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anonymous asked:

Hiiiii! I hope you've had a lovely weekend! I've got a question. What do you mean when you say Jungkook and Yoongi are much more alike than people realize?

Heey! Thank you loads, I hope your week has been amazing as well. What I mean by that is basically that both are reserved and awkward although charming, caring and stubborn little shits. lol I’ll elaborate (but not much since I have a synastry of them on my schedule).

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Okay. So #studyblrs get real isn’t trying to offend anyone. I’ve gotten some anon messages that are really rude and I’ve just straight up deleted them.

#studyblrs get real is just that, we’re getting real. I’ve rewritten my notes to be aesthetically pleasing one time. Uno. Ein. Yeah that’s the only languages I know one in.

The studyblr aesthetic isn’t most people’s real life studies methods. It’s some people’s, and I want to congratulate those who manage to keep the aesthetic up.

But honestly, it’s not real life. Real life is being up at 2 AM, surrounded by four empty cups, Rice Krispies Treat wrappers, and a pizza box with just pizza crust in it, and grease marks on your paper. Real life is not having time to make these AMAZING and GORGEOUS notes, because you’re studying for the grade, NOT the notes.

People say you just need to “study” to be a studyblr, but why is it only the MUJIs, the Mildliners, and the Staedtlers get reblogged? Why doesn’t the pictures of sloppy, coffee stained notes get reblogged? The rain drenched crinkled notes that don’t get rewritten. The notes with more scribbles than legible writing.

Underneath is why I think that #studyblrs get real needs to become popular, and fast, which has been taken from what I said in a conversation with @universi-tea where the idea for #studyblrs get real came up.

Teens that are growing up may not know what they’re facing, because aesthetic studyblr makes it look like sunshine and lollipops.

“I’ve been through things that will commonly happen. I’ve been rejected by my dream school, and I’ve cried at 4 AM in the morning because my fourth SAT scores weren’t high enough to meet requirements after months of studying. I’ve taken AP classes. I’ve graduated.

Your high school/college/university experience may have been different, but mine was a rude awakening and I’m trying to prevent others from crashing and burning like I did. I was an all A student in high school, even with AP classes. I graduated fifth in my class with 25 credits from AP scores, in which my school only offered seven AP classes.

My first test in uni was a 38 in Business Calculus. A fucking 38 out of 100. I remember it very vividly (Thursday night, and the Blacklist was on.) It was like someone was trying play a joke on me because I had NEVER gotten that low of a test grade before. I remember looking at my scores, and the sense of dread settling into the pit of my stomach. I cried, and then called my old AP Bio teacher (idk why now that I think about it) I had a panic attack, and I was by myself (lived alone.) Those two are very dangerous. My next test score was a 51. Rinse, and repeat.

Do you know how worthless I felt? How long my mom yelled at me after I called her? How my friends reacted when they found out? I went and had a four hour conversation with the professor, who told me that this was the most common thing he saw in a class with freshmen in it. That they come thinking that they’re prepared and they are by no means prepared. I had to go to tutoring. For every single class but one. This was so fucking embarrassing. I had gone from the tutor in HS to the tutored in Uni.

My best friend went to the North Carolina School of Math and Science. Extremely prestigious, and extremely hard. “It’s like taking uni classes when you’re 16, 17, and 18, but you don’t get credit for them as college classes.” I’ve known my best friend since I was 10-ish. She’s the most level headed, and the smartest person I know. She calls me frequently, crying, because the work load. She spent a whole week with me trying to get over one failing grade.

This embarrassment, this shame and lack of self worth I experienced in uni is something I NEVER want ANYONE to experience. I’m trying to prevent these people younger than I am from feeling this way, because I had sunk into a depression because of grades. Grades that could’ve been prevented, had I known the truth.

Sure, the studyblr aesthetic may work in some people’s lives, but in college/uni, you’re being pulled in so many directions. I don’t know of a single person in any of my classes that have gorgeous notes. Hell, I don’t know anyone who can even afford to buy nice planners, or buy fresh fruit. Being “a broke college student” is entirely legit.

But all this aside, if you’ve managed to live out the studyblr aesthetic in university and keep up your grades, you better be DAMN proud of yourself. I’m not trying to make anyone mad. This is the reality most of us experience. It’s the honest truth, and I had to find out the hard way. I just don’t want anyone else to find out the hard way, either.“

Rings

So, I’ve always been fascinated by Harry’s hands. Men’s hands in general, really, but Harry’s hands are so nice and his rings are my downfall. And I noticed quite a while ago that he seems to never wear a ring on the ring finger of his left hand. And after it was brought up by an anon on @inwhichitrytowritesomething ‘s blog, I decided a short little oneshot was in order. This was supposed to be like fluffy and cute, but it took on a mind of it’s own somewhere along the way. I had to cut it off before I got too caught up with it. Otherwise there would’ve been a full blown sex scene and probably multiple parts, and I’m already committed to a multipart fic atm. So anyway, here it is.

