#i can make fragrance oils out of almost anything!! if you have an idea i will make it happen | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elisajdb · 1 year

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Autumn Love: VI

ChiChi woke up happy and apprehensive. Today is her birthday. On this day, she is off. She doesn’t cook. She doesn’t clean. She doesn’t sew. She doesn’t do any laundry. It’s a day ChiChi can put up her feet and relax. She can do anything she wants. If she wants to stay in bed and sleep or read all day, she can. If she wants to get on Nimbus and spend the day on an island by herself, she could. It was her day. On the flip side, it meant someone else will do the cooking and cleaning. That someone else was her husband and sons and the day after her birthday, ChiChi is left with double the work because she has to undo the mess of sons and husband created.

With time to herself this morning, ChiChi rose from the bed and went to her bathroom. There, she found a surprise on the sink. A gift basket of candles, bath oils, gels, scrubs, bath salts, and bath bombs. All were in her favorite scent: lavender. ChiChi picked up the card attached.

“Gohan told me you like bath shops now but I picked this out. I forget a lot of things but I can never forget loving you. Happy Birthday! Goku.” Goku never wrote notes for her so this was a gift she will cherish.

Fifteen minutes later, ChiChi settled into a hot lavender-scented bath. Lit candles from her gift basket surrounded her tub and oozed a calm and relaxing scent around the room. ChiChi inhaled the fragrance from the water and sighed. It was nice to relax and enjoy the solitude. She rubbed her hands over her legs and arms giving them gentle massages.

Usually at this time, ChiChi would hear the clangs of something falling on the floor and a raised voice. It was usually Gohan’s. They have gotten better over the years cooking her breakfast with Gohan taking charge and making sure Goku and Goten didn’t make a mess but those first couple of years were a mess. The first one was a complete disaster.

ChiChi laid in bed. Not by choice but by force. It was her birthday today and ChiChi expected, wanted to cook breakfast for her husband and son. She thought and hoped her husband would take today off from training for the Artificial Humans. It was only one day and those monsters weren’t coming for at least three years. ChiChi saw no wrong in expecting for her birthday she spend it with her husband and son.

And the green thing.

ChiChi groaned thinking of seeing him on her birthday. Could it be her wish, she didn’t see him? Goku and especially Gohan would insist Piccolo stay. Gohan thought it would be a good way for Piccolo to understand humans and build his socializing skills. ChiChi also knew Gohan came up with the idea for her to take a day off for her birthday to make up for having Piccolo live with them.

She wasn’t in the best moods with Piccolo living with them for the next three years. The first six months were rough. Goku and Gohan played referee to Piccolo and ChiChi’s verbal spars. The night before her birthday Gohan told her he and Dad will take care of her all day.

“You cook and clean for us every day, Mom. For your birthday, we should do everything for you.” ChiChi was flattered but when she woke that morning, ChiChi was alone and heard clatters from the kitchen followed by Piccolo’s raised voice.

Piccolo? Why was he in her kitchen? ChiChi thought Goku and Gohan would cook for her.

There was another louder clatter. It sounded like glass breaking. ChiChi couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to see what was becoming of her kitchen. She got out of bed and quietly crept from her bedroom to the kitchen. She heard the sound of something falling on the floor again followed by Piccolo’s scolding.

“Dammit, Son! Are you always a klutz?!”

“This wasn’t my fault. You bumped into me when I took the eggs out.”

“Only because I stopped to wipe the oil you spilled because I almost slipped on it!”

“It was funny seeing you struggle to stand and bump against the refrigerator, Mr. Piccolo,” Gohan giggled.

ChiChi peered her head into the room speechless at what she saw. The kitchen was a mess. Flour stains and food droppings were all over the floor, stove and counter. There was even a chocolate-stained handprint on the refrigerator. The hand was too small to be Gohan’s. It could be Goku’s but hearing Piccolo bump into the refrigerator, she guessed it came from him. ChiChi feared she will be cleaning for a week to get it pristine again. Her kitchen was a food warzone but it was oddly comical. Gohan stood on a chair in front of the sink scrubbing dishes. She noticed him wearing an apron she got for him that read: ‘Momma’s Helper’. Piccolo wore one of her aprons with the caption reading ‘Kiss the Cook’. One of his antennae drooped while he was on the floor wiping up food droppings by Goku who had flour in his hair and food stains on the apron he used when they barbecue. ChiChi let Goku pick out his apron when they went shopping and regretted it for the caption on his read. ‘Call Me Daddy And Eat My Meat’. Goku thought the meat reference was food. He was in front of the stove stirring something that will quickly burn she feared as she noticed how red the stove burners were becoming.

She was mad. They destroyed her kitchen but the thought of these three who fought aliens, monsters and each other to save the world can’t cook without making a disaster was hilarious. The idea of Piccolo being forced and there was no doubt in her mind about that was cooking, too, had her internally giggling. This moment was too perfect to miss so she returned to her bedroom and retrieved a camera.

Creeping back she heard the arguing hadn’t stopped. There were more noises of dishes banging together and raised voices from Piccolo.

“Piccolo, will you keep your voice down?” It was Goku. “You’re gonna wake ChiChi.”

“I don’t care if I do,” Piccolo growled as he furiously stirred eggs and cream in a mixing bowl. “I didn’t want to do this anyway.”

“But you have to, Mr. Piccolo,” Gohan told him. “You made Mom real mad and this will make her happy. She’ll see you’re not a bad person.”

“She makes me mad. She keeps hitting me every damn day because I left you in the woods for six months. You survived. Why is she still mad?”

Because you left my four-year-old son alone in the woods every damn day for six months.

“Piccolo,” Goku frowned at Piccolo’s fast stirring. “ChiChi doesn’t stir that fast. She’s gentle with it.”

Goku’s words encouraged Piccolo to stir faster. “The faster I stir, the faster it’s done!”

ChiChi shook her head. It looked like Piccolo was stirring frittatas and Goku was right. He was stirring too fast. That makes the frittata dry. He slammed the bowl down and some of the eggs and cream sloshed out. He picked up ChiChi’s cookbook and read the next instructions.

Piccolo put a white onion on the chopping board and sliced it into four big chunks. He scooped them in his hands and was going to dump them in the bowl when Goku stepped in.

“Piccolo, that’s too big. Ya gotta make them smaller.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Damn onions hurt my eyes!”

Goku placed the wooden spoon he used to stir the pot near a stove burner and went to Piccolo. He took the knife and chopped one of the onion quarters in smaller chunks but still not the tiny size ChiChi chopped them. “See?”

“Then you do it!” Piccolo pushed the chopping board to Goku. “She’s your wife. You should do it.”

“Onions hurt my eyes, too.” He pushed the board back to him. “You do it.”

“Dad!” Gohan screamed.

Goku turned to see a small fire erupting from the stove where Goku laid the wooden spoon. Goku screamed and ran to the stove. “Out of the way, Gohan!” Gohan jumped from his chair but Piccolo went the extra mile rushing to Gohan’s side and pulling him from the sink. In his quick haste, he knocked the table on its side and his bowl of eggs and cream, vegetables for the frittata and the dishes they did cook crashed on the floor. This calamity happened while Goku yelled, “Ow! Ow! Ow!” over and over as he carried the burning wood spoon to dump in the sink.

ChiChi shook her head. She saw enough. If they complete this meal, ChiChi feared her house will be sacrificed for it. “Guys.”

Eyes of three panicked males looked in ChiChi’s direction as she snapped the embarrassing photo. There was so much ChiChi could say. So much to scream but she only said. “I’m not cleaning this and my kitchen better be in the pristine condition I left it or I won’t cook for you or Piccolo again, Goku!!”

Piccolo chuckled. He wasn’t scared of her threat. “I don’t eat food. I need water.”

ChiChi had a way to put Piccolo in his place. “I’m going to shower, visit my Dad and make postcards of this photo. I’m sure Master Roshi, Vegeta and Kami will love to see how domesticated you are, Piccolo. Gohan, you’re with me. We’re gonna spend the day with my Dad.”

Gohan was reluctant to leave his father. “But I should help Dad with the mess. It was my idea.”

It was but he was a child. “I won’t say it again, Gohan.”

“Go on, Gohan,” Goku encouraged him with a smile. “Daddy and Piccolo can work better without you around.”

Gohan bowed his head and followed ChiChi. ChiChi and Gohan left and stayed with her Dad until Goku came to get them that evening. He even had flowers and promised to do better the next year but what impressed ChiChi more than anything was how pristine her kitchen looked. It was cleaner than when she left it.

Goku, Gohan and Piccolo were much better the next year. The kitchen was messy but the food was edible. Piccolo's frittata was delicious and the best dish at the breakfast. When Goku died, sometimes Piccolo visited on her birthday and helped Gohan and Goten prepare a meal for her and made his signature frittata. It was a nice gesture for by that time, the two had become friends.

****

ChiChi emerged from the bathroom warm, relaxed, and scented in lavender. It was one of the few scents Goku could tolerate on her. She inhaled deeply the smells from the kitchen escaping into her room. Whatever they cooked this time smelled delicious and there weren’t as many clatters this year. ChiChi couldn’t wait. She disrobed and stood in her closet deciding on what to dress when Goku appeared in the room by teleportation.

“Goku,” ChiChi scolded as she pulled out a dress. “Use the door.”

“Then you would’ve covered up.” He circled his arms around her. “You feel good naked.”

“Goku,” ChiChi gently warned. “Not now.”

“Breakfast is ready and so am I,” he ignored her as he dropped a kiss on her neck.

ChiChi gently pushed Goku away. “Not until later.”

“At the party?” Bulma was throwing ChiChi a small affair at her home.

“No.” ChiChi was adventurous but not that adventurous. She slipped her dress over her head. “Later, when we are home.”

“Okay,” Goku agreed but his mind was made up on the matter and he knew just how to lure ChiChi but that was for later. For now, they were going to enjoy a happy morning together with their sons, celebrating ChiChi.

#Goku #ChiChi #GoChi #Birthday #Feast #GoChiFallWeek #Dragon Ball Z

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orangerosebush · 3 years

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Perfume headcanons

Let me start out with a bit of background.

There’s a common misconception that perfume = for women, cologne = for men. This is false. Although the scents we think of as feminine versus masculine are ever-shifting (many vintage women’s scents would now be considered more unisex, for example), whether something is a perfume or a cologne doesn’t even have to do with whether the scent is feminine or masculine — perfumes contain a higher concentration of essential oils in the water and alcohol base, whereas colognes contain a lower concentration.

To address what makes a scent ‘feminine’ or ‘masculine' : feminine scents are generally soft florals or vanilla, and certain woods, whereas masculine scents may be muskier (cedar and oak rather than sandalwood) and be cut with spicy notes (cinnamon, tobacco, etc).

Early in his career, I think Butler would make a point not to use cologne or perfume — having a signature scent would be identifying during missions, and smelling of anything strongly could interfere with sneaking about. However, when he is older and semi-retired (think: post-book 5), I think he would go for older masculine perfumes. Essentially: ‘sports’ colognes are off the table. I think very, very light applications of scents that have a vibe like… an autumn walk through the woods on a sunny day. Rich, woody notes with a slight mossy undertone (though in a way that smells somewhat bright rather than musty), and lighter notes that have tines of cinnamon or cumin. Alternatively, darker fruits like pomegranate or honeyed figs that interplay with an underlying musk that captures the smell of a fire pit that’s just been extinguished (and perhaps a few notes of dried herbs). Another musk note I could see in perfumes for him would be a kind of... natural leather scent? Very much not a new car smell. To sum him up: you know those children’s books with witch houses, where there’s perpetually smoke coming out of the chimney while the smell of canned jams and jellies floats across a garden, mixing pleasantly with the dry thyme and rosemary that’s been left out by the window? That, basically.

There’s an evolution with Artemis as well, I think. Similar to his sartorial preferences, I think that with age, he’d come to understand what his personal aesthetic is beyond his initially childlike understanding of what constitutes the presentation of someone of his social class. After the sinking of the Fowl Star, I think (and I didn’t pick this because of the name) Creed Green Irish Tweed. It’s sometimes described as being akin to a walk through an herb garden on a sunny day. It’s a classy, versatile scent that isn’t season or setting specific (it could work as a scent for the office or after work), and when worn correctly, is almost like an aromatic ghost trailing after its wearer. I do think he’d keep with more conservative scents when he gets older and actually futzes around with finding a perfume he finds fits his aesthetics, but he’d move a bit away from lighter earthy notes and more towards richer, more unisex earthy notes. I like the idea of Une Rose by Frédéric Malle for him, which is a rose perfume with a woody, amber base. The florals and muskier notes combine nicely to create this soft, earthy-creamy base which remains intriguing with bursts of peppery notes that sneak through now and then. Similar to Angeline, there’s an almost cerebral, yet home-y warmth to the perfumes that he uses.

