#spinner rack display

[marvolus]

8 Benefits of Using a Spinner Rack Display in Your Retail Space

In the bustling world of retail, where maximizing every square inch of space is crucial, a spinner rack display offers a versatile and efficient way to showcase a diverse range of merchandise. Their dynamic design allows for 360-degree visibility, making it easy for customers to browse through products and discover new items effortlessly. Whether used for magazines, snacks, or small merchandise, these displays not only save space but also create an engaging visual experience for shoppers. By familiarizing yourself with the benefits outlined in this infographic, you can unlock the full potential of spinner rack displays in your retail space. To know more, read this infographic: https://marvolus.com/spinner-rack-display-retail-space/.

[todorokies]

2:48pm - satoru gojo

contents: fluff, established relationship, fem!reader, teen!gojo or adult!gojo u can imagine whichever, found family trope, megumi & tsumiki are some vv young lads here (they’re like 8 & 9 years old), this is a kinda unserious ngl

a/n: the found family trope will always hold a special place in my heart

“what the hell are you doing?!”

the sight in front of you was absolutely distasteful, nothing could’ve prepared you for the horrors that displayed in the comfort of your own home. not even a trip to the ninth circle of hell could mentally equip you with strength to deal with this troublesome…mess.

satoru’s elongated body currently rests in a downward dog postion as his hands are occupied with his left being on a red circle and the right on a blue circle.

you would think the children that you left in his care would be participating in the child’s game of twister, but that was far from the truth as satoru’s hostages —megumi and tsumiki— sat criss-crossed off the game mat as they shared the same puzzled look with you.

“oh hey baby! we missed you- megs gimme a hand here and spin the wheel for me.” your mouth comically drops so fast you’d think you were in an episode of a cartoon.

with a deep scowl present on his face, the young megumi reluctantly shifts closer to the spinner giving it a weak twirl that eventually lands on ‘right foot, green.’ miraculously, satoru is able to cross his foot over on a green circle in a way that shouldn’t be considered humanly possible.

your boyfriend is gonna break a bone or two if you don’t stop this tomfoolery.

you crouch down to be face to face with him. “you do realize you’re supposed to be looking after the kids while i was gone…not traumatizing them, right?” he raises his head to look at you, “traumatizing them? nonsense! a good game of twister always builds character.”

“a good game of them watching you play alone will build character for them how exactly?”

“well obviously i couldn’t let them play. i wouldn’t want to risk toppling them over and letting them lose in a game that requires skill.”

with that, tsumiki and megumi gets up from their spots on the floor and make their way to the entryway to pick up the snacks you dropped in disarray upon arrival. “but you lost to both me and megumi before…i don’t know why he’s lying.”

ego bruised, he dramatically collapses on the twister mat, “you weren’t suppose to tell her that!” a genuine belly laugh escapes from your mouth, heading towards the couch to high-five the kids who just finished putting away the groceries and had two family sized potato chip bags in their laps.

“good job guys! next time record it on his phone for me.” they both nodded with enthusiasm.

satoru dramatically whines while planting his face in the palm of his hands while striding over to your dvd rack to choose a movie for the night. “cut me some slack, did you really expect me ruin the game for the kids?”

you quizzically contemplate your answer with a finger on your chin and satoru could practically see the sfx question mark above your head. “oh come onnnn!”

you then walk over to the now sulking white haired boy to delicately place both of your hands on his smooth face earning a groan from megumi combined with fake gagging sounds from tsumiki.

“if it makes you feel any better i think they secretly enjoy your antics. tsumiki told me about the tea party you guys had; with tiaras and everything yeah?” he slowly nodded unsure of what you’re trying to get at.

“and you bought megumi that nintendo ds he was subtly hinting for…my point is that they appreciate you so much even if they act like they don’t; i appreciate you.”

satoru’s whole demeanour does a turnaround. smiling gleefully at you as his dimples showcase in all of it’s glory. “i mean, yeah, they don’t wanna admit it to your face in case it’ll hurt your feelings…” his hand inches towards to your neck lightly ghosting above your velvety skin whilst slowly leaning in as his eyes flicker to your lips. “…but i think i’m their favourite parent.”

before his soft lips could capture yours two potato chips come flying in your direction as a sour expression sits upon tsumiki and megumi’s face. “ewww guys! remember we still need to pick something to watch.”

megumi huffs, “and can we not watch ice age for the millionth time i don’t care how much gojo likes that movie.”

reblogs & feedback is appreciated!! <3

[jhsharman]

horizontal

Covering Jughead's feet becomes a must -- the initial one was largely sold in a spinner rack that would have obscured the bottom of the cover, where the digest cover would have largely been on full display as an impulse purchase item in a supermarket checkout line. You don't want to see Jughead's feet popping out at you as you buy tonight's dinner ingredients.

[paullovescomics]

This interview with Frank Miller is a few weeks old, but a couple of ideas from it have kept popping up in my mind, so I wanted to share it.

The influence that reading Lone Wolf & Cub had on him: If you can find some of his early early work, he was drawing in something much closer to the old Marvel house style. But then there's that Daredevil run, when his lines and figures are suddenly much looser and more expressive. It makes total sense that he got there by being wowed by Goseki Kojima's work. And Miller's cartooning is so much better for it. Even with the exact same scripts, his comics would be much less impactful if he'd stuck with the standard (and, by the lights of the time, more correct) style. It also shows how these different traditions in comics have been influencing each other for much longer than is often assumed. This was the early 1980s. America in general had seen Speed Racer and Godzilla, but I don't think many folks had access to manga. But of course New York City gets a lot of things before the rest of us. I kinda want to go on a tangent about how Japanese stuff was kept separate for a long time because it was considered weird (the Japanimation era), but now it's kept separate because those "weird" elements are now beloved and therefore a distinct and valuable marketing tool. IDK. If you grew up with the attitude of "don't put yer fuckin labels on me, man" you might see something ironic there.

His comment that he got to try that style because comics publishers at the time were desperate. [This one is a real tangent.] A lot of guys my age look back at that era, when you could find spinner racks of comics at lots of grocery, drug, and convenience stores as a time when comics were thriving. It did feel that way to us kids, and I absolutely have fond memories of riding my bike down to the Snak Pak, or the Piggly Wiggly and City Drug downtown, and hunting for comics. (Different stores got different mixes of titles, and sometimes you'd find older issues that hadn't been removed when they went out of date. It had a treasure hunt quality.) And it's true that circulation numbers were higher (but returns could be very high, too). But publishers were freaking out, because sales were going down, and stores were dumping comics for more profitable items. When most shops were mom & pop operations, or very small chains that existed in one town or county, then making room for a low-profit-margin product like comics was okay, because hey they make the kids smile, and it's the type of things people expect to see, and they were returnable so they were low risk, why not stock them? But with these stores being gobbled up by regional and national chains, and starting to apply big retail tools like "how much profit are you making per square inch of shelf space?", comics just didn't make sense. Put in another display of soft drinks, or a rack of sunglasses, or As Seen On TV gadgets, and increase your returns many times over. Had the direct market (with all its considerable flaws) not come along, I think we would have had a fraction of the number and variety of comics -- just a handful of DCs, Marvels, and Archies that could sell enough to justify space at the bottom of a magazine rack.

The idea that there aren't enough young creators making new stuff in comics now -- I don't work in comics so I don't know how accurate that is, but it certainly feels like a lot of the things I see promoted from the big publishers are from long-established names. I think the younger creators are probably doing things in webcomics, and that seems to be a (mostly) different audience from the customer base of comic shops. Would buyers of DC and Marvel be open to open to new takes on characters from younger creators the way we were open to Miller's Daredevil? It's hard to say, because it's such an idiosyncratic audience. Social media would suggest no, because it's full of complaints about anything unfamiliar, but I don't trust social media to be representative. "We are desperately in need of open minds" among all parts of the the comics ecosystem.

[brykotyk]

My wife found a cheap used magazine spinner rack, and we made and printed off some topper signs for a DIY comic display! This house is gradually morphing into a private comic shop.

