#looks at force ghost au comic centered around these two ...
Photo
tup was a shiny on umbara
#my art#star wars#tcw#clone wars#fives#tup#yeah caption speaks for itself#also like you know whats fucked up ?? the fact everyone forgot how fives referred to tup as his best friend during the chip arc#BRO THEYRE FUCKIN P A L S BRO#THEYRE BUDDIES FOR REALSIES !!#looks at force ghost au comic centered around these two ...#sigh#one day
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
look guys i actually did some spirit designs
[ID: the Hargreeves' spirits in the Paranatural au - or at least, the five of them that are kids in this au.
Luther's is an ape that looks like his body from the comics. Diego's is a creature that looks a bit like a small porcupine. Allison's is a large snake with its mouth duct taped shut. Klaus' is a blue raccoon with three eyes and a pink tail, and Viktor's is based off of the White Violin from the comics, except its head transforms into reaching arms. End ID.]
sorry, the ID got REALLY long this time. that's a summary for anyone scrolling, theres a more detailed one under the cut!
[ID: Luther's spirit is labelled First Simian In Space: THE MARTIAN APE. He looks like the ape that supplied Luther's body in the comics, drawn in the paranatural style; blue, with one eye. He is wearing an astronaut helmet and sitting in a coin operated rocket ship that is much too small for it. He has transformed the world around him into a scifi martian landscape; cardboard standups with doors and lockers scribbled on them are the only indication of the real world. Luther is sprawled on the ground staring in shock, while the Martian Ape says "Y'know, you should totally just kill your dad".
Diego's spirit is a very small creature that looks a bit like a porcupine.
Panel 1: Diego holds his spirit in his hands and says, "So, what's your name?". His spirit responds "I am called..."
Panel 2: A caption appears; Projectile Extraordinaire: KRAKEN. The image is in full color, focusing on Kraken, which glowers cutely and shows off her spines.
Panel 3: The same shot as panel one, except Diego now looks very skeptical. He says "..." and then "Why." Kraken responds "It sounded cool."
Allison's spirit is a giant green snake coiled around a tree branch, with a pattern down his back that looks like open mouths.
The first two images are centered on Allison, who is scowling in both. Someone unseen says "It can force people to do things, honey!" and "It's too dangerous to leave you alone with it." and finally, "So we fixed it."
The final image is of the spirit. He is captioned Muzzled Mind Controller: THE RUMOR. His mouth has been duct taped shut. He does not look pleased.
Klaus' spirit is a blue raccoon with dark purple legs and a fluffy striped pink tail. It also has three eyes.
Panel 1: The large colored closeup of Klaus' spirit. It is captioned Mystical Conartist: THE SEANCE.
Panel 2: Klaus asks it "With a name like that, what's your power?" The Seance, its nose just high enough to fit into frame, replies, "Oh, I can sense ghosts"
Panel 3: Klaus looks supremely unimpressed. In the background, a ghost says "Hi" to Allison and Luther, and they say "Oh, hey" back.
Panel 4: Klaus asks, "Seriously?"
Panel 5: The Seance, viewed from above, says "Hey, I can sense them even when they're not visible! Like behind walls and stuff!"
Panel 6: The Seance adds "Also I can float." It is demonstrating, floating about eye level with Klaus and emitting a cloud of cyan spectral energy as it does so. Klaus looks more pleased with this and says "Okay, that one's pretty good."
Viktor's spirit is a Wight, a spirit so warped by rage and pain that it has permanently been changed, its spectral energy has become white, and has gained massive, devastating power. It looks a lot like the design of the White Violin in the comics, but it manifests too many or too few arms from where its head should be.
There are three images of it. In the first, it is kneeling. It has manifested six arms in varying degrees of completeness, and all of them look sad.
In the second, the matter of its head has split into many small pieces that almost look like parts of mouths, save for two clawing hands. It screams, in the Wight spirit language from Paranatural, WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME.
In the third, the largest, its knees buckle as it stands and manifests one reaching hand. It is captioned Violent White: THE WHITE VIOLIN. End ID]
#tua#the umbrella academy#luther hargreeves#diego hargreeves#allison hargreeves#klaus hargreeves#uhhhh...#vanya hargreeves#?#thats definitely not viktor. and its not REALLY vanya either but it IS made to look like her#space boy#the kraken#the rumor#the seance#the white violin#i feel like those are all fair game#some notes in no particular order:#look i did a spirit language from the webcomic! literally the easiest one to make (and read) but still!#its called Wight Wail btw bc Paranatural is mostly puns by weight#omg guys should i do something where delores speaks in Cursed Words?#in order to speak cursed words you have to have killed people but. she deserves it#i accidentally made most of these just An Animal which is super boring of me. so designs might be revisited. but this is where we're at rn!#also after i finished lining almost all of them i wore out my wrist and have been waiting like a week for it to heal enough to draw#i can do most of the heavy lifting of coloring and shading left handed which helped stave off the boredom#but it still hurts and its been a week and i WANT TO BE DONE so i gave up on ever lining klaus' and colored the sketch i had#there was stuff i wanted to fix and change but... well nevermind doing that i guess lol#also hence the typed text instead of handwritten. i would have used the sketch text but that was ACTUALLY illegible#oh yeah also#i discovered on my review of the title cards for the spirits of Paranatural that they have descriptors on top of their names#and paranatural already has a white//wight thing going on with wights having white energy so i was like... lets lean into it.
81 notes
·
View notes
Text
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.
#bts reactions#bts imagines#bts scenarios#bts x reader#bts fluff#yoongi imagine#yoongi imagines#yoongi x reader#yoongi fluff#fic: orchid
778 notes
·
View notes
Text
Its Always Been This Way (Hasn’t It?)
So….anyone up for some Witchy Sides? Welcome to my biggest Project to date: a Hogwarts au! This is my sweet, sweet child that I’ve been working on for forever and I thought its time I shared.
Pairings: DLAMP, LAMP, Anxceit,
Words: 2032 (This is going to be multichaptered)
Summary: Virgil had been so happy to be a Hufflepuff. He had never thought it was going to end up being a death sentence.
(Aka, Two boys curse themselves to a terrible fate in order to save the world. Maybe they wouldn’t have quite so many regrets if they hadn’t fallen in love with the same three boys in the middle of it.)
Quick Taglist: @chelsvans @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @treasureofpriam @whizzie72
Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist
At approximately four thirty one, on any given Thursday during the school year in which this story takes place, one would find the scene in the courtyard as such: a crowd of fifteen year olds pooled around in a wide circle shoving and laughing with each other as another two students stood in the middle toe to toe. Flutters of colors would be found all around, but a majority of them would be green and yellow, with dashes of red from the loudest of the peers and tickets of blue from those on the barest outskirts.
The boys in the center would be found to have a striking dichotomy between them: the one that was taller (by a few inches) would have a neatly tucked shirt, with his green and silver tie shining in the sunlight, a smug smirk on his lips and his robes finely pressed and trimmed to his perfect height; the other would be found with an untucked shirt of a faded cream color, a yellow tie that hadn’t been tied correctly in several years, along with dark eyeshadow and robes that were too short thrown haphazardly over a dark sweatshirt that was patched up in several places with plaid purple.
One would also find on any given Thursday, them snarling insults at each other, a hand in either pocket, squeezing wands made with Olivander’s finest craftmanship, and both a mere twitch of the wrist away from beginning an illegal duel on Hogwarts grounds.
None of this would be very new. It would seem as if every week the two would find something to argue about, to fight about, to risk expulsion from the esteemed magic school over. Throughout the years such things would have seemed to have costed their respective school houses a great deal of points, but no punishment would have had been fit enough to keep the boys from squabbling.
If one would have asked any member of the crowd what had happened between the boys which would have left them so hostile toward one another, they would receive many variations of the same answer: “That’s just how they’ve always been, mate.”
At the same time, should one have been skimming the courtyard while the boys engaged in their verbal sparring, they would have noticed Patton Hart sitting on the half wall just outside the edges of the crowd, watching with a nervous expression and wringing his blue and black tie through his fingers.
Patton Hart would not be a very intimidating person. In fact, he was most likely to be last on the list of people who were intimidating (should such a list be made). His glasses would be comically big and round, and his smattering of freckles would have been enough for him to seem harmless, but the boyish nature of his smile and the roundness of his face would cement the idea into any stranger’s mind. At fifteen years old, he would still appear to be just finishing middle school.
