why you should get one

10

LINDSAY AND HALSTEAD IN EVERY EPISODE || I Remember Her Now (4x13)

You want a train ticket? It’s yours, alright. You wanna get out of here? Done. I’ll lie for you. I’ll sneak you out. Hell, I’ll even drive you. If you want more, if you want to make sure whatever’s happening here stops, then I can help you with that, too.

2

Parallels | Rivalry 

Lightning: I am a smart, complex, and many-layered being. I am a trained professional.

Lightning, 0.341 seconds later: ASFKASL:FKJASL:KFJASL:FKJSALF:KJ!:!!!!!!!! >:OOOO

Harv: YEAH, BABY!!!!

Cruz: Uhhhhh sure, use that!

Sally: Oh boy… 

I’ve always loved writing since I was little. I love writing stories, articles, poems, but I never kept a diary because I think it made me feel obligated to write everyday. Every time I started one, the entry would turn out something like “went to the market today. I really wanted to buy a toy but just did yesterday. Anyway, I think Brittany lied to me about her dating Jem”

Then I started high school and, well, let’s just say I needed to get things out somewhere before I become my own version of 2007’s Britney Spears. A journal is actually a really great getaway from all the sickening routines. You get to be entirely you, and nobody will say anything about what you think and what you write. Not to mention it’s very therapeutic and helps keeping your sanity.

I know a lot of people who want to start a journal but are not sure what to write or where to start from. So that is why, ladies and gents, I’m here to give you a lil help on that matter.

1.       Be As Blunt, Angry, or Happy

You’re fighting with your friend and you think they’re stupid? Jot that down. You think your math score doesn’t do you justice? Write about it. You got a new set of Crayolas and are very excited about it? Write it down too. It does feel a little weird at first, I did feel that too, but trust me you would feel a lot better and relieved after you finish an entry. Remember, nobody’s going to read it so if you didn’t have the chance to punch that one friend in the face, do it now. Mentally. Better to stay out of jail, right?

2.       No Schedule Needed

You don’t need to write an entry every single day. I never do mine regularly, but I try to keep it at least once or twice a week to make sure that I don’t leave it way behind. However, DO NOT go through 2 weeks without a single entry, the longer you don’t write, the more you feel like you can go miles without touching it. This would beat the purpose of starting a journal in the first place.

3.       Get Creative

You can be as creative and wild in your journal! Find some inspiration from youtube, tumblr, or pinterest and splatter some paints. It doesn’t have to be neat or have a deep meaning, just do some art when you DO feel inspired. You can also attach some memories like amusement park tickets, postcards, stamps, and many other things.

4.       It’s Not Meant to be “Photogenic”

Or you can make it as photogenic as you want it to be. Just remember that not every single page has to be colorful, has lots of drawings and Shakespeare’s poems on it. You see these journaling accounts all around tumblr and think “how do they make it so artsy?”. I’m pretty sure even those accounts have silly drawings and memes somewhere between those pages. When you start a journal, some pages might only have words upon words on white paper, some pages might have unfinished sketches. Don’t (just) do it for aesthetic. Do it because it takes off your negative vibes and brings positivity toward you.

5. Just Start.

Seriously. The more you procrastinate, the more you’ll think ‘nah I don’t need it anyway’. The ultimate guide is to start somewhere.

Whatever you write down, they don’t have to be interesting or mind-blowing. Some people think their lives are boring and not journal-worthy. Well, I write about Starbucks’ caramel frappe and trips to the nearest market while all these people are writing about their freaking road trip to another planet. No lives are boring. There will always be something to write about. If you’re still having a writer’s block, then I gotcha. Here’s a list of things you can put on your journal:

-Dream you had last night
-Letters to somebody
-A letter to your younger/future self
- Songs you need to download
- Answer your own questions
- 13 reasons why. Ex: Why you should get over that one ex, Why you love your best friend, etc
- Things you’ve learned today ( I do this a lot. It’s a great way to self-exam)
- Favorite things
-Things you regret buying (also a great self-examination)
- New words + definitions
- Morning/midnight ramblings
- Reviews of books/movies
- What would you be doing in 10 years
- Write about your Hogwarts’ house or MBTI personality

Sooo
This might not be a huge help, but I love sharing things and I find journaling to be very helpful for a lot of things.

