#vehement bomber jacket

[aagdolla]

#aagdollaphotography #aagfashionweek #menswear #men fashion #street style #street fashion #vehement bomber jacket #nyfw #nyfw2017

[quite-right-too]

Grand Finale

I have been OBSESSED with @sneakertin's Bounty Hunter!Tentoo AU and decided to write a very rough, unbeta'd pic about it to work through some angst. I apologize for any grammatical errors. TW FOR SUICIDE

The vehement denial of his existence is what hurt the most. 

The woman he had literally been born out of love for told him he would never be her Doctor. He thought that was easily one of the worst things he had experienced in all his lifetimes.

That was until he heard the gunshot from the upstairs bedroom.

He rushed in to find Rose, his Rose, laying in a pool of her own blood. The pistol he had heard was not far from her limp hand and the sight made him shatter. The scream he let out, the sobs, they would stick with him forever. Dropping to his knees, he pulled her cooling body onto his lap, his fingers gripping her arms so hard that it should have hurt. The Doctor held her in his arms, rocking her back and forth and pleading for her to just wake up. To come back to him.

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, though it felt like hours, until the EMTs arrived with the police in tow. 

He didn’t even register him fighting the medical personnel as they tried to pry Rose from his arms. Or when he was held back by the police when they loaded Rose onto the gurney and into the ambulance. Or the ride to the hospital and the official news that she was dead and gone.

The only thing he did register was the fact that she was holding her TARDIS key in her hand when he found her.

The simple white button up he had been wearing was absolutely soaked through with Rose’s blood. The red stained through to his skin. He had subconsciously run his fingers through his hair during the chaos, leaving red streaks in the messy brown locks. It was impossible to think because Rose needed him. He needed to keep her safe.

It took him a week before he had finally processed what happened.

The rest of the time in that universe was spent in the Torchwood lab, spending months researching another way to get back to the Prime Universe. To get back to the other Doctor and get him to fix this whole mess. To get Rose back and right all the wrongs in this bloody awful life he was forced into.

It was eight months to the day when he got the Dimension Cannons activated and functional again.

It was ten months to the day when he managed to open a rift, commandeer a dingy space cruiser that looked more like a car from Earth, and begin his official search to find the other Doctor. 

Weeks turned into months — and subsequently years — as he jumped from planet to planet, looking for any information that could help him. Anybody who had seen his Time Lord counterpart or could contact him. Even just an energy signature that he could use to track the TARDIS.

After about two weeks, the Doctor knew he needed a new look. Something that was still him but was different. It didn’t take long to find something compatible for his needs.

The blue jacket was similar to a bomber jacket you would see a twenty-first century fighter jet pilot wearing. However, it cut off just above his waist and was made of an extremely durable material — functioning as a space suit now that he was without his superior biology. The matching blue pants were accentuated by a lighter blue belt which held his perception filter — just in case he needed it. A foldable space helmet was his final safety precaution as he travelled.

Under the jacket was a white button up accompanied by a red tie. The meaning was not lost to him; an intentional reminder as to why he was doing all of this in the first place. To finish the outfit, he donned his signature red and white converse. He was still the Doctor, afterall.

Even if Rose hadn’t seen it that way.

He had been bouncing from planet to planet for nearly four years when the hallucinations started. First, it was subtle as whispers behind him began to affect him. Sometimes it was him hearing the man he had been searching for, giving him false hope that he could finally get his Rose back. Sometimes it was Rose and the entire thing just seemed to be a bad dream. Those were the easiest to deal with.

The times he saw Rose standing directly in front of him — just out of arm’s reach — were what really did him in.

The Doctor began to go mad. He could regularly be found arguing with himself, losing his temper and screaming into the void as he lost touch with reality once again. His attempts to handle himself became more deluded. The desperation made his morality shift as he decided he would do anything to get her back.

This included violence.

It was exacerbated by the realisation that he would never get Rose back set in. What was originally a journey of love and hope became one of rage and insanity. 

At the end of the day, this was the other Doctor’s fault. He left him behind without so much as a thought, not caring how the part human felt about the entire scenario. The Time Lord took so much from him. His TARDIS, his identity, his connection to Gallifrey.

His Rose.

He began carrying a gun with him, strong arming information out of the locals he could find. He eventually started to use it, his previous stance on weapons discarded carelessly. It didn’t take long after that for him to recognise that the Doctor was not his name anymore.

He simply was nobody. Just a man who wanted — no, needed — revenge.

It was hard to deal with his own mortality throughout his journey. Sometime during his stop in the Jarloxian Galaxy, he lost his right hand. Blown off by a reverse engineered proximity mine. He built himself a robotic prosthetic to replace the hand he had lost. The hand that he was born from. His last physical reminder of his past.

The sword that mangled his face was another crushing reminder of his humanity and insignificance. It left a scar that would never fade. An angry red slash that would follow him for the rest of his days. This wasn’t a second chance.

This was a fault.

A curse, even.

The fatalities caused by him directly reached the hundreds throughout the next couple of years. He stopped trying to keep track of the indirect casualties. Information became more accessible while his reputation continued to grow. He gained nicknames that varied from planet to planet, striking a gut wrenching type of fear in those who heard it — regardless of the rough translation. The Oncoming Storm had nothing on him.

Now, here he was. Nameless and standing in the crowded street of Nivera IV, following the temporal signature that he had tracked from the TARDIS directly to this time and this location. The Doctor was here and he was going to make him pay.

He sees her before she sees him. She looked different now; blonde, less practical fashion taste, and was now a woman.

But here she is. The dark back alley of a space bazaar in the Artorox Galaxy. A new face and a new companion, probably having already forgotten about him and the pain she put him through. It was unbearable.

“You,” he growled, his steps beginning to build speed. “You.”

The Doctor barely heard him at the end of the alleyway. However, Yaz already had her eyes trained at the source of the sound, looking ready to handle the confrontation. A tall, lanky man was approaching them quickly. A metallic glint brought attention to the prosthetic hand that matched the side of his belt that held a holster. His tie flapped against his chest as his footsteps grew heavier.

“She’s gone! Do you fucking hear me?” His screams echoed off the tall buildings as his rage seeped out of him. Shoulders heaving and fists clenched, his eyes showed one specific emotion visible above all else.

Unbridled, delusional rage.

She recognized those eyes immediately. The all too familiar look of pain and loneliness. It was him. The man she had dumped in an alternate universe with her long lost love. The man who was born out of love and war.

‘And the cost is him.’

‘He’s too dangerous to be left on his own.’

‘You were born in battle, full of blood and anger and revenge.’

Oh, if only she knew the half of it.

“How did you get here? Where is Rose?” Her questions fell on deaf ears.

The Doctor didn’t even have time to react before the man grabbed her by the lapels of her coat and slammed her against the wall. His robotic hand was cold against the Doctor’s neck as his hands pressed into her. “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!”

“What is my fault?!” Panic began to rise in her mind. The thick, jagged scar going from his left cheekbone, across his mouth, and down the right side of his chin gave his snarl an even more sinister look. 

“She fucking died!” the man screamed. “Rose is gone and it’s all your fault!” His left fist was trembling while his right hand tore the fabric of the Doctor’s cost with the sheer force of his grip in the robotic appendage.

Tears welled in the Doctor’s eyes at the news. “What-” she choked out, “What do you mean Rose died?”

The duplicate threw her onto the dirty pavement of the alley, her companion quickly coming to her aid as the crazed part Time Lord backed up, laughing coldly. “You killed her.” Venom laced his tone as he began to pace in front of the women, his left hand running through his hair. “She fucking shot herself. I was never the Doctor to her. To her, she was just abandoned again!”

“God,” the blonde sobbed. “I’m… I’m so sorry Doc-” She was quickly cut off by the man letting out a guttural scream, full of years of pent up rage and resentment, and rushing to stand over her.

“I AM NOT THE DOCTOR! I HAVE NEVER BEEN THE DOCTOR!”

His breathing was erratic, his eyes manic and pupils constricted. “I have been searching for you for years. I just wanted Rose back, but I knew you would never allow that to happen like the selfish prick you are.” He began to rant, all of his thoughts and memories spilling out like blood from a stab wound. “You cost me everything. My TARDIS. My identity.” He swallowed thickly, staring the Doctor in the eyes. “I don’t even want answers, Doctor. All I’ve wanted since then is revenge.”

Without warning, he removed his gun from his holster, aiming it directly at the Time Lady on the ground in front of him. She held her hands up in surrender as he pressed the barrel directly against her temple. Tears streamed down her cheeks, an ugly sob making its way out of her throat. 

A wild grin played across his face as he pulled the trigger. The last words the Doctor would ever hear — spilling from his lips like an eternal reverie that had haunted him on repeat all these years. “This is for Rose.”

#tentoo #rose tyler #doctor who fanfiction #my fic #bounty hunter au #I'm so fucking high rn and had the urge to write this

[ruzek-halstead]

found

part three

pairing: jay halstead x hailey upton

while chasing a lead on their homicide investigation, jay & hailey find an abandoned baby on christmas eve. as to not have the baby spend it’s first christmas at family services, it’s up to jay & hailey, with a little help from will & the rest of the team to take care of it.

“jay, you’d make a really hot dad.”

(inspired by ncis episode)

part one || part two || masterlist

warnings: swearing, fluffery

the rest of their night went by relatively smoothly (if you don’t include the part where baby alvin spit up on jay’s shoulder). hailey wasn't complaining though because she got to see a shirtless jay when he whipped his shirt off and threw it in the laundry bin.

now that it was official that jay and hailey would be spending christmas together, hailey realized she never got the chance to drop by her house to pick up extra clothes. since baby alvin was now asleep (back in his car seat because they didn't have anything more comfortable to set him on), hailey thought it was the perfect time to sneak away for an hour.

"what?" jay snapped, watching as she grabbed his keys off the counter because she drove over with him. "you can't leave me, hailey. are you insane?"

hailey rolled her eyes, shrugging on her bomber jacket. "relax. you'll be okay; he's asleep."

"have you never watched any amateur parenting movie?" he hissed, visibly panicking. "you know he's going to wake up as soon as you leave, and i don't have the slightest clue what i'm doing!"

"jay," hailey sighed, hand on the doorknob. jay was glaring so harshly at the door, as if he could keep it closed with the sheer strength of his gaze. "i just need to go home, shower and grab some clothes. i'll be back before you know it."

jay shook his head vehemently. "you can shower here."

"i need clothes."

"i have clothes. what do you think i'm wearing right now?"

extremely tight-fitting shirts is what you're wearing, hailey thought.

"seriously, jay?" hailey said, visibly deflating. "not even half an hour?"

jay latched onto her hand, gently removing his keys from her hand. "hailey, please," he mumbled in a desperate plea.

that's when she knew he was serious. jay halstead rarely, if ever, showed any vulnerability, much less, desperation. that's when she knew she couldn't leave him by himself (even if she genuinely believed he would be fine).

"fine," she conceded, throwing her jacket into his chest. "but i'm taking a nice, hot, long shower now, and you better not interrupt me because of the baby."

jay smirked slightly. "sorry hails, i don't know what you're thinking about. but no, i don't plan on interrupting you mid-shower."

hailey's grin dropped, and she slapped him on the bicep immediately. "there's a baby in the room! stop being gross, halstead."

"you mentioned it first!" he retaliated hotly. "i mean, sure. i was already thinking about you in my shower, but you still said it out loud."

hailey slapped a hand against her forehead (mostly to hide her flaming cheeks). "oh my god," she muttered in mortification, "this conversation got away from me."

"i'm gonna grab a beer," jay said and she could hear him chuckling.

"i'm going to raid your closet and shower." on her way to his bedroom, she turned to him sharply and hissed, "not another word, halstead!"

he mimed zipping his lips closed and throwing the key, but he couldn't hold back his smirk.

with a huff, hailey threw his bedroom door open. his bed was made up neatly and there were no clothes littering the floor. it didn't surprise her; there was never any garbage littering his truck and he always organized his desk before he left for the night. she assumed it was something he learned back in his military days and never lost the habit.

she'd been in his room before; not many times, but she knew her way around. she knew the bottom two drawers of his dresser contained his hoodies and joggers (because they were the biggest drawers and what he owned the most of), so she took the first one she saw. she recognized it instantly, because she had one just like it from her academy days. she dug into the bottom of his joggers drawer, pulling out the very last pair. if it was at the bottom, that meant he didn't wear them often because a) they don't fit anymore and b) they're most likely the pair that won't look as ridiculous on hailey's small frame.

hailey decided on a quick shower, because it was late and she was tired. jay's hoodie fit just how she liked it; loose and baggy. his joggers, on the other hand, were still a tad too long so she rolled them at the waist; for the night, it would do. she gathered all her old clothes and laid them on the spare couch jay had in his room, before making her way back into the living room.

the sight before her was adorable.

jay was sat with his back against the couch, with baby alvin's car seat next to him. he had a beer in one hand and the other resting near alvin. creeping closer, hailey realized his hand was inside the seat because baby alvin was holding onto one of his fingers. hailey nearly melted into the floor.

naturally, hailey had to snap another picture.

"can you stop taking pictures of me?" jay asked without even looking up. hailey fumbled with her phone, nearly dropping it at the heart attack that jay gave her. she didn't even realize he knew she was in the room. "you have the real deal right here. enjoy it."

at this, hailey rolled her eyes and made her way into the kitchen to grab a beer. when she returned, jay was getting off the phone with a grim expression.

"what happened?" she asked immediately.

jay slid the phone back into his front pocket. "nothing," he sighed. "that was dcfs. they found a home for alvin. uh — we can drop him off tomorrow morning."

"oh," hailey breathed. she wasn't sure why she felt like her chest was exploding; she'd hardly spent any time with baby alvin, and she knew all along he'd be going somewhere better. but now that it was official, and so soon, and it saddened her. "that's — uh, that's great."

jay met her gaze, his green eyes understanding. "yeah. i know."

she hadn't said anything, but he knew.

hailey glanced to the corner of the room, where jay's christmas tree was set up. it only reminded her that it was nearly christmas and their time with baby alvin was limited. so, she slid down onto alvin's other side and grabbed the remote from beside jay. "it's almost christmas and we don't have much time with him left. i'm putting on a christmas movie and we're going to hope alvin sleeps through the night. does that sound good, halstead?"

jay smirked, mimicking a salute. "copy you."

hailey decided to go with a classic christmas movie and chose 'christmas with the cranks'. she originally wanted to choose one of those cheesy hallmark christmas movies, but jay nearly tackled her for the remote. hailey wasn't sure how much time had passed but with her head resting against the couch and being as exhausted as she was, she passed out without even realizing it. jay must have dozed off too because when she woke up to soft cries, she could hear his gentle snores. she looked over to him sitting with his head lolled to the side, mouth agape adorably.

naturally, she had to snap another picture.

baby alvin seemed to perk up when he noticed hailey was awake and giving him attention. she took him out of his car seat and grabbed their makeshift diaper bag to change him. jay promised to help and she would kick his ass if he didn't, but he looked so peaceful, she decided not to wake him. she made her way into the kitchen, where it was a bit challenging to prepare a bottle while one arm was preoccupied, but she was slowly managing. it was only a few minutes later, she heard pattering behind her and saw jay. his eyes were squinted at the harsh light and he was scratching the back of his head, messing up his hair.