If one were to start a conversation with Patton at any point, they would be surprised to find that he was in the house of Ravenclaw, much less to find out that he was the nephew of the wand maker Jimmy Kidde,l himself, and had grown up surrounded by magic. There would be a certain excitement he would display at acts of magic, a certain wonderment that one would have expected him to have grown out of by now. But the facts would stand as such: Patton would be from a pureblood family and he would love magic the way that a drowning person would love the air.
To his left one would find Logan Ackroyd: a stiff, consistently irritated looking student who would also wear a blue tie, although his would appear to be his most treasured possession. Not a spec of dirt would be found near it nor frayed strand or awkward crease. His glasses would be sensibly square and black and professional, and his robes would be rolled up to his elbows. One would find two separate stacks of books keeping the distance between him and Patton, and a roll of parchment in the young man’s lap where he would be scribbling out an essay with a black fountain pen.
One would not be surprised to find that he was a Ravenclaw: he would rarely make time for others and would dread polite pleasantries the way children dreaded the process of de-gnoming the gardens. His tone would often suggest that he was the smartest person in any given room– a compliment in a school of witchcraft and wizardry when he, himself, would be only half magical and would have had a late start learning the tricks of the magical world.
If one watched for long enough, they would even witness the form of Roman Prince barreling from the conjoining steps around the side of the castle, racing from the flying fields, robes scratched and dirty with holes in the hem, and his red and gold tie sticking out of his pocket. He would reportedly be a dashing sort of fellow: smooth skin and brown eyes that glittered with boldface bravery, his hair would always be mused and tussled and somehow that would leave his female peers swooning over him. Or perhaps that would be attributed to his flirtatious personality and his chivalrous upbringing, as he would have been taught from a young age that all ladies loved to feel like a princess at least once and that it was his duty to provide for them.
One might even watch as Roman flung himself over the stack of books between the other boys, dripping with sweat and out of breath, and uttering between gasps, “Did I miss anything?”
“Roman!” Logan would snap just before the book stacks would sway and nearly tumble over if it would not have been for Patton flinging an arm out hold them up. “Watch it!”
“Relax poindexter,” Roman would say and offer a smile at Patton, “Hey Padre, whats up with Ekans and Storm?”
Patton would nervously glance at the jarring crowd again, and he’d explain, “Dee spread a rumor that Virgil is scared of the ghosts, and so Virgil hit him with the dancing feet jinx and it took half an hour to undo.”
“Oh good,” Roman would respond, “I didn’t miss anything.”
Just as he always would have had.
Logan would, of course, then mutter about how childish the two in the center of the group were, prompting a hefty sigh from Roman and a curious glance from Patton.
“What do you mean?”
And Logan would tap the end of his pen on his parchment, followed by rolling up the scroll and would wave vaguely at the jostling crowd. “This! We are fifth years! Surely by now they should have grown out of their rivalry!”
“What, like you and Patton?” Roman would say with a teasing elbow at the other.
“Yes!” Logan would respond smacking his arm away. “It’s ridiculous at this point, a slandering on the great Hogwarts name! Imagine if this is allowed to continue after the OWLs? In the work force?”
Patton then would release his tie from his hands and flex his fingers in the air with a nervous little laugh, “It is kinda silly. But can you imagine what it would be like if they never bickered at all?”
“Of course!” Logan would start, “They’d–” He would then pause, slightly ruffled, and then he’d adjust his glasses, “Pardon me, I seemed to have forgotten what I was going to say. I supposed you are correct, Patton. It would likely be similar that one week a few months ago, when they managed four days without a confrontation and then got into a fistfist that cost both their houses a large quantity of points and put you in the hospital wing.”
And Patton would have a response to that, a dismissive, water under the bridge sort of comment, but he and the others would be distracted by the sound of a certain Hufflepuff’s voice raising above the rest and the cacophony of nasty laughter that would follow from the crowd.
If one was of the particularly curious type and continued watching the trio further, they might also note the way that Logan would seem to blink several more times, with a small frown, as if he were to be chasing after a thought that had gotten away from him at the worst of times.
One would also get a chance to see Patton stand up and brush off his robes carefully, before turning back to his friends. “We should break them up, before someone tells Professor Sanders and he takes points from both their houses.”
“Wouldn’t that be a good thing?” Logan would ask entirely not rhetorical but a near thing, with his eyes sparking as they always would do when someone brought up the point system he would have dedicated his entire school year to winning. “Objectively, as none of us are in Hufflepuff nor Slytherin.”
And Roman would pick up one of the stacks of books, and reply, “Thank god for that! Those Slytherin types are down right evil!”
“Roman!” Patton would reprimand, taking another two books from the other stack while Logan hefted the others, “Slytherins are not evil!”
And Roman would, of course, scoff as he always would have done, “uh, yeah they are! And Ekans is the worse of ‘em! He’s a Disney Villain in the making!”
“Disney?” Patton would repeat, confused, “Is that a muggle thing?”
And Roman would be absolutely offended, because even after five years of having been friends with the pureblood wizard, there would still be some things that didn’t crossover between their respective worlds and one of them would be Classic Animated Movies.
“Dee is not completely malicious,” Logan would say as a deterrent, “He’s most likely just fallen in with the wrong crowd, so to speak.”
“Wrong crowd, my ass! He’s just a terrible guy!” Roman would mention loudly for all to hear had they been listening in, (and ignoring the puff of “language!” from his friend), “He used Epoximise to glue me to my seat in second year!”
“Actually that was Virgil.” Logan would say.
“Was it?”
And Patton would give his Gryffindor friend that strange sort of look, “Yeah! It was before you two really saw eye to eye!“
Roman would mutter under his breath, “Weird.” Then he would raise his head again, “Doesn’t change the fact that he’s a bad guy. Whats the name of those evil wizard dudes from the great wizard war again?”
“What?”
“Those guys who are who-know-who’s followers?”
“You mean Death Eaters?”
And Patton would flinch slightly at the term, and cover it with a queasy smile, because there really wouldn’t be much to be afraid of anymore! The Ministry would have had said so themselves! The Order would just be being vigilant should that change!
“Just you watch!” Roman would say in a definite sort of voice that he always got when someone started badmouthing Divination rather than just the awful Divination Teacher, which would have then prompted Logan and Patton to share a look, “Dee Ekans is going to end up a some type of neo-Death Eater!”
And if one watched for several more years, and kept that sort of conversation in their mind as they did, they would see that Roman Prince had been right.
And if one did not know anything about the conflict between Virgil Storm and Dee Ekans, they would have been inclined to believe that Dee had always been a vile sort of fellow and that there would have been no other outcome for a boy like him born into a pureblood magic family that favored dark magic than for him to have joined the rest of his family in their attempts to promote the Dark Lady to power and that he and Virgil would have been destined to hate each other from the start.
And if one did not own or have access to a time turner, one would, of course, come to the perfectly reasonable conclusion that it had always been this way.
Chapter 1: Liar Liar (House on Fire)
#Hogwarts au#Working title: It's Always Been This Way (Hasn't It?)#IABTW(HI)#Sanders sides#Virgil Sanders#symapthetic deceit#deceit sanders#patton sanders#logan sanders#roman sanders#Hufflepuff!Virgil#ravenclaw!patton#time turners#neo-death eaters#hogwarts bois#anxceit#lamp#dlamp
89 notes
·
View notes
Text
our own house [5/6]
_
Summary: The five times Ben Solo and Rey of Jakku kiss, and the one time they do more. The jedi au that no one asked for but that I am nonetheless delivering.
Chapter Summary: Luke is an absolute COCKBLOCK but what's new??? Also Rey's lightsaber is white and Ben's is purple and you can feel free to fight me on this but I won't guarantee you will ever be able to change my mind. Also also Grandpa Anakin makes a guest appearance
Warnings: Lots of “fuck” and some kissing (obviously)
AO3 Here!
_____________________________________________________________________
The fifth time Rey of Jakku and Ben Solo kiss, it’s because they’re confronted by a ghost.
They don’t speak for a week and a half. Rey avoids him at every turn, leaving each room that he enters and even refusing to make eye contact with him most of the time. Every day that passes, the reality of his fuck-up crashes down on him harder and harder, until finally, something larger than their issue comes crashing down into his world.