Do you guys keep a journal? If so, what do you usually write about?

Was looking at houses to get an idea of what’s available in the area and had to share this gem

pretty nice exterior note the double garage

woah, some interesting interior decorating but nice room, looks spacious

is the kitchen carpeted? I’ve looked at this a lot and honestly can’t tell

pretty chill as far as bedrooms go and by far the most normal room in the house

bathroom looks ok

I know this has been super normal outside the 1960s/70s interior design but stick with me

big long room with glaring pink carpet. that’s not a mirror on the “back wall” like I thought at first, this room just goes. where one the house is this, I thought to myself

my lord, that’s a garage door. they converted their garage and remodeled but KEPT THE DOOR to open to the outside from their sitting/entertainment room

wut

that’s not all, let’s check out the basement

good lord. just take a moment to take it all in. decor again not updated since 1970 (this house was originally built in 1969). the teddy bears on the couch. that weird game in the foreground which I’ve never seen before. sombreros on the walls the FULLY stocked bar. like so fully stocked…

and just to top it all off, the room that utterly horrified me,

When they’ve got him in the interrogation room every officer seems to have the same question; was it worth it? With all that happened, with how it turned out, the years of drunken revelry, the constant media attention, the heists, the hubris, the way it ended in a bloodbath the likes of which Los Santos has never seen. This is your legacy Ramsey, was it worth it?

They ask like his answer means anything, ask like they even care what he thinks, ask like they don’t think he feels anything at all. They ask like it wasn’t his plans that brought him here. Like it wasn’t his plans the led to six body bags and a single pair of handcuffs, a room full of tactless officers and a kingpin with no one left to call crew. They ask like can’t help themselves from asking.

Was it worth it?



There’s never a serious discussion, no big heart to heart, but there’s no escaping the fact that the Fake’s all know they are dying in slow motion. More or less signed their own death certificate’s years ago, living on stolen time, and sooner or later they’ll find themselves in the ground.

They took Los Santos by storm and defended it with their lives. With each others lives. Have sacrificed themselves and the ones they love to a city that takes no prisoners. They fought hard for their crown, and kept on fighting every single day to succeed, to profit, to reaffirm themselves as the city’s biggest bads. They knew that they would only be unstoppable until they aren’t. Until the day they fall, and eventually they must fall.  

Even after all the years of action, all the blood, sweat and tears they’ve poured into this empire, everyone knows there is no such thing as retirement for the Fake AH Crew; for all they’ve already trained their own successors the frontrunners of the reigning crew in Los Santos will never be allowed to simply step down and move aside when their time is over. Between old enemies and constant rivals, members of law enforcement and anyone simply looking to boost their own reputation, there are countless numbers who would hunt them to the ends of the earth. Everyone knows, one way or another, the FAHC is going out bloody.

And by god, did they go out bloody.



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. What a fucking inconsequential day right? They were owed a Friday at the very least, were meant to go out past midnight, meant to go out in a blaze of glory. They were meant to go out all together. They weren’t meant to go out at all.  

The wheels fell off weeks before, a series of questionable jobs and public fights, a level of disorder totally out of line with the crew’s trademark cohesion. Rumour has it they were rife with in-fighting. Rumour has it after all this time the cracks were finally showing. Its easy, afterwards, to read into the events that came before, to manufacture clues, to swear the writing was on the wall for anyone to see. In reality no one saw it coming. In reality the whole damn city was taken by surprise.

Maybe they bit off more than they could chew, maybe they were distracted, out of sync, or maybe it was just the inevitable finally catching up with them but in the end the Fake’s wind up in a firefight they aren’t winning. After endless years of near misses and close calls, of lucky runs and brilliant timing, after thousands of impossible victories, the FAHC finally lost.