"what are you doing?" he mumbled sleepily. he looked so adorable, hailey forgot to reply. "why didn't you wake me?"

hailey shrugged her shoulders. jay shook his head with a slight smile and moved her out of the way, taking over the bottle duties. hailey raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"i texted nat earlier tonight after my freakout," he admitted sheepishly, "asked for some basics."

hailey nodded her head, silently impressed. baby alvin cooed happily in her arms when she started feeding him the bottle while jay watched on sleepily. he excused himself to take a quick shower and hailey busied herself with getting alvin back to sleep. he went pretty quickly and she soon found herself draped across the couch, utterly exhausted.

that's what jay walked in to see and he let out a laugh.

"is this what parenthood looks like?" he asked, lifting up her feet so he could sit underneath.

hailey sighed. "i'm assuming so. probably with more puke though."

she could feel his fingers running along her ankles soothingly. "do you want to take my bed? i'll take the couch."

"so gentlemanly of you," she smirked, chuckling. "but no, i'm okay right here. in case he wakes up again."

"i'm always gentlemanly," he shot back. "so gentlemanly that i haven't even told you how i feel about seeing you in my clothes."

hailey raised an eyebrow in his direction. he was solely staring at the tv, but she could see his jaw muscles jumping.

"how do you feel?"

i mean, he had to assume she was going to ask.

with a quick glance towards her, his lips stretched into a small smile. "better yet, let me tell you how you look," he squirmed in his seat and under her intense gaze. she wasn't surprised in the least that he didn't want to talk about his feelings (as nick miller once said "if we needed to talk about feelings, they'd be called talkings").

"if you're going to tell me they look way better on me, please save the clichés."

jay snorted. "of course not. no one looks better in my clothes than me."

"ah, such a charmer."

"shit, sorry," he mumbled, laughing. "you know i suck at this."

"jay, i don't even know what this is right now."

his hands on her ankles stilled. "i'm trying to tell you that you're beautiful and seeing you in my clothes only made me realize how much of an idiot i am that i haven't told you that before."

"oh," hailey breathed. suddenly her sass and playfulness was gone. "well, you're beautiful too."

her sass may be gone, but her ability to make any situation immediately awkward definitely wasn't.

"thanks?" jay laughed. "but you don't date cops," he added, cringing. "which is definitely a good policy. workplace romances are... complicated."

hailey swallowed nervously. this conversation was moving into uncharted territory. "and you already dated a partner before," she blurted dumbly. "and it didn't end well. because workplace romances aren't smart. tactically, they're just... not smart."

honestly, this whole conversation was a train wreck.

"we should get some sleep," he chuckled, "i don't even know what we're saying anymore."

he wasn't wrong and hailey was absolutely exhausted, so she fell asleep again without even realizing it. jay couldn't quite get to sleep because he was still beating himself up about how awkward their conversation had gotten. he simply just wanted to tell her she looked fantastic in his clothes and maybe he wanted to tell her that somewhere throughout their partnership, things had changed. at least for him, they had. but his mouth and his brain experienced some kind of disconnection and he had no idea what the hell he ended up saying instead. he ended up falling asleep with similar thoughts running through his mind, and only woke up hours later when baby alvin was screaming at the top of his lungs.

hailey was now curled into herself on the couch and jay was slumped over her. hailey groaned, kicking his hip with her foot. he cursed, flinching awake.

"it's your turn, halstead."

🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣

after baby alvin woke jay up at six am, he couldn't get back to sleep.

after all, it was christmas day.

jay busied himself with caring for baby alvin, surprising himself at his lack of panic. once he was finished and set him down in the playpen will brought, he made a fresh pot of coffee.

with a start, hailey woke up out of her slumber. she had never been so confused, but as soon as she took in her surroundings, everything made sense. she spotted baby alvin in his playpen and dropped by to place a gentle kiss on his head.

"merry christmas alvin," she whispered quietly. it truly tugged on her heart strings, and for a moment, she could feel her eyes watering. this baby had been through hell and back, and here he was, spending christmas with two complete strangers. she truly hoped this new family could give him everything he deserved.

"you okay?" she heard jay's voice closely behind her and she hastily wiped away her tears. instead, jay wrapped an arm around her, tugging her into his shoulder. "merry christmas hails," he said softly, hanging her a mug of coffee.

hailey thanks him with a grateful, watery smile. "thanks jay," she replied warmly.

the moment was sweet and for a second, jay thought this was the perfect opportunity to lean in and just do it. but of course, his doorbell rang.

with a light huff, he pattered over to the door and swung it open to reveal vanessa and adam. "uh — what are you guys doing here today?"

"merry christmas buddy!" adam exclaimed, walking right past him and into his apartment. vanessa followed behind him with a polite smile. "it's nice to see you too!" he captured hailey in a hug.

jay stood at his door, even more confused than before. "i thought you guys all had stuff?"

"we did," vanessa replied, her arm changing around hailey's shoulders. "but we heard about the new family. thought you guys might need some moral support."

hailey's heart clenched at the sheer adorableness that were her friends. even on a day that was meant to be spent with family, they were still there for each other. they were family too, after all.

"now, where is my little rugrat?" adam cooed, reaching down to pick up baby alvin.

who would have thought that adam was so good with babies?

now that adam and vanessa were there, jay and hailey could go change and get ready for the day. vanessa had also brought hailey some spare clothes (bless her soul), so before they knew it, they were heading out the door and into jay's truck. this time, loading the car seat was much easier and there were no groans in frustration. adam and vanessa followed closely behind in adam's car. hailey couldn't deny the pool of dread low in her belly; the closer they got, the more she nervously played with her fingers. eventually, jay reached over and tangled his with hers, so she could nervously squeeze his hand instead.

when they arrived at baby alvin's new home, adam and vanessa went to ring the doorbell while jay and hailey gathered everything necessary.

looking down at alvin's smile, hailey frowned. "jay, i can't do it. you have to do it."

"hailey," he said softly, "i — i don't think i can do it either," he admitted honestly.

luckily, adam had come over to say his goodbyes to baby alvin. with one look into hailey's sad eyes and jay's grip of death on the car seat, he knew without words. he gently took the car seat from jay's grasp and took him away from them.

hailey leaned against the truck heavily. she had only known this baby for barely twenty-four hours but it honestly hurt to see him go, even if it was for the best. jay leaned next to her, wrapping a tight arm around her shoulders. she knew she was tearing up again, but she didn't bother hiding it this time. "it's okay, hails. it's for the best."

she knew that, but it still hurt.

adam handed the car seat over to the happy couple and hailey could see their happy tears.

"i know. merry christmas jay."

🐣

lmao im so sorry this took so long.. life got in the way

and tbh, i wasn't really feeling this last chapter but i had to power through!!!

i apologize, i know it sucks. especially the upstead dialogue at the end lmao... i don't even know what was happening there

i was going for a will they/won't they vibe and tbh i think i just ruined it altogether

but i wanted to finish this and i did, so im proud of myself for that

#upstead #upstead fic #upstead fanfic #upstead fanfiction #jay x hailey #jay and hailey #hailey and jay #hailey x jay #chicago pd #chicago pd fanfiction #jay halstead #hailey upton #adam ruzek #vanessa rojas #kim burgess #kevin atwater #hank voight #will halstead #one chicago #one chicago fanfiction #intelligence unit

[paintedwithapalette]

Memories of You Ch 1 (snippet)

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Naminé had been telling herself that all evening. She was stupid enough to allow Kairi to convince her to go to this dumb party. What was she thinking? She just wasn't designed to be a people person. Why couldn't Kairi just see that?

Naminé ran along a dark road that was steep and gradually tilted upwards. She had to take off her glasses in order to run freely, making her vision blurred. She just had to trust herself to keep going. She had to get away from that stupid party and away from the prying eyes of those onlookers. She would go back to assure Kairi she was okay after she cooled down a little.

Then her mind began to clear. When she realized she was in a brand new world with no sense of direction, she stopped in her tracks. What was she doing? Where did she think she could go? She had no idea how to get back home from there. She acted on impulse. Maybe she should just go back before she was really lost. Her first instinct was to pull out her phone and call Kairi. Just her luck, her phone was dead. It looked like she would just have to retrace her steps.

When Naminé turned around, she bumped into someone and it sent her falling flat on her bottom. What just happened? Her head was aching and she attempted to groan the pain away. In a daze, she slowly regained her composure. That's when she noticed the blond boy staring at her like an optometrist. Though, she couldn't quite make out the finer details due to not having her glasses. Still, she gulped. She could make out their proximity at least, and it was enough to get her cheeks to heat up. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared.

"Sorry about that," was the first thing the boy said. "I kinda bumped into you on accident. In my defense, it was dark. Are you okay?"

Realizing that this was a person and not a figment of her imagination, Naminé recoiled with quivering lips. Xion was one thing—she was associated with her sister, plus she was a fellow member of the female variety. But a complete stranger of the opposite sex? That was death. She was tongue-tied.

She eventually noticed through her blurry vision that the unfamiliar boy appeared perplexed while he scanned her stunted expression. Realizing she couldn't find the proper words, she pursed her lips to keep them relatively steady and nodded her head vehemently.

Roxas put on a relieved smile, thankful that the girl could understand him. "Good." After helping her up to her feet, he handed over her glasses. "Here. You dropped these."

Unfortunately, one of the rims of her glasses broke and wouldn't stay situated on her ears, meaning she would have to be blind as a bat until she taped it back together. She opened her mouth to say thank you but all that came out were her incoherent and shaky exhales.

Roxas noticed her lips shivering and recalled what Kairi said earlier. He did his best to put her mind at ease. "Hey, I know this is all probably a little new to you. Destiny Islands can be... a little alien and ruthless to the new guys. But don't worry, I'm not gonna hurt you."

Naminé opened her mouth to speak, to clarify that she wasn't afraid of him specifically, but of the situation. But she held her tongue when she couldn't figure out how to say it and shut her eyes. She was screaming on the inside. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she bring herself to speak? It was like her voice was lodged in her throat and refused to resurface. This should not have been this difficult. And yet, every time she opened her mouth, her brain froze.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she let out a soft hiccup. Concern overcame Roxas and he knelt down to get a better look at her. Naminé felt like a child lost in the supermarket. She was too ashamed to look at the stranger any longer and turned on her heel, walking as fast as she could and hoping the boy would save himself the headache and leave.

Roxas was taken aback for a moment. She just walked away from him without saying a word. And was she... crying? The majority probably would have taken the hint and headed for the hills, but Roxas didn't fit in that category. Not when he sensed that something was severely wrong. "Hey, wait up!"

Naminé didn't respond nor did she stop walking. She figured he would give up eventually. All she cared about was getting home and putting this shoddy day to an end. She didn't know where to go but as long as she could get away from this situation, she could put herself at ease.

Roxas caught up to her and walked backwards in an attempt to get a good look at her and casually stuck his hands in his pockets. "So, where we goin'?"

Naminé's eyes almost bulged out of her sockets but thankfully her bangs kept her eyes hidden from the stranger. What was that supposed to mean? Maybe this guy wasn't so nice and was just some creep looking to take advantage of her. After all, it was getting dark out. Naminé paced faster but the boy was able to keep up.

"I get the feeling that I may not be wanted here," Roxas said with a nervous chuckle. "Well, too bad. You don't have to trust me, but I don't exactly feel comfortable letting you walk around by yourself this late at night. You'll just have to forgive my persistence, I suppose."

Naminé didn't respond. She wasn't sure if he was trustworthy or not, but there wasn't much she could do about him following her. It wasn't like she had anything that could act as self-defense on her. But he was starting to become a nuisance.

"Stimulating conversation, by the way," Roxas quipped. She didn't spare him a glance, making his smirk slowly faded away. How long was she going to keep up the tough girl act? He was also getting tired of walking. He stepped in front of her path, forcing her to stop. Naminé recoiled timidly and her breathing picked up noticeably, her forehead became humid, and sweat began to—

"Hey." Roxas gently placed his hands on her shoulders, his touch making her shiver. "You're okay. Relax."

Slowly but surely, Naminé's breathing gradually came down to a more steady pace, but her brain was still a complete jumbled mess. She could barely look him in the eye, but it helped that her vision was blurred.

"I get it, this is new territory for you. You're a little nervous. But I'm not letting you walk around here alone when there's a party full of intoxicated people less than a block from here, okay?" After a moment of silence, the girl nodded. Roxas carefully released her. "You know, I have a car parked a few yards from here. I can take you wherever you need to go. You're with Kairi?" Again, he only received a nod and no vocal response. "It's 2000 Alexandros Street, right? I can take you there. You don't have to say anything if it makes you uncomfortable."

He sounded sincere but Naminé wasn't sure if she was a good judge of character. But perhaps that was irrelevant, considering she wanted to get home and had zero clue where to go. Did she really have a choice? Her voice seemed to be failing her. Her phone was dead. She didn't even know how to get back to the party to find out where Kairi was. She had no munny. No idea where she was. She just had to hope this guy was as genuine as he seemed. She nodded in response to his inquiry.

Roxas sighed with relief. The last thing he wanted was for this girl to get chewed up by some lurker. Destiny Islands was a fairly peaceful paradise but it wasn't immune to its fair share of creeps. He noticed she was still soaking wet thanks to Selphie, which probably wasn't very comfortable in the midst of this cool evening weather. He removed his bomber jacket and placed it around her shoulders. She protested at first through nervous hand gestures and facial expressions, but he just laughed before insisting. "Take it."

Naminé decided not to argue with him and accepted the offer.

Full link to the chapter if anyone is interested! https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12902260/1/Memories-of-You

#kingdom hearts #rokunami #roxas #naminè #sokai #kh fanfiction #kh fic #snippet

[clarketomylexa]

trick or treat

Clarke usually likes to keep an orderly household. 

She thinks Lexa has rubbed off on her in that way, which is good because they’ve been together for six years now and out of any habit she could have picked up, she’s glad it’s the one that makes their household a little tidier come back-to-school season. 

Halloween tends to get away from her though.

read on ao3

It feels like they’ve just gotten back into a routine after the craziness of summer vacation — the juggling shifts to eke out three uninterrupted weeks with the girls and drowning in Hobby Lobby craft projects to keep morale high through August — and here they are now, already fighting with witches hats pink tulle.

She’s still finding pumpkin stains on the table runner in the dining room despite putting newspaper down when they carved and they’ve pulled three all-nighters this week alone trying to finish costumes that were decided upon at the very last minute.

Next year, Clarke is going to introduce an ‘all costume requests have to be submitted by May’ policy, if only to salvage her own sanity.

She picks a tuft of beige fluff up off the carpet, flicking it into the wicker waste-basket. At least it’s already the night of; tomorrow the pumpkin carving and costume stress that has been hanging over her for the past month will be over.

(She wonders if she can get out of hosting Thanksgiving this year).

Crossing the room, she leans against the ensuite door, pursing her lips against the smell of hairspray and hot hair. Lexa doesn’t see her immediately — if she had, Clarke is sure she costume would have rendered more of a reaction — but she’s happy to escape the craziness of downstairs for a moment to watch her fiancée wrap a lock of blond hair around the barrel of the curling iron.

“Remember to listen to Katie’s Mom tonight, OK?”

“OK,” the nine-year-old poised on the vanity nods — a tiny dip of her head so as not to jostle the way her ringlets have been arranged in their ponytail — but doesn’t take her eyes off the iPad sitting in the nest of red fabric in her lap.