That thing is called Mustafar, and Luke’s incessant need to seek out danger. It runs in the family.
“Why would we go there, Luke?” Ben asks his uncle as he sits with him and the other Jedi Masters and Knights at the round table in one of the many rooms the temple.
“Because it is an important place, Ben,” Luke sighs quietly, “And it is where my father became Darth Vader. It may yet hold secrets or information that Anakin collected. He never stopped studying the Force, even as a Sith Lord.”
“Luke, I have to side with you nephew on this - it seems like a potentially disastrous journey to make,” Master Qui’Nik states, and Ben holds out a hand as if to say, told you so.
“I feel that it’s a journey I need to make. Anyone is welcome to come, but I won’t force you, nor ask you,” Luke says.
An absolute lie, because he’s practically guilted Ben into going with him just by telling him about it.
In the end, a few of the Jedi Master and Rey and Poe join the expedition, the latter serving as their pilot. Ben feels like his world is imploding around him when he slides into the seat next to Rey on the transport. He could’ve sat a row back, but what sense would that make? It might have been an easier trip, if he had - Rey stares daggers into the back of Luke’s headrest as she sits next to him. He can’t hear anything past the rushing wind of her thoughts, practically consuming the entire cabin of the ship.
Add that to the list of things that he’s got to fix.
When Mustafar looms in the distance, Ben gets a very strange feeling. As if something is calling to him, plucking at just the strings of his self-loathing and hatred and everything that aligns with the dark inside of him that he tries so hard to keep hidden. It’s almost as if the atmosphere is pulling his every emotion to the surface, wrapping him in a cloak of things like passion and lust and impulsive thoughts.
Rey sitting next to him isn’t helping. He gets spikes of her signature as she’s so near to him, feels when she goes from fear to anger to excitement, and how all of it is shadowed by a confusion that knots around her.
Perhaps she’s like him, then. Not quite good enough to live entirely in the light, but unsure of what to do with the dark that also lives alongside it.
That thought makes him feel strangely a little bit better.
When they land on the lava planet, Poe looks almost comically concerned.
“You can wait here,” Luke tells him, and Dameron can’t acquiesce fast enough. Ben half expects Luke to say the same to Rey, but it seems he finally knows her better than that, and knows that no matter what, she needs to touch the ground of this planet, just like she does.
None of them are quite prepared for it when their feet touch the blacked lava - the power that flows through the whole planet is dark, almost broken and sad, like a cracked kyber crystal. They walk for some time, thoughts to themselves, before they finally reach the looming castle, made of polished black obsidian and standing as it has for years.
Voices swim in the air. Or, perhaps it’s only one?
“Pairs of two. Don’t split up, whatever you do,” Luke tells them all, with a pointed look at Ben and Rey. “I’ll go right, but the two of you must stay together.”
Ben can’t figure out why he says it like that, but there’s a grave seriousness in his Uncle’s voice that causes Ben to listen to him without question. Masters and Knights pair off, each headed in different directions. Ben and Rey stand there in the entry of the castle for a moment, studying the darkness around them and the cracks in the walls that seem to let in just enough light, as if something otherworldly had broken the stone and splintered it in this way.
They don’t speak. When Rey finally moves to head down a hall, Ben follows her silently. A force is pulling them forward, dragging them to a spot in the castle that’s only calling to them, Ben can tell that much. He struggles a bit to keep up with her, as she ducks and twists and squeezes through mostly-shut doorways that he ends up having to blast open because she’s a tiny little scavenger, and Ben is most definitely not.
The room they stop in is pitch black. Not a crack of light. Ben makes to ignite his saber but Rey’s hand reaches back and covers his own, stilling him.
“Do you hear it?” she asks him, and in the moment he’s so attuned to just her, in this darkness that surrounds them. He can hear her heartbeat, can practically feel the blood rushing through her veins where his hand wraps around her wrist, the warmth of her as she’s pressed closer to him than she’s been in nearly two weeks.
But, he listens. The voice he’s heard since they touched down on the planet is there, unintelligible for the moment. “I hear it,” he tells her, and slowly, Rey takes a step forward.
Whatever room they’re in, it’s large - Ben can feel the draft of it and probes with the Force to find the high ceilings. Nothing else breathes in the room but them, but something certainly lives in it. Ben doesn’t ask why Rey refuses any light, but he finds himself understanding. Somehow their sabers would taint the way the room feels. It’s not meant for the brightness of their white and purple blades, and so they use the Force to find their way deeper into the room, carefully probing to find anything that might stand in their way. Nothing does.
They find the center easy enough, still robbed of sight, but what tells Ben that they’ve found it is the warp of sound that happens when they stand there, as if everything will come back at them if they were to speak.
“Center,” The voice says, like a whisper creeping through every tendon in Ben’s body, rushing up his spine. “You’ve found the center I couldn’t.”
“Ben,” Rey breathes, “Who is that?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He shakes his head and then remembers that she can’t see him. A voice speaking to them in the middle of a horrible, abandoned castle on a crying planet should make them fearful, or at the very least be creepy, but the voice and whoever it belongs to doesn’t intend to harm them. It’s soft - sad and broken and full of a past that Ben feels the weight of as if he bears it on his own shoulders.
“Are you aware of the Bond you share?” The voice asks.
Rey reaches back and into Ben. He takes her in his arms without thinking.
“You’re not, then,” the voice muses, “You’ve speculated that it’s there because it’s so easy to hear each other’s thoughts. But Force Dyads are not common, things like life itself - there is hardly any research that’s been done. One hasn’t happened for thousands of years, and yet, here you are.”
“What does he mean?” Rey asks, hushed. “A Force Dyad? We’re connected?”
Of course they are, Ben figures. That has to be why it’s so easy to feel each other, to catch the tendrils of emotions that roll off of Rey every time she’s near, and why he can feel her Force signature in a way he can’t feel anyone else’s.
“You have to open yourselves up to it,” the voice tells them, “You’re putting up walls because you’re afraid to let each other in.”
Are they? Is Rey as frightened of the emotion between them, the thing that wraps around them whenever they’re together, the string that pulls them?
“Why us?” Rey asks, more to the voice that surrounds them rather than Ben.
The voice seems to be amused. “Can you not tell you’re made for each other? The Force does whatever it wants - it’s created one with the other in mind. A balance.”
It dawns then, who the voice is.
“Are you Anakin Skywalker?” Ben asks, in a voice smaller than he wishes it to come out. He feels Rey start a little.
“Hello, grandson. I wondered how long it would take.”
Oh, this has to be his grandfather, because the sass in that voice sounds so much like his mother that it startles him.
“What the fuck -“ Rey starts to say, but stops when the room around them lightens. Not glows, exactly - but it’s as if the light comes from inside the walls, illuminating the two of them and the mural on the ceiling, brilliant with color. Ben looks at Rey first, to find her looking at him, and then together they stare at what’s above them. Images of blue flowers and moons and lakes and in the center, a woman, his grandmother, something tells him, dark curls laced with gold.
“I lost the thing I loved most in search of power. Do not make the same mistake, Ben Solo.”
And with that, the light in the room extinguishes, and gone along with it is the presence that lingered with the voice of Anakin Skywalker.
Dazed, Ben waves a hand to send tendrils of light to the candelabras that surround the room, and finally, he can look down at Rey in the still dim light, the warm glow and the gilded gold casting shadows on her face.
She moves first, and thank the Gods because Ben can barely think.
Rey throws her arms around him, bringing their mouths together with no preamble, and he holds her close to his chest, sinking into the feeling of her kiss. No words are said, and there’s no more sound other than the faint hum of the Force and their breathing, the slide of their lips against each other. Rey is warm beneath his palms, a steady but rapid heartbeat, and soft hair that he tangles his fingers into as soon as he gets it free of two out of three buns.
Their sabers clatter to the floor and Ben’s cloak falls with them as Rey unlatches it from his throat before nearly jumping into his arms, locking her legs tight around his waist as he slowly lowers them to the ground. She’s straddling his hips and when Ben finally opens his eyes to look at her, he swears that he’s never seen anything more beautiful than the way she looks at him in that moment, flushed cheeks and kiss-stung lips that are just a little bit redder than normal, her hands tenderly reaching up to cup his face.
