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clatoera · 1 year

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Chapter 7: All These People Think Loves for Show

Heeeeeey besties. Sorry for 1. this being late and 2. this being one of the shortest chapters yet. I had the busiest week of my life, and also, changed the direction of the chapter. Originally it covered a lot more, however, it covers the immediate night following the last chapter. It is shorter (12 pages) but it is very very important. It is a wakeup call.

I do want to put a TW on this chapter because there is a recounting of the sexual abuse victors face (It’s not cato or clove, but its in here.)

Chapter title from Peace (t swift)

AO3

Masterpost

Alright. Here we go.

The falling of their feet is the only sound as they are led down long marble hallways, neither daring to even breathe out loud. Their interlaced fingers are the only way they allow themselves to touch the other, otherwise their bodies are locked with straight backs and straight faces. They are deeply trained in composure, never wavering from the militant composition of the career victors that they are.

If Clove feels the way his hand trembles just a little, she responds only by holding tighter and steadying him.

If Cato notices the way her breathing increased, just so imperceptibly that only someone who knew her habits better than she herself did would notice, he just brushes his thumb over her knuckles.

They’ve done nothing wrong, they’ve done nothing wrong, they’ve done nothing wrong.

She gives him a side glance, and while anyone else would see the fiery victor expression on her face, Cato notices something he never wanted nor expected to see in the eyes of Clove Kentwell.

Fear.

Sure, they had grown up knowing the glory and pride of being Victors, but it did not quell the anxiety and tension that results from being called into the President’s office. Nothing good could come from an audience with President Snow, no matter if you were the perfect, most ideal Victors in Panem or not.

They are placed before a heavy oak door, and their hands fall to their respective sides. The look on their faces is one of intention as their impeccable training comes to the forefront of their demeanors.

The double doors swing inwards away from them, and they are led inside with heads held high, hiding the wave of nausea that hits Clove and the chill that runs down Cato’s spine.

The makings of an office has been set up, with a sturdy mahogany desk and two cushioned chairs. A full, lush vase of white roses sits to both the left and right of the desk, a horrifying frame to the face of the man sitting on the other end of the desk.

President Snow is an impeccably dressed man in pressed, baroque, black on black suit with a shimmering white flower in his lapel. His grin is wicked, more serpent than man, and if he had drawn back his lip neither would have been shocked to see fangs pierce through.

Clove feels her feet slow, her body begging her to turn and run, run far far away from this python and his suffocating grasp. There is a metallic tang in the air, the smell of blood and venom.

There was no good intention in calling this meeting.

They are led by two guards to the plush seats across from their president, and from the tension she sees feels in Cato’s shoulders, she knows he’s on the defensive, like he would catch the snake in his bare hands if it lunged at them.

There is no way to do that, not with the power their host holds.

“Mr. Hadley, Miss. Kentwell. It’s lovely to see the two of you.” And oh, when the man smiles at them Clove’s blood runs as cold as the reptile’s itself. “Tell me, how have you two enjoyed the privileges and spoils allotted to you by the grace of the Capitol.” He pulls a ceramic, floral tea cup before him, stirring absently with a little golden spoon. “You share the home, of course, but I’m sure you are certainly getting good …use…out of the space, yes?”

Neither Cato nor Clove get the chance to respond, to question how he knows such intimate details of their lives, and Clove is thankful considering her mouth is dry simply from the sneer of the man before them.

“Who lives in that other house, then? Is it your family, Mr. Hadley? That little sister of yours..so young, isn’t she?”

Clove sees the way Cato’s knuckles lose all the blood, flushing pure white as he absolutely grips at the arms of the chair. He is not one to hold himself back, he has never been capable of suppressing his rage.

She knows he is using every semblance of self control that he has, and she can’t help but wonder if it was intentional to provoke him, knowing he has the temper of a petulant child and the hands of an experienced killer.

She reaches out and places her hand on top of Cato’s fist, squeezing not only to cover the way he is grasping at the wood, but also to both warn and assure him.

I know, I understand, but you can’t.

“We are so thankful for the generosity and opportunities granted to us by the Capitol.” Clove assured diplomatically, strumming her fingers on top of her boyfriends, a soothing, calming cadence to them both. “We know how fortunate we are, we don’t forget that.”

“And it would serve you well not to forget that.” Snow raises the porcelain cup to his lips, and Clove for a second would swear she saw the familiar tint of blood in along his teeth.

Cato flips his palm and threads his fingers through hers, tightly squeezing until he can feel the bones under her skin shift, the message he wordlessly sends her clear. A united front, no matter what comes their way.

“Our two newest victors..do you believe they will be happy sharing a victor’s home in their district, as well?” His eyes narrow as he glances between them, the smile that grows on his face unnaturally tight– inhuman, really.

Clove knows that no, after watching those little District Twelve kids, that the girl especially would rather be on her own. She has a family back home, that was her whole angle, of course she’d want her own space. Maybe the boy would like it. He seemed earnestly into that girl, but he also doesn’t seem the type to push her into cohabitation or encroach on her personal space outside the games.

Clove can hear a voice in the back of her head, back from her tour, Victors take care of each other. Those kids, bad acting, fake love or not, they were part of that now.

“I’m sure they will be very grateful for whatever they are given–”

“Don’t lie to me, Miss Kentwell. It doesn’t suit you.”

She is absolutely frozen, but she is thankful that her body did not betray her by trying to crawl out of her skin. Truly, her bones felt like they were trying to escape her flesh, to run and hide far, far away from the look of this man.

“Do you truly believe that story of the star crossed lovers from district twelve?” He hisses in their general direction, and it is Cato now who chimes in.

“No…I don’t.” Cato admits, leaning back in his chair, crossing his left ankle over his right knee now. It’s a far more relaxed posture, but that's exactly what it is- posturing. “It seemed forced.”

Clove shoots him a side glance, worrying what hole he is burying them into, what grave he is digging for them both. The briefest of glances he shoots her way tells her all she needs to know. Cato always had nothing if not excellent self preservation skills. The two of them are going to survive this, and there is nothing and no one he will spare to keep them safe.

“Exactly. And do you think the people watching saw that it was forced?”

“Some did.” Clove admits, shaking her head earnestly. “Some people believed it, they had to. But there are some who saw through her.”

“And that's my concern.” President Snow warns, pushing his cup and saucer away before folding his hands over the table. “What do you think those who don’t believe this little fairy tale saw? Not childish love, no-”

Clove knows what they saw, because she herself saw it. She saw the spark of resistance in the girl on fire, the glint of something deeper, far beyond teenage love in the handful of berries.

He does not need her to fill in that blank.

Cato and Clove sit silently, staring with wide, bewildered expressions at their leader. He did not bring them here to talk about Katniss Everdeen, surely?

Unless that is exactly why he brought them before him.

“What can we do?” Cato offers, leaning back in to rest his elbows on his knees. “Why are we here?”

“You’re going to distract from them.” He instructs, leaning back in his chair. “You are going to remind the world of what an honor and a privilege it is to be victors, and victors together at that. The two of you…represent exactly what it should mean to win the Hunger Games.”

Clove shifts uncomfortably, her heart racing in the cage of her chest at the realization that despite all they have won, their lives are not going to be the peaceful post-games haze they had planned. The shift is imperceivable to Snow, but may as well have been a leap to Cato.

“Everything they do, you will do. Every picture of them, there will be one of you. Every step they take, you will take it grander, bigger, and brighter. You two are where we want the attention to be. You will remind Panem, what it means to be Victors. You will remind Panem what it looks like to be young and in love.” He leans back in the desk chair, removing the flower from his coat jacket. “You understand me, yes?”

Clove nods, Cato pulling her to her feet as the guards approach them and indicate it is time for them to rise to leave.

“We understand.”

“Understood.”

“Good. After all, You do have that little sister, don’t you Cato? It would be a shame if you were to let her down.” Clove grabs Cato’s arm just at the time she feels his body clench to lean in towards the President.

As they are ushered out of the room, Cato swears he can hear him laughing to himself.

–

The second they are back on the District Two floor, his fist is through the mirror hanging just inside the door. The glass shatters through the door and slices through his skin, rivulets of blood running down his forearm.

Enobaria and Brutus are on them in seconds, just as her hand wraps around his bleeding wrist.

“Hurting yourself isn’t getting us out of this, dumbass.” Clove snarls, though she is already picking the minute splinters of glass out of his hand with the tips of her finger nails. “It’d probably make it worse, if you did.”

“What did he want?”” Enobaria takes Clove’s face in her hands, tilting her to look at her and, if Clove didn’t know better, she’d assume she was looking for any injuries or marks on her face.

“Are you two okay?”

“He wants to show us off like little fucking show ponies, thats what he wants.” He rips his hands away from Clove, flexing and extending his wrist to bring back the feeling in his fingers. “Use us to distract from those twelve idiots. We did not win the games to be fucking distractions for district fucking twelve.”

“We’re supposed to…I don’t know. Be the antithesis of Katniss and Peeta, I don’t know.” Clove shakes her head, the reality of it slowly coming down onto her shoulders. “I don’t know he just..he wants us to like..”

“He wants us to never have a day of fucking peace.” Cato snaps, holding his bleeding hand against his shirt to stave off the bleeding. “I thought the whole point of winning the games was to have the life you wanted after-”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Brutus places a hand on Cato’s shoulder, steading and calming him at least long enough to hear the conversation before he goes about destroying the rest of the apartment. “The games don’t just end. Once you win..it’s for life.”

“You knew this was going to happen, once you became mentors, your private life will never be private.” Enobaria notices then, the way Clove is nearly translucent pale, swaying ever so slightly back and forth. She braces her shoulders, holding the girl both steady and upright. “Cato, go fix your hand, Clove come with me.”

“I’m fine Enobaria-”

“I said go fix your damn hand!” Enobaria pulls into her bedroom, shutting the door just in time to see Clove on her knees gagging into the nearest trash can.

“Oh…Clove.” Enobaria slides to her knees beside the girl, gently gathering her dark hair to the nape of her neck and holding it out of the way. “It’s going to be okay.”

“No it isn’t” Clove heaves, violently grasping for anything to hold onto and landing on the free end of the trash bin. “It’s not okay.”

“It’s just a little while..” Enobaira coaxes, though she knows she’s lying to the girl. It’s forever, and they both know the harsh reality of it.

“He threatened Cato’s little sister. You know, Cora? She’s four. He knew about her and he all but said that if we don’t-” Clove chokes out, her body desperately trying to rid itself of anything that will hold her down in the case she needs to run. “Do you think he’d actually-”

“Yes.” Enobaria wraps her arms around Clove’s back, rubbing little circles between her shoulder blades and taking herself back sixteen years. “That’s what happened to Johanna. And how he threatens Finnick to keep in line. I think you need to talk to them.” She feels Clove’s torso tense with another heave and simply holds her tighter. “I’m sorry, Clove.”

“We never get out of this, do we? This is forever now, huh?” Clove whines, laying her head on the rim of the plastic receptacle. “If it’s not Cora it’ll be you or his mother or– no one will be safe from us.”

“No, you don’t. You just play the game, kid. You just play the game.” Enobaria rests her head on top of Clove’s shoulders, holding the girl through every wave of debilitating nausea that overcomes her. “And we survive it. That's all we can do.”

Clove groans, leaning back into the arms of her mentor as she tries to hold herself upright. “I didn’t know that was the life we were signing up for.”

“None of us did.” Enobaria agrees, leaning against the wall to support them both. “You know, the last time you got so upset you threw up, you were twelve. You were so pissed that you were told you didn’t get to volunteer, even though it was your first year of even being eligible-”

“I was the best then, too.” Clove teases, a shaky breath escaping her as she brings her head to rest on the wall next to Enobaria, half on the wall half on her shoulder. . “Not my fault I thought I had it in the bag.” She shutters, her body coming down from the adrenaline rush that had her on her knees moments ago. “It was the smell, Enobaira. And the way he looked at us.”

Clove thinks back on being a child, of how desperately she wanted to prove she could win, prove her mother was just a fluke, and she can’t stop her mind from wandering to exactly what their lives would have been had her mother won or had she won as a child. She surely would not have been spared the fate of the Finnicks and Glimmers if not for her very public connection to Cato. LIkely, neither would her mother, for even having been the teenage mother of a toddler likely would not have shielded her from the prying eyes and demands of the capitol.

No, Clove can’t put into words the relief she has that she was shielded from this reality for as long as she was.

The sound of the main door opening has Enobaira lifting her head, but Clove doesn’t have the energy. She keeps her head nested between the wall and Enobaria’s forehead, focused on bringing her heart back to a stable rhythm in her chest.

“Your friend’s here.” Enobaria slides her arm out from under Clove’s head, and pushes herself to a standing position. “She thought you were getting told about a…different assignment. She wanted to come talk to you about it..”

“My friend? Assignment? What?”

Clove’s –begrudgingly to admit- blonde friend stands in the doorway to Clove’s room, having been directed by either Cato or Brutus. Enobaria sees herself out, shutting the door behind them to give the two young girls time alone.

“Hi, Clove.” Glimmer gracefully lowers herself to the ground, kicking her long legs out in front of her and crossing her heels. She tosses her hair behind her shoulder with a melancholy, sympathetic smile. “It won’t be as bad as it seems, I promise.”

“Glimmer I don’t think-” She shakes her head, though the rapid motion sends her barely grasped stability out the window and has her bend back over the trash can.

“Oh, ew, okay. Why are you throwing up-” Glimmer’s mouth falls open in a gasp, as she leans in forward. “You’re not like-”

“No! Glimmer!” She chokes out, rapidly shaking her head in the negative. “I just got so angry– god and the smell, glim, he smelled like–”

“Corpse and flowers. I know.” Glimmer sits on her feet, now her turn to reach in and hold back Clove’s dark hair. “It’s not that bad though. Well. It is bad. But it’s only a few days a month, and most of the time if you just close your eyes and fake it it’s over fast-”

“What are you talking about?”

“The sex, Clove, the sex isn’t-”

Her eyes go incredibly wide as her head shoots up, a look of indescribable horror on her features “You’ve fucked the president-”

It’s Glimmer who’s pretty face twists into one of complete horror, her turn to shake her head violently. “What? No. Absolutely not. Well, he’s the one who requires us to do it.” Glimmer gently and quickly likely braids back Clove’s hair, using one of the braid loops to secure the rest at the base of her neck and out of the way. “It’s…It isn’t good, Clove, but. You just have to lay there. Most of them don’t even care if you react, I don’t. And maybe they’ll even want you to cut them up, considering who you are.” Glimmer leans against the wall, side by side with Clove, their shoulders touching but not looking at each other. It’s as close to physical touch as Clove allows, but for some reason, she thinks Glimmer may actually need the comfort of it right now.

Clove doesn’t have it in her to cut off Glimmer yet, not when she was willing to come share something clearly traumatizing for her. Not when she came to her, probably at great risk to herself.

“It’ll hurt, sometimes. A lot of the time. It’ll hurt.I won’t lie to you, because that’s not fair to you. Mostly you just lay there, but sometimes Clove.. and sometimes you’ll go home with bruises, but they’ll make sure to get rid of anything that can scar.” Glimmer’s voice wavers, far quieter than the bright and bubbly soprano sound Clove is so used to hearing from her. She pulls up the hem of her sparkling, shimmering pink skirt and tugs it up just a few inches, and if Clove weren’t out of stomach contents she is sure she would be sicker than before.

“Oh my god Glimmer what happened to you?” She takes in the finger print shaped bruises that litter her tan thigh, in various stages of healing. One hand is clearly old, green and yellow in tones, while another is bright, screaming purple and blue, very very new bruises. “Who-”

“I told you. They leave bruises.” She pulls down the hem, and instead pulls up the bottom of her shirt, revealing to clove the distinct bruises of hands that clearly grabbed her hips a little too tightly. “Clove it’s terrible but please, if you fight back too much they’ll hurt you more. I know that's not you but..”

“Glimmer, he’s not-”

“I’m sure he threatened your family, right? Between me, my sister, and my brother.. There’s too much at stake. Marvel doesn’t get it as often as we do. They’re not as bad to him. Finnick gets it worse than anyone.. He has a lot to lose, too.” Glimmer drops her shirt, and curls her knees up to her chest before closing her eyes. “I don’t think it ever gets easier but…you go home after and you smile and pretend it didn’t happen, you know? If you’re lucky, which you are, you get to go home and at least be treated kindly by someone who loves you, and you get to not think about it for a few days, and you get to think about how it doesn’t always have to be bad..but you never stop thinking about it, not really. Just..the two of you be kind to each other.” Her voice breaks, her hard fought back levee breaks, and Clove hears Glimmer’s tone flood with grief.

It is uncharacteristic of her, unlike her, and she’s never felt the need to do it before, when Clove reaches down and takes Glimmer’s hand. She’s never been a toucher, a comforter. But the girl risked a lot to tell her this, and it was clearly at the expense of her own stability.

“You’re going to hate me when I tell you that he’s not doing it to us.” Clove admits, holding onto her new found friend and ally, swallowing hard. “He’s just making us publicize everything. He wants us to be like…I don’t know, better than those twelve kids, distract from them or something.”

“Oh..Clove, I'm so sorry. That might actually be worse.” Glimmer admits, giving Clove’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“What? That’s worse than what they do to you? They hurt you, in the worst way you can hurt someone..” Which says a lot, from one child killer to another.

“...that's just a couple hours a month, Clove. At least my private life is my own.”

Clove certainly didn’t expect Glimmer to give her a look of pity.

Later that night, after stitches in the kitchen and Glimmer’s considerate warnings, hours have passed and they are alone, both unfortunately aware of exactly how rare those moments of isolation and peace together will become as soon as even the next morning.

