Summary: You always want what you can’t have: You want Seokjin, Yoongi wants Yoora and the only seemingly happy couple is the wanted themselves. Until you and Yoongi get drunk one night and fall into a relationship that neither of you wanted or planned. The only problem is, could either of you move on from your first loves to fall again?
From this anon’s request!!
Can I request a YOONGI
ANGST where you are in love with Jin but Jin has a girlfriend and YOONGI is in
love with Jin’s girlfriend and you grieve together with YOONGI (who’s your best
friend) but accidentally got drunk together and slept with him.”
THERE WILL BE ONE MORE PART TO THIS SCENARIO
WARNINGS: Sexual situations, blood, angst, idiocy, derpiness, general super fluff for whatever reason, also heartbreak. The usual. You know me.
They always said that when your heart was broken it would
mend itself by rebounding into new love–feeling whole through a person that
was so vastly different than the one you lost or couldn’t have. But, it could
be any person really; it honestly did not matter if they were someone different
than the last. As long as the rebound was next to you and equally as drunk,
then the name and appearance of the person would not stop you from shoving your
tongue down their throat. Nor would it remove their hands finding solace in
tracing the line of your panties through your skinny jeans.
Granted, you didn’t know who “they” referred to or
if “they” even actually said it–if you were sober you would have
realized that rebounding was a stupid decision felt by those either inexperienced
in love or too intoxicated to care if their best friend was removing their
shirt. Well, to be fair to yourself, the alcohol was fooling you into believing
that Yoongi was the person that you loved for 90% of you conscious life instead
of someone who shared your misery. It was only when you sat with your back
pressed up against brick, your ass on top of an old wooden work bench in the
supply closet of a bar, and your fingers embedded in Yoongi’s hair (how was
that shit so soft?), that you were reminded of the stupid word.
The term had always sounded harsh and negative; it always
meant something dangerous–broken hearts and a year’s worth of tears. Well,
with several rounds of shots and that cocktail the bartender had railed for you
that night fogging your mind, the idea of a rebound sounded amazing. You’d
tried everything to lose your feelings for Kim Seokjin, but maybe, maybe this
man who tasted like whiskey and soju and smelled like bleach from the nearby
shelf would drag those feelings out from your heart and purify the empty cavity
If you were sober, you would have doubted it, but drunk you
was a gullible sap–even to your own inner ramblings.
“We can’t.” You murmured in a second of
sobriety–one that was quickly drowned out by the poison of alcohol on Yoongi’s
tongue. Despite the statement, you did not pause in your ministrations nor did
you try to pull away from the male.
Yoongi, himself, was too far gone for proper speech so he
only grunted and, when his hands roamed your sides in just the right, tender
way–you fooled yourself into believing that the man you were letting unzip
your jeans was, in fact, Seokjin.
Diamond Dallas Page to be inducted into the WWE Hall Of Fame [February 20th, 2017]
RollingStone.com announced earlier today that former WCW World Heavyweight Champion Diamond Dallas Page is the latest inductee for the WWE Hall Of Fame Class of 2017!
Page got his career start in 1988, working as a manager in the AWA for a team known as Badd Company (Pat Tanaka and Paul Diamond). DDP managed the duo to win the AWA World Tag Team Championships before moving on to FCW in Florida to work as a commentator. In 1990, Page made his unofficial WrestleMania debut, driving the team of Rhythm And Blues to the ring in a pink Cadillac. In 1991, Dusty Rhodes signed DDP to a contract with WCW.
By 1996, Page’s career had panned out well enough to have captured the WCW World Television Championship, and he’d soon become one of the company’s top superstars. Before the company folded in 2001, Page would be a Triple Crown Champion, having also captured the WCW United States Championship, the WCW World Tag Team Championship (w/ Kevin Nash, Bam Bam Bigelow, and Kanyon), and a 3-time WCW World Heavyweight Championship. In addition to being a popular and accomplished superstar, Page also used his abilities in motivation to help save the lives of fellow superstars Jake “The Snake” Roberts and Scott Hall. Often referred to as one of the best wrestlers to know on a personal level and one of the most professional men in the sport, Page is a welcome addition to the WWE Hall Of Fame!
A/N: My first completed series! I’d like to say thank you to @sunshinehobi7 for making this mood board for me and for beta-ing the work for me since the beginning. Thanks to other friends who helped look through and give me comments on the story at some point or other. I hope readers would enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Your descent to the ground was slow because your arms started burning before you were even halfway towards your destination. Keeping your eyes on the wall facing you instead of down towards the ground, you willed yourself to hasten your pace. Bit by bit you brought yourself closer to your target, but when your feet touched the ground you were at a loss as to the next step you should take.
“Yoongi?” You called as loudly as you dared. “Yoongi!”
Instead of a reply, the answer you got was a hand grabbing your arm from behind, pulling you into the shade that the cluster of trees a few paces away provided. Your shock allowed her to drag you at her will. Once you were concealed in the shadows, the older woman turned you to face her, holding you at her arms’ length. Her eyes swiveled up and down, taking in your appearance before beaming and crushing you into her arms.
