#fic: the language of flowers

[hekateinhell]

"Flowers," Armand spoke for Lestat's benefit. "What better embodiment of our existence than the birth, bloom, and decay of flowers? Only in paradise do petals truly last forever." 

"Renewal," Daniel added quietly. "Just because the petals fall off doesn't mean the plant is dead, Armand. The flowers will bloom again and they'll be as beautiful the hundredth time as they were the first time. It's the circle of life, and we're part of it." 

"I suppose," Armand didn't argue, seemingly content to lose himself in the black curves and lines. His eyes focused and unblinking, tongue peeking out from between his lips in concentration. 

It’s a cluster of flowers... Honeysuckle, peach, and wisteria blossoms. A dahlia, a rose, a chrysanthemum, and a lily of the valley. 

Such familiar flowers! 

Beautifully laid out on Lestat's bronzed skin by Armand's masterful hand. How many of those flowers had Armand shown Daniel in the garden he'd created for him, the last thing he had ever shown him before the veil came down between them forever?

How could Daniel help but recall now what he'd said when he shared the story of himself and Armand with Lestat on Night Island in the aftermath of Akasha? In the language of an ancient people the word for flowers was the same as the word for blood.

Blood, same as that which Armand meticulously wiped off of Lestat's skin. The scent permeated the air, arousing to the senses even when diluted with ink.

[READ ON AO3]

[planetkiimchi]

the language of flowers | l.jn

featuring: film director!jeno x artist!reader (no gendered terms), jaemin, chenle and jisung cameos

summary — jeno doesn't speak of his affection in words. instead, he teaches you that the letter "L", in his love language of flowers, is for lavender lozenges, lily of the valleys, lockets and love.

author's note: damn the stars rlly aligned for me to post this one... originally was just gonna let it rot in my drafts but here i am posting it for @strxbrymochi 's bday. happy belated bday ki !! muah ily. also, this is part of the “and they were roommates” universe.

You should have been prepared for Jeno to be constantly busy when you started dating him four months ago. But it still comes as a shock to you when Jeno sits you down on a Saturday afternoon, a plate of violet cookies placed in front of you.

"I'm sorry," he begins. The moment the words escape his lips, you know what this is all about. Even so, you keep quiet, allowing him to continue with the apology he's prepared.

"I've been signed on to do a short film, and they want us to do the shooting overseas."

Although you knew it was coming, it still comes as a punch to your gut. Being away from Jeno is hard for you, and you don’t want to let him go.

"Where to?" you ask, the words coming out before you can stop them. It's too late now to tell him to stay, and you curse your brain for being two steps behind your stupid, ever-running mouth.

"London. It's a Victorian era film, they said, about flowers."

You permit yourself a small smile. "You love flowers."

Jeno looks down, nodding once. "Yep."

You reach over, tilting his chin up. "Look at me."

He does, eyes quivering anxiously while he waits for you to speak. You’re always the one talking—rambling—and now that you’re silent, it must scare him. You touch your forehead to his, and you feel him breathe a sigh of relief.

"Don't be sorry. Go, and enjoy yourself. Pour your soul into it. I'll wait for you to come back, okay? Don't forget me when you're busy working with everyone else."

Jeno lifts up his hand, and you press your palm against his, fingers interlocking with his. "Won't forget you," Jeno mumbles. "I couldn't ever forget you."

You grin, kissing his nose. "I know you wouldn't, silly boy."

—

As Jeno wheels his luggage over the smooth airport floor, he turns to look over at you, shuffling your feet and staring at the ground. He leans over, whispering in your ear, "Blue salvia."

Think of me. It's one of the first flowers that Jeno gave you before you started dating, a secret confession you only learnt about when he finally told you what it meant. Now, it serves as encouragement for you, something to accompany you when Jeno can't.

You smile at him, eyes wide and pensive. "Have a safe flight."

Jeno wraps you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. He doesn't know when he'll get to see you again, and he's not sure if he can survive these months without you. But for both of your sakes, he'll try.

"See you later, alligator."

"In a while, crocodile," you reply, the familiar words a promise between the two of you to weather this storm together.

—

Jeno sits in his seat, flipping his phone in his hand as he waits impatiently for the plane to take off. He tries his best not to look at the time, trying not to count down the seconds in his mind, trying not to keep track of how long it's been since he last saw your face.

An announcement starts to play, asking all passengers on the flight to turn their attention to the flight attendants as they begin the safety briefing. Jeno looks at the flight attendant, but doesn't process the words he's hearing, his mind too focused on the thought of you.

He slips his hand into his pocket, his fingers finding purchase. The plastic crinkles in his palm as he draws the object out, realising that it's a sweet. You told him once that you always have to bring sweets when you’re flying, to suck on in order to prevent your ears from getting blocked.

Jeno has packed the mints you asked him to, but they're in his bag. He swiped the lavender lozenges from your stash that morning, a keepsake to remember you by on the trip. As the pilot announces that the plane is taking off, Jeno pops the sweet into his mouth, the taste of sugar and lavender dissolving on his tongue.

He misses you.

—

Jeno is rudely awakened from his sleep by Jaemin shaking his shoulder. "Good morning," the elder says in a singsong voice, and Jeno's eyes spring open. He casts Jaemin a dirty look, but the latter just grins back at him.

Jeno sighs irritably, getting to his feet and hauling himself out of the bed. His heart's not in it—not in this trip, and maybe not even in the film—and Jaemin knows it.

However, it's not like either of them has a choice. Jaemin liked the script for this film, and Jeno did too. He had plenty of ideas for the film. Despite it being a small project, Jeno believes it can turn out much better than people are expecting it to.

The only issue is that it's not in Korea. It's far away from you, and Jeno needs you in more ways than one. You are his source of comfort and his pillar of strength, but most importantly, you are his muse. Without you, he finds himself unable to function, not knowing which step to take next. Because all he wants to do is find the path that leads back to you, even if it's the worst or stupidest decision he could possibly make.

Longing gnaws at him every day, carving a giant you-sized hole in his chest. He snatches his copy of the script off the table, and Jaemin takes a sweeping glance over the room.

"You've surprisingly tidy for someone who looks like he has zero motivation to keep things organised."

"That's because all of my shit is in my suitcase, so I'm prepared to go back at the shortest notice."

Jaemin rolls his eyes at Jeno's retort, clapping his hands together. "Alright, smartass. Get moving so you won't be the last one to arrive again."

Jeno tugs on his shoes, slipping his hands into his coat and taking an umbrella before getting out of the door.

—

Your takeout arrives earlier than expected, and you suddenly recall that you haven’t checked your mailbox in almost a week. Usually, Jeno's the one who does it, collecting mail while waiting for the elevator to arrive. When Jeno had just left, you had made a conscious effort to check the mailbox every day, but now that it's been almost a month, you’re starting to forget again.

You pick up the takeout box and place the food on the table before exiting again and heading downstairs to check the mailbox.

As per usual, the mailbox is full of bills, although usually the number of letters is much fewer. You mindlessly flip through the envelopes, not paying much attention, until one of the letters catches your eye.

It's sealed with wax, which strikes you as odd—who even uses wax to seal envelopes in this day and age?—and you place it on top of the other letters to examine later.

Upstairs, you neatly place the letters on the dining table for you to settle later on. Then, you turn your attention back to the sleek, cream-coloured envelope, intrigued.

You take a closer look at the wax seal, realising that it's a stamp of a flower bouquet. Could it be from Jeno? you wonder.

It doesn't seem very likely, however. Jeno has never been one for dramatic flair, and the simple yet elegant letter practically screams dramatic. There's only one person you knows that's this dramatic, and it's…

"Donghyuck," you breathe out. One of Jeno's college friends, Donghyuck is the definition of dramatic. He loves to exaggerate and make a big fuss out of everything, and it's entertaining to say the least. Donghyuck is also chattier than most, similar to yourself, and the two of you had hit it off when you first met at one of Jeno's college roommate's place.

Donghyuck is essentially your key to Jeno's past. Jeno has been a solitary creature for all the time you’ve known him, and he doesn't talk much about his life before he met you. Besides Jaemin and Donghyuck, Jeno doesn't initiate much interaction with his old friends either. His friends respect that, so you don’t know much about what Jeno was like in the past.

However, Donghyuck is different. He loves to bring up embarrassing memories, inside jokes, and tell people old stories about his friends. You have always loved to listen to Donghyuck talk about Jeno in college, or even his first impression of Jeno when he saw him around in high school.

If it weren't for Donghyuck, you might not even have known about Jeno's friends' whereabouts now, nor have gotten to know about them.

Remembering the letter in your hand, you hurriedly get a hairdryer to heat up the seal, gingerly removing it and opening up the letter.

Dear Jeno and Y/n, you are cordially invited to Lee Donghyuck and Ha Yeon-seok's wedding...

Wait, what? You read the first line again, your heart stopping when you see the word “wedding”. Wedding? It takes you a few seconds to remember that you’re 24 now, which is almost a reasonable age to get married at. Since neither you nor Jeno had dated anyone for a while before you got together, sometimes you forget that other people have been dating for years now.

You take a few deep breaths to calm yourself, and continue reading.

The wedding is to be held in London, and it briefly crosses your mind that Yean-seok is half British. Once you’ve processed that information, you do a double take and check the date. It's in six months from now, and you have to get presentable clothes that fit the colour scheme within that time period.

While you’re wondering now to get the clothes in time, your phone dings.

jeno: hey, y/n you: hello jeno: i have... news.

Jeno calls to inform you that, regrettably, there has been a complication with some of the scenes. For one scene in particular, they had arranged for a horse carriage to be used during the filming. However, due to a miscommunication, the horse has been sold to someone else instead.

The screenwriter insists on having the horse be a specific breed for stylistic reasons, but the budget for the project makes it infeasible for the team to find a suitable horse in a short span of time.

Jaemin wants to postpone the project so he can discuss the details with the screenwriter, and clarify everything to ensure there will be no more hiccups in the production. The rest of the team will either fly back to Korea, or stay in London, whichever is more convenient for them. Since editing can be done remotely, there is little incentive for them to all have to renew their visas.

However, Jaemin has asked Jeno to stay in London so all of the important members of the team can be physically present, to ensure everybody is on the same page.

When you ask Jeno when he will return, he shrugs and says, "In two months, or half a year—I have no clue."

Although you’re upset and annoyed with his lack of a reaction, you understand that Jeno is upset too. He's suppressing his emotions, which is a bad habit of his. But you aren’t going to lash out and make him feel more demoralised, so you just mutter a quick "love you" and hang up.

After hanging up, you belatedly realise you haven’t told him about the wedding invitation yet. Still reeling from his indifferent attitude, you decide to tell him after both of you have cooled down.

—

Days turn into weeks, that turn into months, and somehow you haven’t been able to address the issue of Donghyuck's wedding. You have been through your closet countless times, and after rummaging and filtering through both of your clothes, you’ve prepared a suitable ensemble for both of them.

You’ve sent an RSVP to Donghyuck to let him know that you and Jeno would be attending, and an excited Donghyuck had sent you a video of Yeon-seok and himself clapping happily.

You have also booked a flight for a week before the date of the wedding, to give yourself time to adjust to the time difference, and you plan to stay after the wedding to spend time with your and Jeno's friends as well.

Despite having settled almost everything, you’ve left one very important detail out—you haven’t discussed it with Jeno yet.