They are wrapped around each other, legs intertwined, his arm around her back holding her flush against his side. Her head on his shoulder, arm wrapped as close around his torso as she can reach. Inside the room it is silent, save for the raucous post-games partying coming from the Capitol streets not that far below. Despite the lack of silence, neither are asleep.

Cato stares at the ceiling, drumming on Clove’s lower back, the other hand bent behind his head on the pillow.

She stares at the wall on the opposite side of the window, nails just ever so lightly scratching at his side, holding tightly onto him.

They had been like this for hours, maybe, neither really knows how much time has passed, just clinging to the feeling of life in the other.

“....what have we gotten into, Cato?” Clove finally asks, propping her chin up on his shoulder so she can see his expressions. “What happens to us, now?”

“....I don’t know, babe.” He brings the hand from her back to her face, stroking at her cheek with his thumb. “I really don’t know.”

“Our lives aren’t ours now, are they?” Clove wonders aloud, bringing her hand up to match his, running through the hair on top of his head. “We aren’t ours.”

“We’ll always be ours, Clove. We’ll give them the minimum, but we won’t give them everything.” Cato shrugs, bringing his other hand up to rub over her shoulder, trying to get her to release the tension she carries so physically. “Those kids, they aren’t going to give much, it won’t be much for us to push back with. Nothing more than we already do..”

“We won, how did they take our entire future from us? Whatever happened to just training, and getting to do whatever we wanted? We have been model careers, model victors and now we have to what? Act as little marionettes? Let them publicize and take the life we fought for and earned?” There is deep remorse in her voice, and she shoves her face into the side of his neck to avoid the sorrowful look he gives back to her.

“They didn’t take it. We aren’t letting them.”

“They’ll kill us, they’ll kill your family if we don’t. Do you know what Glimmer told me?” Clove unlaced her leg from his, instead hooking it over his hips and pulling herself to a sitting position straddling his torso with her hips. “The things they do to her Cato, the things the people in this town do to her–”

“I know. Marvel was with her. You don’t have to tell me about it because I know.” His hands settle on her hips, squeezing gentle circles into her skin. “They aren’t doing that to us–”

“That's the point! They aren’t doing that to us and she looked at me with pity. She told me that what they do to her is only a few nights a month, but she still has her private life! We don’t! We aren’t sacrificing everything for those fucking kids from twelve. We have to suffer because of those fucking idiots and their little scheme to survive. Why couldn’t she just fucking kill him, and then we could go back to how things are supposed to be.” Clove presses her palms firmly into his chest, leaning forward. “We were supposed to just mentor, and be together, and show up once a year for the games and smile. I was supposed to get to have the things my mother died wanting me to have.”

“We were never going to just live our lives Clove, you know that. That was never us.” Cato reminds her, gently bringing his lips to her jaw. “I hate it, I hate that they’re taking our choices from us.”

“Promise me they won’t make us do anything. Anything we have to do is because we want to.” Clove asks, leaning down into his arms, allowing him to wrap his arms around her and hold her to him. “We only do things we want to.”

“When has anyone EVER made you and I do something, baby?”

#ARWBFB TAG #always remember we're burned for better

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jeongvision · 3 years

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nct’s jaehyun’s perfume collection review!!

for part two, please refer to here!

hello, all! so some of you may have already known that in the past month, i have impulsively purchased various of perfumes, some of which are based on jaehyun’s personal perfume collection that he uses as mentioned on various platforms. some of the scents he uses are:

tom ford white suede

tom ford fucking fabulous

le labo neroli 36

jo malone myrrh & tonka

jo malone wood sage & sea salt

byredo bal d’afrique

as someone who loves collecting perfumes myself, this was a perfect excuse for me to buy some to get an idea on how he would ‘smell’ like!

some of you have asked for me to post a review of his perfumes! i will be primarily listing my reactions, experiences, and ratings for each scent, along with pictures of jaehyun associated with each scent and if the scent is masculine, feminine, or neutral. i have purchased all of them except for tom ford fucking fabulous. the byredo bal d’afrique will be reviewed at a later date after it arrives in the mail, so for now only 4/6 scents will be discussed.

disclaimer: this is NOT an advertisement but simply a fun and personal review of his perfume collection! but i wouldn’t be opposed with possible brand deals with any of them

before you buy!! some of the fragrances will react differently on your skin as the scents are based on your body chemistry with certain chemicals listed on their ingredients. thus, you may smell a different scent when sprayed on your body than on mine. not only that, some of the perfumes utilizes synthetic ingredients, which can be a deterrent for those with a sensitive nose. i strongly recommend sampling them out at local stores before purchasing as these brands are expensive.

without further ado, happy reading! please do tell me your personal experiences if you have also tried some of them (or perfumes from other members!) <3

warnings: heavy cursing, some vulgar language lmao (they will be listed as [**] if you would like to skip those parts, especially for minors)

TOM FORD WHITE SUEDE

“The addictive pull of leather and suede is channeled through an elegant musk-derived composition. Musk’s primal intensity is harmonized with saffron and thyme, heightened with velvety rose and warm amber. Warm, supple and sensual, a perfume with an irresistible expression of raw desire.” —Tom Ford

first and foremost, i just want to say holy fucking SHIT HE SMELLS SO FUCKING GOOD WTF ASKJFKLSJ

[**] HE SMELLS SO FUCKING SEXYAJJF IT’S HARD HOURS FOR HIM EVERY TIME I SMELL IT

like?? oh my god?????

i literally CRIED in my car after smelling it bc oh my gOD HE SMELLS LIKE THAT??!?!??

HE SMELLS LIKE A FUCKING BOYFRIEND OH MY GODJSJFJKS

i can never look at him the same way ever again holy crap

“raw desire” sOMEBODY PLEASE SAVE ME I CAN’T—

[**] like honestly it makes me want to eat his neck and choke on his dick whAt

anyways

it has a leathery and musky scent to it with a mix of powdery!!

slightly sharp when you first spray it but once it settles and marinates on your skin and clothing, it’s PERFECT

listen i’m still shooked that he smells like THAT

my friend told me one day to spray it on a big sweater and wear it to mimic wearing one of ‘his’ sweaters and—

i wanted to kith him

and hug him

and cuddle with him

and never let him go aaAAAHHH

[**] oh daddy

masculine or feminine? androgynous

recommend? YES ARE YOU KIDDING ME

rating? “i’m going to name my future kid eleven because he is going to be better than you.” —liu yangyang to ten

LE LABO NEROLI 36

“Neroli is another name for the essence of Orange Blossom. The unique quality of our Neroli is its sunny floral character with an extraordinarily warm, sensual base. Rose, musk, mandarin orange (slightly aldehydic), jasmine and vanilla, among other essences, complete the portrait, bringing Neroli 36 spikiness, ease, zest and heat... Well-being, elegance and charm all in a bottle!” —Le Labo

okay so i purchased this (and many other scents) as a sample (1.5 ml) bc this shit is hella expensive

like bro the price of it as 15 ml costs more than jo malone’s 30 ml

maybe it’s bc they said lab techs compound it on-demand??

not sure

but anyways

this gives me straight flower boy vibes

like i’m in a flower shop and there’s a cute florist behind the counter trimming and tending plants with such careful hands

but the white floral kinds

OHOHOHOHO

WE LOVE IT

if you like those kinds of scents, then this is definitely the scent for you!

seriously it smells like lilies and all the white florals alike

personally i like the sweet floral scents so this one is okay to me

still smells really good!

reminds me of glade’s fresh linen carpet powder so it unlocked a repressed memory of my childhood LMFOAODA

what a gentleman he smells like uwuuu

honestly if i was getting married to someone and he showed up to my wedding as a guest wearing this perfume i’d leave my fiancé on the spot

this man has quality tastes wtf

masculine or feminine? gender neutral (ish)? more feminine if i have to say

recommend? if you like white floral scents then you would go BONKERS over this!

rating? 7/10 only bc i prefer sweet floral over white floral scents but if i didn’t then i’d rate it 10/10

JO MALONE MYRRH & TONKA

“Rich, hand-harvested sap of the Namibian myrrh tree, mingling with the warm almond and lush vanilla notes of the tonka bean. Noble and intoxicating.” —Jo Malone

oh bitch

BITCH

THIS MOTHERFUCKER SMELLS SO FUCKING GOOD OH MY FUCKING GODDDDDDD

“noble and intoxicating” DAMN FUCKING RIGHT IT IS

[**] I WILL GET ON MY KNEES FOR THIS MAN IF I EVER SMELL THIS ON HIM

my royal liege, jung jaehyun, i am at your SERVICE HELLO SIR WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU TODAY

he could step on my face and i’d thank him for allowing me to breathe the same air as him oh my god—

ahem

moving along now

it has a vanilla and amber scent to it! a very nice and sweet scent to it that’s not too overbearing

usually i’m not a big fan of vanilla or cake fragrances bc they tend to nauseate me

but this one?

ohohoho

this is the good stuff

i didn’t exactly purchase this one; i bought other fragrances from jo malone and they gave me free samples to choose from, and myrrh & tonka was one of them sO MIGHT AS WELL TRY IT OUT

so glad i did omg i don’t regret it

i might just buy a bottle of it

[**] another one bites the dust just RAIL ME ALREADY JUNG JAEHYUN I’M BEGGING YOU—

[**] daddy pls

masculine or feminine? androgynous, but leaning slightly towards feminine

recommend? YES OH MY GOD

rating? CHITTAPHON OUT OF TEN

JO MALONE WOOD SAGE & SEA SALT

“Escape the everyday along the windswept shore. Waves breaking white, the air fresh with sea salt and spray. The mineral scent of rugged cliffs, mingling with earthy sage.” —Jo Malone

yo this shit smells good

like REALLY good

he smells like beaches and lemons hELLO THERE

no wonder this is one of their best sellers wtf this man has IMMACULATE TASTE EYE—

AND THERE’S ONLY ONE (1) OF HIM IN THIS ENTIRE WORLD???!?

HUH!?!!?

life truly isn’t fair, huh

okay god i see you with favorites

now

let’s see here

very citrusy!!

also has that marine type of scent to it making it exceptionally aromatic!

not too much of a boujee scent like m&t where you would use on special events

this is more like a scent you would use on a daily basis going out

but upgraded

like you would smell fresh and expensive

kind of like a lowkey rich kid type of scent but you’re humble about it but lowkey kinda flexing yk?

this smell is BEAUT i love it omg i cant stop sniffing it

i’m a sucker for citrus scents :(

i’d wear this shit to school everyday if i could and have all my friends smell me

damn i bet his sweaters smell hella nice with this perfume :(

masculine or feminine? gender neutral

recommend? yes, yes, and yes.

rating? 10/10

tl;dr— jaehyun has expensive tastes and smells so fucking sexy how is he even real what the fUCk

#jaehyun #nct jaehyun #jung jaehyun #jeong jaehyun #nct #nct 127 #jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun angst #jaehyun smut #nct scenarios #nct 127 scenarios #jaehyun imagines #nct imagines #nct 127 imagines

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wolf-and-bard · 3 years

Text

The Geraskier Soccer Parents AU of my dreams (in an early morning strike of weird-brain):

-Geralt knows he isn't the best dad ever. He tries so goddamn hard, but his job is demanding and consumes so much time and even with Ciri being seven already, he still has essentially no clue what he's doing. He sometimes falls into bed, half-dead, and she is the one to give him a good-night kiss. He sometimes forgets she prefers cheese and puts ham on her sandwiches. He is sometimes too happy to have her sleep over at her friends rather than invite them to their house. He doesn't read her all the children's classics, doesn't go trick-or-treating with her, doesn't even pretend Santa Claus is a thing. He isn't the best dad ever. He tries.

-There is one thing he never, ever fails to do and that is take Ciri to soccer practice. Ciri picks up and drops hobbies, interests, even tastes by the week, still unsure what she wants to pursue, but soccer isn't only her favourite pastime, it's theirs. Practice is twice a week and they have a ritual for it. Geralt picks her up from school and drives her there, she tells him about what the dumb boys in her class said, how her art project is going etc. Geralt is there throughout practice, tucked in between Foltest - a guy who is constantly worried for his daughter Adda to get hurt and also very much anxious for her to do well - and Tissaia - a woman who has not one, but three girls in Ciri's age group and several more in others, and knits like a magician - and watches. He takes notes, silently cheers for Ciri.

-After their games and while Ciri changes, Geralt chats with her coach Vesemir - who used to be Geralt's coach, but now prefers to train the girls' teams - about the progress of the team, upcoming tournaments etc. Sometimes when Vesemir is indisposed, Geralt even leads the practice. When Ciri is all done, Tissaia usually has another hat or mitten finished and Geralt and her drive with their girls to whatever food place the girls are in the mood for. They have an early dinner in which Tissaia lectures the girls on their form and in which Ciri is sometimes allowed to sit on Geralt's lap - but only if Fringilla or Yen don't tease hear about it - but in which she definitely gets to steal his milkshake (Geralt hates milkshakes). Geralt only praises her when they're back in the car and Ciri tells him he's too much of a softie with her and should be more like Tissaia. Should maybe marry Tissaia. They both laugh because that is never going to happen.

-Life is good that way. It's not perfect, it's not without bumps, certainly not without tears and scrapes, but whatever the job, whatever injury Geralt carries with him, however long he has to drive, he never, never ever misses soccer practice.

-The season's just kicked off in the year of Ciri's eighth birthday when Geralt and her arrive early on the field to find the stands empty save for a girl in the most ridiculously colorful excercise clothes and blond hair that is braided intricately around her head. With her is a man, maybe five years Geralt's junior. Ciri bolts towards them with a bright grin and Geralt is hesitant to follow. He knows neither the girl nor the man, but from what he can gather she wants to join the team which is just what they need as they're one girl short this season. "Hi, I'm Ciri, I adore your braids." Geralt holds back on the eye-roll. It's nice Ciri can make friends this easily, but his house already is a shrine for role-playing and board games, dolls and random DVDs and another friend means more things Ciri will want to try out. "Thank you," the girl replies and tilts her head to better show them off. "My uncle Jaskier braided them for me, I'm sure he can do yours too." Both girls look up expectantly at the man and Geralt only really notices him then. He is averagely built with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. His floral print shirt has three open buttons and his pants barely reach his ankles. He has the look of a flippant music teacher or a hipster coffeeshop owner. His eyes meets Geralt's and, wait, did he just wink? "I'd love to, dear," he says in a smooth voice that absolutely does not go straight to Geralt's guts. Geralt turns on the spot and decides to pressure check the balls, but he can hear the others giggling as Jaskier braids Ciri's hair. "I'm Priscilla by the way. What's up with your dad?" - "Oh, don't mind him, he's bad with meeting new people." - "Very intense." That's Jaskier. Oh, Geralt will show him intense.

-Ciri invites them to their after-practice dinner. Geralt wants to begrudge her that, but she and Priscilla have latched onto each other in record speed and Jaskier actually fights Tissaia on some of her more strict stances and he braids Yen's and Sabrina's hair too, only Fringilla doesn't want him to touch hers which he respects. Geralt and Tissaia glance at each other. Come to a silent agreement. They may not befriend Jaskier, but he's sunny and so good with the girls and they can use someone like him among their ranks, someone who doesn't have Calanthe's tendency for swear words or Crach's tendency to break out beer in the middle of practice or even Nenneke's tendency to relate everything to the workings of god.

-Jaskier is as faithful as Geralt, perhaps the only one who shows up every time without fail. Shani's parents only drop her off and Crach switches between Cerys' and Hjalmar's practices and Tissaia sometimes texts Geralt to pick up her girls. Jaskier is there, every time, earlier than any of the others. He chats with Vesemir about his day-to-day, brings home-baked cookies for everyone, he cheers and whoops and tries very hard to understand soccer even though it's evident he doesn't. Geralt never wonders why it's him and not Priscilla's parents that come, it's none of his business. He begins to tolerate Jaskier, but he knows that is where he has to draw the line. He has his hands full with Ciri and his job and his brothers too. He can't afford friendships that extend beyond the field.

-Jaskier doesn't let him off though. He always takes the spot next to Geralt (technically an improvement over Foltest's sweaty visage) and prattles on and on, at least until the game begins. When it does, Jaskier divides his attention between the girls and the stack of paper on his lap which he annotates during practice. It's often either sheet music or the illegible scrawl of pre-teens or wonkily drawn instruments. Jaskier already told him, but from that too it is obvious that Geralt's hunch was right, he is a music teacher. Geralt finds his eyes darting to Jaskier's long fingers, nimble and calloused from the various string instruments he plays. Finds himself glancing at where Jaskier's tongue peeks out in concentration. He listens to the man's ramblings and hums his replies and comes to dislike the days when Vesemir isn't there and he has to focus all his attention on giving the girls a good practice. Not that he doesn't want to, it's just that having Jaskier at his back unnerves him.

-(Jaskier for his part doesn’t care at all about soccer, but he cares about Priscilla so he convinced her parents to let him take her; after that, she said it would be fine if he dropped her off and picked her up again, but Jaskier pretends he is super invested in the sport and the team and he is, but mostly he’s invested in charming Geralt)

-After an entire season of mutual pining and obliviousness, Tissaia decides she's had enough and rallies the other parents. She has Foltest organize a big party at his country house, has Nenneke promise to look after the girls (the woman doesn't drink) and has Crach whip out the finest spirits he has in storage. Calanthe makes a phenomenal playlist and it's Tissaia's job to get Geralt to the party (Jaskier's not a problem) and dress up nicely. Only Aridea, Renfri's stepmother, refuses to pitch in, but she's been a bitch anyway.

