#and another man who is a photographer who lacks a sense of self

[intomybubble]

Now that Boy’s Abyss has its last chapter out I can definitely say, that was a whole lot of ass. It was fine at the beginning but jfc the last half felt so meandering.

Like wtf was that with the random uncle towards the end? How many times do we get told who tf Reiji’s dad was, only for it to be weirdly contrived by the last time (like? he pretended to be his own nephew and Reiji’s mom still slept with him at the hospital during work ourselves???) Did Reiji and what’s her face actually kill themselves? Idk for sure bc it was like 2 pages. Like their whole relationship was built on them wanting to kill themselves and I barely recall them having a proper talk with each other. OH MY GOD I DIDNT CARE ABOUT HER. Same with the crazy yandere pedo teacher. I have no idea what happened to her either. Like??? Is she just holding Nagi’s uncle hostage now?

The only characters I cared about was Chako (and author guy’s ex-girlfriend bc she was the only reliable and normal adult in this series) and thank god she at least seems to be doing fine. Also sorta the guy friend, and he’s doing fine as well.

Anyway, after 4 years of reading, that’s finally fucking over. I would literally rather reread Himegoto (same author) bc even though the main issue is the lack of communication (but considering their secrets, I 100% understand why they wouldn’t say it) at least the characters have clear ends to their storylines and its more condensed (100 chapters vs 183)

[taintedbloom]

Archie was more than willing to conduct an impromptu interview if it eased her mind, but he stood by the warning that some answers were not going to be easy or for the faint of heart, at least from Kaia's position. He couldn't help sensing they were walking a dangerous line between a brutal truth she inquired of him and the broken scars of his past he wouldn't allow anyone to come remotely close in touching. The only person who knew where he came from while still understanding very little about the man was Grayson. Even then, limited communication with his brother meant the existence of Kaia from Grayson's side was not common knowledge. At least, Archie hoped it wasn't.

Archie bothered to care less how one silly little photograph tipping him off to his darling Kaia seemed ridiculous. He saw a woman, beautiful and eye-catching, and the obsession developed until the thought of her left his skin itching. "Psychotic? Delusional? Positively immoral? All traits which I am in some form or another." He learned early on after leaving home if there is something you wanted that you cannot live without, you took it. No permission needed, no waiting for the perfect moment or internal debate. Many died in the name of this philosophy, effecting him none whatsoever.

Archibald folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the marble counter's edge, eyes following Kaia back-and-forth as she paced the length of his kitchen floor. If she wasn't careful, she could bore a hole where her feet landed on the linoleum. "No, love, I took her so she didn't end up like me." He clarified, knowing even saying that revealed more than he was comfortable. Rather obvious an assassin suffered a terrible childhood and he suffered tremendously. A neglectful father, a sociopath for a mother, and a brother he was forced to compete with. "Take that as you will."

Maybe that's one of the major reasons why he gravitated toward Kaia the most. Her parents were a nightmare, his were destructive for psychological warfare. The pair both were born the youngest of two siblings, compared to their well-preferred counterparts, and failing in the judgmental eyes of their parents. The only difference between them? Kaia loved her sister, practically worshipping the ground Kira walked on. The notion seemed admirable, but unreachable when his feelings for Grayson lacked the doting love often common in brothers. Another facet of his personality tucked away behind shutting off emotions and forgetting the remnants of the Devereaux family.

Archie was suddenly struck by her words like an arrow through his chest, the feeling was unfamiliar and unexpected. He despised a feeling he could not control. "I never meant to, baby." He whispered with genuine sincerity for the first time, aware he broke his promise about calling her by the pet name. Perhaps, that's one promise he couldn't keep. "It was an act of self-preservation. I can't change my decision, I can't bring her back, and I do not hold the power to erase the hatred you look at me with." Archie crossed the kitchen to where Kaia stood with a sigh passing his lips, keeping his distance but pushing the boundary slightly for selfish reasons. "I'm not asking you to replace her mother despite my overenthusiasm earlier. All I do ask is become her caretaker where a father fails, where I cannot in some aspects, someone she can turn to. Someone I can turn to." He ducked his head in an attempt to catch her gaze, "We're all she has, my dear. Whether you accept it, we're all the other has."

she hadn't expected to rattle off so many questions at once, although it seemed archie had read her curiosity on her face before she'd even been aware of it. kaia moved away, placing some distance between them as she rested against the counter, her arms wrapped protectively around her own frame as if it would be enough to keep her together once she heard any further detail on what happened the night of her sister's murder.

his first answer did not soothe her any, her brows knitted together as she realised that only brought her to question more about his choices than before. " you saw a picture of me and decided you had to have me? do you realise how that sounds? " she imagined he didn't much care for how it sounded. archie evidently was very entitled. he clearly didn't seem to have anybody in his life capable of telling him no, she couldn't imagine he ever had. her eyes rolled as she looked away from him for the moment.

her gaze was brought back rather pormptly, however, as the man began to deep dive into what he knew, and how intimately he knew her family already. she stared at him. kaia could not argue, even from the outside looking in, it seemed the man was capable of understanding just how much damage her parents had done to her growing up. kira was the perfect daughter, and while they were hard on their eldest, kaia got the brunt of their disapproval, of their irritation.

the woman swallowed, licking her lips as she began to pace the kitchen, if for no other reason than to distract herself from the emotions bubbling beneath the surface. " you took her so that she didn't end up like me?" she responded, " a little contradicting. " that wasn't exactly what he was saying, but kaia couldn't bare to unpack all of this just yet, she hadn't been awake long and already her head hurt.

the woman deflated finally, resting her back against the wall, " my parents would have destroyed her, " at least that much was true, " but you destroyed me. " kaia looked away, putting a hand over her mouth as if that would somehow make this easier. she looked to the floor, " I have only ever received love from one person. the same person who would've done-- this. would've been whatever you wanted for that little girl. you chose to kill her instead. now you expect me to fill her shoes when I have never been able to do that, not ever in my life. "

[craptsukii]

genshin boys and terms of endearment they'd use

a/n: this is my first time writing headcanons and ngl i found them quite difficult to format :( i’m liking this style for now, but things might change later on teehee anyway, lemon cake update next week, i promise!

♡༚࿐ 🇩‌🇮‌🇱‌🇺‌🇨‌

let’s get something out of the way first

diluc is not a jerk

sure, he might have tsundere tendencies but he’s definitely not as cold as people make him seem

in my opinion anyway

i like to call him a classy, but also a very private, softie

i can totally see him as someone who’d use terms such as darling, love, doll

a major factor here is the time and place

in public, he tries to seem more indifferent and will most likely refer to you by your name

however, in a more private setting, he has no inhibitions and actually prefers using nicknames!

I feel like diluc would want to really reassure their partner he truly cares about them, but in a direct yet indirect way

and calling you sweet things seems to get the message across.

listen to this while reading!

If only time could pass faster. Who knew waiting could be such an agonising activity? Such a simple but repetitive thing. Waiting for your cake to finish baking, waiting for the morning to arrive and even waiting for your lover to come home turned out to be much more of a challenge. It wasn’t unusual for Diluc to spend hours on end at Angel’s Share, but it was rather odd of him to break his promises.

A sad smile took over your features, remembering last night. Remembering his words, so sweet and benign, promising to dedicate you all of him and his time. His crimson red eyes, full of love and admiration for the person he held so dearly to his heart. His voice, so demure and nothing but a soft whisper, as if raising it would ruin the moment. The moment he shared with you in a little dark corner of Mondstadt, away from curious eyes and sharp ears. The moment he so desperately wanted to hold onto. Yet, the darknight hero was nowhere to be found.

By the time he finally arrived, your eyes were already closing. It was a gloved hand that pulled you out of your somnolent state. Yet again those same red eyes were looking into yours with the same devotion, if not stronger than the night he made his promise.

“Forgive me, love,” he pleaded in a shushed tone, “Kaeya came in and started causing a commotion and I couldn’t just leave.” he continued, his thumb brushing over your cheek delicately.

Too tired to say anything, you placed your hand over his, silently asking him to join you in bed. You had all the time in the world to discuss tomorrow... Hopefully. After discarding his black coat on one of the chairs and taking off his shoes, Diluc plopped in your shared bed, not even bothering to change into something more comfortable. Soon his arms were around your waist, bringing you closer to his chest. His smell reminded you of grapes and it completely enveloped you as you nestled into him.

“If only I could turn back time…” Diluc murmured to himself, kissing the top of your head. “Nothing will come in between us and our time together tomorrow. I promise you, darling.”

Turns out that, in the end, he does keep his promises.

♡༚࿐ 🇽‌🇮‌🇦‌🇴‌

listen to this while reading!

my very polite baby

like sure, he’s straightforward

but he be treating everyone with respect

you might be wondering why that matters

well that's because i think xiao would see it as a little rude to not refer to someone important to him by their name

names play a major part in xiao’s past

with rex lapis re-naming him after taking him under his wing and such

so, in my opinion, xiao finds calling out your name way more meaningful than nicknames

although if he were to use one it would probably be dear

it’s short and he can still address you as “dear (name)”

it does sound quite formal at times though

Moments like this were rare. Usually, sleep doesn’t concern your lover in the slightest, as it rarely comes to him. Although you couldn’t help but admit how much you loved it when he did come and sleep. Cuddled up next to you was the vigilant yaksha, the well known protector of Liyue. And dare you say, it was truly a divine sight. In the wash of the morning light, his face took the appearance of an old photograph, so nostalgic, so at peace. Slowly, one of your hands brushed past his face, placing the few rebel aquamarine strands that were cascading down his cheek behind his ear. For a moment, you find yourself in perfect silence, Xiao’s soft breaths being the only sounds that could be discerned. Without realising, you started softly rubbing his back, your heart leaping at the content purr that followed shortly after.

It was almost impossible to put into words the joy this brought you. Although it was such a simple, mundane thing, seeing Xiao so at ease was by far your favourite memory with him. The more you studied his features the more your sight fell upon his lips. The sudden urge to kiss him overwhelmed you, wanting nothing more than to cherish and show your lover the affection he deserves.

If only the sudden chirping of birds didn’t scare you, barely a few inches away from his face.

Curse those birds and their awful timing! And so, you backed away, laughing to yourself in self-consciousness, thankful that no one was aware of your little mishap.

Or so you thought.

You felt your face get warmer the moment you saw Xiao looking at you, drowsiness still coating his eyes. Yet again, for another short moment, no sound could be heard.

“____ my dear” he said, his voice deep and hoarse, snaking his arms around you as he brought you closer to him, “if you won’t do it, I will.” it was then the flush across his cheeks became apparent to you. Shame you didn’t have time to savour it, his lips immediately finding yours in a sweet, dream like kiss.

Moments like this were truly worth treasuring.

♡༚࿐ 🇨‌🇭‌🇮‌🇱‌🇩‌🇪‌

in contrast with xiao, childe loves calling you cute nicknames

in fact, he barely uses your name!

sometimes he likes to tease you and pretend he forgot your actual name

of course that’s not true,he could never do such a thing

I can totally see him use pet names such as comrade, girlie, cutie, shawty, sweetness, princess/prince, baby

ok i know shawty is kind of random, but i think he’d use kind of ironically?

I think he’d also use big sister/brother just to tease you, even if you’re younger than him

he heard teucer refer to you as such one time and it honestly melted his heart a little bit

as a side note, seeing his siblings get along you makes him genuinely happy.

listen to this while reading!

Spring was such a beautiful time. Especially in Liyue. Especially on a date with the one and only Childe, eleventh of the Fatui harbingers. For someone with such a fearsome title and reputation, it wowed you to no end just how charming, just plain adorable, Tartaglia can be. Albeit, it was only your second date, it was expected of him to at least try to be nice.

And on time.

As you waited, under that beautiful sky, a hue so gentle between cloud and baby blue, you watched each bird upon wing. It was one of those spring days with a kiss of coldness that somehow heightened the warm rays of the sun. You paused to admire the flowers, to sense their aromas, to be in the moment with their transient beauty.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” asked Childe from behind you, a shy, perhaps slightly embarrassed, smile painted on his lips. “Sorry I’m late, I really overestimated my juniors’ capabilities and I had to step in.” he continued, gingerly taking hold of your hand, kissing the back of it.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his gentlemanly antics, although you enjoyed them nonetheless. “Don’t worry about it, you’re here now.” you reassured him, as you took a hold of his hand, already leading him towards nowhere in particular.

Another thing you liked about him. Things were so casual, so easy-going. One might call this date nothing but a hangout, but not every date has to be a luxurious five star dinner or a fancy show. Sometimes just a simple walk along the Liyue port was enough. Enough for you to get to know Childe, enough for you to like him even more.

Suddenly, Tartaglia was in front of you, his hands lightly taking hold of your face.

“Hold on cutie, there’s something on your face,” he answered your silent question, seeing as you looked a little confused. The next thing you knew, his lips descended upon yours. It was a sudden but very much welcomed kiss. A kiss that unfortunately ended just as abruptly, “it was me.”

♡༚࿐ 🇿‌🇭‌🇴‌🇳‌🇬‌🇱‌🇮‌

favourite peepaw

also prefers using your name rather than nicknames

but he’s not completely against them

he finds them quite nice actually

and he actually enjoys being referred by one!

like imagine going for a stroll with him and all of a sudden you go "darling, look!"

he'd look so content oh my lord

in my opinion anyway

he’d usually call you honey, my beloved or even my one and only!

you could be doing the simplest of things like reading with him under a tree

and he'd go "you're my one and only love"

no, he isn’t aware of how cheesy it sounds.

listen to this while reading!

Who knew the God of contracts could be such a romantic? Usually, Zhongli wasn’t a big fan of fancy, elaborate dates. He’d usually say something along the lines that “spending time with you was enough for him to feel like the richest man in the world”, which he technically was even without your presence. But, quite frankly, it was because he lacked the funds to do so that he didn’t pamper you every moment of the day.

So when you found yourself face to face with an array of different foods, meticulously prepared and arranged on a soft picnic blanket, you couldn’t help but wonder —

“Why the sudden change?” you asked, sitting down on the plush cover, to which Zhongli only chuckled.

“Am I not allowed to change my mind?” he replied in a teasing tone, flopping next to you.

“Oh, you are more than welcome to do so,” you winked, pouring some tea for both of you. It smelled like chamomile, “I was just trying to say it’s a nice change.” you continued, taking a few sips of your tea.

Zhongli only hummed, content with your response. Sometimes, sitting in silence, all while eating delicious brunch foods and drinking sweet tea, was much more enjoyable than small talk.

And so, you spend the rest of the day with your lover, basking in the sunshine and each other’s company. In his embrace, there was something so right, something that felt right, smelt right. You let your body sag, your muscle become loose. In that embrace you felt your worries loose their keen sting and your optimism raise its head from the dirt.

“You’re so beautiful, my beloved,” he whispered, cupping your face and kissing you gently.

♡༚࿐ 🇰‌🇦‌🇪‌🇾‌🇦‌

avid user of nicknames

partially because he finds them cute

and partially because he loves teasing you

he’d use them in public and try to get a reaction out of you

like let’s say all of a sudden kaeya is back hugging you, pampering your neck with kisses

saying something like “what’s wrong, baby?”

he’d also use hot stuff, sweet cheeks, gorgeous, handsome, cutie pie, treasure

sometimes they’re really sweet, other times they’re really silly

side note, i feel like this one got a little out of hand sorry yall i lowkey can’t take kaeya seriously

listen to this while reading!

There was something so heavenly about a kiss in the rain, a tender moment that just wouldn’t wait. It was that burst of love that is expressed, not caring if the water soaked through to chill the skin. You felt yourself gasping for air as Kaeya’s lips left yours, doe like eyes searching for his. Behind that brilliant shade of blue sparkled a glacial attraction. So complex and mysterious, it was magnetic. It made you want him even more.

Upon seeing your dazed state Kaeya smiled, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. His hands found yours. “Let’s get you of here before you catch a cold.” he said, leading you down the streets of Mondstadt. It was the middle of August, and you got caught in nothing more than a summer rain. You weren’t even cold, but alas you let it slide, enjoying seeing Kaeya worry about you, even if it wasn’t as serious as he made it seem.

There is something about a rain-washed pathway that invites playful feet, that says each new step will be rewarded with a splash. And soon, you found yourself splashing around, making the most out of this accidental rain shower.

The moment you finally reached your home, Kaeya wasted no time, his arms already wrapped around you in a tight embrace. Yet again, a gasp escaped your mouth, Kaeya’s cold lips leaving goosebumps behind each carefully placed kiss on your neck.

“You know what’s the best way to get warmed up, treasure?” he asked, his hands ghosting over your hips.

You shook your head softly, awaiting his answer.

“A good old dance party!” he exclaimed, spinning you around as he started humming a cheerful. “Nothing gets the blood going like a little movement!” it was obvious he found great pleasure in seeing your more than confused, if not disappointed, expression. Still, he paid you no mind and continued dancing with you all while singing a cheery melody.

It was quite save to assume there was never a boring moment with this man.

♡༚࿐ 🇦‌🇱‌🇧‌🇪‌🇩‌🇴‌

my favourite elevator boy

doesn’t love nicknames but doesn’t hate them either

i see him as an action speak louder than words guy

and although he’s aware that, as his partner, you know that

he still feels sorry for not being as vocal as other people when it comes to talking about his emotions??

so cute terms like these are a simple way he can show his appreciation for you

for some reason, i think he would really like using diminutives??

he’d call you things like little star

or baby or lovebug

i think it really matches his vibe ngl

listen to this while reading!

The breeze blew warm announcing the coming of summer's hottest days. The aroma of the tall grasses were an intoxicating perfume and the starry night above was a painting more sublime than any man could create. The clarity above became reflected in your mind.

Being with Albedo meant putting up with the unholy amount of hours he’d spend on whatever research he’d be conducting at the time. And luckily for you, his next big discovery involved the stars. On the black sky above you, there were a multitude of stars and there were lighter patches, clusters of faint and bold light, the constellations altered according to the time of year. These were the same stars that greeted the ancients, the same ones that would be there in millions of years.

As you enjoyed your little midnight snack, your gaze fell upon the chief alchemist. His eyes were fixated on the landscape above him, utterly fascinated by the world’s mystic beauty. Seeing him so consumed by his studies made your heart feel warm. It was adorable to see him like this.

Your sudden yawn made both you look at each other. Albedo’s gaze was filled with compassion, and perhaps a little remorse for making you come with him so late in the night just to stare blankly at the sky.

But you knew this wasn’t such a trivial thing.

You pet the spot next to you, silently asking him to sit down with you, to which he immediately obliged. As his head found its place on your shoulder a little sad smile made its appearance on his face.

“Sorry for making you come here with me, baby.” he said, his hand drawing patterns along your thigh. “I know this isn’t your idea of quality time.”

“Any time spent with you is quality time, silly.” you giggled, kissing the top of his head. “And besides, who doesn’t enjoy a little bit of stargazing?”

♡༚࿐ 🇻‌🇪‌🇳‌🇹‌🇮‌

ok now for venti

i feel like with him the tone he uses is very important??

i mean this also applies to the rest of the guys

but for venti even more so

he could simply refer to you by your name and it would still feel all special and bubbly

nonetheless, he loves using pet names!

i mean as a bard, he can come up with poems and such on a whim ( flashback to the signora moment :) )

so his nicknames for you always have a certain meaning or funny story behind them

oh, you love pumpkins or had an unfortunate accident involving one? now he calls you pumpkin all the time

he’d also call you things like sunshine because to him you bring so much joy and you warm his heart just like the sun.

with that being said, good luck to those pulling for him! <3

listen to this while reading!

“There you go! You’re really good at this!” Venti complimented you, observing in great detail the way your fingers touched the strings of his lyre.

Judging by the curious stares and even odd looks you’d get from time to time, that wasn’t really the case. What was supposed to be a simple walk around the city turned out to be a full concert. Although Venti couldn’t find it in his heart to tell you, who asked him so eagerly just a few moments ago if he could teach how to play a song, just how… Poor was your attempt.

A relieved sigh could be heard the moment your fingers left the strings, although Venti’s reassuring smile never left his face. “Don’t let a few strangers discourage you! Even the greatest geniuses had to start somewhere!”

“Are you saying I’m a genius?” you asked teasingly with a raised eyebrow, laughing at his flustered face.

“Let’s not go that far…” he murmured, winking cheekily.

“And here I was, thinking I could wow you with my insane musical skills…” you whined sarcastically, handing him his lyre as you continued your stroll. It was then Venti stopped in his tracks. Upon his face, shock was written all over, his expression soon turning sympathetic. For a moment, he left you alone, diving into the crowd of people, only to return to you with a single cecilia flower. Its fragrance was sweet and fresh and its color a perfect white. Shortly after, he gently placed it behind your ear, smiling to himself while looking at you.