(The sight reminds Clarke to change the password again. She thinks having it as her birthday — the same as the alarm code and the HBO PIN — is making it too easy for little hands to sneak extra screen time when they aren’t looking).

A moment passes and Lexa allows the coil of hair to slide off the barrel of the iron, spritzing it with hairspray before arranging it next to the rest. She picks up the red ribbon sitting on the vanity and tucks it nimbly through the elastic keeping Andy’s ponytail in place and Clarke really shouldn’t be surprised by the ease in which she does it — six years worth of recital hairstyling has meant that there is nothing Lexa can’t do with her hands.

“We should rename it Salon de Lexa up here,” she grins when Lexa looks up, gesturing to the curling iron, bobby-pins and elastics littered across the vanity. Usually, it’s cleaner than it is now — even with three girls’ hair to do in the mornings — but usually, Lexa isn't curling ringlets into Sandy Olsen’s hair.

Lexa’s eyes widen slightly, fingers tight around the bow in Andy’s hair as they drop to Clarke’s bare midriff and the red and navy polyester of her costume before she composes herself and lifts Andy off the vanity.

“Only if I’m being tipped,” she wagers, grinning at Andy who looks at herself in the mirror, twisting this way and that to see the way her hair looks — perfect of course, thanks to Lexa’s careful styling.

The red, felt ‘R’ for Rydell High sits brightly against the white of her jersey, her red peter pan collar folded over the top true to the movie they spent an hour and a half scrubbing through for reference when Andy told them she wanted to be Sandy for Halloween this year — pre-makeover Sandy for course, Katie would be the one wearing the black cat-suit and Clarke has to admit she’s glad her child won’t be the one wandering around the neighbourhood in skin-tight pants tonight — and Clarke may be biased but she’s pretty sure Andy is the sweetest Sandy Olsen she’s ever seen.  

“Go downstairs and get Tía to write Mom’s phone number on your arm, Dee,” instructs once Andy looks satisfied.

“Mom!” Andy squeaks in protest — it totally isn’t cool to have your Mom write her phone number on your arm when you’re nine-years-old — but Clarke stands firm. They’ve talked about this. This year is the first they’ve deemed her old enough to go trick or treating by herself — with adult supervision of course — but their decision came with stipulations.

“It’s that or you can go trick or treating with Tía and Aunty O."

Andy frowns at that; the gears in her head whirring. She’s taller than she was six years ago, her hair is longer and her face is thinner — her baby fat lost to gymnastics and elementary school beep tests — and she only has three baby teeth left but Clarke thinks she’s finally beginning to understand her Mom a little better when she tells Clarke she’ll always be her baby. Even with an actual baby in the house, Andy never stopped being three-years-old to her.

“Fine,” she says eventually, her frown still intact as she folds the cover over the iPad, telling Lexa ‘thank you Mom’ before slinking downstairs.

Once she’s gone, Clarke fits her arms around Lexa’s neck, letting her hands wander over the hick material of her costume.

It’s a jumpsuit — complete with sponsor patches gravel burns — that Raven sourced from her friend who races stock cars and Lexa smells sharp because of it, like grease and car exhaust. Even though there's absolutely no skin on show, Clarke thinks it’s the sexiest visual she’s ever seen.

Their costumes aren’t matching — they aren’t even close. Raven suggested Clarke be the pit crew to Lexa’s Nascar driver but they’re so worn into each other now that Clarke doesn’t think matching matters. They could be dressed as Morticia Adams and Miss America and it would still be clear they are a set. Besides, Clarke worked hard to get back into shape after she had the baby; she thinks she looks better now than she did before she got pregnant, so what if she wants to wear a midriff top and relive her high school years?

She can see Lexa in every dip and curve of her body and the way her own fingers fit neatly between the vertebra of Lexa’s spine, and how, instead of being two separate people they come as a single entity now: more Clarke-and-Lexa than Clarke and Lexa.

“Remind me to thank Raven later,” she grins, sifting her hair through Lexa’s dark ponytail where it’s looped through the back of her baseball cap.

“Remind me to thank whoever suggested this,” Lexa replies, gesturing to the cheerleading uniform Clarke has on. The skirt is tight, with two slits up the side and the top — form-fitting with a scoop neckline and a racer back — ends at the bottom of her ribs, emblazoned across the front with a fake team name in red, felt font.

“That would be me.”

Lexa’s lips quiver; a smirk hides in the top corner like Wendy Darling’s kiss.

Clarke tips her head in anticipation, fingers anchoring themselves in Lexa’s ponytail and —

“Katie’s here!”

Groaning at the intrusion, she tips her head into Lexa’s chest.

“Raincheck?” Lexa smiles, hands finding the bare strip of skin above the waistband of Clarke’s skirt and wiggling her eyebrows.

(Suddenly, her late-night Etsy order is the best idea she’s ever had).

//

When they descend from their Eden, it’s to a house in chaos.

Clarke focuses on what she can do first: taking the candy bowl from where it sits on the bench by the door and greeting the gaggle of seven-year-olds on the doorstep, taking Fish by the collar back into the house when the dog gets under her feet.

Katie, her Mom and three other girls, all dressed as characters from Grease with coiffed hair and pink, satin bomber jackets are standing by the gate — it’s sweet, Clarke thinks, that Andy is old enough now to coordinate costumes with her friends, even if it means their years of planning family costumes are over — and she waves at them to let them know Andy will be about in a minute.

“Got your pillowcase?” she asks when the girl in question appears behind her.

Andy brandishes her patterned pillowcase in her fist.

“Be back by eight-thirty, OK?”

“Mhm!” Andy nods vehemently.

“OK,” Clarke relents, kneeling down. She can’t stall anymore, she has to come to terms with the fact that her little girl is growing up — it just sucks that her growing up has to include missing out on one of her favourite traditions. “Gimme a kiss.”

Clarke watches Andy skip off once she complies, waiting until the blond has looped her arm through Katie’s with an infectious grin before turning away from the door. They’ve already organised for Katie’s Mom to send her any photos she takes tonight and both her and Lexa have the woman’s phone number from PTA meetings and carpool rosters.

The rational part of her isn’t worried at all.

“One down, two to go,” she says as she walks back into the kitchen.

It’s warm and decorated, just like every other inch of the house, with cardboard bats Blu-Tacked to the walls, fake spider webs and black, white and orange bead garlands hung from the mirrors and paintings in the dining room. A tray of Rice-Krispy ghosts — a festive afternoon activity — sits abandoned on the stove-top and the kids’ dinner dishes are stacked in the sink.

Lexa smiles from a stool by the kitchen counter, their five-year-old — petite, dark-haired and officially theirs as of two years ago when they signed the adoption certificate — in her lap as she fiddles with the strap of a black Mary Jane.

In the living room, Octavia and Lincoln corral their own two kids without much help from either Raven — who is far too interested in Clarke and Lexa’s youngest — or Anya who watches Raven bounce the two-year-old on her hip with a sweet, fond look Clarke has only seen on her face once or twice.

(Clarke thinks Anya has baby fever — not that she would ever admit it to Raven).

“What d’you think, Cee?” Lexa asks, lifting Charlotte off of her lap.

She picks the copy of Madeline and the Cats of Rome up off the kitchen counter and flicks to a page of illustrations, holding it out beside Charlotte for comparison.

“It’s beau-ti-ful,” Charlotte, sounding out each syllable as she twirls. Her dress — the product of Lexa’s handiwork — flares out at the waist above the tops of her white knee socks and Clarke melts, soothing a hand over the ribbons hanging from the brim of her straw hat.

She remembers when Charlotte first came to them — how quiet and unsure she had been — and can hardly reconcile that girl to the one standing in front of her now.

“Alright,” Octavia declares, hustling her three-year-old towards them. “Are we ready to go?” She winds her fingers through her son’s dark, spiral curls.

Murmurs of assent go up around the room and Clarke sends Charlotte upstairs to get a pillowcase for Octavia’s daughter and herself — they swore off buckets last year after the flimsy plastic of Andy’s pumpkin split straight down the sides, resulting in lost candy and tears — and takes AJ from Raven, pressing her nose into the soft terry cloth of her two-year-old’s costume.

They dressed her up properly this year as opposed to just novelty onesies. She hadn’t given them much in the way of what she wanted to be when they asked — ‘she’s two’ Lexa reasoned after an unsuccessful planning session, ‘I don’t know what we expected’ — but Clarke suggested Max from Where The Wild Things Are after her sixth re-read of the story and a last-minute dash to Jo-Ann’s Fabrics, the costume had come out better than she thought it would.

She stands on the porch with them, little arms wrapped snugly around the plastic candy bowl as they watch Octavia, Raven, Lincoln, Anya and the kids disappear down the sidewalk towards the neighbours’ houses, Charlotte and Octavia's daughter Ella holding hands between them.

They’d take her trick or treating next year, they decided. At this point getting AJ to walk more than two aisles through the grocery store is a battle — she has both of them wrapped around her little finger as far as carrying her is concerned — so it would be pointless to take her out now. They have plenty of candy anyway, and no doubt Andy and Charlotte will come back with more than enough to share.

(Candy tax is the best part of Halloween and being a parent and Clarke will go to the grave arguing her point).

//

An hour and a half into handing out candy AJ falls asleep on Clarke.

They pulled the folding deck chairs with their pinstripe canvas to match the outdoor tablecloth onto the front porch to sit on and Clarke reaches a leg out to tap Lexa with a sneakered foot, indicating to the sleeping two-year-old with a smile.

It’s dark now; the Jack-O-Lantern cast soft, flickering shadows across the yard and across the street the Petersons’ windows are open so that the Halloween playlist blasting out of their living room can be heard by the whole street — even over the squeals of sugared-up children. Clarke thinks she’s heard the Kidz Bop rendition of Monster Mash more times in the last hour than she ever wanted to her in her life but AJ seemed to like it because her eyes started drooping as soon as it began playing

(Clarke makes a mental note of it; filing the song away between Taylor Swift and Tchaikovsky on the list of things that send her youngest to sleep).

“We got the easy one,” she whispers, reaching up to slide her pinky finger under AJ’s curled fist and watching her lashes flutter in retaliation — tiny, blond and perfect. She has Lexa’s pout; this gentle pucker of her lips as she sleeps that lodged itself between Clarke's ribs — right next to her heart — as soon as she saw it. The perfect combination of them, even if it was with the help of a donor.

“Do you want me to put her to bed?” Lexa asks, shaking the candy bowl slightly. They’re still getting trick or treaters — it isn’t late enough for the crowds to start dwindling — but they’re mostly older kids now and they have enough candy to leave the bowl unsupervised.

“Yeah,” Clarke nods, easing AJ off her chest and into Lexa’s arms when she stands up, limbs soft like a rag-doll as she settles against Lexa’s shoulder, her cardboard crown wilting.

They put the bowl on the lawn chair and shut the door, leaving the porch light on and Clarke leans over the banister to kiss Lexa in parting on her way through to the kitchen to fetch the baby monitor from its cradle, flicking it on in time to hear AJ fussing. Lexa’s voice comes next, low and sweet as she coos and talks.

Fifteen minutes later, she reappears downstairs triumphant: it’s the fastest AJ has gone down in three months.

“What’s the time?” Clarke grins, stepping over to meet her, baby monitor in hand as she slides her arms around Lexa’s neck.

“Eight-oh-six,” Lexa whispers, checking the kitchen clock over her shoulder.

“We have twenty minutes,” Clarke leans in gleefully, suddenly frenzied and desperate in the way she’s kissing.

Lexa tastes like Sour Lifesavers and Reese’s Pieces when she stops long enough to consider, her cheeks are flushed Clarke can think of a million different reasons why Halloween is the best holiday — hello sexy costumes and the kids crashing shortly after their sugar highs — but at the moment, nothing can top the taste of Lexa and the feel of her beneath Clarke’s fingers. It’s addictive.

“I’ve always wanted to date a cheerleader,” Lexa whispers, thready and out of breath as she plucks at the ribbons in Clarke’s hair — red and navy to match her outfit — until the knot gives. When it does her fingers find Clarke’s loosened ponytail.

“If you’re lucky we can have our own half-time show,” Clarke hums, working her fingers under the Velcro collar of Lexa’s jumpsuit, pulling until it gives way with a tear and her neck is visible.

The back towards the staircase — the blinds are open in the living room and the kitchen and Clarke isn’t about to give any nosey teenagers a peep show — an intricate dance, matching each other's movements tit-for-tat until the edge of the banister digs until Clarke’s back and she hisses into Lexa’s mouth.

“Sorry,” Lexa winces.

Clarke shakes her head. “No time,” she mumbles, cold fingers finding Lexa’s jaw and directing her gaze away from the bruise forming above the waistband of her skirt as they stumble up the staircase, Lexa’s jumpsuit hanging open at the neck until —

“Mommies I go three full-sized Snickers'!”

The crack of the door is like a gunshot that well and truly kills the mood and Clarke whines.

“Come on!”

#clextober19 #clexa fic #clexa family #domestic clexa #clarke griffin #lexa #it's not even october anymore #better late than never

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke modern AU: Danarius

Chapter 9 of the bartender AU Damned Spot is up on AO3!

In which FENRIS CONFRONTS DANARIUS OH DAMN. LOL. 

*********************

Fenris pushed open the door to the Hanged Man and strode over to the bar.

Piper and Hawke looked up at his abrupt entrance. Piper frowned, and Hawke’s eyes widened in surprise. “Fenris!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? It’s early-”

“I need to speak to you,” he said. “In private.” He shot Piper an expectant glance.

Piper folded her arms. “Anything you want to say to Hawke, you can say to me. And then I can tell you to fuck off, which Hawke clearly isn’t willing to-”

“Thanks, Pipes,” Hawke said loudly. She laughed nervously and patted Piper’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go back to the stockroom? Those crates of wine aren’t going to unpack themselves. Or, uh, go catch up with Varric about Game of Thrones. His theories about the final season are a little too out there, in my opinion.”

Piper obstinately lifted her chin, and Fenris rested his palms on the bar and gazed steadily at her. “I wouldn’t ask if this was not important,” he said firmly. In truth, he hated making his urgency so obvious, but the revelations of the past week had his nerves stretched tight.

Piper shot him a hard look, then unfolded her arms. “Fine,” she said. She pointed sternly at Hawke. “But if you want me to come out and kick his ass, you fucking call me.”

“Yep, uh-huh, will do,” Hawke sing-songed, then grimaced at Fenris as Piper disappeared into Varric’s office. “Sorry,” she said. “She’s, um, protective. What’s going on?”

“I cannot work tonight,” he blurted. “Perhaps not tomorrow, either.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Fenris lowered his voice. “My sister is coming to meet me.”

“What?” Hawke gasped. “Wait. But she’s…? You said-”

“I am just as stunned as you are,” he murmured. “I found out last week that she’s alive. She managed to get word to a contact of mine. Apparently someone from Isabela’s party posted a photo online, and Varania recognized me.”

Hawke’s face went pale. She covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh Maker,” she breathed. “Fenris, that’s my fault, I’m sorry-”

He shook his head impatiently. “It is done. What matters is Varania is alive and well. She has been working in Minrathous as a waitress this whole time. She thought I was dead.”

“And your mother?” Hawke said eagerly. “Does that mean - is she…?”