I think bright, unusual, and borderline unisex perfumes would work for Juliet. I would point to Iris Gris (by Jacques Fath) which, in combining the odd bedfellows of iris and peach, created something that occupied a liminal space between the two scents, all mouth-watering plummy notes and earthy, ‘spring-when-it’s-about-to-rain’ bases. The clean, freshness of lemon seems fitting for her, also, and I like the idea of this being given more depth by smoky vanillas that seem almost tinged by tobacco. Or, perhaps, given more earthy, musky undertones that are kept youthful by just a dash of spice, like cinnamon. You know on road trips, those strange small businesses that seem to be hawking exclusively lawn ornaments and incense? Think… a more youthful version of some of the diffused essential oils that seem to have seeped into the old wood of the building over the years.

With Holly, I think any perfume she’d wear (though I do sort of have the minor headcanon that the People naturally have a kind of… perfume-like scent about them) would be earthy, yet cut with notes that make the scent less old-person-y. I actually like the idea of Creed Green Irish Tweed for her as well, as I think herb-y notes like dried rosemary and sage are quite fitting. However, I think there’d be more unisex notes as well, such as lavender and a mature iris or germanium note. If you could somehow bottle the woods themselves — I’m not talking about a walk through the woods, I am talking about the forest as it exists beyond human exploration — and let a citrus note waft in, sly, I think you’d have her aesthetic. I’m reminded of a story told by Diane Ackerman in her book A Natural History of the Senses:

My mother once told me about a drive she and my father took through the Indian River orange groves in Florida when the trees were thick with blossom and the air drenched with fragrance. It overwhelmed her with pleasure. “What does it smell like?” I asked. “Oh, it’s delightful, an intoxicating delightful smell.” “But what does that smell smell like?” I asked again. “Like oranges?”[…] “Oh, no,” she said with certainty, “not at all like oranges. It’s a delightful smell. A wonderful smell.” “Describe it,” I begged. And she threw up her hands in despair.

How do you describe the smell of moss before it rains, as the drop in pressure leads the earth to yawn out those peculiar, musky notes? It’s like the ground is aware it usually isn’t the center of attention and is finally tapping you on the shoulder to make sure you are aware of the beauty hidden between blades of grass and warm, wet dirt. You do not articulate nature, you experience it, and that’s 100% on the money for Holly.

#artemis fowl #long post

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wickedyan · 4 years

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Ummm... can I just say how much I love your levi works?? ❤❤❤ i was wondering if you could make another yandere levi victorian arranged marriage? Like it dosent have to be victorian. But can you make it so that its a continuation of your first part ??? thanksss

Part 2 of this

Character: Levi Ackerman, Shingeki no Kyojin/Attack on Titan

Warnings: Dubcon, Noncon, Yandere, rough smut.

A/N: I now know a lot about the Victorian era. What people wore in the daytime, in the evening, to bed… and their underwear. Specifically, how to take off the underwear… if you get what I mean ;)

On another note, woo! I finally completed this work! I’ve been working on it for over a week nonstop... hehe. I hope you all enjoy it! (This is the last part to this, I won’t be writing any more for it.)

Due to its length... and content, it’ll be placed under a cut.

His house didn’t feel like a house. Or a home. More like a castle. The gardens were large and meticulously well kept, with fantastical flowers and hedges that you only heard about in fairy tales. The gates to the estate were tall, with sharp-pointed tops and scary wires. It would ensure no unwanted guests could get in… and that no one that wished to leave without permission could get out.

The house itself was five times larger than your old home, and you could count at least twenty windows on the front side of the house.

Your long skirt dragged along the concrete paths, heels clicking in tandem with your new husband’s dress shoes. His arm was entwined with your own, having pulled you close to him, shoulders rubbing together with each step.

You clutched at your skirt as you ascended the stairs to the front door of your new prison. Servants opened the doors wide for the two of you, and you were hit with the fresh scents of lemongrass and ginger.

The entryway was sparsely decorated, a deep red rug centred on the floor with golden tassels fluffing the edges. A wooden table with gorgeous floral vases that you knew costed more than the dress and shoes you wore combined, with fresh red roses that were mid-bloom. The walls painted a simple beige colour and the roof was an odd pattern of mahogany wood with various animals carved into them. Old paintings lined the walls, you didn’t recognise any of the figures, but you recognised the cold eyes identical to Levi’s. His mother.

Levi wasted no time pulling you through the entryway and through identical hallways, up squeaky mahogany staircases and into what seemed like his private bedroom. He pulled free from your arm, addressing a maid and ordering her to have you cleaned up and redressed with a grumble of “and burn that thing when you’re finished” …you couldn’t help but be offended, it was the fanciest dress you owned.

A kind-looking woman pulled you into an en-suite bathroom that connected to his bedroom. It was large, with a marble counter and basin, and a large bathtub with a shelf full of essential oils and fragrances. The bathwater was poured in, heated to a high temperature. You watched the steam coming off the water, it would be a while before the water was comfortable. The maid left you to undress, and you took your time. Slowly untying the shawl around your shoulders, you unceremoniously dropped it to the floor. Your shoes and stockings were next. Then the dress itself. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

You stood in front of the mirror, eyes skimming over your body. You weren’t skinny, but you weren’t overweight. Your parents worked hard to put food on the table for you, but you bet Levi barely had to lift a finger. You eyed your protruding hip bones, gaunt collarbones. You weren’t skinny… but you could stand to gain a few kilos.

The water stung your sensitive skin as you sunk into the bath, letting the water rise until only your head sat above the water. The cuts on your knees burned. Taking a deep breath, you submerged yourself, holding your breath as you wet your hair.

In only a few hours, you would lose your virginity. Your new husband would expect sex from you, and you would have no reason to deny him. Maybe you could tell him you weren’t feeling up to it… but Levi wasn’t stupid, he would see through your lies easily. You couldn’t help but wonder… would it be good…? Would you enjoy yourself?

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, nervous energy spreading throughout your shaking extremities.

Reaching for the soap, you made quick work of lathering it over your body, making sure to leave no spot untouched. He seemed to have special soap for your hair, it smelled of lavender.

Before you left the bath, you let yourself soak just a little longer. Until the water had cooled and your skin was pruney.

Fresh clothes had been left on the bed for you, you looked over them while you finished towel-drying your hair. It was evening, so you had been left an evening gown. It was much fancier than anything you had ever owned before. You almost felt wrong for wearing it. But you couldn’t deny its comfort, minus the corset that required help from several maids to tighten.

The dress was gorgeous. It was on off the shoulder neckline with long cream-coloured frilled lace. It was a peach colour, with large bows holding up more lace along the bottom of the gown. The number of petticoats and underskirts had your body hot, with a natural red flush to your cheeks and shoulders. The maids fawned over you, braiding your hair and applying cherry juice to your lips.

It was the prettiest you had ever looked, but the sour taste in your mouth wouldn’t leave. The maids, although just following orders, were dressing you up to have sex with their boss. It wasn’t so sweet when you put it in those words, but it was the truth of the situation.

You wondered if he wanted to bed you to show dominance over you. Maybe it was to show others that you belonged to him, he was the possessive type and he had arranged your marriage out of that sick idea. Maybe he wanted to impregnate you, really show the other nobles that you were his. Have you running around taking care of your children and speaking only when spoken to, like some little trophy wife.

Maybe he truly desired you.

You wanted more out of life. But he had stolen that chance from you. He had you right where he wanted you, stuck, locked away in his home and you couldn’t do anything about it. It was sickening.

Soon enough, the maids decided they were finished. And you were ushered down the stairs, where your husband was waiting for you at the dining table, a large feast laid out in front of him. Normally, the wife would sit on the opposite side of the husband, but he pulled you towards him, and you were sat in his lap.

Your face burned; an embarrassing show put on for the servants. But they made no comments on it. Smart of them, should they wish to keep their heads. You struggled in his lap, using the armrests to help push yourself out of his lap. His arms snaked around your waist, and with an iron grip, he pulled you back into his lap. No matter how much you squirmed, you couldn’t leave. You huffed a breath of annoyance, settling into his lap more comfortably.

You stiffened, feeling something hard beneath you. You wriggled, and Levi grunted hot air into the nape of your neck. Gooseflesh rose in its place.

“Careful, little lamb. Keep writhing on my lap like that and I won’t be able to control myself…” He murmured this low in your ear, a low growl on his tongue. Your body was hot, the pang of arousal that licked up your thighs was not helping.

Quickly you looked around, you were alone, so no one had heard him. You couldn’t help but feel relieved, if someone had heard that you wouldn’t be able to face them again… “You smell divine. I take it you enjoyed your bath?” He cut into the food, bringing a bite-sized amount up past you and to his lips.

You nodded in reply, “I did. Thank you.”

Although you couldn’t see it, you knew he was smirking.

He brought another square of food up on the fork, this time aiming for your mouth. He was going to feed you. Your lips parted, accepting the food. You chewed slowly, savouring the taste. It was delicious… you hadn’t ever tasted something with so much flavour. You couldn’t help but salivate. You usually ate things like mutton, bread and tea. This was something completely out of your league.

Dinner continued that way, alternating bites until you were both full.

Dread. It was Night. The sun nowhere to be seen. Levi had already returned to your shared bedroom. You sat in a room in front of the fireplace. It was warm, and from your position, you could see the moon from the window. You cherished this moment, the comfort and allowed yourself to forget what awaited you in his bedroom.

It was your bedroom too, now.

A maid came to collect you, and you were broken from your stupor.

When you arrived at the door to your room, it was closed. You could see the glow of candlelight from underneath the door. You rapped the door, waiting for an answer before stepping through.

Levi was in his nightclothes. He was on the bed, sitting up against the headboard with a book in his hands. Laying on top of the covers. The candlelight flickered as you shut the door behind you. He didn’t lift his eyes from his book, flicking over the page with a hum. You made quick work of changing into your own nightgown, grunting as you loosened the corset with only a little struggle.

You could feel his eyes gliding over your exposed shoulder blades and flitting down with the slide of your dress as it fell to the floor. Turning around, catching him in the act. But he didn’t look away when you turned. He continued staring unashamedly. Daring you to say something, as though a man couldn’t admire his wife.

When you crawled into bed beside him, you were almost convinced he had forgotten about his heated promise to you. Almost. He lifted an arm, inviting you into his space. Ignoring it made no difference because he pulled you into his side. Your head resting on his chest, one arm holding his book and the other stroking through your hair, curling it behind your ear. It was comfortable, domestic.

Levi smelled good. Was it some soap or essential oils? Perhaps a special cologne? What was the scent specifically? You couldn’t tell, but it had you breathing deeply, hoping to intake more and more of that pleasant smell.

He had reached the end of his page but instead of turning it as he had the past several pages, he closed the book. It was placed in its spot in his bedside draw. His hand rested on his stomach. Your palms were sweating, fingers twitching wildly. All through this, his other hand didn’t stop stroking your hair.

Until it moved, sliding under your jaw and tilting your face upwards toward his own. His hand stayed there, cradling your face. He took a moment to meet your eyes. His pupils blown wide, eyelids heavy and lips parted.

His lips met yours.

You gasped and Levi used this to slide his tongue past your lips. His tongue rolled over your teeth and tongue, exploring your mouth. It was warm and wet and practised. He nipped at your lips, licking over them in silent apology at your sharp intake of breath. How was he so good at this? He grunts, but you’re lost in the kiss. Your eyes were closed, hands reaching for his shirt to pull him closer, hot skin touching his, mewling and leaning into him.

That scent was back again, but he tastes like whisky and mint and maybe you should have pulled away, maybe it should’ve been gross, but it just wasn’t. His lips were firm but gentle, his tongue teasing and slow. His teeth dug into your lip, but his tongue was always quick to soothe the mark.

Levi pulled back with a groan, a lewd string of saliva connected you. He leaned in, sucking it up lewdly. “You taste better than I imagined.”

Sliding around the back of your head and into your hair, his hand pulled hard and smashed your lips together once more. Heat floods your thighs, you rub your legs together to create some kind of friction.

“Oh… Sir-Levi…” you breathe out between pants and sighs.

He’s on top of you, pushing you down and his legs between your thighs. Calloused hands roam your body leaving trails of heat behind them. Then he’s pulling open the buttons of your nightgown and pressing kisses down your neck. He lingers on a particular spot on your neck, harder kisses until he’s licking hot, wet stripes along your throat. He blows cool air over it, chuckling as your nipples harden amongst the goosebumps on your chest. His groin is grinding over your hips, fingers digging into the fat of your hips and squeezing so harshly you know it’s going to leave marks.

Teeth scrape over your collarbones and it has you squeaking out a high-pitched moan. You’re writhing under his burning touch, teeth biting so hard into your lip you can taste blood.