[hopetribune]

Marvolus Provides Wire Spinner Racks and Basket Retail Displays Online

http://dlvr.it/SpqsSk

[thealphareporter]

Marvolus Offers Grid and Spinner Display Racks

http://dlvr.it/Sm6WQm

[thesunshinereporter]

Marvolus Offers Grid and Spinner Display Racks

http://dlvr.it/Sm6W6T

[marvolus]

Buy Spinner Rack Display

A spinner rack display is a rotating stand used in retail to showcase and organize various items such as books, magazines, or other merchandise. Efficient and space saving, it allows customers to easily browse through products with a simple spin of the rack. To know more, visit: https://marvolus.com/stock-peg-hook-spinners/ and watch this video.

[howtobeaconartist]

Hi, I have been making sticker sheets on my silhouette machine to sell at my next con. I have sold at cons before just not with sticker sheets yet, and i just realized that I don’t know how i’m going to display them. I wanted to know if anyone had some creative ways of displaying each type of sticker sheet that may not take up too much room and doesn’t involve making people flip through a picture book. (My sheets are about postcard size)

Kiriska: Since they're postcard sized, you could display them like postcards. I use these collapsible plywood displays, but you could also get spinner racks.

If you don't yet have a ton of different sheets, you could just lay them flat at the front of your table. This is what I currently do:

Any other suggestions, folks with sticker sheets?

[brevoorthistoryofcomics]

BHOC: MARVEL TREASURY EDITION #17

BHOC: MARVEL TREASURY EDITION #17

Picked this book up on one of my regular weekly Thursday comic book runs to my local 7-11. It was racked over in he magazine section rather than on the spinner rack due to its huge size. And I quite liked the cover image on it–so much so that I copied it, and did a decent enough job that I displayed the result on a bulleting board in my room for several years. This was another Treasury Edition…

[raitrolling]

Present Day, Present Time

[Easy Reading Version on Toyhou.se]

-- alluringMisdirection [AM] began trolling autonomousMachinations [AM] --

AM: Oh shlt slnce when was lt your bday??

AM: All g tho, l got a place ln mlnd ;)

AM: Obvlously lt’s gonna be a secret, so don’t even bother asklng! Surprlse partles are the best partles, y’know. And lt’s gotta be good for the blg 1-0!

AM: So you better get hype- or, as hype as whatever’s posslble for you 8)

-- alluringMisdirection [AM] ceased trolling autonomousMachinations [AM] --

Callan stood in the homewares section of one of Block 136’s many low-end department stores, hands on his hips and tapping his foot in mild irritation. Predictably, he’d be caught off-guard by Gerrel’s mentioning of his wriggling day coming up. He didn’t forget, of course, he just- Wait, did Gerrel ever mention it before? They’ve known each other for a while and Callan had definitely made him put his wriggling day into his stupidly busy schedule, but he legitimately cannot recall if the redblood had brought up his own before. Huh. Well, whatever, Callan’s going to say that’s Gerrel’s problem to work out, because right now he’s got his own problem. What the hell kind of present does someone with no hobbies want? Most of the time when it comes to presents, Callan would simply grab whatever silly novelty he could find in the clearance sections - A hat with a funny saying on it, some desktop USB gadget, all those stocking stuffer toys made specifically for office 12th Perigees party gifts, the impulse buy bottle openers and fidget spinners at the registers, - it didn’t matter what the gift was, if it was a gift from him then clearly it was the most important! But this time it’s different. It’s not just a gift for someone’s 10th wriggling day, but the wriggling day of someone who it wouldn’t be inaccurate to call Callan’s best friend (who would’ve thought? Of all people!). A real pro at gift-giving too, the photo book he gave last Quadrants’ Day had touched Callan’s heart far greater than any novelty chocolate or humorous greeting card ever could. So now he’s obligated to be thoughtful. Ugh, thinking.

He acknowledges that the logical gift would be something practical, Gerrel does seem to like things that are useful and would make him more productive. With how much he goes on about ‘healthy eating’ and ‘cooking your own meals’, he’d probably be over the moon if he unwrapped one of those air fryer things people keep talking about. But as Callan stared the boxes of kitchen appliances down, he couldn’t help but think one thing...

An air fryer is fucking boring.

Yes, sure, it’s the perfect gift for someone like him. He’d appreciate it! He’d appreciate it a lot more than the corner store chocolates he received from the greenblood for Quadrants’ Day, or the reindeer antler hat from 12th Perigees. He’d probably get a lot of use out of it too, if what the recipe books conveniently placed next to the display says is true. You can cook chicken, vegetables, brownies and muffins, fish and chips, mozzarella sticks… But, it may be a gift from Callan, but it’s not a gift from Callan. There’s no pizzaz, no style, nothing that screams “This is a gift from the one and only Callan Ranpoe, the best troll you’ve ever known! Accept no substitutes!''. It’s a gift someone would buy for a hivewarming party, or something his rich boss would slip in with the weekly wages just to remind everyone of how much money he has. Not a gift from someone known for their sense of humour and great taste in, well, everything.

Callan’s train of thought is interrupted by an employee asking if he needs a hand. Some tired-looking brownblood who knows that if they don’t ask every customer who has spent more than thirty seconds standing on one spot this question their boss will have them thrown out on the streets. He dismisses the employee with a wave of his hand, who only responds by parroting that the tea towels and oven mitts have a two-for-one deal tonight only.

Two-for-one… That’s it! Cheap and more fun than some boring appliance!

Not wanting to make it seem like he was inspired by the employee’s suggestion, Callan continues to mull about the appliances section pretending to be interested in the breadmakers and slow cookers before stealthily slipping over to the kitchen accessories section. Sure enough, the tea towels and oven mitts are already looking more to the greenblood’s liking. There’s the towels with funny cooking-related puns (Haha, “Let’s give them something to taco ‘bout”! It’s funny because it’s got tacos on it!), towels covered in cute animal prints (and a very un-cute one covered in horses. Sorry Gerrel, but you truly have the worst lusus), and towels covered in sayings one would find on a Facebook Minions group (which unfortunately, would probably appeal to the redblood’s sense of humour more than anything else…). There’s oven mitts shaped like crab claws and dinosaur heads, some pop culture-themed mitts with references that’d definitely fly over his head, and one that just says the word ‘butter’ repeated on every inch of the fabric. Callan starts picking a couple off the rack, already congratulating himself on his head about how genius this gift is.

But… As he stares down at the dinosaur oven mitt and the tea towels with food puns, the gift still didn’t feel right. There should probably be something… More? To this? If the last present idea was thoughtful but lacks ‘Callan vibes’, then this idea is more Him but less thoughtful or really, wanted. Who wants tea towels for their wriggling day? That’s like giving someone socks and underwear. Callan sighs, dumping the chosen items onto the shelf below instead of hanging them back onto the rack. Putting in the effort for a perfect gift sucks.

Why is this so important? Why does a gift need to be thoughtful, personal, and most importantly, something that would make him think of Callan every time? Maybe it’s to make every moment as memorable as possible to combat the reality that all of Callan’s relationships are fleeting at best. Gerrel seems to be able to recognise him through his psiionics, most likely because altering one’s voice, speech patterns, and quirks in their posture and body language are difficult without specific training that Callan doesn’t have. But a friendship cannot be perpetuated on vaguely familiar quirks alone. What if one night Callan decides he wants to cut his hair? Change the way he dresses- hell, just happens to wear a waistcoat with his symbol printed on the opposite side? Doesn’t tie the bow around his neck correctly? Gerrel would fail to recognise him, and they’d be back at square one. And that’s not to mention the major elephant in the room being Callan’s stints as the prolific Phantom Thief. That wouldn’t be something he could just shrug off and accept, especially when his boss has been one of the thief’s major targets. He doesn’t come across as someone who would be angry to find out about this secret, but… He’s very honest and loyal. It would make sense for him to dob Callan into his boss, someone who values working as much as he does would definitely put his own job over anything else.