She trailed off as he shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “She truly died. But not… it wasn’t Danarius’s men after all. It was her illness. She… she thought I had left her and Varania to fend for themselves.” He broke off and rubbed his mouth with his hand.  

“Oh balls. Fenris, I’m… fuck, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head wordlessly. He shouldn’t be telling Hawke all of this. While walking here from his apartment in Lowtown, Fenris had told himself he was coming to the Hanged Man to inform Varric in person that he needed the day off. But he couldn’t deny that he’d known Hawke would be here unpacking the biweekly shipment of wine. As soon as he’d pushed open the door and seen her smiling face, he couldn’t resist telling her what was happening.

Varania was alive and unharmed. She was on her way to meet him. Hawke was the only one who would understand why this was so significant.

And she was the only one who might understand why Fenris was scared.

He placed his palms on the bar again and released a careful breath. “There is a rest stop between Kirkwall and Cumberland. I am meeting her there tomorrow, so I must set out tonight.”  

Hawke lowered her hands from her mouth. “Between - why? Why a rest stop? Why not invite her here? She’d be more than welcome.”

He lifted his gaze to her wide-eyed face. “I believe it’s a trap,” he said, very quietly. “I think Danarius is manipulating her, coercing her. The timing of it… Hawke, it’s too perfect. It is too convenient. Why now? Why would she only find me now, after all this time?”

“But you said it was photos from the party,” Hawke whispered. Her face was anxious and pale, and her hands were twisting together nervously. “If she found photos on the Internet… Fenris, I am so fucking sorry about that, I made you come-”

He grabbed her hand. “It is not your fault,” he snapped, then lowered his voice again. “Danarius must be involved. I know it. They have been in the same city this whole time, and his people knew my family…” He shook his head. “Nothing this fortunate is ever as it seems.”

He took a deep breath, then met Hawke’s wide copper eyes. “Hawke,” he whispered, “if this is a set-up, and events take the turn that I predict they will…”

Her fingers tensed his hand. “No,” she breathed.

“...I may not return,” he finished. “I have to prepare for my… my plans to come to fruition.”

“No,” she hissed. She squeezed his hand hard with both of hers. “Fenris, no. Don’t you fucking do this.”

He tried halfheartedly to free his hand from hers. “I told you, I have no choice. I can’t let my sister be harmed by him. I will not allow it.”

Hawke squeezed his hand even tighter. “Let’s call the police,” she whispered vehemently. “We’ll tell Aveline, tell my brother, they’ll help.”

Fenris shook his head. “This is outside of their jurisdiction.”

“Then bring it into their jurisdiction!” Hawke’s expression was fierce, and her fingers were like a vice around his wrist. “Tell Varania to come here. Or to Isabela’s apartment, or wherever you want, and Aveline will - she’ll set up cordons around the city or something, she’ll keep an eye out-”

Fenris reached up and took her chin in a gentle grip. “Hawke,” he said quietly. “I told you. You cannot change my mind. I did not come here to argue with you, I… I came to say goodbye.”

As soon as the words left his lips, he realized they were true. This was the real reason he’d come here: not to talk to Varric, and not even really to talk to Hawke, but just… to see her. Such a rash, thoughtless action, when he should be getting ready for tomorrow. He should be in Darktown procuring knives and a vest and as much ammo as he could afford. But instead, as soon as he’d received confirmation of Varania’s plans, he’d come straight here.

He stared into Hawke’s shining amber eyes. He was foolish, and coming here was a foolish thing to do when he had such limited time, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Kirkwall without seeing her lovely gamine face one last time.

Her chin was trembling against his thumb. “You’re a fucking asshole,” she whispered.

He swallowed hard. “Yes,” he agreed.

She burst out a watery little laugh. Then her eyes darted over his shoulder.

At the same moment, Fenris heard the door of the Hanged Man creaking open. He turned around to see a slim female figure stepping through the door.

He didn’t recognize her at first; it was dim in the Hanged Man and sunny still outside, and all he saw was the distinct long-legged silhouette of an elf. But his own elven eyes accustomed quickly to the shifting light, and when his gaze finally found her face, his jaw dropped in shock.

It had been almost five years, but her face and her bright green eyes were exactly the same as he remembered. “Varania?” he croaked.

Behind the bar, Hawke gasped. “Holy fuck,” she blurted.

Varania took a tentative step into the pub. “Hello, brother,” she said softly.

Her accent, her voice - they were so strangely familiar that they almost made him dizzy. He stared dumbly at her as she tucked her hands into the pockets of her silk bomber jacket. “H-how did you find me?” he asked.

She shifted her weight to one hip. “You said you were working at a pub now. It wasn’t hard to figure out which one.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I did not tell you I was working in Kirkwall,” he said.

She rolled her eyes, and the expression was so familiar and so dear that it made him lightheaded. “Kaffas, give me some credit,” she scoffed. “How stupid do you think I am?”

Despite his anxiety and his mounting bemusement, he smiled. “Do you really wish for me to answer that?”

Varania grinned. The sight of it gave him an odd, vertiginous feeling of being home, and without really thinking about it, he took a small step toward her.

She shifted back toward the door, and Fenris stopped. “What’s wrong?” he said.

“Nothing,” she replied. Her eyes darted toward the door.

He flicked his eyes at the door as well, then back to her face. “Varania, tell me what is wrong,” he said urgently. “I will protect you.”

“I don’t need - there’s nothing wrong,” she said. Her eyes were on his face again, but she was edging slowly toward the door as she spoke, and Fenris forced himself to breathe through a sudden surge of adrenaline.

“It’s all right,” he said to Varania, as calmly as he could. “I know you’re not alone. Tell them to come inside.” He glanced over his shoulder at Hawke. “Go to the stockroom,” he muttered urgently. “Stay there until I tell you to come out.”

“No,” Hawke said.

He stiffened in surprise, then glared at her. “Go to the stockroom now,” he hissed.

She shook her head. Her face was pale but resolute. “No,” she insisted. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

Fenris stared at her in disbelief and not a little anger, then whipped around as the door to the Hanged Man opened once more.

A tall, grey-haired man in a sharp blazer and slacks stepped inside, and Fenris curled his lip in disgust. “Danarius,” he spat.

Behind him, he heard Hawke’s sharp intake of breath, and a fresh surge of anxiety further sharpened his nerves. She was so fucking stubborn, and so fucking vulnerable. In all the times Fenris had imagined this moment, all the times he’d dreamed about facing Danarius and handing him his death, he’d never imagined it would be like this.

He’d never imagined that he’d be caught so unprepared, with no weapons but the knife he always carried on his ankle. And he’d certainly never imagined that the two people he most cared about in the world would be here as well, and so terribly in danger.

Then, as though the situation wasn’t horrible enough already, Varania darted behind Danarius as though to protect herself from him.

Fenris stared at her. Disbelief roiled in his stomach, thrashing viciously with his rising temper until it finally spilled from his mouth. “You brought him here?” he barked.

Danarius laughed softly. “Now now, Fenris, don’t blame your sister,” he said. “At least one member of your family knows where their loyalty truly lies.”

Fenris ignored him and continued to glare at Varania. “You sold me out to the likes of him?” he shouted. “Do you have any idea what he has done? The murders and tortures he’s ordered and orchestrated? He is an abomination!”

“He took care of Mother and me when you gave up on us!” Varania retorted.

Fenris recoiled in shock. “Vishante kaffas,” he rasped. “Is that what he told you?”

“That’s what happened!” Varania yelled. Her youthful face was twisted with resentment. “You got addicted to lyrium, and you stopped caring about Mother and I, and then you went and killed all those people! Danarius kept us safe from you!”

Fenris gaped at her. This was… it was ludicrous. Absolute fucking madness. He’d only gotten addicted to lyrium after he thought she and his mother were dead.

His incredulous gaze slid back to Danarius’s satisfied face. This misunderstanding, this purposeful misdirection - it was all Danarius’s fault. “You festering, filthy sack of lies,” he hissed, and he took a furious step toward him.

“Fenris!” Hawke squeaked, and at the same moment, Danarius pulled a Glock from his belt.

Hawke gasped as Danarius leveled the pistol at Fenris’s face. “Come now, Fenris, you know your sister speaks the truth,” he said pleasantly. “You killed Hadriana and Eldren and Vitaris, and you took their money and their lyrium stock and you ran. And alas, here we are, right around the time when you would have run out of supplies.” He tilted his head. “It’s time to come home. Come and make amends for the wrongs you’ve done.”

Fenris snarled at Danarius’s lies. His tone was censorious, but his expression was so damned smug, and Fenris was seized by an all-consuming urge to tear that look off of his supercilious face.

“You’re so full of shit,” Hawke suddenly said.

Danarius’s aim didn’t falter, but his gaze darted briefly to Hawke. “And who, pray tell, are you?”

Fenris’s rage was dampened slightly with a fresh peak of fear. He did not want Hawke to garner Danarius’s attention.

“Hawke, stop,” he warned.

She ignored both him and Danarius’s question. “I bet it was you who got Fenris addicted to lyrium, wasn’t it?” she said. “It couldn’t just be the lyrium salve. That makes no sense. You did something to him while he was in the hospital, didn’t you?”

Her tone was bolshy and rude, and Fenris kept his attention fixed on Danarius’s gun and his face. Disrespect was one of Danarius’s greatest peeves and his greatest triggers; it made him angry, and anger made him careless, but it also made him more brutal. Carelessness was something that Fenris could take advantage of. Brutality, on the other hand…

Fenris slowly shifted toward Danarius as Hawke continued to talk. “Did you have some corrupt Vint doctors dump lyrium in his IV machine? Maybe mix it into his food? The liquid form is nearly tasteless, after all. I bet that’s exactly what you did. Sounds like the kind of thing the Imperium is notorious for.”

“Watch your mouth, my dear,” Danarius said softly. “You should be very careful who you speak to in this way.”

The gun was still on Fenris, but Danarius’s attention was fully on Hawke now. Fenris continued to ease his way forward, and from the corner of his eye, he watched as Hawke leaned her elbows casually on the bar.

“Oh, I know exactly who I’m talking to,” she drawled. “A man with a big fancy gun. You know what they say about men who carry guns.” She tilted her head. “Making up for deficits in… other areas.”

Venhedis, Fenris thought in desperation. That was going to be the last straw. Sure enough, Danarius’s face twisted with anger, and he shifted his aim from Fenris to Hawke -

Fenris lunged forward and shoved Danarius’s arm away from her, and three seconds later, Fenris had the pistol levelled at Danarius’s head.

Varania screamed and cowered against the wall, and Fenris swiftly shifted position until he was standing in front of Hawke. “On your fucking knees,” he growled at Danarius. “Right now.”

Behind him, he could hear Hawke gasping for breath - delayed panic, he suspected, though he didn’t dare turn around to confirm. He glared at Danarius. “Now,” he barked.

Danarius ignored him. His narrow face was wreathed in an unpleasant smile, and Fenris’s agitation thrummed at his former employer’s appearance of calm. “Use caution, Fenris,” he said softly. “You know I am not alone. If you kill me, what then? How will you escape? You only have so many bullets.”

He swallowed. Danarius wasn’t wrong. But he couldn’t bring himself to lower the weapon.

He stared at Danarius past the barrel of the gun. This was it - the moment Fenris had fantasized about for so long: Danarius, helpless and unarmed. With the simple squeeze of a trigger, he would be dead. Fenris could fight through a handful of Danarius’s guards; he’d done so before. And then Fenris would finally be free.

But this didn’t feel right. The vindication he thought he’d feel was completely lacking. Why did this freedom taste like ashes?

Then Hawke spoke. “Fenris, don’t,” she said. “You’re better than him. He’s the vile scumbag of a murderer in this scenario. Don’t be like him.”

Danarius’s eyebrows rose mockingly. “Is that what you think, my dear? Perhaps our little Fenris has not been completely honest with you about his past.”

Fenris curled his lip. His finger tightened on the trigger. “Shut your mouth, Danarius,” he snarled.

Hawke spoke again, and her voice was closer this time, as though she was leaning over the bar toward him. “Don’t listen to him. I know you, okay? And you don’t have to do this,” she said urgently. “Trust me. It’s really, really not necessary.”

Fenris frowned slightly. There was something pointed about her tone, some implication he wasn’t catching, but Hawke wasn’t finished talking.

“For me, Fenris,” she said desperately. “Please, please, for me, don’t do this.”

That clinched it. That was all she needed to say. After all, Fenris had already admitted it to himself, long before this rotten incident had begun: he would do anything for Hawke.

Including setting aside his long-coveted revenge.

He gritted his teeth in anger, then exhaled and lowered the gun. Varania slumped against the wall, and behind him, he heard Hawke release a little sigh of relief.

Then someone banged on the door of the Hanged Man, and everything seemed to happen at once.

From outside, a strong female voice announced the presence of the Kirkwall Police. Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Hawke straightening up and moving to the side. The front door flew open, and a handful of police poured inside.

Danarius’s hand darted into the left side of his blazer, and Fenris’s gaze snapped back to find his face twisted with rage. Danarius pulled out a second gun, and his eyes - and his gun-wielding arm - drifted toward Hawke.

Fenris didn’t hesitate. He lifted his gun and pulled the trigger, and with a dull crack of bullet through bone, Danarius’s head snapped back.

Varania and Hawke screamed, and Danarius’s dead body hit the ground with a limp finality, and Fenris instantly dropped the gun and placed his hands behind his head. Seconds later, a red-haired female officer had him on his knees in handcuffs.

A dozen police officers were in the room, and half of them were guarding cuffed men and women who were likely Danarius’s associates. Varric was talking urgently to the red-haired officer, and overlaying all the noise and activity was Piper’s hysterical voice.

“Hawke! Fenedhis lasa, Maker’s fucking balls and Elgarnan’s crusty cock…” Piper was behind the bar with Hawke and a dark-haired male officer, and both of them were hugging Hawke so tightly that Fenris could barely see her head.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, seriously - Carv, you’re crushing my ribs, really…” Hawke finally managed to wiggle her way out of the mad tangle of limbs, and Fenris finally made eye contact with her.

Her eyes were huge and haunted, and her face was absolutely leached of blood. Fenris dropped his gaze to his knees. She couldn’t have known why he killed Danarius; there was so much happening in the pub. Hawke would think he was exacting his revenge, but he’d had no choice.  

Hawke would have died if he hadn’t acted. There was no choice.

A moment later, Hawke was standing beside him. “Aveline!” she gasped, and she hugged the red-haired officer. “Thank Andraste’s glorious tits. You have perfect timing, you know. But you can’t arrest Fenris, you can’t, this wasn’t his fault-”

“Hawke, don’t interfere,” Aveline said in a stern but gentle tone. “This gentleman has to come in to the station. There will be a full investigation, all right?” She patted Hawke’s shoulder maternally. “Now go on outside with the paramedics. Get yourself checked out. That other woman is already outside with them.”

Varania. Fenris lifted his face. “Is she harmed?” he demanded.

Aveline frowned slightly. “No. Do you know her?”

“Fenris isn’t talking without a lawyer present,” Hawke blurted. She dropped to her knees in front of him. “Don’t tell them anything,” she said urgently. “Cullen will fix this. He fixes everything. Piper already called him, he’s on his way now. Maker’s balls, are you okay?”

