not rest

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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:

don't you think that alex being so calm about what maggie did was a bit weird? it felt a bit weird to me....i thought she'd be mad or freak out, or something

No, it didn’t feel weird to me. They are adults, having a mature, emotionally stable relationship. They are at a point in which Alex is so confident in what they have, in Maggie’s feelings for her, that she doesn’t see a reason to worry about Maggie making the same mistake again and hurting her like that.

Alex knows Maggie enough to know she was probably worried. Which she was. If you re-watch the scene, Maggie was frantic, terrified of losing Alex. She probably was at a point, mentally, where she regressed to that 14 year old kid that was told to pack up her things and leave her home, her family. And what she needed was reassurance that she wasn’t being kicked out again. And that’s what Alex, as a sensible adult who knows that our past mistakes don’t define who we are, gave her – she was everything Maggie needed in that moment: loving, calm, understanding.

This might be Alex’s first real relationship, but in a sense it is too for Maggie. I believe this is the most open and honest Maggie has allowed herself to be with anyone, and things will only get more honest and open from now on. Maggie has to stop self-sabotaging her happiness and learn to accept she does deserve love, and Alex is proving that to her. This relationship is giving Maggie so many healing moments… 

I might have issues with the execution and production side of things regarding Sanvers, but this is a truly beautiful, romantic story between two women who are learning to be open, and honest, and raw thanks to each other. And as someone who needs a little bit of healing from past shitty relationships, it’s something really nice to watch. 

Also, it would’ve been hypocritical of her to freak out when just last week she was defending Mon-El’s right to a fresh start.

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@booksforthoughts Book Photo Challenge, March 28: Recent Book Haul 

I recently made a post about how kindle deals are one of the reasons my TBR is so long. All of these books were purchased for under $5 each. (linked if still cheap)

Some books I saw that others might be into for $1.99 are Attachments by Rainbow Rowell and Replica by Lauren Oliver.

thirtythreebetadelta  asked:

Hi! Can I please request headcanons for Optimus Prime not being a morning person? 🐝

The alarms were blaring throughout the base. Grumbling something unintelligible and rolling over onto his front, Optimus threw his arm up over his audials to block out the noise. Even though it happened every single morning, it still felt as though it was far too early to be functional as the heavy footsteps of battle-weary Autobots echoed down the huge corridors. Optimus heard a quiet sshhhk of his door sliding open and closed again with no noise being heard in between, it was the most obvious hint that it was you, the footsteps too stealthy to even be heard. 

He counted the seconds as you approached. 1… 2… 3… …17, 18… Finally, there was a tiny hand placed over top of the throbbing audial flare where you could reach. As though touching it were a button, the alarm ceased and silence settled throughout the base once more save for the muffled voices of the others outside. Your voice was gentle as you stroked the metal.

“Morning.”

A groan of dismay from the gigantic Autobot.

“The others are already awake, you should come out and refuel.”

Another groan, and a dismissive curl of steam rising from the exhaust pipes on his back. I heard you the first time.

You sat there, stroking the sensitive metal of the leader’s helm while he huffed and mumbled his way into alertness. A finial flicked. Optics cracked open with a sliver of blue. Systems beeped and booted up, and an engine idled on with a low, healthy rumble.

Optimus rolled over onto his back, giving you the opening to crawl up over his chest and lean against the crook of his neck to stroke the cables there. He let out a heavy exvent and stared unfocused at the ceiling of the base’s room, letting a hand come up to cradle you against him. When you started stroking along those long finials, he let out a quiet, throaty moan and his optics slipped shut once more.

“Five more minutes?” He pleaded sleepily. 

You rolled your eyes and smiled to yourself, admiring the bot’s beautiful features, though you complied and continued your ministrations. There wasn’t anything particularly important that needed to be done today. No Decepticons on the scanners. No attacks on their base. Fowler wasn’t banging on their door asking for explanations. The other Autobots were healthy and happy, all things considered. 

Everything was doing… pretty alright.

“Five more minutes.”