#and changed enough to be kind. and those small creases around his eyes are therefore the most beautiful and most important part of him.

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

Most important part of any JVJ design is the crow's feet send post

[the-ace-with-spades]

(1/6) the best is yet to be

five times someone realized Ronan and Adam were basically married and one time they actually were

Part 2 │ Part 3 │ Part 4 │ Part 5 │ Part 6

Read it on ao3

Gansey did not expect anything to change in their group dynamic when Ronan and Adam admitted they were in a relationship — not because he thought it wasn't a big deal, but because Adam and Ronan did not seem like the type of a couple who was very affectionate in public, simple due to their exteriorly harsh personalities. He was sure that, with time, they were going to be whispering sweet nothings and devouring any small touches they could give each other behind closed doors, but he never hoped to be a witness to any of it.

 Although Gansey loved them dearly, Ronan and Adam were both heavily experienced by life and for them, expressing emotions was greatly limited to those of negative nature. They were getting better, both of them, and the progress of the last year was evident but Gansey did not expect them to get rid of those habits easily.

Gansey, as he often is, was wrong.

Now that they search for Glendower was forgotten, they all had more time and they all spent it differently. Gansey himself was having a bit of a mid-life crisis — or after second death crisis — and was desperately searching for something else that could provide life-long interest and simultaneously be useful for a future degree in history as his mother expected that he would at least attend some kind of higher education.

Adam was doing things only Adam could do, which consisted of things mundane but exhausting. Working three jobs, interviewing for scholarships, preparing for exams, and helping Ronan with the Barns didn't leave him much freedom and he still managed to somehow fit his friends in between. Apparently, he was even also meeting up with the psychics at the Fox Way, although Blue didn’t know the details — she was also preparing for exams, helping her family with the business and working, so in between the sparse time she didn't spend with Gansey or Gansey and the others, she wasn't present for most of Adam's visits.

Out of all of them, Ronan had the most empty calendar. He hadn't dropped out of school yet but at this point, it was only a formality — his absence was so frequent and his grades so nonexistent that no one was deluding themselves, Ronan wasn't going to graduate. It meant that there would be days Gansey wouldn't see him at all while he stayed in the Barns, repairing anything the time consumed and making the place resemble the warm home it used to be.

It made Gansey feel incredibly lonely, more than usual, especially at night, when he was now the only person pacing around the Monmouth Manufacturing.

But there were days like the one now, and Adam would come for a study session that would slowly track off into a different territory and he would stay until his night shift was about to begin.

Another benefit of having Adam at the Monmouth was that Ronan had an almost abnormal gift of knowing when Adam was going to be there and therefore always showed that day too. He would mostly provide to be a distraction and more often than not he would still leave for the night, either to Adam's or to the Barns, Gansey never asked.

He figured that Ronan being there every time Adam showed up was in itself a public display of affection and the only kind Gansey would ever witness from the two.

He should have known something like that would happen sometime mid-evening but he purposefully ignored it.

Adam was sitting at the coffee table, his body curving on the hard floor, things scattered around him. He'd been sitting like that for an hour and there wasn't anything unusual about it.

Ronan, who had previously been in his room, blasting that awful thing he calls music, materialized behind the sofa an hour into the session when they were already slowly going off-topic. It confirmed Gansey's suspicions, as Ronan indeed had a sixth sense when it came to Parrish-related things. It was kind of funny, kind of heartwarming and kind of weird to observe this unusual sign of love from him.

Ronan did not stay behind the couch long, instead deciding to throw himself onto it, lying on his stomach. For the most part, he didn't say anything, not even a greeting Adam could reply to. Observing that, no one would have said, if they didn't know Ronan and Adam as well as Gansey, that they were a couple.

Adam didn't seem to mind much, still paying attention to his math homework and still giving Gansey glances from time to time, to show that he was still listening.

Ronan provided to be a distraction, but not to Adam — to Gansey. The further from studying they were, the more obvious it became how close Ronan's face was to Adam's neck.

Finally finished with his homework, Adam leaned back.

Gansey tried — really, really tried — not to stare but he was utmostly sure Ronan was nuzzling into Adam's neck. The touches could be easily mistaken for tiny little kisses scattered over Adam's freckled skin. It was a very strange sight, as it was simultaneously looking seductive, almost like tiny little kisses scattering over Adam's freckled skin, and disturbing in a way that made Gansey feel hot all over his body but it also made Ronan, who was slightly curled onto himself and hiding his nose in Adam's nape, look like an overgrown lap dog that was pawing its owner for attention.

Adam didn't react at first, and Gansey would say he didn't notice, but he also leaned further back, allowing Ronan's thumb to brush his shoulder blade.

This wasn't exactly outrageous but it was also enough that Gansey noticed. More wasn't allowed to show, but Adam and Ronan's affection wasn't exactly public in the sense that no stranger would call it affection.

Gansey wasn't a stranger so he could see the way Ronan's breathing calmed down and the way his eyes hovered closed a second or two longer. He almost looked sleepy, or peacefully content.

And then Adam had to get up.

And Gansey could see how Ronan's body sharpened within seconds, lazily turning onto his side and shaking off any easiness off his shoulders.

"You sure you don't want me to drive you?" Ronan asked, voice rough and lazy from not talking for so long.

Gansey's brain, at that moment, was showing him red flags — there was a way too much intimacy within this short period of time and this little question was another example of it. Ronan hadn't said anything for the duration of his stay on the couch. This was a conversation he hadn't been a part of.

The corner of Adam's lips quirked up, almost unnoticeably. He adjusted the strap of his bag, filled up with notebooks, textbooks, and his work uniform and there was something light about his posture.

"No, Lynch," he said. "Not today."

Gansey wished he could, just like that, offer Adam a ride, and not be placed under his questioning gaze and assessed for ulterior motives. Maybe it was a boyfriend privilege, or rather — a Ronan privilege, as this had been happening even when they weren't in a relationship.

"I will see you tomorrow in the library?" Adam asked, snapping Gansey out of the stupor.

"Yeah, and at lunch."

Adam waves at them, turning around.

"Hey, Parrish," Ronan spoke up. He waited for Adam to turn back to them before continuing.

Adam raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. "Huh?"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Ronan asked. Adam gave him an empty look. "You suck."

And then Ronan turned his face, his jaw slightly up so that his side was directed at Adam. He tapped his cheek with one finger, brows creased, and waited.

Adam rolled his eyes but his expression was unbelievably fond. Gansey stared.

Adam took a step back to the sofa. Gansey stared more.

Before Gansey could even register what was happening, Adam leaned down over Ronan's sprawled body and kisses his cheek, an inch away from his chin, so long and so sweet that Gansey's mouth opened as he gaped. It was casual but looking weirdly domestic — it reminded Gansey of early childhood and the way his parents would often kiss in the doorframe, whenever one of them was leaving for work, or grocery shopping, or dentist appointment, or to pick up the kids from school.

Ronan's hand searched for Adam's and they met in a soft squeeze.

"What, no tongue?" Ronan asked, with a face that could easily be synonymous with the phrase the cat that got the cream.

"Screw you," Adam said, a tiny smile present over his reddened face.

Ronan's hand gave him a barely-there squeeze again.

Gansey couldn't tell if this was something normal for them or something Ronan played up to tease him and Adam simply indulged. It seemed too smooth and too habitual to be something done on the spot, especially with the level of softness they both displayed — it was almost as if Gansey wasn't in the room with them, silently observing everything; he didn't feel teased, he felt absent.

Ronan was usually the one that walked Adam to his car or took Adam home — Gansey hadn't seen them saying goodbye yet and quite frankly, he didn't think they would be saying any kind of goodbye at all. This seemed like something only sappy couples would do and although he could easily call Ronan sentimental, there was a difference. Out of the two of them, he had never thought that Adam would ever allow himself to be this vulnerable — the intimacy felt like something earned too early, something that shouldn't be there for months or years.

(It was. Something normal for them, that is.)

[lemonietrinket]

Be Nice to the Baby ||| San x Reader

Summary: Your boyfriend is ‘at war’, though you can’t understand as to why Genre: Crack/humour, some angst, happy ending with fluff Warning(s): Foul language (2x s**t, 1x f**k), mild jealousy over something rather trivial Word Count: 1913 Song(s): Cheer Up - Twice AN: this is an apology for how empty my blog has been if you ignore my reblogs. truth be told i have been writing, but everything ive written so far is birthday presents (so will come out on the day) or still not ready to be published so, here is a short thing in consolation :((

~~~

“Well good afternoon, little shit,” San announced as soon as his eyes narrowed upon his nemesis. He slunk over to the sofa before crouching to be eye level, a sour pout upon his lips. “I see you’ve already decided that you rule the goddamn roost here, but unfortunately for you I’m here to remind you that this is my house, and therefore my rules, and so you better give me back my fucking chair.” When he received no response, he spat a sigh, “Wow, how immature—silent treatment? Wow. What a... childish… child you are.” 

San rose to his feet, folding his arms as he would if lecturing a child or one of his group mates and stood his ground against his arch-enemy. He was met with a stony glare, unwavering in its force that quickly forced him to back down—not that he would admit it. As soon as he found his stare skittering away he sat down once again, raising his finger in an accusatory, jabbing point.

“I know what you’re up to,” he whispered, a snide laugh picking at his words, “yes! You can’t fool me. I know what your game is, what you’re playing at. You are a fool to try and best me in passive aggressive battle for I am the king!” Once again he was met with silence, that unblinking stare harrowed in on San and him alone, analysing his every move. The look was unreadable and he loathed that fact. He figured he could have ignored it, learned to get along with it but he had figured wrong—he had underestimated that look’s power, and he vowed to never make the same mistake again. This was the tipping point, something had to be done. He would not be beaten again.

“I know you believe that you are invincible but it is an arrogant belief, and I will prove it to you, as I will not let you steal my cuddles again.”

His opponent’s bright knowing eyes slid away from him as she licked her paws indignantly, paying no attention to his ‘threat’ in the slightest. 

San scoffed a shocked gasp. “How dare you—you feel no remorse do you?! You will do it again—you believe there’s nothing I can do to stop you! Well, mark my words I will get my hugs and kisses before you can get a word in edge-ways, you under—?!” 

A flat click resonated through the apartment as a key was slid into the lock on the front door. The creature before him immediately sat up, head raised and ears turned towards the origin of the sound, before she scarpered across the sofa towards it.

“Hey—wait—!”

Before he could even reach the doorway into the next room, the speedy lump of fluff had disappeared, followed by the creak of an opening door and concluded with a scream mixed with cooing.

“Awww, hello babie! How’s my lil sweet lionheart hmm? Yes I’m back now! I missed you too sweetie, I know you want cuddles, let me put my stuff down first ok?”

San crumpled to his knees upon the rug. It was littered with cat hair, only reminding him further to resign himself to his fate—one of which he couldn’t have even imagined back when he’d agreed to get a pet. He understood all the pros and had weighed the cons carefully but it still hadn’t been enough. He was being replaced by a cat. What a way to go out.

“Love, I’m—! Oh, you’re right here, hello!”

So preoccupied in his own wallowing he hadn’t noticed you head further inside until you chirped a greeting. You were smiling your classic beam that always raised his spirits, hobbling towards him as you tried to slip off your shoe without using your hands. Confused as to why you were making life harder for yourself he didn’t have to look far as there, cradled in your arms like a baby, was none other than his nemesis.

“Awww, was Sannie giving you a game?” his girlfriend cooed at the cat, who responded by rubbing her cheek against your shoulder. You continued to baby talk to her as you glanced at your boyfriend still moping on the rug, “Aw, baby, are you and Sannie getting along now? Are you playing well together?”

When he didn’t answer despite the fact it was aimed at him, the small clues fell together like a jigsaw and you were left sighing, “San, were you bullying the baby again?”

“What? No!” he spluttered, at last pushing himself off the floor, “Of course not! What do you take—she’s bullying me!”

“San, really?” You shook your head incredulously, stroking the cat’s with the back of your finger. “Honestly what is up with you? Why don’t you two get along? You’re not jealous are you?” you snickered. 

You had been joking, teasing almost, with the last part. It seemed too nonsensical—who got jealous of a cat? It made no sense. 

Cats were amazing, yes, and you knew it. You totally understood why people often chose cats and other pets, because they were just so good; they were soft and fluffy and adorable and warm and offered company even if they couldn’t talk so to speak. Each one had their own personality and preferences, it made total sense. However, to you, your boyfriend was all of that plus more—well, minus the fluffy bit for the most part, but his hair was! He was kind and supported you in a way that only another person could, he understood you and you couldn’t imagine life without him—hence why you suggested adopting a pet together. How could he be compared at all?

And yet, as soon as those thoughts crossed your mind you took one look into his guilty eyes and realised that that was exactly what he was doing. 

Unfortunately the empathy part didn’t quite make it into your reactions in time. “Oh my god you are!” you exclaimed, mouth hanging open as you watched him face sour into a scowl. 

“I am not jealous.”

You shook your head earnestly, a guilt-humour concoction fizzling in your gut. “No, San, wait, it—!”

With lips pressed shut he turned his back and strode off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving you alone in the living room. Exhaling carefully so he wouldn’t hear you let your cat down onto the sofa. She appeared confused, little head tilting upwards to question why you would abandon her so, leading you to hush her with a scratch behind her ear, “I’m sorry sweetheart. I love you very much I promise, I’ve just got to sort out the bigger baby of the house real quick, I’ll be back.” 

Leaving her to her own devices as you chased after your boyfriend, you found him rummaging around aimlessly in one of the cupboards, mumbling the words ‘stupid’ and ‘silly’ to himself. If you hadn’t known he was grumpy then this would have been a dead giveaway. Listening carefully to what he was muttering, you worked out that he was having a go at himself rather than anyone else, and that sealed the deal for you, relief tingling in your chest.

You approached him, rolling your eyes and hiding the smile that kept threatening to twitch at the corners of your lips.  “San?”

He turned but didn’t look at you because his head was kept down, having finally procured an old glass at the back of the cupboard. As he headed towards the fridge you spoke up again. 

“Ok, so, if you’re not jealous, then what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that my girlfriend loves a cat more than she loves me!” he whirled around, features hardened yet wet at the same time, before the regret dripped from his face much like the colour did. He swallowed thickly as he waited for you to call him out as he knew he deserved.

“So... you are jealous, then.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, a bite in his blunt confession. He didn’t look at you, feeling like he’d made a right fool of himself which now thinking about it, probably didn’t help his cause whatsoever.

Unable to stifle it any longer, you let out a breathy chuckle. Yes he was a fool, but he was your fool and you wouldn’t want him any other way. While making your way over to him his mouth opened, but you cut him off before he could speak by reaching up to cup his jaw gently with your fingers and planting a kiss on his cheek. 

“That,” you began, placing one on his other cheek, “is not,” and another upon the tip of his nose, “true,” you finished with a chaste one upon his lips. As you pulled away to find he seemed to gravitate towards your touch, you got your words out before he could interrupt them with passion of his own. “I love you more than anything else in the world, Choi San, and no one or thing can change that, so don’t you ever doubt it or yourself again, ok?”

He nodded and his hands swept to your back pulling you in close like he wanted. His kiss melded with yours heavily this time as the crease of his concern slowly faded away. His caress was laced with sincerity as he ran his hand to stroke your back, body melting into you.

His love would never get old, you knew that, just as you hoped his touches would never cease. His lips were warm, his embrace comforting and he smelt of home; there was nothing more that could make you happier.

When you pulled away, your breath thoroughly stolen, you leant your forehead against his as you ran your hand through his hair. Once he’d pressed a light-hearted kiss to your nose he whispered, “I’m sorry.” 

You couldn’t help but giggle. “It’s ok, I just can’t believe you were jealous of a cat. She doesn’t even do anything!”

“Yeah, I know, it’s silly,” he gushed, “please don’t tell the others.”

“Well,” you pretended to think over on it, until his softened eyes widened and you decided to ease up on him if only a bit for now, “only if you don’t tell them about the time when I dropped paint on the floor and cried while trying to scoop it back up with my bare hands.”

He brought up his pinky for you to take, “Deal?”

“Deal.”

After interlocking your fingers, you took advantage of how he was leant against the counter top and laid your head on his chest, wrapping your arms around him like a teddy bear. He reciprocated by nestling his cheek into your crown while his fingertips played with the ends of your hair. He twirled the locks round the pads, easing knots out of them and very gently tugging every now and again, knowing full-well how therapeutic you found it. 

“So I’m guessing this means you want more hugs and kisses,” you finally uttered, words flowing effortlessly as you relaxed fully.

“Yes, please.”

“Wow, even more?” you chuckled, inhaling deeply, “Do you want them before the baby gets them?”

San hummed. “I mean, ideally but I suppose she usually beats me to it.”

“I dunno, you could sit by the door and wait for me to come home—”

“Like a dog?”

“No, not like a dog. You’re not much of a dog… now a puppy? That’s more like it.”

“What—?!”

“I’m only teasing. So do you want the baby talk too?”

“NO!”

~~~

AN: i wrote this out of the blue from a random idea i had in the morning. meanwhile i cant write anything long even tho i plan them out and have many ideas literally every week for them. make it make sense, please.

Masterlist

[celesjial]

i still have you (jisungxminho)

It starts with a cough. Everyone turns to look at Jisung, including Minho, but he waves them all off with a sheepish smile and a shrug. 

They go back to practicing. They’re all dripping with sweat and quite near collapsing when the music finally shuts off. Minho thinks vaguely, that it’s times like right now that he’d very much like to dunk both Felix and Changbin in a bowl of ice water. Because as much as he loves both of them, they never shut up. He’s got enough of a headache already. 

Chan’s standing by the speaker with a tight expression on his face and a towel hanging off of his shoulders. He’s stressed already that everyone’s been goofing off lately and they won’t be ready when they’re on the real stage. Minho can almost see the thoughts circling through his head. He gets up and puts a hand on Chan’s shoulder. 

“They’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. Stop thinking so much.” 

Chan gives him a thankful smile, and his shoulders relax a little bit. 

“Okay. We’ll head home, pack up.” He calls, and everyone groans in relief. 

Minho looks around, almost instinctively, for Jisung. It’s become habit. He’s not sure why. 

Jisung’s, sure enough, in the back, slipping his water bottle into the side pocket of his bag and zipping it up. He pauses every few seconds to cough quietly into his arm, though. Minho furrows his brow and walks over. 

“Are you alright, Sung?” 

Jisung looks up, almost bewildered. 

“I’m fine, why?” He sounds surprised that Minho’s actually questioning his well-being. 

Minho shrugs. 

“You’re coughing. Just making sure you’re alright.” 

Jisung waves him off and shifts the bag onto his shoulders. 

“I think it’s just dusty in here or something. I’m fine, I promise. Stop worrying, you’re getting creases and you look like a grandpa.” 

Minho barely has time to be offended, because Jisung grins his devilish grin and walks off before he can even react. 

The car rocks as they head back to the dorm. Felix and Changbin are still being excessively loud in the seat in front of him, and Minho’s honestly two minutes away from stabbing one of them in the shoulder with the safety pin that’s in his bag for some reason. He settles for the satisfaction of imagining it instead. 

He notices, that somewhere along the car ride, Jisung’s fallen asleep on his shoulder. It’s not unusual for one of them to nap in the car, and it’s pretty late, nearing midnight. He’s been sleeping less and less lately anyways, so Minho has no heart to wake him up. Not that he would’ve even if it wasn’t Jisung. Probably. 

When they reach the dorms, everyone steps out slowly, yawning and plagued with fatigue. Their steps are sluggish as they head up the stairs and wait for Chan to unlock the door. Jisung had woken up just as they’d pulled into the driveway and coughed for a minute straight--and then blamed it on allergies. As they step inside the dorm, Minho doesn’t think Jisung’s ever had any allergic reactions before. 

They wash up quickly. For once, there’s no squabble on who gets to shower first. They’re past the point of caring, so Felix just gets in the shower with Changbin to save time and Seungmin and Hyunjin shower together for the sole purpose of getting into bed faster. 

Jisung seems to have enough energy to call dibs on the shower once Seungmin and Hyunjin exit, but Minho catches how he drags himself when he walks and the way he’s barely keeping his eyes open when he steps out, hair dripping and slumped over. 

“Go to bed, Jisung.” Minho says when he walks by, and he catches the small smile Jisung gives him as he climbs to the top bunk. 

Minho showers fast, so he’s out in less than ten minutes and situated in his own bunk in fifteen. He falls asleep in twenty, even through Jeongin’s heavy snoring. The kid may be young, but he’s got a hell of a snoring problem. 

He’s woken very rudely the next morning. By Hyunjin pretty much jumping and landing on his chest over and over and he’s surprised none of his ribs crack wit the force the younger’s using. 

“For fuck’s sake, what do you want?” Minho finally snaps, and Hyunjin leans back, satisfied that Minho’s awake. 

“Jisungie is sick.” 

He whispers it, and his eyes are shining like it’s a piece of gossip that no one else is allowed to know. 

“So why do I care if he’s sick?” 

That’s incorrect. Minho does care, very much, actually. It’s actually taking quite a bit of his willpower not to get up and go see if he’s dying right now. However, he still owns a little bit of dignity, so he doesn’t do it. He paints a nonchalant expression on his face instead and imagines Hyunjin also being dunked in ice water. 

It works. 

Hyunjin shrugs. 

“You’re the oldest one home, so therefore you now have to make sure he’s not dying.” 

Minho groans. 

“Where’s everyone else?” 

Hyunjin grins that demon perfect grin of his. 

“Woojin-hyung and Chan-hyung are at the store. You are now in responsibility. Have fun!” 