-When Geralt picks up Jaskier at his downtown flat he has to grip the wheel of his rover hard in order not to short-circuit. Jaskier has done something to his hair that Geralt can't name but that makes him go woozy inside. He wears a plain shirt that compliments his eyes and hugs his body just right and he looks high on life with color in his cheeks and the most dazzling smile. He's gorgeous. "Darling, don't you look dashing," Jaskier says excitedly and props his feet up on the dashboard, only after kissing Geralt on the cheek. Which is not fair. "Likewise," Geralt mutters, then blushes furiously. He didn't want that to come out, oh no. Jaskier either didn't hear or acts like it and they drive in silence to Foltest's country house. Well, aside from the songs Jaskier hums under his breath, some new composition no doubt.

-At first, Geralt thinks it's a nice enough party for someone who doesn't like parties. Foltest's grilling burgers, they all have cocktails, the music is mellow. Not that that stops Jaskier from swirling an already quite drunk Calanthe over the terrace in dazzling moves. Geralt wants to be swirled like that. "You really have it bad, don't you?" Crach comments when he notices Geralt staring. Geralt downs his beer (he's no cocktail drinker) and tries pointedly not to stare at how Jaskier's swinging his ass around.

-The buzz makes it easier and he relieves Foltest at the barbecue for a bit. But then Jaskier walks up to him, a little short on breath and grinning his most flirtatious little grin. It gives him fucking dimples. Sigh. "Hey you big strong man," Jaskier says. He smells like pineapple and coconut, but isn't even a little drunk. "Jask," he says, pointedly flipping a burger. "Foltest says he has an old karaoke machine in the shed, but it's too heavy for me. Help me?" - "...fine." Geralt gestures for Foltest to keep up with the meat and he and Jaskier make their way along a garden path that winds through thickets and by a small pond. The shed is painted blue and white and Geralt and Jaskier find it very much cluttered, but not dirty which is nice. Geralt only understands it's a trap when it's already sprung on them. The tiny click of the look is almost inaudible over Jaskier's anxious commentary of their search for the machine. There is only one small window and no light Geralt can see. Fuck.

-"Ehm, Jaskier?" he reaches out and gently touches Jaskier's shoulder which has the other man yelp and jump. Which doesn't bode well for what Geralt has to tell him. "I think we're trapped." The effect is immediate. Jaskier goes rigid, his breath catches. Is he afraid? Claustrophobic perhaps? Shit, so he can't be in on the joke. "Jask?" - "Geralt. I know we aren't the closest, but I need you to hold me right now." And he launches himself at Geralt. Maybe he is in on the joke? No, he's trembling too hard for that. Geralt catches him and does as asked. "I am absolutely going to die," Jaskier whines into Geralt's neck and Geralt can't help a small chuckle as he rubs Jaskier's back soothingly. This is... surprisingly nice for a trap. Also likely Tissaia's doing. Geralt has a rare idea. "What if I distract you until someone finds us?" he murmurs against Jaskier's hair and Jaskier draws back a little. In the half-dark his eyes glisten, widen when they meet Geralt's. "You would?" - "Close your eyes, Jaskier." Geralt feels a surge of daring, perhaps granted by the intimacy and seclusion of the situation. He catches Jaskier's lips with his own. When they part, Jaskier grins, shaking from something other than fear. "I thought you didn’t much like me," he whispers. "I thought I got on your nerves." - "Idiot." They kiss again and, faintly, Geralt can hear someone cheer from outside.

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years

Text

Mysterious Night Blooming Roses pt 3

Hey look, more of that vampire bodice ripper.

Things are really heating up at Castle Pankratz!

tw: blood drinking, horny

---

“Many of your predecessors found my feeding to be...pleasurable,” the Viscount shrugged. “So don’t be embarrassed should any such feelings or physical reactions arise during our time together.”

The blush that bloomed across Geralt’s pale cheeks was enchanting and the vampire felt himself falling a little more in love with his most recent pseudo-employee.

“Wh-What happened to my, uhm, predecessors?” Geralt asked, biting at his bottom lip.

“The one before you, Moira, she’s off to start a wool trading business in Temeria. She wanted to learn a skill and find a job; you know, become a woman of independent means.”

“Oh.”

“And before her there was Thoren, and he’s probably teaching his children to fish by now. I suspect he has his own fleet of ships with the price cod has been selling for in Redania.”

“They’re still alive?”

“Of course! And they left Castle Pankratz with a hefty payment in thanks for their service. Enough to buy a whole herd of sheep, if you’re Moira. Or a nice cottage and a fishing boat, if you’re Thoren. I don’t know what you’ll choose to do with your money when your ten years is up. How old will you be, then?”

“Thirty-four.”

“You’re the perfect age! I became a creature of the night some time during my twenty-seventh year of life and that’s how I appear now; or so I have been told. I’ve actually been living here for nearly two thousand years.”

The peasant’s went wide and he swallowed thickly. “Hmm.”

“May I have your consent to drink from you, Geralt? I know it’s an odd way to meet and a rushed explanation of things, but it’s been rather a long week and I’m… I’m hungry, Geralt. Would you mind?”

“I suppose not, Your Grace,” the peasant murmured, and tilted his head to the side.

---

Their first time together had been rushed and uncomfortable and awkward. Fumbling. Like two teenagers attempting their first romantic embrace in a barn, avoiding their chores and praying that their parents or siblings didn’t accidentally peek inside and catch them.

Things had gotten better since then. The village’s Samhain celebration was drawing ever closer and the darkness of night came earlier every day. There was more time for Geralt and Jaskier to spend together, talking and laughing in the library or sitting room. Jaskier wrote music, and often played his compositions for Geralt on the harp, lute, or piano. Geralt would read out loud some nights, his fingers playing idly with the laces of Jaskier’s shirt or the fringe of his hair as he did so.

Then, early one autumn evening, Jaskier summoned Geralt to his private chambers.

“Your Grace?” the peasant asked, peeking his head and shoulders into his Master’s enormous bedroom.

“Come in, Geralt. Please come in and close the door behind you.”

Geralt stepped inside and closed the door. His eyes remained downcast as he turned towards bed where Jaskier lay, reclining comfortably like some kind of presiding deity. “You summoned me, Your Grace?”

“Come here, pet, and have a seat. I’d like to talk to you about something rather important.”

Geralt crossed the windowless chamber and took a nervous seat at the very edge of Jaskier’s mattress. He’d never been in this part of the castle before; usually the vampire took him to the sitting room or his own bedroom to feed because it was easier to tuck him in for a nap afterward. It was, as the vampire liked to joke, a rather draining experience for the young man.

“Are you displeased, Your Grace? Have I done something wrong?”

“Oh no! Of course not, dear heart! You could not possibly be any more pleasing, in all honesty. I just wanted to know how you were getting along. How do you spend your days in my castle when I am asleep in here?”

“I read, mostly. You have some of my favorites in your library.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve read The Three Musketeers twice. I’ve read Treasure Island, Faustus, and a few collections of poetry as well.”

“Studious,” the vampire smiled, tugging Geralt closer. The mortal man allowed himself to be moved up the bed and into Jaskier’s cold yet inviting embrace. “I like that in a man.”

“In… in a man?”

“Have I misunderstood something, my dear? I thought I saw you peeking at me while I changed for supper yesterday,” Jaskier explained, relaxing his arms enough so that Geralt could easily leave if he wanted to. The vampire was right, however. Geralt had been peeking and he had liked what he’d seen. “I thought that you had perhaps begun to feel the same things for me that I have begun to feel for you.”

“What are you feeling exactly, Your Grace?” Geralt’s voice was low and sweet and dripped like honey. The warm human wrapped in Jaskier’s arms smelled fantastic, like lust and mint; the wine from dinner still sang in his blood. The vampire shivered and narrowed his eyes. The irises flashed from blue to red and then back to blue again, revealing to his guest the intense emotions he usually held in check.

“In regards to you, my dear Geralt? I’m afraid that I feel significant attachment. I have not tasted blood so sweet and floral in over a hundred years, nor have I had conversations so scintillating. I suspect it has been many more years since I’ve had that, if I cared to actually count, but that would be a waste of time in your presence. You are clever, curious, loyal, and your chivalry seems to know no bounds, dear heart. How could I not feel something romantic in nature towards you when you, yourself, are so naturally easy to romance?”

The peasant’s face flushed prettily and his heartbeat sped up to a pleasant, ringing tempo. Jaskier could smell the mixture of love and arousal wafting off his darling Geralt and it nearly intoxicated him. He felt his fangs go sharp and steely in his mouth and he bit back a predatory hiss. “Fuck!”

“Your Grace? Are you alright?”

“Perhaps you should go after all, my pet. I’m afraid I-”

“No!” Geralt stiffened and pulled out of the Viscount’s arms. He shrank back against the covers and looked up at his Master with wide, worried eyes. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I’m so confused. I can’t leave again until I know what your intentions are. It’s only been a few weeks since my arrival and yet I still I -” the young man grappled with his language, pleading for something that would get his feelings across to the ancient, all-knowing vampire before him. “- I can’t stop dreaming about you, Jaskier! I can’t get you out of my head! The more I try not to think about you the more I fantasize about sneaking in here and laying at your side as you sleep. I ache to feel your skin against my own. I long for your hands, colder than death as they are, to caress me and hold me.”

The vampire let his lips part, his fangs gleaming in the low light of a few candles. Geralt’s words caught in his throat and his heart-rate rose again. It was nearly frantic. Jaskier would have been worried, but that particular rhythm combined with the way Geralt had started to smell was really getting to his head.

He allowed himself to give a single, territorial little growl before he rose onto his knees. The vampire placed one hand on either side of Geralt’s head and leaned down, brushing the tips of their noses together as he trapped his human quarry against a goosefeather pillow. “I dream of you as well, my pet. I dream of running my fingers through your soft white hair and listening as you read to me in that deep, rumbling voice.”

“Your Grace?”

“I dream,” Jaskier sighed, tracing his nose along Geralt’s jaw, “Of how delectable you smell when you’re happy. Of how caring you are when you’re worried. Of how you might react to sweet, glorious compliments being whispered in your ear as I hold you close and take you apart. I’ve had centuries of practice, dear heart, and I really am quite good.”

“Your Grace.”

“I dream of touching you, Geralt. May I please touch you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Gods, Geralt. When you call me that, it -” the vampire’s fangs lengthened again, pushing and straining towards his sweet human sacrifice, “- It really awakens the nature of a beast in me.”

“My apologies, Master.”

Jaskier groaned and leaned away, his hands covering his face to keep his fangs from finding Geralt’s neck on instinct. “That’s certainly not any better.”

“Do you wish to drink from me, Jaskier?” Geralt asked. His voice was meek. Nervous. The vampire’s long-dead heart nearly cracked in spite of itself.

The peasant had never referred to it as drinking before. Always feeding or supping. Geralt understood that he was a food source and kept his distance from the whole process by using such specific terminology for their activities. Yes, the human clearly enjoyed the endorphins Jaskier’s feeding process released throughout his body, and the inhibition-lowering side-effects of Jaskier’s vampiric presence had let a few specific terms of endearment slip through the human’s lips but…

This was different. This was Geralt offering himself up rather than accepting his status as an offering from the village. He was an equal participant, now.

“Would you like it if I drank from you, my dear?”

“Yes,” Geralt admitted. His face was aflame with either shame or lust; Jaskier suspected that it was a strong combination of both. He pulled himself against the vampire and tossed his hair to the side, baring the pale column of his throat. His voice was breathy and a little higher than normal when he locked his gaze with Jaskier’s and whispered, “I’m all yours, Your Grace.”

The backs of the Viscount’s knuckles swept across the smooth expanse of skin and both men shuddered with anticipation. Jaskier curled around Geralt possessively and ran his icy lips down the side of the human’s neck to his pulse-point. The vampire nibbled teasingly for a moment, letting his teeth and tongue worry the skin to a warm, vibrant pink before placing the tips of his fangs down. As he pressed in, breaking through and tasting the first few delectable ruby droplets, Geralt moaned openly.

His hand clenched in the material of Jaskier’s night-shirt and his eyes rolled back into his head. It was rapturous. It was ecstasy. And now he didn’t have to keep himself silent and resigned; he could react the way he’d wanted to for weeks as his Master drank deeply from the fount of his heart.

“Jaskier!” The hand that wasn’t the vampire’s silk night-shirt was grasping at the skin of his hip, digging his fingers into the cold, firm crease where Jaskier’s long torso met his legs. He needed to hold on to something. He needed an anchor to this mortal realm or he’d go floating away forever, lost to the pleasures of his soon-to-be lover.

Jaskier removed his fangs from the human’s neck after another moment or two and slowly licked the wound to clean it. Geralt frowned and glanced up, his eyes bright and his face flushed.

“Done already, Your Grace?”

“Oh, Geralt,” the vampire purred, clambering to straddle the taller man’s hips. “I’m just getting started.”

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professorsparklepants · 4 years

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Ever since discovering there was going to be a Winx Club live action remake (BTW there's gonna be a Winx club live action remake) I have been haunted by it so here are all my thoughts presented as an "if I were the showrunner" list because I know better than to have expectations for this sort of thing:

Starting out with an unpopular opinion: Techna and Layla as a composite character. Like, looking at Layla's power set you can tell she was only added in season 2. It's much less streamlined and the concept doesn't seem to fit with her actual powers. On the other side of the equation, Techna has no backstory or character arc to speak of. 5 is also a more typical ensemble cast number, and is easier to position for merch. So: name her Aisha (bc the other Obvious theme names in the group are normal to unusual tier, whereas Techna is just bizarre) make her the fairy of Technology (well defined power set) have her a black hijabi girl (bc Techna's modest fairy form lends itself well to representation) and make her shy and autistic coded but slowly come out of her shell as her new friends try to understand her and make her feel comfortable (BLACK&/FEMALE AUTISTIC RIGHTS). Optional: her hair is still pink.

Stella needs to be biracial because her powers as Fairy of the Sun and Moon canonly come from her dad being the sun and her mom being the moon.

Colorblind casting for all the white characters, INCLUDING Bloom. Her red hair is #iconic but you know what's more iconic? Casting a woman of color as an adoptee rediscovering her culture & identity after her homeland was destroyed by people who wanted to exploit it's biggest resource for their own gains :/

Fix your goddamn timeline! How are the Trix descended from the ANCIENT witches who attacked Domino & yet Bloom is like.... sixteen. If you're pulling a "time passes differently" thing you need to actually establish that.

Bloom & Sky do NOT get back together because idgaf if it was an arranged marriage, once you find out you're the other woman you don't FORGIVE HIM for it. They can be friends again after he admits he's fucked up but there's a line in the sand now.

Related: after the "I know you're in there!" fight in season 2, Stella confesses to Bloom and they kiss and date and fall in love!!!!!!!!!!

Musa dresses like an Asian pop star. I'm talking those red Bad Boy Seulgi pants... I'm talking fishnet under thigh high socks... I'm talking diy crop tops... instead of a skirt her fairy form has those high waisted short shorts that are cut so high they're practically swimsuit bottoms.

Related, trans Musa who grows her hair out as part of her transition....

Flora as a dark skinned & dark haired Latina those are my only notes. Also put her in a blouse with floral folk embroidery because I'm a huge slut for that stuff.

Farigonda gets a cool old lady enchantix form because it's what I deserve

Give the witches hats! They can be tiny fascinators if you want it's just bullshit that fairies have wings but witches don't have ANY of their traditional iconography other than like, being goth. And hats are easier to accessorize than broomsticks.

Thigh high boots. That's all I have to say on the matter.

If you're gonna make this shit live action the wardrobe better be OUT OF THIS WORLD. Your costume budget needs to rival your special effects. I'm talking Gucci, Versace, D&G, GCDS, McQueen. I want FRAN FINE levels of iconic costumes.

Lean more into Bloom's art as a hobby! All the other girls have personality defining hobbies and I actually forgot Bloom liked to draw until I was literally making this post and about to assign her softball or photography as her main interest. Lmao.

Anyway, rant ended sorry for making you think about Winx Club again

#lectures #Winx club #fyi these all apply for a cartoon reboot too #except add in ''it's 2020 our cast doesn't have same face syndrome and cookie cutter body types''

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ddaehyeon · 3 years

Text

kalopsia; s. wb + reader + k. ty

pairing: seo woobin + reader + kim taeyoung

genre: angst, fluff, hanahaki au

word count: 10.4k

warnings: blood, hospital visit, light cursing, mentions of sickness, death, anxiety, and alcohol/drinking

summary: in each passing day that you grew fonder of taeyoung, more petals would come out of your lips. your heart, a garden of the most beautiful flowers, only that it was also a reminder of your unrequited love. and with the withering petals, woobin can't bear to simply watch.

