#all sorts of presses were there and they all publish some neat things and most of them use an actual old ass press

[safyresky]

Yoooo you went to a paper craft fair? That's so cool! I've been collecting stuff to try to make some because I remember having a lot of fun doing it as a kid and have seen people do some super neat stuff with it. What was the fair like??

It was small and local but very cool! It was billed as a "book arts fair" with just under 50 vendors, all of which who did book crafts/paper craft in some way shape or form. There were tons of vendors who made their own paper, bound their own books, used letter presses to do ART (I got some very fun prints), one woman made her own INK. She was super friendly!

It was thrown by the Grimsby Wayzgoose, which to my understanding is a local collective of artists who do letterpress art and book crafts and paper craft! It was really neat! They publish an anthology every year, and we have a lot of their stuff in our collections @ the rare books library I work at! That's why we went, lol. You can read more about them and the anthologies specifically here :) I wish I had more info for you but alas! I am not an expert! I just think it neat!

BUT YEAH it was really cool! Drive was LONG, Grimsby is by Niagara so it was like 4 hours from Eastern Ontario, but deffs worth it. We all enjoyed it and seeing all of the hand made paper and books and INKS!!!!! WAS AMAZING! I bought a bookmark that was hand made paper and all it's very pretty:

Ding dang HAND MADE! It feels THICK! It's so cool. I have some OTHER photos under the cut for you!

I didn't take photos of the actual booths and what not because I was very much uh. Distracted by the THINGS! But have some THINGS!

One of the first things they had was a pre-made piece of paper we put into a mini press and got as a souvenir, it looks like this:

the little press was SOO CUTE!

Then they also gave us a souvenir matchbook, handmade and printed on a letter press. They apparently do this every year and this one was about wizards (topical!)

Anyway, I still have the program and here are all the vendors that were there! They more or less all have socials/instas/what have you and all do some form of book art--binding, paper making, crafting, etc. etc.

It also had a little blurb on the anthologies specifically!

We've deffs shared some photos of the anthologies on our insta (and other cool stuff, if rare books/special collections is your jam DEFFS check it out, our social media person posts ALL THE DAMN TIME and we have SO MUCH COOL SHIT), I'm gonna do a quick scroll and see hang on a sec

OKAY NEVERMIND APPARENTLY WE HAVEN'T POSTED THEM ON THE INSTA???? Wildin, I remember my fellow LT taking photos of them bc they're pretty cool. But I'll grab some photos when I'm in tomorrow! I think I'm free from desk duty so I can roam the vaults and share some of the cool papercrafts inside the anthologies :3

[astralibrary]

another year another silan portrait babey.... a few days late this time but we still ballin'

i've been very into manga cover design lately (studying them, making my own, etc) so it only felt right to incorporate that into this year's portrait, right? and go way overboard designing the entire front, back and spine including a blurb and barcodes and retail/publishing info, right?? and then go all in on making a matching japanese version with its own alternative blurb and barcode area bc u can't have one without the other, right?? obviously!!!!

like i said i've been really into manga design-

thoughts & details belooow

funnily enough this ended up being an actual portrait again after i did away with them in favor of illustrations in recent years, but ig it's fitting since this is the 10th one, right? (more on that later i wrote this out of order-) a callback to the first one all those years ago... the other reason it's a portrait is bc art has been fighting back lately and a full illustration probably would have been a lot; most importantly tho i just thought this composition would make for a cool dramatic manga cover heh heh

anyway bro the impossible happened i fully rendered flowers AND completed the portrait this year hello??? this has never happened since the v first year wait i just checked it happened in 2019 too this has not happened since 2019 wowie!!!! i put my whole ass into those flowers pls observe them (except the tall purple ones don't look too closely at those. look at the pansies they're my fave ♥️)

this year we have morning glories taking center stage, surrounded by pansies, forget-me-nots, some kind of nondescript purple perennial or perhaps lavender, and some kind of pink blossom (idk that one was just a space filler). don't ask abt the random petals on his mouth & collarbone uhh theres some kind of flowering tree growing just offscreen it's possible

anyway the morning glories are significant bc they represent sythra, silan's twin sister; in my mind her colors are blue & yellow and it seemed like such a good fit, so i'm officially adding it to the Flower Lore (there is no flower lore)

there is, however, Twin Lore; silan's eyes are brown and sythra's are blue, but when they're telepathically linked their left eyes exchange color (so silan's becomes blue & vice versa). the flowers here are meant to represent that, like sythra isn't here but at the same time silan carries her with him wherever he goes... smth like that

the plot described in the blurb is like, sort of what happens but i simplified things for the sake of a neat little fake manga blurb. nobody asked me to do this yet here we are. if i were being realistic abt it this would probs be like vol 2 BUT i made it the 10th volume bc this is?? the 10th silan portrait??? i did the first one in 2014?? hello??? time is fake (my hc is that it's a slice of life club manga about flower pressing for the first 9 volumes but it pivots hard in vol 10 bc the author got so sick of drawing flowers no i am not projecting-)

now regarding the japanese version: i tried my best*

*(if u or a loved one know japanese ur not allowed to make fun of me ok orz i used 姉妹 bc theres no way for silan & sythra to know who's the older twin & idk what u would do in that situation like do u just pick one & go w it or is there another hierarchy-neutral word for sister, 姉妹 is the best i can do w my limited knowledge and even then it probably just sounds like silan is having twin girls which like good for him but even so if i sound like a dork keep it to urself ok but actually do tell me if u know bc i would like to Learn ik this is probably the least of my worries when it comes to that entire paragraph but rn we are just going to focus on the issues i know about and pretend that everything else is fine as is ok thank u for ur time & have a lovely day ur a star ⭐️)

misc fun facts aka u learn how unhinged i was abt this:

the title is May 16th bc that's just what silan's story has always been called. luckily i have that up my sleeve or i'd have had to come up w smth out of my ass like The Silan Portrait or some shit

the author and publishing company are both called astralibrary yes that's me (it has a nice ring to it as a manga publisher name don't u think). i made up the logo on the spot it's my best work. especially the one in the bottom right of the japanese bar code area where i just typed the name and put a star next to it bc that makes it look professional somehow

i stole borrowed the barcodes from existing manga i have good pics of (bc i have an entire folder in my gallery dedicated to manga covers & jpn typography, unrelated); the english one is hanako-kun vol 4, and the japanese one is after the rain vol 10. i changed all the numerical codes tho (variations on the date 5/16 repeating)

i made up the english prices but i picked ¥640 specifically bc that's the price of the natsuyuu volumes i have in my manga covers folder, my only possible point of reference,

rated teen even tho in my mind it'd be targeted more towards young adults; it doesn't have anything in it that would warrant a mature rating but it does feel strange to categorize it in this way even knowing these ratings don't necessarily dictate the target audience

i thought about messing around w the design of the japanese version more to reflect some of the design sensibilities i've observed in japanese manga, like different placement of the text on the cover or a different spine entirely (since they tend to differ a lot between jpn and eng versions)- i even thought about trying to design an obi (long strip of paper that wraps all the way around the bottom portion of the book, usually has announcements & promotional stuff on it), but that is a whole ass project for another day i think this'll do just fine for now skdjlfkdg

and there u have it, thank u for reading my yearly essay abt drawing i did! sometimes u need to go aaaaaa about smth u drew and that's ok 👌

---

edit: oh yea i forgor i should write transcriptions of the blurbs here we go

ENGLISH

Alone with his thoughts? Not necessarily...

Silan has finally discovered the source of the mysterious voice in his head- the long lost twin sister he never knew he had...?! She calls herself Sythra and she has a serious grudge against him- but they need each other in order to uncover the hidden truths about their past.

Why didn't they know about each other? How were they separated? Why can they hear each other's thoughts?

And... What else don't they know?

-

JAPANESE

双子の姉妹がいる⁉︎

サイランは頭の中の声の衝撃的な正体を知るーーどうやら双子の姉妹がいるらしい⁉︎しかも、なぜか嫌われているようで…頑張れ、サイラン！

どういうわけか、この二人は謎に満ちた過去の答えを一緒に見つけるでしょう。

なぜお互いのことを知らなかったのか？どのようにして離れ離れになったのか？なぜお互いの考えを聞くことができるのか？そして…他に知らないことは…？

待望の第10巻がついに登場！

INTENDED TRANSLATION:

I have a twin sister?!

Silan learns the shocking identity of the voice inside his head- apparently he has a twin sister?! And what's more, for some reason she seems to hate him... Hang in there, Silan!

Somehow, these two will find the answers to their mysterious past together.

Why didn't they know about each other? How did they get separated? Why can they hear each other's thoughts?And...what else do they not know...?

The long-awaited 10th volume is finally here!

[imaginarypasta]

1, 13, 29 for the ao3 asks :3

ahhh thank you!! i’m going to put them under a cut because i ended up being kinda wordy in my responses >.<

ao3 wrapped asks here!

1. How many words have you written this year?

that i’ve published, 68k. unpublished/unfinished, way less than i thought, honestly. not including outlines but including unrooted dialogue, 44k.

13. What’s your longest work of the year?

it is little maker, little man at 16.5k words! lately, pretty much whenever i write a dynamic i have to get all my thoughts out about it in a fic that’s usually over 10k words, and this was that for kaebedo. usually this paves the way for more casual fics about it, but for this one i just sort of... wrote all my interest away. (technically speaking it didn’t fade for a few months, but i was never tempted to write another fic about them romantically again.) alas!

i do still like many aspects about it—overall, i think it’s a kind of neat meditation on humanity. i like a lot of the writing in it. i am still obsessed with the way i put little alchemy like references and concepts in there; i think that’s my favorite part and i would love to do more with it but i feel weird if i’m including it for someone other than albedo, even if i think i could defend it. i actually really like the characterization of kaeya, although i think you might have to work for it because albedo is definitely seeing him through a particular lens. i’m not sure if that actually translated, though!

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

this was very hard to choose. i do quite enjoy my own writing, so i have a lot of faves, but i would also edit forever if i could so most of my other options had like small things i would change about them.

this passage is from my fic I’m gonna miss your love when it’s gone, which deals with the relationships between kaeya and his fathers. it’s a bit of a long one...

Crepus places a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Kaeya leans into the touch as far as he can, and then some. He hooks his arms under Crepus’, pressing his head into his chest, an awkward, halfway hug, because they’re both still sitting in chairs beside each other. Crepus’ arm remains on his shoulder, squeezing it just enough to let Kaeya know he’s there. There are tears on his face, and he knows he should wipe them away, pretend they were never there, because he’s old enough now to hold all of this in his chest without complaint, but he doesn’t. After a long moment, Crepus asks him, so impossibly kindly, like he knows it’s not really about him at all, like there’s no wrong answer, nothing that can hurt him or surprise him, “What’s wrong?” Kaeya wants so badly to answer. He wants nothing more than to share every burden with Crepus, who he knows will help him in whatever ways he can, to ask him for support in a way he must, with all his kindness and experience, know how to give. “Tell me if this is something I can fix.” “I miss it,” he says, but that’s not it. At least not all of it. He misses the dark and the cold and the food and the language and the quiet and the clothes, but most of all he misses the people. Maybe Crepus wasn’t wrong to comfort him how he did; he purses his lips. Kaeya knows that he shouldn’t, because he will see his father again someday, and because Crepus is doing all he can to be there for him, to be something for him, but still he says, “I miss my father.” He breaks an unspoken promise between them in speaking of him, an oath of silence and secrecy Crepus never asked him to make—would never ask him to make, and would probably scold him if he’d admitted to it. And for that broken promise, he feels Crepus’ breath stutter in his chest against his ear, and then gentle hands coming off of him and pulling his head away from his chest. Crepus just looks at him for a long moment, silent and intensely focused. His hands are on either side of Kaeya’s face, thumbs pressed into his temples. He plants a kiss on his forehead and then draws him in closer, a real hug this time. He readjusts his position to more fully accept Kaeya into his arms, so that Kaeya’s head is wedged between Crepus’ neck and shoulder, his chin propped up neatly and undoubtedly uncomfortably on blue hair. Crepus has his hands on the back of his head, his back. They’re so sturdy. Nothing like Kaeya’s grasp, hungry and hasty. “I know, my dear,” he says gently. “I know.”

this fic was always going to be one of my faves because it was just so self-indulgent. from the tone & mood to the characterizations to the underlying inspirations to little in-jokes for myself and so on, i perfectly catered it to myself. somehow i’m always shocked when the things i write exactly to my tastes end up being my favorites. this scene is one i read over and over, particularly this part is my favorite.

when i was looking at my favorite lines/passages for this question, a lot of them were similar in terms of how they conveyed emotion, but they were all a lot shorter. i just feel like i did a pretty good job of extending that out for a little bit. i almost looked for like a line or set of lines i thought were particularly clever or coy—and i do stand by liking those—but there is just something about this larger passage that stood out a bit more.

i like the physical affection, both conceptually (because i think kaeya should get a million hugs) but also the physical description of it (admittedly, those aren’t my strong suit and i think it could totally be that i had a set of movements in mind that make sense regardless of how i wrote them. but they make sense to me so i’m ok with it). i really like crepus in it, who really, really wants to help and who kaeya wants to help, but who can’t do much more than be there for him. which i don’t mean to dismiss the importance of, but i do think he wants to fix something that cannot—and maybe should not—be fixed. i like kaeya in it, who really wants his father’s support but can hardly ever bring himself to talk about everything, even when he is given room to, and when he does manage it, it’s sparse and vague and demands a lot from who he’s talking to, maybe (or maybe not) more than they can provide. i love the love between them and how it’s complicated and restricted but also abundant and undeniable.

originally, kaeya responded, “I miss him,” but that didn’t really work with the rest of the scene, because it was more than just his father he was missing. then when i added, “I miss it,” i thought it might be too confusing to have the double pronouns. like he’s being vague but not that vague. and i typically prefer to write dialogue that is barely honest, that is so coded and confusing that it is almost untrue. and in a sense, i think this breaks from that in a way i enjoyed. it is pretty direct, he knows what is bothering him; it is so honest, and yet so much is left unsaid still.

i just think it embodies and perfects everything i liked in and about writing this fic.

[bubmyg]

orchid - myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: fluff, angst, childhood best friends to lovers, fake engagement au? kind of?, emotional constipation to the max, rapper/singer!yoongi, wedding planner!reader; set in a beach side town because i can’t help myself, loosely based off like three different hallmark movies, told entirely in yoongi’s pov, random svt members appear too

word count: 19,079

summary: everyone has a theory as to why renowned singer songwriter min suga hasn’t released an album in over two years but none of those theories point to a crippling inspiration block. or to a wedding. or the one where yoongi doesn’t know his fiancé's favorite flower but he knows yours.

a/n: the longest fic and the hardest fic i’ve ever written is done. i’ve never written something that was this invested completely from a member’s point of view so this was certainly something new and challenging and fun! i hope u enjoy (pls let me know if u do) and thank u for reading this monster jfkjsld

Petals of bleeding purple, a hard line in the center of white where blending hadn’t been buffed out with a brush, almost pink meeting in a jagged line as if dipped onto nature by the curved tip of a damp paintbrush. They came in uneven waves, plucked from their stem to rest on the edges of Yoongi’s yellow notepad. His smile grew with the volume of words he scrawled across the page, patient in gently brushing them aside with the curve of his tiniest finger the longer you fiddled with the flowers in your grasp. 

“Sorry,” You hushed after the third time he’d nudged the offending petals aside, burying them in grains of sand that moved each time you shifted closer to him. He dropped his pen just to glance at you, something bleeding into his own vital organ at the way your eyes were comically, genuinely, dilated in apology. 

“S’okay,” Yoongi’s hand fist in the sand behind him, lounging backward. “I suppose I should be, you know, talking to you.”

“Why?” You gently shoved at his shoulder, “Special occasion?”

His cheek lulled against his arm, eyes falling shot as the corners of his mouth turned up. One deep inhale and he hummed, “—going to miss you, you know?”

Your grasp didn’t move from his arm, instead sliding downward to curve your fingers around his elbow. When he didn’t budge, you shifted closer, squashing any remaining petals below your thighs as you settled your cheek against his sleeve. “Are you really, though?”

Yoongi’s eyes shot open, chin pointing down towards you, “Are you serious?”

A sliver of your irises appeared under your eyelashes, turning away into his grasp after a second to shrug. 

“Well…” He let out a grunt as he shifted, dropping his notepad and pen on top of his nearby bag, “I probably won’t miss you catching crabs just to drop them down the back of my shirt. I won’t fondly remember that time you shoved me into the tide with my work uniform on. I definitely will be forgetting your haircut in seventh grade—” You smacked his thigh, earning a gentle grin as he jostled his arm, coaxing you to look at him. 

“But you?” Yoongi reached past his bag, gathering one of the flowers you’d plucked into diligent fingers. The crooked end of his index finger pleated it behind your ear, hand hovering there. He leaned closer instead, heart swelling in the same way your pupils dilated to collect all the celestial bodies glittering on the push and pull of the tide beyond your tiny campsite. 

He shook his head, barely a twitch in his neck, “I could never forget you, angel.”

“Good!” 

Yoongi startled forward instead of back, bashing your foreheads together with an audible, hollow sounding thump. He groaned in time with your scrambling, your touch leaving him to instead stretch over his lap, rustling around in your own bag. It didn’t come without you digging your palm into his inner thigh, forcing another tiny grunt from Yoongi’s mouth before you settled again, a safe distance away. 

He eyed you again, welt quickly swelling onto the crown of his hairline, sand digging into the dip in his eyelids. You held something in cupped palms and he had half the mind to assume it was a crab to dump down his shirt like some sort of sick joke. 

But Yoongi supposed the sick joke was on him because in a blur of momentary pain and a two percent chance that you’d snatched a ghost crab out of the darkness, you were still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“—because I bought you something to remember me by.”

Yoongi’s studio collected trinkets. A baseball jersey with his stage name plastered across the back draped to his chair. A tiny Kumamon plush squished between his monitor and a sea turtle shaped coaster that held his favorite coffee tervis. An oxymoron of a welcome mat with a brutish cat advertising go away. 

A framed platinum record for his debut single encased on either side by a song of the year and a record of the year trophy. Just trinkets. 

Something meticulous to his nature never moved his items. Their arrangement created some sense of security and warmth, feet stepping out of rubber sole slippers in the hallway to the thick grey rug over the tile floor like brushing away a curtain of gathered mist in the haze of an already uneasy conscious. The programs on his massive computer monitors didn’t help, nor did his untouched keyboard or the various other pieces of equipment scattered with less than neat wires over his work space. 

But the trinkets didn’t move. That he could count on. 

The press, he could count on them too. Their newest angle, an attempt to prod their way into his growing collection of items, was plastering a grainy image of himself onto their glossy covered magazine front. He could handle the images when they were nothing but background noise in his email, a notification from an intern in marketing that he’d been caught. Yoongi deleted the email with a good conscience. Going to a bar didn’t warrant front page gossip news. 

He’d seen it all in two years since releasing any substantial work. The first guess had been that his contract was under negotiation. Dropped after successful debut? Then he’d signed for five more years and they had to scramble for something else. A fake feud with long time soloist Jung Hoseok, battle of the company’s two superstars, who will come out on top? Hoseok released new music first. Yoongi had producing credits on it. 

And Hoseok was the other shadow in the grainy press image in the present day, his face cut off by the massive pink banner that curled around the perimeter of the magazine’s layout. 

Excessive partying? The headline read. Yoongi pressed his thumb to the center of the cover, bending the magazine as he lifted it closer. Font a handful of sizes smaller than the title looped underneath the image, the curled edges of characters slipped around his throat and stalling his sharp inhale for a half second. 

Min Suga, one hit wonder? New questions as hiatus stretched toward the two year mark. 

The vibration of his cellphone startled him out of his trance. The magazine flopped forward in his grasp, giving out to curl over his knuckles as he poked at the device with his free index finger. 

“Hey.”

Yoongi dragged his fingers down his cheek, letting the limp magazine rest against his thigh. “Yeah, Tae?”

“Are you working on something?”

His blank monitor mocked him, the plain black screen with massive SUGA written through the center ridiculously simplistic and frustratingly idle. Yoongi shook his head even though his manager couldn’t see him over speaker phone. “No.”

“Great, they want you in the conference room in ten,” Taehyung’s voice dropped an octave, falling out of professionalism as he casually asked, “Have you seen the headlines?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi let the magazine fly, hitting the free space near his keyboard with a smack and a tinkling noise. Just another trinket. “What do they want me for?”

“To talk about the headlines,” He could hear the smile in Taehyung’s voice and he could hear the way it erased at Yoongi’s lack of response. “No we’ve...figured out a way to move forward from this. From all of this. Maybe. Just be here, alright?”

“Where else would I go?”

“I don’t know, the bar?”

Yoongi let himself laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. The last time he’d set foot in a club was the last time he’d been photographed in one. An incident that happened far before his first album when he’d just been signed to the label from some offhanded success on a self published streaming site. 

“Watch it.”

“Didn’t know you still had it in you, old man,” Yoongi could sense Taehyung beaming and he relaxed. Marginally. 

“Whatever. See you in a few.”

His phone hit his work space with another elicited click of soft against glass. The reflection of his idle monitors curved over the object in question, contouring shadows around the silver and purple object until Yoongi reached for it, dragging it out from underneath where he’d shoved the magazine. 

A tiny glass orchid purposed to be a pin with the sharpness of a gold latch strapped to the back teetered in Yoongi’s open palm. A misplaced trinket. He clutched it tightly, letting the smooth edges cool into the calloused lines of his hand as he stood from his desk chair, safely depositing the object a tier up on his desk, far away from any further misplacement. 

The magazine didn’t last long in Yoongi’s collection, though. He rolled it, depositing it with a heavy thump into a trash bin on his way out the door. 

Taehyung fidgeted in time with Seungcheol shuffling papers at the head of the small conference table. He crossed his legs, uncrossed, shuffled to the side, fingered at the edge of his own stack of folders slipped sideways from their neat tower, shifted enough to bump shoulders with Yoongi where he sat white knuckled in the chair directly next to him. Yoongi nudged him back, intentional, reaching over to pat his thigh until he settled. His manager and friend glanced at him with wide eyes and Yoongi shrugged, retracting his hand to fold it with the latter then shoved intertwined fingers between his thighs. 

“How’s the writing coming?” Seungcheol asked finally. He hadn’t looked up, continuing to filter through a myriad of stapled packets, one eyebrow cocked into styled bangs. 

Yoongi shrugged again, features wincing. His shoulders hunched from the curl of his stature into himself but he allowed his muscles to relax, and inverted shrug. “No different,” It was shame at himself in his voice, at the nagging innards that told him he needed to make music and at the smoldering creative synapses that refused to fire anymore. Softly, he added, “But I’m working on it.”

“Have you spoken with Jihoon?” Seungcheol looked up then, enough to flatten a packet to the table and slide it across. It was a list of credited songs to said company producer, ones Yoongi would have to do no more than record over his soft vocaled friend and send out a release date to the public. 

The high value Yoongi held his art to, personal and important to him, loomed in his subconscious. Somewhere in the archive he was sure he could connect to Jihoon’s words, dig out enough content to compile into an EP and sate the media. 

But it was the principal of the thing. 

“I’ll figure it out.”

Seungcheol accepted the packet when Yoongi pushed it back, nodding with folded fingers settling over the paper. “About the press...recently—”

“We have an idea!”

Yoongi glanced at Taehyung like he’d grown a second nose from the round of his smiling cheek but Seungcheol didn’t seem affected, nodding with a gentle smile curving upwards on his lips. “Go on, Taehyung. You explain.”

It was only the three individuals in the cramped conference room, a spare in the back corner of the company hallways that was grabbed for the sake of privacy and the ability to drop formalities between the artist, manager, and CEO who’d become easy friends. Yet, Taehyung’s dramatic pacing around the perimeter of the room suggested he was plotting a multi-million dollar investment to a swath of shareholders. 

“What’s the one thing in the world that takes ages to plan?”

Yoongi squinted, “...I don’t believe that description is limited to one thing.”

Taehyung ignored him, “When googling this very thing, there are to do lists that range anywhere from a ten step process to an eighty-eight step process, depending on how you choose to split up the planning…”

“It’s an event in which there is an entire job created to plan the very thing.”

“Event planners are a universal job,” Yoongi sighed, “Go on.”

Taehyung’s steps stalled, one arm still folded behind his back, the latter lifting one finger in Yoongi’s direction. “What’s the one, single most romantic day and event that will ever happen in a couples life?”

“Romance is not limited to a singular interaction and often the horrors of capitalism prey on that insecurity when in reality, leaving someone their favorite coffee in their favorite coffee mug before they go to work can be considered romance—”

“Correct!” Taehyung remained unaffected by his rant, letting his wrist hinge to point a stiff index finger in Yoongi’s direction, “If one day you happen to find someone willing to put up with those kind of statements, what would you like to do to them? Or with them, I guess—”

Seungcheol sighed, brushing his paperwork aside to clatter ring clad fingers against the top of the conference table. “How do you feel about getting engaged?”

Yoongi briefly thought the world had chosen that exact moment to flood the remaining thirty percent of it’s surface with water, voices sounding far away as if muffled by an echo and thirty pounds of wool. He managed to pull himself out of it by actually looking at something blue, the stretch of skyline on the tiny window just beyond Seungcheol’s shoulder and even if towers of smoke created faux clouds, it still reminded him to breathe. 

As a result, a neanderthal question tumbled out of pouted lips, “To who?”

“Someone,” If Yoongi weren’t fond of the organization in his files, he would have tossed one like a frisbee directly at Taehyung’s neck. His manager flailed his hands as if it were simple, “Anyone! That’s the beauty of the plan.”

Seungcheol had shifted forward to bury his face in intertwined fingers, muffling the audible sigh he let out. “At first, we thought to sign a contract with someone within the company,” Red marks were left in the path of his fingertips dragging down from underneath his eyelids, “But the aftermath of the eventual breakup would be too much for both parties. We can’t do that, not to someone in or outside the agency—”

“I wouldn’t do that anyway,” Yoongi’s levelheaded sternness faltered as he dropped his gaze to the fiddling fingers in his lap, “This is all my fault. I’m not incidentally sharing my burden with someone innocent.”

“Besides—” He tried to smile, “—not sure you could get anyone to want to fake marry me.”

“You are so dense,” Taehyung scoffed, “Half our talent would add a dating clause to their contract right now if you were on the other end of it.”

A deep spring pink blossomed in jagged puzzle pieces over Yoongi’s bare cheeks and he was thankful for the lack of schedule and makeup as he involuntarily lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. 

“Essentially, your partner will remain nameless,” Seungcheol drew a shape on the table with his nail, “We’ll disguise them as a non-famous individual. Something about a short term relationship but a long term planning process for the wedding—” He nodded solemnly, “—that’ll be why your music has been on hold.”

He wasn’t done, lifting his finger from the table, “The suddenness and the eventual break up of the relationship will be a win win. Each will buy you time to write.”

“And you know what else?” Taehyung had sat again, barely, dangerously hovering on the edge of his chair as he leaned toward Yoongi. “You can go home!”

Another folder glided across the table, coming to a stop in front of Yoongi’s furrowed eyebrows. He tucked his thumb inside, flipping it open to be met with a full page ad, one that had his breath stalling in his throat and his tongue curling into a dried knot. 

“There’s still a wedding business that runs out of your parents’ former home.” 

Yoongi watched you spread the petals with a delicate touch, fingers placing pressure in the sand as you instead created them a tiny rut to rest in, safer from the curl of gentle night breezes brushing off the calmed waves. His gaze trailed in a jagged line, from the ballpoint tip of his pen to the half drawn character crooked between the lines on his yellow notepad to the stretch of his legs outward on the tiny embankment to the crouched curl of your stature. Finally you settled, one full flower in cupped palms, breeze catching the petals there to drape them across the lines in your hands. 

“Did…” He paused when you glanced at him quizzically, “You got the last of the contract details finalized, yes?”

A bright smile encased your features at his question, nodding, “Same day you signed your contract, superstar!—” You leaned closer, hand falling over his knee and he tensed, “Technically I’m a business owner now. You should be nicer to me.”

“So you never finished the application then?” You tilted your head and Yoongi clarified, “School. Scholarship. The city…” My city. 

A quiet smile graced the wrinkles next to your eyes even if your teeth died from it, dropping your chin. One petal plucked from it’s center, lifted by the pinch of your fingers until the wind caught it and it drifted toward Yoongi, slipping up over the spine of his notepad and settling against his belt. 

“I don’t need a degree to teach me a business I already manage,” You said kindly. “If your parents felt confident enough to completely sign it over to me in their retirement, then I suppose we’ll just have to trust their judgement.” 

You tilted your head, “Why? Do you not trust me?”

Yoongi swallowed. He wasn’t holding his bag, but it felt heavier in that moment, like it’s very important contents were weighing on the straps slung to shoulders that drooped involuntarily. You’d gone back to plucking at your flower by the time he gathered himself, eyebrow still raised albeit. 

“No, no, it’s not that,” The next mark on his page was angrier, dark and scuffing through thin pages to leave flakes in its wake. “You’ll do great.”

