#LIKE A DELICATE DANDELION SEED

[rexscanonwife]

idk if someone's made this kind of post before, but draw your angstiest ships like this ☝️☝️☝️

[suguwu]

moon eater I four

"But truly, Master Diluc—why am I here?"

"I would wed you," he says, flexing his hands in his lap. "If you are amenable to it."

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

masterlist

pairing: diluc ragnvindr x f!reader

notes: thank you to everyone who sponsored this fic for fics for gaza's initiative! i appreciate it more than i could ever say. enjoy the chapter!

content: marriage of convenience, politics, some manipulation, pining, jealousy.

wc: 4.5k

The afternoon lengthens. The sun’s rays stretch across the vastness of the Dandelion Sea, bathing the fields in light, catching in the crystalline fluff of each flower, nature’s finest prism. Diluc watches as you kneel among them, carefully plucking a few flowers that haven’t yet faded into fluffballs. Their blossoms shine golden in your hands, little suns fallen from the sky. You gather them gracefully, piling them up in the cradle of your arms. 

He’s not sure what you’re doing; you haven’t bothered to inform him. Still, he’s content enough to watch you work. There’s something hypnotizing about the way your hands move, slipping through stems to pinch the blooms off with deft surety.

(The riverbank was muddy. The water swelled at its edges, cold and clear. Diluc saw the shadows of fish just beneath the surface, their fins swaying gracefully with the current, scales flashing like fireworks when they caught the light just right. The summer sun shone hot, the scalding rays making sweat bead up at the nape of his neck, but the mud was cool against his bare feet. 

You crouched on the bank, scooping up mud with careful fingers. He settled beside you, balancing on his haunches, but you didn’t look up. He watched as you shaped the mud deftly, building a structure he couldn’t quite make out. 

He almost asked, but when he glanced at you, the look on your face stopped him in his tracks. Your eyes were knife-sharp as you concentrated, but joy shone through you, the sun cutting through clouds. He subsided, content to simply watch your delight.

You worked steadily, sometimes letting the mud drip into wavy patterns, as sinuous as a snake, winding through the structure the way the river cut through the mountains. Diluc liked the way your hands moved, delicate but sure. 

He thought he could watch you forever.)

You hum as you pick another sunny bloom, running the pad of your finger over the petals of it. Then you push to your feet and head back to where Diluc is leaning against a tree. The dandelions sway as you pick your way through them, a few loose seeds rising through the air.

Diluc shifts as you settle on the blanket you’d spread out. The dandelions tumble from your arms to pile up like fool’s gold, glinting brightly even in the shade. You pick up a few blooms and start to knot them, weaving them together, your fingers a loom. Your wedding ring glints with each movement.

“Will you help?” you ask, not looking up.

Diluc stiffens. “How?”

You glance up at him, that rosebud smile blooming on your lips. “Come sit,” you say. 

He hesitates for a breath. You watch him serenely, your face a still pond, not even a ripple to betray your thoughts. With a sigh, he uncrosses his arms and pushes off of the tree. He settles across from you on the blanket.

“Give me your hand,” you say.

He balks. “Why?”

“So I can cut it off.” 

He rolls his eyes before he can stop himself; you laugh, the sound catching in the breeze and swirling around him. 

“C’mon, then,” you say, reaching out, palm up.

He stares for a breath. He thinks of an altar carved of flesh and bone, a place to lay everything he has to give. Then he reaches out, setting his gloved hand in yours.

You curl your fingers around his. He wonders if your skin would be cool against his, a snowmelt touch. He thinks it likely, but he’s glad for the protection of his glove. His hands are gnarled with scars and burns, his sins made manifest; they would catch against your softer skin, scrape across it. He doesn’t think he could bear it. 

He watches as you start to wind a dandelion stem around one of his fingers, weaving another stem through it before pulling them towards yourself. You do it again. By the third time, he realizes what you’re doing as a dandelion chain—made thick by the way you’ve woven it, three blooms across—starts to wind around your wrist, each golden blossom a small sun against your skin.  

“A crown?” he asks.

You peer at him through your lashes. 

“It could be,” you say. “I haven’t decided yet. It’s for Anatol’s daughter. I promised I’d make her something.”

“Anatol?”

“One of the Fatui diplomats,” you say, still weaving dandelions together. “He was stationed in Liyue previously, so we know each other well.” 

Diluc tenses. He almost curls his hand into a fist, but he catches himself at the last second, unwilling to ruin the flower you currently have wound around his finger. “I see,” he says. “You work closely with the Fatui delegation in Liyue?”

You hum. “From time to time.” 

“How often?”

You glance up at him again. Your eyes gleam in the sunlight, knife-sharp, an autopsy cut. “Thinking of taking up diplomacy, are we? I must say, I’m not sure you have the temperament for it.”

“Merely curious.” 

You thumb at the stem wound around his fingertip; it vibrates softly, a plucked harp string. He can’t parse your expression. The smile on your lips isn’t a rosebud curve. It’s something harder, the edge of the crescent moon, a fishhook of a thing. It sinks into him, buries itself beneath his skin. 

“It’s funny,” you say softly. “I think you’re more curious about my work than you are about me.” 

Diluc winces. “That’s not—”

“It’s fine, though,” you say. “I know that it’s just a marriage of convenience. Though I hope we can be friends.”

His stomach twists. “Friends,” he echoes.

“If you’re amenable to it.”

He nods, a little sharper than he means to. “Of course.”

Your smile softens. “Good.”  

Before he can say anything else, you hum, tying off the end of the dandelion chain with nimble fingers. “There,” you say. “That should do it.” 

He pulls his hand back as  you wind the chain securely around your wrist, a bracelet of little suns. There’s still a pile of unused flowers on the blanket; you scoop them into your arms before setting them to the side.

Diluc helps you fold the blanket up. Your fingertips brush and he wonders again what your skin would feel like. He shakes the thought loose and concentrates on helping you pack up. It doesn’t take long between the two of you.

“Let’s bring these,” you say, gathering up the extra blossoms again. They spill across your arms in a golden river, sweet and bright. “Lisa uses them for potions, sometimes.”

“There’s room in the saddlebags. My mare’s at the edge of the Sea.”

You nod and the two of you make your way through the Sea. Diluc’s mare huffs as you come into view, tugging lightly at her tether. He murmurs to her, stroking along her flank before checking that the saddle hasn’t loosened. 

“What’s her name?” you ask.

“Daybreak.”

“Pretty name.”

“My father named her. He said I couldn’t be trusted.” 

You laugh. “Really?”

“Apparently I’m bad at names.”

“What would you have named her?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

You look like you’re going to say something, but Daybreak noses at you, searching for treats, and you coo over her instead. Diluc makes a note to give her an apple in the stables; he’s not sure he could bear to admit his chosen name to you. He lets you pet her for a bit before he nudges her away. 

“We should be off,” he says. “The sun will start to set soon.”

“Alright,” you say, tucking the rest of the dandelions into the saddlebag carefully. “I’m ready.”

Diluc helps you up onto Daybreak before taking her reins to start to lead her down the path.

“Diluc,” you say. “Surely you don’t expect me to ride while you walk.”

“It is what I intended.”

You peer down at him. The sun haloes you, crowning you with divine fire. He has to look away.

You sigh. “If you’re walking, I might as well walk too.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Then ride with me. At least then we’ll get to the city before dusk.” 

He hesitates. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He sighs and hands you the reins. He swings himself onto Daybreak with one graceful movement; he hears your breath catch. He settles behind you, stiff in the saddle to try and keep from pressing up against you. 

It’s not enough. He can feel the curve of your ass between his thighs, the swell of it soft against him. He sucks in a breath. Your scent billows over him, your perfume lingering on your skin even after hours in the sun, lush and inviting. He shifts; you glance over your shoulder at him. He focuses intently on the sweep of your lashes instead of the curve of your lips. 

“Are you alright?” you ask.

He nods, flicking the reins lightly to set Daybreak into a trot. 

You eye him for a moment before turning around. You settle back into the cradle of his hips again, and Diluc bites down on a curse.

It’s going to be a long ride.

—

By the time the two of you arrive in the city, the sun is cracking open over the horizon, bleeding crimson and orange. Cider Lake is afire as you ride across the bridge; it glows golden, a molten pool. 

Daybreak snorts as Diluc brings her to a halt just before the city gates. 

He swings down off her back and offers you a hand. You slip your fingers into his grasp; he grips them carefully as you dismount. He almost thinks he can feel the heat of you through the thick leather of his gloves. 

He lets go once you’re safely on the ground, though his fingertips linger. He pulls back when he realizes, flexing his hand. You don’t seem to notice. You’re already rummaging through the saddlebags to collect the dandelions you’d gathered. Some of them are a little worse for the wear, but they’re burned copper by the setting sun, gleaming in your arms. 

“I’m going to find Lisa,” you say. “Will you be at Angel’s Share?”

He nods. “Come to the tavern when you’re ready to leave,” he says. “I’ll accompany you back.” 

“You don’t need to trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble.”

You examine him for a moment; he doesn’t know what you see, but it seems to satisfy you.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll see you then.”

You’re off before he can respond. Lawrence salutes to you as you spare him a small smile, your lips a sweet curve. Diluc watches you sail through the gates of the city; he breaks free of his trance only when Daybreak nudges at him, nuzzling up against his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he murmurs to her, stroking a gloved hand along her neck. “C’mon, let’s get you stabled.”

He waves off the stable boy when he tries to take Daybreak from him. He sequesters himself away in an empty stall, carrying in water for the mare and stroking at her flank as he takes off the saddle. The light fades as he works, slanting through the window, a melting patch of gold. 

It’s dusk by the time he leaves the stable, faint fingers of light still lingering on the horizon, blending with the darkening velvet of the sky, a watercolor thing. The full-bellied moon is beginning its steady rise. He pauses in front of the stable, glancing towards Angel’s Share.

Then he heads the other way.

The Grand Goth Hotel gleams in the moonlight, rising high into the sky over the courtyard. It should be intimidating, but there’s something quietly graceful about it, like the curve of a dancer’s back. Vines trail over it like lace, tatted over the wood and dotted with bright pops of flowers. A lone Fatuus stands guard in front of the grand doorway. 

Diluc’s fingers twitch.

He longs for the weight of his claymore, for the way the pommel rests in his palm. It would pacify the thing that lingers behind his ribs, a yawning maw that always hungers. He’s never been able to satisfy it; in the darkest hours of the night, he sometimes fears he never will. 

The Fatuus yawns. Diluc steps closer, until he can feel the faint mist of the fountain’s spray. The faint scent of the fountain’s planters rises, stirred into something lush by the water. It’s a little musty, but he doesn’t care; the hotel has his full attention. He scans the building and zeroes in on a moving curtain. 

There’s a figure just beyond it, made misty by the distance, a ghostly outline against the window. The curtain flutters again, flicked shut, and Diluc huffs out an annoyed breath. He watches for a moment more, but the fabric remains still.

When he returns his gaze to the guard, his shoulders stiffen.

You’re chatting brightly to the Fatuus, who has a slight flush on his cheeks, visible even from across the square. Diluc grits his teeth. You’re turned just enough that he can’t read your lips, that he can only see the corner of them, a sweet curve. 

Whatever you say, the guard steps aside. He pulls open the door for you and ushers you inside with a hand on the small of your back. He returns to his post as you disappear behind the massive door of the hotel, the building swallowing you down. 

Diluc’s gloves creak as he curls his fingers into a fist. He strides towards the hotel, his boots echoing against the cobblestones. The guard sees him coming; he pales a little but stands firm at his post. 

“The Goth Grand Hotel has been reserved for the Fatui delegation alone,” he says, though he can’t quite look Diluc in the eye.

“My wife just went inside,” Diluc says, crossing his arms over his chest, knowing it emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. “I’m meeting her.”

The guard wrinkles his brow. “No access for unauthorized persons!”

“She’s authorized?”

“That’s not information I can share.”

Diluc raises a brow. The guard flinches.

“My wife,” Diluc says, “is inside. I will be joining her.”