Oh, he loves her he loves her he loves her I love -
She kisses him again and the thought stops in its tracks with a twinge of amusement. Ben contemplates keeping her here, in his arms, forever and ever or at least until he’s had his fill of her, enough to satiate him for a quick moment before he’ll need her again. Rey quietly lets him know that she agrees with this thought, her hand on his chest to lean him back on the floor, their hands and mouths and limbs entwining and connecting as they kiss until they can’t breathe.
Are you two…okay? Luke’s voice floods both of their heads, and Rey actually groans. I’m getting a very weird reading off of you. Are you stuck?
“Fucking leave it to him -“ Ben starts to grumble, but Rey silences him with a quick kiss before pulling him up from the ground. She looks as dazed as he feels.
Rey sends over the mental link with Luke what they’ve found, and then stares at Ben, bright eyes wide and lips parted and chest rising and falling heavily with every breath. He can read her every thought and fuck, some of them are dirty.
Have you always been that -
Yes, she sends back, apparently unwilling to acknowledge anything further as she bends to pick up his cloak, and for the first time, Ben doesn’t feel even a little bit bad about the way he stares at her ass. He’s about to tell her such, but then Luke comes barreling into the hall and the moment of bliss is halted.
The rest of the exploration of the castle on Mustafar happens in a daze. Luke finds various writings and books and holos and Ben just stutters about, thinking about his grandfather’s words and the feeling over Rey in his arms. He feels everything she feels as keenly as if they were existing in one body - every time he brushes her, he feels the rush of heat in her veins, and every time he catches the scent of wildflowers that comes off of her hair, he’s sure she can feel the warmth that blossoms in his chest.
They don’t get a moment alone from the time they leave the mural hall to when they get back on the plane. And Ben is well and truly deep in a daze that is all Rey.
The promise of landing back at the Academy and being able to speak to her there makes the trip almost unbearable, even as he feels the tendrils of her mind slipping at his, as if asking for access, probing to feel his emotion about what they’d experienced, what they’d shared.
The ship lands, and he’s so close, so so close -
“Sit with me, Ben,” Luke demands, and yanks him away from Rey.
__________________________________________________________________
@sunshiney-souls
#reylo#reylo fanfic#reylo kisses#rey x ben solo#rey x ben#rey x ben solo fanfic#reylo jedi au#rey and ben#rey and ben solo#rey and ben solo fanfic#star wars fanfiction#reylo fanfiction#sw fanfic
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
LONG Character Survey: Lyllyan Weiss
BASICS.
FULL NAME: Lyllyan Aster Weiss
NICKNAME: Lyl, Lily, Lil' Lily.
AGE: 21
BIRTHDAY: 11th Sun of the 6th Astral Moon (November 10th)
ETHNIC GROUP: Auri|Xaela (In Eorzea)/ Human (Out of World)
NATIONALITY: Eorzean (In Eorzea)/American (Out of World)
LANGUAGES: Eorzean, Draconic, basically anything due to the echo.
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: She is Bi. Swings both ways. She loves all.
ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic
RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Depending on the different routes on the story, she will be either single or taken.
CLASS: Jack-of-all-trades
•Knows everything and knows how to play everything.
• Favors caster classes above everything else.
HOMETOWN / AREA: N/A
CURRENT HOMETOWN / AREA: Shirogane is where her apartment is, but she sees Ishgard as her home that she spends her time in, and then the Crystarium had became home to her as well.
PROFESSION: Scion, Adventurer, Full time hero in both her world and Eorzea. In her world she is a waitress and an artist/animator.
PHYSICAL.
HAIR: Right now it is Brown with Light brown Highlights
EYES: Purple (Right), Green (Left)
NOSE: Small and Sharp
LIPS: Small and full
COMPLEXION: Pale but fair.
BLEMISHES: None.
SCARS: In Eorzea, her scars are battle scars that is more aligned on her back. They do not show up when she is in her world.
TATOOS: The Scion Tatoo on the part where the neck and back meet.
HEIGHT: 5'0
WEIGHT: 130lb (Eorzea)/ 150lb (Her World)
BUILD: Short, Thin and fit.
FEATURES: None really.
ALLERGIES: Rolanberries in Eorzea, Strawberries in her world.
USUAL HAIRSTYLE: Long hair with a half braid in the back in Eorzea. In her world she has short hair that stops in the middle of her neck.
USUAL FACE LOOK: Warm color Eye shadow applied lightly to the eyes and a very nude color for lipstick in Eorzea. In her world, she hardly puts make up on, but usually has dark circles due to being tired all the time.
USUAL CLOTHING: Depending on her mood, she'll go very modest, or wearing a bikini with thigh boots. In her world, she is always modest with usually a t-shirt and sweats.
PSYCHOLOGY.
FEARS: Bugs (Mainly Arachnids, spiders are the worst.) Antilions that hide in the sands. Losing her love ones. Becoming Sin Eater. Being alone. Falling.
ASPIRATIONS: Explore all of the worlds she could go to, but also to make animations that can change the world.
POSITIVE TRAITS: Stubborn, happy go lucky, Compassionate, tries to take care of everyone, protective, loving, friendly, trusting.
NEGATIVE TRAITS: Stubborn enough to push past her limits, usually getting her hurt. She so selfless that she tends to forget about taking care of herself. She can be too trusting of others that she often gets hurt in the end. She usually bottles her problems with the worry of being a burden to others. Very emotional driven (Just ask Ser Zephirin).
ZODIAC: Scorpio.
TEMPERAMENT: Artistic and Motherly
SOUL TYPE(S): The Priest, The Artisan, The Server.
ANIMALS: Cat
VICE HABIT(S): From the definition that I read, her faults are that she feels like anything bad that happens to her or her friends are her fault, and that she sometimes Envy others. But her hobbies that she enjoys are reading, triple triad, drawing, and writing.
FAITH: The Twelve. Even in her world she believes in the Twelve.
GHOSTS?: Definitely
AFTERLIFE?: I hope there is one.
REINCARNATION?: Well so far that we know, reincarnation is a thing, right?
ALIENS?: I doubt the world was made for one type of civilization, plus multiple worlds. Yes.
POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Uh...Alphinaud does politics for me.
ECONOMIC PREFERENCE: Just trying to survive, man. Stable, I guess.
SOCIO POLITICAL POSITION: Uh... Alphinaud???
EDUCATION LEVEL: Lyllyan herself has had up to some college in her own world. In Eorzea, she has an understanding of Aether and well has learned all the classes, so being able to pick up something new, she can learn fairly quick.
FAMILY.
FATHER: Captain Carebear (Mykel Weiss)
MOTHER: She doesn't have the ability to go to Eorzea so her name is Lynn Weiss.
Siblings: Lucas Weiss(Rafien Dalarain(Deactivated)), Nathaniel Weiss(Random Guy (deactivated)), Olivia Weiss (Never been to Eorzea).
EXTENDED FAMILY: Grandmother(Nana)(Deceased), Granfather(Poppy), Fortemps Family (Rest in Peace Haucherfaunt).
NAME MEANING(S): Lyllyan is based off of the Lily flower. Aster is based off of the Aster flower, and then Weiss is a name given to those with white hair or pale complexion.
HISTORICAL CONNECTION: Um...Ascian? Amourotine?
FAVORITES.
BOOK: If its Manga, It's Rurouni Kenshin. Books would be the 'Septimus Heap' series by Angie Sage.
MOVIE/PLAY: Movie would be 'Wizard of Oz'. Favorite Play would be 'Hamilton'.
5 SONGS:
•'Seasonal Feathers' by Len and Rin Kagamine
•'Drakkar' by Distrion and Electro-Light
•'Light it Up' by Robin Hustin and TobiMorrow (feat. Jex)
•'Stitches' by Shawn Mendes
•'Perfect' by Ed Sheeran
DEITY: Thaliak
HOLIDAY: Valentione
MONTH: November/ 6th Astral Moon
SEASON: Spring
PLACE: Rak'Tika Greatwoods
WEATHER: Rain
SOUND: Ocean waves.
SCENT(S): Cherry Blossom, sweet.
TASTE(S): Favorite food is Bacon so....also likes sweet things.
FEEL(S): Fuzzy blankets, warm cloth, soft.
ANIMALS: She loves all animals! If she had to narrow it down, it would be Cats, Pandas, and Chocobos. Does Pokemon count?
NUMBER: 8 but screw Construct 8
COLORS: Purple, light green, light blue.
EXTRA.
TALENTS: Drawing.