“I…” Your speech stalled but your petal picking didn’t, “You know, up until I signed the contract, the business was yours to have. Your parents would have left and still would leave it to you in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t want to run the business. You do. We both know that,” And he meant it. Taking over the family business had never been more than a joke passed over dinner and the occasional holiday, especially not when you’d earned full time employment there. His parents had never been interested much in the idea of keeping it in the family. It hadn’t started that way and there was no reason for it to be such in the future. Why allow you to spend thousands of dollars to start your own aspirations from the ground up when you could continue something that had only improved in legacy from your thoughts and ideals in the time you’d been employed there, anyway. 

Still, Yoongi knew you felt a certain level of apprehension towards signing the contract. There were invisible standards to hold up in your mind, just like there were invisible boundaries you desperately never wanted to cross. 

There was a feeling of indebt clouding the way your clammy fingers shook to sign the paper on the same dinner table you’d been invited in to by the boy whose gum filled smile only shined for you. 

The petals had stopped drifting against his calves again. He glanced at your shoulders rounding, arms limp between the part of your thighs. 

“You’re sure?”

Yoongi nudged your shoulder, incessant until you looked at him.

“I’m sure.” 

Your face grinned at Yoongi in melded inks, ones clearly from the office printer in Taehyung’s office slapped onto low grade, basic copy paper. 

“Do you know the owner, by any chance?” Seungcheol nodded toward the document in Yoongi’s possession, “The person who bought it from your parents?”

Purple specks bled into pink when he dropped the folder to the table, instead using the last link of his middle finger to rub at his eyelid. 

“No,” He met the tattered edge of his fingernail instead of the eyes of his boss, “I have no idea who took it over after them.”

Fingertips patterned a beat to the table top, lining over Seungcheol’s soft hums as he considered the information, shuffling a bit more at his paperwork. 

“Story will hit the press in three days. Your flight will leave in a week. I’ll email you the itinerary but essentially there will be a series of different press dockets done in your time at home—” Seungcheol gestured vaguely, “—engagement photos, staged bits of you planning, things to make it believable, completely produced and sent by us, of course. Keep the prying away from your next album.”

“We’ll insinuate that this is a wedding you’ve been planning for a while, something you’ve been fronting the majority of the work for in the comfort of your ridiculously romantic seaside hometown.”

Yoongi set his shoulders after a half heartbeat of silence, one that earned Taehyung’s gaze on the side of his face, “Is that our only option?”

“Of course not. It’s an idea, no more no less,” Seungcheol sighed, “Unfortunately, we’re to the point where there is only so much I can do for your image. Refuting claims of going to a club seems ridiculous, but the narrative is out there now. No one cares that you were there with Hoseok, they only remember their fabricated feud.”

A gentle smile crossed his lips, “An inspiration block isn’t a good story until there’s music that comes out of it.”

“How do I keep—” Yoongi’s tongue dried on your name, stuttering it back into his throat as he corrected, “How do we keep those close to the situation from telling the press?”

“We’ll give the wedding planner a check. Otherwise, no one should know the wedding is fake. Improve authenticity if anyone gets a hold of the gas station attendant who met you one time,” Seungcheol made air quotes with his fingers, “Trusted sources, you know.”

“...is that something we should be worried about?” He leaned forward in his chair, “Someone leaking something to the press, that is?”

Yoongi swallowed. His chin broke the rigidity of his stature first, dropping, then shaking, fists on curling outward until flattened palms curled around the edge of the table. 

“No,” He said finally, “Shouldn’t be an issue.”

Particular details he knew would be in various reminder emails and sent by text from Taehyung well in advance became background noise to him, like the water from earlier had returned and lipped over his ear canals. They’d taken his lack of protest as a go ahead on the plan, discussing contract details for legality and file purposes without much input from Yoongi. He wasn’t going to deny them, anyway. No matter what the selfish ball unfurling in the sinking pit of his stomach told him to feel. 

Taehyung standing caused him to stand, numb in moving as his brain registered the quiet dismissal without his conscious quite catching up. It was his name that startled him enough to focus, Seungcheol standing opposite him with a hand resting on the back of the chair he previously sat in. 

“Enjoy your trip home,” It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a request. The next bit was a comfort, “It’ll come back.”

In the light of his trinkets, Yoongi lounged into his office chair, carefully pulling his phone to his face. The expected text messages were there, ones Taehyung had labeled with giant letters WRITE THIS DOWN WHEN YOU OPEN IT, an email from Seungcheol with his flight information, and an obligatory email from Jihoon that he assumed was at the prodding of their shared boss. He swiped past all of them with a delicate index finger, instead tapping around meticulously organized folders until he found his contacts. 

Phone changes had been abundant through his young career but he maintained a vast majority of the information. Including your name, one he scrolled by without truly remembering if it were there but quietly hoping to see anyway. He let that same finger hover over the name, gathering enough courage only to press on it to pull up the full contact page but not to hit the tiny blue phone hovering out next to the number. 

Instead, he slipped his phone to his desktop, shaking awake his idle screen to click onto an internet browser. The business name appeared in the search box from a prior investigation but Yoongi typed it all out anyway, making sure to add the town so that the relevant place was pulled up. 

The website was a bit generic but it was leaps and bounds ahead of what it had been when his parents still held control all those years ago. In any case, it was a higher quality version that the manila folder Seungcheol had presented him with, that a screen cap of the business homepage that currently stared at Yoongi in ridiculously bright pixels. 

Incidentally, the cursor hovered over your picture, one slightly bigger than the panels of options and tabs scattered underneath. His gaze wandered from the familiar lines of your smile to the orchid he’d placed aside earlier, gaze wavering until he could see the reflection of the glass in the computer monitor. 

Long fingers plucked the trinket out of it’s place for the second time that day, letting it rest to the heel of Yoongi’s palm as he placed it between his thighs, sighing. 

“See you soon, angel.”

Muscle memory presents in things like riding a bike, something your body never quite forgets how to do. But even the trained cyclist will bobble after years of not climbing aboard their vehicle or at the very least, they certainly won’t be hitting their personal record the first time back out. In a similar fashion, Yoongi’s wrist remained limp over the head of his steering wheel, bypassing the correct turn twice. 

It wasn’t that he was lost. He recognized his surroundings once engulfed further into the scenery, pulled into the days of his youth and budding adulthood. But it wasn’t his final destination. 

By the third time his rental SUV rolled past the gravel turnoff, he started to think his subconscious was doing it on purpose. 

His conscious remembered the back way, guiding his car out to the highway that circumvented the coast line, blue blurring into the early afternoon sky until he was almost startled by the return of trees as the road curved back on to land. A few purposeful turns later and his phone GPS, a backup that he’d tuned out the nagging of, happily informed him you’ve arrived. 

The grass was a bit greener than he remembered, almost plush under his tennis shoes as he stepped out of the car. The flowers definitely were, decorated meticulously around varying archways, wire and wooden in build, chevron patterns of pink and purple and blue and yellow and everything in between. Paneled outsides of the main building appeared to have been freshly painted, a red outlined in white dirtied near where the cinder block foundation peeked up from the ground and the mulch collected in the landscaping. 

Yoongi scuffed his way to the winding dirt path that led to the front door of the two story farmhouse, the only thing that appeared as though it hadn’t changed. Bits of gravel stuck here and there but the path was otherwise a beige dirt, dust clinging to the ground from the lack of rain and kicking up around Yoongi’s ankles as he shuffled. Ground lanterns lined the way, solar panels absorbing the heat for their evening duty, some staked out of the ground more so than others, tilted at all angles but the effect in the night was there regardless.

A handful of paces from the house was a wooden sign, it’s white outer edge not fairing the same as the house as chips were missing to show the wood underneath, splinters poking out in all directions otherwise. Most were covered by stacks of hay bales positioned strategically around more clay pots of flowers, ones that had started their vining process up the rough posts. 

Your face wasn’t there this time but your logo was, contact information splayed out underneath the looping script, Be Happy, white on top of a powder blue. You hadn’t changed the name when you took over ownership. Yoongi had a size too small t-shirt somewhere deep in the recesses of his closet with the same name in opposite colors, black and white. You’d looked ridiculous when you worked events together, even when you returned back to the house and spent hours on the front porch swing sipping slightly unbalanced lemonade Yoongi made on the spot while shit talking the groom.  

The memories, plural in the way they swirled to the forefront of his conscious at the first step of his sole onto the lowest porch step, elicited a tiny upward curl to the outer seam of his lips. Curled fists stuffed their way into the pockets of his pants, hanging his head as he vaulted another step up until two heeled boots cinched at the ankle came into his view. 

The lipped edges of his white bucket hat flopped into his direct line of sight but he still managed to register a lot of black, skin tight in a pair of ripped jeans, in the ajar hang of a leather jacket on toned collarbones, in the widen of perfectly round irises that blinked three consecutive times at Yoongi’s frozen figure. 

“Suga?” The man squeaked, taking another step backward on the staircase. “What are you....why are you....”

“How did you get to this town of all places?”

Yoongi’s lips parted just enough to let out a noise that would stall the younger man, a prolonged hum until he finally settled on the gentle answer, a tease in a monotone, “By plane and then rental car.”

The black figure giggled, giggled, a high pitched noise that made his features crunch up in the center of his nose. In his distraction at Yoongi’s poor attempt at humor, he rushed out your name, something that made the younger man pause in his laughter fit to cock an eyebrow. 

“Do you need to....” The poor man blinked again, chin cocking in the slightest, “Are you needing…” A high pitched noise of confusion came from the back of his throat and his chin twitched the opposite direction, “How do you know Y/N?” 

Yoongi’s lips pressed into his cheeks again, just for a fraction of a second, “Small world—” Determined yet wobbly steps carried him to stand level with the man yet still leaving him a few inches below eye level. Sharply, he stuck out a hand, “—Yoongi.”

“What—”

“Call me Yoongi,” Yoongi slipped his bucket hat off with his free hand, letting black locks fluff in static pieces around his eyelashes, “Please.”

“Jeongguk. Jeon Jeongguk,” The younger man surprised Yoongi by grasping his palm with both hands, giving it a firm shake. He continued to stay attached to him as he turned up toward the house, eyes darting wildly until he chirped, “T-they’re out right now but if you want to come inside, I can go see if I can find—”

“That would be great,” Yoongi smiled kindly, letting his hand stay in Jeongguk’s grasp as the younger enthusiastically began to drag him toward the front door. 

A lot of things appeared to be updated from when Yoongi resided within the creaking floorboards of the house yet somehow, you’d tastefully managed to keep its original charm. There wasn’t anything that said you couldn’t update whatever you pleased, you owned the house and you owned the business, his parents happy to hand over everything in favor of an easy retirement a few cities up the coast, a bit more lively than the sleepy, tourist free town they’d spent the majority of their adult lives in. Even then, Yoongi found himself oddly charmed by the way you’d retained a lot of what you’d grown up around too, a consistent visitor from your cognitive teenage years to a steady employee through high school and college. 

It was between admiring the sealer you’d chosen for the hardwood floors and wondering how you’d so artfully covered up the floral wallpaper his mother insisted on piling onto drywall that Yoongi’s heart stopped beating somewhere in the base of his throat, resuming it’s patter at a skyrocketing pace as it shot downward into the pit of his stomach. 

There was something to the low sitting wardrobe piece kept in the foyer of the business section of the house that Yoongi couldn’t quite understand. In the end, he decided it was probably due to the fact that none of the drawers would quite stay on their tracks, sticking shut when you tugged on their flapping gold handles after twirling tiny gold bars into minuscule locks and then tipping out and forward when you finally could get them out, puffs of dust curling outward from the harsh scratch of wood on wood in the process. 

Maybe it was that the top left drawer stayed unlocked at all times, enough to harbor a cardboard box that kept the keys for the rest of the drawers. Maybe it was that he knew there was nothing in the locked drawers aside from some decades old paperwork, a handful of paper grocery bags, and his every day personal items, ones that never stayed in there during business hours. 

That is, until he started storing a few secrets underneath his wallet and car keys. 

The first secret didn’t remain that way for long. Plane tickets were booked just as a formality but they signified so much more, like the unsigned contract he’d had emailed to him in the middle of recording something on his half dead microphone to upload to the very account that had pushed him toward getting recognized by an entertainment company. Unsigned quickly became signed and synonymous with the day it no longer became a secret, breaking the news to his parents that he wouldn’t be going back to university after the summer of catering to carrying any and all truckloads of equipment associated with a wedding planner to and from their positions. Yoongi was careful then, softening the news as to why there was a new key on his lanyard and garnering the warmth that his announcement of finding an apartment near his new job had lessened his parents' apprehensions in the slightest. 

Then there was you. The person who’d started off as willing to listen to his halfhearted rants about basketball and the specifics of what an angry bride sounded like over crust-less peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and eventually became the person his parents trusted with hearing those complaints firsthand. In a roundabout way, he had your eventual co-workership to thank for starting his career, giving him more time to write and record and publish, particularly when you lessened your hours at your shared university in order to take over a greater role at the business. 

In Yoongi’s mind, the ideal scenario was the one with the highest probability of becoming reality. He would sign with an entertainment company not minutes away from a university with a high ranked business graduate school. You would get into said graduate school, giving his parents a final few years to iron out any details they wished for your eventual takeover. 

He would have enough time to translate song lyrics into Yoongi words and effectively cure part of the yearning in his heart that dragged his chest first toward you anytime you were in his general vicinity. 

The addition of you to his secret drawer came in the form of a tiny velvet box, the first step toward allowing his yearning to manifest in an exterior way rather than remaining simply as his heart swelling and spilling between the spaces in his rib cage. 

Yoongi took the staircase two at a time, dropping onto the ground floor with a resounding creak. Socked feet pulled at the various splinters formed between the spaces in hardwood as he made his way through the silent business level of the house. His plane tickets and apartment key came out of hiding, resting on top of the wooden piece of furniture as to not forget them with the addition of his massive grey suitcase stationed next to the refrigerator two rooms over. He left the normal essentials though, allowing himself that familiarity in what would be his last night in the house potentially for good. 

Meticulous fingers balanced the proper key between the hole underneath the handle, mechanical click making Yoongi’s tongue pull back into his mouth in triumph as one hearty tug had the drawer popping free. He shrugged his backpack from one shoulder, enough to deposit his wallet into the front pouch and snag his keys on the twirl of his index finger. The next object made his throat dry, digits clasping around the box with a hard swallow. 

If you can’t see it, it can’t make you anxious. Yoongi promptly hid it away next to his wallet, shoving his arm back through the dangling backpack strap and striding for the front door. 

You seemed to be just as startled as his most vital organ, pausing your advancements into the house just in front of the heavy piece of furniture, loose knobs rattling with the steps you took. Yoongi instead scrambled, tripping out of the oak chair Jeongguk had left him in when he’d scurried away in search of you. In the process, his hip nudged at the corner of the round conference table, scuffing across the floor and effectively rattling all the metal again. And every other loose object in the house, it seemed. 

“Yoongi?” Your voice came out soft, lips parting like a fish out of water. Your apprehension lasted long enough for a soft smile to corner into the seam of his lips before you were coughing, shaking your head as your stature set, “What can I do for you?”

The bashful smile spread into a bit of heat that sprinkled his cheeks and his hand touched his neck, shoulders hunching. “Uhh—” He squinted from underneath his eyelashes, “—do you happen to plan weddings?”

He missed the way your stature froze again, rigid all the way down to the tips of your toes that rooted to the ground inside your shoes, gaze instead jerking to the squeak of delight Jeongguk let out from the doorway. The younger’s eyes widened when your gaze whipped to him, trying to retreat outside before you could scold him but to no avail. 

“Can you go finish loading the archway into the trailer for me?” Jeongguk nodded frantically, another step dragging the door with him until you added an octave louder, “The sunflower pots go with it, not the petunias.” His got it! was muffled by the echoing shut of the front door. 

“Thank you. I wasn’t trying to cause any trouble—”

“Sit.”

Yoongi plopped directly down into the chair, watching with pursed lips and round eyes as you drug out the chair across from him, taking your time in sliding to the end of the wood. A sharp inhale racked your shoulders, keeping your gaze on the grain of wood where it peaked out from the lace table runner curled down the center of the furniture until you finally looked at him. 

“No how are you? No how’s business going? No stack of signed CDs for me to hand out to customers as incentive?” Your eyebrows furrowed in teasing but the light didn’t quite reach your full smile. Not the one Yoongi remembered. “Just a I’m getting married.” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

Yoongi’s smile softened, leaning forward until one of his hands could encase the fiddling of yours. You glanced at him between picking a bit of skin from around your thumb nail. 

“How have you been, angel?”

It was childish, the way you pulled your hands against your chest, and there was still a hint of something in your voice, teasing, “No, too late now.”

He shook his head, a soundless laugh leaving through his nose. “Business seems to be going well. I see you’ve made a lot of upgrades on the property—”

“I told you,” Your arms instead threaded at your chest, leaning back into the chair, “You are too late. Should have done those formalities first.”

“Ah, right. Customer treatment now?”

“What’s your spouse's name?” You shifted again, enough to cross your legs, “For the paperwork. Not for the press.”

Part of Seungcheol’s monologue curled into his mind in that second but he had no reason to believe you were series. He shook his head, earning a laugh from you that confirmed his suspicions. You were kidding about the last part. 

“That’s actually, uhm—” Yoongi turned, glancing in the general direction of the staircase, “—is there anyone else around?”

“Jeongguk is my only employee. Spill, who are they?”

“Have you...read anything about me lately?”

“Truthfully, Yoongi—” Your arms uncrossed to grip the chair underneath you, legs unfolding to place your feet flat on the ground, “—I try not to.”

Yoongi nodded. Right. You’re the one who left. You’re the one who stopped returning phone calls. 

“The press hasn’t exactly been...patient in waiting for my second album. The negative press has piled on so much that it’s started to reflect on my image and frankly the state of my agency.”

“Is any of it true?”

He blinked at you, “Last week they contrived the image of me being an excessive party-er.”

“Right, they have no idea then.”

Part of Yoongi grew warm at your conviction. “I suppose…”

“The idea is to create positive press with a story my agency can control.”

“Ah, so to fake a wedding,” You nodded gravely, “Everyone loves a celebrity wedding.”

That’s what Taehyung said. “I guess. They thought if they sent me home, that it would give greater meaning to the story. That I’ve been pining at home trying to make the wedding perfect for all these months.”

“And your music?”

Yoongi blinked, finding you leaning forward again with your fingers clasped together, thumbs rubbing at each other. “What about it?”

“Why is it so delayed?” You were gentle again in your obvious statement, “You used to write a song a day here. At least.” 

“Wasn’t that much.” And something in Yoongi remained endeared at the fact that you thought he was constantly writing something new each time he carted his notebook around with him and not fretting over a set of three songs he’d written with your smiley nose wrinkle in mind. 

“Just haven’t felt anything in a while,” To say it out loud felt weird, especially in the presence of someone he’d no much as said hello to in the past handful of years let alone confided his feelings in. The house wasn’t your weekly beach trips.

And you weren’t his best friend anymore. 

“I’ll figure it out.”

“So you need me to…”

“Help me plan a fake wedding,” He said it simply because in his head, he wanted it to be simple, “Obviously, we don’t need the nuanced things in between. But I do need the outward details to be very apparent.”

“...there will be press here eventually to take pictures of me planning. I need to be seen at a venue...here...picking out flowers...you know. Doing wedding planning things.”

“After a few weeks, my company will call it off and I’ll go home. Somehow, they plan to frame the story as a mutual breakup that leaves me in heart break,” He had to refrain from rolling his eyes, “Hopefully from that I can slap together some music to sate them. At the very least, maybe they’ll give me some space.”

“Probably not.”

The tension left Yoongi’s stature and he allowed himself to laugh for a few beats at your bluntness. “Yeah, you’re right, probably not. It’s worth a try or at least, my agency thinks so,” His eyes flicked across your face, “It’s nice to be home, anyway.”

You didn’t allow him the luxury of enjoying the simple silence of your presence, instead standing with a harsh scrape of the chair across the floor. He held his breath as you approached the wardrobe, exhaling when you reached past the top to crouch on the bottom, yanking open the right to retrieve a stack of stapled papers from within. 

“Do you want to go ahead and start?”

Yoongi frowned, “You don’t have any questions?”

“No.”

“You aren’t worried about the press being here?”

“You’re my client,” You shrugged, “Whatever comes with that isn’t my business.”

“...do you want your check?”

It was your turn to frown. “Has your service been fulfilled to your utmost satisfaction?”

Yoongi settled back into his chair. “No...not yet.”

“Then I don’t need paid yet.” A pen materialized in your grasp, one you twirled twice before clicking on. “State your full name.”

You blinked at each other in a challenging silence until you shrugged, “I could just put Min Suga, if you like—”

“Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi watched the poke of your tongue between your cheek fondly, enamored even when you didn’t look up from writing to say, “Spouse...to be determined…”

You’d moved your paperwork party to the front porch of the building, sign now flipped closed and the main entrance gate shut and looped together with a rusted old chain. Condensation lipped down Yoongi’s knuckles when he reached for the glass of lemonade Jeongguk had brought the both of you, ones that garnered his attention away from your incessant chattering. 

“I don’t need to make a full guest list,” He said finally and when you didn’t respond, just continued to rock yourself in the wicker chair you perched upon, he clarified, “The wedding isn’t actually happening.”

“What are you supposed to tell the press then? What if they want a rumored guest list?” 

“I’ll just tell them Hoseok—”

The chair stopped abruptly. “...J-Hope?”

Yoongi rolled his lips together to keep himself from laughing, “That’s the one.”

The rocking resumed and the audible sound of the pen scratching against paper could be heard over the breeze and chirping of birds. “I forgot you were signed under the same agency. Hope World is one of my favorite albums.”

“I had a feature on there, you know.” It was embarrassing how quickly he informed you of the obvious fact but you smiled to his flushed cheeks. 

“You also had a number one best selling album.”

“Did you ever get the album I sent you?” 

“I gave it to Jeongguk.”

Yoongi didn’t have to remind himself of his guilt, he just had to keep it at bay. He smiled, “I can get you another copy.”

“So can I,” You scribbled a nonsensical line to the paper, letting your wrist rest on the pad of paper as you looked at him, “Who else?”

“You.”

You didn’t blink. “I’ll be there. I’m the event coordinator. Theoretically.”

“And theoretically, I’d want you there,” Yoongi didn’t blink, “In another circumstance. I’d invite you.”

He didn’t miss the way your voice softened into a murmured thanks, resuming your haphazard scribbles, “—but unfortunately I am nothing the press would be interested in. Give me another name.”

“Uh...Taehyung I guess. He’s my manager. The fans know a good deal about him. It may be obvious that he would be there, though.”

“It’ll work for now,” Your wrist carried your pen in looping circles down the length of the page until you flipped it at the stapled corner. “Okay, next. Who would you have stand up with you?”

“Taehyung.”

You couldn’t hold your laughter that time, puzzling Yoongi’s features. “I can do that—” You eyed him as you pressed pen tip to paper, “—but that would really make it obvious that he’s attending.”

“Oh,” Yoongi frantically reached for his lemonade again, downing a sizable gulp, “You’re probably right.”

“Okay, most important question. For me and for the press,” You clicked the pen a few times in a rhythm he didn’t recognize, “Give me a date.”

“I was told I had a four week time frame. Agency orders,” His eyebrow cocked when you choked, “What? Do you need more time, because I can call—”

“You think a month is enough time for people to believe you?”

There wasn’t anything condescending about your question. You’d been sitting with him long enough for the sun to start to hide behind the coastline, bathing the world in a color that bordered between black and blue, a hue he couldn’t quite place a name to but knew by heart. You hadn’t jumped at the first opportunity to write a number on the blank line of the check tucked neatly in his wallet. You’d barely considered the validity of his motives and immediately jumped into the task at hand. 

You hadn’t asked him what was wrong when you, of anyone, had the absolute permissions to do so. 

“The press currently believes I’m lazy, undermine close friends for fame, am not genuine in the message of my first album, and, for some reason, that I am unapproachable,” Yoongi shrugged, “I’m, frankly, not too worried about what they do and don’t believe at this point.”

Your features quirked as you shut the packet on your lap, settling your palms flat to the paper to let the pen roll a few paces away in your lap. 

“Yoons.” 

Part of his facade crumbled at the tenderness in which you uttered the nickname as he gripped a bit harder to the chair in an attempt to keep it in place. An audible breath shuddered in and out of his nose before he looked at you. 

“Are you doing okay?”

The fragmented part of his heart that had tumbled into his throat threatened to spill out as you offered him the compassion he wasn’t quite sure he deserved from you and the only way he knew to keep it down was to stand and swallow. His bucket hat came in white knuckles, smashing the article of clothing over wind ruffled hair as he averted his gaze to anything but you. 

“Fine. It’s getting late and I’ve already kept you far past business hours,” Long steps carried him past your stature, pausing with a hand on the rail and a foot on the second step. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

For a second, Yoongi’s peripheral swore to him that you reached for his hand in passing. 

“You’re…”

“Hi,” Yoongi thrust his hand toward the blonde headed man in front of him before he could finish. “Min Yoongi. Nice to meet you.”

The stocky florist blinked at the hand presented to him, then to the taller Jeongguk standing behind Yoongi. Yoongi didn’t have to look to know that giddy smile was still plastered on Jeongguk’s lips and he swore he felt him nod against the side of his ear from how close the younger man was standing to him. 

“Park Jimin,” He said finally, settling his smaller hand into Yoongi’s grasp. After a brief shake, his fingers continued to grip on as his gaze wandered to you where you were picking through a jar of fresh lilac. “What...what can I do for you guys today?”

“Why else do I come to you, Minnie?” You turned, wielding one of the long purple stems to tickle toward the blonde’s nose. Jimin broke away from Yoongi to giggle, swatting at you. “New client. New wedding. New flowers.”

“Right. I have a few of those,” Jimin nearly head butted the glass counter displaying arranged boutineers and sample bouquets, returning a moment later with a tiny notepad and a pen he took off the cusp of his ear, then jammed in plump lips while he flicked through the lined pages. Through the object in his mouth, he muffled, “What can we start with?”

“The usual. Twenty some of each,” Yoongi watched in muted fascination as you moved about the shop, dropping the lilac back in its place in favor of something green and leafy. Various other stems snagged on the ruffled leaves, dragging a messy handful of vegetation, earning a surprised squeak from your lips as you began to untangle them. 

Subconsciously, he reached across, fingers brushing yours in route to pull away one of the three strands. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Helping you?” Yoongi plopped the freed strand back into its container, again stretching long digits toward you. 

“Do you want to be photographed with me?” You wielded the stems away from him until he stopped making grabby hands and instead resorted to jutting his bottom lip out. “Me being your fake fiance’ wasn’t part of the deal.”

“They’re not going to think that,” Yoongi finally succeeded in snagging the tangled flowers away from you, gentle fingers prying them apart and placing them back in their rightful container. He smiled to the glare you set on his cheek, “We’ve got it covered.”

“We’re here for flowers,” You childishly poked your tongue out at him, “Not to argue the logistics of your weird celebrity powers.”

“Don’t make it sound so glamorous,” Yoongi huffed, trailing you as your footsteps took off rapidly through the shop. As abruptly as your speed picked up, it stalled, making him nearly topple over you and a stand of glass butterflies in the process. His hands gripped your waist to steady himself, an action you barely flinched at as you covered his wrists with your hands, leaning past his arm in silence. 

After a handful of heartbeats more, Yoongi ducked closer to your ear and whispered, “Why did you bring me back here?”

There was a small crash from somewhere on the opposite end of the store, then a fit of mingled laughter, something that had you relaxing out of Yoongi’s embrace to look at him. 

“They can’t hear us back here,” You explained. “Now...if you were to actually be getting married, what kind of flowers would you want?”

Yoongi blinked, “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

You weren’t amused, “What about your fictional spouse? What would they like?”

~

He spotted your figure on the bridge carrying over some of the largest sand dunes, your figure just a silhouette but your features lit up by your phone pulled to your nose. He ignored the buzz of a notification in his pocket, instead calling out your name. 

“Yoongi!” You bounced a bit in greeting, arm waving so that the illumination on your screen remained for him to see. He ducked his head in response, gripping the straps of his backpack a bit tighter as he stepped out of his sandals, crooking them in between his index and middle fingers to change terrain to the sand coated wood. He barely reached you when you were snagging his wrist, dragging him down the opposite side of the bridge until bare feet changed once more to pure, cool granules of the beach. 

“Come on,” You tugged a bit harder until he fell in step next to you, “If we hurry, we can pick some before it gets dark.”

“These would be the ones you’d pick,” Yoongi grunted a few minutes later, crouched on a sliding hill of sand to reach his fingers into the vined mess of vegetation rooted to the dirt underneath. The rumble of a crab itched in the arch of his foot where it was buried deep in the sand to anchor him in place but he was afraid to jerk away in fear that his already squinted eyes would be unable to spot the singular stem of pink flowers again. Something in his shoulder popped, knee too, and the crab finally secured it’s pinches into his skin, but he managed to return with the stem in twirled fingers, falling backward onto his backside in a pride crushing triumph. 

Your phone flashlight blinded him as you jogged around the corner, frowning first then breaking into soft giggles. The center of the light shifted away from his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the fact that you were hovering above him with an entire handful of pink and white stems. 

Miserably, Yoongi lifted to a seated position, quite as the last of the sand fell back to the ground from his shoulders and around the crevices in his cloth backpack. His arm stretched slowly upward, holding out the flower with eyes scrunched shut until you slipped it in with your existing bouquet.