“You don’t need fancy tricks to win over what you already have,” Venti said, kissing your cheek lightly. A cheerful tune could be heard across the street, Venti’s soft melody attracting a lot of attention, “I’m all yours, sunshine.” he said loud enough for more than a few people to hear.

He has such a way with words, doesn’t he?

[helloanthy]

i listened to it to lull myself to sleep last night, because i heard the first 2 tracks while i was working, and was like oh this is a sleepy sounds which didnt go well with what i was doing so i put it off i didnt hear the lyrics going to sleep. i woke up this morning and decided to listen to it while i was being a beast of labour instead of when i was using my brain. i dont that was a good idea because i did listen to lyrics this time it reminded me i dont really listen to mitski because while i do like and enjoy her work um. it makes me. feel really really. really bad haha. its a testament to her lyricism and writing ability to be able to ... get such a visceral reaction i feel ... but i was not having a good time ahahaha. did i stop listening to it though ? ... well i looped it for nearly 3 hours i liked it ! i really enjoy the instrumentals. iirc her work, or at least her older work, sonically has that like ... grainy nostalgic quality to it ? that i feel is similar to the sad feeling of looking at an old photograph of when you were happier and being unable to recognize yourself. and i like how dreamy and at times overwhelming this album sounds. i feel like thats just generally mitskis style though, but the feeling is even more ... polished here ? idk if that makes sense ... it made me feel of a gaping hole where your happy memories should be, but being unable to find none. like the memories are so distant theyre more like ideas now ? but the instrumentals are really my favorite so far out of her discograpahy that iv listened to that said i spent a few hours of my morning, genuinely for the lack of a better phrase, in emotional turmoil and then 2 hours into looping this album i was like "OH wait this is so anthycore. thats probably why that anon asked me about it" 🫠 so i started listening to it thru my fandom goggles ... fandom ... headphones ??? honestly it was also an attempt to distance myself from the effect it was having on me ahahaha. did it work ? good question anyway songs that i think r rly anthycore - IM YOUR MAN ^_____________^ pain pain pain constant torment everlasting anguish sickening thirst and cyclical self sustaining suffering dukha samsara etc etc. what can i say about this song other than just repeating the lyrics ? also this song reminded me of lão hạc which made me sadder. a beast of burden not only of the body but of the mind as well, i was this morning - star [which also reminded me of this fan comic by @/spiribia i really really like of anthy & akio] - my love mine all mine im actually listening to these tracks right now to write out my thoughts but i feel like vomiting blood the more i try to think about it. fun fact my coworker kept asking if i was ok today ^____^ - i love me after you how i love me after you king of all the land [pleeeeease] - the deal girls who are cagessss girls who are dolls girls who are empty bird cages with no soul girls who are heartless dolls who can feel no pain but conversely can never feel happiness AGAIN no anthy today im going to take another sedative good night 💜

what do you think of the new mitski album

oh ... ! i was not aware there wasa new one, i don't really keep up with music releases hahaha but i do need something to listen to today while i work, so ill get back to you on that anon !

[brian-westbrook]

The Invisible Waves

 

     The bright mid-morning sun forces JD to squint on this particular Sunday as he looks out his kitchen window. It has been three weeks since our "all-knowing" government instituted unprecedented restrictions on our free and democratic society. Distancing self-imposed isolation, face masks, and constant hand-washing are all in the name of keeping safe. Keeping us healthy is the order of the day.

 

Code Yellow

 

     Checking his FitBit for the temperature and time, he decides to do his fibromyalgia ravaged chest a world of good by going for his daily walk. It is excellent exercise.

*

     Being an observant man, not too long into the walk, he begins noticing only a few cars on this usually busy avenue. It is exceptionally much less than the normal flow of traffic. The consequence is a reduction of carbon monoxide spewing into the environment. To mankind's pearl, the planet is quickly warming JD hears in public and social media. Many world powers are signatory to a pact of keeping the earth's temperature not rise more than 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit. This was agreed to at the UN Climate Change Conference held in Glasgow, Scotland.

 

JD began to notice many people were walking.

 

Moms and dads,

Children and grandchildren,

Dogs too of all shapes and sizes,

Walking together as families.

 

Children are laughing and running ahead,

with their dogs at their heels.

Some puppies are playing in the snow.

 

Moms, dads, and grandparents

desperately trying to keep up and acting as rear-guards

if you will.

Talking. People are actually talking to each other.

Perhaps this phenomenon is happening for the first time in who knows when.

 

There is a sense of oneness with life,

a harmony and playfulness are in the air.

 

Another Wave

 

Eight months into COVID-19 and

the behavior of the local citizenry is much different.

 

Walking around the city's second-biggest mall,

JD takes notice many are not behaving in the 'new normal.'

People are supposed to obey "Please Stay 6 Feet Apart," the signs say.

Someone forgot to mention to the signwriter that we are sort of a metric nation. Many questions, "What is the meaning of 'foot?'" Aren't signs supposed to inform and not confuse?

 

The new catchphrases are 'social distancing' and 'wash your hands.'

 

People are reading, but only a few abide by the direction on the signs at the storefronts. Signs also indicate the maximum number of people allowed on the premises. So potential shoppers queue up.

Many are not two meters between. 'So what is a meter?' many are thinking.

Many are also not so obedient in following the directional arrows tapped to the store's floor. As a long-time college teacher, this abnormal behavior gave JD pause for thought. This virus kills, damn it!

 

Daily the newspapers report the number of new cases...and deaths, now over 300 at last count. Oh My God, the virus is still spiking.

 

Public announcements are continually broadcast. Code Red is in effect.

 

Photographs plaster the pages of all newspapers showing people with trolleys queued in front of a big box and liquor store entrances. Nobody is socially distancing.

Daily, the TV evening news shows the streams of car's headlights on main streets coming home from work.

In their cars, these people are commuting using 'social distancing.'

But what about when they are out of their cars and in their place of employment?

 

At this point in time, even many churches took it upon themselves to defy government orders by holding church services. Such an action flies in the face of the authorities and is a total lack of concern. Such complacency is killing people!

[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. 

[apiratewhopines]

Killian, Persuaded

Chapter One — Don’t Panic

Summary: In which our hero panics

Read on AO3

“All of us are done for”

-Don’t Panic, Coldplay

It was no secret Killian Jones lived a charmed life. How could it be when his handsome face was plastered across glossy magazines covers and splashy websites on a daily basis? Dark hair carefully tousled to look as if he woke up that way. An athletic figure always encased in the latest fashion and, more often than not, topped off with black leather. A smile said to cause an increase in heart rate for those lucky enough to experience it firsthand. And perhaps the most defining feature, one gossip columnists and celebrity photographers waxed lyrical about, impossibly blue eyes that could charm or chill in equal measure depending on his mood.

He inherited his father’s roguish good looks and, fortunately for the world, his mother’s better nature.

As he rolled out of bed early one fall morning, it was with the deep sense of well-being one could only achieve from a pampered existence, free of the stress and worries normal people carried like millstones around their necks. He walked through a hallway laid with Italian marble liberated from a Renaissance era villa to a bathroom featured in Architectural Digest as the most luxurious in the world, causing an Arabian prince and a Russian oligarch to accuse him of sleeping with the journalist who produced the piece.

He had, of course. But that didn’t mean the title wasn’t deserved.

He stepped into an enormous shower that provided an expansive view of skyscrapers and the ocean beyond through the one-way windows forming the walls of the room. It was one he was so familiar with he didn’t even notice it anymore. As he washed off the lingering scents of the night before—stale cigarettes, spilled booze, and expensive French perfume—he rolled his shoulders under the perfectly calibrated water pressure of his rainwater showerhead and let the massaging jets work their magic, precisely hitting all the important hydrotherapy points as they had been designed to do.

Stepping out, he wrapped himself in towels of the softest Egyptian cotton embroidered with the Jones family crest. As his father always said, just because they were in the colonies, it didn’t mean they had to forget where they came from. Never mind that the colonies hadn’t been colonies in well over two hundred years. His family had always preferred to live in the past.

Killian’s father was also keen on never forgetting who they were. As if such a thing would even be possible when all articles about them started with a brief reminder their roots could be traced back as far as the monarchy and noted they were in possession of a bank account rivaling the tech giant nouveau riche of the vast city quite literally laid at his feet every morning.

Although, it should be noted his father would never be so tasteless as to discuss money. Comparing bank accounts was the province of those who didn’t have enough. No, the elder, esteemed Mr. Jones preferred to simply let his massive wealth speak for itself, silently scorning those who had less while appearing to think nothing of it. And why should he? It’s not like he had done anything to earn it other than being born into the family.

Generation after generation passed down entitlement and piercing blue eyes like they had patents on them. His father offset his lack of the most noted Jones feature by putting his blue blood on full display whenever possible. Some might even accuse the head of the family of overcompensating.

The truth of the matter was, Killian was the product of a long line of smug snobs so it was amazing he had turned out as well as he did.

Or perhaps not so amazing when you considered his mother had been a stranger to this world of glittering privilege. That’s not to say she was completely without resources. In the real world, she would have even been considered wealthy in her own right. But in the Jones sphere of reality, the general view was his father married so far down the ladder, he was practically romancing pond scum instead of a clever, beautiful soul who devoted her life to helping others and raising her two sons.

Killian realized at an early age it was, in fact, his mother who could have done better.

His parents had been an odd couple that never stood a chance. While no one would ever know for sure, because the only thing worse than talking about money was talking about your feelings, the general consensus was when his father saw his mother exiting the courthouse one day it was love at first sight. She was leaving her latest case as a Human Rights lawyer and he was coming from being the defendant in a string of slumlord lawsuits.

His father had always appreciated a pretty face, a trait he definitely passed down to his youngest son, and his mother could never resist the chance to save someone. Even if it meant losing herself along the way. Even, and perhaps especially, if the person didn’t want to be saved.

Doomed from the beginning.

Shaking off the odd sense of melancholy that threatened, he threw his towel into the corner and walked unashamedly into a closet so large it could easily house a family of four with room to spare. It was a grand space, two stories softly lit by Baccarat chandeliers and filled floor to ceiling with custom clothes tailored to his exact, and enviable, measurements.

Another longstanding family expectation was to always look your best. Nature had been kind to the Jones clan but it never hurt to play up what you were blessed with. Clothiers practically threw garments his way knowing they would reap the benefits of a timely paparazzi snap. The three piece suit he wore when he proposed to his fiancée sold out within seconds after the picture went viral and the designer currently had a two year waitlist for his creations.

The pressure of being a trendsetter never bothered him. Honestly he couldn’t care less what people thought of him. Being universally adored did wonders for your confidence.

The same could not be said for his estranged older brother. While Killian received the lion’s share of swagger, Liam had inherited their mother’s self-righteous streak with none of her sweetness to temper it. He was a chore to be around at the best of times so it was no surprise barely a year after the death of their mother, and only a few months after his graduation from university, Liam proceeded to thumb his nose at centuries of Jones tradition by defying their father and enlisting in the Navy thereby renouncing any claim to the family fortune.

He hadn’t even had the decency to join Her Majesty’s Naval Service. In a complete break with the family, he visited the nearest strip mall and was recruited by some of Uncle Sam’s finest.

From that day forward, their father insisted he had only one son. Liam was painted out of family portraits, his name stricken from the family tree, his signature removed from the vast network of accounts and properties. Killian still remembered the last time he saw him, laughing as he waved from the backseat of a cab, looking as if the weight of the world had been taken off his shoulders.

It was the only time he’d ever been jealous of his brother.

Now, more than fifteen years later, he often wondered where Liam had landed. If he was still laughing or if the harshness of a world without means, without the Jones family name to soften any and all blows, had crept up on him. The abandoned boy, the one who had watched from a spotless mansion window as his best friend and hero walked away without a second glance, hoped so. But it was a mean, half-hearted wish. Hidden beneath layers of hurt, the reality was he would never want any harm to come to his brother.

Deep down, he wished he had followed him out the door.

Selecting a black suit and contrasting tie at random, he started getting dressed. Normally, his valet would be on hand to smooth wrinkles and polish off his look. However, the man had taken a long overdue vacation to tend to his ailing mother. Killian wasn’t so far removed from the real world he couldn’t dress himself for a few days but the sense of being out of sync wouldn’t dissipate.

He couldn’t account for the feeling. Admittedly, this time of year was harder than most. It never failed that autumn brought falling leaves and personal loss. First his mother, then his brother. To complete the trifecta, a vision of a blonde with a guarded smile filled his mind, green eyes flashing and chin tilted up in challenge.

With a ruthlessness that was completely unnecessary, he tugged his tie in place and risked a glance in the mirror for the first time that morning. Or maybe it had been months. Carefully cultivated nonchalance stared back at him. He wondered when he had lost the fire in his eyes and how long it would be before he gave a damn about something again.

Perhaps it was easier this way.

And perhaps if he kept taking the easy way, the next time he saw his reflection he wouldn’t recognize himself at all.

—

It was with some surprise he found he had thirteen missed calls when he bothered to check his phone. While his social media accounts were heavily trafficked, there were few who had his number and even fewer who actually used it in this day and age. The fact all the calls originated from a single source—his best friend of sorts—made it even more shocking.

There was a time when it would have been rare for Robin Locksley, heir to an ancient title and completely bankrupt estate, to be awake before noon. What was the point really when all you had to look forward to was crippling debt? That all changed when he settled down and started a family only to lose his wife less than two years later.

Normally he would have given into his curiosity and returned the calls but for once, he had someplace to be. The family’s legal and financial advisors recently called an emergency meeting and requested his presence in addition to his father, who normally handled these types of things. It was an unusual move to say the least but his father assured him it was because they wanted to talk him out of a risky investment. Misguidedly, they thought his son might get him to see the sense of their arguments.

Killian could have told them not to bother. His father no more listened to him than he did anyone else. Still, it was nice to feel wanted for something other than a free ride so he cleared his non-existent schedule and took one of the family’s fleet of limos to the tastefully understated brick mansion serving as a headquarters for their business ventures.

He could count on one hand the number of times he had bothered to visit. Honestly it seemed like everything ran a lot smoother if he didn’t get too involved. This laissez-faire type of leadership was the only way men of his class ran things. Anything more would be a disgrace to the honorable name of Jones. Or at least that was what his father said. Since he didn’t have any real interest in the day-to-day runnings of their portfolio and numerous acquisitions, it worked out well for everyone. The fancy business degree currently gathering dust somewhere in his penthouse could have been wallpaper for all the use it got.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized his time would be better spent at the yacht club or with his eminently suitable fiancée. She had been inexplicably absent the prior night and hadn’t returned the texts he sent to check on her. He was sure she would breeze into his arms at some point today with a perfectly absurd excuse and be delightfully motivated to make it up to him. The faint wave of nausea presenting itself at the thought was immediately dismissed as the result of too much caffeine.

He mounted the steps with a level of trepidation he normally reserved for babies and churches. The hard facade suddenly seemed imposing and it occurred to him the only vehicle in the cobblestone driveway was the one he arrived in. He would be joining the meeting as it started so the absence of his father’s preferred antique Rolls Royce was disturbing to say the least. Mr. Jones prided himself on his punctuality. Truly, it was his only redeeming virtue.

Shrugging inelegantly out of his overcoat, he knew he wasn’t imagining the brief look the staff exchanged when he crossed the threshold. Tension, an infrequent visitor in his cosseted life, formed in his shoulders, muscles bunching under the clean lines of his suit. He made his way unaided to the second floor, pausing on the landing when he heard the emotionless drone of some random news anchor echo down the hallway. It wasn’t until he heard his name fill the space his feet started moving of their own accord. He reached the boardroom at the tail end of the story but it was enough to get the gist of it.

There on the television, the ribbon running the details even as the reporter gleefully narrated it for an rapt audience, was a picture of his father. Time had been kind to the senior Jones, his hair still dark and falling in wavy perfection around his handsome face. Dimples winked charmingly as dark eyes twinkled with a sense of mischief that was totally an illusion. He was a hard man who had petrified after the death of his misunderstood, but nonetheless cherished, wife.

‘Anonymous sources reveal Brennan Jones, widely considered one of the richest men in the state, fled from authorities last night...’

Tearing his eyes away from the screen, he noted everyone was focused on his reaction, or lack thereof. Those brave enough to face him head on would notice the twitch of muscle in his cheek, a nervous tell the people closest to him knew was a sign of deep emotion. He felt like he stood there for days before someone stepped forward. It evidently fell to Marco, a friend of the family who had the distinction of being the only advisor hired by his mother, to be the messenger. “Killian, I’m so very sorry.”

Not sure what this man had to apologize about, he asked with a bemused grin, “Whatever for?”

Shuffling nervously, Marco stared at him again. Looking around the room at the shell shocked faces, he didn’t resist when the older man took him by the arm and led him back into the hallway. “I guess you haven’t heard. Of course, we had no idea it would come to this. I wish I could give you happier news.”

Mind uncomprehending of the scope of tragedy waiting for him, he said, “I would settle for any explanation at this point. Why was my father on television this morning?”

“Oh Killian, my boy, you probably should sit down...”

“I prefer to stand,” he murmured, internally bracing himself. Marco had always been one of the least annoying of the host of advisors employed by his family. The unassuming man had the kind of face that made you think of grandparents and unconditional love, or at least that’s what Killian thought when he was a child. Now he knew while grandparents were real enough, unconditional love was a fairy tale.

“Your father raided the meager funds left in the family coffers and left the country to avoid prosecution for wire fraud and tax evasion.”

“Meager funds,” he repeated, feeling lightheaded. “I’m not sure I understand. The last time I was at one of these little get-togethers, we had over half a billion dollars in assets.”

“That was many years ago, my boy. Your father made some poor investments and he never was the best at curbing his lifestyle to fit his income.”

Swallowing thickly, Killian ran his hand through his hair and forced himself to remain calm. If what Marco said was true, poor investments was the understatement of the century. In a pale imitation of a joke he offered, “So what? We’ll have to sell some property and maybe a couple of the yachts? Start sharing a helicopter with another family?”

“Unfortunately, the situation is more dire than that. Most of the property is already gone. The only yacht left is the one he stored in Maldives, probably in anticipation of his getaway.” With a kindly hand on his shoulder, Marco gave him an apologetic look. “I’m afraid it gets worse.”

In disbelief, Killian shook his hand away and propped himself against the wall. It was an artful pose that didn’t hint at the real reason he was leaning, namely he needed the hard surface to keep from sinking to his knees. “How could it possibly get worse?”

“The family money wasn’t the only thing he took. Your fiancée went with him.”

—

Killian was surprised to learn the hardest part wasn’t listening to the substantial inventory of assets already lost. It wasn’t seeing the short—far too short—list of property still in play that would be offered in a fire sale to end all fire sales. It wasn’t the fact people he thought of as friends were already circling like sharks, ready to take a piece of the family prestige home with them at a fraction of the cost.

It wasn’t the media demanding answers to prying questions every time he left his building. It wasn’t the news cycle replaying the details of his embarrassment over and over again on an endless loop. It wasn’t that somehow his name had become a punchline overnight, cannon fodder for late night talkshow hosts and comedians.

It wasn’t watching his family home, the last tangible thing connecting him to his mother, being emptied out. Observing the gentle landscape surrounding it being surveyed in an attempt to siphon off parcels from the main section to try to bring in more money at auction was surreal but unavoidable considering the circumstances.

It wasn’t the hushed conversations that followed him, fracturing into silence as soon as he was within earshot. Nor was it the pitying glances the staff gave him when he had to dismiss them with excellent references but a fraction of the severance they deserved.

It wasn’t crawling into an empty bed and pulling cold sheets over his head every night. It certainly wasn’t missing his fiancée, a woman he had committed to but, in hindsight, hadn’t liked all that much. If he was being completely honest, her leaving was the only silver lining in this particular rainstorm. Although her manner of leaving left much to be desired.

It wasn’t even the sudden lack of everything. His whole life he had been comforted by possessions he used as a replacement for love. Every article of clothing a substitute for the affection he never received, every priceless piece of art a proxy for family photos never taken much less displayed, every impressive technological gadget a surrogate for the support sorely missing from his life. His six car garage was now empty, a willing sacrifice in order to compensate the slate of advisors needed to carve up what was left of his life and repay the debts of his father.

Now that the clutter was gone, he actually felt a certain freedom in the emptiness.