“My word! I didn’t think I would ever see you again, miss!” Her cry was heartfelt and you felt confused and a little overwhelmed by her enthusiasm. She seemed familiar, but like so many things in your past, you had buried it so deep that you couldn’t remember. It didn’t seem like she would reveal your escape though, so you forced yourself to relax.
Your lack of reaction to her affectionate hug made her ask, “Do you not remember who I am?”
“I’m sorry, but no,” you answered truthfully.
“I suppose it is to be expected, it has been ten years,” she muttered, more to herself than to you. “I was your nurse when you were a child.”
“Ah.” It was hazy, but you could imagine the younger version of her fussing over you when you were small.
“I’m so glad that you managed to escape,” she gushed, then looked at you with concern. “Do you know what you’re going to do now that you’ve gotten out?”
You shook your head, your throat dry. There was no place that you could call home. The mansion you grew up in had long ceased to be a home for you. You were hoping that Yoongi could help you figure it out, but he was nowhere to be seen and panic was rising up in your chest.
“That’s what I thought. Listen,” your former nurse grabbed your shoulders in a tight grip to make sure you heard every word. “Go through the small gate just over the patch of trees there,” she pointed and you followed the direction of her index finger, hanging on to her every word. “Walk north until you reach the forest, then keep walking. Don’t make any turns. Just go straight until you reach a shack. You can stay there for now, and I will look for you tomorrow. Do you understand me?”
You nodded eagerly, happy to be given a direction when you felt so helplessly lost.
She took another good look at you, as if trying to burn your image into her memory. “Go now. I have to go back inside before I am missed.” With a soft pat on your cheek and a watery smile, she scuttled back into the mansion, leaving you alone among the trees.
You spared a few seconds to watch her hurry away, then looked around again, this time with more urgency. You needed to leave, but you couldn’t leave Yoongi behind. Would he be able to find you if you left without him? Just as you were about to call for him again, you saw his slender figure emerge from behind a tree.
“Yoongi!” You breathed in relief and rushed forward to envelop him in a hug. He wrapped his arms around you, his whisper of, “You made it,” was full of joy.
He only allowed you a moment of respite before wrenching you away from him, although he took your hand. “We have to go.”
I know it’d probably break the canon, but I think a fallout game set after the 60’s would be super cool. I’d like to see old riot signs all dusty and broken, old tie-dye shirts, ruined posters, and a two different Radios, one that plays 50’s music with a peppy broadcaster for AM and a more lax hippie broadcaster who plays Acid rock and Folk on FM. I just think it’d be super cool to see the ruins of all the colorful vans and buildings as well as tons of different Chems people used.
The mansions of Hightown were old things - the stones raised from the times when Tevinter ruled and its citizens growing rich from the profits their slaves unearthed from the deep. Blood mixed deeply with the mortar, keeping the history alive well into the next Ages. Ghosts roamed the halls, vengeful and restless, and none more so than the spectral occupant of the abandoned estate on the corner of Viscount’s Way.
A magister’s property, long forgotten in the mage’s absence. Some old families remembered when Danarius ruled his small section of the Free Marches, but his presence was lost among the tall weeds and the unruly hedges. The ivy climbed high to crack the stonework to hide the intricate carvings. No voice demanded its trimmings, no orders sent to servants and slaves alike to hack it away, and mother nature noticed the silence and rushed to take back what had been so ruthlessly ripped from her. In his place, the ghosts served.
It wasn’t unknown to Hightown that Danarius’ old mansion was haunted. Crashes and bangs sounded from the dark rooms at night, occasionally accompanied by a pained wail. An apparition wandered down hall from hall, glowing first white, then blue, its urethral form either unaware or uncaring of the state of them. Guards would come if called by unsettled neighbors and a patrol made rounds of the perimeter once a week to keep tabs on the ghost inside. A templar would have served better if a demon was so close at hand. The guards never did play nicely in their castle, and if one or two were to go missing under the dark of night, it was only fresh word to spread through the parties growing only duller by the day.
Theirs names went unknown, just like the current owner of the collapsing mansion. Aveline sent her husband, Donnic, when she wasn’t to make the rounds herself. Where the public saw the guards protecting them, it was the one inside that needed the protection from the public. What would they do if they were to find the slave of the former magister now lived within the peeling walls? Hightown would chitter and chatter until a new myth was made and the dare would be to speak to the spectre rather than avoid it. The Viscount would pull up the deed, demand payment for taxes long forgotten by coin not in hand, and take all that the elf had left of himself.
The weedy lawn and unkempt bushes provided a good distraction. The cracked walkway and crawling vines hid the signs of dusty footprints and their maker’s shadow by the window. The eerie glow outmatched the flicker of the bedroom fire. The smell of corpses wafted away the bathing salts and fresh bread.
It was the perfect illusion. It fooled all of Hightown. It fooled even those who called their relation with the ghost almost personal. Sometimes it fooled the ghost himself.