He pulls open the rest of your nightgown, exposing your chest to the cool night air. His lips are enclosing the hardened bud before you have a chance to be embarrassed. He sucks it into his mouth, circling it with his tongue and tugging with his teeth and it sends arousal straight to your core. His other hand is groping your other breast and you can feel the desperation in his touch. Your fingers rake through his raven locks, scraping against his scalp and pulling it, not knowing if it’s because it’s too much or because you have an inclination that he would like it.

A wet ‘pop’ is heard as he pulls off your nipple and moves to the other one to give it the same attention. Before he does, he kisses your sternum. His hungry eyes, wicked with desire, burn into your own. He takes pleasure seeing you so fucked out and he had barely started. “God, you’re beautiful…” He grins, he has you right where he wants you. A predator looming darkly over its prey. But this was the best part of the hunt. His reward.

“You belong to me now… you know that now, don’t you, y/n?” You nod, at his mercy.

He kisses the flesh of your bust, sucking the supple skin into his mouth and biting down. Hard. You cried out in pain, but he’s quick to move on, repeating the action and leaving deep purple marks all over your tits, moving back up to leave the same marks in more visible places. You shake your head, pushing at his shoulders. But he pushes back into you, you didn’t realise how strong he was.

“No- I… Marks. No…” You manage to speak amongst sighs. He snickers into your throat, the vibrations only making the sensations all the more pleasurable. He ignores your words, biting harder to show he heard you.

His hands ghost the length of your thighs, pushing the bottom of your nightgown up over your hips. Fingertips moved deftly, swiftly untying the strings keeping the front of your underwear together. He was quick to pull the last of the clothing hiding your body from his greedy eyes. You felt vulnerable, having your most intimate parts on display for the man. You squeezed your thighs together, or at least the best you could with him between them.

Strong arms held your thighs apart. He leaned down, hot breath blowing over your opening. Embarrassed, you covered your eyes with your hands.

“Eyes on me.” His voice was deep, demanding, controlling.

Slowly, you pulled your hands from your eyes, glancing up to witness his sinful expression. That devilish grin.

He was teasing as he leaned down, blowing hot streams of air over your pussy. Pulling the lips apart and staring back up at you from between your legs. Gaze dark. “My my, you are wet, aren’t you? So ready for me already?” His tongue dipped out to taste, licking a flat stripe up the length of your slit.

You gasped; eyes clenching closed before remembering to keep your eyes locked on his. Mirth in his stare. “I’ve been watching you, longing for you, keeping such a close eye on you… for months… never did I think you would look so delicious in my bed.”

Two fingers rubbed against your slit, grinding back and forth over your hole. Gentle “Ohhh…”’s and “Ahhh…”’s sighed from your mouth. Scooping up your slick and using it to press firm circles over your swollen clit.

That felt… good. Really good.

Levi paused, pulling his fingers away, scissoring them and holding them closer to the candlelight. “I guess… a taste wouldn’t hurt.” And his fingers were being sucked into his mouth. He licked around them, groaning. “Fuck… so sweet…” It should’ve been embarrassing but you had never been more aroused.

“I wish I could taste you more, but I can’t wait any longer.” He was tugging his own nightclothes off, untying the knot of his underwear and pulling his hard cock free. It twitched in his hand, heavy and girthy. He scooped more of your slick into his hand, stroking it over his cock. He threw his head back, a growl deep in his throat. “God… I finally have you, y/n… just fucking look at you… all mine.”

The heat of his cock was rubbing at your cunt, grinding it against your clit and fuck you wanted him. There’s a dark look in his eyes, and you suddenly remember that this man took you from your family and arranged a marriage with you to sate some sick obsession he had with you.

You kicked at his shoulder, sending him falling backwards and scrambling to get off the bed. But he pins you down, large hand wrapping around your throat and pushing you back into the sheets. His firm grip on your throat makes breathing difficult, you scratch at his hand but it’s no use.

He thrusts his entire length into you, fucking you into the mattress with such force you can hear the animalistic slapping of skin on skin and it only makes you wetter. His eyebrows are furrowed, angry. You scream, as best you can with his hand around your neck. He silences you with a searing kiss, much less gentle than before, with teeth clashing together.

The gentleness that had been in all his previous actions was gone; he gave no pauses while he pounded into you. He was snarling as he hammered unapologetically into you. “You can never leave me, brat. Be my good, submissive girl and I’ll reward you. Misbehave and you will not enjoy the punishment.”

Despite his rough movements, the pain and pleasure worked together, and it had you clenching around him because it just felt so good.

“Aw,” he sneered, “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” His thrusts had a sense of urgency to them, and he bit his lip as he growled in your ear. His free hand assaulted your clip with delicious friction that had the pleasure in your gut building until it was nearly ready to burst.

Levi grunted, “I’m gonna cum… and you’re gonna take every. Last. Drop.” He punctuated his words with forceful thrusts into your cunt.

“Cum with me… cum now.”

And that pleasure burst, clenching uncontrollable around his cock and milking each rope of sticky white fluid that filled your pussy.

He heaved over you, releasing his grip on your neck, and slowly pulled his softening cock out of your sopping pussy with a squelch.

He left you on the bed, panting and wrecked. Your forehead and hair damp with sweat, covered in his teeth marks and bruises that would be impossible to cover. His cum leaking out of your ruined cunt. He returned with a damp cloth, the cold liquid making you flinch, then relax into the soothing feeling as he wiped at your intimates.

Your eyelids felt heavy, and you couldn’t will yourself to move. But soon there was something being placed around your throat.

“Mmm… fits perfectly.”

It was a white, lace collar, with a dainty little heart.

‘Levi’

“Now, you’re truly mine.”

1K notes · View notes

jj-ktae · 3 years

Text

Note II - Aldehydes

Moodboard : Courtesy of the lovely Jacqueline @jaebeomsmullet ! Thank you for helping and hyping and just being here whenever I need it.

› Title : Fragrances › Genre : Angst, Fluff, Romance, Composer!Jungkook x Perfume Maker!Reader › Pairing : Jeon Jungkook x Female Reader › Warning : Mentions of Suicide, heavy subjects, depression (none of these are used with the idea of glamourising mental illness), strong language, smut in later chapters probably. Do not read if any of these trigger you.

› Author’s note : This is another version of the story I wrote a few years ago for GOT7. Some of the events will be different, others will not change just like some paragraphs will be the same and others won’t. Informations, definitions and words are taken from here and here.

› Summary : In the world of Perfume making, it is believed that everyone has their own natural fragrance. It is also believed that everyone has that one scent capable of making them feel a thousand things. You find yours in the form of a composer on the verge of breaking, right when you have to face one of the biggest challenge in your life.

Masterlist | Note I - Ionones |

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Note II: Aldehydes

An aroma chemical that contains a functional group consisting of a carbon, a hydrogen, and an oxygen atom. Aldehydes can be derived from natural or synthetic materials. There are different types of scents associated with this chemical function but the most commonly referred to when profiling a scent as “aldehydic” is a sharp, metallic, crisp, slightly fatty impression often associated with the smell of clean textile or hot iron. One of the first “aldehydic” fragrances is the famous N°5 created by Perfumer Ernest Beaux in 1920 and launched by Gabrielle Chanel in 1921.

Your second day is worse than the first one. Jimin is all over the place, mixing essences and sniffing everything he can. You’re glad though, it makes him go silent whenever he concentrates on something, and you have time for focus. It doesn’t help because you’re still frustrated if not more, but at least you can overburden yourself in peace.

The only light in all that shadow comes from the memory of Jungkook’s scent, precise yet unknown. You try to create something similar, but it’s everything and nothing at the same time and no matter the amount or variety of scent you use, you can’t even get close to it

His scent is a mystery.

It adds to your misery, like a voice mocking you for not being able to recognise a scent while another one forces you to crave for more. It feels like chasing a ghost.

The sound of your head against your office takes Jimin out of his momentum. “What’s happening?” He inquires. He gets up from his own working area to stand next to your powerless soul.

“When is the meeting?” You try because it is potentially the only hope for today. That powerful lady came in early to inform you about an upcoming meeting with the marketing team. The project seems big, because Jimin started to work as soon as she flew out of the laboratory. It’s been one day and he is so open about himself that you can already read his body language.

“3 p.m. I was thinking about a brainstorming. Let’s think about a concept.” He offers because this is going nowhere. You’re about to give up at any minute, and he needs you to be into it.

“What concept? I’m running in circles.”

“Sexy? Provocateur? Romantic? Angsty? Bucolic?”

“All of these have already been worked on so many times...I don’t think they want to go for something as...forthright. I’m quite sure they won’t be satisfied with a mere sexy perfume.” It’s what you understood - if your sudden creative freedom is anything to go by.

Jimin understands, his eyes now wide. He has no idea how to achieve that, but he still thinks you’re brilliant for thinking out of the box. He picks his notepad and starts writing everything you said, his brows furrowed.

“We want to be unique. The concept needs to be appealing to the greatest number without being too cliché. We are free to use what we want.” He notes things down and you find yourself peeking at the words, meaningful yet complex.

“So we need to mix a little bit of everything.” Jimin stops for a minute before a whine escapes his thick lips, “I’m lost, help me.”

“We can’t work this way.” You raise your head slowly, ruffling your wild locks in a nonchalant way. “We have to find a scent and put a concept over it. We can’t force the scent based on an imaginary idea.” This only works when a brand has specific goals but here you have nothing. You can’t possibly force an idea into your head.

Jimin looks pitiful as he puts the notepad away. “It’s going to be harder than I thought.”

And just like the day started, the meeting followed. You were not expecting much of it and you were right. The marketing project came and explained you were free to do anything you wanted. Their main objective was to follow you on whatever you wanted to create, and it’s infuriating.

How many times do you have to repeat that you can’t do it before they start to believe you?

Jimin, who was stressed before the meeting is now dejected and it almost breaks your heart because you feel responsible. You send him home earlier and decide to work on your own. Two hours later you leave the lab with Orchid oil all over your bag and the urge to cry.

There is only one way to make you feel better. You feel ashamed, like you’re addicted to something but you have to admit it.

Jeon Jungkook’s scent is the only thing worth smelling.

When you come back from work, there is no trace of him. His backpack is gone, the bed looks neat, and even the towel he probably didn’t use is dry. There’s still his smell, fresh in the air and it makes you run back outside to find the bridge where you had found him the night before.

He is not there.

You were exhausted, but you’re suddenly on fire. This situation is stressing you more than it should be when you don’t see him. It’s like you won’t ever see him again. You look around all the bridges you can find close to your place. Jungkook is nowhere to be seen.

You open the door of your apartment with a heavy heart. It’s like you lost something precious and it’s making you angry. What the hell is happening to you?

But you open the door and it hits again, like a whirlpool of long lost feelings and dried memories.

Jeon Jungkook is in your living-room, and his delectable scent pounds in the deepest zones of your brain. He is sitting on the floor by the small table, right hand dancing over bright white paper and guitar on his lap so you only see his back, but it’s the biggest relief you had in years.

He doesn’t turn around when you let your bag fall on the floor, he doesn’t move when you stop next to him. He looks absorbed, entranced. His knee is shaking to an unknown beat, mimicking his left hand which is drumming on the soft brown wood of the instrument he is holding.

“God. I thought- I’m so stupid.” You don’t want to share your worries with him, but the thought of him throwing himself off a bridge is still fresh. It stings more than it should, more than the pain you’re supposed to feel when confronted with a stranger’s despair.

“Hmm?” Jungkook doesn’t move toward you at first, but eventually his hand stops, and he glances up at your pallid features and tensed body “What’s wrong?”

“I came back home and you were not here. I thought...I thought you did something stupid.” You let your body fall on the couch. It’s like blood is circulating again into your veins, your skin going back its initial colour.

Jungkook is puzzled, like he doesn’t understand why it would be so dramatic for you. “I went around town after I grabbed some stuff from my place.” It’s crazy but he feels sorry for you. “I’m sorry for worrying you” he trails off, scanning your face some more. He has no idea how to react to a stranger panicking over his disappearance. His own family doesn’t panic when he doesn’t show up. He is lost as to why you would be so affected by anything related to him when no one else barely does.

You snort, not mad at him. You’re high on his smell and it’s all that counts. “It’s okay.” Your eyes find his, and his tilted head looks like it’s searching for any sign of discomfort. He only stares back, with eyes way too shiny for someone as dark as him. He looks candid, like he has everything to discover and it’s a mystery how he turned out thinking about the worst. You have no idea what he might be thinking - excepted that you’re probably out of your mind for reacting like this but he doesn’t question your intentions, for whatever reasons. You finally notice the papers and decide to move on before it gets too disturbing to deal with. “What are you doing?” you nod toward the torn pieces of paper and point a finger at the pile stacking up next to his crossed legs.

He swiftly puts it under his leg. “Nothing. Did you just come back from work?” He tries to change the subject. His voice gets higher and you instantly decipher his anxiety. He isn’t good with facing his own problems and it’s way too early to go into deep talks about lyrics and melodies. He might have agreed to a crazy proposition, but that doesn’t mean he is going to open to you. At least not now.