Her hands were on his face. Her fingers were trembling, and her face was still white as a sheet, but she was touching him, stroking his face as though he was the injured party - as though he hadn’t just shot someone right in front of her.

He swallowed the swelling lump in his throat. “I - yes, I’m-”

“Shh, don’t talk, don’t talk,” she said. She patted his cheeks, then lunged forward and hugged him hard, knocking Aveline’s hand away from his shoulder in the process.

“Hawke!” Aveline scolded.

Fenris breathed in the sandalwood scent of her hair. Then Aveline pulled Hawke away from him and hauled her to her feet. “Carver, get your sister out of here. Get the medics to check her out,” she snapped.

The dark-haired officer saluted smartly. “Ma’am,” he said, and he and Piper hurried around the bar to join Hawke.

Carver put his arm around Hawke’s shoulders. “Maker’s mercy, Rynne, the things you get yourself into…”

“Don’t you dare tell Mom about this,” Hawke threatened. Then she, Piper, and Carver disappeared outside.

Fenris exhaled and looked up at Aveline, who folded her arms. “I suppose you’re not going to talk until your counsel arrives?” she said archly.

He nodded politely. “That is correct. I’d like to wait, if I may.”

Aveline narrowed her eyes, then dropped her arms and nodded. “All right. Let’s get you into a car in the meantime.” She turned away briefly to give some orders to her officers.

Varric chuckled and folded his arms. “I’d feel sorry for her if I didn’t know how much she misses field work.”

Fenris glanced at him. Then something clicked into place. “You called the police?”

Varric nodded. “And Hawke hit the alarm button beneath the bar. Double warnings seem to be enough to make the police captain herself come running.” He patted Fenris’s shoulder. “They might charge you with murder, but don’t worry, you’ll get out on bail. We’ll speak up for you.”

Fenris studied him with rising confusion. He wasn’t sure why Varric was being so kind to him. He’d just shot a man in the middle of Varric’s pub, after all. “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

Varric smirked. “CCTV. This place may be a karaoke-hosting alcohol-serving dump, but it’s a damned secure one. I don’t take chances with you guys’ safety.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, and the look he gave Fenris was unequivocally approving. “Piper and I saw everything. We don’t record sound, so we didn’t hear much, but we didn’t need to. We know what would have happened if you hadn’t… acted so fast.” He squeezed Fenris’s shoulder once more. “I’ll give Cullen the footage right away. Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

Fenris stared at him. That inconvenient lump was in his throat again. “Varric…”

Varric chuckled. “Ah, don’t thank me yet. You might be up for a rough couple of weeks. Aveline is fair but very thorough.” He patted Fenris’s shoulder again, then pulled Fenris’s hood over his conspicuous hair. “Here. You might want that on.”

Fenris swallowed hard and silently nodded his thanks. Then Aveline was pulling him to his feet and leading him outside.

Sure enough, there was a rubbernecking crowd around the pub in addition to the handful of police cars and officers, and Fenris ducked his head, grateful for Varric’s forethought in pulling up his hood.

Aveline swiftly led him to a car, then helped him inside of it with brisk efficiency. “I’ll be back shortly,” she said, then she closed the door.

Fenris sat in the silence of the car and simply breathed. He wasn’t sure what to feel or what to think. Everything that had just happened was so completely unexpected.

Danarius is dead. That was the biggest conclusion of the day. After years of resentment and hate and being chased across Thedas, Fenris was finally free of his former employer’s clutches.

He should be happy. Elated, even. This was what he’d wanted for years, and even if it hadn’t happened quite the way he’d imagined, the deed was done, and Fenris was free.

But he didn’t feel different. He didn’t feel… good. And his disappointment about Varania was a huge part of it.

She’d been on Danarius’s side from the start; Fenris was certain of this. What he didn’t know was how long she’d been working for Danarius. It could have been for years. Maybe even since Fenris had been injured.

And this thought - that the betrayal could have been that old and longstanding - hurt enough to extinguish any satisfaction he might have felt from Danarius’s death.

The police car door opened, and Fenris looked up to see Aveline holding Varania’s arm.

Varania was in handcuffs, and her face looked like thunder. Aveline’s lips were pursed. “Hawke said this woman put you in danger,” Aveline said. “She’s coming to the precinct too.”

Fenris shifted along the seat to make room for Varania. Aveline gently pushed her into the car and scowled at them both. “Behave yourselves,” she said sternly. Then she shut the door and stepped away.

They sat in a horrible, awkward silence for a long minute, and Fenris studied his sister from the corner of his eye. Now that they were sitting in close quarters, he could see the tattoo on her neck: twining white lines that crept up the side of her throat. They were certainly more subtle than Fenris’s body-spanning tattoos, but there they were, clear as day.

Unable to help himself, Fenris spoke. “How long were you… in the business?” he said, quietly and carefully.

“Don’t judge me!” Varania burst out. “You were in it too. How else do you think I got the idea-”

“I am not judging,” Fenris said, as calmly as he could. “I am simply asking.”

Varania glared at him through the curtain of her dark red hair. “You don’t know what it was like when Mother was sick. You weren’t there. The bills and the care she needed, and even after she died-”

“Do you think I wanted to not be there?” Fenris demanded. “Varania, I didn’t know. I thought you were dead. I… fasta vass, Danarius told me you were dead! If I could have been there, I would have been! I would never have let you get roped into all of this.” He clenched his teeth and glared at her. “I would have given you and Mother everything.”

He watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed hard. She shook her head. “You’re stupid if you think you wanted to be there,” she said tremulously. “Only an idiot would want that. All the money Danarius gave me went straight back to the hospital.” She pressed her lips together hard, then glared at Fenris anew. “He gave me a raise, you know. More responsibility. I was making such good money, and he was letting me manage his dealers-”

“He was using you,” Fenris interrupted. “You were a pawn.”

Varania recoiled as though he’d slapped her. “And that makes you what?” she demanded. “The ultimate prize?”

Fenris frowned at her. “No. Of course not. I…” He trailed off, then dropped his gaze to his cuffed wrists. “I don’t know.”

The edge of Hawke’s red scarf was peeking out from under his sleeve, and Fenris stared at it in pensive silence. In truth, he didn’t know what Danarius had planned for him. Did Danarius simply want him back as an enforcer and assassin? Maybe he just wanted Fenris back so he could torture him slowly, or sell him to a rival gang for the pleasure of it. Fenris would never know.

He sighed, then looked at Varania again. “The organization will crumble without Danarius,” he told her. “You know how precious he was with his assets. You shouldn’t go back to Tevinter. Start a new life somewhere else.”

“I don’t want to start over,” Varania retorted. “I had a good thing going in Tevinter. I didn’t need your help.”

She sounded petulant and defensive, and so very much like his little sister that it made Fenris’s heart ache. He shrugged and looked out the window. “Fine. Do as you like. It is your life.”

They sat quietly for a long moment. Then Varania broke the silence. “Is that what you’ll do? Assuming your fancy lawyer gets you off?” she said quietly. “Just… start over?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.” In truth, Fenris had no idea what he would do now. He supposed he could testify against Danarius’s organization, but if he wanted to do that, he would have to return to Tevinter - something he’d sworn he would never do - and he would have to incriminate himself for all the things he’d done under Danarius’s orders, and he wasn’t that stupid or self-destructive. But he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Hawke he didn’t have anything planned beyond Danarius’s death.

Disappearing and starting over could be nice. He was well-versed in the whole blasted process by now, after all. He could go to a new place and finally settle down. Make a new life for himself where no one had to know he’d ever been skilled in the wielding of weapons and the dealing of death.

But Fenris didn’t want to leave Kirkwall, and there was only one reason why. His eyes fell on his hands again, and on the precious scrap of red fabric that was wrapped around his wrist.

A sharp knock on the car door window made him jolt. He and Varania looked up, and Fenris raised his eyebrows in surprise.

It was Hawke. “I’ll meet you at the police station,” she yelled through the window. “Cullen’s headed there now. Don’t say anything to Aveline or any of them until you talk to Cullen, okay?”

A police officer came up behind her and chivvied her away, and Fenris could hear the muffled sound of Aveline’s scolding and Hawke’s cheerful retorts. Despite himself, he smirked.

Then Varania spoke again. “You’re lucky, you know,” she said matter-of-factly.

His smile fell away, and he looked at her in disbelief. “Lucky?” he demanded. “Danarius’s thugs almost killed me. They told me you were dead. They forced me to become addicted to lyrium!” He hadn’t been ignoring Hawke’s words in the Hanged Man, and he was certain now that she was right about the lyrium.

He glared at Varania. “How in the blasted Void can you say I am lucky?”

Her expression was twisted with bitterness. “You didn’t have to watch Mother dying slowly. You’ve travelled all around Thedas - I never even left Minrathous before this. And you have all these friends. Like her.” She jerked her chin in the direction that Hawke had gone. “Venhedis, I bet she would eat shit if you asked her to.”

His hackles instantly rose at the slur against Hawke. “Shut your mouth,” he snarled.  

Varania shot him a dirty look, then slumped down on the seat. “You think you’ve had it so bad. But from where I’m sitting, you got the better end of the deal.”

Fenris’s anger cooled as he studied her. She looked angry still, but… defeated, too. And now, without Danarius or any of his people to protect her, she was alone.

He nibbled the inside of his cheek and didn’t reply. Then the two front doors opened.

Aveline slid into the driver’s seat. She looked back at Fenris and Varania as her partner got into the passenger’s seat. “Remember, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” she warned.

Fenris nodded silently, then glanced at Varania. Her expression was belligerent, but her bright green eyes were wet. She shot him a quick, resentful look, then turned away from him and rested her head on the window.

Aveline started the car, and Fenris sighed heavily and leaned his head back on the seat in exhaustion. What the fuck am I going to do? he thought. There was just so much to think about. There was his own situation; would he be accused of murder? What exactly had Varric’s tapes recorded, and would that be enough to acquit him? Then there was Varania’s predicament, and Fenris’s ambivalence about her. And then, as always since the first week he’d set foot in Kirkwall, there was Hawke: Hawke, who’d begged him not to shoot Danarius, and who seemed to stand by him even though he’d done it anyway.

He rubbed his forehead with his cuffed hands. First things first, he reminded himself. He would talk to Cullen, and then he would have a better idea of what options he had.

And when he arrived at the police station, Hawke would be there.

At that thought, his shoulders loosened. Fenris closed his eyes. He remembered the feel of Hawke’s trembling fingers on his face, and her sandalwood scent in his lungs when she’d hugged him.

A minute later, lulled by peaceful thoughts of Hawke, the events of the past week finally caught up with him, and Fenris fell asleep.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenris modern AU #damned spot #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #pikapeppa writes

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an: this is overly cheesy, be warned lol. let me know what you think, feedback is always appreciated  ♡ ♡ ♡

⚬ kim seokjin x reader ⚬

⚬ fluff, angst ⚬ 

⚬ 2142 words ⚬

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Bittersweet.

That was the emotion you felt deep in your bones. Eyes gazing fondly upon the now uninhabited bedroom that had been apart of your life for the past three years, you were bombarded with memories, both good and bad. The moments seemed to play out before your eyes, reminiscent of a cherished film that you had not seen in years. 

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The first night in your shared apartment.

Sitting on the ground across from each other at a small coffee table, having yet to muster up the will to put together the actual kitchen table you’d recently purchased, you were both busy finishing the last of a pizza Seokjin had ordered a bit ago. You’d watched your boyfriend with love shining in your eyes as he cracked another joke - this one ten times as cheesy as the last. You still laughed along with him, though; you’d loved his jokes, even though you would never admit it. Seokjin giggled hard at himself, slapping his hand hard against his knee like he just couldn’t contain himself. His laughter soon faded, though, as he watched you smile widely at him.

His expression shifted, his own smile still staying on his face, but the meaning behind it changing. He stared at you, sitting across from him and looking utterly beautiful in the dim lighting shining from the ceiling fan, pure adoration radiating off his entire body. It really hits him in times like these, just how lucky he is.

His life was a hectic one, full of ever changing plans and schedules, but you were the one constant he held dearly in his heart. You were what got him through difficult dance practices when he was trying his best, but still struggled; through hard concerts when he just wanted to lay down on stage and sleep. You were there through it all, a guiding light whenever the darkness got to be too much. As he looked at you, he felt the warmth of that light radiate through is whole body.

“I love you.” He said quietly, voice filled with emotion, which caused your entire body to grow warm and make butterflies spring to life in your stomach. No matter how many times he told you, it always felt like the first.

A bashful smile broke out on your face as Seokjin unfolded his long legs from underneath the short table. He shuffled awkwardly over to you, not quite standing fully as he grew closer to you.

Once he reached where you sat, he slipped one hand against the base of your neck, tilting your head back. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips; his own soft, plump ones moving slowly against yours.

“I love you, more.” You murmured once he pulled back to lean his forehead against yours. A tender smile broke across on his mouth.

“Impossible.” He whispered, angling his head to yours to kiss you again, more passionately this time, and continued to do so late into the night.

-------------------------------- 

Your first real fight.

“I don’t even understand why you’re yelling right now!” Seokjin shouted at you from across your bedroom, flinging both hands up out of frustration. You watched him from your position on the bed, sat stiffly in the middle of the soft comforter.

“I waited for 2 hours, Seokjin. 2 hours!” Your boyfriend was supposed to have met you earlier that day for lunch, but he never showed; never even sent a text to explain where he was. Though it was the first time such a thing occurred, it still left you shaken.

A thousand thoughts had ran through your head as you waited; was he hurt? Did something happen to him? Was someone else hurt? That was why you were really upset; you spent two hours thinking the worst possible things, and then later that night he walked into the apartment like nothing ever happened. As soon as you saw he was fine, that he was safe, your concern soon morphed into a dangerous combination of relief and anger.

Relief that he was ok, that he was safe. Relief that he was standing in his faded pink t-shirt, a dark bomber jacket straining against his broad shoulders; as you looked up at the face that you spent so many nights with, at eyes that seemed to hold galaxies within them, at hair you had run your fingers through on so many occasions, a heavy breath left your body. He was ok.

And then, anger.

Anger that he had left you to worry for so long. Anger at him for not picking up his phone, which only made the thoughts grow even darker. Anger at him for making images you never wanted to imagine again flit through your mind.

It was so unlike him to do a thing like that, and he had yet to even explained why he did it.

“Something came up, ok? It was important - I’m so sorry I didn’t call you, but I didn’t just stand you up on purpose; I promise. I would never do that.” Seokjin said vehemently, with sincerity bleeding  into his voice, almost as if he was pleading with you.

“What, then? What happened?” His reaction made your voice soften, your anger slowly dissipating. Really, that was all you needed; you needed him to talk to you, instead of shutting down, instead of shutting you out. You felt your anger melting away, quickly replaced with concern. “Jin, talk to me.”

Seokjin raked a hand over his face, sighing deeply. He made his way over to you, feet dragging slightly against the hardwood floor. He soon reached the bed, and sat down next to you; he stared down at his hands that sat clasped together in his lap. With a quiet breath, he finally began to speak.

“Yoongi had a bad night; Joon called me early this morning. He wouldn’t come out of his room. I guess last night he had a really bad anxiety attack, and still wasn’t fully calmed down. Namjoon thought I might be able to help, so I went over there.” Sadness and worry was etched on his face, his voice heavy. “We finally got him out, he’s calmed down now, but it took all day. I promise, baby, I’d never just not show up if I said I’d meet you.”