One eye peaked when you didn’t say anything, the second falling open in time with your lips softly touching the apple of his cheek. You held your free hand out, palm up, until he laced his fingers with yours. 

“Thank you, Yoons.”

He waited until he was standing, stalling your excited dragging of his figure down the beach with an exclamation of your name. 

“I have something else to give you later,” Yoongi said slowly, “Don’t let me forget.”

You used your intertwined fingers to punch his thigh with his own knuckles, “Better than this flower?”

A slanted smile was the only thing his rapidly beating heart would allow him. 

“Hopefully.”

“Orchids,” Yoongi decided finally, gaze still wavering off beyond your figure, “They’d probably like orchids.”

You swallowed, bouncing once on your heels. Your chin cocked, eyes staring straight ahead from where he stood in front of you. Quickly, he amended, “Is that okay? Are those not good wedding flowers—”

Your steps picked up in speed like they had before, effectively bumping into the bin of glass landscape decorations in trying to brush past him. He took the time to balance the tin, centering a blue butterfly and it’s green caterpillar counterpart before dashing off after you.

Jimin and Jeongguk appeared as though they’d been caught with their hands in a cookie jar although they were no more than crowded around the computer monitor of a shop that Jimin owned and managed. Nonetheless, you seemed to pay no mind to their startled appearances, speaking past Jeongguk’s chin on Jimin’s shoulder to nod toward his forgotten order notepad flopped open on the glass container. 

“Did you—”

“Orchids,” You said, “Pink ones, if you can.”

There was a strange lingering scent from the greenery Yoongi had helped you separate, one he didn’t notice until he was rubbing crooked fingers underneath his nose while waiting for Taehyung to answer his call. He squinted at the smell with a wrinkled nose until the dial tone rolled over to an obnoxious rustling that projected loudly through the speaker. 

“How’s it going, married man?”

Yoongi flinched at the content of Taehyung’s words and the volume, using his thumb to lower it while holding the phone away from his face. When he was sure his manager’s excited outbursts wouldn’t be wholly projected to the entire hotel, he sighed, “I’m not married.”

“But you’re going to be soon,” Taehyung sang. More rustling on the other end. Yoongi wished he could hurl a much too white hotel pillow through the screen. 

“Why did you send me five texts asking me to call you? What do you need?”

“Oh, right,” There was something muffling Taehyung’s speech now that wasn’t the aggressive sound of crinkling. The heel of Yoongi’s palm met his forehead in realization and he could picture the over-sized hamburger clenched between Taehyung’s fingers from miles away. “Namjoon and the team will be there with a new photographer tomorrow to get some staged shots for the press.”

“Staged…” Yoongi rolled to his stomach, sanctioning his weapon pillow against his chest, “Of what?”

“It’s supposed to simulate an engagement photo shoot. They want the pictures for a cover story. That’s why there’s a different photographer coming. You’ll actually get to meet this one,” More wrapper crinkling. An audible swallow. Yoongi began to think a pillow wasn’t the only weapon he needed. 

“How am I supposed to do that with just me?” 

“They only want your face. The anonymity adds to the suspense and interest,” Taehyung sighed, “They should be bringing a model with them. They’ll just be used for their shadow, essentially. Maybe their hands, hand shots of the rings will be good—”

“I don’t have rings.”

“We do.”

Yoongi groaned into the plush of his pillow. “Won’t that ruin the whole facade if someone figures out who the model is? I don’t want to drag a literal total stranger into this mess.”

“Give me a better idea, Yoongi. Use both your hands? Craft a cardboard cutout in your hotel room?”

“I just…” 

If he closed his eyes, it was like traveling through idealization with a fish-eye's view, placing him first in the depth of that rickety old wardrobe piece while a hand he recognized as his own looted around inside to snatch a velvet box, one his point of view was tethered to as he then was transported to the inside of a backpack, rattled around inside with a yellow notepad and a handful of uncapped pens. 

Somewhere along the way, the trip was halted, marked by a nonsensical swirl of color as his fingers rubbed at his eyes, Taehyung’s sarcastic rambles just background noise as the story picked back up in the forefront of his consciousness. It was a longing that generated the second half between the darkness of the backpack and the open breeze off the beach, viewpoint now situated in his own palm, looking up at your tear filled eyes, then skipping forward to peer into the familiarity of his own gaze as he was slid securely onto a finger. 

It was the ridiculous daydream about becoming a literal piece of jewelry that made him speak, cutting off Taehyung’s increasingly outlandish suggestions.

“I’ll do it just…” Yoongi settled his chin on top of the pillow, letting his eyes open to the cloth headboard in front of him, “Don’t send the model. I have someone I can get to stand in.”

There were muffled noises of surprise marked by more, very apparent, chewing until Taehyung sighed, “Won’t that just create the same issue you said previously? What if someone finds out who your stand-in is? What do we do then? Pretend to marry the two of you?”

“That won’t happen,” Yoongi saw shades of pink in hazy petal shapes when he closed his eyes a second time, squishing his cheek against his free hand that rested on his pillow. “Just don’t send the model. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“I don’t know much about the entertainment industry but don’t they generally have models available that can do these kinds of things?” You blinked across at Yoongi as his stylist, Mingyu, jabbed a makeup brush between the closed crease of your eyelids. 

“They do if you’d like me to have them call one,” Yoongi shifted in his own chair, fiddling at the collar of his button up that had just been meticulously fixed for him. He tucked an index finger under the tight fabric, tugging it away from his neck. When that couldn’t sate him, he popped the top button and folded the lapels across his chest. “This isn’t exactly part of your contract…”

“It’s not.” He continued to be amazed by the nonchalant way in which you accepted his suggestion, seeming to move in autopilot since he rigidly explained the dilemma from your dew covered front porch that morning. Stunned must have graced his gaze when you glanced at him, your eyebrows raising considerably when Mingyu moved on to poke and prod at your hair, “But you’re my friend, so I’m helping you.”

You ducked a bit, catching his eyes that darted away while gloss tinted lips parting into a neat oval. “We are still friends...right?”

Yoongi masked his relief with his tone, pitching his voice in firm words so that you couldn’t hear the way his heart did several back flips that tickled the back of his throat and retrieved some of their broken pieces in their tumbling path, settling a bit of warmth that was a step closer to full into his chest cavity until it spread upward into the tiny tug on each curve of his lips. 

“Of course we are,” Stoic faltered when you blinked at him. Yoongi let himself smile. 

“One more question,” You lowered your voice, dipping a bit closer to him Mingyu shifted behind you to continue toying with your hair, “Why do I have makeup on if you won’t see my face?”

Yoongi’s shoulders bounced in silent laughter, lips wrinkling then rolling together to prevent anything audible and he shrugged. His healing heart let him study your face for far more time than necessary, finally settling on your eyes as his cheek nearly lulled to his shoulder. 

“You look nice,” He assured gently.

You turned away, surprising Mingyu in the process as he now had better access to final touches, but even through the touches to your face with fingers and brushes and pads, Yoongi didn’t miss the trace of your smile. 

“Okay you two…” The photographer approached you like walking through sand was wading through knee deep water, sandals dangling on feet he lifted in high stepping advancements until he was stationary in front of your folding chairs. Knee length jeans appeared to be self tailored by a pair of kitchen scissors and a pink hoodie hung off broad shoulders along with a camera dangling off an equally thick strap. “Are we ready?”

Yoongi slipped off his chair first, offering a hand to you. You took the offer delicately, feet hitting the sand with a minimal puff of debris. He was a breath away from addressing the photographer until he spoke to Yoongi’s publicist Namjoon instead, the only other individual wandering around beyond Mingyu’s box of equipment. 

“No faces, right?”

“Uhm, you can get my face. Just...my face,” Yoongi smiled kindly, squeezing your hand in reassurance, “That’s preferred actually.”

The photographer blinked at the smaller man in front of him for a passing beat before addressing Namjoon again, “So...no faces then?”

“Seokjin,” Namjoon warned tiredly, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a crooked knuckle, “Cooperate.”

A wheezing laughter broke out from the photographer’s lips, Seokjin’s lips, the noise carrying upward into the coastal breeze of early afternoon. There was a minuscule tug on the twine of Yoongi’s fingers and he found himself, perplexed, glancing at you. Despite the fond expression on your lips, he could sense the confusion in your aura too. He gave a second comforting squeeze until Seokjin’s laughter quieted away into periodic hiccups placed between the raise of his free hand until it landed on Yoongi’s shoulder. 

“I’m just joking,” A kind smile was left in the wake of Seokjin’s giggles, patting twice at Yoongi’s shoulder before he was off wading through the sand again. 

You tugged down on Yoongi’s hand, squeaking, “Are we supposed to follow…?—”

He pulled in the opposite direction, leading you through the ruts Seokjin’s fussing left. When you caught up to him, shoulder bumping into his arm, he laughed quietly, “I guess so.”

“Okay!” Seokjin’s sweeping announcement sent a domino effect through the small caravan of three people now subject to the wind in the center of the beach. Yoongi bumped into him, you bumped into Yoongi, Yoongi was sure Namjoon was laughing from where he watched on. The photographer turned, catching sight of intertwined hands first and he lifted an eyebrow as he addressed Yoongi.. 

“Just your face, right?”

Instinctively, Yoongi pulled you closer even if the inquiry was spoken without any ulterior motive, instead a genuine confirmation. “Just my face,” Yoongi nodded sharply, “In fact, if we can limit the pictures to shadows and features—”

Seokjin held up a solaced palm, “No worries, I know what’s going on here.”

Yoongi felt your gaze on the side of his face but he situated his thinning eyes to the man in front of you as he began to fiddle at the various knobs and buttons on the back of his camera. His smile erased into something of confusion when he found Yoongi eyeing him, rushing in a series of startled noises to amend, “It’s understandable that you would choose to keep your partner anonymous if they are not in the spotlight themselves. I’ve covered it before—” Yoongi’s expression softened only slightly when Seokjin lifted his camera to his face and the lens twirled closer to the point of Yoongi’s nose. The shutter clicked over, making Yoongi blink, and Seokjin pulled the device away to squint at the preview. A thumbs up followed, paired with the purse of tulip shaped lips that spread into a kind smile, “—your secret is safe with me!” 

Part of him forgot that there was a limited group who were aware of the full situation even in scheduled events like a photo shoot, a timeline for what was supposed to be something of life changing unity. The weight in his pocket wasn’t one that would hold any higher meaning, rings faux quality and meant to superimpose elegance where Namjoon had pulled them from a plastic prop bag. This wasn’t his bulky backpack with his deepest regret hidden in the front porch.. Instead, it was just another gimmick to save face and time for his favorite writing journal that he’d unpacked from his suitcase only to move over into the shoulder bag he carted around everywhere. 

And, to some people, it looked like he was, truthfully and honestly, engaged to you. 

There was a twitch of your hand in his and Yoongi relaxed with that pressure in mind, nodding once. A grateful smile laced the seam of his lips and he backed off of his stance with a nod, “Oh, right. Thank you…”

“Of course,” Seokjin beamed, gesturing vaguely again, “Should we get those face shots first?”

You were turned gently around the pivot point that was your connected hands, free palm slipping gently into the crooked fingers Yoongi offered face up. As for your hand he’d previously held, you slipped it away, just quick enough to rub the clamminess against your thigh before returning it to its previous position. Slowly, you lifted your gaze to Yoongi’s. 

He didn’t even try to hide his fond smile as the camera shutter whirred over your shoulder. 

“Do couples actually do this?” You complained through clenched teeth, rigid smile coating your mouth even if no one could see you but him. Something genuine twitched upward in your lips when his smile grew a bit brighter at your whined complaints, “This is so awkward.”

“That’s great, perfect,” A few more clicks and the sound of Seokjin’s thumb against plastic buttons. “A few more...could you touch their face, maybe?”

Yoongi didn’t give you time to complain, cupping his palm to your face, stroking his thumb gently under your eye to soothe the tension that immediately curled upward in your shoulders. 

“Better or worse now?” He teased, tilting his head to look between your wide eyes. 

Your fingers responded to him, slipping around his wrist to keep his hand cradling your face. In the same moment, you took your hands that remained intertwined and molded his hand around your waist, stepping closer to him in the process. Your thumb pressed against his racing pulse point and he swallowed, a moot attempt to calm his heart that he was sure you could hear and feel. 

“I don’t know,” You shot back, smile loosening, “You tell me.”

Yoongi shook his head, a genuine laugh emitting at your antics while his thumb continued it’s strokes to the apple of your cheek and his hand scrunched it’s way to the small of your back, holding you against him. 

Seokjin jogged backward across the beach with some vague instructions, haphazard words sticking in Yoongi’s brain to act on. Pretend and dance. The implication of the words roused a single syllable laugh from your lips, head tipping back, more of an amused smirk settling into your expression when you came to.

“This should be good.”

Yoongi cocked an eyebrow, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” You repeated the challenge from before, a daring confidence seeping into your aura now. 

His touch fell away from your face, holding his hand palm up instead. “Give me your hand.”

Your expression didn’t falter as your hand landed in his, head only tilting when he squeezed your hand and started to move you. 

“You know, the sand doesn’t exactly make this easy.”

“Is that your excuse for squishing my toes?”

Yoongi’s expression crossed into horrified for a fraction of a second, “I haven’t stepped on you!”

“Not yet.”

“What if I dipped you?” He tightened his grip on your waist. 

“Then they’ll see my face,” You squeaked when he half jerked to do so, lightly smacking his chest in retaliation. 

“The picture will be cropped.”

“Yoongi—”

“I’m going to do it.”

And he did, a full pivot that bent you at the waist, half hovering over your angled stature. The slow spread of his laughter across his features came in time with his foot giving out as support underneath him, sending your figures stumbling a few paces. He managed to ground himself while you clawed at his shirt in an equal amount of startled joy, dragging yourself up by tight fists on the open collar of his shirt with your forearms pressed to his chest. 

“I think you need some dance lessons, Min Suga.”

If you were anywhere else in any other circumstance with any other person, Yoongi would have kissed you. He told himself that, a firm response to his conscious that was trying to will his muscles to do so. He was wholly aware of the desire, one stirred by your proximity and your presence and you. And, given a few more seconds of silence aside from the lip of foam across neatly created ruts in the sand and the mechanical flick of a camera shutter, he might have excused the situation and the circumstance and the presence of another person. 

But, Seokjin, who was none the wiser to any of it yet assumed the relationship before him was very real, tried to combat a kiss regardless. A loud, satisfied wah! Came as he approached in messy steps that sent sand flying everywhere below his still attached sandals, startling your embrace apart to find him hunched over the preview screen. 

“Great,” His smile was knowing and his wink confirmed it, “Shall we move on to something else? Hands, maybe?”

Yoongi took to threading his fingers around yours to combat the heat that curled behind the thin layer of makeup on his features, staring straight at the overlap of your index and middle fingers around the bend of his thumb. You cleared your throat into the painful silence and the ambiance of waves continued to be blissfully unaware. 

Seokjin sliced into the tension with confusion, “Uh, yeah, that’s great but...rings?”

Yoongi felt like those waves had just become self aware and barreled out of gravity’s clutches, swallowing him whole and effectively dragging him into their depths. 

“I mean, if you guys aren’t doing rings, that’s fine too. There are all kinds of symbolic ways to outwardly show your unity, I just assumed it was with rings but perhaps that was wrong of me. We can do something else—”

The band meant for his finger was just too small but Yoongi jammed it on anyway, aided by the clamminess slowly engulfing every inch of his skin. Scrambled movements nearly sent yours tumbling to the sand below but he managed to secure it between the pinch of his thumb and index finger, joints twitching periodically as he let his gaze meet yours again. The tips of your fingers barely brushed his curled knuckles and he moved the ring out of your reach. 

Yoongi swallowed, taking the crook of your left hand in his free one. “Let me.”

The hollow echo left by the screen door clattering shut on his shoulders felt like the raw crescendo before the soul gripping bridge in a song. Except the final chorus wasn’t the round trip loop, a tie up with a neat bow on top that made a song a story. His story wouldn’t lead him back to the rickety screen door and the creaky floorboards underneath the heavy piece of wardrobe furniture in his parent’s, your, business foyer. 

Yoongi didn’t think the last time he’d open the top drawer would be to put the velvet box back, its contents still very much intact, his heart very much not. The plane ticket and apartment key mocked him, a reminder of his unfinished heart song, one he supposed would remain a rough draft with no clear path to an end. 

At least, that end wouldn’t include you. 

He felt selfish for the hot tears that pricked the back of his eyelids, the direct result of your excitement, your adamant exclamations of how perfect your futures were about to become. The guilt was eating him alive, that he couldn’t simply feel happy for you without his conscience drifting to the ring he’d bought you and how selfish, horribly selfish, his confession would be after you’d just poured your one track soul to him. He couldn’t remember half of what you’d told him due to his own personal inhibitions. 

He couldn’t tell you he was hopelessly in love with you. He couldn’t do that to you.

Yoongi let the drawer shut for the final time, choosing to drag everything else out so as to not see the black box again. One tear became three, lipping down his nose and dropping onto his fumbling fingers as he jammed the lock into the knob, turning the mechanical click one more time. 

And then, he simply went to bed. He had a flight to catch, after all.

“Is it true?”

He stopped flipping through the paperwork, non disclosure agreements and consent forms you’d scribbled your support onto in the dull blue pen Namjoon had handed you. You sat in the chair from before, makeup wipe Mingyu had handed you damp against your thigh as you instead took to fiddling at the diamond band still wrapped to your finger. 

Yoongi pressed the pages shut, leaning into the back of your chair, “Is what true?”

You turned to peer up at him, diamond tucked between your fingertips, “...that you get to keep props sometimes.”

“You want to keep the ring?”

“It’s pretty,” The band slipped easily off your finger, cradled in your palm, “A little big, but that’s okay. Who doesn’t want the evidence of their first fake engagement?”

“Not your first magazine cover shoot?”

“No one will ever see my face. I’m basically a hand and head model.”

“You can keep the ring,” Yoongi conceded with a laugh, “Are you done with this paperwork? Nothing else you want to read?”

“I am and if you are as well—” You jumped off the chair to stand in front of him, “—I want to take you somewhere.”

“Don’t you have work to do today?”

“I’m working right now. Wait right here.”

 He watched, silent, as you skipped over to where Seokjin was chatting with Namjoon in the small gravel area beyond the sand. Seokjin’s expression flitted to you while Namjoon’s went to him, raising an eyebrow while you tugged on the photographer’s sleeve to cup your hand around his ear. 

“Yeah,” Yoongi heard Seokjin exclaim, scrambling backward away from your whispers with a frantic smile, “Yeah, of course. I have a few hours before my flight leaves. Lead the way!”

You approached him in a similar, giddy fashion, taking his wrist. He raised an eyebrow, stumbling a few dramatic paces when you tugged on his arm. 

“Yeah. Lead the way.”

“Why are we at a dance studio?”

You tugged on the strap of his bag rather than his hand this time, ignoring him as you coaxed him through the glass doors. It was dimmer inside, lights shadowing the rounded front desk and the flutter of various flyers pinned to a cork board in the corner with the small ceiling fan that whirred overhead. Even then, Yoongi still startled at the noise, yes noise, of greeting the man twirling in an office chair at the front desk let out. 

The man knew you by name, stretching forward rather than standing up to take your hand over the desk. He directed his attention to Yoongi next, standing but in a quieter fashion than his previous actions suggested, gradual in the way he held his hand out. 

“And you’re...Suga, right?”

“Yoongi,” He corrected quietly, slipping his hand into the man’s, “Nice to meet you…”

“Soonyoung,” You and the man provided at the same time, effectively earning mingled laughter. “I thought I heard from somewhere that you were in town. Planning a wedding, right?” Soonyoung leaned away to pass his gaze between your two figures, “I guess the rumors must be true if you’re hanging around with this one.”

That earned a halfhearted swat from you and more giggles from the man as he shuffled around, presenting a clipboard to the top part of the desk. “Are you needing studio space again?”

You nodded, pressing a pen between Yoongi’s fingers and sliding the paper underneath his curled hand. He blinked absently at the words name, time in, and time out. You continued to talk while he feathered the general outline of his name above the line, “If anyone asks, it was his idea to rent studio space.”

Puzzled, Soonyoung slipped the clipboard from Yoongi to squint at it. “Will someone ask? Why would someone ask—” 

Again, your hand was on the strap of his bag, dragging him around the corner, “If, Soonie, if!” 

An echoed got it! was the last thing Yoongi heard until you shut him inside a dark studio space. He watched his shadow light up in the mirror when the lights crackled to life, tint uneven on his lips, shirt he wore to the shoot a bit haphazard across his collarbones, black fringe windblown and stuck in blinking eyelashes. 

“Am I allowed to know why you brought me here yet?”

“I told you,” He watched in the reflection as you crossed the wood floor, crouching next to a small set of outlets with varying cords dangling out of them. You jammed the short white one into the end of your phone, prodding around with your index finger until the soft sound of something top forty began playing through the speakers. You stood, approach to his figure marked by swaying, off beat movements, “I’m giving you dance lessons.”

“Are you going to show me how to do that?” Yoongi accepted you when you took his hands despite his dismissive words, “Because if so, I don’t want them. I want a refund, in fact—”

“I told Seokjin to follow us here and take a picture of you signing up for dance classes. They’ll run the story like you did it directly after the cover shoot photos,” Dramatically, you swung your twined fingers together to the rising beat of the music, “Cute, right?”

Yoongi hummed, continuing to allow you to lead him in messy circles around the studio, “I thought Namjoon was my publicist?”

“Maybe you should hire me,” Your eyes cut in zigzags down his features before you dropped your chin, movements relaxing enough for him to take over, “This soft image suits you better, anyway.”

“You’ve been reading the articles?”

“Free publicity. Need to see how my business is being represented” You shook your head when he squinted at you, “I’m joking. They’ve never mentioned the business directly. The pictures don’t give enough clarity to location.” 

You looked at him again, “So yes...I have read a few.”

“And they’re portraying me as…” Yoongi’s nose wrinkled, “Soft?” 

“Quiet. Gentle. One who shows his love in simple ways,” One corner of your mouth turned up in a smile, “Frankly, it’s rather unfair that they thought anything otherwise.”

Another broken chisel of Yoongi’s heart slotted itself back into place, healing with the warmth that spread quickly to the tips of his toes. He squeezed your hands, “I’m glad you still see me that way.”

“The Agust D video though,” You gripped his hands back, tilting your head, “The bleached hair and the makeup. Perhaps I understand the savage hype—”

Yoongi shoved you away, a halfhearted attempt as you still clung on to him with the last link of your knuckles tucked between the empty spaces in his spread fingers. Laughter followed suit, mingling with the silent, shoulder bouncing emission of his before you were brought close to him once more. This time, there were no cameras. No Namjoon to type reports to Taehyung and Seungcheol, no Mingyu to tuck plastic ends of brushes into sea breeze hair, no Seokjin to fool. Second time failed to be the charm, Yoongi’s face leaning a fraction of a space closer to you until you dropped your gaze again. 

“We can leave soon, if you want. Seokjin should be out of town by now.”

Yoongi didn’t move until his silence coaxed your eyes back to him. “I was dragged here against my will for dance lessons,” He let go of your hands, stepping back to shrug himself out of his cross shoulder bag and place his appendages on the high rise of his hips, “and I intend to get them.”

Lessons came less in the form of serious intention and instead manifested in you teaching him what not to do as he observed with his back against the mirror and his pen against his notepad. The yellow pages were no longer empty, the tray of ink shoved through the middle of his pen now considered to be used. The radio hit on max volume couldn’t drown out your laughter and if Yoongi ignored the tiny, unfamiliar space the joy was confined to, he could convince himself that everything was back to normal. That this was just another off day between carting flowers and chairs and catered crock pots to venues where he got to watch your joy overfill his heart with a warmth that he had to make space for more by manifesting that into something tangible. 

Filled lyric notebook and all. 

“This is going to look like a stock image.”

Yoongi couldn’t contain his snort, adjusting his stance a bit to fit your comment. Legs angled wide from his hips, arms folded neatly to his chest, nothing relaxed about his stature. He turned to where you were mirroring his position. “You’re probably right.”

Jeongguk leaned so far across Yoongi he stumbled out of his similar position, tripping to a stop between the two of you as he looked up with wide eyes. An apology came soft but his inquiry came an octave lower, “...what is going to look like a stock image?”

The item on the agenda was picking a venue, or rather, make it look like you were picking a venue. With the rumored wedding date less than days away, finishing touches were to be in order, but the press would be days behind by virtue of what was being actively publicized as a private wedding. And by the way you were standing just in front of a mock row of chairs beyond a meticulously decorated arch, pastel pinks and yellows and blues and purples, it looked like you’d just been cut directly from a wedding magazine’s ad section for structure rental. Yoongi wasn’t sure how the press would frame it. The house wasn’t the rumored location for the wedding, anyway. The beach was. But the press was only available for a short time, their hired stint by Yoongi’s company lasting until their flights left in the evening after they would capture what would eventually be the last of Yoongi’s wedding planning ventures. 

He shifted in the plush grass, squinting closer at two flower pots that made symmetry to the front display of the mock wedding alter. The way they moved with the wind was artificial, and his focus slid to see if those beautiful petals on rungs of the arch were fake flowers as well. 

“Do people actually have weddings here?” He thought back to his years as an employee. You’d always arranged for off property events. Your set up in the field behind the house suggested otherwise. 

“Not yet,” You nudged Jeongguk where he’d scrambled to stand between the two of you, managed to fit his broad stature in the minuscule space, “Jeongguk has been heading the project to get us a space to do so here. We could offer a discount on the venue if they used our services. Extra profit.”

“But for now it’s just a mock set up,” Jeongguk nodded. “That’s why I don’t understand why we’re here...shouldn’t we be getting the last of everything set up at the beach?” He turned to Yoongi with a question in his round irises, “And Yoongi, when is your fiance’ getting in? Have you arranged for transportation from the airport? Should I go get them?”

“Jeongguk,” You touched his arm, squeezing gently, “Why don’t you take the rest of the night off? I’m going to need you to be at full capacity the next couple days.”

“But I can come help—”

“Jeongguk.” 

Yoongi glanced behind him as the sound of tires on gravel descended, watching as the familiar SUV that had been trailing him through the weeks made it’s exit. Somewhere in his pocket, flight details buzzed from Taehyung. His gaze found your serious expression when the car peeled out of sight, speaking kindly to your coworker, “I’ve got it. Please take the night off. Tell Jimin the same.”

It hit him then that it wasn’t just you he’d be leaving to deal with the aftermath of his press playtime. In fact it was you that he’d be leaving to deal with it, your knowledge effectively making it ten times harder to sate what would essentially be a town’s population left confused and without him. The panic of it made his lips part but you cut him off before he could speak. 

“Do you want to go down to the beach for a little bit?” Your eyes widened, gesturing to where Jeongguk was still very much in earshot in the trek for his car. “Make sure everything is in order…”

Part of him was relieved that you seemed to want to talk to. The tension left him in a sigh, “Absolutely. I’ll drive.”

“Hold your hand out.”

Yoongi blinked, still trying to shake off the vibrating blurs in front of his lenses from the force in which his head had smacked into yours. He rubbed at the space that throbbed in an attempt to lessen it, “What?” 

“Unless you don’t want my gift. I can keep it.”

He was slightly disoriented but he didn’t miss the embarrassingly fast thrust of his hand toward you. “No,” He said simply, “I want it.”

You beamed, taking his wrist to press your fist against his palm. Slowly, you spread your fingers, depositing the smooth object against his skin. Then, you folded his fingers together over it, gently pushing his curled digits towards his chest. 

“It’s a…”

“Orchid!” You nodded, bouncing slightly where you sat, “It’s a pin, if you want to put it on your backpack. Or you can just display it. It’s yours.”

Yoongi turned the glass piece over in his palm, stroking his index finger through the smooth rivets of glass where white and purple mixed in a marble like texture underneath the surface. His smile was teasing as he passed it to his opposite hand, “Anything to remind me of nearly dying in sinkholes trying to help you pick these, huh?”

“Shut up,” You dug your fist into his thigh, leaning closer to him again. Dangerous territory for the endeared roar of Yoongi’s heart in his ears. “Where’s my present?”

“What?”

“You told me to remind you that you had something else for me. You know, other than the orchids gathered by near death experience,” You blinked at his confusion, “This is me reminding you.”

The weight on his bag could finally be released, a weight that had previously tucked into that wooden drawer and forever had resided on the tenderest part of his stuttered heart. All his pent up emotions, ones swallowed down and confined to the red lines crossing horizontally on his yellow notepad, could be released, could fly off the page and relieve a bit of his intense yearning. 

At the very least, he could say I love you out loud. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t bring himself to do that to you. 

So, instead, Yoongi reached past you, bringing his lyrics back into his lap. His flips through the pages were calculated, counting until he made it to the eighth draft. Meticulous fingers peeled back everything in its way, tugging until it was a clean rip in the paper. Gently, he held the page out to you. 

“A piece of paper—”

“It’s the song the label wants to release as my first single,” Yoongi blinked at you until your teasing sobered up, dropping back a bit from where you leaned over him to take the page with you, “The first draft of it anyway. I want you to have it.”

It’s for you.

Your eyes widened, squinting through its contents as the sun began to bath dusk pastels into the landscape surroundings. Yoongi added softly, “Something to remember me by.”

“You make it sound like you’re dying.”

“That’s what you said,” He laughed gently.

