dis one's for you

Names...?

So, I told you guys (on my post about 150) that you can vote on the Woops’ names from Feb. 15th to Feb. 20th. No one voted, so…???

I will post some names of each Wooper below, and you guys can still vote!

Blue:

Pink:

anonymous asked:

SHIT. FUCK OUT OF LUCK CAN’T CHOOSE BOTH SO IM TAKING THE KNIFE *stabs neck* -ND

OH

WELL NO ONE DIES ON MY BLOG!

*poofs you back to life* AND NO KNIFES

*poofs the knife away* >:3

anonymous asked:

do you believe sans really cares about frisk or do you think sans hates frisk in general, in you comics it seems sans really doesn't care about frisk, you should do one where frisk dies and sans is actually grieving their death

also im a angsty shit and i love to draw it XD

anonymous asked:

I often wonder how Pinestar, of all cats, made it into StarClan. He abandoned his Clan, abandoned his kits, and a new part of the warrior code was made because of his actions? You think that'd be serious enough to not let him into StarClan when he died, but no.

Hello, Meepit!

I quite agree with you here; many cats that are canonically placed in Star Clan or the Dark Forest seem at odds with logic, given their behavior– especially given their behavior at the time they died and joined one or the other. That’s what matters. Because you have cats like Thistleclaw, who as a warrior never really does anything remarkably evil, albeit he was a jerkass. And then you have cats like Ashfur who attempt murder on multiple cats.

And Pinestar is one of the latter sort. He abandons his clan, kits, mate (who was waaay younger than him and whom he never supported/interacted with), the code, etc. He is, by all views, no longer a clan cat. And yet he ends up in StarClan?

Because I’d view StarClan as working something like this: you have a series of criteria to fill before you can be sent one place or the other.

1. Do you believe in StarClan? This one can vary a lot because in canon it’s stupid for a cat in a clan to not believe given that blatant magical happenings pop up with pretty reliable frequency. But that’s another topic.

2. Are you remembered by clan cats? This is pretty important because I’d see the really heinous or exiled cats being forgotten and shunted aside.

3. How have your actions up to their point, and your mental state/etc. weighed in the balance? This is the part that canon nullifies utterly. Because apparently, it doesn’t matter what you do– it just matters who you are.

What I’d expect is StarClan to say, “well, yeah, you do believe and you are remembered but you committed too much wrong to go to StarClan.” Now maybe Pinestar doesn’t deserve the Dark Forest either– he never murdered anyone or caused brutalities to occur– but he probably is going to be in limbo; he left what he had and therefore left the place he could have gone after he died.

ok so Leia was heading to Obi-wan before the Battle of Scarif, and before she ever knew she or anyone would have the plans. It wasn’t just a last resort, “vader’s bout to get us we gotta go somewhere” decision. the fact that she was going to Obi-wan is probably the reason she was with the rebels and not on Alderaan.

so think in the context that a) Bail was knowingly sending his daughter, who has the genes of one of the most powerful force users ever, to go get a Jedi, b) Bail knew that he was sending the biological child of Anakin to Anakin’s former master and friend, c) Obi-wan definitely would knows who Leia is, d) Bail knows that Obi-wan is keeping an eye on Luke.

I’m not saying Bail Organa knowingly sent his force sensitive daughter to the only fully trained Jedi he knew how to get in touch with and also her force sensitive brother, but Bail Organa knowingly sent his force sensitive daughter to the only fully trained Jedi he knew how to get in touch with and also her force sensitive brother. Because he and Mon Mothma decided things had gotten to this point.

  • What I say: I'm okay.
  • What I mean: Everyone died. Literally every major character they introduced in this film is dead. They killed everyone. And every death was painful. And beautiful. And sad. And Baze and Chirrut are the best powercouple ever and now they are together in death and it is so beautiful and that movie broke me wtf.
9

#EBNweek | Day 6 → Even’s Smile/Laugh Appreciation Day

When they’ve got him in the interrogation room every officer seems to have the same question; was it worth it? With all that happened, with how it turned out, the years of drunken revelry, the constant media attention, the heists, the hubris, the way it ended in a bloodbath the likes of which Los Santos has never seen. This is your legacy Ramsey, was it worth it?

They ask like his answer means anything, ask like they even care what he thinks, ask like they don’t think he feels anything at all. They ask like it wasn’t his plans that brought him here. Like it wasn’t his plans the led to six body bags and a single pair of handcuffs, a room full of tactless officers and a kingpin with no one left to call crew. They ask like can’t help themselves from asking.

Was it worth it?



There’s never a serious discussion, no big heart to heart, but there’s no escaping the fact that the Fake’s all know they are dying in slow motion. More or less signed their own death certificate’s years ago, living on stolen time, and sooner or later they’ll find themselves in the ground.