“You’re not authorized.”

“Do I look like I care? Take me to my wife. Now.”

“Sir—”

“I’m not asking.”

The guard wilts at Diluc’s authoritative tone, but he holds firm. Diluc would be impressed if he wasn’t so annoyed. His fingers itch for the weight of his claymore again; his Vision is warming against his thigh. He shifts, but before he gets far, your voice rings out in the square. 

“Luc.”

He goes still. Even as children, you’d never taken to calling him by a nickname; to hear it slip from your lips now makes something in him swell. He hadn’t thought—

“Yes, Miss?” the guard asks.

“It’s ma’am,” Diluc says, petty. “She’s married.” 

“I’m sorry about my husband,” you say, sliding out from between the heavy oak doors of the hotel to lay a hand on the Fatuus’ arm. “Diluc, stop tormenting Luke.”

That feeling in his chest deflates like a pierced Anemo slime. His brow knits into a thundercloud expression; the guard—Luke, apparently—flinches. 

“I wasn’t tormenting him,” he says drily, staring at where you’re still touching the other man. “If I was, everyone would know.”

Luke pales.

“Ignore him,” you say. “He’s just grumpy because I’m late.” 

Luke just nods, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. You sigh and turn to Diluc. 

“Shall we?” you ask, and Diluc finds himself raising his arm for you to take hold of without thinking. You slip your hand into the crook of his elbow; he thinks he can feel the heat of it even through his coat. 

You make it just a street over before Diluc can’t help himself.

“Are you often allowed into restricted areas?”

You blink, confused, and then your face clears. “Oh,” you say. “It was just because I was going to see Anatol. It wasn’t going to take long, especially since he met me in the lobby.”

“Still.”

You hum. “It’s because of child,” you say, as if that makes any sense.

“A child?”

The laugh that leaves you is bright; it echoes through the street, lingers shimmering in the air. “No,” you say. “Childe. The Harbinger. We’re quite friendly. It allows me small exceptions at times.” 

Diluc tamps down on his automatic reaction. This is not new information. If anything, he should be glad for it. But it stirs something in him that he’s afraid to name. He breathes out through his nose, a slow, steady flow of air that serves to put out the embers smoldering within him.

“I see.”

You glance at him; he can’t quite decipher your expression before you turn away.

The rest of the walk to Angel’s Share is spent in silence. 

—

The two of you do not spend long at Angel’s Share; Diluc speaks to Charles as you greet a table full of Knights of Favonius. Diluc watches as they stand to greet you, looking far too pleased to have your company. He huffs.

“Master Diluc?” Charles asks.

“It’s nothing,” he says, returning his attention to the bartender. “Please, continue.”

Charles nods and goes on to detail a few small issues that have come up since Diluc was last in the tavern. Diluc listens intently, but his gaze occasionally wanders to the knights’ table. 

You make a sight, sitting primly at one of the tavern’s rustic tables, your hair shining in the flickering lantern light, as if stars are scattered within it. You’re a queen holding court, your mouth a sweet curl. The knights’ cheeks are cherried by alcohol; they’re stumbling over themselves to tell you stories of their trips, their fights, their bravery. 

Diluc wonders if any of them could even take care of a few slimes.

You laugh, covering your mouth with one hand. Your wedding ring glints in the light, and something satisfied curls through Diluc’s chest. 

“Is there anything else?” he asks Charles.

“That’s all, Master Diluc.”

“Thank you, Charles. I’ll take tomorrow night’s shift as planned.”

Charles nods.

Diluc gives him a sharp nod in farewell before stalking over to your table. You glance up as he approaches, your mouth still curled into that rosebud smile. 

“Is it time to go?” you ask, pitching your voice just loud enough for him to hear you. You don’t wait for an answer, starting to push to your feet. Next to you, one of the knights starts to rise to his feet as well.

Diluc lengthens his stride. He reaches the table just as the knight starts to extend a hand to you; he offers you his hand before the knight can fully reach out. You blink as the knight freezes. He sinks back into his chair as Diluc extends his hand further, an obvious prompt. 

You laugh, though Diluc is not sure why. Still, it doesn’t matter, because you slip your hand into his and he closes his fingers around it, helping you from the table. He lets go as soon as you’re by his side. 

“Goodnight,” you say to the table. “Thank you for keeping me company.”

“Of course!” one of the younger knights says, grinning widely. “Though it’s a shame the captain missed you!”

You laugh again, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “Don’t fret,” you say easily. “I’ll see him soon enough.”

Diluc frowns. 

“Travel safe,” one of the other knights—Anselm, Diluc realizes, the one who had escorted you earlier—says. “May Barbatos protect you.” 

“Thank you,” you say, giving him a little smile.

Diluc clears his throat. “It grows late,” he says. “We need to be off.” 

“Of course,” you say. “Goodnight, sirs.” 

The knights chorus a series of goodbyes, somewhat clumsy with inebriation. You laugh again, but don’t linger, heading towards the tavern door; Diluc lengthens his stride once more and opens the door for you. 

Your lips curve sweetly, but you don’t say anything.

The walk to the stables is quiet. True night has fallen, a dark curtain lit only by the lantern of the full moon, casting its light in a perfect halo, blotting out the stars. It grows darker when a cloud crosses the moon, a ship cutting across the sea of the sky. 

Diluc, though, is used to it. He leads you to the stables carefully, keeping to the main roads in lieu of his darker paths, of the murky alleys that not even the moonlight pierces. He stays close by your side; sometimes he thinks you might even lean into the warmth of him. 

When the stables come into view, still lit by multiple lanterns and humming with life, stablehands settling the horses for the night, Diluc pauses. “Did you bring the carriage?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I didn’t want the fuss,” you say. “It seemed easier to just ride.”

He nods before guiding you into the stables. Your horse—Sunsettia, if he’s remembering correctly— is stabled next to Daybreak; he slips into her stall and starts to tack her up for you. He smoothes a hand over the mare’s flank before he tightens the saddle. Her tail flicks and he pets her again.

When he steps out of the stall, you’re nowhere to be found.

Then Daybreak nickers inside her stall. Diluc glances into it and blinks. She’s perfectly saddled, nudging against you in a quest for apples or some other treat. You meet his gaze over the stall’s edge. You smile, a crescent moon curve. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

You tilt your head. “Neither did you.” 

He huffs but inclines his head to you. Your smile softens, the edges of it smoothing into something sweeter. You slip out of Daybreak’s stall and take Sunsettia’s reins instead, leading the mare outside and calling out a quiet goodbye to the hovering stablehand.

Diluc leads Daybreak out of her own stall and presses his face into her flank for a breath, then he follows you.

It’s a long ride home.

—

“Master Diluc.”

“Yes, Adelinde?” he asks, not looking up from the document he’s reading. He flips to the next page, mouthing along with the numbers as he does, sketching them down on a scrap piece of a paper. 

She clears her throat. 

He pauses. He sets down the paper and glances up at her. She smoothes down her skirt and his brow furrows. Whatever she’s come to tell him, he won’t like it.

She meets his gaze steadily, her shrewd eyes gone to seaglass in the morning light. “Your wife is preparing to leave,” she says.

“I’ll be down in a moment.”

“She is insistent on not taking any personnel from the winery.” 

“She needs to take at least an attendant with her.”

“She has one, she says.”

“One of ours, Adelinde.”

“I understand,” she says. “She disagrees. Quite strongly.”

Diluc pushes to his feet. “I’ll convince her.”

Adelinde studies him for a moment, her green eyes flickering, all St. Elmo’s fire. “If I may, sir,” she says, “I’m not sure that you can.” 

He pauses. “That I can? Or that I should?”

Her eyes soften; her mouth curls into something tender, a still-healing bruise. 

“Both,” she says.

He sighs. “I’ll take it under consideration, Adelinde. Is there anything else?”

“That’s all.” 

Diluc inclines his head to her before he strides from the room. He makes his way to your room, but there are only servants in there, stripping down the bed and throwing open the bay windows to air it out. He moves on to the rest of the winery, but it’s not until he steps out into the warm glow of the mid-morning sun that he finally finds you.

You’re petting one of the winery’s ratters, stroking along its head and laughing when it tries to lick you. The dog is a beautiful one, sleek-bodied with short-cropped fur the color of burnished copper coins. It sees him coming and pulls away from you, trotting up to him instead and nudging its head against his gloved hand. Diluc obliges, skating his fingers behind the dog’s ears and scratching.

“Yours?” you ask, standing from your crouch. 

He shakes his head. “One of the workers’,” he says.

“I suppose I can’t take it with me, then.”

“No,” he says. “But you can take one of the attendants with you.”

You sigh. “I already told Adelinde that I have no need of another one.”

“It’s different now,” he says. “You’re a Ragnvindr.”

You raise a brow. “I assure you, my current attendant meets Ragnvindr standards, despite what you may think.”

“My staff is vetted.”

“So is mine.”

“It’s—”

“This isn’t up for debate, Diluc.”

He’s about to argue when a whistle rings out, long and low and fluting, and the dog’s ears perk up. It arrows off into the distance, pausing only to snap at a crystalfly that had fluttered a bit too low. The two of you watch it go.

When Diluc glances at you again, you’re already watching him. You’re unreadable, a new moon’s outline in the velvet sky, and he sets his jaw.

“Alright,” you say. “If I accept your attendant when I’m in Mondstadt, will that pacify you?”

He frowns. It doesn’t get him what he needs—one of his people in your office—but it’s a start. “I’d prefer that you take them with you to Liyue.” 

You study him for a moment. Your eyes are knife-sharp and slip beneath his skin, but Diluc is used to being sized up by worse opponents.

“Very well,” you say, sighing lightly. “I’ll take them with me to Liyue.”

He blinks, startled by the sudden capitulation, but he recovers quickly. “Thank you.”

You hum as he beckons to a nearby worker, sending them into the winery to alert the attendant he’d picked out. It takes a bit to sort everything out, but you’re ready for departure in a timely manner. Diluc approaches you at the carriage’s side and clears his throat.. 

“You are prepared?” he asks.

“I am.”

“Shall I?”

You nod and he hands you up into the carriage, where your new attendant is waiting. You settle into the seat gracefully before glancing at him once more.

“Thank you,” you say. “For your hospitality.”

He shakes his head. “It is your home too, now,” he reminds you. 

“Still.”

Silence descends, pulled taut like a harpstring. It’s broken by the driver’s arrival. 

“Safe travels,” Diluc says, a little bit stiff. “Send word when you arrive.” 

Something crosses your face, a lightning-strike expression. It’s too fast for him to parse. 

“I will,” you say. “Goodbye, Diluc.”

“Farewell,” he says as the driver closes the carriage door. Your eyes are the last thing  he sees, gleaming in the morning light. Then the driver is up on their post and clicking the horses into movement down the road. 

He watches until the carriage is out of sight. Then he turns around and heads back into the winery.

Somehow, it feels a little emptier inside.

[headspace-hotel]

My Oenothera biennis at home is covered in caterpillars of white-lined sphinx moth. I've never seen one before! I think the caterpillars hibernate underground over the winter and emerge in spring as their adult moth form?

O. biennis is common evening-primrose. It has such a special place in my heart. It was, I believe, the first rescued plant that bloomed for me—I pulled one from a crack in the pavement on the roadside, not knowing what it was, and carefully took care of it until it had grown too big for its pot, at which point I planted it in the front flower bed.

I remember how amazing it was to watch the plant develop pointed buds that opened into large, bright, delicate flowers that were the most gorgeous shade of glowing pale yellow. It was so unlike the rich, heavy, buttery yellows of dandelions and sunflowers and other yellow flowers I was familiar with—this plant had its own yellow, so gentle yet so luminous, almost fluorescent. Each day, a new set of buds formed and opened, beginning late July and continuing into the final days of September.

At last, the plant reached the end of its bright, showy riot of blossoms, and slowly dried up entirely, leaving an array of partially split open seed pods along the stem. O. biennis is biennial, as the name suggests. It germinates the first year, forms a rosette of leaves close to the ground, then the second year, it bolts—rapidly growing its stem upward—and produces tons and tons of flowers until it is utterly spent. As the plant dries out in death, the seed pods slowly curl open, releasing loads of tiny seeds.