But then again… He’s selfless, in that way that makes Callan almost feel bad at letting him take over all the chores in his hive when he probably could do them himself if he could be bothered. Almost. Thank god he doesn’t have to wash dishes any more, and the food Gerrel cooks is way better than anything he could ever make even if he put his mind to it. So maybe he wouldn’t do that. Of course he wouldn’t do that! Even if it doesn’t last, he’s Callan’s friend now. And maybe they might continue to be friends, and- If the greenblood’s ego allows it- Gerrel could learn the truth of his psiionics, and try to work with it. Just as he works with every other eccentricity that makes up Callan’s personality.

… Nothing in this long moment of introspection has given him any more ideas for the perfect 10th wriggling day gift. Goddammit. 

The brownblood continues floating around the aisles, keeping an eye on Callan in the way one would monitor a known shoplifter or rowdy group of teenagers. Now’s probably the best chance to get that advice they’re paid to give out.

“Hey,” Callan addresses the employee with a nod, “Got any ideas for a 10th wriggling day gift? I need one for a guy who’s into like, cooking and shit. Practical, but fun, y’know?”

The brownblood silently casts their eyes over to the appliances, and settles on the most expensive item they can spot.

“Air fryer.”

Of course.

Once again, we’re back to square one. This is going to take more than an hour’s worth of thinking, which is well more than Callan has ever done in his life. But, that’s fine. He’s got time, and it’s for someone worth spending time on. And there’s still the entirety of the department store to meander about like what everyone else does at this time of night. Maybe he could look into finding some outfits so Gerrel can be at least half as stylish as him, maybe some instructional books on building projects that would normally bore Callan to death because they lack funny pictures, maybe some crafts to make something (he can paint a mean self-portrait, so a portrait of someone else wouldn’t be that much more difficult)...

Now, if only Gerrel didn’t steal his other non-kitchen appliance idea of putting together a photo book already, that could’ve been perfect. Who wouldn’t want their own collection of Official Callan selfies?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took another couple hours and some trips to a few nearby shops, but finally the search for the perfect present was over. Callan stood at the kitchen table, putting together the finishing touches on the now-wrapped gift’s presentation. The homewares idea was thrown out the window in favour of something just as practical, but in a way that feels more personal. A blazer sits folded on the table (Callan made sure to not unfold it after the cashier slipped it into the shopping bag, there’s no way he’d ever be able to get it right), in a similar style to the one usually worn by Gerrel albeit with gold buttons and a green trim on the collar and cuffs. A voucher to get his symbol printed on the jacket has also been slipped into the breast pocket. It felt right to give something with his hue, it’s a common sign of friendship between a higherblood and a lowblood. He may not have a particularly intimidating shade of blue or purple, but it’s still an indication of protecting a friend. And, it’s something picked out by Callan himself so clearly it’s peak fashion.

There was an attempt at tying up the gift in a bow - one of the spare green neckties identical to the one he wore, to be precise - but there was certainly little effort into making it look perfect. The bow was uneven and sat nowhere close to the centre, and Callan couldn’t figure out how to do that fancy criss-cross tie most presents are wrapped in. Not that the presentation mattered to him, and he’s sure that’s the level of effort Gerrel would expect from him. He probably doesn’t expect much from the greenblood, honestly, so perhaps this modicum of effort will make this gift even more special. 

[muertawrites]

Aphrodite Kallipygos (Zuko x Plus Size Reader) [Modern AU]

Summary: Zuko takes up an art class as part of his therapy and ends up falling in love with a woman who’s a work of art in her own right.

Word Count: 3,500

Disclaimer: There’s a scene in this fic where a couple of thin girls engage in some rude behavior and are criticized in a few none-too-kind words. I want to make it very clear that this scene does not reflect my views of thin people or body positivity - these characters are meant to be a metaphor for greater culture and its strict, unrealistic views of what women should look like. 

Author’s Note: I hate rom coms but after writing this fic it dawned on me that I would be excellent at writing them. Also, this one goes out to all my art hoes out there. I geek out pretty hard about art history in this one. 

Speaking of which, I reference real-world cultures within the structure of the Avatar universe in this one as well. Something I like to do when I zone out is think about which actual countries would belong to which bending nations; my heritage is primarily from the British Isles, and what with liths like Stonehenge and the hella castles hanging around out there, I think we’d be earth benders - same with cultures like the ancient Egyptians and the Pueblos. I also love the idea of Pacific Islanders who can bend both water and lava, and Incan air benders, and I really wish the idea of global cultures as benders were explored more in the Avatar universe. 

Have I mentioned that I’m a massive fucking nerd?

~ Muerta

Zuko never considered himself much of a creative. When he thought about it, he realized that that part of his life had never really been explored; his father always pushed him to focus solely on his bending and combat skills, never allowing even the consideration of other practices or hobbies. As much as Zuko was passionate about the martial arts he'd mastered, he also came to learn that he never had a choice in being passionate about anything else. 

“I think you should take an art class,” his therapist suggested. “It would be a good outlet for you, and one that isn't directly influenced by your family.” 

“I don't think I've ever drawn anything, though,” Zuko admitted. “I wouldn't be any good.” 

“It's not about being good,” his therapist explained, “it's about exploring things that weren't available to you in your youth, freedom of expression. Consider it - there's a shop in this neighborhood that offers classes.” 

She handed him a business card adorned with an array of different art styles, from delicate watercolors to bright, bold cartoons; it read, “classes for everything” in a cheerful, clearface font.

Zuko shrugged and pocketed the card. A week later, he was enrolled in a basic studio art course. 

He arrived for his first class embarrassingly early, passing under the bell of the shop’s front door twenty minutes before it was scheduled to begin. 

The building that housed the shop looked to be older than the rest of the neighborhood around it; the storefront was tiny, with crowded shelves lining each wall and tables and racks wound throughout the center of the space, creating a maze that led to the checkout counter. The room’s ceilings were high, supported by beams in a dark stained wood that matched the floor below. Paper mache sculptures and handmade lanterns hung from the rafters, and the simple, antique plaster walls were decorated with paintings and sketches, likely given by the shop’s clientele. From somewhere in the back, a radio sang folk music, accompanied by the hum of an electric fan. 

Zuko wandered through the labyrinthine merchandise displays until he reached the register, where he was met with the single most beautiful sight he may have ever laid eyes on. 

You stood behind the counter, leaned over a textbook with a pencil in hand, tapping it back and forth over the pages; you bit your lip in concentration, a few strands of your hair falling loose from the messy knot atop your head and over your cheeks, though you were too focused on your reading to care. An apron bearing the shop’s logo was tied around your waist, emphasizing your body's dramatic curves. 

To Zuko, you were gorgeous. He couldn't place what exactly about you allured him; all he knew was that his pulse had quickened to a near dangerous pace. 

You looked up at him when you noticed you were no longer alone, flashing him a kind, somewhat distracted smile. He nodded curtly, too nervous to do anything but stare. 

“Can I help you?” you greeted him politely. 

He cleared his throat, his voice coming out a pitch higher than normal as he spoke. 

“I'm here for the art class,” he told you. 

You smirked a little, peering down to check the time on your phone. 

“It's a little early,” you said. “I was just about to start setting up. You could help me if you want? So you're not so bored while you wait?” 

“Yeah,” Zuko mumbled, “yeah, sure.” 

You grinned, waving him behind the counter and through a door to the back room. To his surprise, what he expected to be a minuscule stockroom turned out to be a space larger than the actual shop, lined on one wall with massive warehouse windows that poured late afternoon sunlight into the room. Metal shelves and boxes lay haphazardly about, mixed in with a scattering of easels, pottery spinners, canvases, and other art supplies. You directed your guest to a stack of chairs in the corner, instructing him to line them in a half circle in an empty portion of the room while you placed the easels. 

“So, do you have a name?” you asked, attempting to make conversation that could drown out the repetitive radio drone. 

“Zuko,” he introduced himself. 

You stopped what you were doing, fixing him with an awed, slightly amused gape. 

