no more masks

A small Dieselpunk-inspired Shiro that I needed to get out of my system

Bonus mask thingy for maximum aesthetic:

The thing about Death Note is that it could have been good, if they had actually Americanized it instead of white washing it. I’ll explain the difference. 

Death Note is amazing, not just because of it’s interesting premise, art, and storytelling, but also because it asks audiences to ponder over various moral conundrums. Sure the larger questions of whether we can sacrifice the few for the greater good, and whether people/States have the right to take away the lives of other are fairly universal, but other shows, books, and mangas have asked the same questions. What makes Death Note so good is that it is deeply grounded in a specific place and political context. It is a commentary on early 2000s Japan. It is specific, yet understandable across many contexts. It asks old questions in new ways, and therefore gives us the opportunity for new answers. 

Imagine if Death Note had actually been Americanized. Imagine a young Native American girl found the Death Note. She’s 15 and pregnant, because Native American women are one of the most vulnerable groups to sexual assault in the United States. She knows who her rapist is. His name. His face. Because it is so rarely a stranger. She also knows the names and the faces of the congress member and representatives who are trying to push an anti-abortion bill that would even rule out an exception for rape. She knows the names and faces of every cop that laughed her out of the police station, and the doctors that asked her what she was wearing before refusing to do a rape kit. Imagine if this girl found the Death Note. 

Imagine if Death Note had actually been Americanized. Imagine a young Black boy found the Death Note. He’s been stopped and frisked for the second time that day, and his best friend was shot 16 times two years before because apparently, a wallet looks just like a gun. He knows the shooter’s name and face, the cop didn’t even get fired and that’s why he was able to frisk our protagonist today. He knows the names and faces of teachers who would rather send their students to juvie rather than detention, or even talk to them. He knows the names and faces of the preachers talk about uplifting the spirit while only caring about uplifting their bank accounts. Imagine if this boy found the Death Note. 

Imagine if Death Note had actually been Americanized. Imagine a young Filipina girl found the Death Note. She’s the only one in her family with papers. ICE raids are becoming more common, but the masks and the shields keep them nearly anonymous. Faceless men take her mother, then her brother, and finally her father. She doesn’t know their names and faces, but she’s had glimpses of ICE vehicle numbers and a knack for hacking. She knows the president, though, stoking anti-immigrant sentiments. Imagine if this girl found the Death Note.

Imagine if Death Note had actually been Americanized. Imagine a young white boy found the Death Note. And his name is Dylan Roof, Adam Lanza, James Holmes, Elliot Rodger, Jared Loughner, or Charles Manson. A Shinigami meets 4chan, MRAs, and the “alt-right”; death god meets god-complex meets white male supremacy. We don’t need to imagine what happens if these boys find the Death Note. We already know, but it would still make damn good television.

If instead, all we get is Light Turner, depoliticised and decontextualized, just another white face on another Japanese story, what is the point?

Kakashi fankid stealin yo scenes.

And when he’s not doin’ that, he’s bein’ cuuuute with his expressions and his choppy Minato-side hair thingies…

He’s also cutely interested in classroom rules, or whatever that paper is: 

Also consider his toesies: 

…and this beautiful avatar he has gifted us with (he even has that chunk of bangs between his eyes like young kakashi!!): 

…and HIS ‘YAY’ WAVE: 

… and that he is not beyond being awkwardly animated (and this is only 2 episodes in at this point): 

I love him.

*whispers* someone write a fic where Derek saves Stiles from a fire even though it’s terrifying for him to do because it reminds him of his family and then Stiles is all surprised and awed by it and Derek realizes that Stiles the secret love of his life almost died and then KISSING

anonymous asked:

What If one of the fakes had a high school reunion or something like that and just took the crew and it somehow ended in a shoot out with the cops.

Let’s just be clear, it’s not a pride thing. Geoff has never cared what people said about him, not outside a professional sense anyway; he knew exactly who he was, what he was capable of, even before he’d taken an entire city to its knees. So it’s not that he felt the need to prove himself, it’s just that there’s something particular about high school trauma, isn’t there? Something that lingers, even when it shouldn’t, something that emerges from even the most upstanding adults when thrown back together for a reunion, the bullies and the bullied, all desperate to show what they’ve become.