The next spring, a strange miracle occurred: Many O. biennis sprouts came up where the seeds had fallen, but instead of creating a neat little rosette of leaves on the ground, they began bolting immediately.

One particularly enthusiastic sprout was already a foot tall by May, and kept growing and growing, to my perplexment. "You're supposed to be biennial! What are you doing?"

But it couldn't be denied—the plants were all preparing to bloom the same year they'd first sprouted. And bloom they did!

The flower bed by the front door was blazing with color.

I saw how people designated O. biennis as a weed—it wasn't compact like the usual garden plants, it grew tall and sprawling like an expansive candelabra of blossoms. It was strong and enthusiastic in spite of poor conditions. But it was so beautiful, I was in love.

I learned that occasionally, O. biennis growing in harsh conditions with low competition, could evolve to have an annual life cycle. Apparently, all the seeds produced by the founding plant inherited this trait.

Yesterday, I visited home and collected seed pods from the one extraordinarily enthusiastic plant that had captured my attention, the one that bolted in spring and began blooming before all the others. I intend to spread those seeds in the goldenrod fields and whatever neglected place a tough plant might thrive.

I feel that the progeny of my one extraordinary plant might be more competitive in areas that are periodically subjected to mowing and bush-hogging. The plants these seeds give rise to could be better adapted to the novel stresses placed upon them in these disturbed environments.

The weakness of O. biennis is that it spreads its seeds simply by gravity and the action of water washing seeds away. Its genetics, however exceptional, cannot travel far. So I am helping it out a little bit, by identifying a plant that has evolved exceptionally well for the stresses of a roadside environment and spreading its seeds as much as I can.

[glacialswordsman-a]

starter | @tartagla | plot call

The nation of Mondstadt, land of the free for those who call her home. There was a gentle breeze caressing the lands, making leaves rustle and tree branches calmly dance within the tempo of the wind's movement. Windwheel Asters spun delightedly as Dandelion seeds were carried along the day's delicate gust, while the sun was at its peak... It was simply beautiful. Not only that, but it felt absolutely wonderful to the inhabitants that resided in Barbatos's lands; and Kaeya was no different from anyone else in this matter.

The Cavalry Captain had long since completed his own work and then some, before opting to enjoy a 'leisure stroll' for once in his life. Normally he would be anxious in spending his time like this, but today... It was exceptionally nice today. How could he even fathom letting a day like this pass by without actually enjoying it for once by just sitting in his office? Even so, his 'stroll' was, of course, a guise for him to patrol the area between the Winery and Springvale uninterrupted. While he did want to enjoy the weather, there was still that itch in him that told him to be vigilant and look out for Mondstadt all the same.

He can never afford to simply relax.

He hiked up the mountains that stood proudly in the middle of the Dawn Winery and Springvale, using this setting as a vantage point for him to look down at the roads that wound around and between them. This way, he's able to enjoy his day while also keeping a keen eye on anything occurring below. He had high hopes that today would be uneventful, but of course, he could never be too sure.

[darling-zain]

✮↳ If I Want It, I Shall Have It ↰

♡ yandere! princess x gn reader (2.5k words)♡

tw/cw: obsessive love, drugging, use of chloroform, kidnapping, reader hates the monarchy, slightly rushed ending

authors notes: im going on vacation for like a week so I probably won't be online much, here's my little gift to you all <3 (ignore how I literally had to force myself to finish this since I've been working on it for weeks-)

➼ yandere! princess Who was never really interested in romance. She had her castle, she had her garden, and everything she could ever want, so she didn't think romance was necessary for her.

➼ yandere! princess Whose parents were constantly on her case about getting married and "continuing the family legacy". She was the only daughter of the king and queen, so she was the only hope to keep the monarchy alive.

➼ yandere! princess Who would always brush them off by saying that "it's not the right time," or "I haven't found anyone I fancy yet," but she knows that nobody will cut it for her. She's too high-maintenance, too extravagant; none of the princes in her kingdom or the next would satisfy her.

➼ yandere! princess Whose parents had finally had enough of her denial, so they decided to bring the candidates to her. It was just an unchanging cycle of them introducing an over-eager prince, her rolling her eyes, dismissing him, and waiting with a bored expression for the next disappointment.

➼ yandere! princess Who would look out her window longingly, gazing up into the endless night sky with tired, hopeless eyes. "Perhaps there really is no one for me..." she whispers into the cold spring air, lying down on her delicate satin sheets. As her tired mind begins to fade, a single tear slides down her cheek and onto her powder-white pillow, a single mark of imperfection.

➼ yandere! princess Who woke up feeling even more tired than before she had slept. She groaned, rubbing her eyes with her soft, perfectly manicured hands. She slowly gets up and opens her soft pink curtains to reveal a gorgeous view of the entire kingdom; a sight she was absolutely enamoured with as a child but had now grown sick of. She slides open her glass door to step out onto her balcony, letting the wind gently caress her face. As she leans against the railings, the soft scent of freshly baked bread surrounds her. She looks down to see someone stepping out of the bakery and taking some pastries out of the oven. Their face is hidden in shadow, but she can see their mouth turn into a frown as they look up at the castle. Her eyes linger on their frame even after they've left, sighing heavily.

➼ yandere! princess Who had gotten sick and tired of her parent's desperate attempts to get her engaged, and just needed a break from them.

➼ yandere! princess Who called her chauffeur to take her out into the town, and to not tell her parents lest they bring her back.

➼ yandere! princess Who hopped into her grand carriage, looking out the window as they left the castle gates, excitedly anticipating getting to see what a normal life would be like.

"We've arrived, Princess." Her chauffeur calls from the front seat, getting out to open her door for her.

"Thank you very much," She politely nods to him, adjusting the scarf on her head. "Don't wait for me, you can head back to the castle." She dismisses him with a wave of her hand, walking into the market. She looks at everything with awe, all the ordinary stalls looking more magical to her than anything in her castle. As soon as she walks into the town square, she can hear whispers all around her.

Murmurs of "Is that Princess Asmaan?" and "No, it surely couldn't be!" float around her like dandelion seeds, drifting along the winds into every corner of the small village.

She pays them no mind, having become used to the constant whispering that follows her wherever she goes. Soon enough, that familiar scent of freshly baked pastries fills her senses. Not thinking about anything else, she follows the scent to a small building with a large oven right next to it. Her eyes are wide as she watches someone dive into the circular oven and pulls out a few scalding hot flatbreads. A look of awe and shock cross her face at the feat which, in her eyes, seemed incredible, but to you... it was just another day in the bakery.

A man walks past the counter, giving her a glance in her direction before stopping in his tracks. He looks absolutely shocked, but then smiles widely.

"Princess! It's such an honour to have you here- what brings you to our little part of town?" Your father asks in an excited tone, to which she returns the enthusiasm.

"I wanted to see how my people are doing, and I couldn't help but notice the smell of your wonderful goods! May I have two naans, please?" Her excitement is genuine, but it makes you sick.

"Of course! Y/n, bring two naans, the best of the batch!" Your father's booming voice is carried through the small building, making you roll your eyes.

"Coming..." you mumble, putting two flatbreads in a paper bag. As you walk up to the counter, you notice just who you're serving. A disgusted scowl appears on your face as you stride up to the clay table, slamming the bag onto it and glaring at her straight in the eyes. "That'll be 421." You grumble, your voice full of disdain. Your father looks at you with a shocked expression, as if to say "You dare tell the Princess to pay?!" but you remain stoic as you wait for her to reply.

"Oh... yes, of course!" She reaches into her purse and pulls out a few crisp bills, to which your father interjects.

"No, no, there's no need for that! You're the princess, after all, we should be glad just to be in your presence!" He waves his hands in front of his face, smiling nervously. You, on the other hand, snatch the bills from her hand and put them in the drawer under the counter.

"Have a nice day," You say in a monotone voice as a clear indicator for her to leave. She looks a bit taken aback but takes the hint regardless.

"Ah... you too!" She smiles brightly before turning on her heel and walking away. As she walks through the busy streets, her mind is focused on one thing; you. She's never seen someone look at her with such hatred... she's the princess, everybody loves her! Everybody except you. She found your annoyed behaviour to be quite intriguing, almost... alluring. "They're a very interesting person... i need to know more about them." She thinks as she takes a seat on a large rock in the town square, silently eating her food. She looks down at the golden brown bread, her eyes softening slightly. She takes one bite, then another, then another before realizing something. You were the person that made this. It was you who flattened it between your palms, you who sprinkled the sesame seeds on top, and you who dove into the oven to bake it. This seemingly ordinary pastry was now not ordinary at all; it was a piece of you. She smiles to herself as she eats in silence, the naan now tasting that much sweeter to her.

After another hour or so of walking through the crowded streets, she started to get bored. She walks back down the street in which your bakery resided, smirking as she went behind a few buildings and to the side of your bakery, watching with soft eyes as you move about the kitchen. You notice someone behind you, a pair of eyes staring and watching your every move. You take a deep breath, put the dough down, and turn around. You clearly don't expect to see her, causing a look of surprise to grow on your face, before quickly turning to frustration. She giggles at your expression, not saying a word.

"Why are you here?" You hiss out from behind clenched teeth.

She looks around innocently, playing with the end of her scarf. "I wanted to see how a bakery works." Her answer is truthful, but it only angers you more.

"Never seen a bakery before?" You scowl at her, going back to flipping the bread and stretching it out. "Spoiled, entitled little brat..." You mumble under your breath. "Probably never even seen someone making food since everything is done for you..."

She rests her head in her hands, leaning her elbows on the ledge of the open window as she gazes at you longingly. She stays quiet, thinking about what you just said, before speaking up. "Do you hate me?" Her question is simple in nature, but has a complicated meaning behind it. It could be a threat, a genuine question, or a test.

You've always been one to answer with your heart, so the answer comes to you naturally. "yes, I do. You're a selfish, spoiled little rat who's always had everything handed to you on a silver platter. You pretend to care about your people, but while we're all here living in literally dirt-poor conditions, you're sitting in your lavish castle without a care in the world. How could I not hate you?" You're practically seething at this point, but she doesn't care.

"You're right. I'm lucky. I could've been born into the same fate as you, working hard every day just to make ends meet. But I wasn't, and I'm so thankful for it." She sighs, standing up straight. "I'm sorry that wasn't the case for you." Her voice is slightly sad as she walks away, the cold night air enveloping her entire being. She gazes up at the large castle looming in the distance, a small frown appearing on her face. You were right, she had everything handed to her. whatever she wanted, she got. And she was going to make sure that included you as well.

iIt's late at night when she finally returns to the castle, rushing to her room with quiet feet so she doesn't wake up anyone. She opens the double doors to her bedroom and slowly walks inside. Lying down on her bed, her mind wanders to the conversation she just had.

"How could I not hate you...?" She repeats your line in a whisper, the soft moonlight cascading onto her. As she's lost in her thoughts, she stands up and walks to her closet. "How could I not hate you..." That single line plays in her mind on a loop as she grabs some dark pants and a black shirt with a matching scarf. "You've always had everything handed to you..." She mumbles as she pulls on the loose shirt. "Everything... but not you." Her voice is firm as she walks out, a stern glare in her brown eyes.

She silently opens her door and walks over to one of the many cleaning closets, sneaking inside and locking the door. As she waits for her eyes to adjust, she starts to think of a plan. Her eyes focus on a sheet of paper stuck to the back walls with a list of chemicals on them. She scans the paper before finding the one she needs. "Blue jug, Chloroform". She grabs a rag and the blue jug of chemicals as she plods through the room and to the door, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to disturb anyone. She sneaks down many flights of stairs while having to take breaks in between, her frail arms not being used to having to carry that much weight. When she finally reaches the entrance, she takes a deep breath and opens the door a crack, slipping through noiselessly. Walking past the castle gates and into the road behind the now silent town, she starts to wonder why she didn't just have one of her maids do it for her. She's about to return before your words come back to her in a wave. "You've always had everything handed to you... how could I not hate you..." Your words spur her on to continue with her plan, determined to prove you wrong. Perhaps if she did this on her own, you'd finally see her for who she is!