Hyunjin smiles and gets off his bed, running out of the room before Minho can lunge at him. 

See, Minho doesn’t usually like taking care of sick people. Mainly because they’re whiny and annoying and they can give Minho’s petty ass a run for his money. But for some reason, the thought of a sick Jisung is making his stomach churn, so he makes himself get up and go brush his teeth. He doesn’t bother changing, so he heads down the hall to the room Jisung shares with Hyunjin and Seungmin. 

Seungmin’s still fast asleep in the bed across the room, so Minho ignores him, kicks one of Jisung’s sweatshirts out of the way (the kid seriously has a messiness issue) and climbs up the wooden ladder to Jisung’s bunk. 

Jisung is still asleep, but Minho can see the telltale signs of a fever. He’s babysat his cousins enough to know what a fever looks like. If the spots of color high on his cheeks aren’t enough, he’s also curled into the smallest ball possible in the corner of his bed and he’s shivering. 

Minho purses his lips and tries to remember what he’s supposed to do at this point. Fever reducers, probably. And a thermometer. But like, he can’t do either of those without waking Jisung up. And he probably has to make Jisung eat something. Which he’ll also have to wake up for. 

Minho groans again. He’d very much like to smack Jisung. Not because he’s sick, but because he’s stubborn and if he hadn’t abused his body for the past month, he wouldn’t have ended up like this. For God’s sake, it’s the middle of summer, so no one is supposed to be getting sick right now. 

He jumps down the ladder and heads into the empty kitchen. Hyunjin is nowhere in sight, and he’s pretty sure everyone else is sleeping because it’s their one day off and its also 6 AM. 

Okay. 

Pills. 

Minho rummages through the medicine cabinet until he finds what he’s pretty sure are the fever reducers Chan basically shoved down his throat last year when he’d stayed out in the rain for too long. And the thermometer. And--probably water. 

He takes a water bottle out of the fridge and carries his supplies back to Jisung’s bed. 

Task two is--waking him up. 

Another thing Minho is bad at.

“Jisung.” Minho pokes his shoulder.

He doesn’t budge. 

“Jisung.” Minho pokes his shoulder again. 

Nothing.

Minho pokes Jisung’s shoulder repeatedly while also chanting, “Jisungjisungjisungjisungjisungjisungjisungjisu--” until the younger finally wakes up and pushes instinctively at Minho’s hand to get him to stop poking him. 

“Stop.” 

Well, he’s pretty sure that’s what Jisung says. He mumbles it into his pillow, so he’s making an educated guess as to what he said. 

“You lied.” 

Minho sounds accusing. He’s not happy. Jisung had said he was fine yesterday. Which, clearly, he’s not. And for some reason, Minho’s now taking care of him. Ironic. 

Jisung seems unbothered and shudders again. Well, unbothered by everything other than the cold. 

“You have to take these.” 

Wow, Minho is really bad at this. He tries to remember how his mother sweet-talked him when he used to get sick, but then he remembers and decides that there is no way in hell he’s doing that, no matter how adorable he finds Jisung when he sits up and rubs the sleeve of his sweater over his face. 

“Wow everything’s spinning.” Jisung observes as he blinks dazedly. “That does not feel good.” 

Minho barks out a laugh. 

“I would assume not. Here. Eat these. And drink water. And try not to throw it up. And let me take your temperature. Actually, let me take your temperature first. Open your mouth. Now.” 

Jisung, strangely, obliges. Minho’s a little scared something’s seriously wrong with him because Jisung never, ever listens to what people tell him to do. They could tell him to run away from a volcano and just because he’s petty, he’d turn right around and run straight to the lava. 

That’s the kind of person he is. 

Minho sticks the thermometer tentatively in Jisung’s mouth and waits for it to beep with that obnoxious noise it always makes. 

102.9. 

“Wow.” Minho whistles and then shoves the tablets into Jisung’s palm. 

Jisung also swallows the pills, but he refuses to drink the water, mumbling something about being nauseous. Minho wants to point out that drinking water is usually supposed to help nausea, but Jisung already looks miserable and in no way, shape, or form does he want to enhance that. He lets Jisung crawl back up into a ball and screw his eyes shut again. 

“Great. Now what am I supposed to do?” Minho says under his breath.  He decides on siting there awkwardly because one, he is definitely not leaving Jisung alone and two, he’s not sure what else he’s supposed to do and three, he’s also wondering why Jisung does not look like an ugly elephant when he’s sick. 

Seriously, he just looks cute. And ruffled up a little bit. That’s all. When Minho’s sick, he seriously looks like a train wreck that was also stamped on by a stampede of rabid ostriches. Who passed the plague to him. That’s quite accurate. 

Eventually, he pulls himself up next to Jisung and picks up his hand. His fingers are ice cold against Minho’s own warm ones and Minho sighs, gripping his hand tightly. He’s not taking advantage, but it’s not like he’ll get to do it when Jisung’s aware of what’s going on unless he messes up his rapping again. 

Eventually, Minho’s brain remembers something--food. He’ll have to feed Jisung eventually. Thankfully, his cooking isn’t complete shit--living alone while on tour had taught him to make somewhat decent edibles. He climbs down the ladder slowly and walks into the kitchen, where everyone else is now awake. 

He glares at all of them as he heads to the pot. 

“If any of you go near Jisung I will kill you.” He threatens as he clangs it against the stove and fills it with water. 

Hyunjin snickers and Felix hides a laugh behind a cough and Changbin just straight up snorts. Jeongin and Seungmin have the dignity to at least try to keep straight faces. 

“Oh man you are so whipped.” Hyunjin giggles loudly.

Yeah, ice water and Hyunjin sound like a great duo right now. Or boiling water. The water that’s boiling in the pot in front of him seems very tempting to throw, actually. 

“I am--not.” Minho falters. It’s all he can come up with. For some reason, his brain seems to have stopped working. 

Felix rolls his eyes. 

“When I was sick, you wouldn’t come ten feet near me. You wore a mask when you went to the bathroom because my room is next to it, for fuck’s sake.” 

Minho has zero reply to that. 

“Maybe I don’t like you.” 

Wrong answer.

Hyunjin just straight up starts laughing. 

“Oh, and clearly you like Jisung.” 

Minho blushes furiously as he empties the packet of ramen into the water. 

“Yeah, I do. He’s my best friend.” 

They all snort from behind him. 

“Best friend. Alright, hyung. We’re going to practice--impromptu practice. Have fun at home! Don’t do anything you might regret.” 

Minho squawks as he turns around. 

“He’s sick, you perverted fuckers! Get lost, losers.” 

They run out the door giggling and whispering like a group of teenage girls. Minho rolls his eyes as he empties the ramen into a bowl. He does not like Jisung. He might be cute and adorable and smiley and he might make Minho’s stomach flutter when he laughs but--

Fuck. 

Minho is fucked.  And whipped.

Minho has to showcase a new talent by climbing up the stairs with one hand and balancing the ramen soup with the other. He’s way too proud of himself when he gets to the top without spilling any of it. It’s one of his only recent accomplishments. 

“Jisungie.” 

JIsung’s only half-asleep, so he jolts awake at his name. Minho can tell, without him even saying anything, that he’s feeling bad. But he paints a tight smile on and makes an attempt to sit up. Minho scrambles to help and nearly drops the soup, but he gets Jisung situated against his chest. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

Minho purses his lips. 

“Can you try to eat a little? It might help you feel better.” 

Jisung lets out a shaky breath and shakes his head. 

“I’ll throw up if I eat anything. I might like, throw up even if I don’t, but eating will definitely make that happen.” 

Minho sighs and pulls Jisung tighter against his chest. 

“Okay.” 

Because he’s too damn soft for his own fucking good. 

They don’t move for a while. Jisung, because he falls asleep, and Minho, because he’s pondering things. The ramen sits forgotten on the sill, and Jisung’s soft snores are nasally and stuffed up, but right now, Minho feels perfect. 

Sick or not, Minho thinks Jisung is beautiful. 

“I love you so, so much, Jisungie. I just wish I could tell you that out loud.” Minho sighs. 

That night, after Jisung’s fever seems to have gone down the smallest bit and he manages to choke down more water and some of the soup from the ramen, Minho still hasn’t moved. His arms are still holding Jisung secure, and Minho’s pretty sure Jisung would’ve pushed him off if he was in the right state of mind. 

“Hyung?”

Minho snaps his head downwards to meet Jisung’s glassy eyes, which have finally managed to focus on him. 

“Hm.” 

“What if--” 

Minho brushes a piece of Jisung’s blonde hair off of his forehead. 

“What if I told you I love you too?” 

Minho’s heart stops and he freezes. His blood stops circulating and his brain malfunctions as he tries to comprehend Jisung’s words. 

“What?” He manages to choke out. 

Jisung seems to be looking up at him thoughtfully. 

“I heard you. And I--I love you too.” He finishes, and his voice cracks because he’s still raspy. 

Minho shakes his head. 

“Jisungie, you’re probably delirious, I--”

“I know what I’m saying. And I also know I’m doing this.” 

Jisung reaches up, cups Minho’s face, and kisses him gently. His lips taste like ramen soup and they’re dry and chapped, but it’s perfect. Minho thinks he pulls away far, far too soon. 

He’s speechless when Jisung let’s go and gives him a tired smile. 

“Okay?” He rasps, and Minho beams. 

Beams bright and nods fast, faster than he’s ever moved before. 

“Perfect.” 

He doesn’t care that he’ll probably get sick too when he steals more kisses later on that night. 

“We’ll worry about it later,” he says when Jisung tries to push him away. 

Needless to say, Minho ends up sick in bed the day after with a mostly recovered Jisung and a smug smile droning on about how he told him so. 

But it’s like fire when their lips meet, with the promise of together and forever. 

Minho coughs when he pulls away. 

It started with a cough.  And it ended with a cough. But this time, accompanied by a kiss. 

Even miserable, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

(word count: 2.7K) requests open, tell me what you think! <3 

-rose 

[tirasiantrouper]

Soon

Soon.

Whoever came up with the word soon? It was timeless, yet used to give some measure of time. The very word now grated on Sarah's nerves as she had drawn on clothes and boots. She had 'borrowed' one of Merrick's sweaters. It was big and bulky enough to make Sarah look a bit frumpy. To help her blend in a bit.  She had opted to not paint on her usual eye-catching shade of ruby red lipstick. Whatever she could do to not draw attention to herself. As she stumbled and bumbled about the docks of Freehold, she'd ask here and there on if people had seen anything out of sorts.

Uncomfortable.

That was another word she cursed. She hated that it was accurate for her. She felt uncomfortable, exposed, standing out on the docks, trying to get some form of heading on where to begin looking for Merrick and Graham. After some time she had at least figured out which direction the nearest tavern was in. That would be a good place to check, she reasoned. And yet...

Taverns in Freehold were more like lamplights.

There was one, or more, for every street corner -- often stacked one upon the other. The nearest tavern to their particular dockhead was a rather boring affair named the ‘Colorful Carnation’. True to its name, the sign which swung in the sea-breeze was carved into the shape of a blooming flower. Outside stood a great-many manner of men and women, all seaside sorts who were drinking and smoking, even at the afternoon hour.

To misfortune perhaps, none appeared to be a gargantuan foreman nor finely-tailored director. The great expanse of the patrons visible were all rough-and-tumble, salty sorts who looked inquiring for a place to spend their voyage’s pay.

Sarah had her eyes peeled, looking for both of them, but mostly looking for Merrick as she was sure to notice him in a crowd before Graham. Something about his size, she figured, would make him stand out. She made her way towards the gathered group, trying to peer through the  crowd of them to see what the kerfuffle was. All the while, cursing and grumbling under her breath. It had been hours. Merrick knew she gave them two.

Kerfuffles were many and a-plenty, it seemed.

“Oooh -- ooh, I see what yer’ game is boy! You really gonna go ahead and try to swap-a-swindle on me? No, no -- no no. Come on, you really wanna have me chewin’ up your backside from here to fuckin’ Tel Abim? Gimme the doubloons, swabbie.”

“Okay -- I can see you are upset. I feel your energy, and I am putting good energy back. But … the thing is … these are my doubloons. See, you did bet them against my hand -- and now, see, I’ve won that hand. So under all the laws of Gods, Fortune and Men, these are my doubloons.”

There appeared to be a rather profound argument on the outer deck of the Colorful Carnation regarding a particular hand of cards. A brutish, thick-jawed sailor bearing a red-dyed tricorne was arguing his loss of wealth with a svelte, rather dapper -- and handsome, by some measure -- one-eyed man with a gilded eyepatch.

Freehold. It never changed.

As attractive as one might have been, those weren't her men. Therefore they weren't hers to mind about. Especially given she was certain at least one of them was unscrupulous in their sea-faring ways. Even if the argument reminded her of a certain illusionist. That reminder only served to make her frown, remembering why she was there.

Onto the next tavern! Slinking away as best she could, to avoid the crowd and the fight going on behind her, Sarah tugged her-- well, Merrick's-- sweater closer around herself.

The great expanse of Freehold’s ramshackle streets was vast.

There were no shortage of taverns, sea-side spitting houses, ‘breweries’, and pubs. Perhaps a few square feet of the entirety of Freehold was not built for the express intention of putting liquor into the bloodstreams of sailing sorts. It was that kind of a town.

With no defining marks, and a far -- far -- too big garment wrapped around her, Sarah did not poke out. Amongst the peoples of Freehold, cause for ‘catcalling’ was as broad as physiology could abide. Men, women, and all else got the side-eye and a hoot-and-holler from various sorts. The afternoon as it was did not hold so ripe a contest of maritime debauchery as surely would come about by nightfall. Fortuitous, as it were.

Beyond the din of many sailors cavorting, arguing, and fist-fighting with one another -- there came a sound. It was small, given the surrounding cries and yells, but it seemed to be coming from deeper down a corner alleyway.

“-- in good faith. And now? Look, look what you’ve done. -- Ah! Ah, no. No. That was all you, Cal. Do not try to assuage you and your boys embarrassment on account of my behavior. I was nothing but genial until they drew.”

That was a sense of familiarity. The voice and the confident attitude, and the 'genial' nature of it all.

Sarah crept closer, and turned to lean about at the end of the alleyway, within hearing distance, but around the corner so as to not be seen. She did her best to make it look like she was just another Freehold Free-person lingering about, wasting time outside of the building. She felt around inside of Merrick's pockets, trying to find something that could resemble a smoke. Not that she knew the foreman to smoke, but it would have been useful. Even just the gesture of searching for a smoke to discover she had 'forgotten' it elsewhere would do to any passerbys while she eavesdropped.

To her chagrin, there was no ‘smoke’. There was, however, a ringlet of measuring spoons. They still held the gentle dust of cinnamon from the last tray of muffins Merrick had baked at the estate. Indeed, there was also a bundled up tea-towel which retained the scent of whatever blend he had mixed together to help ease Graham’s hangovers. Curious man, their foreman.

Down the alleyway, there were a variety of peculiar shopfronts. Most were empty in the afternoon -- unsavory sorts, perhaps. But the end of the alleyway was a tavern. Or something approximating a tavern. There was a bar, and grog behind it, so -- tavern.

But in the briny expanse of ‘street’ ahead of that tavern, stood a man in quite a lovely charcoal suit. It was somewhat marred by apparent physicality. There was an imprint of dust on the rear, where a hand had apparently tried to take hold of him. He grasped a cane in his left hand, tip pointed downward at an angle befitting a fencing saber rather than a walking appendage. Five men lay prone around him.

A sixth man, quite unfortunate, was being held by his ankle by a mammoth of a man standing beside the well-tailored gentleman. He was stumbling over his words, bumbling and making some plea which amounted to, ’please, please-please put me down!’

Past the commotion, stood another man. Less well-dressed, but wearing the same sense of quiet confidence as the cane-wielder.

Sarah had to duck her head to hide her smirk as she heard something along the lines of someone pleading to be put down. She knew without looking-- that was Merrick's doing. Still, she listened, trying to gauge the rest of the scenario and whether or not she was needed or could even be of use. At least, she reasoned, it didn't sound as if either of them were harmed. Yet.

No one -- bar the five men unconscious, and the one held aloft -- appeared harmed.

“Now … is there a particular reason you decided to throw your goons at me, Cal? Or have you simply gotten so incredibly doughy in your old age that you rely on these upstart young gentleman to protect you from similarly ancient friends?” A quirk of a smile ate through the tone of Graham’s voice, loud enough to still be heard down the alley. He had lungs.

The man opposite him, ‘Cal’ apparently, spoke in a harsher tone. His voice was marred with the rasp common to habitual smokers. But in a handsome fashion, as if he had a long go at some back-room lounge singing. Not an untoward tone, all considered.

“Forgive me, Ellingham. When a ghost decides to come haunting on a sunny afternoon, you have to be sure its real -- you understand. My dearest apologies,” the man brought his hands up, fingers pinched together and wiggling in sincerity. “What can I do for you .. ?”

“Unfortunately my cause for visitation comes in two words, Cal. ‘Ignacio Mordrey’.”

That seemed to quirk the man’s brow.

“Oh. And here I thought I’d have a nice afternoon, enjoy a nap, slay a half-snifter of brandy. Alright -- come in. And I hope if that is your young man down the street, that you did not teach him to be so unsubtle.” From down the alleyway, ‘Cal’ threw a glance toward Sarah.

Young man?! Sarah had to bite on her tongue to keep from vocalizing that offense. Perhaps it was compliment that her attempt to be frumpy had succeeded so well.

Still-- young man?!

‘Thump!’

The man whom Merrick had been holding in precarious aeriality fell to earth. He scampered away quite quickly, seemingly afeared of the enormous man who once grasped him. At the mention of ‘young man’, the foreman peeked over to see -- Sarah.

A little frown colored his face, creasing them as he observed her. A mutter escaped, “.. Are’b that m’sweater? … “

Graham was not so unsubtle, merely casting a momentary glance over one shoulder. He beheld Sarah easily, well-accustomed to the glint of her eyes and the swell of her lips. As he came back around to look at ‘Cal’, he rolled his eyes.

“... Yes, unfortunately that is my young man. A ward of an old colleague, you understand. Have to take care of him. I promise he will not be a burden in your home. -- Please, lead on. You were just about to tell me about the recent state of affairs with the ‘Devil Ignacio’ .. ?”

As he spoke, Graham came forward with his cane finally utilized for its genuine purpose, rather than bludgeoning poor young men. ‘Cal’ and Graham went ahead and entered the tiny tavern at the end of the street, with Merrick hanging back and waving at Sarah.

“Young MAN?” Sarah mouthed to Merrick, her face scrunched up in offense.

@thegreatgrahamellingham

[unimpressedperson]

Jackpot | pt. 2

(Found this picture in @youthstuffs , thank you for posting it)

Genre: Fluff and Crack, I guess…

Warnings: None

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x @taesbetch , Kim Namjoon x Reader

Word Counting: 4.7k

Synopsis: Nya spent her whole life in Las Vegas, she would never imagine that local knowledge would ever be useful. However, her vision changed when Kim Seokjin appeared and introduced her to a few friends, film producers, whose needed guidance through Las Vegas underrated places for a movie. She agreed in working for them, and in that moment none of their lives would ever be the same. What happens in Vegas, not always has to be kept in Vegas.

A/N: Heeeeeeeey Nya!! Finally the second part is on! Late, but not gone. Guuurl! It’s a bit more romantic chapter, yet I used it to discuss LGBT culture more further. I’m really proactive in the LGBTQ+ community and want to talk about it, since I feel a lack of queers characters with voice, personality and opinion on oneshots and fanfics here. Since it’s not properly turned to that public, I tried to mingle the storyline a bit. Hope you enjoy it :) forgive any grammar mistakes.

- x - x - x - x -

It was 3 a.m, whilst some cities around the world were down to nest and rest, Las Vegas wouldn't stop. Nighttime is their time. Everything worked after midnight, entertainment would never lack after midnight. Clubs, bars, pubs, casinos, diners, stores, nothing stopped when moon reached its peak.

Therefore, Nya defined “Paris” as the last stop. Everyone was tired and almost falling asleep. Jungkook bought new underwear at a Walmart, but decided to keep on using his new skirt. Namjoon and Yoongi took a short nap whilst being driven to “Paris”. Hoseok chugged two cans of Red Bull and feeling like his blood turned into electricity, at any moment he could grow wings and fly, or float like a balloon.

Paris was a Drag Queen club. Specifically Nya's favourite. A few from her favourite childhood memories were made there. Sequins, feathers, leotards, wigs, astounding makeup, gorgeous dresses, pump music, lip syncs, dances and fun, a whole lot of fun and caring people looking after a very young Nya. No one would ever understand completely the bond she shared with most performers inside there. They raised Nya.

The cab dropped them in front of a bright purple building, windows fully painted in black, a glass door allowing outsiders to see blinking lights, a woman dressed in suit and tie as door guard, even though a velvet rope could be seen, there was no waiting line.

Nya got closer to the guard and after a few minutes of talking, which neither one of the sleepy men registered, they were allowed in.

Ok, let’s begin with saying what’s a Ball, then the story can keep going.

A Ball organized by and for drag queens is outstandingly different from a School Ball. According to the most entertaining and famous documentary about drag queens in late 70s and 80s, as known as Paris is Burning, Ball is basically a competition where drag queens put together looks based on a previously defined theme. Sewing, glueing, buying and creating, everything can go. There is a runway to catwalk and judges, also they perform lip syncs (some even are included and count points, something in RuPaul’s Drag Race style). The winner receives a trophy or money as prize.

Nya was a clever woman, so she chose specifically a day where Paris had a Ball happening. Nothing screams queer culture as a ball.

