the criminal kind

It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on to something or someone, the more it wants to get away. You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it’s so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn’t come back. You’re left so alone that you can’t explain. Damn, there’s nothing like that, is there? I’ve been there, and you have, too. You’re nodding your head.
It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on to something or someone the more it wants to get away. You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it’s so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn’t come back. You’re left so alone that you can’t explain. Damn, there’s nothing like that, is there? I’ve been there and you have too. You’re nodding your head.
—  Henry Rollins, The Portable Henry Rollins
Some Kind of Way

A/N: A request from @1-insert-name-here-1 for a fic where Derek finds Spencer listening to, of all things, Kanye West. Morgan is confused until Spencer tells him that he’s seeing someone who makes him feel a way that only “Rap Jesus” can explain XD. @coveofmemories

                                                               —-

As Derek left the bathroom on the jet, thankful to finally be going home after three excruciatingly-long days, he heard the unmistakable sound of music. Who the hell was listening to music so loudly? He reached into the cabinet to get some coffee for the coffee pot and listened for what it might be and who might be listening to it. 

While he poured the coffee in, desperate for a caffeine boost so he could be awake for Savannah later, he listened carefully. Was that…Kanye West? Who would be listening to Kanye West? Maybe JJ? Possibly Emily? But no one else could possibly be listening to it. Which song was it? He turned the coffee pot on as he listened to the lyrics.

So hear me out, hear me out
I won’t go, I won’t go
No goodbyes, no goodbyes
Just hello, just hello
And when you cry, I will cry
And when you smile, I will smile
And next time when I look in your eyes
We’ll have wings and we’ll fly

That was Only One, that he did with Paul McCartney. It was probably JJ; that could be a song that would make her think of Will and Henry and Michael. Finally, he had his cup of coffee and turned around to go back to his seat. It was Reid. No, it couldn’t be. Morgan turned his head toward him. It was him. Reid was listening to Kanye West?

“Kid, are you listening to Kanye West?” he asked confounded at the thought. 

Reid pulled off one side of the headphones; he hadn’t realized anyone was speaking to him. “What?”

“Are you listening to Kanye West?” he reiterated with a laugh. “That’s Only One with Paul McCartney?”

With a smile, Reid looked down for a second to pause the song. “Yea,” he said softly. “It’s a good song.”

“I agree,” he laughed. “You’re just the last person I would expect to be listening to Kanye West. Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert, but modern rap, that’s not you. Which means…something is making you listen to him. You wouldn’t just randomly pick up Kanye West.”

A small smile crept its way across Reid’s lips as he took the headphones off fully. “I-I’m seeing someone.”

“Really?” he asked. He was changing the subject, but this was a bombshell. “What’s her name?”

“Y/N,” he smiled. “Been seeing her for about four months. Hasn’t exactly been a secret, but I wasn’t about to broadcast it either.”

Wow. Reid finally had someone in his life that he loved. He could see it on his face. You probably couldn’t smack the smile off him right now. “Do we get to meet her one of these days?” Morgan asked. “Cause if I know anything, it’s that anyone who can hold your attention, must be quite the woman.”

“She is,” he swallowed. “She’s a nurse at the same hospital where Savannah works. I don’t think they know each other, but they technically work together.”

“That’s amazing, kid,” he smiled widely, slapping Reid’s knee. “I gotta meet this girl. You gotta bring her by one of these days.”

“Gotta bring who by?” JJ asked as she made her way to the coffee pot.

With the biggest smile, Morgan turned to JJ, who had absolutely no idea what the fuck was going on that was causing the two to smile so widely. “Pretty Boy’s got a girlfriend.”

“Really? What’s her name? Can we meet her? I’m so excited for you, Spence!” She couldn’t contain her happiness as she clapped her hands wildly in front of her face.

“Her name is Y/N,” he replied, his smile bright enough to practically blind the sun. “As long as she’s comfortable with it, I’ll bring her by next week some time.  Can someone else tell Garcia I’m seeing someone though? She’s going to lose her mind.”

JJ laughed as the light from the sun shone upon her hair. “Oh my god, she is. I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, kid,” Morgan said, redirecting the conversation back to his original question. “What in the world is making you listen to Kanye West?”