No, the worst part was the silence. The feeling of being utterly and completely alone despite doing everything in his power to keep it from happening. With the shock of a lifetime to provide perspective, Killian realized now he had twisted himself into someone he didn’t know in a misplaced attempt to please a man who would never be proud of him. He let go of all the things that made him happy—the people who made him happy—to try to meet some unattainable standard of perfection in the eyes of the horde he had mistaken for loved ones. People who had abandoned him the second he was no longer the darling of their social stratum.

Still, he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss the buzz. He knew it was meaningless but the constant hum of activity gave him the illusion of being a part of something.

He knew some of the silence was his own fault. He had turned off him phone and frozen all his social media accounts. It seemed wise given the shit show that was currently his life and all the expensive advisors agreed laying low was the best course of action in situations like these.

Luckily, his dwelling and a few pieces of furnishings were his outright, bought with the small trust he inherited from his mother so at least he wouldn’t be living on the street. He had a comfortable cage to crawl back into every night. A lonely place to be sure, but no one could take it from him. It was a lot more than most people would ever have and a lot less than he wanted.

For the first time in a long time, he looked out over the city and truly saw it.

He had no idea how long he had been standing there lost in thought when the elevator bell rang. Someone made it past the doorman and the front desk. Trying to figure out how his visitor managed to get all the way to the penthouse was a welcome distraction from his gloomy musings. The ringing kept up a steady pace but he didn’t make any effort to key open the door.

That is until the noise took on a familiar tune.

The unmistakeable though slightly off-kilter sound of Hooked on a Feeling rang out in the harsh meep of the doorbell. With something approaching wonder, Killian ran over to the security pad and punched in his code. Instantly, the elevator opened revealing a sight he never thought he’d see again.

Staring back at him through blue eyes identical to his own was the face of his long lost brother. Through the intervening years, Liam grew his hair out and it now curled in a way that made him think it was probably raining outside. Faint scores of wrinkles defined the areas of his profile showing Liam had continued to find joy in the struggle of life. Completing his perusal, he noticed his brother had bulked up, muscles replacing the softness of an idle life, probably a side benefit of his years in the Navy. His clothes were of the outdoor variety, navy utility pants topped with a gray fisherman sweater and pea coat, and they made him look like he stepped out of a travel magazine catering to ecotourists. “Liam, I...how did you find me?”

“Finding you has never been a problem, little brother. You don’t exactly fly under the radar. Reaching you on the other hand...well, I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to find a different way in since you won’t answer your damn phone and there isn’t a lock to pick on this contraption,” Liam explained, looking Killian over with a worried expression that gradually gave way to a bright smile. “You look like death warmed over.”

“Good to see you too,” Killian answered sarcastically, still trying to get his bearings. While Liam had changed in a few superficial ways, his determined expression and uncompromising attitude seemed unshakeable even after all these years. The bruised ego and hard feelings of their long separation faded away like it never happened and he was fifteen again, basking in the glow of a beloved brother. “Why are you here?”

“Why do you think? I’m rescuing you from your ivory tower.”

“I don’t need to be rescued,” he scoffed. Times made be bad, but it wasn’t like he was starving. He still had his pride and it forced the next words out of his mouth before he could stop to consider if they were true. “Certainly not by a man who acted like I didn’t exist my entire adult life.”

Stiffening, Liam advanced into the room, taking no notice of the breathtaking view or the recently minimalist design. Suddenly Killian was engulfed in a fierce embrace, pulled into his brother’s strong hold. He heard Liam say in a gruff voice, “Our father has a lot to answer for but know this, I thought of you every single day since I left.”

A little piece of him broke, even he couldn’t have said if it was his resolve or his heart, and he felt tears well up. Uncomfortable with the stir of emotions, he joked as he hugged Liam with equal intensity, “Aye, serves you right you bastard.”

“Too right,” his brother agreed, pulling away to clap him on the back. Barking out orders in a way that gave Killian a glimpse of the other man’s military background, he didn’t even argue when Liam said, “Pack your bag. I’m taking you home.”



[mwolf0epsilon]

“Eps’s Notes on The Illusion of Living”

It's taken me nearly three months to get this done due to writer’s block kicking my sorry butt. But, as promised, here are my notes on the "Illusion of Living". Good god has this been painful… But I did have a lot of stuff I initially thought of Joey somewhat confirmed for me, and got a few extra interesting tidbits of info that I feel are very curious...

--{Key}--

Italics are my opinion

--{Key}--

--{Quick retelling of the book’s contents}--

    The Drews were among the more impoverished families in New Jersey, and Joey's father briefly worked in the silk industry to make end's meet before opening his own shoe store (that his mother oversaw profits for as the accountant). As such there were obvious limitations to a lot of Joey’s upbringing (like a lack of toys to entertain him with, and very few family vacations/trips that were memorable).

According to Joey, the shoes sold at his family’s store were primarily designed for people in the working class (clunky shoes and boots that would endure wear and tear rather than be flashy or comfortable to wear, which Joey complained never really fit him right), and had one singular design that was simply improved upon rather than any variety (I suppose the saying here would be “don’t fix it if it ain’t broke” but Joey really seemed to have some sort of issue with this, as he disliked his father’s works).

    Joey's mother was a hardworking housewife and the primary parent when it came to rearing her child. She educated and played with him more than his father, so Joey was much fonder and emotionally close to her than to him and, while Joey’s father wasn’t an absent parent by any means, he was definitely more engrossed in working to sustain the family.

This family dynamic definitely had some impact on Joey, especially since his mother got him interested in the art of storytelling in general, and he seemed to have a lot more respect for her than for his father. In fact he even had a few reservations regarding his father’s mental integrity when he discovered his talent for making voices in a rather odd manner.

It should be noted here that, while Joey's father was strong, he looked deceptively frail and wasn't considered a particularly brave man by any means. He was however regarded as a bit of an entrepreneur, and Joey was very concerned that he may not be sane (which was a bit of taboo at the time, considering treatment for mental health issues hadn’t advanced past lobotomies and other disturbing medical malpractices) because he talked and sang to himself in curious little voices while he worked. Curiously enough, while a patient and loving man, Joey's father wasn't aversed to cursing around his young son (although Joey himself doesn't seem to use crass language, even if it was normalized in the household). Another curious thing to note is that Joey greatly dislikes mud, and especially hated it as a child (alluding to his later obsessive cleanliness as an adult).

    Because of the financial issues his family suffered through, Joey didn't have a radio or many books growing up, and was thus more fond of Vaudevilles (specifically theatrical comedy, tragedy, and bizarre/surreal acts) which were pretty common in his city of birth. This interest for theatrics and third person story perspectives mixed terribly with later events in his life, like how at age 10 he witnessed a potential murder/suicide (Jesus christ...). Through this event he realized that there were different kinds of people in specific situations, especially when faced with the finality of death. Joey goes so far as to describe how theatrical the death was (Almost sounding disconnected from the reality of the situation as he noted that the crowd and even his own father seemed more like characters to him than real people). However, since Joey's neighborhood was ripe with strange people, he wasn't unfamiliar with bizarre events happening around him. Seeing a motorized ambulance was more amazing to a 10 year old him than actually caring for the death of a stranger at the front of his father's store.

    At age 12, Joey went to Coney Island for the first time, and the journey excited him greatly since he didn't get to leave home very often. The trip to Coney Island was magical in a sense, and later in life he hoped to replicate it in Bendyland to a more permanent degree (the trip back home ruptured the magical effect, which he didn't want to happen with Bendyland).

Joey has his own set of rules he plays by which he considers his life’s philosophy that he calls "The Illusion of Living". This was inspired by several events in his life, including his father passing the time by playing make believe (the Shoemaker and the Elves). This unique perception of what illusion and reality are (“the same thing”), seems to point to Joey having developed a dissociative personality disorder from a young age, which got progressively worse as he grew older. This in addition with the ADHD patterns he displays in his confusing rambling writing (and Joey rambles a LOT), and the almost OCD behaviour in regards to cleaning up after himself, indicates Joey lacked impulse control and was more prone to listening to intrusive thoughts.

Joey's view of reality was often confusing to others and he greatly enjoyed poking fun out of slowly getting them to his point of view. Conversations with Joey were thus quite frustrating to some, but no less curious to others that actually tried to understand what the “Illusion of Living” was about (Like Nathan). According to Joey, only a few people ever got close to understanding it.

    Joey enlisted to fight in the first war after he lied about his age (He was 15 years old, a year younger than the required age to enlist at the time). Out of all the positions in the army, he seemed most interested in comms, and considered himself more decent in communicating than actually fighting in the front lines.

It seems like Joey greatly enjoyed how he looked in uniform, and was also particularly finicky about his looks in general despite being in boot camp.

He made friends in the army, Private Donaldson and Private Eckhart, which Nathan (who worked at the tech lab that Joey later worked for) attests to being accurately described in the book. They were slightly older than Joey and were also interested in communication tech and shared his sense of humor. They also influenced Joey's social life, and tried to get him to date some gals that he wasn’t remotely interested in (the first indication that he may not be straight).

    Another close friend Joey had in the army was Lottie (a communications officer) and he used to "chaperone" her whenever the four went out to party. He seemed to have a considerable amount of respect for her (which is likely a result of growing up observing his mother, thus understanding that women were competent in positions where other men would scoff at the idea of them working at all). As such he was quite supportive of the War's “Hello Girls” (comms female officers). Interestingly enough this contradicts Joey's sexist persona that he seems to take on in Dream Come to Life (a mask that seems to be among many others he employs to fit in with the rest of society).

Lottie was his special gal pal in the platonic sense and, while he often ate alone to be left with his thoughts, she usually sought him out to talk to.

Joey only ever empathized with people he was close to, often reserving telling stories to comfort his friends specifically. It was the only way he could brighten their day (which later supposedly helped a disillusioned Lottie when she was sent to serve in London). What one could take away from Joey’s days as a soldier was that he was incredibly perceptive in terms of studying people. He easily recognized people’s handwriting, and was greatly fascinated by others’s personalities.

He could also easily charm people just from reading into what they might be interested in, and liked the thought of subliminally impressing others (which he later incorporated into his cartoons). It’s never mentioned, but Joey was likely honorably discharged since the war ended in 1918 and didn’t need to return to the service of the military when the second world war hit (keeping in mind Joey appears to have mobility issues later in life, he might have not been fit for field duty).

    At age 19 Joey ended up involved in investigating the murder case of Walter Richmond, a signal corps soldier Joey met briefly in his service days. The victim in question was responsible for documenting the war efforts, not being necessarily that great of a photographer, but taking a certain amount of pleasure in capturing the most viscerally gruesome pictures possible for shock value. How Joey got involved was a curious thing in of itself, since he didn’t know the victim all that well, nor cared to get to know him. Detective Adam Sinclair (a tall hulking man wearing the typical trenchcoat and fedora combo, who’s most noticeable features were his aged face and unshaven 5’o’clock shadow) tracked him down to his little minimalistic (and obsessively clean and tidy) apartment to question him. Joey was initially unsurprised that an ex-soldier ended up dead (not from the war, but likely ptsd), and was instead surprised that it was a murder case. He ended up inserting himself into the case as Sinclair’s shadow to help solve it. The reason was mostly out of self-interest, but his perspective did seem useful to the detective in the end. Throughout the investigation Joey displayed a few particular traits that indicate his attentive and peculiar nature, such as the way he reads others (their way of dressing and upkeep of posture), the manner of which he judges a good handshake, his distaste for smoking (which was taught to him via the idea that if something smells bad it’s usually bad for you) and drinking (he tries to be careful with alcohol intake in general, as he’s more accustomed to beer than drinks like champagne which one could over-indulge recklessly without noticing). Joey’s fascination for taboo subjects (war, violence, and death specifically) is also noted when he observes the victim’s photographic works.

This is a prevalent theme in an art gallery event where these particular subjects seemed to linger strongly in his mind, to the point where he noticed when one of the photos he recalls having seen before during his brief meeting with Richmond, appeared to be missing from the display. A detail that appeared to be dismissed by others, but of great interest to Sinclair.

    During this same gallery event, there was an incident set up by the murderer that involved a firecracker and a crowbar that set off a lot of panic. Joey’s work at the signal corps labs saved him from the brutality of the trenches, but he's apparently familiar with the effects of severe PTSD (And ironically notes that reliving the same painful event over and over again is his definition of true horror/personal hell).

It became very apparent to both Joey and Sinclair that the murderer was amongst them, and that this onslaught of panic was a message: That the murder of the frontline photographer was personal.

They did in fact come into contact with the perpetrator and, after a while of radio silence between Joey and Sinclair, the case was solved with...Minimal success. While Sinclair knew who killed Walter Richmond, he unfortunatelly did not have enough proof to convict her (the sister of a casualty of war that could have easily been saved, had Richmond not left him for dead because it fit his narrative of the war just fine), thus allowing her to get away with literal murder. Worse yet, the resolution of the case seemed to further disconnect Joey from reality and consequence. He gained a disdain for Adam Sinclair where once he’d respected him as an authority figure of sorts, finding that he’d accomplished his role and still failed miserably. In the end, the only thing to come out of teaming up with Sinclair was learning a social skill that Joey employed later on, by mirroring back certain aspects of a person so they’d be more comfortable around him. Otherwise the detective became nothing more than a distant memory. Unimportant in Joey’s later narrative.

    Two years later, Joey started working for a bookstore where he began satiating his vast hunger for knowledge, now that he had access to all sorts of books he could never afford as a child. Joey is fairly well read with an interest in various genres, although it was previously noted that during his army service people made fun of him for especially liking fictional novels. Joey being Joey however, wasn’t overly fussed about others’s opinions on what he sought enjoyment from, especially when it came to storytelling. Aside from getting his reading quota filled out, his bookstore job also helped him develop his salesperson skills through reading his customers. Through his experiences with his father’s shop and shadowing Sinclair, he had by now understood that people were highly superficial, and that he could apply whatever knowledge he gathered from them into how he sold his pitch to them. His charisma seemed to lure in customers.

    While working at the store he met Abby Lambert who he immediately noticed had an eye for art. Joey quickly became friends with her and seemed to greatly appreciate her no-nonsense attitude towards life in general, going so far as to respect her capabilities as a working lady where other men would be disdained with her difficult attitude. In fact, he wondered why anyone wouldn’t hire her to do a job she could clearly handle, just because she was a woman (again contradicting his sexist persona). As a connoisseur of the arts, Abby was the one to fully introduce Joey to her favourite craft. He especially took an interest in Impressionism and its influences.

Abby also supposedly introduced Henry to Joey, which the latter insists wasn’t really that remarkable of an event since Henry was “unimaginative” and “lacking in talent” due to his specialty in cartoon caricatures, and not the richer awe inspiring paintings Joey seemed to prefer (basically Joey spends any given time in the book trying to make Henry seem as insignificant as possible out of pure unadulterated pettiness, which physically pains me).

Ironically, in terms of entertainment, Joey later favoured cartoons as the more appealing form of films since most other mediums didn’t really spark his interest, even if the genres were ones he found fascinating (I suppose that despite films being works of fiction most times, Joey likely thought real life actors were far too limited in their acts due to the natural limitations of the human body).

Returning to Abby, her friendship seemed to be more impactful to Joey than most others. Like with how he preferred his mother’s company to his father’s, Abby seemed to be one of few people he actually felt comfortable around, to the point where her criticism didn’t bother him. She was also mindful of him, where she could recognize Joey’s “preferences” and made it a point to clarify to him that their outings were purely platonic so he wouldn’t get uncomfortable in those situations.

    Three years after meeting Abby and Henry, Joey became a manager at the bookstore and Henry began working there as well (by Joey’s suggestion it seems), and only then did they sort of start developing a meek little friendship of sorts (although Joey seems very dismissive about it and focuses primarily on Abby).

During that time, the idea to start his own business came about from two different events that happened that year. The first being his first ever theatrical script that he wrote and performed with Abby at a gallery event. During the performance of this little play (the theme of which was an angel and a demon discussing their role in influencing a mortal’s life), Joey discovered that he greatly enjoyed controlling situations and got way too into it (even considers what he could get away with in the name of entertainment, such as if he could act out actual violent or scandalous behaviours if he proclaimed it a part of the show).

The second event was his father sending him shoes once a year (which, because Joey disliked the make of his father’s shoes, he tried to get him to stop by pretending they weren’t arriving at his address or that they were getting stolen). As a means to ensure he got them, Joey's father started sending the packages to the bookstore. A doodle and writing on the package ended up inspiring Joey to create his own studio as he wanted to take flight in the entertainment industry.

    Having thus decided that he wanted to open up a film studio of some kind, Joey immediately set off to get himself a memorable mascot. He had a vague idea of what he needed and what might be appealing to an audience, but he wasn’t particularly skilled in character design and openly admitted to this. Abby, who was also not particularly good at drawing cartoons, understood that her more realistic style wouldn’t really help (or appeal to) Joey, so she enlisted Henry’s help. Knowing that Joey was a bit picky in regards to how he evaluated art, she thought perhaps she could persuade him to take a liking to Henry’s works (which he wasn’t particularly fond of, due to Henry mostly working with pen-drawings of cartoon characters and caricatures that looked very unremarkable to him) if he could only see him actually work his “magic”. Joey was reluctant to bring Henry into his business plan, but upon actually reaching a design within a few minutes (that took a few tries experimenting with animal and human features in more detailed and then simplified ways) of Joey giving some directions, he seemed to be sold on bringing Henry on board.

Henry designing the company mascot was thus the final push to open up Joey Drew Studios.

The two began their partnership not too long after, and from then on out things got interesting very quickly.

    The history behind the studio is...Not an easy one to validate in terms of whether or not Joey is sincere or even really knows certain dates (the more I look into the beginning of the book and the later exposition of information, the more I realized either Joey was starting to trip himself up on dates or his memory was visibly failing him). There are a lot of discrepancies in the dates provided, with some going back on how long Henry remained in the studio (even claiming to have at some point surrounded him with other animators and even a lead artist a year prior to his departure), when Sammy and Jack were hired (He says he hired Sammy in 1929 during the Wallstreet Crash, but later says he hired both him and Jack after the Wallstreet Crash), among other things... Joey Drew Studios was primarily funded by Mrs. Richmond (the mother of Walter Richmond), as Joey had forged friendships with the people involved in the case he’d helped Sinclair investigate (including the murderer whom he had grown to respect).

While other investors aren’t really brought up, it’s implied Nathan also had a hand in helping the studio taking off, as Joey often met up with him at the Russian Tearoom whenever he could. During these private meetings, Nathan would impart advice on Joey. Advice which he seemed to not care for, as he already had his own concerns at the time.

It seemed that his main plan was to acquire a talented and capable team to achieve his dream. A team Joey thought he wouldn’t need to "baby-sit", as he specifically wanted to hire individuals that were as studious and capable as he saw himself (curiously Joey mentions that Henry’s work ethic was exactly what he wanted, as Henry had never held work back or needed to be checked up on, which to Joey was an invaluable attribute).

For at least two years, the Bendy Cartoons were nothing but silence and sound effects (something we actually see in-game in BatIM Chapter One when the projector suddenly turns on and we hear nothing but the clicking of the projector and Joey’s whistling), which put them at a bit of a disadvantage when it came to competing with other animation studios.

This soon changed when Joey came across Sammy Lawrence and Jack Fain at a party he was attending on his 30th birthday (which he wasn’t celebrating, the party was a completely different event so supposedly Joey doesn’t care much for his own birthday).

He was already familiar with Sammy’s musical skills (mostly playing the piano quite masterfully), as he’d seen him perform at the theater when Sammy was still a teenager. Noticing him and Jack at the party was entirely accidental and was mostly due to the fact that, while Sammy was trying to keep out of the spotlight as he played, Jack’s showmanship shone through and caught Joey’s eye with how boisterous he was in their musical performance.

Joey approached them once their act was done and managed to convince them to work for him. Jack seemed to be immediately on board, while Sammy was a little more guarded in his agreement and immediately set up his stipulations for the job. This seemed to lean Joey’s interest towards Sammy (who Joey was unhealthily fascinated with because he was clearly not an easy man to control) more than Jack (who he likely considered too easy a read in terms of character, thus not much of a challenge to sway or condition).

     By 1933 Joey officially bought the entire building the studio was set up in (which up until then was occupied by other people seeking their own ventures). Expansion and new hires likely started a year or so later and continued on despite financial instability, and between 1941 and 1942 Joey was already starting to work out how he’d get Bendyland to be just as perfect and spectacular as he had always envisioned (which was difficult because he never really got it to feel just right in his eyes, and something felt off to him).

In between listing several different projects, vaguely describing an innovative techniques (Sillyvision which seems to be linked with the Golden Ink?), and even setting up his own 7 rules on how to animate to help set up a guide for aspiring animators, Joey slowly drifts away from the studio topic and finalizes his book rather abruptly.