Please let me know if you like it and if you’d like me to do any other short little shots like this in the future. I quite like writing them :)


“Oi, what are you doing?” Harry asked, walking into his girlfriend’s flat after a day at the studio. She was sat at the desk in the corner of her living room, laptop open to a Google search of him. “If you want pictures of me, love, all you’ve got to do is ask. Be more than happy to send you a few. I’m open to requests.”

She looked at him over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “I’m not looking at you just for the sake of looking at you, ya dolt. I was doing some research.”

“Research?” he asked, more intrigued now than he was earlier. He sidled up beside her and crouched down so he was more level with the screen where he saw various photos of himself from all sorts of events and occasions. “What research, exactly? I don’t see any reason to these photos,” he admitted.

“Okay, not really research, since I can’t actually get any facts to support a hypothesis, and I don’t have one of those either. I was just curious, really.”

“About what, pet?” He reached his hand out and lovingly palmed at her thigh where she sat on the chair. She was dressed only in a pair of panties and one of his black silk shirts that he’d worn the day before and left at her’s this morning. Her skin was soft and warm and it was comforting to him after a long day trying to figure out the final touches of his album.

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Ruin

noun | ru·in | \ˈrü-ən, -ˌin; ˈrün\

1. (a) archaic :  a falling down :  collapse
    (b) physical, moral, economic, or social collapse


He was something else, once. Was a good man, maybe. Certainly a better man. A cleaner man. Someone who could look at themselves in the mirror. Someone who didn’t hide behind a mask, cloak themselves in death just so the stains didn’t shine through.  

Hard times hit everyone differently, some fall apart, some overcome, some recreate themselves entirely. Ryan was remade. Unmade. Ryan turned himself inside out to come out on top, man made monster, made machine. Man made ruthless, made killer. Made mercenary. Made money. Good god did Ryan make money, such a lucrative business for those who can stomach it, for those who can excel at it, tear out all the better parts of themselves and become devastation.  

It takes a certain kind of person to pull themselves apart, takes a particular kind of conviction, desperation, the sort of radical change that cannot be undone, permanent moral decay. Once you become the bogeyman there is no turning back.  

Ryan has been the Vagabond longer than he has been Ryan, longer than he was ever James, and longer, it turns out, than he would be a member of the Fake Ah Crew. 

2. (a) the state of being ruined
    (b) the remains of something destroyed


The Vagabond was known from coast to coast, feared across oceans, talents coveted by all and controlled by none. The Vagabond was everything, fierce and untouchable, true to his word but violently independent, a faceless wraith none could outrun, none could even truly believe was human. The Vagabond himself didn’t even know for a while, true name unspoken for so long it was almost forgotten, bone-deep loneliness so endlessly constant he didn’t notice it was there until is suddenly wasn’t.  

The FAHC snuck in like poison, insidious and unrepentant with absolutely no consideration for Ryan’s barriers. They hired him for a job, then another, their calls dogged him across states, pulled him back time and time again. It was a good gig; solid pay, decent jobs, no conflicts of interest and, as a bonus, they were a pretty entertaining bunch to work with. Too entertaining maybe, considering Ryan kept letting things slip, kept opening his mouth, kept forgetting he was just a hired tool.  

The Fake’s forgot too, forgot to be fearful, to show proper deference, forgot the mercenary was always moving, that he was just working for pay, that he wasn’t theirs. They forgot the depths of the Vagabond’s depravity and that alone should have been enough of a sign; Ryan should have stayed away, should have drawn a line, but all of a sudden for the first time in years he had a port of call and no real reason to avoid it. All of a sudden the restless itch of the Vagabond didn’t seem quite so pressing, occasional trips to Los Santos becoming occasional trips out of Los Santos, until one day he just didn’t leave. Until one day the trappings of the Vagabond were more costume than they were second skin, worn and comfortable but not necessary, not anymore.   

The Fake AH Crew were known from coast to coast, feared across oceans, they were a collection of talents obedient only to one. The FAHC were everything, they were acceptance, encouragement, they were wicked laughter and bad ideas, they were filthy cheats and the fiercest of families. They were simply a tragedy waiting to happen.

3.  a cause of destruction

The Vagabond’s got a reputation for silent threat, stoic judgement, but in all honestly Ryan’s always had a mouth on him. Always chased the final word, that one last snippy come back, always pushed the envelope to show nothing can contain him, no one can outsmart him.  

It’s part of what made the Vagabond so dangerous; professional, yes, fulfilling orders to the letter when they take his fancy but it only takes a split second to change his mind, a single throw-away comment to have him turning on his heel, reaching for his gun. The Vagabond has a temper, has a skewed sense of propriety and a sharp tongue, and in the heat of the moment none are safe from his withering condemnation. 

It’s part of what made him so compatible with the FAHC, competitive and creative and more than capable of keeping up, quick wit and scathing commentary the perfect cherry atop his undeniable talents. He’s hardly the only one in the crew needlessly making enemies, not the only one causing grave offence at the most inopportune times, but Ryan’s words will always carry the weight of the Vagabond. Will forever be deemed more serious, more humiliating, a story that will travel, a snub that will damage reputations if left unpunished. It’s what made him a fucking liability, in the end.  