“Yeah, but the way you said it. The way you keep talking. This song…” You frowned, “You’re only moving a plane ride away. A phone call away at that. We don’t have to say goodbye.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

You tried to reach for his hand, “But not for good. This isn’t the last time we’ll ever see each other.”

Yoongi evaded your touch to make it hurt less. The more time between your last touch on his skin, the easier it would be to forget. He stood to not have to see the hurt in your eyes, holding his notebook against his chest as he reached for his backpack. 

“Speaking of, I have to be at the airport fairly early tomorrow,” He adjusted the straps of his backpack, pointedly shoving his hands into his pockets. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

“Remember the last time we were here?”

“Similar circumstance, too,” You brushed spread fingers across the small hill of sand in front of your crossed ankles. 

Glittering fairy lights strung to a timer on varying ends of the venue set up reflected on your skin and in your eyes when you eyed him. White chairs in a ten by thirteen grid buried into the sand, a velvet pink rug cut between the fifth and sixth chairs in the row, leading upward to where a white sheet took the place of where the wedding party would presumably stand. There was a custom arch, too, one Jimin had sweated over to have only the best pink and purple orchids threaded through the white rings and rungs. The venue space existed even when there wasn’t an event scheduled, that part of the beach roped off to tourists and locals alike, but it had certainly been magnified at the premise of the false wedding that was supposed to be occurring the Saturday following the current Thursday.

“You’re really leaving tomorrow?”

“Day after.”

“Ah,” You nodded, scooping up some of the sand and letting it drain between the spaces in your fingers, “Rather than being left at the altar, you’re doing the leaving.”

“I’ll have someone sent to help you clean everything up,” Yoongi touched underneath his chin, letting his fingers slide to the back of his neck, “I’d stay and help but—”

“No need,” You waved a hand, “Maybe making Jeongguk do it will suppress most of his questions.”

“Right…” Yoongi’s lips pressed into his cheeks, “Sorry about that, by the way. I hope he doesn’t think too horribly of me.”

You ceased all movements, turning to him. He paused in plucking miniscule specks of dust from his jeans, seizing at the softness of your tone. “Why are you saying a definite goodbye again?”

“I’m not.”

“Then you can make sure Jeongguk doesn’t hate you when you come back and visit. Or when you text me. I’m not asking for much. Even a happy birthday would suffice.”

He hadn’t felt a chomping sense of all consuming guilt since he’d lied about not saying goodbye before. 

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” The curl of your hand wrapped around his index and middle fingers where they rested in the sand, “Just don’t say goodbye to me again. Not like before.”

The suffocating weight was back, like a crater sized boulder resting directly in the thinnest part covering his most vital organ. Yoongi let himself nod. 

“Okay, angel. I won’t.”

You smiled away from his gaze, letting your fingers slide just barely away until the two of you were no longer touching. Instead, you scrambled, gathering your feet underneath you to crouch next to him. 

“Want to help me pick some orchids?”

“Can I take them off the decorations?” You smacked him, standing yourself to brush sand from the backs of your thighs. “What? No one is going to see them anyway.”

“Don’t remind me,” It was scoffed but he sensed the sincerity. He didn’t want to remember either. “Come on, I think there’s a patch further up the shore—”

Yoongi fully woke the third time his cell phone rang on his bedside table. The light bathed his stack of packed luggage in the corner when he dragged it closer, ignoring the caller ID in route to accept it and press it against this ear. 

“Yeah?—”

“Yoongi,” Taehyung sounded as exhausted as the sand heavy behind his eyes felt, “I booked you an earlier flight. You’re to get on it.”

“Why?”

“Do it. Details are in your email. Don’t look at social media, if you can help from it.”

“I won’t look at social media,” Yoongi found it within himself to snort, rubbing at his eyes with a tired knuckle, “How early is this flight? I still have to pay the wedding planner.”

“Let us do that. We’ll direct deposit it. It’s the twenty-first century, we should do it that way, anyway.”

“Taehyung,” He sat up in bed, letting his duvet and sheets curl around his torso as he squinted at the soft white filtering through the sheer curtain of the singular window in the room, “I’m not leaving without telling them goodbye. They’ve helped me, us, tremendously through this. The least I can do is tell them thank you in person.”

“Besides, what’s the rush for me to get back? I don’t have a schedule for at least another two weeks.”

“Yoongi, they know.”

In the silence left by that vague yet horrifying statement, Yoongi swore he heard a camera click. Then another. Then a flash to pair. 

“They know what? Who is they?”

“The press. And not that the engagement is fake,” Taehyung rushed to amend as if that made it any better, “They found out where you are. Someone must have been tipped off through the pictures we published and sent their own team to investigate. And they found out the identity of the wedding planner. Which, I kind of commend you, having them step in for those pictures was genius. Are they wanting any extra money for pretending to be engaged to you? Seungcheol said he’d pay whatever they want. You should see the headlines, marrying the wedding planner, the story just keeps getting cuter!” 

“You told me not to look at the headlines,” Yoongi cut off numbly. He was on autopilot moving about the room, yanking things back out from their neatly packed suitcases, managing to locate a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie that vaguely matched. “I’ll call you later.”

“The flight, Yoongi! Don’t do anything stupid please—”

There was a small group of reporters waiting on him in front of the hotel, ones he managed to shake off with relative ease but it did nothing to calm his nerves as he sped through familiar streets to get to you. He found the same scene in the parking lot of Be Happy, a handful of reporters crowded around with their cameras and phone mics and notebooks, shouting out questions that were still so far off base from the reality of the situation that it forced a headache behind his ears and on the spot below his fringe almost immediately. He shrugged them off too, leaving them at the gates to the drive that you hadn’t opened well into business hours, jogging until he reached the front door. 

It was locked, understandably so, forcing him to tap knuckles gently at first and harder the more frantic he got while calling your name. “Angel, it’s me. Let me in, please, let me help.”

Yoongi saw red, red and pink, and more red when you fiddled at the locks, dragging the door open to reveal tear filled eyes that only amplified at his presence and the volume of the shouts outside. He touched you only enough to shuffle you backward, letting the door shut behind him and he was halfway through locking it when you thrust something toward his face. 

It was a blurry picture from the night before, your face fully on display as you accepted something that was very much not an orchid from his grasp. It was a weed, something Yoongi knew the name of when his only thought wasn’t occupied by the tears lipping angrily down the slope of your nose. 

“I don’t know why it shocked me, really. That someone found us. Even if I hadn’t done that photo shoot with you, it wouldn’t have mattered. People would have assumed it was me, anyway. People were already starting to question with all the things your company allowed to be released. I was getting weird phone calls to the business phone and I just assumed they’d all go away when you did,” You swiped your phone away from him, letting it clatter harshly to the circle table, “I didn’t think the universe was selfish enough, that you were selfish enough to leave me like that again.”

“You should have told me you were getting weird calls,” Yoongi rasped hoarsely.

“Right, and what would you have done?” You blinked, “Called it all off? And then what, left me again?” 

“Why do you keep saying that, angel—”

“Don’t. Do not call me that,” You held up a hand, collecting yourself until the streams of tears weren’t as thick on your skin, “I keep saying that because it’s what happened. You left me here without so much as a second glance back. Then, when you needed me again, something to save face for a writer's block, you came back.”

“Why couldn’t you have just come home before that?” You were sobbing again, unable to help it. Yoongi felt all the healed pieces of his heart scar for a second time, “You were always writing when I was here. I could have helped you.”

“And I did help you. But I hurt myself. I had to live through all the reasons why I fell in love with you with no plausible endgame that wouldn’t shatter my heart. Again,” You laughed despite the unattractive sniffle you sucked in, “You did this to me again.”

He could hear his heart in his ears, “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“How could you have?” Another laugh, one that made Yoongi wince, “You forgot to not forget me. Even then, you never let me get a word in.”

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Great,” He watched your fists curl at your side, setting your shoulders, “Then if you’ll excuse me—”

“What—”

“I have a wedding to get ready for,” You shrugged, “That’s what everyone expects, right? Then that’s what we’ll give them. In real time, not on some corporate media delay.”

“I’ll fix this. I will, I’ll—”

“Yoongi.” You paused across the room from him, facade clearly shattering as you begged, “Please just go. You probably need to pack for your flight tomorrow still, right?”

“Angel.”

“Go.” 

“You’re to call it off. Now.”

Seungcheol sighed into the phone speaker, overlapped by Taehyung interjecting, “We can’t do that, Yoongi.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order. I do not care how you cover this up, how you choose to handle it, or if you have to eliminate my contract. I don’t have a preference and I don’t have any ideas,” Yoongi sighed into his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, “All I ask is that it’s called off. That the media knows it’s not happening and that they leave me and everyone in my hometown alone.”

“All I can think is to suggest that the wedding is postponed indefinitely due to some sort of complications—”

“Great, do that. I’m not taking my flight, either. Neither flight.”

“You have schedules in a few weeks.”

“I’ll handle that when the time comes,” Yoongi sighed, covering his face with his hand, “I just...I really need to stay here for as long as possible.”

Taehyung continued to mutter to himself while Seungcheol murmured, “May I ask why?”

“It’s a long story,” Yoongi eyed the bouquet of pink in his fist, swallowing toward the heavy tides as they propelled towards the shore on the heels of heavy winds, “I’ll have to tell you some other time. But right now...I have to go.”

In any other circumstance, Yoongi would have sobbed seeing you ascend the aisle. And frankly, in the given circumstance, he wanted to as well, breath welling in the base of his throat when you hesitated upon seeing his figure, choosing eventually to drop your head and stalk for him. When you were in earshot, he said, “You didn’t pause.”

Tear tracks were still evident on your skin, fresh in fact, when you glared in confusion, “What?”

Yoongi gestured with his free hand, cuffs on his suit jacket riding up over the jewelry dangling from a delicate wrist bone as he pointed for the place beyond the last row of chairs. “You’re supposed to pause until the proper music starts. Standard wedding procedure.”

“Good thing this isn’t a wedding,” Your fingers brushed at your cheeks, trying to cover up, “Why are you still here? I figured you’d be long gone by now.”

“Change of plans. I don’t think I’ll be leaving for a little while now. Turns out I have a fiance’ here,” He took one step toward you, kicking up sand with the polished toe of his dress boot, “Weird, right? Who would have known…”

A short huff left through your nose. “You’re lucky you’re cute. Otherwise, I wouldn’t find this funny.”

“I don’t think this is funny. Not what I have to tell you, at least.”

 “Well get on it with it,” You kicked up some sand without moving, “I have wedding details to finish.”

“I’ve kept this in for far longer than I should have. I thought it would be selfish of me to say it, especially when I really wanted to. After all, I was leaving. I wasn’t just leaving to go to university a few towns over or to accept an internship. I was signing to release an album. A real life album, something I’d always dreamed of doing.”

“And in my ideal situation, you would come with me. You would have taken the scholarship for that business school and at least stuck by my side for just a few more years. It was selfish of me to even have the thought. I feel guilty about it every day.”

“The extension of that thought was why I had it in the first place. Why my conscience would even think to conjure up such a painting of the future, one that included you in the short term but would assure you in the long run. Hopefully. I always hoped that.”

“When it didn’t work out that way, I didn’t want to give you any indication that I had wanted that in the first place. You had your mind set up and you were so excited. So excited. I couldn’t do anything to pull you away from that. I didn’t want to. I still don’t want to.”

“And I’ve regretted it every day since that night,” Yoongi used the bouquet as a wand, waving it vaguely as his free hand dug around in the pocket of his jacket. “Have you ever looked through the drawers of that wardrobe piece in the foyer of the first floor?”

You blinked, welled up tears not able to break from the streams you’d previously wiped away, “I could get all but the top right open after your parents moved out. I guess I lost the key to it.”

“It’s because I had the key,” The black box balanced between his fingers, tucked underneath the first knuckle on his thumb and the pad of his index finger, “This was in there.”

Yoongi popped the box open, revealing the glittering band inside. It was real, unlike the prop you’d happily collected from the photo shoot, polished in its original condition where the dusted outer edges of its container didn’t fare the same. “This is what I had to give you that night. It’s not what you think,” He shrugged, shifting to let the box slide fully into his cupped palm, “Or maybe it is. I wasn’t proposing, certainly. But I didn’t want to give you this. Not the draft of that song. Nothing else.”

“And it had a message attached to it so—” Yoongi thrust the flowers toward you, waiting until you took them so he could fully cradle the ring box in both hands, “—if you’ll allow me to be just a little bit selfish for a second, I’d wholly appreciate it.”

“I’m in love with you. I always have been and at this point, I think I always will be. My goodbyes and my horrible communication all were done with the idea of protecting you in mind but now I know it did nothing but hurt you more and for that, I apologize.”

He stepped twice, bringing him to stand directly in front of you. “I don’t think what would have happened if I would have told you all this that night. I can’t predict and I don’t want to think about it. I can’t change it,” Yoongi shut the ring box, gripping it tight in one hand as his opposite appendage tested your wet cheek, finger breaking the trail in route to cradle your face, “but I’m telling you here and now that I love you, angel. I really, really do.”

“I can tell you what would have happened.”

Yoongi frowned, attention split between clearing your tears and watching your teeth try to collect your trembling bottom lip. 

As if it clarified, you added, “I would have told you the same thing I’m about to tell you now.”

“I love you. Then, now, always,” You sniffled into quiet laughter, “Even a few Min Suga scandals can’t push me away.”

The seam of your lips tasted like salt and strawberry lip balm and you, one touch of your mouth as a result of the words Yoongi had waited years to hear come out of your mouth effectively sweeping up all the pieces of his shattered heart into a dustpan and fusing them back together, leaving it to soar in his ears as the moon fondly watched his hand on the side of your neck draw you closer. 

“I have two questions,” You mumbled against his lips. “Can I have the ring now? I think I’ve waited long enough.”

Yoongi laughed, pecking your mouth one more time in fear you’d dissolve into the ocean waves and he’d wake up in his apartment in the city. His grip fumbled the box back open, just as shaky as he had been in pushing the fake ring onto the proper finger as he nodded, “Yes, you certainly have. Second question, shoot.”

“Do I still have to marry you tomorrow?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Better you than J-Hope,” You grinned through your tears when he laced your fingers together to squeeze your hand, dragging you in for more sweet affections from his pouted mouth. 

“Right,” Yoongi punctuated his words through stamped kisses down your jaw, “I’ll remember you said that when I introduce you two.”

“Besides. I’m only wary about the wedding being tomorrow,” Your features scrunched when he nosed your cheek, “We need a little more time to plan, don’t you think?”

“Maybe just a few years. Maybe just a few months,” You shrugged when his gaze returned to yours, laughing as the realization flickered over in real time to Yoongi’s expression, “Just some more time I think would be good.”

Yoongi hummed, letting go of you to pry apart the stems in your hand picked bouquet, careful in plucking one of the flowers away from the center before reaching to pleat it behind your ear, lips following to settle on your cheek. 

“Good thing I know a wedding planner.”

Min Yoongi, better known as rapper, singer, songwriter, and producer Min Suga released his second studio album on Friday. Titled ‘Orchid’, it’s rumored to be a series of poems written for and about his spouse with which he recently celebrated marriage to from the privacy of his secluded, beach side hometown. This release comes nearly four years after his debut album and some fans have speculated the songs seem to be speaking to each other, as though the track lists tell the story of the couples love from Min’s perspective. The album is projected to debut number one, proving that perhaps the wait is, in fact, worth it in the end. 

[cherryplasmids]

☆ the lives you’ve left behind ☆

pairing: donny donowitz x reader

fandom: inglourious basterds—post-movie sequence

anon request: hi girl! i love your writing and i was wondering if you still write for donny donowitz? if you do i was wondering if you could do an angsty one? that's all i ask, you could take that and run with it however :)

notes: the reader has a kid  — aldo is referred to the reader’s child as ‘uncle’ but that doesn’t mean they are actually related. also, aldo is married to a girl name jenny

— the child is a boy named Alex for filler purposes

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"That's your daddy," You whisper, pulling the tiny bundle of joy closer to your chest. 

The infant, swaddled in a pale yellow blanket decorated with small brown bears, yawns but does not take notice of your words. Instead, Alex twists, stretches his arms out and settles back onto your chest. Without a care in the world, he just relaxes in the warmth that you've given him. An inkling of envy flashes through you—you would do anything to be that carefree again. But the war ruined everything, including your unbridled youthful attitude. 

"Handsome, isn't he?" You question as if the little one will respond. You'd be more scared than anything if he does. You wave the 4x6 photo forward to entice your baby to look. "The most handsome man I've ever seen. Everyone thinks so too, even your uncle Aldo but he won't admit to that.

"But don't worry, baby. You'll be just as handsome and charming as your old man was." 

As if he understands, the boy babbles happily, spit freely spilling over his lips and onto his cheeks. Grabbing a Kleenex from the bedside table, you wipe his face. It doesn't deter him. He continues to express his enjoyment through spit bubbles and random giggling. Your heart swells at the sight—his happiness contagious enough to erase your woes for the night. 

When the sun rises, you'll tell Aldo all about the affection your newborn has been showing. He'll run down the street to coddle his nephew. 

You don't continue until your baby boy calms down enough to the point where spit no longer seeps out of his mouth. By then, sleepiness is taking hold of him. He gives out a deep yawn. One of his tiny hands grips your right thumb while the other curls into a fist and rubs his eyes. A smile quirks at your lips. You take that as a sign to turn in. 

“I’ll tell you about your daddy’s love for baseball tomorrow okay? I’ll even show you his prized baseball cards. but you can’t tell him or he’ll have my head.”

He’s knocked out by the time you lay him down. You pray he’ll sleep through the night, allowing you to earn to some much-needed shut-eye he’s deprived you of for months. After tucking him in, you tuck the photo of Donny under his pillow. You press a gentle kiss on his forehead, whisper a few sweet words to him, and then glide out of the room, leaving the door ajar in case he wails for your attention. You make do with this system until Jenny, Aldo's wife, takes you shopping for a baby monitor. She knows a lot more about baby care than you do.

Sleepiness is taking you hostage too with a yawn escaping your lips every 1-2 minutes but you had housework to complete before the morning arrives. Mostly just clearing out boxes of gifts the Donowitz family had sent from Boston. Some of them were open, others weren’t. Gifts like a microwave or other kitchenware were left in their respective box. You’ll deal with those on a later date. 

There’s one box, though, that remains sealed. You inspect the plain cardboard container and see a word written across one side in neat cursive. But it isn’t the penmanship that has you gasping and dropping the box in shock.

No, it’s the word 'Donny' labeled across the surface that does.

It takes a moment or two for you to shake off the shock and another to get down to the ground. Sitting cross-legged, you stare at the box as if something will pop out and yell “surprise”—a harmful prank that will send you wailing for something you no longer had.

The knife seamlessly glides across the tape and you wonder when you reached for a knife in the first place. Your body is moving on its own accord without a thought concerning your mental wellbeing. While your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage, your hands steadily tear open the cardboard overlaps. 

Taking a deep breath, you open the flaps and find a single sheet of paper covering the rest of the objects. It reads “for my darling daughter, with much love.” It’s signed “Mama Donowitz”.

Underneath the letter reveals a boatload of miscellaneous items from Donny's youth that he's shown to you with pride. His prized Lefty Grove signed baseball, favorite Wrigley's chewing gum, and his worn and torn favorite baseball glove stood out the most. Little things like that made you grin to the point where your cheeks reached your eyes. Anecdotes of Donny's childhood run through your mind—his voice echoing pure excitement. You take your time admiring each item, trying to permanently engrave them into your memory just like you had with his stories. 

Then you find Donny's baby socks, embroidered with his name in red string.  All resolve you bottled up for months disappeared instantly. You completely crumble.

You press the little socks to your chest as tears freely stream down your face and onto your neck, coating the bare skin with liquid. A wail bubbles up within you, crawling up your throat at a steady pace. But when you open your mouth to scream, nothing comes out. It dies in your throat. The only effort you can commit to is to rock back in forth, allowing sobs to shake your body. If someone saw you, they might have thought you were convulsing. They might have even called the ambulance. 

The sobs don’t stop until hours later. By the time your heart calms down from its burning thrum, exhaustion envelops you. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

           Aldo kicks some dirt on the side of the road while lighting up a Chesterfield. It doesn't take long for him to reach your house since it's down the road. He checks his wristwatch before knocking on the front door. He has about 45 minutes to meet Jenny at the factory. He'll spend 15 minutes here for coffee before leaving. You always made better coffee than his wife. 

After some knocking and no response, Aldo takes it upon himself to check through the windows. Most of them are covered by curtains but the window facing the breakfast table isn't. He peers through, searching for you and his nephew wrapped in your arms. 

Instead, he finds you on the floor with no baby in sight. 

Aldo runs to the back door and searches for the hidden key. Besides the backdoor, he digs under the false rock where he remembered he put. It’s gone. The Chesterfield falls into the hole. He crushes it out and fixes the dirt on top. As an act of impulse, he stands up, goes to the backdoor, and punches out the small window panels on the door. The glass breaks easily and shards pierce his hand just as smoothly. Just glancing at it, he can tell his flesh is free from any lingering shards. A clean slice on his wrist bleeds moderately. 

He reaches on the opposite side of the door and tugs at the locks. Not a second later, the door slams open, and you shoot up in an upright position. 

Immediately, a fury of questions spews out of Aldo's lips, blending together and becoming unintelligible to your groggy brain. 

"Is it morning already? I swear I took a five-minute na—" You see Aldo's bleeding hand and gasp, reaching out to inspect his wound. Your current position on the floor completely escaping you for a moment. Aldo lets you worry for right now. 

You drag him up to the sink and run his hand over the open water. "Will I be alright, doc?" His odd accent leaves a few letters out. It reminds you of someone you try not to think about. "Ain't seen such a wound since the war."

Briefly glancing at him, he throws a wink and you gratefully smile. "You're the bane of my existence." You take his hand out of the water to wrap it in a big Band-Aid. It has crude miniature drawings of Mickey Mouse that make Aldo question them. "Just in case either your kids or mine get hurt, they'll immediately cheer up at seeing Mickey. Band-Aid should really invest in designing their product. Who knows how much money they could make?"

Aldo agrees as you finish. "You'll see another day, lieutenant"

He crookedly grins at you and thanks you for your service. You offer him some coffee which he enthusiastically agrees too. He checks his watch as he sits down at the breakfast table. Jenny will have his head if he's late. But he doesn't worry too much about that. She'll understand once he explains what happened. 

"Mind tellin’ me why I caught a heart attack on this fine Thursday mornin’? Findin’ you sprawled out like freshly ran over roadkill?"

"Disgusting, Aldo." You say while passing him his mug of coffee. You turn around to fix yourself a toasted bagel with cream cheese. "I guess I was so tired last night that I fell asleep sorting out the gifts." You lazily wave your hand at the unsorted boxes on the floor. 

Aldo walks over to the opened box in the middle of the kitchen and grabs the socks you dropped hours ago. He looks them over and notices a letter embroidered on the top. 'D' in red thread. 

"Those are Donny's." You confirm. Aldo meets your glazed gaze. 

Aldo sucks in a quick breath. It finally clicks in his head. Jenny will understand. 

“Darlin—" You look up at him with such a depressed expression that immediately shuts him up. All he does is gather you in his arms and rests his chin on your head.

 He hears you mumble something about how small Donny's feet were before you silently cry into his chest. 

After a few seconds, Aldo's cheeks become wet with his own tears as he mourns over not only his friend but the lives he left behind. 

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

word count: 1,661 published: august 21, 2020  edited: n/a

[missdreamsalot]

The Queen’s Guard- Ch.1

A/N: Hello, everyone! This is my first attempt at a Fanfic and I’m both nervous and excited about finally posting the very first chapter. I’m still quite new to this platform and haven’t been quite active up until now but I love Choices and want to be a little more lively here. Thank you, and I hope you guys like this!

Book: The Royal Romance

Main Pairings: Leo x OC, Liam x OC.

Future Pairings: Maxwell x OC, Bastien x OC, Drake x Olivia

Summary: A rotten apple in the family threatens their lives and there is only one way to get rid of bad blood.

Masterlist 

Warnings: Violence, Language, Sexual Content, Angst, Dark Situations, Character Death

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of The Royal Romance, or Rules of Engagement; they belong to Pixelberry. I only own my OC’s.

Enjoy~ *ヽ(◕ヮ◕ヽ)

CH 1: Ghosts

In the Ramsford Estate, Elle sat quietly at the vanity of the room she occupied for the past summer. She stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror. Her long, brown hair had dulled, olive skin had paled, and the light of her green eyes had been extinguished.

A month had passed since the day of the Coronation, 30 days since the man she loved broke her heart, and the 720 hours of self-loathing had crippled her at last.

A broken cry escaped her lips as she hugged herself tight. How could she had been so foolish to think that it could work? He had his place and she had hers – a place that she hid from everyone in order to protect them, to protect him.

She knew she couldn’t stay much longer, no matter how much she wanted to fight for him, it simply wouldn’t be possible. Her enemies would only continue to draw them apart. The pictures that were published was only the tip of the iceberg and from there it would only spiral into darker depths, unleashing more suffering and heartbreak.

‘It’s over’, she thought.

Out on the patio that same evening, the night air danced through Elle’s hair as she stared up at the sky. She returned her eyes to Maxwell’s face that had dropped into sadness upon her declaration of leaving and returning home.

“I want to fight with you on this” the younger Beaumont brother started, “and I want to say to give it a little more time, that things will get better, but-“ he sighed, rubbing his face in frustration, “I don’t know when or if it will. I blame myself for putting you in this position, and I’m sorry-“

“Maxwell,” Elle placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. None of us could’ve predicted this. It’s out of our control.” It truly was. The capacity of which they can change things was out of their hands.

Suddenly the world swayed, she grabbed the front of her dress as her stomach churned and she groaned miserably.

Maxwell perked up in alarm as the color drained from her face. “What’s wrong?”

Elle waited until it passed while contemplating if she should express the truth to Maxwell-A truth that even herself could not come to terms with.

She shook her head, “Nothing, I just-”

“Forgot to take your iron?” Maxwell finished.

Her eyes met his and she smiled faintly. “Yes,” was all she could muster. A few moments later he returned with a glass of orange juice and an iron pill.

“Don’t tell me you forgot you were anemic?” Maxwell stated lightheartedly as he handed her the supplement first. “You need to take better care of yourself!”

“I do,” she spoke softly. After gulping down the last drop of juice, she gave the glass back to him and again her eyes found their way back to the starry sky. For an instant, she found herself drifting away and, instead of the stars, there were two of the brightest eyes looking down at her- tender, iridescent, and blue…” but I can’t do that here.” She continued, “Thank you for being there for me, Maxwell. You’re such a great friend. Honorable at that...”

“You make it sound like I’m never gonna see you again,” Maxwell pouted. She blinked away the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

“I-AH!”

He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tightly against him. “Don’t worry! If you ever need anything, I’ll always be here for you!”

“Okay, okay!” she exclaimed, patting his shoulder soothingly. “I’ll keep that in mind…”

Before they knew it, Elle was walking the tarmac to the plane that would whisk her way. She looked back, giving one last wave to the Beaumont brothers, Maxwell waving enthusiastically, while Bertrand stared as intensely as ever, giving her a final nod of acknowledgement.

As she took her seat, the tears finally spilled and her eyes never burned so painfully.  

The jet began its departure, rising into the brilliance of the clear, blue sky and leaving behind a man who could only dream to be with the woman he loved.

6 Months Later /// Present Day: Cordonia ///

Liam sat at his desk hunched over a flood of papers. He was in the middle of finalizing a public statement when there was a knock at his door. “You may enter.” He called out; his attention glued to the paper in front of him. With a dramatic swirl, he signed the parchment in satisfaction.

“Hello, baby brother.”

Liam looked up with a smile that didn’t quite reach his once lively blue eyes. “Leo.” He stood up and they shared a hug before parting. “How are you doing?” He began rustling through the documents, piling them haphazardly until they were neat enough that he placed his main piece front and center; ready to go.

“Well, if you checked your phone every now and then you would know.” Leo teased, wandering over to the drink cart.

“Sorry, it’s been a bit hectic lately,” Liam grabbed his coat draped over the back of his chair and dug into the inside pocket. As he pulled his phone out, his keys fell out and hit the floor. He bent down to pick them up and gazed over them for a moment, his eyes settling on a particular keychain. He ran his thumb over the miniature statue of liberty before placing the keys back.

His older brother chuckled, “I was only messing with you. No need to apologize.”

Liam turned to face his brother who was already holding out a glass of bourbon for him. “Thanks.”

“My life is viewed as a bit of a train wreck but,” Leo shrugged with a gulp of his drink, “it’s a wanted one.”

“Always the devil may care attitude huh, Leo?”

“You’re surprised?”

Liam shook his head as his lips quirked up in a grin while he scrolled indifferently through his phone.  

Leo peered at him over the rim of his glass, taking note of how exhausted he looked. His once-tamed blonde hair was disheveled due to the many times of running his hands through it, and he was hunched forward with an unseen weight on his shoulders.

“Li?”

“Hm?” Liam met his brother’s gaze, his phone closing with a click.

“You know I’m here for you, right?”

Liam chuckled, but it was an empty one. “What brought this on?”

“You look like shit for one.”