He insinuates there’s a lot more for him to tell but little to no connection with the “Illusion of Living” philosophy and he’d rather focus on his actual physical work with the Studio than sit down and write further, so he finishes off on a rather...Vague note.

--{On Joey Drew}--

Year of Birth - 1901 (Day and month are never mentioned, but it's possible that his favouring of the autumnal season alludes to a fall month) Year of Death - ??? (Supposedly he's died, hence why Nathan claimed the Bendy IP) Birth City: Born and raised in Paterson "Silk City", New Jersey (Joey doesn't seem to have an accent, so he likely masks it, or made an effort to lose it). Physical Characteristics: As a child he used to have curly hair (Considering the era’s general fashion and style, it’s very likely that Joey either cut his hair too short to see the curls, or simply uses too much gel to seem more presentable) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Homosexual with Demiromantic subtones (Joey seems to be closed off in general, but more appreciative of the male figure. Could be interpreted as demisexual however, since Joey himself doesn't seem to like wasting time around people he doesn't have much of a bond with) Notes: Here are several notes I’ve compiled about Joey and his opinions on certain things and people. There’s a lot to look at as this man rambles like an old lady at a friday night bingo event, and thus I had a lot to take in!

Laughter is important to him.

Seems to be a dog person.

Likes Cheerios (yes this was a super necessary detail I had to jot down).

Considers having his ideas disclosed without permission to be disloyal.

Seems to have some sort of dissociative personality disorder (likely brought on by trauma or another undiagnosed mental disorder).

People-Watcher by nature.

Was taught by his father that the shoe makes the man (aka the art of studying people through their shoes).

Joey believes in the saying "The Truth is in the Pudding", a saying his mother often employed.

Never had enough money to own a pair of nice fitting shoes until he was 26.

Is narcissistically vain. Easily takes insult if people assume he can't look presentable.

His service in the army gave him experience with "experimental tech".

Enjoys music a lot, and he was considered a great dancer.

Finds modern feminine fashion standards appealing.

Disliked the way those with money romanticized lacking material gains. Found it personally disrespectful in a way, since he himself came from a poor family.

Seems appalled by too much color on one's wear (Joey is the goddamn fashion police).

Very picky about the arts.

Apparently disliked Henry's art style(???).

Lets people believe Henry is the creator of the toons, in an act of being holier than thou. (You lying son of a gun, stop lying to everyone and yourself whaddahell).

Joey's analogy of Henry starting a journey but Joey being the one to reap the benefits, is likely the truest thing he's said in this nightmare of a novel (boastful bastard...).

Thinks of Bendy as his firstborn, muse and messenger.

Took an art class with Abby (likely not a full art course, just a simple class to get the gist of it?).

Considers art the doorway to immortality.

Doesn't like post-mortem success (it frightens him, even). He'd rather be successful in his lifetime.

Admits to making mistakes, but not many. He also thinks mistakes don't need to be permanent.

Doesn't know what true rest is like, and is unsure if he'll ever be content enough to rest. On that same note he seems to really hate sitting still and his mind tends to wander, which he notes Nathan recognized with ease, even reserving a specific look for him (It’s the ADHD baby).

His friend Kyle was a lazy person and a gossip, which were traits Joey found annoying.

On their first meeting, Joey described having a desire to shove Sammy off a roof to see a more human reaction from him.

Assumes Jack is jealous of the attention he gives Sammy, or that the duo's relationship is strained, despite him barging into their lives out of the blue and making him feel like a third wheel.

Seems to think of himself as some sort of a messenger (going so far as to akin himself to the god, Mercury). His life’s mission is to help those who don't know they need to be helped (mostly through spreading happiness and laughter in such a dark and dreary era of human history). Bendyland is essentially Joey's means to fulfil this desire, as well as to chase his own need for a properly realized mixture of immersion and illusion.

He wanted Bendyland to be perfect, even the plot of land it might be built in needed to be perfect, so he inspected it himself with Nathan once he bought the deed.

Appears to refuse to call Bertrum by his proper name once he’s corrected the first time. Referring to him instead as either Bertie or Bert (toying with him perhaps? Testing boundaries?)

Doesn't drive. He instead hired a personal driver, Simmons.

For a little while he was living the American Dream, but thought of how he lived as less of a shared goal and more of a personal one (again setting himself apart from others).

His days were quite flexible and he seemed to despise set routines. He also doesn't like sleeping in. He liked to take a walk in central park early in the morning.

Joey used to make his rounds around the studio but the installation of the Ink Machine changed that habit a bit.

Nonchalantly notes that Shawn Flynn got a little defensive if he needed to be corrected on his work (OCD much, Joey? He was painting a lot of dolls by hand, slipups happen...).

He had priority meetings with Sammy, "meetings" with Jack (Sir what are these quotation marks for, are you snogging Jack while no one’s watching???), then met with the art department preceding the writing department, and finally he met with Grant Cohen in accounting to discuss finances and budget.

He had the final say in ALL paperwork regarding studio affairs.

Upon reading about it, found the concept of bringing in real animals to produce Disney's Bambi as funny, and joked about how trying to do so with Bendy and Boris would be chaotic.

Noted that Abby and Sammy were likely the only two people who closely understand the philosophy of the illusion of living, but not quite…

Was terrified of being misunderstood. Joey didn’t want to only be able to show half-truths, like a mirror reflecting the world darkly. Rather ironic considering he was quite deceitful in his adult life.

His desire for the world to love Bendy seems to be a projection of wanting to feel loved himself (quite honestly if one were to apply the theory of the id, ego and superego, it seems to me that Bendy is essentially Joey’s id, while Joey himself could be considered the Superego. The chameleonic social mask he wears is thus the ego. At the end of the day Bendy and Joey are and aren’t the same entity...).

Originally he didn't want to make a memoir (likely because he can't be direct and needs to work around the truth to fit him). It could also be that Joey didn’t want to linger on the past nor in death. He wasn't sure where it fit with his philosophy and thus tried not to explore too deep into it (existential dread?).

He wore custom tailored suits, and as of beginning writing TioL he had recently taken to wearing cravats (ever the vain man I suppose…).

Despite considering revisiting the past unnecessary, he couldn’t deny doing so if the time called for it. In fact, the Archives are Joey's memories of the past and he's sentimental enough to collect mementos of bygone eras.

Joey has trophies at home, the deeply personal things he couldn’t bare part with. Like the first sketch of Bendy, a napkin with the design of Bendyland, a letter from Henry, a ticket from a Vaudeville show, and his set of shoes he wore when he was surveying the plot of land where he planned to build Bendyland.

--{On Bendy}--

Notes: Here are a few notes I’ve compiled about the Little Devil Darling himself, and a few curiosities about his creation and the inspiration behind his character.

Bendy was officially created in 1928. According to Joey he was born of a dream, supposedly out of necessity, and he always had this idea of a little devil character doing mischief.

Bendy started off as a realistic little boy with a tail and horns (Abby’s attempt to bring to life Joey’s vague idea). Then, when Henry got involved, he became a cartoonish goat creature. The concepts were quickly worked out from a toony clothed amalgamation of both previous concepts, to a more intermediate design more closely resembling Bendy, and then finally, after Joey requested a simpler more shapely and less detailed toon, Bendy became the iconic  little imp clad in only gloves and bowtie.

Joey named him upon seeing the completed design. There are two origins for his name: That of Walter Benjamin Richmond, who’s nickname in life was “Bendy” (a rather morbid homage considering what happened to him), and the mere fact that in Joey’s eyes, his little cartoon imp “bent all the rules”. Henry seemed to appreciate the name.

Bendy is meant to be the devil on one’s shoulders, much like the devil in Joey’s first theatrical play. He is however, a lot more like a little kid playing pranks on people. He is also a sort of embodiment of both the population and human morality (society at its most flawed point, but also quite relatable).

Buster Keaton was an inspiration for Bendy’s many shenanigans and movements, which were always meant to be fluid and a bit bouncy.

--{On Henry Stein}--

Year of Birth - ??? (It’s never mentioned how old Henry is, but I assume he’s around the same age group as Abby, since they were friends and likely went to the same art course. It’s likely that he’s younger than Joey, but not likely by much.) Year of Death - 1963 (It’s not really confirmed if Henry died when he was put into the Cycle, as he doesn’t seem to notice anything odd about himself, but it’s safe to assume the process very likely involves human sacrifice). Birth City: ??? (Unknown, it could be that he was born and raised in New York but Henry lacks a noticeable accent) Physical Characteristics: Average looking? (Irrelevant, he could honestly look like anyone really...) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Presumably Heterosexual (He’s a married man in the 1930s-1960s, he’s either straight or hiding his sexuality, he seems to really like Linda however so could go either way really...) Notes: Here the few notes I could gather of the Henry info we got from TioL. It’s not much but its at least something to work with!

Henry is unremarkable appearance wise (to the point Joey forgot his face easily at first).

The way Henry dressed (mismatched and ill-fitted) indicates he likely grew up in poverty and likely only had hand-me-downs.

He mostly worked with pen-drawn cartoon character designs that were unremarkable but distinctly caricature-like (the Butcher Gang concepts were likely displayed in the gallery Joey attended, as noted by a comment he makes about them). Even if Joey apparently didn’t particularly like his style, Henry’s artwork was one of the final inspirations for the creation of Joey Drew Studios.

He is described as able to draw quite fast, great at taking directions, and as being a good animator. Overall Henry never really had any real need for someone to keep an eye on him which made him an exemplary worker.

According to Joey, Henry used to give pep-talks before he left the studio. This seemed to annoy Joey considerably for some reason (perhaps he was envious that Henry was generally a more likeable person).

Henry is remembered as forgettable, whereas Joey is flashier and more memorable.

Interestingly enough, Henry never claimed to own the design of Bendy, and was more interested in being business partners with Joey than starting a fuss about who owned the rights to Bendy’s creation (It’s very likely that he willingly gave Joey the design because Bendy was his character, and that instead the designs Joey did steal were that of Boris the Wolf, Alice Angel, and the Butcher Gang, the five other more notorious characters in the Bendy franchise).

--{On Abby Lambert}--

Year of Birth - ??? (It’s never mentioned how old Abby is, but I assume she’s around the same age group as Henry, since they were friends and likely went to the same art course. It’s likely that she’s younger than Joey, but not likely by much.) Year of Death - Possibly 1946 (Upon finally losing himself to the ink, Sammy seemed to have been actively hunting the Art Department and any stragglers that he encountered in the studio, so it can be assumed she died in the chaos) Birth City: ??? (Unknown but more likely to be born and raised in New York than Henry) Physical Characteristics: Frizzy hair, even when bobbed. Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Potentially Bisexual (She seemed to be acutely aware of Joey’s “peculiarities” so it’s possible she’s either a member of the LGBTQ community or perhaps an ally. Whatever the case it’s up for debate and interpretation.) Notes: Here are several notes I’ve compiled about Abby and some of her traits and mannerisms. There was surprisingly a lot more to work with than I expected.

She wasn’t really into the typical female fashion of the time. In fact, Abby wasn’t exactly fond of the typical mannerisms associated with women and was both notoriously rude and dressed herself in a “scandalously” modern manner (which is basically code for more practical less femenine clothing).

According to Joey, Abby is a very focused and determined person, which is why he admired her greatly. She didn’t know when to quit, however, and sometimes took things too far or involved others in situations or projects they didn’t want to be involved in.

She wasn’t very good at drawing original cartoon characters, and Joey was apparently not overly fond of her attempts at putting his ideas to paper due to her more realistic art style.

Abby was very insistent on Joey looking at Henry's works, even if he wasn't particularly interested in them (While it’s never said if she enjoys his art herself, it can be assumed she appreciates it enough that she’d want their mutual friend to see the potential Henry had).

She didn’t join the studio as the replacement Director of the Art Department until 1931, as during its founding she was still finishing art school. She and Henry never worked together. Despite this, she and Henry remained in touch even after he left for Pasadena.

--{On Sammy Lawrence}--

Year of Birth - ??? (From how Joey describes him, it can be assume Sammy was a teenager around either Joey’s early or late 20s before they officially met on Joey’s 30th birthday) Year of Death - 1946? (Sammy is one of few people who was turned without being killed first so it’s hard to tell if he’s really dead even within the Cycle since it’s a time loop...) Birth City: ??? (Sammy lacks a noticeable accent so it’s hard to tell where he’s from). Physical Characteristics: Has been described as bird-like and insect-like, with either brown or blond hair that’s kept longer than the typical fashion of the time (Not much more is known about his actual appearance but it can be assumed he’s either average sized or on the tall side considering his in-game height and build) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Potentially Biromantic with a lot of Demiromantic subtones. Possibly Asexual? (Again this is pure speculation on my part because he did seem interested in Susie but isn’t really a people person in general. Does seem to know how to reign in people tho, so ???) Notes: Here are a few curious notes I’ve compiled about Sammy, the circumstances behind his hiring, and how much control he actually had as the music director.

He has an unusual appearance that, while not necessarily described as ugly, was clearly outstanding enough that some people were put off (Buddy) and others thought him handsome (Susie). His hair is also described as messy.

Sammy is an avid smoker.

He was among a few other musicians employed by the theater to drown out projector sounds and match the mood in silent films. Because he was good at improvising music on the spot, Sammy was excellent at carrying the story presented on screen through his melodies, which was what caught Joey’s eye when he first saw Sammy perform.

Sammy also recognized Joey and didn’t believe his dismissal that he was a “town person”. In fact, Sammy pinpointed the recognition to the fact Joey was that one loner that sat in the front row of the theater he played at.

It becomes very apparent that Sammy is suspicious of people in general. The way he observes others indicates he’s had some sort of struggle growing up. As such, he’s not big on sustaining conversations and he managed to aggravate Joey slightly by the way he addressed him on their first proper meeting.

Sammy had a songbook he shared with Jack, meaning they had a strong trust bond, which is why he only agrees to work for Joey based on Jack’s willingness to also be hired. Even so, he immediately set up professional boundaries for his position. He hired his own people without Joey’s interference, and he only ever indulged him if Joey was being particularly exasperating.

It’s very likely that since Sammy was the one hiring who worked for the music department, that he was the one who hired Norman Polk. This theory is made stronger by the fact he immediately demanded a projector and projectionist booth so he could better do his job.

Despite his surly disposition, Sammy is a no nonsense sort who wants things done and over with, rather than sit around and stall. As such Joey considered him one of the best decisions he made in terms of career.

Funnily enough, because the band seemed to be skittish around Joey, Sammy specifically prohibited his presence in the music department unless they had a scheduled meeting. This likely meant Joey was scarcely ever seen in the music department so as to not aggravate Sammy in person.

Alice Angel’s bigger (and failed) presence in the franchise is likely a consequence of another one of Sammy’s stipulations upon being hired. He had immediately noted that if the studio wanted to go anywhere, they’d need a female character (Perhaps Sammy really believed what he told Susie due to despising Bendy and actually favouring Alice as a character).

--{On Jack Fain}--

Year of Birth - ??? (Possibly around the same age as Sammy or a little older?) Year of Death - ??? (He was gone long before a few other people in the studio, likely in the first few experiments Joey performed) Birth City: ??? (Hard to tell, he doesn’t have an easily identifiable accent). Physical Characteristics: Has been described as an atrocious dresser (This man likes wearing bright colors!) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Potentially Homosexual subtones (Not enough information provided to tell) Notes: Sadly lacking in the information department for Jack.

Jack is incredibly sociable and trusts easily. He's described as making bad jokes but laughing genuinely at them. His smiles are contagious.

Jack is an optimist sort who sees the good in any situation (even when being led around in a dark creepy room by a peculiar stranger).

--{On Bertrum Piedmont}--

Year of Birth - ??? (He was retired, so it’s likely he was around his 60s or early 70s when Joey first met him) Year of Death - ??? (It’s unknown when exactly he ended up in the Ink Machine but it’s very possible he was killed when all hell broke loose in the studio) Birth City: ??? (No clue). Physical Characteristics: Joey describes him (rather rudely) as a very portly man. Sexual/Romantic Preferences: ??? (No idea, chief...) Notes: Lacking in the information department like Jack, but what we get is a lot more substantial.

Bertrum was actually retired when Joey managed to get a hold of him. It took a bit of detective work on Mrs. Rodriguez's (Joey's secretary) part to actually find him as well, so he was not an easy man to get an appointment with.

His creative vision impressed Joey enough that the latter he ignored his apparent dislike for reminiscing so as to get him on board of the Bendyland project.

While discussing the Bendyland Project, Bertrum confidently jokes about it being quite the catch. He agrees to joining forces with Joey as long as he gets full creative control of the entire project. Although Joey agreed to this, he still managed to fight Bertrum on a few ideas, which annoyed him greatly.

It’s very likely that it didn’t take long for their initially friendly relationship to sour into open hostility on Bertrum’s part.

--{On Wally Franks}--

Year of Birth - ??? (No clue, but he was very likely in his late teens or early adult years when he was first hired as the studio Janitor) Year of Death - Supposedly still alive (I really do hope he got outta there like the letter insinuates...) Birth City: Brooklyn, New York. Physical Characteristics: ??? (All we know is he likely wears overalls and a sport’s cap) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Possibly Heterosexual (Unless the letter is a forgery, he apparently has a wife, kids and grandkids) Notes: I’ll admit I didn’t expect to get Wally lore, but here we are!

Wally's actually quite skilled with maintenance. He can tinker with the projectors, other machinery and even plumbing. His schedule is a little off however, but Joey turns a blind eye to it because he gets the job done without question.

--{On Allison Pendle}--

Year of Birth - ??? (No idea! But she was relatively well known when she was hired!) Year of Death - ??? (She was likely lured back to the studio after everything went down but before Henry) Birth City: ??? Physical Characteristics: She’s a beautiful tall blonde according to DCTL Sexual/Romantic Preferences: ??? (She and Thomas are married but I honestly have no clue how to feel about her, she’s a mystery to me.) Notes: Extra minimal Allison lore for your Allison Pendle lore needs.

She was a famous Broadway actress before joining the studio. Interestingly enough, Joey was the one to hire her to replace Susie, not only breaking Sammy’s stipulation on the matter but also stirring Susie into becoming resentful towards Sammy and actually trying to recover her former role at all costs (even her own life).

--{On Nathan Arch}--

Year of Birth - ??? (He was likely a little older than Joey since they were in the army at the same time but Joey lied about his age to enlist earlier) Year of Death - N/A (Still alive and kicking) Birth City: ??? Physical Characteristics: ??? (I guess Boswell Lotsabucks is sorta modeled after him so go off on that???) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Heterosexual (He has a wife and son and doesn’t give me any other vibes besides and overall instinctual distrust) Notes: Oh boy...I do NOT trust this man...

Immediately upon beginning reading TioL you get the impression that Nathan is not only trying to appear friendly and trustworthy by referring to himself as Nate A, but also that he’s trying to cover for Joey and make him appear more personable to the reader. But to what gain exactly?

Nathan is, like Joey, very narcissistically vain, and is also writing a book of his own (an autobiography maybe?)

He’s a smoker and prefers cigars.

When Joey discusses his childhood, Nathan is unable to contradict or confirm anything as he noted that Joey was always very private about his origins.

Nathan seemed truly surprised and impressed with Joey’s ability to make up uncannily believable stories, even suspecting that his accounts of “Lottie” might have been false as he couldn’t find any of the supposed letters Joey sent her when he started working on republishing TioL (it’s likely he could see that Joey often lied to himself just as much as he lied to others).

It seemed to Nathan that Joey was rather oblivious of subtle compliments.

By the manner of which Nathan phrases it, he seems to think of Joey as a professional and kind man, capable of seeing the good in others. That said, Nathan remarks that Henry's departure was a great betrayal for his friend, and that the latter shouldn't have been so "gracious" and "forgiving" towards him…

When the studio began to struggle financially, Nathan worried that Joey might not be aware of the issue at all, or that perhaps he was lying to himself to cope. He also later notes that Joey’s memories seemed to have deteriorated in his old age. He was often mixing up information and seemed rather guilty, which Nathan considering to be very unbecoming of the man he knew Joey to be.

A lot of the deeply philosophical Joey and Nathan interactions seen in the book might actually have occured between Joey and Henry (the "I think therefore I am" conversation is an especially telling one for me), hence why Nathan doesn't recall them. It also seems more likely because they contradict the way Joey portrays Nathan, but seem to fit his portrayal of Henry better.