She sighs dreamily as she walks behind your bakery, peering inside the window to see if she could spot anyone. In the dusty glass window of the kitchen, she can see you sleeping at the kitchen counter. When she sees your calm resting face, she almost swoons. You've only ever looked at her with hatred, be it either to her face or up at her from the ground. Her resolve is now set, she had to change your mind.

She soaks the rag in the chemicals, wrapping her scarf around her face so she doesn't breathe it in. Her feet are quiet as she sneaks behind the counter and into the kitchen, the lack of doors making it so much easier for her to creep in. She stands directly next to your sleeping figure, a sad look crossing her face. "I'm sorry I had to do this..." She whispers before her gentle hands slowly place the rag over your nose and mouth.

A minute after she puts the rag on your face, you start to wake up. Your eyes grow wide as you realize what's happening, but with the scarf covering her face you can't see who's attacking you. You start to thrash and scream, but nobody can hear you because of the rag. She holds you down with a gentle touch so that you can't escape, and after a few more minutes, you're completely gone. She grins wildly when you stop struggling, your limp body a sign of her success. She pulls you out of the chair as carefully as she could, but she ended up dropping you because of how delicate her arms are. "You won't mind, will you, qaundom~?" She chuckles softly as she drags your limp body across the floor.

She drags you past the kitchen, the counter, and the side of the building until you're finally back behind the bakery. She takes the bottle of chemicals and ties the handle to her shirt so she doesn't have to carry them, dragging you along the grass and toward the castle. Eventually, she makes it to a door at the back of the castle, opens it, and throws you inside with all of her remaining strength, now completely winded from the trip. After taking a minute to recuperate, she takes your hand and hauls you into an empty cell that's been separated from all the others. She lays you down onto the thin mattress, dusts off her hands and looks at you lovingly.

"You were right, darling. When I want something, I get it." She walks out and closes the cell door softly so it doesn't make that much noise, the rattle of the chain lock echoing through the desolate dungeon.

"And absolutely nothing can stand in my way." Her eyes go cold for a split second as she stares at your lifeless form before turning on her heel and walking to the door.

"Don't hate me for this." With a slam of the iron door, she's gone, leaving only the faint scent of her perfume in her wake.

tags: @skylark144 @izizzl @odobun @alhaizen @decepticon-99 @twilightkitkat @red-viewe @lasagna-goob @cyphertryagain @hailchocolate @underneathablanketwithwolfkeum @angelofdarkness2 @ren-054 @emptybrain01 @phoenix-eclipses @amourzinna

[croquis-el]

The flower that represents Ryuichi Naruhodo (Phoenix Wright)

Hello

I came to you with a tiny post

(I'm not lost and I'm not going anywhere.)

Because we missed an important detail again!

My favorite case is 3-1. In which there is just a huge pile of information.

When Chihiro interrogates a witness about the reason for her interest in Naruhodo, she gives an answer in the form of a haiku (although it is difficult to assess its correctness).

････はかなげな、日かげに咲いた タンポポのような、たたずまい････

hakana ge-na, bikageni saita tanpopo no yōna, tatazumai

... An ephemeral dandelion blooming in the shade...

リュウちゃんの、そんなところに ヨロめいてしまったのですわ。

ryuu-chan no, son'na tokoro ni yoro meite shimatta nodesu wa.

That's what Ryu-chan is like, and that's what made me fall for him.

儚い (はかない)

hakanai

• fleeting; transient; short-lived; momentary; ephemeral; fickle; vain

儚い or 儚げな can be used positively to describe some type of beauty found within weak/unstable/delicate things or people. It may be similar to so-called wabi-sabi. 

げな (ge-na) - express the guess (it seems)

Madame literally calls Naruhodo "an ephemeral dandelion"

And gives a lot of food for thought, as it can be interpreted in many ways. After all, it is not just a randomly chosen flower.

The first thing that comes to mind is hanakotoba

In Hanakotoba (花言葉) Dandelions mean:

神託 (Oracle)

別離 (Separation)

幸福 (Happiness)

真心の愛 (Sincere Love)

愛の神託 (Oracle of Love)

Dandelions are known to be a fortune-telling flower which is why words like “神託 (Oracle)” are associated with it.

No less important meaning: dandelion is a symbol of courage, strength. Because this plant is able to grow in any conditions, and breaking through the asphalt, reaching for the sun.

Dandelion flowers also carry a meaning of wishing an ill person well, or happiness in times of darkness.

Suits our boy, doesn't it?

He represents each meaning: he was separated from his friend, he loved sincerely, he had a cold during the court hearing, and he found the strength to move on, making his own way when he was in unbearable pain.

We've dealt with the dandelion, now let's return to the "ephemeral".

On the one hand, everything is simple - dandelions look unreliable, weak, especially during the period of seed ripening. They are easily blown away by a weak breeze. Beauty and attractiveness that not everyone will appreciate. Why not ephemeral.

However, there may be much more meaning here. After all, another meaning is: short-lived

And then the phrase as a whole takes on a frightening meaning. She's literally says: he (the dandelion) will not be in this courtroom (in the darkness) for long. She literally predicts a "guilty" verdict for him, especially given her subsequent words. This is what she feels, what she wishes for him - to disappear into the darkness.

But her plans are not destined to come true, because the dandelion grows even through the asphalt.

___________________________________________

Well, and for comparison.

Mushrooms are often associated with spiritual growth, enlightenment, and rebirth. The mushroom's life cycle, with its ability to emerge from darkness and decay, represents the cyclical nature of life, death, and transformation.

This is probably a reference to Phoenix's name. Probably. That's all.

What do you think?

[dwarf-hat-enjoyer]

🌼Favorite Flowers🌼 (Bachelors' V.)

synopsis: Favorite flowers of all six Stardew bachelors! No farmer mentioned, headcanons. SFW.

w.c.: 1.2k words!

content warnings: None!

A.N.: shoutout to @jellyaris for inspo on the Shane section! Hope everyone enjoys these little snippety snippets...Suuure, some of these headcanons kind of diverge from canon (yeah, yeah. Alex is neutral to dandelions ingame. Sue me, LOL.) But who cares, it's Tumblr! Might make a bachelorettes' version too.

Alex

He's a simple man with simple tastes. DANDELIONS suit him well! He has fond memories of picking dandelions with his mother and blowing the seeds away, and even vaguely remembers how to make flower chains out of them. Of course, he could never get them as neat as hers, but Granny Evelyn still asks for his help when making crowns for the Flower Dance. Apart of him wonders why they have to use nicer-looking flowers for the formal crowns when dandelions work just fine. They're sturdy yet flexible- not nearly as fragile as the more 'beautiful' flowers, and as an athlete, he can admire that about them.

On a deeper level, there are many similarities to be found between Alex and his favorite flower. First impressions can be deceiving- just like most people think of dandelions as pests, Alex can come on a bit strong and even arrogant. But looking beneath the surface, they both share the same physical and mental will to push forward and survive in even the most difficult circumstances. They both go through drastic changes as well. Just as the bright and spiky bloom of a dandelion becomes softer and more delicate, Alex's spirit softens too. His own changes, though, won't float away on the wind anytime soon :P

Elliott

As obvious as it would be to say red roses, SNAPDRAGONS would be his favorites instead! As much as he is a romantic, he's just as much a daydreamer, and snapdragons would provide his imagination with ample opportunity to run wild, both with their fantastical name and lush, delicate appearance. They remind him of adventures in far-off lands, harkening reveries of ancient castles filled with wondrous secrets and the brave heroes set out to uncover them. He's a homebody at heart, but nothing is stopping him from holing up in his cabin and writing about any of it! (Or, well, fantasizing about writing about it, in most cases. <3)

But just as established, he's a romantic. Elliott is definitely well-versed in the language of flowers, and the meaning behind snapdragons in particular hardly eludes him. They symbolize grace, earnestness and strength under pressure, but are also known to represent something less than well-intentioned. Emulating the former qualities is something Elliott has done effortlessly, but in a way, the last one entices him the most. To create something beautiful, strong and mysterious; something that draws one in and sparks love and fear and longing for an endless more- isn't that what every writer wants? What every writer dreams of?

Harvey

A little like Elliott in this regard, Harvey is the sentimental type. FORGET-ME-NOTS hold a special place in his heart. It's a simple flower in appearance with an almost childlike name, but he likes them just the same. Maybe it's because of those traits that he does- they remind him of the carefree days he's missed out on, since moving to the valley. On top of his doctoral duties, he's a very lonely person overall. Forget-Me-Nots, with their hopeful pale blue, almost cheer him up to see on days where he feels less like a member of the community and more like a robot with a stethoscope and scrubs.

It's also their name that connects with him in a way...Forget-Me-Not. On top of the way they look, they cheer him up with that name. On the rare instance that the flower comes up in conversation, he jokes that the person who named it must've had terrible memory, as cheesy as it sounds. But all jokes aside, it's comforting to him that a flower otherwise unremarkable would have a name that insists to the listening ear that it shouldn't be forgotten. Almost inspiring, even. It makes him feel as if one day, he won't be another face-in-the-crowd. Somebody important, though to whom in particular...? Well, time will tell!

Sam

For Sam, it's DAISIES all the way! He constantly flip-flops between spring and summer as his favorite seasons, but daisies give him the best of both worlds. Seeing them dotting the fields in the warmer months always brings a smile to his face. Whether or not he's close with him, Sam definitely got Alex to teach him how to make flower chains one late spring...Of course, Alex may or may not have been mildly jealous of how easily Sam picked up on the skill, but when spending time together outside, Sam's restless hands sometimes find themselves picking daisies from the grass while Abigail and Sebastian chat and bicker and making the both of them bracelets!

When he still lived in the city with his mother, father and a much younger Vincent, he'd sometimes see them poking out of cracks in the sidewalk. While they weren't as common as dandelions, they still always caught his attention. While Jodi chatted aimlessly with her fellow PTA moms outside one of the countless Zuzu City JojaMarts, he'd busy himself, plucking daisies and dandelions from whatever nooks and crannies he could find and playing with them however he wanted. Back then, he didn't think much of it, but he looks at those times with almost a fond nostalgia. Things changed, but that doesn't mean it all has to be sad, right?

Sebastian

He doesn't think about this sort of thing very often, being the lovable terminally-online dork that he is. But if you ask, Sebastian's favorite flower would have to be BLACK TULIPS. It's not a very deep answer, really. Sure, tulips are more of a spring flower, but he finds the pitch purple color to be one of the more interesting colors that plants can have. They stick out among the cheerier colors that most other breeds of tulips display- the goths of their genus, if you will, and that's small part of why he likes them!

He entertained the idea of gardening, at one point, even prior to the farmer's arrival. Though he plans to move out eventually, he thought it would be a good way to get outside and get some exercise, though it wasn't ever really anything he thought to commit to. Though, he does chat with Evelyn on occasion- their shared affinity for tulips and his occasional fantasy of maintaining a small garden has ended up providing a lot more conversation than he's used to, or even expected! Even if most people see him as an asocial shut-in, it's comforting for him to recognize his softer side.

Shane

Look at him. All gruff and mean. His favorite flower is probably a thistle of some sort, or something poisonous. All things considered, his favorite flowers are FAIRY ROSES. Don't give him that look- it's just because Jas likes them so much! Seeing the way she lights up when she sees them is contagious for this gold-hearted curmudgeon. She'd spent two entire weeks planning out a one-woman recital for him and Marnie once, and when he handed her a little JojaMart bouquet of them afterwards...Well, the look on her face made the price tag worth it. Although, her excited squeal did leave his ears ringing for the rest of the evening.

The flowers are native to the valley, too...Sometimes, he feels as if he doesn't belong. Why would he? It's not as if he was born there or has any particularly close friends. If Pelican Town was a garden, he'd just be a weed. But Jas seems to have taken like a duck to water, although she's still shy as ever. Shane can be self-defeating and pessimistic at times, but he's not made of stone. He's grateful that she's in a place where she can flourish, just like the fairy roses she adores so much.