As he put his headphones back in and pulled up the song again he let them know. “I told you. Y/N. She makes me feel a way that only Rap Jesus, or Yeezus as I believe he’s referred to, can explain. A wise man once told me Nas was King, and I’d have to agree, but Yeezus isn’t that bad.”

When Reid put his song back on, JJ just looked confused, as if she never ever expected Reid to listen to anything but classical music, but Morgan, well, Morgan almost died in a fit of laughter. Pretty Boy said Rap Jesus - he said Yeezus.

Do you ever feel scared thinking that one day you may also become an abuser, just like the way your abuser told you how once they were also abused?

8

London. It’s like a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents and drifters are irresistibly drained. Sometimes it’s not a question of who, it’s a question of who knows. If this man cancels his papers, I need to know. If this woman leaves London without putting her dog into kennels, I need to know. Now, certain people, they are markers. If they start to move, I’ll know something’s up. Like rats deserting a sinking ship.

Sherlock: s03 - ep1: The Empty Hearse

“A pure heart faces the worst kind of evil in this world. But as it sleeps it’s blessed, and it wakes up cleansed and a little bit stronger”

The cartoon hearts are hospitalized. She pulls her parachute & fractures gently into darkness. The girl I loved is a graveyard.

Nobody laughed when I got out the gun. Nobody paid me any mind. Even then, my baby was running out of me like yolk. It


puddled, a prostituted mess of hemorrhage. I cradled the viscous child in my hands to the clinic & dumped


it in the trash: lifeless at last.


Cops don’t look at me. I am a cockroach made for squishing. Let time change her face; make her mine. Without God,


angels are criminals of the medical kind. Glory holes for eyes, lazy idolatry featuring a parasite at your party:


two pixel-slick girls ease into blackout.


Burnt breakfast, black thread of child death, I shot heroin to locate the part of me that didn’t want to kill.


As it turns out, heartmeat cannot be auctioned off & bought by suits. The meat is whole, yes, & full of maggots.


Chronically a killer. I leave the filthy fucks & the filth follows me out, powdering my teeth pink.


I walk into a room full of men — I think, How many rape women, hate women, would love to make an example outta me—


No. Was made to be ruined, to be bored & bent by boys in a blue firefly glass. Girl love is dark with god.


Girl love eats my ovaries dry & wide, a tongue mutilated with want. We were


glamorous, then: naked, early morning’s plastic, church breath left at the edge of my cruel & nasty fits,


the ones where I debased my body to become hollow & anger, tender opiate, immolated us both in her


forsythia-caked crypt. Desiccated,-


smoking cowboy killers, though not a killer yet (like I was), you locked me in your lash while I shot up in


the kitchen, away from you. We were victims of self- repulsion. The lengths we went to


to be dead — the choices you left me with, when you thought a kiss was a contract.


What we are now is foul: paralyzed by pairs of pantyhose, takeout cartons


stacked, head to head, like when she haloed over my disgust- ing body, breasts smashed, creeps & their wildflowers.


Our love was left to rot. Now I am a maladaptive morgue, strange holes in the ceiling for centipedes to settle down.


The last night you dreamt of me was in May. It rained as it does in Paris — fickle, cubed ices. Finally,


buried, our sex swathed with crystal mdma & endless, endless questions — face-fucking could not redeem me.


Neglect, cold milk in your cords, shaped my suicide: no longer a hand but a mouth. Easier to understand. You deserve


a man — after all, loving me will not land you in heaven. & I so bad, so gutting, purged of fat — having had none of the sad, holy warts to scream & stomp about — need you there,


even if I’m still shooting heroin in a cool, cream womb. Even if I become some late-night news criminal, a violet corpse to coat


your television. Even if all I’ve ever been (not dogheart,


not parasitic possession, not a angel, no, that you ever prayed would visit) If all I’ve ever been to you


is a carcass with which to cut your love,


brick some dark sugar that I mainline & make a mother of,


I need you to be in heaven. Even if I’m not there to see you off.


Especially then.