Liam opened his mouth to retort, but what escaped was only a breath of air. He gazed somberly at the dancing flames in the fireplace. The door to the study opened then and Queen Mother Regina walked in. She smiled softly upon seeing her stepsons.

“Well, I’m glad to see us all here.” She took the couch in between them, setting a thin folder down on the low table. “What was it you wanted to discuss, Liam?”

“Hello to you too, Regina. I’m okay thanks for asking.” Leo interjected nonchalantly.

“I thought you would appreciate me getting straight to the point. I’m sure your itching to get out of here.” Regina stated. “You look well though. I see the divorce holds no ill will for you among other things.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “Still giving me shit for that? Of course, you are.”

“I warnedyou about her and looked what happened.”

Liam shifted uncomfortably.

“Right, I’m sure you predicted that she would cheat on me with the bartender. I appreciate you looking out for me.” Leo uttered with contempt.

“I’m leaving.” He blurted out. Both parties turned to Liam at his announcement.

Regina was first to respond, her eyes glimmering with concern. “What do you mean by ‘leaving’?”

“On a break of sorts.”

The Queen Mother relaxed internally. For a moment she thought he was abdicating the throne and that would not have boded well for the kingdom. “First and foremost, Liam...” she started. “Have you spoken to Madeleine about this?”

“No. I wanted to disclose it with you two first.”

“She’s your wife. I think she holds precedence.”

Liam exhaled sharply. “Regardless, I plan on leaving in two days. I’ve already scheduled a press conference for tomorrow morning.

Regina remained silent for a moment, considering his words. “I suppose I should’ve seen this coming. You’ve been opting out of important social events and avoiding the press. Your absence has already become noticed by the people. However, do you know how this is going to look? The people will question ‘why all of a sudden’. So, why now, Liam?”

Liam stared at the now empty tumbler in his hands. “There is nothing to it. I simply need some time to myself. They’ll understand. A lot has happened.”

Leo’s heart bled for him as he looked at the shadows that settled underneath his brother’s eyes. He didn’t know the particular details about what happened following the events of the social season, only that the woman that had captured his little brother’s heart left without a word, taking a bit of it, if not the entire thing with her. Leo knew better than to allow Liam to deal with it on his own, but he couldn’t quite find the right words to say without it awakening a considerable amount of pain. He had approached Drake about it and Leo was only met with a biting remark from the snarky man.

“Maybe if you stuck around long enough, you’d know...”

Leo knew better than to fire back, taking into account that it was situation that made Drake react the way he did and that, well… his words stung more than Leo would like to admit.  

When the scandal had surfaced at night of the Coronation, Leo knew that it was nothing but a despicable ruse to get the foreign woman out of the running. If it was one thing he regretted the most it was leaving his little brother to endure it on his own. Liam had his close companions, yes, but there was a bond between the brothers no one else can reciprocate. In the end, Leo had selfishly decided to leave, having had enough of the royal crowd. He had taken advantage of his brother’s selflessness asking Liam if he wanted him to stay knowing well enough the he wouldn’t allow him to do that. Liam knew of his distaste towards the royal lifestyle and its overbearing rules. He had insisted that it was alright and was quite determined to figure it out and that, more importantly, he didn’t want Leo to miss out on the motocross tour that was starting in the following days. In turn, Leo did not hesitate to pack his bags and leave.

Leo remembered him saying, ‘Everything will be fine.’ He would only find out later that it would turn out not to be.

Regina sighed before continuing. “Liam, I understand the pain of losing someone you love. Go on, take the time you require to heal your heart. Nevertheless, don’t forget, what is important. Following your father’s death, the Cordonian people need you right now. You cannot abandon them for long. It is your duty to represent our kingdom, bestow strength and trust within our people, but they are beginning to lose faith in you as a king. You need to prioritize their needs and reestablish stability,” Regina paused for a breath, carefully thinking about her next words. “But you needn’t do it alone...Liam, you have your queen and now it is time to consider other things…”

Dread seeped through the blood in Liam’s veins. He knew he couldn’t delay the inevitable much longer. He understood his duties as ruler for a country he loved dearly, but the past 7 months had been hard on him and his father’s death only added to the unrelenting agony in his chest.

“…an heir will bring on tremendous rapture…a flourishing kingdom…”

Liam stopped listening as her words continued. They trailed off in echoes and swirls inside his head with no grasp.

Liam wanted her. The woman that visited his dreams every night. He dreamt of a life with her. There was love, laughter, and endless bliss. That’s how he pictured his future once and thinking about it now made his heart ache much more. He felt like he was suffocating. His chest was tight and his eyes burned from the swelling of unshed tears.  

Liam swallowed his anguish and forced out his next words, “I will…proceed with such circumstances when I return.”

“Liam-” Leo began, but when Liam looked up at him with sadness his gaze and half a smile, he realized there was nothing he could say that would make him feel better. He slumped in his seat.

A heavy silence descended them until Regina cleared her throat. “Is there anything else you wanted to address, Liam?”

Liam shook his head. “I have said everything that needed to be said. Thank you for your time. You may be on your way now.”

Regina gave a curt nod. She reached over for the folder on the table and opened it. Removing an article, she stood and faced Leo.

She handed him a pastel green envelope. “I received a correspondence from Evangeline, your mother, several days ago and it’s addressed to you…”

Leo stunned, didn’t know what to say. He grabbed the letter with uncertainty.

“What you decide to do is up to you.”

“Thank you, Regina.”

The Queen Mother gave him a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry about earlier. You didn’t deserve that. I just don’t like seeing you get hurt- either of you. Life is not an easy tread…” She looked over at Liam for a brief moment. Although he was hunched over fiddling with his wedding band, his gaze was a million miles away. “you simply have to do the best you can. Anyways, I’ll leave you boys to it.” She exited the room, leaving her sons with their thoughts.

Leo flipped the letter around in his hands contemplating what to do. Why contact him after all these years? She never made an effort to contact him before. Did he really want to reconnect with the woman that abandoned him? The one that left him feeling alone and unloved? His gaze shifted, descending thoughtfully on the bright flames crackling in the fireplace. He stood up and sauntered over to bring the letter above the blaze.

“Leo!” Liam gasped. He felt his brother’s hand enclose his. “Think about this.”

Against the illumination, Leo could make out the scribbles of black ink etched across the paper- her handwriting. He sighed heavily, his heart and mind in a battle of emotions-anger, hope, sadness, or elation. He didn’t know what to feel.

“At least read what she has to say.”

Leo withdrew. “You’re right, I suppose.”

“’You’re right, as always’ is what you meant to say.” Liam added humorously. Leo shoved him playfully, packing the letter in his jacket.

“You’re not going to read it now?”

“I’ll do it on my own time. I need to process this.” Leo poured himself another much-needed drink and immediately chugged it down.

Liam’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. He peered at it inquisitively as it flashed the familiar unknown number. This was the third one from the mysterious caller this past week. He answered the call. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello? May I ask who’s calling?” Leo locked eyes with Liam, brows raised in curiosity. Liam shook his head. There was nothing but white noise at the other end. “Hel-” The call ended abruptly with a ding.

“That was strange.” Leo commented.

“It wouldn’t be the first peculiar occurrence. I’ve been getting them randomly over the past three months.”

“Have you had Bastien look into it?”

“My King.”

The two men turned as the head of the king’s guard made his presence known.

“What is it, Bastien?” Liam inquired. He sensed something was wrong.

“It seems there has been a breach in security. An intruder-a woman. We have her contained if you would like to see her.”

Leo whistled, “This day just keeps getting rather interesting.”

Bastien looked grim,

“She says she is here to kill the King of Cordonia.”

[autumn-foxfire]

I’ve been staying away from anti-hawks takes for a while now, but I recently read a meta that seemed interesting at first, but just got so- stupid? Halfway through? I don’t want to give too much away as to not reveal the author, but it was comparing Shigs and Hawks, which is cool, cause they got a lot of parallels. It made a lot of good points at first, but halfway through it started going off on how Hawks apparently dehumanizes people (1/4)

and sees things as only black and white (even though we have lots of evidence to prove that that isn’t the case)? What’s worse it that they’ll go out of the way to say that Hawks isn’t a “better victim” of abuse than members of the league because he doesn’t externalize his emotions and then turn around and imply that he’s a “bad victim” because apparently, cooperating with the HPSC instead of openly rebelling against them means that (2/4)

he’s a terrible person enabling their agenda (even though he’s shown to question them multiple times)? It just. It doesn’t make sense. I read a lot of metas like these after chap 267 came out and they were really emotionally draining. They made me feel like I was wrong for liking someone who was apparently some sort of sociopath by their long-winded explanations, and I actually relapsed in my depression for a while (3/4)

Edit: Well shoot, it didn’t copy the 4th part and I just deleted the post T-T Sorry about that anon but I did adress what you put in it at the bottom of my ask.

They had you in the first half, huh (I’m too depressed to meme)

I honestly don’t know where this interpretation of Hawks seeing things in black and white comes from. Hawks has shown us multiple times in canon that he does the opposite in my opinion. Like when he was first assigned the mission to inflitrate the league and he openly mocked them for presenting it as a choice even though they all knew Hawks could refuse, to me this reads as Hawks showing us his awareness of the HPSC’s more corrupt nature. And again when he questions them about allowing civilians to die at the hands of the villains just to futher his mission and then even goes as far as to defy that order because to him the lives of the civillians then were more important. 

This isn’t Hawks seeing things in black and white, this is him seeing the grey situation he’s in and trying to do good anyway.

I’m also not sure why people believe he dehumanizes others too. If Hawks truly dehumanizes people, then surely he would have treated the civilians as a casualty of his mission and allowed them to die in the Hood fight because it furthered his mission. And surely he would have just arrested Twice and gave him to the police without looking back.

But he didn’t. Hawks saved the civilians at the expense of his mission and actively defied the orders that did dehumanize them. He also acknowledged Twice as being a good person and tried to reach out to him when he arrested him and offered to give him a helping hand after he had served his time because he wanted to guide him back onto a better path.

These aren’t the actions of someone who dehumanizes people.

I also really hate Hawks being considered a bad victim all because he isn’t defying his abusers in the way the same way that the LoV’s are. Mostly because I think it shows how people ignore or are blind to all the ways that Hawks does rebel against the HPSC. We’ve seen him defy orders and steal information from them already (already acts of rebellion) but I don’t think people realise how his public persona could be a way to stick it to the HPSC too.

This is just pure speculation but thinking about it, Hawks public persona probably isn’t the golden hero that the HPSC wanted when they trained him. Sure, Hawks stunts get him a lot of attention but a lot of it can be negative. We saw how other heroes and the crowd reacted when he spoke back at the billboard charts, most people thought he was rude and cocky. Endeavor even told him to apologise to the other heroes after.

It’s not a steller reputation to have and it’s certainly not one that would reflect well on the HPSC and I think it could be one of the reasons Hawks puts on the front.

Overall, I feel like people reduce Hawks complex character to really basic traits in order to fit him into neat boxes, either in an attempt to make sense of him or because they have a pre-existing bias towards the league.

I’m sorry that such meta made you feel that way anon, it really does feel bad when people say you should hate or condemn a characters actions and you just aren’t sure why, especially when the explanations they use just don’t make sense to you. Its because we intepret characters differently and we in particular interpret them a lot differently then the people who make more popular meta.

I hope my meta is more to your taste XD

...Second times the charm T-T I actually already answered this ask but then instead of pressing publish, I pressed the next page button just below it... *sigh*

[virtueangel]

limitless.

chapter three.

wc: 1,972. original publish date: october 5, 2020.

Van Gogh switches off his phone, smiling to himself in secret contentment to have his best friend back. The fight didn't last more than an hour -- definitely their shortest fight to date -- but usually he's the one who has to go seek out Kennedy to make things right. Which makes sense: Gogh's usually the one who starts the fight so he should be the one to finish it. But it still feels nice to know that JFK cares enough to put an end to it all. Sometimes Van Gogh wonders if Kennedy is ever as hurt by their arguing as he is. Now he doesn't have to guess.

Van Gogh begins packing his carryon-sized suitcase, which is brown with black trim and scuffed plastic wheels. He's had it since he was a kid -- he used to have to go on his parents' business trips with them. They started leaving him at JFK's house when he was ten and eventually stopped leaving him with anyone at all. He had to learn how to watch the house himself once he turned fourteen -- he was a scared freshman with only one friend who lived on the upside of town. He never learned how to meet anyone new. Van Gogh grew so accustomed to being alone that he never knew he should meet anyone new.

The boy begins tossing various articles of clothing and his favourite novels into the suitcase. Mostly he just stuffs the luggage with underwear and socks. He throws in a pair of jeans and two solid colour t-shirts. He walks into the bathroom and starts shoving toiletries into a plastic Ziploc bag. He takes his toothbrush, a full tube of toothpaste (it's family size, but of course he's the only one using it), a travel-size hairbrush that he barely ever uses, and a minute box of floss that he'd acquired from the dentist six months ago, but never used since. He seals the bag and turns toward the door to walk back to his room, but decides to snatch some extra bandages out of the closet for good measure. He barely ever needs to switch out his head cast now that his ear wound has stopped bleeding, but the bandages might get dirty from outside sources and he can't have that.

Van Gogh walks back to his room and throws the Ziploc bag on top of the clothes folded in his suitcase. He crouches down to flip the lid and zip the luggage, but realises he doesn't have a real jacket and this thin and simple windbreaker won't do much good outside of the heat of the house. He unzips the bag and fishes the green fleece blanket off of his bed. It's still sitting in a messy pile. Kennedy never thinks to fold anything. Van Gogh fixes it into a neat square and places it in the suitcase. He crosses the room to his closet, searching for an extra layer more practical than a blanket.

He finally decides on a jacket after meticulously searching for the perfect one. He pulls it off the plastic white hanger by the shoulder panel. It's heavy, with its leather sleeves and fleece lining. It's orange and white, which is a hideous combination, but they're also Clone High's mascot colours. Van Gogh pushes his short arms through the sleeves of the jacket and models it in the mirror, the clothing dripping off of his body and swallowing him whole. He turns around to admire the back, which is his favourite part for some reason. Sewed in crude felt lettering are the initials JFK -- it had belonged to him in freshman year, but he'd tragically outgrown it that spring. Kennedy was going to throw it away, but Van Gogh had told him not to, insisting that there was no reason to dispose of a structurally sound jacket.

Van Gogh zips the suitcase securely and tilts the whole thing upright, taking one more sweeping look around his room before deciding he's ready to go. Well, he's not ready, exactly; he just knows it's now or never. He's never been one to contemplate that sort of dilemma and still choose now, but maybe if he doesn't think at all he'll actually go.

He turns off his bedroom light, blanketing the orderly knickknacks and tight corners under a veil of deep velvet. Only the moon, hanging high and glowing bright, lights the room through the window. Van Gogh nods in satisfaction, or maybe in farewell, before turning around to walk through the ocean cave hallway and out the front door of his house. He locks it with the key which is miraculously still hidden away in the pocket of JFK's jacket from the last time he wore it. Gogh usually doesn't lock the door at all. Maybe one day the house will get robbed and his parents will finally take that as a hint to stop putting him in charge of their most expensive asset all by himself. Who trusts their sixteen-year-old son with their whole house, anyway?

Van Gogh sits on the wooden steps leading up to his splinter-hazardous porch, elbow on his knee and head in his hand. He's pushed the handle of the suitcase down and parked it on the wood slat next to him. He waits for Kennedy patiently, but his stomach sinks down into the soles of his feet as the endless minutes tick by. Maybe his dads caught him sneaking out. Maybe he changed his mind about spending so much time with Van Gogh. How long were they gonna be spending together, anyway? Kennedy hadn't said.

Gogh's head is still spinning, swirling like moonlight caught in the infinite night sky as JFK pulls up. He's driving a flashy red convertible... not the most practical car for a road trip, but the only one he has all to himself. Van Gogh doesn't have a car. Even with his parents absent as often as they are, he still doesn't own something so luxurious.

"I started to think you weren't going to come," Gogh says in place of a greeting.

"I was packing."

Van Gogh looks at his own suitcase. "So was I."

"Well, maybe you should've packed more."

"I'm sorry I don't have as many beauty products are you do," he scoffs. "I'm naturally pretty."

Kennedy walks up the stairs to wheel Van Gogh's suitcase to the car for him. "That you are."

Gogh rolls his eyes, but doesn't give a passionate retort. His head drains of all thought -- including the spinning moonlight that dizzied his conscience just minutes prior.

"I don't need help with that," he finally manages, hoping his voice is frozen over enough to make up for the seconds of thoughtlessness. He lifts himself up off the steps and snatches the suitcase away from JFK, probably a little too hastily for how he's feeling.

"Damn, I was only trying to help."

Van Gogh freezes and turns around, painting on the most innocent smile he can find. "I know you were." He lifts the trunk of the car and hoists the suitcase in. He then walks around to the passenger side door of the vehicle and climbs in, clicking his seatbelt securely before closing the door. He stares ahead out the windshield as he waits for JFK to join him.

Once Kennedy is securely inside the car, he drapes his wrist over the steering wheel and stares out the windshield as well, seeing the neighbourhood from a different view than Van Gogh even though they're looking at the same place.

"So," JFK starts, and the sound of his voice almost makes Van Gogh jump as he's pulled out of his trance. "Where do you wanna go?"

Gogh stares at the boy in the driver's seat, his eyebrows knit together and a scowl frothing on the corners of his lips. "You mean you don't have a plan?"

Kennedy turns to the boy, his expression soft. His whole body looks so calm and relaxed. He looks like himself, but it's a different sort of cool -- almost... withdrawn.

He's wearing his letterman jacket -- the new one he'd gotten at the beginning of the year after outgrowing the one Van Gogh is wearing. His fingernails are bitten down to stubs, from anxiety, or possibly just poor hygiene.

"My plan is that I don't want to be here."

Van Gogh shrugs agreeably. "Then let's just drive."

JFK doesn't pull his gaze away from Van Gogh, and the shorter boy shrinks down into his seat with each second that passes. Kennedy's stare is so intense and serious that Gogh squirms under the pressure. He squeezes the side of the leather seat. It's cold, just like the rest of the snowy world. He wonders if wherever they're going will being having as shitty of an April as Exclamation! is.

"Put on the seat warmers," Van Gogh whispers.

Kennedy finally looks away. He seems to snap back into reality, not knowing he'd ever left it. He starts the car and it spits to life. He revs the engine and it whirrs, comforting him with its eager lurching. Van Gogh watches JFK's hand as he presses some buttons, illuminating them green. A few seconds later, the bottoms of his thighs are warming up through his jeans.

Kennedy sinks his foot down onto the gas, oblivious to the fact that the accelerator might disturb Van Gogh's neighbours, some of whom go to sleep before 9:55pm on a Friday night. In the part of town where JFK lives, the lots are all so big that noises can't be heard from other houses. Gogh's street is jam-packed with families, stuffing their single-story homes full to the brim. Sometimes he envisions the buildings overflowing, flooding the streets with unnecessary as-seen-on-tv merchandise. Maybe that's something he'd like to paint one day, when everyone stops worrying about him and overanalysing his artwork.

JFK eases off the gas as they drift out of town, exploring the unfamiliar landscape. The night is somehow brighter out here, despite being away from all the motion and the lights. They drive up a hill, slowly, the car wheels gripping the asphalt cautiously. Kennedy pulls into a turnout, a barren overhang with a view of nothing for miles and miles spread beneath it. Kennedy turns off the car and the headlights die along with it. Van Gogh's head snaps in his direction, his chest welling up with fear. The height, the quiet, the darkness under the moon -- Kennedy doesn't do any of this. They sit on the floor of Van Gogh's bedroom when his parents are MIA. They do homework or stare at the ceiling as they listen to music from a record player. Gogh doesn't know how to be silent with his best friend -- not when they have no other task to be occupied by.

Van Gogh opens his mouth, his eyebrows heavy with concern. Kennedy starts to speak, as if on cue.

"Just breathe," he says, and it doesn't sound like a suggestion.

"It smells like nothing," Van Gogh replies after taking a deep breath.

"No," Kennedy says, shaking his head slightly. "It smells like our world."

Gogh's expression switches from vulnerable to critical. "Our world. Like we own it."

JFK turns to him. "We can. We do."

Van Gogh opens his mouth to respond, but he's cut off by his best friend again. He makes a low shhing noise without turning to his passenger.

Gogh stares out the windshield at the unfinished map beneath them, and he wonders where to begin. They have the whole world at their disposal. Van Gogh wishes he'd packed darts to throw at the map, so he could plan an unplanned trip.

From up here, he feels like he could touch the moon. He closes his eyes and relaxes in his seat. For a second, he does touch the moon.  

[rokutouxei]

you are still the sun that shines for me

part 8 of atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theo van gogh/mc | G | 1930 | [ao3 in bio]

Life couldn’t get any better. You enjoy what you do here, spending your life without regrets with the person you love the most. That is, until you meet her. The woman who still loves Theo.

CHAPTER 5 [END]

The universe has a funny way with coincidences; so of course, when Johanna van Gogh-Bonger asks to meet up with you in Paris, she asks that the both of you meet at none other than Theo’s favorite café, the one near your favorite atelier, the one with the familiar waitress who doesn’t blink when Theo asks for a syrup-drowned set of pancakes.

And while you’d taken so long to finally tell him about it, it still felt right to extend the invitation to Theo. To offer to let him join the both of you for afternoon tea. He had hesitated for a moment, but then finally agreed to coming along.

That is, until you were right outside the café, and he suddenly says: “Go alone.”

You turn to him confused. “What?”

“I’ve seen her. There’s someone else I have to meet.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, but upon following his gaze across the street, everything clicks into place. You take in the expression he’s making, before smiling and punching him lightly on the chest.

“Make a good impression,” you say.

He raises his eyebrow, but smirks anyway. “Would you expect anything less from me?”

You laugh at him, and then enter the café alone.

-

The bells on the doorway ring lightly when you come in: it announces your presence to the guests inside. Johanna sits a little ways in, next to the window; the low, late afternoon sun casting gold light over her features as she nurses a cup of tea in her hands. She has a small bundle of papers in front of her on the table, next to a half-eaten slice of cream cake.

Your mind, your traitorous mind, falters for just a moment. You think of her small face, think of the neat way she’s put up her hair, the delicateness of the loose fringe framing her eyes, dream of Theo from an entire life away. But you press your hand to your chest and know you are better than any of this weird bubbling in your chest. If anything: you’re lucky to have even met her as well.

You tidy your clothes, fumbling, for a moment, buying time to build your courage up, before finally walking towards her.

“Madame Johanna,” you greet. “Good afternoon. Alone in Paris?”

“Oh, bonjour,” the woman replies, offering you the seat across from her. “My son is outside, peering at shop windows. I’m so terribly sorry to have called you out today.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s okay. It’s nice to see you again.” And that isn’t a lie, either.

“And you? Is Sir Theodore not with you?”

The syllables of Theo slip out from her mouth like something holy. It makes you feel warm. “He’s a little busy, if you don’t mind, he’s—” you look outside the window seeing if you can catch a glimpse of two pairs of sea-blue eyes, “—rather invested in what he’s doing, right now.”

-

And because the universe has a funny way with coincidences, the little boy is standing outside of Vollard’s small gallery, peering through the glass windows to see what���s hanging inside. Theo doesn’t need to peer in to know; probably some reproductions of old classical artworks, some newer paintings of artists who still paint in that classical style, and maybe even Vollard, sitting at the desk on the back waiting for customers and making sure to guard his second floor treasure from members of the Académie.

“Why don’t you go inside?” Theo asks, once he’s within hearing distance. The boy panics for a moment, turning to face him with fright in his eyes.

Then recognition. “Aren’t you the man from the exhibit?”

Well. He’s glad the boy’s at least gotten his sharp eyes—maybe the one thing he wouldn’t regret passing on to a child. “Theodore van Gogh, yes. And you, little sir?”

Theo already knows but he wants to hear it anyway. “Vincent Willem van Gogh,” the boy says, his syllables slinking back to the sharp edges of his native Dutch. He clears his throat. “Yes, I’m related to the painter.”

“An interesting man, to say the least,” Theo says. “Although hardly known. Do many people ask you that question?”

The boy shrugs. “A little. Mama says he’s more known here in Paris than back home. But she says soon he’ll be known there too. And everywhere.”

“Is that so?” Something in Theo’s heart soars. He leans his back against the glass window and turns to the boy, still curiously peering inside. He wonders how many questions he can ask before the boy gets tired of him. “Are you an artist, too?”

The boy makes a face so hideously disapproving it pulls a laugh right out of Theo. “I don’t think I’m meant for it.”

“Oh?” Theo recalls this very same pang from youth.

“I want to accompany Mama, for a while,” the boy says, deep in thought. “She says my father and my uncle was always away, because of art. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but I want to be someone that stays, for now.”

Theo feels the weight of worry disappear.

-

“��And so we’re planning to sell some paintings away,” Johanna explains. “The both of them always dreamt of having exhibits of their own, of bringing the paintings out for the world to see—and, to be quite honest, parting with the paintings are hard, but I know it’s what I need to do.”

You nod. In between bites of cake and sips of tea, you and Jo have been discussing about future pathways of art; her, detailing her plans on what’s to be done with “the van Gogh legacy”, going in detail about Vincent’s paintings to you while you pretend not to know exactly what she’s talking about; and you, giving some pointers on art and the politics involved in displaying them for the world to see. To hear from her the plans she’s laid out for Vincent’s past works and continuing what Theo never got to finish in that life of his makes you feel relieved in ways you couldn’t have imagined.

“But the paintings aren’t the only things I have to wrestle with right now,” she continues. “There are also the letters.”

You blink. “Letters?”

“My husband and Vincent had quite the correspondence when they were still alive,” she says. “Letters sent back and forth, with money enclosed, sketches, notes and requests… Theo has always been an avid letter writer—he wrote many to me—but it was different with Vincent.”

Careful of the tenses, you answer, “They were really close, weren’t they?”

“Yes, and that’s what made their partnership so good,” she answers. “The letters hold many secrets about the way they thought—the way they saw the world. I think that keeping aside these letters as a sort of family heirloom will do little for them, compared to preparing these for the world to see.”

“You will publish them?’

“They will need to be translated, first,” she says, “they’re written in Dutch, French, I am currently going through them and choosing which ones might hold the most importance.”

She slides the small bundle of papers towards you gently, offering them.

“And these are for you, mademoiselle.”

You lift them up carefully to inspect; letters, all in the same script, perhaps having copied by hand by Johanna herself, kept together by twine. You bite the inside of your cheek quietly, head running quick with the ethics of privacy—it was one thing for a surviving relative to publish letters, but what of you and second lives and vampire housemates? Instead, you settle with asking: “But why?”, a question you were really not prepared to hear the answer to.

But Johanna—she gives all that she can give for the things she loves. Just like Theo. So she answers you.

“Because,” she says, so surely, “I know you will be out here, watching over the same art they’ve long wanted the world to see as well. You’ll be able to hold their sentiments–to guard their heart. To protect the seedling of the art they’ve planted and nourished.”

-

Across the café, a young boy and an older man stand outside the doorway. They’ve just come from a little peek inside of the first floor of Vollard’s gallery, talking about art and the future. The boy says he’s interested in mechanics. Theo says it’s also a kind of art. And now, the boy has his hand on the doorknob, about to enter, when Theo calls him back.

“Oi, jongetje.”

The young boy looks up at Theo, blinking out the confusion at the familiar Dutch after a moment to throw a withering half-glare. An expression that would be familiar to Theo had he looked at himself in the mirror more often when he’s arguing with Arthur. The boy’s deep sea-blue eyes reflect like a mirror right back at the older man.

Perhaps the diminutive was unnecessary, as he was in no way little anymore, indeed–standing about Theo’s shoulder height, the little Vincent he’d seen what felt like a million years ago in that gallery doesn’t seem like the same boy that is in front of him.

No, Theo doesn’t just see the child he left behind.

He sees the future.

Jo really raised their son well.

Theo says his parting words, the only thing he really wanted to tell his son:

“Follow your dreams, boy, but don’t go around leaving your mama alone. She might get lonely.”

The boy raises a curious eyebrow, but then grins like he knows the world is out there waiting for him.

“Je sais. That’s what papa would want me to do.”

-

You stand outside the café, waving a hand gently as Johanna and her little Vincent get up on the carriage, heading off. When she bows her head at you in thanks, you can feel all the layers of meaning in it, and it leaves you breathless. In your mind, watching the carriage leave you behind, you pray for a long, fruitful, happy life for the both of them.

It is only when the carriage is sufficiently out of sight that Theo finally comes out of where he’s been, behind the other wall of the café, out of sight. He stands next to you, looking out at the streets.

You turn to him curiously. “You sure about not wanting to talk to her?”

“I didn’t think I had anything left to say,” he answers, and you know by the way his voice sounds that the feeling is still pretty raw, even after you’ve talked about it, even if months have passed. “Besides, she’s in good hands.”

You smile. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing he didn’t already know,” Theo smirks. He holds out his hand to you, and you take it; he lifts it to press a kiss on your knuckles gently, like one would do a saint.

And he doesn’t say it, but you hear it.

The thank you.

The you have always been here for me, and I appreciate it.

The I’m sorry.

The I will do better, I promise.

The stay with me.

And you want to tell him yes, yes, yes, of course, so you squeeze his hand as the both of you head back home.

To build your memories with Theo. Your love. Something that'll grow and blossom and be, the same he had done before.