They took Los Santos by storm and defended it with their lives. With each others lives. Have sacrificed themselves and the ones they love to a city that takes no prisoners. They fought hard for their crown, and kept on fighting every single day to succeed, to profit, to reaffirm themselves as the city’s biggest bads. They knew that they would only be unstoppable until they aren’t. Until the day they fall, and eventually they must fall.  

Even after all the years of action, all the blood, sweat and tears they’ve poured into this empire, everyone knows there is no such thing as retirement for the Fake AH Crew; for all they’ve already trained their own successors the frontrunners of the reigning crew in Los Santos will never be allowed to simply step down and move aside when their time is over. Between old enemies and constant rivals, members of law enforcement and anyone simply looking to boost their own reputation, there are countless numbers who would hunt them to the ends of the earth. Everyone knows, one way or another, the FAHC is going out bloody.

And by god, did they go out bloody.



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. What a fucking inconsequential day right? They were owed a Friday at the very least, were meant to go out past midnight, meant to go out in a blaze of glory. They were meant to go out all together. They weren’t meant to go out at all.  

The wheels fell off weeks before, a series of questionable jobs and public fights, a level of disorder totally out of line with the crew’s trademark cohesion. Rumour has it they were rife with in-fighting. Rumour has it after all this time the cracks were finally showing. Its easy, afterwards, to read into the events that came before, to manufacture clues, to swear the writing was on the wall for anyone to see. In reality no one saw it coming. In reality the whole damn city was taken by surprise.

Maybe they bit off more than they could chew, maybe they were distracted, out of sync, or maybe it was just the inevitable finally catching up with them but in the end the Fake’s wind up in a firefight they aren’t winning. After endless years of near misses and close calls, of lucky runs and brilliant timing, after thousands of impossible victories, the FAHC finally lost.

To lose like this, picked off one by one, powerless to save themselves, to save each other, must have been their worst nightmare. With every body on the ground those left only grew more furious, more reckless, lose whatever feeble grasp on self-preservation they ever had, throwing away any possibility of retreat in favour of retribution. It wasn’t enough.

In the end the only one left breathing on either side is Ramsey. The scene finally gone still, silent, the echoes of screams and gunfire fading away into a shivery stunned kind of shock. They say Ramsey’d fallen to his knees amongst the grime, iconic suit near indistinguishable under all the dirt and ash, the blood of men and women who thought they’d live forever. He kneels there in silence while sirens grow ever louder, makes no move to flee, doesn’t even look up from bodies as cars scream to a stop around him.

The messed up thing, the really fucked up part? They say Ramsey was laughing by the time the police got there. Say he stood and brushed himself off, surrounded by the bodies of those he claimed family, drenched sickly red while his empire lay in ruins, and laughed. And god doesn’t that confirm what everyone’s always thought, doesn’t that just prove he always was a monster. Never cared for anyone, for anything, not really. People used to say the one thing Geoff loved was his crew but it seems Ramsey’s cold-blooded ruthlessness won out in the end.



In the fallout of a travesty, of a victory, of an unexpected bloodbath, in a stark grey room faced with a distressingly apathetic villain, in circumstances none could have predicted, all the detectives seem capable of asking is if it was worth it in the end. They ask and ask and Ramsey’s answer never changes, his cold smirk never fades, so calm and unconcerned they catch him glancing at the clock, as though he’s bored. As though even now he’s got somewhere better to be. And still, full of horrified disbelief, they have to ask.

Was it worth it? Yes. Was it worth it? Always. Knowing what you know now, knowing how it ends, how they all go down for you, would you do it all again? Every damn time. Surely you have regrets, you had to know one day it would end like this.  

Oh baby, who says it’s over?



It comes together as a joke more than anything, the cumulation of too many late nights followed by too many bad movies. Their last job was tense, a heist with months of preparations and so much on the line, and while they’ve certainly celebrated their victory like royalty they didn’t come away unscathed. The injuries, numerous though mostly minor, serve to once again remind them all how lucky they’ve been so far. How most don’t make it nearly this many years without tragedy, couldn’t be in the game this long, let alone running the game this long without signing up for devastation. How losing a member, to outright death or crippling injury, is without a doubt only a matter of time at this point. How such a loss will be so much worse in this ridiculously close-knit crew than any they’d experienced before.

Sobering thoughts, combined with the difficulties of winding down after endless weeks of  stress eventually leads to the discussion they never have, the question of what else they could be doing with their lives, what choices brought them here, what they would do if they could just step out, sign off, retire. It’s not that they’re bored of this life they’ve built – how could they be when the world is their oyster – but there’s no denying the fact that after all this time terrorising Los Santos doesn’t quite thrill them like it used to.