To lose like this, picked off one by one, powerless to save themselves, to save each other, must have been their worst nightmare. With every body on the ground those left only grew more furious, more reckless, lose whatever feeble grasp on self-preservation they ever had, throwing away any possibility of retreat in favour of retribution. It wasn’t enough.

In the end the only one left breathing on either side is Ramsey. The scene finally gone still, silent, the echoes of screams and gunfire fading away into a shivery stunned kind of shock. They say Ramsey’d fallen to his knees amongst the grime, iconic suit near indistinguishable under all the dirt and ash, the blood of men and women who thought they’d live forever. He kneels there in silence while sirens grow ever louder, makes no move to flee, doesn’t even look up from bodies as cars scream to a stop around him.

The messed up thing, the really fucked up part? They say Ramsey was laughing by the time the police got there. Say he stood and brushed himself off, surrounded by the bodies of those he claimed family, drenched sickly red while his empire lay in ruins, and laughed. And god doesn’t that confirm what everyone’s always thought, doesn’t that just prove he always was a monster. Never cared for anyone, for anything, not really. People used to say the one thing Geoff loved was his crew but it seems Ramsey’s cold-blooded ruthlessness won out in the end.



In the fallout of a travesty, of a victory, of an unexpected bloodbath, in a stark grey room faced with a distressingly apathetic villain, in circumstances none could have predicted, all the detectives seem capable of asking is if it was worth it in the end. They ask and ask and Ramsey’s answer never changes, his cold smirk never fades, so calm and unconcerned they catch him glancing at the clock, as though he’s bored. As though even now he’s got somewhere better to be. And still, full of horrified disbelief, they have to ask.

Was it worth it? Yes. Was it worth it? Always. Knowing what you know now, knowing how it ends, how they all go down for you, would you do it all again? Every damn time. Surely you have regrets, you had to know one day it would end like this.  

Oh baby, who says it’s over?



It comes together as a joke more than anything, the cumulation of too many late nights followed by too many bad movies. Their last job was tense, a heist with months of preparations and so much on the line, and while they’ve certainly celebrated their victory like royalty they didn’t come away unscathed. The injuries, numerous though mostly minor, serve to once again remind them all how lucky they’ve been so far. How most don’t make it nearly this many years without tragedy, couldn’t be in the game this long, let alone running the game this long without signing up for devastation. How losing a member, to outright death or crippling injury, is without a doubt only a matter of time at this point. How such a loss will be so much worse in this ridiculously close-knit crew than any they’d experienced before.

Sobering thoughts, combined with the difficulties of winding down after endless weeks of  stress eventually leads to the discussion they never have, the question of what else they could be doing with their lives, what choices brought them here, what they would do if they could just step out, sign off, retire. It’s not that they’re bored of this life they’ve built – how could they be when the world is their oyster – but there’s no denying the fact that after all this time terrorising Los Santos doesn’t quite thrill them like it used to.

If you’d asked any of them ten, five, hell even two years ago they’d have scoffed at the idea of ever retiring, would have sworn up and down that they wanted to go down in flames, to end with a bang, and at the time they meant it. At the time it was true. It still is, in a way, they’ll probably always see something dreadfully appealing in going out on top, but with every passing year it’s harder and harder to look at a room full of people they love and consider playing a role in their deaths. Every time they get hurt it takes a little longer to heal, the old aches and pains are becoming more prominent, and their ever growing patchwork of scars have started looking less badge of honour than they do morbid countdown. Obviously they’ve still got it, still in their prime enough to keep their crown, but between age and gratuitous injury, time is creeping up on them all.

The Fake’s used to joke about the end, said whoever lasted longest won, got to make off with the fortunes, live like a king, but that reality isn’t quite so funny anymore. The idea of surviving, of being left behind with nothing but cold hard cash and heyday memories is enough to make them physically ill. So maybe retiring doesn’t seem quite so unappealing anymore.