Geoff’s last high school was nothing like he’d ever been to before, a snobby upper-crust hellhole he was only in because his Ma’s third husband pulled some strings, and the other students were quick to point out just how much he didn’t belong. Between the tattoos and the smoking, the lazy looks and slow sneering drawl, it was always all too easy to label Geoff a loser, a drop out, trailer park trash everyone knew would be washing their cars one day. Never mind that he scored higher than most of his cohort even when skipping more or less every class, never mind that he is possibly the most well-read crime-lord in the country, back then he had an image and teenagers are relentless. Not that Geoff was all that phased even at the time, only a year or so away from the day he picked up his first gun and never looked back, but it’s the principal of the thing.

So when an invite forwards through from an email so old he’d forgotten he’d even made it Geoff has to laugh. Then pause, consider, hatch an utterly ridiculous idea, and laugh some more. Because he might not care, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy ruining the night for all the pathetic stuck-up nobodies he went to school with; rubbing your success in everyone’s faces is what reunions are for, after all. The fact that it has a theme, that it is masquerade of all things, really just cements Geoff’s resolve to drag his crew halfway across the country into one of the strangest nights of their lives.

Everyone knows the option to bring a guest to these events is, in reality, the offer to bring a romantic partner, singular, but it isn’t technically stated. There are no rules barring Geoff from RSVP-ing for 7, so that’s exactly what he does. Sure he receives a few increasingly less polite emails suggesting he’d been mistaken but he doesn’t even bother opening them, doesn’t try to clarify that he is bringing his friends, his family, not his entire harem. Let them talk; they’d do it anyway. Plus, it’s not like the Fake’s aren’t all entirely too pleased with the suggestion, cackling hyenas who spend the next few weeks laying it on thick, batting their eyes and blowing Geoff kisses, picking out increasingly absurd meet-cute stories to tell his scandalised classmates. Between creating new identities and playing dress up in masks and suits they couldn’t be happier.

Masks or not they catch every eye in the room when they make their entrance and why wouldn’t they; Geoff and his unusual request must have been the talk of the rumour mill and identity hidden or not clearly this must be Geoff, it’s not like anyone else brought along 6 dates. As stage whispers hit a dull roar it’s obvious no one was prepared for what they were seeing, perhaps imagined instead stained tank tops and a string of strung-out baby mama’s, not expensively tailored suits and an attractively refined entourage. Paying the noise no heed Geoff swans into the room with Jack looking elegant on one arm, Gavin at his most Ken-doll glamorous tucked under the other, flanked on either side by Ryan, Michael, Jeremy and Ray, all dressed to impress.

Shock and jealousy aren’t good looks on anyone, let alone rich brats turned elitist yuppies, so Geoff’s classmates behave just as poorly as he’d anticipated, years and newfound maturity doing nothing to stop the tittering laughter, the sneers and judgmental looks, fake pleasantry and condescending questions. But then, his crew didn’t exactly play nice with them either.

Ray and Jeremy immediately beeline to the food table and bar, respectively, and each set themselves up and settle in for the night; loud, obnoxious and tactlessly talking about everyone around them. When asked about themselves or their relationship to Geoff they’re both frustratingly vague, Jeremy chattering away without saying much at all and Ray simply staring people down until they can’t bear the tension.

Michael and Ryan set off together to explore the room but quickly separate to accommodate their vastly different methods of surveillance. Ryan skulks into the background, ducking numerous attempts to catch his interest in favour of fading into unlit corners and empty nooks, frightening the life out of anyone trying to slip away for some private time. Michael, on the other hand, seems determined to be the life of the party, cheerfully making conversation only to laugh in the face of every so-called achievement, ruffling feathers and causing major offence wherever he goes.

Gavin slinks off like a man on a mission and doesn’t come back for over an hour, offering no explanation for the absence beyond a dangerously self-satisfied smirk. His work becomes obvious soon enough anyway, once the yelling starts; Geoff’s two main high-school tormentors, mentioned only in passing stories over the years, simultaneously having huge, public, relationship-ending blow ups with each of their significant others. What are the odds? Across the hall Gavin laughs, all tinkling glass and sparkling charm, smoothly working the room like Michael’s mirror opposite.

Jack stays at Geoff’s side all night, hackles raised into something abnormally cold and unimpressed any time someone comes up to speak to them, protective instincts in full force no matter how often Geoff claims to be unaffected. He fills her in on all the worst gossip about those who approach, and as the night progresses and general unease begins to spread Jack mellows, sinking back into something sweet and mocking, somehow even more unsettling playing docile arm-candy than she was rabid guard dog.