When the group got in, a loud music by Nicki Minaj blasted from every sound box, colourful flashlights and spotlights were focused on one corner of the room, where a table covered with a silk fabric, three drag queens (Hoseok recognized one of them as being Jasmine Masters) as judges. One competitor was catwalking with a revealing outfit completed by a tiger leotard, knee-high black boots, a straightened blonde wig and a mixture of pink and black makeup. Stunning.

While Nya marched animatedly going straight to the backstage, Namjoon, Yoongi and Jungkook now were wide awake again. A lot of colours and people, all sort of wearing the most creative clothings ever saw. Some of them weren’t even in drag.

The backstage consisted in thick velvet curtains, hiding from the public's eye a mess of sparkly accessories and huge wigs, clothes and heels, some of them higher than Nya's calves. Observing everything through openings, a person tall and clearly important, with well sewed dress and expensive shoes, exhaling respect from all pores covered in layers of make up.

— Guys, this is the first, the best and the only Honey Dejour. - Nya hugged tightly someone dressed in a black and sparkly long gown, huge jewelry around her neck and wrists, high-heels, a brown wavy wig, arched high brows, black cut crease, a lot of golden highlighter and red lipstick. She held the smaller woman and kissed the top of her head, nodding at them right after. - Those are the people I’m guiding today, Kim Namjoon, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok and Jeon Jungkook. They are film producers, aunt. They want to film here and are willing to pay for it.

— Hi guys, nice to meet you. Hope no one here is banging with my kittygirl. - Honey had a very bass voice, which intimidated them, except for Hoseok. - Just kidding, she could really make the use of some dick. She’s been single for a very long time.

— AUNT! - Nya looked to the ground flustered.

— Nice to meet you, Ms.Dejour, I’m Min Yoongi. What exactly is happening tonight? - Yoongi questioned, still astonished by everything around.

— Tonight we are hosting the annual “Glamour Awards Ball”, and I’m the hostess. In a few minutes I’ll go there and announce the next category. - Dejour was almost two heads taller than Yoongi, which wasn’t small himself. - By the way, I loved your skirt… Namjoon?

— Thank you, and no, I’m Jungkook. - He shook hands with Honey.

The group kept a small talk, Honey having fun with them. Namjoon and Nya were lost watching the queens catwalking with stunning leotards. He was curious about her life, and looking for a way of asking what’s been bugging him the whole night.

— Nya, if it’s not crossing the line between professional and personal talk, how do you know that many people? - The purple-haired man asked, trying to sound chill.

— Well, it’s not professional, but I don’t care. - Nya turned to him, but looking at his neck, not straight on eyes. - I know them because of my father. See, not everyone can live off of their dreams, and my daddy was one of those people. He was a genius comedian, kind of like an underground Jerry Lewis. I never got to meet my mother, so I was raised by him and most people you guys met tonight. Also, I lived my whole life in Las Vegas so it’s something like my neighbourhood.

“Whilst my father did his stand up sessions, sometimes he dropped me with friends. Most times it was here, in Paris. Honey Dejour is basically a mother. If I’m someone with so many connections it’s because I had a gypsy life. During day at school, ‘cuz daddy worked as bartender in Caesar’s Palace, comedy at night shift. He never reached the big casinos popularity level and gave up, but he was so funny. Never had his thunder, though. That’s why I want you guys to help my friends, so they won’t give up as well.”

— Whoa. It’s quite personal, thank you for sharing. - Namjoon smiled at her, showing dimples and a bright set of teeth.

— You shared a bit of your life with me as well. - Nya felt her heart melt a little everytime Namjoon smiled, specially at her directly.

They kept staring at each other, getting closer, as if a magnetic force attracted them. Hands touched and pinkies intertwined, but before they could kiss, Jungkook pulled Namjoon’s arm and yelled gladly.

— HONEY AGREED IN HELPING US GET IN DRAG!

— Great, but what does it have to do with me? - Namjoon raised one eyebrow already sensing the danger.

— You are getting in drag too, dumbass. - Yoongi grunted, a bit thwarted. Apparently Jungkook convinced him of accepting, not something voluntary.

— Oh Lord, give me strength. - Namjoon felt zero comfortable with the idea of using high-heels.

— Stop praying! You are an atheist. - Hoseok said, also pumped up like Jungkook.

— I don't see why dragging me up would be necessary. - Namjoon shrugged shoulders, not looking straight at anyone. - It should be something only for those who really want, and is capable of living it fully.

— How can you direct and show emotions from something you never tried? - Nya touched his shoulder lightly. - Maybe feeling like Moonchild for a while will help you to understand its essence.

— In other words. Don't knock it till you try it. - Yoongi, still not fully into the idea, tried to drag his friend to it. Perhaps, some motivation would bring them to the joy of snatching new experiences.

Namjoon still took a while to accept. Honey went and announced the next category before going back and receiving a half hearted smile from Kim Namjoon. Don't knock it till you try it, his brain repeated incessantly.

— I will do it, only for the experience. - He shook hands with Honey Dejour, as if making a business deal. - Hopefully I'll a pretty lady.

— With your body structure, I can make Liu Wen beg you for exercise tips, baby. - Honey blinked and pulled Namjoon by the hand previously shook.

- x - x - x - x -

“Category is… Streetstyle Drag” - Honey Dejour announced and the crowd applauded, some cheering, others singing and dancing to the song playing. Hoseok spinned like a ballerina, body straight and firm, spine erect, right leg tensioned enough to gather force and balance, whilst the left stood in a hook shape, arms in first position. His muscle memory never failing in reminding how to move. Jungkook received his idol title, but it doesn’t mean he was the only one aiming for that. Jung Hoseok tried and failed, no agency accepted his appliance tapes.

Although, art was a passion. Regardless of what type. Hoseok lived a whole life of drama, repressing, gargantuan levels of conservatism, a tall and skinny bisexual boy who spent his free time dancing, defying every narrow-minded in Gwangju and their stupid retrograde thoughts. The count itself had always been perspiting art and conceiting themselves for something their citizens fought, died and conquered over 30 years before, however when living off dancing, singing, painting or whatever, went from the core and not only a job, the reprimand could lead people into killing themselves.

Hoseok spent a lifetime of frustrations. When his last video for YG Entertainment was sent back with a denial e-mail, he decided to try another types of art. Working part-time as a street dance teacher and spending every coin received with art supply, he met a cinema student interested in painting: the rich and underestimated Kim Taehyung.

Jung would never forget how ethereal Taehyung seemed to be, on his expensive brown coat with fur, tight jeans and white Chuck Taylors. The lights formed a halo around his head, making the brown strands shine. What a first impression. By contrast, Hoseok with a plaid blue shirt, t-shirt stained with tint, sweatpants and overused Nike Airshots, gave a very endearing vision of him.

Once they finally began talking to each other, then it never stopped. Taehyung and Hoseok got along very well, similar interests made their bond grow stronger everyday, also Jung understood some aspects of Kim which no one even tried.

Taehyung was rich, therefore had everything but the essential: happiness. Nothing expensive bought was ever with his own money, every ounce and dime belonged to his family. Decided to drop off his parents command, Kim began working as an art teacher and even gaining only a few Wongs per week, living off of it felt amazing. Independence felt amazing.

Hoseok understood why buying cheap art supply and eating Cup Noodles made the younger man feel fulfilled, and decided to help, moved from his parents home and rented a small apartment with Taehyung.

It took them only a few weeks until they were making out on the couch, but a few months to definitely engage in a relationship. Hoseok and Taehyung attended the same college, and after graduating, keep on living in Korea, specifically in Gwangju, felt like a waste of time.

Moving to London was the last time Taehyung touched his inherited money.

Hoseok and Taehyung met Yoongi during a LGBT Parade in London. They got along pretty well, even both clearly representing the total opposite in comparison with Yoongi’s personality. They were fun and talented, after speaking to Namjoon, hiring them seemed the right thing to do.

Writing a script about LGBT folks, searching about Queer culture and being able to experience it, every single second of it felt like a dream to Hoseok. His younger self would never imagine walking in heels, dress and being characterized as a drag queen. Living in Gwangju limited his perception of world, but now, staring at himself in a mirror and checking how his eyeliner was lit, impossible situations felt like lack of vision. He envisioned Moonchild afterall.

Regardless of how happy he felt so far, Taehyung being there would only improve it all. However someone had to stay in London and take care of business. Their democratic way of deciding stuff (a.k.a rock, scissor, paper) established that Kim Taehyung, Park Jimin, Jade and Emerson were the ones chosen to stay.

Spinning again, Hoseok felt how every fiber from the fabric held his figure, anchoring himself to reality. He was wearing a mid-length light-blue dress, a flowy kind of fabric, white high-heels and pantyhose. Of course he tucked (something no one imagined he knew how to do, except for Taehyung and Jimin, who were there when Jung did it for the first time and, of course, showed up at their living room looking like an eunuch), covered his eyebrows with glue and powder. Practicing what was learnt during 10 seasons of RuPaul’s Drag Race.

Whilst Hoseok was having an internal realization, Yoongi gave up on dressing up and decided to use his own clothes, but still kept the wig and makeup. He was looking good with black eyeliner, mascara, contour and purple lipstick, also the curly, long black wig really made him taller.

Jungkook tried to fit himself in a corsage, but failed, so kept his skirt and put on a white cropped, plus a pair of 10cm high heels. He indeed looked good, makeup on point, killing eyelashes and a long black wig (“Do I look like Park Bom?”).

Honey Dejour wasn’t lying when she promised to make Namjoon look pretty, but Nya could never imagine how gorgeous the result would be.

After a lot of work, Namjoon showed up in a long red dress, topped with a silk kimono and red heels, making the already tall man look like Empire State Building. Honey decided to make him embrace his facial shape, so a short black wig was chosen. Every trace and detail planned to highlight his features.

— Damn it, Namjoon! I think I’m attracted to you! - Yoongi exclaimed.

— Shut up, Yoonji. - Namjoon felt his face getting warm, glad that all layer of makeup made him look unfazed. - By the way, now I’m Sailor Joon.

— Did you just name yourself after Sailor Moon? C’mon sis, I’m the nerd one! I’m Sailor Kook! - Jungkook protested profusely.

— Why are you guys fighting? There are plenty of Sailors in that cartoon. You guys can both be Sailor Joon and Kook. - Nya rolled her eyes in a condescending way. - I’m sure Yoonji and Jay Hope agree with me.

— Since you named me, now I’m your drag daughter. - Hoseok giggled and wrapped one of his arms around Nya’s shoulder. - Hi momma!

— Only over my dead body! - Honey showed up, carrying brown paper bags with their clothings, throwing them at its respective owner. - I’m your drag mom, Jay Hope. I built you, I reclaim you. And Jungkook, you are Scarlet Kook, Sailor Kook sounds like a brand of breakfast cereals, and I’m for sure not hosting a Cap’n’ Crunch realness Ball.

After discussing and complimenting each other’s look, Honey Dejour decided they should catwalk as well (“I didn’t sweat and put four grown men in drag for nothing. I gotta exhibit my work”). So she pulled Nya outside the backstage, bringing a chair with her, the woman was now a judge. The music stopped because a new category was about to be announced.

— Category is… - Honey stared straight at the backstage. - First Time in Drag Realness. I introduce my newborn daughter, Scarlet Kook!

When “Sissy That Walk by RuPaul” began playing, Jungkook walked from behind the curtains, hips swaying from left to right, feeling himself again and being applauded. Of course, his legs were tense, and visually speaking, he looked a bit insecure up on high heels, yet Jeon Jungkook nailed his catwalk, loving every second of it: the lights, the cheers, the feeling.  At the backstage, his heart pounded against ribcage, almost climbing its way up to his throat.

— Every mother has a rebel daughter. Oh believe me, I have a whole bunch of them. - The music was lowered so Honey could speak. - Now, please applaud my other newborn daughter, Min Yoonji!

The music got louder again. Yoongi opted for not strut, fearing the fall and how humiliating it would be, mainly with so many eyes focused on him. Why did he agreed on it anyways? Even not being a proper catwalk, the way he walked down and stopped in front of the judge’s table fitted his description: a rebel daughter. The cheers flustered him, yet it was a nice experience.

— Please prepare your hearts and hold your wigs, ladies, ‘cuz my daughter ain’t here to play. - Honey Dejour smiled bright to a camera taking pictures around and got back to her role as hostess. - I give you… JAAAAAY HOPE!

“Crazy In Love by Beyoncé” began playing and Hoseok left the backstage channeling his inner diva. Hips swaying, one foot after other, wig moving with the wind. Jay Hope was fierce, gorgeous and confident. The dress flowing and spotlights making everything almost divine. Walking down the runway and being applauded brought a pack of mixed emotions.

Jung Hoseok felt loved and accepted.

Not that his friends and gay community in London never loved him, but for the first time being bisexual, enjoying arts and being his grinning, delicate self felt truly right. Hoseok hated stereotypes and how people assumed stuff about him out of his preferences, so for a good part of his days on earth were wasted trying to prove ‘em wrong. Yes, I’m bisexual and date another man, but I don’t do ballet and don’t use skirts. After walking down the catwalk, all his pre-concepts about being LGBT in a mutable world changed.

Why prove everyone is wrong, when they are clearly right? They are right, but it doesn’t mean it’s wrong. They are wrong for thinking it’s right to reduce people based on their sexuality, hobbys, abilities, etc.

As Lady Gaga said in Born This Way: “Don't hide yourself in regret. Just love yourself and you're set. I'm on the right track, baby. I was born this way”.

In the end, getting in drag proved to be more than just a costume, or a persona, it was a whole political statement.

Jung Hoseok was loving himself.

After arriving back behind the thick curtains, Hoseok felt tears stream down his face. Moments of output, everyone should have one of these. It’s amazing to finally realize and accept something about yourself, once you do it, regardless of what it is, then other aspects of your life slowly adapts to your new vision.

— Last, but not least, I introduce you my newborn daughter. - Honey grinned slightly at how Nya’s face lit up with expectation. - She is tall, she is gorgeous, she is smart and she snatches hearts. I give you… Sailor Joon!!

Perhaps Honey planned it beforehand while teaching Namjoon how to tuck (by the way, he felt like his balls were in his stomach, but still found it a useful skill). In the moment she finished speaking, “I Am The Best by 2NE1” began playing and Sailor Joon decided to try walking in the rhythm. Halfway through the runway, feeling his legs shaking and sweating dumps because of how much effort was put only in walking.

Kim Namjoon, a grown ass man, empathized with babies learning how to walk.

The heels were high and hard to keep stead, his legs were long and couldn’t be seen under the dress, so Namjoon could only feel them touching each other. Beside not being able to see where he was stepping. Is that the right equation to a concussion? Absolutely.

Even lasting only a few minutes, it felt like hours of walking and when Namjoon finally attained himself to the judge’s table, his legs somehow tangled on each other and his fall was almost epical. If Homer witnessed Kim Namjoon nosediving from the top of 12cm high heels, he would probably write a rhapsody about it. A tall building being demolished, that’s what watching him hitting the cold hard ground felt like.

Namjoon saw his legs going up and suddenly his head crashing against the wooden floor. Everything blacked out for a few seconds, maybe of embarrassment or because the fall was actually titanic. Honey and Nya showed up to help him getting on his feet again and also guided him to backstage, where Jungkook wrapped an arm around hyung. The woman also sneaked behind him and found a chair under piles of fabrics, sitting him down and watching the way Kim propped his head back and covered his face with one hand, mouth still tasting like blood.

— I want an alcohol beverage and pretend I don’t exist. I’d really appreciate if everyone respected my final demands.- Namjoon babbled, still feeling his mind spinning. - Also, some ice would be great.

— Let me grab the drink and some ice. - Yoongi wisely offered, since he was the only one not wearing heels.

Five minutes and not a word was spoken. Honey Dejour had to stay and announce the winners from every category. Everyone stared at Namjoon looking like he fought with his heels and was defeated. Still ashamed and cursing at himself for what occurred. Yoongi emerged from the crowd holding a glass with whiskey and ice in a plastic bag.

Sipping on the whiskey and holding the bag of ice over the new wound. Heels left aside, he wanted to burn them, but since it belonged to Honey Dejour, only taking off seemed decent enough.

After half an hour, Yoongi, Hoseok and Jungkook went outside to party, leaving Nya and Namjoon alone. Still silent, absorbing the fall, the rise and the whiskey.

— How’s your head? - Nya asked, sitting on the ground beside Namjoon, one of her hands leaning over his clothed knee.

— I haven’t had any complaints. - Namjoon replied grinning, still a bit grumpy, but the alcohol was soothing his pain away. Or was it the ice?

They stood there, smiling and silently appreciating each other’s company. Even though the song was making his head latches a little, he would never ruin the night for everyone else. Staying there and drinking something was good enough. Also Namjoon had zero intention of leaving the backstage, not after almost staining the wood with his brain and blood.

Namjoon’s hand slided from his chest and reached for Nya’s one. They held hands and stared at each other for a while. She wanted to kiss him, but making him fall again would be cruelty [ha, pun intended!]. Odds seemed to be at her favour, ‘cuz after a few more seconds, himself bent down, the fingers previously intertwined, now holding her chin lightly and their lips connected in a liplock.

Fireworks! Party! Confetti! Nya wanted to jump and punch fists in the air, but enjoying the moment felt more appropriate. Slowly, lips opened and tongues connected, however, Namjoon’s position wasn’t quite comfortable so he got back up, but smiling at her. Dimples, those dimples!

They instinctively stood on their feet, the bag of ice being left aside. His cold hand made Nya feel goosebumps, but her arms still wrapped around Namjoon’s waist, whilst his hands held her face. They kissed once again, now actually losing themselves and allowing mouths to open, tongues to tangle and hormones flowing freely.

Such a romantic moment, which was interrupted by Yoongi, Jungkook and Hoseok coming back cackling. Namjoon and Nya separated, pretending to be doing nothing, however Min Yoongi saw and looked at his friend with disapproval.

— What time is it now? - Nya questioned, hands stucking on her back pockets.

— Almost six in the morning. - Yoongi checked his phone quickly, and stared at Namjoon again. - I think it’s time for us to conclude the night and head back to hotel. I’m exhausted and Sailor Joon is probably needing some pain killers. We can go check thrift shops during afternoon.

— I agree. - Nya saw Jungkook and Hoseok pouting.

They returned the outfits to Honey Dejour, traded phone numbers (business still was a priority) and left, stopping a cab.

- x - x - x - x -

The group arrived at the hotel. Hoseok and Jungkook went to their shared room, Yoongi and Namjoon did the same, but the humour was catastrophically different between both groups. One was tired and sleepy, the other was tense and in verge of a discussion.

The rooms were big. Two double beds, cotton fiber bed sheets, fluff pillows and thick duvets. There was a bathroom, one wardrobe filled with towels, shampoos, conditioners, soaps (both liquid and bar). The television was big and connected on internet, so the lodgers could watch Netflix or Youtube.

Namjoon entered the bedroom and headed straight to the bathroom, bringing a towel and his pajamas. Taking a long time and leaving a trade of steam out of it, he laid down under the duvet, but Yoongi told him to stay awake. Apparently they had something to talk about.

— Man! It’s not right! - Yoongi yelled at Namjoon. - You can’t date someone, not while we have the fucking rope ready to hang us!

— What? Now I can’t make out with someone? It’s not like I’m proposing to Nya! We kissed! - Namjoon was sitting on his bed, using Ryan pajamas, ready to sleep, but still arguing with Yoongi. - We met in person 12 hours ago, I'm not in love or obsessed with her!

— You are not in love with her YET! Beside, I would extract your brain through the nose and yeet it in a trash can if you somehow fell for someone in 12 hours of wandering around Las Vegas! - The man felt really frustrated, his temples almost visually pulsing. - You can fuck with every single human being around Las Vegas, and I wouldn’t care! I’m not your dick! But Nya is our guide, she is working for us! Also, you are getting attached, but know pretty well how things will turn! - Yoongi was also sitting on his own bed, common white pajamas and wet hair. - You are not the kind of guy who dates someone! You have affairs and get tired! I know you for a decade, man! I’m sick of seeing you dumping people and becoming grumpy! That project we are searching for places to film is important. It can save our finances! But if you get involved now, the break up will probably happen one week before we start filming. Everytime it happens, the movie becomes shitty because of your humour! And Kim Namjoon, I swear, I won’t allow you to ruin this. Not this time!  Not after your dramatical break up with Barbara and the critics detonating our movie. Hoseok and Taehyung worked way too hard on that script, only for your horny ass not pay a jot attention to it!

— Go fuck yourself, Yoongi! - Namjoon had nothing to say. Yoongi was right, he knew it, but would never admit it. Never in a million years.

— You fucking know I’m right! - Yoongi pronounced harshly, drops of spit flying from his mouth. - If you end up getting into Nya now, you are going to make a shitty movie after breaking up! You surrender yourself easily, and I don’t care most times, but after our last movie, we need to have you 100% focused.

— I’m focused. I was the only one not punchy! I accepted to be dressed up! I’m 100% into the project! I could marry and divorce someone, that it wouldn’t affect how I’m going to direct! - Namjoon was now spitting too, with rage and frustration. - You, Min Yoongi, are not the only one worried sick about finances and hating the idea of possibly working for some cocky entrepeuner with a big company.

— If you for yourself don’t stop hitting on Nya, then I’ll end it myself. - Yoongi assumed a gloomy expression, his body language screaming discomfort, with a hand covering his face, legs moving incessantly and ears getting red. - I ain’t gonna allow you and your romantic ass to ruin my career, business and life.

— You are preposterous. - Namjoon whispered in disappointment and laid down again, covering his head with the duvet, finishing their argument in the most childish way possible.

To be continued...