Your throat tightened at his words, tears quickly beginning to burn behind your eyes.

“Shit, Jin. I - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to -” Your voice caught. “I was just so worried. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

Warm arms found their way around your body; Jin hugged you tightly to him, burying his head against your neck.

“I know, baby. I would’ve have reacted the same way had the situation be reversed. I’m not mad; it’s ok.” He whispered soothingly into you flushed skin. “I’m ok.” One of his hands came up to cup your head, fingers massaging gently against your scalp.

“Are you sure he’s better now?” You pressed a kiss against his hair, and felt him nod.

“I think so. It just gets to be too much on him, sometimes.” He said, voice muffled against your neck.

“I’m sorry, Jin.” You repeated after moment, still feeling awful for yelling at him after the day he’s had.

He simply nods against your neck, and pulls the both of you down to lay on the bed. He wraps his arms tighter around you, and rests his head against your chest, listening to the soothing melody of your heart. You reached a hand up to thread your fingers through his dark hair, holding him to you.

You both stayed that way through the night, both having gone through such a wave of emotions during the day that you were utterly exhausted, only finding solace in each others arms.

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The moment everything changed.

“Seokjin.” You called out from the bathroom, voice wavering. When he didn’t answer you called again, louder this time. “Seokjin!”

Your voice broke as you did so; Jin heard this time, and jumped from his spot on the couch where he had been talking to Hoseok on the phone about the rapidly approaching comeback choreography.

“Hoseok, I’ll call you back.” Without even pausing to hear his friends response, Jin ended the call and threw his phone onto the couch.

With quick, urgent steps, he made his way into the bathroom that resided next door to your bedroom; he found you there, sitting against the tub, knees drawn to your chest.

At the sight of tears in your eyes, he dropped to his knees, immediately cradling your face in his large hands.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you ok?” He asked, frightened that something bad had occurred.

You simply jerked your head toward the sink, where a small, yet glaring item rested. Jin turned around to look, and his heart skipped a beat as soon as his eyes landed on it.

Suddenly, everything clicked in Seokjin’s mind. He spun back to face you, a hesitant smile creeping onto his face.

“You’re pregnant?” He whispered, his own voice breaking halfway through, much like yours had done earlier.

With tears welling up in your eyes, you gave him a shaky nod.

“Oh my god,” He exclaimed, wrapping his arms around your huddled frame. He clutched you to him tightly, shaking slightly out of joy. “Oh my god.”

“Wait, Jin. Wait.” You gently pushed back against him, which cause a small frown to twitch onto his lips. You stared up at his face, a mixture of happiness and confusion playing out on it. “How do you feel about this?”

“How do I feel about this?” He repeats, bringing a hand up to softly brush a piece of hair away from your face.

He was quiet for a moment, as if he was contemplating deeply.

“I feel excited; I feel happy.” He laughed quietly. “How could I not? We’re going to have a baby.”

“Are you sure?” You asked, lips quivering slightly from holding back tears; tears of worry, and tears of your own happiness. “You’re so young.”

“So?” He laughed again, louder this time. He shifted his body so that instead of sitting in front of you, he was now pressed against your side, with one arm draped over your shoulder, stroking your arm gently with his fingers. “I may be young, but I know that this is it for me - this life we have together, and being with you. You’re the love of my life. Why wouldn’t I be excited that you’re pregnant?”

Speechless, you simple let out a watery, tear filled breath. You lay your head against Jin’s shoulder, and he presses a soft, tender kiss onto your head.

“I love you so much, Jin.” You reached down for the hand that isn’t resting on your arm and threading your fingers with his. “You’re it for me, too.”

He chuckled, bringing your intertwined hands up to press a kiss against your knuckles.

“I sure hope so.” He smiled down at you, an odd expression playing around on his face. “Our date tomorrow would be extremely awkward if not.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at his statement, but you decided no to dwell on it.

--------------------------------   

Now.

Resting a hand on your small bump, you give one final glance around your old bedroom.

“Ready, baby?” You felt Seokjin’s arms snake around your waist, and his head come to rest on top of your shoulder. He rested his hands on top of your own, your engagement ring pressing into the skin of his palm, but he didn’t mind. If anything, he cherished the feeling.

“Yeah.” You whispered, giving a small nod. Jin pressed a kiss to your cheek, then stepped back. He looked past you into the vacant room, and let out a sigh.

“I know it’s time, but it’s just weird that we’ll never be here again. It’s been our home for so long.” Seokjin shrugged, smiling.

The two of you were moving into a house, one with a yard with plenty of room for a child to play in, and plenty of room to make more memories. After he had proposed, you had mutually decided that it was time to move on from your apartment and find a place to settle your family in.

“We’ll make a new home. As long as we have each other, it’ll always be home.” This time, it was you that wrapped your arms around him.

Jin held you tightly, feeling like the luckiest man in the whole world. How he’d ended up living his dreams and getting the girl, he didn’t fully understand. All he knew for sure was that he loved you more than he ever thought possible, and as he held you in that moment, that you were right.

His home was with you.

#kim seokjin #kim seokjin imagines #kim seokjin fic #kim seokjin fluff #kim seokjin angst #kim seokjin drabble #kim seokjin x reader #bts x reader #bts fic #bts one shot #bts imagines #kim seokjin one shot #bts fluff #bts angst #kim namjoon imagines #kim namjoon #kim taehyung #kim taehyung imagines #park jimin #park jimin imagine #jung hoseok imagine #jung hoseok #jeon jungkook #jeon jungkook imagines #min yoongi #min yoongi imagines

[littleemptyspaces]

a glimpse of me & you

A/N: I apologize profusely for my lack of updating. I had a bunch of things to take care of before I could even get to anything else. As always, thank you to those who are reading. It is greatly appreciated.

A city wide lunar new year festival planned by Orchid Events brings joy to all of Seoul, the heirs to some of Korea’s biggest companies included. Dealing with their own issues of and with succession within their own families, seven young men have only really had each other to share their problems with. They all had similar backgrounds; no one outside of their world would understand.

But the Year of the Rooster has other plans.

(sfw.)

one | two | three | four | five | six

The lawyer sat her desk, sunshine streaming in through the window, highlighting - as always. Her concentration was interrupted by her phone buzzing.

+010 556 3450: It’s Kim Taehyung! <3

Mi Sun: Who?  Her brows furrowed. Was that a client?

+010 556 3450: From the festival

The name still wasn’t ringing a bell. She just remembered that Jin guy that had stolen away with Soo Jung’s heart.

+010 556 3450: Your future husband!

Mi Sun’s eyes went wide. Mi Sun: How did you get my number?

+010 556 3450: Your friend gave it to me. She was very surprised that I wanted it. Are you free today? Do you want to get something to eat together?

Mi Sun made a face at her phone, something that was along the lines of disbelief. She sent a message to her dear friend Soo Jung. Mi Sun: HEY! WHO DID YOU GIVE MY NUMBER TO? She tossed her phone into a desk drawer and slammed it shut, annoyed.

The noise drew Min Sung from his office, coffee cup in hand, and to the door frame of his associate. “Having a good morning, are we?” Since it was Sunday, neither of them were in their typically smart looking outfits. Min Sung chose jeans and Mi Sun chose a comfortable pair of leggings. Their shirts - both comfortable t-shirts and navy blue - were an unexpected match.

Mi Sun rolled her eyes, pulling her grey hoodie on. “It’s fine. Where’s your jacket?” she asked, noticing the lack of the forest green bomber that he had when he got in.

“I took it off. Why?”

“Put it back on - I don’t want people to think we’re doing that couple outfit thing.”

Min Sung laughed. “I don't think we're in danger of that.”

She shrugged, picking up her pen and making notes. She could still feel her senior's eyes on her as she worked. Mi Sun looked up and relaxed her pen. “Did you… have a good time at the festival last night?”

Min Sung nodded, taking a sip from his cup. “More than I expected. I did eventually meet up with my friends. Your brother must have been happy for that.”

“Thanks again for the ride home.”

“It's nothing. It's kind of on the way, technically.”

“Technically,” Mi Sun repeated. “Any Sunday plans?”

“Marriage date, courtesy of my mother.” Min Sung’s expression was anything other than excited. Mi Sun laughed; the sound making him smirk. “I'm glad you take humour in my misery.”

“I mean it with the most respect, of course,” she said with a bow of her head. She heard her phone vibrating continuously in the drawer. She pulled it open to see her screen filled with notifications. A sigh escaped her.

“Going to see your friends?” the senior associate asked as he watched his coworker slap Post-Its on various pages and close up folders. He had to hand it to her; she was certainly organised.

When the folders were stacked and her pens and highlighters capped, Mi Sun nodded. “Sure. Something like that.” The last thing she grabbed was her phone from the drawer, not even checking any of the messages that were there.

She waited for Min Sung to pack his stuff, phone still buzzing in her pocket. The two of them left the office together, casually chatting about work, and the festival, and gossip about the clients.

“By the way,” Min Sung began as they exited the lobby of the firm. “Who was that guy from your brother's stall?”

Mi Sun shrugged. “Haven't a clue.”

The ladies were absolutely glowing. Jae Eun was revelling in the success of the festival, and Soo Jung was basking in the pleasant warmth of being interested in someone, and being liked in return. Neither of them were talking, but they didn’t need to; they were perfectly content like this.

At least until Mi Sun’s text threw a dart into their happy balloons.

“Why is she so mad? I did her a favour, technically,” Soo Jung pouted, while the girls waited for their lunches to arrive. The two usually had Sunday lunches together as Mi Sun was in the office until god knows when.

“Yeah, but you know how she is. She likes for things to happen on her own terms.” Jae Eun swirled her strawberry lemonade in the glass. “And it’s a bit of a hazard for you to give her number out to just anyone.”

“But it was Kim Taehyung! I doubt he’s going to cause her harm!”

“Soo Jung, just because he’s a celebrity doesn’t mean that he’s totally safe. She works in a law firm, and I’m sure that the firm has enemies. I love you, and I know you were just trying to help, but you have to be more careful with Mi Sun’s details.”

The teacher nodded sullenly. Mi Sun barely dated; she had a relationship or two in school, but once she started working, there was never a chance for her to meet anyone. Soo Jung worried that her friend was lonely, or didn’t have anyone to vent to, or distract her from her own stress. “I’ll be careful.”

Soo Jung: I’m sorry Mi Sun. Please don’t be mad.

Soo Jung: I just wanted to help. You’re always on your own

Soo Jung: Please please please don’t be mad

Soo Jung: Hello? Mi Suuuuuuuuun pleeeeeeeease!!!!!

“Are you going to set up a date with Kim Seokjin?” Jae Eun asked expectantly.

Soo Jung smiled. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

“Were you going to wait till he contacted you?” The teacher was silent, bobbing her head in consideration. “You can’t always wait for the guy to do something first!”

“But that’s how things are done!”

“If you want to see him, just tell him so!” Jae Eun nudged her friends phone towards her. “Go on. Text him.”

Sheepishly, Soo Jung started her text. Soo Jung: Hi… Jin. It’s Soo Jung, from the festival.

Soo Jung: Are you busy today?

While Jae Eun ate and happily watched her friend send messages, one came in on her own phone.

Min Yoongi: I’m in the city. Let’s meet up.

“Why isn’t she answering me?!” Taehyung sobbed at the table, garnering a pat on the shoulder from Jeong-Guk. The seven of them had just finished up a hearty round of BBQ and were all going into relax mode.

“Maybe she’s busy. She is a lawyer,” Hobi offered, still a bit sour about not having Mi Sun’s number. He could just as easily ask for it from his friend, but he felt like she wouldn’t appreciate that.

“Hey, Jin, your ears are turning red,” Namjoon teased, as he watched the eldest of the group check his phone. “Is it Miss Teacher?”

“She wants to know if I’m busy today,” the hotel heir responded quietly. He looked at his friends. “Are we busy today?”

“I’m so jealous of Jin. Miss Teacher talks to him,” came Tae’s sulk.

“Maybe we can see all three of them?” Jimin suggested, taking note of the blushing and the sulking.

Namjoon barked a laugh and nudged his younger friend. “Good idea, Chim Chim!” He raised his eyebrows at Jin. “Ask her if they all want to come hang out.” Jin nodded and asked Soo Jung just that.

Yoongi wasn’t totally against this idea. But he didn’t like the idea of being so open in the public eye. The group of them drew enough attention as it was, but when females were added to the mix, cameras would be out in full force; just imagining the storm of flashes was giving him a headache. “Is that really a good idea?” he said, having only observed for some time. “Aren’t you worried about the publicity?”

Apparently the others didn’t consider this, and giddy expressions dropped quickly. Hobi looked at Namjoon and Jin. “We can’t expect them to be okay with that. We’re used to it but they’re not,” he admitted, Yoongi nodded beside him.

“What do you want me to do? I already asked her?” Jin responded, looking down at his phone.

“I’m sure we can take care of it,” Jimin soothed. “We’ll just get the PR teams to pull anything that includes them from the public eye.”

“You don’t think this will get to our parents?” Jeong-Guk asked with a sigh. “It’s not exactly the most ideal way to announce that we’ve been spending time in the company of women.”

“My grandmother would leave me alone for once,” Jimin muttered.

“We’ll have to figure it out. They’re coming out with us,” Jin said with an underlying tone of finality.

An Soo Jung :) : We’d love to! We have to wait for Mi Sun to get here and then we’ll come meet you! See you soon :)

“What? We’re going to see who again?” Mi Sun asked, barely into enjoying her tea at the table. Min Sung had dropped her off on his way to his marriage date. She told him she’d be asking him for a full report on Monday.

“Jin and his friends!” Soo Jung said, giant smile on her face. “All of us are going.”

Mi Sun looked at her friend. Normally she would vehemently object this kind of situation, but she just looked so happy that the lawyer only sighed and sipped her drink.

“Are you sure that’s okay? I don’t want to bother them.” Jae Eun never liked feeling like she was imposing on someone else. “I mean... “

“We were invited. We’re going.” Soo Jung stood up and started putting on her coat, her friends watching her from their seats. “C’mon! Let’s go!” Silently, the other two women got their coats, and left money on the table to pay for their food and drinks. “Did you drive Mi Sun?”

“No, I took the bus to work, and Min Sung dropped me off.”

“That Min Sung - he should just ask you out already,” Soo Jung teased as the girls walked to the bus stop.

Jae Eun walked behind her bickering friends, keeping pace, but focused on her phone. Min Yoongi: Did you eat yet?

Jae Eun: Yes, we were just at lunch. Have you eaten?

Min Yoongi: Yes. We just did the same.

She wasn’t sure where this current conversation was going. She hadn’t answered his previous text about him being in the city, and wanting to meet up. She didn’t have his scarf with her. Jae Eun bit her bottom lip; she hoped he wouldn’t bring it up.

Min Yoongi: Watch out for the cameras, and don’t stand too close to me.

Min Yoongi: Or anyone else.

Jae Eun’s furrowed her brows. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“Hey, are you getting on the bus or what?” Mi Sun asked her with a nudge. Soo Jung was already on board and seated. Jae Eun nodded and got on, sliding her phone into her pocket without another thought.

The girlfriends hopped off the bus at the stop near the Yongsan Family Park. They adjusted their coats for the wind - they were properly prepared this time, having learned from their chilling evening the night before. Mittens were on, scarves were tied, ears were covered, and sunglasses were on.