~FIN~

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Queen of the Fairies

All children love fairies. Who among us does not have memories of springtime afternoons with Nurse in the gardens, watching those tiny, human-like forms flitting through the world on their delicate wings, who seem to be clad in the very blossoms among which they live?

Yet most of us, as we age, forget about the fairies. We rush past gardens and flower boxes with barely a glance for the blooms themselves, much less for the delicate creatures that hide so carefully among them. If we think about them at all, they are part of the hazy, distant memories of long-ago childhood, not a vital part of the landscape that supports every facet of our daily lives.

But there is one woman who did not forget. Who never did forget, in her eight-and-four-score years of life, despite a scientific world that laughed her to scorn. As I, with all of England, mourn the passing of this inestimable woman--beloved author, illustrator, and (at last) honored naturalist, I can think of no better way to honor Constance Sommers than to recall my childhood meeting with her in the summer of my seventh year.

I had always loved watching the fairies in the window boxes outside my family’s London home. In 1892, I visited my grandparents in the countryside, and a new world opened up to me, filled with more flowers—and more types of fairies—than I could have imagined. I spent every waking moment in my grandmother’s gardens. I watched fairies hatch from the hearts of blooming tulips, scatter thousands of dandelion seeds, and endlessly paint the delicate shades of apple blossoms.

My favorite place, however, was my grandmother’s rose garden. There I found fairies whose forms matched every species of rose to a shade—save one. The crowning jewel of my grandmother’s garden was a rose she had bred herself; its white blossoms, as large as my hand, were streaked with red, and its scent was like a thousand fresh-plucked fruits. I knew that such a flower could only be tended by the grandest and most beautiful of fairies, and I watched, breathless, week after week for this hypothetical fairy to show her face.

At last, on a morning when my quest left me restless with anxiety, I tiptoed out of my room and slipped out to the rose garden in the gray light of dawn. As soon as I reached the prized rose bush, I saw fairy even more beautiful than I had imagined. Every bit of her form, from her face to her tiny fingers and toes, was pure white, with only the faintest green specks in her gray eyes. One of grandmother's red-and-white blossoms seemed to splay from her waist like a dancer's skirt, and her wings were so transparent that in that dim light, she appeared to have none, and instead seemed to float upon the delicate breath of the dawn.

At first, I stood awestruck—this was truly a queen among fairies. Then I recalled—I couldn’t let her slip out of my grasp. In a twinkling, I caught her in a glass jar, with one of my grandmother's roses tucked safely inside to serve as shelter and food.

How I rejoiced in that treasure! I brought the fairy to my room and marveled at her graceful fluttering until breakfast time, when I slipped away to the kitchen to eat with Nurse. By the time I returned, the beautiful little fairy was splayed, lifeless, across the base of the jar.

I wept myself breathless, completely inconsolable. Nurse offered comfort and threatened punishment, but she could not quiet me. At last, my sobs drew Grandmother, who took one look at that lovely little fairy and said, "I suppose there's nothing to do but give it to Constance Sommers."

I knew that name—every child in England did. Constance Sommers had written and illustrated the marvelous tales of the flower fairies that had a place on every nursery shelf—and all this time, she had been one of my grandparents’ neighbors! Surely she, if anyone, could save this little fairy! After much begging and pleading, I was allowed, reluctantly, to accompany Grandmother as she brought the fairy to Miss Sommers.

The carriage brought us to a tidy brown brick cottage atop a hill, surrounded by the most glorious gardens I had ever seen. Flowers bloomed on shrubs and trees, climbed trellises and the walls of the cottage, and blanketed the ground with every color of the rainbow. Even from the carriage I could see dozens of fairies flitting among the blossoms. I was utterly enchanted. Were it not for the dead fairy I carried in the jar, I might have lost myself in ecstasy.

The moment we alighted from the carriage, a gate leading to a back garden opened, and a woman strode toward us. She was like the branch of a tree—impossibly tall, thin and knobby. Her hair—dark, with only whispers of silver—was cut close to her head. She wore a simple white shirtwaist and black skirt, and dozens of tools—pens, keys, scissors, lens—hung from a silver-chained chatelaine at her waist. Her eyes, caged behind gold-rimmed spectacles, darted a million directions, fairy-quick, as if cataloging the landscape.

At last, her eyes lit on me—or rather, upon the jar in my hands. She rushed toward me without so much as a glance at Grandmother. “Fairy?” she asked.

I nodded and lifted the jar toward her. She took it and examined it with those sharp eyes—which quickly widened. “I’ve never seen this kind before.” Those eyes pierced me. “Where did you find it?”

She was speaking to me, not Grandmother! Never before had an adult addressed me so directly. “In Grandmother’s rose garden,” I said. “Can you save it?”

The head moved—one sharp shake. “It’s dead. Perfectly preserved. Do you have more?”

“N...no.”

“If you get some, I’ll pay triple the going rate. Could be a new species.”

She bombarded me with questions—what kind of flower the fairy resembled, the location of the garden, the soil conditions, the time of capture, the surrounding flowers. Grandmother answered the more technical ones, but since she hadn’t seen the fairy until I’d shown it to her dead in a jar, most of the questions about it fell to me. I was terribly shy, but under the circumstances, too bewildered to be afraid. As Miss Sommers jotted down my answers in a small diary, I had my first brush with a scientific approach to fairies—and I was fascinated.

As she questioned, Constance Sommers wandered through her gardens, making note of various fairies—lilies, honeysuckle, hollyhocks—but clearly intending me to follow and continue with the interview. I had never felt so important. I answered the questions to the best of my ability—and she seemed impressed.

“You’ve got a good eye,” she said. “Good memory.”

As if I could have forgotten anything about the queen of the fairies!

I trailed Miss Sommers through her back garden, losing Grandmother somewhere along the way. At last, Miss Sommers approached one of the cottage’s side doors. With a twist of one of the keys at her waist, the door opened, and I followed her inside.

At first, I thought we’d entered another garden. Every surface—every wall, ceiling, shelf and dozens of tables—seemed to be covered in framed flowers. Enchanted, I stepped closer to the nearest one, and found that it was the lilaced purple skirt of a flower fairy.

My enchantment turned to horror. Every single one of those surfaces—every frame—was filled with flower fairies, each one as lifeless as the beautiful specimen in my jar.

I ran away screaming.

I took only two steps out the door before Miss Sommer’s hand came down upon my shoulder like an iron shackle. She stood over me, as immovable as stone. “Where are you going?”

She did not sneer. She did not sympathize. She didn’t try to soothe or placate me. She simply asked. Before such unshakable practicality, I was helpless. My screams stopped.

She pulled me back into that room and plopped me onto a low wooden stool. Frozen as I was, I didn’t resist. Then she opened the door, tipped the fairy onto a table, and went to work.

Her hands were like two fairies, constantly in motion, yet always sure where they were going. I forgot about the walls and simply watched her work. With minuscule brushes, she cleaned the fairy’s lifeless form, then arranged it inside another wooden frame. She posed it with its hands outstretched, its nearly invisible wings positions halfway down so as to catch some of the light in rainbows. I recognized in this work the same hand that had painted such delicate pictures of living fairies. Though the fairy’s end was tragic, she was turning it into something beautiful.

As she worked, she lectured—I believe she forgot I was only a visiting seven-year-old, and not a potential apprentice. She explained how the preservation of specimens allowed for further study. She spoke about competing theories as to the origins of the fairies—whether they were one species that took on camouflage based upon the nearby blossoms, or multiple species that were born with each flower—whether they were somehow tied to the flower’s life cycle or whether they were an independent species laying eggs within the blossoms.

I have heard it said many times over the years that Constance Sommers did not like children. Certainly, she did not handle children with delicate patronizing care, as the adults of that generation and that class tended to do. Certainly, she had attention only for her work. But I believe it was simply that she was no respecter of age. Whether her listener was seven or seventy years of age, so long as they respected her work, she allowed them to stay.

That day, I stayed for hours as she utterly captivated my mind and imagination. My little fairy, who met such a tragic end, became a crowning jewel of her collection, vital to her later discoveries about the camouflage abilities of rose fairies. Those discoveries were not published by the scientific community for decades—her gender and field of study made it almost impossible for her to be taken seriously, until later developments in ecology made her work impossible to ignore.

But what adults could not accept, children welcomed with open minds. The fairy of the white-and-red-striped rose featured in her next picture book—as Queen of the Fairies.

Now, I am grateful that, in recognizing both the artistic and scientific achievements of this remarkable woman, the rest of England knows what I learned that day—that title truly belongs, and always will belong, to Constance Sommers.

[antimatterz]

i'm in a field of dandelions

dan heng x gn!reader

summary: surrounded by dandelions, you're in a garden of wishes. but your biggest wish is already next to you.

cw: fluff, pure fluff.

enyo's note: just a short drabble for my beloved dan heng. i'm so so so soft for him, and let's be fair, he's secretly just as soft for us <3.

content under the cut | masterlist

even the softest whisp of wind was enough to set the dandelion seeds to dance through the air. like white and fluffy parachutes, they fluttered around you, occasionally getting stuck in your hair while others landed around you in the tall grass. soon, new flowers would spring into bloom all anew.

delight coursed through your being as you danced with them, arms spread wide and the breeze gliding between your fingers. you felt free, unbound. you closed your eyes as you relished in the moment, wrapped in the fading light of the setting sun. what a serene evening it was, surrounded by countless possible wishes that cascaded on the breeze.

wasn't it a beautiful legend? set the seeds free upon the wind and they carried with you a wish made by your heart. it had always fascinated you, and from a very young age, you've made a myriad of wishes while gazing at the seeds afloat.

smiling fondly, you delicately plucked a flower and held it up towards the sky. the dandelion swayed in the breeze, stirred by the wind that pulled over the field. as a child, bearing a rich fantasy, you never struggled to find something to wish for. but your desired nothing as you gazed at the flower, and no wish was made as it let go of its seeds after a strong gust of wind.

after all, your biggest wish already came true.

a pair of arms wrapped around you from behind and your smile grew as you leaned into the embrace. a chaste kiss was pressed to your cheek, lips lingering against your skin lovingly.

"hello, angel," a calm voice greeted you, and you didn't heed it possible for your smile to grow even wider.

you placed your hands atop of dan heng's, and you stood like that for a blissful moment. the flowers danced around you in a rhythm only known to them, guided by the summer breeze that traversed the greenfields.

but a wish came to mind – sweet, altogether with its simplicity, yet one that would make your heart flutter. you distanced yourself from your boyfriend, turning around to face him with a playful and joyous smile. you dramatically bent down, exaggerating your every movement grandously. you gently took a dandelion between your fingertips and took it with you as you got back up.

happily, you presented it to dan heng, who had to stifle a smile upon witnessing your gleeful antics. but he failed to do so, the corners of his mouth tilting up ever so gently.

"i wish..." you began, inhaling deeply before blowing the dandelion seeds off their stem. you watched together how they climbed the breeze upon their release, darting around you friskily. then, your eyes sought dan heng, and you giggled softly. "i wish that you'd kiss me in the light of the setting sun."

dan heng merely looked at you for a moment, an amused glint in his solemn grey eyes as he feigned seriousness.

"you know your wish won't come true if you speak them aloud, don't you?" he asked earnestly, barely succeeding to preserve his placid mask.

you offered him a slight pout, and your expression elicited a little chuckle from the male opposite of you. regardless of his words, he came closer to you. his hands found your cheeks in a gentle caress as his lips met yours, making your wish come true. though it was short, it lacked nothing in sweetness and tenderness, the serenity of the evening unblemished.

dan heng smiled at you ever so softly, a rare occurence, which only happened when he was in your company. your heart swelled with love, as it had many times before ever since he came into your life.

on a fateful day in a past long gone, you had stood there on your own, the empty stem of a dandelion between your fingers as you watched the fluffy seeds carry your wish upon the breeze. they brought a wish you held dear up to the sky, and you waited patiently for it to come true.

maybe it was a but silly legend to some, but when you met dan heng, you couldn't help but face the sky with a smile. your wish had not only been heard, but also been granted.

dan heng was your wish come true.