“I looked for you all over the place.” You admit because it’s a normal thing to do when somebody is in distress. Jungkook is dumbfounded.

“Why would you do this?” The situation in itself is already crazy enough as it is. He doesn’t mind you being friendly with him, even though he is pretty sure he doesn’t need it, but to the point of being dead worried for him?

“You were about to throw yourself off a bridge. I don’t know what kind of life you’ve been living but it’s pretty normal to freak out when something like that happens.” Your outburst shocks him. He doesn’t understand the impact of his actions over his surroundings. He has always thought he was just a detail in everyone else’s lives.

It has always been this way. He writes in the shadow for people to shine. Him not being here shouldn’t matter to anyone.

“It’s my business. I’m staying here because I have nothing left and it’s easier than staying in my empty apartment and facing my failures. It doesn’t mean we have to care about each other.” Jungkook doesn’t want to sound mean but he has to make it clear to you. His distress is by no mean a way to ask for anyone’s pity. He refused to add anyone into that mess, let alone a stranger.

It’s obvious, in a way. You know it’s stupid but this scent, it’s making you go wild. You can’t let it pass until you know what it is.

So you agree, taking the same tone and hoping your voice isn’t wavering. “I’m not here for you, I’m worried about another human being wanting to end his life. If it gives you the illusion that I care, I’m sorry about that.” You get up and you sound mad, something Jungkook notices as soon as you close the door a bit too violently.

No matter how mesmerising his scent is, he is apparently not that friendly. You’re not hurt by his words, because you don’t care enough personally to be affected. You’re being selfish, only thinking about your own benefit and what his scent could bring into your life. Jeon Jungkook himself doesn’t pull you in at all. He is someone you barely know anyways.

He doesn’t move from his spot in the living-room until later that night. He suddenly has too many things to write and too little time on his hands. He decides to stop when his wrist starts to hurt and his body hits the mattress of his new bedroom like a bag of sand hits the ground.

He feels at ease in the small room. Wood is covering the floor, and it is the same colour as the tiny office by the window. The view is peaceful, with buildings popping up from the floor like mushrooms and lights festooning the city in tiny dots. The bed is large and thick with soft bedding. The scent of the washing powder turns Jungkook into a nostalgic boy when he rolls into the bed, stretching his sore limbs. He feels even more stupid for feeling comfort in a seemingly empty room.

He falls asleep right away, exactly 10 seconds after you do. You’re both too exhausted to care about each other, but you both know you’re no strangers to your own common serenity.

And just like you understand the importance of his presence for your brain to function, he notices he needs your place to exist in his creative yet tortured mind. As stupid and as hard to believe as it is.

When you get up the day after, you see him by the kitchen’s table. He is sipping on orange juice that is not yours, and munching on toasts you definitely didn’t buy.

You go to the coffee machine, your head too cloudy to deal with his strong presence.

He speaks first “Want some juice?”. He is trying to make it up to you for his cold behaviour. He just isn’t used to being around you yet. He isn’t used being around anyone yet.

Also, he is the worst when he composes. He needs absolute concentration.

You sip on the hot liquid and nod his way. He hands you a glass with an unreadable face.

“Have a nice day.” He doesn’t know why he says it. He tries to be nice, because there’s nothing much to say to someone you met two days ago. Maybe his pride spoke for him yesterday, or maybe he decided to accept the hand of a stranger, because it’s less burdening than accepting his failures to his entourage.

You drink the fresh juice fast and walk away. “Thank you.” It is too hard to be rational right now, because the smell seems even stronger now. You probably come off as rude when you don’t reciprocate his words but you don’t dwell on it; that boy isn’t going to accept any sort of compassion anyways.

You enter the bathroom and get hit by the scent of his shower gel. Not that scent either.

You get ready at the same time as you build your resolve. Motivation is the key so maybe if you believe in you and your assistant, things might work out. Jimin is already here when you arrive, his citrus smell filling you from the first floor to the lab. He is joyful, like he found something awesome.

“Boss! Have a sit, come come!” His thin hand adds a tiny pressure to your back, leading you to your office.

“What’s happening?” You barely have the time to comprehend; he is already putting a sample in front of your noise.

You freeze.

“Wh-where did you find t- t- this ?” You utter, immediately thrown off by the odour.

“I was looking through essences this morning, and I thought we could start with a base, just to see what we could make of it. It’s...”

“Winter fir and Balsam*.” You conclude. Everything in this base is satisfying but the most important detail is that you remember this base. You smelled it this morning when you entered the kitchen.

You smell the very distinct feelings of comfort, warmth and softness which invades you whenever you’re close to Jungkook.

Jimin added a little twist to it, tho. “You added Cottage Herb Garden**”. The latter grins at you, visibly proud of himself for coming up with such a smart idea. He too gives off that feeling of freshness that is found in that herb. It is serene and woody and gives off feelings of sweetness and sensuality. Cottage Herb Garden fragrances are made using Aldehydes synthetic scents.

“I didn’t add much, but I thought it would go well because they both make great seasonal fragrances. I only put 8% though, how did you find out?” he looks shocked but not surprised, like he was half-expecting you to guess it yet still thought it would go unnoticed.

“The herb comes last. The earthy smell that lingers in your nose, it’s this one. Smell it again.” You tell him and he takes his time filling his nose. He closes his eyes and thinks for a moment before opening them again.

“This is Cottage Herb Garden.” You confirm and his mouth is now wide opened. He can’t believe he is working with such a talented person.

“So, do you think we could try? I feel like we’re using a lot of Aldehydes but at the same time it feels like a soft base note…” Jimin trails off, his fingers playing with the bottles.

You acquiesce, mind already elsewhere. It feels like the first step to Jungkook’s identity and it is energising. You take a sharp breath, startling Jimin who laughs at you because it’s like you found life again.

“You sound satisfied.” He offers the sample along with a genuine smile and for the first time, you smile back at him, thankful.

“You did great. I wonder why they hired me when you’re doing great on your own.” It’s true. Jimin came up with extremely complex scents and came up with a base note you would have never found on your own.

Jimin rolls his eyes and decides not to answer. If only he could have a quarter of your talent. He opens his notebook and starts writing, his eyes now shiny with glee

Base notes: Aldehydes (Synthetic) = Winter Fir / Cottage Herb Garden.

You put the sample in front of you and stare at it. So that was it. You smile to yourself, in a way, it’s like you can almost smell Jungkook.

You spent the rest of your day looking for another element to add to your base and when nothing comes to your mind you feel frustrated, but it’s the best you can do for now. Jimin is exhausted and snoring in a corner of the lab, his petite body squeezed between two cabinets. You shake him to wake his sleepy body and tell him to go home when you give up for the day.

It’s been so long since the last time Jungkook felt this satisfied. He didn’t go out, too engrossed into his lyrics to care about the light of the sun peeking through the opened blinds. It’s leaking off his pen, like he can’t stop the flood of ideas and he feels like a mad scientist, crazy and ecstatic. He takes a break around dinner time and when his stomach starts creating its own music.

He takes out noodles from the food he bought the day before. Living with you meant sharing a flat, but he wanted to provide his own necessities. Participating in daily life matters is only natural, after all.

His phone rings, and the caller ID makes him sigh. He is too hungry to face what is about to come, and his spent brain is screaming for rest.

He coughs, keeping his voice steady “Yes.” His tone is disillusioned. Jungkook barely gets any call nowadays, and except from work, he only knows one person who can annoy the hell out of him so much.

“You remember me? I thought depression AND amnesia hit you at once.” He wants to hang up when he hears the throaty voice. It’s heavy with judgement but then again, when is it not?

“And you wonder why I don’t call you, Yoongi-hyung.” Jungkook finishes the sentence in a sigh. Yoongi is awesome at being a nagging mother.

“You’re too busy being away I guess. Artists are such a handful.” He hears steps and after a while, Yoongi speaks again. “Where are you? I’ve been waiting in front of your flat.”

“I moved out.” Jungkook looks fine with the revelation. It’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What? Where? Why didn’t you tell me?” he hears Yoongi’s car and supposes the latter is already going back to his place.

“It’s been two days. I’m living with a girl.” He blows hair on the steaming bowl of noodles, ignoring his friend’s deep shriek.

Yoongi doesn’t know what’s happening anymore. Jungkook leaving on an inspiration crusade is common, it’s something he does whenever he gets overwhelmed by his feelings. Never once did he actually move out to live with someone else, let alone a girl.

He doesn’t even remember when was the last time Jungkook even dated someone. “Living together as in...romantically?” he tries, suddenly wary because he expected a lot of answers, but not this one.

“I couldn’t write anymore. I’m renting a room in her apartment.” He swallows the food like he has been starving for days. There is not the slightest hint of discomfort in his voice.

Yoongi laughs after a while “You’re living with your landlord. God, Jungkook, I know you people need some sort of inspiration to exist, but to the point of living with some old lady for the sake of music...”

“She’s not old.” Jungkook has no idea why it’s the only part of the sentence he reacted to, but all of a sudden he doesn’t want anyone to make fun of the person who took him in, not when he wrote ten songs in the span of two days. Not when he feels like no one can hurt him in your quiet kitchen.

“Anyways. Lunch with me tomorrow, how does that sound? Shall I check on that woman you’re living with ? How much is she charging you ? Aren’t you being scammed?”

“I can’t.” Jungkook sighs, ignoring the numerous questions because this is so typical of Yoongi to make sure no one is messing with him. “I have to eat with my parents, don’t tell them that I moved out.”

“You have always been doing everything you wanted anyways, what would it change if he was to know?”

Because he is going to crush me down like fine dust.

It has always been the same, and no matter how successful he was at some point, his father was never satisfied. Not when music is not a certain source of income, not when reputation comes before everything else.

“I’m hanging up.” He announces once panic overtakes him and hears his friend objects, telling him he will meet with him no matter what.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to see him. It’s just complicated. Jungkook has always been different from others. He was raised with Yoongi and they had the same nanny when they were young. The age difference rapidly made Yoongi turn into the older brother as time passed, and while he was the one introducing Jungkook to music making, he quickly stopped to take over his family’s business. He never explained to him how he drifted from music, but he is now all about business. Their respective parents were and still are too busy to deal with education, and while Yoongi grew up like the sharks his father works with, he took after a quieter side, the one that tells him to do what he wants instead of chasing money.

Yoongi often tells him he is a fool, that he doesn’t need anything else if he can have a bright future with his father’s company. He often answers that he doesn’t want to work without a purpose, and Yoongi always tells him to stop being a hypocrite and rely on his father’s money if he was to spit on it.

It’s true, Jungkook doesn’t know struggling. He was born in a rich family with a lot of possibilities. He was able to become a lyricist after a lot of failures, and his parents never gave up on him financially. This is probably why he is so affected when he can’t write. He doesn’t know how to deal with difficulties, he who lived with all the good things of the world.

He hears the door opening and your sore body appears before him, surprised to see him home. It’s like you were expecting him to run away, again. You don’t speak when you see him, mouth full of noodles and wearing the same clothes you left him in this morning. The silence is thick, oxygen heavy with uneasiness. Jungkook blinks, slurping on the noodles before wiping his mouth hastily.

“Want some noodles?” It’s hard to catch on the words, but he moves the bowl in front of him, and you understand.

You nod.

No matter how strong the smell of seafood is, his scent always wins over everything else. You decide to stay close because you’re slowly deciphering his smell, and you need more time to know where you’re going.

He goes to the cupboard like he has been living here for years and fills another bowl before sitting back. You’re surprised by his sudden gentleness but brush the worries off. You’re supposed to feel weirded by the fact that an unknown man is now living with you, but none of you are freaked out.

Jungkook is too happy to be productive again. You’re too drawn into your memories to stop everything.

You sit in front of him and after a couple of minutes, he speaks. It takes you out of the now soggy food.

“What’s your job?” Jungkook sounds interested, but you know he is only trying to ease the mood.

“I’m a perfume composer.” You decide not to dig further into the matter. It’s a peculiar world, something that only a few people can relate to. Most people think you mix synthetic molecules into expensive glass bottles, wrapped in glitters and hidden into luxury boxes with frills and furbelows.

And you get offended, knowing fully well that it’s exactly what you think you’re doing.

Jungkook doesn’t sound impressed, you’re not surprised by that.

“Sounds complex.” It is. It truly is, and even more when he is entering your every pore. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to it.

“It’s not.” you lie, “How about you?” His face lits subtly, and he seems shy all of a sudden. You don’t know this side of him yet, and you wonder where his emo behaviour went.

He coughs, putting the bowl down. “I’m a lyricist. I write lyrics and sometimes I compose, but I mostly write.”

“That sounds complex.” You muse. Jungkook is a tormented artist, then. It explains why he keeps on dreaming on bridges like he is filming a music video.