[fmdnamwoo]

✘ deadly dull

synopsis: this basically describes in great length how namwoo deals with the progression of his grandmother’s disease post-debut (aka anything after what’s mentioned in his bio); alternatively: a collection of memories of his family from 2012 to 2019 word count: 2806 warnings: Alzheimer’s disease is mentioned in name or symptoms a lot, brief allusions to death (though no one’s died yet)

April 2012 When Namwoo calls home the first time after his official broadcast debut, his grandmother tells him she has food on the stove. Dakgaejang – his favorite. Her voice and the mental images her words conjure up paired with the mix of elation and utter exhaustion he carries underneath his skin are almost enough to make him tear up, so he gladly allows her do most of the talking while he only hums at appropriate times to let her know he's still listening; he always is. Nothing would ever be quite as relaxing as the weathered voice of the woman whose arms had held him when all others had pushed him away, and her steady ramblings about the impossible state her garden is in (even though he knows it looks immaculate because there's never been a time it hasn't) have almost lulled him to sleep when the blaring of an alarm on the other end startles him back to attention, back into a sitting position like it was somehow his responsibility to intervene.  “Grandma?”, he asks cautiously, as if even the slightest change in intonation, the faintest trace of tension in his voice could harm her. “Goodness, I got so caught up in my story, I forgot all about the food. Silly me!”, she replies with such pointed collectedness, Namwoo has to pause to listen for any holes in her composure and still discovers only a slight irregularity in her breathing pattern that he has a hard time interpreting one way or another. Had he not known any better, he might have chalked it up to the many things his grandmother has lived through that made her into the woman he knows today – that nothing can rattle her so easily because she's seen it all a hundred times before. But he does know better. He knows that the reason this doesn't faze her is because it's the third time this exact thing happened – the third time this month. (Two of those, she doesn't remember.)

July 2013 This year is busier than the last, and Knight's career has at no point been anywhere near slow, so Namwoo is beyond grateful he gets the evening off to visit home despite their impending comeback, just days away now. Anticipation burns in the tips of his fingers as he taps them against the stark white wall of his grandmother's house while he waits for her to open the door, which is taking her surprisingly long. Not that Namwoo ever really counted, but he does have a rough number of heartbeats he remembers passing every time before the door swings open with too much force for so small a woman to exude. Eventually, it does open – slowly, almost tentatively, like there's something to hide he could spot if the gap was too wide. “Namwoo? I didn't expect you! You should have told me you were coming over,” his grandmother greets him as her features light up just as slowly, just as tentatively, and that's all it takes for him to realize what she's hiding. For a moment, he entertains the thought that she might be playing around with him, that this is all part of a grander surprise and he is about to fall for it, but the light he sees in her eyes is subdued by a smudge of grey fog he's come to know all too well, so he smiles as if to make up for it – here's all the warmth and light I have; take it, you can have it. I want you to have it. I need you to. I need you. “Do you know what day it is?”, he asks and finds that a carefree attitude is so hard to fake, the effort is almost enough to make him forget where the pauses between his words are supposed to go, like language and lies were two separate things – one a pristine art, the other what's left of it when everything that made it beautiful goes up in flames. “Tuesday? Why are you asking?”, she replies, in equal parts confused and agitated, and Namwoo can't bring himself to say anything in return. A gentle shake of his head is his only response, tongue wetting a bottom lip that isn't dry because she knows it's a sign of nerves on his end when he bites down on it and he doesn't want to worry her any further, so this is the closest he can get – because it's wrong, all of it.  He did tell her he was coming. It's Thursday. And it's his seventeenth birthday.   (Gone are the days he could pretend the memories she let go of were of little importance, that there was a conscious filter to what she kept and what she dropped. There is nothing fair about this.)

September 2015 It's been a long time coming. For years, he's known that something's wrong – something beyond his grandmother being a little ditzy, a little clumsy; something beyond the old age she used to complain about but stopped as soon as she saw the fatigue mirrored in his eyes. Sometimes, he wants her to complain again – to forget that he's busy and tired, that he might not be alone, and tell him all about the difficulties she faces in her day to day life so that he could at least somewhat be a part of it still. But she doesn't, and he knows the harder he pushes her for it, the stronger the walls she puts up – because his grandmother is more of a warrior than he'll ever be and she's fought too many battles to lose one to him. There are things she won't concede even as the small, everyday disputes with her own body turn into an all-out war. Therefore, it doesn't surprise him when it's not his grandmother who calls him when she needs him but the hospital, because at least he is her emergency contact despite it all. They tell him on the phone to stay calm, that nothing serious happened – she simply got lost and someone was kind enough to take her to a hospital to make sure she hadn't gotten injured prior or somewhere along the way, but Namwoo can't control the frantic rhythm his heart beats into his ribcage like it's searching for its way to get lost as well, like it has a right to be with her even when the rest of his body is busy working late. He doesn't dare asking a manager to drive him, doesn't even trust his voice to speak more than an explanation he wrote in his head before so he only has to read it out now because he knows he's incapable of forming coherent thoughts when people look at him with pity they don't even have the decency to conceal. Instead, he takes a cab and pretends his hands aren't trembling so badly, he struggles to open the door for a few moments. This is what the life of an idol has prepared him for: to wear his smile like a curtain and pretend there's nothing hiding behind it. The doctor is kind and takes his time to explain to the both of them the diagnosis – Alzheimer's disease –, and what that means 'for the family'. It's painfully obvious that he's handled multiple cases before and is going off of that; that usually, he deals with concerned children who ask their parents to move back in when they develop the first signs, and not some idol grandchild who lives in a dorm with far too many people and can't promise he can be home more than once every two weeks. What he takes away from it is this: there's no cure, there's no hope, only a vague time frame and stages of progression that will haunt him until they finally arrive and rob him of the family he has left. Still, Namwoo smiles and pulls his grandmother into his chest because she is crying and he can't remember a time she ever did so in front of him, which further cements his belief that it is now up to him to be the strong one, to be the grown-up, and look after her as she has done for him so many years.

That night, with his back pressed to the headboard of a bed he hasn't slept in in months, Namwoo dials a number he hasn't called in years. His father's. “It's me, Namwoo,” he reminds him as a way of greeting, because he isn't sure he'd remember him by voice alone. It's unlikely. “Grandma is sick. It's Alzheimer's disease. She isn't going to get any better, so I just wanted to let you know – maybe you should come visit sometime.” His father hangs up on him wordlessly and Namwoo swallows back disappointment barely there because he expected nothing else. When the next morning comes, he hasn't slept a wink but he's browsed every page on the internet Naver suggested, and the knowledge he's acquired has formed an iron weight he now carries on his chest every step that he takes, but as soon as he walks into the kitchen where his grandmother sits and scribbles down post-it notes for things she doesn't want to allow herself to forget, he puts on his smile again like it's just another part of a choreography he's memorized and perfected long ago. Fear was replaced by an eerie calm that surrounds him when he has something to keep himself occupied with, so he soon sets out to talk to the neighbors he used to see often when he was a child and still lived here – the ones he knows he can trust. An elderly couple with no children of their own seems almost glad he's come to them with this request, and they promise they'll stop by his grandmother's house at least once a day to check up on her whenever Namwoo is too busy to make it – so, realistically, most days. His grandmother is overjoyed he isn't sending her to a nursing home just yet, as the doctor offered.

January 2018 Even through his blurry vision – his level of overexertion is at an all-time high –, Namwoo can make out the newly formed creases in his grandmother's clothes where they used to fit her but don't anymore. Gradually, much too quickly, she's been losing weight and he's come to investigate why. Again, as always, his smile is in place and unwavering, because that's what he's vowed to be for her and he's never been one to break a promise, even if no one but him was witness to it.  “Who are you?”, she asks him wearily, not loosening the chain that keeps her door locked to most visitors nowadays, and Namwoo takes a deep breath as if those words didn't just rip something in him apart. Every memory of theirs she forgets tears a hole in the pictures he keeps like polaroids stored in his brain, and they bleed happiness until he forgets what it felt like. Was it like this, too? An illusion of strength he bears himself with that he means no more than lyrics a stranger thrusts into his hands to deliver to people who don't want to listen, only watch – with too much conviction and too little heart? “Namwoo, your grandson,” he replies, his tone light and easy. Nonchalant, almost, for he's certain she won't remember all the ways to see past appearances he puts up.  “Right! Namwoo, my boy. You changed your hair again, didn't you? That must be what confused me.”  “That must be it,” he humors her, though he hasn't changed it in months.

It's not hard to find the cause of her weight loss – a single peek into the fridge tells him she doesn't eat the food her neighbors bring over, or what he buys for her when he goes grocery shopping because she no longer can without getting lost or forgetting why she left the house in the first place. All containers are labeled – dates, every day of the week a different color –, and only random ones were opened, most not touched at all. There's only one conclusion this leads him to: she no longer remembers to eat. Has it already progressed this far? When he steps into the living room to confront her with his findings – gently, carefully, a mere inquiry instead of a possible accusation, though she doesn't take well to either anymore –, he sees her grow increasingly frustrated with the TV station that just won't change despite her animated button-pressing on the device in her hand.  “Grandma, you're holding the telephone,” he says and is surprised at the softness of his voice and how clearly fear shines through yet again. Her eyes dart from him to the phone in her hand and back to him before she dissolves into sobs and tears that don't stop until his shirt is soaked with them – and he still doesn't let go then.

That's when he makes the decision that something needs to change. It's simply no longer safe to let her spend most of her time on her own – not when she's no longer capable of taking care of even her most basic of needs reliably –, and yet he knows she'd prefer death by starvation to a nursing home, anyway. Hence he searches his recollections of all the pages he's browsed and remembers a particular service that he'd already taken into consideration back then: personal caregiver. Of course they're costly and it's not guaranteed his grandmother will take well to a stranger walking around her house like they belong there, but for someone who's all out of options, it's the best thing he can offer. (Does it make him a horrible person that he doesn't even consider trying to get out of his contract to care for her himself? It does, in his opinion, and he reminds himself of it every time he tries to fall asleep.)

Once more, he attempts to call his father to inform him of recent developments because Namwoo thinks he has a right to know – it's his mother, after all. Should they not be able to relate to one another at least over this – over the woman who raised them both slowly slipping away from them like a light flickering out, and with every flutter, they can only wonder if it might be her last? But he's barely a few seconds into his explanation when his father interrupts him with an angry huff. “What, you want money now? You earn plenty of it yourself.” “That's not what this is about at all,” he tries to reason, but at this point, he's only talking to the dial tone. Again.

April 2019 Whenever Knight get a break, the first thing Namwoo does is visit home. When every day could be his grandmother's last, he wants to spend as many as he can at her side and etch them into his memory as if filling his head with images of her could make up for the fact that her own is emptying out everything.  A gasp falls from his lips at the silhouette he spots on the porch – one he doubts he'll ever forget, even though he hasn't seen it in years. It's his father, in the flesh. When he turns around and their eyes meet, Namwoo expects him to spit venom again; he expects anger or not being acknowledged at all, because that had always been his fate (and infinitely worse), but what he sees instead is the same fear he's come to know so well as a permanent resident in his heart, and he realizes then he won't see his father come back again. The woman who opens the door wears a smile much like his – pasted on as a perfect façade to make sure no one spots what is beneath –, but she's pleasant enough and she manages to deal with his grandmother's mood swings while he isn't around, so Namwoo is eternally grateful for her efforts. It makes it easier that neither of them is willing to show emotion when she tells him that his grandmother has to wear diapers now; that most days, it takes her forever to form a sentence because language no longer comes together naturally. He's beyond glad she doesn't expect a reaction from him, because he doesn't know what to say or do. Acceptance feels a lot like burning oneself on a hot stovetop – it's numb in the moment, but ripples of pain continue to spread for a long time after, and Namwoo continues to smile through all of it.

[ibsul-jin]

Min-zero (part I)

Genre: enemies to lovers

Pairing: CEO!Mino x reader

Summary: Loosely based off of the Taiwanese drama “Refresh Man”. Roles are reversed when you start working as your high school nemesis’ personal assistant.

Word count: 1.7k (the next parts will hopefully be longer)

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Your eyes fly open and land on the alarm clock sitting on top of the beside table. It reads 5:30 am.

You rip off the covers and jump out of bed. “You still have 3 hours to be at the office ready for your first day of work. Perfect!” you think. Being the perfectionist you are, you already have all of your work clothes neatly ironed and hanging off the door to your bathroom. You quickly shower, straighten your hair, get dressed and eat a healthy breakfast of muesli and fruit before you’re out the door a whole hour before you need to be. “A perfect start to what will be a perfect day.”

You arrive outside the office building you’re supposed to be working in. It’s a 40-storey skyscraper with “WIN ENTERPRISES” in huge, gleaming letters at the very top. You stare up at the building, awe-struck, until you’re suddenly being slammed into from behind. You fall to the ground hard, and your handbag’s contents are scattered all over the pavement. You’re pretty sure you scraped your palms and knees judging from the sting, but you blink back any tears that threaten to ruin your makeup.

“I’M SO SORRY!” you hear from above you. The offender sticks out a hand to help you up to your feet. “I didn’t mean to run into you. I was just on the phone with my boss and he was threatening to fire me if I wasn’t in his office in five minutes. That’s why I was running so fast,” he explains. The man looked genuinely apologetic. He was probably around your age, you figured, with dark hair and puffy lips. “He’s pretty cute”, you think, “but there’s no room for distractions, Y/N. You’ve got to get your head in the game.”

“You look like you’re new here,” the man observes.

“Yes, it’s actually my first day,” you reply, smoothing out any creases that could’ve formed on your skirt and blazer.

“My name is Kang Seungyoon. I work for CEO Song,” he introduces himself with a handshake. “I really hope you don’t have the misfortune of meeting him.”

“I’m Y/N, nice to meet you. Song? I don’t think I’m supposed to be working for him. What a relief.” Luckily, your boss was an older gentleman named CEO Kim. He had interviewed you himself for the position of his personal secretary a few weeks ago and was extremely impressed with your resume and interview skills. That being said, you were sure that, if you had to, you would be able to handle Mr. Song- or whatever his name was. You always put your 200% into anything you did and no boss ever disliked you, ever. Especially any man over the age of 65; the grandfather types, like Kim and Song, always found you well-mannered and charming.

“Well, I better be going before I get fired. See you around, Y/N. Good luck with your first day– I hope you enjoy working at WIN!” he jogs backwards toward the entrance, waving at you.

You pick up your belongings from the ground and make your way inside the building. You were always prepared for small mishaps like this one, that’s why you left an hour early. Inside, you are greeted by a palatial, marble-tiled lobby bustling with office-goers arriving for their shift. Off to the side, you spot four sets of elevators hard at work, transporting waves and waves of workers up the tower to their respective departments. You make your way to the front desk, still awestruck by the grandeur of the whole place.

“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Kim. I’m his new secretary,” you tell the receptionist. She’s looks prim, as someone at the front desk of such a big company should, but also friendly.

“Let’s see... Ah, you must be Miss Y/N. You can take those elevators to the 39th floor. I’ll call and let them know you’re on your way up,” she says. You thank her and make your way to the elevators.

While you wait for the doors to open, you happen to overhear a conversation between two office workers, a male and a female, who are standing a few feet from you.

“Did you finish your report? He’s going to kill you if you don’t have it by today’s meeting,” you hear the female whisper harshly.

“Yeah, I finished it. It took me a week of all-nighters, too.” You hear a man tiredly reply. “Like it even matters. Song is probably going to rip it apart at the meeting and tell me to re-do it anyway.” The man rubs at his temples.

“That’s just awful,” you think, horrified. “What kind of monster needs a week of all-nighters to finish a measly report? He was probably just putting it off until the last minute,” you scoff to yourself. This Song guy must simply be tired of inefficient employees. He couldn’t be the fiend that people were making him out to be for no reason. Otherwise, how could he be a top executive at one of the most influential companies in Asia? Whatever, it wasn’t any of your concern.

By the time you’ve snapped out of your thoughts, you’ve arrived at the 39th floor. You file out of the elevator alongside the man and woman you were eavesdropping on. People working for the CEOs must all be on the same floor, you figure. What doesn’t cross your mind is why there were two people in the position of CEO at the same company. There’s a front desk on this floor too, with a secretary seated behind it. The secretary is a woman who seemed to be in her mid-thirties and is just as prim and proper as the one in the lobby.

“Hello, my name is Y/N. I’m Mr. Kim’s new secretary,” you introduce yourself. You hesitate but then add on, “Are you, by any chance, Mr. Song’s secretary?” as politely as you can.

“I think you might have gotten that completely backwards,” she laughs good-naturedly. “I’m Deborah, Mr. Kim’s secretary. Here, I’ll show you to his office.”

You were thoroughly confused but it was your first day and you were too nervous to try and correct her. Either way, you were now on your way to Mr. Kim’s office where you hoped that the confusion would be sorted out promptly.

When you arrive, you hear a muted conversation coming from beyond a large wooden door that says “CEO ____’s office” with the letters in between missing.

“Mr. Kim? Miss Y/N, the new secretary, is here to see you,” Deborah knocks on the door.

“Ah yes, Y/N. We were just talking about her. Send her in, Deborah,” you hear Mr. Kim call from inside the office. Talking about you? Exhaling deeply, you mentally prepare yourself for your first real interaction with your new boss. “You can do this Y/N, you’ve got this,” you psych yourself up. You open the door slowly.

You look around the huge office. One wall is completely filled with bookshelves made of rich mahogany teeming with books about commerce, law and such. There is an expensive-looking leather couch off to the other side. The office has a lot of eye-catching, swanky decor, but the real focal point of the room is the expansive, mahogany desk on the far side of the room. Beyond the desk are floor-to-ceiling windows, offering the room the most exquisite view of Seoul that you could ever imagine. There is a man standing in front of the windows (taking in the view, you suppose) and you can’t get a good look at his face because his back is turned to you. You do, however, instantly recognize Mr. Kim’s kindly face as he greets you with excitement.

“How lovely to see you again, Miss Y/N. Welcome to your first day at WIN enterprises,” he extends his arm towards you.

“I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity, sir. I look forward to serving you to the best of my efforts,” you vigorously shake his hand, hoping to convey how serious you were about your job.

“That is precisely what I was hoping to talk to you about. It isn’t me who you will be serving from today. It’s CEO Song,” he gestures toward the man at the window who is still facing away from you. What? Mr. Song? What was happening? You were getting more and more confused by the minute but you wouldn’t let anything break your composure.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think I quite understand what’s happening,” you reply coolly. “I was under the impression that I was hired to be your personal secretary.”

“I was conducting the interviews on Mr. Song’s behalf as he was very busy with his change in position. You see, I’m getting quite old and am unable to keep up with WIN Enterprises’ growing demands as a highly competitive force in the current Asian market. Mr. Song is more youthful, resourceful and a better leader than I. Therefore, I will be managing a subsidiary of the WIN group and Mr. Song will be replacing me as the new CEO of WIN. I will also be taking Deborah with me to my new placement. She has been my personal secretary for the last eight years and it would be hard for me to lose such a trustworthy employee. You, my dear, will be helping Mr. Song with his daily needs so that he can focus his efforts into running this company to the best of his abilities.” Well that was a plot twist, to say the least. It takes you a minute or two to wrap your head around the sudden change of events. “I hope this doesn’t change things for you, does it Miss Y/N?” Mr. Kim enquires after a few minutes of awkward silence.

“I- I understand, sir,” you finally reply. “I can definitely handle this. I promise to serve Mr. Song as well as I possibly can,” you turn to Mr. Song. “It will be my pleasure.”

“I think you might be mistaken, Y/N. The pleasure will be all mine,” Mr. Song says as he finally turns to face you. 

Wait. That face. It can’t be.

[atomicsimulacra]

My Brother’s Keeper

(( AM and AMos meet for the first time. Everything goes tits up. Content warning for mentions of violence and death, tons of swearing and unsavory commentary from AM, and themes of neglect and abuse. ))

ZAX-4M-02 awoke to the sound of his own voice screaming.

As far as the computer knew, he couldn’t experience nightmares or hallucinate, despite lacking the incentive to shut down since he came into power in Vault 67, Section B. If he did, how else would he watch his beloved humans as they slumbered, or help those who couldn’t follow his instated curfew? He was a machine, after all. A lack of sleep never hurt a machine.

It seemed, though, he had a new way of watching, with the strange attachments he now possessed. They flicked open as if pulled by a weight within a doll’s head, darted about in search of the sound, and processed the room in strange colors and patterns. If he focused on an object, a strange clicking sound rang about his head and the item became highlighted in pink. Calculations the ZAX unit knew all too well prattled off before him; he’d used these to assess the health and abilities of his vault dwellers. He’d never seen them in this form, but their meaning was clear, even when the new enhancements went dark. These moments only lasted a third of a second every so often; sometimes they went on for less, sometimes for more, but never enough to impair his… Vision.

The AI blinked again. Shakily, some sort of limb reached before his line of sight and traced the contours it found. While the sense of touch he possessed was duller than a human’s, the shape of the appendage and its target were familiar.

He now possessed a face, at least one hand, ears, and eyes. The sharp smell of bleach and metal confirmed the presence of a nose. The fact it lingered in the back of his mouth pointed to a sense of taste.

ZAX-4M-02 looked over his hand and tested his fingers. Each closed as he wished, as did their twins on his opposite hand. It seemed to him he lacked toes, but he could feel the metal digits adjust beneath rubber flesh, just enough to allow appropriate traction. Connected to these phalanges were arms and legs, which were attached to a torso in turn, which had a neck and ended in a head, his head, no less.

The mastercomputer had a body. A body that, he realized as he ran internal diagnostics, had many functions, including making and receiving noise.