[lorei-writes]

Glimpse

Chevalier x Reader Fluff/Comfort Word Count: ~600

A little simple something written for @ikemenprompts Week #2 <3

Content Warnings: none

Chevalier lets out a breathy sigh, but his eyes remain closed. He stretches his back to then turn on his side, sheets sliding against his skin and off his body. Creases form over his brow, insistent warmth clinging to his limbs like a possessive mistress. Chevalier holds no affection for it, however. He buries his face in a pillow.

The morning air smells of lemon grass garnished with a pinch of oceanic salt. It heaves sluggishly as heat streams from above, perhaps still drunk with the wine spilled the prior night. No matter. The breeze is not allowed rest, so it collects the orange sweetness to then combine it with bitter coffee scent, carried over from the narrow streets so typical for Benitoitian towns. Only then does it trespass into the palace, and dressed in the still pale light, sneaks into the guest wing. The air is as curious as it is shy, so it dares not disturb the curtains. Not while the lovers lie side by side.

Chevalier lets out a breathy sigh, but his eyes remain closed. He stretches his back to then turn on his side, sheets sliding against his skin and off his body. Creases form over his brow, insistent warmth clinging to his limbs like a possessive mistress. Chevalier holds no affection for it, however. He buries his face in a pillow.

Another gust blows past a steppe somewhere far away, a commotion stirring within the grass waves – a hand falls over his, much smaller and more delicate, undeniably fragile despite the firmness it has so often displayed. Not unlike a drop inspiring sea inside a cup, it overfills him with affection words fail to describe. Chevalier lifts his heavy lids, both for and against himself. His surprise has dulled, but never will it cease. Not when you are there.

Sun rays melt into an ephemeral dome to shelter you, as vulnerable as a dandelion seed. Perhaps it is the obliviousness you display in regards to your own fragility that enables this state; regardless, you rest, just within the reach of his arm, but also somehow still too far away. You breath evenly, quiet puffs of air emerging from your lips. Judging by the peaceful expression you wear, your must be sleeping and dreaming well. Chevalier turns his hand below yours, to stroke the back of your fingers with his thumb. He smiles the most timid of smiles, too amused with your delight to hold it back. How can you be so open, so honest, when not aware of the dear world around? Truly, so foolish… But is he not?

It is as if an ice pane shattered, a fleeting whimper splitting the air in half. Summer withers for unbearable chill to flood the room, hearts struggling due to thermal shock while lungs contract. Chevalier watches your tranquillity crumble, to be gone completely within a breath or a half. You clutch his fingers now, as if convinced they alone are the lifeline that could save you from whatever nightmare that haunts your mind. And perhaps you are not wrong to have assumed as much.

You grimace, and he does not wait. Chevalier shakes you by the shoulder, albeit with more force than he’d like. You… deserve better, but alas. At the very least, he is efficient in helping you surface from the horror in your mind, however disoriented and terrified you are. It does not matter. Not when your binding is intangible, not when he can steal you away, not when he can lock you in his arms and cradle you against his chest. Not when he is close enough to dry your tears himself.

Tonight you will drink the wine again; the wheel of seasons is bound to turn. Before then, however, let your face be cupped in his rough hands. Let his thumbs wipe moisture from your cheeks, as unpractised and uncertain as they may be. Banish the thoughts of complaining about heat – when the words fail, it is the bodies that speak… and speak they must, for how else could he console the one treasure he has?

You've seen a typo? Please, tell me!

--

Tag List: @lancelotscloak @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather @tele86 @rinaririr @keithsandwich @cheese-ception @bis-enti @claviscollections

Tell me if you'd like to be added to my tag list :)

[someonelol1872]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆𝐈𝐬𝐚𝐚𝐜, ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ♡"𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫�� 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬"⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

𝕿𝖜𝖔 𝖉𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖔𝖋𝖋 𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉, 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖘𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖆 𝖑𝖔𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖊𝖊, 𝖂𝖊'𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖇𝖔𝖜'𝖘 𝖊𝖓𝖉, 𝖂𝖆𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖉, 𝕸𝖞 𝖍𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖑𝖊𝖇𝖊𝖗𝖗𝖞 𝖋𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖉, 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖓 𝖗𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖊 -Audrey Hepburn, Moon River, (from Breakfast at Tiffany's)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Isaac's estate was expansive, adorned with lush gardens, winding paths, and a tranquil lake that mirrored the sky. Ever since you arrived, Isaac had been wary of letting you venture beyond the confines of his home. The traumatic memories of losing his parents had made him overly cautious about your safety. Yet, he could see how being cooped up inside day after day weighed on you. You longed for fresh air and the simple joy of the outdoors.

One bright morning, after much internal debate, Isaac made up his mind.

The sun shone brilliantly, birds sang harmoniously, and the flowers were in full bloom. Your excitement was contagious, and Isaac found himself relaxing as you walked hand in hand. He grabbed a blanket and a couple of books, and the two of you made your way to the lake. The day was warm, the sky a brilliant blue with fluffy clouds drifting lazily across it, the sunlight filtering through the trees, casting a golden glow over everything.

As you reached the lake, you gasped in delight. The water sparkled under the sun, surrounded by lush greenery and wildflowers. Isaac spread the blanket on a grassy spot near the water, and you settled down, basking in the serene beauty of the place. He laid the blanket under a large oak tree, and you marveled at the tranquil water, its surface shimmering in the sunlight. Isaac unpacked a basket while you wandered around, picking wildflowers.

Isaac opened a book, his mind half on the words and half on your delighted expressions as you explored the surroundings. You returned with an armful of blooms and sat down next to him, weaving them into a crown. The flower crown featured an artful blend of white daisies, sprigs of lavender, golden buttercups, and pale pink wild roses. Tiny clusters of baby's breath filled in the gaps, all woven together with slender vines and green leaves.

After a while, you finished your flower crown and turned to Isaac, who was absorbed in his reading. With a playful smile, you crept up behind him and gently placed the crown on his head.

"W-What? Oh—" He chuckled, feeling warmth spread through his chest. "I feel a bit ridiculous, but if it makes you happy, I'll wear it."

You rolled your eyes playfully, "You look adorable," you said, before frolicking to another flower field, your laughter echoing through the garden. Isaac couldn't help but smile fondly. He reached up and gently took the flower crown off his head, holding it delicately between his fingers. Studying the intricate arrangement of blooms, he couldn't shake the feeling of warmth that enveloped him. It wasn't just the flower crown—it was the joy in your eyes when you placed it on his head, the carefree laughter that filled the air, and the simple happiness of being together in this tranquil garden.

You spotted a dandelion and, with a soft gasp of delight, knelt down, your fingers delicately plucking one of the fluffy white seed heads from its stem. Cradling it in your palm, you turned to Isaac, a playful gleam dancing in your eyes.

"Isaac, close your eyes," you whispered, your voice as light as a feather.

Isaac complied, the corners of his lips curling into a smile as he anticipated the surprise. He felt a gentle rustle of air, followed by a soft puff against his cheek as you blew on the dandelion.

As he opened his eyes, he was greeted by a shower of delicate white seeds, floating through the air and his ebony hair like ethereal snowflakes. They danced around him, catching the golden rays of sunlight and casting a magical glow over the garden.

"Oh, Pickle..." he murmured, his voice filled with a tender affection. The moment was perfect, a snapshot of pure, unblemished happiness, a day neither of you would ever forget. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

[suguwu]

mondstadt: terroir

“Don’t tease,” you chastise.

He tightens his grip on your ankle, his other hand tracing higher, dragging delicate over your calf. 

“Oh, darling,” he says. “I’ve barely even started.”

minors and ageless blogs dni!

pairing: pantalone x f!reader

notes: what's this? the first chapter of mr. worldwide almost a year after i released the masterlist? yeah. yeah. sorry about that. but i hope you enjoy!

tags: established relationship (married), reader is called "darling" and "wife", wine play, oral (f!receiving), reader has pubic hair.

wc: 2k

Mondstadt is as pretty as ever.

The burgeoning spring brings a verdant flush to the land, the high grasses swaying emerald in the endless wind of the nation, and the apple blossoms blooming pink on their branches, a soft spill of dawn caught in petals. New life abounds in every corner of the nation.

It’s so different from Snezhnaya.

The Dandelion Sea feels endless as you pass through it, the vast field of the treasured flowers stretching as far as the eye can see, kissing the bright blue of the mid-morning sky’s horizon. You watch a crimson fox scamper through the dandelions. Despite the Anemo energy keeping them whole in the playful breeze, a few delicate seeds catch in its coat, little white speckles like a flurry of snow.

“You seem pleased,” Pantalone says, without looking up from the ledger he’s been focusing on. 

“Do I?” you ask.

“Don’t play coy, darling,” he tells you.

He makes a note. It joins pages and pages of other notes, each a meticulous observation in a hard-earned elegant script. Each loop of his pen is a slow, familiar flourish. 

“I would never.”

He hums. “Of course not. How silly of me.”

“Yes, how silly of you.”

He glances up for a moment, one elegant brow raised. He contemplates you for an instant, a little smile on his lips, before he returns his attention to the ledger.

You pout.

“Do not give me that look,” he says, writing another note with an elegant flick of his wrist. 

“What look?”

He doesn’t look up. “The one on your pretty lips,” he says. “I do so hate to see you pout.”

“Then pay attention to me.”

“Soon, darling.”

“Now, darling.”

“Such a demanding little thing,” he says, but he’s putting down his pen, tucking it away with the ledger. You watch the way the tendons in his hands flex, how careful his long, strong fingers are. His rings catch the light, gleaming in the golden sunshine, and you think of how many times you’ve tasted the metal when he has sunk his fingers into your mouth. 

When you glance up, Pantalone’s lips have a knowing curve to them. 

You’re unperturbed; your husband knows your appetite for all things better than most. Your appetite for him most of all. 

Still, you say nothing, though an answering little smile blooms on your lips. You turn your gaze back out the window, watching the idyllic countryside roll by, the trees whispering in the breeze, the flowers dotting the grass like stars in the sky swaying. 

“I thought you wanted my attention, darling,” Pantalone says.

You sniff. “Perhaps you took too long.”

“I see,” he says, deeply fond. “A mistake I shan’t make again.”

“Good.”

He chuckles lowly, the sound rich and deep as it drips over you like honey. Before he can say anything, the carriage rounds a bend, and a manor comes into view.

“Oh!” you gasp, pleased to see it again. It’s striking no matter how many times you’ve ridden past it, a towering thing that almost seems to puncture the blue of the sky. Even from afar, you can scent the flowers of the garden, the soft sweetness carried to you by Mond’s ever-present winds. 

The carriage turns off towards the manor.

You furrow your brow; it’s the only thing down this particular road. It clicks in a second later and you turn to face your husband, who is idly looking out the window. 

“I thought you weren’t going to buy in Mond.” 

“Hmm?”

You slip your foot up Pantalone’s leg.

He glances at you, his eyes gleaming behind the half-moons of his glasses.

“You weren’t going to buy in Mond,” you remind him. 

He catches your ankle, wrapping his long, lean fingers around it. His thumb strokes idly against the bone. A tender, silken touch.

“It was too cheap to let go of,” he says.

With him, that just means somewhere under ten million mora. You decide you’re better off not knowing. 

It’s a wonderful property, the beautiful manor set into sweeping gardens lush with fragrant blossoms, the blooms spilling over in a froth of untamed color. Vines swirl up the sides of the house, whorls of greenery clinging to the sun-warmed stone, dotted with bright flowers. It rises high above the grounds, almost cradled by the sky. 

It apparently once belonged to one of the eldest clans of the fallen aristocracy—some of the stained glass still carries their crest, flooding the courtyard with their colors at the sun’s gentle touch—until it was sold off by the heir. 

When you peer at it through the carriage windows, you can’t understand how he could bear to let go of it. 

“You said you liked it,” Pantalone says as you lean back again. “Didn’t you?”