If you’d asked any of them ten, five, hell even two years ago they’d have scoffed at the idea of ever retiring, would have sworn up and down that they wanted to go down in flames, to end with a bang, and at the time they meant it. At the time it was true. It still is, in a way, they’ll probably always see something dreadfully appealing in going out on top, but with every passing year it’s harder and harder to look at a room full of people they love and consider playing a role in their deaths. Every time they get hurt it takes a little longer to heal, the old aches and pains are becoming more prominent, and their ever growing patchwork of scars have started looking less badge of honour than they do morbid countdown. Obviously they’ve still got it, still in their prime enough to keep their crown, but between age and gratuitous injury, time is creeping up on them all.

The Fake’s used to joke about the end, said whoever lasted longest won, got to make off with the fortunes, live like a king, but that reality isn’t quite so funny anymore. The idea of surviving, of being left behind with nothing but cold hard cash and heyday memories is enough to make them physically ill. So maybe retiring doesn’t seem quite so unappealing anymore.

Maybe a passing comment way too late at night, after far too much mixing of alcohol and pain meds, in the spirit of some dumb con movie they’d all been heckling, was enough to plant an idea. A ridiculous, unrealistic, completely unattainable idea, but still an idea nonetheless. They’re all a bit hung up on it, still joking, still assuring one another that they aren’t serious, but still bringing it up all the same, running through all the possibilities.

It would take far more than simply disappearing; they have too much wealth and notoriety, have far too many enemies, the world is simply too easy a place to comb through these days. People, at least the vast majority of people, would have to be convinced not to come looking. Convinced there was nothing to look for, nothing to track, would have to think the absent members of the Fake AH Crew were in the one place no one could ever reach them.

There are ways, of course, to feign death. For those with the right contacts, with endless money and enough resources, there are ways to trick the body into something close enough to pass, at least for a time. But even then it’s not so simple; there must be witnesses, there must be evidence, crook and cop alike must be sure. Of course with a public death comes increased risk- it wouldn’t do to go so far in their act that appearances became reality, to go to such lengths to imitate death only to wind up that way regardless. Somehow, someone’s going to have to play guardian, prevent anyone’s corpse from catching a stray bullet to the brain, or jerking back to life too late with guts already laid out on an autopsy table. Someone has to be ready to whisk them all away, and who do any of them trust more than the man they’ve been following all these years. The boss they’d die for. The boss they will die for.

They don’t talk about it, because no one wants to admit it might be happening, no one wants to burst the bubble, to invite reality to rush in and crush the unbelievable thought that the Fake’s might get a happy ending, but at some point they stop laughing. At some point they each quietly start getting all their ducks in a row, using their free time to organise their affairs.

No one questions the way Geoff and Jack have started having day-long meetings with the support crew in-between jobs, the way Lindsay’s spending far more of her time recruiting than ever before, the way Gavin’s taking calls at all hours of the day, rarely in english, clearly haggling over something. They don’t wonder why all their money is getting moved around, why Ryan and Michael are busy collecting all outstanding debts while Jeremy and Ray are plotting the layout of the police station, the morgue.

It’s all happening on the down low, all behind business as usual, but eventually, after nearly a year of quiet organisation, they are just about ready to disappear. All that’s left is the bang, the flashy smoke and mirrors, the hook to stop anyone coming after them, anyone even thinking to track them down. One final step, one last decision to make, a choice they must commit to as one or not at all. All they’ve got left to do is die.



Over the years the Fake AH Crew has grown exponentially but the original elements have never drifted apart, never gone looking for something else or turned on one another. The crew has flourished, become a full blown empire, but nothing can touch the unity of the innermost members, as strong now as it have ever been. For all their loyal familiarity was mocked back in the day, for all their closeness was seen as a weakness, after all these years it seems only death itself will seperate them now. If they had the chance to evade their own mortality one last time, to get out, to be free, would they make the leap?



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. Pattillo, the Vagabond, Mogar and the Golden Boy, Little J and Brownman, but not the boss. Well not on paper anyway – any who knew them must know Ramsey’d never recover from the loss. Any who didn’t just know the LSPD took seven bodies away that day and none of them ever came back. It’s not a stretch to assume Ramsey’s survival was a rumour. To believe it wishful thinking, to say he died at the scene or died at the station, delayed injury or the cops cleaning up the last loose thread of the group who’d made their lives living hell for years.

There’s paperwork out there, somewhere, claiming a different story. A report that barely makes a lick of sense, the sworn record that a kingpin arrived in chains and left with corpses, slipped out of his cell like he was never there, without a hint as to how he got free. He disappeared like smoke, not a trace left behind, and none of the seven alive or dead ever resurfaced. The story is embarrassing, inexplicable, and it reflects badly enough on the LSPD that it is quickly buried.