—  “Girl Love,” Giana Angelillo
To the Tumblr Warrior’s

33 times in 9 days. This is starting to qualify for harassment and I am not going to be as nice if it continues.  33 times in the last 9 days I have had people questioning my permissions to share art. You (the general you) have come at me with rude, self-righteous, I’m right you’re wrong and must be stupid attitudes. Not all but most of them are offensive and imply that I am some kind of criminal.  

I have NEVER posted artwork without written permission. EVER. Let me say it again for the people in the back. I. HAVE. NEVER. POSTED. ARTWORK. WITHOUT. WRITTEN. PERMISSION. I link that permission on EVERY piece of art I post as well as a link to the artist. It’s time for you to move on and go after people who are actually stealing art. If you are too lazy to actually read through my permissions page, that is not my issue. I am conforming with all standards of the law. It’s time to leave me alone.

Here are a few examples of the messages I have received in the last nine days.

1.   “I’m afraid I’m going to need to see your permission for said art”     You are not in charge of me nor will language like that induce me to be friendly and open with you.

2.    “Well, I wouldn’t post art from them because of…………..are you sure you have permission?”      This is not my problem, this is a problem you seem to have with the artist or the art. I tag everything, please block it if you don’t like it, and I refer you to my permissions page.

3.    “Well since they said no to me, then you must be lying”      This is also not my problem, it’s between you and the artist. I also refer you again to my permissions page. I don’t post without permission.

4.   “You must be stupid, that person clearly does not want their art shown”       I think you have the stupid person confused in this equation, I refer you to my permissions page.

5.   I don’t believe you have permission for said artist.      Well, I don’t believe people think Victor is evil, but we all have our issues I guess. I refer you to my permissions page.

32 times (I’m not finished with 33) I have proven I am in the right and that everything is fine. It’s getting old and I am disinclined to continue being nice about it anymore. AGAIN, I have a linked permissions page and I direct you there with your questions. It’s available on every piece I post and as a link directly off of my blog’s main page, labeled permission to post.

It’s time to move on. It’s in bad taste to harass someone who is doing nothing wrong and going out of their way to make sure all the information needed is present and easy to access.

✿ Small teaser for a big post I’m working on about a MC who’s a lieutenant in a Korean crime syndicate. (This is a separate post from the 20s AU I wanna do with the RFA.) 

This MC…

  • Is thoroughly devoted to her Family. This is, in part, loyalty… but she also firmly believes that her difficulties with reading and displaying emotions will prevent anyone from outside the syndicate from understanding her. Her mother, the mob boss, has encouraged this line of thinking for many complex, difficult, and morally dubious reasons.
  • Enjoys art, music, and literature and has very refined tastes, but her sense of humor is strange and she is amused by odd things. 
  • Despite being a career criminal, she is kind and honorable - traits which lead to her association with the RFA… and her conflict with Mint Eye.
  • Has attended previous RFA parties and knew Rika back in the day. Rika - though she pretended to be kind to her - disliked her vehemently because of a conversation they had about emotions.

I would like to name this MC after something green, either a shade of green or a green object, and I am open to suggestions.

so anyways even though he and ed have been together for almost a year, when oswald sees ed dressed in his finest, ready for an important political/criminal event of some kind, oswald is still blown away like ‘wow!!! that’s him!!! that’s my boyfriend!!!! he’s so handsome!!!’ and when a few hours later at the actual event, oswald catches sight of ed across the room, mingling with some people, and it hits him again like ‘that’s my ed!! he’s doing that right now!! and i get to take him home tonight wowowow!!’ like the novelty of their relationship doesn’t wear off for a very long time, if it ever does.

anonymous asked:

i booked a bioshock fic ages ago and now i can't find it anymore asddfghjkl please help

i’m pretty sure this is the fic!

Hyacinths
Summary: Hoseok works at a flower shop suspended by quantum levitation, high amongst blue skies and drifting clouds. Yoongi is part of an insurgent cell, fighting for the last, the lost, and the least. They meet.

It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on to something or someone the more it wants to get away. You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it’s so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn’t come back. You’re left so alone that you can’t explain. Damn, there’s nothing like that, is there? I’ve been there and you have too.
—  Henry Rollins