You should have known better. Of course he bought an entire manor because you’d mentioned in passing that it was pretty. 

“Or have you changed your mind?” he asks, his lips curling into something smug when you stare at him. 

You know that look.

“Don’t tease,” you chastise.

He tightens his grip on your ankle, his other hand tracing higher, dragging delicate over your calf. 

“Oh, darling,” he says. “I’ve barely even started.” 

—

The two of you stumble into the first bedroom you find. 

It’s lavish but not gaudy, the type of finery you’ve become used to over the long years with your husband, who insists on nothing but the best, particularly for you. It’s beautifully set up, with a wine and fruit basket on the nightstand, but you barely spare a thought for it, too busy trying to shrug out of your dress while batting away your husband’s roaming hands. 

“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be,” you tell him as he palms your tit over your dress, his big hand holding the thin fabric in place. 

“If you weren’t so pretty, it wouldn’t be so hard to keep my hands off you.”

Your cheeks heat. “Shut up,” you say, swatting at his wrist. 

He lets go with a laugh that drips with desire, warm and full of teeth. Your dress slips to the floor, a silken pool; he helps you step out of it. 

He kisses you then, a hot, heavy press of his lips against yours, his tongue flitting across the seam of your lips until you open for him. He presses close as he licks into your mouth, one hand splayed across your back to hold you still for him. His other hand slides from your hip to cup your tit. He thumbs your nipple, a soft hint of pressure against the pebbling nub, and you gasp into his mouth. 

You can feel him hardening against your hip even through the fine material of his pants. 

He kisses you dizzy, steals your breath and makes it his own, and perhaps that is why you’re not sure how you find yourself on the bed. It’s downy soft beneath you, the sheets silken against your skin, and he pins you against them with ease. 

You arch into his next kiss, whining your complaint as he pulls away for breath. 

“Darling,” he says, annoyingly composed, “I want to drink from you.”

“Yes,” you say quickly, reaching for him to pull him back down to you, bracketing your thighs around his hips to feel the line of his hard cock against your cunt. You roll your hips and close your eyes, arching your back to feel more of him. “Hurry up.”

You yelp as liquid spills over you, eyes opening to see your husband set aside the bottle of wine that he’s just poured part of onto your chest. You catch a flash of the label and any admonishment you might have had fades away.

“Pantalone,” you say slowly, “that was one of the rarest vintages Dawn Winery has.”

The wine is pooling in the dip of your neck, a maroon bruise of liquid. It drips down your tits in languid rivulets. 

“Is it? Good.”

Before you can complain, he dips down to you, tracing the tip of his tongue over your skin, chasing a droplet of wine. He follows the meandering path, his tongue laving gently against you, a sharp line of heat that goes straight to your cunt. 

You bite down on a gasp as he flicks his tongue against the furled peak of your nipple, sparks skittering beneath your skin, before all you know is wet heat. You weave your hands into his ebony hair as he suckles at you, arching up into him as he palms at your other tit, pinching lightly at your nipple with clever fingers. 

You’re squirming beneath him by the time he pulls away, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to your breast. Some of the wine between your tits trickles down your sides to stain the sheets claret. 

“You’re wasting it,” he chides. You glare and he laughs before swooping down to follow the path of a droplet to where wine pools in your navel. He licks it up, drawing a long, hot line of his tongue from the dip of it to the start of the curls on your mound.

Pantalone curls his hands around your thighs, his fingers sinking into the meat of them, and spreads you wide for him. He lets go of one of your thighs to circle his thumb over your clit, smiling when your hips buck as an incandescent heat settles in your cunt, a bright burn of pleasure. 

“I thought you were going to drink from me,” you say. “So drink.”

His smile grows wider. “Of course, wife,” he says, and then he’s dipping down to lick a long stripe against your cunt, flattening his tongue against the heat of it. He hums and holds your hips down when you cry out. He laves at you, dragging his tongue through your folds until you’re almost trembling with it. 

He laps at your slick, tracing the tip of his tongue around your hole. You sink your hands into his hair and tug at the long locks, urging him to press closer. You can feel the way he smiles against your tender cunt before he obliges you, delving his tongue into you. He presses forward to push deeper and your legs close around his head as his nose nudges into your clit. 

White hot pleasure sears through you, sparking down your spine like a shooting star. Pantalone slips his hands under your ass to raise your hips higher against him, his tongue pushing deeper into your wet cunt. You gasp as he flicks his tongue inside of you. 

He feasts on you like a glutton, humming his content as you writhe, his strong hands holding you still for him, keeping your cunt pressed against his mouth. You tighten your grasp in his hair as you are wound tighter and tighter, the heat pooling in your stomach catching like kindling and spreading through you.

Your voice breaks on his name—his real name, one that is yours and yours alone—as the heat roars into a forest fire, setting your nerves aflame as you cum.

Pantalone presses little kisses to your cunt as you shudder your way through the aftershocks, tiny blissful jolts of lingering pleasure. When your thighs go lax around him, he pulls back. His smile is soft, but there’s smugness lining it. You scowl at him.

“Darling,” he says, wiping his gleaming mouth with the back of his hand, the uncouth gesture sending a frisson of heat lacing down your spine, “we really must finish the bottle.”

He leans up to press a sweet kiss against your lips; it turns wicked quickly, a heated claim. When he pulls away, his eyes are shining greedily. His smile has a wicked edge to it as he reaches for the wine bottle once more.

“I insist.” 

[fics-she-wrote]

Dandelion

On a fine day in early autumn, Samantha Dale was leisurely strolling around the verdant grounds of Hogwarts with her friend Lenora Everleigh. They were enjoying the waning echoes of summer warmth bestowed upon them by the sun shining bright in the sky. As they walked, the distant chatter of students filled the air. Samantha noticed a patch of delicate white dandelions, their ethereal beauty standing out starkly against the lush green grass.

"Dandelions!" exclaimed Samantha. "Did you know, Lenora, that Muggles hold a charming belief that blowing upon a dandelion may grant one's deepest wishes?" she asked her friend as she picked one from the ground and blew on it, sending the seeds swirling around.

Seeds scattered in all directions – some heading towards the Highlands, others drifting towards the lake. One particular seed, guided by the wind, made a slow journey towards a gazelle, an unusual sight in the Scottish Highlands. As it neared the graceful creature, the gazelle transformed into Natty Onai. Natty blinked, her eyes wide in surprise, as the tiny white fluff hovered before her face. She swatted it away, her hand creating a subtle swoosh in the air. She then quickly scanned her surroundings, her heart pounding, to ensure her transformation had gone unnoticed.

Like a feather in the wind, the little dandelion seed was carried off towards the Beast Studies class, where Poppy Sweeting cradled a Puffskein as she attempted to convince Duncan Hobhouse that they were harmless.

"But look how charming they are,” said Poppy, stroking the small beast's soft fur.

"The issue isn't their looks, Poppy, it's their tongue. Every time I've come close to one of these creatures, it insists on shoving its tongue up my nose. I swear it's the most dreadful sensation out there, I tell you," replied Duncan, maintaining his distance from the furry creature.

"I'm quite certain you're exaggerating. They only engage in such behaviour when we are asleep…"

"Oh, I assure you, I've experienced it both asleep and awake," interjected Duncan.

Poppy sighed, rolling her eyes at his dramatics. "Just come and pet this one. I give you my word, it won't try to eat your bogeys."

Duncan eyed the little Puffskein with distrust. He slowly approached it before slowly extending an arm to pet it when…

"OH! My nose!" he exclaimed. The Puffskein had indeed invaded his nose, its tongue withdrawing as swiftly as it had entered and triggering a bout of uncontrollable sneezing from Duncan.

The forceful gust of air generated by Duncan's sneeze sent the tiny dandelion seed floating haphazardly away once again.

The air carried this lone seed towards the bustling bell tower courtyard, where students were relishing the pleasant weather. Many practiced their flying skills with varying degrees of success. Leander Prewett, for instance, had difficulty staying on his broom, much to his annoyance. Fortunately, his broom hovered less than a foot off the ground, so his falls injured his pride more than his body. After yet another tumble, he huffed in frustration, unintentionally sending the seed spiralling upwards. Imelda Reyes, zooming past on her broom, caused the seed to twirl and be swept away in a new direction.

As the tiny dandelion seed danced in the wind, it found its way toward Garreth Weasley. He was in the midst of demonstrating his potion-making skills to a group of awestruck first-year students. With a small vial containing a greyish liquid, he held their attention. He then theatrically produced some dried mint leaves from his pocket, their crisp, refreshing aroma wafting through the air as he presented them to his attentive audience. With careful, deliberate movements, he crushed the leaves, allowing the small bits to flutter down into the vial. The liquid began to slowly change colour, shifting from a dull gray to a vibrant green. As it transformed, it also started to bubble. Gradually, smoke began to rise from the vial, carrying with it the sharp, acrid scent of the potion. Sparks followed, their bright light causing the students to gasp in surprise. An expression of panic appeared on Garreth's face as the small vial exploded in a loud bang. He attempted to run but felt a firm grip on his collar.

"Not so fast, Mr Weasley," came the gruff voice of Professor Sharp, the Potions Master.

As Professor Sharp was about to reprimand the young Gryffindor, the tiny seed landed on Amit Thakkar's shoulder, hitching a ride into the castle.

Inside the castle, the seed was carried through a labyrinth of stone corridors. The distant, muffled sounds of life echoed around as Amit made his way to the Central Hall. Upon arrival, the sight of a fountain graced with cavorting mermaids greeted him. It was here he spotted Cressida Blume and made his way towards her. Cressida's face lit up when she saw Amit approaching.

"Hello, Amit," she greeted warmly.

Returning her smile, Amit was about to speak when he noticed Cressida reaching towards his shoulder.

"There was a speck of dust," she explained, her fingers brushing the dandelion seed off his shoulder. With that, the seed was whisked away once more, carried by the invisible currents stirred up by the bustling students.

The tiny seed continued its journey through Hogwarts, twirling and pirouetting high above the students' heads. It danced in the air, silently observing the vibrant tapestry of life unfolding below. Its path crossed with Ominis Gaunt, who was seated on a wooden bench in the lively Central Hall, absorbing the surrounding symphony of chatter, laughter, and the echo of footsteps on stone. Suddenly, his nose wrinkled as a foul smell akin to rotten eggs mixed with stale mud invaded his nostrils. Not far from his spot, Everett Clopton had unleashed one of his dungbombs. Ominis groaned, his face contorting in disgust as he frantically waved his hand in front of his face to dissipate the unbearable stench. The air movement from his motion caused the seed to be swept off its course and drift back into the bustling crowd of students.

The seed eventually lodged itself in the chestnut curls of one Sebastian Sallow. Clutching an antique-looking book, Sebastian headed towards the library in search of one person in particular. His search on the ground floor proved fruitless, and so he ascended the winding staircase. On the top floor, he finally found her. Astraea Morgen, completely engrossed in a book, stood before a towering bookcase, her eyes darting across the pages. To catch her attention, Sebastian cleared his throat, the sound echoing softly around them. Astraea's eyes shifted from the book to Sebastian, her eyebrows arching in mild surprise. He then placed his book on the worn wooden desk attached to the bookshelf and started flipping through it to find what he wanted to show her. As he was doing so, Astraea's gaze was drawn to something white lodged in his hair. She pursed her lips and exhaled, her warm breath dislodging the little dandelion seed from Sebastian's hair.

"Why did you do that?" asked Sebastian, his gaze meeting Astraea's, a blush creeping into his cheeks.

"You had a little something in your hair," responded Astraea, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes at his slightly flustered demeanour.

Thus, the little dandelion seed floated away from the pair and landed on top of a book that was being magically returned to a shelf high above the others. And so there the journey of our dandelion seed appeared to end, or so it seemed…

Many years later, a young Ravenclaw girl was carefully examining the titles of the books on the shelf.

"Ah! There it is!" exclaimed Alice Beaumont before hearing Madam Pince's stern shushing. "Simon!" she whispered, unable to contain her excitement, "I found the book!"

