ryan, bloody and smiling, began to laugh.

“Geoff sends his regards.” He said, leveling his own weapon at her and taking careful aim. “And, of course, so do I”

The woman panicked and began to unload. Each bullet ripped through him, jerking him backwards and leaving a bloody hole. The other men dropped Jeremy. They tried to make for the door, but Ryan was faster and it closed with a wave of his hand.

It was this fight that Jeremy learned he could force a half transformation. Claws were a hell of a lot more effective in close quarters than hands. He took the goons as Ryan quietly interrogated the woman, not at all phased by the holes she’d put in him. In fact, he looked almost pleased by the end of it as Jeremy slid against a wall, relocating the pistol he’d dropped earlier.

He watched the Vagabond surveyed the scene. The man’s wounds still bled, most startlingly the one from his forehead, but Ryan didn’t seem to mind. He made no move to staunch them as he checked the still figure on the ground.

“Nice work” he said in Jeremy’s direction, indicating the broken window to his left that Jeremy had knocked a man through. Served him right for cracking his glasses.

He watched as Ryan slowly drew off his mask to reveal the painted skull beneath. With one hand, he wiped his blood from his eyes before checking the makeup on it. Ryan frowned at the red on his fingers, seeming to not notice the trickle that still ran down his face.

“What are you?” Jeremy panted, tired. Magic apparently took a lot out of you.

Ryan looked over at him and grinned. “Luckily for you, on your side.” He turned as sirens began to wail down the street. “Shit. Geoff wanted this to be done quietly.” He glanced over at Jeremy as he slowly put his mask back on. “You wouldn’t be able to survive a six-story drop, would you?”

The ride home was remarkable only in the fact that they pulled up to the Fake’s warehouse in a heavily damaged police car. Geoff was livid, and made Ryan take it down to the waterway to burn it. Jeremy watched later as Ryan was verbally berated by Jack for taking so many wounds, which Ryan waved away.

Jeremy, on the other hand, sat patiently while Jack examined his own wounds. He was astonished when she declared that the bullet wound in his shoulder was already half healed. 

“Yeah, you’re pretty hardy now.” Ryan said from the corner, straightening. He led Jack and himself out of the room, before turning back with a final smirk. 

“Welcome to the crew.”

The door shut behind them. Jeremy took another second to touch the mostly healed wound on his shoulder. It had felt like fire, bursting onto the scene filled with policemen. He’d never been so scared. But there was something alive there, something that thrilled and shocked him all at the same time. It felt like lighting a match.

A few minutes later, Jeremy slipped out of the room and headed back to the torn-up bedroom in the penthouse. Back towards his home.


saint-chan asked: team gents or team lads

“Ray, get in, I’ll sleep between you and Gavin. Snuggled between two of my favorite boys.”

anonymous asked:

Could you post the art description for "Triskaidekaphobia"? Because reasons.

This was a fun one. All the credit for this goes to Willian Murai and Willian’s art director on this, Jeremy Jarvis, who wrote the art description:


Color: Black spell

Location: Inside a villager’s kitchen

Action: This represents the superstitious fear of the number 13 (which is not a superstition here on Innistrad, it is very real). We want to see the inside of a kitchen with an open window fairly central in the scene. We want several instances of 13 to be viewable within the scene to observant players, but the most notable one is that there are long cracks running across the walls which have 13 small rivulets of blood coming from them (the 13th is just starting to bleed). Also, there is a stack of 13 plates in a cupboard, 13 spoons somewhere, maybe 13 beetles on the counter. Through the open window we can see a villager fleeing from the kitchen toward the woods in the distance.

Focus: The scene, the 13 rivulets from the bleeding walls most prominently, then everything else secondarily.

Mood: Whatever-the-hell might be in the woods, this dude read the signs and his own kitchen is worse.

Triskaidekaphobia art by Willian Murai

Thank you, ryanthepowerbottomguy, for making me fall in love with selectively mute Ryan.