And somewhere, in Vétheuil, where Monet dreamed of the end of winter, the snow is melting, and spring is coming.

---

and it’s done!!! thank you so much for reading and getting this far! 💖 i have a more detailed post-fic a/n on ao3!

[edmund-valks]

Ilandreline - A Compound Beginning

(( Previously: The Call ))

"There's a hole in the world, dear girl, and not the good kind.  It leads to a place the living shouldn't be, and lets them get there in a way that shouldn't happen.  I hate to send you off, but you're the only one I trust to be adaptable.  Everyone else is too sure they understand everything to realize they're fools.

"The whole situation is a puzzle -- a deadly one.  Examine the pieces, Lina, find the edges.  See how they fit together, how this world connects.  Learn the rules that govern there, figure out how to break them.  Stay alive, too, and come back safely."

She'd never seen the older woman so uncertain.  It warmed and scared her at once.  "Is it really where the dead go?"  The specifics of her family's cosmology were still hazy, and Ilandreline didn't know which had been verified versus assumed.

"Only some of them, child.  Enough, I think, to make it difficult."

"Will I see family there?"  The possibility was very mixed given the number of relatives she'd had to avoid in the interests of personal safety.  Having to kill the already dead seemed… difficult, even -- or especially -- in the place where souls went.

"Not if they were sent off properly.  The Great Dark calls us home, not some bizarre 'afterlife'."

"But isn't there a cycle of things?"

"Of course there is, but it's not that literal.  We don't die, hang out a bit, and then come back.  We become a part of the Endless Night, our souls rejoined to the very fabric of all creation.  Perhaps pieces of us will once again be spun into a new person, but it will not be us."

Ilandreline considered for a moment, nodding only once she'd worked through the implications.  Their gods were creatures of ending and dissolution; it made sense that souls gifted to them would not be returned in a recognizable form.  She wondered what that might be like, to be unravelled to one's components.  It was recycling on a cosmic level.  Fascinating to think about, even if she had doubts about wanting it for herself.  "I hadn't thought about that.  Kinda neat.  There aren't any papers on that already are there?"

Aurelaine chortled.  "Not the kind you want.  You'll have to gather the data yourself, I think.  Good thing you'll be closer than any of us have ever been, eh?  Should be enough to keep you from getting bored doing the rest of what I've asked."

"Good point."  Someone else might've argued their commitment to family always came first, but she had no delusions on that front.  Sure, she didn't want to disappoint her grandmother, and wouldn't have wanted to even if that wasn't an often fatal experience, but she needed mental stimulation to do her best work.  Sounded like she'd have plenty.  "I guess the only thing left to ask is how I'm getting there.  I don't think anyone in Icecrown wants me there, and Orgrimmar's portal network isn't exactly open for tourists right now, so…"  Ila trailed off, waiting patiently for the answer she was sure was coming.

"Ah, that.  Yes.  Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to do part of that work yourself."  That was her self-amused smile showing now, not the happy one.  "I've acquired a diagram of the circle used to tap into the breach atop Icecrown, but we'll need to know how to adapt our own paths to reach there."

That perked her up immediately.  "Really?!  That's wonderful!  Where is it, I want to get started right away and-"

"Lina.  I know you're excited but I need you to stop for a moment.  Look at me."  Granny Laine's gaze was at its most piercing.  "This is extremely dangerous, all of it.  Start to finish, none of this can be taken lightly.  We can't afford to lose you.  I can't afford to lose you, either.  If something happens to you out there… you're on your own.  You'll be beyond my reach.  Understood?"

Solemnity draped itself over her enthusiasm, a damping force as efficient as a rubber grip on a wrench.  She'd be more on her own than ever, possibly with no way back until she could make one.  Ilandreline chewed her lip, running through the possibilities.  Finally she nodded.  "I understand.  And I won't let you down."

"I know, dear girl, but I need more than that.  I need you to promise you'll come back."

She grinned then, hiding the trepidation she felt behind the warm love she had for her grandmother.  "I will, Granny.  You have my word."

***

There were paths only a select few could walk, and of those even fewer did so safely.  One such path was that of the Eldest's Apprentice.  Another was found in certain shadows that were far deeper than they let on.

The latter was where Ilandreline's feet found themselves.  She stared up at the peculiar tree, an imbricated mass formed by many trunks twisted into one.  Oh.  That's a metaphor, isn't it?  The thought hadn't occurred to her before.  Not much had, in fairness; she'd grown up with the old tree as a fixture of life.  They'd all learned not to play near it if you ever wanted to come home again, but she hadn't connected that with why its fruit was reserved for very specific uses.  At its base, veiled behind its gnarled roots, was the beginning of the darkest road.

She'd traveled it before, of course.  There was no faster way to travel great distances unless you could make your own portals. Which she could have done if only she'd had the slightest sensitivity to the arcane.  Not that she was bitter or anything but…  Stop that, she chided herself.  Sure, a portal was beyond her to create, but she knew more about planar geometries than anyone else in her family, probably more than most mages in the world.  And after days of nonstop work, that knowledge had prepared her, brought her here.

Ilandreline couldn't stop herself from grinning at that.  She'd started with only three knowns and had made a map.  Where others would use portals already made, she had built her family's passage to the Shadowlands, a place none of them should ever end up.  She'd drawn up the requirements for an activating charm and with the Eldest's backing had received a ring that would do the job.  As far as she knew, no one had ever tried to map the void gradients of three coterminous planes, much less with the intent of using one to pass between the other two.  Maybe she'd publish it someday, after scrubbing the specifics out entirely.  The general solution wouldn't open her family to uncomfortable questions if she did it right.

"Here we go, I guess."  It was more to herself than the small audience gathered to see her off.  Still, she found herself looking back to take in what might be the last time she saw her home or family.  Granny Laine was there, of course, radiating confidence and authority.  Ilandreline's mother, Mellura'thel, stood to her left, coldly distant, possibly worried.  And there was Von on the other side, the only one smiling, though she seemed uncertain if that was the right expression for the moment.

"Don't worry," she told them, struggling to project her normal confidence that everything would turn out fine, "I'll get this sorted soon enough.  Just don't tear the gate down on me, okay?  I don't want to have to revise the whole trail while I'm walking it."

Only Aurelaine responded, striding forward with an energy at odds with her venerable appearance.  "Don't worry, child.  So long as Darkness remains, so will we."  She stopped very close to Ila, straightening up with visible effort to look her in the eye.

"I can see you're beginning to understand now," she spoke softly, barely loud enough for her granddaughter to hear.  "You thought you'd started on your way already, but now you see this is it.  You already know I trust you'll do what needs doing, just as you know I've demanded your safe return.  But now I need to say just one more thing."

Aurelaine, Speaker of the Great Dark, architect of their family's faith and power, drew a small pouch from within her robes, pressing it into Ilandreline's hand.  "I made these for you.  Think of me when you eat them, and remember your dear old granny loves and misses you.  You've always been my favourite, little Lina.  Be safe."

The sudden sting of tears took her by surprise.  She hurriedly stuff the bag of cookies into a pocket, blinking the wetness away before someone else might see.  "I will.  And I promise to make you proud.  I'll-"

"That's enough, dear.  You don't need to say anymore, and it'll just make it harder if you do."  Her wrinkles and creases deepened until she was smiling.  "Now stop dilly-dallying and get on your way.  The rest of us have work to get back to."

Off-balance, Ilandreline failed to say anything at all.  She did manage to return the wink, though.  With a nod, the youngest of the assembled Glimmerbows turned away, putting one foot in front of the other until the darkness beneath the greatest voidplum tree swallowed her entirely.

[eldri-sv]

6 - Aizawa

Kaori Shinsou has always been fascinated by people's minds. She is one of the best students in her Criminal Psychology course at U.A. and - being the lucky girl she is - her professor is not only one handsome dude, but is also working on the case of the serial killer Stain - a case that has been going on for years. As she is about to become Professor Aizawa's TA during the next term, a lot of other interesting cases start popping up all over the country... AU, OC x Aizawa

Trigger warnings: mentions of murder

(possibly incomplete, if you’d like something added, please let me know)

Though I know it must be the killing time

(Echo & the Bunnymen - The Killing Moon)

Shouta Aizawa was waiting for Kaori Shinsou in front of her house. He was early to pick her up, so he wasn't too bothered to be waiting for a little while. He was leaning against his car, enjoying the sun. It had finally stopped raining and the sun thankfully wasn't too strong yet, so it was just right to be outside.

He eyed up the pack of cigarettes that were on top of the dashboard. Aizawa used to smoke quite a lot, but had slowly gotten used to smoking less and less. These days he would only have a cigarette when he felt extraordinarily nervous. And right now, he wasn't outright nervous, but he felt uneasy. There really was no reason for that and that's what worried him. If he had learned one thing while he was working as a profiler, it was that he should be trusting his gut feeling.

Something about the whole day seemed off and he couldn't put his finger on what it was. There was nothing wrong. It was a calm day, except for quite a few incidents around town that needed to get resolved today. None of them really concerned him in any way, though. Maybe it had to do with the lockdown yesterday.

The press had managed to get onto the campus somehow and it had taken hours to take down all their details and send them off. There would be some hefty fines for trespassing coming to them soon, but thankfully nothing serious happened. Except for people being able to get through the tight security at U.A.

It was Yagi's fault, really. Shouta Aizawa would never understand why some people working on the more difficult and high profile cases were so happy to be talking to the press and to be on talk shows, give interviews and whatnot. To him, it was dumb. They were all already putting their lives on the line, working on these cases. Why would anyone try and draw even more attention to themselves? To make it easier for the bad guys? To cause a fuss wherever they went? It was dumb.

"And do the fucking dishes this time, Toshi, I'm not going to do your chores ever again, so you won't get into trouble!" Aizawa heard someone shouting from the house. He looked up, glad to have a distraction from the cigarettes.

Kaori Shinsou was slamming the door shut and walked up to him, shaking her head. She hadn't seen him yet, she probably wasn't aware that he was there. She was wearing a pair of black chinos and a dark red turtleneck. Her hair was tied up into a tight bun, but Aizawa knew it would fall apart within an hour.

"Morning, Shinsou." he said to her, as she was climbing over the gate leading up to her home. She looked up and immediately blushed a little. Aizawa knew that she was fully aware of it, but she did her best to play it off. She finished climbing over the gate (because opening it would have been too easy?) and gave him a smug smile, while her cheeks were slowly turning back to her usual skin colour.

"Good morning, Mr. Aizawa. Sorry, I had to talk about something with my brother before I left the house, he can be really lazy sometimes. I hope I'm not late..." she replied. Aizawa was impressed by her not being flustered at all.

"It's fine. You're early. Let's go." he said to her and walked around the car to get into the driver's seat. He really didn't know why he offered to give her a lift to the Rescue Training Facility. He hated having other people as passengers, mostly because he didn't like entertaining others. He always felt uncomfortable being around most people, because he just didn't know what the hell to do with them.

Kaori Shinsou quickly got into her seat, closed the door and put on her seatbelt without much of a fuss. She held up some papers that were on her seat. Aizawa had almost forgotten about them, but he couldn't really do anything about it now. Anyway, there were some papers for Shinsou in there.

"Sir, what do you want me to do with that?" Shinsou asked.

"Just put them on the backseat or something... Actually, you can look through them, the forms for your TA application are in there somewhere. You can get them and fill them out while we get to the facility, just put the rest on the backseat." he replied and fully focussed on the road again.

Or he at least tried to. He really shouldn't have left all those files on the seat. There was some sensitive information in there. The only reason he let Shinsou look through it freely was because he trusted her not to do anything stupid with what she found. He knew he really shouldn't be trusting anyone, but Shinsou... she was brilliant. Just a few days ago he had almost considered showing her those files anyway.

She was still looking through the files gathering up the papers that she needed. Aizawa mentally scolded himself for getting all of that mixed up. She really shouldn't be seeing that other stuff, especially since her eyes seemed to linger on the pages for longer than he would have liked.

"I... I think I have them all." she finally said and gathered up the other files she wasn't supposed to see. She leaned back and carefully placed them on the backseat, the empty side up, so no one looking in could see anything. So she really did know how confidential and important those were. Good girl.

When she turned back, her hand brushed against Aizawa's shoulder. She smelled like she had been bathing in coffee. He wasn't surprised. Not with how tired she always looked. Sometimes Aizawa wondered if she ever got any sleep at all. She wasn't collapsing, so she had to get some sleep, but it was definitely not much.

Aizawa wanted to focus on the road, he really did, but he ended up watching her take a pen out of her bag and starting to fill out the papers quickly in neat and small letters. Shinsou's handwriting looked as if it was printed, always neat and orderly. He had never seen any of her work look sloppy.

"Okay... I think that's all. Will I put those papers on the back seat, too?" she asked after a while. They had almost arrived at the facility. Aizawa nodded.

"Sure. Go ahead, that way they won't get lost at least." he replied. She nodded in agreement and placed them on the backseat on top of his work files. She looked at them for a little longer than he would have liked.

"Sir, those other files... I wasn't supposed to see them, right?" she asked as she turned back to the front. Aizawa gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"No, that was my mistake. I shouldn't have had them here in the first place. I fully trust that you'll treat whatever you saw as strictly confidential. If anything gets out to anyone, you're going to be my prime suspect." he explained.

"I understand. May... may I ask something, though?"

"You're going to ask anyway, aren't you?"

"Those were letters from Stain, right? And there was one new one that hasn't been published in the news yet. I know there was one that I hadn't seen yet and I follow the case closely. And I know you're working on it."

Aizawa didn't say anything. He really couldn't. Not only because Shinsou should never, ever and under no circumstances have seen that sort of inside information, but also because he still didn't know. At the moment he could neither deny nor confirm whether that new Stain letter was authentic. And as much as he would have liked Kaori Shinsou's input on the issue, it simply wouldn't fly.

Maybe he'd let her have a look at them if he got really desperate, but right now he was still waiting on an analysis from the graphology department. That would hopefully give him a clear answer on whether that new letter was Stain's doing or not. There had been a lot of letters that were simply copy cat letters, since Stain had started involving the press. Some were faked really well.

"Sir? I know you probably aren't allowed to tell me, but... that letter looked pretty real. It seemed to be the same type of pen as the other letters. Same colour, too. Same weird capitalizations..."

Aizawa stopped the car and looked at Shinsou. She had this intense glow in her eyes. It was the same glow he had when Aizawa was presenting the class with a made-up case where they had to profile the perpetrator. This girl had a passion for murder. For getting into the minds of people.

"I can't tell you anything. I'm sorry." he said. And he was. He was genuinely sorry. He would have liked to hear her thoughts, but those files? They were confidential for a reason and they should stay that way.

"I understand. Uhm... why did you stop the car?" she asked.

"We're here."

"Oh. Right." she said and unfastened her seat belt. She got out of the car and stood outside waiting for Aizawa. She looked nervous. Aizawa sighed and rubbed his temples. He still felt uneasy about the whole day. What the hell.

With a sigh he got out of the car and locked the doors. Shinsou was waiting for him, blinking against the sun that was shining in her eyes. She seemed to be a little insecure about the prospect of having to interact with first years. Aizawa felt much the same half the time. At least he had the advantage of his position as a professor.

Aizawa glanced over at the facility entrance. Most of his students seemed to have already made it. He checked his watch quickly and realized that they were just on time. He sighed. Might as well use the time and introduce Shinsou to the class.

"Come on. I think most of them are here already." he said. Shinsou nodded and followed him without a word. Aizawa noticed that she moved extremely quietly. She barely made a sound when she was walking over the gravel.

"Oh look, it's Mr. Aizawa!" one girl with short, pastel pink hair exclaimed and the rest of the students turned around, some of them waving at us. Aizawa was pretty sure that the girl's name was Ashido, but he hadn't been responsible for this class for long enough to be absolutely sure.

"Good morning, everyone. Anyone missing?" he asked them.

"I think Kaminari and Mineta are running late." a boy called Midoriya said. He had dark, fluffy hair that was long enough to start curling.

"Alright. I'll just go ahead and hope they'll arrive in time. As I've already told you, you'll have three instructors for today - me, Toshinori Yagi and our traumatology expert on campus. We'll also have my third year student with us. Her name is Kaori Shinsou and she'll be my TA from next term on so she'll have a chance to see what she's dealing with at that time. She'll be here today just to observe. Any questions?" Aizawa said. He saw how Shinsou was nervously playing with her sleeves. She didn't seem to like to have so much attention on her all at once.

"Alright, fine, seems there are no questions, let's head inside." Aizawa told them, just as he saw two figures approaching. One was tall and had blond hair, the other one was considerably smaller.

"Kaminari, Mineta, you two better hurry up or we'll lock you out and you'll have to repeat this thing next year. If you'll even make it to next year." he shouted at them and they started jogging faster to catch up with the group. Aizawa waited with Shinsou until all of them were inside and then closed the doors behind them. He walked up to the front of the class, Shinsou following with a bit of distance.

"Morning, Anakuro. Class is all yours." he mumbled and leaned against one of the walls. Something still felt off and Aizawa didn't like it one bit. His eyes carefully wandered over the facility.

"Hello, everyone. I've been waiting for you!" Anakuro Hirooki said to the class, expertly ignoring Aizawa's indifference to what she was saying to his class. The kids seemed to be happy enough looking at all of the stuff that was around. There were a lot of different environments simulated in this facility - shipwrecks, landslides, fires, storms - whatever one could think of.

"We're here today to prepare you to deal with different types of disasters and difficult terrains. I'm really excited to do this training with you today!" Anakuro announced with a big smile on her face. Aizawa noticed something else that bugged him. He walked away from his wall and went up to Anakuro.

"Hey, shouldn't Yagi be here already? Let me guess, he went to an interview instead." he said to her. Anakuro's smile faded and she came up closer to him.

"Actually, it's something else."

"Huh?"

"Apparently, he got caught up in some incident at work this morning and can't make it anymore. I think he's still busy either at the scene or with paperwork. He said he'll try to make it before the session ends." Anakuro explained. Aizawa rolled his eyes and sighed in frustration.

"That man is the height of irresponsibility." he commented, consciously ignoring the fact that he had just left extremely confidential files in his car where anyone smart enough to break a window could steal them. And a lot of people were smart enough to break the window of a car.

Well, we should be fine with just the two of us. If we need any extra help, I guess Shinsou can help out. He looked at the students. They all probably had been looking forward to working with the famous Toshinori Yagi. Well, too bad.

"The clock's ticking. We should get started." Aizawa said and went back to his wall, still trying to figure out why the hell he was feeling so uneasy all day.

"Excellent! Before we begin, let me just say one thing. Well, maybe two things, possibly three, four, five..."

"We get it!" one guy in the group said. Judging from the voice Aizawa guessed it was Bakugou. The kid could be a right pain, but he knew from the start he wanted to become a specialist for the bomb squad and if anyone was suitable, it was him.

"Listen carefully! I'm sure you're all excited to get out there and start the training. You should have learned a lot of basics in your classes, when it comes to first aid, securing certain areas and so on. You also all had lots of fitness tests and should know your own limits. Whatever you do today, make sure you do it safely and you don't overexert yourselves. You won't be much use helping other people if you're the ones needing help. Always keep that in mind. That's all I wanted to say. Thank you so much for listening." Anakuro finished with a bow. The students all looked really excited and clapped.

"Right. Now that that's over, form groups of three or four and head into one of the zones each. I'm not going to tell you where to go, you're adults and you can figure this out by yourselves." Aizawa said. Something still felt off. He had noticed some lights flickering earlier and he had seen some of the volunteers who were here to act as victims and one or two seemed strangely familiar.

Something was going on and it made Aizawa even more nervous that he didn't know what it was. He should have had that cigarette earlier.

[secret-engima]

Nox-verse Drabble: the Reporter

(couldn’t resist making this, even though it’s ahead of where my Nox collection is timeline-wise. I know some people find Dino incredibly annoying, but I got attached to him in the game, so I thought- why not?)

....

     Dino waited in the room royal security had picked out for the interview and didn’t fidget. Really. He didn’t constantly readjust his tie, check his watch’s wristband, or glance at his notepad of pre-chosen questions just to make sure he had memorized them.

     Okay maybe he was fidgeting. But really, he didn’t think he could be blamed. The infamously private, public-eye avoiding Second Prince of Lucis had finally agreed to an exclusive interview for the first time since his existence had been revealed in possibly the world’s second most hectic press conference —the most hectic going to the Chancellor of Niflheim’s sudden resignation and vocal support of Emperor Aldercapt’s son Quintus—. News conglomerates all over the world had been clamoring to get an interview —any interview, let alone an exclusive— with the reticent prince since learning of his existence and he’d finally agreed to one interview. With Meteor Publishing. But only on certain conditions.

     One of which being that Dino had to be the reporter. Not any of their Insomnia stationed reporters, not any of their world-traveling rising stars that had successfully and winsomely interviewed a hundred public icons without ruffling so much as a single feather. Not any of the people who actually lived and breathed this job rather than used it as simple income while he tinkered with naturally imbued stones to make jewelry for passing Hunters or tourists who liked a bit of local bling. No. According to his boss —his boss who had personally debriefed him—, Prince Nox had requested him specifically. Dino Ghiranze. The twenty four year old rookie gossip reporter with a jewelry hobby.

     Once Dino had gotten over the minor heart attack of that revelation, he had frantically prepared for his interview with the Second Prince of the kingdom —and tried not to lose his mind from the thought of “why me?” on endless loop in his head—.

     His head snapped up as the door finally opened and Prince Nox slipped in with a single guard on his heels —the prince’s Galahdian Shield, Axis Arra-Amicitia, who had also caused a massive stir when his existence came out—. Dino pasted on his most winning smile as he greeted the eighteen year old, who dipped his head in response and actually deigned to shake his hand. Underneath the part of him running through all the rote pleasantries —it’s an honor to meet you, thank you for agreeing to this interview—, the part of Dino that was a natural at hounding out hidden details was observing the prince.

     And getting increasingly alarmed.

     Of course he knew that the prince had lived outside royal protection until he was about fourteen or fifteen, that a lot of things could have happened in that time before His Majesty’s agents had tracked him down and brought him to the Citadel and safety but… Dino didn’t think he was looking at a kid with an occasionally rough childhood out in the backwoods of Lucis. He’d seen a lot of people pass through Galdin Quay, learned to pick out a lot of tells that put people into neat, gossip-riddled boxes and Dino wasn’t seeing the tells of a backwoods kid shoved into royalty.

     Dino was looking at a soldier. No. Not even that. Dino was looking at a survivor.

     Utterly silent footsteps placed as languidly and carefully as a Gralean ballet dancer, long sleeves in the middle of summer that couldn’t quite hide the tips of scars showing on the backs of his hands and peaking out from under the banged up emerald bracelet on one wrist. Blue eyes had taken in everything about the room even before fully setting foot in it —everything about Dino in a way that made him feel oddly small—, checking for threats, exits, and possible weapons with a speed that meant it was instinctive. The handshake was brisk and loose, ready to jolt away at a moment’s notice, and Dino was more than a little certain that the prince’s Shield was plotting out all the most brutally efficient but painful ways to kill him if Dino proved a threat.

     Well. That was interesting to know. Even more interesting if all the rumors about the former Chancellor being the prince’s uncle were true. But that wasn’t what Dino was here to ask about, and Dino was in no mood to get thrown out —or murdered— for deviating from the approved questions.

     The interview was relatively short but interesting. Once he was settled in the chair —arms loose and relaxed, ready to push himself out of the chair or pull out a weapon at any time—, Prince Nox proved to be friendly in a quiet, reserved sort of way. He even chuckled at a few of Dino’s jokes and ways he phrased the questions. The teenager was not at all like Dino had expected, all soft words and a muted, easy sort of confidence that reminded Dino of a predator at rest rather than skittish and overwhelmed —this wasn’t a teenager afraid of being fussed over and unaccustomed to royalty, this was a survivor who avoided the spotlight because it was easier to stay alive and free that way, but under controlled circumstances wasn’t afraid to talk to people like they were equals—.

    Dino noted the seeming fidgeting habit the prince had of running his forefinger along the skin underneath his battered emerald bracelet —Dino had to resist asking if he’d be interested in a new piece, because while it looked nicely made it had obviously been through a lot of abuse over the years— but didn’t comment. It wasn’t on the approved list and hey, everybody had their habits and calming rituals.

     After the interview had concluded, the little hand recorder had been turned off, and they were both standing up to leave, Dino couldn’t resist voicing the one question that had been bothering him for weeks now, “Your Highness,” he started hesitantly. Paused. Adjusted his cufflinks before blurting, “Can I ask ya one more question? Off the record?”

     Prince Nox tilted his head, something almost amused in his gaze, like he already knew what Dino was going to say before he said it —Lucis Caelums weren’t mind readers were they?—, “Go ahead.”

     “Why did ya request me? My boss said I was one of your conditions to the interview. I’m flattered, obviously, but … I’m just a rookie who likes to write gossip pieces. Why pick me to run the interview?”

     For the first time in his presence, Prince Nox’s lips curled upward into a smile, “Easy. You scratched my back, so now I’ve scratched yours.”

     What.

     Sensing the next question Dino was barely holding back —he’d only had permission to ask one after all—, Prince Nox raised one arm and rolled back the sleeve a little, just enough for Dino to finally get a good look at the battered emerald bracelet on the teenager’s wrist. It wasn’t the most complicated piece, elegant but sturdy, like it was designed with Hunters and travelers in mind who were more interested in the natural passive magic boosts certain raw gems gave rather than the bling of them. The thick bronze wires were scratched and dented, and two of the emeralds were chipped, but it was still holding together. More than that, the design was familiar.

     Too familiar.

     No. Way.

     Dino looked up from the bracelet, aware but not caring that he was gaping. Prince Nox was definitely grinning, a small, foxy sort of thing that radiated smug satisfaction, “I don’t know when you’re planning to go full time on the jeweler thing, or if you’re planning that at all, so I can’t exactly give a public endorsement. But I figured people would take you more seriously in your current job if you were known as the reporter who successfully landed an exclusive interview with the enigmatic second prince.”

     Dino felt like he needed to sit down. Maybe with a tall glass of water —or wine, wine would be good—. Instead he sputtered, “That’s-! That’s really one of my-?”

     Prince Nox flicked his sleeve back down with a nod, that smug smile still tugging on his lips, “I got it on a … whim while traveling through the Quay. Back before … all this. It’s been through a lot of nasty situations with me. Helped me pull through a lot of nasty situations too. I figured a reputation boost was the least I could do.” He tilted his head as if considering something, then casually added, “Of course, if you ever do decide to try being a jeweler full-time -which you could, you do good work-, give me a ring, yeah? I’ll give you an endorsement, maybe even a loan if you really need it. Come to your grand opening wherever you choose to open shop … buy a new piece to go with this one.”

     Dino could feel his mind shutting down and going static. Someone took him by the elbow and gently led him away, and Prince Nox was definitely taking amusement in his shock as he waved the hand that wore the bracelet —his bracelet, he sold those personally, when had he met and sold one of his pieces to Prince Nox Lucis Caelum—, but the prince’s tone was genuine as he called after Dino, “Give it some thought!”

     The next thing Dino knew, he was back in his hotel room, staring at the wall and clutching a glass of cheap wine, still trying to process … everything. Then, between one blink and the next, Dino started laughing just a bit hysterically. All those years of dreaming and hoping and not really thinking he could —since he was eighteen, Astrals he’d been Prince Nox’s age when he started dreaming of making his family hobby a job— and-. And a royal endorsement offer just landed in his lap.

     Because somewhere, sometime, in among who knew how many Hunters and drifters and lost souls he’d talked to in Galdin Quay, one of them had been Prince Nox Lucis Caelum. He’d sold one of his emerald pieces —how could he not remember that, good emeralds were so hard to get when you weren’t a big name jeweler— to the unknown eldest son of the king and had done a good enough job on the piece to help said prince out of who knew what scrapes and deadly situations over the years —Dino could guess, he hunted gossip and rumors for a reason, heard the stories of countless refugees that acted just like the prince—. Done a good enough job that the teenager had remembered him and decided to pay back a favor Dino hadn’t even known he’d been owed —hadn’t been owed, because once he sold a piece that was it, he had his money and they had their product, if it helped them out then that was just good craftsmanship—.

     Forgetting all about the article that had started all this —the article that was due in two days—, Dino scrambled for his cellphone. Wait until he called Coctura about this. She would lose her mind.

     And maybe help him pick out a nice spot on the beach to open that jewelry shop he’d always wanted, because there was no way that —once he was certain it was actually real and not some dream or joke— he wasn’t taking this chance by the horns and running with it.

[scarlettsabetlondongirl]

Poet Scarlett Sabet

In conversation with poet Gerard Malanga for London Magazine.

The London Magazine is England’s oldest literary periodical, with a history stretching back to 1732. Today – reinvigorated for a new century – the Magazine’s essence remains unchanged: it is a home for the best writing and an indispensable feature on the British literary landscape-London Magazine  

See here

“After meeting at a French New Wave Cinema book launch in London in November 2019, poets Gerard Malanga and Scarlett Sabet have since kept in regular correspondence via email.

In this unique interview, conducted over several weeks while thousands of miles apart, the two writers discuss shared influences, the recent passing of the Beat Generation poet Michael McClure, and the grounding influence of poetry throughout the international lockdown. 

