i must own you

sometimes i think I’ll never be happy until i own a well-tailored victorian era suit


You are not alone; you are right at home.

Happy birthday, Johanna!


heterosexual pandering? in my danganronpa?? it’s more likely than you think

anonymous asked:

I really liked the line 'the dark side of the king' from your question about enforcers. would you maybe be willing to talk some more about Gavin and Ryan being terrible doing Geoff's dirty work??

The Fake’s might joke that Geoff is a pushover, too adoring of his crew-mates to really lay down the law as boss, but in reality there are few men more feared than Ramsey. Few legends with more ruthless reputations, more stories of heartless brutality; for those outside his limited family Ramsey is nothing less than an unmitigated horror.

Still, there are certain things Geoff can’t be seen to be involved in, things he must stay above, be diplomatic about. Times when an issue needs to be taken care of without the blowback, when there must be violence without inevitable retribution; ferreting out moles, persuading recalcitrant informants, dealing with a problem who belongs to a gang the FAHC are supposed to be allied with.

It’s easy enough to think that in a crew with a reputation as terrible as the FAHC there is little need for a designated ‘bad guy’. They’re all the bad guys, just ask the citizens of Los Santos, just look at the bodies in the morgue, track down the ruins of all who have thought to oppose them. There isn’t a single member with clean hands, isn’t one who didn’t choose this, who isn’t having the time of their life every singe day morality be damned. And yet there are still jobs Geoff wouldn’t push any of them into, deeds too dark to be forced onto even the most loyal. In those cases that call for abhorrent action Geoff can’t take on himself there is one pair he tends to turn to.

Few would truly be surprised to hear that Ryan is one of the two who tick this box, but that his partner in absolute depravity is Gavin would catch some unaware. There are, of course, members of the crew more suited to being paired with Ryan for all out violence, and those more apt to accompany Gavin for subtlety, but together the pair of them are unrivalled in their gruesome innovation, their unflinching dedication.  

There is being willing to do the dirty work, and then there is enjoying it. Excelling at it. Relishing in the snap of bones and panicked pleading, in the creativity of cruelty, the intricate art of fear. They are violent and terrible, all wrath and retribution like the stories of old, they are a reckoning. Unlike most others there isn’t even a moment when either of them regret. Not a single hesitation before doing whatever must be done, no matter how terrible, how brutally unforgivable. No threat is too dark, no act is too far, no reaction too extreme. In this there are no lines to cross, no moral code to offend or gods to obey. And worst of all, they enjoy it. They have fun, entertain each other, safe in the knowledge that out of sight of the rest of the crew, with none but Geoff really knowing what exactly they are up to, there is no judgement. No one who matters will think differently of them for unapologetic iniquity when they are each other’s only witness and their ruin matches up oh so well.

Gavin is delightfully petty, can whip out flippant comments and passing jokes from months or even years ago in his monologue, twist them into some pithy one liner on the fly, like a hollywood villain without any cheesy dialogue to detract from the menace. He knows just how to frame their attack, laying out exactly what infraction has brought on Ramsey’s ire and building an awful sense of suspense as he delightedly meanders around what they are going to do about it.

It’s not something that should be appealing, it’s awful really, bitterly cruel, but it makes Ryan’s sense of melodrama sing. Ryan who could have chosen any mask in the world but went directly for a blackened skull. Who drops his already deep voice two octaves when he purrs out threats and has a terrible habit of laying wait in dark corners until he spots the perfect moment to loom in sight. Ryan who’s never crumbled in the face of desperate begging, never seen grovelling as anything but undignified, who can’t help but appreciate the way it merely makes Gavin turn up his nose, roll his eyes, toss Ryan increasingly incredulous looks; Christ isn’t this one pathetic?

They share enough languages to communicate in privacy no matter the situation but even without planning they are synchronised enough to work in tandem, playing into each others proclivities, teasing chatter as much for their own genuine amusement as it is for taunting their prey. There are no hard and fast rules to their partnership- sometimes Ryan’s feeling particularly chatty and sometimes Gavin’s itching to pull out his lovely gold knives- but more often than not Gavin wheedles his way into the mind of their victim before Ryan quite literally pulls them apart. Just as Gavin stokes Ryan’s ego when he leans in and pleasantly explains all the horrific things the Vagabond has done, Ryan pander’s to Gavin’s ever vicious whim; drags things out, slows them down, get’s disgustingly creative.

There’s always been something distinctly animalistic in Gavin, the way he slinks like a predator, grins wide enough to bare his teeth, the way he can’t help toying with his food, but in this he isn’t Gavin Free, the Fake’s happy-go-lucky wrecking ball of chaos, isn’t the Golden Boy, Ramsey’s unbelievably persuasive frontman; this is another creature all together. On these jobs Gavin is no less the showman, still all insidious cunning and attention-grabbing flash, but for once he does nothing to disguise his own decay. Doesn’t inject false emotion where none exists, doesn’t manufacture empathy, won’t even pretend to give a solitary shit about anything outside his own world, his life, his people. Amusement as chilling as it is cold-blooded, crushing any hope that he might be the tempering force, that the presence of the glittering Golden Boy will reign in the Vagabond.

