how to butcher

Been working on the zine and a 3 part jinkook/ot7 comic today while sick and decided i needed a break from thinking about my AU. So instead, I drew someone else’s :’) OK SO LIKE I AM INLOVE WITH @ask-seokjinnie ​‘s 1920s AU!!!!! All my stories when I was smol™ were all about this era so when I saw her au i was all heART emojis

Imperator

Rae Sloane

They are pioneers in this space. They are the first outside the charted limits of the galaxy.
She realized: It can be mine, if only I am willing to take it.
Soon, they will be at their destination.
And soon, it will be hers to take.

~from Aftermath: Empire’s End by Chuck Wendig

(Inspired by this!)

930215 . Happy Ravi Day.

Happy Birthday to our dear Kim Wonshik. You have been a great part of our lives and your music continues to inspire us everyday. Whether it be your solo music or VIXX music, you have come so far and words cannot describe how proud we are. Thank you for everything, thank you for being born. ✩

1o3o1  asked:

; v ; Can you draw Shiro and Keith in Electric swing attire? Or them dancing? :)

Sorry this took so, soooooo long (I was on hiatus recently)… 

But yeah, I seriously didn’t have any idea what Electric/Electro Swing is so I just googled it and I’m not quite sure if I did this right… I didn’t really know any dance poses and I didn’t really want the pose to be simple so I was like ‘hey, why not show this people how much of a Yuri on Ice trash I am’.

[I guess this kinda looks like a Yuri on Ice AU (but different) where Keith is a jaded prodigy who wanted nothing to do with the sport anymore at least, until he met the world renowned skater, Shiro. Shiro gave him the passion he needed to continue and helped him realized how much he still loved skating..??]

8

Hannigram S4 That moment when you’ve been happily married (for 2 years) to a man who knows how to make you shut up

It’s hard, sometimes, so unbearably hard for Ryan to stay.

There are days and weeks and months when he doesn’t think about it, where this crew is everything he needs, everything he could ever want, and nothing on earth could tear him away. But then there are those moments, terrifying and bleak and inescapable in a way the rest of the crew will never really understand. 

It’s a paranoia that seeps through, ideas he can’t stop himself from imagining. The way he thinks about the ease with which he could snap Gavin’s neck, soft and vulnerable, already tucked underneath his arm while the movie plays, explosions more than loud enough to cover any sound. The way the ever growing bounty on Geoff’s head is burnt into his brain, not temptation so much as reminder, this wanted man who doesn’t even stop to think about the danger of falling asleep in Ryan’s presence. About how easy it would be to mess with the explosives Michael gets him to hold, how no one would ever suspect anything but a faulty timer, a tragic accident. How Jack has him check her parachute when she doesn’t have time, blind faith that he would never let her fall. The unprotected slope of Jeremy’s back, walking ahead down the tunnel, utterly unconcerned by the loaded gun Ryan carries, unaware of the way his spine is in the sightline even with the gloom.

They’re not fantasies, there is no secret wish to hurt his crew, this mismatched collection of disturbing affection, it’s just the deep unshakable knowledge that he could. That nothing and no one could stop him if he were so inclined, not with how unsuspecting they are, how trusting.

They’ve forgotten, he knows, inexplicably forgotten all the ways that they are different, the ways he is not the same. This pack of junkyard dogs, who are scrappy survivors, downright vicious when they want to be, but not savage. Feral, maybe, but not wild like Ryan is wild, the wolf they have welcomed into their midst without truely understanding what that means. What he is. What he will always be. They’ve let time and familiarity blind them, dangerously desensitised by fondness, like they can no longer see his ruin. 

It’s not like it’s easy to miss. It’s not like outsiders don’t notice immediately. Maybe that sense of unknown dread, bone-deep wrongness setting off primitive alarm, is what has the Vagabond’s reputation spreading as far and wide and feared as it is. There’s something heavy and inescapable in being a real life bad example, being the one thing every man, woman and child is taught to avoid. To be known as pain, as violence, as death, to be inevitable betrayal before you even open your mouth. A relationship that ends in bloodshed before it even starts. The kind of stain that never washes out. 