Jeno knows that there's a wedding, of course. Donghyuck had announced it in the group chat when he and Yeon-seok first got engaged, and Yeon-seok had sent an update once the details of the wedding were confirmed.

When Jeno told you about the wedding, you told him about the invitation, and you both laughed over how excessive it was.

But if you said any more about the wedding, you’d have to bring up the elephant in the room and ask if Jeno would still be working on "Chamomile Tea" during the time period, if he'd be busy, or if he'd return to Korea before that. And that, even after all the time that had passed, remained a sore spot for both of you.

So even as the date loomed closer, your conversations with Jeno never went too far in the direction of the wedding. Instead, you tiptoed around the upcoming event like shattered glass was sprinkled over it, and you didn't know what the consequences of stepping on it would be.

Arriving in London is a dream. It always has been, since you learnt that their universities look like castles and their winter consists of dreary, rainy mornings that are perfect for staying in and cuddling while cheesy rom-coms play on the TV. But it's never been your dream to land in London alone, with no one to pick you up from the airport, standing starstruck in the middle of the polished floors while people hurry by.

Some lady you don't recognise waves at you. When you frown, squinting to see if it's a familiar face, the lady walks up to you and grins, "Hi! I'm Soyeon."

You cock your head in contusion.

"I'm the screenwriter for 'Chamomile Tea', the short film Jaemin's overseeing. He wasn't able to come because he's busy trying to keep Jeno out of trouble, he said."

You let out a short laugh. That does, in fact, sound like Jaemin's job most of the time. Soyeon hands you a ticket, folding your fingers around it before you can protest.

"Jeno wanted all three of us to go to an art museum to get inspiration, but I've already finished my part for this project. All that's left for me is to give input, not come up with more ideas. Jaemin suggested that I give my ticket to you, so here it is." Taking a closer look at the ticket, you realise that it's an exhibition meant to celebrate the changing of season from summer to autumn.

"Leaves turning brown," you read aloud. "Petals fall and colours fade, yet many are enraptured by the cooling season that is autumn. Artist Hwang Yeji explores textures, colours and more in this vibrant display."

Soyeon smiles encouragingly at you. "I've known Jeno only for a few months, and he's always been extremely cold towards everyone, but his face lights up whenever he receives a text from you. And when you order takeout for him? That's the only time I see him enjoy his meals."

Your lips tremble as Soyeon continues, "Jeno's mind is a complex place. I'd hate for all that creative potential to be wasted just because he's busy moping. That's why I offered to pick you up instead of Jaemin—I was interested to know who could be the only one to make Jeno truly smile."

You close the distance between yourself and Soyeon, wrapping your arms around the latter. Even if you have only just met her, Soyeon seems so sweet and genuine. Her honest words caught you off guard, but you are touched that she dared to say them.

Soyeon pats your hair comfortingly. "Let me know if you need any more help."

You discreetly blink back tears, ignoring the stinging sensation in your nose, and force a smile. "Thanks, Soyeon."

"You're very welcome."

—

You climb out of the taxi with a sunflower in hand and your suitcase in the other. The exhibition is held in a building with windows as wide as you are tall, the stained glass illuminated by the sunlight.

The lady at the entrance scans your ticket and waves you through with a smile, and you return it before heading on inside.

Panels upon panels of stained glass line the corridors, angled in a way that pictures of light are projected on the ground, weaving between the paintings, casting an angelic glow on each artwork.

Jaemin catches your eye before you can get stuck at any of the paintings, and shushes you with a finger on his lips as you speed up.

"Hi, jagiya," he says lowly, wrapping you in a quick hug. "Jeno's busy and I didn't tell him you were coming, so the rest is up to you. I'll leave the two of you alone, okay? Call me if you need me."

You nod, squeezing his shoulder gratefully.

—

You tuck your sunflower behind your back and wheel your suitcase to the side, silently approaching Jeno. He's completely absorbed in studying the details of the painting, so you gently rest your chin on his shoulder.

"Hey, baby." Jeno turns, coming face-to-face with you. Your noses touch, and from the corners of your eyes, you see Jeno's cheeks flush red-hot. You raise your hand to cool his cheek, but he grabs your wrist first, eyes locked on your face. His pupils dart from side to side, scouring your face as if he's afraid you’re just a figment of his imagination.

You stay in that position, Jeno’s fingers curled around your wrist, until he's convinced that you’re real, at which point his face floods with exhaustion and relief.

He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nuzzling into the space between your chin and collarbone. His hands come to rest naturally around your waist, and his hand brushes against the sunflower.

He moves back suddenly, surprised, and you awkwardly manoeuvre your arms around him. This allows you to present the sunflower you bought at a nearby florist to your boyfriend, and you’re delighted by the grin spreading across his lips.

"Have I ever told you that I love you?" He asks.

"No, but you've given me red camellias, and I think that’s basically the same thìng."

Jeno chuckles. "Basically.”

Jeno reaches for your suitcase, holding tightly onto the sunflower you’ve just given him. He turns to you, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "Well? I'll take you back to her hotel."

You frown, pulling back in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"Aren't you tired?"

You wave his concern off flippantly. "I'll be just fine. I'll crash later, and the jetlag will hit me like a truck, but I've already allocated a week for getting used to it."

Jeno snorts. "As expected."

You wave your ticket. "Hey, Soyeon's already passed up her chance to see this exhibition so I could go, okay? I'm not planning to waste it."

Jeno nods hastily in an attempt to placate you. "Okay! Let's go then."

He trails behind you obediently until you see a piece that catches your fancy, stopping to take a look. The painting depicts several lilies of the valley in a vase. Behind the vase, there are two mountains painted in grey, but the small patch of grass that the lilies sit on is several vibrant shades of green.

You stay in front of that painting for a while, impressed by the details and texture on the canvas. A shutter sound catches your attention, and you blink a few times before turning to see Jeno holding up his camera and smiling sheepishly.

He rubs the back of his neck and says, "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. You looked too good standing there, I just had to get a shot of you."

"It's okay." You look back at the canvas, eyebrows knitting together. 

"Don't you think the art style looks familiar?"

"I don't know much about paintings, so I can't say... " Jeno's reply dies on his lips, and he, too, stares at the painting with interest. "You're right, it does look familiar."

The two of you hum in concentration, Jeno resting his chin on top of your head while you wrack your brain for an answer. You tilt your head this way and that, and then it hits you.

"Park Jisung," you say at the same time Jeno does. "How did you–"

Jeno points at a small square of text. "It says right here. Park Jisung, 24, oil on canvas." You mentally slap your forehead. How could you forget that museums put up a description of each artwork and its artist? You must be too tired from the flight.

"That's right, " you say. "That's why it looks so familiar. Contrasting colours was one of the most defining aspects of his style."

You met Jisung at a kids' art camp when you were in university, and the two of you had learnt a lot from each other while teaching the kids. You were surprised to find out that he was two years your senior in a different university, despite being the same age as you.

You lost contact with him after that, and were very, very shocked to see him at Jeno's college reunion. Although you don't speak much to Jisung now, the things you learnt from him at that one camp will stick with you forever.

"That kid's insane," Jeno muses. "He skipped a year in elementary, lived with hyungs he barely knew in university, and did side jobs because he hadn't gotten a scholarship to pay for his tuition fees, unlike Yeon-seok."

You shrug. "Maybe not 'insane'. Just determined."

Jeno nods. "And he's not much of a kid anymore, is he?"

You shake your head with a smile. "Not anymore."

—

As you wander around with Jeno, stopping at paintings to admire them, a sense of melancholy threatens to overwhelm you, slipping between your eyelids like a mass of black water, a receding wave preparing to crash upon the shore of your eyelashes.

You blink back thoughts of insecurity, trying to focus on the artworks and not your feelings, but it’s no use. You can’t escape from the thoughts running wild in your head, and it gets the better of you, a lone tear managing to get past your barriers, trailing slowly down your cheek.

You subtly wipe it away, but Jeno notices immediately, and he stops short.

He turns towards you, concern emanating off his being, and it offers you some comfort. He holds you carefully, like he’s not sure if you’ll break apart in his hands. His body shields you from anything else in the museum, encasing you in a bubble of protection and silence.

You breathe in deeply; once, then twice. You feel the heat behind your eyes slowly fading to a simple stinging sensation, one that doesn’t make you feel completely helpless.

Jeno’s hands tighten around you, and you instinctively lean in towards him. He doesn’t speak, allowing you to unravel the spool of thread wrapped around your lungs, prying apart the anxiety that prevents you from breathing.

When you can think straight again, you look at Jeno, and he knows.

Without words, understanding passes between you, and Jeno knows everything that’s running through your mind.

He nudges you, gently. Are you okay? his eyebrows ask, raising so high they almost disappear into his fringe.

You can lie about a lot of things, like why you came to the museum in the first place or how you feel staring at the art on the walls or whether you’re okay right now, but you don’t. Because you know that regardless of what you say, Jeno will see right through you like you’re a ghost. You’ll never understand if it’s because it’s you, or if everyone’s feelings are transparent to him. You don’t think you care.

It’s enough to just stand there, weightless. You’re completely supported by Jeno, whose embrace is so tight it’s practically lifting you off the ground, and you;re not complaining.

If he could lift your burdens off your mind the same way he’s lifting your feet from the ground right now, he would. And you would want him to.

“I feel like my art’s worth nothing if it can’t be shown to the world.” You speak slowly, uncertainly, knowing you might cry if you let everything out too quickly. Jeno wants to stop you before you get caught up in the flow of you words, but he knows it’s better if you let it all out.

Opening a bottle of carbonated soda that’s just been shaken is dangerous, but if he leaves it alone, the bottle might just explode.

“I know I don’t make art to be seen. I make it for myself. But at the same time, can any artist say that their craft is not made for the eyes of man? We all long for approval and praise, and that is partly what we make art for.”

Your lips tremble, and Jeno finds himself forced to stare at your quivering eyelashes and the sheen of tears you’re barely holding back. Still, you steel yourself, digging your heels into the ground to steady yourself.

“I wonder, sometimes. If my art isn’t seen, is it even art anymore?”

That’s the minefield, the question Jeno can’t answer without speaking baseless comfort. He has no answer to it, only empty words that he knows will fail to put you at ease.

You, however, don’t expect an answer. You look curiously at Jeno, waiting for a response, but the response doesn’t have to be a satisfactory answer.

Jeno leans in, tucking your head between his chin and his collarbone, placing a kiss on the crown of your head.

He holds you there until you’ve stopped trembling. Then, one hand still firmly in yours, he takes you back to the hotel, sitting on the edge of your single bed while you sit and stare into nothingness.

When you make no move to get changed, he stands, and brings you to the bathroom. He peels the clothes from your body, helping to scrub your skin until it’s a rosy shade of pink, then wraps you in a towel and moves your arms to dry your body.

After he’s showered, the two of you sit on the bed, Jeno on top of the covers, while you’re tucked underneath them. Jeno has no change of clothes, no money, only his phone and both of your tickets to the museum.

In his street clothes, he refuses to get under the blanket and dirty the bed, but you are content with his presence.

You lie on the bed with your arms wrapped around Jeno’s waist, and when the shock has faded, you cry yourself to sleep.

Jeno is there throughout it, a beaming light in the whirlwind of emotions you’re experiencing, a constant presence that grounds you. He allows you to breathe between sobs, until they slowly fade away and your eyes close, motionless.