Even if it hadn’t been there are few who would believe it. Few who could believe for even a moment that Ramsey could walk free and not be with the last of his crew, that he would let another run his empire, run his city, if he was in any way capable of preventing it. No, however it went down Ramsey did not survive. It’s fitting, really. No one can live forever and the OG Fake’s were certainty pushing their luck, had been pushing it for years; a crew that close should go out together.



The Fall of the Fake AH Crew isn’t much of a fall, in the end. The seemingly inevitable power vacuum one would expect following the death of the group who’d been running the city for endless years never comes. It shouldn’t be possible but even after the most devastating loss imaginable the the FAHC isn’t toppled from their throne. They restructure almost overnight; many of the oldest, original members of the support crew bow out, disappear on the wind without a trace, but there are more than enough left behind to fill their shoes. It’s almost perfect, almost unbelievable, some of support shuffling into the spotlight while still more unknown faces are revealed to boost their ranks. Their ability to keep their enemies at bay during the turmoil is impressive enough, but it’s the absence of internal conflicts that is truely boggling; there are no betrayals or executions, no public power plays or jealous feuds, somehow the city’s most scrutinised gang managed to completely restructure after the loss of not just their leader but all their key members without a single hitch. Almost like they were ready, like it was planned.



If the Fake’s had the chance to stay together, to start over somewhere else, stop waiting for the day one of them inevitably doesn’t make it home, but in return they had to step away from the action, give up everything they’d built, hand if off to legacy and fade out into legend, would it be worth it?

Apparently, yes. For all of them, from the moment the possibility arises, throughout every conversation, every debate and consideration, with everything they will lose, with everything they stand to gain, every goddamn time without fail, yes.



Somewhere out there, worlds away from Los Santos, a man sits on a private beach. He isn’t armed with anything more than a beer, there are no weapons, he simply sits upon the sand enjoying the breeze. There’s a woman to his right, sunbathing, a man to his left doing the same; golden tans make their startling number of scars stand out in stark relief but the heat of the sun does wonders for stubborn pains. At the shoreline old friends are knocking shoulders, bumping each other nearer and nearer to the water, not quite rough-housing like little boys but they’re getting close, voices rising on the wind.

The single house behind them is huge and noisy, full of music and chatter, full of monsters and overgrown children, the most loyal humans the man has ever had the honour of knowing. In a brief moment of silence sound from the television drifts down to the beach, an American news anchor reporting the latest infraction of some criminal organisation in a far away city; the house cheers and kicks back into a merry roar. Down by the water there is a betrayal, a splash and screeching protest as one winds up in the waves against his will. Safe on the sand, without a trouble in the world, the man laughs.

3

There’s not one, but two games where you inexplicably survive a deadly fall thanks to a bed of golden flowers.

5

insp.
- Time can be rewritten!
- Not those times, not one line… don`t you dare!

5

Glen gives Gil a piggyback ride; Pandora Hearts by Jun Mochizuki

Favorite manga moment as requested by anonymous~

don’t fear the reaper

Summary: Legends tell of a valiant warrior, blessed by the divine, betrayed by the leader he fought so hard to serve, locked into an eternal half-life. Called goblin, this man lives forever, watching the years pass him by, until his fated other half can release him.

(It’s funny, Nico thinks. They say legends are always a little true.)

General Nico di Angelo is killed at noontime, under a sky as blue as his lover’s eyes.

It happens like this, like divine retribution for the guilt he keeps pressed between his fingers. He returns from the war triumphant and blood-stained, followed by a legion of adoring soldiers and whispers of divinity, of spirits, of death. His name has spread across the continent, passed between enemy lips, like a promise. A warning.

If the fates abandon you, and you meet the man with clothes as black as midnight and a sword red as blood, turn back, turn back.

You will not survive him.

Keep reading

  • Friend: hey are you ok?
  • Me: haha yeah
  • Me, inside: every single day of my life I think about how, if La Squadra had not chosen to attempt to kidnap Trish, they would've all lived and eventually teamed up with Buccellati's gang to take down Diavolo. Every single day of my life I wonder about what could've been a sick-ass squad team-up and all the shenanigans the assassins and the mafiosos would've gotten themselves into. Every single day of my life I imagine the silent-yet-caring co-leaders Bruno and Risotto, the laid back convos of Mista and Formaggio, the arguments between Abbacchio and Ghaccio, the awkward friendship of Trish and Illuso, the way Proscuitto would've taken Narancia under his wing along with Pesci, both sides making fun of Melone's and Fugo's fashion senses, and everyone looking up to Giorno in their own ways. But no, they died.