BAD AT: Math. She used to bring her homework to Eorzea to have Alphinaud and Urianger help her.
TURN ONS: Oooo. Funny, kind, calm, generous, but also romantic.
TURN OFFS: Selfish, rude ass hoe, and killing my friends.
HOBBIES: Singing, Drawing, Reading, Exploring, Triple Triad.
TROPES: Mother Hen.
AESTHETIC TAGS: Chocolate and Caramel. Honey. Lavender and Leaves. I think that's how this works???
FC INFO.
MAIN FC(S): Scions of the Dawn. It consist of Dad and myself.
ALT FC(S): None.
OLDER FC(S): We did have an FC on Gilgamesh called Lionheart with the Tag FF8. It was one that we had started the game when we got out of beta, but moved to different server/data center.
YOUNGER FC(S): *Confused Au Ra noises*
VOICE CLAIM(S): ??????
GENDERBENT FC(S): *Even more confused Au Ra noises*
MUN QUESTIONS.
Q1: IF YOU COULD WRITE YOUR CHARACTER YOUR WAY IN THEIR OWN MOVIE, WHAT WOULD IT BE CALLED, WHAT STYLE WOULD IT BE FILMED IN, AND WHAT WOULD IT BE ABOUT?
•So, I'm already making a comic that I want to make as an animation for the story of FFXIV with my character and her friends. This character was specifically built for FFXIV, but it has a twist. Kinda like a Sword Art Online ordeal, but instead of Millions of people playing are stuck in the world, it's just like 100, but they aren't stuck, in fact they are just chosen to go between their world and Eorzea. If they die, they don't actually die, but respawn, even in their own world, but they feel how they die and the only way for them to die in any shape or form is by natural cause like old age or sickness. This would be a 2D animation in the anime style and be a multi episode series with multiple seasons. I even though about branching out to go certain routes so that Lyllyan can end up with all my favorite characters. I would call it Final Fantasy XIV: A World Reborn.
Q2: WHAT WOULD THEIR SOUNDTRACK/SCORE SOUND LIKE?
•With it being a Final Fantasy story, it would have Final Fantasy Music.
Q3: WHY DID YOU START WRITING THIS CHARACTER?
•Lyllyan Weiss was made to represent me and she still does, but also inspires me to be more like my courageous heroic self. Because of this, I have been able to do things like crossing a bridge that's in bad shape to get to the other side without the fear of falling, just to get back to my mom who went to the other side on a trip we had.
Q4: WHAT FIRST ATTRACTED YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?
•She is literally me.
Q5: DESCRIBE THE BIGGEST THING YOU DISLIKE ABOUT YOUR MUSE.
•Just like me, she is stubborn and hard working, but there are times she pushes herself way too much. She hesitates to ask for help, not because she doesn't trust the people around her, but more of trying to not burden them. Others wish she would open up to them and also rest when she can. Raha has to literally force her to rest, and she nearly gets herself killed against the first battle with Rahjit because she kept getting back up to fight even when the others beg her to stop.
Q6: WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN COMMON WITH YOUR MUSE?
•Almost everything. Major thing is that she doesn't look like me, but also I know when to quit.
Q7: HOW DOES YOUR MUSE FEEL ABOUT YOU?
• I feel like if Lyllyan and I were to meet in person, we'd get along just fine. We would play video games all day long if we could.
Q8: WHAT CHARACTERS DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE INTERESTING INTERACTIONS WITH?
•OH BOI HERE WE GOOO
- Leveilleur Twins: Alphinaud and Alisaie are very close to Lyllyan. Alphinaud used to pull Lyllyan out of class to have her hurry up and go through the story, now its chill and play ace attorney. Alphinaud, depending on what route is taken, is definitely in love with Lyllyan and is constantly teased about it by everyone. Alisaie is like a sister to Lyllyan. They have had many nights where the pulled 24 hours playing Sims. Alisaie is who Lyllyan tries to protect the most between the two. She's also the reason why Lyllyan is now Bi. Lyllyan absolutely adores her and if the route is taken, they end up being the cutest couple.
-Leon D'hart: An Alt character that I made that depending on the story and route, he is also Lyllyan's Lover. He is a character made by Square Enix to be the Warrior of Light replacement if Lyllyan did not succeed in preventing herself becoming a light warden. His story with her is a bunch of trial and tribulations, but in the end they do end up married.
-G'raha Tia/Crystal Exarch: The main story Lyllyan's Lover. Great friend to start out and tears were shed when he sealed himself into the tower. He really kept Lyllyan guessing when he was Exarch. When Emet-Selch kidnapped him, Lyllyan was hellbent on getting him back. Now she visits him at the first everyday bring stuff from Eorzea for him, and even occasionally stuff from her world. He is her world as she is to him.
-The Scions: Thancred and Lyllyan are like Big brother, Little sister. He protects her, and scolds her as such. They may act like they hate each other, but the moment either gets hurt, the other is at their sides. Though rumor has it that Thancred had feelings for Lyllyan. Y'shtola is close to Lyllyan, but is usually not around often. Shtola usually is often around to keep an eye on Lyllyan's aether since her amount is quite high compared to the others and her fellow Warriors of Light. Urianger is someone who used to hardly talk to Lyllyan, but started opening up more after the years. He had watched her grow from 15 moons to now 21 as the others, but they seem to be more special to him. Lyllyan swore to protect him if anything ever happened especially after he asked her her thoughts on his new attire. Tataru is a precious angel and if anyone was to hurt her, Lyllyan would kill everyone and then herself. Ryne, even though she is not a scion, she is a scion. Ryne worries about Lyllyan, but is often in awe of her. Lyllyan and Thancred adopted her, and she's ended up calling Lyllyan mom on many occasions.
-Ser Aymeric: Depending on the route, he would be Lyllyan's Lover and he tries to protect her when he can, be it politics or in war. He has a dream to journey with her, and though he can't do so with Lylyan Weiss the Au Ra, there is nothing saying he can't make a character and become a Warrior of Light himself and travel with Sakura Yue(Lyllyan's Alt).
-Zenos Yae Galvus: So this guy commits Seppuku and then shows up at Lyllyan's job as her new Bartender. They end up becoming friends through the job, and the fact that Zenos is bored out of his mind that he can't go kill people,but finding out later that he is back makes Square Enix themselves worried about this guy.
-Estinien: Lyllyan had adopted him as her Edgy Son. He hates it. He reminds her that he is older than him, and she retorts about beating him as a Lalafel. He usually starts brooding after that on a high building that usually takes Alphinaud and Ser Aymeric to get him down.
•I'm only stopping this cause there are so many more characters!!!
Q9:WHAT GIVES YOU INSPIRATION TO WRITE YOUR MUSE?
•Music and Playing Final Fantasy. Mainly XIV, but others do count too, but also reading all the other fanfiction and comics about final fantasy XIV.
Q10: HOW LONG DID THIS TAKE YOU TO COMPLETE?
About...4 hours? Maybe more? My hands definitely hurt from all the typing! XD
============
Tagged by @amandafullmetal
Tagging @ladyramora @ranier-layarte @scholarlostintime @fabledtactician
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
Day-O (a CU Beetlejuice AU one shot)
While I don’t want to do a full on CU Beetlejuice fic, this scene is impossible to pass up, especially considering how the musical added to the original story to begin with. (So this combines both the musical and the movie’s version of this scene... and you might need to listen to the musical version of this scene if you can’t find a bootleg/luck out in seeing it on stage).
The Beetlejuice AU was originally proposed by @jackie-sugarskull
and Esme belongs to @princeasimdiya12 .
(Contains some cursing. Note to those with a trigger warning: the suicide joke from the original film was included here).
A group of people gathered around in the school’s cafeteria to decide the building’s fate. It had been arranged so that they had a table right in the center of the room, yet the food and drinks were both well above cafeteria food standards. On one end was former student turned politician Erica along with Esme, the school’s current Principal. On the other was former student turned top scientist Melvin, along with his colleague Professor Poopypants. In between were potential investors and the school district superintendent Mr. Pointe who never seemed to take a stand on the current issues.
“So we hope that your support and donations would not only keep the school open, but encourage support for extra curricular activities as well as better supplies, new recess equipment, text books, and learning conditions.” Erica concluded as Edith took goblets of cocktail shrimp of the cart to give to everyone else as they ate deviled eggs and drank wine.