This interview is based on the poets’ original email correspondence and has been edited for clarity.”-London Magazine   

GERARD MALANGA: You ask how my week has been? I’ve been in lockdown now for 3 weeks or so, though I might’ve lost count. I have plenty to keep me busy in the house here, plus I have responsibility towards my 3 cats. And then there’s dreamtime, between 4 & 6 in the morning.

But suddenly I felt days back this ennui coming on, like, did the poetry suddenly disappear? Sometimes I’m concerned—but just for a moment mind you—whether I can match or even better the last one? There’s no way I can predict when the muse will appear. If I had the answer, it would vanquish the mystique.

Since I’ve been in lockdown, there’s no going out for me for the morning coffee and The New York Times unfolding on the table. Many a first draft has begun that way, but now with a physical displacement of sorts I can’t claim to be an habitue of the cafe life. The kitchen table serves me well – or wherever I happen to be outdoors – so long as I have a small notebook in my pocket. I even prop myself up in bed with a clipboard pressed against my knees. I follow where I feel a poem coming on. When I start, then I know I’m in for it, but don’t give it the slightest thought. I’m in for the ride.

SCARLETT SABET: Yes, I find sometimes walking in the morning, having a destination, getting into my body and moving get’s the ball rolling with writing. I can understand the ritual of going to a cafe. I’ve written on trains a lot, the motion and rhythm helps, and because I’m in a vacuum in transit I can’t be reached.

I love the image of your 4am dream writing, I think that’s a great ritual. Sometimes I write three pages first thing in the morning, and it’s just anything on my mind. I’ve also found meditation helpful, deepening my state of consciousness and then writing straight afterwards to see what comes out, kind of like automatic writing in the spirit of Austin Osman Spare.

We were both raised Catholic, I wonder if that has had any bearing on your writing or practices? I find a great sense of divinity in art, those moments of inspiration.

GERARD MALANGA: Funny that you would mention that. No one’s ever asked me about my spirituality, that I recall. People have weird notions about me, like I’m some kind of guy about town. I may have a little bit of that too. But spirituality for me is to be able to laugh at yourself. Even when I talk to my cats, I’m laughing at myself. I don’t mean physically laughing as such but going about life without being self-conscious. It helps when I’m writing a poem.

Back in 1970 or so, I had a spiritual conversion. One of my closest friends, a guy named Jim Jacobs, turned me on to the first two Carlos Castaneda/Don Juan books; so we were basically comparing notes and one of the themes that came through for us was to follow your nature to be happy. Suddenly we found ourselves wearing white clothing and calling ourselves the white lights. When we went to London we ended up buying an all-white 1939 Bentley convertible with one windshield wiper not wiping, and it basically gave us the freedom to go visit friends in the English countryside. It sounds hysterically funny when I look back at this, but we were quite sincere in our endeavors. If this was going to be our path we had to be true to the discoveries we made along the way.

During our travels we decided to split off and agreed to re-connect a couple of years later in the Massachusetts Berkshires where he’s from and continue where we left off. Jim ended up being one of the top dealers in the secondary art market handling the likes of Judd and Cy Twombly, and now he’s curating shows. I continued to write poetry without a care in the world and became more attuned to the pictures I was taking. I truly feel I’ve become a better photographer because of the experiences I had. You have to be courageous to suddenly drop out and then drop back in.

Back in ’74, I had this idea for a book of my spiritual poetry that would have as its cover one of those kitschy paintings of Jesus. I called it ‘Poems for the Fat Lady’. You know, the Fat Lady was a phrase I’d picked up from reading Salinger’s Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, where he’s actually equating Jesus with the Fat Lady, that they were one. That’s pretty neat, I thought. It didn’t go over too well with my publisher who rejected the idea outright. He thought I was joking. So I settled for a kind of even-balanced title, Incarnations,’ and changed the poems around.

Perhaps, the Fat Lady was the closest I ever got to God, though I don’t give it much thought these days. It’s the inspiration and the love that come from it which is the driving force and source for much of what I’m writing nowadays, and that’s the joy when I finally finish a poem. A state of happiness sets in for me.

SCARLETT SABET: And what you said makes sense, I can understand it. Did you have a period where you rebelled against spirituality or Catholicism and were, say, atheist? Although it’s bizarre for me to admit it, once I left school I did swing to atheism, I guess as a way of rebelling or a reaction. School can be dogmatic.

GERARD MALANGA: In hindsight, to embrace atheism, Scarlett, would deny the spirituality within me which accounts for a lot of my poetry as well. There was no real rebellion on my part. I always felt that my guardian angel was looking after me when I was fated to become a poet. Who would I be, otherwise? It’s a scary proposition, come to think of it.

SCARLETT SABET: True, looking back I realise I’ve always had a Guardian Angel too. I’m so sorry for the loss of [influential Beat poet] Michael McClure, and I was moved by the picture you took of him in San Francisco, 1972. What was that day like?

GERARD MALANGA: If I live long enough, God willing, I may end up not knowing anyone because at this juncture a lot of my friends have already passed. Many of them in the obituary series of my most recent book Cool, which you have. I don’t want to slip into a consciousness of perpetual mourning. Yet I hadn’t anticipated that I’d be writing a poem for Michael, but then I opened up to myself and his consciousness flowed right in. Perhaps I had a vacuum to fill at that moment from an external point of view, taking Michael’s place for the poem that would talk to him and he to me.

I remember little of that when I came to visit with him and made his portrait. It was a serene afternoon. Just him and me. I remember distinctly that we went off in his car, perhaps to a restaurant. We were driving somewhere, and that made sense. But for the life of me I remember nothing of what transpired over lunch. With all the history—and it ain’t an awful lot—there’s still a history there to be acknowledged. You know, I performed the part of Billy the Kid in Warhol’s movie which we adapted from Michael’s play, The Beard. Hardly anyone knows this; perhaps in part because I believe the movie has never been shown. So the friendships last and last and continue beyond the grave.

SCARLETT SABET: I’m always struck by the structure of your poems. I was wondering what your approach to this was, whether there was any major influence from particular poets of your youth, or even whether the way that you frame scenes and ideas within poems has any crossover influence from your work in the wider art world?

GERARD MALANGA: Yes, there’s probably a very strict structure to my poems, but it’s casually applied in what the work proposes as possibility, which I don’t even notice when I’m starting out. For instance, for a very long time, the opening to the work begins with an indented first line of let’s say 8 characters. It’s my way of engaging myself and the reader into a form of poetry that’s a radically different departure from what may be normally perceived. Yes, it’s a poem, but I like to think of them as prose poems as well.

I left ‘influences’ behind decades back. I’m pretty much on autopilot. I’m my own navigator. I travel the journey alone. My earliest influence when I literally started was Gerard Manley Hopkins. I was enchanted by his system of ‘sprung rhythm’ which he basically invented with no imitators following. That would’ve been 1959 during the start of the high school year in my senior class. In 1962, I believe, John Ashbery made a profound influence on my early work with his book The Tennis Court Oath. That became my Bible. I’d carry it around my duffle bag wherever I went. But it was Ted Berrigan with his Sonnets in ’64 that unlocked the door for me into what Ashbery was doing and that was a sheer liberating factor. From there the work continued to expand on its own.

The only ‘crossover influence’ that I imagine, as you put it, in the ‘wider art world’ would be my own life, and not the art world, per se. So what we have here is the tendency to open almost all the work in the form of what appears to be a letter on the surface, but is actually a message. I’m addressing the subjects of my poems directly; they’re not ‘about’ the subject. I’m talking directly to them, as if they’re right in the room, whether it’s a person or a cat.

SCARLETT SABET: You mention you don’t write about your subjects but address them directly in your poems. I think this is what makes them so arresting and intimate, particularly in the ‘Lives They Lived’ chapter in your beautiful collection Cool & Other Poems [published by Bottle of Smoke Press]. Each poem is a visceral portal, allowing the reader to be present with you, and witness Christopher Logue against a snowing sky before warming his hands around a mug of cognac, and Anita Pallenberg a vivacious, laughing woman sitting opposite you at Cafe Flore. Also in that chapter you include a poem entitled ‘Gerard Malanga dies’. The poem contains the line ‘I am my only guide now,’ which I found so powerful. Could you tell us how that poem came to be?

GERARD MALANGA: Putting together that section, ‘The Lives They Lived’, I figuratively had to step outside myself. That’s how close I was with many of those listed and to the memories I have of them held dear. It was not an easy section to compile. By the way, ‘The Lives They Lived’, is borrowed from the New York Times‘s annual round-up supplement. I called my contact at the paper to get permission to use it and he saw no problem involved.

Writing ‘Gerard Malanga dies’ was a tricky situation in the need to make it work. It was one of the final poems in the section and it presented me with an opportunity to address certain issues surrounding death and to those friends I’d already acknowledged over a period of nearly 40 years. I also lapse into a bit of my own personal history, as if I’m contemplating how others might see me after I’ve gone: ‘The rabbit hole is waiting for my plunge.’ Somehow, that image of the rabbit hole has emerged in a few of my poems and also echoes back to Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, one of my favorite childhood books.

The rabbit hole is an image for both death and resurrection, as I see it. Here, I question myself, ‘Am I preparing for another life? A return to life?’ And so I treat this poem as slowly nearing its own end with a ‘journey’ back to life ‘…and on and on…’. I equate this with an actual journey I’d taken by train from ‘Glasgow down to Central London…’ back in 2014 where I’d been dreamily staring out the window at a passing landscape I might not ever explore at any other time.

‘Will I even find my way home to the Bronx’ alludes to a movie I’d seen years back I recall, called ‘The Swimmer’ adapted from a John Cheever short story. Starring Burt Lancaster, his character is swimming across a series of backyard swimming pools and encountering neighbors he knew poolside in attempting to reach home. And when he arrives in the pouring rain and runs up to the door, he discovers that the door’s locked and the house is empty. Such a potent ending and darkened cinematic metaphor, brilliantly done. And it’s these private memories in my life resurfacing that I feel nourishes my work.

SCARLETT SABET: We met at a book launch in London, and you were immediately swarmed, surrounded by people. I think that is a testament to the impact your writing has had globally and across generations. How has your home city of New York and its literary landscape changed and evolved for you over the years? Is it something you feel especially connected to?

GERARD MALANGA: Your question speaks volumes, but I’m going to try to be as brief and succinct as I can hope to be as the facts show. I’m seventy-seven now and there have been no accolades to show for it. Cool came out last year and Whisper Sweet Nothings two years prior and together they comprise the best of anything I’ve ever done, and yet they’ve been totally ignored by the New York literary press overall. In the five decades I’ve been publishing I’ve received not one grant or fellowship or any of the prizes totaling in the millions. Nada. Zilch. I can’t even get my memoirs published and I have thousands of fans waiting for this book. You would think that would count for something. I’m grateful for the European attitude towards my work. That’s what keeps the work alive for me. That’s where my audience is and they relate. I love what I do, and I know it shows through the work from the responses at the readings I give and that’s how my work thrives. I love my audience and that’s the truth of it.

SCARLETT SABET: A year ago today, I finished my waitressing shift, went home and listened to what Jimmy [Page] had produced from the recordings we had made of my poems. this became our spoken word album Catalyst. It was a joy to be able to give you our album as I am so moved by your work. It had a sense of synchronicity also, as years earlier, Jimmy had given me a signed edition of your beautiful poem ‘Devotion’.

You said that ‘Cut Up’ was your favourite track on Catalyst. I had christened that poem ‘Cut Up’ simply because it was the first time I had used the William Burroughs/Brion Gysin method. I always feel it’s a handing over, a leap of faith to a higher power, to introduce another energy to it, and it came out with it’s own dark, random rhythm. Burroughs said “when you cut into the present the future leaks out”, and in that sense it has a spell like quality or possibility.

Some poems I’ve written in one sitting, a sort of channeling, like ‘Fifth Circle of Hell’, which is also on Catalyst. But part of the reason I found the cut-up method so liberating that first time was that I was trying to write a poem to encapsulate that period. I felt cautious because the subject matter was focused on the events in Europe and the Middle East, and the horrors and blood shed of the Bataclan attacks in Paris. I think my own identity and ethnicity – my mother is French-Scottish and my father is Persian – gave this piece more weight personally. So really, the cut-up was a way of detaching through the process, which was effective. I suppose I wonder what your thoughts are on cut-ups?

GERARD MALANGA: Scarlett, cut-ups are a tricky business. They almost feel spontaneous, but with every move there’s no turning back. They’re the antithesis to parallel grammatical structures which is how we reform language to make things sound right. You see Bill [Burroughs] stuck with it all his life. Cut-ups were his language and he embraced the process. It’s okay to experiment with language so long as you come out at the other end with something that satisfies you and encourages you to want to do more, to go further. That’s a big commitment. The one thing you want to avoid is being self-conscious in the process, as you put it. There’s no room for self-consciousness in cut-ups. You have to operate on a more or less unconscious level like when you dream.

Of course, you realize this in dreams. I don’t need to tell you. In dreams, nothing really connects or relates. Dreaming is a series of visual and mental disconnects. One thing leads to the next but you don’t know why nor do you have time to stop to know why. It’s like you go with the flow. Excuse the corniness of this. Dreams are the cut-ups of the unconscious. You can’t go back to change anything to make it better. There’s nothing qualitative about it. When that happens to me, I try to maintain the balance of the good and the bad together. All of it. Yes, I’ve done a little tweaking here and there, but only because I’m now in the conscious state and I want to make the lines sound just right. So it’s okay to prune. Robert Lowell taught me how to prune. But you have to know what you’re doing. It’s trusting your instincts. That’s what I do. If I throw out a perfectly terrific line, it’s because I’m trusting my instincts. But, of course, only I know that. The reader doesn’t, nor does he need to.

One of my earliest poems was a form of the cut-up. My English teacher in high school, Daisy Aldan, who introduced me to the world of poetry, gave us an assignment in class to cut out words at random from the newspaper and fill a paper bag with them. The next step was to reach into the bag and pick out one word at a time and place them on a page, and then to transcribe those words into a text, including all the capital and lower-case letters. I did one better and glued them onto the page. This all had to do with chance. Remember, Stéphane Mallarmé, in his last poem ‘Un coup de dés’ said that a ‘a throw of the dice NEVER NEVER will abolish chance.’ Well, he was right about that. You take your chances, you trust your instincts.

SCARLETT SABET: I’ve started reading Gysin’s novel The Process. I bought it last year at Shakespeare&Co but started reading it now to feel closer to Morocco, a place that I really love, while still in lockdown. I wondered what places have meant the most to you?

GERARD MALANGA: I have Brion’s book on my shelf, but I’ve yet to read it. Perhaps I’m still not ready for it yet. Right now I’m immersed in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. What I like about it is that it reads like it’s not translated but written directly in English. That’s probably the best kind of translated work.

The first place that comes to mind that has meant the most to me, although there may have been others, is the Cafe Flore. It was my first introduction to cafe life when I arrived in Paris in the spring of 1965. And henceforth whenever I’ve visited Paris, I would arrive punctually every morning during my stays. There’s no other cafe that does it for me. Of course, there’s the cafe in the Luxembourg Gardens, but that’s more like a restaurant; a different ambiance entirely. The Flore has a certain something, a certain charm about it that allows me to immerse myself reading the morning papers or writing a poem even. The food’s good too. The croissants, the omelettes, the cafe creme. Some years back, I started referring to it as my ’office’ whenever I had an appointment to meet with friends. And I’d be certain to book a hotel room within walking distance. Anyway, the Flore is the start of my day.

SCARLETT SABET: Well, I hope one day, when the lockdown is over, we can meet you at Cafe Flore.

Photos: London Magazine

[christinaengela]

Hello friends and fans!

Welcome to my 44th newsletter – August 2020!

On A Personal Note

The 17th of July was a terribly sad day for our family because of the death of one of our fur-children, Ming. She was my little writing companion who used to sit across my shoulders sometimes, or on my knee while I typed away on my laptop.

I love all three our kitties, but Mingy-moo as I used to call her, held a special place in my heart… and to be frank, I miss her presence in my life terribly, as does Wendy.

Lily – our giant white mommy-cat, and Nyx – our little black one, were clearly in mourning as well. Their behavior has changed since she disappeared so suddenly from our lives, and even after a week, Nyx still hovers around the spot where Ming sat the last day she was with us, and Lily still searches the house for the missing kitty.

Ming used to do little things the other two kitties don’t do – some endearing, and some outright naughty – whose absence only makes her loss that much more tangible. Somehow the house seems so much more quiet and empty. Something is missing, and for weeks the empty-nest feeling has hung over it like a pall. It will be a while yet before we lift ourselves up again, and move on.

Then, in the early hours of Friday 24 July, more bad news! Someone asshat with sticky fingers burgled our Golf! Fortunately they were unprepared and set off the alarm and fled, leaving the driver side door open. There was some good news with the bad – there was no damage at all. The enterprising individual must’ve used a ‘slim-jim’ or similar tool to lever the lock open via the window channel, so no windows or locks etc. were damaged. I figure they also probably tried to steal the wheels – and then discovered I had a lock-nut on each wheel, because the only thing the bastards seem to have got away with is one single, solitary wheel-nut!

That aside, on other, much happier fronts, I completed another two paintings since last time we spoke – bringing my total number of paintings to five – and then I returned to writing again! On that front, among the BIGGEST news items I have to share with you this time, is the release of the audiobook version of “Blachart” – it’s finally here – and after three weeks of availability, I’m happy to report that it’s doing very well! More about that below!

Art

I also indulge in painting from time to time – and no, I don’t mean walls! The following paintings are in my portfolio:

“Human Nature” 2017 A4 acrylic canvas

“Balancier” 2020 A2 acrylic canvas

“Rescuer” 2020 A2 acrylic canvas

“The Awakening” 2020 A2 acrylic canvas

“The Earth Wept” 2020 40x40cm acrylic on canvas

I completed “The Awakening” on June 5, and started “The Earth Wept” just a few days later. “The Earth Wept” is on 40x40cm canvas and I finished that on July 12. I’ve also since renamed “Untitled” to “Human Nature”.

You can read more about my art projects on the Art page.

What do you think of them? Feel free to let me know!

Music

Yes – I also make music from time to time!

A selection of music tracks I made using eJay and other similar apps between 1999 – 2008 are available on my YouTube channel.

You can read more on the Music page on my website!

Activism

For those of you interested in my activism-related posts and activities, you can follow them at “Sour Grapes: The Fruit Of Ignorance“.

Current Writing Projects 

In the past few weeks I deviated from writing and went into art for a while, delivering four new completed paintings in a little over a month! In the meantime however, I made a return to writing by starting the long awaited next title in the Galaxii series!

Book 4 – still under a working title – is currently at a little over 18,000 words and growing by the day!

Editing

On the editing side of things, my friend Brandon Mullins  has been getting me into a proofreading and editing sideline over at Moon Books Publishing, and I’ll let you have any news on that as it happens!

I’ve just received the first submission for a new project entitled “Captain Jockstrap and the League of Do-gooders”! Yes, it probably is as silly as it sounds – but that’s the idea!

In the meantime, I still have a horror anthology on my desktop, which still needs a couple more submissions to reach publishing length – and more than that wouldn’t hurt! There will be no payment to writers, but participation will help get your name out there. If interested, please send them along to christinaengela@gmail.com.

Marketing – The Dreaded “M” Word! 

Portfolio 2020!

I thought it would be nice if I could produce a neat, organized catalog of all my books that interested parties could download and browse – a free, distributable and shareable catalog, and so I created “Portfolio 2020!” – a listing of all my currently available titles!

Portfolio is more than that though, because it also contains a biography as well as synopses for most of my titles – and I have a plan to update it regularly, perhaps on an annual basis! Portfolio 2020 is available as a free download from my website.

Videos

In July, I made a new book trailer video for the audiobook version of “Blachart” – and so did Nigel Peever as it turned out!

https://christinaengela.files.wordpress.com/2020/07/blachart-video-by-nigel-peever.mp4

Aren’t they great? 🙂

Sales

Getting my writing available in audiobook format seems to have been the ticket I’ve been waiting for, and these are truly exciting times for me as a writer! At this stage I have only one audiobook out, my first, and with its first month almost complete, sales are really encouraging! For the past month most of my marketing has been aimed at promoting “Blachart” and upcoming new audiobook titles “When Darkness Calls”, “Malice!” and “Demonspawn”. With more to follow, these items really could be the thing that helps promote my writing and blow those doors open that so far have tended to keep me out!

Publishing

Under recent releases this month, these are the six books I’ve released so far this year!

  July really has been a month of change. Not only was there a death in the family, but it’s also the month I closed my account with Lulu.com – the self-publishing platform I’ve used since 2005. Although I am angry with Lulu, and sorely disappointed in what they’ve done – and how they did it – I am grateful for what they did for me over the years. There’s no way I would’ve had the foundations in self-publishing I have today, were it not for Lulu. At one time, they were the ONLY self-publishing platform that would take on writers from South Africa – let alone being willing to accommodate paying us via PayPal!

Sadly, I simply couldn’t get to grips with the awful new changes Lulu inexplicably inflicted on loyal users that – in my view – rendered the platform unfriendly and totally useless. In the second week of July I redistributed the titles that were based on Lulu between Moon Books (publishing eBook, paperback and audiobook via Amazon) and eBooks via EBooks2Go, Draft2Digital and StreetLib. Frankly I think some of them that were available only on Lulu will have an even wider reach as a result. I sent Lulu the account deletion request on the 20th.

Unfortunately, due to Lulu’s short-sighted idiocy, I now have to edit and update “The Pitfalls of South African Self-publishing” as well – there’s an entire section covering how to self-publish a book via the system Lulu just casually chucked into the bin that needs to change. Frankly, I’m thinking I’ll need to base that portion on EBooks2go instead – since their system is far simpler and easier to use, not to mention less fiddly.

Also as a result, I’ve had to update purchase links on my website and social media accounts that referred directly or indirectly to my books via Lulu. If you find any I haven’t got round to fixing yet, please drop me a line and let me know! 😉

Hally Park Publishers

For quite a while now I’ve been working to expand my marketing reach, and in the spirit of that endeavor I recently contracted with Hally Park Publishers – a South African small press who also list suitable self-published titles on their website – to list my eBooks!

It’s taken a little time for them to appear on their website – after all, I’m not the only author they have listed, and I have just over 30 books – so I’m sure that was quite a job! Nevertheless, the first fifteen appeared on their site during the night (yes, I’ve been watching)!

The advantage of this arrangement – that is, listing my books on a local South African book selling site – is that it’s a new local market which already attracts its own traffic! Additionally, the prices are displayed in Rands, as well as my books being displayed alongside titles by other local authors – which should attract more local readers looking for some local literary South African flavor!

You can view my listing there by clicking on the link, or the screenshot below!

Audiobooks

“All That Remains” JEA (2019)

“See Them Aliens” MBP (2019)

“Blachart” MBP (2020)

I mentioned previously in my post “Coming Soon! “Blachart” – the Audiobook!” back in May – and in my newsletters for June and July that I’ve been eagerly awaiting the audiobook release of “Blachart” – and I’m sure you have too!

On the July 10th I got a notification that “Blachart” the audiobook was available on Amazon! As I promised in February this year, “Blachart” has (finally) been released as an audiobook! It doesn’t usually take this long to go through the production process, and I’m sure the current pandemic must’ve had something to do with it – but regardless, the eagerly-awaited finished product has arrived at last! And – WOW – what a product it is!

Narrated by Nigel Peever, “Blachart” – book 1 in the Galaxii series – is 10 hours 26 min long, and is nothing less than a rip-roaring sci-fi adventure! You can read more about it here.

I’ve also had to review a string of auditions for “Malice!“, “When Darkness Calls” and “Best Served Cold” – and I have to comment on the diverseness of the sort of voices, accents and personalities that sent their auditions in! Wow! For a writer, nothing encapsulates the diversity of one’s audience more than listening to a variety of people, male and female, reading words you wrote in a variety of accents! It’s even more of a compliment when you can hear them enjoying it as they do so! “When Darkness Calls” is narrated by Miciah Dodge, and Michelle Innes had me covered in goosebumps as she read an excerpt of “Malice!” in her Scottish accent! Currently, “Malice!”, “When Darkness Calls”, and “Demonspawn” are in production, and we’re still looking for a narrator to read “Best Served Cold”!

Coming Soon

In the meantime, here’s a look at the covers for the coming audiobooks of “When Darkness Calls” and “Demonspawn”:

Reviews

You can see all my previous reviews here.

Currently Available Titles

I now have 29 unique titles available in 4 series (not including books I’ve been the editor for, and my 16 free promotional items)! My books are available in three different formats: EBooks, Paperbacks and Audiobooks. Click the links or images below to view titles available in these formats.

Communication

Below are links to a few of my most recent posts and articles since my last newsletter:

Expand The Brand: Hally Park Publishers

Guest Writer #4: Lee Hall

Coming Soon: “Malice!” – The Audiobook!

Coming Soon: “Demonspawn” – The Audiobook!

“Blachart” – TWO Audiobook Trailers!

“When Darkness Calls” – Actually A True Story

A Visit To The Archives!

“Blachart” – A Writing Journey [cross-posted on Moon Books website]

Unleashed: “Blachart” – The Audiobook!

Free Download! Portfolio 2020!

Another Round At The Crow Bar #43 July 2020

If you want to see more articles, just click on the category links below:

Elements of Horror

FAQ Answered

Fun Facts

LGBT Heroes

The Tech Side

Secret Weapons of the Resistance

Writing Advice

Guest Writers

Newsletters

Interactions

Fan Mail, Reader Reviews & Honorable Mentions

I very pleased to have quite a few items to show you this month!

Parade.com shared one of my quotes in a listing titled “150 of the Best Relationship Quotes and Sweetest Couple Quotes That’ll Make Your Heart Flutter” on July 08, 2020. “Regardless of what language it is said in, ‘I love you’ stays beautiful, and two hearts beating together make the same sound. It is the language of Love.” – Christina Engela

The Satanic Church of South Africa shared my academic book “Satanism: The Acid Test” on their website resource page! (found on July 12, 2020) This is of course, what this book is supposed to do – educate people, demystify the occult, and relieve people of their ignorance!

Miciah Dodge, the narrator recording “When Darkness Calls” sent a message via ACX on July 07:

Jennifer Shepard really seems to have liked my article about “Blachart”! (July 11, 2020):

The audiobook version of “Blachart” received a gracious reader/listener review on the 5th of July:

On July 21, Brandon Mullins, CEO of Moon Books Publishing shared the following compliment for “Blachart” in a publishing group on Facebook:

On July 26, Scott M. Darrah gave me his opinion of the audiobook:

Miciah Dodge, the narrator for “Christina Engela’s Strangely Compelling Scifi Stories vol 1”, “When Darkness Calls” and “Duck Blind” sent me this nice email on July 26, 2020:

I display my Fan Mail, Reviews & Compliments with pride, gratitude and humility. You’re always welcome to have a look.

Hate Mail & Horrible Mentions

On July 17, somebody thought it would probably be hilarious if they spam bombed my inbox with email notifications for a fake account they created in my name – on an Asian Dating Site in Indonesia! Unfortunately for them, I left the factory with a warped sense of humor, so instead of being bent out of shape by their ‘ingenuity’ all they did was give me a few good laughs… I mean have you seen half the profiles on any dating site?? Anyway, I know how to filter and block email addresses – and the admins of said dating site were kind enough to delete the profile for me when I asked nicely, so – better luck next time, whoever you are!

I’m rather proud of my hate mail, and you can review my collection here – but be forewarned, don’t do it while eating or drinking, or you might choke while laughing!

Interviews

All my interviews are linked to from this page. If you would like to do an interview with me about my work, please do get in touch!

In Closing

Well, that’s all for this time, folks! 🙂

Thanks again for all your support, friendship and interaction!

Feel free to email or message me via Facebook, Twitter or LinkedIn if you have any comments or questions!

Until next time, keep reading!

Cheers! 🙂

Catch me on social media!

Facebook | Twitter | LinkedIn | Academia | Minds | Instagram | GoodReads | Author’s Database | Library Thing | YouTube | Pintrest | Stage32 | The Book Marketing Network

If you would like to know more about Christina Engela and her writing, please feel free to browse her website.

If you’d like to send Christina Engela a question about her life as a writer or transactivist, please send an email to christinaengela@gmail.com or use the Contact form.

Show your appreciation for Christina’s work!

All material copyright © Christina Engela, 2020.

Another Round At The Crow Bar #44 August 2020 Hello friends and fans! Welcome to my 44th newsletter - August 2020!

[unproduciblesmackdown]

you said random number so.. gimme 5, 17, 24, 26, 38, and 43

#epic thank you!!!! sorry this is so long, gang, but you know me. press J if you have that keyboard shortcut option

5)favorite fics?

soph nothingunrealistic’s!! click the link & peruse any of the dozen gifts to this world on ao3. also just go right to her writing tag

17)a fandom you wish more people were in/you had more people to talk to about?

well i don’t Really have an answer for this one, but just yesterday it was once again time to talk abt how jaclyn moriarty’s 4-book ashbury/brookfield YA series is a lot of fun and unusual in good ways, but like, i guess what with being published throughout the aughts and like, not being super obscure but also not being explosively popular, and idk maybe they were also more Known in australia than the US, and, idk, but there’s not exactly what you’d call a Fandom online, or even very many traces of one. and i just like to mention the series as Fun To Read because they are very lively and focus on girls and have a real variety of Girl Characters (and also some boy characters who are also varied and fun but that’s just a bonus) and in particular i like to talk about how the third book has a really Unusual Choice Of Protagonist (the unfun unpopular Best Grades by-the-book overachiever etc etc etc nerd girl, kinda having the personality that ppl misinterpret alana beck’s personality to be lol, like something of a killjoy goody-two-shoes lol, but also with that earnestness and drivenness that alana has as well)......and the format of each book is Epistolary, but in different and creative ways each time, and it’s fun how like, the characters who are telling the story (the ones whose letters are used and etc) rotate with each book [tho emily and lydia are Storytellers in the 2nd And 4th books] and it’s very neat how like, you do get that sense that just b/c someone’s not being Focused On as much from different people’s perspectives doesn’t mean they aren’t still existing and present and doing stuff and having their own story, even when that’s not being mentioned by whoever’s writing down the events that we’re reading. we love that sentiment. anyways i just like to always Promote them.