“Firelord Zuko?” you wondered. 

He blushed, nodding. 

“Oh spirits, I'm sorry I didn't bow!” you exclaimed, dropping into a low curtsy. The gesture was mixed with equal parts mirth and genuine respect; Zuko was unsure how to respond, his heart flickering as he watched you. 

“I heard you were living somewhere in the city,” you continued after making your own introduction, setting an easel in front of each chair he positioned. “Not into the whole royalty thing?” 

Zuko shrugged. He focused on his work, too nervous to look you in the eye. 

“Just weird going back there,” he told you. “I don't really want taxpayer money going to making sure I live above my means.” 

You leaned against the last chair he set down, smiling warmly at him. 

“That's very respectable,” you responded. “Thank you. Y’know, as someone who pays taxes.” 

Zuko chuckled softly as you handed him a bin of art supplies, instructing him to set one of each item at every station. He did as he was told, stealing glances at you whenever he was sure you weren’t looking. 

“So, uh… do you own this place?” he asked, fumbling over his words. 

“Oh, no, this is my professor’s shop,” you replied. “I just work here part time.” 

“You’re a student?” 

You shook your head. 

“Nope. Graduated last year. I work days at the history museum downtown. I also give art history classes here, and help out with the ones Professor Cong teaches.” 

“Oh.” 

Zuko paused, unsure of what else to say. 

“... They teach a different type of history just for art?” he asked after a moment. 

You laughed, covering your mouth to muffle the sound and apologizing, giving him a little nod as you collected yourself. 

“Yes. Some people even get whole degrees in it,” you giggled. “Not that it’s a useful field to learn anything about.” 

Zuko shrugged, trying to shake off the embarrassment of sounding stupid in front of such a cute girl; little did he know, you found the question beyond endearing. 

“It sounds important,” he contested. “I’ve been meeting historians from all over the world to correct all the propaganda from the past hundred years. It never occurred to me that I would need different historians for art.” 

You smiled at him, meeting him where he stood and handing him one of the sketch pads from your bin. His cheeks pinkened, his eyes darting away from yours as he took it and mumbled a “thank you”. 

“I like you, Firelord Zuko,” you decided aloud. “My classes are on Wednesdays. You can come if you want - free of charge.” 

Zuko nodded, swallowing heavily as he met your gaze once again. 

“Thank you,” he replied. “I appreciate it.” 

You laughed a little bit, taking his now empty bin and returning both to their place on a nearby shelf. The shop’s bell rang from beyond the threshold and you went back to the front counter, telling Zuko to take a spot wherever he liked. He sat in the front row; wherever he thought he could be closest to you. 

For the next five weeks, Zuko attended not only his studio art class, but your art history class, showing up early to each lesson so he could spend time alone with you. Despite the fact that you invited him to sit in, he paid the fee for the second course, not wanting you to go without the extra pay for your work - he found a doodle of a turtle duck on his seat the next time he showed up, the fuzzy little penciled duckling telling him he was a terrible listener, but thanking him anyway (with a heart scribbled in beside the words). 

With your guidance, Zuko learned that there was much more to art than just vibrant colors and pretty decoration. Everything in art, it turned out, had significance, each piece and work holding insight into the people and cultures who created it; you spoke passionately about the art of the Egyptians, who used specific shapes and colors in their imagery to tell stories beyond the written word, about the mysteries of prehistoric structures that revealed how early humanity was much more sophisticated and interconnected than considered at a glance, about the symbols that translated and influenced across centuries to shape how each nation, each culture, portrayed themselves into the modern world. He found himself hanging on every word, falling even more deeply enamored with you with each moment he spent with you. 

It didn’t take you long - what with the easy, pleasant conversations you shared before classes - to discover that Zuko lived relatively close to you, only two stops away on the local metro. Knowing this, you often saw each other on the days you weren't at the shop, meeting at the station between each of your respective neighborhoods and having coffee or dinner in one of its many cafes, talking about anything and everything and managing to pass several hours together in what seemed like the blink of an eye. You loved being with Zuko, finding the more you did it, the less you wanted your rendezvous to end; you thought about him all the time, getting all kinds of giddy whenever he crossed your mind. 

On one of your extracurricular excursions, you and Zuko wandered around the local high street, marveling at the different streetside vendors and dreamily window shopping behind the glass of the upscale boutiques, doing little more than enjoying each other’s company. It was a hot day, and along your way, Zuko stopped at a coffee stand to get you each something cold to drink. 

A pretty young woman in line in front of you eyed you up and down, her gaze flicking from between you and Zuko with disgust. She jabbed her slim, graceful elbow into her equally as flawless friend’s side, whispering something in the other woman’s ear as they both glared at you, sniggering cruelly behind flat stomachs and angular, willowy frames. 

You sneered at them, making a point of hooking your arm within Zuko’s and pressing your much wider hip against his, the poison of the encounter sinking into your skin and infecting your thoughts. Zuko noticed your change in demeanor immediately, steering you away from the scene as soon as your drinks were served. 

“You okay?” he asked, still holding tight to your arm. 

“Fine,” you quipped, biting back tears. “Just a couple of pretty bitches proving how fucking hideous they are on the inside.” 

“Wait, seriously?” 

Zuko halted, pulling you to the side of the street and out of the way of traffic. He lay a hand on your shoulder, the firm, able grasp of his palm somehow making you feel even worse. 

“Someone would really make fun of you?” he wondered, outraged and incredulous. “Why?” 

You shook your head, smiling defeatedly as your lower lip quivered. 

“People have made fun of me since I was a kid, Zu,” you told him, speaking as if he should’ve just assumed it. “I’m fat. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” 

“So?” Zuko replied. You were so shocked, you physically leaned away from him, raising your eyebrows. “Yeah, you’re fat. That doesn’t mean you’re not pretty. I… I think you’re really pretty. Gorgeous, even. You’re beautiful.” 

You blinked at him, taken aback. He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his eyes never once leaving yours. 

“... Did I break you?” he tried after a moment, sounding concerned that it was a genuine possibility. 

You laughed, shaking your head in feverish disbelief, attempting to clear the confusion that fogged your battered brain. 

“No, I just… Nobody’s ever called me pretty and fat before.” 

Zuko shrugged. 

“Both are true,” he told you. “I like your body. You look like one of those Greek sculptures. Of the goddesses.” 

You stared at him, searching his eyes for any sign of dishonesty or patronization; all you found looking back at you was the clumsily genuine man you were quickly falling in love with. 

“... Have I ever told you about Aphrodite Kallipygos?” you asked. 

Zuko shook his head, as confused as you had been a few seconds ago. 

“She’s a statue of Venus,” you explained. “She’s got her dress raised up over her backside, and when they found her originally, she didn’t have her head; the guy who restored her sculpted it so that she was looking back at herself, admiring her body. There’s even a whole folktale about a pair of brothers who fell in love with two women because they had, like, beautifully fat asses and the town built a temple dedicated to Venus and her butt. The name literally translates to ‘Aphrodite of the Beautiful Buttocks’.” 

Zuko chuckled, raising the hand at your shoulder to cup your cheek. 

“See?” he said. “Men have worshiped thick, juicy butts since the dawn of time!” 

You laughed, your cheeks turning bright red as you buried your face in your hands, leaning forward to rest your forehead on his chest and further hide yourself. 

“Zuko, oh my god,” you breathed. “Promise me you’ll never say that out loud in a public setting ever again, please. You’re the fucking Firelord for Tui’s sake.” 

Zuko chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and hugging you tightly. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, still grinning. “Made you feel better, though.” 

You pulled away from him, affectionately punching him in the shoulder. He laughed, gasping at you in mock reproach before pressing a finger into your side, shocking you with a burst of static electricity; you cackled as you jumped away, sticking your tongue out at him. 

Zuko felt a rush of lightheadedness as he watched you, savoring the sound of your laugh and the radiance of your smile. It was then he realized he was in love with you. 