“Sometimes it’s complex, sometimes it’s a matter of course. I’ve been having a blackout recently.” It’s a confession, and he doesn’t know why he is sharing such a deep problem with you, a stranger.

You forget about the food “That’s why you were surrounded by torn papers.”

He chuckles. “Exactly. I’m getting there, though.”

It feels different to deal with such an open Jungkook. He chats like you’re close, smiles sometimes, he is almost glowing.

That evening you learn that he uses a pen name to write lyrics. He doesn’t want to tell you, but you know too little about the music industry and he finally spills the beans.

JK.

It sounds like some mysterious pen name used by thriller writers but you don’t tell him that. Instead, you decide to go to bed. No matter how comfortable you both seem, you’re not ready to share the part about you being addicted to his scent. He goes to his spot near the small table in your living-room and his hand goes back to a wild dance, covering the blank paper with ink. He is inspired.

He goes to bed right when you get up the day after and wakes up late for his lunch with his parents.

It’s not like he is eager to meet with them.

Plants. Plants plants plants. You look through the samples with haste. You know it has something to do with nature. The base note has to be about something else.

“What are you doing?” You smell Jimin the minute he opens the door, but you don’t let yourself be interrupted. You know you sound like a stalker, but you might or might not have smelled Jungkook’s jacket this morning, and you are sure of a thing: there is only one element left to create a frank base.

You don’t know when you switched from creating a perfume to reproduce his scent, but it doesn’t matter.

“All the samples are here, right?” The organ is huge and cabinets full, but it’s not enough for you. Jimin throws his vest on one of the chairs and approaches you, stifling a yawn.

“Yes. I think that’s quite a lot, actually.” He peeks from behind your shoulder, and sees your hands going through the numerous bottles, unsatisfied.

“No. No. These are generic scents. You don’t have any rare roots names, you forgot a lot of exotic fruits and most importantly, you don’t have anything uncommon.”

Jimin makes a face. He is not lost, he is adrift. “I’m afraid I don’t understand...”

“Tobacco abs, myrrh, resinoid, Balkans...” You talk but it sounds like a whole new language even for your assistant.

“Well, we have listed a lot of names. Most of them were used by previous composers, but we added more. I didn’t think it needed that much to be completed.” He knows about perfumes, he has a lot of knowledge, but you’re suddenly on a whole new level and can’t be reached.

You’re suddenly talking about tobacco odours and it freaks him out.

“I have a lot of these at home.” This could seriously help you. You barely use these, and most of them were sent by your father and collected on the internet. It’s the first time you can actually put them to good use because you know they could help, but you can’t bring them here.

Also, you think about how much easier it would be to just move work to an environment bathed by that scent which makes you crazy. How stimulating would it be ?

Jimin is expectant, but you don’t say more. He finally waves a worried hand in front of your face and you snap to meet his blinking eyelids.

“Let’s work from my place. This is what I often did.” Your offer makes him take a step back. He is not used to you being so devoted to this project.

“Are you sure? I don’t think the boss would object. We’ve had a few composers with weird demands before.” He doesn’t know what’s on your mind, but you’re a genius to his eyes and the mere idea of him seeing the place where you created such amazing products is electrifying. He can’t wait to know more about your ways.

“Good.” You glance around the room, “I don’t like this atmosphere.” You don’t mind if Jimin sees your place. At some point, you’re pretty much sure you could go with anything as long as you find the missing pieces of this conundrum.

You’re aware that you’re turning into an obsessional mess, but it feels pleasant to have a goal. This goes beyond everything you experienced, it gives you a fuel you didn’t know you could have.

You take the day to gather some samples and ask Jimin to let the boss know about your change of plans. At the end of the day, he helps you carry the numerous samples home. You’re a happy mind, torn between apprehension and excitement.

You open the door and Jungkook sees two huge boxes enter the living-room. He is rubbing a towel against his wet hair but he catches your box before you can let it crash to the ground. Jimin lets his own fall with a soft thud and you’re startled when you hear a dismayed squeal, along with Jimin’s shocked face, his finger pointing at a puzzled Jungkook.

“JK?!”

-------

* Winter Fir and Balsam : This redolent mixture of refreshing natural pine mingled with a sweet, peppery, delicately refined and soft base note of balsam has a soothing and warm character. It evokes particular feelings of warmth and comfort. The mind’s eye (and nose) recalls Christmas trees and sleigh rides and happy times by a fireside or even in a small apartment among special friends or family.

** Cottage Herb Garden : Sparkling blue waters, gentle summer winds and cozy brick cottages nestled in the lush, serene English countryside characterised this green floral scent. Enticing notes of sweet, earthy, star anise, fresh basil, grassy parsley, aromatic wild flowers, fresh garden greens and a woodsy, sensual musk base note comprise this complex aroma.

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ukdamo · 3 years

Text

Remembrance of Things Present

One of mine...

The gloryhole in 89 Napier Street was the repository for practical things not necessarily needed immediately to hand: the scorched and rickety ironing board (the iron standing on its heel on the shelf above); left-over rolls of wallpaper; a canopy of coats cascading untidily from too few hooks; the two books (Universal Home Doctor and Family Bible); a bashed brown tea caddy, minus its label, that held buttons, wooden cotton reels, a selection of sewing needles, hair grips, press-studs on their cards, folorn biros with bitten ends; the Ewbank (at an earlier date), the reconditioned Hoover now in its stead. And mum's handbags. Old ones bulged with insurance policies, family snaps, the one £5 Premium Bond and the the three £1 ones, grave papers, mass cards, cast-off compacts with cracked mirrors or broken clasps, and almost-but-not-quite empty jars of Pond's cold cream. And the little cylinders of fake gold that held the stumps of greasy, muted-pinky-maroon lip sticks. It was all illuminated by a bare low-wattage bulb.

The gloryhole was, basically, under-stair storage. It was accessed from a door in the corner of the living room. Once the door was opened, you faced a narrow underdrawn space that sloped upward from left to right, following the contours of the stairs. In front, where the height permitted it, a shelf ran around the space. Under it were the old, two-pronged coat hooks. Mum's discarded handbags dangled by their frayed straps from those Victorian coat hooks, smothered by coats. They made occasional forays out into the light, when documents needed consulting or prayer cards needed re-homing. To the left of the door, down one-step, the space retreated into an increasingly confined wedge, so that the smaller objects had to be shoved into the deepest part of the recess and the taller ones stood immediately adjacent. The gloryhole was seldom decorated: it always lagged behind the rest of the house by at least two or three colour-schemes. Occasionally, when its yellowing paint became too depressing, it was freshened up by left over emulsion. The gloryhole housed the left-over wallpaper from various rooms - but never enjoyed a Polycell make-over of its own.

From the vantage point of 2017, Napier Street as our family home is long-gone. So are my parents; dad in 1995, mum a decade later. Equally long-gone are those old handbags with their stash of yesteryear's oddments. But, as I beetle along towards old age, the inherent power of those distant objects to seems to grow exponentially. The handbags and their associated evocations perhaps most of all.

Pond's cold cream. I don't know if it still exists. When I was a boy, it lived in small, glass, oval jars with bakelite screw lids. It was not gloopy or waxy. It was a reassuringly viscose white fondant, and had always the imprint of mum's last finger-scoop. The texture was cool, smooth and soothing. Its fragrance was of mum. Or maybe it was the other way round. A discreet scent of jasmine with distant lilies. It was soft on the palms and immediately made skin more malleable, less friable, less care-worn, more translucent. I can sympathise with her fondness for it: less a cotton winders' hands, more of a princess's. I used to have occasional dabs of my own: less a scrawly schoolboy's hands, more of an aesthete's?

In one or other of the bags there was a ladies Ronson lighter – it still had a working flint but its petrol-infused lint had long since dried out. I used to enjoy the dry, rasping spark with electric flare. Not so much a burning smell as a mechanical one. And then there were the compacts. They were usually smudged by the old lipsticks, their hinges encrusted with their own pink-blush powder. Indeed, the insurance policies, prayer cards and the faux-satin linings of the handbags were similarly smudged. The dull gold-coloured compact, the one with the cracked mirror, had a thin flat disc in it – satin one side and mildly padded on the other. Practically all the powder was gone from the insert. Little bevels of it remained where the side and bottom of the pan met. But the pad was still redolent of dustings and pattings. The powder was an anhydrous mist, different from the silky puff of Johnson's baby powder. Matt rather than shiny, the pad gave a satisfyingly muted pat when applied to the back of your hand. It had a fragrance, too, different from the cold cream, but complementary. The aroma was a pink carnation.

Mum was a delicate creature in some respects – allergic to anything other than gold jewellery. In this, I am not her son: I can wear any base metal, though my fondness and preference is for silver. Anything other than butter on her bread made her nauseous. Wartime had been a torture for her (the chemical coarseness of margarine, you understand). She had to trade all manner of coupons to secure enough butter. I sympathise with that. Her choice of butter was always Lurpak but she'd tolerate Kerrygold or Anchor if it was demanded of her. Stork – which the adverts claimed was indistinguishable from butter – was relegated to cake-making. Rightly so. Vile. Only desperation would make a person use it on bread.

Mum's repertoire of soaps was as limited as her butter.

Pears (those amber ovals) she liked – but it was too pricey. Imperial Leather (“Simon, Bermuda”) was also valued but equally pricey. I don't recall it featuring anything other than rarely – probably when it was on offer. We were a family of six, with four blokes, you see: that's a lot of soap. So, the mundane soap was a Lever Brothers stand by: Sunlight. With lanolin, even. I had no idea what lanolin was – but mum could use it on that delicate skin. This was in the days before hypoallergenic was a even a word, still less a range of products. Sunlight soap came in fat, cumbersome, rectangular, pale magnolia cakes. Really, it was very unfeminine: great half-charlies that were too big for the hand, unless you were a navvy or a coal miner. They had a wide groove on their upper surface, with a cursive 'Sunlight' stamped in it. I don't know if Sunlight is still going: it had a retro makeover many years ago but I can't recall seeing it in decades. The gradual demise of the C2 working class probably doomed it to extinction. And as for lanolin, people finding out that it was the oil from sheep's fleeces no doubt undermined its appeal, somewhat. Sometimes it's best not to know: when I hear what goes into mum's old Oil of Ulay (now sans oil, and simply Olay for copyright reasons, I think), it is cringeworthy.

But lanolin. I recall coming face to face with it a few years ago on a walk to the Water Meetings and Quaker Bridge in Barrowford. Summer time. No azure flash of kingfishers racing along Pendle Water that trip, but as I forked right and headed up the road into Blacko to follow it homewards, there was the buzz of clippers in a field. A Landrover was pulled up, with trailer uncoupled. The trailer sported on- /off- ramps, a generator, and a tall pole, attached to the top of which was a flexible bendy cord. At the end of the cord was the source of the insistent buzzing – sheep shears. The trailer was adjacent to a sheep pen, in which dozens of ewes jostled half-heartedly for position, and peered blankly out. I stopped to watch proceedings and, after a minute or two, the farmer came over, opened the gate, and invited me in.

And so we stood, the three of us. Me, the farmer, and the sheep shearer. And I learned about shearing, fleeces, and sheep. The shearer travelled from farm to farm (hence the Landrover with its bespoke trailer) making his way through Wales, Lancashire, Yorkshire on a pre-arranged timetable and route. He was netting £2 a fleece – and he had each of those pliable ladies, and some cantankerous ones – nabbed, shaved, and released at no more than 90 second intervals. The farmer penned the sheep ready, so there was no delay, and they contracted for a minimum number, so farmers with smaller holdings rendezvoused at the farm where the shearer was to set up. Prices for fleeces rose and fell – they weren't bad that year, as I recall, but sheep need shearing whatever the price.

The bewildered ladies were unceremoniously up-ended and plonked on their ample bottoms, whilst the young fella planted his muscular legs and gripped them, and set to work with the clippers. Mostly, they were subdued once he had them: perhaps reassured by his evident skill and no-nonsense approach. That always worked with me when I was a boy: the sound of the airplane clippers, the smell of 3-in-1 oil, and the firm purpose of the barber. Short back and sides and sparse conversation. Mind you, I don't think the barber netted £2 a scalp back in the day.

The sun shone, the sheep skittered off once fleeced, and we three chatted. Soon my eye was drawn to the large grease spot on the wooden trailer. Lanolin, live and in-person. Handy for soap making, handier still for shedding the filthiest Lancashire weather: these sheep were well set up for inclemencies. I noted, too, that the shearer was wearing moccasins. As the farmer explained, the best shearers wore moccasins. Their suede nap gave some purchase on the slippery grease and their firm pressure was kinder to sheep. Lots of younger men were sporting trainers now, he said, but he didn't rate them. They were not good. The risk of injury to sheep, and man, was increased. I found myself glad that the shearer stood fully congruent with his occupation – no flirting with any Nike or Adidas innovations. Real sheep shearers do it in moccasins.