The next day, you find a wreath of galaxes on your bedside table, along with a glass of water, and it feels like a great weight has finally been removed from your shoulders.

The day of Donghyuck’s wedding comes earlier than you were expecting. Between taking you out to dinner and going on bike rides around the city, Jeno has kept you busy. Busy enough to forget your troubles, or at least for you to be able to cope with them in a relatively healthy manner.

You hear three knocks on the door, and as you go to open it, you see Jeno standing there, in the emerald green tuxedo you picked for him and the matching tie. His shirt is a pale green, so pale it can be mistaken for white, and gel gives his hair a wet gleam.

He smiles innocently, and it outshines all the charm his outfit has.

You fell in love with all of Jeno, after all, not just his appearance.

Your sage green dress flows past your ankles, and it would drag on the floor if you weren't wearing heels. They’re tall, but even with them on, you are still only the same height as Jeno. He grins at you, and carries you, bridal-style, into the lift lobby.

“Leave some room for the grooms later, stop trying to one-up them,” you joke, but Jeno only hoists you up into a more comfortable position.

“No can do,” Jeno says cheekily.

You don't pursue it.

—

A surprise awaits you in the car. As you open the door to the passenger side, you find that it’s filled—and so is the driver’s seat. Your heart skips a beat, thinking you must’ve gone to the wrong car, but the sight of the driver’s face makes you do a double take.

“Jisung?”

Jisung offers you a shy grin. “Yep, it’s me.”

“Is it really you? I thought… I never thought I’d see you again! How–” your words come out from your mouth before you can think them through, your rapid-fire Korean faltering in your confusion.

“Donghyuck and I are friends, remember?” You don't really, but if Jeno and Jisung are friends from college, it makes sense that Donghyuck would know them both too.

You clap a hand over your mouth, mind reeling. “So… you were invited to the wedding too?”

Jisung nods. Then, he gestures towards the lady in the driver’s seat. “I also have to introduce her to you. Y/n, meet Yeji. Yeji, Y/n.”

Yeji offers her hand for you to shake, and you take it, wondering where you’ve heard the name before. Yeji, Yeji, Yeji… Ah. You’ve got it. “Hwang Yeji?”

She’s the artist who organised the exhibition Soyeon had given you tickets to view. It was there, at the museum, that you saw Jisung’s art. If she really is Hwang Yeji, then everything will make sense.

Yeji nods. “Pleasure to meet you.”

She picks up a small bouquet of pink peonies, orange tulips and heather, presenting it to you. “Jisung showed me a few of your pieces, mostly older ones,” she says by way of explanation. “They had the potential to become something more. I heard from Jeno that you’d seen my exhibition, so I know you probably like flowers, and you know that I like them too. So this bouquet is an invitation for you to work with me some time, for us to perhaps collaborate on another exhibition in future.”

You are taken aback by the sudden offer, but you’re not an idiot. You remember the way you had collapsed into Jeno the week before, scared that you would never be able to get your art out there. Now, your chance is right in front of you.

You take it.

Gratefully receiving the bouquet, you don’t miss the symbolism of the flowers, the goodwill the arrangement holds. You know it is intentional.

“Thank you for your offer. I look forward to working with you.”

Yeji shakes your hand heartily, and you and Jeno get into the backseat.

After settling in, you rest the bouquet on your lap, and you turn to see Jeno holding a white rose. You frown, wondering where he could’ve conjured it from, and lock eyes with Jisung in the driver’s mirror. You raise your eyebrows in question, and he shrugs innocently.

You roll your eyes at the conspirators, but turn your attention back to Jeno. Jeno carefully slips the white rose into the side of the bouquet, managing to prevent it from looking uneven. You play with the petals of the rose, its symbolism clear in your head.

Used to congratulate people on career successes, your mind supplies helpfully. The only career success you can think of right now is also the most recent one, Yeji’s offer to you. But there’s no way Jeno could have known that Yeji would put that offer out. Unless…

“Did you know?” You ask, tone accusing. You doesn’t have to finish the question; Jeno understands what you’re talking about.

“No, I didn’t know if Yeji would offer to work with you for an exhibition. Jisung only told me that he had shown Yeji your art, and I had faith in your abilities. I knew that after witnessing the extent of your talents, Yeji would have something good to offer you, career-wise.”

You can’t argue with that. The logic is sound, and the flowers are cohesively pretty. You continue to play with the petals, a small smile dancing on your lips.

The smile doesn’t escape Jeno’s attention, and he smiles too.

—

It starts to drizzle as soon as you reach the wedding place. Jeno is quick to procure a clear umbrella, holding it for both of you. He knows you wouldn’t want to get your clothes wet.

Jaemin is there too, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers, standing by the side. Donghyuck’s wedding is a loud, chaotic one, with many guests you don't recognise all talking with each other. Jaemin hovers at the vague edge of the crowd, as much of an introvert as Jeno, and you tug Jeno over.

“Hi, jagiya.” Jaemin envelopes you in a warm hug, and he smells like home.

Jeno opens his hands for a hug too, but Jaemin only laughs and swats his hand away. Jeno slings one hand over Jaemin’s shoulder, and you snatch his umbrella away, going off to find Donghyuck.

The two men stand side by side, Jaemin still holding the umbrella, watching you disappear into the hordes of people.

—

The rain gets heavier, and you try to occupy as little space as possible, not letting a single part of your body protrude from under the umbrella. Droplets of rain splash onto your shoes and your face, and you wipes them from your face with the back of your hand.

Jisung stands beside Donghyuck and Yeon-seok, with Chenle, Jaemin’s old roommate, and a couple of other men you can’t remember the names of. Donghyuck and Yeon-seok’s roommates from university, you think, because you remember seeing them at the reunion.

You congratulate the grooms, and move to stand next to Yeji and Jisung. The small circle are the only people that have gotten a chance to speak with Donghyuck and Yeon-seok, and by the looks of it, their conversation isn’t going to end anytime soon.

Yeji makes small talk with you, and you laugh about a few shared experiences, before you notice the crowd starting to disperse, and the officiator announces that the wedding is beginning.

You move back to where Jeno is, and he leaves Jaemin with his umbrella, ducking under your umbrella to join you.

The wedding is simple and sweet, and there are tears all around as the two bridegrooms say their vows.

“...to love and to cherish, until death does us part.” Jeno’s fingers suddenly falter, and the golden locket he’s been fidgeting with throughout the wedding slips through his fingers. He lunges to catch it, and you finally notice what he’s been doing with his hands.

Resting one hand on his left knee to calm him down, you nuzzle into his neck, and nudge his hand open with your index finger.

“What’re you holding?” you ask under your breath.

“Nothing.” You briefly register the officiator allowing Yeon-seok and Donghyuck to kiss, and you look up at them just in time.

“Open your hand,” you command.

Obediently, Jeno uncurls his fingers, and you take the locket from him. You fumble with the clasp, but it springs open, and there’s a picture inside. Squinting, you realise that it’s a picture of you and Jeno, taken when you weren’t paying attention. Your hand is shielding your eyes from the sun, and Jeno’s firm hand is wrapped around your waist, pulling you close.

Your grip on Jeno’s knee tightens.

“How long have you been carrying this around for?” You ask, voice slightly hoarse.

Jeno looks away. “Since we took the picture. It’s been, what, two years?”

You feel your throat seizing up, and you force yourself to take a few deep breaths. Jeno has been carrying the locket around for two years. Almost the same length of time that you’ve been dating for. He’s loved you enough for the whole span of that time to carry a picture of you around wherever he goes.

You can’t breathe. “You’ve been carrying this around for two years?”

Jeno shrugs nonchalantly. “Yeah, like a soldier going off to war,” he quips. Somehow, you’ve switched to Korean, but you don't quite register it. It just feels right, better, to speak in your native language.

It fits, the same way your body fits into the cracks of Jeno’s body, the way his arms wrap around you and fit into every nook and cranny of yours. Your scars line up against each other’s, and Jeno is the puzzle piece that makes you whole.

“So you love me.” It might seem strange, after all they’ve been through, to doubt it. But it hasn’t been long, and you hate to give yourself away, to love somebody else. Every day, you wonder if you’ve crossed the line from like to love, or if you’ve fallen out of like with each other.

“Yes.” You never knew one word could turn your world upside down. The rain has eased, but it feels like there’s water rushing in your ears, heart pounding.

Then, “Are you okay?”

You hear it from your other side, your left side, and you see Yeji there, concern in her eyes. You turn your attention back to the proceedings, and see Donghyuck taking the wedding bouquet from Yeon-seok, preparing to toss it in the air.

“Yes,” you say, determinedly. Jeno guides your hand to tilt the umbrella backwards, giving both of you a better view of the grooms, and the water continues to flow off the umbrella.

Neither of them makes a move to take it, leaving the more eager guests to rush towards Donghyuck, surrounding him. He turns his back towards them, Yeon-seok moderating the crowd, and tosses the bouquet into the air.

It arcs towards the middle of the crowd, and a lone carnation falls out. Jeno reflexively reaches out for it before it can fall on the soaked grass, and he tucks the yellow carnation behind your ear.

His face is right next to yours, his breathing fast and rapid, and you hear the pulsing of his heart when you place a hand on his chest.

Jeno leans his forehead on yours, the umbrella creating a bubble of silence and tranquility amidst the loud cheers and celebration outside of it. A tear rolls down his cheek, and he smiles, the tear caught on the upside of his upper lip.

You watch as he licks it away, and brush the pad of your thumb against the trail of the tear.

“Are you crying?” you ask softly.

“No,” Jeno says, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “It’s just the rain.”

You wrap your arm around his neck, nose bridge aligned with his, waiting quietly.

“I know you don’t want to get married now,” Jeno says. “But please, take this carnation as a promise that I will never let you have your heart broken.”

You have heard false promises fall from Jeno’s lips before. You’ve faced his broken promises, seen through his lies, accepted his empty praise. This time, however, it’s different. You know it in your heart, can hear the dogged beating of his heart, refusing to hurt you again.

You smile, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll take that promise.”

—

floriography

violet: a declaration to always be true

blue salvia / azure blue sage: harbours sentiments of missing and thinking of someone.

peppermint: warmth of feeling

lavender: purity, devotion, serenity, grace and calmness.

sunflower: adoration and loyalty, long life and lasting happiness.

chrysanthemum: longevity, fidelity, joy and optimism.

red camellia: you’re a flame in my heart.

galaxes: encouragement.

pink peonies: good luck, prosperity and success

orange tulips: joy, enthusiasm and excitement

heather: admiration and support

white roses: symbolises innocence and purity. used to congratulate people on career successes.

carnations: symbolise pride and love for someone in a supportive way. used to tailor bouquets to one’s favourite colour due to their ease of dyeing.

[alchemistc]

i like your voice in person

Evan's staring at the bed like he's trying to navigate a minefield.

Six months ago that would have sent Tommy on another journey of self-deprecation, a reminder that he'd known Evan wasn't ready for this, known this was a possibility, but Evan, for all his own insecurities, knows what the hell he wants and if he'd felt even an ounce of pressure or remorse up to this point he'd have said something long before now.

Sometimes Evan likes to work it out himself, and sometimes he needs a little nudge, and Tommy watches the head tilt and the angle of his pursed lips for cues as he settles under the sheets.

"Something on your mind?" he prompts, and Evan blinks, like he hadn't realized he'd gotten lost in his thoughts.

"Uh...nothing, maybe."