The next studio art class focused on model drawing - more specifically, a nude model. Zuko, having been raised in what was arguably the most reserved family in the world, was nervous about the idea of having to sit in front of a stranger for an hour, not only staring at their naked body, but immortalizing it in graphite on a page. 

He was mortified when he arrived at the class and found you sitting in the corner, wrapped in nothing but a silk dressing gown. 

As you climbed the platform you were meant to model on, your limbs rattled. You began to question your sanity, wondering what you thought you were doing offering to pose for the class, what kind of statement you thought it would make. You faced enough judgement from others about your weight with your clothes on - what the hell did you think they would do when you stood before them completely naked, every bump and crevice on full display for them to gawk at and criticize?

You glanced to the side at Professor Cong, seeking some sort of assurance or comfort from him; he, being the seasoned professional in his mid-sixties that he was, sat reclined in a chair in his Hawaiian shirt and flip flops, scrolling totally undisturbed through Pinterest on his phone. Honestly, you expected no less - his obtuse reactions in the face of the awkward and uncomfortable were basically a superpower. 

Taking a deep breath, you untied the knot holding your dressing gown together and let it fall, slipping gracefully from your shoulders and to the floor. You assumed a comfortable, classic pose, purposely facing yourself away from the man whose eyes you could feel searing into your back. 

Zuko’s breath hitched as he watched you undress. Though he only saw the full of your body for a moment, he was captivated. The swell of your breasts and curve of your stomach sent him into a dizzy spell, his mouth going dry and his skin heating with a noticeable flush. The rolls of your back, the ripples and divots along your thighs and rump, the stripes etched into your skin like the veins through a granite block, he drank in every part of you, moulding every detail with a focused hand as he sketched. He made note every scar and beauty mark. Once or twice, his mind drifted towards the salacious, imagining how your body would feel beneath his, soft and supple, releasing exalted breaths and enraptured moans, your nails dragging down his back as he drove you closer and closer to infinity… 

He inhaled sharply, snapping himself back to his work. You were Venus, Minerva, Diana - a goddess among men. He would gladly spend the rest of his life worshiping you. 

The moment the class ended, you gathered your dressing gown and made a beeline for the employee bathroom, getting back into your clothes as quickly as you could physically manage. The experience of nude modeling wasn’t nearly as harrowing as you expected it to be; you actually found it kind of freeing, being able to show yourself to a room full of other people and come out of it unscathed, in fact feeling quite beautiful - what had you nervous was the fact that you’d have to face Zuko immediately after the fact, seeing as you took the train home together after classes. His was the only opinion you cared about, and you wanted nothing more than to convince yourself that he hadn’t judged you as harshly as the self-hatred brainwashed into you made you believe. 

When you emerged from the bathroom, Professor Cong stood in front of one of the empty easels in the back, smirking at the drawing the student had left there. 

“Your boyfriend left you his piece,” he teased. 

You blushed, glaring at him as you approached and snatched the sketch from his hands. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you tried in vain to defend yourself. 

Professor Cong just chuckled. 

“I’ll believe that when I see evidence to the contrary,” he replied. 

You looked down at the paper in your hand and felt the breath drain from your lungs, your heart and stomach soaring into your throat. 

Zuko had drawn you in the image of Venus, your body draped in gossamer fabric and your head turned over your shoulder, eyes cast downward and lips slightly parted in a blissful, ethereal expression. In the corner of the page, he’d written “Aphrodite Kallipygos” in his sweeping handsome script, beneath which was his signature and the date. You’d never once seen yourself look so beautiful, let alone in the eyes of someone you loved so fiercely. 

You swallowed hard, rolling the drawing and securing it with a hair tie from your bag before exiting the shop through the back, knowing Zuko would be in the alley waiting for you. 

“Hey,” he greeted you when you appeared through the storeroom door. “Are you okay? You looked really ner-” 

You interrupted him by throwing your arms around his neck, slamming your lips into his in a desirous kiss. It took him less than a second to recover himself from the shock of the action and curl his arms around your waist, pressing his body against yours and lifting you every so slightly off the ground, kissing you just as hard as you kissed him. When you parted, you were breathless, your cheeks fiery red and your lips swollen the color of vermilion. Zuko smiled at you, one side of his mouth curling up slightly higher than the other. 

“So you liked it?” he asked. 

You laughed, nodding. 

“Zuko, I loved it,” you gasped. “I love you. I think I loved you as soon as I met you but that sort of thing is really cliche and stupid to admit.” 

Zuko chuckled, raising his hand to your cheek and kissing you again, his lips soft and tender this time around. You sighed happily into his mouth, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the feeling of his body sharing the same space as yours. 

“I think I loved you the moment I met you, too,” Zuko confessed, his nose grazing against yours as he pulled away. “But you’re right. That sort of thing is really stupid and cliche.” 

You giggled, tugging gently on the collar of his jacket. 

“Come on,” you prompted him. “Let’s go back to my apartment. You’ve already seen me naked; we need to make it even.” 

Zuko laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you out of the alley, his side pressed firmly against yours. 

“Fair,” he agreed. “But if you want me to pose for any art, you’ll have to sign some paperwork. I’m still Firelord, you know.” 

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[kemonoinuzuka]

Summer of whump

Day 28 display/ hidden

It was a few days after the funerals when I met the fireman again. I was taking a walk through the park when he slammed me against a tree.”turn around, boy.” I do as he asks a little shaken. He places his hands along my spine and presses down hard. I feel an intense heat as two large black wings with golden flecks sprout from my back. My hands turn into talons.

“That’s what I thought. Didn’t know you were a Phoenix warrior?” He asks gruffly pulling my hair back so I had to look at him.

“No, sir.” I say as he begins leading me to his car. I don’t want to go but no matter how hard I struggle I can’t get away. His grip is firm and bruising. That was maybe two or three days ago. Since then I’ve been in the cell, cold, hungry and hurt. I learned very early on not to change back to human.

The hunter doesn’t like my human form, says it’s a lie. He told me that that’s why he is punishing me. Why he feels the need to carve into my skin watch the blood and skin cauterize from the instinctual heat and fire I can control. I know his days are numbered, so I’ve endured this as quietly as I can. I know I have back up coming, and there is nothing scarier to witness than an enraged shifter fight. My sister will come for me.

The hunter brings me some odd pieces of armor to put on. I do so and it almost feels natural but then my brain goes into overdrive as too much of me can be seen. I’m the kind of kid that really doesn’t wear short sleeves without a jacket and I don’t own shorts. So my arms, most of my torso, my legs and if you maneuver this outfit wrong my groin will be seen. I don’t like this I don’t like this at all. He stops me from putting on my underwear. “No, you must look authentic tonight, little bird.”

I follow him rather edgy as this is the straw. I can’t get my mind to quiet, or my nerves to calm. He tossed my small puzzles and spinners that help saying I need to grow up. The room he leads me two is filled with several creatures on display. A werewolf, and mermaid, a goblin and a spot for me.

He takes my hands and ties them above my head forcing me onto my toes, and then gags me. “No noise tonight and behave. Succeed and you will get food tonight.” He then stretches out one of my wings near the tip he drives a hook through to keep it extended and suspended. I shake and the gag muffles my screams. This pain racks through my body in mind numbing waves. I can’t even focus as he does the same to my other wing. Tears falling freely and he rushes to dry them up. “Wasteful to spill your tears here. The pain will stop in a few. Now be a good display for my party goers.”

It’s hours into this strange party of hunter’s. They touch my wings and reawaken the pain but my body is in shock, I’m in shock. I can’t react, I can still barely think. All I know is that I know what I’m going to do with my life. Lucille Mourningstar, I’m going to make myself into something. I’m going to become a hero and save people from the likes of your father here.

No one else notices the shadow stalking about, but I do. And I smile. Through everything I’ve been through, my sister will always be there for me. I only hope that if the tables ever turn I can be there for her.

[leagueofidiots]

Happy Birthday Dabi!!!!