Maybe a passing comment way too late at night, after far too much mixing of alcohol and pain meds, in the spirit of some dumb con movie they’d all been heckling, was enough to plant an idea. A ridiculous, unrealistic, completely unattainable idea, but still an idea nonetheless. They’re all a bit hung up on it, still joking, still assuring one another that they aren’t serious, but still bringing it up all the same, running through all the possibilities.

It would take far more than simply disappearing; they have too much wealth and notoriety, have far too many enemies, the world is simply too easy a place to comb through these days. People, at least the vast majority of people, would have to be convinced not to come looking. Convinced there was nothing to look for, nothing to track, would have to think the absent members of the Fake AH Crew were in the one place no one could ever reach them.

There are ways, of course, to feign death. For those with the right contacts, with endless money and enough resources, there are ways to trick the body into something close enough to pass, at least for a time. But even then it’s not so simple; there must be witnesses, there must be evidence, crook and cop alike must be sure. Of course with a public death comes increased risk- it wouldn’t do to go so far in their act that appearances became reality, to go to such lengths to imitate death only to wind up that way regardless. Somehow, someone’s going to have to play guardian, prevent anyone’s corpse from catching a stray bullet to the brain, or jerking back to life too late with guts already laid out on an autopsy table. Someone has to be ready to whisk them all away, and who do any of them trust more than the man they’ve been following all these years. The boss they’d die for. The boss they will die for.

They don’t talk about it, because no one wants to admit it might be happening, no one wants to burst the bubble, to invite reality to rush in and crush the unbelievable thought that the Fake’s might get a happy ending, but at some point they stop laughing. At some point they each quietly start getting all their ducks in a row, using their free time to organise their affairs.

No one questions the way Geoff and Jack have started having day-long meetings with the support crew in-between jobs, the way Lindsay’s spending far more of her time recruiting than ever before, the way Gavin’s taking calls at all hours of the day, rarely in english, clearly haggling over something. They don’t wonder why all their money is getting moved around, why Ryan and Michael are busy collecting all outstanding debts while Jeremy and Ray are plotting the layout of the police station, the morgue.

It’s all happening on the down low, all behind business as usual, but eventually, after nearly a year of quiet organisation, they are just about ready to disappear. All that’s left is the bang, the flashy smoke and mirrors, the hook to stop anyone coming after them, anyone even thinking to track them down. One final step, one last decision to make, a choice they must commit to as one or not at all. All they’ve got left to do is die.



Over the years the Fake AH Crew has grown exponentially but the original elements have never drifted apart, never gone looking for something else or turned on one another. The crew has flourished, become a full blown empire, but nothing can touch the unity of the innermost members, as strong now as it have ever been. For all their loyal familiarity was mocked back in the day, for all their closeness was seen as a weakness, after all these years it seems only death itself will seperate them now. If they had the chance to evade their own mortality one last time, to get out, to be free, would they make the leap?



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. Pattillo, the Vagabond, Mogar and the Golden Boy, Little J and Brownman, but not the boss. Well not on paper anyway – any who knew them must know Ramsey’d never recover from the loss. Any who didn’t just know the LSPD took seven bodies away that day and none of them ever came back. It’s not a stretch to assume Ramsey’s survival was a rumour. To believe it wishful thinking, to say he died at the scene or died at the station, delayed injury or the cops cleaning up the last loose thread of the group who’d made their lives living hell for years.

There’s paperwork out there, somewhere, claiming a different story. A report that barely makes a lick of sense, the sworn record that a kingpin arrived in chains and left with corpses, slipped out of his cell like he was never there, without a hint as to how he got free. He disappeared like smoke, not a trace left behind, and none of the seven alive or dead ever resurfaced. The story is embarrassing, inexplicable, and it reflects badly enough on the LSPD that it is quickly buried.