Bullets whizzed by.
Fire engulfed the sidewalks.
Bombs crashed into nearby cars.
What was meant to be a 2 star heist quickly evolved into a full blown 5 star heist. Two cop cars in hot pursuit grew exponentially into a dozen cars, a couple S.W.A.T vans, and four helicopters. The Fake AH Crew was supposed to rendezvous right outside of the city, then make their way to Mt. Chilead as an inconspicuous herd. However, a poorly timed rocket split the group, sending Michael and Ryan careening off the predetermined path.

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Decaydance Inc. (Part 1)

“Hey, you got that camera rolling? Is the house in the shot?”

“Yeah, Pete. Remind me why I’m here, again?”

“Because Joe’s parents trust you more than me, and cause you ain’t-”

“Don’t you dare.”

“-afraid of no ghosts!!” The camera whirled around to catch a shot of one very irritated Andy Hurley.

“Alright, you two ready?”

“Hey, this is Pete-”

“-and Joe-”

“And this is Decaydance investigations! Okay, so, here’s the situation, people.” Pete twirled around to point at the house. “This house, right here, the Stumph house, is supposed to be haunted. Supposedly, the spirit isn’t malevolent, and in one report, it apparently opened the doors for one girl who was fleeing from half of the very pissed off Willamette varsity football team. She said that the doors flew open in front of her, and without thinking, she leapt through them, and they bolted behind her. Running to a window, she peered out just in time to see the quarterback being attacked by tree branches. The team ran off, she fell asleep, she woke up on the front stoop wrapped up in a blanket, the door locked. So, it sounds like a surprisingly polite poltergeist. We’re gonna go check it out. Joe, did you bring a Ouija board?”

“You fuckin kidding? No, those things are bad news.”

“How are we supposed to communicate with the spirit, then?”

“Uh… I brought fridge magnets and an etch-a-sketch?”

“I guess that’ll have to do. Come alone, musketeers!”
“Hello! Is there anyone here? My name is Pete, I would like to speak to the spirit in the house.” Pete was standing in the middle of the living room, holding his arms out wide. “Come on, were not here to hurt you, we just wanted to see if you were real.”
A door slowly opened, almost silent on its hundred year old hinges.

“Would you like for us to follow you?” The door wiggled a bit, as if to say, C'mon, you idiots, I opened the door already, let’s go.

The three of them traipsed down the hallway, before Pete froze in front of a dusty picture frame. “Holy shit, that’s a picture of the Stumph family, before everything happened. Hey, uh, spirit? Are you part of the Stumph family?” The o-shaped magnet that Joe was holding flew to the picture then dropped to the floor. Andy zoomed in on where it had struck, right under the face of the youngest member of the family, a boy with fair hair, thick-frame glasses and a small, shy smile. “That must be who were talking to. Damn, for a 20’s guy, he was cute.” The viewscreen on Andy’s camcorder was filled with static for a second before clearing.

“Wentz, I think you’re making him embarrassed. My camera just fuzzed up for a second.”

“Shit, sorry. Er, Mr. Stumph, is this what you wanted to show us?” Another door opened, this one with a loud squeak of disuse. There were stairs leading up behind it. “I guess we’re going upstairs. Make haste, merry gents.” Andy panned over to Joe, who’s left eyebrow could ascend no further.

“Seriously Pete? We’re gonna follow a dead guy into his attic? Are you completely batshit?”

Pete grinned, unabashed. “Its an adventure, Joey T!” Pete turned to go, with Joe’s arm in a grip honed by years of playing bass.

“At least its not the basement…” mused Andy, following close behind, just in case Pete really had gone batshit.
“Alright, we’re in the attic. I think we should sit in a circle.” Pete’s continued grip on Joe’s arm really didn’t give him much room to debate. “This would be where we would use a Ouija board, but since Joey T chickened out and the Target in Willamette doesn’t sell them, I guess we can make our own. We’ve got a pencil and some paper, and an oversized set of alphabet fridge magnets. Can I have the ‘a’?”

Joe wordlessly passed the magnet over to Pete, who was scribbling an approximation of the front of a Ouija board on a piece of notebook paper.