-- video teaser; story playlist; masterlist; taglist form 🥀

a/n: my longest fic so far! aaaa this is for a fic exchange with the amazing @arieswonjin. ilysm <3 i enjoyed writing this a lot and i hope we can do more exchanges in the future! also, special thanks to @starrycrvty who helped me with the editing process and cheered me up while i was losing a braincell in the development of the scenes. you’re awesome and ily. <3

hope you will enjoy this ride. send me feedback through my ask/reblogs! i’ll appreciate it a lot :>

taglist: @bunnyseongmin

[ will edit this again in the future; ]

regardless of how the day was already ending, flowers seemed to not lose their vibrancy. whenever a gust of air blew by, it would dance along with the wind’s melody. you took a breath, the floral scent easing your body which was probably hugged with nothing but fatigue out of the ruthless writing sessions you gave yourself for hours.

a mélange of colors in the sky; the red hue engulfing the orange tint. it was funny how despite that war of colors, in the end, the sky will turn pitch-black with scattered twinkling stars.

sure, spring was one of the most beautiful seasons. but that small amount of fondness for the aforementioned season will never be enough to make you want to experience it for the whole year. life played favorites though— it was spring for you all year round.

you smiled to yourself, trying to shrug off the thought. good thing you weren’t in your room and the sidewalk wasn’t the quietest place to be at during this hour. it offered a space for distractions. most shops were closing, students were to go home from long hours of studying, workers with a weariness that yours couldn’t match walking to hubs for some sort of leisure activities. if you were in some kind of company work, you’d probably be in the same position. going for a drink or two with friends after working hours. but well, you weren’t.

instead of a bustling office requiring formal attire; you were usually in your pajamas, musing about life and writing about it through means of prose and poetry. a young published author who was known for having a great appreciation for flowers. in a few months, another book will be launched under your name. its spine holding all the papers inked by your love, not for flowers or anything else, but for a childhood friend who seemed to not have taken notice of the flower that began growing in your lungs— a rose.

reaching the convenience store, you contemplated which instant food would serve as your dinner tonight. ordered food seemed to have bored out your taste buds, a little change was needed. and to say, probably a more unhealthy choice. maybe a dosirak would do or a kimbap and peel sausage.

as you were to enter, a call of your name put your feet to a halt. you turned to look at the speaker. “oh hey, woobin?”

a weak smile graced his lips, opening the door for you. he spoke after the both of you had entered the store. “tired of ordered meals?”

“kind of,” you replied, a sigh punctuating your words. you walked up to the aisle of dosirak. the sight of it made you swiftly cross it out of your options. you wanted something else. “how about you?”

“craved for ice cream,” answered woobin who, unlike you, had made his mind in settling with a pint of almond ice cream.

grabbing some triangle kimbaps, you looked at him with a raised brow. “wouldn’t that harm your ever so majestic voice?”

if you made money through books, woobin earned his through singing. it ranged from covers to original song compositions. he was quite popular with all the ballad songs he covered that without a lie was a heart-melter. if home and serenity would be defined using a voice, woobin’s would be the perfect definition for it.

“not really.” a chuckle was heard from him as he watched you grab a cup of instant ramyun. “well, wouldn’t that harm your ever so wonderful brain?”

you shook your head but laughed at the remark. woobin had been your friend for quite a long time, probably one of the closest. light and playful banters seemed to have become a part of your usual talks.

walking towards the counter, you settled your items which the worker scanned quickly. the amount flashed by the small screen, and you pulled your wallet out to pay. woobin followed shortly.

“a healthy alternative after ice cream?” you asked, noticing a herbal medicine pouch being placed in his bag.

woobin hunched his shoulders up, and proceeded to go out of the store.

a soft breeze welcomed you as you stepped out. the sidewalk was no longer as busy as it was earlier and the sky was losing its colors bit by bit as if the flickering lights in the queued lampposts were sucking it all.

“so how is it coming out?” woobin asked as he walked beside you. your apartment and his were only a few blocks away. his apartment was inside a street, away from the main road filled with noises coming from horns and speeding cars, while yours was in a complex near the road. you liked watching people from up the balcony, it was like watching a film, only that everything that was happening was real and only the made-up dialogues of the strangers were sheer fiction.

“minor editings left,” you replied. “also, next week the possible art for the cover will be out. want to check it out with me?”

he didn’t reply right after as if he was mentally checking his schedule, weighing if he was free or not. though his answer indicated that the things he had to do had flexible deadlines. “sure, just tell me when.”

“i’ll call you once they message me about it.” a cough ended your sentence, you covered your mouth as you did so. something smooth touching your palm. it was happening… again.

“are you alright?” concern evident on woobin’s face, he went closer to you. his hand on your back, rubbing circles to ease your coughing.

but he was aware it would not be enough to stop it. a rub or any sort of medicine wouldn’t stop it. like how will those be enough to stop a flower from blooming in your lungs?

it was the reason why even though you admired the beauty of spring, you also disliked it.

flowers were in full bloom during spring. the way each petal was colored was pleasing to the eye. however, such beauty should have just stayed where they were supposed to be. on the ground, decorating the world with its vibrant color. it should only be there instead of clinging onto someone's lungs after failing to get their love returned.

hanahaki, a disease that causes someone to cough up flower petals when their love is one-sided.

there were different stages of it. at first, it was only a mere cough. something one would mistake for a regular cough. until petals come along with it on the next stage. followed by a mix of blood, acute chest pain, and shortness of breathing in the last.

two ways to resolve it. either undergo a surgery which will cost a fortune at the risk of wiping out not only your emotions but also the memory of all people you are close with or have your love reciprocated. inability to obtain any of the mentioned cures will result in the most unfortunate event. no more pain from the flower sprouting in your chest. no ache, coming from the bitter taste of being reminded every single night that your love wasn’t reciprocated— death.

“i’m alright.” it took quite a while before your coughing subsided. you were sure petals were already accumulated on your hand. bringing your hand down, you let go of the red petals. luckily, no blood. but you didn’t expect less. this disease had been giving you restless nights lately, worsening and worsening.

a sigh left woobin’s lips as he shook his head. “that’s not the look of someone alright for me.”

the rest of the walk was silent. woobin insisted on walking you home, to which you had no power to decline. even if you told him no, he still ended up doing so.

by the time you reached the front of your unit, night had already won the clash in the sky. the stars glimmering above at their triumph.

“don’t work up until late,” woobin reminded.

you smiled, wishing you could tell him that it wasn’t the writing that made you get less rest every evening. it was the rose that inhabited your lungs. “i will not.”

“here,” said woobin, handing you the bag of the things he bought earlier.

the ice cream was no longer of its same form as it was earlier. its mist soaked the insides of the plastic bag. “and why are you giving it to me?”

“just take it. you know in movies heartbroken people would eat ice cream as they mope around.”

the lighthearted remark made you laugh. woobin had his ways to make you feel better. “and what about the medicine?”

“you’re probably sad, but that won’t mean that you should not take care of yourself.” he was aware of your feelings for someone else. he was aware of the red roses in your chest. he was aware that your feelings weren’t reciprocated.

“makes sense.” you flashed him a smile, scrambling on your bag to take out one of the triangle kimbaps. the item tossed to his direction which he caught smoothly. “take that at least.”

“well, thank you?” he gazed at the food you gave him before returning the smile. “have a good night, y/n. call me if you need anything.”

you hummed as a response, watching woobin make his way to the stairs, descending afterward. another gust of wind passed by and you rushed to go inside. staring at the now melted ice cream, you shook your head. a laugh escaping your lips as you closed the door.

how long has it been? you thought.

collapsing on the bed, you stared at the ceiling. the coughing had already stopped, yet the burning pain in your chest remained.

what was the flower again?

a rose?

maybe the stabbing ache was caused by its thorns that came to hug your lungs. you sighed as if that would altogether pull out the suffocating sensation— of course, it wouldn’t. it would never.

a curt beep on your phone pulled you out of your cloudy thoughts, reaching for it to read the notification. a message from one of your friends which read,

it’s your debut book’s first anniversary today! congrats, y/n.

for a moment, your lips curled into a faint smile, so weak that it didn’t even last for a minute. sending a quick reply to show gratitude over the thought, you allowed yourself to drown over the same thoughts.

that book with inked poetry all meant to deliver a single message— your feelings for taeyoung. the words laced in each rhyme was a cover of the affection you had for him, and the petals you cough each night was his answer.

a childhood friend who you used to be neighbors with. he still lived under the comforts of his parents’ home, while you moved to live alone in an apartment, desperately seeking independence.

or maybe seeking for a way to not see his face every single day and be reminded that his favorite flower, a rose, had been blooming in your lungs.

the brightness taeyoung had never seemed to fade, his smile still carried sunlight of its own. a contagious one that would make anyone have the same smile (but maybe not as bright). his bubbliness was a comfort. whenever around him, the butterflies causing chaos in your stomach would make you forget about the evening ache he was subconsciously bringing.

taeyoung, ever since you were young, loved books and flowers. you preferred other things though, but somehow you found yourself conforming to what he liked. being the person you spent most of your time with, his interest became yours. whenever he would tell you about something he became inclined to, you would check it as quick, forcing yourself to like it. it was a repeated action that was implanted as a habit. in the process of trying to be his ideal person, your own identity was thrown away. a trap filled with nothing but thorns of his favorite flower.

shifting to your side, your eyes landed on the wall just above your working table. photographs of roses were stuck on it, along with verses other people might find painfully beautiful. you knew your words better though. its beauty was a mere delusion. hiding behind the pretty words were ugly cries— your reality.

another cough, a petal escaping from your lips. it danced in the air as it was freed, only to meet the cold floor of your room. with flowers blooming in the chest, you closed your eyes drifting to sleep. the pain no longer mattered as it was the usual sensation.

a soft instrumental had taken over your apartment. the sun was already up, its light filtering through the blinds. your potted plants were probably thankful for its generosity. you took a sip of your coffee, staring at the few words written in the new document reserved for a new manuscript. writing, or at least conceptualizing the main theme, of your next book was your top priority today. however, the continuous notifications coming from your close peers dragged you out of your bubble every single time.

with you celebrating the first anniversary of your debut book (which basically marked the day of your debut as a published writer), receiving messages was plain inevitable. your editor even asked if you’d be up for a drink later this night. an offer you turned down. silence and alone time this evening were everything you craved for.

putting your laptop on rest, you grabbed your own copy of withered roses, your book. it was silly how you decided to have perfectly blooming and lively roses as its cover when it contained the very title, your own withered roses hiding through beautiful verses.

flipping through the pages, you stopped on a certain poetry. undeniably, one of your favorites. it was one of the first poems that you wrote for this collection. grabbing a paper and a pen, you scribbled the words down, the same words still describing your situation perfectly. and maybe that was the reason why your condition was worsening.

you stuck the paper on the wall, just beside a photograph of a blue rose. for a moment, you stared at it, smiling at the words as if those were some kind of lost friends who rekindled with you. you smiled as if those were something that you should be smiling at.

three doorbells and a few knocks. a heavy sigh came out of your lips, tearing your eyes away from the poem. slow steps towards the door, the person on the other seemed rather impatient for the doorbell continuously made a sound. it was enough for another breath to escape the confines of your mouth.

swinging the door open, your eyes widened. the sight penetrating quickly to your senses and the sensation you hated the most overpowering you, your heartbeat loud. really loud. “taeyoung?”

for him to be able to give you the most wonderful feeling of warm cheeks and butterflies and still be able to poison you using his favorite flower lethal to your body, you wondered when it would end.

“it’s withered roses’ first anniversary!” his smile was a band-aid, too fleeting of a cure for you. he lifted a pot of cycnoches orchids, something that was probably from his parent’s flower shop. “here’s a gift for you.”

“thank you.” as he handed you the pot, you gave him enough space to enter your unit. placing it just beside the other plants you had, all coming from their shop, you turned to look at taeyoung. a pout appearing in your countenance. “you should have brought food.”

taeyoung scratched his head at your sudden words, a sheepish smile curving on his lips. “well, we can order.”

at the sight of a slightly flustered taeyoung, a string of laughter became your immediate response. “i was kidding.”

you went back to the couch to sit with taeyoung following you shortly. the music playing in your room had long ago stopped, something you only noticed after taeyoung came. after your awareness came to hug you once again.

his eyes wandered as if it was his first time in your unit. it was definitely not his first visit, to count how many times he’d been there was also impossible. just like how you frequented their flower shop, he was usually in your unit as well. maybe it was due to him being used to your company. childhood friends, former neighbors— inseparable, but in a manner that went nothing beyond romantic feelings. at least to his side.

glancing at him, you followed where his gaze was fixated on. it was focused on the wall that held photographs of roses and the poem you scribbled earlier from your book.

“wasn’t that the eighth poem in your book?” intrigued, he looked at you with a brow raised.

you didn't have to meet his gaze. a smile slowly crept out of your visage. it didn't hold an emotion though, more like a simple forced curve. "it is."

"i love it." it was a genuine remark, but somehow, instead of giving you a warm feeling, it did the opposite. standing up, he reached for the paper, detaching it from the wall. the words slipping out of his tongue as he read it out loud.

heat-haze; sunrays visible at the nighttime daydream under the cloud of deep distance built a sensation of unrequited affection innumerable actions-- satisfied, captured by mere existence. nevertheless, the heart was jinxed in a presence, a love, i cannot withdraw from.

as the final four lines were uttered, he looked at you in the eyes, a hint of gloom clouding his misty orbitals. he had the poem memorized, but it was only the words he had carved in his mind. the feelings sealed with it, unnoticed.

taeyoung was the reason why you began writing. a simple comment of his saying that you would make a good author and your words were all prettily laid out made you want to write.

or perhaps it was not the writing you were chasing for, rather the speaker who told you that he wished to see more of your writing.

for others, writing could be a form of escape. to be under a little spell that would pull someone out of their reality. you wished you were the same. you wished your writing wasn't your reality.

anywhere you go, you were surrounded by your reality. the potted plants you should not be taking care of if it wasn't for his interest in plants and flowers. the book that was published a year ago and the soon to be published one. the colors that accented your unit which he said was such a relaxing palette. the words in your head. the flower in your chest. it was the reality made out of nothing but the person you loved.

“wait.” taeyoung’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. he was peering over petals of red roses that were on your table.

it seemed like you forgot to clean it up earlier. well, you didn’t expect anyone to actually go to your house. such a realization was thought late.

“were you playing with roses?” taeyoung asked, frowning as he looked at it.

you’d consider that a stupid question, but taeyoung didn’t know a thing about your condition so you let it pass. there was no way in hell you’d tell him about it now. not yet. “yes.”

“so how was it?” the excitement and giddiness leaking in his tone as he plopped down next to you on the couch didn’t help. what was he even referring about? your hanahaki disease? what? as if hearing your question, he clarified his query, “does he love you?”

ah, the popular he loves me, he loves me not.

there was no need for that though, the petals you vomit each night was a clear answer. you smiled, leaning back to get seated more comfortably. “he doesn’t.”

the way those two words left your lips surprised you. no hint of hurt, sadness, or anything— it was laced with a calm tone as if retreating, surrendering, accepting. will it really be your fate?

taeyoung sighed, the smile he once had melting away. “don’t worry, it’s just a silly game anyway. the person you love probably loves you too.”

you turned to look at him. a mistake. kind eyes met yours, reassuring you of something you had already known for so long was false. there was no need to hang into that ray of hope when you were aware that it was not the case.

eyes glossy with the tears that never dared to fall, you offered him a tight-lipped smile. “thank you.”

he grinned, which you assumed was out of relief before he looked at your wall once again. “why use roses though? there are other flowers out there.”

“well, isn’t it the first flower you’d think of when you hear the word love?” you replied. “it means a lot more depending on its color, but in simple terms, it just means love and romance.”

“you seem to know a lot about it,” he remarked, not tearing his gaze away from the photograph. “why blue out of all colors?” he asked referring to the photograph you had on your wall.

“it stands for an impossible miracle.” a clear depiction of your situation. no word followed that sentence, and good thing taeyoung didn’t ask any further about why. maybe it was due to his perception that poetry writers had other symbolism hidden behind their verses, even when there was nothing and the message was just in front of their readers.

“roses are wonderful, aren’t they?”

not when they are blooming in your chest. not when its thorn embraces your lungs. not when it suffocates you. your thoughts were loud in your head. but you knew you can’t blame it for inhabiting your body. you can’t even have taeyoung blamed for it either. it was the universe’s fault for laying such a disease in humanity. “they truly are.”

“it’s my favorite,” taeyoung mused.

there was a smile that sat on your lips, a peck of gloom decorating its corners. “i know.”

how could you not when its petals were the ones that kept on coming out of your lips every evening?

a ringing coming from a device shattered the silence in your apartment. but this time, it wasn’t from yours. it was from taeyoung who was now about to leave your unit, his parents had called him to go and do his tasks in the flower shop. seemed like he had forgotten about it, considering that he’d been with you for almost an hour.

“take care and have fun for the rest of the day!” taeyoung ruffled your hair and left. his touch lingering.

your room suddenly felt empty. as if taeyoung had taken all the vibrancy it had after stepping out of it. taeyoung was your paradox— a home that housed nothing but emotions you shouldn’t regard as home, but you did. he was your home.

you coughed, a petal threatening to escape. the windpipe blocked, your chest tightening. a sorrowful smile was your only answer to the ache that was resurfacing. your gaze didn't falter, still locked on the photograph of the blue rose. to no one in particular, few words were whispered, “they are beautiful.”

“remind me again why i’m here with you?” woobin looked at the almost empty store; sleepwears displayed from the first showcase up to the last rack. it was a week after the first anniversary of your book, things had seemed to tranquil much more.

shopping during the working hours on weekdays was certainly one of the best things. the absence of people led to different advantages like having no long queue to the cashier, no people to deal with as you browse the clothes, and overall just serene shopping.

you didn’t mind it when a salesperson would go and ask you about what type or design you were looking for, they were probably getting bored having to stand for a long time and entertain just a few passing potential customers. the mall’s theme song was playing from a distant speaker, almost inaudible and muffled by the sweet piano music playing in the shop itself. keeping it up to the theme of the shop, if there was a bed in there, you’d probably be brought to sleep right after. something you weren’t sure to consider as a good aspect or bad aspect of the clothing store.