A.) Triggers!! Mentions of past abuse

B.) Shigadabi yeet

C.) I headcanon Jan 18 as the day Touya died, but I wrote this back when I thought his birthday was Dec 6 and I was too lazy to edit things, so,,, yeah

I've never been a huge believer in birthdays. Living with the Todorokis, I always spent it training or locked in my room, screaming and crying and begging for freedom. With Ujiko, they went by without my notice. On the streets, I only did something once. Just found a small alleyway and lit my fingertip on fire, singing to myself in an attempt to try to lift my mood. Honestly, it just made me more depressed.

It's just a day used as a mark of age. Not even worth mentioning. In fact, something to keep secret to everyone but yourself.

So it's beyond a surprise when I swing open the door of my room to be greeted with a loud shout of "Happy birthday!" ringing in my ears. My fellow league members stand in front of me, a small, messily frosted cupcake balanced in Toga's hands and held out to me.

"Guys, what are you doing?" I ask awkwardly. "Also, what day is it?"

"January eighteenth," says Compress. "Did we get our date wrong or something? We had to guess between today, February sixth, and November twelfth. Sources were somewhat unhelpful."

Was it my birthday already? I thought it wasn't for another week at least. Even so, how did they know? I'd carefully avoided the topic.

"You see, once you told us that you were…" begins Kurogiri, cutting himself off once he hits the name we all know he means. "Well, I decided to look you up. Just for a few simple things. Birthday, any interests I could find...I'm sorry if it seems invasive, but I thought it could help us better understand how to help you feel appreciated."

At first I'm put off by it. People knowing things about me I didn't tell them bothers me deeply. But the more I consider it, the less I mind. They care. And it's harmless, isn't it? It won't kill me to play along just for the day.

Toga waves the cupcake in my face. "Well, you gonna take it, Bacon Bits?" she asks gleefully.

I accept it, hesitantly taking a bite. "Mmmm. What'd you put in this thing?" I ask, mouth full. It tastes awful, and I feel my nose wrinkle in distaste despite myself. Between food in general, sweet food in general, and whatever the salty-bitter aftertaste is, I almost gag.

"Oh, crap, is that the wrong one? I put blood in one...I think that might be it. Sorry. It's either chocolate or blood."

Spinner gives her a sideways glance and a whispered, "Whose---"

I spit out the dark batter. "Definitely blood, but uh...You know, I'm good. Not big on sweets anyway."

"Oh!" She takes it back. "More for me then."

Jin drags me out to the common area, mask lifted enough to display a wide grin. "We couldn't do much, but we figured it'd at least be better than before we all knew each other, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure," I say. "You guys didn't have to do anything, you know."

"Yes we did," Shigaraki insists. "You're my right hand, it's only right we should give you at least one day for just you."

"Now we know you're more the type of guy to keep to yourself," says Magne, "so just let us spoil you for the next half hour, then you get to do whatever you want, okay?"

I nod again, shaking my wrist loose from Twice's grip. "Alright, I can deal with that. What did you guys have planned?"

Suichi quickly ties his scarf around my eyes, careful of his claws and my staples. "Hang tight for one sec."

There's a quick shuffling, accompanied by my teammates' voices muttering happily to each other. A portal opens, and a few moments later I'm allowed to see again.

The seven idiots I for some reason chose to live with sit in a half-circle on the floor at my feet, each holding grocery bags with diversely-shaped contents, one of Toga's hair ribbons tied and stuck on top of each. Atsuhiro smiles, and passes me his.

"You guys…" I say quietly. I'm not worth all this effort, all this money, all this time. It'd be better spent planning missions or buying food or really anything else. It's stupid of them to care so much about something---someone---so worthless.

"Not a word," says Jin, as if he can hear my thoughts. "You're worth it. We saved up for this."

It's not anything like when I was a kid, eagerly tearing open neatly and colorfully wrapped boxes, unsurprised at the high cost of the contents. I'd never thought I was worth any of it deep down, but the ritual was still exciting even if I spent it alone on most occasions. But this is nicer. People around me that actually care. I try to make myself accept it.

Baby wipes from Compress, saying he worries about me showering on the days my scars hurt particularly badly. A book from Spinner, saying he'd read it and thought I'd enjoy it. Eyeliner from Kenji, saying she'd tested it for tear-proofness. A sweater from Kurogiri, saying he'd knitted it himself. Several nail polishes from Himiko, saying she wanted to give me the pastel pink as soon as humanly possible. A My Chemical Romance CD from Twice, saying he wanted to listen to it with me sometime.

When it comes to Tomura, he simply tosses an empty plastic bag onto my lap. "I didn't buy anything."

"Some boyfriend you are," I say teasingly. Really, I'm somewhat grateful. As much as I want to feel wanted, I can't help but see the yen racking up, another day without food for the league, the people I care about most suffering as silently as they're able to.

"Yeah, yeah, shut up. My gift to you is that I will leave you alone." He doesn't smile or anything to indicate that he's kidding. "Won't hug you, or try to hold your hand, or anything. You're free."

I push myself off the couch onto my knees, trying to ignore the tugging at my staples. "Tomura…" How do I say it? I don't want to sound like I care too much or anything. "I don't want you to leave me alone. Just...Just when I ask you to, okay?"

Does he think I don't want him? It's difficult to treat him like I do when touch can be so suffocating, so terrifying. Especially with someone like him, who has described laying inches away from me without trying to cling to me like drowning.

I take his hands in mine, careful to leave his fingers to twitch anxiously away from mine. "You deserve to get what you want too."

Tomura smiles up at me, eyes shining a little bit with the effort to remain emotionless at my rare display of affection. "Well, what am I supposed to get you then?"

"Seeing you smile's enough," I say quietly. I regret it instantly.

"Oh, get a room," laughs Magne.

I roll my eyes, and shove myself back up onto the couch. "Thanks, Kenji."

"Always happy to help."

"Well, that's all we have," says Kurogiri, smile showing in his voice. "Let us know if we can do anything for you, but the rest of the day is all yours."

"Enjoy your alone time," says Suichi, helping pull me to my feet. "You're probably not gonna get any more for a long time."

And for once, the thought of being alone terrifies me. If I go alone in that room, how is it any better than those years I spent before the burns, the black hair, the overwhelming hatred?

"Actually, I'd rather hang out here," I say as if it's no matter, as if the thought of closing a door behind me won't send me spiralling back to that ten year old version of myself, screaming and pounding on my walls as a mix of tears and snot pour down my face.

"Oh. Alright, cool." Jin holds out another cupcake to me. "You're positive you don't want this?"

I shake my head, smiling a little. "Thank you guys. For this."

Toga grins. "Anything for our favorite edgelord."

Tomura pushes himself to his feet, snatching the cupcake from Twice. He takes a toungeful of the grainy-looking frosting and smirks at me, passing the cake back covered in saliva. I take his hand, his pinkie sticking out cautiously. "Happy birthday, Dabi." And looking around at them, I finally understand the phrase's meaning.

Click for quality

This is what he's jamming to: https://youtu.be/aWQ_r9nNHt0

[emoboijk]

myg | roses

“The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; O, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.” (John Boyle O’Reilly) Being with someone doesn’t guarantee that you know they love you. —hanahaki disease au, flora & fauna series

3,619 words

p.cred 

The waiting room is beige with a dark brown carpet, the kind that has either always been that color or is that color as a result of years of use. There are paintings (ironically) of flowers on the walls, and potted plants stationed randomly between the chairs. A receptionist sits behind a counter, typing on a computer and answering the phone when it rings. Aside from her, there are seven people scattered about the room.

You're tucked into a corner by an end table that displays brochures for Hanahaki removal surgery alongside magazines with photoshopped celebrities on the cover. The ads for the surgery, as well as the photoshopped celebrities (one of which is Yoongi, actually), leave a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Both the boy in the fetal position and the girl running to and from the bathroom get called before you. By the time the emo kid blasting Linkin Park (how is he not deaf by now?) is called, you feel like you're going to vomit. 

The noticeable lack of texts doesn't help things. 

The nurse only gets out the first syllable of your name before you rush toward her. You're standing directly in front of her, possibly too close, by the time she gets the full thing out. 