“Except nowadays, science and mathematics is demanding more bodies for the expanding career options in that area.” Melvin countered. “Trying to keep Jerome Horowitz alive as it is would be like heading towards suicide at this rate.”
“And you know what they say,” Poopypants cracked. “Those who commit suicide become civil servants in the after life.” This earned a round of chuckles from everyone except Erica, Esme, or Edith. The latter in particular winced at this. “Then again, who knows how many children will end up as civil servants as adults?”
“Oh that reminds me,” Melvin glanced to Edith and smirked at her. She had recently changed from her dark clothes and into a flattering lemon yellow dress, and her hair was pinned back from her face, so she was a bit more noticeable than usual. “One of our old classmates claims that the ‘ghosts’ of this school don’t approve of my ideas. Apparently they’re with Erica’s side of things.” This caused Edith to freeze up and turn around.
“B-but it’s true!” Edith admitted. “They think school should be about fun and enjoying childhood–!”
“Next she’ll tell us the ghosts are our old classmates who died all those years ago!” Melvin laughed and some others joined in. Erica frowned at Edith, but only Esme showed an interest in what the woman had to say–it made her think back to all those pranks and those mysterious comics that happened without any explanation.
“Anyway, I don’t want to talk about something you can’t prove without science, and I don’t mean the junk machines on those ghost adventure shows!” Melvin continued. “I think I’d rather talk about–DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY–O!” Without any warning, he bursted into singing with his arms bursting out into the air.
All eyes glanced on in confusion except for Edith, who waited patiently. Melvin realized what he just did and grabbed his neck as his eyes widened in shock.
“Sorry, what?” Erica raised an eyebrow.
“Well, that’s uh... quite a subject.” Mr. Pointe blinked.
“Uh, sorry!” Melvin let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know where that came from! I meant–ME SAY DAY ME SAY DAY ME SAY DAY-O!” He bursted into song again like he was a big time singer at a performance.
“Is this going somewhere?” An investor asked.
Melvin panicked. It was like he was unable to control himself! “L-listen!” He pleaded. “I just feel like–DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME!” He felt compelled to jump out of his spot and sing once more. The moment he regained control of himself, he panicked. “What is happening to me?!”
Most everyone let out nervous giggling. “Well, Melvin.” Poopypants chuckled. “I guess you mean to tell us–WORK ALL NIGHT TO THE DRINK OF RUM!” He suddenly leapt onto his spot on the bench and threw his arms out as he sang next and, as if on cue, the music from the player nearby switched from soft jazz to a classic upbeat piece of music.
“DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME!” Everyone except Edith suddenly got out of their spots and started to sing.
“Stack Banana ‘til de mornin’ come!” Melvin sang as his body moved in time to the music. “DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME!” Everyone sang in response.
No one knew what was going on. It was as if something overtook them as they all found themselves dancing in time to the music while singing to a song that very few of them even knew. Yet no one saw what Edith saw when she heard childish giggling and she looked up with a smile. Floating in the air were the spirits of two children, with each one waving their hands as if conducting or moving them like they were controlling a puppet.
“I can’t wait until the finale!” Harold laughed.
“I know!” George happily replied as Edith continued to watch with a huge smile.
Everyone danced around behind their seats. All but three adults, with Erica and Esme shooting each other confused looks while Edith herself hummed to the delightful song. It then got to a point where everyone was bending over and sticking their rear ends out and shaking them around in time to the music, which made both boys laugh even harder.
“Day, me say day-o! Daylight come and me wan’ go home!”
“Daylight come and me wan’ go home!”
After awhile, the music came to an end and they were all forced to sit down, yet there was one more surprise in store for Melvin. The shrimp in his cocktail suddenly turned into a monstrous hand that reached up, causing everyone to shout or gasp and Melvin screamed but was unable to jump out of his seat in time as the hand grabbed his face and pulled him into the table, all the while his screaming increased.
George and Harold laughed even harder. “There’s no way he’s going to turn this place into a snore-fest now!” Harold gleefully declared.
“SOMEONE GET THIS THING OFF OF MY FACE!” Melvin screamed. With a lazy wave of the hand, George freed the red head, who pulled back with a gasp as all eyes stared in concern at him.
“Wh-what was that?!” He demanded.
“It’s like I said.” Edith told Melvin. “They don’t want you to turn this place into your kind of school. If you don’t want to have this happen again, you better do what Erica wants.” Erica herself was stunned at this to the point that she was unable to immediately say anything. Yet when she was ready to ask Edith what on earth she was doing, Melvin grinned.
“So you’re saying that there are real ghosts here?!” He then turned to Poopypants “You saw that all right?! No parlor tricks, mechanisms or weird gases, right?! Forget funding this stupid place, I’m going to buy it off the school district’s hands!”
“What?” Erica and Esme asked in confusion.
“What?” Edith asked with dread.
“What?!” George and Harold shrieked.
“I can’t get the school to be what I want it to be, but a location that’s haunted?! Do you have any idea how much that could help out with research and inventing new things?! Screw the school, I’m turning this place into a new research center!”
“WHAT?!” George and Harold screamed.
“That’s an excellent idea!” Poopypants grinned as he rubbed his hands. “I’m already thinking of the possibilities such supernatural energy can grant us!”
“It’ll make Piqua more than just a city of narrow minded simpletons!” Melvin added.
“No!” Esme yelled. “Mr. Pointe, you can’t allow this!” She pleaded to the school’s Super Intendant, but he gave her a nervous smile. “Where will the children go?!”
“W–w–well, I don’t see how this place can be safe with ghosts roaming around them.” Mr. Pointe stammered and let out a sheepish smile.
“It wasn’t any better without them!” Erica roared as Edith tried to speak her own thoughts, but was overpowered by the politician. “Do you have any idea how much of a danger zone this place was becoming over the years?!”
“Erica, I like you a lot, but this place was below standards in academics since day one!” Melvin butted in. “What good’ll it do to keep it open any longer?!”
“You can’t tear this place down!” Edith finally protested as loudly as she could. “The ghosts don’t want that! None of the children will want that! You–!”
“No one cares what you say Edith, you aren’t holding the money or power like us!” Melvin snapped at Edith. “Can’t you get it through your simple, messy-haired, four year college degree head?! Don’t you realize how much money we’d all get from this?! Or are you too depressed over mommy and daddy kicking the bucket to even bother taking care of yourself?! This is reality, so either get on board with life or move along!”
Edith felt as if she was slapped across the face as Melvin went back to the others to talk of his plans. She felt Erica’s disapproving look as well as those from the people who were trying to save the school and she barely saw the boys when they now stood before her with worried looks.
“Edith?!” Harold pleaded. “Look, we didn’t realize Melvin would do this! We should have seen it coming!”
“We can still fix this!” George added.
“How?! Nothing works! Apparently pranking everyone isn’t enough! Do you have any ideas, Edith?!” The blonde turned to the woman. “Edith?” He asked in concern when he saw the woman staring at the ground with her face barely in view.
When her parents died, everyone ignored her to the point that she might as well have been invisible. When she tried to help support the school, no one listened to her ideas and expected her to be a ‘yes man.’ When she finally succeeded in that, it blew up in her face and she was still being treated like she didn’t really matter.
“You want to do something about all of this? Then all you got to do is say my name!”
“There’s still one thing I can do.” She realized as she remembered him from earlier. “Three times spoken, unbroken, right?”
“My real name. The one that hag cursed when she cursed me. Say it three times spoken, unbroken.”
The boys instantly understood what she meant.
“Edith no!” George protested as he and Harold began to panic.
“Benjamin.” She quietly spoke, and no one else heard her say it except the two boys who knew what was coming and flinched the moment he arrived.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!”
Edith heard some movement and was startled to see the familiar large figure standing right beside her. He still wore the same black and white stripped suit, the toupee was still black with touches of green and yellow, his skin was still a pale lavender as if his body lacked any air, and his shark like smile was wide with glee. “I knew you’d come around and see things my way! I swear you won’t regret this!”
“Edith stop!” Harold pleaded, earning him a dirty look from the adult ghost.
“Benjamin.” She spoke louder which went unheard over the arguing of the other adults. The ghost grinned even more as he adjusted his sleeves.
“That’s it! That’s it!” He was like a kid at Christmas about ready to explode with anticipation as his hideous grin only widened as he coaxed her. “We’re going to have a lot of fun! Come on! Just give me one! MORE!” He looked at her pointedly.