“well, you just finished posting another wonderful cover which hit a hundred thousand views in an hour, we must celebrate, right?” you replied as you picked up a pair of pastel plaid pajamas, checking the fabric quality to which you quickly marked as spandex.

woobin reached for the design next to what you picked up, eyeing it with less interest than you had. “but why are we buying pajamas?”

“because i need it.” a chuckle was heard from you after he let go of a sigh at your words. you stepped closer to him, peering over his shoulder to check the design he was checking.

“by the way,” he began, not wanting to ask more as he was aware of your love for comfortable clothes (pajamas being the top of it along with sweaters and hoodies). “i’m applying for a job in this pharmaceutical company located in another town as a medicinal chemist.”

“oh? the one you mentioned before?” you watched him go through another set of sleepwear.

it was a sudden reminder that before being known as the seo woobin who sang various songs in innumerable gigs and had built a name in the music side of youtube, he was the seo woobin who excelled in his major, organic chemistry. for years of him not applying for an actual job as a chemist anywhere and pursuing his dream career, that fact was swept out of your mind.

you met woobin in one of your electives— a chemistry class that you would probably have to retake only if he didn’t help you out. the limited slots in language classes were the ones you put your blame on, but it wasn’t completely that bad. after all, you had ended up making a good friend in the class you despised the most.

“are you going to quit singing?” worry was painted all over your face which earned a soft amused laughter from woobin. you adore his singing a lot, the comfort his mellifluous voice could bring was distinct, something you’d grown ever so fond of.

“you know, i just want to put my degree into proper use.” woobin smiled reassuringly as he tossed you a set of pajamas with the design he guessed was what you were searching for, the one with doodled roses decorating it from bottom to the top. “kind of had the urge to get a secured job.”

the clothing dumped to you went unnoticed as you fired off another question. “what about the album deal? i thought you already had one. what’s going to happen with that?”

“i will still sing.” there was no need to doubt woobin’s calm tone as he said those words. “don’t worry about it. i love singing and i’ll not stop doing it.”

“make sure to.” you walked towards another rack, finally noticing the pajamas woobin had thrown in your way earlier. staring at it for a moment, the initial thoughts about the flower easily came into your head. “this one’s cute. i’ll take it.”

unconvinced, woobin raised a brow at you. “are you sure you found it cute or there’s another reason behind you liking it?”

the other reason he was pertaining to was clear, enough to become a slap rather than a mere reminder. do you really like it or do you simply want the person you like to notice you for having something close to their favorite thing?

feeling lost to your own set of likes seemed like a normal thing. mind plagued with taeyoung’s interests that it mattered more than yours. at this point, you weren’t sure if you were doing it for him to like you back and finally get the fuzzy feeling of being loved back or you were simply desperate to stop the flowers from budding in your chest.

“i like it,” you answered after a long while of spacing out. you even nodded your head as if trying to convince yourself from a statement you weren’t sure whether to label as a lie or a truth.

“if you say so.” an indistinct sigh came across woobin, subtly shaking his head in disbelief. he didn’t go deeper into the topic though, instead uttered some words that made a bright smile grace your lips. “go and choose whichever you want. it’s on me today.”

wearing the new pair of a loose shirt and pajama, you gazed at your reflection. a curve spotted on your lips, satisfied with the new purchase. demeanor dropping as a familiar sensation crawled up to your senses. the calm night was taken aback when your chest began tightening. a petal quickly rising, stuck on your throat afterward as you tried to hold it in. however, it was a failed attempt. the urge strong that you had to run towards the bathroom to release all the petals of the vivid red rose that nurtured in your body, watered with nothing but unreturned affection.

just like any other night, the sickness came to do its visit. its terrible reminder playing in your mind. the blood that mingled with the petals was hard to discern as they were colored in the same hue; it tasted different though.

a ringing in your head as your vision started to blur, not noticing how tears had formed in your eyes as the pain emerged to be stronger than it usually was. the intensifying ache wasn’t the only one that made your tears fall. all your unnoticed efforts, regardless of how big they were, were the ones that brought salty tears. your knees buckled, allowing you to meet the ground unceremoniously. it was getting harder to breathe and the cold bathroom tiles were your only company.

it was a twisted melody. in each cough, petals would escape. it didn’t even take a long time for you to be surrounded by a sea of red petals. what a sickening view, you thought. how do people regard roses as something so beautiful?

a memory.

“dear, taeyoung is outside, waiting for you.” a few knocks on the door accompanied your mother’s call.

it was a hot summer, the sun giving no mercy with its ray as if angry with how it was neglected during the cold seasons. with a few remaining days before the start of a new quarter, you probably had spent most of your time in your room. oftentimes will you go out only at the call of a childhood friend.

“y/n.” as if stepping out of your thoughts, taeyoung had your name wrapped by his cheerful voice. “mom made homemade ice cream. come on, get out of your room already.”

if your own mother wasn’t able to pull you out of your room, taeyoung was. your feet quick to move as you checked on your reflection by the mirror, practicing a smile and some silent dialogues. all to which you weren’t really able to show when you opened the door. a faint blush crept on your cheeks as soon as your gaze landed on the bright smile taeyoung had on his own. butterflies flew free in your stomach, heart pounding.

maybe it was the way taeyoung would talk to you with an unmatched enthusiasm even if your words make no sense. maybe it was because of the vibrancy he had all around him that simply could bring comfort to anyone he was with. maybe it was due to the fact that he had been with you since you were a kid.

or maybe it was just because he was him, kim taeyoung, that your crush began budding as a love. and as soon as it did, his favorite flower, a rose, was caught in your lungs during middle school.

occupied by the sensation, your mind didn’t attend to the continuous doorbells ringing in your apartment. in a few, the door was opened, rushed footsteps along with your name uttered in sheer concern echoed in your unit. with the air knocked out by the relentless flower, from red your vision turned pitch black.

when dusk fell, woobin was already in the hospital with a drink in his hand, which was meant to be given to you. he’d been going back and forth to the hospital and his apartment to bring you food and some other items you needed.

the scene he witnessed last night was still fresh in his mind, the panic lingering. on your cold bathroom floor, you laid unconscious with petals of roses surrounding your figure. he was swift to get help, which ended up with you having to stay for almost a day in the lonely ward. your room making you feel sicker.

“oh, you’re back?” serim, the head nurse and a close friend of woobin, said as he walked towards the other.

woobin nodded, tracing the track he’d been stepping into since this morning. it was as if he could easily go to your room even with eyes closed. serim followed from behind and before he could say a word, woobin had already found your room empty. finally, he offered the nurse attention. “where’s y/n? already discharged?”

“yes, they just went to talk with their doctor for a few more reminders.” serim shook his head disapprovingly. “they should stay longer, but they seem like a very busy person.”

“y/n should just follow their doctor.” a sigh punctuated woobin’s sentence.

“and you should too,” said serim.

woobin began walking his way back to the nurse station reception to wait for you. “my case is different.”

“you’re slowly losing your voice because of your own sickness.” serim’s sigh was way heavier than woobin’s, his orbitals painted with worry. being one of woobin’s closest friends, he knew all about it. “orchids are blooming in your lungs, how are you different?”

a glare was darted to serim’s direction which became woobin’s sole reply since they both saw you approaching them. serim hunched his shoulders up, shaking his head once again before walking away.

“thank you for taking care of me,” you told woobin who handed you the drink he bought outside.

“of course,” woobin said, leading the way out.

there weren't a lot of people in the lobby. only a few were there, either the nurses turning for their night shifts or the relatives of those people staying in the hospital for the night.

“it’s getting worse, isn’t it?” woobin’s words slowed down your pace, your head turned to him as he continued. “shouldn’t you start trying to move on and finding someone who can actually love you back?”

“what do you mean?”

woobin shrugged. “it seems like it’s the only way for you to be properly healed.”

yes, moving on and falling for someone else was a considered cure as well. a change of feelings could remove the flower naturally. but doing so was easier said than done.

a sad smile became evident on your brim. how could you do that? you thought. “i can’t just fall in love with someone like it’s nothing, woobin.”

“give me a chance then.”

woobin’s words were powerful enough to make your feet stop from moving, to catch your breath and make it halt. it can’t be. you looked at him confused, wishing that you misunderstood what he said. you wished that it would be his regular sentences as he tried to make you feel better. you wished what you were thinking was a mere thought, an idea, a false gut feeling. “woobin?”

it was a question that didn’t need any elaboration. the simple call of his name with such perplexed tone was enough as a query. the same gloomy smile on his lips matched what you had earlier, accompanied by his faint chuckles. “yes,” to your horror, he confirmed. he let go of a breath, something that gave him a boost to finally utter the words he’d been meaning to say. “i’m in love with you and all i want is for the flowers in your chest to stop blossoming.”

“that means…”

to experience the same thing you had been experiencing. to give someone the same taste of your suffering. to plant a flower in someone’s chest and water it every day as you were failing to return their provided affection. it was something you didn’t wish to do, an extremely unfavorable idea which reminded you of how the universe had been unfair from the very start.

“yes, and they aren’t beautiful.” a tight-lipped smile became apparent on his countenance as he stared at the glass doors of the hospital. a few more steps and both of you will be out of the place the two of you frequented on different days, but for the same means— a fleeting cure for the ache caused by hanahaki. “the pain we’re both carrying out of unrequited love. it isn’t beautiful, y/n.”

a lump in your throat stopped any possible reply from coming out of your lips. you wanted to apologize, but an apology from taeyoung wasn’t the thing you’d want to hear from him after you confess and you assumed such wouldn’t give comfort to woobin as well. an apology wouldn’t be enough when you were already striping away someone with their lives.

rather untimely, the door opened, revealing taeyoung. he was holding a basket of flowers, probably for some kind of delivery. with hinted concern, he walked towards you and woobin. “what are you doing here?”

“stomach ache.” regardless of your mangled thoughts, it was a surprise that you were able to respond as soon. it was as if such sickness was a practiced lie.

“is that so?” taeyoung looked at woobin to confirm and the older just nodded not wanting to speak more. he turned to you, his worry dropping a few levels, but was still obvious. “let me just bring this flower to a friend and i’ll walk you home. will that be alright?”

you looked at woobin, silently asking if he would be okay with that. it was such a silly act, of course, he would be against it. but what can he do? just like him, the person you had grown fond of hasn't reciprocated your feelings yet. both of you probably wishing the same thing— for the flowers to wither and be gone. for the restless nights to end. to be loved back. the only difference was woobin was so focused on you that he had forgotten about his condition which was worsening at the same rate as yours.

he patted your shoulder. “sure, i need to head somewhere else anyway. get home safely?”

“i will, you too, woobin.” you gave woobin a smile, guilt sitting in your stomach which was continuously twisting.

woobin weakly mirrored the feature before turning his back to you and taeyoung. as he was stepping out of the establishment, he looked at the twinkling stars, hoping this night would be kinder. but he was certain he’d be the one coughing out orchids tonight, probably worse than your roses.

the stars from above watched you and taeyoung walk on the now empty sidewalk. even without the illumination coming from the lampposts, it was all so bright. all in gratitude for the moon which served as a ball of shining light in the clear night sky.

"you've been sick since we were kids, but you never told me what with." taeyoung broke the silence, uncertain if he should go further. “was it really because of stomach ache earlier?”

a chill ran down your spine, making you inwardly shiver. that wasn’t the talk you were so ready to face. and after what happened last night, you can’t simply bring another lie. however, telling taeyoung everything wasn’t something you planned to do as well. afraid that rejection would become the final straw.

taeyoung stopped dead on his tracks, looking at you with nothing but sheer concern. “is there anything bothering you?”

you gave him a smile which was obviously forced. “don’t worry about it.” you urged him to continue to walk and he did, but just as you thought that you were already safe from his questions, he asked another.

“it’s not a stomach ache wasn’t it?” hands on his back, his gaze was fixated on the road. “what was it, y/n?”

maybe it was time to tell taeyoung about it? maybe— “hanahaki.” the words subconsciously slipped out of your tongue.

“what?” surprised by the mention of the disease, his eyes were wide when he whipped his head to your direction. “you mean… your love is unrequited?”

taeyoung was quick to catch the gist of the disease. it was pretty much a popular sickness that had probably made some of his other friends suffer. the only thing he wasn’t quick to get was… who your feelings were for.

“woobin doesn’t like you back?” he asked, snapping you out of your thoughts which was purely of practicing the possible explanations if he ended up recognizing your feelings for him. and apparently, he didn’t.

it was your turn to shoot him a look. “what?”

“don’t you like woobin?” he averted his gaze and it trailed back to the road. “i mean the two of you seem like really close friends and you’re together most of the time.”

you didn’t know whether you should be relieved or not. but since you were still unprepared to offer any explanation, you just went with the flow. a bitter smile coming to your lips. your head had his name on your sentence, regardless of how you uttered another man’s name. “yes, i like woobin. but it seems like he doesn’t feel the same way.”

“maybe you should… try moving on?”

the way taeyoung suggested the same thing made you laugh, confusing the person beside you. to move on, huh? was that what the universe wanted you to do? to move on? a smile lingered on your visage, as you stepped on the stairs with taeyoung following you behind. it was just funny how he thought you were in love with woobin, when in fact the flower he adored the most was living in your lungs. that he was the person you were in love with, not any other person.

stopping at the front step, the worry that sat on his orbitals didn’t waver. the look asking if you’d be alright tonight— you already knew the answer. “take care, okay? if you need anything, just call me. good night.”

as soon as you closed the door, it began. the coughing that seemingly just waited for you to step into your unit came rushing. a petal waving in the air before meeting the ground. “i need your love, taeyoung. i badly need it.”

the smell of freshly done pancakes wafted up to your bed, a few noises coming from the kitchen followed. it was a gentle alarm that pushed you to wake up and get out of your bed. too groggy, a foot still on the dream you were having, you didn’t think that whoever was in the kitchen could be a thief or anything. well, who in their proper mind would cook food for the owner of the house if they were only to snatch things after?

a few days ago, you had an extreme case of hanahaki, something that led you to stay in the hospital overnight. after that, it had seemed to subside or at least be more gentle during the evening, resulting in more hours of sleep.

“woobin?” you called his name as you watched him turn off the stove, placing the fluffy pancakes onto a plate. there was already a hot chocolate ready for you to drink. you didn’t even question how he got inside. probably jungmo, the landowner, gave him the code to your room. oh, talk about privacy.

his smile was as warm as the morning sunrays. “good morning.” his voice was a little hoarse, normally you wouldn’t really pay attention to that. when he recorded songs too much in a day, he’d end up with such. but now that you knew he was experiencing hanahaki, a question hung in your head. was it because of the coughing? your thoughts dropped at the sound of his voice, still mellow regardless. “i’ve cooked you breakfast.”

“don’t you have work to do?” you asked, remembering how during the past days he’d been telling you about his new work— the slot in that pharmaceutical company as a medicinal chemist. you dragged a chair before occupying it, looking at him as he placed all the things he used in the sink. a curve became visible on your lips as your eyes fell to what he prepared. it was just pancakes, but it was woobin’s pancakes. he was such an amazing cook, you could vouch for that. “thank you by the way.”

“work? ah yeah.” he took the seat adjacent to yours, a cup of coffee in his hands. he grinned at you and you swore, your heart was in ultimate chaos when you heard his next words. “i took on the job of taking care of you for free starting today.”

sunlight filtered through the glass door of the flower shop, highlighting the wide variety of spring flowers. ranunculus, tulips, and calla lilies were all displayed along with other non-seasonal plants. there weren't a lot of customers coming, given that there were flowers available to be picked up in some public gardens. regardless, there were still a few who would come and get flowers arranged for some special occasions. but then again, it was just morning. it was rather too early to judge the possible count of customers later.

“jungmo’s coughing out petals now,” allen, one of the workers in the flower shop. said.

taeyoung looked at him, pausing his actions of tying a yellow ribbon in the bouquet of tulips. with a brow raised, he asked, “hanahaki?”

putting the freshly done arrangement of peonies, allen tapped on the counter which called the attention of the delivery man. he pointed out the card which contained the address and watched the other go out to deliver the item. dragging a stool to sit on, he stretched his arms. “seems to be. he’s coughing out petals of his crush’s favorite flower, crocus. i don’t think it’s a mere crush now though.”

“oh, so the flower that blooms in a body experiencing hanahaki would be the favorite flower of the person they like?” taeyoung asked as he finished the bouquet he was working on. he retrieved stems of roses and cut them nicely, removing the thorns and excess leaves.

“yes,” allen replied. “you like roses right?”

taeyoung only nodded, a memory alighting in his head. it can’t be—

“that means the person who likes you, but ends up with a one-sided love would end up having roses in their chest,” allen continued, causing taeyoung’s hand to stop from moving. the younger’s eyes fixated on the collection of red roses in his hands.

“it’s my favorite,” taeyoung mused.

there was a smile that sat on your lips, a peck of gloom decorating its corners. “i know.”

the flower growing in your chest was his favorite flower, roses?

it was him all this time?

right at that moment, there was one thing taeyoung would want to address himself as. an idiot. realizations came crashing to him like a powerful wave that held no mercy. it was ice cold, his body freezing at each thought that his mind welcomed.

the petals he found on your desk weren't there because of a silly game of he loves me, he loves me not. it was the petals you coughed out and forgot to clean.