24)who are you at the end of this decade?

hmmm!! i mean in many ways i am who i have been the whole time but yknow, 2009 - 2019 was a tumultuous period. i was always furiously trying to think through Who Am I As A Person for various reasons, even though like, when you’re in ur mid-teens that’s always In Progress rather than there being a really set answer to be discovered, and for a while it was a lot of frustration with myself all “why are you like [this], why can’t you do [that] right,” etc etc. but eventually i had like, a better frame of reference for a lot of what was going on, and even why i never quite felt like i had a great sense of Who I Am and What I Like and etc in the first place, and more understanding and respect for myself lol. even now it’s like, yknow i’m ~self-consious~ in ways often lol and i’ll sometimes Use that to be like, okay try to improve [this thing] about yourself!! and yknow on the one hand i feel like stuff i’ve been Working On for years Has paid off in ways, but then recently it’s like......okay hang on but like, it’s not a bad thing to like, have some traits that maybe aren’t gonna be seen as “perfect” or might be annoying or yknow, your Demeanor and Vibe isn’t always like, the most important thing to focus on lol or something where like, oh being sweet & saintly & coming across as utterly pleasant to everyone always gets to be The Objective Ideal. like, i’m opinionated and can be argumentative and sometimes impatient?? like, there’s a balance here between “good to be trying to Improve Yourself always or whatever lol” and “but also everyone is People with Traits and Different Personalities and everyone doesn’t have to just sand themselves down into an edgeless smooth sphere” and like, sure it’s like “haha i’m a bit more temperamental than i’d like still” but also i sure sympathize w/ the fact that like, oof, depression makes it tricky sometimes! and i do pretty okay at like, being Aware of when my mood is cursed and trying to be as chill about it as poss! or like, “haha wish i was better at conversation lmao” but yknow also understanding that like.....i’m just kinda Not great at it and that’s what’s Natural for me and like, again, a balance between “trying to be easier to talk to, lol” and “being okay with the fact that i’m not super easy to talk to and most ppl aren’t very easy for me to talk to either, lol”

im trying to be a bit less cagey lol which i guess might not be the first word someone might use to describe me for a variety of reasons, But......and but then also, i just like, for me there is no simple Be Yourself, Just Talk Naturally As U Would conversation mode lol, but you know. it’s hardly a pressing issue, and at the same time, like, sometimes when i find it hard to talk to people it’s like “well this is just you needing to Be Nicer” or whatever, or like, well you’re just not used talking to Anyone so like, push through it, and then it takes me a while to realize like, well no you just don’t love talking to them, lmao......and at the same time i’m Really slow to realize when people *do* actually enjoy talking to me, lmao, i am just not used to it And used to people like, not really being super interested in interacting with me even if they think i’m alright lol. lord! so i’m still slightly surprised whenever Anyone likes me, but also like, then again there’s sort of always these repeated scenarios where it’s like [Glum Trombone Noise] i’m also the recipient of various ppl’s various contempt for various reasons........which like, i sure don’t Absorb that as like “way 2 go, you deserve that” but also like, sure also never is the most fun experience of your life. but i have a way more solid sense of the fact that like, i don’t inherently deserve that, and an understanding of Why people will be Like That sometimes, and that’s all been acquired knowledge from the whole journey of this decade lol

also like, i have always been and continue to be like, Basically A Cat lol.....cats-sonas for everyone, ___ the ___ cat, But Seriously Folks........like, oh, there’s a lot of ppl and/or noise around?? unless i have chosen to put myself in that situation for fun, i’m probably gonna be finding whatever quiet / distant corner to hide out in and try to remain as undetected as possible.......kinda wary about interacting with people sometimes, though then also, i like to be friendly w/ strangers (if they’re friendly with me) and won’t necessarily mind spontaneous interactions but only if it’s Plausibly Expected in the situation, and even then, i might just prefer that Nobody Talk To Me......and i’ve yet to be Really comfortable in a group of ppl if i’m there *with* that group lmao, like, i don’t like to take the lead or compete for attention or anything and just kinda will try to do my own thing on the outskirts, whereas if i’m by myself it’s just like, i feel a lot more comfortable and like i can just do whatever lmao..........and also i don’t like to make noise lol. unless again, it’s deliberate, and it’s Fun. like at a concert? i will be the death of whatever nerd like, wants it to be like a solemn “listening to a record” occasion or wants everyone to yell out complete sentences if a performer asks an Arena full of people How Are You Doing 2nite or whatever. i’m gonna yell!!! anyways. idk. i am always like “oh i am Very Much [this way], except for all the times i am totally [the would-be Opposite way]”........i can’t really opt out of having Anxious Qualities and that’s alright, even though it does get in the way of things sometimes for sure. like, c’est la vie!!! i understand why i am like this, and that like, while for my own sake i can try to hold my own hand here and encourage myself to be a little bolder, it’s totally fine that like, i have Problems and Difficulties. 

i’m also at like, maybe the lowest levels of Impending Dread that i’ve had since i was like, 8 or some shit lmao............like again kind of a Wild Decade and one where like, it was totally all like “wow am i even gonna make it to [a few yrs in the future] -> [a year in the future] -> [half a year from now]” aaand it hasn’t been a full year yet since i was last thinking like “lmfao oof i might not be alive by __, who knows!!” but even while that was going on it was at least an improvement from the times i thought i might like, hmm hope i don’t off myself. and like, this is probably the first Start Of A Year in like. well possibly the past decade lmao, where yknow, it hasn’t felt quite as dire. i mean im not really out here a cockeyed optimist about anything, and like, i’m aware that things are always a little tenuous and there’s other factors i’m always nervous about, but That’s nothing new, and i’m kinda more like, neutral about the future rn lol? feeling less Dread and Doom is new-ish lmao and like, allowing that yknow, despite how crappy the past decade has been re: how i felt in my Outlook, there’s been a bunch of surprising Good Things to come along, and i totally allow for the fact that that could easily continue to happen. having Less(ened) Bad Feelings about Things might not = Absolutely Thriving but i appreciate it!! i also try to be appreciative lmao. like, what with the dread and doom & (hope i don’t die this year, i guess,) feelings, it’s wildly hard nowadays for me to like, anticipate stuff in a ~fun~ way or at all, but yknow when anything nice, even a really small / unspectacular / ordinary moment and/or detail, is being experienced by me, i try to enjoy that. i like to be Appreciative. and i think i’m also sort of like, sharing more of myself than i’ve probably gotten to or felt capable of doing in the past, and i appreciate that a lot too. like, it can be really Depressing for sure to think of like, hmm i haven’t had the chance to like, feel in control of things and like things are Totally Fine and i feel Totally Okay & like i’m enjoying everything, and i can choose to pursue [things i might enjoy], and maybe i Won’t have that chance? [another glum trombone noise] but like. i appreciate the good experiences that i Do and Have gotten so far. and the fact i’ve ever been in situations to connect with people and enjoy things the ways that i can and like, it’s really nice that My Presence in other ppl’s lives, even as just like Some Online Rando re: some ppl lmao, has had some positive effect for them or even just been enjoyed is like, wow, this is pretty great lol.........not sure where i was taking this tangent but like, i am someone who appreciates this a lot.

hmm i am also a passionate person at the end of this decade lmao!!!! that has definitely always been true. i am Of That Temperament. it is funny b/c like, the fact that i am A Motormouth Actually But Often Not Saying Anything In The Least To People, they think i’m like, of this very mild disposition and Not someone with strong opinions that they will launch into, or else i would have been doing that already........but you know!!! here i am online, fully able to just dive into things and start talking about whatever for one million years. and i sure latch onto stuff in a Big Way sometimes, which is why anyone follows me at all lol, b/c if you like [whatever particular content] and i am just all about that too, it’s a beneficial situation for us both i guess lmao. i can get really excited and focused about stuff, obviously, and i sure Also Obviously like to explore the emotional aspects of things. which is a vague thing to say lmfao but you all know what i mean!!! it continues to be the only reason i draw lmaooo like i draw so much and like, Making Fanart And Sharing It Online has i think also been a journey of this decade for me, and i really only draw a) exactly that fanart that i feel like making, and b) what i feel like making is always also probably abt Feelings somehow, like the Three Emotions: kissing (aka gay), crying (sad), and angry (angry)........great news if you want to see the stuff i already happen to be drawing lol!!! bad news i guess if you were hoping i’d draw anything but whatever i end up wanting to draw. i cannot be diverted. and i don’t even draw for its own sake lol like, i’ve always doodled for fun and all that, but like, ive never been a “wow i want to make my own __ someday” or whatever, and if i’m trying to draw something which is anything other than [the exact thing i might feel like drawing] it is Such a chore that like, i just don’t do it except for like, total Exceptions. except exceptions lol. don’t ask!! anyways why did i get on that drawing tangent there........yeah it’s definitely lucky that i’ve been giving myself that Drawing Experience so that i can connect w/ ppl that way, cuz i’m godawful at like, necessarily providing other stuff lol Or at being the one to Make Connections Happen otherwise......and also of course sometimes it is easier to convey/communicate something via drawing. woohoo!!

anyways yeah i’m a bit excitable lol and i sure guess i’ve got that Chaotique energy at times, for better or worse lol........like sometimes my Contribution can be like, just an absolute wild card thrown into the pile, or just like, maybe adding some Boost to a situation that other people can run with if they so choose. just throw things out there sometimes and enjoy when other ppl find that fun lmao

what else is there about me??? lol.......oh yeah i’m always sort of an Office Goofaround (not actually in an office ever, though). like, when ppl Don’t have that sense of Collaborative Humor where like, if someone does something a bit silly u just roll with that bit, or if god forbid they have Exhausting Cishet Guy humor where they think everything is about Dry, “Intelligent” Sarcasm and that being “funny” is about making yourself look like the coolest or cleverest person there who Wins the Center Of Attention spot?? it’s like, eff that, where are my Get Silly gang. also puns are funny but also only b/c they are silly. you have to really lean into it lol. 

well anyways!!!! and when i am asked to talk about myself i can be very extensive and yet not necessarily cover everything. here we are

26)favorite look you had?

my look hasn’t changed too much! Tees n Jeans (or shorts? or jorts? lol) are pretty much my thing altho you Know i have at times added in A Layer, or even accessories.......as always, part of the first few years of the decade for me was the whole “aha, yeah okay i’m trans” process, but before that i wasn’t ever really trying to be more “””””””””fashionable”””””””””” than the tees n jeans type of look anyway lmao, and even nowadays like, i have some Wardrobe Items that like, ppl might consider ”androgynous” or whatever when cis dudes wear them, like leggings or a v-neck sweater........really some of the only significant Changes was getting binder/s eventually (by 2012?? ugh idk) and also like, by 2011 i cut my hair relatively short, and from there on i just like, every year went “ugh god i need it to be shorter” and even now i’m like, hmm, do i want it shorter or is this fine?? but also i’m somewhat limited styling-wise b/c i just continually cut it myself in a bathroom mirror, true chaotic. and! i’ve been like, god i wish i had a baseball cap that’s just like, solid [my fave blue] or yknow, black or something, or idk. one that i like. and also someday it would be nice to like, not only have an updated prescription of lenses but also Multiple Glasses Frames to choose from, even though my current ones are alright still lol.......this is me just talking abt my past looks and how i’d like to potentially update my look lmao i did Not answer the question but, as usual, i also don’t have a great direct answer lol

38)a prediction you had for this decade that came true?

lol this was not a decade where i was ever looking ahead to 2020 and making any assumptions about this Block Of Time as a whole.......i mean like, i was Really starting to suspect byyyy 2012 for sure that like, i could not like, be able to exist And have my parents be in my life at all lol and by 2013 it was just like. increasing confirmation of that. and i last saw / spoke to them prior to me just effing out of there at the end of 2015. snaps for me

43)an important relationship (of any kind) you had?

well a couple i appreciated that might not be obvious were pretty brief and fairly impersonal lol. so in 2015 i had this Nightmare Job for five whole months which was obviously miserable in most ways, but there was this other guy who wasn’t even a Coworker, we just had the same job and had similar routes of Stores to go to, so we would run into each other a lot of mornings, and he would talk to me and i’d talk to him and he was totally good-humored about everything and that was helpful lmao b/c it’s great to have Someone you enjoy seeing. i also struck up a rapport with a baked-goods stocker at one particular store, and that could be an enjoyable 14 seconds. it was a godawful job lmao and like, Any pleasantness at all / decent treatment from other people was very helpful

also at this other job the next year which was a lot less hellish, there was this customer lady who like, i can’t remember at what point she started talking to me but yknow it got to be that if we’d run into each other she’d kind of update me on her life. and she would be like “sorry i’m talking to you, a stranger, about all this stuff all the time, but my life is a mess and i don’t really have anyone to talk to” and i would be like, lmfao mood, do not even worry about it, and yknow this was someone i only ran into usually once every few weeks at my job, and could only listen to for however long, but she was Going Tf Through It all the time and as much as i am a chatterbox who will go on for a century about myself b/c i can’t be concise abt anything ever, i’m also decent at being in Listening Mode lmao or yknow, i was like No Truly i don’t mind you venting, and also yknow, i’m like well i know how much it sucks to have Nobody to talk to about Big Problems. and i am this random restaurant worker and if i’m one of the only people this lady can talk to, you can bet i’m going to listen lol.......and she was really goin through it all One Thing After Another and yknow i’d catch her two weeks later and she’d be all like, well [this situation] has gotten worse, or This One Problem is over but now New Problem has replaced it, etc, and a whole issue that i got updated on was like lol. she had this boyfriend who she’d kinda mention early on when she was talking abt trying to find a job, or losing a new-but-terrible job and once again being back in that Job Hunt Stress, and idk like. i just sort of have decent Relationship Instincts lmfao of like “hmm this doesn’t sound great” but like, a month or two later she’s straightup Married to this dude, and i’m like oh congrats :) and then when a month or two after That she’s talking about how like, she’s maybe having Job Probs again and her now-husband is really giving her shit for like, not having found a new one yet, i’m like internally all [ :)))))) Not Surprised :))))))) ] but i’m like. yknow you Sympathize n Validate but if you just up and tell someone who’s being treated real bad like “you are being treated terribly, this person is acting terribly” then they might just want to defend them like oh it’s not That bad, or minimize it, and blame themselves for making their terrible partner “look bad”.......and by extension when she once was in our restaurant With said husband and introduced us i was like, just getting further confirmation abt this dude’s shittiness from his Immediate Vibe lmao like....whenever i feel uncomfortable enough in someone’s presence in a [not just universal level of Anxiety] way, it’s like, that instinct is pretty reliable & accurate lol.....but i had to pretend Not to hate him or act too standoffish towards him lmao cuz like!!! i figured i could “get away with it” but yknow, this lady had already said how isolated she was and the husband sure seemed Controlling and like, yknow, if you act like you don’t Like the shitty partner or said shitty partner catches wind of you maybe telling this person that “hey your partner is being shitty” then it’s all, them telling their partner “don’t go around that person who is so obviously Against me >:(” and like. yknow i figured as Random Restaurant Employee this dude wasn’t about to be super on guard about me but i still was not wanting to risk it but luckily i only met him the one time and only had to casually pretend i didn’t think he was shit that one time. and anyhow! soon enough the lady is talking to me about how she thinks getting married to him was a mistake but like, again, she was real isolated and didnt have family or friends or ppl in the area to talk to, and like, yknow she would be pretty sure her husband was cheating on her but of course He was the one all like, wanting to be controlling and invade her privacy and accuse Her of cheating on him, and i’m like, internally screaming but again yknow, i’m just letting her vent to Anyone (me) and sympathizing. and iirc her talking about her “uh oh my husband sucks” was like, i had come back from this delivery so we were in the parking lot lol and she was so upset about all of it and like, “sorry i’m just this random person talking to you for twenty minutes in a parking lot and crying lol” and i’m like. i mean yknow if the only person you can vent to about this terrible situation is me, this random person in a parking lot, absolutely i am glad to do it, even though i would’ve done it anyways lol...........and i was so mad at our General Manager this one time lmao b/c. yknow it’s a couple weeks later and wouldn’t you know it, The Lady is really stressed b/c her husband was yelling at her and broke a window in their apartment, and the Cost Of Repairs added to their monthly rent meant they might not be able to make that rent, and she was in that crappy situation that gets pulled on Tenants Who Probably Don’t Have Much Money, where you’re supposed to get 5 Days Notice or whatever when they’re like “get out b/c your rent is overdue” but you get that Notice on like, friday afternoon when your Last Day is supposed to be the following monday, and nobody is at the office all weekend, so obviously that’s not five days and it’s really only One Day and that Last Day that you’d even have a chance to talk to anyone, which is also a monday when you’d probably have work, and yknow, good luck finding help over the weekend, when probably ppl will just want to spend that time rushing to just pack their shit up and leave anyways.....ANYHOW it’s just some particular heinous bullshit and it was like, the saturday after it had happened to her, and i sympathized entirely b/c that had happened to me and i now lived in my car but i figured i wouldn’t bring that up lmfao.......and anyways i was sitting down with her to listen to her b/c it’s an Insanely Stressful Situation and again like, whenever she’d show up i’d let her talk to me abt her Problems for however long she felt like. and anyways of course eventually the one By-The-Books manager gives me shit all like “what are you doing daring to Sit Down and Not be doing restaurantly actions, ugh” and i’m like. i mean, unsurprising lecture to get lol, of course, but i was just so impatient like. well this person was having a crisis so i prioritized that above keeping the coffee stirrers fully stocked at all times, bite me. ENNYHOW and i didn’t see her for a minute after that and i Was a bit worried b/c like. of course i had every reason to be and she was just always looking so completely exhausted but then like, actually the last time i saw her she was actually more upbeat than ever b/c like! turns out that during an argument her husband had assaulted her and had been arrested. which is of course like. i was like oh i am completely sorry about that trauma but congratulations at this person being separated from you!!! and like, i wish i could have kept up with her beyond that, but i couldn’t, but like, that was the first Improvement in her life that i’d heard since i met her, and it was a way better last-thing-to-hear-from-her than her stressing out abt eviction thanks to her abusive husband breaking shit. and like, weird relationship lmao but!! idk i did feel lucky that i could be The One Person This Lady Gets To Talk With b/c like, god forbid she have absolutely nobody to talk to about this shit or treat her with any sympathy, even if it was just me, the rando she only got to see on occasion. and i hope she’s doing okay still! wish i knew for sure of course, but i’m glad i at least got to be there for her in a tiny way for a period of time and did eventually like, Know that she both knew that this was a bad person to be with, and got that Reason to be separated from him.

[thestarrynightgazer]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KING!

It's already april first sooo yeah, I and @galfridus1 wrote something! It was an honor to have my first collab with you!

Although Ellie did all the job...

~

King was crying. Well, of course he was not really crying, he told himself forcefully. He had made a New Year’s resolution after all. No he was most definitely not crying; just… quietly sobbing a bit.

He looked around miserably at the barren shed he was closeted in: industrial concrete walls, a few desolate tools scattered untidily on a workbench, a cork board with a few colourful pins sticking the odd scrap of faded newspaper to its mottled brown surface. It smelled of dust, and King could not suppress a sneeze, clouds of the stuff floating before him in the sparkling air. The shed mercifully had a small window, enough to cast his surroundings in a golden light, though the day would not last for long. His bag was gone, and with it his phone and any hope that he could raise the alarm, or pinpoint his location.

He was not even tied up. The man who had grabbed him from the side of the road as he was on his way home - tall, masked, and lanky with surprising large hands - had just picked him up with no trouble at all. He had hoisted King over his shoulder and run down the street with a cackling laugh before throwing him unceremoniously into a dirty white van. Evidently this kidnapper had rather got the measure of him: King was physically weak, not the type to break out of a concrete shed with his bare hands.

King cursed to himself. This was ridiculous. He had thought the worst thing that ever could have happened to him was when Meliodas had 'accidentally' pulled his shorts down during soccer practice. But no. This was worse. He should have listened to Helbram. His boyfriend had pointedly said only the other day that King needed to go to the gym, to develop some muscle, to stop being so weak that his only defensive move was a limp sort of slap. Unfortunately, he hadn’t listened to Helbram and, in that moment, he regretted heartily that he was such a little sloth.

And part of him was panicking, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. He wasn't some son of millionaire so there was no way this was kidnap for ransom. What if he was to be dissected and all his organs sold on the black market, his kidney, his lungs, his heart and who knew what more? What if they wanted to sell him? The newspapers had been full of stories about modern day slavery… He shook his head at this, refusing to entertain the thought, forcing himself to gain control of his emotions. What was it the man had said after he deposited King in this dirty little outpost? Something about how if he wanted to get out he had to look around?

Well, King did not want to go out like this. He wanted to to die on his bed in old age, married to his cute, mischievous, wonderful boyfriend with several adopted kids and grandkids if possible. He wanted to talk to Helbram one last time, tell him he loved him, tell him he adored him. He wanted to apologize to his sister, tell her he loved her too and to speak to Diane. She was getting married to Howzer! She would definitely cancel her wedding if he went missing…

With a deep exhale that blew out his cheeks, King shook his head once more. Look around? At what? His eyes roamed over the dingy room. The one window was set too high in the wall and was a small, flat affair, far too tiny for even him to squeeze through. The tools scattered about were of no use: a spanner, a small handful of bolts, and a spirit level. Nothing he could use to pick a lock. With a sudden rush of inspiration King ran to the door, twisting the handle and tugging with all his might. But yes it was locked, very thoroughly so. With a frustrated cry, King dropped his hand, spinning on his heels, his eyes alighting on a flash of metal in the wall as he did so.

A safe? There was a safe! There had to be something in there that would help. King shuffled over to the metal box and squinted at it; it was a cheap-looking affair with a simple punch keypad. Experimentally, King typed in some zeros, the display of red numbers beeping quietly after he had pressed the button four times. So, a four digit code was required. King sighed, quickly doing some sums in his head. To try every possible combination would take him more than eight hours.

It was then he decided to look at the cork board. On it were fastened several newspaper articles, all of them reporting errant nonsense. One described how spaghetti had been discovered growing on trees in Switzerland of all places; then there was something about the state of Alabama changing the value of pi to a “more godly” round three point zero; and finally an article about how a man had achieved the power of flight using only the expired breath from his lungs. The last two King was unfamiliar with, but the first story he recognised as one of the most successful April Fool’s Day spoofs which had yet been published in the mainstream media.

King started, his eyes widening as he once more looked back at the board. All of the articles were dated April first, and it was as if a light had been turned on in his brain. That was today’s date! The scare of the kidnap had quite made him forget that today was in fact his own birthday, and that he had been upset with Helbram for failing to even acknowledged the date that morning, even though King had coughed pointedly and looked hard at the calendar.

With trembling fingers, King punched 0104 into the safe, his breath leaving his lungs in a huge puff when the small door swung open. Inside was a silver key, and he grasped at it quickly, his eyes darting from side to side as his muscles tensed involuntarily. He took several deep breaths. The room was empty. No one was going to rob him of his prize.

The key turned in the lock easily, and King frowned in puzzlement. The mechanism was almost too smooth, as if the lock had recently been oiled. King took a careful sniff as he withdrew the key, the smell of the lubricant confirming his suspicions. This was a very strange sort of kidnap, he thought as he carefully, tentatively opened the door, the sudden influx of light making him shield his eyes against the glare. It was almost as if whoever had locked him in here had no intention of keeping him prisoner, but just wanted him out of the way for an hour or so…

“SURPRISE!” The huge yell was like a bark of white noise and King almost jumped out of his skin. Instinctively, he reached out in an effort to clutch at his soft, comfort cushion, before turning red in the face as his hand met the air. Of course, he did not carry that thing around any more. He had not in fact done so since he was a small boy. The blush in his cheeks grew in intensity and King could feel a pressure building behind his nose, his head throbbing as the nosebleed threatened to spill down his face.

“Happy Birthday!” a familiar voice called and, all at once, the world righted itself. King took several calming breaths as he forced himself to take in the scene. There was Elaine, smiling broadly, Ban standing beside her with a leer on his face; Diane and Howzer, standing together, the man’s arms wrapped around the petite dancer’s trim waist as she laid her head back into his shoulder. Elizabeth was off to the side, her long silver hair swaying as she busily fussed with something on the large table which stood in the middle of what King now recognised to be Meliodas’s enormous garden, its trim lawn and neat, manicured hedges set around a gravel driveway. The shed itself was decorated with bunting in cheerful greens and yellows, King’s favourite colours, for they reminded him of spring.

The tinkling laugh attracted his attention. “It took you long enough to get out of there! We’ve been waiting an age!” King practically floated towards Helbram, collapsing into his arms as the other grinned brightly. “And, look, you really need to do as I say and go to the gym. Ban said he just picked you up! Is that true?”

“It wasn’t like that at all,” King spluttered, his voice drowned out by Ban’s cackling laughter.

“He did try to slap me~” the tall man conceded.

King closed his eyes, anticipating more of a teasing until Elaine’s soft voice floated over the air. “It is my brother’s birthday,” she chastised, an edge to her tone, and both Ban and Helbram fell silent in an instant.

“And there’s cake!” a cheerful voice called and they all swung around to see Meliodas bounding across the drive, his feet crunching on the small stones as he moved. In his hands was the most enormous confection; a hugh, multi-tiered cake covered in crystal white icing and heaped with sugared pansies and violets. There was so much of it King stared and stared; there was no way the eight of them could possible get through it all between them.

“Some more people are coming later,” Meliodas explained in response to King’s questioning look. “Everyone’s coming, even Gowther. I hired a DJ. It’s going to be great!”

King felt his throat squeeze shut, his cheeks still flaming red as he looked round at his friends.  His heart was still racing, his body still alive with adrenaline but he could feel himself beginning to relax. Helbram’s arms were still round him, and he leaned into his touch, before the pair broke apart and King took a few, hesitant steps towards the table as Meliodas placed the cake on the chequered white and red cloth. King looked at it once more, taking another step closer; it really was a work of art.

“Happy birthday, mate!” Howzer said heartily and King felt a firm slap across his shoulders. He stumbled, his arms circling in the air as he tried to regain his balance but to no avail. He heard Diane gasp, and felt someone grab the back of his coat, but the action was just a little too late. King could not even squeak, could do nothing at all as he pitched face first into the huge cake, grimacing as his head was surrounded by cream and icing and crumb.

It was silent. King knew his hearing was muffled by cake but he could still tell the others were making absolutely no sound. He pushed against the table, dislodging his head from the mess, swiping at his eyes to clear them of cream. The cake was a write-off, and King could see that his clothes were coated in mashed up food, and he knew that his hair must also be plastered with the stuff. He did not dare look up, even when Diane started yelling at Howzer, her usually sweet voice shrill with her ire. “I didn’t mean it!” her fiancé protested, as Elizabeth made soothing noises, evidently trying to smooth over the fight.

King felt an arm loop round his shoulders. “Come on,” Helbram whispered into his ear as he led King carefully towards the large, sprawling house. “It’s not matter. We’ll get you cleaned up. Mel will let you borrow some clothes, or I can go back and get some of yours if you want. It’ll all be okay.”

“Why am I so weak?” King asked bitterly. He was rigid in Helbram’s gentle embrace, his hands curled into fists at his side. “I hate it…”

“You’re not weak,” Helbram said comfortingly, and King felt their steps slow, before Helbram turned him in his arms. Before he knew what was happening their lips were pressed together. The kiss was slow, deliberate, possessive and full of love, and King could feel his pulse beginning to calm.

“You’re one of the strongest people I know,” Helbram said firmly and King was surprised to see his boyfriend looking so serious. Helbram was always the playful one, the light-hearted joker, the man who brightened every day. He was never serious, something King sometimes found frustrating, so it took him aback to hear the sombre tone now.

Helbram continued, “You always stand up for everyone, you protect others however hard it is. That’s why I love you. Now, let’s get inside.” With a small smile, Helbram once more guided King towards the house, the sounds of their friends arguing fading as they made their way inside.

“I love you, too,” King said in a rush. He expected to splutter with the admission, to turn bright red as usual, but he found the words came easily and without embarrassment. “I really love you, even if you did have me locked in a shed,” he said more confidently. Their eyes met, and King allowed himself a small smile to see Helbram looking so happy, his slightly pointed face alight with his grin and his light-green eyes shining.

“That would have been so much more poetic if you weren’t covered in goo. Come on, there must be a shower somewhere in this mansion.” Helbram took hold of King’s hand. “And Happy Birthday,” he said more quietly as they leaned against one another, their fingers lacing tight together as they went to explore the house.