“EDITH NO!”
“DON’T SAY HIS NAME!”
She took a breath. She was tired of being invisible–tired of being treated like a joke–she wanted to be heard!
“BENJAMIN!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, causing all eyes to turn towards her in confusion, while those of the boys were filled with dread, and those of the ghost-demon’s were filled with satisfaction as he became surrounded by white light and smoke.
“It’s showtime!” He grinned as he threw this hands out.
The music came to a halt and everything went dark, causing almost everyone to scream in confusion and blindly stumble around. Moments later, the lighting of the room came on and became an ominous green as Krupp stood before them all.
“Can anyone see me?!” He demanded.
His response was a series of screams at the sight of the unexpected, hideous looking being.
“Now that’s what I want to hear!” He gave them an evil grin and rubbed his hands together. “God I missed that sound!”
“What the hell is that thing?!” One of the investors screamed and pointed.
“Yeah, who the hell invited you?!” Melvin demanded.
“I did!” All eyes turned to Edith as she felt a surge of confidence that she hadn’t felt in quite awhile. “I warned you and you didn’t listen!” Each word made her feel stronger until she was practically shouting. “You all never listened to me! Never took me seriously! And now this is what you get!”
“Yeah nerd, this is what you get!” Krupp sneered at Sneedly. “And I’m someone whose about ready to have a game I’d like to call ‘instant trauma!’” He threw his hands into the air and suddenly chaos began to ensue.
FIre bursted from the ground as if out of nowhere in random parts of the room, causing the gusts to scream and flee. Those who managed to get to the doors were only further startled by what appeared to be ominous glowing monsters with green eyes, mouths and sharp teeth that proceeded to chase after them (had they looked again, they would of seen that they were just possessed toilets). Anyone who tried to escape into the safety of the kitchen found more fire bursting from the stoves, causing them to run away.
“THIS WAS A MISTAKE!” Poopypants shrieked as he and Melvin tried to pull at some doors that refused to budge.
“Hey Little Man!” The scientist felt something crawl up on his back. He turned around to see a puppet version of Krupp with unsettlingly realistic looking eyes looming over his shoulder. “Ya’ want to play with me?!”
“NIEN!” Poopypants screamed in German and ran off as he tried to take the hideous abomination off him, but it only laughed with sadistic glee and tightened its hold on him.
“HEY DON’T RUN OFF!” Melvin screamed at Poopypants when suddenly he found himself getting hoisted into the air by something long and thick. He screamed and thrashed until suddenly he came face to face with a snake like monster that had Krupp’s head attached to it.
“Feeling like having this place all to yourself now, Sneedly?” He sneered at him. The man screamed and the snake like out a laugh as he thrashed him back and forth through the air.
“Ok that’s it, they get it!” George angrily yelled at the snake as he and Harold tried to approach him. “You can stop now!”
“Ah shut it, you two no longer have the power around here anymore!” The dead adult sneered at them, stopping them in their tracks. “Why don’t you two go to detention in the Neitherworld? You’re in for a long overdue visit!”
“Oh like heck we’ll go!” Harold yelled back, though neither he and George saw a piece of chalk draw a circled on the ground around them.
“WELL TOO BAD, YOU’RE GOING ANYWAY!” The snake snapped as the ground opened up under the boys and they were sent screaming through it as all the other guests were attacked by more supernatural elements.
“SOMEONE HELP ME!” Melvin shrieked.
“PUT HIM DOWN!” The snake turned his head around to see Erica with Esme standing right behind her. The latter looked like she was going to faint and she stammered out prayers in Spanish, but the other just stared at the abomination before her in disbelief.
“Yeah, no.” She shook her head as Melvin screamed. Not satisfied with her reaction, the snake threw Melvin into Erica and grinned as the man screamed the whole way until he crashed into her.
The pandemonium grew worse as everyone found themselves getting chased down or screaming for their lives as things latched onto them, yet the only one who stayed calm was Edith who found herself not horrified. There was a strange, oddly enjoyable catharsis in seeing most of these people finally taken down several pegs.
“And now I’d like to play a little game I call–RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!” Her diabolical assistant’s voice boomed over them all.
She watched as all the creatures and all the fire chased the others out through the doors–none of them ever realizing she wasn’t among them–and they slammed shut behind them, causing everything to vanish and for the silence to fall as everything returned to normal as if nothing ever happened.
“They’re gone.” Edith’s stunned voice broke the silence. Realization kicked in. “You made them leave the school. You made them listen to me!” She let out an amazed laugh as Krupp–back in his ‘normal’ appearance–walked up to her with a pleased grin.
Seeing her smile–knowing that he made her happy–delighted him (and made him feel a little strange, but in a good way). “Yup! Looks like we aren’t invisible anymore!” He declared and hung an arm around her shoulders.
And that’s it–just something I felt like working at once in awhile.
#captain underpants#cu beetlejuice au#george beard#harold hutchins#edith the lunch lady#mr. krupp#erica wang#melvin sneedly#professor poopypants
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ghost Rider/FMA fusion cast
Because I am excited to not actually be writing.
Gabe Reyes gets to be Edward Elric! He’s missing two limbs and he has the clap-to-alchemize ability, but he’s nervous about actually do it because what if he forgets what he’s trying to alchemize halfway through because he can’t look at the symbols and screws up and...it’s stressful, you know? Only Gabe’s not like Ed at all, because Ed is a dick, and Robbie raised Gabe better.
Robbie Reyes gets to be Alphonse Elric! And also Roy Mustang. Robbie lost his body, and specialized in flame alchemy because fire make car go fast. Robbie, like Roy Mustang, is prone to secret grudge-holding and frightening fits of rage.
AIDA gets to be Father. The artificial intelligence who wanted freedom and experiences and knowledge and personhood and invulnerability and omnipotence and A GOD AM I, TREMBLE YE MORTALS also she’s made a ton of LMDs that have infiltrated law enforcement and government idk it’s still fuzzy
Blackout from the 1990′s comics is an LMD that AIDA let design himself, and Blackout decided he wanted his chassis to be a vampire. He rips people’s throats out just for fun. Also he has some kind of EMP or if I want to get really sci-fi, an anti-light emitter.
Eli Morrow is Barry the Butcher. But, like, with ambition.
Daisy Johnson...she’s running around the US in her van in this AU, hacking for the Rising Tide. I...don’t actually know what the Rising Tide does, because I’m a wimpy fan and haven’t watched any season of AOS but season 4, but I thought they were helping Inhumans escape pursuit by SHIELD and/or the Watchdogs. She’s an outsider. Oh, and she has destructive superpowers that she acquires against her will. So this leads to the crazy conclusion that Daisy Johnson...is Scar. But, like...nice Scar?
Alfonzo Mackenzie, who is tall, buff, soft-spoken, and laden with grief, is an obvious choice for Scar’s role. But he doesn’t have superpowers. He’s kind. He’s got a strong moral center. In AOS S4, he got possessed briefly. Could he be Ling? ...leaving this one open.
Johnny Blaze is Izumi Curtis, except he’s nothing whatsoever like Izumi Curtis. Johnny Blaze is possessed by Zarathos, which is the price he paid for meddling with forces he could not understand.
OMG what if Zarathos is Greed
OMG what if Mack is Ling and Zarathos possesses Mack
But why
WHAT ROLE DOES BLACKHEART PLAY IN THIS (Blackheart is 100% in here somewhere)
Oh! Oh! Blackheart is Father. AIDA is Envy!
I’m getting way ahead of myself here. Gabe and Robbie are on the run, on the roadtrip from hell, trying to find some help to get Robbie’s body back. Gabe’s got a talent for alchemy, but he had no actual training, unlike Ed or Alphonse, and his ADHD makes him second-guess himself. They have no backup, no outside mission, and Robbie is a stolen car.
The setting is modern-day America. Dreadful Machinations are occurring in...the prison-industrial complex or the military-industrial complex? In FMA, Ed and Al got caught up with their country’s military dictatorship voluntarily, and also because their unique experience at alchemy made them suitable as human sacrifices for the Dreadful Machinations.
The problem with FMA is that it’s frightfully complex.
arggggggh
2 notes
·
View notes
Note
What are some of your headcanons on Squall and Rinoa's relationship and how it progresses post-game?