[ververa]

heeello, I have a request!! Can you write a Leonore Osgood x Reader where the reader is her seamstress? ✨💗Something where Leonore starts to order more dresses as an excuse to see her more often and flirts with her at every good opportunity. I think Leonore is a very confident woman, so she may have taken the initiative to kiss the reader as soon as she thought she had a chance, not being able to withstand a rejection

thank you and sorry if I made mistakes, I'm not very good at writing in english :/

ps. I love your blog💖

“Beyond The Wildest Dreams”

A/N: Thank you so much for this request!!! I had a lot of fun writing it 🤗😅 It's longer than I intended and it's only a few of all the ideas I had for this fic 🙈 So, I actually may write a 2nd part or since I have a few requests for Lenore I may combine them

Anyways I kinda feel like it's not exactly what you wanted, but I hope you will enjoy it!! 😇

Also many thanks to @misssmephisto who always supports me and who helped me a lot with this fic!!! 💜💖💜💖💜

Lenore Osgood x fem!reader

Word count: ~5k

The moment you saw Lenore Osgoode for the first time the whole world simply stopped existing. People around you, models, photographers, former and possibly new clients, even your nervousness - caused by the very first fashion show of yours, was long forgotten, as you watched the gorgeous blonde taking a seat at the audience, right in the first row. She didn't quite fit with the rest. She was fabulous.  No other in the room stood a chance with her. Self confidence radiated from every fibre of her body, not to mention that one look was enough to tell she was an enthusiast of refined style. She was with no doubt upper class. Her outfit itself indicated that she was one of those filthy rich people. Normally you tried to stay away from them, not feeling well in their company, yet this one time you were ready to make an exception. Who could ever blame you? Lenore truly distinguished herself and looked absolutely stunning dressed in a long, red dress and a mink coat. 

She was beautiful and tall - you could put on her whatever you would want to and it would drape perfectly, only adding to her captivating charm. But clothes were more than that - for you at least. It wasn’t just about materials draping nicely or the person looking good. You considered clothes to be a person’s second skin. A layer supposed to not only cover all the imperfections, but also hide their dark secrets and sins, at the same time giving out a hint of their attitude. And that particular approach of yours combined with your skills made you an exceptional designer and  a wonderful seamstress. On the other hand though, it made you misunderstood by many people - especially your fellows - which seemed to be the dark, less nice side of your profession, but you didn’t care about it at all. You were too busy, positively bedeviled with work, to spare your precious time to think about it.

As your eyes set on Lenore you immediately knew that you wanted nothing more, but to dress her up in all the finest materials you could get. Tailor her clothes to fit whatever was her guilt, to match the darkest parts of her soul. You looked her up and down, for what felt like a hundredth time that evening, and still you couldn’t get enough. You were ready and highly likely to come up with yet another project just like that. You knew for sure it would be something different. It had to be special, exclusive, hand-selected, designed just for her and as spectacular as the woman appeared to be.

The images of Lenore in taffeta and silk kept crossing your vivid imagination. You were just having some debate with yourself on what colour would suit her best, though much to your dismay you were brought back to reality by one of the assistants working there with you.

“Miss Y/L/N, we have a little problem backstage”

You turned towards the young man, resigning from watching the blonde and reluctantly giving your full attention to the man. 

“I’m coming” you nodded and - after glancing at Lenore one more time - you followed him to find out what kind of problem he was talking about.

~~~~

Lenore sat and watched, but she didn’t even bother to pretend she was interested. She had a sense that being there was just a waste of time. And as a worldly woman that she beyond any doubt was - she hated wasting her time, especially in places like that.  Shabby and tasteless. Full of inelegant, crude people who tended to get above themselves way too often, while in reality they had absolutely no idea what true sophistication and fashionability were. They came there to watch the show, but it had nothing to do with them being interested in fashion. It was just another way of exposing their self-importance. Lenore knew it better than anyone, but that was all right with her. She used to be like them too, though she no longer needed to prove anything to anyone. That's why for her being there was more like a torture.

If it hadn’t been for her impulsive and capricious decision to fire her tailor she wouldn’t even think of attending such a ridiculous event like a fashion show in a small, prospectless town. What could she possibly see there? Nothing. Those were simple people, not accustomed with high standards and clearly not ready for any fashion revolutions. Lenore hadn’t expected anything spectacular. There was no use in getting her hopes up, since she was there only because she needed a new seamstress. Enjoying the show was far from probable and she was well aware of it. Yet she went and stayed there. Fairly sick to death, but determined, hoping that if she put up with all the inconveniences, she would manage to find what she was looking for. 

Cheap clothes and shoddy jewellery - was all she got to see for the first hour or so and that was enough to drive her crazy. Lenore wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Those people's taste or rather lack of it - cried to heaven. Calling something like that a fashion show appeared to be some barbarous jape. And at that point Lenore was fed up and ready to leave. It was so naive of her to envisage witnessing something groundbreaking, but there was still one more line of clothes supposed to be walked out - and that was it. A real breakthrough. Something out of the ordinary. Something that Lenore wanted, but didn’t know it before.

She watched - suddenly interested in everything that was happening on the runway. Models walked down one after the other, then disappeared, but each one of them - presenting another outfit, left Lenore even more astonished than the previous one. 

Lenore Osgood had always been a material girl, but she felt no remorse about it. Clothes were her own kind of cakes and ale and she felt no shame choosing the perfect fabrics and jewelry that would suit her fancy, after all she had enough money to afford whatever she desired.

At that point all she wanted was that one particular line of clothes. The show wasn’t over yet, but Lenore already knew she was going to be the one to buy all those outfits. She kept waiting though - well aware that the last outfit was supposed to be the most extraordinary one. However she didn’t get to see it, as instead of the last model some man appeared on the runway - informing there was going to be a short break, because they had some problem. 

Lenore huffed. She had never been a patient person and so - obviously - she wasn’t going to wait like others.The heiress stood up, flicked her long coat and not paying any attention to people - who intently observed her every move, not even trying to be discreet- she headed out to the backstage. She couldn’t care less about the rules or the fact that unauthorized people weren’t allowed there. It did not apply to her - that was how Lenore perceived every prohibition she encountered. She had never been the one to care much for the commonly accepted norms. She simply did what she pleased, completely unbothered by the possible consequences. Even more so at that moment - she just needed to meet the designer face to face. After all it didn’t happen often that someone managed to captivate her like that.

How surprised she was when instead of a man - as she incorrectly assumed the artist to be a male - her eyes set on you - a young woman. That’s when her amazement doubled. 

At first Lenore stopped, slightly confused. She didn't speak up immediately. You weren’t there alone and she couldn't interrupt you and deprive herself of the opportunity to watch you working.

Some young, very tall and skinny woman stood there next to you. Lenore figured it must have been the model, supposed to walk down the runway as the last one. Lenore examined the woman’s body and immediately noticed that the dress she was wearing did not quite fit her - that was the problem apparently.

Lenore stood a few meters away. Not too far, so that she could see what you were doing, but still not close enough for you to notice her presence.

The blonde observed how your hand reached for some pins and then how you put a few of them in your mouth.

"I'm sorry, Y/N" the model said, sobbing

"Please, stop apologizing. Everything is alright" you mumbled, not really able to speak, because of the pins you kept between your lips.

"I destroyed the dress..."

"You didn't destroy anything. Now calm down and let me fix this little malfunction" you said, crouching behind the girl.

You took a seam ripper in one hand and held the fabric of the dress with the other. Normally seam rippers were used to help with occasional mistakes, but you were prone to experimenting with different sewing tools. Necessity is the mother of invention - you often said. And just like that, in one swift move you ripped one of the seams - only to pin it back together with pins within seconds. Except after that little operation of yours the dress became a bit looser. Not too excessively, but just enough to fit the model. 

“See? It’s fixed.” you said, proudly looking at the result of your work and zipping the dress “Now, stop crying. There’s no need to cry” you reassured.

“But I couldn’t put it on…”

“Because it was too small”

“Exactly… I-I… I need to lose weight” she said in a breaking voice.

“No” you shook your head “Clothes are supposed to fit you, not the other way. Now go”

The woman nodded and rushed out, passing by next to Lenore, who was standing there with a cigarette in her hand - shamelessly checking you out.

“I must say, that was very impressive” the heiress stated, thereby making you aware of her presence.

You quickly turned around and were instantly met by the blue eyes and probably one of the most entrancing smiles you had ever seen. There she was. One and only Lenore Osgood in the flesh. You couldn’t help the gasp - she looked even better up close.

“I… Umm… Can I help you, madam?” you asked, internally scolding yourself for taking so long to say anything.

“Actually, you can, darling”

“I’m listening” you said, trying to act as natural as possible, despite the fact the nickname she used made your heart skip a beat.

Lenore pulled at her cigarette, then smiled - obviously pleased with your answer.

“You are the one who designed those close” she stated, but with a hint of uncertainty. 

“That’s right” 

“Well then, allow me to felicitate you. It was a wonderful show - the last part at least” she stated, rolling her eyes as she remembered how sorely dull the beginning of the event was.

“Thank you” you beamed at her words.

“You are welcome, darling” her smile got even wider - making you wonder if she realized what effect that goddamn nickname had on you.

“Now, let’s say I have an offer for you. What would you say if I asked you to work for me?” she continued.

How could you say no to her? You would most likely be out of your mind if you had denied such a proposal. Her invitation was one of those you could not and definitely did not want to decline. How could you do it after she bought all the outfits from your new collection - paying even more than they were actually worth. Not to mention that working for her was what you dreamed about ever since you saw her.

That's how you found yourself standing at the door of Lenore's mansion the very next day. She wanted to know what other ideas you had and see different projects of yours, so you took your binder and sewing planner with you. As you nervously waited for someone to open and let you in, you held the items tight, pressing them to your chest - as if they were some precious treasure.

"Miss Y/L/N? Come in, Ms Osgood is waiting for you" an older woman informed, as she led you inside.

You followed, looking around - taking in every detail of the house interior and trying to memorize it. You always held to a particular belief of the house being the image of its owner's soul. Some people found it ridiculous, but in that case it was true. Lenore's house was as superior, noble and remarkable as the heiress herself.

"Y/N!" the blonde called and you turned round. You immediately stopped, when you caught the sight of her.

Lenore was slowly descending the stairs - looking as gracefully as ever. You smiled to yourself, when you realized she was wearing one of the outfits that you created. You had never felt such joy and pride seeing your previous clients wearing something that you designed. But to be fair, none of them radiated with such regality as Lenore. No one could ever match her dignity or a sense of majesty, and apparently that was what made your projects look even more exquisite.

"Is it alright if I call you by your name, dear?" Lenore asked, stopping for a moment to allow her little monkey jump from her shoulder to the shoulder of the woman who let you in.

"If I'm allowed to call you by yours" you smiled.

"Absolutely, darling" the blonde said enthusiastically, as she moved towards you. A smirk appeared on her face, indicating that she did not miss the way you blushed at the nickname. "Let's sit down, shall we?" she suggested, pointing to a spacious room, where a white sofa and armchairs stood.

You nodded, as you moved to sit in one of the armchairs.

"Would you like something to drink, Y/N?" Lenore asked.

"Just a glass of water, please"

"Darce! Bring Y/N a glass of water" she ordered, clicking her fingers.

You shifted in the armchair. The woman in front of you made you feel nervous for some reason, but you tried to act professional.

"You wanted to see my projects, so I brought my binder…" you said, a bit hesitant.

"Wonderful!” she exclaimed, grinning “May I?" she asked, as she reached out for the item.

"Of course" you passed her the binder and then observed, as she intently studied each page.

"Your water, Miss Y/L/N" the older woman said, handing you the glass.

"Thank you" you smiled, carefully taking the vessel from her.

"What a talent and creativity!" Lenore praised, glancing at you with a smirk on her face, not paying attention to the other woman.

You smiled, taking a sip of the water - hoping it would actually help with calming your nerves.

Lenore spent almost an hour on deciding which of your projects she would like to get. She obviously liked them all, but she needed her clothes to be different. She needed them to be extraordinary, fancy and expensive. And so you suggested creating something just for her.

You were a hardworking person - used to staying up late to finish sewing different outfits. You always went all out and thereby made your clients satisfied, but with Lenore you wanted more. Making her satisfied simply didn't seem enough. You wanted to impress her, blow her away. Little did you know that the heiress already was spellbound - not only by your projects, but by you yourself.

Lenore had never met anyone who delighted her so much. Such manners, such a style and sophistication. Not to mention you were so extremely accomplished for your age. All that impressed her in a way, but also fascinated her. She was truly enchanted by you. No wonder. You had a peculiar background, attitude and approach to the real world. You were a rare sample and Lenore happened to like thinking of herself as a connoisseur. She liked uncommon things. That's why she desperately wanted to have a taste of that extraordinary, magical power that radiated from you. A taste of that particular thing that made you so special. Though before she decided to do anything, she needed to make sure you would not disapprove of her. Because rejection was something Lenore didn't take well.

Lenore figured out that taking things slow was a good thing to do. She decided to warm you up a little and make sure that she actually had a chance. She didn't want her intentions to be too obvious. Lenore had always been a little skeptical of displaying any sort of affection. She'd rather play around. Yet she couldn't deny it felt sort of different with you.

Lenore loved teasing you more than anything. You always seemed so stressed and flustered whenever you would come to her house to deliver yet another outfit - and she found it adorable.

~~~~

At first you would come to her house once a week. Each time bringing with you a different dress and a few of new projects for Lenore to have a look and either go with them or tell you what she would like you to change. She rarely wanted to make any adjustments though. Lenore appreciated all of your ideas - only occasionally asking you to make a particular outfit in different colour or use another kind of fabric than you had intended to at first, but she never criticised you. As a matter of fact, she was always praising you. Maybe even too excessively. She complimented basically everything about you - from your creativity and ideas to the way you dressed. It appeared that she knew exactly what to say to make you blush - of which she was not only aware, but also took pride in succeeding in doing it. However, as much as you loved it, you could not quite help all the worries that clouded in your head - when you began realizing that Lenore became someone more than just your client and boss.

It had been going on for months. You grew so used to spending time with her and designing clothes for her that at some point your life turned to be all about Lenore. Everything either reminded you of her or inspired you to make another outfit that would fit her and only her taste. Lenore and even her monkey became such a huge part of your life, that you couldn't picture yourself not doing all of the things  you were doing and you definitely could not stop thinking about Lenore. To say that it scared you would be an understatement. The realization of your true feelings made you freak out completely. So much so that you did not know what to do. So much so you couldn't act the way you used to before. That's why you decided to take a break - hoping it would help you distance yourself. 

You enforced your idea immediately - as instead of informing Lenore face to face, you called her.

"Ms Osgood, I need some time off for… personal reasons" you told her.

Lenore agreed of course, though that sudden phone call took her by surprise. She knew something wasn't quite alright, when you used her full name, but she didn't ask any questions.

She kept repeating everything that had happened the past week, yet she couldn't figure out what was actually going on. You had never taken time off before and the way you called whatever was happening - "personal reasons" caused her a lot of distress. What did that even mean? Were you in trouble? Was she supposed to do something? And why was she so worried about it?

At first Lenore tried to convince herself that she didn't really care. But she did. Her little game turned into something utterly different without her even realizing it. You turned out to be far more than just her seamstress and she appreciated you for more than only your brilliant mind or skills.

Lenore truly cared about you and missed you dearly. She missed your smile and seeing you blush at her compliments. She missed listening to you talking about your projects - so passionately. 

Lenore was a grown-up and experienced woman, however she had never felt the way she felt with you. With you everything was different, new. And whatever she desired at the very beginning changed.

While you locked yourself in your apartment and lost yourself in work - as an attempt to distance from her, Lenore kept thinking of all the ways she could get closer to you. She was so desperate, so lovesick that she - the great heiress was ready to beg, even bow before for you if that was what it took.

You didn't expect Lenore to turn up at your door. It had been three days, you were sure everything was on the right track and you would manage to cure yourself of your fascination. Though, the moment you opened the door and saw Lenore in all her glory, everything came right back to you. All your feelings hit you again - that time with doubled power.

"Lenore… w-what are you doing here?"

"It's nice to see you too, Y/N" she said, passing by you - not waiting for you to invite her inside.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm down. How could anyone be able to make you feel so weak and yet so empowered at the same time?

Lenore walked in, then looked around your apartment. It wasn't too big, but she had to admit it was classy - you perfectly combined living space with workspace. But your flat wasn't what interested her the most. The heiress turned round to face you and offered you a cocky smile, as she took in your form. Lenore was used to seeing you in various dresses and heels, though that day you looked completely different. You were not only barefoot, but also instead of a dress, you had a white shirt and denim overalls on. Your hair was put in a messy ponytail and a measuring tape was draped around your neck - signifying that you were working.

"So, how can I help you?" you asked, not looking at Lenore.

The blonde smiled. "I was just passing by and thought I'd check on you"

"Check on me?" you repeated, raising your eyes.

"Yes" Lenore said calmly "Would you mind if I stay here for some time?"

"I-" you were about to protest, but it was too late, since Lenore sat down on one of the chairs and lit her cigarette.

"So, have you managed to resolve those personal reasons of yours?"

"Not really, I guess" you said, watching Lenore cross her legs.

The way you stared at her body didn't go unnoticed. Lenore didn't miss how flustered you got either, but she said nothing. It wasn't the right time - not just yet.

You sighed, approaching a table on which you had different materials laid. You got back to work, trying to ignore Lenore's presence. It was hard to focus on anything though. It was impossible when she was sitting there and watching you, but you kept trying anyways.

Lenore didn't speak for a few minutes. She simply enjoyed the moment - the possibility of watching you work and being around you in general.

"Is this a new project?" she asked, dragging on her cigarette.

"Actually yes. It's going to be your dress for the party that you're attending next month"

"Oh. Well, it looks nice"

You laughed at her words.

"It doesn't look like anything yet"

"I'm sure it'll be wonderful. Every project of yours is, darling"

You looked at her, not able to contain the smile caused by her compliment.

And that smile was what motivated Lenore to make the first step. 

"You know, I was thinking about you for the past few days," she began, as you focused on pinning the fabric together again.

"They don't appreciate you enough. I mean those men you're working with. They're wasting your potential. You should work for your own brand and not for theirs"

"Well…" you were about to say something, but Lenore cut you off.

"And I figured out there are two ways I could help you in"

"Yeah?" you said, but still didn't pay much attention to her words.

"Yes" Lenore stubbed her cigarette and stood up, as she continued "I could either become some kind of your patroness. This is the first option, but personally I like the second one more" she explained, as she stopped on the opposite side of the table.

"What's the second option then?" you asked, reaching for yet another pin.

"Well" Lenore smiled. You were still so oblivious "I could be your sugar momma" 

"Shit!" you cursed, as you accidentally hurt your finger with the pin "W-what?" you choked, looking at her. Your eyes were wide open, as Lenore approached you and carefully took your hand in her own. She then slowly brought the finger you had just cut to her lips and kissed it.

"I said…"

"No. I k-know what you said… I… I just…" you stuttered, not able to form any coherent sentence.

"Which option do you like better, sweetheart?" she asked in a low voice.

"I…" you gasped, staring at her lips.

You couldn't bring yourself to speak, so instead you leaned in and kissed her. You could feel how her lips formed a smirk and even though your eyes were shut at that point, you could see that damn sly smile.

"I was hoping you'd go with the second option" Lenore chuckled.

You wanted to respond to her words, but before you managed to regain the ability to think properly - Lenore lifted you up and made you sit on the table.

"Your dress…" you tried to protest, but were immediately cut off.

"I'd rather take you this time" Lenore said and captured your lips once again.

That definitely wasn't what you had expected when you accepted the job offer. You hadn't even dreamed about it. And even if you had, being so close to Lenore, feeling her warm hands on your body and her soft lips pressed against yours was beyond any wildest dreams you could ever have. 

Tag list: @midnight-lestrange, @natasha-danvers, @stopkillinglilyrabe, @welshdragonrawr, @saucy-sapphic, @yang12e, @xixxiixx, @pradababey

[mcheang]

The critic

Sometimes restaurant owners are aware there is a critic among them, but they don’t know his identity. Sometimes they are unaware they are being visited at all. This is for @edeniz001

Meet Alain Ego. A youthful young man admitted to Ms Bustier’s class as an exchange student from Provence.

Here’s what you need to know about Alain. He is smart, responsible, but he’s dull. He is a wallflower. His appearance is unremarkable, his voice is softer than Nathaniel’s. And his social life is generally shy. His hobby is writing stories and taking photographs.

His deskmate is Ivan.

Predictably, after class was let out for lunch, Alain was surrounded by his class. Well, most of them.

Chloe and by extension Sabrina; could not be bothered to waste her time with a wallflower.