“Hey, Andy, you brought that mini-tripod, right? Set up the camera, you can write down what letters are said.”

Joe scowled. “Why can’t I do that, so you and Andy have to talk to the dead guy?”

“He looks about the same age as you, so maybe it’ll be easier on communication. Besides, Andy’s a nonbeliever.”

“Its true. I’m only here for the snacks and to make sure Pete doesn’t axe-murder anybody.”

And that’s when they all realized that there was someone in the corner.

Holy moly am I glad you asked this question. It’s probably one of the most interesting ones we’ve received!

Well, to be honest, the man is almost made up entirely of legs. Yep, I’m not gonna lie, he’s like 97% legs, which are generally seen covered by pleasantly tight dress slacks delightfully constraining his crotchular area and causing millions of ovaries to explode around the world everyday.

There is also a very important 2% that is the CHEEKBONES. Seriously the man has the fucking cheekboniest cheekbones to ever cheekbone, like I’m sure he could slice butter with them. This particular feature especially comes into highlight literally all the fucking time when he bestows the EYEFUCK which again, as I said, happens ALL THE FUCKING TIME.

The remaining 1% is what I like to call The Fluff. Yes, ladies and gents, you guessed it: it’s the hair. Now more usually seen tamed with product, it still manages to retain its golden retrievery quality that makes you want to pet it and play fetch with it. 

Ok, but now in all seriousness, I would probably describe Tom as a tall and lean man. He looks strong, but not too beefy or muscly. I’d say he looks spry, sinewy and lean, like a long distance runner as well as the type who can really rock a suit. He has long legs: they probably don’t make the 97% of his being, but they are one of his most noticeable features. He has a confident walk, which isn’t quite swaggery, but close.

Other important feature of his that I feel often goes underappreciated are the hands. He’s got beautiful hands, almost feminine, with long and thin fingers and relatively narrow wrists. As the classically educated stage actor that he is, he knows very well how to command them (as well as the rest of his body).

You know when you hear him speak? How he does it in a very clear and precise way, with excellent diction and syntax? Well he moves very similarly to the way he talks. His movements are precise but not rehearsed. When he makes appearances, he remains natural but he lacks the habits many of those who are not used to being in the spotlight have: like touching one’s hair, or crossing one’s arms in front of one’s chest and whatnot. So, basically what I’m trying to say is that he exudes confidence and openness/approachability at the same time.

About his head: as I mentioned, he has this adorable fluff on top of his head. His hair is naturally curly, and blond, but in recent years, since the Thor movie he keeps it tamed down with the use of product, and the colour leans more towards the brown side of the spectrum. This change makes him look a lot more polished and professional than he did before his break, but that doesn’t mean he has lost that drama school kid enthusiasm. He’s very expressive with his face, and that enthusiasm I talked about plainly shows on his face. It’s like he can’t contain it and it just bursts out and breaks freeeeee. However don’t let that good boy look fool you. The man wasn’t chosen to play a hot villain for nothing. Those adorable droopy blue eyes and that sloppy grin of his can become weapons of mass destruction when staring you down and baring his teeth at you, while making his cheekbones stand in relief.

He isn’t what I would consider a classically handsome man, but for some reason the whole ensemble just works: his high cheekbones coupled with his thin lips and long Roman nose (which I believe was broken at some point) when put all together are enough to stand beside any of the Brad Pitts of the world without any cause for complaint.

As Long as I Got My Suit and Tie
  • This is a prompt fill
  • Fic can also be found here~ 
  • Pairings: Ryan Haywood/Ray Narvaez Jr.
  • WARNINGS: smut, rimming, anal fingering, all that jazz
  • Summary: Anonymous said: can you write a fic where ray i trying to get ryan to fuck him, but ryan is a wholesome gentleman and hesitates before fucking rays brains out

    Ray wants to be fucked by his wonderful boyfriend, Ryan. Too bad he’s much of a gentleman to do so. Oh, well, there’s only a matter of time before he breaks.

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