"Sounds like something, probably."

Evan's smile tilts up at one corner, and he settles on the bed a little stiffly. "It's nothing major. Just. Something I've been thinking about?"

He can feel his brows jumping, can see the way Evan takes in the look with a fond expression. Evan steels himself for something -- they're still muddling through past experiences and learning how to be a bit more intentional in some of their conversations, because they both have a bad habit of reverting to flirting and deflection.

"You remember what we talked about last weekend?"

Tommy can genuinely remember about 93 percent of what he and Evan talk about at any given time, which is an astronomically high number and not at all an exaggeration. He'd be embarrassed about it if he didn't have clear evidence that Evan was as deep into this as he was.

They talk a lot, is the thing, about inconsequential shit just as much (definitely more) than the important stuff. They talk far more than Tommy can remember talking in any other relationship he's been in. But Tommy can pinpoint the exact one he means.

"You mean the roles thing."

Evan hadn't been a stranger to a little daddy talk in bed when they started to explore it, and he'd brought it up right at the start for a reason, but Tommy had taken a while to come around to the realization that Evan had sort of internalized the 'I don't have daddy issues' of it all in a way that Tommy hadn't actually meant it. There'd been little things, here and there; like Evan reaching a door before him and then bashfully waiting with it half open like he'd made a misstep; like twisting his mouth a little funny when he snatched the bill from the table before Tommy could get it. Little things.

Things that, in the abstract, yeah, Tommy liked to do for his partners, but in reality weren't actually that big a deal to him.

He'd needed to clear the air.

Evan nods. Curls a hand around his knee before he shifts his body so that he's facing Tommy. "So, I like taking care of people."

(A conversation, a month ago, Evan grimacing around "My therapist says I have to stop calling myself a people pleaser in a derogatory way.")

Tommy hums, something to remind Evan he's listening.

"And I guess I sort of built up this idea in my head that that was like, a hard stop with you."

("Everyone likes being taken care of sometimes, Evan.")

"And I'm not -- I'm not upset at you, or like, feeling guilty, I just -- I've been thinking about it, and I feel like I forgot to ask you how you wanted to be taken care of."

The thing with Evan is that no matter how often he'll deflect with a joke, when he wants to say something serious he's blunt as hell about it. There might be some hemming and hawing to get there but sometimes he says things that just make Tommy wonder if he'd ever actually learned how to say things before Evan.

"I don't really have a list, babe," he says, and then sort of hates himself for it. Deflect, distract, hey baby how about I blow you about all these big feelings inside my chest I can't articulate.

Evan, though, Evan squinches his eyes and runs a heavy hand through his hair. "I...sort of do?"

"Lay it on me."

Evan grins. "That's actually one of the things on my list."

Tommy blinks. Tries to figure out that trail of thought, but he's coming up with nothing. "Okay, can you expand on that?"

"Like --listen, you know I'm a huge fan of being the little spoon. I'd let someone put screws back in my leg just for continued little spoon privileges. But sometimes I miss being the big spoon, and in my head the idea sounded so stupid to bring up but now I'm wondering if, like, maybe I've just been denying you the joy of being the little spoon?"

Tommy thinks of Evan's hands spread big and warm across his belly, of knees tucked up behind his, warm breath on the back of his neck like when Evan stumbles up behind him in the mornings whining about coffee, and maybe he blue screens a bit because he's never actually dated someone so close to his own size, because there's always been an assumption at the outset that he wouldn't want that.

Alex had been a little too into the same dynamic he'd seen Evan stumbling through, and Colin had hated sleeping with someone's flesh touching his own. Beyond that he hadn't really dated anyone long enough to really form a preference.

Maybe Kara might have been willing, back when he'd been closeted enough to pretend it wasn't an effort to get it up when she had his dick in her mouth, but they'd been young enough that staying the night wasn't really a consideration.

"And like -- listen, I don't necessarily prescribe to gender roles as a thing in general, but a few weekends ago I spent like twenty minutes staring at a bouquet of flowers in Trader Joe's and convinced myself you wouldn't like the gesture so I didn't buy them but you have a few vases in your moms old china cabinet and the moment I remembered them I felt stupid for not buying the flowers."

There's something curling tenderly underneath Tommy's ribcage that he's not sure he's ever felt quite like this before. It's not new, exactly, but it seems to be thrumming particularly hard tonight.

Three months in, Tommy had gotten the man-flu from hell, temperatures so high he'd been grounded and sent packing to rest it off, and he'd texted Evan a jumbled mess of barely discernible things when they'd tucked him into the Uber.

Evan and Bobby had made chicken noodle soup at the station and Hen had sent Evan off with a laundry list of things he could do to help drop the fever, and Tommy had spent the duration sulking and glowering and dragging himself out of bed every time Evan had wanted to change the sheets, to keep Tommy as comfortable as he could, but when Evan had caught it four days later he hadn't hesitated to do all the same shit with gusto. Evan hadn't been particularly grateful either, because neither one of them liked being laid up when the world was out there waiting for them, but he'd at least had the grace to not be an asshole about it.

He had, though. Been grateful. A little awestruck, too, at the mere idea of someone so unafraid of just being there through all the moaning and groaning and hacking and coughing, keeping the tissues from piling up on the bedside table and switching out cold packs to the freezer so he always had one ready in case he wanted it. In the clarity of a full day without fever making his brain feel like cotton candy he'd stared down at a sleepily wheezing Evan and known he could absolutely lose his heart to this man.

"Also I don't want to toot my own horn here but I give excellent foot rubs, and I feel like there's about a million other things I've just been -- holding back from doing?"

"Because of the role thing, or because all your stupid exes told you you were needy?"

It's not a night to pull punches. Also Tommy wants to send thank you cards to every single one of them and attach them to boxes with a bark scorpion inside.

"Both," Evan says without a second of hesitation. His smile crinkles at the corners of his mouth, and Tommy is suddenly annoyed with the space between them. When he holds out his hand to tug Evan into him, Evan melts into it for the space of a moment before he pulls back. "I actually kind of desperately want to be the big spoon right now, if that's something you'd be into." Evan had definitely clocked the look on his face when he'd mentioned it, but he's keyed into the way Tommy checks in and reciprocated in kind since the start of this, so.

Tommy peels his glasses off, snags his bookmark to keep his spot in the monstrosity of the Wrangler maintenance manual he'd stopped being cagey about the fifth time Evan caught him flipping through it, and watches Evan settle comfortably into bed next to him. The problem is, Tommy actually isn't sure where to go from there, which is a ridiculous thought to have because Evan hadn't either and he'd figured it out just fine.

"How do you want me, Buckley?"

The roll of his eyes is so bitchy that Tommy has to remind himself that for all his people pleasing attributes, Evan Buckley is, at heart, a huge fucking brat. Evan tugs and twists and maneuvers his arms and Tommy sort of sinks into it, head tucked in the crook of his shoulder, draping his leg over one of Evan's when he shifts his knee pointedly, a massive, unruly breath escaping Tommy once they're all done shifting.

"You should absolutely try out the rest of your list," he murmurs into the space where Evan's shoulder meets his neck. "Although you don't need to woo me anymore, I'm actually fully wooed."

Lips against his crown, pressed tightly enough that he can feel the smile against his scalp, Evan chuckles. "You don't know how good my wooing is."

The fingers shifting up and down his arm feel somehow different, from this position, even though Evan has done it a hundred times before from the spot he likes to claim with his head right over Tommy's bleeding, three-sizes-too-big-for-him heart. It's ridiculous, and it shouldn't feel any different, but it does. He wants to be greedy with it, soak it in and then never let Evan do this again because he finally understands the appeal and he doesn't want to deprive Evan that.

"This is nicer than I expected."

Evan's soft laugh ruffles his hair, and Tommy wonders if he's dumb enough to ask Eddie how long he should wait before he can reasonably beg Evan to spend the rest of his life with him.

"Save the reviews for when I actually spoon you. It's gonna rock your world." His hand drifts up, fingers digging into the dimple of Tommy's skull.

The hum in his throat has a mind of it's own, going thin and reedy and --

Evan pauses, and Tommy can practically see the gears whirring in his mind, because this is new information.

To both of them, actually, but Tommy doesn't have time to process it because the fingers on the back of his skull spread and sink deeper, just enough pressure to be more than a glancing ruffle, and Tommy can't quite help the way he tilts his head back into it, or the way he hitches his leg to press his groin a little more firmly to the outside of Evan's thigh.

They're both too tired for it to really mean anything -- both off 48's and a fumbled round in the shower while they were already bone weary -- but Tommy wants the reminder for them both when they wake up in the morning.

He can feel his eyes drooping the longer Evan scrubs his fingers against him, and the thought pops into his head as he's drifting off. He doesn't want it to disappear into the fog, though, so he murmurs it into the soft, warm skin of Evan's neck. "I like camellia's. White ones."

Evan hums, and Tommy just knows that the moment he drops off, Evan will be reaching for his phone to google the language of flowers.

[hir444eth]

some notes for my next fic :D

[zishu-arts]

drawing GATBTY instead of writing it like i’d planned

[part-time-zombie]

Headcanon/fic idea incoming:

Since logan isn't the best at directly verbalizing his feelings, he instead uses flower language to do the talking for him by leaving coded messages for the others in the form of bouquets.

The problem comes from the fact that aside from logan, only roman actually knows what the flowers mean, so every other side is now confused and panicking about if logan is flirting or not.

One day roman gives logan a return bouquet in front of the others and logan immediately starts discussing scheduling with him about an idea roman's been having. It's only then that the others figure out they've been having a whole flower conversation about projects the entire time (actually, roman had to explain it to them).

Now roman regularly wakes up to one or more sides at his door with their bouquets asking him to translate what it means.

After remus once really pissed logan off he found a massive collection of tansy and basil* waiting outside his door, with the note "thinking of you". he's lucky roman found him and told him to hide, because that note was far from flirtatious in this context.

Roman taught him how to make an apology bouquet after that.

(*from what I found, basil means hate and tansy is hostility)

[honeyywoods]

what do we think about Jack Kelly with heterochromia? either partial or total but just some form of it. we have seen Jack swooning over Davey’s eyes but what about the reverse? what about Davey who didn’t even notice Jack’s eyes when they first met because there’s a lot going on and he’s not big on eye contact and he’s only just met this guy, but then once they’re in the theatre he decides to sneak a peek while Jack is watching the show and oh. he’s stricken by not only the different hues in Jack’s eyes but by the sheer difference between him outside - confident, self-assured, if not a little arrogant - and him in the theatre. He spends the rest of the show musing about this, only to come to the very unfortunate realization that he cannot, in fact, hate Jack Kelly.

[beanghostprincess]

Your tattoo looks fantastic! But can i ask how its connected to sanuso? Im missing context i think

Thank you!! I wanted something subtle of them!! Basically, you know how all the strawhats have flowers to represent them?

My tattoo is just Sanji and Usopp's flowers together 🫶🏻💛💙

[whirlwindimagines]

Can you do a plant/flower shop au vash x reader where he's in charge of the shop and the reader is a customer and becomes a regular and they finally start dating?