“are you okay?” allen asked, momentarily snapping taeyoung out of his daze.

the twisting on taeyoung stomach was unbearable. his heart racing not with flutters, but rather with anxious thoughts. he was the cause of your pain?

with an almost inaudible voice, taeyoung let out of his horror. “y/n likes me.”

continuous taps on the keyboard, words appearing on the screen only for the flow to stop with punctuation. in sync, the doorbell rang. you no longer wondered who it was. it had always been him.

you stood up and shuffled towards the door, opening it before welcoming the male with a warm curve in your face. “it’s lunch already?”

woobin nodded, handing you a bag of still hot dishes he cooked probably not more than an hour ago. he followed you as you made your way to the dining area. when the male said he’d be taking care of you starting that specific breakfast, he stuck to his words, visiting you almost every day. the only exception was when he had to meet a producer. his own album was in the process of being finalized.

you placed the bag down and woobin walked towards your cupboard. where to find the things was already memorized. it was as if he was living in the very unit.

“so how’s your morning?” he asked as he placed two plates on the table.

“woke up a bit late, but i was able to finish the last set of poetry i’ve been meaning to write!” the spark in your eyes was a lot brighter than the past days. it was easily contagious as woobin found himself having the same amount of glee. “i’ll print the last parts and let you read, wait.”

woobin shook his head, a smile crossing his brim as he watched you go to your workspace to do what you said. as he finished setting up your lunch, he took a seat and waited for you. just like you, woobin was experiencing fewer symptoms. his voice was no longer that raspy and he was able to post new song covers almost every week regardless of his current busy schedule with other recordings.

“here!” with unwavering enthusiasm, you extended your hand for him to reach the printed papers. you sat on the seat across him, gazing at the food which only made your mouth water. eyes already feeding off the sight of the meat dishes.

“this is quite interesting,” woobin remarked. “is this the last one?”

you nodded at his words when he showed you the last page. “i figured that it could be the best way to end it.”

“it sure does.” woobin served you by putting meat on the top of your rice. “eat up.”

just like the past days, you enjoyed lunch with woobin. a few talks here and there, though most of the time the two of you were silent. not the terrible kind of silence, but a good one. something comforting. and maybe that kind of silence was all you needed.

after the meal, the two of you sat on the couch. the television served as background noise as you run down the things you have to do this afternoon.

“you seem to be happier the past days, did you get yourself another contract?” woobin asked once you were done telling him where to drive you today, the flower shop and to your editor’s place.

“i do?” you caught sight of the lone photograph of roses on your wall. the poetry that accompanied it once was now resting on your table. “i haven’t been coughing recently.” your cheerfulness evident when your eyes wrinkled into crescents as you turned your head towards the direction where woobin was sitting. “maybe he’s starting to like me!”

a soft beam hugged woobin’s visage, contented with the result you were having. for your own flower to stop blooming, that was all he wished for. his mind got him best though, speaking without much thought as he eyed the last poem you wrote once again. “or maybe you’re starting to like him less.”

blinking in confusion, woobin handed you back the printed papers you gave him earlier. it was on the last page. the words were probably a clear indication of your feelings.

zest gone. pen dropped. book closed. lock kept. no word survived.

those words weren’t the most gleeful of words, but it carried freedom. something you’d been wishing you could get out of taeyoung’s labyrinth of roses. something you never knew would finally come to you.

“right?” woobin pulled you out of your own thoughts. “i’ve been coughing less as well and i can guarantee that you’re the only one i like.”

“that means…?”

“you’re slowly moving on, y/n.” woobin gave your head a light pat. his beam growing warmer as he looked at you. “you’re moving on.”

before going to the place where you were to meet your editor, you asked woobin to stop by the flower shop. knowing your editor, she’d probably love some dahlias and irises.

upon entering the shop, the same floral scent you had been accustomed to since you were younger embraced you. however, instead of taeyoung greeting you, the expression in his face— wide eyes after a gasp— was a little perplexing. you raised a brow at him, stepping closer to the counter with woobin following you from behind.

“dah—”

“can we have a moment?” taeyoung’s question interrupted your own set of words.

with a head tilted to the side, you didn’t make an effort to hide your confusion. the seemingly forced smile he had, which was quite too awkward for your liking was not a help at all. you turned to look at woobin, asking if it would be alright for him to wait. “will it be okay?”

“sure.” woobin shrugged, trying to act as nonchalant as he could. something he was successful in doing so. “i’ll buy you a drink while i wait. just send me a message if you’re done.”

“thank you, woobin.” and with those words said, you watched woobin leave the establishment. as soon as he did, your stomach sunk. there was no one else in the flower shop, it seemed like the other staff had already left.

taeyoung gestured to you to sit on an empty stool next to the counter, but you declined. instead, you leaned to it, urging him to speak what he wanted to talk about. he wasn’t the kind to be hesitant with such, but now, it was as if his tongue was tied in hundreds of knots and words can’t just be delivered.

“you’re experiencing hanahaki, right?” a stiff start. not only you, but taeyoung could feel how unnatural it sounded. no cheeky grins, no bright tone. it was flat and dripping with nervousness you weren’t aware taeyoung could be under the state of. “how are you?”

“i’m alright.” you chuckled at his words, letting loose of the already tensed atmosphere. as much as you were nervous for what was to come, you didn’t want it to spread on your formerly cheerful mood. “come on, taeyoung. i’m not going to be mad or anything.”

it partially helped taeyoung who had a small smile on his visage. but his eyes were still unable to meet yours as he locked his gaze on something else, the flowers healthily blooming inside the shop. “you were coughing out… roses, right?”

you hummed as a reply. finally taking the offer to sit. “yes, your favorite.”

“that means that you like me?” taeyoung took the seat next to your stool.

surprisingly, instead of worrying about how your little secret got figured out, you had an opposite feeling. you were relieved. there was no anxiety about him giving you the possibly worst rejection, no concern about how he could possibly shatter a thorned heart.

whatever made him realize such a thing, you were thankful. at least you no longer have to go through excessive explanations.

but there was something you would want to clarify.

“i used to like you a lot,” you said, giving an emphasis to the phrase: used to. a relieved sigh left your lips, satisfied with how everything was happening. it wasn’t as bad as you imagined. “you don’t have to worry now though, i’m gradually moving on.”

“still. you had to suffer from that for years,” he trailed. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay taeyoung.” your tight-lipped smile turned into a genuine one. the moment you shifted your gaze to look at taeyoung, you met his eyes. regardless of the pain it brought you, there was in no way you saw yourself blaming taeyoung. you liked him. and that summed it up. “your brightness was a blessing and never did i regret liking you despite the thorns and petals brought by it.”

his slightly soaked eyes were an indication of his former worry, which was slowly being washed away by a good amount of reassurance. “i’m glad.”

“you no longer have to worry about the roses, taeyoung.” stripping down the photographs on your wall for the past days, you replaced them with other photographs. you were sure the delusion was coming to an end. yes, the roses were indeed beautiful. but its thorn wasn’t as astonishing. “it’s withering.”

a stray tear slipped out of your eye and taeyoung didn’t only catch the tear, his arms were wrapped around you in such a warm hug. you were sure no petals would come out of your lips again. the warmth that embraced your body conveyed a closing home.

it’s time to move out and find a home that has no garden.

you no longer despised the spring. the beautiful flowers surrounding the town were no longer catching distasteful looks from you. your lungs free from spring. hand wrapped around woobin’s, the warm rays of the remaining afternoon sunlight filtered through the thick leaves of the trees the two of you would pass by.

another book was published, all containing the last words for your former muse. the title didn’t hide anything, quite an obvious choice: kalopsia.

three times a week you would go out for a book signing while woobin, now your boyfriend, would fetch you every time. he was busy himself with the recording of his album which was to be released by the end of the month. but he never missed going to the venue where your book signing would take place. by now, he probably had about nine signed copies of your book.

“you experienced hanahaki as well, right?” you asked woobin as you passed by a shop that had orchids hanging on the wall. petals of lush yellow, pink and purple decorating it.

woobin chuckled, taken aback by your unexpected question. “i did.”

“how was it?”

“it was weird. i mean coughing out petals so suddenly.” he looked at you, only to see your furrowed brows. something that made him laugh once again. “what do you expect me to answer?”

“that made you realize that you like me?”

“don’t be silly. even before the first petal left my lips, i knew i already liked you.” a contented smile graced his brim. even before that, the way his heart would thump in his chest as if it had run a marathon, the way a dumb smile would hang on his lips once he saw you, the way he would be subconsciously adoring you while you were busy writing, the way he wanted to be beside you, the way he wished to hold you closer— it all happened before a petal of orchid escaped the confines of his mouth.

a faint blush became apparent on your cheeks, giving it such a cute color. “and up until now you still like me…”

“correction, it’s liked. past tense,” woobin said, laughing at how your expression shifted. he took a big step and stopped right in front of you, he turned to face you with his hand still holding yours. “now, i love you.”

the weather wasn’t as hot since the sun was preparing for the twilight, but your cheeks were. it was accompanied by the wild flutters in your stomach. letting go of woobin’s hand (a reflex to hide how flustered his words got you), your ears were enveloped by his sweet, sweet chuckle. you walked past through him in such rushed footsteps, a peal of laughter escaping your lips as you did so. “i can’t believe you had to say that in that way.”

however, you were not even that far from him when woobin caught you. your steps halted when he locked you in a back hug, giving your cheek a light peck which simply made it more flushed. “i love you more than you’d ever know,” he carefully whispered to your ear.

you chuckled at the gestures, his words tickling you. regardless of how playful it seemed to be, you knew woobin was dead serious with it. he detached himself from you, only to hold your hand once more and walk beside you.

glancing at your interlaced fingers, you leaned your head to his shoulder. “i love you too, woobin.”

“i love you so much, y/n,” he replied, gently squeezing your hand.

to be able to look at the flowers without thinking about how they budded in your body, to rest every evening without worrying about the petals disrupting your serene night, to be right next to the person you love and loves you, there was nothing else you could wish for.

the flowers in your chest had long ago stopped blooming. it went the same way with woobin. but little did you know... orchids started blooming on someone else’s body, slowly growing on the chest of the person who once caused you to have roses hugging your lungs.

and just like how you first found those roses beautiful, taeyoung thought those orchids were too.

#cravity imagines #cravitywriters #cravity oneshots #cravity x reader #kpop imagines #seo woobin #kim taeyoung #woobin x reader #taeyoung x reader #cravity

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charincharge · 4 years

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Cruel Summer, Part 24

cruel summer masterlist

AN: We’re almost at the end of this thing. One more chapter and an epilogue. Thank you all for sticking with me and this story. You make me feel like a Queen. Ok, without further ado...

All Rowan wanted was one Aelin-free day to wallow. He even called in sick for the first time in his entire gods damned life to accomplish it, but no – it seems the universe has other plans for him. He can’t escape her. Even on his day off, she manages to appear and twist the knife into his stomach a little further.

The door slams too loudly beneath his touch as he exits his truck, and Manon has the good sense not to ask him if he’s okay. He’s obviously not okay. And he knows when he’s been played. Manon specifically asked him to come inside to help with a drunk girl, not telling him said drunk girl was Aelin.

His chest tightens when he thinks about the way she backed into him to avoid that smarmy creep pawing at her, leaning into him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She belongs at his side. He knows she does. If only Aelin would admit that, too. If only she saw him as a viable option. A real partner.

Manon flashes him an apologetic smile, but Rowan simply shakes his head as his roommate and her girlfriend disappear behind her bedroom door.

Rowan should get to bed, too, but he slept all day in a depressed fit, and after seeing Aelin, he’s feeling far too agitated to sleep.

Instead, he pulls out his camera and hooks it up to his computer. He’d planned to do this earlier in the day, but instead of being productive during his day off, he slept the pain away. Rowan drums his fingers against his thigh as he waits for the machinery to connect. The photos upload quicker than he thought, and before he knows it, he’s scrolling through hundreds of photos. All of Aelin.

His front tooth nearly pierces the skin of his lip as he bites down onto it, as if by keeping his mouth shut he can hold back the onslaught of emotions threatening to bubble up from his tightened chest. He wishes he had a drink. He’s too sober for this.

Rowan scrolls through, wondering which photo he should edit first. He’s overwhelmed by each photo as is passes his vision. She’s so stunning. Her turquoise eyes pierce through the screen, and the spun gold of her hair glimmers in molten waves in each photo, no matter the lighting or photo composition. There’s a reason he couldn’t stop photographing her, and it’s because the camera loves her. He sighs loudly. He knows that’s not the only thing that loves her.

His heart thuds painfully against his ribs as he stops his scrolling. Because nestled in the swaths of photos of her, is a single photo of the two of them. It’s the only one they ever took. The entire summer. The only proof that they were actually together. That their relationship ever existed.

He’s hesitant to click on it, but he can’t stop himself. The enlarged picture hits him like a punch to the stomach. He remembers the night so clearly, wanting to cheer Aelin up and taking the first steps to have her reconcile with her family. He remembers how beautiful she looked in the buttery twilight with the beginnings of the setting sun behind her, reflecting the metallic ring around her dilated pupil. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, couldn’t resist leaning his face against the smooth skin of her shoulder, breathing in her floral scent and snapping a picture.

He’s knocked over by the way her eyes light up as they look at him, her smile nearly blinding. Joy oozes off the photo, jumping out of the screen, and despite his mood, Rowan can’t help loosen the tooth that pierces his bottom lip, release his feelings and smile. They did exist, and he’s never been more grateful for the tangible evidence. He wants to print this photo and frame it, no matter what happens in the future. He wants to remember them just like this. Wind-tousled and blissfully happy, attached at the hip and in disbelief that they could ever feel this kind of contentment with another person.

He works for an hour, adjusting the color levels and editing the photo. There’s something soothing about returning to the methodical process of changing the lighting and adjusting exposure, getting rid of shadows, until all that remains is a perfect shot of the two of them. By the time he’s finished, he feels somewhat better.

Rowan pauses, admiring his handiwork, impressed at how quickly his editing skills came back to him. He forgot how natural it is for him to sit at a computer. It’s his second language. Before he has time to second guess himself, Rowan opens up an email.

mailto: aelin.ashryver

sender: rwhitethorn

subject: (no subject)

I emptied my photo card and remembered you wanted this one. I have… a lot more of you if you want them. Just let me know.

He attaches the photo and immediately clicks send. He doesn’t want to reread what he said. He’s sure he sounds like an idiot, and he’s positive she doesn’t want the photo anymore, but he can’t not send it to her. He needs her to see it. To have that concrete proof, too. To remember them.

A sudden wave of exhaustion crashes over Rowan, and he glances at the clock. 4am. He groans. His alarm is going to go off far too soon. And he absolutely can’t call in sick again. He closes the laptop and places it next to him, and he’s asleep before he even has time to change out of his clothes.

His dreams are vivid, a whorl of colors and pictures and feelings. Unsurprisingly, everything is Aelin. He sees her on that dance floor, dark eyes pulling him in, her clothes like a second skin over her curves. He imagines himself with her, hips pressed together, arms tangled and pulling each other close enough to breathe the other in while the music pounds overhead. Their lips are like magnets, meeting again and again, without a care in the world for the busy club around them, not caring who sees or watches as her lipstick smudges all over his face. Her phantom hands caress his face, and he feels hot all over.

Rowan wakes in a tangle of his sheets, sweaty and breathless. He’s shocked to see he’s up before his alarm has gone off, a rarity, especially given how late he went to bed, but his adrenaline pulses through him, ensuring he’s solidly awake. He groans and opens his eyes, looking around his room, immediately snagging his sights on his closed laptop. He’s sure Aelin hasn’t emailed him back. It’s barely been four hours. She’s surely still sleeping off her hangover, but that doesn’t stop himself from opening the computer and checking.

His heart jumps when he sees an email waiting with the word Ashryver. But upon a second glance, it’s an email from a different Ashryver than he was expecting. His stomach knots as he reads the email. This can’t be good.

mailto: rowanwhitethorn

sender: evalinashryver

subject: Urgent – Meeting Today at 2PM

Rowan,

Apologies for the late notice, but your presence is requested for a one-on-one meeting today to discuss your employment. A work matter has been brought to our attention that requires immediate discussion. Your manager has been informed that you are to report to our home office for your lunch break at 2PM today.

Best,

Evalin Ashryver

Rowan reads the email three times, his pulse racing faster each time he rereads. An email from Aelin’s mom, wanting to discuss a work matter that requires immediate discussion? That can only mean one thing – the Ashryvers somehow know about his relationship with Aelin, and now with only four fucking days left of his employment, he’s going to be fired. As if the Ashryvers needed another reason to dislike him.

He groans loudly and lets his head fall to his keyboard in frustration. This is the last thing he needs. He’s already feeling awful. He doesn’t feel like defending his love life to the parents of the girl who just brutally discarded him. At least he can tell them in all honestly that things are over.

Rowan tries to take his time in the shower, hoping it’ll calm him down, but the warm water just makes him feel overheated in his own skin. He can’t bring himself to stand in the shower any longer, starting to feel ill. He brushes his wet hair and puts on his cleanest uniform before heading out of the house. The least he can do is look composed.

He arrives at the park a full thirty minutes before his shift. He walks into the employee room to make himself a cup of coffee; he’s going to need some extra caffeine today.

Lorcan and Elide are already in the kitchen, completely wrapped up in each other. Rowan laughs softly at them, the picture of perfect summer love – Lorcan’s hands in Elide’s back pockets, and Elide tugging at Lorcan’s neckline, impatiently trying to bring his lips down to her level.

The pair jumps apart quickly at the sound of Rowan’s laugh, but he waves them off, insisting he doesn’t mind. The smile drops off his face when Lorcan turns to him with a serious expression, though, reminding him of why he’s at the park so early, and what awaits him later today.

“You don’t know what she wants to talk about, do you?” Rowan ventures to ask, and Lorcan shakes his head.

“Sorry, man.”