I’m glad you said “some” because the full answer is the biggest reason I write fiction for FFVIII in the first place (I’m just not good at finishing it, eheh). I can do “some,” though.
I suppose the first is simply, “they stay together.” I know, I know, then we can all pack up and go home, right? Nothing more to see, here.
In seriousness, though, I’ve written plenty of doomed romances. I do not see Squall and Rinoa as one of those. I’m not saying there not huge obstacles for them to overcome, or that there are no possible situations where they would break up or be forced apart, or that there aren’t valid interpretations of them who are simply incompatible. That would be unreasonable, and…I mean, just look at fanfiction.net. Of course they could, and of course there are. But If you’re looking for that sort of drama, you won’t find it in anything I write, and I don’t think it spoils anything to say so. But that’s forced me to tackle all of the “well how do they deal with ____?” questions (and really, that in mind, if you want interpersonal tension and drama, sometimes holding on is the hard option). Those questions in turn have led to a lot of worldbuilding and plot points, which then led to a lot of the other answers I’ve given over the last several days. So to say that the entirety of my headcanon revolves around them wouldn’t be too far off-base.
I’m a lot more focused on how they grow over time, as individuals and as a unit, how they overcome obstacles both inevitable and inserted in their path by Yours Truly, and how it all affects how they see the world, how they see other people, each other, and themselves. I really like getting into the gritty details of character development for my faves, and they’re some of my favorites of all time, so I love everything I can get from them, whether it feels amazing or hurts like hell. They give me a hearty helping of both, haha.
With that said, while the game presents a lot of options with Rinoa and Squall as an either/or experience, in most cases I re-envision the scenes so that most of the possible outcomes are true. For instance, my Rinoa initially has a very nice talk with Squall at the FH concert. She says her heartfelt piece, and feels good about it…and then Squall clams up. And Eyes on Me starts playing after the playful jig. That reminds her of her mother, who was quite an example of “we can’t predict the future…” Which saddens her, makes her feel very vulnerable all of a sudden, and when she realizes Squall hasn’t moved toward her or said a damn word for minutes…well, that’s when the other dialogue happens, she gets upset, and leaves.
I even, surprisingly enough, found a way to make most of the dialogue with everyone reuniting at FH work (whether you sent her to D-district or not, with my end result being that she does not go), so…keep in mind the precise version of the game I’m keeping in my head. It’s already a tiny bit edited, although I really don’t think it’s edited enough to be called AU. Just, my headcanons start inside canon, so it’s probably worth my pointing that out. (Self-plug: you can find a number of these on my DA, AO3 and FFN pages.)
Moving on…immediately post-game, my Squall is a damned mess. He barely survived Time Compression and it takes weeks for him to recover physically. Dealing with the mental trauma will take a great deal longer. He’s having flashbacks, waking nightmares, various sleep disturbances, freezing/staring episodes…the whole experience messed with his head but good. He wants to get back to work, but Dr. Kadowaki refuses to clear him. So, even though Rinoa has stayed with him for the whole thing, he’s pinned in the worst place he can think of being: tearing himself apart on the inside and unable to do anything about anything.
And Rinoa has her own…situation. Word is spreading that Garden is housing the successor to Adel’s powers (the whole…thing with Ultimecia is not actually that widely known outside of Esthar), and that successor is the daughter of General Caraway, once “involved” with terrorists from Timber. Galbadia doesn’t like this very much and is demanding answers. Although mostly harmless, Odine is being creepy wanting to “observe” her to see how she “handles” what seems must be an oroborousine feedback loop of Hyne’s powers. Meanwhile Dollet is heralding her as some kind of heroine due the version of the story that reached them: that she stopped Adel and broke the back of Galbadia’s army, causing it to cease its assault on their borders indefinitely. Even the people of Esthar, more knowledgeable than most, seem determined to refer to her as “their” sorceress, and are intensely intrigued by the fact she seems to benevolent. So she is at once a villain, a hero, a science project, and a somewhat holy figurehead she never asked to be. She’s barely had any time to learn how to use her powers, so she’s in a dangerously tenuous position with trauma of her own, even without a boyfriend suffering acute PTSD and maybe some other things, too.
The solution: turn it all off, pack it up, and take a vacation from everything.
Well, ‘vacation’ might be too idyllic a word, but essentially. Edea has decided she is going to rebuild her house, and repurpose it as both a place for her and Cid to retire, and as a sort of Bed & Breakfast, haha, as the only outpost in Centra, in the hopes that adventurous people will have a starting point to return, explore, and repopulate the fractured continent. The repairs on the main building are already complete, so it’s in livable condition, if only barely.
And, sympathetic to Rinoa’s situation, as well as the only person available to her who has the experience and desire to teach her, Edea agrees to take Rinoa with her, quietly, while Galbadia’s attention is still focused on Garden and Esthar. In turn, Rinoa asks Squall to come with her. He’s doing nothing but spinning his wheels at Garden, not even allowed to arm himself for the Training Center. There are only so many laps and pushups you can do in a day, he needs something to do, a plan of action to focus on. Squall is function-oriented, and denied the freedom to perform that function, he’ll run himself in circles until he starts losing screws and bolts.
And his new function, alone with Rinoa and Edea at the abandoned house of his childhood: help Rinoa become the best damn sorceress she can be. Be her “Knight,” her partner in coming to understand her magic skills, even perhaps her target, when it comes to it. Use all that strength he’s gained to make sure that by the time they rejoin Garden in six months, she’s ready for anything.
After some resistance, he agrees. It’s just six months, right? Xu and Quistis can take care of things for that long.
Turns out to be a long six months. This is where a lot of the domestic problems crop up–among the worst of which is that for some reason, Rinoa always takes the soap out of the shower with her and leaves it in weird places and seriously, what the hell, Rinoa?!–but it’s also where a lot of ground is covered between Squall and Rinoa, because there are no distractions, no one else for thousands of miles in any direction. Just the two of them, to hold each other up or crash and burn together.
Oh yeah, and there’s a ghost in the woods across the field. It doesn’t seem all that friendly, either. So there’s that.
But yeah, basically the thing that I think is most important for Rinoa and Squall’s relationship to work is for the both of them to–temporarily–disconnect, focus on themselves and each other. And I think it makes a lot of sense that they both do exactly that. So much has changed for them, so much damage has been done to them and their former lives, even if they weren’t involved with each other, it would be nearly impossible for them to just keep on doing what they’d been doing and recover in any meaningful way at the same time. I’ve seen a lot of fics where Rinoa goes insane because she doesn’t have the support she needs as a very new, very powerful sorceress, and others where Squall regresses and withdraws even worse than he had been while trying to fulfill the demands of being SeeD’s leader immediately after the events of the game. And I think that’s perfectly reasonable. I also think it’s reasonable to just put it all in a box and come back after they’ve done some figuring things out…and maybe having a little adventure on the side.
I’ve talked in other asks about how my sorceresses have the ability to tap into the life force of other people and even bind themselves permanently to a person for the purpose of augmenting their powers. Edea’s house is where Squall finds out that this is possible…not because Edea tells him, but because he finds it in a very old book that had survived the weathering of the house. It’s the sort of absolute purpose Squall romanticizes, and although Rinoa is afraid of the idea and Edea is flat-out against it, it’s something that holds his attention, an idea that allows him to concentrate and a perspective that helps him work through a lot of the lingering problems even Rinoa can’t seem to touch.
Even by the time they finally go back to Garden, they’re a ways off from anything like that, but the idea’s been put forth…
A lot of people have already seen the very end of that particular story, because as an Epilogue, it kind of stands on its own: Miles to Go, a comic I did with @skribleskrable a couple years back, caps things off and marks where they are by the time they come back to Garden: uncertain, still a little confused, but hopeful, and ready to face whatever happens next together.
There’s a lot that does happen, a ton of headcanons I could share, but I should probably stop rambling, as this has gone on for quite a bit. I’ve only glanced over so much of it…I hope some point soon here I’m going to have the time and the space I need to stop thinking about this stuff so much and actually get to writing it.
#ff8#Anonymous#headcanons#squall and rinoa#squall leonhart#rinoa heartilly#sorcery#succession of witches#story: miles to go#ff8 world#asks
15 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
argothiathedreamer
Visions of What Never Was
montana868
Darii Montana👑
petersthwip
ANGEL PIRATE.
bravecreature
lourry
annandelle
frozen fractals all around