Marinette and Alya introduced themselves as the class president and Vice President. They warmly asked him to come to them if he needed help.

Nathaniel invited him to meet Marc since they both seemed to love writing.

Lila had never been to the French countryside but was inclined to boast about the Tuscan landscape. She seemed annoyed that Alain did not ask her for more details and that the rest of the class were paying more attention to the new student than to her.

Thankfully Alain would only be here for one semester. That was enough time for like...what, 25 akumas to show up?

Hope the new kid was fast. Dupont tends to be an akuma hotspot.

And was it ever...

The majority of the akumas were from Caline’s class. And that was remarkable considering how they had already been akumas. What is up with that?

Are they an emotional class?

Why is Hawkmoth out for them?

Granted some akumatizations happen outside school. But Alain happens to be there thanks to being invited to class activities.

Part of the blame belongs to Chloe.

A real bully that one. Alain can understand why the principal would be cowed by a corrupt mayor. For a so-called hero, he was a coward.

But Alain has noticed some students standing up to Chloe.

Namely the class president and her Vice President.

And yet for some strange reason, instead of telling Chloe off for being rude and mean, they just brush her off and redirect everyone’s attention.

Alain shyly asked Marinette why she lets Chloe get away with that.

Marinette: Because Ms Bustier told us to be good examples and forgive Chloe.

Alya: it’s why Chloe likes her so much. She lets Chloe get away with everything and tries to get her to be nice.

Alain’s eyes were wide at such a scandal.

When Alain’s witnessed his first akuma, he was at art class, making a photo collage of the students.

Let’s just say Chloe didn’t take criticism well at her first attempt at fashion design. Let’s also just say there’s a reason she stole Marinette’s design instead of relying on her mother’s genes.

Point is, Fashion Critic could make her harsh criticism a reality.

During that time, Alain had run for cover.

Unsurprisingly, Alya had run in the opposite direction.

Frightened, Alain asked for help as to where to run to.

Alya: There is no safe house or bunker. Akumas usually blow those up. Here in Paris, just run for cover.

Alain: any ideas?

Alya: not really. I don’t hide.

Alain: ....

Nino: don’t worry, dude. I know where the guys like to hide. Follow me. I’ll take him, Alya.

As they were running, Alain pointed out it should have been Alya leading him to safety.

Nino: she would have delegated it to me anyway. That girl loves to get her scoop.

Alain frowned in disapproval but said nothing. But perhaps he could try to talk to Alya later.

He did, and even Marinette took his side, when they both said she should stop running after akumas.

Alya: the public needs to know!

Alain: can’t you just post the location and powers and physical description? Why do you need to record the whole thing?

Alya; how else will my blog be popular?

Marinette: it’s still not safe, Alya.

Alya: oh relax, it’s not like the Teachers are complaining.

Ok, so Ms Bustier not only lets bullies run rampant without correcting their behavior, she also does not stop dangerous habits.

Curious about the students, Alain decides to be nosy. He visits the bakery and tries their delicious breads. He talks about animals with Mr Cesaire. He explored Juleka’s boathouse. He even babysitted Chris.

One day, Alain just so happens to visit the embassy building where Mrs Rossi works, at a time when she would be leaving for home.

Alain: Hello, excuse me, are you Mrs Rossi?

Mrs Rossi: Yes. And you are?

Alain: I’m Alain. Lila’s classmate. I thought I recognised you from her photos.

Mrs Rossi: oh. How nice to meet one of Lila’s friends. But I’ve been so busy with work, I barely have the time to spare.

Alain: I understand. But it’s nice to see you include Lila in your work.

Mrs Rossi: excuse me?

Alain: you know...you brought her to Achu last year to help out Prince Ali.

Mrs Rossi: I never went to Achu.

Alain: um...Lila was gone for months and FaceTimed us from there.

Mrs Rossi: when did this happen exactly?

Alain nervously tells her.

Mrs Rossi: Lila has been lying to all of us, it seems. She told me the school was shut down because of akuma attacks.

Alain: what? Akumas last only a day. The school has been disrupted by them, yes. But everything goes back to normal the next day. Didn’t you try calling the principal?

Mrs Rossi is stiff and she thanks Alain. She needs time to think. More than that, she wants another person’s opinion and confirmation about akumas before she decides on what else to do.

The next morning, Lila is at school. She makes no reference to Alain meeting her Mother. In fact she prefers to avoid him because he is so annoying. He rarely asks about her adventures and the questions are obviously and disinterestedly polite. What teenager isn’t excited by Jagged Stone?

In the middle of class, Lila is asked to the principal’s office. She returns fuming, with Mrs Rossi and the principal by her side.

Mrs Rossi ordered her Daughter. “Tell them the truth Lila.”

Lila is forced to confess her lies. In addition, for forging her mother’s signature and truancy, she is hereby expelled.

An akuma arrived to target her. As Caline rushed Lila away from the akuma, Marinette actually ran out and used her purse as a makeshift butterfly net. Since she wasn’t feeling negative (actually she felt pretty good about Lila getting exposed), the akuma was just fluttering around in her purse until Tikki threw a macaroon on it and proceeded to sit on it.

Alya is already posting on her blog about it, hopeful Ladybug will arrive to cleanse the akuma.

Marinette rushes out to the roof to wait for her there.

In the aftermath of Lila’s exposure, the class is certainly feeling wounded and guilty.

Caline is trying to advise them to forgive Lila who probably felt shy of their accomplishments.

Alain: Um, she asked me to carry her school bag because her arm was supposed to be sore from planting trees.

His words were a spark.

Kim: I bought her lunch.

Alya: I posted false information on my blog. Ok, technically I didn’t fact check. But Lila was not innocent!

Rose: I donated my summer job cash on her fake donation! (She proceeds to sob)

Caline: but she has already been punished, shouldn’t we extend our friendship to her now that she is alone?

Alain: She didn’t look all that repentant if you ask me. Didn’t you see her smiling at the akuma?

Adrien: Lila wouldn’t have hesitated to hurt us.

Alix: what a psycho.

Caline: that is enough. I want you all to forgive Lila and try to reach out a hand in friendship.

Ivan: But she’s dangerous

Max: and clearly not well if she keeps on lying that she can call Ladybug right after admitting she lied about knowing her.

Alain mutters to Ivan, “Wanna bet that Ms Bustier becomes Lila’s puppet if she actually does this?”

The next morning, Caline actually tries to order the class to say one nice thing about Lila and to write her a nice letter. Never mind that she clearly heard Alya report that Lila was exiled from Paris after Chat Noir admitted she had been working with Oniichan to endanger Ladybug. Apparently he had somehow heard how Lila was smiling at the akuma and suspected she was in league with the terrorist.

Alain so couldn’t wait for the term to end.

When it finally did, he gladly reported to the school board his investigation on the akuma class.

He blames Caline mostly for her redundant perspective that people need to forgive bullies and liars instead of educating them and correcting their behavior. Like seriously, how else would the victims get justice? She also lacks a sense of responsibility in that she refuses to correct Alya’s lack of self-preservation.

His advice: fire her or suspend her indefinitely, send her to get proper training. Get the class a strict and just teacher with a sense of fairness.

Once his job was done, Alain sighed and emptied his bag of textbooks. He could really go for some wine.

[pretend-writer]

Invisible Man (Diego Hargreeves x reader)

Summary: Y/N confesses her crush to her best friend, Diego who happens to be someone who he is very familiar and close with.

Pairing: Diego Hargreeves x reader

Title Reference: Invisible Man x 98 Degrees

Word Count: 2.3k words

Warning: swearing, mention of death, fluff

✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤

Diego’s POV

This man was all Y/N talked about, always wondering if this superhero was hiding among us just like us human beings. Was he a waiter at a local restaurant or was he working as a business man? 

My response was always ‘Yeah, maybe you’ve already met him.’ She would always laugh and say ‘No, there’s no way. I would know if I’ve met him.’ 

What she doesn’t know was that the guy she’s crushing over was me. Not me, me. But me in disguise.

The superpower I had was in my blood since I was born. My siblings and I were adopted by a man who raised us as a group of heroes that would stop crimes around town. 

Father named us by numbers, we never had a name. Until our "robot" mother decided to give us a name, since then I've been called Diego. To my father however, I was always Number Two.

He treated us the way he named us, some object for his experiment. Me and my six other siblings were nothing but a tool for his amusement. I always enjoyed fighting crimes because it made the rest of the town happy but I missed every single childhood that "normal" kids had.

Growing up in this household, I started to realize I had enough of my father's experiment. When I was old enough to leave my father and this "fantastic group" that he would call The Umbrella Academy, I walked through that front door and never looked back. That was the day I decided to throw away everything I was and live as Diego Hargreeves, a normal man with normal dreams.

But it wasn't for long.

I missed the feeling of accomplishment and the sense of worth I had when I fought the bad guys; the only time I felt like I was something, like I mattered to the world. That was when I decided I was going to be Number Two once again.

This time, I kept it a secret and hid my identity. Showing my true self would've been exactly what my father wanted; fame and fortune. I didn't want that, however; I did it for me and to save the citizens of this town. I didn't care for all of that other crap. Besides, Diego was the new me and I couldn't give that up.

Then I met Y/N, the person I've been in love with since I've laid eyes on her. She came by for boxing lessons one day and from that moment I knew she was someone special.

We've grew closer, eventually going to places like watching movies or mini-golfing. She would even invite me to her friends' house for parties and introduce me to them. This was the first time I felt like a part of something important, a family.

I always had that thought in my head where I told myself "Maybe she feels the same way." There were moments where I wanted to tell her the truth; my true feelings toward her. Then that one day when I planned everything out, that was when she started talking about Number Two.

"Number Two is so brave."

"I wonder if he's alone and needs a friend."

"He's always saving everyone, that's the most selfless thing anyone can do."

It was just so hard to see someone you love talk about another man. Especially when that person was someone you were really familiar with.

Some days I wanted to tell her that I was him. The person who she was looking for, the man of her dreams was right there in front of her.

But how can I?

She loved the man that was selfless and caring, saving everyone in the city one by one. Y/N loves the thrill of the mystery behind Number Two, his hidden identity and figure out who he can possibly be.

Not only will that ruin her fantasy, she would be disappointed that it would be me. Seeing her reaction would just crush me. It also wasn't worth losing an amazing friendship over. There was no way I could live without her, I couldn't lose her.

✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤

'A ski trip?' I questioned Y/N as I sipped my coffee. 'It's in the middle of January, probably the coldest time of the year. You sure you want to go?'

'Diego, I've been planning this trip for months. You know how much I need this.' She did her puppy dog face, knowing there was no resisting.

Rolling my eyes, I chuckled. 'You'd go anyways even if I say it's a little dangerous. There's no stopping you.'

'That's right.' She grinned, 'Besides, it wouldn't be as tragic if something happened to me anyways.'

'Why would you say that?' I frowned, not waiting anything bad to happen to her.

'Number Two might come and save me.' Her grin got wider as she fantasized about being rescued. 'Wouldn't that be romantic?'

Faking a smile, I nodded. 'I guess but I wouldn't know though, I don't know anything about romance.'

'You don't have anyone you admire, Diego?'

'No.' Maybe I answered too quickly as I tried to hide my feelings. It didn't really matter because Y/N knew me too well and detected my fib easily.

'Well, whoever the girl is Diego, she must be really great.' She giggled.

'Yeah, she's amazing and beautiful.' I smiled but deep down I wasn't feeling alright. All those words were towards her but she didn't even know how great she was.

Y/N finished her coffee as she started eating her pastry. 'You know, we can invite you to the ski trip and maybe you'll be able to hit it off with this mystery girl.'

'No, no. I'd prefer to enjoy my Y/N free weekend.' She gasped and hit me on my arm playfully. 'I'm not joking.'

'Har har. I know you'll definitely miss me, Diego.'

'Yeah, I will.' This time, I didn't joke. It was only for a few days away from her but I know I'd think about her all the time.

✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤

Y/N’s POV

Diego was right

I hated admitting he was right but dammit he was. I was walking around a snow storm which of course had to be on the day when my friends and I decided to snowboard.

The vision was terrible and I couldn't see anything but snow on my goggles. I knew that my two friends weren't near me because I haven't heard them say anything for a few minutes now.

No matter how much I shouted their names, I got nothing. They were most likely long gone and who knows, they probably lost each other too.

The longer I was here all alone with nothing but the sound of the wind blowing, the more scared I got. I've walked everywhere but I could be just walking in circles. At this point, I didn't know anymore.

Suddenly, I felt a grip on my wrist and heard whispers in my ear. 'Follow me, I'll help you.'

With the wind blowing strongly, I barely heard what he said but I knew for a fact it was a voice of a man. I had no choice but to follow him, it was either go with him or die in the cold snow.

As the man led me to God knows where, I silently followed from behind him as he continued to pull me through the snowstorms. Even though I had a sense of relief of someone actually saving me, I could've gotten kidnapped by some freak. I still didn't feel a hundred percent safe.

After a few more minutes of hiking, I saw a small shed where the man took us both in. The place must of been some kind of equipment storage as I saw a few things they sold to us down at the lodge.

As I patted some snow off of my face and the rest of my body, I laughed. 'Thank you for saving me back there. Or kidnapping me. Either way I'm out of the snow for now.'

I heard the man chuckle but hasn't said anything else. He looked around the snow equipments with his back against me as though he was highly intrigued, I could tell he was listening but wasn't much of a talker.

Deciding to have a good look at him, I took off my goggles. Getting a clearer view, I've recognized the black outfit, it was practically engraved in my mind. Granted the journalists never had clear pictures of the man, we all knew the signature mask and the outfit he always wore.

'Number Two? Is it really you?'

He stopped moving and froze in place as I figured out who the man really was. He still didn't want to turn around but I wish he did so I could officially thank him.

'I thought I was going to die out there so thanks for saving me, uhm sir?' I bit my lip and face palmed, thinking to myself "way to go dummy. what was I thinking saying that!?"

Number Two paced towards the door, about to leave me in the shed. I went up to him to try to stop him. I tapped on his shoulder, 'Wait!'

'Oh, oops. I didn't mean to touch you I'm so sorry sir. Anyways, uhm. I really admire you and your work so the fact that you came all the way here to save me means so much. Just thought you should know.'

Number Two continued to just stand there, frozen in place; He hasn't said a word either. I didn't want to move either especially because scaring him away was the last thing I wanted to do.

As I was about to give up, he slowly turned around, revealing his face with a mask covering around his eyes. This was the first time that anyone has seen Number Two upclose as in the articles, they all say he would vanish right after he saves the people in need. Hence the lack of photographs of him.

If there were pictures of him however, I would've definitely recognized the superhero as his face was too familiar. 'Diego?'

'Surprise?' He mumbled, looking down on the ground shyly as he avoided eye contact.

My mind froze as I was still trying to put two and two together. 'Wait... so all this time, it was really you?'

Diego nodded as he scratched the back of his head, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lie to you.'

'No, it's-' I stuttered as my mouth didn't keep up with my mind. After all, there were so many thoughts running through my head.

'Don't worry, I made sure your friends were safe too. They're back in the cabin but they were really worried about you.' Diego spoke softly, knowing that I was still processing everything.

There were more I wanted to say to Number Two but now that I found out he was Diego all along, I didn't know the right words to say. Everything was confusing at first but as it gradually started to sink in, I realized who my feelings were really for this whole time.

Reaching for Diego's arm, I pulled him closer to me and stared into his eyes, 'Who's the girl?'

He cocked his head, confused on the change of the subject. 'What do you mean?'

'The girl you said that was amazing and beautiful. Who's the girl?'

Diego sighed, fighting in his mind whether to say it aloud or not. It took a lot of him to turn around and reveal his true identity, he wasn't sure if he was ready to reveal his feelings.

'It's okay, just say it.' All this time I was blinded by my infatuation for Number Two, I blocked out my real feelings for someone else. 'Tell me.'

'Y/N...' He had a nervous look on his face, having second thoughts about blurting out the next words. 'It's you, Y/N.'

I caressed his cheeks, inching slowly to his mask as I took it off of his face. He licked his lips which gave away that he was feeling vulnerable. Diego and I knew each other so well, we knew the body languages of one another. 'You're not fucking with me, right?'

Diego eyed me up and down, then shook his head. 'I'll never do that to you.'

With my hand back on his cheek, I pulled him in for a kiss. Diego was surprised, not expecting this outcome as he paused to take his new reality all in. As the realization hits Diego, he cupped my face and finally kissed me back.

Slowly pulling away, I breathed heavily. I looked into his eyes and smiled. 'Number Two was some crush I fantasized about but it was always you, Diego. I'm sorry it took me until now to realize that.'

'Don't apologize for anything. I just want you to be happy.'

'I am, I really am. Especially because you saved me from freezing to death or flying away in the snowstorm.'

'Glad I helped you when I had the chance.' The cute grin slowly turned into a chuckle.

Furrowing my eyebrows, I asked. 'What are you laughing about.'

'"Uhm, sir. I admire you so much."' Diego mocked me and laughed louder.

'Ah, can we not relive that please.' I scrunched my face, closing my eyes as if that would help the memory go away.

'Nu-uh! That was too funny. You know, I was this close to laughing my ass off, Y/N.' Diego crouched and held onto his stomach, dying of laughter.

'Oh my-' I covered my face from embarrassment. 'I was nervous okay! I didn't know what to say.'

'Okay, okay. It was cute though, don't worry.' I gave him a death glare, knowing that he'll never drop this conversation.

The cute and romantic moment was over, but I'm not surprised because of course it was. It was Diego for crying out loud, the boy who thought "romance stinks." But man, I loved my best friend so much; I couldn't hate him.

He bit his lip to stop himself from laughing again. 'Fine, fine I'll stop. We'll just talk about it again tomorrow.'

✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤

taglist; @seiraswriting​

[rye-views]

A Promised Land by Barack Obama. 8/10

I would recommend this book to my friends. I would reread this book.

There are certain things that Barack articulates that I’m thankful for. His over-optimism and feelings of eccentricity. I completely related to its isolating feelings even though it wasn’t the same situation and experience as mine. It’s nice to see something similar from someone different. I also liked his description of feeling everything in its entirety and how it was like a movie splice. I have felt this many times and it’s a beautiful way to describe it. I like how so much of what Barack says, thinks, and feels are so genuine and relatable. It's nice to see someone articulate and empathize this well, esp. from a man and a man in power.

I love learning that Michelle was disappointed by the situation caused by his choices at times. Other things were more important at the time and nice to see it be relevant.

It’s interesting to see the difference between this book and “Becoming.” They have different aims, but it still shows me a difference between a man and woman. I also notice that when men are described, it’s always physical. When it’s women, it’s more character and personality.

Crazy how intelligent and emotionally aware Barack is. When he stated how he couldn't just pick and choose the good things of Reverend Wright's church, I was like true and wow.

The things that Toot taught Barack is what someone should've taught me as I grew up.

Barack comparing the rides to Noah's Ark is amusing.

When he mentions translations of what the Big 4 are saying, I think about how we can't be straightforward in politics. Why not?

It took me forever to read this because I really wanted to absorb the knowledge. There's a lot of events that are covered and things I had no idea about. I love how this catalogues so much of history that were relevant to my lifetime.