I love this! Like can you imagine Vash owning a little flower shop so cute! I’m also a massive sucker for flower language lol but I apologize if it's not super accurate. Also, it's babygirl’s birthday, and well since we saw how his last birthday went! Here is some fluff <3 So happy birthday to my favorite man! Also, requests are open for anything, please send some in! (warning corny af writing below this is like 2700 words of fluff)

‘I was enchanted to meet you’

Vash x Reader (Modern AU)

It starts with an impulse, you were having a terrible day, honestly, you were on the verge of tears and you just needed a little pick me up. Just to add insult to injury you had been caught out in the rain, you were soaking wet and miserable when you passed the little flower shop, you decided screw it! you deserved some nice flowers… and to get out of this weather.

So, without a second thought, you enter the small shop, a bell overhead going off as you do so. It's a charming little shop really, lots of different types of flowers and everything looks so green and fresh. You only feel a little bad about getting the floor all wet, but like plants need water, right? So, it was okay…surly.

“Hi! Can I help you?” a kind voice calls out, and it makes you jump you were so lost in thought that you weren't even thinking of anyone else being here. Turning around surprised to catch the very blue eyes of a guy who gives you a sheepish look, he's a cute, tall blonde, with large circle glasses sitting on his face and he’s wearing an apron, ah he must work here…duh! “Oh sorry, you caught me a little off guard.” You say with a soft laugh, Gee way to embarrass yourself in front of a cute guy! 

He doesn’t seem to notice your embarrassment or at least he kindly doesn’t point it out. He also doesn’t point out the puddle under you, he seems a little taken aback by your presence. He was probably shocked that anyone had been out in this weather, wait… he asked you a question. “Oh um, I was just…” you trail off like an idiot, a little lost in the blue of his eyes

“Wanting some flowers?” he says with an easy smile, God you must look like an idiot. Why else would you be in here? Today was just not your day, and this guy was being so nice to you! That was probably his job, but you were just one minor inconvenience from losing it. Your eyes drift to the name tag on his apron, Vash…

When you don't answer, Vash looks you over and notices well just how sad you look. “Here, wait by the counter, I’ll be right back!” he calls out, not giving you a second to reply as he disappeared down the aisle of bright flowers. With a sigh, you follow his instructions leaning against the counter, you’ve already made such a fool of yourself, maybe you should just leave. 

But you don't, maybe you are a little curious, and well it is still raining. Vash returns shortly after he told you to wait, he's holding a group of flowers together, they were pretty yellows, pinks, and whites some you recognized like the very obvious Sunflower. It was still very pretty, but now you are just a little confused you didn’t even get a chance to look at the flowers in the store. 

He gives you another sheepish look, as he wraps the flowers into a bouquet and hands it to you. “Sorry… it's just you didn't seem to know what you want so I picked these out for you!” You can see just the hint of pink on his cheeks, the flowers are lovely. “What are they? I mean the flowers what are they called,” you ask, finding the gesture really… nice.

And the way his face lights up when you ask, well it was worth coming in here alright. “Oh! Well, these are Sunflowers, and then these are daisies and Snapdragons with some filler greenery.” As he talks, he points to each flower excitedly telling you a little fact about them, his voice is really nice and he clearly knows his stuff. He looks embarrassed after a while to be rambling on so much, he rubs the back of his head “Sorry… I didn't mean to ramble. I’m Vash I own the shop!” 

Giving him a kind smile, you take the bouquet from him, it's lovely and simply just filled with life the opposite of the dreary attitude outside and the mood you were in when you first walked in, you tell him your own name before continuing to speak “I don’t mind, you really know a lot! How much do I owe you for these.” how could you not accept them, when he went through all the trouble, to select them just for you!

“They’re on the house.” He says kindly, and you can only look at him blankly, because why? “I can pay! I want to pay these are so nice and you went through all the trouble of picking them out!” You start to ramble a little flustered by the whole ordeal. Yeah, it was his job to provide flowers, but when was the last time a cute person had gifted your flowers? 

Vash just laughs softly; it’s a nice sound and he is clearly not mocking you or anything it’s just a friendly chuckle as he puts his hands up in defense. “Really have them! They made you smile and that’s enough payment for me” Vash goes red at his words and at how cheesy they sound he starts stuttering an apology and backtracking, but now it’s your turn to laugh. 

“Alright, thank you.” It really is a sweet gesture and honestly, it did make you smile after the day you had. You’ll have to come back and actually buy some flowers. The two of you continue to chat for a bit as the rain continues outside, he must notice your reluctance to leave back into the rain. 

To your surprise again, Vash hands you an umbrella telling you that you’ll just have to bring it back the next time you visit, he says this with such a sweet smile you can’t refuse. Accepting the umbrella with a thank you and a shy smile, you leave flowers in hand promising you’ll be back. During your walk home, you can’t get rid of the smile on your face.

You do come back, giving it a week or so to return the umbrella to Vash and to pick out some flowers. But it’s a little overwhelming, so many choices. “Need some help?” You don’t know how he manages to sneak up on you so easily, “actually yeah, I’m a little clueless when it comes to this… do you think you could pick some out for me? And I’m paying this time!” You add on quickly at the end, as Vash laughs. 

“Okay give me a second” and with one last look, he heads off in search of the perfect flowers for you, as you wait excitedly by the counter. You certainly could pick out flowers for yourself, but the bouquet he picked for you last time was so lovely that you just knew he would do a better job than you ever could. 

Vash returns with a colorful bouquet in hand, your eyes light up at the display eagerly asking about each flower, he points out the calla lilies, a white camellia, and some yellow tulips. Vash goes over each flower telling you about them, it’s nice you like listening to him ramble. The flowers as always are beautiful. 

“You know each flower is supposed to have a special meaning attached to it,” Vash says offhandedly as he puts the bouquet together for you, and that makes you even more interested, but before you can ask what the flowers, he picked for you mean you realize the time and you have to leave. You make sure to pay for the flowers, tell him goodbye, and thank you before you are off. 

After this you become a bit of a regular to the small flower shop, at this point the moment Vash sees you he knows to just pick out some flowers for you. And you love it, the special care he takes in selecting each flower, how pretty the bouquet looks, and the shy smile he gives you each time he hands it over. 

You also love to listen to talk about flowers, you ask more questions now instead of it just being a one-sided conversation and Vash is more than happy to answer any questions you have. Maybe you're going too often, but you like talking to Vash he’s so cute and nice! And it’s probably just his job to be nice to you. But you are starting to develop a crush, and it's embarrassing! It must be so obvious; you're probably making things awkward. Again, it's his job to be nice to you! You are just looking into things too deeply…unless you're not? You’ve seen Vash help other customers he's friendly of course! That’s just who he is, but it's not the same. Ugh, maybe you are looking into this too deeply. 

As you continue to visit the shop, you notice some more slight changes, maybe you are being bolder more obvious, and Vash seems to be flirting with you. It makes your heart race every time. The familiar bell dings overhead again as you enter, Vash is behind the counter helping another customer he looks up and gives you a smile before continuing to help the other person. Returning his smile, you browse the flowers. Reading the little note cards by each flower makes you remember something Vash said about flowers having meanings, maybe you’ll look up some later. 

A gentle call of your name makes you turn with a smile, Vash looks a little tired, his hair messier than usual he looks like he even has some dirt on his cheek, but he’s got that big smile on his face that he seems to reserve just for you. “You couldn't come at a better time! I just got a fresh shipment. Let me put something together for you!” you can’t refuse that, “Thanks Vash, I know whatever you pick out will be as wonderful as always.” the praise makes his eyes light up. 

Instead of waiting at the counter, you follow Vash watching him pick out each flower with care and telling you the name of each one, but you notice he never tells you what they mean. A couple of pink roses, light red carnations, a bundle of colored peonies, and even some lovely irises. You want to ask what they mean, but for some reason, you don't. Not wanting to break the spell that you too seem to be under. “Peonies are pretty rare, but they are in season and I thought you might like them,” Vash says softly.

Impulsively you reach out toward his face as he turns towards you, cupping his cheek and using your thumb to brush the dirt off his face. His face turns bright red, and you are sure you look just as flustered. Quickly retracting your hand, “Um sorry! The flowers are really nice, let me buy them right!” you manage to say this without stuttering as you turn and make your way towards the counter, God you are an idiot

Waiting at the counter and trying not to die from embarrassment, Vash eventually joins you still looking a little flustered. The two of you stand there quietly as Vash rings up the flowers for you, thanking him softly and hoping not to come off as too awkward you say your goodbyes and head home. The whole walk you can’t help but clutch the flowers to your chest, hoping you didn't ruin everything. 

It's late and you should be asleep, but your mind is still racing. With a sigh, you head into the kitchen for a drink when you see the bouquet sitting on the table. It makes you feel warm, and slightly curious Vash had seemed so excited about putting this set together for you… pulling out your phone you begin to search for what each flower means. And each search makes you blush more and more. 

Pink roses can mean blossoming romantic feelings 

Light red carnations can mean admiration and adoration

Peonies can mean romance and shyness 

And lastly, irises can mean courage 

You have to sit down for a second, you hope you're not giving this more meaning than it actually has. But Vash is the expert why would he purposely put this together for you if he had not meant…this? Did he return your feelings, looking at the flowers you feel determined and come up with a plan, you are either going to look like an idiot and you can never show Vash your face again… or the better outcome is you’ll get a date with the cutest guy you’ve ever seen!

No longer tired, you spend the rest of the night researching flowers. You just hope you don't mess this up…

You couldn't wait a day longer when you enter the store again, maybe you should have waited a couple of days, but you are scared that if you don't act now, you never will. Vash is busy with another customer; he looks up a little surprised but gives you that easy smile. It seems like he’ll be busy for a while, the customer seems very demanding. Perfect it’ll give you time to gather the flowers you need. 

You think you have what you need, holing the flowers carefully in your hands you head to the counter. Vash looks a little surprised, “I know you like to… pick the flowers out for me but I really needed these ones today!” you tell him quickly as his look of surprise turns to amusement, “Sure here let me see them.” You pass them to him, and for a second you see him frown as he looks over each flower. Before his face becomes neutral, and he begins to ring them up for you.  

Delphiniums, Gladiolus, some Stock flowers, and lastly some Lavender roses. You doubt it's a pretty selection of flowers, but they express what you want to say to him. Opening your heart, sincerity, affection, and enchantment. “This is quite a selection you picked out…” Vash says quietly, and when he hands them to you. You hand them right back. 

“These are actually for you.” 

Vash looks at you wide eye as he takes the flowers from your hands, he stares at you and you start to lose your courage here, “I looked up the meaning of the flowers you gave me yesterday and maybe I'm reading too into this… but I spent the whole night researching flowers on how to return those feelings if that’s what you even meant.” You ramble painfully, as Vash continues to just not say anything at all, oh you really done it now! 

He laughs and makes you tense up. He looks at the flowers with a bright smile and continues to laugh he sees the look on your face and reaches out taking your hand in his. “I'm not laughing at you, it's just… I've never been gifted flowers before!” You stare at him blankly… and then blush you literally just bought flowers from his shop and gave them to him to confess. Of course, he’s never got gifted flowers before! He owns a flower shop; you are so dumb. 

“Don’t worry it's really sweet, I love them! And what they mean…” Vash says kindly squeezing your hand, “Um but yeah, the flowers yesterday were a confession of sorts… I was just too much of a coward to actually tell you.” Vash says with a slight laugh and a blush high on his cheeks. It makes you feel better, that Vash is just as nervous about the whole thing as you, it makes you smile and squeeze his hand back. 