Soo Jung looked at the group of them, appraising their individual styles: she wore a pretty pastel pink dress coat, jeans and booties with a heel. Mi Sun, a blue bomber jacket and combat boots. Jae Eun, a mix of the two styles, wore a charcoal pea coat and flat booties. And all of them wore ponytails. She smiled; they must’ve looked odd together, but she really wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Okay, where are these boys?” Mi Sun huffed, breath visible in the air. She and Jae Eun looked to their friend, the one who had insisted that this was what their day was going to consist of.

Soo Jung was about to say that she didn’t know but the sound of distant delighted screams indicated otherwise. “They’re probably wherever there’s a large crowd of screaming girls.” Jae Eun and Mi Sun both rolled their eyes. Neither of them were particularly fond of the throng of women that had formed the night before. Soo Jung understood that that was just part of the boys’ lives, but for her friends, it was a little more tiresome than they would have liked. As the girls walked towards the crowd, Mi Sun was weighing the pros and cons of being there. Was this really worth it? In the end, it was, as both her friends seemed to enjoy being around this particular group of men, and she… well, she didn’t hate them.

“Our event planners worked very hard to make the new year fun for you! Please enjoy it!” Taehyung said loudly from the stage that was in the centre of the park. Another location planned by Orchid Events. The performers had caught a glimpse of the group of heirs as they were walking by and insisted that the Silverlux Prince say something to the audience. Naturally, this drew and even bigger crowd. From the stage the pink haired man spotted the girls at the top of a small hill, the paved walkway they stood on led to the stage. His mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ and he hopped down. Bowing as he made his way past the crowd, he found himself running up the hill to greet the girls.

The boys watched as their friend jumped from the stage and ran off, turning as a group to watch him. “Oh!” Namjoon peeped before smiling. “The girls are here.” Jin’s ears turned pink immediately, and his brother laughed at the sight. Their group movement took the keen eyes of the crowd with them, and phones were immediately brought out the moment that the connection was made that the boys were going to meet three girls.

“You made it!” Hoseok cheered as he neared them. “I see you’re better dressed today.” He looked at bundled up ladies and smiled.

“You all look the same,” Jeong-Guk deadpanned. Jimin nudged him in the ribs. “I mean… when you’re all… when your faces…” He made hand motions that hopefully indicated being covered up.

The girls looked at each other and lifted their sunglasses, each resting them on top of their heads. “Is this better?” Soo Jung asked with a million watt smile.

“Much better, now I can see your pretty face.” Unsurprisingly, the comment came from Jin. “I’m glad you could make it.” He intended to say it to all the girls, but really, it sounded like it was just for Soo Jung. “So… there’s something you should know,” he continued, clearing his throat and standing perfectly straight. “You may have noticed that we draw a bit of a crowd.”

“I would never have guessed,” Mi Sun muttered under her breath. She didn’t think anyone heard her but Taehyung did, and it made him giggle.

“We get tailed by cameras by anyone who notices, everywhere we go. It’s always been a part of our lives, but we would never want to force that upon you. We will try our best to keep the unwanted exposure away from you, but I want you to be aware that sometimes… things get out.” Jin was trying to be as straightforward with his explanation as he could, trying to gauge the situation by the girls’ expressions. He rubbed the back of his neck, which was feeling very warm in that exact moment. “I hope this doesn’t ruin things.”

“We understand,” Soo Jung said with a reassuring smile. Her friends nodded beside her, perhaps a little hesitantly, but in agreeance all the same. “That’s just the nature of the beast.”

“Is there something we can all do together that isn’t so public?” Mi Sun asked, pulling her sunglasses back onto her nose as she had grown tired of squinting.

Namjoon jumped forward and linked arms with the lawyer and the event planner. “Ah - don’t let that old man’s lecture stop you from having fun. Jae Eun and her team worked so hard, we should enjoy what they’ve done.” He fake pouted and batted his eyelashes at Mi Sun in an exaggerated manner.

Taehyung tugged Mi Sun away from his silver haired friend and closer to himself. “Where are all the games Jae Eun? That will be fun.”

Namjoon smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

All the while, cameras on phones were feverently snapping away behind them.

The site of the 1988 Summer Olympics was alive with activity. A portion of the grand space was occupied by food stands, merchant stalls, and game tents; the laughter, yelling, and cheering of the attendees filled the crisp evening air and Jae Eun was just about bursting with pride.

“You look rather pleased with yourself,” Yoongi commented with a smirk. For whatever reason, seeing that woman look so proud of her work seemed to consistently push a smile to his face, whether he wanted it to happen or not.

“I am. I am quite pleased.” They stood together as they watched Jimin, Taehyung, and Jeong-Guk fish for goldfish in a shallow pool, hoping to be the one to pluck up a winner.

She laughed at the boys splashing each other, and Yoongi just looked at her, studying her. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what was fascinating about her, other than her obvious ambition and her ‘don’t take no for an answer’ attitude. But whatever it was, it was driving him mad. After she had texted him the night before, he had barely gotten any sleep, replaying her speech about never giving up on your dreams over and over, and seeing her look over her shoulder at him as she walked away every time he closed his eyes. He had even sent her a text message first the next morning. Something he almost never did - he had never pursued connection with someone else outside of his friend group. And when she didn’t answer him the first time, he still texted her, asking if she’d eaten. Now, here he was, staring at this woman, under twinkling lights and… falling for her? What had gotten into him?

“Do you want to grab something to eat?” Jae Eun asked, Taehyung’s whining the background to her question. Yoongi nodded, pulling his grey turtleneck up over his mouth. The event planner didn’t bother asking what he felt like eating; something told her she wasn’t going to get an answer. Instead, they just started walking.

Hours later, the group of ten was about to split up. “Our parents wanted us home for dinner, so we better go if we expect to see any of you ever again,” Jin said dramatically. He bumped shoulders with Soo Jung. “I’ll talk to you soon. I’ll see the rest of you again, I’m sure. Take care!”

Jeong-Guk waved at his friends, and smiled at the girls. “It was nice to see you all again. Have a good night.” He followed his brother after that, the town car waiting for them, as it had been the night before.

Hoseok and Jimin decided, too, that they should see their families at some point during the new year. “Do you need a ride home Soo Jung?” Hobi asked. He was going to extend the question to Mi Sun as well, but she had stepped away to take a call.

The teacher nodded. “That would be great actually. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Hobi laughed loudly before placing a hand on her back and steering her towards his car, waving at Mi Sun as they left. She was still on the phone but she waved back as best as she could and he smiled. He had finally gotten the lawyer’s phone number, and was considering this day to be a victory. Jimin followed behind them, walking backwards and waving at the remaining group, blowing kisses as he went. His car was at Hobi’s place, so he had to tag along.

Mi Sun finally returned, arms full of small stuffed animals that Taehyung had won for her. “That was my mom. She said I have to come home. My brother needs to talk to me or something.” She half hugged Jae Eun, said quick goodbyes to the boys, and started to leave before stopping and turning around again, to face her pink haired admirer. “Thanks for these,” she said with a smile. She was gone after that.

“She doesn’t seem like the type, but she loves little things like that,” Jae Eun said, nudging Taehyung.  The young heir beamed, wide grin on his face and hands stuffed into his pockets.

“I better get you back to your family too, huh?” Namjoon said, draping his arm around Tae. “Since your ride already left you.”

It was true. Hobi had picked him up that morning to go to the cafe. “Yeah probably. I think Hobi forgot about me, to be honest.”

“It’s likely, but at least you got to see Mi Sun off.” Namjoon spun around, taking his young friend with him. “Okay you kids. We’re off. Make sure she gets home OK, got that Yoongi?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and waved his friends off, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Obviously.” Namjoon gave them one last wink and walked away, Tae beside him, talking a mile a minute.

“Do you… have family to get back to?” Yoongi asked, looking sideways at Jae Eun.

She shook her head. “No. Not today anyway.” Her mom had to leave for a couple of days, to travel to Cheongju about opening a boutique there. “You?”

“Thankfully not,” he answered with a laugh. “C’mon.” Yoongi grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the festival and towards somewhere where they’d finally have some peace and quiet.

For the last 45 minutes, the two sat in a coffee shop, silently sipping on coffee, making random comments to each other from time to time. It was in no way uncomfortable for either of them; Jae Eun enjoyed the dose of tranquility having been on the go constantly for the better part of ten days, and Yoongi… he just liked being away from people.

“So what do you do?” Jae Eun asked, balancing her ceramic mug on her knee. She smiled sweetly at the man across from her. She watched him shrug and look away. She already knew who he was and what his family did, but she wanted to know what his stake in the whole deal was; apparently she wasn’t going to get that answer. “Fine. What do you want to do?”

This was the right question. This was the question that Yoongi had been waiting for people (other than his mother) to ask him. He was used to people just moving on to the next subject, or talking about themselves whenever he refused to provide a reply. He made eye contact again, was engaged in the conversation, even relaxed a little. “Music. I want to make music.”

His answer made Jae Eun smile. She certainly hadn’t expected that. “What kind of music? Like classical or…?”

“Maybe produce music is a better way to answer the question.”

“Ah… I see. Do you produce music now? Like, as a hobby?”

Yoongi chuckled. “You could say that.” He thought of the room that he had set up as a studio in the guest house. He had spent thousands of hours in there creating his own tracks, posting them online under a nearly undecipherable pseudonym.

“Do you… play an instrument?” Jae Eun asked, starting to feel like she was playing twenty questions with the man across from her. It couldn’t be helped; he offered nothing freely.

He nodded. “Piano. I’m at least better than Namjoon at it.”

This made her laugh as she leaned back in her chair, mug back in her hands. “You have to play for me sometime.”

A gummy smile spread across Yoongi’s face as he laughed, looking down at his lap, nodding. “Sure.”

.

.

.

#writing #seokjinhq #kpoptrashtag #this was a long wait #bts fic #slowest of burns #ot7 #slice o life #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #bts #sorry for any typos #glimpse of me and you

[ptw30]

Ficlet: Picking Up the Pieces

Day 9 of the VLD Drabble Challenge – Single Father AU, in which Ryou is Keith’s dad (check out the awesome concept and art by @kickingshoes​ - here)

Ships: Shiro & Keith as bros (kinda…well, uncle and nephew)

“Shiro, what are we doing out here?” Keith asked as he set Red down upon the deserted asteroid.

Shiro sighed, replying in a brusque tone, “Fulfilling a promise.”

“Wow, that’s not cryptic at all,” Lance laughed.

Shiro didn’t care, didn’t want to be here as he exited Black and headed toward the rundown shack, the only structure on the asteroid. The paladins gathered behind him, creating a united front as a single figure came forward. He wore a dark hood, similar to the Blades of Marmora, and a faded coat, which reminded Shiro of a bomber’s jacket back home.

The figure stopped directly in front of Shiro; his stance was easy, relaxed, but haughty.

“I didn’t think you’d hold up your end of the bargain,” the figure rasped, his voice altered to sound mechanical.

Shiro’s hands curled into trembling fists. “I’m not here for you. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t let you within a hundred systems of him.” Leaning closer, he whispered in a vehement threat, “You get one varga. That’s it – unless he wants more.”

Shiro felt Keith’s suspicious eyes following him, but he couldn’t look away. He wanted the dark figure to see the threat was anything but idle. He wouldn’t allow any harm to come to any member of his pride, especially his little brother.

The figure touched the side of his helmet, and the face mask became transparent, revealing his human identity.

Keith inhaled sharply. “…Dad?”

The man’s eyes diverted to Shiro’s right and softened. “Hello, son. Looks like Takashi has been taking care of you – considering.”

Shiro fought the urge to roll his eyes. Like Ryou was one to talk, leaving the kid alone in the middle of a desert for years. Sure, Shiro brought Keith into the middle of an intergalactic war, but – oh, hell. He was the worst parent in the universe, wasn’t he? 

Keith was stricken, eyes trembling, face blanched, and Shiro wasn’t sure what he expected, didn’t know what Keith needed. But he would give him privacy – and then pick up the pieces when Ryou was done again.

That was his job, and despite loathing the man before him with the fire of Voltron’s sword, he would always be grateful to him.

He’d given Shiro the greatest gift.

Shiro clasped Keith on the shoulder, though he doubted Keith saw him. “We’ll be by the lions if you need us.”

As he stepped away, Keith’s hand latched onto his wrist with surprising strength. The Red Paladin glanced up, eyes frightened and so young.

“Stay,” he demanded.

And Shiro kept an arm’s length away, ready to catch all the shards of Keith’s heart when or if they broke.

VLD Drabble Challenge Masterpost

Previous Post – Barkeep AU – Klance - “Enough”

Next Post  – Cinderella - Shallura - “The Princess and the Paladin”

#VLD Drabble Challenge #voltron: legendary defender #Shiro #Keith #Brogane #vld #ptw30 #fanfiction #ptw30 pens

[clubofinfo]