Memorable Quotes: “gives even my roughest drafts too smooth a gloss and lends half-baked thoughts the mask of tidiness” “I needed to focus on only those things to come.” “Much of what I read I only dimly understood” “a bond between those who had once seemed far apart.” “Whatever it was, I knew I wasn’t ready.” “An America that could explain me.” “I suffered rejections and insults often enough to stop fearing them.” “Enthusiasm makes up for a host of deficiencies.” “Failure and want were all around you.” “It should have been enough.” “but my mother was never one to see hard work as anything but good.” “On top of my sorrow, I felt a great shame.” “There’s a physical feeling, a current of emotion that passes back and forth between you and the crowd, as if your lives and theirs are suddenly spliced together, like a movie reel, projecting backward and forward in time, and your voice creeps right up to the edge of cracking, because for an instant, you feel them deeply; you can see them whole. You’ve tapped into some collective spirit, a thing we all know and wish for – a sense of connection that overrides our differences and replaces them with a giant swell of possibility – and like all things that matter most, you know the moment is fleeting and that soon the spell will be broken.” “To be a workhorse not a show horse – that was my goal.” “I had become a mere conduit through which people might recognize the value of their own stories, their own worth, and share them with one another.” "Yes we can." “the personal really was political” “I had to listen to, and not just theorize about, what mattered to people.” “it wasn’t so much what he did as how he made you feel. Like anything was possible. Like the world was yours to remake.” “It’s hard, in retrospect, to understand why you did something stupid.” “In fact, you shouldn’t even count on my vote.” “What do you consider your place in history?” “I could take a punch. And I didn’t give up.” “I knew I could afford to be patient.” “but the only way for Daddy to disguise himself is if he has an operation to pin back his ears.” “Forgotten people and forgotten voices remained everywhere.” “the more troops would become targets of an enemy they often could not see and did not understand.” “The power to inspire is rare. Moments like this are rare. You think you may not be ready, that you’ll do it at more convenient time. But you don’t choose the time. The time chooses you.” “people were moved by emotion, not facts.” “Beneath the low-key person and deep convictions, he just plain liked the combat.” "defined not by what they are but what they can never be." "To the relief of his keepers, the bear became accustomed to captivity." "he understood better than most the complications of race, religion, and family, and how good and bad, love and hate, might be hopelessly tangled in the same heart" "She was one of those quiet heroes that we have all across America." "But I worry that my memories of that night, like so much else that's happened these past twelve years, are shaded by the images that I've seen, the footage of our family walking across the stage, the photographs of the crowds and lights and magnificent backdrops." "a keeper of values we'd once thought ordinary but had learned were more rare than we had ever imagined." ""It's going to be hard to get the public excited about food stamps and repaving roads," Axe said. "Not real sexy."" "This time I said nothing, admiring his occasional, almost endearing ability to state the obvious." "You must be under the mistaken impression that I care." "all of them unified only in their common desire to be somewhere else." "ready to die for eternal joy--or maybe just a taste of something better." "But make no mistake, it was weird." "the unspoken regrets." "my supporters lacked all conviction, while my opponents were full of passionate intensity." "Michelle was someone who started from the heart and not the head, from experience rather than abstractions." "I wanted to believe that the ability to connect was still there. My wife wasn't so sure." “The

audacity of hope.” "Sometimes your most important work involved the stuff nobody noticed." "forgotten under the accumulation of the new joys and paints that make up a life." "you learn to improvise to meet your objectives--or at least to cut your losses." "They would take for granted that their aunt was on the U.S. Supreme Court, shaping the life of a nation--as would kids across the country. Which was fine. That's what progress was like." "Did they miss the rhythms of ordinary life? Were they lonely? Did they sometimes feel a jolt in their heart and wonder how it was that they had ended up where they were?" "I reminded myself that every president felt saddled with the previous administration's choices and mistakes, that 90 percent of the job was navigating inherited problems and unanticipated crises. Only if you did that well enough, with discipline and purpose, did you get a real shot at shaping the future." "Was it possible that abstract principles and high-minded ideals were and always would be nothing more than a pretense, a palliative, a way to beat back despair, but no match for the more primal urges that really moved us, so that no matter what we said or did, history was sure to run along its predetermined course, an endless cycle of fear, hunger and conflict, dominance and weakness?" "meant to be a reminder--in a place premised on hate and intolerance--of the common humanity we share." "A man making up for things." "For war was contradiction, as was the history of America." "To be known. To be heard. To have one's unique identity recognized and seen as worthy. It was a universal human desire" "pleasures that cost nothing, belonged to no one, and were accessible to all." "I suppose, when the world slows down, your strivings get pushed to the back of your mind." "whether in my seeming calm as crises piled up, my insistence that everything would work out in the end, I was really just protecting my self--and contributing to her loneliness." "It was a lonely thought at a lonely time." "You never looked as smart as the ex-president did on the sidelines." "Get exposed to other people's truths, I thought, and attitudes change." "It wasn't often, I thought, that a true act of conscience is recognized that way." "their struggles and resentments troubling but remote." "are mere conduits for the deep, relentless currents of the times or whether we're at least partly the authors of what's to come." "contemplating the knife's edge between perceived success and potential catastrophe" "daily, unheralded acts of people who weren't seeking attention but simply knew what they were doing and did it with pride." "She makes me better as a person and better on the page."

[dandelionflower]

Felinette where after 10 years the school reunion happens but Mari and Felix are at the hospital since Mari is giving birth. At the reunion Lila tries her lies about Mari but the birth of Mari and Felix's kid is going live since Mari is a famous designer and Felix is her model.

[send me Felinette prompts/requests]

“Hey, girl!” Alya hugged Lila, grinning bright. “Guess who got herself an interview with Jagged Stone’s son last week?”

“You mean Shatter?” Lila smiled at her, voice softening like when a mother consoles a child. “He’s such a sweetie, isn’t he?”

“It’s Shawn, but yeah.” Alya grinned at the memory.

The wedding between Penny Rolling and Jagged Stone has happened when they were all just fourteen, and Shawn was born that next year.

The year Lila told them about her lies.

She admitted that she had lied about her trips, her connections, and being Ladybug’s friend. The only truth was knowing Jagged Stone, but that was because he was her godfather, not because she saved his kitten.

She was bawling on the floor, begging for forgiveness that the class surely gave.

Alya was twenty-nine now, and her journalistic pursuits were thriving, just like everyone else.

Rose had become a highly esteemed business woman, and Juleka was modeling so much, you couldn’t look at a magazine kiosk without seeing her face.

Ivan was a well-paid bodyguard for Mylene, who had gained fame by protesting all sorts of environmental atrocities. They had broken up after they had turned seventeen, but rumor had it that those old bonds were slowly repairing themselves.

Alix had become a famous rollerblader, breaking a record for fastest cross country time and took up ice skating; she was going to the next Olympic Games.

Kim was now the most wanted stuntmen in the world, for his lack of fear and uncanny ability to not die from heights.

Nathaniel and Marc parted ways as they went to different colleges, but were still in contact. Nathaniel often called Marc when the storyline for his comic book seemed a bit off and Marc would gladly tell him that the author was just being an idiot.

Max and Sabrina, amazingly enough, got married; they completed their medical doctorates together and, once they made enough money, went back to college to get degrees in technology and math for Max and philosophy and psychology for Sabrina.

Together, they found the cure for cancer and Sabrina ended up writing a bestselling self-help novel, Henchman: just one good friend isn’t always enough. Max had patented his AI technology and Markov got his own talk show.

Adrien was working with Child Protective Services and other organizations to help children in bad situations. His father’s company took a massive tank after Hawkmoth’s reveal and Adrien did nothing to keep it afloat.

Chloe took up acting. She was well known for her amazing performances of evil queens, heinous witches, terrifying stepmothers. She, of course, took it all in stride.

No one really knew what Lila or Marinette were up to, finding out was probably the reason most of them were here.

And Nino...

Nino was living life happily as a popular song composer with his daughter Harley, the daughter Alya missed with every passing day.

She shook her head. Now wasn’t time to dwell on recent events, now was a time to look back at the past and reminisce.

“Have you seen Marinette? I’ve been wondering what she’s been up to these past ten years.” Alya commented, barely noticing Lila stiffen up. “You too. I gave you my number for a reason, you know.”

“Yeah, but I lost my phone in the trenches and you know how bad my memory is.” She laughed, batting her hand in the air.

“Yeah, I do. So tell me now; what about trenches?”

“I’ve been doing some peace talks, you know, nothing big.”

“Like Mylene was?”

“...yeah, like that. Just on a slightly larger scale.”

“Larger than stopping the Third World War? Dang girl.”

“I’ve also been doing some acting in foreign films and donating my extra time to children in need.”

“Like Chloe, Kim, and Adrien!”

Her eye twitched. “So, is Marinette coming, or is she...”

“She’s definitely coming. She wouldn’t miss a class reunion for the world.”

“Are you sure, because I saw her not too long ago today and she didn’t seem to prepared.”

“She’s coming.” Alya spoke firmly.

“Hi Alya! Hi Lila!” Rose jumped in and hugged them both tightly. “Have either of you seen Mari? I need to give her congratulations.”

“Congratulations? For what?”

“She got married a while back! I was really busy though, so I wasn’t able to go to the wedding. Her number changed too so I couldn’t call her either.”

Alya frowned. She hadn’t gotten any invitation.

“She got married?” Lila gasped. “But who was that man she was kissing in the coffee shop?”

“That was probably him; I don’t know him well, but I remember him being blond.” Rose grinned.

“Are you sure? He seemed pretty red headed when I saw them.” She pressed her hands to her face. “You don’t think...”

“Lila, come on. Mari wouldn’t cheat on her husband.”

“Yeah... we’ll just talk to her when she gets here.” Lila agreed. “If she gets here in time.”

“She will.” Alya nodded, reassuring Lila with a smile.

For some reason, she didn’t seem too certain.

—

Hours passed and everyone had given a speech on the stage, all but one.

“Where could she be?” Alya hissed to herself, texting Marinette again and again only to get a message declaring her number inactive.

“Maybe she’s just not-“ Lila was cut off when Alya held up her hand.

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

The sound of feedback filled the room and every head turned towards the stage, where Miss Bustier was standing.

She looked almost the same, with her red hair in a bun and her crisp pale blue pantsuit. The signs of time were still there, though, in the wrinkles around her eyes and the sparkling grey at her roots.

“Hello class!” She paused and listened to them cheer. “We’ve heard all of your accounts of your school years, and now it’s time for your class president to have a word.”

Chatter filled the air, each person turning to look for the blurnette.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see her!” Rose squealed to Juleka. “I need to get her new number.”

Juleka glanced sideways at her. “She’s been texting me for months.”

“What?” Rose scrolled through her phone and stopped. “Oh! Here it is! My phone is set to block unknown numbers.” She clicked a button and grinned as she made a new contact for her, with lots of emojis.

“Where’s Marinette?” Someone yelled. “Shouldn’t she be here?”

“I’m afraid Marinette had some prior engagements.” Miss Bustier clicked a pointer to a projector. “But, luckily, we are able to see exactly what it is.”

Light funneled out of the projector and the class was treated to what looked like a home movie.

It was in a hospital, but one boys face overtook the screen. He had on a blue striped shirt and a cheeky smile.

“Hey ma peeps! For those of you just joining us, I’m Claude...”

Another boy popped up in a green beret. “And I’m Mercury.”

“...and this is the livestream of the birth of a demigod!”

Sabrina and Max rose their fists and started chanting, “Elise! Elise! Elise!”

Ivan and Mylene glared at them playfully and started their own chant. “Dean! Dean! Dean!”

“What are they talking about?” Alya whispered to Rose.

“Didn’t you know? I just found out, it’s-“ she was cut off by a familiar voice coming from the speakers.

“Claude, I swear, if you don’t turn off that camera right now...”

The camera panned to a blue haired woman lying in a bed, a platinum blond man by her side.

“Sorry, Madame Culpa-Dupain-Cheng,” he laughed as Alya gasped inside the gymnasium, “you’re bedridden, so I’m not afraid of you.”

“Felix is still here.” She pointed out, leveling a finger at the camera. “Felix, get ‘im.”

The blond looked somewhere behind the camera’s field of view and made to move, but stopped as Marinette shouted out in pain.

“Felix,” she panted, after the screaming ceased, “I just want you to know that I love you, but I am never doing this again.” She looked up at him and received an amused grin.

“Fine by me.” He kissed her temple and Claude spoke again.

“You heard it here first folks! The legendary child, the only of its kind!”

She glared at him again. “Felix, if you don’t mind.”

“It would be my pleasure.” He began rolling up his sleeves and began walking towards Claude with a brisk pace.

“Uh, Claude?” Mercury, spoke with a nervous lilt to his voice.

“Well, that’s our live secret look into the birth of the legendary child of famous designer Marinette Culpa-Dupain-Chang and her photographer Felix Culpa-Dupain-Cheng!” Claude opened the door and hurried out. “Comment below on what you think the gender of the legend child will be and what the parents should name them; Claude Junior...”

“Or Mercury Junior!”

“Or the great Allegra the second?”

“Guys?” Adrien stood up from where he was sitting next to a blonde woman in a braid and a darker haired woman. “Is everything okay in there?”

“In there, fine, but out here?”

“There is a man on a mission behind us and that mission includes the removal of our tongues.”

“Better keep running, then.” The dark haired girl shouted, not even glancing up from her phone.

“Indeed.” Felix’s voice came from close behind the camera.

Both Claude and Mercury shrieked and began running down the hall once more, the other girl beside Adrien laughing while shouting, “Get ‘em good Felix!”

Alya stood stock-still, staring at the black screen.

Marinette is having a baby.

Adrien and four strangers are there for it.

She got married.

I didn’t know about it.

Lila said she saw Marinette today when she’s clearly been in the hospital all day, and is obviously in love with that Felix guy.

Suddenly, the fact that no one else but Rose, the sweetest person in class, had been talking to Lila was making a whole lot more sense.

@virgil-is-a-cutie

[sxfiyxplz]

Party Favours

I just want to thank @pseudonymphet for the motivation for this one!

Tagged: @rita-tlr @fistmebuckyskywalker @little-red-22 @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123

Word count 2.2k

Warnings (angst kinda at the beginning???)

Disclaimer: everything written here is for FUN I have ZERO affiliation with Sebastian and anyone else written in this it’s FANFICTION!!!!!!

Summary: You have an argument with your boyfriend which you think has cost you your relationship. So you look find yourself looking elsewhere at a party.

You wasn’t an avid Halloween celebrator, but when Mackie had invited you to a charity halloween party, you was fucking living for it. Your week had just taken a turn for the worst, returning back home to your apartment after having a fight with your boyfriend. Yes okay couples have arguments, the best of them do you thought, but the way in which his shiny blue eyes that you adored turned cold when he told you to leave, you knew there wasn’t any chance you was going to come back from this anytime soon.

Having a relationship that was in the public eye was irritating for you to say the least. But the two of you tried to keep your relationship intimate and safe at home- that was the only way it seemed to work as you both had shared numerous on-screen relationships and rendezvouses.

Out of the two of you, you’d definitely been the relaxed one in the relationship, not letting tabloids get in your head especially if they tried to pair your man with another woman as they were supposedly seen together. You knew he would only ever want to come home to you and you was the exact same when it came to him. However, your boyfriend was the jealous protective type, which often led to the occasional disagreements, but the sweetest make ups throughout your time together. Things had lately turned sour though, and you often felt that constantly having to reassure your boyfriend that nothing ever going on between your male acquaintances just made him drift further apart from you.

It wasn’t until that night he invited you over for dinner he finally boiled over and let his jealousy get the better of him. You’d been away a few days, work had you in meetings for a new series you was guest to star in. It wasn’t anything big but when you received the text to come over when you landed home, you was excited to see the man you loved as a little way to celebrate the new job. However it didn’t take more then 30 minutes in his cosy apartment for the two of you being at logger heads over a Instagram story a cast mate had posted of the two of you and how you looked just a little too comfortable together. You couldn’t pinpoint what it was that sent you over the edge and had you spluttering tears and viscous words. Was it how calm he composed himself whilst lacing his words with venomous sarcasm? Or was it the fact that when he did see you with any other male counterpart, he couldn’t bare to even look at you as you saw his eyes shift as his brain churned out fake scenarios of your escapades without him by your side. Whatever it was it had you spinning on your heels, asking him what life was like being such a “jealous prick” making both of you freeze. You knew you hadn’t meant for your words to come out so distastefully, but at this point you wanted to break down and crawl back to the man you knew you loved and cared for, not the man that sat rigid on the couch digesting what exactly you had just called him. Before you even had time to turn around and beg for things to go back to normal he had told you that if that’s how you felt for you to leave and not bother looking back. Was that it? This was how the two of you was going to end your relationship? Was your relationship even over? You couldn’t comprehend what was happening as you turned to him, tears in your eyes demanding he take back what he said. But as you looked up at him his eyes also filled with tears, and it wasn’t anger or jealousy but the single concept of trust that lacked causing the whole ordeal. You knew you couldn’t fix whatever it was that had eaten away at your relationship, not in a night- sighing in defeat you turned grabbing your jacket and bags, closing the door behind you and not looking back.

Since that night, you’d pranced around your apartment, finishing at least 3 bottles of wine and a bottle of tequila, the special kind only to break out in emergencies, listening to your “sad girl anthems” playlist on repeat. The sorrows and self pity you had felt the night you cried yourself to sleep in a drunken state had just about disappeared as your phone pinged with a text from Anthony, giving you the address for tonight’s event. Saturday night, Halloween. You would be in the arms of the man you loved, yes loved, watching scary movies together in bed. Instead you stood alone in your apartment, lights dim (to get in the spooky mood of course) as you straightened your long dark frontal, admiring the view. For saying you had potentially just had a 2 year relationship end at the beginning of the week over a photograph of you and a co-star who definitely wasn’t your type, you really had to give it to yourself for your outfit. Your black dress was long but figure hugging, hair seamless, not a stray out of place and your lips and nails painted the perfect shade of red. Your eyes looked you up and down once more as you placed the dark chunky ring on your finger making you fall into deep thought on whether your boyfriend would be there, if you could still call him that. He’d always told you that if you both were ever to go out to a halloween party you’d both dress up as Morticia and Gomez Addams. He’d even joked that he would box dye his hair and shave so to only have the iconic moustache. You mentally cursed as you thought of how happy you’d be holding onto his arm, leaning into his strong build as the two of you went to this party tonight. Before you could think anymore your uber buzzed you out of your daydream. You needed yourself a Prince you told yourself, not a companion, as you stepped into the uber giving him the address. So that was what you went out to find.

The venue was stunning to say the least and was completely packed. Taking in your surroundings you had to admit Anthony had really pulled this off. You greeted all who you knew and made your way to the bar for a needed drink. Vodka sodas was the only thing you were drinking tonight seen as that’s what you started on back home. Your body began to sway with the music, getting head getting lost in whatever remix they had decided to blast through the speakers. You was in your own thoughts until a tap on your shoulder snapped you out of then. You turned around, reciprocating two huge grins staring at you. Anthony and Sebastian. Sebastian. You and Anthony had been friends before the fame, seeing him as the older brother you always wanted. Sebastian however was a different story. Although you remained friendly, others often told you both before and after getting a boyfriend that the two of you had a spark. There was always a sparkle in Sebastians eyes when he looked at you, a touch always lingered, a hug always tightened- all three apparent as he swung both arms around you before Anthony even got the chance to greet you.

“The other half still acting bitter about your fight?” Mackie asked, not beating around the bush. You sighed and shrugged. Was he still your other half?

“Wait you two had a fight? How did I not know this?” Seb asked looking between the two of you confused as to why he hadn’t been told about the domestic. Sebastian had always been fond of your relationship, the moment you and your boyfriend got together he would often make comments on how lucky he was to have you and how he was so happy to see you content. You shrugged again, not wanting to let your emotions overtake you tonight, so ordered tequila shots for the boys, somehow exempting yourself from the liquor by shaking your half full class of vodka soda at the two of them. Conversing with the two of them helped pass the time and before you knew it Anthony had left you and Sebastian the bar together. The conversation began to drift and you found yourself thinking of him, the man you was crazy in love with on Monday. Now you was nursing a drink wishing he was at your side.

“You know you don’t need your Gomez by your side to look hot as you do right now.” Sebastian said softly into your ear, scooting closer to you to the point his body was pressed across your back. He caressed your right cheek and turned it to face him, taking you all in with a smirk. “Maybe you just need a charming unorthodox Prince Charming to make you smile.”

“You’re a prince?” You almost laughed in his face shooting him a puzzled look. Yes his outfit was adorable, the blue waistcoat with gold with his hair somewhat groomed and beige bottoms were adorable, but you really had no clue who he had come dressed as.

“Seriously? Can’t you tell who I am?” He gave you a slow twirl, acting like that made all the difference to his outfit. “Oh my God I’m Flynn! Tangled? Come on!” He exclaimed, still shocked you only just clocked on to who he was talking about.

“You should have kept the hot blonde you’ve been dating around a little longer and maybe your outfit would have made more sense” you winked but he laughed you off, clearly she was no longer flavour of the month for your friend. Not wanting to leave Sebastian alone as the music pulled you to the dance floor you locked your fingers in his and dragged him down with you, making your way into the middle of the crowded dance floor. It was almost on instinct the two of you laced your fingers to rest on his neck and his perch at the bottom of your back. Even though it wasn’t a slow song, you swayed in his grip, slowly moving closer loosening up a little making him grin at you. Your thumb ran circles on the back of his neck as your now free hand brushed his sorry attempt of curtains out of his eyes.

“You know what. You look hot as a prince” you smirked up at him, carrying on what you knew would be an ongoing inside joke between the two of you from now on.

“Are you drunk?”