“Well, I like you too…and I was hoping, we could go on a date? Start seeing each other more?” You tell him, he smiles letting go of your hand to take one of the lavender roses out of the bouquet and leaning forward to tuck it behind your ear. “That would be really nice, and I was enchanted to meet you too by the way,” Vash says pointing to the lavender rose, he gives you a cheeky smile as you blush. It was so worth it to stop into this little flower shop, you knew you managed to walk out with more than just flowers.     

[hekateinhell]

4&9 language of flowers, 2 for our house?

for the fic asks!

The Language of Flowers, Armand/Daniel; Armand/Lestat; Lestat/Daniel, rated E

4. What part of the fic was the hardest for me to write?

Gosh, the tattooing scene, hands down! I don't have any tattoos. I've never watched anyone get a tattoo. I did watch LA Ink when I was 14, so there's that.

It's funny because it's not a big scene in and of itself, but it IS the basis of the whole fic lmao so I couldn't just not do it. I wrote literally everything else (except a couple paragraphs at the end) before I went jumped back up and wrote that scene in.

I researched the tattooing process and for example, learned what order the colors go in on (this is crucial). And then I had to figure out how to integrate the flower motifs and have Armand and Daniel discussing it in a way that felt organic and wasn't too OOC. It was also a challenge because there's no canon blueprint for Armand and Daniel's relationship in the PL-trilogy in terms of interactions and dialogue (and I've mostly only written them within Devil's Minion), so it's really what you make of it and whatever you want their dynamic to be.

I think I pulled it off? Lol y'all tell me but don't roast me please 🥹

9. Did anyone in the fic surprise me by doing anything? If so, what?

I didn't plan on having Daniel's possessive streak flare up to clash with Lestat's! Like, I did plan to have Daniel think what he did, but in a softer and milder tone without the jealousy behind it.

It came out when I was writing and I debated on whether or not it was within character, but I think it would be normal given the circumstances for Daniel to have that as an errant thought in the background, at least at first. He isn't a perfect Stepford Husband, he is allowed to have his own complicated thought process and emotions, and he did come first (literally and figuratively).

Our House, Armand/Daniel; Lestat/Louis; apparently Armand/Lestat if you squint (or so I've heard and knowing me... well, I plead the fifth), rated E

2. What's my favorite part of the fic?

Honestly... The Smut Scene™️

I was really proud of that one because it was my first foray into writing kink... ever. I was so nervous about posting it because I hadn't come across anything like that in VC fic before and I didn't know how people would take it. Breeding kink, crossdressing, gender play, and erotic asphyxiation all in one? It felt like a bit much to throw into a fic with no warning.

I was mortified because I didn't want to be the first want to do it, but sometimes you have to be the first one to do it lmao. Sat on it for ten days before I posted it, and I even made it it's own separate chapter with chapter tags so people could skip over it if they wanted to.

But people were so into it, I was so surprised and so thankful @monstersinthecosmos encouraged me to post it. ♥️♥️♥️ Back then even I prefaced the chapter like- "this won't come up later in the story, don't worry, it's just for fun," but now I'm pretty sure it's going to come up again. 🫣

I also love the end of chapter 3 where Armand is sharing The Big Bad of his life story with Daniel. It's just so sad and it hurt me on a personal level to write it because those sort of things happened to people I knew. It was cathartic to write about.

[kingofech0park]

rabendā

iwaoi (wc: 2,772)

It’s only been a week since Iwaizumi first started thinking of the color purple. And also, he’s fallen in love.

Or, alternatively: Oikawa confesses. Iwaizumi tries to forget.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

“I really wanna kiss you.” He whispers. His eyes are huge and brown in the dark and there are glow stars on his ceiling that he can touch, flat-palmed, flat-footed ever since he grew so tall. His cheeks are flushed dark in the night and the blush creeps into his ears, hair messy and brown like raw umber. His lips look so, so soft. His eyelashes are long and the corner of his mouth twitches shyly, a nervous tic.

It’s only been a week since Iwaizumi first started thinking of the color purple. And also, he’s fallen in love.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

It starts out with a soft shade of lavender. More specifically, a field of gently waving lavender in which his best friend stands, a memory grainy around the edges and soft to the touch like well-worn paper. The swaying seaside breeze threads its fingers through Oikawa’s hair, chocolate-brown and so soft. The salt-scented wind, zephyrous and delicate, should irritate him; he should turn with his face all twisted up and say, Iwa-chan, the wind is ruining my hair. He should try in vain to hold those carefully articulated strands in place, a futile attempt at holding perfection in a world that is too far out of his control just like always, but he doesn’t. Instead, Oikawa Tooru, his best friend since they still cried over missing toy trucks, turns with his smile bittersweet and wistful and aching and says like an untouchable truth: “I’m in love with you, Hajime.”

He moves entirely too slow to let fingers brush against his friend in the lavender field, his friend who has turned around to face the sky and scene and anything but Iwaizumi, who all of a sudden doesn’t remember how to hold him in this meadow. Maybe there is a rough-hewn stone all lodged up in his throat, a chrysalis jamming his windpipe and swelling to fill all the space he so desperately needs. But he does not say I love you and Tooru wanders a little farther into the sea of periwinkle.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

It continues with a violet that is not quite crushed between rough tan fingers and pale, slender ones so carefully trained for setting. Oikawa picks it oh-so-carefully between pinched index and thumb, and offers it up to Iwaizumi’s grunted approval with an overbright smile. 

“Do you know about Hanakotoba, Iwa-chan?” He asks. Big brown eyes shine a little brighter.

“Not a whole lot.” Hajime admits. 

“The secret language of flowers,” Tooru says wistfully. “Each blossom has a different meaning.” He tucks it behind one ear carefully, so as not to disrupt the careful curation of his hair, of his everything. Oikawa is like that. He presents himself with meticulous attention to detail, to the length of his lashes, to every centimeter of his skin. It makes him self-critical. Nothing is good enough for him. Iwaizumi always tries to soothe the hurt anyway.

“What’s this one mean?”

“The violet?” His best friend flashes the same smile that is becoming uncanny in its frequency. It’s not quite right. It’s not quite real. Iwaizumi knows these things. “It represents honesty.”

“Honesty.” Hajime echoes. 

“Yeah. Let’s go get something to eat.” Oikawa says, turning. He walks too fast, legs too stiff, gait too uncomfortable, like a confession gone unanswered.

The violet falls gently to the stones of the road, and Iwaizumi carries it tight in his fist like a promise, or maybe a secret.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

The next shade is a deep plum. More specifically, a fresh dark plum, round and sweet and left uneaten, sliced with the red interior all dripping in Oikawa’s unopened bento on Tuesday. His furoshiki is tied tight and patterned with little translucent purple flowers. Autumn crocuses. Delicate things.

He’s practicing another jump serve and it’s the flowers on his lunch, still untouched at 6pm, the Iwaizumi stares at uncomfortably while the setter spikes and sweats and strives for just a little more. He always knows what to do, so why do the words so suddenly vanish from his tongue where they usually sit? How can he get his best friend down from the mountain he always climbs so unreasonably? Oikawa works himself to death just like always, and Iwaizumi doesn’t remember how to stop him. So he just stares at the autumn crocuses on that unopened furoshiki until the setter tires himself out.

His form is beautiful. It decays as he wears himself thinner and thinner, sweat dripping and shining all over his skin. Muscles ripple under smooth flushed skin. But Iwaizumi knows him, knows he’s killing himself this way. There’s nothing to say. He grabs onto his arm.

“Ready to go?” Hajime asks.

His best friend is frozen in time as he stares, eyes wide and unblinking, dripping and sticky, stuck. And finally, after a moment:

“Okay.”

They walk home. Oikawa doesn’t eat, the crocus-cloth stays tied, and there’s nothing to say, not really.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

After this comes a brighter shade. A pink-tinged lilac like a prettier sunrise is the color of the envelope, clean-creased and bestickered with a little red heart. Ink neatly writes across the top, so different from Iwaizumi’s blocky scrawl, the name of the girl who carefully pressed the lilac thing into Oikawa’s palms during lunch on a Friday: Yamasaki Chiyo.

It’s one of many confessional letters given to his best friend, but this one feels different. Tooru doesn’t thank her like he usually does for these, with a gentle arīgato that gives away no clear rejection but rings apologetic in every syllable. This time, he takes it with a much sharper smile that cracks across his face, the kind of smile Iwaizumi isn’t used to seeing him give girls, and he brushes aside a piece of his hair just for it to fall back in his brown eyes the same way it always does.

“Oikawa-san.” She says. Yamasaki Chiyo is pretty. Too pretty. It’s uncomfortable. Her hair is short and dark and looks so shiny, so smooth as it floats around her chin. It reminds Hajime immediately of Tooru’s hair, soft in his hands as he runs fingers through it, messing it up, and all of a sudden he remembers lavender fields and light breeze running through that same silken brown and feels a little sick. She takes a shaky breath. “Oikawa-san, I was wondering if you’d like to see a movie with me on Saturday.”

His best friend’s face is unreadable. And then: “Yamasaki Chiyo-chan, wasn’t it?” He flashes a white-toothed grin. “I’d love to.” Why is it that this feels so uncomfortable, so wrong? What about this confession makes Iwaizumi want to reach out and shake Yamasaki’s pretty shoulders until she never wants to approach either of them again, when the myriad of love letters have never bothered him before? It itches, painful, discomfort– and he can’t quite place it.

There’s another confession, one left unanswered, that hangs in the air heavy between them. It has sat there, thick and wild and terrifying, for quite some time. But all of a sudden, Hajime is unsure if it remains. All at once, the empty space of that once-weighty presence is the worst thing in the world.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

Oikawa is calling her Yami-chan by Tuesday, and she’s accompanied by the purple of a morning glory.

It’s tucked behind her ear and stands out indigo against the glossy black of her hair. Oikawa puts it there, fingers brushing against her cheek. She flushes beneath his touch. Hajime remembers the last time a purple flower was tucked behind someone’s ear, but it was Tooru’s ear, a soft purple violet that wouldn’t stay.

Do you know about Hanakotoba? The secret language of flowers. Each blossom has a different meaning.

What’s this one mean?

His mind needles at it all day. He doesn’t look it up. He doesn’t want to know.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

Hajime is six, and Tooru is still five. But the world is painted in lilac, and the purple blossoms grow all huge in the Oikawa family’s front porch plant pots.

Volleyball is still just a game and their biggest problems are still what flavor cake Oikawa wants for his birthday or whether they’ll make friends in first grade. Hajime is six, and Tooru is still five. July is so sticky and the 20th approaches so soon. They’re growing up, hand in hand.

It’s four days before his sixth birthday that they end up at a flower garden. The two boys are holding hands, too young to know it could be bad, too old to know it means nothing at all. Tooru’s hand feels so hot in Hajime’s— he’s so aware of it. Maybe it comes with being six years old. Maybe it comes with your hand being a little bigger and a little sweaty, tan against Oikawa’s pretty pale fingers. Whatever it is, he’s the only one who seems to notice. It’s four days before his sixth birthday at the flower garden when Oikawa finds out about Hanakotoba. They wander through as the patient lady explains to their respective mothers— and the two boys by proxy— the secret language of flowers. The symbolic meanings they have, the whispered truths they ache to communicate. The delicate pink sakura represents innocence and purity. The aster symbolizes change and sympathy. And the lilac is for a first love.