4. (a) the action of destroying, laying waste or wrecking
    (b) damage, injury

The hardest thing about being in a crew is realising your actions are no longer solely your own; even with the ability to disregard orders whatever ramifications you bring down will inevitably splash over onto everyone else. An enemy of one crew-member is an enemy of all, and when retribution comes everyone is in the crosshairs. When it comes everyone is at risk.  

The thing about trying to handle your own problems, about keeping your family in the dark to save them from your mistakes, is that eventually you’re going to stumble. Eventually you’re going to fall, and when you do chances are you’re not the one who’s going to pay for it. When you do, chances are you’re going to suffer worst of all. Ryan can’t even claim it’s undeserved, not when he’d had so many opportunities to leave, had so many chances to walk away, to save them.

The FAHC might have been top dogs in the city but all it takes is a lucky shot, all it takes is an unseen ambush, merciless vengeance for a grievance they never even heard about. Ryan wasn’t even home, off on some job he didn’t even get the chance to fight with them, to die with them. All empires fall eventually. Most royal families end in bloodshed. A monster will always be a monster and the bogeyman knows damn well he doesn’t get a redemption arc. He doesn’t get a happy ending.

5. a ruined building, person, or object

He was something else, once. Had a soul, maybe. Had something more than this, was someone more than this. More than a masked killer, silent and dead-eyed, as merciless as he is inhuman. More than a loaded gun, good for only one terrible purpose. More than a gutted house, dark and empty and forever waiting for the family that won’t come home.

He was a good man, once.

anonymous asked:

So given your tags on that photo post is Alfredo going to show up in your writing now? (please say yes i love new boy)

The Fake’s have a shiny new sharpshooter and no one is safe. The LSPD find out about him in the worst possible way, a hailstorm of coverfire from an angle no known member of the FAHC could have managed. Even without the unprecedented display of skill just about every active crew-member is running around on ground level anyway, moving with the utmost faith in their unseen sentry as they sweep down the road. They’re calling out to one another, laughing and joking and audibly teasing their eyes in the sky, as distressingly jovial as always while officers are forced to duck for cover. The sniper is good, better than good, clips three cops in mere moments and leaves the rest scrambling to retreat, all the while avoiding the erratic movements of the crew as they breeze all too easily through their escape. This is bad.

Unseen and unnamed the LSPD have just about nothing to go on when they try to build a file on the new member, don’t even have a name let alone a description beyond a blurry silhouette photographed in a window before the sniper disappeared. There’s some chatter in the city, new guy’s skills are already making waves, but even the police informants don’t have much to go on yet. Apparently he was a gun for hire, a contract the Fake AH Crew decided to keep on indefinitely after they saw him work. People say when he gets his sights on someone they go down, no question. So the LSPD are probably right to worry, probably justified in their harried rush to build a file, though the temporary label they’ve adopted in lieu of an official title is questionable at best. It originated from one officer’s account, the dubious memory of what must have been a misheard comment, a mangled codename, but for now The Sauce is the closest thing they’ve got.

Pidge’s Garden

Building off an idea from my Allura + Earth post

  • When Pidge comes home from space, she declares that she wants her own garden.
  • (Matt laughs at this because Pidge?? outdoors??? until he realizes she’s dead serious. Shiro doesn’t laugh because he values his life.)
  • So while Mrs. Holt figures out how she’s gonna get her family and Shiro treated for space-related PTSD (does she call NASA, or???), Pidge starts clearing out the yard.
  • Shiro and Matt and Commander Holt end up helping because being rooted to the earth is good for their trauma.
  • Then Pidge runs out and buys a bunch of plant books and does crap loads of plant research for weeks until she’s FINALLY ready.
  • She buys seeds. She plants them.
  • She stays outside watching them for days until buff!Matt picks her up and carries her off. “You’re gonna get sunburned, Katie.”
  • “Patience yields focus,” Shiro says. Pidge tells him to shut the quiznak up.
  • AND THEN ONE MORNING PIDGE GOES OUTSIDE AND THERE ARE SPROUTS
  • SHE RUBS HER EYES A FEW TIMES, THEN RUNS HOLLERING INTO THE HOUSE
  • (There is a confused moment where everyone thinks it’s aliens and Mrs. Holt fears for their collective sanity)
  • AND SHE DRAGS MATT AND SHIRO OUTSIDE AND POINTS TO HER LITTLE SPROUTS, AND SHE’S SO HAPPY SHE’S CRYING. THEY LIVE!
  • From that point on she becomes Gardener Extraordinaire
  • feeding her plants the good soil, watering them, shielding them from excess rain and heat
  • She even makes a little water feeder for bees
  • Before long, the Holt + Shiro family residence is surrounded by flowers
  • There are flowers in window planters and in vases and pressed in books
  • There are fresh vegetables and fresh herbs and fresh tea
  • And the nightmares of darkness and imprisonment and torture and war are slowly replaced by dreams of beautiful gardens