Expert: Since the FBI never inspected the DNC’s computers first-hand, the only evidence comes from an Irvine, California, cyber-security firm known as CrowdStrike whose chief technical officer, Dmitri Alperovitch, a well-known Putin-phobe, is a fellow at the Atlantic Council, a Washington think tank that is also vehemently anti-Russian as well as a close Hillary Clinton ally. — Daniel Lazare, Consortium News The masses did not mistakenly choose fascism. Rather, there is a more fundamental nonidentity between class consciousness and mass movements. Fascism was not a Falschkauf (mistaken purchase) followed by buyer’s remorse. The people fought for it, fiercely and stubbornly—though this desire for fascism is also a desire for suppression, a “fight for servitude,” if you will, or an “escape from freedom,” as Erich Fromm put it in the title of his 1941 book. — Ana Teixeira Pinto, E-Flux This week an angry dead end kid named Nikolas Cruz took his legally purchased AR 15 and walked into a school and opened fire. The FBI knew about Cruz because he had been reported to them. Cruz had been reported to the school, too. But nobody followed up. Cruz himself is one of those unpleasant looking young men that are visibly angry, and who exhibit, even in photographs, a quality of emotional disturbance. But nobody followed up. The FBI is too busy writing narrative fiction about Russia. The FBI is more concerned with constructing terrorist threats and then busting various patsies and making a big show of their success. This same week the US has continued to bomb Yemen alongside Saudi Arabia. This same week Mike Pence stomped around the site of the Winter Olympics and managed to insult most every foreign leader in attendance, but most acutely the hosts of this event. But then Pence is a vulgar rube from the hinterlands of Indiana. A fundamentalist Christian whose knowledge of the world is even smaller than his boss, the President. The Hill reported….“Approval of the FBI has increased among Democrats and decreased among Republicans since President Trump took office, according to a new Quinnipiac University poll.” So, uh, Dems and liberals are fawning over the FBI because, presumably, Mueller is after Satan-in-Chief The Donald, while Republicans are pouting because, presumably, the FBI isn’t dropping the fictitious investigation of Russian collusion. Meanwhile, the FBI, famed for various cluster fucks like Waco and Ruby Ridge, not to mention COINTELPRO and countless undercover surveillances on journalists and dissidents of all kinds, is being embraced by liberal America. (COINTELPRO, as a reminder, attacked the Black Panther party, and among its victims were Fred Hampton, Geronimo Pratt, and Mumia Abu Jamal. And it was J.Edgar Hoover who wrote letters that described Hampton as the ‘new black messiah’ — one that needed to be dealt with). That is your virtuous FBI. Now part of this is just the desire among liberals for the status quo. At all costs. It is liberals far more than Republicans who want a Norman Rockwell America. The arch conservative wants something closer to gated communities of whiteness and armed privatized security roaming the streets keeping their property safe. It is the liberal Democratic voter who WANTS TO BELIEVE in the goodness of America. Who wants to believe in all that progress in civil rights and gender equality. But both will in the end default to authoritarian political control. They always have. Joseph Kishore over at WSWS wrote back in 2016 already: … the Times’ article set the tone for a wave of war-mongering commentary in the American media. Lipton was interviewed on the cable news channels and the Public Broadcasting System’s evening news program. Democratic Senator Ben Cardin declared on MSNBC that the US had been “attacked by Russia.” He called for an independent commission, citing the bipartisan panel set up after 9/11. CNN commentator Jake Tapper referred to Russia as the “enemy” and openly wondered, in the course of interviewing former CIA and NSA Director Michael Hayden, whether President-elect Trump was “siding with the enemy. But most Democrats believe in Russian evil doing. They believe Putin is a tyrant. They WANT TO BELIEVE. Now, the logic of Crowdstrike and all those US security experts on cyber warfare is that only the most sophisticated hackers could have penetrated the protections of the U.S. government, while at the same time only the most unsophisticated cyber hackers, revealing their amateurish clumsiness by leaving a variety of Russian language clues in the meta data, could have done such a thing. It is the same logic that posits Taliban or ISIS commanders, cunning…evil geniuses..who plot the overthrow of western civilization..but who are also simultaneously primitives living in caves. The Russians are also evil geniuses but also primitives. On one level the U.S. loves the uneducated. America has never trusted intelligence or education. But they have to at the same time be the best. The best at everything. The best killers. The most violent soldiers. Etc. But not the most educated. Trump’s approval ratings climb as he cuts funding to libraries and the arts. Such actions have always been an electoral winner in the USA. Edward Luce had a cogent piece at Financial Times of all places. He wrote America’s elites have stored more wealth than they can consume. This creates three problems for everyone else. First, elites invest their surpluses in replicating their advantages. Kids raised in poorer neighbourhoods with mediocre schools stand little chance. Their parents cannot match the social capital of their wealthier peers. The drawbridge is rising. The gap between the self image of meritocratic openness and reality is wide. Psychologists call this “self-discrepancy”. Economists call it barriers to entry. This is an important observation. He also added: …Social capital is about knowing what to say to whom and when, which is a sophisticated skill. Technical learning is for others. Children of the elites are learning how to raise money for philanthropic causes. Economists define this as a positional good. Sociologists call it virtue signalling. Mr Trump calls it political correctness. And finally, Luce points out that the new bourgeoisie (not his word) are suffering from a loss of even the appearance of a meritocracy. Too few jobs for what are now the over-educated (well, over degreed). And Luce concludes with a particularly astute insight. The bourgeoisie are finding they need Trump. Without him there is no distraction. And then he poses the question for these aspiring classes; do they really love the highly educated as they claim? Do they deserve admiration because of their degrees? And here we touch upon the core issues at work socially in the Trump phenomenon. Trump is easy and even enjoyable to make fun of. He IS a distraction. But Trump also serves a very clear purpose for the 1%. Those who reign above the haute bourgeoisie. For Trump is still implementing the same policies that Hillary Clinton would have. The same wars, by and large. The same military build up. All the right people are still making money. The difference is in Trump’s less important appointments. The difference is Jeff Sessions for one. And the various minor cabinet hacks and flunkies he has installed in positions of limited but not insignificant power. He is normalizing in a way unprecedented, the weaponized ignorance of the Christian right. And this includes, of course, the open racism and xenophobia on display and perhaps crystalized in Mike Pence’s boorish crassness at the Olympics. Pence suffers no doubts. The new Christians of televangilism never do. These are creationists and believers in the rapture. That they are barking mad has been known for a while now, but never before have they entered the corridors of power. The 1% carry on as before. So does the Pentagon and CIA — though the infilitration of the Christian extremists in the Air Force is well documented. Remember, all Presidents must have prayer breakfasts for fuck sake. They must go to Church. They get a dog, and they put on leather bomber jackets for photo ops. And they have a spiritual advisor. There is a whole laundry list of must do’s. What is different now is that stupidity is being not just normalized but accepted as, perhaps, a virtue. Beevis and Butthead go to Washington. Bill & Ted’s excellent adventure on Capital Hill. How different, really, was George W. Bush? (the newly rehabilitated GWB, in a curious charm make over…but I digress…). So, no, the aspiring haute bourgeoisie do not REALLY love education. The hard work of studying is for proles. For Asian kids and social climbers and those quota scholarship kids. The idea of learning having some inherent value is now fully gone from the public imagination. Socrates who? He played *soccer* for Brazil, no? Literally nobody reads. I mean book stores are closing en mass. The Gutenberg era is over. I wrote recently on my blog about Hugh Kenner. I used to sneak into his lectures at UCSB in the early 70s. There are no Hugh Kenners anymore. Erudition is to become an obsolete word. The state of Minnesota is taking Huckleberry Finn off high school reading lists. Harper Lee is being taken off, too. No doubt others will follow. Hurtful. Twain’s epic novel is, apparently, “hurtful”. I am coming, I have to admit, to just not care about who has hurt feelings. All those social correctives that looked to rid the culture of racist images and language are now appropriated for other purposes. For narcissistic vehicles for anger. For America is as angry a society as the world may have ever seen. All that I see now, the new McCarthyism, the Russophobic propaganda that is swallowed wholesale, and not just swallowed but used as a kind of narcotic — is carried along and draws energy from a deep reservoir of rage. The old Puritan consciousness that wants nothing more than to chastise and shun is alive in the U.S. today. All these hurt feelings are expressions of the narcissistic desire to believe in our own uniqueness and specialness. And such subjective manufacture helps distract from the increasing sadism of American society overall. The real violence of a system based on inequality is buried. It is obscured. The violence of capital, of wage slavery is mystified. All relations under capitalism are coercive. And when the early Capitalist class collaborated with the Church to burn a few hundred thousand women as witches in the early 1700s, across Europe, they were setting a structural dynamic in motion. The Inquisition and witch burning were not the result of magic, but of the need for scapegoats and for ridding the system of autonomous women and small craftspeople. It set up a class war, essentially, one mediated in that case by a deep hatred of women. And fear. The destruction of various celebrities (mostly) for sexual *misconduct* has already been appropriated by NATO and CAA and even Paul Kagame got in the act (see Emma Watson and the Rwandian war criminal share a dais…all to *help* women in war torn areas, or something. I mean who knows. But its mind numbing how quickly such things are activated). Angelina Jolie, who never saw a country she didn’t want to bomb or quarantine (see marriage and honeymoon in Namibia) is also is out stumping for NATO aggressions under cover of protecting women in war zones. No mention of stopping war zones from being created, of course. MeToo became, as quick as you can write hashtag, a vehicle for the exact opposite of that for which it began. And this was predictable. Today the system has other scapegoats and other needs than it did during the witch trials in Europe. But the violence of capital is alive throughout the carceral system, alive in black communities where cops operate as anti insurgency soldiers bent on pacification. Fallujah or Baltimore, there is not a lot of difference. And the violence of Nikolas Cruz will cause great oceans of tears and hand wringing. Get rid of guns. Okay, how about those in the hands of cops — or those in the army or marine corps? Those are OK, because they don’t shoot up schools. Well, not *our* schools, anyway. There is a sort of pattern recognition in the public now. Shoot up a school is a certain class of irrational violence. People will posit notions about anti depressants or whatever. And it might have some truth to it. Maybe a lot, but I can guarantee that few will read anything about the beliefs of these *sick* shooters. That they all, like Anders Breivik, adhere to classic fascistic values and ideology. They do not fall out of the sky. They are the product of a vast number of forces, but they also kill not just because they suffer humiliation and are frustrated and emotionally disfigured. Or, rather, that emotional disfigurement creates the fascist sensibility. They do not think it is wrong, what they do. Cruz had a history of aggressive behaviour toward women. He was a member of ROTC and posted constantly on social media with various guns and weapons. Those who knew him said he was obsessed with guns. The chilling photos of cops in SWAT attire arresting a kid who wanted to be just like them. There is a strange closed loop of morbid mimetic activity on display. The U.S. today creates enemies. It often seems the primary activity of America, the manufacturing of global enemies and threats. Of late it is Putin and Kim Jong Il. But they are only the latest in a long line. U.S. police departments, heavily militarized, and increasingly trained in Israel for counter insurgency, are no longer in the policing business but rather in the soldiering business. They are militia, not peace officers. The dysfunctional extreme for what this produces is Nikolas Cruz. But how far is Cruz from the Florida cop who murdered a begging man, on his knees, on video? How far from George Zimmerman? One suspects those three might enjoy a beer together and share many of the same values. I am always struck when reading about these alleged lone wolf shooters how NOT alone they are. Klaus Thewelit’s seminal work Male Fantasies should be required reading. But if male-female relations of production under patriarchy are relations of oppression, it is appropriate to understand the sexuality created by, and active within, those relations as a sexuality of the oppressor and the oppressed. If the social nature of such “gender-distinctions” isn’t expressly emphasized, it seems grievously wrong to distinguish these sexualities according to the categories “male” and “female.” The sexuality of the patriarch is less “male” than it is deadly, just as that of the subjected women is not so much “female” as suppressed, devivified. — Klaus Thewelit Theweleit didn’t see genocide as the thwarted expression of inhibited sexual energies. His point was rather that the production of gender and sexuality are intimately tied to the content of anti-Semitism and overt racism—both before, during, and after the fall of the Weimar Republic. Fascist sexuality is not so much repressed as it is ideological: it idealizes virility and fertility as political imperatives. — Ana Teixeira Pinto The cultural post-modernism of today, at least in the U.S., is technologically sophisticated and socially hyper conservative. The neoliberal system might marginalize white nationalists but they cultivate their symbolism and much of their rhetoric. A Nikolas Cruz desired completion as the captain of capitalist manhood. His failures, his lack of productive labor, his relative poverty, escalated his hatred of those he saw as responsible — and at the head of that list one would guess would be women. But the indoctrination of men like Cruz, or boys, begins earlier. As Theweleit writes: “No man is forced to turn political fascist for reasons of economic devaluation or degradation. His fascism develops much earlier, from his feelings; he is a fascist from the inside.” The violence of the U.S. military, globally, inflicted on the most defenseless nations and people cannot be separated from cops in Chicago or Baltimore or Los Angeles, nor from Fallujuh and Libya and Syria. I mean, the U.S. has occupied Afghanistan for sixteen years. The U.S. military metaphorically rapes these countries. And it is a kind of re-colonializing. Sylvia Federici called the World Bank and IMF “the new Conquistadors”. Nor can it be separated, finally, from Harvey Weinstein or James Toback. Nor from the lynch mob hysteria that has coopted the entire #metoo* phenomenon. Nikolas Cruz sensed he was broken, and his longing for restoration was reflected back at him by those men who would later capture him. Kevlar and weaponry, helmeted faceless phallic superbodies. He could only merge with his fantasy through mimetic approximation. Cruz may be seen as insane, but he was not *only* insane. The anti-Russian propaganda that is spewed out daily by mainstream media is an insidious and destructive force that also cannot really be separated from the tidal swell of violence on the streets and in the institutions of U.S. society. Manufacturing contempt for North Korea or Yemen or Libya is not *only* propaganda. It has consequences to the psyches of the people that must absorb that inculcating assault. (Go back and read Ben Judah’s bizarre and lurid anti Putin piece at Newsweek,July 2014 — the one with Putin in shades on the cover, his eyes reflecting a burning …we presume…America. Read it now and just try to digest that this is what passes for *real* news as opposed to fake news). In March of last year Brian Cloughly began an article on this massive anti Russian propaganda this way… On January 30 NBC News reported that “On a snowy Polish plain dominated by Russian forces for decades, American tanks and troops sent a message to Moscow and demonstrated the firepower of the NATO alliance. Amid concerns that President Donald Trump’s commitment to NATO is wavering, the tanks fired salvos that declared the 28-nation alliance a vital deterrent in a dangerous new world. One intriguing aspect of this slanted account are the phrases “dominated by Russian forces for decades” and “vital deterrent” which are used by NBC to imply that Russia yearns, for some unspecified reason, to invade Poland. As is common in the Western media there is no justification or evidence to substantiate the suggestion that Russia is hell-bent on domination, and the fact that US troops are far from home, operating along the Russian border, is regarded as normal behaviour on the part of the world’s “indispensable nation”. This is just one example of out of literally hundreds and hundreds. One could find the same against Maduro and Venezuela and against the DPRK. It hardly needs pointing out that Hollywood produces endless paeans of love for militarism and male destructiveness. Capitalism produces economic inequality and as such cannot exist without political and social oppression. The contradictions of Hollywood’s endless fascist product and its equally endless hand wringing over sexual harassment or gun control should be obvious. The sexual harassment in Hollywood goes back to Shirley Temple. It is built into a system in which all parties are there to monetize themselves. It is also true that men with power must punish those beneath them. They cannot exist without subordinates. What Theweleit wrote of the *soldier male* (his term for the prototype ur fascist) that the most urgent task facing him…“is to pursue, to dam in, and to subdue any force that threatens to transform him back into the horribly disorganized jumble of flesh, hair, skin, bones, intestines, and feelings that calls itself human.” Hollywood produces narratives that make the non human heroic. The first Terminator was a watershed moment in that respect. A film whose message was that an android…no, a ‘killer’ android…made a better parent that the human version. Propaganda that creates phantom enemies is justified because Trump is now the perfect villain. And as such, is a tool of the ruling class. He is the justification for the abandonment of all notions of integrity and honesty, compassion or honour. One case of harassment I know of included a woman who had signed a non disclosure agreement and took payment of tens of thousands of dollars. She disclosed anyway and was applauded as heroic. It is not heroic to break your word. To take a payoff and then snitch anyway. But punishment is its own justification. Trump’s vulgarity is a kind of pride in ignorance trope. He intentionally chooses to be crude, because that is what his base desires. They may not admit it, those suburban small businessmen and managerial white class — but they do. A sense of shunning the soft and sensitive. Stories about escorts and golden showers only adds to his appeal. Those guys wish they could afford escorts. Trump is the grandson of a whore house owner, after all. He never sold himself as Adlai Stevenson. So, Mark Twain is hurtful. Libraries are being shuttered across the country. Book stores are closing. The U.S. poverty levels have exceeded those of many developing countries. The compulsive hatred of Putin by many who have almost zero idea about Putin or Russian history is disproportionate to any rational analysis, but not surprising. Trump and Putin are like weird doppelgangers in the liberal imagination. For the propagandists of the exceptional and indispensable nation the by-product of their creative activities is Nikolas Cruz. Trump shares with the far right parties growing across Europe the open disdain for democracy and free speech. Cruz was wearing a Trump cap in one of his Instagram photos. He wasn’t wearing a Che t-shirt. He wanted to kill antifa. He was not an isolated mentally disturbed killer. He was a fascist killer. He wanted to be made whole and inviolate. The way all fascists want to be whole, but cannot. http://clubof.info/