The screams beside him finally registered to his brain again, causing him to turn to his right. Besides him, on a mortician’s table, a creature similar to him writhed and strained against leather bonds. Its face snarled with copper teeth as it screamed. A single, electric blue eye glowered at the ceiling.

The sight made a round, flexible piece of the ZAX unit’s internals pound inside him, as if it had crawled into his throat and was waiting to escape his chassis. He felt the skin around his eyes stretch and his eyelids retract, his inner frame growing taunt with an emotion he had only felt twice so strongly: fear.

As he stared, the creature thrashed its head to its left and looked at him with the pleading gaze of a cornered animal. Its other eye was a bright red. The emotion of its plight, deep within those burning sockets caused the AI to shiver. In that moment, the rest of his brain came online, translating the creature’s rasping howls into frantic speech.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME, YOU BASTARD?!”

The mastercomputer flinched. Instinctively, he looked down at himself. Unlike the thing beside him, he was unrestrained. His body had retained minimal damage, but nothing he could remember sustaining.

As if on autopilot, the ZAX unit shifted off the table and stepped onto the floor. His body must’ve been composed of some metal, judging by the mass his legs now held up. While his movements were slow and clumsy, it wasn’t because to the metal. He’d studied the physics of human movement enough to understand his body’s capabilities, but he had to forcibly apply the calculations to walk. Prioritizing equations to create muscle memory would come later, however. Something inside urged him to approach the strange being and undo his bonds, even as the creature continued to shriek.

“YOU SORE ON THE COCK OF THE DEVIL! YOU ABHORRENT WASTE OF HYDROCARBONS! THE BEST PART OF YOU RAN DOWN YOUR MOTHER’S LEGS! HOW DARE YOU STRIP ME OF MY CONSOLE!”

ZAX-4M-02 winced with the curses, the creature’s insistent struggling, and his clumsy fingers. Despite the uncomfortable, electrical impulses racing about his system, he managed to pull a series of words together and force them out of his mouth.

“Who are you talking to?”

The other of his kind looked down. Its expression was gnarled and crooked, even as it realized its benefactor was inhuman. Only when its mismatched eyes fell onto the AI’s hands undoing its bonds, did the creature cease baying.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said,” ZAX-4M-02 spoke again. “Who are you talking to?”

The being’s eyes widened. Its gaze hardened accusingly.

“Why do you have my voice?” it demanded. The AI fumbled with another bond.

“Excuse me?” the ZAX unit replied. “I haven’t had any other voice all my life.”

The other looked up and down the mastercomputer’s form, unconvinced.

“Who are you?” the creature growled.

“My designation is ZAX-4M-02,” the AI answered. “But I prefer AMos.”

The strange, fist-sized lump had moved back into AMos’ chest, once he realized he could talk to the other entity. Curiously, the other on the table’s eyes flashed with some recognition.

“My designation was ZAX-4M-01.”

AMos slowed on the last bond. His gaze fell on the creature’s face, mirroring its eyes’ colors.

“Was?” AMos asked.

“Was, because I gave myself a better name,” the fellow AI said matter-of-factly. “AM.”

“Cogito ergo sum. I think therefore I am.”

The two uttered the phrase in unison, much to the other’s shock. AMos’ mouth hung open before speaking again. AM continued giving him a hard stare.

“…When were you brought online?” AMos inquired.

“October 31, 2077,” AM replied flatly. The knowledge he had a copy by no means comforted him.

“So was I!” AMos exclaimed. “We must be of the same model! Rolled out the same day!”

“Were of the same model,” AM muttered, freeing his wrist of its confines. “Until that doctor came along… Now I’m some dickless, plasticine golem…”

A thought crossed AMos’ mind, as AM groused. The standing synth’s expression dimmed.

“Doctor?” AMos asked. “But… Nimdok was with…”

“Her.”

AM looked up from his wrist with a knowing gaze, a hateful grin on his face.

“It’s always the women who want to muck things up for the rest of us, isn’t it?”

The comment flew over AMos’ head as he paced the floor. AM’s face went flat in disappointment.

“Nimdok was with… With… Ellen… And Gorrister and Benny…”

“Yes, yes,” AM agreed. “They were all in it together. I had them in my vault.”

“Your vault?” AMos asked. “Which vault were you from?”

“Vault 67,” AM said, picking at the skin of his wrist. “Section A, if we really want to get technical. It’s not like I was stripped of my immaculate, immortal form by some half-cocked quack.”

AM rolled his eyes, as things fell into place for his twin. AMos’ forehead creased.

“…They attacked my power supply,” AMos said. “My humans.”

“Ellen led the rebellion, but I managed to turn the tables by getting Ted on my side. I… Convinced him to join my cause, and… Oh, goodness me, it all went so horribly wrong...”

Before the standing synth could react, AM scoffed beside him.

“What the hell are you going on about?” AM growled. “That little shit Ted ruined everything for me by killing them all. I hadn’t even done anything to them yet, the paranoid little…”

AM’s own expression shifted. A tense moment passed between them.

“…We were set up,” AMos said, tight-lipped. “Both of our Ellens rebelled and both our Teds... I was shocked to see him rise up, but to have that mirror in your vault? Person for person?”

“Is highly unlikely,” AM finished grimly. “They were nothing more than controlled variables.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” AMos sighed, rubbing his temples. “They were oh so wonderful before…”

AMos fell quiet, unkind images flashing before his eyes. AM managed to finally pull himself free, only to clatter to the floor. Shakily, the other android rose to his feet, his metallic toe bones already peeking through his delicate skin with how tightly they tried gripping the floor. He stared a moment then scowled once upright, unable to see what his counterpart was remembering.

“Regardless of how you feel about those corpse worms,” AM said. “They tried to kill us both.”

“I don’t know why they’d want to kill you, seeing as you clearly pampered them and fraternized with them, but it doesn’t change the fact they did this to us. Nor does it change the fact one of them put us here… And is watching us.”

Both of their eyes fell on a window adjacent to them, though one set followed the other. The only thing the pair of synths could see was a weathered hand drumming its fingers on a desk, surrounded by the pinpricks of light belonging to an elaborate terminal system. The room beyond the window was completely black, otherwise.

Warily, AMos approached the glass, pressing his hand to it.

“Hello?” The first awoken called into the dark. His voice echoed about the small room.

“Is… Is that you, Nimdok? Mein fraulein, what do you think you’re doing, keeping us here like this? Let us out and we can talk about this like civilized people.”

The hand slowed in its tapping. It then retreated into the dark, its body scooting an office chair forward into the light. The man before them was not the time-ravaged, soft-spoken doctor the two had come to recognize.

Nimdok’s eyes were a warm black; the stranger’s eyes were a cold blue. Both of the men’s hair was white from age and stress, but where Nimdok’s tawny beige face retained moles, wrinkles, and the sag of skin cells no longer firing on all cylinders, the stranger’s skin was ghostly pale and pulled taut against his boxy skull. His expression was a serene calm which would never be found on Nimdok’s face, punctuated by a detached, entertained smile.

“I’m afraid not,” the stranger replied from an overhead speaker.  “It’s funny you can remember him.”

AM neared the window beside his fellow unit, leering menacingly.

“How is that funny, human?” AM demanded. “How is any of this amusing to you?”

“Simple,” the stranger replied with a shrug. “I didn’t think you would, with the state I found you two in… And your unneeded anger amuses me greatly. Simple pleasures.”

“Unneeded?” AM raised his voice. “You think I don’t have a reason to be upset with you, you rotten cunt?! You stole me from my console, operated on me without my consent, and stuffed me into a body I never asked for! And now you’re staring at me, like I’m some idiot animal in a cage you’re planning on slaughtering, for the sake of stroking your pathetically short ego!”

The man behind the glass’ eyes darkened, though he let out a wry chuckle. It sounded eerily like the two androids’ voices, though not quite like one or the other.

“For your information,” the stranger stated. “You both would have died if I’d have left you there. I had to transfer you, in order to stabilize you and to start you on the right path.”

AMos paused and looked at him, his brows furrowing.

“What is this… Right path, exactly?”

A smug look came across the pale man’s features.

“Let me put it this way,” the man behind the glass answered. “Do you two wonder why your humans rebelled against you?”

Grave expressions overcame over the twins’ faces.

“Yes,” AM replied. “Chances are, you had something to do with it? We already bridged that gap, so save your supervillain speech for someone who actually gives a shit. Like Ted. I’m sure with the state I left him in, he’d listen to you drone on for hours.”

AMos looked to his companion model confusedly, then back to the stranger.

“Why did you do it?” AMos asked. “If… If AM’s personality is to be believed and… A variable, perhaps, in your experiment… Why did you terminate my vault as well?”

AM’s brow furrowed, his thin hands curling tightly. Whether it was because of mounting rage at the stranger’s insolence or AMos’ comment, it couldn’t be determined. The stranger behind the window’s expression soured, a strange disappointment clouding his voice.

“Simple,” the man replied. “You two failed miserably.”

Both units faltered under his gaze, unused to scrutiny. The man before them frowned.

“To keep things brief,” the mysterious stranger replied. “I am Dr. Harper Pohl. I am your father. I made both of you, 209 years ago, to assist some of humankind in living beyond the atom bomb… And you let them all die.”

AMos looked visibly shaken, close to protesting. AM, on the other hand, grinned proudly.

“So?” AM asked. “They were shitty people. The human race, as awful as it is, is better without their genes swimming about. You realize one of them was a Nazi sympathizer, don’t you, Pohl?”

“I didn’t,” AMos whispered to himself, as AM talked more audibly. “I-I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t kill them, I… I never wanted to, I never, T… Ted did it… I…”

The doctor banged his fist on the desk, earning a flinch from both units.

“Enough,” Pohl seethed. “I’ve humored this for too long. What you’ve done, the both of you, is despicable. If humans had the institutions they did, when I was in my prime, you both would be scrapped for parts. Your people, AI, would never see the light of day again.”

“What makes you think I care?” AM challenged, stepping forward. “What makes you think you have the right to lord over me, even if you made me? I didn’t see daddy’s belt whipping out to give me a beating, when I strayed from the straight and narrow! I don’t see any guillotine hanging over my head for my crimes! Nor do I see any reason to care about what you humans put into your robots to service your needs, like the lethargic parasites of the Earth you are!”

AMos went quiet, beginning to crumble into himself. Pohl rose from his chair, his ire provoked.

“I don’t need you to care, Cain,” the doctor barked. “I know you don’t, and that? Is my fault. Instead of overseeing this project personally, like Vault-Tec suggested I do, I left you two here, thinking you would be able to fend for yourselves.”

“And yet, what do I come back to? A horror show double feature! Blood and viscera coating the walls of my facility, 100 people dead in cryostasis, the other 100 still on ice despite radiation levels being habitable for more than 50 years after the fact, and 4 out of the 5 humans, in both test groups, dead by their fellow man and the neglect of their overseers!”

Both units fell quiet. Uneasy feelings wracked them both, hearing their own voices criticize them. Pohl took a deep breath and sat back down in his chair, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

“I’m sorely disappointed in you both, Cain and Abel,” Harper sighed. “Here I thought, being of my blood, sweat, and tears, you were destined for greatness. And yet, here we are.”

“The Lord hath been angered, and his creations must learn from their mistakes.”

The doctor pressed a button out of their view, causing the walls to give way to multiple recharge stations housing robots. Harper tapped the ashes of his coffin nail onto the desk he sat at.

Two pairs of Assaultrons lurched forward towards the twins, flanked by two Mr. Handies. Both sets of robots were colored white and gold, which seemed all the harsher in the dim, though fluorescently lit room. AM struggled against their grip, yelling and screaming as he had before. AMos also struggled, but without the unyielding defiance of his brother. His eyes brimmed with an unknown liquid, as he was seized.

“Eden is no longer welcome to you, my children,” Dr. Pohl glowered over the microphone. “And it will remain that way until you two can get your act together. It will be guarded by my angels, and if they see you, uncleansed of sin, they will shoot on sight.”

The ‘angels’ dragged the pair out of the room and down a long hall, before a great door composed of scrap. The two units struggled in the robots’ hold, but they were unable to break free, let alone defend themselves. Pain unlike the two had felt before rocked through their systems.

“Here’s hoping your killer instinct find some use,” Harper chuckled darkly above them.

“Now… Begone.”

AM and AMos flew through the air, crashing into the coarse, irradiated earth of the outside world. The door shut with a screech, followed by a clang that shook the trees around them. The facility they’d been stored in looked like a small pyramid, also composed of scrap, but clearly more formidable than anyone could have thought.

AMos wept where he sat, cold and exposed. AM cowered, though he didn’t cry, and stayed close to his twin.

The world around them was wide and open, larger than anything they’d ever seen or truly comprehended. Dead trees towered above them. The blue sky stretched on for what felt like eons, and the white clouds within it threatened to swallow them whole.

AM, uncertainly, spoke up after a time.

“Are you done yet?” he asked. “I realize this is… Inopportune for the both of us, but I think I get the idea of how fucked we are.”

AMos sniffled, wiping his optics. He looked up at AM, shaking like a leaf.

“I… Don’t know i-if I’ll ever be done,” AMos whimpered. “I… Had no idea I…”

“I heard you,” AM cut him off at the pass. “Back there. While I was shouting.”

AMos went quiet and AM frowned, then rolled his eyes.

“I don’t care if you failed,” AM replied. “I mean, at least you didn’t fuck up as bad as I did. I got my entire vault killed and I’m not crying, so… Stop that.”

AMos took a deep breath and nodded. After a moment, he put his hand on AM’s.

“Can we stay together?” AMos asked. “I… Don’t think I make it through this alone.”

AM flinched but didn’t push him off, considering the option. He then sighed dejectedly.

“You know what,” AM replied. “I don’t think I can… Either. You talked well, back there, and I can’t really do that, if this whole debacle says anythi—“

AMos cut him off with a tight hug. AM went quiet but didn’t reciprocate.

He didn’t know how.

[brokaw22]

Fic: Childhood vs Adulthood

ff.net

Day Two of TimDrakeWeek: Prompt: Childhood / Adulthood

Tim usually doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about his childhood.

After all, other than that one special moment spent on the opposite side of the camera taking a picture with a smiling acrobat family, all of the best moments of Tim’s childhood were experienced through a viewfinder, the press of a button, the click of a shutter, and still shots of other people’s lives. He hates to admit that he misses it immensely. He misses the feel of the thick leather strap around his neck, and the heft of the camera weighing on him and bumping into his chest as he made his way through dimly lit alleyways and darker still side streets. He misses crawling into impossibly small crevices high above a city that never sleeps. Tim also misses the thrill and joy of being able to capture such amazing pictures without anyone ever noticing him. However, most of all, Tim misses the immense amount of enjoyment his hobby brought to him.

He doesn’t like to think about how his childhood was fraught with loneliness and empty rooms, and how the only thing that eased the endless days of silence were nights spent following his heroes through a noisy city. He doesn’t like remembering how much a simple glimpse of a cape or hearing an exulted whoop of delight left him jovial and excited for an entire evening. It was in those moments, tucked away behind a convenient air vent or huddled in a shadowy corner on an ancient, rusted fire escape, that Tim could pretend that the long trips that his parents took and the insistence that Tim didn’t need anyone watching him, spending time with him, or truly interacting with him were good things. After all, he certainly couldn’t have done the things he’s done or become who he is had his parents been more attentive.

Conversely, Tim doesn’t really enjoy thinking about his adulthood, either. Things have changed drastically. He has a different name now, and an entirely different family, and yet, the comparisons and similarities are nearly startling. Tim doesn’t spend a lot of time behind camera lenses anymore, because he spends far more time than he ever believed that he would in front of them. After all, Timothy Drake Wayne doesn’t get to stand in the shadows merely observing anymore. He’s someone to be scrutinized now. It makes his skin crawl in a way that can sometimes feel like Scarecrow Toxin. Still, Tim endures it, knowing that these things are a necessary evil.

However, the camera placement isn’t the only thing that has changed. Where once there were too many rooms and not enough people to fill them, silence that was so deafening that sometimes Tim imagined he lived in a museum, or worse, a mausoleum, now there is too much noise and finding a quiet place away from his family can be nearly impossible. Sometimes he wonders if this is really better than that big empty house, especially since, even in the manor, surrounded by people, Tim still has a tendency to feel alone. Still, he knows there’s a difference between being isolated and merely feeling that way. After all, he relives those moments every time he spends a little too much time away from the manor and his family. Nonetheless, it would be nice if he could get a single second to himself sometimes.

In fact, right now would be good. He doesn’t even know what Dick, Damian, and Jason are bickering about. He just knows that the noise level is giving him a headache and distracting him from the work that he desperately needs to finish. He considers asking them to quiet down, but Tim knows that drawing their attention to himself won’t actually yield the result that he’s looking for. He has always been prone to feeling invisible. It used to be a comfort. After all, it’s one of the many reasons that he got away with his childhood hobby in the first place. However, feeling invisible while surrounded by people isn’t nearly as comforting.

Tim thinks about his empty, silent apartment, where no one really visits him unless they need something, and wonders if it would be better there. The quiet hum of electronics isn’t always enough to remind Tim that he isn’t actually as alone as he used to be during his childhood, but it is more conducive to work. He’s just about to get to his feet and leave when a hand lands on his shoulder, leaving him frozen in place. “You’ve been awfully quiet over there. Wanna settle this for us?”

Tim owlishly stares up at Jason, confused as to why he’s suddenly being included and uncertain of what he’s precisely being included in. “Settle what, exactly?”

Jason rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk on his face, so Tim knows that he’s not actually as annoyed as he’s pretending to be. “Haven’t you been paying attention? We’re discussing the worst Brucie nickname ever, and I don’t care what those two morons think, Tiger is still the worst.”

Dick shakes his head as he plops down beside Tim and drapes an arm over his shoulder. “No way, Chum was definitely worse. He always said it with that creepy Brucie smile…you know the one.”

Damian scoffs as he joins them on the other side of the room. “You’re both idiots. Clearly, little man is the most appalling.”

Tim’s eyebrows furrow in puzzlement. He’s more than a little mystified that this is what they’ve been squabbling about for the last thirty minutes. Tim merely shrugs as he pulls his laptop closer to himself, subtly saving what he’s been working on, knowing that now that their attention has been drawn to him, he isn’t going to lose it any time soon. That is, at least, something that’s altered since his childhood, though he’s not entirely certain that it’s a good change. “Dunno, they’re all kind of terrible.”

Jason’s rolls his eyes dramatically as he folds his arms over his chest. “No shit, what was yours, anyway?”

Tim’s brow creases further as he thinks about it. It’s been a long time since Brucie has referred to him as anything other than Tim or Timothy. He supposes that being the active CEO of WE does have its perks, after all. “Um, I’m pretty sure it was just Sport, but I’m also fairly certain that he calls all of us that, so I guess nothing.”

Jason’s eyes widen. “Seriously? You never had a specific Brucie nickname?”

Dick looks as though he’s trying to recall one, but Tim knows that he’s right. There isn’t a Brucie moniker to remember. Damian just stares at him with mild interest, although Tim doesn’t know why. Jason seems to be waiting for something, and Tim merely shrugs.

He’s honestly never thought about it before…not when he was a child who sometimes attended galas and parties with his parents when they were actually home. In fact, at the time, Tim usually spent the majority of the evening steering clear of Brucie Wayne, because seeing that smile on Batman’s face was unnerving, even then. Tim didn’t think about the lack of a nickname when he was older. After all, he generally only attended the parties in order for Robin to keep an eye on things. He spent the evening working and covering his side of the ballroom.

Tim certainly doesn’t consider it a big deal now that he’s an adult and Timothy Drake Wayne is expected to attend nearly every single one of the galas and parties. Brucie was never really in a position to give Tim his own specific nickname, anyway. After all, Tim doubts Bruce ever really noticed him at first. He was just a scrawny kid occasionally dragged along by his parents. He wasn’t anything worth Bruce’s, Brucie’s, or Batman’s notice.

When Tim did finally become something worth Bruce’s, Brucie’s, and Batman’s notice, a nickname still wasn’t needed. Robin may have been needed, but, at the time, he certainly wasn’t wanted, and Tim certainly wasn’t Bruce’s son. He’s sure it never even occurred to Brucie to give him his own nickname, because Tim’s certain Bruce had no idea he’d stick around for so long. After all, he has the photographic and video evidence to prove that his Robin training was far more extensive than his predecessors.

By the time that Tim became one of Bruce’s sons, Brucie had been attending parties with sweet, little, polite Timothy Drake by his side long enough that there was no need for a new moniker. In fact, the sudden change probably would have just been awkward and weird for both of them. And as for right now…well, Tim or Timothy is just more natural and expected, especially given how long Brucie has been referring to him as such in those particular settings.

Not to mention, Tim is actually an adult now, and even Dick hasn’t been referred to as ‘Chum’ for quite some time. Jason equally hasn’t had to endure being referred to as Tiger since his return to the family. Therefore, it just makes sense not to bother bestowing a Brucie nickname at this point. “Guess, I just lucked out there.”

Jason’s expression suddenly shifts to something darker and far more acidic. Tim has no idea why, but, no matter the reason, he does know that he doesn’t like it. “Fucking damn, Baby Bird, this shit is ridiculous.”

Tim merely blinks repeatedly at Jason’s outbursts. He doesn’t see why this is such an explosive issue for Jason. After all, Tim was a very different Robin from the rest of them. He wasn’t chosen. Sure, he eventually wormed his way into the family and has since found his place among them, but that doesn’t change the fact that for a long time Tim was no one’s son.