Elide looks confused, and Rowan fills her in on the ominous email he received this morning. Elide’s brow furrows, trying to come up with an alternate reason that Evalin Ashryver would need to talk to him, but even the optimistic girl is at a loss.

Lorcan slaps his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be okay.”

Rowan isn’t as confident.

Minutes feel like hours as Rowan spirals into dread mode. He spends the morning letting people onto the swings, but nothing is distracting enough to keep his mind off the impending conversation about his employment. Despite Rowan’s decision to move back to Wendlyn at the end of the moth, he’s calculated his move down to the last dollar and really needs this final paycheck. It’s not like he’s been able to save this summer. He’s barely made minimum wage. He spends the morning frowning away, lost in a maelstrom of possible outcomes of this conversation – each one worse than the last.

When 1:45 rolls around, Lorcan pulls Rowan off his shift and tells him to head to the Ashryvers’.

The sinking feeling returns to Rowan’s stomach when he checks his phone and sees that on top of everything, Aelin hasn’t replied to his email.

Instead of walking, Rowan gets into his truck and drives to the Ashryver Estate. He doesn’t want to risk getting sweaty and gross walking along the beach, and he definitely wants to be prompt.

For the first time all summer, Rowan parks at the head of the Ashryvers’ driveway. He takes in the large house, which suddenly looks scarier than ever. It’s funny. He’s been in this house about a hundred times since May, but it’s still as imposing as ever.

On the front stoop, Rowan pokes his toe at a loose stone and shoves his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side of that door, but he knows it’s not good. Sweat beads down the back of his thick uniform polo under the hot August sun overhead. He tugs at his collar, trying to give himself some room to breathe. But he’s finding it quite difficult. He’s been on the other side of this door plenty, but he can’t help but think of all the times he used Aelin’s window as his entrance. If her parents know about that... His stomach clenches with nausea. He’s kept Aelin’s secret, yes, but he’s been so incredibly disrespectful to her parents. He wasn’t brought up this way. His mom would absolutely smack him if she knew this was how he conducted himself this summer. He juts his chin out, ready for his chastising. He knows he deserves it. Rowan lifts his hand out of his pocket and hovers it over the thick wood paneling of their front door. If he waits any longer to knock, he’ll be late, and he knows arriving late to this meeting is the absolute worst thing he could do to Evalin Ashryver. Well, besides sleeping with her heiress daughter and sullying her good name. Rowan rubs his hand along his face. He is so utterly fucked. He can’t wait any longer. Rowan knocks steadily in three even raps. The door swings open, and Rowan swallows nervously as Aelin comes into view, looking worse for wear. He was expecting Evalin to answer the door, and Rowan feels even more off-balance at this twist. He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect Aelin. She looks even more surprised to see him, and Rowan doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so out of sorts.

She tugs at her tangled, unbrushed hair, which is falling out of her low ponytail, swollen eyes filled with confusion. Remnants of eyeliner and mascara darken her bottom lash, making her bloodshot eyes even more prominent, and her skin is pale and clammy. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was very, very sick. He watches as Aelin pulls her robe closed tighter, hiding her thin tank top and shorts from his view. “Rowan?” She croaks, her voice barely a whisper between them, echoing in the marble foyer. “What are you doing here?”

Rowan looks down and takes note of her large furry slippers. He can’t help but smile.

“Those are cute,” he says, pointing at her feet, and Aelin’s nose scrunches up as she tries to hide one slipper behind the other.

She wipes at the dark circles under her eyes, and Rowan recognizes that she’s feeling self-conscious about the way she looks. Not that she should. Even hung over and disheveled, Aelin is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen in his life. He’s about to reassure her when Dorian ambles out of the kitchen, a foil wrapped food in hand.

“What’s up?” he asks, and Rowan shrugs tersely as Dorian wraps his arm around Aelin’s shoulders. Aelin looks up at Dorian, eyes wide and unblinking, clearly still out of sorts. “Your burrito is ready,” Dorian says in a soft aside, nudging Aelin in the ribs. She licks her chapped lips and gives him a small smile.

“Do you want some lunch?” Aelin asks Rowan, her words filled with nerves. Rowan is anxious to talk to Aelin, of course, but he remembers that he’s not here to chat with her and steadies himself as he shakes his head. Rowan thinks she looks disappointed, but he can’t be quite sure.

“I’m actually here for a meeting. With your mom,” he clarifies. “Is she around?”

Aelin’s mouth drops into a soft circle as she begins to ask why. He’s about to answer her and maybe ask for any intel or advice when Evalin appears, looking even more austere than usual in a dark blue dress, her hair neatly pinned back in a perfectly coiffed chignon and a strand of pearls around her neck. Her heels click clack along the marble floor until she reaches Rowan. She greets him with a warm hug and a wide smile. “Rowan. Right on time.” She squeezes his arm lightly. “Let’s chat in my office, okay?” she says firmly, and Rowan has no choice but to nod. Aelin clearly doesn’t know what’s going on and looks as confused as ever. “Mom?” “Aelin,” Evalin chides. “When you finish your …” she pauses dramatically and nods at the foil in Dorian’s hands. “…breakfast, can you please go take a shower? I can still smell the vodka coming off your skin.” “But...” Evalin’s glare silences her daughter immediately, but it doesn’t wipe the look of confusion from her questioning face as she nods. Satisfied, Evalin leads Rowan into her office. Rowan remembers the room well from his tour with Aelin all those weeks ago, but it somehow seems even more daunting now. It’s clear the room is rarely used, despite the armchair by the window and the large mahogany desk at the center of the room. Rowan looks up and up and up. The built-in bookcases threaten to swallow him hole, with bindings going up to the ceiling. Evalin trails slowly to the desk and leans against the edge, rather than sitting in the large high-backed chair behind it. She points to a smaller chair for Rowan to sit in, and he takes his place immediately. Evalin’s face is tight with a forced smile, and he's sure any second now he’s going to receive a verbal lashing.

“So,” she begins, and Rowan sits up straighter. “It’s my understanding that your last day at the park is on Saturday,” Evalin says, and Rowan nods, his throat too tight to verbally respond. The room creaks and settles, the dark wooden floors also seemingly holding its breath to see what Evalin has to say.

Evalin pauses and holds a single finger up. Rowan watches with interest as she walks to the far bookcase and pushes slightly. The wall cracks open, and Rowan remembers the number of secret passageways and hallways Aelin led him through in their tour. So, he’s not entirely surprised to see Aelin and Dorian, crouching in the entryway of the hidden tunnel.

“Children,” Evalin scolds, and Aelin and Dorian are quick to scramble to their feet.

“Mom…” Aelin peers over her shoulder, trying to get a better look at where Rowan sits, but Evalin isn’t having any of it.

“Rowan and I are in a private meeting right now,” she says. Aelin looks like she wants to object, but Evalin pays her no mind. “No one likes a snoop.” She ushers them into the study and leads them toward the door without a word.

“I swear, she has super-sonic hearing,” Dorian mumbles, and Evalin smiles.

“I do,” she says, causing Dorian to blush. Rowan doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so flustered. It would be amusing if he weren’t sure he was about to be on the receiving end of Evalin’s wrath himself.

“Don’t let me catch you back there again,” she says sternly, and Dorian and Aelin reply with yes ma’ams in unison. Aelin looks over her shoulder one last time at Rowan before departing, and Rowan wants nothing more than to chase after her, but he’s stuck in his chair.

Evalin returns to her spot, leaning against the desk and crosses her arms. “Now. Where were we?” Rowan waits in silence. “Oh yes. Your employment coming to an end.”

Rowan’s stomach sinks. He’s about to get fired. He feels like he has to speak up, defend himself. But he’s not exactly sure what to say. So, he just babbles.

“Mrs. Ashryver, Evalin, ma’am…” He tugs at his hair, trying to work out his nerves, and barrels forward. “I’m so sorry if I’ve disrespected you or your family. It wasn’t my intention at all, but I would really love to finish out the week at Playland. I know I’ve overstepped my bounds, but I promise it won’t happen again. Ever.”

Evalin quirks her eyebrow at him and nods succinctly. “I understand why you would think you overstepped your bounds,” she says. “But, you didn’t.”

Rowan pauses, holding his breath. “I didn’t?”

“No. In fact, I was discussing it with Rhoe, and we both very much appreciate your initiative.”

Rowan lifts an eyebrow in confusion. “You do?”

Evalin laughs warmly, her smile reminding him so much of Aelin suddenly as her turquoise eyes crinkle with happiness. “Yes.” She crosses her ankles and leans forward.

Rowan pauses again and crosses his arms. “I think I’m confused,” Rowan finally admits, and Evalin laughs even more.

“I can see that.”

“So I’m not getting fired?” Rowan asks hesitantly, and then it’s Evalin’s turn to look confused.

“Fired? What on earth for?” She shakes her head. “No, of course not.”

His brow furrows. “So, what are we talking about?”

“Are you still interested in pursuing a career in tech?” Rowan nods slightly, his thoughts bouncing around and wondering what the hell Evalin actually wants to talk about. If not Aelin… “I have an opportunity for you.”

Evalin pulls out a packet of papers from behind her on the desk and hands it to Rowan. He looks over the printout and then looks back up at Evalin, who is still smiling at him.

“I brought your app idea to the Playland board, and they were very impressed. They’re going to start a development team. It was a smart idea,” she chuckles. “In fact, I’m annoyed with myself that I didn’t think of it first.” He looks over the papers in his hand again. It’s the breakdown of the app he pitched over dinner. He can’t believe it. Evalin clears her throat. “I don’t know what your employment plans are beyond Sunday, but we’d love for you to join the team.”

Rowan’s mouth drops. He’s actually speechless. Of all the things to he could talk about with Evalin Ashryver, this didn’t even make it to the bottom of the list. Never in his wildest dreams did he think she would take his idea seriously, much less pitch it to the board and then offer him a job there. His stomach churns slightly.

“The only catch is—” Rowan holds his breath as he wonders what the strings attached to this offer are. “The job starts in two weeks, and it would be in our offices in Adarlan.”

Rowan exhales, an onslaught of feelings attacking him. He can’t process what she’s just said.

“Adarlan….”

Evalin nods. “I understand that it would be a significant move, but we’d help with the relocation costs, and—”

Rowan stops her, thinking about showing up in Adarlan in two weeks, the place where Aelin lives. An awful thought crosses his mind.

“You’re not just offering this to me because I’m… friends with Aelin, are you?” he asks nervously. “I don’t want to take a job I haven’t earned.”

Evalin frowns and pats at her pearls. “Rowan, you have more than earned your spot on this team. It was your idea. But if it makes you more comfortable, you can interview with the head of the team. He’s meeting with a few other candidates in the next few days. I’ll tell him to add you to the list.”

Rowan nods. “I’d like that.”

“Excellent,” Evalin claps her hands happily. “Look out for an email from Malakai or his assistant to schedule the interview for this week. In the meantime, please send me your resume, so I can forward it along.” She pauses and looks at Rowan seriously. “Now, would you care to tell me why you thought you were being fired?”

Rowan coughs, and he can fill blood filling his cheeks with embarrassment. “Not particularly,” he mumbles.

Evalin chuckles again and sighs loudly. “I’m sorry if my email was scary,” she apologizes. “I didn’t want to give away the surprise, but now that I think about the wording, I may have misled you.”

“It may have taken a few years off my life,” Rowan says, causing Evalin to burst into laughter. “But thank you,” he continues, “I’m incredibly grateful for this opportunity.”

The study door cracks open and Rhoe pokes his head in. “Ah, did I miss it?” he asks, entering and clicking the door shut behind him. Evalin rolls her eyes at her husband.

“You did.” She looks at her watch and then back at him. “I told you. 2pm, promptly.”

“I got distracted by burritos,” Rhoe admits, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Who knew Dorian was such a good chef?” He pauses and looks at Rowan. “So, did the Ashryvers recruit a new coder?”

“Not officially,” Evalin answers for him. “Rowan, ever the humble and upstanding young man, has insisted upon an interview.”

“Ah, of course,” Rhoe says with a soft smile. “I told you he wouldn’t just accept a job offer.”

Evalin’s eyes twinkle at her husband. “Yes, I know. You know everything, darling.”

She kisses him lightly on his cheek before looking back at Rowan.

“Alright, well, I have other meetings to attend to, sadly,” Evalin says, “But I look forward to hearing about your interview.” She shakes Rowan’s hand firmly and heads out of the study. Rowan starts to follow her, but Rhoe holds him back for a second.

“I just wanted to thank you,” Rhoe says, and Rowan is immediately caught off-guard.

“For what, sir?”

“Don’t look so shellshocked, Rowan,” he says with a soft laugh. “We’ve loved getting to know you this summer. Having you around has been a treat. I know it must be hard to be away from your own parents, on the other side of the country. But, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you how proud of yourself you should be. This app was a phenomenal idea. You’ve proven yourself to be intelligent, driven and…” Rowan can feel heat rising to his cheeks at Rhoe’s praise. He watches carefully as Rhoe pauses and lowers his voice, looking around conspiratorially. “And… don’t think I don’t know who’s kept that smile on my daughter’s face all summer.”

Rowan’s heart thumps in his chest. Rhoe knows. Oh god. Rhoe knows.

“I…uh…what?” Rowan stutters, unsure of how to respond. Luckily, Rhoe laughs and slaps a hand onto Rowan’s shoulder.

“Don’t look so petrified, son. I’m happy for you both.” Rhoe looks sincere, but Rowan’s stomach clenches at an awful thought.

“That’s not why you offered me this job, is it?” Rowan asks softly. He has to know. He won’t take it, won’t even interview for it if they’re offering it to him because of his relationship with Aelin.

“No no no,” Rhoe assures him. “My wife is not the most observant human on the planet. She has no clue. You and Aelin can tell her whenever you’re ready.”

Rowan rubs his hand against the back of his neck, needing something to do. “Well.” He coughs lightly. “I don’t think there’s anything to tell anymore.”

“That’s a shame,” Rhoe says, his voice sad but a small smile making an appearance on his face. Rowan wonders what Rhoe knows that he doesn’t. But he’s too overwhelmed to think about that just yet.

“Thank you for this opportunity,” Rowan says again, and he means it.

Rhoe shrugs him off. “I did nothing. This was all Evalin,” he says with a smile. “And, Rowan? You created this opportunity all yourself.”

Rowan nods and smiles stiffly as Rhoe leads him back out to the foyer.

A freshly showered Aelin sits on the stairs, finishing her final bite of burrito, and she stands quickly upon seeing her dad and Rowan. Rhoe pats her head as he passes by, giving Rowan a sly smile.

“So,” she says, and Rowan replies with the same sentiment. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” she asks.

Rowan wants to tell her. He really does. But he’s too overwhelmed with possibilities at the moment. He doesn’t want to tell her anything that isn’t real. He can’t risk seeing her reaction to this news. Not when it could possibly break him.

“It was nothing,” Rowan says, and Aelin’s brow furrows, knowing he’s lying to her. I mean, he had a legit meeting with her parents. And no one has told her a thing. He knows she’s dying for information, but he just can’t tell her anything yet. “Where’s Dorian?” he asks, trying to change the topic.

“Showering,” she says, flicking her eyes upwards to the ceiling. “Do you want a burrito? They’re amazing…” she asks, but Rowan shakes his head.

“I should get back to work,” he says, looking at the time. He can’t believe how long they were in there talking.

“Right.” Aelin sighs and follows him to the door. “Hey, Rowan?” she says, stopping Rowan before he reaches for the door handle. “Thanks for last night,” she says. “For rescuing me.” He nods stiffly. “I know that wasn’t your idea of a good night.” He shakes his head, laughing softly. No it wasn’t. “And Rowan? The picture? Thank you for sending it,” she says quietly. “I love it.”

Rowan smiles. “I do, too.”

Aelin bites her lip and twirls her long, wet hair around her fist. “You’re really not going to tell me what my parents talked to you about?”

“Nope.”

“You’re torturing me on purpose,” she says, and Rowan laughs.

“Maybe.”

He averts his eyes, not wanting to look at her, knowing he could break at any second. But Aelin seems to accept his reticence.

Aelin sighs. “I deserve that.”

Rowan wants nothing more than to talk with her and tell her everything, ask what he should do, what it would mean for them, but he knows he needs to think about this without her input.

“Ok, I really need to leave or I’m going to be late,” he says, and Aelin gasps.

“Right! Of course. Go.”

Rowan leans in to her hug her, on autopilot, without even thinking about it. And he can feel Aelin’s sharp inhale of breath as he wraps his arms around her shoulders and mindlessly brushes his lips against the top of her head.

“Sorry…” he says, pulling back quickly.

“It’s fine,” she chokes out, and Rowan flees the premises before she can say anything else.

By the time he gets back to work, Rowan’s imagination has run off without him. He can’t help but think of all the ways his life would change if he were to take this job in Adarlan. Would he be able to pursue Aelin, even if he was still working for her mother? Would they have to tell her mom? Clearly her dad knows, but for some reason, Rowan thinks he’s more amiable to the idea of Rowan than Evalin is. Or, was this whole job opportunity a ruse to get him to be a more acceptable partner for Aelin, one they wouldn’t be ashamed of? Doubts and confusion plague his thoughts as he rips tickets.

When Rowan receives the email from Malakai’s assistant later that night, asking to interview the following afternoon, Rowan is more unsure than before.

So, Rowan does what he should have done as soon as Aelin ended things with him, he calls his mom to tell her everything.

Dora wakes from an early evening nap to answer his call, and Rowan immediately feels guilty, but Dora is more than happy to talk to her son. He explains his situation to her, getting more and more tied up in his emotions as he goes, and when he finishes, Dora is silent on the other line.