Ryan has never really resented that part of himself before - he made his choices after all, created the Vagabond and relished in his rise; he’s only got himself to blame, but all of a sudden it feels like it has cost him something. Like all the guilt he refuses to feel has reformed into a different kind of punishment, an awareness that he cannot keep the best thing that has ever happened to him, that he’ll have to leave before this, too, is tarnished. Maybe he can play lost pet for a time but the wilderness in his blood is always calling, the lonely cry of the hunt keeping him up at night, relentlessly pulling him back no matter how hard he tries to resist. Ryan knows, in those moments, that this can’t last. That no matter how much he wants to stay eventually he’ll have to break away again and leave them all behind.

Except, whenever it comes up, whenever it’s all too much and Ryan is just secretly working out what he has to pack before he leaves, his crew goes and smacks him over the head with their feelings on the matter.

Those are the days when Gavin will look up at him, smiling so soft and sweet and terrifyingly harmless that it takes Ryan a second too long to recognise the blade pressing up between his ribs, or into the hollow of his throat or the base of his spine, freezing with a startling shot of adrenaline even as Gavin pulls back, eyes alight with wicked mischief as he laughs and skitters away, singing gotcha over his shoulder like catching the Vagabond unaware is a petty party trick.

When Geoff will take one look at Ryan and send him away on a long job, or pull him off what he was doing and keep him close to base instead. It’s incredibly frustrating; Geoff offers no explanation or remorse and the orders rarely align with what Ryan wants to be doing, but one way or another they always seem to be just the thing to make him shake off the restless jitters.

When Michael drags Ryan out to practise close combat and drops him to the ground over and over, defies Ryan’s greater size and usual physical dominance in a hurricane of fists and flashing teeth. The way he laughs and jeers and riles Ryan into true annoyance, into drawing blood, and still sends him crashing down as often as not, an oddly comforting display of bloody competence. 

When Ryan turns that cold detached gaze on Jack and finds her already looking back, eyes narrowed and calculating, thoughtful. A simple look that sends the same flare of shocking panicked fear through him as he gets when she lets a jet plummet from the air, laughing wild and reckless, ruthlessly jolting Ryan back into himself.

When Jeremy invites himself along on one of Ryan’s less savoury jobs, matches him hit for hit, threat for threat, nudges Ryan away and takes over when things get truly nasty. The way he leans into Ryan’s side and looks for critique when it’s over, as calm and friendly as ever, like this darkness isn’t the thing that defines them.  

This is Ryan’s crew. His pack of dogs demonstrating just how clearly they hear the call of the wild, how violently capable they are of keeping up. The FAHC, who fight tooth and nail and no regrets, who’ve dug in their claws and don’t plan on letting go, who’d go toe to toe with a wolf without an ounce of fear just to prove he’s already home.

It’s unspeakably hard, sometimes, for Ryan to stay, but leaving would be so much worse.

Lana Del Rey on Religion

“My understanding of God has come from my own personal experiences… because I was in trouble so many times in New York that if you were me, you would believe in God too. When things get bad enough, your only resort is to lie in bed and start praying. I dunno about congregating once a week in a church and all that, but when I heard there is a divine power you can call on, I did.“ 

“Well, I mixed it with my studies in theology, because it was the best school for the Jesuit faith and all of the Jesuits taught philosophy classes. There was just a lot of talk about going back to that basic question: Why do we exist? How did reality come to be? Why do we do what we do? And how not to become the butcher, the baker, the candlestickmaker, the guardians of the middle-class—that really interested me. I don’t know. Yeah, I loved being around people who wondered why we were here.”

“I guess I would say that the beautiful thing about feeling connected to something greater is that even at my lowest point I always have a feeling that I’m being taken care of. “

“And Jesus—I mean, being raised Catholic, it was just a way of life. Spirituality and religion were strong. I was in Catholic school until I was 13. Like a lot of other people, I think foundationally I was hymn inspired—musical hymns, not Him, Jesus. [Laughs.]”