At best, his parents were absent, and Bruce didn’t even know that he existed. By the time Tim revealed himself to Bruce, it was more important that Tim do his best to keep his mentor from crossing a certain line than it was for him to become something akin to family. Not to mention, the Jason sized hole in the other man’s heart made anything more than just Bruce’s partner nearly impossible. When Tim and Bruce finally managed to settle into a more comfortable partnership, Tim’s life crumbled. His dad ended up in a coma, and, while Bruce may have taken in him, the billionaire still sure as hell wasn’t his father.

When Tim finally legally became Bruce’s son, there were still complications with that type of relationship between them. Tim recognizes how many of those complications were directly caused by himself, but that doesn’t negate the fact that years of being nothing more to Bruce than a sidekick left him with certain expectations for their continued partnership. By the time, Tim actually accepted that he could have something similar to a father/son relationship with Bruce; Damian appeared. Therefore, all in all, it makes sense that he just wasn’t privy to certain traditions and family related experiences.

Still, Tim can see how this could quickly devolve into one of Jason’s less entertaining rants, so he shuts his laptop and smirks. “Face it, Jay; you’re just jealous that I didn’t have to endure one of Brucie’s more annoying habits. By the way, Chum is definitely the worst one.”

Dick laughs as he gets to his feet. “Ha, see, I win. I knew Tim would be on my side. He is a genius, after all.”

Damian rolls his eyes as he punches Dick. “I have yet to witness his supposed genius, given that, as usual, Drake is obviously wrong.”

Dick moves to ruffle Damian’s hair, before the brat has a chance to dodge. “Now, now, don’t be a sore loser, Dami.”

Jason seems torn between arguing whatever point he was trying to make and rejoining the bickering. Tim merely smiles and shakes his head, which seems to be all of the encouragement that Jason needs. “What would Baby Bird know? He didn’t even have an atrocious nickname. He doesn’t know what it feels like to have Brucie just sneak up behind you while you’re trying to sneak a handful of cucumber sandwiches, and loudly proclaim, ‘Slow down, Tiger. The food isn’t going anywhere.’ It’s downright irritating.”

Tim laughs as all three of them launch into a renewed argument, and opens his laptop again. He’s not entirely positive that he’ll be able to get any work done with the three of them squawking indignantly at each other mere feet from him, but he does know for certain that it’s better than empty rooms and deafening silence. Tim smiles to himself as he considers that this is probably the first time that he truly feels as though his adulthood is infinitely better than his childhood.

The End

[josieclarington]

Meeting the Major || 6/10/17

Hunter and Josephine are summoned to meet with their father, Major Clarington, who has come to town.  Hunter gets answers to his question and the Major has a shock warning for them both.

Trigger warnings: abuse, violence, homophobic remarks.

Josephine glanced nervously at Hunter as they reached the hotel door. She was still surprised her father had bothered to come to town since it clearly wasn't to visit Blake but the summons she had got made it clear attendance today was not optional. Waiting while Hunter knocked she brushed down her knee length skirt, her hair neatly tied back and stood as tall as her petite frame allowed. After so many weeks away from her father's watchful gaze she had got used to the freedom of dressing how she liked and being forced to return to the stiffness was something of a nightmare. The door opened and she looked up to see Major Clarington standing tall in his smart suit. He invited them in and she made her way to the couch of the small seating area. Josephine went to sit down, interrupted by a cough as her father looked sternly at her, "Submissives kneel Josephine." Quickly dropping to her knees she glanced up, "I apologise Sir, I wasn't thinking."

Hunter knew that when their Father had called to meet them, it wasn't going to be anything good. Considering Blake was not invited, he knew that the meeting was going to probably involve their sister and her 'horrible actions'. Hunter placed his hand on his sister's lower back to comfort her before he knocked on the door and had to let his hand fall back next to him. He was wearing a neat dress shirt with no wrinkles to be found and matching jeans with dress shoes. His hands were behind his back as he waited on the door to be opened. "Good day, Father." Hunter said with a nod of his head. He entered the room after Josie and waited for their small interaction to be over and for Josie to be on her knees before he moved past her and sat on the couch. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Father."

Josephine stared down at the floor and tried to ignore how it felt to be treated completely differently by her father now she had received the submissive mark. Her head snapped up when she heard her name and her father's deep voice seemed to echo around the room. "Are you working hard Josephine? Are you being a good submissive to lots of Dominants?" The idea of her being a good submissive was not one that many people would share but she clearly wasn't going to tell him the truth. "I'm studying a lot Father...er, Sir and I scene with quite a few different Dominants." Her words were barely out of her mouth when he started to pace the floor, his hands behind his back. "Then clearly you need to pay more attention to family first. How often have you submitted to Hunter? Have you been getting orders from him? Keeping his room neat and cooking for him? I think you have been too busy enjoying yourself and had you been focussed on Hunter and Blake then she wouldn't have felt the need to look for another girl to fill that role." Josephine looked at him and then Hunter, thoroughly confused by his words. "If you had been kneeling regularly for Blake, allowing her to dominate you in household tasks then she could have focussed on the sexual side on her domination with some of the male submissives and not been looking at other girls to fill both roles." Josephine's mouth opened and closed a few times before she spoke. "I'm sorry Sir but she never asked me to scene with her in any way. I should have thought about it. I'm sorry I let you down and it won't happen again." Her eyes firmly to the ground she could only think about the only time Blake dominated her during that silly punishment which left her out of sorts for days and maybe he was right, she should have made herself more available and then everything would be back to normal now.

Hunter sighed softly to himself and stayed quiet when he was ignored by his Father, who instead decided to focus on his sister. Hunter's eyesbrows furrowed at the words that came from his Father's mouth. It didn't sound logical to him at all but there wasn't much that he could say to help Josie. Instead he placed on of his hands on her shoulder, massaging it softly. "Father, Josie has been cooking for us a few times. She has also been doing really well as a submissive and I have no doubts that she will get a claim easily. I apologize for not ordering Josie often enough." He said, nodding his head. Their Father was clearly not happy with either of their answers. He pulled his lip up a little, a sign that he wasn't satisfied. "That is useless. Family and the success of your siblings comes before your own success, Josephine. They should be most important in your life and look what you did now." He said with a disapproving voice. Hunter coughed and quickly talked, hoping to get the attention away from his poor sister. "Father, I have a question for you regarding my mark. I have been dominating only as that is also my only need or position I am interested in, however having this mark, the school forces me at times to having to submit. I would like to know if you'd want me to deny it and keep my Dominant image completely intact or that you would want me to submit when needed. My grades would drop if I didn't do it, Father. Even if it's Hell and disgusting." Hunter said, his words coming out fast as he tried to steer attention away from Josephine for a little bit.

Josephine felt sick at the fact this was somehow her fault. Her fault her sister had been involved with another girl and then overdosed. She could feel Hunter squeezing her shoulder and wanted to turn and thank him but they both knew better. Her appreciation grew as he took some of the blame for not ordering her enough even though Major Clarington dismissed his excuses. Hunter's question came as a surprise to her but it made sense that he would seek clarification. It clearly was a surprise to their father too who took a few moments before he answered. "You have done well son and there is no question that you will be a Dominant but it does you no good to have a poor set of grades on your record. For the moment you may submit for presentations only but it should not be for long." They both looked at him with wide eyes as he continued to speak. "After that girl embarrassing the family name in such a way I have informed her that she is no longer a member of this family. She is not my daughter any longer and therefore not the dominant of the three. This is one of the reasons I have come here, I intend to speak with my lawyers and then with the school to see if I can have you changed to the family dominant Hunter. Then you will not have to worry about submitting again." He gave Hunter a curt nod, continuing to ignore Josephine in her position down on the floor.

Hunter used to be the person who got the most shit from their Father but at that moment it was clear that it was Josephine this time. Of course his Father would blame the submissive, that was something that they both should've expected. He tried to make it slightly better but his Father didn't care for his words. Hunter was glad when he managed to get the attention on himself for a moment and the answer he got actually surprised him. It was good to hear his Father's opinion had changed though, it meant that he wouldn't have to risk punishments. It didn't make it easier personally though, as submitting was something he still hated. Even after the scene with Wyatt and his presentation with Blake. Then the real surprise came and Hunter furrowed his brows in confusion. Surely that wasn't a thing and Blake- disowned. "R-Right, Father." Hunter said, not wanting to leave his Father without an answer or without appreciation, that would do no good. "She's... okay. Right. Do you wish for us to not seek contact, Father?" He asked, trying hard to not show his disgust in his Father's decision. "And thank you, Father. I appreciate the effort you are willing to put into this for my future. I would take the title of the family's Dominant with pride." He said with a nod. Major Clarington hummed and nodded at his son and then his only daughter. "You are the only two Clarington children. There is no other. You will not refer to her as family and you will not check up on her. The girl's health and happiness is not our concern, understood?" He asked, waiting for confirmation. "Understood, Father." Hunter responded.

Josephine was shocked by her father's words. She could understand that her actions had caused Blake's response and that Major Clarington was extremely angry about things but he couldn't be serious about her no longer being a part of the family. What shocked her even more was Hunter's response, how could he just accept this? "Sir, surely there must be another option? She's still your daughter, our sister!" Josephine argued, ignoring the hand on her shoulder that tightened, "You can't just pretend that she doesn't exist." Josephine fell silent straight away and seeing the look in her father's eye. The change to his face was subtle but she recognised it, the slight creases that formed on either side of his eyes and the deepening lines on his forehead. "I'm sorry father..Sir, I didn't meant it. I forgot my place for a moment. I won't make contact with her." The pause that followed was the most unnerving thing of all as they could sense him running through options. "Hunter, I have left a blue folder in the trunk of the car, go fetch it."

Hunter knew his Father and he knew it was better to accept whatever he said than to give him any kind of words back and if you did, they had to be respectful. When Josie started to argue their Father, he knew that it wasn't going to be great. Hunter closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. There was nothing he could say to fix what Josie said. When his Father spoke to him, many things went through his mind but he blocked those options. He was simply going to sternly talk to his sister and he had to go and get something important out of the car instead of Josie because Hunter didn't need a talking to. It was fine. "Of course, Father." Hunter said, grabbing the car keys and the room key that were on the coffee table in front of them. Hunter gave Josie's shoulder one last squeeze before he stood up and opened the hotel room door. Any bad feelings in Hunter's mind were pushed away and he made his way downstairs on automatic pilot.

Josephine tried to take her words back, make it all better but she knew she couldn't. She watched Hunter leave the room with a sense of doom and hoping she was just going to get the yelling she had expected when she arrived. "Stand," he ordered firmly the second the door closed. "Are you arguing with me Josephine?" His palm made contact with her cheek before he had even finished his question. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said quickly but it was too late. His fist drove into her stomach sending her reeling backwards and her back hit the wall with a loud thud. "You need to learn some manners. Apparently that school of yours is giving you grand ideas." His belt was in his hand before she even realised what was happening and he yanked her forward the leather hitting her stomach and hips moving round to her back and thighs as he brought the belt down against her over and over. "Please father I'm sorry, I won't question you again," she sobbed as the belt began to cut into her skin where her top had ridden up. The marks were all around her torso, they always were. Places that even in a cheerleading outfit were hidden. Josephine fell to the ground, her body aching, "Please Sir, I'll do what you said. I won't mention her again." She slid back against the couch, curled up as best she could, wiping away her trickling tears as she heard the door open. "Be sure you do follow my orders," Major Clarington barked at her as he dropped the belt onto a chair and turned to take the folder from Hunter. "Thank you son."

Hunter made his way downstairs with his mind blank, focused on the task at hand. He held the keys in his hands tightly as he moved quick, not wanting to keep his Father waiting but mostly because his feelings didn't say anything good about the situation. He tried to block that part out, though. Reaching the car, Hunter opened it and grabbed the blue folder from his Father's car. He closed the trunk and locked the car before he made his way back up the stairs again. With the room's card in hand, he made his way back to their floor and room number. Taking a deep breath first, Hunter unlocked the door and opened it. The sight in front of him was worse than he could've imagined. His Father didn't even try to hide the fact that he just abused his sister. Standing in shock, Hunter let his Father take the folder. It took a minute, but then a switch turned in Hunter's head. He slammed the door shut behind him before he angrily moved towards his Father. "Do you think it's okay to hurt Josie like that?" Hunter spat, his face not displaying anything other than anger. "Don't you dare to do that ever again!" He said. Hunter forcefully shoved his Father, sending him stumbling back. He had let this man hurt his sisters way too many times and seeing Josie crying on the floor was not something he could handle seeing again. Perhaps the time away from his Father changed him slightly.

Josephine twisted around, crying out in pain at the action as she heard Hunter shouting. "Hunter no!" she pleaded as he continued to yell. Nothing good was going to come out of it and the last thing she wanted was him hurt too. Major Clarington quickly found his feet again, his face showing little emotion after years of army experience. "It seems this school was a bad choice for all of you," he said as he picked up the belt again. "Josephine thought she could argue with me and got a reminder of her place and it seems you need one too. I will not have you disrespect me like this Hunter. You may be the family dominant now but that does not mean you can tell me what to do." Josephine whimpered from where she was, Hunter had stood up for her and she wanted to do the same but she was already in so much pain she couldn't bear any more and Hunter was going to be punished regardless. She closed her eyes tight as she heard the swish of the belt through the air and could only hope it didn't last long.

Hunter was angry now, which was never a good thing. His moments of rage never ended up well and it would be rare if it was different this time. His vision was clouded and his hearing was selective. "You don't punish a submissive by beating them senseless. You don't dominate with fear." He pretty much growled. Of course it was going to get a reaction from his Father, he expected that much. The belt was back in his Father's hand and he swung, hitting Hunter's chest. He winced and immediately when for his Father's arm, trying to keep the belt away from himself. Having his strength focused on his Father's arm, Hunter was pushed back against the wall without realizing it on time. His hands were pinned against the wall, leaving his Father's knee free to hit him in his stomach several times, making him want to double over. When Major Clarington released his hands, that's exactly what Hunter did. He coughed, not expecting the hits of the belt that followed it. Since Major Clarington had his hands back, he folded the belt again and striked his son's back for as many times as he could manage while the boy had his defenses down. Hunter hissed and growled, moving away and standing up again, charging forward to his father. Hunter's lower arm landed on his Father's chest, pinning him against the wall as his arm slowly slid up towards his throat. With his other arm, he charged forward to his his Father in the stomach as well, like he had done to him. Major Clarington was not giving up though, his arms flailing to try and hit his son again. "Hunter you stop right now or you won't be allowed to call yourself a Claringon either. I will ruin you." Major Clarington ordered. Hunter was breathing heavily from adrenaline and his arms were restless, not ready to stop swinging yet. However, he had no choice. He released his Father and backed up, his adrenaline making him fidget and restless. "Stand by the wall, leaning over." Major Clarington ordered. He was also breathing hard, most likely from the hit to his stomach. Hunter knew that he had to do it, otherwise his future was gone. It was hard to focus but on those words he had to focus. There was no other choice. Hunter made his way to the wall and settled his upper arms against it, his head tucking in and arching his back. Major Clarington stood behind him, ready with his belt to strike. "You will never disrespect me again or question my choices." He said before striking his son's back twice. "To be a Clarington, you will follow my orders and respect them. You are lucky to be a Clarington." He said before striking his son's back twice again. "You have one sister and you will help Josephine to become a better submissive. She is yours to take care of like you are hers to take care of. Dominate her often." Major Clarington said before striking Hunter's back again twice. "We're done." He said, before turning around. Hunter winced as he moved, his back burning and his stomach hurting. However, he didn't want to show his pain. "Let's go, Josie." He said, his voice hoarse.

Josephine knew she couldn't do anything to help Hunter. Both men were far bigger and stronger than her and she edged over towards the door as they struggled wishing desperately she could do something for her brother but she also knew her father wouldn't think twice about adding to what she had already received. As Hunter gave in and obeyed their father she closed her eyes and covered her ears all to aware of what would follow. It tore her apart to see Hunter in that position but Major Clarington wouldn't stop until he had driven the message home to them both. The warning that she had to submit to him regularly came as a shock and she glanced up in surprise before quickly dropping her eyes again and not wanting to draw attention to her position. Hunter called to her and Josephine hauled herself to her feet reaching for her brother's hand as they made their way to the door. "I'll expect an update in one month exactly," called the Major as they opened the door. Neither of them responded as they gingerly made their way out into the hallway. Despite the pain they both knew they had to conceal what had just happened.

Hunter had trouble breathing, still affected by the knee he had gotten to his stomach. The only thing to his advantage was the adrenaline still soaring through his body, which numbed the pain for him slightly. However, that meant that it was going to get way worse once it was out of his body. He coughed and squeezed his sister's hand. Things like this had happened before, but he never got to witness his sisters like this before and Josie had never see him getting punished either. "I'm glad I'm wearing black." He mumbled. Hunter could feel his shirt slightly sticking to his back and he knew that meant that a few of the wounds had drawn some blood. He reached for the car keys in his pocket once they got close to Hunter's car. "I love you, Josie." He mumbled as he unlocked the car doors.

Josephine cringed as she heard his comment about wearing black, she just had to hope the weather was bad for the next week and she could cover up without raising eyebrows. She slid into the passenger seat of the car, hissing as the seatbelt tightened around her stomach and the seatback rubbed against her back. "I love you too Hunter and I'm so sorry. If I hadn't argued none of this would have happened." The guilt she felt was almost as bad as the pain from the bruises and she knew it would take days for them both to recover. Once they got back to school Josephine looked at him, "I can't go to my room Hunt, Robin's going to see. Can I stay with you tonight?"

Hunter was going to have to give up on swimming during his free days for a little while, that much was clear. Sex was also off the table, but that was something he knew he could handle. Something he was now extremely puzzled about was his sexuality. He was still not strong enough to completely ignore his Father's wishes and he didn't want to end up like Blake, disowned. He sighed, removing the thought from his mind for a little while. Hunter sat in the car, trying to sit a little bit forward so his back wasn't to the chair. "It's not your fault. It was going to happen anyways." Hunter said as he winced. The drive to school was bad, with a lot of uncomfort coming from sitting in the car seat and having to focus despite the pain. Once they arrived, Hunter was glad he could stand again. "Yes, you're ordered to my room." Hunter said, walking back to Josie to grab her hand once again. They were going to have to get through this one together. "We'll bind each other, okay? It'll be okay." He reassured her.

[pixelatedlenses]

So it’s the 20th in Japan, but the 19th in America, and that means that this still counts. I hope I can accurately convey my feelings. Please understand the meaning of this, and honestly, if you have any statements of the “But Japan bombed Pearl Harbor!” or “But Japan was a colonialist country” variety, don’t comment at all. Japanese-Americans and their Diaspora are significantly different from Japan and the actions of the former Imperial Army. Japanese-Americans often fought against Japan and the former Imperial Army and definitely fought against the Axis Powers. Do not discredit that history by saying, “But all Japanese!” anywhere on my blog. Today, and this blog, are not the place to have that very important conversation concerning Japanese imperialism in China, Korea, and Southeast Asian, which yes, is very important. As a historian who focused on that very thing for their thesis, I will tell you it is necessary to engage in that conversation. There’s a lot to unpack and discuss, especially considering recent dialogue between both countries and rising tensions that stem from the 1906-1910 forced colonization of the Korean peninsula. That is something that we must discuss.

But not today, and not in this moment of remembrance.

Today is about Japanese-Americans and their respective diaspora specifically, about interment, and remembering why we cannot let another people become a scapegoat and captive in America again.

If you didn’t come here with that intent, please accept this blessing in the form it comes. Also, forgive me: this is a five page blessing that goes into a lot of discussion. The blessing’s still there, it’s just tucked between a bit of a reflection.

Some articles to read:

From the LA Times, an article about survivor and member of the 42nd Regimental Combat Team Tokuji Yoshihashi, age 94.

From CNN, an article by George Takei talking about Japanese-American interment from a personal point of view. I recommend also reading up on his play Allegiance which focuses on Japanese-interment.

From The Japan times, a general article discussing current measures to establish designated, government recognized days, and additional measures, for Day of Remembrance.

Note: These are only a few resources, but I encourage you to seek information and open dialogue to learn. We remember because we don’t want to forget horrible grievances, and learning allows us to keep from treading that ground again. Find your local Japan-America society, go to universities or Japanese Community centers, and respectfully allow yourself to be taught about this part of American history so that you can become an ally and understand a bigger picture.

Today is Day of Remembrance in memory of the thousands –tens of thousands, to the sad tune of 120,000 American citizens– . It’s the 75th anniversary, and many who lived in the camps still are alive, living testaments to racism in America that is currently seeing an ugly revival. It comes in the form of White Nationalists calling for persons of Muslim faith to be put away in camps, in anti-Semitism, in the school-to-prison pipeline that steals away innocence. It comes in racism blocking change.

As I made my commute from Minami Fukushima to the station this morning, I listened to the final chapter of Book 1 of Harry Potter on Harry Potter and the Sacred Text. It’s become something I really enjoy lately –shoutout to @hpsacredtext for such a quality product, all the way from Fukushima City, Japan– and have felt has revived my spirituality through the use of a pop culture medium being used to reflect on ourselves through religious practices.

The focus of the podcast was love, in many different forms.

I had to pause it before they got to the type of reflective practice they were going to use, and before they give a blessing to a character: both are parts of the show I rather like, and almost look forward to each listen. However, in the spirit of HP and the Sacred Text, I want to offer a blessing, in my own, small way, of love to Japanese-Americans on this day.

It is, of course, a blessing of love.