It’ll disappear into a faded memory, papery edges soft and near-forgotten for Hajime. And it’ll come back almost twelve years later. But Oikawa adores it. He points out flowers along the way home and yells out their Hanakotoba the same way that Hajime recognizes beetles. Honeysuckles are for misunderstandings and hatred; Iwaizumi just thinks they’re sweet on the tongue. Clovers are for good luck and promises; Iwaizumi just thinks they’re soft beneath feet running bare. Oikawa keeps rambling on about it. And even though it irritates him a little, and even though Hajime chalks it up to a silly superstition, he listens. Every time.

Tooru plucks a delicate lilac blossom between his index and his thumb and tucks it behind his best friend’s ear. It’s too delicate, too soft behind the messy spikes of Hajime’s coarse dark hair, the soft purple flower contrasting.

“What’s this for?” He asks.

“It’s a lilac flower!” Tooru replies. He’s bouncing up and down on his scuffed red sneakers. His eyes are like milk chocolate and sparkling and eager. His little hands clench into fists. Iwaizumi relents.

“What’s the Hanakotoba?”

“LOVE!” Tooru declares. “First love! Because you’re my first and bestest friend!”

“First love?” Hajime echoes.

“Yep.” Everything about that boy is sparkling. His eyes. His smile. He shines like every star in the sky.

“We’re gonna be best friends together forever, Iwa-chan!”

“Forever.” Hajime affirms.

And like all flowers eventually do, the lilac withers and dies.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

Yami-chan is, for a time, the bringer of those bright Oikawa smiles that Iwaizumi used to be the sole recipient of. Yami-chan is also gone thirteen days later.

What happened? Iwaizumi asks.

It doesn’t matter, Oikawa replies. Same thing that always does.

What happened? He repeats.

His best friend does not respond. Balloon flowers bloom in the front yard.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

It’s been two weeks since a confession was shared and left unanswered in lavender fields, and Hajime finds his purple again in a little street corner with hyacinths planted neatly in rows. Someone’s secret garden.

I’m in love with you, Hajime. And then silence. The words hang between them like a guillotine that has yet to make the final cut. The most selfish part of Iwaizumi wants to take the memory and crumple it. Forget it happened. And more importantly, forget that moment where he didn’t say, I love you, too.

The hyacinths glow purple and too bright, distractingly so. His head hurts. The color purple has been everywhere since that day. Maybe he’s scared of it. Every time he sees it, the memory flashes across his mind; lavender fields. Maybe he’s scared of it. There’s an urge to forget that aching hungry space. Yank out those pretty purple flowers from the root and tear them into pieces, shredded petals indicative of an indigo shade well forgotten, long leaves all crushed on the ground. A distinct little part of his brain wonders what the Hanakotoba is. The thought tastes bitter, and he rolls it around on his tongue.

He’s still staring at those hyacinths, neat little rows of purple blossoms, when the drizzle begins. It soaks through his white button-down and drenches his hair. Nobody is watching. Nobody is here. He reaches out and rips through the plants, a bouquet in the making as the sweet green stems snap and split under his hungry hands, ruined petals falling loose and soft to the ground.

He clenches the flowers in a fistful as he walks, first slow and then fast and then a sprint, a thousand purple stars bowing under the increasingly heavy rain. Is there still time? To fix things that are so, so wrong? To fix a moment, left behind two weeks ago in a field full of lavender, with a different purple bouquet? With a fistful of a darker, fuller shade. With anything. With something. With an I love you that’s been burning on his tongue. That he finally knows how to say.

Google Search 9:29pm - hanakotoba hyacinth meaning

Hanakotoba is the Japanese form of the secret language of flowers. Each flower has a different meaning. The hyacinth flower (purple) most commonly means: I am sorry, sorrow; please forgive me

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

Oikawa opens the door in the pouring rain and his eyes are wide. Hajime stands in the storm. The purple hyacinths are bending under the weight of the water. He wants to say everything. He doesn’t have to. Tooru already knows.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

“I really wanna kiss you.” He whispers. 

The purple blossoms sit forgotten and sopping wet on Oikawa’s desk. The walk to his room has been wordless and the I love you in Iwaizumi’s throat burns so hot and hard and horrible. The room is dark. The rain is loud. Everything is right and wrong and too much and not enough, and Hajime’s best friend’s eyes are pleading, resigned, big and brown and empty and full and everything. There are glow stars on the ceiling. Tooru is beautiful. The corner of his mouth twitches shyly, a nervous tic. He’s about to say sorry. He’s about to take it back. His lips are pink and look so soft and he’s about to say just forget I said that. The leftover bits of rain run down to meet Iwaizumi’s jaw. His neck. His chest. His heart.

Tooru is beautiful. Hajime takes his best friend’s face, cupped carefully between two rough hands, and kisses him.

“I love you.” He says, and this time he is sure.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

It ends with a soft shade of lavender. More specifically, a field of gently waving lavender in which his boyfriend stands, a moment fresh and crisp around the edges; clean and true. The swaying seaside breeze threads its fingers through Oikawa’s hair, chocolate-brown and so soft. The salt-scented wind, zephyrous and delicate, irritates him; he turns with his face all twisted up and says, “Iwa-chan. The wind is ruining my hair.” He tries in vain to hold those carefully articulated strands in place, a futile attempt at holding perfection in a world that is too far out of his control just like always. 

“I know.” Hajime says. “I’m in love with you, you know.”

“Are you?” Tooru says. Teasing. “And here we are in a lavender field.” He waits a second. A few beats pass. Hajime relents with a groan.

“What’s the Hanakotoba?”

“I am SO glad you asked, Iwa-chan.” His boy is sparkling. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t believe in this secret language of flowers shit. His beautiful star is shining. “Lavender tends to mean faithfulness. And everlasting devotion.” Brown hair whips in the wind. Tooru winks.

“Everlasting devotion, huh.” Iwaizumi muses. Picks a blossom and tucks it behind his lovers’ ear.

“Yeah. Eternity, even. Forever.” His boyfriend smirks.

“Forever.” Hajime affirms.

They walk out of the lavender fields slowly. The sky is big and blue and huge and the breeze carries their laughter. Tan fingers wrap around pale ones, so slim and cool. Hands tangled. Hearts tangled. The blossom falls from behind his ear and onto the ground, and there are seeds in it; seeds that will grow into new flowers by spring.

It’s been awhile since Iwaizumi first started thinking of the color purple. And, he’s in love.

-・・・・*‧͙❀‧͙*・・・・-

I hope you enjoyed this fic! I wrote it rapid-fire in the span of like 4 hrs so I hope it flows okay and does the story I was hoping to tell some justice. This one was totally self indulgent so its def not my best work but I had fun writing it :)

Some relevant Hanakotoba meanings: ❀ Lavender: Devotion and faithfulness, but can also mean silence and distrust ❀ Violet: Honesty, Sincerity ❀ Autumn Crocus: Beware of excess, do not abuse ❀ Morning Glory: Temporary love ❀ Lilac: first love ❀ Balloon Flower: Endless love, honesty; the return of a friend is desired ❀ Hyacinth: I’m sorry, please forgive me

Rabendā (ラベンダー) is the Japanese word for "lavender" :)

[quietlyimplode]

the language of flowers and silent things.

Whumptober 2023: Day 1 - How many fingers am I holding up

Warnings: perceived death (no death I promise), panic

Word Count: 2.3k (gif not mine)

Summary: The marriage of Clint and Natasha.

A/N: there are people that stand with you in darkness, brave the shadows and not shy away, if you have friends like that hold them tight. This is for you @broken--bow .

Friend, without you there would be no whumptober, there are no words for the consistency of friendship you have supported over the last month, and thank you doesn’t seem enough. I wish it were more, but thank you all the same.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

KASHMIR

2011

“It’s cold,” Natasha grumbles.

“Yep,” Clint replies, popping the p, and trudging on through the snow.

“How far?”

The snow is white and endless, and Natasha is sure they aren’t going the right way. Her rifle, slung across her shoulder, rubs and feels heavy, as it hits the back of her thighs; even though likely it’s her backpack that has the weight.

Clint glances at the gps, a small look of surprise on his face.

Natasha stops.

“What?”

“It’s less that two hundred metres,” he says, pointing to the left.

He adjusts his pack and trudges forward, giving Natasha places to put her feet as she grumbled again.

“You’re Russian!” he says, exasperated as the safe house comes into sight.

She throws him a look a rolls her eyes.

“I don’t like the cold,” she deadpans.

Approaching the house, they both split up, covering the front and back and simultaneously breach the door way.

Covering the rooms in a pattern, Natasha is first to call all clear, followed by Clint, as she beelines for the generator and sets up the heater.

.

The white noise of the generator infuriates Clint as he keeps the first watch; more snow falling. He

wonders if it will ever stop.

The cold that penetrates is icy, even though they’ve used spare blankets under the doorways and old newspapers on the window.

Natasha was finally asleep.

He knows by the soft breaths, slow and even.

She doesn’t like sleeping in the cold, and he knows why, it reminds her too much of the barracks of the Red Room.

She berates herself about becoming too soft, even as she makes their apartment and their rooms a constant temperature.

Less nightmares.

He tells her it’s not a bad thing to protect yourself from bad dreams, but it never seems to stick.

She sighs audibly and he wonders what she’s dreaming.

If the snow continues to fall at this rate, they’ll be snowed in. The trek here all uphill, and he hates Maria a little for directing them to this one.

“Hydra,” she’d said, “they’ve taken advantage of the political climate, and infiltrated the region.”

It’s a shame; he think idly, Kashmir is beautiful, but the evil that has infiltrated made it unsightly.

The man that they had killed was wanted by Interpol, crimes against humanity and all that.

Natasha’s kill shot hitting him between the eyes, as Clint had done the calculations quickly around wind speed and elevation.

One shot, one kill.

They made it look easy; isn’t that why Fury sent them?

Now, stuck in the snow, in a quaint house, Clint has too much time to reflect and worry about the repercussions of not being extracted until the snow stops.

His grip tightens on the gun, and he adjusts his position.

.

Natasha focuses on the landscape, the parts she can see anyway. Snow covers the door, just reaching the window and she feels vulnerable at not being able to see all the ways around them.

She knows if she looks at Clint, she won’t be able to hide her disappointment.

He won’t be able to hide his fear.

The satcom phone lays inert, as they await the next call.

Any way out.

Any opportunities for exfil.

Not likely for the next twenty four hours anyway.

The tension in the room is palpable. The generator has enough petrol for the next five hours, and the temperature is far below zero.

.

Clint focuses on the bowl of cereal, the snow still around them.

This was supposed to be easy.

He suppresses a shiver and pulls his coat around him trying to gain any heat he can.

The one room they’d kept heated, now growing colder.

He knows they both feel it.

Natasha pushes away her bowl, half eaten.

“You gotta eat, Nat,” he murmurs.

“We need to leave,” she argues, “the generator is done, the food almost gone, and the pipes are frozen. We have no water apart from what we have in that bucket.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s cold outside, no one is coming here in that weather; plus where are we gonna go? We have to wait for them to come.”

She’s knows he’s right. Standing and staring out the window, she shivers.

It’s not a good sign.

“Clint.”

The seriousness in her tone has him on edge as he joins her.

“It’s stopped snowing.”

They both know, when the temperature drops the snow stops, the sun, or what was left of it, hides behind the dark as the black starts to descend, night approaching; though the hour not late.

“What are we going to do?” she whispers.

.

They move to the smallest room, a tiny broom closet, big enough for the both of them. No windows, blankets piled in.