After the family home was sold and mum and dad went to live in Lomeshaye Village, in one of the old-folks' flats, mum's predilection for Imperial Leather resurfaced. There was always a bar in the bathroom. With just the two of them (kids all gone) the economies necessary for a family of six, on a wagon driver's income, were less stringent. Imperial Leather as pensioner indulgence! One of the things that most endeared me to those lozenge-shaped bars of buttermilk hue was the little foil label that conjured up the decadence of the Romanovs. It was my understanding that the label was there to prevent the soap leaving a mess on the sink ceramics or soap dish: you stood the bar on its label. As the soap wore down, the label stood proud and the soap was no longer in contact with the sink – hence, no mess. Perhaps because we were very plebeian, the soap was never label down. You announced the fact that you were using it by having the label showing.

For me, nowadays, picking the soap up, lathering it under the tap, releases not so much a fragrance as a wave of nostalgia. Imperial Leather's fragrance has elements of sandalwood and the richness of plant oils – it's mildly exotic and suggestive of luxury. Which is, no doubt, what Cussons were aiming at. But for me, it mostly carries aromas of mum. It's powerfully evocative. Aromas are.

I recall a visit – with mum – to Gawthorpe Hall. It's one of the places we'd scoot off to for an afternoon of cultural noseyness, and cake. The cafe was lodged in the stable block and featured home-baking and pots of tea. Ideal for us. After a leisurely brew and news-swop, we were about to go and explore the lovely Elizabethan pile: I decided to make a visit to the lavatory first. The tea room was above, the toilets below, so I skittered down the stairs and found the Gents. The soap was in an old-school wall dispenser: fingers under, palm operates a rectangular squirter. One squidge was enough: the years receded and I was age six, it was dinner time, I was standing at a child-height sink in St George's RC Primary School, Vaughan Street, Nelson, washing my hands so that Mrs. Ingham (a diminutive tyrant) would not throw me out of the dinner queue. The soap dispensed in the Gawthorpe toilet was the same amber-coloured, antiseptic liquid that Lancashire County Council used in its school thirty years before. The power of scent created a wormhole in space-time and drew me through it, irresistibly. That power can be used to advantage, though. You can elect to make the journey. Fragrance can open the portal, on demand. If liquid coal-tar soap can take me to primary school, other fragrances can take me elsewhere.

4711, for instance. That eau-de-cologne can transport me to Köln, and the year 1976. It's a school exchange trip and I'm in Germany, staying with a family from Mayen: we're on a trip to Cologne. I've been up the cathedral tower and seen the Rhine bridges and I'm looking for a present for mum. On Glockenstrasse, at number 4711, stands an impressive perfume factory and shop – home to 4711. The original eau-de-cologne. Echt Kölnisch Wasser. It's still there – flagship shop of the perfume house, and it still glitters with possibility. I bought mum a bottle of the eponymous 18th CE perfume and she wore it ever after. Generally, she kept it in her current handbag (before they were, successively, relegated to the gloryhole). She'd dab it on her hanky and freshen up with it on car trips. As a perfume, 4711 has had an odd evolution over the 200 plus years of its existence; it was, originally, a men's fragrance for the prestige Houses of Europe. More latterly, it has been a women's fragrance – but 4711 indicate it as unisex. I agree. The scent is of citrus and wood that carries a fresh, sharp finish and has enduring undernotes. For me it's an everyday scent: it lives in my sports bag, for application after swims. It's also my travel fragrance and comes with me on every trip, near or far.

As I age (just clocked 56, Not Out), I seem to be developing a deepening appreciation for my past and how it has shaped who I have become. I heard once that making sense of your life is only possible when you look back over it – I recall an analogy that compared it to running your fingers over a fish's scales: they lie smoothly when stroked in one direction but are likely to tear your flesh if stroked in the wrong one. I can see connections, recognise how events and people shaped my experiences. I know I hold threads together, personally. I weave my own cloth - but on a loom I inherited. More tellingly still, some elements of the pattern, some of the aesthetics that inform the weave, some of the yarns, were given to me. I'm the child of weavers in more ways than one.

I can find, too, there's comfort in the sureties of the past. Like the familiarity of an old pair of slippers (not that I wear slippers), the quiet resonances of childhood are reassuring. I think we like continuity, as a species. We tell stories. We create in our own likeness. We look to where we came from to make sense of where we are and to decide where we want to go.

I'm conscious of my heritage. Not (I think) conditioned or stultified by it, or forever harking back to a mystical Golden Age that exists only in the warm fuzziness of a smug and delusional imagination. But I know I make choices which ensure there are tokens of continuity that I can carry with me into my everyday life. Mostly, they are mundane. And I like that, too. It's too easy to confuse what's important with what's valuable, unless you guard against that possibility. The richer you are, the more imperilled that discernment is: I've safeguarded myself against that risk very well!

My tokens are trivial. It's good that they are.

I think of the tea caddy spoon – it's in my kitchen, as it was in mum's kitchen, and as it was in her mum's kitchen before her (c/o a pre-WW II holiday to the Isle of Man): or there's my 'ice-cream' spoon – courtesy of Margaret Pepper and the Raj (well, the North Western Railway Volunteer Rifles, circa 1920). These tokens are a continuing connection with people now gone. They are stirred (if you'll forgive the pun) by everyday use.

I note, increasingly, that I am becoming my parents. I look like dad. Really: peas in a pod, chip off the old block, and so on. I look in the mirror and he smiles back at me. I look at my physignomy – and his fingerprints are all over it. My driving style evokes his. In some situations, I can sense him near. Curiously, he underpins my confidence in situations from which his natural diffidence would have disbarred him. If I stand tall, it's because he raised me. As for mum, she's around most days. Wimbledon Fortnight, she practically moves in. It was ever ‘our time’ - I’d rock up with whimberry charlottes, or strawberries, and we’d sit on the edges of chairs for hours and hours as Nastase, Connors, Becker, McEnroe, Ivanisovic, Sampras, Federer and Billie Jean King, Martina, Steffi and the Williams sisters thwacked balls back and forth. I miss her acutely then. And we both missed Dan Maskell, together. She’s at my elbow at breakfast when I make a pot of Yorkshire Tea (there's another evocation!); when the Imperial Leather is handled at shower time; twice weekly, in the men's locker room at Crow Wood, after a swim. Perhaps it's fortunate that the evocation is a personal, rather than an universal, one? (Otherwise, explanations might prove difficult).

I don't know if the trivial and potent associations that so flavour my life – 4711, Imperial Leather, and two old spoons – will evoke the same responses among my nephews and nieces and their respective kids once I'm dead. It’s open to doubt. They don't live cheek-by-jowl with them, as I do. It matters not. They will make their own. As things stand, I'm the orphan in the world, now mum and dad are long dead: the comfort blanket offered by fragrances and spoons is mine, and very probably mine alone.

There's quiet comfort in that, too.

#remembrance #memory #quotidien #daily #mum #margaret pepper #mary-ellen mcgough #grandma #friend #TimeMachine #FlickrFriday #damian's writings

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javistg · 4 years

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Through the Senses

Chapter 3. Smell.

The third instalment of TTS is here! To read the previous chapters you can go HERE or to AO3 or FF.net.

This one’s from Katniss’s POV.

Hope you enjoy ❤️

The electric fence, covered in early morning dew, loomed on the horizon.

Keeping to the narrow alleys of the Seam, Katniss reached the empty Meadow. The smell of freshly cut grass tickled her nose.

She quickened her step. The place would be crawling with Peacekeepers soon -- and not the usual lazy kind.

The officers patrolling the streets today had been sent directly from the Capitol to oversee the reaping. They wore spotless uniforms and walked in a straight line.

Young and arrogant, they always kept their eyes peeled for any irregularities. The thought of catching some poor sucker trying to break the law drew them in, but the prospect of showing up the local authorities --and gaining some glory-- was what truly drove them on their quest.

Luckily for Katniss --who spent her days breaking the law— their loud, coordinated footsteps, paired with the stench of bleach they left behind, were hard to ignore.

Stealthily, she walked over to the loose spot in the fence and, hiding behind a clump of brushes, flattened out on her belly and slid underneath.

After retrieving her bow and sheath of arrows, she moved deeper into the woods. There, hidden by the thick line of trees encircling District 12, she breathed easy again.

Wrapped in the scent of pine needles and wet dirt she knew so well, Katniss made her way to the rock ledge where Gale was waiting for her.

Breakfast was good that morning. Fresh bakery bread; goat’s cheese packed in fragrant basil leaves; sweet blackberries, tart and juicy, that tasted like summer dreams.

The sun was high in the sky when the hunting partners walked back to the district. Their satchels were full; their hearts heavy. A good haul didn’t matter as much when the reaping was just a few hours away.

Eager to get rid of their goods, Katniss and Gale stopped by the Hob first.

The sweet smell of ripe strawberries followed the hunters. Stubborn and thick, it hung in the air as they traded their fish for bread and salt.

After visiting Sae, Katniss wrapped her arms over her hunting bag and stepped out into the bright day. Keeping her eyes to the ground, she hoped the visiting Peacekeepers wouldn’t notice the unmistakable fragrance trailing behind on her way to the mayor’s house.

By the time she got home, a warm bath awaited her.

After scrubbing off the dirt and sweat from the woods, Katniss washed her hair. Clean and refreshed, she rested her neck on the lip of the tub, stretched out her legs, and closed her eyes.

As the water cooled down around her, she took a deep, long breath.

The anise shrub Mrs. Everdeen had planted on the windowsill was in full bloom. The soft, cotton-like blossoms released their heady scent into the muggy air, sending memories of hearty winter stews and rainy afternoons back into Katniss’s mind.

Soon she’d have to dry off and get ready to go to the square, but for a few blissful seconds, her world was at peace.

Prim hadn’t taken any tesserae. Their pantry was full.

Somewhere deep, in that place in her soul where she tried not to dwell, Katniss hoped her father would approve.

XXXXX

The cave was still dark when Katniss opened her eyes.

Pushing her hood away from her face, she stretched out her neck and greedily filled her lungs with cold, early morning air.

Outside, a fierce storm raged on, pelting the rocks of the cave, and filling the small space with the rhythmic patter of droplets hitting wet earth.

The scent of damp tree bark and green moss that filtered through the rocks reminded her of her woods, but the strong arms holding her tethered her to reality. These weren’t the woods surrounding District 12. Her life in the Seam was miles away.

Trying not to disturb her district partner, Katniss gingerly flipped over on her side. It was a tight fit inside the sleeping bag, but she didn’t mind. Having Peeta there, keeping guard right next to her, beat being alone, any time.

“You OK?” he asked, lifting his arm to accommodate her movements.

“Mm-hmm. Just needed to change position,” Katniss mumbled, drowsily resting her head on his shoulder and her hand over his chest.

Peeta’s arms wrapped around her.

He smelled of sweat, dirt, ointment, and… rust?

Probably the dried blood on his bandages, Katniss thought.

It wasn’t the most enticing aroma —some might have even found it nauseating— but, to her, it was better than the most expensive Capitol perfume.

She was so relieved to have him there, alive and kicking and resting in her arms instead of dead by the river bed, that she rubbed her nose against his t-shirt and smiled.

“Hey, that tickles,” Peeta chuckled.

“Sorry,” she said around a yawn.

Lifting his free hand, Peeta began brushing the loose strands of hair on her forehead, gently stroking them back into her messy braid. “Not a problem.” His voice was a soothing caress when he asked, “D’you want me to tell you a story to help you sleep?”

A story?

The world outside was falling apart.

The star-crossed lovers of District 12 were still trapped in an arena with a crazed career hot on their trail, but as she lay there —comforted by the steady warmth of Peeta’s body beside her— none of that seemed to matter much.

Maybe a bedtime story is just what I need. “Tell me about those cakes you make,” Katniss asked, “the pretty ones.”

Still stroking her hair, Peeta told her about the bits of chalk he collected when he was little, and of the funny animals he liked to draw on the sidewalk. “Then, when I was eight,” he whispered as her breathing evened out, “my father asked me to make those same caricatures on a birthday cake. I’ve been in charge of frosting ever since.”

Peeta’s soft words blended with the gentle melody of water dancing around them, and before long, Katniss drifted off.

XXXXX

Wrapped in her mother’s old shawl, Katniss rocked back and forth. Back and forth.

A few feet away, a fire danced in the hearth.

The smoke of burning hickory and eucalyptus leaves floated through the house, infusing the empty rooms with its soothing aroma.

Dull, Katniss stared at the flames and rocked. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Morning broke.

Sae bustled about in the kitchen, humming softly to herself until the smell of scrambled eggs and toast filled the room.

“Come on, girl, breakfast’s ready,” Sae called out.

Too tired to do anything but comply, Katniss dragged her feet over to the table, sat down, and slowly cleaned her plate.