And Ryan, good grief Ryan. The Vagabond already has so very many tortured tales attached to his name, already inspires so much fear, but people do like to hope his reputation is inflated. Like to think the man behind the mask can’t truly be as terrible as they say, must suffer the same bouts of  guilt and mercy as anyone else. Think the Vagabond’s greatest secret is the fact that at the end of the day he is just a man. The look in their eyes when they realise they are wrong, realise that while the skull may be a mask Ryan has always been the monster, is the stuff nightmares are made of. The Vagabond isn’t soft on a good day, but in this role he is ruthless. It would, perhaps, be a relief if he were cold, detached. Would be an easier pill to swallow if he acted with his usual air of professionalism, but this? This is Ryan in his element. This is the Vagabond having fun.

It’s a tossup who’s better off; the victims who die slow and painful or the ones who get to live. The ones who spill their secrets, who suffer their punishments, and in the end are left to crawl free. Those who never really stop thinking about bloodstained teeth and razor-blade smirks, distressingly fond banter and cold flat eyes. None of them come back right, none of them return the same way they left, have suffered terror beyond words, experienced horrors they will never be capable of explaining. Most wind up leaving the city, even a passing mention of the Fake AH Crew enough to send them shaking, the possibility of another run in utterly intolerable, but those who stay only serve to further boost the duos reputation.

It’s one thing for anyone with half a brain to fear the Vagabond, it’s quite another for well-known crooks to literally flee when he appears, spike classic fear-mongering rumours with far more truthful tales of vicious depravity, go to absurd lengths to steer clear of the FAHC at any cost. In the same vein the denizens of Los Santos can only say Gavin’s name with increased reverence after  a mere wink tossed at some thug playing muscle in the background of a meeting has the man throwing up all over himself. Can only be more impressed when a slow smile and whispered comment has another back-peddling so fast the Fake’s make off with way more than they were owed.

Which, of course, suits Geoff just fine, reaping the boons of the pet horrors he keeps in his pocket for a rainy day; rare, but undeniably memorable. To see the three of them at work is a sight to behold, Ramsey strolling along flanked by his most wicked miscreants, one the darkened menace of death incarnate, the other almost alight with his own glittering hubris, not a scrap of restraint or morality between them. They are apocalypse, are inevitable disaster, the end of all things good and holy and with an unseen signal they peel off, leave their grinning king to walk alone as they melt back into the night, set free once more to hunt.


there they goooo


-Frodo, come and help an old man. How’s your shoulder?

-Better than it was.

-And the ring? You feel its power growing, don’t you? I’ve felt it too. You must be careful now. Evil will be drawn to you from outside the fellowship and I fear from within.

-Then who do I trust?

-You must trust yourself. Trust your own strength.

One of my favourite friendships. Gandalf and Frodo.

As requested by @tarotprose, a spread to rekindle hope.

To Move Forward I Must - One thing you can do to improve your own situation, a positive thought or action.

The Lesson -  This is what you can learn from your current situation, a piece of wisdom that can only be gained through experience.

What I Need To Remember - A story, lesson, proverb, or similar that applies to your current situation. If you connect your cards to specific life events/memories, this may come into play.

What I Gain From This - Something that will improve for you as a result of getting through this situation.

Who Will Support Me - The person, deity, or even artist who can help you through this time. You’re never quite as alone as you think.

A Message of Hope - A card to help put your heart back on track, the thing that will keep you looking to the future.

I mean sometimes I can tell you're not trying to be insulting

But I will come down hard on you if you go too far, even if you didn’t mean it to sound like that.

You know how human beings learn acceptable behavior?

By being reprimanded and taught by other humans.

You will catch these hands-I mean reprimands.

Ponies of Tumblr

I’m working on a few horse related projects, the result will be original art to sell online and at conventions! Anyway, I get lots of requests to draw people’s horses, which I love, but it’s not very productive for me. So, one project will be a ‘zine featuring Tumblr Ponies!

The rules are -

I need a photo, or a damn good description

You must own the horse OR have permission to share its photo.

Provide horse’s name

Breed or best guess

Tumblr address ( only if it’s mostly horse related) ( this is optional)

Only one horse per person

You must be ok with people possibly owning a book featuring a drawing of your pony and their name and breed.

Pasture puffs to Grand Prixs Pons are welcome! The greater the variety, the better!

I will draw as many as I can, if this is really successful, I will consider a second volume!