“I hate the cold,” she gristles, her teeth gnashing.

Clint pulls her closer, trying to stay warm, even though he’s sure it’s not helping.

“Talk,” he asks, “take my mind off this.”

The request isn’t lost on Natasha, the beginning of the third day had begun and they still had no way out, the sat phone silent, stood next to the door.

“Mmmm,” she says; trying to stop her teeth chattering.

“If you changed around this house, what would you do to make it better?”

It’s an old game, one they used to play when nightmares would keep either of them awake and neither wanted sleep.

Clint bites, he wants nothing more than the deep dread that fills his body to go away.

“Thicker windows,” he starts, “and for there to be a better security system.”

Natasha grunts in agreement.

“Insulation,” she continues, “the bedroom, I’d move to the back of the house, maybe another bathroom.”

Clint snorts.

“Like our house?”

She laughs, shivers hard and suppresses another.

“What’s that like again?”

He sits up a little straighter, and starts talking about the blueprints he’s sketched out when they’d first started dating.

“You know, you’ll have a library, and I’ll have a target room, the kitchen will be big, and the bathroom always warm.”

“The house is always warm,” she corrects.

“Heated floors?”

He nods, “definitely heated floors.”

She rests her head on his shoulder.

“”It sounds nice.”

.

The night passes slowly.

Both in and of consciousness, eating where they can and bodies shivering hard against the cold.

“My lungs hurt,” she grunts, forcing herself to take a breath.

Clint can’t answer, he agrees, but can’t do anything but nod his head.

She’s terrified; not because she’s going to die, but because he is.

“Talk to me,” she says, her teeth chattering.

She remembers Russia, the coldness of the room and the lack of heat in their dormitory rooms. The blankets thread bare.

She felt it then, but had no context about how warm the world could be.

“You think the world is warm?”

Natasha hadn’t realised she was talking out loud.

“It’s different, here, don’t you think?”

He swallows, trying to readjust his position but finds his limbs uncooperative.

She’s not making sense and he’s worried. He can’t think straight though and maybe she can’t either.

They won’t die here.

Someone will come.

.

“When we get married,” she starts.

They both laugh.

But it’s the silence that hangs.

“What are we going to do, Clint?”

She can see their breath, and movement is getting harder. Natasha knows this cold, Russian winters this biting, freezing kind of bitter. If they die….

If they die it’s not a bad way to go, here, safe with someone she loves and a life she curated for herself.

If she dies…

“What kind of wedding will it be?”

Clint stops her train of thought.

Desperate to change the subject to anything apart from their imminent death, he hugs her closer, trying to not be unnerved by how cold her skin is.

“Small,” she considers, indulging him.

“I’ll wear white, you’ll wear a tux, but it’ll only be our closest friends.”

He nods.

“Who are we inviting?”

“Maria.”

“Coulson.”

They take turns naming their friends.

“Pepper.”

Clint frowns, “really?”

“Yeah, why?”

The shiver stops him from answering, and she tries to pull the blankets more around him.

“If you invite Pepper, we’d have to invite Tony,” he says grumpily, disliking the fact that someone who heavily objectified Natasha would be invited.

Natasha’s head rolls over to him, a smile on her cracked lips.

“We’d make him sign a NDA,” she almost laughs.

“He wouldn’t be able to talk about it, and it would destroy him.”

Clint laughs, a cough bubbling as he sucks in too much cold air.

“He’d probably get a good present anyway.”

“Fury?” Natasha asks, and Clint nods.

“Yeah I think so.”

He sighs.

“Is it sad it’s such a short list?”

She shrugs.

“Who else would you invite?”

Clint knows.

Family. Isn’t that who you’re supposed to invite for your wedding? For you brother to be your best man? Or for your mother and father to sit in the front row and cry?

“Who’d walk you down the aisle?”

She ignores the question.

“I’d invite Yelena,” she decides, looking wistful.

Clint rubs her leg.

“Yeah. I’d invite Barney,” he agrees. Even though it’s likely his brother and her sister as long since dead, it’s a nice thought to have.

“Your mom,” she opens the thought.

Natasha stops but continues after a moment.

“I think I would have liked our mothers to come, even if mine abandoned me.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say.

“I would have liked that too,” he breathes.

“I think you’d walk me down the aisle,” she whispers, coughing into her gloves.

“Where?”

He knows where, he just wants her to say it.

“Okinawa,” she smiles, knowing he loves the shores of the tiny island as much as she does.

“Of course,” he smiles back.

They sit in silence

“We can find them, I think.”

Clint says it with conviction.

Natasha looks at him intensely, breath white, nose red.

They’re going to die here, he thinks idly. Why not give them another mission, even if it only gives them hope.

“Our parents?”

He shakes his head.

“Our siblings.”

Natasha sees Yelena standing at the door, sad eyes, hands waving goodbye.

Her eyes open and close languidly.

“Okay.”

She knows what he’s doing.

Offering hope when there isn’t any.

Gloved hand reaches out under the blankets and takes his.

“If we survive this, and if we find Barney and Yelena, we will get married. You just have to ask,” she proposes.

Clint nods, his movement slow, his voice quiet and somber.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Natasha? Will you marry me?”

Head against his, she kisses him slowly, purposefully; like it’s the last draw of breath she’ll ever take.

“Yeah, Clint, of course I’ll marry you.”

.

Maria panics at the empty house, wondering where her friends are.

If they thought she wasn’t coming, maybe they left to find safety; it would have been a death sentence.

Temperatures outside so cold it had taken far too long to trek anywhere for safety, the snow too deep.

As it was, it had taken too long for the helicopter to land anywhere safely.

Maria looks around.

Two people that already have so much trust issues, she’s not sure what they would have done.

She’s sure they would have thought no one was coming.

In the instant, Maria feels panic.

She clears the first room and the medic clears two more rooms; then — Maria finds them.

Huddled together, Natasha’s head on Clint’s shoulders their faces pale and they look half dead.

She calls the medic over, unwrapping them from the blankets.

“Thready,” the man tells her, assessing Clint, then Natasha.

They drag them out, laying them down on stretchers as they both call it in on the sat phone.

Maria places the warmers over their chests, as the medic works on placing an IV for both of them.

They work quickly and efficiently; slowly working to warm their friends, hoping against all hopes that the hypothermia has no permanent effects.

.

Natasha hears before she sees, the whir of the plane, the pain in all her muscles as life starts flowing back into her.

“Clint,” she tries.

Voice cracking, not loud enough, she can’t see him or hear him, her heart hurts and her thoughts race.

They’re going to get married.

They’re going to find Yelena and Barney.

They’re going to…

Breath comes fast, alarms blare and she panics; sitting up, eyes now open she finds herself connected to machines and monitors.

Clint lays next to her.

Laying back, doctors surround her.

“Clint,” she says again.

Maria appears in her field of vision, a stoic face.

“He’s okay too,” she clarifies.

Panicked eyes greet her.

“Natasha,” Maria says, “look at me.”

Wild eyes look her.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

She sticks two fingers in Natasha’s face, and predictably, her friend rolls her eyes.

“Two.”

Maria puts three more.

“Three.”

She nods.

“He’s okay,” she assures.

Closing her eyes, Natasha grunts and sinks back into a deep sleep.

.

“God you’re both so predictable,” Maria grunts, half holding him down.

“She’s fine, look, okay?”

Clint gives her a goofy smile, clearly still delirious.

He sees Natasha, oxygen mask on, eyes closed.

“She’sgonnamarryme,” he tells her, words mumbled.

“What?”

Maria thinks she misheard, because neither Clint or Natasha feel like the marrying type.

He nods, “jus’ gotta find Yelena and Barney.”

Clint’s eyes slip closed.

“She’sgonnamarryme,” he says again, falling back into a drugged sleep.

.

[virgothozul]

in case anyone wants a CJ fanfic to read, I want to mention these before I forget again :

Come Devour Me (Again) by ViviLovesPink (Mature rating) https://archiveofourown.org/works/55558228 it just came out ! it's SO FUN ! The characterization is really cool ahah, tasty combo of proud idiots and sensuality. While it has some absolutely delightful drunk messy make out, it's somehow sprinkled with such a softness ;-; love love this

preserved forever in museums of love by Nomette (Teen rating) https://archiveofourown.org/works/14851811 it S SO GOOD !!! really this universe is so fun and sweet and full of surprises and promises ! they're so young ! so talented ! I love the "JoJo raised as a hamon master" trope ; he's so skilled and so so creative !! so full of cute mischief too ! Also Caesar's frustration and pride and envy and yearning is amazing. Please enjoy. (there are other fics taking place in that same au :'''l they're all so good!)

[greengoddesssmoothie]

Summary: “Spock has spent most of his life ostracized for being “other.” Amongst Vulcans, he’s the most human. Amongst humans, he’s the most Vulcan. The Enterprise has provided him with a unique environment, and he finally feels safe enough to experiment with showing his authentic self. That is, until an accident on an away-mission damages his emotional control.

His closest friends rally to help him, but he starts to suspect the rest of his crewmates, and his human mother, prefer this damaged version of himself. There’s also the issue of keeping certain feelings hidden from his captain…”

This chapter contains: Spock takes a stand, Jim is dicked over by politics (story of his life), I want to shake Amanda and so does everyone else, and Spock experiences being Seen.

Featuring: Sarek.

[hp-flowers]

Here's to a new week of foliage!

Week 2  (May 8 - 14)

Anddd Week 1 is in the books! Amazing! This week, we’re moving on to Prompt Card #2, which has 4 new flowers/plant prompts to choose from. Prompts are photo and text based. A reminder that creators have the option to choose: 1 prompt or a couple, all of the prompts (should you choose the bouquet or display route), or none of them from this prompt card. Feel free to add other flowers/plants if you think they pair well with the challenge prompts. And don’t forget, you can also use any prompts from previous rounds! This week’s prompts are:

1. Camellia- Longing for You

If paired with: >> Daffodil- show longing for an unrequited love

OR

>> Zinnia- a gift for a friend who is moving away

—

2. Daisy- Innocence, Childhood or Purity

If paired with: >> Baby’s breath- a gift for a newborn baby

OR

>> Peony and violet- for an expression of childhood bliss

—

3. Gladiolus- You Pierce My Heart

If paired with: >> Yarrow- heal a broken heart

OR

>> Anemone and daffodil- for an unrequited love OR

>> Hemlock and marigold- for a friend in grief

—

4. Wheat- Riches or Abundance

If paired with: >> Clover- for good luck in a new venture

OR

>> Begonia- repay a favour

—

Optional Bouquet or Display: Celebrate New Beginnings

Fastened with a yellow tassel, combining the flowers listed above celebrates a new addition to the family or a new venture in someone’s life. This can also serve as a beautiful housewarming gift.

—

All works can be posted to HP Flowers open AO3 collection. If you would like your work to be shared or reblogged, don’t forget to tag @hp-flowers and #hpflowers2024. Let's see what y'all bring to the table!

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Trying to transliterate Leara's name into Quenya, and it somehow becomes, uh,

Lëarra

Which basically means "You Sealion!"

And I'm just, "Oh yes, this is That Sealion Woman, and she can breathe fire, as all sealions do."

If Leara, for any reason at all, needed an actual Quenya or Sindarin name for any fun Elvish shenanigans, we'll just use Calairie/Calearil, which is "Light of the Sea" in Quenya and Sindarin, and what Leara actually means.