A boy with tousled chestnut hair and a constellation of freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks emerged from the corner of the bookcase. With a flick of her wand, Alice pulled the book towards her through the air.

"Ugh, look at this," Alice grimaced, "it's covered in dust… And is that a dandelion seed? How long do you think it's been there?" she asked, her eyes fixated on the tiny white fluff.

Simon looked at the seed, then at her. "It's a dandelion seed, Alice. They come and go every year, so it's probably from last summer or something."

Alice shrugged, the corners of her mouth turning up in a small, thoughtful smile. "Still, it deserves to be free." She gently opened a nearby window and then delicately blew onto the book, sending the dust and the dandelion seed dancing into the outside world. And so, the little dandelion seed, now basking in the golden sunlight, floated away on yet another adventure.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this ficlet, which came to me because of a song.

[stevie-petey]

Hi there, I know you're super busy and I hope things are going well for you in school!! I saw your hcs post and it gave me an idea for a blurb. Could we see Jonathan and his crush on bug when they were younger. Like him just absorbed and enchanted with bug while she's just running around completely unaware. Maybe like they're exploring in the woods and Jonathan gets nervous so bug grabs his hand and he gets so flustered. Thank you for your time baby!! Work hard and do great!

YES YES YES !!!!!

enjoy <3

"race you to the top!" you exclaim, giggling as you shove past jonathan and force your scrawny twelve year old legs to climb up weathertop hill. he tumbles to the ground.

its your first summer in hawkins, and jonathan has promised to show you every inch of this small town.

"not fair!" he shouts back, now yards behind you after youve rudely shoved him to get ahead.

jonathan watches as you turn back and giggle even harder at the sight of him on the ground. your laugh carries down to him and the sunlight illuminates your face. your smile is infectious and despite the mud now underneath his fingernails because of you, jonathan cant help but smile back at you.

you run through some dandelions and send them cascading around you as you continue to run up the grassy field, and as the soft dandelion seeds swirl around you, jonathan cant seem to catch his breath.

your hair is in pigtails and when you turn back to jonathan again to laugh at him once more, the sunlight catches your eyes and he decides that there isnt a color descriptive enough to capture their beauty.

"i won!" you dance at the top of the hill, having won the race by a mile, and stick your tongue out at jonathan. "you suck, bee."

jonathan rests his head in grass and admires you. youre glowing, your hair dances with you, and he doesnt think hes ever seen this side of you in the few months hes known you.

here, all alone together, far from the bullies at school and the yelling in your houses, the two of you can just be kids.

youre beautiful. theres a warmth to you that jonathan cant describe.

hes twelve years old, and he understands now why his parents drive each other crazy.

here you are, smiling at jonathan as if hes the best thing in the entire world, offering him your hand to help him up from the grass. your fingers are soft and slowly starting to become familiar to him, and jonathan finds himself shaking at your touch.

"hey, you okay?" you notice his sudden shift in mood.

its slight, all jonathan had done was shuffle his feet a bit away from you, and yet you had noticed. he doesnt think he will ever get used to you knowing him so well, in such a short time span, and when he tries to tell you that its nothing, the words die in his throat when he looks at you.

theres a stray dandelion in one of your pigtails.

it rests gently against your cheek, you havent noticed it yet, and jonathan slowly reaches out to pluck it out of your hair. his fingers shake and his hands feel clammy and he wonders how theres so many songs written about this scary feeling.

"here," he offers the dandelion to you. its all he knows how to do. its all he can give you.

blushing, you accept the flower and hold it delicately in your hand. "thanks, bee."

"anytime, bug."

its the smile that you offer him, shy and sweet yet reserved and vulnerable, that makes him realize that his crush on you is more than just a crush.

jonathan byers is twelve years old when he discovers love for the first time in a grassy field filled with dandelions and laughter from his childhood.

[juneymont]

SHARPUARY: DAY 23: 'BLACK LAKE'

"That's right, little bairn," Aesop assured his firstborn in a low, contented voice that danced away on the gentle wind as easily as a burst of dandelion seeds. "That's where you'll stay, once Autumn comes. And I will, too! I've got my own quarters at the school and you'll sleep in your common room."

Standing on the rocky sand along the Black Lake with his Helen by his side, Aesop wrapped his strong, paternal hand around her small shoulder. It wasn't a delicate shoulder, by any stretch - she was the result of Aesop and Anna Sharp, after all. But it was a small one. And he smiled to himself, looking across the water towards the proud, magical institution. Though his wife was certain their daughter would be a Ravenclaw, Aesop could only imagine Helen seated around the Gryffindor common room fireplace, just like her mother.

With some trepidation Helen stated, "without Mummy..."

Now - Aesop made a point of respecting his children as intelligent, autonomous individuals. As such, tried his best to speak to them with straightforwardness and honesty, so he didn't mince words or imbue with any particular emotion his simple response. "That's right. Mummy will stay living at home."

But, sensing his daughter's nervousness and knowing just the thing to soften the blow, he coyly added, "and you know who else will stay there with her..."

Helen's face lit up as she slowly turned and looked up towards her smirking father. Immediately embracing the idea of having total freedom from her nuisance of a younger brother, she exclaimed, "NO CHARLIE?!"

Aesop couldn't help but chuckle. "That's right, my little one. No Charlie. Not for a few more years." He stooped to pick up his girl and let out a grunt when he hoisted her into his arms. Especially when taking into account the chronic pain of his leg, his not-so-little girl was almost too grown to lift in this way. Almost. And Aesop was all too happy to eek out whatever little he could from whatever little was left of her true childhood years. Responding in kind, she wrapped her arms around his neck, sunkissed and elegantly weathered, and she threw her face against his chest.

He held her close to him like the precious gift she was to him, kissing the side of her head against her fiery hair and whispering, "don't you worry, my darling. I'm going to ask Deek to prepare a spare bed in my rooms, just in case. You can stay with me any time you like. And Mummy will come visit sometimes. And Charles."

Helen sighed in relief. "Promise?"

"I promise," Aesop said sincerely with another kiss, adding with a playful tone, "just as long as you don't shirk you potions homework."

This drew an instantaneous, hearty giggle from Helen who leaned back and squished her father's face between her small (but insistent) hands as she chided him, and the two began their slow walk back towards Hogsmeade, laughing and talking and imagining the wonderful adventures the next seven years would hold for them both.

[aicosu]

Hellcheer Western Prompt

They're basically asleep when the neigh of a horse has them scrambling to their feet.

Eddie has to dive over the desk to shove his elbows down on Dustin's shoulders, both wrestling for a view out the broken shutters.

"People!" Dustin points out the obvious when he's pushed to the floor.

"Hide the guns!" Eddie barks, eyes still on the caravan of three kicking up dust through their two-manned ghost town.

"Which ones and where?"

They both turn to look at the piles of rifles, pistols, dynamite littering the surfaces of the entire building.

"Good point." Eddie palms his hair into his cheeks in thought. Fuck, strangers always meant acting. And that could be fun but lately it's been so stressful with the addition of their bounty posted from here to the north of winter's asshole. "Gimme the deputy badge."

"Nuh Uh!" Dustin scrambles up to protect his tin shield. "I hate being Sheriff!"

"No, I hate being Sheriff! They always want me to do shit for—"

"—last time I was Sheriff I had to change wheels—"

"—killing people constantly like I'm a fucking lawmen—"

"—and no one believes I'm old enough! No!"

"Gimme it!"

Another horse whinnies at the crack of a reign and Eddie tackles Dustin to the ground both scuffing spurs in a pathetic tussle on the jail building floor for less responsibility.

——

"Well, howdy."

"You the Sheriff?"

Eddie sucks his teeth with a cringe against the porch beam, and Dustin chuckles at his side. "Sure am."

"Place abandoned?"

It takes Eddie a second to realize the person he's talking to might be dame wearing a fake mustache. But he realizes it all the same, blinking against the dirt in the air and the sun in the sky. They have brown chopped hair and sharp angles in their face… plus pants on. So maybe a boy but… "Mine accident."

They whistle, unloading themselves from shotgun with shotgun. "Is it still safe for stopping?"

"We don't have hands for the saloon or board." Dustin rushes to say. Eddie pats him with approval. They really don't need stranger blowing their fake town cover.

"We have our own things. Provisions, linen, rafters, entertainment, and drink and most in the back would feel a mightier safer with a couple of lawmen to look out for bandits and wolves instead of me."

Eddie doesn't get a chance to protest.

"I'm the Ringer Robin by the way, should any introductions be made while we park our fares for just a few days. Ringer as in ringleader, leader as in—"

"It's a circus!" Dustin exclaims with a cough of excitement in his kiddy cheeks. He thumbs at the side of the caravan with a huge grin.

Eddie glares, leaning one way to see the painted canvas displayed on the three wagons. Circus. Real low in the laying.

"I don't think—"

"We'd do a show for you, Sheriff!"

God he hated being fucking called that.

"We're staying?" A voice flits from the back.

They all turn, and there in the shafts of sunlight burning gold into red on the edge of the world, forms a girl made from its last wink. A precious coin lost in dust. A delicate dandelion seed adrift in the west.

A lady.

She steps down from the caravan with grace he's not known, with clean hair and cleaner skin.

Adnorned in, uh, uhm, fuck, not much!

"Mm—hrnu-who—hungh-m-m-m—"

"Ma'am." Dustin achieves what he can't and has the decency to tip his hat all the way down to the ground as she quite literally traipses by in nothing but a strap suit that exposes her whole leg and backside, little hip ruffles not at all decent in covering anything more than what modesty she had left.

She chitters to Robin's side dangling finge and gems, great big, very valuable, and possible fence-able rhinestone eyes blinking at him.

At him. At him. At him!

"This is our lady of trapeze, who should very much stay in the wagon until I sa—"

"I'm bloodless in my legs." She whispers back with the shyest dip of her cutest nose. And it's been exactly five months since Eddie's seen anything as beautiful as her. The last being a peek of a sweet family dinner from a window outside the city. And she's immensely more delicious. Her eyes find him with demure excitement. "We heard rumor that the Crow Killer is a town over—"

"Crow Killer! HA! How fun, who, uh—what's, what's that?" Dustin's voice is loud enough in protest that the horse's scamper.

"Nope! Sorry, my deputy forgets the Marshalls visit fortnights ago…" Eddie grabs him by the neck to squeeze him quieter as subtly as possible. "Our, uh, sad little town of grief has no business for the likes of that…. Degenerate! I'm sure!"

"Sheriff Eddie's right, no... no shadow caped killer of hundreds to be found here. Nope. No nightime burgles or larceny... no, no, no."

The trapeze artist has such gall to look disappointed that Eddie has to resist falling to his knees before her and handing her his bounty and screaming, it's me! It's me!

"We're better off, I'm sure," Robin squints. "Come on, Chrissy girl, let's get everyone roped over by the water tower."

"That's empty." Dustin lies. The only two left of them doing his goddamn job. "It's really not the best place to camp."

Chrissy, Chrissy, Chrissy. Not even a Mary Anne or a Harriet type aristocrat name to make him retch. But a little jingle jangle name like tying a Chrissy to a mill for luck! Help him!

"Have you caught many outlaws?" Chrissy distractedly asks him, not moving to help Robin or his sanity.

He stares down at sweet cream skin and caramel spun hair like it's a mirage for a hungry desperado out of luck. "Uh, well, I, I've uh, yes! Of, course! P-part of the job, little… lady. Little... bird. Miss. Ma'am!"

Now he really sounds like every other belt-belly tight police man whose only skil was turning locks.

"Maybe we'll stay awhile and you could tell us Sheriff stories by the fire?" She leans in even as Robin calls for her.

She smells like yarrow in milk and honey.

"You really can't stay." Dustin says urgently at his elbow. Eddie puts a hand on the kid's face to push him backward.

"Yes! I'd be honored, to uh, be at the service of a proper debutante." He grins wide. When she giggles he gets worse. "A proper artist—angel, even! Of the skies! A... sheriff of the cloud themselves! Y-yes."

"Oh, good!" She smiles.

Dustin groans into his palm long and loud.