Days went by.

The rocking chair by the fireplace swayed back and forth. Back and forth.

Sae cooked and scrubbed the house clean. Traces of lemon peel and soap lingered in the air late into the night.

Lost in a world of pain and shadows, Katniss buried her nose in her mother’s shawl and, numbing her senses with the smell of mothballs and lavender that still clung to the soft fabric, rocked in her chair.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Spring is in the air today,” Sae said one morning. “You ought to get out. Go hunting.”

The idea seemed absurd, but a few hours later, Katniss left her chair and walked down to the study.

Wrapped in the musky smell of her father’s hunting jacket, she fell asleep on the couch.

The next morning, Peeta came back.

Shaken, Katniss shut the door behind her and ran up the stairs and into her room.

The scent was very faint, but it still laced the air.

A white rose —shriveled and fragile, but holding on to that unnatural perfection cultivated in Snow’s greenhouse— stood among the dried flowers in a vase.

Grabbing the vase, Katniss stumbled back to the kitchen and threw its contents into the embers.

The flowers flared up. A burst of blue flame enveloped the rose and devoured it.

Fire beats roses again, she thought, smashing the vase on the hardwood floor.

Back in her bathroom, Katniss peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower.

Chamomile scented bubbles danced around her, washing away the weeks of dirt and neglect.

Later, as she untangled her hair, rubbing pomegranate infused oil to the damaged strands, she began to wonder about the world outside her door.

Haymitch was probably at home —drinking himself into oblivion.

Peeta was back.

Where was everyone else?

XXXXX

Restored after a good night’s sleep, Katniss stretched her arms and legs until they reached the edges of the bed. With a contented sigh, she relaxed onto the mattress and turned to the empty space next to her.

The sheets were rumpled but cold. Peeta had woken up early.

Frowning, Katniss flipped over, buried her nose in his pillow, and took a deep breath.

Nutmeg, vanilla, orange peel, and something else —deep and enticing that she identified as exclusively Peeta’s— tickled her nose and soothed her worries.

Smiling again, she pushed the covers away and got up.

After brushing her teeth and getting ready for the day, Katniss threw the windows open.

The smell of sweet lemons and ripe cherries greeted her, making her heart jump in joy. The trees in her orchard were in full bloom. Summer had begun.

Humming a happy tune, Katniss walked down the stairs.

As she neared the kitchen, her nose picked up hints of cinnamon, melted butter, and bacon sizzling in the skillet.

Her stomach grumbled in anticipation. Sunday Brunches with Peeta were something she looked forward to all week.

“Morning!” she said, slipping into the kitchen.

Peeta turned away from the stove. His eyes lit up at the sight of her. “Morning! Did you have a good night?”

“Yup.” Katniss walked over to the counter and reached the teapot. It was already full. “How about you? You woke up early.”

Peeta turned his attention back to the skillet with the bacon. “I woke up at seven. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I figured I could start my day.”

With a soft hum, Katniss poured herself a cup of tea. “Want some?”

“Yeah, I’m almost done here.”

While Peeta cracked two eggs onto a waiting pan, Katniss poured two teacups and carried them back to the table where she sat down.

Resting her elbows on the countertop, she watched him work.

He looked good. He had recovered some of the weight he’d lost during the war, and the yard work he did every day had given his pale skin a healthy golden glow.

“Got any plans for today?” she asked as the earthy smell of the freshly brewed tea hung around her.

Peeta began to plate the bacon and eggs. “Not really, but it’s a nice day out. We should do something.”

“How would you like to go for a swim?”

Peeta turned around; eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really? Where?”

“I know a place.” Katniss reached out and took the plate he was offering. French toast with cinnamon, maple syrup, fried eggs, roasted apples, bacon. The smell alone was enough to make her mouth water.

Peeta sat down. “Is it far from here?”

“It’s a bit of a walk -- we’ll need to take some food for later -- but I think it’s worth it.” Dipping a bit of bread in the egg, she added, “You should bring your watercolors.”

Looking up from his food, Peeta smiled at her. A soft, warm smile that spoke of the trust between them, the joy he found in the small moments they shared.

Blushing, Katniss nodded to his plate. “Eat up, your food’s getting cold.”

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, stealing shy glances over their food while Katniss made a mental list of everything she wanted to show him on the way to her father’s lake.

#through the senses #things I write #smell #everlark fan fiction

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dawnasiler · 4 years

Text

The Ceramide Serum That Saved My Skin From Winter Dryness

Have you noticed how your skin shrivels up like an old prune when it’s not hydrated?

All the retinol + exfoliation in the world won’t smooth it out. If anything, they’ll make things 10x worse.

What dry skin needs is a dollop of ceramides, little plasters that can patch up any hole in your skin’s protective barrier. Keep that moisture in and that shrivelled prune will blossom into a smooth rose.

Lately, I’ve been getting my ceramide fix from Garden Of Wisdom Ceramide Hydrating Complex Serum. Here’s how it went:

What’s In Garden Of Wisdom Ceramide Hydrating Complex Serum?

CERAMIDES

Think of ceramides as the mortar that holds your skin cells together. These oily waxes create a protective barrier on your skin that keeps moisture in and germs and pollutants out.

Ceramides make up a staggering 50% of your skin’s composition. It’s no wonder that when your skin doesn’t have enough, it gets drier and flaky.

What robs skin of ceramides? Like everything else, ceramides slowly deplete as you get older. But unprotected sun exposure, harsh winds, and over-exfoliation (all the usual culprits) can weaken the mortar that holds skin cells together and break down its protective barrier.

This is why I always double down on ceramides during winter, when the harsh weather is more prone to drying out your skin worse than the Sahara.

Related: Are Ceramides The Key To Healthy Skin?

Texture

Garden Of Wisdom Ceramide Hydrating Complex Serum is as transparent as a gel and almost as runny as water. It spreads easily onto the skin and absorbs in a couple of minutes without leaving a greasy residue behind.

Fragrance

It’s fragrance-free, so anyone can use it (even sensitive skin).

How To Use It

If you keep your skin routine simple, you can apply it directly on cleansed, damp skin. If you’re using anti-aging serums (like retinol or Vitamin C), apply this afterwards.

Personal Use & Opinion

I apply Garden Of Wisdom Ceramide Hydrating Complex Serum every morning before I leave the house and every evening when I go to bed.

It makes my skin incredibly softer and smoother. When I touch my face, it feels silky smooth and a little tighter, too.

I noticed that if I leave the house without this on, my cheeks get a little red from the cold London winds. That’s a little reminder to up my skin’s defences at this time of year. This serum is perfect for this.

It doesn’t have any antioxidants, but for once I don’t mind. I can use a separate serum for that. But all the best anti-aging ingredients won’t make me look younger if my skin isn’t well hydrated.

This serum takes care of the basics (moisture), so you can build the rest of your skincare routine on top of it.

Related: Do You Need Anti-Aging Skincare Products If Your Skin Is Well Hydrated?

Who Is This For?

Dry skin

Sensitive skin

Anyone with a broken skin barrier (either from harsh weather or skincare products)

Who Is This Not For?

If your skin is naturally soft, plump, and hydrated (lucky you!), you don’t need this.

Packaging

Garden Of Wisdom Ceramide Hydrating Complex Serum comes in a dark bottle with a pump applicator to keep the formula safe and effective for long.

Does Garden Of Wisdom Ceramide Hydrating Complex Serum Live Up To The Claims?

CLAIMTRUE?Hydrating.Yes. With aging, skin loses its youthful moisture, suppleness, and smoothness, thanks to the loss of essential ceramide molecules.Yes.

Price & Availability

$28.35 at Garden Of Wisdom

Do You Need It?

If you have dry and easily irritated skin – tell tale signs your skin’s protective barrier has broken down in places – Garden Of Wisdom Ceramide Hydrating Complex Serum will help.

I also think it’s a good idea to keep a ceramide-rich serum or moisturizer at hand in winter, in case the weather wreaks havoc on your skin.

Garden Of Wisdom Ceramide Hydrating Complex Serum is super hydrating. It leaves my skin soft and supple for hours on end, and protects it from the harsh winter weather.

Beautiful With Brains

PRO

Intensely hydrating

Keeps skin soft and supple for hours

Strengthens skin, protecting it from harsh weather and germs

CON

Doesn't contain antioxidants

8.8 4.375 5

OVERALL SCORE

Dupes & Alternatives

Have you tried Garden Of Wisdom Ceramide Hydrating Complex Serum? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Ingredients

Aloe Vera Gel, Spring Water, Ceramide Complex, Liposomes (Soy), Leucidal SF (Lactobacillis Ferment), Coconut AMTicide, Prickly Pear Oil

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The Ceramide Serum That Saved My Skin From Winter Dryness syndicated from Beautiful With Brains

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kondo-hijikata · 5 years

Text

Pairings: Established Kondo/Hijikata Rating: M Summary: It’s simple. Peddle medicine and find purpose. But after Hijikata is caught in a downpour that leads him right into Kondo’s arms, he realizes things are a little more complicated than he’d like to believe. [AO3]

<< Chapter 3

.*After the Rain*. Chapter 4

Tendrils of honeysuckle twisted fragrant blooms over the outer stone wall, bringing embellishment and vitality to a modest silver nameplate that bore the words Sato Residence. The habitant butterflies and hummingbirds were unfazed when Kondo hurried by their earthly paradise of flora, still impassively flitting about even when he swept beneath the bough that had grown over the main entryway.

That wasn’t to say a proper welcome wasn’t in order, however.

“Kat-chan!”

Kondo unclasped his hat and pulled it free with a shake of the head, his chin immediately lifting to the woman who stood up on the porch before him. At her side were a young girl and boy, each flailing and cheering while jumping about in delight. “Uncle came to visit! Uncle, uncle!”

“Shh!” she hissed, swatting at the space around them. “Not so loud!”

“Nao-chan, Gen-chan! Hello!” Kondo offered a wave to help placate their excitement and then turned back to Nobu, his voice falling as serious as his expression. “I’m real sorry for showing up like this without notice, but I rushed over the moment I got your letter.”

“Oh, Kat-chan, please. Do you not see these kids right now? You’re always welcome here.” She guided the children a few steps back to give him room. “Come on up!”

With a nod, Kondo placed his hat and the cloth-covered box he’d carried on the wooden floorboards, before pivoting to toe off his sandals. “Sorry for the trouble,” he said out of polite habit (and over little voices now chanting, “Big feet! Big feet!”), while bounding up to join them on the porch. Within seconds, tiny arms were tossed around his legs to deliver enthusiastic hugs. Kondo’s shoulders dipped forward so he could place one hand atop each child’s head and he greeted them with warmth. “Hey, you guys.” However, worry was written across his features when he looked to Nobu again. “How is he?”

“Besides his usual stubborn self?” The words alone were harsh but they’d been delivered with the same fondness Nobu always used when talking of her brother. She crossed her arms and one hip leisurely swung out to the side. “Doing better, thankfully. He’s still feverish but at least he’s finally in bed.”

Kondo exhaled with relief, his lashes falling as he nodded once. In the background, he was vaguely aware of teeny toes stepping on his, their owners continuing to yap about the extraordinary size of his shoes.

“Ugh, the strings I had to pull to get him to rest, Kat-chan…” Blowing out a breath, Nobu’s brow creased and she tilted her head. “You should’ve seen him this morning. Flushed! Sweating! Exhausted and grumpy, and completely unreasonable. But he was so insistent on getting dressed, no matter what.”

Connecting the dots, Kondo felt color rush to his own cheeks then and his eyes parted a little wider. “Oh no…”

“I felt so bad that it came to sending a courier and worrying you like this. But with Hiko-chan out giving lessons like the good husband he is…” Nobu closed one eye and raised her shoulders a touch. “Honestly, that letter was the only way I could convince Toshi to get himself back in bed this morning. Even then, he was up and about soon after, pacing.” A beat. “He was really looking forward to seeing you today.”

Raising his palm to his cheek, Kondo huffed as his features softened and he peered off to the side. Soon after, his focus crept back up to her with a shy apology. “I’m so sorry for the trouble, Nobu-san.”

“What are you sorry for? You know best of all that obstinacy and flair for drama are traits around these parts!”

In response to that bit of truth, Kondo could do nothing except stifle the laugh which demanded escape from his tongue. So, the pot was calling the kettle black again… His hand fell and he absently pulled at the hem of his hakamashita to keep himself in line; the last thing he needed was another Hijikata on his case for something minor, especially when Nobu could be just as irascible as Toshi—if the mood was right. “Hardly,” he finally replied, not daring to agree with her assessment, no matter how accurate. “Anyway, I’m just glad he’s okay.”

“He’ll be fine. And speaking of the other dramatics in this family.” Nobu’s gaze appropriately fell to her children then. “All right, you two, that’s it! Let’s give him some space.” The girl of seven, Nao, pouted before releasing Kondo as her mother insisted but her younger brother, Gennosuke, made no such move; he clung even tighter, then lifted his chin. “Is Souji-niichan coming?”