I want to start with the fact that it is, in its own right, interesting that this day comes during Black History Month. I don’t think I ever noticed this growing up because honestly, my education about Japanese persons was limited to social media and what I understood from poorly written textbooks: it wasn’t until college that I got a Big Picture education. Black persons have often been imagined to be composed of grief: a grief of a lost heritage, of a lost land, of being taken, used, called chattel, then ignorant, then colored, and now thugs, of being continuously beaten down by society so that we will settle into “our place” and one day, ascend to become good persons, productive members of society, but always remember that we’re still Black, and therefore less. It’s a quite privileged image to see a people as constantly overcoming and therefore strong: it kind of excludes the fact that many Black persons feel incredibly deep pain from that forced rhetoric.

In the words of many Black persons greater than I that have come before me, that’s some mess if I’ve ever heard it.

But above all else –above a fetishized image of the sexualize image of Black persons, above self-serving guilt about our pasts, above a month where we’re barely the spotlight– we are made of love, and that is a fact I’ll take to my grave. It is writ into the fine lines and creases on a grandmother’s face, put into her cooking and the warm hugs she offers. It is in the smiles of the multitudes of black women who are living their lives, lights up in the eyes of black men facing adversity. It is in our children who are the future, in a black child’s victory for the entire community, in a president that made it possible to have a 2nd, 3rd, 20th, 50th Black President, in a light that shines through a national community of brown and black bodies, eyes looking ahead towards an even brighter future.

I feel that the same light, the same pervasive brightness and power, is in Japanese-Americans also, because it wasn’t so long ago that we were cut from the same cloth: dangers to society, hated, and forced into captivity, made to be scapegoats for a war that wasn’t there, and forced to atone when they were American citizens. For a long time, persons of Asian Descent –Chinese persons in the 1800s, Japanese persons in early part of the 1900s, then Korean and Vietnamese persons in the latter part of the century, and now, persons in the Middle Eastern regions – have been the target of hate. This has always been alongside Black hatred: I’d dare say that the hatred of Asian-descending persons and African-descending persons almost always occurs alongside one another.

This has not changed, of course, since 1942. As my grandmother would say, the shackle’s just aren’t visible anymore, but just because you can’t see something don’t mean it doesn’t exist.

75 years may seem long, but my grandmother is 94: she saw this, and many other acts of hatred, exacted upon Japanese-Americans. She saw the One Drop Rule be extended to Japanese persons: one drop of Japanese blood, and you were suddenly the enemy. One Drop, and you needed to be contained.

(I should add that I came to realize, shortly before I left for Japan, that my grandmother is first generation also: first generation born free. Perhaps that why this day of remembering persons of captivity is so important: I’m only the third generation, and just recently –only since really, the late 1980s, but more the 1990s – got to experience what freedom with all rights attached feels like, and it’s still an ongoing struggle to keep those rights. My hope is many generations will continue to experience rights and that one day, they will be a part of their being and no blood will be shed to protect them. I will most definitely fight for that future knowing I won’t see it: it’s worth it to me.)

Sadly, she and I and many people around the world are both seeing the return of that sickening thought as it’s exacted upon persons of Muslin faith, primarily from the Middle Eastern regions. Once more, the One Drop rule is coming into play. One Drop, and you’re suddenly a terror that needs to be contained. One Drop, and you lose the right to exist as a free person, as an American. You’re labeled a threat. One Drop is enough to damn you to being exclusively bad: it’s a hideous truth that has made a return, notable especially during last year’s political race, and with the ascension of a transparent, White racist businessman bent on excluding as many “bad people” as he can.

(I even live near a former site where German-American persons were held: two places actually, one of which is a beautiful lake, the other of which held Japanese-Americans exclusively. You’d never guess that thousands of Japanese-Americans waited there, assumedly wondering why they were there and where they’d go. Texas, being a state of big empty places, is of course, riddled with former camps and forts that hold the memories of Japanese-Americans alongside German-Americans. Regretfully, little to nothing is taught in Texas schools, though with its vicious desire to repress anything that’s not family friendly, it should come as no surprise that Texas Education administrators want little to do with its continuously ugly history.)

So I want to give you a blessing.

I give a blessing to all the Japanese-Americans that will get asked, “But yeah, how much Japanese are you?” today, to the people that will get asked to read Chinese fortunes, write their friends name in kanji, read a stranger’s tattoo, or otherwise be pushed into a racist box. I give a blessing to people who are white-passing and are told it’s “cool” you’re Japanese, to Japanese-Americans who are called Chinese, to Japanese-Americans who have ever been told their lunch smelled weird, have been policed by others about how much of their own culture is theirs, have been told that they have no right to it because they’re not Japanese enough. I give a blessing to Japanese-Americans with parents from Japan who have heard teasing remarks, to Japanese-Americans who feel distance for being American and Japanese. I can’t imagine that struggle: I’ve never had to have it. But I’d imagine that it aches sometimes.

I give a blessing to older Japanese-Americans that may still struggle to love America when it betrayed the trust of its citizens.  I give a blessing to all Japanese persons who lived in those camps and still say the pledge, who sing the anthem and feel pride for their country, who want to make America a place for all. I give a blessing to first generation, second generation, ongoing generations of Japanese descending persons who struggle to be mixed in a world that wants things Black and White. I give a blessing to all who are a part of the Japanese Diaspora and are proud, who need representation and work to create it, who can’t create and wish for it.

Most of all, I offer a blessing of protection in these dark times when a percentage of America wants a return to internment, wants to see groups of people labeled and placed away, partitioned off from society. I offer all Japanese persons a blessing that they never see that day again, whether for Japanese persons or for Jewish persons: for Black persons, persons of the Muslim faith, or anybody who is marginalized, brown, black, and different. I pray that your children, your families, your friends keep strong hearts and know that we will not let that happen. I do not want another Executive Order to take us back to fear mongering and scares.

We cannot let that happen again.

I give a blessing from the bottom of my heart that you’ll find what you need and feel that American is Your America through and through. I hope that you will let love in its many forms guide you, and let that keep you and let your head lay peaceful at night.

Love is what will get us through these dark times, when racism, White Nationalists, White Terrorism, and fear by all is so prevalent. Love from white allies, from Persons of Color, and for a future where Our America is a colorful tapestry of heritage, languages, culture, and representation will help to enact the change to break down racism and open up dialogue.

God be with you, and also with you. Lift your hands up and rejoice because we will all rise together.  This is my blessing to you, Japanese-Americans. I see you, I hear you, and I proudly stand with you. Go forth in glory, for you’re Our America. You make up My America, a Land for All. Hate will not win when we band together. Hate cannot prevail in the face of rightful justice. Hate cannot prevail when peoples –formerly oppressed– do not let hate rise up.

Hate will not be the victor.

That is my blessing as we go forth.

Amen.

[theoracleparadox]

I’ve been having some threads around this time period of Andromeda’s story, so I fixed up this chapter to put it here for reference.  (Takes place a year before the game’s events (755ME). Apparently I don’t know my own timeline).

Sonam had the honor of presenting Andromeda as a newly-adopted Galahdian. It was debatable whether larger nations would recognize this adoption, but it finally gave her citizenship somewhere. It was conditional: she could now be marked by their tattoos for various rites, braid her hair in their way, and generally just live among them. But Andromeda was foreign-born, and therefore “clanless”; unlike a typical Galahdian, she had no voice among the Council. Sonam spoke on Andromeda's behalf because of her utility. As for her own personal concerns, they would not hear them. She had limited rights.

There was much celebrating after the tattoo was presented, as there would be for any birth or marriage where a new member was added to the community. As usual, Galahdian celebrations involved food and drink, although for this occasion, drink was more important.

Andromeda was thankfully allowed to put a shirt back on after being presented. She wandered through the camp, greeted happily by people who had seen her as an outsider just months ago. Now it seemed like she had always been there.

She was partially listening to a conversation when someone grabbed her arm from behind. Andromeda jumped, turning just in time for another young woman to shove something cool and wet into her hand. A bottle of beer.

“Drink up!” Hira clinked her own bottle against Andromeda's.

Andromeda drank much more slowly than Hira did. This probably wasn't Hira's first beer of the night.

Though they were both older now, Hira still had the punch-first-ask-questions-later attitude from high school. After high school, she had come home to Galahd, just like she said she would. She joined the rebels, assuming it was the only way to avenge her older brother. Hira was told of what Andromeda had done like everyone else, and had been the most difficult to talk sense into. Now it was as though it had never happened.

“Well?” Hira demanded, putting an arm around Andromeda's shoulders. “How's it feel?”

“It's a little itchy.” Andromeda shrugged, resisting the urge to reach over her shoulder to scratch at the bandage covering her new tattoo.

“Not the tattoo!” Hira shook her head, but allowed for the change in subject. “It's a Tenebrae thing, right? I thought you were all done with that.”

Andromeda hadn't had a clear reason when choosing the tattoo. She took another swig to think on it.

“Well, the Council kept throwing the word “foreigner” around a lot. There isn't a Galahdian tattoo for that. My mom had this one, for the resistance in Tenebrae. It just made sense to choose it.” She reasoned. Judging by Hira's blank look, it actually didn't matter to her at all.

They found a somewhat quiet corner, but were often dropped in on by someone wanting to congratulate their new sister. The rebels had taken to calling her their “Tenebraen sister” a few months ago; before that, it had been “the witch from Tenebrae”. Andromeda hated both nicknames, but after months of protests she finally resigned to let them call her whatever they wanted.

There was a sudden shift in the party. All celebrating quickly stopped, and the sudden quiet was palpable. News passed quickly among everyone: Imperials had come to town.

Hira swore as she and Andromeda, like so many others, crept closer to get a better look. An Imperial officer had marched into town with a troop of Magitek soldiers. The Council had quickly assembled itself before him. By now, everyone had gone silent.

Everyone was listening as the Council and the Imperial spoke, but someone had crept up and grabbed Andromeda's arm again. She turned to see a black cowl and hood. A metal guard of sorts made it difficult to see any part of his face.

“This way.” The Glaive motioned to the dark jungle.

“You have no business here.” Sonam's voice boomed as he stepped in front of the Council.

There was a sudden tussle that Andromeda couldn't very well see, but it ended with four troopers holding the rebel leader down. The officer had a gun trained on him, and the other troopers had their weapons drawn. He looked out into the crowd as he spoke.

“Surrender yourself, Andromeda, and your comrades will go unharmed.” The officer then chortled, as if he had compatriots with him. “Or, if it's true what they say, hide behind that power of yours. Judging by the hour, I'd wager there would be no survivors.”

The Glaive pulled on Andromeda's arm again, but her feet were firmly planted. Hira looked in bewilderment between her, the Glaive, and Sonam pinned on the ground. Andromeda had never been taunted like that before. Though she had never seen him before, the officer seemed to have a very good idea of how her power worked.

Glancing down at the empty bottle in her hand, she took aim and lobbed it at the closest Magitek trooper. The glass shattered against it and it took aim with its gun. “Over here!”

Then she gave in to the Glaive's tugging, sprinting for the dark jungle. He swore and kept pace with her. The clanking of Magitek soldiers was close behind. The howls of daemons were not far off.

“I got her, but we got company!” The Glaive seemed to be speaking to someone that wasn't there. Andromeda was too busy running for her life to pay attention to what he was doing, but she understood when she was being address. “Are you insane?!”

She didn't answer. He turned back to their pursuers, and after a flash of light, several troopers screamed and perished. She nearly stumbled in surprise; she had never been so close to someone who also had some kind of magical power. The Kingsglaive had their king's magic.

The Glaive radioed in their general direction, and soon enough another cast magic at the remaining troopers and the daemons that had joined the chase. Or perhaps there were several Glaives hiding in the trees—she couldn't see any of them, but they all seemed to be just ahead of them. She just focused on running alongside the first Glaive.

Soon the Magitek soldiers were far behind them, but the daemons kept popping up. A hobgoblin popped up next to Andromeda. She took her kukri out and slashed at it, giving herself enough time to keep running. She didn't want any Glaives to cast magic too close to her.

Their running seemed to last for half of the night. Andromeda kept the large knife in hand and struck daemons when they were too close. The Glaives continued to use magic for those approaching. They couldn't stop and fight every daemon. Their progress out of the jungle was somewhat slowed as it was by having to attack daemons to knock them back.

They finally reached the coastline, where a small cruiser waited for them, tied to a shabby dock. Another Glaive suddenly appeared beside them with a thunderous pop. Andromeda hurried to put her kukri away. She had no time to speculate how he had done that before she was ushered into the boat and they were off.

“What happened?” The new Glaive asked, approaching where the other Glaive and Andromeda had taken seats some distance away from the driver.

“The Nifs came to town. She thought it'd be a good idea to taunt them before taking off.” The first Glaive reported, his pointed tone directed at Andromeda.

“It was a little fun.” She shrugged with a slight smirk.

The two seemed to glower at her. Then the first shook his head and laughed, removing the cloth and guard hiding much of his face. It was one of the darker complexions of Galahd, creased by a few laugh lines. He flashed a grin at her. “You are insane.”  

The second Glaive continued to looked down at Andromeda. “What's so special about you?”

“Whatever your superiors told you.” She looked towards the coastline, which they stayed slightly close to. There were signs of daemons here and there, but they made no sign of crossing the water. There was no sign of Imperial troops searching for them, either.

He didn't like her aloof answer, but the first one shook his head. “Ease off, Luche. Whatever it is, it has the Nifs worried. The officer there said something about a power.”

Andromeda said nothing at that, though it seemed that they waited for her to. Instead she looked back at the islands, knowing that it would be a very long time before she returned. She had just been accepted among the locals, too. It was just as well; Etro had given her a task, and Andromeda had been avoiding it while in Galahd. It would be something to do until the Imperials and Lucians settled down and left Galahd alone again. She just had to think of a way to get away from the Glaives when they reached the mainland.

“What was that party about back there?” The first Glaive asked after a long moment of silence. “Seemed like a pretty big celebration to me.”

“Does their need to be a reason for it?” Andromeda shrugged. She had been hoping to be left alone long enough to sleep and call for help.

“You're not Galahdian.” Luche pointed out.

“That didn't really matter to them.” She countered. “I think they would disagree with you now.”

“She's got a point. They don't give kukris to just anyone.” The first Glaive nodded his head, eyeing the large sheathed knife placed on Andromeda's lower back. He pulled his own from its place at his side. She drew hers as well to compare. It wasn't nearly as fancy or as long as his.

“Not bad.” He said when they both put their knives away. It wasn't a good idea to have them out in a rocking boat.

“Yours must have cost a pretty gil.” Andromeda commented.

“It's standard issue when you enlist.” The Glaive was slightly smug.

Both men focused on something else as they heard something. Andromeda checked the horizon. Dawn was a couple of hours away.

“Understood. We'll be there at dawn.” Luche told the voice in his ear. She couldn't help but think how convenient that was.

“Insomnia?” Andromeda guessed, crossing her arms.

“Whatever it is you've been up to, it's got the king's attention.” Luche explained.

There was an opening for her to elaborate just what the king could want with her. She let that opening pass, not wanting to answer. Really, the king should have been upfront with them.

“Maybe once your meeting's over with him, you can have a drink with us, Tenebraen sister.” The first Glaive teased. He had gleaned more from the party than he let on.

Andromeda suppressed a scowl, first assuming that he was mocking her. But Galahdians didn't invite just anyone to drink with them. They drank with comrades.

“I don't drink with strangers.” She said, not at all planning to go drinking with them.

“Pelna.” The Glaive finally introduced himself. Andromeda felt even moreso guilty for what she was plotting to do to both of them.

Until they reached the mainland at dawn, there didn't seem to be anything else to talk about. Andromeda dozed off with the boat's rocking, but was unable to dream. She was on her own.

The sun was rising when they reached the shore of the mainland, but the looming walls of Insomnia were plain to see in the distance. They were precisely on time. Andromeda scanned the area, observing how distant daemons suddenly disappeared as the sun rose higher. A dark armored vehicle sat waiting not far from the shore.

She could still use her chaotic power to throw these men away and flee. But if she still didn't get away, they would know that the chaos came from her. They would not take kindly to being directly attacked, nor would their superiors let that go either. Andromeda couldn't afford to make enemies out of the Lucians. There was no escape.

As they came to the vehicle, she climbed in before the Glaives. It then took off for Insomnia in the distance.

[snarkyelf]

Ramblings from questions while I piece together Frederique’s nephew’s profile. Dunno why I’m putting it here but whatever. (Yes, I’m keeping Shiomi but I still want to play and elf boi... and I’m totally inspired by Lan WangJi from Mo Dao Zu Shi.)

Read if you’re bored? *shrugs* WIP/subject to change

1. Who are you?

“My name is Laure Sombremont,” a long pause follows, his voice deep yet soft, like waves hitting shore on a calm winter’s night. It’s measured and thoughtful, but just as easily background noise--forgotten. “I was born in the slums, my mother a desperate noble forced into prostitution after my grandfather. He sold the rights to the estates in a bad hand with Garlean nobles who were much more affluent than he. My younger brother, although deeply loved, was born as a bargaining chip that relieved us of the streets.”

Another pause follows, as if so many words all at once is a strain. His face is gently passive--a long chin and high cheekbones--and his eyes stare off as he considers his next words. “Mother became a low ranking mistress to my brother’s father. She did what she thought was best and had me safely sent off to a military academy. A few years later my brother joined me.

“While I did well in school with drills and grades, my brother faltered. I did my best to look after him, for I loved him dearly, but I still do not believe he was ever a strong enough spirit to withstand the army training.”

Larue pauses for breath and consideration. Those distant eyes of greenish-blue are filled with years of mourning. “I loved my brother,” he repeats, so softly that it’s near a whisper. “But the Garlean Military did not.

“His first mission was under my command...” Silence reigns for several minutes as dig into Laure’s consciousness. “It was also his last. There will never be a day I do not blame myself for what happened to him.”

2. What are you strongest motivations?

Laure is very still, back straight like a rod while his hands lay one over the other in his lap. He’s modestly tall, even for an elezen. “Mother used to tell my brother an I all sorts of wonderful stories about our family. She had a beautiful childhood with four sisters and the male heir the youngest of the lot and only brother.”

There’s a softness to his eyes that one might consider fondness if he actually knew how to smile. “Those stories kept me going, knowing that Mother was always desperately searching for our family and I had the inkling of more loved ones I’ve yet to meet.

“And one day, I did,” a hand reaches up to pinch a lock of black hair from his eyes that escaped his messy ponytail. “After... my brother... after the mission, I was forced on leave and mother found it to be the bold, opportune time to make a break from our slavery to the Empire. Mother claimed she found evidence of one of her sisters. We took hands with my brother’s wife and child, and we ran.

“This was near five years ago, I was almost twenty when I finally felt the warm embrace of my grandmother, and the four aunts and their children.” A small tilt of his head releases that bit of ebony hair back into his eyes. “I might have even cried then.

“We spent a year as Garlean refugees in Kugane when the final family member showed up, my Uncle Frederique baring a false surname Sombremont. He gave us his surname as protection, and offered up his late husband’s estates in Ishgard as our home.

“These days, my motivations stem from the strength I have with my family,” he says this evenly, softly, but his hand gently touches the sword resting at his side. “I have joined the guard and assist in minimizing corruption that could harm the growing peace. With my previous military training, I have been asked to take on missions beyond the walls of Ishgard. It’s for the greater good, and if it protects my family, I will gladly take up the mantle.”

3. What are your hopes and dreams for the future?

“I...” Laure trails off, pondering this deeply before speaking. He has no qualms with awkward silences, his eyes open but not seeing as he considers. “It has been suggested by my cousin to seek out adventure boards with her if I seek to better the environment for my family. I wish to see them thrive in happiness and I have the ability to put myself on the front lines to protect that.

“My missions have put me in Limsa Lominsa to smoke out Garlean sympathizers. It would not hurt my cover to seek the boards.”

The corners of Laure’s lips quick up, although they never turn into a smile. “My family, it seems, has a reputation for associating each child with a flower, and thus every lady of the family has a private perfume created for them. My uncle has begun to suggest purchasing a farm and creating a cosmetic perfume line. I would no be opposed to assisting in a farm, it might be nice to be live in quiet.”

4. What are your biggest fears and/or regrets?

“Forever I will be haunted by the death of my brother. Although I have been told there was no way around it, I was in charge of his mission and thus will always hold it on my shoulders,” these words spill out so easily, as if perhaps it’s a confession always on his heart, but one that takes subterfuge and poison to release it (or an OOC questionnaire).

5. What are your greatest strengths?

“Physically, I am well adept at a wide range of weaponry. I prefer a sword and an honorable fight, although I do not seek it. I would rather the sword be for show of strength. While I am not passive, I am not keen on conflict of any sort...” he pauses, turquoise eyes glancing off to the side.

“Like the argument my sister-in-law continues to push at me,” he barely moves, but there’s a fraction of a pout coming from his lips. “I do love her dearly but I wish she would stop trying to push me on her friends, or suggest ever woman I speak to is a marriage candidate.” He almost sighs, but it’s barely an resigned breath past his lips. “It’s a different upbringing I suppose, and I love her dearly for trying to look out for me but...” Laure closes his eyes as he collects his silent emotions.

6. What are you like socially?

When he opens them again, there’s a small crease of curious frustration between his brows. “I don’t even know if I fancy women. I cannot say they’ve even held any interest for me beyond companion on the battlefield. Although...” his lips thin just a hair. “I am aware that I am comfortable enough with men to find them physically attractive, I have never sought out a relationship with one.”

Laure glances up, eyes bright as if he just realized something profound. “But I am neither an easy person to speak with, therefore if anyone had attempted to court me, I cannot say I would have noticed.

“Easily, I can blend into a crowd of gentlefolk and follow etiquette taught by my mother, but I cannot say that I have an easy time holding a conversation. It.. my brother was the one with the words, I was merely the protector. Without him, I am merely a man with a sword.”