“Maybe” you lied. Although you wish you were so to at least have an excuse if the small space between the two of your lips miraculously decided to close. Did you want to kiss Sebastian? absolutely- there was no questioning the chemistry that the two of you were radiating, but his hand snaking further down your back to grab your ass definitely didn’t help. The sensations he was sending through you drove you insane. The two vodka sodas didn’t stand a chance to intoxicate you when you could feel the heat of Sebastians breath on your neck as you dug your hips closer to him as the music blared through the both of you.

“People are gonna stare” he whispered which made you erupt in laughter. Did you really care? No not really. The argument between you and your boyfriend had cut deep. Even though the reason for the spat was somewhat a blur at this point, he hadn’t make you feel the way you currently was feeling in a long time. You could feel your body vibrate from head to toe whilst being under Sebastians touch. Although you tried your hardest to jump out of the trance Sebastian had got you under you were attached to his waist, swaying your body as he squeezed your hips whilst you continued to dance.

“You done babysitting my girlfriend now?” A voice asked, loud and agitated. You knew the voice like it was sent from out of heaven, sending shivers down your spine and leaving goosebumps all over your body. There he was, stood by in a black suit, hair slicked back with a side part. Although he hasn’t box dyed his hair it was heavily gelled and he’d even shaved his beard leaving only his moustache neatly trimmed. Both your eyes were fixated on each other. You wasn’t quite sure whether it was the adrenaline of seeing him again since you’d last parted or the fact your body had been riled up by Sebastian, but all you wanted to do was grab his face and kiss him. If you did you knew the first thing to split would be your dress as you latch your legs around his torso. Then you’d have your fingers locked into his hair as you devour his pink pouting lips. Sebastians moving hand snapped you out of your daydream, as you saw your boyfriends brows begin to frown at his actions. He froze a little as he watched his own friend pull you into his grip, something he would do to you as his girlfriend. Had he lost you already?

“Chris” you blurted, making him now jump out of his own trance, “what are you doing here?”

[aslihanxfahri-bailey]

more than life itself || self para

Prompt: Travel back in time watching a video of a then-eight months pregnant Abigail Bailey, recording a video intended for Alex. Abi’s pregnancy was faced with a lot of challenges and problems that could’ve resulted in her dying.

Trigger Warnings: pregnancy, death, and labour mention

For as long as Abigail can remember, she’s created a baby box for Alex. Admittedly, it was more so of a childhood box; But nevertheless, in it, held memories. Alex’s favourites over the past five years, remnants of her nursery then her bedroom. Toys, clothes, a binkie, her favourite book. Anything that she wasn’t still using (such as her crocheted blanket she still slept with), was added to the box. Along with a scrapbook, filled with pictures all the way from when Abigail was pregnant with her. Ultrasounds to Abi’s progress photos, memories from the past five years. There also held a USB in the box, holding videos from the past five years as well. First crawl, first walk, first word, first tooth: everything. But… along in the big box, there held a smaller box. A box that when you opened up, was filled with things. A list of the best places to travel to, pictures of Abigail and of Atlas (both together and separate, all from their time together back in London), a picture of Abi’s favourite wolf that Atlas showed her, a statue. And a DVD. All one needed to do was put it into a laptop or DVD player and maybe… maybe, it’ll go along the lines of something like this:

Abigail sat in a rocking chair in the nursery. Smiling softly into the video camera. Her bangs had grown out, so has her hair, and she was in soft blue sundress. Her hands were resting on the bump she has, the young archaeologist now at eight months pregnant. “Hi, Alex,” she began, head tilting softly as she looked at the camera. “My name is Doctor Abigail Bailey. I was born in Istanbul, Turkey before being raised mainly in London, England, but I also spent a good portion of my years living in Cairo, Egypt. My birthday is July 15th, 1993 and I am 23 years old. I am an archaeologist and anthropologist who specializes in ancient civilizations. And I am your mother. I know that… you possibly know all these things already. I know that if you’re watching this, then, it means that… it means that I’m not with you. It means that, I died. A few weeks ago when I was still seven months pregnant with you, I discovered that I had placenta previa. Your placenta had been formed lower than usual. Placenta previa causes an abnormal amount of bleeding and it… it can be fatal. When it comes to the common symptoms and causes of it, I technically shouldn’t have it. But, I… I do. The doctor said that there is a chance that I could live. But, there’s also the chance that I couldn’t. And this… this video is meant to be a way that I could talk to you. This box,” she reached over and placed a small box on her lap, “is meant to be a way for us to still be connected, despite me not being here. I pray… God, I pray that you never have to watch this. That I am still with you years from now. But, it is better to be safe than sorry.

“Um, I guess I better start off with what’s all in here,” she mused, clearing her throat. “I, I-I wrote down a list of the best places you need to travel to at least once in your life. If you’re anything like your father and I, I am certain that you’re going to love adventure. That you’re curious to see more of the world, discover more things. I also wrote down some of the best historical books. Now, there might be a couple of books in the future that are good, so talk to your grandfather about that. But these? These are a couple of my favourites. Especially this one.” She held up a book, one that is well-read and extremely loved. Abi looked down at it and smiled softly. Her fingers tracing over the cover. “Your father… Your father wrote a note to me once in this book. It had been my favourite long before he ever did that. But… I suppose that that’s another reason why. I won’t tell you what it is; I want you to read it and find out yourself. But I hope that you’ll take a lot from it. Not just your father’s note. I also got a bunch of photographs in here featuring your father and I. We met one day at my favourite book shop. He’d asked me for advice on a history book and… Something just clicked. I felt comfortable with him, I just… I wanted to get to know him better. We went to lunch together to Pomodoro’s and eventually, I brought him back to the manor. Talked to him about all kinds of history stuff and just spending time with him. Little did we know, he would end up staying with me for three weeks. Those three weeks… I don’t think I can describe how happy I had been. Just being with him and spending time with him… I fell hard and I fell fast. I had never been through something like that before: he became my first. My first of so many things. When he had to leave, it shattered me. I wanted to go with him. I wanted to ask him to come with me to Egypt. I was suppose to be going there soon for an excavation for a couple of months and… I don’t know why I didn’t ask him. And I regret it so, so much. I wish I had the confidence to tell him everything I wanted to say. I hope that you have the confidence I lacked.”

Sniffing, Abi wiped at her eyes before breathing out a laugh. “I’m sorry,” she wiped her tears away some more. “I-I’m sorry, I… I’ve missed him so much, always hoped that I would see him again. That I would get to hold him in my arms and kiss him, that the three of us could be a family. I have been wishing for that for the past couple of months. So this…” She shook her head away. Placing the box away, she kept her eyes on the camera. “Alex, I beg of you… please don’t blame yourself for this. I love you more than life itself and I would do anything… absolutely anything… to ensure your happiness, that you’re healthy and safe. I don’t want you to bear any guilt over my not being here. I just want you to live your life and to be happy. The pregnancy… it hasn’t been an easy one. I’ve been really sick throughout it. My body has experience so much pain and trying to go about it all… it was difficult. I’ve spent a majority of my pregnancy in Egypt. Which, hasn’t exactly been the easiest thing either. But it’s okay: I’ve done everything I could to ensure that you’re okay. And I always will, alive or dead. There is still a chance that I’ll make it. We are planning on trying to do a caesarean section for labor, which could help. But I… If that happens, I’m scared about the future. I’m scared about you wanting to be a big sibling. I’m scared of wanting to have more kids. There’s a 2-3% chance that I could have placenta previa in another pregnancy. And admittedly, that terrifies me. If I make it and I want more kids in the future, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I just… I hope to come up with a plan, if that is the case. But… if I don’t make it…”

Abi sighed softly. Her fingers traced over her bump before glancing up again. “I really hope that you’re with your dad,” she whispered. “My parents promised me that they were going to tell him about you if I don’t make it. That they’ll explain everything. Your father’s name is Atlas Williams. He was born and raised in Providence Peak, Colorado. His family owns Wolf Wild Rescue and he loves those wolves so much. I remember the look on his face as he talked about the wolves and the rescue for the first time. Just how proud he was. Your father is many things, Alex. He’s passionate, he has a love for adventure. He’s curious, about the world and about history, about so many different facts and trivia. He’s loyal. He’s caring and gentle, so incredibly gentle. For a man as giant as he is, it’s incredible how gentle he truly is. Or can be. He’s got a wicked sense of humor and he’s protective. He’s also intelligent. And god, he’s handsome. He’s got these eyes that just capture you, this smile that is brighter than the Egyptian sun, this laugh that warms you right up, and his arms? When he holds you and you know that you’re safe, that you are at peace and at home? I have been everywhere in the world, but I have never felt more at peace in a place than in his arms. I know that there’s more to him. I know that he has a temper and sometimes, he’s more prone to fighting than talking. But every time he’s gotten into a fight, or at least the ones that I’ve seen, he was defending me. He isn’t great at talking, prefers to show than tell. Perhaps he’s worked on that the past couple of years, of raising you. There are probably a lot of things about him that I don’t know still. And I genuinely hope that I’ll make it and I will find out more about him. Because I know that there is more to the man than just the man I knew in London. And I’m ready to love him just as much as I love the London Atlas.”

Abigail paused for a moment. Taking a shaky breath, she looked down at her bump. Fingers softly tracing it. “Alex, if… if your father is around, can you please give me a moment to talk to him?” Her words came out in a whisper, the young woman visibly nervous. Yet as she wiped away her tears and tried to make herself presentable, she gave herself a minute. Before looking back up at the camera. And she smiled warmly. “Hey, Las.

"Before I say anything else, I want to start off by saying this: I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry for not telling you about Alex months ago. There has never been a moment where you weren’t on my mind and never a moment where I haven’t almost contacted you. E-mail you, call you through the rescue’s line, gotten on social media and hopefully find you. I… I ended up losing my phone on my way to Egypt. I don’t know how or when, but I did. And I had told you prior that I had programmed my laptop so that I could strictly do work on it, so that wasn’t an option to use to contact you either. It wasn’t until I got back here in London when I finally had the options to do so. But I… I’ve been scared. I’ve been so scared the past few months over what you would say or do. I didn’t… I-I didn’t want to face rejection. I was scared that you wouldn’t want to see me or the baby and… and I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.” It was getting harder to breathe and she wiped away her tears. “The moment I found out about Alex, though… I did have a moment of bravery. After I was released from the hospital, I made my way to the airport. I was trying to find the best flights to Denver. And for a moment, I almost did. But my mentor ended up stopping me. There’d been a big discovery at the site that I needed to see. I had work to do there, I… I was on a loan from the government and responsible for so many workers. I was paying them, responsible for them to be able to provide for their families. This was my first excavation. I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave. There was so much at stake. But I told myself that I would get a phone, contact my mother so that she could give me the information for the rescue, and I’ll call you. And I did… expect for calling you. I had a nightmare that night. I dreamt that I told you and… a-and you wanted nothing to do with us. I had a few more dreams like that that eventually bled into real life. It was all I could think about for so long that every time I tried to contact you, I got too scared. And I hate that so much. But it… it hasn’t stopped me from trying to include you, or at least your presence, in our kid’s life. Like their name, for example.

"Alex is a Greek name, meaning ‘warrior’ or ‘defender of mankind’. As of right now, I don’t know if Alex is an Alexander or an Alexandria. I came up with many different names over the past few months. A lot of them were after many different historical figures or places. However, one day during one of my last few days off, I went up to Alexandria to see some friends. Alexandria had been on my list of names, because of the infamous library and the great conqueror, but it wasn’t one I was completely set on. My friends and I went to a couple of different museums that day there, including the Graeco-Roman museum. While I had been roaming the statue garden, thinking about the baby and of you again, I stopped in front of a statue. It was the Titan Atlas, with the world on his shoulders. Standing there and looking at him, I knew instantly that the baby’s name, was Alex. In that moment, everything felt right, it… it was almost as if you were there with me. As if somehow, you had helped me pick the name. And I couldn’t pick any other name afterwards.” Laughing, she stood up and reached for the camera, taking it off the stand before showing off an area in the nursery. Right there, was a tiny statue of the Titan Atlas. “I bought it from the gift shop right afterwards,” she mentioned. She then moved back and placed the video camera back on it’s stand. Moving to sit back down, there was a visible strain on her features. She let out soft whispers and gasps as she got herself situated, pain on her face while she cradled the bump with one hand. Her eyes were shut for a moment, Abi trying to take a couple of deep breaths to soothe herself back to before. “I’m okay,” she whispered, resting her head against the chair as a tear rolled down her cheek. “I-I’m okay… Atlas, I… From the moment I found out, I tried to find ways to include you. I tried to tell you so many times over the past few months and I’m so sorry. Maybe you’ve forgiven me… Maybe you haven’t… But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.

"I wish that I could tell you that myself,” she whimpered. “There’s so much I wish I could. And I… I’m sorry that I’ve never had the courage to do so before. But I… Since I’m dead now, maybe I finally do: I’m in love with you, Atlas Williams. I wish I got to tell you that to your face, I… I wish I found your note first. Had I known, I would’ve gone straight to Denver to see you again. I’ve always wished that I got to see you again. That we could’ve gotten a real chance, that we could’ve been a family. That I could’ve gotten more time with you, fallen in love with you more. I wish that I could kiss you again. Hold your hand once more, fall asleep in your arms as you list off some random fact, how completely and wonderfully fascinated you are by it. I wish that our goodbye in the airport won’t be our last. That that wasn’t the last time you held me in your arms, that it wasn’t the last time you kissed me. I wish that I got to hear you tell me you love me instead of having to read them in a book on a flight while over Greece. I wish we had more time. I wish I got to tell you how much I love you. That I had gotten to witness us grow old together, share a life together while raising Alex. All the good and the bad moments, I wish we had gotten them together. That we gotten to stand by each other’s side and work things out together as a team. That I had gotten to know each and every single thing about you and gotten the chance to love you for everything you are, both the man in London and the man in Providence Peak. I wish we had gotten more time. I wish I told you I love you, that I’m in love with you. I’m so sorry for never saying anything. I’m so sorry it took this long. I just… I hope you forgive me. That you’ll love our child twice as hard for me. Because Alex… Alex really needs you. So much and I wish that I was there. I’m sorry that I’m not. I love you both, more than I could ever possibly say. Please don’t forget that. Can… Can you bring Alex here, please?”

She waited again, taking another moment. She wiped away her tears that she’d been crying, trying to steady her breathing. Hoping that Alex would now be watching, she placed a smile on her face again. “Alright! I just… I wanted to leave this on a high note. I’ve cried a lot in this and I… I have never cried so much before in my life. I hate it, so much. But I just wanted to say: take that list of travel ideas and go on an adventure together. Share as much of them together as possible… and think of me. Especially if you both come to Egypt. I’ve always wanted to take you both there and in a way, I will be. I’m with you both always. There’s... There’s so much I wish the three of us could’ve done. I wish that the three of us could’ve been a family. I’m so sorry for being too scared of doing anything about it, for being too late. I hope you both can forgive me eventually.” Gently, she wiped away her tears. Letting out a breathy sigh and looking at the camera softly, one hand resting on the bump and the other toying with her necklace. The young historian smiling peacefully. “Atlas and Alex Williams: I love you both more than life itself. Don’t forget that. Please don’t forget me. I love you.”

Blowing a kiss to camera, she waved and gave one final smile, before the video ended.

Abigail had spent 43 hours in labour. It had been a rather peaceful day (more or less) in the Bailey manor when Abi needed to walk, having been on bedrest for the last remaining weeks of her pregnancy. She’d been found in the library of the manor, passed out with a small pool of blood, a trail leading from the entrance to her spot. Her father, Richard Bailey, had been the one who found her and quickly took her to the nearest hospital. They had to perform an emergency C-section, delivering a healthy baby girl at 7 pounds and 6 ounces. Unfortunately, Abigail had hemorrhaged during labour and they almost lost her before they were able to stabilize her. She spent three days afterwards in a coma, her parents alternating between taking care of Alexandria Jane Williams and being there for their daughter. She eventually woke up and spent a week in the hospital regaining her strength before heading back home, where once again she spent a month on bedrest with baby Alex resting in a bassinet next to Abi’s bed. The archaeologist eventually getting her health back, all the while taking care of her daughter while loving and protecting her.

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Nightmare Sisters (DeCoteau, 1988)

This review contains mild spoilers.

David DeCoteau's Nightmare Sisters opens with a pretty hideous racial caricature, where an actor playing a fortune teller does a terrible Indian accent. Now, this was made in the '80s, the same decade we got Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles and Takashi in Revenge of the Nerds, so this level of racism is nothing out of the ordinary. But in those cases, you could at least argue that the performers were putting enough effort into their performances to make there scenes at least watchable. The guy here is teeeeerrible and his scene goes on for sooooo long. Anyway, the scene features a widow asking about her probably dead husband, who when summoned has his dick bitten off by an evil spirit, who then kills the fortune teller, making it the hero of the movie, or at least this scene. Because this is a pretty low budget affair, most of this is thankfully implied.

Thankfully, the movie gets quite a bit better after this point, as we move to a group of extremely dorky sorority sisters who come into possession of the fortune teller's crystal ball. These sorority sisters are played by established scream queens Linnea Quigley, Brinke Stevens and Michelle Bauer, who are specialists in these kinds of movies, and from whom I'd seen and enjoyed a few things. Quigley is one of the best parts of the great zombie movie Return of the Living Dead, which on top of being super entertaining and funny I've grown to find surprisingly moving with my last couple of viewings. (Great movies have a way of sneaking up on you like that.) Stevens is of course in the feminist slasher movie Slumber Party Massacre, which spells out the subtext of these movies by having the killer's weapon be an extremely phallic drill. And Bauer is in Cafe Flesh, which is not a horror movie but a porno, but likely a much more palatable one to normie viewers given its emphasis on mise-en-scene and elaborately choreographed stage performances over gynecology. I was happy to see all three present, is what I'm saying.

These girls, left with nothing to do over the weekend, decide to throw a party and invite the only guys they know, some real Robert Carradine Revenge of the Nerds motherfuckers who are about as dorky as they are and similarly at the bottom rung of their fraternity. Of course once the party starts, they foolishly mess around with the crystal ball and the girls get possessed by the same spirit. Now, the girls were extremely dorky previously and had appearances that lined up with that image, with Quigley's buckteeth, Stevens' dangerously pointy glasses and Bauer's fatsuit. They seemed like perfectly nice people and might have had lots of inner beauty for all we know, but that doesn't photograph as well nor does it appeal to the horndogs in the audience, so once they get possessed they get a lot conventionally hotter and spend the rest of the movie in varying states of undress. This movie probably has more nudity than any non-porno I've watched in quite some time. Hell, right after their transformation, the immediately smear peach pie over their breasts and then spend what seems to be ten minutes bathing together while the Anthony Edwardsish heroes watch through a peephole. Apparently there's a TV-edit that excises all the nudity. I haven't watched it and can only assume it's ten minutes long.

It's worth noting at this point that DeCoteau is gay and this plays like a really broad attempt at pandering to the predominantly straight target male audience for these kinds of movies. As parodic as the results may be, I must shamefully admit that he has us dead to rights. Of course, given the title, something must be off, and as the homophobic meathead fraternity brothers who show up to give the male leads a hard time find out in the least pleasant way possible, it turns out that the girls have turned into succubi. Emphasis on the "suck", as the song that plays over the opening credits suggests. Or perhaps a more accurate name would be "bite-ubi". Given that they, you know, kill their victims by biting their dicks. Their "wing wangs", as one of the girls says while possessed. I think another uses the phrase "python of love", but I neglected to write down the complete line of dialogue so I could be wrong. DeCoteau is not a cruel man, so he spares us the sight of this act, but he taps into very real male anxieties in this movie.

Of course, to wrap this all up, the Curtis Armstrong, Lamar Lattrellish heroes enlist the help of an exorcist whose role is extremely self aware but not unamusing, and the situation is resolved with some pretty lo-fi special effects. (Okay, I lied, the heroes are a lot more presentable than Armstrong. Also Lamar Lattrell is actually the character's name and not the actor's, the heroes are all pasty white dudes and the only person with a musical number is Quigley. I ran out of Revenge of the Nerds references, I'm sorry.) This is an extremely unambitious affair, having been shot in four days as a challenge to use up short ends left over from the production of Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-a-Rama, but I had a good time. While I won't pretend that the shamelessly pandering nudity didn't have an effect on me, what really sells this movie is the presence of Quigley, Stevens and Bauer, who are extremely winning in playing their characters both pre- and post-possession. (I think the term "adorkable" applies to the former.) My technical knowledge is lacking here, but while I understand there were inconsistencies in the film stock used, I didn't find that to manifest in the film's (not particularly accomplished but also not unattractive) visual style. And the movie has a nice, laidback sense of humour, which (aside from the opening scene) sustains the good vibes over the brief runtime.