“Souji, huh,” Kondo exhaled. “Afraid not. He stayed home today since Uncle Toshi caught a cold.”

“Aww…”

Kondo grinned and ruffled Gennosuke’s hair. “Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing him soon.” It was a promise he’d have to make good on, for as much as this boy wanted to see Souji, Souji had wanted to accompany Kondo on his visit here; the deadpan look and manner with which his brow had twitched upon hearing the remainder of his day would be spent with Gen-san were almost comical. Alas, though, Kondo had known war tales and tea would pale in comparison to the potential thrill of antagonizing Hijikata when he was already contentious and moody. His decision to come alone had been made in the best interests of all.

In all honestly, he’d felt awful about breaking the plans which occupied Souji’s excitement for the last few days, and even sought his permission to do so; unimpressed green eyes had fallen half-lidded with a sigh. “Hijikata-san is ruining my life as usual, I see.” Despite the warranted complaint, Souji had turned on his feet afterward and wandered in the direction of the sitting room, all as Kondo’s palms met in appreciation before taking off, himself.

He’d make the blunder up soon enough. For now…

Upon hearing Nao call his name, Gennosuke let go of the leg he’d wrapped himself around, instead favoring to chase his sister across the porch and through open shoji. Kondo used this opportunity of newly granted freedom to retrieve the elegant box he’d set down earlier. Picking it up, he offered it to Nobu once she finished gently scolding the children again for their noisiness.

“Nobu-san, it’s not much, but…”

“Kat-chan!” she admonished. “You never have to bring anything.”

“I know, I know. But I ran into a fruit vendor and couldn’t pass this up though, look.” Reaching for the tied ends of fabric, Kondo loosened them slightly and fragrance drifted up from inside.

“Ara?! Peaches?!” Nobu exclaimed. “They smell so good!” She inhaled again and a large smile graced her lips. “Oh, Kat-chan, Toshi’s gonna be so happy, you don’t even know. Between you visiting and bringing these? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s cured in a split second.”

Kondo smiled widely at that, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “That would be ideal, wouldn’t it?”

“Only one way to find out! C’mon,” she said with a wink and toss of her head, “let’s go see how bad of a mood he’s in.”

Companionable silence descended as Nobu led Kondo down a long stretch of porch and then around the corner, leaving them both standing at the threshold of a closed door.

“Toshi,” Nobu called softly while placing her palm against the entrance. When no reply came she tried again. However, upon being greeted with quiet for a second time, she carefully slid the shoji aside and peered in with Kondo leaning over her to do the same.

“Ah…” he whispered, lingering a moment more before righting himself. Nobu looked up at him with questioning eyes and Kondo nodded once to offer his agreement. And just like that, the door was closed as quietly as it had been opened.

“You know, Kat-chan…” When Kondo offered to carry the box for her as they began walking again, Nobu only hugged it closer. “I’ve known my brother for almost twenty years at this point and it’s still hard to believe that that…innocent face he makes while sleeping belongs to him.”

“Mm?” Kondo chuckled.

“Almost makes me believe in those ridiculous stories about shapeshifters…those scary ones that really do terrify the hell out of you when you’re younger but you never want to admit it.”

“Are you admitting it now?”

“I guess I am!”

Suppressing what would have been a hearty, resounding laugh, Kondo managed to control the volume of his amusement and then agreed. “You have a point, though. Angry Toshi is certainly scary Toshi.” A beat. “And it’s always a good idea to stay on his good side…unless you’re brave.” Upon arriving back at the front of the house, he cast a glance toward the main gate and his lower eyelids lifted just a touch. “Souji is brave.”

“Oh, that kid is a master of getting under my brother’s skin for sure. But make no mistake about it!” Nobu stamped one foot to drive her point home. “Toshi cares deeply for him. I know, if just from seeing how he interacts with my own.”

“Heh, I know it, too!” Kondo crossed his arms with a grin pulling far into his cheeks. “Those two may be like oil and water, but in some cases, oil and water can actually work together, you know. I can’t imagine my life without either. Everything just feels…” Affection swelled in his chest and perhaps had him speaking a bit too openly. “…so complete.”

“That’s good,” came the matter-of-fact voice at his side. “Because I can’t imagine Toshi’s life without you in it, either.”

With a blink, the contented expression fell from Kondo’s face and when his attention turned back to Nobu, he found her studying him with an inkling of pensiveness. “Oh…um—”

“Ne.” She cocked her head toward the kitchen. “You comin’ in?”

“Ah, Nobu-san, I don’t wanna put you out or anything. I just came to make sure—”

“Here, then. Since you’ve been insisting on carrying them.” Nobu thrust the peaches into Kondo’s arms. “Now you’re useful. Follow me.”

“I—” Kondo pursed his lips when he received a very familiar piercing gaze over her shoulder and the sight of it had him immediately relenting. “Mm, right. Yes, on my way.”

Tiny crimson baubles dangling from Nobu’s hair pin danced with a laugh just as animated. “That’s more like it! My last name may be Sato but never doubt I’m a Hijikata through and through!”

“Believe me.” Kondo stepped into sandals (small and uncomfortable, but they would do) waiting on the finished stone floor of the kitchen and set the box on a counter. “I’m smart enough to never dream of doing that.” His gaze drifted around the space and he watched while Nobu approached the pot that had been set over a small flame. The air smelled of comfort—of burning wood and appetizing rice porridge.

“I want to talk with you about some things, but I need to take care a few odds and ends in here first.” She picked up a hand towel to protect herself from the heat and then slid the cover off just enough to look inside. A billow of steam rose from within and the lid was immediately replaced. “Am I right to assume you’re gonna fight me if I tell you to go relax in the sitting room?”

“Who could possibly just sit around when there’s porridge to garnish and other things around here to do?”

Nobu huffed out of her nose. “You’re a good man, Kat-chan.” She opened a nearby cabinet and procured a jar. “Impossibly humble, but certainly good.”

“So, those scallions over there…which knife can I use?”

“Taku.” However, Nobu was grinning softly as she nodded toward a drawer. “Any one you want.”

“Got it.” With that, Kondo plucked the light green stalks from the vegetable basket, brought them to a free area of countertop, and began dicing. Across the way, Nobu removed handfuls of pickled plums from the jar and began extracting the pits.

“You know,” she started, while nimble fingers worked at their task with quickness and efficiency. “I’ve known you for a pretty long time too, but I don’t know if I ever thanked you. Have I?”

“Thanked me?” Kondo asked, his tone gentle and rising with curiosity. “For what?”

“Toshi’s my brother, but…well, I suppose it sounds a little silly since we’re so close in age, but I also think of him as my first son. After our parents died, someone had to step up and I guess it was just in my instinct to be the one who would.”

“It’s not silly at all. That explains why Toshi is so strong.” Chop, chop, chop. “Because Nobu-san is.”

“Cht…please.” Her voice fell, but Kondo could hear the smile she tried to conceal. “Anyway, he was our family’s little prince and I just wanted him to have a good life, especially after all that happened. And I still do.” Kondo finished his task then and peered over at Nobu; she stood still, her digits paused in mid-action of pitting with her chin raised and eyes focused on the wall before her. “It’s tough, though, the balance of having my own kids and everything.” Her shoulders shrugged and she went back to her work.

“I can only imagine…”

“That’s why we tried sending Toshi for that apprenticeship. Everyone here was so adamant on turning him into a successful merchant.” Nobu cocked her head. “But we all know how that turned out.” A beat. “…Bowl’s over there if you wanna put those scallions in something.”

“Well, I’m not following…didn’t it turn out for the best?” Kondo asked, while doing as he was told. “I mean, sure, the textile business didn’t work out but now he’s so good at selling your family’s medicine, so…” He drifted off when Nobu quietly chuckled, and then joined her with a small laugh of his own. “What?”

“That’s the point I’m getting to, Kat-chan. You’re always so encouraging, always have something good to say. Can Toshi do no wrong in your eyes?” She looked up to meet his gaze.

“Uh…I mean, no one is perfect.” He set his mouth in a line. “I’m certainly not, so how could I expect that of someone else?”

The corners of Nobu’s mouth twitched further with fondness. “If you want my opinion, I don’t think the reason why he’s so good at medicine peddling is because of his apprentice work. Maybe he learned some skills there that helped, but…” She paused. “I think it’s because you drive him to do his best.”

Kondo finally turned all the way to face her. “…Me?”

“Toshi was never exactly going down the wrong path, but I still worried about him,” Nobu spoke while tossing the readied plums on a dish and gathering discarded portions in her palm. “He wasn’t happy with the idea of just owning a shop or even inheriting our land. And I agree. I think he’s made for something different.” She discarded the refuse in a bag, then found Kondo’s eyes. “Something more.”

He licked his lips and glanced at the floor, as guilt began to pang within his stomach. What Nobu was saying sounded positive, but Kondo wondered if there was an ulterior motive to this conversation that wasn’t so promising in the end; after all, he’d been the one to tell Hijikata it was all right to have not finished the apprenticeship, that it’d been okay to not want to spend his life on a farm.

Kondo hadn’t said any of it lightly or with the intent of frivolous enablement; the words had been meant to both comfort and appeal to Hijikata’s best interests—but perhaps his best interests hadn’t aligned with the vision this family had for their youngest. And if that had caused a wedge between them…

“Kat-chan…” The kindness in Nobu’s voice brought Kondo back to her. “What I’m saying is, I wasn’t sure how to set him on the path to finding happiness. But I think you can. Or, that you already have.” She closed her eyes and with a huff, shook her head. “My older brother would go crazy if he heard us talking now because I know for damn sure he doesn’t agree. But, this world is changing. And I think we should all be able to chase what we dream of most. Like…what makes us excited to get up in the morning, instead of just living out of obligation.”

A choppy breath left Kondo’s lips then and his chin fell in a strong nod. “I agree.” His hands met his waist before a second guess made him wonder if it was too direct a stance; he therefore settled on crossing his arms before him instead. “I agree with that so much. Especially with my situation.”

“It’s what I’m doing too, after all.” Nobu grinned. “I have my family. That’s really what I wanted more than anything. And I want each of them to lead the best life possible, but it’s hard to keep tabs on them all, especially with…” She patted her midsection.

Kondo stared at her in confusion—and then it clicked. “…Oh.” His spine went a little straighter. “Oh, wow! That’s…that’s great news! Congratulations!”

“But when your family’s growing, everything’s so busy all the time. I can’t always be there for Toshi.” Nobu put out the flame beneath the porridge and once the bubbling background noise died out, she turned back to Kondo. “So, thank you for being the one who is.”

Absentmindedly itching at his jaw and then massaging the side of his neck, Kondo’s gaze fell down and off to the side. “Um…it’s…” He found himself incapable of stopping his own shy grin then. “It’s mutually beneficial. If you think I’ve done him any good at all, well…you should hear about all he’s done for me. It’s incomparable. I mean, if it weren’t for Toshi, then I—” His words trailed off when he noticed the softness falling from Nobu’s expression. “Sorry, I’m…talking a lot, aren’t I?”

A huff. “Oh, no.” With a swift turn to the counter, she braced the heel of palms against it and pushed her lips out. “Not at all.” Nobu’s tone dropped. “But maybe I have.”

Bewildered, Kondo caught onto the conflicted expression that was ascertainable even from seeing just the side of her face. His mouth opened but he stopped himself before speaking again, as the clear shift in demeanor indicated something profound had happened right under his nose without him even noticing.

“...Nobu-san,” Kondo ventured gently, taking a step toward her.

“Kat-chan, look. This might be overstepping. And maybe it makes me a terrible sister who can’t mind her own business. But.” She drummed her fingertips twice before pushing away from the edge, and when their eyes met, concern was clear and present in hers. “Has Toshi…” Nobu shook her head once with a wince before finally giving in. “Has he talked to you about this long trip he’s planning to take?”

Kondo blinked.

And though he couldn’t say he’d been surprised by her question, his heart seemed to grow a mind of its own as it began pounding hard against its ribbed enclosure. Then, from that central place in his chest, an ache swelled and burned—permeated right from the core to paralyze him.

Or at least that’s how it felt, for in that moment, it seemed to Kondo that he’d forgotten how to speak.

Connecting the dots, Kondo felt color rush to his own cheeks then and his eyes parted a little wider. “Oh no…”

“What are you sorry for? You know best of all that obstinacy and flair for drama are traits around these parts!”

“He’ll be fine. And speaking of the other dramatics in this family.�� Nobu’s gaze appropriately fell to her children then. “All right, you two, that’s it! Let’s give him some space.” The girl of seven, Nao, pouted before releasing Kondo as her mother insisted but her younger brother, Gennosuke, made no such move; he clung even tighter, then lifted his chin. “Is Souji-niichan coming?”