Even if it hadn’t been there are few who would believe it. Few who could believe for even a moment that Ramsey could walk free and not be with the last of his crew, that he would let another run his empire, run his city, if he was in any way capable of preventing it. No, however it went down Ramsey did not survive. It’s fitting, really. No one can live forever and the OG Fake’s were certainty pushing their luck, had been pushing it for years; a crew that close should go out together.



The Fall of the Fake AH Crew isn’t much of a fall, in the end. The seemingly inevitable power vacuum one would expect following the death of the group who’d been running the city for endless years never comes. It shouldn’t be possible but even after the most devastating loss imaginable the the FAHC isn’t toppled from their throne. They restructure almost overnight; many of the oldest, original members of the support crew bow out, disappear on the wind without a trace, but there are more than enough left behind to fill their shoes. It’s almost perfect, almost unbelievable, some of support shuffling into the spotlight while still more unknown faces are revealed to boost their ranks. Their ability to keep their enemies at bay during the turmoil is impressive enough, but it’s the absence of internal conflicts that is truely boggling; there are no betrayals or executions, no public power plays or jealous feuds, somehow the city’s most scrutinised gang managed to completely restructure after the loss of not just their leader but all their key members without a single hitch. Almost like they were ready, like it was planned.



If the Fake’s had the chance to stay together, to start over somewhere else, stop waiting for the day one of them inevitably doesn’t make it home, but in return they had to step away from the action, give up everything they’d built, hand if off to legacy and fade out into legend, would it be worth it?

Apparently, yes. For all of them, from the moment the possibility arises, throughout every conversation, every debate and consideration, with everything they will lose, with everything they stand to gain, every goddamn time without fail, yes.



Somewhere out there, worlds away from Los Santos, a man sits on a private beach. He isn’t armed with anything more than a beer, there are no weapons, he simply sits upon the sand enjoying the breeze. There’s a woman to his right, sunbathing, a man to his left doing the same; golden tans make their startling number of scars stand out in stark relief but the heat of the sun does wonders for stubborn pains. At the shoreline old friends are knocking shoulders, bumping each other nearer and nearer to the water, not quite rough-housing like little boys but they’re getting close, voices rising on the wind.

The single house behind them is huge and noisy, full of music and chatter, full of monsters and overgrown children, the most loyal humans the man has ever had the honour of knowing. In a brief moment of silence sound from the television drifts down to the beach, an American news anchor reporting the latest infraction of some criminal organisation in a far away city; the house cheers and kicks back into a merry roar. Down by the water there is a betrayal, a splash and screeching protest as one winds up in the waves against his will. Safe on the sand, without a trouble in the world, the man laughs.

Ok, but do you know what’d save the FO4 story from a forced heterosexual relationship, a possibly unwanted child in your characters life, and that whole “I’m just taking over a preexisting character, up until now I’ve not been in control of my characters story” feeling?

You are Nate and Nora’s neighbor, also chosen to go into 111, a childhood friend of one of them, and Shaun’s godparent. (This doesn’t even have to enforce a religious aspect on your character, only on Nate and Nora and it’s not their story anymore)

You start off at home, alone, with no weird gendered career backstory items in sight. You talk to the Vault Guy. Then you head over to your BFF’s house for dinner, so we learn about them and why you should care. You get to meet Codsworth who clearly considers you one of the family (now you two have a decent dynamic - both “family members” who aren’t really family members). Your bff gives you a present (it’s a Holotape for you to cry about later when you get unfrozen, with them thanking you for being such a great friend and godparent) when the broadcast goes out on TV.

Nate and Nora die in the Vault (either due to Kellogg or the Cryopod malfunction that kills everyone else), or maybe one of them (whoever wasn’t your childhood bff) doesn’t make it to the Vault in time. You get to see Kellog because ALL the cryopods have to de-freeze when they open up the one to get Shaun out of. Add a bit of story wrangling as to why your pod didn’t fail, maybe it was the last one to cut life support as the generators die and the pods are set to open automatically after 200 years. 

So you are now on a quest to save your godson, who you are now official guardian of.  