“Mom?” he asks, and Dora sighs loudly.

“My sweet boy,” she clucks. “You know I would love nothing more than to have you back home with me, but… you need to do this.” She pauses. “No matter what happens with Aelin, this is the beginning of your career. With an app you thought of yourself and are going to get made. Rhoe was right. You should be very proud of yourself. I know I’m proud of you.”

“Doesn’t it feel like cheating though?” Rowan asks. “Like if I hadn’t been seeing Aelin, I never would have gotten this chance, and I’d be moving home with you.”

“Baby,” she laughs. “That isn’t cheating. It’s called networking. And yes, you were in the right place at the right time, but it doesn’t make you any less deserving of this. You deserve this so much.”

Rowan sighs. “But…what if Aelin gets upset that I followed her back to her hometown. I’ll feel like a crazy pathetic stalker.”

“Fuck what Aelin thinks.”

“Mom!” he says with a laugh. He’s never heard her swear so casually before.

“This is about you. And she should support you, even if she doesn’t want to date you.”

Rowan hesitantly agrees. It’s not like Aelin works for her parents. In fact, she’s told him many times she never wants to, and hates going into the Ashryver offices. And Adarlan is a big city. The chances of him accidentally running into her are slim.

Feeling slightly appeased, Rowan thanks his mom and preps for his interview. His feelings for Aelin aside, he wants this. He just hopes he can start believing he deserves it, too.

~*~*~*~

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#rowaelin #aelin x rowan #cruel summer au #amusement park au #charincharge writes

253 notes · View notes

aboxthecolourofheartache · 3 years

Note

Maybe 93 “You have the most amazing eyes.” for Lin Chen? (I can't stop thinking about foxy eyes. No thoughts, only Ever Onward and cyberpunk book series AU)

Fox spirit AU might be on unintentional long-term hiatus while [redacted], but it isn't abandoned abandoned. I still have my notes and know where I'd like to go with it. In the meantime, there might be occasional extras like this one: Fei Liu runs back and forth all morning with armfuls of Lin Chen’s garden. Flowers of all descriptions shed petals as he flies, giving the impression of an extremely aggressive nature sprite. He very pointedly whisks his prizes away to the pavilion where Lin Chen hears but not see vigorous floral arrangement happening. Lin Chen isn’t sure if the end result is meant to be a surprise or if this is just Fei Liu’s way of telling him he doesn’t appreciate constructive criticism.

Everything is in wild bloom and, while the breeze is somewhat chilly so high in the mountains, the spring sun is hot enough to dry herbs. Lin Chen has his own baskets of leaves and flowers, which he sorts methodically, plucking petals, stripping bark, breaking leaves from stems. He scatters the results in thin layers atop large, round bamboo drying racks. He would usually put an apprentice to this task, but he is minding Fei Liu while Mei Changsu naps in the shade of a rhododendron on a plush mattress of grass and moss.

In between flower-gathering expeditions, Fei Liu checks on his Su-gege.

Lin Chen knows the moment Mei Changsu awakes, because Fei Liu’s bright voice pipes up. “Come see! Come see! Su-gege, come see!”

“Fei Liu, dearest nuisance, let your poor Su-gege sit up before you start tugging his arm off!” Lin Chen calls over his shoulder. “And say ‘please!’”

“No!” Fei Liu reflexively contradicts Lin Chen before the words process. There is a short pause, then: “Su-gege come see, please?”

“Xiao Fei Liu,” Mei Changsu interrupts in softer tones, “if you wish to help me up, you need not pull. Just be steady, and I can lean on you if I must.”

Fei Liu mutters something that might be ‘sorry.’

“What do you wish to show me, Fei Liu?” Mei Changsu stands with effort and does need to lean on his youthful bodyguard for a moment.

“Flowers!” Fei Liu’s pride radiates from him like sunlight. Lin Chen listens to two sets of footsteps enter the pavilion. Fei Liu’s feet are sure and his step light. Mei Changsu shuffles. Lin Chen stops his work for a moment to hear better. As he thought, Mei Changsu is definitely dragging his left foot. Hip or knee? Lin Chen wonders. What is preternatural hearing for if not to triage his patient from out of sight?

Mei Changsu makes admiring noises over Fei Liu’s creations, full of praise for his choice of color and arrangement.

“Lin Chen?” Mei Changsu gets Lin Chen’s full attention. “You should come see one of Fei Liu’s arrangements in particular.”

“Oh?” Lin Chen dusts pollen off his hands. Bits of leaf and petal stick in his loose hair. “And will the artist allow it?”

Fei Liu juts his chin imperiously and turns his face away, suffering Lin Chen to look upon his art for Su-gege’s sake and nothing more. He folds his arms across his chest and glares murderously out of the corner of his eye as Lin Chen passes. Lin Chen winks at him, earning a huff and a stamp of Fei Liu’s foot.

Fei Liu’s flower arrangements are improving. He has a good eye for texture and composition. Lin Chen, who has been an on-again-off-again dabbler in the practice for centuries, enjoys Fei Liu’s innocent daring and defiance of conventional flower arrangement aesthetics. Fei Liu might also be red and green colorblind. Or perhaps he just likes the grating clash of colors. Or, perhaps perhaps, Lin Chen sees colors differently than humans do, and Fei Liu is an eccentric human.

The particular arrangement Mei Changsu wants him to see lacks color. It is mostly white: seven white plumes of pampas grass twined with white wisteria, a central burst of white hydrangea, some white lilies, and gardenias. The only color is a pair of orange azalea blossoms on bare twigs.

“Intriguingly experimental,” Lin Chen offers.

Mei Changsu leans closer to him. “It’s you.”

“It’s-?” Lin Chen cuts himself off. He sees it. Seven wisteria and pampas tails, snowy white body, bright fox eyes. He turns around to squint at Fei Liu. Fei Liu narrows his eyes too, defiant yet sulky. “Orange azaleas?”

Fei Liu lifts a disdainful lip. “Made do.”

“You couldn’t find the right flower?” Mei Changsu asks.

Fei Liu shakes his head, ponytail swishing. He stomps up to Lin Chen and points at him. “Change.”

Lin Chen raises a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Change eyes!” Fei Liu rolls his own.

Mei Changsu gives Lin Chen a pointed, sidelong look, and Lin Chen sighs loudly in defeat. He blinks slowly, and his irises swallow the whites of his eyes. His spearpoint pupils adjust to the light.

Fei Liu points at Lin Chen’s face again until Mei Changsu looks his friend in the eye. “See? Hard.”

Mei Changsu studies Lin Chen’s eyes with the aesthetic and intellectual scrutiny he usually reserves for orchestrating overdue ruination and board games. The nape of Lin Chen’s neck prickles. “You do have amazing eyes,” Mei Changsu says. “Xiao Fei Liu is right: flowers don’t come close.”

Lin Chen’s palms are cold. His ears ring very softly. “Yes, well. If I’m too pretty, people will think I’m unnatural. So brown it is.”

He blinks again, hiding his fox’s eyes with deep brown-black human eyes.

Mei Changsu only tilts his head like he is considering a painting from a different angle. He meets Lin Chen’s gaze directly. “These are amazing, too.”

Of course, Mei Changsu gives Lin Chen no time to respond or recover after a statement like that one. Voice brisk, he addresses Fei Liu. “Would you show me where you picked those anemones, Fei Liu? Auntie Ji might like a few to brighten up her kitchen.”

And Fei Liu escorts his Su-gege into the warm sunshine, leaving Lin Chen shaken and shaking amidst the cut flowers.

#a bit out of character for the directness of it all #but I still like the result!#thank you for the prompt!! :D #Nirvana in Fire #nif fic #Langya Bang

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icykalisartblog · 3 years

Text

A Dayoun Drabble: “Aged”

Synopsis: In which Damar thinks about ageing and is trounced by his vastly-older partner. I guess this was inspired by those scenes about Bashir’s birthday from “Distant Voices!” Also on AO3.

@evenmyhivemindisempty because I know you enjoyed my Damar POV!

Aged

Damar's first speech as a Legate was invigorating. He felt a tingle in his blood that rivaled the effects of kanar, and it was mostly because he was finally able to recite his own words instead of having to listen to Dukat grandstanding and butchering his meticulous compositions. But Damar's good mood was soon torpedoed by faint praise from Dukat: "The role of legate suits you, Damar. Though I'll stick with the rank of gul. You know I prefer action." Damar gnashed his teeth as he walked back to his quarters, cursing his cowardice. He should have struck back with, "Is that why you almost blew up a ship with your daughter and me on board?" but had held his tongue because he was a miserable wretch who had only risen in the ranks because he was the good, efficient Cardassian in the eyes of their Dominion handlers.

He put his hand to the panel with more force than intended and then walked inside without waiting for the door to slide open all the way. The heady smell of fermented fish touched him as he entered and he almost let it whisk him away to happier times of bars in the capital before he shook his head, rejecting the nostalgia. A table had been set in the middle of the room, with one heaping plate of dumplings on one side presumably for him, while Weyoun sat across from it with his own, an expectant grin on his face.

Damar sighed. Why not take the bait? Things could not get any worse. “What is this ab—”

“Happy birthday, Damar.”

“What?”

Weyoun tilted his head to the side. “Did you forget your own birthday? How sad.” But he was still grinning. He motioned for Damar to sit.

Damar scowled deeply. Weyoun never bothered to pretend to be sympathetic in private, and Damar had no reason to bother masking his displeasure in return.

When Damar made no move to take a seat, Weyoun leaned back in his chair, eyes sorrowful enough to make him look like a kicked riding hound puppy. "And here I thought you liked these. Your psychographic profile mentioned you cried again and again when you couldn't afford any at the street vendors in your youth."

Damar sat down, struggling to keep stone-faced. He was not going to give Weyoun the satisfaction of being tackled—not that Damar had ever been skilled in that tradition anyway. Suffering Weyoun's continued presence was the first thing to give him the energy to try, and he still failed to muster up the required aggression. Even worse, as soon as he sat down and he saw Weyoun's grin, he knew he had done exactly what Weyoun had wanted him to do. But Damar’s stomach won out over his battered pride, as it always did, and he picked up his glass. He paused and did not take a sip. “This isn’t even a drink, Weyoun. This is fish sauce.”

“Is it? I thought it was the fish juice your people are fond of.” Weyoun stared into his own glass. “That would explain why it was so thick,” he mused. He picked up the glass and had the nerve to take a swig of it without flinching.

“Do you want me to eat or projectile vomit? I won’t do both.” Damar poured some of the sauce he had been served over the dumplings. The translucent brown over the pale dumpling skins actually made a pretty picture, but the knowledge that Weyoun would not be able to comprehend that made him quash the thought.

Weyoun regarded him with his mouth open partway and gave him that aside glance he always utilized when he thought Damar had said something particularly stupid. “If you aren’t brave enough, I’ll make a substitution.” He got out of his chair and sank down to the floor, pulling the tablecloth aside and taking something from under the dining table. He emerged with a bottle and two new, clear glasses. He popped open the bottle and poured out the liquid inside, then handed Damar a glass.

The delicate, floral bouquet took caught Damar off-guard. “Is this k’hava wine? Why are you giving me this?”

“It’s your birthday. You’ve taken one step closer to being middle-aged. You gave your first address to your homeworld as legate,” Weyoun said. “I’m just doing my job. It’s my duty to ease these transitions. And what better way to ease yours and celebrate another year of your life than with something of a higher caliber than the swill you’re always guzzling?”

He knew Weyoun was playing the game, being opaque, but hearing about his “duty” still hurt. Damar took a sip to hide his grimace. The wine tasted like a sunny day. “You wouldn’t know quality if it boxed those good ears of yours.”

Weyoun moved his hand in tight circles, watching and listening to the wine in motion. He smiled slightly, probably because he already knew he was the victor, and Damar knew if they had been in public Weyoun would have made a show of chuckling or grinning. Here, he knew he did not have to. In the negative space of Weyoun’s smile Damar could perceive the ravages of his own age, but the little wrinkles around Weyoun’s eyes were making an appearance as well. A pulse of warmth shot through Damar’s chest despite the fact that the wrinkles showed up whether or not Weyoun’s happiness was fake—he was such a skilled performer—and Damar refused to continue down that line of thought and instead dove into his dumplings and stress-ate. Stress-eating, stress-fucking—really, any action Damar took could be prefaced with “stress-” and it would be accurate. From experience, Damar knew it was difficult to eat and cry at the same time, and thus one could help stave off the other.

The repulsive noises Weyoun made as he squished the soft insides of a dumpling and contrasted it with the crispy seams kicked Damar out of his miserable reverie. He knew Weyoun was probably tormenting him on purpose over his past snoring problem, but that just encouraged Damar to retaliate by flicking his tongue into the k'hava wine and slurping it up like a child.

“Clearly, Damar, you’re the one who doesn’t know how to handle quality,” Weyoun said. He cocked his head to the side. “...Which would explain why you never know what to do with me.”

“I know enough to treat you with contempt, you regnar.”

Weyoun did chuckle that time, highlighting his wrinkles again.

Before Weyoun could return to eating loudly—if his ears were so sharp, how could he bear it when even Damar found the sounds sickening?—Damar asked, “How old are you, Weyoun? Based on your looks, you’ve made it to being middle-aged already.”

“Damar, you were present when this body was activated. Really, the Cardassian eidetic memory must not be as impressive as your people claim—”

“Shut up,” he snapped, only to immediately realize he had been the one to ask Weyoun a question and that telling him to be quiet just made himself look even more like an idiot. “I don’t mean your body. I mean… how long your line of clones has been around. And what about your wrinkles? Are they for show, or…?”

“Although initially these features were bestowed upon me by the Founders because many species prefer to interact with a diplomat with life experience, I have since earned my wrinkles many times over.” Weyoun was always excited to discuss himself. “The Weyoun progenitor was activated over one thousand seven hundred years ago.”

Damar choked and spat out a half-eaten dumpling. He knew he must have been wide-eyed and reeling based on Weyoun’s smirk. Damar barely bit back on the urge to blurt out another stupid exclamation along the lines of “That’s a long time” and instead said, “And… do you remember what you were like before your body was engineered by the Founders? Do you ever dream about being a tree-dwelling creature or something?”

Weyoun hummed quizzically as he played with his food. “I think you misunderstand the situation. I was never primitive, and I was not one of the first Vorta to be created. The Weyoun line was created during a period in which the Founders paused their exploration of the universe and focused their attention inward. I was blessed with being activated on their homeworld, the birthplace of gods.” He pressed his fingers into the dumpling skin, breaching it and spilling its contents over his plate.

Damar swallowed hard. “Did you ever visit the Vorta’s homeworld?”

“I have, on several occasions. It’s often used as a place to monitor alien species and determine if they would make valuable Dominion allies. If you’re curious, much of the planet is covered by deciduous forest.”

“But you don’t consider it a home. And you don’t think of the Founders’ home planet as your home, either.” He knew the answer, but voiced it as a formality.

“It would be difficult to consider any one place my home when my assignments are temporary. This conflict with the Federation has caused this particular mission to last far longer than usual.” He leaned over his plate, as if he could fortune tell with it. Without his disaffected mask, the unimaginable exhaustion weighing him down was obvious. “And it would be arrogant of me to consider my place at the Founder’s side a home,” he added, quietly.

What had Damar been thinking earlier, nearly crying at the dinner table? He was the arrogant one. Yes, having a birthday feast without family made a mockery of tradition and made him feel like an exile. Throughout his life Damar had done nothing but fail upward, losing home, love, and family as he rose in the ranks. But he had still had them to lose. Whereas Weyoun had been alive for almost two thousand years and had survived without them. For a Cardassian, that was not even living at all. Weyoun had no home, and had dealt with being continually uprooted. Most people hated him, and not just because diplomats were eminently hateable. And without love, he had no hope of being part of a family. Yet despite everything, Weyoun remained a beacon of strength, finding space to play despite being enslaved and indoctrinated, always ready to crush any opponent in an argument, and eager to leave Damar feeling shaken, terrified, and in love. Damar was left in awe of his power.

“You certainly made quick work of that.” Weyoun gestured to Damar’s plate. It was empty, and Damar had not even noticed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to binge,” Damar muttered.

Weyoun shrugged. “It only makes sense. I'm not offended in the slightest. Here, take some of mine.” He slid his plate across the table.

“B-But you barely had any! You need to eat some too.” He did not think Weyoun knew what he had been mulling over, but under that scrutinizing gaze anything seemed possible.

“Actually, I don't. The Vorta metabolize food rather slowly. I've been eating at this pace to feel the textures and to indulge in your dining tradition. Though your concern is touching.” He picked up his glass of fish sauce, and downed it all, leaving himself as unctuous as his demeanor. “I should be full now if I wasn’t before!”

Damar heaved a sigh. “I know I should be used to this by now, but it is shocking to watching you drink things like that... and I drink a lot.” After a moment’s hesitation, he plucked a dumpling from Weyoun’s plate. He hoped the k’hava wine Weyoun was sipping would make it less disgusting to kiss him later, because he was definitely going to be kissing him after dinner was over. Even though it hurt, he made eye contact with him and said, “Weyoun, I’m glad we met. You know that, don’t you?”

Weyoun blinked. “Of course I do. Why, I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

For Weyoun's sake, Damar did not argue. Instead, he let himself flush blue and then kept eating, providing Weyoun with an interesting array of sounds. Damar could never have asked for a better birthday.

#dayoun #damar #Weyoun #This was supposed to be a fluffy drabble about Weyoun's wrinkles #but Damar is so miserable and pathetic that it turned angsty #IcyKali's Writing

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