Throughout the night the Fake AH Crew remain a key topic of every casual conversation; they might have been regardless, even this far from Los Santos no one can get enough of their scandals, but with the huge heist pulled just last week there was no way to avoid it, everyone has their two cents, their praise and condemnation. It’s too funny, the whole crew killing themselves trying not to break character, to laugh or correct or manipulate the conversation but all their self-control is well rewarded in the end.

Half the room removed their masks less than an hour into the night; too difficult to eat and talk and drink in, too vain to keep their hard earned looks covered, so it’s not at all strange when the Fake’s start to follow suit. Jeremy and Ray start it, the newest member and the one caught on camera the least often, casually dropping their masks mid-conversation. They each get a confused squint or two, a double glance, a few individuals trying to place them, remember how they’d met before, why they were so familiar.

Next came Gavin and Michael, having goaded each other out onto the dance-floor they were playing as much as they were moving to the music, laughing and grappling and generally making a bit of a scene. They snatch off each other’s masks as they play and the looks double, because alone they’re each distinctive but together, together, people have seen those faces together, somewhere they’ve seen them and so often together..

Last is Jack and Geoff, more graceful than their counterparts and moving with far more purpose they reveal their faces in the centre of the room and, like a party trick, they instantly catch the whole room’s attention. Out of context, in ones and twos where they don’t belong, the members of the FAHC could be mistaken but no one in the country would fail to recognise Ramsey and Patillo, the kingpin and his right hand, rulers of the most well-known gang in the US. And here they stand, casually mingling at a high school reunion.

In the calm before the storm the crew gravitates back towards one another, can almost see the cogs turning around them, the lightbulbs flickering on in a slow ripple spreading out across the room, disbelief and the first hint of horror swirling together as people start unconsciously reaching for their phones. As Ryan slips back out and wanders over, the last still masked, always masked, the chatter seems to crescendo then crash into something still and almost silent as a room full of entitled trust-fund babies recognise their own terror.

Finally uncovered and flanked by his family Geoff’s grin creeps across his face, slow and violent and more confirmation than anyone needed as he lets the oppressive tension sit for a long moment, arms spreading out to his sides like a magician revealing a clever trick before he breaks the silence; Surprise motherfuckers.

Guns are pulled from jackets and from there it’s all running and screaming, no honour or courage, just a stampede for the exits to the sound of cackling laughter and the occasional aimless pot-shot. The Fake’s aren’t looking for lives, not worth the hassle really, and this job certainly has no monetary reward beyond the wallets Geoff’s filthy little thieves have no doubt absconded with, but the fear in the air is delightful and even the sound of incoming sirens can’t ruin the mood. If anything it only hypes them up further, all savage grins and ramping excitement as they make for doors, reloading their weapons and pumping themselves up for a whole new police force to terrorise, Geoff’s magnificent little miscreants.

On the way out they pass a wall of yearbook photos, blown up large and captioned with names and all the old superlative awards. Ryan stumbles to a halt and snorts, snatching one off the wall and tucking it into his jacket to take back to the penthouse, though not before flashing the Lads a glance at that all too recognisable face, sending them into peals of screeching laughter as they pour out into the night. Geoffrey Fink; Least likely to succeed. 

This is actually something that I drew a few days ago bUT I really wanted to draw something and I wasn’t sure what exactly and I’ve had this particular idea for a long time so I GAVE IT A SHOT AND I’M SO SO HAPPY WITH HOW IT CAME OUT.  I’ve always thought that some of Robin’s hair styles that had her braiding or doing something with the sides of her hair were really pretty (though the short style that Carinus has is my fave obvs iaeirg.)  So I just had this idea of mama Carinus braiding and pulling Lucina’s hair back in a pony tail for her one day and putting white flowers in it because she thought it looked pretty on her and Lucina would love it and (*’v`丱)☆+゜

This was so, so much fun, I think I had the most fun with her hair.  I originally had it down and then the parts of her hair that were braided pulled back but I couldn’t get it to look the way I wanted it too so I tried putting it all up and I LOVE IT SO MUCH *゜✲ฺ(✿◕ฺ ∀◕ฺ)ฺノ゜* This whole thing I just couldn’t be happier with like uGH aoerihg  Also fun fact, with the flowers, I was trying to carry over the flowers from Lucina’s (just S?) support with male Robin.  I DON’T KNOW THE FULL CONTEXT BEHIND THEM I haven’t seen their support yet but I thought mama Carinus would find them pretty on her baby girl.

10

“I’m sorry for pretending not to know you. I wanted so badly to call your name”