Email or message me the goods! Worthylake@gmail.com Use “Tumblr Pony” as the subject so I don’t lose your submission!
I must affirm my life, and to do so I must speak a good word, flirt with binaries and the evangelical, with declarations, with assemblages, remembering, reminding, reconcieving, returning. I must use foul language, fuck and shit and god damn mother fucker. I must yield to motorcycles and surf boards, to katanas and peak lapel suits. I must say to you yes its possible. I must save my own heart by the good word, by a vibe, an aesthetic, by a dropping of the antagonism between poet and audience. By set attitudes from anyone even greats, even cools. I still believe it is possible to live, to be more, to achieve.
Nomi’s Pride Speech

I’ve been thinking about my life and all of the mistakes that I’ve made – the ones that stay with me or the ones that I regret are the ones that I made because of fear.  For a long time I was afraid to be who I am because I was taught by my parents that there’s something wrong with someone like me – something offensive, something you will avoid, maybe even pity.  

Something that you could never love.  

My mom – she’s a fan of St. Thomas Aquinas and she calls Pride a sin.  And of all the venal and moral sins St. Thomas saw pride as the queen of the seven deadly sins.  He saw it as the ultimate gateway sin that would turn you quickly into a sinaholic.  But hating isn’t a sin on that list.  Neither is shame.  

I was afraid of this parade because I wanted so badly to be a part of it.  So today I’m marching for that part of me that was once too afraid to march and for all the people who can’t march:  the people living lives like I did.  Today I march to remember that I’m not just a me. I’m also a we and we march with pride.

So go fuck yourself, Aquinas.

Sense 8, Episode 2: I Am Also A We

Anonymous said: Burnerhugpil e please

sunshine over Motorcity

@winebrightruby, re: impeachment tags

That’s the thing: I’m so pro-impeachment. I think there have been a lot of very valid and very good points about Trump as a figurehead for white nationalism + clumsy incompetence + publicly disgusting and unprofessional behavior that warrants impeachment.

We just can’t drop our guard when Trump is impeached, because Congress started this.

Introducing the last of my main Pokemon Fankids.

He’s Izumi, my Twinleafshipping fankid.

A dancer, hyperactive and dramatic, devoted fan of Serena Zay that follows her steps (even with his starter who happens to be a Fennekin). 

He also happened to meet Lara on a night party on a Pokemon Center and it was basically love at first sight. 

Charlotte despises him because he’s totally going to corrupt her baby after all.

Stuff ensues later.

You tell me I speak English well, and I smile and don’t tell you that it feels more comfortable in my mouth than my mother tongue, that I speak it better and write it neater and read it faster than my own language. You tell me I’m socially aware and I laugh and don’t tell you that I follow your elections more closely than I follow my own, that I understand your politics better than I understand my own, that I can speak about your social structure better than I can speak about my own. You tell me it must have been difficult to be an immigrant child and I lie and don’t tell you that I am still fighting a fight that started the day I stepped foot on this continent.

You see, the truth is when I was eleven I wanted to rip out my own tongue and transplant a new one, one shaped for the round vowel and smoothness of English. The truth is I twisted it my tongue into something that no longer knows how to wrap around the language that gave it birth, gave it a voice. The truth is I wanted to claw out of my skin when I was thirteen and learning a history that wasn’t mine in classrooms that were never built for me. The truth is by fourteen I wished upon myself a history that didn’t transplant me here like a new organ, not quite similar enough to be accepted into the body of this country. The truth is I was clawing my way out of my skin before I even knew it was myself I was fighting. The truth is I was sixteen when they finally gave me a word for it: “assimilation,” thrown around in history classes as if something so insidious could not possibly still be present, as if my body was not already a battlefield, home to the silent and invisible violence I perpetuate blindly against myself. The truth is I have been clawing my way out of my skin for nine years and I don’t know how to stop anymore.

You see, the truth is I still want to claw my way out of this skin. The truth is I want to crawl back through time and find the tattered pieces of myself, my eleven-year-old Korean self that did not yet know to apologize for or be ashamed of it. The truth is I want to sew myself back together into a whole and climb into it like I was three years old again and finding safety in my favourite blanket. The truth is I don’t know if I can claw out of this skin anymore, this skin I put on myself, this skin I patched together from the pretty pieces of America, never knowing how garish it would feel and how tight it would trap me as I grew, and it didn’t. The truth is I want to claw out of this language that cages me, this history that cages me, this society that cages me, this self-imposed path of assimilation and avoidance that has built a barbed-wire isolation fence I don’t know how to climb over anymore.

You see, the truth is I say all this but I don’t know what I’d really do if I did claw my way out—if I’d run back to the place that should be home or keep clawing myself apart and pray that my bones are white enough to grant me acceptance.

—  I wonder if this is what colonization felt like. ( j.p. )