sorry sorry


t o n i g h t

anonymous asked:

Hiiiii can you rec me some new fics please thank you so much ♥

yeah sure!! i’ve been meaning to update my fic rec but i’ll just do a quick list for you here

the making of newsies
  • feldman: finally....never planned on you/don't come a-knocking is complete
  • calhoun: i just have one question
  • feldman: shoot
  • calhoun: 'girls are nice once or twice 'til find someone new''s a little....
  • feldman: a little what??
  • calhoun:
  • feldman:
  • feldman: oh my god it's gay isn't it

161106 EUNHAE 쏘리 쏘리 SorrySorry [Army ver.]

cr: Hercules1986


BunnyRibbit Week: Day 2 — First Fight

It was a combination of stress, weariness, and simple annoyance that quickly turned their conversation for the worst. They couldn’t even make it to the privacy of one of their bedrooms before exploding on each other. Most of the agents have front row seats to the little show because they all had just unloaded from the ship.

“WE LOST THE PAYLOAD BECAUSE OF YOU,” she screams. Jamming her accusing finger into his chest, she shouts it in his face.

“YOU WERE THE ONE WHO COULDN’T KEEP YOUR MEKA GOING,” he shoots back just as quickly.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get the payload to the destination. Easy. Except, where it wasn’t. Everyone else had fallen back, but was pushing to get the enemies off the vehicle. Her meka quickly crumbled and she ejected out but keep firing away with her small gun. It was ten to one, but had no plans to go down without a fight.

Then Lucio appeared, and grabbed her before a bullet could hit her skull and took off. If they had endured for a few moments longer, they could have stalled the enemies long enough for the rest of the team to show up.

But Lucio took them away to safeness, and she got angry.

They are usually able to talk things out before things get too heated, but not this time. No, their conversation went from whispers on the ship to the full blown meltdown they’re experiencing right now. And yet, she doesn’t care that everyone sees them. She angry and hurt, and he needs to stop thinking what he did was okay.

“I WAS ACTUALLY TRYING TO GUARD THE PAYLOAD UNLIKE YOU.” Oh it hurts her throat to shout like this.

“YOU WERE GOING TO GET SHOT, YOU’RE DEFENSELESS WITHOUT YOUR MEKA. YOU WERE IN DANGER.” He shouts and moves with his hands, just as furious as her.


This stings, and she sees it fly across his face. It gets the rest of her words to still in her throat, but there’s no stopping the denotation she just set off.

He screams and she matches it. Their words assaults to each other’s skin. It’s all the horrible truths they never speak and they hurt because it’s from each other. She feels the sensation of tears in her eyes but she refuses to look weak. She know she’s right, she has to be. She can’t lose this argument.

“Luvs, hey, come down for a moment,” says Tracer as she steps between them, but she’s easily shoved aside as they continue their argument. Her worried expression out of their field of vision.

“That’s enough.”

A figure shoves them apart easily with both arms before shouting at both of them to quiet down.

“Ya’ll need to take a breather,” McCree switches his stern gaze from to Lucio, but their gazes refuse to break even though he has successfully silenced them.

“Whatever,” Lucio huffs, turning away, “I’m done.”

“Don’t walk away from me, Lucio.” She hisses, but her attempts at going after him are stopped by the cowboy. His expression silently tells her that it’s not going to happen right now.

“Fine. I don’t care, walk away.” She gets in the final word before watching his back disappear through the doors.

“Ya gonna calm down now?” McCree asks her, but her only response is her shoving his arm off. She turns and dashes across the airstrip to the back of the facility. A small open area rests behind the walls with a garden, and it’s the only place she can to be at the moment.

Her lungs are heaving by the time she steps on the grass there. Her body trembles but it’s not from the running. Wetness keeps trying to drench her cheeks but she stubbornly keeps wiping it away. She will not cry.

Her lungs are heaving by the time she steps on the grass there. Her body trembles but it’s not from the running. Wetness keeps trying to drench her cheeks but she stubbornly keeps wiping it away. She will not cry.

She falls against a wall. Her knees curling into her chest as she wraps her arms around her knees. Breathing through her nose, she fights the tears burning in her eyes.

The replay of the words throw at each other fill her thoughts. She can’t stop repeating his anger and the faults. He is in the wrong, she knows it… she knows… no.

It comes crashing in on her, what she really said to him. How loud she was. They’ve never fought before, not like this. Not with such brutality.

Burying her head in her arms, the dams break, and the flood drowns her. Her heart burns, both elements of her falling apart hissing and tearing at her skin. She shakes her head, rubbing her forehead against her arms while trying to take back everything that just happened.

Because now, all she wants is his arms around her. But with all her cruel and breathy words, she’s insure that won’t happen for some time.

Maybe forever.