“Like so many people, they always state the difference between faith and religion. The faith that I’ve come to find is a science of my own through lots of trials and errors. I’ve been through so many different walks of life that I’ve needed to ask a lot of questions that no human power can answer. I’ve had to seek a lot of guidance. I’ve had to pray a lot because I’ve been in trouble a lot. But it’s not until you do that that you realize there are answers out there to be found.”

To thine own self be true. Seek and ye shall find. There’s a science to prayer, I would say. I think sometimes when you’re really faced with a huge life dilemma or problem and you’ve turned to every sort of thing for answers, sometimes the last resort is to pray and to put out a question to the universe in your mind. Even when you put your question out there, you ask that invisible whoever “What do I do?” you sort of get answers; you forget the problem all over again.”

“I went to a Catholic school called St. Agnes and I loved going to church. I was very interesting and curious about the idea of a divine plan and that there was something bigger than us out there. I don’t have a traditional Catholic view of religion or God though – but I enjoy the feeling of being looked after in the spiritual sense.”

She attended a Catholic elementary school called St. Agnes, and was the cantor of the church across the street. “I loved church,” says Del Rey. “I loved the mysticism, the idea of something bigger, the idea of a divine plan. For me, the concept of religion transitioned into a really healthy idea of God–I don’t have the traditional views of a conservative Catholic, but my imagination was opened within the big blue-and-gold cathedral walls. I liked the idea of being looked after.”

I would say, ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen.’ She’d say, ‘God didn’t save you from drowning just to beat you up on the shore. All you really need is patience when you have persistence.”

“I feel a strong relationship with God and I feel my ties are with him. That’s how I honestly feel. Everything I do, I do it for somebody I’ve never met before, something in the great beyond. That’s my primary relationship, really, is with something divine. I feel a connection as real with that as I’ve ever had with anybody on this earth.”

“There’s one song called “God Knows I Tried” which has a little gospel feel to it.”

Interactions with the FAHC can be wildly beneficial; so long as you play by their rules. So long as you pay your dues, defer to Ramsey and fulfil your promises, so long as you remember that for all their wicked laughter the Fake’s do not play around when it comes to threats. When it comes to debts. If you don’t produce what you owe, if you fall behind, try to deceive or slink out of the city, you’ll quickly find yourself hosting an unwelcome visitor.

The FAHC have three key enforcers, three heavyweights who enact the majority of the crew’s dirty work. There are others, of course, some that come and go, some that have other roles, but all of Los Santos recognise these three. The guard dogs, the brawlers, the muscle; the violent core of an inherently dangerous crew, they keep order, deliver punishment, deal with any who grow more problematic than the FAHC are comfortable with.

If they merely accompany one of the others, shadow Ramsey to a meeting or the Frontman to a deal, they’ll be silent warning, visible promise; so long as everything goes to plan they are no danger, unnecessary unless they aren’t. If they come alone though, if one comes knocking all by himself, shit is about to hit the wall and nothing you do or say can stop it. There’s no telling which enforcer will show, and there is great debate surrounding which of the three is the worst, which is the one you should pray to avoid.

The Vagabond is a popular option, the obvious choice for worst of the worst; no one want’s to open the door and see that skull grinning back at them. Nobody wan’t to explain their shortcomings to the boogieman of Los Santos, to the mercenary who’s said to have no mercy, who’s said to have no restraint, whose lust for death is curbed only by the wishes of his master. Everyone’s heard the stories, everyone’s seen the aftermath; the Vagabond is not a man to be taken lightly.