"That's me," you mutter, tapping your foot anxiously as you wait for her to take you back. 

The exam room is beige, too. There are more ironic flower paintings (in pastels, of course, disgustingly) alongside truly awful paintings of sunsets. Sunrises? Sunsets? Doesn't matter. You answer the nurses' questions before she can ask them and you can tell that you're irritating her. Doesn't. Matter. 

Right as the door clicks behind her ("The doctor will be in—" "Soon, yeah, I got it. Would be sooner if you left.") your phone buzzes in your pocket. 

It's a news alert. A picture of Yoongi, well, August D actually and a girl. It looks like Jennie. Another rapper from his label. They're both wearing shades and casual clothing. He has his hand on her back. They're lost in a sea of paparazzi. 

You're surprised when a teardrop hits the screen. "Fuck." You drag your hand across your cheek. It's not even a big deal. It doesn't mean anything. Jennie is dating Kai, you know that. Yoongi wouldn't cheat, you know that, too. 

But logic doesn't stop the intense pain as another rose blooms in your lung. 

"Fuck," you say again. You drop your phone to clutch at your chest, the device clattering to the floor. 

Just then the door opens to reveal a very put-together doctor; he's a bit short but clean-shaven. When he smiles his teeth are very white and if you squint you can see the cakey-muddiness from his fake tan.

You immediately dislike him. 

The doctor picks up your phone, very obviously glances at the screen, and then clucks his tongue at you. "Pining over a celebrity, huh?" He shakes his head in disapproval. 

You want to spit in his eye. Instead, you lock your phone and tuck it into your pocket. 

"Where Dr. Park?" 

"Rushed to surgery, emergency patient. I'm Doctor Choi." He offers his hand for a shake but you refuse to take it. 

"I need more pills," you say. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Anti-growth pills. I'm out." 

"I have to assess your case." He clicks his tongue again like a parent at a misbehaving child. 

"I have roses in my lungs. I refuse to have the surgery. I didn't sleep last night and I haven't had solid food in days. I need anti-growth pills. I am currently out of them. Case. Assessed." You glare at him hard. You are not in the mood to mess around.

The doctor crosses his arms over his lap and looks at you like you're stupid. You are so close to slapping him; the only thing stopping you is your desperation for the prescription.

"And Dr. Park explained that your tolerance was going to build up? That at some point they wouldn't work anymore?" He says each word slowly as if you won't understand otherwise. 

You mimic his tone, "And that I will eventually die. Yes. She. Did." You crack your knuckles anxiously, "But they still work and I still need them." 

"Have you considered the surgery…" 

"No," you nearly scream. You feel like a rubber band pulled so tight it will snap. "I have not. And I never will. I have discussed all of this with Dr. Park, my primary physician, I do not need a lecture from you. I have chosen my treatment plan and am well-informed that it will ultimately lead to my death. But I am very much alive right now and I need those damn pills." 

The doctor sighs and you can see the image of himself he's crafted in his mind: the martyr, the self-sacrificing doctor. He writes the prescription. You snatch it and walk away before you have to hear any more of his diatribe. 

The Linkin Park guy is at the pharmacy. He's three spots ahead of you and his eyes are glazed over in thought. He must have it, too. You hope his situation is better than your own, but you know it's not. 

Hanahaki is universally shitty. 

And anyway, at least you have Yoongi. Technically.

"Hey, feeling better?" the pharmacist asks when you finally reach the counter. 

You stare hard at him. "If I were better, would I be here?" 

The pharmacist rolls his eyes. You know that this pharmacist (Kihyun) is capable of customer service; you just stood in line for ten minutes and watched him be nauseatingly polite to every customer. He has given up being anything but authentically annoyed with you. 

"Why are you such a bitch?" he asks, keying in the prescription. 

You shrug and lean against the counter. Why are you such a bitch? You don't think anyone has ever asked you that before. "It's easier, I guess." 

Kihyun looks away from the computer, "Isn't it exhausting?" 

"Yes." 

"Ten minutes," he says and you move out of the way. 

Linkin Park guy is looking at snack food, then at toys, then at wireless speakers. He holds one up to inspect before frowning in distaste. You watch him walk the length of every aisle (twice) before his name is called. Jeongguk. 

He still has that far away look on his face and you silently hope he'll be okay. Tears prick your eyes at the thought and you furrow your brow. 

You glance at your phone. Still nothing. 

When Kihyun calls your name he holds the white prescription bag just out of your reach. "You're dying, right?" 

"Yes," you say, holding your hand out impatiently. 

"How long?" he asks. His face is still cool and impassive but his voice is soft. For a moment he reminds you of Yoongi when you first met him, before the stylists and the publicists and the massive record label. Soft at the edges and warm. 

"Couple months maybe." You look away from him. But even when you're looking at the spinner rack of reading glasses…your vision gets blurry. 

"Don't you think…it's a waste to spend your last few months so angry?" 

You snatch the bag from him forcefully, nearly crumpling it in your hand. "Yes," you spit. You don't look back as you leave. 

You shouldn't be driving. That was clear two weeks ago when you splattered the inside of your windshield with blood and white petals. But you like driving because you don't have to think about anything but driving. You just have to focus on what you're doing. You're almost relaxed by the time you get home. 

You click the garage door fob and suck in a breath, all of your tension coming back with it. Yoongi's sleek black sports car is tucked neatly into the left side. 

You pull in beside it and sit with the garage door open and the car on, your knuckles turning white against the steering wheel. You know when you go inside that it's more than likely he'll be in his studio. He'll have on headphones and a cold cup of coffee on his desk, his eyes will be bloodshot and strained from staring at the screen. You know that if you don't duck your head in and say something it will probably be hours before you see him. 

It's been two days since he's been home. Which isn't unusual—he keeps a cot and toothpaste at his office—but usually, if he stays at the office for that long, it builds. He's either gone from nine-to-five or for a week at a time. Two days is an in-between number that you can't wrap your head around.

Your anxiety traps you in the car for nearly twenty minutes before your chest pain finally pushes you out. You stuff the pharmacy bag into your pocket and climb out. You hesitate at the door into the house and listen for him; once in a while you'll come home to him making dinner or cleaning the apartment or watching TV. You crack open the door and breathe a sigh of relief when you hear the shower running at the end of the hall. Tiptoeing into the kitchen you swallow three pills with a gulp of water and stash the rest on top of the fridge. 

You relax slightly now that the pills are hidden. You lean against the counter and can feel them begin to work. It's a weird sensation, the odd tingle that comes when the flowers wilt and the buds dissolve in your lungs. You asked once, when you weren't so angry, what was in the pills and how they worked. 

"It's…" Dr. Park was reluctant to tell you, but you're nothing if not persistent, "Essentially it's acid. Like a pesticide that burns the flowers." 

Talk about hardcore. 

Yoongi emerges from the shower with a towel around his waist at the same time you turn the corner into the hallway. You tense up when you first see him, lean and toned and freshly showered. You have to remind yourself to decompress. 

"Baby," Yoongi says softly, dragging his warm fingers across your neck and cheek and pressing his lips there softly. 

"You're home," you smile. His hand moves down your back and you wonder if he can feel how rigid you are. 

"Finally, huh?" he chuckles. Yoongi presses his forehead to your left temple and presses his nose into your cheek; a nuzzle. He smells like lavender soap and black coffee. His hand finds yours and he intertwines your fingers.

It's almost enough to convince you. 

In your bedroom, when he lets the towel drop from his waist, your heart skips at the idea that something might happen. You haven't slept with him in...weeks? You've been doing everything you can to keep your distance since the disease began progressing. 

You're relieved when he pulls on a pair of sweats. "How are you?" you ask and your voice is choked. 

He catches sight of you in the mirror, his expression concerned at the tone of your voice. You smile at him, not very convincingly, and he lets it go. 

"Exhausted," he sighs. He turns and presses his lips to the side of your mouth, "I'm sorry," he whispers against your skin. 

"It's okay," you peck his cheek. "Get some rest; I have some work." 