There was a point, during The Rise, when it became abundantly clear to the disreputable denizens of Los Santos that unless drastic measures were taken the Fake’s were going to succeed in their play for the city. Some of those with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo, who wanted the city for themselves or at least the patches they’d carved out as their own, negotiated a deal. A temporary truce between a handful of the biggest names in the area. An alliance to bring down the ragtag upstarts before their unprecedented domination completely took hold.

It was a bloody uprising that had taken them all by surprise. The FAHC had slunk into Los Santos, established themselves well enough to bully their way into a modest little bit of territory but not nearly enough to draw attention, to cause alarm. Wouldn’t have been any different from any of the dozens of little gangs that rise and fall on the fringes of the godforsaken city if not for their leader. The infamous Geoff Ramsey, fallen so far from grace. 

Slumming it in Los Santos, Ramsey appears to have collected what could charitably be called a crew. The only other member of any notable worth is Pattillo; a powerhouse in her own right but too blindly loyal to see the sense in walking away from Ramsey’s downward spiral. The rest of the group is less inspiring. They seem to have contracted some nameless mercenary, a big guy who’s always wearing a ridiculous fur-lined coat and an ever-changing cheap plastic party mask like he thinks he’s some kind of Hollywood villain. That’s pretty par for the course with mercenaries though, melodramatic bastards.  

The other three unknown wonders appear to have been recruited right out of school; bright eyed, bushy tailed and babyfaced, a cacophony of garish bravado, unrefined talent and misplaced pride. Ramsey’s pet British import is a nosey brat with sticky fingers, the short-tempered Jerseyite can’t keep his cool long enough to let his perpetually bloodied knuckles heal, and the wanna-be sniper is more invested in feigning disinterest and painting his guns ironically vivid colours than he is in being more than a halfway decent shot.

Still, disaster or not, more than one group keeps and eye on them at first; Geoff might look down and out but no one just ignores a Rooster. The result of this surveillance is.. unflattering. A series of ridiculously low-level jobs with pitiful takes, messy out-of-sync teamwork, public arguments and complete disrespect; it’s pretty clear Ramsey has no idea how to run a decent crew, not even the kids seem to be scared of him. Even their base is a travesty; where the big gangs have bought up the penthouses of inner-city Los Santos, Ramsey and his menagerie are working with some sort of shoebox apartment somewhere out in the boonies. It’d be downright sad if it wasn’t so funny.

It takes a bit of time to confirm but eventually it is universally agreed that the FAHC were no kind of threat, that Ramsey had totally lost his touch. Eventually everyone stops looking any deeper than the occasional check in following some amusing flop, more a dose of schadenfreude than any true threat analysis.  

So when the ripples start no one thinks much of it; the Fake AH Crew take out and run off a couple of little gangs, not a big deal – the dregs are always snapping at each other, pushing for more territory, if anything the Fakes are overdue. It only makes sense that they’ve started to run bigger jobs, and no one notices the way they’re now pulling them off effortlessly, with no sign of their previous ineptitude, the way they’re starting to make waves.

It’s more or less a fucking tsunami by the time the penny drops, the FAHC crashing in on other crew’s jobs, taking out their warehouses, hitting their bases; maybe whatever dump they’re holing up in isn’t glamorous but the overcrowded rat’s nest of the outer sectors’ of the city prevent anyone from repaying the favour and trailing the Fake’s back home. They’re clawing their way up the ladder with alarming speed, expanding their reach so rapidly it’s nearly impossible to keep track, and Ramsey watches over it all. Dressed to the nines in an extravagant suit to match his shiny new attitude, reserved control and smug satisfaction, already patting himself on the back, celebrating his perceived victory.

Something had to be done. Individual attacks are mounted, of course, but the FAHC have grown wily, have revealed themselves to be more of a threat than any had anticipated. The trust-fund baby stops fumbling and shows his fangs, their loose canon gets his hands on a seemingly endless supply of explosives and out of nowhere the questionable sniper never misses a shot. Indisputably the worst reveal of all, though, is the mercenary. Dropping his ridiculous fur coat and plastic masks for a jacket he wears like a second skin and a skull no one could mistake, his name whispered all over the city like a collective gasp, a shared curse; Vagabond.

So all of a sudden those in power in Los Santos found themselves with a hell of a fucking problem on their hands. It was getting out of control, they were losing everything, so they band together. Four of the most influential groups in Los Santos’ underbelly, usually at violent odds over contested territory but prepared to set it all aside until this matter is dealt with. Until the Fake AH Crew have been taught exactly what happens to upstarts in their city.

The plan, when they settle it, is a basic as can be: divide and conquer. If they can seperate the group, keep the two in charge occupied then tell the rest their leaders have fallen it will all be over. Clearly Ramsey’s got something of the Roosters in him still, and Jack is a goddamn demon when she’s protecting her boss, but the remainder of the crew will surely crumble under pressure.