But quietly, privately, some have admitted that when it comes to a shakedown, to a threat and a nasty reminder rather than an actual punishment, a visit from the Vagabond might not be the worst Ramsey has to offer. There’s something meticulous in the Vagabond, something endlessly patient; it’s an unspeakably horrifying quality in a killer, but not quite such a bad thing in an enforcer. He’s terrifying, yes, and if he actually plans on carrying through there is no escape, but in terms of deadlines and ultimatums at least he’s upfront. At least he’s clear; there are rules to interacting with the Vagabond, and so long as you abide by them you won’t attract his ire. He’ll fulfil Ramsey’s wishes to the letter but so long as you keep your head down and your nose clean that’s as far as he will go.

This is not always the case with the Fake AH Crew’s resident short fuse; Jones, Mogar, rage incarnate, the walking personification of destruction. If Jones is sent to knock some heads together there is absolutely nothing stopping him from throwing in a few broken bones for free. As loyal to the boss as the Vagabond but where the mercenary seems willing to carry out orders as requested, Jones likes to embellish on them. There is no overstating the volatile nature of the mans temper; Jones can jump from complete calm to irrevocable rage in the blink of an eye, can seem utterly reasonable one moment and irrationally furious the next.

While fully capable of unexpected bouts of tolerant patience Jones has no time for perceived idiocy, no sympathy for broken promises. He is, in a way, a man of honour and once you’ve lost his respect there’s no coming back. Even those he leaves unscathed may not escape unmarked; like a dog with a bone his disdain will follow you, a dark blot noted by all who fear his wrath. He might not have the same reputation as the Vagabond, might not swing the same flavour of danger, but stories of his temper are no less prevalent, warnings against pinging his radar no less profound. If Jones turns on you not even your gods will protect you.

Then there’s Dooley, Little J, the newest of Ramsey’s attack dogs. Based on looks alone he seems like he could be trouble, compact but visibly strong, handling his weapons with practised ease, but unlike Jones or the Vagabond Dooley always comes in smiling. Comes in with a slap to the shoulder, a friendly chat, some commiseration over the difficulties of the job. It’s easy enough, after that, to think that he’s a light touch. To think Ramsey’s newest enforcer lacks the presence of his partners, lacks their eager viciousness, to think he is easily the best of the three to have turn up at your door. Foolish.

See, for all that banter Little J is no less committed to his crew, no less judgemental of your disappointing display, no less breathtakingly ruthless. When the Vagabond brings up your failings he gets begging. When Jones sneers at your incompetence he gets excuses. When Little J asks about the complications you had, friendly and understanding and naively inexperienced, you’ll open right up. You’ll spill your fucking guts, and he’ll let you. He’ll listen and nod in all the right places, he’ll smile like you’re buddies and you’ll be so sure you’ve gotten away with it that you’ll fail to notice the way he never let go of your shoulder. The way he never stepped out of your space. You’ll keep digging your own grave right up until his hand tightens and shoves you into a wall, until he holds you there effortlessly despite your struggles, until he leans in close and explains just how badly you’ve messed up. There’s no room for excuses now, not after you’ve admitted everything, no chance to change your story; all you can do is nod, is agree, is promise and grovel and plead, say whatever it is you need to say before Dooley is satisfied. He’ll step back then, let you go and straighten your shirt, clap you on the shoulder as he turns to leave, still chattering away like nothing happened. Still smiling like you’re buddies.  

There’s great debate about which of Ramsey’s enforcers is the most intimating, which would be the worst option to find knocking at your door. Its a conversation with no resolution, an eternal loop; they argue about the worst, because god knows which of the three is the best. God knows which could be called relief, called merciful. They argue about the worst, all knowing exactly what the answer is. Knowing nothing could trump a visit from more than one, nothing could be more dangerous, more worthy of abject terror. If Ramsey sends a pair of his enforcers things are guaranteed to get nasty, things are guaranteed to get wildly unpleasant, but even two cannot compare to all three. If all three come knocking there is no escape, if all three come knocking the game is up, your run is over. It’s overkill to the extreme, the rare combination of raw threat, blinding rage and subtle menace so powerfully unnecessary it can only be a message. If the Fake’s key enforcers come knocking the very best you can hope for is to be the one chosen survivor left to spread the word.