You flee from the room like it's on fire. Your chest aches with the absent words and lost touches. Yoongi watches you go and he aches, but he's not sure what for. 

You sit at the kitchen counter staring at a blank page on your laptop. Your eyes go in and out of focus and you concentrate on your breathing. 

"What's the point," you whisper, closing the laptop without working. You'll be dead in a month anyway. You hear the door to Yoongi's in-home studio click shut and it sounds like nothing more or less than the nail in your coffin. 

You thought, after you were first diagnosed, that time would move slower. That somehow, with flowers infesting your lungs, everything would take longer. But it's all just the same. 

You go to sleep at 10:30 and shift into consciousness when Yoongi's side of the bed dips around 3 or 4 AM. You wake up alone at 8:30. If he thinks of it, there will be a note from Yoongi on his pillow or the bathroom mirror or the fridge (Gone to work. Love you). You shower, brush your teeth, make some eggs and take your pills. Depending on how you're feeling you'll work or watch TV or scroll through August D fan sites. If you don't reach out first, you won't hear from him until the evening. 

He always texts you by 7 if he's not coming home, 9 if he's going to be late, not at all if he plans on being home. 

This is not a note-morning. You hadn't expected it to be. His album is weeks from being released; his brain is full to the brim with more important matters. 

But your chest still hurts. 

Your shower is cold and you're out of eggs. You gulp down three pills with the quarter pot of coffee Yoongi left for you and sit at the kitchen counter again. You spend too much of the day scrolling through celebrity Twitter, and you cough up bloody flower petals twice. 

Yoongi texts you at 7:01 PM. 

Min Genius: Still working on the album

Min Genius: Almost done just need another all-nighter

"And another and another and another," you whisper. Your lungs feel like fertilizer. 

Okay - drink lots of water and remember to eat! :)

He sends you a black heart emoji and it's like your floating but for the tether attached to your lungs. 

You climb into bed at 7:30 because you can't stop crying. Everything is so fucked up. When you told Dr. Park that you have Hanahaki and your unrequited love is your boyfriend...The memory sends a stab of pain through your chest and a fresh set of tears fall onto your pillow. 

You're so angry and afraid and anxious. You feel broken and unfixable like a shattered vase on the kitchen floor. You feel stupid for not telling him and for suffering in silence and for not knowing what to do. You feel trapped, caged in by your disease and your mental incapacity to believe that he loves you. 

You pass out two hours after you first lay down and you don't wake up when Yoongi slips into bed at 5 AM. 

You wake up the next morning thinking the thermostat must be broken; it's like a sauna. You blink away the overnight crust from your eyes, wincing because they're puffy from all the crying. Your chest heaves but you can't get a full breath. 

You flinch when you feel something sticky on your pillow, pulling away when you see that its blood. You gasp and then cough because your mouth is full of blood, splattering the sheets and the end table and the wall. You scramble away from the mess and find yourself practically sitting in Yoongi's lap. 

"Fuck," you whisper and there's already blood and rose petals sitting at the back of your throat. 

His voice is rough with sleep and he wraps an arm awkwardly, eyes still closed, around your torso. "Baby?" 

You stiffen. 

Yoongi squeezes your side gently and you can hear the smile in his voice, "Good morning." 

Shit, shit, shit. 

You cough violently and a spray of blood and white rose petals paints the wall. It looks like a violent slasher movie. You clamber out of his embrace, still choking and coughing and sputtering. You run out of the room and into the bathroom, crouched with your hands cupped around your mouth. You keep trying to swallow but it feels like your throat is blocked. 

You fall to your knees harshly and you know they will be bruised. You grip the toilet bowl like a life preserver, you heave and cover the inside in red. Your lungs burn with the strain and you feel painfully lightheaded. 

Once you can swallow again, you lean back and rest against the wall. You can hear Yoongi from the other room when he discovers the blood. 

"What the fu—" he starts and then he's shouting your name. He stumbles into the bathroom, all adrenaline and urgency. His hair is sticking up in the back and his face has gone ghostly white from shock. 

There's prickling in your chest and you know you have to move. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, flushing the toilet and standing. 

You brush past him in the doorway and beeline for the kitchen with Yoongi at your heels. He's cursing under his breath, rapid-fire like when he performs. You stand on your tiptoes and retrieve the pharmacy bag on top of the fridge. 

You swallow a couple of pills with water, wincing at the taste of blood that goes down with it. When you look up, Yoongi is staring. 

You watch him impassively, refusing to be moved, trying to summon the anger and frustration you felt at the doctor's office or the pharmacy. You place the pill bottle on the counter. No need to hide it anymore. 

"Are you," he starts, swallowing a giant gulp of air and gathering his thoughts, "Are you sick?" 

You frown. "Yes." Duh. You wince; even in your head, disdainful sarcasm feels wrong when directed at Yoongi. 

"How…" Yoongi yanks a hand through his hair in frustration. He looks the same as he does before the beat drops on a diss track. 

Then, as you watch him trying to absorb this reality, it breaks through with a crash: the love you feel for him. It sends you to your knees and you can feel every thorn in the rose that blooms in your chest. 

So much for impassivity, frustration, and anger. 

Yoongi drops to his knees, too, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing. He tries to get you standing, but you resist. Your head hurts. 

His fingers move up your arms and then your neck, cupping your face and making you look at him. 

Your eyes meet for a long moment. You can see him searching your expression for answers. A frown cracks the perfect planes of his face. Yoongi's thumb presses gently against the corner of your lips before pulling away. 

There's blood on his finger. 

"What is going on?" 

Your heartbeat is in your ears like drums echoing. You keep your eyes on the inside of his wrist. "I have Hanahaki disease." 

Yoongi pulls away, sitting back on his legs. When you look up his eyes are closed and his frown seems permanently etched into his expression. His voice doesn't waver: "Who?" 

Your chest feels heavy but every other part of you feels lighter. You're going to tell him and then he'll know. You won't have to keep it a secret.

Tears are spilling down your cheeks unbidden and you open your mouth to tell him, to relieve the pressure you've been feeling, but the words won't come. 

Yoongi's eyes snap open. "Who is it?" he demands. 

You're choking. "You." 

Silence. 

And blood in your mouth, petals on your teeth. Standing in a quick movement, clenching your jaw to keep the everything in, you storm past him in a rush. 

You clutch the toilet bowl like it's salvation like if you just grip it hard enough you won't vomit, you won't die. The smell is awful, rancid and rusty and a layer of rose-scent that just makes it worse. 

You press your cheek against the toilet seat and sigh because it's cold and your skin is burning. You wonder absently if this is where you'll die, hugging a toilet, suffocating on your own fucked-up-ness. 

"I don't understand." 

You don't move your head, can't move your head. It's exhausting and your body feels like dead weight. Is this what dying is like? You watch a drop of water plink into the bloody toilet water and realize that you're crying again. 

"I love you," Yoongi says. It soft and a whisper, like a secret. The third time he's ever sad it out loud.

You frown because you don't believe him. 

You don't think he's lying, of course, you just don't believe him. You don't think he really knows. You think that he's formed a habit of living with you and doesn't know any better. You think he's convinced himself that he loves you but it isn't true. You think…you think…you think…

"You don't think I love you?" he whispers from by your side. You don't know how or when he got there, but his fingers are weaving through your hair to get it out of your face. You can see a couple of strands with blood and bile on them in the corner of your eye. 

It takes a few moments for the pain in his voice to get through to you. When you try to make eye contact, your vision blurry and hazy, he looks like he might cry.

"I love you," he whispers again, pressing his lips to the side of your mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you." He kisses your whole face, rests his forehead against your shoulder, says it so many times you lose count. He squeezes your hand and it keeps you there with him, keeps you from drifting off, "Believe me." 

Yoongi moves your head so that your forehead presses against his. You open your eyes tiredly and he whispers, "Say you'll try." 

There's nothing you wouldn't do for him. 

"Okay." And you breathed a little easier. 

author notes—deep sigh

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