As horrifying as he is the Vagabond is still a mercenary, is still driven by nothing more than money at the end of the day, and when he hears that his payday is gone his facsimile of loyalty is sure to follow. After that the kids won’t last long, cocky little shits or not once they’re all alone they’ll flee the city with their tails between their legs or die trying, and there there will only be two. Ramsey might have more bite left in him that they’d thought but he’s made no friends in this city, has no nearby allies to fall back on, and veteran’s of the business or not two people can’t hold up against entire gangs for long.

But, of course, it doesn’t exactly work out that way. It’s all going to plan, almost textbook, but the one thing no one took into account was the ludicrous ingenious of Geoff’s ability to play the long game.

See Geoff wasn’t wasting those early months, tiny hauls didn’t bother him at all because the target had never been the money. Geoff had money for days, for years in fact, what he need was a crew. A crew who knew each other’s every strength, flaw and habit, who’d dealt with living on top of each other; forced through sheer proximity to start lowering walls. The little jobs let them feel each other out without much consequence, find their rhythm as a group, test relationships under pressure, boredom and frustration. Maybe they hadn’t looked like much, had been intentionally avoiding showing their true colours, but Geoff made himself a crew who not only worked as one but had come to actually care for one another, trust each other and were, above all else, loyal. That’s the kind of connection no amount of money can buy, no degree of fearful respect can fake, and no mere threat can shake apart.

So when they say Geoff and Jack are gone, torn away right at the precipice of everything they had been working for, the reaction is somewhat less than desirable.  

When the Vagabond hears he doesn’t cut and run, doesn’t consider himself duty-free, an impartial witness to the death of a client. Ryan thinks liars, thinks no chance in hell, thinks kill them anyway. His knee-jerk reaction is to leap into action, relish in the wholesale murder he’s been putting off for months, but he isn’t just the Vagabond anymore. Ryan’s got the Lads to think about, standing a few steps behind him in a move they’ll surely mock him for later but it’s second nature now, trying to keep them safe. For a given definition of safe. The FAHC has given back a part of himself that he’d thought was lost forever, shattered bone-deep loneliness and rekindled joy and security and meaningless affection. Ryan would die before losing that all over again; he might be more than just the Vagabond but Ryan has never been particularly forgiving.

There’s a choked off sound from behind him and in that split second Ryan has a choice to make. Geoff would call their bluff, demand to see the bodies; Jack would tell the Lads to be smart, to think about the flaws in the story; the Vagabond would execute the threat for their insolence before slipping off into the night, but Ryan just takes a deep breath. Smiles his nastiest smile and steps to the side, waving the Lads forward with a jerk of his head, bracing himself for the carnage.

Because rather than breaking their will, when the Lads are told Geoff and Jack are gone they flip their goddamn shit. Gavin loves this crew unlike anything he has ever loved, emotions so fierce he’s surprised even himself, the found family he’d burn down the whole world to keep. Michael breathes loyalty, has always done, but his devotion has never been unquestioning obedience and the FAHC is the first crew who have rewarded his refusal to be a blind pawn; for all he huffs and complains Geoff has always welcomed intelligent debate, no matter how irreverently it’s proposed. And then there’s Ray, who’s learning that having a crew doesn’t require the sacrifice of independence, that leaning on others won’t always be a let down and sometimes coming down from his perch and getting amongst the action is worth the mess; it’s a work in progress but he’s not ready to lose it yet.

It doesn’t matter how implausibly convenient the boasting sounds, how easily calm heads could pick apart the lies; the thought alone is more than enough to have all three seeing red. Things were going to get messy no matter what, but Ryan’s explicit blessing was fuel on an already considerable fire, and they don’t hesitate tear past him and into the fray. Ryan follows, of course, and there’s something almost cathartic in it, an assassin amongst a hurricane of fury, infinitely more efficient alone but surprisingly proud of their merciless bloodbath, an amused artist cleaning up after enthusiastic students.

It’s Ryan who gets them moving again afterwards, when street’s have fallen quiet and there’s no one left to punish, feeling very much the responsible adult as he herds them down the road, a shepherd with a particularly murderous flock.

It doesn’t take them long to track down Geoff and Jack, alive and well and just finished cleaning up their own mess. Geoff’s suit, proudly protected from all but the slightest singeing despite this ordeal of a day, is completely written off when he’s tacked into a filthy hug, Jack graciously allowing herself to be drawn into the mess despite grumbling about her aching ribs as Ray and Ryan stand to the side and share a look that is as much look at what we have as it is look what we put up with. They’re all bloody and bruised and strung out on too much adrenaline and too little sleep but they’re back together, they’re all alive, and it still tastes like victory. Like succession.

With the city’s former top dogs burning in the street, an irrefutable display of terrifying talent to overwrite all past assumptions and a ruthless reputation that’s spreading father in every passing moment, the FAHC couldn’t be in a better position to claim ownership of Los Santos. The infamous City of Saints, safe-haven of sinners, bowing under one supreme power for the first time in it’s less than illustrious history, newfound royalty slipping in like poison and bringing the city to its knees.