THERE. No more pre-established character mess you have to retcon with headcanons. Very little change in the main story arc. Add as much or as little “Family doesn’t always have to mean related by blood” mush as you wish. 

*Endgame spoilers under the cut*

Keep reading

8

“I will be praying not to fall in love with you.”

Nikolai Krasotkin || The Empire of Corpses (2015)
4

I love Nahyuta, but then I also felt bad since throughout AA6 he… ‘borrowed’ Klavier’s defense attorney and investigator. So, uh, yeah. Trying to compensate with a headcanon.

Glaio

Inspired by a comment that @ghostocelot made on one of my asks.


The first time you called him “Glaio,” he didn’t really think too much on it. You missed a sound – it happens. Sometimes people speak too fast and they leave out sounds. It happens. The others didn’t say anything, either – well, Ignis had given you a strange look, but remained silent beyond that.

The second time you called him “Glaio,” he gave you a questioning look. You were unfazed by it, continuing the rest of your sentence without falter. He let it slide, but kept it in the back of his mind so he could ask you about it later.

The third time you called him “Glaio,” he did ask you about it. You dodged the question and steamrolled over his attempts to circle back around to the subject. After several more fruitless tries, he gave up with a sigh. 

The fourth time you called him “Glaio,” he’d had enough.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” he asked you, his hand around your bicep and his eyes boring into yours, preventing you from escaping the subject.

Still, you tried. “Calling you what?” you replied, tilting your head to the side and fixing him with an innocent look.

Glaio,” he said, exasperated, “You’ve been calling me that all day. It’s starting to bug me.”

Ohhh.” You hummed, smiling at him. “You haven’t given me the D yet, so it only seemed fair.”

“I haven’t–oh.” Realization dawned on him in that moment. He stared down at you, watching your expression go from innocent to mischievous and a smirk pull at your lips. He laughed, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you close. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours. “Well… I can fix that.”

You grinned at him. “I was hoping you’d say that, Glaio.”

Things My Mom Does:

My favorite thing is when my mom talks about bands and youtubers I like.

My mom: You really like Panic! At The Rodeo. Maybe you should get tickets.

My mom: Why are you so obsessed with those one dudes? Sam and Phil?

My mom: Hey this is a catchy tune who’s this by Twenty One Pirates?

My mom: That YouTube guy is really funny what’s his name? Markus Plyer? Or is that JackPesticide?

My mom: What’s that one show you like? That British one? Surgeon What? Or is it Doctor?

And honestly I love my mom so much because she never really listens when I say the titles so she makes up her own titles based off the half she does know.

once again

Originally posted by nctaetrash

words: 5k+
rated: angst/fluff
a/n: i just had this overwhelming urge to write a daniel fic, okay? don’t kill me. i still love jihoon, lol. also, i’m sorry for making sungwoon the bad guy in here, lmaoo also i didn’t proofread this since its midnight and im tired and i have class tomorrow so oops

warnings: inappropriate language, bullying(??)
summary: The most cliche stories of all stories - falling in love with your best friend

You had grown up with Kang Daniel since you both were babies. Your mother and his mother were also best friends and just so happened to be pregnant at the same time with you both, so they thought it would be a wonderful idea if the both of you became best of friends as well. There were cons and pros of growing up with the boy, though. He always teased you over the littlest of things and fought with you, but at the end of the day, you knew you could always count on him.

You started to notice a difference in Daniel when you both entered high school. He was no longer the playful boy you used to know. He hung out with the older kids, did more “grown up” things, and started dating a lot. No doubt, he still hung out with you from time to time, but things felt different and it hurt.

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2

Want to go out stargazing with me, Law? ~ Look I even got you a glowing rose, fufu


@ask-trafalgar @askthe-strawhatdoctor


((Doffy hasn’t noticed he’s holding chopper, he just thinks he grabbed a big flower))

pretty sure by now that fics ruined published novels for me. not because they’re bad, but rather because the quality of some of them is so damn astounding that actual published authors just wind up letting me down