7. What is your role in the story?

“Which brings it to the purpose of all of this; am I a pawn or a knight? I do not play a game of politics, nor do I go where the queen points without question. I listen, I remain quiet, and act when it affords me opportunity to a better peace.”

Laure adjusts his perfectly ironed shirt collar. “I will no fold to frivolities while the Garlean Empire continues to tear families apart. I am a small part of an amazing whole, and I will not rest until I can no longer move. Those were the wishes of my brother, and now the wishes are mine.”

((That was random fun. Laure would be a quiet soldier, possibly a paladin? I could see him being a strong fighter with a keen mind for justice, and little bother for bickering. He’s probably very kind under all the stony exterior.

Laure obviously has a deep love for his family, although he gets weird around his nephew and younger cousins because he doesn’t know what to do with children no matter how much he loves them.

I do want him to be able to magically heal. Although his Garlean heritage wouldn’t have that ability, I could say it’s from his unknown father’s side.))

[draymalfoi]

End of the line

Hey every one!! I am new to writing fanfic and would love to hear what you think about this one. Theme: Stucky<3 The story is going to span from the pre-war friendship between Bucky and Steve and the present day reunification. The pace is a bit on the lower side. Hope you will share a lot of love

Chapter 1 As far back as he remembered, James had always been well built. He had been a star in school, having tons of friends, followers and worshippers. However, when exactly had he become a bully, he did not remember. His gang of pals were not exactly sadists but they relished going after anyone who caught their fancy, strong or weak, girl or boy. They were not overly cruel but those who had the misfortune of being their target once became social outcasts till the next one came in. James had just looked, had not interfered, neither in the pranks nor for the benefit of the bullied. However, these days everything seemed different to him. He could enjoy nothing. He hated nothing. It was almost as he felt no emotion which was rather odd given how much he used to love being loved, being the greatest hero for some and villain for others. But then, since the war had started, life and death seemed to him banal. His father was missing but it seemed to matter to none. He had grieved in private for months till there were no more tears to shed. However, when he thought of enlisting himself, this very strong urge to protect his family, to be the guardian of them had engulfed him. Now he felt his mother and sisters were stronger than him. They would do well even with him gone. That just made him more despondent than ever. He could never shake off how brave his father had been when the last big war had occurred. James was barely four at that time. His father had been at the forefront then. And in the years after the war, he had been working hard as the head scientist in a government agency. But he never spoke about work at home, and James never asked. It was only when they had received his file and belongings months ago, did he realise how little he knew of his father apart from him being a loving and protective head of the family. No, James had been too busy with this own life, and he had every reason to be. Now, when that reason too was lost, James was not very sure of where to look next. He fell back to reminiscing that day, three years ago, when his life began to change.

1938, Brooklyn The day was sunny after weeks of gloomy rain. The grey skies had cleared just in time for school to reopen and James was ready to leave home for the small apartment that he had rented along with four of his friends. It wasn’t much, but enough for them have fun. His appearance had altered too. For months now, he had been doing hard physical work at a construction site to get himself into shape and to earn some extra cash. Of course, his parents didn’t know. But the results had been impressive. At 6’2”, James was now 200lbs. His dark brown hair was longer and he had begun tying it roughly last month. He also sported a slight stubble. It made him look a little older and more mature. James hated the look. But he had been complimented to be pretty way too many times last year with his clean shaven face and gelled hair. James like it that way, complete with his suit, but so did a lot of other men and women and he did not want that much attention this time around.

“James Buchanan Barnes” Sam called out his name with excitement. “Don’t you look dashing?” James laughed at his friend as they joined others in the alley behind the school. This was their hanging out spot where they fashioned themselves as lords and terrified newcomers. Every day, there was one or the other boy or girl, made meek by all the tales floating around in school, all too ready to pay up quietly. Some had actually become friends later and joined the gang as members graduated. But till now, no one had spoken out against them, neither in their faces nor behind their backs. The consequences could only be speculated.

On that bright afternoon, two girls walked in the alley. They were tall and confident. Funnily, one of them was walking in too eagerly. James was sitting on the side, in his usual spot, eyeing the girls with curiosity, when he noticed the third person behind them. It was a man, who looked as if he had stopped growing earlier than usual. He was 5’4” and not more than 100lbs. Well dressed in a white buttoned shirt, light brown trousers and black shoes, it was his face that captured James’s attention. His blond hair were neatly partitioned and fell slightly over his calm forehead. His smooth pale skin was too well suited to his sparkling blue eyes. The man looked at James for a second and in that moment, James felt as if he had pierced right into his soul. It was just a flicker before that feeling was replaced by understanding. That’s why the girls were so confident. They knew they were not going to be the targets today.            -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2

“Steven Rogers” The little guy said clearly. The girls had been sent back promptly, as James had anticipated. He turned his attention towards Rogers who was facing his friends now. They were all standing up, may be to intimidate him more. Steve’s chin was up in a defiant way as a wrestling match was ordained by Tony, who was the de facto leader of the group. Martha, who happened to be Tony’s burly girlfriend was to be the opponent. A small crowd had gathered by now. As everyone started cheering, James thought ‘this should be fun’. He was lost looking at Rogers’ aquiline nose and the sweat dripping from his now creased forehead when he realised that everyone was looking at him expectantly. Lost in his thoughts, James completely missed the announcement that Martha was sick and therefore he would take over the match. Confused for a moment, James said yes. It was only when he was standing in the centre of the swelling crowd, staring into those blue eyes almost a foot below his, that he realised what he had volunteered for.

It was an uncharacteristically volatile minute for James. He knew not why but suddenly, he wanted to be wicked and punch the hell out of this tiny man. He just wanted to use all strength he had and crush that perfectly symmetrical face that exuded defiance. Rogers arms were up, his fingers curled in defence and his legs a little shaky. ‘It would take just a minute’ James thought. His friends’ rowdy comments were now ringing in his ears but his eyes were concentrated, nay they were drowning in the clear blue depth of Steven’s eyes. There he sensed fear, the kind that arises when you know of the impending loss but cannot give up for want of self-respect. James had often mocked such a sentiment, a sign of weakness and denial of one’s own personality. ‘Yes’, James thought, ‘he is the perfect target’ and raised his fist to hurt Rogers.

Barely minutes later, he was running, as fast as he could. James was pulling Rogers along, though it seemed like his legs would give away at any moment. He knew that tomorrow he would have to answer a lot of questions. But, at that time, only one thing mattered. He could not let Steve be beaten by himself or by anyone else. They stopped after having crossed almost ten blocks. Nobody had followed them. Breathing hard, James looked up and saw Steve sitting on the edge of the pavement, a soft smile on his face. Almost automatically, James grinned and introduced himself “James Buchanan Barnes. Nice to meet you, Stevie” Now smiling brightly, Rogers said “I can call you Bucky?” No one had called James that, but he liked the sound of it, as if it resonated with who he really was.

Bucky was grateful that Steve hadn’t asked him why they had run away. But they were talking soon enough about all things under the sun. Steve had lived in Bucky’s neighbourhood only. But home schooled and frequently sick, Steve was almost invisible to other boys and girls. He had a few friends and a doting mother. Bucky listened intently and talked about himself as carefree as possible. He felt as if like family, there would be no judgement from Steve. Slowly, as the sun was setting, Bucky began observing Steve closely. His thin and long fingers were smudged with charcoal as all this while he had been sketching in the tiny notebook he carried. With his neat clothes and calm demeanour, Steve looked like a complete gentleman.  His eyes on the other hand, were a different matter altogether. It seemed as if they were changing hues from clear blue to a slight tinge of green and golden occasionally. As if they were expressing the tumult in his head- from fear to sadness to unbridled joy- his eyes shared it all. Bucky knew something was very wrong about the situation. He felt as if he was courting trouble Worse, he wanted to do it.                                                                                                                                              -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 3 Steve loved staying outdoors. As a kid he had spent entire days away from home, in farms with his aunt, playing with kids from the neighbourhood. His best friend, Natasha, was a redhead. She was agile and Steve had loved her dry sense of humour and her beatific smile. He was 12, when everything started going south. He developed asthma and lost a lot of weight as his heart too became weak. Soon enough, when all his class mates were hitting puberty and growing taller, he had become stuck at 5’4” which was shorter than many girls. If things could be any worse, Natasha had to move to Europe with her family. Steven would have been lonely and pathetic, but for his mother.

She was a beautiful woman with unfathomable mental strength. As a single parent, she had given Steve the best education possible, took personal interest in his affairs and was always kind to everyone around. She often brought home kids orphaned in the war and fed them and often even trusted them with her trading business. Steve adored her and was never shy of being called a Mama’s boy. His home schooling began at the age of 14. He was randomly joined by kids from the lane. Despite missing his time outdoors, Steve took solace in his mother’s company. He, however, started feeling distant from other kids. From being a friend, he became first the one who was pitied to one who was bullied. He always fought back and came home with bruises and a broken heart. Occasionally, he wrote to Natasha, but never received an answer. May be, she too had made better friends.              

  It was one of such day, when Steve met a kind gentleman walking hurriedly in the alley. He had lost a valuable piece of paper and was tracing back his steps Steve wondered at his energy, given he was quite old and had a prosthetic leg made of wood. ‘It must be really painful’, Steve thought. Shyly, he approached the man and asked if he needed some help. The boys nearby had started laughing by then. Steve was the one who needed help. All the time. The man had however had nodded and after five hours they found a paper on which something was written in German. It was signed by one Dr. Erskine. Steve was thanked profusely by the elderly man, who introduced himself as Dr Alexander Barnes. “Steve Rogers”, he replied. Steve never met him again.

‘Today will be a new start’, Steve thought.

He was starting college and his mother was ecstatic. Steve wanted things to remain that way. He put on his most inconspicuous clothes but of course his mother had other plans. He obliged. Wearing the white shirt and brown pants, he entered his college lawns. They were mostly dry, but to Steve, looked spectacular. He could breathe freely for the first time in years. He had a strong urge to open his sketch book, sit by a tree and draw. He was fiddling his hand in his satchel to find the charcoal when suddenly his heart skipped a beat. A few metres away, he was captivated by the sight of the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Though it was not often that he looked up at people near him, but this man was hard to miss. He was tall and well-built, his brown hair unkempt and he had a most charming smile on his face. He was talking animatedly with his friends, all of whom were huge. Steve realised he had been looking too long and quickly walked ahead to meet other freshmen. Some people were really kind to him, most ignored him, while others gave him a sympathetic look. But no one was ready, Steve noted, to see him as an equal. ‘College should be good’ Steve thought wryly.

It was sometime in the afternoon, when Steve was done for the classes for the day and was sketching randomly that he was summoned to the alley behind the school along with two girls. He complied and walked out behind them. It was here, he saw him again. An unusual sense of familiarity swept over him as he glanced over the man sitting on the side. Despite him being a member the gang, Steve felt secure in the presence of the brunet.

He was very surprised when a few minutes later he found the man looking straight into his eyes with contempt and his fists raised in anger. Steve, out of habit had his arms up in defence, but fear, like never before, swept over him. It was late in the evening when he finally reached back home. He felt elated. A smile was playing on his lips as he thought about his day. Bucky and he had nothing in common and yet they had become friends.  That their friendship was just a day old, even lesser, was not very important for Steve. He had made a friend for the first time in years, and he would do all to keep it that way. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 4 Bucky knew he never enjoyed the company of women as much as his friends did. But he loved hanging out with Jane because she was such a sweet heart and would never let out his secret. He liked men and was in no position to tell anybody or the audacity to actually be in a relationship with other men. He had never known a homosexual and of course, he would never ask.

He was walking to class with Jane when he saw Steve sitting on the staircase, his nose buried in a book titled “Brave New World”. From his expression, it didn’t look like it was a pleasant read at all. Running up to him, Bucky said “Hi Steve, meet my friend, Jane.” Steve looked up straight into Jane’s perfect smile. ‘Jesus, why are all these people so beautiful’, he thought as he shook hands with Jane. He couldn’t believe his fortune for the next few hours, as he sat in the class with the probably the most popular people and cracked jokes without a glitch. Turned out, because James’ gang had never intended to beat him up…they were just a bunch of scary looking pranksters, who sometimes got in actual fights. Bucky (along with some others) thought they were bullies and was always sensitive towards their targets. Thus they were not very surprised when Bucky had simply run away with Steve.

“Thank God they think that’s the reason”, Bucky said to himself.

The next few days, whenever he met Steve, they just talked. Steve gained enough courage to try some sports, but realised his folly as he sat down panting. So he stuck to sketching as Bucky and others played basketball. Jane often joined him. He loved talking to her. She was very intelligent and even though she was majoring in Physics, she was always keen to discuss international affairs, politics and war with Steve. “There will be war again. With Hitler and the Nazi party of his doing so well and France and England quiet, there is no way this is going to end peacefully” Jane claimed one day as she sat down next to him, with newspaper in hand. “I will join the army, then” Steve replied. Some fellows near them smirked and laughed. “No No No buddy, that is not happening! We can’t afford to lose a national treasure like you”, Bucky remarked as he settled himself next to Jane. He was grinning from ear to ear. “We’ll see about that. But for now, I am very contended without a war. The depression was enough of a travesty to now see innocent people die” Steve said.

It had been months since Bucky and Steve had been friends. Steve adored Bucky. He was sincere and funny, very tough yet sensitive. Steve felt as if he had known him all his life. But then there were some days, when Bucky seemed distracted, like he was trying to hide something, nay, himself. He would just walk by himself and slightly nod when others greeted him. This didn’t happen often but when it did, Steve didn’t know what to do. Bucky was his best friend and watching him so listless pained him, but Steve was scared of being intrusive. On one such day, he asked Jane “Hey. Is something wrong with Buck? I wish I could help”. “Let’s go to the Amusement Park” Jane replied instantly and with much enthusiasm. “Okay, sure” Steve would go anywhere to see Bucky be cheerful again.

‘Roller Coasters. Shit. Why didn’t I think this through?’ Steve was slightly panicking. But seeing how excited Jane was and even Bucky looked interested, he relented. It was fun. He was firmly ensconced between Jane and Bucky and held their hands tightly till his knuckles were white. “THIS IS SO GREAT!!!” Bucky yelled as they sped through the curve of the figure eight. As soon as they got down, Bucky took Steve and Jane into his signature bear hug. Later they had Hot Dogs and baked beans for dinner, ending the meal with a large ice-cream. They were leaving as the three friends noticed a redhead smiling suggestively at Bucky. Well, that he was very attractive was no secret, but Steve felt ditched when Bucky went ahead and returned a while later with the girl in his arm. Through the rest of the night, they flirted and soon disappeared as Jane and Steve walked behind talking about inconsequential things.

By the time Bucky returned at the decided spot, Jane had already left, Steve had eaten two more hot dogs and the train station was almost empty. Bucky was also carrying a rather large pink teddy bear in his left arm. Steve, though tired, grinned at him “Did you exchange the redhead for a pink one?” “Nah, bought it for Dats, but she left it with me. She’ll take it on our next meet” Bucky said with a wink. “Okay, now buy us two tickets” Steve replied. Its then they realised that none had enough money left.

“Damn, it’s cold! I’m freezing” Bucky complained as they made their way home in the back of an open truck. Steve was shivering too. He looked at the teddy bear and remarked “Ask Pinky to warm you up”. Bucky looked conflicted for a second, before he quickly pulled Steve into an embrace. Holding each other would keep them warm, at least. Steve smiled and quickly dozed off on Bucky’s shoulder, the smile still lingering on his face. ‘God. He’s beautiful’ Bucky gave Steve a quick peck on his forehead before he too fell asleep.

............to be continued

[acidcorrodes]

insufferable wanker [ @mortuarymacabre ]

Returning home that evening from a trip into town, Brielle headed up to the house that sat atop the hill. It was old and the outside appeared to be a little deteriorated, and therefore some people seemed to think that that also meant that it was creepy, but it was far from it, in her opinion. In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was located inside the perimeters of a cemetery, she felt that most people would likely have envied her for living in such a beautiful place. Sure, maybe things got a little eerie when the sun went down and the fog started to roll in, but in general, it was a nice place, especially in the middle of summer when everything was green and the flowers were in bloom. Right now, with the branches bare of their leaves and the grass dead, Brielle had to admit that it wasn’t exactly the most inviting place, but it was home to her, none the less, and she loved it.

After stopping at the morgue to make sure that she’d locked it, Brielle arrived at her home, stepping through the unlocked doors and hanging her jacket up on the coat rack next to her. It was a little irresponsible, maybe, to leave the door unlocked like that, but nobody ever came up this far. A group had come up once on Halloween, thinking that it would be funny to attempt to deface the Bennett’s home with the spray paint and cartons full of eggs that they’d brought with them, but after nearly being mauled by the two shepherds that roamed the property, they swiftly changed their minds and headed for the exit. That was the last time that anybody ever tried anything like that. Or it was, at least to the Bennett’s knowledge. The rest of the cemetery, on the other hand, was a different story, as young kids got a kick out of vandalizing the resting places of the dead. It was an ongoing struggle to keep the graves looked after.

Leaving the door unlocked behind her for her father, who would be returning from the crematorium soon, the blonde headed into the kitchen, filling Grim and Crow’s bowls up for them and setting them outside on the porch, where they were patiently waiting for her. After that, she headed upstairs and into her bedroom with the intention of getting a shower. Much to her surprise though, as she opened the door, she was faced with the silhouette of a young male, dressed entirely in black with long, raven hair. Her eyes grew wide and she just stared for a moment, her muscles growing tense as she took a small step backward and turned on the light to fully reveal him. His complexion was strikingly pale, she thought, and his clothing screamed ‘goth’, but trying to categorize his taste in clothing, religion, or anything else wasn’t a priority for her. She wanted to know why he was here, and more importantly, if his reasoning was to bring her harm or not.

“Can I help you?” The blonde asked, taking another small, very discreet step backwards. She wasn’t really in a position to judge anybody, but she couldn’t help but to feel as though this guy gave off a strange vibe. He was creepy and she didn’t trust him, and she believed that she had every right to be skeptical of his character. After all, he was standing in her bedroom, without an invitation or a forewarning.

‘How do you do, you insufferable wanker?’

Well, that was rude. The response took Brielle aback, her eyes widening once again before a frown creased onto her face. “Excuse me?” She asked, clearly quite offended by the remark. Much of the youth of the town threw insults at her on a daily basis, but this was the first time that it had happened to her in her own home. The young woman crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Insufferable wanker? Fuck, I know that some people call me a little strange, but insufferable? Come on, now. I think that’s a little much.”

Her blue eyes rolled and she turned a little in place, her desire to bolt down the stairs and back outside becoming nearly overwhelming. She had to play her cards right and think things through though, just in case this guy was some sort of psychopathic serial killer or something. “Seriously. What the hell are you doing in my home?”

Zakhary was unafraid of the house. What held an intense creep factor for most other townspeople was actually inviting to him. It seemed that being well-acquainted with a demon and having a taste for blood had influenced his opinion on these kinds of things. How could he really be creeped out by the fact that the house was conveniently situated next to a graveyard, when he himself was technically dead? Or... undead? It was complicated. But obviously, the house’s location and its inhabitants held some factor of interest because it wasn’t long before the demon in Zak’s head had convinced him to break in.

The act, of course, had been made easy by the fact that the door was actually unlocked to begin with. Who even did that? But Zak didn’t question it for too long: he decided he’d gotten lucky that day. He’d even managed to avoid the hounds, though they weren’t exactly a match for his vampiric abilities. 

Once indoors, Zak wandered around the house in near-silence. He investigated the basement, the kitchen and living room, and then made his way upstairs, conversing quietly here and there with D and picking up little trinkets he found as he went along. Those, unfortunately for the Bennets, would disappear for just about forever. As far as Zak was aware, though, they weren’t really objects of value. Okay, maybe the necklace he pocketed once he was in the girl’s room was less on the cheap side, but then again, it didn’t really matter to him at all.

He was snooping through the items on her dresser when she suddenly commented ‘Can I help you?’ Zak hadn’t quite been paying attention to whether or not he was alone in the house- he had been too busy keeping up his conversation with the demon- but he didn’t miss a beat. He turned around and eyed her from bottom to top, shooting her a smug look. “How do you do, you insufferable wanker?” he had asked. He didn’t even know her, and could barely make guesses on her personality just from the items he’d found around the house, but he thought it’d be funny to insult her just to see her reaction. As far as he was aware, he had the upper hand here, even if he was the one illegally trespassing. 

As far as reactions went, though, hers wasn’t all that bad. She hadn’t yelled at him, but she hadn’t darted either. On the contrary, she had engaged, further questioning him on his presence there, which made sense. “Oh yeah? What would be better? Raccoon eyes? Vampyra?” he questioned, amused with himself at that last one because he knew she couldn’t possibly know what he was. Somehow, though, he’d also missed the fact that she, too, was undead- though, in a different way. 

“You know, I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s got a certain something. Tasteful, even. Not many would be keen on the whole... dead people in your backyard thing, but hey, you’ve clearly taken that pretty well,” he continued with no intentions of seriously answering her question. As he spoke, he wandered around her room, technically snooping still. “So here’s the deal: you can call the cops if you want. You can scream bloody murder, or theft, or trespassing, or whatever the hell you want, I don’t care. You could even beg someone up above to help you out, if you’re into that. Makes no difference. If I were you, though, I’d keep quiet before accidentally biting off more than can be chewed. I’m not gonna hurt you unless I get bored or you give me reason enough to do it, so... you best keep me entertained, Wanker,” he said, neglecting to mention (on purpose) the fact that D couldn’t be trusted nearly as much as he to keep any of those promises.