Fenris forgot, sometimes, that he’d removed the bodies. They were a pride to look upon when he descended the stairs those first few mornings - the lifeless bodies of his master’s puppets, now limp from their cut strings and able to do nothing but rot. Rot they did, and the scent grew too much, overpowering the memory of victory, and Fenris had dragged them one by one to the cellar where they were sent out of the back with the rest of the garbage. Mildew still clogged the walls and made the air heavy, until he’d torn the walls down - with bare hands and smashed bottles and the occasional dwarven professional - building them back up properly and in a style in all his choosing. Danarius had no place to hide when all the corners were painted yellow and the floors thick with rugs, a far cry from the dark red paper and hard tiles.
The holes in the roof were fixed when the rain drizzled in to mat the rugs. The door hinges oiled as the creaking woke him in the night. The wine cellar refilled, the light fixtures replaced, the larder stocked. The creeping ivy creeped, the untrimmed hedges stayed untrimmed, and the weeds propagated.
It was his home - Fenris would see it stayed in his possession - and if it meant little company due to the nature of the outside, it only meant the illusion was still working.
At least, it was, for those that had not been inside.
“I’m coming to your place.” Anders’ statement was met by a lift of a brow from Fenris and varying degrees of disgust from the others. Hawke looped an arm around the mage’s shoulders and tugged him close to his side.
“We fought a high dragon and you don’t want to spend the night in a fluffy and, might I add, clean mattress in a different mansion?”
“Or the Hanged man,” Varric offered from somewhere behind.
They were all lagging after the fight. Anders didn’t need to be a healer to recognize exhaustion when he saw it. A favor of one leg over another, a little swing to the arms, squinted eyes unfocused on the path ahead. He was, however, a healer, and knew every single one of them was injured more than he had the capacity to fix. As much as Hawke joked, wasn’t a wave of his hand that snapped bone into back and knit flesh back together. It was time and energy and knowledge that he didn’t have when he was low on mana and sleep. A proper bed was what he needed, and there was one with his name on it.
“If I’m to sleep in spilled alcohol, I’m going to sleep in the best,” Anders told him, wriggled his way out of Hawke’s grasp. He took Fenris’ arm in his and wrapped it around himself. Fenris let his arm go limp but Anders caught it and pulled it back over his shoulders before it could fall back to the elf’s side. “I’ll even put a bandage on like a good healer to keep the bed bugs out.”
Fenris snorted. “You suggest my house is dirty enough to have such things.” Anders blinked slow, the smile spreading slower across his face, as the two rogues gave them a look.
“Have you seen your mansion lately? It broods just as darkly as you do.”
Anders gave a deep hum of agreement and entwinted his fingers with the hand now willingly curved around him. “It’s closer than both Hawke’s and the Hanged Man. Like you said, we did just fight a high dragon, and if it means one less step…”
Varric waved them off at the stairs dividing Kirkwall in half. He took the long winding case down to Lowtown, and what would eventually become Darktown just a lift lower, while Hawke, with Fenris and Anders, ascended, much to their leadened legs’ complaints. Hawke used it as an excuse to see them only as far as the rusty gate, mumbling a tired goodnight and a halfhearted reminder that he’d see them tomorrow afternoon for their pay. Fenris led Anders inside with a gesture, closing the door shut after him.
Anders inhaled deep and exhaled hard, his lungs expelling the dust and blood and fear they’d been absorbing for hours. Woodsmoke and lyrium were a welcome change, as was the faint and light scent of pollen. “Did you get flowers?”
Fenris nodded. “Some of the weeds are not simply weeds, and the corners of the rooms were growing dark.”
Anders grinned and followed Fenris up the short flight of steps to their bedroom. “Do you suppose everyone still thinks you have the bodies literally the rooms?”
“Suppose?” Fenris shook his head. “They believe it.”
Anders hummed and stretched a hand out to trail his fingers over a petal from a vase they passed before entering. “I can’t imagine what they’d do if they found out the truth.”
Fenris chuckled. “I fear it also. Thus, I do not let them in.”
(Minor warning for bar brawls and canon appropriate violence)
Some people didn’t have any sense.
Clint Barton knew that from personal experience, god knows he’d been accused of it often enough. He had no goddamn sense, he knew it. But there were times, there were situations, when even he knew someone had no sense.
There was a slim amount of pleasure to be had to not being the dumbest guy in the room. It happened so seldom, he had to savor it when it happened.
When the man in the designer suit and the glossy, well polished shoes walked through the door of the dive bar, Clint just stopped, bottle at his lips, beer hanging heavy on his tongue, to stare. It took him a couple of seconds to remember to swallow, the sight was just that unbelievable. It wasn’t as if he minded the view; Clint had always had a bit of a thing for guys who knew how to dress. He was pretty sure it had a lot to do with his own white trash upbringing, but he wasn’t about to question it much. He liked a guy who could wear a suit and make it look good, as kinks went, that was pretty tame.
Of course, he also had a thing for guys with an actual survival instinct, so he was pretty sure the scenario playing out in his mind right now wasn’t going to happen.
He was pretty sure this guy wasn’t going to live long enough for Clint to see if check his orientation.